The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

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The Treasure of Tar-Telemmaitë

The party digs in the wet sand for the fabled Mithril Room of Tar-Telemmaitë, once King of Numenor.  A dispatch arrives from the Regent, summoning the Princess home to Tharbad for a matter of great importance to the stability of the realm.

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36) The Gwathló Camp, Gwirith (April) 18^th, 1410

Haedorial

 

The excavation of the site that he had designated was now in full swing, workmen digging with shovels and some heavier equipment, pushing the muddy sand away from the massive hole in the ground.  Firiel’s mother and the Princess were true to their word and funds and manpower flowed in, everyone excited to get to the wealth of Númenor.  Mid-morning rain fell in steady sheets, compounding the difficulty of the operation but no one was exempt from work.  Once a day, the bard would take a shift, donning rough workmen’s clothes and grabbing a shovel or a bucket to lift sand and water away.  The foreman had built a wooden barricade around the edge of the dig to keep sand and water from reentering the hole.

Haedorial’s shift was approaching so he dug further into his research, perusing the tome while sitting in the cantina tent where the workers came to eat.  He also reread Dagar’s letter several times that morning, wondering how his young friend was getting on in Rhudaur.  He was exited about the proposition of a journey there to destroy the remaining Blood-Wights.  He knew a little about them from Dagar’s letters, but when he pressed Mercatur for more information, the mercenary just grunted sourly and continued drinking his ale. The patter of rain on the waterproof canvas was the only sound in the tent beyond murmurs of diners, and the crackle of fire in a nearby brazier.

He came across a passage about a Númenórean lord named Maran the Silent, who was Tar-Telemmaitë’s trusted agent in the city. He was given the task of guarding the Mithril Room until its contents could be transported back to Númenor, but the storm struck first.  The passage stated that Maran chose to stay and guard the room while the basements of Minas Iaur flooded and he was never heard from again and surely perished in the flood.  That had to be the man who guided him in the catacombs.

The tent flap opened and Valandil led the party inside, shaking off the rain from their hair and bodies.  Nirnadel entered with them, dressed in treated cotton work clothes, Kaile and Galadel by her side.  They all got cups of hot tea and coffee and came over to sit.

“Good Haedorial, how are things with your son and have you found anything new?” the Princess asked, holding her hands around the hot cup to warm them.

The bard smiled broadly.  “Bless you, your Highness, for bringing him here.  His presence is a boon to my morale.”  He had previously told her the tale of the catacombs but now pointed to the new passage.  “The spirit that I saw was Maran the Silent, I believe.  He was tasked by Tar-Telemmaitë to guard the mithril but perished in the storm.  I know that we are very close to finding the room, very close indeed.”  He noticed that the Princess seemed more chipper since the Beffraen ceremony, her cheeks rosier.

She listened intently, her gray eyes focused.  “I am fascinated by tales of my ancestors, the people of Westernesse.  It was a sad thing though, what they did to the Beffraen.  I promise that such a thing shan’t happen again under my watch.”

Haedorial felt a glow at her words.  He had seen her grow from a lost, sometimes spoiled girl into a young woman who had great potential to be a fair and just ruler.  “I spoke to them at length since the ceremony and they are a fascinating people, simply fascinating.  Their culture is rich with song and story, much of it passed down, father to son, mother to daughter.  Their written language is mostly pictograms, drawings that have meaning to them.  Over the years, they learned Sindarin from passing elves.”

Nirnadel developed a faraway look for a moment.  “I am enraptured by them.  I would wish to try the ceremony once more,” she said, hugging herself.

Haedorial remembered that her ceremony had a somewhat…sensuous aspect to it.  He surmised that she was still a virgin for her previous destiny was as a bride to seal an alliance between some entity and Cardolan.  Now that things had changed, she would need an heir to secure the future of the realm.  “It looked…amazing, your Highness.  I would be very interested to know what goes into those paints.  And, I have to let you know that I am so, so appreciative of your commitment to send an expedition to Rhudaur.  I believe young Dagar in the threat that these Blood-Wights pose to the land.  You recall his previous letter, don’t you?”

Nirnadel nodded gravely.  “Indeed.  These are demons of the ancient world that we have no understanding of,” she said.  “But there is one amongst us who has seen them personally.”  She turned and waved her hand at her Captain of Mercenaries.  “Good Mercatur, I beg you to please sit with us.  We have some questions that I believe that only you can answer.”

