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Chapter Text

That day, Elendil wakes up with a bitter taste in his mouth. For a while he remains lying in bed, staring at the stone ceiling, trying to put his scattered thoughts together. He dreamed of the eruption last night. He remembers vividly the fire and the raining ash, and the terrible sense of loss.

“Isildur,” he thinks.

He releases a shaky breath. It was a dream. The expedition to the Southlands happened a while ago. And Isildur is back. Isildur is alive. 

Still, things have changed in Númenor, not at all for the better. And one such change haunts him especially. He knows what today is. He knows what he must do.

Elendil gets up and gets dressed, choosing his best traveling clothes. The clothes he wears for ceremonies are already packed. Last night, he had wondered if he should not take his old uniform with him. But no. He is no longer Captain Elendil, no matter how much that time of his life has meant for him. He is the Lord of Andúnië now.

Outside, he finds Isildur waiting for him on the porch. Elendil stops in his tracks.

“The sun is barely up,” he says. “I was sure you would still be sleeping.”

Isildur looks at him through raised eyebrows.

“Today? Hardly. And I do not appreciate you leaving in the small hours of morning in such a manner, not saying anything to anyone.”

Elendil frowns.

“What was there to say? You knew I was leaving today. Haven’t I left instructions for what to do while I was away?”

He makes to step away from the porch. Isildur stands up and blocks his way.

“Take me with you,” he urges.

Elendil shakes his head, fighting with the instinctive irritation that takes hold of him whenever Isildur gets like this.

“I cannot. You know I cannot. The dispensation is for me and me alone. There is nothing I can do about it.”

Isildur reaches out and fastens his hand around his arm.

“Then at least let me come with you for part of the way.”

Elendil sighs.

“Isildur, the Faithful are exiled from the rest of Númenor. Any Faithful caught outside of Andúnië and its surrounding areas is arrested and thrown in the dungeons, and if this happens to you, Isildur, I will not be able to help you this time. Do you understand what this means?”

Isildur bows his head.

“I can’t let you face this alone.”

Elendil’s irritation vanishes, just like that, because he knows, he’s known from the start, what lies beyond Isildur’s request to join him.

“And yet, this is for me to face alone, Isil. You understand. You’ve had your own darkness to face, after all.”

Especially in Armenelos. And whenever he thinks of what happened to Isildur a month ago, he is more than glad to keep his son away from Armenelos. 

“We are Faithful,” he adds. “We will survive this just as we have survived everything else.”

Isildur wavers slightly, then flings himself at Elendil. Elendil leans against him. He has never allowed himself to be the one comforted by one of his sons. Yet after everything Isildur has been through, not treating him like an equal would be an insult to him. He allows himself to take what Isildur gives him.

When they separate, Isildur still looks worried.

“What if this is a trap?”

Elendil takes off the ring of Barahir and gives it to Isildur.

“Then this will show that you have my support as future Lord of Andúnië. If anything happens to me, you will be my successor.”

Isildur’s face loses all color, and he strives to master himself.

“That is not the answer I wanted, Father.”

Elendil clutches his shoulder briefly.

“I know,” he says gently. “And if I could give you that answer I would. In a heartbeat. You must know that.”

He has never been untruthful with Isildur, not even when Isildur was a child. He most certainly cannot start now. Isildur asks for hope that is not his to give.

“In all likelihood, the only thing Pharazôn wants is to gloat. He will show everyone that he has struck an alliance with Míriel, who will now become Ar-Zimraphel, as separate from the old ways and from the Faithful as he is. He will present this as a defeat against the Faithful. I will be present at the wedding, and the invitation will serve as both favor and warning that my ways are obsolete and might not survive long. And that will be it. I will return, and we can go on with our lives. Such as they are.”

Isildur looks at him keenly.

“But things could go differently.”

Elendil nods once.

“Pharazôn might have something arranged for me,” Elendil admits. “Perhaps an assassination attempt. I do not think he can fabricate any charges against me, so I doubt I will be thrown in the dungeon this time.”

Last time had gone badly for Pharazôn, not to mention there was also Isildur’s imprisonment, which also did not make Pharazôn look any better. No, Pharazôn is clever enough not to attempt the same trick twice.

“I worry about you going alone, father,” Isildur repeats. “Even if you have made contingency plans, you are still the Lord of Andúnië now. Losing you will be a blow.”

“I have faith in you,” Elendil assures him. “And in Anárion. Whatever happens.”

A while ago, even as early as a month ago, Isildur would have looked away, uncertain and surprised by the trust Elendil puts in him, afraid that he might do something that will prove how unworthy he is of it. Things have changed, though. Something happened in those dungeons, or maybe it happened before, when Isildur had been made to look in the palantír. Whatever it is, it has given Isildur the confirmation he needed that he is up to the task placed on him.

Elendil watches as Isildur’s face hardens, and his heart soars with pride, because this is his son, and his son will move mountains if he has to.

“May the Valar watch over you, my son.”

“May they watch over you,” Isildur replies without missing a beat. “May they guide you safely back to us where you belong.”

Elendil turns and walks away. He feels Isildur’s eyes on him until he disappears into the stables. 

                      xxxXXXXxxxx

When he enters the stables, Elendil is surprised to see that Berek has been saddled and prepared for the journey to Armenelos, instead of his own horse. He smiles and shakes his head, understanding Isildur’s unspoken message.

“Your rider is a marvel,” he tells Berek. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

Berek neighs and tosses his head, then allows Elendil to stroke his forehead.

Elendil has not ridden Berek for a long time, the horse having now a right to Isildur, as far as Elendil is concerned, given that Berek was the only one helpful to Isildur while he was lost in the Southlands. And Isildur loves Berek. For him to prepare him for his father’s journey to Armenelos, it warms Elendil’s heart. This is a message, just as clear as Elendil’s own has been when he had given Isildur his mother’s ring during the time Isildur had surrendered to Pharazôn.

“Safe return, right?” he asks. “I need to keep myself safe, because I need to return you to Isildur.”

Berek blinks at him, as if to let Elendil know he has been in on the plan and agrees whole-heartedly. Elendil chuckles.

“Well, of course you’d agree with him,” he comments.

He rides off with a much lighter heart than he thought he ever would, considering where he is going.

                       XXXXXXXxxxxXXX

Isildur returns to the house. He walks up to his father’s study – now as much his as it is Elendil’s - and proceeds to inspect the papers left there. He notices Elendil has taken some of the petitions the two of them have been working on for weeks. It makes sense, Isildur knows, to take advantage of this occasion and make demands for a better life in the Faithful enclave. Yet it is also risky. Pharazôn could take offense. He could harm Elendil.

He releases a shaky breath. There is nothing about Pharazôn’s invitation to his wedding that Isildur likes. At worst, it is a ploy to get Elendil to Armenelos and arrest him. At best, it is a way to humiliate Elendil, to show him how much he has failed, how much Pharazôn has control over everything in Númenor, Míriel included. 

Isildur clenches his fists, fighting against the terror beating against his chest.

“Keep it together,” he orders. 

Elendil has left him with responsibilities, after all. There are the day-to-day affairs of Andúnië to manage, not to mention they should be sending another shipment of goods to Pelargir. A trader from Harad has visited them in secret and has agreed to deliver goods to Hagen’s people. In exchange for a hefty sum, but Elendil has agreed wholeheartedly, claiming that they needed to help the Southlanders do something about Kemen.

“Middle-earth needs to be kept a foothold we can fall back on,” Elendil had told Isildur and Theo after the meeting with the Haradrim. “Besides, they need to know someone in Númenor is on their side. Otherwise…”

“Otherwise, what?” Theo had challenged. “You think we’ll run off to Sauron, right?”

Elendil had given him back look for look.

“I think underestimating the Great Deceiver is how you get caught in his web,” he had said soberly. “We haven’t heard anything from Middle-earth. If Kemen sends reports, they are obviously not for our eyes. We do not know what Sauron’s movements are, and this worries me.”

Isildur glances at the map of Middle-earth he has been working on, with the Southlands altered to reflect the new reality of Mordor. He does not want to look at that land, he does not want to remember what happened, yet it is always on his mind. He is afraid that while they have to worry about Pharazôn’s oppression, something much worse is happening in Middle-earth, and they cannot prevent it.

“Isildur?”

He turns quickly. Estrid is standing in the doorway. He gets up to greet her.

“You are up early,” he says.

Estrid smiles and takes his hand.

“I am sure you woke up much earlier than I did.”

Estrid has been given Eärien’s old room, until she and Isildur are to be wed – much sooner than would be proper, Isildur supposes, but there is a sense of urgency on the both of them, as if they both understand that time will be much shorter than they might wish it to be. She has once confessed to Isildur and Anárion that she felt guilty for taking Eärien’s room like that, to which Isildur had tried to assure her that Eärien would not mind.

“Of course not,” Anárion had stated. “She’s not interested in what goes on here anyway. Besides, Eärien has taken complete possession of father’s house in Armenelos, right?”

Isildur remembers how he had fought with his annoyance at Anárion’s complete reluctance to forgive Eärien.

“It is her house as well,” he had pointed out. “It was our house, after all, not just father’s.”

Anárion had looked at Isildur as if he had thought Isildur could do well to be less naïve, and Isildur had been even more irritated. Which one of them was the older brother, anyway?

“Just remember that Eärien can use that house, but if you or father were caught inside it, you’d be arrested,” Anárion had pointed out. “So tell me once more – whose house it is now?”

Isildur had been unable to argue with that, although he had wanted to, but Estrid had intervened then, telling them firmly that if they insisted on locking horns, they might as well let her know in advance, so she could leave the house. Mairen might need help with something at the market, after all. That had kept Isildur from retaliating, and he had even apologized to Anárion who had accepted his apology with an amused smirk.

If Estrid has any guilt left now, she has not mentioned it. But Isildur thinks that she is slowly learning to be at peace with her new life, they all are, and that is all they can ask.

Isildur holds Estrid’s hand and looks at her and thinks that the Valar must have blessed him to place her in his path, because she is sunlight and hope to him, and at times he is afraid that he does not deserve her, that there is too much darkness in him, and maybe it would corrupt and make her wither, and maybe he will simply not be enough.

Then he remembers Estrid’s own darkness, and he recalls how many of his shadows she seems to understand, without him having to explain. And he realizes that his doubts are unfair to her.

Estrid tilts her head, puzzled by the intensity in his gaze.

“Why is it that you always look at me so?”

Isildur smiles and shakes his head.

“Nothing. It is only that…I was thinking about meeting you. I…I would not change anything about that day.”

Estrid raises her eyebrows. Her eyes sparkle with amusement.

“Really?” she teases. “Not even the dagger?”

Isildur laughs.

“Not even that. It’s taught me a valuable lesson, you know.”

“Never try to take what doesn’t belong to you?”

Isildur looks shocked.

“What? I wasn’t…that saddle was the property of the Númenórean fleet, so, in some way, it did belong to me.”

“Keep telling yourself that. So, what has that unpleasant experience I would rather forget taught you? Because I do not remember it as my finest moment.”

Estrid’s tone is still light and playful, but Isildur hears the self-doubt she is trying to keep hidden. He puts his arm around her.

“It’s taught me that you and I are both alike,” he says solemnly. “We’re both survivors. And my Estrid is strong and brave, and I would not have her any other way.”

She looks at him as if she is trying to see into his very soul. Usually, Isildur is uncomfortable with such discerning gazes. He doesn’t want people to uncover his hiddenmost thoughts. Even with his family, he allows this only sparingly, and they have come to respect this. But with Estrid…he does not want to hide anything from Estrid. He wants her to see him exactly as he is. All the light and all the darkness.

“Your Estrid,” she repeats.

Isildur nods.

“Yes. Well, eventually. If you still think having a life with me is worthwhile.”

Estrid snorts and looks pointedly at the arm he has around her shoulder.

“If I did not, I am letting you get away with quite a lot of improper gestures, don’t you think?”

She pushes him playfully, then takes his hand to drag him fully out of the room.

“Escort me to the market,” she requests. “Get your mind off your worries.”

Isildur huffs.

“I’m not worried,” he protests. “Who says I am worried?”

Estrid says nothing, still dragging him forward.

“I know what you want to do,” she says. “You’re going to lock yourself in that study and pretend to be hard at work, when instead your mind will be on Armenelos, and you’ll drive yourself mad thinking what might be happening there.”

She knows him well, Isildur thinks. Too well, and he cannot quell the suspicion that comes with the thought.

“My father has put you up to this,” he guesses. “Didn’t he?”

Estrid looks over her shoulder, smirking.

“He said you’ll be impossible. I told him: No he won’t, not with me. I’ve all but promised him, Isildur. You won’t have me break my promise to your father, would you, Isildur? Not when he’s been ever so kind to me and took me in and overlooked everything…”

Estrid looks at him with wide eyes, pouting slightly, and Isildur can spot manipulation when he sees it, not that Estrid is trying too hard to hide it, and she seems to enjoy the fact that he has discovered her game.

“Alright,” Isildur says, feigning resignation. “You win. Just this once.”

Estrid grins.

“If you say so.”

Isildur shakes his head.

“You don’t play fair,” he accuses. “Neither of you do.”

“Oh, I dare you to tell your father that to his face.”

Isildur laughs, feeling warm and happy, and even though the anxiety is still there – and Estrid probably understands she cannot completely drive it away – he can have hope. Good things still exist, he reminds himself. They still have each other. Elendil will return. And Isildur will remind him of all the good they still have when he does.

                             xxxXXXXxxxx
Eärien forces herself to smile as she sees Kemen approaching. Of course, he would be back for his father’s wedding. He does not look good though, and no wonder, people in Númenor do not remarry except in very rare cases, and the union between Míriel and Pharazôn is already considered scandalous enough. The union between Zimraphel and Pharazôn, Eärien corrects herself hastily. It is fitting for the rulers of Númenor to have Adûnaic names.

“Have you ever considered changing your name?” Eärien asks. “Kemen is hardly fit for a royal.”

Kemen stops in his tracks. He looks taken aback by her lack of greeting, but really what was he expecting? For her to embrace him? He is in disgrace with Ar-Pharazôn, they are still suffering the repercussions of his boorish behavior at the shrine. 

“Well, have you?” 

Kemen is always like this. Lashing out when he feels threatened – and he feels threatened all the time, even when he doesn't have any cause to feel so.

Eärien smiles coldly.

“I do not sit upon the throne, do I? Nor do I see many chances I would – I am just a humble chancellor.”

Kemen rolls his eyes.

“You do a lot of working in the shadows,” he points out. “How many threads of power do you move, Eärien?”

She grows cold, anger and fear mingling inside her. Anger, because, while she wants power, she is not like Kemen at all. Fear, because of her precarious position. Pharazôn and Belzagar trust her, but it is not as if she can hide her background. They all know she has done plenty to reach this far, and they might wonder how loyal she actually is to them. Such talk could be dangerous for her. It could make the wrong people think she is not as trustworthy as she should be.

“If I had been able to move something, do you think I would have allowed my brother to step foot in that dungeon?” she argues.

Kemen does not seem impressed.

“He also got out, didn’t he?”

“Not with my help,” Eärien says firmly.

Which is true – mostly. Her plan of the dungeons played a part in getting Isildur to safety, but mostly it was Isildur who kept himself alive.

“What news from Middle-earth?” she asks, in an attempt to change the subject.

It works, as she was sure it would. Kemen assumes a long-suffering pose. 

“Middle-earth is disappointing. Really, it’s a disgrace. The low-men defy us constantly, I actually want to persuade father to let me be much more heavy-handed with them, they cannot defy me like this. Who do they think I am, anyway?”

Eärien bites her tongue not to let out the answer that is on her mind.

“And they refuse to deliver the timber we request of them,” Kemen continues, clearly not expecting any answer from Eärien. “I mean – why is it so difficult to cut down a tree?”

Then why don’t you do it?

Eärien forces herself to let go of such thoughts. Really, she should be careful. She sounds more and more like Isildur each day.

“My brother told the king that there are onodrim in those forests.”

Kemen snorts.

“Faithful fables. Surely you stopped believing in them long before you grew up, Eärien.”

