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Chapter Text

The sunlight streams through the stained glass adorning the window panes of the Gaeliel’s stand as Elendil strolls by. He gives a nod of recognition to the glassblower’s daughter, Gelieth, a bright young woman who once aspired to join the Sea Guard but now spends her days learning her mother’s craft and, in the case of today, minding her wares.

“Captain,” she greets him with a pleasant smile, and Elendil stops in his tracks. He turns and Gelieth bites her lip, her eyes cast down. “Forgive me, my lord. Old habits and all.”

Elendil steps back and rests a hand on Gelieth’s arm. “Think nothing of it, my child. There will be better days ahead.” He squeezes and then drops his hand. Gelieth nods her agreement but says nothing.

Elendil has known Gelieth since she was a girl, attending the Queen’s Academy in Armenelos with Eärien in a time that seems an age ago. In the years of their exile, Elendil has become familiar with the rest of her family as well, but he recalls quite vividly seeing her so often as a child on the docks, watching for the Sea Guard ships as they came to port. Isildur and his friends had taken a shine to her and sometimes asked for her help with small tasks, often meaningless or simply made up, but enough for Gelieth to demonstrate her eagerness to assist and her uncanny ability to untangle lines. She would have made a worthy sailor, Elendil believes, and he would have been proud to have her in his crew. But again, those days are long gone and Gelieth had not yet even tested for the cadets when all Faithful were forced out of the Sea Guard.

He does not miss Gelieth’s melancholic expression, and hopes that she does not see her current path as failure. He pauses and steps back toward the stand. “Listen, it’s good you’re here now. I was wondering if you could assist me?”

“Of course, cap—my lord.” Elendil smiles fondly.

“You need not be concerned with my form of address. I was proud to wear that uniform and have nothing but fond memories of that time. A pity it was not longer lived, but I treasure the days I was given.” He regrets his words for a moment when he sees the disappointment on the young woman’s face. “Gelieth. You will find your place in our community, and there are joyful days ahead for you. I am sure of it.”

“I hope so,” she says quietly.

“I will assist any way I can. But in the meantime, I need your help. We will commemorate my grandson’s first birthday in some weeks, and I have a mind to give something special to him. Something for his window, that he might treasure when he grows older. I’ve not the time to discuss it now, but perhaps you might put some thought to it?”

Gelieth smiles, her eyes darting over to some strained glass designs on the cart. “I would be happy to. My lord, well, business has not been so favorable of late. My mother will be so pleased to hear of this.”

Elendil promises to have the window measurements sent and bids her goodbye, relieved that she seems to be in a more hopeful condition. The news of poor business is worrisome, though, and he does not take it lightly. It is a situation affecting more and more merchants in the market these days, and there seems to be little that can be done to cure it.

The Faithful merchants have heavy restrictions upon them concerning what and with whom they might trade. The ships from Númenórean colonies cannot stop at the ports in Andúnië or Rómenna at all if they wish to retain their memberships in the Númenórean guilds. Worse, if caught trading with any Faithful, no matter where, the colonial merchants could be recalled to the island to face charges and confined to the dungeons while awaiting judgment. Pharazôn has not the power to dictate such movements for traders from other parts of Middle-earth, but has managed to manipulate the routes to his own benefit. Only selected goods are permitted to be sold to the Faithful markets in Andúnië and Rómenna, and only after the traders have sold at Armenelos. Selection is therefore quite picked over, but prices are often more negotiable. Faithful vendors are officially not permitted to sell their goods to foreign traders—they must obtain licenses issued by the palace and Pharazôn has made it clear that no Faithful will be granted one—but that does not mean that goods are not exchanged in secret.

Still the Faithful have long traditions of looking after each other and do not depend on foreign traders to obtain the goods they need. But the ever-increasing restrictions on the exiled people have forced them to become even more insular, and this concerns Elendil. His constant preoccupation is searching for a path to bring the voices of the Faithful back into the council at the palace court and remake Númenor into an island where all its people prosper.

Elendil has moved on to a fruit seller and is deep in conversation when he hears a familiar, slightly distressed voice and rushed footsteps approaching. He turns to see his daughter-in-law, holding her skirts as she hurries toward him. She has come alone, Elendil notices, and so her errand must be an urgent one. It is rare for Estrid to come down to the market without toting along little Elendur in his wrap, as he so loves the sights and smells to be found there.

“My lord,” she puffs—the formal address catches Elendil off-guard until he remembers that they are in the public square. Estrid catches her breath and takes his arm. “Pardon the interruption, but you’re needed. It’s urgent.” Elendil knows his expression must be a concerning one because Estrid immediately shakes her head. “No, no one is in danger, but a message has come and… well, Isildur asked me to fetch you. He wanted to speak with Anárion right away, or he’d have come himself.”

Estrid divulges few details as they hurry up the avenue and then to the lane on which the family estate is situated, though Elendil does not expect a discussion of potentially sensitive matters out in the open. A message has come, Estrid simply explains, and Elendil must confer with his sons—and his father—and decide a response. Elendil fears the worst, though he is not sure what that would even be.

It seems there is little left for Pharazôn to take away from the Faithful, yet Elendil knows there is. Little by little, their freedoms have been rescinded, always with the King’s regrets, and always with the explanation that for the good of all Númenóreans, the new restriction cannot be avoided. Most of the Faithful have been exiled here to Andúnië, while some were allowed to remain in their homes in Rómenna, though under heavy supervision. In Andúnië they have been granted more self-rule, but it comes with no guarantees and the threat of arrest still hangs over each Númenórean who refuses to renounce their Faithful beliefs, be they man, woman, or child.

Gatherings of the Faithful in public are forbidden, with “gatherings” defined as more than ten persons in a single group. Some extended families have even been made to divide mealtimes to avoid breaking this decree.

The Elvish languages, Sindarin and Quenya, may not be taught in Andúnië’s academy, and though there is yet no law forbidding spoken Sindarin outside of Armenelos, vendors and shopkeepers face fines and interrogation if they were to display signs written in anything but Adûnaic.

Their worship rituals remain permitted but most of their shrines have been looted and defiled, save for the smallest and perhaps unrecognized. They remain standing, many hollowed out, but formal services are no longer held. Still, they are rarely empty. A numbers of elders in the community have taken it upon themselves to fill the roles left vacant when Pharazôn issued his edict removing all of Númenor’s High Priests from their posts and threatening charges of treason if they resumed any form of leadership. Amandil spends much of his time visiting shrines and offering what blessings he might, though as a lay person. It was he who performed the betrothal ceremony, and then the wedding, for Estrid and Isildur. What legal standing it receives in the eyes of the palace, Elendil cannot say, but he knows that the pair of them care not, and that to Isildur, a blessing from his grandfather is worth far more than anything Pharazôn could put his name upon.

All in all, Elendil knows he ought to be grateful to at least have the freedom to move about and conduct their business, considering the many Faithful who remain imprisoned below the palace in the new dungeons Pharazôn had constructed as a “wedding gift” to the former Queen Regent. How many are there, no one seems to know—there are rumors of escapes every so often, but the people of Rómenna and Andúnië cannot hold official correspondence, and so communication comes only in the form of discreet tidings brought about from foreign traders, and from brave riders on horseback delivering urgent messages in the dark of night.

Elendil grits his teeth and swallows back the anger merely remembering the forced wedding between Queen Míriel and her cousin—her cousin! He pushes the thoughts from his mind to concentrate on the matter at hand. Something has happened, something that involves his family, and he will need a clear head to make decisions.

They come at last the gated garden in front of the main house that marks Elendil’s estate. It is the home in which he grew up, and where he and his wife had begun to raise their children. It remained vacant, save for their steward and his family, for the years he lived in Armenelos, and despite the circumstances, returning in exile to the familiar walls had given Elendil some modest comfort. It was a home in which a Faithful man could live his faith and perform the rituals that made him. He understands why Anárion chose to return, and it pleases him to see the peace that sometimes shows itself in Isildur’s eyes when he pauses at the shrine to Nienna next to the hearth in the main hall. After all the turmoil, and through all that is left to come, Isil needs a place to be reminded of those things that have made him what he is. Elendil does not know if Isildur could have recovered from his ordeal in Middle-earth had they remained in Armenelos, even under the best of circumstances. In Andúnië, albeit in exile, Isildur has found space to reconnect with his family and his faith and to grow into the role to which Elendil believes he might one day be called.

The main house contains enough chambers for Isildur and his small family, and for Elendil, as well as space for gatherings that sit secluded from any windows, and quarters for the household staff. Little Elendur’s nursery is the room in which Isildur had claimed as a boy, though he often still sleeps in his cradle in his parents’ bedroom. Across the back garden sits a smaller home where Amandil dwells, and Anárion with Alpheth, his wife. Beneath both structures, a root cellar is being expanded, with spaces behind false walls being hollowed out bit by bit so as not to raise suspicion. No one needs to ask why they might be needed.

Isildur is pacing, his fists curled, and Anárion is scrutinizing an unrolled parchment when Elendil follows Estrid into the house. He slides the bolt behind him. The ire in Anárion’s expression is concerning, and Isildur appears on edge. “What’s happened?” Elendil asks sternly, bringing Isildur’s steps to a halt.

Anárion immediately passes over the notice. “Have a look at this,” he says through clenched teeth.

At the discretion of his majesty Ar-Pharazôn, and his queen Ar-Zimraphel, comes the following notice:

Azruphêl, formerly known as Eärien, daughter of Elendil, has been granted passage to visit her father’s home in the lands granted to those of the Faithful community in exile. She will arrive escorted in three days’ time, accompanied by the King’s trusted Guardsmen, for her safety. Although her father is considered a traitor of Westernesse, the King has granted this concession out of courtesy for Azruphêl’s history of service within the Builders’ Guild. The King’s generosity shall not be considered a reprieve from any restrictions currently in place to protect Númenor from civil unrest and riot. Treason in all forms carries the penalty of death. The King’s Guardsmen will be armed and prepared to detain any Faithful who make an attempt at insurrection, which includes the expression of opinion contrary to the wisdom of the King.

Elendil has never received such a message before and he does not quite know what to make of it. It’s been at least five years since he last laid eyes on his daughter, when her infrequent visits west had come to an abrupt end. She had come then unaccompanied, without prior notice, and the last few trips had seemed to be done in secret, with Eärien arriving in the early morning looking tired and weary, as though she had ridden all night. The thought of seeing her once more pleases Elendil, but his thoughts go at once to her safety—and to the safety of the Faithful.

After such a long time, he is grateful for the content of the message—seeing Eärien, despite any tension, will bring him joy, even if it is fleeting. And he is happy for Isil, who has so missed his sister and the friendship they had always shared. But surely Pharazôn knows that she is still dear to her family, and so could this be a ruse to catch them off guard? To be certain they are all at home when his henchmen come to arrest them? The reference to the name Azruphêl unnerves him as well. His children used to tease each other with the Adûnaic translations of their names, but those names were never used with any regularity. Once, when he was a boy, Isildur had encountered Pharazôn in the court and had been quite amused when the then-Chancellor had continued to call him Nilûbên, despite Elendil introducing his son as Isildur.

But has this change been at Eärien’s request? Does she refer to herself as Azruphêl now? Elendil would feel disappointed if that were the case. He can recall clear as day the sparkle in his wife’s eyes when she told him his newborn daughter’s name, and how they had both whispered their thoughts of her perhaps being fated to join him on a ship one day. Of course, that was not meant to be Eärien’s path, and that is fine with Elendil, but he still treasures the name the Valar chose for her. The thought that she wishes to be called something else saddens him.

Yet what is the alternative, he wonders. If she has not chosen to alter her name, then it has been done for her, and that thought does not sadden Elendil. It frightens him. Pharazôn has taken so much from the Faithful—has he now begun to take away identities of those with Faithful ties? Elendil knows precious little about Eärien’s whereabouts and goings-on beyond her dwelling in Armenelos. At one time he feared Pharazôn would offer her rooms at the palace and that his son Kemen would request a courtship with her, but that seems to be long past. Ever since Elendil’s encounter with him at the shrine on that terrible, devastating day some years ago when he had no idea how terrible and devastating things could get, Kemen has been hardly seen or heard in Númenor, and word has it that Pharazôn intends to keep him in Middle-earth indefinitely.

Elendil knows that his former home in Armenelos sits empty. That is, he believes it sits empty. It is still his, as far as he knows. There is talk that since the exile, homes previously occupied by Faithful have been redistributed to others, made property of the Sceptre, or demolished entirely. But he knows Eärien does not live there. She has lodgings at the Builders’ Guild, likely quite comfortable ones, given her position there. In the short time between Elendil’s release and Míriel’s arrest, the last of the days Elendil lived in Armenelos, he and Eärien had quarreled, and she had packed her trunk, announcing her intention to move out from under his roof. Elendil winces at the memory. He should have said more to her. He knows this now. He could not have changed her position, he is certain, but he has never expected blind obedience from his children. He has raised them to evaluate the prudence of instructions and ideas and he cannot fault his daughter for doing as she was taught, just because she has come to conclusions with which he does not agree. But there are words left unsaid that might have changed things between them, and it is too late to say them now.

Elendil reads the message three times over, searching for clues within the context, though he is not sure what he expects to find. The others gathered with him remain quiet, waiting for his judgment. Finally, with a sigh, he places the parchment on the table. “I shall be honest; I do not know what to make of this.” He knows that is not what any of them wants to hear.

“This is something good, I believe,” Isildur ventures. “It’s been a long time and perhaps this can be a sign that Pharazôn is ready for… well, diplomacy of some sort.”

“I fear it is a ruse,” Elendil confesses. Isildur does not deny this possibility, and Elendil is strangely comforted by his reaction. He is relieved to see that Isildur is thinking logically with his mind, not simply with his heart.

“Yes, I have thought of that as well. We ought to prepare the others—secure our relics, inform the elders… Do you think it would be wise to close the shops that day?”

“That would cause panic,” Anárion objects. “And if this is truly something nefarious, we ought to make appearances as though it is a typical day, not raise suspicions with empty streets.” Isildur frowns and curls his mouth, thinking. “That is,” his brother adds, “if we even permit this so-called visit to occur.”

Isildur’s head snaps up. “Of course we will!”

“Isil…” Elendil chooses his words carefully and adopts a firm tone. Now is not the time to get caught up in emotions. “Let me remind you, all of you, that if and how the Faithful respond to this notice is my decision. I am the lord of these lands and the leader of our people.”

Anárion bows his head in deference. “Forgive us, Father. We do not intend to scorn you, but simply offer our own assessment. That is what you’ve asked for, is it not?” Elendil softens.

“Yes, my son, it is. And I am thankful for the counsel. We rely on each other in these times. I think we all want to believe the best circumstances for this message, but we cannot accept it at face value.” He pauses. “I would like to see Eärien once more, and this letter—this declaration—does not ask for permission. We will need to make arrangements to keep our people safe while these escorts are here. That concerns me.”

Amandil must be concerned as well, but his anger rises to the surface instead. It is rare for him to lose his temper, Elendil knows, even in years past when his only son seemingly tested every nerve. “If Pharazôn thinks his henchmen will be permitted to roam freely in this family’s dwelling… absolutely not, I cannot allow this.”

“Surely there’s some sort of compromise,” Isildur interjects. Elendil can see his hope fading. He does so want to see his sister. “We might secure the corridors, request that the guardsmen remain by the main door?”

“Compromise, Isil?” Anárion is irate now. “With Pharazôn? Do you honestly think these so-called escorts will follow our wishes?” He shakes his head. “Father, no, they cannot come. You must refuse, no matter who is it they escort.”

“There must be a way,” Isildur insists, sounding defeated. Elendil’s heart breaks for him.

“Yes, and we will find it.” Elendil speaks in a firm tone. This is his decision to make, after all.

“Those men are not entering this house, Elendil.” Amandil stands firm and Elendil heaves a deep sigh.

“Father—“

“No, my son, no. I cannot allow it. This lordship is yours and I concede to your will in all other matters, but in this matter you will obey your father.”

“I will not turn my daughter away from my house.” Elendil means it. He bears responsibility for Eärien’s path, he knows. He fears the day he may have to decide between his love for her and his duty to protect the rest of his family, and the Faithful. But that day has not yet come, and he will not bring it about prematurely. If his father is ready to make him choose between Eärien and Amandil, well, he does not want to think about that.

Amandil eyes him carefully and Elendil draws his shoulders back. He dearly loves his father, but he knows that Amandil has intentionally disentangled himself from his granddaughter. She is lost, regrettably, to him, and it matters not whose fault that is. “You need not turn her away,” Amandil finally says. “She is welcome here. Her escorts are not.”

“Perhaps,” Estrid edges in, “we could visit with each other in front garden? These escorts might remain before the gate and still… supervise.” Elendil watches as she takes Isildur’s hand and gives it a squeeze. Isildur’s mouth twitches and turns up on one side.

Amandil is quiet, considering the suggestion, then gives a reluctant nod of approval.

Anárion, however, is not convinced. He takes a broad step towards Elendil and pleads with him. “Father, I beg you, please reconsider this. We don’t know what kind of treachery might be hiding itself in this simple request. What are we to do when she arrives with half the King’s Guard and they run amok over our people?” He holds up a hand to quiet Isildur, who attempts to interrupt. Uncharacteristically, Isildur yields and closes his mouth. “Lives could be lost. All because she wants to visit, now? It’s been long enough, she’s had her chance.” He gives his brother a pointed look. “She made her choice.”

“She is our sister, Anárion!” Isildur spits. “You would so seek to cast her out of our family? Your sister? Your sister!”

“Isil, please.” Anárion takes several breaths and approaches his brother slowly, his palms forward to diffuse the tension. “It is not lost on me that her betrayal is painful, especially to you.” He nods toward Amandil. “We have mourned her loss; you and Father have not. I understand. But we have duties to the Faithful, duties that we accepted and promised to fulfill. It brings me no joy that she has aligned with the enemy, but the fact remains that she has.” He pauses, and turns to Elendil. “Father, let us, you and me, ride out to meet them ahead of her arrival. We will let her know that she is not welcome here so long as she allies with Pharazôn. Isil… you could join us, but you would have to steel yourself. She could have her visit, and then be on her way, without endangering any of us.”

“I want Eärien to meet my son,” Isil says curtly.

It is too much for Anárion and he heaves his hands into the air with an exasperated huff. “Your son? You would permit Pharazôn’s goons near your child—our father’s only grandson—for frivolity? I… I cannot believe you would be so reckless. And it is quite reckless, even for you, brother.” He steps away for a moment and then turns back, his finger raised. “And she’s not Eärien any longer. Didn’t you read it? Our dear sister is Azruphêl now.” He scowls as though the name tastes foul on his lips. His father shakes his head at him.

Elendil is ready to step in—he has not seen his sons quarrel so in quite some time, if ever at all. Their reunion in the west had been tense at first, but he knows there were many nights by the hearth, and in the stables, and along the footpaths of their estate, during which apologies were exchanged and forgiveness and understanding were granted. As children, their squabbles were of no consequence, lasting no more than an afternoon before they were inseparable once more. But the subject of their sister, and the choices that even Elendil has found difficult to forgive, has remained a dividing point between them.

But before Elendil can act, Estrid quickly grabs hold of her husband’s arm and leans into him, whispering something that only he can hear. “Elendur is my responsibility as well,” she then reminds her brother-in-law. “I would like his father’s dear sister to lay eyes on him at least once.”

Anárion shakes his head but steps back. “I will yield then. Father, my lord, I will do as you say, but please do not ask me to hold counsel with her. Alpheth and I will remain in our quarters and will not disturb you. And I ask that you not discuss my personal affairs while I’m not present. Eärien—that is, Azruphêl—knows that I have married; that is enough.”

Elendil nods his understanding. His younger son has never been one to compromise his principles, even to his own detriment. But Elendil respects his choices. Anárion is no hypocrite and stands by his convictions at all costs. Elendil can only hope that those costs do not prove too dear in the times to come. The fire in Anárion’s eyes cannot be controlled at times, and that, Elendil knows, could be perilous to them all.

Anárion exchanges glances with his brother and his grandfather and then turns to leave without another word. Elendil has a feeling they won’t be seeing him for the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

Isildur knows that he will have to make amends with his brother, but manages to avoid him for the rest of the day. Only Alpheth joins them in the main house for their evening meal, saying that Anárion is not hungry. Later, as the evening winds down, neither she nor Anárion return to join the rest of the family by the hearth, as is their nightly custom. Isildur knows why but decides to give his brother his space for a few hours yet. He has a mind to slip across the back garden and talk it out with him in the moonlight, but instead he sits across from his father, holds his son on his lap, and settles back with Estrid to listen as Amandil imparts this evening’s tale of an age gone past.

Later that night, when little Elendur rouses his parents to demand his overnight meal, Isildur groggily fetches him from his nursery and brings him to Estrid’s waiting arms. “Have you given any thought to sleeping all night long, my fierce pony?” she murmurs with a yawn as she settles in to nurse him.

“Hmm?” Isildur mumbles as he stokes the fire in the hearth. He slips back into bed.

“Not you,” Estrid giggles, poking his arm. “Fancy yourself a pony, do you?”

“If a pony gets to sleep all night, I’d be happy to join Berek in the stables,” Isildur jokes, his eyes closed.

“Oh you wouldn’t—you’d be too cold. And don’t you fall asleep right away,” Estrid warns, feigning a stern voice. “You’ve to take him back to his cot when he’s finished, you know.”

“I will, I will. Just resting my eyes.” Estrid huffs in disbelief, so Isildur opens one. “I’m awake.” She smiles at him and Isildur feels a twinge in his heart. She is beautiful, she truly is. Her wavy hair is tied in thick braids that are slowly coming apart, and her face looks tired and a bit uneasy, but she is simply gorgeous and Isildur is once again in disbelief that she is his. They look at each other, smiling stupidly, for a few moments until Estrid breaks and lets out a laugh and so Isildur does too. He inches closer and rests his head against her pillow, looking up. Estrid laughs again and taps his nose.

“You’re nearly as adorable as your son,” she remarks and he nestles into her.

“More so,” he insists playfully, and she gives his forehead a peck.

They are quiet for some minutes and Isildur listens to the renewed crackling of the fire and Elendur’s hungry gulps, trying not to fall back asleep just yet. Those noises comfort him, remind him that he is home, and he smiles to himself. It is a good life, he thinks. He is brought out of his reverie when Elendur begins to fuss a bit and sends a sharp heel kick into his father’s arm. Startled yet laughing, Isildur sits up and softly pets his son’s hair. “You’re a strong little fellow, senya. Settle, dear boy, settle yourself.” Remarkably, Elendur obeys and continues his meal in quiet.

“It will be pleasant for your sister to finally meet him,” Estrid muses, resting her head against Isildur’s shoulder. Isildur agrees. He does not know what to expect from Eärien—she has become a stranger and changed in ways he could not have imagined just a few years ago. Yet she is his sister and he has learned much in those years. He has learned that some relationships deserve to be treasured and nursed through strained times, because one cannot know when they will be sundered forever from someone they love.

“I should like to get to know her better,” Estrid continues. “I imagine we have some things in common.”

Isildur tilts his head, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. It seems an odd thing to say. Other than being dear to him, Isildur cannot imagine what Estrid would have in common with his sister. She looks away from him. “It’s just that we’ve both made choices, she and I. Choices that, well, perhaps we regret.”

Isildur sits up straight. “Choices of what sort?” Estrid lays a gentle hand on his arm.

“You know. Back… back there. In the South—in Mordor.” She shrugs. “I had to make choices that seemed wise to me at the time, but…” She goes quiet, and Isildur brings her hand to his lips.

“You survived. Do you hear me? You made choices that helped you survive, and brought you to me and then here to Númenor, and gave us our son.” He kisses her gently and strokes her cheek, eliciting a smile.

She rarely speaks of that time in Mordor, and of what kept her alive on the wanderings from Tirharad in the aftermath of the eruption. She has spoken at length with Isildur about her childhood and youth, her coming of age, even her courtship with Hagen, but those weeks before and after taking the mark of Adar—Isildur shudders just thinking of him—she keeps close inside, sharing only snippets here and there. Isildur does not press her for those details; he understands what it is like to have shadows in one’s soul, some that bring shame. But Estrid seems to want to speak of it now, and so he waits patiently.

“I survived. But if I had chosen differently, at some moments, well, perhaps others, those dear to me, might have survived as well.” Her eyes are wet and Isildur gathers her in his arms, as best he can without disturbing Elendur, still at her breast. He presses a kiss to her temple and brushes a few curls from her eyes. He says nothing, but simply holds her, resting his cheek in her hair.

After a few moments, Isildur feels Estrid take in a deep breath, and she begins to speak again. She talks of her mother, who was with her when they were brought before Adar and made to choose between swearing their fealty to him or taking a sword through their throats. Some of it she has spoken aloud to Isildur before, and some of it he is hearing for the first time. “My mum told me to take the mark. She said she knew I wanted to refuse it, but it would mean death, and we had to survive. She said she would do the same, and we would remain together. But that is not how it ended up, did it?” Her voice cracks and Isildur kisses her again, rubbing gentle circles along her shoulder.

They did not remain together, Estrid and her mother. Estrid had gone first, knelt before Adar, and accept the brand on her neck. She had bit her lip until she tasted blood, determined not to make a sound as the red hot iron burned her flesh and filled the air with the horrid smell. She was yanked to her feet then and dragged back to allow for her mother to make the same oath. But instead, her mother had kept quiet, as if she was considering her choices, and even when Adar demanded an answer, she had hesitated still. Estrid had opened her mouth to scream out to her mother to take the brand, to swear her allegiance, to survive, but no words had come out. Instead there was only silence and then a sword through the gut and her mother was dead.

