#numenorian

He felt the sensation ripple across him in one pluck of awareness. It happened after the calling of the hour. Five bells had rung. 

The calm pool that was his perception trembled. 

To the east.  

Within his chamber the steady rhythmic scratching of a quill stopped. Long ink stained fingers atop lined parchment curled into fists. A slow inhale of air pulled into his nostrils. Two amber eyes, black slits for pupils slid toward the window. 

From his lectern he could see the early evening creep into shadows. Lanterns in the city grew bright, one after another. The first twinkle of stars shone through the orange horizon.

In utter stillness his gaze sought. Not as a man sees a window sill, its frame and carvings. His sight wove into the threads of creation itself. Between the material and the music. 

Masked within tranquility, Zigûr listened. 

There was nothing. Not a further disturbance or sign of threat. Yet striations whispered through the woven fabric of Arda. 

He did not make them. 

Without sound or seeming effort Zigûr stood. In three long, sweeping glides he was before the window. Below, down from the palace and tiered battlements, Armenelos sang. The song was lively but controlled, in tune, with minor discrepancies. Waving chords flowed through the city in gradual decrescendo, though did not come from the streets themselves. 

His gaze snapped upward. Toward the east. 

Unfurling his awareness past the chamber and through Armenelos, Zigûr perceived where the discord hummed.  

Off the cliffs of Rómenna, above the bay. But nothing more.

No horn rang with barreling hooves. Not a voice called out his name. Nothing stirred save for the slowly thinning thrums.

His brow furrowed upon an immovable expression. If he was displeased it was impossible to know. 

The scope of his search engulfed the peninsula of Hyarrostar, yet there was no sign of a source. 

Ink stained fingers pressed into the sill. A plain unadorned ring of gold on his middle finger. His head tilting, then inclining, never blinking. The thin line of his mouth only betraying his threading focus. 

‘The world does not chime so easily,’ he thought. Pupils dilated as he withdrew sight into Armenelos again.

‘Nor without cause.’ 

He remained before the window, looking east. Expecting the cause to expose itself. It hadn't. 

Cold, writhing distaste squirmed under his skin. 

Music cannot stir from an empty chamber. Power does not sing without will. And yet the world became still again. 

Zigûr drew back from the sill when the sixth bell rang. Moonlight sank from his features. Night had since fallen completely, Armenelos sparkling below in torchlight. 

He sat before his lectern, two fingers pressing upon the half written parchment. Zigûr lowered his gaze from the window, at last. Looking down upon his sweeping, bold script. 

That would have to wait. 

Neatly rolling the parchment then placing it to the side, Zigûr produced a fresh roll. His fingers ran along the length, smoothing the surface. He then took up his quill, laced it into the ink pot, and began to write again. 

Night passed as the great deceiver stretched his wings over Armenelos. Yet, in Rómenna dawn pierced through. 

Lorna awoke to the brisk sound of coughing and the crackle of fire. 

She seized the cloth underneath her, heart hammering, eyes wide.

Then she remembered.

The bed-like, wooden slab she lay on creaked. A sheet and feather stuffed pillow served as bedding. 

Before her, the long, low house was seen in its entirety. Six beds were huddled near the hearth in orderly rows of three, empty. 

Across the house were several drafting desks, each filled with scrolls, parchment, books and various quills. Further down were some tables, a bench near an apothecary's cabinet. And one long haired, multi-colored cat with a slow curling tail, perched in an east facing window. 

Pink sunlight reached onto the floors. A homemade wind chime of tiny bells and seashells tinked over the entry way. Open, quiet, mindfulness laid over the house, calm and steady. 

The elder stood over a pot by the hearth, minding a ladle full of something steaming pouring into a bowl. Two men, in similar heavy robes sat at the desks. One was reading a book, the other writing upon a scroll. 

None were startled by her waking or gave her more than a soft glance. 

Her expression descended from initial panic to a hardened gaze. Mouth closed and thin. 

Lorna lifted her bandaged hands, rubbing the ache from her eyes. 

Carefully she curled upward, in a seated position, back to the wall. Drawing her legs to her chest, Lorna exhaled softly, pressing her forehead to her knees. 

