Nightfall in the West by Corsair_Caruso

15th of March, 3319, Second Age of the Sun.
Ar-Minalêth, capital of Anadûnê, that was called also Armenelos, capital of Numenor.

Ar-Pharazôn stood on the balcony of his personal chambers, his hands spread on the polished, silver railing as he looked out over Ar-Minalêth. A foul wind blew from the west, bringing air heavy with the scent of smoke arising from the temple, the stench of offal and refuse from the lower quarters of the city, all mixing with the fresh smell of rain and the killing odor of lightning. As thunder rumbled in the distance, the mighty king turned his faded blue eyes up to the sky, hoping for a glimpse of his illustrious ancestor reigning as brightest of the stars, but inky clouds blocked his view, dimly lit by the many lights and fires of the city below.

He turned his back on the view that served only to remind him of his frustrating, precarious position: suspended between the earth below and the heavens above, denied even a glimpse of what was rightfully his by the machinations of the "Lords of the West."

He left the balcony with weary, heavy steps, returning to the luxury of his bedchamber. He folded his arms across his bare chest, somewhat chilled by the cool breeze and the cold marble at his feet, that sent a dull pain through his bones, before giving way to thick, lush rugs. He sat down on his bed, sinking into its feather mattress, catching a glimpse of his weathered face in the mirror, but avoiding looking too closely. He seldom felt a need to examine the damage that time had wreaked on his visage. He knew that, despite his weariness, he would find no rest this night. The indignity of old age had visited upon him a restlessness that was more than aching joints and frequent visits to the privy... he knew that soon he would succumb to the same darkness that had taken all of his ancestors since Elros Tar-Minyatur. From the sleep that approached, there was no awakening; he found that he sought little sleep in the time that he had left.

Despite the assurances of the Wizard, in his heart of hearts he still harboured doubts as to the coming venture. He had been ingrained with a fear of death his entire life, by his family, by his entire culture... it was difficult to dispel two-hundred years of expectations that all you knew would end, only to be told that everlasting life was within your grasp.

He stood once more, finding little desire to lie in bed staring at the ceiling for hours, and made his way to the massive table set with maps of the known world. He ran his hand along the dark wood absentmindedly as his eyes scanned the lands that fell beneath the shadow of his Sceptre. Even farther, beyond his rule lay the Numenorean exploration into the farthest corners of the world; lands dark and wild, into the utmost east and south and north, but never west. The map had been made to exacting detail, with all the skill and craft the Dunedain possessed. Several glass lenses had been set around the table, so that the king could see even the smallest of brooks, major landmarks of specific cities, all marked with titles in gold ink where his reign extended. The lands west of Numenor, however, had no such details; it was unknown, forbidden, denied to the mightiest men to walk the Earth. His lip curled slightly; everywhere he looked, it seemed, he found reminders of the limits to his power, imposed by beings whose like he had seen fit to conquer before.

He smiled at that thought, remembering the day that Sauron himself had come on foot, begging the pardon of the King of Men, asking to swear fealty to the Heir of Earendil. The Valar would soon find that they were as vulnerable as was their erstwhile servant, sometime foe. He gestured to one of the servants in the room without bothering to look in his direction.

"Wine," he said. The servants retreated, knowing their lord's tastes and habits, and returned with a fine vintage from Hyarnustar in a golden goblet, set with black opal and pearls that shimmered in the torchlight. He sipped, and set the goblet down, forgetting it almost instantly. His gaze scanned the room, taking in the walls covered with tapestries detailing the deeds of his forefathers, the various weapons taken from fallen enemies: a curved scimitar from the far eastern barbarians, a broken spear from the wide, dark lands south of Umbar... He inhaled deeply, taking in the refreshing, light scent of incense wafting from brazers set into the white marble walls, glowing dimly in the lamplight, and when his eyes opened again, they fell upon a sword sitting sheathed on a black, ebony desk in the far corner of the room.

"Summon Master Ûrîzîr to my chambers; have him bring his sword." If sleep evaded him for yet another night, he saw fit to spend the time honing his technique for the impending invasion.

The nameless servant bowed, "Yes, your majesty," and disappeared.

Ar-Pharazôn unsheathed his blade and began moving through forms, taking a deep breath to center himself, starting withParting the Silk, then moving aggressively through form after form, imagining multiple opponents seeking to cut him down in his mind's eye. He knocked their blades aside and removed limbs and heads, wet, scarlet blossoms blooming in straight lines following the path of his blade, as he stabbed and slashed the air quickly and with the skill of an arm long practiced and well-experienced. He began to sweat as he imagined impossibly dispassionate Elven faces, with their sharp features and cold eyes, moving with inhuman speed and strength. His teeth gritted as he pictured the white, sparkling shores of Valinor, glittering with diamonds like a swath of stars reaching across the earth, now soaked red with the blood of Men and Elves mingled together. A guttural sound began to escape his throat as he moved faster, the tip of his blade whistling through the air as he reaped his phantom foes. His heart began to pound, and the breath came into his lungs in great swallows as he envisioned the Elven dogs falling to Aranruth in dozens, and then scores.

