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Forostar (Northlands) – “The Forostar was the least fertile part; stony, with few trees, save that on the westward slopes of the high heather-covered moors thjere were woods of fir and larch. Towards the North Cape the land rose to rocky heights, and there great Sorontil rose sheer from the sea in tremendous cliffs. Here was the abode of many eagles; and in this region Tar-Meneldur Elentirmo built a tall tower, from which he could observe the motions of the stars.”

• Sorontil – A mountain near the North Cape second in might and height only to Meneltarma, and not bound by silence.

• Ondosto – A city in the southern part of the Forostar, with chief trades of stonecutting and masonry. It is located on the great road from Rómenna.

Andustar (Westlands) – “Rocky in its northern parts, with high firwoods looking out upon the sea. Three small bays it had, facing west, cut back into the highlands; but here the cliffs were in many places not at the sea’s edge, and there was a shelving land at their feet. The northmost of these was called the Bay of Andúnië…But much of the southerly part of the Andustar was fertile, and there also were great woods, of birch and beech upon the upper ground, and in the lower vales of oaks and elms.”

• Andúnië – A great haven on the Bay of Andúnië “with its town beside the shore and many other dwellings climbing up the steep slopes behind.” Iinitially the largest city of Númenor, due to the presence of many elves of Tol Eressëa.

• Bay of Eldanna – “Between the promontories of the Andustar and the Hyarnustar was the great Bay that was called Eldanna, because it face towards Eressëa; and the lands about it, being sheltered from the north and open to the western seas, were warm, and the most rain fell there. At the centre of the Bay of Eldanna was the most beautiful of all the havens of Númenor, Eldalondë the Green.”

• Eldalondë the Green – “Hither in the earliest days the swift white ships of the Eldar came most often, All about that place, up the seaward slopes and far into the land, grew the evergreens and fragrant trees that they brough out of the West, and so throve there that th Eldar said that it was almost as fair as a haven in Eressêa…Flower, leaf, and rid of those trees exuded sweer scents, and all that country was full of blended bragrance; there fore it was called Nísimaldar, the Fragrant Trees…Only here grew the mighty golden tree malinornë,..some were given as a gift by Tar-Aldarion to King Gil-galad of Lindon. They did not take root in that land; but Gil-galad gave some to his kinswoman Galadriel, and under her power they grew and flourished in the guarded land of Lothlórien…but they dud not reach the height or girth of the great groves of Númenor.

• Nísinen/River Nunduinë – “The river Nunduinë flowed into the sea at Eldalondë, and on its way made the little lake of Nísinen, that was so named from the abunbdance of sweet-smelling shrugs and flowers that grew upon its banks.

Hyarnustar (Southwestlands) – “In its western part a mountainous region, with great cliffs on the western and southern coasts; but eastwards were great vineyards in a warm and fertile land. The promontories of the Hyarnustar and Hyarrostar were splayed wide apart, and on those long shores sea and land came gently together, as nowhere else in Númenor.”

• River Siril – “Here flowed down Siril, the chief river of the land (for all others, save for the Nunduinë in the west, were short and swift torrents hurrying the the sea), that rose in springs under the Meneltarma in the valley of Nooirinan, and running through the Mittalmar southwards became in its lower course a slow and winding stream. It issued at last into the sea amid wide marshes and reedy flats, and its many small mouths found their changing paths through great sands; for many miles on either side were wide whitre beaches and grey shingles, and here the fisherfolk mostly dwelt, invillages upon the hards and among the marshes and meres.

• Nindamos – the chiefest of the fishing villages in the Hyarnustar at the mouth of the Siril

Hyarrostar (Southeastlands) – “[Here] grew an abundance of trees of man kinds, and among them the laurinquë in which the people delighted for its flowers, for it had no other use. This name they gave it because of its long-hanging clusters of yellow flowers; and some who had heard from the Eldar of Laurelin, the Golden Tree of Valinor, believed that it came from that great Tree, being brought thither in seed by the Eldar; but it was not so. From the days of Tar-Aldarion there were great plantations in the Hyarrostar to furnish timber for shipbuilding.


Orrostar (Eastlands) – “A cooler land, but protected from the cold noeth-east winds by highlands that rose towards the end of the promontory; and in the inner regions of the Orrostar much grain was grown, especially in those parts near to the borders of Arandor.”


Mittalmar (Inlands) – “Raised above the promontories (not reckoning the height of their mountains and hills); it was a region of grasslands and low downs, and few trees grew there. Near to the centre of the Mittalmar stood the tall mountain called Meneltarma, pillar of the Heavens, sacred to the worship of Eru Illúvatar…The base of Meneltarma sloped gently into the surrounding plain, but it extended, after the fashion of roots, five long low ridges outwards in the direction of the five promontories of the land; and these were called Tarmasundar, the Roots of the Pillar…But for the most part the Mittalmar was a region of pastures.

