Prisoner of Númenor RPG

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô approached the prison apprehensively, fully conscious of the horrible fate that awaited their leader inside. Strangely, he felt a tinge of relief along with his fear, for they had managed to navigate their way through the boisterous crowd in one piece. At the prison’s front gate he passed a gruff looking soldier who, in an irritated growl, asked him to state his business.

“I am escorting this prisoner to her cell,” he replied curtly, at which point the guard nodded and motioned for him to pass. Entering the prison had been surprisingly simple, a fact that Azarmanô attributed to their flawless disguises. He suppressed the images of himself shooting the sleeping soldiers. There had been no other way, he stubbornly insisted to himself. It had been done for the sake of the mission, for Abârpânarú.

He waked through the massive archway, the oaken door with wrought iron hinges that marked the entrance of the building thrown back to admit him. Inside, the dungeon was dark, with only torches on the side walls to guide them. The stones themselves wreaked of an acrid odor, evidence to the presence of grime, mold, and mildew that thrived within and upon the dank, stagnating walls. Well could Azarmanô imagine this hole in the ground to be a dungeon. Although, he thought dryly, I doubt a prisoner pays much attention to the smell while they wait for the ritual to begin.

He had no idea where Abârpânarú was being held, since the dungeon held hundreds of Sauron’s prisoners. How would the group ever locate the one that they wanted? He passed a supply room full of food, spices, and spirits. Azarmanô looked into the cells as they passed, anxiously hoping to see Abârpânarú’s familiar face, but the process proved unsuccessful. He saw many faces, some desperate and weeping, others stoic and resigned to their fates. If only we could rescue them all, he wished wistfully.

A loud rumbling of voices came from farther down the hallway. A feeling of dread descended into the pit of his stomach as he realized the impending danger. Three soldiers appeared from around the corner. They marched up to the party and leader stepped forward and spoke.

“We have been sent to receive this prisoner. She is considered dangerous and we will be escorting her to the high security section in the north tower. Your services are no longer needed.”

Azarmanô panicked as he heard the disastrous news from the somber guard leader that stood before him. It was now his turn to concoct a plan to pacify the soldiers just as Marsillion had done. He could not allow these men to take Inzillomí, for he did not want to rescue two prisoners. But how would they be able to escape when the guards stood right before them, blocking their path. The soldiers would not allow the rescuers to leave without first relinquishing Inzillomí and any attempt to do so would certainly expose their identities. Which is why, reasoned Azarmanô with a mischievous smile, he would do his best to make sure that before long the guards wouldn’t be standing.

“Here you go. Take the prisoner.” he snapped as Inzillomí gaped at him in disbelief. “But before we part, what do you say we have a drink. I saw a supply room a while back with some fine ale. You men sure look thirsty. What do you say?”

At the mention of alcohol, the soldiers loosened up and became much more amiable. The trio seemed to be in agreement that a slight delay in bringing the prisoner back to the cell would not cause any harm. “Well, I suppose one or two flagons couldn’t hurt,” reasoned the captain, “Go and get the Ale. Be sure to bring mugs. But after the drink we really must be going. Sauron considers this prisoner of prime importance.”

Hastily, Azarmanô retreated to the storeroom to search for ale. At first he found a small keg of ale as tall as his knee, but he reasoned that would not be large enough. Then he found a bigger one that measured up to his waist, but, to be safe, they needed a keg that was even more capacious. These guards were large men who were used to drinking prodigiously. Finally Azarmanô glanced upwards to spy the largest keg of ale in the entire store house, towering slightly above his head. Now that was the keg of ale that he was looking for. With great effort, he rolled the barrel, already on its side into the hallway. After returning once more to scrounge six gigantic flagons, he sat down with the rest of the rescuers and guards on the floor, distributing a large measure of brown ale to all. Azarmanô furtively pushed Inzillomí down to the floor and tied her chains to the bars of a nearby cell, taking care not to hurt her. “So the prisoner does not get away,” he explained.

After the guards finished each drink, Azarmanô graciously offered the soldiers a refill of their mugs, which always was met with a swift reply to the affirmative. Not wanting to pass out himself, Azarmanô drank from his mug in sips, periodically spilling some on the ground behind him when the guards were not looking. The guards, however, appeared to grow more and more friendly as they consumed increasing quantities of ale, eventually hugging Azarmanô and calling him their “best buddy.”

After the guards appeared thoroughly drunk, though not yet out cold, they began singing amorous ballads about the girls they had left at home. Azarmanô had never heard anything so horrible in his life. Ignoring their atrocious wailings, he smiled politely and proceeded to pour them more ale. After what seemed like several hours, and about fifteen mugs of ale, the soldiers seemed to be growing extremely groggy. The first one to go unconscious was the leader, who had the appearance of a happy child curled in a ball deep in slumber. The other two guards weren’t two far behind, both of them passed out around ten minutes later, one slightly ahead of the other.

After Azarmanô was sure they were safely snoring, he swiped the keys from the side of the leader’s belt. They were big and bronze, emblazoned with the words “high security” on their stems. Azarmanô hoped they were heavy sleepers, because he wanted to be safely outside the dungeon with the mission completed by the time they awoke. Azarmanô untied Inzillomí’s chains from the bar and led her, along with the rest of the group, down the corridor which ended at a set of stairs that he hoped they could follow to the north tower.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomí had fallen surprisedly to the floor. Though it had not hurt, the shocked expression the flitted across her delicate features was enough to convince the Guards that Azarmanô had been none too gentle. As he bound her chained armed to a cell, the Guards snorted inappropriate comments and guffawed over their tasteless jokes in a manner far too uncouth to repeat.

Inzillomí blushed faintly over the insinuations and felt sick to a point of tears over the idea that these men believed their words and actions to be perfectly acceptable. Azarmanô ignored their talk, seeing that retaliation would bring death swiftly. He poured the drinks.

She huddled uncomfortably as far from the drunken gaze of the Guards as she could, relying on Azarmanô completely. Should things go wrong, she was much in a terrible position to do anything. Though to a sober man of honor she might well be able to speak her way into safety, with these drunken louts, she doubted very much they would heed her words even if she had not been chained in such a way as befits a murderer.

She fell within her own thoughts for a short time, plotting and devising. The northern tower... she considered, ignoring the alcohol-induced affection that allowed for several toasts in Azarmanô's honor. That will be where my husband lies... Azarmanô will be able to accompany me.. the prisoner... she thought with a grimace... to the highest security area. What of our two companions? Thoronmir cannot be seen... he is far too much a liability should he be recognized. Abarzadan seems to have much on his mind. Perhaps to send them back into the city to scout possible escape routes?

Suddenly Inzi felt a change in her position and snapped back to reality in a shot. Azarmanô was untying her from the cell with an apologetic look. She shrugged it off as a necessary discomfort and looked admiringly at his unconscious handiwork. She submitted her suggestions for their easily traceable companion and their mysterious-as-ever one and waited, still chained, for Azarmanô's response.

[Meneltarmacil]

Azarmanô, Inzillomí, and Thoronmir searched the rest of the area for Abârpânarú's cell. As they searched the building, Thoronmir spotted a guard walking in their direction. He tried to hide his face, but the guard recognized him before he could do anything.

"Sakaladûn? Is that you?" said the guard, coming closer.

But to Thoronmir's surprise, he didn't try to arrest them. Instead, he pulled them aside into an unoccupied cell and started talking to them.

"My name is Târik. I am one of the Faithful, and I have been secretly passing information to Abârpânarú," he said in a whisper.

"We came to break him out. We brought his wife into the city as part of our disguise, so we didn't actually intend to have her sacrificed. With your help, we'll have everyone out in no time," Thoronmir said.

"Is he hurt?" Inzillomí asked.

"He wasn't the last time I checked," Târik responded. "His cell is the first one up these stairs to your right." He indicated a nearby staircase. "I have to go. Good luck."

[littlemanpoet]

As Târik disappeared into the darkness, the group heard a clang from down the corridor to which Târik had pointed them. A dim light caused shadows to move along the far wall opposite the mouth of a corridor that turned to the right. Then the shadows returned.

The group moved quickly and quietly to the corridor and turned right, and stepped up the half flight of stairs lying before them. Just three ranga ahead of them the corridor they were in opened into a taller and broader way. Thoronmir was in the lead and waved the others to silence, listening. There seemed to be footsteps fading to their left down the broad hallway. A heavy door closed, echoing like drums of doom. Then all was silent.

"His cell should be just to the right," Thoronmir whispered, pointing down the broad hall. The others nodded and followed as quietly as they could, turning into the hallway.

It was dark, except for a torch smouldering fitfully in its sconce at the intersection of the corridor they had just passed through. There was one cell before them. It was empty.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô stared in disbelief at the empty cell that stared back at him. The feeling was shocking, very empty, and extremely hollow as if a hole had suddenly opened up in the ground underneath him. The obvious question struck him with incredible force: Where was Abârpânarú? This was his cell, or so the gaurd that had known Thoronmir had said. He could not remember the man's name. Azarmanô viewed the guard's assistance with suspicion, but it had been their only lead. Now, it seemed as though they had been duped by one of the king's men. He had no idea where Abârpânarú was, but it was not the time to sulk. They would have to move quickly if they wished to find their leader's cell amidst all that were in the high security tower.

Inzillomi too looked stunned as she stared into the empty cell. She began to let out a high pitched scream and shake her fists vehemently. Azarmanô silenced the distressed woman by placing his hand over her mouth and restraining her while whispering words of calm into her ear. He feared that his damage control only did limited good, since some guards surely had heard the high-pitched explosion and knew that something was amiss.

"I would urge everyone to stay calm. We will not leave until we find Abârpânarú. He is in a cell somewhere in this section. Let us search," he concluded.

And so Azarmanô sprinted down the dark stone corridor glancing quickly from one side to another for any sign of their leader followed by the rest of the group. Every cell inflicted more pain, anguish, and panic upon Azarmanô's heavy heart, but he dare not show it. He kept his face blank, stoic as if he were window shopping for a new suit of plate mail. The light tread of his leather boots echoed down the deserted hallway. As he travelled farther down the corridor, the floor became dirt and the slope of the path led down. The cells seemed to be more spread out and larger.

Ahead of the group, from a distance, Azarmanô could see a clearing inside the dungeon and a large black obsidian alter whose stones were stained red with blood. A chill of fear spread throughout Azarmanô's body as he stared at the alter of Sauron the destroyer himself. The blood of the former Faithful cried out from the ground as a testimony to the atrocities that had been committed there. Azarmanô did not see Sauron himself, but he imagined that he could not be far away.

Following the curve of the tunnel, Azarmanô saw four guards lurking clsoe to a cell. Although he expected to find Abârpânarú within, as he grew closer he was disappointed to see that the cell was quite empty. Why would the soldiers be guarding an empty cell, he wondered. And if this was in fact Abârpânarú's cell, where was he? He approached the soldiers cautiously, sensing that confrontation might be near.

Azarmanô addressed the group, "I have a prisoner that I am escorting to her cell. She is the wife of the Faithful leader Abârpânarú, and I was given orders to place her in the cell next to her husband's. Is this his cell?"

The leader spoke, addressing Abârpânarú disdainfully," Stop where you are. We know what you are up to. You are a resourceful group of vermin, I give you that. We found the group of guards who became extremely drunk and then fell asleep in the middle of the hallway. They told us how you slipped past them with the female prisoner and stole the keys to the high security area. We were ordered to patrol the high security area and look for your group. You will not be so lucky as to escape again. "

I'll show you resourceful, he thought as a mischievous grin spread across his face. Impulsively, Azarmanô unslung his bow and unleashed an arrow into the throat of one of the guards as the other Faithful turned to face them.....

[Himaran]

Abârzadan's keen hearing easily picked up the loud conversation between the guards and Azarmanô, even though he was now positioned at the rear of the group. The discussion was both heated and brief. Although the man expected the guards to see straight through the captain's now compromised story, he had not forseen the swift and violent reaction that brought an abrupt end to any negotiations. The other Faithful turned instantly as the lead guard fell to the floor, a shaft protruding from his throat. Silence reigned for a split second as a faint gurgle escaped his lips. Then life fled the body, and the hallway decended into chaos. The remaining guards charged Azarmanô, and with Inzi and Thoronmir blocking his path Abârzadan knew that he could do little to help. Events soon proved him very, very wrong.

Suddenly, on Abârzadan's side of the hallway, two more guards appeared. They had obviously heard the commotion and come to investigate it. Thinking quickly, the man dropped his spear (which he had been carrying for show) and ran towards them. "Stop! Stop! A prisoner escaped! He's gone!" Unable to see what was happening further down the passage, but horrified by the news shouted at them by the "guard" running towards them, the pair froze as if stuck to the glistening stone floor. The penalty for allowing an inmate to escape was sacrifice in the temple. Something had to be done! Forgetting about the conflict ahead, the guards allowed themselves to be forcefully turned and pushed in the direction that the supposed fugitive had fled.

