IN THE STORM

Celebcùen

The wind would rise always at this time in the evenings, when the Sun was about to setting. The sky would be red like an open wound and from the west dark clouds would come, covering the horizon as if trying to hide something. Many would say that those clouds had the shape of eagles and the wind ran ahead of them like the cry of a real eagle would do. And that wind would bend and dispell the smock continuously issuing from the top of the Temple of Armenelos. Then the eagles would reach the island and Nùmenor would suffer their rage all night long.

Mirôzîr looked to the west and saw the clouds coming. They were dark indeed and spread from south to north with curls of darkness that really looked like wings. Red and white lights flashed under those wings. A new storm was approaching.

The people around him in the street quickened their pace to reach their home before the storm broke. Mirôzîr was not heading home.

He wrapped his dark cloack tighter around his shoulders and turned his back to the clouds. There was a feast to the King’s Court tonight. He had been invited.

Mirôzîr’s face darkened the same way it had when he first received the invitation. He had been a sea capitain for a long time in the years past. He had traded with merchants in Pelargir, and Umbar, and Harad as well. And yes, he had traded with the Elves of Lindon too, even if he had never admitted it pubblicaly, least of all lately. When the King’s fleet had turned into a war fleet, he had lead a few of those war ships across the water to Middle-Earth. He had even fought for the King. Not a nice mamory, that was.

And then... then finally the King had not lounched his ships on the water anymore.

What was the purpose of inviting a mariner to the Court tonight, then?

The wind was playing harshly around Mirôzîr. It was chilly and angry. It swept the streets as if trying to clear them from something.

When Mirôzîr reached the heart of the city, he rose his eyes to the Temple.

And there he stopped.

The Temple was an impressive building. It rose high above all the citizens and its shadows touched everyone in the daylight. The silver dome stile sparkled in places, especially away from the hole on the very top of it where the silver had swiftly turned to black. A plumage of smoke was issuing even now, it never ceased, after all, and while Mirôzîr was looking the wind caught it, bent it, twisted it and dispelled it, even if for only a few moments.

There was a strange, uneasy sensation in the air. Like that produced by many voices crying out, even if you, for some reason, counld not hear them.

Shivering, Mirôzîr walked past the Temple swiftly.

Many people always went in and out of the Temple, more and more every day. And not all of them ever came out. Mirôzîr had never walked in, and planed never to.

The Giver of Freedom. Mirôzîr was simply planning to stay out of his way.

The Royal Palace was not far. He quickened his pace against the wind.

 * * *

Phalzimar was not a fighter, and not a courtisan. He was a dealer. A dealer of money and persuasion. A sort of men preciouse to the King more than the previous two.When Mirôzîr saw him coming his way with his characteristic wolfish smile on the pale face, he thought coming had been a bad idea... and a good one at the same time.

“Mirôzîr,” the man said as a greeting, coming closer.

Mirôzîr simply nodded in return.

“Good to see you after so long,” Phalzimar added, showing the captain toward the feast hall.

Mirôzîr could not say the same, so he simply smiled politely.

The two of them walked down a grand gloomy corridor, with high, painted ceilings, and huge windows that brighted occasionally in the flash of thunders. Only a few candles lighted the place, but far ahead the brightness of the feast hall was visible. Mirôzîr noted thet other couples of men where walking the same way. He recognised a few other sea captains.

“It has indeed been a long time since we last seen you here,” Phalzimar added, a somehow unpleasant flavour in his tone.

“It’s been a long time since the King needed any captains,” Mirôzîr pointed out. “The fleet’s sleeping in Andunië heaven, I’m told.”

“It has slept for quite a long time, that’s true,” Phalzimar agreed lightly. “After all, what would our great King do in Middle-Earth again? A barbaric land, dwelt by lesser men and untrustworthy Elves.”

Mirôzîr glanced at the man wolking beside him, who did not even try to hide his comtempt. The captain just said nothing.

“We’ve already had all we could desire from it,” Phalzimar went on. “There are man who still travel there, of course, who make up their home there, their tiny little realms. Lesser man those also, not even real Nùmenòreans, if you ask me.”

“They are not too many, anyway,” Mirôzîr commented, never looking at Phalzimar. “Not many people need the skills of a ship captain these days.” He was not liking the course of the conversation.

“I heard it,” Pharzimar said with a sickingly switish voice. “You retired in Armenelos countryside, in a little farm, I’m told.”

Mirôzîr glanced at him. Why did he took the trouble to learn that?

“But you’re still young, you could lead a ship across the water even now, could you?”

“You said it, my lord,” he replied dryly. “Not many men take the sea today. And even less ever come back to Nùmenor. I’m just a captain, I’ve never owned a ship. And I don’t plan to leave my land for another.”

“Better to buy a farm with the money you earned then, and leave the coast for the inland, is it?.”

So not to hear the calling of the sea from afar, yes, except when a lonely seagull found its way to the countryside, which, thanksfully, happend seldomly. What was all this about? Mirôzîr asked himself, unconfortably.