Eärien shrugs.

“I was not there, was I?”

Kemen shakes his head.

“No. Your brother was. And I think Isildur put the idea of onodrim inside their heads. So the low-men give us nothing.”

Except that, during the time Isildur was in the Southlands, he had no way of knowing Ar-Pharazôn would be laying claim on the resources of the Southlanders.

“They are getting help from somewhere behind our backs.” Kemen muses. “I have no idea from where, though.”

“Sauron,” Eärien suggests.

Kemen seems to consider the idea, then shakes his head.

“I somehow doubt he would bother with them – who would? They are insufferable.”

“You haven’t encountered any violent resistance, though,” Eärien presses.

Kemen looks displeased.

“If we had, we would have quashed it. I am telling you, Isildur schooled those low-men before leaving. I know how, and I know when.”

Eärien’s chest tightens.

“How do you mean?”

If Kemen brings this to Ar-Pharazôn – and he should, Eärien knows that, if it was anyone other than Isildur, she would be the one insisting the king be informed – would Pharazôn decide to punish Isildur? His actions could be considered treason, siding with the Southlanders instead of the Númenóreans.

“It could be that you are mistaken,” she tries.

Kemen frowns.

“He staged a fight – that brother of yours. With his little Southlander pet. She acted all fiery and insulted that he was abandoning her, he acted all heartbroken and resigned, because he had no choice but to go home. Then I find out both her and that irritating so-called healer’s son have vanished at the same time Isildur’s ship sailed. They are here now, aren’t they? He’s somehow brought them here?”

Eärien nods, reluctantly.

“Your father knows, though,” she feels the need to say. “He says that, as long as they remain in Andúnië with the rest of the Faithful, they aren’t his business. I do not know what legal recognition that would bring to any union between Isildur and Estrid.”

Eärien regrets bringing this up when she notices Kemen flinch in disgust.

“Union?” he sneers. “Who would want a union with her? Little Southlander, all dressed in furs, she’d repel any sensible Númenórean. What’s going through your brother’s mind?”

Eärien taps down on the irrational anger brought by Kemen’s words. It is not as if she thinks Estrid is good enough for Isildur – of course she isn’t. But the dehumanizing way in which Kemen refers to her is unfair.

“What news of Sauron?” she asks.

“Nothing reliable. There are all sorts of rumors. Some say Sauron has vanquished Adar and taken hold of his army. Others say he’s destroyed some Elven city or another. You know – the one where Feänor’s grandson was supposed to be living in. Not that I believe that, of course.”

Eärien rolls her eyes. If Commander Galadriel could find her way in Númenor, why does Kemen find it so hard to believe that Celebrimbor still lives in Middle-earth. And yes, Eärien knows the name. She grew up in a Faithful household, after all, although, if Kemen wants to deny her background, she does not really mind.

“Then there is this strange rumor that Sauron is walking about the land handing gifts,” Kemen goes on.

Eärien raises her eyebrows. She does not bother to hide her skepticism.

“Don’t tell me you believe that.”

Kemen looks uncertain for a moment, and Eärien wonders with a jolt if he isn’t hiding something from her.

“I don’t know what to believe,” Kemen admits. “But Sauron’s rise to power is convenient.”

“Is it?”

Kemen nods and takes her hand. Eärien tries to fight the ingrained instinct to pull away.

“If there is anyone laying claim to the hearts of Men, it should be the King of Númenor. Don’t you think?”

She nods readily because this is the one thing she and Kemen agree on. Númenor should rule over all. For everyone’s sake. 

                             xxxxxXXXXXxxx

Commander Galadriel walks the paths of Lindon. She spots Gil-galad next to the Memorial Statues. She swallows, trying not to look at them. They had carved Celebrimbor’s likeness in a new tree. Not as she had seen it in her vision, not as Vorohil had reported he looked when he had discovered his body in broken Eregion. The statue shows the Lord of Eregion in all his dignity, hammer in one hand, a jewel in another. He looks strong and imposing – and yet Galadriel thinks he could never look as strong as he had looked the last time she had seen him, when he had admitted to everything that had been broken inside him and had vowed to defy the enemy one last time, nonetheless.

She closes her eyes against the memory and squares her shoulders.

“You summoned me, High King?”

Gil-galad turns to her. If he notices the effect Celebrimbor’s statue has on her, he does not let it show.

“It has been over a month and the situation worsens,” he says. “Sauron has gained control of Adar’s armies completely. They obey him now as if they have always been his servants. If they had been reluctant to go to war, that reluctance has vanished.”

“He must retreat to Mordor at some point,” Galadriel says. “If we could push him back somehow…”

Gil-galad shakes his head.

“The forces we have at Lindon and the Grey Havens would not be enough for that. Even if we count Elrond and the survivors of Eregion. We have sent envoys to the Dwarves, but it seems they are caught up in petty struggles.”

“The Rings,” Galadriel guesses. “The seven Rings Sauron made for them.”

Gil-galad nods.

“Quite likely. Although, King Dúrin continues to send food and other supplies to Elrond’s refuge, so perhaps I should not count all Dwarves out just yet.”

“You should not count all Elves out just yet, either,” Galadriel reminds him. “What about the emissaries we sent to the Greenwood?”

She knows instantly from the look on Gil-galad’s face that she has hit a sore spot.

“King Oropher is displeased,” she deduces.

Gil-galad huffs.

“King Oropher is always displeased. You know his points of contention as well as I.”

Galadriel knows, of course. She has heard them plenty of times, after all.

“He resents that a Noldo is High King and does not think your authority should apply to him – that he should be at least equal to you. Silvan Elves should keep to themselves, this is what he usually says, right?”

Gil-galad sighs, sounding exhausted.

“You know him well enough. And there is also the matter that I am supposedly holding one of his soldiers hostage.”

“Arondir.”

“I could order him to go back to the Greenwood, of course. Yet he is a willing participant in the fight against Sauron, and I am not going to squander that. And speaking of willing participants, we should discuss Númenor.”

Galadriel freezes.

“Míriel’s promise to return,” she says. “This is what you mean? She made that promise with Adar in mind, though.”

“She will just have to readjust her target,” Gil-galad says. “I have something you should see.”

He hands Galadriel a letter. She glances at it and recognizes the High King’s seal.

“You wrote to Númenor.”

“Read it,” Gil-galad tells her. “I would like to know what you think.”

Galadriel turns her attention to the letter:

To Tar-Míriel, Queen Regent of Númenor, from Gil-galad, High King of the Eldar in Middle-earth, greetings,

I write this letter in the hope that it will find you still a friend of our cause, the staunch ally you have proven to be in the Southlands. I know your losses were heavy there, and I do not ask you to risk more losses lightly. Yet the time has come when we must all take risks lest we lose everything we have built this age.

The age of peace is over, my Queen. The war was started by Adar, but now we are facing a greater, darker foe. Sauron the Deceiver has been traveling through Middle-earth, enslaving many to his will. He has been to Númenor as well, in the guise of the one you call Halbrand, and I know this knowledge will be hard to bear.

In the time since the battle of the Southlands, he has taken over Adar’s armies, razed one of our greatest cities to the ground, and slain its lord, Celebrimbor, the greatest of Elven-smiths, Feänor’s grandson himself. This loss is heavy to us, but heavier still is the notion that Sauron now has possession of secrets so great, I dare not put them in writing. 

The lands of Eriador are all aflame. My people are trying to hold back the storm, but it is hard labor on our own. I ask you, Tar-Míriel, for aid in this endeavor. Remember that you will be helping your own people as well. Should we fail in Eriador, should we allow Sauron to gain a foothold in Middle-earth, then Númenor itself might be under threat.

Galadriel looks up.

“And you wish this delivered to Númenor?”

She cannot help wondering how she would be received there if she were to arrive a second time.

“As soon as possible,” Gil-galad replies. “But not by you. This is not a time to be missing one of my commanders.”

Galadriel decides not to mention that, if it had been up to Gil-galad, she would not have been here at all. Humility has its merits, she is beginning to discover.

“Then who?” she asks.

She turns at the sound of footsteps. Her face breaks into a smile as she recognizes the newcomer.

“Arondir,” she greets. “I thought you would still be with Elrond at the refuge.”

“I summoned him especially,” Gil-galad says. “Given Arondir’s experience with the Southlanders – well, perhaps he will be more easily accepted by Númenor as well.”

“I am ready to depart when ordered, High King,” Arondir says.

“You should be careful,” Galadriel advises him. “Míriel and her father have Elvish sympathies, true, but there is no knowing the effect of the losses in the Southlands. And Sauron has walked the streets of Númenor, talking to its people. He has been in contact with Chancellor Pharazôn at any rate, even managing to convince the good chancellor that he is worthy of a Guild Crest.”

Sauron’s force of corruption is insidious, as she knows too well. There is no telling the effects Pharazôn’s conversations with Halbrand might have had on him.

“What about the Sea Captain who rescued you?” Gil-galad asks.

“Elendil.”

Gil-galad raises his eyebrows.

“At least the name is encouraging – if he lives up to it.”

“He does,” Galadriel says quickly, then remembers that moment on the shore. “He did, at least. I do not think he sees me as much of a friend now. He lost his son in Mordor.”

Arondir takes a step forward.

“Then you haven’t heard?”

Galadriel turns swiftly to him.

“Heard? What was I supposed to hear, Soldier?”

“Isildur is alive,” Arondir tells her. “He stumbled into Pelargir a while before I left. It seems whatever the Valar have in store for him, he was not meant to die in Mordor. He should be in Númenor by now. If not, I will be glad to inform his father he was mistaken about the loss of his son.”

Galadriel breathes a sigh of relief.

“That is…those are very good tidings, soldier.”

She knows one life spared does not make up for the hundreds that were lost. And yet, one life is just as sacred as a hundred, and Isildur’s survival brings her joy. She remembers him on the ship, eyes wide with wonder as he watched the sun rising on a foreign shore. She has spent more time than she cares to admit thinking about someone like him, young and full of life and potential, lying dead under the burned-out ruins of the Southlands.

“Seek out Elendil, then,” she hears Gil-galad instructing Arondir. “Perhaps, if his sympathies have remained the same, he might convince the Queen to send us the aid we require.”

Arondir nods once. Gil-galad still has his measuring stare on him.

“I will send you with one of Master Círdan’s ships that is departing into the west. Close to Númenor, you will continue on your journey in a small boat. It is entirely up to you, soldier, if, after you finish your errand, you choose to steer your boat east – or west.”

Galadriel watches Arondir’s face carefully. She is pleased that Gil-galad has learned paradise should be a choice and not foisted upon one at unawares.

“Thank you, High King,” Arondir replies. “But while there is still a battle to be fought in Middle-earth, my place is by your side.”

He nods and leaves. Gil-galad watches him go, face grave.

“Sometimes I think you already know the end of all this,” Galadriel says.

Gil-galad turns to her. His face is as inscrutable as ever.

“I do not know Sauron’s end. And this lack of knowledge frightens me.”

                        xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Elendil arrives in Armenelos as evening falls. He finds an escort already waiting for him – an armed escort, he observes with some amusement, but they treat him civilly enough and guide him to the palace. There, he is given a small room for the night. 

He is beyond relieved when he is left alone. The room is not much to look at, and has only a few basic comforts, but at least it is not a cell in the dungeons. So far, everything seems to be going well – or, as well as it can be expected. He is not looking forward to tomorrow’s festivities, yet that is another matter altogether, and Pharazôn already knows this. It is why he invited Elendil in the first place.

The door opens and Elendil stiffens when he catches sight of the guard in the threshold. He wonders if he is not expected to spend the night in the dungeons after all – although, even Pharazôn would not be able to come with a good reason why he should send Elendil there. Then he wonders whether he knows the guard, whether he was not among the ones who had stormed the shrine and then carried Elendil away at Kemen’s orders or, even worse, if he was not the one who hit Isildur when he was Pharazôn’s prisoner and forced him to drink poison.

The last thought has Elendil nearly clenching his fists, but he forces himself to relax, knowing any sign of aggression will be counted against him.

“Is there anything you wish to tell me?” he asks calmly.

The guard bows.

“The Lady Eärien wishes to speak to you.”

The mixture of emotions leaves Elendil reeling. It seems this is not some sinister plot by Pharazôn, but simply an attempt of Eärien’s to reach out to him. He feels cold, remembering his last conversations with Eärien, how they had both accused each other of misplaced loyalty, how neither had wanted to give in. And yet, this is his daughter, and Elendil has missed her so, and he does not want to send her away, he would never send her away.

Elendil nods, even managing a smile to the guard.

“Of course,” he says. “Of course. Send her in.”

Chapter Text

Elendil’s heart pounds, sadness and joy enveloping him at the same time until he is hardly able to distinguish one from the other. Eärien enters the room, and Elendil is first struck by how different she looks from the Eärien he remembers. Like Isildur, she has grown, but, with her, there is something more. Elendil feels as if there is a veil over her eyes, as if she has shut her heart to everyone, as if she has purposefully locked her soul away where no one could reach. Not even her.

Still, she is here, Elendil’s daughter, his youngest child, and in a flash he remembers every single day he has spent with her, from the moment Tindómiel had placed her in his arms, to that terrible parting a month back. His throat clogs, his eyes mist over, and for a moment, he is not even sure if he can really breathe.

“Eärien,” he gasps. “My Eärien.”

Eärien stops and blinks, not expecting to be greeted in such a manner. She allows the door to swing shut behind her.

“Hello, father,” she says.

Her voice is trembling, laced with uncertainty, and it is that uncertainty that releases Elendil from his fetters. He strides towards her and draws her forward, he puts his arms around her and holds her, and remembers all the times he has held her, and all the other times when he has not, but should have.

She smells differently, not as Elendil remembers, not of seawater and youth. A sweet, almost cloying perfume fills his nostrils, some incense from Far Harad that only those high up in the court can afford, but he does not care, he does not mind the differences now, because this is still Eärien, still his daughter, and he still loves her more than words can tell.

The hug is brief. Eärien leans into it, even returns it, but pulls away quickly, leaving Elendil feeling bereft.

“It is good to see you, Father,” she says.

Elendil nods, making to place his hand on her shoulder, but then changing his mind, not knowing if another show of affection would be well-received.

“It pleases me to see you too.”

His eyes roam over Eärien, noting the many ways she has changed, the way she holds herself, the hardness that is now in her. He wonders if he has done this, if his departure was one of the things that have forced her to change, or if it was simply a change that would have arrived anyway, as Eärien grew and matured and found a path of her own.

“I wanted to see you,” Eärien says. “I do not know how long we’ll be able to talk tomorrow at the wedding.”

Elendil’s mood sours, but he does not let it show.

“It is good that we have a moment to be alone with each other,” he says. “Tomorrow might be too crowded for us to talk. I have heard there will be many people present.”

Eärien smiles, uncertain.

“Yes, the King wants to make it a very public event.”

Of course he does, Elendil thinks bitterly, but keeps such thoughts to himself because he does not want to antagonize Eärien.

“I have heard it will be quite extravagant,” he comments neutrally. “At least, when I rode into Armenelos, I heard people talking about it. I did not know what to believe. Some rumors sounded far too outlandish.”

Eärien laughs.

“There will not be a delegation sent by the High King of the Eldar to show support for the union, no,” she says.

“I should think not.”

He cannot help himself this time, but Eärien chooses to ignore the barb. It is not directed at her, anyway.

“But it is true that some of our merchants managed to purchase a mumakil calf from Harad. He will be brought to the palace court during the festivities, all decked with jewels and flowers.”

Elendil thinks this is extravagant – and cruel.

“What will happen to it when it grows?” he wants to know.

Eärien shrugs.

“He will be put to work, probably. We are rebuilding a lot in Armenelos and its surroundings, and we need to work fast. He will be used to cart big stones.”

“Until he languishes and dies on a foreign shore.”

Eärien’s eyes flash.

“Sacrifices sometimes need to be made, Father,” she snaps. “Ar-Pharazôn knows what he is doing.”

He cannot sit silent and keep the peace any longer.

“Really? What sacrifices has he made? What has he given up, Eärien?”

Eärien flinches. Elendil takes her by the shoulder and looks into her eyes.

