Demaethor and Amariel

[Rosie Gamgee]

Sorry. I was planning on coming up with some elvish name for this story... but I can't seem to find the brain-power to put one together. Again, I'm sorry for the lack of title. In lieu, I suppose I'll just give a little 'profile' to this story.

Author: Rosie Gamgee

Setting/Time: Numenor, 3319, Second Age. The story is set right about the time Numenor falls.

Synopsis: The story retells the falling of Numenor while following events in the lives of a former army captain who defects to the Faithful, and a woman and her siblings who are trying to get to Elendil's ships in the east in order to escape Sauron.

DISCLAIMER: THIS STORY IS NOT MY OWN. Some months ago I started an RPG about the fall of Numenor. In it, Beor and Valandil came up with the characters and most of the events in this story. The RPG is as yet unfinished, and I had this writing-bug eating at me to do something with the story, and so I've written it out. All thanks and credit to Val and Beor for the characters and the story.

So, without further ado, here it is: The Story With No Name. (Feel free to comment or critique. It's not a terribly serious endeavor, but I do like feed-back on my writing.)

[Rosie Gamgee]

Chapter One

With a steady pace came the great Captain Demaethor. His tread was heavy and confident, his gait even with self-assuredness. He paced at the head of five men down the long, black corridors of Sauron’s Temple, there in the heart of Armenelos, the Golden City, the King’s City. None of the richness around them did he stop to marvel at; Demaethor’s little company led with them three young men, and these were his errand. A great, closed entryway faced them, but Demaethor’s pace did not slacken. Out of the shadows two stealthy figures emerged to draw the huge doors back for him and his company. Silently the doors swung wide. The darkness beyond made some fancy that they were being swallowed by a great black throat.

“Captain Demaethor!� a herald cried, but his voice was muted in the darkness. A cloud of smoke hung over them as they continued in. Blackness seemed to drip from the walls like slime in a great cavern. The dim gloom was pensive and heavy and cheated the vision of most men. Some of the soldiers quailed now, but all followed the unabashed tread of their Captain. Demaethor was a soldier; when told to walk he would walk, and only when told to halt would he halt. Trained from his youth in the ways of weaponry was Demaethor, and a fell hand with all manner of weapons, though he favored the axe above all. But more than his skill with the bow and blade Demaethor prized his ready willingness to do as his superiors would have him. Never had he blanched at an order, however gruesome or unlovely, however high or noble, however mean or low. Never had he faltered in carrying out the word of his masters.

“Hold thy steps, Captain!� the herald’s muffled voice cried. Demaethor halted. Silence drifted about with the smoke. The sharp odor of incense and a putrid, burning stench bit the nostrils of those men with him. “Bow!� the herald cried, and somewhere in the dimness was heard a slow, menacing pace. “Bend the knee before the Lord Sauron!�

Demaethor dropped on one knee, bending his head toward the floor and removing his helmet. His mail clinked softly on the flagstones. Behind him he heard scuffling as the prisoners would not bow. He snapped his fingers, giving an unspoken order. The prisoners were swiftly forced into submission by a harsh blow to the backs of their knees. One of them groaned before Demaethor heard his knees fall upon the floor.

“The Lord Sauron!� the herald announced, and Demaethor grew still, awaiting an order.

For a moment there was only the sound of men breathing.

Then a great voice spoke; a quiet voice, a voice that coiled and drifted like the smoke about them. “Welcome Captain. Pray, rise.�

Demaethor stood, signed for his men to do the same. The prisoners remained in their submissive positions, though now they struggled, hearing the voice of their doom. “My Lord,� Demaethor inclined his head once more.

“What prize hast thou brought before me?� the voice inquired.

“As you see,� Demaethor turned to motion toward his captives. He caught the defiance and fear in their eyes. And rightly so, for this was indeed the hour that would seal their deaths. “Three captives, my Lord. They are of the Faithful; they are among those who worship the Lords of the West. They praise the coming of the darkness and the rains, they call the winds and the tempests the righteous judgment of the gods. I have brought them here that they may taste of true judgment; that swift and terrible repayment for all who commit such treasons against the King and my Lord.�

The voice seemed pleased. “Well hast thou done, O Demaethor. These many months thou hast sought and captured these treacherous pests. The weeding of the garden of Númenor is nigh complete. Soon may the wilting flowers upraise their heads; soon may the everlasting light be brought upon them. But not whilst the enemies of Númenor live to choke her blooms. Well and worshipful hast thou done in uprooting those thorns among Men, the Faithful.� The last word was spat with such malice and contempt that one of the prisoners cried out as if struck. Demaethor flicked a finger and the man was smote with a heavy blow for his insolence.

“Thank you, my Lord,� Demaethor said evenly. Neither praise nor scorn moved him to much emotion. He had done his duty; simple obedience did not merit compliment any more than it merited reproach.

“One thing more will I ask of thou,� Sauron said. Demaethor stood silent, ready to obey. “Slay them.�

Demaethor blinked, once. “I beg my Lord’s pardon,� he said. “But surely the task of bringing my Lord’s punishment upon traitors belongs to another man.�

A breath was drawn sharply in the darkness. “Nay,� said the voice. “Thou shalt slay them. Slay them now.�

Demaethor did not hesitate more. Turning he drew his axe from his back, nodding toward his men to hold the prisoners down on the floor. They struggled, but vain was their striving against mail and blade. They lay writhing on the floor as Demaethor stepped beside the first, raising his axe high. He motioned for the man holding the captive to stretch his neck further that the deed might be swift. As it was done, the prisoner’s eyes caught the gaze of Demaethor. What he saw there made him start: peace. The peace of an old man who meets the end of his many days in the quiet of home, writ on the face of a youth. Surprise was in the soul of Demaethor, shock and puzzlement as strikes a man who tastes bitterness in the water of a sweet spring.

“Slay; slay,� said the voice, and the l.ust of blood was in it. Demaethor left fall his axe, gazing no more at the face of the youth. It was done in the space of a second, and the companions of the slain man cried out, but in sorrow devoid of hatred.

Again his axe he raised. Demaethor searched the face of the next young man, looking for the abhorrence he had expected. All too readily he found again peace. Also in this one’s eyes was something more: forgiveness. For the life he had taken, for the one he was about to take. Again Demaethor marveled, and he quailed before the purity of feeling in the man’s eyes. At the word of Sauron he let fall his axe. His insides tightened within him, and suddenly a loathing for himself and his deed filled the captain.

The last man had ceased to struggle. Demaethor would not look upon his face, but lifted once more his weapon and awaited the bidding of Sauron. “Hear the words of a traitor,� said another voice, and Demaethor was not able, for the sound, to order that it be silenced. The voice of the last captive was so full of life and feeling; that passionate youthfulness that marks the young was in his tone.

“Slay!� Sauron whispered, his voice dripping like the thick blood already spilt upon the flagstones.

Demaethor delayed as the youth spoke once more. “You are tormented by the deeds you have committed, O captain,� he said. “But here know the mercy of the Valar. Even as I forgive you now for the slaying of my brethren here, so the Valar forgive you for all the evil you have done. Only turn and you will redeem your life from this black Snake.�

“Stay thy hand!� Sauron shouted as Demaethor lowered his axe one last time. “Such words are deserving of more anguish than swift death!� But Demaethor had finished the deed; the young man lay dead with his brothers upon the floor. His last words were caught in the air, however, betwixt the smoke and the darkness, a pure ray of light to cheat the dimness. And Demaethor could not move for the struggle in his breast, as his mind’s eyes yet saw the forgiveness in the gazes the ones he had slain. It bored into his soul, settling on his thoughts like a weighty burden, and he could not shake it.



Demaethor woke with a start. The coverings of his couch were a mess of wrinkles, damp with his sweat. He lay there breathing in the darkness. A rain was beating against the window shutters and lightening flickered outside. Thunder pealed somewhere in the distance.

Drawing a hand across his clammy brow, the soldier swung his legs over the edge of his couch. He sat with his head in his hands. His soul was anguished within him. Though he woke, his dreams would not leave him, and he saw before him in the darkness those forgiving eyes again. Rising he lit some lamps, hoping to find release in their glow.

Ninety and seven years he had lived. He had seen two kings sit upon the throne of Númenor, though the first he had not known as well as the second. For he, after his training in Númenor as a youth, had been stationed in the Middle-lands in what was then the small out-post of Umbar. It was in those untamed lands that he fought countless unremembered and unnamed battles against the minions of Sauron, and won his rank and renown. Sometimes he had even fought alongside the Elves of those wild regions against their common enemy. Demaethor had heard from afar of the death of King Tar-Palantir, and then Ar-Pharazôn’s rise to power through his wife MÃ*riel, the King’s daughter. He marched from Umbar with the armies of King Ar-Pharazôn when Sauron submitted to vassalage before him. After that he had been stationed back in Númenor, and stood by as Sauron, the Wise and Fair, had become the King’s trusted confidant. He had had his doubts in the rulings of the King he served, yes, and he was unsettled by the stinking ash-heap that Armenelos had become, and he watched with some uncertainty the darkness that had spread over the Land of the Star. But never before had such struggle concealed itself in him. He had always been able to conquer his doubts and see the wisdom of Sauron’s commands. Now, the pardon and peace of those young men stirred something in him he could not understand. In their faces he had seen reflected back the deeds he had done in the name of the King and the law, and in the name of Lord Sauron. The people he had torn from their homes, the men he had trained in the scorn and hatred of the Elf-friends. All those things he had done because they were right and wise, but now he was not so sure. For the first time he could not quell his doubts in the justice of delivering up so many to be tor.tured or slain by Sauron.

When he was a boy his parents had taught him in the ways of the Faithful, they told him of the goodness of the Valar. But he quickly left their teaching as he grew, as he trained in weaponry. So much suffering was around him; death, sad death, the withering of the hale, the end of all things in dust and despair. How then could the Valar be good, if they allowed such things to happen? No, there could not be goodness in the hearts of the gods. Even the parents of his who trusted in the gods’ benevolence had been overtaken by age. They had died, and their friends of the Elder Kindred lived on unchanged. Where was justice there? But then he looked again on the deeds of men and saw more cruelty than that of the Valar. They worshipped the Darkness that insatiably demanded blood. They were inclined to evil ever. Now they delivered each other up to be killed. This great scheme to rid Númenor of the Faithful had friend betraying friend, son betraying father, brother betraying brother. All lived in fear of accusation and terror. Where was justice and goodness there?

Demaethor had been forgiven by Sauron for slaying that last youth so swiftly, under the pretense that his axe was falling before Lord Sauron had given the order to hold. But the truth was that Demaethor could not allow the man to be taken away and tor.tured until he died in agony. The forgiveness in his eyes did not merit it.

As a reward for capturing and slaying those three brethren, Sauron had given the order that Demaethor command a battalion in the Great Armada. He was to be on the King’s own ship, at the head of the fleet. He found himself now in the bayside city of Eldalondë, awaiting the orders of the King to board the ship. Demaethor felt the honour keenly, but his conscience pri.cked him.

“We shalt wrest the fonts of ever-flowing life for the hands of the gods of the West,� Lord Sauron had said. “And thou, O Demaethor, shalt lead the companies to plunder and despoil the richness of Valinor.�

“Thank you, my Lord,� Demaethor had replied. But the words of the dead youth rung in his ears. But here know the mercy of the Valar. All the evil that he had wrought against the gods should have been answered with death. Instead he was offered mercy, as if the gods were speaking through the mouth of that man directly to him. But only turn, and you will redeem you life. Only turn.

Demaethor rose again and paced the room. His heart tended this way and that, like a leaf tossed on the breeze, unable to decide whither it would go. He found his thoughts turned against Sauron. Only turn. To turn from the deeds he had done these many months would earn him but the same death he had meted out. And yet to follow further in them would be to condemn his soul, to reject for ever that forgiveness offered. Suddenly, like a veil removed from his eyes, he saw how futile and foolish an invasion of Valinor would be. All the might and splendor and fervor of Númenor could not compare with the power of the gods, surely. Their voices had shaped the earth. Now those same voices called out to him with mercy, and he was unable to scorn that gift. No, he would not follow anymore the delusions of Sauron.

Startled, the captain felt his heart grow cold with fear within him. What had he done? This night in his heart he committed grievous treason. He expected to hear straightway the footsteps of soldiers on his stair to drag him before Sauron, that he might taste of true judgment; that swift and terrible repayment for all who commit such treasons against the King and my Lord.

But no. All was silent save for the wind and the rain. Fearful of his own decision, Demaethor dressed quickly, throwing on a coat of mail and his surcoat. Strapping his falchion to his thigh and putting his axe at his back, he quitted his apartments. Going to the stables he mounted his horse, wheeling him about the streets, not knowing where he would go.

The rain was steady, illuminated now and then by lightning. The sound of the drops on the streets was drowned by the clatter of his horse’s hooves. Demaethor began heading east out of the city.


Esteldûr was a sprightly lad of fourteen, and he rode through the storm with all the brashness of youth. Lightning lit the way for him ever and anon. The thunder did not frighten him, but only made him wonder at its majesty. The salty scent of the sea beyond was carried on the stiff winds that buffeted the boy, and ahead of him he could see the lights of Eldalondë glittering in the rain. He rode on, unwearied by his long quest. Three days he had ridden, stopping only for rest and food. He was garbed in sable, the sign of the Lord Sauron’s servants, but his livery was now soiled and wet since he had quitted Armenelos. Not that he minded it. The rain seemed to signify the washing away of his sins. Perhaps indeed the storm was a blessing. It would serve to purge his scent from the road, keep the hounds and horsemen of his terrible master from finding him.

But what was this? Esteldûr peered through the rain and the darkness. Someone rode toward him. A flash of lightning lit upon mail and sword, and another showed to the lad the livery of the King’s Army. The sign on the helm designated the lone figure as a captain.


Demaethor hunched in the saddle, defying the rain and the pealing thunder. He wished he had thrown on a cloak in his haste to quit his apartment. Another thunder-roll echoed over him, accompanied by more lightning. He knew he must be foolish to ride in such a storm, but an odd feeling of invincibility kept him from turning back. It was as if his sudden scorning of Sauron empowered him to defy even the raging tempest.
Another figure was on the road. Demaethor slowed his horse as he spied another rider coming nigh. Lightning aided his vision for an instant, and he saw a sable-clad man upon a black horse, trotting bare-headed through the rain.
“Hold!� Demaethor shouted over the storm as they closed. The rider obeyed, and Demaethor was startled as another lightning flicker lit the face of a young boy. “Yes, lord?� he said, and Demaethor saw, rather than heard the words, for another battering of thunder filled his ears.
“How is it that a young lad rides so hard on a stormy night?� Demaethor asked, finding nothing else to inquire of the lad. Then his eyes fell on the symbols on the fellow’s clothes. “And in the livery of Lord Sauron?�
He watched rain-drops drip from the boy’s eyelashes as he stammered, “A messenger am I, lord, from the Lord Sauron to the King.� He produced a scroll of parchment. The weighty seal was Sauron’s indeed.
“Unaccompanied?� Demaethor inquired. Something compelled him to question the boy, though he did not know what it was. Also, there was something familiar about his features. “No messenger of Sauron rides alone. Were you waylaid upon the road?�
“No, lord,� said the lad. “I ride alone.� He shivered as thunder and lightning simultaneously assaulted their senses. Both horses quivered and pranced at the noise.
“Know you not, lad,� Demaethor shouted above the din, “that these lightnings have been known to slay men? Foolhardy are you indeed to ride on such a night!�
“I pray you, lord, ask me no more questions.� The boy’s voice became oddly shrill; nervous, Demaethor thought. “I deem you are from the King’s camp; pray, sir, will you guide me to him?�
Demaethor sat in silence for a moment. What part did he, recent traitor that he was, want with the communications of Sauron? Would it not be treachery against his new allegiances to aid the boy? The absurdity of his inner conflicts maddened the captain. He wheeled his horse about without a word and motioned with his hand for the boy to follow him. Dawn began to pale the east behind them, but still the rain fell as they rode on.


Esteldûr quivered, feeling for the first time the rain sliding down his back. He wished that the captain had some other task to perform. Esteldûr did need to find the King’s camp, but he bore no message for Ar-Pharazôn. He had to find some way of getting away from the captain before coming to the King.

“Pray,� said the captain abruptly, “how does one so young come into the service of Sauron?�

Esteldûr did not know how to answer the question. Was not Sauron entitled to choose whom He willed for service? And yet now that he looked back on his days in the Temple, the lad could not recall any other youths there. “I swore my fealty to Sauron, and he pressed me into service as a scribe, lord. For I learnt the trade from my father, who was a scribe for the royal libraries.�

They passed from the road to a wet field. Ahead were lights—a great host of tents and pavilions: the King’s encampment. “And your father?� the captain inquired further. “He serves with you?� He seemed to ask the question idly, as if the silence of the road bothered him.

The query made the boy look away with warm eyes. “My father is dead, my lord. He and my mother were burned upon the fires of Melkor.�


Demaethor saw before his memory’s eye the faces of the men and women he had dragged away to Sauron. He saw the eyes of the children, heard their weeping. He smelled afresh in his nostrils the reek of Armenelos the Golden—Armenelos the Ash-Heap, he thought. “I am sorry,� he said quietly, and saw the lad’s head come up, as if he did not expect the sentiment. And why would he? Demaethor thought. Louder, he said, “Sauron usually judges that the children shall pay also for the sins of their parents. How was it that you escaped?�

The boy looked pained. “The soldiers that took us from our home separated us; my sisters they took away, and my brother was not with us then, for he is a sergeant in the King’s Army.... My parents and I they took to the Temple.� He seemed close to tears. Demaethor wished he had not questioned him. “I swore fealty to Sauron and He spared me my life.�

Demaethor nodded, understanding now. The lad was tor.tured by his betrayal of his kin. He had to have dwelt in the Temple’s apartments since the day he traded his liberty for his life. Daily he breathed in the stench of the doom of his family.

Wishing to reverse the effects of his questioning upon the boy, Demaethor asked instead, “You say your brother is in the Army?�

The boy nodded, sniffing back the tears that had threatened to fall. “Yes, my lord. He is in the Captain Demaethor’s battalion. He is to sail with the Armada. His name is—�


“Forthon.� They said it together. Esteldûr turned his head about to search the face of his guide. The captain was looking on him with a look of recognition on his face. “You are Forthon’s brother?�

“Yes, my lord,� Esteldûr answered. “And you are Captain Demaethor?� Suddenly fear smote him. The great Captain Demaethor was renowned in Armenelos for his faithful service to Sauron; for the many Elendili he had delivered to be slain in the Temple. Surely he would see soon that Esteldûr was deceiving him, that the scroll he bore was a piece of forgery and that he was no messenger but a runaway.

The captain was nodding. “Your brother is a good soldier, boy. He is encamped here in Eldalondë as well. Would you see him while you tarry? I will guide you to him after your message is delivered to the King.�

Esteldûr’s heart began to beat faster. They were upon the camp now. He would never more see his brother if he came to the King first. But he could not confess his true intentions for coming here. Suddenly the devices he had used to get this far without suspicion were working against him. He sought wildly for a way to stop the captain from leading him to the King.


A guard walked out from the first tent they came upon, carrying with him a crossbow. “Hold, by order of the King!� he shouted in a tone much too loud for the hour, despite the rain and wind.

Demaethor halted and Forthon’s brother did the same. He gave the guard his name and rank, uttered the appropriate passwords and was let pass. They rode slowly through the quiet camp. Dawn was now nigh upon them, and the lights blazed oddly in the half-light. Looking over at the young vassal of Sauron, Demaethor noted that he looked preoccupied, agitated. “Are you well, boy?�

The fellow glanced up quickly. “Yes, my lord,� he said hastily, and it seemed to Demaethor that he sought to clear his countenance.

They were passing the tents of Demaethor’s battalion now. Because he had a house in the city, the captain had not camped with them that night, but charged his lieutenant with the task of keeping order. It seemed he had done his job well; all appeared in good order.

A solitary figure stood outside one of the tents, and he turned as he heard the horses coming. Demaethor recognized the figure as they neared: Forthon. A cry escaped the lips of the lad with him. Demaethor halted his horse before the sergeant, knowing Forthon would wish to speak to his brother.

“My captain.� Forthon inclined his head, not noticing who was with him. Rain pattered softly about them, and a roll of thunder in the distance punctuated the silence.

“Forthon?� the boy on horseback said tentatively.

Demaethor watched realization come over the face of the young soldier. “Esteldûr?�

“Forthon!�

Forthon sprang to the boy even as he dismounted. They threw their arms about each other in a wild embrace.


Esteldûr wished to laugh and weep at once. He held onto his brother, never intending to be separated from him again.

“They told me; they told me what happened,� Forthon was saying, his voice a-tremble. “They told me about mother and father. I thought they’d taken all of you.� Forthon pulled back a little to study his brother’s face. He looked as though he thought he was dreaming. “I thought you were dead.� They embraced once more, and Esteldûr wondered to hear his brother weeping. “But what of Amariel and Magwiel?� Forthon asked after their sisters, drawing back.

The rain formed a vale between them, but that did not stop Forthon from seeing his brother’s troubled face. “They were taken by the soldiers,� he said. “I do not think they were killed.�

“And Anardil?� Their littlest brother.

Esteldûr hung his head. “I know not. When the soldiers came he ran.... I do not know if they found him, or even where he went.� Forthon’s eyes dropped as well, a sorrowful look coming over his face. But then it seemed that he marked the clothes that Esteldûr wore. His gaze sought Esteldûr’s again, and this time a question was in his eyes. Shame drove its needle deep in Esteldûr’s soul. “I.... Oh, Forthon!�

Forthon’s face showed he understood already, and although Esteldûr could tell he tried to mask it, disappointment was in his eyes. It made Esteldûr’s shame and remorse burn all the more within him and he looked away. A voice broke in before he could weep. “Let not the message of your Lord be delayed any longer, boy. You may visit your brother at your ease when you have finished your task.�

A few short minutes ago Esteldûr might have attempted to uphold his deception a little longer. But now his shame had already done its work. He would no longer pretend any allegiance to Sauron, even if it exacted from him a worse death than the one his parents had received.


“I bear no message,� the lad said, and his manner was one of desperate recklessness. Forthon looked from his captain to his brother, obviously not understanding these happenings any more than Demaethor; in fact less so.

Demaethor scowled. “I have no time for games, boy.� The dawn’s light was putting him in a foul mood; it seemed to expose him as the traitor that he now was.

“I play no games,� said the boy. “For three months I have lived a falsehood, but no more.� He opened the scroll and gave it up to Demaethor, who saw it bore no writing. Looking on the seal with a keener eye he marked now that it was but a piece of fakery. “Do with me what you will, sir, for I claim now no loyalty to Sauron or his Black God.� The would-be messenger raised his arms as if expecting to be bound.

“No!� Forthon cried, grabbing hold of his brother. He looked up at Demaethor. “My lord, he knows not what he says! I pray you forget his words.�

The boy shook his head. “No, my brother. Nothing may save me now. I have fled my master’s house and such a deed warrants death already.� He turned away from Demaethor, toward his brother. His tone became quiet and exhortative. “I came here only to beg you not to sail with the King into battle against the Valar. They are good and merciful, but this deed will be unforgivable. The King and all his hosts shall reap bitterly for this crime. Have no share in it!�

Demaethor heard the noises of men nearby, listening to the words exchanged by the brothers. He could not afford to let the boy’s assertions pass unheeded. “Silence!� he shouted. The lad turned back, fear evident upon his countenance. Demaethor ignored it. “Though by your own admission you bear no message for the King, see the King you shall.� He reached down to bind the lad’s outstretched hands. “He shall decide your doom. Follow with me!�

“Wait!� Forthon cried, catching his brother once more. “My captain, wait!� Demaethor bent his gaze upon him, and the young sergeant swallowed visibly. “Whatever is to be done upon my brother, I would have a part in it. For my loyalties are also against the Lord Sauron. I confess that I had hoped that this great vanity of the King would never come to pass, but whether or not it prove so is of no matter now. I will share my brother’s doom.�

Demaethor contemplated his soldier. “Sorry am I indeed that this should be so,� he said, “and for your past valor I would forget what you have said. Nevertheless, if you are determined to follow the course you have laid out, follow with me.� And he twitched his reins, his horse plodding slowly through the muddy grass, pulling Forthon’s brother behind him.


Esteldûr allowed himself to be led, but tried—in vain—to keep his brother from following. “Please, Forthon; you have a chance to live. Flee if you must, but do not follow me to certain death.�

Forthon only shook his head. “Nay, Esteldûr,� he said quietly. “I feel in my soul the whole of Númenor is now heading toward certain death. There will be no escape for any here. The army will follow the King into ultimate rebellion; the rest will rot here on this corrupted isle, reaping the punishment for it.� He walked stiffly, as if his legs had become wood. His head was held high, though, like a soldier’s should be. “We’ll all suffer for the deeds of the King.�

“Not so,� Esteldûr said furtively. “Elendil, Amandil’s son, is in Rómenna on the west coast together with his sons. They are gathering all the Faithful to themselves, amassing a small fleet. They will sail to Pelargir should the King indeed awaken the Valar’s wrath.� He searched his brother’s face for a reaction.

“How do you know all this?� Forthon looked with amazement on his little brother. He cast a glance ahead of them, at Demaethor, perhaps to ascertain whether or not he was listening to them.

Esteldûr cast his eyes down to his muddied boots and the slippery, wet grass they traversed. He was aware that with the dawn men were rising from their tents, coming out to see what the captain was leading through the field toward the King’s pavilion. But shame only touched his heart when he thought of the past months of his life. “I have witnessed many things in the service of Sauron, Forthon. Some tear my heart in anguish when I recall them. Others have proved useful. Sauron is ever scheming to rid Númenor of the Elendili. He hates above all the son of Amandil, but Elendil has eluded capture. Nevertheless, Sauron knows of much that passes concerning him and his sons in Rómenna. Once the King has sailed for Valinor He will take power, Forthon, and His first act will be to destroy the Faithful, all of them, in one bold stroke.� He lowered his voice to a whisper. “The only salvation for the Faithful will be the fleet of Elendil. You must go to Rómenna, Forthon.� Demaethor’s horse nickered, and both the brothers looked up sharply. But the captain was not watching them, nor did he seem to have marked their talk. Esteldûr turned back to his brother. “You must flee and save yourself, or nothing will be left of our family in whatever comes after Númenor’s Vanity.�

Forthon’s eyes were red and wet with tears now, but still he followed with his brother, and still he kept his head high. “No, Esteldûr. I will not abandon you to die alone.� They exchanged a glance as Esteldûr thought of how he betrayed his own parents in their final minutes. He nodded, understanding Forthon’s feelings all too well. Forthon placed a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Father would be proud of you now, little brother.� He ran a hand through Esteldûr’s dripping hair, and a small, sad smile lit his face. “I’m proud of you.�

“What’s afoot, Captain?� a voice said, and the two looked up to see one of the King’s bodyguards standing by Demaethor’s mount, holding a spear in his hand. “The King’s not yet rose.� He cast an eye back at the two brothers. “What’s all this about? Isn’t that Forthon?�


“Question me not, Mithdae,� Demaethor said in a harsh voice. The young men had thought he was not listening to them, but he was of keener hearing than most, and marked every word. It put him in an even fouler mood, as now he realized that his disallowance of Sauron made him one of them. One of the Faithful. And this was a hard thought for him to embrace. For nearly sixty years he had proved himself faithful only in persecuting the Elendili.

Mithdae seemed somewhat taken aback by Demaethor’s tone. The bodyguard was once his friend. In fact only hours ago they had been friends. But Mithdae had always spoken ill of the Faithful, and now Demaethor’s changed fealties made the man an enemy, and the captain was in no mood to answer his queries. “Rouse the King,� he said. “And if you will not, then I will wait here until he wakes.�

The bodyguard had opened his mouth to speak but another voice spoke first.

“The King is roused already.�

At the sound Mithdae turned and bowed. The King, Ar-Pharazôn, emerged from his pavilion, wrapping a cloak about himself. He was a tall man, like his royal predecessors. His eyes were piercing and keen, bright as a youth’s. His face, though, once smooth and noble, was worn and grey with age and fretting. This morn he looked impatient and groggy to Demaethor. The captain bowed his head, not dismounting. “Well,� said the King. “What is the matter you bring to wake me with on this dismal morn?� He looked about him, squinting at the rain and grimacing in displeasure.

“Your Highness, I beg the pardon of the King for waking him. I had not wished to so ungently disturb the King’s rest.�

Ar-Pharazôn shook his head. “You make a most humble apology, Demaethor. But do not flatter yourself.� Disdain tai.nted his tone. “I have been suffering from aches of the brain of late; I cannot sleep, curse the Makers and the foul winds they send across the seas to torment me. The incessant dimness and rains are making me ill, curse them; you did not wake me.� He glanced up at the sky, and Demaethor saw vague fear denied in the King’s eyes. “The storm last night had my men trembling in their boots, all shouting of eagles and great clouds.� Ar-Pharazôn’s mouth turned down as he glanced out toward the ocean. “The Lords of the West have plotted against us. They strike first. The next blow shall be ours.�

“I am sorry the King is ill,� Demaethor said. He was yet trying to keep his disgust with the King’s curses and threats off of his face, and it did not entirely leave his voice.

The King looked up keenly, detecting Demaethor’s distaste. He matched it four-fold, looking on Demaethor with a contemptuous eye. “Enough. Tell me why you disturb me, Captain.�

Demaethor gestured behind him, to the two brothers. “A small matter, my King, but a somewhat weighty one. The boy, as the King sees, is in the livery of Sauron. He is a spy; one of the Elf-friends, who has infiltrated the Temple in Armenelos.�

“Armenelos?�Ar-Pharazôn questioned, inspecting the lad from a distance. “How came he here?�

“He made a pretense of bearing a message for the King, your Highness,� Demaethor answered. “His intent was to come into the camp and stir up disloyalty among the soldiers, to dissuade them from the King’s glorious designs upon Valinor.�

“I see,� the King said looking disdainfully upon the lad. His eye fell on Forthon, whom he must have recognized from the young man’s frequent company with Demaethor. “And this soldier? He is one of yours, is he not, Captain; what has he to do with it?�

“The lad is the sergeant’s brother, your Highness. Forthon has renounced his fealty to the King, and wishes to share his brother’s doom.�

“He shall be executed,� the King said immediately. He wrapped his cloak tighter about him as a damp breeze passed. “As a deserter. He’ll be held until the roll call. As for the boy, Sauron may do with him what He will.� His bodyguards moved to take Forthon away, and both the brothers cried out in protest.

Demaethor could not but feel pity at their wish to die together. “Your Highness,� he said, even as the King was turning back to his tent. What did he care if he risked the displeasure of the King? Soon enough Ar-Pharazôn would give the order to have him killed.

The King turned about, annoyance writ across his face. “Yes, Captain?�

“Your Highness, I will take the lad to Armenelos myself, but I think that his brother also should await the judgment of Lord Sauron.�

“Is that so?� Ar-Pharazôn’s eyes narrowed at this questioning of his order. It was never Demaethor’s wont to do such. “Why?�

Demaethor straightened. “My King, he has not only betrayed his army, a deed which warrants death as a deserter. He has committed high treason, defying the King and standing to be counted among those who worship the Valar, the enemies of Númenor. He should suffer more cruelly than a simple runaway, Your Highness.�

For the first time in their exchange Ar-Pharazôn looked pleased. “You speak well, Demaethor,� he said. “Yes. Those who seek to undermine my will, the Will of Númenor, shall reap the fruit of their deeds in full. Take them to Rómenna, yes. And instruct Sauron to do His worst with them.�

“Yes, Your Highness,� Demaethor answered, bowing as low as he dared atop his horse. When he looked up again, the King was gone.

“Well, I never would have thought it of one of Captain Demaethor’s men,� said Mithdae. His face was a picture of contempt as he looked on Forthon, a young man who only yesterday he had spoken kind words to. The bodyguard spat at the brothers before moving back to his position by the entrance of the pavilion. He nodded to Demaethor with respect, and Demaethor scorned it inwardly. “Safe journey, Demaethor,� he said. “The Armada won’t leave without you, you know.�

Demaethor forced himself to chuckle with the man. “Farewell, Mithdae,� he said, turning his steed about. His words bore more meaning than the bodyguard could be aware of.

Somewhere a horn called as Demaethor quitted the camp, the two brothers bound and mounted on either side of him. Morning roll call commenced as they rode away. Lightening still flickered in the distance of the pale, wet morn.

[Rosie Gamgee]

P.S. My computer is giving me grief. Apologies for typos and the like.

[Rosie Gamgee]

Chapter Two

They rode long into the morning, though no sun could be seen through the clouds by which to mark the passage of time. The day became darker rather, and colder. It rained on, as if no sun had ever shone on the Isle of Gift. The ground they traversed was green and hillocky, dotted by trees here and there. No words were spoken by any of the threesome as they loped onward. Demaethor rode a space ahead, leading the other two horses by tethers, while Esteldûr and Forthon sat upon their mounts, clutching the manes with their bound hands. The brothers looked ahead thoughtfully, each contemplating their imminent ends, each with the words of the King ringing in their ears: And instruct Sauron to do His worst with them. Occasionally they exchanged a glance, to give encouragement or to seek it, but they did not converse.

They passed through the sparsely populated area outside Eldalondë. The salty sea-smell grew faint. They went through a small village, but a cluster of houses. There the folk were risen, going about their morning chores. They moved quickly, scurrying between roofed buildings like frightened cats. The thunder still rolling over the land terrorized the people as more and more reports of deadly lightnings were told of late. A couple of old women realized the two prisoners of the captain were Elf-friends bound for Armenelos, and spat on them as they passed.

Near what seemed to be midday they stopped to rest the horses. Demaethor dismounted before the brothers. Esteldûr straightened in his saddle, stretching against his bonds, feeling stiff and damp. The wind was growing stronger from the west, and it seemed to be getting colder as well. He and Forthon waited for the captain to tell them to alight before doing so. Then he saw Demaethor draw his sword and advance toward him.

“Come down, boy,� the captain instructed him, and his voice was grim. Esteldûr looked at his brother with fearful eyes before obeying.

He found himself seized roughly. His thought raced as the shining blade of Demaethor’s sword flashed before him. What was the captain doing? Was he not supposed to be brought before Sauron? Would he die here, now, at this empty, random roadside?

“Do not harm him!� Forthon shouted, sliding from his horse, a clumsily executed action as his hands were tied. “Unhand him, my lord!�

Demaethor pushed Forthon away, brandishing his sword. Esteldûr kept his eyes open; he did not wish to die in the dark.

But no such thing happened.

Esteldûr watched amazed as Demaethor cut the strands about his wrists, freeing him from his fetters.

“Have no fear, Sergeant,� the captain said. His tone was oddly subdued, Esteldûr thought as he rubbed his sore wrists. “Come.� Demaethor motioned with his sword for Forthon to step nearer. Forthon’s face was one of confusion as his captain cut his bonds also.

The brothers looked at each other and then back at Demaethor. But the captain sheathed his sword and went to the horses, inspecting their tack as if nothing amiss had passed. Esteldûr glanced again toward his brother, hoping for some explanation of Demaethor’s action. But Forthon’s face mirrored his own in perplexity.

At last Demaethor spoke, although he did not stop what he was doing. “Sauron is wrong,� said he. “His tyranny and his murderous practices go too far beyond the laws of decency, if there be any within the Circles of the World. I have seen too many guiltless men die upon the altars of Melkor to believe it can be right any longer. As for the King, he is only the husband of the rightful ruler of this isle, and his injustices are as noisome as Sauron’s. This great Armada of his begs only the wrath of the gods who shaped our world.� The captain’s voice sounded weary and tormented. He sighed and came around the horses to stand before Esteldûr and his brother. “Be that as it may, I do not know if the Valar are truly right. But surely they are less wrong than Sauron. And so I find myself allied with the enemies of Sauron.� His shoulders moved a little as he met the eyes of the two young men. “I do not know if the Faithful will forgive the deeds I have done against them; in fact I dare not even hope it. Yet I will throw myself upon the mercy of the Valar. No more will I aid Sauron or the King. And I will never again deliver any man to Melkor’s Temple.� Esteldûr could only gaze with amazement on the captain as he added, “I will take you to Rómenna, and if Elendil will not permit me to join his gathering too, than I will hamper Sauron in any way I can until the wrath of the Valar overtakes Númenor.�


There. He had said it, aloud. Demaethor ended, standing silently before these two boys. He did not know what effect his words had on them. He did not know if they would respond with contempt or compassion, but he had bared his treachery before them, promised his faithfulness to their cause.

Forthon was the first to stir from his wonder. Demaethor returned his gaze, shrugging. “My lord, I know not whether to believe you or not,� was what the young man said. He seemed to search Demaethor’s face for the lie. Apparently he did not find one. He stepped nearer, offering his hand. “I, for one, do accept you as one of the Faithful. It is my love for you that has kept me from deserting all this while, and now to know that you are in league with us only strengthens my love.� Demaethor returned Forthon’s honest smile and took his hand. Forthon said, “You will find that your trust in the Valar will not be disappointed. The love and mercy of Ilúvatar is to be found among them. They will not fail you.�

Demaethor nodded his thanks for the young man’s words. They gave him hope; hope that not all his life had been lived in futility and vanity. Hope that the horrible deeds of his past might be forgiven him indeed, and hope that he might escape the wrath of the gods once the Vanity of Númenor, as Esteldûr had called it, was complete.


The day wore toward even as they sped onward. It would take three days at the very least to reach Rómenna, maybe longer as the days grew darker, and who knew how long after that to find Elendil. It would give the King enough time to realize that Demaethor had not come to Armenelos, as any messengers from Sauron would have naught to report on the matter. No doubt he would be sought, and seized if found, and made to bear the same and death as he had delivered others up to face. Not that Demaethor did not know he deserved such a death a hundred times over. But he wished to redeem himself in at least some small way by delivering Forthon and his brother unharmed to Elendil’s fleet. So many destroyed lives he was responsible for! The least he could do in recompense was guide these two to the west coast in safety.

Demaethor looked at them as they rode side-by-side, conversing at whiles over the noise of the horses hooves, although to his ears their voices were swallowed up by the wind. It was indeed colder now then it had been that morning. The winds blew strong. He had taken a cloak before they quitted the camp, and now he drew it tighter about himself. The thunder in the clouds above rolled almost constantly now, all about them, and the rain was frigid and stinging.

As darkness began to fall, Demaethor saw lights ahead of them. They were drawing nigh a village, which was well, for they needed food and a place to rest. But as they rode closer, Demaethor became aware that a troop of soldiers was encamped outside of the village. A noisy blaze of shabby music and firelight it was, Demaethor began to see as they drew nearer. There was no avoiding it now, however; he could not find a path around the camp in the dark, and they were bound to have sentries about it, however apparently disorganized the rest of the camp might be. If he had yet cared about such things, he would have sought the commander of this troop and demanded the meaning of this display of disorderliness.

The brothers had noted their apparent destination, too. Forthon rode nearer to Demaethor. “Would it not be wise, my captain, to bind us again? If these soldiers report to the King tomorrow that you are yet headed to Armenelos with two prisoners, it will help delay any suspicion of your desertion.� Apparently the young soldier had been thinking the same thoughts as Demaethor. The captain agreed, and they rode into the camp as captives and captor.


Esteldûr’s thoughts were yet a-tangle. He was glad and amazed to discover that Demaethor was their ally, and like his brother he was now willing to follow the captain to the west coast, indeed almost anywhere. Yet the fear of torment and death at the hands of Sauron, and then the relief when that was removed so suddenly, left him weary and unsure of where to rest his thoughts. He was happy, so happy, that he was with his brother, and yet to be in his constant company was a perpetual reminder of the family he had lost, and that threw him back into sadness. And now they were headed into another army camp where their pretense of captivity might be discovered at any moment.

Abruptly Esteldûr was jostled from his thoughts by the sounds of coarse laughter. And not from soldiers only, but women! As they went through the camp they came upon an open space between the tents where a fire had been lit. Somewhere in the shadows beyond the circle of the blaze musicians played a merry, cheap tune. Within the light of the fire soldiers moving about drunkenly, and hanging on the arms of some of them were several women. Esteldûr’s mouth fell open when he saw them. They were all painted and powdered, their hair well-arranged but dirty. Dressed in the cheapest imitations of the finest clothes they were, and they carried themselves with obvious immodesty. Most of them seemed as drunk as the soldiers. Esteldûr turned to look upon his brother—was this kind of disgrace what went on in the army of the King?

Forthon’s look was similar to his own, one of disbelief and disgust. For they had always been taught to respect women as the embodiment of what was good and fair and delicate. Before them was such a display of vulgar ness as to make them sick. Esteldûr stammered, “Surely this is not what—Surely you haven’t—You would not—,� and he looked back on the strange, crude scene.

His eyes wide with denial, Forthon shook his head firmly. “This kind of churlishness has not reached at least some of King’s army. Captain Demaethor, for one, would never permit his men to—engage in—� His voice trailed off as one of the women screeched. The man she was with had done something to hurt her, and she recoiled, an action that displeased the intoxicated soldier. Esteldûr was horrified as the man savagely threw his hand across her face, sending her to the ground. Harlot or no, she was frailer than he, and such an action was beyond cowardice.

Esteldûr looked toward Demaethor, to mark his reaction to the whole spectacle. Even the captain appeared sickened. But he turned away from it. “We will find food and rest somewhere in this camp,� he said, “but not here.� And with that he began to turn his horse about.

But Esteldûr turned back once more to look upon the woman who had fallen, a strange compulsion taking hold of him to know if she was very much hurt, to see her face, to see whether she was shamed or really as unabashedly crude as her clothes and make-up made her appear.

The woman was still upon the ground, and she was making feeble retorts as the soldier who had thrown her down insulted her loudly. Something about her voice grabbed Esteldûr. He bent his eye harder on her, striving to see her features in the shifting firelight. At last she rose. Her hair had fallen about her shoulders, her dress disheveled, and she now looked like a tattered, muddied doll. Then she turned a little in a manner very familiar to Esteldûr.

Forthon saw it at the same moment, and a startled cry fell from his lips. Demaethor stopped his horse, looking back on them. Forthon was saying something, but suddenly Esteldûr was not hearing. He could see nothing but her and the big, surly soldier who was tormenting her. Shame, shame on her behalf, coupled with disgust and empathetic hurt boiled in his stomach, producing a hot rage. As if from far away he heard himself yell, saw himself dismount and wrench his hands from the ropes that Demaethor had tied loosely about them but minutes before.


“Unhand her!� The boy shouted before Demaethor knew what had passed. He had already dismounted before the captain could react, and there was nothing he could do but watch as the lad crashed into the big, slovenly soldier. “Lay not another finger on her!�

At least Forthon cast a glance back at Demaethor before he followed his brother. But instead of attacking the soldier as well, he went to the woman. She was standing nearby, watching with an expression of shock. Demaethor wondered at the gentle manner in which Forthon greeted her, disarrayed strumpet that she was. Her eyes turned slowly upon him. She looked as one who is mazed with dreams and unsure of reality.

The lad was still yelling and pummeling the burly soldier with his bare fists. The soldier, who seemed surprised but unharmed, suddenly woke from his drunken daze with a look of indignant rage. Bawling a curse he pushed the boy aside roughly.

“Esteldûr! Stop, Esteldûr!� Forthon shouted as the lad picked himself up and recklessly hurled himself back upon the soldier. Just a few seconds after it had begun, the tussle was drawing attention. Soldiers laughed and pointed, and some growled questions as to where the ‘fiery whelp’ had come from. Demaethor rolled his eyes. Almost anything he did now would betray their pretense.

“Enough!� He rode into the circle of firelight, glowering at the silenced group. They backed away as he turned his horse about angrily. “Cease this impudent display!� With a look he summoned Forthon and Esteldûr to him, and they came, casting glances back at the woman they had sought to defend. She stood aloof, the expression on her dirty, cheapened face one of bewilderment. “What is the meaning of this indecency?� Demaethor demanded of the stupid, drunk revelers. Of course they made him no answer, but looked at each other in confusion. “Soldiers, get to your quarters!� he ordered, and they, recognizing the sign on his helm, began to shuffle off. Some muttered curses as they went. Demaethor turned to the others left standing there. “You women may go back to whencever it is that you came. But bother the King’s soldiers no more with your dissolute wares, or punishment will be meted out.� They, too, began to disappear, although most of them muttered louder and more brazen curses than the soldiers before doing so.