The trio skidded to a halt as the hallway ended and two side passages appeared, going in seperate directions. "Go left, I'll go right," yelled Abârzadan, and the other two (motivated by the fear of a horrible death) obeyed without question. As they dashed off, the man slowed, stopped, and waited. Once sure that they were far enough away, he turned and sprinted back the way they had come, hoping that the others had survived.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomi's intense regret at her outburst disappeared the second the guards appeared. She was too busy calculating their chances of escape to spare any thought for her recent stupidity. A bolt pierced the neck of the spokesman for the King's Men. She spared a second to glance at Azarmanô... he held his bow and appeared to be sizing up the enemy. The hapless man fell to the floor, a choked gurgling coming not from his mouth, but from the new hole permeating his throat. Chaos ensued.

A tall guard slipped past the men to reach Inzillomi. Violently he grabbed her by the hair. She bit back a scream while, encumbered by the chains of her disguise, she grasped his hands. She felt quickly for the tender spots on his forearms and pressed hard, digging with her nails. He released her with a grunt and dove forward, propelled by anger. She ducked fast, barely missing his fist coming in direct contact with her face. She heard Abarzadan yell unidentifiable words as she gripped her attacker by the arm and helped him to fly over her hip. He slammed hard into the bars of the empty cell, slumping. It never does to underestimate a small opponent when you are giving them all the momentum they need, though Inzillomi with a resigned sigh as she advanced, pulling a small black vial from her wide sash. She broke the seal, uncorking the bottle. As the dazed guard looked at her hazily, Inzillomi poured a small amount of the pearly liquid into the unlucky man's mouth. Within seconds he was unconscious. She did not envy him the headache he would have upon awakening.

She turned on her knees, eyes sweeping the scene for more attackers. Azarmanô fought ferociously. Thoronmir grappled with his own opponent a short distance away. Abarzadan was missing.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô looked approvingly as Inzillomi smashed the head of a guard against the cell bars and poured something down his throat. Perhaps he had underestimated her, for he did not expect her to be so well prepared. Thoronmir disposed of the third one quickly as he thrust his sword into the guard’s stomach, through an exposed point in the plate mail. Azarmanô now loaded his bow a second time and shot the lone remaining guard. The guard leapt in an effort to dodge the arrow, but was struck in the leg and fell to the ground, writhing in pain. Azarmanô prepared to finish him off with one well placed shot, but restrained himself. He shunned unnecessary bloodshed and felt that the guard would not harm anyone in his present condition. After taking the guard’s sword, Azarmanô motioned to the rest of the party that it was time to proceed.

As he glanced back at his companions he was alarmed to see that Abarzadan was not among those present. Azarmanô was surprised by this, particularly because he had seen Abarzadan mere moments before the fight began standing by his side. In the turmoil of combat, Azarmanô had not given much attention to the whereabouts of the rest of the party. It did not seem unlikely that Abarzadan could have easily escaped, but the real question was why. Could he, at this moment, be reporting to the enemy, notifying all the temple of their whereabouts? Azarmanô had come to expect suspicious behavior from Abarzadan, and this disappearance seemed to confirm his fears.

“We can not wait to see if our elusive friend will return. We must go forward,” he announced decisively.

He turned to look expecting to see the black sacrificial altar, where he suspected Abârpânarú was being led, but saw that the door had been closed. It must have been shut while we fought from inside, he thought. Quickly, he ran forward, grasped the iron door handle firmly, and pulled hard. Azarmanô cursed in desperation as he realized that the door had been locked. He tried to use his bronze high security key to open the sealed entrance, but the key would not turn.

Consumed with anger, desperation, and urgency, he shouted “Thoronmir crack open this door with your sword. An axe would do the job better but I have none. Make haste for more than one life is in jeopardy within.”

Thoronmir swung his long sword, but the blade merely made several cuts in the wood and the door was very thick. Azarmanô battled the ideas flowing through his mind that the effort was futile and Abârpânarú’s doom imminent. Suddenly, a low rumbling noise began reverberating through the hallway. Subdued at first, the sound grew louder until it reached a tremendous roar. The ground beneath his feet began to quiver and small rocks came crashing down from the ceiling. At first, these things had seemed strange to Azarmanô, but now he understood. The beginning of the demise, the harbinger of destruction, the end that he had dreaded but known one day would come was upon them. The Island of Numenor was drowning, sinking into the vast ocean Azarmanô loved so well.

[littlemanpoet]

Míriel waited behind the thick velvet curtain. She could see everything. Mabalar had been led into the sacrificial chamber; and he seemed to recognize the three others who had preceded him. The girl, could she be family? His daughter? She caught an exchanged glance between them, and knew it must be so. The sorrow in their faces convinced her. That could have been her daughter. The girl was beautiful. Míriel had never met the woman Mabalar had married, but had heard of her. Inzillomí, she was called, of the house of Andúnië, daughter of Elendil. Mabalar had married well; maybe better than he might have, had she become his wife. For she knew how the ancestry went, a lady who should have ruled, passed over for her younger brother. It seemed that all had gone awry because of that.

Míriel held the potion in her hand. That fool, Herugor, had been so malleable to her purposes. All that had been needed was a little female attention - not so much as she would regret later - and he had become putty, giving her every desire of her heart's whim. So he thought, not knowing her purpose. The concentration spider's venom would render its imbiber dead to the world in all seeming, for days, or at least hours, depending on the imbiber. All she needed was a distraction.

What was that noise of banging on the door from which Mabalar had come? Who could want to come in? It was much safer out. Where was Tarík? Had he gotten her message to him? He must have, unless he had been kept from doing so. She had bade him tell Mabalar that they must not leave until he received her gift. She knew she could trust Moizandû to funnel the prisoners into his underground. He had told her the entrance to the secret passage, and she had guarded his secret with great care. The palantír must leave the Temple precincts. Sauron must not get it. She had been careful to keep secret from him, and from Herugor, but once the doom came upon Númenor, who could say what that evil one might uncover?

There was an odd rumble in the distance. Was there an army marching outside? No, it was growing. A herd of animals escaped from the nearby pens, racing for the Temple entrance? Absurd. It kept growing. The floor dropped a few inches from beneath her feet. She almost fell. This was the moment! It was an earthquake. The floor kept shifting, the ground beneath them groaning with a terrible roar. Míriel stole into the chamber in the confusion, keeping low to the shifting floor as the guards and their prisoners fought for balance, vainly trying to stay on their feet.

Mabalar saw her. His eyes widened briefly. She came to him and placed the vial in his chained hands.

"Drink this now. It will save you."

She left him and made her way back to the curtains as the floor continued to rock, the roar of the earth slowly dissipating. When she had regained her composure, and her feet, she looked back. Mabalar lay on the floor, his face looking paler already. Around him, his daughter and her friends were fighting with their guards.
The door to the dungeons flew open. She turned away and moved quickly back to her chambers. She might have been seen, and knew that she must not be found near the chamber of sacrifice. It was time to retrieve the palantír and wait for an opportune moment, to give it to the safekeeping of Mabalar, once he awakened.

[Meneltarmacil]

Meneltarmacil's post

Thoronmir would not give up. He backed up and ran into the door hard, and it finally gave way.

"Let's go! Now!" he shouted, and they all burst out into the room where Abarpanaru was being held. Thoronmir went to untie him, but he was stopped by a tall figure that had just entered the room.

"Well, well. My old enemy Sakaladun. It's been a long time."

"Herugor." Thoronmir said. "I was wondering when you'd show up." He drew his long knife and pointed it at Herugor.

"Thoronmir!" Azarmano shouted. "We don't have time for this! The island will sink in a few hours! We need to get out of here now!"

Thoronmir looked toward Abarpanaru and the exit behind him, then at Herugor, who had drawn his knife as well.

"One of my descendants will help to finish this fight." he said to Herugor, and cut Abarpanaru loose.

"GUARDS!" Herugor shouted. Several soldiers charged in behind him, but at that point another tremor shook the temple, causing part of the ceiling to fall in between the King's Men and the Faithful.

The Faithful escaped the temple, but time was running out.


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Himaran's post

Bodies.

Abârzadan dashed down the slick hallway, stumbling over unseen cracks in the cold stone. Every passing second brought him closer to where he had left the group, and the sight that was slowly becoming clearer was grim. The man was breathless when he arrived at the scene, but he immediately began to root through the corpses.

Just guards. He started to breath easier.

Then where had the others gone? He had been left them a mere minute before, in hopes of diverting a two-pronged attack that would surely have ended in their slaughter. Either Azarmanô and the rest had been captured, or they had left him. Neither possibility gave him much hope of being reunited with them. His legs, exhausted, failed him, and he slumped down against the dripping prison wall. Doubts began to flood his mind, accompanied by a revulsion for the carnage around him. What was he, a wealthy young man, doing here, abandoned in a dark cell by outcasts who he had been foolish enough to trust. Smacking his fist down on the solid floor, Abârzadan cursed the day that he had stooped low enough to visit that poor tavern. How different the last few days would have been had he instead attended a more fitting diner, or even stayed home and cooked for himself! The man chuckled out loud at the absurdity of the whole affair. He hadn't even known Abârpânarú.

A noise.

Heavy boots clattered down the corrider. Torches flared. Voices shouted. reinforcements had arrived, and they would not be pleased to find a surviving perpetrator resting amongst their dead companions. So Abârzadan took a chance. Grimacing, he dipped his hand into the pool of blood that had formed underneath the severed neck of a guard, splashed the sticky liquid on his face, and lay still. The conversation he soon heard was disorganized and heated.

"What happened?"

"How should I know! I watch the adjacent hall, not this one."

"They're... all dead."

"No! And here I thought they were still standing ready for inspection."

"Cut it! Multiple prisoners have escaped. I want a complete lockdown of this floor - no one enters or leaves. Târak, take these bodies and dump them in the sewer, and I mean deep."

Târak went to work, and the others hurried off to fulfill their tasks. Bells started to ring from all directions. Heavy doors were slammed shut. Men grabbed extra weapons from supply posts and sprinted to their stations.

Unlike these guards, Târak seemed to be in no particular hurry. Lacking a cart, his chosen method of moving bodies was to sling one over his shoulder and hold a torch in his free hand. While quite inefficient, it gave Abârzadan a means by which to leave unnoticed. With all the men patrolling the block, it would be next to impossible to sneak by them all. He didn't even know the way out. Thus, he waited patiently, and when it was his turn he stayed as limp as a dead eel. Târak carried him for several minutes before unceremoniously dumping the living "corpse" in a dank tunnel, one filled in nearly a foot of water. Abârzadan kept his head under until he was sure that the guard was gone, whereupon he stood, gasping for breath. He couldn't see a thing, and had no means to make light. Then again, Târak hadn't finished yet...

* * * * *

Torch in hand, Abârzadan left Târak's unconcious form where it fell. The fire glared off the walls as he sloshed down the tunnel, attempting to keep the embers dry. Was the water rising? It was now above his knees. Turning a corner, the man's heart leaped as an incline appeared. The flooded passage was left behind, the torch was dropped, and a triumphant Numenorean pushed open a rusted grate, climbing up into the city of Armenelos.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Thoronmir's encounter with Herugor went unnoticed by Inzillomì, though seeing her husband slump to the floor did not. Just as she had positioned herself in the rear of the group, an arm had pulled her into shadows, hand blocking a scream that never would have escaped her lips even without it. The moment she was released she turned, hands ready to find purchase. The figure was Târik. She did not untense.

"My lady," he murmered quickly, bowing deep. "I was fooled. It seems that I have been... watched. But if I may," his speech was even faster, though still quite clear and quiet. "there is a way to escape, if you will trust me."

Inzillomì did not hesitate to tell him in no uncertain terms that to trust in a man who wore the uniform of the enemy, who had already once led them astray, and who no word had ever reached her well-informed ears of, was folly that not even their desperate group could fall to, most especially in such a tricky situation.

However as she spoke and as the situation became ever more dangerous outside of the shadows, something in the young man's eyes spoke to her of his intentions. Before he could respond to her quiet tirade, she lay a hand on his arm and nodded. Unquestionable relief lit his features at her consent, and ascertained her decision; she slid from the shadows with one upraised finger to him; just one moment.

She laid a hand invisible to the rest on Azarmanô's lower back. She felt him tense before she whispered to him. Her voice calmed him and he was able to keep attention on the scene before him. "I have found escape. Please take my husband and follow on my call." She felt rather than heard him agree, the stakes being too high for him not to, before moving on to Thoronmir, repeating the process with a request for him to release Marsillion. In her black gown, dirty though it was, she moved through the shadowed place unnoticed. She doubted any knew of her presence save her companions. The flickering torchlight was certainly not enough to illuminate her. She did not see Abarzadan and could not tell if he was present.

"Now!" she called, ducking into shadow once more. Thoronmir attacked Marsillion's guards ferociously, securing his release in a matter of seconds. He kept guard as Marsillion cut Kâthaanî free, and Tiru. Azarmanô retrieved the unconscious Abârpânarú, slinging him unceremoniously, though admittedly carefully, over his shoulder. Inzillomì stepped from the shadows once more, beckoning, and the group followed, Thoronmir last, moving backward, with his sword sweeping. No archers had appeared, quite thankfully, and he was able to hold off the few guards that attempted to follow Herugor's shrieked orders.

