Chapter Text
In all his long life Elendil has never been speechless like this.
Even hearing the news of Isildur’s death had wrought a tortured sound from him, a scream unlike anything he had ever uttered. And then he had wept for hours, noisy and angry tears that wouldn’t cease.
But this? On top of all their sorrows, now the sails of mourning fly in the harbor for all but the most affected one to see?
It’s too much, and Elendil gapes like a fish out of water as Queen Míriel demands he explain what is wrong.
“What is it? What do you see?” she asks, sounding worried, and oh how he wishes his own tongue were cut so that he would not have to explain this to her!
But he must, and finally he forces his throat to form words.
“Th-- the sails of mourning,” he chokes out, squeezing her hand when she finds his and takes it.
“It’s—”
“My father,” Míriel interrupts, sounding like she might faint.
Elendil turns and puts his other hand below her elbow, a gentle pressure in case she loses her balance.
“I’m so sorry.”
The Queen is shaking now, trembling like a leaf in the wind as she fights for composure.
“He was right,” she whispers, so quiet that Elendil must lean in to hear her over the ocean breeze.
“Right about what, my Queen?”
“He said-- he said that all that awaited me in Middle Earth was darkness,” Míriel continues, tears spilling out to roll down her cheeks.
“I th-thought he meant the evil there. Sauron. But he meant this. I have lost my sight, and now I have l-lost him too. The darkness has devoured me.”
Then she collapses into his chest, sobbing in the agonizing way people do when they are trying to be as quiet as possible during overwhelming grief, and Elendil is speechless once more as his arms circle around to hold her close.
--
Queen Míriel doesn’t leave her room for weeks, sending away all but one of her attendants and ordering that no one disturb her.
Elendil does his best to quiet the rumors that begin to spread, but Pharazôn is encouraging them and the people are more enamored with their local Chancellor than the estranged “elf lover” these days. Word has leaked that the Queen has indeed lost her sight, but the reasons why have varied wildly depending on the storyteller and their current level of sobriety.
However, as the month passes it seems not even the corrupted Chancellor is bold enough to make attempts at political moves while the Queen and many of the returned soldiers are convalescing. Elendil is grateful, for he has his own grief to contend with.
The service “honoring” fallen soldiers of the Middle Earth expedition had been a somber, devastatingly impersonal affair: too many were lost to devote time with individual services.
And ever since that day Eärien has not been speaking to him, so furious is she at the loss of her brother and Ontamo and the others she knew who did not return. Elendil’s home is broken and lonely, and he spends as much time as possible outside of it.
The last few conversations he had with Isildur replay over and over in his mind, taunting him. Even thinking of their final embrace and the conversation with Berek is no comfort, because they had abandoned Berek in Middle Earth to grieve the loss of his rider for the rest of his miserable days. He’s probably dead by now, the poor horse.
Worst of all is remembering that day at the docks when Isildur begged him to join the Middle Earth expedition.
“While you were feigning fidelity to the traditions of this isle,” Elendil had snapped, grabbing Isildur by the shoulder to spin him round to face the bustling harbor, “These men were living them. Finding ways to contribute. To serve. Something of which you evidently care little,” he’d finished in a nasty whisper.
“I care,” his eldest son had protested, fierce with passion. “I’m ready to serve.”
“Nothing would make me prouder. But you had your chance. And you made your choice.”
He’d left Isildur on the brink of tears.
Now Elendil’s tears fall on his uniform as he mourns speaking so bitterly to his own son.
--
“So. You’ve decided to accept my offer to take an official leave of duty.”
Upon first glance from across the room, Queen Míriel seems as calm and composed as ever, dressed in her usual stunning regalia. She’s just had open court this morning for the first time since their return, and Elendil had of course been in attendance.
“Yes, your Majesty. Thank you, for your offer is a gracious one.”
But now that they are standing close together, Elendil sees that the Queen has puffy under-eye bags just like he does… from countless hours spent weeping.
However, today the sun is out, and the breeze is fresh. Elendil is tired of the painful headaches he gets after crying. Today, perhaps for a little while they can have a moment’s peace within the endless cycling of deep grief.
“Would you like to take a stroll with me around the courtyard?”
“Hmm. Repaying my gracious offer with one of your own, Captain?”
A smile tugs at Elendil’s lips for the first time in months.
“I suppose so, my Queen. But does repayment count as such if my offer is spurred by personal desire?”
Míriel looks up at him then, her eyes alight in a way Elendil hasn’t seen since before they departed for Middle Earth.
“You could describe to me the new blossoms that the gardeners have been tending,” she says while holding out her arm for him to take.
They take their time wandering the garden, Elendil enjoying the way that Queen Míriel leans into him whenever they stand still together. He does his best to describe the colors, the shapes, the patterns of the beauty all around them. She looks directly at him while he speaks, and Elendil wonders if she is struggling to remember his face. It has only been three months since she was blinded, but how long can those memories last without being visually refreshed by similar things?