“Wait!� Forthon called as the woman he had greeted started to quietly move off with the others. He went to her when she did not heed him.

“Stop where you stand!� Demaethor shouted, and both of them halted.

“My lord, do not send her away from us,� Esteldûr said quietly. He was looking up at Demaethor from the captain’s stirrupped ankle.

Demaethor, displeased with the whole situation, was somewhat wroth. “What is that harlot,� he asked in a quiet but harsh tone, “that you would assail a man thrice your size to defend her?�

Esteldûr’s face was one of sadness and humiliation. “My lord, she is our sister.�


Demaethor sat by as the brothers peppered their sister with questions; how came she to be in such a lowly state; did she know where Anardil had run to; where was Magwiel, and so forth. The awkwardness of the discourse touched Demaethor as he began to realize that this tattered was once the daughter of a high-bred, respectable man. Here, in the privacy of a sparsely furnished tent (leant to Captain Demaethor by the commander of the camp for he and his ‘prisoners’), he could better discern what was her face and what was cheap cosmetics. She was older than Forthon, he now deemed, although surely sorrow and the harshness of her life made her appear even older. Yet youthfulness was still in the smoothness of her face. High were the cheeks now streaked with tears, and he noted the wide grey orbs of her eyes, thinking them pretty. She had a small mouth which was drawn in a painful expression, a resolute chin that was held low in obvious shame. Her slender neck was covered in bruises and other marks that Demaethor did not care to make out. And her fair hair, dirty and faded, hung about her in a despondent manner as she seemed to shrink from her kin in humiliation. The dress she was garbed in, the heavy paint on her face, the very encampment they were in all testified loudly of her pollution and disgrace. Like a wilted, broken flower was she, all shamed and saddened.

The tears the threesome tried to hold back as they spoke made Demaethor’s own throat constrict. His stomach tensed in horrible realization when he thought that the bereavement he had wreaked upon so many other families might have had this same effect, this ruination of something once unsullied.

“Magwiel is here,� the women was saying. Her brothers silenced at her next words: “She has turned from the beliefs of our parents,� she said. “And she is engaged to be wedded to some soldier. Tomorrow they are to wed, when the unit reaches Eldalondë.�

“Wed?� Forthon exclaimed. “And so soon? To whom?�

“His name is Oronil,� Amariel replied, and Demaethor recognized the name. “He is nephew to one of the King’s nobles; a captain of one of the ships of the fleet. Magwiel talks ever of his (untested) prowess. She is quite infatuated with him, but he, I fear, thinks of her only as a pretty trinket. He follows the King body and soul in this great Scheme against Valinor.�

Forthon tried to question her further concerning the matter, but she shook her head resolutely. “Magwiel would not wish to see you, Forthon. You would only be disappointed in her, and with her choice. Leave this place, and forget you have seen what both of us have become.� No tears were on her face or evident in her voice as she went on, though both of her brothers were struggling to contain their emotion. “Please, my brothers; leave me now. Look upon me no more, for I cannot bear the pity in your eyes.� They tried to silence her, but she shook her head. “No. I know from what heights I have fallen, I know the depths of my descent. My shame is more than I can bear. Magwiel has made her choice. She will wed with her soldier and we will none of us see her more. And when you have all gone, when you are far away, I will make my final peace with the Valar.� With these words her despondent, empty eyes flitted to Demaethor. The brothers had not told her that the captain was their ally; she thought that Forthon and Demaethor were riding to Armenelos as captain and sergeant, not comrades feigning to be captor and prisoner. She did not know her brothers were sentenced to death, and she still thought him the Captain Demaethor of but hours ago: the unswerving persecutor of the Elendili. Her words thus far had been guarded in regards to the beliefs of our parents. Now, as her eyes met his for an instant, she added, “I have no reason left to live. I will cast myself upon the mercy of Ilúvatar alone.� The look in her eyes was a strange one to Demaethor. It seemed to defy him to drag her away to Armenelos, to Sauron, as surely he would have done but a week ago. And yet at the same time she seemed to be begging for him to do just that, as if the death that was to be found in Melkor’s Temple was the only one in which she might have some honour left. The raw desperation in her eyes startled Demaethor.

But the brothers did not mark her look, and her eyes turned away from his as quickly as they had come. Forthon had covered his sister’s lips gently with his fingers. “Amariel, do not say such things,� he whispered. “Ilúvatar’s mercy extends to the quick as well as the dead; perhaps more so to the living.�

“And there is escape to be had for all of us,� Esteldûr added. He cast a glance at Demaethor, who would have preferred he keep silent about the matter while they were yet within a day’s ride of the King, and in the midst of an encampment of the King’s soldiers. “Captain Demaethor is guiding us to Rómenna, to Amandil’s son Elendil.�

Soon the whole tale was told, and there was nothing for Demaethor to do but listen and be gazed upon with wonderment. Several times he bade the lad and his brother to hush their voices.

Forthon’s sister looked upon him with astonishment when they had ended. “You?� said she, addressing him for the first time. “Your name is to be found among the Faithful? A very persuasive deception you have made these many years to the contrary.�

He felt himself redden at that. “Only recently,� he answered in his own defense, “have I come to realize the fault of Sauron and the vanity of the King.� She seemed to accept his words with a little nod.

At that moment someone stepped without warning into the tent. “So the Great Captain Demaethor is finally unveiled,� the stranger said, his tone mocking. “All this while you have fooled the King’s Army into believing you were some great hero, the Enemy of the Faithful. And here you sit, proclaiming your disloyalty in the presence of a harlot and her brothers.�

Demaethor was on his feet in a heartbeat. In no less time he had drawn a small dagger and seized the soldier, putting himself between him and escape. “Hold your tongue, or suffer its loss,� Demaethor growled. “What is it to you if I choose to speak with this who.re? Your manner suggests you yourself keep no higher company.�

The soldier, a man of average height and age, dark-haired and bearded, held up his hands and laughed. “Please, my lord,� he said, “lower your weapon; I meant no harm.�

“Galdûreth, leave this place at once.� Amariel’s voice, suddenly low and threatening, came from the back of the tent.

Demaethor searched the face of the soldier for the reason for the woman’s scorn. But the soldier merely looked contrite. “Forgive me, my lord,� he said. “I meant no insult to any here—� He cast a glance back over his shoulder at the woman (for Demaethor now stood between him and the way he had come in), “—only I was passing by this tent and caught the gist of your discourse, and I stole in to ally myself with you.�

“Ally yourself?� Demaethor questioned, not releasing him. Over the stranger’s shoulder he caught Amariel’s look of surprise.

The soldier nodded. “I, too, am among the Faithful,� he said, lowering his voice. “Though I have kept it secret these many months.� He laughed again as he spoke. “I was surprised to hear you all speaking so plainly of your own allegiances just now. Or have you forgotten that tents are made of mere cloth? Indeed the full tale would be worth much to some, you know.� At Demaethor’s warning look he swallowed his smile. “I and another have been planning to escape to Rómenna for some weeks; he is outside, may I bring him in?�

Demaethor slowly let the man go, and nodded once. He stepped aside to allow another man to enter. This one was shorter than his companion, but well-built and sturdy-looking. His dull red hair fell upon his shoulders, its colour matching his mustache and the small fringe on his chin. His eyes were brown and cold, but his face was unaffected and open, something Demaethor took as a sign of what lay beneath the man’s exterior.

“This is Behirien,� the first soldier introduced him. “And I, forgive me, am Galdûreth. We are both but foot-soldiers.�

Behirien inclined his head toward Demaethor. “My lord, if you will have me, I pledge my service to you as far as Rómenna. Your valour in the battles of long years past is not forgotten; it is an honour to stand with one so renowned. And if your allegiance to the son of better Kings has led you into folly, I as a soldier who must obey orders can understand that somewhat. At any rate, your repentance now is commendable and worthy. You are forgiven by me. Will you have me, my lord?�

Demaethor placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, suppressing an emotion he could not define. “That I should be so well-met by one I know not, despite my past sins against his confederates, overwhelms me. Yes, I will lead you to Rómenna, and gladly.�


Esteldûr watched, pleased, as the other man—Galdûreth—also promised his attendance to Captain Demaethor. He was surprised to see Amariel’s face contort with suspicion, though. “What is it?� he asked her, keeping his voice quiet. “Surely you do not doubt the captain?�

“Nay,� she said. “I doubt not that he has truly turned aside from his loyalty to the King. His eyes hold the look of truth, and he has no reason to lie. No, my brother. It is Galdûreth I doubt.�

Forthon had been listening to her as well. Now he asked quietly, his face reddening somewhat, “He has not—I mean, you haven’t—�

Amariel shook her head. But she looked away from him anyway, hiding herself from what he implicated. “No, brother. I have not heard that he has kept any fellowship with any of... us.� The way she associated herself with the rest of those bawdy women made Esteldûr blush on her behalf. “But Galdûreth is not a gentle man. He is coarse of tongue and his manner is one of utter baseness. Never has he distinguished himself as anything but sinister and corrupt.�

Esteldûr looked back on the man as he spoke to Demaethor, seeing easily such a man as Amariel described in the soldier’s rough face. His scornful laughter when he had first entered echoed in Esteldûr’s ears, made him wrinkle his nose in distaste.

But Forthon was always one to seek the good in men. “Many men, my sister, have not the upbringing we had, nor have they been taught by their fathers to be courteous or gentle. The uncleanness of their minds goes unchecked because they have not been instructed otherwise. They prate many knavish things unknowing of the shamefulness of their words. There are many such men in the King’s Army, crude and vulgar on the outward side, yet with honourable hearts. Perhaps this man is one such. His confession to be of the Faithful attests strongly to his merit. Such a declaration is not something one avows idly. What he risks by even saying such a thing is known to us all.�

Slowly Amariel nodded, though Esteldûr thought her face looked distrustful still. She stood.


“Captain,� Amariel called, and her voice was hard.

Demaethor turned from Galdûreth, toward the woman. She had risen from her seat and moved toward him purposefully. “Yes?�

“May I speak with you?� she asked. Her eyes flitted to Galdûreth, and misgiving was in them.

Demaethor drew in a breath, slightly perturbed. He wished for no tedious speech of gratefulness from a teary-eyed woman. He was attempting to rescue her brothers from their horrible sentence, but he wanted no thanks for it. He deserved no thanks for it. But, “Speak, woman,� he said.

“Outside, I pray you.�

Demaethor’s irritation threatened to take hold of his mood, but he put it down. “Of course,� he said, and excused himself from Galdûreth and Berihien. He quitted the tent, leaving the woman to follow. It was cool and dark and empty there in the row of military tents. A wind blew strongly, buffeting the canvas awnings and making the banners on the tent-poles snap.

The woman stepped out after him, and raised her head at the cold rain that sprinkled from the dark sky. Demaethor tried to appear patient. “What is it?�

She turned to him, an odd change coming over her countenance; an expression Demaethor did not expect. Abruptly her hand flew up and struck him squarely in the face. “I will thank you, sir, to never again call me a who.re,� said she, and her tone was sharp as a blade. Demaethor could do nothing but stare as the sting of her blow tingled upon his cheek. “My body has been sold against my will. Others,� she added, and although she did not say his name, the intent of her words was Demaethor, “have sold their souls willingly, casting the lives of the inno.cent along with their own into the bargain. Such have no right to bestow ill-names upon the ones they have wronged.�

Demaethor had nothing to say. No thoughts found their way into his mind, either. He stood unmoving before her.

Her face changed, and Demaethor thought he saw a small look of contriteness under her scorn. She turned from him, however, lifting the tent-flap to leave him standing alone in the darkness. But she paused for a moment, turning about and saying in a somewhat less-frozen voice, “I thank you, my lord, for the deliverance of my kin. Such a kindness was unlooked for by me. My gratitude is yours.� And she was gone.

Demaethor moved finally, raising a hand to gingerly touch his face. Where she struck still smarted, both on his cheek and in his memory. He winced a little, and recalled his words when Galdûreth had entered. What is it to you if I choose to speak with this who.re? He had referred to the woman as what she said, yes. But he did not understand her reaction.

Never had Demaethor shared the company of women long. Few women worthy of the society of a captain were to be found in the Middle-Lands, and here in Númenor Demaethor had little taste for the parties and promenades where men of his vocation usually mingled with ladies. Not that many of those women would care for his company. Although he was yet in his prime by Númenórian reckoning, he was nearing an age where most assumed that if he had meant to marry, he would have done so by now. Besides that, he was scarred from many battles, and not as noble-looking as the men of Númenor’s court. His manner also suffered from having lived all his life in a military setting, bereft of the gentility of feminine contact.

He had thought at one time of marrying. Of course when he was a youth he always imagined he would wed. But as he grew older and more set in his ways, Demaethor had ceased to give thought to such ideas. In recent years he had thought now and then of settling down, teaching sons of his trade, possessing more than four stone walls to return to when on leave. But women were a part of a life he had never lived, and he had never known a woman well enough to understand to workings of her mind. He was, in truth, bewildered by Amariel’s heated words. She was so broken, so frail and polluted, and yet she had met the slip of his tongue with a strange sort of pride. It stirred in him a kind of respect, something which puzzled him as well.

Demaethor determined to put the incident from his mind rather than muse on it. He turned his back on the cold night and followed the woman back inside the tent.


It was decided eventually that they would rest for a few hours and then be on their way in secret. It would cause suspicion, and surely pursuit would be sent after them, but Demaethor could think of no way to justify taking two of the encampment’s soldiers with him back the way they had come. It would have to be done stealthily, or not at all. Berihien and Galdûreth were to find mounts of their own and array themselves with such armour and weapons as they might without raising suspicion. Amariel would ride with Esteldûr as he was the slightest. They would fly with all haste until well away from the camp and then journey on to Rómenna with as little interruption as possible, scorning the road and skirting any villages and towns.

In the midst of this planning Forthon spoke. “My captain,� he said to Demaethor, “my siblings and I have another brother in Armenelos. He is but a small child; may we not find him and take him with us?�

“Find him?� Demaethor questioned. He had thought to keep as far away from Armenelos as possible, taking a somewhat longer way to Rómenna, dipping south to circumvent the city and then heading northeast again to the coast.

But Forthon nodded. “I do not think he can be far from our family’s dwelling, although I do not know exactly where he is.�

“Oh, come!� said Galdûreth. “We cannot afford the time to search the streets of Armenelos for lost children. Assuming he is even there.�

His face becoming downcast, Forthon admitted, “It is true that he may not be alive. Sauron’s soldiers may have found him. But if he is yet in the city, we must make some attempt to find him.�

Galdûreth shook his head. “Perhaps you must find him, but he is your kin, not mine or Berhirien’s or the captain’s. Stay behind and search for your infant brother, but do not jeopardize us.�

Forthon’s sister, sitting by, seemed to Demaethor close to harsh words. He spoke before she could utter any. “My first undertaking is to bring Forthon and his family safely to Rómenna. You join us of your own volition, and may repent of that if you choose.� He turned to Forthon. “We will come nigh to Armenelos, and you and Esteldûr shall go into the city to seek for your brother. We shall fix a time for your search; if you do not find him in that time, we must continue to Rómenna without him.�

Forthon looked grateful, and his sister seemed satisfied. “Thank you, my lord,� Forthon said. Demaethor nodded.


Later that night, the three siblings lay on the floor of the tent, all full of thoughts. Esteldûr could not sleep, such was his excitement. He lay on his back, staring at the tent-poles and the canvas roof billowing in the wind. Amariel was beside him. Her uneven breathing told him she was not asleep. She had agreed to stay with them, saying that her mis.tress would not miss her, but rather it would be thought that she was working. Esteldûr blushed in the darkness when he recalled her as she said that. To drive the unpleasant thought from his mind, he rolled over toward her, leaning on an elbow.

“’Mariel,� he whispered very softly. Captain Demaethor slept nearby on a cot, and Esteldûr yet feared him enough to not wish to wake him. Berihien and Galdûreth had gone off to their own tents, so as to be counted with their fellows when the curfew was sounded. They were to return in three hour’s time.

Amariel turned slightly and opened her eyes. It was obvious she had not been sleeping, as he had thought. She looked upon him and smiled. “It is so good to see your face,� she whispered. Pulling a hand out from under the blanket that covered her, she reached a finger up to stroke his cheek. “I have feared to sleep. I think that I shall wake to find you two but the shadow of a dream.�

He caught her hand in his. All at once the change in her struck him. In his mind’s eye he saw her how she used to be; smiling, happy, fresh and full of life. Now she was sunken and sorrowful, ashen and dull. “I’m sorry, ‘Mariel,� he said. His whisper caught in his throat and he bit his lip.

“Shh.� She shook her head. “None of this was your fault,� she told him. She pushed the hair from his forehead, and Esteldûr saw their mother in the gesture.

Guilt smote his heart afresh. “May we not see Magwiel?� he asked, partly because of his guilt, and partly to hide it. He had not told her what he had done to earn the black tunic that he still wore, though it was covered now by a blanket.

Sighing, Amariel turned her gaze from him. “I do not know what good can come of it,� she said in a sad voice. “She has all but disowned me. She would not hear your pleas for her to ride to Rómenna.�

“But even if what you say is true,� Esteldûr said, “might we not even bid her farewell? For surely none of us shall see her more if we are to board Elendil’s ships.�

She seemed to soften at his words. She sighed once more. “You speak aright, brother. No matter the outcome of this desperate ride we will make, she will be lost to us for ever in but a few hours.� Amariel looked pained. “When last we spoke, we did not part well. I think she would be wroth to see me; but she would receive you, I think, if only to hear your farewell.�

Esteldûr allowed himself a small smile. “Then you know where she is?�

His sister nodded. “I have watched her, and seen that she has come to no harm as best as I could without making my watchfulness known to her. I can guide you to her, if you and Forthon are determined to see her ere we flee.�

At her words Forthon sat up quietly. He had not been sleeping, either. “Yes,� he whispered gravely. “Let us have our last words with her, if we might.�


The three crept thought the maze of tents, watching all about them for any sign of movement. But all was still save for the wind and the rain. The shivered in the cold as Amariel led them. The rain was turning into sleet in the coolness of the night, and the breezes blew harder.

“Here,� Amariel whispered finally. She had stopped nigh a small tent. “You will find her alone.� Forthon gave her an inquiring look, and she added, “He sleeps there.� She pointed to the next tent over, speaking of Magwiel’s betrothed. “I will not wake her; you and Esteldûr enter first.�

Forthon nodded and opened the tent-flap. Esteldûr followed close behind. As Amariel had said, she was there, sleeping soundly beneath a covering of firs and blankets on a cot. Esteldûr thought in the darkness that she looked older than when he had seen her last; she was the child between he and Forthon, but now she looked older than them both. Her eyes were rimmed in black pencil, he could see, and she wore a fine linen night-shift. “Oronil takes good care of her,� Amariel said in the quietest of whispers, “though she is little more than a possession to him.�
Esteldûr stood by as Forthon stepped quietly to their other sister’s bedside, kneeling gently there. “Do not wake her abruptly,� Amariel warned him. “She is the only one we wish to rouse.�
He nodded, and cupped a hand over Magwiel’s mouth. At his touch her eyes snapped open. A little clipped murmur muffled against his hand. But Forthon touched a finger from his other hand to his own lips and gestured for her to be silent. Her sleepy eyes wide in the darkness, she nodded. “Hello, sister,� Forthon whispered, and removed his hand from her mouth. Esteldûr saw a smile come over his face as he looked on her. Magwiel had been the fun-loving child in their family, had always made them laugh. She was always merry, dancing in the rain as well as the sunshine. When they were younger, Magwiel and Forthon had been nigh-inseparable, ever jesting and playing practical jokes.
“Forthon?� she answered in a hushed, almost awed voice. He nodded, and she sprang from the cot to throw her arms about him. She giggled softly against his shoulder as he held her, murmuring for her to keep as silent as possible. She pulled away from him a little, staring into his face with eyes sparkling in the dark. “How,� she said, then caught the loudness of her voice, “how came you here? Whence; how? Oh, I have such things to speak to you of!�

Forthon smiled with her, but his was a sadder smile. He took her hands in his, extracting himself from her embrace as she frowned in puzzlement. “I have heard much of you already,� he said, and glanced back at Esteldûr and Amariel.

Her eyes followed his and rested on Amariel after a brief look of delighted surprise in Esteldûr’s direction. Her face hardened. “She has told you then, tainting it all with her ill-judgments?� she asked Forthon.

“She has told me,� he answered, nodding.

“Well then you have not heard the tale aright.� Magwiel paused to search her brother’s face, and disappointment overshadowed her countenance. “You are also determined to think the worst of me? You disapprove my choice without having met him.�

Forthon shook his head. “Nay, sister. ‘Tis not the man I reject, for in truth I have not met him. I disapprove the life you choose.�

Her eyes turned scornful. “You would lecture me of the silly scruples of our parents, as Amariel has tried to do. But I did not listen to her either.� Forthon’s face showed the pain her words inflicted. Magwiel saw it and the scorn left her eyes. “I am sorry,� she said, and smiled once more. “But, now; tell me how you came here? I had thought that Esteldûr was lost with our parents; how comes he here with you? And why have you awoken me in the dead of the night like this? What is the meaning of your sad countenances?� Her eyes moved from Forthon to Esteldûr.

Forthon shook his head. “We have not time to tell that tale.� At her look of puzzlement he explained, “We ride for Rómenna in a short while.�

She frowned, her puzzlement deepening. “In the darkest watch of the night? Why do you ride to the east when the King is calling all his men to the west?�

“Magwiel, we ride in defiance of the King’s order. We go to join with the son of Amandil. To join the Faithful.�

Shock was evident on her face in spite of the shadows. She barely kept her voice beneath a whisper as she stood and looked to Esteldûr and Forthon in turn. “What have you done, my brothers? You commit treason against Númenor! Against the King!�

Forthon raised a hand to soothe her. “Magwiel, Númenor’s is the treason. It is the King that commits treachery, against Ilúvatar.�

Magwiel’s manner became agitated. She lowered herself to sit beside Forthon once more. “Will you yet hold to the foolish beliefs of our parents?� she whispered earnestly. “Oh, Forthon, they were killed for their beliefs. Would you also be killed?� Her voice shook. “They will hunt you, and they will find you. Then you will all be slain!� Her eyes glistened in the darkness. Esteldûr’s throat constricted and his own eyes grew warm.

“Perhaps,� said Forthon. Tears were on his face as well now, but his expression was set. “But I will not be counted among the enemies of the Valar. I will not commit such grievous treason, for the price is my soul.� He took her face in his hands. Their eyes locked. “It is your soul as well, Magwiel. Follow this course and it is lost for ever. I beg you; come with us. Please.�

The silence was broken only by the howling of the wind outside. Esteldûr shivered as Magwiel hesitated.

At last she pulled back from Forthon, tears sliding down her cheeks. She shook her head, nearly unable to speak. “No,� she whispered. “I cannot.�

A shaking breath broke from Forthon; it sounded like a sob to Esteldûr. He placed a hand on his sister’s head, rising to his feet. “Then you must be from this night forth as dead to me.� He bent down and kissed her forehead. “Farewell for ever, sweet sister.�

He turned away from her as she wept. Esteldûr stepped to her, embraced her. “Will you not come away with us?� he asked through his tears. She shook her head mutely, hardly able to look at him. She kissed him and pressed his hand, and then released him.

Amariel had watched the scene, unmoving. Now she went silently to her sister, and Magwiel herself put her arms about her. They clasped each other wordlessly, until at last Amariel drew back. “Good-bye, little sister.� Her voice was very quiet, but no tears were in it. Kissing her ere she stepped away, she added, “I love thee.�

Magwiel watched them go, tears streaming down her face. Forthon spoke, his voice cold and remote. “Pray, remember not that we came. You may be questioned concerning us, and for that I apologize. You know nothing of our being in this camp; we were never here.� She nodded, and then they were gone.


Demaethor moved away silently as the threesome left the tent. He had heard them rise, followed them here. He had heard their whispered conversation with their sister. Now he stole away, returning quickly to his own cot, lest they should know what he had followed them.

[Rosie Gamgee]

Chapter Three

As agreed, Berihien and Galdûreth appeared at the appointed time. Both men had arrayed themselves in their mail and jackets. They brought an extra jacket for Forthon, who could not take his own armour from Eldalondë without suspicion. They had with them such weapons as they could obtain; a sword and a quiver and bow for Forthon, who was skilled with arrows, a short sword for Esteldûr, and two braces of blades for themselves. Also they had brought spears enough for all the soldiers and one for Esteldûr. They had horses, they reported, waiting for all of them at the edge of the camp. The guard had been “taken care of,� Galdûreth said, adding also that the deed had been done without the guard knowing who had knocked them insensible and bound them. Demaethor accepted their report approvingly.

Quickly they gathered together what provisions they had. Stealing quietly through the dark, silent rows of flapping tents they came to the horses.

“I will give you one final chance to turn back,� Demaethor said to Berihien and Galdûreth as they mounted. “If you follow me, from this moment hence I will demand your utter loyalty. Any question of my judgment shall be answered with death. For I will not imperil our lives with any witness of our enterprise. You follow me willingly?�

They nodded, also mounting. “We do, my lord,� both replied.

“Good,� Demaethor answered. “Now, we must ride with all haste. This is the strategy used by the pursuers of deserters and renegades: two waves. The first shall be the sprinters. Whatever can be assembled in haste once our treachery is discovered will ride hard in our wake. Unless my judgment is amiss, they will catch us before we reach Armenelos, for they will guess that we ride for the Golden City.� He looked about in the darkness at the faces of his charges. He read some apprehension there, even fear, but no regret or wish to turn back from their course. “It will be most likely that we may conceal ourselves and be passed by, although there is the possibility that we will meet with them.

“The second wave will be the long-runners. They will pursue us with more thought, but less speed. It will be easy to guess, after we have left Armenelos, that we ride for the east coast. They may follow us even to Rómenna.� The faces staring back at him reflected understanding.

His speech nearly finished, Demaethor turned his horse once around before turning to lead the way. “No more talk between us. Ride close; light no lamp or torch. We stop at daybreak to rest the horses, but we shall not sleep until we are within sight of Armenelos. No weapon is to be drawn save by my command.�

Slowly they rode out of the camp. The quiet plodding of horse’s hooves and the tinkling of the mail the soldiers wore the were the only sounds they made. The winds whipped them harshly. The rain had turned to cold, frozen droplets; white grains that pelted them from the sky. Demaethor waited until they were quiet out of earshot of any in the encampment before he gave the order to fly. The lights of the camp flickered as little yellow stars behind them. The sight was the only one that offered warmth. Ahead lay a cold, dark wilderness of peril.

It occurred to Demaethor that the path of redemption was not one that availed itself easily. It seemed to will him to turn aside, but he would not retreat. If he could make Rómenna with this shattered family, put them aboard Elendil’s ships, then his past crimes would be atoned for. The redemption of his soul was within his grasp. He would reach out and take the offered mercy of the Valar. It waited for him in Rómenna.

“Now,� said he, just loud enough to be heard above the horses’ feet, “let us ride!� And at his word five horses were urged to sudden speed, and they fled into the night.


Despite the haste in which they rode, the cold darkness did not pass swiftly. Demaethor fancied oft the sound of pursuit when his thought wandered. Snapping back to the present, though, he found the lonely country they traversed quite silent save for themselves. Twice they passed by villages, but no lights greeted them. The lamps of the hamlets had been blown out by the fierce wind that chased the party from the west. The freezing rain abated once, then came back again redoubled. Demaethor’s helm rang incessantly with the sound of little hailstones. A veil of snow hampered his eyes. As he had ordered, no one spoke, though they traveled close together. The monotonous sounds of hoof-beats and wind-driven hail well-nigh overcame Demaethor’s apprehension. Even the horses were wearied and bored by the seeming endless darkness. But Demaethor had learned long ago the tediousness of suspense, and that the longest, darkest hour is the one just before battle.

When at last the first glassy rays of dawn of began to light the west behind them, the hearts of all the riders were cheered, though they chased the darkness in the east. About them the hail had covered the ground, turned it mottled white like sand on a seashore. Demaethor looked around him at his men, his charges. All were pale-faced in the blue morn, but expectation was in their eyes as they looked toward the east. Eärendil’s star shown yet in the half-lit sky, peeking anon through the clouds, and it seemed to them as a sign of hope. And rising up out of the receding night before them, away on the horizon, was the first distant sight of the Meneltarma. The encampment they had left that night was pitched on the endmost foothills of the holy mountain’s southwestern root (for its five Tarmasundar extended out from its base to the five peninsulas of Númenor). Now they rode away from the finger-like foothills, toward the plains of Noirinan. Their path led them a little south to circumvent the huge mountain, but now they seemed to make directly for it. The Meneltarma seemed to beckon them, they who as enemies of Sauron had nothing to fear from its frowning peak. Its far off height, milky with snow, sparkled like a little white ember, reflecting the sapphire dawn.

When at long last the dawn broke at their backs, Demaethor looked about him for a suitable place to rest. A small wood lay to the south not a mile off. This he led them toward. The country near was not inhabited; all was empty and silent. The hail had diminished with the morning light, turning to snow, and the sky remained overcast and the wind yet blew strongly. At his sign the riders slowed their mounts. “Here we rest,� Demaethor dictated when they came to the eaves of the wood.


The party dismounted and stretched their aching limbs gratefully. Demaethor ordered that a fire be made, for all were chilled to the bones by the wind. Berihien and Forthon set to gathering fallen tree-limbs, which were in abundance thanks to that self-same wind. Amariel collected what herbs and wild food she could to supplement their provisions while Esteldûr compacted the drifted pebbles of hail and snow in their only pot, seeking to melt it for water. Demaethor set Galdûreth to work with a tinderbox, then, wondering at the soldier’s ineptness at producing a flame, proceeded to instruct him himself in the art. Presently a small fire blazed in defiance of the cold winds, and their little pot began to bubble with a meager soup.

“Did you ever see such weather?� Forthon said as they warmed themselves by the fire. He was looking about him at the frosty land. Wonder was in his eyes as he watched the driven snow descend. The faces of all the party were beginning to show raw and rosy from the harsh winds. They blew into their hands to warm them.

Demaethor nodded in response to Forthon’s query. “Yes,� he said, grimly. “I have seen such severe winds and rains and snow—in the Middle-lands. But never before in Númenor.� When he was a lad, the rains of Númenor had never been harsh, and the breezes only mild and fair. The air was never biting but always cool, refreshing, life-giving. The storms that now plagued the Isle of Gift were unthinkable. But slowly, slowly, that had all changed. The air, once sweet with the scent of the western seas and gay flowers, turned bitter and dry. The winds blew cold and hard. Clouds congregated like great frowning visages over the Isle. Storms arose from the west, tossing the seas wildly, the proud ships of Men flung about on them like crumbs shaken from a tablecloth. Flooding became common in the sea-side towns and cities. The ruination of homes and crops were prevalent inland, where the rains fell hard and the winds toppled trees and houses. And now, a land that had never known winter was waking on this morn to find snow drifting from the threatening skies.

“What is it like, in the Middle-lands?� Esteldûr asked suddenly. There was eagerness in his voice, and Demaethor understood it. If they were to sail away from Númenor, they would make a new home in the Middle-lands. But what was this land that the Faithful might soon look to as their only refuge? The boy had never known any other place but this Isle. Was there solace indeed to be found in the strange, untamed regions of Middle-earth?

Demaethor smiled. “It is a wild place,� he said, and whether or not he knew it, all their ears now listened to his words. “It is a land which knows no law like Númenor’s domesticated meads and woods. Though Man and Elf inhabit it, it grows and breathes of its own accord. It is an untamed beast, fat and overgrown because it has known no master. It is a rugged place for a rugged people. But,� he added, and his eyes shone, “it is ripe with opportunity. It waits to be made fair and yielding, to be subdued and mastered. The Elves hold some of the regions and tame them in their strange fashion, and we guard the lands and the base folk we have conquered. But one day, I deem, the kingdoms of the Númenórians will fill Middle-earth.�

All was silent as each one pondered Demaethor’s speech, until Forthon spoke. “Have you indeed seen the Elves, my captain?� His face was open and eager, like his brother’s.

Demaethor wondered suddenly, realizing that these young Faithful, these ‘Elf-Friends’, would have never met an elf before. For the ports and bays of Númenor were now closed to any of the Elder Kindred—their ships were shunned by Númenor entirely. Since many years past the penalty of death was put upon any caught harboring elves. Subsequently, those fair people never came unto the shores of Númenor. So many folk, Demaethor realized, hid for their lives, lived in fear every day, and were dragged to Sauron in defense of a people they did not even know.

“I fought but few battles with the Elves,� answered Demaethor, and he fell into remembrances of days long past. “Once I saw Gil-galad their King from afar, surrounded by his fair knights and strange, wondrous banners. Such a sight that was to a young soldier! Such fair folk are they, and tall and solemn. In their faces are the tales of many years, and when they walk it is like seeing a man long dead wander in his youthfulness before your eyes. But they are proud and distant, and allow no man to enter into their domains. They do not attach themselves to men, for they know our days are numbered, and would distance themselves from our short lives and quick deaths. They feel no compassion for the sons of men and their brief, toilsome days, standing aloof in their fairy-halls reveling in their eternal youth.� Demaethor abruptly checked his tongue. Bitterness and even wrath had stolen into his voice; he realized that he was repeating the lies of Sauron. The eyes of his listeners were yet on him, and he quickly looked away from their gazes. “Pardon me,� he said quietly, with a wry expression. “That which is impressed upon a youth dies hard when he is old. Those words are mine no more, but only lies from past days.� There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. Demaethor made an excuse to leave.


“Will you take some food, my lord?� Demaethor looked up. He had been inspecting the horses, alone in his thoughts, when a woman’s voice interrupted him. Forthon’s sister was standing before him, a small wooden bowl in her hand. Steam rose from it, tossed by the winds that whistled by, and Demaethor realized suddenly how hungry he was when he caught the scent of the soup.

“Thank you,� he said, and took the bowl from her.

“I am sorry,� said she. “We have no spoons.�

Demaethor did not answer but raised the bowl to his lips, tipped it up and sipped a mouthful. He had meant merely to show that he had no need of an eating implement, but she seemed to take the action as some affront. She moved to go. “How are you faring, woman? How is your younger brother?� he asked, half to show her he had not meant to insult her, and half to truly inquire after her and the lad. He was well aware that a woman and a boy would not hold up so well in such harsh conditions as trained soldiers. And although from this point onward he intended that they ride at a slower pace, he did not wish to be slowed down very much.

“We are well,� she answered him tersely.

“Good.� He nodded, and could think of nothing else to reply. She turned away again, her look one of forced tolerance. He could not help thinking that their interactions kept beginning badly. If Demaethor was to be the leader of this little rag-tag band of runaways, he needed the trust of all of them. And he could not understand why it seemed so hard to gain hers.

Compelled to acquit himself before her, and because he could think of no other thing to say, he called out ere she left, “I am sorry you were forced to leave your sister behind.�

She turned back. Her eyes scanned his face, and Demaethor perceived that she found there the truth of his eavesdropping last night. But her expression softened a little. “I thank you for your discretion,� she said. “No doubt it serves your purpose very well: Magwiel shall not be able to tell anyone of your treachery against the King, seeing as she did not see you with us. Nevertheless, I thank you for not hindering our speech with her.� Demaethor marked that she remained quite calm as she spoke; no tears came to her eyes at all. She was quiet for a space, though, and then said, “I would apologize, my lord, for striking you. It is not fitting that a woman strike a captain in the King’s Army, whatever her position.�

“My pardon is given freely,� answered Demaethor. He could not tell if she was pleased with these words. But he noticed that as a gust of frigid wind blew by, she shivered slightly. She wore only a light summer frock, the only garment she had that was not designed to attract attention, and a thin, worn coat, the hood of which she had pulled over her head. “You are cold,� Demaethor said aloud. Then, to mask the ridiculousness of such a statement, he drew off his own thick cloak and laid it across her shoulders.

“I cannot accept this,� she protested, and made a move to take it off. “Take back your cloak, my lord.�

“Nay,� he said firmly. “A cold body is a sluggish one, and I will not have you fall asleep astride your mount. Such an event could slow us down in a moment of dire haste.�

“No such thing shall happen, my lord,� she told him. Her coolness of her tone had mounted. He brooked not her refusal, however, and stood away from her. She seemed to resign herself to his order. “Thank you,� she said, and this time when she walked away he did not call her back.

Demaethor watched her as she left him, noting that she did not seem to disappear within the huge cloak he had laid on her, as he might have expected, but rather she wore it with a well-bred mien. He wondered again at the pride she held within her.

She had gone back to the fire, where the rest of them were eating directly out of the soup-pot with broken sticks. Amariel sat down beside Esteldûr. Demaethor tilted his head in thought when she threw the better part of the cloak he’d given her over the boy’s shoulders. Esteldûr, too, possessed only light clothing: the dirty remains of his black livery and a flimsy blanket he clutched about himself. Sister and brother sat there huddling under the cloak together. And when Amariel rose up again, she left the garment on the boy.


They were careful to cover the remains of their little fire ere they rode on. But Demaethor feared that tracking them would not prove very difficult for their pursuit. With the morning, the harsh coldness left the air and the night’s precipitation began to melt, leaving the ground soft and impressionable. He cast an eye behind ever and anon, always expecting to see riders cresting the hills they descended, or riding from the edges of the wooded patches they passed.

The day proved cold and sodden. The wind sit blew strong, though not as strong as last night. Clouds were still overhead, a great billowing roof over them that coiled and moved, but did not clear off. Ahead of them Demaethor gazed on the ever-growing height of the Meneltarma. Its awesome peak was shrouded in mist and cloud, looking foreboding. A pale blue thread was visible now and then, winding down from the great mountain: the river Siril. They would have to cross it later that day, he knew, before coming to Armenelos. There was a bridge spanning its waters, but they would have to return to the road in order to use it. He was still debating within himself whether or not this was a wise choice, or if they should attempt to find a ford.

“My captain.� Demaethor turned as Forthon pushed his horse up beside his. When they had set out again, Demaethor withdrew his order for silence. Now and again he could hear low conversation behind him. Right now though, all had been silent until Forthon called him.

“Yes, Sergeant?�

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I thought to remind you of the river we will soon reach.� He pointed toward the strand of water flowing down the holy mountain. “I did not know how you thought to cross it. The water is always cool from its decent from the mountain. It will be even colder now with this weather. And yet the bridge will most likely be in much use as the King is calling all the Army to Eldalondë.�

Demaethor smiled. The young soldier once again seemed to be reading his thoughts. He was a good soldier, that Forthon. He was a leader, aware of what was behind and before, and minded toward the good of the group. Demaethor would have made certain he had a command of his own one day, if they had yet belonged to an army. “It is well you are anticipating the matter, Sergeant. I, too, have been considering it,� he said. He used the opportunity to teach the young man. “Here are my thoughts: I wish to reach Armenelos by nightfall, that you may seek your younger brother under the cover of darkness. Taking the bridge would prove less time-consuming, and would put us outside the city by sunset. However, the water is deep there; we would have to use the bridge or not cross. And, as you have said, the river will be cold. To find a shallow spot we would need to ride quite a way south. This could take hours, but the time might be made up if we ride hard. What then shall I choose?� Forthon’s face showed he, too, was weighing the choice as his captain spoke. Demaethor continued, “Now, Sergeant, many might think such a decision a simple one. But a commander of men must consider his objective, and also the risks and the advantages. And at the same time he must be able to predict what repercussions might result from his decision. Lives depend on his making the right choice. Such a thing is not to be considered lightly.�

Forthon nodded seriously. “What, then, is your choice, Captain?�

Demaethor looked again toward the river, hesitating only a moment before he pronounced, “We shall take the bridge. We will reach the river a little past midday, I deem, and we shall be perhaps a league south of the bridge. We’ll follow the water north that we may view the road and make certain our crossing is unwatched, then pass over and be off the road again as soon as we may.�

The sergeant nodded again. “Very good, sir,� he said.

There was a moment of silence as they rode on. Demaethor turned once more to Forthon. “I am going behind for a while,� he said. “Stay here, watch the way. Inform me if anything approaches from ahead.�

“Yes, sir,� the young man responded instantly.

Demaethor reined in his mount, slowing him a little. He fell in beside Galdûreth, who had been riding just behind him and Forthon. “How now, soldier?�

Galdûreth smiled wryly. “Shall I say that the backside of a foot-soldier is unused to the saddle?� He looked ahead when Demaethor did not respond. “You favour the boy,� he said with another smile. “Is he a relation? Nephew; cousin?�

“He is your Sergeant.� Demaethor glowered. “Your forthrightness vexes me, soldier. I suggest you check your tongue.�

Galdûreth’s smile vanished. “Forgive me, Captain. I meant not to displease.� When Demaethor made no offer of words, he gave a more satisfactory report. “Save that I am unused to riding, I am well, Captain.�

Demaethor nodded, and dropped away from the man. He fell back between Amariel and Berihien. A few words he spoke with Berihien. The soldier seemed to be holding up better than his companion, who really did look pained as he rode ahead of them.

“How are you twain?� Demaethor inquired of Esteldûr and his sister. Amariel rode with Esteldûr in front of her, and Demaethor’s cloak about them both.

“We are well, my lord,� Amariel answered tepidly. Her voice was devoid of feeling. Demaethor tried to read her face, but he could not guess what she was thinking. He had heard her voice back here, conversing with Berihien or her brother at whiles, but he had not known what they spoke of.

“We shall reach Armenelos by nightfall,� Demaethor informed the two. “Forthon has said that he knows not where your infant brother is, but he was not there when... the boy vanished. Have you any ideas where he might be?�

Esteldûr shook his head, but his sister replied, “I have thought of a few of our neighbors that might have taken him in. There is also a house in the city for orphans he might have been taken to if he was found wandering in the streets.�

“Good,� Demaethor said. “It will help to narrow the search.�

“Have you younger siblings?� Amariel suddenly asked him. “Any children?�

The question took Demaethor by surprise. But she was not a soldier, and he could not deflect her inquiries by telling her to check her tongue, as he had Galdûreth. “I have neither,� he answered.

“Then you cannot comprehend the pain of leaving one behind,� she said without reserve.

He guessed now that she was thinking of her sister. “No, indeed, I cannot,� he agreed. “But do not think me unfeeling, woman. I have had many men dear to me under my command; I have seen friends perish in battle, and I have held the hands of young men as they have died. I would not see your brother left in Armenelos, any more then you.�

Amariel looked at him anew. Demaethor marked a look of softness in her eyes that he had not seen there before. She glanced away after a moment. “Forgive me, my lord,� she said. Her voice was devoid of its wonted harshness, yet she seemed to force herself to say the words. She seemed to Demaethor to be apologizing for more than her question.

“No offense was taken,� he replied, and perhaps his voice was not loud enough to be heard over the horses’ hoof-beats. For she spoke no more, but gazed ahead of her silently. Demaethor urged his horse forward. As he passed Galdûreth, he said, “Why ride you in this position? I will not leave our flank defenseless. Fall behind with Berihien; the young boy and his sister shall ride in the center where they may be protected.�

Galdûreth dropped back as ordered while Demaethor returned to the head of their little line.


A little after midday, as they had thought, the little group found the river Siril. Its steep banks were overshadowed by spreading willows and firs, and a slow path the little party wound among them. The fast-rushing water sang coolly as Demaethor and Forthon led them along. They rode in silence much of the way, thinking their own thoughts. The captain’s thinking, he found, kept turning to the woman riding behind him. He heard her voice once or twice, coupled lowly with Esteldûr’s.

“You and your family seem very close,� said Demaethor to Forthon.

The boy shook his head with a sad smile. “Some of us ar—or were. But I am afraid we all took each other much for granted before... before.�

“I have known a few men who have thought worse of their kin than their enemies,� Demaethor replied. “But there is a devotion and a fondness that binds your family together, I deem.�

Nodding, Forthon said, “Yes. It was Amariel, really. She was the one who bound us siblings all together, cared for all of us though we would sometimes resent her for it.�

“Your sister is an interesting woman,� said Demaethor.

Smiling, Forthon agreed. “She is the eldest of my father’s children, and like another mother she sometimes seemed. Unlike our other sister, her heart and mind were always close and held back. She is like a precious stone in the midst of layers of rock, hidden and puzzling.�

Demaethor nodded, understanding well what the sergeant said. His sister was foreign to Demaethor as well, perhaps more so. She was so cold and aloof, and yet her pride was alive with a hidden fire.

