Prisoner of Númenor RPG

[piosenniel]

A heavy, grey sky hung over the capital city of Westernesse. Rain had fallen for the last three days and the air was thick with moisture. The white walls of Arminalêth shone dully in the semidarkness and the late Ivanneth trees clung stubbornly to their last brown leaves. The land trembled; the island had shifted several times in the recent past, and now she gave another quick heave as though irritated by the tall Men who walked on her shores. As the ground quieted the skies stirred, and the boiling grey clouds which hovered over Armenelos began to drop hail. A dark haired woman looked up at the sky as pea-sized bits of ice began to bounce off the ground around her feet. She grabbed the hands of two small children and ushered them inside. As the door closed loudly behind them the hail began to fall in earnest, egg sized hailstones hammering on the rooftops of the unnaturally quiet city. As the hailstorm passed, the grey clouds blew east on a brisk wind and a billowy white cloud shaped like a great eagle cast its shadow across the land.

Abârpânarú Karíbzîr and Kâthaanî, his daughter and only child, rode along the southern faces of the fir and larch covered moors of Forostar. They could afford to ride as fast as the wind, with seven Kariborim between them. Abâr was afraid that word of their route had reached the King's Men. Abârpânarú was riding night-black Lômi while Kâthaanî rode chestnut Izri, the youngest foal of Khibil and Kali, who with their other foals, Nitirú, Rûki, and Mani galloped close at hand.

Word had reached them before they left home, that the King's Men were looking for Abârpânarú as a traitor to the King. It was true enough, if being one of the Faithful amounted to betrayal. The Forostar, the least fertile of the Númenorean regions, was least populous, and Abârpânarú had deemed it the way that would give them most shelter from the eyes of the King's Men. The ground was stony, which would give greater difficulty to other horsemen, but not the sure-footed Kariborim.

Suddenly the land dropped and the air cooled, and they came among fertile fields of grain, which were the beginning of the Orrostar. They rounded a final hill and must stop of a sudden. They were faced by twenty horsemen.

"You may go no further, traitor!" called one man whose black helm rose taller than the others.

"Go back, Kâthaanî! Make haste!" Kâthaanî obeyed immediately, calling the barebacked Kariborim as she turned her mount and charged back around the hill. Khibil, Abârpânarú's usual mount, did not follow. Abârpânarú hollered and slapped Khibil's rump and sent him chasing after the others.

"Do not let them get away!" cried the leader of the King's Men.

"You have me! Let them go!" Abârpânarú bellowed. The ears of the horses of the King's Men laid back, such was the force of his voice. He took the eyes of their leader and held them. The two strove, and at last the leader gave way.

"We have our quarry."

Abârpânarú dismounted from Lômi. "Go find Kâthaanî." Lômi stood next to Abârpânarú, unmoving. He looked in Lômi's deep brown eyes. "Go!" he whispered. She breathed on his neck, looking straight into his eyes. "They will do you harm!" She nickered. He sighed. "May I prove worthy of your love, dear one."

Kâthaanî paused on the far side of the hill. The clatter of hard hooves in the stones fell to silence all around her as five of the Kariborim joined Izri in the dell behind the hill. Five. Lômi, then, had remained with her father; though whether she was kept by her own will or Abârpânarú’s, or by some design of his captors, Kâthaanî could not tell. Dismounting quickly from Izri, she left the horses and crept down through the brush and boulders to where she could see the road.

Cursing herself inwardly for her clumsiness, she stood behind a cluster of fir and looked out toward the place where her father had been taken. As she caught sight of the men gathered on the road below, Kâthaanî breathed a sigh of relief. She realized they were yet far enough away that her pitiful attempts at stealth would not have been heard, and cloaked in brown as she was, she judged herself unlikely to be seen. She watched as Abârpânarú’s hands were bound roughly behind him and Lômi’s reins were tied to the saddle of one of the waiting horses. The riders remounted, and the column moved along the road. South, toward Armenelos. Kâthaanî watched, unmoving, until the horses disappeared into the plains.

Turning back to where she had left the Kariborim, Kâthaanî ran to them, tying her dark hair into a tighter knot on her neck and pinning her cloak more securely. She paused as she reached the horses, the tension in their bodies evident. She kissed Izri’s soft nose before turning to Nitirú, the swiftest among them. “You must bear me now, friend; and we will run more swiftly than ever we have run before.” Although she knew that she would never find help in time to rescue her father before they reached Arandor and the Royal City, there was nothing else for her to do.

Upon mounting, Kâthaanî headed down out of the foothills toward the road. Once they reached the open lands of Andustar she could take to the fields, but for now great speed required great risk and they ran on the open road. Nitirú’s feet struck sparks from the gravel as the dark haired girl and the iron grey horse flew toward Andunië, the other five trailing behind them like so many leaves in the wind.


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-- Sophia the Thunder Mistress & littlemanpoet

[piosenniel]

TomBrady12's post

Marsillion sat quietly in a dark corner of an obscure Andunië inn sipping a pint of ale. The ale was poor, but that was the least of his trouble. He'd come to meet his cousin, Nusaphad Narâkmanô, who had summoned him here the night before. Nusaphad was fairly unskilled, had no taste for books or learning, nor for any serious forms of work. Luckily for him, he was born into a wealthy family, and had overachieving brothers to carry on the pride of his father. Nusaphad ran an Andunië inn belonging to his father as a pretense of work, but most who knew him knew that he consumed more ale then he sold. Marsillion, clever as he was, managed to find a use even for his lazy cousin.

Nusaphad's Inn, The Tîrevia, was a favorite gathering spot for the King's Men garrisoned in and around Andunië, and after a few pints of ale they were often more than willing to pull a slovenly underachiever into their confidence. Through Nusaphad, who was not a member of the faithful, Marsillion gained much information on the plans and movements of the King's Men.

When his older cousin at last slid into the semi dilapidated inn, Marsillion couldn't help but notice how little resemblance there was between them. Nusaphad's olive skin and thick black beard were a stark contrast to Marsillion's fair skin and clean face. Nusaphad took a seat across the table from Marsillion without a word.

“What then, cousin, have you called me here for?” Marsillion asked gingerly. News from Nusaphad was rarely good.

“Breakfast with an old friend not enough of a lure?” Nusaphad replied, with a sarcastic grin spreading across his bearded face.

“Aye,” Marsillion perked up, “the food in this dank hole is far from good, but I suspect it's a mite bit better than whatever news you've brought for me.”

“True enough,” Nusaphad said, the grin disappearing from his face. The smiling eyes that normally defined the otherwise drab man were devoid of light and rimmed in red. Dark matters he left to others when possible, preferring women and drink to matters of business. Marsillion could see that the role of spy was taking its toll on his cousin.

Nusaphad ordered a fresh pitcher of ale and waited for the waitress to leave. “The news is indeed worse than this ale, Nimilroth, a good deal worse in truth. Your mother's brother is in grave danger. The King's Men mean to arrest him on charges of treason,” Nusaphad said quietly, even though the inn was deserted except for the young waitress.

“Is that all you have for me cousin?” Marsillion asked, stretching his arms above his head and slowly getting to his feet. “Perhaps your ale has lost its potency, for we have known this for a fortnight. Besides, what proof is there? A serious charge requires serious proof.”

“Sit down Nimilroth,” Nusaphad replied with pity in his voice. “My ale is potent enough, and I've not told you all that I have brought you here for.” Marsillion sat down and stared hard into his cousin's unblinking eyes.

“Go on then,” was all he could say.

“The King's men have been watching your uncle for sometime and saw him and his daughter leave Andunië with his prized horses days ago. They know not only his destination, but also his intended route. A company of the King's Men lie in wait as we speak near the junction of Forostar and Orrostar. Your uncle is walking into a trap. And as for proof, it seems to me that Ar-Pharazôn needs none these days but that which his own mind can conjure.”

“Why have you not spoken of this before?” Marsillion demanded, the anger in his voice shattering the silence of the inn.

“I knew not until late in the evening,” Nusaphad said sheepishly, seemingly afraid of the strong armed young man he'd known for so long. “If I'd have ridden out myself to tell you we may both have been discovered.”

“I must go,” Marsillion nearly shouted as he jumped to his feet. He rushed to the door, knocking over a mug of beer on the way.

“You're gonna have to pay for that, mister!” the waitress shouted after him, but the words were meaningless in his ears. He had been there when his father was seized by the King years before. He had to get to Kâthaanî before it was too late. He could not allow her to undergo the same fate as he. The only sound to reach his ears was the beating rhythm of his young mare’s galloping footfalls, moving rapidly down the dirt street, into the east.

[piosenniel]

Himaran's post

Two swords crossed in overlapping fashion, drawing attention to the silver star located at the place of their meeting... The symbol of the House of Batânzâira. Abârzadan turned away from the treasured decoration adorning the wall of his large house. In reality, it was a thing of the past; there was no House Batânzâira... there was only him. The Númenórean man's ascendents were vast, but all had long since died out, persecuted by Sauron and the cult of Melkor. What that evil one so feared about letting it survive? Perhaps its strength, and the many warriors it had bred. Whatever the reason, all that was over. Abârzadan was the last of them, as far as he could tell. No one else remembered. No one understood.

Banishing the disparaging thoughts from his mind, Abârzadan forced himself to look on the positive side of the matter. He was safe, rich and secure; at least for the time being. The sole heir of a large fortune, the man was not stranger to the lavish lifestyle of the elite. But was there such a among the rabble of the Faithful? His father, Abâranâ, had never trusted them since entering their lands to escape the wrath of Sauron. They were outcasts, rebels, unfit to serve the King of Númenór. The old man's sentiments were never known publicly; he lived out his days isolated in his home, without making any aquaintices with the locals. After his father's death, Abârzadan had gradually come to accept the Faithful and did not hold them in a hostile light, but still he held on to the sometimes violent longing to see his true home. And then there was Abâranâ's last request...

No. That can never be accomplished. Never. Deciding that the acute loneliness of the house was becoming oppressive, Abârzadan pulled on a, coat, opened the door and hurried out into the street, allowing the wooden frame to fall shut loudly behind him. The refreshing tinge of cool air met his face, and the sound of the waves lapping at the shore met his ears. Abârzadan's home was near the docks, for he loved to look out at the sea from his bedroom window... somehow, although it was not the way back to the King he still felt loyal to, the water was strangely attracting. Perhaps it was the sense of mystery it held, for doubtlessly there were unexplored regions beyond the simmering edge of the horizon.

Even the sea could not give Abârzadan's mind the rest that it longed for. His thoughts went back to six years before, when his father lay dying from disease. "Hear me, Abârzadan," he had rasped, before breaking into another fit of coughing. "And never forget. Keep the House of Batânzâira clean from the Faithful. Only marry..." the sick man's voice trailed off again. His eyes opened wide, as if he was seeing a vision. Then he had struggled back to reality, and made one last, desperate effort to finish his last statement. "Only marry... a woman of Númenór. I say this to you so that I know that one day, you will indeed go back there, to see the place where our ancestors lie. Never forget, Abârzadan, please..." The man had then gone unconcious, and died during the night, as silently as he had lived.

Enough reminiscing! Abârzadan decided that if he were to get any work done that night, he had better get a drink and clear the disturbing memories from his distraught mind. The man hurried down the street, soon finding a small inn that he rarely visited. Abâranâ had seen the place when they first arrived, and snidely commented on its disrepair. Indeed, it was in rather poor condition, and not the sort of place that a member of the elite would go to dine. However, it was close, and though the ale was poor it still contained the kick that he needed. Besides, the gossip of those at this particular small establishment was far more interesting than that at any fine diner.

As he entered the inn, Abârzadan noticed that it was quite empty, almost deserted. The man ordered a drink and walked over to a table in the corner; slowly easing into the hard wooden chair. His ears immediately sharpened, and he began to pick up snippets of conversation from a booth near him. When he heard "the King's men have been watching your uncle," his ears perked up. The King? Ar-Pharazôn? As he continued to eavesdrop, his suspicions were confirmed. "Your uncle is walking into a trap," one of the men said. Prized horses? And uncle and his daughter? As Abârzadan left the inn later that evening, he promised himself to keep his ears open for any more information regarding the strange tale that he had been exposed to.

Especially if it dealt with Númenór.

[piosenniel]

Meneltarmacil's post

Thoronmir let the arrow fly, and the deer fell to the ground. He was about to walk over to it when three riders on black horses rode up.