He stopped, abruptly, as he heard one of his servants call out, "Your majesty, please pardon my interruption. The Wizard requests an audience; he begs your pardon for the late hour, but gives his assurances that the matter is of the utmost urgency."

The King held his hand out and another servant moved forward with a towel; Ar-Pharazôn wiped the sweat from his brow and his bare chest, and replied "Very well. See him in, and then leave, all of you."

The guards posted at the entrance to his bedchamber opened the tall, ebony doors and behind them stood the very enemy that Ar-Pharazon's might had humbled years ago. Once a rival for world-power, now merely a servant and an adviser, though the king admitted to himself that Sauron's advice had brought the greatest kingdom in all the ages to even greater heights. The tall figure was cloaked in black that seemed to pull the light from the very lamps as he entered. He strode into the room, hands folded into the opposite sleeves of his robe, as the king's servants bowed and retreated from the room, walking backwards with their eyes averted to the floor. Sauron bowed before his former enemy, now master.

"Hail Ar-Pharazôn, King of Kings and Lord of Lords."

"Stand, wizard; you have disturbed my repose with word of urgent news. Speak quickly, and have your tidings, good or ill, be known."

Saruon rose, his unearthly gray eyes flickered in the half-darkness, giving away but little of his inner thoughts, "I beg your pardon, had the news been of less import I would have waited for the morn, but I dared not."

Ar-Pharazôn walked to a desk in the far corner of the room; he sheathed his sword and set it down, taking a moment to run his hand across the smooth, polished white wood as Sauron continued to speak.

"I have recently learned of a plot against your life, your majesty."

Ar-Pharazôn froze for a moment, and then a single bark of laughter that was more than half a snarl of anger. "Then the traitors have finally abandoned all pretense of loyalty; still... it was only a matter of time before their true nature showed itself." He turned to face Sauron, whose inhuman gaze was now fixed with on the king with an intensity that even Ar-Pharazôn found somewhat unnerving. "... How did you uncover this plot?" he asked, somewhat discomfited.

"I made the discovery while in the Temple, making sacrifice to the one true Master."

"I see, one of the victims attempted to save his life by revealing his co-conspirators?"

Sauron's eyes narrowed slightly, "The aspirant assassin saw the forthcoming attack on the Valar as a doomed venture, which shall result only in the destruction of Numenor and all her people. He saw fit to end your life as a means of preventing this, to ensure that the power of Numenor and the glory of her might endures forever."

The king gritted his teeth, "While that final sentiment is admirable, I find his lack of faith disturbing. Morelike he sought to conceal his true motives, in a futile effort to save his miserable life. The Elf-slave traitors seek to prevent the downfall of their craven masters by any means." Bile rose in his gorge, and he spat the foul taste from his mouth, crossing the room once more to retrieve the goblet of wine sitting on the great table where he left it. He swallowed twice, and then turned to Sauron once more.

"Your majesty, the time for tolerance of the foolish and the weak is over; we must put an end to their kind forever and cut them out like a festering lesion. It may be painful, but the body will survive, and be all the healthier for the pain."

"Is the matter so dire that it needs be addressed before we make sail for the western shores? The Elf-friends have but little power, and wait in Romenna upon my word; they live or die at my command. Once I have taken Valinor, their machinations are all in vain; I shall be the Deathless King of all the Earth."

"But should you fall before then, then Ar-Pharazôn the Golden shall be merely another dead king rotting alongside his fathers. Forgive my candid speech, your majesty, but the matter must be settled without delay and all due haste; I fear to wait would be folly."

Ar-Pharazôn thought for a moment, before nodding his agreement. "Very well, let us destroy those who stand in the way of the King of the Earth. Let us cut them down where they stand, that all may tremble in fear of their fates for years to come."
Ar-Pharazôn thinks for a moment, before nodding his agreement. "Very well, let us destroy those who stand in the way of the King of the Earth. Let us cut them down where they stand, that all may tremble in fear of their fates for years to come."

A rictus smile abruptly spread across Sauron's face, his eyes suddenly widening with a savage glee, "I am happy to hear, o mighty king of Men, we are of one mind."

18th of March, 3319, Second Age of the Sun.
Rómenna, Arandor, Númenor.

Elendur woke to a cacophony of bells shortly after dawn. He squinted and grimaced his displeasure at being woken by such a racket, looking out his window briefly to see if there was a readily apparent cause. The bloody red eye of the sun still clung to the misty haze above the Bay of Romenna, and few people were out, as of yet. The city still seemed half-asleep, save the clamour of the bells. Still half-asleep himself, Elendur stuffed his pillow over his head to mute the noise until it stopped. The din continued long enough for Elendur's brain to shake itself free from more of the fog of sleep, and he began to grow concerned. He stood, shaking his head and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and plodded to the window once more. As he looked out into the ruddy morning light, casting long shadows across the paved streets and marble squares, he realized that every single bell on every tower in sight was still ringing, and even the huge, deep alarm bells were ringing out their low, clear tones. The hairs on the back of his neck and arms had just begun to raise in alarm when the door to his room opened behind him.

Elendur spun around to see Halon, one of the few remaining servants left to his family, rush across the room to his wardrobe, "Beggin' your pardon, young master, your lord Grandfather requests your presence in the solarium immediately." He had pulled out a tunic, belt, and sandals for Elendur, who began dressing himself in haste.