Forthon had turned to look into the distance, but his countenance had turned sad and remorseful. “I should have been there,� he said. Then, turning to Demaethor, “I should have been there to protect her when they took our parents.� Forthon’s eyes were glistening with tears threatening to fall, but he blinked them back. “Look what she has become,� he said sadly.

“They would have only taken you as well,� Demaethor answered, knowing it to be true. And yet he began to wonder at the man’s desire. He saw now the shallowness of all his own desires and ambitions. They were all centered around himself and his career. But when he looked at Forthon, he saw there a young man who served and fought with his family in mind. Demaethor wondered what that might be like: to fight in defense of a thing dearly loved. Amariel, he thought, might have been right to think him unfeeling. He had spoken the truth when he said that some friends he had held dear, but he had never loved deeply. And she had judged rightly when she said that he could not comprehend losing someone so loved. It was obvious that such loss had marred her heavily. She was well into what was considered by Númenórians to be marriageable years. It was probable that in addition to the loss of her father’s family she had also lost a husband and children. Demaethor mused a while on that. He began to understand a little better her coldness, her distrust of him. He was one of those that had made a living by inflicting such pain on people.

They rounded a bend in the riverbank, and came out to a clear space just beside the water. “The bridge is nigh,� Forthon said. Demaethor had marked it at the same time that the other man did, and he halted his steed just under the branches the trees. The others did the same as Demaethor held his hand up in signal.

The captain surveyed the area before him. The hewn-stone arch spanned the river’s expanse gracefully about a hundred feet ahead of them. As if gathering together around the bridge, huge worn boulders lay haphazardly about the banks nearby, their rounded edges dipping into the river water. Looking at the bridge, the captain saw no activity upon it, and though he listened he could hear no marching feet or galloping horses. But on either side of the bridge only a few feet of the road were visible. For the trees were crowded thickly about the way. The lack of visibility frustrated Demaethor. He glanced back. “Galdûreth,� he called softly.

The soldier guided his horse quietly to Demaethor. “Yes, my captain?� he said softly. The captain was pleased that the man had no impertinent remarks this time.

“Ride ahead quietly and spy the road. See if any approach, and signal if the way is clear. If not, return here, keeping yourself concealed in the trees.� Galdûreth nodded. “And put on your helm,� Demaethor added.

“Aye, sir.� As ordered, Galdûreth donned his simple helmet before nudging his horse forward once more. Demaethor watched the soldier pick his way quietly, slowly. In the coolness he could see his own breath as the silence was punctuated by his breathing. At last Galdûreth reached the road. He rode boldly out onto it, and the shape of he and his mount disappeared beyond the trees that bordered it.

After a moment, he appeared again, and rode part-way up the bridge to see the other side of the river. He raised his hand, beckoning for them to come.

“Let us go,� Demaethor said quietly, and they began to ride on.

“The way is clear as far as the eyes and the ears may tell,� Galdûreth reported when Demaethor reached him. The captain scanned the road as they advanced upon it. The way disappeared in the wood behind them, making it impossible to see if any pursuit of them traversed it in the distance. Ahead the road was straight, though, and the trees began to thin out. Demaethor knew the way was well-nigh straight all the way to Armenelos. It was going to prove difficult, he knew, to keep hidden on the wide wolds between this wood and the Golden City.

The grey-blue waters passed swiftly underneath them as they crossed the bridge. They reflected the roiling, turbulent skies. As midday had come, the winds had become stronger once more, sending the clouds above into tumult. The air was pensive with moisture and the scent of cold, bitter rain. Demaethor was distrustful of the road as he led his group along it. Although he was thankful they had met none of their hunters yet, he almost wished for some sign of them. The quiet barrenness of the land made him wonder if they had not already reached this point, and lay in ambush somewhere beyond. Now he kept a sharp eye on the trees about them.

Within a half-hour they had left the road once more, turning aside to the open fields of Noirinan. The Meneltarma was to the north of them now, on their left. Its huge foothills rose abruptly from the plains like a visual trumpet proclaiming the glory of its mounting heights. How fearful and awesome was that holy mountain! It shadowed over the plain with its massive, solemn visage, wreathed in cloud and mist, rising majestically to height beyond vision.

One of the mountain’s Tarmasundar lay across the fields perhaps eight or nine leagues ahead of the riders. Like a finger it pointed languidly toward Hyarrostar, the southeastern region of Númenor. At its tip lay the great city of Armenelos. Even in the dull light of this cloudy day the golden domes of the royal buildings sparkled in the distance. And even eight leagues away a spiral of black smoke could be seen rising from the city: an evil, coiling black wisp tainting the sky.

[Rosie Gamgee]

Chapter Four

The light of day was just waning. The wind-swept wolds had given way to bumpy knuckles of land strung with stone walls and little copses. A light rain drifted about. The last leg of this day’s journey lay before them: the uphill road to Armenelos. Anxiousness arose in Demaethor as he saw the grand farmhouses crowding about the great root of the mountain, seeing in each one of them exposure and failure ready to overtake him. But the protection of darkness was coming, and in that he had assurance. His confidence, however, took root too soon.

“Captain!� Berihien called sharply. Demaethor turned about so swiftly his horse grunted and pranced in confusion. “Captain, behold! Riders behind!�

Demaethor saw them. Seven or eight mounted knights, riding hard toward them. The signs on their armour (for they were close now) told Demaethor at a glance that they were from the encampment they had fled from that morning. The captain wondered fleetingly that they had found so many sober horsemen to send after them. “Damnable circumstance!� he shouted, looking about them for cover. None was to be found save for a rocky hillock nigh. Unable to do better, Demaethor spurred his horse toward it. “Ride!� he cried. “They’ve marked us by now; ride! Ride for the hill!�

They were upon the stony ridge in a moment. “Dismount!� Demaethor cried, swinging down from his own saddle before his steed had halted. “Haste, haste; make a spear-line!� Forthon, Berihien, Galdûreth and Esteldûr all sprang down from their own mounts. The sound of thundering hoof-beats was growing. “Haste!� Their pursuit had indeed marked them and rode with doubled speed toward their hillock. The men hurried behind the rocks, kneeling with Demaethor and bracing their spears. Not too soon did they do so.

With drawn falchions and lowered spears their pursuit crashed into their little line. All was a hot mess of noise and blood and steel where only moments ago had been cold, foreboding quiet. The knights all, save for one, had been tossed from their horses when they had come down upon the spear-line. One of them lay motionless. Two more had their hands full with Berihien, besetting the man hard on both sides. Galdûreth had drawn both of his blades as well, clashing steel with another heavily-armoured man. Forthon and his little brother fought a man each, back to back. The blade of the one was flashing in his skilled hands, while the younger of the two cried out with every unpracticed blow he struck.

Demaethor grasped his axe and advanced upon the last mounted knight. The other man spun his horse about, keeping the captain at bay. Shouting, Demaethor plunged in, striking a mighty blow to the horse’s flank. He hated to harm the noble animal, but his move had the desired effect. The wounded beast screamed and reared in pain. Although his rider tried bravely to keep from falling, he slid to the ground. His mount stepped about him, wild with pain. Demaethor gave the knight no chance to rise, nor to take up again the weapon he had dropped. With a cry the captain came down upon the fallen man. A mad fervor took hold of him and he brought his axe down savagely. The man was dead in the space of a moment. Demaethor stepped back, breathing heavily. It had been a while since he’d killed a man in battle, and never before had he slain a fellow Númenórian in combat. What madness was this? he wondered.

Amid the cries of exertion and the clanging of blades someone yelled in pain. Berihien fell against the rocks, the blade of his enemy having pierced his thigh. He had already slain one of his attackers. The other he now warded off yet, his face contorted with agony. Forthon sprang to his side, sword ringing. He snatched up another blade from the fallen knight and wielded both at once. But their opponent was strong and he held his own against the two soldiers.

Esteldûr had become separated from his brother. The fire of his fight made up for what he lacked in skill, though, and he gave his own attacker a worshipful battle. A lucky blow had limited the knight’s time; it would not be long before the boy had the best of his enemy. Not far from him, Galdûreth was still hard-pressed.

Another cry, one foreign to such a gory scene, bit the air. Demaethor saw Amariel a way off. She had gathered the horses together when they had stopped, removing herself from the battle. Now she kicked and bit and screamed as another soldier assailed her. His intent was obviously not to kill her swiftly, for she was weaponless and her fight, though valiant, was in vain. His actions were bullying and strong as her pushed her about. Demaethor caught the sound of the man’s taunting laughter. He moved away from the battle, to Amariel’s aid. But he was not quick enough. Her assailant saw him coming, grabbed a horse and pulled himself atop it before Demaethor could reach him. Amariel stumbled after him as he wheeled the horse about. He kicked her back. The soldier quickly scanned the battle, seeing quickly that his side was losing. He spurred his stolen mount as Demaethor ran up, swinging his axe with a cry. The captain’s blow missed when the horse sped away. “Forthon!� Demaethor yelled as the knight began to gallop off toward Armenelos. Forthon and Berihien had not yet overcome their foe, the captain saw as he looked toward them. “Forthon, thy bow!�

At Demaethor’s words Berihien launched himself upon their common enemy, crying out in pain, but managing to shove his blade between the man’s mail and his helm. Forthon stepped aside, snatching up the bow on his back and stringing it with haste. Grabbing an arrow from his quiver he fitted it to the string. He took swift aim at the fast-retreating knight. As Forthon loosed the arrow, though, a tall figure rose up behind him. Galdûreth’s attacker had broken away from him, seeking an easier kill.

“Forthon!� Amariel screamed. Demaethor ran for the sergeant, but the distance between them was far too great. He shouted for Galdûreth, who was closest to Forthon, but he did not move quick enough.

Forthon’s arrow sprang away wildly as he turned about. He had no time to defend himself. The other man’s falchion buried itself deep in the young soldier’s gut. Forthon went rigid. A single, shocked cry tore out of him. He sank stiffly away as the blade was withdrawn.

Esteldûr, too, screamed his brother’s name, though it was hardly coherent. The firey lad had only just overcome his enemy. Now he let loose a fey, shrill cry and threw himself against Forthon’s assailant. The man could not have comprehended what he had awoken. Esteldûr grabbed up the broken haft of a spear, pulling it with all his wild might across the knight’s throat. The man gagged and flailed, but the boy would not be moved. Demaethor reached him then, and slew the man with single blow of his axe. At last, Esteldûr’s tensed body relaxed its hold on the now bloody wreck of flesh he had seized. The broken haft fell from his hand as he gasped great breaths of air. It clattered down on the rocks, then rested.

All went deathly silent.


Forthon’s chest rose and fell sharply, and every breath he drew was a broken cry. Demaethor bent over him, removing his own helm, and that of Forthon, and pulling away the bloodied jacket from the sergeant’s wound. Forthon had been wearing no mail beneath it. Amariel made an agonized noise and looked away from the gory rent. She was kneeling beside her brother, stroking his pale face gently.

Demaethor carefully laid the jacket back where it had been. Forthon’s body shuddered, and he groaned. He turned his eyes, wild with pain, upon Demaethor. He knew the truth; it was in his eyes; but still his gaze questioned his captain. “It’s mortal,� said Demaethor. His hand found Forthon’s. Their hands, flimy with dirt and blood, clasped. “You will not live another hour.�

The young man nodded stiffly. “Oh, Forthon,� Esteldûr cried.

“Shh,� the dying man said, and swallowed a moan. His eyes closed, and he lay there, just sucking in air, his face growing whiter. A moment later he opened his eyes, and turned them on Amariel. “I’m—I’m sorry,� he stammered. His voice was choked, his teeth now stained with the blood his mouth was filling with. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I should have protected you, ‘til a worthier one came, Amariel. I’m—sorry.�

His eyes seemed to search the sky for something. “Peace.� Amariel smoothed back the hair from his ashen brow. Her tone was that of a mother soothing a little child’s nightmares. “Peace.�

“And now I shall leave you again,� Forthon whispered. His eyes were glistening with tears. “It is so cold, sister.� Amariel took his free hand, heedless of the gore and blood that covered it, and raised it to her cheek in an affectionate gesture. Forthon struggled to keep his eyes open. A broken chuckle escaped his lips. “Do—do you recall, sister, when he was just a tiny babe? Just able to walk on his own? He use—used to wander in his sleep....�

Demaethor, confused, glanced at Amariel. She only shushed her brother gently, whispering, “Yes, that was Anardil, Forthon.�

Forthon was shuddering uncontrollably now. His hand had become deathly cold in Demaethor’s, gripping tightly. He was near the end. “He used to wander...� His voice shook. Forthon’s eyes, still groping the sky like those of a blind man, suddenly settled on something away to the west. “Ilúvatar,� he whispered. His expression cleared, his shudders ceased. His voice was very clear as he said aloud, “The eagles! Behold the eagles of the West!�

They all looked up as a fierce wind suddenly smote the little hillock. The furious howling of it overtook Demaethor’s senses, and he stared a moment, unbelieving of what he saw. Looming over the fields, riding the wind—or perhaps creating it—was a huge eagle, it wings spanning leagues on leagues, covering the sky. The whole land was darkened in its shadow. It advanced upon them with lightenings under its pinions. The horizon was blurred from vision in its wake, and indeed it seemed to consume all that its darkness fell upon. Demaethor saw then it was no eagle but a great storm. Hail began to fall as it passed over them, hiding them in its terrible shadow: first small milky dots, then growing to pebble-sized stones, falling madly from the sky. Demaethor braced himself against the vehement winds and turned back to Forthon.

The young man was gone. His eyes were closed and his pale face was relaxed, even peaceful, devoid of the agony that had possessed it. Amariel yet stroked his hair, senseless to anything around her. But she wept not.


“We must go,� Demaethor said. He grasped Forthon’s wrist, pulling his hand away from the man’s death-grip. He found his hand caked with crackled blood. Rising, he repeated, “We must go. Come.�

“But, what about his body?� Esteldûr stammered. His face was red, his cheeks stained by the tears that filled his eyes. But Demaethor was not a comforter, he was a commander. He turned away from the boy, going after the horses. “Bring him, if you value dead flesh,� he called over his shoulder, hating the coldness in his voice. His thoughts were as tumultuous as the winds that threatened to knock him over. Forthon was dead. It would not matter what else he did, Demaethor could not bring him back to life. And that fact tormented him. He had meant to bring the sergeant and his family to Rómenna. Of all in their little party, Forthon was last one he would have chosen to lose. Now the young man was just another one dead because of Demaethor. “If mercy is indeed to be found among the Valar, why then has this befallen!?� he felt like yelling to the sky. How could they not spare Forthon, the one Demaethor was trying so hard to save? It was as if the gods wanted him to fail, to be brought utterly to his knees, empty of any merit, before they would forgive him.

Galdûreth had torn strips from his surcoat and used them to bind up Berihien’s wound. Now he followed after Demaethor and helped him to bring the horses back. By the time they had rounded up all four of their remaining steeds, Amariel and her little brother had wrapped Forthon’s body in Demaethor’s volumous cloak. With little words they laid it upon one of the horses. Galdûreth looked once as though he might protest, but Demaethor silenced him with a fierce look.

The two foot-soldiers had now to share a mount. Esteldûr and Amariel sat again together on the same steed. The boy grasped the bridle of his brother’s horse with a free hand. Demaethor swung up into the saddle of his own mount, and led them on through the building storm toward Armenelos. They feared not for discovery now; the tempest engulfed them in blinding rain and hail, strong winds, and heavy dimness. Only the will of their burdened hearts kept them going up the hill to the Golden City.


They were less than a mile from the gates of the city when Demaethor commanded that his diminished group halt. The winds and the hail were so fierce now that going on together would be impossible, for they would all surely be lost in the storm. Also, he did not wish that they should enter the city before night had fully come. Nearby was an abandoned farmhouse. It was there that they took shelter.

The house was large and built of grey brick, and behind was an atrium. There they left the horses. Demaethor and Galdûreth bore Forthon’s body into the house at Amariel’s request. In a dining room they found fagots yet piled on the hearth; Demaethor lit them, and they gathered round the growing blaze. They were all quiet for a time as they warmed themselves, but the howling of the winds without filled the silence. Demaethor stared into the flames, contemplating their recent battle, going over the details of it, seeing it now with the clarity that only distance will give.

“We may have bested our enemies just now,� he said at last, turning from the hearth and looking sternly upon Galdûreth and Berihien, “but do not expect praise for it. Our foes took us by surprise, and that because those at our flank were not watching. A rider has reached the city by now, bearing the tale of our coming. And we have lost a man unnecessarily.� He bent his gaze angrily on Galdûreth. “How is it that you could have let your foe escape you? How is it that he could have come so close to Forthon without hindrance? Report, soldier.�

Amariel had found some lamps, and she and her brother had begun to light them. In their flickering glow Galdûreth swallowed visibly. His eyes were downcast. “Forgive me, Captain. My enemy was a knight, very much skilled in combat, perhaps equal to yourself in ability. He was also heavily armoured. Though I tried with all my skill to best him, I could not. Just before you called to Forthon, Captain, he had thrown me against the rocks. I must admit my brain was much disoriented, as I had also recieved a blow to the helm. It was only when I heard you call to me to aid Forthon that I realized that my enemy had left me and attacked the boy. I could not reach him in time to save him. I am more sorry than I can say.�

“An apology will not bring the young man back,� answered Demaethor coldly. He shifted his gaze to include Berihien. “And how was it that neither of you marked our enemies sooner? It was your task to watch for our pursuit. At least a league behind us was clear and visible. Did they appear out of the air like a cloud, or sprout from the ground like the grass?�

“The fault was mine,� Berihien said. “I confess that I was then growing weary of the saddle. The waning day added to my fatigue. I had for some time forsaken the watch, being intent on staying awake.�

Demaethor shook his head, becoming wroth. “There will be time for slumber when we have made Rómenna, soldier,� he said harshly. “A man is dead, in part because of your shabby vigil. Such a mistake would surely be rewarded with the lash in any decent company. Here I neither have men enough nor time enough to mete out such a punishment. I pray that reflecting on the cost of your blunder will make you consider more carefully allowing fatigue to hinder the performance of your duties.� Turning angrily about, the captain quitted the fireside.


Amariel was alone in an adjacent room. Only one stand of candles provided light and meager warmth. On the table before her was the cold body of her brother. She had found a basin of clean water and a cloth in the kitchen. Now she cleaned the blood and dirt from Forthon’s body. Carefully Amariel stripped him of his bloodied garments, rinsed the grime and gore from them as well. She wondered at the small things she had never noticed about him before: how big and strong, like their father’s, his hands had become; how the boyishness in his face had all but faded; the several greying strands amid his full brown locks.

Forthon had died a good death. He had died defending his family, and for that Amariel was proud of him; for that and much more. Forthon had grown to manhood in the Army, but he had not become obsessed with weapons and the arts of slaying like so many other soldiers. He was compassionate and protective, good and kind of heart. Unlike herself, Forthon had never faltered in his faith in Ilúvatar. Where she now was bitter toward the gods for what had happened to her family, Forthon believed that the goodness of the Valar was to be found in it all. His unswerving faith and his wish to share it had kept him in an Army where everyday it could have meant his execution. Forthon was exactly what their father would have wished his eldest son to be. How regretful Amariel was that she would never be able to tell him that. In only a day she had finally come to realize the man her brother had become, and now he was gone.

Amariel had thought when they had taken her away that day so many long months ago that nothing could ever drive such a painful spike into her soul again. She had thought that the despair and loss of that hour would make her senseless to any other pain. Then had come the horrible life after. Magwiel had been fortunate: her beauty and youth had caught the eye of an officer, and he had taken her away from the existance she would have otherwise been compelled to live, the one Amariel was forced into. The utter shame she felt each time her body had been ravaged so heartlessly made her desire rather to be dead. Her parents would surely have been horrified and disappointed to know what had become of their eldest child. This thought made her heart bleed with bitter pain. But even that had calloused over eventually, her spirit and will withering until there was hardly a shadow of her own self yet within her tarnished, wrecked body. Until Forthon and Esteldûr had appeared. Then her loss and devastation and despair and shame all came crashing back down upon her again. In that moment she could not bear it all, and would have ended her disgraced existance by her own hand if a way out had not been offered. When they had told her of their plan to escape to the east, hope had sprung anew in Amariel; hope that the remnant of her family might be saved, and that she might start life fresh, perhaps someday to finally forget the horror of these days. And hope that such ruin would never touch her heart with its excruciating nettles again.

Yet here before her was the body of her brother. The heart which was so crushed she thought it could never be broken again now shattered with redoubled agony. The pain she had thought she was invulnerable to made itself felt keenly in her soul. But a long time ago the fonts of her tears had run dry. The endless suffering of these past months had used up all the weeping she had to give. Amariel could weep no more, and therefore she had no outlet for her pain. All she could do was wash the grime from Forthon’s cold limbs and hope that he, if his spirit was watching her, understood this was the best that she could do.

A heavy foot-fall signaled that someone else entered the room. Amariel looked up.

“Forgive me, if I disturbed you,� Captain Demaethor said, and his voice was quiet, almost a whisper. His tall, muscular figure was half-robed in shadow. His movements were slow and weary.

Amariel did not answer, but went back to what she was doing. Her feelings toward this captain were unfair, she knew, yet still she could not shake them. He stirred in her a loathing and disgust, in part because he was a man, and her experiences with men had left her bitter toward them, and in part because he had been the Enemy of the Faithful, and she could not comprehend what heartlessness could so compell a man that he would condemn families to suffer as hers had. She desired, as her brothers had done, to forgive him for his past life. But her heart was shut up like her tears and would not be moved.

The captain had stepped nearer, and his eyes were watching Amariel’s movements as she put aside her basin and cloth and began to put Forthon’s garments back on him for the last time. “Your brother was a good soldier,� he said quietly. Amariel slid the linen undershirt on over Forthon’s head, and he helped her to lift his back so that she could get it round his chest. “I had hoped one day to see him a captain.�

Again he aided her as she pulled the leggings over her brother’s limbs. “He always spoke well of you in his letters, my lord,� said she.

Demaethor nodded. “I had taken a special interest in him. He was with me often.�

“Surely he was not with you when you brought men before Sauron,� Amariel questioned, her tone becoming keen. The query was out of her mouth before she could check it, and she was a little remorseful of it.

The captain had met her gaze, his eyes searching hers, perhaps for the source of the animosity in her voice just now. He shook his head. “No,� he answered. “Forthon’s assignment was with the Army only. He never went out with us to uproot the Elendili. I know now why he did not seek to change his commission.� He took up one of Forthon’s boots and fitted it over the cold foot while Amariel did the same.

Amariel found nothing more to say. For a time she worked in silence, the captain aiding her as she put Forthon’s jacket on, his belt and blade, and arranged his limbs and hair. When at last she had finished, Amariel kissed for the last time her brother’s white brow. Demaethor moved backward a step, as if to give her space, but she did not need it. Whatever farewells were to be uttered had been said already. His ears would hear no more; she would not waste empty words.

“I am so sorry this happened,� Demaethor whispered, and Amariel looked up at him, surprised at the emotion in the captain’s voice. He almost would not meet her gaze, it seemed, and when he did, his eyes glistened faintly in the scant candlelight.

What did he expect her to say, Amariel wondered; that it was not his fault? But it was, by chain of responsibility if nothing else. It mattered not if Berihien or Galdûreth had been remiss in their duties; Demaethor was captain. He was responsible for the lives of all his men. His was the blame if one of them was killed. And yet, when she looked into his face, she read such sincere remorse there. Amariel wished for a fleeting moment there was something she could say, or do, that would ease the pain in his eyes.

But she threw the thought from her as quickly as it had come. She said nothing in reply to his assertion. No man was going to prey on her sympathies, to seek solace in her words or actions and find it. This man had called her a who.re. Was that how he thought of her? Did he think that because she was broken and ruined he could seek absolution from the death of Forthon in her? Bitterness and animosity rose up in Amariel’s heart again. She walked coldly away from him. “My lord,� said she, moving to take up the candle-stand, “I have washed my brother’s body. If I may, I would like to bury him here. To lay him to rest in the city where he was born is impossible, I know, but here he will be at least close by.�

The captain’s face was clear of emotion now, as if now that he had found no answer to his feelings he had shut them up inside. “As you wish, lady,� he said.


The five of them braved the raging storm once more, going out to a small orchard beside the house and there digging a shallow grave. The dim light was fast diminishing as the evening drew to a close, but they bore with them no lights. This was because of the risk of being seen, yes, but more because the wind would have likely stolen away any flame they cared to light. The rain and hail were driven hard, and great rumblings shook the sky above them constantly. With little ceremony they laid Forthon in his makeshift grave and covered him back over with soil. Amariel and Esteldûr spoke a prayer in the Elven tongue over the buffeting winds and thunders, and she cut a lock from her tresses and pressed it in the dead man’s hand before they covered him. When they finished they bordered the little mound with stones.

Demaethor would have given the brother and sister a few moments alone by the grave, but the storm drove him to order all of them back inside. As it was they were wet and cold and shaken by the noise of thunder. Flickers of lightening darted all around now. The windows were bright with the light of them more often than they were left dark.

The captain ordered that they open their rations, and also that the house’s larders should be searched that the party might refresh themselves. A scant meal they made by the hearth. It was a quiet one until Demaethor began to speak. “We have waited until the night is full in case this tempest should cease just as quickly as it began,� he said. “Under the cover of such darkness and confusion it should be easy for two of our number to slip into the city and seek the young brother of Amariel and Esteldûr.� He looked at the two of them briefly as he spoke. “The original plan was that Forthon and his younger brother would go to find the boy. Esteldûr may still go, but I am loath to allow the woman to take her dead brother’s place. A woman roaming the streets in such a storm as this would surely draw attention. And I myself cannot go; despite the storm, I am too well-known in Armenelos, and I will not risk betraying Esteldûr.�

Both Berihien and Galdûreth stepped forward and offered to go with the young man in his brother’s place. Galdûreth spoke. “My captain, I pray you let me accompany Forthon’s brother. I, too, was born and raised in Armenelos; I know the city well. In this storm it would not be wise to send someone who might lose his way. Also, it is my fault that Forthon is dead. I wish to make up for my transgression in some small way.�

“Stay away from my brother, Galdûreth,� said Amariel from where she sat on the hearth stones. She had been staring into the fire, but now those flames seemed to have touched her eyes as she turned them on the soldier. “You have yet to earn my trust,� she said, but her voice was more quiet than scornful.

Galdûreth bowed a little in her direction. “Amariel, I know I have done little to merit your faith. But my heart is true.� He turned to Demaethor. “Let me in this way earn the trust she speaks of. I will lead her brother aright, for the sake of the one she has lost on my account.�

Demaethor glanced between the woman and the soldier. He understood that she disliked Galdûreth. But costly mistakes were made in the heat of battle, and Galdûreth’s inattention to his foe could not be helped now. His reasons for wishing to go with Esteldûr were all good, and not the least of them was his desire to make up for the wrong he had done against their family. Demaethor could understand that very well: the wish to redeem oneself.

Amariel had remained silent at Galdûreth’s words. She seemed to wait for Demaethor to decide. “Galdûreth,� said the captain, “as you know the city well, I will allow you to accompany the lad. But first I will have your oath that you will do your worthiest to protect him, even to laying down your life for his.� This last he required for Amariel’s sake, and he glanced at her. She gave him a look he could not interpret before her eyes went to Galdûreth.

The soldier nodded readily. “I so swear,� he said. “It is the least I can do.�

“Good,� said Demaethor, and Amariel looked appeased even if she did not look happy with the captain’s decision. “The two of you shall ride within the hour. Keep youselves as concealed as possible; the King may have summoned his Army to Eldalondë, but Sauron’s own soldiers still guard Armenelos. You will remove your surcoats and bear no livery as the soldiers of the King are all expected to be on the west coast. Take none of the main streets but keep to the alleyways and the shadows. Speak to no one, insofar as it is possible while you search. If you do not find the young boy before the sky begins to lighten, return. We will wait here until just before dayfall. Then we will ride on.� He did not mention that they would ride whether or not Galdûreth and Esteldûr returned, but it was implied and they all knew it. He turned to Esteldûr. “Your sister named a handful of places where you might find your brother. Have you no ideas yourself?�

Before the lad could speak, Amariel gasped quietly. Demaethor moved to look at her. She was still gazing into the flames on the hearth. “That is what he was trying to say,� she mused.

“What?� Demaethor asked.

She lifted her eyes to him. “About the time our youngest brother was just learning to walk, he used to wander while he slept. Mostly he only strayed about the house, but twice or thrice he found his way out into the street and roamed quite far. When he did, we found him eventually in the home of Argenarth, who was once one of the guardsmen of the city gate. He is a good man by all accounts, and was much amused by our little brother. He became like an uncle to the infant boy, bestowing on him such things as he might have given a favoured nephew. We often let him play at Argenarth’s dwelling. I think that Anardil might have fled to that house, and that he might still be there.� She turned back to the fire and added quietly, “Forthon was trying to tell me as much before he...� Her voice trailed off.

Demaethor nodded. “Include the home of Argenarth in your search,� he said to Galdûreth.


Amariel watched her brother mount his horse beside Galdûreth. “Be careful,� she said, catching his hand. She spoke quietly so that only he could hear. “Take care that he leads you not astray,� she said, nodding toward Galdûreth. “The captain may trust him, but I do not—not fully. You may trust him if you will; you are old enough to make up your own mind about a man. But I pray you be cautious. Your search will be perilous, little brother. Just return,� she added.

Esteldûr nodded quietly. “I will,� he promised. Galdûreth had urged his horse forward a little, and looked back for Esteldûr to follow him. But the boy did not let go of his sister’s hand yet. “But if I shouldn’t come back,� he said haltingly. “Amariel, I have to tell you something.�

Amariel shook her head, releasing his hand. “About your actions the day they took us away? About why you wore Sauron’s livery?� she questioned quietly. Esteldûr bit his lip and nodded, asking with his eyes how she knew. “Forthon told me,� she said. “Go, brother. None of your family would fault you for what you did. Your repentance now covers your transgression. And I am proud of you, Esteldûr, for not fearing so much for your life that you stayed in the service of darkness. But rather you set in motion the events that saved Forthon and me.� She touched his knee, then backed away. “Go, little brother.�

He nodded once more. “Goodbye, Amariel,� he said. And he followed Galdûreth into the storm and up the way to the city.

[Rosie Gamgee]

Bump.
For some reason this thread doesn't register that I've posted more than twice.

[Rosie Gamgee]

Chapter Five

“Galdûreth bandaged this?� Demaethor inquired. He was taking the ragged, blood-soaked strips of cloth from Berihien’s leg. A pan of water heated on the hearth. Berihien was tearing a clean white sheet into strips for a new bandage.

The soldier nodded, wincing as Demaethor pulled away the final layer. He kept his leg still to keep the deep wound from opening again. “This looks like the work of a drunkard,� Demaethor complained. He cleansed away the crusted blood from the soldier’s thigh. “Is Galdûreth good for any practical task?� he wondered aloud.

Berihien chuckled. “Our commander used to say the same.� There was a sharp noise at the sound of his laughter. Demaethor glanced toward Amariel, who stood at the far end of the room, watching out the window the way her brother and Galdûreth had gone. She had turned abruptly about, perhaps not expecting the sound of laughter. But she said nothing, and turned back to the window. The captain let his eyes stay on her a moment, admiring the figure that was silhouetted by the lightening-flashes. She was a beautiful woman, but so cold. He let his thought wander as he contemplated her. Why was she so stoic? Not a tear had he seen fall from Amariel’s eye though her brother had just perished. But surely she felt his death keenly; her eyes were so empty and forlorn just a few hours ago when he had come upon her washing her brother’s corpse. Why then did she hold her emotion inside? Demaethor plucked a bottle of vinegar from the floor and poured some of it over Berihien’s wound. The soldier bit back a groan and grasped the arms of his chair with white knuckles. And why, Demaethor wondered as he began to bandage the wound up once more, did Amariel loathe him so? He knew that she had much cause to revile a man such as he had been, but he had turned from that path, rescued her family, herself. He stopped himself. Berihien drew in a sharp breath as Demaethor wrapped his bandage too tightly. The captain grunted and rewound it. Returning to his thoughts, he remembered that it was his own fault that Forthon had died. There was cause enough for Amariel to never look upon him favourably. He wondered suddenly why he cared at all that this lady approve of him.

“She’s a pretty thing,� Berihien said quietly. He, too, was looking across the room toward the woman at the window. “She was a favourite among the men, though obviously she hated every one of them.�

Thoughtfully, Demaethor asked, “How long had she been following your troop?� He began another strip of bandaging.

Berihien shrugged. “I had been with the regiment a month, having just returned from a post in the Middle-lands, and she was there when I joined it. But she was with the mistress of such women since several months before that time, I think.�

“Several months,� Demaethor mused. “A lifetime in such thralldom.� He finished the bandage and rose to his feet. “Rest, soldier,� he said. “Much of that you will need if you are to ride the rest of the way to the coast.� Berihien obeyed readily, putting his feet up on the chair that Demaethor had vacated and shutting his eyes.

The captain walked the lonely way to the window. His heavy tread echoed in the big room. This house was probably the country home of some wealthy nobleman who had taken the journey to Eldalondë, where the King now held court. Demaethor was surprised, however, that no servants were left to keep it. The grounds were in disarray, and from more than just the storm that now ravaged the countryside. The house, too, though in some order, was dusty and unkept. Suddenly Demaethor wondered if this might not rather be the home of one of the Faithful, either gone to seek solace in Rómenna, or dragged off to Sauron. The thought unsettled him.

Amariel turned to look at him as he stopped beside her. Demaethor said nothing at first, but only watched out the window at the havoc the winds created, and the lightinings glistening distinctly through the dashing rains. In was a terrible sight out there, unlike anything Demaethor had ever beheld in Númenor. “You should come away from the window; get some rest,� the captain said at last. “It will be a long journey to Rómenna if this storm persists.�

She was silent for a moment, her eyes not leaving the window. “Seven months,� she said in a near whisper. “Seven months, and eight nights. You are right: a lifetime.�

Demaethor coloured, realizing she had heard his words with Berihien concerning her. “I’m sorry,� said he, embarrassed.

“It was no fault of yours,� she answered, although her words merely underlined the fact that it very well might have been his fault. At last she turned from the window. Demaethor closed the shutters against the weather.

Amariel went nearer to the fire, having still with her the cloak of Demaethor. She laid the garment out on the floor and wrapped herself in it. Demaethor watched her shut her eyes and thought that she seemed to find some security in the cloak’s great folds. He thought about the fact that she had shared it with her little brother, and that it had held the body of Forthon. He wondered if this was why she found peace lying in it. And of course he remembered that he had given it to her.



Esteldûr rode in silence beside the big, dark soldier. Talk would not have been heard anyway; the winds threatened to throw them off the road, the rain dashed at them so that their horses had to be prodded every step of the way, and the roll of thunder was constantly rumbling over them. Esteldûr’s thoughts were full of his brother. He felt again the hand of Forthon passing over his wet hair, the look in his eyes and the sound of his voice when he had said, just two days ago, “Father would be proud of you, little brother. I am proud of you.� Now he was gone; dead and buried. But Esteldûr pushed these thoughts from his mind before he found himself weeping again. He contented himself instead to think on what lay ahead. He figured they would go first to Argenarth’s house. He recalled well the older guardsman: broad-shouldered, tall, a flash of blue eyes. As a former guard of the city gates, he was a man to be reckoned with. But he had a good temper, and a sense of humour. Esteldûr remembered the first time he had seen the man. They were all scouring the streets in the dead of night, searching for Anardil. Somehow the little lad had found his way out of the house, though all of the doors were locked, and who knew where he was now? Their mother had been so worried about him. She repeated over and over that Armenelos was not the city it had been. There were many perverted persons who would delight to find a helpless babe, mazed with dreams, wandering alone in the night. Esteldûr knocked at every door on that street, but he quailed when he came to the door of Argenarth. The big soldier had a reputation among the youths of Esteldûr’s acquaintance of being rough and mean. But Esteldûr thought of his brother and lifted the heavy knocker with trepidation. He hoped perhaps a servant would answer his knock. But instead he found the door swung wide by the master of the house himself.

“Ah,� he exclaimed, and Esteldûr was surprised to see a smile on the big man’s face, “you must be one of Nedron’s sons! I have been expecting you for a quarter of an hour.�

At that moment Anardil appeared at the guard’s side. He had a medal in his wee hands, a costly token of Argenarth’s years of service to the guard, and the Army before that, Esteldûr could see by the engraving upon it. The child was holding it as he might a plaything. On the one side of it, Esteldûr saw, was a small, raised carving of a horse and rider; Argenarth had been in some regiment of the cavalry. Anardil liked horses, and that was probably why he had snatched it up.

“I thank you, sir, for taking care of my brother,� Esteldûr stammered. Then, turning to the wee figure yet in his night clothes, “Unhand that, Anardil. Come, we must go.�

“Oh, he may keep it,� Argenarth said, allowing the toddler to pass out of the door and into the keeping of his brother. “He gains far more enjoyment from it than I ever did.�

And that was how the old soldier and his wife had become connected with Esteldûr’s family. But that was two or three long years ago now, and they had not had any relations with Argenarth save in passing. As the threat of the discovery of their allegiances to the Valar heightened, their family withdrew from their friends who openly served Sauron or the King. Argenarth was one such. He always touted the wisdom of Sauron, and the cleverness of the King in his manner of taking power. The former guardsman was still in the reserves of the Army, and he awaited a summons to Eldalondë, according to the last account Esteldûr had heard.

A mighty crash of thunder brought Esteldûr out of his thoughts. The sky seemed to split with blinding light. Both horses whinnied and threatened to bolt, but their riders fought to keep them steady. “Look; the gate!� Esteldûr found himself shouting over the din. It seemed that suddenly the lightnings increased. The thunder intensified. All at once the walls of the city seemed to offer the only refuge to be had, and simultaneously Galdûreth and Esteldûr spurred their horses toward the gate with all speed.


Galdûreth was laughing when they stopped beneath the gate, wiping the rain from their eyes. Esteldûr only stayed as close to the wall as possible. The lightning did not heed the walls of the city; in fact it seemed that it crowded about Armenelos as if by intention. The horses jumped and pranced again when, with a deafening roar, a lightning bolt touched down somewhere in the city. Esteldûr cried out. Galdûreth surprised him by prodding his horse out from under the gateway and stopping in the rain beyond. The soldier raised an arm—a fist—to the sky, shouting against the storm. “Come with all your might!� he yelled. “Númenor will never be thrown down!�

Esteldûr remained by the wall, nearly shocked by Galdûreth’s boldness. He wondered where the gate’s guard was; but in this tempest it was most likely they also were huddling in the guard-towers, heedless of their watch. At last the soldier turned to him, waving at him with the arm he had lifted against the sky. “Come,� he shouted over the rain and hail. “Let us find your brother!�

The boy nudged his horse forward, following Galdûreth. He instructed the man as to where their house was located, where Argenarth lived. But Galdûreth seemed strangely distracted. Esteldûr thought of his sister’s warning concerning the man. But perhaps Galdûreth’s preoccupation was to be expected. As they went further into the city, the lad became aware of screams and the sounds of weeping amid the crashes of thunder. Another bolt of lightning streaked down in the city, and Esteldûr heard the noise of falling bricks and stone. Here and there people rushed from doorway to doorway, eave to eave, their backs bent from cowering, their eyes turned toward the sky in fear. They cried aloud when the thunder rolled, some just in fear, some screaming for mercy, as if the lightning had ears and would hear them. They passed through a small square and there in the middle of it was standing a lone figure. He stood with his arm raised to the sky, as Galdûreth had done. But he shouted curses at the storm. “Curse the gods who bring this torment upon us! Damned be their names and for ever! May the might of Númenor overtake Manwë; throw him down and blot his name from the Circles of the World!� His words did indeed shock Esteldûr. Yet as he yelled and cursed, the thunder shattered the sky again, drowning the man’s voice, and lightning fell like the sword of a god from the sky, rooting itself in him. Esteldûr turned away from the blinding burst. When he looked back over his shoulder, the bricks were charred and littered with a stinking heap of burnt flesh where the man had stood. Esteldûr’s stomach tightened painfully. Even Galdûreth went pale and looked as though he might be sick. But they passed on.

Esteldûr took the lead when they came near his former home, and Galdûreth fell behind. He ducked into a familiar alley, where the back entrances to the houses were. The wind barreled fiercely between the buildings and he had to fight to get his horse to carry him another step further, and then another. “There!� he shouted over his shoulder. “Argenarth’s dwelling!� A little garden lay there as the buildings opened up into it. The whole yard was ruined from the wind and hail. At the far end was the modest dwelling of Argenarth. A little stoop led up to the servant’s door. No lights were visible from this side of the house, save for a faint glow in one of the windows that told Esteldûr that someone was awake within.

“Do you know this Argenarth well?� Galdûreth inquired, coming nearer that he would not have to shout. “Is he one of the Faithful?�

Esteldûr caught a pointedness in the man’s tone that made him uneasy. “No,� he answered. “He and his family are loyal to the King, and to Sauron.�

Galdûreth nodded. “How then do you purpose to go in and seek your brother? Surely they know of your family’s fate, and by now have heard of your own treachery against Sauron.�

The boy frowned inwardly, disliking the faint hint of ridicule in Galdûreth’s voice. “I will go in alone by the servant’s entrance,� he said. “I’ll look for my brother. Will you wait here in the garden for me?�

A smile tugged at Galdûreth’s lips, even as the rain ran down his beard and dripped from his chin. Esteldûr could not help the distaste that arose in him at the expression; it was not at all a pleasing look. “That will suit me,� Galdûreth said. “It will be better, I think, if only one is in the house. Yes, I will wait here.�

Esteldûr nodded, but something inside tensed. However, he dismounted and handed the reins to the other man. “I’ll look swiftly and return soon,� he said.

“Take what time you need,� the soldier replied. “It would be a tragedy to miss the child and move on.�

Nodding once more, Esteldûr turned toward the house and made his entry under the cover of another peal of thunder. He was inside before the lightning left the sky dark once more.


Esteldûr moved quietly through the dark hall. As he suspected, light spilled from one of the central rooms. He heard a low voice now and then. He kept away from it. The sounds of the storm echoed eerily as he went on. The thunder seemed to shake the house and the lightning sent his heart racing in the instants of brilliant exposure it created. There, stairs. Esteldûr stepped silently toward them, knowing the bedchambers were on the second floor in this house. Surely, if Argenarth had sheltered the child, he would be there.

Again, lightning lit the stairwell for an instant, sending a surge of panic up Esteldûr’s back. Using the crack of thunder to cover the noise he made, he hurried to the landing and threw himself upon the floor, putting his hands to his ears as the peal grew louder. Outside a scream caught his attention. He rose once more and passed on. Another hall was before him, doors on one side, windows on the other. Esteldûr slipped to the first door.

The room inside was dark and cold. All within was neat and still, as if the chamber had not been used in months. Another crash of thunder sounded. Its intensity made Esteldûr start. But he recovered himself, and in the ensuing silence whispered, “Anardil? Are you here?�

No movement, no voice answered. Esteldûr almost passed on to the next room, but then he recalled Galdûreth’s words, “It would be a tragedy to miss the child and move on.� He searched about him. Looked beneath the bed, even opened the closet. Satisfied his brother was not here, he moved on. As he searched, each peal of thunder, each ring of lightning, increased in fervor. It made his heart pound. He quickened his pace, moving quickly from room to room. Disappointment found its way to his heart as each room gave up no small boy but only emptiness and silence. At last he turned away from the hall and crept back toward the stairs.

Thunder smacked his senses about half-way down. Lightning flashed and made him shout when he saw another face looking into his in its light. Esteldûr lost his footing. He slipped to the base of the stairs, and found himself looking up at an older woman. She was, he saw as lightning lit her face again, as frightened as he was to find someone here in the dark stairway. “Who are you? What do you want? Get out!� she said shrilly, leaving no time for him to answer her queries.

“Please, my lady,� he said. He wracked his brain for some excuse to give her, something that would not draw attention to himself. But the black darkness all about them was all he could think of. He thought about running for the door. But lightning flickered again, this time devoid of thunder. The woman, whom he suddenly recognized as the wife of Argenarth, gasped as the light died once more.

