DARKNESS DESCENDS: Of The Oath of Amroth — The Red Book of Westmarch

Rumours and stories will tell of dank dungeon cells, where mold grows abundantly and rats gnaw the fingers of broken-willed prisoners -- but the holding cells of the Marble Citadel are no thing out of stories. Indeed, this place is well-swept and clean, and though it lacks a window, there is light through the door from the guardroom outside.

A plain bench is set against the wall, for sleeping, and rushes are strewn on the floor. A nondescript bucket completes the spartan furnishings. Not a bad accomodation, for those who defy the justice of Dol Amroth.

***

The cell door is thrown open and more of the light that emanates from the guardroom creeps into the room, suggesting to the jailed it may be morning.

First, a man in blue with a white cloak. He gravitates to a corner, making way for the dour Knight-Marshall to enter and say, \"It is morning.\"

Little has changed overnight. Here, sleeping on the one bench, is Salindil, pushing to a sitting position as the door is abruptly opened. The bandages about his abdomen still hold, tough they also show some stain, needing changing. But not as much as before.

He clears his throat, a nervous sound. \"My lord.\"

Again, the Hlorithain comes bearing gifts. This time it is a cask of wine, which he offers to the captive. \"Something for the pain, and the head.\"

\"Lord!\" Salindil sits up quickly, immediately regretting the motion, for he clutches at his stomach in pain.

\"Ach...\" he starts, stopping himself from cursing in time and slowly sitting upright again. \"Thank you, lord.\" He reaches for the cask, eagerly tipping it to his lips.

\"I wanted you to understand your enemy, for I have seen yours,\" says the bearded Knight of Tarnost, \"That is why I have told you of mine own family.\"

Tell me, what do they say of Ar-Gimilkhor amongst your company? That he is a man of Gondor, a true King of the realm?\" asks Calardan of the captive.

A little more warily does Salindil now eye Calardan. He tips the wine jug to his lips once more, then sets the jug down carefully next to him--one hand protectively on it.

\"The merchants I number as friends agree he is the King of Gondor, aye. Come to set things straight.\"

A brief commotion at the open door the murmurings of voices outside. One is gruff, urging only \"Brief,\" amidst the soft voices, the other voice unmistakenly female. Calenloth, clad in the robes of the healer appears through the doorway, approaching cautiously as she clutches a small parcel close.

Her eyes trail first to the High Guard keeping vigil, a small nod and pleasant smile. But the Marshell - obviously his presence unexpected - for she freezes in her steps, making no move to announce her arrival.

Calardan stands in silence.

\"I might show you the face of that man whom you call King,\" he says, his speech blooming then from his self-imposed impassivity, \"There is gold...\" He trails off, turns, and upon seeing Calenloth, nods his head in greeting.

\"Your healer has arrived,\" he says, turning back to the captive.

\"Gold?\" Salindil frowns. \"The King rewards his loyal subjects with much gold,\" he says. \"Should it not be so? Rather than hoarding it, as the so-called nobles of Gondor do?\"

\"Lassie,\" he says, as the conversation with Calardan dwindles. He touches fingers to his brow, in a salute of course--an attempt at manners, perhaps?

Elusul has come to the lower levels of the Knights\' Tower and he finds the door open. The admiral looks into those outside and then into the cell, out of sight of those already inside.

The Hlorithain regains himself and speaks again.

\"I shall not attempt to dissuade you that he may relieve your sufferings.\"

\"There will be new names, perhaps yours amongst them, and you will be the inheritors of this land. The rightful determiners of your own fates, your own destinies. But the battle will be bloody,\" continues Calardan, \"Your gold shall be tainted by blood, not sweat. Your dreams of yellow, will turn red.\"

\"And it will not be the King whose family suffers. It will be yours.\"

He sighs here.

\"And mine as well.\"

\"My apologies,\" Calenloth offers, hesitantly. \"I do not mean to interrupt, I...\" A waving hand quickly to her parcel. \"I meant to change your bandaging again, Sir, but,\" Apologetic eyes trail to Calardan. \"I can return, shortly.\"

Only then does the Knight from Tarnost turn to Calenloth, to whom he attempts a smile. \"Do not tarry longer from your duty, my lady,\" he says to her.

The smuggler looks toward Calenloth, hesitating to speak to her, but clearing his throat once--and looking relieved as Calardan says to the healer what Salindil cannot.

