The Fall of Numenor

[Valandil]

Originally posted by Beor
ooc: You are very good at names as well.

I will post tomorrow, if this is where you want me to pick up. I will post in the morning (if all goes well), its the money thing, man, I am not trying to hold up the game or anything.

Also OOC:

Thanks, and no problem! That was what we agreed. I look forward to your next post. Hope you get a good night's sleep! And save all the money you can... you can use it when you get back stateside with the fam... OR for you 'Grand Tour of European Entmooters'!

Take care Beor... keep your head low, and stay safe out there!

[Beruthiel's cat]

Well, kids, I've finally gotten this far! (What with computer problems and time problems -- I mean what is this 24 hours in a day thing...we need MORE! More time, I say!)

Please let me know if you think this will work into the story. Sorry I'm so late, but I've been trying to work out the kind of character Lysial is. I think I've got it now.

Introduction to Lysial

Lysial was drained. There were no tears left. Just loneliness, grief and – ANGER! Jathar was dead, his rooms ransacked. What happened? She wanted to know.

“My – lady?” The question in the constable’s voice probably stemmed from her appearance as much as anything. Her clothing was old and travel-worn, though it had been of fine quality when it was new. Her outfit consisted of a linen tunic of dark green, a brown linen skirt over tan suede trews* and sturdy brown leather boots, worn from much time on the road, but very serviceable. Her long, blonde hair was drawn back and tied with a leather thong. At her waist was a belt hung with several pouches, a carved flute, and a sheathed knife with a finely wrought hilt. “Are you his next of kin?”

Lysial looked at the man without seeing him. His question registered dimly. Next of kin? “I suppose so. Yes. As close as anyone.” Jathar’s body lay on the floor, waxy-white in death. Three days ago he had seen her off to play at a wedding less than a day’s ride from Rommena. He had seemed well, his usual, vital, humorous self. The only unusual thing about their parting is that he asked her to take his cat, Bragi, with her.

Now, Bragi sat on the floor next to her, tail thumping in agitation. “You can bet he saw this coming. That’s why he sent me off with you. He didn’t want you to know. That’s not unusual. What is odd is that he didn’t want me to know. I’d be annoyed with him if he weren’t dead.” The cat’s tail slashed around her ankles in emphasis.

“Oh, do be quiet, Bragi!”

“Pardon, my lady?” The constable looked at her quizzically.

“Uh...he seems so – quiet! There are no marks on him at all, yet our rooms are in complete disorder. I wonder why. What could Jathar have had that anyone would want?”

“Me, of course!” Bragi’s voice intruded into her mind again. “And maybe money.” He turned a guileless green gaze up at Lysial. The young woman promptly frowned back.

“Well, can you tell if any valuables are missing? Jewelry, money, anything at all?” The constable took a blanket from Jathar’s bed and covered him.

The carved chest where Jathar kept his money lay broken and empty in the corner near the work table. It had been quite full. A master minstrel had reason to demand high pay for his services, and people were happy to pay what he asked. Some coins had rolled around the room, as if whoever stole the money didn’t care if he left any behind. Or perhaps he was in a hurry.

Lysial picked up the chest and set it on the work table. “The money is gone.” She steeled herself and pulled the blanket away from her master and examined him again, paying closer attention to the state of his clothing, his hands, his facial expression. His hands were clenched, his face was drawn in a pained expression. His death had not been easy.



“His Master Minstrel’s ring and brooch are missing. They were amethysts set in gold.”

The constable nodded. “I can ask at the pawn shops to see if any such things have been traded. But I doubt that the thief would bother to sell it here in Rommena. Everyone knew Jathar and those things would be recognized. Even I recall seeing that purple ring of his. Mighty fine, it was.”

Lysial was numb. About half of what the constable said actually registered. Finally, she sank down on a chair. Her legs could hardly hold her. Bragi jumped up into her lap.

“I’m convinced it’s murder! But I doubt this thick old sod does. The only thing he’d understand would be if he saw someone run Jathar through with a sword. It’s poison. Mark my word.” Bragi sniffed the empty cup next to them on the work-table. “I smell it. The wine is tainted!”

“Why would anyone poison Jathar?” Lysial stroked the large grey-striped cat thoughtfully.

“Oh, I wouldn’t think that, Lady. Most likely it was his heart that seized on him. It happens quick like that.” the constable replied.

“Then who would know that he was dead and come in and ransack the place?”

The constable pondered a moment. That thought hadn’t occurred to his slow-thinking mind. “There’s thieves and then there’s thieves, if you catch my drift, m’lady. Some’s got honor and some’s got none. There’s thugs hereabout that just wait for any opportunity to prey on the less fortunate. They must have happened by and seen the poor soul was dead.” He shook his head. “There’s all kinds in this world, both bad and good.” He smiled kindly at Lysial. “I’ll send the undertaker by to take him away and you can make arrangements. And I’ll send word to the palace. The king’s family spoke well of him, I know.”

“Yes. Thank you, Constable.” She felt a fresh spate of tears coming from somewhere. They started down her already tear-stained cheeks and fell on Bragi’s silver and black-tipped fur. The constable withdrew, leaving her to her fresh misery. Bragi began to purr softly and rubbed his face against hers.

“Cry, if it makes you feel better, Lysial. I am grieved, too. He was a good friend and a kind master. He understood cats as well as he understood people. And because he had friends, he had enemies. That’s a-certain.”

Lysial stopped stroking the cat and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“You are exhausted, child. Go and rest. We will discuss this another time.” He rubbed his cheek against her hand, encouraging her to continue her petting.

Bragi was right. There was too much going through her mind to make sense of anything that was happening. The undertaker arrived for Jathar’s body. She briefly discussed a remembrance service with him, telling him that the Palace might want to handle the arrangements.
She gave the man a silver piece and he left with the now shrouded body.

***Continued next post***

[Beruthiel's cat]

Continued from previous post...

She wasn’t ready to surrender to sleep just yet, so she began to tidy the wrecked room. Jathar’s papers were scattered everywhere, some torn, some crumpled, some untouched. Putting them in order would help her make sense of things, she decided. She gathered up the portfolios and began arranging the papers into categories, as Jathar had taught her. Time passed quickly as she replaced the manuscripts, noting any that would need to be re-copied. In time it became apparent that one of the folios was empty. It was a new song-cycle that Jathar had been working on, a cycle he had titled: “Songs of the Faithful Friends.”

The realization hit like cold water – Jathar had been involved with the Faithful. He hadn’t let her see the songs – he had told her they were still works in progress and not ready to be shared. But she remembered two of the tunes.

Jathar had kept an old lute under his bed. It was ancient, made in the West, he said, and it possessed some magic, so he told her when she first came to him. She searched beneath the bed now, but nothing was there. “They must have taken that, too!”

Bragi started clawing at a floorboard between the bed and the table. It was loose. Lysial pried it open and found the lute, carefully wrapped in an oil-cloth bag. She took the instrument out and strummed it, trying to determine how badly it needed to be tuned, but it was in perfect tune. Perhaps this was part of its magic!

She tried a scale to get the feel of it and it was if it had been made for her. She began playing one of the tunes she recalled Jathar composing. Everything became quiet, as if the world was listening to her play. When she stopped, it was if the world began to breathe again.

“How odd.” She placed in lute back into its case. Bragi lay on the bed, paws tucked underneath him, green eyes slitted in meditation.

“It is a powerful song.” She heard Bragi’s voice within her mind and it was tinged with awe.

“I wonder what it means?” she asked.

“I believe we will soon find out, my girl. But first we need food and sleep. In that order.”

And so Lysial attended to the simple task of fixing supper, little realizing that this would be the last time she would be doing such a mundane, simple and homely task for quite some time.
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* “trews” are sort of like trousers or leggings (explanation offered for the more sartorially challenged amongst us!)
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Comments are welcome. Please let me know if this fits in with the setting. PM me if I'm REALLY off the mark!!!

Thanks!

