The long ride from the Cape of Belfalas to Amon Hen through Minas Tirith, Druadan Forest, Edoras and East Rohan had taken Delioron a month and a half. Since his arrival Delioron had been sitting at Amon Hen for about two months now. He had lost the track of time, but he knew it was mid-winter. He had seen no boats upon Nen Hithoel, no sign of Tarîkbên.
During the days he would take long walks from Amon Hen to Parth Galen. He would traverse the shores of Nen Hithoel and the surrounding area until he knew the lay of the land like his own pockets. On the other shore of the vast lake there was Emyn Muil, the seemingly impenetrable maze of crags and steep hills leading towards the Dead Marshes in the east and, finally, into Mordor. Upon the northern approach of the lake stood the huge statues of the Argonath as a reminder of past days of glory, touching the sky. At the southern end of the lake, just before the Falls of Rauros, an island of sheer rock faces arose from the water like a tower of rock, the inaccessible isle of Tol Brandir.
Above Parth Galen, a green lawn at the foot of Amon Hen, the hill rose in gentle slopes to the flattened summit of the ancient battlement which now lay in ruins. In the middle of the ruins there was a circular stone-paved court and in the center of the circle the ancient Seat of Seeing. The remains of an ancient road upon Amon Hen had dwindled to little more than a path, ruined by the merciless onslaught of time. There were cracked and worn remains of stairs in places where the hill grew steep, crumbling and split by tree roots.
Delioron was used to living alone in his estate in the Cape of Belfalas. Home was a place where he never craved for words or any kind of human contact. But it was different out here. In the Cape of Belfalas he was never truly alone. There were always people about in the village, a sense of bustling community. Often he would go to the marketplace in Cathlond to haggle and talk with the merchants, to watch the people and life around him. Even as an outsider it still gave him comfort and a sense of belonging. It was an entirely different experience to be alone at Amon Hen, surrounded with the ancient ruins and a crushing sense of aloneness, listening to the howling winds and the wails of the loons, with no living person around for miles.
Once in a fortnight he would ride to Walstow, a small settlement in East Rohan about ten miles to the west of Amon Hen and Parth Galen, to purchase supplies. In Walstow he would dine as a guest of a local crofter called Hubyrt and spend the night in his small barn. He would tell the people of Walstow that he was a scholar from Minas Tirith, come here to research the ruins of the ancient watchtower at Amon Hen. Hubyrt was a widower, but he had a fetching daughter called Mildrith. Mildrith was at a marrigeable age, but she had a promiscuous character which had lessened her prospects for marriage in a small community like Walstow, where she had already slept with most suitable bachelors but managed to avoid getting pregnant to any of them. Not that marriage to a crofter in Walstow was part of her plans anyhow. Mildrith had dreams of seeing the world and moving to Snowbourn, a large town which she imagined would have better prospects for an ambitious young woman like her compared to the tiny, rustic outpost of Walstow.
Mildrith had immediately set her sights on their exotic guest from Gondor. She had come to visit him in the barn where he slept from the first night onward. She was not in love with Delioron and he knew it. Mildrith was drawn to Delioron because he was exotic and exciting, because of the stories he told about life in Gondor, that fabled kingdom Mildrith knew only from legends, and because of the Gondorian coin and foreign presents he would gift her with. Delioron did not love Mildrith either. He simply craved for her warmth and touch, someone to talk to, someone to break the monotony and loneliness of chilly winter nights of East Rohan and momentarily warm the perpetual chill inside him that had nothing to do with winter.
Hubyrt was likely fully aware of the nightly trysts between Delioron and Mildrith but did not seem to care. Perhaps he secretly hoped he could marry her daughter off to this eccentric scholar from faraway Gondor and finally be rid of her for good. At least Delioron seemed fairly well-off, as he always paid handsomely for Hubyrt’s hospitality.
Two months had passed since Delioron’s arrival to Amon Hen. He had slept with Mildrith in Hubyrt’s barn four nights during that time. But the long wait would be over soon, one way or the other. Delioron would stop it because it did not make any sense to wait anymore. There was no Tarîkbên. He was not wanted back in Gondor. Tomorrow he would leave this place. Perhaps he would travel to Rhûn, to see again the land that had left such a lasting imprint upon his soul. Or perhaps he should marry Mildrith and become a crofter in East Rohan.