"Well, well, if it isn't Sakaladûn," said their leader, getting off his horse. "Finally found you, eh? The King's been looking for you for quite a while now."

Thoronmir, formerly known as Sakaladûn, answered him. "I stopped listening to that man when he started going mad. If you want me to come with you, you'll have to force me."

The man laughed and reached for a weapon. Thoronmir reacted faster, leaping up onto the leader's horse and kicking it hard. The black stallion rode off at full speed. The other two riders drew their spears and pursued Thoronmir as he fled, but Thoronmir managed to lose them in the forest.

Thoronmir rode into the hiding place of the Faithful that was nearby. He was met at the entrance by one of their guards.

"Thoronmir, I'm glad you got back here. Where did you get the horse?" the guard asked curiously.

"I ran into some old friends from Armenelos who really wanted me to come back with them," the Thoronmir said. "I declined the offer and borrowed one of their horses to escape with."

The other man didn't smile a whole lot. "Good thing you escaped, because we're really going to need your help here." he said. "You see, there's been a problem. Mabalar has been taken captive and they said we need to act now..."

[piosenniel]

Feanor of the Peredhil's post

The rain poured from the black clouds like so many thousand tears. Lightening lit the tormented sky as another wave shifted the ground. Inzillomí Elendili moved quietly through the shadows of the awnings, coming in from the stables. From cosseting her black mare, Alya, the mistress of the house had been startled by the sound of pounding hoofbeats. Reaching the house before her unknown guests, Inzillomí went to her sitting room and settled quickly, picking up a piece of embroidery on her way. To a stranger, it would look as though she had been sewing quietly for some time. A fist pounded on the oaken doors, echoing through the large house. She rose gracefully, gliding delicately to the entry way. Meeting a maid in the hallway, she waved her off silently. Opening the heavy doors, she was faced with a full guard of the King's Men. Briefly she wondered where her own guards were, until she saw a flash of silver in the doorway of the stables. One man stepped forward.

"To what do I owe this honor?" Inzillomí asked cautiously. She knew this man; they had been childhood companions. These days, however, it did not pay to trust those you once knew. The uniformed man hesitated as streams of water ran down his cheeks. "Officer, it is raining and my floor is getting wet. Either state your business or come in for a cup of tea, but I will not tolerate the warping of a perfectly good door frame because of carelessness."

The officer nearly laughed, quickly hiding his smile with a well-timed cough. He had been sent to escort the out of favor families to Rómenna but he felt compassion for them. He had known Inzillomí for many years. "Inzi--" he caught himself. Standing up taller, his smile vanished. It was one thing to be compassionate, another to be soft. He had his orders. "Mistress Inzillomí, the King offers you the honor of relocating your family to Rómenna. You will please pack only what you can carry on one horse. You will please be ready in one hour. Your escort will be waiting outside your doors to ensure that you do not lose your way to the front garden."

Hiding her panic, Inzillomí smiled at her childhood friend. Snake! her mind screamed. "No." she replied calmly.

"You must excuse me, Mistress, but I thought I heard you say "no". You are please to be aware that you have no choice."

"I am and I do. I have business today that will not wait, as I am sure you will quite understand. You will have to return tomorrow when my family is all together and prepared. I will not leave without them, and I will not leave my belongings behind. May your day be as peace-filled as my own." With that, Inzillomí politely shut the door in the officers' faces.

Hoping her audacity would not serve to get them all killed, Inzillomí spared a fearful moment wondering at the whereabouts of her family. She peered out the window, seeing the King's Men clustered in a small group. Suddenly the men scattered, mounting up and set off down the road. Short-lived relief filled Inzillomí as the rain slowed. As quickly as the storm had begun, it was over. Within a short time, the sun shone brightly, drying the land. A brisque wind pulled crimson leaves from the trees and Inzillomí, tired and worried, walked alone through her garden admiring the last dark blossoms of the season. Azarmanô was due with tidings from Elendil any hour; Marsillion had gone to meet his cousin; Abârpânarú and Kâthaanî would not be returning. Inzillomí's family was scattered and she was left to lead the remaining Anannost to whatever end. It was her responisibility to get her people safely to the East. Suddenly, heavy hoof beats filled the air once more. Turning quickly on her heel, Inzillomí Elendili ran, skirts billowing in the wind, her hair streaming out behind her, hurrying to meet unexpected visitors for the second time in so many hours.

[piosenniel]

samsmyhero's post

Tiru hummed softly as he came out of the stall. He had changed the old bedding for new and refilled the manger with fresh hay. The water trough outside the stable was full of water pulled from the well. All was taken care of. Not that there was any sense of urgency. His master and the little mistress were not due back for some days. Tiru closed his eyes for a brief moment, silently offering a prayer for the success of their venture. He smiled at his own absurdity; he didn't even believe in the gods, although his master had spent many hours instructing him. Well, he shrugged his shoulders, it couldn't hurt.

So much was riding on their journey, though. The very existence of the Kariborim was at stake. If Abârpânaru was not successful in getting the horses to Rómenna, if they missed the sailing for the east . . . No! Tiru shook his head vigorously. He would not even think such thoughts! Besides, there was still much to do before leaving for the harbor to meet Captain Azarmanô, who was arriving from Rómenna with supplies and news from Elendil. It was being said that the time for the departure for the east was coming upon them quickly.

Tiru stroked his beard thoughtfully. Even if his beloved six came safely to the ships, there were many others who would not be going. Tiru worried about these others, the Karibi. He knew there was no room for them on the ships. It was fortunate enough that his master and mistress had been able to secure a place for him, being only their servant. Still, the thought of leaving the Karibi almost broke his heart. He had already lost one family; and, now, to lose this one . . .

The horsemaster's thoughts were interrupted by the, as yet, distant sound of thundering hoofs. This sound was one so familiar to him that it was like unto his own heart beat. "The Kariborim!" he gasped. "What . . . how?" Tiru wasted no time, but flew himself, as fast as his legs could carry him, across the stable yard and down the broad path that led to the road. Even as the swirl of dust accompanying them grew larger, he could make out Kâthaanî, the little mistress, and Marsillion, her cousin, with five of the six steeds which had left Andunië eight days ago. But he could tell at a glance that his master, Abârpânaru, and the mare Lômi, were not with them.

Tiru's heart raced and his mind seethed. Disaster! Some sort of catastrophe had befallen his master and now . . . and now, what? He must calm himself and be prepared; the mistress and her daughter would surely need him, and he, at least, was reliable, unlike those so called gods!

Within moments, the two cousins had drawn up to him. Dirt and sweat covered Kâthaanî's face and her hair looked as if she had been in a high wind off the ocean. Marsillion looked shocked and angry. Breathlessly, Kâthaanî leaned over Nitirú's neck and in a rush, told Tiru what had occurred on the unlucky journey to Rómenna. Tiru's face belied little of the anguish that churned in his stomach. Captured by the King's Men! The very worst that could have happened! Poor Lômi! She would be so upset and unhappy if strangers were to take her. And the master too, of course.

"What must we do, little mistress?" Tiru gasped, as Kâthaanî stopped to take a breath.

"This was the day appointed for Azarmanô's arrival was it not?" She rushed on, not waiting for a reply. "You must go to the harbor and meet him there as planned. But tell him of my father's plight. Ask Azarmanô to render what assistance he can – I'm sure we will need every man available to rescue him. Hurry back!" With that she and Marsillion were urging the horses forward once again, racing, Tiru was sure, to her mother, to let her know the grim tidings and alert the other Annanost.

Tiru ran back to the stables and quickly saddled up the grey mare he had waiting, already anticipating the trip to the harbor. Hoping that Azarmanô would be at the harbor, which, with sea voyages, arrivals were always an uncertainty, he went into the field beyond and caught up another mount for the Captain. He saddled her too, and was off down the road, just as Kâthaanî was at her mother's side, relating her sad news. With a brief moment of regret that he could not tend to the needs of the five Kariborim which had returned, Tiru focused on his task and set off for the harbor at a break neck speed.

[piosenniel]

Regin Hardhammer's post

Azarmanô stared at the cove, which was surrounded on three sides by towering cliffs of sheer granite. It was a tight fit for the Gwan, but the ship slipped through the narrow opening just as it had done countless times before. The journey to the western part of the island had been placid, something that could not be said for many of his trips. Azarmanô marveled at how this group of the Faithful had been able to flout the King’s decree and refuse to move eastward as he himself had done some while ago. Of course, he was not often at home, but on board his ship engaged in various trading missions. He frequently traveled to the colonies with a shipload of goods from Númenor and traded these items with his fellow countrymen and whatever local merchants he could find who were still willing to deal with a man of Númenor. Despite his love of the sea and the joy he felt doing honest work, he often chafed at the length of these voyages, yearning to return to his radiant wife Eirien and his young son Thorin.

But today was no ordinary supply mission. Elendil had commanded him to sail west and pick up the last remaining Faithful and bring them back to join the others who had gathered at Rómenna and would soon be fleeing Númenor to sail across the oceans. It was with a heavy heart that Azarmanô prepared to bid farewell to his homeland. Despite persecution from the King and those who followed his lead, he still felt a strong attachment to the land of his fathers. But the departure from Númenor could not be avoided. Disaster and doom were fast approaching the land, punishment for man’s insolence. For many years, the kings had shunned the friendship of the Eldar in their greedy quest for immortality. Azarmanô understood the Faithful must depart across the sea before all was lost. Besides, he thought, he would still have the sea.

Azarmanô went down on the shore and waited for Tiru, the contact from the local Faithful who usually met him and took delivery of the supplies. Today Tiru did not look pleased. His face was wan and nervous and he was moving fast. Azarmanô called out in anticipation, “I have news for you. You must gather the others and tell them that the time has come for us to leave Númenor. Elendil gathers the fleet in the east for the Faithful to depart. We can wait no longer. Tell your neighbors to gather in this cove and I will take them to where Elendil’s ships are gathering in the eastern bay.”

Tiru replied in a rushed tone, “My friend, I’m afraid that we can not yet go. You see the King’s men have captured Abârpânarú Karíbzîr, my master. We have just found out the sad news, and people are needed to help in the rescue." Tiru looked up expectently and added, Perhaps you would be willing to come with us. We have need of another strong bow.”

“I would be honored to rescue the lifeblood of such a noble leader. But we must not tarry. Speed will be needed. Elendil’s ships wait for us to arrive so that they may depart. Every moment they delay is another chance for the King’s men to find the Faithful. My family also is on a ship that will cross the seas and I long to return to them soon. We must be swift and relentless in our search and then go with all speed to the harbor of Romenna. Let me tell my mate to guide the Gwan back east and then I will join you.”

Azarmanô returned to his ship and told his mate to steer the craft eastward and have it wait for his arrival when he returned with the others. “Don’t fear,” he added, “I will return soon.”

Azarmanô turned to Tiru and mounted the chestnut brown horse that had been brought for him. “Let us go to gather the others. Away.” He flicked the reins and clipped his heels to the steed's side and began to ride with all haste.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Kâthaanî was nervous and tired. Her frantic ride had taken barely more than three days. She had slept little, her hair and clothes were caked with dust, and her muscles were sore. She had changed mounts frequently, to save their strength as much as possible, but still on the third day they had slowed. She also had slowed, until Marsillion met her outside the city. Mounted once more on Nitirú with Marsillion riding Mani, the two of them pounded homeward.

Now she nodded to Marsillion as she gave him Nitirú's reins; he was still mounted on Mani, having left his mare to find her own way home. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and briefly rested a hand on her shoulder before swinging down and leading the sweating Kariborim toward the stables and a hard earned rest. "I will talk to Mother." Kâthaanî called back over her shoulder, already setting a brisk pace for the house. Her head was swimming with the intricacy of this problem. The fact that her father had been taken was desperate enough, but together with the brief time left before their departure... rescue seemed nearly impossible.

As she neared the room where Inzillomí often spent her mornings, Kâthaanî ran a hand over her matted hair, dragging her fingers through it in attempt to force it into some kind of order. Pushing the doors to her mother's sitting room open, she found her mother at the table with a small sampler in one hand and a needle in the other. Only the smallest tremors in her fingers and the lines around her mouth gave away Inzillomí's nervousness. For a few seconds Kâthaanî simply stood in the doorway her hands at her sides, fingering the edges of her sleeves; then she rushed forward unable to keep calm any longer.

