Beneath the rocky peak where Allanora stood with Anador, the Lune River was
born. Its first tiny trickle soon grew to a mighty roar, cutting a wide
swath through valley and plain, and plunging over many a precipice. But
finally, it reached the ocean, as all rivers must, and there it unburdened
itself into the Gulf of Lhûn.
On the shores of this bay, riddled with coves, there sat the greatest shipyards ever seen in Middle-Earth, those of Cirdan the Shipwright. Here he and his workers crafted great vessels capable of carrying many far across the western oceans. On this particular day, the workshops were at their peak of production. The weak winter sun gleamed upon a central courtyard surrounded by sheds and buildings where workers diligently sawed and sanded. Cirdan himself was finishing some intricate carving to grace a small ship, when the clatter of hooves was heard. Startled, he looked up from his workbench just in time to observe a tall, pale young man with tousled brown locks bursting through the great gates into the courtyard. His horse stopped, kicking up eddies of swirling dust, and Cirdan hurried into the yard. He looked at the man, and a worried frown flitted across his brow at the strained look about his eyes and his paper-white complexion. After a moment, however, his frown deepened as he recognized the man as Aranarth, son of Arvedui, and wondered what could bring a king's son to such dire straits. "What brings you here, my friend, weak and in the dead of winter?" he queried.
Aranarth, it seemed, was weaker even than he looked, for he had strength to breathe only one word, "Angmar," before he slumped forward onto his steed, unconscious.
A few hours later, he awoke to a hot meal and Cirdan's grave face, asking him to recount the events that brought him there. Regaining strength but not much cheer from the nourishing food, he began his tale. "The witch-king has struck again," he began. Cirdan drew in his breath sharply, fearing the worst.
"Yes, he now holds dominion over almost all Arthedain," Aranarth continued, "Before the last battle, as we perceived the fell king's forces approaching, our people held a brief council, for their great number struck fear in us. Indeed, there was not a man among us who did not feel the bite of despair in his heart at the sight of those fields of black banners. And so I was sent to ask for aid from you, should our last endeavor fail. I have heard many reports on the way, in taverns and inns, that the battle was lost, and my father and the remnant of his forces were forced to flee and take refuge among the mountains of Ered Luin. There, in mines once quarried by dwarf-smiths of old, they sit, waiting for tidings of good or ill. I was the only messenger, for more could not be spared from the dire straits of battle."
Deep melancholy fell upon Cirdan as his worst suspicions were confirmed. Images came to his mind, unbidden, of the witch-king's great army razing rebellious towns and villages, brutally slaughtering those who fought against them; just as it had been done in Cardolan and Rhudaur before.
"This is grave news for the fate of the good men of Arnor. The insatiable thirst for blood displayed by the fell king of Angmar can lead to nowhere but destruction, and I fear it. So, I will do whatever is in my power to aid the king in exile." Aranarth winced at this frank admission of his father's (and, indeed his own) hunted status. His discomfort did not escape Cirdan's notice.
"Though it pains us to admit the events that have come to pass, it also does no good for us to delude ourselves by hiding the true facts of the situation. We cannot amend what we do not acknowledge."
Aranarth sighed, "You speak the truth, and I am indeed thankful to be in your wise care and company."
Cirdan smiled kindly and reassured him, "Be not afraid! So long as all good men keep hope alive in their hearts, we shall not be entirely conquered. You may yet gain rule of your father's lands." With that, he bustled off to tend to his many tasks.
Aranarth sank back in the bed gratefully, and retired to his own thoughts. The journey had not so exhausted him that he did not observe (and with great foreboding) the fell king's fingerprint upon the land, even so soon after the battle was lost. As soon as news came of Angmar's victory, all sorts of secret supporters came out of the woodwork and began assuming dominion over their villages, torturing the faithful villagers in large and small ways. Any show of support for Arvedui or the former rulers of Arthedain already had to be covert, lest it be punished by the treacherous ones of the village. Many good people still remained, true, but they were beginning to be oppressed, and no end was in sight.
Aranarth knew that the sight of him fleeing to beg aid was not balm for their hearts, either. But what was he to do? "Regain strength," he answered himself, "Prepare for the day we shall regain our homeland." For Aranarth had mettle after the fashion of his sister, though patient and slow-burning in anger, he would accept no defeat. Though to many, the Arthedain of the past was dead, even death was not an obstacle to this willful young man. He promised himself that the fell king would not go unpunished, and, what is more, he relied only upon himself to do it. If others helped him, so much the better, but Aranarth needed only Aranarth. Galvanized by his newfound resolve, he willingly abandoned himself to a deep, healing sleep.
