Sorry about the long wait to post the next few chapters. A note on the time periods, the story, for the most part is broken up into different parts telling three different stories; the first follows Celebrin in the wilderness, the second follows Anatse and he family, the third part tells of what is going on with the elves of the West. The time periods are all broken up and don't really follow one another exactly in terms of time, I will post what approximate year it should be, though with Celebrin time seems to lose all meaning lol. Let me know what you think and as always R&R

Khavul- circa 1065 Third age of the world.

The small pattering of rain drops upon the tiled roof rung through the house like small bells singing a song of simple joy; mixed with a child's laughter it brought a smile to a man who sits in the atrium of his home, his dark beard shimmering. Having just bathed, Ciryaher Hyarmendacil sat upon a small wood and reed tripod stool, a white linen towel wrapped around his waist; his son, Uialasse, Cedledl as he was called in the place of his birth, ran through the small garden in the entryway to their home, chasing a small gray cat through the herbs and bushes, getting wet in the seasonal monsoon that poured into the garden and gathered in a small pool in the center. The hooting of a desert owl that had taken up residence in their ceiling alerted his attention skyward; as the bird nestled some newly found twigs into a nest in the beams he muttered to himself,

"I should have that owl removed…I will see to it tomorrow morning."

"You will do no such thing."

The voice of Anatse Xidhlalique entered his ears and she placed her soft supple hands on his shoulder massaging the tense muscles earned from so long a day of marshalling his troops through the desert sands and entreating with messengers from Osgiliath and other places of Gondor. Her hands, strong from kneading dough and making clay bricks for the new council chamber rubbed a sweet smelling ointment into his skin relieving him of the tension that had built up during the day. The king of Gondor had many trusted vassals and stewards but he liked having the last word in how his kingdom was run and since he took up residence, for however brief a time in the East, that meant that the day-to-day running of his kingdom was left to these stewards while each month a small caravan of messengers would greet him in the ancient city of Khavul and bring him word of Gondor. That is how things had been for many years now, ever since his conquering of the Southern lands and the dethronement of the great Shadow of the East, Khamul the wraith captain of Mordor, second only in power and fear of another whose name has been lost to memory.

But no one spoke ever of those dark days before the war ended and few were left now who remembered the days before the war, save the elders of the Seven Nations of the Red Mountain, and even they were loathe to repeat memories of those dark days. Before Ciryaher and the might of Gondor came into the East, the Seven Nations of the Red Mountain waged a losing war with the Shadow and his dark rule, yet despite their dire straits they held off his advances for many years beyond count and formed a great alliance of several independent nations with so great a military might, the likes of which had never been seen in the memory of mortal men. Ciryaher Hyarmendacil came among them when he was just a boy, a youth who was waging a war of vengeance for the death of his father.

When he came among them he was untried and arrogant, they taught him the measure of a true leader, and the importance of being a servant to his people; no greater tutor did he have than his Eastern wife, Anatse. She was the daughter of the Utashtegu, a large nation composed of different tribes and clans who swore allegiance to her cousin, Dhraloku and her mother Cidhrali, who both led the war in those dark days. When they at long last died, of war and age, she took up the mantle of Queen Ashthera, a powerful enigmatic figure among the council which governed the Seven Nations, for she was given the power to move the council and bind them to a certain action, a power she seldom used except at great need. Yet those days were long over, for she could no longer remain Queen Ashthera, while in marriage she was bound to a man of a foreign nation, for the title and power of the Queen could only be held to a woman who was mother, sister, wife and daughter of the Seven Nations. Now that mantle had passed to another woman, yet there was no bitterness for Anatse was still part of the ruling council of the lands of the Seven Nations, whose chief city was Khavul.

Khavul rested on the bones of Khahalazul, the dread city of Khamul, from which he once ruled his tyrannical empire; Khahalazul itself was built on the ashes of another more ancient city which was long owned by the ancestors of the Utashtegu and the most ancient tribes of the Harad, yet of this history none lived to tell it, save one, but he does not enter this story. Khavul was built upon a large flood plain in the midst of the desert, fed by the river from which the city took its name; since the overthrow of Khamul, the river was freed and the lands had become suitable to harvest grain and raise livestock. Over the years, since the end of the war, it became a veritable paradise in the desert east of Gondor and south of the ancient Orocarni. To the south of this land lay the lands of the Harad and further south, beyond them lay the lands of the Ayab-Mamuk, the shepherds of the Mumakil, the great war-beasts of the southern realm. To the farthest east and west of these lands lay the might of Gondor and Khand, the kingdoms of the ocean shores. Further south none have ever ventured save some among the Ayab-Mamuk, and they told tales of an even greater land, fenced by tall trees with a canopy so dense the light of the sun never ventured to meet the ground below. The people that lived there were said to be of kin to the Ayab-Mamuk but they were cruel and forever in league with Khamul, and so none ventured to that land.

