The ink-black sea was utterly silent, an immense void that sucked the lone white-sailed ship into it like the maw of a deep-sea monster. All aboard were loathe to breathe, as if somehow the silence would break into something altogether wretched and terrible. The flag of Gondor hung limp in the windless air, its halyard occasionally brushing up against the mast as the ship bobbed slightly in the still water.

The captain of the ship peered out into the mist, searching for any sign of land... Or anything, really. They had been afloat for nearly three days now, cast off-coarse by a freak storm that had blown in out of nowhere. At the time they had been perhaps a day's sail from Mithlond, but now there was no telling where they were. And that was a difficult situation for a captain to be in.

The sun hadn't been visible since the storm, and only a hazy, uncertain light was visible for a few hours at a time. Neither still had the stars shown their light, making navigation by their position impossible. At first they thought that this would be the worst of their problems; however, ever since the storm had passed the captain's compass had been... misbehaving. At first, it would point in a certain direction for a time, and they would follow it until hours later it abruptly shifted to the opposite direction, leading them on a back-and-forth route that had probably gotten them even more lost.

The first mate had said that magic was afoot... Dark magic. He spoke of the wind being set against them from the very start. Of ravens seen far from the coast, an ill omen for superstitious sailors. And some among them had spoken of a voice in the night, hauntingly sweet yet speaking words of doom.

The captain had been around sailors for long enough to know that they were often easily taken by old wives' tales and fables. So it hadn't unsettled him... Yet.

"Cap'n," First Mate Findol whispered, coming to his side as he eyed the crew warily. "There's unrest among the men. Gwainland's stirrin' em up, as usual. Now it's about the food. If we don't reach land by tomorrow we'll be out. Even with stricter rationing."

Captain Adranor leaned in close, lowering his voice. "We're miles from land, Mister Findol, of this I am certain. And far north of our destination, if the cold is any indicator. We may be in a dangerous situation come morning. Keep your sword close and your lips tight. We would be remiss to give them knowledge of the extent of our predicament."

"It isn't just food, sir," Findol replied, wrapping his salt-stained cloak tighter about himself to keep out the cold. "They've been talking about the cargo."

Adranor raised an eyebrow. "The cargo? Why would they care?"

"Gwainland started some doltish rumor that it's cursed Umbar gold or some nonsense. The men wanna toss it overboard, they believe it's why we blew off course."

"What rubbish," Adranor replied, glancing at the nearby crew members with disdain. "It's a gift from the Warden of Arnor to the King, so unless Warden Varonwe is a cruel man, I find it unlikely that he would send cursed gold to Minas Tirith."

Findol shrugged, and he opened his mouth to reply but no words came out. Instead, he stood stock still, staring ahead into the mist.

Adranor followed his gaze, and immediately his eyes widened in fear.

"Brace yourselves!" He exclaimed, himself reaching for the nearest rail. In front of them loomed the wreckage of a massive ship, its rear half submerged in the briny depths, its front half rising up like a spectral tower in the middle of the sea.

There was no time to avert course. The front of Adranor's ship crashed into the wrecked vessel only a mere second later, sending his crew flying every which way, some being flung overboard into the dark water below. Adranor held on for dear life, watching as men were crushed by the collapsing bow, the sickening sound of cracking wood and snapping bones filling the still air. Findol was projected forward, slamming against the mizzen-mast with a disconcerting crunch. When the ship finally came to a stop, most of the sailors were either overboard or dead, crushed by the destruction.

Adranor slowly rose to his feet, unable to look away from the disaster that had just taken place. It had been his fault. All of it.

Not a single soul stirred from their resting place. Bodies floated in the dark waters around the ship, facedown as they bobbed up and down. Blood-soaked clothing poked out of the wreckage, and shredded limbs reached out from under planks of shattered wood.

Adranor tried to ignore the horror of it all. As a veteran of the Pelennor fields, he was no stranger to carnage. But something about the dead silence of it all made this so much different... and so much more unsettling.

It took a moment before he realized how bizarre the shipwreck they had collided with truly was. As far as he was aware, the ocean was extremely deep here. A thin layer of ice had formed around it, but surely that alone wasn't enough to hold it in place. It stood in solitude, a relic from an ancient era wreathed in an almost unnaturally thick mist. At its foremost point, a carved figurehead of a woman looked out to the sea, forlorn with a look of longing eternally cast on her lifeless face. A tattered flag still hung from the collapsed main sail, its torn ends fluttering slightly.

The captain of Gondor took a pensive step forward, unsure of how steady his ship was. It was a wreck now too, he realized, doomed to a fate much like the ghost ship. Where was her crew? He wondered, taking another step toward it.

The occasional groan of his ship settling was a cause of concern at first, but soon he grew confident enough in the ship's integrity to cross the remaining distance to the ghost ship. From there, he reasoned, he could possibly find materials to start a signal fire or perhaps some method of escape.

As he reached the wreck, he paused. Even though it had been cold before, it seemed as though the air had grown even more frigid, biting and gnawing away at his skin like a starved dog chained to its master's table. Tearing against the hull of the ship like claws, the wind blew before-unseen snow about in spirals, forcing Adranor to shield his face from it as he continued on once more.

