sm_3.htmlTEXTStMl\>/0Nd Shieldmates: Siege Planning


Year 3435 of the Second Age, Year One of the Siege of Barad-dûr

From his place at Gil-Galad's left hand, Elrond could see all of the
Alliance's surviving Captains. Elendil looked old, the lines on his face deepened to furrows, his skin gray with dust and pain. No-one looked towards the empty place where Oropher should have sat.

For his part, Elrond felt more anger than grief. The day's battle had collapsed into a mad scramble to shore up shattered defenses. Gil-Galad's careful plan of attack had evaporated in the resulting chaos of Oropher's foolhardy charge. Elrond gave a slight shake of his head, remembering.

The Silvan Elves had been under-equipped and poorly organized. They'd broken ranks even before Gil-Galad had given the signal to attack--and many had been driven into the marshlands near the plain. No few of the living walked that place now, searching, hoping, for survivors. Oropher had paid for his blunder with his life, one of the first to fall in the battle.

One by one, the other Captains gave their reports, accounts of the wounded, the dead, and the missing. Oropher's battalion had the
highest numbers. Death had claimed so many of the Deathless... And how many could have been spared, had Oropher just set aside his damnable pride and worked with us?

"I do not think any who ventured into those marshes will return to us," Glorfindel finished.

Elrond suppressed a shudder, saw many of the Elves do the same.
This was something Men did not seem to understand: the horror of
good land turned fell. The earth and waters here, its growing things,
swallowed life and vomited death. Men were not bound to Arda, and
did not share its pain and violation.

"They were fool enough to charge ahead, and fool enough to walk the
marshes after dark. We are better rid of them," said one of the Men, a sergeant in the livery of the South kingdom's companies.

A cold silence descended on them. Elendil closed his eyes in wearied dismay, while Isildur winced and shook his head. Gil-Galad set aside his weariness, turning stiff and tense with affront.

"And you are...?" the Elvenking asked.

"Boron, son of Marach, lord King," said the Man, managing a semblance of a bow.

"You speak of a king, and those loyal to him," Gil-Galad said, still in that tone of cool, silken courtesy. He had used exactly that tone when he'd ordered Sauron-as-Annatar from Lindon. "Is it the custom in your land to speak so of kings?"

Uncertainty clouded Boron's features. Now, too late, he looked to his liege-lord. Isildur returned his gaze, grim and aloof. Reluctantly, the Man Boron lowered his eyes.

"It is not, lord King. Forgive me, I spoke without thought."

"No," Gil-Galad said after a careful pause. "Rather, you have spoken your true thoughts, however unwise it may have been to voice them."

Elrond knew this mood, and it boded ill for the Man. Raw from so many deaths, Gil-Galad sought to blunt his grief and sorrow--and anger gave such easy refuge. He could not find much compassion in his heart for Boron, however. The Man had talked himself into this pit.

"You have a minor command in one of the Southern companies, do you

"Yes, lord King."

"Since you were fortunate enough to be spared, you would not object
to assisting the Eryn Glasen Elves in their time of need."

Isildur looked as if he might protest, but a level stare from Elendil silenced him. Boron looked as if he'd just been assigned latrine duty. At a glare from Isildur, the Man bowed his head and mumbled something vaguely polite. The Men behind him looked impassive, but by their clenched jaws, they appeared to favor Boron's stance over Isildur's and Elendil's.

Elrond silently cursed their stiff-necked pride. They did not need to fight each other as well as the Dark Lord. The tension level did not ease, evidenced in the stiff postures of the Men and the aloof expressions of the Elves. Speech between the races, when required, was clipped and exceedingly formal. Elrond watched it all, hoping to see some sign of reconciliation. His king would want to know his thoughts on this. Gil-Galad released his captains just after moonrise, bidding them to find what respite they could.

"We stand at the heart of the Enemy's power," the Elvenking told them, meeting the gaze of each of his Captains. "We must guard our own."

Few of the Men would meet the Elvenking's gaze, looking down and
murmuring their farewells. Elrond watched them go, his face impassive though his heart was troubled. He saw Elendil take Isildur by the arm as they exited the pavilion, drawing him off to the side.

Gil-Galad sighed. "That could have gone better."

"It could have gone worse."

