Light of the Silmarils Chapter 1 - Anorthil, Son of Belecthor II (Patreon)

(Synopsis)

2850 of the third age represented a time where Gondor had managed to recover some of its strength from the numerous wars and other hardships that had plagued their land. It is the time of Belecthor II a man who prides himself as one of the last of the blood of Númenor. He has seen Gondor’s decline, he has seen the ruling stewards ever diluting blood and he will have none of it. Gondor will be returned to its former glory… nay, it will be returned to the glory only seen in the second age where the Númenorians were the masters of middle-earth.

However this isn’t a story about Belecthor II whose ambitions are only dwarfed by those of the Dark Lord himself. No this is about his son, the younger brother of Thorondir… Anorthil. While his elder brother is a great warrior a captain of Gondor commanding legions of men to expand their borders. Anorthil is a man who would find himself more at home in the shire than the stone halls of Minas Tirith, for he loves drinking, he loves women and he most certainly likes food. What he hates is fighting or anything active at all.

A disappointment through and through, one his father can no longer bear.

Stripped of his station and gold he is forced to English in the gondorian army as an infantry soldier. By Belecthors decree the south of Gondor is to be expanded. Harad has for far too long been in enemy hands, it belonged with the chosen people. And the place they’d start is with the port city of Umbar.

Plunged into the sea during the siege his armour carries him to the bottom, in the ruins of a long forgotten city swallowed by the ocean he finds it… a jewel glowing with a brilliant light.

During Anorthil’s journeys he’ll find himself in places only spoken of in books and places so dark that it would seem there was an unlight engulfing him.

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The world, once born of light and purity, wanes—its once radiant brilliance fading into the embrace of shadow. That which was good, fair, and true now dims, making way for the darkness that once lingered in quiet exile. From the first note of the Great Song, the fallen one—the Dark Lord, he who rebelled, he who craved—sowed discord. The dissonance he wove birthed the shadow that now stands unchallenged. And when the last vestige of light flickers and dies, who then shall rise to stand against the encroaching dark?

The elves, once the keepers of wisdom and ancient knowledge, have forsaken their former purpose. No longer do they stand as sentinels against the tide of darkness that has long threatened the realms of Arda. Now they sit in silence, their eyes turned inward, their hearts heavy with weariness, watching as the ages unfold. The lands of Middle-earth, once shaped by their guidance, are now left to the hands of lesser beings, to men whose hearts are not as pure, whose minds not as clear. The elves, fading like a distant memory, turn their gaze toward the Undying Lands, leaving the mortal world behind to crumble into shadow.

The dwarves, ever consumed by the call of stone and treasure, care naught for the world beyond their great halls. Their vision is narrowed, their hearts bound to the mountains, to the glittering gems and veins of gold that lie hidden deep within the earth. Greed, unchecked and boundless, drives them ever deeper into the bowels of the world, until some whisper that they will one day dig too deep—too deep, until they disturb something ancient, something nameless, buried beneath the foundation of the world. Old things, forgotten and malignant, that hunger for the return of darkness and may rise again to shatter the fragile peace of Middle-earth.

And thus, it falls to men. Will they rise to face the shadow, or will they, as they have done in ages past, surrender to the darkness within themselves? Men, capable of such valor and courage, have also proven themselves to be the architects of their own ruin. The tale of Númenor serves as a stark reminder: even when blessed with great gifts, the hearts of men grow restless, yearning for power beyond their reach, until, in their greed, they bring about their own undoing.

There are those who place their hope in beings higher than themselves—those who believe that perhaps the Maiar, the Valar, or even Ilúvatar himself has woven a plan, one in which the light shall triumph and the darkness be cast down forever. Perhaps they are right, for why would the One desire the destruction of His own creation? Yet, as with all tales, even those sung by the Ainur, there are turns unforeseen, threads that weave themselves into the tapestry of fate, unbidden and unlooked for.

In the dawn of Arda, when the Two Trees of Valinor—Laurelin and Telperion—first took root in the blessed soil of Aman, their light spilled forth in glory, nourishing the land and banishing shadow from the world. Yet even in that moment of radiance, something occurred that no eye foresaw, not even the mind of the Creator. For in the beginning, Eru Ilúvatar, in His infinite wisdom, had discovered the Flame Imperishable within the void, and with it, He kindled the life of the world. But though He wielded it, the Flame was not wholly His; it answered to His will, yet it bore a will of its own, ancient and untamed.

When the Two Trees sprang to life, their beauty unrivaled, they were gifted with fëar—not by the hand of Ilúvatar, nor by the decree of the Valar, but by the Flame Imperishable itself. It was an act unbidden, a spark that even Eru had not foreseen. From that moment, the light of the Trees became more than mere radiance; it became a living essence, a unique and unbounded spirit.

And so, the light of Laurelin and Telperion, though born of Valinor, belonged not wholly to the designs of the Ainur. It was a thing apart, untethered and unknowable, a fragment of the Flame that now dwelled in the heart of Arda itself. The light that shone from the trees was pure, a representation of what was good in this world, and it remained so until the unholy abomination ungoliant along with Morgoth destroyed both Laurelin and Telperion casting the world into darkness once again.

Yet, whether by the will of the light or by the hand of fate, the fëar of the Two Trees endured. They did not pass wholly into the Sun and Moon, as some might believe, but instead found refuge in three incomparable creations—artifacts of beauty and power forged in the days before the Trees' fall.

The Silmarils.

These radiant jewels, wrought by Fëanor, the greatest craftsman of the Noldor, held within them the undying light of Laurelin and Telperion. Though none could contest Fëanor's mastery, his crafting of the Silmarils was not wholly his doing. Whether it was chance or the silent will of the Trees themselves, their light became bound to his creations, their very souls encased within the peerless gems. Yet Fëanor, for all his skill and brilliance, had no knowledge of the miracle he had wrought. He knew not that the Silmarils cradled the true essence of the Trees, nor the burden they would carry.

The light within the Silmarils bore witness to ages of cruelty, sorrow, and strife. Tragedy clung to the jewels as though fated by the Song itself. The light watched as kin turned on kin, Noldor slaughtering their own in the Kinslayings, all in pursuit of the Silmarils. It wept as the sons of Fëanor, their hearts consumed by the Oath, clutched at the jewels with hands steeped in blood, their evil deeds staining the purity they sought to possess. It mourned as it saw men rise to heights of glory only to be cast down into ruin, their dreams swallowed by the sea.

The Silmarils became witnesses to the slow fading of the world. The light within them watched as the Valar retreated to Aman, turning their faces from Middle-earth. It saw the elves diminish, forsaking their lands for the shores of the Undying Lands. It grieved as shadow grew unchecked, and as hope flickered and dimmed.

Born of the Trees, the light was pure, unmarred by shadow. Even as it watched the horrors of the world unfold, it sought the goodness that lay hidden in the hearts of those beneath its radiance. It perceived what others could not: that even in the darkness, a spark of redemption could endure. Even in Morgoth, the Dark Enemy himself, where all others saw only corruption and malice, the light saw the faintest glimmer of what once was—a memory of what he had been before the shadow took him. And so, the light endured, a silent witness to the ages, carrying with it the hope that, even in the deepest shadow, the spark of light might yet be rekindled.