“Because you had to give up your family,” he goes on, “And Míriel is giving up what liberty and dignity she’s had left tomorrow. And the Faithful were all driven out of their homes. The settlers at Pelargir are being stripped of the few resources that they have to further Pharazôn’s grand plan. You even have a poor beast accustomed to the desert ripped away from the only home it knows. And Pharazôn…what is he giving up?”

Eärien wrenches away from his hold and turns his back on him.

“You do not understand. You never have. Not you, not Anárion. I thought Isil might…”

“Isildur believes strongly in who he is,” Elendil points out. “Just as you do.”

Eärien turns back to face him. Her gaze is assessing. Hard.

“I thought of asking him to stay,” she confesses. “True, I had asked him to choose Pharazôn before, and he refused, but I thought of making him outright choose between me and Andúnië.”

Elendil has already suspected this from Isildur’s account of his last meeting with Eärien in Míriel’s chamber.

“Thank you,” he says. “For not doing it.”

Eärien tilts her head.

“Afraid he might have chosen me over you and your cause?”

Her voice is trembling, and Elendil knows that she does not actually intend to hurt him, that it is her own pain making her lash out and not true malice.

“It is Isildur’s cause also,” he reminds gently. “And no. I was thanking you for not making him go through this. You did not want to cause your brother pain, and I thank you for this.”

Eärien’s face softens.

“At least…at least tell me that he…tell me that he’s doing well. I want him to be well, Father.”

When Elendil approaches her and takes her by the shoulders, Eärien does not pull back this time.

“He is happy,” he says. “I see it in him every day. Isildur is happy and at peace in ways he has not been in a very long time.”

Eärien’s eyes search for the truth in his words, and Elendil hopes that she still believes him enough to know he would never lie to her about this.

“He misses you,” he feels the need to add. “He misses you ever so much and would gladly have you by his side. But he is happy, Eärien.”

Eärien sighs and manages a smile. She nods curtly.

“Good. At least there is that.”

She sounds cold, but Elendil suspects is more out of her desire to suppress her emotions than because she does not care.

He reaches for her hand.

“Are you happy, Eärien?” he asks. “It would mean the world to us if you were.”

And he is telling the truth. Ideologies aside, Eärien is his, and she deserves joy, even though he might not agree with how she finds it.

Eärien seems to carefully consider the question. In the end, she shrugs.

“I am fulfilled,” she answers. “In many ways, I find this much more important than being merely happy. I am fulfilled, Father. I do work I could not have done in Andúnië. You know that.”

Elendil knows, but he also thinks Pharazôn should not limit this work to his supporters only. Still, he is not going to tell Eärien this.

“Then I am happy for you. And proud of you.”

He is, in many ways. Eärien might exasperate him with her choices, he might worry about how far she is willing to go, but her accomplishments make him proud.

Eärien’s smile this time is genuine.

“Thank you, Father. That does mean a lot.”

Her eyes are shining. Elendil remembers Kemen’s words at the Shrine, the ones that had nearly sent him on a rampage. How does it feel to have a daughter who’s ashamed of you? He never thought Eärien would be ashamed of him, not really, but he was sure his opinion had ceased to matter to her a long time ago. It warms him to see it is not so in all things.

Eärien makes to leave. Elendil would ask her to stay, but she seems determined that the meeting is over.

“One more thing,” she says before leaving, face growing grave. “Kemen will be at the ceremony.”

Elendil grows cold.

“He’s back from Middle-earth,” he discovers.

Eärien’s face remains impassive.

“Temporarily,” she says. “It needn’t bother you too much. You won’t see him again after tomorrow.”

She turns and leaves. Elendil remains standing in the middle of the room. He has expected to see Eärien, of course, but he has never banked on Kemen being there as well.

He takes a deep breath. It should not matter, Elendil tells himself. All he needs is to get through the ceremony and then return to Andúnië. He need not interact with either Kemen or Pharazôn.

Something tells him, though, that he is hoping for too much. That he might not be able to leave Armenelos without facing both Pharazôn and his son in some manner or another.

                         xxxXXXXxxxx

As night falls on Armenelos, Míriel listens to the sound beyond her room in the tower. Pharazôn does not seem to be coming this evening for his usual gloating. Perhaps he has decided to give her one last night of peace. Not out of kindness, of course. Míriel knows it will feel worse from tomorrow on, when he will be everywhere, when he will call himself her consort.

Míriel shudders. She had always known she would be queen, therefore, she had always been prepared for a marriage that was more for the sake of practicality and strategically sound, instead of done out of love. It had been the same with her own parents, after all. And yet, she remembers the tenderness between her mother and her father, towards each other and towards her, how within the privacy of their chambers they were not merely king and queen but her husband and wife, how they smiled and jested with each other and made her laugh. There would be no laughter with her with Pharazôn.

When her mother had passed, Tar-Palantír had held Míriel’s hand and had allowed her to lean her head on his shoulder all the way through the state funeral. If he was bothered by the jeering looks he got from people such as Belzagar, he did not let it show. He allowed his daughter to shed tears and mourned his wife’s loss quite publicly himself. A stark contrast to Pharazôn in the same situation. When Pharazôn’s first wife had died – under strange circumstances, from an illness that rarely killed Númenóreans – he had stood at her tomb, face like granite, belaying no emotions. He had even gone to shake hands with some of the gawkers that had been present at the ceremony, leaving Kemen bereft and equally dry-eyed. When Míriel had approached the young boy and had told him gently that he could cry, no one would judge him for it, Kemen had looked at her half in panic, half in disdain, and had insisted that people of their rank did not weep in public like some low-born Faithful.

Unbidden, Míriel thinks of Elendil. He wonders if he had wept after the drowning of his wife, and she is certain that he had offered his children the comfort and the care they needed to get through this. Like some low-born Faithful, Míriel hears Kemen’s words repeated in her mind. Her lips curl in disgust. Better to be that, in this case, than so cruel you treated loss of life as if it were nothing more than a mere inconvenience.

There is a knock on the door. Míriel knows it is not Pharazôn. He never knocks after all.

“Enter,” she orders.

She listens to the footsteps and knows immediately who it is.

“Good evening, Dinsír,” she says.

Dinsír has been assigned as her personal guard by Pharazôn himself, something which amuses Míriel to no end. Pharazôn has no idea of Dinsír’s involvement in Isildur’s rescue. In his mind, Dinsír is loyal to him. Which is quite true. Except that Dinsír is also loyal to his principles, which makes him an ally of Míriel’s, however reluctant.

“He is here,” Dinsír announces. “He has arrived this evening.”

Míriel forces herself to remain calm. She has asked Dinsír to let her know when Elendil would arrive. 

“Is he safe?” she asks.

“Quite,” Dinsír answers coolly, then hesitates. “I do not know whether I can arrange a meeting, Majesty…”

Míriel interrupts him quickly.

“No,” she says sharply. “No, that is not necessary at all.”

Everything has been said between her and Elendil. His loyalty should be to the people of Andúnië now. That is what they have decided, after all, the two of them. He will take care of the Faithful. She would take charge of the rest of Númenor.

“Is there a message I should give him then?”

Dinsír sounds uncertain, as if he is not entirely willing to meet Elendil. Míriel shakes her head.

“No,” she says firmly. “There is none.”

After all, he is doing the job she has commanded him to do – and doing it well. Elendil and his sons will be the future of Númenor. Míriel has to resign herself to her fate. Perhaps, this is how she ensures that Númenor has a future. That the thing she has been dreading since the night of her father’s exile will not come true.

                             xxxXXXXxxxx

It has been a long day in Andúnië. Isildur has spent it with Voronwë and Anárion, overseeing the building of new homes for the Faithful refugees from Armenelos. The work is nearly done. 

In the evening, Isildur goes for a ride. He has been doing so ever since he has gotten back, riding through the forests up to their imposed border, usually with Berek, but Berek is with Elendil now – where Isildur thinks he is most needed. He searches the woods for any threats, and signs that Pharazôn might be secretly moving against them. As always, there are none.

When he gets back, Estrid is working at her loom. Anárion and Theo are playing a game, the board between them, their faces full of concentration as they move their respective pieces this way and that.

Theo, Isildur remembers, has been incredibly enthusiastic when he spotted the game.

“We had something almost just like it in Tirharad! I remember Treadwell teaching me to play.”

He had grown rather solemn then, but he had seemed to enjoy the memories for once, and had even asked if he can play. 

Estrid does not play, and Isildur only does so rarely, so it fell on Anárion to become Theo’s regular game opponent. In truth, this was by Isildur’s design. He noticed from the start that there was mistrust and perhaps even slight animosity between Anárion and Theo, and he decided – without consulting the two, of course – that the best way to solve it was to give the two tasks where they would have to interact. He often suggests that Anárion take Theo on his fishing expeditions and, at their morning sword practice, Isildur would always fight with Elendil, leaving Anárion and Theo no choice but to pair up. 

Isildur is not sure if his experiment is working or not. Anárion and Theo are of different dispositions – Anárion always self-assured and bright, Theo moody and dark, even worse than Isildur himself. Yet the two are working together, so perhaps this is all Isildur can ask from them.

He stays for a while unobserved in the threshold, watching Theo and Anárion play. Even their strategies are different. Theo is reckless and bold, attacking in sometimes impulsive moves. Anárion is more cautious. He is often on the defensive, studying his enemy and then adjusting his moves in accordance.

Isildur shakes his head, amused by his thoughts. For a moment, he is surprised to find himself assessing the two as if they were his warriors and he was testing their strategies in battle.

I am getting ahead of myself, he thinks. This is still only a game to help pass the evenings. And I am no one’s leader. He does not want to be anytime soon, either.

Isildur’s attention turns to Estrid. She is busy with her weaving, hands moving deftly on the colored wool. Mairen has introduced Estrid to her great-grandmother, who is now teaching her how to dye wool. She is old, but she claims she still has a few years in her and still makes her own dyes which she happily shares with Estrid. Isildur remembers the day Estrid returned from her visit to Mairen’s great-grandmother for the first time. Her eyes had been bright, full of enthusiasm for everything she would be able to accomplish from then on.

As if sensing that she is being watched, Estrid looks up. Her smile is bright when she catches sight of Isildur.

“Good evening,” she greets. “Nothing troubling on the road, I hope.”

Isildur shakes his head and moves further into the room, now that his observation post has been revealed.

“It all seems quiet. Here as well, I see.”

He reaches Estrid and bends down to kiss her cheek.

“I’ve missed you so, my love.”

Estrid laughs, puzzled.

“You’ve only been gone for half an hour,” she points out.

Isildur shrugs, his hand on her shoulder.

“I still missed you.”

“Have you missed me as well?” Anárion asks cheekily, without taking his eyes off the board.

Estrid giggles. Isildur lets her go and moves to Anárion, giving him a playful shove, then grabbing him quickly and pulling him upright when Anárion nearly tumbles off his chair.

“Don’t drop your guard like that,” Isildur chides.

Anárion shrugs.

“Well, it’s you.”

The trust warns Isildur. He passes Theo and ruffles his hair, simply because he wants to give all of them attention. Theo glares at him, but there’s a faint smile on his face, and Isildur is relieved that they can still allow themselves to be young and carefree, if only for a little while.

His cheerfulness evaporates when he takes in Elendil’s empty chair.

“I am sure he’s alright,” Theo tells him.

Isildur shakes his head.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, of course he is.”

He tries to smile, tries to remain strong for their sake, because he is responsible for them in Elendil’s absence. He cannot allow them to see his fears. He needs to be strong – like Elendil himself would be.

Isildur thinks that he admires his father more than ever for his constantly calm demeanor. He realizes only now just how difficult it might be for him to maintain it.

Still, when the time comes, he presides over the evening meal and says the prayers of thanks to the Valar in Elendil’s stead. Isildur knows he could ask Voronwë to do it, but he thinks that he needs to live up to Elendil’s expectations, he needs to show Elendil that he can be what is needed in his absence – both lord of Andúnië and head of their household.

Isildur asks the Valar to bless the food, and their house, and their people. And to watch over the one who is gone and ensure his safe return. Isildur thinks he manages to say all this without his voice shaking even once. He thinks – he hopes – that Elendil would be proud of him for this.

                                  xxxxxXXXXXXxxxx

After the evening meal, when Isildur is about to retire, anticipating a sleepless night of tossing and turning, Anárion approaches him.

“I think I know what will help,” he announces without further introductions.

Isildur tilts his head, confused.

“Help with what?”

Anárion grabs his arm.

“Come with me,” he urges.

Isildur does not stop to think why he is allowing Anárion to drag him out of his room without asking for any further clarifications. Because, this is Anárion after all, and while Isildur might be slightly puzzled by his brother’s behavior, that does not mean that he is in any way mistrustful.

He is slightly surprised to find himself in front of Nienna’s shrine.

“This helped,” Anárion explains. “When you were with Pharazôn, father and I lit the candles every evening. We even stood vigil at night during the five days when…well…”

Anárion pauses and swallows harshly, then shakes his head.

“I do not know if it helped father – you know how he is. But it certainly help me. I felt I would go mad otherwise. Waiting for news of you. I did not even know if you were alive or dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Isildur finds himself saying. “I never wanted you to go through something like that.”

Anárion smiles.

“I am sure father doesn’t want you to go through whatever it is you’re going through now, worried out of your mind about him. Yet he had no choice but to answer Pharazôn’s invitation. And the best thing we can do now is hope the Valar watch him from afar.”

Isildur glances at the unlit shrine.

“So…”

“So we can light the candles,” Anárion tells him. “Together. And keep vigil. Together.”

He imagines Anárion and Elendil doing the same for him. The warmth of the knowledge is so strong it nearly overwhelms him.

It takes a while for Isildur to find the voice past the lump in his throat. Anárion waits him out, patiently.

“Yes,” Isildur finally says. “Yes, I would…I would be honored to light the candles for Nienna with you. Thank you.”

And Anárion could tell him many things. He could say that Elendil is father too, and he is not merely doing this just for Isildur. He could point out that he would do this anyway, even if Isildur was not here. But he does not, he simply accepts what this means for Isildur and does not try to trivialize it. And Isildur has never loved him more.

They light the candles together. Isildur watches Anárion’s movements from the corner of his eye, how in tune they are with his own, how they move as one, as if they were guided by one mind and one purpose. 

He and Anárion are different in many ways. Yet they still feel like two halves of the same whole. The sun and the moon. Better, even, because, unlike the sun and the moon, they can reach out for each other.

As if to make sure that this is really true, Isildur lights the last candle and reaches out, fastening his arm around Anárion’s wrist. Anárion glances at him questioningly.

“Why is it that you look at me so?”

Isildur smiles.

“I am…I am just grateful.”

Anárion tilts his head.

“For what, exactly?”

Isildur draws a deep breath.

“For you, if you must know. I imagine the two of us standing against the tide together, facing whatever storm awaits us side by side.”

Anárion looks away.

“That is a good thought,” he says.

Isildur nods fervently.

“It is,” he agrees. “It is one of the best thoughts there can be. I do not know what would happen if it proves wrong.”

I do not know what I would do with myself if I lost you. He banishes the thought, does not allow it to take form, because Anárion is here, beside him, and, as long as Isildur has any say in things, he will not allow Anárion to be anywhere else.

The two of them sit side by side on the cushions that have been left there from the time Anárion had kept vigil with Elendil for Isildur’s sake. Isildur watches the flames of the candles, and for the first time in so long, he can look at fire and not see the destruction of the Southlands in the flames, or the inferno of the burning hut. He does not feel the bitter taste of ash in his throat. Instead, he sees only the warmth that the flames can offer and smells the sweet aromas of the candles and the burning incense and remembers his childhood when Amandil would light the candles every day and pray for the wellbeing of the Faithful and for the prosperity of all Númenor.

                  xxxXXXXxxxx

“Do you ever have doubts, Anárion?”

Isildur isn’t sure what prompts him to ask this question. He has not spoken after lighting the candles, and neither has Anárion, preferring to remain in contemplation. But Isildur can rarely sit quiet with his thoughts for a long time without those same thoughts coming to plague him.