‘Still here.’ she thought, bitterly. ‘Still. Here.’

She gripped the fabric over her legs. The dirt slashed PJ shirt and ripped jeans were gone. A cotton kaftan, or something like it clothed her. The fabric was too large for her frame but concealed everything. 

The previous night, Lorna had resigned herself to the care of the elder. She remembered very little of what happened. 

Crying, she knew she had cried. The gashed knee, scrapes and cuts were cleaned. When she was undressed and how, she couldn't recall. She was in her clothes one moment, bandaged and wearing the kaftan the next. 

The elder had asked her name. Lorna gave it. 

What she did remember without trouble however, was the food. While sitting on the slab bed, the elder had brought Lorna a bowl of goodness. The steam was fragrant with rosemary, thyme, basil and a hint of something sweet. Chunks of soft potatoes, carrots, onion and seared fish were lovingly embraced in a thick sauce the color of cream. Topped with a crisp dusting of pepper corn and chives. 

The bowl was emptied without a breath taken. 

After several more bowls, she fell asleep. Strewn across the bed as though thrown into oblivion. 

“Ûri-îdô, Lorna.” the elder cooed as a morning dove. Lorna lifted her eyes above her knees. 

The woman was holding a steaming bowl with a wooden spoon in one hand, a bundle of scrolls in the other. 

Lorna perked up. She looked from the food, to the elder's face, the scrolls, then back to the food. 

“Morning, Imrazêl.” she mumbled dryly. Throat sore and mouth sticky. It felt nice to greet the woman with a name. 

Imrazêl inclined her head, gentleness in every feature. She extended the bowl to Lorna, pleased to see it taken without hesitation.

Lorna didn't snatch it, she wasn't a gremlin. Merely enthusiastic. 

“Thank you.”

The bowl was filled with the same luscious helping from the night before. She sighed softly. Her legs lowered, sitting cross legged, then leaned forward a bit to eat more comfortably. 

Beside the bed, Imrazêl sat, the stool creaking in protest. She laid out the scrolls on the bed one by one. 

Lorna watched between mouthfuls. Every scoop of food, another scroll on the bed. There were three total. 

Imrazêl remained seated as Lorna ate, gaze lifting toward the cat in the window, The feline blinked slowly in her direction, smug expression partially obscured by the plumous tail. 

When a quiet scraping met her ears, Imrazêl looked back. 

Lorna's spoon slid across the bowl, sapping up still hot drops. Imrazêl's eyes warmed, then extended a hand toward the bowl.

“Zîkh?”

Lorna nodded, expression softening. Unsure of the exact meaning, she came to learn that nodding to ‘Zîkh’ meant more food. So she did. 

“Yes, please.”

The elder inclined her head, took the bowl and approached the hearth. A round belly pot was suspended there near the flames. 

Lorna licked her lips, watching the ladle dip into the pot then return with a bounty. 

The bowl was handed back as Imrazêl glided onto her perch. 

“Thank you.” Lorna smiled. The smile was returned, genuinely. 

Imrazêl waited a moment more, allowing Lorna to settle into another bowl. 

Before this helping could be completely eaten, she spoke. 

“Sê.” The woman hummed, placing her fingers over the smallest scroll. Lorna blinked, chewing quietly. 

The scroll opened with practiced hands. Upon the parchment a strange sort of map was revealed. 

‘An island?’ Lorna thought. 

The lines on the parchment seemed to convey crests for water, coast lines and dots with names she couldn't read. But if it was an island, it was unlike one she had ever seen before. It had five fingers, like a star, protruding out into the waters. 

Lorna slowed in eating. Swallowed and looked up at the elder. 

“...what is this?” She asked, tone curious, low. Careful.

Imrazêl studied Lorna's eyes, her mouth, her brows. She tilted her head through Lorna's strange speech, then touched the edge of the map.

“Anadûnê.” She said, fingers sliding across the surface to rest over a scripted word. She tried a different name. “Númenór.” 

Lorna grimaced, leaning forward to read. 

