[Thinlómien]

The wind and rain of the stormy night could not reach the tower chamber, but the darkness, it was present everywhere, it was not blocked by the closed window or by the curtains drawn over it. Lady Lómiel Starbrow was sitting by her desk, white wax candles in elaborately decorated candlesticks as her only defence against the ever-growing darkness. Beautiful, strongly drawn characters appeared on the page in a quick pace as she wrote the name of the recipient and then continued:

I call upon you in the direst need and with the utmost confidence. A darkness is gathering on our continent and the winds of change are on Númenór. Things are changing and there are alliances to be made. Now is the time to decide what we want and estimate what threatens us. Therefore, I invite you to a secret council on the uninhabited island called the Isle of the Dead, owned by my family. The council is held on the first day of the upcoming year. Apart from you, nineteen other persons of great importance have also been invited. Do not bring your own servants or guards with you to the island. I swear in the name of both the Valar and the Dark that I will not bring any either, except for the old mute housekeeper who lives on the island. I know you understand this rather extreme safety measure, but otherwise secrecy cannot be maintained and no trust can be created. Yours in haste,

She paused, gritted her teeth, then left a blank space and finished

Lord Thinroz Whiteblade

She took the letter and put it to the pile of nineteen other letters, identical except for the name of the recipient. She took all of them, blew the candles and hurried down to the main hall. She found her father sitting on his high marble chair. He was half asleep, head bowed and his face buried in the long white beard. Lómiel walked to him and asked, softly: “Father?”

“Lommy?” the old man asked, his eyes suddenly wide open. He looked around, looking lost.
“Yes it’s me,” his daughter said softly. “I have brought the letters for you to sign.”
He furrowed his brow. “Letters?” he asked weakly.
“Yes, father. The invitations for the Númenórean, Haradian, Corsair and Variag lords. About the council.”
“Oh… yes…” he nodded, looking to the distance. “Good that you wrote them. Now off you go, you can go back to play with your dolls. I will sit here yet for a while.”
“Father,” Lómiel said. “I asked you to sign them.”
She handed him the parchments and a quill dipped in ink, and he signed slowly and with a wavering hand. She waited patiently, then gathered all the letters again. “Thank you,” she said, planting a kiss on his brow and hastened away.

Lord Thinroz Whiteblade remained on his high chair, gazing to the distance with clouded eyes. “Bring him a blanket,” Lady Lómiel ordered and hurried to find the trusted messengers handpicked for this occasion. She gave each of them one of the letters and the instructions how to get to their destinations.

She remained by the doorstep, watching them go. It was still two months until the set date, two months of uncertainty and expectation. And the night was still growing darker and her cloak could not protect her from the cold the darkness brought with it.