He got that look that showed that he would rather be anywhere else.  He picked up his tray and sauntered over with the others, swinging his leg over the bench and plopping down.  He pursed his lips under his thick brown beard.  “What can I do for you, your Highness?” he asked gruffly.  ‘Please don’t ask me about the Tirthon.”  He tried to change the subject quickly and looked at Haedorial.  “You saved me back in the catacombs.  Thank you. And I was a little harsh on you too so I’m sorry.  It was that rat’s poison in me.”

Haedorial grinned.  He had always wanted to win the mercenary’s respect, and it seemed like that was beginning to happen.  “Pay it no mind, sir.  I am just glad that you were cured.”

Nirnadel gave her best demure smile and touched Mercatur on the arm.  “I will be proposing to the Council that we mount an expedition to Rhudaur later this year before the winters come.  The danger that your friend spoke of is of great concern to the realm.  You, my good sir, have knowledge that will be instrumental in the success of that task.  You know the land and the people.”

Mercatur’s face showed that he knew where this was going. “And you need to know about the Blood-Wights.  Am I right?”

She nodded her head.  “It would help very much.”

He sighed heavily and tilted his head back for a moment and then made a face.  “I knew this was coming so I best man up and face it.  So, where should I start?”

Haedorial brought out his journal and quill.  “You could start at the beginning.  I’ve read Dagar’s previous letter which detailed the waenhosh and the Battle of the Tirthon.  It mentions the Blood-Wights, especially the ones who later joined you.”

Mercatur glanced up at a time piece that sat over the mantle of the fireplace, and he seemed disappointed.  “Well, I guess we have time for that.  Our shift doesn’t start for another hour.  Fine, fine.  My crew and I were looking for work in Thuin Boid when we came across this skinny-ass wastrel, Dagar, who looked like he had never been outdoors in his life.  Pardon my Dunnish, your Highness,” he said with a chuckle.  “That barbarian freak, Lumban, offered us a job but then Dagar paid more so we took it.” He then proceeded to tell them about the waenhosh, the massacre at Maig Tuira, the rescue of the prisoners and the retreat to the Tirthon.  “It was all a set up.  That mage, Ethacali, wanted us to run and escape.  He had turned one of the key people in the waenhosh, Nasen, who poisoned some of the grain and had an enchanted ring that would drive the cook mad.” He took a deep breath and downed his ale, froth spilling onto his beard.

“This is the part…this is the part that I still have nightmares over.  The Blood-Wights can infect your dreams.  The male, Naranantur, seduced Lady Éanfled every night, causing conflict between her and Oswy, her husband.  That one’s a firestorm, she is.  She just oozes…sorry your Highness.”

Nirnadel gasped.  “Lady Éanfled was one of my ladies of the court.  She was always very cultured and sophisticated, excelling in art and music.  She left to marry Sir Oswy to continue the line of House Amrodan.  I would dearly love to see her again.”

Mercatur coughed, regaining his composure.  “Yeah, yeah, she mentioned that.  Now, the female Blood-Wight, Skrykalian, posed as my cousin’s dead wife, convincing him that she was still alive.  Lord Marendil spiraled into depression and could not lead, effectively giving command to Oswy.  But she convinced him that he was a coward and that’s why she died, so he ordered a rash cavalry charge that ended in disaster.  Skrykalian killed my friend, Gamrid, and then Lord Marendil in that battle.  I know now that she was forced to do that, but I wanted to rip her head off them.  The way…the way in which it happened,” he said, shuddering.  “I can’t unsee that.  She swept down on white wings and pulled Gamrid off of his horse like he was a child’s toy. Her eyes glowed red and her mouth opened,” he said, illustrating with his hands, “bigger than is humanly possible…rows of razor sharp teeth and ripped his throat out like she was biting a ripe peach.”

Haedorial, Nirnadel and rest recoiled in horror.  “I…I had…had no idea,” said the bard.  “The letter was very…generic.”

Mercatur nodded.  “Thanks to Dagar, our defense stopped the attack, and they fled into the Yfelwood.  We pursued the fleeing enemy to end them for good.  We entered Blogath’s Vale and then into her temple.  I saw things…from the ancient past…the Blood-Wights living, singing, eating.  It was…I don’t know.  Blogath appeared to us as a woman needing help and we fell for it.  She was…,” he said and then gulped hard.  “With a wave of her finger, she ensnared us, and we could not move or speak.  She forced us to sit like puppets, saying that she would feast on our blood and bodies and turn some of us into her slaves, vampires like her.”