The letters looked like different variations of h, f, k, and m. None of them were arranged in a way she understood. Frowning, she shook her head, looking to Imrazêl. 

“I can't read this.” Lorna shrugged, putting a finger to the map, then to her head. “It doesn't make sense.”

Imrazêl raised her brows, kindly. Seeming to understand, she nodded once. Her hands rose motioning to the floor, the walls, and ceiling. Lorna took another bite of food, watching her arms move. 

“Númenór.” Imrazêl said again” pulling her hands down, palms pressing together. She extended her left hand toward Lorna's shoulder. 

“Lorna.” Imrazêl continued. Her hand lowered back toward the map. “Númenórî.”

Lorna froze, gaze sharpening. 

‘Is she saying… I am-. No…’

‘No.’

She licked her lips and put the bowl down next to her. With an awakened attention she pointed on the map. 

“Númenór?” Lorna questioned. 

Imrazêl nodded. 

“No.” Lorna said, shaking her head again. “There is no place, no island called Númenór. That… that doesn't exist.” She insisted, face becoming red about the cheeks.

Imrazêl's eyes moved from Lorna's brows to her lips. She narrowed her gaze only just. Raising a hand, she reached for the next larger scroll. 

“Sîr.” 

The scroll of the island was set aside, but not covered. The next map showed the same island again, but this time smaller with another larger land mass to the east. 

Lorna tucked an arm to her chest, palm to her face as she scrutinized this new landscape. The star island was to the west and a curving coast line to the east extended from north to south. None of it was familiar.

Imrazêl did not look at the map.

Lorna stared, eyes snapping across the lines. She understood what she was looking at. An island and a mainland. But she couldn't understand how such geography existed. Or could exist- it wasn't Earth. 

A pained sound escaped Lorna's mouth, her palm covering her chin and lips. She began small rocking movements, shaking her head. Taking in a long breath. 

“I don't recognize this.” she huffed, fingers beginning to tremble. Imrazêl leaned forward listening. Her hand reached for Lorna's uninjured knee. 

“Shh… sîran banî.” she hummed, hand gently patting her. Though the woman was cool and collected, her expression crinkled. 

She extended a hand over the eastern coastline, pointing to various dots, then looking to Lorna for recognition. Yet with every dot, Lorna's skin paled. 

“Ûl?”

‘Nothing?’

Lorna looked between the dots, the island, Imrazêl, then to the last map. 

She reached for the largest map and opened it. Bile rose in her throat. 

The map was that of a world. It was defined about the edges with one large continent to the east and another to the west. The star shaped island in-between. 

Lorma dropped the map away from her and let out a strangled breath. 

“Ah…!” was all she had managed to voice before she got up and moved off the bed. Nearly tripping on the kaftan. 

Imrazêl rose from her seat, hands extended but remaining by the stool. Her mouth was open, eyes searching for the cause of Lorna's distress. 

“Lorna…” she called gently. 

“No.” Lorna inhaled. “No. That is wrong.” pointed at the bed then paced back and forth, back and forth. “That's… not Earth. I am-.” her voice cracked on the words. “From planet- fucking Earth.”

The two men at their drafting desks paused in their work, watching. The one writing on parchment tilted his head, listening. 

Imrazêl tried to hush her, gesturing she return to bed but Lorna refused. 

“Where am I?” she begged in a hot panic. Her hands ran over her face, clutching at her chest. “Where. Am. I?!”

When Imrazêl couldn't provide an answer, only sounds Lorna couldn't understand, she crumbled. 

Her frame wobbled down, hands bracing onto the floor. Her head kept shaking ‘no’, teeth gritting, eyes searching. Ravenous.

“Please!” She sobbed, looking at Imrazêl. Her tears felt scalding as they slid down her face. Lungs constricting in her chest, as sweat gleamed at her temples. “This is impossible. I want to go home…”

The woman looked between the maps and Lorna. For the first time since meeting this strange lost one, Imrazêl's expression faltered. 

She put a hand to her lips, gaze seeking as Lorna's gaze sought. But neither found the answers they were looking for. 

