#saurronxmodernoc

[baby-dragons-art]

Chapter 11 cover page!!

This chapter was intense and Zigur is an ass.

You can read ch 1 here

[lildragonstories]

What happens when a modern lady hums a tune she has never heard of, then lands into Ar-Pharazon's Numenor? Will she get into trouble, probably. Will there be familiar faces to guide or mislead her, absolutely.

Oh yea, were going there.

Fanfiction/graphic novel

Sauron x oc

Themes: lore accuracy, trauma, lore faithful Sauron, lore based, Tolkien's unfinished tales, modern OC, adult themes, horror, politics, You can't save him, run girl run, not a romance.

Art done by me! @baby-dragons-art

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9

Chapter 10

It was as the High Lord Councilor had said. Word was delivered by a runner in palace livery, by the early dawn. Rozêm accepted the message then ran, quietly, back through the house and up the stairs. He knocked at his uncle's study door. 

“My Lord,” he called softly, opening the door a hair's breadth. Hallatar sat before his desk, the candle before him long since melted to the stub. The man stared at a length of parchment, not reading it. His eyes were open but glazed, and deeply shadowed. 

“Uncle,” Rozêm said, stepping in. He came to the side of the desk and beheld Hallatar in the blue light of the window. 

Hallatar closed his eyes briefly. A long, slow lowering of his eyelids that carried the weight of the night with them. He looked to Rozêm, then to the message in his hand, stamped with the seal of the king's administrative offices. 

His hand rose and accepted the delivery. 

“Thank you, Rozêm,” Hallatar said, his voice a dry and clipped thing. 

Rozêm watched for a moment, hesitant to leave. “Shall I tell the runner he is to receive a reply?”

The lore master stared down at the wax seal; a single feather surrounded by two cresting waves. There was once a time where such a seal being delivered would have been an occasion for joy. 

But it was not so now. 

Hallatar breathed in then nodded stiffly. 

“Yes. Offer him our hospitality; I shall have his reply shortly.” 

Rozêm bowed at the waist then stepped away, one careful glance back before closing the study door behind him.  

Hallatar had not told his nephew or Delphêl what had happened the evening prior. There had been no time.

After returning, seeing to the horses, and ensuring Lorna was safely put to bed, Hallatar could not bring himself to wake his household so late in the night. 

When he had gathered enough strength, Hallatar ran his thumbs over the hard wax seal, then broke it with a soft pop. Within was a pristinely arranged letter. 

“Lord Hallatar,

By the invitation of King Ar-Pharazôn, ruler of men, Anadûnê, and the eastern shores of Middle-earth, it would please the offices of the High Lord Councilor that the woman under your care be brought to the House of Lore this day for the lady's benefit and for the realm's invested interest in unknown languages. She is to be received by the fifth bell. 

This invitation is sanctioned by the powers of the King and by the office of the High Lord Councilor.

As ever your servant, Azorath, Steward of the royal offices.”

The page was set down after one reading and not regarded again. For several moments Hallatar sat still and quiet, his fingers pressing against his eyes as though to blot out the memory of what he had read. 

He should refuse. He should have refused the moment the offer was made for her to return, the moment he realized who he had brought her to. There were a number of times he could have ended this. Yet by cowardice or foolish hope, he had not. He let her stay. He let her talk. 

The memory of the Councilor came, cold and sickening. Hallatar leaned back in his chair, letting the weight of him settle as his gaze traveled to the painted mural on the walls. There, ships and great mountains lived a life separate, and far away from where Hallatar lived. 

He recalled the day, fifty years ago, when word had come from Umbar, telling of Ar-Pharazôn's great victory. The merriment that followed was so momentous that it seemed Númenor could be no more triumphant. Yet, when vast sails returned to Rómenna and the truth of the victory was revealed, that their great King had returned bearing the Dark Lord Sauron as prize and prisoner, the joy had too soon run dry. 

His shoulders drew inward at the memory, the chair creaking as he did. 

And now, only fifty years on, the same hand that had served unknowable darkness and struck against drowned Beleriand was sending messages of invested interest under powers of office and crown. 

‘How short the memory of men,’ he thought. ‘What evil have I done? What evil shall I yet do, knowing that she needs the words, and I, the answers to them?’

Hallatar grieved his own inaction in those years of knowing, and seeing, and listening. He had no mercy for himself, or allowed justification for the time he had spent working and offering aid to the people of Númenor, saying nothing. His work spoke for itself for all he could do; his silence was a testament for all he could not do. 

He knew this to the bone. The knowing made nothing easier. 

But now his silence was tested with summons from the King's House, for a woman under his care that bore no family or known tongue. 

‘Her language is not identified. It is not a language spoken in Arda,’ the words of Zigûr came to him, unbidden and too sweet. 

But the sweetness soured to cold dread and colder suspicion. Who had Hallatar brought before Zigûr? 

His gray gaze traveled to the parchment he had written in days past, rolled and placed among his books and other scrolls. 

There was more written on those pages than the palace would have sanctioned, had they known. Eru was in the ink, and yet Hallatar had only seen glimpses of him and his designs. It wasn't enough to be certain of anything. 

To deny the invitation now would draw questions he could not answer; questions about what he had under his roof. Great danger would come to Lorna and his own household if he refused. 

But what more danger was there to her if he let this proceed? 

Hallatar considered his alternatives. None were favorable, or well-positioned for success. And even as he imagined what paths he would take, his mind saw the small woman, hopeful and renewed. 

Though she had been sick and beyond spent by the time they had returned last night, a great light shone in her eyes as though a candle were lit. 

Whatever had been said to her had kindled hope. And should Hallatar go to her, make plain she was not to see Zigûr again… he could not bear her torment. 

Around his neck now hung the suspicion of her significance, the safety of his house, the woman herself, and what refusal would do to her; all of it bringing him straight to the depths.

His gaze returned to the message upon the desk. The parchment was yellowed and ill-looking. 

‘If good can yet come of this, let it be in my strength to offer and guard.’

He drew forth fresh parchment, took up the quill, and wrote. 

‘Azorath, Steward of the royal offices. 

I thank you for relaying the invitation from our great King and his Councilor. Please know that my guest and I shall come at the appointed time and place. 

We await the meeting with great gladness and shared interest in the benefit of the lady. 

I wish peace upon you and your households. 

Forever loyal, Lord Hallatar, son of Zuratar.’

The response was written, sealed, and sent before the sun had risen over the Meneltarma. 

It was done. The little or great evil he had committed to for the hope of greater good to come was done. 

Hallatar remained in his study until deepening sunlight cast rainbows across the main floor. By then he was dressed for riding, sliding on his gloves as though a spider might reside within. 

Each step down weighed heavier on his shoulders than the last, eventually bringing him to the main floor. His shadow bent across the floor as he came to the library door.  

‘She will be within, asleep perhaps, or still ill,’ he thought, recalling how grave she had looked when he set her on Zîyan. He did not know the cause, and in many ways there had been no need to know. 

A part of him wished that, despite himself, she would still look ill and withdrawn. That perhaps the night had revealed to her the truth of her meeting with Zigûr and she would not want to return. Such was possible. 

Yet when he opened the doors to call for her, he found her couch empty. A dropping sensation filled his gut and his gaze hardened. Since Lorna had begun sleeping there, this was the first time she had not been on the couch when he arrived. 

“Lorna…” he called, stepping through the door. When no reply came, he turned and searched the main floor. 

An interior panic took him as he went from the receiving chamber to the dining hall, even looking through the front windows to be certain she wasn't out there. 

Yet, when he found her, she was in the kitchen, with Rozêm and Delphêl, a knife in one bandaged hand and a helpless turnip in the other. 

He froze at the entryway, a breath held between his teeth, silent as he watched. 

“So, you hold the turnip like this,” Lorna said in her tongue. “Then you put the knife along the side while making sure your fingers are curled in, like this. Keep your elbows in and cut slowly.” 

Lorna began cutting the turnip in slices, then turned them and cut perfect squares. 

“Like that.” 

Rozêm and Delphêl hummed, then began chopping their own vegetables.  

“Sikil-mag izrê.”

‘Pretty knife work.’ Delphêl said, but she found the ease Lorna had demonstrated was not so easily repeated. 

Delphêl had prepared various vegetables for that day's lunch, all washed and cut as normal. But there was a pile of chopped carrots that were not prepared as Delphêl usually made them. They were perfectly square and small. 

Lorna took her knife, cleaned it on a cloth, and watched Rozêm struggle to get his fingertips under his knuckles. 

“You'll chop your finger off like that,” she said, her voice soft and a little amused. Lorna reached, placed her wrapped hand over his, then tucked his fingers in with gentle pressure. 

“Cut slowly, fingers in. There you go!” 

Rozêm cut his turnip with a smile then laughed as though she had shown him some grand trick. Delphêl huffed in amusement at his easy joy. 

Hallatar swallowed what panic had taken him and forced it into his gut where it waited. He then came into the larder and beheld Lorna's tutoring. 

He had not known, or had the moment to consider, that the woman had skills. Not that she was incapable of such things, the thought had simply never occurred to him given her grave otherness. 

Quietly, he adjusted his obliviousness to her potential capabilities and admired them. 

‘Perhaps she was a scullion for her people,’ he thought. 

When Lorna saw him beside his nephew, she placed the knife down and offered him a different smile. It was quieter, familiar, the smallest question at the corners. 

Hallatar inclined his head to her, mirroring her expression. 

She looked well. Her hair was brushed, her day clothes were on, and the same light he had seen in her gaze still burned there. Unsnuffed. 

Rozêm looked back to his uncle. 

"Sîrân ûri-îdô, bâr hê-an. Nakhân Lorna ûri-dalad azul. Saphad-dâ sî hê sikil-mag sî.”

‘Good morning, my Lord. Lorna has risen early. She was showing me her knife work.’ Rozêm said. 

Hallatar reached and held up one of Rozêm's attempts at cutting.

“Saphad hê. Kâlâd.”

‘So I see. That is good.’

Hallatar returned the piece to the table then raised his gaze to Lorna again. She had not stopped watching him. 

Hallatar drew in a slow breath through his nostrils, bearing the weight of her eyes and the question that was in them. 

“Lorna,” he said.

She blinked, then nodded in three quick beats, no hesitation in her. 

He betrayed himself and smiled. Then with the same gesture he made yesterday morning, he mimicked a horse and raised one fist. 

Without a word, she left the table, abandoning the knife and vegetables, then going straight up the stairs to her room. It was the fastest anyone had seen her move. 

Rozêm and Delphêl froze in place, both looking to Hallatar with wide, searching eyes. 

“Where are you riding to, my Lord?” Delphêl asked.

Hallatar brought his hand to his mouth and held it, as though pained. He stood there a moment, eyes closing before he could bear to move again. 

“I must speak with you both,” he said, voice weary to a whisper. The smile he had given Lorna was gone and replaced by the colder truth of his grief. 

Lorna was not long upstairs. She returned with her cloak on and riding boots on, hair pulled back with a simple ribbon, and gloves in hand. She found Hallatar, Rozêm and Delphêl in the kitchen where she had left them. Only, Rozêm was pale as he faced Hallatar, and Delphêl had hidden her face behind her hands completely. 

 Lorna stopped at the entry way, lowering her head. 

‘What happened…?’ she thought, uncertain whether to come forward or stand there. 

Rozêm saw her and tried to replace his expression with something softer, but failed. Delphêl did not look at her at all. 

Hallatar turned toward her, his smile more believable than Rozêm's. He extended a hand to her shoulder, nodded, then made the horse gesture. Lorna nodded, but glanced back to the others before following Hallatar to the front door. 

As it was the day before, Hallatar and Lorna rode from his home on the fourth tier of Armenelos, up the paths of the city to the main road, and then to the highest tier. 

Lorna's thighs were not as sore as they had been yesterday, and her demeanor was greatly improved, despite sleeping poorly the night before. 

Her stomach ached and her mind was alight with the memory of English. Blessed, sweet English. All night she tossed and turned between the memory of one word and then another. 

‘Help me. Understand. See you tomorrow,’ she recalled Zigûr's voice. 

The implications were mind wrenching. She had found someone who could not only understand her but speak to her. Lorna didn't question how or why that was possible, not now, not while the thrill of it was in her blood. 

She had been up all night with those words and the memory of what his presence felt like. 

The terrible anxiety of being next to him was not forgotten. At worst, she was exhausted and at the end of her patience when she had seen him. Her mind and body were so overwhelmed by all that had happened that she couldn't handle meeting someone new. At best, he was simply so strange in appearance that she had frightened herself. 

She accepted both options as the truth. 

When sunlight finally crept through the library window, she rose, dressed and waited for Hallatar. Lorna paced, read the markings on scrolls and books without reading them, and stared at the silver tree through the windows. 

She didn't even know when she would be allowed to return to see Zigûr, only that it would be today. If he understood her then maybe, just maybe, he could help her get back home. He had said he would try. 

When Lorna heard Delphêl in the kitchen, she went out and made use of her pent-up energy. It had been over a week since she held a proper kitchen knife or prepared a meal. Small things like cooking for herself, getting to the restaurant for work, or doing the dishes had been so trivial and ordinary. 

Lorna missed the ordinary. 

She wondered how long it would take to return to her slice of normal.

After riding for a quarter hour they came, at last, to the copper library in the top tier of the city. Lorna gripped the reins and watched as the greenish doors came closer through the garden plots. 

Before they reached the horse hitch, Zîyan made a high-pitched whinny and yanked her head back. Lorna yelped and jerked away, letting go of the reins at once. 

“What's wrong?!” she gasped. 

Alvôtin snorted loudly beside Zîyan, stamping his hooves upon the cobbles as though a snake were beneath him. 

“Whoa!” Hallatar called, dismounting at once. He came to his stallion's front, taking the reins and speaking quietly. The horse flicked his ears back, pawing at the stones with thunderous smacks and grunted. 

Zîyan paced in place, unable to keep still as she waved her head from side to side. Lorna sat in the saddle like a puppet with its strings cut, clueless on what to do, or what was happening. 

Hallatar, one hand still on Alvôtin's reins, reached out and held Zîyan’s muzzle. 

“Shh…” he hushed, calm rolling off him like fog over a mountain. The mare thrust her nose into Hallatar's chest as Alvôtin pressed his forehead into the man's shoulder. 

"Saphad hê. Kadô kan ki izindi-hê îdô. Zâir hê.”

‘I know. But you must trust me now. Please.’ he spoke, low and careful. The large, brown gaze of the mare bore into him. Her tail swished in fierce swipes, and her ears were back flat. 

Lorna watched, feeling useless as Hallatar brought both horses close and calmed them. 

“I'm sorry…” she said quietly, then brought her hands forward to pet Zîyan's neck. The horse sighed through her nostrils, a nikker puffing from her lips. 

Hallatar ensured the two were calm and encouraged them to follow him until they decided to move on their own. Alvôtin bit Hallatar's shoulder, nothing that tore fabric, but there was certainly intent.

Lorna looked down on Hallatar, expecting  him to scold her for upsetting the horses, but he never did. 

Once he tied off the reins to the hitch, Hallatar turned, offered his hands to her then helped her down from the saddle. He gave her the same reassuring smile, shrugged his shoulders, then held her hand. 

Lorna blinked, and then returned the smile as she took his hand. She kept one eye on him as they climbed the steps to the copper doors, just to be sure she caught if he was upset.  

Once inside, Hallatar did not seek attendants or guide her along the side aisles. He walked straight through towering bookshelves. The dim lamp light casting strange shadows about them until daylight from high windows shone across their faces. 

Within the center of the house, under the domed ceiling, the dark bookshelves circled around the inner perimeter. 

The lecterns and slanted drafting desks of the attendants here were aligned north, south, east and west of the center; allowing easy access to guests and stewards. Here the sunlight gathered, illuminating the couches and low tables. Upon one such couch lounged a very tall man reading a book. 

Lorna's stomach twisted, her hands squeezed, and her heart skipped a beat. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted iron and kept going. 

Upon the low table, before the occupied lecti, much had been brought. Fruit of various types, meat, cheese, wine, water, a type of cream. It wasn't decadent but it was certainly welcoming. 

Hallatar stood before the low table, his expression composed. 

“Bâr Zigûr,” Hallatar greeted, bowing at the waist. Lorna glanced at him once, then copied the bow awkwardly. The barest crinkle at the corner of Hallatar's eyes betrayed his approval.

The High Lord Councilor's head tilted. He then closed his book and placed it upon his lap, his fingers draped upon the cover. 

Zigûr wore a pleasant expression that was framed by thick, curly honey-blonde hair. The hair was braided up and back along his skull and adorned with one iron circlet at his brow. His garment was a long-sleeve robe that had been trimmed at the wrist, exposing dark brass bracelets. The robes were layered, darker shades of burgundy speckled with gold cascaded across him, gathered at the waist by an iron belt of chain and beaten brass. A sash the color of smashed berries was tied under the belt, its length flowing down and across the lower robes. 

A sensation of slow suffocation and hopeful need to speak came over her. But Lorna quickly suppressed both. 

Zigûr raised his hand in greeting, the bracelets tinkling softly at his wrist. 

"Sîrân ûri-satta, Bâr Hallatar. Batân ki sîlû-mâ mag-ân, saphad hê.”

‘Good afternoon, Lord Hallatar. I trust your journey was uneventful,’ Zigûr said. 

Hallatar inclined his head fully.  

"Batân sîrân kadô izrê, bârim, bâr hê-an. Ûri-dâur izrê pharaz.”

‘Uneventful and enjoyable, thank you, my Lord. The weather is most pleasant.’

“Kâda.”

‘Indeed,’ Zigûr hummed, then motioned for them to sit on the lecti across from him. As they sat, he took up the carafe of wine and poured a cup each. Hallatar took the cup but did not immediately drink; Lorna did the same. 

"Saphad hê burôda ki, bâr hê-an. Zâir hê bâ-dulgu bat ki hê-ada. Izindi-zâir: bâ mag hê dulgu-u ki-ada.”

‘You look weary, my Lord. I hope coming to see me has not troubled you. Please be assured that I intend no dismay upon you.’

Zigûr said as he placed the carafe back upon the table silently.

Hallatar smiled.

"Bâ-u kâlâd, Bâr-Saphad-ân. Izindi hê. Kan hê abâr-saphad ganâd hê lômi-azal satta. Kâlâd-u sî nîk-mâ.”

‘Not at all, my Lord Councilor. Please excuse me. I merely kept a careful vigil over my guest last night. Her health is delicate.’

"Saphad hê. Zabathân-pharaz ki abâr sî-ada, Bâr hê-an. Zîr-pharaz sî azal du mag ki kâlâd. Bêth hê, sî bâ-kâlâd-an?”

‘I see. You are most diligent in your care for her, my Lord. She is surely grateful for all you have done. Tell me, is she unwell?’

"Kâlâd-an sî, bâr hê-an. Nîk-dulgu satta mag-ân sî. Îdô kâlâd-azal sî, abâr sî-an du.”

‘She is well, my Lord. Merely a mild illness. She is recovered now, of her own strength.’ 

"Bârim pharaz. Abâr ki bârim azal. Sî izindi-pharaz saphad-ân. Du ki-pâ hê bêth sî-mâ, bâr hê-an? Zabathân-pharaz sî mag-ân.”

‘Excellent. Again, your care is to be praised. She seems most resilient. May I have your leave then to speak with her, my Lord? She has been very patient.’

Hallatar inclined his head in reply. 

Zigûr returned the bow then looked at Lorna. 

“Hi,” she blurted, brows raised, a half smile on her face. “It's good to see you again.” Her ears burned, her back was damp from sweating, and her stomach knotted into cramps. But none of that mattered, not if she could hear him speak English again.  

“Hi. It is good to see you, Lorna,” he replied. His speech was still halting and the accent lingered at the end of some words. But he had it. He actually had it! 

Her half smile became an ear-to-ear grin. Zigûr reflected the grin back to her. 

“Please,” he gestured to the table. “Eat. I have many words to understand.” 

Lorna nodded. 

“Yes. Thank you, I appreciate that.”

She looked once at the table, then back to him. There were many items of food she would have wished to eat but her mouth couldn't hold anything but words. 

“I want to talk to you. There is so much I need to say and figure out. And, I don't even know where to begin. It's alot.” 

“I understand,” he said. “There are many things to talk about. Much time. First, can we talk small? Talk about you?”

Lorna processed his words as though he had paid her the highest compliment.

“Yeah, sure. We can do that,” she said, then thought about what she wanted to say, because if she didn't think first, too much would be blurted out at once. 

“You already know my name. You know I'm not from here, I grew up in a small town called Creek-dell. I live in a trailer there and have a job as a line chef.”

Zigûr raised a finger from his lap. Her words stopped instantly. 

“Line chef, what is it?” he asked. 

“Oh, it's a person who cooks food for people. I cook, make food.” Lorna gestured with her hands the motion of cutting and eating. 

Zigûr followed her gestures then nodded once. “Line chef,” he affirmed. 

“Yes.” 

She was relieved at how easy it was to speak with him. Many of the smaller forms of vocabulary and general sentences he already had. But there were hundreds if not thousands of words that she would have to explain to him as she talked. 

And, in truth, Lorna was happy to. The act of teaching was comforting. Sharing what she knew in a world she didn't know made the not knowing a little more bearable. 

And so, she talked with Zigûr, telling him about her life and the things in it. That conversation became about the world she lived in and its vast differences. And then that became explaining how electricity worked, what cars were, and why it was necessary to adjust the antenna on her roof for watching television.  

Lorna was not an encyclopedia on the modern day of Earth, but she explained as much as she could in a way that someone who didn't understand may grasp. 

The mid-day gold of high windows lengthened as she talked. Robed attendants of the house came and went. One visitor in fine apparel retrieved several books, and then was gone. Eventually, as early evening settled into shades of lavender; only she, Hallatar and Zigûr remained. 

Lorna was on her feet, pacing between the couch and low table, a plum between her fingers. The initial anxiety and dread of just being there was not gone, but was dulled into something managed and almost forgotten. Almost. 

“My favorite episode was the one where she showed us how to cook the duck,” Lorna explained. 

Zigûr was upon the lecti, a cup of wine in hand as he watched her walk and talk from left to right. Hallatar remained where he had sat, his cup hardly touched, his gaze lowered upon its silver rim. 

Lorna raised her hand holding the plum, and motioned as though slicing the air. 

“I was always nervous about cutting, especially when it came to meat. But the show really helped me confront that fear and be more comfortable with knives.”

“How old were you?” Zigûr asked, his halting had altogether ceased and his questions had smoothed completely. The accent was gone. 

“Seven.” She smiled, then took another bite of plum before looking at the low table again. “I wasn't good until around ten. But things really picked up in high school when I got into culinary classes.”

“Does every child go to high school?” Zigûr asked, then took a sip of wine. 

Lorna bobbed her head as she selected a piece of what looked like flat bread off the table. 

“Mostly. I went to a public school, you don't have to pay for that, so anyone can go. But there are schools you need to pay for if you want a fancy education.”

“Your family didn't want a fancy education for you?” 

Lorna shrugged. “It's less about want and more about not being able to afford it.”

“Ah,” Zigûr hummed. “How did they make their money?”

“Mom was a cashier sometimes, and dad was a courthouse clerk.” She didn't elaborate. 

“And those jobs don't make good money?” He asked.

“I think having five kids was the issue.” She smiled, the grin not reaching her eyes. “Kinda puts a damper on the finances.” 

“I see,” Zigûr said. 

Lorna nodded and bit into her bread. She chewed in silence for a moment then paced again. Her gaze was far and away to some unknown place, grazing by an uncomfortable memory that was long rooted within her. After a moment of being in her own head, she looked up at him, and raised her brows as if recalling something important. 

“I don't mean to be rude.” She began softly. “But I have to ask you something.” 

Zigûr lifted his chin toward her, a curious delight warming his expression.

“It isn't rude to ask questions. I have been asking a lot of things this whole time. It's only fair if you ask me something," he said. “What is it?”

She nodded then came to sit on the couch beside Hallatar. The lore master blinked, a bit drowsily, then offered her a small smile that she returned. 

Once assured Hallatar was well, Lorna spoke, bringing her attention back to Zigûr. 

“I have never seen anyone with ears like yours before. With pointy tips.” She gestured to her own rounded ears. “I just want to know if there are more people with ears like that?”

Zigûr blinked slowly, not appearing insulted but rather intrigued. He raised two fingers to the curve of his left ear, showing her that tapered edge.

“No one on Earth has ears like this?” 

She shook her head. “No, no one. Everyone back home has round ears like me.” 

He seemed to consider that with some surprise. 

“...That is very interesting. To answer your question, there are other people with these ears, though you will not find them in Númenor. They are called nimrû-an. I do not know the word for that phrase in your language. But it means beautiful people who live across the sea. I am the only one here with these ears.” 

Lorna leaned back slightly, hands going to her knees. 

“Oh. So…” she took a moment to consider her next words, uncertain of how to ask the burning question in her mind. 

“I don't know how to say this without being up front, but are you… human?” She pressed her lips together once, hating her own voice. “I'm not trying to say you aren't human because your ears are different. I just don't know if pointed ears are a genetic thing or… a different kind of people thing…” her words trailed off into silence. 

Zigûr smiled, gently. “No,” he said. 

Lorna froze, ears burning. 

‘So… he isn't human.’ 

The thought should have horrified her. He wasn't human. Non-humans were a thing in this place. What did that mean about her, humanity, evolution, the universe?

She put a hand to her forehead and took a deep breath. Her brain only had room to process so much information at a time and decided to scale her own horror down. 

“So, are you a nim…rû-an?” she asked, lowering her hand. 

Zigûr's smile warmed. “No. I am your friend, and a guide to the king.”

Lorna watched him for anything else that he would say on the matter but he didn't. She wondered if he was confused about the question or didn't understand. But he did not continue and she didn't press. If she could avoid upsetting, or insulting him then she would. 

He seemed unbothered by her or her question though, and reached for the wine carafe to fill his cup again. The low burn of his amber eyes rose just once. Across from him Lord Hallatar's head was propped on his fist, eyes closed. The man's spirit was weary, his mind heavy and so willing to rest. He did not snore, make a sound, or move.  

Zigûr reclined, cup in hand, and returned his attention to her fully. As though the sleeping man and his silence was as he had intended. 

“I want to ask another question,” Zigûr continued, drawing her attention from a piece of cheese she was eyeing. 

Lorna looked up and nodded.

“Sure. What do you want to know?”

“I want to talk about how you came here from Earth.” Lorna's eyes widened a fraction, her body going still. 

“Yesterday, you said you had fallen into Arda near a city. That was good but I would like to know more about how that happened. Can you tell me everything before, during, and after the fall?”

Lorna exhaled from her nostrils, closing her eyes at the name of this world, as if that would lessen the weight of it. She set her piece of bread down, then looked at her lap. Her fingers tugged on the bandages around her hands. 

“Yeah, okay.”

Zigûr inclined his head and drank from his cup. Listening. 

“I was in my trailer, getting ready for work at the restaurant,” she began. “I washed my face, got dressed, and went into the kitchen to make some coffee. While I was there, I heard…” she stopped speaking, staring down at her hands as though they were the source of her grief. She remembered the moment, the sound, fearful of what remembering could do. 

‘Not again,’ she thought. 

“What did you hear?” Zigûr asked, so softly she almost didn't hear him. Her breath caught in her throat as she blinked rapidly, not realizing she had begun to cry.

“I heard a sound in my living room. I followed it. And then… I fell,” she hiccuped, looking from her hands, to his knees, to the floor, to her hands again. 

Zigûr spoke behind his raised cup. 

“The sound, what was it?”

Lorna shook her head. “I don't know. It wasn't even a sound, it was like- a feeling. A memory. I can't explain it.”

“Try, Lorna,” he cooed. “Try.”

She huffed, exhausted and strained. 

“It was beautiful, clear, and calming. I wanted to remember it, try to sing it back, or something stupid like that.”

Lorna's hands ran across her face and down her neck. She rubbed away tears and sniffled, buying time to think. 

“It felt like- like nostalgia. All I wanted to do was cook, bake and be with people I love. So, I sat,” she raised her arms and motioned. “And I listened for a while. I don't know how long or what I actually did. The feeling was so strong that I just stayed in it.” 

Her hands went to her sternum. Zigûr looked at them. 

“I remember being warm and feeling so good, and then…” her fingers tightened at her chest. “I fell.”

He sat very still across from her, only his eyes betraying the smallest movements. 

“The sound,” he said. “Have you heard it before on Earth?”

“No,” she breathed. 

“Are there others on Earth who have heard the sound?” 

“I don't think so.”

“Was this the first time you had experienced something like that? The… nostalgia and wanting to make?” 

“No, not like this.” 

He considered her and ran his thumbs along the rim of his cup, as though the answers were a scratch away. Lorna continued to talk, the urge to spill everything she could think of growing with her recollection.  

“A few days ago I was in my room at Hallatar's house. I tried to remember the sound again and… this is fucking crazy, when I remembered, I heard myself,” she said, looking at him fiercely. 

“I heard my own blood in my body, I could see it. I saw my bed, I knew what kind of feathers were in my mattress. The kind of wood the frame was made of, what tree it came from, where it grew.” 

“As if you could hear and see everything,” Zigûr said. It wasn't a question, it was a statement. 

Her mouth hung open and trembling. 

“Yes,” she whispered. 

