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Year 1803 of the Second Age, Island of Númenor
The sun shone brightly over the forested hills as the carriage rolled down the cobbled roadway. The road snaked and wove its way over and around hills, flanked by tall, lush trees on either side. Their destination? A grand estate located deep in the heart of Hyarrostar, the south-eastern pinnacle of the star-shaped island. It was a beautiful day in the land of Númenor, the gifted homeland awarded to the three houses of the Edain, rewards for their aid in the struggle against the great evil of the First Age. That had been nearly two millennia ago, but the memories were still hot and fresh in the minds of their descendants. Even now that evil endured, represented by a new Dark Lord in the vast lands of Middle-Earth across the sea. It had barely been a century since the armies under King Tar-Minastir and his chief admiral, Ciryatur had intervened in the conflict between the orcs and Elves of Eregion and Lindon. It had been a hard fought battle, but the valor of men prevailed and they drove the enemy back into the eastern lands with horrific causalities inflicted upon them. Now the powerful Houses and men of Númenor began to construct their domains upon the shore, eager to watch for the return of this foe and to help the men of Middle-Earth find enlightenment.
One of these Houses was a powerful family from Hyarrostar. They were well-founded ship-builders and owners of tree-plantations, rich and influential. In the carriage they now sat, flanked by four mounted men with tall banners and swords at their belt. The guard was merely for show, for there was no danger upon the blessed realm of Númenor, not yet at any rate. The carriage was a luxurious vehicle, with fine leather seats and wide windows that allowed fresh air to blow through the cabin. Within it sat four individuals, richly clad in silk and jewelry, and three sets of eyes were upon one. There was Amrod, the patriarch of the family, a tall man with proud eyes and an even prouder posture. His name held weight in the courts of the King in Armenelos and was accounted by men to be wise and just. His wife, Mithrellas, an equally proud woman with a stern glance and a firm hand. She followed the traditions and culture of their ancestors with a passion. Their daughter, Elenwë, whom in the native Adûnaic tongue was called Gimlîth, sat next to her mother. Across from them sat the subject of their peering eyes, their pride and joy, the son and heir of Amrod; Falahîr.
Falahîr, whom in the Adûnaic tongue is known as Sakalkhôr, Shore-Lord, had been a veteran of that war in Middle-Earth in his youth. And young he still was, for the life spans of the men of Númenor was long indeed. While both his parents were well into their second centennial, Sakalkhôr had seen his first, being aged one hundred and twenty-one years old. Despite this count of years, he no more had the appearance of a late-twenties man from Middle-Earth. His beard was close-shaven and he had a slicked back mane of fine dark hair, with a jeweled hair pin keeping it straight and neat. His eyes were grey like the sea, but they were piercing with a bright light and his complexion was bronze from the time he spent under the eyes of the sun. His shoulders were broad and his waist narrow and he had a strong build that was evident of his vigorous lifestyle. He was a great captain, whether by sea or by land, and his body bore the marks of many battles and skirmishes. He wore loose-fitting blue trousers with a long-sleeved white tunic, and overtop he bore the sable-black tunic of a soldier's uniform, blazon with the White Tee of Nimloth the Fair in the court of Kings.
All eyes were upon him, smiles and glances of hope, for Sakalkhôr was to be wed! To a beautiful maiden by the name of Míriel, daughter of the noble and proud Orod, who was an old friend of Amrod and just as influential. Sakalkhôr himself was nervous, having tried to put off this affair for many a decade with his travels but finally his parents grew tired of his sense of abandonment. "You aren't getting any younger," his mother had told him, wagging her finger in his face, "And soon you'll be a grey haired old man with a walking stick and no one to remember you by." And now, upon his return from the familial estate of Lithroslond in Harad, his parents showed little remorse in forcing him to accept a marriage contract. Now they were journeying to the betrothed's familial estates, ready to exchange vows of fealty and love. The marriage brought not only two people in matrimony, but combined the two Houses into a powerful alliance to further their own objectives. But marriage was a thing of joy and happiness, and those were the last two emotions that Sakalkhôr was experiencing right now. Sitting next to his father, he gazed out lazily into the passing thickets of trees as his family spoke of him.
"Don't fret," his sister was saying, offering him a smile, "I heard she is very pretty by all accounts."
"Then why has she taken so long to be wed as well?" Sakalkhôr shot back, crossing his arms, "She is nearly as old as me. There must be a reason for why she has not wed before." He asked suspiciously but both women laughed.
"Oh, my boy!" Mithrellas said, shaking her head, "You know nothing of women. One would have thought with all your swords and masts you would have learned a thing or two through sailor's boasts but I see you know nothing. She is a spirited girl and very independent. Her hand is much sought by the men of Númenor and you should count yourself lucky that she choose to accept you."
"And why is it that she gets a choice to wed and I am forced into it?" Sakalkhôr replied haughtily.
