Elegy for Númenor – Volume 2: The Darkening by elfscribe

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6. Rómenna

Chapter summary: During the stormy voyage from Middle-earth, Tigôn worries about what has happened to his lover Sûla, his feelings complicated by Elendil, his captain, sternly warning him not to continue the relationship. He longs for some answers once they make landfall at Rómenna, which, Valar willing, should be any day now. 

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Squinting through the spyglass, Tigôn thought he saw something— a flash of tan against the endless blue— but he couldn’t be sure. Ach! Not land, merely the sparkle of light on the water. He lowered the glass in disgust.

Up here near the top of the foremast, the wind whipped his linen shirt into a frenzy and blew his shaggy blond curls into his eyes. He heard the creaking of the taut sails and the crash and spray as the bow cut through the waves. There was a scent of tar and salt in the air. The platform that Tigôn clung to swayed with the rollicking sea and roiled his stomach, even after weeks of taking his turn climbing up the tricky rope ladder to sit watch, with a line wrapped around one arm in case he slipped. The view straight down to the deck through a web of rigging didn’t help his stomach either. So, best not to look.

Even without the spyglass, Lord Amandil’s ship was now visible ahead of them in the distance as a splotch of white sails with an even smaller splotch of blue— the Andúnië banner. They’d first spied it this morning, much to his captain, Elendil’s relief. But it had been several weeks since anyone aboard the Izrê had seen the King’s ship, the Zimrazra. And then over five days ago that terrific storm blew them miles off course. It had been a near thing and required Elendil’s considerable expertise as a veteran sailor, first to keep them upright and then to navigate back on course. As a result, they were days behind schedule.

Tigôn worried. He’d had been plenty of time for that, even while working hard with the crew. Had Ar-Pharazôn’s ship escaped Ossë’s wrath, and if so, had it gone ahead of them? Or was it still behind? Most importantly, was Sûla still aboard? Or had something horrible happened to him? It had been near five weeks since they parted in Umbar and in that time, Tigôn’s imagination had conjured horrific scenes: Sûla, fell-eyed, ensorcelled by Annatar’s dark spells so that he no longer knew who Tigôn was; Sûla assaulted and knifed by amorous sailors in the cargo hold; Sûla falling overboard during the storm, quietly so that no one saw, except the ever-watchful sharks.
                                
If it was said that absence made the heart grow fonder, it was also said, out of sight, out of mind. Tigôn wondered which of those sayings would apply to Sûla. Would he forget his promise to meet him at the merchant’s shop in Rómenna? These past weeks on the churning sea, Tigôn had gone over every aspect of their relationship during the campaign, culminating in Umbar with their ecstatic encounter in Tigôn’s little room at the Regent’s palace and later in the solarium. How often had he recalled the feeling of being intimately pressed against Sûla’s smooth backside as they hid in the tool shed. He grew aroused even thinking about it. His desire for Sûla felt like a compulsion, an ache. But it was more, so much more, than just carnal desire. He missed Sûla’s friendship, their banter, especially the zirâmîki’s sly jests, that had so annoyed him at first. When he wasn’t dreaming of holding Sûla close, he was fretting over their plan. He imagined meeting at the shop, throwing their arms about each other with cries of happiness, and then Sûla would pawn his golden dragon armband to get the fare, so they could escape in a ship bound for Andúnië. There, they would seek refuge with Tigôn’s aunt—the one the whole family had ostracized for running off with her lady lover on her wedding day to a man the family had deemed a perfect match. He’d told Sûla that his aunt could give them jobs in her tavern. He was sure she would help him. Or at least, he was mostly sure.