Zigûr held his cup, the vessel looking tiny in his hands as he held her gaze. She couldn't guess what he was thinking. His face was so completely neutral that she struggled to look at him; desperate for a reaction. 

“When you saw everything, was this the same day that Athzúng came to visit?” he asked casually. 

“Yes.”

Zigûr's head tilted the barest angle, his jaw tightening in a way she almost missed. He then placed his cup aside without a sound and stood. Lorna inhaled as his shadow passed over her face and extended from his body. He walked away a few steps, his back to her, facing the high dark windows. 

He was far taller than she was ready to process, and moved so easily that he may as well have floated away. 

‘What did I do? Did I upset him…?’ She thought. He breathed once, Lorna watched him as his hands lowered to his sides and remained there.

When he finally turned to face her there was nothing of anger, fear or disbelief on his face, nothing except concern or careful uncertainty. Lorna leaned back a little further, she couldn't help it. He was far too tall, far too other in appearance and presence that a part of her wanted to hide. 

She ignored the urge. 

“I am sorry. I don't mean to scare you,” he said, coming back toward his side of the table. “What you have described, what you have experienced is not what I was expecting.”

Her brows furrowed as she looked up at him. 

“Do you… know what it is?” she asked. 

“Perhaps,” he said, quiet and calm. “Are you able to make the sound with your throat?” he asked, then pressed his fingertips to his neck. 

“No.” She shook her head. “I can't. I tried once but… it sounded awful.”

He nodded, expecting that answer, like he understood. 

“How did you hear the sound? What did you do to feel it?”

Lorna gripped the couch's edge and hunched her shoulders.

“I just remembered how it made me feel. Here.” She pointed to her chest, right over her sternum. “It was like knowing how to move my hand or how to breathe.”

She watched him for any sign that he understood. He gave none. 

“What is it?” she asked. 

Zigûr observed her hands at her chest for a long moment before speaking again. “There is a material that holds the shape of everything,” he began. “And some people are able to hear it, see it, and use it.” 

The pallor of her skin became an ashen pale. 

“What does that mean?”

“I mean that there is an aspect of existence that can be interacted with by some. But I don't know what that means for you,” he said. “Your people are not supposed to hear it.” 

“People from Earth?” she asked. 

“People who can die,” he corrected. 

Lorna felt all the air leave her lungs without permission. She was silent for a long while, just remembering how to breathe again before she asked another question. 

“Very few can hear what you have heard, Lorna. It is not common.”

Lorna grimaced bitterly. 

“Okay. What does that even mean? Why can I hear it then? I don't want to hear anything, I just want to go home.”

Her hands shook and went to her forehead as more tears fell. “Can you hear it?”

Zigûr was silent for a moment more, allowing his eyes to lift from her chest to her face.

“Yes, I can hear it. The music.” 

Her head snapped upward so quickly that tears flew from her chin. The question of if he can die, or what he even was didn't cross her exhausted mind. 

“You can?”

Zigûr nodded. “Can you tell me what to do? Is it dangerous?” 

“I don't know. This has never happened before, that I know of. The best thing you can do is not panic,” he said, simply. “I want to help you. I think I can help you. But to do that I need to know more.” 

“Whatever you want,” she said, immediately getting to her feet and pacing again. “Just, please. Whatever it is, music or seeing things, I don't want it.”

“I understand, Lorna, I do. Calm down first. Breathe,” he said, coming toward her carefully. She tried to force several deep breaths but his towering height made that difficult somehow.

“I want to help, but I have to know if what you are describing is true,” he continued. 

Lorna sniffled harshly and glared at him with wide, red eyes. 

“You don't believe me?” she asked, her tone desperate. 

He raised a hand and motioned for calm. 

“I believe you have experienced something profound. I believe you are scared, that you know things you shouldn't, and a lot has happened you can't explain. But to be certain, I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” she said.

He nodded and then said, “I need you to remember what you heard exactly as you had the other day and before you fell. I need you to hear it again.”

Lorna exhaled a near sob. Her hands went to her abdomen, tears falling from her face as she shook her head.

“I… I don't want to do that. I can't. I'm scared I'll see too much or fall again.”

“I know,” he breathed, leaning toward her, his shadow falling over her completely. “I am asking a lot. But I need to know in order to help you. Then maybe I can use what I learn to get you home.”

Lorna's breathing caught. 

“You think this music can bring me back?”

“It is possible. If it brought you here, then perhaps we can discover how and why. But you must show me, then I will know.”

Lorna lowered her gaze from his, looking anywhere that wasn't unfamiliar so she could think. The task was impossible. 

“I don't want to fall again,” she whispered. 

He nodded and lifted his fingers, mid-air, drawing her attention to him. 

“I don't either. Let me help you. I'll be here to guide you. I won't let you fall.”

She stared at him, watching the strangeness in his eyes stare back. Lorna didn't know him, could hardly say his name, let alone know what he was. He wasn't even human. But he was here, offering to help her, seeming the only one who possibly could. 

“You promise?” she asked, voice hoarse. 

“I promise, Lorna.”

Zigûr extended his hand, the same plain golden ring on his finger glinting in low lamp light. She looked at it. 

‘You have no other options, no one else can speak to you or help you right now. This is the only way,’ she thought. 

Lorna bit the inside of her cheek, coughed on her own wet breath, then shut her eyes tightly. 

“Okay.”

She reached forward, took his hand, and gripped. His palm was very warm, and far too large, but grounding; like an anchor. 

Lorna forced herself to take several deep breaths and imagined holding onto a bright, warm rope in the middle of a black ocean. She held firmly, his fingers curled around her hand like rigging. 

Only when her hand met his did Zigûr behold the substance within her. His sight was far-reaching, but could not easily pierce flesh and see all that was hidden. Now however, he saw. 

There, within her, as ink may run through water, the tune was held. A foundational, underlying note that ran beneath the more elaborate chords of creation, but it was pure. A single note of the Ainulindalë. 

He could not have perceived it within her without touch, even at this distance. But it was the same resonance he had heard from Rómenna and in Hallatar's home. 

The resonance had come from her. 

The cold rage that seethed throughout his being ate at the edges of him. Such was an insult that had not been experienced in many long years. The insult was not her, not her mortality, or her existence. But that here, before him, in his grasp was something not of his knowing or understanding.

A thing Eru had placed or wrought in secret. 

Such was the greatest blasphemy against all that was sung into being. That the Ainulindalë, the music only he, his kin, and the Valar could weave was within a mortal not even of this weaving. 

There was no word in all the old tongues, elvish, or of man that could name this betrayal. 

Yet nothing of this inner rage or hate for what had been done was seen. He held her hand with the gentlest pressure, his eyes closed, and his expression calm, even tranquil. 

Yet, in his malice, he unfurled his own thread of will through the music toward her. It was not a chord he expected her to perceive, given her claimed ignorance. Yet with it he could press and prod her awareness and experience the tune as she recalled it. 

When Lorna had calmed, her breathing deepened, and her heartbeat slowed; the grip she had on his hand loosened but did not release. She exhaled from her nostrils, last blades of distress drawing from her mind. 

And there, within her, the tune resonated. She need not open her mouth to sing, or speak. Lorna merely sought the place where the chord lay and allowed it to sound. 

Through her being, and in turn, through him, the resonance thrummed. Waves traveled through all that was creation, awakening their own threads, and singing. All rang in the truest chord of their making, each in tune with one another. As it was to be. 

The only chord that sang on its own, whose harmony was its own thrum, was Zigûr's. Where the threads of creation rang as clean chime, his dragged over the threads in a long, low glissando. 

Zigûr knew his own melody. It was his in essence, and nothing of it bore shame or regret. His was singular. A chord that, given time, would weave across all and tune creation to sing in harmony with him. 

‘And so, it is revealed to me,’ he thought. 

Now the disturbance in the Ainulindalë was discovered, this lost woman from another world. But in the knowing, more uncertainties and questions were uncovered. And he was not satisfied. 

Zigûr opened his physical gaze, seeing her before him, unaware and peaceful. 

He recalled, in the untouched places within himself, that the tune she carried was one he had heard before. It had been a different age, when he bore a different name. Zigûr dwelt in the recollection for a brief moment, assessing the quality of the chord. He knew what she held was a piece of the music he could never sing again. 

Such gifts had been lost to him since he turned from great forges and smithies of the elder master's house. Ever on with Morgoth, Sauron had only corrupted and twisted, unable to truly create as he once did. 

Yet now, sitting there in utter ignorance, was a thing harboring what he had lost. The essence of creation.

The memory was beautiful, true, and long since buried in him. 

Zigûr knew his will. He sent forth his music, terrible as molten earth over glass and sought to take. If he could ensnare what she carried, reconduct the harmony to serve him, then what was lost might be regained. 

He wove will that slid across the waves of creation, displacing the harmony, changing the tempo completely.

Zigûr did not smile, he did not laugh or revel against great Eru. He merely reached through gliding threads, ready to weave himself a new chord in the music.

Such was his right. 

Yet, when his will's resonance rolled over hers, intending to dominate the melody, the ripples recoiled. 

The music within her withdrew, the fundamental melody echoing out and away returned in an instant. Zigûr was then pushed back by the recoil and Lorna was thrust down against the table. Food and drink scattered beneath her like a defiled altar. 

All the lit oil-jars and candles of the library were gutted and smoking, though no wind had risen to smother them. The house fell into darkness. 

Lorna gasped, her eyes shut tightly as her body curled inward, and trembled violently. A long, shrill cry escaped her lips once before she went completely silent. 

Zigûr recovered his balance and rose to his feet again. The sheer height of his frame leaned over her like a tree bent in bitter winter, his eyes bright in the dark. 

He did not call her name or panic. He heard her heart beating and her breath was rapid but consistent. She was not dead or dying. Though such was secondary. Instead of tending to her he raised his hand and pressed his fingertips over her chest. 

‘It is still there…’ He thought, quiet and soft. 

His first instinct had been that the music was broken or scattered. That he had misjudged himself and moved in haste against the little music that was in her. But no, he had not misjudged himself, only underestimated the quality of what she held. 

The music had rejected him. 

The sensation that came over him was not anger at being thwarted. No. The material he had hoped to procure was made of more sturdy metal than he had perceived. Such was not a flaw, but a feature of a great work to be made. 

His gaze lifted from her chest to her face. She was in pain, grave pain, and unconscious. Various fruits and nuts were strewn about her. Red wine had spilt, bleeding across the table and through her hair. 

He observed her for any further reaction or stirring in the music but none came. He leaned forward then, hovering over her. 

‘This is my inheritance, my right to creation.’

He raised his arms as though to gather wine, fruit and woman to him. Yet, before he could collect, a hand seized his shoulder and drew him back. Zigûr pulled back but moved only an inch and no more. 

Hallatar had come and stood over Lorna on the table, his hands holding her face. 

“Lorna… Lorna?!” The lore master called. “W-what have you done?” His voice was loud and rough, just snatched from sleep, and fighting for control. 

Zigûr cooled the brightness in his eyes, blinking before stepping forward. He watched as Hallatar fretted over the woman, checking her forehead and pulse. 

The Lord Councilor spoke to Hallatar in crisp Adûnaic.

“My Lord Hallatar, the lady is ill. A great panic came over her that I could not prevent. She collapsed upon the table.”

Zigûr placed a long hand over the man's shoulder, the expression of concern and even fright on his face. Hallatar stepped away from the touch, making a sound he did not regret. He then pulled Lorna into his arms and off the table. Wine and fruit fell from her hair like blood. 

Hallatar turned, no longer acknowledging Zigûr. He had every intention of leaving at once and getting Lorna to safety. But the long arm of the High Lord Councilor grasped his shoulder once more. 

“Peace, my Lord,” Zigûr spoke, his voice calm but instructive. “The infirmary will receive her. Walk with me and we will assure she is attended to, together.”

Hallatar forced his shoulder free and kept walking. But as he went, the voice of Zigûr followed. 

“You are concerned for her, you are frightened, that is understandable,” Zigûr said. “Be reasonable, she is in pain. Please, come with me, let us help her.”

The lore master carried her through the aisles and back to the copper doors. Hallatar pushed them open with his shoulder and carried her out; she seemed to weigh nothing in his arms. 

Zigûr followed him through the doors and down the steps of the house. 

“My Lord, you are turning your fear against her.” 

Hallatar ignored him, holding Lorna close. He rounded the side of the house to the waiting horses. 

“Hallatar,” Zigûr called. 

The lore master did not look back. 

“Put her down.” 

Zigûr reached and took the man's shoulder once more. Hallatar yelled out and wrenched himself away, pulling back, keeping Lorna from Zigûr's reach. 

“No!” Hallatar asserted. “Hear me. This woman is a guest in my house, under my care. I know not what you have done to her. You will not be permitted to do it again.”

Zigûr stood in full moonlight, bringing his hands up as though offering, or waiting to receive. 

“You are being unwise, Hallatar. She needs aid, yet you deny her for fear that I have harmed her. I have not. Set aside your panic, let the palace physician tend to her. No other care in the city is finer and the wing is not far.”

He came toward Hallatar, arms out, imploring. Before Hallatar could reply or move, the clattering of hooves ran up to meet them. Zîyan and Alvôtin broke their reins from the hitch and had come to Hallatar. Alvôtin screamed and reared up, thrusting one hoof outward toward Zigûr. The Councilor did not retreat or blink, even as the hoof came within inches of his face. 

Zîyan stood by Hallatar who was hoisting Lorna into the saddle. He had to place her on her stomach before swinging his leg over, then pulled her against him, ensuring she was upright. 

Zigûr watched, standing where he was, grave concern upon his expression.  

“You are unwise in this, my Lord.” he said, his voice gentle despite the furious, kicking stallion before him.

Atop Zîyan, Hallatar took what was left of the reins with one hand and supported Lorna with the other. She was still unconscious, wine sliding down her face and neck.  

He looked down to the Lord Councilor, not giving ground or the woman to the thing under moon light. 

“Call it what you will, I will not dwell here and risk further evil be done to her. Do not call upon her, or my house. This matter is closed, Lord Councilor.”

At this Hallatar nodded to Zîyan who bore them away at once. Alvôtin stamped his hooves at the Lord Councilor, snapped his ear back, then ran after his master and stable mate with great speed. 

Zigûr did not run after them or call out. He watched until the horses were out of the pavilion, and even then he still watched. 

The old lore master had made his choice. 

‘Brave Hallatar. Perceptive, faithful, foolish, Hallatar.’

By what means could he ever hope to speak to her? What did Hallatar possess that could guide her through the music she bore? He had none. The man would return to the shelter of his home, tend her, coddle her, ever ignorant of what he was harboring.

Lorna would wake, pained but whole, unaware of what had happened. And Hallatar would be unable to communicate his fear in a way she understood, or that mattered. She would sit, surrounded by his household, unable to speak to them, unable to tell them her fears. Alone in her knowledge. 

Zigûr had time. 

He took up a section of his robes, tossed them over his forearm and departed. He did not return to the house of lore but to the palace itself.  

‘So be it. The music shall be a gift to myself. Wielded as no power has been, nor ever shall be again.’ 

Chapter 11 to be posted soon. Leave a comment about your favorite part of the chapter. I will also draw scenes or characters that are requested. Thank you! - Baby Dragon.

[lildragonstories]

What happens when a modern lady hums a tune she has never heard of, then lands into Ar-Pharazon's Numenor? Will she get into trouble, probably. Will there be familiar faces to guide or mislead her, absolutely.

Oh yea, were going there.

Fanfiction/graphic novel

Sauron x oc

Themes: lore accuracy, trauma, lore faithful Sauron, lore based, Tolkien's unfinished tales, modern OC, adult themes, horror, politics, You can't save him, run girl run, not a romance.

Art done by me! @baby-dragons-art

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

He felt the sensation ripple across him in one pluck of awareness. It happened after the calling of the hour. 

Five bells rang. 

The calm pool that was his perception trembled.

To the east. 

Within the chamber the rhythmic scratching of a quill stopped. Long ink-stained fingers curled into a fist atop lined parchment, and a slow inhale of breath pulled into nostrils. Two amber eyes, black slits for pupils, slid toward the eastern window. 

From his lectern he could see early evening shadows creep across the land. Lanterns in the city were lit from the lowest street up as the first twinkle of stars shone through an orange horizon.

His gaze, far reaching and unrelenting, sought. He looked not as a man sees but as one peering through a veil. His sight wove into the threads of creation itself, between the material and the music. 

Masked within tranquility, he listened. 

No rings of disturbance were made again. The remaining striations whispered through the woven fabric of Arda, across his being, and into his knowing. 

He had not willed them.  

Without sound he stood and in three sweeping glides was before the window sill. His robes settled about him as though submerged in dark depths. Below, down from the palace and tiered battlements, Armenelos sang. The song was lively but controlled and in tune, with minor discrepancies. Waving chords flowed through the city in gradual decrescendo, though the chords had not come from the streets themselves. 

His eyes snapped upward. Toward the east. Awareness unfurled from the chamber and through Armenelos, following the chime until his sight rested upon the cliffs of Rómenna, above the bay. 

There he waited and watched. Yet, no horn rang with barreling hooves, not a voice called out his name, and no chord stirred save for the slowly thinning thrums that settled into creation once more. The scope of his search engulfed the peninsula of Hyarrostar from north to south, but there was no further disturbance or sign of threat. 

Ink-stained fingers pressed into the sill where a plain, unadorned ring of gold caught the last light. His head tilted, then inclined, never blinking as though lidless. His brow furrowed upon a composed expression. If he was displeased, it was impossible to know.

‘The world does not chime so easily,’ he thought. His pupils dilated as he withdrew sight into Armenelos again. He remained before the window and waited, as if the source would err and expose itself. It never did. 

‘Nor without cause.’

Cold, writhing distaste squirmed under his skin. Creation cannot stir from within an empty chamber. Power does not sing without will and yet, upon a cliff in Rómenna, it had.

He drew back from the sill when the sixth bell rang and moonlight sank from his features. Night seeped in through the open window like fog and surrounded him. 

He sat before his lectern again, placing two fingers upon the half-written parchment. Then, at last, he lowered his gaze from the window and appraised his own sweeping, bold script. 

‘Such will wait,’ he thought. 

He then rolled the parchment away and produced a fresh sheet. His fingers ran along the length, smoothing the surface, then took up his quill and began to write.

By the end of his message he signed and pressed the seal of the High Lord Councilor's sigil into silken wax. The signature reading,

‘By order of Zigûr, High Lord Councilor to the King of Anadûnê, Ar-Pharazôn.’

Night passed as he stretched his wings over Armenelos. Yet in Rómenna dawn pierced through the dark from the east. 

Lorna awoke to the sound of strange coughing and a crackling of fire. She seized the cloth underneath her and sat upright in an instant. 

And then in jolts fast and slow she remembered everything. 

Before her, the long, low house stretched in its entirety. Six beds were set near the hearth in orderly rows of three. The bed frames were large and carved from wood, the mattresses feather soft.   

Across the house were several drafting desks, each filled with scrolls, parchment, books and various quills. Further down were some tables, a bench near an extensive apothecary's cabinet, and one long-haired, multi-colored cat with a slow curling tail, perched in an east facing window. The cat coughed once more. 

The house was cool and calm as pink sunlight painted the floors. A homemade wind chime of bells and seashells tinkled over the entryway, but did not disturb the calm. 

A woman stood over a pot by the hearth, minding a ladle full of something steaming, and poured it into a bowl. Two men in similar heavy robes sat at the desks. One was reading a book, the other writing upon a scroll. Two women sat at the tables toward the end of the house, eating quietly. 

None were startled by her waking or gave her more than a glance. 

Through gritted teeth Lorna released a thin breath before she reclined onto her elbow. The bed's mattress took her weight silently and was large enough for her to sprawl out if she wanted. 

Carefully, she lifted her bandaged hand and rubbed the ache from her eyes. 

‘Still here,’ she thought, bitterly. 

She moved to adjust her stiff knee and saw her dirt-slashed PJ shirt and ripped jeans were gone. A kaftan, or something like it, covered her. The fabric was comfortable in a way that made her question if she was wearing anything at all. 

Lorna remembered bits of what happened the previous night after being brought to the house. She knew she had cried and the gashed knee and scrapes had been cleaned. Lorna knew that she had been undressed but couldn't recall how. What she did remember without trouble however, was the food. 

A woman had brought her a bowl fragrant with rosemary, thyme, basil and a hint of something sweet. Chunks of soft lentils, carrots, onions and seared fish were lovingly embraced in a thick sauce the color of cream. A crisp dusting of peppercorn and chives crowned the whole. 

The bowl was emptied without a breath taken. 

After several more bowls Lorna fell asleep. Strewn across the bed as though thrown into oblivion. 

“Ûri-îdô, Lorna,” the woman said, and came closer. She was holding a steaming bowl with a wooden spoon in one hand, a cup of water in the other. Lorna perked up and looked from the food, to the woman's face, the water, then back to the food. She remembered the woman had introduced herself the previous night.

“Imrazêl,” she mumbled dryly. Her throat was sore and her mouth was sticky, but it felt nice to greet the woman with a name. 

Imrazêl inclined her head, gentleness in every feature, then extended the bowl to Lorna. She smiled as Lorna took the bowl without hesitation.

“Thank you,” Lorna said, looking at Imrazêl for a sort of recognition that never came. 

The bowl was filled with the same luscious helping from the night before. Lorna sighed softly, readjusted her bad leg, then leaned forward to eat more comfortably. 

A stool creaked in protest as Imrazêl sat down beside the bed. Her gaze drifted toward the cat in the window. The feline blinked slowly with an expression Lorna read as smug. The half-lidded green eyes were partially obscured by the plumose tail. Imrazêl smiled at the cat, watched the house, then looked back at a quiet scraping sound.

Lorna's spoon slid across the bowl, sopping up still-hot drops. Imrazêl extended a hand toward the bowl.

“Zîkh?” Imrazêl asked. 

Lorna looked up and nodded, her expression softening. Lorna came to learn that nodding to ‘Zîkh’ brought more food. So she did.

“Yes, please,” Lorna said quietly. 

The elder inclined her head, took the bowl and approached the round-bellied pot suspended over the flames. 

Lorna licked her lips, watching the ladle dip into the pot then return with a bounty. 

The bowl was soon handed back as Imrazêl glided onto her perch. Lorna did not immediately see the bundle of three scrolls under Imrazêl's arm. 

“Thank you,” Lorna said, offering the smallest test of a smile. 

Imrazêl fully returned the smile. 

Imrazêl waited for Lorna to settle into another bowl. But before Lorna could finish, Imrazêl reached for the scrolls under her arm. She set each scroll on the bed so Lorna could see them. Lorna watched between mouthfuls. 

“Sê,” Imrazêl hummed and placed her fingers over the smallest scroll. Lorna blinked and chewed quietly. 

Imrazêl opened the scroll with practiced hands and revealed its contents. Upon the parchment was a strange sort of map. 

In the center was the depiction of a land mass. It was unlike any she had seen before. There were five peninsulas protruding out like a star. Lines on the parchment conveyed crests for water around the five points. Dots with names she couldn't read labeled the coastlines and interior land. 

‘An island,’ Lorna thought and slowed her chewing. She swallowed and looked up at Imrazêl.

“What is this?” she asked, tone low and careful.

Imrazêl watched Lorna's eyes, her mouth, her brows. She tilted her head at Lorna's words, then touched the edge of the opened map.

“Anadûnê,” Imrazêl said as her fingers slid across the surface to a boldly scripted word. When Lorna didn't react, Imrazêl tried a different name. “Númenór.” 

Lorna leaned forward to read the script. 

The letters looked like different variations of h, f, k, and m. None of them were arranged in a way she understood. Lorna glanced up at Imrazêl once then shook her head. 

“I can't read this,” Lorna said as if it were her fault. She put a finger to the map, then pointed to her head. “It doesn't make sense.”

Imrazêl followed the motion and seemed to grasp the concept. She lifted her hands and motioned to the floor, the walls, and ceiling. Lorna took another bite of food and watched her arms move. 

“Númenór,” Imrazêl said again, then pulled her hands down and pressed her palms together. She finally extended her left hand toward Lorna's shoulder. 

“Lorna,” Imrazêl continued, then lowered her hand back toward the map. “Númenór-zê ki.”

Lorna froze mid-chew.  

‘No,’ Lorna thought. She then licked her lips and put the bowl down. With a sharpened attention Lorna pointed to the map. 

“Númenór?” Lorna questioned. 

Imrazêl nodded. 

“No,” Lorna said, shaking her head again. “There is no place called Númenór. That doesn't exist,” she insisted. Her face became red.

Imrazêl looked from Lorna's brows to her lips. She narrowed her gaze and put her hand on the scroll.

“Sîr,” she said again. 

The scroll of the island was set aside, but not covered. Imrazêl opened the next map and presented it. The parchment showed the same island but with another larger land mass to the east. 

Lorna tucked her hand under her chin as she scrutinized the page. The star island was to the west and a curving coastline to the east extended from north to south. None of it was familiar.

Imrazêl watched as Lorna's green eyes snapped across the map. Lorna understood what she was looking at. An island and a mainland. But she couldn't understand how it could exist. It wasn't Earth. 

A pained sound escaped Lorna's mouth as her palm covered her chin and lips. She began to rock and shake her head. 

“I don't know this,” Lorna asserted as her shoulders trembled. Imrazêl leaned forward and placed her fingers on her arm. 

“Shh… sîran banî,” she hummed as her hand gently patted. Imrazêl then extended a hand over the eastern coastline of the map and began pointing. She showed Lorna various dots and looked to Lorna for a nod or understanding. 

Yet with every dot Lorna's skin paled. 

“Ûi?”

‘Nothing?’ Imrazêl asked.

Lorna looked between the dots, the island, Imrazêl, then to the last map. She reached for the largest map herself and opened it. 

Bile rose in her throat. 

The map of a world. It was defined around the edges with one large continent to the east and another to the west. The star-shaped island in-between. Lorna put the map down and let out a strangled breath. 

“This is a joke,” she snapped. “Some sick prank around here. This isn't a real map.” She struggled to stand and balanced on her one good leg, the kaftan catching at her ankle. 

Imrazêl rose from her seat and extended her hands to help her. Imrazêl searched for the cause of Lorna's distress but could only help her stand and speak meaningless words to her. 

“Lorna,” Imrazêl gently spoke as she tried to bring her back to bed. 

“No,” Lorna yelled. “No. That is wrong,” Lorna said and pointed at the map. “That's not Earth. I am...” her voice cracked. “From Earth, damn it. Listen! Please!”

The two men at their drafting desks and the women eating paused and watched. 

Imrazêl tried to hush her, gesturing she return to bed but Lorna refused. 

“Where am I?” Lorna begged in a hot panic as her hands ran over her face, and down to clutch her chest. “Where. Am. I?!”

When Imrazêl couldn't provide an answer in a language she could understand, Lorna released a shriveling sob. Her body wobbled down and her head kept shaking ‘no’. Imrazêl held Lorna to her chest as she cried. 

“Please!” Lorna begged while looking at Imrazêl. “I want to go home.”

Scalding tears slid down her face and sweat gleamed at her temples. Imrazêl looked between the maps and Lorna. And for the first time Imrazêl's expression broke. Her mouth opened to speak, but no words came. 

Imrazêl searched Lorna's face, seeking as Lorna sought. But neither of them found the answers they were looking for. 

Lorna was led back onto the bed where she curled onto her side and cried. Imrazêl rubbed her back in slow, large circles.

“Zâir saphad ki,”

‘I want to understand you,’ Imrazêl said as if it was a secret between them. 

“Abâr hê mag saphad.”

‘Help me to understand.’

Lorna heard her speak but was only more grieved. 

Footsteps softly scuffed behind them and came at a respectful distance from the head of the bed. The man who had been writing on parchment approached and looked at the weeping woman.

“Hallatar,” Imrazêl called to the man. 

“Imrazêl. Man zadan an?”

‘Imrazêl. What is happening here?’

Imrazêl spoke to the man and continued to rub Lorna's back. She made slow gestures to Lorna then pointed in the direction of the forest and coast. Her fingers swiped between her mouth, ears and head, then repeated the motion from mouth to ear. She squeezed Lorna's shoulder then nodded toward the apothecary cabinet. 

The man blinked with a slight nod. Imrazêl shook her head as she motioned from map to map, then back to Lorna. 

The man, Hallatar, looked between the maps and the crying, small woman. He came closer and took a scroll in hand, showing the island and larger land mass. 

“Sâ bat-zadan an kôlba? Bâ thâr, bâ nîlô, bâ kargâ?”

‘She was found on the cliff? Not the harbor, the beach, or among cargo?’ Hallatar asked. 

“Iyê.”

‘Yes.’

He frowned as his thick brows knitted together. 

“Bârûn sîpah? Sî mag-an azra-ze bâ-batan?”

‘Is her mind whole? Was she adrift at sea?’ he asked. 

“Anadûn sîpah. Bâ zôr an-anadûn, nê zîr nê thâl, nê sîphat bâr azrâ. Sî sîpah kâda. Bâdûn tîr nêkhûn.”

‘I found her coherent. There are no sunburns, no starvation or wasting, and no sign she drank sea-water. She is fully healthy. Only tired and hungry,’ Imrazêl said. 

Hallatar's gaze traveled up from the map to Lorna. He did not speak but stroked his black-streaked beard. Wooden beads set among the braids of his beard clinked softly. The deep gray of his eyes searched the map for her distress, but he found nothing. 

