Atalantur

You are Atalantur, son of Saramir Angalacon, a famous ship-builder from Eldalonde, and his wife Namilisse.

Your father was lost at sea during your early childhood, under mysterious circumstances, and the many conflicting tales surrounding his disappearance have grown ever more outlandish in the intervening years. Now, at the age of seventeen, you have finally learned the wisdom of laughing them off. But you are still haunted by mist-shrouded memories of the great man and the cryptic fragments of things he said to you, which come to you in dreams like stones revealed by a receding tide. Through the years your family evaded your persistent questions: Where was Father going? Was he not accompanied by a crew of sailors? Was he on a secret quest? In time, you surrendered to their stubborn reticence. But in your heart your curiosity yet burns.

Thankfully you have other concerns to occupy yourself with. Your two uncles, whom you call Anga and Mori, have taken on the responsibility of bringing you through your apprenticeship in your father's trade. Due to your family's predicament, you have had a late start in your training, but in one fortnight you will be an official journeyman shipwright, and will set off for the Bay of Andunie to begin your own work, designing and crafting boats and ships from scratch, and earning the further recommendations of the masters of the shipwrights' guild there. For now, though, you mainly work as an errand-boy to Anga and Mori, cleaning the shop, fetching supplies and tools, and cleaning the shop again. Even with all of this busywork, however, there is ample time to observe and receive instruction in the fundamentals of the craft, and the opportunities for hands-on participation in the actual building are becoming less seldom as you approach the end of your apprenticeship.

Occasional visits from an old compatriot of your father's provide you with an exciting change of pace. Herumir is captain of the guard at the capitol city, Armenelos, and a loyal friend to your family. He comes to Eldalonde once a month to bring news to your mother and uncles, and to check up on you. During his week-long stays with your family he teaches you the rudiments of swordplay. Your skills with the wooden practice swords have increased so rapidly that Herumir has taken to calling you ohtar, and claiming that you could best any of the new recruits under his command. He often warns you, though, that actual combat, with real weapons and real perils, is a different beast altogether: he has seen well-trained, talented soldiers lose their senses and freeze up with terror at the moment their skills were needed most, if only to save themselves from being cut down where they stood paralyzed and trembling. And when the ale or wine is flowing plentifully, he lets slip ominous phrases like, "But you are your father's boy, and your father feared nothing...not even..." or, "There is a blood in you that does not curdle, but burns all the hotter, in the face of terrible foes." You have grown to respect Herumir in a way that surpasses that which you feel toward your uncles, and you have seen in his silvery eyes the weight of a dreadful secret. It is a look you have memorized well, as it has cast itself like iron in the unchanging eyes of your mother, the woman who never smiles or laughs.

Namilisse has always been distant and cold, not baleful, but merely aloof. It is rumored among the town-folk that your mother is a witch, or a necromancer, a seeker after unwholesome knowledge. It is true enough she spends much of her time alone and poring over old books and scrolls, and she is as secretive about these pursuits as she is about your father. But you have no cause to believe the gossip, and your uncles' reassurances satisfy you that your eccentric mother is, in fact, an accomplished scholar who translates old Elvish manuscripts for the loremasters of Armenelos. You have clear memories of her singing to you in the ancient, flowing tongue of the Eldar, and as long ago as it was, you still catch yourself at times mumbling phrases whose meaning you could not guess. Alas, your mother sings no more, neither in Quenya, nor in Sindarin, nor in Adunaic, nor in any other language. Save for her monthly visits from Herumir, she has retreated wholly into a reclusive existence, silent and occluded in her chambers.

It is in one of these rooms that you find yourself now: the venerable library. Your mother has summoned you here from the workshop because she has a pressing matter to discuss with you. The servant she sent was unable to offer any further details. How rare and odd to have a chance to visit with your mother! As you wait for her, you take in your surroundings.

The library is a large rotunda with walls of polished black granite and a floor of sparkling, white marble tiles. The high, domed ceiling stretches far above you, culminating in an oculus from which a shower of subdued light and glittering water falls to dance playfully in the mithril-lined pool that dominates the center of the room. Soft, crystalline radiance from Elvish lanterns fills the three pillared alcoves and the large apse in the western wall. Here are also set three arched windows, through which the afternoon rainstorm can be seen, sweeping across the sea like some great, gray bird. Opposite the apse, a wide marble stair proceeds to a mezzanine where tall bookcases brood against the wall, heavy with ancient tomes and crumbling manuscripts of all colors and sizes. Between two of these stacks, a short, arched passageway opens out onto a loggia, where, you now remember, your mother prefers to work.

You ascend the stairs and cross the mezzanine with renewed curiosity. What would she be working on?, you wonder. More translations? Would she be happy to see you? And, of course, what is this important matter she called you here to discuss? As you step into the dim, bluish light of the passageway you are greeted with a brisk sea breeze, carrying with it an invitingly cool mist and the faint scent of brine. Outside, within the partial shelter of the loggia, the wind is whipping the light rain into swirls of spray, moistening the red marble pillars and flagstones closest to the outer wall. There, standing with her back to you and gazing down at the tumultuous surf from her vantage point near a gilded railing is your mother, Namilisse. Her dark hair billows out around her in twisting, ebon strands.

When you call to her she does not at first respond, but after a brief hesitation, she turns slowly. A fair face does your mother possess, and it is smiling behind stray locks. But there are tracks of moisture upon her cheeks that somehow don't look like the work of rain, and her face is slightly flushed. She extends her slender arms to you. "My son..."

"Mother," you reply as you walk swiftly to embrace her. "Why do you stand in the storm?"

She pulls away from you, gently, and looks into your eyes with a quizzical expression, parting her lips as if to say something profound. But then she stops herself, and clasps your hand instead. The warmth is soothing and brightens cold memories. "You are right, Atalantur: let us sit. We have much to discuss."

Taking your arm, she walks with you to a small table subtly lit by a modest clay lamp. There is a flagon of wine, and she pours from it into two cups. She takes a generous draught and you follow her example. Setting down her cup, she begins:

"Your father was not lost at sea, Atalantur. He was murdered."