But what if the Zimrazra was too far ahead . . . or behind? A grand possibility with that storm. How would they meet up if Ar-Pharazôn reached Rómenna first and marched back to Armenelos, taking Annatar and Sûla with him? Would Sûla be able to slip away? Highly unlikely. And their plan assumed that Sûla still had his wits about him, that Annatar’s magic hadn’t completely enthralled him. Tigôn recalled his friend’s blank gaze as they stood in the crowd upon the Umbarian docks shortly before they set sail. Even if all else went well and they both could keep their assignation, perhaps his aunt in Andúnië would throw them out once they arrived—or worse, tell his father. And another matter needled him. His captain, Lord Elendil, was his father’s good friend. He had recommended Tigôn for his job as one of the King’s pages; trusted Tigôn to spy on the Lord Annatar; and then, when everyone else was appalled by the revelation of his tryst with Sûla, had forgiven him, and had taken him into his service, giving him an opportunity to redeem himself. To fulfill the plan he had concocted with Sûla, Tigôn would have to betray both Elendil, and his own family—in short, everyone he loved and respected. He didn’t think he could bear that. He lowered the spyglass and chewed his lip, coming to the same conclusion that he’d come to countless times during the voyage home. His affair with Sûla was doomed.
      
Being delayed by the vagaries of wind and waves was agony, and yet at the same time, the weather had put off those dreadful decisions. Soon that would change for good or ill. Quite simply, he longed for a sight of the high cliffs enclosing the Rómenna bay and to smell wet earth and green plants again.
 
Far below, he saw Lord Elendil prowling about as he trained his own spy glass on the horizon. He too seemed anxious to make port. Elendil was a family man, and hated leaving behind his lovely wife, Lady Lórellin, and his sons, Isildur and Anárion. Their families had been friends forever and, as a boy, he and his brother had often traveled from their home in Eldalondë to stay with Elendil’s family in Andúnië, so he knew Elendil’s sons well. He wondered what they might they think of him if they learned about his affair with a zirâmîki? If they learned? No, more likely when.  He winced.  

Just two days ago, after they’d recovered from the storm, Tigôn had been hanging over the railing staring out to the horizon when Elendil came up, patted him on the shoulder and invited him into his cabin for a cup of rum. For several hours they sat companionably reminiscing about the old days in Andúnië. Then his captain explained to him, logically, carefully, and lovingly, just why he must never see Sûla again. Remembering his acute embarrassment and despair during that conversation, a lump surfaced in Tigôn’s throat. His head told him that Elendil was right; but his heart, well, his heart throbbed to a different beat. He knew he was lucky to still be alive after such a rough sea voyage. Perhaps, he shouldn’t tempt fate by asking for more, for something that would most likely get both him and his lover killed. Back and forth, as always. Maybe it would have been better had he and Sûla never met.

Down on deck, Elendil turned and trained the glass upwards, directly at Tigôn, who smiled sheepishly and shrugged. No sighting as yet.

With an overhand sweep of his arm, Elendil beckoned him down. His watch was over. Taking a deep breath, Tigôn began the terrifying descent. He put one bare foot on the shaky rope ladder, when he saw high above him a lone bird— a sea gull. Then another one. Could it be? He pulled himself back onto the small platform, scanned the hazy line between sea and sky once more and then he saw it—that tiny flash of parched tan in an ocean of lapis blue. His heart swelled so hard and quick that he thought it might burst. He blinked to make sure. No, there was no doubt. “Land nigh! Land nigh!” he cried, wildly waving one arm.

His cry was taken up and bandied about the ship, turning into a hubbub as sailors surged up from below decks and joined the others now pressed against the railing, peering ahead. Tigôn watched as the tiny outcropping of one of the bare islands located within a half day’s journey of the harbor in Rómenna grew larger.

Time to be down on deck to share the joyful slap of shoulders. He tucked the spyglass in his belt. Then, clasping a line in his right hand, he began to back down the rope ladder. As he felt for the next rung with his foot, the ship bounced over a rogue wave, shuddered and lurched.