“You are Nedron’s son,� she exclaimed. “Forthon, is it?� Before he could make an answer she had grabbed him, pulling him with her back down the hall. “Come,� she said. “Come.�

She led him to the room from whence the light trickled. There, by the glow of a few short candles, sat a few servants. Esteldûr’s eyes were instantly drawn aside from them, however, when a little form ran from their midst to cling to Argenarth’s wife. Thunder rolled once more. “Dilly?� Esteldûr said, his voice hushed by his amazement. The little face turned to him, but it had lost and gained so much since he had last seen it. He struggled to take in all the changes in the lad, struggled to recall to memory what he had looked like but seven months ago.

“We’ve been hiding him for over half a year,� said the lady of the house, pulling the lad’s arms from where they clung about her legs and propelling him toward Esteldûr. “It is your brother, Anardil,� she said. She looked back at Esteldûr, studying him more closely in the candlelight. “And I see now you are not Forthon, but the younger brother.�

“Esteldûr,� he told her, but he hardly knew he did it. He knelt down as his little brother rubbed his eyes and looked upon him. “Dilly?�

Anardil’s face registered recognition, too. “Hullo,� he said. His voice had lost much of the babyishness that Esteldûr recalled. His eyes, too, lacked the infant shyness they once possessed. He stared on his older brother with all the forthrightness one might expect of a four-year-old.

A smile broke out on Esteldûr’s face. He placed a hand on Anardil’s head. He hardly knew what to say. “Look at how you’ve grown,� was all that came from his mouth.

“The soldiers that took your parents away searched and searched,� Argenarth’s wife told him. “Four days they scoured the neighborhood looking for the lad. They came here twice, but Argenarth told them he was not to be found here.�

Esteldûr looked up at her. “Where is Argenarth?�

She shook her head softly. “He’s left for Eldalondë. Got his summons but a week’s time ago. He was much grieved by what happened to your family. We kept the boy hidden in the pantry for two months, until the soldiers finally stopped terrorizing this part of the city.�

Esteldûr stood. “I thank you with all my heart for this deed.�

A wry smile touched her lips. “Rumours have reached us of your escape. I suppose you intend now to take the lad away.�

He nodded, grasping Anardil’s hand in his. “I’m afraid I have little time, and I cannot tell you where I ride to.�

“Nevermind,� the woman said. She looked about her at her home, her servants. “We have done what we could for your family. Now Argenarth is gone, and my heart bodes that the future will bring evil.�

Esteldûr suddenly felt for her. But he found nothing to offer her but, “Come with us, my lady.�

She only smiled and shook her head. “Go whither you will, lad. Only promise me you’ll keep little Anardil well, and do not waste what effort we have put into his safekeeping.�

Esteldûr nodded firmly. “Farewell,� he said, and a feeling of inadequacy crept into him. He knew then as he looked upon the lady that this was the last time he would ever see her. But no more words could he find.

“Fare you well,� said she. Her face showed she saw what he felt, but she smiled warmly. “Say no more, lad. Go.�

And he did. She gave him a cloak in which to wrap his brother, and a sack of food. Then he was gone, back out into the wind and the darkness.



Demaethor sat before the fire. He stared drowsily into the dancing flames. The noise of the storm outside seemed muffled, and the heat from the hearth enveloped him. Yet, tired as he was, sleep would not come to him. A vague uneasiness was in his gut. It was as if all the events of the day had settled on his stomach: the weird weather, the wary crossing of the bridge over Siril, the bout with the knights, Forthon’s death, the storm, the crude little burial, the cold supper before this very hearth. All these things muddled in his head as he stared into the blaze, kept him from shutting his eyes and inviting sleep to take over.

He became aware of someone whimpering. Demaethor drew his eyes from the hearth, looking about him and feeling disoriented, as if perhaps he had been sleeping after all. His eyes fell on Amariel, lying on her side, wrapped up in his cloak. Some dream troubled her. She whimpered again. He watched as her face became distressed, but the spell of the fire was still upon him and he could not bring himself rise and wake her from her nightmare. Guilt touched him when he found himself idly wondering what she dreamt of. Shaking himself from his drowsy stupor, he rose and went near her.

Amariel was mumbling something softly. Demaethor thought of just rousing her with a touch of his boot-tip, but instead he bent down and laid a hand on her shoulder. In the instant before she woke, he caught her lips turn up in a small smile. Then her eyes snapped open. Instantly she jerked away from him, pulling the cloak about her.

“Forgive me,� Demaethor muttered, standing back from her. Her eyes were fixed upon him. Suspicion and fear mingled in them. “You were dreaming.�

“I dream not, now,� she answered tersely. But she seemed to recall her sleep and her face became softer. She looked about her, blinking her dream away. Demaethor watched as her face cleared suddenly and her eyes widened with something like worry. Amariel looked back at him. She whispered, “Do you believe in foresight?�

The words, the way they were uttered, the look in her eyes; all these took hold of him oddly. He found his breath had caught in his throat. "Yes," he answered.

Amariel sat stiffly. Her eyes were still on Demaethor although she was no longer looking at him. She breathed softly, her head tilted as though she listened for an approaching step. Demaethor, too, caught himself listening for what he knew not. Apprehension grabbed a-hold of him. He had thought they would be safe here, protected by the storm if not the darkness. Now he worried that Amariel sensed something he did not; something he should not have missed. “What is it?� he demanded.

“Esteldûr,� she whispered softly. Then, turning her eyes back to his, her voice became louder, and plain. “Something draws nigh.�



The garden was empty. Esteldûr needed not the flickers of lightning to tell him this; a house was alight nearby. The mounting flames provided enough light to see into the shadows. He was aware of people screaming for aid, figures scurrying about in the flickering darkness with vessels of water, trying in vain to put out the fire. Over all the din the storm still raged about, though now the rain and snow had ceased. Only bright hail fell from the sky now. The blue lightning clashed with the orange flames, which Esteldûr quickly realized were dancing in the windows of more than one house in the city. Amazment struck him as he looked on the city he had spent his boyhood in. The very neighborhood, this very street, had been among his most frequent haunts. Now the pavement and and buildings looked like some evil incarnation of those places. So changed were they by the fire and the storm!

“Galdûreth!� he risked calling. No one was going to hear him anyway; his ears were filled with the noise of this unbelievable night so that he could hardly hear his own voice.

No voice answered, no movement neared him. Esteldûr’s mind went blank for a moment, unable to understand why the soldier was not here. A tug at his shirt made him turn his head to his little brother. “Where’s Mummy?� the little lad asked. His voice was shrill with acute fear, and he clapped his hands over his ears at the din and seemed close to tears.

Esteldûr could find no words to reply except, “Everything will be all right, Dilly.�

“Where are we going?� the boy asked. He had buried his face on Esteldûr’s shoulder.

Where were they, indeed? Esteldûr suddenly wondered. He suddenly felt very small as he realized that Galdûreth was gone. Whether or not the soldier had deserted him in the storm, or if he had been discovered and taken, was irrelevant. He was not here, and Esteldûr had to get his brother out of the city. Uncertainty and doubt flooded him for a moment. Then, feeling Anardil’s panicked breathing against his chest, feeling the little body tremble at each crash of lightning, each scream, something inside him rose up and drowned his fears. Esteldûr took a step further into the garden, then another. He would look for Galdûreth as he went, but he was heading out of the city on his own.

Deciding not to go back the way he had come here, Esteldûr ducked behind the wind-ruined garden hedge and into another adjacent alley. It was dark and narrow. The tall walls on either side sheltered the brothers somewhat from the noise of the storm. Esteldûr realized in the comparative quiet how hard his heart was beating inside him. The wind swept through the alleyway, freezing his rain-soaked clothing and hair. Yet his throat was oddly dry, and he swallowed. He wrapped his arms tighter about Anardil.

The street beyond the alley was empty and silent save for the winds and battering of hail. As if this place was protected somehow from the storm, the flickers of lightning and the rolls of thunder seemed to keep a respectful distance. Or maybe it was just Esteldûr’s own thoughts that drowned out the tempest’s fierceness. Once, not very long ago, he had known every turn of these streets. These houses were the homes of his friends. Every brick of this pavement held a memory, every window had once shone with friendly light. He walked silently through the darkened street, just gazing at the buildings, heedless for a moment of the wind and the weather.

There it was. Tears sprang to Esteldûr’s eyes as he saw it. It was all devoid of the look of a house indwelt with happiness and love. A few of the windows had boards slapped across them. A shred of parchment fluttered feebly in the wind from where it was tacked to the wide door. Esteldûr knew it was the tattered remains of Sauron’s order for his family’s arrest. He stopped before the stairs leading to the door, finding himself unable to pass the house. He looked about him, at the door, the steps, the street. Flashing before his mind’s eye was his family being dragged out of the house. It played before his mind so vividly that it pained him to recall it.

There he was, in the courtyard. The afternoon sun was warm and clear, shining down from a blue sky. A cool breeze carried the voices of song-birds. His father was showing him a few new quills, teaching him more complicated strokes with them. Somewhere in the house he could hear Amariel singing a soft song to Anardil while he napped. The scent of the flowers drifted around. Magwiel wandered nearby in this courtyard, fanning herself and looking on while he and his father worked. Where his mother was he didn’t know. In that last peaceful moment he had not really cared.

The clink of iron-shod feet floated over the wall from the street. It might have been then that Esteldûr first thought there was something wrong, or perhaps not. Then an abrupt noise made his father’s pen-stroke falter, and the steady, practiced hand trembled. Someone was banging on the garden gate. “Open! Open in the name of the King and the Lord Sauron!�

Magwiel screamed, their father went ashen. Esteldûr felt his heart stop. He knew very well what threat they lived under in this city as secret Elendili. But he had never thought soldiers would actually come. Noises within the house told Esteldûr that they had entered by the front door, too.

The next moments were a blur. The strongest sensations were what left their mark on Esteldûr’s memory: fear so acute he could smell it; the bitterness of his saliva as he panted; the feel of rough hands on his wrists, pulling him harshly back through the house; the shrill notes of a bird as it passed over the street outside. They were all there; Amariel, Magwiel, his mother and father. The soldiers yanked them through the front door, down the steps, all the while reading the order of Sauron before nailing it to the door. Esteldûr remembered catching the eyes of his father. Fear was in them, but not for his own life. He kept begging that his wife and children be released.

Anardil had at that moment appeared at the door. His little baby-eyes were round with curiosity and fear. “Mummy?� he called, and the soldiers marked him at the same time his family did.

“Oh, Ilúvatar!� his mother gasped.

“Get him down from there,� one of the soldiers instructed his comrade.

“No!� she screamed. “I pray you, let him go!�

The soldier would not listen. By then, however, the lad had disappeared from the door. The soldier went inside the house in search of the toddler, but returned in a few minutes empty-handed.

A cart was waiting in the street to take them away. Esteldûr felt colder than he had ever in his whole life as he and his family were bound and pushed harshly up on it. Every heart-beat grabbed and jolted him. Again he met his father’s eyes. Those warm, loving eyes that had watched him from the day he was born. Wisdom and kindness were always mingled in them. Sometimes they were soft, others hard and stern. But always they had looked on Esteldûr with love and pride. Now, in this moment of terror, they offered him strength and even comfort. Esteldûr drank these greedily.

Not an hour later he had stood before Sauron and sworn his life and service to the Dark Lord.

Esteldûr lowered himself on the steps of his house. He drew great breaths, emotion threatening to take hold of him and not let him go. “I’m sorry,� he whispered. Then, raising his eyes to the surging sky, he repeated louder, “Father, I’m sorry!�

“What’s the matter?� Anardil pulled back from him. “’Steldûr?�

Esteldûr shook his head, standing up. No voice answered him from the sky, just another empty belch of thunder and a flash of lightning. “It’s all right,� he said. “Let us go.� And he held his hands out for Anardil to hop back into them.

“There!� a voice shouted. As if it were a cue to Esteldûr’s senses, suddenly it seemed that every noise came back to full intensity. The thunder-roll increased in volume. The sharp plinking of hail striking pavement and roofs echoed about him. He heard heavy foot-falls on the cobblestones. The dull, metallic sound of a blade being removed from its sheath rang from somewhere.

Fear so familiar to him fell on Esteldûr like a heavy cloak. He turned about, searching the shadows for these noises. His eyes fell on five or six men striding toward him with purpose. “Run, Anardil!� was the cry that tore out of Esteldûr’s throat when he saw them. But, as he looked about frantically for his little brother, he realized the lad had vanished already.

Esteldûr began to run.

He did not get far; he couldn’t. All the alleyways past his house were dead-ends, he knew. His foes blocked his escape; running back the other way would only lead him further into the city. Besides all this he did not know where Anardil had gone.

Rough hands pushed him from behind and brought him down to the hard pavement. A white light snapped inside Esteldûr’s head as his cheekbone met the stones unhindered. He heard himself groan. Felt hard, rude fingers wrapping around his wrists behind him. Strove to breathe as someone leaned heavily on his back.

The hands grabbing at his arms began to wind a cord about his wrists. Esteldûr struggled for his senses, his will. He groaned again at the pain in his face and his side from the fall, but he made himself writhe against the one holding him down.

“Don’t bother,� said a voice above him. “You’ll never best six men. And you are already bound.�

The voice maddened Esteldûr. Something familiar about it struck his fuzzy thought, and when he finally placed it in his memory, he ceased to struggle.

“Get him up,� a raspy voice said. Esteldûr was dragged to his feet. He twitched against his captor’s hands, but feebly. He turned his eyes to the faces of his assailants, almost unbelieving when he found the face he sought.

“Galdûreth?� he said. His voice came only as a hoarse monotone.

The soldier did not smile, as Esteldûr might have expected. He gave Esteldûr a contemptuous stare. Then he shook his head, and looked up at his comrades. “He can be taken to the Temple now. I have no need of him.�

The fellow with the raspy voice—a tall, pale man with a deep scar on his right cheek—nodded to two of his men. “Let it be done,� said he. “You two; escort him to the Temple. He turned to Galdûreth. “Can you really deliver the captain to us? I, for one, find it an almost unbelievable thing: that he is indeed in league with the Faithful.�

Galdûreth nodded. “Aye, sir. It is a strange thing indeed, but I have witnessed the truth of it. And then there is the testimony of the knight, who has told you of their recent bout with Demaethor.�

“Yes, yes,� the other man grumbled. “But can you indeed lead us to him?�

This time a smile did pull Galdûreth’s mouth up. “I can, my lord.�

The man with the raspy voice turned to his men. He saw that Esteldûr and his two captors yet stood there. “Why do you tarry?� he said impatiently. “Off with you. Oh, and I want a small company sent to arrest those who aided him here in the city. The rest of you; with me.� Now he too smiled. “We’re going to arrest the great Captain Demaethor for treason.�

“What?� Esteldûr strived to make sense of the mess of words and images pummling his confused mind. Then he saw Amariel. Berihien with his wounded leg. And Demaethor. All sleeping in a lonely farmhouse, unaware of the danger that would soon approach. “No!� He forced his voice into submission, strained against his bonds. Already the two Galdûreth had singled out were turning down the street, taking him with them. Galdûreth and his companions headed in the opposite direction. “Let me go!� Esteldûr yelled, kicking and pulling with all his might. But Galdûreth was right: he was no match for his captors. They hauled him away, hardly heeding his struggle.



Demaethor looked out into the stormy night. The winds appeared to have abated somewhat, and the hail had ceased to fall. The storm seemed to be stuck here, though. The day, he could tell, would not be long in coming. The sky in the east was just beginning to pale. The captain frowned as another glow of light caught his attention. He looked toward Armenelos and saw with shock the fires that mounted within its walls. Lightning crowded about the distant city. But Demaethor saw no soldiers issuing from it. He turned back to Amariel.

She had risen from the floor and stood close by him. “What is it, my lord?� she inquired, her eyes scanning his face.

“Armenelos is alight,� answered he, and moved aside from the window that she might see it. “But nothing comes nigh from the city.�

She did not seem to hear him. He guessed rather that she was thinking of Esteldûr as she looked on the strange scene before them. Indeed, for he saw her mouth form her brother’s name. Amariel raised a finger, pointing up the hill. “Look,� said she.

Demaethor looked indeed. To his amazement he saw four shapes moving swiftly down the incline. He knew at once they were horses, each with a rider on his back. Though he momentarily thought of convincing himself otherwise, it was obvious they rode for the farmhouse. “Back away from the window,� he ordered, and slapped the shutters closed. “Berihien,� he called. The soldier looked up groggily from where he lay across his chairs. He moved stiffly. “Rise!� Demaethor ordered. “Gather the food, the weapons. We must quit the house.�

They packed their provisions hastily. Amariel snuffed out the candles and parted the coals on the hearth that its light might die quicker. Demaethor and Berihien re-girded themselves with their weapons by the red glow of the hearth. Thunder punctuated their hurried actions. Demaethor led them through the house by the flickers of lightning. They stole as swiftly as they could through the courtyard. Berihien was limping along gingerly with his wound. He did not complain, but he did slow their retreat.

The sound of approaching horses could be heard as they gathered their own two mounts. Amariel gasped when a battering noise rang out from the other side of the house: they were trying to break down the door. Lightning lit the air around them. The night was pensive when the subsequent peal of thunder left it silent again.

“Come!� Demaethor said as loud as he dared. “They will send some of their number around behind. To the orchard!� Amariel snatched the bridles of the horses and Demaethor took the arm of Berihien, helping him traverse the distance to the trees. They fell behind a hedge just as two riders rounded the side of the house. The riders bore with them lit torches. By the light of them, and the flickers of lightning, Demaethor could see that one of them was dressed in the black armour and surcoat, the familiar livery of Sauron’s guard. The other, however, wore only a coat of ordinary mail over the standard jacket of a foot-soldier in the King’s Army.

Demaethor gritted his teeth as he recognized the second man’s uncomfortable mien in the saddle. A sudden heat popped inside the back of his neck. The desire to spring from his hiding place and slay the man where he sat atop his mount seized Demaethor, but he forced himself to remain where he was.

Beside him, Berihien cursed in shock. “Is that—?� he began to ask.

“Yes,� Demaethor seethed. Amariel was crouched down by his other side, but she was intent on keeping the horses quiet. He could feel her warmth. He heard her voice inside his head asking so mysteriously, Do you believe in foresight? His gut sank as realized that Esteldûr was betrayed.

They watched the mounted pair stop inside the atrium and dismount. “But—� Berihien spoke again.

“Shut up!� Demaethor hissed. Angrily, he grasped the other soldier’s arm in case he tried to join his friend. “Do not think that your pretenses will fool me. I see now your friend’s treachery. Was it your plan to betray us to Sauron as well? Would you receive your share of the bounty?�

Berihien’s eyes in the dimness shone wide with surprise. But he got no chance to make an answer to Demaethor’s charges.

“There’s no one here,� said the sable-clad man. His voice was hard and raspy, but it carried.

The other man held his torch higher, as if he chose not to acknowledge his companion. “Demaethor!� he yelled, and the captain flinched at the sound of his name. “Come out; you’ve no chance of escape!�

Amariel turned from the horses at the sound of the other man’s voice. Her shock was voiceless, but so acute that it was almost tangible to Demaethor. He could not bring himself to look at her.

“You fool,� the man with the raspy voice said angrily. “They’ve long gone, if ever they were here at all.�

By now two other black-armoured soldiers appeared in the courtyard, coming through the back door of the house. They reported that no one was within.

“They cannot be an hour gone,� Galdûreth—for indeed it was Galdûreth—answered defensively. “They had no way of knowing that we were coming.�

“I deem they saw through your disguises, humouring you and your deceptions until they could find a way to get rid of you,� the other man sneered. “Seems they found it. Demaethor is probably half-way to the coast by now.�

“They would not have left the region without the young man,� Galdûreth returned. The tension in both their voices was rising. They kept arguing.

Beside Demaethor, Amariel had found her voice. “Where is Esteldûr?� she asked, too loudly for comfort, as if Galdûreth were standing before her. “What has he done with him?�

“Be silent, Amariel,� Demaethor whispered, but she did not hear him. Her eyes were on the soldiers in the atrium. Lightning slapped the sky again.

“Damn that man!� she exclaimed, and would have risen. Demaethor grabbed her wrist, holding her down. “Release me,� she protested.

“Quiet!� Demaethor ordered. “Do you want to betray us all?�

His words made her stop pulling against his hold, but her desire to rise was still evident in her eyes, her stance. “Let me go,� she said, and her voice was quieter. “I will kill him.�

“You will only get yourself killed,� he returned.

The cold sound of a sword being swiftly drawn made both of them leave aside their conflict and look toward the house.

“What do you think you are doing?� Galdûreth was saying. His companion was the one who had drawn his blade. “I believe you owe me a reward. I did deliver one of these traitors to you.�

The other man laughed a mirthless, dry chuckle. “Indeed, Galdûreth.� He nodded to one of the other soldiers, who immeadiately grabbed Galdûreth and forced him to his knees. “Receive now a traitor’s standard fee!�

Galdûreth began to protest in somewhat humbler tones. The sable-clad officer heeded him not but brought down his sword with lightning speed. Demaethor did not look away as Galdûreth fell instantly dead. Amariel turned and buried her face against his shoulder.

The soldiers mounted up again and rode back toward the city before long. They left Galdûreth’s body, headless and bloody, sprawled in the courtyard.

[Rosie Gamgee]

Chapter Six

Demaethor turned to Berihien as soon as the soldiers were out of sight. The dawn’s light was now competing with the darkness of the yet-raging storm by now. It was a weird dimness that was around them as Demaethor grabbed Berihien and threw him to the ground.

The soldier cried out as his wounded leg twisted painfully. Demaethor did not heed his cry but stood, putting a booted foot down heavily on Berihien’s chest. He drew his sword.

“My lord!� Berihien cried. Demaethor wordlessly laid the tip of his blade across Berihien’s throat. “My lord, I remain as true to my word as ever I have been!�

Demaethor would not believe the man so easily. “I see it all now,� said he. His anger rose as he spoke: “Your failure to spy our enemies on the road; Galdûreth’s deliberate ineptness at everything—your complicity in the death of Forthon. I wonder, did you plan that?�

“Nay!� Berihien said, and now there was anger in his voice as well. “For sooth, I knew nothing of Galdûreth’s treachery, and I did not have a hand in it.�

“I wonder you didn’t,� Demaethor returned. Scorn was in his voice. “Surely the reward for my arrest at least would be a rich one; you had but to name your price if you could convince Sauron of my faithlessness. And how much is the life of a sergeant worth these days? Or that of a young boy? Tell me!� he demanded loudly.

Berihien’s eyes hardened, though he said nothing for a moment. Finally, he answered, “Enough, my lord. I have followed you faithfully these past days in all matters save that I was remiss in my watch yesternight. That wrong was one of negligence, not treachery. I knew nothing of Galdûreth’s true allegiances. But if you are indeed so convinced of my guilt, then I deem your opinion is immovable. Do with me what you will.� His voice was tight with indignation and perhaps a little fear, but his gaze did not drop from Demaethor’s.

This speech silenced Demaethor. Annoyance rose in him. He did not quite know why he was so perturbed, save that he could not find any guilt in Berihien. Perhaps it was that Galdûreth lay dead already; Demaethor would not have the satisfaction of killing the man himself. But how could Berihien have not known of his friend’s loyalties? Then again, Demaethor had been fooled by the man as well, and that after Amariel had expressed her distrust so plainly. Anger seized him; anger at his own stupidity. He stepped away from Berihien and sheathed his sword. He left the soldier to pick himself up off of the ground.

“Amariel?� Demaethor looked about, noticing suddenly that the woman had disappeared. He called her again. Movement caught his eye.

Amariel stood some yards distant. She looked like a lone wraith in the dimness and flickers of lightning. Demaethor followed her grim, silent gaze to the splayed body of Galdûreth. “Amariel?� he called once more, this time a little softer. Something in her eyes unsettled him.

She turned abruptly from her bemused stare and moved with intent toward Demaethor. “We must get into the city,� she said, her voice clear with purpose. “Esteldûr must be saved. I will not leave him to Sauron’s cruelty. And we do not know if he found Anardil.� She grabbed the bridle of one of the horses. “Take me but to the gate, then wait for me outside.�

Demaethor could hardly find protest when he met her eyes. He found there a kind of desperation; a deliberate denial of the truth of the matter: that her brother was likely beyond rescue now. Such feeling would not brook his objection. But Demaethor shook his head. “Lady, would you rescue him from the Temple, alone and unaided, against all likelihood?�

Her look smote him as effectively as once her hand had two nights ago. “I would pluck him as a Silmaril from Melkor’s helm if needs be, or perish in the attempt.�

“That you would perish is the likelier end of such an attempt,� Demaethor answered. “And I would not have all your family be lost in the same night.� The feeling that sprang in Demaethor as he spoke surprised him. Suddenly Rómenna seemed a world away; unattainable. His wish—his need—to get her family to the east coast seemed ridiculous. He had lost them all: Forthon, Esteldûr and with him their infant brother. Amariel alone remained. If he lost her, all would indeed be in vain.

She shook her head. “My lord, I am not worth your concern. Rómenna means nothing to me without my family. If it is your wish to save any of my kin, then you will aid me, and find my brothers. Save for the hope that they are yet alive I would lay myself down upon Forthon’s mound yonder and die with them.�

Demaethor heard her words and realized that he had no choice. As she had said, Rómenna meant nothing to him, either, if he did not reach it with her and her brethren. There was nothing he could do to bring Forthon back. But there was a chance that Esteldûr was still alive. If Galdûreth had handed the boy over to the city’s guard and not Sauron’s soldiers, they would likely hold him until morning. At least that was what Demaethor tried to convince himself. He had to believe it.



Thunder rolled loudly over Armenelos. The storm still surged fiercely about the city. Demaethor wondered at the ferocity of the lightnings as they split the sky. The air smelt all of crackling energy and smoke. He and Amariel entered the city on foot, leaving Berihien with the horses concealed outside the gate. Amariel clutched her coat about her while Demaethor’s great cloak, now stained and soiled from rain and mud, hung about his own shoulders again. It concealed his shirt of mail and his axe, which was yet strapped to his back. They looked a pair of poor tenement-dwellers hastening through the dim, sodden streets. By now the morn had well-nigh come, though the storm yet darkened the sky so that it seemed a flickering, fell twilight hung over the city.

“First we go to Argenarth’s house,� Demaethor told Amariel as they hastened past the great gate. “It may be that Anardil is there, or that they may know something of Esteldûr’s arrest.�

Amariel nodded, and began to lead the way through the maze of buildings and streets. Demaethor marveled at the confusion and mayhem about them as they went further into the city. Shock took him as he saw the fires raging all over the city, heard the screams of terror every time lightning lit the sky overhead. He, too, began to fear the blinding flashes of light as they hurried on.

Amariel led them through the main streets. Demaethor guessed it way must have been quicker. Concealment was not really necessary now anyway. The folk they passed hardly heeded them. Most were carrying water this way and that to quench the fires that raged about. Some hid in doorways and alleys, cursing or praying—sometimes both. Once they passed a family going in the opposite direction, laden with possessions and cloaks as if for a long journey. “You fools!� they cried. “Flee for your lives! Manwë has surely set his face against Armenelos; he will destroy us to the uttermost!�

They continued on. “How much farther?� Demaethor inquired. He was trying to remember the way they had come. The city was so changed by the fire and confusion that he feared losing his way, and wondered if Amariel was sure of where she was.

“Through here,� she said, deflecting his query and ducking onto a little side-street.

Rounding one more corner, Demaethor found himself looking down a wide lane of rich dwellings. Here were the homes of wealthy merchants and lesser nobles. “This is where your family lived?�

Amariel turned to look at him, surprised perhaps by his own surprise. “My grandfather was one of Tar-Palantir’s Chief Scribes,� she said. “My father inherited from him a house hard by; he was a scribe in the royal libraries.� Demaethor nodded slowly. “Argenarth’s home is just up...� Her voice trailed away as they both looked up the street. Something was wrong with the house she pointed to. For one, the front door was open. Odd articles were strewn in the street before it. And a rectangle of parchment was affixed to the door. Here at least, thought Demaethor, was proof that Esteldûr had reached the home of Argenarth; they were betrayed along with him, it seemed.

All at once a great noise smote them. As if a god had clapped his hands in judgment, an immense snap split the air. It shook the ground and rendered those who heard it deafened. White light seared the dark sky. Demaethor shut his eyes as the dim morning became vivid day in an instant. The thunder echoed, growling like some ferocious beast. The storm’s darkness swallowed up the lightning once more. The air tingled with sound and energy.

Demaethor opened his eyes. Amariel was down beside him on her knees, her hands over her ears. Slowly she lowered her hands and raised her head. The thunder still rumbled around them, but all else was still. “Look,� she whispered.

A sound like a mountain of ice splitting fell down from somewhere. Demaethor’s gaze followed Amariel’s pointed finger. The great, black dome of Melkor’s Temple towered over the rooftops before them, dominating the sky-line of the city. It cracked.

Great chunks of stone and roof-tiles slid and fell away from the understructure. They crashed to the ground far below. The whole roof crumbled in then, leaving only the framing of the dome silhouetted against the morn’s grey clouds. Black smoke arose from within, and suddenly flames rose up and wreathed the gigantic skeleton in fire.



Esteldûr and the soldiers with him fell to the ground in terror. The entrance to the Temple walls was a few feet away, and the soldiers had been about to call to the watchmen to open the gates when thunder ripped the sky and lightning crashed into the Temple.

They had stopped on their way at one of the barracks of the city’s guard, to pass on the order to arrest those in the house of Argenarth. The company had left the station ere Esteldûr and his captors continued on to the Temple. He wished for some way to warn Argenarth’s wife, but there was nothing he could do.

Now it felt like the whole city was coming down. Masses of stone tone fell and shattered around them. The ground shook under the weight of the falling hunks of rock. Esteldûr could not even raise his bound hands to cover his head as bits of debris clattered around him, on top of him. He cried out as suddenly a sharp weight fell on his left leg. Something in his knee gave out against the pavement stones and cracked painfully. Fire shot up his leg.

A sound like a great wind brushed past, carrying with it a dense cloud of chalky dust. Esteldûr gagged, trying to breathe, and pressed his face against the pavement. Somewhere ahead of him, where the walls of the Temple stood enshrouded by the dust and debris, an orange glow penetrated the cloud. Sudden heat wafted out. A crackling, roaring sound built slowly.

Esteldûr heard the sounds of men scrambling away, and raised his head to squint through the drifting dust. His leg throbbed sharply. His face yet smarted from its fall earlier upon the street and his brain was still muddled. He saw his two guards had abandoned him, seeking shelter under the walls of a building nearby. They did not seem to care about their prisoner anymore; in fact they did not mark him at all, lying there covered with dust and bits of stone.

Biting back a cry as he bent his knee and dragged it out from beneath the rubble that had fallen on it, Esteldûr raised himself to his feet. The dust was thinning out, settling. He could discern the street now. Casting a quick glance over his shoulder at the two soldiers, he began to run in the opposite direction.

His knee protested with every step. Esteldûr gritted his teeth against the pain, forced himself onward. He blinked back the fogginess in his head. Behind him he heard shouts, then footfalls crashing after him. He kept running.



Without warning thunder tore through the sky once more. Lightning fell again about the Temple. The crack of sound and light made Amariel utter a clipped scream. Demaethor grabbed her arm, pulling her with him into a near doorway. She pressed herself close to the wall as the thunder continued to pound the sky with its barrages of deafening noise. The ground trembled with the sound. Demaethor watched like one entranced as the lightning danced about the Temple again and again. The fires about it rose higher. The waves of heat distorted the scene like some weird nightmare.

Demaethor’s mouth fell open as he saw a lone, dark figure ascending out of the flames and smoke, climbing slowly the ruined stair of the dome. There was no mistaking the tall, graceful form. Swathed in robes of sable, he climbed higher and higher in defiance of the bolts of light that cauterized the empty air around him. It was Lord Sauron.

Surely, Demaethor thought as speechless he watched the great lord ascend the pinnacle of the wrecked dome, Sauron would meet his doom this day. For the lightnings crowded about him even as he stood there atop the huge, bared structure. This hour Manwë shall smite him down for ever, Demaethor knew. The judgment of the Valar would surely fall upon him now. Demaethor waited for the lightning to close in and incinerate Sauron where he stood. The lord was so still that he appeared as a tiny statue there all alone. It seemed the whole city held its breath and waited. Even Amariel had come out from the shelter of the doorway just enough to stand beside Demaethor and watch. Her body was tense and quivered slightly with expectation. She seemed to cast her desire out to the lightning, Demaethor thought, willing it to strike.



Esteldûr tugged desperately at the bonds about his wrists as he scrambled on, but they would not yield. He ran awkwardly because of them yet pressed on. The pavement was wide here, and almost free of the clouds of dust Esteldûr had left behind. The air flickered eerily with the lightning and the thunder hid somewhat the noise he made. A few staircases led him to a familiar courtyard near the King’s palace. There was only one place hard by where Esteldûr had any hope of hiding from his pursuers. He had put some distance between himself and them by detouring a little, but their footfalls and shouts could still be heard behind him. His injured knee continued to send fiery pain up his leg as he ran.

A tall, sculptured fountain bubbled unheedingly as Esteldûr hastened by. A huge building loomed up before him. The ornate facade rose up from a wide stair, decorated with many columns and statues and designs. A double door stood beneath an arched lintel, but it was shut. Esteldûr scorned that entrance and ran the length of the grand facade, to the other side of the building. A small, unpretentious door stood beneath one of the buttresses here. Esteldûr turned to lift the latch with his bound hands, praying it was not barred from within. The door swung open readily. He plunged inside.

No light shown within. Lightning flashed dully from windows of coloured glass. The crashing thunder was muffled and reduced to an echoey growl. The heavy, musty smell of decaying parchment and age-old dust calmed Esteldûr’s beating heart with its familiarity. He went on, entering a maze of shelves and columns that once he had known well. He allowed himself to slow down and limp through the narrow spaces between shelves. Scrolls, books, and mountains of loose papers lay mouldering here. These were the back chambers of the libraries, filled with the original copies of many texts that the scribes restored or replicated. The history of a race lay here in the dust, along with their poetry, their songs, their stories—their lives, captured in penstrokes. The awe of it never ceased to fall on Esteldûr when he entered this place. It did not fail this time, either. Esteldûr’s breath caught in his throat as he hurried through. It was as if the weight and value of all these precious documents were a tangible taste, a heavy draught that overwhelmed the mind. It had instilled in Esteldûr when he was but a young child the same love his father and his grandfather had for the written word. How many hours had he spent here by his father’s side, watching him and the other scribes meticulously researching, cataloging, copying? Many times Nedron had let him practice with the pens, letting him copy from some of these old records. In only a few months, when he would turn fifteen, Esteldûr was to have been admitted to the school of Chief Scribes, to learn from the highest scribes in the land the trade of his fathers. That would never be now.

He came to a place where the shelves gave way to a small, open space. Here several tables stood silently by, bearing work in progress. A blue-twinged light shone palely down on them from a tall, coloured window. It cast an eerie glow on one of the tables, which sat empty in stark contrast to the other workspaces. Where the other tables were piled high with papers and tools, this table was desolate and lonely. It had been that way, Esteldûr knew, for seven months. Sauron demanded that a reminder be provided to the other scribes of what befell the Elendili. It was his father’s workspace.

Esteldûr did not go to it. There were too many memories there that he could not think of now. He went to another one of the tables instead, reaching from behind him to search among the tools lying there. A set of little blades stood among the scribe’s implements. They were used to cut the mistakes from copied parchments, among other things. He plucked up the largest one and began to clumsily cut the cords that bound his hands. But it was a small blade, and the cords were thick. Several times he dropped the little knife and had to grope around under the table for it.

Muffled voices met his ears suddenly, and then the sound of a door being opened. His captors had found the way he had come in. Esteldûr moved his little blade faster against his bonds. His heart beat quicker again, and his hands began to shake as he heard the soldiers enter. They swore and cursed the darkness and the dust. He caught the sounds of them shuffling through the labyrinth of shelves, and winced when he heard the noise of papers and books falling in their wake.

The knife fell again from his fumbling fingers, clattering to the floor. The sharp noise seemed louder in the still darkness. “Over there,� one of the soldiers exclaimed. Esteldûr did not bother trying to find the blade. He pulled against the cords frantically. They bit into his wrists. Esteldûr clenched his teeth against the pain and strained with all his might. At last the cords gave way with a snap. Esteldûr exhaled sharply, realizing then that he had been holding his breath.

The shadows of his hunters moved noisily beyond several shelves. “Stay where you are in the name of the Lord Sauron!� one of them shouted, marking him. Esteldûr turned and ran. It was no use trying to move stealthily through here; he found himself groaning as his knee protested against his movements. He slid through the maze of shelves and racks, desperate to avoid hitting and dropping any of the old parchments on the floor. His pursuers were not so careful. They cursed loudly as they barreled through the aisles, sending clouds of dust into the air as they knocked papers and books off of the shelves. Esteldûr could hardly believe their recklessness. The ruination of these records was hardly worth the life of one small traitor.

He found himself against the wall now, by another little door. He opened it and slipped through. As he turned to run on, Esteldûr rammed into something, which cried out in surprise. His knee wrenched agonizingly as they both fell to the floor. The tiny light of a candle flickered and died as it, too, clattered to the floor and rolled away.

Esteldûr could not rise for the pain in his leg. Whoever he had collided with rose hastily to his feet, breathing heavily. “Who are you?� the shadowy figure asked, and it was a woman’s voice. Esteldûr could find nothing to reply. The figure made an annoyed sound and groped around for her candle. When at last she had lit it once again, Esteldûr looked up and saw a finely-dressed lady standing there before him. Her noble face was recognizable even in the faint candlelight.

Fear seized Esteldûr, and he bowed as well as he could on the floor. “Forgive me, my lady,� he said.

Queen MÃ*riel, daughter of Tar-Palantir and wife of the King, moved a step around him, as if she were inspecting him. “Raise your head,â€� she instructed. Esteldûr slowly turned his face up again. She lowered her candle a little to search his face. “Who are you?â€� she repeated.

Esteldûr opened his mouth to reply, even though he did not know what he would say. Dare he tell her who he was? Would she know that he was a runaway vassal of Sauron?

“Wait,� said she. Recognition shone in her regal eyes with the candlelight. “You are Nedron’s son, are you not? The one he was teaching to join the scribes; Esteldûr, is it not?�



Nothing happened. The minutes stretched by and no bolt of lightning found a mark in Lord Sauron. They crackled all about him but left him unharmed. And rather than diminish or cower, Sauron seemed to raise himself up to his full height. The sight of him dominated the dim morning. Demaethor marked now that others had come out from their homes or ceased to strive against the burning fires to stand and stare at the lone figure atop the Temple.

A sort of awe settled over all. Even Demaethor felt it. A fear touched his heart as he sensed Sauron’s deliberate defiance of the storm and its Masters in the West. By standing there he defied the Valar to strike him down. Why did they not? Demaethor wondered.

A roll of thunder scraped once more across the sky, and then stopped abruptly. Lightning flickered thrice, then ceased. Silence reigned for a moment. It seemed not a thing drew breath. A puff of wind blew by. All eyes were affixed to the figure aloft on the ruined dome.

Sauron remained still for a moment. Then, very slowly, he raised his arms to the sky. His hands spread wide and his head tilted back. It seemed a wordless invitation to the skies. But no lightning answered his gesture. Instead, the clouds away to the east lifted from the horizon. Sunlight broke through faintly, casting morning light at last upon Armenelos.

Someone somewhere lifted a cry. It was taken up by another voice, and soon the whole city was shouting and cheering, “This is no mortal before us, but a god!� Amid these cries, Sauron finally turned and slowly descended from the dome. The breezes increased and the clouds overhead began to thin and break.



Morning beams streamed in from somewhere and the darkness turned to a dim light. Esteldûr looked about him, disoriented. The Queen seemed to wonder at the change as well, but neither remarked on it. For at that moment the door behind Esteldûr burst open once more and the two soldiers issued from it. They marked Queen MÃ*riel with surprise and bowed hastily.

“What is the meaning of this?� the Queen demanded.

“Forgive us, your Highness,� one of them said. He grabbed Esteldûr and dragged him to his feet. Esteldûr stifled a cry as his knee gave him more pain. “We’ve been instructed to take this lad to Lord Sauron,� the soldier told the Queen. “The little filth tried to escape in all the confusion outside.� He cuffed Esteldûr roughly. Esteldûr’s pain, his lack of rest, his flight, all came crashing down on him with the soldier’s blow. He suddenly felt weary to the bone, and sagged against the soldier’s grasp. His vision dimmed, came back, then dimmed again. His knee throbbed dully.

“What be his crime?� he heard the Queen inquire through his fuzzy hearing.

“He is one of the Faithful, my Queen.� There was a moment of silence, and the soldier added, “There are other charges laid against him, though I know them not. I am only a soldier, carrying out my duty.�

“You are a snake, in the service of a Snake,� the Queen returned, her voice full of scorn. “His sentence is one of death?� she questioned.

“Lord Sauron’s orders are that all those of the Elendili shall be burned upon the Temple pyres to appease Melkor.� He struck Esteldûr again as he said, “Though this one may suffer longer for his treachery.� This time his blow seemed to pop something inside Esteldûr’s head. The world darkened.

“Enough!â€� MÃ*riel’s loud order echoed in the blackness that floated around Esteldûr. The soldier answered with naught but confused silence. “Get you gone to your precious Lord,â€� the Queen said, her voice twinged with wrath. “Leave the boy with me.â€�

“But, your Highness,� the soldier protested, “we have strict orders to bring him to Lord Sauron.� Suddenly Esteldûr found he did not care. His whole body ached. Something warm tickled his temple, slid down his cheek. A foreign sensation registered on the side of his skull where the soldier had struck him.

“Silence!â€� MÃ*riel’s voice drifted into his conciousness. “Are not my orders higher than Sauron’s?â€� she demanded. “No one but the King may interfere with my wishes. Sauron will not suffer for the loss of one mere lad. Melkor’s fires never lack for victims; one less will make no difference. Leave the boy with me. Now go!â€�

The soldier’s hold on Esteldûr slackened. Feebly Esteldûr threw an arm out as he sank to the floor. It did little to break his fall as he dropped into soft oblivion.

[Rosie Gamgee]

Chapter Seven

The clouds overhead had begun to disperse. Pale rays of morn lit the wrecked city of Armenelos. Yet a drifting, snow-like precipitation had begun to float from the skies. Grey powdery dots flitted listlessly downward like sparse clouds of gnats. Demaethor lifted a hand to catch one of the floating specks, and realized what it was before it disintegrated between his fingers: ash. The fires all about the city, and chiefly the one at the Temple, were sending clouds of the dingy particles into the air.

Amariel stirred from Demaethor’s side. She stepped down into the street, saying, “Come; Esteldûr may yet be there.� She turned and hastened up the street toward the empty, ravaged home of Argenarth.

“Wait!� Demaethor called after her. The noise in the city had resumed as folk went back to fighting fires. A great many of them had turned their attention toward the great blaze about the Temple. Nearly all were busy and distracted. But this did not change the fact that daylight had come, and Demaethor was well-known in the city of Armenelos.

Amariel either heard him not or heeded him not. She went on, and he had no choice but to follow.

“Esteldûr!� Amariel was calling even before she had reached the house. She stepped swiftly up the front stair, disappearing through the door. Demaethor knew already no one would answer her call. He waited on the step while she went through the empty house.

Demaethor’s glance fell on the slice of paper tacked to the door. He did not need to look at it to know what it said; many such documents he himself had nailed to many such doors. The thought shamed him. By the Order of Lord Sauron Those of This House have been Arrested upon Charges of High Treason, the parchment read. They shall be Taken to the Pyres of Melkor and There Burned for Their Crimes. Such is the Penalty and Doom of Those Who Defy the King, or Break the Laws Concerning Those of the Sect called the Elendili, or Hold any Other god but Melkor... Demaethor cast his eyes up the street toward the Temple. The destruction of the great dome would not impede the carrying out of this order, he knew. The Temple’s fires were insatiable. The blasphemous shouts of the city-folk earlier still rang in Demaethor’s ears: This is no mortal before us, but a god! Lord Sauron could demand what he wanted and men would bring it to him. This was the day to proclaim one’s loyalties in the city of Armenelos. No more would hesitancy be tolerated; any who denied Sauron would be brought to the Temple. Argenarth and his family were as good as dead, if they were not already. And, Demaethor realized with a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach, so was Esteldûr.

“None are within.� Amariel appeared in the dark doorway, her form outlined by the shadows inside. She seemed out of breath yet undeterred. She, too, glanced up toward the Temple’s ruined dome. Intent was in her eyes.