[trolls' bane]

ooc. I think it fits well, Beru. Fits better than mine, I suppose, but not for long. Hey, would you mind if it's later found out in the story that Beleg (Fingolfin's cat) is akin to Bragi?

ic. "We're ready, 'Mad Wizard'" Ivan said, with some humor in his voice.
"Sure you are," Sherlock answered. "You packed it all?"
"Yes"
"Including the upstairs?"
"Uh...no."
Sherlock said "Yes, I have a storage room up there. I'll help you pack now. First, however, we must lead Fingolfin around the island. We'll put him in the one those sabatuer's left behind. Most of us will be in there."
"Okay, Mad Wizard"
"Shut up, Ivan." It was Fingolfin who said this.
"What is it with you people?" he said. "You keep copying eachother."
"Hmm," Sherlock said. "Now, Ivan, are you one of the Faithful forced to steer the boat, or are you one of the King's men? Whose side are you on? You don't seem like one of the King's men. However, nor do you seem like one of the Faithful."
"Suppose I'm with the King's men, if they are setting sail to anywhere. I know that something could happen to me. Don't like it. Odd that you should ask that. Some guy at the market square in Romenna asked me that. He was selling squashes. I bought a whole bunch of them, and left. When I was further down the street, the girl who came up to him just after me bumped into me. Kid sure was in a hurry."

ooc. Rosie, is that ok if I borrow him? Not quite as I planned earlier, but, it worked.

ic. "You'd risk your life just to sail somewhere? That's it?" Sherlock asked, astounded, but eh thoughtWell, this rock-headed sailor will be easy to convince not to sail west. Perhaps not-wait! I've got an idea. I wonder if...
"Ivan," he said, "have you ever heard any strange sounds in the water? Perhaps coming from the water? Think. Take your time."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"All your stuff packed, Nariel?" Sherlock yelled from the boat to shore.
"Yes, uncle," she answered.
"I need your help taking my project from the roof. You too, Charlie and Ivan."
"What pro-" Ivan began to say. "No, I will not touch that accursed thing! Keep it in the boat in tow."
"Sorry, Ivan, but we might need to have it on board the one we'll be on," he answered. "You don't have to help, this time."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Everyone, get into this boat. We'll be leaving soon. We're going to tow that one," Sherlock yelled to the shore, gestureing toward the smaller boat close behind at the stern, which was very low in the water. "Is the cat on board?"
"We put him with the boy," Charles yelled back, now nearing the larger boat that Sherlock was on.

[Beor]

Demaethor looked at the group of them and sighed. Going through Armenelos would be faster, no doubt about that, but how hazardous would it be? Sauron controlled that place, and even with most of the army at port in Eldalonde, there was still a sizeable amount of soldiers there. If they had been made, which by now they probably had, Sauron would definitely know. He had a way of finding these things out quickly. Messages usually only came from him, rarely did they have to go to him. The looks on the faces of the family before him glowed with hope, and Demaethor couldn’t remember the last time someone looked upon him like that. Actaully, he could. It was when the axe fell on the necks of the Faithful he had executed under the kings orders. He made the wrong choice then, but not this time. He would not betray the Faithful again.

“We ride for Armenelos. No need to bind anyone, by the time we get there, they will be aware of our sessecion. Only the two of you,” he pointed at the two soldiers, “will enter the city. You are not known to be among us, so your prescence will not arouse as much suspicion. You will take Amariel, and go to get her brother. Now we ride with great haste, for the night is waning, and soon dawn will be upon us. Come…” he trailed off. (cue track 16 from LOTR soundtrack J) Something caught his attention. The sound of hooves could be heard. He looked towards Eldonde.

A squad of Numenorian Guards was galloping at them, and several twangs from several bows rang through the night.

“Ride!” he shouted, he saw a small knoll among an array of stones and rocky earth, “Ride for the knoll! We have no hope on the open ground. In the rocks, their horses will be less useful, and we may be able to defeat them.”

They rode to the knoll as quickly as they could, with Forthon leading them and Demaethor trailing, and the riders were getting closer fast, “Dismount! Everyone down, make a spearline! At the edge of the rocks, hurry!” They got down, just in time to meet the riders. Spears cracked, and horses whined, and blood was spilled before long. Demaethor saw Esteldur get launched back by the onslaught of the riders. He lunged upon the mounted rider and threw him down, and chopped his belly with the axe. Demaethor rised up and swung, but was blocked by a sword, when the others body was open, he thrust a dagger into his stomach, and chopped off his head. Forthon was busy with two guards to his left, and the others were fighting furiously, but they were obviously tired. He jumped over a row of rocks and took one from behind, then moved to help Forthon with his sortie.

Amariel. Where was Amariel? He looked to the plain. She was being dragged out from the fray by two soldiers, kicking at them and biting, but she was no match for the heavy guards. He let out a roar and charged at them, swinging his axe like a hurricane. The first fell before he had time to turn around, the second raised his sword, and it clattered to the ground with his forearm as the axe cleaved first his arm, then his chest.

Demaethor turned to see Forthon had defeated one of his enemies, but the other was still upon him. Behirien was down with a wound in the side, and Galdureth was caring for him, deeming that Forthon could deal with one opponent. Then from behind a rock, came a large figure with a sword. Demaethor yelled out, but it was too late. The sword came down upon Forthon’s back, banging against his armor and doing little damage, but it knocked him forward just as his other man thrust his sword forward. The blade pierced his chest under the armpit, and he fell to his knees.

Esteldur’s eyes went wide, and he jumped forward yelling like a warrior twice his age, and slashed the man in the face with the dagger that his brother had given him. Demaethor didn’t even notice that he was charging to the fight until he was upon the rearward enemy, chopping him down with his axe. The last few seconds seemed to go extremely slow, as the axe fell again upon Forthon’s enemy.

Amariel ran to her brother’s body, crying. Esteldur stood motionless with the dagger in his hand, and Galdureth was helping Behirien to where they stooped over their fallen comrade and brother.

Demaethor knealt beside Forthon and stripped his armor, to look at the wound, “It will be fatal,” he said somberly, “the sword penetrated deep. He will not last long. There is nothing I can do for him.”

Amariel looked at him with tears in her eyes, “how can you be so cold?” she sputtered.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Esteldur spoke first, “Dear sister, he can do nothing. He is a warrior, he speaks plainly, and it is rightly so,” The boy was proving to be more and more surprising every minute. Esteldur looked upon his brother, tears in his eyes, “Forthon, it’s me, Esteldur.”

The dying man looked upon his brother, “Esteldur,” he choked, “ride with this man. Get our brother, that he may live. Demaethor will guide you on the right path. He has been a good captain to me. Is he here?”

“I’m here, Sergeant.”

“My captain, please take my remaining family to Rommenos, see them to the Middle lands, where they can be free. Sorry to have failed you, sir.”

“No, you have failed no one. Your deeds will not be forgotton, Forthron. Rest now, and go where Iluvatar would send you.”

And Forthon passed.

“We must go. Already they attack us, and soon more will come. We ride with all haste to Armenelos, to get your brother.”

“What about his body?” Esteldur asked.

“If you value dead flesh, bring him, if not, leave him here, for we have not the time to put him to the earth. Burn him or bring him, I am sorry to be blunt, but we need to go. Now.”

Amariel looked at Esteldur, then at Demaethor. Tears were welling in her eyes, where so recently tears had been. He looked to the empty horse that was Forthon’s, “Wrap him in my cloak. He will ride his horse to the sea, following us.” He hopped down and helped them wrap their brother in the cloak, and lifted him upon his horse. He mounted his, and took the reigns of Forthon’s horse, “Come, we must ride.” Towards Armenelos they rode, in the middle of the night, with heavy hearts and one riderless horse.

[Rosie Gamgee]

ooc: Whoa! This HAS gotten away from me! I don't mind in the least, btw. I like where it's going, though. Mush more interesting than my first ideas. Sure, Valandil, I'll godmod the bigwigs.
Um, I just read through all of this, but was doing it rather hurriedly- golly, there's a lot- and I was wondering, Would somebody do me a big favor and summarize what's going on? And, I think, if no one minds, I'll take Amariel, since my characters aren't really in play just yet.
Sorry, very sorry, I haven't been online here. Please, someone, give me a summary!!!
Thanks,

Rose.

[Valandil]

OOC Post:

OK Rosie, I'll make a 'Discussion Thread' a little later - and save some spots at the start for character bios and plot summary.

Also - if the action with Beor and myself gets too close to the 'fall' for some of you (I figure we're within a week of when Ar-Pharazon sets sail - and maybe a month or so from the 'Big Cataclysm' - that happens when Ar-Pharazon reached Valinor) - you can easily start your characters earlier and work up to where we are... this may even become a collection of stories of people who sailed with Elendil... and how each came to make it aboard one of the nine ships.

btw Beor: another great post! I've some ideas... do you want to post another, for me to post next, or shall we chat to work out the next moves?

