Prisoner of Númenor RPG

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô twisted on his pillow, unable to sleep. Doubts flooded into his mind stemming from the group’s perilous encounter earlier that day. They were able to escape the king’s wrath once, but would they be able to do so again? And how would they rescue Abârpânarú form his cell and transport him to Rómenna? Azarmanô’s close encounter with death brought these haunting questions to the front of his mind. What real chance did a small band of faithful have of rescuing a prisoner form Sauron’s iron grasp? Yet he knew he could not permit himself to think that way. They must complete their mission and they must do so quickly. He only hoped that the next encounter with the king’s men, inevitable though it might be, would go as smoothly as the first. Yet somehow, Azarmanô felt that he would need to brandish his bow before their journey was done.

Azarmanô reviewed the events that had transpired that afternoon carefully in his mind. The party surely would have been slain if it had not been for the quick thinking of Marsillion. Abarzadan seemed to have placated the men by telling them that he was the leader of a group delivering a prisoner to the dungeon when Thoronmir, the fool, had tried to sneak up on them from behind. He must have thought himself incredibly clever until the troops had discovered his presence and the situation turned fatal. Perhaps it was better that he was discovered, for had he been successful in launching an attack of some sort, the party would all surely have been killed. Now if only I had thought of appointing myself Lord of Andunië first, Azarmanô thought whimsically. Azarmanô had planned to pester his “master” and apologize mockingly for failing to “keep the lying brigand under control.” But, instead, he felt as though he owed it on his honor to thank Marsillion. He did not know much about any of the men, but perhaps he would take the time to make closer acquaintance with Marsillion, since he held him in such high esteem.

It was late, but Azarmanô wanted to talk to Marsillion now and not wait till the morning. The matter pressed inside of him, and he did not want to forget about it or become preoccupied with something else. He rose from his tent and traveled the short distance to that of Marsillion. Azarmanô feared that he had already turned into his tent for the night, but, seeing a light inside, lifted the flap and peered in.

“Marsillion,” he began “I come to offer deep gratitude for saving our lives. I commend you for your quick thinking and superb acting skills, although I think that I did a fine job as your incompetent servant. Do you think I was reverent enough? In any case, thank you. I hope that someday I can return the favor. Do you have any idea what Thoronmir was planning? He almost got us killed.” He stood in the door of the tent and waited for a response.

[Himaran]

A cool wind whistled across the campsite, but it was not enough to cool Abarzadan's heated temper. He had not spoken a word to anyone in the party the rest of the entire day. The man had even considered deserting, and striking out on his own; why was he out here anyway, risking life and limb to save one of the lower classes whom he had never even known. The anger in his heart slowly melted as he lay there in the uncomfortable saddle-bag - it was far too rough, and was not properly stuffed - but it was turning into something else, just as destructive: bitterness. What had Marsillion been thinking? Abarzadan's story had been far more believable, after all; just not quite as animated. The King's men were not preparing to slaughter them all, and yet the little hero had felt it necessary to not only save the day, but humiliate another party member in the process. It was amazing that the King's Captain had so willingly swallowed his tale, in direct contradiction to the previous one. Furthermore, Marsillion had yet to apologize for spitting in his face; an act that, under any circumstances, Abarzadan felt worthy of the harshest retribution.

The wind was interrupted, after a while, by the sound of muffled voices. Curious, Abarzadan slid out of his bag. Peering outside, he saw Azarmanô holding up the flap of Marsillion's tent and speaking rather quickly. Straining his ears, the man could pick up most of the words; as expected, Azarmanô was heaping lavish and almost servant-like praise on his 'master.' "Do you have any idea what Thoronmir was planning?" Master and servant, eh? No, Thoronmir's acts remain a mystery, but I would prefer to be tortured by the King's men than ever so much as speak to either of you again.

And he meant it.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomì looked sadly about her stable yard, taking in the sight of her companions in the mid-morning light... and of all of their sizable load of personal items. She smiled at the thought of mischief to come. Her brothers remembered fondly her childhood tricks... Inzillomì had never lost her spirit.

She rode a placid gelding today, his finely kept tack gleaming in the morning sun. His sable coat shone as brightly as his mistress's flowing locks. She looked to her companions, meeting Ziraphel's eyes with an inconspicuous nod.

"No!" she called, riding over to the stable hands that were loading the last of her heavy trunks into one of the wagons. "Put that beside the other, not on top, you fool. If my belongings are damaged before this trip even begins you will not have a happy day, m'boy." Despite her words, her voice was pleasant and her eyes kind. A man with a small boy on his shoulders came over.

"M'lady, my family is gathered. What would you have us do?" His eyes held a small amount of fear, kept severely at bay. He would not frighten his son, Inzillomì saw. She looked at a small cluster of well-dressed but plainly frightened people. Of all, only the old woman looked completely unperturbed. Inzillomì dismounted, handing the reins to the man.

"Will you excuse me for a moment?" she asked with a bow before walking toward the group. "Grandmother," she addressed the woman with a deep curtsy. "I welcome you. Could you spare a moment?" The women of the group greeted the lady with curtsies as deep as her own, eyes wide.

"Of course." she cackled. "Where would you have my old bones take me, child of Elendil?"

"Not far, I assure you." she smiled. "Just this way?" They walked together, Inzillomì's arm around the old woman. "Grandmother, your message has reached me only this morning. You say you have special needs?"

"Special needs indeed." she winked openly. "These old bones of mine can't travel for naught but a few hours each day, and these few and far between. Would they have me in pain?" she laughed with the lilt of one quite used to getting her own way. Inzillomì smiled. What fun! she thought.

"Grandmother, the King's Men arrive soon. We should be prepared to leave ere they come." She led her companion back to the stables beckoning to the erring stable boy. "Young man, Grandmother Nîlozâira will require a comfortable position in the front of one of our wagons. I trust in your abilities."

She returned to the man, winking at him. "All shall be well, friend. I have but one request of you. Some of our younger companions are not yet used to their mounts. Could you watch over them on our travels?" He nodded, glad to be put to use, and walked away with his boy tousling his hair.

---------------------

When the King's Men rounded the final bend to the home of Abârpânarú Karíbzîr and his kin, their eyes met a large group of impatient travellers. Three heavily laden wagons with a respected grandmother enthroned upon their faces glared at the guards. Inzillomì held her mount steady and waited for the captain of the guard to find her. He rode forward, stopping a respectful distance and half bowing in his saddle.

"Mistress Inzillomì, I must object to the size of this party. My orders are to escort yourself and your family with as few necessary items as possible." He looked around in awe at his childhood friend's audacity.

"Captain," she spoke with polite disdain. "These people are my family. Do you see? This man," she gestured to he who tended the young ones, "is my husband's cousin. My sister Ziraphel rides beside me. Do you see these children? They are my relatives by marriage. Would you have me move to the further shore and leave behind those I have become so utterly close to?"

He looked at her, lost for words. "I... well... m'lady... as they are family, I am sure there will be no problem, but I may have to summon more escorts, and surely this entire load is unneeded?"

"You question me?" she asked with a sidelong glance. "There are a score travellers, which requires sleeping arrangements for each. Would you have a grandmother sleep on the ground with the dogs? I thought not. In my party are children. Would you have them leave behind all fond memories of their youth? Of our ladies, would you request that they leave their romantic letters of their courtship? The young men requested simply their hunting items. Shall I deny their only request? Also, we carry meals for ourselves, unless your men had planned to provide for us? Not to mention clothing and cloaks. Shall I have my people unload our carts and saddlebags? I was under the impression, Captain, that we were in a hurry, and you, m'lad, are keeping the King's orders waiting."

He nearly laughed at her unexpected argument. "My lady, it is unnecessary, but I am under orders to..." he paused, not wanting to continue. "I... must check your... bags." he finished lamely.

Inzillomì glared at him. "If you must know, my bags contain my womanly necessaries. Can a woman have no privacy?"

As he turned away flush-faced, she smiled mischievously. "My people!" she cried. "Our journey begins." With a final look at her home, Inzillomì rode, at the beginning of a long and slow moving line, into the bright sun, with the wind in her hair and the past at her back.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô listened attentively as Marsillion informed them of the three men of the king’s soldiers that spied on the party, paying attention to every detail of his account. The news was devastating, particularly so because they had just escaped the clutches of this same foe scarcely a day before. His premonitions about future encounters with them had indeed been verified, although Azarmanô sincerely wished that this had not been the case. Their mission seemed to grow more perilous as it proceeded. And he was also sure that there would be more such tribulations in the days to come as they inched closer to Armenelos, Abârpânarú’s prison, and Sauron himself.