"Because you were given many choices and each you spurned." Amrod said with a grim voice, "And how does that reflect on us? It doesn't look good to have a wild firebrand of a son doing as he pleases. At least she is cultured and dignified, taking each choice in stride and making intelligent decisions. You just give your answer without thought, rash and uninformed, and dart off to whatever else you have your mind on. Perhaps she can teach you the patience that you refuse to learn."
"I also heard she adores you." Elenwë said again, teasing her brother. He lifted his leg to kick at her with a booted foot but she quickly dodged the weak attempt.
They journeyed the rest of the way in silence, admiring the trees brought over by the Eldar and enjoying the peaceful sounds of nature over the turning of the carriage wheels. They were soon coming to inhabited lands again, leaving the beautiful wilds of Númenor behind. They past isolated homesteads and farms, with many folk out in the fields toiling hard under the sun. It was high summer and the harvest would be bountiful as always, blessed by the auspices of Eru Ilúvatar. Sakalkhôr sent his own prayers to the Supreme Creator himself, asking for some sort of strength and guidance in this damnable marriage. Soon the isolated homes grew into larger and larger gatherings of stone and wooden houses, and eventually they made their way down a great avenue towards a vast mansion. It sat close to the sea, overlooking the white sandy beaches that the waves of Belegaer flowed upon. The carriage clattered into the courtyard, parking next to a streaming fountain and two guards dismounted to help open the doors.
"Speak only Sindarian here," Amrod warned his son, "They are a proud folk, deep in their familial traditions and are very refined. Please refrain from using the Númenorean tongue and speak no ill of the Eldar, for I know you have quite a mouth on you. Impressions are very important."
"Why should I refrain to speak the native tongue of my forefathers?" Sakalkhôr asked.
"Because I told you so. Now look lively and keep yourself erect and proud. The men of Númenor do not slouch." Armod said as he opened his door, though this remark was meant for everyone and not just his troublesome son. Sakalkhôr climbed out before helping his sister, and they circled around the vehicle to stand next to their father and mother. Míriel, Sakalkhôr said to himself over and over again, as if trying to gleam a clear picture of the woman whose name it was. Sparkling-jewel they call her. Certainly it must be for a reason? He glanced towards the large doors that led into his bride's home, waiting for her family to arrive and receive them. The sound of distant waves and the crying of gulls seemed to beckon to him, and his mind drifted off to the joys and delights of sailing and exploring the distant seas. His own home in Númenor was far from it, set amongst tall trees and farms, and felt this place had a surreal sensation to it. Sakalkhôr thought for a moment that he could hear singing somewhere, distant yet harmonious and soft.
The sun shone brightly over the forested hills as the carriage rolled down the cobbled roadway. The road snaked and wove its way over and around hills, flanked by tall, lush trees on either side. Their destination? A grand estate located deep in the heart of Hyarrostar, the south-eastern pinnacle of the star-shaped island. It was a beautiful day in the land of Númenor, the gifted homeland awarded to the three houses of the Edain, rewards for their aid in the struggle against the great evil of the First Age. That had been nearly two millennia ago, but the memories were still hot and fresh in the minds of their descendants. Even now that evil endured, represented by a new Dark Lord in the vast lands of Middle-Earth across the sea. It had barely been a century since the armies under King Tar-Minastir and his chief admiral, Ciryatur had intervened in the conflict between the orcs and Elves of Eregion and Lindon. It had been a hard fought battle, but the valor of men prevailed and they drove the enemy back into the eastern lands with horrific causalities inflicted upon them. Now the powerful Houses and men of Númenor began to construct their domains upon the shore, eager to watch for the return of this foe and to help the men of Middle-Earth find enlightenment.
One of these Houses was a powerful family from Hyarrostar. They were well-founded ship-builders and owners of tree-plantations, rich and influential. In the carriage they now sat, flanked by four mounted men with tall banners and swords at their belt. The guard was merely for show, for there was no danger upon the blessed realm of Númenor, not yet at any rate. The carriage was a luxurious vehicle, with fine leather seats and wide windows that allowed fresh air to blow through the cabin. Within it sat four individuals, richly clad in silk and jewelry, and three sets of eyes were upon one. There was Amrod, the patriarch of the family, a tall man with proud eyes and an even prouder posture. His name held weight in the courts of the King in Armenelos and was accounted by men to be wise and just. His wife, Mithrellas, an equally proud woman with a stern glance and a firm hand. She followed the traditions and culture of their ancestors with a passion. Their daughter, Elenwë, whom in the native Adûnaic tongue was called Gimlîth, sat next to her mother. Across from them sat the subject of their peering eyes, their pride and joy, the son and heir of Amrod; Falahîr.
