T.A. 2987

It began in a village of an ancient and mysterious race, the Dunedain. Most of the Dunedain lived in the regions farther to the west, near Angmar and the Shire. But one, very small village had split off, and was built right on the sea, behind the Blue Mountains. They were surrounded by bleach white shores and high, jagged cliffs. The brown-yellow grass stretched all the way to the edge of the cliffs, lush green mountain forests at its back. The dark blue and white foamy waves crashed nonstop against the gray rocks of the cliffs.

Upon a bluff sat the village. It overlooked the vast ocean. The buildings had thatched roofs and were made of oak wood from the mountains. They served as suitable and comfortable shelters from storms and the sea. A larger hall held the lord. He was the best fit to rule over the small amount of people, with a mighty and just hand. The houses were dotted around his, in all sorts of fashions, right up against the cliffs. It was a friendly village, but there were very few people.

…

The baby was wrapped in a dark brown cloak. The mother rested in a chair in front of the hall while the ceremony proceeded. Two elders walked with the lord as he carried his son to the edge of the cliff. His long, gray and brown spotted fur coat whipped behind him in the wind. The silver diadem on his head wrapped around his long brown hair. He wore leather boots and a leather tunic. He smiled at his son, his gray eyes meeting his son's surprisingly blue. That was an extremely uncommon trait in a Dunedain.

The two elders stood next to the lord. They both came forward to the baby and rested their hands upon him. The lord had already informed them of the name he had chosen.

"May you be known as Amaethon, son of Eathon," the elders said in unison with their hands upon the baby. "May you become a great leader for your people. May the sea bless you." They released their grip and one of them pulled a canteen of strange liquid from his side. He dipped his two fingers into the blue liquid and made two parallel lines on Amaethon's head.

From nowhere, a massive gust of wind came from behind. It swept Amaethon right from his father's grip. He yelled and leaned over the cliff where he had fallen.

"Get help! Ropes or something useful!" he yelled to the crowd behind him. They ran to their homes to find supplies. Eathon looked out to the sea. His son was nowhere to be found. A distant blowing of a clear horn attracted his ears. He looked up to the blue waves. It appeared to be a man, with a long flowing beard. He held a horn in his hand, only his form was water. Suddenly, the waves were calmed to be completely still. The water man glided through the waves and lifted his hand. A massive wave broke the surface, and grew to a height taller than the cliff. It fell before Eathon. Atop the wave was a small baby, coughing on water in his lungs. He landed gently at his father's feet. Eathon looked out to the sea and saw the man of water. He blew another crisp note on his horn and sank beneath the waves. Eathon lifted Amaethon and hugged him tightly.

"Long have I desired to see Ulmo, Lord of the Waters," a voice said from behind him. Eathon turned and saw one of the elders behind him, his long white hair flying in the sea breeze. Eathon knew what he was talking about. "Amaethon is blessed, and has the favor of him. Your son will make a great lord."

Evening set upon the village, and Eathon returned home to his wife with Amaethon in his arms.

T.A. 3000

Amaethon awoke in the early morning. He realized that he was now thirteen years of age. He sat up and closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the crashing waves. He unlocked the latch on his window and opened it. Amaethon climbed outside in his sleeping robe. He was barefoot.

The cool, wet grass felt nice on his feet. He looked up at the millions of bright stars overhead. A light ocean breeze rippled his short dirty blonde hair. He walked slowly from the hall, and out to the cliff. The dark waves rippled and grabbed the white sand below. His white robe tossed in the breeze. He loved to sit out on the cliffs at night. The moon shot beams all over the water, causing them to glisten and shine.

He had heard the rumors of Orcs attacking near Bree, and the forces of Mordor, but when he was alone with the sea and the sand, he had no fear. Everything was just as it should be.

When the pink sun began to rise behind the mountains, Amaethon went back to his room and climbed into the window. He felt safe and comfortable in his bed.

Amaethon loved where he was. He loved Middle-earth, and he never wanted to leave.

…

Amaethon had a nice relationship with his parents. His father was very strict, but he loved his son with his entire heart. His mother cared for him very much as well. They were a happy family, and always were.

"Today, you are thirteen years old," Eathon said in astonishment. "It was about this time that my father taught me a song. It is very old, and has been passed down through our line." Amaethon sat up in his bed and his father knelt at his side.

"I would like to hear it," Amaethon grinned.

"Et earello,

Endorenna utulien,

Sinome maruvan,

Ar Hildinyar,

Tenn' Ambar-metta."

"These are very old and ancient lyrics," Eathon told Amaethon. It was very beautiful, and had a very mysterious and moving tune. He remembered that song all of his life.

So life went on in the small village, away from the Shadow of Mordor. But eventually, the Shadow extended its grasp to even the far parts of the world.

…

Amaethon spent many days studying with the elders. In total, there were only twenty-one people living in the village. Most were well educated.

There were only three children in the village, one was ten, the other seven, and the other one two. Amaethon was the oldest, and was very advanced in his learning. He studied in the main hall, memorizing maps and his heritage. The elders were always astonished that he had blonde hair, for most Dunedain had darker hair. Amaethon liked to keep it decently short. He was definitely different from the others. The elders had discussed it, and they could not tell if it was a good or ill omen.

…

"Isildur cut the Ring from Sauron's hand!" the elder yelled in excitement as he read the parchment. Amaethon sat anxiously in his chair, awaiting the rest of the story. "But, the Ring was nowhere to be found. To this day, it is lost," he looked up at the young man in front of him. He seemed dejected after hearing the ending.