It held hope, the light within the Silmarils, that one day the right soul might find those jewels that yet lingered in Middle-earth, despite the will of the Valar, who had sought to claim them for the earth and the sea.

And so, it came to pass in the later years of the Third Age, in a time of great strife and warfare, that Gondor, under the rule of Belecthor II of the House of Stewards, found itself enmeshed in bloodshed. Belecthor, gripped by a vision both ambitious and delusional, believed that Gondor had suffered too long, its strength diminished by the ravages of time. For many years, he laboured to restore his kingdom's might, building an army of unparalleled power. With it, he struck north into Dagorlad, and south into Harad, his eyes fixed upon an ever-expanding empire. Gondor would grow, its borders stretching from sea to sea, and he, Belecthor II, would sit not merely as the ruler of Gondor, but as the sovereign of all Middle-earth.

Though his mind had become unhinged, consumed by visions of grandeur, Belecthor's conquests were marked by success. For a decade, his armies had not been turned back. Gondor's southern and northern borders had indeed grown, as cities rose and fortresses were constructed across the land. Even Osgiliath, abandoned during the Great Plague, was reclaimed under Belecthor's hand, its once-great walls restored and resettled, becoming the shining jewel of Gondor once more. The orcs, once a constant scourge, had been driven far from Gondor's gates, pushed back to Minas Morgul, a city that Belecthor was determined to retake, and once more bend to his will.

These years came to be known as the Faux Golden Era.

As this era drew to a close, Belecthor began to prepare for his greatest push yet. His armies were marshalled in the port city of Dol Amroth, gathering strength for a decisive strike. The target was Umbar, a city that would serve as the base for his next conquest—an invasion of Harad, where he would claim dominion over all the south. This, he believed, would be his crowning triumph, the moment he would be remembered for—his legacy immortalised in the annals of history.

He would not allow any man, not even his own kin, to mar the empire he had forged.

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(Osgiliath) (2850 TA)

Music rang out merrily within the walls of a tavern upon the banks of the River Anduin. The air was thick with the sound of clapping hands, stomping feet, and the deep draughts of hearty drinking. The people of Gondor, their spirits lifted by the latest news from the north, celebrated with unrestrained joy. Word had come that Captain Thorondil and his valiant soldiers had driven the Easterlings even further from the borders, claiming one of their strongholds in a victory that would be sung of for generations. The banner of Gondor waved more proudly, and the northern regions—Daggerlad, the Dead Marshes—were now as secure as the very walls of Minas Tirith. The orcs of Mordor, ever a blight upon the land, had been driven back farther than they had been since the days of the Second Age. Such triumphs were rare, and the people reveled in them.

But amongst the jubilant throng, there sat one whose heart did not share in their exultation.

"Another round for all!" cried a young man with wavy dark hair, his voice rising above the mirth. His words were met with a chorus of cheers as a serving maid passed among them, filling mugs to the brim. The young man raised his cup high and drained it in a single, deep gulp, only just managing to keep his balance as he nearly toppled from the chair he stood upon.

Anorthil, son of Belecthor II, Steward of Gondor, and brother to Captain Thorondil, stood apart from the revelry. His was a different kind of sorrow, not born of defeat or fear, but of shame and frustration. Where his brother was hailed as a hero—a warrior unmatched in skill and valor—Anorthil was remembered only for what he was not. He was no great captain, no master of arms, and certainly not the shining strategist his father was. Instead, he had inherited a different legacy, one that came not from his father, but from his mother, a woman celebrated for her sweet voice and her mastery of song. Yet even her memory did little to soothe the sting of Anorthil's discontent. He had always been the lesser of the two sons, ever reminded of his shortcomings by his father, and whispered about in the streets of Minas Tirith.

Unable to bear the burden of comparison, Anorthil had sought solace in a quieter life, moving away from the White City to the newly resettled city of Osgiliath. Here, in the rebuilt city where Gondor's poorest made their homes—as the prices of property had fallen. Even the humblest dwellings were affordable for the common folk. Fifty thalers was enough for a modest home, and in this quieter place, Anorthil could live without the judgmental gazes of the nobility.

Stumbling from the chair he had been precariously balanced on, Anorthil wove his way onto the open floor where music rang out, and the patrons danced in merry chaos. He was laughing even as he tripped over his own feet, joining the throng of revelers who clapped and spun in time with the lively tune. He grasped the hands of several young women, twirling them in wide circles as their cheeks flushed crimson at the boldness of the Steward's son. The room roared with mirth when he stumbled into a chair, nearly taking a young man with him before recovering with a theatrical bow.

"Another round for everyone!" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the clamor.

The crowd roared in approval as a serving girl, balancing a tray of flagons, passed by and filled cups with frothing ale. Anorthil threw an arm around her shoulders, his lopsided grin earning a roll of her eyes and a reluctant chuckle. Yet the innkeeper, a broad-shouldered man with a perpetual frown, was far less amused as he approached with arms crossed.

"Enough now, lad," the innkeeper said, his voice stern but not without a note of wearied patience. "You're three cups past sense, and I'll not have you breaking my tables."

"The celebration has just begun!" Anorthil declared, lifting his arms in triumph. The room erupted into another cheer as he fumbled at his belt pouch, producing a fistful of gold thalers and flinging them into the air. The coins scattered across the floor like spilled sunlight, and the patrons dove to claim them amid shouts of laughter.

"Bring food! Bring drink! Play another song!" Anorthil bellowed, oblivious to the scramble for his money. "Let us feast until the sun rises!"

The innkeeper sighed, shaking his head as he retreated to the bar. "Fool boy," he muttered. "But his coin's good enough."

The night wore on in raucous delight. Anorthil ate heartily, tearing into platters of roasted meat and hearty bread. Wine flowed endlessly, his cup never empty for long as he moved between tables, joining in every game of dice or cards he could find. More often than not, he lost, his coin slipping into the hands of sharp-eyed gamblers who smirked at his drunken overconfidence. Yet when he won, he made a spectacle of it, standing and shouting his victory to the rafters, slamming his palms on the table as he hauled in his winnings.

Not all took kindly to his wins.

"You've got a lucky hand tonight," growled Alecfir, a fisherman with a chest as broad as a ship's prow. His weathered hands clenched at the table as Anorthil swept another handful of silver into his pouch.

"Come, my friend," Anorthil replied, oblivious to the man's growing anger. He raised his goblet in mock camaraderie. "You look as though you need more drink to soften the sting of defeat!"

The patrons chuckled, but Anorthil, unsteady from his own indulgence, misjudged his movements. He stumbled as he offered the goblet, sloshing the wine directly into Alecfir's face.

A collective gasp rippled through the room. The fisherman shot to his feet, his chair skidding backward as he swiped wine from his beard.

"RAH!" Alecfir bellowed, his voice like a crashing wave. Before Anorthil could react, the man's calloused hands grabbed him by the collar and dragged him across the table, sending dice and half-eaten food scattering to the floor.

"Off me, you brute!" Anorthil shouted, kicking his legs and thrashing wildly. The room burst into laughter, the patrons roaring as the Steward's son flailed like a fish caught on a line. Alecfir's grip tightened, and with a grunt of effort, he hurled Anorthil across the table.