Anárion stirs next to him.

“Doubts?” he repeats.

Isildur senses that Anárion is looking at him, but he keeps his eyes firmly on the candles.

“You are the staunchest supporter of the Valar I know,” he says.

Anárion huffs.

“Then perhaps you should look in the mirror from time to time, Isil. I am afraid I might have competition.”

Isildur does not smile back.

“I have doubts,” he confesses.

“About the Valar?” Anárion asks carefully.

There is no judgment in Anárion’s question, and this is what prompts Isildur to go on.

“Yes. Maybe. I do not know. About myself, mostly.”

Anárion draws closer, leaning his head against Isildur’s.

“Doubts are what keep us humble, brother,” he says. “It’s people like Pharazôn who never doubt themselves.”

“Humility has saved kingdoms that the proud have all but led to ruin,” Isildur recites. “Commander Galadriel told me that. In truth, I think she only wanted to make me feel better. It is not pleasant to meet your childhood hero when you’re nothing but a lowly stable-sweep.”

Anárion sniggers.

“I would have loved to have seen the look on your face when father dropped that bit of news in your lap.”

Isildur’s shoulders shake in amusement.

“Valandil was pleased, I can tell you that. He always did enjoy knocking me down a peg or two. He was probably right.”

His heart clenches, pain and longing clogging his throat, because he misses Valandil so, so much, and he does not think it is fair, that he has never got to say a proper goodbye to him, that the last time the two had seen each other, the flames had risen up between them.

Anárion leans harder against him.

“You miss him,” he says.

Isildur sighs.

“I miss him terribly. He and I would be at each other’s throat constantly about something or other, you remember that. But he stood by me. He was honest with me, and he helped me in his way. And I…I would give anything for him to see me now. I would give anything to know he was pleased of what I’m becoming.”

“I am sure he would be,” Anárion says. “I resented him at times, to tell you the truth. I am ashamed to say it, but I was jealous. You and him…well…at times he seemed more like your brother than your best friend.”

“He was,” Isildur admits, then reaches out and clutches Anárion’s arm. “But that does not take away from what you are to me. There was always room enough in my heart for the two of you. And for Eärien.”

He feels Anárion tense when he mentions Eärien. He is about to make a comment, when Anárion interrupts him.

“To answer your question, Isildur, yes, I had doubts. About the Valar. I had a lot of doubts.”

Isildur is surprised, because Anárion has sometimes been even more set on restoring the old ways than Isildur himself was. Anárion has always been the one refusing to compromise, seeing the situation in Númenor in black and white even when it had not been so.

“When?”

Anárion hesitates, then shrugs.

“When you…when you were lost. I was…I was so angry, Isil. I imagined how you… and I was so angry.”

It’s suddenly too hard to breathe, but Isildur puts his own discomfort aside.

“Listen to me,” he says, and the fierceness of his tone surprises even him, “I do not want to be the reason you lose faith, Anárion. I never want to be the reason you lose faith. You have to promise that you won’t…that whatever happens...”

Anárion clutches his hand.

“If I don’t promise, will you stop putting yourself at risk?”

Isildur remembers the palantír.

“You know I cannot.”

Anárion nods.

“Of course. But you should know your loss would hit hard, Isildur. It was only during those terrible months when I thought you were dead that I realized how hard you’ve always tried to keep our family together.”

Isildur thinks of Anárion going off into the west and causing a painful rift between him and their father. He thinks of Eärien, almost certainly lost to them forever.

“I was not very good at it,” he says.

He feels Anárion shake his head against him.

“You were very good at it. We were the ones who made things difficult for you. I shouldn’t have left like that. And Eärien…”

He stops, and Isildur is glad of this, because he does not think he can take any criticism against Eärien.

“Well, you’re here now,” Isildur says. “You aren’t going anywhere else, are you?”

Anárion huffs.

“No. Are you?”

Isildur blinks against the image of him dying in some mission that might be essential for the survival of the Faithful.

“Not if I can help it.”

Anárion clutches his hand once.

“Good,” he says. “That is very good.”

They fall silent after that. Isildur watches the flickering candles and wishes that he was indeed as strong as Anárion seems to think he is. He wishes he could send at least half of that strength to Elendil, where he is now. Isildur senses that his father will need it in the day that is to come.

Chapter Text

Elendil wakes up to the sound of trumpets heralding the changing of the palace guard. It is a sound he has gotten used to, as it carries even as far as the Old Quarter of Armenelos, where he used to live. On days when he was scheduled to be at sea, it was also a signal for him to get up and make ready for his journey.

In his sleep fog, he almost believes that he is back in his home in the Old Quarter, and he must get up and prepare to head to the docks. He opens his eyes, and the sight of the unfamiliar room reminds him of the truth. He is not a captain in the Sea Guard anymore. He has not been one in almost a month. He has lost it all, after that disastrous expedition.

The disappointment feels heavy in the pit of his stomach, so strong that it nearly paralyzes him. He remembers all his days at sea, how much he loved his job, how proud he had been when he had received his first command, one of the youngest to do so, despite dawdling for two years and deferring twice before he had finally taken the trials to join the Sea Guard. If he had known back then how soon this would be taken from him, he would not have delayed his graduation from the cadets.

Elendil pushes himself up and tries to leave such maudlin thoughts behind. He has not lost everything, he reminds himself. He does not have his captaincy anymore, but he has Andúnië, and he has the Faithful. And, more importantly, he has Isildur back, so he is doing much, much better than that day on the docks, when he had not realized he was about to be dismissed.

“We move forward,” he tells himself. “It is the only thing we can do.”

He gets dressed with slow, mechanical gestures, feeling somewhat out of place in his elegant clothes, but he is the Lord of Andúnië, and he must play the part. The petitions he has worked on with Isildur and Anárion for the wellbeing of the Faithful enclave are in his satchel. He does not think he can hand them over at the wedding – not that anyone would accuse him of bad form, what with Pharazôn marrying his own cousin – so he will have to hand them to the palace clerk afterwards. If he has the chance. If he is not sent away immediately after the ceremony.

He steps out of the room. To his surprise, there is no guard outside. It seems he is to be allowed to roam freely. 

Elendil hesitates. He remembers the secret staircase to Míriel’s tower and wonders if Pharazôn keeps it guarded. He rejects the thought. Going to Míriel now will accomplish nothing. It might even put both of them at risk – and worse, it would put the Faithful at risk. Elendil’s priorities have shifted. Now he serves the Faithful more than he serves the Queen.

Instead, he heads for the stables. Berek greets him with enthusiasm. Elendil is pleased to discover that Berek has been well-cared for. He extends a hand, and Berek allows Elendil to stroke him.

“Do not worry yourself, old friend,” he tells Berek. “We will be home soon.”

He swallows harshly, because for many years Armenelos was home, and even though his birthplace will always be Andúnië, Armenelos will also have his heart.

“It is a sad thing, Berek, my boy,” he says. “To lose a home in such a manner.”

Berek nibbles at his hand in his usual gesture of comfort. Elendil smiles slightly.

“Doing Isil’s bidding, I see. Looking after me when he cannot.”

The horse snorts, clearly showing that there was no question of him not following Isildur’s lead. Elendil strokes his flanks.

“Thank you, Berek. You really did help.”

He is distracted by a strange noise from further inside the stables. A mournful, lowing-like sound. No horse would make that sound, and Elendil finds himself curious to discover what is happening – and worried about whatever unknown creature is in the same stables as his son’s beloved horse.

Elendil advances towards the noise. In the furthest box he finds its source. He stops.

“Oh,” he says in comprehension.

This has to be the mûmak calf Eärien told him about the night before. Elendil has never been to Harad, and he has never seen mûmakil except in drawings. He knows they are supposed to be massive. This one is young, his tusks haven’t grown yet, but already he is almost as big as Berek and much sturdier.

The calf looks at Elendil mournfully and lows again, the sound reverberating in the stables, its echoes breaking. Elendil can hear the sorrow in the calls.

“What is it, lad?” he asks. “Do you miss home? You’re so young, you probably miss your mother, too.”

He does not enjoy watching living things suffer. He cannot help trying to assuage their suffering, but he is beginning to learn how impossible this is sometimes. Nothing would make the mûmak happy, except being sent back to his desert and his herds, and that is not happening.

Still, Elendil cannot help looking around, trying to find a way to at least make the beast more comfortable. The water trough is empty. He looks around and finally locates a bucket of water which he carries and pours into the mûmak’s trough, doing the same with Berek’s afterwards. Then he takes some of the hay and places it in front of the calf as well. The water is accepted. The hay remains untouched. Elendil frowns. He knows when animals grieve, they refuse to eat. Besides, he does not know what mûmakil are supposed to eat, and he doubts Pharazôn’s stable hands know either.

“I am sorry,” he says. “We have not been good to you, bringing you here.”

He feels the beast’s sorrow keenly, because he knows exile, doesn’t he? Even though he has returned to his birthplace, he has left many things behind in Armenelos. A life. A career in which he was respected and admired. A service he has enjoyed. And there are others now in Andúnië who are even worse than him. Who had lived all their lives in Armenelos and now they are no longer welcome in their own city.

                                    xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Eärien is up before the sun. In truth, she hasn’t slept much, the meeting with her father leaving her shaky and confused. She is surprised that Elendil has not asked her to come with him, not even once. She does not know what to make of this, does not know if she should feel hurt that he has apparently given up on her or relieved that he has finally realized she will never take part in their so-called Faithful absurdities.

For a moment, she wavers. She wonders if it is as simple as that, giving up on her family.

“What if he does ask me to join him?” Eärien wonders. “What if I actually say yes?”

Immediately, she shakes her head, furious with herself.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” she says firmly. “Don’t throw away what you’ve worked for. Not now.”

Not when Pharazôn’s visions of Númenor are close to becoming reality. True, the road will be long and hard. Yet victory will be swift. And Eärien wants to be there for it.

She gets dressed for the wedding in her new crimson gown she has bought with the gold earned from her first commission in the guild. She does not really recognize herself like this, remembering her more simple dresses, the blue colors resembling waves at sunset. Now, she feels she is no longer Eärien, no longer the Sea-maiden from Andúnië. She is something else.

Eärien realizes that, since she spends most of her time at the palace, she has not even looked upon the sea for a very long time. She does not mind. In truth, she has never really loved the sea. It often carried her father away, it took her mother, it separated her from her eldest brother. She does not trust the sea. Perhaps she never will.

She goes to her father’s study and takes some of his maps, placing them in a satchel. She intends to give them to him after the ceremony if she can. After some thinking, she also places some of the texts both his father and Isildur like to read. They are in Quenya, and soon such texts will be forbidden for Guild members. Eärien knows it is a prelude to something else, the burning of the Hall of Lore and the purging of all Faithful texts. Still, she does not doubt Elendil will find a way to hide those. 

Finally, she takes a drawing she has done of Isildur shortly before he left for the expedition. Eärien hesitates, then she decides to give this away as well. They can do with it what they see fit.

She looks at the drawing one last time, tracing Isildur’s features. He was looking somewhere in the distance, a half-smile playing on his face. Eärien frowns. She does not remember why he was smiling. She does not remember the day she painted the portrait at all.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says.

And yet, she knows that she is lying to herself. She knows that is matters, that she is one step closer to losing who she was for good, and she does not know if she will enjoy the person she must now become.

                            xxxXXXXxxxx

Estrid wakes early, her mind haunted by a dark dream. She was back in Adar’s camp with Freda, yet Isildur was there too, and she was trying to convince them to take the mark of Adar and survive, because there was hope for them, if only they lived for a little while longer.

She remembers the disappointed look in both their faces, remembers their deaths as if they had been real, and even though now she can feel relief flow through her, because Isildur is alive, and he had never been in Adar’s camp after all, she also feels smothered by grief, because Freda was there, and she is dead. 

Estrid has never realized how much she would miss her best friends, how much she would wake up every morning thinking about bits of her life she wants to share with Freda and Gunna. This, at least, she knows Isildur understands. He too has lost friends who were as close as brothers to him.

She gets dressed and steps outside. The morning is cold, but at the same time, the air is heavy. Estrid notices dark clouds gathering from the west. She swallows harshly.

She knows what’s out there. Isildur has told her. Oftentimes, she tries not to think about it, how close she is to the realm of the gods. When she does, she usually feels terror, because how could mortals live in such proximity to the gods?

Isildur has also told her that his people believe storm clouds coming from Valinor means the Valar are displeased. Estrid thinks of the marriage between Pharazôn and Míriel. The Valar are letting their feelings known quite clearly about their union, it seems.

Estrid shudders. She wonders if the clouds will reach the island. She wonders if it will rain.

Rain on your wedding day is always bad luck, her grandmother had often told her. Estrid remembers the last time her grandmother said that was when the betrothal to Hagen was announced.

“Our wedding day hasn’t happened yet,” Estrid had protested. “And I am certain there will be no rain then. You’ll see.”

Her grandmother had shaken her head, then she had taken Estrid’s hand and looked into her eyes, and Estrid had been surprised that she had looked so sad.

Estrid finds it strange. Her grandmother was the only one who did not see Hagen as the positive match everyone else thought he was. She constantly reminded Estrid that the heart knew when things were not meant to be. And, however much Estrid had tried to assure her that her heart knew very well she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Hagen, her grandmother had never seemed to believe it. In many ways, Estrid realizes now, neither had she. Even before she had known Isildur existed, there was always a grain of doubt when it came to her and Hagen.

Turning her back on such thoughts, Estrid steps into the yard. She smiles when she sees the middle-aged man approaching her, carrying a bucket of milk and a basket of eggs.

“Mistress Estrid,” he greets. “These are for you and your family. I will come back after three days, yes?”

Estrid nods and takes the bucket and the basket.

“There is fodder for your sheep in the shed,” she tells him. “As payment. Help yourself.”

She walks back into the house, and lights a fire in the kitchen, placing some of the milk to be warmed for their morning meal. She sets the eggs on the table. They have someone coming to cook for them, but Estrid is used to cooking for herself, and she sometimes takes over, especially in mornings like this one, when the thoughts are too loud and even the soothing task of weaving does not erase them completely.

Estrid opens one of the cupboards, taking out a box filled with the bitter brown powder from a plant given to Amandil by a  Haradrim merchant. Estrid has heard the story. Amandil was on sea duty when he saved a trade ship from corsairs. In gratitude, one of the merchants gave him a small plant that made beans that could be then ground and boiled. The plant still grows in their garden. Estrid does not particularly enjoy putting the powder in her milk, so she rarely drinks it, but Isildur is immensely fond of it, even unsweetened with honey. 

Those of the Southlands did not have access to such exotic merchandise. Not even traders like Estrid’s father. Although, he had been planning to attempt a large trading expedition through the lands of Rhûn that would have brought much wealth to the family. Estrid remembers her mother begging with him not to go, and her father reassuring her that he would be back. Then a year had passed, and another, and Estrid’s mother decided to hold the death rites for her husband, even though there was no body to burry.

Estrid gasps. She clenches her fists to drive the thought away. Her people believe it is a bad omen, to remember someone who has died on the road when someone else in the family is away. Elendil, she thinks, her heart thumping. But no, she tells herself. This has nothing to do with Elendil being away. She was simply in the mood to remember her father, that is all. It was the powder from Harad that had brought about the memory of her father’s final trading expedition. That is all. Nothing sinister about it.

“Estrid?”

She straightens up quickly.

“Anárion,” she greets. “I did not hear you come in.”

Anárion surveys her, frowning slightly.

“You seemed lost in thought. Are you alright, Estrid? You look pale.”

Estrid summons a smile.

“Quite alright. Thank you.”

She cannot tell him she was thinking of her father who went east and did not return, when his own father has traveled eastward and has yet to come back.

Instead, she goes to the window and looks outside.

“There is going to be a storm today. You’re not going out to sea, are you? It might not be safe.”

Anárion shakes his head, still eyeing her uncertainly.

“I’m not going anywhere. I think we should all stay close today.”

Estrid turns around sharply.

“Do you think something will happen?” she asks breathlessly.

Anárion hesitates.

“I do not know. But it is a sad day for the Faithful. A sad day for Númenor. And I think we should stay together.”