Abruptly, Tigôn found himself swinging from the rope by one hand, feet kicking in the air. The spyglass slipped free from his belt, and several agonizing seconds later, he heard the splash. Below him, the ocean heaved in crashing white caps. Then he was over the deck, then back over the water. Commotion. Men shouting! He lunged upward, caught the line with his other hand, but his weight dragged him down the angled rope, burning his callused palms. He screamed.

“To port, to port!” Elendil bellowed, his voice carrying over the others. “Turn her, now!”  

There was an interminable moment as Tigôn hung in space, clutching the rope desperately, hands afire.   

The ship was turning, shifting upright. Another lurch knocked Tigôn into the mast. Stunned, he managed to thrust one leg through the rope ladder and lock his knee around it. Then he let go of his line with his right hand, thrust his arm through the next rung up and grasped his wrist with his other hand. There, he clung like a squirrel, heart walloping as he thanked all the Valar, and Sûla’s god of luck, Zizzûn, for his deliverance.  

The rope ladder began to pull and jerk with the tread of someone coming up. Even that motion was alarming.

“No, please,” he yelled. “I’m fine. Just. Give me a moment.”

Slowly, carefully, Tigôn began his descent, gasping as he gripped the ladder with his torn hands. He crept down until he was close enough to see the anxious faces of the sailors looking up. Arms reached for him. Breathing hard, he stopped. He couldn’t hold on anymore, would have to drop the dozen feet or so to the deck. A surge of motion up the ladder. Hands grabbed him. He heard a command, “Let go.” An arm wrapped about his waist and more hands seized his legs as several of the men lowered him to the deck. There he lay, like a fish on a sand bar, gasping for air.  

“Tigôn, lad, are you well?” Elendil stood over him, brows knit. A crowd of concerned faces crowded behind him.  

“Y-yes,” Tigôn stammered.   

“You forgot the first rule of the mast monkeys: pay attention to where you are and what you are doing,” Elendil said gruffly. “Show me your hands.”

Slowly, Tigôn unclenched his fists, revealing bloody weals on the palms. They stung like fire in the salt spray.  

Elendil examined them, then looked directly into Tigôn’s eyes, assessing. Tigôn stared back at his handsome face, tanned dark by the sun, tiny white squint lines etched around those clear grey-green eyes. He looked feral: his hair needed cutting and he’d let his beard grow. It showed a bit of silver here and there. His brow was creased with concern, lips pressed tight, and Tigôn realized that his fearless captain had been afraid. Well, no joke! It had been a near thing. Tigôn was just glad he hadn’t wet himself; he would never have lived that down. He took a deep breath and tried to smile at his lord and captain.

“Eh, you’ll live.” Elendil pulled him to his feet, then clapped him on the shoulder. “Go below and have the surgeon bind up your hands.”

“Yes, híren,” Tigôn said. “I’m sorry about the glass. I didn’t mean to . . .”

“Better to lose that than an able-bodied sailor,” Elendil said. “A glass can be replaced and by this evening we should be in port where I could buy a dozen if I liked. Go to now, and no more trouble out of you. We’ll be busy enough with the landing without any more foolery.”

“Of course, híren,” Tigôn said. “I’ll be back shortly. I don’t want to miss a moment.”   

Elendil smiled. “Temper your eagerness my young friend. Keep alert. We’re still at sea and need our wits about us.” As Tigôn started to move past him towards the hatch, the captain laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Remember,” he said quietly in his ear. “I’m holding you to your promise, boy.”  Then he patted his back. “I, too, will be heartily glad to see the cliffs of Rómenna.”

Tigôn nodded, without meeting his eyes.

A flock of gulls assaulted the masts, diving in and out of the waves. At last, the terrible sea voyage was drawing to a close, and soon he would discover whatever fate had planned for him—and Sûla.