Anorthil landed in an unceremonious heap, his head striking the ground with a dull thud. His vision swam as the room tilted and spun around him. Groaning, he pushed himself to his knees, only for his stomach to lurch violently. He retched onto the floor, the sound drawing another round of laughter from the onlookers.

"Someone get him a healer—or a mop!" a voice called out, followed by a fresh burst of laughter.

Alecfir snorted, crossing his arms as he looked down at the younger man. "Next time, keep your wine to yourself, lordling," he growled. He spat on the ground before stomping away, the floor creaking beneath his heavy boots.

Anorthil wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, blinking as the room slowly came back into focus. A hand reached down, offering to help him to his feet. Looking up, he saw the serving girl from earlier, her expression somewhere between pity and exasperation.

"You'll live," she said, pulling him up and pushing him into a nearby chair. "Though I can't say the same for your pride."

Such a fair woman tending to my needs—mayhap I have passed from this mortal coil, and now I gaze upon an Elven princess," Anorthil said, a roguish grin playing upon his lips. The serving maid—Loralin, as he had come to learn—glanced at him with an exasperated roll of her eyes before turning to assist another servant with the spilled wine. Anorthil's gaze lingered upon her as she moved, admiring the curve of her full figure, the light catching the golden strands of her hair. Ah, what a treasure she is, he mused inwardly. Now, how to make her mine for the night?

With an air of nonchalance, Anorthil drew forth his small pipe, packed with the finest pipe-weed, and lit it with a practiced flick of his wrist. The smoke swirled lazily around his head as he inhaled deeply, the warmth of the tobacco mixing with the pleasant buzz of the wine already in his system. He glanced about the room, then seized a goblet of deep red wine, draining it in one fluid motion. He had no wish for the merriment to fade, and with a handful of gleaming coins, he called for another round.

Yet it was Loralin who commanded his attention. She moved through the crowd with practiced grace, feigning indifference to the gaze that followed her, but Anorthil could see the flush creeping upon her cheeks. His words were soft and sly, murmuring compliments as she passed close, his gaze never leaving her form. He noted the slight hitch in her breath each time he spoke, a subtle acknowledgment that she was aware of his interest. And when her hand brushed against his as she passed, his fingers lingered, just long enough to feel the warmth of her skin.

His persistence bore fruit soon enough. With a few more coins placed in the innkeeper's palm, Anorthil had secured Loralin's release from her duties for the night. "Allow the maid to rest, my good man," he said, voice smooth as silk. "She has worked hard enough, surely." Loralin hesitated only for a moment, but when the last vestiges of her obligation were freed, she joined him eagerly, her eyes now filled with more than mere duty.

They drank and danced, their laughter filling the air as they spun across the floor. Anorthil's hand moved with casual ease, guiding her as the revelry deepened. Her laughter was like music to him, and though she tried to pretend she was unaffected by his proximity, the flush upon her cheeks betrayed her growing desire. As the hour grew late and the last embers of the hearth cast their fading light, Anorthil led her to his home. The door closed softly behind them, and the firelight flickered over Loralin's form, drawing attention to the curves of her body. She caught his gaze, and for the first time that evening, her eyes softened, no longer guarded. Without a word, he closed the distance between them, pressing his lips to hers with an intensity that caught her off guard.

She pulled away briefly, a playful scowl on her face as she complained about her dress being ruined. "That dress was one of my finest," she said, but her voice was soft, distracted by the intensity of his touch.

Anorthil chuckled darkly, his breath warm against her skin. "I'll see to it that you have five more, made of the finest cloth." His hands were already at work, tugging at the fabric of her gown, and with a frustrated sigh, Loralin allowed him to strip it away. The smooth curve of her body was revealed to him, and for a moment, he paused, eyes wandering over her full figure. Her body was not the delicate kind of beauty often praised in the courts of nobles, but the sight of her—robust and strong—stirred something deep within him.

She laughed as they tumbled onto the bed, their bodies crashing together. In a few swift movements, both of them were undressed, their skin pressed together, warm and eager. Anorthil's hands roamed her body, feeling the soft flesh of her hips, her thighs, and the weight of her breasts. She was responding to him, her breath quickening, her hands moving over his chest, urging him closer.

He spread her legs apart, exposing her to him fully, and he couldn't help but notice the dark honey-blonde hair between her thighs, the sight making his pulse race. Without further hesitation, he moved into her, feeling the heat and tightness of her body as she gasped beneath him. Her warmth engulfed him, and he groaned as he began to move, slow at first, but with increasing urgency as his desire grew.

Her hands gripped his back, nails scraping lightly as she pulled him deeper. "More," she urged, her voice a low whisper, and Anorthil complied, pushing himself harder, faster. Her breath hitched with every thrust, and the sound of her moans spurred him on, each one pushing him closer to the edge.

The feel of her body beneath his, her breathless gasps, and the movement of her hips urging him on sent a wave of heat through him. He leaned down, his mouth capturing her nipple as his thrusts became more frantic. She responded in kind, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on.

The pressure inside him grew, tightening until he couldn't hold back any longer. With a final thrust, he lost control, groaning as he spilled inside her, the feeling of her body surrounding him almost overwhelming. His body went limp, and he collapsed on top of her, gasping for breath, his heart pounding in his chest.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Anorthil lay still, his weight pressing her into the bed, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath him. Loralin shifted beneath him, her hands moving up to his hair, tangling in the dark strands as she laughed softly. "Well," she said breathlessly, "that was certainly... eventful."

Her eyes then widened as she felt his manhood harden within her again. When she looked at Anorthil he already had a grin upon his face. "Did you truly think once would be enough milady? He asked as he slowly began to rock inside her.

"You beast," she breathed out before squealing as Anorthil turned her around.

...

Anorthil awoke with a start, a groan escaping his lips as his hand still gripped a soft mound beneath him. The bed was warm, the sheets tangled around his legs, but the fog of his wine-soaked slumber was still heavy in his mind. He squinted, eyes blurry, and found himself clutching the breast of a woman he couldn't even name. His lips curled into a smirk as he squeezed once, feeling her shift beneath his touch. She moaned softly, pressing herself against him in response.

A brief thrill ran through him as he slid inside her again, savoring the familiar sensation. Her breath hitched and she ground against him, but Anorthil barely noticed. His body moved without thought, lost in the rhythm of pleasure. It wasn't long before his body tensed and he spilled his seed deep inside her, pulling away immediately, almost lazily.

"You're insatiable," she muttered in exhaustion, her voice thick with desire. But he barely heard her. He didn't remember her name, nor did he care. Names didn't matter to him. He was Anorthil—the son of the steward, a man with gold to throw away, with power to do as he pleased.

With a sharp sigh, he reached for the bottle of wine beside the bed, uncorking it with ease. He took a long drink, feeling the rich, dark liquid slide down his throat. It was like a wave of warmth spreading through him, washing away the lingering effects of his indulgence. His headache faded, his limbs felt lighter. He could feel the burn of alcohol already taking hold again.