"True." Gil-Galad rubbed the back of his neck, the only concession he made to what must be world-crushing weariness. "I dislike the feel of this, Elrond. Find out how deep this sentiment runs among the Men. There is no telling how long we will be committed here, and I will not waste our strength on in-fighting."

"My liege," he murmured, bowing in compliance.

He took his leave then, and retreated to the solitude of his own tent. Elrond sat thinking long into the night. The Alliance stood on uncertain ground, already beginning to splinter under the stress of the siege. Boron's outburst was but a sign of the trouble, not the root. Sauron had had much time to whisper lies and sow discord. Those lies must take even stronger root here in the Black Land.

What can mend these rifts? he wondered. Too late for true healing,
perhaps, but better to make the attempt than to leave the Enemy with
such an opening.

Few Men and Elves were meant to follow Elendil and Gil-Galad's pattern, even during war. The tensions and deprivations of the siege might drive a few of the Elves to seek the fiery solace of the Men they fought beside. Witnessing these other pairings did not ease his heart, however. Not all shieldbrothers were meant to cross that boundary and become shieldmates. With few exceptions, he saw little honest devotion in those altered pairings. Too many Elves deemed the mortals of little account --and certainly not deserving of true fidelity.

That would only widen the rifts between the races, leaving a legacy
of bitter acrimony and distrust. The passions that drove men together could all too easily pull them asunder. What was being said tonight in the camps of Men?

Elrond paused long enough to take up his sword-belt and cloak, then
ventured out into the camp proper. The stars shone overhead, dulled
by a smudging haze that drifted on the air. Elrond grimaced. The ground beneath his feet was parched, matted with dead and dying vegetation. The earth should have been dark and rich with life. Sauron fed on the land, as Thuringwethil fed on the living. Wretched place, he thought, loathing even the dust that puffed up under his boots. He longed for his valley home.

He passed through cantonments dark and silent. He heard the horses
whickering on the picket lines, the soft calls of the sentries on watch. The Elves felt the weight of the Shadow, and the songs that night were few and soft, laments for what had been.

He remembered the route to Isildur's tent, and made his way there. He could see lamp light bleeding through the tent's entrance. The front flaps had been tied back in deference to the heavy heat of the night. A drape of netting hung across the entrance, a mostly futile attempt to ward off flying insects.


He heard someone moving inside the tent, then a tall figure blocked the light.

"Master Elrond."

"I know the hour is late, but I would speak with you."

Isildur came forward, brushing the netting back. Isildur wore only a pair of breeches, and his hair hung loose and mussed. Uncertainty seized him. He'd assumed Isildur would be alone. What if--?

"You may as well come in," Isildur said, glaring in the direction of the nearest singers. "It's clear enough I will get no sleep tonight with all that crooning."

"They grieve, Isildur," Elrond said softly. "Mourning knows no time or distance."

Isildur frowned, but said nothing, standing aside to let him pass.

"Sit down, if you will," Isildur said, gesturing to the stool. For his part, Isildur dragged the small chest from the corner and perched on it.

Elrond hid his smile. With his bare feet and wild hair, Isildur looked as un-regal as possible. The inside of the tent was warm and still. He found he could not look directly at Isildur. The lamplight gilded the Man's skin--and he showed so much of it!--and brought out deep cinnamon glints in his hair.

This is absurd, Elrond thought. Over the years, he had seen Isildur in all kinds of dress and undress--rising, gleaming and naked from the river Anduin. But he was tired, grieving, and little angry, and an unwed male confronted with his desire, and--

"My father hinted that I should be expecting you," Isildur said, jolting him out of his thoughts.

"The council did not conclude well," Elrond admitted. With the ease
of too-long practice, he set aside his sword and sat down, all in one motion. Isildur merely quirked a dark brow at his understatement. "The Kings of Arnor and Lindon are displeased with the expressed sentiments, and wish us to find a way to resolve the matter--before it becomes... troublesome."

Isildur smiled in weary amusement. "Your lord is fine-spoken. My father's command was somewhat more brusque: 'I want no repeats of today's disgrace, Isildur. See to it!'"

Elrond inclined his head. "Such is the privilege of kings."

"At times, I think my father forgets I rule a land in my own right," Isildur grumbled.

"Do you know the Man who spoke at council?" Elrond asked, carefully
steering the conversation out of dangerous waters.