The second his boot landed on the deck of the other ship, he immediately felt a rush of sheer terror travel up from it, radiating into his arms and causing his hair to stand on end. Never before had he felt such fear, and were it not for his steely nature he would've turned tail and fled at that very moment.

After taking a deep breath, he forced himself to continue. Perhaps it had just been the uncertainty of his situation, or the sudden subconscious realization that his chances of escaping were slim to none. Surely it wasn't anything unnatural... Was it?

He made his way to the cabin of the wreck, careful not to slip and fall on the icy surface of the deck. The cabin's door, made of a wood as white as the snow all around him, was closed, and he expected that it was locked as well. To his surprise, a slight turn of the knob caused it to click, and the door creaked open slightly.

As the door opened, a low, distant voice hissed out over the water. "Lucando," it whispered, menace in its voice at the arrival of an intruder. Adranor spun around, heart pounding as he swiftly drew his sword.

"Who's there?" He asked, voice quivering in fear.

Only silence answered him.

After a moment, he decided to press on, pushing the door open the rest of the way. Inside, the cabin looked as if it had been untouched since the wreck, a plate still covered with frozen bread and meat sitting at the dining table and a mug of frozen ale beside it*. At the foot of the table, a sad, shriveled creature was curled up, tufts of grey-white fur sticking straight up.

Adranor was, for the first time, thankful for the cold, for otherwise the cabin would surely reek of rotting flesh and decay.

He took another step in, noting a solid, oak-hewn desk with several worn parchments upon it. He lifted one, blowing a thick layer of dust from it to better make out what it said. Upon the paper was a royal seal, one that Adranor recognized from long ago. The seal of the King of Arnor.

"The year 1975 of this Third Age of Men,

Here follows the last account of Arvedui, King of Arthedain, and how Misfortune fell upon him.

I should have heeded the warnings of the snow-men of Forochel, for their words have been proven true. Two weeks past a fell wind came upon us from the North, dashing our ship upon spikes of ice that seemed to materialize out of thin air. Only three of my guards and I survived, and much of our remaining supplies were lost to the sea.

A fell voice speaks to me over the waters. It tells me to look into the stones, for that is where my salvation is held.

The men grow restless. We have run out of food and can find no way to escape this frozen hell. The voice grows more seductive with each passing moment, offering promises of food and respite from the bitter cold.

I finally looked into the stones. They burned my hands, but I have little more to lose. I now know much that will soon be revealed to all, though for now I alone hold the keys to the salvation of Men.

Calanthir passed away in his sleep. We consumed him. Forgive me Eru.

Death surrounds me. I have killed them all in their sleep, so they would not feel pain in their final moments. The stones bid me do it. I know not of my own thoughts, only that which the stones decree."

The last entry was written in faded red, the writing shaky and difficult to read.

"I see now a door in the stones, wreathed in shadow and inlaid with runes that shine out in the darkness. Beyond it lies stars and constellations unseen before. The voice in the stones bid me enter, but I cannot. They demand a sacrifice. Another voice enters my mind now, though it cries out from behind the door like someone who endures horrible pain. I must free him. He calls to me. I must open the door."

"Who did he seek to free?" Adranor mused aloud. This wasn't a tale he had heard before. As a boy he had heard the stories of Arvedui's ill-fated quest, but it had always ended in a quick death dashed upon the rocks.

"Go below," a voice suddenly hissed. It sounded as if it were just outside the door, but it belonged to no-one.

"Who's there?" Adranor asked, brandishing his blade. Somehow, the familiar grip of the weapon in his hands made him feel safer.

"Below," the voice merely repeated, trailing off into silence. A candle ignited before him, illuminating a set of stairs that led belowdecks.

If the voice thought he would obey it, it was sadly mistaken. He started toward the door, but it was quickly flung shut by an unseen force. Running the remaining distance to it, he began to tug on the handle, but it soon became apparent that it had either been locked or was being held shut from without. Becoming increasingly frustrated, Adranor threw his full weight against it, grunting in pain when his efforts were refuted once more.

"Below," the voice said again, but this time there was an insistence in the tone; as if no other action would suffice.

"Very well," Adranor said, turning as he held his sword close. As he began to descend, he noticed a whiter, more lifeless light emanating from something at the bottom of the stairs. With each step, a feeling of dread grew within him, something dark and twisted and altogether evil that couldn't be kept out.

As he set foot on the deck the candle behind him blew out, and the only light was that which emanated from the next room. It was utterly silent here, Adranor's slow, hesitant steps echoing hollowly throughout the empty vessel.

As he stepped into the cargo hold, he saw both the source of the light and what must've been the destination of the disembodied voice that was directing him. Two round stones stood there upon pedestals of iron vaned with gold. Within each there appeared to be clouds swirling about, a maelstrom of grey moving within an orb black as night.

"Look," the voice hissed impatiently. Adranor approached the stones, a feeling like a heavy weight settling on his shoulders that increased with each step.