Elendil pushes these thoughts away, not wanting to be accused of pitying her. Instead as the conversation lulls he focuses on the sun warming him, and today he allows himself a moment to be glad that he was able to embrace Isildur one final time. That they did not die angry at one another, or worse: estranged.
“How is the Tree looking?” Queen Míriel asks when they arrive at its base, the breeze rustling the white blossoms in a gentle undulating movement.
“If you are asking if any petals are falling, the answer is no.”
“Are you unfit to answer my question? Shall I call for my attendants?”
Elendil chuckles in surprise at her teasing tone, happy to see the Queen give an answering smirk.
“That won’t be necessary.” Sighing slowly, he looks up at the great dark boughs and inspects the withery, fragile petals.
“It looks… near the same as before we embarked to Middle Earth. Not dying, yet not quite thriving either.”
Queen Míriel echoes with her own sigh. “Then I have much work still to finish, Captain.”
As quickly as it has come, the momentary peace vanishes.
--
Wandering the marketplace has been Elendil’s preferred method of spending evenings out of the house, avoiding his daughter’s hatred. During the day he patrols the beach alone, silent in his thoughts. Sometimes he speaks aloud to those he’s lost: his parents, his sons, his wife. But he mostly broods.
Though the sea can no longer grant him peace, his walks do allow him some temporary respite during daylight hours. Then at twilight Elendil returns to his city, perusing the current displays.
Night markets in Númenor have everything. Fish and seafood, spices, fresh produce, clothing, jewelry, home goods, weapons, horse supplies, and varieties of prepared foods and beverages. Elendil peruses the brightly-colored stalls, feasting his eyes on delightful morsels and trinkets.
Tonight he notices a scarf vendor that also sells canes. One of the canes in particular sticks out to him, a gorgeous red cherry wood shaft with a smooth-as-butter soapstone handle. It turns out to be rather expensive, but Elendil pays extra to have it gift-wrapped anyway.
He brings it into court the next morning, arriving much earlier than is custom and waiting downstairs as the Queen’s attendant informs him that she’s not ready yet.
“Could you just give her this for me please?” he asks before handing over the cane.
“It’s a gift for court today.”
Ten minutes prior to the official start time Queen Míriel descends the stairs, one hand holding her attendant’s arm…
And the other holding the unwrapped cane. Elendil’s heart feels so full.
The Queen disengages from her attendant at the bottom of the staircase, starting to use her new cane while walking over. Her sweeping motions are clumsy yet determined as she steps across the floor, and Elendil wonders if she had watched her father learn how to use a cane, back when he was still ambulatory.
“Hail, Queen Míriel,” he greets her when she approaches.
“I thought you took a leave of duty, Captain Elendil. Yet here you are showing up to court early and bestowing me gifts?”
Elendil knows well by now that Queen Míriel is in a good mood whenever she gets a teasing tone to her voice, and the joy that it gives him this morning is incomparable to anything else he’s felt in years. Decades maybe.
“Just a token of my affection,” he says, quiet enough so that her attendants won’t hear. “Do you like it, my Queen?”
“I love it.” Her reply is just as quiet as she takes another step towards him. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure to serve.” Elendil says this, when he wishes to ask May I kiss you?
But those words stay trapped in his throat. Queen Míriel taps her cane tip on the floor.
“Well then, Captain, if you don’t mind, I have court to attend to.”
“Are you going to send me away and force me not to participate? I am a citizen just as valid to be heard and educated as any.” Elendil matches the Queen’s jesting tone from earlier.
And he’s rewarded with a small smile before Queen Míriel turns on her heel to walk away.
“You’re welcome to stay, my good Captain,” she calls over the skrrrh, skrrrrh of the cane sweeping the granite floors.
“But today you are participating as a member of the public, and nothing more.”
“Perfect,” Elendil says, and the Queen only hums in response.
--
The spring sunshine is interrupted often by violent thunderstorms. Sometimes they last for hours, testing everyone’s patience, and today has been one of the longest this year.
Elendil is spending the day in the damp and stone-cold quiet of the new mausoleum, hastily erected to honor those who did not return from the Expedition to Middle-Earth. It’s become a custom of war, anticipating how to honor the dead who will inevitably fall in battle. Yet for something that has taken so many hands to bring about, this place feels as emotionless as it is empty.
Heavy gray clouds rain down a ceaseless drumbeat on the roof. In the dim orange torchlight Elendil stares at where they have carved the name of his son, and his son’s colleagues. All fine men, all taken too soon.
Some families have made small altars for their lost loved ones, with dessicating flowers and trinkets of the dead’s past lives. There is no such altar for Isildur. When Elendil brought up the topic to Eärien she had given him such a tongue-lashing that he had dropped it immediately.
Elendil knows that his daughter is in denial. That underneath her grief at losing another family member from her life she believes Isildur, like his grandfather, is still alive somewhere. And thus Eärien has refused to honor their deaths. Elendil will not punish her for this delusion either, because in the darkest hours of the night when sleep eludes him the Captain desperately wishes that she is right.
