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The baby was born under the waning light on a cold summer night.
He blinked at his parents with the brightest blue eyes they had ever seen and a face as fair as the moon above. They both fell in love with him right then and there.
“My fair one,” his mother whispered lovingly. “I shall name you Elendil. For the great King of Númenor, who our people have all but forgotten.”
His father was said to have smiled for his son at that moment, as he did for none but his wife. “May Tilion’s light shine upon you for all your days,” Amandil all but declared.
Tilion, an Elven god. Some considered even the smallest utterance of Elvish to be blasphemous, just as they thought Elendil a name more befitting the Eldar than a man of fair Númenor.
Elf-friend was the name his mother had blessed him. Or rather, a name she had cursed him with, as some said, though never in her presence.
Elendil. Elf-Friend. One who loves the stars. Elf-Lover.
“Elf-lover!” The other children call after Elendil. Their obnoxious laughter rang in his ears.
“Elf-lover! Elf-lover!” Over and over until little he could stand it no longer.
Elendil ran to his mother and father, crying his heart out, begging to know why they would curse him with such an ill-fated name. Amandil was at a loss. All he could say was, “I don't see anything wrong with being called an Elf-lover.” His mother, on the other hand, knew precisely what Elendil needed. She takes him in her arms and holds him tightly.
“Oh, my fair one. Do not let their sharp words pierce your heart,” She says, wiping the tears from his bright blue eyes. “You are a descendant of kings. Your name is that of one of Númenor’s greatest rulers. There is more nobility in your blood than all of them put together.”
Elendil shook his head. “They don’t care about any of that,” He mumbles dejectedly. “They will only continue to taunt me.”
His mother looks upon his fair face with sorrow. She takes a deep breath and lifts her eyes to the heavens as if asking the Valar for strength. Perhaps she is.
“From this moment on, tell everyone you meet that your name only means, ‘One who loves the stars.’ Don’t tell them of the other meaning unless you feel it necessary.”
He did as his mother told them, but it hardly made a difference. The name-calling continued to follow Elendil long after he grew into his gangly limbs and began to tower over all the other children his age.
“Elf-lover,” they whispered behind his back whenever he spoke to his family in Quenya.
Even when his voice became deeper than any other man’s and his face was lined with wisdom and age. The taunts never truly stopped. Not when he entered manhood, not when he married the woman of his dreams and fathered three children with her. And certainly not when Elendil earned his place on the Sea Guard.
The one mercy gifted to him was that no one dared say it to his face anymore, not while he walked around with a sword at his side and golden-plated armor on his chest.
The woman who eventually becomes his wife was made of something fierce.
She captains her ship with a skill that is unmatched by even the best sailors that Númenor has to offer. Her honey brown eyes are alight with fire, and her dark braided hair flails wildly in the harsh sea wind.
“Surely this is what the Valar deemed you destined for,” He tells her. The awe and adoration in his voice is unmistakable.
They sat together at the feet of the sea. The sand was soft beneath their feet as they watched the waves crash against the shore. The sun gleamed brightly above them. Arien’s favor is upon you, mother would have said.
His future wife smiles at his words, sadly and bitterly. Elendil doesn’t know what to make of it. He’s never seen that look on her before.
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” is her response before she pulls a series of parchment from her bag.
Elendil looks closely at the beautiful sketches of temples and towers and buildings, all finely made but without the usual flourish and obvious showmanship he’s come to expect from Númenórean architecture.
“These sketches are drawn in the likeness of the old Elven structures,” he says quietly.
“Yes, yes they are,” Her gaze is as intense and captivating as always. Then she tells him of her childhood dreams and how her parents crushed them with words that cut deeper than any blade.
“No daughter of mine shall be an Elf-lover!” Her mother had snarled.
Her father had nodded along, “You're much better suited for a position on the Sea Guard than with the Builder’s Guild, my dear. You probably won’t make it very high in the chain of command, but at the very least you’ll bring honor to Númenor.”
Anger burned within him. Elendil can't help but feel insulted on her behalf. “Surely you didn’t let him get away with such an affront. How did you respond?”
Elendil watches as her eyes become downcast and the same sad, bitter smile from before creeps onto her lips.