Târik whispered in Inzillomì's ear. "This way, lady." She took the hand of her daughter and followed, trusting that her companions would be immediately behind. Within seconds, the group had disappeared into a hole in the shadows. A nearly inaudible sliding signified the way being closed behind them. Târik reappeared by her side with a single lit torch and led them hurriedly down, ever down. The pathway was damp, cold, and turning. He passed paths on both sides, following an unpredictable route to an unknown destination. The only sound was that of footsteps. The ground shook slightly, reminding them of the unsafe nature of their escape route. To be caught underground as the earth shook itself free of tension... they thrust the thoughts from their minds, though not entirely. Though none spoke, the weight of the air laid heavily on them all.

With a final left turn, the light suddenly spread. Where before it was limited to a passage perhaps four feet across and eight high, the torchlight flared into a space large enough for the group to halt all together. A figure in a dark cloak stood shadowed before them, looking to the floor. A larger figure, also cloaked, stood two steps behind, seeming to loom in the tricky illumination. The party halted, the men reaching for what weapons they carried.

Târik stepped forward with a deep bow, standing aside with a waved gesture toward the group. Thoronmir stepped toward Târik, anger in his eyes. He grasped the hilt of his weapon, mercy absent from his gaze. A stranger's voice pierced the moment.

The first cloaked figure spoke with a voice both melodious, low, and fair. "That is quite enough. Do you not believe the peril of the Faithful to be great enough without turning upon your allies?" Inzillomì looked at Târik with a deep respect and not a little surprise before curtsying deeply before the lady, Tar Miriel. The group responded similarly, though a step behind, save for Azarmanô, whose load did not quite warrant a full bow, though his nod conveyed the same respect. "Faithful Târik, would you?" she asked cryptically, and he nodded, giving his light away to the now unthreatening Thoronmir and disappearing from view. "He leaves to retrieve your mounts." she nodded to Inzillomì. "There is time, though not much. You are safe here, for now. Rest. My lady, would you please honor me with a private moment?"

Inzillomì nodded reassuringly to her daughter, releasing her hand for the first time since she had first grasped it. The group relaxed slightly, Azarmanô carefully laying Abârpânarú upon a blanket that Tiru spread upon the cold floor. They spoke quietly amongst themselves as the women disappeared into shadow. The second figure had disappeared, and the men worried of him, but accepted Inzillomì's leadership.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The shadows seemed comforting rather than suffocating as Inzillomì followed Miriel out of sight. Though they had never met, Abârpânarú had spoken to Miriel many times of his wife. Inzillomì knew that Abârpânarú had had a history with the great woman, and that he loved her dearly, but also that he loved Inzi more than life itself. She examined her feelings as she walked in silence. She had considered what this meeting would be before, were it ever to occur, but she had always seen her husband present, as well as, she must admit, lighter circumstances surrounding it. She had believed that she would feel jealous, perhaps... uncertain of the situation. Now, she simply felt relieved that she could relax her authority for a time. She felt an inexplicable bond to this fascinating woman. They halted, black garb swirling about their feet at the sudden stop. They even looked somewhat alike, clad darkly, though in the pitch dark of the passage, they could not see each other.

Miriel took Inzillomì's hand in her own. "I only wish this meeting could have taken place under different circumstances. I have seen you many times, though we were never introduced." Inzillomì nodded, understanding completely.

"My lady," she asked quietly. "I thank you for your aid. But why do we tarry? Though I have long desired to make your acquaintance, the very earth tells me that we do not have long." Miriel understood her as the ground shook once more.

"It is because of this." From the depths of her robes, Miriel produced a heavy object wrapped in black silks. Inzillomì took it, surprised at the weight. "Though I desired to meet you before... now... the time has come when it could no longer be delayed. You know as well as I that our fair lands shall not... the Valar are angry, and with reason. Your father Elendil awaits you at Romenna."

Inzillomì understood. She could feel the tremors deep in her heart, even without feeling them through her body.

Miriel spoke once more, quickly now. "I give to you a palantir." Inzillomì's sharp intake of breath punctuated the statement. "I have long hidden it from the king... it mustn't be lost to the world. I entrust you with this, Inzillomì Elendili, wife of he that I love. Will you take this burden and guard it, accompanying it to the safety of Middle Earth? I would have given it to Mabalar... however he is otherwise occupied." Sensing the question, Miriel explained quickly. "He is alive, and he is well. I have provided him with time. The dark lord prefers his victims awake and in good health when the torture begins." She spat the last words with hatred. "With Mabalar unconscious, he would not be able to respond to pain. He will awaken in some hours."

Inzillomì turned this new responsibility over in her mind. "Great lady, have no fear. I will not leave this fair isle without what you have entrusted me with stewardship of."

"Then we must return before your menfolk become over-anxious to discover our maidenly secrets, no?" Inzillomì laughed at this, tucking the palantir into a deep pocket and taking Miriel's hand once more.

"Will you not sail with us? You could be saved from the doom of Numenor--"

Miriel interrupted her softly. "Nay, lady. It is not my doom. I shall remain. Come."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The men looked up from their quiet discussion as the women returned to the room.

"Come." spoke Inzillomì. "We must depart." She looked expectantly at Miriel, once again illuminated by torchlight. The great lady beckoned from the shadows the other figure that had seemed to disappear before. He pushed his hood from his face, revealing to Azarmanô the face of the shopkeep that had observed his charade as a guard.

"Moizandû will lead you from this place."

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô had never before met this Tar Miriel, but Inzillomí seemed to trust her, and that was good enough for him. He sensed that Inzillomí and the stranger had some previous connections, but he did not dare ask what these were. During the time the two talked in private, Azarmanô grew increasingly suspicious that something of great importance was about to take place, but his honor forbade him from intruding into their private matter. He trusted that if Inzillomí wanted him to know, she would tell him later. Azarmanô repeated Inzillomí’s request to Tar Miriel to join the party and escape what must be certain death, but she refused politely once more. She felt her destiny to be intertwined with that of her land, like a captain who stays behind on his sinking ship.

Azarmanô too felt great pain to be parted so abruptly with his beloved island. Although his head knew that Numenor would soon perish, his heart could not imagine this to be so. Numenor had always been dear to him, but never had this attachment been stronger than now at the moment of its destruction. Despite this, Azarmano knew he could not remain on the island like Miriel and abandon his wife and son. The pain of losing his homeland was great, but the agony of losing his loved ones would have been greater. Even if he lost every physical possession he had, he could continue living if he was with family. Without them, life would be near unbearable.

Lost in is his own thoughts, Azarmanô took a moment to look up and examine the man leading the expedition. He had heard Miriel call him Moizandû. The man’s bright red hair and beard streaked with white seemed familiar to him. Azarmanô felt sure that he had seen this man’s face before, although his name seemed foreign. After several moments, he finally remembered these features belonged to the stoic shopkeeper who had seen Inzillomí being harassed by the crowd on the party’s way into the dungeon. Azarmanô wondered who this mysterious ally was, but knew that they would not have the time to become better acquainted now- later perhaps, if they were fortunate enough to survive.

The underground tunnel rumbled as more rocks fell from the sides of the cavernous walls. How long did they have before the island was underwater? Would the sinking come quickly or slowly? Azarmanô longed to know the answers to the questions that plagued him, but realized that no mortal could possibly know such things. Their only hope was to get off the island as speedily as they could and pray that it was enough. The passageway wound forward, and still no one in the party said a single word. In the distance, Azarmanô glimped a small patch of moonlight that made his heart stir. The end of the tunnel was near and soon they would be out of Sauron’s foul dungeon. Miriel had not led them astray.

As he inched slowly towards the opening, with the weight of Arabapanu slumped on his shoulders and Inzillomí following close behind, Azarmanô pleaded to his unconscious companion, “Cling tight my friend. Soon we will all be safe and aboard Elendil’s ships in Rómenna. We need only reach them before time runs out.”

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Târik wove between scurrying guards to where he knew the kariborim of the prisoners to be located. He drew as little attention to himself as possible, striding swiftly as he clutched an officially sealed scroll with the appearance of a man following orders and with no time to tarry. He was not stopped. Though a handful of his superiors knew Târik's Faithful attitude, they were few, and his fellow guards were entirely unaware that he was very unfavored at this time.

The smell of old blood and fear-sweat mingled with the sweet scent of hay. A piercing whinny cut through the air as a painful crack echoed through the halls. Târik moved faster, dreading what scene he would discover. He turned the customary corner to find several of the King's Men surrounding the most enchanting piece of horse-flesh he had ever laid eyes on. Her gleaming coat was flecked with blood. She reared high, kicking out with her hooves. One guard was unlucky enough to meet with one. The flailing leg connected solidly with his shoulder and he flew into a wall. A whip cracked through the air, landing another hit on her flank. Târik stepped forward angrily, pulling the whip from the foolish guard.

"Fool!" he snapped, cracking the whip expertly within inches of the man's feet. "The lord Sauron does not command those such as you to do these things. Do you not see the majesty of this beast? Her gleaming flesh is not yours to corrupt, nor is her temperment yours to break to will." He turned to the rest of the guards, still bearing bloodstained whips, though looking properly cowed. The mare had come once more to earth, breathing heavily and glancing about wildly in anger. "Where have you put the rest of the prisoners' kariborim?" he demanded. "Sauron requires them, and it is you who will answer when he requires an explanation to this beasts injuries."

The guards looked at once fearful and stepped back from the horse. Târik grapsed her by the halter, covertly caressing her with his fingers beneath the leather. She calmed slightly at his touch as Târik followed the beckoning guard. Within a short time, Târik led a line of horses through the maze-like dungeons. Within moments, he had taken a subtly wrong turn and led the beasts to the open air of a rarely used ally way. Eyes alert, Târik guided the clever beasts through the mysteriously silent back ways.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Herugor had channeled his frustration at the loss of so many valuable prisoners by stabbing a handsome young guard, freshly married and much in love, through the heart. As he withdrew his long sword from the warm corpse, he glanced about. Silently, he motioned. At once, two dozen guards were surrounding him. He turned with a swish of his cloak and they followed through the darkest tunnels, footsteps echoing menacingly.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Inzillomì walked several paces behind Moizandû. Her steps never faltered, though her eyes often strayed to her husband, still carried by Azarmanô, and her daughter, still mysteriously silent. As they reached the open air, she breathed a sigh of relief. The palantir was heavy in her robes.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Herugor stalked silently through the empty streets. Where moments before, the city had bustled, the ebony clad warriors of the king, following the sallow faced man caused terror that not even those living near the endless screams of the dungeons could ignore.

The sun was blotted by black clouds as the ground trembled. Wind picked at the men's cloaks as they moved, heavily armed and in formation, through the city. Herugor did not once glance behind him or hesitate as he pointed black-gloved fingers to direct his troops. Silent as their leader, the men moved into place, carefully surrounding a non-descript stairwell, long since abandoned.

They drew their weapons and waited.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Târik hesitated before rounding the last corner. The hoofbeats of the kariborim had been muffled by the hissing winds that raced along the streets of the city. He glanced toward the stairwell that Moizandû was to have led the Faithful to. Two dozen armed guards lay in wait.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Although the scene was quiet as Moizandu led the party out of the cave and onto the streets of the city, the instant the group emerged, a barrage of arrows reigned down on their heads. The rescuers were badly outnumbered. Azarmanô whirled around frantically searching for the source of the attack. He glimpsed a large gathering of guards with weapons drawn waiting for them not twenty feet away. These men must have known we would be using this underground exit, Azarmano grimly reflected. Hastily drawing his bow, he let loose an arrow that found its mark full in the chest of one of the bowmen attacking in the front line. Firing his bow presented more of a problem because he was toting an injured comrade on his back, but he managed nonetheless. As the guards drew their swords and charged towards the rescuers in a great throng, Abarzadan unleashed his axe. Azarmanô had no time to think about the uneven numbers or the likelihood of survival; there was only time to attack.

Lunging to the left to dodge a blade that slashed down mere inches from his head, Azarmanô hit one assailant squarely in the stomach with his own sword, only to find another standing behind him. Just to his right, Azarman could see that Thoronmir had unsheathed his rapier and was preparing for the onslaught. Amidst the chaos of battle, Azarmano detected a faint whinney coming from a short distance. Behind the soldiers he saw the same guard who had told them the location of Arabapanu’s cell. To Azarmanô ’s amazement and relief, four kariborim stood at his side. He had not seen the horses since before they had entered the city, but he could not imagine a better time for them to make an appearance. Before Azarmanô or the others could gesture or call the horses forward, the steeds had trotted over to the Faithful, trampling aside the battling guards. One of the horses walked straight towards Abarpanaru and nudged the unconscious man with his muzzle, as though he was trying to arouse him from sleep. Battling off the guards with his axe, Azarmanô sprang onto the back of this horse, urging the others to find a mount and do the same. Fighting on horseback would not only give the men a physical edge against their enemies, but instill a feeling of confidence, something which could be even more important than numbers or weapons in determining the outcome of a fight.

Now astride the kariborim, the rescuers intensified their blows. Azarmanô unleashed one arrow after another into the throng of guards, but the fighting never seemed to slow. Even with the advantage of the horses, the outcome of the battle was uncertain. Azarmanô stole a glance at Inzillomi, concerned for the woman's safety, but found her atop a karibor deflecting attacks with her steel fan and occasionally hurling a knife at an unsuspecting soldier. I’ll say one thing for her, he thought, she handles herself well when things get tough.