Lorna cried, inconsolable, for the remainder of the day. Imrazêl did what she could to calm her but no attempt at comfort or explanation was successful. 

The pink sunshine melted into an orange glare before Lorna exhausted herself and went quiet. She curled under blankets, her body a small thing, tucked out of sight. The only sounds she made were weak gasps every now and then. 

‘God help me,’ she prayed. ‘If you're there, help me.’ 

The wind chime over the door tinkled softly from an open window breeze. The cat beside the hearth stretched across the floor. A sweet aroma like petals and green things brushed her cheek. But nothing answered her.  

Hallatar and Imrazêl had stood by, not close enough to hover, but watchful. Imrazêl was disturbed and pained that there was so little she could do. All the knowledge and experience she possessed was useless to the girl. 

In times of unpleasantness she found tea to be an appropriate remedy.

Reserving a cup for Lorna when she was ready, she and Hallatar gathered in the east garden of the house. It was a small square opening, where various herbs and flowers grew. Three stone benches were placed in the center under a sliver of blue sky.

They sat, tea in hand. Imrazêl glanced back toward the window of the house periodically as Hallatar sipped his tea. 

He held a bundle of reddish fabric smeared with dirt. Lorna’s jeans were on the bench beside them, folded neatly. They had sat among the herbs and vines long enough for Hallatar to have thoroughly examined both garments. 

A thin sigh escaped Imrazêl's lips as she looked between him and the fabric.

“What does it mean, Hallatar?” she asked in a whisper.

The man moved his jaw forward then back in thought.

He handled the garment and found it to be uncommonly soft for its appearance. The script on the inside of the collar he couldn't decipher. Same for the blue breeches. Only the make of the leg wear was far more admirable and unknown to him. He was no textile maker by any means, yet their quality and foreignness was plain.

Hallatar drew a long breath through his nostrils, then spoke.

“I do not know.” His voice was low, not wispy as a man weighed by age, but grounded.

Carefully he folded the fabric and placed it atop the leg wear. He sipped the last of his tea as Imrazêl sat, unsatisfied. She looked back toward the window again. 

All was silent within. 

“I am adrift,” Hallatar continued. “I cannot fathom how she came to be here. Nor whence she came.”

“Have you ever heard of one from the mainland coming here?” Imrazêl asked. 

His brows raised slightly. “No.”

They were silent for a moment among the garden as two scarlet Kirinki fluttered overhead and landed on a rosemary bush. Hallatar then clicked his tongue softly and placed his cup down on the bench. 

“Shall we inform the Lords of this? Amandil's folk?” Imrazêl asked and held her cup close to her chest.

Hallatar considered for many breaths before speaking.  

“I think not,” he said, tone somber. “Amid their grief, a question of one woman's displacement, no matter how strange, may appear ill-timed. All the world seems against them now. Yet I would send a written word of inquiry to one of their attending houses. To Master Elleonzîl, perhaps.”

Imrazêl tilted her head.

“I believe she should be taken before them. At least to Lord Elendil or a quieter ear.”

Hallatar shook his head. “I agree that her case should be heard. But I would not wish to burden the Lords until I understand what I am bringing them to bear,” he said. “Too much is unknown. A message and more investigation on my part would be the wiser path.”

Not dismayed but understanding, Imrazêl conceded. 

“What would you have me do?”

“Stand watch, care for the girl, and make a ledger of her. I shall return when I have received word from Master Elleonzîl, or have found a competent linguist in the tongues of men.”

Hallatar stared at his shadow upon tiles stamped with blue stars. His gaze followed an ant carrying a single pale flower petal across his shadow. There was much he had to bear.

He breathed in through his nostrils then spoke. “I have overseen the ledger of this house and have counted the expenses. The work you and the others have done here is more than well to me. I am pleased.”

Imrazêl gave a small smile.

“We have your generosity to thank. The care of your house for the lost is ever my honor to provide,” she said. 

“Your efforts are the real generosity. I merely purchased the cradle for them,” he said, then paused to be certain of his next words. “I will return to Armenelos within three days to attend to my affairs there and see my kin.”

Imrazêl’s expression became somber.

“I understand,” she said as her fingers flexed on the cup. 

“Within this time, I hope to have found a competent linguist in Rómenna and have her made known to the lords. If no resolution is found before I must depart for Armenelos, I will pursue the matter there, and return to assist you as needed.” 

“You are gracious, my Lord. Know that your absence will be missed by us,” she said. 

Hallatar's eyes warmed and he placed a hand atop her own. “Would that all of Númenor was as Rómenna is in my heart. Then the parting would not wound me.”

Imrazêl laughed softly and held his hand. She had known this lord fifty years and still his kindness was a gift she could never repay. Imrazêl averted her gaze and watched the Kirinki twitter, hopping from bush to bush. The birds fluttered around one another in a brief frenzy, then flew up and beyond the garden walls. 

“I pray your efforts bear fruit and your road be kind.” she said.

And so Hallatar departed that evening from Imrazêl and went to his private dwelling in Rómenna. There he wrote a sealed message to Master Elleonzîl and detailed the account of the woman's circumstances in full. He held the knowledge that his message might be delivered with the seal broken. A sealed letter from him to a lesser Faithful household would draw no attention. And that was the danger. 

He received a reply in one day's time by a runner of Elleonzîl's keeping. The runner delivered the message by mouth instead of parchment. 

“My Master wishes you well, Lord Hallatar,” the young man said. “And that he is intrigued by your news and would see the woman. But he fears for the sake of his household. Amandil's movements are under constant vigilance and, therefore, any strange visitors coming to Elleonzîl's house may be seen as suspicious, no matter how innocent. He says that until eyes unseen have passed over them, you should consult Lord Athzúng in Armenelos. You would find no better mind for obscure tongues of men.” 

Hallatar heard the message fully and was grieved for Elleonzîl. Yet, there was some good from the message. Lord Athzúng was a friend whom Hallatar had known since boyhood. He had not considered consulting Athzúng due to his establishment in Armenelos. It seemed now his path was bound to the king's road. 

He returned the following night and spoke with Imrazêl outside, in the salted alley. 

“I have made the ledger you wanted.” Imrazêl said, then handed Hallatar a rolled length of parchment. “She has hardly moved since you left and has taken little food or water. All the girl has done is wept quietly.” 

Hallatar accepted the roll and held it near, as though the contents were fragile. 

“She is in the well of her grief and finds it overflowing, a spring with no end. Yet we do not know the source.” Hallatar carefully tucked the parchment away in his satchel of leather and golden clasps. “There may be little we can do for her here. I have heard from Lord Elleonzîl and he cannot receive her. Rómenna is more closely watched than I had known.” 

Imrazêl's lips parted as her face paled. “Is Amandil in danger?” she asked in a near whisper. 

“Always, Imrazêl. But doom will not fall upon him tonight. Yet there is hope for the girl's sake.”

Imrazêl lifted her chin and listened. 

“Lord Elleonzîl can offer no aid himself. But he advises me to seek Lord Athzúng to discover her tongue and then seek her origins. I will return to Armenelos tomorrow, this is my path, and perhaps it may serve her if she accompanied me to seek Athzúng.” he said. 

Imrazêl's eyes grew dark.

“Hallatar… do you think that is wise?”

He held silent a moment before speaking again.

“A tongue is best heard from the mouth that speaks it, and Athzúng will not come to us willingly, he is a man of court. I think her coming is better than to leave her in doubt and grief.”

“Was it Elleonzîl's word alone that brought you to this decision?” Imrazêl asked. 

“No, I have much to consider. The girl speaks a tongue we do not recognize. She is intelligent and coherent, yet can not find her origin on our maps. Her clothing is of a quality unseen and her means of coming here, unknown. I would be remiss to dismiss her as a mere cast away. And yet I know not enough to bring her before the faithful who can not receive her now.”

“But consider the timing of it,” Imrazêl said. “Should you bring her to Armenelos, others may see her as an ill omen or sign. And perhaps that may be but...”

Hallatar raised a finger to his lips and shook his head. 

“Do not speak so,” he whispered, then glanced toward the end of the alley. “We do not know Eru's will in this and I will not claim her as sign and risk her safety so freely.”

Imrazêl lowered her head, allowed the alley a moment's silence, then spoke. 

“Hallatar, I voice my displeasure with your proposal. If she were to remain here, it would be better.”

“Better for whom, Imrazêl? She needs aid, of which I can not give well here. In Armenelos I will have access to my other households and resources, Athzúng will aid me, and I am not too public in my ways to be denied, for the court sees me as a friend,” he said. 

Imrazêl held herself steady but spoke on. 

“These are true but the risk is great. In Armenelos she will be taken as an enemy before a stranger, and hated for it.”

Hallatar placed his hands upon her shoulders and stilled her. The weight of his touch, warm and solid, anchored her before him. “I shall protect her, Imrazêl,” he said softly. His voice allowed no doubt. “I will see to her protection and ensure her travels are safe. She has come into our house, lost and grieved, Imrazêl. We are called to ensure aid is given, even if it is uncomfortable for a little while. My chances of aiding her grow greater in Armenelos.”

Imrazêl exhaled through her nostrils as her head lowered and she became wholly still in his hands.

“I trust you, my lord. It is the rest of the world that sickens me with dread. The thought of her within that city fills me with despair,” she said. 

She then raised her head and placed her hand beneath his elbow. 

“If this is your wish then it shall be. But promise me to keep her well. I cannot bear the thought of any child in such darkness.”

Hallatar reached and embraced her amid her sorrow. 

“You have my word, Imrazêl,” he said. “There is nothing in Númenor that shall do her harm while I am with her.”

Chapter 3 , to be posted soon.

Leave a comment about your favorite part of the chapter. I will also draw scenes or characters that are requested. Thank you! - Baby Dragon.

[lildragonstories]

What happens when a modern lady hums a tune she has never heard of, then lands into Ar-Pharazon's Numenor? Will she get into trouble, probably. Will there be familiar faces to guide or mislead her, absolutely.

Oh yea, were going there.

Fanfiction/graphic novel

Sauron x oc

Themes: lore accuracy, trauma, lore faithful Sauron, lore based, Tolkien's unfinished tales, modern OC, adult themes, horror, politics, You can't save him, run girl run, not a romance.

Art done by me! @baby-dragons-art

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Chapter 8

The board was set and the pieces were moving. Each manipulated and placed with a singular intention so clear that there was no mistaking it. Capture. 

At least, that was what the board before her seemed to say. 

Five carved figures of quartz were positioned on a marble board with thirteen pieces of black quartz in the middle. The figures looked like little soldiers except for the one of gold carved like a king in the center. 

Rozêm sat opposite Lorna, cross-legged on the mat. He had been watching her with soft, attentive eyes. She stared down the board like it had personally wronged her. 

He raised his hands and pointed to two black pieces surrounding one white piece. Rozêm picked up the white piece and held it to his chest then set it down on his side of the board. 

Lorna made a “Hmm,” sound, nodding. “So like this?”

She reached forward, took two of her white pieces, surrounded a black piece, then picked it up. Lorna glanced at Rozêm for confirmation then placed her prisoner of war on her side. 

Rozêm clapped his hands together soundlessly and smiled. 

“Kâlâd!”

Lorna's shoulders relaxed by a degree. 

“Kâlâd.” She mimicked but didn't clap her hands. Thankfully her palms no longer needed bandaging though red-scabs on her palms still bit. 

She and Rozêm were seated in the back garden, bright sunshine beaming overhead. The days here felt like the cleanest, most perfect spring time she had ever experienced. And it was like that, day after day. Consistently perfect weather, if not a bit humid. Lorna had no clue what season the island was in but she would bet mid spring. 

The garden had become one of her favorite places in Hallatar's house. Her usual hangouts were the garden, the kitchen, the dining room, front windows and the library. The long couch under the garden-facing windows of the library alcove was where she slept now. Ever since… her episode Lorna didn't spend a lot of time in her bedroom. 

Rozêm proceeded to move his pieces on the board slowly, letting her see every move. 

Lorna found him remarkably patient and eager to teach her things. He had shown her books she couldn't read and apparent rules for games she had no name for.

She had determined that he was a relative of Hallatar's just by looking at him. But it was confirmed when both he and Hallatar had shown her an embroidered, golden-cloth that looked like a family tree. The cloth was so large she couldn't make out the first hundred names as it spanned from the ceiling to the floor.  

Both men laid the cloth before her, presenting the last several additions. Each name was in a different color and sewn in different scripts. The one Hallatar placed his hand on was turquoise, Rozêm's was amethyst. She nodded slowly, seeming to absorb every word they said. In truth she was still uncertain if Rozêm was Hallatar's son or younger brother. 

Lorna liked Rozêm's company very much, wishing that they had met under different circumstances and could speak the same language. 

She watched as he took another of her pieces from the board and tucked it on his side apologetically. 

Lorna made a “Chk” sound with her cheek, furrowing her brows. Rozêm laughed under his breath. 

Across the garden both doors to the kitchen and library were open. The gentle clang of cooking and the fragrant promise of lunch on the air wafted from the kitchen. Delphêl was out of sight but her presence was a constant reminder of goodness to come. 

The library door however, was occupied. Hallatar sat in his chair propped between the door and wall frame, hands on a length of parchment. 

He had been periodically reading it, glancing up, then reading again. Lorna was grateful for that. 

The past four days had been miserable. Hallatar kept bringing in men he wanted her to speak to and who clearly didn't want to speak to her. If she was being honest, she didn't want to talk to anyone anyway.

Since her episode in the bedroom she had never wanted to talk to someone so badly in her entire life. Falling into this place had ranked first. Now it was second. But no one, no matter how she gestured, or begged, or cried was able to even guess at what she was saying. 

She knew Hallatar was trying to help her. Bless him, she knew. But the effort of talking and having nothing given back was killing her. 

Only today had things felt a little better. Rozêm had elected to show her something new, this game that required her to say nothing at all, but watch. It felt like a rope was thrown out to her in the middle of a vast nothingness.

No men had come, no  judging faces, or pointless talking to no one who could listen. Just her, Rozêm and the game. 

She was grateful for that. 

A sudden metallic clatter sounded from the kitchen, followed by the whispered hiss of Delphêl. Hallatar raised his brows and peered over his reading. Lorna and Rozêm looked back. 

Rozêm called over his shoulder to Hallatar.

“Delphêl nakhân nîk-mâu, saphad hê.”

‘Delphêl must have found a mouse’

Hallatar did not lower his parchment. He deliberately hid what crossed his face as his eyes warmed.

"Nakhâ nîk-mâu pûh-ada ki. Sîlû-mag, bat.”

‘You will find it in your food if you don't be quiet.’

Hallatar's voice carried. 

Rozêm chuckled then turned back to face Lorna. She huffed in amusement despite herself. Rozêm had the type of laugh that was infectious, even if she had no clue what he was amused about. 

Lorna and Rozêm resumed their battle as Hallatar readjusted his parchment. 

The air was perfect, the sun was warm, the laughter was shared over a simple game Lorna couldn't win. 

Delphêl emerged from the kitchen door moments later, hands rubbing frantically on her apron and hurrying over to Hallatar. 

He blinked and lowered his reading as Rozêm looked back at them. 

Delphêl spoke to Hallatar, her lips over his ear, words swift but quiet. Lorna tilted her head to see past Rozêm and observe. 

Hallatar glanced up at Delphêl as though taken aback. She nodded down at him and gestured into the house. 

He did not hesitate. Hallatar was on his feet and moving, Delphêl at his heels. Rozêm watched as they went, a frown replacing his previous laughter. He turned back to Lorna who met his eyes easily. 

“What’s up?” She asked. 

Rozêm raised his palms, gesturing to her mat. 

“Bat zê, Lorna. Nakhâ hê ki-ada azal.”

‘Stay here, Lorna. I will return.’

Her eyes darted from side to side. She raised her brows, then planted her hands in her lap.

“Sit. I guess.” She shrugged. 

Rozêm nodded and offered a full smile before standing. In four large strides he went through the kitchen and into the house, out of sight. 

Lorna sighed, staring at their game as a sweet, humid breeze swept through. She wanted to finish the battle even if there was no chance of winning. Not knowing all the rules didn't mean she wouldn't give the game her all.

‘Old habit.’

The Mallorn tree in the center moved, its silver leaves catching brilliant light as they waved. She watched the branches sway, thinking they were dancing rather than being pushed by the wind. 

Lorna wrapped her arms about herself and smiled at the tree. The branches waved back pleasantly.

She huffed at her own childishness.

From the blue-domed roof of the neighboring house, she thought she had seen the wings of a rather large bird. Upon raising her head to the upper walls and roof, no bird was seen. She hadn't seen the bird properly, just the impression of one, or something like one. 

Lorna propped her knee up, resting her arm there as she looked. Nothing moved again. 

“Lorna.” Hallatar called from the library door. Her name was firm and gentle, the inflection he used when he wanted her attention. She was certain when he raised his left hand and motioned for her to come. 

With a soft grunt she gathered her skirts into one fist and went to him, leaving the game behind.

Through the library Lorna kept looking back at him, watching for a sign or feeling for what was going on. He merely smiled each time and gestured forward with utter calm. She wasn't convinced. 

In the main hall of the home, standing like summer personified, was Athzúng. He was all gold and crimson, draped in finery of some make that hurt to look at. Lorna was surprised at herself that she remembered him, let alone his name. But the recognition made her tighten the fists on her skirts as her stomach dropped. 

‘More words?’ she cursed.

Athzúng met her disgruntled gaze with something that was almost on par. There was no judgment, or disdain on his face, yet. But something in those eyes read as disgruntled. She just couldn't say why or how. 

The man turned the dazzling display of fabric that was his body toward her, then bowed his head a fraction. She didn't know how to respond to that and just looked back to Hallatar.

“Lorna.” Athzúng began, his tone noticeably more chipper since last she saw him. 

“Zîr hê saphad ki azal.”

‘It is good to see you again.’

She didn't respond.

Hallatar placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch light and warm despite the heft of his hand. He met her gaze, blinking slowly, allowing calm to flow through him despite some serious undercurrent beneath. Lorna appreciated that more than she could express at the moment. 

He lifted his gaze to Athzúng and spoke. 

“Izindi sî, izrê hê-an. Dâur-an burôda sî pharaz. Zâir sî min batân-î azal.”

‘Forgive her, my friend, this week has fatigued her greatly. She suffers from her travels still.’

Lord Athzúng smiled. 

“Kâda. Pharaz-î u mag-dâ sî du-batân, saphad an. Bârim ki saphad hê bâ-dâur-u. Saphad hê: burôda ki pharaz-î-mâ, kadô bâ saphad hê u kan-dâ dâur.”

‘Of course. There is much she will have to adjust to, it is understandable. I thank you for seeing me without notice. I know you are occupied by many things, but I did not think this could wait.’

Hallatar raised his brows slightly.

“Ah?” 

A grounding press of his thumb was applied to her shoulder. She couldn't have known if it was to reassure, or encourage. It felt like what parents did with their kids when the teacher was talking about their child's education. It was nice to know what that felt like. 

Athzúng opened his hands, folds of crimson jingling with golden ornaments.

“Mag-dâ hê pâ-zâir du-bêth ki-abâr du-batân ârû-zadan-pharaz-î abâr-ada Lorna-zê.”

‘I have taken the liberty to inquire on your behalf for access to palace resources regarding Lorna.’

The hand on Lorna's shoulder stilled. She looked from Athzúng, to Hallatar's hand, then back to Hallatar's face. 

“Ârû-zadan-pharaz-î? Mân pharaz-î, Athzúng?”

‘Palace resources? What resources, Athzúng?’

Hallatar's voice came steady and soft, his eyes searching the face of his friend as though to discover a trick. 

The man came toward them, his hands still open as his voice lowered. Delphêl and Rozêm were standing out of ear shot in the kitchen, but still Athzúng lowered his voice. 

“Sîlû, Hallatar. Bâ bêth hê pharaz min zâir du-abâr sî. Bêth ki: zîr ki abâr sî, kadô bâ mag ki azal. Zâir hê kadô bat hê abâr ki pharaz-ô. Du sî-abâr, du zîr ki azal.”

‘Peace, Hallatar, I have not said more than was necessary to aid her. You had said you wished to help her, and as of yet, have not succeeded. I am willing and able to aid you further. For her sake, if that is your wish still.’

Hallatar set his jaw. Not in the way that he was offended or angered. More so weighing what had been said with care, or caution. 

Lorna stood between them and tried not to fidget. She felt like a twig between two gilded boulders. 

Hallatar drew in a deep breath and patted her shoulder once before continuing. 

“Pharaz zabathân-an ki, Bâr Athzúng hê-an. Zîr-hê pharaz du abâr-ki kadô zabathân ki u-zê—pâ u zîr pharaz hê-ada. Bârim ki. Saphad hê satta: mân pharaz-î ki kan-ân, kadô mân saphad u-zê?”

‘That is very gracious of you, my Lord Athzúng. I am grateful for your diligence and aid in this matter as it does hold great importance to me. I thank you. I only wonder, what manner of resources have you acquired and who knows of this?’ 

Athzúng pressed his hands together, seeming eager to receive Hallatar's words. 

“Bâ bârim hê, Hallatar. Mag hê satta u-an kâlâd pharaz-an. Kadô pharaz-î bat-î zê-an-zadan-saphad-î, min ârû-zadan izindi-ô. Pâ-î bêth-î thâni-î nâlu-pharaz kadô saphad-narû-î pharaz-ô min hê. Yu bêth-ân zâir-bêth sî-mâ kadô abâr-dâ ki.”

‘Do not thank me, Hallatar. I am only doing what is best. But the resources reside in the House of lore, outside of the palace proper. There are texts of more obscure languages and learned men who are more capable than I. They have expressed curiosity to speak with her and offer you aid.’

Hallatar straightened to his full height. The fact he was able to become even taller bewildered her. 

“Saphad hê. Saphad hê an-zadan-saphad kadô yu-kan-î. Bâ saphad hê zabathân-u yu bat pharaz an.”

‘I see. I am familiar with the house of lore and its keepers. I had not known their grace would extend so far.’

Athzúng placed one hand over his chest as the other gestured toward them. 

“Bâ kâlâd zê-ârû-zadan mag dulgu-pharaz an, Hallatar. Du ki-zîr u, bat hê dalad kadô bêth nakhân ki. Bêth hê: bat ki tâidô, du bâ kan hê abâr yu dâur-pharaz.”

‘Not all in the palace is so changed and dark, Hallatar. If you wish for this, I will go ahead and announce your arrival. I would tell you to come soon, for I cannot promise their help for long.’

“Mm.” Hallatar hummed then looked down to Lorna. She lifted her chin toward him, lips pressed together, brows raised. 

“Mm.” She mimicked, adding her say to the conversation. Hallatar couldn't hide the amusement in his eyes and huffed. 

He was quiet a moment more as his gaze searched hers. Both of them were looking for answers to different questions and seemed to find none. Hallatar nodded once. Lorna frowned. Neither was satisfied. 

“Saphad hê: nakhân-azal mîk-dâur mag-dâ saphad-î azal. Batân-izindi-ada kadô du-bat.”

‘I think a short visit may reap some answers. Or guide us on the right path at least.’

Lorna heard the tone and thought it was hopeful, perhaps. She looked back to Athzúng who smiled and even shared the expression with her. 

‘Has he figured something out?’ 

She couldn't begin to determine what he figured out or if that was even what was happening. But Lorna dared to wonder and dread simultaneously. Hallatar patted her shoulder, gracious despite the tension in it. 

“Bêth-ân pharaz. Saphad hê: bâ mag-dâ ki burôda-dulgu, Hallatar. Bat hê dalad-azal kadô mag batân kâlâd ki-du.”

‘Well said. I believe you won't be disappointed, Hallatar. I shall go ahead and make the way ready for you.’

Hallatar bowed his head in concession. 

“Bat nê azal tâidô-ô. Bârim ki azal du zabathân-an, izrê hê-an, bâ ugrudâ hê u.”

‘We shall follow shortly. I thank you again for this kindness, my friend, I will not forget it.’

The two men clasped arms as gold ornaments jingled and chimed over her head. She didn't even have to duck. 

“Kâlâd-azal, Hallatar.”

‘Always Hallatar.’

Having said all he needed to, he gathered his robes, tossed them over his forearm and left through the front door held open by Rozêm. Lorna thought the tossing was a bit much but Hallatar did not seem bothered. 

Once Athzúng was gone and Rozêm closed the door, Hallatar looked at her again.

“Lorna,” he said, now placing both hands on her shoulders. Their eyes met, unequal in height but equal in determination to understand one another. 

He lifted his hand, pointed to her slippers, then his booted feet. She nodded. Hallatar then put his hands about himself gripping his clothing. Lorna gave a slower nod. The final instruction was more performative. He straightened, lifted both hands into fists and made a sound that was very horse-like. Her eyes sparked with understanding. 

“Horse riding,” she said, more for herself, and not with any enthusiasm. “Right.” 

Hallatar called Delphêl and Rozêm to him. They came at once, Delphêl from the dining hall, Rozêm from the front door. He released many words at a quick but calm pace. Lorna tracked everyone's expression in turn as he spoke. 

When he was finished Rozêm bowed and Delphêl curtsied, then set off. Rozêm went to the front door and out, Delphêl went straight to Lorna. 

“Bat, mag-dâ ki kulub-î.” Delphêl insisted, tone firm as she headed towards the stairs. 

Lorna didn't want to go up there but the look in Delphêl's face threatened murder if Lorna didn't hurry. 

“You're just getting shoes on…” Lorna grimaced, returning the look Delphêl gave her. “And going for a little ride.” She went with Delphêl upstairs and subjected herself to the woman's assistance. 

Lorna refused to look at the bed the entire time she was up there.

When she came back down she wore riding boots on, garments that were still too large, and her green hooded cloak. She was led by Delphêl through the front door and into the courtyard where midday sun blazed overhead. Lorna tucked her head under the hood, squinting in the light. 

Across the courtyard, past stone eagles Rozêm and Hallatar were strapping saddles onto two horses. Hallatar's dun stallion and the chestnut mare Lorna had ridden from Imrazêl's home. 

Lorna dreaded the idea of riding. The soreness from her initial trip was still burning in her thighs. Her hands were stiff with scabbing and her knee ached terribly. But when she saw Zîyan's ears perk up and large round eyes found her, the idea was not so terrible. 

Lorna came across the courtyard and approached the mare, hands slowly raised. 

“Hi, girl,” she whispered, coming closer. Lorna passed the stone eagles and stepped down into the street. The horse bobbed her head and the reins chimed with silver. Lorna smiled. “I am happy to see you too.” 

She lifted her hands for the horse to accept. To her delight, Zîyan sniffed her ruinous palms, blinked, then gently nudged them. The touch was incredibly gentle for an animal of her size. 

Hallatar secured the front cinch strap, patted his stallion on the shoulder, then came around to Lorna and Zîyan. He had changed robes since she saw him in the main hall. They were cleaner, more precisely layered and arranged in various blues with modest silver-bracers and necklace. 

In his hands were a set of leather gloves made for a woman and embroidered with intricate yellow flower designs. Lorna was petting Zîyan's pink nose when she noticed them. 

Hallatar spoke and extended his free hand toward her. She placed her own hand in his and watched as he carefully pulled one of the gloves on. They were far too large, but wonderful. 

Lorna nodded. “Thank you. That helps.” Hopefully Hallatar had accepted what she said as thanks. 

He inclined his head then helped her with the other glove. 

Within moments Rozêm's hands were at her waist, hoisting. The gloves took the brunt of the pain from grasping the pommel as she pulled herself up with a grunt. She ignored Hallatar who settled atop his stallion like a feather. 

Lorna hummed at the renewed soreness that burned through her legs like hot water. 

‘How do people do this everyday?’

The stallion stamped on the stones, its hooves cracking in the air as its golden bulk neared Zîyan. Hallatar's shadow fell over Lorna and she lifted her hood to him. 

He reached out, holding her arm firmly but without pain. His other hand raised skyward where the sun was leaning. 

The street before them was enclosed with a wall of rock rising on one side and south facing stone structures on the other.  A section of ridge shot out in the blue distance where the street ended. Hallatar pointed there. 

“Karab nê satta-mâ batân-ârû-dalad, zadan-saphad-ada. Bâ rûphal. Bat hê ki-mâ azal.”

‘We will ride together. Up the King's way and to the houses of lore. Do not fear. I shall be with you.’ 

The most Lorna determined was that they were going that way. She looked down the cobbled street and assessed the distance. 

Lorna didn't know where they were going, why, or how long this was going to take. But she didn't have the words to ask Hallatar all of that, and going was better than not going at all.

It was then she realized this would be the first time she had left his house since arriving. The thought didn't make her feel any better and a part of her would have rather stayed in bed. But that version of Lorna, comfortable and snug, never gets anything productive done. 

‘If it means getting home…’

She looked back to Hallatar and nodded as though all of this were acceptable. 

He gave her an approving pat, then sat straight in his saddle and spurred the stallion forward. To her relief, Zîyan followed behind and kept an even pace. 

From the house Rozêm shouted a farewell over the warm breeze and Delphêl watched from the doorway. Hallatar raised his hand without looking back. Lorna looked back and waved once. 

They passed several structures that were similar to Hallatar's home. All stood white, blue-roofed and decorated in a variety of personality, flora and banners bearing a tree, eagle, or scepter.  