They finally entered the hall and the light of chandeliers and candles and the occasional brazier turned the night into day. People where chatting and dancing everywhere, dressed elegantly. Among them the sea captains where quite easly recognizable for their more sobre attire. There were a few of them indeed.

“What if things had changed” Phalzimar said camly, and it was not really a question.

Mirôzîr looked at him, but did not meet the other man’s gaze, because he was watching the colourful hall.

“What do you mean?” Mirôzîr asked, cautiosly.

Phalzimar turned to him, his wolfish smile on his thin lips.

“We Nùmenòreans have crossed the water for long centuries, still not all the paths of the sea had been travelled.” There was an unsettling light in his eyes. “Middle-Earth is useless, but other lands are waiting for us, across the sea. The King is preparing his new fleet. He needs skillfull, faithfull captains to lead them.”

Mirôzîr did not say anything. He did not move. He did not let a single muscle on his face twich.

The music was suddenly disturbligly loud. He desired to go out, even in the storm that he could see raging beyond the thick glasses of the large windows.

“That’s quite an unexpected offer,” he finally said, in a really low voice.

“Unexpected,” Phalzimar arched his eyebrows in fake quizzical expression. “Do you fully understand what the King is offering you?”

“I do,” Mirôzîr breathed, staring right into the other man’s eyes. He also understoond what the King was taking from him.

“Good,” Phalzimar smiled menacingly. “You don’t have to answer now. The night is still very young. Enjoy it. We’ll talk again later.”

He walked away smoothingly, as if floating over the water, heading toward another captain.

Mirôzîr watched at him angrily, than walked slowly over to one of the windows.

He saw other of his fellow captains talking to each other, some excitedly, other gloomly. Other, like himself, stayed on their own, thoghtfully.

He stared out of the window.

The eagles had come, their rage was washing the city angrilly, still, the sound of the storm merely entered the feast hall, shut outside by the thick glass, covered by the loud music.

He had tried hard to stay out of the Giver of Freedom’s way, Mirôzîr thought darkily. Still, he had finally grabbed him.

 * * *

“Captain Mirôzîr?”

Mirôzîr turned, and found a youngster standing beside him. An old boy or a young man with a pale face that Mirôzîr had never seen. Still his eyes...

The boy smiled friendly.

“You can’t recognize me, I guess. I was just a child when you last came to my house.”

Mirôzîr smiled back, then.

“Alêth son of Umar,” he said as a greeting.

The boy nodded slightly.

“Indeed I am. It’s kind of you to remember my name.”

“You’re far from Andunië. But aren’t you too young to be a captain?” Mirôzîr asked, fatherly.

The smile on the young man’s face faded.

“I’m not too young to be the head of my house,”he replied bitterly.

The smile died on Mirôzîr’s face. Something heavy suddenly settled on his chest.

“Umar is...” he started.

“...dead,” Alêth finished, riding his chin, somewhat in pride. “Five months back. Too hard had the Giver of Freedom hit him.”

Mirôzîr’s face grew dark.

“What do you mean?” he asked slowly.

Alêth smirked sadly.

“Hadn’t he spoken to you?” he asked, pointing with a slight movement of his head towards Phalzimar, who turned his back to them while speaking to someone else. “The King needs ships for his new fleet. We used to have four of them, remember?” His lips stretched warily. “I remeber you, at the helm of the Seagull Wing. She was your favourite.”

“She was a ship, like all the others,” Mirôzîr corrected dryly. It was not true, but he was feeling unconfortable with Alêth too. There was a strange sensation in his back, as if someone were peering at him.

Alêth nodded warily. Sadly, meeting the other man’s hard stare. Then he turned to the window and watched outside. The rain was whipping the window pane. Alêth rose his fase as if he could feel the rain on it. Mirôzîr wished he could as well, that would be a nice sensation. Out of the sofocating hall, away from the King’s will.

“The Giver of Freedom,” Alêth brethed bitterly, his eyes still on the storm outside. “He gave nothing to us. He took one of our ships, then another, then another. Then he took my older sister, because she spoke in favour of our father. He took her hasband, and her two children. He took the loyalty of our servants. They spoke against my father, in fear that the Giver took them as well. They said my father was a friend of Elves.” He turned slightly to Mirôzîr. “You know the truth.” He said, very low. And suddenly his face hardened. “Then he took my father as well. Not suddenly, in the night, hiding his face. But slowly, piece by peace. I was with him when he...”

Mirôzîr startled when Alêth looked like fallin for a second, and only then did he realised the boy had simply leand against the window with his forehead. His eyes were colsed, now. His breath had slightly quickend.

“He asked a promise of me,” he breathed ever lower, “but that was not a difficult promise to make. He said: "don’t give him the last one. Don’t. If you faresake that last ship, our family will be no more.” He turned to Mirôzîr, his eyes two shards of stone. “If we foresake what Ilùvatar gave us, what He gave to us alone, we won’t be Men any longer. And we won’t be Elves either. We’ll be just nothing!”