*He killed Forthon!!! Ahhh... *

( don't worry... we had it all scripted! )

[Beruthiel's cat]

Originally posted by trolls' bane
ooc. I think it fits well, Beru. Fits better than mine, I suppose, but not for long. Hey, would you mind if it's later found out in the story that Beleg (Fingolfin's cat) is akin to Bragi?

ooc: I sort of expected things to go that way...and Bragi would certainly like it better than if Beleg were just a plain, ordinary cat (if, indeed, there is such a thing..!). You can be sure Bragi will always have a thing or two to say about the situation.

[Valandil]

They had ridden for two hours after the attack and dawn was beginning to break. As the light grew about them, Demaethor noted how pale Behirien was become.

He dropped back next to him. "Let me have a look at your dressing, soldier." He didn't seem pleased with what he saw. "Who bandaged this man up... Galdureth? Don't you know how to dress a wound?"

Galdureth looked on, "It must have fallen away during our ride, Lord Demaethor." he protested.

"Hmmmph!" They paused long enough to re-bandage the wound. Behirien would likely be alright, but had lost more blood than needed - and likely couldn't help out if they had to fight again soon. Demaethor considered his situation: They had left the camp at Eldalonde some 30 hours before - and with just a short rest at mid-day the day before, had made reasonable time and covered half the distance to Armenelos... but they were slowing from fatigue and the aftereffects of battle - and couldn't keep up the same pace without a good rest. Besides, he had started with a woman, a boy and three soldiers - and now he had a woman, a boy, a wounded man, a corpse and an idiot - judging by how Galdureth had stopped mid-battle to bandage an ally - when enemies were still about - as well as how he had botched the bandage job itself.

That wasn't all that bothered him. Still no further signs of pursuit behind them, but he knew what he would have done if he were the hunter. He would have sent a group of 'sprinters' and a group of 'distance runners' out. To evade the first, the prey must themselves sprint - and would tire enough for the second group to catch them. If the prey ran at the pace to go a great distance, the first group would catch them - and if not defeat them, at least slow them until the second could catch them and finish them. It must have been six hours at least before it was suspected that they had fled... and at least eight before pursuit was organized. The 'sprinters' had closed on them fast indeed... but a second wave was likely coming.

Just ahead was a bridge crossing a small stream, and there were woods on each side of the road, set back a furlong or two. The stream flowed down to the right - or south. Demaethor led the group over the bridge, then down into the stream on the left side of the bridge - then through the shallow water under the bridge and back to the of the right of their original direction - downstream, hoping that the tracks down would be less noticeable or the double-switchback might aid in throwing off pursuit. In this way, the group went into the forest by way of the stream, another furlong or two past the edge, then went up the left bank and stopped for a rest.

Despite her need for rest, Amariel busied herself right away, giving Esteldur directions on some things to gather, getting Galdureth to help her take Forthon's body off his horse and start a fire for her, gathering water from the stream and setting it to boil.

Behirien made good use of the stop to rest - and Galdureth joined him as soon as he finished Amariel's tasks.

Esteldur grumbled a bit about how tired he was, but went about the woods, finding some things that would meet his sister's requests. When he was finished, he took up his brother's steel bow, which he had salvaged - and thought to practice with it. It was difficult for him to draw, but he managed to take it back a little. He only shot about 4-5 arrows for practice - enough to tell him this would be tough to master quickly - and that the pull was much greater than the wooden bow he was used to. He stopped then to consider... he had shot arrows at targets, and at small game - but never at a man. That recalled to his mind the things he had been avoiding... the horrible things! He had struck a man with a dagger! His brother Forthon was DEAD!!" He felt that his life had certainly taken a turn for the worse some 4 or 5 weeks ago - and that now it was just getting bleaker. Finally, he laid himself down to get what rest he could.

[Valandil]

Demaethor sat with his back to a tree, contemplating his axe - unable to sleep himself. He had been a fearsome warrior for the King of Numenor... all along the coasts of Middle-earth, from the Gwathlo River to Harad. Yet never, until this morning, had he needed to kill a fellow Numenorean in battle. These had been men of his own company. He felt again the loss of strength of this party. As well, he had come to like Forthon already. He was the LAST of those three he would have liked to lose - and not just for the sake of Amariel and Esteldur - but he seemed the better soldier, fresh recruit though he was - and the better man. Demaethor began to wonder about the father of whom Amariel and Forthon had spoken so respectfully - wondering just what sort of man he had been. And here he had lived such a different life, his only family his axe. Demaethor had fought just to fight... some men, like Forthon - fought for something else, defending something! He wondered just what that was like... to have family. He had decided before that such a time had come and gone for him - but was there still time to change? To marry? To have children... and raise them?

Amariel interrupted his thoughts. "My lord, I have made soup - without dipping into our scant provisions. Just water from the stream and whatever edible roots, plants and herbs Esteldur could find close at hand. Have some." She held out for him a bowl.

He thanked her, took the bowl and began to eat. She continued, "As well, lord, I have cleaned my brother's body and wrapped it - and even washed his blood from his horse. I would like to bury him here. It would attract far to much notice to carry him through the streets of Amenelos, astride his mount." Her voice trailed off. This was obviously hard for her to talk about, but she was trying to be brave.

So they buried Forthon there, beside the stream, in a shallow hole, which they mostly dug with Demaethor's axe - and they covered him with the dirt from the hole and with stones from the stream bed. Then they rested more and ate all the soup that Amariel could make for them. Demaethor deemed it best to wait for nightfall before moving on... that they might benefit from a full day's rest. That meant it would be at least the evening of the third night after before they could reach Armenelos... but trying to get there on the second night already seemed out of the question.

Esteldur was awakened late in the afternoon by the sound of horses. Their own horses were tied up further downstream - these sounds came from the road. He woke Demaethor and together they crept to the edge of the wood, looking toward the road. Demaethor saw the second wave of their pursuit... his own personal bodyguard among them! Eight men he had hand-picked to fight right by his side... each one nearly his match in size and strength. Anxiously, he watched as they neared the bridge... closer, closer... they were on it... across it...PAST it! Good! They were stout men in that group - and there were at least 20 all told, including the 8 - but they didn't have the best trackers with them. Demaethor watched them as they went on eastward... the peak of Meneltarma now visible in the distance beyond them.

Well, he sighed... best to stay off the road, for certain. Armenelos could still be reached on the third evening that way... but it could be difficult going.

As the day ended, and the party made preparations to move on, the earth shook beneath them. Earthquakes had become a part of everyday life in recent months... though they had been always unknown in Numenor before that. And as the sun dipped toward the horizon, the island was again covered with 'the sign of the eagle'... a great, dark cloud - shaped like an eagle - coming up out of the west, blotting out the sunset and firing bolts of lightning from its underside. Demaethor began to feel that Numenor itself WOULD be doomed if Ar-Pharazon broke the ban of the Valar and sailed west to Valinor.

[Valandil]

It was getting dark and the rest had done them all some good. Demaethor, having re-mounted his horse, was ready to start off again. Behirien seemed to have benefited most from the stop - maybe not quite to where he could fight, but the rest and food had restored some of his strength... would that it could have cured Galdureth's thinking. Then he saw Esteldur and Amariel, hand-in-hand, standing beside Forthon's grave. He checked himself... he had been about to command them a second time to mount up. He paused a moment as they stood there, then he got down from his own horse, walked over to them, stood behind them and put one hand on each of the siblings' shoulders.

"Your brother was a good man... and I'm sure you loved him dearly... and that he loved you just as much. I am... sorry... for your loss." Words of comfort were hard to find... Demaethor had never in his soldiering years had need to search for them, until now.

Esteldur looked away from the earth and into his sister's face, "Amariel, we cannot linger here long. We would not have Forthon's sacrifice be in vain."

Finally, Amariel and Esteldur turned away from the grave and toward one another. They embraced and tears just flowed from their eyes. Demaethor turned back to his horse... not quite sure how to handle their tears.

Then both brother and sister seemed to gather themselves. They said a final 'good-bye' to the pile of rocks and mounted their own horses. For much of the day there had been a break from the rain, although it had been gloomy. Now the rain started up again... and the riders set off from their camp - east and a bit south - to go toward Armenelos after veering a bit further away from the road.

As Amariel mourned her brother, her mind turned again to her sister. Had Magwiel been married yesterday? Or did the circumstances around their departure throw her life into yet more turmoil. Would a woman marry when she had been discovered bound up that very morning. Would Oronil still desire it? Amariel imagined so.