It was past noon—no, later than that. He dragged himself out of bed, stretching lazily, feeling his muscles groan in protest. He didn't care. The streets outside were alive with the usual sounds of the town—laughter, shouting, and the hustle of life. He smiled to himself.

'Another day of revelry,' he thought, already excited for what the day had in store.

The days that followed blurred into one long streak of wine, women, and laughter. Anorthil wandered from tavern to tavern, throwing gold around like dirt, buying drinks for anyone who'd join him, paying for the entertainment, and finding his way into the beds of courtesans, barmaids, and any woman who looked his way. They all knew who he was, and all of them, without exception, were happy to take his coin—and a little more—while he was there.

He sang loudly in the streets, his voice rough and hoarse from too much drinking, but the crowd cheered anyway. He was the life of every party, and he knew it. He started fights for fun, always losing them spectacularly, but it didn't matter. The streets were his stage, and the townspeople were his audience, laughing at him, cheering for him. But they didn't matter to him, not really. The gold kept flowing, the women kept coming, and that was all he needed.

The peasants in the town had long since grown used to his antics. When he fell into the Anduin River yet again, they dragged him out, shaking their heads with tired smiles, but none of them said a word. He was a spectacle—no more, no less. He lived for it, basking in the attention, in the laughter, in the endless stream of wine and women.

And he didn't care about the whispers that started behind his back. 'Golden Fool,' they called him. But even as they muttered his name in contempt, they still took his gold. They still smiled when he handed them coins. And Anorthil knew that as long as he kept his wealth flowing, they would never turn him away. He had all the power they wanted, and they would never refuse it.

Lorabin? Lorafin? It didn't matter. She was soft, eager, and willing to take his gold. She took him to his bed again, and he didn't even hesitate. They fell into the same rhythm as before—her body pressing against his, his hands gripping her hair, his hips moving without care. There was no tenderness, no lingering thought. Just the body, the pleasure, the act itself.

When it was over, he pulled away with a satisfied grunt, and as usual, the moment was fleeting. He felt the familiar pull of exhaustion, the wine's effects already starting to tug at him. But it didn't matter. He didn't even wait for her to say anything—he just collapsed into the sheets, his body heavy with contentment.

By the final day of the week, Anorthil was once again in the streets, carefree and laughing, throwing more gold around, buying more drinks, and enjoying the endless parade of women. But this time, something changed. A group of husbands, their faces twisted in fury, started chasing him through the market. They had had enough. They were tired of the way he'd treated their wives, tired of watching him parade around like a king while they suffered the consequences of his actions.

But Anorthil didn't care. They could shout all they wanted. He grinned as he dashed away from them, weaving through the crowds with ease. The chase itself was a thrill, and the moment he got away, he laughed loudly, knowing they wouldn't catch him. Even if they did, what could they do? He had gold. He had power. They had nothing.

At the end of the day, it didn't matter what the people thought of him. He had everything he needed—endless indulgence, women who threw themselves at him, and all the gold he could want. The town could hate him for it, but they would still take his money.

The "Golden Fool" they called him. And he loved it.

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A thick, suffocating darkness enveloped Anorthil's vision. It wasn't merely absence of light but a tangible weight pressing against his chest, cold and oppressive, choking the breath from his lungs. He struggled to find something—anything—but when he looked up, there was no star, no glimmer of hope, only the yawning abyss stretching endlessly. The further he sank, the more distant the memory of light became, as if it had never truly existed.

Then came the whispers. At first faint, indistinct murmurs that slithered around him like unseen tendrils. He couldn't make out the words, their meaning sliding through his mind like water through cupped hands, but the sound pulled at him, drawing him deeper into the void.

"Tiro ven."

The Elvish phrase was barely audible, almost swallowed by the darkness, but its presence was unmistakable.

"Tiro ven."

The voices grew louder, urgent, demanding. His ears strained to catch the words, his body instinctively moving toward the sound. And then, at the edge of his vision, he saw it—a light, faint as the first star at dusk, shimmering against the impenetrable black.

He reached for it, his limbs heavy as if bound in iron, his body sluggish in the oppressive void. The whispers turned to a shout.

"TIRO VEN!"

Anorthil gasped as he jolted awake, the icy shock of water striking his face like a slap. The chill bit into his skin, and he tumbled out of bed in a flurry of limbs, his heart racing as he struggled to catch his breath. He hit the floor hard, groaning as the cold stone greeted him unkindly.

As he lay there, blinking away the remnants of the dream and the freezing water, a throbbing pain made itself known—a headache, fierce and unrelenting, no doubt a result of the excessive drinking the night before.

"Good afternoon," came a familiar voice, thick with amusement. Anorthil squinted upward, his vision slowly focusing on Rúmil, his oldest companion. The man stood over him, a bucket in hand and a smirk on his face. His black hair was tied back into a loose rat tail, and his broad shoulders and muscular frame spoke of years of hard labor.

"You bastard," Anorthil groaned, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

Rúmil chuckled, setting the bucket down beside him. "Past noon, my friend. Thought I might wake you before the sun set entirely."

Anorthil scowled, his body aching as he struggled to his feet. "You could have woken me with words, you know. Perhaps a gentle shake of the shoulder?"

"Where would be the fun in that?" Rúmil retorted, his grin widening as he crossed his arms.

Anorthil waved him off, staggering back to the bed and collapsing onto it. His eyes scanned the room, noting that the barmaid from last night—Loralin, or was it Loramin?—was gone. "I am a lord, you know. I have no need to rise early."

"That's why I brought the bucket, a duty of mine to keep you humble," Rúmil said, placing it aside before strolling over to the window. He opened the shutters, letting in the bright light of day, which stabbed at Anorthil's eyes like a dagger.

"Close that, will you?" Anorthil muttered, shielding his face with a hand.

Rúmil ignored him, leaning casually against the window frame. "In eighteen summers, I've known you to be many things. A drinker, a gambler, a terrible dancer. But I never thought I'd see the day where you'd hide."

"I am not hiding," Anorthil snapped, his voice sharp as he swung his legs off the bed.

"No?" Rúmil raised a brow, his tone light but his eyes piercing. "Because the good folk of Minas Tirith would call leaving the Citadel in the dead of night and purchasing a house in Osgiliath with a fortune your family doesn't know you have... hiding."

Anorthil glared at him, dragging a hand down his face. "I am not hiding," he repeated, slower this time, his tone low and dangerous.

Rúmil held up his hands in mock surrender. "As you say. But you've been here for weeks now, drinking yourself into oblivion and ignoring the messengers who come looking for you. That sounds like hiding to me."

"Messengers?" Anorthil frowned, rising to his feet and beginning to dress.

"Yes," Rúmil replied, his expression turning serious. "Multiple messengers from the Citadel. I've done what I could to keep them away, but they'll find you eventually."

"They always send messengers," Anorthil said dismissively, pulling on his tunic. "No doubt my father has another tedious list of duties he expects me to undertake. He has nothing better to do than criticize my every move."

"This feels different," Rúmil said, his voice firm. "They're persistent, and they're asking questions. You won't be able to avoid them for long."

"I am not avoiding them," Anorthil shot back, reaching for his pipe and lighting it with the flickering flame of a nearby candle.

Rúmil snorted. "You're avoiding them the same way you avoid everything you don't like—by drowning yourself in wine and women."