• Meneltarma – “Near to the centre of the Mittalmar stood the tall mountain called Meneltarma, Pillar of the Heavens, sacred to the worship of Eru Illúvatar. Though the lower slopes of the mountain were gentle and grass-covered, it grew ever steeper, and towards the summit it could not be scaled; but a winding spiral road was made upon it, beginning at its foot upon the south, and ending below the lip of the summit upon the north. For the summit was somewhat flattened and depressed, and could contain a great multitude; but it remained untouched by hands throughout the history of Númenor. No building, no raised altar, not even a pile of undressed stones, ever stood there; and no likeness of a temple did the Númenóreans possess in all the days of their grace, until the coming of Sauron. There no tool or weapon had ever been born; and there non might speak any word, save the King only…The people were free to climo to the summit alone or in company; but it is said that the silence was so great tht even a stranger ignorant of Númenor and all its history, if he were transported thither, would not have dard to speak aloud. No bird ever came there, save only the eagles. If anyone approached the summit, at once three eagles would appear and alight upon three rocks near to the western edge…They were called the Witnesses of Manwë, and they were believed to be sent by him from Aman to keep watch upon the Holy Mountain and upon all the land."

• Valley of the Tombs – between the south-east and south-west ridges of the Tarmasundar, “the land went down into a shallow valley. That was named Noirinan, the Valley of Tombs; for at its head chambers were cut in the rock at the base of the mountain, in which were the tombs of the Kings and Queens of Númenor.

• Emerië – The “chief region of the Shepherds”, a land of rolling downs and grass in the Southwest of the Mittalmar

• Rómenna – the great haven of Arandor, largest seaport of Númenor, 50 miles east of the capital Armenelos, the site of great shipyards. Many of the Faithful were either force to relocate here from Andúnië during the reign of Ar-Gimilzôr, or later drawn there by Amandil, and it is from here that the Faithful led by Elendil would flee the drowning of Númenor.

• Armenelos – the City of Kings, Armenelos the Golden. Capital city of Númenor, and largest, after the decline of Andúnië

“In Númenor all journeyed from place to place on horseback; for in riding the Númenoreans, both men and women, took delight, and all the people of the land loved horses, treating them honorabkly and housing them nobly. Thet were trained to hear and answer calls from a great distance, and it is said in old tales that where there was great love between men and women and their favorite streeds they could be summoned at need by thought alone. Therefore the roads of Númenor were for the most part unpaved, made and tended for riding, since coaches and carriages were little used in the earlier centuries, and heavy cargoes were borne by sea. The chief and most ancient road, suitable for wheels, ran from the greatest port, Rómenna in the east, to the royal city of Armenelos, and thence on to the Valely of the Tombs and the Meneltarma; and this road was early extended to Ondosto within the borders of the Forostarm, and thence to Andúnië in the west. Along it passed wains bearing stone from the Northlands that was most esteemed for building, and timber in which the Westlands were rich.”



“Among the wrights of the Edain were weaponsmiths, and they had with the teaching of the Noldor acquired great skill in the forging of swords, of axe-blades, and of spearheads and knives. Swords the Guild of Weaponsmiths still made, for the preservation of the craft, though most of their labor was spent on fashioniong of tools for the uses of peace. The King and most of the great chieftains possessed swords as heirloom of their fathers; and at times they would still give a sword as a gift to their heirs. A new sword was made for the King’s Hier to be given to him on the day on which this title was conferred. But no man wore a sword in Númenor, and for long years few indeed were the weapons of warlike intent that were made in the land…In later days, in the wars upon Middle-earth, it was the bows of the Númenoreans that were most greatly feared. “The Men of the Sea,” it was said, “send before them a great cloud, as a rain turned to serpents, or a black hail tiped with steel;” and in those days the great cohorts of the King’s Archers used bows made of hollow steel, with black-feathered arrows a full ell long from point to notch.”



“Axes and spears and bows they had, and shooting with bows on foot and on horseback was a chief sport and pastime of the Númenoreans…Beyond all other pursuits the strong men of Númenor took delight in the Sea, in swimming, in diving, or in small craft for contests of speed in rowing or sailing...The hardiest of the people were the fisherfolk; fish were abundant all about the coasts, and were at all times a chief source of food in Númenor; and all the towns were many people congregated were set by the shores. From the fisherfolk were mostly drawn the Mariners, who as the years passed grew greatly in importance and esteem...It is said that when the Edain first set sail upon the Great Sea, following the Star to Númenor, the Elvish ships that bore them were each steered and captained by one of the Eldar deputed by Círdan; and after the Elvish steersmen departed and took with them the most part of their ships it was long before the Númenóreans themselves ventured far to sea. But there were shipwrights among them who had been instructed by the Eldar; and by their own study and devices improved their art until they dared to sail ever further into the deep waters. When six hundred years had passed from the beginning of the Second Age Vëantur, Captain of the King’s Ships under Tar-Elendil, first achieved th voyage to Middle-earth…Thereafter seafaring became the chief enterprise for daring and hardihood among the men of Númenor.”