Demaethor did not stir from the step. He stared up at her miserably. Even with the confusion of the recent storm and the fire, even if Demaethor was not known to those in the Temple, even if Behirien were unwounded and here to aid them—even if Esteldûr were yet alive—rescuing him was truly impossible. It could not be done; and as much as Demaethor would readily lay down his own life in an attempt to save the lad, he could not lose Amariel in such a gamble. She alone remained of her family, and his thought echoed back to him once more: if she were lost, all would be vanity. He needed her to survive, needed her to make it to the ships of Elendil. Otherwise all his life would end in uselessness. With no way to make good the wrongs he had done against them, Demaethor would for ever be outside the mercy of the Valar.

Amariel seemed to perceive the despair in him. While her eyes searched his face her own countenance underwent a series of changes. Demaethor saw his own despair mirrored back to him, then read hot denial in her eyes. She shook her head, reading his thought to give up the search for Esteldûr. “No, my lord,� she said. “I will not leave him.�

“You have no choice,� Demaethor answered quietly. “Your brother is beyond deliverance.�

Amariel kept shaking her head. “No,� insisted she, and her voice grew loud and agitated. “No.� She moved as if to step down toward him, then nervously backed up. “No, my lord. It may be that he is being held somewhere in the city. Perhaps he has escaped his captors and hides somewhere. Perhaps he is now seeking us. He cannot be beyond rescue.� She paced to and fro, and began to wring her hands. Her breathing came quick and heavy.

Never had he seen her so distraught. Demaethor began to worry as Amariel became more and more agitated. Her composure and stolidity melted away rapidly, leaving a frightened, upset woman. She continued to pace, muttering to herself, her eyes mazed with some other vision. Stepping up to her, Demaethor caught her arm. “Amariel,� he said softly. But a wildness had entered her manner. She pulled away from him.

“Do not touch me,� she said angrily, “you who betray the lives of inno.cent children! He is not beyond rescue. We shall find him. We shall find him and ride to Rómenna, and we will be safe there. Esteldûr is somewhere in this city; we must seek him.�
Amariel moved to step down from the door, as if right then she would begin searching the streets for her brother. Demaethor blocked her way. He felt at that moment that he would have given any earthly thing to have Esteldûr standing there with them. He took hold of Amariel’s arm once more, making her look at him. “Amariel, Esteldûr cannot be saved,� he told her firmly, but found he could only whisper.

Her eyes widened as if in surprise. An empty, desperate rage filled them. “Unhand me, sir!� Somehow her anger turned to piteous, tearless sobs as she pulled against him. “My lord, please!� she began to plead. “We cannot leave him!� Her voice became a choked, hoarse sound. “He will die.�

Demaethor—stalwart captain of companies of hardened soldiers, dauntless warrior, and victor of many battles—could not bring himself to look her in the eye. “He is already dead,� said he, and turned from her.

An awkward silence claimed a moment. “What do you know?� Amariel hissed. Demaethor still did not meet her gaze. “Know you truly that he is—?� She choked on the word dead. “Or do you seek only to dissuade me from my purpose?� Amariel raised a fist and began to pound it upon his chest, his shoulder, forcing him to turn back to her. “You knew Galdûreth was false!� she accused in a shaking whisper. Her voice failed her then though she tried to form more words. Great sobs rose from her throat. Her legs trembled and she sank slowly to the step, her sobs wracking her thin frame.

Demaethor lowered himself down beside her; he was unable to do otherwise, for the lady had grasped his forearm now with white-knuckled fingers.

At last, Amariel’s sobs melted into tears. It seemed they possessed her, in fact. Like the little trickling that finally breaks a dam, all the emotion she had not shown parting from her sister or at the death of her brother found an outlet all at once. Amariel struggled to hold her sobs back, but futilely. Demaethor hardly knew what to do with her as she cried so helplessly before him. But slowly he moved closer to her, and very gently he put his arms about her trembling form. Like a little child she leant into his embrace, and wept openly upon his shoulder.


He was lost. They were all lost; dead and lost for ever: her parents to Melkor’s pyres, Magwiel to her officer. Then Forthon to the sword, now Esteldûr to evil treachery. Horrible realization told Amariel that she was all that was left of her father’s family. Yet it was not pity for herself that made her weep. Rather an abhorrence for herself filled Amariel. She had known what sort of man Galdûreth was, and still she had entrusted her brother to his care. She had wanted the absolution that his errand would bring. If Esteldûr had brought Anardil back, it would have lessened the burden of Forthon’s death and the loss of Magwiel. As the eldest of the siblings, Amariel was responsible for her brothers and sisters. She had failed in that responsibility toward Magwiel and ultimately toward Forthon. She had thought that if Anardil was saved it might in some small way make up for her failures. And for that she had been willing to risk Esteldûr. How, she wondered agonizingly, could she have lost him so selfishly?

Now she alone was left. She, a broken harlot, disgraced and tarnished, good for nothing. Why could not she have been lost in Magwiel’s stead, who for all her occasional impudence was not less deserving of mercy? Why could not Forthon been spared? He was good and kind and worthy, and his death was unwarranted. And now, Amariel screamed within herself, why could not Esteldûr have been saved? He was but a boy, full of youth, undeserving of the death that awaited him. The thought wrenched her insides cruelly. He was dying, perhaps at this very moment, and she could do nothing to save him. A hundred inexpressible questions tore her heart in pieces, all of them encompassed in one word; why?

Demaethor’s embrace protected her from the answers to those questions. His warmth gave her strength where she had none, supported her where her tears ripped away her defenses. Amariel gave in to her emotion, for a moment allowing herself to remain within the shelter she found here in his arms.

Too soon the feeling of solace was lost as other embraces made themselves evident in Amariel’s memory. The arms around her became another man’s rude, greedy hold. Abruptly she pulled herself away from Demaethor, choking down a sob. He released her.


“I-I am sorry, my lord.� Amariel’s voice shook and faltered as she fought for mastery of her emotion. Demaethor could not tell if she apologised for her tears or for scorning his embrace. Amariel raised a sleeve to her eyes, trying to wipe away her yet-flowing tears. Her shoulders rose and fell with great breaths as she sought to stifle her sobs. Demaethor found himself wanting to draw her close to him again, to offer her a place to grieve. For the woman bore such sorrow that he wished she could find some release in weeping.

It was with some reluctance that the captain slowly stood. “Come,� he said softly. Here in the street, with the morn’s light ever growing, it was probably better that Amariel dry her tears. He extended a hand toward her. “We must go.� She nodded and shakily raised herself to her feet, refusing his hand.

“Lead,� she whispered wearily, “and I follow.� Her eyes were so swollen that she could barely keep them open. Little tear-drops clung to her eyelashes and stray strands of her golden hair stuck to the wet places on her cheeks. Swaying on the step like a starving waif, Amariel drew in a sharp breath and sniffed. Demaethor resisted the urge to offer to help her again. He turned and began to walk back down the street, back the way they had come. So different the city looked in daylight that Demaethor felt disoriented for a moment. He recalled a little alleyway that they had come through to get on the street, and came to it before long. He turned down it, looking behind him frequently to be sure Amariel stayed with him. She did indeed, but walked with a slow, almost unheeding pace, staring at the cobblestones before her. Demaethor had to call to her to keep her moving with him.

The alleyway, which turned out to be longer and otherwise different than Demaethor recalled, opened into another wide street. Here and there little clusters of townsfolk stood before their homes, talking softly, weeping, pointing to the clouds of smoke that rose from elsewhere in the city. Demaethor avoided coming near any of them. He glanced behind him. Amariel came slowly from the alley. She stopped beside him, looking like one bewildered. “Stay close with me,� Demaethor instructed, and began walking once more.

He began to quickly realize that he must have come the wrong way. It was true that he knew Armenelos well, or some parts of it, but this spacious, residential area he was very unfamiliar with. Rich townhouses rose up all around. Those folk who stood in the streets were finely dressed, and attended by servants.

The smoke and the bizarre morning confused Demaethor’s sense of direction. He halted before he could get them lost any further in this maze of opulent dwellings. Turning to Amariel, he asked, “Do you know where you are?�

Demaethor was surprised to find the lady standing some yards behind him, staring at the door of some grand house. She did not seem to have heard him at all. “Amariel?�

“Why have you brought me here?� she asked. Blinking as if she had woken abruptly, she turned to him slowly.

The look in her eyes struck Demaethor. The emptiness of only a few moments ago was replaced by something else. Demaethor thought he read something between alarm and expectation in her expression. “What is it?� he asked.

“This is my father’s house,� said she.

Demaethor turned his eyes anew on the house, and marveled now at its richness. Amariel had said that her grandfather was a Chief Scribe under King Tar-Palantir. It was likely that the house had been a gift of that King, and grand it was indeed. Demaethor wondered, in fact, that it had not been bestowed upon some other nobleman or favoured one, now that it was uninhabited. But, then again, the populace of the whole Isle seemed to be waning as the years stretched on. Many of the houses in Armenelos, rich and poor alike, now stood vacant.

Beholding the impressive home before him, Demaethor imagined easily the kind of people who would dwell in such a place. His heart pained him when he thought of what those people had become: Forthon, a lonely, kinless soldier; Esteldûr, a tattered runaway; Amariel and her sister, harlots or little better. About the house were reminders of their fates. The door was boarded up and a few shreds of paper clung to the door, remains of Sauron’s order of eviction and condemnation. Some of the windows had boards fixed over them.

Before he could dwell much longer on the sadness that these things stirred in him, Demaethor’s eye caught movement. There. A shadow moved away from one of the windows. Amariel marked it as well, and gasped. Demaethor’s hand strayed to the hilt of his falchion, hidden under the folds of his cloak. “Come,� he said. “Let us go.� But Amariel moved not, only stared intently where the shadow had been. Demaethor saw recognition on her face. She knew who it was in the house.

A thought immediately sprang into Demaethor’s head. But he dismissed it, not even contemplating hope. “Amariel?� He called to her.

Amariel looked at him, her face still a mask of unreadable emotion. “Do you believe in foresight?� she whispered, and again Demaethor found himself taken by those words. The hope that he denied himself filled her eyes. “This way,� said she, and hastened away to the other side of the house.

Demaethor thought about calling her back, then followed. He did not know what he would do if her hope proved false.


Amariel led him around the house, to a small garden gate in a tall, green hedge. The gate had been chained shut. When Demaethor set his hand upon it to try to wrest it open, Amariel merely shook her head. She walked a yard or two distant, and, ducking down, slipped through a space in the hedge. Demaethor cast an eye about for anyone who might be watching them and then followed her.

A wide garden lay beyond. Once, perhaps, it had been a serene haven of flowers and trees. Now it was a disarrayed, withered thicket, threaded with stone pathways. Demaethor watched Amariel’s face grow pale as she looked about her. But she swallowed hard and went on. “This way,� she said once more. “Come.�

They passed through the garden and came to a wide, stone wall. Here a set of wide doors were open to reveal a pretty courtyard. Beds full of weeds and thirsty plants were here and there and a dried-up fountain was set in the midst. Columns rose up around the yard, enclosing little porches along three of the walls. Above were balconies opening from higher stories. A tall door, preceded by a set of wide stairs, was in the wall opposite Demaethor and Amariel. They continued toward it.

By the fountain, Demaethor noted as they passed, a few couches were arranged as if in readiness for someone. A small easel was set up before one of them. Time and the elements had scattered what had apparently been on it: parchments and pens and pans of ink. Among the tools littering the path was a woman’s delicate fan, now soiled and torn. All in all it was a sad picture, and not one Demaethor cared to speculate on. Amariel did not stop to look on it, either. Demaethor saw her shut her eyes as she passed, as if the sight made her feel sick.

“Wait,� Demaethor ordered as they mounted the steps, and Amariel laid her hand on the door-latch. Now he drew his falchion, and motioned for her to stand aside. “I will enter first.�


It was dim and quiet within. The first thing the registered to Demaethor’s senses was a musty smell; something like dust and dried lavender. He pushed the door open wider and stepped inside. Amariel followed almost noiselessly. They were inside a short hallway that opened up to the right, left, and center. A narrow table lay against the wall on the left. On it was a vase filled with the parched stalks of some dead bloom. The floor was covered with a film of dust, and faint rays of sunlight highlighted particles of the stuff drifting about.

But wait. Demaethor looked more closely at the dust covering the wide floor-planks. It had been disturbed, and recently, too. He followed the scuff-marks on into a wide dining hall. Here was a huge table, set about with low, ornate chairs. A massive chandelier hung above.

Suddenly, Amariel gasped. A hissing sound made Demaethor raise his blade and whirl around. A little grey cat blinked up at him lazily, slinking along the table-top. Drawing a breath, Demaethor turned back from the feline.

Amariel wandered past him. With wide eyes she looked about her, like one seeing a ghost. Demaethor watched her, and knew that what he saw as merely an empty dwelling she saw as a mouldering remnant of another life. Memories that Demaethor could not read lived in her eyes as she gazed around her. Such sadness was in her countenance. She beheld here an existence dead for ever. Like a pleasant dream one cannot recall after waking, so that life could nevermore be lived again. Her parents were dead, her brothers were dead. Demaethor found even he—a solitary, homeless, kinless soldier—could not guess what depths of bereavement tortured the lady.

A noise made Demaethor put aside his musings. Beyond the hall was a broad room, at the head of which was a stair. It led a short way up to a landing. From there the stair separated and continued in opposite directions along the back wall. Again a noise bit what had been mute air. A floorboard creaked.

Demaethor scanned the stair for movement. There. It was so still that he did not mark it at first: a little, white-clad figure stood on the first landing. It moved; a nervous, unsure step. Amariel drew a sharp breath like a strangled sob. “Mummy?� called the figure tentatively.

This time Amariel cried out as if struck, and flew to the little figure. “Anardil!� she cried, nearly choking with sudden emotion. “Oh! Thank Thee for Thy mercy!� She scooped him up in her arms. Weeping and laughing at once, she held on to him as though she would never let him go.



The morn had well-nigh passed when at last they found themselves outside of Armenelos. The previous night’s confusion yet affected the city’s watch, however. Demaethor and Amariel slipped through the gate unheeded, and passed on swiftly to where they had left Behirien.

Amariel still had not let go of her little brother. She carried the child though obviously the weight of him nearly exceeded the limit of her arms. Demaethor encouraged her once to let Anardil walk on his own, or to allow him to carry the lad, but she only shook her head. Now she swayed a little with each weary step. It almost made Demaethor weary just to watch her. He found his lack of sleep over the past days threatening to catch up with him, and quickly shook it away. Soon the city guard would regroup, and when they did it would not be overlooked that the traitorous Captain Demaethor had done battle with the King’s soldiers nearby and then escaped. They were no fools; they would guess Demaethor’s purpose and send men after him to the coast.

“How now, Behirien?� Demaethor inquired once they were in ear-shot. The soldier was stepping carefully about the horses, putting a hand on them occasionally to steady himself.
Behirien had been watching them come toward him. His look told Demaethor that he knew they had lost Esteldûr for good, and that he understood the child in Amariel’s arms was her baby brother. “A good many folk have come out of the city, my Captain,� the soldier reported. “Among them was a mounted messenger who sped away west with all haste—probably bearing news of the storm’s havoc to the King. No riders have I seen approach from the west, and none have marked me here. I have been testing the strength of my leg, sir. I do not think the wound is as bad as first it seemed.�

“Very good, soldier,� Demaethor told him. “You have done well. How fare the horses?�
Behirien cast an eye over them. “They grew very agitated by the storm. I am afraid their rest was mostly for naught because of it. I do not think they can bear two in much haste for long.� It was obvious they would have to double-up in order to ride. Demaethor cursed his own stupidity for not taking one or two mounts from the knights they slew last night.

“What we have must suffice,� the captain said. “We will ride as far and as hard as we may without finishing the poor beasts, and only then rest. Do not doubt my words concerning our pursuit; we have yet to meet with the second of the two waves. By this time they will be hard on our heels. Besides this, the guard in Armenelos now knows of our bout with the soldiers yestereven. They, too, will hunt us. Only speed on our part can purchase distance between us and our pursuers, and speed is nigh-impossible. Therefore let us not tarry here, though the day be full. Come; mount up.�

They arranged themselves this way: Amariel and Behirien on one steed, Anardil and Demaethor on the other. At first the lady seemed loath to seat herself so closely with Behirien, for she sat behind him and had to put her arms round his waist, and also to let Anardil go so far from her. “I entrust him to your care, Captain,� said she to Demaethor, and could say no more.

“No harm will come to him,� Demaethor reassured her. He lifted Anardil to set him on the horse, then mounted up behind him. Putting his arms about the little lad, he bade him to keep hold of the horse’s mane. The boy threaded his small fingers into the long, matted mane obediently, saying nothing. He had yet to say many words to Demaethor—just an inquiry back in the city as to who the “big man� was—but he kept turning his round eyes upon the captain, his face full of curiosity and something like awe. As for Demaethor, he himself was as unused to children as the boy was to captains, and did not quite know what to expect of the little fellow.

At last the four of them turned their horses toward the eastern horizon. Demaethor looked over them ere spurring his horse onward. Weariness touched each of their countenances, but resolve and the will to stay their course was in their eyes. “Let us away,� cried he. “To Rómenna!�



Ere they ceased to ride the sun was sinking low behind them. Remarkably, the day remained nearly-cloudless. So many months had Númenor been under the shadow of storm on storm, like a shore ever beaten upon by the waves, that it seemed the Isle scarce knew what to do with itself in the sunshine. The grasses blew listlessly, the trees sighed and lifted not their weary, bent hands. Amariel saw now and then a bird pass overhead, but no sound of song was in the cool air.

The land the little company traversed was wide and tussocky, rolling gently toward the horizon. Country manors and the occasional village could be seen in the distance, rising up on little hills and surrounded by tall, regal trees. Amariel looked to them to take her mind off of the constant movement of the horses. After some hours the sound of the hooves had become monotonous. The wind rushing by numbed her sense of touch, hearing. The arms she held about Behirien’s waist grew stiff and wearied. Her eyes became heavy and she wished for rest and slumber.

Yet she would not give in to her fatigue. It was a small miracle that their mounts had lasted this long without flagging. It was haste they were in need of, Demaethor said, and as long as the horses had strength to run, so long did their masters need the will to ride. It might weary them, but they must press on. In this thought Amariel took comfort: ere many more hours passed they would be in the house of Amandil’s son. There would be comfort and rest.

Looking over Behirien’s shoulder, Amariel watched the horse before them. The captain rode stoically. His body blocked all sight of Anardil, save for the boy’s long, curly hair, which flew about in the wind. The events of the morning had already become muddled and confused to Amariel. She recalled lightning and fire, felt Demaethor’s grasp as he pulled her out of the street. Then there was the Lord Sauron silencing the storm. Amariel expected this thought to move her more than it did. Behirien asked her soon after they left Armenelos behind how the storm had ceased so abruptly. She told him, and was surprised to find she did not much care that Sauron had defied the tempest. Perhaps, she thought, the surrealness of the event hindered her from fully comprehending it.

Next were the images of Argenarth’s empty house. Dark rooms filled with only shadows sowed the seeds of despair in her heart. Then Demaethor’s eyes were telling her that Esteldûr’s doom was unstoppable. All was bleakness and dark after that.

She had wept. Amariel had thought she would never weep again, but the anguish of her heart in that moment wrung out of her such agony as she had not known. Yet they were not the tears of release. Each salty drop reproached her, epitomized her desolation and her faults. Her father had no siblings. He was the only son of his father, who was the only son of his. Never had so many children been born to one of their line; indeed their family was quite large by Númenórian standards. And now they had all been lost—no sons remained to carry on the line, only one ruined wh.ore, the disgrace of her lineage. The condemnation of these thoughts held her with a dark hand. Until Demaethor’s strong arms had come around her.

Amariel cast a glance at Demaethor, as if the captain might sense and know her thoughts. She had not known until that moment when he folded her close how much she had missed a man’s embrace. Before the awful day so many long months ago, her father had been the chief one: her protector, her guide. She recalled his loving touch. He had but to place his hand upon her head and she knew she was sheltered and cherished. After that had been only the slovenly, lu.stful arms of strangers. For so long Amariel had had to be her own protector, her own strength. How willing she was, if only for a moment, to give that role to another!

Amariel began to puzzle over why the captain had leant his shoulder to her tears. Were not his the cold words at Forthon’s death: Bring him, if you value dead flesh? And was he not the one who had held her back from her would-be vengeance upon Galdûreth? Surely the tears of a harlot were not enough to move him to pity. And yet she recalled something else he had said; Do not think me unfeeling, woman.... I would not see your brother left in Armenelos, any more than you. She might have thought when he had said those words that his concern for her family arose from the fondness he and Forthon had shared. But Forthon was dead. No attachment of friendship or devotion did he share now with Amariel or the rest of her family, and yet he obviously desired to bring them to Rómenna. Why? She had no answer. His embrace had asked nothing of her, only sought to ease her pain. Although she could not guess why he had done it, Amariel would have thanked him for that compassion. But evil memories of too many others had trapped her. What would have been the walls of a refuge became the confines of a prison cell. She had pulled away from Demaethor’s embrace, and a sorrowful twilight returned again to her heart. Amariel felt so empty as she followed him through the streets, as though someone had snatched her very soul away and replaced it with coldest night. Light had returned only when she beheld Anardil rubbing his eyes on the stair.

And such joy that hour had brought her! Such warmth and life to her dead, broken soul! Amariel’s emotion in that moment was so great that she could not even put it into thought. That Anardil was alive after all these months—that he was well and safe—! And they had found him by mere chance—it was a blessing inexpressible and unlooked-for! Amariel found her thanks to the gods feeble in comparison with the gift. Even now she could find no words, no deed, to repay them. She had been alone; the miserable end of her father’s house. Now she had reason to live, to survive. She again whispered thanks to the Valar for the life of her little brother. Her heart stirred within her; she would protect Anardil as long as she lived. She would raise him to know of the goodness of his father and the valiance of his brothers, and to never disremember the evil that had brought them down.

Amariel looked toward Demaethor once more. When she searched her feelings, she was surprised to discover that she did not loathe him anymore, and that abhorrence no longer touched her heart when she looked upon the captain. Rather gratefulness filled her heart, and she thanked the Valar again—this time for a strange man, and for his selfless aid to her family.



The sun dipped low, reaching for the western horizon. The air that the day had warmed now began to blow away. Evening began to run its cool fingers through the winds.

Demaethor and his charges yet chased their own stretching shadows toward the east, though now the horses tired and grew weary. They had to be pushed to keep at a slow lope. At last Demaethor slowed, and called to Behirien to halt. They had come upon a lonely stream overshadowed by a little holt, and it was there that they dismounted. “We will rest an hour’s time,� Demaethor told them, “then press on through the night. Rómenna is not far; we shall reach her ere the sun rises again.�

Demaethor lowered Anardil down from his steed. As soon as his feet touched the ground, Anardil stumbled to his sister. She put her arms around him. “Tired, ‘Dilly?� she asked. Demaethor allowed himself a smile at her motherly way with the lad. Anardil nodded against her dress, too weary to even reply. The poor child had been sagging in the saddle for hours now, sleeping shallowly against the jolting rhythm of hoof-beats. His slumber made Demaethor the wearier, and the captain had found it difficult just to hold on to the little fellow and ride at the same time. But he had managed. Anardil had only awoken just now because they stopped.

Amariel took her brother to the edge of the stream and they both drank of its waters. A spreading tree hung over them, and under it Amariel sat down with Anardil in her lap. She rocked him gently and began to sing a lullaby. After he and Behirien had led the horses to water, Demaethor came and stood near. He watched silently as Anardil drifted to sleep under the enchantment of the lady’s clear, sweet voice. She sang a child’s ballad of Eärendil the Mariner, and though the tune was simple her voice made it sound as melodious as any music Demaethor had heard in noble halls. It was obvious that she had some skill with music; perhaps she had been learned in the playing of instruments. Indeed, Demaethor thought, as he caught her fingers moving bemusedly as she hummed, as if to pluck the strings of an invisible harp. Amariel seemed to enjoy singing, closing her eyes contentedly as she did so. Demaethor wondered to find himself keenly curious unto this end: did she like singing? What instruments did she play? What were her tastes and passions? Who had she been before the horror of these last months had transformed her into the withered shell she was now?

When at last Anardil’s little body slackened in slumber and his breathing became metered to the rhythm of his dreams, Amariel sat a long while just gazing on the lad. A smile was upon her lips.

Looking up, Amariel turned her face to Demaethor. It was the first time she had ever smiled upon him. Demaethor was struck by the smile’s simple beauty, gentle and clear, like her singing. It warmed his heart and made him suddenly realize that a coldness had lain there within him that had not been stirred in many years. He found no words to say in reply to her look.

Amariel did not seem to note how her countenance affected him. Speaking softly so as not to wake the slumbering child, she said, “I thank thee, my lord, for the part thou hast played in bringing my brother back to me. We—I had given him up for dead. And I could be no more blessed if he had indeed been brought back from death, nor could my joy be fuller. I thank thee with all my heart.�

Demaethor was taken aback by her words. For though she smiled now as she had never done before in his presence, he had not expected that she should speak so kindly to him. Because of him two of her brethren had perished, and yet she thanked him. “My lady,� he answered, and whispered not because Anardil slept, “I am wholly undeserving of your thanks.�

“Not so,� she insisted. “For though we bear no relation of kith or kin or friendship to you, yet you have uplifted the cause of my family, and faithfully you have done so.�

There seemed to be some emphasis she placed on the word faithfully, Demaethor thought, as though she finally accepted him as one of the Faithful. He had somehow earned her approval, despite his many offenses to her and her kin. This Demaethor could not accept. He realized that he desired Amariel’s favor and trust more than ever he had before, and yet he knew now how far he was from deserving it.

Demaethor shook his head. “And to what end,� he asked, “has your trust been put in me? If not for me Forthon and Esteldûr would yet be alive. I hearkened not to your words and trusted the lives of your brothers to an evil man, a betrayer. Though I had wished to protect your family, and despite my best efforts toward that end, I find that I have only been the cause of more grief to you and your kin.� He heard his voice becoming louder, perhaps even harsh. “Do you not understand, lady? Praise is given to men who have performed above the calling of their duty. I have not even attained the goal which I set out to achieve; rather I have failed, and that utterly and immutably. Do not thank me. What I have done is but the merest act of recompense, and undeserving of gratitude.� He ceased, and looked back at Amariel. Her smile had vanished, replaced by a look between sadness and puzzlement. In her silent eyes was the former forlornness he was accustomed to seeing there. “Forgive me,� Demaethor muttered, and turning away he left her.


Demaethor arranged with Behirien to watch for a half-hour while the foot-soldier rested, and then to rest himself for the same space of time. Behirien lowered himself to the ground and slept within a few minutes. The horses, too, had lain down in the grass and rested themselves. Demaethor glanced under the tree nearby and it looked as though Amariel was sleeping as well. Gazing on the lady there a moment, Demaethor regretted having become so brusque with her just now. Happiness had touched Amariel’s countenance such as it never had in the time he had been acquainted with her. Surely it had been many long months before that since she had smiled in the way she had moments ago. And he, in his bitterness over his own failings, had succeeded well in taking the joy from her face again. He turned his eyes away from her and toward the western horizon. The sun was just touching the hills now, casting long shadows in its quiet orange glow. No one approached from out its low beams. Little stirred, in fact, save the grasses and leaves in the breeze. Evening stars began to glitter in the darkling sky toward the east. The cool stillness of the waning day folded itself about Demaethor. The captain paced as the quiet threatened to lull him to sleep.

Rómenna was very near now, perhaps a few hours’ ride away. Demaethor began to wonder what he would do once he had come to the city. He had been so preoccupied with just reaching the coast that he realized he had not given much thought to what would happen once they got there. It was true what Esteldûr had said; though Elendil had eluded capture ever since his father had left the Isle (it was said that Amandil had journeyed upon the sea to the east, but many held there was some hidden purpose to his going), Sauron had been seeking to arrest him. The man would not be easy to find, though it was known to the Faithful and their enemies that he was in Rómenna. Esteldûr, perhaps, might have learned something of his whereabouts from his time in the Temple’s service. But, Demaethor needed not to recall, Esteldûr was not with them. The task of finding Amandil’s son was going to prove difficult, taking some days, perhaps. For even on the east coast one could not in safety proclaim one’s loyalties if they lay with aught beside the King, and the spies of Lord Sauron were as plentiful in Rómenna as they were in Armenelos.


When his watch ended, the captain woke Behirien. “Keep a sharp eye to the west,� Demaethor instructed him. “And do not overlook that it is often better to keep an ear to the ground than an eye to the wind. If the least should approach from any direction, let me know of it.�

“Aye, my lord,� Behirien answered, and Demaethor left him to his watch.

By now only the sun’s halo was left above the horizon. Night was nigh. The warmth of the day had all but vanished, leaving a breezy cold that blew about and spoke of the snow of yesternight. Demaethor cast an eye toward Amariel and her brother. Both yet slept soundly, oblivious to the night closing in about them. Still wishing to make up for his harshness earlier, Demaethor stepped near and slid the cloak he had taken back from Amariel off of his shoulders. He had not doffed it when they fled Armenelos. Now Demaethor laid it gently over the lady and her little brother, telling himself that Anardil needed its warmth more than he did. The truth was Demaethor felt a sudden desire to protect Amariel from the cold of the evening. The loss of Forthon left her without a guardian. He felt it his responsibility to assume the role until he brought her safe to Elendil’s house.

Moving a respectful distance away, Demaethor cast himself upon the ground. At last he allowed his weariness to overtake him. Like a great weight it covered him. Demaethor shut his eyes, surrendering to sleep for the first time in two days. Cool darkness enveloped him, and he knew no more.

[Rosie Gamgee]

At last; another chapter. Not that there are hordes of people waiting for it or anything...

Chapter Eight

“My lord? Sir?� a voice called out of a fuzzy dark. Demaethor drew a breath, and wakefulness returned to him. The warmth of his sleep heightened the effect of the night’s chill; cold air moved around him, woke him to his stiff, aching muscles. He groaned silently, opening his eyes.

Berhirien stood over him, outlined in silver light. Demaethor was surprised at the deep darkness that had shut about them since he fell asleep. How fast the night had fallen, he thought. A boding, close feeling was in it, like a great invisible fist had encircled the world. The stars shone out overhead, but in an odd sort of tuneless way. The low, rising moon, too, seemed pale and grey against the sky. Wisps of cloud hung listlessly here and there. “Has is been only a half-hour?� Demaethor inquired, rising.

“Aye, sir,� Berhirien answered. “The night has come in haste, out of pity maybe; to cover and bring an end to this evil day.� Demaethor looked beyond him and saw the horses standing ready in the moonlight. Amariel and her brother were awake also. They stood nearby, waiting. All had been prepared for their continued flight whilst the captain slept.

“Well done, Berhirien,� said Demaethor. He inclined his head toward Amariel and the child. “You should have awoken them last, not me.�

“I woke them not,� the soldier replied. “The lady rose by herself some time ago, and roused her brother only moments ago. She aided me with the animals. Also: here is a portion of the rations.� Berhirien proffered a cake of waybread. Demaethor took it, and bade the soldier to report on his watch. “None came along our path,� Berhirien made answer, “although I saw distant lanterns and movement away to the north once. As you advised, I set my ear to the ground now and again. A moment ago I heard the whispers of hooves afar off. But nothing more.�

Demaethor nodded his acknowledgment, then dropped down and placed his ear to the cold earth at their feet. Indeed, what the soldier said was true; the noise of hooves pounding the ground far away echoed somewhere in the ground. It might have been their pursuit, or perhaps nothing. Demaethor rose again, this time a little swifter. “Well done,� Demaethor told Berhirien once more. They turned and both went to the horses. Amariel looked up; she had been speaking with Anardil. She and Demaethor exchanged a glance in greeting. He read in her manner no harsh coldness, but only a quiet distance that disappointed him for a reason he could not define. “How fare you?� the captain asked quietly.

“Well; thank you,� answered Amariel, returning his abstract tone of voice. Demaethor nodded. He noticed with a little satisfaction that Amariel yet wore his cloak. She was holding Anardil close to her with the garment over both of them together. The lad whimpered something sleepily. “Be still,� Amariel told him. “You must ride with the captain once more.�

Demaethor glanced down at the little fellow, who was peeking out from the folds of the cloak with bright, round eyes. He sensed something was expected of him and lowered himself down to the lad’s level. “Come, boy,� said Demaethor, and extended his hand toward him. “Fear not.�

“I am tired,� Anardil announced, and yawned as he said it as if to emphasis his point. “I want to go home.�

Amariel shushed him. Demaethor stifled the thought that came to his mind: the boy had no home. “Soon,� he said. “Soon you shall be able to rest. Only a little while longer. Come with me.� Again he offered the lad his hand. This time Anardil took it, his little hand grasping Demaethor’s forefinger, and stepped carefully away from his sister.

“Why is Amariel wearing your clothes?� the child inquired as Demaethor led him to his mount. He toddled along now with bold steps beside the captain.

Demaethor glanced back at Amariel. “I feared your sister was cold,� he answered, and felt he was confessing to more than a concern for her well-being. But Anardil judged him not for his answer; the boy seemed hardly to hear his words.

“How come you have such big boots?� Anardil asked. He had stopped as they came near Demaethor’s horse to gaze at the captain’s feet.

Demaethor chuckled a little at the boy’s newfound assertiveness. “I suppose,� said he, “you must ask the cobbler.� He lifted Anardil up and set him once again upon his horse.

“Where is Forthon?� was the next question. Anardil looked down seriously from the saddle.

Demaethor felt his throat tighten. He wondered if Amariel had told the boy what had become of his brothers and his parents, or if Anardil would even understand if he were told. “That is enough questions for this hour, little one,� Demaethor said, supposing he sounded somewhat brusque. Well, there was nothing for it now, he thought. Anardil blinked once and then fell silent. Demaethor mounted up behind him wordlessly.

Amariel and Berhirien were mounted up now, as well. The captain looked away toward the dark, boding east. “Now for the last leg,� he announced. “We ride swift and hard. We shall not stop until we are within sight of the city. Our only hope of escaping our pursuit will be to enter Rómenna before they do.� They nodded their understanding. “Ride, then,� said Demaethor. And with no more speech he spurred his horse onward.



The darkness seemed to swallow up all sense of time and space. Frigid winds numbed the faces of the riders. Their vision was tricked and played upon by the shadows that moved around them as they sped away. By the stars they kept moving in the right direction, but little else guided them. The night stretched on and on.

At last lights began to twinkle and glitter before them. The lanterns of Rómenna blazed brightly against the darkness, and their light was to the worn riders as the lights of home. The scent of the sea blew softly on their faces. The calls of gulls heralding the coming morn welcomed them. Demaethor led the rest off of the open field they had been crossing over and onto the road. Nothing stirred upon the well-traveled way this early in the morning.

“Awake,� Demaethor said softly, nudging the sleeping form before him. Anardil had fallen out of sheer exhaustion into a slumber some time ago. “Lad, look before you,� the captain told the little fellow as he stretched into wakefulness. “A sight is to be seen here.�

Anardil looked ahead of them. Rómenna was beautiful city; she glittered on the bay like a faceted jewel. Her fair turreted buildings and long, grey piers stood out against the sea and spoke silently of peace and timelessness. The bay beyond lay like a cool grey blanket embracing the land and reflecting back the light of the city. Dotted upon the water were the silhouettes of tall, splendid ships, gathered about the city like chicks around a mother-swan. “Is that Elendil’s house?� the four-year-old asked.

Demaethor found himself smiling. Amariel must have told the child that they were going to see the famed leader of the Faithful. “Elendil lives there, lad,� he allowed. “‘Tis Rómenna before you.�

“Rómenna,� Anardil rolled the word clumsily off of his baby-tongue. “Are Mummy and Father there?�

The captain sighed. “No, Anardil,� he said quietly. “Your parents have gone very far away. You will not see them in Rómenna.� He knew not how else to explain to the lad what had happened to his family.

But Anardil surprised him, after a moment of silence saying, “They’re gone for ever. Not coming back.� He twisted his little body ‘round, turning his eyes to Demaethor’s.

“That is right,� Demaethor said.

Anardil yawned. “’Mariel says it is just we two, now. But why are you and Berhirien with us?�

Demaethor opened his mouth to answer, but just then a mounted figure stepped out onto the road from the shadows. “Halt, in the name of the King!�


Demaethor touched his heels to his mount’s sides, spurring him to haste. Amariel felt Berhirien do the same, following the captain’s lead. But several more riders came out upon the road, before and behind, blocking the way of escape. Amariel drew a sharp breath as Berhirien and Demaethor were forced to rein their horses in. Panic slammed into her. She looked about, wide-eyed in the dark, and could see naught but threatening shadows, hooded and black. Her thought flew to her little brother, ahead in the keeping of Demaethor.

One of the shadows around them advanced a step in a searching, groping manner. It seemed he had the same difficulty as she did seeing in the darkness. “Captain Demaethor?� he called. His voice was loud and rough. Amariel’s heart began to pound.

There was a beat of oddly calm silence from Demaethor. Amariel’s throat went dry, and she searched for some way of escape, some opening in the circle of riders. Somehow their hunters had reached the coast before them, lain in wait for them to pass. And now, just mere miles from the gates of the city, they had been trapped. There must be a way out! she thought desperately. “Who asks?� Demaethor was asking of the black rider.

“That is not for you to inquire,� snapped the other man. It seemed he gathered that he did indeed address the one he sought. “You will dismount—you and your companions. You are under arrest for highest treason, ‘gainst the King and Lord Sauron.� Sudden light sprang forth as someone lit a lantern. The road filled with flickering brightness. Odd shadows were tossed about, and the hooded riders appeared taller than perhaps they were. Amariel counted seven of them. Her heart sank in dismay as she saw how closely they hedged about them. There was no escape, unless it was with bloodshed. Again she thought of her brother.

Demaethor did not stir. This seemed to vex the other rider. “Do not think, Demaethor, that the child in your arms will offer you any protection. His life means nothing to me.� Amariel felt as though her lungs had been crushed at the reference to Anardil. She struggled for breath. “If you do not do as you are ordered,� the man went on, “he shall suffer the consequences in your stead, be he innocent or not. I have orders to bring only you to Sauron alive.�

Another moment of boding silence filled the constricting darkness. Then, “Is this how faithful service is to be rewarded?� Demaethor growled. Amariel looked up sharply at the sound of his voice, for she had never before heard it so stern. Demaethor continued, “Ever have I served the King and Sauron in all their schemes. Years I have spent uprooting traitorous rebels from the land, and now I am to be counted among them?�

“Indeed you are,� the hooded man answered, “since you yourself have stood to be numbered with them. Your deeds of these past days speak clearly enough of your allegiances, Demaethor.�

“Is one day of deeds enough to wipe away years spent to the contrary?� Demaethor replied, his voice yet dark and threatening. “Many actions can be misinterpreted, soldier. Here now is proof of my allegiance.� He gestured in front of him, at Anardil, and cast a look over his shoulder at Amariel. “Children of the Faithful; their parents have been exterminated. Soon their offspring shall plague Númenor no more.�

Amariel’s panicked, racing thought stopped. What was he saying? She tried to swallow but could not. Something inside her began to vibrate with fear, or anger, or both.

“That you travel with the Elendili hardly proves your disunion with them,� the other man returned acidly. Amariel heard him, but with groping ears, as if she were unfamiliar with the language. “Seven of the King’s knights lay dead outside Armenelos, and reportedly by your hand. Our informant has told us quite plainly, Demaethor, that you have joined their traitorous sect.�

Demaethor laughed. Horror fell upon Amariel as she listened to his confident chuckle. “You mean Galdûreth? He was a fool.� Her heart seemed to cease its beating. He had known Galdûreth was false? It could not be. Her thought floundered around questions and answers all jumbled together within her. Was the captain himself false as well? Why then had he guided them all this way? “Galdûreth knew not the errand I was sent to carry out.�

“Come, Demaethor,� the man countered. “It is known among the Army that you were awarded a place on the King’s ship at the head of the Armada. What errand could the King or Lord Sauron have sent you upon that would take you from that position of honour?�

“Fool!â€� accused Demaethor. “The King would not that his Armada quit Númenor whilst his enemies yet infest the land. What would become of the throne in his absence? MÃ*riel would surely seize power, and she has no greater ally than the son of Amandil.â€�

“You tire me, Demaethor,� the rider said, doubt and impatience evident in his tone. “To what do these assertions tend?�

“Elendil,� Demaethor said softly. Amariel’s stomach turned and she felt suddenly sick. She listened to Demaethor, unable to do otherwise. “Elendil has evaded the grasp of Sauron for months. The only means left to snare him by is to feign alliance with him: to feign alliance with the Faithful. With the testimony of these two here with me to support my conceit, gaining Elendil and ruining the cause of the Faithful shall be but a matter of time.�

Disbelief fell away from Amariel at last. Something gave way within her as she was forced to believe the words of Demaethor. Rage began to build in her as she thought again of Demaethor’s embrace. She began to tremble with a hot despair. To think that she had put Anardil in his keeping; that he had held the hand of Forthon as he lay dying! Forthon had loved Demaethor whilst he lived—Was he truly so false? It could not be so! But here he stood confessing it. Horror and wrath boiled up within her.


“Wretch!� a strange voice shouted. Demaethor turned in surprise. Amariel was trying to dismount, but Berhirien held her back. Her voice, deep and dark, shook with rage. “Thou foul betrayer!�

“Silence!� ordered the other soldier. Demaethor forced himself to turn back to him, though Amariel’s manner shook him. He had not meant his deception to mislead her also. But then, no bond of trust lay between them; she had been suspicious of him since the moment they first met. Nothing was to stop her from believing what he was saying now.

The hooded man had also taken notice of Amariel. “Well, well,� he said smugly. “What other surprises does Demaethor bring with him to Rómenna?� He twitched the reins of his horse and moved a pace closer to better examine Amariel. Demaethor did not see the man’s look, but he saw Amariel’s reaction to it. The wrathful bloom on her cheek gave way to a pale shamedness. Her breath, which was coming quick from her anger, slowed. She looked away, shrinking back behind Berhirien as if to shield herself from the rider’s lingering eyes. Demaethor wished suddenly that he were in Berhirien’s place, that Amariel might find protection in him. “Well, well,� the man said again.

“Stay back,� Demaethor barked, moving his own mount to stand between the soldier and the object of his gaze.

The man recoiled. “Is this woman dear to you?� he taunted. Demaethor answered not. From the shadows by his side the hooded rider drew a sword. The ringing of it echoed around as the other riders also drew their blades. “Dismount, Demaethor,� he ordered darkly.

“You will not assail a captain of the King’s Army,� Demaethor said, his voice loud.

“Be silent,� the man returned. Scorn was in his tone. “I care not for your tales of intrigues. The King shall judge if they be true, not I. It is by his order that you have been stripped of your rank. You are a traitor; a disgrace to your King and his Army.� His voice grew quieter, as if he savoured the words. “It is said among the King’s men that you feared to go with the Armada to Valinor. They say you feared to be among the first to step upon the Eternal Shores, and fled away to the east that you might escape the King’s glorious Design.� He laughed, but Demaethor remained silent, almost unhearing. Something within him seemed to break away and leave him. All his life he had served the King, served the Army. All his existence was wrapped up in it. There was not a moment he could recall of any importance in his life that did not involve his being in the service of Númenor’s throne.

Demaethor had known that night back in Eldalondë that he was forsaking all when he chose to renounce his fealty to Sauron. He had known that by throwing his lot in with the enemies of Lord Sauron that he forfeited all rank and privilege and favour with the King. And yet in this moment the emptiness and utter purposelessness of his life was thrown into sharp relief as he saw all his many years’ service scorned and cast away at last. And something within died.


Amariel could not see Demaethor’s face, but she saw his shoulders sag as if a burden had been placed upon them. Her anger yet burned hot against him, and she felt no pity as slowly he dismounted. Surely his lies and schemes had caught up with him now. But nothing these men could do to him would exact what punishment he deserved. Even if he received the worst end Sauron Himself could devise, Demaethor had many such deaths to his account. The dooms of her brothers were among them. Amariel’s one grief at seeing the captain so exposed was that she would not have a hand in his destruction.

