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Many years later, as Elendil nearly met his fate on the battlefield, he would remember that distant Spring when he met his son.
Isildur is born during the night, just like his father before him. Only he takes his first breath under the light of the largest moon Númenór had ever seen. It was so bright and monstrous that many assumed it was a bad omen until Elendil’s mother declared otherwise.
“Do not concern yourself with the whispers of the ignorant,” she tells him. “Your son is blessed by Tilion, just as you are. Forever will the light guide his every step.”
Elendil wants to believe his mother. He wants to believe her with all his heart. But the whispers tear at him as they always do, and he can’t help but give into the fear that has been taking root deep within him.
“My love,” his wife speaks up, her voice raw and weary. “Elendil. Look.”
She looks tired, so very tired. But there is still that strength in her, a fire in her spirit that attracted him to her all those years ago. As bright as the moon and burning, like a thousand stars.
“Look at our son.”
His wife places the baby in his hands and he’s so small and delicate. Elendil feels his heart pounding hard against his chest and wills his hands not to shake as looks upon his child for the first time.
Oh, Elendil thinks, he has his mother’s features.
And then it’s as if the world stutters to a stop as large honey brown eyes blink up at him curiously. Elendil’s heart melts as it never has before.
“He’s absolutely beautiful. Well done, my dear,” Elendil’s mother beams with delight. “What are you going to name him?”
His wife smiles back graciously and shrugs. “I’m certain that Elendil has one in mind. Isn’t that right, love?”
Elendil doesn’t respond. It’s as if he’s entranced by gold. Captivated by a precious jewel or a rare diamond. Only none of those can ever amount to the perfect baby boy his wife had brought into the world.
“Isildur,” he says softly. “He shall be called Isildur.”
It’s a beautiful name for a beautiful child and, more importantly, it’s safe. Unlike Valandil, like his mother had always suggested, for the Valar or Amandil, after his father, for the Blessed Realm of the Elves.
“Isildur,” his wife repeats. She smiles down at their son and caresses his cheek. “Servant of the Moon. I can’t think of a lovelier name.”
Elendil doesn’t miss the disappointment on his mother’s face, and he knows his father is likely to feel the same way. He briefly reconsiders the name but decides to remain firm.
His wife was pleased, and that’s all that truly mattered in the end.
-
Elendil’s wife was a horse rider at heart, so it only made sense that Isildur was the same.
His son rides as if he’s born to it, urging his colt forward through the sandy beaches and twisted caverns of Númenór. And he doesn’t fear. Isildur doesn’t shudder at the potential dangers of leading his horse down the wrong path or being thrown off the saddle. He rides and rides until he can’t, and wakes early the following morning to do it all over again.
Isildur excels at it. Only eleven years old and already far better than his father. He could make the colt do just about anything, from leaping over large barrels to grabbing apples from the highest of trees. Elendil had seen nothing quite like it.
His wife thinks their son is gifted. “Don’t you see?” she whispers to Elendil one night. “He is already one with Berek, and he’s only ridden him for a few weeks.”
Berek is, of course, the horse his son adores. As spirited as his rider, and just as troublesome. Elendil has found that his son spoils Berek far too much for his good. There have been many times when they have found the colt kicking wildly in the stables whenever he doesn’t receive his apples on time, like an insolent child throwing a tantrum.
Elendil does not need any other children, not with his own three, running around rampant, causing chaos wherever they roam. But Isildur insists that Berek is the newest member of the family and has roped his younger siblings into playing along.
He feels as if he’s constantly under siege. Already Isildur has somehow convinced Eärien to call Berek her new baby brother and whenever Elendil threatens to get rid of the irritable colt, Anárion looks up with his large blue eyes and makes them well up with tears. His wife finds the whole predicament amusing.
“Berek’s not going anymore, love,” she says teasingly. “You know it just as well as I do.”
Elendil sighs deeply and can’t help but look to the Valar for patience. “I suppose you’ll be teaching Isildur your ways, then?”