“Above all arts they nourished ship-building and sea-craft, and they became mariners whose like shall never be seen again since the world was diminished; and voyaging upon the wide seas was the chief feat of adventure of their hardy men in the gallant days of their youth” (Akallabêth, The Silmarillion)



The native language of the Númenóreans is Adûnâyê (Adûnaic). Quenya was also common among the nobility of Númenór, and its Kings and Queens had Quenya names in addition to Adûnaic ones. Sindarin was also an extremely common language on Númenor, as were Sindarin names for nobility, gentry, and places. However, a gradual envy of the immortality of elves and resentment of the seeming supremacy of their languages grew up among some Númenóreans, and in SA 2899 the twentieth king, Ar-Adûnakhôr became the first king to take an Adûnaic regnal name, and forbade anyone from speaking elven tongues in his hearing. Ar-Gimilzôr, the twenty-third king, outlawed elven tongues completely throughout Númenor. His son reversed the ban and took the name Tar-Palantir, but his daughter Míriel was not able to continue this trend when her throne was taken by her cousin Pharazôn, who renamed her in Adûnaic and forced her to marry him, becoming the twenty-fifth and last king of Númenor.



SA 32 – Elros with his people and some Eldar sail to Númenor; he ascends the throne in Armenelos, founding the realm. A gradual migration of Edain to Númenor begins.
SA 442 – Death of Elros
SA 600 – Vëantur, Captain of the King’s Ships, makes the first Númenórean voyage back to Middle-earth
SA 750 – Aldarion founds the Guild of Venturers
SA 870 – Wedding of Aldarion and Erendis
SA 1098 – Death of Tar-Aldarion
c. SA 2000 – The Shadow falls on Númenor, and a division appears amongst the Númenóreans between the King’s Men and the Faithful
c. SA 2000 – Númenóreans begin constructing permanent havens in Middle-earth, such as Pelargir and Umbar. The Faithful tend to go north, and the King’s Men south.
SA 2251 – Nazgûl appear in Middle-earth
SA 2699 – Ar-Adûnakhôr becomes king, forbids the speaking of elven tongues in his presence
SA 3117 – Elves no longer permitted to enter Númenor, elven tongues outlawed
SA 3119 – Birth of Pharazôn
SA 3119 – Birth of Elendil
SA 3177 – Death of Ar-Gimilzôr, Tar-Palantir becomes king, Civil War, Prophecy of the White Tree
SA 3209 – Birth of Isildur
SA 3219 – Birth of Anárion
SA 3255 – Death of Tar-Palantir, Ar-Pharazôn usurps the throne from Tar-Míriel
SA 3261 – Ar-Pharazôn lands at Umbar
SA 3262 – Sauron brought as prisoner to Númenor
SA 3316 – Amandil sails to Aman
SA 3319 – Downfall of Númenor, Changing of the World

The world was greatly changed.

In the fury of the War of Wrath, great destruction had been wreaked upon Middle-earth, and much of the western land: plains, valleys, mountains, rivers, lakes, and trees; cities and villages, spectacular mansions and lonely dwellings; once proud kingdoms; all now lay beneath the waves, the edges that once had defined them being slowly and irrevocably washed away. Soon they would be lost to history, and the memories of those who remained from the Elder Days. The world was greatly changed, too, in that there were far fewer of those memories left. Many answered Eönwë’s summons, and returned, or departed to, the Undying Lands with the Host of Valinor. Of those who did not, they scattered to the winds, fleeing the destruction, to find new homes, and establish new lives. Círdan chose to remain, and established the Grey Havens of Mithlond, from which to harbor ships, and guard safe passage for all who wished to sail. And when it became known that a new land was being prepared for the Edain in return for their allegiance to the Valar, an island far to the west over the sea, Círdan sought out his best and strongest shipwrights and mariners, navigators and pilots, to furnish and crew the fleet that would carry them over the waves.

Elrond looked sadly at his brother. Elros stood on the balcony of Círdan’s manor house, gazing out at the sea and the western horizon. The wind tugged at his hair, and at Elrond’s heart, for he knew that same breeze would soon carry his brother away from him. Not forever, not this time anyway, but there would be a forever, for Elros had chosen to live amongst Men, and with his choice, he had accepted the Gift of Men. One day he would die, in good fortune of old age, but die he must. And then… none knew. But then, Elrond suspected, they would be sundered for all time, and he did not know how he would bear it. At ninety years of age, they were both young, yet, in the lives that had been accorded to them- but Elros had so little left to live. Elrond still did not understand what had caused him to make his choice. He wished he could speak with Maglor. His foster-father might be able to explain, better than his brother could, why he had chosen a mortal life. But Maglor was gone, and they had to carry on as best they could. Elrond pushed away from the pillar upon which he head been leaning and strode to Elros’s side.

“Stopped sulking, have you?”

“I wasn’t sulking,” Elrond protested, but Elros was smiling, and Elrond snorted. “Are you ready, then?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be. You could still come with me, you know.”

“No,” Elrond shook his head, “we’ve talked about this. I need to stay here with Gil-galad. He has need of all his supporters now, and I have a chance to learn so much from him, and from Círdan. But I can visit.”

“I know, I just thought I’d try one more time. I’m going to miss you terribly, you know.”

“What, you won’t be too busy playing king on some island in the middle of nowhere?” It was Elros’s turn to snort, and this ungentlemanly sound was followed by a booming laugh. Both twins turned to see Círdan walking towards them, having entered the terrace unnoticed by either.