But how had the enemy gotten word of their mission? Azarmanô looked around at his companions with suspicion. Had one of their own men betrayed the party? Such a question had never entered his mind until now. There were strangers in the group, men whom he did not know well enough to be certain of their loyalty. Thoronmir, one such stranger, was rash and impetuous, but his quick actions seemed to be done for the benefit of the Faithful, if not with careful consideration. But Abarzadan loomed large in Azarmanô’s eye, especially due to his caustic, sour attitude, and a clear separation between him and the Faithful. He had been quite an enigma up until now, and Azarmanô still did not know his true motives. Although he had not been interested in digging up these secrets, recent events had caused him to view the situation in a different light. Why had the king’s men confronted them to begin with if their mission was one of espionage? The only reasonable conclusion, at least the only one Azarmanô could draw at the moment, was that someone on the inside cooperating with the king had staged the whole incident. And hadn’t Abarzadan been the first one to try and appoint himself as the leader of the group escorting the prisoner? Perhaps he had arranged the ambush so that he could win validity and trust from the group by saving the day. Of course, this was only a theory spun by the onset of shock, but Azarmanô’s suspicion of Abarzadan and his furtiveness nonetheless grew.

A new plan must be developed indeed. The party could not simply march into Armenelos, knock on the dungeon door and ask to speak to the leader of the Faithful. Now that they would be watched, an additional element of secrecy was needed for their entrance into the city. Azarmanô did not relish the thought of arriving at Armenelos and stepping right into the trap of Sauron, earning himself a cell next door to Abârpânarú’s. He spoke with a measure of authority because, he believed, the group was in need of strong leadership at the moment.

“Thank you Marsillion for alerting the group to the king’s spies. Although we scarcely need more dangers in our mission, we will have to deal with them. A new plan is needed. If we act covertly, we may be able to escape their detection, at least for a time. We shall have need of disguises, although I do not know where to obtain such raiment. Perhaps an opportunity shall present itself along the way. We must pose as ruffians whom the king allows to prey upon a group of hapless Faithful. We can boast how we slay them and stole their mounts. Perhaps at night we might hide in the Noirian, the Valley of the Tombs, final home to our kings and queens. I have even heard rumors that there are long, dark passageways within the underground labyrinth connecting the ancient tombs to the dungeon hallways, though I know not if they are true. How does this plan strike you?”

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomì woke with the dawn, smiling at the sight of silently sleeping children. She knew that the quiet would not last, but it was a small blessing to know that the younglings saw this trip as an exciting adventure. When they realized that they would not be going home after a few days away, things would change and the tension would rise.

"My lady, a word?" A young guard spoke to her. It was not so much a question as a command, but Inzillomì followed wordlessly a short distance away from the group. "They are precious, are they not?" He nodded toward the children and she allowed him a smile.

"Yes. They most certainly are. They do not understand this trip, and I would prefer that it long stay that way. There is no need for them to be afraid."

The guard bristled. Though he worked for the King with devotion, he was kind and compassionate. "Inzillomì Elendili, we guards are no fools. Any tricks and your mounts will be given into the service of the King and his men. Should any mishaps occur this day, we are on a tight schedule and will not stop. Care should be taken by your people."

She looked at the man shrewedly. He knew of the fall, that much was apparent. What she did not know is if he had seen fit to share that knowledge. His eyes were kind... he understood their reluctance, and knew that a certain number of tricks were to be expected. He was young, but he was one of the brightest. "Sir, I thank you for your words of wisdom," she said, revealing nothing. "I can only hope that no more unfortunate accidents will happen... we cannot afford time lost, and I would hate to see a good man such as yourself blamed for our tardiness."

She walked back to camp to take a crying infant into her arms. He calmed quickly as she walked slowly beneath the trees. There will be no tricks this day... she thought. We cannot afford to draw suspicion... I can only hope that my Cerveth is safe and travelling quickly... There is nothing that I can do now to help...

[littlemanpoet]

Mabalar woke to a familiar scraping sound. Târik was placing his food and drink before him; the door to his cell was unlocked and open.

"How are you, my lord?" the young guard asked.

"My throat burns," he grated. "Otherwise, I am well." Mabalar coughed from the effort of speech, which was becoming rare in the last few days.

Târik held the jug of water for him. He took it in his hands and lifted it to his mouth; but the chains caught him up before he could reach his mouth. An exasperated sigh escaped his lips.

"Allow me," said the guard, taking it from his hands and raising it to his lips. Mabalar drank.

"My thanks. How is my steed?"

"Well cared for. You may be prisoner, but your horse is treated like royalty."

Mabalar nodded, satisfied and not altogether surprised. "Tell me of Tar Miriel."

Târik looked over his shoulder. "Not now, my lord, others are near. I must go." The young guard was soon gone and Mabalar was again alone. He ate the meager food he had been given. At least it was not crawling with vermin. He had heard stories about the dungeons of Sauron; and maybe they were true; it seemed that Miriel must have something to do with his fare. So be it. He thought of Kâthaanî and Inzillomi, and wondered how they fared.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomì thought longingly of her husband as she rode. His handsome face took up permanent residence before her eyes, leaving her to guide her mount simply by instinct. She listened vaguely to every sound in her vicinity, not taking much interest in them. Birds sang cheerfully at the heightening of the sun as tack jingled and children giggled. Adults were appropriately solemn as they left their homes for the unknown East.

Her eyes were bright, but she planned to blame it on the sun if she was asked. No sense in showing weakness, she thought cynically. She fell back to whisper in the ear of a tall man riding a fiesty stallion. He discreetly palmed the small bottle in her hand. Falling back farther, she rode beside the children and their watchers, taking a small girl into her saddle.

"Do you see, child?" she asked, directing the wee one's vision to a pair of bright birds dancing through the air. She kneed her mount into a prance, startling laughs from the girl. A cry broke through the air as a man fell from his saddle... the same man she had spoken to a short time ago. Passing the girl to the man next to her, Inzillomì quickly dismounted, running to the man. He lay on the ground clutching his ankle. He smiled weakly at the lady as she looked at him with grave concern. He moved his hands to show her a spreading bruise across his swollen ankle.

"You'll want to keep that covered with pressure," she whispered, motioning to the bruise. His purple palms went back to his ankle as he cringed against the swelling. An empty vial fell from his sleeve to be pocketed by Inzillomi. "Nîlozâira! We require your assistance." Inzillomi called as the party stopped, milling. The grandmother hobbled her way over to inspect the injury as the man lay stoically still. The guards kept a close watch as the old woman looked closely at the man, glancing sideways at Inzillomi.

"He'll need rest. No movement, that's for certain. Not unless you want to risk further injury." Standing, she looked down at Inzillomi and the man. "Get it bandaged and keep this man still. I'll need time to find my healing bag, buried as it is in those dreadful carts."

"How much time can we expect to waste?" asked a guard irritably.

"At least an hour." snapped the old woman. "Find my supplies yourself if you feel the need to hurry me, but don't blame me when this man never walks again just because you didn't want to wait a short time."

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion sat alone in his thin walled tent, quietly fingering the soft leather grip of his heavy sword. The thought of wielding such a weapon against a fellow Númenorean sent a shiver the length of his spine.

Tucking the sword back into his saddlebag, Marsillion, preparing to turn in, was surprised to see Azarmanô appear in his doorway. Before Marsillion could offer a greeting, the sea captain began. Marsillion listened carefully, relieved that the Captain harbored no grudge for the way Marsillion had handled the situation with the King's Men earlier in the day. The thought of alienating himself from the rest of the group had been wearing on him. He had considered apologizing to Azarmanô and Abârzadan, but had decided against it. After solving the situation earlier in the day, Marsillion felt he had thrust himself into the previously vacant leadership role in the party. It was a role that desperately needed filling, and grudgingly, Marsillion decided to take it upon himself. A leader must be strong. A leader must be respected, Marsillion had thought during the long, dull ride that afternoon. I can not apologize for actions that saved the lives of all, offensive though my actions may be. Pride can be regained, life can not. Very relieved was Marsillion to know that Azarmanô held nothing against him.

“Please come in and we can discuss these issues further,” Marsillion offered, waving vaguely into the tent. “Sit and be refreshed. I have some dried beef and smoked cheese if you will join me,” he said as the older man took a seat in the corner of the small leather tent.

“I greatly appreciate your company, as many of your concerns have been on my mind as well,” Marsillion stated, taking a bit of aromatic cheese from his saddlebag. “For your thanks I am grateful, no more so than for your convincing play of my servant." Marsillion said, cracking a smile. "You catch on quickly Captain.” Taking time to slowly chew a bit of dried beef, Marsillion thought on the matter of Thoronmir.

“Thoronmir is, as I think many political minds can be, a bit eccentric. Loyal to our cause he is certainly, yet I do wonder how long it will be before he pushes us back into the fire. He acted very foolishly yesterday, no denying it. Perhaps the two of us should approach him in the morning, for we can certainly ill afford him to endanger our mission so rashly again. Tell me, how did Abârzadan swallow the events of yestermorn? Do you trust him Captain? He is brave, almost to a point of admiration, but how can we trust him with our very lives? The time must soon come that the truth is wrung from this young drifter.”

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô stared at Marsillion a while and thought about the questions that he had raised. When he answered, he did so in a low voice so as not to attract the attention of the other men, particularly those whom he was speaking. The party had many dangers that threatened it from the outside; they could not risk having an internal rift split it from within.

“Yes, we must certainly approach Thoronmir and warn him against making such an impetuous decision in the future. Our chief goal must be to complete our mission alive, avoiding conflict if possible. The easiest way to Armenelos is not through bow and axe but stealth and cunning. I worry that some members of our party seem to forget that.

