The scratch of pen on paper, the flowing lines of my strong hand. The quiet splutter of the logs in the braizer; cold in the north, even in summer. The rich red wine. I am a man flushed with pleasure, deep in success.
In the deep quiet of the dead of night, my favourite hour. I am blessed with the need for little sleep. Is this a change in me, wrought by my service over these long years, or a gift of my blood? I do not know, but the joy of the silent hours is a precious pleasure.
I watch my hand craft out the words in my journal. My private thoughts, not dictated to my Poppinjay for the perusal of the East. There ... I write my own true name. My first name. The flame-name in the betrayers' tongue.
My northern woman did not believe the name I gave her at first, given in the elven tongue. She could not believe that I should claim a name in words so hateful to me. But we follow the old ways, even now. We know the power of names; and we honour the memory of the perfect isle, that was ours, and the memory of our kings. We were the King's Men, and we are faithful. Named twice, in the tongue of the betrayers, those bright-eyed enslavers ... and in the tongue of Men, so that we will not forget the truth.
I write the name again, and the years slip from me. At a whim I stand and cross to the brazier. Suddenly I am a youth on the edge of manhood in a richly draped hot room, the eyes of all those assembled watch me eagerly. I am well schooled. I know what is to be done, and I know why. My solemn dark eyes show nothing of the excitement within me, or that I hear the yearning of my heart clammering for this act to be done. For most it is merely a celebration that takes a boy from his household into the world of men. Yes, certainly. But in me it speaks truely.
The boy that I was takes up the pen and ink laid out carefully for him. Scribes my name in the hated tongue on the thick luxurious vellum. A man before the fire stokes it higher, there is a palpable tension, an excitement in the crowd gathered to witness my entry to manhood. My father's eyes, my mother's beauty, watch and scrutinise every ritual movement.
I want this. As much as a raw youth wants every woman he sees, I need it. The moment thrills in my veins as I step forward, I try to keep my hand steady, be the man I am about to become. The fire leaps up, hot and angry. It yearns to claim and consume - it knows. -He- knows. I believe it. My belief floods from me and into the expectant crowd. It is like a storm in a drought ... suddenly, swftly they all change. Head lift, lips part in fear and wonder. No longer a celebration - this is a sacrifice - and I go willingly.
I lift my hand, holding my name over the flames that rise to meet my fingers. Beloved flame, that takes and eats, burns flesh and transforms Men into what we should be. What we would be had not the betrayers and their elven masters turned against us, caused Numenor to sink beneath the greedy waves. Flames that sent our devotions to the sky from the high tops of the great city of Men, before the flood quenched them and destroyed us.
I am a bride come to her beloved. I cannot prevent the desire in me. I open my fingers, the vellum waits for a tiny moment, stuck on the sweat of my fingers. I could claim myself back, even now, if I wished. but I do not wish it. Names have power. I watch my name, myself, tip from my fingers to be taken immediately by the fierce heat.
I am given. I give myself. I renounce all the works of elves or elendili. My elven name burns as swift as sound, consumed, sacrified. I am made pure and I am an empty vessel ready to serve. I feel it coming. I am a fortunate Man - for me, there was response. The agony of it, raw and sweet ... my father catches me as I swoon.
All see, all know, in their eyes something has changed. I open my own eyes, and my father speaks my new name in the tongue of Men. Who I am and what I will become. Azrudaur.