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Not long after Tigôn had sighted the spit of land, all of the sailors could discern the distant rocky shores of Hyarrostar looming up to the south. Entering the wide jaws of Bay of Rómenna, with a good tailwind and calm seas, they made good time. So it was that in the late afternoon, tall Calmindon, the lighthouse on the island of Tol Uinen came into sight and just beyond it appeared the high cliffs teaming with shrieking birds that enclosed the bustling port city of Rómenna, with its hilly slopes and tier upon tier of white-plastered buildings and warehouses. Tigôn leaned over the taffrail scanning hundreds of ships crowded into the wide bay and picked out Lord Amandil’s ship already moored at one of the many long stone quays. And there! On the far side of the quay, he could see the King’s ship, the Zimrazra, raised into dry dock. Workman swarmed the hull, making repairs. She looked beaten, with shredded sails and a battered hull. Tigôn stared anxiously. At least the ship had made it. That had to bode well, didn’t it?

The landing was a flurry of men unloading horses, equipment, and barrels, either by winch into the cockle boats or trundled down the gang planks. Captain Elendil and officers stood nearby shouting instructions. The air was filled with the raucous cries of gulls and saturated with that distinctly fishy smell that made Tigôn’s heart swell with nostalgia. He was home.

Hoisting his pack on one shoulder, Tigôn flexed his bandaged hands.

“Hey, Tigôn lad,” Elendil beckoned. “I have a task for you. Perfect for a former King’s messenger.”

Tigôn came over. “Yes, híren.”

Elendil handed him a leather satchel. “Take the papers to the merchant hall, you know where that is, aye? Have them sign us in and send over an inspector to assess the damage. We’ll need repairs before we can sail it around to our harbor. I figure you’re the man for the task seeing as how,” he gestured at Tigôn’s hands, “not much use crewing the cockleboats around the point, eh? I’m afraid it’ll mean a bit of a walk home.”

Tigôn grinned. “That’ll be no hardship, híren. My legs are aching for land. P’raps I can pick up some news on my way.”

“Good lad. On your way, then. No dawdling,” Elendil said. Then he turned to cuss out several sailors trying to shift a pile of crates.  

Tigôn headed down the plank onto the quay. Upon setting foot ashore, he swayed dizzily. It was the first time in five weeks that the ground did not shift and rock underneath him. But eventually gaining his land legs, he looked about for some likely folks with news. Ah, three lads loading sacks of grain onto a wagon.  

“Hey there,” he called. “Just made port aboard the Izrê. When did the Zimrazra come in?”

A lanky chap with bandana tied over his head looked up. With a grunt,  he hefted a bag onto the wagon. “Near three days ago. Beat up worse than a hen at a cock fight. All the fleet were in a monster of a storm, they say.”

“I know, I was in it too,” Tigôn said. “It was a near thing.”

“Did you see him then?  I’ve heard that the Lord Ossë himself appeared to save the King.”

“Truly? No, I didn’t see that,” Tigôn said. It sounded unlikely.

“It’s all over town,” the lanky chap said. “There’s the Zimrazra, over there under repairs.”  He gestured. “I mean look at her. Must have been a miracle to bring her home like that.”

“Three days, you say? Did the King depart for Armenelos yet?”

Another youth, a handsome, dark-skinned Umbarian, shirtless and wearing a copper amulet said, “Left just yesterday. The horses on board the other ships were fair sickly, so it took them several days to get them in shape so the host could depart.”

“Aye, yesterday,” a third youth with a gap in his front teeth affirmed. “With all the King’s retinue and baggage. It was quite a spectacle. Why? You got friends aboard?”

“No, just curious,” Tigôn said. “Did you hear that the King captured the Zigûr without a fight and brought him here from Middle-earth?”

“Oh aye,” the lanky lad replied enthusiastically. “I was there too and got fair close. Quite a crowd came down to take a look at him. Everyone wanted to see. They say he summoned Ossë, so maybe that explains it. I mean, you’d have thought he was royalty instead of a prisoner. He was shackled, but he was dressed in black finery, and he climbed up in the carriage next to the High King himself, free as you please. And whew, the look of him! I expected something hideous, you know, but he was stunning, wasn’t he!” He nodded at the others. “Long red hair. Like one of the King’s zirâmîkin.”