As for Abârzadan, he is more of an enigma to me now then he was at the start of our journey. He seems always dower and bitter, rarely speaking to anyone or attempting to strike up any sort of camaraderie with the other men. He seems distant in a way, separate from the rest of the group, as though he does not belong. Surely he is not of the Faithful, yet still he risks his life trying to save our leader. I have not seen very much of his face since the Faithful incident, but whenever I do see him, his countenance has been filled with disgust. In my heart I do not completely trust him, yet I can not bring myself to confront him. Perhaps it would be best for us to leave his history undiscovered. I do not think he would betray us, for he could have done so already. He is not dangerous as much as he is puzzling.”

Azarmanô yawned and blinked repeatedly, the weight of sleep resting in his eyelids. The day had been a long and eventful one, perhaps too long and eventful for Azarmanô’s taste. He hoped sincerely that tomorrow would be much more boring and commonplace than today: one close encounter with dying had been quite sufficient. He would be happy if he did not see another man of the king’s guard for the duration of the journey, although he had a sinking feeling that they would meet quite a few of them before all was said and done.

He focused his attention back on Marsillion and said, “I grow weary from our long day. I will go back to my tent now and we shall approach Marsillion together tomorrow morning and speak to him about his rash actions. I think it best if we keep a close eye on Abârzadan for now.”

He bid Marsillion a good night and returned to his tent, falling asleep as soon as he had burrowed into his warm bag.

[Himaran]

The following morning was bright and sunny, but the pleasent weather did little to raise Abarzadan's spirits. After it was announced that they were moving on, he quietly began to pack his few belongings. His poor mood was further doured upon finding that an animal had left a small surprise on his axe case, which had formerly been a beautiful item. He swore, and kicked it across the tent, only to find that the still wet fecal material splattered over the rest of his belongings. This evoked further rage, but the spell lasted only a few minutes. "Probably something Marsillion set up," he mumbled, surveying the now collosal mess.

Cleaning up was no easy task, but Abarzadan was glad that the others did not seek to know the cause of the brief ruckus inside his tent. Despite his anger over various issues, the man was happy that they were leaving - he wanted to get out of this wilderness and reach the city. Once there, the group was not a necessity to him. The man could leave descreetly if he so wished, and never return; after all, the "Faithful" were sailing away. It did not matter, really. They didn't want him anyway.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The skies had opened seemingly the second the group had left Rómenna. In what could only be described as a more and more predictable force of fury by nature, the rain drove into the riders and the ground, churning what seemed as much mud as the hooves of the kariborim. Inzi silently thanked the Valar for the good fortune. As uncomfortable and dirty as it was to ride in this weather (cleaning the mud from the tack would take hours), she knew that very few would set foot outdoors until the rain stopped. The fewer outside, the less likely the three were to be spotted. Ironically, it was just as she thought this, some two hours into the ride, that the rain suddenly stopped. She sighed, laughed at the fickleness of nature, and thanked the Valar for the bright sunlight that would have her dry in no time.

It was at this time that the three stopped to water their mounts and to set their plans in stone... or at least more in stone than they were now. After seeing to Kali, who she had retaken from Thoronmir after his disappearance, Inzi spoke to the two men.

"Brothers in this mission... thank you for allowing me to ride beside you. I'm afraid I must beg of you another favor... your ears, and your advice. It is somewhat um... less than prudent... for me to ride into Arminalêth such as I am. I would be recognized as a child of Elendil in a matter of moments, and as such, the wife of a political prisoner. Many know of me, and some actually know me as a person." She laughed hollowly, wondering why she had been so hasty in joining this expedition. She was a danger to them as she was... it must be remedied, and fast. "I propose a disguise, for myself at the least. I cannot ride to the city as Inzillomi, daughter of Elendil. I would have no reason to be there, and I would be too easily recognized, endangering the mission. What say you to me riding double with one of you... as a sister, or a wife? I can change the first impression of myself at need, but I am in need of a new identiy, it seems. What think you?"

[Himaran]

An instant after Lady Inzillomi finished her request, Abârzadan knew what was going to happen. The scheme forming in his mind was an uncomfortable one, to say the least, but appeared inevitable by all standards. The "sister" scenario would not work because Inzi did not even closely resemble either of the men. Furthermore, Azarmanô had a wife of his own. If he were recognized with his "new" partner, everyone's cover would be blown. This left only one option - Inzillomi would have to play Abârzadan's wife. As the other two waited in silence, the man let out a heavy sigh. He could already imagine the feat of explaining to Abârpânarú - a man he had never actually met before - that he was unofficially married to Inzi until the mission was completed. Still, they had no other options.

Clearing his throat, Abârzadan began speaking. He presented all three possibilities, and then cited enough evidence against the first two to thoroughly discredit them. "And so," he finished, "we are left with only one choice: Lady Inzillomi, you will have to pretend to be my wife for the remainder of our journey. No one there knows or remembers me, so the disguise will be quite effective." After a long pause, both Inzi and Azarmanô agreed. The man helped Inzi up onto their mount, and climbed up behind her. The trio was off at last.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The group had covered the many miles in a few short hours, riding into sight of the city at last. Inzillomi rode in what was far from normal to her, cradled in the arms of the stranger that was to be her husband. She had forced herself to relax; to act as though this were an every day occurence. She fell deep inside her own thoughts, listening to the sound of her breathing; counting the beats of her heart. To a stranger, she looked as though she'd been born to ride double with Abârzadan. Their ride had been mostly silent, with a few quiet comments about where to stop.

Now, outside Arminalêth, and just out of sight of the city walls, they studied their options. Every entrance was heavily guarded. The King's Men swarmed disturbingly in much the same way that good guys don't.

They dismounted, stretching their legs, and spoke quietly in the shadows.

"Now my doves," Inzillomi drawled drily. "we've arrived. How do you plan on getting into the city? Thoronmir, though he has not been seen in this area in quite some time, is a public face that many will know. I am the wife of Abârpânarú, and well known in my own right. Abârzadan, I know you little, so I could not tell how recognizable you are, but Azarmanô, it seems that you are the only of us that could enter unnoticed. I would recommend the sewers, gentlemen, but I have no doubt that they are watched as well. Are there, perhaps, servants' entrances that we could use with care?"

[Himaran]

Meneltarmacil's post

As much as Thoronmir wanted to find another way of doing things, he had to concede that Inzillomi's plan was probably the best one to work with. He spoke up.

"I do not really like to admit this, but Inzillomi's way is really the only feasable way of getting inside the city. The way through the tombs may work, though I think you will probably find the exit to be guarded. As for acquiring the uniforms, I already have some of their major components and had them brought here a while ago so they'd be ready when I'd have to leave. If Azarmanô could wear it, he may be able to enter a nearby camp and find two other uniforms without attracting a lot of attention. Afterward, we could bring Inzillomi through the gates without a whole lot of trouble, though Azarmanô would probably need to do most of the talking to avoid too much recognition."

~*~

Himaran's post

The group sat in silence, pondering the Lady's proposition. Risky indeed! How could they be sure that the true King's men would not take her from her "guards" and escort Inzillomi to a prison themselves? Furthermore, when news of her arrival spread, the Dark Priest himself would doubtlessly catch word of it, and the entire plan would unravel before their eyes. "My Lady," said Abarzadan, "I strongly disagree. It is too dangerous, for all of us. How do we know that you will not be removed from our custody and dumped in cell which we can never find? Then there will be two prisoners for our already weakened band to rescue." With that, he hunched down in the saddle, as if wearied by his short, passionate speech."

Azarmano exchanged glances with Inzi, and they nodded. The captain spoke softly to Abarzadan: "It is the only sure way to get us past the gate and into the city, and that is our first priority. Besides, Thoronmir here and I are well known, and guard outfits would be a convincing disguise." The former politician, who had just recently rejoined the group, nodded in approval. Abarzadan did not reply, but merely urged his horse forward, and the others followed his example. The four mounted travelers rode in complete silence, and soon arrived at the tombs. Here, their resolve would be tested yet again.

[littlemanpoet]

The cell was cold and dark. Mabalar sat on the floor, his back against the rough stone wall. He could not get the stink of burning flesh out of his nostrils, nor the sight of the dying man's agony from his mind. Yet again he shut his eyes tight against the images racing through his mind's eye; yet again it mattered not. The young man's face, writhing in agony and melting in the heat, burned in his mind.

"Curse you, Sauron," he mumbled with a dry tongue.

It seemed that he had one more day to live. He did not want to die, did not want to feel the seering flames eating his flesh. But that was as naught compared to his heart's will not to lie upon the altar beneath the gloating gaze of Sauron. It must not be! He realized that he was breathing hard with the strength of his desire. He calmed himself, slowly.

What were the chances of his being rescued? He was sure that his beloved daughter Kâthaanî would do all in her power to resuce him, whether he wished her to or not. He did wish it, especially if he could foil at least this small part of Sauron's plan, which had all the look of succeeding in every way imaginable. He saw little hope, and his throat clotted with it. The darkness of his cell and the red fire of the altar seemed to conspire to turn his heart to ashes.

