Chapter name, in English: "Who brings to us this token of darkness?"
This chapter will serve as a sort of prelude before the actual events of the story. The events of The New Shadow actually take place during King Eldarion's reign.
This story is probably best read with what little there is of "The New Shadow," a Tolkien glossary, patience for a very green writer, and a dozen glasses of wine.
Er, enjoy.
The Third Age had long since ended, and yet another shadow had fallen upon the forests of Ithilien.
Some likened it to the darkening of Mirkwood, when the Dark Lord Sauron had begun to muster his strength neath the Hill of Sorcery. Others claimed that a spot of bad weather had come to the forests, and that it would pass in due time. But most folk ignored the whole affair altogether, because the well-to-do peoples of the Kingdom of Gondor had greater things to worry about than an overcast sky—save one, perhaps.
At the age of one hundred and twenty, Prince Faramir found himself drawing near the end of his days. His beloved Éowyn had since passed many years before, having not the long-living blood of Númenor. He lived now in grief and solitude, and as a dark fog began to settle upon Ithilien, he became plagued with visions that had not entered his mind since the downfall of Sauron.
It was because of these visions that he dared not fall asleep, lest he find himself once more in the lonely tower of Ecthelion, watching helplessly as a great wave rose and swallowed the city of Minas Tirith.
His children swiftly took notice of their father's unrest, and one night as he sat looking east towards the city, they confronted him. But once Faramir had told them of his dream, they fell silent and knew not what to do. For the House of Húrin had far-seeing eyes, and the dreams that now haunted the Prince could very well be events that had yet to come. Nevertheless, their father had grown both sick and weary, and he thus died in the winter of the Shadow of Ithilien.
So came the time that Faramir's son, Lord Elboron, should take up his the office as Prince of Ithilien and the role of chief counsellor of the King. But Elboron himself had grown old, and the phantom of his father's dream still troubled his mind. For he remembered the tales of the old world, and of the Great Wave that Eru Ilúvatar had cast unto the proud island of Westernesse. Could it be that such a doom was now come to Gondor, and to the Númenóreans that dwelled within?
Troubled, he decided to hold counsel once more with his sisters Eremë and Finduilas, both of whom advised him to request an audience with Elessar and express his concerns. And so the children of Faramir rode in haste to Minas Tirith and spoke before the King and Queen of Gondor.
This was not Lord Elboron's first encounter with Aragorn Elessar. It was, however, his first interaction with him as a prince, and he felt his face flush with embarrassment at how foolish his troubles now seemed. But the King, much to his surprise, seemed to blanch at the news of the late steward's vision. He immediately called a servant to him—for what Elboron knew not, as he scurried off as quickly as he had come.
"My Lord," said Elboron with uncertainty, "May I ask what it is you intend to do?"
The King pressed a hand to his brow, seeming to forget Elboron's presence entirely. "The changing of the world," he said softly. "Akallabêth… 'she who hath fallen.' But nay, she stands on two feet once more, for the King is come at last and Gondor and Arnor are united, as in the days of old. Why then do the waves come?"
"You speak of the fall of Númenor," supplied an impatient Elboron. "Lord, my sisters and I fear that the visions our dear father had are… premonitory. Of course, night oft plays tricks on one's mind—they could very well be just dreams—but if not, suppose you that Prince Faramir foresaw a second doom come to our people, to the descendants of Westernesse?"
The King did not reply. Rather, he stooped low in his throne, looking much like an old, withered tree. Finally, he said in a hoarse voice, "I know not, Lord Elboron. Yes, your House has long been blessed with the gift of foresight. However, I know not why the waves should come to Minas Tirith. For what have we done to offend the Valar, and Eru Ilúvatar himself?"
"Time may yet reveal itself to us," said Elboron quietly. "Dark deeds may yet be committed, but from whose hand remains to be seen." Then, seeing the look of terror on his sire's face, he added, "Do not fear, my lord. My kinswomen and I have always been true to the High King Aragorn Elessar, and so we intend to be for the rest of our days. For you, my lord, carry the memory of the Faithful, those who would not forsake the Valar nor the Eldar. For this, you have our allegiance."
For a fleeting moment, King Elessar looked to be stricken with speechlessness. But soon after he gave Elboron a warm smile and said, "You carry the wisdom of your father, Elboron. I am blessed to have you as my steward."
In spite of himself, Elboron felt his face flush at this unexpected praise. "Thank you, Sire," he murmured.
The King closed his eyes. "As for the vision, I shall take your advice and wait for time's answer. For I believe our people to be Faithful still, but I also do not wish to bet against fate. Thank you again, Lord Elboron. You are free to leave."
Elboron bowed before King Elessar and departed the chamber. In the courtyard he met with Eremё and Finduilas, who demanded to hear the King's word at once. "Steady on, my sisters," said Elboron. "Vigilant will the Lords of Gondor and Arnor should trouble begin to brew within our kingdom. But for now, all is at peace." And they thus departed the courtyard of stone and set a course once more for home.
Though no one had spoken it, the three children of Faramir knew that their hearts would not rest in this supposed time of peace, and they dreaded to return to the shadow-covered Ithilien.
King Elessar too felt a great foreboding within his heart, and slowly he rose from his throne and ascended the Tower of Ecthelion, where the servant he had sent for earlier stood waiting for him.
"The chamber is ready, Sire," said the servant. "The door is open, and the stone awaits you within." He bowed hastily before retreating back down the steps of the tower.
The King drew a deep breath before passing beyond the door and into the chamber. Rarely did he visit the uppermost room of the tower, for its black marble interior seemed to him cold and uninviting. Once (though he refused to think much of it after) he thought he espied its former master, Lord Denethor, wandering silently through its depths and wielding once more the palantír of Minas Tirith.
The stone in question now sat but one fathom away. It was seated upon a black pedestal, and was wreathed in a thick dark cloth. In its younger days, it was better known as the Anor-Stone; but after the passing of Denethor, few now could look into and see anything other than a pair of flaming hands.
The King shuddered in spite of himself, and approached the stone warily, as if the old steward were waiting for him somewhere within the chamber. Pushing the thought away, he stripped the palantír of its cloth and, clasping it between his hands, he allowed his mind to plummet into its depths.
He found himself standing in the Tower of Ecthelion, in a body that was not his own. Lord Faramir, he thought immediately. This is what he saw.
The sky that stretched before him was a bright yellow, the same sickly hue that colors a festering wound. The Pelennor Fields, which were once dotted with farms and wain-roads, sat brown and lifeless before the desolate walls of Mindolluin. Everything was still, just as the moment before daybreak when the world holds its breath.
He could not see the waves at first. They seemed to him like a dark sheet folding its way over the land, steadily climbing higher and higher until the black waves seemed to crash into the sky.
He would flee—indeed, flee he tried—but he remember with dread that he wore the legs of a dead man, of Faramir long passed. And so he stood in the Tower of Ecthelion, helpless as the Great Wave rose above the citadel….
A flash of light, and he was Aragorn once more. To his wonder, his hands still clasped the palantír, drenched with sweat as they were. He sighed heavily and allowed his forehead to rest atop the fiery globe, feeling at once very old and very tired. His stewards, father and son, had been in the right: Certain doom was come to Gondor, just as it had in the days of old. Closing his eyes he wondered, How many more trials have I to endure before I go to the Halls of Mandos?
Whoa. I forgot how weird this format was.
Anywho, that was a sort of introductory-prologue-type... thing. Meaning that there are more chapters to come (hopefully), and with that, a batch of new heroes. In the meantime I ask you to bear with me, as it takes a rather long time for me to get my thoughts out.