The mysterious Târik joined the fighting on the side of the Faithful, wielding his long sword deftly against the crowd of combatants. Azarmanô had not expected help of any kind and was delighted to see the man come to their aid. Almost instantly, however, four guards formed a tight circle around Târik as he tried frantically to ward his attackers off. Azarmanô saw Târik’s distress and fired several arrows in the direction of his assailants, but he could not get through to the man, even on horseback. Soon, it was too late. One of the guards fell to Azarmanô 's arrow; the rest continued their relentless attack. Azarmanô watched in horror as Târik’s head was sliced off and rolled to the ground. Enraged and frustrated, Azarmanô drew his bow again in quick succession and watched the three men fall as arrows penetrated their backs and necks. At that same instant, Azarmanô’s horse veered to one side and stumbled as one of the soldiers took a swing at its leg. The beast quickly recovered its footing but not before Abarpanaru slipped off the horse's back and landed with a thud on the ground.

[littlemanpoet]

Mabalar woke painfully and winced. It was day, though the clouds threatened rain. Or were those arrows? Plenty of both, apparently. Mabalar squinted about him and saw that he was in immediate danger of being trampled unless he got to his feet. His hands were chained still, but with no wall hampering their movement, they would make a fine makeshift flail. He rose, in the middle of a melee. Nearby were Azarmanô, Inzillomì, Thoronmir, Marsillion, Kâthaanî, Tirú, Moizandû, and another he did not recognize. They were surrounded by soldiers in the garb of the treasonous king. All this Mabalar saw in a moment. There was no time for questions, though many flew into his mind, not least of which what were his wife and daughter doing in the midst of a melee just outside the Temple of Sauron, so he set them aside and made use of his only weapon.

An arrow wielding guard did not expect such an attack against him, and found his bow and arrow entangled and useless. In a moment his hands fell useless, an arrow from Azarmanó lodged in his eye.

The leader of the guards was screaming orders from behind them. Mabalar did not recognize the man, but was happy with one thing he was saying: do not harm the horses. Well enough. However, more guards came to replace those that had already fallen. This would not do. They would be overcome later if not sooner.

"We must ride!" Mabalar yelled. "Mount the Kariborim, they will hold us!"

Mabalar was convinced that it was a futile attempt and that they were seeing their last day.

"Abârpânarú!" came a cry. It was Moizandú, who was making his way to him as he could through the melee.

"Good greeting, friend!" Though the situation was ill. Moizandú grinned.

"I shall pay my debt to you! Flee while you may and I will draw their aim!"

"But you will die!"

"My life has not been ill spent, neither will my death! Go!"

[Himaran]

Abarzadan wandered aimlessly through the streets of Armenelos. All around him, people were going about their daily tasks; plainly clad residents pushed their carts, sold their wares, and scolded their children (when such action was necessary). The man paused often to admire the rich architecture of the buildings he passed by, gazing in awe at the towering structures. So this was the place of beauty and tranquility that his father had pleaded with him to seek. The meandering tourist could not help but speculate that the display of anger he and the others had witnessed toward Inzillomi - a member of the Faithful - had been an isolated incident involving few misguided zealots. Surely there was no hatred to be found amongst the ordinary citizens of the magnificient Numenorian civilization. After all, they saw her as the wife of a dangerous criminal, not as the kind and gentle woman that she had turned out to be.

Then Abarzadan saw something that did not fit with his current take on the city. A young boy, not more than four years of age, was walking near him. The child was skinny, almost dangerously so, and very ill-clad. He was caring a box of small trinkets for sale, and shouted out to anyone who would listen to "c'mere and buy s'mthin!" Everyone else merely looked past him, but not Abarzadan. He caught the boy by the shoulder, stopped him, and started picking through the wares. His right hand lifted out a small wooden carviture. It was a man on horseback, dressed in military garb, wielding a deadly battle axe. For all the man knew, it could have been his father. Choking back the oncoming rush of tears, he payed double the price for the figurine and sent the now smiling salesboy on his way. What sort of family would send their infant out on the streets just to make a dime? His father had certainly never done so, but then, they were well off. Was there really such poverty here? Shaken up by the encounter, Abarzadan walked over to a nearby bench in the center of the square and sat down.

"That was very kind of you."

The voice was smooth and melodious. Abarzadan looked up to find a young, well dressed woman sharing the bench. She had a beautiful face, and the wide smile only made it more exquisite. He was too stunned to speak, so she spoke again. "He comes here every day, on his way through the city. Most people just ignore him; tourists certainly do."

In the pause that followed, the man once again could not think of anything to say. "Thank you," he mumbled, but here merry laughter drained the embarressment from his face, and he could not help but smile too.

"So, do you live in the city?" she asked.

The man thought for a moment, eventually deciding to just be honest. "I was born here, but my father and I left when I was young. It has changed so much since then that I don't recognize a thing. It seems so young and fresh and active."

The woman nodded sagely. "Yes, Armenelos in indeed a wonderful place to live. And what might your name be, good sir?"

Without even thinking of the possible consequences, he spat out "Abârzadan Batânzâira."

Her eyes were dull for a moment, and then lit up brightly. "My father used to do business with a man named Batânzâira. It was a long time ago, though, and I don't recall his first name. I was young at the time, you see. But I have forgotten my manners! My name is Ellinel."

Abarzadan was suddenly exciting. The prospect of meeting an affluent friend of his father was both intriguing and exhilerating. Perhaps he could start over after all. Pushing the nagging feeling of guilt - that of betraying the group he had set out with - from his mind, he asked another question. "Dear Ellinel, could you take me to visit your father? I am Batânzâira's son and sole heir, as he has recently passed away. If what you say is true, your father and I may have some loose ends that need to be tied up."

The deep smile only grew wider. "But of course, Abârzadan Batânzâira. Our place is just to the south of here."

Suddenly, there was a slight tremor in the earth. Everyone in the marketplace slowed, steadied themselves, and waited. When it had passed, they continued on their way, oblivious of the disaster to come.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomì had marked the loss of Târik with cold fury. She had mistrusted him long before turning to his guidance, and almost felt that she had lost a son now that she had placed her life in his hands and he had given his to save them. Mandos keep him in high honor. she thought grimly, catching a sweeping blade with her fan and running the unfortunate soldier through as he tried to regain his motionless blade. She felt sick at heart at the loss of these brave young guards; they fought fiercly for reasons as good as her own... simply different. Whether for their own ideals, or through fear, and she could not judge them bitterly... she had seen too much sorrow at the hands of judgement to inflict it on such pitiable lads as these.

Her face was white as new fallen snow, pale as those dying from her strokes. It was her life or those of the King's Men. Those she loved best in the world stood in the balance. Now was not the time for mercy. She argued with herself, blocking and defending unthinkingly. The karibor beneath her reared, kicking, and dispatching a man just out of reach. If now is not the highest and hardest time for mercy, then what is? Should not these boys be treated with the kindness that seems so foreign to them? Do not they need it most?

Abarzadan had disappeared from the fray. Inzillomì had not seen him leave, but she could not place him in the midst of the fighters... or on the cold road with those slain.

A sharp tug nearly pulled Inzi from the saddle. Kâthaanî, who had been riding pillion until the group could retrieve the rest of the mounts, had been pulled from her place, trying fruitlessly to keep hold on her mother. Inzi turned, straining her back, to see Kâthaanî pull her dull silver blade from its sheath, ducking a blow from a large guard. The girl had been silent through the trip and remained so now. As she pivoted, trying to find purchase through her opponent's armor, a scream cut through the air, piercing it's way through even the heavy rumble of thunder. Heat lightening played across the low clouds, blinding Inzillomì. As her eyes cleared, she did not see her daughter. She searched the area madly, noting her husband shouting an unheard message to a bearded man she barely recognized. Azarmanô fought on horseback, bow and blade in hand. Tiru also rode, his own mount as much weapon as he required. With silent messages, transferred unthinkingly by feel, the faithful servant guided his karibor with deadly accuracy. Guards lay on the ground in verying states of pain, clutching broken bones, unable to fight. Marsillion was deeply engaged with several opponents but seemed capable. Kâthaanî was not standing. Inzillomì swept the ground fiercly. She froze as the earth shook. Her daughter lay still on the unfeeling road, a pool of blood spreading from beneath her.

"We flee!" came Abârpânarú's shout through a moment of unexpected silence. "No time to ponder, we flee!"

Inzillomì didn't move.

[littlemanpoet]

littlemanpoet's post

Mabalar thanked Moizandú with a brief silent glance of deepest respect as his friend dismounted from Izri, putting himself in great danger, and sent the mearas seeking out her mistress, Kâthaanî.

It was fortunate that the street was full of shop wares and their poles, tents, tables and benches, which had made it hard for more than a small number of Herugor's guards to attack them at one time, and also made bowshots difficult to aim with much accuracy.

A quake shook the earth. Mabalar remained on surefooted Lômi. He took stock. A foot wide gap had opened between them and the bulk of Herugor's guards. There were only fifteen guards on foot on their side of the gap. Mabalar looked over them and made a quick head count: Tirú was on Mani, Marsillion rode Rûki, Thoronmir sat astride Nitirú, Azarmanô held the reins of Khibil, and Inzillomí wielded her knife while on the back of Kali. Where was Kâthaanî? He could not see her.

Izri, find your mistress, he whispered. "Retreat!" he yelled and swung his chains at the nearest guard before the young soldier regained his wits. The others responded to his call, except for Inzillomí. Mabalar coaxed the wise Lômi to get clear of the guards. The sky darkened further, threatening clouds lowering as with a pall of doom. Hail began to fall. This was not hail like anything Mabalar had seen before, not the size of small pebbles; these were the size of nuts and apples, and stung like shot from a Soronilian blowgun.

Suddenly he heard someone crying above the fray. It was Moizandú. He was standing on top of a newly made heap of rubble, holding a piece of wood above his head.

"Men of Númenor! This hail, these earthquakes, these are made from the wrath of the Valar! Turn from your evil! Follow Sauron and his minion Herugor no more!"

Some of the guards quailed and dropped their swords to the ground. Others still held their weapons but dropped them to their sides. Most held their weapons firm but wavered, as if unsure between this seeming prophet and their commander. One, standing near Herugor, looked on coldly.

While they were in confusion, Mabalar urged Lômi and the others were now following. Izri was lagging. Something was slowing her. It was Kâthaanî, her hand desperately gripping a hanging rein as Izri dragged her carefully as she could along the ground.

"Kâth!" Mabalar yelled. A thin trail of blood could be seen where she had dragged. She looked up with glazed eyes, mouthing words that looked like a desperate call for help. My child! Mabalar jumped from Lômi and ran to Kâthaanî.

Meanwhile Moizandú continued his harangue. "The so-called Golden King has fallen under the spell of the hated Sauron! Immortality cannot be wrested from the Valar! 'Tis a fool's errand! Turn from the evil!" The guards who had dropped their swords looked remorseful as the hail fell upon them. Those who had let down their guard looked confused. Those who had wavered kept looking back and forth between Moizandú and Herugor. The one with cold eyes raised his bow and nocked and arrow.

Tirú, nearest to Kâthaanî, dismounted and came to Mabalar's aid. Together they lifted the groaning Kâthaanî and got her on Izri's back.

"Hang on, my dear!" he said and turned to Tirú. "Take her reins, my friend!"

"Aye, master!" Tirú's eyes spoke their friend-bond.

"Sauron has betrayed all Númenor! 'Tis a folly to due that fell one's will! Turn! Turn from -urk!" An arrow pierced his throat. He fell. The hail fell harder, and larger. Another quake split the gap wider.

In the midst of all the chaos, Mabalar found a brief moment to embrace Inzi.

"Is she--" she began, tense and afraid. He interrupted her, eying Moizandú's speech with thanks.

"No... though she may be soon. We must ride now. Need you aid? Are you hurt?"

Inzillomì looked into his eyes, her own blank and haunted. "No... no... we must leave Kali behind for another of our party; I pray that he comes in time."

"Then ride with me," Mabalar replied. She nodded and gave him the name of the missing friend, whom Mabalar had never met. He spoke the name to Kali, knowing that she would understand. Mabalar looked again at Inzi with worry before climbing again upon the back of Lômi and helping her up behind him. He cried one last order and the seven faithful rode hard, Tiru holding the reins of Izri, out of the city.

The seven Faithful fled down the streets mounted on the surefooted mearas, Kâthaanî's arms wrapped around the neck of Izri.

Míriel watched from high above, seeing the plight of the seven, the hail falling from a dark green sky, the quakes ripping up Armenelos.

"Valar save them," she said, and pulled her cloak more closely about her shivering frame.

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Himaran's post

The last time Abarzadan had been in a Numenorean mansion was beyond the reach of his more than adequate memory. As he and Ellinel passed through the set of beautifully-crafted heavy wooden doors, the man could only glance at a few of the amazing features displayed before him before a stone-faced (and well-dressed) servant appeared and took their coats; he did not even blink at the sight of Abarzadan's (which was torn, soaked and bloodied). The still-beaming woman beside him touched his shoulder and wispered that she would go and find her father. Both she and the servant disappeared, leaving him to study the house's many intricate details. The atrium was huge; beams with various pictures carved into them supported the walls, and towering above the polished stone floor was a colored glass dome. A central, enormous and gently-curving staircased climbed up the walls, stopping briefly at each level before continuing its upward journey. Surprisingly, it was deathly quiet.

