#sauronart

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

Five bells rang. 

The calm pool that was his perception trembled.

To the east. 

Within the chamber the rhythmic scratching of a quill stopped. Long ink stained fingers curled into a fist atop lined parchment, and a slow inhale of breath pulled into nostrils. Two amber eyes, black slits for pupils, slid toward the eastern window. 

From his lectern he could see early evening shadows creep across the land. Lanterns in the city were lit from the lowest street up as the first twinkle of stars shone through an orange horizon.

His gaze, far reaching and unrelenting, sought. He looked not as a man sees but as one peering through a veil. His sight wove into the threads of creation itself, between the material and the music. 

Masked within tranquility, he listened. 

No rings of disturbance were made again. The remaining striations whispered through the woven fabric of Arda, across his being, and into his knowing. 

He had not willed them.  

Without sound he stood and in three sweeping glides was before the window sill. His robes settled about him as though submerged in dark depths. Below, down from the palace and tiered battlements, Armenelos sang. The song was lively but controlled and in tune, with minor discrepancies. Waving chords flowed through the city in gradual decrescendo, though the chords had not come from the streets themselves. 

His eyes snapped upward. Toward the east. Awareness unfurled from the chamber and through Armenelos, following the chime until his sight rested upon the cliffs of Rómenna, above the bay. 

There he waited and watched. Yet, no horn rang with barreling hooves, not a voice called out his name, and no chord stirred save for the slowly thinning thrums that settled into creation once more. The scope of his search engulfed the peninsula of Hyarrostar from north to south, but there was no further disturbance or sign of threat. 

Ink stained fingers pressed into the sill where a plain, unadorned ring of gold caught the last light. His head tilted, then inclined, never blinking as though lidless. His brow furrowed upon a composed expression. If he was displeased it was impossible to know.

‘The world does not chime so easily,’ he thought. His pupils dilated as he withdrew sight into Armenelos again. He remained before the window and waited, as if the source would err and expose itself. It never did. 

‘Nor without cause.’

Cold, writhing distaste squirmed under his skin. Creation cannot stir from within an empty chamber. Power does not sing without will and yet, upon a cliff in Rómenna, it had.

He drew back from the sill when the sixth bell rang and moonlight sank from his features. Night seeped in through the open window like fog and surrounded him. 

He sat before his lectern again, placing two fingers upon the half written parchment. Then, at last, he lowered his gaze from the window and appraised his own sweeping, bold script. 

‘Such will wait,’ he thought. 

He then rolled the parchment away and produced a fresh sheet. His fingers ran along the length, smoothing the surface, then took up his quill and began to write.

By the end of his message he signed and pressed the seal of the High Lord Councilor's sigil into silken wax. The signature reading,

‘By order of Zigûr, High Lord Councilor to the King of Anadûnê, Ar-Pharazôn.’

Night passed as he stretched his wings over Armenelos. Yet in Rómenna dawn pierced through the dark from the east. 

Lorna awoke to the sound of strange coughing and a crackling of fire. She seized the cloth underneath her and sat upright in an instant. 

And then in jolts fast and slow she remembered everything. 

Before her, the long, low house stretched in its entirety. Six beds were set near the hearth in orderly rows of three. The bed frames were large and carved from wood; the mattresses feather soft.   

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 extensive apothecary's cabinet, and one long-haired, multi-colored cat with a slow curling tail, perched in an east facing window. The cat coughed once more. 

The house was cool and calm as pink sunlight painted the floors. A homemade wind chime of bells and seashells tinkled over the entryway, but did not disturb the calm. 

A woman stood over a pot by the hearth, minding a ladle full of something steaming, and poured it into a bowl. Two men in similar heavy robes sat at the desks. One was reading a book, the other writing upon a scroll. Two women sat at the tables toward the end of the house, eating quietly. 

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

Through gritted teeth Lorna released a thin breath before she reclined onto her elbow. The bed's mattress took her weight silently and was large enough for her to sprawl out if she wanted. 

Carefully, she lifted her bandaged hand and rubbed the ache from her eyes. 

‘Still here,’ she thought, bitterly. 

She moved to adjust her stiff knee and saw her dirt-slashed PJ shirt and ripped jeans were gone. A kaftan, or something like it, covered her. The fabric was comfortable in a way that made her question if she was wearing anything at all. 