Between Khavul and Osgiliath was a large savannah, were grass lands met rocky desert and where several springs and watering holes fed the travelling bands of Ayab-Mamuk and some Hamadjon, a race of people who were, since time immemorial ruled by women and of whom many war songs were written, for their skill in battle was unmatched. These Hamadjon were the guardians of Khavul and had long pledged allegiance to Anatse of the Utashtegu and called her their immortal queen. This was the lay of the land in those days of peace, when a messenger from Gondor, dressed in the black and silver garb of Minas Arnor, the seat of the King's head steward, rode to the great wall of Khavul and passed the gates with an urgent message. He rode through the city streets upon a white horse, galloping through the winding roads and broken cobble stone, the steed's feet patterned the rain falling on the tile roofs. When the messenger came to the house where Ciryaher and his wife lived he was stopped at the door by two tall figures, one held a bow and the other a long spear. He spoke harshly at them,

"Let me in, I must speak with the King of Gondor!"

"You will not enter the house of the Queen unbidden, stranger…"

Though the guard was tall, the voice was soft yet authoritative; the guard wore the garb of the Hamadjon, a tight leather jerkin and a purple skirt over deep red leggings. Her hand lay on the hilt of her sword and she looked at the messenger with a look of disgust from behind her deep hood. The other spoke into the door, in the strange tongue of the Hamadjon and there was a debate from within; the messenger scoffed and sighed, clearly impatient with the lack of regard for his royal garb and the message he bore which held the seal of Minas Arnor, the seal of the steward, Calmacil. It would only be a few minutes before the guards opened the door to him and he was led to a small room lit by a central hearth. The king sat on a small wooden chair, simply dressed in a white linen tunic and brown leggings; his feet were bare and were pointed out toward the hearth. When he saw who the messenger was he stood and let out a large laugh,

"What brings you here Halmir? When they told me a messenger from Gondor had arrived I half expected one from the lesser lords, perhaps of Anfalas, not one from my most steadfast servant."

He embraced the messenger who, now in the firelight, put back his hood and revealed the visage of a youth not yet 24. His hair was cropped short in the style of Minas Arnor and he was closely shaved; a light rose hue was laid upon his cheeks, having just ended his fair-faced adolescence and he slightly smiled to see the king in good spirits and healthy. The king brought him to a chair by the hearth and bade him sit, but the youth refused only holding out the scroll he kept tucked deep in his cloak, protected from the rain.

"Forgive me my king, but I have word from my father Calmacil, dangerous news and ill tidings I am afraid are what I bring you, not news fitting your good humor."

The king wore worry upon his face and took the scroll, opening it and turning away from the hearth to read it better. It was in the sharp military hand of Calmacil and when he read it a dread fell over him, it said,

"My king,

I write to you with great urgency. As you read this a great conspiracy has been unmasked in Osgiliath, for my dear friends in that city have told me that some among the Chamber of the Lords of Gondor have gathered in places dark and secret and speak ill towards you. They do not speak openly of their complaints though they hint at them and they are many; they do not yet speak openly of sedition but no longer do they hold your name in high esteem and some among them have spoken of an act that would rent your new empire in twain. I beseech thee, my lord and king to end your hiatus in the Eastern lands; for I fear this speech will spread as it has begun to do. My son, I have sent to you so that you know the direness of need and the danger your rule now lies in, for I fear even to open my heart to your own servants. Please my lord, come home, your kingdom needs you.

Calmacil,

Your faithful and loyal Steward and Lord of Minas Arnor"

At the end of reading the letter Ciryaher turned to the youth sitting by the fire and said,

"Is this true?"

"Ay, my lord, I have even heard the words from many of the lords themselves."

"What words?"

At this Anatse entered carrying Cedledl in her arms drying his ears and holding him close to her breast warming him. The young messenger's eyes fell upon the wife of Ciryaher and his tongue was stopped, he only said in the Western tongue to his King,

"They speak ill of…your wife."

"Who speaks ill of me?"

,said Anatse, her Westron clear and fluent, which startled the young man. She set the child in a corner of the room where his toys were gathered and walked to meet the two men, Ciryaher sighed and nodded for the young man to continue,

"They whisper and say that she keeps you here by…forgive me mistress… by the dark magic of her loins. And she makes you forget your service to your people."

"I have just spoken to the caravan from Gondor and none told me this!"

"They fear to, for you are still well-liked in the city and they fear to speak openly of…of sitting a new king upon the throne."

"They seek to supplant me…I, who expanded our people's lands to their greatest extent since the days of Numenor!"

At this the king rose tall and he began to pace the room, Anatse was silent yet her eyes were filled with fire, she said angrily,

"Is it not enough that my husband's lands are great and span the mighty leagues of the earth, or that their coffers are full with the grain and minerals of the East? Of the labor of my people!"

The young messenger said,

"They do not complain about the wealth you have brought and for this reason my father says you still have supporters among the lords who have stalled the most brazen of your detractors from openly calling for your removal. But, even these few who are loyal have…reservations."