It was not Ellinel who returned to meet him. An older man, tall and well-built with a full head of still-dark hair, appeared from one of the lower doors and stepped towards him. His walk was quick, and he carried his shoulders high. His clothing was custom and exquisite. Every fiber of his being exuded power. "My daughter tells me that you are Abârzadan."

"Such is the case, yes. She believes that you knew my father."

The man's face twisted, but he regained his composure a second later. "Yes, I knew Abâranâ. By your demeanor I understand that he has passed away."

"Again, you are are correct. I thought that since you were friends, there might be some lose ends that needed tying up, assuming you and he had conducted business together."

He was quiet for a moment. "Ah, but I am rude. My name, Abârzadan, is Anadanâ. Welcome to my home. Do you require refreshments, or shall we get right to the task at hand?"

Abârzadan declined the offer, and the two headed up the staircase.


***


Anadanâ's study was immense. Row upon row of shelves was stuffed tight with leather-bound books, and heavy cabinets filled with documents lined the walls whenever an open space presented itself. A huge ivory desk covered with scattered papers sat in the center. The host led his guest straight to it, pulled up and extra chair, and bid him to sit. Anadanâ spent a few moments searching one of the cabinets, but soon returned with a large folder. He sat down and pulled out documents one at time, explaining their significance as he went. Apparently, Abâranâ and he had run a business together for many years. It started out as a small entrepreneurship, but eventually evolved into a highly succesfull enterprise that held a virtual monopoly in the housing industry for a decade. When Abârzadan's father abruptly disappeared, his partner simply took over. "But now that you're here," he assured Abârzadan, "You can sign for him and take your father's place."

Anadanâ pulled out a crumpled paper and blew a cloud of dust off it. "Here we are. Assuming that you want in on this." He picked up an inkwell with his right hand, turned it over, and grimaced. "Ah, it's empty. I will have to go and fetch a fresh bottle. Please excuse me." And with that, he stood and disappeared from the room.

Abârzadan chuckled to himself. Anadanâ had seemed like the sort of man that would have called a servant long before venturing out to find something as trivial as an ink canister. After all, there were several buttons on the a nearby panel, all labeled - a bell system that ran throughout the entire residence. Pushing the thought aside, the man snatched up the paper and read through the legal material. Everything seemed in order, and the previous signiture had indeed been made by Abâranâ Barântâira.

Wait. Batânzâira... Barântâira. That is not his name! Upon making this startling revelation, the man leaped to his feet. Suddenly visible was a dark pool of ink, slowly settling at the bottom of an otherwise-empty silver waste-basket.

And Abârzadan make a quick and accurate assumption. Something about the entire afternoon was very, very wrong.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomì had stared frozen in horror at the body of her only child, laying motionless in a pool of her own blood. She could not look away, watching the color drain from Kâthaanî's face as the seconds ticked slowly by. She screamed at herself silently, trying to force her leaden limbs to action. Though Inzi had fought many times, impressively and subtley, she had never before heard the painful scream of her own blood. Though Kâthaanî had gone on missions before, it had always been with Abârpânarú, and they had always been safer than Cervith had realized. Now she had been exposed to the true horror that was battle and had come out wanting... now she was wounded, perhaps fatally, and her life streamed from her body as her mother was frozen to inaction.

Izri found her at that moment. As Inzillomì looked on, surprisingly unscathed though her attention had so completely wandered from the battle, she saw her daughter's fingers tighten over the reins of her beloved Izri. A sigh of relief escaped as her own mount moved forward and slightly away from the girl. Inzi panicked, snapping back to the moment. She reeled slightly and slipped from her saddle, being caught rather undelicately by the unsoft ground. Kali turned, worried about the lack of weight now present on her back. She nudged Inzillomi off the ground. The woman stood, slightly dazed, and bent to pick up her long knife. She thrust it through her sash, swiftly moving to the aid of Abârpânarú and Tiru, now hoisting the motionless Kâthaanî to Izri's back. As the girl found the strength to hold tight to the beast's neck, the men turned from her, allowing Kali to remove her mistress from harm's way. Tiru mounted Mani again as Abârpânarú spotted his wife, stricken, it seemed. He moved to her quickly, taking her swiftly in his arms.

"Is she--" she began, tense and afraid. He interrupted her, eying Moizandú's speech with thanks.

"No... though she may be soon. We must ride now. Need you aid? Are you hurt?"

Inzillomì looked into his eyes, her own blank and haunted. "No... no..." She turned from him, mounting Kali once more. Abârpânarú looked at her with worry before climbing again upon the back of Lômi. He cried one last order and the seven faithful rode hard, Tiru holding the reins of Izri, out of the city.

Buried once more in the act of riding, Inzillomì body cooperated with her. She could not stop her gaze from falling often upon her daughter's unmoving form. If only she had been faster... She rode hard as the hail bruised her skin, thinking furiously, blaming herself.

[Meneltarmacil]

Meneltarmacil's post

Thoronmir fired several arrows back at their pursuers, but there were too many behind them for the arrows to make a difference. Desperate to get off the island before it sank, Thoronmir urged his horse on.

Meanwhile, in the city, Sauron was still issuing orders.

"Hunt down the Faithful! They must not be allowed to leave this place. Herugor, take as many soldiers as you can and capture them before they can reach Romenna!"

"Yes, my lord," Herugor replied, and left.

Several miles from Armenelos, Thoronmir and the others stopped for a minute to rest before moving on. Thoronmir noticed something in the distance. At least ten horses were coming after them, and they didn't look friendly.

"Ride!" he shouted. "The Enemy has found us! Ride!"

An arrow flew past, narrowly missing Thoronmir. He fired a shot from his own bow and took off down the trail.

"You're not getting away this time, Sakaladun! This time, you die!" came a very familiar voice.

They rode onward.


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Himaran's post

Dropping the suspicious document on the desk, Abârzadan walked over to the cabinet from which his host had produced the obviously incorrect papers. Scanning the labels, he quickly recognized that they were alphebetically ordered. If those did not regard my father then... surely something else did. He found the "B's," and rolled down the line; Ba, Bat, Batâ, Batân...

There was nothing.

The man heaved a sigh of relief. Perhaps all this had been a big mistake after all.

Then he noticed the sections.

At the top of the cabinet he was standing in front of, a small sign read "Partners." Each one is its own file!. Well, if Partner didn't apply, what did? "Raw Materials?" "Transportation?" No, these were all connected to Anadanâ's housing business. The man worked his way around the room, checking the names for anything that looked suspicious. And then he saw it, clear as daylight.

"Political Enemies."

Not even bothering to scroll, Abârzadan pulled out his father's "file," which consisted of a small, heavy and unlocked metal box. He hauled it over to a nearby table and set it down. Prying up the lid, the man scooped out a pile of papers. The first several consisted of background information on his father, such as his birthdate, childhood residence, and geneology. Why does this man have a record on Abâranâ? Political enemies? He looked at the next document. Its title read, "Legislation and Political Measures." Names rolled out before him at startling speed - child labor, slavery, taxation; all the major issures were present. Nothing concrete or explanatory, though. But the next piece made his blood run cold.

"Voting Records."

After all, his father had been on the Numenorean High Council. While the King still had the final say in all matters, the council had wielded considerable power during that time. So what had he done to deserve the label of "enemy?" Nothing was making sense. Lists, lists, and yet more lists. Had it not been for the fact that Abâranâ's name had been circled, he might never have found it. The man started checking the votes. Child labor, No. Legalizing prostitution, No. All of the measures he had voted against had passed. In the face of great opposition, the politician had stood up for his beliefs. And to what end? The final decision in the record was entitled, "Centralized Army Fund." Origonally, garrisons in cities were run and operated by individual councils. This law created a single army controlled by Ar-Pharazôn alone, one which would have made controlling a disobediants populace far easier. He checked the list on the right side of the paper, and was surprised by what he saw.

His father had not voted.

Tossing it aside, he scooped up the next one. This one was simply labeled, "Status." There were three names on the paper. His mother's name had been crossed off. The names of his father and himself had not.

Abârzadan sank back into the chair behind him. His mother's death, the flight from Numenor; it had all become remarkably clear within the course of the past few minutes. His father's last words rang hauntingly in his memory. "I say this, so that you will indeed go back there, to see the place where our ancestors lie." And discover the truth.

A tremble in the floor snapped him out of his daydream.

The ink had been a diversion for Anadanâ to leave the room. Where was he? The man was sure that the aging politician would be more than happy to get Abârzadan's name scratched off that list once and for all. Rolling up the papers, he fastened them with a nearby tie and hurried out of the room. Maybe the Valar would be merciful to him. Maybe there was still time.

[littlemanpoet]

littlemanpoet's post

When they halted for a brief time, Mabalar and Inzillomí went straight to their daughter. She had been grievously wounded; her face was pale, and she fought for consciousness.

"We must dress the wound!" Inzi said. She tore strips from her own dress, shortening it from anke length to knee, and wrapped the bands around the knife wound in Kâthaanî's side.

"Lord," cried Tíru, "let me remove your chains!"

"There is no time now. My friends!" he called to all of them. "The island and tongue of the Adûnaic are now cursed because of the evil of the king and his men in following Sauron. From now on, all of my house must be called by their Sindarin names. I am Mabalar Mellothroch. My wife is Lothlómë. My life work is the care of the mearas. Speak to me and mine in Sindarin only, or you will not be answered." He looked from one to the next of them as his words laid hold upon them.

Just then, Thoronmir gave warning: they were being followed.

"Mabalar, part of the dagger must be embedded in the wound," said Lothlómë.

"There is no time now, though my heart misgives me if we do not remove it soon. Ride and outrun them!"

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Himaran's post


As he rushed out out onto the winding stairwell, Abarzadan heard the main door to the estate crash open. Crouching, he peered over the railing and watched as heavily armed guards poured into the atrium. The reason for Abadana's disappearance instantly became clear. But what to do? An armour-plated captain shouted orders to his men and they started up the staircase. There was no way to go but up. Keeping his head low, Abarzadan ascended on his belly, scrambling as quickly as his four limbs would carry him. The pounding footsteps behind him grew close, than faded into the study. Not much time. Forgetting any preconcieved notions of stealth, the man threw caution to the wind, stood, and bounded up to the next level.

Betrayed. The whole affair had been a farce, starting with his "unexpected" meeting with Ellinel. She recognized the name, ensnared him with her charm and appearance, and brought him to her father for the slaughter. As the man continued his unconventional escape, he vowed to cheat them again, just as his father had so many years before. Bursting through a nearby door, Abarzadan found himself in a loud, steamy and bustling kitchen. Cooks and porters yelled with surprise as he leaped over a counter and tore threw an array of stoves, kicking and tipping over various barrels and cauldrons in his mad flight. A lone, enraged worker brandishing a knife blocked his exit, but slowing down was no longer an option for the man. He waited until the last possible second before snatching an empty kettle, knocking the implement aside and fleeing from the scene. Slamming the door behind him, Abarzadan jammed it with a nearby stool before turning and finding himself at a dead end.

The window.

Snatching a broom from its customary place on the wall, he smashed the expensive but delicate glass and glanced out. He was two stories above the ground, too far up to jump. Unlike the stories he had often read as a child, there was no tall haywagon conveniently sitting just below him. Shouting behind him, someone shoving on the door.

Then he saw the pipe.

Naturally, any wealthy man's house would have a functional sewer system, and this one was no exception. The waste must run down, so... Careful of the remaining glass, Abarzadan clasped both arms around the thick clay cylinder and pulled his body out with them. Then he started sliding. The stool was knocked aside. Guards swarmed in, found an empty room with a broken window, and looked out. There was no one in sight.

Documents in hand, Abarzadan sprinted down the street. Locals eyed him briefly before sighing, turning and continuing with their business. A tremble sent him tumbling to the earth, but he pulled himself up and hurried unward. Where was he going? Up ahead, the man saw the crown of the temple. Perhaps even now as he hurried towards it, his past companions were being bled or burned to death on one of its pagan alters. There was absolutely no logical reason to head towards it, especially now that he had escaped two deathtraps in the same day. Yet something, a force not dark or sinister, seemed to be drawing him to it. Maybe the Valar wish for me to make a stand. Maybe it is my time.

But Kali, waiting alone in the shadow of the temple, knew better.

[Regin Hardhammer]

It had all happened so quickly in the confusion of battle. One moment Kâthaanî had been mounted on her Karibor fighting and the next she lay sprawled out on the ground, badly wounded. He tried to ride over to help, but a group of soldiers stood in the way blocking his path. Before plowing his way through to Kâthaanî, Azarmanô heard Abârpânarú call for the retreat. There had been too many guards to defeat, he lamented, simply too many soldiers and not enough Faithful. Over the course of his service, he had become accustomed to being outnumbered in battle, sometimes being forced to retreat. He hated fleeing from combat, running from the enemy, then as now, but there was no choice. Time slipped through their fingers like fine grains of sand. The island was sinking and every moment the ground trembled with a greater ferocity.