People traversed the street like schools of glittering salmon, crossing here and there on their business. Children ran past occasionally, laughing or calling out with abandon. Lorna was shocked by the amount of people and wondered how she had never heard them from the house all this time. 

The people bore the light of day in their faces and made the act of walking look like an art form. Again, she was struck by their presence and left feeling inadequate. 

Lorna watched a black litter carrying a woman as they passed. From under Lorna's hood she could see the woman's hair and face. The hair was like fresh yellow cream, long and shining, and her eyes were like sapphires. She wore a pale green gown with golden leaves strewn across her body, each flashing with iridescence.

She was the most beautiful person Lorna had ever seen.

The great ridge imposed over them, approaching gradually as she and Hallatar rode. Lorna saw that the street did not end with the ridge but went through it. A gate was erected in the rock where carved men- no, men with pointed ears stood guard. They held vast basins filled with fire, their faces red from illumination and stern indifference. 

Lorna stared at the ears as they passed and didn't know what to think of them. 

The gate led into a cool but well lit tunnel that ran underneath the jutting ridge side. The tunnel was wide enough for four riders abreast and high enough that Hallatar's stallion seemed small within it. Torches in the shape of trees soaked with oil lined the smoothed walls and kept the path bright from either entrance. 

Lorna hunched her shoulders as they went. The clip of hooves echoed severely, the groan of wind and a deeper, earthy hum of inner hill moved through her bones. Hallatar and those who traversed the tunnel with them were unbothered. 

Eventually they came to the end of the tunnel, out into open air. Lorna relaxed by a degree, breathing in the cooler breeze that met them. 

Outside the road forked in two directions. One stretched north west where more homes and other structures were organized. The other road curved upward along the outstretched ridge side. Pillars of white bearing golden banners and topped with onyx crowns stood sentinel at the road's fork.

Hallatar took the upper path. 

Their horses trotted up the incline as the section of structures fell away from view. Below, open air revealed the breadth of the city from the northwestern perspective. Four tiers of increasing size were layered atop one another, rising central from the ground level civilization. The city was nestled from the base of a hill to its far reaching slopes, held close to the height as though embraced. 

Everything glowed in the sunlight. 

Lorna clenched in the saddle as she looked out. She had seen the city before but it had been dark and raining. To witness it now in broad daylight made her dizzy and nauseous. She hadn't realized how high Hallatar's house was in the city and wished she hadn't known. 

Hallatar led them higher. They passed three more sections of the tiered city, each smaller in width but not in display. The structures, homes, and temples stood as though each were a high holy place or monument to excess.  

Sprawling towers in lavish blue-gold shone like pebbles in stream water. Arching bridges connected gilded, domed monuments that bore pink torchlight. Waterfalls cascaded down from hidden gullies that fed pooling fountains teeming with silver fish. Sweet smoke billowed from open windows or standing basins. Filling the air with a lofty, crisp fragrance that made Lorna feel more welcome than she was. 

The third tier up from Hallatar’s home dwelt one more section of the city that supported a gleaming pinnacle. There, where the sky was endlessly blue and clouds kissed the tops of towers, a palace reigned over all. 

She could not see the extent of the palace as bastions and reaching statues obscured a proper view. But she knew, without seeing all of it or knowing who lived there, that the palace was a place beyond her. Not just in distance but in the way one looks up at the stars and knows they can never be a part of them. 

The horses continued upward, closer and closer to the pinnacle. Statues of the same pointy-eared men stood shoulder to shoulder before a massive archway flanked by stone eagles in flight. Each statue bore a banner of black and gold over their forearms, their open outstretched hands burning with near white-flames.

Lorna had to lower her hood further and shield her eyes from the brightness. 

Passing the arch Hallatar took a sharp left turn. To Lorna's relief, they didn't enter the pavilion before the palace or approach its central gate. Instead they took a shaded path lined with cypress-like trees that skimmed the perimeter of the palace walls. 

Lorna looked up and around seeing the tops of the palaces’ crown glare down at her in the sun. The passing trees on her left and solid wall on her right allowed her brief glimpses of the tiers and vast city below. She found it easier to look back on where they had come in small doses instead of all at once. 

‘It's too much.’

She swallowed back the bile in her throat and breathed in. Lorna wanted to experience the city, see it in full, and try to understand it all. But she wasn't a tourist and this wasn't a vacation. As wondrous as the city was, she couldn't take it in the way she wanted to.  

The horses trotted along the palace's northward perimeter until the path opened onto a stone paved ward. Here several buildings stood separately, surrounded by flowering hedges and trees. Plots for the vibrant flora were arranged in star patterns that shaped large paths to the building's entry ways. 

Hallatar steered his stallion toward a circular, low building with a teal-dome roof and pulled the reins gently. His horse stamped - as though agitated, jerking his head back and snorting. Hallatar patted his bright neck, settling the stallion.  

“Sîlû ki-mâ, Alvôtin”

‘Peace, Alvôtin.’

He dismounted with one broad sweep of his leg then took Alvôtin's reins. He looked about, black brows furrowing as his gaze swept the ward.

Zîyan stopped beside Hallatar without command. She lowered her head with her ears back, her tail snapping in swift jerks. 

Lorna watched Hallatar then peered about them as he had done. The ward was empty and pleasantly quiet. She found the silence preferable to the larger city though Hallatar seemed confused by it. 

“Hallatar?” She asked, tilting her hood.

The man blinked then smiled up at her. He took Zîyan's reins, pulling both horses to the building's side. There he tied them off on a wooden pole topped with brass horse heads. He then came to Zîyan’s side and lifted his arms.  

Hallatar accepted Lorna's weight with ease then set her down. She flattened her skirts and watched as he gestured to the building. 

“Zadan-saphad-î”

‘The house of Lore.’ 

Lorna nodded. 

Hallatar then pointed to his eyes, his ears, then placed both hands to his chest. He kept eye contact with her, his movements slow as he placed one hand over his heart. 

Her lips tightened and she bit the inside of her cheek but nodded anyway. He wanted her to watch, listen… and be okay. 

Lorna nodded again. 

He returned the nod then extended his gloved hand to her. She took it, finding the contact utterly grounding in a way she desperately needed. 

He led her toward the steps of the building where copper doors going green at the edges and seams stood. Hallatar pressed his gloved hand against the door and opened it. Cool air drafted through as he did.  

Within, multifoil arches of dark wood were built offset from one another between cuts of high daylight. Each arch was filled from floor to ceiling with more books and scrolls than one could hope to read in their lifetime. The beams of treated wood were braced with aged copper and iron lamps that illuminated no more than necessary. 

Lorna stepped in with Hallatar, feeling the quiet of the place settle in thick. She pressed her lips together, looking up and around from under the hood. Her grip on  Hallatar's hand did not falter as he quietly closed the door behind them. 

He came to stand beside her for a moment, looked for something, then walked on. Lorna followed.  

Her stomach clenched at the sound of her own footsteps as they went. It felt off limits to breathe in this place let alone make noise.  

He guided her past the first three arches to the right, each one the width of ten men side by side. They stepped into the barrel vaulted interior where many wooden lecterns stocked with ink and parchment were arranged. There a few men in orderly robes sat and read quietly. 

“Ah.” Hallatar breathed.

They came forward, passing the beams of daylight. 

Flashing light, dark, light, dark. 

Lorna was uneasy. It came gradually. 

By the time Hallatar began talking to one of the attendants she wasn't paying close attention anymore. She lifted her chin and looked through a beam of light into the larger library. The sunshine and dust particles made seeing clearly a bit difficult. 

When she focused her gaze and found nothing immediately, pareidolia crept in. Her eyes darted as her heart started to beat through her chest. Her mind wrongly imposed unfamiliar facial patterns through the brightness as confusion rose. 

Finally, something caught her eye. 

At first she thought it was a lecti, long and low near the center of the library. Upon staring, the couch's shape maintained itself, unchanged despite her wariness. She breathed a sigh through her nose, huffing at herself. 

‘Scary couch.’

She was ready to look elsewhere, maybe direct her focus to Hallatar - when movement stirred. 

Staring for a second more, Lorna saw upon the lecti the shape of a person, their face obscured.

The hair at the back of her neck and arms raised. 

The person held a book where a face should be. Fingers like pale blades supported the width of the book aloft. The slight movement of one pale finger adjusting its grip caught her eye. 

Lorna looked away at once and hid herself in the hood. Her throat knotted tightly, her hand squeezing Hallatar's with a strength that surprised even her. 

She chastised herself at once. 

‘Calm down. It's just a guy reading a book.’ She breathed, forcing a slower breath in then out. 

Hallatar stopped speaking and looked down at her. The grip did not seem to hurt or bother him but its presence got his attention. 

“Kâlâd ki îdô?”

‘Are you well?’ 

He spoke softly. 

Lorna recognized kâlâd as a word for good, or something like it, and nodded her head. 

‘Not good, but I won't make a fuss about readers in a library. ’

She relinquished the grip on his hand and felt her palm pinched with rawness. She didn't realize how much the squeezing hurt till now. 

The man Hallatar was speaking to looked at Lorna sideways for a moment then continued their talk. 

“Bêth-zâir mag-ân. Bâr Athzúng bat-dâ u ûri-îdô-an. Kan-ân u saphad-narû nê-an.”

‘There was an inquiry made. Lord Athzúng passed it this morning. The subject was received by one of our patrons.’

The attendant said. Hallatar nodded, seeming pleased. 

“Bârim. Mân saphad-narû?”

‘Very good. Who was the patron?’

The attendant raised his palm into the library. 

Hallatar followed the gesture and saw the person upon the lecti reading their book. He then thanked the attendant and gave Lorna's hand a gentle shake. She appreciated the encouragement. 

‘Oh- we're going that way,’ she nodded at the cosmic, comedic affect, a frown sinking on her hooded face. 

They crossed the space between the attendants and the lounging reader. Several lecti were arranged in the area with a low table in the center. Lorna could see small offerings of cheese, fruit and bread laid out. 

Her stomach would have leapt for joy at the sight - only, her nerves had not settled.

She lowered her head and bit her inner cheek. 

‘Dammit. Calm down.’

From her lowered perspective she saw running folds of fabric behind the table of food. The color was that of champagne but the quality of the fabric she couldn't name. Carefully she lifted her chin and followed the garment upward. Up and up. 

She realized with a sinking dread that this person was massive. Again she cursed at herself with aching fatigue. 

‘Everyone here is huge.’

- but this. This was something else. 

Hallatar brought them before the low table and occupied lecti. He placed his hand over his chest and inclined his head. 

“Ûri-satta sîrân, bârim ki kan-dâ nê. Hê Bâr Hallatar, Bâr Zuratar-phazân. U-an Lorna, hê-an ganâd, mân saphad ki-ân. Zîr-pharaz nê du ki-dâur.”

‘Good afternoon, I thank you for receiving us. I am Lord Hallatar, son of Lord Zuratar. And this is Lorna, my charge of whom you have heard. We are grateful for your time.’

Lorna swallowed back the knot in her throat and urged herself to look up. The hood obscured most of her face but her left eye could see clearly. 

Slowly, by inches she didn't see, the book over the person's face was lowered. Two eyes peered over pages. 

Lorna froze. 

When he placed the book down upon his lap and when he began talking was impossible to know. She didn't see it happen. But somehow it did happen. 

There lay a man whose height she could only guess at, his face polished and cut of feature in the sunshine of lofty windows. Lorna felt her gut tighten and her muscles stiffen, like she needed to bolt at any second without reason. There was nothing wrong with the man and yet she fully braced.

The man smiled up at Hallatar, a swift flash of white beneath two bright eyes. He tilted his head, honeyed hair braided in layers falling on his shoulder. 

“Sîrân ûri-satta, Zuratar-phazân. Zîr-ki izrê pharaz. Zâir, kan-dalad. Pâ min pûh-zadan hê.”

‘Good afternoon, Son of Zuratar. Your gratitude is most welcome. Please, sit and take of my table.’

Hallatar froze. He held his breath as the calm gentleness of his gaze went cold. The grip on her hand tightened, the warm pleasantness of his mouth and brows furrowed then were maintained. Whoever he was looking at was perhaps not who he expected. 

“... Bâr Zigûr,” Hallatar breathed, his voice more controlled than Lorna had ever heard it.

The man on the lecti bowed his head, placing long fingers over his chest.

“Bâ saphad hê zîr ki bêth-zâir-ada. Bêth hê-ada -.”

‘I had not known you took interest in the inquiry. I was told -.’

Hallatar stopped speaking when the pale hand of the man waved away his words. 

“Zîr-saphad bat-azal pâ hê. Bêth-bâ-bat-î—saphad-pharaz azul u, hê-an azal. Izindi du bâ-bêth-dâ hê tâidô. Zâir hê kadô kan zîr-saphad nâlu-mâ. Bat-dalad, zâir.”

‘I have a passing curiosity. Impossible speech is something of an old intrigue I bear still. Forgive me of my reluctance to announce myself sooner. But I prefer to keep my curiosity private. Please, sit.’

Hallatar shifted on his feet, looked back to the lecti the man had indicated and paused. He seemed reluctant to move, let alone sit. 

Hallatar realized however, that the grip he held on Lorna's gloved hand was far too harsh. She hadn't even reacted. He didn't let go, but readjusted his hold and hummed something like regret. Carefully he guided her to sit, then took a moment longer standing before finding his seat beside her. Her hand in his lap. 

The man in sunlight smiled again and lowered his hand upon his book, satisfied. 

It was then that his gaze arrived upon Lorna's hooded face. 

She took a thin breath in. 

The man slowly set the book aside and raised his hands, palms upward. The eyes over his partial smile held the one eye of hers he could see. She felt trapped in that gaze, unable to get a good breath in or think clearly enough to find her bearings. 

He cooed to her as though encouraging a frightened animal from hiding. 

“Bâ rûphal. Hê Zigûr an, izrê Hallatar-Athzúng-ô. Pâ pûh hê, zâir. Kan-dalad ki-burôda. Bêth hê-ada.”

‘Fear not. I am Zigûr, friend of Hallatar and Athzúng. Please, share of my table, put down your burdens and speak to me.’ 

Lorna tilted her head marginally. She didn't understand him, she didn't expect to. But the quality of his speech made her feel like she understood his intention somehow. She blinked behind her hood, chest rising and falling faster than she liked. 

Who was this? She couldn't begin to guess but was somehow certain he was important. Hallatar was stiff beside her and she could feel his pulse through their gloves, thumping rapidly. She couldn't deny her own fright or rising dread in front of this person. Her mind was cold at the edges making it harder to think clearly. Maybe it was the new location, the ride, her still healing scrapes, or bad sleep. But regardless, she felt foolish for being so spooked. 

She lifted her chin toward Hallatar, searching his face for guidance, a clue, a helping hand - anything. She wanted him to tell her what to do. Just one clear word would make this easier. Something for her to hold onto to keep from drowning in whatever was happening. 

Hallatar met her gaze easily, accepting what she was showing him, as though he understood. That comforted her. 

Carefully he nodded then lifted his hands from his chest, over his throat and away from his mouth. Making the familiar hum. 

He wanted her to talk. 

Her body ached with the dread of it. 

She released a heavy, pained sigh and closed her eyes tightly. 

‘Just talk. Get this over with and get out. It's just anxiety. And this is just a waste of time. That's it.’

Lorna turned her head back toward the man dressed in champagne. His eyes were exactly where she last saw them. As if he hadn’t stopped looking at her during the exchange. She resisted the urge to get up and leave that instant and instead drew up what courage she had left. With her free gloved hand she pulled back her hood, blinking into the broader light. 

Lorna met the gaze across from her and found the maintenance of it both welcoming and suffocating. 

He leaned back in his seat, hands lowering to his knees. Maybe it was the light he sat in but his eyes caught illumination and held it the moment he saw her. He breathed in, his smile softening and looked very pleased.

Lorna was surprised at his seeming contentment. That was new. She had seen disgust, disinterest and dismissal but never someone content at her appearance. What should have been relief felt like a cold pressure at the back of her neck. Lorna didn’t like his expression, not because it was cruel but because it made her feel like the smile was a part of an exchange only he knew about.

He huffed a small laugh then lifted one hand toward her. 

“Bat, fîrima. Bêth hê-ada.”

‘Come, mortal. Speak to me.’ 

Lorna felt her throat work as words were ready to spill out of her mouth before she was. That was also new. She didn't want to speak but now felt compelled to. Lorna set her jaw a moment more, holding his gaze with effort. As she did, a building pressure accumulated in her throat, the words piling up behind her teeth. Her mind struggled to keep up and process what she was doing, but too late.

“Hi,” she began, her tone flat, eyes fixed and unamused. “I'm Lorna. I don't come from here and don't speak your language. I am trying to get back home. To where I came from.” She gestured toward the windows. “It's far from here… and I need to get back.”

When Lorna finished she suppressed the compulsion to keep talking and watched him. 

The contentment that had been on the man's face sharpened into something else. Not disappointment or confusion. His eyes narrowed, he leaned forward, his mouth opening. That was not how she had expected him to respond but it wasn't recognition, or understanding. 

She looked over to Hallatar expectantly. 

‘See. He can't understand me either.’

Hallatar sighed through his nose as he glanced at her. She caught something in his gaze that almost read as relief. Lorna couldn't have been certain but she caught it. 

Hallatar gave her one nod, then raised his head to the man and spoke.

“Bâr hê-an Zigûr, izindi kadô -”

‘My lord Zigûr, forgive me but -’

Hallatar was again interrupted. The man's white hand lifted in Hallatar's direction, silencing him.  

Lorna looked across from her, brows furrowed at how rude the gesture was. But when she looked at the man, instead of further insult, she saw something else. 

The man was moving his mouth and staring at her. A cold, clammy shiver ran up her spine.

‘What the hell is he doing…?’

The want to get up and leave this situation was immediate. This person was freaking her out more than she was able to justify and she could feel Hallatar’s tension too. Something was wrong. 

‘I want to go. Right now.’

She set her jaw again and was about to walk out herself when she noticed what the man across from her had been doing. It took her a few seconds to recognize the motions but when she did, the floor tilted beneath her.

He was mimicking the words… or the movements to make the words at least. Lorna leaned forward, zeroing in as if to be sure. 

Hie, na, sp, ca, fro, bak.

She blinked, then narrowed her eyes with intense scrutiny.

Nee, too, baak.

“What are you doing?” she asked flatly.

He tilted his head, eyes widening a fraction then returning to focus. 

Wh, do. 

He did it again, mimicking the shape of what she said. 

Lorna leaned back on the lecti. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to feel encouraged or insulted, but she ended up feeling something in between. 

With the other linguists who visited she could talk their ear off, insult them, mock them to their faces and they wouldn't flinch or give her the time of day. Here, this person was trying to repeat her words, or work out how to make them. She didn't know what to do with that. 

She stared at him warily as he stared at her. 

His gaze was intense in that it did not look away, tracking every inch of her face. She felt like an insect under a microscope. Seen more closely than she wanted or ever agreed to. Lorna pressed her mouth shut, not speaking anymore.

The man made no indication of expectation or disappointment. He simply waited then made the same gesture Hallatar had made. Hands raising from chest to mouth, and nodded. His chin lifted and hand outstretched. 

Lorna blinked in quick succession. 

‘He actually wants to hear me… but why?’

She chewed her cheek at the question and couldn’t settle on anything concrete. 

She readjusted on the lecti then carefully made her case. 

“You can't understand me,” she said, less monotone and more explanatory. “I appreciate the effort but you are wasting your time.” Lorna flexed her hand upward and shook her head. 

Her harsher bluntness cooled slightly. She could see he was trying, that was more than anyone else had given her aside from Hallatar and his household. 

Despite her frustration and unease, she schooled herself against judging too quickly.  

Lorna shrugged off a trickle of pins and needles on her shoulders then offered him a more apologetic expression. “I can't help you any more than you can help me.” 

The man's lips hadn't stopped moving. They were a bit smoother in motion and seemed to catch additional syllables but nothing more. 

She frowned. Whatever he was doing wasn't going to crack the code of language between them or spontaneously make everything better, no matter how much she wished it could. 

‘Pointless.’

She lowered her gaze from his and resigned herself. 

The man’s head lowered a degree as though following her, his eyes unblinking. Hallatar watched him as his gaze strained on every movement and breath. He was like a deer she had seen on the farms growing up. Looking into the tree line for something she couldn't see. 

Lorna gave his hand a small squeeze as her way of saying she was done and ready to go. To her Hallatar was like an anchor, assured and immovable. 

But Hallatar's gaze did not leave the man in champagne.

Across from them, the man made a small, almost silent breath as he opened his mouth. He did this several times. It almost sounded like he was about to sneeze when -

“... h-he-lp… me-e.”

Lorna’s head snapped upward. 

She stared at him, dead in the pupils for longer than she could count and not nearly long enough. 

“What?” she whispered. 

The man grimaced and tilted his head forward, bracing his hands on his knees. His lips moved silently once more as his breath was tested between his teeth. 

“H-help… m-me,” he said again, this time clearer, stronger. 

She glared at him, not in anger but in the desperate panic of denial, and hope, and dread that had simmered in her since the moment she fell into this place. 

“Say it again,” she hissed, nodding toward him sharply. 

He straightened on the lecti, maintaining eye contact and silently processing what she had said.

Say, gain 

His lips moved, his eyes tracked her mouth, eyes and brows. He gave a half nod, then spoke. 

“Helpme.”

Her breath caught in her chest, her mind raced to turn over the words she heard, trying to determine if this was a trick or if the words were real. 

“You said help me,” Lorna stated, her voice rising to a shout without her realizing. 

The man on the lecti didn't recoil from her shout. He watched her, not replying to her statement, but absorbing it as he had been. 

Yo, said, helpme.

Lorna waited for several seconds in anticipation of what he might say next before continuing. She lifted her hands and gestured in the air between them.  

“Can you understand me?”

He followed her speech word by word before looking at her hands. 

Ca, you, unstad.

Once he had the shape of her speech, he repeated the gesture and nodded. 

Lorna wasn't certain he knew what the nod meant. She bit the inside of her cheek, balling her hands into fists and returned them to her lap. Lorna didn't want him to think she was mad but she didn't know what to do with the situation. 

‘He is a copycat.’

“Understandme,” he said, breaking her thoughts, though his pronunciation was accented and unsure. Lorna's jaw clenched and her eyes lowered a degree. 

It would take years, years for him to grasp her language in any meaningful way with the method he was trying. She didn't have years, she needed help now. Today.

She considered her options at the moment and found all of them disappointing. Lorna also knew that she didn't have any obligation to stay and pretend this would work. A part of her was satisfied in controlling her circumstances by not participating at all. It was less painful, even efficient from a certain perspective. 

She had half a mind to see it through, go back to Hallatar's house and rot, if not for a nagging hesitation. 

No one except Hallatar had repeated her own words back to her. But here, this man actively mimicked her words in front of her and tested them. He was doing more than just performing, he was trying to meet her where she was, even if the means were slow. The naive side of her found his method foolishly uplifting.

Lorna closed her eyes briefly and rubbed her face harshly with her gloved hands. 

Hallatar's gaze cut between her and the man across from him in cautious glances, holding himself in a stillness that bordered on paralysis. 

Lorna didn't notice. She focused entirely on the mimicking man and decided, for good or ill, to speak to him. 

She pressed her fingers to her chest and took a deep breath. 

“Lorna.” 

She had already introduced herself but starting again with a fresh introduction felt better. Her hands then gestured toward him with palms up. The man placed his long fingers over the folds of his garment without hesitation. 

“Zigûr.” 

She nodded. “Z-Zigur.”  

The word was odd, sounding like a piece of ancient architecture instead of someone's name. Lorna considered how strange her own name must sound to him and imagined a sort of comfort in that.

Her gaze landed upon the table where the small offerings of fruit, bread, cheeses and wine rested. Lorna looked back at the man, Zigûr, gesturing to the plate. 

“May I?”

He bowed his head and extended his hand. 

“Zâir,” he said. 

“Z-zâir,” Lorna repeated, then picked up a fig from the table. She enjoyed figs in certain desserts back home and sometimes made Galettes out of them. Lorna held the fruit in front of her, admiring its honey-brown plumpness.

“Fig.” She said plainly. “Fruit.”

His face softened in a way that seemed encouraging, but some sliver of discomfort crept up her spine. 

“Fig.” The G sound in his mouth was rougher than hers had been. “Fr-ruit.” 

Lorna didn't laugh at his pronunciation. She found it easier to pick up something she knew, name it, then have the word repeated to her. It felt like she was getting something done, even if the progress was at a snail's pace. 

Lorna continued speaking, showing Lord Zigûr her piece of fruit. 

“Mine.” She said, holding the fig to her chest. Lorna then reached and gave the fig to him cautiously. “Yours.” 

He took the fruit, staring down at the semi-warm fig in his palm. His mouth worked in silence, shaping more than one word. Lorna followed the shapes, tilting her head as she observed. 

Gently Zigûr reached for the book on his lap and showed it to her. She watched as he held it up to eye level and turned the cover in his hands. 

“Book,” she said, pointing. For once, she did not feel foolish for doing so. 

Zigûr silently mouthed the word once. His fingers brushed over the book's surface, hooked on the cover then opened it. He let the pages flick past beneath his thumb in whispers.

Lorna's brows lifted an inch. 

“Pages.” 

Zigûr stopped the flipping with his thumb, mouthed the word, then lifted the pages toward her. His other hand traced the inked script across the paper. She leaned forward and peered into the book, finding the written language alien to her.  

“Words,” she said, then looked back at him. 

“W-.” He paused on the W sound for two seconds and then tried again. 

“Words.”

Lorna blinked, astonished. 

“Yeah, words.” She reached, hovering her gloved fingers over the open book. “Words on the page in the book.” 

Zigûr listened then inclined his head a fraction as his gaze followed her hand. 

“Words, “he said again, stronger. “O-on the pages.”

She nodded, a creeping, uncertain grin at the corner of her mouth. His mimicking was improving word by word. 

Hallatar had only been able to take in a word at a time but Zigûr was taking in several. She didn't delude herself with false hope at this man's abilities but it was just nice to hear him trying. 

Hallatar watched as they continued picking up objects and naming them. He watched every hand motion, each item held, and the slightest movements made. Though her language was all that was spoken, Hallatar weighed every sound. His gray eyes hardened. The set of his jaw tightened. The once warm lines around his eyes deepened into something colder. 

The exchange between Lorna and Zigûr continued. Hallatar could follow what they were saying; the matter was simple. They picked objects from the table together, and she named each one. 

Zigûr occasionally repeated the name, his pronunciation improving as he went. Where his words halted or stumbled over his accent, soon, each word sounded more and more like her. 

Lorna, despite herself, was gradually entertained by the poor English lesson she was giving. It was charming in its way, a distraction at the least. Eventually she leaned toward the offering table picking up each piece of fruit, and moving onto the bread. She told him adjectives, nouns, some verbs and any speech she threw in that had no relation to their one sided conversation. 

It felt good to finally get words out, she felt like she hadn't talked like this in forever. 

Hallatar's gloved thumb pressed into his knuckle with increasing pressure as her talk continued. Panic seized his spine with every word of hers that Zigûr spoke. 

An hour of the sun's reign had passed when Lorna was pointing at the windows, speaking its name. Zigûr followed her with his eyes, absorbing, testing. 

Hallatar dreaded the scene before him and before any more of her words were shared, he spoke. 

“Bâr-Saphad-ân, zabathân hê zâir, kadô mân bêth-î ki bêth sî-ada?”

‘Lord Councilor, please excuse me, what words are you speaking to her?’

The High Lord Councilor only now moved his gaze from Lorna and arrived upon Hallatar. If any irritation had been in his eyes, it was buried far from Hallatar's perception and locked away. Zigûr inclined his head and placed his book down on the table. 

“Du ki-zîr an, Bâr hê-an Hallatar, mag hê an-kadar bêth-î sî-an.”

‘As was your wish, my Lord Hallatar, I am building the shape of her speech.’

Hallatar blinked, his gloved hands clenched, the creases at his brow deepened. He had wished to find the root of her language and build a form of communication. But the simplicity of the Councilor's response gave him no peace. Zigûr returned the silence with a warm smile before turning that smile on Lorna. 

Hallatar diverted his gaze for a moment, unable to even look at the smile any longer. Lorna didn't recognize the aversion, only felt a mild unease in her gut. 

Lorna's gloved hand moved back and rested atop Hallatar's glove. The yellow flower embroidery was almost as startling to him as the contact itself. Her small touch was like a line cast out amid the ocean, devoid of unseen, oppressive weight. 

Hallatar lifted his eyes and beheld her face. She was looking at him, her eyes attentive, one line of concern at her brow. The cold stiffness that had taken his expression melted into his cheeks and rounded into a grin. His other hand came to rest atop hers in one reassuring pat. 

He held onto the warmth he found in her and returned his gaze to the High Lord Councilor, bracing. 

Zigûr sat as though carved from marble across from them. The only indication of life in him was the subtle motion of his eyes. He was watching them, a curve of perfect pleasantness in his smile as his fingers laced across his lap. 

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up again. Causing her to squeeze Hallatar's hand reflexively. He squeezed back. 

Zigûr leaned forward by the smallest degree toward them both. His folded fingers uncurled one by one. His left hand extended as if offering something. Lorna observed his gaze narrow just at the edges, as though whatever he was about to do held his attention utterly. 