Ah Elbereth! Gilthoniel! Hear me I beg you!
Let not the evil one win in all ways in these troubled days!
May there be found for me a secret path through the night
to a safe haven and into day's new light!

Even as he whispered his prayer, a dim light came into view far down the hall. It was Târik, bringing food and drink.

After he had come in and given Mabalar to eat and drink, and received his thanks for it, Târik asked, "How do you fare, lord?"

"I am alive, though my mind burns with the terrible things I have seen this night."

Târik nodded sorrowfully. "Aye. Tar Míriel sent me to you for the sake of your need. 'Tell him for me, "You are remembered from the uttermost West, and your task must be fulfilled. Do not lose hope."' And she bade me remind you that she has a small treasure that she would save from the doom of Númenor."

"Thank you, Târik. None have reached me here in the deeps of these dungeons with any word of aid. I can only hope."

Târik pursed his lips and nodded. "I will see what I can do on the outside come dawn." With that, Târik left him. And he found that the words of Míriel, and his own prayer, stayed in his memory, and assuaged the terrors. He slept.

[littlemanpoet]

Târik had brought food for Mabalar. The cell was dimly lit by his torch, and the young guard was cleaning his cell in such a way that it was no threat to Mabalar's health while it was made to appear filthy to other guards.

Mabalar swallowed and said, "I am hoping that I can trust you, Târik." He turned and faced Mabalar, waiting for him to speak.

"There is a friend who lives here. I want you to contact him."

"Lord," said Târik fervently, "do not trust me unless you are convinced of my faithfulness."

Mabalar nodded and smiled grimly. "Well said. Go to the market square and go to its center. There is a shop keeper. His name is Monôizindu Igmizadan. He is of average Numenorean height, wears a reddish beard, though that may not be the case any longer. He is past his prime but not old yet. A small scar can be seen across the bridge of his nose. He is a trustworthy man, and he knows people. Tell him that I sent you. Tell him that it is time to pay the weregild I have never held him to but he has held himself to, for I saved him from drowning when we were young. No other guards would know that. Go to him and ask him to learn what he can, and to see what he can do to aid my escape."

The young guard nodded. "I will do as you say."

[Meneltarmacil]

Thoronmir, Azarmanô, Inzillomi, and Abarzadan approached the entrance to the city. They were soon met by four armed guards.

"Permission to escort this one to the temple?" asked Azarmanô, who was wearing the uniform of an officer.

Thoronmir and Abarzadan came forward holding Inzillomi.

"As the wife of Abârpânarú, she must be wanted for tonight's sacrifice," Azarmanô continued.

The guards talked among themselves for a few minutes, and it seemed like the plan was going to fail when one of the guards said, "Permission granted. Lord Sauron will be pleased."

They proceeded toward the temple. Their bluff had worked, for now at least. Thoronmir, though, could not help but feel that it had been too easy for them to get in.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô rode his Karibor solemnly down the edge of market square, inching closer towards the temple that loomed ominously before them. He tried not to look, or even think, about that foul place, for it sent shivers of fear down his spine. The sacrifices of Sauron’s enemies that occurred there daily were notorious for their bloodshed and cruelty. Despite his courage, he felt horrified by the gruesome events on the altar. He vowed that the party would not allow such horrors to happen to Abârpânarú.

Slowly the group moved along the edge square, silent and plagued by anxiety. They were approaching the bowels of evil, the temple of the destroyer, home of Sauron himself. Try as he might to move through the city with stealth, Azarmanô noticed that an increasing number of people appeared to be staring at them. This is not good, he thought. The last thing the group needed was more attention. But the more he wished that people would simply forget he was there, the more people seemed to crowd the party, partially choking off their path forward.

“Out of the way,” he shouted in his best gruff soldier voice. “We must take this prisoner to the temple.”

The people, however, moved only slightly out of the way, leaving a narrow passage for the group to pass through. The party moved forward carefully on their horses, trying not to trample any of the people that obstructed the way. Most of the people stared menacingly at the female “prisoner” that the “soldiers” were leading forward in chains. The process of navigating through the throng of transfixed onlookers was painstakingly slow, much to the chagrin of Azarmanô, who longed for it to be over soon.

To make matters worse, many of the people who gathered did not feel content merely to gawk at the prisoner, but expressed their sentiments out loud as well. A chorus of raucous boos descended from the crowd directed at the prisoner. Exclamations of hatred vibrated through the air; two of the most prominent were “Death to the Faithful,” and “Kill the traitor.” One old woman with white hair and a brown dress that was dirty and tattered from wear threw a handful of mud at Inzillomí, soiling her blouse and shouting profanities. So much hatred, thought Azarmanô. Where does it come from?

To her credit, Inzillomí took the torrent of scorn with a remarkable degree of restraint. Not once during the downpour did she respond to the mob with the anger that had been showered upon her. She did not even flinch, always affixing her eyes firmly upon the ground, an expression of stoicism spread across her face. Azarmanô felt enormous pride in Inzillomí. He could imagine what inner strength she must have to endure such insults, but he did not expect any different from a person of such character as she.

One man, however, seemed to catch Azarmanô’s eye. He stood at the entrance of a pottery and hermetics store and wore a white apron across the font of his shirt, indicating he was the owner. The man had bright red hair and a full beard, each marked with several streaks of white that betrayed the fact his youth had passed. He did not join the crowd in their taunting, but preferred to remain apart, watching the events unfold from his doorway. When he saw the Lady being escorted to the castle in chains, his aloof demeanor changed to that of alarm and his eyes widened in surprise. For a moment, Azarmanô wondered what caused this reaction, but he turned his attention back to getting into the dungeon safely. Finally, after a prolonged struggle against the tide of the crowd, the group reached the entrance to the temple itself. They were going into the dungeon, and they would not be coming out again until they had rescued Abârpânarú, leader of the Faithful and, more importantly, a true friend.

[littlemanpoet]

It was midnight. Mabalar had eaten his fill and soothed his throat with cool, clean water. Târik stood just inside in Mabalar's cell, informing him that the unholy temple of Sauron was engorging itself on victims sacrificed to Morgoth.

"I asked of Tar Miriel last we spoke. Tell me of her now."

Târik nodded. Sorrow came to his face. "She suffers. Not by Sauron's or any man's hand. But she endures a living death. Faithful she is, but cannot show it or say it."

"Are you then Faithful?" Mabalar asked.

Târik's face became eager. "Aye, lord! I would flee this accursed isle with the Elendili had I the chance!"

Mabalar smiled grimly. It could be that the boy spoke the truth. He exhibited a naiveté that suggested idealism; but that could be a ploy of a devious mind. He would have to search out this boy's heart and make his own judgment.

"Tell me of the Queen."

"She hides deep within her rooms each night when the Temple is ablaze with its unholy red light. But in the morning she climbs the Meneltarma and looks west over sea. It matters not what the skies let loose, weather hail or storm or portentous thunder.

"The black sails of Ar Pharazon have long since disappeared beyond the horizon, but still she looks, but not for the King. I think she looks for some sign of mercy out of the West."

"None shall come," remarked Mabalar. "Not now that the fool has gone on his blasphemous quest."

Târik nodded. "Aye. She looks without hope, for she cannot cease. 'Tis an evil time to be the faithful queen of an unfaithful land and lord. I do not envy her lot."

There was a clanging noise down the corridor. Târik looked back fearfully. "I must not be seen here, my lord!" He passed out of the cell, locked the door, and slipped away. Darkness closed in as his torch disappeared around a corner.

Another dim light from another torch came slowly toward his cell. There were five guards. "Open the gate," ordered one. "'Tis this rogue's night to join the line. We shall see how hungry the altar is, eh?"

The guards laughed as they forced Mabalar to his feet and reclasped his chains so that he could take small constricted steps, surrounded by guards bristling with knives.

[Himaran]

Abarzadan awoke with a splitting headache. He had gotten them often as a child, when many a night was spent crying himself to sleep with both hands clasped to his forehead in a futile attempt to make them leave. Now, the pain only increased his poor mood. Each morning, he found himself with a group of strangers that he was following for an unknown reason. Pushing the nagging thought to the back of his mind, the man poured some water from his canteen onto an old rag, and pressed it to his forhead. The liquid was far from cold, and did little to numb the pain. Cursing, he tossed the useless scrap aside and stomped outside the tent. Unwelcomed sunlight hit his unajusted eyes, furthering his discomfort.

Glancing around, Abarzadan saw Marsillion dash out of the woods and bend over momentarily, catching his breath. The man motioned to everyone nearby, and called out to those not seen. Once the party had gathered, the self-appointed leader proceeded to relate the short tale of his run-in with the King's men, who obviously knew a lot more bout the group than any of them had anticipated. "A new plan must be constructed," Marsillion boldly stated, and looked around the circle, searching for suggestions. Azarmanô answered his silent call, and talked briefly about hiding out in a series of tombs. Just what I've always wanted to do.