He does not seem to waver when he includes her among the Faithful or among Númenor. It is almost as if Estrid has always been here, as if her place in this society was never contested.

The thought is warm and bright, like sunlight piercing through the clouds. It is almost enough to cast away the shadows of something dark and terrible approaching. Almost, but not quite.

                                xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Kemen manages to catch Pharazôn alone only this morning. Last evening, Kemen made his report to his father in Belzagar’s presence, and Pharazôn has seemed to deliberately try to avoid being alone with his son. Now, however, Belzagar isn’t there. And Kemen intends to say his piece.

Pharazôn looks magnificent in his crimson and golden robes. There is a circlet on his forehead, and, in that moment, Kemen is sure he looks like a god. He does not know what to make of this thought.

Sensing Kemen’s presence, Pharazôn turns to him. As usual, his face shows nothing but impatience.

“Well?” Pharazôn asks. “I am sure you are here to say what’s on your mind, so stop wavering and say it.”

Kemen breathes deeply. He never likes contradicting his father because he knows the many ways this could go wrong.

“Out with it,” Pharazôn orders.

He never says my name, Kemen thinks. He remembers Eärien’s words to him last night, and wonders if his Quenya name is an inconvenience to Pharazôn. 

Then he remembers something else. The night he has set fire to the ships, when Isildur had saved his life. How Elendil had rushed to them, and how the first thing out of his mouth was Isildur’s name. But, of course, Pharazôn is not Elendil. And maybe this is why Kemen hates Elendil so much.

He senses Pharazôn’s growing impatience and decides to get it over with.

“Father, I think you are making a mistake.”

Pharazôn waves this aside.

“You are allowed to think whatever you please, I can hardly stop you.”

Kemen bites his lips.

“I mean the wedding, father. People are scandalized. Míriel is your cousin.”

“I am quite aware what she is, thank you.”

Pharazôn is not going to make this easy for Kemen. He decides to plough on, nonetheless.

“And she would not be the first woman you marry.”

Something flashes in Pharazôn’s eyes. For a moment, Kemen is afraid he has gone too far.

“Is this what this is then?” Pharazôn challenges. “Is this loyalty towards your mother?”

Your mother. Pharazôn never says her name, just as he never says Kemen’s. Of course, she had a Quenya name too, one that she refused to change. Pharazôn seems to have gotten at least one thing out of Míriel. She apparently agrees to be Zimraphel.

Pharazôn is looking at Kemen expectantly.

“Well? Are you feeling some need to defend your mother’s honor?”

Kemen huffs.

“What? No! No, of course not.”

And this much is true. He owes nothing to the mother who betrayed his father’s ideals, holding on to her identity as one of the Faithful. The woman had given Kemen nothing but an inconvenient name and a vague prophecy, shared with his father but not with him.

“It has nothing to do with this,” he insists. “But people are talking, father, and I would not see you disgraced.”

Pharazôn scoffs.

“Your concern is touching. There is no need for it, though. I know what I am doing.”

Kemen thinks Pharazôn is biting more than he can chew, doing too much far too quickly. He cannot say this to his father’s face, though.

“You do not need Míriel,” he argues. “You’ve already defeated her, you’ve had them think whatever happened with the Sea Worm was Sauron’s doing, you had her in chains! The Faithful are branded traitors – what more do you need? Toss Míriel aside. Send her to the darkest cell and forget about her. Or exile her – in Andúnië, in Middle-earth, anywhere! But don’t marry her.”

He stops when he spots the look of twisted fury on Pharazôn’s face. Pharazôn takes a step towards him, and Kemen has to keep himself from flinching. He cannot stop himself from looking away, though, even if he knows his father will despise him for it.

Pharazôn places a heavy hand on his shoulder. The grip is tight and confining. Unbidden, Kemen once more thinks of that night on the docks with Isildur, how Elendil had placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, and he wonders if it had felt like that. Somehow, he knows it didn’t, and he would gladly bring Isildur as much misery as he can, because it’s not fair for a lowly Faithful to have something that Kemen does not.

“I would have done all that,” Pharazôn tells him, tone hard and cold. “I could have done all that. But then you interfered.”

Kemen freezes.

“What?”

Pharazôn looks pointedly at him.

“Need I remind you what happened in that shrine?”

Kemen draws back, or at least, he tries to. Pharazôn refuses to let him go.

“I was acting on your orders,” he points out.

Pharazôn shakes him slightly.

“I ordered you to discredit the Faithful, not to make a martyr out of a war hero! Yes, I wanted a riot, but not like that. First blood had to come from them, not from you.”

“It was drawn by them. They started it. Elendil did.”

The humiliation of Elendil punching him in front of his father’s guards is going to haunt him for the rest of his life. Not to mention Valandil dislocating his shoulder so badly, he still cannot move his arm right.

Pharazôn seems to act as if that does not matter.

“I did not mean that. If there was to be any serious violence, it should have been from them, not from you. That would have turned the people against them completely. Instead, we had the Trial by Abyss and look how that went. All because of you.”

Kemen wonders now what outcome Pharazôn had been looking for when he had sent him to the shrine. Had he been hoping Kemen himself would be killed? But no. Not even Pharazôn would sacrifice his own son in such a manner – or would he?

“Still, the Faithful are exiled in Andúnië. You could have sent Míriel there as well.”

Pharazôn scoffs.

“And have a civil war on my doorstep? Míriel is my hostage. As long as she is here, Elendil will not make a move against me. If she is Queen – well, that is even better. Elendil made a lot of noise about supporting the true ruler of Númenor. Well, now his true ruler of Númenor will be on the throne. I just happen to share that throne with her.”

Kemen hears the satisfaction in Pharazôn’s voice and wishes that he could feel it.

“And maybe one day Zimraphel will come to understand me better and understand that I want what is best for Númenor,” Pharazôn adds. “I do not wish to be feared and hated by her, Kemen. I never did.”

Kemen does not want to think too much about Pharazôn’s words.

“And Andúnië? Because as long as Elendil and Isildur are there, we aren’t going to have peace, father.”

Pharazôn smiles tightly.

“There are ways to deal with Andúnië.”

Kemen’s eyes narrow.

“What ways?”

“The Faithful are now removed from Númenórean society. They are exiles. Outcasts. They are no longer friends or neighbors or guild members. It is easy to view them as enemies in this context – as the unknown quantity.”

Kemen releases a shaky breath.

“What are you going to do to them?”

There is a glint in Pharazôn’s eyes that he does not like.

“For now – unless some opportunity arises – I intend to wait. I intend to wait and tighten the noose around them.”

“And the wedding?” Kemen wants to know. “If Elendil is here – what are you going to do with him? He’s wanted for treason.”

Pharazôn shakes his head.

“He’s exiled, like the rest of the Faithful but I have given him a dispensation. He’s here as my guest. I am a generous man, Kemen.”

Kemen refrains from rolling his eyes.

“So – you’re going to let him return to Andúnië?”

“Eventually, yes,” Pharazôn replies. “Is there anything else that is bothering you? Or shall we perhaps discuss your failure to deliver the allotted quantity of timber we agreed upon?”

Kemen feels his cheeks burn with the humiliation brought about by Pharazôn’s words.

“Then give me more leeway, father. The low-men are resisting me. They seem not to care that I might withhold food transports from them. Allow me to be firmer with them.”

Pharazôn shrugs.

“As far as I am concerned, you can whip them in the public square if this is what you fancy.”

Kemen squares his shoulders.

“I have your permission to do that?”

After what happened in the shrine, he needs to hear his father’s explicit orders. If things go wrong again, Kemen reasons, at least he will not be the only one to blame.

Pharazôn makes a careless movement with his hand.

“If this is what you wish. Only, remember – if the only way you can impose yourself on people is by using brute force, then you have learned nothing of the subtleties of statecraft that I have tried to reach you. And I am rather disappointed in you.”

Pharazôn walks out of the room, head held high. Kemen remains behind, fuming.

                             xxxxXXXXXxxxx

They all gather outside the palace for the start of the marriage ceremony. Elendil discovers with some surprise and trepidation that he has been given a place among the other visiting nobles. He stands there, uneasy, aware that their attention is on him, that they seem to leave a space between them and him, as if he was somehow contaminated, unclean, and they do not want to interact with him. The sense of otherness that seems to surround him unnerves him, and he wants to grab them and shout at them and remind them that he is one of them. 

I am Númenórean, he wishes to say. Just like you. We were born on the same island. We’ve walked the same streets. We’ve looked at the same sun rising and setting. My beliefs might be different from yours, but I am still a son of Númenor.

He knows, though, it would be in vain. He knows that him and the rest of the Faithful are no longer considered part of Númenor. He thinks he should be lucky that all he gets is silent contempt. After all, the last time Isildur was in Armenelos, he got stones thrown at him.

As he waits, Elendil looks up at the sky. It is grey and getting darker. A cold wind blows, a western wind, and Elendil shivers. The Valar expressing their disapproval, he thinks.

Lightning flashes in the sky. The rumbling of thunder reminds him of the explosion of Orodruin. He closes his eyes briefly against the memory. Suddenly, he feels cold, and he wonders if he is not about to witness another cataclysm, this time brought about by the wrath of the Valar.

Elendil’s mind drifts to Andúnië. If there is to be a storm, it might reach them before it reaches Armenelos. His breath falters – what if it already has? What if the people of Andúnië would be the ones paying the price for Pharazôn’s sins?

No, he tells himself. No, it cannot be. They would not do this. The Valar are fair. They would not punish their loyal followers. Or would they?

His fists clench, and he forces himself to relax. He knows he is being watched. Any gesture that might be considered threatening would be used against him.

Pharazôn is the first to arrive, surrounded by his retinue. Elendil recognizes Belzagar close to him and spots Kemen at a short distance. Kemen’s face is pale, his eyes blank, and Elendil would feel sorry for him, but he remembers how Kemen had washed Valandil’s blood off his sword in the waters of the holy shrine, and he wishes the young man every sorrow imaginable. He does not even have the energy to remind himself that such thoughts are unbecoming of him. 

Elendil’s heart jolts as he notices Eärien close to Kemen. She looks beautiful, he thinks, but remote and cold like ice. She does not look in his direction, not even once, even though Elendil is certain that she must have seen him. It does not matter, he tells himself. They have said everything they needed to say to each other the night before. And yet, he already misses her.

The crowd cheers. They chant Pharazôn’s name, like they did during the coronation. No eagle comes to show approval or disapproval. But lightning sears the sky and a cold wind batters against them. Still, Pharazôn walks on, as if he has not noticed anything out of the ordinary.

Elendil has to admit that he looks regal. Like a true king. He knows how to assume the air of the authoritarian but benevolent monarch. In many ways, Elendil understands why people fall under Pharazôn’s spell – why Eärien has also fallen under his spell. In many ways, he cannot forgive those that do. Maybe not even Eärien.

From the other side, someone comes leading the mûmak calf. The beast does not seem to want to walk, he seems cold and frightened by the approaching storm. Still, he is pushed towards Pharazôn, who places a steadying hand on his head, ignoring when the múmak tries to pull away.

Pharazôn turns to the people.

“A fine gift,” he says. “For our new queen.”

The fury inside Elendil burns and scalds. Our new queen. Míriel had been queen before Pharazôn had decided to supplant her throne. Her father had stepped down only for her, had agreed with the people clamoring for his removal that Míriel could be the salvation of Númenor, could reconcile the two factions and bring stability to the land. And Míriel had earned her queenship. She had earned by deciding to help Galadriel, choosing the right path instead of the easy one. She had earned it on the battlefield and in the fires that came after. She has bled for Númenor, which is more than can be said about Pharazôn.

The crowd cheers again. Elendil thinks he is the only one to remain silent and still. But he has only agreed to attend the ceremony, not to take part in this demeaning spectacle, and that is the best he can do.

Míriel appears then, led by her healer and companion, Vardilmë. Elendil’s heart jolts. Her dress is crimson, just like Pharazôn’s own clothes. He remembers her in the white of her coronation gown, or in the sea-blue colors so beloved to the Faithful. The transition to the crimson gown, the symbolic association with the power of the sun seems strange for the humble Míriel, but Elendil hopes that the choice is hers, that at least she isn’t completely forced into this, and he thinks again that he has failed her, that he should have done something to prevent this, that things could have gone differently, if only he had known how to protect her better.

Míriel is out of the palace, and then it starts to rain, cold drops falling unrelentingly from the sky. Míriel does not seem affected by them as she is lead towards Pharazôn. The ground shakes slightly, and that is when Míriel stops, a brief look of panic on her features. But the quake does not increase and stops quickly, so Míriel resumes walking, face once again blank.

She reaches Pharazôn who takes her hand, and together they walk to the White Tree, whose petals are falling. One of them touches Míriel’s face. She takes it in her hand and frowns slightly but does not say anything.

Elendil forces himself to watch the ceremony, to stand still and get through it all, even though it breaks his heart. The priest presiding is unknown to him, and he remembers Manwëndil and his death and his shoulders bow under the horror of it all.

The ceremony is unlike the weddings of the Faithful. In Pharazôn’s attempt to distance himself from the group he has branded as treacherous, the priest makes no mention of the Valar blessing the union and does not remind those listening of the great loves of old – of Lúthien and Beren standing together against the dark, of Tuor and Idril, facing the impossible together, of Eärendil and Elwing, whose union led to the founding of Númenor itself.

Elendil remembers all this from his own ceremony, and he is beyond glad that it is not repeated here, that the memory of that day can still remain clean and pure and bright, uncorrupted by the travesty unfolding before his very eyes.

Ar-Pharazôn and Ar-Zimraphel pledge their troth beneath the branches of the White Tree, as royal couples have done in Númenor since times immemorial. This is the first time that Nimloth weeps, her flowers carried over Armenelos by a furious wind blowing from the west.

                                XXXXXXXXXxxxXXXX

The ceremony is lengthy. There are speeches and songs and dances, and the people remain in attendance despite the rain. Elendil senses that, despite their jovial mood, they do not know what to think of the marriage. Some voice their disapproval outright. Míriel is Pharazôn’s cousin. This is not done. This is not seemly.

After the ceremony, Elendil steps briefly inside the palace to drop his proposals with the royal petitioner who looks at him askance but does not tell him anything. Nor does he drop Elendil’s petitions into the fire, so Elendil supposes that is a good sign.

He is ready to walk to his room and change into his traveling clothes convinced that he will be leaving tonight and actually longing to do so. He stops short when Pharazôn himself makes for him, accompanied by Kemen.

“Elendil,” Pharazôn greets jovially, as if he has not condemned Elendil to death the last time they had seen each other, as if he has not done what he has done to Isildur. 

Elendil gives a curt nod. He does not address Pharazôn in any way. Calling him chancellor, especially now, will get him into trouble – but Elendil will be dead thrice over before he addresses Pharazôn as king.

“I do hope you will be present at the feast,” Pharazôn goes on.

Elendil blinks.

“Feast?”

Pharazôn smirks.

“You did not think this was all? One could hardly celebrate a marriage without a feast.”

Elendil wonders what kind of game Pharazôn is playing.

“Apologies,” he says. “But I am expected at home.”

“Surely they can do without you for a few days,” Pharazôn says, and his tone indicates that he is making it an order.

Elendil nearly asks why. But he does not want to find out that this is only another way Pharazôn is trying to teach the Faithful their place in his new Númenor.

“Besides,” Pharazôn adds, “Your daughter might want to see you as well.”

So Pharazôn does not know about Eärien’s visit the night before. Elendil feels immensely pleased that Eärien has not told him. It means that Pharazôn has not sunk his claws completely into her. It means that, at least part of Eärien is free of his influence.

“And Zimraphel,” Pharazôn finishes. “I assume she would like you to be there, too. After all, the two of you were such great friends. You must be rejoicing for her now.”

Pharazôn turns to leave while Elendil struggles to keep his anger in check. He does not ask again whether Elendil will be at the feast. He already knows Elendil has no choice. He’s made it quite clear.