"What is going on? Has the city been attacked?!" Elendur was quite alarmed at this point, barely noticing he was putting on his tunic inside out.

Halon took it and set it right, shaking his head, "I don't believe so, no sir, but I haven't a sure answer for you. Best get yourself downstairs; your grandparents will be waiting."

Elendil hastily threw his belt around the waist of the tunic, not bothering with sandals. He moved quickly through the house; the few servants he passed bobbed quickly as he passed, but were otherwise absorbed in their work and chatter.

He entered the sun room and found his parents and grandparents standing around the table in the center of the room, set with tea still steaming, but ignored for the moment.

Elendur had been called his Elendil's very image. He shared his grandfather's dark hair and eyes, and at twenty Elendur stood a full head above his father and uncle, though he had further still to grow before he reached Elendil's stature. Lindomië, Elendur's grandmother, was of average stature, with pale skin, brown hair and icy blue eyes. Though she lacked her husband's great height, she could loom over even strong men with her iron will. Her piercing gaze and cold voice left no doubt that she was a lady of great authority. His father, Isildur, though no giant like his own father, was still tall even for one of the Line of Elros, resembled his own father in face and build, though he took his brown hair and blue eyes from Lindomië. Elendir's mother, Altariel, though named after an Elven Lady famed for her man-like height, was of no especial stature; her silvery blond hair harkened more to her namesake, and was well marked for its beauty.

Isildur turned to Elendur, giving his son a small smile that failed to hide the anxiety in his eyes. Elendur's father opened his mouth to speak, but as he did the ringing abruptly stopped.

Everyone in the room turned as one, looking out the windows. A single, deep-toned ring rolled out over the city. It repeated itself once, twice, again and again, until Elendur had stopped counting and still it went on. When it finally stopped, his parents all seemed to nod collectively, and Isildur spoke: "Twenty-five. It is as we suspected; the Usurper is dead."

Elendur's uncle and aunt, Anarion and his wife Calairien, entered the room in time to hear Isildur's announcement. "Ar-Pharazôn has died?" His uncle Anarion had long golden hair and a beard, like a lion's mane, and his wife, Calairien, was a famed beauty with warm brown hair brushed with reddish-gold, and sea-gray eyes lightening to a pale silver at their center.

Elendil shook his head, his face unreadable and his voice impassive. "We know not, son, the bells could just as easily signify the death of Tar-Miriel; she is [I]by right[/I] the twenty-fifth ruling monarch of Numenor, not the Usurper." He pulls a chair out and takes a seat at the table, gesturing for the others to do the same. Even sitting, Elendil was as tall as his wife, and she looked him in directly in the eyes for a moment, something unknown passing between them before she took her seat next to him.

Isildur took the seat opposite Elendil, Elendur and Altariel sitting each to one side of him. Anarion sat next to his nephew, giving him a brief smile before turning to Elendil, "We should send someone to Tar-Aldarion's Square to gather news."

"I already have. Tarion will return soon enough with whatever information is about."

Calairien leans forward, her brow furrowed in thought, "If Tar-Miriel is dead, Ar-Pharazon's claim on the Sceptre dies with her."

Lindomië laughs, though there is no humour in it. "You forget, he is her closest relative and they have no heir. Even were they not wed, the Sceptre would pass to him by law, with her death. If she dies, he would no longer be a usurper, but king in his own right."

"But there is, as of yet, no way to know which of them is gone." Anarion says, "I would find little to mark in hearing Ar-Pharazôn's life ended; he is near the end of the span allotted even the line of kings, in these latter days. His evil ways may have cut his time short."

Elendil waved his hand, as if dismissing the idea. "The sun shines on the just and the wicked alike, my son. Ar-Pharazôn has already outlived his father who, for all his evil, was not half the enemy of the Faithful the king has become." His eyes slid shut for a moment, and he spoke in a voice half weary, half hopeful, "If Ar-Pharazôn is gone, then Tar-Miriel will wield the Sceptre in her own right once more. Without a leader like the Usurper to unite them, the King's Men will struggle and fracture, and the Queen may remove Sauron's hand from active government and put an end to that abomination of a [I]temple[/I]." He spat the last word like a curse, his eyes flying open with anger momentarily. "But it is too much to hope that he can be imprisoned; his followers are too many and too slavishly devoted to him." The contempt in his voice faded, and he looked to his wife. "We may have a return to the days of Tar-Palantir to look forward to."

Lindomië's eyes glitter with a cold anger as she sat in silence for a moment, remembering the reign of the previous King. "... a rebellious faction of traitors led by an enemy of the people, and a Faithful monarch nearly powerless to stand up to them. But Sauron will lead them down an even darker path than Gimilkhad ever could."

At this, Elendur spoke up. "If the King is dead, then Sauron's strongest supporter is gone. Why should the lords remain devoted to him? He was our enemy for centuries?"

His father replied, "The Council of the Sceptre has long since bent to his will. The Queen can dismiss him and even put an end to the worship of Morgoth at the temple, but Sauron still has their ears and hearts beckoned to him."

Anarion gritted his teeth and swore "I have heard some calling that mangy cur's get a god himself."