"But what if it is still out there?" he asked. The elder leaned in towards him.

"It is not. Do not go looking for it if you want to find it. You will surely die, like all before you," he said strictly and slipped the parchments into a drawer across the room. He scooted back the wooden stool and walked out of the door, his brown robe following him closely.

Amaethon sat at the table, his head in his hands. The story couldn't have ended that abruptly, he thought to himself. Going against his teacher's words, he got up from the table and walked over the gray cobblestone floor. He slid open the drawer and read where they had finished.

'Isildur cut the Ring from Sauron's hand. He was vanquished. Isildur took the Ring from his fingers, and kept it to himself, ignoring the advice of others to destroy it. One day, as he was riding on a path, he was murdered by an Orc. The Ring disappeared. Rumors have said that someone still has it, but no one knows for certain.'

Amaethon looked at the page with wide eyes. He rolled up the brown sleeves of his tunic. Suddenly, he heard boots on the floor down the hall. His stomach did a somersault and he got up, shoving the papers back into the drawer. Eathon walked into the room. He strode up to his son and put a strong hand on his shoulder.

"We need to talk about something, Amae," he told his son. Amaethon noticed his gray eyes begin to mist.

…

His father wore a simple leather tunic similar to his own. He did not wear his crown, and the scruff on his cheeks made him look worried and stressed. He and his son walked through the brown grass on the edge of the sea.

"I'm sure the elder just told you the story of the One Ring," Eathon began. He walked slowly, keeping his gaze fixed to the ground. He held his arms behind his back.

"Just before you arrived, father," Amaethon answered. He was far from being as tall as his father, but he was certainly growing.

"And the creator of it?" his father asked. Amaethon nodded.

"Yes, father," he answered, looking to the man at his side.

"Rumors have reached us, from messengers and scouts. The Eye of Sauron is resting at the top of a great tower in Mordor," he told his son.

"Mordor is half a world away! Surely it cannot affect us," Amaethon said arrogantly. Eathon stopped and gripped his son by the shoulders. Amaethon leaned back. His father's brow twitched in terror, his mouth curved into a pitiful frown. A tear ran down his cheek.

"He is looking for it!" he whispered harshly, quickly catching his breath and stuttering.

"Father-," Amaethon began.

"No, I will not let that happen. Amaethon…" Eathon wept. Amaethon was terrified. If his father was afraid, what reason was there for him not to be?

"Father?" Amaethon asked.

"You are leaving. Come, we need to pack your things."

…

Amaethon stuffed the wool blanket into his sack. There were two loaves of bread inside with it. His father handed him a greenish-brown cloak.

"When you turned thirteen, you became a young man. I have high hopes for you, my son. Go to our kin over the Blue Mountains. They will help you," Eathon said, tightening the straps on Amaethon's boots.

"Father…I am very confused. Why am I leaving? Why is it so sudden?" Amaethon grabbed Eathon's arm. He watched his father hold up his hand.

"This is why, son," he said, his voice cracking slightly. There was a beautiful ring on his finger, unlike anything Amaethon had ever seen. The ring was bright silver, and a deep blue gem rested on the top.

"What is it?" Amaethon asked.

"This is a Ring of Power."

Amaethon could not believe his eyes.

"Amazing…" he said, reaching for the sparking jewel.

Suddenly, a shill scream traveled through the air. Amaethon looked out of his window. He could not see anything in the area.

"Amae!" Eathon yelled abruptly. Amaethon jumped and turned around. "Leave! Now! Get a horse from the barn!" he threw the sack at his son. "Go!"

Eathon ran out of his room. Amaethon ran through the hall doors and to the barn, not two buildings away. He arrived. There was a light tan horse near the front that seemed to be in good shape. Amaethon hopped on top, wrapping the cloak around his shoulders and putting the sack on his back. Then, he realized that he had no weapon. The horse stomped as he debated whether to go back or not. Another loud screech changed his mind.

He opened the gate from the top of the horse. Suddenly, he noticed a scabbard hanging on a wooden post. He reached for it, and to his surprise, a sword rested inside. He tied it around his waist and trotted the horse out of the barn.

The horse reared back at the flames. They were rapidly beginning to spread over the wooden and thatched roofs. Amaethon felt the orange and red heat on his face. The air was very smoky. The flames leapt upon the barn and crackled. Amaethon was in utter confusion. He trotted the horse to the hall.

A rider, dressed in a black cloak, riding upon a black horse, with a torch in his hand, galloped towards Amaethon. He tossed the torch onto the roof of the hall and pulled a huge broadsword out of his scabbard. Amaethon froze. The rider let out an earsplitting shriek. The horse nervously tapped its front hooves. Amaethon ducked. Whoosh! The sword barely missed his head. The rider turned around once more. Suddenly, he saw two more riders, looking exactly the same, ride up next to the other.

Amaethon pulled out his sword. It was not sharpened, and would make a terrible defense. Suddenly, he heard a voice yell from behind him. He turned the horse around to see Eathon, standing on a cliff, holding the Ring of Power in his two fingers.

"Amae…" he said. Amaethon yelled, but his voice was lost in the loud galloping of the black riders. He looked back at his father one last time.

Amaethon kicked his horse in the side, and it went quickly past his burning home. There were some corpses lying in the middle of the village. With tears in his eyes, he rode towards the Blue Mountains. Once he was far enough away from the village, he turned to look over his shoulder. A massive plume of smoke tumbled into the red sky. The waters were violet in the light of the sunset. Another scream rang out. Amaethon wiped his eyes and continued into the mountains, though he did not know where he was going.