"Mother, they've taken him away... the King's guards, they arrested him and they took Lômi too. And Tiru's gone to meet Azarmanô already, and it's time... it's time. But they took Father. By now he's in Armenelos... and the ships... and I rode..." she dissolved into tears. Kâthaanî stiffened momentarily as she felt her mother drop down beside her and put her arms around her shoulders. She had long considered herself too adult for coddling, but she soon relaxed and her hysteria passed. She breathed in deeply and looked up at Inzillomí. Her mother's face was pale and her eyes ringed with shadows, but she was calm and composed. Kâthaanî quickly composed herself and stood up.

"The treasure you carried, is it safe?" Inzillomí asked quietly, sliding back into her chair and picking up her embroidery. Kâthaanî nodded. She'd checked the moment she'd remembered; her mother's palantir, the precious seeing-stone and heirloom of Elendil's house was still safely in Khibil's saddlebags where it had been through their whole journey.

"We must send men to find him." Kâthaanî whispered. "We cannot leave him behind."

"No, we cannot. Perhaps my son, Nimilroth, could go?" a voice said from the doorway. Ziraphel, Abârpânarú's sister, walked into the room. Neither mother or daughter had heard her approach. She looked at them appraisingly. "Inzillomí, was that Gimilnar I just saw? A King's guardsman here can mean nothing good." Kâthaanî's eyes widened as she and her aunt listened to Inzillomí's news. It seemed that things were going to become more complicated still.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomí caressed her daughter's hair as she would a frightened foal, feeling Kâthaanî relax under the gentle touch. She looked up at Ziraphel, gazing deep into her eyes. "Gimilnar indeed, sister. The King has offered us the 'honor' of relocating to the East. His Men will return tomorrow, mid-morning, to escort us. I fear what Gimilnar will say when he does not find all of my family together."

Kâthaanî glanced at her mother, fear in her eyes, anger in every line of her face. "Mother, I will go to Abârpânarú. I will save him." Inzillomí caught her daughter's chin, tilting her face toward her. Kâthaanî read her mother's expression, drawing away abruptly. "You would have me stay!" she cried, angry. "You would leave your own husband at the hands of a crazed King and his men!"

Inzillomí let her daughter go, unfathomable hurt showing in every motion. Ziraphel spoke. "Cerveth, child, you must never speak to your mother so. You cannot conceive the responsibilities that she has shouldered. You cannot understand the pain you have just caused her." Inzillomí thanked her husband's sister with a glance, looking sadly at her daughter. She spoke coldly.

"Cerveth, if the Valar hear my prayer, you will never know the burden of my work. There is more here than you know. Your father will not be left behind. Elendil would not sail without us, but there is so little time, and so much danger." She softened, eyes asking for understanding. "Without your father, Cerveth, it is my task to lead the Faithful safely East. How am I to do this if you would have us all ride to his rescue, trailing the King's Men... and his wrath?"

[samsmyhero]

Tiru's thoughts ran faster than the swift mare carrying him back to his master's house. By now the little mistress would have told Lady Inzillomí the terrible news and he could only imagine the anguish and alarm that must be gripping both mother and daughter. But Tiru had not served the family for these forty years past without discovering the core of steel that lay at the heart of his mistress. Was she not the daughter of Elendil himself, leader of the Faithful now that his brave father had sailed into the west? Even in this moment of greatest crisis, Lady Inzillomí would not wilt and succumb to despair, like some hothouse flower. She would know what needed to be done, and make sure it was accomplished.

Glancing briefly over at the man riding knee to knee with him, Tiru replayed in his mind his brief exchange with Captain Azarmanô at the harbor. It had been both encouraging and troubling. That the Captain would be willing to assist in a rescue attempt was a hopeful sign. At least it would not only be Abârpânarú's family which believed that rescue was possible. But the news which Azarmanô brought from Rómenna now made the situation acute. There would be so very little time in which to accomplish so daunting a task All the Annanost should at this very minute be packing their most treasured belongings and making ready to sail back east to Elendil and the waiting boats. Instead, at least some must venture to Arminalêth , the very last place any of them would wish to go at this black hour, and walk right into the lion's den. What a disaster!

Finally arriving at the house, Tiru was on the ground before the grey mare had even stopped. "Captain, I'll take your horse, if you'd care to step inside. I'm sure my lady Inzillomí will want to hear your news and will want to talk of what to do about my master's arrest." Tiru stepped forward and grabbed the chestnut's reins, and Azarmanô deftly slid from her back.

"My thanks. . . I'll see you inside then?" From the tone of uncertainty in his voice, it was clear Azarmanô was unsure as to Tiru's further involvement in the situation. As the sea captain strode towards the house, the servant realized that perhaps he was mistaken to assume so blithely that he would be sent as part of the rescue. Oh, to be sure, he was going, with their blessings or without. The Kariborim were his family now, and he would not scuttle away to Rómenna with his tail between his legs, leaving Lômi to her fate! But surely . . . his mistress would know his heart, and would understand. They could not refuse to send him. Servant he might be, and his hair, what was left of it, was now streaked with grey. Yet he was still fit, stronger even than many men much younger, and larger, than he. And his skill with a bow was known, if only in the hunt. No, his mistress would never deny him his right to a place in whatever plan she would set in motion to rescue her husband. But, what if others thought differently?

Hurrying to tend to the winded horses, Tiru resolved to go straight on to the house as soon as he was finished. He tarried just moments to check on the other Kariborim, and, seeing they had been well cared for, he hurried out of the stable. Whatever plan the Annanost might come up with, Tiru knew one thing with absolute certainty – he would be going to Arminalêth, to rescue Lômi, and his master!

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion slowly walked the sweat soaked Kariborim toward the stables, wondering why he hadn't thought of riding to the harbor himself. Tiru would have prefered to stay and tend to the horses, Marsillion did not doubt that. When it came to the care of the Kariborim, Marsillion knew he was not above the rebuke of the dark little man, despite their obvious class difference. It was well known that concerning the Kariborim, Tiru had authority over all save Abârpânaru. Marsillion himself had been on the receiving end of more than one tongue lashing at the hands of the passionate foreigner when care that, while good, was not quite adequate to satisfy Tiru's standards. Today; however, Marsillion would risk the little man's wrath. He quickly removed the ornate saddles and bridles, and turned the magnificent animals loose in the paddock alongside the roadway.

Marsillion's ride had been a difficult one. The weather had been enjoyable throughout the morning of his departure, but that afternoon he encountered a wild hail storm, incomparable to any weather he had ever seen. Hail stones the size of his fist were hurled from the bubbling sky, leaving both Marsillion and his horse bloodied. The weather streaked between warm sun, and dangerous storms throughout the duration of the journey, weather that would baffle even the most salted sea captain. Sleep was a luxury too rich for Marsillion's purse, and food was difficult to gather quickly, so it was quickly forgotten.

Marsillion's long strides carried him quickly across the distance to the house, where he was encountered by his mother, Ziraphel, before he was able to eat, bathe, and dress, as he would have liked. Marsillion could see lines in his mother's face which he had never noticed before. Where they new, or had he just been too preoccupied to notice them before? Marsillion opened his mouth to speak, but found no words willing to come forth.

Ziraphel saw pain written across her hulking son's face, and saw an unformiliar sag in his broad shoulders which discomforted her.

“Nimi,” she said, almost to herself. “You're bleeding.”

“Nimi,” Marsillion muttered aloud, recalling the name his mother had called him throughout his childhood. He had not heard it for years, but hearing it now somehow brought hope. “I was battered with hail,” this time when he spoke, the words were strong and powerful. “Do not trouble over mere scratches. They make good reminders that bones could have been broken.”

Ziraphel smiled slightly to see her son back to himself. She felt almost as if she were speaking with Azaruth, as she had years before. The thought of her murdered husband, coupled with the capture of her brother and the imminent departure into the east was too much for even wise Ziraphel to handle. Her lips trembled and she wept openly. Marsillion hadn't seen his mother cry since his father's capture, and was taken slightly aback. He quickly recovered and pulled the quaking women into his arms. “Do not worry,” he said in the sturdiest voice he could muster. “I will fix this, I promise. I will go to Armenelos and bring Abârpânaru home. I will bring him home for you mother. For you, and Kâthaanî, and aunt Inzi. I'll bring him home because I could not bring home father. I will bring him home,” Marsillion assured her, as he pulled one of his long finger across his eyes, wiping away the fear and doubt that must be kept hidden.

Ziraphel slowly let go of her son's muscular shoulders, and managed a slight smile. “Oh Nimilroth,” she said, no longer feeling the need to speak to him as a child. “You remind me so much of your father sometimes. Come, let us go find Inzillomi and Kâthaanî. You must be hungry, I'll have food brought into the sitting room where we can begin to make plans.”

Hungry as he was, Marsillion insisted on washing and putting on fresh cloths before he did anything else. When the dirt and dried blood was cleansed from his fair skin, and a fresh light blue tunic was belted comfortably around his waste, he went and joined the rest of the family in the sitting room.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô bade farewell to Tiru and walked directly toward the door of the house. After knocking, he paced and waited in front for someone to answer. Usually when Azarmanô came to the west to deliver supplies, his contact had been Tiru. One time, however, when Tiru had been very ill, Inzillomí herself had met with him at the secluded cove. He had been intrigued to make the acquaintance of the daughter of the great Elendil, his leader and close friend. They had talked at length about the day they both dreaded and yet knew was close at hand, the day when they would have to leave Númenor and sail east. Now that day had finally arrived, and it felt no better than Azarmanô had suspected it would. And to add to the sting of sailing away, he now must rescue Abârpânarú from prison. Azarmanô would not stand for the blood of a fellow Faithful to be spilled on the vile stones of Sauron’s altar. He was glad to make the acquaintance of the Lady Inzillomí again; however he would have rather done so under more pleasant circumstances.

Eager as he was to help, Azarmanô was determined to embark on the mission soon and complete it swiftly. The ships were ready to leave with his wife Eirien and son Thoron on board, and they could not wait long. Azarmanô approached the door and pounded the large bronze knocker on the thick wood three times. He waited for several minutes, pacing back and forth anxiously, before he heard a reply from inside.

A cautious voice spoke steadily, “Who is there?”

Inzillomí , thought Azarmanô. It must be. I remember her voice as clearly as the tranquil sea on a calm day. She must be worried about the king’s men; I can sense the fear in her voice.

“Do not fear, my Lady Inzillomí . It is I, the traveler of the seas, Azarmanô. I come with news from your father. I pray that you find it in your heart to let me inside.”

The door swung open to reveal Inzillomí , just as Azarmanô remembered her. After greeting her, the two went to the living room where her daughter, Kâthaanî sat in a cahir. Azarmanô spoke with a friendly warmth in his voice.

“My dear friends, I am deeply grieved to hear about the imprisonment of Abârpânarú in Armenelos. I swear to you by the Valar that I will do everything that I can to get him back. However, we must hurry for your father has assembled the rest of the faithful in Romenna and plans to leave very soon. He sent me to gather up the remainder of the faithful, but after I learned the news I sent my ship back, for I could not leave while your husband sits in chains. How may I serve you now my lady? I beseech you, act fast, for time is a luxury we do not have.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

A heavy silence weighed upon the air of the room. Inzillomí looked at the delicate needle-work in her lap, waiting for her daughter to speak. With Abârpânaru's capture, it was Inzillomí's responsibility to safely remove the Faithful to the East. Now, with the King's Men to return in so few hours, Inzillomí needed one thing she did not have: time. She could not leave her husband to torment and death while she sailed away in safety. She also could not order rescuers to sacrifice themselves in order to save him. As the weight grew heavier, Ziraphel slid quietly out the door. A faint knocking reached Inzillomí's ears. She removed to the front doors, leaving Kâthaanî.

Passing Ziraphel and Marsillion, she motioned for their already given silence. A cautious hand on the razor sharp fan tucked discreetly in her sash, Inzillomí spoke. “Who is there?”

A gently familiar voice met her ears. “Do not fear, my Lady Inzillomí . It is I, the traveler of the seas, Azarmanô. I come with news from your father. I pray that you find it in your heart to let me inside.”