Lindomië's mouth twisted in distaste, but said nothing.

Elendur's mother, long silent, finally spoke. "No one has mentioned the possibility of an assassination."

The room was silent, everyone considering the implications.

"If the king were killed, it could be equal parts curse and blessing, and the identity of the assassin would be of paramount importance." Elendil finally said.

"You don't think one of the Faithful could have done this, father?" Calairien asked, taken aback.

He thought for a moment before answering, "I think these are evil times, and hate begets hate."

Isildur sighed and folded his hands over his chest, "If we consider assassination, then we must remember that there are many who would see Tar-Miriel dead. Without her, the situation of the Faithful worsens."

"I see little how that could be true; she does little enough for us as it is." Lindomië replied, clearly frustrated.

Elendil turned to his wife, "Be not uncharitable, my wife. We know not how or to what extent Tar-Miriel may have shielded the Faithful from even worse persecution than we have yet suffered."

Lindomië's eyes flared with anger. "The Faithful have been pulled from the streets and had their hearts cut out on and burnt on altars to the Black Enemy of the World!"

"And yet, many of us still live in relative safety while Sauron rules from behind the throne in Armenelos. There could always be -" Elendil was cut off as Tarion entered the room. The dark, black-bearded servant was slightly out of breath, and his blue tunic was damp from recent exertion.

"I pray you forgive the interruption, my lords. I have word from the square. Messengers from the capital bear news of the death of the king. Ar-Pharazôn is dead, Ar-Zimraphêl has taken the Sceptre once more."

"Was there any word of the manner of his death?" Elendil asked.

"No official word, my lord, but the rumours have spread across the city. They say that the King died by an assassin's blade. No one agrees who wielded it. Some say it was one of the Faithful, others say that it was the Wizard, or even the Queen herself, but everyone agrees that the king was killed."

Elendil stood and walked to the window, looking out over the city. He stood silent for a moment, deep in thought, and then turned to Tarion. "Thank you, Tarion. Please go and fetch me some parchment, a quill, et cetera." He turned to the rest of the family, "I must ask all of you to leave, for a time, except you my wife, and you my son" he said, looking to Lindomië and Isildur, "I would have your counsel."

Anarion looked to protest for a moment, but stood and bowed to his father. Altariel kissed her husband's cheek, and then turned to go. Elendur followed his mother, uncle and aunt out of the sun room.

18th of March, 3319, Second Age of the Sun.
Rómenna, Arandor, Númenor.

After breaking his fast, an activity from which much of the rest of the family recused themselves after the morning's excitement, Elendur had decided to go outside to practice his swordplay. He currently had no sword master, as the family had lost much of their income when the King… the late King… had confiscated their land and much of their wealth.

He was still not used to their new home. His grandfather's kinsman, Numendur, had owned the home until recently, but when his family had been forced to vacate their homes in Andunie and join the other Faithful in Romenna, Numendur had graciously given them the home to use as their own. They had been here not quite a year, and the place had a certain charm, but it could not compare to their ancestral estate on the Bay of Andunie.

He stood there, eyes closed with the morning sunlight warming his skin, remembering the sunsets on the bay, the reddish-golden light shimmering on the water like fire. He remembered looking into the west at night, straining his eyes to see if, as the stories said, farsighted Numenoreans could make out the glimmering lights of the isle of Tol Eressea in the Bay of Eldamar. He had never been able to espy them, though that had never stopped him trying. He remembered clear nights when the seas were calm, seeing the light of the heavens reflected on the water, looking high into the air to see the glory of Varda's white fires burning above in the sky and reflected below on the sea, and to catch a glimpse of his ancestor Earendil the mariner sailing in the upper airs, ruling as the brightest of all stars. He could still smell that salty sea air, mixed with the faint scent of the fragrant forests of Nisimaldar when the wind blew just right from the south…

"Well, boy, are you going to use that sword, or are you waiting for someone to carve a statue, 'Study of a Pensive Youth?' " he heard his uncle's voice cry out from behind him.

Elendur chuckled, only slightly embarrassed. "I was thinking of home," and turned and saw his Uncle standing in an archway leading into the courtyard.

Anarion nodded, smiling good-naturedly, golden hair shimmering in the bright sunlight. "I know; it is hard to leave a place when it lives in your dreams and your blood." He sauntered across the stone yard, looking around at the home that had been provided for them. "Still, cousin Numendur has been kind, and we are comfortable here." His smile fell away for a moment, and his blue eyes grew slightly harder. "We can only hope that the king's demise might mean we and our fellows might return to the places we call home, instead of…" his voice trailed off, and he was silent for a moment, his eyes unfocused. After a moment he chuckled to himself again, "I'm sorry, lad, I'm sure you have had a week's fill of this kind of talk, after this morning."

Elendur only shook his head. "I do not mind. Father says that I need to understand the ways of the kingdom. I'm only five years away from my full age, and will lead the family, one day."

A half-grin spreads across his face, "True enough. Your task is far more onerous than mine will ever be, oh son-of-the-eldest-son. My own family is enough for me to rule. I cannot imagine ever leading the entire house, or a province!"

Elendur tilts his head quizzically, "You would not want to be Lord?"