Nirnadel’s hands were over her mouth. “Horrible…horrible,” she said.

“She was a power that I have never seen.  Skrykalian tried to rebel, but Blogath was too great. Skrykalian bit her own wrist and gave her blood to Ethacali so he would have the strength to break free if only for a little.  He sacrificed himself by collapsing the temple.  With Skrykalian’s and Naranantur’s help, we escaped.”

He took another breath and recited how they made peace with the Cultirith and the Siol Nûnaw tribe and returned to the Tirthon.  “That’s where I relinquished my land and claim to the title and invested Dagar as Lord Rhudainor.  That guy will be ten times the lord that I could ever be.  He just loved talking about king this and queen that. Oh, and your Highness, I know he said so in his letter, but that guy absolutely adored you.  I don’t know how many times he told me about the time you passed him in your carriage and waved to him.”

Nirnadel blushed.  “Now I definitely want to meet good Dagar.  But praythee, good mercenary, is it even possible to defeat these Blood-Wights?  It seems that they cannot be killed, and I will not risk my people for a hopeless cause.”

Mercatur mused for a moment before speaking, hand on his chin. “Ethacali was powerful but all he could do was trap them.  Even Alquanessë, who was Skrykalian, offered me her life in exchange for her killing Gamrid and Marendil.  I asked that, if I kill her, would she just come back later and she said yes but that it would still hurt.  She just bared her neck and spread her arms and woo…yeah, she wasn’t wearing anything. And damn was she a looker.  But, since she just saved us, I called it even.  But if anyone would know how to kill them for good, it’s her.”

Nirnadel thought about this.  “Yes, we will have to ask her.  Is it true that she is a Noldorin princess?”

Haedorial nodded.  “According to Dagar, she and her siblings are the children of Írimë, who, according to my lore, is the daughter of the first High King of the Noldor, Finwë. She is of an ancient lineage that is unimaginable to us…eons ago from a time that predates Númenor by untold years. There is no known record of what happened to Írimë, but Dagar says that she is in the south of Middle Earth.  He also explains that the siblings’ father is Maglor, a bard renowned in elven legends and the second son of mighty Fëanor. His fate after the War of Wrath is also unknown.  A fascinating tale by any telling.”

Nirnadel blew out a long breath.  “Thank you for sharing that, good Mercatur.  I know it wasn’t easy.  It is decided.  I will propose the expedition to Rhudaur, and we will journey to meet with good Dagar and lovely Alquanessë and determine if we can move forward or how to deal with the threat.”

Haedorial smiled.  The Princess had an empathy that couldn’t be denied, and she was showing a wisdom that was rare in one her age.  He was about to say something when the clock struck the hour.  “I guess it’s time for our shift,” he said, rising.

Workers from the last shift walked in, tired but smiling. “We found something!  An armory.”  They brought in a dagger that was crusted in barnacles, six spear heads, four axe heads and a tarnished sword that was made of a translucent blue metal, Laen.  “We had to pour in some poison first to get rid of the sand fleas, but we got these weapons.”

Nirnadel made a face.  “Sand fleas.  Sounds simply ghastly.”

One of the workers laughed.  “Oh, don’t get any down your pants, girl, or you’ll be dancing for days!”  The others cackled and Haedorial gasped.

Galadel stood and scowled.  “You are speaking to Her Highness, Princess Nirnadel.  Have some respect!”

The workers stopped and narrowed their eyes. “What?  No, you’re kidding?  That was a good one!”  They started laughing again until one of the men pointed at Nirnadel.  “No, no, she’s not kidding,” the one said, his face twisting into horror.  “I saw her on the barricades that night when…when she stopped the revolt. That…that’s her!”

Another stared intently.  “Oh my…oh my… I was sick in the Houses of Healing.  Mistress Firiel cured me…and Nurse Kaile,” he said, nodding to the Healer and the nurse.  “And…and it was Yüle.  She came…the Princess came to the house and gave us presents and a feast…it’s her!  I know it’s her!  I would never forget that face!”  He knelt as did the others.  “Forgive us, your Highness!” they called, lowering their faces.

She shook her head and laughed.  “I like to disguise myself and I’ve gotten quite good at it, my good men,” she said.  “No harm was done.”  She shook her lower body in a mock dance.  “There, now I’m ready for the nasty sand fleas.”  The men didn’t know whether to laugh or not but Mercatur burst out and, only then, did everyone follow suit.  Nirnadel went to the cantina and brought them a tray of coffee and served each one of them.  “I am grateful for your work and your efforts to make my brother’s last wish come true.”