Falahîr, whom in the Adûnaic tongue is known as Sakalkhôr, Shore-Lord, had been a veteran of that war in Middle-Earth in his youth. And young he still was, for the life spans of the men of Númenor was long indeed. While both his parents were well into their second centennial, Sakalkhôr had seen his first, being aged one hundred and twenty-one years old. Despite this count of years, he no more had the appearance of a late-twenties man from Middle-Earth. His beard was close-shaven and he had a slicked back mane of fine dark hair, with a jeweled hair pin keeping it straight and neat. His eyes were grey like the sea, but they were piercing with a bright light and his complexion was bronze from the time he spent under the eyes of the sun. His shoulders were broad and his waist narrow and he had a strong build that was evident of his vigorous lifestyle. He was a great captain, whether by sea or by land, and his body bore the marks of many battles and skirmishes. He wore loose-fitting blue trousers with a long-sleeved white tunic, and overtop he bore the sable-black tunic of a soldier's uniform, blazon with the White Tee of Nimloth the Fair in the court of Kings.
All eyes were upon him, smiles and glances of hope, for Sakalkhôr was to be wed! To a beautiful maiden by the name of Míriel, daughter of the noble and proud Orod, who was an old friend of Amrod and just as influential. Sakalkhôr himself was nervous, having tried to put off this affair for many a decade with his travels but finally his parents grew tired of his sense of abandonment. "You aren't getting any younger," his mother had told him, wagging her finger in his face, "And soon you'll be a grey haired old man with a walking stick and no one to remember you by." And now, upon his return from the familial estate of Lithroslond in Harad, his parents showed little remorse in forcing him to accept a marriage contract. Now they were journeying to the betrothed's familial estates, ready to exchange vows of fealty and love. The marriage brought not only two people in matrimony, but combined the two Houses into a powerful alliance to further their own objectives. But marriage was a thing of joy and happiness, and those were the last two emotions that Sakalkhôr was experiencing right now. Sitting next to his father, he gazed out lazily into the passing thickets of trees as his family spoke of him.
"Don't fret," his sister was saying, offering him a smile, "I heard she is very pretty by all accounts."
"Then why has she taken so long to be wed as well?" Sakalkhôr shot back, crossing his arms, "She is nearly as old as me. There must be a reason for why she has not wed before." He asked suspiciously but both women laughed.
"Oh, my boy!" Mithrellas said, shaking her head, "You know nothing of women. One would have thought with all your swords and masts you would have learned a thing or two through sailor's boasts but I see you know nothing. She is a spirited girl and very independent. Her hand is much sought by the men of Númenor and you should count yourself lucky that she choose to accept you."
"And why is it that she gets a choice to wed and I am forced into it?" Sakalkhôr replied haughtily.
"Because you were given many choices and each you spurned." Amrod said with a grim voice, "And how does that reflect on us? It doesn't look good to have a wild firebrand of a son doing as he pleases. At least she is cultured and dignified, taking each choice in stride and making intelligent decisions. You just give your answer without thought, rash and uninformed, and dart off to whatever else you have your mind on. Perhaps she can teach you the patience that you refuse to learn."
"I also heard she adores you." Elenwë said again, teasing her brother. He lifted his leg to kick at her with a booted foot but she quickly dodged the weak attempt.
They journeyed the rest of the way in silence, admiring the trees brought over by the Eldar and enjoying the peaceful sounds of nature over the turning of the carriage wheels. They were soon coming to inhabited lands again, leaving the beautiful wilds of Númenor behind. They past isolated homesteads and farms, with many folk out in the fields toiling hard under the sun. It was high summer and the harvest would be bountiful as always, blessed by the auspices of Eru Ilúvatar. Sakalkhôr sent his own prayers to the Supreme Creator himself, asking for some sort of strength and guidance in this damnable marriage. Soon the isolated homes grew into larger and larger gatherings of stone and wooden houses, and eventually they made their way down a great avenue towards a vast mansion. It sat close to the sea, overlooking the white sandy beaches that the waves of Belegaer flowed upon. The carriage clattered into the courtyard, parking next to a streaming fountain and two guards dismounted to help open the doors.
"Speak only Sindarian here," Amrod warned his son, "They are a proud folk, deep in their familial traditions and are very refined. Please refrain from using the Númenorean tongue and speak no ill of the Eldar, for I know you have quite a mouth on you. Impressions are very important."
"Why should I refrain to speak the native tongue of my forefathers?" Sakalkhôr asked.
"Because I told you so. Now look lively and keep yourself erect and proud. The men of Númenor do not slouch." Armod said as he opened his door, though this remark was meant for everyone and not just his troublesome son. Sakalkhôr climbed out before helping his sister, and they circled around the vehicle to stand next to their father and mother. Míriel, Sakalkhôr said to himself over and over again, as if trying to gleam a clear picture of the woman whose name it was. Sparkling-jewel they call her. Certainly it must be for a reason? He glanced towards the large doors that led into his bride's home, waiting for her family to arrive and receive them. The sound of distant waves and the crying of gulls seemed to beckon to him, and his mind drifted off to the joys and delights of sailing and exploring the distant seas. His own home in Númenor was far from it, set amongst tall trees and farms, and felt this place had a surreal sensation to it. Sakalkhôr thought for a moment that he could hear singing somewhere, distant yet harmonious and soft.