Inzillomí unlatched the door, swinging it open. "Come, friend. You are welcome in the house of Karíbzîr." Taking the captain's arm with the confidence of one who belonged there, she passively led him into her home. "We shall speak more openly where my daughter awaits."

Waving to Ziraphel and Marsillion, Inzillomí led the small group into her private sitting room. When all were seated, Inzillomí looked with expectation at Azarmanô. "What news, traveller, does my father send? I feel that Tiru has already told you some of what you shall soon hear. When you have spoken, you shall hear it afresh."

"My dear friends, I am deeply grieved to hear about the imprisonment of Abârpânarú in Armenelos. I swear to you by the Valar that I will do everything that I can to get him back. However, we must hurry for your father has assembled the rest of the Faithful in Romenna and plans to leave very soon. He sent me to gather up the remainder of the Faithful, but after I learned the news I sent my ship back, for I could not leave while your husband sits in chains. How may I serve you now my lady? I beseech you, act fast, for time is a luxury we do not have."

Inzillomí rose, an aura seeming to grow about her. She spoke with no art but the eloquence of haste. "It is for the ears of all present that I do now speak. My husband has been arrested under orders from the King. My father has sent word for us to travel swiftly to Romenna. The King's Men arrived here only hours ago to award my family and those near and dear to us the honor of relocating. They shall return in the morning, and it is then that I and my household must leave." She looked at her audience, feeling again the weight of her responsibility to them all. Her cheeks, pale as the face of the moon, were flushed.

Kâthaanî, introspective until now, spoke. "Mother, we cannot leave him." She met her mother's eyes, pleading.

With a smile, Inzillomí looked at her daughter. "No indeed, we cannot. But I will order no man to ride in his rescue, nor will I permit haste to overcome rationality. Where time is not, there it must be made. We shall think as though we had all the time in the world, so that when we act, it will not be in vain." A sound startled Inzillomí, although only Kâthaanî noticed it. Azarmanô rose, shifting his weight to his advantage, as the door gently pushed open. Tiru stepped inside as a collective breath was released. Inzillomí spoke again.

"I spoke that no man would be ordered, for I will condemn no man to a fate that he does not choose. Were it possible, I myself would go to my husband, but with the King's Men returning tomorrow, it would be disasterous to even attempt. If a discreet party can be arranged, and discreet it must be, for with lack of discretion comes many sorrows, not least the loss of life... If a party can be found, they shall ride with my blessing."

[littlemanpoet]

They led Abârpânarú inside, his hands tied behind his back and his ankles chained. They were taking him away from Lómi, who was being led by her bridle to the King's stables, no less a prison for the Kariborim than the dungeon to which they led him.

"Take care with my Karibor. She is precious." They led Abârpânarú down the dark, dank corridors of the King's dungeon; with the King gone to sea, more accurate to call it Sauron's dungeon.

"Fear not, anúphnimir," said a guard, "be assured your mount shall receive treatment at least as kindly as yours." The other three guards laughed.

Fool of the Elves, is it? They may say what they will. "Better anúphnimir than Anúpharazón."

The guard landed a blow on Abârpânarú's head with his mailed fist. "Núph! You shall never see your precious Karibor again. She is the King's now."

Which meant that she was Sauron's. Never. He vowed silently to free her if not himself. Somehow.

They threw him into a cell with a mere chink in the wall through which sunlight passed. They did not unlock his hands or ankles. He sat against the walls, his rage building at the injustice. He schooled himself to calmness. It would do no good to waste his strength on impotent rage. He knew the fate they had in mind for him. This island of the West was no longer ruled by Men. It was Sauron's now, who would see Abârpânarú on his blasphemous altar. He was willing to die if it would save his family and friends. It would fall to Inzillomí now to see that they achieved Rómenna. He wished them luck and all the wit they would need to avoid the watchful eyes of Sauron's Men.

They had better not try to rescue me. If Kâthaanî so much as shows her face here, I shall give her a proper scolding. He smiled a ghost of a smile. He knew his daughter, and his wife, knew what they would do. Take care my dear ones, take care.

[Himaran]

Abârzadan sat quietly in his study, reviewing some papers regarding the state of his inheritance. The news was far from pleasant; the Inheritance Tax, which had never affected the Faithful, was being revised. Even those living outside of the King's sphere would be forced to pay. That, combined with the fact that his father was labeled an exile, meant that much of Abârzadan's estate would be reposessed. He shook his head, leaning back in the elegant chair. He had heard rumors about the Faithful sailing away from the island, but had thought little of it; never expecting that he himself might want a place one of the departing vessels. And that holds true. I need to go deeper into Númenor, not flee from it.

Again Abârzadan thought about his recent visit to the inn, and the story that had reached his ever-alert ears. If the informant there had been accurate, trouble was brewing. A member of the Faithful had been kidnapped, or perhaps urdered, by the King's guards. Or, perhaps, he had been a criminal, and the men he had overheard were accomplices. Whatever the scenario, a man was missing; taken away in chains or in a casket. Now what was his name? Abârzadan pulled an old, dusty book out of a nearby drawer and paged through it, looking for a familiarity. The names flew by him as quickly as the pages, but nothing seemed to stick. Then, suddenly, something caught his eye.

Abârpânarú.

Was that it? Had he been the one mentioned by the two secretive men at the inn? Abârzadan wasn't sure; the conversation had been held in such low tones that nothing was certain. The man looked for the location of the residence, memorized it, and put the book away. Should he trust the hunch and investigate? While it was quite possible that everything he had just surmised was a complete load of hogwash, Abârzadan decided that he needed a break from the tiresome duties of paperwork as it was. If nothing else, he might be able to find out a bit more about Númenor; and that in itself would be worth the journey.

Without bothering to clean up his desk, Abârzadan left the study in its current state of disarray and hurried down the curving set of stairs outside the room. He pulled on a light coat, strapped on a pair of boots, and grabbed a short knife from the countertop. He then made for the door, but paused; surveying the symbol of the House of Batânzâira as he had done so many times before. The one thing the man wished more than anything was to bring pride back to his family's name, which had been diminished for many years. Perhaps this very trip will help you to reach that goal. With that final, optomistic thought, Abârzadan tucked the knife into his belt and left the house, locking the door behind him. One could never be to sure, these days.

__________________________________________________ __________________________________________________ ___


Abârzadan had reached the house. It was a fair distance from his own, but the man was far from tired; hours of endurance training had made him surprisingly immune to exhaustion. Looking around, he noticed a large set of stables; obviously, Abârpânarú was a lover of horses. Abârzadan walked quickly up the stone steps and took hold of the bronze knocker; pounding several times on the heavy wooden door. He waited, and it eventually opened, revealing a woman who had a distraught look in her tired eyes. "Who are you," she said curtly. Knowing that his unexpected arrival deserved such a remark, Abârzadan merely smiled and asked, "Is Abârpânarú Karíbzîr here? I would like to speak with him."

The woman's look darkened. "Abârpânarú is not here as this time. May I ask who you are, and why you are interested."

So, it was this man that was taken. Abârzadan scrambled for a reason to be at his house, and then remembered the stables. "My name is Abârzadan Batânzâira. I used to sell horses to Abârpânarú. Good business partner. Recently, I have heard rumors that something might have happened to him. I came here hoping to find that I had been misled...

The woman paused, and slowly her suspicious look faded. "Please, come inside, Abârzadan. My name is Inzillomí; Abârpânarú is my husband." Abârzadan followed her into the house, hoping that the mystery might finally be solved.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô waited as Inzillomí went to answer the door. Things did seem to be developing rather quickly since he had arrived. He was worried for her and hoped that the King’s men would do her no harm. He could not imagine what it must be like for her to leave her home and travel east while her husband lay bound in chains. His thoughts wandered to his own wife on the ship who eagerly awaited his return. If her life was in peril, he would do everything in his power to save her, no matter what the consequences. Azarmanô vowed that he would try his utmost to ensure the prisoner’s freedom and safety. He knew that the mission must not fail, if Abârpânarú was to survive the bloody blade of Sauron.

Inzillomí returned leading a strange man with shoulder length dirt colored hair and large blue eyes. Startled by the unexpected appearance of a newcomer, Azarmanô stood up, hastily straightening his lax frame. The Captain did not remember the man from any of his missions, nor could he remember him from any of the meetings of the Faithful. Although they hoped for men to go on the rescue mission, he personally did not feel comfortable asking a complete stranger, not with all the questions that he had. Who was the intruder, and why was he here? His ready explanation had come off his tongue too glibly.

The man’s hair looked greasy and ruffled, as if he had not combed it for days. He carried himself with a hint of arrogance, a trait that Azarmanô did not regard with fondness. Although suspicious of the stranger, he did not think it wise to do anything further now. This was not his house; it would not be proper for him to welcome the guest with a series of piercing questions. Lady Inzillomí, Azarmanô reasoned, must have trusted him enough to let him in. Still, this thought did not greatly ease his misgivings; the king’s agents lurked everywhere nowadays, and many were well disguised. For now, Azarmanô bowed politely toward the guest, slowly and deliberately, while reminding himself that his bow and knife were nearby if he needed them.

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion stood in the corner of the small room, with his eyes fixed on the newcomer. The man stood near the door, his large blue eyes darting side to side like wolf on the hunt.

He looked nervous, standing like that, gnawing on a misshapen bottom lip, but he had an air of arrogance surrounding him that Marsillion found disconcerting. That lip, Marsillion thought to himself. I have seen this man before. But where?

Marsillion had a great deal of trust and respect for Inzillomi, but he would not stand by while this potentially dangerous stranger stood unexplained in his family's home. He stepped forward into the light, in full view of the stranger for the first time. He stood as tall and wide as he could, intentionally showing his muscular frame to the slightly smaller man. In this moment Marsillion first noticed the youth written across this face. This man is no older than I, he thought, yet he is scarred as if from battle. What weapons might he be carrying now, I wonder. Marsillion felt the reassuring feel of cold metal on his lower calf. He could pull his ivory handled dagger from his boot in an instant, if need required it.

The stranger stared at Marsillion. The two pairs of improbably blue eyes locked. Marsillion thought he saw a glimmer of recognition in those eyes. Aye! We have met before, Marsillion assessed stepping forward. But this man is not a friend.

Having made the impression he had hoped for, Marsillion deemed it time for questions. “Stranger,” he spoke as deeply as he could, “what brings you here in this most perilous time?” Marsillion regretted those last words. I have given to much away already! I must be more careful.

“That is not the formal greeting I might have expected,” the stranger said in a flat, unconcerned tone. “I am Abarzadan, of the house of Batanzira. Perhaps you have heard of it?”

“I have,” Marsillion stated, trying his best to sound unimpressed. “There were many of that house in the east at one time,” said Marsillion, in an attempt to demonstrate that he was well schooled, as well as well built.

“There were,” Abarzadan restated. Marsillion caught the faint hint of nostalgia in his voice, the first hint of emotion he had given. “As for what brings me here, as I have already told the lady of the house, I came to investigate rumors that reached my ears these past days. Rumors telling of the capture of an old business partner, Abârpânarú Karíbzîr .”

Marsillion was not satisfied with the answer. “You say you know my uncle through business, do you,” his eyes again locked with those of the young man. Marsillion had a gift for reading eyes. He had developed it durring his time in Middle Earth. He had read the eyes of wizened old kings, he could certainly read Abarzadan's.

“I do indeed,” Abarzadan spoke abruptly. His face remained impassive, but as he spoke his eyes darted quickly from side to side. Too quickly. He is lying, or giving a half truth. “You dealt in horses with my uncle then,” Marsillion spoke softly, feigning understanding.

Abarzadan appeared to relax slighlty, “I did,” was his reply.

“Repeatedly I assume,” Marsillion said flatly, nailing Abarzadan down.

“More than once, yes.”

“Then I am sure you would recognize Abarpanaru's stable master, for he accompanies my uncle on all his business ventures,” Marsillion stated with growing volume. He wanted to make sure all in the room could hear him. “The man I speak of stands in this room now. Please identify him if you would.”

Marsillion's trap was set, but the outcome was still in question. Marsillion judge Abarzadan to be arrogant, and proud. If correct he had no doubt the man would overlook Tiru, and choose Captain Azarmano. Marsillion waited briefly while Abarzadan surveyed the two men.


Himaran's Post

"Please identify him if you would."