Haedorial could scarce keep from sniffling, so overcome by emotion was he.  He could not be prouder to be Cardolani.  The men thanked them and the Princess as she shook every hand.  She then pointed out the door.  “Come, good people, we shan’t be late for our work shift,” and they headed out into the steady rain.  This part of Cardolan could still be cool in Gwirith and people stomped and rubbed their gloved hands together.  Kaile put a thick fur cap on Nirnadel’s head as they picked up shovels and buckets and proceeded down the wooden ramp to the dig site.  It was already over twenty feet deep and growing by the hour.  The foreman had rigged a pump to drain water from the pit, but rain kept pooling at the bottom.  It had taken Haedorial a couple of shifts to learn how to use a shovel, but he was getting the hang of it.  The four stewards came down the ramp, including his son, who was much better at this manual labor thing than he.

“Oh, Mindolinor, this is hard work.  I am beginning to see the challenges that my friend, Dagar, faced when he returned to Rhudaur.”  The ringlets in their hair had frizzed in the cool humidity and they both began to look like one of the jesters of the court in his frizzy wig, white face and red nose.  “Your mother would be horrified to see us like this, but I have to admit that it is kind of…fun.”  He shoveled a load of sand into his son’s bucket.

“Is it true, father, that you had a vision of this site and the location of the Mithril Room?  That is phenomenal!”

He nodded.  “I did indeed!  I’m not sure if it was a latent talent or what.  It truly was phenomenal, my son, truly phenomenal.”  They looked over to see Princess Nirnadel kicking water onto Kaile and Galadel and then laughing and the three splashed at each other.

Mindolinor gazed at her as a young man would, a faraway look and a dreamy smile on his lips.  “She is truly something, father.  I would never have imagined a royal princess being this…fun.  She’s like a regular girl.”

“That she is, son, that she is.  She has a heart that is for all of the realm, high and low alike. Now, I was young once and you may have some silly ideas and I would advise you right now to forget them.  I have a good friend, young Master Dagar…now Lord Rhudainor.  He had the most serious crush on Nirnadel.  But it was not to be.  She is not just a girl.  She is Cardolan.  Her Royal Highness is to wed brave Prince Araphor of Arthedain, and the realm will be reunited as the Kingdom of Arnor.”  He gave Mindolinor a loving smack on the head.  “Now, you remember what I said.”

He looked disappointed but nodded.  “Yes, father.”

There was a squeal, and they looked over to see the Princess poking at something in the wet sand with her shovel.  “By the Valar, I think I hit something!”  It sounded like she struck something metal.  People rushed over and began clearing the muck away. It was the top of a room that was shielded in a type of steel that did not rust.  There was some discoloration on the metal from millennia of neglect, but the silver hue could still be seen.

Haedorial rushed over and looked at the silver sheen and fell to his knees.  “This is it, your Highness!  You found it! The Mithril Room of Tar-Telemmaitë!” They dug down to find a round steel door made of the same, unusual material.  “It was during the reign of his father, Tar-Ancalimon, that the Númenóreans began to fall away from the faith.  Tar-Telemmaitë was the first Númenórean King to hold the Sceptre until his death, breaking over two millennia of tradition that started with Elros Tar-Minyatur.”

Nirnadel was down in the muck, pulling sand away from the door with both hands.  “That shall not happen in Cardolan while I have a say,” she said, never looking up. “We obey the faith, and we honor those who came before us,” she said in a dignified voice.  Then, she looked at Haedorial with a wicked smile as she flicked sand at his face and giggled.  “And if I should forget, you will kindly remind me of my words, good bard.”

He laughed out loud, wiping rain and sand from his forehead. “I shall indeed, good princess, I shall indeed!  You truly have the blood of Elros in you.”  Nirnadel pulled sand away from what looked like a large combination lock and a heavy handle.  The dimensions of the room were large, looking to be 30’x40’x12’ high.  This had to be it.