“If I had made a different choice… I mean, if I had not gone first, perhaps she would not have reconsidered. Perhaps she would have knelt before him and taken the brand because I was waiting to go next. It’s something I’ll never know, and I cannot undo that decision, can I?

“No,” Isildur whispers, understanding. “You cannot.” She leans to the side, into his embrace, and he holds her for some time more.

“Your sister, she has made choices, and I wonder if perhaps they seemed most prudent to her at the time, only now for her to see what alternatives there might have been. I have no right to cast her out when some would call me a traitor as well.” Isildur hums as he digests her words. Perhaps Estrid does understand Eärien better than he thought.

Elendur fusses a bit more and turns away from his mother, a wide-mouth yawn escaping his lips. Isildur surrenders Estrid’s embrace and gently scoops him from her arms. “Let’s keep him in his cradle for the rest of tonight,” Estrid says, her voice unsteady. “Let us stay all together for now.”

Isildur holds his son against his shoulder, patting his back and softly shushing him back to sleep as he moves toward the cradle in the corner of their chamber. It is close enough to the hearth to feel its warmth, but not so close as to be a danger. Elendur’s eyes flutter closed and Isildur whispers a quiet blessing before putting him to bed with a kiss. He is already asleep, his soft sleeping breaths beginning before Isildur slips into his own bed and takes Estrid back into his arms.

“Our choices have brought us where we are,” he murmurs as she nestles her head against his chest. “My grandfather used to tell me that. Perhaps we could have done better, but all we have is the decisions we’ve made. I’m glad our decisions have brought us here.”

“I am too,” she agrees softly. She reaches up and absently runs her finger along the stubble on his cheek and Isildur knows she will drift back to sleep soon. He lifts his chin to kiss her once more and smiles when her hair tickles his nose.

The messengers have returned by now, Eärien reasons as she absently counts the lantern lights on the streets far below her. Her window faces east and looks out over the estuary that brings ships into port in Armenelos. The assets of her new home have not yet made themselves known to her, and she misses the noise and movement and vibrancy of the central square just outside her former lodgings at the Builders’ Guild Hall.

Her chambers are elegant, she cannot deny that. Ar-Pharazôn has not skimped on expenses when offering her this suite of rooms, complete with a lovely terrace and small garden. The furnishings are luxurious far beyond anything to which she has ever grown accustomed, and she doubts that she will ever feel accustomed to them here.

Since moving to the palace some months ago, she has had periods of regret and doubt, but she casts them quickly from her thoughts, as she has learned to do these past few years. It is a delicate dance with the King and Eärien knows she has pushed some boundaries and taken risks that have hurt her standing with him. Requesting lodgings in the palace has been part of her efforts to reclaim her reputation and prove her loyalty to him, to Númenor, and to the King’s Men. If she loses his approval, well, then she truly will be alone.

Besides, humbling herself before him has brought its reward already, with him signing off on a visit to the west to see her family. She does not know what she expects to accomplish. If they have cast her out of their thoughts and hearts, she would understand, truly. It can sometimes be what must be done, and she would hold no ill will towards them. Well, perhaps towards her father, but that is a wound that might never heal. She has learned to live with its twinges now and then.

So long as she might see Isildur, she will be happy. And his little son, of course. She knows he has had a son. Tidings between Andúnië and Armenelos come covertly, but come just the same, and Eärien knows with whom to inquire. She had managed to send a parcel just after his birth but dared not sign her name. It was a surprisingly cheap bribe to the merchant captain from Middle-earth—Belfalas, he said—and one of his apprentices to shuttle the box to correct home when they came into port at Andúnië.

Eärien has met Estrid, Isildur’s wife, once before, on her last visit, some five years ago. She shudders to think of that journey, one she made in secret and for which she paid dearly when it was discovered weeks later. Admittedly, Eärien had not been impressed with the low-born Southlander occupying a chamber in her grandfather’s home. Estrid and Isildur had already been betrothed by then, and Amandil in his worship of tradition over practicality must have insisted she sleep sundered from Isildur until they were properly wed. To herself, Eärien had hoped the flame might fizzle and Isildur could find himself a better match, someone of a similar line of prestige, and hopefully someone without such absurd beliefs in elf-stones and blind obedience to the gods who seemed to care little for the happiness of their charges.

Estrid had done nothing herself to warrant her disdain, Eärien knows. Truthfully, she said very little during Eärien’s visit, and anyway Eärien’s thoughts had been elsewhere then. She had been most focused on memorizing her brother’s features, to burn his image into her mind so that she might never forget his playful smirk, his bright, thoughtful eyes, the dimple in his cheek when he broke out into a fit of laughter as they traded memories of their childhood antics. She committed the sound of his laughter to her memory, along with the feeling of his hand pressed into hers and then the fabric of his tunic against her cheek when his arms wrapped around her as they embraced for what felt like the final time.

The aftermath of her deception—slipping off into the night and breaking the travel ban between Armenelos and Andúnië—had been dear, and she feared for a short time that her position with the Builders’ Guild was in jeopardy. She went on her knees to Ar-Pharazôn to beg forgiveness, explaining that she had only gone to say farewell, to put her ties to them to rest, and to plead with them to renounce their beliefs and swear fealty to Númenor’s true ruler. It had still cost her several important projects and even the apprentices seemed to look down at her for quite some time after.

Both Ar-Pharazôn and Kemen had been cold to her, and despite Lord Belzagar’s gentle support, she felt alone once more. But with the announcement of marriage between Ar-Pharazôn and Queen Míriel, now Ar-Zimraphel, came also a summons for Eärien to develop and present plans for a new bathhouse, and so she had begun to drift back into the King’s good graces. She had assumed at the time that it was Lord Belzagar’s doing, but learned later that Ar-Zimraphel of all people had requested she be assigned to the project.

So had begun a curious relationship between the Queen and Eärien, and now four years later, they remain cordial. Eärien wonders if it was also Ar-Zimraphel’s influence that softened the King’s heart and brought him to approve her request to visit her family once more. Her brother is now a father, and she cannot in good conscience leave him to raise his child among the Faithful without offering the alternative. Please, your majesty, I beg of you, she had pleaded. Allow me to appeal to your conscience. Let me invite my brother, once more, to renounce this absurdity and bring his son to be raised among loyal Númenóreans.

And Ar-Pharazôn had agreed, with many stipulations of course, but Eärien feels happy for the first time in a great long while. She will see Isil again. She does not know what will happen, but she chooses to believe that they will embrace and she will feel the steady comfort and reassurance that her eldest brother has always been able to give her, even in his own turmoil. Kind, compassionate Isil, ever willing to look beyond her mistakes and keep his heart open to her. Even if it is only this, and only for a few moments, she will be content.

She smiles to herself and turns away from the window. She will retire early tonight, exhausted by her thoughts and anticipation.

In the morning before her duties begin at the Builders’ Guild Hall, Eärien sits with Ar-Zimraphel to present some designs she has in mind to make small renovations in the Queen’s private chambers that would aid her in moving about her quarters without assistance. Eärien explains her idea to install small pieces of paneling along the walls and on the floor with some sort of texture—raised or indented lines or symbols perhaps—that the Queen might navigate by touch.

Eärien is not sure what has inspired her to put together such plans, but she has begun to allow space in her mind for understanding the difficult position in which the Queen has been ever since she was chosen to rule in her father’s stead. She made many poor decisions, Eärien will never forget, but perhaps she is deserving of more grace than Eärien has previously given. Beyond that, Eärien recognizes the depth of the Queen’s strength, in both body and spirit, and admires it. And the Queen is kind to her, so Eärien minds her tongue and reserves further judgments.

Ar-Zimraphel is quite receptive to Eärien’s project and approves the plans to move forward, and Eärien allows a smile to flutter on her lips. She gathers her notes and prepares to take her leave just as Gimlîth enters with the tea service. “Stay, dear Azruphêl,” the Queen urges, “and join me for a bit longer.”

“I—I ought… that is, yes, of course, your majesty,” stammers Eärien, giving a useless curtsy. “I thank you for the invitation.” They sit in silence as Gimlîth pours their tea and presents small plates of cakes and toast, and dishes with fruit preserves and sweet creamed butter, and then the Queen dismisses her.

“My husband tells me you’ve changed preference in your name,” Ar-Zimraphel comments as she sips her tea. “I trust you are comfortable with me calling you as such.”

Eärien shifts in her chair. Comfortable is hardly her current condition. But she dares not speak freely to the Queen. “Yes, your majesty. I wish to make clear to whom my allegiance is given. It is past time to discard old ties.”

Ar-Zimraphel hums. “Sometimes a connection to our beginnings proves beneficial, even when we have discarded them.” Eärien quickly sips her tea to avoid crafting a response. To her disdain, a yawn escapes her mouth. “Are you fatigued, my dear?” the Queen asks. Her concern does sound genuine, Eärien thinks.

“I have been carrying a bit in my mind of late, and that makes it difficult to sleep well,” she explains. “Forgive me.” She yawns again.

“You must be kind to yourself, Azruphêl. You will be no use to the Builders’ Guild in a state of exhaustion.”

“Please, my Queen, I assure you, I am quite fine.” Eärien notices the Queen’s teacup idling in her hand and gently takes it from her. “Shall I prepare you another cup?”

“I used to take tea each morning with my father when I was young woman your age,” Ar-Zimraphel comments while Eärien pours and fashions her tea and then places the cup into her hand. “I understand that you will be traveling to see your own father in the coming days. Is this true?”

Eärien carefully indicates that it is, but does not elaborate any further.

“I encourage you to treasure the opportunity to have his counsel, Azruphêl, even if you do not find it sound at this time. I am ever so grateful for the conversations between my father and I, knowing that he trusted me with his advice and with the task of discerning its prudence.” She sips her tea and smiles. “He had a way of making me feel safe, protected from any harm, even when I was too old for such silliness. I suppose that is true of most fathers, no?”

“Perhaps,” Eärien says quietly. “My father… once, when I was a girl, and I woke in the night from a nightmare of some kind, he took me by the hand and led me around the house to show me that I was safe there. That the doors were secure and that he would hear any dangers and handle them long before they could reach me.” Ar-Zimraphel hums, sharing in the memory. “When I grew older,” Eärien muses, “well, there were things between us, as you know.”

“Yes. Sometimes that can happen,” is all the Queen says, and Eärien stares intently at the bottom of her teacup to maintain her composure. Yes, it can happen.

Isildur finds Anárion early in the morning and receives the cold stare that he has expected. “Walk with me,” Isildur invites. “Little brother.” It is a bit of a joke, with Anárion’s height surpassing that of his elder brother, but also a subtle reminder that Isildur is indeed the eldest. Anárion raises his eyebrows but gives no protest.

“If you have it in your mind to apologize,” Anárion begins, “it is unnecessary. I may be a traitor in Pharazôn’s eyes, but I will not betray my people. Nor would I betray my father.”

“What do you mean to say?”

“I mean to say that to whatever decision Father makes, I will abide. And so if the Lord of Andúnië wishes to invite peril and permit Pharazôn’s men to socialize at his home, I will not interfere.”

“You know that is not the leadership he wishes to display. Father is a leader, not a tyrant.”

“Take care to pay attention then,” Anárion snaps. “For you are to follow in his footsteps, are you not? Eldest brother?”

Isildur frowns. This is not the approach he has intended to take for this discussion. He gives a sigh and decides to allow Anárion to say his piece. The gods know Isildur was given to tantrums often enough in his own time. “Explain yourself then,” he invites.

Biting his lip, Anárion looks away. He is quiet for some moments and Isildur waits. “Isil… brother, I know, I know that you want our family to be whole once more. I do as well. But Eärien has gone. Do you understand that? She chose this.”

“She didn’t,” Isildur insists, defensively. “She was not herself then. She was mourning, she was troubled. Pharazôn manipulated—“

“She was no friend of the Faithful long before that, Isil. You know this.” Isildur does not want to agree but he knows he owes his brother honesty, and so he nods reluctantly. He closes his eyes and feels Anarion’s hand on his shoulder.

“She might have come to change her mind,” Isildur mutters after a hard swallow. “If we had not abandoned her.”

“We? I ran off. You stayed. You stayed, Isil. You did not abandon her.”

“I did. We all did. The pair of us. Father. Grandfather.” A pause. “Mother.” Anárion shakes his head and huffs. “But that is not the point,” Isildur continues. He squeezes the hand on his shoulder and Anárion lets go. “She has kin who all failed in their duty to care for her, in one way or another. She may not believe as we do, but… she would not betray us. I cannot force you to see that. But you must understand me—if there is but the slightest of chances that she might come to her senses, I must clear the path for her.” He pauses and places his own hand on Anárion’s shoulder. “There are difficult times to come, you know. She will need us.”

“There are difficult times to come, yes. We have a duty to our people, Isil. And to our father. Not simply as his sons but as his subjects. What will you do if you must choose?”

"Eärien is one of our people, Anárion. Until she tells me otherwise.”

“Very well. Are you prepared to ask her?”

Isildur does not want to respond. Is he prepared to ask his sister where her loyalty lies? He will have to, he knows. And he does not think he will like the answer. “I cannot abandon my sister,” he finally says. “And I ask that you make the attempt to understand that, even though you do not agree.”

“I am by your side, Isil,” Anárion confirms. “In all matters.” He sighs. “I cannot hold counsel with Eärien. I ask that you make the attempt to understand that as well.” Isildur nods. That is fair. “But I will speak no more about it. Tell me what must be done to prepare for this visit, and I shall move forward with that.”

Isildur lets out a sigh and offers his hand. Anárion grins and shakes his head as he shoves Isildur’s hand away, grabbing him by the shoulders instead. He pulls Isildur close. “May the Valar protect us, Isil,” he murmurs.

“They will,” Isildur insists. “Come. We have much to take of.”

Chapter Text

“It has been years since I have been to the west,” Ar-Zimraphel remarks. They are in the Queen’s anteroom, taking morning tea ahead of Eärien’s departure. Eärien can admit that she has come to enjoy these occasional conversations with Ar-Zimraphel, though she cannot quite figure out why the Queen has sought out her companionship. “Well, of course, you are well aware of that, Azruphêl,” the Queen adds with a knowing, slightly sad, smile.

“It is a beautiful landscape,” Eärien comments in neutral fashion. “But that is to be said of all of Númenor.”

“True. When I was a girl, we spent our holidays in the west, in Eldalondë. I would take long walks through the gardens of Nísimaldar with my father. Sometimes I imagine the aroma of those fragrant trees, the vardarianna most of all.” She smiles, and Eärien thinks for a moment that it might be the first time she has seen the Queen looking truly happy. “When he named me his heir, my father gifted me perfume made from the vardarianna petals, knowing it was my favorite. On our walks, I was always drawn to its scent. We would walk for hours sometimes, following our noses.”

She seems somewhere else for a few moments, her head tilted back and the smile slowly fades from her lips.

Eärien shifts slightly and clears a small catch in her throat. “My father and I too used to take walks together,” she muses. “Not in the west, that is. We—my brothers and I—were only there when he was at sea. But when he was on land, some mornings he would walk with me here in Armenelos, when the city was only just waking.” She sighs. “I loved to look at the guild halls and the architecture. It was so grand. Even as a child, I knew it was beautiful.”

“You have had your dreams laid out for some time then,” the Queen observes. “My husband speaks very highly of your talents, Azruphêl.”

“The King is too kind. I am committed to my work, but I’ll not deny there is much room for improvement.”

“So could be said of us all, no?” She reaches over and finds Eärien’s arm, which she touches gently, almost affectionately. “He is watching you, my dear. He is well aware of all that you create.” Eärien is ashamed by her reaction, which is to make a face that she knows the Queen cannot see. But Ar-Zimraphel’s comments seem strange to her, and out of place. It is almost as though she intends them as a warning.

“Two of the King’s Guard will serve as your escorts today,” the Queen continues. “Minluzîr is relatively young, younger than you, and has not been at his post for very long, but Zôrzagar once served in my guard. Perhaps you know of him.”

“Your majesty, I do not socialize very often with the King’s Guard.”

“Of course not, I should have known such. Zôrzagar is very capable, and very loyal to the sceptre. My husband has the utmost trust in him.”

Eärien frowns.

“Azruphêl? Do you understand?”

Elendil is the last to arrive at table for the morning meal, but Estrid insists that they wait, and she placates Elendur with bites of bread and clotted cream. “Surely, Father won’t mind if you begin without him,” Isildur tells her, but she will not hear of it. The traditions of the Faithful have settled deep into her heart.

Finally Elendil does take his place, and though he apologizes for his delay, Isildur detects a hint of pride in his voice when he thanks them for waiting. They all stand and turn westward, and Amandil begins a recitation of praise to Yavanna for their meal and the bountiful harvests they have enjoyed despite the restrictions placed upon them. Elendil clears his throat and offers his gratitude to Eru for the health and happiness of all those he holds dear, for his family, for their fair island, and for blessings far beyond what he deserves. After a pause, he asks for a watch to be set over Eärien’s traveling company and that she will arrive—and return—safely.

The family remains standing, quiet for a moment, then finishes their ritual with a touch to the forehead and then lips and then chest, so that the wisdom of the Lords of the West will guide their thoughts and words and hearts. Little Elendur looks around, studying the grownups at the table, and Isildur laughs when he mimics their movements, wiping his fingers—and a smear of clotted cream—across his forehead.

Seated again, the family finds their breakfast fairly pleasant, now that much of the preparations have been completed. Anárion speaks of his intention to manage a few tasks in the garden straightaway, so that he might retreat to his own home before Eärien’s arrival. Alpheth, newly expecting their first child, has been feeling ill in the mid-mornings of late, and so she plans to rest.

Isildur does not know how he will fill the time between the conclusion of breakfast and Eärien’s arrival, but he hopes he will find something to do other than hovering by the window in anticipation. He is relieved when Estrid suggests they make a trip to the market for some fresh cakes and wine, so that they might offer their guests a proper welcome. Isildur’s eyes dart over to Amandil, who makes no comment about allowing any soldiers of Pharazôn’s King’s Guard to sustain themselves on food and drink purchased with his family’s money.

“It would be wise to check in with some of the elders while you are out,” Elendil suggests. “We briefed them yesterday, but they may have questions. I will go ahead to the city gates in a bit to do the same there.”

Isildur nods. This is a good suggestion. In the days preceding, Elendil and Amandil have made the rounds with trusted community members to alert them of the presence of King’s Guardsmen in the city. A network of Faithful have emerged to serve as hiding spots for anything—or anyone—in need of hiding. Isildur and Anárion had spent the day shuttling scrolls and relics from the shrines that remain standing, and deciding how many artifacts needed to be left behind to ensure that surveying eyes would not notice what could be missing. It breaks Isildur’s heart to think that he must sacrifice somewhat precious relics for the sake of the most precious ones, but as his father has reminded him, they might all be forced to make more of these hard choices in the times to come. Best to grow accustomed to it now, he warns.

The Faithful are not meant to have weapons, and though they are not war-makers anyway, the schedule at the forge has been set to avoid crafting anything on this day that might be construed as such. Only cooking wares and horseshoes shall be forged today, as not even tools will be on the smiths’ agenda.

In Elendil’s own home, the scrolls and relics have been tucked away, though Isildur is grateful that his father agrees to leave their shrine to Nienna as she is. It is precious to him, as his father knows, and he has faith that it will be protected from harm, should the King’s Guard decide to ignore the boundary of the threshold.

There are few, if any, valuables inside their home worthy of hiding, aside from religious articles. Despite the house’s size and central location, the furnishings are modest and old, crafted by Faithful hands to stand the test of time, rather than to draw attention. Some pieces were made by Amandil and Elendil themselves, as nobles among the Faithful don’t simply sit on thrones and watch the world go by. With Anárion’s help, Elendil has taken the time to look through the parchments in his study to be certain anything sensitive is hidden away.

In the city centre, once he has seen to his business with the elders, Isildur joins Estrid and Elendur in the market square. He feels all eyes on him, as if everybody knows that something special is happening today. He does his best to deflect the attention, and fortunately his son manages to steal the rest of it. Elendur adores the market and reaches his hands toward anything that catches his eyes. As Estrid examines the bakery offerings, Isildur liberates the child from his wrap and takes him round to look at the fruits. He returns with a sack of their selections and Estrid has collected the cakes and bottle of mild elderberry wine.

“Come, senya, let us look around for a bit,” Isildur suggests, gently setting Elendur onto the pavement of the market square. He is taking some steps on his own now, and with a parent’s hand in each of his, he toddles with confidence around the stalls and shop carts. Estrid suggests the glassblower’s cart, which always draws Elendur’s attention, and so they make their way to Gaeliel’s stand.

Gelieth is minding the cart once more and she greets them enthusiastically. “I shouldn’t tell you, little one, but I will say it to your parents—your grandfather has it in his mind to give you something very special for your birthday.” Elendil has mentioned his previous stop, and his intention to have a stained glass window made, and so Isildur is intrigued when Gelieth shows him a sketch of her mother’s designs. “Would you take this home with you, to show Lord Elendil?” she asks. Of course, Isildur agrees.

Elendur protests when his father picks him up, denying him his freedom to roam. But they are preparing to return home, and Estrid fashions her wrap into a handbag for their purchases, so Isildur lifts Elendur onto his shoulder. “Can you see better from up there, precious pony?” Estrid asks, and Elendur squeals his approval. Laughing, Estrid kisses his little leg, and then Isildur’s hand, and they make their way back home.

Eärien is grateful for the pleasant weather as her carriage glides along the paved road beyond the city gates of Armenelos. For some miles to come, the road is made of smooth white bricks, widened in recent years not necessarily to accommodate increased traffic, but to make clear to anyone entering or leaving the city that Armenelos the Golden was—and continues to be—made by the hands of Men, for the benefit of Men.

She is less than grateful for her traveling companions, who sit opposite her in silence. She believes they ought to riding alongside as true escorts, but instead they sit with her inside. The younger one, Minluzîr, made an attempt at conversation when they first set out, but a glare from Eärien quickly shut him up. Since then, she has kept her attention on the passing countryside, avoiding the cold stare from Zôrzagar. In truth, she would not mind speaking a bit with Minluzîr, exchanging pleasantries and learning something about his motivations for joining the King’s Guard. But having connected Zôrzagar’s name with his face, she is no mood for idle chatter. On that fateful night years ago when Eärien found herself summoning the Faithful leaders to the palace so that Ar-Pharazôn could have them arrested, it was Zôrzagar who had dared question her at the tavern after she had insisted it was clear.

Of course the tavern had not been clear, and Eärien had been deceiving the King when she claimed it was. For the sake of her father, she had risked her reputation and her relationships with Ar-Pharazôn and Lord Belzagar. At the time, they were essentially all she had. But she would not sit idly by when her father’s life is in danger. She does not regret any of it, and she would do it again if necessary. Elendil’s refusal to recognize the sacrifices she has made continues to sting, however, just as bitterly as it did then.

Eärien shifts uncomfortably and folds her hands. She will not lose her composure during this journey, not with her escorts gazing right at her. She is happy, she is grateful, she truly is. It is kind of Ar-Pharazôn to grant this trip, despite the division and the blatant disrespect—some have said treason—displayed by the community in Andúnië, whom her own father has come to lead. But Ar-Pharazôn looked beyond that and has shown Eärien that he trusts her. She will not break that trust. In her time of need, in her crippling grief, it was Ar-Pharazôn, not her father, nor her surviving brother, nor her oldest friend, who had offered commiseration and sought justice on her behalf. And while she had to beg her father for a hint of comfort or affection, Lord Belzagar spoke gently with her, took her hand and held it warmly, encouraged her to speak her mind, and validated her perspective. For this, she will be forever grateful to him.

The King loves Númenor, Eärien knows. She does not agree with some of the tactics he has authorized, but he does not require blind obedience and loyalty from his subjects. He has permitted the Faithful to live their principles on their own in Andúnië. What more could they expect from him? It’s not suitable for them to derail his plans for prosperity for the rest of their island. And he does have grand plans. Eärien has seen some of them. His words alone are impressive. He has such appreciation, such respect and pride in the Númenórean people. Eärien draws a long breath. She is proud of the potential he sees in her, and she cannot put that at risk.

She does not think it will be too difficult to get accustomed to the name Azruphêl, but it does not feel like her true identity. It is more like a costume of sorts, a cloak that she will don when necessary, to assert her commitment to the true Númenor. She prefers it that way, she believes. She can keep her given name for herself, unpolluted by the influence of others. Besides, she has never been ashamed of it, Quenya origin and all. There is nothing shameful about Númenor’s beginnings. Ar-Pharazôn does not want to erase the past; on the contrary, he celebrates the triumphs of Tar-Minyatur, who chose Mankind over the Elves. But progress cannot be halted by clinging to the old ways. The kingdom of Men deserves to reach its full potential, and part of that is permitting the progression of their language and naming traditions.

She settles back against the cushion and closes her eyes. It is a long journey west and the sun feels warm as it streams through the windows. As much as she is looking forward to seeing her family again, she knows there will be tension. A bit of rest beforehand will do her some good.

Elendil is not surprised when Amandil tells him that he will be attending to business in city centre on the day of Eärien’s visit. He makes no pretense about it.

“I prefer to be away, rather than shuttered up in my home. I will not interrupt your visit,” he promises.

“I understand,” Elendil agrees. “But you can understand why I would prefer you to be here, or least close at hand, can you not? You and Anárion both.” He pauses, hesitant to admit to himself why he wants his father to stay.