Lorna remembered bits of what happened the previous night after being brought to the house. She knew she had cried and the gashed knee and scrapes had been cleaned. Lorna knew that she had been undressed but couldn't recall how. What she did remember without trouble however, was the food. 

A woman had brought her a bowl fragrant with rosemary, thyme, basil and a hint of something sweet. Chunks of soft lentils, carrots, onions and seared fish were lovingly embraced in a thick sauce the color of cream. A crisp dusting of peppercorn and chives crowned the whole. 

The bowl was emptied without a breath taken. 

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

“Ûri-îdô, Lorna,” the woman said, and came closer. She was holding a steaming bowl with a wooden spoon in one hand, a cup of water in the other. Lorna perked up and looked from the food, to the woman's face, the water, then back to the food. 

“Imrazêl,” she mumbled dryly. Her throat was sore and her mouth was sticky, but it felt nice to greet the woman with a name. Imrazêl took her by the shoulder, brought her in, then gave her name. Lorna, amid tears and coughs, gave hers. 

Imrazêl inclined her head, gentleness in every feature, then extended the bowl to Lorna. She smiled as Lorna took the bowl without hesitation.

“Thank you,” Lorna said, looking at Imrazêl for a sort of recognition that never came. 

The bowl was filled with the same luscious helping from the night before. Lorna sighed softly, readjusted her bad leg, then leaned forward to eat more comfortably. 

A stool creaked in protest as Imrazêl sat down beside the bed. Her gaze drifted toward the cat in the window. The feline blinked slowly with an expression Lorna read as smug. The half lidded green eyes were partially obscured by the plumose tail. Imrazêl smiled at the cat, watched the house, then looked back at a quiet scraping sound.

Lorna's spoon slid across the bowl, sopping up still-hot drops. Imrazêl extended a hand toward the bowl.

“Zîkh?” Imrazêl asked. 

Lorna looked up and nodded, her expression softening. Lorna came to learn that nodding to ‘Zîkh’ brought more food. So she did.

“Yes, please,” Lorna said quietly. 

The elder inclined her head, took the bowl and approached the round-bellied pot suspended over the flames. 

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

The bowl was soon handed back as Imrazêl glided onto her perch. Lorna did not immediately see the bundle of three scrolls under Imrazêl's arm. 

“Thank you,” Lorna said, offering the smallest test of a smile. 

Imrazêl fully returned the smile. 

Imrazêl waited for Lorna to settle into another bowl. But before this helping could be completely eaten, she reached for the scrolls under her arm. She set each scroll on the bed so Lorna could see them. Lorna watched between mouthfuls. 

“Sê,” Imrazêl hummed and placed her fingers over the smallest scroll. Lorna blinked and chewed quietly. 

Imrazêl opened the scroll with practiced hands and revealed its contents. Upon the parchment was a strange sort of map. 

In the center was the depiction of a land mass. It was unlike any she had seen before. There were five peninsulas protruding out like a star. Lines on the parchment conveyed crests for water around the five points. Dots with names she couldn't read labeled the coastlines and interior land. 

‘An island,’ Lorna thought and slowed her chewing. She swallowed and looked up at Imrazêl.

“What is this?” she asked, tone low and careful.

Imrazêl watched Lorna's eyes, her mouth, her brows. She tilted her head at Lorna's words, then touched the edge of the opened map.

“Anadûnê,” Imrazêl said as her fingers slid across the surface to a boldly scripted word. When Lorna didn't react, Imrazêl tried a different name. “Númenór.” 

Lorna leaned forward to read the script. 

The letters looked like different variations of h, f, k, and m. None of them were arranged in a way she understood. Lorna glanced up at Imrazêl once then shook her head. 

“I can't read this,” Lorna said as if it were her fault. She put a finger to the map, then pointed to her head. “It doesn't make sense.”

Imrazêl followed the motion and seemed to grasp the concept. She lifted her hands and motioned to the floor, the walls, and ceiling. Lorna took another bite of food and watched her arms move. 

“Númenór,” Imrazêl said again, then pulled her hands down and pressed her palms together. She finally extended her left hand toward Lorna's shoulder. 

“Lorna,” Imrazêl continued, then lowered her hand back toward the map. “Númenór-zê ki.”

Lorna froze mid-chew.  

‘No,’ Lorna thought. She then licked her lips and put the bowl down. With a sharpened attention Lorna pointed to the map. 

“Númenór?” Lorna questioned. 

Imrazêl nodded. 