Imrazêl exhaled, hands open but empty. Mouth working, yet nothing helpful could be said. She knelt beside Lorna, hand carefully reaching then rubbed her back. Lorna let her, desperately rocking herself to and fro. 

“zâir saphad ki”

‘I want to understand you.’

She whispered, as if it was a secret between them. 

“Abâr hê mag saphad.”

‘Help me to understand.’

Lorna was only more grieved. 

Behind Imrazêl footsteps softly scuffed. The man who had been writing on the parchment approached. His expression patient. 

Imrazêl looked over her shoulder.

“Hallatar…” she breathed. 

“Imrazêl… man zadan an?”

‘Imrazel… what is happening here?’

She spoke, continuing to rub Lorna's back. 

She made slow gestures to Lorna then pointed in the direction of the forest and coast. Her fingers swiped between her mouth, ears and head. Repeating the motion from mouth to ear. Her hand then squeezed Lorna's shoulder as she nodded toward the apothecary cabinet. 

The man blinked, bobbing his head. 

Imrazêl then pointed toward the maps, her voice a bit breathless. She shook her head, expression lost as her hand motioned from map to map, then back to Lorna. 

Hallatar looked between the maps and the crying woman. Turning, he took each in hand, looking them over. 

“Sâ bat-zadan an kôlba? Bâ thâr, bâ nîlô, bâ kargâ?”

‘She was found on the cliff? Not the harbor, the beach, or among cargo?’

“iyê”

‘Yes’

He frowned, thick brows knitting together. 

“Bârûn sîpah? Kadar anâdâ?”

‘Is her mind whole? Do you see signs?’

“Anadûn sîpah. Bâ zôr an-anadûn, nê zîr nê thâl, nê sîphat bâr azrâ. Sî sîpah kâda. Bâdûn tîr nêkhûn.”

‘I found her coherent. There are no sun burns, no starvation or wasting, and no sign she drank sea-water. She is fully healthy- only tired and hungry.’

Hallatar paused. His gaze traveled upward, hands releasing the maps. One stroked his cloudy beard, the other was extended by his hip. 

Imrazêl watched him, hushing Lorna when her breath hitched to painful gasps. Hallatar did not speak for some time. He sat on the stool beside the bed, seeking. 

Lorna grieved bitterly. What words she could have screamed for help or need fell into more sobs. Imrazêl did what she could to calm her, ensuring she drank water as often. 

Yet no attempt at easing or trying to understand why she was so distraught were successful. 

The pink sunshine had melted into an orange glare before Lorna exhausted herself. 

Imrazêl had long since removed the maps and guided Lorna back into bed. She shriveled under the blankets, her body a small thing that curled out of sight. The only sounds she made now were weak gasps that cut between a yelp every now and then. 

She cried still, though no tears could come, her voice diminished to a silent sob. 

‘God… help me.’ She prayed. ‘God, if you're there, help me.’ 

The windchime over the door tinked softly from an open window breeze. The cat beside the hearth lounged peacefully. A sweet aroma like petals and green things brushed her cheek. 

But no answer was heard. 

Lorna sniffled, body shaking once more, then hid her face under the blanket completely. 

Hallatar and Imrazêl had stood by, not close but watchful as Lorna tucked herself away. Imrazêl felt disturbed and pained that there was so little she could do. All the knowledge and experience she processed seemed useless at the moment. 

In times such as those, she found tea to be an appropriate remedy. Reserving a cup for Lorna, when she was ready, she and Hallatar gathered in the east garden of the house. It was a small square opening, where various herbs and flowers grew. Three stone benches were placed in the center under a sliver of blue sky.

They sat, tea in hand. Imrazêl glancing back toward the window of the house periodically. 

Hallatar sipped his tea, holding a bundle of reddish fabric smeared with dirt. Lorna’s jeans were folded on the bench beside them. 

They had sat among the flora long enough for Hallatar to have nearly finished his cup. Imrazêl had not. A thin sigh escaped her lips. She returned her gaze to Hallatar, looking briefly to the fabric he held. 

“What does it mean, Hallatar?”

The man moved his jaw forward then back, having examined the fabric since entering the garden. 