\"My lord?\" His brows furrow as he works this through. \"But this is the way of things, for the common folk, at least. Always there is war--war with the east, war with the south. Never a chance for a decent man to make a living. Nobles running everything. The shipping. Wars. Everything. So...how be it different? Either way will be bloody.\"

The Marshall\'s insistence brings a relieved smile to Calenloth\'s face - the young woman makes no delay to resume her duties. A slight gesture to Salindil - pointing at his tunic to request access to the bandaging. Nervously, she smiles to him, though the motion is quick, she sits beside him as she unwraps the contents of her parcel.

Her lips part, slightly, as if she means to join the conversation, yet she holds her thoughts close for the time being.

Elusul watches these exchanges from beyond the cell door without comment.

\"He brings war to our coasts already,\" demands Calardan of his the captive, nigh upon a shout, \"He does not bring war to my coasts or your coasts.\"

\"You say you are a man of Belfalas. But do you not see that it is Belfalas that suffers from these invasions? Why do you destroy your home? Our coasts!\"

He pauses at length, shaking his head.

And then at once, impulsively, \"Defend them.\"

\"Perhaps you shall see no golden dreams, but I tell you this, all that glitters is not gold. There will be black clouds, rain and sleet and hail, and the crows shall sing many a story. But there shall be no red dreams for you have suffered for what you loved, for your family and your home, and not for what you hate. I told you, I know the face of your King. And I see the cloud above.\"

\"They have the same face coal-black eyes, brimming with hate.\"

\"Hate? And how would you know this?\" asks Salindil, who has started to pull off his tunic but now stops. \"You have seen the King? Perhaps you gave him cause to hate you? For what cause would a King destroy the land and the people he is to rule? He wishes only to return to his rightful land, and yet is blocked from doing so. Defend the land, you say--but I say that is what I do. The King has spoken and I obey.\"

Pulling his tunic off the rest of the way, he thrusts it aside on the bench.

\"I saw your King,\" Calenloth offers, quietly. Her eyes are blank as she begins to unwind the man\'s bandage, slowly, the movement automatic. \"He cast upon me the privilage of pleas for the lives of my friends for the price of land. Do you find that noble?\"

\"Calenloth, roll down your sleeve,\" says Calardan, his words hot.

\"Hir...\" Calenloth halts in her duty, the old bandage falling away from Salindil\'s torso to reveal the wound, still striking but surprisingly clean. \"I...\" She chokes on her words, catching a gasp in her throat. \"I would rather not, if I may...\"

Yet the girl wisely reconsiders her protests at the orders of the Marshall, lowering her eyes to the ground with a dutiful nod. Her fingers shake as she reaches for the bell of her sleeve, rolling her fingers around the hem as she tugs the robe first over her wrist, then just above her elbow. Tears brim from her eyes which she fights, valiantly, at the glimpse of the burned mark.

\"What mean you by this?\" Salindil demands--having given the girl only a puzzled look before at her explanation of the King\'s demands of her. Now, though, he stares at the brand and then turns the angry words upon Calardan.

\"Here is his face, if you must see it,\" says the Knight from Tarnost.

He looks at the brand ruefully.

\"You may not bear it yet. But this,\" he points at Calenloth\'s arm, \"This is the mark of Ar-Gimilkhor, whom you call your King.\"

\"They say...we...are cursed. And perhaps we are.\"

He rolls down his own sleeve and displays the same brand.

\"But you are not, merchant of Belfalas. I see not this taint upon you.\"

\"But continue as you are and it will find you. It will find us all in time.\"

\"Unless,\" he says this as much for himself and for Calenloth as for his captive. \"Unless we fight against it. I offer you that golden dream, at least.\"

\"To fight against this abomination.\"

Elusul weighs these words and then looks to Salindil to see what effect they will have along with the sight of the brands.

\"For what cause were you branded?\" Salindil says, still demanding--and starting now at Calardan\'s brand. \"I am not branded so, and none of the men sworn to our cause, either. For what cause or reason--tell me this,\" he demands. \"If you say you offer me a fight against this abomination, then prove to me it is such and not a brand for some cause or crime. And cursed? Because you are branded? It seems to me that you should turn your anger against the nobles of Gondor who name you cursed.\"

However slowly the mark was revealed, Calenloth\'s recovery is swift by tenfold, the sleeve of the robe actually yanked back over her knuckles as she twists her head away. She breathes, exhaling slowly in her reverie. \"I was branded for my very presence in the room,\" she admits, flatly. \"My care for the Herald\'s own son, my obedience in my captivity, bringing the named to the Pretender by his request... and marked like a traitor with a knife at my back.\"

A shrug punctuates her speech, perhaps out of place by the intensity of her words. \"I bear no anger for my people, they react from fear. And why should they not? I too, fear the path ahead, yet I shall press forward, nonetheless.\"

\"Enough,\" says Calardan.