Magwiel had had suiters enough in recent years. Of course, none of the men satisfied their father. It was not that they lacked station, or wealth... those were not why he had turned them away. He wanted his daughters to marry among the Faithful, though he could not say as much to those suiters - and young men whose hearts were true to the Valar, instead of being filled with jealousy of the Eldar, were rare in these times. It had been the same for Amariel in her day, not many years ago. It used to be that Numenorean women did not marry until 30 - but with the current obsession with prolonging life, youth in a mate was highly treasured by men of position. She still retained her beauty, she was told, but most men desired a bride in her 20's, not her 40's - even though Numenorean women could have children well after the age of 100 - some even 150 or 160.

In fact, while she tried to not be vain, Amariel had seen glances come her way even from the men who would come to inquire about her sister. Even now, she smiled at the thought. Her own hair was quite fair - as was that of the little one, Anardil. Their siblings in between all had shades of brown - Forthon's had been lightest, Esteldur's was the darkest. Some esteemed a woman's fair hair, like her own. Of course, she had loved her sister - and had never sought to be her rival. After all, twenty years older, she felt herself quite apart from her in such matters. Although, of course, she had expected to be married herself well before Magwiel would have come into her own.

She sighed... and now... after the life she had been forced into - since her family's home had been destroyed... now what hope did she have of marriage? Of family?

She caught herself. They had ridden nearly a mile, her dear brother Forthon lay in the ground behind her, dead at the young age of 34 - and she could only grieve about herself! He had shown such promise... been such a good young man. Always helpful to father and mother. Keeping company only among respectful young men. And while he had learned to scribe, and apprenticed for it, as Esteldur did later, he had not yet entered the King's service as a scribe. Amariel had always felt he would have a bright future. Though Numenorean men usually sought to advance themselves before seeking a wife... she had wondered if Forthon's heart was beginning already to turn to a certain young lady from the countryside. They shared many things, but he had not opened his heart to Amariel on that matter... but, she thought, smiling again, maybe that explained those late hours he spent alone with father. Now... there would be no wedding for Forthon.

Amariel turned her mind away from her family and back to the trail. It just seemed less painful that way.

[Beor]

The group rode on in this manner: Demaethor was in front, leading them through the dense wood that they had been in for quite some time (which in his opinion, wasn’t a bad thing at all), then Ameriel, then Esteldur and Forthon’s horse, behind him, was Behirien, with Galdureth bringing up the rear. They had been riding for some many miles, and Demaethor had been lost in thought, he was planning what to do. They had to get to Armenelos, which by now, was waiting for them, get Ameriel and Esteldur’s younger brother out, and then get to Rommeneos. Not an easy task, for any Numenorian. The night was fair, though, and judging by the far off sound of hooves, their enemies were some distance ahead of them, most likely not looking behind them, which was good and bad. The good part was that they were less likely to get attacked in the wild, the bad part was that they would definitely make it to Armenelos before them, and have ample time to warn the Councellor. But they had no choice. Their road was not an easy one now, but one that they could not turn from, but through death.

They rode on the south side of the river Nundunie, on towards Armenelos. The Meneltarma loomed ever on their left, and though the land was shook and the sky was ever blackened, the Meneltarma seemed strangely calm and bright, as if the light of Iluvatar had not completely forsaken them. A light cloud of dust rose on the horizion, the trail party was now far ahead of them, and was no longer a concern to Demaethor, at least not while they were outside of Armenelos. As long as the soldiers ahead of them kept moving, they did not have to worry. If they stopped, they might be attempting to ambush them, so they would have to be wary.

They rode up a small hill and stopped just southwest of the smooth peak of it and made a quick camp. Demaethor took the first watch, while the others rested and grazed the horses. Ameriel examined and redressed Behirien’s wound, which was getting better, thankfully. Behirien was proving to be quite the soldier, moving though the woods quieter than his partner, while wounded, and he hadn’t complained yet. In fact, Demaethor had to check on him occasionally to make sure he was okay.

Esteldur walked up to where Demaethor was sitting, watching. He stood next to him, leaning on his brother’s steel bow, watching in the direction that Demaethor was watching. Demaethor looked upon him, admiring the boy’s spirit.

“Esteldur.” He said.

The boy looked up, “Yes, Demaethor?”

“I saw you practicing with that bow earlier. You have talent, tell me, have you hunted game before?”

“Yes”

Well, to kill a deer, where do you try to hit?”

“Right under the shoulder, to kill him quick. He will not run far, if he runs at all.”

He nodded, “Indeed, you have little practice with a steel bow, I would imagine.”

“Aye”

“Well than, let me train you, for you may have to kill a man, or many men, before this journey has come to an end, in fact, I am sure of it, and I would that you knew how. Here, see that tree to your right?” The boy acknowledged, “go ahead and shoot an arrow. Aim for the knot halfway up its trunk.”

The boy drew shakily back and loosed an arrow. The bolt went wide, past the tree, and landed in the ground. “You need to hold the bow lower, Esteldur, this is no wooden bow. The standard Numenorian steel bow is made to fire shots of range while keeping penetrating power. If you hold it just above the backward curve of the bow, you will find it will be easier to control. Try again, but hold it here,” he adjusted Esteldur’s hand on the bow, “

Esteldur raised the bow, he still shook it a little, but he managed to hit the tree, though high. “Was that easier?” It was, “Good, then practice while I pull watch, and I will give you help if you are in need of it.” Esteldur smiled up at him, “Esteldur,” he started.

“Yes?”

“I am sorry for your brothers death, but it was an honorable one, and you should be proud of him. Tell your sister to weep, if she must, but in this line of work, you do not mourn the dead, you honor them. Perhaps it will comfort her, perhaps not, -“

“It’s okay, Demaethor, you are a soldier and your business is killing,” Ameriel said from behind him, “Your words are well spoken, and I thank you. Forthon would be pleased to know that his captain was watching over his family.” She looked him in the eyes, “Thank you once again, Captain Demaethor.” And she turned and went back down to the camp. Demaethor watched her walk away, and for the first time since this all started, he noticed how outwardly beautiful she was. Her hips swayed smoothly as she walked away, and her hair flowed across her back. Such a woman should not have to be in the woods, suffering the company of such men, and plodding thourgh the wood. He thought back on when he had gone to the great lands and they had captured Sauron. How high of spirits they were, to see all of Mordor, including its lord, cower before them. It was a sight to see, the vast Numenorian army arrayed in such splendor, with the sun glistening off such mail and armament as he had never seen. He was younger then, and the whole world was full of wonder. He had won great renoun in those days, many men fell at the blade of his axe. But, he felt, and this was a feeling that had just come to him, watching the sway of her hips, that if he could take back the valor and put Sauron back in Mordor, he would, if he could save this woman, and her family, the grief that had now befallen them. Sauron must pay, and he would. One day. Not tomorrow, though, tomorrow, they would be in Armenelos, but not for battle, hopefully.

[trolls' bane]

Originally posted by Beruthiel's cat
ooc: I sort of expected things to go that way...and Bragi would certainly like it better than if Beleg were just a plain, ordinary cat (if, indeed, there is such a thing..!). You can be sure Bragi will always have a thing or two to say about the situation.

ooc. No I mean he still would be a plain, ordinary cat.