“Yes, I will,” she nods. “And what about you? Would you care for another lesson?”
He snorts. “No, thank you. I’ve had just about enough horses to last me a lifetime.”
“You say that now, but there might come a time when Númenór’s finest horses and horse riders are called to battle, and you'll be grateful that I taught you all I know.” She says with the confidence of someone who has stared into a Palantir and knows what awaits.
The grin on her face is utterly mischievous, and Elendil can’t hold back his smile.
“Oh, I don’t doubt it.”
He brings her close to him and presses a kiss on her forehead. She buries her face in his chest and holds him in a warm embrace.
Elendil leaned into her touch, feeling as if he were the luckiest man in the world with the love of his life and the mother of his three beautiful children at his side. And he wished, with everything he had, that this feeling of pure bliss would last forever.
-
Elendil wore a golden ring into battle.
The words Safe Return were inscribed on it in Quenya, the language of the High Elves. Some would consider it scandalous to carry such a thing, but Elendil no longer cared for the barbed whispers of the foolish and the unfaithful.
His wife had given it to him, and he wasn’t about to throw it into the sea as one would an item with no worth or value. It was as precious to him as any of his children were, the last remnants of his beloved wife, gone before her time.
They rode into battle on some of Númenór’s finest horses, just as she always knew he would, and Elendil was fighting for his life. Every breath he took, every swing of the sword, and the thunder of horse hooves sent his heart racing. It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once, and all he could do was swing and twist and gut as Galadriel did.
And then there were dozens of them, their eyes alight with hate, overwhelming Elendil and pulling him off the saddle.
Everything happens so fast. Elendil couldn't fully comprehend it. He furiously swipes and stabs at the Orcs without any regard for himself. There’s a horrible pain in his side where he had landed on the muddy ground, but Elendil can’t think about it. He had to fight. He had to survive. For Isildur, for Eärien and Anárion. One day, Elendil would gladly allow the darkness to take him and reunite him with the love of his life, but today was not that day. It couldn’t be.
But it also might be. Suddenly, a sword rises over Elendil’s head. He can hear his son’s voice calling out to him distantly. The distress in his voice was unmistakable.
Don’t let Isildur see, Elendil pleads to the Valar desperately, spare him this much.
A spear flies into the air with an almost unnatural speed, impeding itself in the Orc’s stomach. The body falls limp like a puppet whose string has been cut, its black blood spilling over Elendil’s pale armor. He whirls around and sees Lord Halbrand. The Southlander's eyes and demeanor are as dark and mysterious as ever.
Halbrand nods in acknowledgment, and Elendil has never felt more gratitude towards a man he hardly knows.
“Father!” Isildur cries, falling to his knees before him.
“I'm alright!” Elendil gasps out.
“I thought you were-”
Isildur can't finish the sentence, but the relief in his eyes says everything. Elendil places a hand on his son’s head, wanting more than anything to pull him close and never let him go. But the battle was still raging and it was no place for such a show of emotion.
“I’m alright,” he repeats more strongly.
Isildur helps him to his feet, and Elendil takes a final look into his son’s brown eyes, his mother’s eyes. He remembers the first time he met Isildur. Elendil had been just as frightened and unsure as he was now, but he loves his son as much as he loved him then. Nothing in the world could change that.
His son turns to face their enemies and gestures at a familiar brown stallion, motioning him to come closer. Elendil can’t hold back the smile as Berek, the irritable horse, trots over to them obediently. Isildur need not say anything, for they are still one. His son doesn’t notice, of course. He remains ignorant of the special bond between himself and Berek.
Elendil realized he had to show Isildur everything his wife intended to teach him before the dark waters took her for their own. Elendil should have done it long ago, but he had been so caught up in his grief that he had almost forgotten.
His son was a horse rider, just as his mother was, and perhaps someday, he would become someone great. Elendil knew it with all his being. But first, they had to live.
Let the bloodshed end, Elendil pleads once more, bring this conflict to an end, and permit us to see the light of Arien.
The Valar answer his prayers, but only for a brief moment.