\"I ask you again-- wish you to live or die?\"

\"No...that cannot be right,\" Salindil says, shaking his head and drawing back along the bench away from Calenloth. He stares at her arm, though her sleeve now covers the brand--and then he reaches for the wine jug, stopping as Calardan speaks.

\"Live. Lord.\" The answer is clearly said.

And now with this offer made, Elusul steps into the cell to see how this will finally play out.

\"The wine is from thine own shores,\" says the Hlorithain Knight. \"Enjoy.\"

He looks to Calenloth, \"Finish your work.\"

The arrival of Elusul he notes but he says nothing to the Admiral yet.

The Marshall\'s words raise no protest from Calenloth, a quick shake of her head acknowledges his wishes. Quickly, the girl resumes her duties, her gaze returning to the wound across Salindil\'s belly as he shys away towards his drink. There, it lingers - she nods, satisfied as the edges hold fast, reaching back towards her supplies for fresh bandaging.

\"Let me rewrap this,\" she speaks, her tone matter of fact, the demands of her responsibilities driving her words. The roll of bandage is extended.

Salindil glances down at the wound on his stomach, then grimaces. He reaches for the wine, unstopping it and lifting it up for a long drink. Then he nods assent to Calenloth--and drinks again, now eyeing both Admiral and Marshall.

As Calardan moves to the exit, he passes by Elusul, the Guardsman set to follow him outside yet, there, the man stops before the cell door.

And he turns to face both, to whom he says: \"No. The time is now.\"

\"Guardsman,\" commands the Knight from Tarnost. \"Draw your blade.\"

The wound is wrapped, Calenloth surveys her work with approval. Rising to her feet, she turns away from the man to gather the supplies, folding them back into a more compact parcel.

Blade? Calenloth turns at the word to freeze - in horror.

The healer works quickly, but Salindil pushes her hands away distractedly, getting to his feet as quickly as he is able with his wound. Unsteady, he leans upon the wall with one hand to support himself. \"At last?\" he says in a hoarse whisper that is full of fear.

\"Merchant,\" come the words, at a whisper.

\"I am Hir Calardan Hlorithain, son to Lord Beredir Hlorithain of Tarnost, son to Naergrol, son to Tathar, son to Aermor, son to Duinlong. My family traces farther than even our own memories would go,\" says the Knight from Tarnost.

And then there comes a boom at his next words that tear at Calardan and Calenloth\'s brands, as if in battle with the evil within. They are spoke in the tongue of Numenor, but whether because of the cloud or the brands or the Knight himself, are known to all: \"Speak now the names of your own family!\"

\"I..\" Salindil\'s calloused hand reaches for the sword no longer at his waist, and his other hand slips a little so that he has to seek again to support himself against the wall.

\"Salindil,\" he chokes out, though his voice immediately become steadier. \"I am Salindil the merchant seaman and my father was Herordor of Belfalas, also a merchant seaman, as was his father before that, of the same name.\"

Tingling... The parcel drops to the ground, her elbow quirks to the side, almost as if tugged by a string. And again, twitch, another twitch, Calenloth\'s supplies scatter upon the floor, the clean bandaging finding the mud cast from the boots of men. But forgotten, these supplies rest, ruined... for the fingers of her other arm are drawn quickly, to clench the elbow and reclaim it her own. The sensation spreads to her fingertips, which she drums against the air.

Her body is not thrust to turmoil alone by the echo - the bench, the wall, these objects haze before her eyes, they crackle with flames. Calenloth gasps, slumping forward but reaching for the wall to catch herself, her eyelids falling heavily over her eyes as the room blackens.

Elusul moves to catch Calenloth in his one arm before she should fall to the ground, the little drama taking place here ignored for the moment.

The Hlorithain staggers at the force of his words and the pain visited on him.

To Elusul, he remarks, \"Let Arathis know mine answer to his charges.\"

And it is not long before the man is renewed to speech, and again it booms with the power of those whose lines run across the Bay itself, across Ulmo\'s domain, to Meneltarma, to Numenor itself.

