Disclaimer: The world belongs to Tolkien, the words alone are mine.
A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Aria, and explains quite a lot of things.
"Hail, Elrohir o Imladris! Hail, and well met!"
"Hail, Faelion." Elrohir dismounted swiftly, coming to greet the sentry with a grin. "And well met. How fares Eryn Lasgalen?"
Faelion shrugged, even as the others in his patrol group came forth to greet Elrohir, in no particular hurry – they would have recognised him from far off. "As well as ever. We have been hunting much of late; scouring the last of the Orcs and spiders from every corner of the wood. You bring a message for the King?"
Elrohir nodded. "It is important that I speak to him. Is he in his halls?"
"You are in luck. He took a wound to the thigh a fortnight ago – nothing serious, and it heals well, but the Queen took one look at him and locked him in with the healers until further notice. He'll be glad to see you, I'd warrant."
"Perhaps not so glad, when he hears the news I bring." replied Elrohir. Faelion raised an eyebrow, but questioned him no further. A few quick welcomes and jests were exchanged with the rest of the patrol, and then Elrohir rode on. If they had wondered at the urgency in his tone and movements, than they said nothing of it, at least while he was in earshot.
Leaving his horse in the capable hands of the stable master, he moved swiftly through the halls; he had not been here in a while, but the great home of Thranduil had not changed enough through the years that he required a guide. He almost laughed to see the artisans at work on one set of walls, finishing a series of mosaics showing Legolas in the Ring War. No doubt Legolas himself would be eternally embarrassed by his father's need to display his pride in his son so publicly – it was not in his nature to boast.
The likeness was good, though. Elrohir made a mental note to tease Legolas about that the next time they met – hopefully his Grandfather's dark warnings would not come to pass. Celeborn had never laid claim to the Sight; had never so much as glanced at the Mirror. Why now would he be struck by these strange visions?
Frowning in thought, Elrohir moved onwards, nodding at the Elves who ambled past, until he came at last to the halls of the healers. He bit his lip, nervous. This was going to be an interesting discussion, to say the least.
-----
Three separate groups of sailors had come to him in the past month, each bearing a similar tale. A group of dark ships, that sailed out of the mist, and then disappeared without trace.
Now a letter from Dol Amroth lay upon his desk. Imrahil, a sensible and solid fellow, whose Cirdan had always admired for the good condition in which he kept his docks, reported that many fishermen of the region had been claiming that 'ghost ships' were appearing in the bay, scaring away the fish – and the fishermen. It was causing havoc on the trading ships, with some of the men refusing to go out to sea.
He drummed his fingers against the desk, wondering how to answer. Then a sudden cry came from the docks; although it was a sunny day, the storm bell was being run, loud and fast.
Never had they been seen this close to shore, but there they were. When Cirdan reached the docks, a crowd had gathered, discussing theories and sharing fears. Even as they noticed the arrival of their Lord, and turned to bombard him with questions, the lead ship began to fade away, but not before turning broadside, allowing the standard to unfurl, fluttering in the wind, clearly visible to the Elvish eye.
Seven stars of silver, on a field of blue. The murmurs in the crowd were clear; many among them were old enough to remember that device, and the home of its Lords.
Númenórë. Númenórë Atalantë.
Cirdan was already hurrying back to his rooms, his quill calling. He knew what message to send now; but it was not just to Dol Amroth that he would be writing.
-----
Phazân an'Nimir, Phazân an'Nimruzîrim…
The figure reached out to him. A king of old, crowned with gold and rubies, but even as Faramir strained to see his face, the crown tumbled down, shattering into a thousand pieces. The rubies melted before his eyes – they were as red as blood, and then they were blood, and the blood formed a river, coming towards him.
No, not a river now but a great wave, a wall of blood. He saw Éowyn, clothed as a queen, but her crown was not intended to crown her, but to chain her, and she looked at him with hatred and laughed as the wave came crashing down upon her…
When he woke up, Éowyn was gone, although a note and a cup of something foul smelling laid by the bed.
Leofost,
I have gone riding – do not worry, the healers say it is better for me to be getting a little exercise, rather than none at all. Legolas accompanies me, so I will be well protected. Speaking of healers, you are to take your dwæs hide to the hall today; you were turning in your sleep last night, and could not be woken. You worry me, dear one. I have left you some botwyrt; my grandmother Morwen always said it was good for the blood. If nothing else, please try to drink some of it, will you?
Ever yours,
Éowyn.
He sniffed at the healing mixture, and did indeed take a sip, before tipping the rest of the dark brew out the window. Foul stuff indeed. He folded the note back up and tucked it in a pocket; he liked to keep things that belonged to Éowyn, or that had been made by her hand; the flowers she had worn in her hair when they were married had been carefully pressed and kept; every letter or note that she ever wrote to him was filed away, to be reread later, so that he could smile at the endearments and insults she gave to him in equal measure, chuckle over the way she slipped into Rohirric, whether speaking or writing, when she felt the Westron tongue too clumsy for her purpose.