Anarion's eyes narrowed slightly in thought and he folded his arms across his chest. "I suppose if the need ever presented itself, I could lead, though I cannot imagine what kind of a Lord or King I would be." He spoke softly, almost to himself, "Can you imagine that? King Anarion." At that, he threw his head back and laughed heartily and gaily. "What kind of world that would be, I care not to imagine. Now, I think it's time you showed me what you've learned about that blade you hold there, lad." He walked to the edge of the yard, taking out a blunted blade meant for more advanced practice, not sharp enough to cut without care.

As he turned, returning to the center of the yard, his very stride seemed to change. He seemed to walk with a flowing gate, like a prowling cat, and the image of a lion once again came to Elendur's mind unbidden. Anarion held his weapon easily, almost casually, in his hand. His golden brown eyes flitted over Elendur once, then settled on his eyes. "Whenever you're ready. Attack."

Elendur knew how this would go; Uncle Anarion was a master swordsman, and he had been on the receiving end of some of his 'lessons.' While he never went out of his way to be cruel, he also never let Elendur have a victory. 'A victory is not a victory unless it is earnestly won,' he would say, after soundly thrashing him. He also showed him the errors of his technique, of his gaze, of his stance and footwork. He was, in fact, a better teacher even than his old sword-master, Avalozir, but Anarion was frequently busy with matters of family import, and so had no time to teach him consistently.

Anarion smiled, even as his eyes kept their deceptively at-ease focus, "Remember, the technique is only the beginning. You train the technique into your body so that it becomes part of you, and then you look past the technique. See the foundation upon which the technique is built, and use that to improvise your own style in the moment. If you can do that, no student with memorized forms and pretty flourishes will ever defeat you."

Elendur said nothing, and formulated his first strike, before he could move, however, he heard a loud knock on the door set in the wall surrounding the courtyard, and a booming voice shouting, "Open in the name of the Queen!"

Both he and his uncle turned to the door as Halon rushed past them, his long black hair worn in the fashion of the folk of Haleth swishing behind him in his haste. Elendur watched the servant open the door a crack and speak to the man in hushed tones. Though he could not hear Halon, the response was still more loud enough to be heard throughout the courtyard, and likely in the house.

"I'm on the Queen's business, and will see you thrown into the city hold if you bar me entry to this property. I said move, boy!"

At this, Anarion's lip curled, and he handed his blade to Elendur. As he walked toward the door, his back straightened and his shoulders seemed to broaden, and he called out in a booming voice that matched the attempted intruder's, "And whom, may I ask, so ungraciously dares to enter my family's property without our consent?!"

Halon opened the door, and several men in black cloaks with silver trim entered, led by a tall mustachioed man with short brown hair, wearing a red and silver cloak and carrying a black rod tipped with a golden knob.

The leader of the group gave a slight bow to Anarion, giving a sidelong glance to one of the men standing behind him as he did so. "Please forgive my subordinate his discourteous manner, but he is correct; we are here on the Queen's business. I am Belzagar, son of Lord Adûnabel of Romenna and Captain of the City Guard. Are you the master of the house?"

Elendur makes his way slowly toward his uncle. He sees Anarion shake his head, "No. You seek my father, Elendil."

The man hesitates for just a moment, and answers with what seems to be the slightest reluctance. "Yes, Elendil son of Amandil. And you are Isildur, or Anarion?"

His uncle answers flatly, "I am Anarion, son of Elendil of Andunie."

The man's tone showed some slight annoyance with Anarion's lack of courtesy,"Then, I must ask you to take us to your father immediately; we have business with him, your brother and you that cannot be delayed."

"I pray you, please follow me." He turned and led them past Elendur without a word. Belzagar nodded to him as he walked by, and the other city guards ignored him completely.

Elendur ran through another archway and up the wooden stairs to the second floor to his parents bedroom, and was about to knock when he heard their voices, hushed, but heated, carrying through their door. He considered listening for a moment, but decided his news was more important and pounded his fist on the thick oaken door. "Father, mother, I have urgent news."

Their voices suddenly cut off, and a moment later his father opened the door. "Elendur, your mother and I are-"

"Pardon me, father, but there are men from the city guard here. They want to talk to you, Uncle Anarion and grandfather."

His father's face paled slightly for a moment, and then flushed. His jaw set and his eyes glittered. He opened the door fully, and took a deep breath. "Altariel, Elendur, please follow me." His father set off down the hall, taking the stairs to the solarium, where they had spent much of their time earlier this morning.

As they approached the sun room, Elendur could hear Belzagar's voice from in the hall, "- can imagine, Lord Elendil, this is no easy task for me. Our families have ever been… cordial. You have never given my father cause for concern, and your family's service both to Romenna and to Numenor is without question… but these charges must be answered."

He heard his grandfather's reply, in the frosty tone he reserved for those who had offended him, "You still have not explained what those charges are."

As they entered, Belzagar turned. He seemed suddenly even less comfortable than he had sounded from outside, and cleared his throat. "Well, sir, I'm afraid that information is privileged."

Elendil loomed over the man, seemingly even taller than his nearly two full rangar, and was silent. Grandmother, however, who Elendur had not noticed standing at her grandfather's side until this moment, spoke with a voice as heated as grandfather's had been cold.