Nirnadel took a breath and then pushed the handle down. She gasped to find it unlocked, and the handle moved easily as if recently oiled.  “My brother, good Prince Braegil, once told me that the mithril panels were to be shipped to Númenor to become the walls of a secret room for Tar-Telemmaitë.  It would stop nearly all magic with the right enchantments so that he could never be spied upon, so paranoid was he.  There was a belief that the panels were onboard transport to the island when the storm sunk them, but my brother did not believe that, based on his research. He met with elves and dwarves on the matter and concluded, rightly, that they would be here in the ruins.  I ask you now, my friends, to take a moment to give thanks before we open the door.”  The people bowed their heads in praise to wise Manwë and great Eru.  Then, she took a deep breath, anxiety and hope on her face. She tugged on the door, and it was surprisingly easy to move, given its size and weight.  The construction of the vault was extraordinary, the product of Númenórean engineering.  Kaile jumped in and the two swung the round door out and a silver glow emanated from the room as diffused sunlight streamed in.  Haedorial and Nirnadel peered in, practically shaking.  The Princess fell to her knees, sobbing for joy, her hands lifted to the sky. “My dear brother!  My dear brother!  We have finished your work!  Your loving hands guided us to the room.  Rest now in the embrace of the One!  Eru be praised!  We did this for you, brave Braegil!”  Kaile and Galadel held her, crying along with her.  Then, she leaned forward and dug her hands into the wet sand, grasping handfuls and gripping tightly as if they were the spirit of her fallen brother.

Haedorial gasped.  Four large panels of true silver were on racks for transport.  “I don’t…I never…this is magnificent!  Mindolinor, we must record this in the records of the kingdom.  Your Highness, we have done it!”

The site was quickly secured by the Guard and by soldiers of the realm.  Ships were called for transport.  The mithril panels were unexpectedly light, such was the mysterious quality of the metal. Four of them could lift one panel with only some difficulty.  The Princess decreed that half of a panel would go to Lord Castamir in thanks for his shipments, half of a panel would go to King Valacar as a gift of friendship to Gondor.  Half of a panel would be sold, and the proceeds would go to the Beffraen for their friendship.  They were already meeting with farmers and craftsmen from Cardolan for ideas on improving the land and making tools of metal.  Half of a panel would go to King Araphor of Arthedain as a dowry and for the friendship of the northern kingdom.  That left two panels.  A quarter panel would go to the Tinarës, who had selflessly provided food and supplies for the realm.  What was left could fund the kingdom for centuries.  They had gone from near poverty and ruin less than a year ago to a return of the days of King Tarandil the Prosperous where Cardolan thrived and stood at its strongest point.  Dwarven smiths would be invited to trade and to create things with the mithril.  Nirnadel danced with her ladies, waving her hands freely.  Right now, she was just a Tharbad girl, enjoying a special moment with her friends.

“Come, come!” she said to the gathering.  “Praythee, good people, we must celebrate in the longhouse!” They ran to the building, out of the rain, where she ordered musicians to gather and for supper to be served.  The workmen from the last shift had heard the news and were all leaping up and down.  A drummer began to beat out a rhythm, and a lute and recorder joined in, playing a lively tune. Nirnadel and her ladies pranced about, linking arms with as many people as they could.  Workmen were astounded that they were dancing with a princess. It was every young man’s dream come true.  Haedorial clapped in tempo, enjoying the moment and committing it to memory.  He would remember this day for all of the rest of his days.  Nirnadel shook out her raven hair, spraying rainwater, laughing with raw emotion. Anariel would have a heart attack if she saw this.

The Princess ran over and grasped his and his son’s hand. “What are you doing, good bards! Come!  Dance with me!”  She ran back to the open floor and pulled Mercatur out of his seat.  “You are dancing with me, good captain of mercenaries. This is a royal order!”  They all tromped onto the floor, their boots stomping on the wood as the music grew in volume and pace, bodies packing the room.  The tune ended on a high note and the people cheered as Nirnadel took the stage.

“Good people!  Good people!” she called in a clear voice that carried to every corner of the longhouse.  Haedorial knew that she truly had ‘the voice.’  It had been a gift of the Valar to the House of Elros, the faithful Edain who had fought and died in Beleriand in days of old.  Bards trained for years to develop it, but the Princess was born with it.  “We…no, no, no, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this day that you have all made possible.  You! You are Cardolan, my friends!  Remember this day with me!  And we will heal the realm together!”