Finally, after what seemed like an inordinate amount of time, he reached them, and a pressure settled in his head like two hands squeezing against his temples. His vision began to blur, but behind the stones a dark form started to take shape, undulating and phasing in and out of his vision. Soon it became more clear, the outline of a man forming before him. Upon his head was a glowing crown, casting a wan light into the darkest corners of the room. He was faceless, a wraith among the world of the living. 

"Vosha ishi alag gur ghash," the ghostly being said, pointing at the stones. At his voice, one of them ignited, a hungry flame gnawing away within it. 

Adranor felt an unseen power push him from behind, and his will began to leave him as he took a halting step forward. 

"Claga ripa ni,"  the wraith uttered, its voice grating and evil. 

As if time had suddenly skipped forward, Adranor found himself directly in front of the burning stone with no memory of how he had gotten there. His hands were upon it, and though he could see his skin beginning to redden from the flames, he felt nothing. 

He peered into the stone, the flames parting to show him stars pinwheeling in the night sky, countless spots of light that formed constellations unfamiliar to him. It felt as though he was flying through space, all awareness of his surroundings fading as the vision within the stone claimed him. 

After what seemed to be an age, one of the lights began to grow larger, getting closer and closer to him. Whether he was moving toward it or it toward him, he did not know, only that before long he could see that the light was a large stone, and upon it was a landscape of rocky, snow-covered mountains. No living thing could be seen upon them, and no light illuminated the white-capped peaks. 

Time once more skipped ahead, and he found himself among the mountains, the black sky above now bereft of stars or moon. The howling of a sourceless wind could be heard in the distance, tearing through the canyons and valleys of this cold new world. Adranor began to press ahead, his will no longer his own. Instead, it felt as though he were merely watching through the eyes of another. 

Soon, he came to an opening in the rocks, a cleft carved from the mountain itself. A cold blue light shone from beyond, a solitary feature among this desolate place. The wind seemed now to originate from within this canyon, its shrill voice growing stronger and more insistent. He continued on, observing runes and carvings upon the rock face. They depicted a great battle, with thousands upon thousands of men depicted locked in a brutal battle. Dragons and eagles flew overhead, casting each other down onto the heads of the unfortunate soldiers below. Among the press of the soldiers, a taller warrior stood, clad in black and wielding a warhammer. As Adranor continued on the tapestry told the tale, the black-clad warrior retreating and eventually being defeated. He was then brought before a court in trial, bound and chained.

Adranor rounded a corner, and before him was the final carving. It stood above a great Door, which was covered in glowing blue runes and was sealed shut by a single lock. The stone ground before it was covered in carvings of its own, and two small trenches ran on either side of it to the door. 

The carving above depicted the black-clad warrior finally being executed, his lifeless body thrown through a door beyond which was nothing but blackness. 

It was then that Adranor noticed the wind; The sound of it was coming from beyond the door, though no breeze passed through it. It screeched louder and more intensely than before, and as he listened closer, he thought he could hear deep breaths between each gust, as if it was no wind but rather the screams of a man in pain. 

"Unbind him," a voice hissed from behind Adranor. He spun around in fright to see the wraith, now wielding a sword. 

"Unbind who?" Adranor asked, confused. No other being was present, and there was nowhere to go but through the locked door. 

The screeching grew clearer now, and Adranor was certain that it was emanating from a living being. Whatever it belonged to was in torment, sobbing interspersing with the cries of agony. The sound of scratching against the door began, like fingernails clawing at the unyielding stone. 

"Release me!" The voice on the other side wailed, followed by a shriek of pain. The shriek passed beyond Adranor's ears into his very soul. It was a horrible sound that could only be made by one subjected to the most brutal of torture, one that chilled him to his bone. 

"Ghurarmu shirkush' agh azgushu. Zant ya apakurizak. Gûl-n' anakhizak," The wraith whispered, raising both ghostly hands aloft as it approached the door. Adranor attempted to draw away, but his body refused to respond to his commands. The wraith stopped in front of him, drawing an iron dagger with a thick, short blade. The voice on the other side cried out again, this time its words incoherent as they were cut short by another scream of torment. The scratching became more frantic, as if whatever was on the other side of the door was trying to dig its way through. 

"Ghurarmu shirkush' agh azgushu. Zant ya apakurizak. Gûl-n' anakhizak," the wraith repeated, bringing the blade to Adranor's neck. He wanted to fight back, to scream, to do anything. But his hands stayed limp at his sides, and his voice remained in his throat as the blade sliced it. 

He saw, rather than felt, his body collapse to the ground, his blood collecting in a small trench in the stone below him. As his consciousness began to fade, he heard a voice cry out on the other side of the door, agony laced in every word. 

"Thrak gijak ob Numenor!" 

Black Speech Translations:

Vosha ishi alag gur ghash- Look into the stone of fire

Claga ripa ni- Release the flayed one

Ghurarmu shirkush' agh azgushu. Zant ya apakurizak. Gûl-n' anakhizak- A sacrifice of blood and bone. A bridge for you to follow. You will emerge a shadow.

Thrak gijak ob Numenor!-Bring me the blood of Numenor