"And why shouldn't I?" Anorthil countered, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he sat back down on the edge of the bed. "This city is far more pleasant than Minas Tirith. The people are more welcoming, the wine flows freely, and I am free to live as I choose."

Rúmil laughed dryly. "Welcoming? You've smoked too much if you think the people here see you as anything more than an overindulgent fool."

"A Golden Fool."

Anorthil's eyes narrowed. "Careful, Rúmil. You're my friend, but even friends have their limits."

"And a good friend will tell you the truth, whether you want to hear it or not," Rúmil replied evenly. He straightened from the wall and gestured toward the open window. "You need to decide what you're going to do, Anorthil. You can't stay here forever, pretending your family, your duties, and your life in Minas Tirith don't exist."

Anorthil stared at him for a long moment, the weight of Rúmil's words settling heavily in the room. Finally, he looked away, inhaling deeply from his pipe and exhaling the smoke in a slow stream. "We'll see," he said at last, his tone carefully neutral.

"We will," Rúmil replied, his tone lighter now. "But not before I drag you out of this house for some air. Come on. You reek of wine and bad decisions."

Pouring out the remnants of his pipe, Anorthil pocketed it with a sharp nod to Rúmil. He moved toward the small wooden table near his bed to retrieve his coin pouch. Lifting it, he frowned—it felt noticeably lighter than it had the night before. His brow furrowed as he pulled it open to inspect the contents.

"One of your 'friends,' mayhaps," Rúmil quipped, leaning casually against the doorframe with arms crossed. His smirk hinted at more amusement than sympathy.

Anorthil chose to ignore him, shaking the pouch and hearing the clink of coins that remained. Though diminished, there were still enough thalers to last him for days, and if more was needed, he could always dip into the hidden stash behind the loose stone in the pantry wall.

"For a night like last, I'd gladly pay for it," Anorthil said lightly, tying the pouch securely to his belt beside his dagger.

Rúmil chuckled, shaking his head. "Even a single thaler is too much for a courtesan, my friend. I'd wager she took more than just coin."

"She took what I gave her," Anorthil retorted, brushing past Rúmil and into the corridor beyond.

"And perhaps a little extra while you were snoring like a troll," Rúmil shot back, following close behind.

Anorthil stopped at the end of the hallway and opened a heavy wooden door. Sunlight poured in, brighter and harsher than it had any right to be, making him squint and shield his eyes with one hand. The sounds of the city greeted him—shouts of merchants, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, and the distant hammering of workers rebuilding the city.

"Come, let us eat," Rúmil said, clapping Anorthil on the shoulder.

Anorthil sighed, still rubbing at his eyes, but followed his friend down the stone steps of the house. Together, they stepped into the streets of Osgiliath, blending into the steady flow of townsfolk going about their day.

Though years had passed since Osgiliath began its resettlement, the city bore the scars of war. Crumbling buildings and half-rebuilt homes were common sights, reminders of the conflict that had ravaged it. Gondor's coffers were stretched thin, with most resources directed toward the military. Civil projects, no matter how pressing, took less precedence in comparison.

"This city still looks like a horseshit ruin," Anorthil remarked, stepping over a loose piece of stone as they turned onto a busy street.

"It does," Rúmil agreed, his gaze drifting to a group of workers hauling timber toward a half-collapsed bridge. "But give it time. It took years for Minas Tirith to shine as it does now."

"The difference is Minas Tirith is a jewel worth polishing. This place..." Anorthil gestured to the rubble-strewn street with a look of disdain. "This place is no better than a quarry."

"And yet, here you are, choosing the quarry over the jewel," Rúmil said with a smirk.

Anorthil's lips twitched in irritation, but he said nothing. Instead, his eyes wandered over the bustling crowd. Many of the faces were rough and weathered, the kind of folk who had little choice but to rebuild Osgiliath, hoping for a better life. 'Seems like there are a lot more people here than before,' Anorthil thought with slight confusion.

"It's the edict," Rúmil stated, as though reading his thoughts. "Belecthor's law from a few months ago—those without work or trade to their name shall be conscripted. Many who came here did so to escape the sword."

"And in doing so, they trade one form of servitude for another," Anorthil muttered.

"Perhaps," Rúmil said with a shrug. "But better to carry stone than a spear, especially when that spear faces the orcs of Mordor."

Anorthil snorted but refrained from replying. His gaze turned to the eastern bank of the Anduin, where the ruins of East Osgiliath lay stark and silent. That side of the city remained firmly under the watch of Gondor's soldiers, a bulwark against the shadow lingering in Minas Morgul.

"I wonder when they'll get started on the eastern bank," Anorthil said, his voice quieter now.

"They won't, Not while the enemy holds the pass," Rúmil agreed, his expression grim. "East Osgiliath will remain a battlefield, a place for soldiers, not families."

They walked in silence for a while, the noise of the city filling the gaps between their words. As they passed a small bakery, the scent of fresh bread drifted toward them, momentarily lifting Anorthil's spirits.

"I brought some of the letters that have been sent, would you like to see them?" Rúmil said abruptly, breaking the silence.

Anorthil sighed, rolling his eyes. "Ah, yes. Let me guess: 'Why haven't you wrote your brother yet, Anorthil? Why do you disgrace the family, Anorthil? Why do you waste your time in taverns, Anorthil?'"

Rúmil laughed. "I'd imagine the letters are a bit more polite than that. But the sentiment's the same, I'm sure."

"They're all the same," Anorthil muttered. "My father can't let me be. He insists I take on responsibilities that have no interest for me. Why should I care about trade agreements or the price of grain in Belfalas?"

"Because, like it or not, you're part of this world," Rúmil said, his tone firm but not unkind. "And sooner or later, you'll have to face it."

Anorthil stopped walking, turning to face his friend. "And what if I don't? What if I choose to stay here, away from the Citadel, away from Dol Amroth, away from all of it?"

Rúmil's expression softened, but his eyes remained steady. "Then you'll spend the rest of your life running, Anorthil. And eventually, even here, the shadows will find you."

For a moment, the weight of the words hung between them. Then Anorthil shook his head, forcing a grin onto his face. "You've always had a talent for making my mornings worse, Rúmil."

"And you've always had a talent for avoiding what you don't want to hear," Rúmil shot back, though his grin matched Anorthil's. "Come on, let's get that food before you start sulking."

"I don't sulk," Anorthil retorted with a childlike grin, as he quickened his pace, leaving Rúmil in the dust. The two men moved through the bustling streets, their laughter and banter competing with the sounds of the marketplace. Eventually, their stomachs gave a loud protest, and they sought out a place to purchase food. At length, they found themselves at the banks of the Anduin, a tranquil stretch of the river, where they seated themselves on a stone ledge to eat.

The savory aroma of grilled chicken on sticks filled the air as they devoured the humble meal. Anorthil's mind wandered as he chewed, the quiet flow of the river offering him a rare sense of peace. The chicken, while not of the fine quality served at the citadel's grand feasts, was tender and flavorful, its herbs bringing out the full richness of the meat. Anorthil finished his meal quickly, tossing his stick into the river with a quiet satisfaction, watching as the wood drifted away, carried by the current.

