The Eastern lands of Middle-earth have always fascinated me— they are mysterious, for Tolkien told us next to nothing about the histories and cultures of these places and its people. I have attempted to work with a few tidbits of canonical information to weave a tale that can hopefully help in tying up a few loose ends; the fate of the Black Númenóreans, the Blue Wizards, the clime and culture of the lands East, and the resistance of those peoples to the dominance of Sauron are all themes I have tried to work into the story.
It should be mentioned that this story takes place in the year TA 2327. At this point in the history of Middle-earth, Rohan has yet to be established, and Sauron has fled from Dol Guldur, marking the beginning of the years of Watchful Peace. Aragorn I (the namesake of Aragorn II Elessar) is Chieftain of the Dúnedain. In my conceptions, Aranion is his heir, born in TA 2290, and Araglas, the younger son, in TA 2296. This story follows the adventures of Aranion son of Aragorn I, his travels in the eastern lands of Middle-earth, and his tryst with the Black Númenóreans.
I claim no ownership over any matter related to Tolkien's Legendarium. I earn no money from the writing of this story, undertaken merely to tie a few loose ends together.
"The great cape and land-locked firth of Umbar had been Númenórean land since the days of old; but it was a stronghold of the King's Men, who were afterwards called the Black Númenóreans... Their race swiftly dwindled or became merged with the men of Middle-earth," — J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, Appendix 'A'.
[See end of chapter for notes and translations.]
1.
Aranion the Lightfoot was not called so for finesse in the arts of Dúnedain jig-dancing, —though, of course, it can be said here that he was rather proficient at that, too— he was a wanderer of the perilous lands, the captain of a lone-manned ship that sailed the wrathful sands of the east, and the keeper of strange secrets.
His comings and goings were unaccounted for by friend and foe alike. The grey of his eyes and the grey of his garb melted into the shadows of twilight, and long he wandered, lonely as a cloud, seldom seen by any. But when kindled, he shone with the light of Elbereth's stars within his eyes and heart.
His brother, Araglas, often laughingly told him that he fell into everything heart over head, and he would chuckle resignedly, agreeing— he was a man of passions, quick to temper but also to empathy.
His childhood was spent under the vines of Imladris' countless bubbling springs and waterfalls. Even as he approached his thirty-seventh year he would often return to that spot of his adolescence beside the Anorlîn, a mere that shone with sun-kissed foam, hand trailing lazily in the water as his mind wandered through the sands of time.
He turned over, bringing his wet hand to his face. Droplets of water fell onto his closed eyelids, and he sighed through upturned lips. The mere rippled with the tinkling music of the wind-chimes hung in the boughs of the weeping willows that surrounded the dell. A cuckoo picked up her sweet, unbroken call, and a water vole rippled his way across the shining waters with his tiny paws, peeking above the surface with little button eyes.
"It is good to see you again, pîn-meldir," he called out to the vole, who perhaps inclined his little head at the acknowledgment. Aranion laughed, dropping his book onto his chest as he curled up on his bed of moss.
"What, Limdal? Corresponding with the animals, I see? It is no wonder that your kinsmen think it is we who have put such whimsies into you," a sweet, clear voice called laughingly, like the ringing of a silver bell. Aranion grinned, getting to his feet, brushing the dried leaves off his breeches.
"I cannot dispute that. Living amongst you elves has certainly addled my wits somewhat," he retorted, fastening his cloak at his collarbone as he rose to meet the owner of the voice, with a smile on his face.
An ellon stood at the mere creek, boot against the bark of a willow. He was tall, slender and delicate-boned. His hair was the silver that was the wont of the Teleri, falling to his waist in a thick braid, as if to keep it out of his face. He was clad in riding breeches and boots, the rustic greens and browns melting seemlessly into the surroundings.
The pair grinned at each other in mirth, moving to tightly embrace.
"Ai, Falmarin, old friend, it has been an age!" murmured Aranion as he clasped the elf by the forearm, surveying him with bright eyes.