Every person in the longhouse roared.  The bard looked at his son, who was already writing down every word and trying to sketch a drawing of the scene.  Mindolinor was going to make a fine bard.  Haedorial put his hand over his heart as music broke out again to raucous singing.  Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn and his people began a song in their throaty language that sounded like frogs croaking and birds chirping.  The room was a joyous cacophony of people cheering, singing, humming and instruments belting out almost random notes.  It was what the Nightsingers called ‘a jam.’  Nobody cared if it was just noise.  Small groups were just doing their own thing.  The Princess and her ladies were up on stage, happily flailing about.

Mindolinor, like a good apprentice bard, was quickly writing down every word into a journal, every observation and even did a rough sketch of the Princess and her ladies before the crowd.  Haedorial beamed.  He taught his son well.  He imagined a day where Mindolinor would replace him, and he would be watching his son from the audience during the Yüle Festival as the Queen performed a dance for the people.  He put his hand on his son’s shoulder and gave him a satisfied smile.

Amid the delightful chaos, he noticed three men, wearing uniforms of the Chancellor’s Guard, enter the longhouse, searching for someone.  They were adorned in riders’ clothing, carrying conical helmets under their arms, bearing a dispatch from the Chancellor in a message case.  They saw the Princess and made their way through the crowd to the stage.  With his bardic abilities, Haedorial focused his hearing to the men.

“Your Highness!” the sergeant called out, holding up the scroll case.  “We bear dispatch from Nimhir, the Regent and Chancellor of Cardolan.  We came with all haste.”

Nirnadel was still smiling when she heard the call and turned to make eye contact.  “Or course, good sergeant!  Please, join us.  What do you have for me?”

He undid the top of a sealed scroll case and handed her a parchment that was covered in script, written in the Cirth, common for the Sindarin elves and the Dúnedain.  Nirnadel began to read, and her expression became serious.  She held up her hand and called out, “Good people!  Good people, I beg you, please be silent for a moment. I have an important announcement to make.  I have received dispatch from the Regent in Bar Aran in Tharbad, and I beg you all to listen!”

The crowd went quiet with a smattering of curious murmurs. Valandil clapped his hands sharply. “Everyone quiet!  Her Highness wishes to speak.”  All eyes focused on Nirnadel.

She took a deep breath as she scanned the document. “Good people, I read to you from the Chancellor.  The Chancellor writes…To Her Highness, the Crown Princess Nirnadel, I beseech you to return to Tharbad with all haste for a matter of great import to the Crown has arisen.  We have intercepted dispatches meant for Gondor that are subversive and threaten your ascension to the throne.  Captain Davrion of the Royal Barge is to bear you back to the Bar Aran with all speed. I have convened the High Court to adjudicate this matter, and your presence will be required.  I wish you good speed and safe travels.  You will be met by other members of my personal guard at the docks of the Bar Aran.  We will meet and discuss the nature of the threat then.  Your faithful servant, Nimhir, Regent and Chancellor of the Realm.”

There were gasped in the crowd and Nirnadel’s face was wrought with concern.  Haedorial knew that there would always be challenges to her crown.  The mere fact that she was so young and inexperienced was an invitation to unrest and ambition from less than savory members of the kingdom.  She was never meant to rule, her two older brothers being closer in the line of succession, but fate had vastly different plans.  Right now, he could only guess as to the new danger.

Nirnadel paused for a moment, thinking, her finger on her lips. Then, she looked back out on the crowd. “Good people…I have had a delightful evening with all of you.  You have all touched my heart,” she said, holding one hand over her chest.  “I fear though, that I must leave you for urgent business of the kingdom.  My orders stand as to the distribution of the mithril and to its safe transportation to those that I have designated.  Good Baranor, you will see to it that my instructions are relayed and carried out. We will begin to break down the camp to return to Tharbad and so leave our Beffraen friends to their lands.” She gestured to the Drúedain.  “Upon my return to Tharbad, I will ratify our agreement so that it will be set in stone.  Good Ghûn-Zama-Ghûn, I bid you and your people farewell, and I swear that we will uphold our friendship.  Good Thȃn-Voma-Thȃn, I thank you for your ceremony.  It will guide me into the future.  I may, one day, beg you for another.  Be blessed in the embrace of the Valar.”  She gestured to her guard and the expedition party.  “Come, let us prepare to depart at sunrise tomorrow.”

Haedorial put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Mindolinor, my good son, you best prepare for travel.  I will be coming with you on this journey.  The Princess will need all of the support that she can get.”

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Chapter End Notes

I'm using the period from the Wars of the Roses to the Tudor era as a guide for the culture, fashion and music of the north.  I plan to use the Italian Rennaissance as a guide for Gondor.