"Have you written to Elenwen?" Rúmil asked, his voice tinged with curiosity as he finished his own meal and tossed his stick into the water.

Anorthil snorted dismissively. "Of course not," he replied, trying to mask the discomfort in his voice with a lightheartedness that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"She has written to you," Rúmil pressed, a knowing look on his face.

A pang of guilt struck Anorthil's chest at the mention of Elenwen. She had been a constant in his life, their bond formed in their youth, when their families had been closer. Elenwen, daughter of Prince Aglahad of Dol Amroth, was more than just a noblewoman to him—she was his betrothed, the one he had once promised to love and cherish. But time, along with his own choices, had slowly strained that connection. The weight of expectation had fallen heavily upon him, and instead of confronting it, Anorthil had turned to fleeting pleasures and reckless distractions.

"I will write her... just not now," he murmured, his voice suddenly quiet.

Rúmil observed his friend with a look of quiet sympathy, understanding the struggle all too well. He had been by Anorthil's side through all of this, watching the once hopeful young man slowly unravel. The loss of Anorthil's mother had been the catalyst for his descent into self-doubt and self-indulgence. Before her death, Anorthil had been a man full of potential. But after, everything had changed. There was a hollowness that Anorthil could not fill, and Rúmil knew that even the wildest celebrations could not mask the sorrow beneath.

'At least he no longer chases that fantasy,' Rúmil thought, the memory of their childhood stories surfacing. He remembered how Anorthil had clung to the legend of Rath Elenna, the fortress of the stars. An ancient Númenórean stronghold, said to hold the power to transport its occupants anywhere in the world by the will of the stars themselves. It had been a story Anorthil's mother had told them in their youth, a fantastical tale that had filled them both with wonder.

But after his mother's passing, Anorthil had buried himself in the great libraries of Minas Tirith, combing through dusty tomes and ancient scrolls, seeking any trace of Rath Elenna. It had been his way of holding on to the memory of her, of finding some kind of meaning in the face of loss. But no matter how many hours he spent poring over the records, he had found nothing. The fortress, it seemed, was a myth, a legend for children, and Anorthil had eventually been forced to confront that painful truth. Rath Elenna was nothing more than a story.

Anorthil's gaze lingered on the river, but his thoughts were far away. He knew Rúmil understood, but the weight of it all—the guilt, the loss, the unfulfilled promises—was a burden he had yet to find a way to bear. His thoughts drifted back to Elenwen, and the letters that had grown fewer and fewer. She deserved better than him. She deserved someone who could rise to the expectations placed upon him, someone who could be the man she needed him to be.

Taking a deep breath, Anorthil rubbed his face, his gaze drifting toward the slow-moving river beyond the crumbling stone of Osgiliath. The soft light of late afternoon bathed the ruins in a golden hue, but it did little to settle the tension growing within him. Turning back to his friend, he raised an eyebrow.

"Why have you come to Osgiliath, Rúmil? I doubt it was to inform me of my letters," he said with a slight edge to his voice.

Rúmil hesitated, his hand absently brushing the hilt of the sword at his side. He seemed to draw strength from the familiar weight of it as he looked across the river, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he didn't answer. This wasn't a subject he had wanted to bring up, and he'd wrestled with whether to tell Anorthil at all. But there was no avoiding it now.

"I will be leaving Minas Tirith soon," he said quietly, his voice almost swallowed by the distant cries of birds circling overhead.

Anorthil frowned, his brow furrowing as he turned to face his friend fully. "What do you mean? What business would take you away from Minas Tirith? Is my father traveling?"

Rúmil shook his head. "No, he is not," he replied, his tone grave. He hesitated again, choosing his next words with care. "It has been decided that my duties at the citadel are... not important enough to warrant being considered a trade," he said slowly, his gaze lowering to the ground. "My father can handle the responsibilities alone. Therefore, by order of the Steward, I am to be conscripted into the Gondorian infantry."

The words hung heavily in the air, sinking into Anorthil like a blade. He stared at Rúmil, disbelief plain on his face. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came. For a moment, it was as if he were looking at a stranger. A maelstrom of emotions bubbled beneath the surface—shock, anger, confusion—all fighting for dominance. None of them were good.

Rúmil offered a faint, reassuring smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Do not worry, my friend," he said softly. "I always thought it might come to this. It's why I studied the sword, why I trained. Gondor has always needed men willing to fight. And I am willing."

Anorthil's voice finally returned, though it was tinged with quiet anger. "He can't do this," he said, his words almost a growl.

"Your father is the Steward," Rúmil replied calmly. "He has every right to command this."

"I won't let him," Anorthil said, his voice rising. His fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles whitening.

Rúmil raised an eyebrow and squeezed his friend's shoulder firmly. "Anorthil, this is the way of the world," he said, his voice steady but kind. "It is a great honor to serve Gondor in this way. I am not unhappy with this. You shouldn't be either."

Anorthil blinked, stunned into silence again. How could his friend accept this fate so casually? Did he not understand what awaited him on the frontlines? Anorthil had seen an orc once as a boy, just one, and the memory still haunted his dreams—the hideous, snarling face, the stench of death. The thought of his friend facing hordes of such creatures made his stomach turn.

"I will stop this," Anorthil finally said, though his voice lacked the fiery conviction of moments before. It came out almost as a plea.

"No," Rúmil replied sharply, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You will not get involved. There are... things happening at the citadel, things that concern me. If you interfere, you might make them worse."

Anorthil's eyes narrowed. "What things? What are you not telling me?"

Rúmil shook his head, refusing to elaborate. Instead, he reached over and pulled Anorthil into a tight embrace, his armor cold against Anorthil's tunic. When he pulled back, his expression softened. "I will be fine," he said with a quiet laugh. "I just wanted to see you one last time, to say goodbye. And to make sure you write."

Anorthil frowned. "Write? Rúmil, you make it sound as though I'll never see you again."

Rúmil didn't respond to that, his silence heavy with meaning. He stepped back, his hand still resting on Anorthil's shoulder for a moment before he turned away, his gaze falling once more to the river. "I should go," he said after a long pause.

Though before he left he turned around, he put both fingers up and made a heart shape before placing it over his chest. "Heart..." he said with a smile before he turned around to leave—a gesture his mother had always shown him when he had been upset.

Anorthil wanted to argue, to demand answers, but the lump in his throat stopped him. He watched as Rúmil adjusted the sword at his hip and began to walk away, his figure silhouetted against the setting sun. The ruins of Osgiliath seemed to swallow him whole as he disappeared into the distance. For a long time, Anorthil remained where he was, staring at the spot where his friend had stood. The sound of the river seemed louder now, rushing and relentless, drowning out the noise of the world around him.

___________________________

More nightmares. Every night. Always the same thing.

The abyss stretched out before him, endless and suffocating, filling every inch of his body like a thick, cloying sludge. He could feel its weight pressing down on him, choking him, as though the void itself sought to consume him. And then came the calling—a voice, or was it many? Deep and resonant, the words grew louder and louder until they weren't just in his ears. They reverberated through his very bones, shaking him to his core.