“Lorna…” he began, voice steady and certain. 

She didn't know when she started holding her breath but by the time she realized her face had gone red and her lungs burned. 

Zigûr spoke on. 

“... Lorna, under-rstand Zigûr.” 

Silence fell amid the library for longer than any present afterward could recall.

Lorna shot to her feet, the lecti jerking back suddenly as her hand freed itself from Hallatar's. 

He looked up at her, eyes wide, hand open midair. 

“....Lorna?!”

She didn't acknowledge him. Lorna's chest fluttered with short breaths as she looked down on the strange man. He was still watching her, seemingly unbothered by her sporadic movement. 

“What did you- ?!” 

Before she could finish her question, Zigûr spoke again. 

“Lorna, understand… Zigûr.” He placed both hands on his chest, watching her in a way that should have unnerved her if she were calmer. 

Lorna let out a shaken breath and stared down at him wide eyed. The reality of what she just heard, in the way she just heard it, at first her mind refused. It wasn't that he said the words, he had been mimicking her this whole time. It was the fact that he had used them, used them, that undid her. 

He asked her a question, in English, in the correct way. But she hadn't taught him how. 

She raised her hands to her face and cried out in shock. 

“Holy shit!” 

Chapter 9 to be posted soon. Leave a comment about your favorite part of the chapter. I will also draw scenes or characters that are requested. Thank you! - Baby Dragon.

[lildragonstories]

What happens when a modern lady hums a tune she has never heard of, then lands into Ar-Pharazon's Numenor? Will she get into trouble, probably. Will there be familiar faces to guide or mislead her, absolutely.

Oh yea, were going there.

Fanfiction/graphic novel

Sauron x oc

Themes: lore accuracy, trauma, lore faithful Sauron, lore based, Tolkien's unfinished tales, modern OC, adult themes, horror, politics, You can't save him, run girl run, not a romance.

Art done by me! @baby-dragons-art

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Chapter 9

THERE WAS AN UPDATE TO THE END OF CHAPTTER 9. PLEASE READ THAT BEFORE CONTINUING HERE. Thank you.

Lorna's hands braced at either side of her head. A shout escaped her lips that drew attention from the attendants standing by the end of the library. None had come to silence her, but some leaned back from their lecterns and looked down the aisles. 

She didn't notice.

Her hands came down and clasped at her chest, knuckles white.  

“You can speak English?” she yelled without meaning to. 

Hallatar stood up from the couch beside her, his gloved hand at her elbow. 

“Lorna,” he said to her, his tone calm but wrung with confusion. Hallatar looked at Zigûr, then back to her. Unable to do anything helpful except speak her name and try to calm her. 

She didn't have time to mime what was happening and couldn't even begin to try. Her hand reached back and held him briefly but her eyes did not leave the man before them. 

Zigûr watched from his seat.

Lorna put caution to the side for one desperate moment and stepped around the table, out of Hallatar's direct reach. The lore master made a sound that could not be suppressed, quiet and choked. His hand remained open in midair a moment, but he didn't reach for her again or show any further distress. He could not. 

Lorna stood in front of Zigûr, searching his face for something, anything, to warrant the animal instinct to flee from him. She saw nothing. He was patient in his attention and offering every courtesy his face could supply. His lips drew to a small frown and his brows raised.

Lorna permitted herself a moment to put her fears aside. She then made a gesture from her chest, trailing to her throat, and out from her mouth toward him. 

“Speak. You speak English?” She asked, her green eyes wide with terror and something close to hope.  

 It may have been an illusion or some trick of light but it seemed the depths of his pupils enlarged just slightly. He then repeated her gesture back to her and inclined his head once. 

“S-speak,” he said, his accent lingering on the last syllables. Lorna nodded again and again, eyes as wide as dinner plates. 

“Zigûr, speak. Lorna understand,” he said. 

Her mouth dropped, her breath seized.

‘He did it again! Not just repeating the word but using it!’

Lorna tilted toward him, hands outstretched as though to seize him. She stopped mid-step, remembering it was wrong to grab people, and turned away.  

“Holy shit,” she exclaimed, breathing too quickly and too thin. She paced back and forth for a moment in which Hallatar watched the Lord Councilor, and Zigûr observed her.

“... holy shit.” 

She heard Zigûr say behind her in an even, testing tone. Lorna turned back on her heels, gasping once and shaking her head. 

“Oh! No, no, don't say that.” She went to him, not close enough to touch but closer than before. Her freckled cheeks were red, as a crooked smile broke on her face. “No, I'm sorry. Don't say that. That's wrong.”

Zigûr didn't lean back, furrow his brows, or even blink. He remained, as though paused mid-thought, his eyes snapping between her hands and face. 

Lorna continued. 

“Can you talk to me, actually talk to me?” she asked in a quick slur of words. “Are you understanding me or just repeating? I need to know. Please-”

Zigûr’s expression shifted to mild confusion. He raised one hand and made a slow motion palm down. 

Lorna stopped talking. She hadn't realized she was rambling or frantic. The words in her mouth simply couldn't stop at the notion that he might understand. 

“I'm sorry. Slower?” she asked, then mimicked his gesture, palms down. “Slower?” 

Zigûr gave one certain nod. 

“Slo-wer. Understand,” he affirmed. 

She let out another shout, covered her mouth because her hands needed something to do, then lowered them to her thighs. Her fingers seized the fabric there and squeezed. She managed one deep breath in then spoke. 

“Yes. Okay, slow,” she nodded. “I can do that.”

The question of how he was understanding her didn't enter her mind or give her pause. The reality was too good, too needed for her to let it go. She knew there were many questions she should have been asking but the moment had her by the collar. 

Lorna leaned toward the table, picked up his book and opened it. Her fingers went to the page and pointed. 

“Words on the page. I speak words. You speak words.”

Her pronunciation was slower but firm, letting every letter drag on her tongue. He raised his hand to the page, one finger pressed over the script. 

“Words. You speak,” he said. 

Lorna paused for another breath, fighting the urge to smile like an idiot, then elaborated. 

“I.” She placed her hands on her chest. “You.” She gestured toward him. He watched her, no longer silently repeating the words.

“Me.” Her hand returned to herself. 

“Us.” she motioned between them. 

Zigûr readjusted on the lecti then gestured.

“I.” He placed his hand on his chest.

“You.” His hand extended toward her. “Me.” The long fingers were placed at his collarbone.

“Us.” Both palms waved between them. 

“I...” he began again, hand rising over his face. “Zigûr understand. Lorna words.” 

“Yes!” Lorna yelled. Her teeth caught her lip, a smile tearing across her face. It was her first true, ear-to-ear smile she had mustered since falling into this world. Zigûr mirrored her expression, though the enthusiasm didn't quite reach his eyes. 

Behind her, Hallatar sat down, one hand braced on the armrest. He looked withdrawn and pale as though some grave, cold understanding had taken him and forced him down. 

He observed, silent and weighted to the couch, as Lorna spoke her language and the Lord Councilor repeated it. A gray deepening in his eyes was the only tell of something far worse unraveling within him. 

Zigûr raised his hands, like drawing from a well, toward her. 

“Words me. You speak. Words.” His palms opened, as if waiting to receive something from her. 

She blinked rapidly. 

“You… want me to speak more words,” she said, more statement than question. 

Zigûr inclined his head.

“More… words. Yes,” he agreed. 

Lorna couldn't process that he had said more and yes and used them correctly. She immediately plunged into his request with great gladness. Her brain was a basket full of words she was ready to fling at him with abandon. 

And so, she did.

Lorna spoke about anything and everything. She named furniture, articles of clothing, body parts, pronouns and then colors. From colors she went into numbers, numbers became letters, letters became words again. 

The golden afternoon through high windows drifted into a soft orange, then sank into a pale violet. 

Hallatar had not left the couch and had scarcely moved. In some ways he could not, in others he dared not. He remained as sentinel to the thing he had wished for, and found he regretted ever wishing it. 

At times, during her talk, Lorna remembered and would look over her shoulder at him. Hallatar would smile warmly and she would smile back. He would nod then she would return to Zigûr. And always, Zigûr listened. 

Hallatar felt something within him twist and sicken. 

Lorna had taken to sitting in front of Zigûr on the table, still talking. Her yellow flowered riding gloves had been taken off and set to the side. In one bandaged hand she held a piece of bread, then pulled on the front of her cloak with the other. 

“No, good try. That's close but let me rephrase. So, I wear clothes,” she said, tugging at her cloak. “But I don't know where I am. The word sounds the same but the meaning is different. It's confusing, I know.”

Zigûr tugged at his own garment. “I wear clothing. But I don't know where I am,” he said, then raised his hands to indicate the room. 

“Yes, exactly,” Lorna smiled. 

Zigûr hummed a soft tune of approval then said, “That is not bad.” 

He halted marginally, still seeking out the words he needed. “Many words use the same sound.” 

“Many languages, I think you mean,” she corrected, her voice low. 

“Many languages,” he repeated, just as gently. The accent of his own tongue melting at the edges to accommodate her own. 

“Yes. I speak one language, English. How many languages can you speak?” she asked, both out of hungry curiosity and to test that he understood. 

Zigûr softened his expression and lowered his gaze. She ate the rest of her bread as she watched him. 

“Many languages. Ten I speak very well.” 

“Ten?” Lorna exclaimed, hands carefully going to her knees. “You speak ten languages? That's insane. Did you learn them just- just by listening to them?” 

“Yes. My learning is fast,” he said quietly. 

She huffed a laugh, her brows raised, and eyes bright. “No kidding, that's incredible. I've never met anyone who could do something like that. How are you able to even do that?”

Zigûr put two fingers to his left ear, a golden plated earring catching lamp light on the lobe. 

“I listen for pattern. I remember.”

Lorna only then noticed his ears and found that they were not rounded like hers and everyone else's she had ever seen, but tapered to a point. Her smile halted for a fraction of a second before she looked away, not allowing the shock to show. 

‘Like the statues in the city… what does that mean? What is he?’

“You're pretty amazing,” she said, recovering her smile with practiced ease. 

Zigûr tilted his head down further and deepened his smile. 

“Thank you.” 

Under golden lashes, his gaze lowered from her once halted smile, to her bandaged hands. He shifted his expression from gratitude to light concern.

“Lorna,” he spoke. 

“Yes,” she responded, delighted at hearing her own name with the hope of more words to follow.

“You understand me now,” he said, looking to her for affirmation. She nodded encouragingly. 

“My language will grow slowly. I want to help you,” his hands gestured toward her hands, then to the scab on her face. “Hallatar says you are lost. Tell me how.” 

On the couch, Hallatar blinked rapidly at his name. His hand on the armrest did not ball into a fist. He did not grimace or gnash his teeth. The set of his jaw merely tightened and the gray of his eyes narrowed.  

Lorna froze. She felt her chest tighten and her throat work. Her fingers closed over her knees, bunching up fabric and holding. Eventually her smile shrank and her mouth opened but was silent. 

She kept her eyes on him for a few moments until the tears began to fill them. Her head turned away as short, thin breaths escaped her mouth. 

Lorna couldn't postpone or process the weight of his question, not after days of silence. 

Behind her, Hallatar moved at last, sitting forward. He wished to come closer and comfort her; he could see her distress plainly. But he did not. 

The tips of Zigûr’s hand had reached and were laid on the table beside her. The Lord Councilor's attention leaned toward her as though to see her better, never looking at Hallatar or noticing him.

Zigûr did not speak, his expression dressed in concern.  

“I…” Lorna began, her lips trembling as hot tears slid down her face. “I don't even know how to tell you.”

“Try,” he said in a lower tone, his eyes narrowing at the edges.  

She drew in her lips, combed her fingers through her hair then exhaled. She looked down to find space to think and saw the hem of their robes like two opposing shores, separated by dark flooring.  

Lorna brushed tears away with her shoulder, sniffled, then met his eyes firmly.

 She began. 

“I am not from here, this island, this… world,” she choked a little on the last word; it pained her to say it. Zigûr did not speak, though a single line had drawn at his brow.

“I don't know how I got here. I fell.” Her hand raised, he followed the motion with his eyes. “From… God, I don't know where. One moment I was in my living room, then next I was here, on the island.”

Her hands went to her arms, holding herself, the tears falling like rain from her jaw. 

“That's what happened… it was all in an instant. Like I was ripped from home and thrown here. I was in a forest, hurt, afraid and nowhere I recognized. I was found by some men who took me to a city and I found help there.”

Zigûr sat back, drawing his hand with him from the table as though pulling back an invisible curtain. To her surprise, his expression was not one of alarm or even disbelief. He brought a long finger across his chin, looked to the side to consider something, then looked at her again. 

“World,” he stated. “Not land, world.” 

She nodded. “Yes, my land is not here,” her hands spread out before her. “You can't get to my land from here, at least I-I don't know. My land is in my world and my world is not this one. Not here.” Her hands went to her knees, gripping. 

“I don't know how to explain it. It's impossible, it shouldn't happen. It's insane."

Zigûr shook his head once then spoke. “You say, you are not from this world. Arda?”

Though he was an arm's length away, Lorna felt his gaze was too close.

She dismissed it. 

At the naming of Arda her body shook, her gut hurt, her skin paled. He noticed. 

“No,” she croaked, grief bleeding through her like ink in water. “No. I'm not.”

Zigûr watched her, even as she turned and covered her eyes. Hot tears spilled, pattering on her lap as her shoulders trembled. His chin inclined the slightest degree. With a blink the focus became a grieved, mild bewilderment that left no question to his intent. 

“Lorna,” he cooed, “I don't know… how. But I help. I help you.”

She peeked from her bandaged hands, one wet, green eye looking back at him. 

“How…” she sniffled. 

At this his frown deepened, then an exhale slid through his nostrils. He seemed just as stumped as she was.

“I don't know.” 

He admitted, the barest smile for her grief on his face. 

She wasn't able to stop the tears overflowing as his smile curved more gently. Lorna almost felt like he somehow understood her through the grief. That he could believe her and sympathize despite the insane scenario. 

‘How can he be so calm?’

She should have questioned it. She should have questioned many things. But the impossibility of the moment latched onto the impossibility of his understanding her and believing her at all. She couldn't let it go. 

Slowly, she drew back her hand from her face and sniffed hard. Her eyes were red and puffy, her cheeks streaked with a constant downpour. 

“Will you help me… get home? Can you?”

He leaned forward a fraction as though sharing a secret. 

“I try.”

Zigûr then lifted one massive hand toward her, warm and inviting. The glint of a plain gold ring caught the light on his finger.

Lorna looked between his open hand and his face. He seemed earnest in what he said, certain and assured that he would try, that some answers would be reached somehow. 

Her gaze lowered to his palm again, the golden hue of the ring drawing her eye. 

Carefully she raised her hand and reached for his palm. 

“Bâr Zigûr.” Hallatar's voice came from behind her, low and certain. 

Lorna pulled back her hand and turned. Hallatar was rising from the couch, the depths of his eyes were weary, the intent of his gaze immovable. 

“Izindi hê, bâr hê-an, kadô dâur-an lômi pharaz. Kali-an burôda azal min dâur-an bâ-saphad-ân, saphad ki. Kadô batân-azal pharaz-ô dulgu-zê. Saphad ki.”

‘Forgive me, my lord, but the hour is late. The lady is surely tired from this most unexpected day. And the ride back is longer in the dark. You understand.’

Hallatar smiled at Lorna and extended his hand. 

Zigûr spoke gently, closed his fingers over the ring, then placed his hands in his lap.

“Bâr Hallatar, kâda. Zabathân hê—kan hê kali dâur pharaz. Izrê-an bêth-dâ sî-mâ. Bat dâur min hê satta.”

‘Lord Hallatar, of course. Forgive me that I had kept the lady so long. She is most engaging to speak with. The time simply left me,’ he said.

Hallatar inclined his head, utmost understanding crossing his face. Zigûr then spoke to Lorna. 

“Hallatar says to me. He takes you home.” 

Lorna had forgotten that leaving this library and going with Hallatar was ever an option. That, outside of this insane conversation, Hallatar lived in a house she hadn’t wished to leave before coming to the library. That there was more beyond the impossible man before her. 

She blinked rapidly, looked back to Zigûr, then stood. 

“Listen,” she began, voice uneven and quiet. “I want to keep talking if you think you're able to help me. Can I come back?”

He smiled upward, toward her. 

“Yes, we speak more,” he agreed. 

She exhaled in frail relief that didn't actually feel like relief, then took her riding gloves from the table. Once she had pulled the gloves back on, she came and took Hallatar's hand without hesitation. 

Zigûr did not rise to bid them goodbye. 

Before Hallatar departed from the Lord Councilor however, he paused for one further inquiry. 

“Kâlâd an. Mag-ân saphad azal, saphad hê? Thâni sî saphad-ân îdô?”

‘It is well. I trust that some knowledge was gained? Her language now identified?’

Zigûr flexed his fingers into a steeple and raised his brows, considering. His forehead drew the thinnest line.

“Bâ, Bâr hê-an. Thâni sî bâ-saphad-ân azal. Bâ-thâni Arda-zê u. Kadô, zîr-ki saphad u: pâ hê an-kadar thâni sî-an. Dâur-satta pharaz-ô bêth sî-mâ—mag-dâ saphad an-kâlâd-u sî.”

‘No, my Lord. Her language is not identified. It is not a language spoken in Arda. Yet, you will be pleased to know that I have the shape of her tongue. I estimate a week more of speaking with her will reveal the breadth of her.’

Hallatar couldn't stop his brows from meeting or his lips from parting. In his mind he saw the strange clothing she had been found in. The soft garment and blue leggings of strange make and stranger quality. His hand holding hers resisted the urge to tighten.  

“Bâ-bêth Arda-zê...? Kadô, mân saphad ki u?”

‘Not spoken in Arda…? But, how do you know this?’

“Saphad hê u-î azal, Bâr hê-an. Kadô u-î azal mag-ân-saphad hê-ada. U-zê, kali-an satta bêth-ân hê-ada.”

‘I know some things, my Lord. And some things are revealed to me. In this instance, the lady herself has told me,” Zigûr said. 

Hallatar glanced down upon Lorna once. She looked back up at him.

“Lorna,” Zigûr spoke, drawing her attention at once. “Hallatar takes you home. Please see me tomorrow.” 

She nodded. 

“Yes, absolutely. Please, can you tell Hallatar that? Tell him what I have told you, and that you're going to help.”

Zigûr opened his mouth to speak. 

“Wait,” Lorna interrupted. “Can you also tell him that I am so grateful for being brought here? And please tell him I appreciate everything he has done. I want him to know. It would mean a lot to me.” 

Zigûr placed his long fingers across his chest and inclined his head. 

“Yes. I say to him.”

“Thank you, thank you so much,” she looked back up to Hallatar. 

“Kali-an zâir-bêth bat-azal ûri-dalad, Bâr hê-an. Zâir-dulgu sî abâr-ada kadô batân-ada dulgu-u sî. Mag hê saphad-dâ ki kadar-î an. Nâlu-mâ kâlâd, azal. Kali-an zâir-bêth hê kadô: bêth ki zîr sî pharaz du bat-dâ sî bêth hê-mâ.”

‘The lady requests to return tomorrow, my Lord. She seems desperate for help and guidance in her grief. I shall see the arrangements are made known to you. With all discretion, of course. The lady also wished me to tell you she is grateful to you for bringing her to speak with me.’

Hallatar lowered his gaze from Zigûr to Lorna. Her pallor was ill and her eyes were set deeply in grief, yet there was still the effort of gratitude at her lips. In truth, he never needed her words to know Lorna was grateful. But to hear it and see her face moved him beyond words. 

He held her hand close, carefully cradling her fingers with both hands. 

"Batân hê du ki-pharaz, Lorna. Azal.”

‘I will strive for your benefit, Lorna. Always.’ 

Hallatar raised his gaze then. Zigûr met it with the greatest sympathy. 

“Hallatar say thank you,” Zigûr said. 

The two stood together, content with their messages delivered, though Hallatar reserved any skepticism within himself. 

Hallatar then spoke. 

“Du ki-pâ kadô, Bâr-Saphad-ân hê-an. Kan hê bêth-zâir ki-an kadô bêth lômi-sîrân ki-ada.”

‘By your leave then, my Lord Councilor. I shall await your summons and bid you a good evening.’

Zigûr bowed his head. 

“Bat abâr-mâ, bâr hê-an.”

‘Travel safely, my lord.’

He spoke to Lorna in the same breath, the two tongues yielding to him without resistance.

“Lorna, see you tomorrow,” he said. 

Despite her ill look and unsettling gut that she couldn't account for, she grinned.

“Yes, see you tomorrow. Thank you again,” she said. 

Hallatar bowed at the waist before the lord. Zigûr bowed his head, then Hallatar drew Lorna with him without another word. He led her back through the bookshelves and through the copper doors of the house, as though a shadow followed that was not his own. 

Once they had passed the doors, cool night air met them. Above, the stars shone in indifferent splendor.

As they came down the steps of the house, Lorna stopped walking. The cold came over her first, a clammy shock that climbed her throat. She gripped Hallatar's arm, pulled to the side, and vomited. 

Hallatar caught her by the arm and pulled her hair back. He said nothing but attended her with a grave care she couldn't name. 

Lorna heaved until there was nothing, not even air in her lungs. When she straightened, her legs were not steady and her head throbbed. Hallatar wiped her face with his cloak, then took her up in his arms.

He brought her to the side of the house where Zîyan and Alvôtin were hitched. He set her upon Zîyan, who turned her head back once and pressed her lips to Lorna's ankle. Lorna leaned down in the saddle, lying on Zîyan rather than riding. 

‘Maybe I had eaten something gone bad?’

She pulled her hood over her face and pressed her head to Zîyan’s neck as Hallatar mounted Alvôtin, then led them away. 

Within the house of lore, the few remaining attendants began to dim the oil lamps and cap their ink wells. Only when the last attendant had departed did Zigûr rise from the lecti. The pleasant, warm smile he had been tending vanished from view. Nothing, save two amber orbs, was visible upon his face. 

He would not have stood in the woman's presence in their first meeting; that would have been folly.

The book she had left on the table, he now lifted, then took as he turned. His long strides brought him before a bookshelf where one open slot gaped like a wound. Zigûr replaced the book then made for the palace entry with long but paced steps. 

‘Not a tongue or woman of Arda. A thing unknown, with a language built in a reasonable pattern. Not an instrument out of tune but a finely tuned thing played in a different room. Yet, it is not a tune I helped shape.’

Zigûr passed from the doors of the house that opened for him on their own. He came down the steps as a shade untouched by starlight and took the palace path. 

Learning the language was hardly a burden, having been one of the more engaging conversations he had participated in for many years. A project, a thing to learn that was utterly new. 

He estimated that he was now proficient in one third of her language and had played down his understanding considerably. But he would need more before his grasp was secure. 

It was a craft then. A new metal to work until it bent to the shape he willed. He had said a week would be needed, in truth he would need only a day more for her tongue. But her tongue alone was insufficient to understand the make of her. The strange thing that had fallen into Arda, outside of Eä. 

The implications of such a tale staggered him imperceptibly. 

‘Does Eru so easily allow such blasphemy?’ A small huff escaped him that lacked any humor. ‘That there is more you have wrought without us. Such is a cruelty I had not thought you capable of.’

He came into the palace proper where an arching colonnade connected the outer wards to the king's house. Zigûr passed the halls with no need for a torch or lamp. Silence was his companion as his shadow slid across pale stone and tiled mural.

His thoughts turned from the divine joke to the more interesting tragedy. Zigûr remarked, without hatred or malice, that the woman was indeed small, plain and very lost. 

If what she claimed was true, and he had ample evidence to suggest so, then what she was remained unanswered. In fact, he had yet to satisfy many more questions. And more pressing was the relation between this lost, small thing, and the disturbances within the music. 

Zigûr held no doubt that she was somehow aligned with disturbances. He was even more certain that Hallatar knew more of her than he had said. But what secrets men kept in the dark always bent for him in the light of his sight. The question was whether the same could be said for worldless women.

The answer was his to know. 

There was time. The woman was desperate to speak with him, joyful to share and so willing to teach. Hallatar had cared for her well and served honorably in bringing her, but he was ill equipped to satisfy her need for speech. 

She would come again. Ask her questions, teach him her speech, and thank him for listening. Zigûr would be warm, welcoming, and ready to ask his own questions when the time was right. For he was ever the proprietor, the guide, the friend. 

A cold grin crossed his face as he passed from moonlight to shadow. The outline of him passed into the mouth of a stairwell, his eyes shining once before they were gone.

CAN YOU BELIVE WE ARE AT THE END OF 9!!! Chapter 10 to be posted soon. Leave a comment about your favorite part of the chapter. I will also draw scenes or characters that are requested. Thank you! - Baby Dragon.

[lildragonstories]

What happens when a modern lady hums a tune she has never heard of, then lands into Ar-Pharazon's Numenor? Will she get into trouble, probably. Will there be familiar faces to guide or mislead her, absolutely.

Oh yea, were going there.

Fanfiction/graphic novel

Sauron x oc

Themes: lore accuracy, trauma, lore faithful Sauron, lore based, Tolkien's unfinished tales, modern OC, adult themes, horror, politics, You can't save him, run girl run, not a romance.

Art done by me! @baby-dragons-art

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Lord Hallatar, son of Zuratar and Henethel, descendant of the houses of Hador.

 170 years of age and 150 years as lore master, whose service to the realm has been in matters of history and genealogy. Such services have elevated him domestically and in small matters of court. 

The Lord's estate in the western fourth tier, and several properties across Númenór, came to him through inheritance. 

Never has he been arrested or charged with a crime. Never has he spoken blasphemy against the crown. Never has he openly spoken in favor of the old ways. 

By all accounts the Lord Hallatar was a loyal Númenórean citizen, upstanding and abiding in the law. 

All of this the High Lord Councilor knew before the seventh bell rang. It had been but a few hours since he heard the second resonance, and not a second was neglected. 

The documentation for the house in the fourth tier, on the western side of the residential ward quarter, was cleanly registered and sanctioned. Built by an ancient ancestor, the home was kept by the family to this day and paid due taxes on time. 

Such information was kept rigorously and maintained for all standing homes in Númenór. More detailed accounts were reserved for high born families and royal apartments. A descendant of Hador, such as Lord Hallatar, was therefore well accounted for in all aspects of his life.  

Other threads of information were collected more readily and discreetly. 

A simple inquiry of those declared loyal King's Men was placed. The information was made available and eagerly offered.

Those declared faithful were even easier to obtain. 

Lord Hallatar's family was marked as faithful to the old ways going back generations. Yet it was noted that Hallatar himself was rarely mentioned in recent records. 

As was expected of a wise man. 

More threads were collected and pulled taut, building the web that circled around Lord Hallatar, one strand at a time. 

An hour and a half after the seventh bell, more news came. 

Atop the eastern administrative tower of the King's House, the High Lord Councilor stood, still as carved marble. One arm tucked behind his back, the other holding before him a ledger of past services to the crown performed by Lord Hallatar. He read the document with ease but not dismissal. Every word was absorbed, every scrap of information consumed. 

The chamber he occupied was flooded with mid afternoon sun. Open, arched windows surrounded the chamber in a full circle. The expanse of Armenelos, Meneltarma and Númenór afar lay before him. High, cool air hummed through the arches, gently stirring open scrolls and documents, all placed precisely, all scoured entirely. 

Incense, sweet and heavy, burned in a hanging votive of brass and copper. The light bent within it in strange shapes, the incense smoke waving and twisting of its own will. 

A swift rapping sounded on the engraved chamber door. 

“Come,” 

The Councilor called, voice pleasant, even as it penetrated hard wood. 

Barizôn entered, a common hood over his head, a scrappy satchel across his chest, dusty sandals on his feet. 

The Councilor had heard those scuffing footsteps two flights of stairs down. 

Barizôn was a scab in the chamber, large and jagged. He bowed low at the waist, unashamed of his appearance, for such was the nature of his craft. The door closed behind him of its own will, untouched by draft. 

The Councilor did not look down or greet the man. He merely continued reading the parchment in hand, undisturbed. 

“My lord,” Barizôn began, still bowing. “The house was surveyed thoroughly. We saw nothing out of place or treasonous.”

 His eyes traveled upward once. Barizôn only saw the hem of the Councilor's sleeve, nothing more. And though no comment was given, Barizôn continued. 

“We spoke to those living nearby. The lord has recently returned from Rómenna, two days past. He has a nephew who manages the home and one scullery maid who dwells there. We are learning more of them as I speak.” 

Barizôn took a small breath. 

“A neighbor had seen a litter arrive at the house after the third bell today. A man the neighbor identified as Lord Athzúng.”

The sleeve hem lowered a fraction. Barizôn lowered his eyes. 

“The lord left the home in the early afternoon. He returned to the palace shortly after alone.”

A moment passed where silence so thick pressed about Barizôn, squeezing for more of his words. None came. 

The parchment was rolled upward then and tapped once against the Councilor's open palm. The sound was small, deliberate, final. His expression was coldly set, carved from stone that had never seen the sun. 

The Councilor was not angered, frightened, or displeased, merely absent of emotion in the deepest sense. The only source of movement was in his eyes. Striated amber and molten gold churning around an island of rounded black. 