"Truly? It felt more like a... week, perhaps? But you know how time often fails to make her presence known among the Firstborn," Falmarin said, with an impassive look upon his face that could've fooled most men, but to the seasoned observer, the impish glint in his eyes gave him away.
"You have not changed in your condescending ways, my friend," Aranion laughed, "come, sit with me a while. I have much to tell you."
"As do I, Aranion. But the Lord Elrond has asked that I summon you. It seems that he has matters of importance to discuss; I am housed in the south wing, and I would much appreciate your company after you have attended to your matters and I have washed away this grime," Falmarin said, gesturing to his tunic cuffs that were caked with mud, and his cloak that was stained with grass and dirt.
"Of course. Has the company's journey been smooth?" asked Aranion, worry set in his eyes. It was not often that an elf allowed himself to be caught in such a disheveled state, from which stemmed the root of his worries. He hoped the company had not suffered any ill fate. Word had been sent that Lady Celebrían would be traveling back to Imladris with her company after spending three years in her mother's home, Lothlórien, being also Falmarin's birthplace.
"Yes, smooth enough, I presume. We had a skirmish with a band of yrch a few hours ere our arrival. The situation would have been grim had we not met the Lord Glorfindel's company. along the way. The droeg did not make a show, however; It makes me deeply uneasy. The beasts have been quiet as of late, and it is much unlike them to become docile all of a sudden," Falmarin shook his head, "I like it not when foul things hide away to conspire in the darkness, it cannot mean anything good," he continued, as they set a brisk pace towards the House.
"I shall enquire about this matter with my kin when I ride out to them. It certainly is unusual," commented Aranion, furrowing his brows.
His thoughts moved elsewhere, as he trailed his hands along the gleaming white railings that twirled their way to the main doorway of the west wing. He wondered what his foster father wanted to discuss so urgently, seeing as his wife had but moments ago returned to him after a long sojourn.
"Do not worry, I am sure that he has not summoned you to convey any ill tidings," said the ever-perceptive Falmarin, sensing that his friend's thoughts had shifted onto other matters. He laid a hand on Aranion's shoulder, reassuringly, as they walked towards the doorway. "I shall leave you here, Aranion. Trust that I shall see you in an hour's time?"
Aranion responded in kind, smiling at his friend. He followed the railing along to the doorway, entering and passing by several balconies that were occupied by the Lady Celebrían's Ladies-in-waiting, some of the ellyth of Imladris, and some of the Galadhrim. They sat in the budding sunshine of the later days of Echuir, weaving the wicker-baskets that would hold fruit and flowers for the upcoming fest of the elvish Mettarë and Yestarë.
He soon reached the mighty, yet delicately carved oaken doors of Elrond's study, which were, as was the wont, swung wide open. It spoke legions about the amount of trust the elves placed in one another, rarely making use of screens and doors. Elrond, as Lord of his people, showed great hospitality to those who wished to seek his counsel, and kept his doors open to all.
Aranion paused for a moment, running his hands through his hair to make sure he had gotten rid of the leaves. He glanced at his reflection in the ornate looking glass that was hung outside the study. The unfailing grey of his eyes, that all of Isildur's line had received through their distant Ñoldorin ancestry met his sight. He pursed his lips, anxiously, hand upon the panelled oak.
"Golodh, it is I," he announced, trying to shaking himself out of his thoughts.
"Ah, Aranion! Come, child. Join us on the balcony," came Elrond's voice, and Aranion followed it to the study's adjoining balcony.
A low balustrade fenced off the island, entwined with flowering vines. Two slender statues acted as sentinels at the doorway, both carved in the likenesses of elven maidens with doves poised to take flight in their outstretched hands. A snow-white loveseat sat against the wall, carved of marble, and strewn with numerous silks and cushions. Upon this reclined the Lady Celebrían and the Lord Elrond.
Celebrían stood, and embraced him lovingly. "Tithen-pen, how I have missed you!"