"What kind of reservations?"

The youth looked at the king,

"My father says that they think you have spent too long laboring here, building roads and a city that does not even belong to Gondor. They say…they say you have forsaken your own people."

The king scoffed,

"What I do here I do for the good of Gondor! Faithless would I have been if I left these people to scratch a living out of rocks, and too easily could they have fallen into darkness again, had I not ensured their prosperity!"

At this Anatse looked at her husband, her gray eyes filled with an icy-cold fire, without speaking she strode out of the room and scooped up her child. Ciryaher did not mark her leaving, but turned to face the young man, who said,

"They also…say, that you have left them without an heir and that they should ensure that the line of succession is not broken."

"They have an heir…my son sleeps not but a few meters from me and he is safe and secure here! Uialasse is my heir, they need not seek another!"

At this the youth turned from the king, not wanting to say the next message to his face,

"They say…they say they will not recognize this child…for he is peragar, half-blood and half-born."

At this the king sat and crushed the parchment he held in his hands. It was a long time before he spoke again and this was only to order the youth to depart; he sat in silence until the hearth died down and then he went to his bed chamber on the top floor. When he entered the room he saw Anatse looking out at the city from their balcony, he walked up to her, wrapping his arms around her he said, softly,

"Do not let those words upset you my love, they are words spoken by ignorant fools."

At this she shirked off his embrace and turned to face him, slapping him across the cheeks,

"I know their words are ignorant! It is yours that has lit a fire upon my breast!"

"What have I said that makes you strike me so!"

"I strike you because I am barbaric and that is how barbarians speak to their husbands is it not! How fortunate am I that the great king of the west had come and tamed so wild and uncouth a creature!"

"Anatse…"

"Is that why you came to stay here? To civilize me and my people! And here I thought you stayed to be with your son!"

"I did…"

"We do not need you Cirya, we have never needed you! My people were holding back the darkness of Khamul long before you ever were named king! You may have given us victory but you never gave us our freedom- that we earned from our own blood and tears!"

"And where would you have been had not my men and my armies built your roads! Khavul is the center of trade because of those roads! Your buildings stand because of the skill and might of our engineers! Who else can make these great clay barns stand upon the sand? Who freed the river and gave you all you needed to begin your farming?"

"Then perhaps we should repay you! Or have you counted all my nights with you as payment in full!"

Ciryaher seemed struck like one wounded and he sat upon their bed,

"Is that what you believe I think of you?"

"It is what your countrymen call me. Do not think that in those days when I walk through the market the traders from Gondor never have called me harlot or wretch. And that boy thinks as much of me as well."

"They have never come to know you…if you would but only journey with me to Osgiliath and reveal yourself to them, then they would love you and know you as I do."

He stood and took her in his arms, her body quivering with anger, hot and steaming entwined with his own, she breathed heavily and looked at him with a stern gaze,

"You know I cannot do that…If I leave my people now then I will be called faithless no more than you. My people and the Hamadjon look to me to protect them and see that their voice is heard and given equal weight in the council."

"What better protection can you give them than to represent them in the mighty city of Osgiliath, as queen of a great empire!"

She shook her head at this,

"No…that is the path for you and our son…you must…you must go into the West, secure your throne and the throne of our son."

"I would have you rule by my side…"

"That is not our way…the wife does not leave the hearth and home of the people that have born her. For she is their life blood, their source their…evaha."

Ciryaher sighed as she said this word, he only asked once what it meant and that was on the night he married his wife. He was taken aside by the elf called Cedlal, or as the old Istar Saruman called him Uial; he explained to him the marriage tradition of the east, where men were joined to the house of their wives and not the other way around. He explained that the women never leave their mother's kin for the mother was evaha, an ancient Alamb-Harad word meaning originator, giver of life. It meant that Anatse would never leave the east and that even after 12 years of marriage and one child she still expected him to abdicate his throne and join her as the husbands of the Hamadjon do, though she never put that desire into spoke words. He walked away and said softly,

"If you will not join me…then I do not know what will become of us."

"Are you saying you wish to be sundered from me?"

"No! That is not my wish at all…but there are forces at work that desire to take my kingdom from me! And they will use you to pry my life's labor from my hands!"

"The ancient ones say…If a thing can be taken so easily from you, then it did not truly belong to you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you should go into the West, show these lords that you still are King of Gondor, no matter where you rule! That you are a King for all of Gondor, not just Osgiliath and if they speak ill of you let them know that they derive their authority from you and it can easily be taken and given to another!"

"I can't do that…"

"It is so written in the treaties you make your vassals sign…I have long studied your law Cirya…I know of what I speak."

Anatse seemed to grow just as she had done when she used to wear the garb of Queen Asthera, yet now she was not frightening but powerful and beautiful and if he took her hand then and there she would empower him with all the authority of Manwe if she could. Ciryaher Hyarmendacil took her hand and they spoke long into the night of their plans.