Demaethor’s feet came to the ground heavily. “That is better,� Amariel heard the hooded rider say, as if it was his order that compelled Demaethor to dismount. But there had been a deliberate manner in the captain’s movements that belied that thought. With the same manner Demaethor turned and lifted Anardil down. The action set Amariel’s teeth on edge. She could feel his fingers round the boy’s body as surely as if it was her he lifted, and his very touch made her sick. But there was no way to get to him or to snatch her brother from his grasp. Demaethor set the boy before him, out of Amariel’s sight.

“Now, the rest of you,� the dark-clad man ordered. “Dismount, and do not attempt to escape.�

Before her, Berhirien stirred from a shocked stillness. He slid carefully from the saddle, landing gingerly upon his feet. Extending his hands he helped Amariel down after him. In his eyes lay the same bewildered shock and hopelessness that held her own heart, though it seemed all untouched by the rage and vengefulness that filled her. They stood, looking up at their captors.

“Bind them,� ordered the leader of the dark riders. He and two others dismounted. “The woman and the child first. I shall bind Demaethor myself.� They began to advance with upon them with cords.

“No!� Amariel shouted, sudden desperateness welling up within her. It drowned her anger, overtaking her hate for Demaethor and making her think only of her little brother. Perhaps they were to die. But she would not have it be before Sauron, on his abominable pyres. She would not allow them to take and burn Anardil as they had burned her parents—as they had burned Esteldûr.

Two steps had her brother within her arms. She was not aware of Demaethor standing by, but only of Anardil. She stood over him protectively. If they were to die, let them die here, now. “You shall not touch him!� cried she, knowing that she could do but little to stop them. The man had said he had orders to bring only Demaethor to Sauron alive. Perhaps it would not be too difficult to make their ends swift.

The hooded man and those with him had halted at her outburst. Now the leader laughed from within the shadows of his hood. Reaching up a gloved hand, he tossed back the hood and shook a mane of dark curls. His eyes, flickering beneath thick brows, reflected a pleased look in the lamp-light.

Again Amariel felt herself shrink from his gaze. In his look lay a rapacious hunger; a look she had seen enough times. She knew from experience that to display fear would but gratify this sort of man, yet she could not help it. “She is a feisty thing, is she not?� the fellow chuckled, glancing back to Demaethor. “I can guess readily where you found her and the little brat. In a troop of camp-followers? or some slum of Eldalondë?� He turned to the two men who flanked him. “It seems the famed celibate Captain Demaethor has warm blood in his veins after all.� Again he bent his eyes upon Amariel. “But I deem this fruit is far from spoiled yet.� A familiar dread fell upon Amariel as he ordered, “Bind her. I will have use for her ere we reach Armenelos again.�

One of the men took a step forward, but stopped short as with a swift movement Demaethor put himself between him and Amariel. With practised hands he drew his axe from his back, and held it at the ready. “You will not lay a hand on her,� he growled, to Amariel’s bewilderment. Her thought flew back into doubt even as her heart beat faster. Anardil had begun to weep silently, and clung tight to her hand.

The black soldiers had stopped before Demaethor, but the one man laughed. “She is worth something to you, isn’t she? What; is the whelp yours?� When Demaethor answered not, the dark fellow took a bold step closer. “What do you think will happen here, Demaethor? You are outnumbered, and have only one wounded man and a strumpet to aid you. Let me tell you how this will end: They will die, and you shall pay for your treason at the hand of Lord Sauron.�

“If it prove so,� Demaethor answered, his voice yet low and grim, “then a few of your own men shall lay here dead ere it happens. And, by my life, you will lay among them.�


This checked the other man. He looked about him and seemed to suddenly realized that if anything were to happen in the way of bloodshed in the next few moments, he would be in the midst of it. Demaethor found a grim sort of fleeting satisfaction at the man’s confounded look. He had seen the manner in which the rider had gazed upon Amariel. It was nauseating: the blatant appetite on the man’s face. The rider would die here for ever thinking to lay a finger upon her, Demaethor swore.

The man seemed to be weighing his situation. If he withdrew himself, and ordered his men to seize Demaethor, it was possible that the former captain might take a few of them down before being properly restrained. It was also possible that the captain might himself sustain some damage, and Lord Sauron had ordered that Demaethor was not to be harmed. Then again, if he stayed where he was, sought to engage Demaethor himself, he did not stand to last long ‘gainst the sturdy strokes of the captain’s axe.

Before the fellow could make his choice, however, a swift whistling lit on his ears. He looked up at the sharp noise. Scarcely had he done so when, with a cry, one of his mounted riders about them dropped from his saddle, a long dart stuck in his neck. Another whistle hailed the dart that buried itself in the bearer of the lantern. He fell back, and the light went out.

Demaethor had not taken his eyes from the man before him. Now, in the sudden dark, he made a swift attack. It was only a shadow he lashed out at in the darkness, but his skilled aim found a mark. The man shouted and stumbled. By now, though, more arrows had followed the first and all was a shadowy, shifting maze of noise and blades and screams and hooves. “Amariel!� Demaethor shouted. He hoped she had sense enough to stay by him, though he could not see in the dark, mad rush. A weighty shadow jumped at him from the side. Demaethor reflexively threw a blow at it. Not even a grunt answered the heavy, dull sound of his axe meeting its target. He pulled up on his blade, tearing it from the slumping body as mercilessly as he had buried it there.

Now Demaethor was aware of the sound of swift hoof-beats. Some he heard retreating, but others approaching. “My lord!� a voice called in the din. Berhirien. Where was he? Demaethor swung near-blind at the huge shadow of a horse turning madly before him. The horse’s rider struggled to master the animal, and found time in his efforts to swing a blade downward. He would have done better to keep both hands on the reins, for Demaethor hacked upwards and severed the wrist that held the sword from his arm. The man’s scream caused his horse to buck him off at last and bolt away. Demaethor felt warm blood spatter on him as the fellow tumbled down.


Amariel could hardly think in the riot of noise and shadow. She held Anardil close against her, trying to make herself small and invisible. A thought crossed her mind to keep near Demaethor, who had been until now their defense. Her mind was bewildered with confusion in regard to him. What was truth and what was lie when he spoke? Right now, anyway, it did not seem to matter. For though she caught herself seeking the heavy sound of an axe amid the ringing of swords, her ears sought in vain. The only thing she could do was try to remove Anardil from the chaotic tumult.

With the same abruptness with which it had begun, the noise began to die away. A whinny pierced the air, and a horse bounded away carrying a black-clad rider. Someone moaned. A feeble clang was silenced by a sudden, heavy slice. A thick breath was let out. Dense quiet closed in.

Peering about her, Amariel tried to see what had happened. Noiseless confusion hung in the air, like mute chaos. All was a hazy blue dark and she could see but little. An upright shadow moved somewhere before her, but in the half-light she could not guess the distance, or who it was. A horse or two yet paced about the place, and they also confused Amariel’s vision. Anardil’s little body shook within her arms.

“Are you all right, ‘Dilly?� she whispered, and drew him back a little. Tears ran down his face, glittering in the dark. Strangled, weepy little breaths tore out of him.


Without warning a strong, gloved hand closed about Amariel’s wrist. She gasped, tried to pull away, but the surprise of it left her defenseless. The hot, fierce grip yanked Amariel, pulling her against a warm body. A rough hand grabbed her hair close to the scalp. “What would you do for your life, pretty?� Amariel felt the man’s breath on her skin, smelled his sweat, his blood. She recoiled and twitched away as his hand drifted down from her hair, brushing against her throat. With a desperate scream Amariel strained to bring up to her mouth the hand that held her wrist. Finding the bare skin between gauntlet and glove, she bit down hard.

The man grunted in pain. His grip on her slackened. The hand on her hair came away, but only to deliver a brutal blow her cheek-bone.

A brilliant light flashed in Amariel’s head. Heat seared into her eye and she lost her footing. She fell near-senseless while he seized her about the waist with one hand and grasped her by the hair with the other. The pain of it kept Amariel’s consciousness from fading. She heard herself yelling for help, as if from a distance.

“’Mariel?� called a small voice. Amariel fought to open her eyes. A tiny shadow was there; Anardil. The one who held her lashed out with a booted foot in the child’s direction. With a cry Amariel twisted her body to stop the savage kick, took the brunt of it herself. The air left her lungs with a noisy gasp.

Amariel looked up in time to see a flash of metal in the darkness. Her captor had no time to react. Metal met flesh; with a crash the head of an axe fell into the man’s unprotected face, smashing his nose down into his skull with a sickening sound. Blood spurted, slapping Amariel’s face with hot droplets. Her captor fell with a gurgling groan, pulling her down with him.

A strong arm caught Amariel ere she fell. Her head spun, and she grabbed at the arm of her rescuer to keep from falling, even as her own feet found the ground beneath them once more. “Anardil?� was her first thought. His curly head was by her side in an instant.

“Are you well?� asked the one who held her. “Can you stand?� Amariel recognized the speaker as Demaethor.

Confusion welled up within her at the sound of his voice. The urge to run from him seized her, but she could not stand without his support. He had confessed his outrageous pretense to these soldiers, and now he expected her to receive his help? Feebly she tried to disengage herself from his grasp. “Let me go.�

But Demaethor seemed to sense that she had not yet regained her balance. His hold loosened, as if to let her go if she wished, but ready to catch her if she fell. He seemed to guess her thoughts and said breathlessly, “It was a lie, Amariel. It was all a lie.�

Her befuddled mind tried to find the falsehood in his words. She found her thoughts a tangle. But she had no time to reply. For at that moment a trio of horsemen rode up. Demaethor’s body tensed as they neared. A quick movement had Amariel leaning upon him from behind, clutching Anardil, while he turned towards the approachers.

“Be thou friend or foe?� Demaethor demanded. His voice was laboured, his breath heavy. Yet he raised his weapon without fear.

“A hard question to answer,� replied one of the riders, “when one does not know the allegiances of the questioner.� There was no hardness in his voice. A little suspicion, perhaps, but on the whole his tone was that of one who addresses a friend.

No sign of the riders’ own fealties could be found upon them. In the dimness Amariel saw a coat of mail and tall helms glittering on each of the three, but not a crest or surcoat among them. The one man added, “I mark upon you the livery of the King’s Army, and upon the shoulders of your lady the cloak of an officer. Either you are the owner of these articles or you have despoiled them from another master. Here is a riddle. For if the former be so, I might guess where your loyalties lie—and yet you do battle with Sauron’s servants. And yet if the latter, how be ye so skilled in weapons? For wild men may roam the Middle-Lands who have skill enough to challenge a Númenórian officer, but there be none on the Island that do not belong to the Army. How shall I read this riddle, sir?� Amariel found herself waiting upon Demaethor’s reply with as much interest as the rider.

Demaethor’s voice hardened as he spoke, though with resolve, not anger. “These tokens belong not to me,� he answered, “yet I did not gain them by thievery. They are relics of the man I was, and am no more.� Silence answered him for a space.

“Choose your answer carefully, sir,� said the mounted one. “Your life may hinge upon your reply. By these words do you imply that you have turned from allegiance to your King?�

There was no hesitancy in Demaethor’s answer. “I imply nothing. I do declare with no reservation that I am enemy to Ar-Pharazôn, who calls himself King, and to Sauron, and to any and all they send against me.� He turned a little, as if he knew that Amariel listened for his next words. “If there be a doubt; behold! For with this pen I have writ as much upon enough crests.� He held aloft his axe, and gestured to the men who lay dead round them. Amariel let her gaze fall upon the slumped shadows littering the ground. Her doubt began to fade.

“Well said,� the other man answered. “Yet any brigand may commit treason, and for many evil causes. For what reason have you slain these? Why flee you from your masters, sir?�


Demaethor knew well that his answer could cost him his life, and also the lives of Amariel and Anardil. He felt keenly the presence of Rómenna’s gate, not a mile from where they stood. Less than a mile from their salvation, their refuge! And here they stood, waylaid and ruined. Pain seared sharply from his side. Some wretch had scored a lucky blow in the dark, and Demaethor felt himself weaken as his own blood pattered softly to the ground at his feet. Still, he had had no time to assess his wound before these new riders had come to question him. And he had yet to find out if they had aided him intentionally against Sauron’s soldiers with their arrows, or by fortunate accident. At any rate, he risked much if he answered their queries truthfully.

But at last he understood the desperate recklessness of Forthon, of his young brother on that fateful morn—was it but days ago? At last he knew the feeling that could possess a man so that he would not even pretend to follow evil, not even to save himself from sure doom. He had seen Amariel’s face, heard her voice, when he had told that hideous lie just moments ago. He had felt in her reaction the shame his lie brought upon him, the utter contempt of the gods, of his own conscience. No more would he return to his old allegiances, not even in pretense. Captain Demaethor, soldier and servant to a corrupted throne, enemy of the Elendili, was dead. All that was left of him was a wounded fighter, axe in hand, standing here with only a few breaths of sea-air between him and the words that might bring a swift end to the flight of a few lonely fugitives.

He spoke thus: “I flee the edicts of the King against those who worship Ilúvatar and the true gods of the West, against those who scorn to revere Melkor or his servant Sauron, who hath poisoned the mind of an already corrupt King. I have fled unto Rómenna to ally myself with the remnant of those who remain Faithful to the beliefs of our sires. Stand I condemned by thee?�

Again, silence reigned when he ceased. A puff of salty wind blew past, chilling the sweat on Demaethor’s skin and prickling against his wound. Around them the morn crept. Grey wisps blew around their feet like the departing souls of the men that lay dead about them. Demaethor felt weariness creep upon him, but fought it. He knew well never to reveal a wound to an enemy.

The rider stirred. With a light, wordless movement he hopped to the ground. In his hand was drawn a long sword Demaethor heretofore neglected to notice. Demaethor flexed his fingers about the haft of his axe. Willingly he had admitted his true fealties, but not so willing would be his surrender to these men. He would fight until he expired, if only for Amariel and her infant brother. For the first time in all his long years he stood ready to defend something more than an idea of duty or honour, and this thought did cross his mind. But what feeling it was, exactly, that compelled him to protect and keep the woman and her brother he had not time to make out.

But his resolve was unnecessary. Before stepping toward him, the rider sheathed his blade. Removing his helm, the man approached with an extended hand.

“By many, yes, thou wilt find thyself condemned,� he said, and his voice was quiet. “But in me thou shalt find a friend.�

Demaethor found himself looking into the face of a bearded man, tall, and noble in his bearing and looks. The eyes were what struck him most; grey-blue as the sea, the brilliance of their colour not dimmed by the greyness of the morning. In them was warmth and courtesy, and also wisdom and a kind of light that Demaethor could only recall meeting in the visions of the Elven folk of the Middle-Lands. At last he lowered his axe, letting the head fall to the ground with a hollow thud. So weary were his arms that the weapon seemed to have taken on twice its weight in the time Demaethor had been holding it. He took the offered hand, felt his own palm clammy and cold against the warmth of the other man’s grasp.

“I deem you are of a high-born line,� Demaethor said. “I greet you as a subject, my lord. I am—or so my name once was, when I followed the King in his folly; Demaethor.�

The man’s grip did not falter, as Demaethor guessed it might, at his revealing himself. He did pause, however, before answering. “Captain Demaethor. You are famed among the Faithful, indeed, but certainly not for any claim of friendship. It would not be guessed by me that you come to Rómenna without cause against the Elendili. Nevertheless, your forthrightness attests to some amount of sincerity. And those of my family are gifted with sight into the soul of a man. I see no conceit in you, O Demaethor. If you wish it, I will lead you to my father’s dwelling. For I am of Amandil’s house; Anárion, son of Elendil.�

[Rosie Gamgee]

Chapter Nine

“I thank thee,� Demaethor made answer. Amariel stood behind him yet with her hands upon the back of his shoulder to steady herself. “The overkindness of the Faithful has not ceased to amaze me since first I found it.� Demaethor drew a breath. As his shoulders rose and fell, Amariel felt him sway just a little. “I fear I am sore wounded,� the former captain confessed, and a hint of wryness was in his voice. “Even the mail of a captain has its chinks.�

“You shall ride upon my own steed into the city,� said Anárion instantly. He stepped closer, as if to help Demaethor to his mount that very minute.

With a gesture Demaethor stopped him, saying, “Wait, lord. Another I have here in my keeping. I know not what has become of him in the fray.� It was at this moment that Berhirien came over-late to Amariel’s thought. Where was the foot-soldier? She glanced about her, as if he would appear before them from the shadows. “Berhirien is his name,� Demaethor continued. “I pray he is not slain among these, although he bore wounds himself ere the battle met with us.�

They searched the space of road in the greyness and mist. Not one of the riders bore a lamp, and so they relied only on the pale of the morn to aid their eyes. Softly they called the soldier by name, and at last they found him, all but spent, beneath the body of one of his foes. Anárion himself stooped to lift the heavy corpse off of him. He commented as he did so that the black-garbed rider had been wearing no mail, no helm. “Your enemies traveled light,� he said. “Such is rare for a soldier; but you know that. These are obviously Sauron’s personal soldiers; I guess that you fled from Armenelos. You expected them to come from behind, but instead they overtook you, trading armour for haste.� Demaethor nodded slowly in the waning dark. Now, Amariel could see, he was slightly bent, pressing a hand close to his side. He did not move much, and when he did, each step was slow and calculated.

Anárion said no more, but pulled the body aside, freeing Berhirien’s prone form. Amariel grieved when he did so, for Berhirien looked half-crushed, battered and bruised. Barely conscious, he mumbled something. Blood covered him here and there, but if it was his own blood or that of his foes, Amariel could not tell in this light. She marked his ashen face, however, and her thought flew to Forthon’s last moments. Sadly she thought the soldier did not have long to live.

But Anárion said, “Uplift him,� to his companions, and they set him upon one of the horses. “My father has great skill in healing,� Anárion said to Demaethor. “He is learned in some of the ancient, Elvish arts. We will bear your man to him, and perhaps he may save him.�


The sun’s first pale glow chased the ragged group as they rode past the gateposts, Rómenna swallowing them into its stony byways nigh-soundlessly. The hooves of the horses made a mute but cluttered racket on the cobbled streets as Anárion led them down this way and that. The soldier in Demaethor tried to keep track of the way they had come. He felt his mind drifting, however. Shadows crept into his vision although he tried to blink them back. A chill seemed to have settled on him. All over his skin felt damp, cold. And yet a sweat beaded up on his forehead as he gritted his teeth against the pain each jolt of the horse sent to his side. He hunched over his wound, pressing to it the blood-sodden rag that Anárion had wrapped around him ere they departed from the roadside. The rent in his flesh had not ceased to bleed, despite its wrappings. Now a numbness was settling into his limbs. Beneath his tingling fingers Demaethor felt soft, clotted blood. More dripped over his hand and down to the pavement they crossed. His inner thought laughed, thinking madly that even though he could not remember the way they had come, at least he could follow the trail of his own blood to find it.

“Demaethor,� said a strong voice, pulling his mind out of the fey shadows. Anárion’s warm hand felt as hot as a branding iron on Demaethor’s feverish skin. Demaethor opened his eyes, surprised to find them closed. He looked up through a bleary gaze. “It is not far now. Endure a little longer.� Demaethor nodded, but was unable to summon enough energy for words.

This was by no means his first wound; the great Captain Demaethor did not win his renown at no cost to himself. In enough unnamed battles he had received wounds like to this. He bore on himself the scars of many a long-forgotten attack. The King’s own physicians had tended to his hurts on one occasion, so grievous was his injury in the fight. It was a fierce skirmish, a week or so before Ar-Pharazôn marched from Umbar to command Sauron’s surrender. He recalled now being carried from the field upon a litter, sensing about him the eyes of the men that had won him the battle. It was Demaethor’s first battle as a captain; his first battle and his first victory as a commander of men. He remembered the triumph that welled within him even as they bore his shivering, bloodied body from the scene of victory. They took him with haste to Umbar, and there was the King, come lately to the haven with a mighty fleet and a vast, wondrous army to challenge the forces of Sauron. Demaethor and his men had been in the wilds for several months and knew not of his coming. But Ar-Pharazôn heard at once of Demaethor’s valiance, and of his wounds, and commanded that his own healers should look after the captain. When he was healed, the King himself gave him a place in the force that was to advance to Barad-dûr against Sauron. The honour of this had filled Demaethor with pride.

But now no such feeling touched his soul as they passed through the dark streets. Rather disappointment was in his heart. Demaethor had not planned that he should enter the city like this; this was to have been the moment of his redemption. Even as he looked about and saw through his hazy vision the turrets of Rómenna rising before him, his thought flew to Forthon, to Esteldûr. It was those two he had meant to ride with along these streets. But if not for that aid unexpected had come, he would not even have been able to bring their sister and little brother into the city. His failure reproached him severely. He had thought to offer some atonement to the gods for the deeds of his past, some gift to earn the forgiveness extended. Instead he had failed. He saw his whole life before him, wasted in conceit and arrogance. Despair wrapped its cold fingers about his heart. What had he now to give in exchange for mercy? Amariel and her brother would be safe now, but by none of his doing. If he bled to death before they came to Elendil, Demaethor thought, he would be rightly served.

Again a voice broke into his musings. “Demaethor?� The tone of the question suggested that Anárion had called him more than once. Demaethor strove to open his eyes, again finding them shut against his will and thought. He seemed to wake from a sleep he did not know he had fallen into. A breeze slapped him like an icy hand. He shuddered against it. Coldness seemed to well up within him, permeating his bones, his organs. A hand touched him and it felt as though fire seared from it. “Come,� said Anárion, and helped him to dismount. Every move sent pain to the only part of Demaethor that was not numb with chill; his side flamed with heat.

An open doorway wavered before Demaethor’s vision. Someone stood there, bearing a lamp and gesturing them within. Swinging his gaze around, Demaethor tried to find Amariel, Berhirien. The foot-soldier’s limp body was being born up by two men. A third appeared from out the place before them to help. Standing off to the side, her brother perched in her arms and looking about wide-eyed, was Amariel. Demaethor read uneasiness in her manner and face; she looked almost wary of entering the house. She held Anardil close, in a lonely manner. But then her eyes turned upward, and came to rest upon Demaethor.

“Come,� Anárion said once again, turning from one he had been speaking to. He began to lead him away. Demaethor staggered toward the door, leaning heavily upon Anárion for every step.


Amariel hung back from the motion, from the door. Demaethor had disappeared inside with Anárion. The rest were calling for a couch to be brought for Berhirien. A boy appeared from around the corner to take the horses away to stable and stall. All was a bustle of hushed commotion. Anardil was full of questions, but Amariel bade him be silent, and waited for she knew not what.

She began to wonder what she was doing here. All felt foreign to her; strangers hurried about, hardly noticing the lone, disheveled woman. She gazed at the dim doorway that had taken Demaethor from her sight. He had looked so pale in the lamp-light just now! She wondered if they should not have called for a second litter to bear him up on. How severely was he wounded? she wanted to know.

Suddenly she felt very small and alone. Thoughts she could not stop rushed in: what if both the soldiers died of their wounds? Surely, despite the hope of Anárion, Berhirien was beyond aid. And Demaethor was not far behind him. What would become of a ragged harlot and her baby brother if they died? Would she be cast from the house of Elendil, left to dwell in the slums and dank hovels where even the soldiers of Sauron would not seek her? Because of her both men might well die, Amariel thought. She could not imagine what she would find then to say to Elendil. Perhaps he would at least care for Anardil out of pity. But even if Demaethor and Berhirien were healed of their hurts, what would Amandil’s noble son want with a tattered who.re? She was not worthy to sleep in the stable with his horses.

“...But where is his lady?� Amariel looked up at the sound of a voice calling out into the narrow street. Berhirien’s insensible form they had finally carried within. Morn’s first light had not yet reached the tight byways of Rómenna, and Amariel was left in cool darkness when the lamps were taken back indoors.

Now Anárion stepped back out into the dim alley. Amariel watched him come toward her and could not bring herself to move. Her eyes sought another sight to rest upon. Her memory recalled a time when the presence of such a one would have been an easy setting; her family had mingled with the King’s nobles and had moved freely in the highest circles of Númenor. But now everything that separated Amariel from that life she once lived was called to her mind. She bowed as Anárion neared.

“Fear not, lady,� he said, and his strong voice was gentle. His tone bid her lift her head. “He will not die.�

Amariel could find no words but those of gratitude. “I thank thee for thine aid, my lord,� she began, but he stopped her speech, taking her hand and leading her.

“Come,� he bade her. “Within you will find food and rest.� With ease he led her into the house. Off of a dim entryway lay a little parlor, lit and warm. Amariel’s apprehension began to fade as the warmth within enveloped her. Friendly lights were lit here. The hearth blazed with comfort. A warm drink was poured for her and a seat made ready by the fire. The now-dingy, frayed cloak of Demaethor was replaced with a soft blanket, and Anardil, poor little wearied fellow, was laid to slumber upon a nearby couch. Almost ere his fair head came to rest upon the pillows his eyes closed in sleep.

For a space of time Amariel was left alone by the hearth. She sipped the cup poured her, finding the liquid unfamiliar, but pleasant and warm, warming her even to her wearied bones.

Anárion came and sat by Amariel. She looked up from the dancing flames she had been staring into. “Where have they taken Berhirien and my lord?� she asked. She had seen no sign of them, or of indeed anyone but Anárion and a handful of servants.

“Upstairs,� the noble one answered. Here in the firelight Amariel could see him well. Dark were his hair and beard, but not overshadowing. His forehead was high, his nose slender and lordly. His cheekbones and jaw looked as though carved of mountain stone. Amariel marked the eyes especially, however; grey as a river, calming and steady. His lips turned up in a comforting smile. “My father tends to them now.� Amariel nodded. She had thought all the time they had traveled that she wanted to find Elendil. Now she feared to meet with him, the great leader of the Faithful.

Anárion asked, “What is your name, lady? In all the tales told of the great Demaethor, I have never heard that he had wife or child.� He glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping Anardil.

Amariel coloured. But before she could reply Anárion said, “Ah; I see my guess was amiss. Forgive me.�

His eyes still asked who she was, and she answered, “My name is Amariel; Nedron the scribe was my father. The lad there is my little brother, Anardil. Another brother of mine, Forthon, was a soldier under my lord Demaethor; that is my connexion with the captain.� Her voice was touched with sadness. Here in the quietness and comfort of the hearth she could not help but think of her brothers.

Anárion read her thought. “He is dead now; your brother?�

She nodded. “It is hardly two days since we buried him outside Armenelos.� She looked away.

“I am sorry,� he answered gently.

After a moment of silence broken only by the crackling fire, a maid-servant entered the little kitchen. “All is prepared, master,� she said quietly.

Anárion thanked her and said to Amariel, “Come, now. I will show you a place to rest; for it is obvious you are weary. Come.�

He lifted the sleeping Anardil and led her upstairs by a narrow servant’s stair. The maid followed them with the fat stub of a candle. It was dark on the landing save for a few rays of candle-light spilling from round the corner of a hall, and the light from the maid’s stub. But Anárion did not lead her to that light. He opened a small door on the left, and there lay a bedchamber, lit and warm. A tub of water was set out, and cloths and a clean shift of white linen.

Anárion laid Anardil on the bed, careful not to wake the boy as he did so. “Take your ease, lady,� he told Amariel. “Gilwen will serve you as you have need.� He nodded toward the young lady with the candle. “I will take my leave of you now. Welcome to the house of Elendil.� And with that he quitted the room.


Almost an hour later, early sunlight filtered through the tall, narrow windows of the room as Amariel at last laid herself down upon the bed. The mattress was softer than anything she had slept on for months, and the clean sheets took her back to a time of peace and security. The drink she had been served earlier still warmed her. Now the warmth was heavy in her veins, though, mellowing out her exhaustion into a soft blanket of sleep tugging at her weary limbs. It covered her, compelling her gently to close her eyes.

Beside her, Anardil yet slumbered. Amariel moved close to him, finding infinite comfort in his metered breaths. Carefully she touched his hair, glowing bright gold now in the sunlight. At last they were safe.

She fell asleep with her fingers entwined with Anardil’s golden curls.

* * *

Demaethor stood over the bed of Berhirien, watching the soldier’s rhythmic breathing. No doubt the man would have died if not for Elendil’s arts, he thought. He knew the same might have been true for himself, as well. Even now, five mornings since their arrival here, his side was yet encased in a thick, stiff bandaging that someone changed twice daily, treating with mysterious tinctures and herbs. As for Elendil, Demaethor had not seen him since their first meeting when Anárion had brought him swaying up the stairs to meet him the night they arrived. Demaethor had a vague image of a tall, bearded man bathed in candlelight, and then blackness. He had fainted, Anárion told him afterward when Demaethor awoke in a clean bed similar to the one Berhirien lay in now.

He had spoken with Anárion many times since that first night, and his elder brother, Isildur. But until this morn he had been confined to his room, and had seen naught of Berhirien or Amariel. Berhirien, he had been told, had not awoken from his slumber since they had dragged him from the roadside five days ago. Isildur had said this was well, and told Demaethor of the hurts he himself had suffered some time ago at the hands of Sauron’s soldiers. “Sauron’s men are also learned in the ancient tinctures and compounds,� he said, “but they have perverted the old wisdoms and devised evil poisons from things once healing and wholesome. The blades of Sauron’s soldiers are often coated with these poisons, causing fever and irritation of the wounds. But Berhirien’s peaceful sleep bodes well against the poisons, and his fever has broken thanks to my father’s skill.�

Demaethor had also found out what had brought Anárion to their rescue that night. He had gone on an errand to the north for his father Elendil some weeks before. Supplies of food and water and other provisions were needed. Anárion did not tell him what for, but said all would be explained to him in due time, and continued with his tale. They were returning to Rómenna under the cover of darkness and saw as they neared the city Demaethor and those with him surrounded by the soldiers of Sauron. “Under normal circumstances we would not have engaged the enemy. My father is much loath that we should battle against our Númenórian brethren, be they ensnared by Sauron’s lies or not,� said Anárion. “But it was very odd that Sauron’s personal soldiers should have been this far east of Armenelos, and it is rare these days that they arrest anyone in the eastern regions. For Sauron’s attentions are focused as the King’s are: toward the West—save that He yet seeks vigilantly for my father. When we saw His soldiers besetting wayfarers on the road, only one conclusion could we find: that at least some of our family had been apprehended and were being taken with haste in the night back to Armenelos. Only after the battle could we finally read the riddle aright.� Anárion added gravely then, “It was well for you that we did not discern the truth of it before we came to your aid. For we would not have risked that any of Sauron’s agents should recognise us.�

The door opened, crumbling the drowsy silence in the room. A young maiden entered. She bore a shallow pan of steaming water and several white towels. Her eyes were on the pan of water and she moved slowly, if not quietly, so that it did not spill. When she finally closed the door and marked Demaethor standing there silently she gasped. “Oh, lord, forgive me,� she stammered, her voice a whisper. She bowed as well as she could with the water.

Demaethor bade her carry on with her business, smiling reassuringly. He recognized Gilwen, the young maid-servant who brought him his meals. Now she set about removing the bed-clothes from Berhirien and carefully washing his limp, slumbering form. He left her to her task, going out into the hall. Anárion had told him he might wander freely about the upper hall and bade him look in on Berhirien. There he had left the captain. He had said nothing of Amariel, however. Demaethor wondered what had become of her.

A wide window lay at the end of the hall. Sunlight poured in, illuminating the tight space. Demaethor had found quickly that the house they dwelt in was not a remarkable one; very small and common. Anárion had told him it belonged to a merchant who harboured Elendil and his family secretly. It was not known save to a very few that the great leader dwelt here.

Demaethor paced slowly to the window. The view was only a narrow alley and the stone wall of an adjacent building, but it was a different scene than that found from the small window in his own room, and that was enough. Nothing stirred in the alley below. The emptiness echoed the feeling in his heart; a guilty silence—guilt for the hospitality undeserved that he was given here, and for the loss of the ones he had intended to take part in it. A warm breeze blew past lazily, and Demaethor drank deep the sea-air. He noticed a line for washing was strung from this building to the one opposite him, and it was bare save for a sparrow perched forlornly to one side. Demaethor watched the bird waver on the line, tilting his head this way and that, as if listening. As if his actions prompted a reply, faint strains of music began to drift from somewhere.

Demaethor turned from the window to better descry the gentle plucking. It was a familiar sound to him now; over the past days he had heard it many times from his room. He was grateful for that. For the skillful playing had broken and filled the dreary hours between wakefulness and sleep he had passed lying a-bed. And the sweet, mild melodies had served to quell his choleric temper when at whiles his wound pained him acutely. Demaethor thought of his guess days ago that Amariel had been skilled in the making of music, and wondered if it was she that played the far-away harp.

So many hours spent idle and in silence over these five days had given Demaethor much time to meditate on the mad flight from Eldalondë. He had spoken to Anárion of nearly every turn of their journey by now. Expressed his sorrow for the death of Forthon, whom he had loved more than any young man in his service. Vented his anger and remorse at Galdûreth’s betrayal of them. Told him of the storm in Armenelos and their finding Anardil at last.

But Demaethor had found himself unwilling to speak of Amariel. Anárion had not, as of yet, volunteered any information regarding the woman, and Demaethor could not bring himself to inquire after her. It was not that he cared not for her well-being; to the contrary, Demaethor longed to know how she was faring. It was that longing that kept him from speech; his mind was too full for words when he thought of her. What was it about the woman that affected him so? Demaethor asked himself many times. He could come up with little answer. Amariel was nearly as much a mystery to him as when first he met her. Perhaps he understood a little better now, in retrospect, her disregard for him, her distance. Maybe he could see now what love for her siblings had prompted her actions on so many occasions. But he did not know her. Though they had traveled leagues upon leagues in each other’s company, shared the same food, warmed themselves by the same fires, fled death and pursued friends and kin together, but still no bond of familiarity or confidence lay between them. Yet Demaethor had realized that Amariel stirred something within him; something that sprang up from the respect and vague distance that her pride demanded and the desire within him to protect her. Demaethor hesitated to define what exactly it was that he felt toward her, but it was there nevertheless and put her constantly in his thoughts.

“Would you break your fast with the rest of the house?� Anárion approached from behind him. “Or should I direct Gilwen to bring your meal to your room?�

Demaethor turned as Anárion joined him at the window. His mind sought to disentangle itself from his thoughts. Though strength was returning to him slowly, the loss of blood had left his thought and will weakened yet. Over the last five days focusing on the here and now had proved difficult for Demaethor.

But Anárion smiled, reading his feeling. “It is rare that a man who has lain a-bed five days wishes to eat in his room,� he said. “Come, there is a place set for you.�



In a small dining hall on the first floor there was set a simple board of breads and meats and fruits. Nearly all the occupants of the house were seated round the feast, being served now and again by one of the two servants standing inconspicuously by the door. The master of the house sat at the head of the table. To his left sat his wife, and several small children. One Demaethor recognized as Meneldil, Anárion’s young son. Two places were empty in the midst of them, and after them two younger women and one older—the wives of Elendil and his sons. The place at the foot of the table was empty; Elendil’s seat. Isildur sat one place to the left. Anárion and Demaethor came next, and another young man Demaethor guessed was the master’s son sat to his father’s right. All had helped themselves to the board, and quiet conversation floated over the table.

Presently the master of the house greeted Demaethor. “We are glad to find you among our number this morn, Captain,� he said. In his voice was a taut kind of reserve that belied his words, and an uneasy tightness punctuated his syllables when he said the word Captain. Demaethor remembered the words of Anárion: By many, yes, thou wilt find thyself condemned, and he thought he understood the man’s tone. Surely it was not easy for him to accept a one such as Demaethor, who had been so renowned for his deeds against the Faithful, into his house.

He answered, “Thank you, sir, for your hospitality. You have been most generous to me and mine. I am in your debt.�

“Do not thank me,� was the terse reply. Yet despite the clipped speech, Demaethor did not find much hostility in the man’s gaze as he glanced to the place where Elendil was supposed to have sat. “It is Lord Elendil’s generosity that commands your gratitude.�

Demaethor knew not how to make answer. But the exchange was interrupted at that moment by the arrival of another guest. A mop of long golden curls darted into the room from behind Demaethor, noisily rounding the table and coming to rest at one of the empty seats opposite him. It was Anardil, he saw as the little boy clambered up into the chair. The lad glanced round the table, realizing then that he had caused something of a disturbance to the morn’s quiet meal. A pink blush twinged his little cheeks. But a flash of pearly teeth was reserved for the unexpected sight of Demaethor. The captain smiled back, mildly amused. He was pleased to see that the wan pallor of weariness had left the Anardil’s looks since last he saw him, replaced by a healthful glow on his face and in his eyes.

“Anardil,� called a voice familiar to Demaethor, preceding its possessor into the hall. A soft footfall and the creak of a floorboard hailed her entrance.

Amariel stepped quietly into the room, moving a little quicker than she might have, in pursuit of her runaway charge. She did not mark Demaethor. He, however, watched her every move, and was nigh unhearing of the murmured apology she uttered on Anardil’s behalf. For his ears and eyes fought to agree; the voice was Amariel’s, yes, but surely the woman before him bore no resemblance to her.

Free of her tattered, ungainly clothing, washed of the grime and heavy make-up that had stained her skin, and here before him, bathed in clean morning sunlight, Demaethor could hardly believe she was the same woman he had journeyed so many leagues with. But she moved past him, and yes, he saw now that the step was hers, the head held high. And there was the little manner in which she turned that had betrayed her to her brothers that night in the encampment outside Eldalondë. The well-bred mien, so foreign and out-of-place when she looked but a dirty harlot, now befitted Amariel. She looked of no baser relations than the daughters of the house; in fact she surpassed them in grace and bearing. A simple, modest gown of pale green graced her form, bound about her with a rosy sash. Her tresses were braided loosely and coiled about her head, clean and glistening in the light as she stepped before the window.

Amariel sat beside her little brother and whispered a soft reprimand for his disorderly entry. Demaethor could see now that her hair was the same bright hue as Anardil’s, though heretofore it had been disguised by dirt and uncleanliness.

He watched her as she filled a trencher with food for herself and her brother. No cheap colouring marred Amariel’s face now. Her grey eyes were unburdened by dark cosmetics and had lost almost wholly the dull, tarnished look of malnutrition they had possessed. Demaethor marked, as he studied her closer, the dark half-moons beneath her eyes, and the droop of her dress over her gaunt frame. These yet attested to the hard life she had only recently left behind. She sat back to eat, her eyes cast downward as if shamed, though no eye here bent to condemn her.

Muted discourse had resumed once again over the table. Demaethor leaned toward Amariel and quietly bid her, “Good morning.�

Sharply the down-cast eyes flitted upward at the sound of his greeting. Demaethor saw the spark of recognition flash in Amariel’s gaze as their eyes met. Perhaps he imagined the pleased smiled that touched her expression at the sight of him? At any rate, the look was quickly replaced by the familiar, impenetrable reserve that was her wont. “Are you well?� Demaethor inquired ere she looked away again.

She nodded, but did not speak. He saw her eyes drift toward his wounded side before they fell once again to her plate.


At last the company dispersed for the day. Demaethor rose quickly and found Amariel before she could quit the room. She had Anardil with her, and seemed to head with some purpose toward some other part of the house. There was a moment of silence between them as Demaethor stepped near. He had noticed just then a sprinkling of faded freckles across her nose that had before been concealed by make-up. They leant to her a ish air that gainsaid the faint lines about her eyes and mouth and her thinning hair-line. He now saw as well the purple bruise upon her cheek-bone, fading and yellowing about the edges; a reminder of how very nearly she had been carried off in the midst of the battle.

Amariel obviously felt his gaze upon her and had looked away. “How fare you?� Demaethor asked her. “You look well,� he added, and felt immediately foolish for saying so.

She seemed to be avoiding his gaze, but answered at last, “We are well, my lord. Elendil’s care of us is most generous, and more than we have need.� Her tone was accented with her accustomed coldness and distance.

Silence threatened to stretch between them again. Demaethor’s mind crowded with a thousand things he wanted to say to her, but all of them stuck in his throat, unbefitting the setting. At length Amariel filled the silence, saying, “You yourself are mending as well, yes?� But it was a query that asked no reply, and she added quickly, “I am glad to see you whole again.�

The statement seemed to imply that she had seen him before this meeting, and Demaethor realized she must have looked in on him some time while he slept. He saw her eyes fall again toward his side. “It is healing well,� he supplied in response to her masked concern. Amariel coloured and looked embarrassed, but he continued, “The wound was not as grievous as first it seemed; ‘twas the loss of blood that threatened most, I am told. Anárion has said that it will heal completely, save for a scar.�

This time a small smile did touch her eyes.

Once more Demaethor found himself at a loss for words, and caught his own gaze drifting again to the bruise across her face. “Amariel,� said he, haltingly, “I wish to apologise for the things said and done that night we came to Rómenna.� He looked away from her. “I had not meant my fabrication to deceive you so. I saw well how I had betrayed you, if only in pretense. I did not mean to hurt you—�

“My lord!� Amariel broke in. He turned back to her, and saw her expression had changed from one of awkward distance to apologetic horror. She shook her head, no longer hesitant to meet his gaze. “Do not say such things, my lord. What you did was for my brother and me, I know now. Your life was nearly forfeit for mine; Berhirien’s life still hangs in the balance! No, my lord; if any apology is owed, it is mine. I am for ever indebted to you. I misjudged you from the start, slighted and censured you at every turn, and faulted you for every disaster.� He tried to interrupt her, but she would not hear him. Her voice was firm and proud as she continued, “I know that you feel you have failed somehow, because my two brethren perished on the way. But if not for you they would have had a worser end, I think; one without hope or grace or sight of those they loved. Do not carry the weight of the dead, my lord. For it is a heavy burden, and one you do not deserve to bear. I no longer place any blame upon you for my brothers’ deaths; rather I find that I cannot repay the overkindness you have bestowed upon me.�

Demaethor was silenced by this speech. No thought entered his head; he could find nothing to say in reply to her words.

Amariel did not move away. She stood by him, unmoving, until finally she asked, “Why?� Her proud tone had suddenly dissipated. With a small voice she inquired again, “Why have you done all this, Demaethor?�

It was the first time he could remember her calling him by name. Demaethor was not accustomed to hearing his given name often; my lord or Captain were the titles by which he was most frequently addressed. But hearing the word from her lips affected him oddly. He did not answer, but tried to sort his thoughts. That night he left Eldalondë seemed a year distant from this moment. Why, indeed, had he come all this way? For what? He remembered his original thought that if he brought Forthon and his family to Elendil, it would somehow atone for his many sins. Yet he could not bring himself to explain this to Amariel. It sounded too like he had brought her here only to relieve the guilt of his past transgressions. He could find no words to say that it was more than that which had kept him true even when failure and betrayal had ruined his hope.

Amariel seemed to sense that no answer would be given her. “Forgive me,� she murmured. She turned to her brother and took him by the hand. “Come, Anardil.� She led him from the room with no more words, leaving Demaethor standing mute and alone in the empty hall.

“Captain.� Demaethor turned, and there was Anárion once more. “My father wishes to speak with you, Captain,� said he.



Anárion let Demaethor into a little parlor, and left him there alone in the doorway, bidding him walk in before going. The former captain paced forward carefully. His step, once steady and confident, now sounded as a low shuffle as it echoed against the dim walls. The room was lit only by a candle stand on a far table, and the morning light that seeped in under the heavy drapes of a window at the other side of the room. Muted firelight, sunken down to dying coals, glowed only a few inches beyond the hearth. Before this decaying blaze was set a high-backed chair. The figure who sat in it was masked by shadows. Trepidation touched the heart of Demaethor as he approached the seated one; self-doubt sparked in him, made him conscious of every flaw, every failing. The son of Amandil could trace his line back to Eärendil the Mariner, who was descended of Lúthien Tinúviel, the elf-maiden, in time beyond reckoning. Elvish blood, it seemed, ran strong in Elendil’s line. For it was said that the Elves had a power over mortals to uncover their hearts and lay bare all their hidden faults. Demaethor’s past crowded into his head and his heart, flooding his memory with so many of those he had wrongfully arrested. He thought once more of all the mistakes he had made even since Eldalondë. And all of these, he sensed, were known in some way to the shadowy figure. The captain found himself almost dreading to near him.

But Demaethor was a soldier. When told to walk he would walk; and only when told to halt would he halt.

“Please, Demaethor; sit,� said Elendil. He himself rose from his chair to pull back the drapes from the window. Light spilled into the room with a pleasant suddenness. Demaethor did as he was bidden and sat down on a low bench by the fire. Elendil returned to his seat before the captain, apologising for the dimness.