Suddenly, Abarzadan had the feeling that many sets of eyes were boring into him. What, they think I'm a mole? That I tipped the guards off, and all this was due to me? Actually, the idea was not that far fetched. The man realized that he did indeed fulfill most of the requirements necessary for being spy; he was relatively unknown, yet had showed up at the captured man's house and presented himself as an old friend. Furthermore, he had indeed acted rather strangely recently. He decided to keep his mouth shut for the time being. Better not act like I know anything about the guards and their operations. I'll just sit this one out.

[littlemanpoet]

Mabalar was led through a maze of underground corridors, the guards' torchlight the only means to see. He lost all sense of direction as they roughly forced him to walk faster than his chained feet allowed. He tripped often and his knees and shins were streaked with blood. Far ahead he could hear someone shreaking in pain.

At last he was brought into a great dome, the inside of which was lit with red glowing torches. In the center of the dome was an altar on a dais. Standing by the altar was a figure in black. Mabalar knew who it must be. There was a fire on the altar and a stinking smoke rising to the dome's zenith. The figure turned toward him.

Mabalar saw those eyes. They pinned him where he stood. He lost all track of time as Sauron's probing eyes studied him. He felt as if he was being flayed by the tyrant's very glare.

"Bring him forward!" Sauron commanded.

The guards shoved him toward the altar. This was the moment he had dreaded. He caught his balance and did not fall. But now the guards were not forcing him beyond his chains' pace. It was as if they were reluctant to go too near the altar, as if they might be the next victim of the Dark One's whim. Mabalar had dreaded this moment, but now that it was upon him, he found that he was clear of mind and not afraid to die. He feared the pain only.

He came to the dais and climbed the levels, which were just barely within reach of the limits of his chains. The guards did not follow him.

"Ah, Mabalar Melethroch," Sauron whispered, "you see your doom."

[TomBrady12]

Marsillion listened attentively as the respected captain articulated his plan. It was solid, so far as Marsillion could tell, and at any rate, something must be decided immediately. “Very good Captain,” Marsillion said at the conclusion. Feeling the eyes of the party on him in this moment of decision laid heavily on the young man's mind as he strove with all his being for wisdom. Father, send me your guidance, he prayed as he began to speak.

“Your plan is well thought out my friend, yet let me add more. With no objections, the party shall hence forth be split. Captain Azarmanô, you shall lead Thoronmir and Abârzadan west with all speed toward Rommena. The King's Men will see you ride. Let them. With luck, they might presume that you have abandoned the mission and have gone to seek refuge. Ride hard, and hide not. Circle the city before approaching from the east. Disguise yourselves and enter the city in secret. As for myself, my noble cousin, and the brave Tiru, we shall ride slowly and secretively through the Valley of the Tombs. Halting and hiding often, we may be able to occupy the soldiers long enough for the rescue party to find and free my uncle,” Marsillion said, clasping his fingers tightly around his heavy leather belt, hoping none of his comrades would see the shaking of his hands. “Once inside the city, seek out Monôizindu Igmizadan, he may be able to aid you. Gentlemen,” Marsillion said, facing the three proud men of Númenor, “you are still free to leave. Your stake in this affair is small, yet you risk death. Proceed only if you feel you must.” The faces of the three remained still, the solidity of their resolve showing blatantly. Even the mysterious Abârzadan's face shown with grim determination. Seeing their faces hard as stone, Marsillion knew they would go on. “The speed and strength of Tulkas I wish for you,” Marsillion said quietly. “With the grace of the Valar, we shall all meet again soon.”

With that, camp was hastily broken, and the Kariborim readied. Shortly before leaving, Marsillion pulled Azarmanô aside to speak to him in private. “Captain, I thank you for your dedication to my family,” he said in a low whisper. “I ask you now for one last favor. Keep both eyes on this Abârzadan. How the King's Men know of our plans I do not know, but be sure Abârzadan is kept close.” Azarmanô's sharp nod was all the confirmation needed. With that the two men clasped arms briefly, and led their two parties off down the slow descent of the lone hill in separate directions.

[Meneltarmacil]

The party discussed their options. It was agreed that part of the group would ride as fast as possible to Romenna while the others would stay in Armenelos to rescue Abarpanaru. Thoronmir listened until Marsillion was through, then spoke once he had the chance.

"Marsillion," Thoronmir said. "A word with you, please?"

"Yes?" the other man said.

"No offense, but I really do not find the idea of running away from this place while Abarpanaru remains here appealing. I request that I be allowed to stay and help in the rescue effort. I know the layout of the city well and could be of some service to you here."

"No," said Marsillion. "I'm sorry, but it really would not be best to have someone as conspicuous as you wandering the city here. The King has already declared you a criminal, after all."

"You're probably right," said Thoronmir. "I suppose I'll start leaving. I wish you luck. I hope we meet again soon!"

With that, Thoronmir walked off to get ready to leave.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Inzillomi's eyes widened as she rode into view of the sea. Time was running short. Sails danced in the distant wind like captured clouds. The sea breeze tickled her face, teasing strands of her hair from her braid. Her skirts flickered gently about her ankles as she rode as slowly as humanly possible.

A guard trotted up beside her. "My lady, it is here that we leave you. Your party will continue on to Romenna... it is there, m'lady... just in sight. We will stay upon this ridge and watch... to make sure there is no trouble."

"I understand." she stated softly. He grasped her arm, looking into her eyes. Their horses danced, nervous to be so close.

"Inzillomi... may the Valar bless you and keep you in their sight." As her eyes widened in pleasant surprise, he blushed faintly and rode away, calling to the group.

"You will ride on! Our escort ends here. Romenna is there-" he pointed. "and you will reach it very swiftly. The lady Inzillomi assures me that arrangements have been made for your living. Ride straight to the shore. Farewell, and ride safely. I would hate very much to be forced to come after you."

With those final, seemingly uncaring, words, the guard of the King's Men gathered together, leaving the large group alone, and looking small and scared. Inzillomi dismounted, walking from family to family.

"We have made it, friends... In the distance you see Romenna... we will soon be in the company of my father, Elendil, and my brothers, Isildur and Anarion. Our trip has been long, and filled with unfortunate accidents... with luck, we shall find solace here. Come, my friends, and let us ride!"

With that, she mounted her mare once more, and rode onward to the city, the dignified head of a line of weary travellers. Varda may you light the path for my daughter, and the darkness for my husband. Aule, I pray for strength for us all... The time has come when our hastily conceived plans must come to fruition, or not. Eru above, please bless us and all of our endeavors.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Azarmanô opened the door for a second time. Now, however, he expected to find Lady Inzillomi on the other side and flashed her a warm smile. Her request required a long time to consider, but under the circumstances two hours of contemplation was all he had. He hesitated allowing the Lady to join the party because of the grave danger they would certainly encounter on their expedition into the Temple at Armenelos, layer of Sauron himself. The group was shattered, a mere fragment of the expedition that had set out some weeks before. After Thoronmir’s sudden departure, the only men remaining to accompany the lady were Abarzadan, in whom Azarmanô did not invest complete confidence, and himself. She would be an easy target to single out if they were ever engaged in combat, which he feared would be likely. With her husband close to being sacrificed and her daughter hiding from the royal guards, Azarmanô felt guilty about launching Inzillomi into yet another perilous situation. He could not bear to envision her being arrested by the king’s men and brought to a cell next to the one she loved, awaiting her blood to be spilt on the altar. If a tragedy should befall both husband and daughter, someone must remain to carry on the family name.

He could not plan for the future with great conviction, however, for his concerns were focused on the immediate. It was certainly true that Thoronmir’s departure could not have come at a worse time, but he was certainly glad that he had decided to rejoin the party in Romenna. His departure, however, had given Azarmanô pause to tust him, perhaps even less so than Abarzadan. What kind of fickle companion leaves a group on a whim only to rejoin them later? He did not know Thoronmir's motivation behind his actions, but he was certainly suspicious of them.

Azarmanô had occasionally heard from Abârpânarú that his wife preformed missions for the Faithful when another man was unavailable or ill. In fact, he had employed her aid on his exploits several times and used her as a contact and benefactor. This experience as an operative, he felt sure, would be extremely useful in their journey. She knew both how to conduct herself in the critical missions that they would encounter so as not to attract attention and how to escape from dangerous situations. He had even heard tales that she had wielded a sword once in combat and killed a man, although he questioned their validity.

But the one factor that motivated him in making his decision more than any other was not experience in battle, but trust. The sense of confidence he shared with her grew from their extensive service for the Faithful. The pair had to share a strong bond of confidence to work together, for death lurked in the vacuous shadows waiting for them. The only thing that saved the members of the Faithful in such treacherous times was their ability to find strength in and depend on one another. If he brought her along, he could count on her as a fellow Faithful to be devoted to the task until the end, regardless of what dangers they encountered along the way.

Not only could he depend upon her loyalty, but he knew that she had a stronger impetus to rescue Abârpânarú than even he had. It was her husband who was locked in the dungeon, about to be sacrificed at any moment. The bond of love is a stronger one than any other in the world, and those who have it will never let go until their spirits have left them. Such is how Azarmanô felt about his own wife and son whom he still vowed to see no matter what he must endure to reach them. Inzillomi must feel the same towards her husband who sat enslaved in the dank dungeon and only daughter who remained with Marsillion and Tiru somewhere near Armenelos. Azarmanô only hoped that he could reach the two before something horrible happened to either of them.