“You lads are going to be just fine,” he said with a smile and a twinkle of his ancient eyes. Círdan was one of the few elves remaining in Middle-earth to whom that description could be applied. He had been born at Cuiviénen, before the Great Journey, and remained behind rather than cross the sea to Valinor. Though he had never seen the light of the Trees in the Undying Lands, the starfire of Cuiviénen was in his eyes, and they shone with a light unlike those who had come East from Valinor. “Elros, I have some news for you.” Elrond clapped his brother on the shoulder.

“I’ll be off, and let you two see to it, then.” They both protested, but he waved them off, and made his exit. It wasn’t that he was uninterested in his brother’s preparations or Círdan’s insight, but some days it was too much to be immersed in it. When Elrond had gone, Círdan looked back to Elros.

“I have found a guide for your fleet.” Elros looked at him questioningly, eyebrows slightly raised.

“I thought you had already rounded up steersmen for all the vessels?”

“Yes, and all of them expert at their trade. But I should like to give you a bit of extra insurance, and when she presented herself, I jumped at the chance on your behalf.”

“She?”

“Yes,” Círdan’s smile was broad, and there was an air of excitement about him just tinged with mischief. “I have found for you a guide whose knowledge of the airs of Ilmen is unsurpassed, and who has made such a journey before. One who is older even than I, and knows better the stars.”

“Nówë,” a voice admonished softly, underscored with a breath of laughter, “Is that any way to talk about a lady?” From a room just off the balcony emerged a nís, tall as the shipwright himself, with a fall of shimmering silver hair that fell to her knees, bound back from her face with a light braid over her crown. She was garbed all in white, with a robelike gown so light it almost seemed to float as she moved. Her eyes were merry, amusement flickering in their odd cobalt depths. Círdan took a pace back and bowed his head. Compulsively, Elros did the same.

“Tyelpelfindis,” Círdan greeted her, his voice full of respect, and this time she laughed aloud, a soft chuckle, and the light touch of her fingertips on his chin caused the shipwright to raise his head.

“I never could resist teasing you. Elros,” she turned to the peredhel and curtsied with a grace that startled him more than the action itself. “I will guide your ship to Andor. I am no great sailor or shipwright like my friend,” she smiled at Círdan, “but I have twice traveled the great sea, and the stars are my life’s companion. If by them I can bring you safely to this new shore, I will. And your father’s star,” this time she reached out to touch Elros’s face, “shall be the brightest light to guide us all.”

Elros stared at Tyelpelfindis, stunned by everything about her: her appearance, her words, her bold and gentle touch, the reverence with which Círdan treated her, and most of all her eyes. They were a color he had never seen before, a deep and fathomless blue, somewhere between royal and navy, and if Círdan’s eyes shone with the essence of Cuiviénen’s young stars, hers were alight with a starfire more ancient and unknowable, and yet bright as every star overhead at night. And more: it seemed to him that he could see in them the same light as that he perceived in eyes like Maglor’s, that had seen the Trees and reflected their glow. Twice I have traveled the great sea, she had said; older even than I, Círdan had said; and all at once Elros knew that he was in the presence of one of the Unbegotten.

“My lady,” Elros said at last, recovering his voice. He reached up to gently take her hand from his face. Her skin was smooth and young, and he could feel the strength in her hand, but was nevertheless compelled to keep his touch as soft as he could, as he turned her hand over and kissed its back. “It would be my greatest honor if you would guide my fleet. But have you not better things to do than concern yourself with the affairs of Men?” Again she laughed, and this time it was a rich and throaty sound.

“No, Elros, I do not! I know you are new to the race of Men, but I think we will see great things from them. From you. Besides which, I am homeless.” Tyelpelfindis turned and raised her hands to forestall Círdan’s protest even as he drew a breath to make it. “My friend, you have taken such good care of me,” she took both his hands in hers, and leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek. “And I know I am welcome here as long as I desire. But this place is not my home. I do not know where is, but perhaps I will find it on Andor, and I find that I greatly desire to go that way.”

“Well then,” Elros laughed himself, finally recovering his humor as well, “It would be churlish of me to refuse such an offer, and to refuse a home to one such as you! As long as you wish, my lady, my new home shall be yours.” Tyelpelfindis smiled at him, and Elros felt he might sing.

“I am no lady, Elros.” Elros half opened his mouth to argue, but caught Círdan’s eye, who gave him a slight shake of the head and half a shrug, and he closed it again. After a moment, he spoke.

“Tyelpelfindis.”

“Just so.”

“Let us go together, then.”

“Yes,” she replied, “Let us all go together.” As they had been conversing, the sky had darkened to the blue-black that precedes night. The moon was visible in the sky, and the brightest of stars; a flash of gold over the water came, then vanished, and she stepped away from her two companions to lay her hands on the balcony’s smooth rail. Tyelpelfindis turned her head and her glorious eyes to the horizon, where the dying rays of the sinking sun lit her up in a riot of flames, the edges of her silver hair a coruscating crown of flickering red-gold.

“To the west,” she said, “where fire sets.”