“P’raps the King made him his own personal slave,” The gap-toothed lad laughed. He elbowed the Umbarian.

“I saw him too. An elf. He looked like an elf,” the Umbarian said. “Never would have expected that.”

“And how would you know what elves look like?” the lanky lad joked. “They haven’t ventured to Anadûnê in many years.”

“I’ve seen the murals in Armenelos,” the Umbarian retorted. “So I would think I’d know if I saw one. They don’t look like us; they’re more slender, beautiful and sort of remote, as if our lives flicker past them unnoticed.”

“Arrogant they say,” the gap-toothed lad added. “Think they’re above us, being immortal and all.”

They all nodded.

“I’ve seen the Zigûr too,” Tigôn interrupted. “Close up. I was with the army when they captured him. He has indeed assumed the guise of an elf. So, you’re right there. Were there . . . any of the King’s household with them? Any of his zirâmîkin?”

The boys guffawed and shrugged.

“Why, you want a ride, sailor?” said the gap-toothed lad, with a grin. “Sure enough, it’s a long voyage from Middle-earth.”

Tigôn’s face heated.  “No, of course not. I just have a cousin that . . .”

“Hey there, young idlers,” shouted an older man striding over to them. “There’s work to be done. No time for scratching your nuts. Get to it.”

“Yes, overseer,” they chorused, and resumed loading up the wagon.

A sack slipped from the lanky lad’s hands and hit the wooden dock, where it split and dumped grain with a soft hiss. The boys all groaned, echoing the feeling in Tigôn’s heart. For a moment, the hubbub around him dimmed, along with the overseer’s angry shouts. The King was gone and likely Sûla with him. So much for his grand plan to escape with his lover. Now what? Well, this horrid turn of events made his next choice easy, at least in the short run. Follow orders and hike over to the Rómenna house, which was a couple miles north. He found himself looking forward to seeing Elendil’s sons and eating a good meal.

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The afternoon was warm and humid, with just enough of a sea breeze to make it bearable. After standing in line at a very busy royal exchequer’s office to turn in the records, Tigôn pushed through the bustling crowd on the docks, past the canopied stalls, then onto the streets lined with shops—their owners out crying their wares— past jugglers and street performers, and open air pubs with raucous sailors drinking wine and celebrating while târik players faced each other down over their game boards.

Elendil’s villa was situated north of town near a smaller bay with its own dock.  Tigôn toiled up the road that climbed back and forth up the slope until he reached the top of the cliffs. There, the terrain leveled and opened up into a grand town square, lined with monuments. This was where the road to Armenelos began. Well-paved with white stone, and wide enough for four wagons to travel abreast, it headed straight west, through a gap in the hills. Tigôn gazed off towards the conical peak of Meneltarma, hazy blue in the distance. If he squinted, he could almost see a residual cloud of dust from many marching feet still hanging in the air. For a moment, he thought of heading that way, but that wouldn’t do at all. He was expected at Elendil’s house.

Continuing on the smaller north road, he came to a street that branched off the main avenue heading towards the metalworkers’ quarter. The Eagle Eye shop, the place where he told Sûla to meet him, was over that way. He stopped dead. There were only a few customers in the streets.  Perhaps, he should go to see if, beyond all hope or logic, his lover was there, or at least if he’d left word of some kind. It wasn’t too far off his path. He could stop in briefly and still likely beat Elendil back to the house.

He came to a prosperous looking street lined with shops, their specialties painted on shingles outside the door, and found the sign of an eagle’s head with its predatory eye. He looked about and not seeing anyone heeding him, walked in.  It was the same shop he remembered from years past, crammed with cases displaying fine jewelry. A short man wearing a stained leather smock over a large stomach and sporting a closely cropped beard, emerged from the back, a jeweled necklace dangling from one hand. He looked curiously at Tigôn, then broke out in a wide smile.  “Well, bless the Valar, is that truly you, Tigôn, son of Eärdur of Eldalondë? How you’ve grown! I’d hardly have recognized you.”