Amandil sailed out on a mission to plead with the Valar years ago and never returned. What if Elendil is the one in the wrong, for wishing to stay here on this island til the end of his days? Will history remember him as a coward for not following his father on his journey West, for letting his son be taken by flames?
The sound of footsteps entering the tomb startles him, but he does not move-- Elendil’s bones seem rusty as of late, his reflexes dull and slowed. For he cares little to protect himself as he once did, his pride shattered into dust.
Then he hears the tap tap tap of a cane probing out a new area, and he feels comforted knowing who it is.
“Hail, Queen Míriel.”
“I’ve been looking for you all day,” she calls out to him, her robes dripping water everywhere.
“Sincerest apologies, my Lady. What do you need from me?”
“Only your company, Captain,” Míriel replies, accidentally striking his foot with the cane before she stops in front of him.
“Was that your foot?”
“Yes.” It’s a testament to how heavy Elendil’s heart is today that he cannot even muster a smirk.
“So this is the new tomb,” the Queen says, more to herself.
Elendil waits for her to take it all in without sight: the dank, musty smell of the stale air is stifling, yet he hasn’t been able to leave this wretched place.
“Well. At least it’s dry in here. This foul storm is making everyone at court insufferable.”
“I can only imagine.” Elendil is grateful he does not have to deal with ingratiating councillors much these days. “My company is forever yours, though today I’m afraid it won’t be pleasant.”
“I will stand beside you without speaking if that is what you wish,” the Queen says in a quiet voice.
“Yet, if you have something your heart wishes to be made heard, I am also your confidant.”
Elendil turns to face her now, more than a little shocked at such an intimate remark.
“Truly your grace is unparalleled,” he says, stalling for time, but when Queen Míriel waits with patience in her expression he takes an unsteady breath to continue.
“I-- spoke with such anger to Isildur so many times.” The words blurt out in a faltering whisper, his tortured thoughts finally forcing their way out of his head.
“He was so eager to earn my praises but so rarely did I express fondness towards him. I thought it a guard from weakness, yet... now I look back and wonder if I’ve been a tyrant all along.”
“Your anger does get the best of you, perhaps more often than most men your age. However, you’re no tyrant.”
“Forgive me my Queen, I’m not fishing for compliments. Nor excuses that remove my blame.”
“I know you aren’t.” Queen Míriel sighs softly. “Would you like to hold my hand for a while, Captain?”
She’s already reaching her hand out towards him before he can answer, and at first Elendil is so stunned that he wants to take it without speaking. But he forces his throat to reply a verbal assent before his hand folds around Míriel’s.
Her hand is cold and wet at first from her rained-on clothing, yet as they sit and breathe together in a shared silence Elendil feels warmth radiating from Queen Míriel, comforting his spirit. It’s as if he’s coming back to his senses from some kind of paralysis that’s held him here today, and in his relief Elendil can’t stop himself from weeping. It feels like high tide rolling in, wave after wave.
Míriel’s hand keeps a hold on his own. She waits a respectable amount of time before speaking over his agonized sounds.
“Isildur saved many lives on that expedition, Elendil-- one before it even started. You raised him to be strong, but not just for his own sake. That is not the work of a tyrant.”
Elendil wipes his face on his sleeve with his other hand, coughing a little, unable to give a coherent response.
“The worst thing about grief is, you start to think that if you’d just done something different, then they’d still be here,” Queen Míriel says in a low murmur.
“When we first arrived home I nearly cried my eyes out thinking that about my father. If I’d stayed here, he would still be alive. But… with time I’ve been able to realize that’s not necessarily true. He was old and ailing already. Yet, the desire to blame myself persists. So I must fight against it in order to accept the loss, that I may mourn my father’s memory instead of wasting energy being mad at myself for events I could not control.”
Elendil clears his throat. “You’re right,” is all he can manage to say, and the Queen nods.
“Do not trouble your heart with regrets about Isildur. He died knowing your love for him. Relive the memories you have with him where you two were happier. You want to remember those, not the moments that would haunt you.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“I never said it was.” The Queen’s voice takes on a touch of indignance. “Only the strongest of mind can walk this path away from the temptation to forever wallow in denial and guilt.”
“And you believe I’m capable of such mental strength?”
“I do.”
Elendil is about to get gloomy with his retort, but then the Queen adds, “You got me this cane, after all.”
“Begging your pardon Míriel, but what does that have to do with my grief process?”
“Whether you intended to say it or not, your gift was a message to me that you are hopeful for our future,” the Queen says while leaning in close.
“And that is a hope I share.”
Elendil knows she doesn’t mean the general our as in the future of all Númenoreans. She means the two of them.
In that moment when he’s too stunned to reply he notices something… the silence. It’s stopped raining.
He must have made some kind of involuntary noise because Queen Míriel looks up and smiles.
“Ah, the rain has quit at last! Would you be a dear and escort me back to the Castle, Captain? I don’t want to get this lovely cane muddy. Well, more muddy.”
Seeing her smile in the flickering torchlight makes Elendil mirror her expression.
“It would be my pleasure.”