“Be quiet!” Mirôzîr hissed between his teeth, sizing one of Alêth arms and casting a worried glance around. The boy never averted his gaze, he still looked straight into the older man’s eyes. His last words had been a whisper, a mere movement of his pale lips.

“I’m telling you this in memory of the friendship I bore to your father,” Mirôzîr whispered into Alêth face. “Don’t ever speak against the Giver of Freedom.”

Only then did the young man falter a little, still he added: “I still have the Seagull Wing. I’ll give her to someone who can best make a use of her. Will you sail her to a safe heaven?”

Mirôzîr shooke his head, disbelievingly, letting go of Alêth at the same time.

“And what if I say no?”

The young man gasped, and bacame even more pale. But then he answered: “I... I’ll destroy her. I’ll never give her to him, no matter what he’s offering!”

Mirôzîr shooke his head again, sadly.

“You’re crazy, led,” he said. Still something was moving in his chest.

He stepped by the window and looked outside. The night was pitch black and angry.

Alêth stood by him silently, shakingly. “What man can refuse his King’s offer,” the older man mused, “especially when what he’s offering is Freedom?”

 * * *

The thunder was growling overhead, the rain was still falling, even if a bit less angrily.

Alêth was walking Armenelos’s streets tightly wrapped in his soaked cloak. His hair dangled on his face and shoulders, his eyes were downcast. He felt alone, like he truly was.

He had stayed at the feast a bit longer, hoping to speak with Mirôzîr again, but the man had avoinded him pointedly. He was troubled, Alêth had guessed, but that had not been enough to make him reconsider his first words. At the end, the young man had simply decided to leave. Phalzimar had intercepted him before he could exit the hall and asked him agian, even more menacingly, to deliver the ship. A sickling hiss that nobody else could have hear. Alêth had burst out then. He had cried back that the Seagull Wing would have never belong to anyone but his family.

Everyone had turned at that. Pale faces of ladies and gentlemen, dark glances of courtiers – Mirôzîr’s dark gaze mixed of worry and anger.

Then the young man had left, never turning back.

He was not wondering what to do now. He knew it, as he had known that finding a captain for his last ship was a desperate try. He was to come back to Andunië, destroy the Seagull Wing, then move on to another port – if he could. He knew that was not going to be easy. Even now he was followed. He did not hear anything, he did not even sense anything, still he knew it. So, when he finally stopped in the middle of the dark street and his hand moved to the hilt of the sword as if by its own will, Alëth did not wonder why he was acting like that. He just followed his instict.

He turned suddelnly, sword in hand, and saw two shadows detecting themselves from the shadows of the streets. Barely. The two killers were cled in dark clothes, it was very difficult to see them. Alëth swollowed hard, brushing wet hair away from his eyes. He was painfully awar of the rain in his eyes, of his slippery size on the hilt, of the unsteady footing on the wet street. There was no way he could win this two men out, but he had no intention to die tonight, either.

The two men came forth together, even if one remained a bit behind. The white of their faces and the occasional glint of thier blades was more or less all Alëth could really see of them. He could hear nearly nothing, because of the sound of the rain.

The first man attacked him swiftly, but Alëth was ready. They exchanged fast blows, and even if Alëth was withdrowing, he was also fighting back.

He had never fought for his life before. It was frightening, but also exiting. Suddenly all the world had become shockingly alive. He could hear the rain falling more clearly and the noise of someone moving nearby, but not so near to be dangerouse - he knew thi by instict. He could see his attacker’s face much more clearly, as if by very near, he could recognize a flash of worry in his eyes while wondering where his companion had gone. Alëth did not wonder. He had no energy to waste on that. But as the killer realised to be alone, he became more fierce. His attacks became more vicious and soon Alëth had to recognise his superiority. Still, it was not that that nearly doomed him. It was the slippery pavement.

He felt himself falling even if he never realised to had stumbled. He bit his back hard, but he never averted his gaze from his attacker. It had been his father’s first teaching: never loose eye-contact with your opponent. And so the young man did. His eyes did not see where his sword fell, but his ears heard it. He reached out with one hand while seeing his opponent bearing on him and the same moment he thought: I can never be quick enough, he saw a flash in his killer’s eyes. The man’s face paled, even Alëth could sense someone approaching. In the moment the killer turned, the young man sized his sword and stroke. To the heart, fast and true.

Alëth hold his breath and it was like the whole world had ceased living for one second. The rain was silent, the killer was fozen. When Alëth breathed again, the man fell, and the boy could see another man behind him, with a sword in his hand.

Alëth smiled.

“Mirôzîr,” he said, holding one hand out to him.

The sea captain took it and helped the young man on his feet.

“We should get going,” he said sternely, “someone will be after me as well. I don’t suppose Phalzimar had liked the way I answered his offer.”He grinned.

“You changed your mind,” Alëth said. “Why?”

Mirôzîr wavered one moment, then smiled.

“In memory of the friendship I bore to your father,” heanswered. “He told me one thing, once: There’e only one who can give you your freedom.”

Alëth grinned back, because he knew how to end it: “Yourself.”

© Celebcùen, 2005