“You are mending well,� Elendil pronounced, and a pleased smile touched his tone. He regarded Demaethor a moment as a healer does his patient. “Yes, the colour is returning to your countenance, though slowly. Your blood is strengthening once more.�

Demaethor searched for some response. “My lord, my gratitude is—�

But Elendil stopped him with a word. “You have no need to feel as though you have taken something undeserved from me, Demaethor. I accept your thanks, but more than that I will not. You owe me nothing.� There seemed a pointedness to his words, but Demaethor could not ascertain what it was. Elendil leaned back in his chair. Demaethor tried to keep himself from staring at the man. He was an impressive figure, even when seated. His shoulders were broad and muscular, and he was obviously unusually tall, even for a son of Númenor. His limbs were thick and long and hale as a youth’s despite his somewhat advanced age. Demaethor knew that Amandil and his son were renowned mariners, great navigators and explorers of the seas. He thought that their appearances alone would inspire a man to follow them to the shores of the Walls of the Sun and back again. Elendil’s eyes, like his sons, were the feature that laid strongest hold of Demaethor, though. They were bright with life and sight and hope, and yet dimmed with memory and wisdom. Their grey gaze was like a warm ocean tide, placid and somehow perilous at the same time. Demaethor felt their stare on him. Elendil seemed to silently search him for weakness or deception.

At last he said, “Tell me about yourself, Demaethor. There are many accounts of you to be heard. Some tell of a worthy man; others name Captain Demaethor very ill indeed. I wish to hear what manner of man I have healed and harboured. What do you say of yourself?� His tone was indiscernible, but rather like his gaze: calm but perilous.

There was not even a wish in Demaethor to hide his past life or his present faults. He felt somehow that Elendil knew all he would say anyway, and that this questioning was merely a test of his worthiness. He began to speak of himself, his life; slowly at first, searching for words to describe feelings and times long gone by, then at ease, feeling that no matter what he said about the man that he had been, the man he was now would not be censured for it. Demaethor told of his childhood, those parents of his who had impressed upon him in his early days the ways of the Faithful, the belief in the supremacy and benevolence of the Valar. He spoke of the days of his education: in weaponry, in the growing distrust toward the gods. He recalled his many years in the Middle Lands. Years and years spent guarding the lands ruled by Númenor, hewing out places of civilization from the wilds, and warring those servants of Sauron as the Dark Lord grew stronger and stronger. Then came those years that Demaethor found now hard to recount. He had fallen under the deceptions of Sauron, obeyed a King who gained his throne by usurpation. Being commissioned by Ar-Pharazôn to uproot the rebels who denounced his Kingship, and later to rid Númenor of the Elendili, Demaethor earned his fame as the Enemy of the Faithful. Demaethor found himself moved nigh to tears as under the eyes of Elendil he recalled the families he had sentenced to death, the young and the old he had brought to the Temple Sauron built in Armenelos for His abominations. At last he spoke of those three bright youths he had slain before Sauron. He told Elendil of the peace in their eyes, and their offer of forgiveness, like the very gods reaching to him through the men he had fated to die.

“When I met Forthon’s brother on the road that morn,� said Demaethor, “it was as if the Valar had provided me with this way to earn their favour and to take hold of the forgiveness offered me by those three brothers. I purposed to deliver Forthon and his family safely to this city, and to put them even into your care, lord.� Elendil only nodded silently. It seemed he intended to reserve all comment until Demaethor had finished his tale in full. The captain went on, telling him of their meeting with Amariel, and the joining to their party of Galdûreth and Berhirien. Forthon’s death he recounted again, and the loss of Esteldûr, the finding of Anardil and the rest of the journey to Rómenna. He told Elendil of his despair on entering the city. “I failed to do the thing I set out to. And so my efforts toward redemption have been dashed to ruin; I am for ever outside the mercy of the Valar. That I have found favour with you, my lord, is a kindness I had not expected. I know not if after you have heard all this if your hospitality is yet extended toward me. I dare not ask to remain with you after I am healed; when I am whole I will leave. Only I pray you to accept Amariel and her brother, and Berhirien into your keeping.� He ended then.

Elendil’s reaction was only to smile a moment. It puzzled Demaethor. But he said, “Think you, Demaethor, that because you have failed your own expectation that others will be disappointed in you? You have done what many others could not have accomplished. You have led three of your five charges to safety despite betrayal and two attacks in which you were outnumbered and overwhelmed. By any measure you have proven yourself worthy of high praise.�

Demaethor answered, “My lord, if a mighty man bests a weaker it is not accounted to him as any merit; but only if he is victorious over a man equal in might is he praised. I may have done what another man could not have, yet nevertheless I have not done the best I myself could do.�

Shaking his head, Elendil replied, “What would you have that you had accomplished, O Demaethor?�

“That I had brought Forthon here. That his brother had not perished in Armenelos; that I had seen the treachery of Galdûreth ere it caused such destruction. That Amariel was not left without a guardian.�

“I guess that you would also that you had been able to bring their father and mother back to life as well,� said Elendil wryly. “Do you flatter yourself so much that you think that you alone could achieve all this? Even a man such as my own sons would have been hard-pressed to have surmounted your deeds. Are you of higher lineage than they? Are you mightier than any in Númenor that you could do this?�

Demaethor opened his mouth to protest, but it was difficult to find words. To protest would be to declare himself greater than he was; yet to agree would be to say that he had not failed, and he had. “My lord,� said he, “my wish was not merely to do a good deed, or to prove myself worthy of the praise of men. I set out to earn the favour of the Valar; to show myself deserving of their mercy.�

“But their mercy is unattainable by men save by perfection,� Elendil replied.

“Indeed, my lord.� Demaethor nodded. “And I have fallen short of perfection. There is no hope of redemption for me. As I have said; I am for ever outside the gods’ favour.�

Elendil smiled once more to Demaethor’s confusion, and asked, “Was their forgiveness offered conditionally, Demaethor? What were the terms provided you for their mercy?�

Demaethor closed his eyes, thought back to that day, almost a lifetime ago. He saw before him the faces of the youths he had slain in Melkor’s Temple. Heard the voice of the last as he cried out to Demaethor. The words rang in Demaethor’s ears as if the echo of them had only just died: “Know the mercy of the Valar: even as I forgive you now for the slaying of my brethren here, so the Valar forgive you for all the evil you have done. Only turn, and you will redeem your life...� There were no conditions. No demand had the Valar made of him in return for their forgiveness. No repayment did they desire for his redemption. Just one action had been required of him: to take it.

Bowing his head, Demaethor made answer very quietly, “‘Only turn.’�

“Then,� said Elendil, “you have already earned the forgiveness you seek.� Demaethor looked up at the man as he added, “Though I deem that you seek the approval of some other beside the Valar.�

[Rosie Gamgee]

New chapter, for all you faithful fans.. a-hem.

Chapter Ten

After that Demaethor was called often to the side of Elendil. They spoke of many things, but most of their discourse concerned Elendil’s nine ships that lay concealed out in the Bay, and the King’s Armada in the west. Demaethor told Elendil all he knew of Ar-Pharazôn’s Design against Valinor, and of his desire to wrest the eternal lands from the Valar by invasion and battle. Elendil in turn took him into his confidence, and told him of the fears of his father, Amandil: that the King would indeed break the Ban of the Valar and sail beyond the boundaries set for mortal men with his vast fleet. Demaethor learned that Amandil had sailed some months ago from Númenor with the purpose of seeking the Undying Lands and pleading for the intervention of the Valar before Ar-Pharazôn could commit this great sin. This was what Eärendil the Mariner, their ancestor, had done so long ago to save Middle-earth from the evils of Melkor. Amandil had a hope that he might persuade the Valar to preserve the Isle of Gift despite the transgressions of her Kings and her people. “He had no hope of return,� Elendil said, and sadness touched his countenance. “He knew no sign would be given us of his success like the great star Eärendil gave. And my heart bodes that despite his journey Númenor is doomed to an evil fate.� It was soon afterward that the calmness and sunshine that had returned to the Isle left once more, replaced by storms and tempests more terrible than those that were before.


One morning the folk of the house had just dispersed from the breakfast table when Anárion’s son flew into the house shouting of great eagles. They all went out on the roof-top to see, and behold! coming from the west, stretching as far as the eye could descry, were billows and billows of great dark clouds. Their likeness was indeed that of the vast pinions of rows on rows of terrible eagles. And such a gale they brought with them! The winds were so fierce that even after they retreated indoors and to the cellars they feared for their lives. As the huge storm descended upon Rómenna, they thought to be covered in a great darkness. But it was no so; for the morning had only just broken, and the sun came up beneath the clouds. Fell was the light of that dawn. A red blaze lit the underside of the storm. It looked as though all of Númenor were alight with fire, and every man’s face was kindled with a wrathful glow if the sun’s light fell upon him. And the ground shook. As if the very foundations of the Isle were moved, so the whole of Númenor trembled. Buildings fell, hills slid into valleys, and great waves overwhelmed many small coastal towns. Reports came from Armenelos that smoke and fire issued from the Meneltarma, and all the folk lived in fear.

This was what men later came to call the Last Portent. On the wings of it, unseen to any in their fear of the vast tempest, rode a small entourage into Rómenna. They were garbed all in the livery of the King’s guard, save for one young man who was clad in the robes of a nobleman’s son. And they came unto Rómenna even as the great storm fell upon it, and disappeared into the city ere any could mark their coming.

Not many days later there came a sound like no other ever heard in Númenor; the blowing of many trumpets, so many and so loud that the ground trembled for the sound. All the Isle stilled at it, awed. “It is the sounding of the trumpets of the Armada,� said Demaethor, and so it was. “The Great Fleet of Númenor has set sail.�



It was often in those days as well that Demaethor and Amariel found themselves together. It would be at table when all the rest of the house had finished dining, or afterward in the bare, sodden garden, or in the evenings when members of the house sought quiet amusements indoors by the hearth. Frequently Amariel would delight them with music; for indeed she was skilled in harp-playing, and the master of the house permitted her to play upon a fine harp that belonged to his wife. Amariel would sing also, but only rarely, and never if only Demaethor was by. Berhirien, who had awoken from his fell slumber much weakened, joined them oft, and Anardil was always close by his sister. Together the foursome had formed a sort of family. In a house where Elendil’s family and that of the merchant dwelt side-by-side, Demaethor, Berhirien, Amariel and Anardil were a little group apart, and much of their daily lives involved more of each other than the rest of the household. Yet despite these little meetings, and many days in one another’s company, Demaethor and Amariel had found but little to say to each other. When Berhirien was present they held many a discourse, the three of them, but uneasiness prevailed whenever the twain were alone. Demaethor found also that Amariel seemed to keep Anardil from him, cutting short stories that the lad often asked to hear from Demaethor and not suffering the boy to spend many moments uninterrupted with the captain. The reason for this Demaethor could not guess, except perhaps that she supposed he tired of the boy’s company. For Amariel herself was more amiable toward him than she had ever been, though from a distance. She smiled when he entered a room, and seemed pleased when he lingered by her, even if she did not speak more than common courtesies to him. Now and then Demaethor would meet her alone in a stairway or in the garden, finding her lost in a thought, and she would mark him with a look of apology. What these things added up to he could not tell, but he did find himself vaguely pleased by them, save for her apologetic air. He found his own regard for her growing, to the point where Demaethor would admit to himself that he did indeed esteem her especially. Nevertheless he did not speak of his regard to any. Elendil had spoken rightly when he said that the captain sought the forgiveness of another. It was of his own conscience that he desired pardon, but such a thing is easier spoken of than given. Daily he struggled with thoughts of what he took as his own failings, and he could not dare to openly regard Amariel while still bearing guilt for her brother’s deaths, though even she herself had forgiven him. These thoughts he confided to Elendil a few days after the sounding of the trumpets of the Armada in the west.

“I attempt to convince myself of the wisdom of your words, my lord: that the deeds I have achieved are enough, and that the losses along the way were beyond my ability to prevent,� he said. “Yet every time I look upon Forthon’s sister I see him, or rather his absence, in her eyes. Each time I hear her voice I think of those brothers she will never see again. When I watch Anardil at play, I can think only of the elder siblings he will never know.�

“It is well that you feel grief, Demaethor,� Elendil answered. “Sorrow is not an offense; rather it is commendable if felt for one loved. It is no sin to mourn the loss of those held dear. But to take for yourself or place upon another blame for their deaths is a corruption of sorrow, a perversion of grief.�

It was during this discourse that Demaethor at last broke his silence concerning Amariel. For Elendil asked him, “And the lady Amariel; what is to become of her?�

The question caught Demaethor by surprise, for though of late he fancied many futures concerning Forthon’s sister, in reality he had not ever had any other plan than to deliver her to Elendil’s house for safe-keeping. He told Elendil as much.

Elendil replied with another query. “You seem to regard her with some affection; tell me: does your regard toward her stem only from her relation to your dead sergeant? Is this guilt you bear for her brothers’ deaths merely because of your regard for them?�

Demaethor shook his head slowly. Little pictures sprang to his memory: the tattered face in the light of a camp-fire; the sting of Amariel’s slap upon his face; the sight of her wearing his great cloak, spreading it over the shoulders of Esteldûr; the feel of her in his arms on the steps of Argenarth’s home; the gentle sound of her voice singing Anardil to sleep. In Amariel was that same goodness and strength of character that Demaethor had noted in Forthon while he lived, the same love for her family. Yet her love and devotion was tempered with a passion that Forthon did not share; a fervent spirit that presided over her emotions. It pushed every feeling to the extreme: love to fierce protectiveness, distrust to hostility and hate, and sorrow to bitter anger. These extremes had perhaps been the only things that had preserved her during those hellish months she spent in thralldom. But a gentleness was being revealed in her day by day now; a quiet spirit that she had buried deep down beneath layers of pride and restraint. Demaethor thought back on the words of Forthon when he had said that Amariel was “like a precious stone in the midst of layers of rock, hidden and puzzling.� It was the gem within the rock that Demaethor saw now when he looked upon Amariel, instead of the cold stone. And it was this that he regarded and desired to win for himself. But he could not bring himself to ask it of her when he had cost her so much: the lives of her kindred. “How can I lay claim to her affections after all the grief I have caused her?� he asked.

Elendil smiled carefully. “For the deaths of Amariel’s brothers you are responsible, Demaethor. Not by fault—no, but because you were their captain, and your orders, albeit unknowingly, put them in the way of death. You are not the cause of these griefs of which you speak,� he asserted once more, “yet it is because of them that you may lay claim to Amariel. And not only that, but it is your obligation.�

Demaethor searched his face, again surprised at his words. “I do not understand, my lord.�

“Demaethor, I cannot care for Amariel and her infant brother indefinitely,� said Elendil. “They are of no relation to me; I am under no burden to keep them. Had she her older brother, he would have cared for her. I need not point out that he is gone. I need not also mention that, given her past, it will be unlikely that Amariel will ever be taken to wife. Now, she may fall in with the old women and widows, and be provided for by them and by the work of her own hands. And she may raise her little brother in this setting. But I would not desire it. You are of the closest relationship with her as any, Demaethor. You were very fond of Forthon her brother, or so you have told me; being almost an elder brother to him yourself. Now that her brethren and father are dead, all Amariel’s earthly providers are gone, and there is only you to stand in their stead. The charge of Amariel and the child falls to you by obligation, Demaethor; none would dispute it.�


Later that same day Demaethor was sent to accompany the maid-servant Gilwen to the market-place. It was the first time since arriving in Rómenna that Demaethor had been beyond the walls of the merchant’s home. Elendil said it would do him good to breathe the sea-air and walk for a space. And since he had traded in his mail, surcoat, cloak and all the rest for common garments, it would arouse little suspicion if he escorted the servant-girl.

Demaethor himself could not remember when last he had been out and about without a coat of mail on, and certainly he had not been without some token of his profession and his rank in a score of years. Unwilling to be entirely without protection, he had on him a small dagger concealed at his side. Yet as they walked through the cold streets Demaethor felt oddly inconspicuous and defenseless with only a civilian’s coat between himself and the air.

The maid-servant marked none of his discomfort, and set a brisk pace against the cool air. It was late afternoon, and the weather was cold and still. Since the Armada departed from Númenor’s shores and sailed away Westward, all the Isle had seemed pensive and boding. The hearts of all the Faithful were heavy with certain doom. Even those who were loyal to Sauron seemed unsure of the future. Elendil had said at breakfast that morning that within the next few days he would begin to put the Faithful aboard his nine ships. Who knew what the coming days held in store, as the Armada of Ar-Pharazôn drew ever closer to the Undying Shores?

The market, a place always known for its noise and boisterous clamour, was surreally sedate today as well. About them were the signs of the recent storm: smaller structures had been thrown down in the fierce winds, rubble tossed about and the remains of many a garden strewn across the streets and square. All the folk seemed ready at a moment’s notice to drop what they had in hand and run for shelter in the event of another storm. They eyed buildings and walls as though frightened they might fall down upon them. Yet life must go on in the midst of calamity, and the vendors still came out to sell their wares.

Demaethor stood by silently as Gilwen filled her baskets with fruits and cheeses and meats. A neat little ritual was performed before purchasing each item; a poke here or there to check firmness, a quick sniff at this or that, a minute inspection for imperfections or mold. Then the item was placed inside the basket, and three or four steps were taken toward the next merchant to repeat the actions over again. When one basket was full, it was handed to Demaethor to carry, and then another was filled. The whole process was slow and today nigh-wordless, and Demaethor after a time was aware of his side beginning to ache painfully. When at last they left the square, baskets in tow, his wound was throbbing with dull, fuzzy pain. He wondered if it was indeed so well for him to take this little excursion.

They went home by a different route than they had come. Demaethor supposed that this was done by design, in case any should try to follow the maid back. But this way seemed longer, and Gilwen again walked so briskly that Demaethor was hard-pressed not to complain of his wound. The streets they took led them close by the Bay, along the great piers of the city. Here at least the air was peppered with sound: shouts of sailors on the tall ships, the buffeting of the cold breezes over the Bay, the noise of the water, the clatter of carts and the bleating and clucking of animals in cargo pens. Folk were out in number here as well: sailors, buyers, sellers, nobles in fine cloaks and bare-footed children running about. Demaethor’s heart-beat quickened a little as pushing through a crowd here or there had him closer than comfort to folk who might recognize him. But any who could have guessed that Captain Demaethor was in Rómenna would have expected him in livery and mail, and astride a horse, not in the street in the common garb of the city-folk, and his fears were mostly for naught.

Presently Gilwen was forced to stop walking. A group of sailors were directing a net full of cargo down upon a winch from one of the ships close by, and it was impossible to walk past without interfering. As the massive load swung overhead, the sailors shouted and pushed folk back to make room for it on the ground. The unhappy, hindered crowd retreated grudgingly. Demaethor watched the sailors pull and steady the thick ropes that lowered the net downward. They called directions to each other and barked urgently at any stray passerby that wandered in their path. The people backed up more willingly as the net was brought lower, and Demaethor found himself surrounded on every side.

Suddenly a touch was on Demaethor that was more purposeful than the press of the crowd. A firm hand grasped his shoulder from behind. The finger-tips pulled at him, as if to turn him round with force.

In an instant Demaethor drew the little dagger he had with him. He did not do it so abruptly that it attracted the attention of the crowd; their eyes were still upon the sailors and the winch. But quietly, using the pull of his attacker to his advantage, he swung about with a swift move. With his other hand he grabbed the wrist of his attacker and yanked him toward himself. It was a thin, youthful body he had grasped, and it did not struggle as Demaethor pulled him near and laid the edge of his dagger on his throat. “Move once, and you shall die,� Demaethor warned quietly.

The fellow did not move at all, but stood still as stone as if waiting to see what Demaethor would do with him. His chest rose and fell under Demaethor’s restraining hold. He did not speak. The hold had him turned away from Demaethor, and the captain could not see his face. Yet as Demaethor made a carefuller inspection of his captive and would-be attacker, he saw that he was dressed in a rich, embroidered cloak. His hair was well-cut and no weapons were in his open hands.

Immediately Demaethor feared he had only mistaken the man’s touch for an attack. Surely this young, finely dressed man could not mean him harm. And now Demaethor had caused a minute spectacle, and put himself at risk of unwanted attention. He released the young man quickly, letting him turn about so he could see his face.

Demaethor’s dagger fell to the stones at his feet. He could not speak. Air hardly seemed to come to him as he drew a tight breath. Forthon! his thought rang out as he looked upon the man before him. But how could it be, when Demaethor had watched him die? Like one who has seen a spirit, Demaethor felt the blood leave his face. A sudden weakness forced him to regain his balance.

But no; it was not the face of Forthon that greeted him, Demaethor saw as his shock faded. Yet it was one as much unexpected. When at last he could speak, Demaethor exclaimed, “Esteldûr!�


The young man answered him with a smile. The bright, youthful twinge that had once been upon his cheeks had vanished, Demaethor saw. It was replaced with a pale, almost sad look that made him resemble his older brother so much more than before. Yes, Demaethor could mark about him the likeness of Forthon in many ways that had escaped him previously.

“Hello, Captain,� he greeted Demaethor. He did not answer, but stared dumbly until the youth asked, “Are you well, sir?�

As his shock wore off, Demaethor’s mind clouded with questions. They poured into his thought faster than he could articulate them, and began to spill from him as boiling water bubbles over a pot. “Whence came you—? How did you—?� His hand drifted up to grasp the youth, just to see if his eyes were not cheating him. “How?� But the lad was indeed flesh and bone. Gilwen had come near and marked him as well: it could be no apparition that stood before them. He was alive! Somehow he had escaped Sauron, and he was alive.

Demaethor ceased his questioning; his heart was too full. Awkwardly the boy and the captain stared at each other, wordless, until at last Demaethor threw an arm over the young man’s shoulder. “Let us tarry no more here,� he said, and found his own voice husky with emotion. Then a broad smile broke out on his face and Demaethor chuckled. “Come!� he cried. And Gilwen led them swiftly back to Elendil’s abode.



Amariel sat alone. The dying embers of a fire glowed before her, and that light was all there was in the room. For though the window-curtains had been thrown back earlier to let the morn’s light into this little apartment, the clouds outside had since grown thicker. Now a light drizzle was falling from the skies. Amariel had heard that Demaethor went to the market with the servant-girl Gilwen, and she wondered if they had been caught in the rain. It certainly would not go well with Demaethor if he caught the dampness of the weather. His wound was still not fully healed, she knew.

Her harp lay upon her lap, but her hands moved not upward to pluck the strings. The quietness in the room seemed a tangible presence all about her. It kept Amariel from feeling alone. She had put Anardil to bed for a nap sometime ago, and had set herself down in the apartment adjoining their room to play her harp. But she had not plucked more than a few notes before she fell into thoughtful silence.

It was often of late that Amariel found herself lost in thought. So many matters weighted down upon her; the subject of Demaethor was not least among them. Every time her eye fell upon him she was reminded of his kindness toward her, toward her family. His sacrifice on their behalf had very nearly been ultimate, and this she could not forget, especially when daily presented with the evidence of his wound. But he never breathed a word of it, never asked for praise or thanks or repayment. In fact he seemed to scorn such offerings of gratitude, as he had the day they quitted Armenelos. But beside all this, he filled her mind for other reasons. She did not know when it had began, or when first her feeling began to change toward him. Yet where once he was strange and rough to her, now Demaethor was familiar, and kind. His eyes, before the lights of some foreign soul, now held a kindred spirit. In earlier days his voice was abrupt; now it was gentle. His touch was now something she desired rather than shunned. The steady tread of his footfalls was a welcome sound to her ears; his presence was at once pleasant to her and unnerving. For though she preferred his company above any other, Amariel would let none of her feelings toward him show. Hers was not the place to bestow that kind of affection. Her past had cut her off for ever from that kind of love, she knew well.

And what else had that past cut her off from? Elendil had promised her and her little brother a place on his ships. But though he had not said as much, Amariel knew that she could not trespass upon his hospitality for ever. What then would become of them? She could not say. A whisper of a thought unbidden had sprung in her heart; the thought of love and provision—but she would not—she could not—allow that thought to grow to hope.

A draft blew from somewhere, pulling Amariel from her thoughts. In some other part of the house she heard a door swing shut, and the faint murmur of voices. Demaethor had perhaps returned with Gilwen. She was tempted to go downstairs and compel Demaethor sit by the fire—as surely he had been drenched in the now-pouring rain—and to take a warm drink. But someone else could do that—Anárion was downstairs, she knew; Demaethor did not need her especial attention. Instead she set about restoring the expired blaze upon the hearth here.

To her surprise, not many moments later, heavy steps preceded a knock on the door. “Come,� she called, supposing it to be some servant sent to look in on her, or perhaps fetch her to the board, as the midday meal was approaching. She did not turn aside from her task of stirring up the coals as the door opened quietly.

“Amariel.� She looked up at the sound of her name, startled by Demaethor’s voice. A sudden warmth stirred within her again at the sight of him, but she quickly quelled it. Hearth forgotten, she saw at once that he had indeed been in the rain outside. The signs of heavy droplets spattered the shoulders of his cloak, his hair was dripping, and his boots left wet marks upon the floor.

Making to draw a chair toward the fire, Amariel said hastily, “Come; warm yourself. You shall catch cold standing there.�

But Demaethor did not move from the door, and Amariel saw then that he would speak, though it was obvious he was having difficulty finding words. He looked as though he bore ill-news. Concern immediately touched her. Amariel sought to remember where she had left Anardil. But, no, he could not be the cause for Demaethor’s discomfort; he was in bed. Berhirien? Surely not. He was still healing from his wounds, but he was in no serious danger anymore. What then? Her heart quickened as the worst possibility came to mind: that Sauron—or his black soldiers—had found them out. She forced herself to ask him, “What is it?�

He answered her quietly, “Someone waits for you,� and offered her his hand.

Puzzled, Amariel came near and took his offered hand tentatively. It was obvious he would not explain what his answer meant, and so she did not ask anymore questions. But the strength of his grip and his terseness yet made her think some ill thing boded. It was with an uncertain heart that she followed with him.



Esteldûr sat at the table in the dining room. Anárion sat near; neither spoke. There had been few words when they had entered the house: Demaethor, Gilwen, and Esteldûr. At first Anárion had been wroth that Demaethor had shown a stranger the way to Elendil’s secret residence. But once he learned who it was that the captain brought, he welcomed Esteldûr with an embrace and a smile. “This lad has a tale to tell,� had been his speech, “but it need not be heard now.� And he sent Demaethor to fetch Amariel, saying, “Be gentle, Demaethor. Her brother, once dead, is alive again.�

Those words echoed in Esteldûr’s head. Back in Armenelos he did not really think that Demaethor would have left him in the city if the captain had still thought him alive. But Esteldûr had not considered that they would have mourned him as dead. Only now did he think of Amariel’s reaction to such news; if he was dead and Anardil lost, she would have been the only one of their family left. How hard that must have been to bear! Esteldûr wished now that he could have spared her the pain. He only hoped that his return to her now would make up for it, though he had lost Anardil.

After his escape Esteldûr had gone back; back to Argenarth’s ransacked house, to his own former home. But the lad was not to be found. For many days bitter grief had held Esteldûr; sorrow still dwelt in his heart. He had his little brother safe in his arms for a quarter of an hour, and then straightway he had lost him again, and this time for good. What would Amariel think of him now, he wondered? But he had done all he could, and even his rescuer had done all in her power to find Anardil. No trace of the boy was found.

It amazed him, now that he had a quiet moment to think on it, that he had found Demaethor so accidentally just now. Esteldûr and the ones with him had been searching the streets of Rómenna for days to no avail. And then, when he had turned aside from his searching for a morning to buy a day’s bread at the market, he had found the captain. Garbed in the cloak of a commoner, having neither helm nor emblem nor shield, it was a wonder that Esteldûr had even marked him there by the piers. But something in this commoner’s bearing had grabbed Esteldûr’s attention—and oddly enough it was not a mien of strength that caught him, but of weakness. For Demaethor walked now with a slight list. Esteldûr wondered what mischance had waylaid the road to the west for Demaethor and his sister. Indeed, as Anárion had said, there would be many tales to tell.

Now Esteldûr’s thought turned apprehensively to Amariel. He and Demaethor had not spoken much as they made their way back from the piers, but Esteldûr had asked enough questions about his sister. All the captain’s answers had been short: she was well, she was in good health, she was gaining strength day by day. But, Esteldûr wanted to know, was she yet so changed as she had been? Yet so broken? so frail? so cold? He thought once more of Anárion’s admonition to Demaethor, to be gentle, and wondered what Amariel’s reaction would be when she saw him. Would she think so badly of him when she heard how he lost Anardil?—for surely he could not hide it from her. Would she be pleased with him when she saw what he had brought with him from Armenelos? He hoped so.

The young man did not have long to wonder about the answers to his questions. For the creak of a floorboard brought him back to the present, and the sounds of footfalls preceded a quiet pair into the far end of the room.

Esteldûr’s breath caught. Amariel walked in on Demaethor’s arm, her eyes immediately searching the room. She did not know who it was she sought, he saw. Demaethor had not told her. But he could not speak, could not command his voice to call out to his sister. His eyes filled with tears, and almost unaware that he did it he stood. For here she was at last: his sister, whole and untainted. Little traces of her brokenness, if there, were unseen by his young eyes. She was as unsullied as in that very hour before she was dragged from Armenelos in chains. Esteldûr’s heart began to ache suddenly. He had not known until this moment how he had longed for the sight of kindred dear.

She marked him as he stood, and recognized him within a breath. But not a sound accompanied her recognition. No great change came over her countenance, save that it froze as though suddenly transformed to stone. Esteldûr watched painfully as the blood drained from her cheeks and all colour fled away from her face.


Amariel’s face turned as stolid and white as marble. Demaethor felt her hand go cold in his firm grasp. No breath seemed to come from her, no spark of thought registered in her eyes. She swayed.

Putting an arm around her, Demaethor steadied Amariel ere she slipped. A tremor passed over her frame: a shudder that did not fully pass away, but left her trembling. Esteldûr had already come round the table and pulled a seat up for her as her legs would no longer support her. Amariel sank down to it. The arm she dropped downward to steady herself shook. Her face was yet set as though made of stone, but her gaze moved upward to the face of her brother. Slowly, her eyes passed over Esteldûr as he knelt before her. Unbelief was writ in them. As the lad took hold of her hand, she looked up to Demaethor’s gaze in a faltering, searching manner. The captain recalled the first time she had set her eyes upon him: the desperate plea for release—even death—in them. For now her look held the same desperateness, only now they begged for aid, for strength. He hoped she found it in his steady returning gaze. Her hand was still his own, and she grasped his as though her life depended upon it. He wrapped his fingers firmly about hers.

Esteldûr held her other hand carefully, like it would break if he handled it too long. “Sister?� he whispered eagerly. A tear slid unheeded down his face.

A whimper escaped Amariel’s lips. At last her expression broke, her mouth working as though she would speak. A pained look contorted her pretty features. Her bottom lip shook, the delicate chin wrinkling in distress. Releasing Demaethor’s hand finally, she reached her trembling hands out to touch her brother’s face. Demaethor found his hand cold without hers in it. Now he watched as with a shaking finger she wiped the tear from Esteldûr’s cheek. It was a gentle, protective gesture—an almost motherly action. It was a gesture of habit, of rote; a motion resorted to when one is unable respond to reality.

As she cupped his face in her palms, Esteldûr’s hands came up to grasp hers, and, “Amariel!� he cried as he fell into her arms. She held him silently. The shock had not worn off of her yet, but Demaethor stepped back a pace, allowing the two room. Deep, full silence claimed a moment.

With suddenness a sound began to spill from Amariel. It sounded like sobbing at first to Demaethor’s ears. But there were no tears on her face. He recalled her stoic manner in the face of Forthon’s death—like a font frozen in deepest winter; but this was wholly unlike that. And then he thought of the wild, bitter tears on the steps of Argenarth’s ruined home, yet her manner was not like that either. In fact it seemed she smiled—and it was then that Demaethor realized what he was hearing: laughter.

It began as a stifled giggle. Then it grew until she could not contain herself. Great fits of silvery laughter, like the tinkling of little glass bells or the rejoicing of a woodland stream, or the chorus of a score of birds greeting a bright summer’s morning took hold of Amariel. The sound was so foreign to Demaethor that he listened in wonder. It seemed gladness welled up within Amariel, so unadulterated was her joy, so untouched by any reserve or bitterness or sorrow or grief! Like a fountain overflowing, or a rain of gladness falling on them all, her laughter caught them one by one and brought them together in her joy, until they all smiled and laughed with her.



Some time passed before they had all overcome the initial shock of meeting. Berhirien had come down to partake of the midday meal and met again with Esteldûr. And it was not long before the young man was made aware of Anardil’s presence in the house. The little lad’s knack for slipping about unheeded found him roaming the house in search of Amariel. He found his brother instead. Esteldûr’s joy at seeing Anardil was scarcely less that of Amariel’s upon seeing Esteldûr. He laughed and wept and vowed over and over again never to let the lad from his sight. When the meal’s food had been brought in, and the rest of the household gathered, Anardil had ordered that another table be set in a room apart, so that Amariel and her brothers might eat alone. They retreated most happily to their board, and when they had left it seemed almost that the glow of their joy had tangibly quitted the room.

As for Demaethor, he ate his meal with little interest. For his thoughts were with the threesome that had departed. How had Esteldûr escaped Rómenna? he wanted to know. And although this question preoccupied his thought, he was also keenly aware of a feeling of exclusion. It was not unfamiliar to him: there were many times in his career when his position had left him outside the meetings and counsels of his superiors, leaving him privy only to the information they saw fit to tell him. None of those times had it really troubled him. He had always trusted that the information he needed would come to him in time, and all else was superfluous and did not concern him.

Yet this was different. Superfluous or not, he had an interest in what was transpiring in that other room. Though surely no mountains would be cast into the sea because he was not present for that little meal, yet he wished to be a part of it almost more than he had wanted anything in his life. And he no longer needed to wonder why. Demaethor could still feel Amariel’s hand within his, could still see her eyes searching his own. She had a strength and a pride he admired, and a passion that fueled them, but beneath all that she was not invincible. Underneath she was not so cold and distant and formidable; she was warm and gentle, kind, goodhearted, and even vulnerable. And he loved her. He wanted that hand to stay within his own for as long as he had life to hold it. He wanted those eyes to shine before his with more than just need, but also with satisfaction and affection. He wanted to be a part of her every moment, to care for what she cared for and hold dear what she held dear. To be her comfort on every dark day and her champion in every fight, to teach her brothers the things he would teach his own sons, and to make her the mother of his children.

But would she return such affection, he wondered? He knew that, given her position now, she might accept him if only for her brothers’ sake. She would do anything to ensure her brothers’ well-being, he knew. For they had no standing save as orphans and paupers: no name, no means, no home. With Demaethor as their benefactor they might have a chance at position and holdings once more, though they were destined to exile in the Middle Lands. Yet though Demaethor would readily care for them out of his own means, he did not want to take Amariel into his care as a reluctant ward. No, what he desired most, though he knew not how to gain it, was her love.



Eventually it all came out: the story of Esteldûr’s escape. The lad told it all in the presence of Anárion and Isildur, as well as his sister and Demaethor, for they also wished to know how he had escaped Armenelos. Indeed, he had not only escaped, but was garbed in rich robes and seemed not as one who has been running for his life. Yet there were marks about him that attested to some hardship—he bore an ugly brown scar over his ear and extending to his cheek-bone, and there was about him the lean look of one who has only just recovered from a wound. He seemed to walk gingerly as well, favouring his right leg, as if his left had been hurt.

Esteldûr began with leaving the manor outside Armenelos. He told of the tumult in the city, his search of Argenarth’s home and his reunion with Anardil. When he came to Galdûreth’s treachery, both Amariel and Demaethor found it difficult to hear. Guilt still touched their hearts when they thought of their misplaced trust in Galdûreth. The lad shortened the tale of his captivity, seeing the pained face of his sister, mentioning briefly the barracks where he heard the order for the arrest of Argenarth’s family, and also the injury of his leg from falling debris. He hastened to tell of his flight from his captors after the destruction of the Temple’s great dome, and how he came to the Libraries. His remembrances of his meeting with Queen MÃ*riel were clouded somewhat, but he recalled being struck brutally, then shadowy memories of being carried and the touch of a healer upon his injuries.

“I do not remember much for a day or two after that,â€� he said, and looked for a moment as though he might try to recall those hours from his hazy memory. But he continued, “Apparently the blow I received from my would-be captors delivered a very grave wound—the Queen’s healers informed me that if I had been struck so hard but a finger’s-width closer to my eye, it should have killed me.â€� Esteldûr pushed back the curls from his temple to show off, with the smallest touch of youthful pride, the scar over his ear. No doubt he would bear it the rest of his days, Demaethor thought. Amariel made a soft, distressed noise, the same thought probably crossing her mind, and Esteldûr withdrew his hand and continued with his narrative. “I woke up two days later in the King’s house, attended by a servant who dressed my wounds and brought my meals. I found out from him that I was in fact being hidden away in some chamber of the Queen’s rooms, and that rumours abounded that Her Majesty had personally commanded Lord Sauron to discontinue His search for me, though He threatened to tell the King of her meddling in His affairs. The servant, a talkative fellow, told me also the common speeches of the city, including one that Captain Demaethor had killed seven knights outside the city and proceeded to escape the region without a trace.â€� Esteldûr turned a grin toward Demaethor. “Apparently,â€� he added, “the whole city was buzzing with the strange deeds of their favoured Captain. I for one was glad at the news, for it told me Galdûreth’s betrayal had ended with me, and that you and Amariel were safe from his treachery. Yet not all the news I received in those days was happy. When at last I had an audience with Queen MÃ*riel, I told her of Argenarth’s family; how they had helped me...â€� The lad’s voice trailed off. He continued quietly, “She tried to find them. But I fear they had already been slain upon the Pyres by that time. She also had her own guardsmen search for Anardil—I can hardly tell you how brokenhearted I was when he could not be found. I was ready to give myself up to Sauron—ready to join my parents and my little brother in the death I should have shared with them. Only the thought of Rómenna—of the journey I started with Forthon back in Eldalondë; only that kept me from despair. One day the Queen asked me what I was to do when she released me, for my wounds had all but healed. ‘Surely you will not stay in Armenelos only to be plucked up by Sauron’s soldiers,’ she said. I told her the reason I had entered the city in the first place was to find my brother. Now that he was lost, it seemed I had no other option then to follow my sister to Rómenna, and to try to find her there. I confessed to Her Majesty our intent to find Elendil, for she knew already of the rumours of his small fleet. ‘Long have I worked to thwart Sauron’s efforts in hunting Elendil.’ she told me. ‘Much information that could have aided Him in His search has ended with me, and many of His fruitless pursuits after whispers of Amandil’s son all over the Isle have had their roots in my labours. But Elendil knows as well as I that soon there will be no room for the Faithful in Númenor. Though I am Queen there is little I can do to stop it. Those faithful to the Valar will be forced to exile, and he does well to prepare for it. It will be a hard life for them in the Middle Lands. But Númenor will tear itself apart before long. Its own wickedness and conceit and pride will destroy it, and only those exiled will bear with them the recollection of what was once the glory of all the Circles of the World.’

“I asked her if she would not join Elendil in his flight from the King and Sauron. She answered that her place was with the people that she was supposed to have ruled. Yet, she said that a small part of her would accompany Elendil to the Middle Lands, if indeed I could reach Rómenna and find him ere he set sail. She took me back to the Libraries. ‘I have spent countless hours here,’ she told me, and I suppose I looked surprised, for I had not thought that Queen MÃ*riel and I shared the love of the written word. She said, ‘Among my studies as a girl I was under the instruction of the Chief Scribes here. I learned from the same masters that instructed your father, Nedron. And now that I am kept captive by the King in the city of my fathers, I often seek refuge here from Ar-Pharazôn and the One who puts the words into his mouth. There is a peace to be had among the words of our nobler ancestors. I am afraid I am much weaker than they: I have surrendered my kingdom to an evil man, and now I cannot take it back. And so I turn to the flimsy comfort of their ancient texts to surround myself with the remembrances of better days. Elendil’s father Amandil was a much better servant to Númenor than I have been. And yet let me give this parting gift to his son. For I know in my heart that when the ships of Elendil depart Númenor, I will never more see aught of him. No, for this evil I have allowed to overtake the Isle will claim my life ere it has run its course. And then I will receive the just rewards for my negligence.’

“She gave me many chests full of documents: tales and lays of our history and other useful parchments on medicine and botany, sailing lore and accounts of the lands beyond the Seas once explored by the Númenórian mariners, building and architecture, and many more arts and sciences of our race, as well as wisdoms of the Elves once imparted to our fathers and now scorned by the people of Númenor. A small company of the King’s guard who are faithful to the Queen she sent here with me, to assist me in my search for Elendil and to bear her gift to him They will return when their errand is completed, but they bide now in an inn near the piers where I met the Captain. Along with them are the documents and scrolls and books.�

Later that day they retrieved the Queen’s gift, and brought it to Elendil’s dwelling place. MÃ*riel’s men departed as the day waned, riding into the setting sun back to Armenelos.

[Rosie Gamgee]

Chapter Eleven

It was not many days that Esteldûr spent in the house of Elendil before the leader of the Faithful gave the order to begin the boarding of his ships. It had been twenty and one days since the sounding of the trumpets in the west and the sailing of the King’s great Armada. It would not be long before the vast force reached the Undying Lands. Without doubt they had already crossed the bounds set by the Valar for Men in days beyond memory; there would be no repenting of the King’s sin now. Elendil confessed to Demaethor, “A great foreboding has come upon me. Some doom will befall Númenor for this great transgression of Ar-Pharazôn’s. I will go aboard my ships, my sons and the Faithful with me, and we will wait to see what judgment the Valar will bring upon the Isle.�

Elendil divided the command of his nine ships between his sons and himself: Elendil commanded four, Isildur three, and Anárion two; for Elendil said, “Anything might befall us, and it may be better in the coming days that we go separate ways.� And so they divided all the valuable things that they were to take into exile, including the chests of books and scrolls that Esteldûr had brought from the Queen, and each ship was loaded with a share of the treasures along with their portions of the supplies.

As the last of this cargo was being brought to the ships, one day a cart was brought to the secret piers carrying only one shrouded article. From what could be seen of it, the object had a large container at its base, and a slender thing rose up from this container about as tall as the length of a man’s arm. It was covered over with a tent of sorts, but whether this tent served to hinder the eyes or the wind and rain, or both, could not be told by an onlooker. Surrounding the covered object was a detail of men all armed as if on guard for a sudden attack. Isildur himself had come with the detail, and supervised the handling of its mysterious burden.

“What is it?� Esteldûr asked. He had come with Demaethor to aid the men loading the ships. The wind and tossing water in the harbour made the work slow and hard, and required every able man they had. Now he stood watching as this guarded object was being hoisted up with slow care to the ship they themselves were aboard.

Demaethor was by and heard Esteldûr’s question, which was a rare thing on the ships. For the captain, being a natural leader of men, oversaw much of the work done and was almost constantly consulting with someone about this matter or that. He seldom met with Esteldûr during the long hours of the day. It was only when they rode forth and back to the city that Demaethor and the lad spent any time together.

“Whatever it be, surely it is precious,� Demaethor replied, not offering any answer as to what Isildur brought, although in his thought he guessed he knew.

The elder son of Elendil confirmed his guess some time later when he had boarded the ship. Isildur was still directing the armed men as they laid their burden down, but found time to come near to Demaethor and explain the unusual manner in which the shrouded object had come to the ships. “It is the scion of Nimloth,� said he, and those words alone explained much. A tree it was, a young sapling. Its parent had been planted in the courts of the King in Armenelos for centuries: Nimloth the White Tree of Númenor, the symbol of the blessing of the Valar, the memorial of Men to the Undying Lands. It was prophesied of old that the fate and prosperity of Númenor’s Kings was bound up with the White Tree. But those beliefs were forsaken by Ar-Pharazôn as he turned to the deceptions of Sauron, and Nimloth was uprooted and brutally hewn to pieces and burned. It was Isildur that slipped into the place of the Tree ere it was destroyed and plucked from it a single fruit. He said now, his eyes upon the precious plant, “For the seed of that sapling I received many wounds and came near to death, and I will brook no other to see to its care. Of all burdens borne from the Isle, this is, perhaps, the most cherished by me. For with this small Tree the destiny of Númenor’s Kings passes from the line of Ar-Pharazôn to Elendil and his sons.� A watch was set about the precious sapling to tend and guard it day and night.