It was Akhâsadûn, the shop’s owner and one of his father’s many friends. Feeling suddenly shy, Tigôn smiled tentatively at him. “It’s good to see you again, híren. I, well, just returned from the expedition to the continent where I served as a messenger for the King.”

“So I had heard,” Akhâsadûn said. “An honorable calling.” He pulled out a tray in the case where he settled the necklace on some black cloth and pulled it into shape. “Glad we are to see you all returned so soon, with so few lost in battle. I imagine you’d have some interesting tales to tell.” He gestured at Tigôn. “What happened to your hands?”

“Oh, a foolish accident while sailing home,” Tigôn said. “Rope burns. Nothing much to tell.”  He nervously pulled at frayed threads on his bandage.  

Akhâsadûn eyed him speculatively. “May I say, your arrival here seems rather . . . a coincidence.”

“How so, híren?”

“Well, to speak truth, I had a visitor two days ago. A young Umbarian who works for the King, so he said. He had also just disembarked.”

“Yes?” Tigôn’s heart beat faster. “Did he, um, leave any word?”

“Ah, I see you know him?”

Tigôn nodded slightly, trying not to appear eager. “He’s one of the King’s servants. Said he might stop to look at your wares since the King likes fine jewelry and he sometimes handles purchases for him. I had told him about your shop while we chatted in Umbar. He didn’t, um, ask if you’d like to buy any of his jewelry, did he?”

Akhâsadûn pulled at his neatly-trimmed beard thoughtfully. “No. I wish he had, as he was wearing some stunning pieces, including a unique armband in the shape of a dragon, which I recognized as the work of Abrazimir, a master craftsman in Armenelos. I’ve never seen its like. I asked him about it, but he seemed reluctant to say much. No doubt a royal gift. I must say, his looks were quite striking. If you’ve met him, I expect you know what I mean.” He eyed Tigôn.

Tigôn shrugged nonchalantly. “Is that all?”

“Well, he looked at jewelry, had me pull a couple pieces. Then he did something unexpected; he asked if he could purchase some paper and borrow pen and ink to write a note. I got him some and he went out the door for a while, then finally returned with a folded letter and asked for some sealing wax. Used a ring seal, he did, that by the look of it, indicated the King’s household. Then he asked if I could keep the letter for him, in case someone asked for it.”

Tigôn’s cheeks heated. “He did?”

“Yes, he didn’t say who, just said I’d know when he arrived. Gave me some coin for it.  Made me rather curious, I must say. And now here you are. I imagine there is a story to be told.”

Tigôn’s heart began thumping such that he feared his father’s friend might hear it. “Ah, well,  no story,” he shrugged. “Not an interesting one, anyway. But I’m glad he left a note. We became friends during the expedition inland, you know, came home in separate ships. We rode through terrible seas near a week ago, so I was . . . a bit worried. He must have known I’d wonder what became of him.”

“Hmm, yes,” Akhâsadûn said. “So, then, I’ll fetch it, shall I.” He disappeared through curtains into the backroom, while Tigôn chewed a fingernail.

The merchant reappeared holding a square of folded parchment with a red seal. Tigôn reached out, but Akhâsadûn hesitated a moment. “I did wonder why one of the King’s servants would want to entrust a message to me, when surely he could see you back at the palace.”

Tigôn had the impression of being gently probed. He kept his voice casual. “I’ve changed jobs, so not going back any time soon. Most likely he came here because I said you were an honest merchant and a family friend who could be trusted. I’m glad to hear he is well.”

“Hunh,” Akhâsadûn said. He offered the letter to Tigôn, who took it gently.“I have to say, this is somewhat unorthodox. . . passing notes, especially from someone who looked like that boy.” He chuckled. “I wonder what your father might have to say about it.” The merchant was letting him know that he understood more than Tigôn would like.