"We are the heirs of the second most honored family of this kingdom, no matter what the king has stripped of us. We are of the line of Earendil, descendants of the eldest line of Elros and have served this kingdom, as you so graciously admitted a moment ago, dutifully and faithfully." Her voice lowered, but was, if anything, more scathing than before. "With all the Powers in witness, you will tell us for what reason you dare to take my husband away."

The man swallowed, obviously frustrated, and puffed his chest up in an effort to appear unintimidated. "Very well, my lady. Your husband, and both of your sons, have been charged for conspiring to commit regicide, and will be tried in Ar-Minaleth for facilitation the death of Ar-Pharazon in ten days time."

For a long moment, no one spoke. Elendil's face was unlike anything Elendur had seen before. His grandfather's eyes were terrible, and seemed to smite the man in front of him. Indeed, the man took a step back from that gaze, against his will.

Anarion exploded, his voice filling the solarium and echoing in the small space, "This will not be countenanced! How dare you accuse us of slaying our own kin?!" He came within an inch of the man's face, his blond hair flying wildly and his cheeks flushed with anger. One of the guards drew a short sword and lunged for Anarion's arm to protect his lord, but Anarion smoothly sidestepped him, spun him by his wrist, and disarmed him of his weapon. Two more men drew their swords and shouted, when another voice filled the room like a crack of thunder.

"BE STILL"

Everyone in the room was silent, and Elendil stood, his face darkened like a storm head, his mouth twisted in withheld rage and his eyes like a pair of bitter dagger points. He seemed a true giant in that moment, and not a person in that room dared to make a sound.

He turned to Belzagar, "My sons and I will go with you. We are innocent of this disgusting crime, and we trust that the tribunal will deliver us justice." his voice carried a weight of authority that brooked neither interruption nor disobedience, and from the manner of his tone, it was clear had spoken to his sons as well as the captain. Both Anarion and Isildur bowed to their father, and stood, waiting. "Pray give us a moment to bid farewell to our families; we will not see them for some days, and must needs take care for the management of the household."

Captain Belzagar bowed as one fully answered, said simply "We will wait in the courtyard, my lord," and left, his guards filing out behind him.

Once they had left, Lindomie, spoke with a cold fury, "If you think that you are going to receive any kind of proper -"

Elendil held up his hand, and said, "My wife, this must be done. If we attempt to escape now, without preparation, we will be destroyed all." He turned to each of his sons; a silent communication seemed to go between the three of them, and then he turned his face to Elendur.

His dark eyes seemed at once ancient and familiar; he had known them all his life, but had never seen them with this necessity, this intensity.

"Elendur… son of my son…" he took off his ring. Elendur's eyes widened. "Though I have known you well in your lifetime, there is much that I would have said before now, had I foreseen this day. I know not what lies ahead, but I do not now believe that the king's death heralds better days, but worse. While I, your father and your uncle are gone, you are the head of the House of Andunie."

Elendur's mouth was dry. His grandfather took a step towards him, and he realized that he was nearly as tall as his grandfather now. Despite this, he felt as if Elendil towered over him like some vast monument made of marble, his pale visage carven as if from the living stone of a mountain. How could he act in the stead of such a being?

"Your grandmother, mother and aunt will advise you, and will act to guide you while we are… away. You are still not of your full age, so you must heed their guidance, but you must also trust your own judgment." Elendil blinked suddenly and his eyes shifted to his left, where Isildur stood, but then he turned to Elendur once more and took his grandsons right hand into his own, placing the Ring of Barahir on his finger.

He was silent for a moment. "There are things I wish I could -" he cut off suddenly. And then turned to Isildur. "I beg your pardon, my son. Please…" He stepped away. Elendur, somewhat numbed, turned to his father.

Isildur stepped to his son, looking up at him. "My son." He smiled. "You carry a heavy burden now." he looked down at the ring on Elendur's finger. "For some reason, I always hated the idea of wearing that ring. It was as if I saw my doom whenever I looked at it, as if that ring were the very bane of my existence." He shook his head. "Worry not, my son; have hope. These charges are false; all who know us will know such." He embraced his son tightly, for a long moment, and Elendur clung to Isuldur as if to a rock in a heavy stream. When it seemed as if the two men would crush each other if they held any longer, they released.

Somewhat disoriented, Elendur looked for Anarion, "Where is uncle?"

Isildur answered, "I imagine he went to speak with his daughters…"

The girls were sixteen and ten. Silmarien, the eldest, would understand the necessity. Itarilde and Alcarian, the little twins, would likely be inconsolable...

"Why don't you go find them, my son. Your mother and I must share words that only a husband and wife should share, and your cousins will need you."

He nodded and turned to go, leaving the room with a heavy heart.

24th of March, 3319, Second Age of the Sun.
Rómenna, Arandor, Númenor.

Elendur stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. The sun was shining brightly and a cool breeze wafted off the bay and into the city, carrying a fresh, salty scent. As he looked down into the courtyard below, he saw his little cousins playing with one of the servant's children.