The waters were dark and utterly calm, the moon was barely a sliver of silver in the cloudless sky, shadows of marine life drifted just below the surface, belying the tranquil façade of the bay. Everything was still, everything was quiet. It was a perfect night for stargazing as they shone, wheeling overhead in blues and whites and reds. Out in the bay, between gentle waves capped with sea foam green, there was a little boat hiding, creeping furtively between waves, hiding from the stream of golden light from the half dozen lighthouses dotting the shores. On the boat were two elves, ducking low as they rowed, neither daring to speak, barely daring breath as they glided along the water’s firmament. Occasionally, the one in the lead looked down in the water with a look that was somewhere between longing and distress. He looked at the sea life floating by, unconcerned by their presence and even less so by their mission. Dolphins surfaced but sensed the quiet and kept their chatter to a minimum as they investigated the boat and its occupants. The one put down his oar and gave a sincere pat to the blue-grey dolphin’s head, a cough from the other elf in the boat brought his attention back to the task of rowing, the dolphin gave a halfhearted squeak and disappeared back into the inky depths with his fellows. The little boat with the two elves continued on its crisscrossing path, avoiding the searching light until they made the beach. They dragged the boat onto the shore and hid it between palm leaves and stones, left there by an island conspirator. One stopped and looked back at the ocean before continuing, staring out to the wine dark sea.

“Finnbarr,” whispered his companion, grabbing his shoulder. “We cannot linger here. He is waiting for us. We cannot be late.”

The stocky elf nodded, turning back toward the island and the myriad lights of Andúnië. How many years had it been since he’d seen them? Too long, but the dangers of the island were far too much for him to risk coming ashore the way he used to. Even here on the western end of the island, the seat of the Faithful, there were spies and sneaks willing to sell out the Falmar to the King’s Men for a handful of golden coin. His mission was far too important to be stopped by such cowards and weasels. He threw a hood over his head and followed his companion off the beach. The tide would wash away their footprints and leave no trace of their passage, the sea was good that way. They came to a raised road, old and weary with aeons of wagons and horses. The hour was late, and they were the only men travelling down the ancient road as it snaked into the city. The two elves immediately took to the alleyways, moving between the shadows until they came to the appointed meeting place: an inn marked with five interlocking wagon wheels called, ironically, the Meeting Place. The inn’s common room was empty save for a roaring hearth and a single table with a man dressed in a similar hood as Finnbarr. The two elves nodded to the innkeeper who came out to greet them then nodded wordlessly to the man sitting at the table. They sat for some time, watching the fire, and feeling the waves dry their weary bones.

“I was beginning to lose hope,” said the man in the hood. He removed it and looked at his elven companions. His eyes were bright, shining like blue diamond. There were deep lines of age on his forehead and cheeks, but his leathery smile was sharp. “The island is becoming dangerous. I thought you might have fallen prey to one of its many pits or traps.”

“It is good to see you too, old man,” Finnbarr said, removing his hood. His green eyes glittered with a mix of happiness and sadness. “We would have been earlier but Amoneth here wanted to play with the dolphins.”

Amoneth removed their hood and threw a mocking scowl at their companion. “I believe it was you that wanted to go for a swim, captain. You would have talked with them until Arien came round again.”

Finnbarr laughed and nodded. “If only we had the time. Amandil, it has been far too long. How is the family?”

The Númenórean’s eyes gleamed with pride. “I’m now a great-grandfather if you can believe it. Isildur had a son. Even in these dark days of mistrust and lengthening shadows I still feel I am blessed. I made an offering to Yavanna on the day of his birth, I planted a redwood, the same that you said was sacred, Finnbarr. I hope that it lasts as long as yours.”

Finnbarr breathed a sigh. “Miracles may be few and far between, but we can still hope.”

“I can drink to that,” Amoneth said, raising a mug that the innkeeper brought them. They all nodded and raised their cups. “To miracles, may they happen a little more often.”

Amandil laughed and drained his cup. The two elves did likewise. For a long moment, they said nothing, fearing to break the spell they’d cast with their toast, hoping that the longer they remained reverent to it, the greater chance their toast would come true. The fire cracked and popped and sizzled in the hearth, a wind whistled outside. There was a low murmur of voices outside, moving down the street away from them. Amoneth tensed, their eyes straining against the darkness to catch a glimpse through the Meeting Place’s windows.

“Easy,” Amandil said, seeing his companions’ unease. “I picked this place for more than the rich beer. It’s in a part of the city that I know very well. I’ve known the owners since their grandfathers were running the place. We are safe here. The King’s Men weasel their way into the city more and more day by day, but they have yet to infiltrate this quarter of the city. You are safe, as is our plan.”

“The plan,” Amoneth with a little more than bitterness and skepticism in their voice. “I don’t like this plan you two have concocted. It’s going to take more than a miracle to pull it off. A dozen miracles.”

Finnbarr sighed and shook his head. “Amoneth doesn’t think getting the bears off the island is a good idea. They think it’s too risky.”

“It is!” Amoneth interrupted. “Forgive me, captain, my lord, but as noble as it is to rescue the many bears across Númenor and bring them to Middle-earth, it is far, far too risky and dangerous. Not only to use here and now. Say we are able to bring them all to Middle-earth, what then? They are not adapted to the wilds of Eriador or Rhovanion. We cannot expect them to just adapt as men and elves do.”

“I have contacts that can help us,” Finnbarr countered. “Men and elves devoted to the preservation of species. A skinchanger named Viðarrbeorn lives outside the Greenwood, he’s agreed to help settle as many as he can. King Ñarmotar too, he’s found a massive boreal forest he thinks will suit hundreds of bears in the Ered Luin, they’ll be protected there.”