“My father always encouraged me to make friends, no matter their station in life or employment. Something I’m sure you know, híren,” Tigôn said, as he tucked the letter into the pouch at his waist. He was realizing a weak link in his plan, that his father’s friend might not have cooperated in purchasing Sûla’s armband so they could finance passage to Andúnië—although he seemed to have coveted the piece— and that he might have even sent word to his father. No doubt it was one weak point among many. Sûla was right. He’d been naive.

Akhâsadûn smiled and patted his hand. “You needn’t look so alarmed. I’m happy to facilitate such . . . a friendship. I have many friends from Umbar myself. So, then, are you interested in some fine jewelry?  Perhaps for your mother, or a girl you left behind when you sailed over four months ago?”

Tigôn’s palms grew sweaty under the bandages. “I’m afraid I haven’t been paid yet, híren,” he said, “but you can be sure I’ll return when I have. For now, I’ve got errands to run, especially since our ship came in late. But I want to thank you,” he tapped his pouch, “for this.”

Akhâsadûn drew a circle with a forefinger over his heart, identifying himself as a member of the Faithful and inclined his head. “Please convey my regards to your parents, Tigôn. Tell your father I would be most pleased to see him when next he comes to Rómenna. Blessings on your life’s journey.”

Tigôn bowed. He left the shop heading back to the main thoroughfare. At least Sûla was alive and still had his wits about him! But what had he written? All sorts of imaginings and hopes leapt up, which he suppressed immediately so as not to be disappointed. He was desperate to open it, but worried what it might say . . . or not say. They’d put so much faith in this plan working out and then it hadn’t. He needed a private place to be able to settle down to read it, undisturbed. But Anor was westering and he was due back at Elendil’s house. He had already taken much too long. He strode forward several steps and, well, maybe he could just take a quick look, before he burst of curiosity.  Leaning against a wall, he opened the pouch.  

“Hail Tigôn! At last, I found you!” A light male voice called to him from down the street.

Startled, Tigôn looked up. A figure was jogging towards him, waving madly. The setting sun lit him from behind, creating a halo of light about his head, and gilding his long, honey blond hair. As he moved out of the sunlight into the shadow cast by the shops, the halo disappeared, and his face came into focus. It was his old friend, Anárion. Quite handsome, as were all of his family, with those strong features and sharp Andúnië cheekbones. In his belted tunic and sandals, he looked older, taller and leaner, more capable somehow than when Tigôn had last seen him, which was about a year ago, before he’d entered the King’s service. It seemed like an age had passed since then. Tigôn’s brief annoyance at being interrupted melted away. He closed the flap on his pouch and called out, “Anárion, well met, my friend!”  

Anárion reached Tigôn, huffing a bit, his cheeks ruddy. He enveloped Tigôn in a hearty embrace, smelling like fresh bread and sunshine. “I am so glad to see you, Tigôn! Welcome home! Ada just arrived and sent me out to look for you. We’re all desperate for the news! There are so many rumors!  I want to hear everything about the expedition.” Stepping back, he scanned Tigôn up and down and laughed.“You look a bit rough, my friend, which is to be expected no doubt, after cavorting about on a military campaign and then a long tempestuous sea voyage, from what Ada said. Whatever did you do to your hands? Wounded in battle?”

Tigôn laughed and turned up his bandaged palms. “Hardly. I nearly fell off the crows’ nest this morning, caught myself in time, but well, rope burns.”

“Ack, looks like it hurt. Nana can tend them at the house before supper, then you can clean up, as much as possible. Seems like you’ll need a barber before you can appear anywhere in public. Fortunately old Halfaran is good with a razor and a pair of scissors, although his hands are getting rather shaky, which might be rather unfortunate.”  He laughed, then his face grew serious. “I understand you’re staying with us for a while. Is it true, you’re no longer working for the King?”