A cleverly laid trap. But I have not fallen into it just yet. Abarzadan smiled casually, and glanced around the room; trying his best not to show the inward fear circumventing his heart. Slow down! If he were to get out of this one, it would have to be by sheer luck - Abarzadan had never seen any of these people, let alone Abârpânarú himself. He decided to stall for time. "It was quite a few years back since the last trade we made - and people change over the years. Now let me see..." He kept looking, judging each guest individually.

There were several men and women standing or sitting around the room, carrying on personal coversations but secretly listening since Marsillion's loud outburst. Abarzadan used this to his advantage; as the words "stable master" left the accuser's lips, one man in the room shifted and turned his head. He was small, quite small, and of a wirey frame. Surely one such as Abârpânarú would not have had this undersized and unattractive man as his stable master; that position would require one of greater social stature. A field hand, maybe, but not one with authority. Perhaps, though, that was what Marsillion wanted him to think. The man was clever indeed.

Abarzadan's gaze then shifted to another man. This one, in comparision to the other, was tall and strong; with fair features. Surely this one would be more fitting for the role of a stable master than any in this room. He opened his mouth to give an answer in this effect and then stopped - what was he doing? Going against his first insticts, and using the belief system of his father to judge others (that only those of the right physical attributes could ever lead), would not win this battle of wits. The one that moved had to be the one discussed; it was that simple. Why can't you accept that?

Putting on the best face he could, Abarzadan chuckled openly, having made his decision. "A strange request, Marsillion, a strange one indeed. However, why keep you in suspense? The man you refer to is that one there, although his name escapes me. Perhaps now I can give you a riddle, just to keep things fair..." He waited for Marsillion's reaction. The man seemed to grimace, and than caught himself.

"That is he, Abarzadan - his name is Tiru. Come, we must now discuss this matter with the others, for time is short." As he moved off, however, Abarzadan caught a glimpse of lingering distrust in his eye. You're in deep now; and there is no going back...

[Meneltarmacil]

Having been briefed on where to go for more information, Thoronmir saddled his horse and rode off. He reached Abârpânarú’s house after a short time. Upon entering, he found that everyone appeared to be worried about a man who had just arrived.

Thoronmir recognized him as someone he'd seen before from time to time, although the only thing he knew was that the man did not support the king and was suspicious of most people.

“I wouldn't worry too much about this man. I don't know him that well, but I can tell you he's no friend of the King,” Thoronmir said.

“Council member Sakaladûn?” he asked, eyeing Thoronmir suspiciously. “I had always heard you were going to be executed. Is that really you?”

“I was lucky enough to have good connections elsewhere,” Thoronmir explained, though the other man still did not appear to trust him. “So what is going on here?” Thoronmir addressed everyone else, whom he mostly knew already. “I heard a little about the situation earlier, but I still don’t know exactly how everything happened.”

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Kâthaanî’s face burned at Ziraphel’s less than gentle rebuke. It was her father who had been captured by the King’s Men. And she had been there to witness it. She knew well her mother’s fear and her responsibility, and it shamed her to be thought ungrateful and childish. Yet she would never leave her father to the mercies of Sauron while she sailed to safety with Inzillomí’s kin.

As her thoughts slowed, she watched the men assembling in her mother’s sitting room. She kept in the background, letting Inzillomí and Marsillion do most of the talking, but she watched attentively as each of the men came in, all drawn by the news of her father’s capture. Here was Tiru, faithful Tiru, and a handsome blonde man who must be Azarmanô, the captain often sent by Elendil with tidings from Rómenna.

Next to enter was a stranger who gave his name as Abârzadan of the House of Batânzâira, who had traded horses with her father. Abârpânarú had bought and sold Karibi from many different men, so it was no surprise to Kâthaanî that she didn’t recognize this one. Marsillion’s reaction, however, surprised her greatly. Her tall cousin stiffened and his eyes narrowed.

Last to join the assembled crowd was Thoronmir. The lanky man was familiar to Kâthaanî, he had been a frequent presence in the Karíbzîr house for years; and as one who was sometimes with Elendil, Kâthaanî had always looked forward to his visits. She loved to hear him tell about her grandfather and her tall uncles Isildur and Anarion. Thoronmir also seemed surprised by the presence of Abârzadan, but he greeted him cordially if a little hesitantly and took a seat close to Ziraphel.

Gazing silently at the group, Kâthaanî realized that here were five able men; all of whom, despite the latent tension between them, seemed willing to act to save Abârpânarú. Drawing a deep breath, Kâthaanî stood.

“As my mother has said she will have no man bound to do what he would not freely do, I say this: I will ride to find my father, and I know that with me, my cousin Nimilroth will go. Any man who will ride with me I will have as companion.” She turned to her mother. “I know you would have me stay, mother. But were our places exchanged, you know that Abârpânarú would ride to rescue me. I can do no less.” The sound of astonished men shifting uncomfortably in their chairs filled the room. Marsillion stood and placed his hand on her shoulder. Kâthaanî closed her eyes and waited.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô balked in astonishment as he listened to Kâthaanî’s impassioned speech. No woman that he was aware of had ever pledged to take up arms before. Warfare simply was not a matter of concern to women. If it had been his daughter who yearned to fight, Azarmanô would have certainly forbid it. Such undertakings were too dangerous for a young and inexperienced maiden. The king’s men were seasoned veterans of war, trained to ruthlessly kill or capture those who opposed Sauron. The father had already been slammed into chains; the daughter must not be allowed to suffer the same fate. Inzillomí could not bear to lose both a husband and a daughter. No, one so unaccustomed to the techniques and cruelties of warfare must not be allowed to fight.

Yet something in Kâthaanî’s eyes, a fire blazing with determination, told a different tale. No, she might not know how to wield a deft sword, but her determination exceeded that of all the other men present. This ire burning inside of her shone through so clearly, that Azarmanô could not help but be impressed. Azarmanô could not imagine how it must feel to know that at this moment your loved one was rotting in a jail cell. If she had a chance to do something about this, to participate actively in the freeing of her father, would it not be cruel to deny her this? Would it not be a direct effrontery to her valor to scorn her efforts so? Azarmanô could infer from the way she spoke that she was indeed ready to risk her own life to save her father. He wondered whether her mother felt the same way.

Azarmanô chose his words carefully, for the matters of risking one's life and the well being of family members are complex in themselves and together confounding. He was acutely aware that he must not exacerbate the already stressful situation any further. The imprisonment of one family member was vexing enough.

He spoke slowly and with an air of distinguished importance, “Lady Kâthaanî, I consider your spirit in this situation valiant and commendable. I challenge not your resolve, for I know it is tenacious, nor your constitution, for I know it is strong, but only your judgment. You are not knowledgeable in the art of wielding the sword and know not the horrors of warfare. On this rescue, we will most certainly encounter the king’s men in combat. Are you certain that you wish to oppose them? If you choose to accept this task, you must show no mercy to our enemy, for neither Sauron nor the king shall show any to you. For my part, I have already stated that I will gladly join the rescue party. What say you?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomí watched the growing hostility with a calm eye. This must be settled... now rather than later. Just as she made to intervene, Kâthaanî spoke. As her daughter's will became unchangably clear, Inzillomí felt something inside of her disappear. Her eyes dimmed at the thought of losing husband and child. For a second that seemed an eternity, Inzillomí felt utterly hopeless. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Aule give me the strength of the land beneath me. Feeling her resolve returning, Inzillomí opened her eyes and ears to observe the captain question Kâthaanî. Inzillomí stepped forward, taking center stage, and spoke. All eyes turned to her.

"Friends of my House, we are gathered today under the worst of circumstances, and yet I rejoice to see you all. Elendil's ships sail when we reach Romenna. With luck, I could hold his departure for a day... perhaps two. Whoever leaves today must leave knowing this: you must ride lightly and swift. The least mistake could mean the lives of self and comrades. You must reach Romenna before me!" Inzillomí paused, looking around. "However, I would have you go not for thought of duty, but for love of Abârpânarú. Any now who wish not to go, leave now, but know that my love and understanding stays with you."

Kâthaanî looked in wonder at her mother. "You would not stay me?"

"To do so would be as trying to stay the River with a sieve. Your wrath is strong, your will stronger, and your love surpasses all. I would rather you ride having my blessing than ride, perhaps die, thinking you did not. My dearest, I only wish I could ride beside you."

The men looked in wonder at the brief exchange, wondering what the next word would be.

"Think, Men of the West. Think of your lives and your loves, and choose your fate." Marsillion stepped forward. "My sister-son, you go with my love. I will be most disappointed if you come back dead." He smiled, kissing Inzillomí's cheek. Azarmanô stepped forward. "Beloved captain, your wife and son are blessed. I thank you." He bowed, eyes never leaving his leader.

Abarzadan hesitated, thinking swiftly. Eyes on him, he stepped forward. "M'lady, I too shall ride."

"Friend," she spoke. "I do not know you, yet now you have my love. If Thoronmir will vouch for you once more, you shall go with my good will upon you." Thoronmir nodded, speaking.

"I speak for him. I shall ride beside him, if it please you. I have much to learn."

Inzillomí nodded, smiling. "Tiru, am I correct in assuming that you would trot behind on your own legs, should I deny you a mount?" He nodded, sheepish. "Then, my friend, you shall complete the party. Please look after my daughter, and the kariborim." Eyes widened all around. Chances of success multiplied with the kariborim factored in.

"My friends, may Manwe bless you with the speed of his winds. Ride now. Ride swiftly, and save my husband!"

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

As pounding hoofbeats faded into the distance, Inzillomí fell into the arms of Ziraphel, sobbing. Holding her sister, Ziraphel cried as well. They both had so very much to lose.

[littlemanpoet]

"Up with you!"

Abârpânarú blinked his eyes open, rudely interrupted in the middle of a good dream in which he was with dear Inzillomí. It was dark and it stank. He coughed.

"What is the time?"

"The time no longer matters to you, for your life is over. Up!"

Abârpânarú clenched his teeth. He was fully awake now, angered. The insolence coming from this prison guard set him on edge. The quavering in his voice betrayed his words as mere braggadocio in one who had nothing to be proud of: an obsequious fool full of ambition, no doubt.

He placed his fists on the cold stone and pushed himself to his feet, and stood straight, standing a half a racca taller than the gaurd.

"Unlock him!" ordered the querrulous one. "And bring him out."

Once the two guards had unlocked his chains from the wall, the querrulous leader turned and began walking down the corridor, apparently expecting to be followed.

"'Tis a few hours before dawn, lord," murmured the guard holding his left arm. The other one shushed him.

Abârpânarú nodded. "Lead on."

They passed through a maze of dimly lit corridors until Abârpânarú had lost all sense of direction. At last he was brought up a long flight of stairs. When it leveled off, they entered a large drafty hall. Abârpânarú raised his chained hands to his squinting eyes against the brightness.

The querrulous one spoke. "We have brought the traitor, my lord."

"Accused traitor, fool. But never fear, the accusations shall be proven soon enough. Bring him before the seat of the high priest!"

The two guards pushed him not ungently forward, and he walked to the center of the hall, before the high priest's seat; a throne it was, really, though empty. His eyes adjusted to the brightness, which as it turned out, was not so bright; many torches in many sconces, brighter than his cell and the corridors below, but dim compared to how home was lit. Home. He could never return there, even if he somehow escaped, for they must leave the island. Abârpânarú's throat tightened. He raised his chin and looked forward as impassively as he could.

The high priest sat in the throne, regarding him. Abârpânarú blinked. Had he fallen asleep? Or was this some sorcery?

"Bring him forward to me," said the ice cold, coiled voice of the high priest in slow, slow tones. Abârpânarú looked into the high priest's eyes. They were dark and snakelike in their steady malice. The high priest leaned forward, watching him with naked hunger. "One of the Faithful, are you?" the high priest sneared.

Abârpânarú did not turn his eyes away from the high priest. "Are you leveling an accusation against me, Lord Sauron?"

Sauron's eyes narrowed. "Do not bandy with me. You are doomed. Unless you foreswear the star lovers, and those supposed godlings they bleat to in the west, with their needy love. Foreswear them and live! And maybe then I will let you serve me."

Abârpânarú knew the choice. Serve Sauron and become one of his evil henchmen, learning and wielding all the sorceric power he offered ... or die. But to become a servant of Sauron was death, a worse death than to die a sacrifice on his blasphemous altar. Abârpânarú cleared his throat.