“No,” Lorna said, shaking her head again. “There is no place called Númenór. That doesn't exist,” she insisted. Her face became red.

Imrazêl looked from Lorna's brows to her lips. She narrowed her gaze and put her hand on the scroll.

“Sîr,” she said again. 

The scroll of the island was set aside, but not covered. Imrazêl opened the next map and presented it. The parchment showed the same island but with another larger land mass to the east. 

Lorna tucked her hand under her chin as she scrutinized the page. The star island was to the west and a curving coastline to the east extended from north to south. None of it was familiar.

Imrazêl watched as Lorna's green eyes snapped across the map. Lorna understood what she was looking at. An island and a mainland. But she couldn't understand how it could exist. It wasn't Earth. 

A pained sound escaped Lorna's mouth as her palm covered her chin and lips. She began to rock and shake her head. 

“I don't know this,” Lorna asserted as her shoulders trembled. Imrazêl leaned forward and placed her fingers on her arm. 

“Shh… sîran banî,” she hummed as her hand gently patted. Imrazêl then extended a hand over the eastern coastline of the map and began pointing. She showed Lorna various dots and looked to Lorna for a nod or understanding. 

Yet with every dot Lorna's skin paled. 

“Ûi?”

‘Nothing?’ Imrazêl asked.

Lorna looked between the dots, the island, Imrazêl, then to the last map. She reached for the largest map herself and opened it. 

Bile rose in her throat. 

The map of a world. It was defined around the edges with one large continent to the east and another to the west. The star-shaped island in-between. Lorna put the map down and let out a strangled breath. 

“This is a joke,” she snapped. “Some sick prank around here. This isn't a real map.” She struggled to stand and balanced on her one good leg, the kaftan catching at her ankle. 

Imrazêl rose from her seat and extended her hands to help her. Imrazêl searched for the cause of Lorna's distress but could only help her stand and speak meaningless words to her. 

“Lorna,” Imrazêl gently spoke as she tried to bring her back to bed. 

“No,” Lorna yelled. Distressed by her raised voice. “No. That is wrong,” Lorna said and pointed at the map. “That's not Earth. I am...” her voice cracked. “From Earth, damn it. Listen! Please!”

The two men at their drafting desks and the women eating paused and watched. 

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

“Where am I?” Lorna begged in a hot panic as her hands ran over her face, and down to clutch her chest. “Where. Am. I?!”

When Imrazêl couldn't provide an answer in a language she could understand, Lorna released a shriveling sob. Her body wobbled down and her head kept shaking ‘no’. Imrazêl held Lorna to her chest as she cried. 

“Please!” Lorna begged while looking at Imrazêl. “I want to go home.”

Scalding tears slid down her face and sweat gleamed at her temples. Imrazêl looked between the maps and Lorna. And for the first time Imrazêl's expression broke. Her mouth opened to speak, but no words came. 

Imrazêl searched Lorna's face, seeking as Lorna sought. But neither of them found the answers they were looking for. 

Lorna was led back onto the bed where she curled onto her side and cried. Imrazêl rubbed her back in slow, large circles.

“Zâir saphad ki,”

‘I want to understand you,’ Imrazêl said as if it was a secret between them. 

“Abâr hê mag saphad.”

‘Help me to understand.’

Lorna heard her speak but was only more grieved. 

Footsteps softly scuffed behind them and came at a respectful distance from the head of the bed. The man who had been writing on parchment approached and looked at the weeping woman.

“Hallatar,” Imrazêl called to the man. 

“Imrazêl. Man zadan an?”

‘Imrazêl. What is happening here?’

Imrazêl spoke to the man and continued 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, then repeated the motion from mouth to ear. She squeezed Lorna's shoulder then nodded toward the apothecary cabinet. 

The man blinked with a slight nod. Imrazêl shook her head as she motioned from map to map, then back to Lorna. 

The man, Hallatar, looked between the maps and the crying, small woman. He came closer and took a scroll in hand, showing the island and larger land mass. 

“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?’ Hallatar asked. 

“Iyê.”

‘Yes.’

He frowned as his thick brows knitted together. 

“Bârûn sîpah? Sî mag-an azra-ze bâ-batan?”

‘Is her mind whole? Was she adrift at sea?’ he asked. 

“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 sunburns, no starvation or wasting, and no sign she drank sea-water. She is fully healthy. Only tired and hungry,’ Imrazêl said. 

