[littlemanpoet]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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