"I am thirsty. May I have a drink?"

"I would hear the eloquence of Abârpânarú Karibzir." The high priest made his name sound like an insult; but he waved an arm, gesturing that his request should be fulfilled. A pitcher was brought and lifted to his lips, and poured in the general direction of his mouth, most of it pouring down his neck and shoulders, running down his chest. But his thirst was slaked.

"Speak, oh grandiloquent of the Faithful," the high priest jibed.

"Now that my name has been sullied by the lips of this blasphemer who sits before me, I shall never use it again. From now on I am Mabalar Melethroch, and all my kin and kind shall be known in the same speech. That is my answer."

The querrulous guard rounded on him and landed his fist on his face, knocking him out of the two guards' hands, sprawling on the cold stone floor. He was lifted to his feet by no visible force. He looked up. Sauron's hand was raised toward him, closing around open air. Mabalar felt his throat being squeezed.

"You have condemned yourself, fool. You shall die. Add him to the list!"

The throne went dark and was lost to sight. It was as if all the malevolence in the room had suddenly evaporated. Sauron had left.

Just then, Mabalar noticed a velvet curtain close off to the right. He had not noticed that it was open, but its closing made him realize that it had been.

As he was hustled unceremoniously back to his cell, he wondered who had been standing there.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

A dark line of horsemen wound through the green-brown fields of the Andustar. The Kariborim, only half rested and lightly laden, moved at a moderate pace through the fields, far from the sight of any curious eyes. Their riders seemed unnaturally sober, barely speaking to one another as they rode.

As she left her home further behind, Kâthaanî's head spun. It seemed she had made this identical journey only minutes ago, although it had been more than a week. Her mother's sudden acceptance of her intent to ride with the men shamed her. She had expected to be elated, had imagined herself as a bold leader in the journey. Now, with Azarmanô's unanswered challenge repeating itself in her mind, she didn't know what she could bring to such a quest.

She had imagined herself as the expert on the care of the Kariborim; but she was not needed for that, either Tiru or Nimilroth could easily handle any emergencies on that front. She had imagined herself as the leader who alone knew the site and manner of her father's capture; but there was no need for a leader in this group either. Nimilroth, stone faced, rode near the front with only Thoronmir ahead of him. There was no need for the leadership of a young girl here.

What was her purpose on this journey?

I challenge not your resolve, for I know it is tenacious, nor your constitution, for I know it is strong, but only your judgment. You are not knowledgeable in the art of wielding the sword and know not the horrors of warfare. On this rescue, we will most certainly encounter the king’s men in combat. Are you certain that you wish to oppose them?

Kâthaanî rode silently at the end of the line, twisting her fingers in Ruki's mane, knowing she wished to oppose the King's men, but wondering how she could do so and why she'd come.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Fragmented thoughts chased themselves through Inzillomì's concentration as she cried into Ziraphel's shoulder. If they should die... what would I do if they should die? As if reading her mind, Ziraphel stroked her long hair, murmering soothing words into her ear. My darling Abârpânarú, alone... he will believe there is no hope... he will believe they will not come... he will believe I ordered them not to. She sobbed harder, cradled in the arms of her husband's sister. It was too much for her. She had always had Abârpânarú to share the burden of leadership with. Now, she felt that burden and could not pretend not to. She opened her eyes, drawing away from Ziraphel. The letter! Quick as lightening, Inzillomì had written her daughter a short letter, tucking it into Cerveth's bag. Her usually thin and graceful script was choppy and perhaps difficult to read. She only hoped that her daughter would find it. She heard her own words reverberating through her head as her tears slowed.

My Cerveth, they have experience,

and they have will, but only you have

the passion. Only you, dearest, have

the love of a daughter. Be brave,

little one, and I will see you again.

Composing herself slowly, Inzillomì looked wryly at Ziraphel.

"Well," she said. "If we are to have such noble visitors come dawn, we had better get to packing." She wiped her eyes softly. "What think you, sister, of their quest for speed? I think, perhaps, that our charming escort should learn some patience."

Seeing Inzillomì's thoughts, Ziraphel set off to her chambers with a small laugh, to perform a last check of her belongings. Tucked to her body by her sash, Inzillomì could feel a small vial. She smiled, thinking of what fun it would be to see her guards forget orders. With a gleam in her eye, she thought of ways to bide time. She must give the rescuers time. With a satisfied grin, she walked to her garden to pick the last of her herbs. Surely they would not deny a disgraced woman cuttings from her gardens? She smiled once more.

[TomBrady12]

Step by step, Marsillion could feel himself draw closer. Closer to Armenelos, the shining capital of the West. Closer to Abârpânarú, his strong minded uncle, the lover of horses. Closer to the seat of the King, the man responsible for the deaths of so many. Closer to the final betrayal. Irreversible and immense. Treason. Traitor. Permanent seperation from my homeland. From my people .

Not my people , his inner voice reminded him. My people are here with me. My people wait in Romenna, and in a dank cell in Armenelos. It's values that make men brothers, not blood. Tiru is my brother. Tiru is my blood . Such were the thoughts of Marsillion as the rescue party worked steadily into the east.

A crow called, it's loud, eerie caw stealing Marsillion's thoughts, and bringing his mind back into the present. Ahead rode Thoronmir, behind the rest of the companions. Marsillion checked Mani to a halt, the first instructions he had given her since they set out. Azarmanô cantered past, followed by Abârzadan. Marsillion waited for these two to pass before joining Tiru and Kâthaanî at the rear of the party.

Marsillion rode quietly alongside Tiru for a time, casting a look of distrust on the young man riding a few paces ahead. “Tell me Tiru,” he whispered, leaning close to his friend, “why a man, whom none of Abârpânarú's closest confidants profess to know, would be willing to throw his young life away for a man and a cause he knoweth not?”

“That I do not know,” Tiru responded earnestly. “Some men of that age seek glory, do they not?”

“Aye, they do indeed. But this man is not a member of the Annanost. Nor a member of the Faithful at all. For such a man, there would be no greater adventure then sailing defiantly into the West. Loyalty to the King brings great adventure in these days. The King and his dark priest have infiltrated our group before, taking first my father, and now my uncle. And there were others Tiru, do you remember the others? Fair, Adunîbal, and his beautiful wife Izrebâth. There was Sulumazad, Tiru, do you remember noble Sulumazad?

“I do, of course,” Tiru responded with sad eyes. “Brave and strong the lot of them.”

“Aye, they were. The King took them all, and could yet take us. Whether Abârzadan dealt horses with Abarpanaru I know not. But the man is dangerous, Tiru. A danger to us all. Whether a spy of the dark one, or a seeker of glory he is dangerous, and he is a liar.”

“Perhaps yes,” Tiru conceded, swatting a fly from his mount's glossy neck, “but this mission is a danger to us all with or without him.”

“Indeed,” Marsillion spoke, his voice changed from a whisper to a normal conversational tone. “Let us be vigilant brother. We shall do our best and trust the Valar to aid us. Let us flush these dark thoughts from our minds. Tell me my friend, will you seek your former people when we arrive safely in Middle Earth?”

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô, seated high atop his horse, a white mare whose name he did not even know, cantered past Marsillion and behind Abârzadan, the strange one. He had not gathered any more information about the strange man than he had known back in Inzillomì's house, nor had he a great desire to. If Inzillomì trusts him with rescuing her husband from prison then he must be reliable enough. And yet a pit of caution lay deep in Azarmanô's stomach. There seemed to be something mysterious about the stranger, even ominous. Why had no one recognized him? Mysterious horse breeders did not inspire Azarmanô with confidence.

Yet he did not have time or energy to contemplate deeply his ambivalence toward the man. Azarmanô was more concerned with rescuing Abârpânarú and safely reaching Rómenna with the party intact, which was no light task with the king's men on the hunt for Faithful. The journey was not a pleasent one, nor one Azarmanô had wanted to make, especially with his family waiting for him at the harbor, but honor and duty compelled him to undertake the task with sincerity. He owed this much to the leader of his group, those who had shared his hope that somehow, someway, Amandil would return and bring the help of the Valar. Now, when that hope was gone and the only option left to them was to flee Númenor, the bond that Azarmanô shared with the group was not diminished, but strengthened. He must assist his companions in any way tht he could, especially in so dire a situation. They must not tarry or lag for any reason, but proceed with alacrity toward Rómenna. There was no time, no time for Elendil's ships to tarry and no time left for Abârpânarú, not with the moment of sacrifice drawing nearer and nearer.

He held back steed to ride beside Kâthaanî who sat deep in thought on top of her mare. Azarmanô wondered where her thoughts wandered, whether to her beloved father in chains or to the words of caution that he had given her regarding the hardships of battle. Turning toward the woman, he spoke,"Lady Kâthaanî , have you thought more of my warning? Are you certain you are ready to face the king's seasoned troops in combat? It is not too late to return home. If you wish, you may journey straight to Rómenna. I would offer to lead you, but I fear my bow cannot be spared. It is better to go now then to be killed by the hand of the enemy. I do not question your valor, but worry only for your safety."

[littlemanpoet]

Inzillomi had shown them maps of Númenór before they had left. The main road led due east to Ondosto, just within the borders of Forostar, from where it tended southwestwards toward Mount Meneltarma and Armenelos. Kâthaanî and Abârpânarú had left the road at Ondosto and headed northeastwards, as far away from Armenelos as they could travel safely with the Kariborim. Neither way would be open to them this time. They must needs stay away from Ondosto, and off the main road between that town and Armenelos, for fear of being caught by the King's Men. On the other hand, Armenelos was their destination. The only way was to pass north of Meneltarma, through fields and hedgeways and forests, as much out of sight of roads and tollways as possible. Then they would have to make a circle around Meneltarma until they were within sight of Armenelos. Sauron's foul Temple to Melkor would be the first indication they would see. At that point they would have to decide what to do with the Kariborim, as well as the precious item that Kâthaanî carried, unbeknownst to all but Inzillomi. It was indeed the greatest reason why Kâthaanî had to be part of the rescue party, for the eyes of the King's Men would be upon Inzillomi and the Faithful she traveled with over the main roads to Rómenna.

These things were on the mind of Kâthaanî when Azarmanô asked his question. Kâthaanî was about to answer when not twenty furlongs ahead of them, a dozen mounted King's Men appeared before them from both sides of the road, closing off the way ahead of them, just a league shy of Ondosto.

"Halt! And make an accounting of yourselves to the King's Men!" cried one of them. "Who are you and why do you travel? Who is the leader among you?"

[Himaran]

Abarzadan could almost feel the shock run through the party. They had expected an easy journey, followed by hardship; but not this! Not the terror of being captured before they were close enough to do some good. At this point, they were just throwing their lives away. No one spoke. Something had to be done immediately, and the man decided to take action. If he failed, they were dead - if he succeeded, perhaps he could finally gain their trust. He eased his horse to the front of the group, and addressed the captain with eloquence and tact.

"Hail the King's men! My lord, we too serve your master loyally. One amongst our party is a prisoner, who commited crimes against the King. He has been entrusted to us to transport to his Majesty, to be tried and consequently... punished." The captain of the riders brooded for a moment. "Why were none of our scouts told to expect you?"

The man thought hard again. His answer had to be perfect. "My lord, our journey was supposed to be one of secrecy. We were, of course, told that all the appropriate authorities had been informed of our coming. Perhaps the messenger made a mistake and missed you."

"State your names, then." The captain's stare was one of cold steel.

Abarzadan wasn't sure whether or not to lie about this particular issue, but as no one else stepped in, he merely told the truth. "My name is Abarzadan; I am the leader of this patrol." The man went on and listed the other members, including the alleged 'prisoner.'

The forthcoming answer from the captain was less confrontational this time. "Ah... well, we are returning to the great city tonight as it is. Since there are other patrols like us out there, we shall ride with you so that your passage shall not be further molested." He watched Abarzadan's eyes, but they remained impassive.

"We would not want to interfere with your business; there are other criminals out there that need catching. Besides, there are those among of that are well trained. We can take care of ourselves." He glanced around, smiling casually, but then noticed something rather disturbing.

Thoronmir was gone.

[littlemanpoet]

Though yet a league west of Ondosto, the area where the King's Men confronted the party was not unpopulated. On each side of the road were manorial vineyards, owned by families with heritage as lengthy as the years since Elros. The confrontation has caught the attention of field hands that had been working within hailing distance, and these had now drawn near the road, watching curiously.