Azarmanô had never ridden a horse at such speeds in his life. The Kariborim were truly extraordinary creatures gifted with blazing speed that enabled the group to stay just ahead of their pursuers. The creatures’ endurance lasted much longer than that of ordinary beasts, never waning as the group rode on. He had never been particularly fond of horses before, but now he was extremely glad to be riding these fleet footed equines. We need only keep up this pace to reach Romenna and board the ships to safety, he thought.

As he passed the landscape, he felt as if he was saying goodbye, a final farewell to the land of Numenor, soon to be under water. Yet even as he did so, he felt that Numenor, although destroyed, would always live in his heart as he remembered it, not as the land of corrupt, greedy kings, or the foul Lord Sauron, but as the home for a once noble people who had once befriended the elves. He could never forget Numenor, his Numenor, as long as he lived. When Abârpânarú pronounced the tongue of Numenor to be cursed, tainted, unusable, it pained Azarmanô greatly. Adunaic was the language of his ancestors, the language of the great Numenorian sea captains of old from whom he derived his lineage. Adunaic still held a deer place in his heart as something connected with home, something he could keep after the island sunk. Despite Abârpânarú’s rejection of the language as corrupt, Azarmanô could not find the will within him to do the same. He could speak Sindarin, but the tongue nearest to his heart would always be the language of Numenor.

After the party stopped for a brief respite, Azarmanô went over to check on Kâthaanî. She was still bleeding slightly, so Azarmanô ripped off a piece of his cloak and tied it as a bandage on her shoulder. There was no time to treat her wounds properly here, but they could ensure that she not lose any more blood. As he looked at her body wavering on top of a Karibor, he silently willed her to stay stable until they reached the ships. Off in the distance Azarmanô could see a cluster of a dozen soldiers on horseback riding towards them with alarming alacrity. Quickly, he mounted his horse, checked to see that Kâthaanî sat safely on top of her Karibor supported by her mother, and followed his companions, galloping toward the harbor.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Kâthaanî had been perched behind her mother in the battle. Her own Izri had not been close enough and they had needed any advantage over the numerous ground troops. When she felt a sharp tug from behind, she reached for her mother, twisting in place. She had hit the ground out of breath and rolled to her feet, crouching angrily to meet the fighter. With only her dull blade in hand, she blocked two cuts before hesitating. The blade had cut so easily through her. She screamed and fell, clutching her side. The soldier left her for dead... it had been such a wound.

She felt the hot stickiness of her own blood soaking through her clothes. Her breathing came harshly... it hurt to extend her ribs. Each breath tore at the wound and she cringed, gasping at the hurt. Within short moments, she lay still on the ground.

She could feel herself moving further away from the battle. The sounds were growing dimmer as she concentrating on trying to make the pain stop. She lay still, hoping that it would help. Suddenly she cringed, turning, gasping at the hurt, and opened her eyes. Izri nudged her worriedly. Kâthaanî's eyes seemed cloudy and she was growing weaker each moment. Soft leather touched her hand and she clenched her fingers around it.

It hurt... she could feel her clothing sticking to the blood that was beneath her. She was tugged out of the road. Izri pulled her closer to Abârpânarú and in the exquisite calm that comes from pain, Kâthaanî could feel herself hoisted to Izri's back.

She heard her father's voice urging her to hang on. She took him literally... her fingers tightened on Izri's main and she wrapped herself around her karibor.

What seemed like seconds later, the group stopped for a moment. She could hear her mother's voice, though she could not understand the words. She cried out as she felt bandaging tighten over her, blacking out once more. Next she knew, she was astride Izri, pounding down the road as hail fell from the sky. She closed her eyes and trusted to her mount to keep her safe as she concentrated on breathing alone.

[littlemanpoet]

It was raining hard. The six splashing mearas hurtled forward. Mabalar was glad of Inzi's arms around him, her supple hands clasped at his breast bone. He feared for their daughter. She had seemed so pale from loss of blood. They had to get to Rómenna as quickly as they could. Hope was beginning to leave him and his heart felt as heavy as the weighing green clouds above.

There was something, a burden Inzi must be bearing under her clothes, that drove into his spine at the small of his back.

"What is that you have, poking me in the spine?" he called over his shoulder amid the din of thundering hooves.

"'Tis a gift from Tar Míriel, she meant to give to you, but you slept!"

"Valar be praised!" he replied, and smiled back to her.

Looking ahead again, Mabalar saw a line of horses stretching across the road and into the fields on either side. Yet another obstacle! Who this time? He cried for a halt. The line closed in on either side even as the clouds came lower, darkening. Now Mabalar could hear the pursuing horses that they had outrun, closing in from behind.

"Who hinders our passage?" he yelled in barely controlled fury.

One rider moved his horse ahead of the rest. "I, Herugor, on orders of Lord Sauron, hinder your passage, for you are a traitor and fugitive from the King's Law."

How had Herugor gotten ahead of them again? It had to be sorcery he had learned from his heinous master.

They were surrounded. Lightening rent the sky, followed by a deafening roar of thunder. Rain fell harder. The last vestiges of daylight slipped away as the hidden sun fell into the Sea in the West. Hail mixed with the rain. The ground shook beneath them.

"Surrender, miscreant!" Herugor cried.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Feanor of the Peredhil's post


As Mabalar pulled their mount to a tense stop, Inzi felt an inexplicable warmth spread across her midriff. She ignored the palantir for only a moment before it became uncomfortable. Untwining her arms from around her husband's waist, she slid one hand beneath her robes, palming the artifact. In the din, her actions went unnoticed. She lowered her eyes seemingly modestly, glancing into the swirling depths in wonder:

a face... a face familiar as the feeling of a horse beneath her... Elendil, and he spoke; another face... two... Isildur with Anarion... a nod; hailstones gathering in fountains... crying children; horses, tack...

The palantir warmed her hands as rain poured from the sky. Lightening lit the scene as Inzillomì stared transfixed. Herugor's men surrounded the small group. The kariborim, courageous though they were, pranced in discomfort, eager either for battle or for calm. Inzi, nearly invisible of the darkness of the storm, knew nothing of the blowing wind that had pulled her hair from its sturdy braid. Her black locks danced in the wind, soaked through, and the men shouted to be heard. She saw more:

a road, pitted and broken; a great wave; she gasped unheard now: long lines of Faithful, riding hard, her brothers leading, faces terrifying in their purpose; fire now, burning, cleansing... her vision went dark.

Inzillomì swiftly hid the palantir once more, taking in what was now happening. It had been mere seconds that she had viewed it, but she knew what she had seen: an army, led by the sons of Elendil, and coming swift upon this very road. She had recognized the land so quickly shown... they were a mere mile off.

"Inzillomì," spoke Mabalar over the wind, barely loud enough for her to hear. "have you faith?" She could feel him tense... wavering in his confidence of escape, still weak from imprisonment. They had come so far to be stopped now... she spoke carefully in his ear. He registered her words more from the feel of her warm breath than from sound... thunder rumbled and cracked above them. A tree was hit by lightening upon a nearby hill... it began to burn.

"I have faith, my love..." she murmered. "What is more... I have hope."

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Himaran's post


It was terrifying.

The island was tearing itself apart. The earth shifted and bucked underneath Kali's legs as the steed gallaped away from Armenelos with Abarzadan clinging to his mane. Trees were hurled from the ground as their very roots were disloged from the rocky turf. Newly formed gysers burst open and streams of water shot upward into the air. The wind had increased to a violent speed, throwing leaves, branches and small stones all about. And everywhere, water was rising. The earth itself had become almost sponge-like, completely saturated. Streams had become ponds, and ponds had turned into lakes. There was no longer a path; Kali was running on pure instinct, and the man could do nothing but hold on and hope. A tree crashed to the ground ten paces from them, but the horse was ready and leaped over it, never breaking stride. A branch broke of a nearby tree and slammed into Abarzadan's head, but through sheer force of will he kept his balance. Heavy rain added to his misery, pelting the sizable wound. Blood mixed with water trickled down his forhead, imparing his vision. The man was utterly helpless, at the mercy of his mount and the elements.

Then an arrow whistled by his head, thudding into a nearby tree. Wipping his face, Abarzadan strained his neck around and could make out the shapes of several riders trailing him. They must have been following him since he and Kali hurtled through the city's east gate, although at the time it had appeared that their escape had been complete. The man grimaced. He had no weapons, was wounded, and had no idea how far away the shore was, or if the Faithful were even still there. He would have to use the only tool available to him: his horse. Taking a firmer grip, he directly Kali to he the right, dodging trees, boulders and other unexpected obstacles. He waited until they were over the next rise, took a backward glance, wispered an elvish phrase into the steed's ear, and dove off of his mount. On all fours, he crawled behinds a bush and waited. Kali's hoofbeats disappeared in the distance. By the sounds, their were four riders, and three of them continued onward. One, however, slowed, stopped, and turned around.

Abarzadan waited, holding his breath.

The rider's horse sniffed and whinnied, and its master said something to it in reply. Heavy steps came closer, stopping in front of the large bush. A string tightened. The man winced in dreaded anticipation. The string twanged, and an arrow burried itself in the ground and inch from his leg. Apparently satisfied, the soldier turned his horse away and trotted in the opposite direction. This, however, was not an opportunity Abarzadan was going to miss. He rolled out from behind the bush, dashed toward his unexpecting opponent, and dove towards him. The two collided and collapsed off of the horse. Brandishing the arrow he had plucked from the turf, the last remaining member of the House of Batanzaira plunged it into the neck of the stunned Numenorean. Snatching his bow and quiver, Abarzadan climbed onto the obediant horse. The pair raced away from the scene, heading in the direction Kali and the others had taken.

~*~

It was not long before they were located. Abarzadan slowed his mount and hopped off, readying his bow. Ahead, three men and four horses were gathered, one of which was being admired by its new masters. Kali stopped! The realization struck him with horror. What if he missed, and hit Kali instead? He need a diverstion. Turning to his waiting horse, he gave it a little shove in their direction and barked an order. Snorting, it trotted away from him and towards the others. Abarzadan circled around to a better angle, moving from tree to tree. The ground squished and his boots filled with water, but he kept moving. In the clearing, the three men turned away from Kali and looked the other horse over. Time was running out.

The man took careful aim, exhaled, and sent a shaft whistling towards his targets, and it hit one in the chest, knocking him to the ground. Now Abarzadan was running, notching another arrow. He released it in full stride, watching with satisfaction as it came to rest in the head of the second enemy. Now too close for ranged combat, he dropped the bow and pulled the quiver off of his back, swinging it by the strap. The final soldier backed away, sword at ready. The pair circled one another, with Abarzadan keeping the quiver spinning at full speed. "So it has come to this, my friend," shouted Abarzadan over the rushing wind. "Numenoreans killing each other over a senseless disagreement."

The other merely grimaced. "You are a heretic, like all the others. You should have died at the temple with the rest." Kali punctuated his statement, drilling the unsuspecting man to the ground with a swift kick from his front hooves. Abarzadan chuckled. "A pity you couldn't be back at Armenelos. I am certain that the sight of your great temple crumbling to the ground would be an unforgettable one." Leaving the stunned soldier to decide his own fate, the man tossed the quiver away and climbed onto Kali's waiting back. As they got further from the center of the island, the storm gradually melted away, but the man knew it would not be long before the entire landmass would share the same fate. Suddenly, the pair burst from the forest. They were on a grassy hill looking down on the coast. The man whooped with joy, for the ships of the Faithful were still anchored in the bay.

[littlemanpoet]

"I have faith, my love... What is more... I have hope."

He smiled. This is why I married you, dearest Inzi. When he wavered she was strong, and when she did, he was strong; together they were truly strong.

Mabalar met Herugor's eyes, not letting go. The sorcerer scowled.

Lightening forked and snaked across the sky, dancing across the heights like a whirling Umbarian. Herugor's men looked at the purpling sky fearfully.

Herugor yelled a command that could not be heard, but Mabalar had read his lips: Take them! The thunder grew louder, lasting far longer than usual for lightening. Then Mabalar realized that it was not coming from the sky, low as the clouds were. An army approached from the east, ten score horsemen riding hard and fast. Herugor's fifty men began to turn to see. Their horses pranced nervously. Finally, Herugor, until now so intent upon Mabalar's group, became aware of the threat from the east. His words were lost in the howling wind and the thunder and the rush of rain and hail, but all knew what he had commanded: Hold fast! But Herugor's men were at a huge disadvantage, and it seemed that they were convinced that if they stayed where they were they would be cut down. It started with one, then another, then a few more, and in the space of a few seconds, fifty horsemen were careering back west towad Armenelos, leaving Herugor sitting astride his horse, at a loss for words amid his fury. He looked at Mabalar once more with a knife's glance, then cast his cloak about him. Before their eyes, he seemed to melt beneath his cloak to nothing in the saddle, and was gone. The horse, left to its own devices, looking to right and to left, trotted nervously up the hill, skirted the burning tree, and fled back westward after its comrades.

The army halted around them, its flanks to right and left washing up like waves on a beach until they were almost surrounded ... by friends. Elendil, Anarion, and Isildur, astride their stallions, came up to Mabalar and the others.

"I greet thee, Mabalar Mellothroch and Lothlómë!" said Elendil.

Mabalar bowed in his saddle. "'Tis an honor to meet you again, lord."