Through the darkness, he could sense the light. A faint, distant glimmer that seemed to beckon him, growing closer and closer despite the abyss clawing at him, pulling him back. He fought against the darkness, struggling toward that unreachable glow, but just as he felt he might touch it—

Anorthil's eyes snapped open, his breath sharp and shallow. The dream ripped him from its grip, as it always did, leaving him disoriented and trembling. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, the remnants of the nightmare still lingering in his mind like cobwebs.

'Always the same...' he thought bitterly, dragging a hand over his face.

The room was dim, the faint light of dawn spilling through the edges of the heavy curtains. He turned his head to look at the space beside him, but as expected, the bed was empty. The warmth of another body had been absent for over a week now. The laughter, the songs, the stolen moments of pleasure—all gone.

He sat up slowly, his body heavy with a lethargy that no amount of sleep could cure. Ever since Rúmil had come to him with the news—that damned news—he hadn't set foot in the taverns. The usual revelry that once filled his days and nights had lost its appeal. What joy could be found in drink or song when his closest friend was about to march to his death?

Anorthil sighed and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet on the cold stone floor. He stared at his hands, the calluses there, the faint scars from his sword practice, and a dull ache settled in his chest.

He should have done something.

The thought hit him like a hammer, as it did every morning since Rúmil's departure. He should have argued harder, should have gone to his father, should have—what? Thrown himself at the Steward's feet and begged for his friend's life? Rúmil wouldn't have wanted that. He'd made it clear that Anorthil was not to interfere, but the guilt gnawed at him all the same.

You could have tried, a voice whispered in the back of his mind.

He clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. It was true, wasn't it? He had done nothing. He had sat there like a stunned child while his friend spoke of honor and duty, and now Rúmil was gone—marching off to some distant battlefield where orcs and men clashed in endless slaughter. Anorthil could still see Rúmil's calm face as he told him the news, the way he'd smiled, as if this was some noble calling. 'It is a great honor to serve Gondor in this way,' he'd said. But all Anorthil could think of was the horror that awaited him. His body broken and left to rot on some desolate field...

He shook his head sharply, as if to banish the image, but it refused to leave.

Anorthil pushed himself to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate. The house felt empty, colder than usual, as if even the walls mourned Rúmil's absence. He wandered to the window, pulling back the curtains to let the pale morning light flood in. The city outside was already awake. Merchants shouted their wares, children laughed as they chased one another through the streets, and the smell of fresh bread wafted through the air. Life carried on as if nothing had changed. But for Anorthil, everything had.

He leaned against the window frame, his forehead pressing against the cool glass.

'Why didn't I try harder?' The question echoed in his mind, relentless and unforgiving. He had spent years cultivating a carefree, reckless existence. He had wealth, power, charm—he'd always assumed those things would be enough to shield him from life's harsh realities. But now, faced with the bitter truth of his own helplessness, he felt small.

Anorthil clenched his fists. Rúmil was right about one thing—he was hiding. He'd fled Minas Tirith to escape the suffocating expectations and the crushing weight of his father's disappointment. Out here, in Osgiliath, he could live as he pleased, free from judgment. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself. He couldn't let Rúmil be sent off to die. Regardless of his friend's wishes, Anorthil would confront his father. Perhaps he wouldn't succeed, but he owed it to Rúmil to try.

His father, Belecthor, was a man of tradition—stern, unyielding, and deeply entrenched in the ideals of honor and duty. If Anorthil had any hope of persuading him, he would need to present himself with care. He headed to the adjacent room, where a bucket of water stood by the pantry. Using a coarse sponge, he scrubbed himself clean, washing away the grime and stink of the last week. The water was cold and sharp against his skin, but it cleared his mind, forcing him to focus.

Once finished, he dressed in the finest garments he still owned: a crisp white tunic trimmed with silver, a deep blue surcoat embroidered with the Tree of Gondor, and a silver cloak clasped at his shoulder. His sword hung at his hip—not for battle, but as a symbol of his station. Satisfied, he made his way to the stables and purchased a sturdy horse. It wasn't a fine steed like those he had once ridden in Minas Tirith, but it would serve.

The journey to Minas Tirith was short, yet it felt longer than it should have. Anorthil couldn't shake the feeling of dread that gnawed at him, growing stronger with every passing mile. The gates of the White City stood open as always—Gondor was safe enough now that they were rarely closed, even at night.

The clatter of the horse's hooves echoed against the stone streets as he ascended through the levels of the city. Each ring brought him closer to the citadel, but also closer to the memories he had tried so hard to leave behind. By the time he reached the fifth level, he was already regretting his decision.

Here, he began to see faces he recognized—and worse, faces that recognized him. The looks they gave him were a mixture of disdain and pity. Some whispered as he passed, their voices low but not low enough.

"Is that him? Belecthor's second son?"

"The one who shames the family?"

"I heard he was finally banished."

Anorthil kept his head high, but the weight of their judgment bore down on him. He focused on the road ahead, unwilling to meet their eyes.

Finally, he reached the seventh level, where the Tower Guards stopped him at the gate. They scrutinized him for a moment before one of them recognized his face. "Lord Anorthil," the guard said, his tone formal but laced with surprise. With a nod, he waved him through.

Anorthil dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting stable boy. His boots clicked against the stone as he ascended the final set of steps. As he entered the courtyard of the citadel, the sight of the White Tree greeted him, its leaves shimmering in the morning light. For a moment, he paused, memories flooding his mind. His mother had often brought him here as a child, singing soft songs to soothe him when he was upset. A faint smile tugged at his lips, but he quickly pushed the thought aside.

He turned toward the citadel. The throne room was empty, as he had expected—his father rarely sat on the throne these days. Belecthor spent most of his time in his study, poring over documents and issuing orders. Anorthil began to make his way there, but his progress was halted by the last two people he wanted to see.

His elder brother, Thorondir, and Thorondir's son, Turin II.

Thorondir was everything Anorthil wasn't—stern, disciplined, and utterly devoted to the ideals of Gondor. His auburn hair, now streaked with gray, was cropped short, and his close-cut beard framed a face that seemed perpetually set in a scowl. Standing beside him, Turin bore much of his father's features, but where Thorondir's expression was one of stoicism, Turin's was one of perpetual arrogance. The younger man's lip curled slightly as he noticed Anorthil approaching.

"Brother," Anorthil said, forcing himself to bow his head in the traditional gesture of respect. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I arrived yesterday," Thorondir replied curtly. His tone was clipped, each word measured. "I noticed your absence. Neither me nor the captains who fought in Battle were greeted by you."

Anorthil clenched his teeth, already bracing for the scolding that was sure to come, but before he could respond, Turin's voice cut through the air.

"He wasn't here," Turin said, his tone dripping with disdain. "I heard he was off shaming himself in Osgiliath."

Anorthil's jaw tightened, but he held his tongue. This was neither the time nor the place to trade barbs with his nephew. He straightened his shoulders, meeting Turin's gaze with a calm he didn't feel.

"Believe what you will," Anorthil said evenly. "I am here now, and I have business with our father."

Turin raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "Business? What business could you possibly have that warrants your presence here?"