"Boron," Isildur said, supplying the name. "A ventenas. He has some moderate ambitions. Elendur commands his battalion."

"Unusual," Elrond said, "to hear such sentiments from one of the Faithful."

"Not in these times," Isildur said.

Now this was what he'd come for. "What do you mean?"

Isildur sighed. "Do you truly wish the details?"

"I would not have asked, otherwise."

Isildur grimaced, then began his account. "The Faithful have honored the Lords of the West and treasured friendship with the Eldar, but even in my grand-sire's time, there were few who had actual memories of dealing with your folk. Our borders were sealed against the Eldar since the reign of Tar-Telemnar. My father, however, traces the sundering back to Atanamir the Unwilling and his father."

Elrond kept his face expressionless. The names were well-known to
him, and little loved. Elros...what happened to your sons? Why did their hearts turn hard and narrow?

Isildur's voice took on a detached, level tone. "What remained to us were tales and half-remembered songs, and few of those were told in the open. The King's Men had spies in many places, even in the households of the Faithful, and others were too willing to turn their coats for coin or the Crown's favor."

Elrond listened in growing dismay as Isildur described a Númenor wholly different from his memories. It struck a deep chord in him. Like Sirion, Elrond thought, heartsick. Rent asunder by the folly of the proud and the fearful.

"The Eldar and the Lords of the West became dim memories, and the
love between the two kindreds deemed one-sided."

"Explain," Elrond said, more sharply than he intended.

Isildur's gaze was steady. "It has not escaped notice that the title of 'Elf-friend' comes soaked in mortal blood, with little loss to the Eldar who bestow it."

"The Faithful have indeed forgotten much," Elrond said, "if they believe so." Little loss? He thought of Finrod, sacrificing himself for Beren, of Lúthien herself.

"Oh?" Isildur challenged, folding his arms. "All your love is couched in terms of lordly hauteur, pleased by some foolish antic of the court jester. We are never wise enough, strong enough, never enough to be seen as anything other than precocious children. Tell me, Master Elrond, when did 'Second-born' come to mean 'Second-best'?"

Elrond forced down his growing anger. "It does not. If you see it as such, the fault lies in your perception, not in our intention. If you would not be treated as children, it would aid your cause if you ceased behaving as such."

Isildur's eyes narrowed. "It may aid your cause if the Eldar would open their eyes to other ways. Not all wisdom comes from years under the stars."

Arguing with this Man, Elrond thought, was like trying to carve granite with a pen knife. "The Valar--"

"The Valar!" Isildur spat, as if the word were a curse. He surged to his feet, turning away from Elrond, who sat frozen with shock at such disrespect. "We learned of the Valar from you, the stories, and songs of praise. We kept the faith, even as we were herded like beasts into pens, or dragged off to the slaughter."

Isildur came about to face him again. "You will find no-one among the Faithful who will say the Usurper did not invite his own destruction--but among those who lie in Mar-nu-Falmar are maids, matrons, children! They had no part in the treason of kings, yet they suffered gruesome death because of it!"

"They were warned," Elrond said gently.

"Warned. Yes." Isildur's voice turned hard. There was nothing of the common man about him, now. Stern and sorrowful he seemed, as an
effigy in the drowned Valley of Tombs. "Tar-Atanamir was warned. Much good a warning does when it is not passed on to the people. Nine ships, we had, to save all that we could of Númenor and her Faithful. Even with my grandsire's warning, we almost failed."

He jerked his head up, fixed haunted eyes on Elrond. "Have you ever
listened to the sound of people drowning?" he asked. "Have you heard them call for help, for mercy? Have you heard the silence that comes after?"

Elrond remembered the hollow cries of the lost, carried to him on the waves of Vilya's power. "I have," he said.

"We heard them, for what seemed like hours, scream after scream carried on the black winds that blew over Númenor's grave. The
waves--some as tall as mountains!--hurled us forward. The Lady
Uinen must still have favored us, for we were not dashed to pieces. We would have taken people up from the water, had we the chance, but the winds and water were against us."

"Does it seem to you that we rejoice in those deaths?" Elrond asked.

Isildur sank back down on the closed chest, looking weary beyond words. "We are mortal Men, doomed to die. Whether it comes soon or late, in peace or suffering, does it matter to you at all?"

Elrond remained silent, struggling to find the words he needed. This went far beyond the disruption of today's council. Yet what words could he use?