One of them pointed at a figure moving amongst the vines on his own side. He called to the group. "Is this your prisoner, sneaking off?"

The leader of the King's Men heard him and called for his men to move up and surround the party.

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion sat like stone upon Mani. He listened with contained disgust as Abârzadan concocted a far flung accounting of the company's business. Fool, Marsillion thought to himself. He was about to kick Mani to the front and intercede when he saw a sight that froze his blood. Thoronmir had slid from his mount and was moving stealthily around behind the patrol. Folly! Screamed Marsillion's inner thoughts at the sight of the former statesmen crawling hand and foot through the tangled vines.

By this time a crowed had gathered, finding the commotion a much needed break from a mundane morning's work. If the fellowship were to attack now they would surely throw away any opportunity of freeing Abârpânarú , or even reaching Armenelos. If they could even survive the initial combat.

Seeing the situation spiraling quickly out of control, Marsillion nudged Mani forward, while keeping a careful eye on Thoronmir. Just before reaching the spot where Abârzadan and the patrol leader were talking the unavoidable happened. Thoronmir was discovered. Spears were lowered and the party was enclosed. The situation had grown deadly.

“Who is this insolent buccaneer hindering my progress!” Marsillion boomed, as he kicked Mani directly at the leader of the king's men, sending his inferior horse backpedaling foolishly in fear. “Is there a commander among this rabble of poverty?” Marsillion sneered, spitting in the direction of the known commander.

“I command this patrol, as I've already informed your counterpart,” was the reply. The words were spoken loudly, but Marsillion noticed a slight hesitation in the delivery. The arrogance was gone from the tone, replaced instead by confusion.

“Counterpart!” Marsillion roared with all his being. “I'll inform you to spare you any further embarrassment, that you have directed your inquiry to a slave. Is that your normal practice?” Before the man had a chance to respond, Marsillion began again, this time mockingly quiet. “I suppose I should expect no more from the dregs of our King's army.” Growing louder now, so the gathered throng could hear, “everyone knows every soldier worth that title is sailing now with the King toward another great, nay the greatest, victory man has yet seen!”

Mani snorted, sending the small shaggy horse, now a few paces away, into a panic, nearly throwing the commander to the ground. By the time he had regained control of the scruffy animal, his face had gone from an enraged red to an embarrassed crimson. When he had gathered himself, the commander questioned, “who are you, who insults a soldier of the king? Why is it that your man here tells a far different story then you?”

Marsillion sent the commander such a glare that he had to turn away from those piercing blue eyes. “My man?” Marsillion questioned softly, those dangerous eyes still at work. “This is my slave, you dimwitted fool,” Marsillion cried, roaring again as he grabbed Abârzadan's stout jaw in one powerful hand and jerked his head around toward those eyes. “What story did you spin this time, you miserable leech?”

Marsillion sat, clutching Abârzadan by the jaw, as the stunned man attempted to spit out his previous story through Marsillion's strong grip. Upon it's completion, Marsillion spit squarely in the young man's face, a gesture he regretted having to perform, and would need to apologize for later. Releasing Abârzadan, Marsillion turned Mani, and rode up along side Azarmanô , who sat erect, a look of understanding on his salt weathered face. “Why did you not see fit to keep this lying brigand under control? Do I pay you a charitable fee, or do I pay you to tend my slaves?” Marsillion asked condescendingly.

“The latter,” Azarmanô confessed shamefully. “I am most sorry, my Lord, may I serve you better in the future.”

“If you do not serve me better you will have no future!” Marsillion barked as he turned Mani back toward the King's Men.

“Do you truly expect me to believe this man is your slave,” the soldier asked, pointing sheepishly toward Abârzadan. "His dress is more fitting of a king.”

Marsillion boiled over with laughter, some of which was authentic. “Have you seen many kings? I am the Lord of Andunië , and I am the closest you will ever be to royalty,” Marsillion shouted for all to hear. “I see you gaze at my mount, as well you should. This horse is worth more then the homes of your ancestors as far back as memory reaches. The cape on my back is finer than all the riches you will ever posses. Tell me, why should I not dress my slaves in any attire I deem reasonable? Clear this path, business presses, and the hounds need not tarry speaking to the fleas.”

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô froze as he saw the king’s soldiers appear and block their path. A confrontation with them meant certain imprisonment and probable death. Abârpânarú would be taken to the altar and offered as a sacrifice. Azarmano watched in apprehension as the stranger explained that he was the leader of the group, which was on a secret mission to deliver a prisoner. Oh, we shall deliver a prisoner indeed---out of Sauron’s jail. Thankfully, the captain seemed to accept the validity of their alibi.

Suddenly Azarmanô noticed that Thoronmir was missing. Before he could even speculate where he had gone, the troops discovered him in a dense patch of vines. The soldiers drew their spears and pointed them menacingly at the Faithful. They encircled the party completely, leaving no escape. The apprehension that Azarmano had experienced before turned to terror: he believed death was imminent. His heart beat still heavier in his chest, his breathing quickened, and he stood still as a stone, waiting.

He was reflecting upon his family, who were waiting for him in Rómenna, when Marsillion broke the tension with a commanding exclamation. “Who is this insolent buccaneer hindering my progress!” Azarmanô instinctively understood that if any of the party hoped to live, they had better follow Marsillion’s lead. Azarmanô flashed several reverent glances towards Marsillion as he proceeded to chastise Abarzaban for his insolence. Every now and then he interjected a glowing “Oh yes, master". Azarmanô imagined that he would be able to badger his “master” about the whole ordeal sometime later. He had partially emulated this manner of servitude from the comportment of his own men when they moved about in his presence on shipboard. He found the whole situation quite distasteful, but put up such a façade gladly if it meant saving his life and his companion's as well.

Azarmanô was taken aback when Marsillion turned an eye of admonition in his direction, “Why did you not see fit to keep this lying brigand under control? Do I pay you a charitable fee, or do I pay you to tend my slaves?” Marsillion quipped condescendingly.

“The latter,” Azarmanô confessed shamefully. “I am most sorry, my Lord, may I serve you better in the future.”

Don’t count on it, he thought. But in his face a look of painful embarrassment told a different tale, one of disgrace and dishonor. After all, he was addressing the Lord of Andunië. Azarmanô hoped that this charade would be credible enough to satisfy the prying examination of the guards. For the sake of the party’s survival, it had better be.

[littlemanpoet]

The leader of the King's Men bowed his head. "Forgive us, lord. In these dire times appearances may deceive. We have done our duty." He turned to his men and cried, "Lower your weapons! Let them pass!"

As the company filed between the King's Men, who watched them from either side, the sky filled with clouds in a matter of moments, and congealed above them, as if very heaven turned in upon itself.

Lightning struck the ground with a crash in the very spot where they had been confronted. The vineyard workers fled from the road, and the mounts of the King's Men careered, carrying their riders far afield. The eyes of the Kariborim were wide with fear, and their ears were laid back against their manes; but they did not lose the mastery of themselves as did those lessers.

The company passed into the fields north of Ondosto, and stayed away from that town, and off of the road. By nightfall they had gone well east of the town and settled in a camp without fire, far in a back field of a great manor owned by who they knew not. They discussed the watch for the night.

[littlemanpoet]

The rattle of a key in the lock of his cage woke Mabalar. He felt at his throat, swallowing again and again. He could still feel the hands of Sauron around his neck; it was as if those evil hands would always choke him, scald his neck. It was hard to breathe.

"Shhh!" whispered the guard; he recognized him. It was the one who had earlier told him the time, only to be shushed by the other guard.

"It is midnight, my lord," whispered the guard. "Sauron is in his temple offering sacrifice to his evil god, so we are somewhat safe."

"Would you help me to-" His voice came out ragged, as if forced across sandpaper; it hurt to speak.

"No, my lord, I have not the means. But there is someone who would speak with you. I shall leave you now."

Someone who would speak with him. Who? Someone who desired secrecy. He thought of the curtains that had moved with the presence of someone who had watched his mock trial. The cell door stood ajar. He would try to get away this instant, except that he was still chained to the wall by both hands and feet. Even if he was not bound, he considered, it would be foolish to try to escape. If the young man had not the means, knowing the lay of the prison, what hope had he?

A tall, hooded figure approached his cell, its dark robes flowing as if hovering on a cushion of air. The figure held a thick candle before it in unseen hands. As the figure passed through the open cell door, Mabalar could see that it was someone of noble bearing, very tall, taller than most Númenórean men; and that it was a woman: no man walked with such grace.

"I greet thee, Mabalar Melethroch." Her voice was as silk, deep and rich. She knew his name, and used the speech of the Eldar!

"I am sorry, milady," he said in a gravelly tone, "you have me at a disadvantage."

"More than one," she said, and drew back her hood. She was indeed fairer than silver or ivory or pearls, as had been said by those who had seen her. She looked at him with cool eyes and a face of patient sorrow.

"Tar Miriel!" His throat hurt, but he could not hold back his words in his surprise.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Kâthaanî twisted uncomfortably where she lay in the thick grass of the field. Distant stars shone intermittently above her as the night winds drove waves of thick cloud toward the capital. It was late, and her watch had passed, but still she could not sleep. Travelling was nothing new to her, but sleeping in the cold on the ground was something she had done only rarely and had never enjoyed. Her one thin blanket was spread on the ground, and she pulled her dark blue cloak closer around her for warmth.

The lightning that had driven the King's men away in terror had left Kâthaanî unnerved as well. She shivered, wondering again why she had come on this journey. She had been useless in the confrontation, hoping only to pass unseen or to be taken as a family member and left alone. She had no skills to offer this group, only the desire to see her father again and to help him safely reach Rómenna and her grandfather's ships. She thought again of the lightning, perhaps she should have stayed with Inzillomí and Ziraphel.

She glanced in the direction where she knew the blue shadow of the Meneltarma would be if it were daylight. The gods were angry in the West, that was why the Elves stopped coming out of Tol Eressëa; her father had told her, now she had seen for herself. The black clouds and the angry hail, these were the signs that their defiance had not gone unnoticed. Their defiance, not mine, she corrected herself silently. Soon we will be gone from this place, and we will begin again. Without their defiance.

As though seeking comfort she reached one hand into her nearby saddlebag to skim her finger lightly across the surface of her mother's palantir. She traced the smooth surface, thinking of the home she would never see again and her family. She sighed heavily.

"Wakeful, Little Mistress?" The voice behind her startled Kâthaanî and she sat up quickly, yanking her hand from the saddlebag. A sharp pain in her finger made her cry out softly and Tiru dropped to his knees beside her, the look of concern on his dark face visible even in the dim starlight.

"It is nothing, you startled me," she reassured him. She put her stinging finger in her mouth and tasted the salt of blood.

"It has been a long day," Tiru replied, "and not one that lets me rest easy, either. But you will need your sleep, Little Mistress, tomorrow will be hard day of travel, and there may be many days like it. Do not worry, we are watching." Kâthaanî nodded and lay back down, her bleeding finger still in her mouth.

As soon as Tiru was gone, Kâthaanî thrust her hand back into the saddlebag in search of whatever had cut her finger. She pulled out a small piece of folded paper, wrinkled where tears had fallen on it. Even in the muted starlight she could tell the handwriting was her mother's. She strained to read the hastily written words:

My Cerveth, they have experience,
and they have will, but only you have
the passion. Only you, dearest, have
the love of a daughter. Be brave,
little one, and I will see you again.

Crushing the note in one hand, Kâthaanî rolled over and began to sob softly into her blanket. She cried until she slept.

[littlemanpoet]

Tar Miriel stood before Mabalar in regal splendour; her face glowed eerily in the light of the candle she held before her.

"It has been long, Mabalar Melethroch," she said evenly, looking down at him with eyes that did not give away her thought.

He nodded and coughed to clear his throat of the lasting pain of Sauron's grip, in vain. "To ....what," he labored, "do I owe ... this honour?"

"Time grows short, Mabalar," she replied.

"Do I not ... know it?" he grated. "My life ... is forfeit."

She shook her head. "I spoke of Númenor."

"Aye," he nodded. "Ar Pharazôn is ... a fool-" he coughed. "Doubly, for his ... vain challenge .... of the gods as ..... well as pandering .... to Sauron." He succumbed to a fit of coughing.

