Romennie by Kaylee Arafinwiel

Romennie was different. She was always different - Atar's favourite daughter, his baby. She didn't realise there was anything wrong with her, even when it was obvious to everyone else that she lived in a world of her own. She was actually older than me, but never acted like it, though her body matured. Romennie was always going to be simple. Our two older sisters knew that, and treated her gently.

Not everyone would.

Elendil, one of the leaders of the secret Faithful and a chief counsellor to the King, was our grandfather. He knew that Zigur, the highest counsellor, speaks with a serpent's tongue. And because of Zigur, a temple has been raised to the Lord of Night, the Master of Darkness. Giver of Freedom, Zigur tells Ar-Pharazon. Lord Elendil says he speaks false.

But whether false or true, this truth I know; Romennie was playing at my side when the message came. Twenty-five and not yet wed, she played with me as though she, too, were a child of ten. But we ceased our play when They came.
The messengers of Zigur.

Romennie was sent for, to serve at the Temple. It was a high honor, Zigur entreated, for one so pure and innocent as Romennie to serve the Giver of Freedom. And the King willed it.

Atar looked to Lord Elendil for guidance, and Lord Elendil gathered Romennie in his arms, and kissed her brow. 
"Be blessed, dearest child," he told her. "Freedom will come soon, it is my hope, though not by the Deceiver's hand. Have hope, my child, that we will meet again as Eru wills."

Romennie didn't understand - I knew that - but I did.

The messengers of Zigur took Romennie away. I could do naught but watch.
And in the morning, Anor's light was obstructed by the black smoke that came forth from the Temple. Sacrifice, done for the Giver of Freedom.

Romennie's sacrifice.

That day, I became a man, for I could no longer be a child.

He had taken Romennie, but he would not take me. Not so long as I, Meneldil, could fight.

“Come here, my child.”

He looked at her, my master – this trembling Child of Men, so cruelly used – and held out his arms, giving her a loving smile. His amaranthine eyes were soft now; a violet light emanating from him that was peaceful and soothing despite his forbidding black robes. She stood before him, approaching with tentative steps, unsure – and flung herself into his arms, needing the comfort, needing to trust.

“You’re not Atto,” she said softly, and he shook his head.

“Nay, my child. I am not. I am Lord Námo, of whom you have perhaps heard.”

Her grey eyes widened. “I…dead,” she said slowly, and he nodded, stroking her hair.

I watched as my master held this precious Child, more vulnerable than most. “Yes, my child, you are dead,” he confirmed. “But death is merely a new beginning, Little One. There is naught to fear now; no pain, no sadness. Be comforted, Romennie. The hard part is all over now.” He kissed her on the brow, and she shuddered, weeping. I knew she was not hurt – she was experiencing Joy, and Love, a small portion of the Divine which would hold her once she entered the Presence at last.

Once she had calmed, he set her on her feet. “You do not have to stay here, Romennie,” he said softly. “You may go now into the Presence, if you so wish. Indeed, you cannot remain here forever, for it is not Mortals’ lot. But you may wait for a time, if there is something you wish of me.”

“I want Atto,” she said plaintively, “and Ammë. And my sisters, and Menel.”

My lord Námo nodded thoughtfully. “Thou hast until the passing of Meneldil son of Anarion to remain,” he agreed. “Until then, child, sleep and be comforted.” He beckoned me closer.

“Calimo, take the Child to her rest.”

I bowed. “Yes, my lord. Come, Little Sister.” So saying, I led Romennie, daughter of Anarion, to her sleeping chamber and settled her in. In Mandos, Time mattered not; she might sleep for decades, perhaps a century, before her wish were fulfilled. But for now, she would rest peacefully at last.