ic. "Is that land, Charlie?"
"I don't know, your the mariner, Ivan."
"Well, no doubt of that, but I have never sailed much in bad weather like this," Ivan said as he tried to steady the boat: there was a storm nearby, and large, black clouds were coming form the west. "Ugh. I am going to have to sail into that? I hope Mr. Mad Wizard can find some way of getting me out of that fleet. I'd gladly sail with the Faithful, anyway."
"Believe me," said Sherlock coming up from behind, "I think there is only way to get you out of that. You want to know?"
"What is it?" Ivan asked.
"You must...defect."
"What?! Are you really a mad wizard? What are you thinking?! I would, but I also must think of what would happen if they caught me. That would go ill for me if Sauron, the King, or even if that Demaethor character found out. Then, if Sauron found out first, he would send his new scribe, what was his name again, and tell either, probably the king."
"You are not a captain are you? He would never notice until you were well in Middle-Earth. And besides," Sherlock began rubbing his hands and speaking gleefully, "even Sauron himself would find trouble getting past a little surprise I have in store for anyone who dare assail us. Now think about it. We are nearing Numenor. I'm going down to see if the stranger can do anything for Fingolfin's vision."
As he walked away, Ivan called to him over the constant sound of thunder, "Mad Wizard?"
"Yes?"
"How did you know we were nearing Numenor?"
Sherlock smiled, and tossed Ivan something, and said, "Catch." Then he walked away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Meow" Beleg meowed, as Fingolfin stroked his fur.
"Macow" he meowed again.
"I had a cat once, Fingolfin," the strange looking man (except to Fingolfin ) said.
"You did?"
"Yes, some interesting type of cat, too. Strangest color I have ever seen on a cat, except a Siamese (or whatever someone form Arda would call one). It was too big to be one, however, and didn't have the right face for one, either. Rarely meowed, and when it did, it was rather, uh, unnatural."
"Could have been a Tonkanese."
"Mcoo. Mooo, mcaw," Beleg meowed, as Sherlock entered.
Sherlock went to Fingolfin's side, and began petting the cat.
"Mcaww" he meowed.
"We are nearing Numenor," Sherlock said, continuing to pet the cat. "We are far off course, however. We are in the north, I think. There is a peak further north of us, Sorontil, probably. We are going to dock in the little coastal town there, and then go south along the coast."
"Perfect," the usually silent, strange man said. "I will not proceed with you along the coast. I would, but can't. I will go west over the high moors, to Ondosto, and then south-east along the road, past Meneltarma, and into Armenelos. I will get a horse from the town."
"Why would you go to Armenelos instead of Romenna? Your not...?" Sherlock stopped short, and then continued sternly, "You will not leave this ship, Servant of Sauron! I knew I should have never trusted you! Going off alone to Armenelos. No faithful would do something that stupid alone! Never!"
I actually wasn't planning on going alone, Sherlock. I was actually hoping for your coming."
Sherlock stood speechless for a while, but finally said, "I'll go, but you must tell me why."
"Let's just say, that you have a joke to play, and I have another."
"I expect you to tell me what to destroy on the road. But, why are we going all the way to Ondosto?"
"I have a 'friend or two' to meet there."
"Somehow, I think that you belong to some sort of secret society. Well, you better let me in on more, because I was too, once."
"You will find out what is happening in time."
"That's what worries me. So, this is what is happening: you and I get off there, and ride westward with all haste, while they go to Romenna, and await our return."
"Close enough."

ooc. I'll do two seperate posts, just to be safe.

[trolls' bane]

"Farewell, everyone," Sherlock called to the ship. "We will leave now accross the moors tonight. Ivan, Charlie, head strait for Romenna."
With that he turned, and went up beside his companion. "Ready?"
"When you are."
They spurred ahead at a gallop.

It was nearing midnight when they stopped. Sherlock had glimpsed some other rider also riding in their direction in the early evening, but now they had to stop and rest. They camped, if you could call a fire, two horses, and no other gear besides a sword each and Sherlock's longbow. If they were going to Armenelos, Sherlock had the tools necessary to start a distraction. After all, he had lived in Armenelos once, and, if none of the new tennants of his house had found his secret storage and exit tunnel, which his father and uncle had built long ago. It was well hidden, and you had to have a key to open it, anyway.
He picked up his sword, and got up himself. It was his watch. He swung the sword, which he had not done since the well-known (to the Faithful and the King's men) raid on the temple. He got the feel of it, and kept swinging it. When he had finished, he went back and sat down with his back to a rock. His sword he kept drawn, however, and began unscrewing the end of the hilt. When that was off, an old, complicated, skelaton key emerged, attached to the peice.
Sherlock looked at it for a moment, and with a nod of satisfaction, screwed it back into the hilt.

The next day, they left early morning and rode again, hardly stopping, and by the early evening had gone over a hundred of the two-hundred miles between the small town and Ondosto. Sherlock glimpsed a mounted figure far behind them, but they kept on. They stopped for another night, this time earlier, and rose again later. They had gone farther than expected, and the horses needed rest.

[Beor]

They headed out before dark, just after they had eaten and redressed Behirien’s wound. They rode across the vast grassy plains towards Armenelos, and as they got closer, the land got more and more hilly, but they were rolling hills, and nothing too steep. The party was in high spirits, as high as the situation would allow, except for Galdureth, who seemed to be troubled by something. Demaethor didn’t blame him, though, he was young, and had not fought many battles. Demaethor guess that he was worrying too much about what would happen after the battle, rather than trying to worry about trying to avoid one. Demaethor was planning where they should go once upon Armenelos. He didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention, but that really didn’t seem possible, espically since the entire city would be alerted to their “treachery”. He needed to find a safe place to stage the rescue attempt from, as well as somewhere to rest, because though Behirirn’s wound was healing nicely, he was still not fully capable of fighting.

As they neared Armenelos, they began to see more and more settlements and farms, but many of them looked abandoned, some still had a few heads of cattle, but for the most part, everyone was in the citys, or part of the Armada back in Eldalonde. Or in Romenelos with Elendil and the Faithful.

They rode across the plains until they were about a mile from the outskirks of where Armenelos began. There was a farm house off to their left about fifty ranges from their location, and Demaethor decided to make for it. If anyone was home, he couldn’t tell, but it was well off the road, and several bushes and small trees stood around it, obviously planted by the owner, and it was high ground. A perfect position for concealment and observation.

They didn’t have to worry about inhabitants, as the place was empty, and had long been abandoned, except for an empty bottle of ale in the middle of the floor, no evidence of any living man existed.

“Okay,” Demaethor said, “we will set up here, Galdureth, take the horses to the barn, be sure to lock them in, we don’t need to attract any attention here. Feed them, water them, and latch the door.” Galdureth nodded and went out the door.

Behirien spoke up from the chair where he had plopped himself down, “So, sir, what do we do now?”

“Why, we go for Anardil, of course, right Demaethor?” Ameriel asked, almost pleadingly.

“Yes,” Demaethor sighed, “We go to get Anardil. Problem is, we cant all go, too many people will know who we are. My personal guard and the others arrived yesterday, while we rested, and they will have warned Sauron. I am sure many traps are set. Sauron knows Esteldur, he has undoubtedly perceived his thought before, and he will have some inkling as to what he will do. And too many people know who I am, and going into Armenelos, though no one guards the city, and there is no wall, will be very difficult for me to do unnoticed.”

Esteldur spoke up, “then I will go.” They all looked at him doubtfully, except for Ameriel, he continued defensively, “I am not well known to any but Sauron, and I can change clothes, so I don’t stick out. I will take the bow, many carry bows, even steel ones, throughout town. I can shoot it, you taught me how, Demaethor. I will go to Aegnarth's house where Anardil is held, I know the way, and once I have our brother, I will back to this farmhouse. I will go under the cover of darkness, which as of late, seems to be almost absolute.”

Demaethor smiled, “It is a daring and brave plan, Esteldur, but I am afraid I cannot in good conscience let you go into Armenelos alone. I would be sending you to your death, or worse. Nay, if you will go, I will go with you.”

Ameriel spoke up, "Esteldur, surely you would not go alone, I will not allow it. You are but a boy, and Amenelos is a dangerous city now. It is foolish!"

Esteldur looked at her, “Dear sister, I have lived here for a while, I know where to go, I am small, and I am quick. I can go. If it will make you feel better, I will take Galdureth, he is not known well here, am I right, Demaethor?”

Demaethor nodded reluctantly, “No, he is not, but Esteldur, he is not the finest soldier-“

“Nor do I trust him,” Ameriel broke in, “he puts a certain darkness on my mind, as if he is hiding something.”

At that moment, Galdureth came in, they all looked at him, wondering if he had heard the talk.

“Send me then,” spoke Behirien, “This wound is almost healed, and I have never even been here. I will go.”

“What is the plan, Captain?” asked Galdureth. Demaethor looked at him, “Esteldur is going into Armenelos to rescue his brother. However I will not send him in alone.”

“I will go with him, my lord,” said Galdureth, “I will protect him with all the strength and will I have.” Demaethor looked at Ameriel for acceptance, and found little. Galdureth spoke up again, seeing the hesitation, “What is wrong, my lord. Have I not been ever faithful to you?”

“Yes, Galdureth, you have, but Esteldur is not my kin. You must convince the Lady Ameriel, for she is wroth to let him go at all, and needs to know that you are worthy to protect him. Are you , or are you not?”

Galdureth took it well, “My lady,” he spoke to Ameriel, “I will protect your brother if it requires my life to do so. I give you my word, I will stay by his side, through pain and death, if it comes to that, I swear upon Iluvatar alone, an oath unbreakable.” They kept eyes for a minute, before Ameriel finally spoke, “Galdureth, soldier of Numenor, I entrust to your care Esteldur, my brother. Please, do as you say, and protect him.”