"If we seem to take your love lightly," Elrond began, "know that we only seek to protect ourselves from its loss. No matter how great our care for you, you will pass from the world, where we cannot follow."

"That is the fate of all living creatures not of the Eldar," Isildur said.

"And so we are ever alone."

Isildur flinched as if he'd been struck. His eyes grew dark and troubled. Perhaps he had never seen it so before, Elrond mused. The differences between the Eldaliè and the Atani seemed so vast, as if the Arda of Men's eyes was not the Arda experienced by his people.

"We have strayed far from the course, shieldbrother," Elrond said. "We cannot mend the rifts between our people overnight. Nor do I think such is our task."

"No," Isildur said after a moment. He rubbed his hands over his face, as if scrubbing away the dark memories. "You are right, I have wandered far off the path. What we must do is find a way to work around these troubles."

Isildur frowned into the middle-distance, drumming his fingers on the edge of the chest.. Yet another puzzle of the Man: Isildur could sit as still as an Elven hunter for hours at a time. Then, without warning, he would erupt into some movement, unable to keep still. Elrond braced himself. Such flurries of activity usually heralded one of Isildur's lightning-quick leaps of logic.

"What will happen to the surviving Elves of the Eryn Glasen companies?" Isildur asked.

"They will stay on under Thranduil's command," Elrond said. "These deaths will not be easily forgiven, and dearly paid--but at our cost, I think."

"They had heavy losses, and none of them are well-equipped," Isildur said.

"They might merge with the surviving Elves of Lorien, under Amroth's
command, perhaps." Except that Thranduil, like his father, will stand under no other's banner, even if it costs lives.

"Are they likely to agree to that?"

"Not without much resistance," Elrond admitted. "Oropher and his son do not--did not acknowledge Gil-Galad as High King, saying he rules over the Noldor, not the other kindreds. If they will not stand willingly under his banner, they will not stand under a lesser lord's."

Isildur frowned thoughtfully, nodding as if that connected with some
unspoken thought he held. Isildur's questioning turned relentless,
tearing apart the structure of the Elven companies, the chain of command, even the allotment of supplies.

"Why do you ask, Isildur?" he asked, when the Man had fallen into one of his brief silences.

Isildur, by now pacing the tent, glanced at him. "There are no mixed companies," he announced, as if this were a great mystery. "The Elves keep apart, as do the Men."

The Dunadan picked up the water jug and poured out a half-cup. Without asking, he poured one for Elrond as well. Elrond took it.

"So they do," he said, curious to see where Isildur intended to take this.

"Both kindreds, neatly divided. A fine chink in our armor, and one sure to be exploited. Drive but one wedge between us, and our defenses are compromised."

Elrond recognized that look. "What new plot are you hatching now?"
he asked with some wariness. Isildur had a gift for finding solutions, though the paths his mind took could leave observers gaping.

"Not a plot," Isildur protested mildly. "A suggestion."

That sounded little better.

"The Silvan Elves have little aptitude for war," Elrond said. "How effective they are depends on their leadership." And Thranduil's example is not a heartening one.

"Perhaps we are using them in the wrong way."

"How else can they be used? They are fine archers, for all that they are under-equipped."

Isildur straightened. "Let me think on this for a time. I can see a way through, but I am unsure I can speak it well enough to propose it to others."

"My king will wish a report," Elrond warned.

"Then tell him we are discussing a means to ease relations between our fighting men."

Elrond began to nod, then fixed Isildur with a narrow stare. "'We'?"

Isildur smiled, that devil's grin that wooed Fortune and blinded Fate. "Of course. Who else?"


Planning crept forward. The search parties sent to the marshes--including Boron, son of Marach--returned empty-handed and empty-eyed. They refused to speak of whatever they'd seen there, saying only the dead could not be retrieved. The Captains agreed to move the camp to a more westerly point on what was now called the Battle Plain. Not close enough to the Morannon to provoke a response from Sauron's forces, but still

Complaints of voices and strange lights in the marshlands decreased.

Two days later, Amroth of Lorien approached him.

"Your shieldbrother came to me the other day," he said, falling into step beside Elrond. "He had the most amazing series of questions for me."

Elrond quirked his mouth into a wry half-smile. "I believe he stores them up like spring rains, then releases them in a flood."