He now addressed Lady Inzillomi confidently, “My Lady, we would be honored if you could join our group to rescue Abârpânarú from Armenelos. It is not an easy request you make of me, for there shall be more danger now than ever. The group is split and our number is not as large as it was when we departed from your house at the beginning of the journey. However, I feel compelled to agree to your request because I place a trust in you that I am sure is not misguided. I know that in your prior missions for the Faithful you have displayed your bravely in the face of evil, and you shall do so again in this one. Now that I have warned you, it is best for us to be off. We must make haste, for precious lives hang delicately in the balance. You and Abarzadan will ride together and I shall ride the other Karibor. I have told Thoronmir to rejoin us outside the gates of the city.” Without waiting for a response, if indeed one was forthcoming, Azarmanô mounted his horse and motioned for Abarzadan and Inzillomi to do likewise. “Away,” he shouted before galloping with speed out of Romenna and towards Armenelos and the temple of Sauron.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Thoronmir’s revelation had both surprised and excited Azarmanô. He was so elated they already had a guard uniform that a large, amiable grin spread across his face. Now there would be no need to hide in the bushes and hope that they would not be seen. He formulated a plan exactly how he would steal the necessary clothing. Once he had finished planning, he approached Thoronmir, Inzillomi, and Abarzadan.

First, Azarmanô addressed Thoronmir, “I wish to borrow your guard uniform. I thank you for your generosity. The disguise will be indispensable to our mission.”

Turning to the rest of the group, he continued, “Tonight I will don the uniform and ride my Karibor away from our camp. I will find a group of soldiers, take their uniforms, and return by morning. Fear not for my safety: I am completely confident my tactics will succeed. This mission must be completed by one man only, but I swear that you shall see my face once more before the sun rises. Goodbye for now then.”

After putting on his grey tunic and sliding a shirt of light weight plate mail over his head, he lowered the metal helm onto his head with its fair yellow hair. He mounted his horse and rode with some regret away from the group. Azarmanô did not enjoy separating himself from the others to accomplish his task, but could envision no other way of doing what he must. He intended to fulfill his promise of returning before the morning just as he felt determined to observe the vow he had made to his wife before she left that they would meet again on the boats in Romenna.

It was not hard to find a contingent of the king’s men close by. The sky was now dark and a glowing light diffused from a large campfire that had been made a distance away. Quickly, Azarmanô began to ride towards the blaze, suspecting that it was the camp of soldiers. After traveling a short distance, he could see the outline of three guards who appeared to be eating dinner. Azarmanô could smell the savory smell of hot beef stew, which appealed to him greatly because he was voracious from skipping dinner.

He stopped in front of what appeared to be the leader judging from the prominent golden insignia that he displayed on his helmet. As an extra precaution Azarmanô attempted to disguise his voice, using a gruff, coarse tone.

“Where have you been? My captain sent me to your squadron because we had too many men and not enough supplies for all of them. I am to join your unit now.”

“Yes,” said the captain casually, “Well it looks as though we have no choice. In any case, we have room for one more man in our camp. We will be gathering more suspicious villagers for a mass sacrifice at the temple tomorrow morning. Sit now and eat.”

Azarmanô grimaced at the thought of such an atrocity and the horrible carnage that the dawn would bring. He would ensure that such carnage would never occur under any circumstances.The beef stew tasted as good as it smelled, filling and satisfying his ravenous hunger that had afflicted him since morning. After dinner, the men told stories of the encounters that they had experienced earlier that day. Several times they referred to the “mongrel faithful” and all of their “criminal behavior” and Azarmanô was forced to suppress the wellspring of anger that rose slowly within him, albeit with difficulty. The soldiers grew more weary as the night wore on and until the men retired, yawning profusely, to their sleeping sacs beneath the star speckled night sky. Azarmanô followed suit with the other soldiers and slipped into the sac that was provided for him. The evening was cool and somewhat windy, but not uncomfortably chilly from within a warm sleeping sac, which more than made up from the stench of sweat.

He waited for what seemed to be two hours in his sac until he was certain that all of the men were asleep. He rose from his bed knowing what he must do now, despite his serious misgivings. The soldiers must be eliminated, for if he let them live then they would take their revenge against the nearby village. Moreover, having seen his face, every soldier within an enormous radius around the city would be hunting for him, rendering the rescue mission impossible. Not only would this endanger his life, but the lives of his entire group. No place would be safe for them to stay for long with the king’s men chasing close behind. It was the only way to get the uniforms without alerting the entire force of guards to their presence.

Drawing his long, black oak bow he silently shot an arrow into the face of each of the gaurds so as not to damage the uniform. The process was quick, each arrow he fired in quick succession at the soldiers that lay engrossed in slumber. His skill and precision with the bow ensured that the process did not create much noise. He tried not to think of the families that these men belonged to or the wives that they left behind, like his own, but the thoughts seeped into his mind nonetheless, and heightened his ambivalence. He cleared these thoughts from his head by reassuring himself that it was simply a mission to steal uniforms and protect many villagers from certain death, but the doubts still plagued him.

Azarmanô stripped the corpses of their raiment, including the metal helmets that the soldiers had taken off before heading to sleep. After the process was complete, Azarmanô had pilfered three of the four guard uniforms, including the captains, which he planned to wear himself. He dragged their bodies one by one to the edge of a steep cliff and threw them into a covered wooded ravine with thick, tall grass. From the top of the precipice, Azarmanô could see no signs of their bodies. Somberly, he extinguished the fires by pouring large fistfuls of sand into the dying blaze, leaving a large pile of ash in its wake. As promised, he traveled back in the camp just as the sun rose above the horizon, the harbinger of a new day.

[Himaran]

Abarzadan, Inzillmi, and Thoronmir crouched among the tombs, waiting for Azarmanô return. All were worried; how could one man, even a great warrior, sneak in and out of a guard camp unscathed, all the while purloining four uniforms and remaining unseen. Given the group's previous experiences with the King's men, the whole plan definitely leaned toward the side of foolishness, if not pure madness. Yet go Azarmanô did, for good or for ill, and the others could only wait for one of two things: his appearance, or the passage of enough time to rule out the possibility of him succeeding (and surviving).

It was early morning at the small campsite, and all three were hungry. They ate a quick cold breakfast; no fires could be lit this close to the city, especially when the members of the company had yet to disguise themselves. Afterwards they repacked the food, and tried to find something productive to do. In reality all they did was toy with various objects and worry about Azarmanô and his mission, but each managed to put on a good show of being busy.

Abarzadan's heart leapt when he heard branches snapping in the distance. Motioning to the others, he readied his now very over-polished axe and crept forward to see who the intruder might be. He then relaxed and lowered his weapon as the familiar face of the captain became visible over the rise. "Over here!" he yelled, and all three hurried to meet their friend, very much the hero returning with the sun.

[Regin Hardhammer]

The situation had seemed bleak when Herugor had first surrounded the group. Greatly outnumbered and completely surrounded, Azarmanô began to fear in earnest. It seemed that nothing could save them now. But then, at the utmost moment of despair, Elendil had come with a mighty force of mounted faithful from the east to their aid. Inzillomi had pulled something out, but he had not been close enough to see the object, and soon she covered it again. It had been raining steadily for hours, making the ground slippery and transforming the dry dust into thick mud that the horses plowed through as fast as they could. Worse even than the rain, hail the size of small stones and nearly as heavy pelted the weary travellers. In spite of these dreadful elements, Azarmano felt extremely grateful to be alive after the party's near elimination by Herugor and his men.

Azarmanô was extremely grateful to see Elendil, but he wondered how he had received news of the goup's plight. For now, Azarmano remained content with being saved, but he decided to ask Elendil about the matter later. Azarmanô also longed to enquire about his wife and son who had already boarded Elendil’s ships, but decided against it. After all, Elendil probably had never even seen them, or if he had, didn’t know who they were. He did, however, introduce himself to Elendil, describe the group’s successful rescue, and offer him his sincere thanks.

“Arabapanu is a great man and an asset to the faithful. It is I who owe you a debt of gratitude," replied Elendil. "Now come, we must reach the ships before the island sinks into the sea. Make haste.”

The party galloped swiftly toward the harbor of Romenna where ships lay waiting to take them away. They had a healer with them, but no time to properly attend to Kathaani’s wounds. She had been taken away some days before and rode ahead of the main group with some other officers. Azarmanô wished that there was some action he could take to help her, but realized that nothing could be done until the Faithful reached the ships. If they waited for Kathaani to recover, none of them would make it out alive. Azarmano worried constantly about Kathaani and wished he could have seen her. Was she worse or had she improved since Azarmano last wrapped that bandage around her wounded shoulder? He did not know. But he felt sure that if she did not reach the ships soon, she would die. So the party pressed on, traveling for hours on end without stopping to eat and halting only for very brief rests. Azarmano hoped that Kathaani would still be alive when they boarded Elendil's ships in Romenna and left Numenor before the island sunk beneath the waves.