Anorthil ignored the question, stepping past them without another word. He could feel their eyes on his back, but he refused to let it stop him. He had come here for Rúmil, and he wouldn't let his family's scorn deter him. Though as he walked away he could hear both of them whisper to one another with Thorondir saying. "He hasn't been told..."

Walking up the spiraling steps of the tower, Anorthil kept his eyes down, dreading what awaited him. By the time he reached the top, his legs ached, but he ignored it. Two Tower Guards stood outside the heavy oaken door, their faces stoic as always.

"I've come to speak with my father," Anorthil said flatly.

The guards exchanged a brief look but stepped aside without protest. Without hesitation, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The room was dark, as always. His father preferred candlelight to natural sunlight, keeping the windows covered at all times. At the center of the room sat Belecthor, hunched over his desk, quill in hand. He didn't look up as Anorthil entered.

Anorthil hesitated, then cleared his throat. "Father—"

Belecthor raised a hand, silencing him before he could finish. Without glancing up, he continued writing. Anorthil stood there in the oppressive silence, waiting as his father's pen scratched against the paper.  late," Belecthor said, his voice like a blade scraping across ice. "How fortunate that even a man as useless as you couldn't lose his way home entirely."

Anorthil stiffened but said nothing. He felt the weight of his father's gaze, as sharp and unyielding as steel.

"You reek," Belecthor continued, his tone dropping into something almost contemptuous. "I can smell the wine on you from here. No doubt you've spent the last weeks wallowing in whatever filth Osgiliath had to offer. Tell me, Anorthil, do you even remember what it means to carry this family's name? Or have you drowned that knowledge in ale like everything else of value in your wretched life?"

Anorthil swallowed hard. "I—"

"You what?" Belecthor interrupted, his voice cutting through like a whip. "You've come to make excuses? To plead for forgiveness, perhaps? Spare me. I've heard enough of your pathetic justifications to last a lifetime." He leaned forward, his hands resting on the desk like claws gripping the edge. "You are a failure, Anorthil. A disgrace. Every time your name is spoken in the halls of this city, it drips with scorn. Do you think I don't hear it? Do you think I don't know what they call you? The Golden Fool. Fitting, isn't it? A glittering bauble, empty of substance, good for nothing but a brief, hollow laugh."

Anorthil felt his throat tighten, but he forced himself to stand tall, even as his father's words sank deep, leaving wounds that would not soon heal. "I came to speak with you," he said, his voice strained but steady. "About Rúmil."

Belecthor's eyes narrowed. "Rúmil," he said, the name twisting in his mouth like a bitter taste. "Your lapdog. I suppose he's the reason you've finally deigned to crawl back here. Well, go on. Speak. Let's hear what petty grievance you've come to lay at my feet this time."

"He doesn't deserve to be conscripted," Anorthil said quickly, desperate to keep the conversation from spiraling further. "He's served our family loyally for years. He's my friend."

"Your friend," Belecthor repeated, his tone laced with disdain. "And what of it? Do you think friendship absolves him of his duty to Gondor? Or is this about you, Anorthil? Are you afraid of losing the only man foolish enough to tolerate your endless failures?"

Anorthil clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "It's not about me—"

"Everything is about you," Belecthor snarled, his voice rising like a storm. "Your selfishness knows no bounds. You think the world revolves around your petty desires, your endless weaknesses. Rúmil will go to war, not because of some imagined injustice, but because it is his duty—a word you've never even begun to understand."

"I do understand," Anorthil said, his voice cracking with a mix of anger and desperation. "I'm trying to—"

"Trying?" Belecthor snapped. "You've never tried a day in your life. You run from responsibility, from expectations, from everything that doesn't serve your pathetic whims. And now you have the gall to stand before me and demand that I spare your friend?" He leaned back, his gaze colder than ever. "You disgust me."

Anorthil felt his resolve faltering under the weight of his father's words, but he forced himself to push forward. "I'll change," he said, his voice trembling. "I'll do whatever you ask. I'll take on every duty expected of me. I'll marry—"

"Marry?" Belecthor cut in, his tone sharp and mocking. "And who, pray tell, would have you? What noble house would lower themselves to tie their name to yours? You are a stain on this family, Anorthil. No title, no wealth, no promises could make up for that, Elenwen is the only reason your betrothal still stand though why she wants a man such as you alludes me."

“You're a fool to think I'll ever forgive your weakness. You squander everything handed to you, from your name to your future. And now, you want to bargain with me over a friend? How quaint."

Anorthil's fists clenched, his throat tight with a fury that burned hotter than any shame. "I'll take whatever you ask of me, father. I'll perform all the duties expected of me. I'll marry whoever you choose, I'll serve in any role you see fit. Just... just release Rúmil from the conscription."

Belecthor's lip curled into a cruel smile, the kind that made Anorthil feel like an insect under a boot. "You think your pathetic attempts at submission mean anything to me? You're not worth the ground you walk on. You can barely manage to stay sober long enough to remember your name, let alone act like a man of honor. And now, you're going to play the noble fool for a friend?" He leaned forward, his eyes cold and mocking. "Rúmil will go to war as he should, and you will learn what it means to serve. You don't get to make demands anymore."

Anorthil's heart pounded in his chest, but he refused to back down. "You can't do this, not to him. You—"

Before he could finish, the door slammed open with a force that made Anorthil flinch. Two guards entered, their heavy boots echoing on the stone floor. Anorthil's heart raced as he looked between his father and the soldiers.

"What's happening?" Anorthil demanded, his voice sharp, trying to suppress the fear rising in his chest.

Belecthor leaned back in his chair, his cold eyes never leaving Anorthil's. "No one is above the law, not even you," he said, his tone indifferent as if Anorthil's very presence in the room disgusted him. "You've wasted enough time and failed in every possible way. As someone with no trade, no purpose, you are being conscripted into the Gondorian army."

Anorthil froze, shock and anger flooding his veins. "No. You can't do this! I won't go!" His voice cracked as the words rushed out. "I refuse! I—"

Before he could protest further, the guards were upon him. One grabbed his arms, pinning them behind his back, while the other held him by the shoulders. "Let me go!" Anorthil shouted, his voice raw with fury. "This is madness! You can't send me to die!"

Belecthor's gaze was impassive. "You'll learn discipline, or you'll die trying. Come back a better man—or don't come back at all."

The words hit Anorthil like a punch to the gut. His vision blurred as he struggled against the guards, his fists pounding against their unyielding grip. "I won't be your pawn! I'll—"

His protests were cut off as one of the guards struck him across the face. His vision swam, the world tilting as his mind started to go dark. The last thing he heard was his father's cold voice echoing in the room.

"It's done."

Then, everything went black.

(AN: So this is the first chapter in Light of the Silmarils. I’ve tried my best to take my time with it, but honestly I feel like it was a little rushed idk why. This is an introduction to the Main Charaxter Anorthil and a few others, he is pretty unlikeable at the moment but hopefully that’ll change. He’s being sent off to war by his father, he has no combat skills whatsoever and will likely die. Anyway like I said before there will be a small harem though members may change with only one or two being consistent, though tbh I might just make it one consistent partner and a string of lovers over time idk. Haven’t decided yet. Anyway feel free to ask any questions in private message. I hope you liked this chapter.)

Anorthil (best I could do)

Elenwen