Amroth laughed, a bright, clear sound that turned heads. Many a wistful eye watched after them, Elrond noted, for Amroth was fair, and unwed.

"Leaving his listeners to swim or drown, as their strength determines," Amroth agreed.

"You seem to be of the former," Elrond observed.

"I had warning. Your shieldbrother has been making the rounds to many of the Elven Captains." Amroth paused, then added in a tone of mild surprise, "He is well-spoken."

"He is of Númenor, and one of the Faithful," Elrond said, as if that answered all.

And perhaps it did. They walked in silence for a time. The sound of companies at drill reached them, orders shouted, rebukes delivered.

"I hope you will remember to include me in this arrangement of yours, Lord Elrond," Amroth said.

What arrangement? "I am sure whatever aid your men can offer will be welcomed."

Amroth stopped, turning to face him. "Not my men, Peredhel. I speak for myself, here. Isildur's proposal, daring as it is, needs the backing of as many of the Elven Captains as possible. We both know Thranduil will never consent to it. The key to breaking this siege may lay in Isildur's proposal. I swore an oath in my father's name. I will see it fulfilled." Amroth's eyes were the dark, turbulent gray of a winter storm.

"The final decision is not mine," he reminded, even as his mind raced. What proposal? Isildur, what scheme have you concocted now?

Amroth smiled, thin and sharp as a knife. "I believe the kings will approve."

"If the proposal has merit," Elrond agreed.

Amroth gave him a sideways glance and grinned. "Ever the courtier,
Peredhel. Take care you do not tangle yourself in your own word-webs." The lord of Lorien sobered. "Remember what I said, Elrond."

"I will."

Amroth made a brisk nod of farewell, then went off about his business. That eve, he returned to his tent to find a message waiting for him.

Master Elrond, if you would meet with me before late watch, I may have found a partial solution to our problem.

It was signed with an I-rune, and a quick, stylized sketch of the White
Tree. Elrond frowned, folding the scrap of foolscap into neat quarters. Well, at least he hadn't filled half a page with pointless formal greetings. Late watch was still hours away. He might as well take his rest now. He had a feeling Isildur's 'partial solution' would take all night to explain.


They met in the kings' pavilion. Elendil looked weary past the hour, and Gil-Galad often touched the Man's arm or shoulder. Reassurance, Elrond supposed, though for whom, he could not say. Elendil straightened under the touch, visibly gathering his strength. The Man rose to his feet as Isildur entered.

"My lord," Isildur said, stepping into his father's welcoming embrace. The Men shared a hard embrace, separating as Isildur turned to make a polite reverence to Gil-Galad. "Lord king."

Isildur was gestured to a seat. Elrond used the time to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. The main burden would be on Isildur for this argument, he would only have to offer support as needed. Just as well, his head still spun from the outrageous proposal Isildur had made earlier.

It had no real technical flaws that he could point to as grounds of refusal, but it went against the grain of Elven custom. They had observed the racial boundaries for so long, he was not sure anyone could accept the notion of a permanent mixed-race duty squad

"My lords," Isildur began, "you have charged me with the task of securing avenues of co-operation between our peoples while we maintain this siege."

Elrond, remembering Isildur's direct quote, managed to keep his features blandly expressionless. By the glint in Elendil's eye, he was remembering his exact words as well.

"After much discussion with the Captains of the Men, Elves, and Dwarves, I believe we have a proposal of merit."

A hint of impatience edged Isildur's words. The Man's dislike of excessive formality, especially in the field, could trip him up further on. Watching, Elrond was struck by the difference between father and son. Where Elendil had the far-sight that sometimes appeared in his line, Isildur gathered up what was presented to him and made it into something new.

Rather like the Feanorians.

He quelled a shiver of unease. Gil-Galad flicked a glance at him. They had been too close for too long, he could not hope for his disquiet to pass unnoticed. Elrond lowered his eyes, their old silent signal of negation.

He picked up his end of the argument, as if he and Isildur had rehearsed the exchange.

"The greatest obstacle facing the Silvan companies is the dearth of proper supplies. We can outfit them with better equipment when we have supply lines secured here, but until then, sending the Silvan Elves into the field is akin to a death sentence. What we propose is to make use of their other skills."

"Such as?" Elendil asked.