[Meneltarmacil]

Feanor of the Peredhil's post

Kâthaanî Karibzir was remembering, or was she dreaming? It hurt to breathe and she could not tell. She knew that one candle burned beside her: the dim flickering softly illuminated her eyelids, and she heard the music of hoof beats to accompany the rhythm of the flickering pink before her closed eyes.

It had been a diversion. She and Marsillion had ridden away with faithful Tiru to travel to Armenelos... to be the visible group of rescuers. Kâthaanîhad never dreamt that she or her companions would need rescuing.

Like moths drawn to a soft lantern in the deepest hours of the night, they had been so easily caught by the King's Men. She tried to groan at the thought, but no sound emerged. She could sense that she was not alone, though whoever sat by her made no sound. She could not open her eyes... not yet.

A cell. The cold walls glimmered with dampness in the sparse torchlight. She was chained to the wall, alone but for the rats that moved toward her stealthily as she slept. In her mind she shuddered. They had put Marsillion in another part of the dungeon. Tiru had been taken away with him. Kâthaanî had nothing save the tortured screams of those on the Dark Lord's dreaded altar to sing her sweetly into dream at night.

She was cold. Was it dream or waking? Voices made their way softly to her ears. They soothed her, though she could not understand the words. The cold stone wall chafed her skin as she leaned closer, straining for sound. The voice was unknown to her. Did she only imagine the comforting tone that found its way to her ears? The essence of the message... do not despair... it sang a soft counterpart to the groans of the slowly dying. A dream? she could not tell. Hours had run into days that were interchangeable with seconds. The monotony of darkness was broken only by blinding torchlight that guided doomed men to their fate. She wept at the cruel injustice. She wept for her father, a brave man, a good man, more helpless even then her to stem this slaughter, if only because he had had the longer understanding of it. She wept for the malice in the eyes of the guards that brought her meals, denying her even the smallest word of hope or sunlight. She prayed to the Valar for their redemption, though she never spoke.

It hurt. A sharp pain in her chest, just below her ribs. She was wounded. Inexplicable warmth flooded the area with pain as memories sought to repress reality. A hand took hers none too gently. Her chains unfastened from the wall, she was pulled from her cell and ordered to stand. She tried and fell, her muscles screaming in protest. Kâthaanî was dragged through the halls of the dungeons as she tried in vain to block the vicious light from her eyes.

She was thrown to the steps of the altar and she lay there until pulled and held to standing. Only then did Kâthaanî take in the sight: Marsillion stood bound, his eyes red and swollen, Tiru beside him. Abârpânarú stood, his shoulders stooped, his expression bereft of hope. Kâthaanî's heart stirred. She had failed her father. Her own impetuosity had betrayed her. Now, not only would her father die, but he would be forced to watch his beloved daughter tortured to death before it. Tears stained Kâthaanî's cheeks as she silently whispered "I am sorry" to ears that could not hear.

While on the journey, Kâthaanî had acted rashly... as a child. She had forced herself upon this mission with little right, and what had she to show for it? She had not saved her father... simply caused him more heartache. He would willingly die to save her... she had never so fully understood the implications of this until now... now, when death loomed near. Would they die fast? She could only hope that Abârpânarú would die first, though it pained her to think it, to be spared the tragedy of the ending of his daughter's life.

Was it ending now? She could not move. As a child, Kâthaanî had fallen from a horse, bruising her head. The feeling had been the same then, twining as a cat through now and then. It had only taken the voice of her father to tie her to reality. She wished he was here. She had seen him fall. Her mother had come. These moments melted together until she wondered how she had come to be riding double with Inzillomì. A strong arm had pulled her from the saddle and she rolled to her feet, knife in hand. As her mother looked on in horror, Kâthaanî had tried and failed to prevail once more. She fell to the ground with a scream as unforgiving metal pierced her flesh. It hurt like nothing that she had ever felt, unpityingly reminiscent of the harsh, bone-chilling ache that had once descended upon her after falling through ice... only worse... much worse. She could feel the chill radiating from the wound; it spread through her without boundary and with immediate effect: she lay frozen in fear. The candle flickered, going out. Voices sounded. Kâthaanî lay bleeding and her last thoughts were of her mother: her father had been saved from his daughter's death only for the witnessing to be given to Inzillomi. The world faded from memory.

"Kâthaanî." spoke a voice. "Kâthaanî, hold on." It was her father. He had helped her to safety when Izri came.

"Kâthaanî, speak to me." His voice was charged with worry. Why did the ground shake like this? Why did her dreams lie? Abârpânarú had not ordered her to speak in Armenelos.

"My Cerveth, my love, I am here." A hand took hers. Kâthaanî clasped Izri's reins.

Inzillomì looked at her husband in fear as she held her daughter’s icy hand within her warm ones. On their arrival to Romenna, the guard in charge of Kâthaanî had reported that her condition was worsening. Her breathing had slowed, her face was white. Her wound no longer bled, but the healers, not Elendil in the least, believed the offending sword to have been tipped with poison. She lay now unaware of the world... or so it seemed to her parents.

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littlemanpoet's post

Mabalar knelt by Lothlômé, watching Cerveth intently as their daughter's life slipped away. They were safe in the hold of Elendil's ship, already moving ahead of a strong wind, which was gaining strength with each minute that passed. The roar of the wind and surf grew louder outside, but did not drown out the sound of Cerveth's shallow breathing, nor the sound of Mabalar's own beating pulse in his ears.

"Cerveth!" Lotha called. Mabalar took up the call, holding his wife's warm hand in his left, and his daughter's cold, cold hand in his right, completing the circle the three of them made.

If sheer will were enough to bring her back, she would be whole and laughing with them this moment. But there was nothing he could do.

Elendil had seen to the binding of her wound, and had spoken gravely of poison. He had tried to prepare them for the worst.

Mabalar was not prepared. "Cerveth! My dear! Stay with us!"

Tears stained Lotha's face. His eyes were painfully hot and dry. He refused to let his daughter die.

"Cerveth!"

She was so pale. Her breaths came shallow and ragged, and too few. Mabalar's heart beat heavy doom in his breast; but he refused to accept what his heart told him.

"No!" He dropped his wife's and daughter's hands, rising. "This was not meant to be!" He stood rigid, his hands fisted, the muscles in his legs knotted, his stance wide against the movement of the ship. He looked westward. "Mandos!" he yelled. "Take me instead!" Anything to save his precious Cerveth. "Let me have the sword thrust and the poison! Spare her!"

But Mandos gave him no sudden wound, no exchange of place or pain, no vision; not even a sound.

Mabalar fell to his knees again, and looked again at Lotha's anguished face.

His throat clenched on his words as he murmured, "I do not want to lose her," and he wept. For long moments, husband and wife hung upon each other, their shared grief their only comfort.

"Mama! Papa!" The voice came to their ears barely above a whisper, using their names from her childhood.

"Cerveth!" They knelt again by her side, hoping against hope that she was reviving.

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Meneltarmacil's post

Having escaped Herugor's last attack, Thoronmir and the others rode into Romenna. There was no time to stop anywhere; they had to get to the ships.

"All right, we're here," Thoronmir said. "Kathaani is seriously injured and needs to be tended to on the way."

Thoronmir caught something out of the corner of his eye. For a moment it appeared as if a man in a dark cloak was climbing into one of the other ships. However, Thoronmir looked again and there was nothing.

"Are you all right?" one of the sailors asked."

"I thought I saw a strange man getting on one of the other ships."

"Nobody could do that without us noticing. Come on, we have to get out of here now."

With everyone aboard, the fleet started to sail away. Thoronmir breathed a sigh of relief as they escaped the island, now engulfed in flames.

[Regin Hardhammer]

As he boarded the ship, Azarmanô breathed a deep sigh of relief. Finally, after all this time and all the dangers that he had faced, he was in Romenna, standing by one of Elendil’s vessels bound for the mainland. Their mission was now complete. They had saved Abârpânarú, now fully conscious, from being sacrificed on the altar of Sauron. It had not been an easy task, certainly with its share of near death experiences, but he could not have refused the mission for any reason in the world. That sense of duty came from the common bond that all of the Faithful shared with one another, one of trust and unity. The group never left anyone behind to be overtaken by the enemy. They could not spare a single man in the battle against Sauron. But for Azarmanô, there had been more in this mission than loyalty to the faithful. Azarmanô saw Abârpânarú not only as the leader of the Faithful but also a dear friend, one that he had known for a very long time. Azarmanô could not bear the thought of a person so dear to him being slaughtered by Sauron in Armenelos while he did nothing. No, he would never have refused, not even to remain with his family on the ships.

But what a joy it would be to see his loved ones again. Azarmanô had thought of them so often during his journey, he wondered if the actual meeting could ever live up to the image that he had created in his head. Especially when he had been in danger or was forced to do something difficult, like killing, the thought of his family waiting for him had provided both motivation and a soothing balm for pain. As he ascended the ramp of the ship, he wondered if they too had been thinking of him while he had been away. Would they still look the same as he remembered them before he boarded his ship? He knew that people could not change their appearances completely in a matter of weeks, but the time they had been separated felt so much longer. Seeing Inzillomí reunited with her husband made him yearn to see his own wife even more. Today, he hoped, he would get that chance.

