When the queen of Men, the elven Lady Undomiel, finally carried a child to term and delivered him safely and well into the waiting hands of the midwife, it seemed as though the land heaved itself once in a sigh of relief before a cheer rose from the throats of Men. King Elessar closted himself with his the Lady and her son for two full days before appearing on the balcony of the palace and raising a tiny swaddled bundle to the wondering eyes of the city.
"My son!" he proclaimed. The slim pale figure of his queen appeared behind him and they consulted for a brief moment. "Emmesir," he said finally, touching the babe's forehead with two fingers, before raising him once again to the waiting crowd.
"Emmesir, heir to the throne of Gondor!"
After the lamented passing of his father, Emmesir ascended to the throne and ruled well. He married Maithee, a younger daughter of the Lord of the Southrons, and through that action forged a lasting peace with that race. During his rule, he became known as a man who remained committed to duty, and was unsurpassed in game and in battle. He was also known, however, for his interest in farming and in the improvement of the methods used to that end. Maithee did not survive the birth of their third daughter, Rabila, named in her mother's tongue to mean 'sorrow'. After grieving for some time, Emmesir remarried, taking as queen the Lady Anira of Gondor. Anira bore him one son, Eledainn, who later succeeded him as King.
TAMARShe missed him. More than she would admit, even to herself. For weeks after his departure, she felt uneasy, slightly ill, jumpy. She still thought of him, (even after she ahd cleaned up his pallet, folded his remaining clothes, and stowed them in a closet) – his scent, his singing, his fascination with kitchen appliances – each night before she fell asleep, and often when she awoke; but gradually that sickness was replaced by wistfulness, and at last by a small twinge and a question. Had she loved him? Did she love him still? She wasn't prepared to answer them just yet.
Instead, late one night when she could almost imagine the warmth of him standing behind her, she sat down in front of her computer and erased everything she had written as George Mears, and began again. As quickly as she could type, he recalled the rise and fall of his voice telling her stories and recollections, catching with grief or excitement. She recreated him, syllable by syllable, on the screen before her. She worked by candlight most nights to keep to the feel of his words. Under her fingers he was reshaped and recast as the hero he had always imagined himself to be.
When she could write no more, she took a break – a week, maybe two – and then she began editing.
FRANKFrank had been driving all day. His meagre collection of belongings was stacked – six boxes, one plant and one guitar – behind him in the Range Rover. On the radio, Elton John called it the Blues, and outside, rain ran off on a road that shone, gilded beneath the yellow of his single headlight. The other had been broken that morning, probably in the supermarket carpark where he had stopped for supplies. The motor chugged a little, and he swore softly and tapped the display irritably. The fuel guage showed him the bad news. The motor chugged again, and Elton John faded away. Then the car stopped. He coasted for a few metres before rolling to a crunching halt. He swore again, louder this time, and ran his fingers through short crisp red-brown hair. The rain on the roof and the hood of the Rover was the only noise beside the rhythm of his breathing. He sat for a moment, then fumbled in the glove box for a pocket torch. The town was only ten miles up, he thought. There should be some outlying properties along this road. He pulled on his parka, tugged the hood around his face, grabbed his wallet, his keys and the small torch, and slid out of the car into the rain.
He walked for what seemd an hour along the road, although he knew it had to be less than that. After a few minutes he was soaked through anyway, so he pushed his hood back and let the rain fall on his face. He hoped he wouldn't catch a chill and start his new posting by sneezing all over the desk Sargent. The air was bitterly cold – it was just before Halloween, and he thought he could feel the kind of chill that brought an early winter. Then again, it could just be that his underwear was wet through along with the rest of him. Ahead of him, a gravel driveway left the road and curved away to the right behind some trees. He paused and squinted and thought he could catch a glimpse of light through those trees. The torch creating a frail puddle of light ahead of him, he left the road for the slick gravel driveway. It led him to a cottage and curved away into a yard at its rear. He could see no lights at the front of the building, but lit windows cast rectangles of yellow light into the yard. As he slowed, he heard a thud from inside, and a low gruff bark, as if from a massively large dog. A woman's voice replied sharply, and the dog quietened. Encouraged, Frank stepped up to the back door and knocked. He heard another thud and exclamation from the dog, and footsteps. A stream of cold water trickled from the crown of his head down his broad forehead, around his nose, and pooled in his neatly trimmed beard. He shivered, and the door opened.
She was tall, and curved, with two blonde plaits on either side of her face. He mouth was hanging open in what seemed to be shock.
"Boromir?" she uttered softly. Frank stepped into the light. She took in his face, and blinked several times.
"Sorry?" he replied, not understanding, wondering if she was speaking English. She shook her head.
"I'm sorry, you look like… someone else. Someone I knew a little while ago."
"Oh." He wiped a trickle away from his left eye. "I was wondering if I might use your phone. My car's run out of fuel on the road."
She nodded and stepped away from the door, nudging a massive Wolfhound to one side, her eyes never leaving his face.
"My name's Frank," he offered as he entered. "Frank Steward. I'm the new PC in Stockton."
Her eyes glittered for a moment, and she broke into a smile.
"Tamar. The phone's in the kitchen just beside you." She gestured to it. "If you like, I have some dry clothes that would probably fit you."