Alcarian and Itarilde were almost mirror images of one another in form and face; only their hair color could tell one apart from the other. Itarilde had golden blond hair like her father and Alcarian's was bright copper red, like Calairien's mother, whom Elendur had himself met but twice. Both were skinny, pale, coltish little girls who loved to run and jump and play. Itarilde was somewhat more studious than her sister, and enjoyed their Quenya and Sindarin lessons, learning about history, and couldnever hear enough tales of the Elder Days. He had told her countless stories of Earendil the Mariner, and he knew that her mother had read her the Lay of Leithian in its entirety twice, and still she always wanted more. Alcarian enjoyed those pursuits up to

a point, but had less patience for them than her sister, and soon became distracted by the prospect of exploring the city or riding horses in the country surrounding Romenna, or going to the Bay and swimming in the salt sea.

Their lessons had been somewhat neglected of late. Calairien had taken up teaching the girls when their tutor had been released from service, after the family had been relocated, but the past week had seen their mother frustrated and distracted. As a result, the girls had seen a decided increase in their free-time, of which they took full advantage.

Elendur smiled has he watched them play with Thannor, younger brother of Halon. The dark-headed boy ran with the twins, sprinting and tumbling in a way that gave little sign as to who chased and who was being chased; Elendur was glad the girls seemed to have finally recovered somewhat from their father's departure. They both adored Anarion, and though their parents had spared them some of the details, they had felt the need to make the girls understand the gravity of the situation. They had been understandably distraught, and had not been quite themselves for days.

Elendur's own mood had taken a turn for the melancholy, but he had taken to throwing himself into his studies and practice to keep himself from contemplating the painful fact that his father, uncle, and grandfather were soon to go on trial for treason and regicide. After his mother's upset this morning, however, he had found himself too distracted for Noldorin literature (he had put his quill down when he realized that he'd been translating the same line over and over again for half an hour) or even for swordplay.

He had wandered the halls for some time, playing out scenario after scenario in his head. He tried not to think of the silver-domed temple in Armenelos, with the foul scent of burnt flesh and inky black smoke issuing from its top like a diseased discharge from a filthy wound. He finally found himself outside on the balcony, letting the sunlight and fresh breeze clean the image from his mind.

Elendur heard someone approaching in the hall behind him, and turned to see Silmarien coming through the archway onto the balcony. Having no brothers or sisters of his own, and having been raised with his cousins, he thought of them all as his siblings, but he and Silmarien were especially close. In appearance, she was like her mother remade, save taller, with the same reddish golden brown hair and gray eyes lightening to pale in the center. She was much like her father in character, quick both to mirth and anger, but in true crisis she was most like their grandfather, Elendil: calm and focused, with a natural air of authority.

Silmarien smirked, "How fare you, Elendur? Have you found sufficient isolation and brooding to improve your mood?"

Elendur turned to the children below, who were still running and laughing in the sun. "Watching them enjoy themselves lifts my mood. I am glad to see them so, after so hard a separation from their father."

Silmarien approached the balcony and stood next to Elendur, watching silently for a moment. "They did not understand why he had to go; they are too young to understand all the implications, but father and mother made sure they understood that they might not see him again for some time… we have yet to discuss the possibility with them that they might not see him ever." There was a slight catch in her voice at the last word, but otherwise she gave no other indication of her feelings.

Elendur turned to her, and saw her face had gone impassive. "Do you believe the situation to be so bleak?"

"I do not know, but mother and I have discussed it somewhat."

"What does she say?"

"That his life may depend on who holds true power in Armenelos. If the Council, or even Sauron, takes control of this trial, all may be lost; if the Queen can blunt their influence or have the charges dismissed, then there is hope."

Elendur nodded, "Our hope is placed in Tar-Miriel…"

Silmarien opened her mouth as if to respond, but then fell silent. Her gaze drifted over the walls, across the city, and then back downward to her sisters and the little boy in the courtyard, who had begun to climb a fruit tree. She shook her head as if to clear something away, "How is your mother? Has she recovered from her fright this morning?"

Elendur's mouth twisted into a frown. His mother had woken up screaming before dawn and set the entire house in an uproar. By the time he had gotten to her quarters, one of the maidservants and Calairien had managed to calm her down. All she had said was that she had wakened from a terrible dream, but could remember nothing of it. Her face had been deathly pale, and she had spent the rest of the morning in her bedchamber, taking no breakfast.

"I spoke with mother shortly before mid-day. She seemed somewhat better, but still not entirely herself."

"I am glad to hear her improved. I am sure the evening will see her right again." She looked sidelong at Elendur and smirked, "The girls are convinced your mother saw a spirit that haunts the house; they decided that Numendur dueled a man to the death and won the house as a prize, and that his spirit wanders the halls, waiting for us to leave so he can take it back."

Elendur laughed, "Quite the imaginations they have."

Silmarien gave him a light shove, "Oh, I remember the stories you used to invent when we were still in the palace in Andunie. You would tell me that you had seen the ghost of Turgon in the west wing, and that we had to find him to learn what kind of quest would free his soul to move on to the Halls of Mandos."

Elendur laughed more whole-heartedly this time, "I remember that. We had to find an elf-jewel buried near the fountain in front of the east gate and return it to Turgon's spirit so that he could leave in peace,"

"And you had actually placed one of your mother's brooches under a flagstone near the fountain, only when we went to go find it, we were caught by one of the servants."