On the shores of this bay, riddled with coves, there sat the greatest shipyards ever seen in Middle-Earth, those of Cirdan the Shipwright. Here he and his workers crafted great vessels capable of carrying many far across the western oceans. On this particular day, the workshops were at their peak of production. The weak winter sun gleamed upon a central courtyard surrounded by sheds and buildings where workers diligently sawed and sanded. Cirdan himself was finishing some intricate carving to grace a small ship, when the clatter of hooves was heard. Startled, he looked up from his workbench just in time to observe a tall, pale young man with tousled brown locks bursting through the great gates into the courtyard. His horse stopped, kicking up eddies of swirling dust, and Cirdan hurried into the yard. He looked at the man, and a worried frown flitted across his brow at the strained look about his eyes and his paper-white complexion. After a moment, however, his frown deepened as he recognized the man as Aranarth, son of Arvedui, and wondered what could bring a king's son to such dire straits. "What brings you here, my friend, weak and in the dead of winter?" he queried.
Aranarth, it seemed, was weaker even than he looked, for he had strength to breathe only one word, "Angmar," before he slumped forward onto his steed, unconscious.
A few hours later, he awoke to a hot meal and Cirdan's grave face, asking him to recount the events that brought him there. Regaining strength but not much cheer from the nourishing food, he began his tale. "The witch-king has struck again," he began. Cirdan drew in his breath sharply, fearing the worst.
"Yes, he now holds dominion over almost all Arthedain," Aranarth continued, "Before the last battle, as we perceived the fell king's forces approaching, our people held a brief council, for their great number struck fear in us. Indeed, there was not a man among us who did not feel the bite of despair in his heart at the sight of those fields of black banners. And so I was sent to ask for aid from you, should our last endeavor fail. I have heard many reports on the way, in taverns and inns, that the battle was lost, and my father and the remnant of his forces were forced to flee and take refuge among the mountains of Ered Luin. There, in mines once quarried by dwarf-smiths of old, they sit, waiting for tidings of good or ill. I was the only messenger, for more could not be spared from the dire straits of battle."
Deep melancholy fell upon Cirdan as his worst suspicions were confirmed. Images came to his mind, unbidden, of the witch-king's great army razing rebellious towns and villages, brutally slaughtering those who fought against them; just as it had been done in Cardolan and Rhudaur before.
"This is grave news for the fate of the good men of Arnor. The insatiable thirst for blood displayed by the fell king of Angmar can lead to nowhere but destruction, and I fear it. So, I will do whatever is in my power to aid the king in exile." Aranarth winced at this frank admission of his father's (and, indeed his own) hunted status. His discomfort did not escape Cirdan's notice.
"Though it pains us to admit the events that have come to pass, it also does no good for us to delude ourselves by hiding the true facts of the situation. We cannot amend what we do not acknowledge."
Aranarth sighed, "You speak the truth, and I am indeed thankful to be in your wise care and company."
Cirdan smiled kindly and reassured him, "Be not afraid! So long as all good men keep hope alive in their hearts, we shall not be entirely conquered. You may yet gain rule of your father's lands." With that, he bustled off to tend to his many tasks.
Aranarth sank back in the bed gratefully, and retired to his own thoughts. The journey had not so exhausted him that he did not observe (and with great foreboding) the fell king's fingerprint upon the land, even so soon after the battle was lost. As soon as news came of Angmar's victory, all sorts of secret supporters came out of the woodwork and began assuming dominion over their villages, torturing the faithful villagers in large and small ways. Any show of support for Arvedui or the former rulers of Arthedain already had to be covert, lest it be punished by the treacherous ones of the village. Many good people still remained, true, but they were beginning to be oppressed, and no end was in sight.
Aranarth knew that the sight of him fleeing to beg aid was not balm for their hearts, either. But what was he to do? "Regain strength," he answered himself, "Prepare for the day we shall regain our homeland." For Aranarth had mettle after the fashion of his sister, though patient and slow-burning in anger, he would accept no defeat. Though to many, the Arthedain of the past was dead, even death was not an obstacle to this willful young man. He promised himself that the fell king would not go unpunished, and, what is more, he relied only upon himself to do it. If others helped him, so much the better, but Aranarth needed only Aranarth. Galvanized by his newfound resolve, he willingly abandoned himself to a deep, healing sleep.