Amandil smiles warmly and places a hand on Elendil’s shoulder, as if he were young man in need of quick reassurance before beginning a task. “Anárion will be in his quarters if you have need of him. And I do not expect there will be any incidents or need of my assistance while Eärien is here. You are all certainly capable of minding your tongues.”

This is true. Marriage and fatherhood has had an effect on Isildur, it seems. Along with a bit of maturity on his own part. Once unable—or unwilling—to keep his mouth in check, Isildur has grown and can be relied upon in the most necessary of circumstances to keep quiet and ignore anyone’s attempts to bait him.

“Still. I should like to know you are near.” It might appear that Elendil is pouting, but all his life he has been incapable of lying to his father, and he’s quite certain Amandil can read his thoughts anyway.

“I shall be, my son,” Amandil promises and drops his hand. “Much of my business happens to be with Nimrodel and with Orofin. I expect they will agree to see me in their homes rather than their shops.” Elendil understands. Nimrodel the tailor dwells with her brother and his family in the home next to theirs, and Orofin, a fishmonger, keeps a room in the house across the lane. “I will be no spy,” he insists, “but if you have need for me, I will come.”

“Eärien would like to see you, Father. You know this.”

Amandil accepts the rebuke. “Elendil… I would like to see her. You might not believe it so, but I very much want to lay eyes upon my granddaughter at least once more. Each day I draw nearer to welcoming our gift, and…” His voice trails off and Elendil does not like the way his father looks. He wants to deny this, to take Amandil by the shoulders and shake him, to remind him that he is mighty and strong and is still far, far away from weariness. Elendil wants to confess that even though he is a grandfather himself now, he still has need of his father’s presence, still appreciates his counsel and kindness and the sound of his voice and the reassurance his arm brings when it is around Elendil’s shoulders. He still believes his father can cure any wrongs and defeat any of life’s monsters that come their way.

A sharp bump jolts Eärien out of her rest, and Minluzîr reaches across to offer his hand. She smiles pleasantly—he seems harmless, really—but refuses. The young soldier looks disappointed, but Eärien cannot be bothered with his feelings. She has spent most of her adult life proving her capability and lack of reliance on others. She can handle a few bumps in the road without assistance.

She takes in the landscape, the open moor and the big sky, and lets out a breath. It has been too long since she has taken in these views. Their island is so beautiful, she muses to herself. She recalls the long journey she would make with her brothers and their minder, sent for them by Amandil, on the way to Andúnië when Elendil was at sea. Once in the city, she usually grew bored and missed her friends in Armenelos. Isildur always tried to include her in his play with Anárion, but their games rarely interested her. Her childhood memories of Andúnië are mostly of sitting alone in the garden with her charcoal pencils and parchment, drawing to pass the time.

She remembers the joy she would feel on their return journey, knowing that Elendil would be with them soon and her family would be put back together under the same roof. They always waited at the docks for his ship when they were young, and when Isildur and Anárion found themselves absorbed in studies and apprenticeship, Eärien waited without them. There was always something back then about being near her father that made Eärien know that she was safe.

She misses those days, and the comfort of stability before her family began to fall apart. She misses her family, she really does, especially Isildur. She loves him. Time and distance cannot and will not diminish her devotion to her eldest brother, who has always remained devoted to her. She wants to see him and know that he is all right, and she wants to see his child. It is hard for her to imagine Isildur a father, but in some ways it seems natural, given what a kind and gentle and patient elder brother he has been to her. She does not agree with his positions but she is certain that he will give his child all the love he can.

Eärien bites her lip. It hurts deeply that she must live sundered from those she loves, but that is what her father has chosen, and she cannot expect Isildur to choose her over their father. She wishes she could make them both see and understand the sacrifices she has made and at least acknowledge all that she has done to save her father from himself. She has cast aside her own pride numerous times, with the favor unreturned.

Why can Elendil not put his own pride aside for her, his only daughter? Must his loyalty to the gods surpass his love for his children? she asks herself. How can that be possible? He has always been a loving father. Even when Eärien felt overlooked, she had felt his love, his care, his kindness. In her youth, her brothers lent themselves to disaster and Elendil’s attention was drawn elsewhere, she knows and understands this. They needed his guidance, his presence, and truly she should not have minded the lack of attention, though it was keenly felt. But that was simply because the condition was new to her, a shift from her childhood.

Elendil had raised her by himself for the most part. She has no memory of her mother, being so young when she drowned, and Elendil never hired a child minder or nurse for his household staff. As a girl, Eärien looked only to her father, who braided her hair and wiped her nose and told bedtime tales, carried her when her legs grew tired or when there too many puddles on the stone streets, and soothed all of her hurts, large and small.

She is not sure when things between them became so fractured and why he feels more responsibility to follow the temperamental Lords of the West than to care for his children. Eärien quickly brushes away a tear, thinking of that moment in the dungeon when she begged her father to live, to stay in this world with her, to not abandon her after all of their family’s losses. But he had refused, and the wound is deep, knowing that her father would choose to die for the Valar rather than to live for his daughter.

He was a different man when he returned from the expedition, Eärien understands this. They were both changed with the supposed knowledge that Isildur was gone. At the time, she believed it was the Queen who had turned her father against her. But Eärien knows that is not fair. She has come to understand Ar-Zimraphel and cannot assign the blame solely to her. But if Ar-Zimraphel is not the cause for Elendil’s condition, then who bears the responsibility? Elendil himself, Eärien reasons. And that is also a deep wound.

She knows he sees her as blasphemous, one who has turned her back on the faith into which she was born. But Elendil had always given them choices and opportunities, and she will not accept blame for using her mind and her reasoning to choose a path apart from the Faithful. She has abandoned her faith, true, but he all but abandoned his family, choosing politics and religion over his daughter. And for a time, Eärien still believes, over seeking justice for his lost son.

Yet in some ways, she does understand. There is duty to one’s principles and choices must be made at times, difficult choices that require sacrifice. So who is she to hold grudges and make judgment about priorities anyway?

Eärien glances at her traveling companions and young Minluzîr smiles at her. His expression is in deep contrast to that of Zôrzagar, and it seems that he has not fully adopted the austere disposition needed in the King’s Guard. There is a bit of charm about him, Eärien thinks, and without provocation her thoughts drift to Kemen.

Kemen. She sighs. Kemen. He had pursued her without shame, and for a moment, it was charming. She does not know if there is ever to be a future between them, but she was guarded with his early advances out of respect for Elendil. She is certain now that her father does not even realize this. She knew then that he wouldn’t agree to their courtship, should it have come to that, and Kemen was not worth breaking her father’s trust. But who can say what opportunities might have come her way had she accepted that which Kemen clearly offered.

She did not love Kemen then, nor does she now, she knows this much. At times, she is not even that fond of him—his arrogance and presumptuous manner grew tiresome rather quickly, and his charm has long since worn off. But he is tolerable sometimes, and Eärien has the sense to recognize that there would be mutual benefit in a match with him, were one to be made. She isn’t particularly pleased at the thought of providing him an heir, but there would be time enough for that season of life, and if they were in fact brought together, the time of children would be decades away.

Of course, she hasn’t seen Kemen in months, and it seems he barely sets foot onto Númenórean soil before setting back out for Middle-earth to supervise the progress at Pelargir and collect tribute and supplies. She guesses Ar-Pharazôn has yet to forgive him for his handling of the riot in the shrine, though some years have passed. The King has been clear that violence has no place in the keeping of order in Númenor, and Kemen’s absence from the shrine when the King’s Guard announced its condemnation prevented him from ensuring things went smoothly. Had he gone along with the soldiers, as the King had ordered, he would have been able to put down the riot without the loss of life. His decision to remain behind has not boded well for his future as an advisor to the sceptre.

Eärien shakes her head. She does not like to think of that night, when the Faithful rioted against the King’s Guard and dear Valandil lost his life in the fray. She has never spoken to her father about it—he was there, after all, and by all accounts played a role in inciting the crowd. She suspects he regrets his actions. Valandil had been like another son to him, she knows, for he was like another brother to her.

But in her mind, Elendil bears responsibility. She might believe that the King’s Guard baited the Faithful into reaction, but her father should have been able to hold his temper, to see to it that everyone departed unscathed. He was a leader among them even then, after all. But he had failed to protect them, failed to protect Valandil, just as he had failed to protect Isildur. It was not through Elendil’s action that Isildur survived; Isildur survived because that is what he does. He does not abandon his family, and anyone who has spoken more than five words with him knows this well.

Isil does not abandon his family, and he will not turn his back when his sister comes to see him. Eärien is counting on this.

Word comes ahead of Eärien’s arrival, thanks to the scouts beyond the gates, and then the watchmen who sent a messenger to ring the bell upon the door of the Lord of Andúnië and give the news. Elendil nods to his housemaid after she tells him, and she retreats to the servants’ quarters, as has been agreed upon. He summons Isildur and Estrid, and they set to waiting.

Elendil is in the front garden when the carriage appears. He is surprised that Eärien has come in a carriage, and with the King’s Guard soldiers riding inside with her. Their horses are tethered alongside, he notices, so perhaps they plan to return separately. But it is no matter, because however she has come, she has indeed come. Elendil alerts Isildur, whose grin lights up his heart, and calls for the stable boys to collect the horses. Isildur and Estrid join him outside, with Elendur in tow, clutching his little blanket, and they watch as the carriage comes to a halt in front of the gate and the door slowly opens.

A young man, a soldier in the King’s Guard, steps out first, then offers up his hand. Elendil’s heart skips a beat as Eärien, her long, flowing skirts in one hand, descends the step with the soldier’s assistance.

She looks older, far older than he had anticipated, and she looks thinner than she has been in the past. Her face shows the hard edges now, the shadows that have darkened her once carefree soul. Still, she is graceful and proud and noble even, and a smile flickers upon Elendil’s lips. She is his daughter, his only daughter, his precious youngest child, and no matter what times have past and will come, she can never be anything else to him.

Elendil opens the gate at the front of the garden and steps back to allow her through. He does not know if she will accept it, but he greets her with an embrace and drops a kiss on her cheek. “Welcome, Eärien,” he says gently. He smiles in spite of himself. “It is good to see you.”

Eärien gives him a restrained nod and does not object to his affection. “Hello, Father,” she replies. Her voice sounds somewhat fractured, and Elendil tries to push aside his concern. They share a moment of quiet and then Eärien looks past him. He sees a flash of light in her eyes and a flutter of a smile on her lips as she nods to Isildur and Estrid.

“Well. I have come.”

Chapter Text

Isildur cannot contain his joy at seeing his sister once more. He feels a swelling in his chest, and the tension and stress that had permeated this day seem to simply melt from his thoughts. Eärien appears more somber, hardly the joyful and fiery young woman with a reserved smile that he has kept in his memories, but she is Eärien, and she is here.

It pleases him to see her accept their father’s affection—it is a good sign, he believes, a sign that her visit might go smoothly, that they might suspend their differences for an afternoon. He has told himself that he will not seek to change Eärien’s mind about Pharazôn, for he would not condone her efforts to do the same to him. He will accept her as she is, just as she does him, just as she always has.

He grins and when she looks at him, she smiles too. He stands still for a moment and then feels Estrid’s elbow in his back. “Go to her,” she hisses in a good-natured voice, and so he does. He wraps Eärien in a long embrace and can feel her holding onto him just as tight. She pulls back a moment and stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“There you are, Isil,” she says, as though he has been out moping in the stable after a quarrel with Elendil or disappointment over some perceived injustice against him, rather than forced into exile by a man and a system to which she has chosen to remain loyal.

“And here you are… Eärien?” He does not know if he can bear the name Azruphêl, but if she no longer wants to be called Eärien, he will respect her wishes. But she smiles and nods, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

Estrid steps forward, and Isildur introduces her once more, and then presents his precious firstborn. “I give you Elendur of Númenor, son of Isildur,” he says proudly, knowing that his sister will appreciate the frippery of his formal name. After all, she loves Númenor just as much as he does.

“Isil,” Eärien breathes. “You’re a father.”

“Indeed. Could you imagine it?”

“Actually, yes.” She takes Elendur’s little hand in hers and smiles, and he studies her carefully. Elendur is naturally serious, especially around strangers, but he does not shy away. After a few moments, Eärien dares to tickle his cheek and he lets out a giggle, announcing his approval.

Grinning, Isildur lifts his son to his arms allows Estrid to give a proper greeting, as she seems so determined to do. She reaches for Eärien’s hands and gives them a gentle squeeze. “I cannot tell you how I have looked forward to this visit. I so very much wish to know you better.” Estrid smiles and Eärien replies in kind, though Isildur can tell she is still somewhat skeptical. It is of no matter, though. His sister will surely see very soon what kind of woman he has married.

When they get settled into the garden chairs, Elendil moves to the escorts and Isildur takes notice. He does not interfere, but remains at the ready should something happen. But the interaction is calm, and Elendil merely requests, quite respectfully, that the guardsmen keep their place by the gate, out of respect for Elendur’s safety, given that they are armed. “Little ones are sometimes curious and quick,” he explains with an air of expertise and passive authority, and it is enough. The guardsmen give reluctant nods—though one of them looks past Elendil and seems to give Isildur a bit of a glare first—and agree to protect Eärien from a distance.

Isildur notices that his father gently touches Eärien’s arm as he moves past her, and she smiles. “I trust your journey was pleasant?” Elendil asks neutrally.

“For the most part, yes. It was a bit bumpy once we left the high road from the city, but not much so.” Eärien glances toward the skies, mentioning the warm weather and sunshine, and Isildur fears they will be making small talk for the duration of her visit. He decides to intervene.

“And so, what do you think of our boy?” He reaches over and runs his hand through Elendur’s curls. “Handsome, no?” He smirks.

“Quite. Estrid, he favors his mother’s side then?” Eärien’s joke draws a laugh and Isildur offers a performative pout.

“Honestly, I think he looks a bit like my brother,” Estrid muses as she twirls a finger around a lock Elendur’s hair. He giggles and turns to look up at her, smiling as he always does when he sees his mother. “Well,” Estrid continues, “except for his ears.” She smirks at Isildur and gives his ear a gentle tug. He takes it in stride and laughs; she is endearing when she is teasing him.

Isildur bends to kiss his son. “Never you mind, senya,” he insists. “You’ll grow into those ears, as perfectly made as you are.” And Elendur is perfectly made. Isildur was certain of such from the moment of his birth, but with each passing day he has grown more in love with this strong and steadfast little boy who will be his heir and continue the line of Elros. He imagines the feeling must be the same for most fathers and their firstborn children, but he has not yet had the courage to question Elendil on the matter.

Estrid has mentioned before that Elendur bears a resemblance to her youngest brother, a youth called Esben whose agility and wisdom beyond his years lent credibility to the family’s somewhat murky claim of Númenórean colonial lineage. From the stories Estrid has told of him, Isildur thinks he would have rather liked his young brother-in-law, had their paths been meant to come together.

Their talk remains light and comfortable, and it does not take long for old memories to begin spilling out for Estrid’s benefit. Eärien insists that Isildur famously wreaked havoc with his antics as a youth, in the moments when he was not disappearing into the forest to follow after some beast that captured his attention or gone for the whole of a day on long rides with his beloved Berek. Isildur half-heartedly denies his mischief, but his father overrules him, and there are smiles all around.

If Isildur closes his eyes, he can imagine that this is a different world, that his brother is sitting with them and his grandfather is merely inside for a moment, and that his sister has not come with armed guards and his father does not bear such sadness in his eyes despite his laughter. It is tempting to pretend. But that is not entirely fair to them, not to Estrid and Elendur. They are in the times that they are in, and wishing to be elsewhere does no favors for anyone. Isildur has many blessings in his life—more than he deserves, he often thinks—and he ought not ruminate on conditions he does not prefer. His sister is here now where she has not been before, and for this, he is grateful. He will accept the terms and enjoy what peace he is granted.

Elendur has been sitting in Estrid’s lap for a while, but he climbs over to his father’s knee and so Isildur pulls him close. Eärien leans over and smiles at him and he smiles back and it is just what Isildur had hoped for. He feels Estrid’s hand on his arm, and he brings it to his lips. She gives him a nod and he knows that she understands what the moment means to him.

The conversation is interrupted briefly when Alyare appears, carrying out cups of wine and the fresh cakes from the market on a large tray. Though the rest of the household staff have obeyed Elendil’s direction to keep to their quarters while the King’s Guard are here, Alyare has refused to even stay indoors. Given that she has been in charge of the general goings-on of the estate longer than Elendil has been alive, he is relatively powerless to stop her. Isildur is glad of the circumstances, for he knows Eärien was once very fond of Alyare, who—for short moments in time—managed to patch the hole left in their lives when their mother drowned.

“I’ll not have it said that the people out here are ungracious hosts,” she announces, and walks directly to the guardsmen at the gate. She presents a plate with a small cake divided in half. “You gentlemen may share that whole cake. And don’t be shy about quenching thirst. The well for drinking water is just down that path. There should be a pail and proper ladle set out there.” Isildur hides his laugh, but one look at his father’s face and he realizes that Alyare’s sass could be taken as an invitation for trouble.

Elendil clears his throat and it seems that Alyare gets his hint. She retreats to the house, but not before resting a hand on Eärien’s shoulder. “It is so good to see you, my darling,” she says gently. “It’s been far too long.” Eärien accepts the greeting and offers a proper embrace.

Elendil is happy for Isildur, pleased that he is able to share this part of his new life with his sister and know that she approves. Eärien’s opinion has always been important to Isildur, though he was often too distracted to have fully known what her opinion was. Of all the things that have been taken from Isildur and all the turmoil he has endured, the Valar themselves must know that fracturing of their family remains the hardest for him to reconcile, and Elendil deeply fears that it is a crevice that is too deep to ever heal.

Elendur sits with Elendil now, and amuses himself as climbs about his grandfather, which of course Elendil tolerates with practiced patience. Elendur pets his beard and tugs a bit at his hair and fiddles about with the effects on the sleeves of Elendil’s tunic. “Careful, grandson,” Elendil says gently, when the boy’s sharp nails inadvertently dig into his neck. “This tree is no longer a sapling.”

Elendur’s brow becomes furrowed, as though he understands that he has erred, and he presses his cheek to Elendil’s shoulder as a token of affection. Elendil sighs and kisses him.

The cups of wine are emptied and the cakes are mostly eaten, and the breeze in the summer air is pleasant. Memories are passed between parent and child and sibling, many times over, and the mood stays jovial while Eärien recalls the weeks she spent begging Elendil to make Isildur a day student when he entered the King’s Academy, rather than allowing him to board. Elendil remembers well how she presented carefully crafted arguments, so compelling that he was nearly ready to decide in her favor without regard to Isildur’s wishes. In the end, Isildur himself had decided his preference to remain at home, citing cramped quarters in the dormitory and a desire to keep to his own schedule outside of his lessons. But Elendil had known even then that his decision had more to do with Isildur’s sense of responsibility for his siblings and his reluctance to leave them without their elder brother.

“Of course, I didn’t realize holding onto Isil would mean I would get Valandil in the bargain,” Eärien muses absently, and there is a marked shift in the mood of the conversation. Isil looks down at his lap and Elendil swallows hard to clear the catch in his throat. Eärien’s recollection is not unwarranted; It was during that first year at the King’s Academy that Isildur became fast friends with the serious and thoughtful young man who understood Isildur’s occasional melancholy and spoke often of serving in the Sea Guard someday. Valandil spent so much time at their home that Elendil had eventually agreed to host him when the boarding fees proved to be too much of a strain on his family’s finances. So the small garret room in Elendil’s house in Armenelos had come to be Valandil’s, and he, Isil, and Anárion grew to be inseparable for some time.

Later Elendil had had thoughts that Valandil might prove to be a fine match in a courtship for Eärien someday, but the time for such discussions had always seemed so far away. And of course it did not matter anyway, because Valandil would never court anyone and met his fate on a cold stone floor after a sword through his back. Elendil shakes his head at the memory, another wound that has yet to heal.

Elendil looks over at Isildur, and sees Estrid’s arm around his. She leans into him and speaks quietly, eliciting a nod and sad smile from her husband. Eärien catches her mistake and looks away. “Forgive me,” she murmurs. “He was my dear friend as well.” She appears about to cry and Elendil heaves a deep sigh because there is so much he cannot say.

Estrid’s demeanor is not what Eärien has expected, and she is not sure how to interact—Estrid is gentle and sincere, humble and welcoming. Much softer than Eärien remembers, although it has been five full years and she had barely spoken with her at their first meeting. She seems at ease with Eärien’s family, as if she has always been one of them, though that thought stings a bit. But Isildur is smiling and their son is adorable, so Eärien reasons that perhaps it is good for them to replace her. She is more than willing to reserve her judgment.

Mentioning Valandil was a grave error, however. It just slipped out as they recollected those years when their family had been at risk of further fracturing, yet remained in-tact because Isil, of course, had chosen to stay. But it had really been a pleasant time, and Eärien counts it as some of the happiest years of her life. Old enough then to explore the city properly on her own, within boundaries, she thrived on the excitement and energy in the squares, even in the Old Quarter. Isildur rarely refused her requests to accompany her, as Elendil had directed, to plays or events taking place in the hours past sunset. Anárion was at his most tolerable, and the addition of Valandil brought one more protective arm to simultaneously help clear her path and indulge her whims.

And though he rarely, if ever, admitted his feelings, she believes her father had been quite happy as well. Certainly happier than he had been in Andúnië, when the loss of her mother was still so fresh. In the taverns of Armenelos where they sometimes took their evening meal, Eärien would feel proud that to be the daughter of Elendil, the Sea Guard captain who commanded respect, even from those older than he. He would hold her hand when they walked the streets, and then offer his arm when she grew a bit older, and all who passed would dip their chins in a nod of respect.

Eärien recalls one evening once Valandil had become settled in their home, and Elendil had taken all four of them to the theatre for an acrobatic performance. There had been awe and laughter, and when Eärien’s view had been blocked by the boy sitting in front of her, Elendil had taken her onto his lap and she could see everything, all of it. She must have been no more than seven, she knows, but she remembers it quite clearly. Elendil had not just accompanied his children to the show, but watched it with them, gasping when they gasped, cheering when they cheered, and returning Eärien’s anxious embrace when the tightrope walker appeared to falter.

On the walk home, Isildur had carried her on his back and galloped like a pony and Anárion had tried to chase them, climbing onto Valandil as best he could. Witnessing such a scene now might cause Eärien to shake her head at childish, reckless horseplay in public among young people who are no longer small children. But Elendil had rarely restricted their amusement and had likely laughed along with them. There were good times then in Armenelos, when everyone had reason to hope for the brightest of futures.

But even the mention of these memories will not help Eärien reclaim the discussion, and so she remains quiet. Isil’s grin has turned somber and Elendil looks uneasy. Estrid too appears to notice the change in mood, but she does not slip into the background to let the others handle things.

“Could I be a bother and ask you gentlemen to leave us for a bit?” she asks nonchalantly, laying a gentle hand on Isildur’s arm when he glances her way with a curious expression. Elendil too looks ready to protest but Estrid waves him away. “Listen. You’ve all had a lifetime together and Eärien and I have only just met properly. We should like to get to know each other without curious eyes and ears hovering about.”

“I don’t think it would be wise to—“ Elendil begins, but Estrid interrupts.

“We shall be perfectly safe,” she insists. Eärien notices the edge in her voice, suggesting that her request is not meant to be a question. She suppresses a smile and waits. Estrid adds that she has seen plenty in her time and is no helpless kitten, nor does she intend to dabble in topics deemed inappropriate. “You might come back in a bit. Please, Father,” she says, and shifts in her chair to signify the end of the discussion.

Eärien is not quite sure which is more shocking—Elendil’s reluctant agreement to the proposal or Estrid casually calling him Father. The sobriquet is not wholly unexpected; after all it is common among Númenóreans, especially women, to address their spouse’s parents as their own. Still, it unnerves her. She has been replaced, it seems.

She is brought back into the present when Elendil cautiously offers her an embrace, which she accepts, and then he promises that he and Isildur will return in a bit. For a moment Eärien allows her cheek to press into the knitted fabric across his chest, and it feels soft and warm, though it ends far too quickly.

Isildur moves to take Elendur from his mother, but Estrid shakes her head, and so he too retreats inside after a smile and nod to his sister.

Once they’ve gone, Estrid turns to Eärien. “I’m sorry for sending them away, I hope you’ll forgive me. I only thought it would be pleasant to speak freely between us without… judgment. Only for a little while. Is that alright with you?”

“Of course.” Eärien feels unbalanced. She had not expected to find Estrid quite so accommodating, nor so understanding. She does feel a bit more relaxed without her father and brother sitting with them, but a reunion with them was the entire point of her visit, so she remains perplexed by Estrid’s intentions.

Before they can return to conversation, Elendur grows fussy in his mother’s lap and tries to climb down. Estrid sighs and offers him bits of cake, but he is determined to be free. Eärien suppresses her amusement. Truly, Isildur’s son bears some of his most dominant traits. Elendur becomes more frustrated and pushes his mother’s hands away, but Estrid is calm. She speaks gently to him but does not give in.

“No more of that now,” she says, standing with him in her arms. “Or I shall have to send you indoors.” She turns to Eärien. “He wants to explore but this gravel and stonework make me a bit nervous, now that he’s taking steps. Come, let us go to the back garden. The grass is soft there.”