"Many of the Elves under Oro--under Thranduil's command make their homes in the Emyn Duir," Isildur said. "They are excellent hunters and trackers, and would be of great aid to the scouts going to Ered Lithui. It makes more sense to send men who have knowledge of mountains and their ways than to send plains and valley-folk."

Elendil raised his brows in mock-surprise and looked to Gil-Galad. "We are sending scouts to Ered Lithui?"

"Our Captains appear to have neglected to inform us of this," Gil-Galad said.

Isildur had the grace to look abashed. Elrond spoke up, buying Isildur time to recover himself. Shieldbrothers guarded each other's backs on more than one type of battlefield.

"We have a considerable expanse of the plain between our forces and the Black Gate, and beyond that Gate is unknown territory."

"The less reliable information we have about the enemy's forces, the higher the cost to us in lives and equipment," Isildur argued. "This proposal will aid many: it will give the Silvan Elves some needed prestige after Oropher's disastrous order and is better suited to their skills. It will provide an example of racial unity when we most need it. Most of all, it will secure us much-needed information.

"We cannot learn what the Enemy is planning in his tower--but we can learn about the Men who serve him and secure his borders. With a better gauge of their strength--and weaknesses--we can plan accordingly."

"So you propose to take the surviving members of the Eryn Glasen forces and--merge them with another company, or a number of others? And then you will send them into the Ered Lithui? Thranduil will never concede to that," Gil-Galad, making a slight gesture of negation.

"I agree, to disperse them all among the companies, that is too much, too soon. Rather, form one squad of Men and Elves--and Dwarves," Isildur added, apparently recalling the one Dwarf who had volunteered.

"And who would be set in charge of such a group?"

Isildur made a vague gesture. "Myself, for the Men, and Master Elrond for the Elves--if he agrees."

"I question the advisability of sending you both," Gil-Galad said.

"With respect, lord King, the armies will only follow where they are led. We will have to take this war to the Dark Tower itself. Can we, in honor, send them where we fear to go?"

"We but follow your example, my lord," Elrond added smoothly.

Gil-Galad arched one dark brow and fixed him with a wry look. "You bring your courtly manners everywhere, Peredhel."

Elrond remained silent, choosing the better part of valor.

The Elvenking turned to his fellow monarch. "What say you, Elendil?"

Elendil looked less pleased. "I would urge a less brash approach than Isildur suggests. I am equally concerned with putting both sub-commanders at risk in such an endeavor. Would not the presence of an Elven leader and a leader of Men only emphasize the division between our peoples?"

"Master Elrond and I are shieldbrothers. It would raise more questions if one of us remains behind."

"Why do you put yourself at the head of such a mission? You have skilled subordinates ready and able to take on such a duty. Elendur has experience in the wild as well. Why do you not pass this duty to him--or do you seek glory for yourself?"

Isildur's eyes narrowed and his left hand, tucked behind his back in formal posture, curled into a fist. Had it been any other save Elendil who spoke, Elrond thought, Isildur would have yielded to his temper and struck.

"I will not send my son alone into such a place. If it is your will that he takes on this duty, know that I will go with him, unless you prevent me."

"You will not send your son...but you ask me to send mine," Elendil said softly.

In that moment, Elrond understood why this meeting took place at this hour, in such solitude. The boundaries between father and son, lord and vassal, were too blurred.

"It is my honor and my privilege to give my life for my king, should he require it," Isildur returned.

"And you believe these circumstances may require it."

"We will not get any stronger for the waiting, my lord," Isildur said. "This is not a time to attack, but to gather information--and we should do so while we have access to the skilled hands and minds that can best accomplish it."

Elendil's frown deepened. Gil-Galad, for his part, showed nothing more than disinterested attention. His lord, Elrond thought, could teach impassivity to stone.

"Who do you propose to include in these expeditions?" Gil-Galad asked.

Isildur nodded to Elrond, who produced a much-folded piece of parchment. "We have a list of interested volunteers, my lord."

Gil-Galad accepted the listing. He looked it over, raising a dark eyebrow at some of the names. Silently, he passed it to Elendil, who surveyed it himself. The two exchanged a look, carrying on an entire conversation in that one glance. Elrond looked away, feeling as though he'd intruded on a moment of intimacy.

"Very well," Elendil sighed. "Assemble your men."

Mar-nu-Falmar: name for drowned Numenor.

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