Disclaimer: You've read two of these already. I'm playing with a story that isn't mine. Lachdal is original, as far as that goes, but you can look up what her name means in the back of The Silmarillion – a book that covers the events of this and both previous chapters in the space of exactly one page. The horse tricks are straight out of Unfinished Tales; I'm not the kind of person to invent something like that.

Thanks again to aforementioned beta reader ElectraFairford, who forced me to come up with a real reason for our protagonist to be here...

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3. Armenelos

Isildur arrived in Armenelos with some time to spare before dawn, when he and his horse had both begun to tire. Lachdal might have been called a warmblood in later Ages; she was big, as Númenórean mounts had to be, and built for endurance as much as speed. Her brown coat would continue to look black well into the morning. Outside the city, Isildur dismounted and walked to the first line of quiet buildings.

"Wait for me," he muttered, and folded the bridle into the saddlebags. Certainly no ordinary horse could be treated this way, but Númenor had always been a special case. Lachdal was unusually bright even for that startling standard; she whickered softly, and then wandered off in search of grass. Isildur knew she wouldn't go far. On foot, his old cloak obscuring his identity, he slipped into the city of the Kings.

Its planners had been accustomed to the old seven-ringed fortress-cities that the Elves and their own ancestors had favored, back in the dangerous years of the First Age. Armenelos had never expected nor suffered attack, however. It circled one of the foothills of Mount Meneltarma with none of the gates or defensive measures that characterized its predecessors. The awkwardness of this arrangement had decreased over the centuries as the architecture lost its military design, but something looked strange to Isildur. The top of the hill seemed to have been flattened somehow.

Further uphill, it became apparent that construction was taking place in that prominent position. A sprawling, circular foundation already lay in place. What new devilry…? Isildur thought, but there would be time for discreet questions after he finished the first part of the plan. His priorities had shifted gradually, over the course of a six-hour ride; he had long considered leaving Rómenna because he could no longer stand the family's isolation there. Unlike his father or Anárion, Isildur had a natural liking for politics; and he resented the fact that the rumor about Nimloth had come to them late, as a deliberate favor.

What had kept him awake that night, however, was remembering how quiet the rest of the day had been. Amandil had written a letter to Ar-Pharazôn, pleading for the Tree in the name of their old friendship, but had later cast it into the fireplace in the study.

"Sauron would use it against me," he said by way of explanation, looking old and helpless. That scared his grandson badly. If the famous Lord of Andúnië – the man who had given Isildur encouragement and most of his political training – had lost hope in the cause of the Faithful, all was lost. There had to be some way to save the White Tree, if only to convince his people that something could still be done.

Now Isildur had arrived at the walls that surrounded the palace grounds, a measure that had gradually become more defensible over the last two centuries. Now the gardens and courts that lay within were forbidden to the Faithful. They were guarded, too: in the final hour of the night shift, the handful of soldiers had retreated indoors for warmth. The White Tree loomed dimly beyond.

Luckily, it was almost winter. In season, Nimloth grew large silver flowers that actually cast light and would have made Isildur's quest impossible. Now, though, it stood dark and nearly dormant. No one saw an anonymous figure send a grapnel over the wall, tug hard to be sure it had caught, and climb over.

In the dark, his first fear had been that Nimloth had not borne fruit that year. The Tree was unpredictable, and it had noticeably deteriorated after years of neglect. He hesitated, and then boosted himself onto the lowest branch. As soon as he had begun to climb, though, his hand met something round and slightly softer than expected. He fell out of the tree with a yelp. The fruit landed neatly in his lap, like a gift.

The faint sounds of conversation in the guardhouse stopped abruptly; the men there were alert, even if they had expected no trouble. Isildur swore and lurched to his feet. His hood had slipped, and in his haste he pulled it too far over his eyes at first. He pushed the fruit into the wallet under his cloak and groped for the short sword. By now, there were King's Men on the lawn with lights and weapons of their own.

"Halt in the King's name!" one, probably an officer, shouted automatically.

"Why?" he retorted, taking a defensive position. As the son and grandson of mariners, he was one of the few Númenórean civilians who had learned the use of a sword along with the rest of his education. The guards were undoubtedly better fighters, but the gate opened easily from this side – if he could get that far without being captured or killed, he might yet escape. He inched forward.

"Traitor—" someone sputtered, and then Isildur was knocked backward as a long Númenórean arrow struck his shoulder from devastatingly close range. Though only his left had been hit – without the cloak and the darkness to confuse the aim, he would surely have died – he dropped the sword and collapsed, gasping.

"Fool! Take him alive!" the officer ordered sharply. Sparks flickered in Isildur's vision, but the useless arm fell atop the wallet with its precious contents. His mind cleared, and he took a deep breath. In one struggling motion, he grasped the hilt of the short sword and staggered upright.

The King's Men had expected a helpless prisoner, if not a corpse; the archery of Westernesse was more feared in Middle-Earth than any other aspect of their military, and that shot had enough force behind it to puncture armor. Badly aimed as it was, though, Isildur's life was in no immediate danger. He struck out desperately with the sword, and the startled guards recoiled for a moment. He was sprinting for the gate even as a series of grazing blows tore through his cloak, and beyond it before he realized he was bleeding freely in several places. In the afterglow of adrenaline, even his shoulder had faded to a dull ache.

He had perhaps a few minutes before a full hue and cry developed. He had planned to find an inn for a few days, hoping to learn at least who had sent the message, but now that was clearly impossible. He wasn't sure he cared, now. Calling to Lachdal, although she would come, would attract attention – and there was the chance that either her name or his voice would be recognized. He slumped in an alley about halfway down the hill, wadding his shirt over the worst of the bleeding, and did what was only rumored to work in certain cases.

Lachdal! he thought, a mental scream that made his throat tighten in sympathy. He'd never tried this before; but if any horse would answer his thought, it would be the seal brown hunter. She had been a present to him as a six-month-old filly still wearing the last of her milk hairs, and she had gone with him whenever he traveled.

Minutes passed. Then, almost uncertainly, the mare's long nose poked around the corner at the mouth of the alley. She snorted in recognition.

Isildur grinned. "Good girl, Lachdal."

It had taken them only half the night to cover the fifty miles between Rómenna and Armenelos, but now Isildur needed frequent rests and dared not use the main road. At last they came to the sea captain's house and into the yard. Amandil had been sitting on the front steps, actually waiting for him; Isildur learned later that his parents had searched the haven for news of his whereabouts. The old man stood up in creaky alarm.

"Favor of the Valar, where have you been?"

He dismounted awkwardly with one hand, fished the fruit of Nimloth from his wallet, and finally passed out on the cobblestones. He was only dimly aware that his grandfather had reached out to catch him, a look of wonder in his tired grey eyes.

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I could mention here that at the time, the sword Narsil was a rather useless family heirloom; or that Númenórean steelbows – that's right, steelbows, according to Unfinished Tales – used arrows about forty-five inches long, which says something about the average height of these people… but this is pretty useless information. The construction going on at the top of the hill will be explained later, I promise.

Well, that finishes all the real action of the story until the Great Armament… but I'll see what I can do. Plus, I have to work out how far this is going to go – should I aim for the founding of Arnor and Gondor, or write all the way to the Ring?

Please review; I like flames. Is anyone reading this who doesn't know the story already? I'd like to think this part was serving some purpose.