Elendur smiled ruefully, "Mother was quite unhappy to find where her mithril brooch had gone."

"Eol from the wall come down, who smote the lady fair / the king commands a trip to take, so come, but have ye care!" The tune drifted up from the courtyard below, sung by the twins, and when he looked down, he saw Thannor jump out of the tree and land on the ground in a crouch.

Elendur called down, "Girls, you know your mother doesn't like you playing that game!"

"Alright, cousin!" One of the girls called up from below. "Sorry, cousin!" The other yelled.

Silmarien laughed again, "I remember someone spraining his ankle jumping from the roof of the servant's quarters playing 'Eol come down.' "

At this, Elendur smiled, "I won, didn't I?"

"Well, yes, but only because Bronwe came out and found you limping away as fast as you could, and so we had to stop playing so you wouldn't be mangled forever. 'Oh, pray we must not cripple the heir of the house!' " she said in a mocking tone.

Elendur heard a loud knock at the entrance to the courtyard, and saw Halon move quickly to the door and open it. In strode through Numendur, and the girls stopped their game and ran over. He could hear them chattering to him, though exactly what was said did not reach all the way up to the balcony, and Numendur laughed and gave them hugs. He ruffled little Thannor's hair as well, having known the boy since he was barely walking. Numendur looked up to the balcony and waved to Elendur and Silmarien, which they returned, both smiling.

"Did you know cousin Numendur was to visit today?" Silmarien asked.

"No, mother said nothing."

"I suppose he needs no reason to visit his old home and kin," she said. Elendur gave no response, but merely turned and headed back into the interior of the house to greet Numendur.

As Elendur stepped out into the courtyard, Numendur walked toward him with an easy smile. Numendur was of a height with his father, that is, taller than many Dunedain, but not so tall as Elendur or Elendil. He had short, curly, dark hair and a beard to match, and dark gray eyes. His temples and beard had begun to show gray, but little beside that gave away his age. He wore a black tunic and cloak, pinned at the shoulder with a large, round gold brooch set with the Valacirca in small white crystals. His hand rested easily on the hilt of a fine sword. Anarion had served under Numendur years ago, and apparently had instructed him in the more advanced points of swordsmanship. Elendur had never seen him use a blade, but the way Anarion spoke of him he was like Eonwe himself among Men.

"How fare you, Elendur?" the older man asked, bowing slightly.

Elendur bowed in return, "Welcome home, cousin. We fare well enough, considering the circumstances."

Numendur's eyes narrowed slightly, and he nodded in understanding. He turned to Silmarien and smiled, "Silmarien, you are radiant as ever. How many young men of Romenna pine away, sick at heart for your sake?"

She laughed and blushed somewhat, but answered with a grin, "Only a score came to my window to serenade me last night, cousin. Mother fears I will become an old maid with such a showing."

Numendur laughed and kissed her on each cheek. He took Elendur's hand firmly, and wrapped one arm around him in a strong embrace for a moment. He pulled away to find little Alcarian tugging at his cloak, he smiled and looks down to the little fire-headed child.

"Cousin, is it true that you won this house in a duel? We think Aunt Altariel saw a ghost last night, and that it must be the man you bested to win this house!"

Numendur's eyebrows raised, "Well I've certainly never seen any ghosts here, and I would never duel a man just to win a house. But," he crouched down to speak to her, "if you are good and don't get into any trouble today, I'll tell you and your sister a story tonight of my voyages to the Dark Lands, and the Wild Men who live there, with their cities of gold and their temples of black glass!"

Alcarian gasped, her bright eyes widening and her hands flitting to her mouth to cover a grin. She nodded, turned and ran to her sister and Thannor, who were still standing under the shade of the apple tree across the courtyard.

He stood and looked to Elendur with a half-smile and a quizzical arch of the eyebrow. "So your mother saw a ghost?"

"Mother woke with a terrible fright before sunrise," Elendur replied, shaking his head. "She says it was a dream, and what's more couldn't recall it, but took to bed for the rest of the morning."

Numendur's brow furrowed, "Is she well now?"

Silmarien answered, "She is up and about the house, but we-" Numendur looked past Silmarien as she answered and suddenly lifted a hand in greeting.

"Well met, cousins! How fare you?"

Elendur and Silmarien both turned to see their mothers coming out of the house together. Altariel's silvery blond hair was bound up with ebony hairpins, and she wore a blue, sleeveless dress with a golden belt at the waist, bound at the shoulders with small silver brooches. Calairien wore her hair down and was dressed in a green dress similar to Altariel's, but with a collar of small golden medallions stretching from shoulder to shoulder. If Elendur's mother still felt ill-effects from this morning, she did not show it.

"Cousin Numendur, welcome home; please, come inside and take your refreshment. We are glad to have you." She spread her arms arms and put them lightly around Numendur, giving him a kiss on each cheek.

Numendur returned the light embrace, and gave one to Calairien in turn. "You are all too kind; you greet me as if this is still my home. I gave it to you for your use, and I beg you to think of it as your own as long as you need."

"We are indebted to your for your generosity cousin," she replied warmly. "We were about to take tea in the solarium; we pray you come and join us."