Hallatar's gaze traveled up from the map to Lorna. He did not speak but stroked his black-streaked beard. Wooden beads set among the braids of his beard clinked softly. The deep gray of his eyes searching the map for her distress. But none was on the parchment. 

Lorna cried, inconsolable, for the remainder of the day. Imrazêl did what she could to calm her but no attempt at comfort or explanation was successful. 

The pink sunshine melted into an orange glare before Lorna exhausted herself and went quiet. She curled under blankets, her body a small thing, tucked out of sight. The only sounds she made were weak gasps every now and then. 

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

The wind chime over the door tinkled softly from an open window breeze. The cat beside the hearth stretched across the floor. A sweet aroma like petals and green things brushed her cheek. But nothing answered her.  

Hallatar and Imrazêl had stood by, not close enough to hover, but watchful. Imrazêl was disturbed and pained that there was so little she could do. All the knowledge and experience she possessed was useless to the girl. 

In times of unpleasantness 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 glanced back toward the window of the house periodically as Hallatar sipped his tea. 

He held a bundle of reddish fabric smeared with dirt. Lorna’s jeans were on the bench beside them, folded neatly. They had sat among the herbs and vines long enough for Hallatar to have thoroughly examined both garments. 

A thin sigh escaped Imrazêl's lips as she looked between him and the fabric.

“What does it mean, Hallatar?” she asked in a whisper.

The man moved his jaw forward then back in thought.

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

Hallatar 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. He sipped the last of his tea as Imrazêl sat, unsatisfied. She looked back toward the window again. 

All was silent within. 

“I am adrift,” Hallatar continued. “I cannot fathom how she came to be here. Nor whence she came.”

“Have you ever heard of one from the mainland coming here?” Imrazêl asked. 

His brows raised slightly. “No.”

They were silent for a moment among the garden as two scarlet Kirinki fluttered overhead and landed on a rosemary bush. Hallatar then clicked his tongue softly and placed his cup down on the bench. 

“Shall we inform the Lords of this? Amandil's folk?” Imrazêl asked and held her cup close to her chest.

Hallatar considered for many breaths before speaking.  

“I think not,” he said, tone somber. “Amid their grief, a question of one woman's displacement, no matter how strange, may appear ill-timed. All the world seems against them now. Yet I would send a written word of inquiry to one of their attending houses. To Master Elleonzîl, perhaps.”

Imrazêl tilted her head.

“I believe she should be taken before them. At least to Lord Elendil or a quieter ear.”

Hallatar shook his head. “I agree that her case should be heard. But I would not wish to burden the Lords until I understand what I am bringing them to bear,” he said. “Too much is unknown. A message and more investigation on my part would be the wiser path.”

Not dismayed but understanding, Imrazêl conceded. 

“What would you have me do?”

“Stand watch, care for the girl, and make a ledger of her. I shall return when I have received word from Master Elleonzîl, or have found a competent linguist in the tongues of men.”

Hallatar stared at his shadow upon tiles stamped with blue stars. His gaze followed an ant carrying a single pale flower petal across his shadow. There was much he had to bear.

He breathed in through his nostrils then spoke. “I have overseen the ledger of this house and have counted the expenses. 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 house for the lost is ever my honor to provide,” she said. 

“Your efforts are the real generosity. I merely purchased the cradle for them,” he said, then paused to be certain of his next words. “I will return to Armenelos within three days to attend to my affairs there and see my kin.”

Imrazêl’s expression became somber.

“I understand,” she said as her fingers flexed on the cup. 

“Within this time, I hope to have found a competent linguist in Rómenna and have her made known to the lords. If no resolution is found before I must depart for Armenelos, I will pursue the matter there, and return to assist you as needed.” 

“You are gracious, my Lord. Know that your absence will be missed by us,” she said. 

Hallatar's eyes warmed and he placed a hand atop her own. “Would that all of Númenor was as Rómenna is in my heart. Then the parting would not wound me.”

Imrazêl laughed softly and held his hand. She had known this lord fifty years and still his kindness was a gift she could never repay. Imrazêl averted her gaze and watched the Kirinki twitter, hopping from bush to bush. The birds fluttered around one another in a brief frenzy, then flew up and beyond the garden walls. 

“I pray your efforts bear fruit and your road be kind.” she said.