"I have missed you far more, naneth," he said softly, clasping Celebrían's hand in his. His own mother had died in childbirth, while bringing his beloved brother into the world. The Lady Celebrían had been the most prominent maternal figure in his life since, and he loved her deeply. As for Celebrían, she treated him as she did her own children, and kept him always in her thoughts and prayers.
Elrond looked upon his wife and foster-son with a smile that held great emotion. His eyes shone with the striking grey of Tinúviel's kin that graced Aranion's own, but held the weight of millennia of sorrow. It was a look that often overwhelmed this child of the Atani, however great his lineage may be. It reminded him of just how insignificant his life was in comparison to these mighty Children of the Stars, immortal, wise and lofty beyond the words of mortal Men.
As if sensing the line of his thought, Celebrían, who had inherited some of her mother's ability to peer into the minds of others, kissed his temple, hands still clasping his.
"Dearest child," she murmured, "Your path may be unclear yet, but it is no doubt one of deep significance, as is only fitting of the blood that runs through your veins."
Aranion was stunned into silence. To be told, in all but words, that his foster parents had some foreknowledge of his fate made him apprehensive, and more than a little excited.
"This matter, indeed, is the reason I have summoned you here," said Elrond, placing a hand on Aranion's shoulder in a placating gesture.
"Why reveal it to me now, after all these years?" he asked, befuddled, a tinge if bitterness lacing his voice, at the fact that something so deeply relevant to his very existence was kept under the folds.
"Fortune reveals itself when the time is ripe; neither too early, nor too late," Elrond said, unperturbed Aranion's expression. He reached into the pocket of his robe, pulling out a scroll of creamy white paper, tied with a slender braided rope of silver and gold.
"My Lady mother bid me give you this," said Celebrían, and taking the scroll from her husband, pressed it into Aranion's hands.
Aranion traced the smooth surface of the parchment with his thumb. He wondered why he had been given a message written on such fine parchment— he knew better than most that the Elves had a certain flair for pomp and aesthetics, but they were not wasteful, as such.
He slowly undid the soft rope, which glittered as he held it to the sun. Elven hair, he thought in amazement. His curiosity only grew as he gently folded out the strangely crease-less parchment.
It was no letter.
It was a map.
Translations and Notes:
Aranion: lit. "Royal son"; heir apparent to Aragorn I, fifth Chieftain of the Dúnedain.
Araglas: lit. "Royal joy"; second son of Aragorn I, brother to Aranion.
Anorlîn: lit. "Sun-mere".
pîn-meldir: lit. "little-friend".
Falmarin: lit. "Sea-spirit", "Sea-nymph" (Quenya)
Limdal: lit. "Swiftfoot", "Lightfoot"; Aranion's epessë.
yrch: orcs
droeg: wargs
Echuir: the season of Stirring, that falls before Spring in the Reckoning of the elves of Imladris. It is the last season of the year.
Mettarë: the last day of the year, which falls at the beginning of Spring in the Reckoning of the Elves, and close to the Winter Solstice in the Reckoning of the Númenóreans.
Yestarë: the first day of the New Year, falling also on the first day of Spring according to the Elves' Reckoning. Presumably a time of celebration and festivities.
Golodh: lit. "Teacher of Lore", "Lore-master"; Used to refer to one of the Ñoldo, but since there is no word for "teacher" in Sindarin or Quenya, I have elected to use it. Poetic license. A wonderful thing, isn't she?
Tithen-pen: lit. "Little-one"
Naneth: lit. "mother"
It is to be noted that all translations are bound to be riddled with inaccuracies as I am no scholar of the Elvish Tongues. Whatever little information I have comes from The Silmarillion's Index of Names or Parf Edhellen, the online Elvish dictionary.
The Dúnedain, unlike their other Atani counterparts, used Sindarin (or some dialect of it) instead of Westron for daily speech. Since it would be pretty pointless to write a book entirely in Sindarin (which, to set the record straight, I am most definitely not capable of doing), I have sprinkled a few garbled phrases in Sindarin here and there.