“It’s true.” Tigôn shrugged.

“Why, what happened?”

“A bit long to get into just now.”

“Ah mysteries! I must hear all about it—about everything. Anadar arrived a few hours ago and Ada just got home. Neither has said much yet. We’re getting supper ready. A feast really. I imagine that’ll be welcome after weeks of rations.”

Tigôn’s stomach growled. “Fairer words were never spoken,” he said and smiled. Anárion grinned back.

“Come along then!” Anárion clapped him on the arm, then set off briskly down the road. Tigôn jogged to keep up. “We’re having crab and sea bass in honor of your return. I baked the bread myself,” Anárion called over his shoulder. “Shake your legs! Time for resting later.”

Tigôn followed, with a sense of nervous anticipation. Although he feared the inevitable and uncomfortable explanations about all that had happened in Umbar, he actually looked forward to being reunited with his second family. The letter in his pouch must wait.

***********

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Chapter End Notes

*Abrazimir (Adûnaic) Steadfast-jewel. – the name of the master craftsman in Armenelos who made Sûla’s dragon armband.

*Ada (Sindarin) Dad

Akhâsadûn (Adûnaic ) elfscribe invented name composed of canon Adûnaic akhâs - chasm and adûn - the west. Name of the shop-owner of the Eagle Eye in Rómenna.

*Amandil (Quenya) means ‘lover of Aman.’ Father of Elendil, lord of Andúnië, ship captain and counselor to Ar-Pharazôn. Amandil means ‘lover or friend of Aman.’ His Adûnaic name is Aphanuzîr, also meaning ‘friend of Aman.’ Amandil’s house banner is an elfscribe invention, blue with the white ship following Eärendil’s blazing star. Aphanuzîr and Nimruzîr are canon Adûnaic for Amandil and Elendil respectively.

*Anadar (Sindarin) grandfather. Literal meaning ‘long-father.’  In this case, of course, Anárion means Amandil.  Thanks for the info, Saelind!

*Anárion (Quenya) likely means ‘Son of the Sun,’ a compound of anar (‘sun’) and ion (‘son of’) born in 3219, making him 43. I’ve characterized him as around 17 or 18. Dark blond hair (my headcanon). Grey eyes.

*Elendil (Quenya) meaning, ‘elf-lover’ or ‘elf-friend,’ son of Amandil and also a lord of Andúnië, and counselor to Ar-Pharazôn. His Adûnaic name is Nimruzîr which translates to the same thing.

Halfaran (Sindarin) ‘seashell king.’ A servant in Elendil’s household. Courtesy of Chestnut_pod 's wondrous Elvish Name list. Here’s a link.

*híren (Sindarin) ‘my lord.’ Tigôn uses this term with Elendil and other members of the Faithful, from the western coast of Númenor, as Sindarin is their first language.

*Izrê - (Adûnaic meaning ‘beloved or ‘desired’).  A term of endearment and also the name of Elendil’s ship.

*Lórellin (Quenya) meaning ‘Dream Pool,’ from lórë (‘dream’) + lin (‘pool, mere’). Elendil’s wife, an elfscribe-invented character. She is named after the lake in Lórien,Valinor where Estë rests. Rich brunette hair, blue eyes.

târik - canon Adûnaic meaning pillar. The game is an elfscribe invention resembling chess

Tigôn (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name).  His father is Lord Eärdur (an OC) who is the younger brother of Lord Vëandur of Eldalondë. Tigôn often visited Amandil and Elendil in Andúnië near the havens and was a playmate of Anárion and Isildur when young.

Zimrazra - (Adûnaic, meaning ‘sea jewel’) Non-canon name of Ar-Pharazôn’s ship before he built Alcarondas (the Castle of the Sea). Courtesy Malinornë.

Zizzûn (elfscribe-invented Umbarian name) Master of Fate, a god of the peasants around Umbar.