He blinked, subduing the blaze. Then, a slow, warm smile slithered across the Councilor's lips. What coldness had lived there melted to the edges of his face. Not gone, never gone, only hidden for the sake of softer minds. 

“Rise, my friend.” Zigûr cooed, his free palm extending outward and down toward Barizôn, rings glinting in the sunlight on his fingers. 

The man straightened, a quiet shallow breath escaping him. When motioned to come forward, relief flooded through Barizôn in rapid waves and he came closer. 

Zigûr saw. 

His hand, heavy and warm, reached toward Barizôn's shoulder and rested there. 

“You have done very well,” Zigûr said, holding Barizôn's gaze. “This information is more than sufficient and shall be rewarded accordingly. Ensure that further reports are sent to me at any time, through all available means. Nothing is too insignificant. Nothing is too vague.”

The hand on Barizôn's shoulder tightened fractionally. The man did not flinch or draw back, standing as though elevated by the contact. 

Zigûr softened his smile. 

“Monitoring this house is necessary for the safety of the realm. I trust no one else in such a task, save those most loyal to me. You will help me in this, yes?”

Barizôn inclined his head fully. “I will see this done and maintained, my lord.”

Zigûr released Barizôn's shoulder then, a simple lifting of his fingers, ending the contact. Barizôn blinked once, the absence settling in him with unwelcome weight.

“Excellent,” Zigûr hummed, maintaining eye contact. “I await your next report.” 

Barizôn bowed once more, suppressing the emptiness in his gut. 

“My lord.” He stepped back a few paces, then turned and departed from the chamber without pause. The door opened for him as he went. 

Zigûr watched until Barizôn was gone entirely. The warmth held on his face precisely as long as it served him. 

As the door to the chamber closed Zigûr glided toward an ebony desk. He set the rolled parchment beside other bound scrolls, each bearing the weight of Lord Hallatar in their ink. 

Silence settled within the chamber, drowning all noise completely. The incense smoke curled inward like the legs of a burning insect. Candles in their sconces ceased to melt the beeswax, suspended in an eternal burning. 

‘The music of the world does not sing without will.’

This thought was the foundation of everything laid upon the desk. Names, ledgers, documentation and loyalties were all useful, but to an end. 

Something in a house belonging to Lord Hallatar, on the fourth tier, disturbed the Ainulindalë. The same disturbance that had resonated in Rómenna seven days past. 

It was not the lord himself. Such was impossible in mortal men. Even the greatest of the Eldar could only perceive echoes of the music. Never touching it directly, not like this. 

Of this Zigûr was now certain: Hallatar had returned from Rómenna two days prior. Upon the eve of Erulaitalë. And he had returned with something. 

His burning gaze narrowed. 

Was it chance that such a disturbance in Rómenna correlated with the fortuitously timed return of this lord to his home?

No. 

Zigûr did not allow himself wistful games of chance or coincidence. He instead proceeded with the understanding that there were forces in the world that existed and had remained passive. The question was whether they would continue to be passive.

His thoughts sharpened and pierced the heart of the matter.  

Hallatar had something that willed the Ainulindalë to sing. He had procured it in Rómenna and brought it back with him. How he obtained it was secondary, what mattered was the source and its intentions. 

There were two plausible possibilities available to Zigûr.

The first and most consequential was that one of his kin, a Maia, had come to Númenór. Such would explain the resonance but placed Zigûr within the realm of discomfort. 

The Valar, distant gods on their remote island, rarely intervened or sent agents unless driven by great need. If they had spied the truth of his designs, one agent would likely not suffice.

Another possibility was that Hallatar had found an object that resonated with the Ainulindalë. This was unlikely as Zigûr would have sensed the object if it had been in Númenór long enough. And the chances of an object with such power existing in Númenór were staggeringly small.

Both scenarios were far-fetched, but not impossible. 

He placed his gold-dusted fingers upon the ebony tabletop, more for stilling a line of thought than from any physical necessity. 

Zigûr did not know what Hallatar held, nor could he peer into the man's home as he would open a chamber door. His sight was far reaching, but not all-seeing. 

What he did know was that the resonance was plucked again today in the early afternoon, near the same time Lord Athzúng departed Hallatar’s home. 

Zigûr knew of Athzúng. He lived in the palace and appeared at court functions on occasion. He was a small man with diminishing uses, but loyal.

There was certainly use for him now. 

The High Lord Councilor remained within his tower for a time. Without word or notice he departed at his leisure, locked the chamber door with a simple small key, then disappeared from the corridor. He was seen for supper at the king's table that night, silent but attentive. Zigûr made no mention of Hallatar, Athzúng, or the disturbance in the Ainulindalë.

When late morning once again settled in shades of pink over Armenelos, Lord Athzúng sat amid the palace high garden, delicately plucking a lute. 

Before him, sprawled like jeweled cats, many women of the court perched on lecti. The lecti were fashioned of polished pale-gold wood, the cushions sewn in deep ocean blue. The women were ladies, wives and daughters of court lords and varying officials. Fine garments clung dramatically from their frames, draping from cushion to the stone floor like waterfalls. Their bodies glittered in the shaded light, every breath and head tilt sparkling with well-arranged adornments. 

Lord Athzúng, eyes lowered to his hands, strummed the lute in one fluid chord, drawing all attention. He smiled to himself, then began to sing. 

His words were Adûnaic, well performed and suitable for the court. Yet few had the ear or the memory to identify its origins. The tune was Elvish, traditionally sung in Quenya. 

The favor of a woman's ear often allowed one to remain relevant and heard in an economy of growth and unease. While many doors were now locked to him in the palace, he found talent purchased favor where words could not. And so, in singing forgotten songs for women with time to spare, Athzúng maintained his standing. 

He remained as moss to the stone, still clinging, still here. Music flowed from his fingers as though the air itself played the tune. 

In his youth he once fancied being a showman. Making his fortune on the stage and singing his name into legend. But no lord wanted a singer for a son. 

His voice, a distinguished tenor, carried through the gardens, as light as a breeze. The ladies before him were utterly enamored, some half dozing in bliss, others watching his hands pluck strings with unending intrigue. 

Three such songs he performed to the delight and pleasure of his audience. As was the habit now, he would play four for them before attending to what little the realm had of him to do. 

His third song strummed to an end. 

Athzúng accepted the softly clipped applause graciously, his smile genuine from the praise.

 Lifting his bright-blue eyes, he noted an additional listener recessed behind the women. Sitting under the same shade but not among them, was Lord Zigûr. 

Athzúng paused mid-smile. He did not know when Lord Zigûr had come. 

The elf-like Councilor sat upon an unoccupied lectus. His robes were of layered gold, red and black, as though the earth's fire had blazed and cooled over him. The quality of his expression was one of assured peace and enjoyment of Athzúng's performance. He applauded quietly, various rings on his fingers chiming faintly. 

Perhaps it was the peppered sunlight in the shade or fatigue, but to Athzúng, Zigûr’s eye seemed to catch brief sparks of light. 

Lord Athzúng did not acknowledge the High Lord Councilor, save in the smallest inclination of his head. 

He played on, the fluidity of his playing untouched by the additional presence. Though Athzúng's thoughts were another matter. 

When the fourth song ended he accepted all praise, then bowed himself away. The women continued their lounging, stretching and sighing softly, unbothered. 

Athzúng held his lute with care, making calm steps to depart from the gardens and into the palace proper- when a voice made him stop. 

“Your playing was well done, my Lord Athzúng.”

The lord looked back, charm bleeding from him as he offered a swift smile, eyes bright. 

Lord Zigûr was still perched upon the lectus, gaze occupied with nothing, perhaps. 

Athzúng bowed fully.

“My Lord Councilor, you honor me with your presence and kind words. I play adequately, the ladies are gracious with their time.” 

Zigûr allowed himself a full smile.

“The ladies are indeed gracious.” He rose then from the lectus to his full height, the top of his head nearly brushing the leaf dense branches above. Zigûr ducked slightly, branches seeming to lean from him, then came to stand beside Athzúng in the open light. 

“Yet, your music should not be made so small. There is great talent in your voice that should not be forgotten.” 

Athzúng bowed his head once more, a genuine humming in gratitude, swallowing the discomfort of Zigûr’s presence behind his teeth. 

He chose to savor the small sweetness of recognition.

“Ah, my lord flatters me. It is my honor to entertain those who will listen. It is a small thing, but pleasant." 

“Of course,” Zigûr cooed. He then took a moment to appreciate a cooler breeze passing them. The momentary break in Zigûr’s attention allowed Athzúng to breathe easier. “Though I find it a shame,” Zigûr continued, walking along the garden path toward the east. Lord Athzúng discovered he was following. “That such talent is not more appreciated. The music played for the king is fine enough yet, lacks… a certain antiquity. ”

Lord Athzúng blinked, though his steps aside Lord Zigûr did not falter, his mind arrested upon a singular word. Antiquity. 

‘He knows… or he suspects.’ his mind yelped. 

Athzúng, for all his courtly wiles, was woefully unprepared to speak on such matters of ‘certain antiquities’ to Lord Zigûr alone. So he did not speak. 

The Councilor stopped beneath an ivy-covered arch, gaze lowering upon Athzúng gradually. The arch separated one side of the garden from another, its structure extending from the palace's outer bastion. 

“Peace, my Lord.” Zigûr raised his hand, voice laced with light amusement. “I do not threaten you.” 

The rising lump in Lord Athzúng's throat and the racing pulse did not agree. 

Zigûr's smile softened. 

“Do not think I have come to harm what beauty you have brought in secret. Such is not to be punished, though our beloved king may disagree.”

Zigûr stepped back into the stony cool of the arch, gold dusted hands raised in admission. One half of the Councilor was dipped in shadow, the other glimmering in sunlight. 

“In some things, he and I do not share commonality.” The arch returned his voice in echoes despite how quietly he spoke. “I would find it more agreeable to hear your singing for the enjoyment of the palace, if not for myself.”

Athzúng stopped walking completely, listening with burning ears. Zigûr raised his brows a fraction.

“Was it not true that such was your wish once, for all to know your talents?”

Not a question arose within him as to how Zigûr could have known that. Much of the Lord Councilor was mysterious and often accepted as natural otherness. Though Athzúng was not disturbed by it, no, his heart leapt with unexpected hope. 

He nodded once. 

“Then none but us need know the true origins of your songs.” Zigûr spoke, voice hushed. 

Unable to look anywhere else, Athzúng stared at Zigûr. “Truly, my lord?” 

The Councilor bowed his head a fraction. 

“Truly. When I passed the gardens, hearing your voice, my heart was stirred.” He placed his right hand over his chest, a plain gold ring on his middle finger catching sunlight. “Such was my intent, to come and hear you and to make my approval known.”

Lord Athzúng wet his lips, readjusting his lute carefully.

“My Lord Councilor honors me. And I thank you for your understanding. I mean no offense to the king. Never would I seek to dishonor his house in ways that belittled him. I have only ever sought to serve him and his household.”

“I know it to be true,” Zigûr assured. “Your loyalty is not questioned and the king shall know of your service, in full.”

Athzúng's eyes widened the smallest, daring to hope, lips tugging at the edges. 

“Should I call upon you to sing, for myself or for the king's pleasure, can I count on you to attend?” Zigûr asked, his voice carrying out and around Athzúng as though the breeze were at his ears. 

“Of course.” Athzúng insisted without delay. “I would serve in any way that pleases.”

Lord Zigûr's expression warmed completely.

“Of that I have no doubt. A man so learned as you deserves recognition, not to be disregarded. Surely it has been some time since you have been properly called upon for your true gifts?” 

At this, the Councilor began to walk under the arch to the other side of the garden. Athzúng followed, the stone-chilled air of the arch filling his lungs.

“In truth, I had been called only yesterday for my use in language… though the matter was fruitless,” Athzúng said, the words escaping his lips far faster than he had time to stop. He silenced himself sharply, appalled by his divulging of what was sworn to discretion. 

“Oh?” Zigûr hummed. He clasped his hands behind his back. As he came forth from the shadows into light his gaze traveled upward toward a waving cypress tree. “What matter was it?”

Athzúng lowered his gaze to the path, readjusted his hold on the lute once more. He wished to cease walking and think, but he did not. 

“An old colleague of mine sought expertise in the old tongue. I had gone, thinking it a simple matter in reviewing genealogical accounts.”

Athzúng stopped, intending to end the explanation there and speak of other things. The silence that followed however, compressed against him. 

“My colleague is a lore master in the keeping of family lines.”

He paused.Yet his will yielded more words under the silence.

“Nothing was intended to dishonor or blaspheme the king.” 

They had come to a stone bench set along the garden wall. Athzúng looked up. He found himself sitting across from the High Lord Councilor, both men seated as equals. 

“None question that your intent was pure, my lord.” Zigûr gestured graciously toward Athzúng, his voice gentle. “Yet, was the matter not simple?" 

The Lord gave a short and uncertain laugh. His hand flexed upon the neck of his lute, what was left of his will withering  beneath Zigûr's question. 

“No, the matter was not simple,” he began. “My colleague is a great man. Generous in all things and in ways I hesitate to be. He has established several homes across Númenór for the less fortunate. One in Rómenna serves the displaced, castaway, or lost coming in from the ports. The house sees fewer souls yearly.”

Athzúng paused, breathing in deeply, organizing his thoughts as best he could. His mind felt as if it were fraying to one line of thought, all else cast away. 

“The lord departed from Armenelos only days past to oversee the house accounts. He brought back one of the lost, a woman, found on the Rómennian cliffs, a descendant of Men. He called upon me to seek her language.” 

The High Lord Councilor's head tilted a degree, the warmth of his eyes deepening. 

“A woman of Men.” Zigûr's brow creased in consideration as his gaze traveled elsewhere.

After a brief silence the Councilor continued, his tone light and calmly questioning. “He called upon you, to speak to a mortal. Yet, Quenya is your craft and surely not her tongue. What need did he have of you then?”

Lord Athzúng nodded enthusiastically, as though relieved. “Indeed, such was my question as well.” He smiled, a hand over his chest. “She spoke no Quenya at all, my Lord. It was most strange. I listened and spoke to her, seeking to aid in any way, yet her tongue was not known to me.” 

“Not known.” Zigûr repeated softly. 

Athzúng hung his head in his admission.

“Yes, my colleague wished for me to seek a root dialect and perhaps trace its origin. But I was unsuccessful. He has told me other linguists have been summoned to assist. Though I am certain the effort is wasted. The woman is merely a trifle at best.”

The amber eyes returned to Athzúng without warning. The man felt displaced, his throat clenching at once. 

“I see,” Zigûr hummed as a morning dove. “Very curious.” 

The garden fell into silence again. What had been shared hung in the air between them, held greedily. Athzúng felt compelled to speak further, to share more of something, anything. But he had said all the thread of his mind allowed. 

Before the moment could become uncomfortable, Zigûr smiled once more. 

“Your colleague is most generous, I am sure he is diligent in his care of the woman.” 

Zigûr rose then, folds of layered fabric cascading from his arms like dark flows of molten earth. Lord Athzúng rose with him. 

“My thanks for your words and discretion, Lord Athzúng. We shall speak again on matters of music and antiquity. Until then, I bid you a pleasant morning.”

“And to you, Lord Councilor, thank you.”

Athzúng bowed at the waist as Zigûr passed. The Councilor only inclined his head then stepped away, back through the garden arch. 

Lord Athzúng watched him go, even for a time after Zigûr was gone. Eventually he sank onto the bench, lute set down, his forehead pressed into his hands. A thin breath hissed through his lips.

“Discretion…” the word was weak and whispered. 

Hallatar had called upon him for the same quality the High Lord Councilor thanked him for. Hallatar had entrusted him with discretion and confidence. Now how easily Athzúng had broken both in the span of a garden walk. 

He sat, immovable and silent. Morning passed on slowly for Athzúng. 

For Zigûr, time moved like a precisely calculated thing he observed and accounted for. 

From the garden he passed through corridors of bright polished stone, toward his study in the administrative tower. His machinations had not ceased since the gardens, since this morning, or the night prior. Athzúng had been most useful, though the knowledge he bore was certainly not what Zigûr had anticipated. 

Hallatar had something indeed. No relic of power, no calling resonance, but a mortal. A small, plain mortal. 

Zigûr could not yet guarantee that this woman was not a Maia or the source of the resonance. Yet how well had he passed for mortal in years past, deceiving countless souls? 

While he was still unconvinced, he could not be certain until more was known. Until he held the evidence in his own hands. 

Even so, no mortal could wield the Ainulindalë, it was impossible. 

The steps of the administrative tower rose between white stone walls adorned in banners of gold and black. Open windows along the left corridor carried in the late morning breeze, brushing past the banners silently. Incense smoke from circular brass basins billowed before the tower threshold. 

He ascended the tower steps. For a Númenórean man, the climb would have taken ten minutes. For Zigûr, it took three. He had neither run nor skipped steps, ascending each in turn. 

At the pinnacle, he removed a key from his sleeves, unlocking his chamber doors. 

Inside the chamber his presence expanded like the opening of great wings, the open air of the tower brushed back the folds of his robes and the braided hair on his shoulders.

Beside the chamber door and arching shelves of stored scrolls, a length of embroidered sash with a tasseled end hung. He pulled on the sash once.  

Between the pull of the sash and the knock on the door that came, he wrote a letter. 

Barizôn, 

Lord Hallatar and his household are sheltering a woman of Men. 

Watch the house for this woman, any who leave and enter, and report all findings to me. 

Do not interfere, merely observe. 

Zigûr was propped over the ebony desk, fingers open and spider-like on the wood. Before him lay the whole of Hallatar's life on parchment. And while that was sufficient to an end, it was not enough for him anymore. 

Three timid knocks rapped at the door. 

“Come,” he called, curling his fingers back from the tabletop. 

The chamber door opened. A servant in the palace's employ entered. Zigûr did not raise his eyes to meet them, nor was his tone harsh or outright cold. 

“You will go to Barizôn,” he said, producing a folded and stamped piece of parchment between two fingers, hand extended downward.

 "You will deliver this to him within the hour.”

The servant, a thin young boy, stared at him, barely hiding the tremor in his knees with practiced effort. 

Zigûr lifted his gaze once to the boy. 

The boy gasped softly, eyes widening before he came forward. He rose to his tiptoes, took the letter, then backed away to the door bowing.

“At once my lord.” The boy hiccuped. 

Zigûr made no comment or expressed displeasure, merely lowering his gaze to the table. He gingerly turned a piece of parchment, reading its contents, then spoke.

“When you return,” Zigûr said, tone unchanged. “Expect supper and drink in your barracks from my table.” 

The boy paused, looking back toward the lord as though he were doused in icy water. Zigûr allowed one small smile to grace his lips, eyes still upon the parchment. 

“My treat.”

The boy's apprehension in the lord's presence melted at once. A large grin stretched from ear to ear across his face. 

“Thank you, my lord. Thank you!” 

No reply was made to the boy for his thanks. Even after the door was closed and eager footsteps receded, only the quiet satisfaction of a tool well appraised lingered.  

The letter was delivered to Barizôn as instructed and many reports were sent or relayed in person across three days. 

As Athzúng had said, several more linguists had come to visit Hallatar. Each a master in a different tongue. Sindarin, Mannish dialects from the east, even obscure Dwarvish approximations were brought into the home. 

Yet none were successful. 

Every master, teacher and scholar was asked about their visit to the kind Lord Hallatar, in their own time and by different hands. 

Each testimony was the same. 

A woman of Men dwelt with Hallatar, under his care, unable to speak any language they could recognize or find or trace roots to.  

When asked, in passing, about the woman, no man had anything remarkable to share. She was a simple thing, her language strange but hardly worth the errand.

Zigûr heard each account, cultivating every word, drawing the map of this mortal woman in his mind. 

It was a small map, inconsequential. And that was most telling. 

How often had the devastating and merciless been regarded as inconsequential? Such assumptions were not his to make. 

On the evening of the fourth day after the second resonance, more news came. The High Lord Councilor was walking among Master Masons, setters and carpenters with their apprentices. 

Dusk settled above them in smoldering purple as Zigûr gestured outward from a high open terrace. They stood about him as moths to a flame, attentive and busily writing down his words.

The upper Bailey, the tallest of the king’s house, was being discussed. Its wide space served as occasional grounds for archery and arms training. The vantage over the palace and Armenelos allowed the men a reminder of what they were defending. Now however, other uses were being prepared that were far grander in purpose. 

A palace servant in Zigûr’s service came to the threshold of the terrace, holding a lantern and a weighty expression. He did not approach, but stood by, waiting to be seen.

The High Lord Councilor lowered his hand from the heavens, finishing his declaration for future plans as though prophesying. He then listened to the queries of the masters, and their apprentices. Zigûr considered each man with utter patience and interest. It was difficult to determine whether these men were the Councilor’s advisors or friends as his attention was given in careful portions, and eagerly received in turn.

When at last, all was spoken of and settled, the High Lord Councilor bid the men goodnight then drew near to his servant. 

The man spoke softly, eyes downcast in the shadow of Zigûr.

“Barizôn awaits you in your study, my Lord. He was most eager to speak with you.”

The Councilor seemed satisfied in expectation as though Barizôn were a long-awaited guest finally come in the deepening hour. Zigûr thanked his servant then dismissed him. 

Barizôn was not kept waiting long as, before the last hues of purple sank into sparkling blue of night, Zigûr had arrived. 

Barizôn bore his craft well. His tunic was unremarkable, his face unsupposing, his hands open, blackened at the tips and waiting. He looked as one left in the sun to dry, utterly discarded and leathery. The man bowed at once, averting his gaze. 

The High Lord Councilor entered the chamber like the sun had risen early. Barizôn could not look at him for a time. 

“My Lord.” He breathed, his words swift and assured. 

“Barizôn,” the Councilor purred, walking past the man. “You have come late. You must be thirsty.” 

Zigûr lifted a silver carafe from an offering table, fruit, bread and cheese arranged on a platter. He poured water into a brass cup, then offered it to the man.

Barizôn accepted without hesitation. 

“Yes, thank you, my lord.” He drank greedily. 

Zigûr turned from the offering table, watching Barizôn with measured patience. 

When Barizôn finished the drink, Zigûr took the cup and refilled it again. 

“I trust you and your men are well,” the Councilor said softly. “The toll of being so displaced from your homes on this task must be difficult.” 

Zigûr turned to Barizôn once more, holding the cup aloft for him. “Rest assured, all hardships shall be rewarded fully.”

Barizôn took the cup, one careful glance upward in thanks to the lord. “I need no reward,” Barizôn admitted. “Save the safety of the realm and that of my family. Yet, you do me honor, my lord.”

Zigûr bowed his head once then sat in his high-backed chair before the man. 

“Of course.” He gestured toward Barizôn. “But come, tell me what brings you to me, so weary.” 

Barizôn nodded eagerly, his hands finally reaching for the satchel across his chest.  

“I have likenesses,” he said, approaching Zigûr upon his seat. 

From the dusted satchel Barizôn drew forth pieces of parchment and offered them to Zigûr, like a man bearing tribute. 

The Councilor's gaze descended upon the first charcoal sketch. 

On the page was the likeness of a finely dressed, Númenórean man. His jaw was strongly set, eyes soft, hair of graying black. He was bending over the loosely sketched outline of a sapling, watering it. The perspective was to the left, elevated either from a neighboring home or some high vantage.

“Hallatar.” Zigûr raised a golden brow. Barizôn nodded. 

“Yes, my lord. He tends his gardens in the morning light daily.”

Zigûr made no further comment and carefully placed the drawing upon the offering table.

The next sketch was a woman, also Númenórean. The curve in her face, the cut of her jaw and her eyes suggested she was a descendant of unremarkable lineage. She was drawn walking, basket in hands, hair braided up in the current style. The perspective was behind and to the right of her. 

“The scullery maid, her name is Delphêl.” Barizôn said, setting down his brass cup. 

Zigûr placed the drawing upon the offering table. 

The next page bore that of a young man, Númenórean as well, dressed in decent robes and reading a book on a pavilion bench. The perspective was directly in front. 

“Rozêm,” Zigûr said, needing no clarification. The resemblance between him and Hallatar was telling enough. A nod from Barizôn confirmed it. 

He placed the page on the offering table. 

And then came the last page. 

There upon the parchment was sketched the profile of a woman, perched in a window, arms holding her legs. The perspective was looking upward, making the face partially obscured by the arm. But there was enough for Zigûr to see. 

The woman was young, hair wavy and wild, eyes looking out and away. Her expression grievous. A small thing in the window's breadth. 

Zigûr stilled. So minute was his reaction that it passed for mere breathing in Barizôn's eyes. 

“That is her,” Barizôn said assuredly. “The mortal.”

The Councilor leaned forward in his seat only an inch. His gaze scoured the sketch, as though there were a flaw to be found. 

“Who drew these?” Zigûr asked quietly, not unkindly, yet there was an edge buried beneath his silk. 

Barizôn bowed his head. 

“By my hand were they made.” He had no fear of the question, only wishing to show humility before his lord. Zigûr did not question this. Barizôn was a masterfully trained artist, serving various patrons before coming into Zigûr's service. His talent was without flaw. The likenesses were down to the freckle. 

“It was difficult to draw her,” Barizôn admitted. “The others leave the home for a time. She never does. I was fortunate. Tonight was the first time I had seen her. As night fell, she took to the window, just looking out.”

Zigûr did not raise his head from the page as Barizôn spoke. 

“A name?” he asked, breath just grazing the page. 

Barizôn smiled to himself, as though he had kept the most valuable news until now.

“Lorna, my lord. I had heard it from one of the linguists. No title, no family name.”

Zigûr blinked once, finally. His gaze adjusted upon the drawing, absorbing the name to fit what he could see of the face. He found it did. 

After several seconds of consideration, the High Lord Councilor lifted his eyes at last, an endearing smile on his lips. 

The page was not placed upon the offering table. 

“Exemplary work, my friend,” Zigûr said, his tone proud but even.“This will serve well. Best to have a face with a name than rumors and words. Would you not agree?"

Barizôn returned the smile at once. “I would, my lord. A shame it is not a more interesting face to draw,” Barizôn said, still smiling.

Zigûr studied Barizôn for a moment in stone-like stillness. The man felt immediately uneasy. He could not have said why.

“Indeed,” the Councilor hummed. He stood then, parchment still in hand. From his free palm he produced a satin pouch laden with mirian. “For your services tonight, and for your family.” 

Barizôn's eyes widened.

“My lord is too kind.” 

“And you are too valuable to wither away, come. Take what you have earned.” 

The man hesitated only a moment more before receiving the pouch. The weight of the wealth forced Barizôn to hold the pouch with two hands. 

Zigûr tilted his head kindly. 

“Go now, rest, eat. Return to your task tomorrow when you have recovered.”

Barizôn bowed, the motion weighted by his treasure. 

“As you command, my lord. Thank you again.” 

Zigûr saw Barizôn to the door of his chambers, ensuring the man left with his prize, bidding him a good evening. 

He ensured the corridors were empty, ensured silence held firm. When the Councilor was certain, he closed the door to his study and locked it. 

The light in his face was eclipsed, beauty giving way to the cold truth beneath. 

He lifted the parchment, bringing the sketch of the woman to eye level, his rounded pupils thinning to slits.

There upon the page was a mortal woman, holding her legs, looking outward to nothing. 

Only that was not what Zigûr saw. 

The sketch did not divulge the entirety of her face, the arm obscuring the mouth and jaw down. Yet he could see enough to know… this was not a mortal. 

The thought offended him. 

No, she was mortal, entirely so. Zigûr had seen enough of the children of Ilúvatar to recognize the subtle differences in race and their varying facial features. All had their tells. 

But she… did not. 

‘Impossible,’ his mind hissed. 

She was mortal, the shape of the eyes and the lack of quality there confirmed that. The slight slope of her shoulders, the bridge of her nose, her fingers gripping the elbow. All of it was as expected. And yet not. 

It was plain she was not Maia, he was certain of that. No Maia would be so careless with their forms in the open. Yet still, the woman was… wrong. Not in the way he could be wrong if he were to forget himself, if the shape he wore were to lose its coherence. She was wrong in that her structure was not what he had seen before. 

‘Impossible,’ he asserted again. Zigûr had seen all. He had since the beginning of time, since before Arda and its making. Every race he knew, every creature he helped shape. No flora or fauna, mountain or stream was a stranger to him. 

And yet here, on parchment, he met strangeness. 

The differences in her mortality were so subtle, so small that any, even the wise would have missed it. 

He could not miss this. But he could not place it either. 

His head tilted, a gesture of such studied grace it bordered on grandeur. The shadow of his hand ghosting over his own jaw as if to fill the gaps of her face in his mind.

Any image he conjured to complete her appearance was insufficiently unknown to him and could not make her whole. The fact of such a thing was unsettling. His mind, insufficient. 

He. Unable to solve her face. 

Words escaped him in disbelief. Not Adûnaic, Quenya or Sindarin, something else. 

He would not admit it to anyone or give reason to suspect but… Zigûr was shocked. And in his shock he did not bother with the mask of pleasing language. Such was inefficient. 

Zigûr did not destroy the parchment, nor smudge the charcoal in rage. He went to his lectern instead and carefully placed the page down, weighing it with iron bars, flattening its surface. 

He stood at his full height. The shadow of his presence falling across the lectern completely.

This he knew. 

