[Mithadan]

While waiting for Piosenniel to return with the Hobbits, Mithadan took up a bucket and mop and scrubbed at the blood stains on the main deck and then the crews' quarters. He pulled the bloody bedding from the one cabin and cleaned the others as best he could. What to do with this vessel was a question yet to be decided. Likely it would be scuttled at sea, but for now he wished it to be free of any sign of a struggle.

He looked into the bucket of reddened water with saddness, thinking of the source of that colour. Far indeed had the race of his forefathers fallen to be in league with Sauron. He thought back to the foul jests and evil laughter of those in the Inn at Nindamos and shuddered. Even so, some Faithful remained who had not fallen under the darkness. Most of these had taken ship and were waiting the the East of Numenor for what might befall the island as a result of Ar-Pharazon's rebellion. But others were imprisoned below Meneltarma and had been condemned to die. Must he let them perish?

He had been warned against seeking to do too much. Not to do what could not be done for, to some extent, the events of the next two weeks before the Fall were set, unchangeable. But if the Hobbits could be rescued, why not the Faithful? Might they not make their way to the coast to somehow join the meager fleet of Elendil?

Unbidden, a memory of his mother, now long dead, came to him. She had absorbed eagerly the lore of his house and had passed it on to her children. "Our line dates back to the days of Beren and Luthien and their fathers and mothers before them. It is a line to be proud of, for you are the descendant of Kings. Long ago, your forefather was Tar-Elendil, King of Numenor. You are descended from his second daughter, Isilme, whose sister was Silmarien, the mother of the line of the Lords of Andunie from whence came Elendil the Tall and his sons Isildur and Anarion. And when Numenor fell and the nine ships of Elendil were rushed across the sea, your ancestors were among their crew and came to Middle Earth with them. Be proud for your line has always been counted among the Faithful..."

He smiled grimly at the memory. He never dreamed that he would see Elenna the Fair. But to see the Island at this time was more akin to a curse than a blessing. Better he had lived with the memories of his mother's tales than had lived to see the dregs of Numenor. Nonetheless, the tales of his mother played back for him in his mind, of Beren and Luthien, of Elros, Isilme...

He looked up at the moon and its silver glow; Isil the Sheen, for whom Isilme had been named and others of his line as well. And he knew, as with the shock of sudden insight, that he must make the attempt. That he must rescue the Faithful from their fate. But he shuddered again, for the words of Ulmo returned to him and spoke of his death, while those of Ancalimon bade him take care and give thought to his actions. He had done so, and he had decided and now his course was set.

He looked to the West and whispered, "Please, let my path lead me out of the tombs, for Piosenniel and for my children yet unborn..."

[ October 23, 2002: Message edited by: Mithadan ]