Eärien looks over at her escorts. She understands the predicament, but she knows the guardsmen will not permit her to go out of their sight. She is about explain as much when Estrid calls to the men and tells them that they may take up their watch at the gate leading to the back. Though she speaks sternly to the guards, she grins at Eärien and offers once again, “Come then. It’s beautiful.”

Eärien knows the back garden is beautiful, though it has been years since she has seen it. Still, she hesitates. She knows where her brother lives. “I do not think Anárion would appreciate having me so close to his home,” she explains. His absence has not been mentioned since her arrival but she can guess why he did not appear with the rest of them. Likely, she assumes, for the same reason her grandfather is not there.

“Nonsense,” Estrid replies with a shrug. “Your father has made it clear that this house is my home too, and you are our guest. Anárion’s home is past the garden and he’s welcome to keep the windows shut if he does not like the view.” She beckons with an outstretched hand and Eärien finds herself accepting it. Estrid smiles warmly at her. “Come.”

The back garden stretches the length of the main house and then some, and extends back all the way to the dwelling that Anárion’s family shares with Amandil. The stonework of the wall wrapping around it matches the paths, both wide and narrow, that crisscross throughout the manicured shrubbery and flower beds. The modest fruit orchard and vegetable patch are situated on opposite sides, a good distance from the wall, to catch the sun. The grasses are green and soft, and the sweet-smelling trees and flowers fill the air with pleasant aromas. Eärien hardly notices the shrines to Yavanna, Oromë, Estë, and Lórien scattered about, crumbling with age but still littered with fresh offerings.

In the center of the garden stands the treasure, the great mallorn, grown from nuts collected along the Bay of Eldanna some untold generations before. A twinge of shame comes into her heart when Eärien realizes that she had long forgotten about the mallorn growing here. It seems impossible that one could forget such an imposing figure—the great tree towers over all else nearby, including the homes—yet it has been absent in her mind’s eye for quite some time.

There are benches here and there, meant to inspire extended moments of contemplation, and Eärien sees a patch where the grass has been shorn and shows more weather than other places. She surmises that this is a regular spot for little Elendur’s play, and is proved right when Estrid leads her directly to it.

“Here you are, sweet pony.” Estrid smiles as she gently places Elendur on the ground. He scrambles to his knees and gathers her skirt in his determined little fists as he struggles to stand. He has his mother’s full attention and she nods her approval at him, beaming.

On his own two feet, Elendur manages one determined step, and then another, before he stumbles and falls backwards, landing on his bottom in the soft grass with a thud. Eärien suppresses a gasp, worried for a moment that he may begin to cry, but before Estrid can offer any comfort, he is back on his knees, crawling swiftly toward the flower bed.

“Go seek your adventure,” Estrid advises him, dipping her fingers into his curls for a moment. He turns his neck and looks up at her, showing off his four little teeth with a triumphant grin.

With Elendur occupied, Estrid gestures toward the wicker chairs and small table nearby, inviting Eärien to sit, and then joins her. “He certainly moves about quickly,” Eärien comments. She does not have much experience around babies and young children, perhaps the consequence of being the youngest sibling, but Elendur seems rather sturdy and steadfast for a toddler just learning to walk.

“He loves the garden. I’ll put him down for a nap soon, and he always goes right to sleep if he tires himself out here first.” She glances about and takes in a deep breath. “There’s plenty here to keep his attention.”

Just then a kirink flutters past and settles into a tree, a high-pitched call floating in the breeze. Elendur lets out a squeal as he watches and remains fixated until the bird finishes her song. Eärien smiles. “Yes, there has always been much beauty in this garden,” she muses. “I had forgotten about the mallorn. I… I haven’t laid eyes on one in some time.”

“This was this your home once then?” Estrid asks, a query that takes Eärien aback until Estrid explains further. “Isildur told me that your family moved to Armenelos when he was still just a boy. You must have been quite young then, no?”

“We came for visits,” Eärien says tersely. She is not certain why she feels defensive, but a part of her resents Estrid’s questioning of her claim to the garden. Of course this was her home. It’s always been her home, as it has always been her family’s home. Certainly she grew up in Armenelos and became accustomed to their dwelling in the city, but she is not so flighty as to have forgotten the place where she was born. “When my father was at sea, we usually came here. And he would come with us for longer visits and… special days, and the like.”

Estrid nods knowingly, and Eärien is grateful that she does not press for details. She enjoyed the festivals of the Faithful when she was young, and she has no shame in admitting that, but she no longer wishes to speak on it. Especially with the King’s Guard within earshot.

“My father was away quite often when I was a child,” Estrid offers. “He was a hunter, you see, so they would go off in parties. A week at the most, but we always missed him.” Eärien cautiously asks more about Estrid’s family, and finds that she is more than willing to speak at length about them. She learns that Estrid grew up outside Tirharad with her parents and three brothers, one older, two younger, and that her mother was a skilled seamstress who taught her daughter sewing and tailoring, along with embroidery and other needlecraft.

“I do a fair bit of mending here and there for those who need it but cannot pay a proper tailor,” she explains. “And of course I sew quite a lot.” She laughs. “Elendur seems to outgrow every tunic and trouser before I even have the seams finished!”

“You make his clothing?” Eärien asks in surprise. “His shirt is lovely.” Eärien means it. Elendur wears a soft yellow tunic, loose-fitting to allow for his growth, but still carefully tailored with light touches of simple elegance. Four tiny pearl buttons lead to the open neck, where a string of blue stars have been embroidered all the way round. Looking carefully, Eärien notices the stars on the hem of his trousers as well.

“Thank you. I’ve sewn most of my own clothing, and a few pieces for Isildur as well. Of course, Elendil is too loyal to Norother to allow me to do much more than mending his things. He did let me put some stars on one of his tunics though. To match Elendur.” Eärien shares in the laugh, and when it peters out, she is still smiling. Yes, Lord Elendil and his grandson Elendur ought to have matching shirts once in a while.

“It’s a bit silly, perhaps,” Estrid continues, “but I want my son to have some things that were made just for him, with love for him.” She shrugs and looks away, as though she feels embarrassed by the admission. Eärien reaches over and lays a hand on her arm.

“I do not think that sounds silly. It’s quite beautiful, actually.”

Estrid puts her hand on top of Eärien’s and presses it for a moment. “There is beauty everywhere, if we look for it properly. My mum used to say things like that. Back in Tirharad, our days revolved around surviving, even before the dark shadow came to us. But she showed us how to find the beautiful things around us, the good things that make life worth living, that make the struggle of survival worth it in the end. Small details of beauty are important, I think.”

She gets up for a moment and crouches down to Elendur as he toddles once more to the flower beds. “Be a gentle pony, my son,” she cautions when he reaches out. She takes his hand and guides his fingers tenderly across the flower petal. He giggles and moves on to another, touching carefully without his mother’s guidance this time. Estrid plants a kiss on his head and returns to her seat.

“I want him to always remember the beauty of this place. It is sacred, you know. Well, of course you know. But I want him to never forget these beautiful things… the trees, the flowers, the birds, the sea, the stars, all of that. Númenor is precious to him already, I can tell.”

Eärien knows she must say something or risk an awkward silence, and so she expresses her agreement, trying to disguise the unexpected wonder she feels. She has not anticipated finding camaraderie in her brother’s wife. Never has she thought that she would find herself feeling affection for this low-woman from Middle-earth, an opportunist looking to raise her station by attaching herself to a well-connected Númenórean with a kind heart and handsome face. Because that person does not seem like Estrid at all.

She sounds—and acts—quite Númenórean, frankly. Eärien cannot help but compare her words to those of Ar-Pharazôn, who speaks so often of the beauty of Númenor and of attending to small matters as though they were grand. Men have made their island what it is: beautiful, cherished, elite. Men—not Elves—have developed and perfected Númenor, and brought the recognition they all deserve, not simply because of the merits of their skill, but the strength of their souls. Of course Estrid does not speak with the same commanding rhetoric or hold court in the King’s fashion, but it is clear to Eärien that she believes in what she says. Eärien cannot deny the sincerity of her professed devotion to Númenor, and it is easy to forget that she was only brought here some years before.

I have misjudged her, Eärien thinks to herself. She takes a hard swallow and resolves to reflect more on that thought later. She has come here to inspect her brother’s wife, and Eärien begins to believe that if this is truly whom Isil has chosen as his partner for all times, she might be able to come to accept Estrid as a true Númenórean. She feels warmth in her heart as she observes Estrid’s tender supervision of Elendur’s play.

He is a sturdy fellow, taking a few steps but still more comfortable, and faster, scrambling on all fours. He toddles to his mother, a wrinkled frown upon his face, and makes a few sounds that might be words one day. Understanding as a mother would, Estrid kisses him and hands over the little scrap of a blanket that he had abandoned over her shoulder. He hugs her leg and crawls back to the flowers, dragging the blanket with him. It is a worn piece of fabric with tiny horses and stars sewn along the edge. The design reminds Eärien of her childhood, and the blanket that had lain upon the bed her brothers had shared when they were all young and happy and their most-pressing troubles could be solved so easily with help from their father.

She remembers long ago nights in Andúnië when she might awaken after a nightmare, or a raging storm would have her terrified that Elendil might be lost at sea, and she would scurry to her brothers’ chamber for comfort. When he was still fairly small, Anárion didn’t mind Isildur shoving him further over to make room for Eärien in their bed. But eventually it grew too crowded and he would protest so vehemently that Isildur began instead to go with his sister back to her room. Eärien remembers how heavy and thick and safe his blanket would feel on her shoulders as Isil wrapped it around her, and how the sound of his voice—whispering the Elvish blessings their mother had once used to comfort him—would put her fears to rest in the moment. He never refused her plea to stay until she fell back to sleep, and while she would sometimes awaken later to find him gone, more often than not he would keep in her room until the morning, asleep on the floor.

“Eärien?” Estrid stirs her from her reverie and she quickly turns toward her with an apologetic smile.

“Forgive me. I was a bit lost in my thoughts for a moment. Elendur’s little blanket… well, it reminded me of something from my childhood.”

“He loves it so. He carries it everywhere—it’s always a fit when he has to part with it long enough to have it laundered. I wanted to sew him a blanket after he was born, and Alyare found an old blanket in a trunk that she said used to belong to Isildur. It was rather tattered but there were a few scraps I could use to make this one.” Estrid smiles, but not at Eärien, who now understands why the pattern looks familiar. “It seemed fitting for my son to have something of his father’s childhood.” As though he suspects the topic of their discussion, Elendur suddenly pulls his blanket closer and gives Eärien a stare.

“Never you worry, little one,” she says gently, settling back in her seat. “I’ll not take your blanket. It’s far too precious.” Still Elendur continues to look her over for a few moments more before his attention is diverted by a chattering squirrel who scampers up a nearby tree. “He’s a sweet boy,” Eärien remarks to Estrid. The space between them seems comfortable now, though Eärien is not quite certain why that is. But she feels at ease and it appears that Estrid does as well.

“He is our light and our joy,” Estrid beams, and Eärien knows that she means it.

Chapter Text

Estrid is not ashamed to admit she feels a bit intimidated by the idea of Eärien, a young woman her own age who has grown up in privilege and security, in a place such as Númenor, with its endless opportunity for creation. She does not carry herself with the same humility present in Isildur and Elendil, and Anárion and Amandil for that matter. Her clothing is far more elegant than Estrid has seen worn by anyone in Andúnië, even by the elders on the days of the Three Prayers, which she has come to understand as the most important occasions. Eärien’s layered silks are detailed with ornate bead work and she bears stunning jewelry. Sapphires and blue topaz adorn her ears and wrists, though she wears no rings.

Yet Estrid has come into this meeting with pity in her heart for her husband’s sister. She knows about impossible choices, true, but she also knows what it is like to be sundered from one’s family, whether by selection or circumstances. Estrid has known loss in her life, and knows the wounds do not easily heal, even with time. There are scars that do not go away. She too has endured parental loss, though she was not as young as Eärien when she was faced with such. Still, Estrid was not long before her coming of age when, to fetch meat for the planned feast of celebration, her father and brothers had gone off in a hunting party—Esben’s first ever—and never returned.

So she knows how it feels to have her loved ones gone, removed from her life and from this world forever. But she wonders how it is for Eärien. Does it feel different, perhaps even worse to have one’s family alive, yet out of reach? Estrid thinks she would be comforted by knowledge that her family still lived, that they might have joy at times, even if she was not there to see it. That would be an unselfish approach. But it does not account for missing the people, missing the closeness, the sound of their voices, the feel of their touch. The burden of knowing that her family met ill ends is a heavy one, but the ache is her heart is because she deeply misses their company. If she had had any familial ties left to Middle-earth, Estrid is certain she could never have agreed when Isildur asked her to join him in Númenor. The thought of leaving anyone behind seems unthinkable.

Eärien listens to her when she describes the loss of her father and brothers. Estrid maintains her composure for Elendur’s sake, smiling at him whenever he glances her way. She is not quite sure why she has decided to share such intimate details, other than perhaps because Eärien explicitly has asked her about her family, and one cannot discuss such dear loved ones without revealing that they no longer live. And understanding that loss is crucial to understanding the bond between Estrid and her mum.

The pair of them were left to themselves for a long time. Estrid had watched her mother mourn their loss, grieve for her husband and sons, and then, as if packing up her grief into a trunk, set it all to the side to busy herself with the task of survival. The presence of Estrid’s father and brothers remained in their home like a pleasing scent coming in through a breeze, but her mum showed Estrid how to move forward without neglecting their memories. We must survive for them now, she had said. We will live the life they cannot. For them.

And so Estrid and her mother set about doing just that, with Estrid eagerly learning her mother’s craft and making it her own. They became somewhat known in their small community for their ability to take leftover scraps and turn them into a beautiful garment or quilt or tablecloth or set of curtains. Estrid’s mother was always looking for the beauty in those ordinary things, and Estrid has learned to do the same. Their existence together was happy and blissful for many years, in spite of their loss and the threat of the coming shadow.

“I expected she would stay with me always, even after I married,” Estrid confesses aloud, recognizing the compassion in Eärien’s expression. “I just thought… well, I just thought it couldn’t happen again. Surely we’d had enough sadness, you know?”

“Perhaps you might reunite one day,” Eärien suggests. “She remains in Middle-earth?” Estrid stares blankly at her and Eärien seems to immediately realize her mistake. “I am so sorry, Estrid. She’s… she’s gone too, isn’t she?” Estrid nods, looking away. She swallows hard. Now is not the time. And Eärien knows her pain. They do not need to speak of it to make each other understand.

She feels Eärien’s hand on her arm. “Would you tell me more about her? Not about what happened, only… about her. What was she like?” Estrid blinks back her tears and turns to see Eärien’s kind face. Her brow is furrowed and she smiles sadly. She looks on the verge of tears herself and Estrid sighs, laying her hand on top of Eärien’s. “You might refuse, if it is too much,” Eärien explains. “It’s only that, well, I did not know my mother long before she left us. And hardly any would speak of her, though I longed for the opportunity. I should like to know more about your mother—your father, and your brothers too—if that is all right with you.”

Estrid has wanted to share moments like this with her sister-in-law someday, but she did not expect the invitation to come from Eärien. And Eärien is right. It is difficult to speak about her mother’s death and the horrors that came before and after, but she loved her mother so very much, and she feels privileged to have come from such wisdom and grace. Speaking of her mother in the good times keeps that knowledge fresh in her mind, and she wants her son to know about his grandmother. About both of his grandmothers, actually.

So Estrid begins to speak and finds Eärien an attentive listener. She shares more about her family, her father’s quiet kindness and his admitted practice of indulging his only daughter; her eldest brother Esgand and his tendency to make it his task to inform all others on every subject in which he had ever dabbled (Eärien laughs at this—He sounds like Anárion, she chuckles, and laughs harder when Estrid tells her nothing has changed in that respect). Estrid then speaks of her middle brother Estig, so close to her age that many assumed they were born twins.

“He was my best friend in many ways, especially when we were children,” Estrid explains. “We were playmates then, partners in mischief, you know, but we were quite close long after that. He was my confidant. Perhaps that’s what I miss most about him—our talks in the evenings under the stars.” He had had it in his mind to become a healer, she recalls, an apt pursuit for one so concerned with the troubles of others.

Finally she comes to Esben, a youth of bright eyes and sharp wit, to whom it mattered not that he was the third son in line to his father’s legacy. He ought to be a young man now, apprenticed into a trade, perhaps even betrothed and preparing to build a home. Instead, he remains only in Estrid’s memory. “He had such a kind face.” Estrid gazes at her son, still occupied in the flower bed, and smiles. “I daresay Elendur is his double. Though I see a lot of your father in his personality.”

Evidently Eärien finds this last revelation amusing. “Do you?” she asks. “He must be a serious child, then.”

“At times, yes. He’s quite determined when he sets his sights on something he desires. He is quiet, but ever observant.” She gestures toward the boy, who carefully holds a flower stem in his fist, broken off by the passing squirrel. He studies the petals intently, his other hand still clutching his blanket.

Eärien nods her agreement and their conversation continues to flow easily. Estrid returns to the topic of her mother’s tailoring and needlework. “She was quite creative in all things, really.”

Eärien gives a sigh of remembrance. “My mother too was a creator. She was a painter.”

“Oh? She painted… pictures? Or walls?”

They share a laugh and Eärien clarifies that her mother was a painter of pictures, often still-life and landscapes. “Although she did paint a fair number of murals, I was always told. She filled dozens of sketchbooks while we lived here. My father kept them all in his library, even after she drowned. They are still there, I would imagine.” She looks away and sighs. “He gave her last book to me when I came of age. She never finished it. I had always thought I would fill the pages for her but… well, it was difficult to think I could draw anything that was worthy of such an honor.”

Estrid is surprised, and tells her so. “I’ve seen some of your sketches. Isildur has showed me the drawings you’ve made of the family. They’re quite lovely, and excellent likenesses.”

Eärien waves away the praise. “Oh, those. Most of them were merely for practice, when I was preparing to apply for my apprenticeship. Isil was one of the few who would agree to sit for a portrait.” She pauses. “It seems he would say yes to any request I asked of him back then. But I wouldn’t say those sketches are indicative of fine art.”

“Still,” Estrid ventures, hoping her next request is well-received, “it would be nice to have an image to remember Elendur at this age. He is growing and changing so quickly.” She takes a breath and looks earnestly at Eärien. “Would you mind?”

The proposition is a curious one, and Eärien would politely decline if it weren’t for Estrid’s earnest appeal and the warmth in her smile. She does not know when, or if, she will ever return to this place and she did not intend to spend this valuable time doodling. She is not even sure she would be able to draw an acceptable portrait of Elendur, as she has not drawn people in years. Her hours spent hunched over the drafting table each day have been designing buildings and structures, straight lines and angles, logistics and flow, not faces and temperament and chubby cheeks on baby boys.

But Estrid is so sincere and speaks go gently with her son, and Eärien does want to offer some kind of token to show her appreciation for her kindness. So she agrees, and recalls to Estrid that surely there are plenty of charcoal drawing pencils still stashed with the rest of her discarded things in the house. She doubts anyone would have thrown them out.

“Would you like to come inside and have a look?” Estrid suggests, rising from her seat. Eärien looks pointedly toward the guardsmen. Minluzîr and Zôrzagar have made no sound thus far, but Eärien knows their ears are not idle. It has not been said explicitly, but one does not need the gift of foresight to know that the King’s Guard would never be permitted inside the home of the Lord of Andúnië. And the guardsmen have made it clear that they will not allow Eärien from their sight. Estrid follows Eärien’s glance and appears to realize her error. She looks uncomfortable.

“My father might have some in his study,” Eärien suggests quickly. “He always sketches out his sea road before making the final copy in ink.” She pauses, realizing how dated her knowledge of her father’s habits has become. “Well, that is what he did in the past. Alyare will know where to look, and for parchments as well.”

Estrid smiles again and calls for Alyare, who appears in the door as though she has been waiting there. “Does my little star need to come inside?” she asks, stepping lightly into the garden. “I’ll take him in if you need me to.”

“No, no thank you. I’ll be putting him to bed for a nap soon.” Estrid goes to Alyare and explains their request. With a pleased expression, Alyare disappears inside and returns in haste with several parchments and a wooden box of charcoal sticks.

After inspecting her supplies, Eärien sets herself to her liking and studies her young nephew for a moment. Suddenly inspired, she picks up her pencil and begins to sketch.

Elendur is a beautiful child. She has anticipated no less, and can confess to her own bias, but he is a darling boy. His dark hair is coming in thick and his curls are just long enough to frame his face. His eyes are brown and wide and alert, steady as he concentrates on the flower he still holds. His frame is sturdy and Eärien imagines him a rough-and-tumble little boy. She draws him sitting up, examining his flower, and he obediently keeps still long enough for her to make a rough first layer. He giggles when Estrid makes silly noises at him, and Eärien notices the dimple in his round little cheek that disappears again when turns his attention back to his task.

Estrid’s comparison to Elendil does not seem unwarranted if Elendur is often so observant. Eärien has always thought of her father as one who is able to take everything in in an instant. Certainly as captain he excelled because he was able to assess a situation and immediately know what was to be done. He commanded respect and trust with this ability, not only among his crew, but with seemingly all of Armenelos at one time, Faithful or not. It was one more reason for Eärien to hold her head high when she was young, proudly walking the city as the daughter of Elendil.

At home, she and her brothers had trusted him to solve whatever problem they deemed important enough to bring to his attention. Eärien does not think she fully appreciated that stability of her childhood and youth. But of course what child could properly recognize such privilege? Back then she had relied on the knowledge that her father held all the answers, that he always knew what to do, and that such would always be the case. She had never questioned it, not until she first heard Chancellor Pharazôn speak.

The chancellor’s speeches were provocative and delivered with masterful rhetoric. Over the dining table, her brothers, Anárion especially, had tried to counter his points with Elvish logic and arguments based in lore. But Elendil seemed to discourage them, and besides, Eärien did not find their words nearly as compelling. She watched as her father seemingly set aside his own identity and distanced himself from their Faithful ties. She had not understood his reasoning at the time, but in many ways she had welcomed the change. It meant fewer visits to the west and more time to explore the more fashionable parts of Armenelos. Isil and Anárion had kept to their traditions but Elendil had made it clear to all of his children that they would not be forced to either side of the increasingly divided Númenor. He only insisted they move forward, that the safer route was to let go of the past and assimilate. Still confident in her father’s wisdom, Eärien had been more than pleased to follow his advice.

But of course circumstances changed, and Eärien grows sad thinking of it. Ar-Pharazôn had bested her father many times over, and Elendil had given no response save eventual accusations of treachery and a stubborn refusal to set aside his pride for the good of his family. In time, she had come to accept that Elendil was no longer the all-knowing sage she always believed him to be. Perhaps he had never been; perhaps that was simply the impression a young daughter has of her father until she learns better and experiences the world for herself.

She frowns and takes a breath. These are not the thoughts she wants permeating her mind at this time, especially when she is tasked with drawing a portrait of someone with a newly acquired place in heart.

“Tell me about meeting my brother,” she requests to Estrid. “I know there was… unpleasantness… in Middle-earth, but you must have had reason to smile sometimes. Did you meet him in Pelargir?”

Estrid’s reply startles Eärien, learning for the first time that Estrid and Isildur’s first meeting was met with violence and misunderstanding—yet compassion, Estrid insists. “He might have killed me,” she admits, lowering her voice as she glances at Elendur. “He would have been justified.” She shrugs. “But that’s not who he is. I’ve learned that about him since then.”

She goes on to tell about their journey together to the Númenórean settlement, and surprises Eärien with the revelation that Estrid had been betrothed at the time. Eärien is not quite sure what she thinks of that. Yesterday, she would have allowed this news to confirm her judgment, that Estrid had a mind to use Isildur as a means to a greater station, for what other purpose could she have for abandoning her intended, with whom she had already made plans and promises? But she has more insight now, and so Eärien listens and draws.

Estrid does not dwell on her former betrothed, but speaks only of the kindness and care and deep connection she felt with Isildur, and the moments in which he chose empathy over revenge. Eärien is oddly impressed by Estrid’s tenacity and commitment to survival. Even when she harmed Isildur, she had been unafraid to take action when she deemed it necessary. He was an unknown danger to her at the time, and so she had responded accordingly. And if Isil has chosen to forgive her, Eärien does not have the right to hold a grudge on his behalf.

Eärien finds her nephew to be a rather pleasant subject and she realizes only after some time that she has been smiling while she draws him and listens to his mother describe his father. His parents love him very much, she thinks to herself. She adds the details of the stars Estrid has sewn on his tunic and trousers and has to take a hard swallow. A pang of envy twinges in her heart. She remembers the sense of belonging she once felt among her family, if not among the Faithful. She was part of them, and there was stability and comfort in that. She misses it at times, yet she is still part of something. Ar-Pharazôn has made her part of Númenor’s grand future, and his ambitious vision will bring many great things to them all, if only the Faithful would accept those gifts.

She gives a sigh. But it is not the same, she knows. She hopes little Elendur grasps the meaning of those stars on his clothes. His father will see to that, she is certain.

On the topic of her husband, Estrid speaks easily, pausing only now and then to gaze upon their son or take in a long breath of the fragrant garden. She is eager for Isildur’s sister to know just what kind of man he has become, and what his presence means to the family he has created.

