Drinks in the Dark at the End of the Road, by Kaylee Arafinwiel

[kayleearafinwiel]

B2MeM Prompt, Card and Number: I18, Adunaic, Aspects of Aragorn, Cause of Death, Color Burst 1, Color Burst 4, Color Burst 6, Darkness, Echoes in the Water, Emotions, In a manner of speaking, Landscape, Love in Middle-earth, Of the Sea, Song Lyrics, Talents and Skills
Format: ficlet
Genre: Deathfic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Onscreen, relatively gore-free death, mention of other dead character(s)
Characters: Adrahil II, Aragorn (Thorongil), OCs
Pairings:
Creator’s Notes (optional): Written in honor of my heart-father, Fiondil, this is an unofficial sequel to his "Lament for a Dying Son", which can be read here: http://storiesofarda.com/chapterview.asp?sid=6264&cid=28948 He gave me permission to play in his 'verse and I often utilize it. The Umbarian OCs mentioned are his.
Summary: After the soldiers of Dol Amroth and Gondor foiled an Umbarian raid, the Lord of Pharazkhibil, desolate and concerned over his missing heir, wasn't expecting civil conversation from his captors...

“Bâr Zimrazagar of Pharazkhibil, I believe?”

Zimrazagar looked up. He was chained to a post in the Dol Amroth flagship’s hold, and laughed bitterly at the stranger’s question

“You mock me,” he said. “I am lord of nothing now.” Then it registered that the other man had addressed him in the dialect of Adûnaic still spoken by those of Umbar, rather than the Westron or Sindarin of Dol Amroth. It had seemed only natural to answer him in the same tongue.

“Who are you, for you are certainly not one of my gaolers?” he asked, eyes dark with anger and suspicion

“You may call me Narûkazar,” was the man’s calm reply.

“As you will...Bâr Narûkazar,” Zimrazagar replied cautiously. The motion of the ship should be nothing to one who had lately been Balak-bâr of the Umbarian fleet, but now the raiding captain felt sick at heart. He was sick and green with envy, for one thing, that his visitor stood free and was permitted to approach and mock him. “May I ask what business you have with me?”

“I would speak with you of Zimrathôr,” Narûkazar replied calmly, and Zimrazagar’s heart gave a lurch. His son! His son and heir, from whom he had become separated during the raid. Zimrathôr was but sixteen, and barely so - Zimrazagar would never have brought his son on this venture if he had not been chosen to lead it.

“My son,” he whispered, and Narûkazar nodded grimly. “How fares my son?” Zimrazagar asked, feeling his defenses crumbling. Here in the darkness of the hold, his powerlessness had been eating at him, and he read the answer in Narûkazar’s sympathetic grey eyes. A wave of grief, crueller than any storm of Ulmo’s realm, crashed over him. “Zirân…”

“I know,” Narûkazar said quietly. “I have brought him to you.”

Zimrazagar jerked in shock. “You...Bâr Narûkazar, you have done that?”

The younger man nodded, “A moment, Bâr Zimrazagar,” he said quietly, and moved back toward the hatch. He spoke a few quiet words to someone above, receiving a sailcloth-wrapped bundle and bringing it below.

Zimrazagar felt tears sting his eyes as the mysterious Bâr Narûkazar returned with the bundle, placing it across his lap and unfolding the cloth. Zimrathôr’s face was frozen in a mask of death, but seemed calm and composed, as though his death had not been fearsome. His father was glad of that, at least. “Who found him?”

“I was with him as he died,” Narûkazar replied. “He called out for you, and I gave him what comfort I could. I asked Prince Adrahil to allow his return.”

“I thank you,” Zimrazagar replied. “I know I will never return to Pharazkhibil, to my lady and our children, but it is a comfort to know I will be with my beloved heir.”

Narûkazar nodded. “You understand, of course, that you will be given the choice of the rope or a swift poison when we return to Dol Amroth, Bâr Zimrazagar. I understand the rope-makers of Dol Amroth are fine craftsmen; indeed their work is nearly Elven, and it would not be a slow death. Either would afford you dignity.”

Zimrazagar shook his head. “Better the poison than the rope,” he said. “I am no coward, but the thought of the display I would make for my enemies - never. I have my dignity.” He looked at his son. “Indeed, I would prefer such a draught before ever we make landing. I know below us are the corals and oyster-beds of the Sea-Lord’s realm; such would be a better tomb for my son and I than the hill of Dol Amroth. I imagine your Adrahil would sooner burn our bodies,” he added bitterly.

“Such was his intent,” Narûkazar agreed, “but if you wish it, Bâr Zimrazagar, I will dispatch you swiftly and give the order for a sea-burial. My foster-father taught me much herb-lore, and I do carry such poisons for protection.” He went to the hatch and called for his healer’s kit, and a cup of wine to mix the herbs into. These things were given to him, and his preparations were soon ready.

Zimrazagar felt a flutter of fear, but shoved it away, thinking grimly that it was better he die now and join his son than give the Swan-Knights satisfaction. Lifting the goblet handed to him, he gave Bâr Narûkazar a sardonic smile and a nod in thanks. “Thank you for my son,” he said quietly, “and for my dignity, whoever you might be. May your end be better than mine.”

“May we meet in the Presence of Eru one day,” Narûkazar replied. “Rest peacefully, Zimrazagar.”

“I will,” Zimrazagar murmured. Glancing at his son, he whispered, “Wait for me. Ni-zira, thôr ’n ni,” and downed the draught. The bitterness of the herbs and sweetness of the wine mingled in a way that was not unpleasant and made him sleepy, leading Zimrazagar, Lord of Pharazkhibil, into a darkness that nonetheless was very bright, and where, he could be sure, his Zimrathôr awaited him.

***

Prince Adrahil gave Thorongil a measured look as the young man returned to the deck of the flagship, carrying his herbal kit and the empty wine goblet. “So, he’s dead too, is he, Thorongil?”

“He is,” Thorongil replied with a heavy sigh. “He was grateful, at least, to have his son returned.”

Adrahil nodded soberly, having thought through his young friend’s words about the lad, and looked out into the distance. “I cannot burn them on the ship. Shall I sink them, then?”

“It was Zimrazagar’s wish,” Thorongil replied, following Adrahil’s glance. “May Lord Ulmo have mercy on them, and Iluvatar watch over them,” he added quietly.

“May it be so,” Adrahil replied reluctantly, not wishing to bestow grace on his enemies, but having learnt a measure of compassion, even unconditional love, from Thorongil. For pity’s sake, he supposed he could make an exception.

Adrahil had the bodies wrapped in sailcloth, and weighted down before lowering them into the sea; he and Thorongil committed them to the care of the Lords Ulmo and Namo.

Shaken and unnerved, Adrahil went to see to his own men at last. It was time for things to get back to normal.

 

Comments

[erulissedances]

A mercy indeed, and not one unexpected by Aragorn. I liked Adrahil in this story too. Well written!

- Erulisse (one L)

[kayleearafinwiel]

Thank you, nettenya! *hugs* Aragorn is wonderful and merciful, isn't he? I'm so glad you liked Adrahil, I haven't attempted him much before!! I took a lot of guidance from what Atto Fiondil wrote to get an idea of what he should be like.

[lindahoyland]

This was very touching and well written.

[kayleearafinwiel]

Thank you so much!