“That’s all well and good,” Amoneth countered their face grave with concern. “But we will never be able to save all the bears on Númenor. Ancalimë’s Bears and the Hyarnustar Blue Bears maybe because their numbers are so dwindled, but what about the Erumë Bears? They’ve adapted to the deserts of the island, if we tried to take them to Harad, they would not survive. Runeclaw Bears? Stormbringers? Owlbears? Ashcoat? Even with help, it would be more than a miracle.”

“Friends,” Amandil said, cutting in. “I appreciate the delicateness of this plan, of the many, many pitfalls and dangers. I know it is not as easy as we think it is. I know there will be hardships for all of us, man, elf, and bear. We will not be able save all of them, many not even most of them, but we must try. The Shadow is long here, Zigûr gains more and more power every day and the king’s madness is growing. How long will it be before they turn their eyes to the innocent creatures of forest and mountain? The last Onodrim was killed just this last week in a fell ceremony. The attempts of the Faithful to rescue him were fruitless because we acted too late. I cannot forgive myself if I let that happen again. The Great Fruit Giver herself has given me this mission. I am sure of it.”

Amoneth raised their cup and drank, even though there was naught but dregs in their cup. They avoided looked at both Finnbarr and Amandil. “You two are mad. Though history might name me the maddest of all, going along with this foolishness. I want a bear named after me though. That’s my price. If we find a new species, I want it called the Amoneth Bear.”

Finnbarr and Amandil both laughed and clapped their companion on the shoulder. “I think that would be a small price to pay,” Finnbarr said. “A bear you shall have, dear surgeon. May it be the silliest bear that ever lived.” The innkeeper refilled their mugs and they toasted once more.

“Don’t forget your end of the bargain as well, Master Finnbarr,” Amandil said, his eyes serious. “I need a ship.”

Finnbarr looked sadly at his friend. “Wouldn’t you rather one built by Círdan? Surely he can construct you something that will last better than mine.”

“If I wanted his help, I would have asked him,” Amandil chided. “I have no need of the Lord of Lindon. He is too concerned with his own borders and his own people. You are not the same, you are concerned with more than a spit of land, you are one of the few elves that truly see the peril Númenor is in. And you know what I must do.”

The elf sighed again but nodded. “Aye, old friend. I’ll build your ship. May it speed you along the course you need.”


Amandil was dressed more like himself now, in noble finery, begemmed, bejeweled, and arrayed in the finest silks and fabrics a man of his station could afford. He looked every inch the Lord of Andúnië that he was. And the first mission of the conspirators depended on him being just that tonight. The Lady Alcarinissë was fabulously wealthy, obscenely so. Her family nearly rivaled Amandil’s in terms of wealth and prestige, having grown fat on the spoils of Middle-earth for over a thousand years. Ostensibly, the woman was a member of the Faithful, but Amandil (and thus his family and companions) had their doubts about the loyalties of this woman. She was not afraid to flaunt her wealth and tell exaggerated tales of her family’s noble deeds. There were more than a few skeletons in her closet though, she had not outright sided with Ar-Pharazôn, but she had not opposed him as many of the Faithful did, nor did she speak out against him still the way Amandil in the marble halls of the Council. She was beautiful by all accounts, though Finnbarr could never see it. She was tall and fair with cobalt eyes and shimmering golden hair. She had expensive tastes, one in particular that had become a spectacle among the elite of Andúnië: she had a pet bear. It was just a cub yet; a tiny little golden moon bear she kept on a golden chain with a collar set with diamonds and rubies. Most of the nobles thought she was fantastically ostentatious and wonderfully gawdy. Finnbarr thought she was a monster.

The plan was a simple one: Amandil and his family would distract Lady Alcarinissë in her manse while Finnbarr and Amoneth would sneak over the garden walls and into the kennel where the little bear was being held captive. It was not without its share of risks and dangers, but Finnbarr insisted on a simple plan. The less they planned, the less that could go wrong. Amoneth had tried to point out the illogic of that sentiment, but they were shot down by their captain’s enthusiasm.

Amandil, together with his son and grandsons, rode in a carriage. Finnbarr and Amoneth followed behind on foot, wearing their hooded cloaks.

“Oh Amandil! I’m so glad you accepted my invitation! Elendil too! Oh, I remember when you were the shortest one in your class, you’ve grown to a strapping man indeed. Isildur, Anárion, it’s so good to see you here with your father and grandfather. The whole family! I am so blessed.”

Finnbarr listened from a safe distance, the voice of the Númenórean lady grating on his ears. It was so sickly sweet that he wanted to lick a salt cube. If half the rumors about this woman were true, then the little bear she kept under lock and key was in constant danger. She was not only capricious but imbecilic as well. Finnbarr touched the holster of his axe. A touch on his shoulder brought him back to the present. Amoneth looked grave and unhappy, a mirror of Finnbarr’s own features he was sure. They hopped over the wall and fell like stones, silent as shadows. The gardens were large, green, and constructed to resemble a confounding maze. It made Finnbarr hate this woman all the more. Torches light the way, but Finnbarr and Amoneth didn’t dare follow them too closely. While it was unlikely they’d be seen from the manse, but they were not taking any chances, even Finnbarr was feeling the urge to be cautious.