Another day was passing. In a couple of hours the sun would set behind the western horizon again. Delioron was standing on the summit of Amon Hen, gazing out to the lake Nen Hithoel. When he saw the little black speck on the back of the lake he first thought it was a mirage, further evidence of the slow deterioration of his mind due to his prolonged isolation. He kept his eyes fixed on the speck and was soon able to discern the white foam around it and the contours of the boat.
It was a boat. A solitary rowing boat on the back of Nen Hithoel.
Delioron turned and briskly descended the stairs of the summit to the courtyard, where his horse Daeroc was trying to graze what little tufts of brown, stunted grass there was for it to eat. Delioron patted the animal, hopped on it’s back and reined it through the gates of the ancient battlement. Where the hillside had been hacked into worn, crumbling stairs he would dismount and cautiously walk the animal down the stairs.
It was a fairly long trek from the summit of Amon Hen to Parth Galen. When Delioron finally arrived the boat was already so close to the shore that he could clearly see the outlines of the rower. The man was tall and big-boned and clad in an expensive black cloak with fur lining.
When the boat reached the shore the man hopped off it surprisingly nimbly and pulled the boat to the shore. Then he turned and looked at Delioron atop his horse on the lawn, his face expressionless and inscrutable. He looked like a typical Black Númenórean with his pale, wide, angular face, black hair and piercing grey eyes.
”Where are the others of your company?” he asked after a while with a thick voice. He had a good command of Westron language but he had a burring accent, as if his words got tangled up in a spiderweb in his throat before tumbling out of his mouth. ”Where is my horse?”
”There are no others”, Delioron said. ”Only me. Are you Tarîkbên?”
”I am Tarîkbên”, the Black Númenórean confirmed. ”And who are you?”
”It doesn’t matter about my name”, Delioron said. ”I am just a messenger from Minas Tirith. I have been sent here to evaluate the worth of your information. To find out if it’s worth our while to help you.”
Târikbên spat on the ground and sneered with contempt. ”A messenger! I should have guessed it!”
”We must act cautiously”, Delioron said. ”Surely you understand that neither Parthadan nor Denethor would want a spy of Sauron in the capital of Gondor – or anywhere within Gondor’s borders for that matter.”
”I don’t need your help to escape. I could head north of here, follow the Anduin.”
”You wouldn’t get very far”, Delioron said calmly.
”And why not, messenger?”
”Sauron’s servants would hunt you down and kill you before spring.”
A menacing shade of red rose upon Tarîkbên’s white face. He bunched his bare hands into tight fists but otherwise remained still.
”That’s right, messenger. That’s what would happen to me.”
Delioron waited and stared at Tarîkbên without emotion, as if he was waiting for the Black Númenórean to understand the situation he was in.
”What do you want from me?” Tarîkbên asked.
Delioron said nothing.
Suddenly it looked as if the Black Númenórean had come to some kind of decision. His expression grew hard and frozen.
”It is as I thought”, Tarîkbên said. ”You have no authority to help me, messenger. You are here only to interrogate me, and then you would kill me. But I have nothing to tell you, messenger, not this time. I will go back to Mordor now. But I will return.”
Delioron froze up. ”If you expected this outcome, then why did you come at all?”
”Because I wanted to see if anyone was here to meet me at all. Your masters in Minas Tirith could have easily just ignored my letter. But your presence here proves that they are at least interested and willing to listen. Here me out, messenger! Wait for me here. In another month, two at most, I will return to this shore. But this time I will come bearing a gift. And it will be such a gift that you will have to take me to Minas Tirith to meet your Steward then.”
”What gift?”
”I will bring you Thráin!”
The name sounded vaguely familiar. Delioron knew it was a dwarven name, and he was sure he had read about it before somewhere, but dwarven lore had never been his specialty.
”And who is he?”
Tarîkbên laughed then.
”Who is Thráin?” Tarîkbên repeated and smiled. It was an ominous, malicious smile. ”A legend of old. Been dead for a long time. But now, resurrected!”
Tarîkbên’s cutting, spiteful laughter mixed up with the howling of the wind and a haunting, mournful wail of a loon.
