e awoke to the sudden sound of rumbling. The floor and walls of the house were shaking so hard that his bed slid all the way across the room. A moment later, he heard his father’s deep voice issuing from downstairs. "Relena, get the children! We must leave now! Hurry!" His mother’s slim silhouette appeared in the doorway, one hand grasping the wall to steady herself. Rothin, his baby sister, was cradled in her other arm. "Tryst, get up! It’s time to leave." The seven year old wiped the tousled, curly hair out of his eyes and stared at her in surprise and terror. The air was filled with roaring and distant screams and other sounds he could not put a name to. "What is it, Mother? What’s going on?" "Don’t ask questions right now." She strove to keep the fear out of her voice as she helped him take his nightshirt off and pull on a tunic and pair of pants. "We must get to the ships."

After getting dressed, he followed her downstairs to where his father was gathering together the last of their possessions. Not that they had much here. Most of their things had been loaded onto the ships months ago. Since then, all they had been doing is waiting...waiting for what, Tryst didn’t quite understand. But whatever it was, it appeared to have arrived. Relena gave his sister into his arms and then went to help her husband. Standing there, waiting for his parents, he glanced out the window and saw the peak of Meneltarme to the west, rising out of the center of the island, and it was in flames. "Mother, Father, the mountain is on fire!" He cried. His father thrust a bundle at him. "Take this and your sister and go. Hurry to the ships of the Faithful that lay in the harbor. Now go!" Tryst hesitated a moment. Mathrir, his father, pushed him toward the main entrance of the house. "Go to the ships. Your mother and I will follow, but we must see to your grandparents first." He grasped his son’s small hand in his large one for a brief moment, his noble face as fair and proud as that of the Eldar as he leaned over and kissed his children. Little did Tryst know that was the last time he would ever see his father again...

Throwing a blanket over the baby’s face to protect her, he took a deep breath and stepped outside. The world that greeted him was one of destruction and ruin. Dense clouds had gathered in the west, like the shapes of great eagles. Beneath their wings thunder clashed and lightning struck the earth, charing trees and cleaving buildings. Rothinzil still shone there on the western horizon, but rather than being the beacon of hope that Tryst had always seen it as, it looked sullen and angry; a harbinger of doom. The sky was raining fire from the mountaintop and the entire island quaked and heaved with the rolling of the sea. The streets were clogged with people streaming down toward the harbor, all of them of the Faithful that had gathered in Romenna. Clutching Rothin against him, he joined the crowd, pulling his coat up over his head to protect himself from the fiery embers that were showering the whole island.

In the distance he could hear the deep winding of a horn, its voice echoing throughout the city, and with his far-sighted Numenorean eyes he could see Elendil standing upon the deck of one of the ships, the horn to his lips, calling all the Faithful to board the boats. The harbor was a scene of chaos. People were rushing up the gangplank, barely paying attention to the orders of the seamen, who were trying to maintain some sort of order. Women were weeping and children were screaming. All were shouting to be heard over the noise. Already, three of the ships had pulled away from the island, but Isildur’s and Elendil’s still stood nigh. They would be the last to leave. Of that he was sure.

With his usual mix of determination and courage that he had inherited from his father, he shouldered his way past the other people. Suddenly and without warning, a sound he had never heard before in his life, nor ever would again, filled the air. It was as if the roaring had reached a crescendo. There was a deafening crack, and the sound of thousands of tons of water falling from some great height. The land heaved and Tryst fell to his knees. It felt as if the very earth had been split in two. "Look! Look!" Someone screamed. "The ocean! The waters!" He turned around. The ocean was pouring in on itself. A huge fissue had opened up, stretching from horizon to horizon, and all the waters were being sucked down into it. Tryst looked up and gazed at the glimpse of white shining in the west that was Avallone. For just a moment, he saw it, and then it was gone as if it had never been. "We are forsaken," he murmured, for despite his young years, he was wise. His parents had trained him well. "The Lords of the West have forsaken us." As if in answer to his statement, the whole island suddenly tilted. Screams filled the air as people stumbled and fell, and the houses and buildings slid off their foundations. Trees were uprooted and the top of Meneltarme suddenly splintered and broke off, huge bastions of rock coming loose and falling down to crash onto the fertile plains below. Tryst was dashed to the ground and rolled a few feet, trying to protect the baby who was wailing in pain and terror. With grim determination, he gained his footing, despite the unstability of the land and in a last ditch effort managed to claw and stumble toward the harbor.

For the ships were pulling away. Already he could hear the orders being given to set sail. As he had predicted, Elendil’s ship still lay in harbor, stalwartly defying the elements as it awaited the last remnants of the Faithful still fleeing the city. The tramp of running feet on the gangplank was like the beating of drums. No sooner had Tryst boarded the ships with a few last stragglers than the order was given to pull out. His heart suddenly quailed. Frantically, he ran toward the prow of the ship where Elendil was issuing orders in his deep voice to the sailors manning the ship. He pulled on the man’s arm to get his attention. "But my mother and father and my grandparents! They’re still in the city!" He cried, tears in his eyes. The lord looked down at him, his face stern, but not without pity. "I’m sorry, little one. But it is too late." And it was indeed too late. For the shore, or what was left of it, was far behind them, and upon the tumultous waves, the ship was a tiny toy being tossed and hammered by the cold water and the fierce wind. Even as they watched, the island, their beloved home, all aflame now, crumbled before their very eyes and tumbled down into the cateract that had opened in the sea, and the water went covering it over.

Many days later, Tryst found himself and his sister on shore again, amid the wreckage of the ship, what possessions they had strewn about them. There had been no time to mourn their loss, for the voyage had been a nightmare they did not think they would survive, and if truth be told, few wanted to. All that they loved had disappeared beneath the waves. There did not seem to be anything to live for. But the spirit of Elendil and his sons had burned like a fire, kindling in their own hearts a spark that did not want to be quenched. Thus, on a sea that rolled and boiled, as if a giant hand was stirring it, and with broken masts and torn sails, a fierce east wind driving them onward, they had made it to another land. Worn, hungry, and distraught, with the darkness of doom in his eyes, he gazed around and saw a city shining in the distance. "Pelargir," he heard someone murmur. But he cared not, though the city seemed beautiful. He turned and gazed back at the sea, weeping for his family and his home that were no more. "Oh, Akallabeth!" He murmured softly, holding Rothin tightly against his chest. "I wish I had died too."

The End

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