The weave pulled, was uncommonly soft for its appearance and bore a script on the inside of the collar he couldn't decipher. Same for the blue leg wear. Only the make of that garment was far more admirable and… unknown to him. He was no textile maker by any means, yet their quality and foreignness was plain.

He drew a long breath through his nostrils, then spoke.

“I do not know,” his voice was low. Not wispy as a man weighed by age, but grounded.

Carefully he folded the fabric and placed it atop the leg wear before sipping the last of his tea. Imrazêl was unsatisfied with his answer but minded her cup, glancing back toward the window. 

All was silent within. 

“I am adrift.” Hallatar continued. “I cannot fathom how she came to be here… nor where she came.”

Imrazêl tapped a finger on her cup. 

“I am glad to tend her, until we learn more. But how to place her among us and mark her in the registry will be difficult. She is terrified.”

Hallatar nodded. “That is the foundation of what troubles me.” He said over the rim of his cup. “Most who come to this house have some understanding of where they are, when it is made clear. But, for her, it is as if she were a babe torn from the womb.”

Imrazêl lowered her gaze. They were silent for a moment as two Kinrinkis fluttered overhead, landing on a rosemary bush.  

Halatar clicked his tongue softly, placed his cup down then rubbed his brow. 

“Too much is unknown.”

She nodded, staring ahead at the scarlet Kirinki. “What should we do?”

His hand stroked his beard, the wooden beads at the end clinking softly. He stared at his shadow, its shape obscuring the white stone below. His gaze followed an ant carrying a single blue flower petal across. Then he spoke in careful beats.  

“The work you and the others have done here is more than well to me. I am pleased.”

Imrazêl gave a small smile. 

“We have your generosity to thank. The care of your home is ever my honor to serve in.”

Hallatar inclined his head.

“Your efforts are the real generosity. I merely purchased the cradle for them.” 

He paused again, considering with deepening resolve. 

“I return to Armenelos tomorrow.” He began, Imrazêl’s expression sombering. 

“I understand.” She spoke, fingers flexing on the cup. 

“I think… perhaps it would serve us and her if she accompanied me.”

Imrazêl's eyes hardened, jaw set. 

“Do you think that is wise, Hallatar? The capital is- she is only a child.”

“I don't intend to parade her through the streets like.” He stopped then, thinking better of what he was going to say. “No, I think it wise. Though I share your mistrust.”

Imrazêl pursed her lips then put her cup down. “The timing of it.” Imrazêl spoke, voice grave. “she will be seen as an omen or sign. And perhaps that may be but...”

Halatar raised a single finger to his lips, shaking his head. 

“Do not speak of her so.” he whispered, an eye glancing toward the house. “We do not know Eru's will in this. There may still be more that we can learn.”

Imrazêl lowered her head slightly, heated about the cheeks. 

“Hallatar, I voice my displeasure with that proposal. If she were to remain here, it would be better.”

Hallatar shrugged slightly, hands resting in his lap. “She speaks no tongue we recognize.” he continued, hushed and careful. “ She is intelligent, coherent and yet unable to identify her origin on our maps. Her clothing is of a quality unseen and her means of coming here, unknown. I would be remiss to dismiss her as a mere cast away. These…” he gestured to the clothing “are far too loud, too specific to be ignored.”

Imrazêl averted her gaze, watching the Kirinki twitter, hopping from bush to bush. 

“In Armenelos, I will have access to my other houses and resources.” Hallatar soothed, watching the birds with her. “Certain members of the council who still speak of our ways will aid me.” 

The birds fluttered around one another in a brief frenzy, then flew up and beyond the garden walls. 

“She has come into our house, seeking aid. We are called to ensure such aid is given. Even if it is uncomfortable for a little while. My chances of helping her increase in Armenelos.”

Imrazêl exhaled through her nostrils, gaze returning to him, hard, a little cold. But relenting. 

“Promise to keep her well. I cannot bear the thought of her, or any lost child in that city.”

Hallatar pressed a weathered hand over his chest, inclining his head. 

“You have my word, Imrazêl. There is nothing on this island that shall harm her.”

Chapter 4 , to be posted soon.