Chapter Text

The storm comes over them late in the morning. The sky darkens, and it looks as if nighttime is approaching. The roaring of the sea can be heard even from the farm outside Andúnië. The wind blows, shaking the windowpanes. The flashes of lightning are almost continuous. The rolls of thunder never cease.

Isildur has made sure earlier in the day that the people of Andúnië stay in their houses and that none of them ventures on the shore or, worse, out on the open sea. Now he is home, together with the others. Voronwë has also joined them, at Isildur’s bidding.

They light many candles and also light a fire in the hearth. It should look welcoming. Isildur feels uneasy. He feels like they are waiting for the end of the world.

“This isn’t an ordinary storm,” Anárion says. “Is it?”

Isildur shrugs.

“It is what it is,” he says.

Anárion does not let the idea go.

“The Valar are displeased,” he says. “It’s the wedding.”

Isildur grimaces.

“Of course it’s the wedding.”

Neither of them mentions that Elendil is also at that wedding. 

“Don’t worry,” Isildur says. “This will pass. In a few ours, the sun will shine again.”

He does not know if he really believes it. He wants to, but he does not know.

The ground rumbles. Isildur watches the candles on the table sway, although none of them falls.

“Maybe it’s safer to put those out.”

The intermittent quakes frighten him more than the storm. He glances at Estrid and Theo. 

“It’s just a storm,” he tells them. “That’s it. Just a storm, yes?”

Estrid nods. Theo looks pale, but his eyes are steady.

“Just a storm,” he says. “Of course.”

Isildur leaves the room and leans against the wall. He does not voice it out loud – that the ground shaking reminds him of the Southlands – of Mordor – of the moment when an entire land was choked under fire and ash.

He closes his eyes against the images of fire and blood. He wonders if he’s really escaped the fire. He wonders if this is not a long dream haunting him before he dies like Ontamo, choked under some fallen rubble, swallowed by fire and ash.

Voronwë’s heavy hand on his shoulder pulls him away from the darkness of his thoughts.

Isildur opens his eyes and finds his grandfather watching him closely, eyes clouded with concern. In some strange way, the sight warms him. Ever since he has confessed to Voronwë that his mother had died to save him, he has been expecting some kind of rejection from Voronwë. After all, Tindómiel was his daughter.

Yet Voronwë is the same as ever in many ways. He is different in others, but the difference is good. It now feels as if Voronwë understands Isildur better than he ever did.

“I am alright,” Isildur says quickly. “It is just a storm.”

Voronwë’s hand tightens on his shoulder.

“It must be hard,” he says. “The noise, the ground shaking. It must remind you of that time.”

Isildur shakes himself out of his thoughts.

“I wasn’t the only one here who’s been through that,” he argues. “I should check on Estrid.”

Estrid ended up in Adar’s camp afterwards – and Isildur suspects something terrible has happened before that, something Estrid has not mentioned yet – and perhaps never will. Isildur knows one of Estrid’s best friends had died in front of her, refusing to take Adar’s vow, but he also knows there was another friend. Gunna. Estrid has mentioned her a few times, and whenever she does, her eyes would take on a faraway, glazed look. It is enough for Isildur not to ask to know more. Not until he is sure Estrid is ready.

“And Theo,” he says. “Surely this must remind him of his mother.”

Voronwë jolts him slightly.

“What about you?” he asks. “This doesn’t remind you of anything?”

Isildur shuts his eyes tight, annoyed that Voronwë wants to make him go there. Doesn’t Voronwë understand that Isildur cannot afford to lose himself right now?

“It wasn’t that bad with me,” he insists. “I can hardly remember that roof falling on me. And afterwards…there were a few unpleasant moments with the orcs and…and the…the spiders – but really, I wasn’t even awake for most of that, not until Berek found me. It wasn’t that bad.”

He speaks in a rush, as if saying the words as quickly as possible will somehow make them true. But, if they are true, than why are his hands shaking so badly? Why does he feel ash clogging his throat every time the ground shakes?

His head is bowed, and Voronwë is leaning over him, not saying anything, but giving him strength by only being there. 

“Come now,” Voronwë says. “You’ve been among shadows yourself. Now you can turn your back on them and walk away. We are waiting for you.”

Isildur takes a deep breath.

“I am alright,” he insists.

The next breath seems to come more easily.

“I need to see to the others,” he says.

He wavers, because he does not want Theo and Estrid – or Anárion, for that matter – to see him in such a state. He cannot put his burdens on them. Not now, not with Elendil gone.

Isildur remembers how angry Estrid was when he mentioned once that he did not want her to see him in a moment of weakness. But this is different, he argues with himself. Because what Estrid has been through in Adar’s camp is far more terrible than Isildur’s own misadventures in Mordor – and he cannot burden her with his fears when hers are so much more justified.

Voronwë is looking at him as if he can guess Isildur’s thoughts.

“You know, you can be exactly like your father at times,” he comments.

Isildur snorts.

“Thank you. I do not know whether you meant that as a compliment, but I’ll choose to see it this way.”

He is feeling much better, the fear retreated in a dark corner of his mind where it is easier to ignore. 

“Do you think…?” he begins, then swallows against the dryness in his throat. “Do you think father….? The storm must have reached Armenelos as well, right?”

Voronwë’s hand is gentle, as if he understands Isildur’s fears and does not hold them against him.

“I am sure Elendil will return,” he says. “Are you ready to face the others?”

Isildur nods. He closes his eyes and urges all the determination he possesses to allow him to do his duty to the people he is responsible for.

“I’m ready,” he insists.

He goes back to the room and sits between Theo and Estrid and engages them in conversation, keeping their attention on him even with the rolling thunder and the ground still shaking intermittently. It takes a while for him to realize he feels better himself now, that keeping his mind and focus on the others has silenced the panic in his own heart.

                      xxxXXXXxxxx

The storm is over in a few hours, but the sky remains overcast. Isildur and Anárion head into Andúnië. Luckily, there has been no damage, except a few crops brought down here and there.

“Do you know what those are?” Anárion asks, grabbing Isildur’s arm.

“What?” Isildur says. “I mean, I know it is bad, but I was expecting windows broken, roofs damaged, trees brought down.”

Lives lost. He does not say it, though.

Anárion shakes his head. Strangely enough, he is grinning.

“Those crops weren’t ours,” he says. “Those are the ones destined to pay as taxes to Armenelos. Pharazôn suggested the tax long before he took the crown – and since the guilds voted for it, Míriel could not oppose it.”

Isildur frowns.

“Our crops are untouched,” he guesses.

Anárion nods. His face is bright. Isildur still sees a problem.

“It doesn't matter. Pharazôn will still demand his share from them.”

If anything, the destruction of Pharazôn’s crops could make matters worse for the Faithful.

Anárion takes him by the shoulders and shakes him slightly.

“Don’t you understand, though? Our crops weren’t touched. Only Pharazôn’s.”

Isildur understands alright. This is a sign from the Valar for anyone to see. Their disapproval is clear to spot for anyone who has eyes to do so and a mind to interpret what they see.

“Pharazôn might accuse us of damaging the crops ourselves,” he muses. “He will say we were the ones who created the signs.”

“We didn’t create the storms,” Anárion argues.

“No,” Isildur concedes. “And I do understand what you are saying. This is a sign for us to stand fast – and a warning against Pharazôn, although he will not see it that way.”

“We will have to find more ways to get more food,” Anárion says. “If Pharazôn starts demanding we give from our shares, we will have to redistribute. We were already at a limit, with all the newcomers from Armenelos.”

This is why Isildur thinks the sign of the Valar will also affect the Faithful. But perhaps this is meant to be – a test for them.

“There is also the matter of Pelargir,” he says. “They are relying on us for food.”

“Not only,” Anárion reminds him. “If the Númenóreans that have left can establish their own settlement, they can help Pelargir – perhaps even trade with them at one point. Make them less dependent of Kemen.”

Isildur frowns.

“If Kemen and Pharazôn find out, it will go ill for everyone.”

Anárion tightens his hold on Isildur’s shoulders.

“We are doing the best we can,” he says. “You are doing the best you can. You cannot be in all places at once, Isildur.”

Anárion sounds as reasonable as ever. At times, Isildur wishes he possessed at least half of his brother’s optimism.

“I should be in all places at once,” he says, not wanting to give himself any kind of concessions.

Mostly, he wishes he was with Elendil right now. Mostly, he wishes he knew for certain that his father was safe.

                        xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Elendil has been in the large hall where the feast is held only once. It had been a war room then, and he had been there with Míriel and Galadriel. Pharazôn had come from time to time. He had seen to support their cause then. 

In truth, Elendil should have known even then not to trust Pharazôn. Hadn’t Amandil told him time and time again that Pharazôn was the greatest enemy of the Faithful and the Old Ways? Yet there had been days when Elendil had refused to see, had thought that, with Míriel’s guidance, the balance could remain stable, that, if Pharazôn was allowed some small influence, he would be content with that and leave the Faithful in peace. For a time, it had seemed so. And then Galadriel had come, and the expedition had been planned, and Pharazôn had seen his opportunity and taken it without a second thought.

Elendil recalls Pharazôn’s first wife – and the idea that he would wed twice is so outlandish for a Númenórean, it is hard to even comprehend it. She had been Faithful through and through, a woman from Andúnië from a family that Elendil knows well. She had never been too enthusiastic about the match. In fact, Pharazôn’s first marriage had been one of the reasons that caused the rift between him and Amandil.

Elendil shakes his head. He remembers the day when the betrothal was announced quite keenly. Amandil had been furious then.

                          xxxXXXXxxxx

The news of Pharazôn marrying one of the Faithful surprises everyone. Those at Andúnië do not know what to think. Many of them believe that it might be a good thing – Pharazôn’s wife could speak for them. More than this, with Tar-Palantír and his heir being both of a Faithful disposition, it could be that the Faithful faction will no longer be in the minority at the court.

“You do not believe that,” Elendil tells his father. “Do you?”

He and Amandil have taken a small boat out to sea, a way of theirs of spending time together. Amandil loves the open sea, and Elendil has learned to love it just as much. To him, the sea has much of his father’s patience and steadfastness. Even when the sea is at its stormiest, Elendil does not doubt its love for him. And the same can be said of Amandil. His father loves him even when they are in conflict with each other – such as the time when Elendil had decided to defer twice from the Sea Guard.

Amandil has been troubled of late. Pharazôn is courteous to him and offers him and the people of Andúnië many concessions – of course, they are supported by Tar-Palantír, who favors the Faithful more than Pharazôn does. Yet Amandil keeps saying that Pharazôn gaining power is a dangerous thing.

“She is no older than Míriel,” Elendil says. “Pharazôn’s bride, I mean. She is barely of marriageable age, while he…well…”

“I have noticed that,” Amandil says tersely. “It is one of the arguments I used to try and dissuade him from the marriage.”

“It didn’t work,” Elendil guesses.

Amandil sighs.

“Lothiriel comes from an old and noble family,” he says. “Distantly connected to both Tar-Palantír and to us. I suppose I should be glad I have a son and not a daughter, considering Pharazôn’s machinations.”

Elendil snorts.

“Your son is equally grateful, believe me, father.”

He falls silent, watching the rays of the sun on the water.

“It isn’t love,” he says. “It isn’t really Lothiriel, either. She is a means to an end – right?”

Amandil meets his eyes and gives a curt nod.

“I commend your insight,” he says. “You have read the signs well.”

Elendil leans forward.

“Because Míriel has been designated the heir by her father. And Pharazôn realizes that he is older than her – and has no heir. This is what he wants, isn’t it? To increase his chances for…?”

He stops. They are at sea, and no other boat is in sight, and yet Elendil still feels uncomfortable and uneasy talking about Pharazôn’s plans to crown himself king of Númenor.

“That is so,” Amandil approves. “I told him he was walking a treacherous path. He just laughed in my face.”

Elendil shakes his head. Although he does not understand it, Amandil is fond of Pharazôn.

“I am sorry,” he says.

Amandil sighs. 

“It is a bitter thing, Elendil. To have to choose between someone you care for and the path you know is right. I hope it never happens to you.”

Elendil shivers, feeling the foreboding in his father’s words.

“I only hope, if it happens, that I will have the strength to make the right choice and face my heartbreak with the same grace you face yours.”

                                      xxxXXXXxxxx
Elendil blinks back to the present. He notices Eärien among the guests, and he remembers his father’s words. It is a bitter thing, to have to choose between someone you care for and your principles. He wishes Amandil was still here. He wishes Amandil could tell him what he is supposed to do, when the person he cares about whose principles are so radically different from his own is his daughter.

Pharazôn is civil with him. Elendil finds he is seated next to Eärien, whom he greets with a curt movement of his head. He does not want to let Pharazôn and his entourage know that Eärien has visited him last evening, and he is afraid that being too friendly with her might make things difficult with Pharazôn and Belzagar, who are watching them keenly. Judging from the grateful look Eärien manages to give him, Elendil has guessed right.

Míriel smiles when he greets her and tells Elendil that it is good to hear his voice. She seems calm and resigned, and if there is anything troubling her, she does not show it.

Kemen and Belzagar are less than courteous, but Elendil was expecting this. Kemen is sitting across from him, glaring at him almost without stopping. Elendil is not impressed by such shows of intimidation. Kemen can glare all he wants.

The food is brought to the table and servants cut portions for everyone. Elendil knows it is safe to it. The wine has already been poured into goblets before they got to the table, so he knows better than to touch it. Of course, his decision does not go unnoticed.

“Will you not partake, lord Elendil?” Belzagar asks, tone mocking as he uses Elendil’s title. “This is wine imported from Dorwinion. They say even the Elves of the Greenwood cannot resist it.”

Elendil smiles tightly.

“I am afraid I will have to abstain.”

He knows poison seems to be a favorite instrument of both Pharazôn and Belzagar, and he does not want to give them any opportunities. Besides, the last thing he wants is to die of poison in front of Eärien.

Kemen snorts.

“You seem very distrustful of us,” he comments.

Elendil gives him back look for look.

“Do I?”

Eärien casts Kemen a warning look. Pharazôn, in the meantime, acts as if he has not noticed the tension at his table.

“How is your eldest, Elendil?” he asks. “I am afraid he left in quite a hurry. I did not have time to properly say goodbye to him.”

Isildur has told Elendil what has happened during his last encounter with Pharazôn. Elendil would give Pharazôn a piece of his mind, but it would probably land him in the dungeons, and Isildur would not want that.

“He is…”

Thriving. He is thriving. He is stronger than you thought he would be, and he remains undefeated and defiant, despite all that you have done to him. He is the heart of the Faithful, and the heart of his family. And he will live. Despite your plans, he will live, and he will have a wife and sons of his own to carry out his name and his convictions. He will live, and he will be remembered and loved, while you will end up feared and abhorred.

Elendil takes a deep breath. He cannot say any of this, of course.

“He is grateful to finally be home,” he finishes.

“I wasn’t hearing a lot of gratitude from him back in Pelargir,” Kemen mutters.

Elendil decides to ignore him. Otherwise he would have to think about the way Kemen insulted Estrid and threatened to have Berek killed. 

“Of course, he misses Nimloth,” he adds. “He was ever so fond of the White Tree.”

To his surprise, he notices Míriel stiffen. 

“Well, you can let your son know the White Tree is the same as ever,” she says. “Nothing has changed.”

The words sound strange to Elendil. They almost sound as if there is a secret meaning behind them, one that only Míriel and Isildur would know. The thought worries him. Isildur has said very little about his time with Míriel after he was rescued from the dungeons. Elendil has always thought there was more to what had happened, but had recognized that, if Isildur was keeping secrets from him, he was doing it for a good reason. And yet – what had happened during the time Isildur was with Míriel?

He is irrationally afraid that Míriel might have enlisted Isildur on some kind of secret errand. Isildur has hinted a few times that he believes he might have to do something dangerous at some point. What if the mention of Nimloth being the same is a way of Míriel letting Isildur know that the time might be close for Isildur to do something for her – or for Númenor?

Elendil shakes himself out of such thoughts. If Isildur has proven anything these past few months, is that he is a grown man, on his way to becoming a leader and a warrior in his own right. If there is an understanding between Isildur and Míriel, then Elendil should be proud, because this only means that Isildur is serving his purpose. He is a good and loyal Númenórean, and Elendil should be proud. 