When Isildur had gone from Demaethor, Esteldûr asked, “Captain, may I speak with you?� His eyes had been fixed upon the small Tree. He, as well as Demaethor, had heard the story of its origin, yet had never before seen it. Few living, Demaethor thought, had beheld Nimloth from which it came, for Sauron had forbade entrance to the place of the White Tree while it was yet standing in the court of the King. Esteldûr turned his gaze from the guarded plant to Demaethor.

The captain smiled kindly upon him. The lad’s bearing and face yet recalled in his mind the image of Forthon. As with when he saw Amariel, every time Demaethor looked upon Esteldûr, he was besieged with a trace of guilt and sorrow for their lost brother. And Demaethor had found that he had inadvertently stepped into the part of elder brother to the young man. Whether this was because Esteldûr seemed to accept him as such or because Demaethor himself assumed the role he could not tell, but the captain was always ready to give his attention to the boy.

Esteldûr stood near him, silent for a moment as he looked out at the harbour. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. The grey waters surged all around them, and over all was the eerie sound of the buffeting winds as the lad began to speak slowly. “Magwiel was always the prettiest of my two sisters,� he said. Demaethor hardly expected these words to open any of their discussions, but he let the lad go on. “She had suitors approaching my father before she was seventeen. I suppose it was no wonder that she should have secured the affections of that nobleman she was to wed, even after the public disgrace of our family. She was beautiful and spirited....� The lad’s voice was lost to the winds. The fact that he spoke in the past tense concerning his sister was not lost to Demaethor. The captain yet recalled the words he had heard Forthon speak that night outside Eldalondë, when he had eavesdropped on the siblings’ tearful parting with their sister: “Then from this night forth you must be as dead to me.� Esteldûr’s sorrow over the loss of his sister was as real as though he mourned her dead.

Demaethor sought to fill the silence, and asked, “And Amariel; had she many suitors?� It had been something he wondered about since that day on the road when she questioned him about children, when he had thought she might have had a husband and children of her own.

It seemed Demaethor had lit upon what Esteldûr wished to speak to him of. For the lad answered readily, “Some; not many. But none of them met with my father’s approval. That was well, I always thought, for Amariel never said she cared for any of them, and never seemed as though she desired marriage. It was only within the last few years that I came to recognize that she is reaching an age where men no longer look for wives. And now.... I am not so young as to not know that she is for ever tarnished by the nature of her captivity—that her position because of that is a lowly one indeed.� He fell silent again. Demaethor sensed an awkwardness about him, about what he was trying to say.

But the captain made a guess at the latter, and supplied softly, “When your brother lay dying, his last words to Amariel were, ‘I should have protected you ‘til a worthier one came.’ He spoke to the fact that Amariel was unmarried, didn’t he?� Esteldûr nodded. Whether the wind and the salt-air, or his emotion, were making the boy’s eyes tear, Demaethor could not tell. But the lad seemed vaguely surprised at Demaethor’s words, and the captain took it as a sign that he had guessed the reason Esteldûr had come to speak with him. He continued, “I would that Forthon had not died thinking he left his family uncared for. I would that I might have told him then what regard I would come to have for his siblings; for you and Anardil. And for Amariel.�

Esteldûr contemplated him for a moment, then answered, “She esteems you very highly, Captain, for your service to us, and she will not ask you for more than what you have already done. I would not either, were it only myself I spoke for.� The lad’s tone had steadied to one of firmness and resolve. He said, “But I have seen the way you look upon her, and I have marked her own pleasure when you are near. She is my sister, and she has no other to speak for her, now that both Forthon and my father are dead. So I will ask what she cannot for herself: Do you love my sister, Captain?�

Demaethor looked with some wonder on this young man so many years his junior. He was somewhat surprised that in the few days that Esteldûr had spent here the lad was aware of Demaethor’s feelings for Amariel, a thing he had thought he kept concealed. But more than this, Demaethor held on to those words, “She esteems you very highly...� Was is possible that Amariel did indeed regard him? Was this why Esteldûr was speaking to him? The lad said that her affection toward Demaethor was obvious; it seemed the only doubt in his mind was a return of that affection. Demaethor decided quickly not to evade the boy’s question. He was a soldier, and neither skilled in the arts of bandying words nor matters of the heart. And besides this, he recognized the lad’s right to know—Esteldûr spoke well when he said that he was the only one suited to question the captain about the matter. No other remained to speak for Amariel.

Demaethor answered, “Yes.�

The grin that spread over Esteldûr’s face told Demaethor of the lad’s joy and approval of the captain’s answer before he could speak. “Good,� he said at last. A space of silence stretched, then, “What will you do?� he asked.

Demaethor smiled at Esteldûr’s directness, yet returned it equally. “I will wed her, if I may gain her affections. And if it is well with you.�

Esteldûr’s smile widened. He chuckled and said, “Yes. Yes!� Extending his hand, the lad added with feeling, “It shall be my joy to call you my brother, Captain.� Demaethor smiled again. The confidence with which this fourteen-year-old had stepped into his elder brother’s place was commendable, given the awkwardness of him having to speak to a man over a half-century older than himself as an equal. Esteldûr was no longer the juvenile boy, rain-soaked and rash, that he had met on that fateful morning he rode from Eldalondë. He was grown up, or well on his way to being so. He spoke now to Demaethor as Forthon had: not as a youth, but as a man.

Demaethor grasped his hand firmly. “It shall be mine also.�



Since Esteldûr’s return Demaethor had interacted little with Amariel. Despite the declaration of affection for her he had made to Esteldûr, he had not yet found an opportunity to say as much to Amariel herself. He was busy every day with the sons of Elendil and their matters, and besides all this Amariel had distanced herself somewhat from all but her brothers. She seemed content with only them and sought no other company. It seemed a retreat to Demaethor. She had gained some standing in the merchant’s house and among the family of Elendil, despite her tarnished past. Yet it was obvious Amariel felt she no longer belonged in such circles because of her disgrace, and her brother’s return gave her an excuse to refrain from mingling with the others in the house. Demaethor managed to exchange a few words with her, in passing now and then, but found little time to pursue more of her company. In truth he had put off speaking to her at length for another reason: he hardly knew what he would say. The last thing he wished was for his intentions to sound like some vulgar business proposal—the care of her brothers in exchange for her body. No doubt she had heard enough times the overtures of men who sought only their own pleasure. His desires were much higher than that, but he was unpractised in the words and manners of love. And he knew that if she thought his proposal anything less than upright, her proud nature would despise him for ever—else she would accept him abjectly and only for her brother’s sakes.

Soon after the ships’ cargo was loaded and secured, the boarding of their passengers commenced. Demaethor had wished at first to board one of Anárion’s ships, for he and the second son of Elendil had become good friends. But when he found that Amariel and her brothers were to be put upon Isildur’s vessels he asked rather to be placed with them. He hoped to find an occasion for speaking with Amariel. Though might not be many weeks before the ships reached the Middle Lands, if Demaethor and Amariel separated now, it was not likely that they should meet again in exile.


Berhirien was assigned to Elendil’s ships. Among the Faithful there were many who had deserted the Army as Ar-Pharazôn’s schemes against Valinor mounted, and most of these were to be boarded with Elendil as well. A handful of Army-trained men were stationed aboard each vessel in case of attack, but Berhirien was hardly ready to take up arms once more. He was healed yet not whole. It would be long ere he was again the sturdy, able man he had been.

At a concealed pier some distance from Rómenna, folk were being transported to the nine ships in the Bay. Awaiting their turns to go, Demaethor and Berhirien shared a parting embrace. “You were among the first to know of my turn from Sauron’s lies,� Demaethor said, “and one of the few who truly understood those allegiances I forsook. For that I shall always remember you, even if it prove that we shall not meet again in exile. No longer do I see you as a soldier under my command, but as my friend. For my doubting of your loyalty the night Forthon was slain I ask your pardon, and also for my harsh words that night.�

“No word was spoken that night that was unjustified, my lord, save for your suspicion of my collaboration with Galdûreth,� Berhirien answered, and smiled. “But you have my full forgiveness for that accusation: I would have thought the same had our places been reversed. Farewell, Captain.�

Amariel came near to bid him good-bye. She spoke a soft word of thanks and friendship, and brushed a brief kiss upon his rough cheek. “Farewell, Berhirien,� said she. “May the Valar bless your way.�

“And yours also, my lady,� he replied, and the last sight they had of him was his stocky form stepping into a small barque and disappearing into the Bay.

Presently another boat returned to bear Demaethor, Amariel, Esteldûr and Anardil to the ship they were to board. Demaethor found it suddenly difficult to leave the land. He was not afraid of boats or sea-going vessels. The fierce winds had tossed the waters in the Bay for weeks now, so much that the ships anchored there looked like leaves floundering on the tide, yet he was not fearful. But rather the thought came to him now that this might well be the last time he stood upon the shores of Númenor, the land of his ancestors and his birth, his home. Exile suddenly took on sharp meaning in his soul. Demaethor had left this Isle before, but always with the hope of return. Now he was leaving all behind him for ever and departing for a new home in a wild land. Tears sprang to his eyes and an ache formed in his heart he never before knew. Every memory he had of his boyhood here, every pleasant sight he had ever looked upon on this Isle all crowded into his remembrance. Ere stepping from the pier, Demaethor knelt in the grass and sand, breathing deep the air that once was sweet as the meads of Valinor. Removing a glove, he pressed his bare hand to the earth and tried to put the feel of it in his memory.

A soft touch upon his shoulder made him turn. Amariel stood at his side. She offered him a reassuring smile that touched him deeper than she knew. “Come,� she prompted gently. Misty tears were in her beautiful eyes now, too, but she said, “The better part of Númenor leaves on Elendil’s ships this day. All that will remain is tarnished for ever and under the curse of the Valar.�

He rose to his feet. In spite of her words, Amariel seemed to need as much mettle as he getting on that barque. So hand-in-hand they stepped into the little boat, and closed their eyes against the agony of the last sight of their homeland.


Some hours later found Amariel and Demaethor in the cargo-hold of the ship. There was not much to do aboard these ships but wait. The sailors were the busiest right now, but the boarding passengers had little to do after settling in with their families and scant possessions. Some of them, including Demaethor and Amariel, had amused themselves for a while strolling about the deck. Now a light rain had begun to fall and they had all retreated belowdecks, some to their beds for rest or quiet conversation, others to explore what they could of the ship. Esteldûr had taken Anardil off to see what they could see, leaving Demaethor and Amariel alone to explore what they would.

Demaethor seized the opportunity to speak with Amariel alone. He had seen many of the things loaded onto this ship, and now he took Amariel to the holds to show them to her. The Scion of Nimloth was only one memento of their home that the Faithful would be taking with them; here were many more. By the light of a small lamp Demaethor led Amariel through the dark bellies of the ship, pointing out various objects and telling their significance. Demaethor told Amariel of the Seeing-stones Elendil and his sons kept with them: made by the Noldor—some believed that the elf Fëanor himself fashioned them—a man could look into one stone and see events transpiring around another, whichever stone the wielder’s thought tended toward. “Great power and strength of mind is needed to wield the Stones,� Demaethor told her. “They are truly a wonder beyond the wisdom of Men, and a mighty heirloom and tool they will prove to the Faithful in exile in the wide, untamed lands of Middle-earth.� Demaethor described many other such artifacts, and Amariel listened with interest to all he said.

Presently they came to a great object in the midst of the crates and barrels of cargo. It was large, twice the height of a man and held in place by many cables fixed to the planks under it. Its shape was indistinguishable, and it was shrouded in many coverings of hide and cloth piled over it. Amariel stepped away from Demaethor to draw near to it. “What is it?� she asked. She stretched a hand out to touch a section of the coverings.

Demaethor had seen this thing being brought on to the ship; indeed it had been a great undertaking to get it here, but he knew not what it was, save a name. “They call it Erech,� he answered softly. His own tone was quiet, bemused, he found as he heard his own voice. He discovered he had suddenly forgotten about the strange object before them. The air and the darkness seemed to close in, and there was only Amariel standing there in the lamp-light. Her beauty struck him once more, now more acutely for the solitude of this lonely, dim hold. Demaethor’s eyes followed the shadows that wrapped themselves softly around her body, brushing her high cheeks and small mouth like imperceptible fingers. Her quiet movements enthralled him as her inquisitiveness guided her form. With a fluid motion Amariel lifted a corner of the object’s shroud.

Her breath caught softly, and with gentle curiosity she pressed her fingertips against the surface beneath. A glint of smooth, deep ebony shone from under the covering in her hand. It was an unearthly thing underneath those coverings: a great sphere of black stone, smooth as a polished blade, or ice or fine cloth, all around. The light of the small lamp that Demaethor carried seemed to penetrate the surface of the stone and find a new fire within. The flame sprang back out and lit Amariel’s face with a surreal light. In Demaethor’s eye the mysterious light became her. He drew a careful breath, knowing now was the moment he must speak. “Amariel,� he began quietly, but found then that he had no words to describe what he felt. He took a step toward her. “Amariel, I—�

She turned to him for an instant and her eyes touched his. Obviously she caught the tone of his voice, the light of his eyes. Demaethor saw fear in her countenance as she searched his face, waiting for him to finish what he had begun. He thought he understood. The darkness and the solitude probably threatened her, and to suddenly find herself alone with a man who obviously desired her was a situation that in the past had been anything but pleasant.

He opened his mouth again, intending to quell her fear. But turning back to the stone, as if she had not heard him or acknowledged him at all, Amariel repeated, “Erech.� She lifted the covering further from the stone. Like one who reads a holy text, seeking to gain some profound truth from it, Amariel stared intently into the black depths of the stone. Slowly, she lifted her gaze from the dark globe, back to Demaethor’s face. Almost whispering, she asked, “Do you believe in foresight?�

Once more that question struck him. But more was in her eyes when she asked it now than there had been before. He saw an understanding there. He did not think it was in reference to the stone that she questioned him. No; clearly Amariel saw the thoughts that had been playing out in his mind just now when he watched her in the lamplight, and she knew the things he wished for concerning her. Demaethor felt vulnerable, like a soldier who finds himself unarmed in the midst of combat. Never before had a woman made him feel this way—yet he did not fight it, only nodded.

Demaethor thought of how Amariel had asked this question before, the night Forthon died, and then just before they had found Anardil in her father’s house: Do you believe in foresight? Had she seen those things beforehand, he wondered? Or had she merely meant to make a point, as he thought she was trying to make now? “Have you that gift, my lady?� he asked her.

Her answer was cryptic. She looked into the great black stone once more and murmured, “I see a shadowy host, an army of ghostly forms, bound to this stone by solemn tryst. They carry spears and banners, like a grey thicket in a strange twilight. At their head rides one like Elendil. A star is bound upon his brow, and he rides to great doom.� Demaethor listened, and looked into the stone as well. He saw none of what she described.

Abruptly, Amariel let the covering of the stone fall back. Surprising him, she turned and stepped closer to him with a distinct, purposeful movement. Demaethor could still read fear in her movements, in her face, though she seemed to steel herself against it. “Yes,� she said now, answering more definitely his question, “though my gift is by no means constant. And with every premonition of what is to come, there is always some part left unguessed, some part still unexpected. I had dreams ere my family was torn apart of my parents engulfed in the flames of Melkor’s Pyres. But I had no inkling of what horrible fate awaited me in the months thereafter. When first I laid eyes on you, my lord, I knew I would see the end of my captivity. Yet I had thought that its end lay in Armenelos’s black Temple. I did not think then that I would live to see freedom. And I did not guess that the road to my liberty would be paved with the sacrifice of my brothers.� Amariel’s eyes glittered faintly with misty tears in the lamp-light. She drew a breath, and continued, “That night outside Armenelos, in the farmhouse, I saw in my heart Esteldûr being dragged through the streets, and knew that he had fallen into the hands of Sauron’s men. And when, inside the city, I saw the shadow in the window of my father’s house, I knew that it would be Anardil within. These things my gift could tell me. But I did not ever guess that the man once called the Enemy of the Faithful should pity me.� Amariel lifted her tear-filled eyes to his. Her voice lowered to a mere whisper. “My gift has failed me, for it did not show me ere I slighted and condemned him that this man should regard me, or that he should heed the tears from my eyes.�

Demaethor could think of no words to stop her speech. He held her gaze and found now that she seemed to overcome her fear with trust—trust in him, as if she were surrendering her fears into his keeping. Demaethor recalled his thoughts so long ago when he had thought she would never place her confidence in him as a commander and a leader of their band of fugitives. In this moment she gave him more than he had desired, for she confided in him not as a captain but as a man.

Snatching a breath, Amariel said hastily, “It is not enough, my lord. I am not deserving—I am neither unspoiled nor innocent. And even if I were, I am far from—�

Before she could say more, Demaethor moved closer and placed his fingers upon her lips. Not expecting such a touch, Amariel flinched. But she did not back away. Demaethor recalled suddenly that Forthon had stopped her from speaking the same way at least once before. He wondered if Amariel saw her brother in the movement, and if that was why she did not move away. He did not withdraw his hand as he whispered, “Your past matters not to me. So many have forgiven me my own offenses; three young men extended their pardon to me even as I shed their innocent blood before Sauron. How can I hold against you crimes that you did not commit, but that other, baser men forced upon you? I see no wilted flower when I look upon you; I see a bloom that has endured rain and sunless days, and has come out more beautiful for the storms. Let not your own doubts keep you from accepting the gift of a sincere heart. My love springs not from pity, Amariel, but admiration.�

He ended, and she remained silent for a moment. It seemed to Demaethor that his speech had stunned her, and indeed it had. “Do you love me?� she questioned, and it was not a useless query: she really did wish to know if he spoke the truth.

Demaethor dropped his fingers from her mouth and glanced away. “I only hope that when I stand before you that you are not constantly reminded of all you have lost. Yes, I love you.� Now he looked back at her, and dared to hope. “Can you not love me too?�

It seemed to Demaethor that the heartbeat ere Amariel replied stretched interminably. At last she smiled—that same gentle, contented smile that he had coveted the day they rode from Armenelos with Anardil, that same smile he had shattered with his abrupt words. But in this moment all offenses were forgotten. “I do,� Amariel answered simply.

The release those words brought him flooded over Demaethor like a cleansing stream. It was as if she had set him free from all his invisible bonds of guilt and self-reproach. Feeling as though the world-weariness he had gained over his many years fell from his shoulders like a weighty burden, Demaethor spread his arms, inviting her in. And willingly Amariel stepped into his embrace. Joy filled him like the warmth of a summer sun. The absolution of all his failures he found in her, and somehow all his wrongs were turned to right in her arms.

* * *

It had been three and thirty days since the sounding of the trumpets of Ar-Pharazôn’s Armada in the west. Like a man who holds his breath waits for the gasp of air that will refresh him, so all Númenor waited. Elendil and his tall sons, along with the last of the Faithful and their wives and children and belongings, were now upon the nine great ships concealed in the Bay. Every day their anxiety grew, for all the Faithful sensed that some doom would fall upon Men for the sin of King Ar-Pharazôn, but they knew not what it would be. But there was, even in those next dark days, happiness for some aboard the ships of Elendil. Even in the midst of exile and fear, Demaethor and Amariel found joy. It seemed to them that though the Armada itself should come and hunt the Faithful to limits of the Circles of the World, nothing could take from them the liberty they had found in each other. For the burdens of guilt and shame of each had been washed away by the love of the other. All that was past was forgotten. They spoke long of a new future in a different land, a life anew and untouched by the sins and stains of the past. The lands of exile became to them the lands of new hope, and though they could never break the ties that bound them to Númenor, the land of their birth and heritage, Demaethor and Amariel set their faces eastward with anticipation.


On that thirty-third day since the trumpets were heard in Rómenna, Elendil gave the order to set sail. He called together his sons and the captains of their ships, as well as Captain Demaethor—for he had become as close in the counsels of Elendil as Isildur and Anárion. “Let us not sail very far from the Isle,� Elendil said when his sons advised that they should flee Númenor entirely and make for the Middle Lands. “Rather let us stand off from the shore, yet within sight of it, and watch and wait. For I am loath to forsake so quickly the land of my fathers, whether or not it is doomed. If it happens that Sauron seizes power in Ar-Pharazôn’s absence and sends His black soldiers to find and apprehend us, we shall be protected from them by the sea. And if flee we must, it shall be easier to do so from the open waters than from the Bay.�

So for five days and five nights the tall ships of the Faithful lay beyond the eastern shores of Númenor. Elendil and his sons parted and went to their respective ships and held them in readiness for sudden flight. All the Faithful bided the time pensively. And the days passed slowly to them, but not pleasantly, for they knew awaited naught but an evil doom to speed them to their exile.


On the fifth night of their departing from the Bay of Rómenna, Amariel awoke from a troubled sleep. Demaethor sensed her stir, for he had been sitting by unsleeping, lost in guesses of what would soon befall. Amariel’s eyes were wide with fear when she turned them to Demaethor and her breath seemed hardly to come to her. “Tell me,� Demaethor bade her gently, coming near to hold her hand.

She said, “In my dreams I see terrible visions of destruction. The ocean is in torments, surging and sliding, its waves dark and high—higher than the hills! I see the masts of our ships are broken, the sails lost, and a great wind chasing us as if we were little leaves upon the vast, dark water. I know not wither were are bound, but a great sorrow untold touches my heart.� She covered her eyes and whispered, “Darkness Unescapable.�

Demaethor could find no words of comfort. He knew her gift, and he feared what her dreams spoke of. Would it be that they would all be lost in the end, as the Valar’s storms descended again upon Númenor? He folded his arms about Amariel and drew her into his embrace. It was the only solace he could give, and indeed the only solace he could take for himself. The soldier in him hated the helplessness of this moment. As a soldier Demaethor could fight a physical enemy with axe or blade, or even his bare hands. But a dream he could not grapple with. He could not dispel a premonition with any measure of might. And worse than dreams or premonitions, he thought, was the inescapable doom that was sealed upon Men the day Ar-Pharazôn sailed from Eldalondë. No mortal hand could hinder it now.

They had not long to wait ere Amariel’s dreams were come to fulfillment.



The morn brought a living nightmare.

The sun was not yet risen, but its gleam was on the eastern horizon, oddly pale and weak. The blackness of night yet lingered in the clouds in the West, seemingly impervious to the light. A great, blustering wind began to blow from the dark western skies. Slowly the bleached curve of the sun began to appear in the distant east, and when the first rays of dawn fell across the sea, a trembling began to shake the world. Shivers rushed over the Isle of Númenor. The waters surrounding her began to toss and pitch.


From their place off of the Isle, those on Elendil’s ships could perceive in the distance inland the great Meneltarma, the holy mountain in the midst of the Isle. In recent years, the folk of Númenor shunned the sacred heights, turning their eyes away from the one reminder left to them of the Givers of the Isle of Gift, the Valar. Unavoidable though the mountain was, visible throughout much of Númenor, the people somehow pretended it did not exist. It was a sign of the gods they had abandoned, and they dared to hate its frowning peak.

But for the Faithful, the Meneltarma was the symbol of Ilúvatar upon the Isle, unerasable by the hands of Men or the orders of Sauron. As long as Númenor remained, it would remain. The Elendili looked to it as a reassurance of their beliefs and a beacon of their hope that Númenor would once again be restored to blessing and friendship with the Elder Children—the Elves—and the Valar.

Now there was raised from the ships of Elendil a cry of dismay and fear. For the lookouts in the masts began to shout and wail as the day dawned. Against the blackness in the West could now be seen an awful sight: great fire and vast clouds of fumes were issuing from the distant height of the Meneltarma. The whole mountain seemed to be burning and writhing, tormented with fire. Flames shot out from its peak and gouts of smoke poured from its awesome summit. Together with the inky clouds in the west, the plumes of smoke billowed upward and covered the sky with darkness, veiling the light of the morning.


Many of the Faithful hastened topside in response to the lookouts’ cries. They beheld the terrible sight and raised their voices against the wind in wonder and great fear. What was this awful sign? Still more hid away in the dark bellies of the ships, fearing to even move.

A storm began to flicker under the black clouds overheard. The noise of furious thunder and the flashes of lightning began to roar over the sky, drowning the cries of the on-looking folk. The wind, mighty and brutal, began to howl. What had been a trembling in the earth now grew to a great quaking. Rolls of violent tremors shook the land, the sea and the skies, increasing in fury as they came. Númenor began to contort and buckle before the eyes of the Faithful. They watched, horrified, as the coastline began to thrash like a tortured beast. Rómenna started to shake and crumble before their eyes, and they could do naught in their shock but point and scream as they watched. Piers sank. Great towers and domes slid and fell. The land itself looked like a green ocean, surging and receding. The valleys rose up and the hills were cast down; great crevices opened up and swallowed whole hamlets. And water, water rushed over all—huge tides of black water engulfed the land.


Demaethor awoke with a jolt, screams echoing in his ears. The pitch of the deck was off-kilter. He became aware, as sleep withdrew from him, that the whole ship was tossing wildly upon the water. All was sickening motion. And noise: the noise of screaming, of objects colliding, of thunder and of wind howling and of waves battering the sides of the ship. Demaethor raised his eyes, and before him was Esteldûr. Anardil was in the young man’s arms, wailing and weeping at the horrible noise and nauseating pitching of the ship. “Are you all right?� Demaethor asked. Though the young man’s eyes were wide with fear, Esteldûr nodded. The captain looked around. Where was Amariel? Demaethor remembered she was in his arms when at last he fell asleep last night. She had only just fallen into a fitful slumber herself, her dreams having filled her with such apprehension that she was awake half the night. Yet now she was gone.

Demaethor turned back to Esteldûr, but the same question was on his lips as well. They both peered into the dim chaos around them, but no sight of Amariel could be seen. Demaethor rose to his feet swiftly. “Stay here,� he ordered Esteldûr. And remembering Anardil’s knack for escaping, he added, with a glance at the infant, “Do not let him out of your grasp.� And then he left.

The confusion all around was still bewildering to Demaethor. He knew not what was happening, but only that he wanted to know where Amariel was, to have her safe with him until this madness ended. He called her by name, moving unsteadily on the tossing deck. More than once lost his balance and was thrown to his knees. Folk seemed to be scurrying this way and that like routed ants, unknowing where to run. Crates and barrels and anything else unsecured was rolling and sliding everywhere and the ship lurched. People screamed at every peal of thunder. Someone near Demaethor vomited as the deck suddenly plunged downwards. The noise of weeping children filled the air. All about him, it seemed, was the expectation of sudden destruction.

Demaethor called Amariel’s name more frequently as he went. Where had she gone? Her words of the previous night echoed in his mind’s ear: I see the masts of our ships are broken, the sails lost... He could now feel the whole ship strain, hear it groan and creak as it took the severe battering of the gale that was apparently raging outside. The cracking and popping of beams and planks and the sloshing of water filled his ears. Was it indeed more than a dream Amariel had experienced? Would they all perish here, at the very outset of their exile? Was there no hope for any future now?

No trace of Amariel could Demaethor find here below, and there were some folk going hither and thither on the ladder to the main deck. Rain and sea-water splashed down the hatch, sparkling against a black sky above. Demaethor climbed upward, calling again, “Amariel!�

When he came up topside and into the fell light of the morning, Demaethor’s heart nearly failed him. A wall of wind was the first thing that smote him as he emerged from the dark hold, but the second was the sight of Númenor’s shore heaving and plunging before him like a mirror of the ocean. His wet skin prickled and went cold; he forgot to draw breath. This was no fierce sea-squall, he saw now. This was not even like unto the awful storms that had been sent out from the West in these last days. Against the dark west could be seen a sight Demaethor had never before beheld: shooting fires issuing from the Meneltarma and lightning silhouetted against plumes of black and red smoke frothing from its far-off height. Great fiery spurts leaped out of the smoke ever and anon, shaking the vast mountain. The quaking of the earth and the sea seemed to radiate outward from the Meneltarma as it shook. No, this was no natural storm, Demaethor knew then.

Suddenly he could not move. The thought slammed into his mind: The King has come unto Valinor. All is lost. Ar-Pharazôn had come unto the shores of the Undying Lands and led his mighty Army upon the sands which are forbidden to mortal tread, committing Ultimate Rebellion. If Elendil’s father, Amandil, had reached the Valar, he had apparently failed in his quest to beg for mercy. There would be now no atonement, no repentance, no forgiveness for the Sin of Ar-Pharazôn. He had had his warnings, his chances to repent his evil Scheme. Now he would reap swift retribution. And punishment would not only fall upon the King himself, but upon all of his people: upon the old who yet remembered days of peace and blessing, and alike on the young who had no grasp or knowledge of what transgression the King had committed on their account. Wrath, Demaethor knew, the great wrath of the gods, was falling on Númenor. All is lost. He could not move.

It was like a dreadful dream of terror. Demaethor could hardly believe what his eyes beheld, and he stood as a deaf man in the midst of a commotion: stupid and unable to comprehend. Water crashed over the deck, soaking him with cold brine, yet he was still rooted in the trance of shock. The great port-city of Rómenna was a collapsing, tossing rubble-heap on the coast. The sky was reeling. The sea swirled and rose up. Great waves fell, walls of black water smashing downward like the hands of the Water God striking again and again.

Another wave broke against the ship, causing the deck to slant violently. Objects, invisible under the frigid tide, slid across the planks, tripping some folk before being swept overboard with the water. Many of those that had been watching what was happening on shore now panicked. With cries of terror they scrambled past Demaethor, back to the refuge of the hold. Someone was screaming an order, his voice all but lost to the winds. “Get back!� the voice screamed. “Get below ere you are swept away!� For some of them, like Demaethor, were yet staring, stunned, at the horrifying scene ashore.

Demaethor could hardly bring himself to heed the shrill command. It barely pierced the cloud of dumbfounded horror that had seized him. Only one thought could draw him out, could force him to move, to tear his eyes off of the unthinkable calamity on shore:

Amariel.

He struggled to move, as if he were fighting a tangible enemy. He called her name, but Demaethor found he could not hear his own voice. It was as if the gale had stolen the cry from his mouth as he uttered it, and snuffed it out like a flame in daylight. Stumbling a few steps forward Demaethor called louder. But all was chaos. He could not think.

Suddenly: “Did I not tell you?!� an agonized voice cried near to him, and there was Amariel. Her face was red and raw from the wind and from weeping. Her hair dripped with water; she was drenched and shaking from fear and cold. Sobbing, she reached out for him.

All at once Demaethor woke from his shocked stupor and grabbed her as the deck pitched yet again, threatening to toss her away from him. Water fell upon them again, a blanket of black, glassy death. His footing lost, Demaethor felt the pull of the wave force him downward. Terror filled his whole being, terror for Amariel, as from his wet grasp she began to slip. No other thought was in his mind save to hold on to her. He could feel her cold fingers digging into his skin, grasping for life itself.

The ship moved again, and the wave subsided. Its icy grip slid away for a fleeting moment. Demaethor pulled Amariel to himself, regaining his hold on her. Eyes still wide with acute fear, they only stared at each other and gasped for breath.

The wind carried a voice from somewhere crying again, “Get below!� They turned to obey.

But suddenly a huge noise rent the whole earth. Immense, deafening, overwhelming, catastrophic noise. It was like a ripping sound, like the sky and the sea and the earth at once were being torn apart by the hands of God. It was like the noise of a thousand thunder-clouds, the crashing of a thousand waves and the roaring of a thousand fires. Something, somewhere, vast and great and deep, broke. It sundered and gaped, and the black waters began to rush and whirl like the those of a mighty and endless river swollen with melting snow in springtime. The ship slid downwards upon a huge wave, descending into an immense valley of black water that seemed to reach unto the very floor of the sea.

Demaethor and Amariel clung to each other as they were both thrown down to the wet planks. They began to slide away with the precipitous slant of the deck and could do nothing to stop themselves. Amariel screamed, but her cry was lost in the rushing water. It gushed over them, yanking them down, down toward the surging, black sea. Throwing a hand out, Demaethor grasped at anything that would stop their deadly slide. Splinters drove themselves into his hand as he groped desperately at the deck. Loose objects pummeled him in the angry tide. Shouting with effort, he stretched his arm out and at last his hand found an anchor. Demaethor pulled his arm around some fixed object, fighting as the momentum of their slide threatened to tear his grip away. But he would not let go.

Now with one hand he held Amariel and with the other he kept them from being swept off of the ship. Downward the ship plummeted. Water washed over the deck. Anything loose was carried overboard. Demaethor thought he heard the cry of a man disappearing over the side of the ship and into the dark sea. The ship pitched again and he prayed it would not capsize. Amariel’s grasp was tight around him as now the deck jolted upward. The ship leveled briefly. Finding the planks beneath their feet once more, Demaethor and Amariel struggled to rise against the water and wind. Both turned, as soon as they were able, to the magnetic sight of the destruction upon Númenor.


Demaethor’s breath was wholly stolen away from him as he looked once more toward the Isle. His heart stopped beating, it seemed. All his limbs numbed at once and his thought blanked. All noise ceased, or perhaps his hearing had ceased to function. No more could he feel anything: not the wind nor the wave, nor even Amariel’s body in his arms. He had forgotten all about her; he had forgotten everything.

Númenor crumbled.

Waves, unthinkably vast tidal waves, reared upwards to the darkened heavens and fell upon the Isle, overwhelming it with the ebony water. Quakes ripped the land apart. Huge, gaping fissures appeared, cracking the Isle in pieces. Earth, stone, and trees fell away like unheeded grains from the break of a torn loaf of bread. The land foundered; it floated in chunks upon the mountains of water, then sank in the watery abysses that opened up to swallow it. Even the mighty Meneltarma in the distance, spewing smoke and bright flame and rivers of molten stone, was moved from its foundations as the great waves rose about it, sundering its great foothills.

Demaethor reeled, though he knew it not, and fell upon his knees. The shock and horror of this unimaginable sight overwhelmed him. He thought he was going mad. Reality could not be comprehended by his stunned mind. The shock arrested his body: a terrifying blackness, deep and cold, that overtook his senses. Utter despair wrenched him downwards into a fathomless well of darkness—Darkness Unescapable. He bowed his head and succumbed to it.

He knew no more.


Amariel stumbled down with Demaethor when he dropped to his knees. For all her strength had failed her. No feeling was in her body, no sense. Her head was filled with a hundred faces: women, children; lowly servants and ladies fair, poor street urchins and the children of noblemen, every face she had ever known or held dear; even the faces of those she had felt no love for whilst she knew them. All her friends and kindred who were not among the Faithful. For now all of them were lost in the unmerciful outpouring of wrath before her. She thought of Forthon, his lonely grave whelmed with water, and of her home in Armenelos drowned beneath the waves of Ilúvatar’s anger.

But one thought was over all in Amariel’s mind; one face claimed her deepest sorrow. That name she wailed as she wept, unknowing that she did so. For she had buried her face against Demaethor’s shoulder, unhearing of her own sobs. She screamed again and again, her voice but a hoarse gasp. A cold hand wrenched her insides, a spike of sorrow peircing her heart. Agony tore her in pieces.

It was her sister Amariel thought of in this unthinkable moment. The dear, foolish one they had left far away in Eldalondë, betrothed to her nobleman. Given then to her own folly and thoughtlessness, now she was lost for ever in the gods’ vengeance. Amariel screamed her name, as though her voice might reach to the foundered western shore and call her back.

“Magwiel!�

* * *

It is written in Akallabêth, the record of the Downfall of Númenor as set down by the Exiles in later years, that Elendil and his nine ships

would have been overwhelmed and would have deemed it the lesser grief to perish, for no wrench of death could be more bitter than the loss and agony of that day; but the great wind took him, wilder than any wind that Men had known, roaring from the west, and it swept his ships far away; and it rent their sails and snapped their masts, hunting the unhappy men like straws upon the water.

[Rosie Gamgee]

Chapter Twelve

With a steady pace came the great Captain Demaethor. His gait was confident, though the eyes of the knowing could discern the slightest list in his step: the mark of wounds now many months old. The list and a deep scar were the only visible reminders left upon him of the long road from Eldalondë to Rómenna. And the look of brevity that hid behind his eyes was the only shadow remaining upon his countenance that spoke of Númenor’s downfall—but all of the Exiles carried that shadow now. One of happy contentment, chiefly, was Demaethor’s expression. His eyes were set ahead of him with a look of quiet anticipation, and the slightest of smiles betrayed the fact that his thought was not with the company he walked with. The corridor echoed with Demaethor’s footfalls, the sound darting from wall to wall like the flickering torchlight. That same light glittered off of the gleaming armour he wore, and the helm he carried under his arm. A milky white mantle fell from his shoulders to the backs of his knees. He advanced followed by knights of the guard of Pelargir. They were to be witnesses this day, along with the Captain of the Guard, who walked just behind Demaethor. All were girt in shining mail and robed in clean, flowing surcoats. Their iron-shod feet clacked upon the stone floor in perfect time.

At Demaethor’s left side was Esteldûr. The young man walked with his head held high, and a robe befitting the day’s occasion was about him: a fine, ‘broidered festal garment. He carried before him a weighty shape that was laid across his outstretched arms and draped with a dark cloth.

Anárion was on Demaethor’s right hand. He, too, was dressed finely, in lordly garb with a circlet bound about his head. Only a few moments ago he had come with the guard to summon Demaethor and Esteldûr, and now they walked along each in their own thoughts.

A huge set of wooden doors stood at the end of the corridor. Sunlight streamed through the spaces at the top and sides of the doors into the otherwise dark hall, creating a tunnel of light before them. Demaethor slowed as he approached, then halted. Something in his heart stirred here, now that he had come to the end of the short walk from his quarters to these doors. It was as if all the roads of his existence had led him to this one point. Like the one who observes a tapestry being woven, he had heretofore seen only the threads of his life. Now, standing back, he could see the whole picture: that all his life was not just a series of meaningless events, like random threads, but that they all worked together to bring him to this one moment—now. A little trepidation touched his heart at this the beginning of a new life. He turned to exchange a glance with Anárion, and the son of Elendil smiled reassurance.


It honoured Demaethor much to have Anárion at his side this day.

In those days after the Downfall, the roaring wind that took the Faithful so violently from Númenor’s destruction brought them at last to the shores which they sought, though through many doubts and hardships. For Elendil’s ships and those of his sons were separated in the gale, and they knew not as they were driven on the waves if they had been preserved but for another doom. But though the winds seemed hapless, Isildur and Anárion were landed safely upon Middle-earth—yet even that was strange and fearful, for the sundering and changing of the world that had sunken Númenor had changed the shores of the Middle Lands as well.

Sorrow, chiefly, had marked the arrival of Demaethor, Amariel and all the Faithful to the lands of their exile. For their loss was deep, and would never be forgotten by those that had known the foundered land from whence they came. It had been but a few months since they had come up the Great River Anduin to the fortress of Pelargir, which had been shaken by the changing of the world, but remained yet. Isildur had gone with a good number to establish a settlement further up-river some months past, and work was already begun to build a city there, which Isildur named Osgiliath. And now rumours abounded that Elendil’s four ships had come to the northern shores of Middle-earth, and that he had been aided by the Elven-king Gil-galad in Lindon. A company had been sent to seek the way north and find out if the word was true, and to bear tidings to Elendil of his sons.

With these hopeful beginnings in the strange, new middle-lands, the burdened hearts of the Exiles were lifted. And this day marked the first joyous occasion the Exiles of Númenor would celebrate. For today the great Captain Demaethor was to wed Amariel, daughter of Nedron the scribe. All the folk were eager to cast off the shadow of their exile and remember that they were preserved from destruction that they might yet live and love and be joyful in both, and so a great feast was made by Anárion in honour of the union of his friends.


Demaethor returned Anárion’s smile, and, drawing a breath, turned again to face the looming doors before them. Anárion nodded to a figure who stood off to the side, and he came forth silently to draw back one of the doors. The huge wooden panel swung back, creaking on its iron hinges. The corridor was flooded with the blinding morning sunlight. Demaethor raised a hand to shade his eyes, and with no more delay stepped out into the day.

Beyond the doors was a wide courtyard with a fountain, which overlooked the River. The standard of Elendil’s sons waved in the wind above: the sign of the White Tree. In the courtyard was the Tree itself, the scion of Nimloth—not yet planted, for Isildur desired that it should be planted where he dwelt, and he had no permanent abode yet, but here it stood in a place of honour, and was attended by the same detail of men that had brought it out of foundered Númenor.

The courtyard was filled with people. Bright, cloudless morning sunlight bathed the throng, and happy talk and laughter floated on the air. Demaethor and his entourage walked through an avenue that cleared for them as they came, coming to a set place before the fountain. They had not long to wait, for immediately a solitary horn was blown, and the company gathered in the courtyard silenced. As for Demaethor, he suddenly forgot all that was around him. He turned to face a door at the other end of the courtyard. His attention was fixed on it, his breath caught in anticipation, his eye straining for the first glimpse of the one he knew was coming.

The door was flung back, and maidens dressed all in creamy white came forth, playing flutes and tambourines. Flowers were in their hair and the music of their instruments made a joyous strain which carried clearly on the breeze. Following them came a troop of young children with bells of different sizes, ringing them boisterously and crying aloud, “Here comes the bride! Here comes the bride!�

At last she appeared at the doorway. Anardil was by her side, clinging to her hand, walking with her in small steps.

Her hair was like the sunlight, gleaming and clean, half of it falling down her back like a cascade of golden water, the other half braided and coiled and arranged about her head, woven with flowers and glittering jewels. A veil was laid over her head made of a thin cloth like woven gossamer. Embracing her form was a gown of flowing white. It was bound about her with a sash of grey-blue like unto the colour of her eyes. As she moved, a little tinkling noise came from a myriad of little bells that had been sewn to the hem of her gown.

But all of this finery seemed hardly to register in Demaethor’s thought. His gaze was riveted on her face, her demure smile, her own glance turned downward—yet no longer in shame, but blushing happiness. He watched, transfixed, as Amariel’s eyes turned upward and sought him out of the crowd. And when they found him, what joy filled his heart!

Her companions lowered their instruments of music and took up a formation beside Demaethor’s knights. The children ceased to ring their bells. Amariel stepped near. Her presence was so tangible, Demaethor thought. She let go of Anardil’s hand and extended both of hers. Demaethor grasped them but for a moment, then tore his gaze from her to turn towards Esteldûr. The young man moved nearer to him, still bearing the shrouded object in his outstretched arms.

Demaethor lifted the dark covering off. There lay his battle-axe. It was clean and polished so that it reflected the morning light like a mirror. The tool-work on the haft shone in sharp relief as well, glittering and sparkling in the sunlight. Demaethor lifted it, flexing his fingers round the haft, feeling its weight anew. He turned back to Amariel, holding the weapon vertically in both hands.

“Amariel,� he began, and heard his own voice echo back to him from the walls of the yard and from the flowing water of the river, “all of my life I have spent in service. Fealty, duty and service is all I know. From my youth I have taken orders and given them. Yet for the greater part of my life that service and fealty was gravely misplaced. These hands of mine have worked much wrong—that you know well. Yet here this day, once and for all, I put behind me the deeds of old. I will serve no longer any master who demands my soul as well as my life—none save Ilúvatar, whose goodness and mercy has brought us all out of destruction and into new hope. And with His blessing I offer to you now this token of mine.� Demaethor lowered to her extended hands the weighty axe, but did not let it go just yet. “Let this be a token of my service, Amariel. I give you my hand, my body, and all my worldly goods, and I surrender this day into your keeping the service I pledge to Ilúvatar alone. May I take this up again only to defend what is good and just and right. With it, and all my heart, I thee wed.�

He loosed the weapon into her hands. Amariel held it briefly, and then offered it back to him. “Aye, my lord,� she replied softly. Her quiet tones rang throughout the silent courtyard. “Take your orders from this day forth from God alone, and let no man defile your conscience again. Walk in what is right and good; and as for me, I will follow wherever you lead.� Demaethor took back the axe from her gentle hands. “For you have prized me above all you hold dear, and loved me though I merited it not. I give you now my hand, my body, and my life. With Ilúvatar’s blessing, I thee wed.�

Silence claimed a small space, while the breeze blew over the assembled crowd and the Great River rolled past. It was Anárion who began the cheer. Soon the whole courtyard was cheering and clapping and singing as the children began to ring the bells once more and the maidens took up again their merry strains.

Demaethor heeded not any of the joyous clamour, but only smiled. He laid aside his axe heedlessly, and reached out to lift Amariel’s veil from her face. And under the bright sunlight, he drew her into his arms and kissed her.

The End