Inzillomì embraced her brother Anarion swiftly before speaking to her father. She straightened behind Mabalar as she talked to him, calling over the elements: "Father, Kâthaanî is injured, perhaps to the death. We mustn't delay lest your grandchild be beyond aid."

Elendil became grave and ordered several guards to take the unconscious Kathâaní to Rómenna with all haste. They placed her on a makeshift hammock between four horses, roofed against the elements, no less, and cantered off.

"We received word through the palantirí," said Elendil, "from Tar Míriel, that you and yours were in danger. We came as soon as we could."

"You have saved our lives, lord. I and mine will do no less should the honor present itself."

Elendil smiled. "You and your house are worth the saving, Mabalar." The raging storm had not calmed as they talked. "Come!" Elendil called. "Let us escape this plague filled island before it sinks beneath our feet!"

They turned and began to canter back toward Rómenna when they heard the hard galloping of a single horse.

"Who could that be, I wonder," Mabalar said, looking back into the murk of rain and hail behind them. "Herugor to try one last time to capture us?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Khônarû looked worriedly at his charge as their group stopped to rest their horses for a moment. He touched her white face lightly and it was cold. She moaned slightly, pulling away from the warmth of his hand. Her bandages were red with her blood. He called to one of his men, interrupting the big soldier's quiet conversation. Though the man was large and imposing, he moved as silently as a shadow, though very little could be heard over the whipping winds that pulled at them ceaselessly.

"Urugnardu," he spoke as quietly as he could, avoiding letting his men see his speech. "Lord Elendil's grandchild is failing. What are your thoughts?"

The man looked at his commander, unsure. "Sir?" he asked.

"Times are not what they once were," Khônarû responded, looking to the blackened sky and gesturing to the rain as it fell past them to land on the delicately shivering earth. "We are leaving this land, my friend. I would like much to leave it with our commander's grandchild aboard the ship and healing. As it is... I will admit to not being certain of the proper action. Though it is not your position, I note that you are a dab hand as a healer. I would appreciate your input, as you know more than I. Do we press to the harbor and hope that she holds on... or do we halt and let her pass peacefully..."

The soldier looked to his captian, unsure of how to respond. The lady Kâthaanî, though not well known, was well loved for who she was. Her position alone as the grand daughter of Elendil and the child of Mabalar Mellothroch and Lothlómë was itself worthy of consideration, and yet Elendil's men were fond of her for her own temperment. Urugnardu went to the lass and examined her carefully. Her breathing was slow, faint. Though the horses that her hammock was bound to fidgeted, she did not respond to the motion. Urugnardu was not happy with the blood that continued to stain her bandages. He could not be certain if its spread had been encouraged by the rain and the wet cloth, but it did not look promising.

"My lord," he turned to Khônarû. "the choice seems this: we ride on with hope or we halt without it. I do not believe that the lady or her family would approve of us losing faith at this point... what will happen to our lady will happen, whether we wait for it or no. If we ride on, it will mean that we have not yet given up."

Khônarû looked at his soldier intently for a moment, squinting against the rain that pelted his face. Why he had never promoted the man before he could not be certain... He would... if there was time. "That was well spoken." he replied softly. Urugnardu read the words on his lips as no sound was audible. "Rally the men. We will ride on."

[Regin Hardhammer]

The situation had seemed bleak when Herugor had first surrounded the group. Greatly outnumbered and completely surrounded, Azarmanô began to fear in earnest. It seemed that nothing could save them now. But then, at the utmost moment of despair, Elendil had come with a mighty force of mounted faithful from the east to their aid. Inzillomi had pulled something out, but he had not been close enough to see the object, and soon she covered it again. It had been raining steadily for hours, making the ground slippery and transforming the dry dust into thick mud that the horses plowed through as fast as they could. Worse even than the rain, hail the size of small stones and nearly as heavy pelted the weary travellers. In spite of these dreadful elements, Azarmano felt extremely grateful to be alive after the party's near elimination by Herugor and his men.

Azarmanô was extremely grateful to see Elendil, but he wondered how he had received news of the goup's plight. For now, Azarmano remained content with being saved, but he decided to ask Elendil about the matter later. Azarmanô also longed to enquire about his wife and son who had already boarded Elendil’s ships, but decided against it. After all, Elendil probably had never even seen them, or if he had, didn’t know who they were. He did, however, introduce himself to Elendil, describe the group’s successful rescue, and offer him his sincere thanks.

“Arabapanu is a great man and an asset to the faithful. It is I who owe you a debt of gratitude," replied Elendil. "Now come, we must reach the ships before the island sinks into the sea. Make haste.”

The party galloped swiftly toward the harbor of Romenna where ships lay waiting to take them away. They had a healer with them, but no time to properly attend to Kathaani’s wounds. She had been taken away some days before and rode ahead of the main group with some other officers. Azarmanô wished that there was some action he could take to help her, but realized that nothing could be done until the Faithful reached the ships. If they waited for Kathaani to recover, none of them would make it out alive. Azarmano worried constantly about Kathaani and wished he could have seen her. Was she worse or had she improved since Azarmano last wrapped that bandage around her wounded shoulder? He did not know. But he felt sure that if she did not reach the ships soon, she would die. So the party pressed on, traveling for hours on end without stopping to eat and halting only for very brief rests. Azarmano hoped that Kathaani would still be alive when they boarded Elendil's ships in Romenna and left Numenor before the island sunk beneath the waves.

[Meneltarmacil]

Feanor of the Peredhil's post

Kâthaanî Karibzir was remembering, or was she dreaming? It hurt to breathe and she could not tell. She knew that one candle burned beside her: the dim flickering softly illuminated her eyelids, and she heard the music of hoof beats to accompany the rhythm of the flickering pink before her closed eyes.

It had been a diversion. She and Marsillion had ridden away with faithful Tiru to travel to Armenelos... to be the visible group of rescuers. Kâthaanîhad never dreamt that she or her companions would need rescuing.

Like moths drawn to a soft lantern in the deepest hours of the night, they had been so easily caught by the King's Men. She tried to groan at the thought, but no sound emerged. She could sense that she was not alone, though whoever sat by her made no sound. She could not open her eyes... not yet.

A cell. The cold walls glimmered with dampness in the sparse torchlight. She was chained to the wall, alone but for the rats that moved toward her stealthily as she slept. In her mind she shuddered. They had put Marsillion in another part of the dungeon. Tiru had been taken away with him. Kâthaanî had nothing save the tortured screams of those on the Dark Lord's dreaded altar to sing her sweetly into dream at night.

She was cold. Was it dream or waking? Voices made their way softly to her ears. They soothed her, though she could not understand the words. The cold stone wall chafed her skin as she leaned closer, straining for sound. The voice was unknown to her. Did she only imagine the comforting tone that found its way to her ears? The essence of the message... do not despair... it sang a soft counterpart to the groans of the slowly dying. A dream? she could not tell. Hours had run into days that were interchangeable with seconds. The monotony of darkness was broken only by blinding torchlight that guided doomed men to their fate. She wept at the cruel injustice. She wept for her father, a brave man, a good man, more helpless even then her to stem this slaughter, if only because he had had the longer understanding of it. She wept for the malice in the eyes of the guards that brought her meals, denying her even the smallest word of hope or sunlight. She prayed to the Valar for their redemption, though she never spoke.

It hurt. A sharp pain in her chest, just below her ribs. She was wounded. Inexplicable warmth flooded the area with pain as memories sought to repress reality. A hand took hers none too gently. Her chains unfastened from the wall, she was pulled from her cell and ordered to stand. She tried and fell, her muscles screaming in protest. Kâthaanî was dragged through the halls of the dungeons as she tried in vain to block the vicious light from her eyes.

She was thrown to the steps of the altar and she lay there until pulled and held to standing. Only then did Kâthaanî take in the sight: Marsillion stood bound, his eyes red and swollen, Tiru beside him. Abârpânarú stood, his shoulders stooped, his expression bereft of hope. Kâthaanî's heart stirred. She had failed her father. Her own impetuosity had betrayed her. Now, not only would her father die, but he would be forced to watch his beloved daughter tortured to death before it. Tears stained Kâthaanî's cheeks as she silently whispered "I am sorry" to ears that could not hear.

While on the journey, Kâthaanî had acted rashly... as a child. She had forced herself upon this mission with little right, and what had she to show for it? She had not saved her father... simply caused him more heartache. He would willingly die to save her... she had never so fully understood the implications of this until now... now, when death loomed near. Would they die fast? She could only hope that Abârpânarú would die first, though it pained her to think it, to be spared the tragedy of the ending of his daughter's life.

Was it ending now? She could not move. As a child, Kâthaanî had fallen from a horse, bruising her head. The feeling had been the same then, twining as a cat through now and then. It had only taken the voice of her father to tie her to reality. She wished he was here. She had seen him fall. Her mother had come. These moments melted together until she wondered how she had come to be riding double with Inzillomì. A strong arm had pulled her from the saddle and she rolled to her feet, knife in hand. As her mother looked on in horror, Kâthaanî had tried and failed to prevail once more. She fell to the ground with a scream as unforgiving metal pierced her flesh. It hurt like nothing that she had ever felt, unpityingly reminiscent of the harsh, bone-chilling ache that had once descended upon her after falling through ice... only worse... much worse. She could feel the chill radiating from the wound; it spread through her without boundary and with immediate effect: she lay frozen in fear. The candle flickered, going out. Voices sounded. Kâthaanî lay bleeding and her last thoughts were of her mother: her father had been saved from his daughter's death only for the witnessing to be given to Inzillomi. The world faded from memory.

"Kâthaanî." spoke a voice. "Kâthaanî, hold on." It was her father. He had helped her to safety when Izri came.

"Kâthaanî, speak to me." His voice was charged with worry. Why did the ground shake like this? Why did her dreams lie? Abârpânarú had not ordered her to speak in Armenelos.

"My Cerveth, my love, I am here." A hand took hers. Kâthaanî clasped Izri's reins.

Inzillomì looked at her husband in fear as she held her daughter’s icy hand within her warm ones. On their arrival to Romenna, the guard in charge of Kâthaanî had reported that her condition was worsening. Her breathing had slowed, her face was white. Her wound no longer bled, but the healers, not Elendil in the least, believed the offending sword to have been tipped with poison. She lay now unaware of the world... or so it seemed to her parents.

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littlemanpoet's post

Mabalar knelt by Lothlômé, watching Cerveth intently as their daughter's life slipped away. They were safe in the hold of Elendil's ship, already moving ahead of a strong wind, which was gaining strength with each minute that passed. The roar of the wind and surf grew louder outside, but did not drown out the sound of Cerveth's shallow breathing, nor the sound of Mabalar's own beating pulse in his ears.

"Cerveth!" Lotha called. Mabalar took up the call, holding his wife's warm hand in his left, and his daughter's cold, cold hand in his right, completing the circle the three of them made.

If sheer will were enough to bring her back, she would be whole and laughing with them this moment. But there was nothing he could do.

Elendil had seen to the binding of her wound, and had spoken gravely of poison. He had tried to prepare them for the worst.

Mabalar was not prepared. "Cerveth! My dear! Stay with us!"

Tears stained Lotha's face. His eyes were painfully hot and dry. He refused to let his daughter die.

"Cerveth!"

She was so pale. Her breaths came shallow and ragged, and too few. Mabalar's heart beat heavy doom in his breast; but he refused to accept what his heart told him.

"No!" He dropped his wife's and daughter's hands, rising. "This was not meant to be!" He stood rigid, his hands fisted, the muscles in his legs knotted, his stance wide against the movement of the ship. He looked westward. "Mandos!" he yelled. "Take me instead!" Anything to save his precious Cerveth. "Let me have the sword thrust and the poison! Spare her!"

But Mandos gave him no sudden wound, no exchange of place or pain, no vision; not even a sound.

Mabalar fell to his knees again, and looked again at Lotha's anguished face.

His throat clenched on his words as he murmured, "I do not want to lose her," and he wept. For long moments, husband and wife hung upon each other, their shared grief their only comfort.

"Mama! Papa!" The voice came to their ears barely above a whisper, using their names from her childhood.

"Cerveth!" They knelt again by her side, hoping against hope that she was reviving.

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Meneltarmacil's post

Having escaped Herugor's last attack, Thoronmir and the others rode into Romenna. There was no time to stop anywhere; they had to get to the ships.

"All right, we're here," Thoronmir said. "Kathaani is seriously injured and needs to be tended to on the way."

Thoronmir caught something out of the corner of his eye. For a moment it appeared as if a man in a dark cloak was climbing into one of the other ships. However, Thoronmir looked again and there was nothing.

"Are you all right?" one of the sailors asked."

"I thought I saw a strange man getting on one of the other ships."

"Nobody could do that without us noticing. Come on, we have to get out of here now."

With everyone aboard, the fleet started to sail away. Thoronmir breathed a sigh of relief as they escaped the island, now engulfed in flames.