“Same as any other faithful Númenórean servant would,” She mutters, kicking at the sand between her feet.
She need not say the words, for Elendil knew them by heart. It’s not the empty mantra of ‘the Sea is Always Right.’ It’s the other one, sworn by young men and women, unaware of the tragedy and horror that awaits them. A death sentence by any other name. I will serve.
“I will serve!” His son calls out confidently as if he knows what he’s in for.
Isildur’s honey brown eyes are alight with fire. His dark hair dances in the wind. He looks so much like his mother that it hurts. Elendil can barely stand to look at his firstborn son at times, but now he can't draw his gaze away. His heart drowns in sorrow and fear, and anger.
He had not felt like this for a while. Not since Anárion took off under the cover of darkness. Not since his wife met her fate in the waters she had spent a lifetime wading through. Not since his mother faded into the coldness of the night and his father left in search of a place more accepting of his sympathies for the Eldar.
“I’m ready to serve,” Isildur says with all the self-assurance of a weathered soldier.
Never mind that he had never stepped foot on any shores beyond their own. Never mind that he had been dismissed out of the Sea Guard and gotten his friends dismissed as well. Never mind that he was still a young man who had never seen war before.
‘Haven’t I given you everything ?’ Elendil wanted to say. ‘Everything I never had and more... and not only did you renounce it all, but now you want me to sign your life away?’
But his son didn’t know any better. For most of his life, Isildur had never known what it was like to be constantly on edge, aware that anyone could strike at any moment.
He had never been ruthlessly mocked for having a name that many considered treasonous. Elendil made sure of that. He gave all his children names that were safe. Ones that did not inspire the cruel taunts that still haunted him.
Isildur. Anárion. Eärien. Servant of the Moon. Son of the Sun. Daughter of the Sea. The names were all perfectly acceptable and undoubtedly Númenórean. No one could claim differently, and so no one did.
His wife had adored their names. She took them as a declaration that their children would carve out their own destinies. His mother and father had been disappointed. They likely expected that Elendil would continue with the tradition of treasonous naming.
No, Elendil would not curse his children with a name like his own. Not for all the titles or wealth or blessings in the world. None of his children would ever have to have the word, ‘Elf-lover,’ thrown at their faces. Not as long as Elendil had any say in the matter.
Isildur was still staring at him with those fiery, captivating brown eyes. Out of all his children, he resembled his mother the most.
Many assumed Eärien looked like her mother because of their mutual love for architecture, but Elendil knew better. Eärien resembled her grandmother more, while Anárion took after Elendil. But Isildur was his mother through and through, not only in looks but in spirit. Perhaps it's what made it all so difficult in the end.
“Nothing would make me prouder,” Elendil says softly. “But you had your chance, and you made your choice.”
He turns away before seeing Isildur’s reaction, knowing full well that he wouldn’t be able to bear the mirror image of his wife staring back at him in devastation.
They departed under the blinding light of the dawn. Pale armor glistened under the sun, and the cheers of Númenor resounded in their wake. His son stood at his side once more, looking happier than Elendil had seen in him in a long time.
Elendil’s heart swells with pride and a twinge of fear as well. He loves Isildur despite all the sorrow and disappointment he has caused him. Sometimes all a father could do was love their child. And love him, Elendil did. Just as he adored Anárion, gone such a very long time, and Eärien, now just as far away from Elendil as Anárion was.
He was far from a perfect father. Elendil didn’t know how to be. His own father had been a dreamer, present in his body but not fully in mind. Head in the clouds with the Valar, the Eldar, and everything Elendil had been mocked for all his life.
Arien was beginning to descend, and Tilion rose to take her place. Elendil felt the gentle touch of the moon on his skin and basked in the glow. It was familiar and comforting in a manner that reminded him of something long ago.
A forgotten memory, perhaps. Elendil was born under the moonlight after all, on a chilly summer’s night, much like this one. He had been only a newborn babe, but even then, he had been good of heart and strong of will.
Perhaps Tilion remembered him. Perhaps he was welcoming Elendil to Middle-Earth.
“Come now, Elf-friend. Your destiny awaits.”