He comes out of his thoughts to find Belzagar eyeing him critically.

“I was asking if you had a chance to see our new aqueduct. It is nearly complete.”

Elendil swallows. Right. The new aqueduct. The one built over the oldest shrine in Númenor.

“I congratulate the architects and builders on their ingenuity,” Elendil says. “But you will forgive me if I say I preferred what was in its place more.”

Belzagar’s smile is cold.

“Well, you would. But progress, we stand for progress.”

“Progress,” Elendil repeats. “Tearing apart prayer rooms. Erasing history. Desecrating holy relics.”

Kemen flinches, his fists clenching. He looks about to say something, but Pharazôn glares at him. Kemen subsides.

On his part, Elendil knows he is dangerously close to antagonizing his hosts, and that is a risky move. But, if he has been invited to this dinner only to be tormented and humiliated, he might as well show them that none of the Faithful is willing to bow down so easily.

“Progress is still good, father,” Eärien intervenes then, her tone gentle, and Elendil does not know if she is trying to maintain the peace or simply make him see Pharazôn’s side. “Would Númenor have reached the heights it has now if our people had not been willing to accept progress and change? As a matter of fact, would we have left Middle-earth at all?”

Elendil bows his head, accepting this.

“That is true,” he concedes. “But progress need not come from toppling down the old to make way for the new. Otherwise, nothing would last more than a season.”

Eärien lowers her eyes. Elendil wonders if she is thinking about the shrine. He wonders if she was the one who suggested the new aqueduct be built there. He knows that, even if it was so, Eärien is not to blame for what happened in the shrine. She cannot be held responsible for Kemen’s actions – or his own, for that matter. And yet…

And yet, Elendil remembers telling her that Isildur’s memorial service was that evening. She had known. She had known they would be there.

He pushes his chair aside and stands up. Pharazôn frowns.

“Leaving so soon?”

Elendil shakes his head.

“It is a long ride back to Andúnië. I wish to go to my room and gather my belongings.”

Pharazôn shrugs.

“My dispensation would have lasted until tomorrow morning.”

Pharazôn says it as if it is a favor to Elendil to have a three-day dispensation in a city where he used to live and serve for years. Elendil does not thank Pharazôn – he cannot bring himself to go that far.

“We only wish to get on with our lives,” he says tightly.

Pharazôn offers him a curt smile.

“Of course. There is only one small matter.”

Elendil freezes.

“Small matter?”

Belzagar clears his throat.

“The last time we saw you, Elendil, you stubbornly refused to recognize Pharazôn’s claim to the throne. In fact, you called him a usurper and a traitor.”

Elendil stands tall.

“I remember my words. I also remember what you forced me to do in order to obtain leniency for the crimes you accused me of.”

He is not going to sell Isildur a second time. It doesn’t matter if Isildur would agree to it.

Belzagar’s smirk shows that he knows where Elendil’s mind took him, and he enjoys playing such games.

“Well, do you still think this? Or are you ready to recognize Pharazôn as your king?”

Elendil stiffens. He feels as if this is what the invitation to dinner has been all about. He senses everyone’s attention on him and wonders if they knew it would come to this. Eärien most likely was not aware of the trap they would spring on her father – and probably Míriel did not know, either. Yet Belzagar and Pharazôn has surely discussed this.

He shakes his head and straightens his shoulders.

“I do not understand why the matter needs to be brought up – and why this sudden interest in whether I have changed my mind or not.”

Pharazôn’s look is indulgent. As if he understands Elendil. 

“It is not about your mind changing, Elendil. The circumstances themselves have changed.”

Elendil frowns, confused. 

“I am afraid I do not understand.”

“Ar-Pharazôn did marry the person you proclaimed loud and clear to be the true ruler of Númenor,” Belzagar tells him. “Shouldn’t that change his status, in your eyes?”

Elendil releases an unsteady breath. So this is what it is all about.

They are right. He cannot say that he does not recognize Pharazôn’s authority anymore, because, if Pharazôn is Míriel’s husband, then he is king, and Elendil might object this all he wants, Pharazôn will still be Míriel’s husband, and he will still be king.

Still, the words refuse to come out. After all, Elendil hardly recognizes the marriage as legitimate. Manwendil, when he was high priest, would never have accepted to wed two people who were such close kin.

“Well, Elendil?” Belzagar asks.

Eärien is all but begging him to do what she thinks is the right thing. Elendil senses this. Perhaps Míriel is too. And yet – how can he? How can he when he knows all the subterfuges Pharazôn has performed to reach this point?

In the end, Elendil tilts his head up and looks Pharazôn in the eye.

“I recognize that you have placed yourself in a position to be called the King of Númenor.”

It is the only way that he will give Pharazôn any acknowledgement. Because he is still a usurper in Elendil’s eyes, no matter how legitimate his claim to the crown would be now, under the letter of the law. 

“Of course,” he adds, “Old Númenórean laws would not have recognized the marriage as legitimate,” he adds.

Pharazôn’s face is frozen. His eyes are brimming with rage.

It is Kemen who reacts, though. He jumps up, all but ready to be at Elendil’s throat.

“Are you accusing my father of…of what exactly?”

Elendil is not looking at him, though. His eyes are fixed on Pharazôn. If he plays his cards right, perhaps something good will come out of this humiliating dinner.

“If Númenor is indeed willing to change old laws in the name of progress and recognize this union, then I want the same legal recognition given to Isildur and Estrid, should they wish to wed.”

Elendil knows that Isildur might not care about this, that he will say his marriage to Estrid will be valid in the Faithful enclave, and that is all that matters to him. Yet Elendil is afraid that, if the union is not recognized, that could mean what few rights Estrid has now could be taken from her – and any children born to her and Isildur might not be considered Númenórean citizens. They will already be deprived of many benefits being from Faithful families, but Elendil wishes to give them as normal of a life as he can.

“I am not asking to hold the Blessing of the newborn for their children, if they ever have any…” he begins.

Pharazôn scoffs.

“I should hope not. Faithful families are forbidden to take part in that ceremony.”

Elendil nearly asks what Míriel feels about this. He restrains himself.

“All I ask is for you to recognize Estrid as Isildur’s betrothed and later on, his wife. And whatever benefits or disadvantages you choose to give to Isildur, I know Estrid would want to share them.”

He is dreadfully afraid that Pharazôn might decide to send Estrid back, and right now, he has the upper hand. 

“Done,” Míriel declares.

Elendil closes his eyes, dizzy with relief. 

“Done?” Pharazôn repeats.

“Well, you agreed domestic matters of this kind are my province,” Míriel points out, then turns to Elendil: “I approve of your request, Lord of Andúnië.”

Elendil bows.

“Thank you, Majesty,” he says stiffly.

He will have to negotiate something for Theo as well, but not yet. One thing at a time.

As he leaves, he hears Kemen’s sharp voice:

“Do we really want him to keep the lordship of Andúnië in this case?” he asks. “When we know it will end up with his eldest son and his mongrel brood?”

Elendil’s hands clench into fists. He does not turn back. He can bear the humiliation, he tells himself, and the name calling. He can bear it all if it means going home sooner.

                                     xxxXXXXxxxx

Arondir stands slightly apart from the rest of the group as Círdan the Shipwright speaks to those about to leave for Valinor. He talks about a home that is in their blood, a love for the sea and for the land beyond it, that will never diminish the love they hold for Middle-earth.

“You have lived here for years uncounted,” he says. “And even if time flows differently for us, the days have been long and hard. You have bled for this land. You have tried to make it beautiful. It is, and it will always remain a part of you. Nothing can take that from you.”

Arondir lowers his eyes. Those leaving are some of the survivors from Eregion. People who have seen their world burning, who lived in a land of beauty and art until the day everything fell apart. And now they are leaving, too wounded in body and spirit to remain in a place they still love but that has given them nothing but heartbreak.

Arondir thinks of Beleriand, fractured by war, burned by Morgoth’s fires, sleeping now under the waves. He thinks of days by the River Sirion, of evenings under the stars. He thinks of the Southlands and of Bronwyn and knows that this is but the beginning. He wonders if, by the end of it, the rest of Middle-earth will not suffer the same fate as Beleriand.

He understands why some would choose to leave. He does not know if he will ever be able to sail West himself – Valinor is nothing but a legend to him. But he understands the need to find a place to heal everything the world has broken.

It is not for him, though. He will travel with the Eldar until he is close to Númenor. Then he will take his own boat and sail towards the island and his errand.

He bows when Círdan approaches him and shakes his hand.

“I will be back,” Arondir assures him. “With Númenor.”

Círdan looks long and hard at him. Arondir has the impression that Círdan can see into his very soul. He shifts, uncomfortable, suddenly aware that he is in front of the oldest Elf in Middle-earth, who knew the waters of Cúivienien that are now lost in the mists of time.

“There is no shame in stepping away from the fight,” Círdan tells him. “No one will think any less of you if you decide not to return.”

Arondir tenses.

“But I will return,” he insists. “I have made promises.”

Círdan shakes his head.

“So have I,” he confesses. “Promises that will keep me bound to Middle-earth until the threads of this story are all unraveled and put back together again. Sometimes, I sit on the shore and look westward and wish there were no promises binding me.”

Arondir bows his head.

“I am sorry.”

Círdan smiles and there is melancholy and resignation in that smile, but also a serenity that is beyond words, and Arondir understands why they all revere him so, even Galadriel, even Gil-galad.

“Do not be,” Círdan says. “It is of my making. But I know grief, Arondir, and I know loss. And I know that nothing on this shore can heal the wounds they leave in us.”

Arondir tenses.

“There is nothing on the other shore, either,” he says bluntly. “That will heal my wounds, I mean.”

Círdan shakes his head.

“Do not be so sure. Our paths are long and winding, Arondir. Sometimes we find ourselves in places we never thought we would be.”

“I never thought I would be sent to Númenor,” Arondir points out. “That should be enough for me. I will return.”

Círdan seems to accept this.

“We shall be glad to have you back, of course.”

“You will have me back,” Arondir says one more time. “With the aid that we need to put a stop to Sauron once and for all.”

It is Círdan’s turn to look away.

“I fear more loss and grief will come before this can finally happen. But we will keep on defying him. And this will matter, in the long run.”

Arondir would like to ask more. He would like to ask Círdan what he knows. What he thinks will happen. But they are running out of time. The ship must sail soon, or it will miss the tide.

As they are sailing away, Arondir looks back on the shores of Middle-earth. Círdan is standing in the harbor, back straight, staring in the distance. Not at them, Arondir knows. Not at his ship departing. At what lies beyond. The wide, untamed sea and the unseen other shore that calls to all of them. Even to those like Arondir – those that choose to pretend they cannot hear the call.

                          xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Elendil walks to his room, ready to take his belongings and leave. He is glad that Pharazôn has decided not to stop him, in the end. Then again, with Elendil’s refusal to offer him an outright proof that he acknowledged Pharazôn as king now that he was married to Míriel, it could have been simply a means to make sure he did not say anything else inconvenient while he remained in Armenelos.

He stops at the door, frowning. Something is wrong, he thinks. An instinct he can’t quite define has his heart hammering against his chest. He glances up and down the corridor, but he still sees nothing. As far as he knows, he is alone.

Still, he finds himself tensing, ready for battle. In some part of him, there is even resignation. Because he has been naïve enough to think he would be allowed to simply walk away from Armenelos despite all the tensions between the Kingsmen and the Faithful. Because he is the Lord of Andúnië, and there are plenty in Pharazôn’s inner circle who see this as reason enough to want him dead.

Elendil pushes the door open carefully. He is unarmed, as he would never have been allowed to enter Armenelos carrying anything that might be used as a weapon. He does not need weapons, though. Not when he is determined to return to Isildur, who is counting on Elendil to keep himself alive.

For a moment, as he lingers in the threshold of his room, Elendil almost thinks that he was wrong. That there is no one there and that he really will be allowed to leave without too much trouble. Then he hears a faint scuffling sound from inside the room and darts back just in time to avoid the blow of a dagger that would have surely killed him.

The intruder is upon him, and Elendil manages to half-stop another blow. The dagger slices through his arm, but he ignores the pain and reaches out, bent on disarming his opponent. He cannot kill, he knows that. Any bloodshed caused by him, even in self-defense, will land him in the dungeons.

Elendil’s hands fasten around his attacker’s wrist, twisting violently, causing the man to drop the dagger. Elendil picks it up and places it against the other man’s throat. In the dim light, he recognizes the uniform of the palace guard, but he does not think he has seen the man working in the palace before.

“You listen to me,” Elendil hisses. “You go back to whoever sent you and tell them they need to do better than this. Understand?”

The guard glares at him. 

“As if you’ll let me get anywhere alive.”

Elendil draws back slightly, but he keeps the knife firmly pointed at the guard.

“I don’t intend to harm you – you might have been told otherwise, but whoever told you this either does not know me at all or just wanted to make sure you did your job at all costs.”

The guard scoffs.

“And you think, if you let me go, I won’t try to go for you again? You think I’ll let you leave this place alive?”

Elendil tilts his head.

“What other options do you have? I’m the one holding the dagger at this moment.”

He wonders what will happen if the guard decides to fight back. He wonders if he will not be forced to do something drastic. If he has to kill the guard, he will have to give himself up to Pharazôn as well. Otherwise, Pharazôn will come for Andúnië in full force, and Elendil cannot risk this.

“Father?”

Eärien’s panicked voice from down the corridor has Elendil tensing. He cannot involve Eärien in this. He cannot.

“Father, what are you doing?!”

Elendil’s eyes meet those of the guard. He notices the panic bleeding in them. Clearly, he has been told to make sure whatever he did to Elendil would take place without witnesses.

“Go,” he tells the guard because he needs to make sure Eärien is safe. “Go now. You’ll find your dagger in this room if you want to recover it – after I am gone.”

The guard nods curtly. Elendil draws back the dagger and pushes him away. The guard runs down the corridor, thankfully in the opposite direction of Eärien. Elendil leans against the wall, panting.

He nearly flinches when he feels Eärien’s tentative hand on his arm.

“Father, you’re hurt!”

Elendil huffs.

“I suppose this is what folk at the palace consider a warm welcome these days,” he quips. “I will be lying if I said I was not expecting something like this.”

Eärien stares at him in shock.

Chapter Text

Eärien’s hands tighten around Elendil’s arm.

“You’re bleeding,” she accuses. “You need to see a healer.”

Elendil shakes his head and tries to straighten up for her benefit.

“I assure you, Eärien, I am quite alright.”

Eärien frowns.

“You’re bleeding,” she insists. “A healer would help you.”

Elendil doubts that any healer here would help him, or that he would trust them to allow them anywhere near him. He heads back into the room, and Eärien follows him, closing the door.

“At least let me have a look at your wound,” she tells him.

Elendil would like to object, to say that there is nothing for her to see, but he’s been making a point of late of respecting his children’s opinions, and he would be unfair if he did not include Eärien in this.

“It really isn’t as bad as that,” he feels the need to say.

Eärien glares at him.

“You forget I grew up with Isildur,” she reminds him. “I know what this kind of answer really means.”

Elendil cannot really comment on that, so he allows Eärien to manhandle him further inside the room. 

He is right about one thing. The cut is not too bad, and the bleeding has already stopped. Eärien washes the wound, then bandages it with part of the bedsheet.

“This would have worked better with proper supplies,” she comments. “But if you do not want to see a healer and won’t wait for me to find some bandages…”

“No,” Elendil says firmly. “It would take too much time. I wish to be away from here.”

He stops, worried that Eärien might think this means he wishes to be away from her as well. Eärien is too focused on the wound to reply.

“How does it feel?” she asks, after tightening the makeshift bandage.

Elendil smiles reassuringly.

“You took good care of me.”

Eärien shrugs.

“I had to. I do not want to have Isildur to reckon with.”

“This would imply I intend to tell Isildur what happened.”

“Of course you will,” Eärien says, and Elendil has to agree with her.

Eärien’s face turns grave. She looks around the room.

“What happened?” she asks.

Elendil shrugs.