There was a woman in a house on the fourth tier that he could not fully identify the lineage of. She spoke a language none recognized, with a name that did not follow any pattern of the known world's nomenclature. And twice now, a disturbance of the Ainulindalë was made in her vicinity.

Simple, plain, small. 

He laughed at the absurdity of those words. 

His fingers pressed upon the table, long and slender. The burning gaze upon the sketch like a torch held in the dark.

“What are you, lost one?” he questioned the page beneath him. The length of his hand lifting to hover over the likeness. 

There was no malice or hatred in his voice, only depthless will. A will that had aided in creation, a will assured in its knowledge because it had seen all. 

His hand helped shape the world. 

Only now the world held something he could not account for.

The molten gaze narrowed, his mind coiling around one word. 

“Lorna.”

Chapter 8 to be posted soon. Leave a comment about your favorite part of the chapter. I will also draw scenes or characters that are requested. Thank you! - Baby Dragon.

[lildragonstories]

What happens when a modern lady hums a tune she has never heard of, then lands into Ar-Pharazon's Numenor? Will she get into trouble, probably. Will there be familiar faces to guide or mislead her, absolutely.

Oh yea, were going there.

Fanfiction/graphic novel

Sauron x oc

Themes: lore accuracy, trauma, lore faithful Sauron, lore based, Tolkien's unfinished tales, modern OC, adult themes, horror, politics, You can't save him, run girl run, not a romance.

Art done by me! @baby-dragons-art

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

Chapter 6

The litter arrived exactly at third bell. Throughout the city, an echoing gong rang at the passage of every hour. It was said that the elves crafted the sweetest bell song, some claiming they made struck metal sing like birds. Even so, the men of Anadûnê were assured none compared to the deep thrum of bronze striking bronze above Armenelos. 

It was a measure of pride to wake and sleep with such beauty, knowing the sound was wrought by one's own people. The finest bells were housed in the upper tiers, polished daily, their gleam as bright as starlight in the day, glowing like fireflies come night. 

Hallatar stood at the threshold of his home, pink sunlight brushed across his face, blue eyes alight. He had no need of bell chime to know of Lord Athzúng's coming. Long acquaintance had told him the Lord would be punctual and the lord was nothing if not consistent in his ways. 

Hands behind him, Hallatar surveyed the stone-carved courtyard. Small greenery and extinguished lanterns served as humble but appropriate decoration. The home had been erected from a natural slope of bedrock. Its dome-shaped roof was painted a brilliant coral blue, the walls and supports carved or inlaid with glittering, dressed stone. Other dwellings of similar build clung along Armenelos’ incline, following the flowing cobbled street like a current across the city. 

Guarding the courtyard entry above the cobbled street, two mineral eagles were perched. Their wings were outstretched, welcoming those who passed, and judging those who entered. The litter was gently lowered in their shadow. 

Four litter carriers stepped back from their burden, shoulders slicked with perspiration as they bowed.  

From the veiled interior folds of rusty-hued fabric spilt forth. Lord Athzúng emerged, a testament in the flesh, wearing a smile that had opened more doors in Armenelos than his words could have. His eyes held the light of day, shining and always seeking. 

“Hallatar!” Athzúng called, his voice lyrical and pleasant in the way learned tongues were, his in particular carrying the undertones of blessed speech. Ring-adorned fists rested on his hips, copper bracers winking like sparks - ever swift to display the current courtly apparel. Athzúng's frame occupied the courtyard entryway as though a great tree had sprung forth overnight, hung with scarlet fruit. The eagles were unmoved by his presence. 

A rolling chuckle loosed from Hallatar as he extended his arms outward.

“Athzúng. The sun shines well upon you.” 

The lord crossed the courtyard in three quick, certain strides. He grasped Hallatar's forearm then embraced the lore master completely. 

“And upon you. Though I have not seen your face under sunlight in some time. I feared your gallivanting had done you in, at last.”

Hallatar clasped his hand upon Athzúng's broad back, smiling behind his peppered beard. “Ah- gallivanting keeps me young, my friend. Perhaps you should try it. I see silver in that sea of gold.”

Lord Athzúng stood in the embrace, running a swift hand through his curls. “Perhaps,” he said, charm unwavering. “Not all can be as dignified in their age as you. If the splendor of our city did not hold my heart, then I would surely wander Arda alongside you.” 

“There is yet time for it.” Hallatar released Athzúng from their embrace, his hand gesturing within. “We shall cast off our robes of duty and wear the garb of younger men. See great sights and talk of distant mountains, crossing the seas and finding their treasures.” 

Lord Athzúng entered the home reverently, his demeanor softening as he crossed the threshold. Entering, for him, was like stepping into a dance he wished to remember. His smile was weighed by more than years and memory. This smile was not dressed for courtly or expectation but given in familiarity and comfort. 

“Such are my wants,” he said, looking into the entry hall. His gaze fell upon books, odd items and certain tapestries that knew him in turn. He held them in high regard, though the itemswere silent and still. “And they shall be mine to squander again. But come, you have called me and I came- tell me what matters of Quenya vex you.”

Hallatar led Athzúng into the receiving chamber where three cups of tea, fruit and other delights had been arranged on a low table between cushioned benches. The chamber held a delicate paleness through the western facing windows. The light passing through the cut crystal glass, faint rainbow casting upon the grapes and cups. Athzúng thanked his host then sat and partook of the offerings. 

Hallatar briefly excused himself, speaking  to his nephew and Delphêl, who stood by the dining hall threshold. 

“Please see to the boys outside with refreshment,” he said to Rozêm, then to Delphêl. “Please ensure she is ready to be seen and bring her down.” 

Both bowed then departed, attending to their tasks as Hallatar returned to Athzúng. He seated himself across the table, lifted a teacup to his lips and drank. Rosemary-ginger tea filled his mouth and mind, as though making space for thought. 

Nodding once, he lowered his cup, drew a slow breath, then spoke.

“I have come across a matter of linguistic intrigue during my recent gallivanting,” he began, tone light and deprecating in its own amusement. “One that, for all of my knowledge, bears no fruit for understanding.” 

Athzúng huffed mid-chew, his laugh brief but bubbling. “Given your ability to grasp the simplest of languages, I am not surprised." Both men scoffed comfortably. 

Hallatar laid down his cup then pinched a grape from a silver bowl. He delayed eating it. 

“I am stiff in the practice of tongues, it is true. Ever have I leaned on your better judgment in such things, and have never found it lacking,” he said, appraising his guest under bushy brows. 

“My cup overflows with your praise.” Athzúng raised his hands, palms upward. “Fill it any more and Delphêl will have a lake to clean.” Hallatar glanced over his shoulder in genuine anxiety, the two men quitting their amusement. 

“Though you are one of few men who call on me for the blessed speech now. My talents are spent on poetry for courtly women and translation of forsaken ledgers. None of which truly require Quenya, but my mouth is the king's.” His words ran dry, quenched by a long sip of tea.

Hallatar ate the grape at last, mindfully chewing. 

He had known Ar-Pharazôn's tastes centered on Númenórean language, craft, and ideology long before he was crowned king. Yet it never failed to give him pause when Hallatar heard of how much the king had changed over the years. 

The grape’s sweetness soured on his tongue. 

“I understand,” Hallatar said. “I am sure the ladies of court endure your poetry with grace.” 

Athzúng hummed behind his teacup. “Most do.” 

A moment of silence was held. Tea and grapes, cheese and cured meat consumed thoughtfully under pale light. 

“So,” Athzúng continued, setting his cup down, as though to halt his thoughts completely. “This matter of yours, what documents require my attention?” A smile graced his lips, quick and simple. 

Hallatar swallowed. 

“Ah. I expect she'll be along momentarily.” His cup was back in his hand, at his mouth.  

Athzúng blinked, head tilting a degree. 

“She'll…?”

Hallatar did not elaborate, only offering a small, cheeky grin that peeked past his teacup. “Yes.”

Athzúng leaned back on his cushion, brows furrowed but mildly amused. His large arms crossed over his chest, bronze bracers clinking together. 

“My curiosity has reached its zenith, my friend. Is all parchment female now or has your humor cooled with your drink?”

Hallatar's shoulders shook. A laugh escaped him, heartier than he had planned. When he recovered himself, brushing away beads of tea from his beard, he spoke.  

“You must forgive me, I do not seek to torment you with my vagueness. But the matter requires some delicacy and… a mind I can trust for discretion."

Athzúng blinked, his amusement adjusting. “Discretion…” he repeated as though the word were a poisonous animal in his hands. 

He could not inquire further as, from the entry hall, footsteps came toward them. Delphêl entered the receiving chamber, hands clasped before her, expression chilled as a child followed her in. Only the child was not a child at all - she was a woman.

“Pardon me, my lords,” Delphêl curtsied slowly, eyes on the floor. “I bring Lord Hallatar's guest, Lorna.” 

The woman stood there, not moving, uncomfortable, in a garment far too large for her. Delphêl nudged her, pointing to the open seat at the other side of the table, expression displeased at best. 

The woman looked a bit startled then walked forward, holding fistfuls of her skirt with bandaged hands. 

Athzúng watched her as she passed. He had seen men of the mainland before, Eldar too, but never one in Armenelos. Or one so small. His gaze cut back to Hallatar as the woman settled, stuffing the gown under the table. She made a noise of agitation in mumblings he did not know. 

“... This is your matter requiring discretion.” 

Hallatar inclined his head, meeting Athzúng's eyes steadily. 

“Yes,” he replied, then welcomed Lorna with a warmed expression. She looked between them, hands in her lap, shoulders pulled in. To Hallatar she returned the nod, to Athzúng, she watched, uncertain. 

Small, pale, hair dark and unkempt, eyes wide and green. Scrapes on her face, hands bandaged. 

‘A plain thing.’

Athzúng frowned as he looked at her, searching her face as though he missed some grand importance. He didn't.

Lorna returned the gaze, furrowed her brows, then mirrored his appraisal. She seemed put off by his scrutiny, and had no reservations on hiding it. 

Athzúng raised his brows at her equal judgement of him. 

‘Bold.’

He then ran his ringed hand down his golden-bearded jaw. 

“Hallatar, what is it you wish me to do?” Athzúng inquired, tone genuinely curious if not bewildered. 

At this, the lore master placed his hands upon the table, speaking calmly as he would to a shying horse. 

He knew to be cautious in answering. More than just her appearance made him hesitant. 

“This woman was found in Rómenna, wandering above the cliffs. A lost one taken into my household yet no one could determine from where she came,” he said, not mentioning the conditions she was found in. 

‘Healthy, well-fed, unsunburned. Her garments as unknown as her tongue.’

“I wish to return her to her people as soon as possible. Though, as I said, the matter escapes my capabilities.” He raised his hands, shrugging. “I need your help to discover her language.” 

Athzúng blinked once. The request, taken at face value, sounded simple - generous, even. Hallatar was known for his charity toward the less fortunate of Númenor; his deeds had even been recognized by the court for a time. Yet, it seemed the rumors of his generosity extending further than his own people were not exaggerated.

“I… understand, I believe,” Athzúng mulled over his words as if they tasted wrong. “Your kindness has led you far, yet I wonder if it has reached its threshold,” he said briskly. “You know I would assist you in any way I am able. What confuses me is your reasoning for my talents. She is not Eldar, she is… very much of the races of men and likely speaks their tongue. I agree the matter requires delicacy but not mine, Hallatar. Perhaps it would be wiser to return her to Rómenna and lay the matter down.”

Hallatar disregarded Athzúng's last suggestion without comment but nodded, wanting to hear the rest of it. He gestured toward Lorna respectfully. She leaned away slightly despite it. He continued. 

“It may seem so, but I did not summon you for spoken Quenya alone,” he paused, taking a small breath.“Her language is not of mortal men, or of the Eldar, or of any race I have heard. It is different. Yet there is cohesion and reason in it that I cannot unravel.”

Athzúng frowned as though he had smelt curdled milk, but allowed Hallatar to speak further. 

“I wish for you to hear her, to help determine what her root language may be. Then, if you find similarities, her tongue may be traced or bridged.” 

The man across from Hallatar readjusted in his cushion though no adjustment was needed. Athzúng exuded Númenórean discipline and grace, though there was a quality of his gaze that seemed spent. His eyes lowered from Hallatar to the knifed cheese on the table, the blade half in yellow flesh.

“What you ask is not easy, not even for those learned in common tongues.” Athzúng warned. “What commerce made between Numenor and men of the mainland requires strict documentation.”

Athzúng saw his reflection in the silver knife plunged into the cheese. His face was distorted, slightly melted in the rusty red of his own garments. 

Many a debate, study or seeming, fruitless venture had taught Athzúng that Hallatar never pursued anything he did not deem worthy. And though this child of men was certainly odd, Athzúng had learned to dwell in gardens of patience with Hallatar, reaping sweet fruits for his effort. 

“You would not ask this of me were the matter simple. I will hear her, if it pleases you. But know I will not listen, nor speak lightly.” Athzúng's gaze sliced back to Hallatar. “You have my discretion if I have yours.” 

Hallatar inclined his head once more. “You have my word. What is spoken here will not leave this table.” 

Athzúng nodded, shoulders easing a fraction, but his graveness remained. He turned on the cushion, his bright eyes steady down the bridge of his nose, concentrating on her. Lorna raised a dark brow back at him, expression flat. 

“Lorna.” Hallatar called softly. Her name in his mouth softened her marginally, turning her attention to him. His hands made a gesture from the chest, up, then over his mouth. 

“Speak, child.”

Lorna recognized the gesture, nodded once, then looked back to Athzúng.

After a moment of stiff stillness, she opened her mouth and spoke. 

Several sounds, careful and brief, one after another left her mouth. Her face expressed itself freely, her body however, was unwilling to participate. The girl looked like a hand puppet. Athzúng leaned forward, listening intently. He immediately characterized the sounds being similar to a bird cry he could not name, or a foreign instrument out of tune. Familiar but wrong. 

She stopped, eyes cutting between them, lips pressing together thinly. Hallatar made the gesture again, encouraging her and glancing at Athzúng periodically. 

The lord squinted, then closed his eyes and turned his head away. Not in offense, but to hear her fully.

Lorna faltered mid-sound. She looked to Hallatar, distressed. He repeated the gesture, a soft hum in his mouth. His eyes were soft and smile assured. She took a breath then continued. 

In Athzúng's hearing the sounds resembled hissing with a muffled, melodic quality. Each fragment was uttered in a rhythmic seamless braiding.

Beat, slur, beat. Beat, slur, beat. 

Athzúng was not entirely offended by the sounds, though there were many he disliked. 

Her Rs were far too harsh for his taste and the hissing grated on what Quenya had smoothed. To his fascination and frustration nothing was familiar to him, nothing had relation to Quenya. 

He would note, despite himself, that there was a distant catch. Like a childhood chant being played in another room. The tune buried far below her pronunciation and rhythm. But they were not consistent enough to confirm a common root tongue. 

When Lorna stopped Athzúng opened his eyes and held her in them with hesitation. 

‘What manner of tongue can produce such weaving?’

He was not enamored by her speaking as one would be by Quenya or any of the Elven dialects, though her speech was intriguing. Its register was too muffled, too segmented. 

His initial thought was to dismiss the language as barbaric and conclude that Hallatar's intentions were generous but hopeless. Which was true.

The girl uttered mere sounds and nothing more. 

Yet, despite this, his instinct bore the burden of curiosity.

He lifted his chin at her. She frowned distastefully. Athzúng did not remark on her poor manners. 

He glanced toward the windows, the entry hall then back to Lorna. Satisfied that they were unobserved, he wet his lips and spoke. 

"Lambelya ú-harë cemen nin. Lá polinyë lasta lindënya sesse.”

‘Your tongue holds no ground for me. Nor can I hear my own song in it.’

Lorna's distaste halted as he spoke, her demeanor easing. It was as if he had said something pleasant and calming. Athzúng tilted his head.

To his surprise she was able to catch the difference between Adûnaic and Quenya. Though that was no great feat, her ability to distinguish between them suggested intelligence he had not expected. Athzúng continued. 

"Ma polilyë lasta ni sí?”

‘Can you hear me now?’

Her face did not alight with understanding or sudden clarity. She watched him, in a mildly generous fashion, but did not seem to understand him. 

Athzúng hummed, leaned back, then faced Hallatar who raised his brows in quiet question.  

Hallatar had not expected Lorna to understand the language - that would have been remarkable. And while he was enthusiastic that she had a response to Quenya at all, his hopes were deeply rooted in Athzúng's assessment.  

“What do you think?” 

Athzúng shook his head slowly, ringed fingers stroking his golden chin. Hallatar's heart hung on that. Lorna's grimace returned. 

“I think she does not speak Quenya,” he said plainly. “Nor are the roots of it in her speech.” Teacup in hand, the liquid now lukewarm, Athzúng held it with what seemed like greater interest. 

“Ah…” Hallatar's gaze hardened on the grapes gathered in the silver dish.“I see.”

Athzúng regarded him briefly, eyes piercing but holding in their blue the depths of a softer man. After a moment he lowered his tea and spoke. 

“It is as you said however,” he sighed softly. “There is structure in her sounds, and intelligence behind them. Though I cannot determine what language she speaks, I can say for certain, Quenya has no relation to it.” Hallatar met his gaze, and only then did Athzúng's bearing falter. 

"I am sorry, my friend.” 

A smile, hiding no malice or upset, graced Hallatar's lips. The motion was so inconsequential and natural that the previous disappointment seemed only minor by comparison. Athzúng blinked once, a smaller, reminiscent smile on his face. How often had he seen such a smile in the gardens of patience when a fruitless venture was indeed fruitless. 

“It is but a small thing,” Hallatar insisted. “You are one of several linguists I have called, each specializing in a different tongue. Where you have said no, another may say yes. That is not something to apologize for. You have done what you could, and I am grateful, truly.”

Athzúng inclined his head. He should not have been surprised to learn that other linguists had been called. Hallatar was diligent in all he did. Yet, this particular diligence seemed a waste of resources. 

‘Her language and origins are curious, but hardly warranting a full investigation. Is every lost pup's bark to be understood?” 

“I am humbled by you and… your charge.” He nodded toward Lorna. She was unmoved. “I hope your other linguists have better fortune than I. Though I wonder, Hallatar, is it charity alone that requires such attention?” Athzúng leaned forward, brow wrinkling in question. 

Hallatar waved a hand for reassurance. “Only that, in this world, so many are lost never receiving a chance to be heard. I merely wish that her chance is not missed. A selfish want, but true.”  

Athzúng held Hallatar's gaze, his eyes near-cold and apprehensive. “While I mean no offense, she is only a common woman of the races of men. You would find better favor in court and more resources if you sent off such strays. Attend your own people… and yourself.”

The lore master tilted his head just so. Athzúng withstood it. 

For a moment the chamber was quiet, holding the two who spoke and the one who endured them. The pale, rainbow light from the high-arched windows allowed both men to see each other clearly. There was nothing between them save the weight of what had been spoken. 

‘He does not understand,’ Hallatar thought. ‘Nor can he, not until more is known.’

Hallatar then opened his mouth to speak. 

“If the court, in its wealth and resources, disapproves of generosity extended to the broken and voiceless of Arda, then it is not a court I wish to serve.” 

Athzúng did not flinch, though grievous recognition settled in him. Across the years and various voyages, Hallatar had changed little. The kingdom grew, expanded its territory, reign, and pleasures to the point of near unrecognizability. And yet, here Hallatar remained. Still the same man. 

Knowing this was both a rare comfort and a sorrow in Athzúng. 

“You know your own heart,” Athzúng said, his voice not losing its authority, merely adjusting in softness. He ran his hands over the outer folds of his robes, arranging them with care. Another sip of tea was respectfully taken before he stood, rising from the cushion. 

Hallatar stood as well, straightening his garments as he did. He did not look away from the lord, or turn his back to him. He was open, calm and accepting. Only his eyes held any well of grief and understanding.  

Athzúng spoke on. 

“Far be it from me to dissuade you. Yet -” his lips pressed together, something in him searched for depth but settled on plainness. “Be cautious, that is all I ask. I only want to see you in the palace for recognition of your worth. And nothing else.”

Hallatar smiled. Athzúng was nothing if not a man set in his ways. Loyal to his king, people, and ever so to his friends. Hallatar rounded the table and placed his hand on Athzúng's shoulder. 

“Of that, I hold.” 

Lord Athzúng departed the home shortly thereafter. Both men embraced in farewell outside the courtyard, not a trace of disdain or resentment between them. 

Lorna watched them from the receiving chamber window, arms crossed, a restlessness in her chest. Rainbow light cut across her chest and face, eyes firmly glaring. 

Though Hallatar seemed to trust that man, Lorna's impression of him was disappointing, if not mood ruining. 

His appearance was pleasant, voice patient, she just didn't care for how he looked at her. Like a thing. 

She turned from the window. Her tea went cold, her food untouched. 

Hallatar had made the nature of this meeting as clear as he could. He had called people, experts on language, maybe. He wanted them to talk to her. 

‘Gawk, he means,’ she thought bitterly, though she wasn't mad at him or blaming him for the man's behavior. Not everyone was a peach. 

She left the receiving chamber and moved toward the stairs, skirts dragging as she walked, taking her time. 

Lorna had been in the house two nights and a morning, finally getting a lay of the land. 

The library door was opened to her left. All manners of scrolls and books were stored there, a few of them had been opened and left on a sunlit table. 

‘He had been up early preparing,’ she assumed. 

Lorna found that, despite what's-his-name's clear disapproval of her, she could not bear a bone of anger toward Hallatar. He was trying to help her, really trying. It didn't take a conversation to know it. He took her in, fed and clothed her. Then, was kind enough to try to communicate. She could not fault him.

Lorna only wished she could have known what had been said at that table. Something important was happening right in front of her, about her, and she had no clue what. 

She recalled how rude her face must have looked. 

‘What if he just had a terrible face and was trying to help? What if your terrible face pissed him off?’ 

Lorna felt severely uninformed and anxious that her only tool for understanding might be too quick to judge. 

She paused mid-step on the stairs, groaning softly, rubbing her eyes.

‘You can't know what people really mean by their faces here. You just can't.’

She continued up the stairs, trudging. Making her way to the last door on the right.

The room within was lit by western windows that cast everything in an almost rainbow. The floors were beautiful hardwood. The walls were painted with murals of the sea. A bed and wardrobe were provided, though the wardrobe had little to offer.  

Her crossed arms drew into a self-hug.

‘It's been seven days…’ she thought, her expression sinking. Lorna entered the room and sat on the unmade bed. The feather mattress didn't even creak.

With an aching clarity she was aware that her bed back home creaked. Her windows were dirty, didn't cast rainbows, and didn't keep out bugs. There wasn't a wardrobe, only a plastic basket with a broken handle. Her kitchen made microwavable depression and coffee. Sweet, god-blessed coffee. 

Lorna missed it. Every terrible, thrifted, falling-apart piece of her life. She missed it. And she didn't know if she would ever see it again.  

Her head slumped into her bandaged hands, careful not to displace the wrapping. 

‘I left the coffee pot on,’ she recalled dryly. ‘The pot would have been burned to a crisp by now… starting a fire… the trailer up in flames.’ 

“Oh god,” she croaked, her brain tumbling down the what if rabbit hole. “No. Nope. Can't change it. Can't know for sure. Just focus on what you do know. What you can see.” 

She broke it down. 

Lorna knew she was here, in Hallatar's house. She knew she was in a city on an island. She knew the island was in a world that wasn't earth. She knew she had a home that wasn't here. 

Her frustration hummed through her fingers.  

She didn't know where here was. Didn't even know how she came to be there.

It wasn't a subject she had much time or presence of mind to consider without panic. So much had happened in the last seven days that trying to understand how seemed secondary. 

She breathed out slowly, propped her head on her hand, then considered what she remembered.

‘I woke up, started the pot, put on my jeans, washed my face. I was about to make myself a cup… when I heard something.’ 

She blinked, unease creeping up her spine. 

‘I heard it in the living room, or the air, or… around the trailer… everywhere.’

Lorna focused her memory on what she had heard. Her hand unconsciously pressing against her sternum. The room was very quiet.

Not sound as she knew it to be, or something she could pinpoint as definable. But there was a quality in it that evoked familiarity. A thing she should have known but didn't.

Lorna understood that she thought it was beautiful, calming and encompassing. Like being wrapped in a handmade blanket. 

She hadn't been afraid, no, it was peaceful. It was right. 

Her eyes closed. She sought the sound again through her memory. It was not something her throat could reproduce, and she didn't bother trying. 

Despite seven days between then and now, the tone, quality, and peace of what she had heard was still bottled inside her. As if she were hearing it for the first time. 

Her fingers spread across her sternum. Breath slowed to a near stand still. Then, from recollection alone, released that impossible sound. 

Within her, from her very chest, an awareness sprang. It was not in the air - no one in the house would have heard it. A sensation vibrated within Lorna and out as though her body were a resonating chamber. 

She was completely calm as the resonance went through her in waves. Not a care or worry in the world. 

She felt submerged in warmth, her mind unveiled. Every piece of herself was made present. One inch at a time. 

Her heart beat sounded like a drum, she could hear her own blood running through her veins. Neurons firing, nutrients metabolizing. Billions of cells multiplying, repairing and singing back to her. 

She went outward. 

The bed frame. Wood supported her weight, held together by pressure. She understood the weaving, understood the hairline fractures and web-like fibers that held the wood together. 

The mattress, the feathers. She could feel their structure, down to the individual barbs. Understanding their origins, how they were developed in the egg, the gosling, the goose. 

The air. Not an empty space but filled completely with the sound. No, the music. It was music. 

Particles caught in the windows light splintered, shifted and multiplied. The glass in its stone frame hummed.

None witnessed it. 

The resonance lasted two minutes for her. If anyone had been watching, it was two seconds.

Her understanding withdrew when the resonance receded, the music drawing back. It wasn't gone or faded. Just draped under a layer of world and noise. 

She breathed in, opening her eyes, lungs filling to capacity. 

Then she froze. 

‘...what the fuck.’ she thought, sudden awareness of what just happened arresting her peace. 

In one bound she was on her feet, both hands pressed to her chest, breath shooting out in short bursts. 

“What… what?!” 

She looked around herself, expecting an explanation for what happened, hoping for it. Nothing in or about the room had changed. The bed was still unmade, air breathable. Her body was… as it normally was, a regular no cell singing body. 

The paintings of the sea on her wall crashed mid-wave, sea-birds careless in flight. The room quiet. 

Her eyes wandered in quick jerks, tears filled them. Her fingers dug into fabric and flesh at her chest fiercely. Without waiting to see what else would happen, she turned from the room and ran out. 

Frantic footsteps raced through the house and down the stairs. Lorna's voice, muffled and high pitched, barked below. Hallatar's low cadence calming her. 

The dust particles, caught in the window light, settled gradually. Their presence was unremarkable as they lazily landed on the cill. From the second story view, Lord Athzúng's litter was already down the cobbled street, moving up the city's incline. 

Late morning sun nearly met its peak above Armenelos. The king's house, glaring in golden light, presided upon the pinnacle tier. Its tall white wall set apart from all that did not glitter. Whatever cares or grief the city raised below, palace towers ignored it entirely.  

The terrace on the eastern parapet was a place where silence and beauty were kept meticulously. There, light filtered through a canopy of emerald leaves, resting upon various flowers. A breeze whispered through the open pillared edge, carrying thick sweetness and distant city humming. The shade was cool and dry despite the threat of humidity. And not a sound, save the rustling of flora, disturbed the air. 

That is, until a soft tonk of ceramic on wood was made. 

The High Lord Councilor sat upon a prepared chair, a carved table beside him. The table was laid with an opened book, honey glazed dates on a silver plate, and a ceramic cup filled with herbal cream. 

He had sat very still for the last several moments. The amber of his gaze looking ahead, past the pillared edge, into open blue air. 

The cream was no longer considered, the book open but unread. 

His gaze held nothing. And everything. 

He had no need to move to understand what had just occurred. It was presented before him, willingly, and as visible as blood in snow. 

His head tilted the smallest fraction, one pointed ear directed westward. The motion was unnecessary, more from habit than practicality, but such was his diligence. 

The resonance had come as the first did. Plucked and moving through the weaving of Arda, clear as ripples in a pool. Pure, clean, and… close. Much closer than before. 

Rómenna sang its given chord, the natural hum ordained by creation. No disturbance was perceived on the cliffs, or the entire peninsula. No. It was here, Armenelos. West. The fourth tier down. 

He had not authored nor sanctioned this. 

It had been seven days since he had perceived the first ripples. The quality of the chord came to him in the same texture, the same weight, the same source as before. 

Though, even at this proximity, he could not determine what willed the music to resonate or why. He only perceived the direction and quality. 

The unblemished, well-crafted nature of his face remained unmoved. As though the disturbance were a small matter, as simple as a bee crossing his path. 

He closed his eyes, then adjusted them. The slitted pupils reshaped into something more appropriate.

Fingers, dusted in gold shimmer, pressed against the armrest of his chair. Not one creak in protest. The full breadth of his stature overshadowed the terrace completely. Though built for men of greatness and power, the terrace had not been constructed with his presence in mind. 

All was lesser to him.

The High Lord Councilor strode away from the carved chair, the motion bearing unexpected elegance for a person of his size. Though his gait was long, moving efficiently, never running. Every stride carried an effortless, and uncanny grace. 

