Nightfall in the West by Corsair_Caruso

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Chapter 2

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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.