In a time of great uncertainty, Isildur had been a steady presence for those few weeks they spent together in Pelargir. Estrid may have tried pushing him away; even his friendship had seemed inappropriate once she had been reunited with Hagen. Of course Isildur respected that boundary, but Estrid hadn’t known if she could trust herself. She had always liked Hagen, and wishes him well now, as he was kind and friendly, and he could promise a stable future as honestly as anyone possibly could. But there was no love between them—she does not think he truly loved her either—and it is all something she could not realize until she had grown to love the humble young man from Númenor who wanted nothing more than to return home to his father.

“He spoke so fondly of his family,” Estrid muses. “When we were traveling toward Pelargir, well, you’ve nothing to do but talk.” She and Isildur had filled the time trading stories of their youth and familiar comforts. Isildur spoke of Elendil in the way Estrid thought of her father, and there was never a doubt that his mission, once things were settled in Pelargir, would be to return home to Númenor. He was not shy about speaking on the subject of the grand things he found in Middle-earth, but he could not properly enjoy them while sundered from his father and siblings. He showed his understanding of being part of a family and treasured that privilege. To see one so committed to keeping his family intact, Estrid had known then that he would be the kind of father she wanted for her own children someday.

Estrid herself had had nothing left in the Southlands and had hoped she could start anew in Pelargir, whether or not she made her life with Hagen. But even after his departure, she felt fated to be with Isildur. Despite earnest efforts, she could not cast him from her thoughts and when the opportunity once again arose to make the journey to Númenor, she accepted without a second thought. She had been welcomed with open arms by Elendil and Amandil, and Anárion after some time. The community in Andúnië had reminded her of the circle of neighbors among whom she had been raised, doing for each other without expectation of payment, only in the knowledge that reciprocation was inevitable.

She does not mention Kemen, other than his arrival and provision of the ship that brought Isildur back to his beloved island home. Estrid is not sure of the circumstances that caused one of Kemen’s later ships—he came to Pelargir every few months, staying just a few days at a time in the beginning—to bring an invitation for Estrid to board and travel back to Númenor, ostensibly to present the first shipments of timber to the King. Of course, she had never presented anything to the King, as the ship had gone to port first in Andúnië and Isildur was waiting for her on the docks as she knew he would be.

His bright grin had been one of relief and she nearly jumped from the skiff and swam ashore to reach him sooner. She thinks she may have been willing to swim the entire Sundering Sea to find her way back to his arms. “I knew that once we were together again, we would never part.” She smiles and looks down, realizing how silly and flighty she might sound. But she does not care. She loves her husband and that is not something of which to be ashamed.

“My brother is a good man,” Eärien agrees. “He has a noble heart. He always has.”

“He’s told me many times that you are so close.” A pause. “Well, that you used to be. It’s hard for him, you know. To be apart from you. You’re precious to him.”

“He was always looking out for me when we were children,” Eärien sighs. “And when we were no longer children. There were often things that I could not make others understand, but Isil always did.” She smiles, probably at some memory. “I was rejected from the Builders’ Guild on my first attempt. I was ready to give up, but Isil wouldn’t hear of it. He convinced me to reapply. He told me I wasn’t meant to do anything else.” She stops drawing for a moment and closes her eyes. Estrid waits to hear her next thoughts. “He is a good man. He will take care of you, Estrid. Of you and Elendur, and the rest of the family here. You can trust him to do that.”

“That’s a bit funny for you to say,” Estrid admits. When Eärien gives her a curious look, she quickly explains. “I mean, he has always described you as the caretaker of the family.”

Eärien simply nods but says no more. She turns her attention back to the portrait and they fall silent for a bit. She appears to be nearly done with her drawing and Estrid can tell that Elendur’s patience is wearing thin. He is usually asleep in his cot by this time of the afternoon.

On cue, he yawns and slips his blanket over his head. Estrid moves to uncover him but Eärien waves her hand. “It’s finished,” she announces.

The drawing is beautiful. Estrid gasps when she sees it and feels her eyes growing wet. His portrait captures little Elendur’s already serious nature and curious spirit. Estrid even sees the ties to his family in his little fist clutching his blanket.

Gently putting the parchments on the table, she gives Eärien a spontaneous hug, which she feels loosely returned. “Thank you,” she whispers. “I adore it.” She gathers her composure and turns to her son. “Look my sweet pony, come see what your aunt has made for you.” Elendur peeks out from his blanket and climbs to his feet with his arms raised. “Would you like to hold him?” Estrid asks Eärien, and she gives a reluctant nod.

Elendur feels heavy in Eärien’s arms, a sturdy boy, but he is calm and does not fidget. He gazes at her face for a bit and she does not quite know what to say. He is still holding his flower and pushes it toward her, so she takes it. She gives it a sniff and then slips it behind her ear. He giggles and Eärien smiles back at him. She is in no hurry to be a mother herself—she is not certain she even wishes to be one someday—but there is something in her heart as she holds her young nephew. He is the future of Númenor, and she hopes it will be a bright one for him. He is why we cannot give up on the Faithful, she thinks to herself. There must be a path for innocents like him to inherit what is rightfully theirs as Men.

She is relieved at Estrid’s reaction to her portrait and pleased that she seems so affected by it. There is more to it than just a drawing, however, and she suspects Estrid has noticed a second parchment underneath. “Would you mind, Estrid, waiting until later to show the drawing to my father and my brother? Perhaps you might take it inside?” she asks, giving Estrid a knowing stare.

Estrid picks up the papers and nods right away. “Of course. We would not want it to get wrinkled in the breeze.”

Eärien smiles, pleased that Estrid understands.

Isildur watches for a few moments from the window before he ventures out the door to the back garden. Eärien and Estrid appear to be getting on, and he is pleased to see his sister holding his son. He reads the movements of his wife—and his son—well enough to know that they are at ease with Eärien, and he is grateful for this. Both Eärien and Estrid are smiling at each other, perhaps laughing even, and Elendur is carefully studying the bead work on his aunt’s dress.

He gives a sigh and places his hand on the door knob.

“At the risk of breaking up your party, I’ve been sent to ask if we might come back outside.” He steps carefully into the garden and approaches with reservation. He truly does not want to interrupt, but the afternoon is moving quickly and he knows Eärien will be departing all too soon as it is.

Estrid turns to him with a closed-mouth smile and he can infer that their meet is in fact going quite well. “I suppose you may,” she concedes. “I was about to bring your son inside for a nap. I’ll send your father out then.” She pauses, looks him over, and then reaches out to wipe his chin with her thumb. “Had a bit of jam and flat bread, did you?”

Caught, he can only grin in response. A thousand times a day, Estrid offers bits of care and he is reminded of how fortunate he is to have her as his wife, and as a mother to his son. He takes her hand and gives it a kiss, then gently tucks a lock of her hair back behind her ear. She threads an arm around him and leans in, and so he presses another kiss to her temple and briefly rests his nose in her hair, sweet-smelling and warmed by the sun.

“Samit melmenya, beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes closed. You have all my love. Quenya is the weakest of Estrid’s adopted languages—she has grown fluent in Adûnaic and nearly so in Sindarin—but she knows the phrases of affection, given the frequency of which Isildur tends to use them. He remembers well the way his parents spoke to one another, dropping pet names and tender phrases in Quenya all those years ago, and he understands now. As a child, their open affection made him feel safe and protected, reminded him that he came from something solid and good, and he hopes Elendur will grow to feel this as well.

He feels Estrid’s weight against him and he holds her for a moment more before opening his eyes. Eärien is watching and tosses to him the smirk of a little sister who has caught her brother wooing his sweetheart. Suddenly bashful, Isildur can feel his cheeks go pink, and the two women laugh.

Estrid slips from Isildur’s embrace and goes to collect Elendur, announcing his rest time. When she gives over her nephew Eärien appears a bit reluctant, but once he is in Estrid’s arms, she takes his little hand and leans in to kiss his cheek. He does not back away from her touch, which Isildur takes as another good sign. Whatever has passed between his sister, his wife, and his son in the garden has made Elendur markedly comfortable in Eärien’s presence. As Estrid steps away with him, the little boy grabs hold of Eärien’s earring and she gives a little yelp of surprise before smiling at him again.

“I’m so sorry,” Estrid quickly apologizes. “He’s becoming a bit of a mischievous little fellow of late.” She looks over at Isildur as though he is to blame, and he only grins with a shrug. He is proud of his son’s curiosity, and as Elendil has told him, a little honest mischief in childhood is Númenórean tradition.

“Once more like his father,” Eärien laughs, carefully untangling his fist from her ear. She gives his fingers a light kiss, and allows him to touch her cheek, gently this time. “Do you hear? I can tell that you are already quite like your father.”

Isildur freezes when she speaks to Elendur—because she is speaking in Sindarin. Perhaps she has not even realized it. It is the first time he has heard his sister speak Sindarin in years, since even before her most recent visit. Perhaps even before the initial expedition that took him to Middle-earth. As children, conversation inside their home had usually been in Sindarin, a deliberate choice made by their betters to maintain their Faithful connections and to ensure the next generation knew the tongue well. Outside the safety of their walls, however, Adûnaic reigned. With respect to languages, the arrangement in Elendil’s household has not changed, despite their relocation.

Contrary to what the King’s Men may believe, the Faithful do not reject nor resist the Adûnaic tongue, and many of them do not even speak fluent Sindarin. Isildur can admit that without purposed practice, he might have all together lost his command of the language when he was a young man, because his world was conducted in Adûnaic, the language of Men, not Elves.

He does not wish to draw attention to her slip, if that is how it is to be interpreted, so he quickly averts his eyes. With Elendur in her arms, Estrid comes to him, and a raise of her eyebrows and a quick wink of her eye indicate that she too has noticed. Isildur places his hand tenderly on his son’s head and recites a quiet blessing for rest, repeating words that have remained in his heart since he heard Elendil murmur them at his bedside years ago. Each morning, and each night, and Isildur has not forgotten. He kisses Elendur, and then Estrid, and then Elendur once more. He cannot help it, he cannot resist.

With Estrid and Elendur back indoors, Isildur offers a shy grin to his sister. She slips her arm around his and they find themselves wandering together along the path of the garden.

“It is good to see you,” he says plainly. “Thank you for coming.”

“I wasn’t certain how I would be received,” Eärien admits.

“Well.” He places his hand on hers and swallows hard. The thought that his sister does not feel welcome at his home breaks his heart. Of course, arriving at one’s family estate with armed guards might affect how one is received. “Are you pleased with your reception?”

“Quite.” She smiles, and so does he. “Your little boy is precious, Isil. And Estrid is lovely.”

“I wholeheartedly agree.” Eärien laughs and gives him a playful shove. “And how goes it with you?” he asks. “How many grand new palaces have you designed?”

“None. Mostly more modest homes. The new baths. And a few other things here and there. I’ve got something coming together for… well, for the palace.” She says so with hesitation in her voice and Isildur feels a bit of shame. He recoils inside simply thinking of her doing anything to improve Pharazôn’s dwelling. Yet he does not want her to hide her accomplishments from him.

“Really?” She nods bashfully.

Isildur is impressed, but not surprised. Whatever favors Eärien has been given have not been unearned, he is certain of it. He knows that she was forced to prove herself double to even earn her apprenticeship. Everyone knew the Builders’ Guild was loyal to the King’s Men, just as the Sea Guard had been loyal to the Queen. There is no other way to explain Eärien’s initial rejection, and Isildur is immensely proud of her refusal to accept defeat, and for everything she has accomplished since.

He presses for details and Eärien describes a renovation she is spearheading in the Queen’s private chambers, improvements meant to increase accessibility. It sounds quite remarkable, and Isildur is honestly surprised that Eärien would lend her talents to improving Tar-Míriel ’s quality of life. He knows on whom she placed the blame when he was believed dead, and the minor detail of his survival, nor the years that have passed since, do not erase that animosity.

“Do you… do you spend much time with her?” Isildur asks cautiously. He keeps his voice low and notices that Eärien’s eyes dart over to her escorts. He has purposely not mentioned the Queen by name.

Eärien reaches over and pretends to brush something off of his tunic, then presses her hand against his chest. Isildur recognizes her ruse. She has had a lifetime of experience covering up his own shenanigans. He listens attentively when she gives her response. “I’ve been taking tea most mornings of late,” she muses.

“Have you? I thought you… you didn’t care for tea.”

She shrugs. “Perhaps I’ve developed a taste for it. It is not so bitter as it used to be.” She looks away and takes in a deep breath. “I have gained a bit of perspective these past years.”

“Perspective… of tea.”

Eärien smiles softly. “Yes, Isil.”

Isildur smiles back and gives her arm a squeeze. “I’m glad to hear you’re doing well then.”

“Reasonably well, I suppose. I’ve not quite adjusted to receiving praise for my work.” Isildur opens his mouth to protest, but Eärien playfully bumps his arm. “From my betters, I mean. The Guild Master asked me to submit plans for the Merchants’ Guild Hall. I don’t know if they will be accepted but, well, we shall see.”

Isildur admires her sense of self, her ability to adapt and persevere. But she has always been this way. When he was younger, it inspired him. When he felt trapped or without direction, he looked to his sister and hoped that he too could find his purpose. Eärien’s passion for her craft had made it seem possible, and that crumb of plausibility was often all he needed to keep on.

When she smiles at him, she looks more like the Eärien of his memory and he can feel the warmth of her heart as they walk together. She has not changed as much as everyone believes, he thinks. There is still hope, and that is enough for now. It must be.

Chapter Text

Eärien does notice her slip into Sindarin when speaking to Elendur, but she says nothing more. She’s certain Isildur has noticed it too, though he keeps quiet. It frustrates her. Sometimes she would rather he speak plain and allow her to defend her position. The Faithful—her family included—accuse the King’s Men of betraying their roots, their shared history, and it’s simply not true. She is a free person and can choose to speak any language she chooses and observe whatever traditions she wishes. There are no laws against any of that. It was done once before, long ago in reign of Ar-Adûnakhôr, and those decrees have been undone. Ar-Pharazôn does not wish to further antagonize the Faithful and return to those times of oppression.

Of course official documents need to be in one uniform language, and the fact is that Adûnaic, the language of Men, is the most widely spoken tongue on their island. Adûnaic unites all Númenóreans, not just the noble classes learned in Quenya or the villagers living in the past. As far as dipping into the language of her childhood, Eärien simply spoke to her nephew in the tongue his parents were using with him. There is nothing more to read into it, though she suspects Isildur will ruminate on what he has heard from her for the rest of the day.

Though she and her brothers had been raised speaking Sindarin at home, Eärien always felt most comfortable in Adûnaic, speaking like the other children she encountered in Armenelos. Bitterly, she recalls the times Anárion would scold her for using Adûnaic at home, as if such words were a personal offense to him. Her father and Isildur never did such things, and Elendil had reprimanded Anárion for his harsh words to his sister. Elendil had even reluctantly spoken Adûnaic himself to Eärien, though it was clear his preference was Sindarin.

It had been different with Amandil. Eärien loves her grandfather, and she is certain that somewhere in his heart he still has some love left for her, yet she has always felt a disappointment to him. She knows that she has failed him by slipping away from the Faithful traditions and ways of thinking, and that her lack of enthusiasm for the rituals disgraced him, even when she was a child. Surely he is unhappy with her choices, unhappy that she is not her mother, nor like her brothers. Amandil has never scolded her the way Anárion did, but he refused for some time to reply to her greetings or observations unless she spoke to him in Sindarin, and the fracture between them has seemed wide from her earliest memories.

Elendil for his part has come to her defense many times. Father, she’s little, he pleaded once, when Eärien had been driven nearly to tears by her grandfather’s stern reminder to speak properly. She is learning the Elvish languages, let that be enough. Please. When Amandil pushed back, as he always did, Elendil had sighed and shaken his head and insisted that his family—his children—were both Faithful and Númenórean.

Later that evening, when the family gathered as usual by the main hearth to hear Amandil’s tales of Eldar heroes and triumphs over shadows, Eärien fell asleep in Elendil’s lap as she had many times before. He had carried her up to bed, and though she stirred slightly, she kept her eyes closed, content in her father’s arms. She had not intended to eavesdrop, but she soon found herself privy to a tense exchange between Elendil and Amandil.

Please, Father. I want my children to know the ways of the Faithful as well as the ways of the rest of Númenor. Share your thoughts on the matter with me, not with them.

I only seek to guide you, Elendil, as any father would.

I understand, and I am grateful. But my children’s paths, including Eärien’s, are theirs to forge. I won’t insist she follow blindly.

And Súriel? What would she have had you do then?

Eärien almost opened her eyes when Elendil had tensed at the mention of her mother’s name. She felt the shift in his grip as he held her tighter. She would agree with me, Elendil insisted. She did agree with me. We discussed this often, she and I, as their future is our—my responsibility, not yours, nor anyone else’s.

Amandil had stepped closer and Eärien recognized a change in his tone. Of course, my son. I would never imply otherwise. You have raised them quite well thus far. He placed his hand gently on Eärien’s head and gave her a soft kiss, but she had only clung tighter to Elendil, a personal statement of her loyalty.

She smiles when she sees her father in the front garden, standing as though he has been waiting for them. He has been waiting, she reminds herself. He’s been waiting far too long. He does not deserve the heartache he has been dealt. She knows that she is responsible for much, though not all, of Elendil’s sorrow these recent years, and it weighs heavy on her shoulders. Yet she knows that if she simply asked for his forgiveness, it would be only a moment before he proclaimed all of her wrongs written in the sand, and thus washed away with the fresh morning tide. And there is a part of her—just a small part—that longs to seek such cleansing.

In the front garden, Elendil waits. Estrid has come into the house with Elendur and sent him back outside, and he has a moment of private laughter to himself at how quickly he has adjusted to having his son’s wife manage the household. The day is going well, about as well as he might have hoped, and he is perhaps almost ready to exhale just a bit.

When Eärien and Isildur return, walking arm in arm through the gate from the back garden, Elendil stands to greet them. They look content, and he is reminded of Eärien’s coming of age ceremony, when Isildur had escorted her and Elendil had been so, so proud watching both of them. His heart aches for those days but he has learned to cherish the memories for what they were, and accept that times have changed.

Eärien is laughing and Isildur’s easy smile is a sight reserved for only the most special ones in his life. Elendil has rarely seen it of late without Estrid or Elendur being close by. Isil’s face lights up further when he sees Elendil waiting for them, and he surrenders Eärien’s arm after pressing a brotherly kiss to her head. Eärien leans into her brother and closes her eyes a moment before letting go. Elendil wonders when they will be so close to one another again. It has been left unsaid, but he cannot help the nagging feeling that this visit is meant to be a farewell, a final parting for Eärien to sever her ties with her family and the Faithful.

“You’re not departing already, are you?” Elendil inquires, a bit concerned. He sees the King’s Guard following behind them at a distance and steps aside to allow the soldiers to return to their previous post. He steels his face to their view but receives no recognition, which is just as well. They are young men, no older than Isildur, one of them likely younger than Eärien. He wonders what they must think of this assignment and if they even know how it feels to live in a community built on trust and reverence. He might begin to feel pity for these boys if he allows himself to reflect too long on their circumstance.

“No, Father, I’d like to stay a bit longer if I am wel…” Eärien pauses and glances at Isil. “I shall stay a bit longer.”

Elendil grins. “Very good. Stay as long as you like, Eärien. Please.”

The sun stretches overhead and begins its descent to the horizon, and Eärien remains in the front garden with her father and brother, and with Estrid, when she rejoins them. Alyare brings another round of refreshments and the King’s Guardsmen even disappear down the path to the community drinking fountain, though they of course go one at a time, lest Eärien be unsupervised with her problematic family.

When Estrid returns, she kisses Isildur’s temple before settling next to him, and the conversation continues to flow with only the lightest of tension hanging above in the air. Elendil is careful to guide the discussion away from news and current goings-on, the topic of Elendur being the obvious exception, and remains as close to at ease as he can truly expect. His daughter is here, and his son is happy, and he will not spoil the moment by reminding himself of the circumstance.

Elendur is speaking a few words now, Estrid reports when Eärien inquires, mainly atya and amya. “I suppose it’s true for all children,” she muses, “that they speak their names for their parents first, no?” Elendil snorts when he hears her words and notices Isildur and Eärien share a look. Eärien breaks into a grin when Estrid eyes her questioningly.

“Not always,” she murmurs, and Elendil’s heart twinges when she looks up at him and smiles. He so misses these moments, he and his children sharing a memory together in their thoughts before relating it aloud.

“Oh?” Estrid glances at her husband, who suddenly looks bashful.

“Tell her, Isil,” Eärien encourages. “It’s really your memory, to be fair.”

“I suppose you’re going to say Eärien’s first word was Isildur?” Estrid guesses, but Isildur shakes his head.

“No. Close though.” He meets his sister’s gaze and holds it for a moment. “I was small, but I remember it quite clearly. She was pulling my hair when she said it.” Eärien laughs. “It was hányo.” He smiles. “Brother.”

“That is very sweet,” Estrid admits. “Perhaps our Elendur will have the chance to be such an elder brother, with his own sister one day.” She looks to Isildur with eyebrows raised and he gently tucks a lock of her hair back behind her ear.

“If he does, I’m certain she’d be as beautiful as her mother.” Estrid’s eyes close briefly, accepting the compliment as she has no doubt become quite accustomed. “Since Elendur is so handsome, much like his father,” Isildur finishes with a smirk, and Estrid rolls her eyes, pushing him away.

“Oh you are impossible, you know!” Isildur’s grin suggests he very much knows. “Eärien, please, you haven’t got any stories from his childhood to retell, have you? I’ve heard so many already, but surely there are quite a few yet untold, perhaps ones he might prefer not to share? With this one, the ladies must be united.”

Elendil smiles. He has expected no less, but still he is grateful for Estrid’s diplomacy and willingness to set aside any ill feelings she might harbor towards her sister-in-law. She is a blessing to their family, as he is often reminded. Perhaps with a similar thought, Isildur beams at his wife and kisses her head. Elendil cannot help but notice that Isildur remains absolutely smitten with Estrid, and seems to grow more so each day. It is good, he thinks. It is good for them all, even Eärien, to be reminded that love remains, even in the shadow.

“I would have to ponder for a moment…” Eärien’s voice trails off and she looks away, as though she is searching for a memory. “Certainly you’ve heard that my brother was quite the troublemaker in his youth.”

“I wasn’t!” Isildur insists, but Elendil shakes his head.

“There’s no shame in it, Isil,” he offers. “We... disagreed at times, but I’ll not pretend I did not cause your grandfather significant grief in my own days. But that is usually the way of things anyway, and Estrid, I will vouch for him—whatever the missteps of his youth, Isildur has always been a brave and loyal son. That said, well, perfection exists only in Valinor.”

He gestures at Eärien to continue and pretends he does not see her roll her eyes at his last thought. Perfection might someday exist here in Númenor as well, Father, he imagines she wants to say, but thankfully she minds her tongue and speaks only of her brother.

“He behaved as though nothing was truly forbidden, you see, and so he was often away pursuing his own adventures, whether or not Father gave his permission.” She recalls the years when, presumably undetected, he had slipped out more nights than stayed in, and relied then on his sister to recognize his tap at her window and carefully flip the latch on the garden door to allow him to steal back inside.

Both Isildur and Eärien might believe their scheme was never discovered, Elendil thinks, but in truth he had usually known about his children’s shenanigans, Anárion’s included. He knows he might have revealed himself and attempted to put a stop to them, but at the time he felt it more important to foster their loyalty to one another than to demand transparency in their extracurricular activities. He still believes in this.

“What sort of adventures were you pursuing, dear husband?” Estrid asks with a grin.

“None that I could not do so again with you by my side,” Isildur insists, patting her hand. “I promise.”

“With one exception?” Eärien smirks. Isildur cringes.

“Yes, with one exception,” he sighs. Quickly answering Estrid’s query before she can ask, he adds, “It was long, long ago and she is happily wed now. As am I.” He kisses her forehead.

“You might as well tell the whole tale then, now that you’ve sparked the flame of curiosity.”

Eärien offers a satisfied grin and Isildur fumbles his way through the story of his attempts to catch the eye of one fair maiden, the daughter of another Sea Guard captain, both of them seeming to care very little for Isildur’s existence. He gave it his very best try, not only pursuing her with gifts and planned chance encounters, but making his case to her father by offering tasks on his ship without payment.

Elendil remembers this occasion all too well, and reveals that he had made his own attempts to prevent any proposed courtship. Not because he felt the young lady was an ill match, but because he did not care for the reputation of her father Haimenar, who was known for being unnecessarily harsh with his cadets and seeming to take pleasure in applying the whip—something Elendil never used—for the slightest infractions. At the time, Isildur had not yet committed himself to the cadets, but Elendil had been prepared to keep him off Haimenar’s ship at all costs. Of course, Elendil knew that if Isildur had learned of his father’s opinion, it would only encourage him further, and so it was Eärien who discovered that she had been promised to another long before, and had gently broken the news to her brother.

“He was quite devastated, Estrid,” Eärien relays. “Isil is not one to give his heart away on a whim. I don’t recall any other maiden catching his attentions after that.” She pauses and smiles. “Well, at least not until some time later.”

“Wager we can agree all was for the best,” Isildur says, his arm gently pulling his wife closer. “I ought to go find Haimenar one of these days, and thank him for being so disagreeably offensive to Father’s senses.”

Elendil shares in the laugh for appearance’s sake, and does not tell that Haimenar and his family, including his daughter and son-in-law, have gone for Middle-earth just the year before, unable to abide the restrictions placed upon the Faithful in Númenor any longer.

As much as she enjoys the light-hearted teasing, Eärien nonetheless finds herself coming to her brother’s defense in her thoughts, reflecting on his unmatched loyalty to his family and those dear to him. The tale of his unrequited romantic pursuit might bring a few chuckles now, but Eärien does not mention the woman’s name because it still brings a bitter taste to her mouth.