The manse was large, build to resemble a fortress. It was a common Númenórean style these days, the more militant one’s abode looked, the more in fashion you were. Finnbarr wept for the days when the yurt was the greatest achievement of Númenórean architecture. Gone were the simple days of living off the beach and catching fish in the tide pools. Númenor became a place that valued show of force rather than functionality. He was certain the capital was littered with places like this, ugly and formulaic.

Once through the gardens, Finnbarr and Amoneth came to a gate, wrought and painted to look vines, the gates to the woman’s menagerie. Amoneth’s deft fingers picked the lock with barely a sound. The gate swung up with a soft whine. They both froze, ears and eyes strained for any sign of guards.

“I forgot how easily you could unlock a door,” Finnbarr dared to chuckle. “Remind me to get a better lock on my whisky cabinet.”

Amoneth chuckled in return. “I hate your whisky, it’s your wine that you need to look out for.”

They passed by a dozen empty cages, all wrought and made to look beautiful, denying their true purpose. Finnbarr spat as he saw them. One was not empty, as it turned out. A little monkey woke from slumber and grabbed onto the bars of his cage. He was a tiny thing, barely the size of his hand. He cheeped and screeched quietly, reaching his small hands through the bars to try and reach Finnbarr.

“We’re not here to free them all, Finnbarr,” Amoneth said, already know what their captain was going to do.

“Why not?” Finnbarr asked, concluding the debate. He took the surgeon’s lock picking tools and fidgeted with the cage’s lock whilst the monkey hooted and bounced around in a cage far too small to let him express himself. The door flew open, and the monkey bounced out. He looked at Finnbarr, then at Amoneth. He screeched once and bounded back the way they’d come, toward the open gate of the menagerie.

“Happy now?” Amoneth asked, rolling their eyes.

“Not unhappy, mostly,” Finnbarr said with a purposefully cheeky grin.

“Did you hear that?” a voice said further down the chambers of the menagerie. Both elves froze.

“Sounded like the Lady’s little monkey.”

“Should we check it out?”

“Should we check on the monkey because he made a noise?”

“Well, well, yeah, I guess.”

“No. I’m not checking on that damned thing. It bit me the last time I tried to feed it.”

“Well, if you think it’s best—”

“I do. Now go finish the rounds so we can get back to the game. I’m up four cards to two.”

The voices receded into the building, grumbling about anything from the temperature to the smell. The satisfaction that Finnbarr had felt freeing the monkey fled and his rage was starting to boil. The bear would be down that tunnel, closer to the main house so the Lady could have access to it whenever she fancied. The two elves crept on tiptoes down the hall, blending in with the shadows along the corridor. The slipped past one of the guards easily enough, he was too busy trying to get one of the birds to repeat his name to pay attention to anything around him. Finnbarr took a moment to consider embedding his axe in the man’s skull but settled for putting him in a choke hold until the man passed out. Amoneth gave him a look but didn’t protest. The corridor opened to a chamber with a view of the garden terrace below them. In the corner there was a cage, barely three feet wide and across. It was hard to tell in the dim light of the torches if there was anything inside. But Finnbarr could tell. The bottom of the cage was a mess of bear scat, discarded sticks, and leaves. It was either a poor attempt at remaking a forest floor or an even poorer attempt at keeping the place clean. The chamber smelled strong and musky, when they first entered, both Finnbarr and Amoneth’s eyes watered.

“Here she is,” Finnbarr whispered, crouching next to the cage. There was glint of gold and gems in the moonlight. A tiny bear cub scuttled into the light, her muzzle caked with dirt and blood. Her fur was golden, shimmering dully as she moved from one end of the tiny cage to the other, sniffing the air as she came near to Finnbarr.

“Hey there little one,” he whispered, using a voice that soothed the sea animals he encountered. The little bear rears her head and nuzzled against the cage. Finnbarr scratched at the golden fur and again felt his anger rise.

“She can barely move in here!” he hissed. “This is inhuman! This is barbaric! No animal should be in such an awful cage!” At once he tried to rip the cage’s door off its hinge. Strong as the old captain was, the iron door did not budge. It groaned and creaked, sending the little bear into a panic. She whined and clambered back to the opposite end of the cage.

“No, no, sshh. It’s okay little one. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” The little bear stayed put, shivering and trying to bury itself in the hinges of the cage to hide. Finnbarr’s heart near tore. “It’s okay little one, I would never hurt you.”

He looked back to Amoneth and beckoned them over. “The lock, I assume you can break it?”

“I’m offended that you tried to rip it open, you ox-headed lump. Step aside and let me open it before you try again and bring the guards down on us.”

Finnbarr did as he was bade and looked up helplessly as the little bear continued to shiver. “I’ll be right back,” he said suddenly. “I’m going to find that other guard.”

“No!” Amoneth was up in a flash and grabbed their captain’s arm. “No. Finnbarr you cannot go off the handle. I know how you feel. Believe me, I do. I want to smash something just as much as you. But that will only make problems. You can’t undo what the Lady has already done. You cannot stop the guards from being cruel and uncaring. No amount of blood will make this little bear less afraid. You’re better than that Finnbarr. I’ve seen you calm a thirty-foot kraken. Come now, old man. Come on!”