His robes of blue-pearl flowed like water behind him. He left the terrace, gliding into the greater palace colonnade.  

Bands of golden sunlight and shadow cut across his face, his now rounded pupils shrinking and expanding. The irises seemed to keep the sun's glow as he passed through shadow. 

“Unexpected,” he said, his voice a low honeyed depth.

Chapter 7 to be posted soon. Leave a comment about your favorite part of the chapter. I will also draw scenes or characters that are requested. Thank you! - Baby Dragon.

[lildragonstories]

What happens when a modern lady hums a tune she has never heard of, then lands into Ar-Pharazon's Numenor? Will she get into trouble, probably. Will there be familiar faces to guide or mislead her, absolutely.

Oh yea, were going there.

Fanfiction/graphic novel

Sauron x oc

Themes: lore accuracy, trauma, lore faithful Sauron, lore based, Tolkien's unfinished tales, modern OC, adult themes, horror, politics, You can't save him, run girl run, not a romance.

Art done by me! @baby-dragons-art

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Music inspiration for chapter

The rain pelted down, pattering on flagstone streets in sheets. Zîyan shook her head, reins clattering as an arch of water sprayed outward. 

“Awwh!” Lorna complained, her once dry face dripping profusely. She smelled like wet horse and sweat. She pulled the hood down lower, wiping her face as best she could. Her clothing was soaked through.

The rain began shortly after entering the city. Despite the downpour, Hallatar did not stop. Nothing, not even the heavens onslaught, seemed to give him pause. 

Armenelos’ ground level was densely populated in body and architecture. And to Lorna's horror, every man woman and child bore the same devastating appearance. Immense in stature, bright eyes, purposeful bearing. Even in the rain these people held a beauty untarnished. No one looked like her. 

And though that was overwhelming alone, the inhuman scope of the city made the soul weep then shrivel simultaneously. 

Along the slope of a mighty mountain, the city rose higher, peaked in never ending towers and blue domed palaces. The likeness of a bronze eagle bore the weight of a bridge on its wings, eyes blazing down upon them as they passed under. A water fountain commanded the market plaza. Water gushed from the mouth of a livid sea beast as a man of frightening bearing skewered the creature. Water spewing from the harpoon wound. People stopped to pay respects then continued on. Everywhere the white carved walls were painted with murals too complex and large for Lorna to look at for long. 

‘How can they live like this everyday and not collapse from it all?’ she thought, eyes peering out from under her hood.

Individuals in the streets carried hooded lanterns or oiled torches. Avoiding the horses as they clopped by. Daylight had long since gone, the sky darkened as if by a soggy blanket. Sprinkling illumination from arched windows in glittering houses sent forth beams of gold that caught in the gutter gullies.

The company had urged their mounts on regardless. 

Hours may have passed led only by street lamps and Hallatar's sense of direction. It seemed to Lorna that, amid the nauseating presence of this resplendent city, Hallatar was taking them straight through. Toward the hill clinging silvery tiers. 

Yet, before they could reach the upper levels, the men who had traveled with them separated one by one. They gave brief calls and waves in the dark, then vanished into the streets as though melting into the rain. 

Lorna perked, watching them go even as Zîyan kept pace with Hallatar's stallion. 

“...They're not coming?” she asked over the constant pitter patter. Hallatar squinted at her. His dark gray hair swept back over his head, beard a running waterfall. Lorna pressed her lips together. He looked as miserable as she felt.  

He shook his head, yelling something, then gesturing them forward. 

‘Right. Don't speak English.’ her thoughts grumbled.  

They toiled on, eventually reaching the base of an oppressive gateway. The arch was as glistening pearl, guarded by limestone behemoths whose outstretched hands cupped braziers of fire. 

Past the statues, mountain-sized sections of carved, icy stone cradled portions of the city. Each tier loomed jealously from one terrible height to the next. 

Lorna blinked rapidly, trying to take in the full height. She couldn't see past the rain. Only when lightning struck was a portion of the city's verticality revealed. 

She felt dizzy. Lorna ducked her head, forehead nearly flush against Zîyan's neck. 

Hallatar continued, leading them past the gates and up. Each tier seemed as vast as a single city. Each height, more cumbersome. Eventually Lorna refused to look or pretend to steer the horse at all. She slouched in the saddle, letting her head hang, eyes shut tight. 

At some drenched point of the trip, Zîyan stopped walking. The constant pop of rain against Lorna or the utter exhaustion, kept her from looking out. 

Pop, prattle, pop, prattle.

She slouched like paint running off a mopped canvas. 

Lightning struck.

Someone- perhaps Hallatar, shouted over the rain. The responding thunder drowning them out. 

Lorna felt hands at her waist that gently pulled her from the saddle and down. The task wasn't hard. She slicked right off, then found her feet on solid ground. Any response Lorna may have had in shock for being handled was ignored by lack of will. 

Again, someone shouted over the rain. She thought she heard the horses hooves but didn't investigate. A hand on her elbow then guided her forward through the downpour. Her garments sloshed against her legs with each step, nearly tripping if not for the hand on her arm. 

She hadn't walked far before a cut of orange light spilt at her feet. The smell of dust, candle wax and cedar wafting towards her. Decadent over her own stench. 

Once ushered across a threshold, her arm was released. The oppressive hiss of rain was closed behind her by the click of a door. The storm, distant now and growling. 

Lorna stood, cold and dripping on a silver woven carpet. Beside her a man groaned heavily. Hallatar. 

He walked forward along the carpet, Lorna watching his boots squelch from under her hood. After a moment of confirmed stability, she raised her wrinkled hands, shoving the hood back. It landed on her shoulders with a plop. 

Flickering light met her eyes in a blurry haze. She had to rub her face and wait for her pupils to adjust before she could see properly. 

When sight was restored she saw a large home, the width of her trailer if four of them were side by side, the height was two stories at least. Wooden floors were a deep cut of brown that was almost amber, adorned in various rugs of colors and sizes. 

The walls were cut stone, real cut stone, not a facade. Made from the same white rock that seemed to be the city's make. Beams curved into the ceiling trim that ran up the walls, framing each section of the house. On the ceiling mosaics of stars, oceans at moon rise, silver eagles and a blazing sun presided over the main room. Nearly glowing in candle light.  

Large church-like windows were framed above doorways to other rooms. Each made with cut crystal glass. Occasional lightning flashed through them, reflecting so that bursts of rainbow raced across the floor in bursts. 

There were other rooms on the main floor, two on the left, one on the right. The right room seemed to be a receiving chamber  where many objects of interest and value were displayed. The ones on the left were a dining hall connected to a kitchen and a library, packed with leather bound books and scrolls. 

The place was lavishly decorated in belongings- perhaps not of wealth but in personal stock. Embroidered maps, tapestries of ships, a golden painted genealogical tree and books occupied the walls and shelving.

There were many books. Large books with cracked spines, small books no larger than her palm. Round, gilded or hanging on by a thread, all were seemingly organized and well loved.

The air was warm, fragrant in the way old houses were, and comfortably quiet.

Lorna stood, dripping wet and shivering. Mouth agape.

Hallatar, despite the unevenness in his boots, strolled down the silvery carpet. He approached a set of stone carved steps that lead to the second story. Each step was inlaid with shocking blue tiles, the phases of the moon on each. Before he could ascend, a man in yellowish brown robes and trousers came down, candle votive aloft in one hand. His hair was onyx black, eyes gray as fog, a younger man compared to Hallatar. 

The man came down, bowing low. 

"Bârâ zadan-ada, Bâr Hallatar. Zîr-hê ki saphad abâr-mâ. Mag nê zadan-pâ ki kâlâd du-nakhân.”

‘Welcome home, Lord Hallatar. I am pleased to see you safe. We have made your chambers ready for your arrival.’

Hallatar gave a soggy smile. 

"Bârim, -hin. Saphad ki karab-lâi dal-zê? Yu burôda pharaz hê-an burôda. Kadô…”

‘Thank you, nephew. If you could see to the horses in the courtyard? Their burdens have been harsher than mine. And…’ 

Hallatar paused, looking back toward Lorna. The young man followed his gaze, head jerking aback at the sight. The carpet was saturated underneath a frightfully small girl. Her clothing wept bitterly, her eyes wide as dinner plates.

The man stared at her for a moment before collecting himself and averting his gaze. Hallatar continued speaking. 

“Pâ hê ganâd-nithil. Bêth ki Delphêl-ada: sî zâir abâr-ada. Mag-dâ zadan-ganâd kâlâd.”

‘I have a guest. Please inform Delphêl that the young lady will need assistance and the guest chamber be made up.’

“Kâda, bâr hê-an.”

The young man bowed once more then turned to walk through the dining hall.

Casting one last glance at the lady. 

Lorna didn't notice him. Her head slowly panned from left to right, taking it all in. 

‘It's like a museum house but better.’ she thought. 

Hallatar cleared his throat in a respectable manner, ignoring the tremor in his own shoulders. He lifted his arms, gesturing around them. 

"Zadan hê-an” he proclaimed, then walked back toward her. She assumed he offered a sort of welcome. 

Carefully he removed his outer cloak, a sloping of fabric, and tossed it over his arm. He then extended his hand toward her, brows raised. 

“Oh..” she mumbled, lips pale. She unclasped her cloak, water splattered on the floor as she gave it to him. With a sickening shock, she looked down. The silver carpet had turned an angry, dark gray from where she was standing. 

“Ah- I am so- so sorry!” She yelped, staring down at the floor. 

How could she have been so air headed?! Standing there soaking his, likely, priceless carpet!

Hallatar looked between her and the floor. Interesting. 

She had social graces enough to understand value and courtesy in another's house, it seemed. Not barbaric then- but from a civilized society. Not that he truly considered her a barbarian. 

Hallatar tutted, shaking his head, expression inconsequential. 

"Kulub satta. Mag ûri dâur.”

‘It is only cloth. It will dry in the sun.’

Lorna stepped off the carpet at once, water trailing behind her. 

From the dining hall a short, gruff intake of air was heard. A woman stood before the threshold, looking disturbed from sleep but dressed to be seen. The young man stepped behind her, moving to the front door with a large leather cloak. 

The woman's gaze cut from Hallatar, to Lorna, dwelt there a moment, then glared at the drenched silver carpet. 

Lorna froze like she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. 

The woman approached then curtsied to Hallarat. A fiery blonde braid slipping over her shoulder. The young man opened the door behind them. Cold hissing rain slid past before he was out and the door shut again.  

"Bârâ zadan-ada, Bâr Hallatar. Saphad hê batân ki pharaz-an.”

‘Welcome home, Lord Hallatar. I trust your journey was productive.’ 

"Pharaz-an. Dâur burôda kadô. Bârim du kan zadan. Pâ hê ganâd—Lorna izrê sî. Bat sî nê-mâ dâur-tâidô. Abâr ki sî du kâlâd? Thâni-anadûn sî, bâ bêth-î Adûnayân. Zîr hê ki mag zâir sî kâlâd.”

‘Productive. And far too long. Thank you for maintaining the house. I have a guest. Her name is Lorna. She will be staying with us for the time being. I trust you will be able to help her settle? She is foreign, does not speak Adunaic. It would please me if you could see to her needs.’ 

The woman raised her sun kissed brows, looking at Lorna fully. Delphêl had seen peoples of the mainland before but never one so small in stature or homely. 

Delphêl considered her, the carpet, and the water at Lorna's feet. All of it a mess she would surely have to tend to. 

She set her jaw then spoke. 

"Du-zîr ki, bâr hê-an. Îdô.”

‘As you wish my lord, at once.’

Delphêl then put her hands before her, palms out, ushering toward the small woman. Lorna got out of the way, thinking she needed to move. Then found herself corralled, shepherded from the front door towards the stairs.  

Lorna looked back at Hallatar, expression questioning. He merely gestured that she go, a pleasant smile on his face. She continued up the stairs hesitantly, Delphêl nipping at her heels. 

The softness in Hallatar's gaze lingered a moment more before retiring. He set the cloaks on a stone alcove bench beside the front door, deeper breaths taken as his hands flexed. 

The journey had been long. Knowing he could sleep in his own bed tonight was a joy he felt deep in his bones. Though true rest would come later. 

Already Hallatar considered what the next dawn would bring. His hands clasped before him, eyes raising to the mosaic above. 

A silver eagle screamed in silence as lightning flashed across its wing span. 

Would that those wings could guide him toward wisdom now. 

The wings remained still. 

Hallatar brought his hands to his lips, as though to cut through his eroding thoughts. His squelching boots took him across the main floor and up the stairs. Each step rising with the moon. 

The storm would be called a hailstorm of Númenor's power, others of a quieter pew would call it reprimand. Yet none could speak for certain in the morning that followed. 

Hallatar sat in his study loft, hand under his fluffed chin. Droplets raced down the window that overlooked his shivering garden. Puddles in the Mallorn plot catching silver and gold before a pink sun. 

His writing hand tapped the quill in steady beats. The aglets of his light gold-blue sleeve jingling. 

Tap, tap, tap. 

The page before him on the slanted desk was nearly full. 

“Body of unknown. Female, approximately less than one rangar in height. Hair spice brown, eyes oak leaf green, fair of skin. 

Appeared over the cliffs of Rómenna, along the edge of Hyarrostar. Showed no signs of dehydration, starvation, sunburns or illness of the sea. Healthy. 

Clothing unfamiliar. Her means of travel and origins are unknown. 

She speaks a language unspoken in Númenor. It is not rambling, babble or mad speech. There is structure there, repeating sounds for specific actions. There is meaning. But the roots are too foreign. 

Has shown ability to recognize shapes and sounds. Can show thought through her expression and gestures. Is also able to interpret expressions and gestures. Has shown a degree of independent thinking and self care. And is able to recognize socially sensitive concepts. 

By accounts, observation and reason, the woman is of sound mind and body. 

She lacks some basic skills however, and further noted oddities. 

Aversion to maps, though she seems to understand them. Unfamiliarity in the saddle. The make and quality of her clothing. And needing assistance while dressing.

An intelligent person unable or unfamiliar with these fundamental parts of life. There is a veil between my questions and the answers to her oddness. 

The greater mysteries and questions I can ask leave me unsatisfied. 

Where in Arda had she come? How had she arrived to Númenor in her condition? And now our arrival to Armenelos on the eve of Erulaitalë…”

There his words ceased. Hallatar kept his eyes on the garden below lest they betray him. 

Eventually he gave up tapping, set the quill down gently and leaned back in his carved chair. Two scrolling wooden wave crests behind his ears. 

“Too little to know… too much to dismiss.” He whispered, as though the walls may hear. His fingers tugging at the whiskers of his mustache. 

At his study door came a swift but gentle knock. 

“Come.” Hallatar called, leaning forward. He rolled up the parchment then set it aside. 

The young man, his nephew, entered, carrying three scrolls. 

“The registers you asked for, my lord.” The scrolls bound with leather straps were set upon the desk one by one. 

“Ah- thank you, Rozêm.” Hallatar plucked the first roll, pulling the strap then drawing the parchment open. The young man stood by, hands behind him.

Hallatar took in the scroll, finger strolling down along sprawling, sharply scripted lengths of words. 

“Lord Zabûn, Lord Galhattan, Lord Azoloph…” the names were murmured in hush, considering. Rozêm watched, reading each name with his uncle. 

“Linguists.” A statement rather than a question. Hallatar raised his brows, his mouth curving upward. 

“Your study serves you.”

Rozêm, inclined his head, hiding his pleased grin. 

“I've only just begun. There are more masters in Armenelos than stars, it seems.”

Hallatar bobbed his head in agreement. “Very true. But to know them is to know your way.” his hand continued down the scroll, making mental notes of names he favored. 

“Should you take after me, understanding who holds knowledge worth learning and who might value yours is more precious than gold.”

His finger stopped over the name ‘Lord Athzúng’ tapping twice. 

Hallatar knew this man, had sought his counsel many a time on passages in Quenya that eluded him. So too, Lord Athzúng had come to him in matters of his lineage. Hallatar could speak some Sindarin and one or two mannish tongues. But the tongue forgets when unused and his was stiff with it.  

Lord Athzúng was a pleasant man if not blunt and opinionated at times. But surely, would do. 

He looked to his nephew. 

“I will have messages for you to run. Four or so perhaps. When I am finished I shall call.” 

Rozêm bowed, mid step back. “Of course, my lord.” He hesitated then, briefly.  “The lady, my Lord. Should she be roused? Delphêl had asked me to inquire.” 

Hallatar rolled up the first scroll then ran a hand over his mustache and down his beard.

Still not awake.

“If The One takes offense to her rest this day, then we are all doomed men.” he said, a cheeky grin following. “Let her be. We'll wake her when needed.”

Rozêm bowed once more, unsure whether to smile or not at his uncle's humor. He retreated then, closing the study door. 

Hallatar proceeded reading the other two scrolls and when he was done a collective six lords were chosen. All linguists of varying specialties, Hallatar knowing each. 

He drew forth fresh parchment, inked his quill and began his invitations. The purpose of their visit was gently crafted. To ‘help an old man and colleague decode a frustrating language.’

This was not a lie. Yet he hesitated to divulge the full truth of the language they needed to decode and… who spoke it. He needed willing help if he could get it. And speaking of a lost one he dragged from Rómenna to Armenelos would intrigue no one. 

‘This is most crucial.’ he thought as he signed the first parchment. ‘All the knowledge in Arda is useless if there are no words to convey it.’ 

Before midday Hallatar had his invitations sanded, sealed then sent off by his nephew. He paced in his study in the hour after, hands behind his back. He watched the woven patterns on the carpet move beneath him as he walked. 

Golden flower petals falling then woven into tree branches that became petals again. All set in a zig zag coloring of blues, silver and beige. 

Golden sun streamed through the upper window. Water droplets long since gone. 

Hallatar was beginning the twelfth or so rotation past the window when movement caught his eye. 

Lorna stood in the garden below. She was staring at the Mallorn sapling, a keepsake he had nurtured since his last journey to the bay of Eldanna. 

The woman was bent at the waist, staring at the silver tree bark, leaves a pale green with silvery bottoms. The sapling gleamed before her. 

Hallatar paused, peering down at her from behind the window. She appeared managed, hair brushed, blade of grass gone. Her hands were bound with fresh bandages. The garment she wore was too large but suitable. She put her hands to her knees, crouching, eyes tracing the little branches. 

Mallorn were not native yet common enough on the island that every Númenorian child knew their splendor. It was not surprising to see her so enamored. 

He was pleased. As though her attention to the sapling reminded him that, indeed, the young tree was beautiful and unique. And such things should be preserved. In a way, that comforted him. 

He left his study then, crossing the upstairs loft and descending the moon-faced steps. The main floor was lit from western windows, a comfortable quiet resting over all. 

The back garden was connected to the kitchen, or through the library. The smell of roasted meat, yeast and herbs curled under his nose. For the pleasure of his larder's offerings, he chose the kitchen path. 

Past the dining hall, a step down led him into a vaulted space. The walls were lined with grainy rose brick and wooden beams. A brick oven's cast iron door was closed before a hearty blaze. Dough for bread was mid preparation upon a long table beside shelves of salted meats, and herbs.

Hallatar stepped in. He gingerly plucked a scarlet round fruit from a bronze bowl. Sweet, tartness burst in his mouth at the taste. He collected a few more then continued down the ladder, past the humble wine barrels and cheese blocks. 

Between the barrels and cheese Delphêl knelt, facing the wall. Hallatar would have walked past her had he not been eyeing the fruit in his hand. She was silent, eyes closed, holding a small object between her palms. A little carved mound of wood.

The mound was triangular, the peak of it painted white, three dots aligning with each side of the triangle.

Delphêl opened her eyes at his approach, clutching the mound to her breast. She looked back at him as though she had been stealing. Hallatar paused.

‘The peak and its eagles…’

When she saw it was Hallatar, her eyes softened, a weary breath escaping her lips. Hallatar, inclined his head, hand raised slightly. 

“Peace, Delphêl. My apologies for disturbing you.” 

She blinked furiously. Sapphire eyes glinting. 

“Forgive me, my lord, I did not know you were coming down. I was merely… taking stock since we have a guest.” she said, hands clutching her chest. 

Hallatar nodded, a gentleness upon him as his raised hand rested atop her head. “There is no need to forgive. The cheese needs accounting for. If only all were as diligent in their labors as you. It is I who asks forgiveness.”

Delphêl closed her eyes, shoulders slouching. The two remained like that a moment, the soft crackle in the oven popping softly. The smell of yeast, cut herbs and humid, outside air breathing in from an opened door. 

Hallatar removed his palm. 

“I will leave you to your inventory,” he said, raising his brows and breathing in as though clearing his mind of fog. “But would you tell me how Lorna has fared?”

Stowing the Meneltarma in her apron pocket, Delphêl then rose, hands clasped before her. Masking a deeper grief behind genuine irritation. 

“Of course. She was bathed, fed and shown the guest chambers. I hemmed one of my own garments for her fit. All to her liking, I suppose. This morning I called on her for breakfast and washing, but she was too deep in sleep to be bothered. She only roused a short while ago.” Delphêl's tone was dry as stale bread, her lips set thin. 

It pleased Hallatar to hear that Lorna had accepted care and was made comfortable. He had hoped for a more detailed account- perhaps something of her mannerisms and emotional state. But he didn't want to trouble Delphêl more than necessary. Besides, some things were better observed in person. 

“Take no offense, Delphêl.” Hallatar said, in mild amusement. “She does not know our ways and has endured much. I am sure she is grateful to you.”

The woman released a short hum from the back of her throat. A single brow raised.

“As you say, my lord.” 

With a knowing tilt of his head, Hallatar looked down the larder toward the rear garden door beside a drying rack of fruits. 

"She is in the garden?” 

“Yes. I fed her a small offering when she came down then carried on with preparations for dinner. She wandered after.”

Hallatar hummed, bobbing his head, popping another jeweled fruit into his mouth. 

“Thank you Delphêl, please, continue your inventory.”

Hallatar stepped aside and away. Delphêl curtsied, watching as he went, then knelt beside the wine barrels and cheese once more. 

At the end of the larder sweet, cool air brushed over Hallatar, his robes billowing as he came to the garden threshold. 

Plots curved along a white stone wall that extended from the scaling rock face above. The rock raised upward into the higher tiers, sunlight half gone behind its peak. 

Bright blue, domed tops of the neighboring homes just peeked along the wall's upper edge, offering cool shade. 

The garden was arranged so that five separate plots of specific flora circled the center, where the sapling grew. Flat stones were inlaid from the back door into the garden proper. Each plot was lushly green and growing along the path. 

Various plants such as medicinal herbs, rare or significant in lore, were his keeping. He was not skilled in laying stone, arranging soil or seedlings in a way that was pleasing, he left such things to more skilled hands. Hallatar did find that being among growing and attending plants allowed for the blooming of worthwhile thought. The back garden was his second study, when weather permitted. 

His best conclusions on the sailing under Elros to Numenor, the building of the Hirilondë and other matters of history came under the sun, in the company of Arda's most innocent life. 

He stepped out, chewing on his last fruit as the pleasantness of the open space welcomed him. 

Lorna was before the Mallorn sapling still, now sitting on the stone bench beside its plot. She leaned forward, elbow on her knee, hand supporting her chin, staring at the silver tree. Her expression was thoughtful, perhaps melancholy. Dark waves of her hair spilt down her shoulders and back, unbound. The folds of her gray blue gown pooled about her bare feet and the warmed stone. Quick but well hemmed stitching running along the crumpled length. 

“Lorna.” Hallatar spoke, his steps long but slow, hands folding behind his back as he approached. She looked up, chin rising from her hand, not startled or wary. Just calm. Her lips curled upward slightly but didn’t stay for long. 

Gaze returning to the sapling, she gestured toward it, brows raised, mouth slightly open. Her eyes looked from him to the silvery bark. It seemed she didn't want to bother with her language. Yet despite their deafness to one another, she still sought to hold conversation.  

This delighted him. 

"Izrê an, bâ?”

‘Beautiful, isn't it?’ he hummed, coming to stand between her and the center plot. 

"Mag hê u min kulub-kulbu. Bat dâur-pharaz du zabathân-mâ. Kadô kulub-î mag-ân kâlâd îdô.”

‘I have raised this one from a seed. It took many years of patience but the leaves have finally grown.’

His hand extended, following the height of the sapling, which was just shy of Lorna's full stature. She watched him, chin returning to her palm as she seemed to listen. Her eyes caught every gesture, looking at his gaze and mouth periodically.

"Kulub-î pharaz-an. Kadô bat du Hithui- dâur nâlu. Gimil mag pharaz, kadô kalab min an-kulab. Nai saphad ki azal.”

"The leaves are splendid. But just wait for Hithui, the misty months. The silver will become gold before falling. Perhaps you will be able to see it.”

When he finished a thin flat smile uncertainly sat on her lips. She breathed in, huffed softly, then looked back at the sapling. 

He hummed once, apologetically maybe. His hands returned behind him, gaze on the silvery bark. 

‘At least in beauty we are understood.’

Midday breeze wafted about them, stirring the garden. Incense on the humid wind hinted with echinacea and rosemary caressed the silvery leaves of the sapling.

Catching sunlight. 

She pointed to the leaves then, fingers flexed to pinch the air. Her brows shifted between apology or hesitation. Hallatar wasn't sure. He watched her for a moment, head tilting.

‘She wishes to… touch?’

He had no reservations for such an action, his uncertainty was not knowing if that was her request. Only one way to know. 

His hand opened as though presenting the sapling to her, nodding.

“Lô.”

Lorna watched him carefully before slowly standing from the stone bench. Hallatar took a step back, allowing more than enough room for her. 

She came to the edge of the plot, the soil lined with shaped stone. Leaning forward at the waist, her finger pads touched beneath a leaf. A small gasp escaped her lips. 

Hallatar stepped forward, peering at her face. She was smiling, a full, beaming expression. 

“... it's so soft.”

He blinked at her words. She seemed pleased by the leaf, or surprised. Her fingers ran under the length of the broad leaf, across the silvery belly, then drew back. She looked at her hand, then to him. 

“I've never seen a soft tree… or a silver one.” Her smile was cut to half its brilliance, though the radiance hadn't left her eyes. Her tone was quiet, stating something. 

He came to stand beside the plot with her, still at a distance, raising both his hands. He brought them up then down the length of the sapling without touching. 

“Mallorn.” He stated, brows raised, hands following the little branches. He thought she would be curious about its name. 

Her attention caught as she watched him. He repeated the movements, not to insult her, but showing. 

“Mallorn.” He said again. 

Lorna blinked, pursed her lips together, then repeated his gesture back. 

“...Mallorn.”

His heart leapt with joy. 

“Iyê!” he exclaimed, hands clapping together. “Mallorn.” 

Lorna jumped a little at the sudden clap but recovered with a timid exhaling laugh. She swayed on her feet a bit, nodded then gestured back at the sapling. 

“Okay. Mallorn means tree, cool.” she repeated the gesture he made then spoke. “Tree.”

Hallatar paused, tilting his head toward her. He gestured, as though to hear her better. 

“Tree.” Lorna said again. “Mallorn-.” She pointed to the tree and him. “Tree.” then to the tree and herself. 

“Ah!” Hallatar quipped, pressing his fingers together. “Treee…” he tried at the word. 

Air puffed out of her nose, cheeks rosy from amusement. “Yea, tree. Mallorn- tree, tree mallorn.”

“Tree.” Hallatar said again, this time more assured in his pronunciation. 

They remained in the garden, the shadow of Armenelos’ peak tilting across the white stone walls until evening purple fell. Gentle cricket and resting bird song echoed over a distant but encompassing city. 

Words were exchanged between them, small words with small meanings. Yet each one felt as large as a stepping stone. 

Rozêm had come across the garden's threshold carrying a kindling torch. He reached, lit the side door lantern, then called out.

"Bâr hê-an, Delphêl kâlâd pûh-lômi. Kadô nakhân bat-nâlu-mâ bêth min Athzúng Bâr-ô.”

‘My lord, Delphêl has laid out supper. And a runner has delivered a reply from Lord Athzúng.’

Hallatar and Lorna were sitting together on the stone bench. Her elbows on her knees, his hands in his lap. 

"Kâlâd pharaz, bârim -hin.”

‘Very good, thank you nephew.’

From there both he and Lorna returned to the house, the Mallorn and garden whispered through the hush of oncoming night.

Before Hallatar joined his guest and nephew at supper, he stepped aside into the receiving chamber and read the delivered reply. 

‘My good Lord Hallatar,

It pleases me to receive word from you on matters such as these. While I am curious of your need for them, I am, as always, at your disposal. Expect my litter at the third bell tomorrow.

Lord Athzúng.’

Hallatar breathed out, wetting his lips as his hand rerolled the parchment. 

One had replied and accepted. This was encouraging.

His steps led him out of the chamber, across the main floor and toward the dining hall. He paused, looking in. 

Lorna sat, the table's height to her chest as Delphêl portioned a helping of seared beef and potatoes onto her plate. A thick ladle of gravy, peppered and lucious, ran over the meat. Lorna's eyes were on the food exclusively. For a small woman, her appetite was very healthy. 

Hallatar patted the roll of parchment in his hands, eyes daring upward to the candle lit mosaic above. 

‘Tomorrow then, we truly begin.’

Chapter 6 to be posted soon. Leave a comment about your favorite part of the chapter. I will also draw scenes or characters that are requested. Thank you! - Baby Dragon.