At first, he could not find them amid the throng of people that were crammed into the ship. He searched frantically for them everywhere, wondering fearfully if he had boarded the wrong vessel. But finally, he spotted the pair from across the room, sitting in a corner. Night had come and Thoron’s head rested on his mother’s lap. Apprehensively, Azarmanô approached his family, who seemed at first not to notice him.

“Pardon me, my lady,” said he in an overly formal polite manner, “Is the seat next to you taken.”

Her face lit up like a beam radiating from the sun as it rises in the morning. She embraced him, kissed his cheek, and cried tears of both joy and relief. He returned the favor, remaining locked in her embrace, smiling profusely. He did not cry, though he felt just as happy and relieved on the inside as she displayed on the surface.

“Yes sir,” said she “I think we have room for one more. Please take care not to wake the child, for he needs the rest. He is my son, you know,” she added with a laugh. They both shared a fine appreciation for humor in unusual situations.

Yes, he was indeed glad to be back with his family. He felt as if an enormous burden had been taken away from him, as if he suddenly became much stronger. His heart, although leaping with mirth at seeing his son and wife, could not help but feel strained as the Island sank to the ground, rumbling and burning. He deeply pitied those people still on the ground, descending slowly into a watery grave at the bottom of the sea. If only there was some way to save them. But Azarmanô knew that there was hope now neither for Numenor, nor for the people still standing on it. And although he could not bring himself to forget his homeland, he must not allow all his thoughts to be haunted by its death. Although the age of Numenor was over, Azarmanô and the rest of the Faithful were entering a new time with fresh promise and opportunity. Just a few more moments and the ships would be on their way.

One thing which he could not forget was Kâthaanî. She seemed to be worsening as the trip wore on. Her parents worried over her limp body, unconscious but still breathing, and attempted to give her the best medical attention they could. Although they had begun to despair, Azarmanô had encouraged them not to give up hope. Kâthaanî was a strong girl, she had fought with bravery in battle, and she would fight with courage against death. Beyond lending her parents emotional support, there was not much assistance Azarmanô could give her. But every hour that Kâthaanî stayed alive on the boat was one more hour that she was fighting. As long as she never gave up, and Azarmanô prayed that she didn’t, her family could still cling to hope. One day, hopefully soon, she would wake up and look into the eyes of her suffering parents once more, telling them that she was all right. Maybe that day would be tomorrow, or maybe it would be in a week. But one day, he told himself emphatically, it would arrive, and they could all breathe a little easier.

[piosenniel]

Feanor of the Peredhil's post

Images raced through her mind chaotically: lightening struck a tree and it burst into flame; black sky; crows perched in wait on dead branches as the party road swiftly from Armenelos; freezing rain tearing through softly churned mud, and hoofbeats sounding as a voice cried to the Valar for mercy.

Torn from dream, Kathaani responded hesitantly, first trying and failing to move. Grimacing against her frozen numbness, Kathaani shifted her head slightly and opened her eyes: Lothlome knelt weeping on the cold wooden floor. Mabalar stood, unreachable in his grief, with arms raised to the heavens. Kathaani choked back a sob. Once again, her father's voice had called to her through the mists of pain, chasing away the weakness that threatened to over-power her. She longed to be a child again... to hear his assurances and to truly believe that in a short while, everything would be fine. Kathaani took a breath and was dismayed to feel her lungs expand but a little, and that with effort. She marveled: she could no longer feel her wound... only the tightly bound bandaging keeping the blood where it belonged. Where had the pain gone? It had been excruciating... all of her consciousness was tied to it and now it was gone, replaced by nothingness... not warmth or cold; no memory of feeling. Simple existence. Had she not remembered so vividly... had she not felt the tightness of the bound cotton... she would have thought it all a dream. She took another small breath, feeling the bindings expand.... no... she thought... it was not the bandages that compromised her breathing. She swallowed nervously, trying once more. Her body shook slightly with the effort of inhaling. It felt as the the air did not reach further than her breastbone, lodging there and denying Kathaani the simple relief of full lungs. She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut against what she guessed was happening.

"Mama... papa...?" she spoke hesitantly. Her voice was faint, not at all reminiscent of the strong tones she had so often adopted. The words were aspirated, a full breath necessary for each. She set her jaw stubbornly against the tears that strayed but a short distance from her eyes.

Mabalar and Lothlome started and looked to their daughter, frightened to hope, fearful not to. She smiled slightly for a brief moment before closing her eyes to concentrate on breathing freely. Softly... softly... she spoke to herself silently; promising that what she could foresee would not come to pass. She could feel it deep within her chest... she wanted to vomit at the horror of the sensation but sheer will now kept her in place. She felt her hands enveloped by those of her parents. I can not... I will not...

"Papa..." she began. She choked, chest convulsing slightly. Her father swept her into his arms and she heaved several times, each time denying her broken body its will. Exhausted, Kathaani sank against her father limply, holding her breath against the cough that lay in wait.

"Just breathe, my sweet... take your time and breathe..." murmured Lothlome as she smoothed a stray lock away from Kathaani's face. Mabalar still held her close, much as he had all those years before when his crying little girl required strong arms to hold her and let her feel safe and a soothing voice to calm her. Breathing shakily, she turned slightly to better fit against the contours of his arms, laying her head against his chest.

Mabalar kissed Kathaani's hair, murmuring to her. "Inzi's safe, my dove, they're all safe. You did it."

She looked up at his face, cherishing the warmth of her mother’s hands as they held hers, softly rubbing them with her thumbs. She began to cry, shaking her head. "No..." she whispered, "it wasn't me... none of it... it wasn't me."

"Of course it was my darling." he whispered to her. "You initiated the mission... yes, shh..." he held her closer as Lothlome sat beside them. She wiped away her daughter's tears with gentle hands as he continued. "Yes... they told me everything, love. It was you who told them of my capture. It was you who rode to rescue me. It was you who were imprisoned on my behalf. And it was you who escaped."

Kathaani wept more softly now. "But papa... I didn't... they were safer without me..."

Lothlome spoke now. "My Cerveth.... my love, do you underestimate me? Would I have sent you if I thought you were a danger to the mission? My love… it was so important that you ride to save your father… and look before you… you did."

Tears now came to Lothlome as well and her voice cracked into silence. Kathaani coughed violently now, spitting up blood. Mabalar held her close as Lothlome calmly wiped away the mess.


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Himaran's post

The streets of the city by the shore were all but deserted. Most of the inhabitants of the faithful's haven were already getting situated on the ships. Abârzadan hurried down the street, finally reaching his mansion. Having misplaced the gate key at some point on his adventure, he climbed over the iron fence and hopped down into the yard. When he reached the front door, the man took hold of the knob, turned it slightly to the right, then to the left, than back again. It creaked open, allowing him to enter. Hurrying about the house, Abârzadan gathered a few clothes, most of his weapons, and the most precious artifacts and heirlooms. In the new world he was headed for, Numenorean currency would have little or no value. Then he proceeded to his study and gathered everything he could find that was related to Numenor; its history and culture specifically. The island would soon be destroyed, but he did not want all memory of it to be lost. Then he noticed the swords and star of his house. The House of Batânzâira.

Suddenly the events in Armenelos made perfect sense. Abârzadan thought back to the voting record. The House of Batânzâira had hindered the King's movements at every turn. It stood for freedom and justice, not power and control. That was why it had been persecuted and killed off - all except for himself and his father. Perhaps until his very dying day, Abâranâ had not wanted to even tell his son the truth, for fear that he might try and avenge his house and be killed in the process. But as the disease at last took hold of him, he decided that he had to give his son a chance to discover the truth about the destruction of Batânzâira. And that was exactly what he had done. He had completed his father's last request, and freed himself from its curse. Assaulted by visions of the past too painful to bear, the man collected his things and proceeded to the entrance. Shutting the door firmly behind him, Abârzadan found his cart, loaded it with his packages, and pushed it up to the gate. Unlocking it, he tossed the spare key into the yard and left the manor once and for all.


***


His companions had been pleased to see him, although Abârzadan did indeed wonder if they weren't just glad that he had returned Kali safely. They were all distracted at the moment, for Kâthaanî He was given comfortable quarters on the flagship, and found enough room to store all the literature he had brought. Roaming the deck, he watched as the storm covering the island worsened. Horns sounded. The ships began to move off. Everything that he knew and loved was getting further and further away. But then a thought struck him. He had survived, and with him, the House of Batânzâira.

A man approached him. He looked tired and distraught, but still noble. "Are you the one they call Abârzadan? The others tell me that you played a part in my rescue. For that I am grateful."

"It was my honor, sir."

"Pardon me for asking, Turmeawa, but how is it that you know me?"

Here Abârzadan merely smiled. "Ah, perhaps you have forgotten. I used to buy horses from you..."


***


And thus is the story of Abârzadan Batânzâira. His is different from the others in this tale, for he had a personal journey far more important than that of saving a man he never knew. Abârzadan helped with the construction of what would later be known as Minas Tirith, where he settled down and married another survivor of Numenor. His bloodline, and the House of Batânzâira, would eventually spread throughout all of Gondor. At the end of all things, the swords and star survived.