[Meneltarmacil]

Meneltarmacil's post

Thoronmir fired several arrows back at their pursuers, but there were too many behind them for the arrows to make a difference. Desperate to get off the island before it sank, Thoronmir urged his horse on.

Meanwhile, in the city, Sauron was still issuing orders.

"Hunt down the Faithful! They must not be allowed to leave this place. Herugor, take as many soldiers as you can and capture them before they can reach Romenna!"

"Yes, my lord," Herugor replied, and left.

Several miles from Armenelos, Thoronmir and the others stopped for a minute to rest before moving on. Thoronmir noticed something in the distance. At least ten horses were coming after them, and they didn't look friendly.

"Ride!" he shouted. "The Enemy has found us! Ride!"

An arrow flew past, narrowly missing Thoronmir. He fired a shot from his own bow and took off down the trail.

"You're not getting away this time, Sakaladun! This time, you die!" came a very familiar voice.

They rode onward.


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Himaran's post

Dropping the suspicious document on the desk, Abârzadan walked over to the cabinet from which his host had produced the obviously incorrect papers. Scanning the labels, he quickly recognized that they were alphebetically ordered. If those did not regard my father then... surely something else did. He found the "B's," and rolled down the line; Ba, Bat, Batâ, Batân...

There was nothing.

The man heaved a sigh of relief. Perhaps all this had been a big mistake after all.

Then he noticed the sections.

At the top of the cabinet he was standing in front of, a small sign read "Partners." Each one is its own file!. Well, if Partner didn't apply, what did? "Raw Materials?" "Transportation?" No, these were all connected to Anadanâ's housing business. The man worked his way around the room, checking the names for anything that looked suspicious. And then he saw it, clear as daylight.

"Political Enemies."

Not even bothering to scroll, Abârzadan pulled out his father's "file," which consisted of a small, heavy and unlocked metal box. He hauled it over to a nearby table and set it down. Prying up the lid, the man scooped out a pile of papers. The first several consisted of background information on his father, such as his birthdate, childhood residence, and geneology. Why does this man have a record on Abâranâ? Political enemies? He looked at the next document. Its title read, "Legislation and Political Measures." Names rolled out before him at startling speed - child labor, slavery, taxation; all the major issures were present. Nothing concrete or explanatory, though. But the next piece made his blood run cold.

"Voting Records."

After all, his father had been on the Numenorean High Council. While the King still had the final say in all matters, the council had wielded considerable power during that time. So what had he done to deserve the label of "enemy?" Nothing was making sense. Lists, lists, and yet more lists. Had it not been for the fact that Abâranâ's name had been circled, he might never have found it. The man started checking the votes. Child labor, No. Legalizing prostitution, No. All of the measures he had voted against had passed. In the face of great opposition, the politician had stood up for his beliefs. And to what end? The final decision in the record was entitled, "Centralized Army Fund." Origonally, garrisons in cities were run and operated by individual councils. This law created a single army controlled by Ar-Pharazôn alone, one which would have made controlling a disobediants populace far easier. He checked the list on the right side of the paper, and was surprised by what he saw.

His father had not voted.

Tossing it aside, he scooped up the next one. This one was simply labeled, "Status." There were three names on the paper. His mother's name had been crossed off. The names of his father and himself had not.

Abârzadan sank back into the chair behind him. His mother's death, the flight from Numenor; it had all become remarkably clear within the course of the past few minutes. His father's last words rang hauntingly in his memory. "I say this, so that you will indeed go back there, to see the place where our ancestors lie." And discover the truth.

A tremble in the floor snapped him out of his daydream.

The ink had been a diversion for Anadanâ to leave the room. Where was he? The man was sure that the aging politician would be more than happy to get Abârzadan's name scratched off that list once and for all. Rolling up the papers, he fastened them with a nearby tie and hurried out of the room. Maybe the Valar would be merciful to him. Maybe there was still time.