“I will, lady.”

Demaethor spoke up, “Good, then you will go at sunset. If anything goes awry, come to the farmhouse, we will meet you, and escape to Rommeos.”


They left that evening, and headed by more or less concealed ways into Armenelos. They took backroads into the city, and through it to try to avoid attention. The city was busy as ever, though, with many people gambling, fighting, and basically acting like swarthy men, no better than the men from the Great Lands that they had conquered not too long ago. Finally, Esteldur led them to Aegnarth's house, where Anardil was held. There was a short wall around it, but nothing he couldnt climb, with the help of a couple of trees that overhung it.

"I am going to go up, Galdureth, please keep watch, and if there is any sign of anything going bad, let me know. I will go to rouse my brother, and if possible, anyone else who can come with us. I will not be long."

"I will watch, and wait, but you must hurry. I fear that Sauron is aware of our coming."

"Indeed," And he climbed up the tree, over the wall, and into the backyard of Aegnarth.

****

Galdureth waited for Esteldur to enter the orphanage, then left him. There was surely a hefty reward for the turn in of the Faithful, Sauron would see to it. He wandered gaily down the street to the first garrison he saw, "Hello, gents, want to know a secret?"

[Rosie Gamgee]

Amariel watched her brother's form fade into the dusk, flanked by the big soldier that accompanied him. She sent up a prayer for their safety. She watched until she could see them no more. Looking out into the growing darkness, Amariel felt anger swelling in her chest. She turned sharply from the window to face Demaethor.
"Sir," she began, her voice hot with annoyance. "I have put the life of my little brother in the hands of a man I do not trust. It is because of your recomendation of the man that I do so, and if harm comes to him, you shall pay, sir- and by my own hand, if the Valar grant me vengence."
Demaethor looked taken aback, as he almost alway did when she spoke her mind. Amariel made her anger subside. She turned from him and surveyed the little house. There appeared to be a small, overgrown garden behind it. She told the captain as much, and announced that she would go out and attempt to find food enough for a meal, if any was to be found.
It was dark outside now, and there were angry clouds overhead. They did not spill any rain, however, and Amariel waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness before rooting around the garden.
What exactly did Demaethor think about her, she wondered? Whenever she spoke to him, he seemed surprised. What did he think she was? He had called her a w**re once, and she wondered if that was really how he saw her. Did he expect her to be quiet, submissive, and willing to let him do as he wished, as so many other men had expected her to be? Did he not understand that she could not possibly be any of those things? She had lost half of her family, and the remaining half looked to her for guidance and protection- not to him, some strange, rough Captain. She had to be mother, father, sister, and now brother to her siblings. A tear slid down her cheek as she thought of Forthon. He had been a good man, a good brother. He was dead now. Why? Because she was not a man. If she had been able to fight those two men who had grabbed her that night, he would still be alive. Another tear fell, and another. It was wrong, she knew, to question the Valar. It seemed the King was about to do so, and she knew in her heart the outcome would not be good. Yet here she was, weeping and bitter, wondering why the gods had not made her a man. Could their wrath against her questioning be any less than that of the King's? Perhaps that was why she was losing her family.
There was a creak behind her, in the house. Demaethor must have been moving about. Amariel sniffed back her tears, wiping her face with her sleeve, and set about finding food.
There were a few gourd plants here with fruit still on them. Most of it was old and soft, but she found two that were reasonably good. A vine of string-beans had overgrown its trellis, but there were a good many beans still on it. Amariel filled her skirt with them.

She brought the food back into the house a few minutes later, after making sure that her face was free of traces of her tears. There was a fire in the hearth, but neither Demaethor nor Behirien were in the kitchen. There was a bucket of water here, however, and Amariel set about shelling the string beans after putting the water on the fire to boil.
Her thoughts returned to Demaethor, although she did not wish them to. She was sorry now that she had spoken so harshly to him. How did she ever expect men to think anything of her if she always treated them so roughly, she asked herself harshly. But, then, Amariel thought on all the men she had... met, over the last few months. None of them were of any account whatsoever- evil, malicious, comtemptable and without honor, all of them. A bitterness crept back into her heart as she thought on the things they had done to her. She tried to shut the memories out of her head, but they left only anger and shame. Shame, deep shame for herself, and anger and bitterness for all men save her brothers.

[Valandil]

OOC: please note that I make extensive use of the Numenorean standard measure of a 'ranga' - this is from 'The Disaster of the Gladden Fields' in UT - and we're told that it is approximately 38" - so it's just a bit more than a yard and a bit less than a meter (96.5 cm?) - if that helps you visualize it better. Also, a 'league' is 5000 rangas, which is almost exactly the English league of 3 miles - and very close to 5 km.

On to the story...

Esteldur and Galdureth had left the farmhouse on foot, thinking they'd attract more attention if mounted or leading horses. They soon came to the outskirts of the city. Armenelos had no need of walls and gates - there never having been war on the island... so as the city grew, it just spread further out, sprawling in all directions. Part of Esteldur's scribe duties had involved property deeds and knowledge of boundaries. He recognized the 'farm lots' on the outskirts... 20 rangas wide - or 40 or more for the larger ones - in 20 ranga increments, by 200 rangas deep - a furlong (less the half-width of the road). Here families supported themselves, at least in part, by stock they raised or crops they grew - and some of these brought their goods to market deeper into the city. Here, the city slept already, just a bit after dark. The families had turned in with the fading light in order to get an early start the next morning. Even here, Esteldur noted that a number of the homes seemed empty. Although it was already late in the harvest, it was clear that several of these lots had gone fallow this year.

On into the city - and at this hour, it was still active. Most of these lots here were small - usually just 5 rangas wide by 20 rangas deep - with no alleyway. Often, buildings were 2-3 stories high, and in most cases, the front of the first floor was a small merchant's or tradesman's shop or a pub. Esteldur knew that the rear was often open - with a small courtyard, or garden, or chicken coop. The population was denser here, and many people were still out. The further into the city they went, the denser it became - they went from a mix of 1-2 story buildings, to 2-3 stories - to where 3 was predominant - and there were some 4's. Still, nobody bothered them - as it was nothing unusual for people to be out. Streets criss-crossed in a regular grid - and Esteldur mapped out in his mind which turns they needed to take to work toward the right section of town - and still avoid spending much time on a major street. Even in these busy streets, Esteldur noted that maybe one in four homes seemed empty... some shipped off to Eldalonde, some families destroyed by Sauron (as his own had been), some had fled to the countryside... and others had already migrated to Pelargir... colonists to Middle-earth.

Finally they reached Esteldur's old neighborhood. Lots of 8 rangas wide by 40 rangas deep... held mostly by men of some position - whether somewhat wealthier merchants, or those in mid-level service to the King, as Aegnarth was... and as Esteldur's father had been. Passing his old home triggered the thought. It still appeared unoccupied... surprising in a way, that someone loyal to the King and Sauron was not given it as a reward... and yet, there were so few to take it. One part of this neighborhood that suited Esteldur's purposes now... there was a 4 ranga wide alleyway on the back side of each lot... as well as the broad, 16 ranga street and parkway in the front. Esteldur knew which house was Aegnarth's... he marked its location and then he and Galdureth made their way to it through the alley. Here, nobody was about, and it was an easy climb over the 2 ranga high fence to the rear yard. It was all laid out similar to his own - the 2-story house was 16 or 20 rangas deep from the front - and the rest could be a courtyard, gardens - in some cases a guest house or a work shop or stables.

Aegnarth had no guest house - and he didn't have a guard dog. The rear yard was a bit cluttered, as they tended to become. Esteldur found what he had hoped for... a ladder! He guessed that any children would be in the back of the upstairs floor - and there was an open window... for the night breeze was only a little cool. He knew that all Aegnarth's children were long grown and had moved away. He and his wife had lived alone - so Anardil was likely by himself in the room beyond that open window. Esteldur had Galdureth help him get the ladder in place, and hold it while he climbed.

It was darker inside, without the light of the moon and the lights from windows around them. As his eyes adjusted, he saw, there... on a small mat, lay Anardil! Esteldur's heart leaped. He crept quietly over to him and gently shook his little brother.

"WHAT!" Anardil woke with a start, and then... " 'STELDUR!" throwing his arms about Esteldur's neck when he recognized his long-lost brother (for a 4-year old, Esteldur knew that a month had been a long time). Esteldur quickly hushed him and listened for sounds... quiet so far. He told Anardil that he was taking him away. "To mommy? And father?"

