Aragorn decides to travel to Harad.
Thorongil stood on Dol Amroth's docks. Always one wave battled the last: wax, wane. The white foam gleamed beneath Isil.
As did Gondor: swords clashed, ships burned. Waxing. Waning. Yet where Gondor met Umbar, Isil shone down on red.
In Rohan, he had learned to follow; in Gondor, tolead. Yet these were not his shores he protected. Someday, perhaps, but not yet. And he knew precious little of those he sought to destroy.
Thorongil ran a finger along the new tattoo. Harad lay ahead; he would pass as one of them.
The time had come. Other deeds called him.