But he did not head to the healers quarters, as her note suggested – nay, demanded. Instead, he detoured by the kitchens to grab himself an apple and a little bread and cheese – ah, the joy of simple foods – and then headed to the library.
His little library was growing by leaps and bounds now; all who knew him knew there could be no better gift for the Prince of Ithilien than a dog-eared book, the more obscure the better, which would be carefully restored. The room boasted one desk and a reading chair; the rest was shelves and shelves of his precious volumes, neatly catalogued.
Now he scanned the shelves for a particular item; it was in fact one of those 'liberated' volumes that he had stolen away as a child, to be read by candlelight when he was supposed to be sleeping. He spotted it quickly, the title picked out in rich gold lettering on the spine; The Tale of the Lost Isle of Númenor.
None were fluent in the language of Númenor, Adûnaic, in this day and age, not in Gondor, and it was a struggle to translate, trying to remember the words the ancient King had spoken to him.
Yanâkhim… that meant 'comes'. Someone comes. Phazân was prince. The prince comes? Then what was Aglarrâma? Idly, he scrawled patterns on the paper with his quill, as he searched for the answers. Something comes. Something eastward comes. The prince… the prince of Elves. Prince of Elves. Prince of Elves, Prince of Elf-friends. He wrote the sentence down again,
Aglarrâma azûlada yanâkhim, Phazân an'Nimir, Phazân an'Nimruzîrim. Hu-yanâkhim!
Something Eastward comes, Prince of Elves, Prince of Elf-friends. He comes!
His eyes flicked back up to the patterns he had been scribbling in the corners of the paper, and his heart stopped for a beat. Seven stars. Seven stars, bright on a dark field. Seven stars on a field of blue…
Quickly he dropped the quill, searching for the book. He had seen something, somewhere in this text, something about this. Seven stars, and a ship. A ship… He stopped when an illustration was revealed. A great black ship, that flew a banner showing seven stars. A man stood at the prow. Tall and dark and proud, he was, and underneath the picture there were but ten words written. Ten words to explain all.
Aglarrâma, great ship of Ar-Pharazôn, last King of Númenor.
Hu-yanâkhim…
"My lord?"
He looked up, to see one of the servants hovering, worriedly.
"Yes?"
"There is a messenger here to see you, your Highness. An Elf, from Rivendell."
----
Celeborn stormed into the throne room of Gondor, the guards having evidently taken one look and decided that it would be more trouble than it was worth to try and have the Elf-Lord explain himself. He'd given only a word of apology to his horse, which had been hard-ridden, before forcing his way without a word into the presence of the King and Queen.
"Grandfather!" Arwen cried with delight, hurrying forward to embrace him. "It is so good to see you!"
"And you, beloved granddaughter. And you as well, Elessar." he added, with a kindly nod towards Aragorn, who obviously did not want to interfere in the reunion.
Arwen finally released him, frowning slightly.
"What is wrong, Grandfather?"
He put a hand to her hair, held back in many braids, adorned with pearls and weighted down by her crown.
"You do not wear your hair down anymore." he said, quietly. "But that is not what I have come to speak of."
"Then speak." said Aragorn. "Whatever it is, it seems to be of importance."
"Whatever it may be," Arwen said, giving him a sharp look, "the telling of the tale can wait until you have resting a while. You are shaking, Grandfather. Come, sit down."
"Do you remember the Great Hall?" he asked, faintly. "My father painted those murals; I remember, I watched him. I helped mix the paints; I was only little then." His left hand was still shaking, and he reached out to Arwen's shoulder, as if to steady himself. "But of course," he continued. "you cannot remember. It was destroyed before your father was born."
He looked confused for a moment, his eyelids fluttering closed. Then he stumbled; for a moment the watchers thought he would fall. But he recovered quickly, standing tall again.
When he opened his eyes Arwen gasped, for they were no longer the bright blue she had known all her life, but a stormy grey. And when he spoke, the voice was not Celeborn's either.
"I apologise." he said. "I did not mean to harm him, but this was necessary."
"What was necessary?" snapped Arwen. "Explain yourself!"
The voice was still calm. "I have come to warn you. For you are in danger; not just you, but all this world. A great peril approaches, and I could remain silent no longer."
"Then speak." said Aragorn, his tone commanding. "What peril do you speak of?"
"One greater than the will of one man, be he King or not. So sit down, Estel. And let me tell you the story of the Key."
A/N: Númenórë Atalantë – Númenor the downfallen. (Quenya)
More Old English as Rohirric – leofost (dearest), dwæs (foolish), botwyrt – (healing herb)
Elf-friends, or Elendili, was the name given to the followers of Elendil, Isildur's father, and Aragorn's great-great-great-great-(etc)-grandfather – those of Númenor who were on the side of the Elves. Ar-Pharazôn, the last King, was definitely not one of those number – he married his cousin, Tar-Miriel, by force (she should have been Queen in her own right), and rebelled against the Valar by trying to sail to Valinor.