"No... but you'll be with me... AND with Amariel." Anardil's face brightened at his sister's name... but he STILL wanted to be with mommy and father too. "We'll see!" said Esteldur, hoping just to get his brother out quietly.

"What'sa matter Anardil?" came a soft voice from the door... the door opened a crack and then the voice came a bit louder, "Who... who are YOU?"

Esteldur saw a girl... a little younger than himself, likely - reddish hair, skinny. No good making up a story... the truth might sound the best - so he whispered, "Quietly please! I am Anardil's brother - Esteldur! I am taking him with me to Romenna... where we hope to leave Numenor with Elendil. Now who are you?" he said sharply at the end, trying to regain the upper hand.

This time she whispered back herself, "Silaewen... my little sister Olaewen and I were taken in by Aegnarth as well... when our own parents were... well, his wife needed help with Anardil. We had lived on a farm. Take us with you! Please! Aegnarth is a kind man, in his way... but we want to leave here. We are of the faithful ourselves... as were our parents and brothers!"

Esteldur sighed. He wondered if Elendil's ships could contain all the orphans in Armenelos. "Alright... but be quiet... and be quick! Get your sister and your things."

In less than two minutes, the girls were there and ready to go - and Esteldur had Anardil ready as well. He thought he could go down the ladder holding his brother and that the girls could follow. As they turned toward the window, the door to the room opened behind them once again, loudly this time.

"Hey! What's going on here?!?"

It was Aegnarth. He seemed a bit sleepy... but he was coming out of it now. Esteldur grabbed his dagger... Aegnarth was a big man, and a trained soldier, so he knew he didn't have much of a chance... but maybe a lucky blow...

[Valandil]

Aegnarth stiffened as he appraised the situation. Then he knitted his eyebrows and raised a hand to his cropped salt-and-pepper beard. "Why... you're just a boy! Say... aren't ye Nedron's boy? Why yes... YOU'RE Anardil's brother aren't you?"

Aegnarth relaxed a bit, and Esteldur couldn't help doing the same.

"Come to take him back from me, eh? Well... we've loved having him, but I suppose ye've more right to him than we. Don't worry lad, I brought him home to spare him worse... and it'd warm my heart if he could be with family again. I hear you're wanted though... a lad with a price on his head! I suppose you're off to Romenna to try an' board with Elendil, eh sonny?"

Aegnarth sighed. "Well... can't say as I blame ye. In all my one hundred eighty years, things have always seemed a bit less happy on our island each year... and now's worse than ever. I was on board with the King's Men whole-hearted, as a young man. It just seems... the more we've chased this dream... the further it's gone away from us. I don't know... I suppose we've been wrong about all this..."

Esteldur finally spoke up, somewhat surprised that Aegnarth did not intend to stop them. "Then would you come with us, sir? You could leave as well, and sail with Elendil!"

Aegnarth sat on a bench and looked at his feet. "No lad... too late for me. This island has always been my home - and my wife's. Making a new start is for the young, not the old. I'll just stay now... come whatever may come. Something hard, I fear. Our other Kings had strayed far enough aforetimes... but oh, this Sauron sure has THIS King twisted up! I fear it may go hard with us all for it... with us all." Aegnarth looked up at Esteldur and went on, lifting his voice as he spoke, "But go! You go... NOW! Take ye the girls too... I see what you're about! Take all these young ones and go... it's their best hope, I'll wager. And when I tell my wife where they've gone, that hope will overcome her grief at the loss."

Esteldur turned again to the window, not wanting to lose this chance. Looking out, he saw the ladder on the ground below and no sign of Galdureth. Good, he thought - Galdureth must have feared attracting notice - maybe smarter than Amariel or Demaethor thought he was. "Galdureth! The ladder! We're ready to come down!" No answer... no movement. Had something gone wrong?

Just then, they heard pounding on the front door of the house. "Open! Open! Traitors are about!"

Aegnarth quickly sized up the situation. "Your man below left ye, eh? By the sounds at the front door, I'll warrant he turned ye in. Here now, cut the end of this rope off. I'll tie the other end up here and throw the rest down. It'll look like ye lowered your brother, climbed down, then cut him loose. Meanwhile, all ye youngsters scoot down the stairs and out the alley... assuming they don't have men out there yet! I'll stumble my way to the door as just awakened from sleep and slow them if I might, now go!"

It all happened about as quickly as Aegnarth said it. He waited a few moments before going down the stairs himself... slower by far than he was able, but slow enough as might be reasonable for a man of his years just roused from sleep.

Meanwhile, Esteldur carried Anardil and ran, the girls close behind. He paused only to pick up his bow and quiver, still laying by the ladder in the back. Then out to the alley - all clear. The end to the right was closer, but that's the way the guards would come - so they took off to the left, running as fast as they could. "Halt! Halt!" came cries from far behind. Esteldur didn't even look to see if it was men rounding the corner of the alley far behind - or men coming through Aegnarth's back gate. They were almost at the end... once they turned, Esteldur felt he could lose them, by zig-zagging back and forth through the nearby streets and alleys.

'Galdureth!' he muttered under his breath! Then a thought seized him. He hadn't mentioned his old house to Galdureth... might they hide out there? He began to work his way over. Soon, they had arrived at the rear of his old house, coming again from the alley. He climbed over, un-latched the gate, and let Anardil and the girls into the rear yard. He had to think. Before long, someone would find them - or someone would learn of his old home, and check it. It didn't seem he could leave the city now with THIS group... four children, between 4 and 14 certainly WOULD attract notice. But maybe he could slip out alone... bring back Demaethor... and Amariel... THEY'D know what to do!

Esteldur got the others inside the house. They kept it dark, lest they bring notice to themselves. Then, after giving assurances and calming fears, he slipped back out through the rear. Still not much uproar in the neighborhood. His house was 3-4 blocks from Aegnarth's... and searches were all to common any more. He moved along, keeping to the shadows as best he could, trying to work out a different path than they had taken in... hoping to throw off Galdureth in that way. It was later and the city had begun to settle down, though here and there a few were still about.

As he walked along, a squad of 8 men - 6 guards, a sergeant and Galdureth - turned the corner up ahead, not 40 rangas away... caught! No place to duck into. Galdureth saw him... he pointed to Esteldur. The men rushed him.

Esteldur started to flee, but knew there was no hope. He stopped, grabbed his bow and an arrow, took aim at the lead guard and fired, trying to do just as Demaethor had taught him... clean miss! He had time to string just one more and let it fly. This time, at point-blank range, it went right through the man he targeted. He dropped... but then the rest were upon Esteldur.

He knew this was it. The men were angry at having their comrade struck. Two of them held him, and one drew back his short sword, preparing to strike a fatal blow. "ALIVE, you fools! Bring him in alive! Sauron wants this one badly... and can't sacrifice a dead offering!" All seemed eerily quiet and time seemed to stand still. Esteldur heard breathing... he realized he was holding his own breath, but he heard the loud breathing of the men about him. He heard the wheezing of the man he had struck. He wondered if that man would live or die... he felt bad that he had let that arrow fly. What did it seem to matter? He was taken anyway... Why not just have left him to live?

Galdureth walked up to him, "Yes, this is the one! Esteldur, whom you say Sauron seeks!" He smirked at Esteldur, then turned to the sergeant, "And now, I can give you an even BIGGER prize... for an even greater price... I can give you DEMAETHOR!"

The sergeant divided up the squad: three to take Esteldur, now bound, to Sauron - be he at the palace or his temple, two to carry their severely wounded comrade back to the barracks - while Galdureth and the sergeant went to meet the men who had come from Eldalonde... Demaethor's bodyguard.

'Trapped!' thought Esteldur. 'Not only have I been taken, but now they will take Amariel and Demaethor at the farmhouse!' As they led him away, he felt that all they had done was for naught.