But that has passed and Isildur is correct in his assumption that all present believe he has done well in his choice of bride. Eärien may not have been convinced when she first arrived, but she has little doubt now. Certainly Estrid is more worthy of Isildur than that captain’s daughter who ran off to Middle-earth in shame last year. Eärien has heard that they were intercepted near the coast of Pelargir and tossed into dungeons there, but that could well be simply a rumor. Gossip travels fast in Armenelos and often there is only a grain of truth in each burst of tidings. If such is the case, however, Eärien cannot bring herself to feel much pity for them. So-called Faithful but too foolish to accept the hand of one from the line of Elros Tar-Minyatur.

She shrugs those thoughts away and turns her attention back to the gathering in the garden. Estrid announces that Elendur may wake soon and that she may be called away to tend to him. Isildur smiles at only the mention of his son and there is a brief moment in which he appears to offer to go in to fetch him, but Estrid shakes her head.

“How is Isil faring with fatherhood?” Eärien asks. “I do ask you to tell the truth, as I have my own suspicions.” Her suspicions are, in fact, that Isildur has quite taken to it, given his desire to keep the family together through all the bumps in the road and his habit of believing he can right any injustice through sheer will and determination.

She listens with curiosity, and a bit of pride, as Estrid cheekily describes Isildur’s clumsy but well-meaning early efforts to manage their newborn son’s routine and paraphernalia, including his practice of pinning the child’s diapers on backwards. He has since become far more adept—they both have, she admits. And Isildur has given his whole self to his new family, Estrid insists, and she can ask for nothing more.

“That first night, we had a cot made up for him in the room,” she recalls. “But each time I awoke, he had already fetched the baby from his cradle.” She smiles warmly and squeezes Isildur’s hand. “He stood vigil all night, I discovered, watching Elendur sleep.” Isildur readily admits that he could not bear to hear his baby son cry, and so he made certain it did not happen on the first night of his life.

In the days following, Eärien learns, both Estrid and Isildur were known to doze off on occasion at the table during the family meals, as they refused to hire an additional servant to help care for the new baby. She is not surprised; Eärien is well aware that her own parents never kept household staff for managing the children. Cooking, mending, tidying up, gardening, all those things had been handled by hired help, but in line with the Faithful tradition, the raising of children had been kept in the hands of their parents. And after a few short years, in Elendil’s hands alone.

Certainly Elendil had had help in bringing up Eärien and her brothers once their mother had been lost, and there were the extended stays in Andúnië when he was called out to sea. But Elendil had never hesitated to involve himself in Eärien’s concerns when she was young, and so she is pleased to see that Isildur also finds it his business to be present in the rearing of his child.

As if he hears her thoughts, Isildur points out that their father is the one Eärien ought to be asking about. “You ought to see it. He can refuse his grandson nothing,” he claims. “Do you know how many mornings I have gone to fetch Elendur from his cot only to find Father is already there, carrying him about and singing to him?” He reaches over and nudges Elendil’s shoulder. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

Elendil appears to mask his amusement, but he nods in agreement, and Eärien is not surprised in the least. “You used to sing to me,” she says suddenly, almost without intention. “I remember it. I was young but… I remember.” And she does remember. She remembers herself in her old bedchamber, in their old house in Armenelos, not sure if she was only just waking up or being settled into bed for the night. But she remembers Elendil being there, carefully stoking the fire and checking outside her window. And singing. She can hear his gentle baritone and the old Elvish nursery songs she has long forgotten.

“I remember that as well,” Isildur agrees. He offers a performative pout. “You sang to her…”

“Be grateful I never had to sing you any lullabies, Isil,” Elendil warns. “Your mother took care of that, and did a far better job of it, I can promise you.”

“Still,” Eärien muses, “I’m sure it pleases Elendur quite a bit.” She sees a new glint in her father’s eye when she says this, and she hopes he understands that which she leaves unspoken.

“Certainly, Elendur adores his grandfather,” Estrid reports. “They’re off walking in the garden nearly every day, and into the square on market days.” She laughs. “The Prince of Andúnië is a bit famous, I believe, but it’s none of my doing.”

“Be careful, Father,” Eärien cautions playfully, “or he’ll grow to be as spoiled as Isil.”

“More so,” Elendil mutters with a small grin. He gives a wink. “But that will be his father’s concern.” Isildur laughs and nods along with Estrid, and Eärien feels her heart grow warm. They are all happy here, she sees. They have each other, and they are all happy.

Elendil is painfully aware that the afternoon has been stretched and it won’t be long before he will hear the the beginnings of preparation for the evening meal. Already Alyare has returned to summon Estrid to Elendur, and he knows it will be only a short while before Eärien announces her departure. Isildur stands, deciding that he too will be inside for just a bit, and Elendil assumes he will be checking in with Anárion. The visit has gone far later than he likely expected.

Before leaving them in the garden, Estrid turns to Eärien and holds her hands, smiling in a way that can only be seen as sincere. “It was so wonderful to truly meet you at last, Eärien,” she says. “Please, I beg of you, do come visit again.”

Eärien looks back at her, quiet for a moment, before she finally returns the smile. Elendil thinks she looks as though she might be brought to tears and almost reaches to console her before thinking better of it. “I enjoyed our meeting as well,” Eärien replies, and then, after another pause, she embraces Estrid and dusts her cheek with a kiss. “Thank you for taking care of them,” she whispers.

Estrid smiles when Eärien lets her go and gives a nod to Elendil before slipping indoors, leaving the two of them alone. Eärien returns to the seat next to Elendil with a sigh. Feeling her lean against him, he dares to stretch his arm out and offer a half embrace. Eärien presses in further and he holds her. He holds her and she allows him and he cannot recall feeling so grateful for anything in quite a long while.

He dips his chin and takes in the scent of her hair and feels her earring press into his neck. He loves her so much. He loves her because he is her father and she is his daughter, and he loves her because she bears so much of the strength and idealism of her mother, even if it has been twisted by outside influences. He loves her because she is his, and he will always love her.

He thinks of old days when he held her as a child and how she allowed him to do so even when she was well past the age Anárion and Isildur had begun to refuse such affection. Perhaps because she is the youngest and the smallest, perhaps because she was a girl in a house of men, perhaps because she believed he was all she had. He keeps those moments guarded closely in his heart, but he does not wish away the current time.

“Are you well, selya?” he asks, trying to steady his voice. He feels her shrug and his heart breaks even more. “We love you so,” he murmurs, and if he’s not mistaken, he thinks she may be crying. He holds tighter and cannot stop the words from spilling out of him. Not that he wants to try. “We all love you so. I wish only the best for you, Eärien. Do you understand this? No matter the divide between our heads, there will be none between our hearts. I promise you.” He pauses and takes a breath. “I am sorry, truly, for the times I have acted otherwise, when I could not see what you needed. I… I only… Well. You’ll forgive me, won’t you? Perhaps you already have.” He feels her nod against his chest and he is not certain he will be able to speak. “Very good,” he manages, before his voice breaks. “That is very good.”

Eärien remains quiet but Elendil can hear what she does not say. He even allows himself the brief thought that they might be fully reunited, that she might rejoin them and dwell amongst them in Andúnië. She need not fully commit herself to the Faithful ways, only to reject the will of the King’s Men. And that is not so much to ask, is it?

But he knows it is, and that likelihood is slim and he would never ask her to forgo her own ideals to please him. He simply misses his daughter, and he has such great love for her, so he holds her while he can.

Chapter Text

Elendil’s arms are warm and inviting, and Eärien is so very tired these days. She presses her cheek against the fabric of his tunic and feels his beard against her forehead, and wonders if this is what she needs to feel like herself again. She has missed this, she truly has. The tears fill her eyes and she lets them fall. There is no reason to hide them when she is in her father’s arms. She stretches her own arm around and embraces him as best she can, but she knows this moment is about allowing him to comfort her. In recent years, she has viewed his affections as an attempt to belittle her and her choices, to treat her as though she is still a silly young child who is too foolish to listen to her betters. She has believed that Elendil’s embraces were meant to restrain her, to keep her from leaving to follow her own path, and to remind her that she ought to stay under her father’s authority.

But none of that is true, she reasons. It really isn’t. Elendil has never attempted to keep her from questioning what she observed, and though he countered many of her spoken positions with arguments based on lore and tradition, he has never dismissed her ideas as foolish or immature. His embrace is not an act of restraint but an act of comfort, as it always has been. He has always given his arms freely to her when she has asked, and many, many times when she has not. Even when they mourned Isildur separately in the same dwelling, and she felt so terribly alone in her grief, she had known that he would embrace her willingly should she ask. She had resisted because she believed she should not have to request affection and comfort from her father, not at a time like that. Yet she did very little to offer comfort to him, and surely he needed it too, whether he showed it or not.

So Eärien sits in the garden with Elendil and allows him to hold her, and for a moment, truly just a moment, she thinks of staying. Of remaining here in this place, with her family, her brothers and their families, so close to her father’s embrace, content in the forgiveness he would surely grant should she make the simple request.

She could make peace with Anárion, she thinks briefly, and come to know his wife. And however contentious he might remain, she would have Isildur—and Estrid—and she would have her father. She would see her little nephew grow, and she might be present to welcome any others that come after him.

The thought is a warm one, but it passes when Eärien reminds herself of all that she would lose in Armenelos, all that she cannot recover in Andúnië. It is not merely about principles and beliefs. Architecture is her passion, it makes her feel whole, fulfills her need for purpose. She has worked hard to earn her position in the guild and she is seeing the fruits of her efforts at last. Ar-Pharazôn is leading Númenor to an exciting future and she is part of it. She cannot surrender that opportunity over a moment of weakness. She longs for her family, but they have made lives for themselves here, lives that are happy and full, without her presence.

And then a strange thought makes its way into Eärien’s mind. What would become of Míriel—that is, Ar-Zimraphel—if Eärien were not present in the palace? She remains isolated, possibly by choice, but she is slow to trust, a trait Eärien understands well. Were Eärien to leave Armenelos, it would mean severing her ties to the King, and thus, to the Queen as well. And Eärien wonders if there would be anyone else to join her for tea.

Ar-Zimraphel’s words from that very morning echo in her mind. He is watching you, my dear. He is well aware of all that you create. And were Eärien to create a renewed relationship with her family, create a home for herself in the West, what then? Pharazôn would be all too aware, and as much as she admires the King, she cannot bring herself to fully trust him. He has no patience for treason. Would he not feel deceived? Is she important enough to warrant his wrath? She is not sure, but it would be a risk. The Faithful would pay a price, she thinks. And even if she has little sympathy left for them, she cannot add any more shame to her family’s name. The House of Elendil would be better off forsaking her.

“We have missed you so, selya,” Elendil murmurs, interrupting her thoughts for a moment. ”I have missed you so.” She nods her recognition and swallows hard.

It is almost too painful now. It was easier to live with her choices when she believed her father’s pride was all that kept him in exile. Easier to reconcile her decisions when her family was full of stubborn men who remained locked in the past and wouldn’t open their eyes to forward progress. Easier when she believed her family had turned their backs upon her and would cast her out if she tried to mend the distance she’d put between them.

Isildur has indeed sought out his brother, who answers his knock at the garden door himself. His expression is one of concern. “Has something happened?” Anárion asks, glancing back into his house before stepping through the threshold. He leaves the door slightly ajar and waits for Isildur’s response.

“Quite a lot has happened. You’ve been sequestered all day. Have you eaten, at least?” It would be like Anárion to forgo meals out of spite, refusing to enter the main house

Anárion sighs. “Yes, of course we’ve eaten. Do you think Alyare would permit Alpheth to feel even a moment of hunger?”

Isildur must admit this is true. “Well then. She… Eärien… is likely leaving soon… if there is anything you wish to say to her.”

There is another sigh from Anárion and he stares at his feet for a moment. Isildur thinks perhaps he ought to feel fortunate that Anárion has not met the mention of Eärien with harsh words and disgust. “Thank you for the invitation, but no.” He pauses, his hand on the door knob. “Was there anything else?”

Although it pains him to admit it, Anárion’s cool demeanor irritates Isildur. They are brothers; they ought to be able to speak true and plain to one another, to show their anger or displeasure without the need to temper it. If Anárion is annoyed, he hardly shows it, and keeps his face neutral.

“You might come out and see her before she departs,” Isildur announces, a slight edge to his voice. He has not come to lay a guilt trip here at his brother’s doorstep, but he does hope a gentle nudge might compel him to change his mind.

"Isil."

Isildur forges ahead, as though Anárion has given no indication that he is not interested. “Of course, she hasn’t asked for you. She likely knows you’ve cast her from your thoughts. But you might at least say farewell.”

Anárion shakes his head. “Perhaps next time,” he mutters, but makes no attempt to even sound sincere.

“You know there will not a next time.”

“Is that what you believe?” Anárion snaps, suddenly animated. “I thought you were certain she was still one of us.”

“She is. There are… obstacles in her way. And if you cared enough for the well-being of your own sister, you would make an attempt to see this.” Isildur knows he is being unfair, perhaps even unkind to his brother. But it is his place to mend this family as best that it can be mended. Anárion can stand to be pushed a bit. He will remain. Eärien’s position is far more fragile.

“Please, Isildur,” begs Anárion. “We cannot go on with this again. She has made her choice, I have made mine. No one is forcing you to choose the same. One ought to be inspired to seek the truth, not dragged to it.” He shakes his head, frowning. “I asked you to respect my decision, and you agreed.”

He is right, of course, Isildur knows. It is not becoming of him to go back on their agreement. But the responsibility he feels to keep his family together supersedes nearly all the promises Isildur has ever made. “Forgive me, Anárion,” he says, a bit icily. “But if it were you who had gone astray, I would seek any path to bring you back to us. Once again.” His hard stare is meant to recall Anárion’s unannounced overnight departure to the West all those years ago, when their fragile household had just begun to crack once more. Anárion has made amends to his father—and to Isildur—for running off, an act borne of the simultaneous cowardice and bravado of youth. But Isildur does not want him to forget the turmoil he left behind. And that perhaps Eärien would not have fallen so easily into Pharazôn’s clutches had Elendil not had his own hands so full with his rebellious sons.

Anárion does not take the bait and steps back into his house. “I presume we will see you at the table this evening then.” He closes his mouth resolutely and Isildur knows his brother well enough to see that the conversation, if it might even be called as such, is over. He hears a door opening inside the house and Alpheth in the background.

“Love, is there something wrong?” she calls. She sounds tired and Isildur feels a twinge of guilt. He knows the early months in her condition were not pleasant for Estrid, and he ought not bring more tension into her home. With a sigh he gives his brother a nod and turns away.

“Worry not, my dear,” Isildur overhears Anárion say before he shuts the door. “It seems my brother agrees with you.” Isildur would be slightly amused if the situation were not so serious. But he does feel vindicated by the idea of his sister-in-law chiding his brother for refusing to see Eärien.

He has intended to seek Amandil as well, and hopefully persuade him to make an appearance, but a quick search of the grounds reveals him not there. Frustrated that the pair of them have stuck to their positions of not engaging with Eärien, and keenly aware of the precious time that has slipped away while he attempted to sway them, Isildur returns to the main house.

Estrid is there in the hall, having settled Elendur back into his day clothes and brushed his curls, tangled earlier from his nap. He looks rested and happy, and smiles when he sees his father. “My son,” Isildur murmurs and takes him into his arms. Elendur pats his face and giggles, and Isildur feels some of his irritation slip away.

“Senya, your uncle is a stubborn one, do you know that?” he asks with a sigh.

“And his father isn’t?” Estrid points out. Isildur knows she means to be light-hearted but his face must show all his emotion because she quickly squeezes his hand. “Amandil is not coming,” she reports. “I saw you looking about outside. I presume it was him you were searching for.”

“Did you see him?”

Estrid nods. “He came a little while ago. He’s been with Anárion and Alpheth, and then left out from their door.” Isildur frowns. “I’m sorry, my love,” Estrid says softly.

“I only wished for him to at least say goodbye to her. She has a right to that, I should think.”

“I’m sorry,” Estrid repeats, and Isildur is grateful that she does not make an attempt to minimize his disappointment or tell him to put aside his thoughts. There are no words that can alter the situation, and so she only offers comfort and understanding, and Isildur is forever grateful. “You have had a good visit with her, Isil. So have I. And she knows Elendur now, and she’s had time to speak with your father.” She takes a moment to run a finger along Elendur’s cheek and kisses him. “It was a good day. And it is not yet finished.”

Isildur sighs and then reluctantly smiles at her. He too gives Elendur a kiss. Estrid is right, of course. It is a good day.

“She’ll be leaving soon then?” Estrid asks and Isildur gives a sad nod. “Then let us get back to her as quickly as we can.” She smiles. “Elendur misses his auntie already, don’t you, sweet pony?”

Grinning, Isildur escorts them back to the front garden.

Eärien and Elendil are sitting together when Isildur comes back outside, which relieves him. Eärien’s eyes are a bit puffy, as though she has recently shed tears, but she is holding Elendil’s hand and talking with him, and though they are not smiling, the discussion appears cordial. Isildur is not used to evaluating every interaction between members of his family, but it seems despite his best efforts, this visit is sitting upon a powder keg. And he is frightened that he will be the one to light the match.

When she sees her brother and his small family, Eärien rises and Isildur knows she is going to announce her departure. With a nod, he passes Elendur to Estrid and gathers his sister in his arms. “Thank you for coming,” he murmurs into her hair.

She returns the embrace. “I am sorry it took so long,” she apologizes, squeezing his arms before letting go. She heaves a sigh and turns to Estrid. “I did so enjoy spending time with you.” She leans in to her nephew and whispers in Sindarin, “and with you, little pony, as it seems they like to call you.”

Estrid laughs when Eärien alludes to the sobriquet that has become synonymous with Elendur’s name. It was a fitting pet name, Isildur believes, that came round naturally on its own as good nicknames do. But Elendur is as curious and rambunctious and delightful as any pony he’s ever seen, and so it seems to suit him well.

“Would you like to hold him again?” Estrid asks, and Eärien gladly takes him into her arms. She whispers a few words in Elendur’s ear and tickles his chin, and he pats her face and accepts her kisses. Isildur feels as though he is dreaming, and he stares at his sister and his son, carefully committing the image to his mind. No matter what darkness is to come, he will keep this in his heart with his most precious memories.

When Eärien hands Elendur back—to Isildur this time—the child makes another grab for her earring, but Eärien deftly intercepts his hand and kisses it. “It must be a fright when you’re wearing jewelry, Estrid,” she remarks, laughing. “Especially anything fancy.”

Estrid touches her earlobes and the simple stones she wears nearly every day. She wore hanging pearls for their betrothal ceremony, a gift from Elendil as they had belonged to Isildur’s mother. “If she were here with us on the earth, she would be honored to give so much more,” he had told Estrid when presenting the small box. “But it is the best I can offer as a gift from both of Isildur’s parents, and we both do welcome you into our family.” Since those days, the pearls have been stored carefully in their box, only brought out for the most special of occasions.

“I haven’t got much fancy jewelry,” Estrid admits to Eärien. “So I suppose it’s for the best. Isildur seems to choose practicality over embellishment.”

Eärien frowns and throws her brother a look. “Really? Isildur,” she sighs. “You have so much to learn.” Isildur accepts her ribbing in good nature and laughs when she gives Estrid a wink of her eye. Estrid giggles and then embraces her one last time.

“I wish you a safe journey, my sister,” she says sincerely, pressing her chin onto Eärien’s shoulder. “And I do hope we see each other again soon.” She pulls back and gives a resolute expression. “You are always welcome at our home, you know. I’ll see to that myself if I must.” She gives Eärien a peck on the cheek and steps back. “Take care of yourself, will you?”

Eärien nods and thanks her for her hospitality. “I confess I had… well, I had some doubts about you. I hope you will forgive me, for I see now how foolish I was.” She looks down a moment. “I wish you so much happiness here.”

Elendur gives a bit of a fuss, perhaps realizing that he is no longer the center of the conversation, and so Isildur hands him off to his mother and then makes a small gesture with his eyes. Estrid ascertains his intention right away, and so she touches his arm, smiles at Eärien, and returns inside.

Isildur takes a quiet breath and glances at Elendil, who has wandered over to the King’s Guard and is talking with them on some subject. With the escorts suitably distracted, Isildur turns to his sister. “Eärien, before you depart… I must speak with you.”

She smiles at him, and he is a bit ashamed for he fears that she will not like what he is to say. He is certain, in fact, that she will not like it at all. But he must say it, or he will not be able to forgive himself.

Really, she should have known better, Eärien chides herself. What made her think Isil might actually allow her to visit and depart without attempting to compel her to remain in the West? Foolish hope, she supposes.

“Please stay,” Isildur murmurs, and Eärien steels herself. “Please stay here with us.” He reaches for her hands but she pulls them away.

“Isil, I cannot do that. You know this.”

“You’re not worried about Anárion, are you?” he asks, and Eärien closes her eyes. How can he not see the fault in his request? Anárion’s displeasure is far from her concern. But she says nothing and allows him to continue. “I assure you, I am the heir of this lordship, and when the time comes, he will gladly bend to my will, even if he disagrees. If I proclaim my sister welcome in our home, welcome she will be.”

Eärien shakes her head. “Please, Isil. I don’t wish to cause any discontent between you and Anárion. But that is not the reason I cannot stay here. This is not my place.”

“You cannot hold true with Pharazôn’s design,” he challenges. “He is a deceiver.”

“Isil, that’s enough,” Elendil cautions as he steps away from the guardsmen, and Eärien is relieved that he is finally putting a stop to this nonsense. Isildur seems to have completely forgotten that the King’s Guard are here, well within earshot. Though a gentle word of caution from their father had never been enough to stop Isildur’s tongue once he had begun, and so it does little to quiet him now.

“Eärien, how can you continue to turn your back on how you’ve been raised, on the community that’s always supported you? Surely you know of Pharazôn’s persecution. This does not bother you enough to act?”

“You’ve no right to speak to me of such matters,” she snaps, keeping her voice level. “I beg of you, consider your words. Ar-Pharazôn does not wish to antagonize the Faithful, but to seek partnership. The troubles of the Faithful are… well, of their own making. And do you think these people will support me still? After what I have done, when my own grandfather refuses to see me?” She huffs. If she were not his sister, even Isildur would object to her presence in Andúnië, and he cannot pretend otherwise.

Isildur takes another step toward her and reaches for her hand. She allows him to take it. “Please, Eärien. He will destroy our island, and he will take you with him. It is not too late to save yourself.”

“Isildur!” Elendil’s voice is sharp and Isildur flinches. They all notice Zôrzagar place his hand on the hilt of his sword, but Eärien turns to him and gives him a hard look. He frowns and moves his hand away.

Eärien turns her glare back to Isildur and pulls her hand from his. She is heartbroken by her brother’s words. When she had planned for this journey, she had hoped to convince him to consider the position of the King’s Men, to keep room in his heart for Ar-Pharazôn’s vision for Númenor. Perhaps to sow the seeds of Isildur’s acknowledgment of the joining of the two factions in the marriage of Pharazôn and Zimraphel, and work together to move Númenor forward. Elendil, she fears, will never change. But with Isildur, she has hope. She has learned to forgive Míriel for her missteps, the ones that almost cost Isildur his life, but that does not mean she disagrees with Pharazôn’s vision. Progress cannot be stopped, and sometimes a price must be paid. Some of the Faithful have been imprisoned, but only those who refuse the orders of their king. Any treasonous persons should be punished, that has always been the law. Surely her family can agree with that.

She is sickened by their dependence on the Valar, if she is honest with herself. They perform these rituals and wait and trust as their loved ones weary and their lives are shortened generation by generation. Not to mention the losses her own family has felt. The Valar chose to take her mother before she even knew her, and for that sin, she cannot forgive them, nor trust their design. Men were meant to forge their own destinies, and that is what Pharazôn has in mind for Númenor. Eärien will not sit idly by and allow her fate to claim her. She will determine her own fate, her own outcome as she means for it to happen, and she will live with the choices she has made.

Men were granted this island because of their valiance, their principles, the strength of their souls in choosing to fight against the darkness. It is who they are, and for that Eärien will never apologize. They owe no favors nor allegiance to anyone but to each other.

In time, she hopes still, she might sway her brother to open his eyes. She knows she has failed to do so on this visit, but that does not mean they are all beyond saving. At least for little Elendur’s sake. Númenor is his birthright. Isildur will come to understand this one day. And they have many years, many, many years still to go. Eärien determines that she will not give him up, not just yet. There is time.

She turns to Isildur and embraces him. “I am sorry, Isil,” she says to him, her voice breaking. She clutches him tightly and closes her eyes, willing her love for him to pass through her fingers and keep him safe. She feels his arms around her, but they are not as warm as they had been before. She kisses his cheek, but he does not respond in kind.

Isildur gives her a nod and steps back when she finally lets him go. He is quiet and an awkward silence surrounds them. Yet he continues to stare at her, something clearly on his mind but not yet on his lips.

“What is it?” Eärien asks, growing impatient. This is not a moment for brooding like a petulant youth, and she nearly tells him so. “Say what it is you have to say.”

Isildur looks away for a moment, then gives his sister a hard stare.

“It was the son of your king that ended the life of our dear friend,” he says in Sindarin, likely wagering that the King’s Guard will not understand, especially when he speaks in such a roundabout fashion. Eärien herself seems to need a moment to process his words.