Finnbarr pulled from and growled, looking back down the corridor once before returning to the cage. He squatted next to the cage and reached in as Amoneth picked the lock. The little golden moon bear crept out tentatively, unsure of what was going to happen next.

“Easy there little one. That’s it, that’s a good girl. Come on out. Come on now. That’s it, little bit further now. That’s good, good girl. You’re so brave. That’s it now. Yes, good girl.”

He took the little bear into his arms. She clung to him fiercely, burying her nose in his cloak. He laughed and scratched behind her ear. “Now to get this ugly collar off you.” He fiddled with the clasp, making the bear cling to him even tighter. He threw it off and stomped it onto the ground. “There we go, much better. You look much prettier without an old bit of gold around your neck. Bears are meant to be au natural,” he scritched her ear, reached into a pocket hidden in his cloak and pulled out a handful of peanuts. The little golden moon bear gladly accepted the food, snuffling and licking at his fingers. He laughed, feeling his blood cool.

“Ready captain?”

Finnbarr looked up from the bear and looked at his surgeon as if seeing them for the first time. “What? Oh! Yes, yes I think we are ready. We’ll take this little one back to the ship and swing round to start searching for the other bears in the area.”

The Last Kirinki
(Private)

The great wave came in a mass of swirling white water, drowning an entire nation, swallowing mountains and towers, ports and cities in its thirsty rage. Attuned to the sky and the swirling serpents of wind crossing the sea, the Eagles felt it coming first, a shift in the wind, the current under their wings. From Meneltarma, they took to the skies, high above snow-capped peaks and forests of larch and fir, and cried shrill warnings from aloft. They swept past the hidden coves where the Swans of Gorbelgod gathered in secret bevies away from human eyes and those who would seek to use and abuse them in the way many humans saw only resources for their taking.

A feathered cloud of white burst into the sky as the great swans took wing to escape the coming storm. All along the island, creatures stirred and raced to the sea, seeking escape. Those with wings took flight. A great migration was underway and the humans, in their ignorance and selfish pride, did not notice just as they ignored the dark warning clouds from the West.

A few stragglers remained–- those who could not fly, those who burrowed deep underground, and those who slept deep in the Nísimaldar. Tucked away in their cozy cavities in fragrant taniquelassë, vardarianna, and their favorite, the yavannamírë flush with ripe fruit as scarlet as a kirink’s plumage, many kirinki missed the Eagle’s signal.

The day of the fateful flood, the forests were silent, not a bird sang and not a branch creaked, as if all were holding their breath for the great plunge. A lone kirinki who wandered from her flock flitted through the evergreen branches of a taniquelassë in search of a morsel of food, noticed a sudden shift in the air. A heaviness, as if a drenching storm were coming, but the skies were clear and blue as a calm summer’s day.

Curious, she hopped along the branches and flew to the crown of the tree. Seeing a wall of water surging toward her, she released a piping wail of distress. Her flock! Her family! She flew from tree to tree, raising an alarm call, desperation driving her pitch higher and higher to reach farther and farther across the forest.

No answer, no flash of red bursting in the green trees, no one came to find her. The water was upon her home, swelling in white foam and rushing so loud it drowned her own drumming heartbeat. She flew up, above the highest yavannamírë, and still the water seemed to chase her tail feathers so she flew higher and higher still, reaching the peak of Meneltarma, where she paused to rest her wings for a short respite until the water swallowed that, too, and suddenly she was hovering over the wide and endless sea of blue, not a tree in sight. No family, no flock, no home.

The lone kirink had no choice. She followed her senses east, where the wind carried hints of moss and lichen, berries and bugs, and growing things, a place to rest her weary wings. She had never journeyed so far or so long and was wholly unprepared for the migration across the sea. At last, when she was nearly wilting and bone-weary, wracked with hunger and exhaustion, she collapsed in a willow tree on the shore of a strange new land.

After she rested and slept and nibbled enough food, she began to explore her home. She sang high-pitched twirling cascading songs to find others, for her kirinki-kin, but never found an answering harmony to her melody. There were no kirinki-kin on these shores. She was the only one left. It was a solemn and lonesome thing to be the only kirink. For a while, she stopped singing, too heartsore to even open her beak to sigh a single chirp.

In her first spring, she encountered a rufous hued wren who sang a lovely enough song though it paled in comparison to her own scarlet kin, and she fluttered her feathers and allowed him to join her as her mate. Together, they carefully built a nest of tiny branches inside the hole of an old pine tree. Full of hope and warmth and someone to warm her dreams at night, she laid eggs in the nest and lovingly incubated them, turning them over carefully with her beak and feet, and fluffing her brood patch to keep them warm.

They never hatched. And her mate left to make another nest.

The lone kirink never found another bird like her, though she searched high and low, forest and meadow, wetland and moor. The little scarlet wren warbled her last mournful song, a lonely solo for a lost flock and family, then died in the woods of Middle-earth, the last living kirink from a land lost beneath the sea, her and her kind lost forever, never to been seen or heard again.