"Târik! Bring him water."

The young guard who had unlocked the door came forward with a pitcher and poured a little into Mabalar's mouth. The guard stood, waiting for the Queen's next order.

"My thanks," Mabalar whispered after few cooling, soothing swallows. His throat still hurt in the two places where Sauron had invisibly pinned him, but he could swallow again, and his voice was less roughened.

"Mabalar," Tar Miriel said, "I think that of the two of us, you shall live the longer."

He frowned. "What mean you? You will not take your life!"

"Nay," she shook her head. "'Tis a foresight. I do not think you will succumb to the machinations of Sauron. Do you not have hidden friends in this city?"

"Maybe. What of it?"

"Ah, Mabalar, you trust me no longer." Her tone held amusement, but hurt lingered in it as well.

"You are the wife of Ar Pharazón."

"Not by choice, as you well know."

"Well I know it."

"Târik, unlock his chains and leave us."

"Milady, I-"

"Do as I say." Her tone was mild but held command that brooked no objection or disobedience; nor hesitation. Târik unlocked Mabalar's chains. "And leave the pitcher there." Târik left. Mabalar rubbed his wrists and ankles.

"'Tis dangerous to remove my chains, my Queen."

"Stand, Mabalar."

He looked up at her, measuringly. "You are my queen." He stood; he was no more than two inches taller than she.

"You have changed little, Mabalar." Her voice was soft; and carried upon it the hint of something wished for.

"Nor have you, except for the despair I see in your face ... Miriel."

"Would that you had challenged him, Mabalar!"

"You know that I would have died at the hands of that overwheening wretch."

She nodded. "I often dream of what might have been. You know that you would have been my consort, Mabalar!"

He sighed. Never so tragic a figure had he ever seen. Her life was ashes.

"You live in the past, Miriel, and little do I blame you, for it is not of your doing. I have a beloved wife and daughter now, and we shall flee this land if ever I get free."

She looked closely into his eyes, saying nothing for long moments. At length, she spoke; in a deadened tone.

"You must escape. There is something I must give you. I will give it to you when you assure me that you have the means."

"How can I assure you?"

"Make plans. If and when those plans are ready, send word through Târik, and I will come with my gift."

"Can he be trusted?"

"He chafes to leave this land, and would with you, if you would have him."

"If he proves true, and both of us come through alive, I will have him."

"Fare well then. Târik!"

She left him. Târik gave him another drink, then locked him in his chains, and closed him in his cell again. Mabalar thought long into the night before sleep took him.

[Meneltarmacil]

Standing watch for the night, Thoronmir thought about what had occured earlier. They had managed to bluff their way past the King's Men this time, but they may not be so lucky again later. They had vaguely recognized him, Thoronmir knew, and the only thing that had saved them was the fact that they hadn't put all the pieces together yet. Sooner or later, they were going to be discovered.

He gazed at the lights of Ondosto off to the south, wondering if the people there had any idea of the catastrophe about to befall them. Numenor was great once, Thoronmir thought, but pride and ambition have corrupted the minds of many of the kings and is going to destroy Numenor, probably for good. If we could just be grateful for what we have instead of continually trying to grab for more power and wealth, this world would probably be a better place. I hope we can learn from our mistakes this time.

Thoronmir sighed and continued to watch for danger.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô twisted on his pillow, unable to sleep. Doubts flooded into his mind stemming from the group’s perilous encounter earlier that day. They were able to escape the king’s wrath once, but would they be able to do so again? And how would they rescue Abârpânarú form his cell and transport him to Rómenna? Azarmanô’s close encounter with death brought these haunting questions to the front of his mind. What real chance did a small band of faithful have of rescuing a prisoner form Sauron’s iron grasp? Yet he knew he could not permit himself to think that way. They must complete their mission and they must do so quickly. He only hoped that the next encounter with the king’s men, inevitable though it might be, would go as smoothly as the first. Yet somehow, Azarmanô felt that he would need to brandish his bow before their journey was done.

Azarmanô reviewed the events that had transpired that afternoon carefully in his mind. The party surely would have been slain if it had not been for the quick thinking of Marsillion. Abarzadan seemed to have placated the men by telling them that he was the leader of a group delivering a prisoner to the dungeon when Thoronmir, the fool, had tried to sneak up on them from behind. He must have thought himself incredibly clever until the troops had discovered his presence and the situation turned fatal. Perhaps it was better that he was discovered, for had he been successful in launching an attack of some sort, the party would all surely have been killed. Now if only I had thought of appointing myself Lord of Andunië first, Azarmanô thought whimsically. Azarmanô had planned to pester his “master” and apologize mockingly for failing to “keep the lying brigand under control.” But, instead, he felt as though he owed it on his honor to thank Marsillion. He did not know much about any of the men, but perhaps he would take the time to make closer acquaintance with Marsillion, since he held him in such high esteem.

It was late, but Azarmanô wanted to talk to Marsillion now and not wait till the morning. The matter pressed inside of him, and he did not want to forget about it or become preoccupied with something else. He rose from his tent and traveled the short distance to that of Marsillion. Azarmanô feared that he had already turned into his tent for the night, but, seeing a light inside, lifted the flap and peered in.

“Marsillion,” he began “I come to offer deep gratitude for saving our lives. I commend you for your quick thinking and superb acting skills, although I think that I did a fine job as your incompetent servant. Do you think I was reverent enough? In any case, thank you. I hope that someday I can return the favor. Do you have any idea what Thoronmir was planning? He almost got us killed.” He stood in the door of the tent and waited for a response.

[Himaran]

A cool wind whistled across the campsite, but it was not enough to cool Abarzadan's heated temper. He had not spoken a word to anyone in the party the rest of the entire day. The man had even considered deserting, and striking out on his own; why was he out here anyway, risking life and limb to save one of the lower classes whom he had never even known. The anger in his heart slowly melted as he lay there in the uncomfortable saddle-bag - it was far too rough, and was not properly stuffed - but it was turning into something else, just as destructive: bitterness. What had Marsillion been thinking? Abarzadan's story had been far more believable, after all; just not quite as animated. The King's men were not preparing to slaughter them all, and yet the little hero had felt it necessary to not only save the day, but humiliate another party member in the process. It was amazing that the King's Captain had so willingly swallowed his tale, in direct contradiction to the previous one. Furthermore, Marsillion had yet to apologize for spitting in his face; an act that, under any circumstances, Abarzadan felt worthy of the harshest retribution.

The wind was interrupted, after a while, by the sound of muffled voices. Curious, Abarzadan slid out of his bag. Peering outside, he saw Azarmanô holding up the flap of Marsillion's tent and speaking rather quickly. Straining his ears, the man could pick up most of the words; as expected, Azarmanô was heaping lavish and almost servant-like praise on his 'master.' "Do you have any idea what Thoronmir was planning?" Master and servant, eh? No, Thoronmir's acts remain a mystery, but I would prefer to be tortured by the King's men than ever so much as speak to either of you again.

And he meant it.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomì looked sadly about her stable yard, taking in the sight of her companions in the mid-morning light... and of all of their sizable load of personal items. She smiled at the thought of mischief to come. Her brothers remembered fondly her childhood tricks... Inzillomì had never lost her spirit.

She rode a placid gelding today, his finely kept tack gleaming in the morning sun. His sable coat shone as brightly as his mistress's flowing locks. She looked to her companions, meeting Ziraphel's eyes with an inconspicuous nod.

"No!" she called, riding over to the stable hands that were loading the last of her heavy trunks into one of the wagons. "Put that beside the other, not on top, you fool. If my belongings are damaged before this trip even begins you will not have a happy day, m'boy." Despite her words, her voice was pleasant and her eyes kind. A man with a small boy on his shoulders came over.

"M'lady, my family is gathered. What would you have us do?" His eyes held a small amount of fear, kept severely at bay. He would not frighten his son, Inzillomì saw. She looked at a small cluster of well-dressed but plainly frightened people. Of all, only the old woman looked completely unperturbed. Inzillomì dismounted, handing the reins to the man.

"Will you excuse me for a moment?" she asked with a bow before walking toward the group. "Grandmother," she addressed the woman with a deep curtsy. "I welcome you. Could you spare a moment?" The women of the group greeted the lady with curtsies as deep as her own, eyes wide.

"Of course." she cackled. "Where would you have my old bones take me, child of Elendil?"

"Not far, I assure you." she smiled. "Just this way?" They walked together, Inzillomì's arm around the old woman. "Grandmother, your message has reached me only this morning. You say you have special needs?"

"Special needs indeed." she winked openly. "These old bones of mine can't travel for naught but a few hours each day, and these few and far between. Would they have me in pain?" she laughed with the lilt of one quite used to getting her own way. Inzillomì smiled. What fun! she thought.

"Grandmother, the King's Men arrive soon. We should be prepared to leave ere they come." She led her companion back to the stables beckoning to the erring stable boy. "Young man, Grandmother Nîlozâira will require a comfortable position in the front of one of our wagons. I trust in your abilities."

She returned to the man, winking at him. "All shall be well, friend. I have but one request of you. Some of our younger companions are not yet used to their mounts. Could you watch over them on our travels?" He nodded, glad to be put to use, and walked away with his boy tousling his hair.

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

When the King's Men rounded the final bend to the home of Abârpânarú Karíbzîr and his kin, their eyes met a large group of impatient travellers. Three heavily laden wagons with a respected grandmother enthroned upon their faces glared at the guards. Inzillomì held her mount steady and waited for the captain of the guard to find her. He rode forward, stopping a respectful distance and half bowing in his saddle.

"Mistress Inzillomì, I must object to the size of this party. My orders are to escort yourself and your family with as few necessary items as possible." He looked around in awe at his childhood friend's audacity.

"Captain," she spoke with polite disdain. "These people are my family. Do you see? This man," she gestured to he who tended the young ones, "is my husband's cousin. My sister Ziraphel rides beside me. Do you see these children? They are my relatives by marriage. Would you have me move to the further shore and leave behind those I have become so utterly close to?"

He looked at her, lost for words. "I... well... m'lady... as they are family, I am sure there will be no problem, but I may have to summon more escorts, and surely this entire load is unneeded?"

"You question me?" she asked with a sidelong glance. "There are a score travellers, which requires sleeping arrangements for each. Would you have a grandmother sleep on the ground with the dogs? I thought not. In my party are children. Would you have them leave behind all fond memories of their youth? Of our ladies, would you request that they leave their romantic letters of their courtship? The young men requested simply their hunting items. Shall I deny their only request? Also, we carry meals for ourselves, unless your men had planned to provide for us? Not to mention clothing and cloaks. Shall I have my people unload our carts and saddlebags? I was under the impression, Captain, that we were in a hurry, and you, m'lad, are keeping the King's orders waiting."

He nearly laughed at her unexpected argument. "My lady, it is unnecessary, but I am under orders to..." he paused, not wanting to continue. "I... must check your... bags." he finished lamely.

Inzillomì glared at him. "If you must know, my bags contain my womanly necessaries. Can a woman have no privacy?"

As he turned away flush-faced, she smiled mischievously. "My people!" she cried. "Our journey begins." With a final look at her home, Inzillomì rode, at the beginning of a long and slow moving line, into the bright sun, with the wind in her hair and the past at her back.

[littlemanpoet]

Mabalar woke to a familiar scraping sound. Târik was placing his food and drink before him; the door to his cell was unlocked and open.

"How are you, my lord?" the young guard asked.

"My throat burns," he grated. "Otherwise, I am well." Mabalar coughed from the effort of speech, which was becoming rare in the last few days.

Târik held the jug of water for him. He took it in his hands and lifted it to his mouth; but the chains caught him up before he could reach his mouth. An exasperated sigh escaped his lips.

"Allow me," said the guard, taking it from his hands and raising it to his lips. Mabalar drank.

"My thanks. How is my steed?"

"Well cared for. You may be prisoner, but your horse is treated like royalty."

Mabalar nodded, satisfied and not altogether surprised. "Tell me of Tar Miriel."

Târik looked over his shoulder. "Not now, my lord, others are near. I must go." The young guard was soon gone and Mabalar was again alone. He ate the meager food he had been given. At least it was not crawling with vermin. He had heard stories about the dungeons of Sauron; and maybe they were true; it seemed that Miriel must have something to do with his fare. So be it. He thought of Kâthaanî and Inzillomi, and wondered how they fared.