It makes no sense. She does not believe him. This is not at all what happened to Valandil. She has been told; the people of Armenelos were told what happened. Kemen’s fault lies in his failure to prevent such violence, not in engaging in it.

“Who… who told you that?” Eärien stammers finally.

“Father.”

She shakes her head quickly. “He’s wrong, it cannot be.”

“He saw it happen. Has he ever lied to us?” Isildur points out. He is right, Eärien knows. Their father speaks the truth to them. At least, he speaks what he believes is the truth. He always has.

“No, I don’t mean… but that’s not… that’s not true. It was one of the King’s Guard, in self-defense. There was a riot. That solider was sent away as punishment.” That part is true, she is sure of it. The solider was young and new to the Guard. Kemen ought not to have given him such responsibility with his level of inexperience.

“There was no riot, Eärien,” Isildur insists. But how would he know for certain? He was not there, and neither was Kemen. That’s what she was told. She looks to her father, who has remained silent thus far.

“Kemen wasn’t… he… he was there?”

Elendil nods, his face full of sorrow, and Eärien’s head is spinning. It must be true then, but how can it be? Besides the improbability of Kemen committing such a reckless act, Valandil was far more skilled with a sword. He would have been able to fend off an attack from Kemen, so long as they were sparring fairly. But what if Kemen… he might…

Eärien shakes her head. It was so long ago, and if what Isildur says is true, why would her father have kept it from her? Why would Pharazôn? Perhaps Elendil might have wanted to spare her feelings, but… still, it makes no sense. Is that why Pharazôn sent Kemen to Middle-earth? And how could Kemen do such a thing? It is not in his nature, yet… well, perhaps she does not know him like she thought.

“I need to speak with the King,” she decides, taking in a long breath. “I… I must go and speak with Ar-Pharazôn.”

Isildur comes to her and once more takes her hand. “Stay with us, Eärien,” he says gently. “Watch my son grow up. Find someone here to make a life with and raise your own sons—if that’s what you desire. Or don’t, and stay ever in our home. It was once yours, and it can be again.” He squeezes her hand and he looks at once so sad and boyish yet steadfast and grown that she nearly does not recognize him. “There are builders in Andúnië still,” he continues. “They will want your designs. We may not have the riches for materials but there are steadfast and willing laborers and resources abound.”

“I… I cannot.” Distraught, Eärien shakes her head and blinks back her tears. Now is not the time. “You cannot ask that of me, Isildur. You promised you wouldn’t. You are being cruel.”

“I am trying to save my sister. Pharazôn is taking Númenor in a direction you ought not want to go. Your fealty to him can bring you no good.”

Eärien’s eyes flash in anger. “Can’t it? Isil, the king finally trusts me again. Do you think he would have permitted my travel here if I had not proved my loyalty to him? I do not want to lose my family, but I cannot live among these people. I cannot. I will not. My home is in Armenelos.”

“Yet it was once here,” Isildur argues quietly. “It can be again.”

“No. It never was. Only for visits, now and then, that is all. As it was today.” She speaks firmly, with resolution. Whatever the truth about what happened in the shrine—and she will find out the truth—Isildur has no right to question her principles or expect her to forgo them at his request. They have agreed not to ask this of each other.

“You do not have to follow our beliefs to live among us, you know,” he offers. “Even if you do not claim yourself Faithful, you might stay with us. Anárion will abide but Father says. He has promised.”

“The Faithful won’t have me, Isil. It’s not possible.” She takes a breath. The next part is painful to admit, but she knows that it is true. “Father won’t have me here unless I am Faithful. And I am not.”

“Father will have you.” Isildur turns to Elendil, a hopeful look on his face. But Elendil’s expression is grave.

“No,” he says softly. Gently even. “No, she is correct. I… I cannot allow it.”

Isildur’s jaw drops. “How can you say such a thing?” he sputters. Elendil sighs and steps closer, but does not try to touch him.

“This is a community for the Faithful. It is the only one we have. The only one we’re allowed. I have sworn a duty to keep them safe, and for that to be so… it must remain open only to the Faithful. There is no place for King’s Men here.”

“Not even your daughter?”

Elendil turns to Eärien. He looks so broken-hearted, she thinks. And she is angry that Isildur is forcing their father to admit all of this aloud. But he looks at her as he speaks, as though he wishes to apologize for the reality he must name. “If… if she is indeed a King’s Man, then… then no, not even for my daughter.”

She sighs and there is a silence for a moment. There will not be resolution to this discussion, Eärien knows. This is not how she had hoped to conclude her visit, and it is not fair. It is not fair of Isil to spoil it like this. Eärien swallows hard and turns her gaze. “Father, thank you for allowing me to come. You might have turned me away, and been with good reason to do so, but I am grateful that you did not.”

Elendil embraces her, and she feels his fingers in her hair and a kiss upon her temple. “Please come again,” he murmurs, but it seems they both know that is unlikely.

She turns to her brother and Isildur steps forward, arms crossed. “Farewell then. Azruphêl.”

His words cut deep and Eärien nearly gasps. Her throat becomes tight and it is a moment before she manages a breath. Her beloved Isildur, always a protector and one who chose to understand. He could have said nothing to wound her more severely. Her lip quivers and she gives a tight nod. She will not allow him to see her soften and bend because of his words.

She turns to leave and gives a sharp gesture to the King’s Guard to make ready the carriage, which has been brought to the front already. As she passes the gate, Eärien glances back to see Elendil turn and say something to Isildur, his expression hard and angry. Isildur looks down, as though he is being scolded. Good, Eärien thinks.

She climbs into her carriage and quickly shuts the door, directing Zôrzagar and Minluzîr to ride along outside the coach. She is in no mood for their company.

Chapter Text

Isildur sees the wounded devastation in his sister’s face and for once in his life, he is glad of it. He will feel shame later, he is certain, but for now he is pleased that he has hurt her. If nothing else, the pain in her eyes shows that his loyalty still matters to her, and that there is yet hope of saving her, of swaying her to rejoin the fold of the Faithful and end this disastrous collusion with Pharazôn. But in a way that shames him, a thirst for revenge makes him glad that she is hurt. Because he has been wounded time and again by her choices and chosen to forgive what she has done and justify her actions to others—those he cares deeply for—even when it has harmed them, without judging her. So maybe it is good for her to feel the betrayal for once.

Isildur winces when he catches sight of his father and braces himself for the coming storm. Elendil is positively furious, and with good reason. He makes a move as though to grab Isildur’s arm, but then puts his hand to own forehead instead. For a moment, Isildur fears he might truly lose his temper. He would not blame him; Isildur is prepared to defend his actions. “I thought it was understood that you would mind your tongue,” Elendil finally growls.

“I cannot abandon her,” Isildur insists. “She must understand the choices she’s making. She is being deceived, you know that. I… I cannot stand back and keep silent on the truth.”

“Your words endangered our people, Isildur. Endangered your family. Do you not see what might have happened?” His protective instinct triggered, Isildur almost demands that his father leave Estrid and Elendur out of the matter, but thinks better of it. “Pharazôn does not need a reason to unleash the King’s Guard on civilians,” Elendil continues, “yet you insist on giving him one.”

“Sometimes there are no wise choices,” Isildur retorts. “You gave me that advice once.”

“Isildur. The wise choice was to mind your tongue, as was agreed upon. As was ordered.” He sighs. “I understand your worries, have I not made that validation clear enough to you? Yet this is not the time. You… you put innocent lives at risk with that outburst. That cannot happen again.”

Isildur drops his head. His anger has faded to sadness, and a sense of defeat begins to creep in. The day had begun with so much promise, and continued on so for hours. Yet here they stand. Inwardly, he curses himself. “Forgive me,” he mumbles to Elendil. He hesitates to confront the what could be the truth, but his father seems to have accepted it. “She… she is lost then, is she not?”

He feels Elendil’s hand on the back of his neck, giving a gentle squeeze. Isildur gathers his courage and raises his head to look him in the eye. “Ever there is hope, son. We will not give up,” Elendil promises. “And yet… I fear she may be… well, as you have said.” Elendil looks away, shaking his head. He squeezes Isildur’s neck again and pats his shoulder. “I am sorry, Isil.”

Isildur can only nod. This is a crisis Elendil cannot solve for him, and Isildur is not accustomed to such a situation. He heaves a deep sigh. “I am sorry too, Father.” For what, he does not say, and Elendil does not ask. For everything, if he is being honest. For his tantrum, for his disrespect, for stirring up hope in the first place. His father’s hands are full as they are, and he does not need more headaches from his offspring.

When they join the others inside, neither one mentions how things were left with Eärien. Amandil is there in the main hall, with Anárion and Alpheth. Elendur is occupied with his blocks on the rug and Estrid is holding some parchments. Isildur looks at her quizzically.

“Eärien asked that I wait until after her departure to give this to you,” she explains. “I wished to show you straightaway, but it’s what she requested. It’s a gift… for me. For us.”

“What is it?” Elendil asks. Still melancholy, Isildur shows only the slightest interest. He really would prefer to disappear with his thoughts for a while and avoid the idle chatter that will no doubt be on the topic of his sister, especially when he has been so unkind to her.

But Elendil’s face lights up when he steps forward to look at Estrid’s parchment, and he beckons the others.

“Oh Estrid,” Alpheth breathes, squeezing her sister-in-law’s arm. “She made this for you?”

“Yes,” Estrid replies, grinning. “I asked for the favor thinking she could only say yes or no. And then I nearly wept when she was finished.”

“Isildur,” Elendil says gently. “Come and see.”

Isildur’s eyes sting when he looks at the drawing Eärien has made of his son. His bright, brave boy, strong and serious and gentle. Isildur recognizes her style of sketching well enough, with memories of her pictures pasted around the house in Armenelos. Some of them came back to Andúnië, Isildur knows, stashed away in a drawer in Elendil’s desk. He recalls almost fondly the days when she was preparing her application to the Builders’ Guild, tasked with submitting not only model plans for buildings, but drawings of a variety of subjects, including people. Isildur had been on edge about his own future but made time to be her primary—and only—willing model. He sat for hours on end it seemed, while she sketched him in numerous poses and facial expressions and politely ignored his chatter about the West.

In return for his service, she had drawn a portrait of Berek and presented it to him when she submitted her portfolio. Months later, when he departed for the expedition, he had considered tucking the drawing into his pack for good luck, but ultimately left it behind in one of his drawers, sharing the space with his most precious treasures, including his ring. He is grateful to his past self for neglecting to indulge the impulse to take it along, and thus he has the picture still, tacked to the wall in the study with a dozen other papers of moderate importance.

He stares captivated at Elendur’s portrait. It is beautiful, of course. She has captured the boy’s spirit as though she has known him all his life. His serious expression, his fervent curiosity, the tenacious grip he always keeps on his blanket. Isildur sees even the trace of the little dimple that comes out when Elendur smiles and remains fairly hidden at all other times. He scrutinizes each detail and his heart swells more with each discovery. He glances up at Estrid, who is beaming.

“I trust you like it?” she asks. She nudges Elendil, who wears a proud expression.

“Oh yes,” Isildur breathes. “It’s… it’s just perfect.” He looks over at his son, stacking his wooden bricks carefully with one hand, the other of course clutching his beloved blanket. He had not had the foresight to ask Eärien to draw Elendur, but it was a splendid idea of Estrid’s, and he is grateful that she has thought of it. It is curious that his sister did not want to present it herself, but he imagines she has her reasons. He frowns, remembering the exchange just a few minutes before. He has failed her, truly. He does not even deserve this gift, but he will accept it for his wife and his son.

He looks back at the picture, catching the detail of the little horses Eärien has drawn stitched along the edge of Elendur’s blanket. Isildur’s eyes follow it to the corner of the parchment and he spies his sister’s signature. It is written in Adûnaic letters, of course, and it reads simply Eärien.

Isildur swallows hard.

Eärien.

Not Azruphêl. Eärien. As she has always been. As she may always be.

He calmly hands the drawing back to Estrid and with a quick breath, bolts from the house. He hears his father call after him yet he does not stop. There will be time for explanation later. He does not know if there is still a chance to get to her but he will certainly try. Elendil cannot hope to catch him but he follows as quickly as he dares. Isildur can almost hear his father’s prayers to the Valar to grant him good judgment in whatever he has decided to do.

The carriage moves slowly down the narrow lane on which lies the estate of the Lord of Andúnië. Zôrzagar stops several times to question citizens walking along the thoroughfare about their business, although it is none of his. Eärien wishes to be on their way. She has had enough of the Faithful and almost considers ordering Zôrzagar and Minluzîr to once again tether their mounts and ride in the coach with her. The driver had moved much quicker when setting his own pace and enduring their stares might be worth an expedited exit.

At length they leave the residential area behind them and move along the open road heading for the gates of the city. Eärien breathes a sigh of relief, but she is far from at ease. The emotion of the day is upon her and she has had much added to her swirling thoughts.

Just when they begin to make a bit of progress along the journey, she hears Zôrzagar curse his mount as it makes some kind of protest, and then the shouts from someone further behind them, their boots pounding the paved road at a fast pace. Eärien closes her eyes.

“I’m sorry!” her brother calls. Isil’s voice is desperate and full of regret. “Eärien! Do you hear me? It’s your brother! I’m sorry! Please! Forgive me, Eärien daughter of Elendil!” His footsteps and his voice become quieter before they too soon fade in the distance, and the coach carries on.

How can she reply? Of course she will forgive him, just as he has forgiven her, she hopes. She might put her hand out the window as some kind of signal to him. She might call on the driver to stop so she can speak to Isil properly. Yet that would invite confrontation, and such would be dangerous for Isil, especially if he were to get the upper hand. The lessons Eärien has learned from losing Valandil remain, even if the context has been put into question.

The footsteps and her brother’s voice are gone now. She does not dare to look back, as much as she would like to. She is relieved when she sees Zôrzagar’s horse next to the carriage, with its rider in place. They are headed back to Armenelos, leaving Andúnië behind them, for the most part the same as they found it.

Eärien settles back against her cushion and moves a few strands of hair from her face. Her hand falls onto the flower still behind her ear and she gently pulls it out. She sniffs it again and smiles sadly at the fragrance that lingers. After a moment’s thought, she retrieves her sketchbook from her satchel—she is never without it—presses it between the pages. It is vardianna, the Queen’s favorite, she recalls. Perhaps Ar-Zimraphel would like to take in its fragrance since she loves it so. There are vardianna plants in Armenelos, indeed growing in the palace gardens, but certainly not as potent as those grown in the West.

It is quite like Isildur to chase after her carriage without thought to the consequences. He has grown and she was indeed proud to see the light in his eyes when he held his son or spoke of his wife. But he is still Isildur, and there is an impulsiveness to him that she thinks may never fade away. It is part of his determination, his belief that he must set things right and the responsibility he puts on himself to make it so. It is a wonder Elendil did not stop him from taking such a risk, but her father does seem to be more inclined to indulge Isildur’s closest-held principles.

Eärien sighs with a twinge in her heart. She probably ought to have indulged him as well. He is owed his irritation, his anger even. She knows it cannot be an easy path for Isil in these times. He is caught between these two sides and she knows he does not want to choose. She wishes he did not have to, but that is not in her control. Isildur is steadfast, she knows, even in his wayward years. He holds his ideals deep in his heart and he does not abandon them. Nor does he abandon those he loves. And Eärien knows that he loves her very much. She only prays that his love for her is enough to bring him—and his wife and son—to understand the peril in the path he has chosen.

From Isildur and Estrid, her thoughts drift to Kemen, and she considers what she has learned today. She is not sure how she will handle this new information, though she is adamant that she will learn the truth, whatever it may be. Should she confront Kemen about these allegations? He would likely just deny them, and he speaks half-truths so often that it is difficult to know when he is lying. She cannot antagonize the King either, with her position in the court and the guild still so fragile. Surely there are some members of the King’s Guard who might speak truthfully, if she can arrange anonymity. She catches sight of Minluzîr through the window.

Still, Kemen is not without value to her, though it seems he is completely useless in his father’s eyes. An official position in the palace court might land her more sway with how the King chooses to deal with the Faithful. There are in a position of limbo at the moment—exiled but not ex-communicated; still a part of Númenor but not welcome to participate. Eärien might, if given the circumstances, have a chance to assert a bit of influence into how their treatment. She does not think it’s possible to convince Pharazôn to include the Faithful in his council, even in the name of statecraft, but he might offer minimal representation as a courtesy to someone whose opinion he respects. She might be that person someday.

Isildur may not appreciate her relationship to the King, but it has brought her favor, and Pharazôn’s trust is a valuable asset. With no incidents from this visit to be reported, he might be inclined to allow future visits for her to see her family. Perhaps she might even be permitted to bring them to Armenelos one day.

She wants to see her family more often, of course. But it is not proper for her to frequent the West and stay at length within a Faithful settlement. And she fears she might someday be asked to collect information about them, given her connections. She does not want to be in the position to deny or agree such a request, yet she cannot betray her father. Not again.

She is haunted by his dismissal from the Sea Guard, just moments after she had snidely accepted culpability for the change in codes. Truly, she had thought Elendil would accept the new parameters of service and swear fealty to Pharazôn, whether he believed him to be the true ruler or not. Or that he might initially decline but be swayed by her argument. He would mutter about it, certainly, and stubbornly refuse, but ultimately he loves the sea and his place is on the ship.

He had told her as much many times when she was young. More than once Elendil had come to Andúnië to retrieve his children acting cross and agitated after a particularly trying voyage. He grumbled to Amandil about this merchant or that member of his crew or those sea routes that made little sense to him, all of it often within earshot of Eärien and her brothers. But he always laughed when Eärien would tug at his tunic and suggest he try something else, like carpentry or smithing or ship-building. Selya, he would say, pulling her onto his knee, I was not meant for anything else. My place—when not with you, of course—is on my ship. She would argue back from time to time, but he always insisted he could do nothing else in life, even if he had wanted to. You will understand one day, he had promised. Perhaps you will grow to love the sea as I do and find comfort in her sounds and smells. And know that Ulmo brings tidings from the Valar for those that are Faithful.

She never imagined that he would relinquish that privilege. She is ashamed that she put him in such a position.

Elendil is waiting for Isildur at the end of the lane and walks back to the house with him. Isildur is out of breath and distraught, for he does not know if Eärien has heard him. He is ashamed of himself and fears Eärien may never return. He cringes at the thought.

“I could go after them on horseback,” he suggests. “I’ll have Berek made ready, and he can overtake those horses. He’s of superior stock, you know. I’ll make amends with her and be certain she hears me.”

Elendil rests a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head. “You cannot take such a risk. It is far too perilous to put yourself alone with the King’s Guard, even if your sister is there.” He drops his hand and tilts his head apologetically. “For all that we know, Pharazôn may have designed all of this to bait one of us out of confined lands. And if so, what then? What will become of you?”

Isildur frowns. “I am not afraid to stand up to them.”

“I am not suggesting that you are afraid. But you have duties to others now, Isil. To the Faithful, yes, but to your wife and to your son. You have a responsibility to… to keep yourself alive.”

He is right, of course. Isildur thinks it is probably best not to share his idea with Estrid. “I… uh… well, yes, I see that,” he stammers. “Yet… am I to let her go then? Is that what you’re suggesting?” His voice breaks a little and he chews his lip.

“No, not that. I know that she is dear to you. Do you hear me? I know. She is dear to me, Isildur. And yet, I… I have not been the father she has needed at times. I must live with that. I cannot go into the past and change what I have or have not done.” He stops walking for a moment, and Isildur touches his arm.

“Father?”

Elendil merely shakes his head. “You do not want that burden upon your shoulders. Believe me. You cannot forsake your duties to Estrid and Elendur.”

“I would never!”

“No, I believe you never would do so, not in your intentions. But I am trying to tell you, senya… you might have to make a choice one day. That day might be soon. It might be now. You might have to choose between saving your sister… and protecting your son.”

He reaches for his son’s arm, but Isildur flinches and pulls away. That is not a choice Isildur ever wants to think about. He will not think about it. Elendil reaches again and pulls Isildur closer, this time with firm resolution. “Isil.” His voice is gentle but there is no mistaking the gravity of his words. “Eärien was my responsibility. She is still. But the responsibility is mine. Elendur is yours.”

Isildur looks at his father. He has no words left to say. How does one answer such a thought?

Elendil squeezes the back of Isildur's neck and gives his shoulder a clap before he starts walking again. “But come,” he invites, glancing back at him. “There is something more for you to see.”

Inside, no one makes a mention of Isildur’s sudden exit. They are still gathered in the main hall and Amandil is seated at the table, his brows furrowed as he examines a second parchment. The drawing of Elendur has been placed carefully on the mantlepiece. “Your sister also left this,” Estrid says, beckoning Isildur. “I can read the letters, but it makes no sense from what I can tell. It looks like a bit of poetry, though.” Elendil leans over opposite his father and hums as he too tries to decipher the writing.

When Isildur joins them, he finds they are correct in that the Adûnaic letters do not form real words. But it is unlike Eärien to leave a cryptic message with no meaning.

“Perhaps a code,” Anárion suggests.

His words stir a memory in Isildur’s mind. When they were children, he and Anárion would sometimes write secret messages to one another in Adûnaic letters, knowing Eärien could not yet read them. Each of the siblings had begun their education at home when they were quite small, with lessons taught in Sindarin and Quenya; Written Adûnaic was learned when they enrolled at the King’s Academy as youths. And so, in their efforts to annoy their younger sister, Isildur and Anárion would occasionally pass silly messages back and forth using Adûnaic letters to spell words in Sindarin, the language they knew best.

Isildur moves to look over his grandfather’s shoulder and places a finger on the parchment. Tracing slowly across the text, he mutters the sound of each letter as he goes. His voice grows louder and more fluid as he hears that indeed Eärien has done just as he and his brother had so many years ago. And wisely, too, for if the King’s Guard had laid eyes upon this text, their alarm would not be raised at first glance. If they attempted to read it, it would make no sense.

He grins and shakes his head at his sister’s cleverness. He clears his throat and takes the parchment in his hands to read clearly. It is a poem—he hears the rhyme as he recites the words, though the meaning is not altogether clear at first read.

“The sea has drifted far and wide,
chasing dreams upon the tide.
The stars lit paths she could not stay,
but still she thinks of them each day.

The moon climbs high with quiet grace,
a steady light she longs to chase.
The sun still burns with stubborn flame,
and she aches to hear him speak her name.

The stars have watched from heights above,
their eyes a map, their gaze in love.
She hopes they know, through storm and flight,
she carries them with her all the night.”

The room falls silent when Isildur finishes. He exchanges a glance with Estrid, who leans into his arm, her eyes wet. Looking to his father, he sees that Elendil is solemn, his expression neutral. Isildur turns back to the poem in front of him, the words and their meaning soaking in. Her sister has not forgotten them. He does not know if this sentiment can change any circumstances, but he finds it important. It will matter. He feels a lump in his throat and swallows it back.

“The sun,” Anárion finally murmurs, and Isildur’s thoughts return to their earlier discussion in the garden.

“Do you see?” he snaps. “She cares for you still.” But Anárion is, as before, unshaken. He gives a small shrug.

“She cares for all of us,” Amandil admits, rising from his seat. He briefly places a hand on Elendil’s shoulder. “Perhaps… perhaps I ought to have visited with her. I am not sure I would stay away if given the chance to choose differently.” A smile peeks out of the corner of Elendil’s mouth, Isildur notices. He is glad.

“She would have liked to see you, I’m sure of it,” Elendil replies. Isildur is surprised to hear his father answer back Amandil in such a way. Elendil is grown of course, a grandfather himself, but showing the utmost respect to their elders is second nature to all of them. He appears to realize his mistake and apologizes quickly. “Forgive me, Father. Yet I confess there is bitterness in my heart. You are far wiser than I am, yet you chose to stay away when your company was desired by one who loves you. It… it disappointed me.” Amandil says nothing, only nods his acceptance of the rebuke.

Anárion, however, seems to have no regrets. “We might have enjoyed some conversation, a bit of reminiscing, but I cannot measure that against my integrity. There is no compromise on that.” He crosses his arms. If he was moved by Eärien’s poetry, the sentiment has passed.

“She deserves a farewell then, Anárion,” Isildur points out. “If you mean for this to be an end to your relationship, she deserves a farewell.” He speaks sternly, careful not to scold or lecture. He does not wish to taunt his brother, but will speak the truth as he sees it.

“She will not receive one from me,” Anárion insists. He shrugs again. “I will not acknowledge a King’s Man, nor hold counsel with one in my home, no matter their relation to me.” Isildur’s heart sinks. He understands Elendil’s disappointment in Amandil, for now he feels it keenly himself with Anárion.

“Stay your judgment, Anárion,” Amandil cautions, “and harden not your heart. For we are part of the Faithful, and we are not as the King’s Men. Our beliefs and our rituals separate us, yes, but that is not the only border.” Anárion’s expression changes. Amandil's word is law to him, and if there is anyone to convince him to open his heart again to Eärien, it is their grandfather. “The Faithful seek to learn and grow, especially when we are young, but not only when we are young. We acknowledge that there are those who are greater and wiser than we know ourselves to be. Do not become so stubborn and vain as to forget that, grandson.”

“But he must decide for himself,” Estrid interjects suddenly, and all eyes turn to her. She looks startled by the attention, uncomfortable even, but Amandil gives a gesture for her to continue. She takes a breath and does so. “I mean to say, it must be his choice, without interference. Because he will live with that choice and the consequences, good or bad, it brings.” She turns to her husband. “If he follows your direction and it turns out that you’re wrong, what then? He must live with that, and know that he might have chosen otherwise if he had listened to his heart.”