\"Lord Salindil,” he begins.

\"Here do I swear fealty to Gondor and to the Lord and Prince of Dol Amroth to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end.\"

And as the pain upon the branded subsides and the brand itself wavers in intensity upon the skin, Calardan continues: \"I swear fealty to the shore, the rolling hill, to the forest and to the river. I swear it to the Whitest Wall and I oppose the Darkest Depth. I stand when others would run. I charge when others would stand. I am the watcher at the wall, the torchlit vigil, the guardian of the virtues. I know why I fight and if that day comes where I am chosen to die, I shall greet it without hesitation. I know the grace of Ulmo, the restful calm of Uinen, the darkness of the East and the face of Evil.\"

\"I know my friends and my foes. I know those who fight against the black.\"

\"I have spoken it once already, but repeat it now.\"

The room lights.

Almost it is as if Salindil, carries a brand, such is the force of the words upon him. He staggers back, nowhere to go, the wall the only support, which he clutches at with futility.

There is a long silence as Calardan\'s last words fall, though Salindil\'s breathing, ragged, as he seems to struggle for air, can be heard clearly.

And slowly, very slowly, he sinks, down to his knees, eyes slowly closing, one hand on the floor supporting him until he pushes away from the floor and on his knees stares at Calardan, grey eyes hard upon the man.

There is another pause of silence, no ragged breath jarring it this time.

\"Here do I swear,\" he repeats, each word painfully considered, weighed, then set free into the air, formed to hang there a moment, \"fealty to Gondor and to the Lord and Prince of Dol Amroth.\"

\"To speak and to be silent. To do and to let be. To come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying.\"

\"From this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me.\"

\"Or the world end.\"

A hand steadies her, but Calenloth has already shed the darkness, blinking again at the bench, unmarred, and the crisp stone of the walls. And there she sees her hands, flat against them, feeling the cool bite of the rock, smooth beneath them. She turns to see Elusul, surprise upon her face, as if she expected to see another.

But the words - they are not conversation, nor commands... they are oaths that fill the air around her and she turns, listening intently, eyes widening as Salindil recants. And her smile is genuine, finally, triumphant and wonderous, her gaze falling to the presence of Calardan and his command.

Whatever wonders have been worked here, Elusul seems not to have been party to them as he wears a frown and nods to Calenloth as she recovers. To the healer he whispers as he glances at Salindil with suspiciion. \"Let us be away from this place. The lord marshal wishes to swear into the service of the prince a common criminal responsible for the deaths of my comrades.\"

The Guardsman looks to Calardan and to Elusul, but his sword is not given to the oath. He departs the room, divided by what he has seen this day.

\"Your blade,\" requests Hir Calardan of his Admiral.

\"Agree or not. The oath has been spoken. It must be honored.\"

Elusul\'s expression is a confused one as he still lingers near Calenloth. \"What need to you have of my sword?\"

She can barely tear her attention from the events that fall before her - a distracted glance back to Elusul as he speaks finds Calenloth dazed. Her fingers fall over the brand beneath her robes, absently, pressing into the area that no longer bears sensation. Her eyebrow raises as the Admiral denounces the words of the two, hesitating a moment before she murmurs, \"Does he? Or does he draw upon hope?\"

Once more she looks to both Marshall and captor, divided, confusion upon her face, but still, a different memory commands the whole of her thoughts. Calenloth waits for no further direction - she flees the cell.

\"This one must know he swears upon a blade,\" says Calardan, now wholly focused on Salindil. \"I will know his oath in no other manner.\"

Elusul shakes his head, standing up straight now that Calenloth has fled. \"You are my superior, but my oath is to the prince of Dol Amroth. This man was captured and stands accused. It is the prince alone or maybe his herald who may grant this man a pardon, let alone consider allowing a traitor to serve in the ranks of the Ship and Swan.\"

The admiral turns and departs.

It takes some time before Calardan returns with his great blade, Fire.

But there, with the steel of his own family, he answers the oath.

\"And this do I hear, Hir Calardan of house Hlorithain, Knight-Marshall of Dol Amroth, of the Order of the Swan, as representative of Imrahil, Adrahil\'s son, Prince of Dol Amroth and Lord of Belfalas: We will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valor with honor, oath breaking with vengeance.\" And, in this manner, the deed is done.