[Regin Hardhammer]

As he boarded the ship, Azarmanô breathed a deep sigh of relief. Finally, after all this time and all the dangers that he had faced, he was in Romenna, standing by one of Elendil’s vessels bound for the mainland. Their mission was now complete. They had saved Abârpânarú, now fully conscious, from being sacrificed on the altar of Sauron. It had not been an easy task, certainly with its share of near death experiences, but he could not have refused the mission for any reason in the world. That sense of duty came from the common bond that all of the Faithful shared with one another, one of trust and unity. The group never left anyone behind to be overtaken by the enemy. They could not spare a single man in the battle against Sauron. But for Azarmanô, there had been more in this mission than loyalty to the faithful. Azarmanô saw Abârpânarú not only as the leader of the Faithful but also a dear friend, one that he had known for a very long time. Azarmanô could not bear the thought of a person so dear to him being slaughtered by Sauron in Armenelos while he did nothing. No, he would never have refused, not even to remain with his family on the ships.

But what a joy it would be to see his loved ones again. Azarmanô had thought of them so often during his journey, he wondered if the actual meeting could ever live up to the image that he had created in his head. Especially when he had been in danger or was forced to do something difficult, like killing, the thought of his family waiting for him had provided both motivation and a soothing balm for pain. As he ascended the ramp of the ship, he wondered if they too had been thinking of him while he had been away. Would they still look the same as he remembered them before he boarded his ship? He knew that people could not change their appearances completely in a matter of weeks, but the time they had been separated felt so much longer. Seeing Inzillomí reunited with her husband made him yearn to see his own wife even more. Today, he hoped, he would get that chance.

At first, he could not find them amid the throng of people that were crammed into the ship. He searched frantically for them everywhere, wondering fearfully if he had boarded the wrong vessel. But finally, he spotted the pair from across the room, sitting in a corner. Night had come and Thoron’s head rested on his mother’s lap. Apprehensively, Azarmanô approached his family, who seemed at first not to notice him.

“Pardon me, my lady,” said he in an overly formal polite manner, “Is the seat next to you taken.”

Her face lit up like a beam radiating from the sun as it rises in the morning. She embraced him, kissed his cheek, and cried tears of both joy and relief. He returned the favor, remaining locked in her embrace, smiling profusely. He did not cry, though he felt just as happy and relieved on the inside as she displayed on the surface.

“Yes sir,” said she “I think we have room for one more. Please take care not to wake the child, for he needs the rest. He is my son, you know,” she added with a laugh. They both shared a fine appreciation for humor in unusual situations.

Yes, he was indeed glad to be back with his family. He felt as if an enormous burden had been taken away from him, as if he suddenly became much stronger. His heart, although leaping with mirth at seeing his son and wife, could not help but feel strained as the Island sank to the ground, rumbling and burning. He deeply pitied those people still on the ground, descending slowly into a watery grave at the bottom of the sea. If only there was some way to save them. But Azarmanô knew that there was hope now neither for Numenor, nor for the people still standing on it. And although he could not bring himself to forget his homeland, he must not allow all his thoughts to be haunted by its death. Although the age of Numenor was over, Azarmanô and the rest of the Faithful were entering a new time with fresh promise and opportunity. Just a few more moments and the ships would be on their way.

One thing which he could not forget was Kâthaanî. She seemed to be worsening as the trip wore on. Her parents worried over her limp body, unconscious but still breathing, and attempted to give her the best medical attention they could. Although they had begun to despair, Azarmanô had encouraged them not to give up hope. Kâthaanî was a strong girl, she had fought with bravery in battle, and she would fight with courage against death. Beyond lending her parents emotional support, there was not much assistance Azarmanô could give her. But every hour that Kâthaanî stayed alive on the boat was one more hour that she was fighting. As long as she never gave up, and Azarmanô prayed that she didn’t, her family could still cling to hope. One day, hopefully soon, she would wake up and look into the eyes of her suffering parents once more, telling them that she was all right. Maybe that day would be tomorrow, or maybe it would be in a week. But one day, he told himself emphatically, it would arrive, and they could all breathe a little easier.

[piosenniel]

Feanor of the Peredhil's post

Images raced through her mind chaotically: lightening struck a tree and it burst into flame; black sky; crows perched in wait on dead branches as the party road swiftly from Armenelos; freezing rain tearing through softly churned mud, and hoofbeats sounding as a voice cried to the Valar for mercy.

Torn from dream, Kathaani responded hesitantly, first trying and failing to move. Grimacing against her frozen numbness, Kathaani shifted her head slightly and opened her eyes: Lothlome knelt weeping on the cold wooden floor. Mabalar stood, unreachable in his grief, with arms raised to the heavens. Kathaani choked back a sob. Once again, her father's voice had called to her through the mists of pain, chasing away the weakness that threatened to over-power her. She longed to be a child again... to hear his assurances and to truly believe that in a short while, everything would be fine. Kathaani took a breath and was dismayed to feel her lungs expand but a little, and that with effort. She marveled: she could no longer feel her wound... only the tightly bound bandaging keeping the blood where it belonged. Where had the pain gone? It had been excruciating... all of her consciousness was tied to it and now it was gone, replaced by nothingness... not warmth or cold; no memory of feeling. Simple existence. Had she not remembered so vividly... had she not felt the tightness of the bound cotton... she would have thought it all a dream. She took another small breath, feeling the bindings expand.... no... she thought... it was not the bandages that compromised her breathing. She swallowed nervously, trying once more. Her body shook slightly with the effort of inhaling. It felt as the the air did not reach further than her breastbone, lodging there and denying Kathaani the simple relief of full lungs. She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut against what she guessed was happening.

"Mama... papa...?" she spoke hesitantly. Her voice was faint, not at all reminiscent of the strong tones she had so often adopted. The words were aspirated, a full breath necessary for each. She set her jaw stubbornly against the tears that strayed but a short distance from her eyes.

Mabalar and Lothlome started and looked to their daughter, frightened to hope, fearful not to. She smiled slightly for a brief moment before closing her eyes to concentrate on breathing freely. Softly... softly... she spoke to herself silently; promising that what she could foresee would not come to pass. She could feel it deep within her chest... she wanted to vomit at the horror of the sensation but sheer will now kept her in place. She felt her hands enveloped by those of her parents. I can not... I will not...

"Papa..." she began. She choked, chest convulsing slightly. Her father swept her into his arms and she heaved several times, each time denying her broken body its will. Exhausted, Kathaani sank against her father limply, holding her breath against the cough that lay in wait.

"Just breathe, my sweet... take your time and breathe..." murmured Lothlome as she smoothed a stray lock away from Kathaani's face. Mabalar still held her close, much as he had all those years before when his crying little girl required strong arms to hold her and let her feel safe and a soothing voice to calm her. Breathing shakily, she turned slightly to better fit against the contours of his arms, laying her head against his chest.

Mabalar kissed Kathaani's hair, murmuring to her. "Inzi's safe, my dove, they're all safe. You did it."

She looked up at his face, cherishing the warmth of her mother’s hands as they held hers, softly rubbing them with her thumbs. She began to cry, shaking her head. "No..." she whispered, "it wasn't me... none of it... it wasn't me."

"Of course it was my darling." he whispered to her. "You initiated the mission... yes, shh..." he held her closer as Lothlome sat beside them. She wiped away her daughter's tears with gentle hands as he continued. "Yes... they told me everything, love. It was you who told them of my capture. It was you who rode to rescue me. It was you who were imprisoned on my behalf. And it was you who escaped."

Kathaani wept more softly now. "But papa... I didn't... they were safer without me..."

Lothlome spoke now. "My Cerveth.... my love, do you underestimate me? Would I have sent you if I thought you were a danger to the mission? My love… it was so important that you ride to save your father… and look before you… you did."

Tears now came to Lothlome as well and her voice cracked into silence. Kathaani coughed violently now, spitting up blood. Mabalar held her close as Lothlome calmly wiped away the mess.


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Himaran's post

The streets of the city by the shore were all but deserted. Most of the inhabitants of the faithful's haven were already getting situated on the ships. Abârzadan hurried down the street, finally reaching his mansion. Having misplaced the gate key at some point on his adventure, he climbed over the iron fence and hopped down into the yard. When he reached the front door, the man took hold of the knob, turned it slightly to the right, then to the left, than back again. It creaked open, allowing him to enter. Hurrying about the house, Abârzadan gathered a few clothes, most of his weapons, and the most precious artifacts and heirlooms. In the new world he was headed for, Numenorean currency would have little or no value. Then he proceeded to his study and gathered everything he could find that was related to Numenor; its history and culture specifically. The island would soon be destroyed, but he did not want all memory of it to be lost. Then he noticed the swords and star of his house. The House of Batânzâira.

Suddenly the events in Armenelos made perfect sense. Abârzadan thought back to the voting record. The House of Batânzâira had hindered the King's movements at every turn. It stood for freedom and justice, not power and control. That was why it had been persecuted and killed off - all except for himself and his father. Perhaps until his very dying day, Abâranâ had not wanted to even tell his son the truth, for fear that he might try and avenge his house and be killed in the process. But as the disease at last took hold of him, he decided that he had to give his son a chance to discover the truth about the destruction of Batânzâira. And that was exactly what he had done. He had completed his father's last request, and freed himself from its curse. Assaulted by visions of the past too painful to bear, the man collected his things and proceeded to the entrance. Shutting the door firmly behind him, Abârzadan found his cart, loaded it with his packages, and pushed it up to the gate. Unlocking it, he tossed the spare key into the yard and left the manor once and for all.


***


His companions had been pleased to see him, although Abârzadan did indeed wonder if they weren't just glad that he had returned Kali safely. They were all distracted at the moment, for Kâthaanî He was given comfortable quarters on the flagship, and found enough room to store all the literature he had brought. Roaming the deck, he watched as the storm covering the island worsened. Horns sounded. The ships began to move off. Everything that he knew and loved was getting further and further away. But then a thought struck him. He had survived, and with him, the House of Batânzâira.

A man approached him. He looked tired and distraught, but still noble. "Are you the one they call Abârzadan? The others tell me that you played a part in my rescue. For that I am grateful."

"It was my honor, sir."

"Pardon me for asking, Turmeawa, but how is it that you know me?"

Here Abârzadan merely smiled. "Ah, perhaps you have forgotten. I used to buy horses from you..."


***


And thus is the story of Abârzadan Batânzâira. His is different from the others in this tale, for he had a personal journey far more important than that of saving a man he never knew. Abârzadan helped with the construction of what would later be known as Minas Tirith, where he settled down and married another survivor of Numenor. His bloodline, and the House of Batânzâira, would eventually spread throughout all of Gondor. At the end of all things, the swords and star survived.

[littlemanpoet]

"Papa," Cerveth said, her voice weak and breathless, "I go-" her voice caught. Mabalar hushed her. She shook her head. Her eyes clearing, she held his with hers. "I will wait for you," she whispered, "beyond the walls of the world." Her eyes stared and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.

"Cerveth!" Mabalar held her close. Lothlómë fell upon her husband and her child's body, and wept. Mabalar took her into his embrace. They stayed so for a time.

At last, they laid their daughter's body down and folded her arms beneath her breast, and wiped the last stains from her mouth and brow, and closed her eyes and mouth, and rose, holding each other close.

"She is beautiful," Lothlómë said.

"She always was," Mabalar replied.

A footfall was heard behind them on the stairs. They turned. It was Tirú.

"Kâthâaní?"

"She has passed," Mabalar said.

Tirú lost his legs. Catching himself on the rail, he sat on the nearest step. Tears streamed from his eyes. "I will miss her."

Mabalar went to his servant and raising him, too him to his daughter. Tirú knelt beside her and looked upon her face.

"She is at peace," he said, and looked at Mabalar with pleading in his eyes.

"May it be so," Mabalar nodded.

Tirú rose. "Forgive me, lord. I bear news. Lord Elendil requests your presence as soon as you may be disturbed, as he put it."

"Go," Lothlómë said."

******************

On deck, Elendil waited for Mabalar amongst a small crowd. Elendil gestured for him to come forward. When he had done so, before him stood Herugor, bound at hand and foot.

"We have a stowaway," Elendil understated.

"He is a traitor and a murderer!" Mabalar declared hotly.

"What have you to say, Herugor?"

"I repent of my deeds," Herugor said, looking carefully from eye to eye. "I see now that my former master led all of us astray, and would have allowed my life to be ended the deeps along with all others. The Faithful have been vindicated. I would be counted as one of you."

"A moving speech," said Isildur, "and a lying tongue that speaks it. See the calculation in his eyes. He must be put to death!"

"Nay!" said Elendil. "I will have none of my folk to bear the stain of this man's blood. He shall remain captive while we are on ship, and shall be set free when we land." He turned to Herugor. "But mark you, traitor, for traitor I still hold you: if ever again you have a hand in the murder of one of my folk, you shall surely die."

Herugor looked at his feet and said no word.

****************************

The winds howled from out of the West. The waves churned from behind them and threatened to overcome them, but ever were they borne on the waves toward Middle Earth, like strewn litter floating on a tidal wave. Yet safely did they arrive and were not all shipwrecked, and they made new homes, and set the mearas free to roam and gallop over the plains of Middle Earth. And the seven palantirí were rescued from the threat of the sea.

And Mabalar and Lothlómë and their household settled near the shores of Middle Earth, far to the west of what would come to be called Gondor. That settlement has long since fallen to ruin, and little is known what became of that house. Yet the tale persists of how the mearas and the last of the palantíri were saved from ruin by the chance imprisonment of one Mabalar Mellothroch, whose life was bought by the loyalty of his beloved daughter.

[piosenniel]

-------- FINIS --------

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~