[trolls' bane]

ooc. Well, not quite as far behind as expected! Don't start at once! I won't be on much and don't want to get too far behind. Now, I left off somwhere around here:

“Look! Over there!”
Sherlock and his companion had been backed into a corner made up of two boulders for hours, besieged by primitive arrows shot by what seemed to be nothing but rocks and bushes, and sometimes the arrows must have just popped out of the air. They had no clue who their assailants were, but they had come out of nowhere, quicker than any ambushes Sherlock had ever seen, in all of his thirteen years of his being a commander of a group of Faithful archers and warriors. “This is madness,” Sherlock thought, as he tried to piece the event together so it would make sense. He turned the events over in his head again.
*Flashback to Morning*
Sherlock awoke early, around 5:40, he guessed, to find breakfast cooking, and knowing his companion had gone to get some Athelas to put on his stab wound, Sherlock served up his own ration. After his friend had returned, and they both finished, Sherlock went to the top of the hill nearby where they’d camped to look around, for he was aware that there was someone tailing them. He saw nothing around him for miles, and guessed that they had given up, or had at least been shaken off their tail.
He went back down the hill towards their camp, which had almost been packed. They had only about ten more miles to go to reach their destination, and started off on the road to Ondosto around 7:00.
When they had gone around six miles, they stopped to give their three horses a rest. Sherlock thought about his friends back on the ship, which should be at Romenna by now. They got back up and went another half mile, when suddenly Sherlock noticed something out of the corner of his eye. He turned, but knew only that he had just been crashed into by something large, and that he was in the dirt on the other side of the road from where his horse was. His friend came and helped him up, and hadn’t seen a thing. After that they kept their guard, especially because they saw movement on top of the long mounds of dirt on each side of the road, but saw nothing definite. They continued riding, slowly, and they both took hold of their bows. They went another mile, and were just turning down a fork in the road which took them to the city of Ondosto, now only two and a half miles away, when they saw a strange man standing on the hillside mound. They hailed him in a friendly way, and greeted him with a friendlier shout. To their surprise, he shouted in a somewhat gruff voice at something behind him, and then blew a horn of some sort. Then, even more surprising, from they were also greeted by the landscape, which hurled another strange greeting: hundreds of arrows, stones, and spears, and their very own souvenir, a dead pack horse. To avoid being filled with arrows themselves, they jumped off their horses and ran to the corner made up of two large boulders.
*Back to Present*
Sherlock sighed, making no sense of the days happenings, looked at his friend, who constantly shot arrows at nothing, or from time to time, shot a boulder or a bush. They were running low on arrows, while their assailants never seemed to have less than enough. He continued to watch, and for a second he thought he saw a gleam of hope in his eye. “I don’t know,” he thought, then asked aloud, “Do you think that there’s any chance we’ll ever get to Ondosto… alive?”
To Sherlock’s surprise, his companion answered cheerily, “Quite a chance, my friend. Quite a chance! We shall get there, alive and better off than we were before. In fact, were going to be borne there in a luxurious wagon fit for King Elendil himself!”
Sherlock, never more taken aback by anything else, nearly missed the truth.
“Hark! An army! The horses and their riders!” he shouted.
Their attackers seemed to notice too, for there were nine score or more horses on the hills which hid Ondosto from view, and still more coming, most shooting drawn bows as they rode, some brandishing spears, some had lances, while some had swords or banners. They all wore mail and helmets, gleaming in the sun at their back. Their banners and shields all bore a white tree and the sickle of the Valar, the seven jeweled stars on each shield gleaming brightly in the fading light, these parts like the banners and shields borne by men of Gondor in later days. There was a gleaming Elven rune carved onto the tree; beset in gold on the silver tree on the shields (the banners had a silver, silk tree with a gold gleaming gold-colored silk rune). Behind the tree was a great, yellow and orange setting sun. Enemies began pouring out from behind small hills, bushes and boulders, while some seemed to be boulders and bushes that turned into men. Some seemed to pop out of thin air. Soon the quiet peaceful prairie the two companions had awaken to was in an uproar, the attackers running everywhere in a frenzy, ignoring Sherlock and his friend (one ran right into Sherlock, knocking him backwards), while the horsemen shooting arrows in the air, occasionally hitting one of the assailants. They apparently were stricken with fear and awe when they saw the horsemen, with shining shields, banners, armor, and helms (which also had diamonds upon them), and the sun glistening off the swords, spears and arrows. Sherlock thought they looked like the army of the Valar, while as far as the men who attacked him thought, it was the army of the Lords of the West.
Sherlock looked at some of the men’s faces as they ran, and wondered at them, for some had such looks of horror as he had ever seen, while others threw curses, while most were such full of horror and madness that they didn’t even run in any particular direction. The horsemen still came, thought their numbers more than doubled in size, now 23 score at least. As their attackers fled, they dropped weapons and left their own men behind.
The horsemen had finally reached the place where Sherlock and his friend were. The number, around 30 score in total, had stopped growing. Some scattered around the countryside, while others chased the fleeing men, shooting arrows in an almost leisurely fashion, as if to scare the men. One that was considerably different trotted lightly up to where Sherlock and his friend were. Sherlock, who had kept his bow drawn but pointing towards the ground, began raising it, but lowered it when his friend motioned his hand, silently saying not to.

[trolls' bane]

ooc: Ran out of room. Here's the rest:

The man had neared, and Sherlock saw he was a middle-aged man, around 80 or 90, a little older than the rest. He had a sword with a carved, gold handle, with red, green, white and blue gems on parts of it. He had one major difference from the rest, which was his longer shield.
“ ‘ello Grittin,” he said in a strange, gruff voice. “Weer’ve you been?”
“Hello, Erb. Sorry I haven’t been able to attend any of the king’s parties,” Sherlock’s companion answered, smiling at his second comment. “I’ve been off at the Isle of the Mad Wizard,” he concluded with an even bigger grin.
“Ah, finally! Tis about time we got someone out dare! Should’ve gone and met him sooner, since we’ve been buy dare many dimes. And dis must be Mr. Baskerville himself,” he added, turning towards Sherlock. “Sorry ‘or not greetin you, sir.”
“That’s all right,” Sherlock answered, already growing a liking for this man “Erb.” “You are the leader of these men, are you not? You seen familiar, but I doubt you are the Erb I’m thinking of.”
“Yes, I’m the leader of these men, an I am the Erb yur a thinkin of. I was the Erb who commanded you on the firs trip to Middle-Earth. Now, we must be leaving, and we need to get rest, for we ride to Armenelos the day after oomorrow. We have a carriage awaitin us on the oter side of the hill. Don’t worry, we found yur horses. We camp on the hills tonight.
The man jumped off his horse and walked with them in the direction of where the carriage awaited them. “Grittin” and Erb talked like old friends, and so did Sherlock. When he turned around and looked back (they were the last ones to reach the hill) he thought he saw a silhouette of a solitary man on a horse, slowly moving in their direction, but it was probably one of the scouts returning to the group late, so he thought little more of it.

They reached the carriage, a very beautiful one at that, and the most luxurious Sherlock had ever seen. It was painted and carved with intricate designs, and had glass windows with shades. The driver’s seat was even covered, and cushioned. Even more to his surprise, Sherlock saw that it had a rug, four expensive lamps hanging in each corner, a small, fold out card table on the front wall (the driver sat on the other side), cushioned seats on the sides (they entered through a small double door in back), and two storage compartments under the rug. This small carriage had more luxuries than his gigantic two-story, mountain-top mansion (or fortress, because it had few large windows and the first floor windows were arrow loops).
Sherlock and Grittin sat on the left side of the carriage, while Erb and some other man sat on the right. The card table was folded down by the other man, who left the carriage. He returned with four plates of food, and then sat down again. Sherlock, still awe-stricken by the carriage then tasted some of the best food he’d ever eaten. When they had finished and the plates were hastened away by the man, he returned again with several pieces of paper, put them on the table, and sat again.
“Now,” Erb began, “you probably already know we are riding to Armenelos, and that we are going there to frustrate poor ole Sauron. You are probably vague on the details, so I’ll tell you why you’re here.” With that he took out one of the pieces of paper and unfolded it. It was a topographic map of a city. Sherlock recognized it from his raid on a temple there, after he left the Numenorean army. He was captured and was to be burned alive, but he escaped. It could only be Armenelos.
Sherlock remembered when they invented the measuring tools for making topographic maps, which were the closest to accurate than any other map. He was only a boy at the time. His brother made topographic maps for a living, until a happy life in Numenor came to an all time low for the Faithful.
“Now this bulge ere is the foot of the mountain, and the highest point on the ridge. You know the rest, the tree of you.” Sherlock saw it: the palace, a strange shaped black mark on the paper used to indicate a building; the temple, one of few round black marks; the city walls, the small street that Sherlock lived on, his very home (which was a very small black shape), etc., etc. Everything.
“Yes, I know,” said Sherlock, still finding more familiar landmarks. “Who makes these maps?”
“Believe it or not, this was made by the man who taught your brother.”