And so Hallatar departed that evening from Imrazêl and went to his private dwelling in Rómenna. There he wrote a sealed message to Master Elleonzîl and detailed the account of the woman's circumstances in full. He held the knowledge that his message might be delivered with the seal broken. A sealed letter from him to a lesser Faithful household would draw no attention. And that was the danger. 

He received a reply in one day's time by a runner of Elleonzîl's keeping. The runner delivered the message by mouth instead of parchment. 

“My Master wishes you well, Lord Hallatar,” the young man said. “And that he is intrigued by your news and would see the woman. But he fears for the sake of his household. Amandil's movements are under constant vigilance and, therefore, any strange visitors coming to Elleonzîl's house may be seen as suspicious, no matter how innocent. He says that until eyes unseen have passed over them, you should consult Lord Athzúng in Armenelos. You would find no better mind for obscure tongues of men.” 

Hallatar heard the message fully and was grieved for Elleonzîl. Yet, there was some good from the message. Lord Athzúng was a friend whom Hallatar had known since boyhood. He had not considered consulting Athzúng due to his establishment in Armenelos. It seemed now his path was bound to the king's road. 

He returned the following night and spoke with Imrazêl outside, in the salted alley. 

“I have made the ledger you wanted.” Imrazêl said, then handed Hallatar a rolled length of parchment. “She has hardly moved since you left and has taken little food or water. All the girl has done is wept quietly.” 

Hallatar accepted the roll and held it near, as though the contents were fragile. 

“She is in the well of her grief and finds it overflowing, a spring with no end. Yet we do not know the source.” Hallatar carefully tucked the parchment away in his satchel of leather and golden clasps. “There may be little we can do for her here. I have heard from Lord Elleonzîl and he cannot receive her. Rómenna is more closely watched than I had known.” 

Imrazêl's lips parted as her face paled. “Is Amandil in danger?” She asked in a near whisper. 

“Always, Imrazêl. But doom will not fall upon him tonight. Yet there is hope for the girl's sake.”

Imrazêl lifted her chin and listened. 

“Lord Elleonzîl can offer no aid himself. But he advises me to seek Lord Athzúng to discover her tongue and then seek her origins. I will return to Armenelos tomorrow, this is my path, and perhaps it may serve her if she accompanied me to seek Athzúng.” he said. 

Imrazêl's eyes grew dark.

“Hallatar… do you think that is wise?”

He held silent a moment before speaking again.

“A tongue is best heard from the mouth that speaks it, and Athzúng will not come to us willingly, he is a man of court. I think her coming is better than to leave her in doubt and grief.”

“Was it Elleonzîl's word alone that brought you to this decision?” Imrazêl asked. 

“No, I have much to consider. The girl speaks a tongue we do not recognize. She is intelligent and coherent, yet can not find 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. And yet I know not enough to bring her before the faithful who can not receive her now.”

“But consider the timing of it,” Imrazêl said. “Should you bring her to Armenelos, others may see her as an ill omen or sign. And perhaps that may be but.”

Hallatar raised a finger to his lips and shook his head. 

“Do not speak so,” he whispered, then glanced toward the end of the alley. “We do not know Eru's will in this and I will not claim her as sign and risk her safety so freely.”

Imrazêl lowered her head, allowed the alley a moment's silence, then spoke. 

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

“Better for whom Imrazêl? She needs aid, of which I can not give well here. In Armenelos I will have access to my other households and resources, Athzúng will aid me, and I am not too public in my ways to be denied, for the court sees me as a friend,” he said. 

Imrazêl held herself steady but spoke on. 

“These are true but the risk is great. In Armenelos she will be taken as an enemy before a stranger, and hated for it.”

Hallatar placed his hands upon her shoulders and stilled her. The weight of his touch, warm and solid, anchored her before him. “I shall protect her, Imrazêl,” he said softly. His voice allowed no doubt. “I will see to her protection and ensure her travels are safe. She has come into our house, lost and grieved, Imrazêl. We are called to ensure 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 as her head lowered and she became wholly still in his hands.

“I trust you, my lord. It is the rest of the world that sickens me with dread. The thought of her within that city fills me with despair,” she said. 

She then raised her head and placed her hand beneath his elbow. 

“If this is your wish then it shall be. But promise me to keep her well. I cannot bear the thought of any child in such darkness.”

Hallatar reached and embraced her amid her sorrow. 

“You have my word, Imrazêl,” he said. “There is nothing in Númenor that shall do her harm while I am with her.”

Chapter 3 , to be posted soon.