Isildur does not know how to respond. He has learned it is no good to argue back, however calmly, on this subject. Estrid has long proved her experience in making hard choices and suffering the aftermath. And so Isildur says nothing and waits.

Estrid squeezes Isildur’s hand and steps toward Anárion. “You are my brother now too, but I will not contradict my husband—and I do very much agree with him. I believe that if you do not either make amends or give a final farewell to your sister, you will regret it once the opportunity is no longer there. You do not know when she will truly be lost forever. She is your sister, your blood. But it is you who shall have to live with whatever action you choose to take. And so you must be the one to decide.”

Anárion listens, his mouth a thin line, and for once offers no retort. The room falls silent again until Elendur crawls to the group and tugs at his mother’s skirts. Smiling, Estrid lifts him with a small grunt. “A sturdy pony you are, my light,” she laughs, gathering his blanket before he can fuss about leaving it behind. She turns to the others. “Well. I shall go tell Alyare that we are ready for the evening meal, are we not?”

Amandil nods his approval and Estrid slips out quietly, after a quick wink at Isildur.

He turns to his brother. “Well?”

Anárion can only shake his head. “Isil, she is wise,” he acknowledges. “Careful as you go, with a woman so wise and clever as the one you’ve married.”

Isildur looks fondly toward the door Estrid has gone through and counts himself quite lucky. He meets Anárion’s gaze with a knowing smile. “She is very wise indeed,” he agrees before smirking. “She agreed to be my wife, did she not?”

Chapter Text

The evening meal is quiet but typical. The food is plentiful and a bit more fancy than their usual fare. Elendil thanks the kitchen maid as she pours fresh wine, and she remarks with a laugh that they were made to stay in all day with little to do but prepare for this meal. Furthermore, Alyare is sampling dishes for Elendur’s birthday feast, and has requested commentary. Elendil is pleased to be reminded of the event that had occupied the mood of the house before Eärien’s letter arrived.

Little Elendur is calm during supper, quiet and still during the blessings before and after the meal. He recognizes the importance of these sacred rituals already, Elendil believes. He may not fully grasp their significance, but he knows how to behave for them, and that is thanks to the role models with whom he has been surrounded. His father and mother are raising him well, and that is all Elendil can wish for his grandchildren. He glances at Alpheth and thinks of the child she is carrying. Surely she and Anárion will prove to be adept parents as well.

When the table is clear, they gather at the hearth for tales and conversation. Elendur sits with Elendil until a yawn escapes his mouth and he toddles to his mother, rubbing his eyes. Estrid gently fingers through his curls as she bends to pick him up, and Elendil thinks for a moment she will take him to bed. But instead she suggests one last story for him, from his great-grandfather, and Amandil gives his reserved smile and consents. With Elendur nestled in his mother’s lap, Amandil draws a long breath and begins to speak of Eärendil: the story of his birth, the joy he brought to his father and mother despite the troubled times, and how they brought him up with the wisdom of the Eldar and the courage of Men. Anárion squeezes Alpheth’s hand and they share a smile, while Estrid and Isildur beam at Elendur, now properly drowsy.

The commotion of the day has settled onto all of them, it seems. After Amandil has finished his tale, Anárion rises and offers Alpheth his hand, then announces their retirement to their own home. “Grandfather, will you join us?” Anárion asks, but Amandil shakes his head.

“No, my dears, I believe I will linger a bit here by the hearth.” He gives them a blessing and they bid him goodnight, and Estrid stands to take Elendur to bed. She yawns herself as she brings him to Elendil, who places his hand on his grandson’s head and murmurs his blessing, asking the Valar to bring him restful sleep and pleasant thoughts. With his thumb, Elendil gently traces a star on his forehead.

“May Eru guide your dreams, grandson,” he finishes, dropping a kiss to Elendur’s crown. Elendur responds in kind, rubbing his nose in Elendil’s beard with a giggle. Elendil closes his eyes briefly, taking in the joyful sound of his grandson’s laughter and the smell of Elendur’s soft curls. How he treasures this child and the hope he brings to his heart.

Smiling, Isildur too rises to his feet with a stretch. “Father… thank you for today,” he says sincerely. “It did us all good, I believe.” He pauses and Elendil can see a bit of shame in his eyes, and knows what he is about to say. He thinks to stop him, but changes his mind. Isildur is owed his opportunity to make amends. “I apologize for my lapse in judgment. You’ll forgive me?”

“Of course, Isil.” The relieved look on Isildur’s face is enough to make Elendil put aside any remaining irritation. Amandil raises his eyebrows but says nothing. He will find out soon enough, Elendil decides. “Mára este, senya.”

After a nod of gratitude, Isildur places his hand on Amandil’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. Amandil takes his hand and kisses it, and Isildur follows his wife to their quarters, leaving Elendil and Amandil alone by the fire.

“It pleases me to hear it was a good day,” Amandil muses. “It seems everyone enjoyed themselves.”

“More or less,” Elendil responds, unable to hide the edge in his voice.

“There was some unpleasantness then,” Amandil guesses. Elendil looks away. “I suspected Isil had reason to leave out of the house so suddenly. What is it, my son?”

With a sigh, Elendil recounts Isildur’s words to Eärien and the aftermath, and his disappointment in seeing Isildur unable to restrain himself. And then his own feelings of helplessness, watching his daughter choose the King’s Men over the Faithful, fully understanding the consequences, even after she learned the truth of that horrible night in the shrine.

“I have failed her,” Elendil murmurs. “It was my charge to guide her with a firm foundation, to encourage her to align her goals with truth, beauty, peace… with the will of Eru. I thought I might one day… that she might… well, that with reflection she would come to be with us and all would be well again. But that is not to be, it seems.” He shakes his head. “How I wish there were no sides to choose.”

Amandil is quiet for a few moments, likely carefully considering his words before speaking. “And yet there are sides to choose. I will not say that you bear no responsibility. But you are wrong about one thing: it was not solely your charge to teach her to live in harmony with the light. That responsibility lies on my shoulders as well, and with the rest of our community. The Faithful take care of each other, and we are all responsible for this… departure from our faith.”

Elendil is surprised by the tears that sting his eyes. He is not one to be bested by his emotions, especially in front of others. But neither is he ashamed. He takes a hard swallow and looks away, reminding himself that this is his father, and if he cannot trust his father with his thoughts, then whom can he trust? And how can he expect his own children to be honest with him? He turns back to Amandil and sees only patience and concern in his eyes.

“It may be the responsibility of our people, but it is I who suffers the loss,” Elendil whispers. “And I fear that I am losing her, right at this moment. Perhaps she is already gone.” His voice breaks and he closes his eyes, struggling to maintain his composure. He feels Amandil’s hand on the back of his neck, gentle but firm, and not unlike the method Elendil often uses to calm Isil.

Amandil is standing now, and soon Elendil rises too. He falls into his father’s arms and embraces him tightly, as if he were still a young boy saying farewell before Amandil left Andúnië to serve on the ship or on the council in Armenelos. Elendil would cling to him and send up prayers to the Valar to keep him safe, as though his life depended on Elendil’s piety. Now he embraces his father and lays his head on his shoulder and does not care that he may break at any moment.

He cannot hold onto Eärien. He understands this. She will make her life and her own choices and he cannot make them for her, nor demand that she bend to his will. He has raised her and she is grown and all he can offer her now are his prayers. And his love. He gives both freely and if her poem is to be believed, she knows this. He will have to come to terms with many things, and he does not want to. But he has come to understand that it is not just Eärien he fears he is losing.

Amandil has not spoken about any plans he keeps in his mind or heart. He rarely does anyway, but of late Elendil has noticed his father absorbed in maps and some rarely-read scrolls, and going off on walks alone, declining Anárion’s request to join him, a rarity in itself. He suspects Amandil is planning some scheme and he fears that he has precious little time left with his father. He cannot carry this thought.

His mother had chosen to receive her gift far too early in Elendil’s opinion, but he accepted her choice, because that is not for anyone else to question. Eru has given them this gift for a reason, after all. Yet Elendil’s wife was denied this choice, and their idyllic existence had begun to crumble. Sitting with his father and his sons and their families tonight, he believed that perhaps the family could become whole again. Perhaps they are as whole as one can be, given the times they are in and the times they have lived through. The cracks might be repaired in time, but there are so many, far beyond what one might call fair. Elendil simply cannot lose anyone else. He cannot bear it.

“Don’t go,” he whispers.

“My son,” Amandil says softly. “I will stay here as long as you need me. All night if you wish, do you hear?”

“No… no I mean… it’s not that.” Elendil collects himself and slowly pulls back. He takes a long breath. “Your gift, Father. Please. We need you. Don’t go yet.”

Amandil's eyes are full of understanding—and sadness. He pulls Elendil close once more and kisses him. “My son,” he repeats, and Elendil feels his grip tighten, almost too tight, but it is holding him together. Later he will regroup and get himself together and tomorrow he will once again be the Lord of Andúnië, ever the steadfast leader of the Faithful and ready to take on the challenges that come their way. But tonight, in this moment, he allows himself to be Elendil, Amandil’s son.

Isildur finds Estrid in Elendur’s nursery, tucking him into his cot after nursing him almost to sleep. She is singing to him, a lullaby from the Southlands that she has sung enough times for Isildur to recognize the melody. He smiles, hearing her voice sing old words that are familiar to her, but sound foreign to him. The way she sings, he knows the song must be dear to her. Perhaps her own mother sang it. He will have to remember to ask. These things are important to Isildur, and to the Faithful. They are not trapped in the past, but they treasure it. They value the connections to the past and the traditions—the stories and the songs—that are passed from generation to generation, lullabies sung by a mother to her daughter, who will grow up and sing them to her son. This is how they stay in the light.

Elendur will grow up with a love for Númenor in his heart, but an understanding of other lands. He will not look down on the low men from Middle-earth, for Isildur can attest that there are grand things there. Someday he might see them again. Someday his son might as well. He stays a bit at Elendur’s cot, listening for his rhythmic breaths that show he is asleep. When he is satisfied that his son is deep in rest, he gently kisses Elendur’s head and retreats.

In their room, Isildur sheds his day clothes with a sigh, suddenly exhausted. Estrid has already changed to her linen shift and sits by the vanity braiding her hair with nimble, practiced fingers. “You’ve come to bed earlier than usual,” she observes, looking at him through the mirror as he pulls his sleep tunic over his head. “Usually when this happens, well…” she blushes a bit and smiles.

Isildur shrugs his tunic on properly and offers a smirk. “Indeed, my love.” He joins her by the mirror and drops a kiss on her head. “Perhaps in the morning, to begin the day. My head is muddled with too many thoughts.” He feels sheepish, but he need not hide himself with Estrid.

Her braids complete, Estrid rises and threads her arms around Isildur, pressing her cheek to his chest. She feels warm and he closes his eyes, content in the embrace for just a few moments. “The day has been long and my mind is so noisy right now,” he explains. “I… I need…” He cannot finish his thought. He does not know what he needs. Only that right now, he finds peace with Estrid in his arms.

“Tell me,” Estrid urges. She looks up at him, her face so calm and trusting, as though she is prepared to see to whatever he names. “What is it that you need, Isil?”

It all feels too heavy and he is grateful when she tugs at his neck and brings him to her for a kiss. She smiles at him and touches his cheek, and he is lost for moment in her bright eyes. “I need you,” he murmurs. “Yes? I need this family, I need us to remain together. I don’t know what times are to come, but I need you. Is that all right?”

Estrid’s gaze is loving and she holds him tighter than before. They make their way to the bed and settle in, Estrid nestling into the crook of Isildur’s arm. “Isildur,” she yawns, “whatever times are to come, we will face them together. I need you as well, you know.” She turns up at him and smiles and Isildur can only gaze at her and her beauty. He adores her. She is strength and grace and truth and love, and all he could ever need to feel whole and good. She makes him a better man, a man that he likes, the man he wishes to become.

He touches her face, her soft cheek, her tender lips. “Tye-meláne,” he whispers. “Estrid, I love you. So very much.” He kisses her and she kisses him, and he could spend all night in this way if not for the need of air.

“I know,” Estrid answers when they finally pull apart. She twists a lock his hair in her finger and gently lets it go. “You show me every day, Isil. And so I have no reason to doubt.” She kisses him again. “That is good for you, because I simply adore you, and I have decided that I shall have no other. And so, Isildur of Númenor, you are stuck.”

He grins. “Happily so. I wish remain stuck.”

Leaning in close, he closes his eyes and inhales the scent of the soap she has used to wash while preparing for bed, made with honey and the oil pressed from lairelossë petals. He drops a kiss upon her neck and takes a playful nibble of her ear. She giggles and clucks her tongue. “You said in the morning,” she reminds him with a laugh. “Was that a promise?”

He settles back against the pillows and pulls her close to him, relaxed and relieved of some of his worries. “Oh yes, my love,” he sighs. “That is a promise.”

“Very good.”

They arrange their blanket and Estrid turns on her side, facing him, then runs a finger along his jaw, then his cheek, and traces his ear. She smiles at him and he grins back at her, lost in her shining eyes. “It was a good day,” she declares.

Isildur kisses her once more and sighs. He is still shaken by the way the visit concluded, and he will hold regret in his heart forever for his harsh words to his sister. But he got to see Eärien, to spend time with her again, to let her come to know his wife and give her approval, and to see her hold his son. He worries about her for many reasons and suspects that his fears may never be put to rest. Yet he will treasure the memories from today and for them, he is grateful. It was a good day.

Elendur’s first birthday celebration lasts for three days, far longer than Elendil knows Isildur and Estrid would prefer, but they are careful not to break the ban of large gatherings. And so in a near-constant stream of guests, the Faithful community filters in and out of their home to bring their warm wishes and tidings. Elendur is present to receive them as often as he will tolerate, wearing crisp new clothes sewn and tailored by his mother. He is dressed each day in Númenórean blues—deep azure and lapis and cobalt—with his cherished stars embroidered in silver along the neck of his tunics. Estrid has fashioned new tops for Isildur, Elendil, and Anárion as well—Amandil has insisted that he has enough ceremonial clothing—and scarves for herself and for Alpheth. They bear the symbols of their family: the moon, the sun, and the stars.

Most of the festivities are scheduled for the back garden, allowing space for Elendur to play and a layer of security, should unexpected guests from Armenelos choose to investigate the gathering. A feast is held each night, served on simple ceramic dishes and purposely prepared only with ingredients from Andustar, provided in abundance by Faithful farm families. Only the wildflower honey for the spiced wine comes from Elendil’s estate, at his son’s insistence. Isildur recalls warmly how his mother had tended the hives with such care, and taught him not to fear the bees.

Aside from the wine, served warm, they have ale and freshwater, and goat’s milk for the children. There is wholegrain bread with clotted cream, stew of sea greens and root vegetables, seasoned with wild herbs, fish pulled from the sea each morning, seasoned and baked with scallops in the wide fragrant leaves of the yavannamírë tree, salad from sea greens and garden greens, and bowls of dried figs and apricots, walnuts, and almonds. For dessert, along with hot honey cakes, they offer Elendur’s favorite, a mix of berries stewed together with spices, served with sweet yogurt made from goats’ milk to dollop on top.

Together with Gaeliel and Galieth, Elendil presents the stained glass window, to be installed in Elendur’s nursery. It features a familiar forest in the twilight as the stars begin to appear. A horse and a faceless boy rider are shown headed toward the trees to seek adventure, being watched over by the stars—including the brightest in the sky, Eärendil—and a crescent moon in the corner.

Isildur bites his lip when he sees the window for the first time. His arm around Estrid tightens a bit and she pats his hand. “It’s beautiful, yes?” she murmurs, and Isildur nods fiercely. It is beautiful and it is true, he thinks. Ever he will keep a diligent watch over his little boy, and Eärendil will lead them all along the true path.

Elendur receives many, many gifts from the Faithful, some for which he has no need but are of course graciously accepted on his behalf. Besides the impertinence of refusing carefully chosen gifts, Elendil knows that the people of Andúnië need this. They need to have reason for celebration, and the grandson of their lord represents hope, the future of their people; that their people do indeed have a future.

Among his many presents, Elendur is given a horse, a young filly that Isildur guesses might be a mate for Berek once she matures. He lifts his son to sit upon her back and the gift-giver delights in seeing Elendur’s happy squeal. Under his father’s direction, he carefully pets the horse’s coat and his face turns serious as he studies its texture.

He receives a host of animal figures carved from wood, a soft shield and sword, a leather belt long enough to wrap twice around his small body, with an (empty) sheath for a knife; He gets a set of scrolls with morning and evening prayers written for children, a young seedling for the oiolairë tree, a beautiful lute painted with a scene of Lúthien Tinúviel, sweets galore, an intricately carved walking stick, and even a pick of the next litter from Aulendil’s sheepdog.

Elendur himself is asleep in his father’s arms by the time the last gift is unwrapped, but it is of no consequence. The Faithful of Andúnië are pleased to simply join together in a moment of celebration, something that has become so rare in recent years. Compliments of handiwork and appreciation for craft are passed around freely and with sincerity. Isildur does not miss the gleam in his father’s eyes—and Amandil’s as well—as they take in the joy emanating from within the four walls.

Another parcel from Eärien arrives on the second day. Isildur hesitates to open it with an audience, but Estrid takes him aside in the garden to see what Eärien has sent. They need not show anybody, she reasons, but she does not want to wait on Eärien’s gifts. A parchment is rolled at the top of the crate, and Isildur carefully unfurls it, then smiles. It is another portrait, this time of Isildur, Estrid, and Elendur together. She has drawn Elendur laughing in his father’s arms, with Estrid looking on with love in her eyes as Isildur presses a kiss to their son’s cheek. He swallows back a hard lump in his throat as his eyes fall upon her signature, once again styled as Eärien. Today is for celebration and happiness, and this picture does make him so very happy.

Estrid too marvels at Eärien’s work, pointing out Isildur’s handsome face and her own intricate earrings. “I should like to have some like that one day,” she hints. They are beautiful, Isildur admits. Crescent moons with a dangling trail of shimmering stars, not quite as fancy as the style his sister seems to prefer, but just enough to signify someone special.

Isildur hums. “The handsome man in the picture will have to find some like that for you then,” he promises. “Only beware Elendur’s grip. Our son is quite strong, you know.” With a laugh, Estrid compliments the design drawn on Elendur’s tunic as well and muses about copying it into a real garment for him.

Isildur beams at the portrait, his heart full of love for his wife and his son. Eärien has drawn excellent likenesses of them, despite her limited time laying eyes upon Estrid and Elendur. How she has memorized their features so quickly he cannot fathom. Looking over to where Elendur stands in the soft grass, playing in his favorite spot in the garden, Isildur clears the catch in his throat and sighs deeply. Anárion sits with his nephew, his legs stretched out for Elendur to climb over. Anárion is smiling and Isildur has a moment of private joy, thinking of his brother welcoming his own child in the coming months. A playmate for Elendur and more proof that the Valar have not abandoned them. The Faithful will endure.

There are other bundles tucked into the crate, wrapped carefully in thin paper, including a selection of fabrics, silks and linens in all colors, and spools of golden and silver thread for embroidery. Estrid laughs, knowing that Eärien must have suspected she would be inspired to sew new creations. She laughs again when she takes out a small wooden box and opens it to discover a pair of earrings just like the ones depicted in the drawing.

Eärien has also included a package of raw wool sheared from the sheep of Emerië, and a few carved animal toys for Elendur’s growing collection. Lastly, Isildur pulls out a small satchel of seashells. Confused at first, he then recalls the shrine in their home in Armenelos and the selection of shells lined along its altar. They were placed one at a time over the course of decades, each one representing a fervent prayer and wish from someone in their family. Many of them had been Isildur’s prayers. He closes his hand around the satchel and holds it tight.

He tries not to think about why Eärien would feel the need to send these to him. Perhaps she has removed the shrine and had no use for the seashells. Perhaps she has reasoned that though useless to her, Isildur would appreciate having the shells in his possession. Sadly another scenario creeps into his thoughts, and it seems the most likely. That Eärien has sent them because Pharazôn is no longer allowing shrines of the Faithful in private homes, and what was once there has been destroyed. He clutches the satchel tightly. It was right for her to send them here. They are safe in his possession. The prayers of the Faithful are safe in his keeping.

The third day of the celebration is the quietest, reserved for family and the closest friends, and the most special of blessings. The gifts presented on this day are sacred and meaningful, meant for Elendur to treasure for all his years, despite not remembering the day on which they were given.

Amandil has crafted a small bed for him, now that he ready to surrender the family cradle. After all, Anárion and Alpheth will be needing it soon. The bed is marvelous, made of reclaimed timber from the Mallorn wood, sturdy and enduring. A scene of Eärendil and his ship Vingolot is carved into the headboard, with other symbols of Númenor at the foot and a blessing inset into the wood frame. He has arranged for a proper stack of mattresses, the top layer stuffed with sheep’s wool, to be brought to Elendur’s nursery ahead of the delivery of the bed.

Anárion’s present to his nephew is wrapped in a humble scrap of burlap, tied off with twine. Elendur tugs at the bow without success until his mother gently steps in to unwrap it for him. Anárion has carved the small shrine for Elendur’s room, a traditional first birthday gift. Made from the wood of a branch carefully cut from the great Mallorn in their garden, it has been lovingly adorned with images to represent Númenor and their family: stars, the moon, the sun, the sea. A smooth stone is laid in the center to serve as an altar for sacred objects that Elendur will choose for himself one day.

Each member of the household has their own shrine, made especially for them with reverent hands or passed down from loved ones who have gone to the next world. Isildur’s shrine once belonged to Elendil’s grandfather Númendil, who grew weary and received his gift a decade before Isildur’s birth. Amandil carved Elendil’s, and Elendil carved Anárion’s.

Estrid had come to Númenor without a shrine of her own, as the tradition was not carried across the sea to the colonies of Middle-earth. Shortly after their wedding, Elendil had taken Isildur aside and given him his mother’s shrine, kept tucked away in a trunk with some of her other things Elendil could not bear to part with. “For Estrid,” he had said softly, passing it over with both hands, “if she chooses to accept it.” She did, of course, and it sits carefully upon a shelf in their chamber, adorned with a sprig of fresh lairelossë, and a small pouch of earth from the Southlands that she carried with her over the sea.

Isildur embraces his brother when he sees what Elendur has unwrapped. He knows that later that evening, when the festivities have ended, they will take him together to his nursery and fit the shrine on a bedside table already prepared to receive this precious gift. Anárion will take Elendur’s hand gently in his and show him how to touch the sacred wood and stone when in need of prayer, and then whisper a soft blessing to his nephew, words meant for his ears alone.

Next Estrid presents her gift, a velvety soft horse she has carefully stitched and stuffed with scraps of cloth, with strands of yarn for his mane and tail. Elendur claps when she gives it to him, and sets about galloping his new friend across his lap. It is a simple gift, meant to bring joy during play and comfort during sleep. From Isildur, Elendur receives his first pair of boots, soft leather things hardly more than socks, but reinforced at the sole and cinched up the calf by long strips of suede. The heels bear the brand LNDR.

When the boots are pulled onto his feet, Elendur stands uncertain on the floor, unmoving as though he is nailed there. There is a light chuckle among the group but Isildur does not laugh. He crouches near his son with his arms out. “They will go along with you, I promise,” he says gently with a smile. “Come, senya, your father’s arms are stretched out for you.” Elendur’s face brightens and he takes two sturdy steps to Isildur, who swoops him up. “Ever my arms are open for you,” he murmurs to his son as he kisses him.

In the evening of that last day, when the party has at last been cleared away, the leftover food delivered in plates to elders of Andúnië, and the evening prayers to welcome the stars offered at sunset, the House of Elendil retreats indoors to the hearth to rest quietly by the fire. There are no more tales told tonight, as everyone is prepared to retire to bed early.

After a period of quiet conversation, Anárion nods to Isildur and gathers Elendur in his arms. Isildur and Estrid follow them to Elendur’s nursery. The shrine has been placed on the table next to the small bed from Amandil, and Anárion brings Elendur to it. “This is yours,” Anárion tells him softly, kneeling down so that Elendur can inspect the shrine for himself. “In time you will add things to it, offerings to show who you are and what you hold dear. Whether you are feeling troubles or great joy, you may come here and find peace. Do you understand that, nephew?”

Elendur looks curiously at his uncle and then back at the shrine. And then, he lets out a sneeze. Isildur snorts and neither he nor his brother can stifle their laughter. “Yes, my boy, give the Valar a blessing of your own,” Anárion chuckles. He gently wipes Elendur’s spittle from the wood and then takes his hand. “Here, press your fingers there, and speak in your thoughts whatever it is that your heart directs you to say.” He brings Elendur’s hand to touch the smooth stone and lays his own hand on top. Elendur watches him carefully and does not protest nor pull his hand away.

“Before there was even a sunrise, there was light,” Anárion says in a whisper. “May you use your tree stone to keep your path in the light, Elendur son of Isildur. Remember that you too were shaped of its goodness. May you always find the light, and may you carry it with you all the days of your life.”

Isildur’s eyes sting as he watches his brother kiss Elendur’s crown and then press their foreheads together. Anárion whispers something more, so softly that Isildur cannot hear it, but he knows there is love and wisdom in the words, whatever they may be. This is how we will go on, Isildur thinks. We will keep to our ways no matter what cost Pharazôn tries to extract from us, and we will teach our ways to our children. And we will trust that it will be worth it in the end.

Násië.