“I wish I could give you a clear answer, but I do not know much myself. He was in my room waiting for me with a dagger.”

Eärien pales.

“Are you telling me this is an assassination attempt?” she croaks.

“I cannot really find another word for it.”

Eärien shakes her head, half shock, half denial.

“Pharazôn would never do this.”

As much as Elendil would want to call her out on her blind loyalty to Pharazôn, this time he has to agree with her. This is not Pharazôn’s style. Not after humiliating Elendil at the feast. He would want to allow Elendil to live for a little while longer, to allow the humiliation to sink in. Besides, Pharazôn still has a strange sense of honor, if one could call it that. Elendil has seen this with how Pharazôn treated Isildur. Pharazôn wants to win the game, and he would do many nefarious things to accomplish a victory. But he would not outright cheat.

“It was probably Belzagar,” he says tiredly. “Or Kemen.”

Eärien looks away.

“I suppose I wouldn’t put it past Kemen…”

Elendil grabs her arm, and Eärien meets his eyes again.

“I worry about you here,” Elendil confesses.

Eärien gently disengages herself from him.

“You need not worry, Father. I am useful. Both for my skills and as a symbol that even with a Faithful background, people can still choose progress over stagnation.”

Elendil ignores the jab, because this isn’t about him. This is about Eärien in the wolves’ camp.

“Besides,” Eärien goes on, “Do you think I would be any safer in Andúnië?”

Elendil feels a stab of anger.

“Eärien, this would not have happened in Andúnië. Do you think I allow assassinations?”

Eärien moves away.

“Well, no. But be realistic, father. The Faithful have reasons to hate me. I set everything in motion. I am not ashamed of it, even if I never expected Pharazôn to take such drastic actions. Yet I would not blame the Faithful if they were to consider me their enemy. After all, some I turned in myself. Ontamo’s brother, for example. I needed leeway with Pharazôn. For Isil. But Ontamo’s family won’t see it this way, would they?”

Elendil does not say anything, but he knows Eärien is right. He trusts his people, but he cannot deny their resentment, and, whether he likes it or not, Eärien was involved in the wrecking of their lives. He cannot make them accept her. Not without trivializing what they have been through.

Eärien seems to understand his hesitation. She squeezes his hand briefly, to show that she bears him no ill will.

“I told you, my place is here.”

Elendil knows this. He does not want to admit it, he is afraid the day might come when the rift between Eärien and her family will become permanent. Yet he cannot change what he already knows to be true.

“It’s your fault, really,” Eärien adds. “You insisted we could hold whatever opinions we saw fit. You made us think for ourselves.”

Elendil closes his eyes. He remembers the arguments he would have with Amandil, who used to claim that he was sometimes too lenient with his children, allowing them too much freedom, not being explicit that they needed to follow the right path.

“It is not the right path if I force it upon them,” Elendil always claimed. “It is hypocrisy, plain and simple. They must decide for themselves what is right. I can only guide them, but the choices must be their own, if they are to matter at all.”

Elendil would stand by how he raised his children – he knows Tindómiel would have approved. Yet, during that time, the issue of Faithful versus Kingsman was more a philosophical one. The lines had not been drawn as clearly as they are now. Being Faithful was not outside the law, and it certainly was not treason.

“Why are you here, anyway?” he asks, trying not to think of the differences between him and Eärien. “I thought you said your farewells the evening before the wedding.”

Eärien looks away. She hands over the satchel she had been carrying.

“I thought to bring you this.”

Elendil takes the satchel, puzzled.

“Your maps,” Eärien explains. “And your star charts. I know you worked hard at them, so you deserve to have them. And…some of the writings. The ones in Quenya. I obviously cannot have them.”

Elendil’s eyes meet hers briefly.

“It should not matter to anyone what a chancellor does in their spare time or what can be found in their house.”

Eärien’s face is like granite.

“Pharazôn thinks differently.”

It is hard to tell whether Eärien approves of what Pharazôn thinks or not.

Elendil opens the satchel and peers at the content. He frowns when he notices the drawing of Isildur.

“Eärien,” he whispers, “Are you sure?”

Eärien does not hesitate.

“I am sure. I know what my own brother looks like.”

“And yet…”

Elendil wants to make sure. Because he cannot take this away from Eärien. Not unless he is certain Eärien is willing to give it up.

Eärien turns away.

“I mourned him, father,” she says.

Elendil moves closer to her but does not reach out. 

“I know you might find it difficult to believe, but so did I.”

Eärien’s shoulders slump.

“I know you did. I never doubted it even…well, even when I was not being kind to you.”

She turns to face Elendil. To his surprise, her eyes are dry.

“Keep the picture, Father. You can offer it to Estrid as a betrothal gift. I will try to be there at the wedding, whenever that is…but who knows what could happen until then?”

Pharazôn might know, Elendil thinks wryly, but he does not want to bring up the abyss that gapes between him and Eärien.

“It was very kind what you did,” Eärien goes on. “For Isildur and Estrid I mean.”

Elendil dismisses this.

“What else was I supposed to do?”

Eärien turns around. She looks hesitant.

“Do you trust her?” she asks. “This Estrid – is she – is she good enough?”

Elendil has been expecting the question from Eärien. Perhaps she would have asked even if Estrid had been Númenórean.

“Isil loves her,” he points out.

Eärien waves this aside.

“That is not what I asked. What about her? Does she… will she be true to Isil?”

“Of course she will be,” Elendil answers without hesitation. “She loves Isil – enough that she risked everything to come here. And she seems to know Isildur. She seems to know what he needs. For me, that is enough. If she can make him happy – if they can make each other happy – nothing else matters, Eärien. Nothing else should. Certainly not Estrid’s background.”

Eärien does not seem surprised by Elendil’s vehement defense of Estrid.

“Of course,” she says. “You are right.”

She makes to leave when Elendil takes her hand to keep her in place. She turns to him, eyes wide, lips trembling. Elendil squeezes her hand.

“Say nothing of what happened here this evening,” he urges her. “The guard most likely will not talk – but if he does, say only that you do not know what was going on, and you did not see the guard’s face and cannot recognize him.”

Eärien might like to live safe in the knowledge that she is useful to Pharazôn, but Elendil does not want to take any chances. A witness is a witness, and Eärien’s life could be in danger if anyone thinks she knows too much.

Eärien nods curtly.

“Don’t worry. I really do not know what was happening here. For all I know, it could have been one of the Faithful still hidden in the city. Perhaps they blame you for not being more active. For not getting their lives back.”

Elendil does not know if this is the justification Pharazôn would use were he to find out the truth – or if Eärien really believes this might be a possibility. He is afraid to ask.

“The Faithful do not think like Pharazôn,” he feels the need to say. “Like the Kingsmen. We’re not like that.”

Eärien shrugs.

“If you say so, Father. Safe journey.”

She leaves. Elendil does not try to stop her. She would not return a second time.

                        xxxXXXXxxxx

Elendil rides away that very night. He is thankful whoever tried to get to him did not go after Berek as well. He breathes easily when he sees Berek safe and sound in the stables, just as eager to go back as Elendil himself is. The mumak has grown quiet now, staring mournfully at Elendil as he passes by his stall. Elendil wishes he could take him with them, but he is going west, to Andúnië, not sailing east, to Harad, so it would not help the calf either way. Still, the thought brings some amusement to him – Isildur would probably enjoy it, given his fondness for anything on four legs.

Elendil rides fast and hard and reaches Andúnië the next evening. He passes through the city, and the people greet him with enthusiasm. He answers their greetings, smiling brightly. The relief he feels leaves him shaky with joy. He has been so afraid yesterday’s storm might have done damage – maybe even levelled the entire city (and the farm). But everything is still standing. 

He reaches the farm, and, as he rides through the gates, Isildur is already there. Whether he has been there the whole time, waiting for Elendil’s return, or whether he arrived just now, summoned by some connection he holds with his father, Elendil cannot tell. Either way, the gesture warms him, cleansing him of the corruption of the capital city.

Elendil dismounts, and Isildur flings his arms around him. Elendil is reminded of all the times he would return from sea duty, when Isildur would greet him like this. Even during their less than fortunate times in Armenelos, when Isildur seemed to see every word coming from his father as a jab against him, he would still embrace Elendil on his return.

Isildur lets go abruptly. There is a frown marring his features.

“You’re hurt,” he accuses.

Elendil has no idea how Isildur knows this. The makeshift bandages are covered by the sleeves of his tunic, and he does not think he is favoring his injured arm in any way.

“It is nothing,” he says quickly. “A small mishap. That is all.”

Isildur is already pulling at Elendil’s sleeve, frowning at the bandage. His hands are trembling.

“Really, Isil,” Elendil says quickly. “I’m alright.”

Isildur shakes his head. 

“Who did this to you?” he demands.

Elendil shakes his head.

“I did not have the pleasure of getting better acquainted with him. I believe someone hired by Belzagar – or even Kemen.”

Isildur gulps.

“Kemen was there?”

His face is pale, and he is now fully shaking. Elendil places a steadying hand on his tense shoulder.

“Isildur, nothing happened. And Eärien took care of me.”

Isildur’s eyes widen.

“Eärien was there?”

Elendil’s hand tightens on Isildur’s shoulder.

“She is fine. She arrived too late to be involved in what was happening. By the time she was there, I already had the upper hand.”

Isildur moves away from him but still has a hold on his arm.

“Well, we’ll have Theo give this a proper look,” he says firmly. “And…and maybe the healer in Andúnië tomorrow.”

Anyone else you might want involved in this? The words are on Elendil’s lips, brought on by weariness and irritation. He contains himself, because he knows why Isildur is being so agitated.

“Let us just see what Theo says first,” he half-concedes. “But you needn’t worry.”

Isildur lets him go and turns around, heading for the house.

“Father, I always worry.”

Elendil places his hand on the back of Isildur’s neck. The tension is still there, he notices, but Isildur seems to be breathing more easily.

“I know you always worry. At times, I think that should make me feel vindicated.”

Isildur half-turns to face him. He looks confused.

“Vindicated? Why?”

Elendil smirks.

“Now you know how it feels.”

Isildur throws back his head and laughs, eyes sparkling.

“Oh, welcome home, Father. I’ve been ever so worried.”

He grows grave, his eyes darkening with concern.

“How was it, Father? Are you…? I know you cannot be well, so I won’t ask you. But how are you? How was it?”

Elendil thinks of the two armed guards who were waiting for him at the entrance to Armenelos, as if he was a criminal and not a former member of the Sea Guard, with years of loyal service behind him. He thinks of Kemen’s snide remarks, and Belzagar’s attempts to humiliate him by mentioning the demolished shrine. He thinks of Pharazôn’s subterfuges, and the lavish wedding. He thinks of Míriel, now Ar-Zimraphel, of Eärien, dressed in crimson, leaving a trail of Haradrim scent behind her, and even of the mumakil calf grieving and refusing to eat.

“It was…” he begins, and he finds that his voice is hoarse.

He stops and swallows, and Isildur waits patiently beside him, not hurrying him, not urging him to say something, allowing Elendil time to reflect on the last few days.

Elendil sighs and tries again.

“I will not say that my heart isn’t broken, because it is. It is, and I feel as if my entire world has been turned upside down, and I do not know what to put my faith in anymore.”

Isildur nods in understanding.

“You can put your faith us, Father,” he tells him. “In me. I won’t…I won’t let you down. No one in this house – no one in Andúnië – will ever let you down.”

Elendil searches Isildur’s face, young and eager and so full of hope. He sees beyond the light, though, at the dark corners beyond; he sees the hidden sorrows, the terrors and losses Isildur has endured. It is perhaps because he knows the darkness in Isildur just as much as the light that Elendil is ready to accept his statement wholeheartedly.

“I know,” he says. “I know you won’t. And I will do my utmost to be worthy of you. I will not let you down either.”

Isildur’s smile is soft, brightening his eyes, chasing away the shadows. It is a smile, Elendil has noticed, that Isildur reserves only for a handful of people. Elendil. Anárion. In the past, Eärien. More recently, Estrid.

“You letting us down is an impossibility, Father,” Isildur says. “Now come, let us go inside. They are all waiting for you.”

Isildur takes his arm to lead him forward, and Elendil is reminded of the many moments in Isildur's childhood, when Elendil would be returning from Sea duty, or maybe only from an errand outside Andúnië, and Isildur would be waiting for him and would take him by the hand and lead him back home. There is a warmth in Elendil’s heart that leaves him breathless when he realizes the many times his eldest has led him back home – and he realizes that he never wants this to change.

Isildur is right. They are all waiting for him inside, even Voronwë. Anárion is the first to rise to greet him, followed by Estrid. Even Theo offers him a shy one-armed embrace.

There is nothing in this house but warmth and kindness and trust, Elendil realizes. Everything is clean and pure and straightforward. He would trust the people around him with his life – with his very soul, even. 

The memory of the time at the palace, of the ill-fated marriage and the taunts and the sensation that everything is being turned upside down does not seem so overwhelming anymore. He does not feel so cold inside anymore. He cannot, not when he is seated down by the fire, and Estrid proudly hands him a blanket she has just finished working on, and its warm and smells of fresh grass and homespun wool, and just a touch of the distant sea. 

There is light, he thinks to himself, there is hope. There are still things worth fighting for. This is home. This is his peace. And he allows the people around him – the people he would die for without hesitation – to lead him away from the crooked world of the capital city and cleanse him of the confusion of the past few days.

                                  xxxXXXXxxxx

Arondir is placed in a smaller boat once he is reasonably close to Númenor. He does not say much to his traveling companions. He feels estranged from them – foreign and alien to them, and that is not because he is a Silvan Elf, and they are Noldor. It is more. They are going, and he is staying.

It is the right choice, Arondir reminds himself. For Bronwyn. For Theo. He thinks of Theo back in the Southlands, and he tells himself that he has been neglecting him. Arondir does not know when he will be able to make his way back to Pelargir, with the war being in Eriador, and him being needed there. But he misses Theo. He would like some sign to know for certain that Theo is well.

He sails the calm waters, feeling a strange anxiety he cannot quite explain. The sea is not his element, he is closer to the ancient forests, and the open space unnerves him.  But the sea is in the blood of all of the Firstborn. Ulmo’s voice calls to all of them. 

It is more than this, though. The air smells of recent storms. Arondir does not know why that should worry him. Storms are part of nature, as inevitable as sunshine and snow and wind. Yet a storm so close to the Blessed Realm feels strange. It feels like there is something more at stake – like it has a significance he cannot quite decipher yet.

He is close to Númenor – he can glimpse the statue of Eärendil in the distance – when one of their patrol ships cuts his way. The sailors have arrows pointed at him. Arondir is surprised to see them so armed – Galadriel has not mentioned anything of the kind. He raises his arms to show he isn’t a threat.

“I am Arondir, soldier in the High King’s army,” he says. “I must speak to your Queen. I bring a message from the High King that is in urgent need of attention.”

One of the soldiers leaves and comes back with a tall man with harsh features. Arondir frowns. Not Elendil, then. Arondir has been hoping it would be him, but, in truth, he is not surprised and has been expecting it ever since he saw the arrows. He knows the sailors under Elendil’s command would not have pointed weapons at one of the Firstborn.

“How dare you come here?” the captain asks. “Haven’t you done enough?”

“I come as a messenger,” Arondir says. “That is all.”

One of the sailors next to the captain scowls.

“You come thinking you can order us around again.”

Arondir shakes his head.

“I come to ask for help. As your allies.”

Some of the sailors laugh. One of them looks ready to shoot. Maybe not necessarily at him, but they might sink his boat.  Then the captain places a retraining hand on the sailor’s arm.

“Lower your weapons,” he orders. “Escort him to shore.”

“What?” the sailor who was ready to shoot asks. “But – do we want an Elf again on our shore? After the last time?”

The captain shakes his head.

“Escort him to shore,” he repeats. “Ar-Pharazôn knew he would be coming. He has everything under control.”

                             xxxXXXXxxxx

Pharazôn moves away from the palantír. He is trembling, but it’s nothing like the first few times he has looked into it. He has learned to use his will against it, to control it, to sway it to show him things that he wants to see.

The palantír still doesn’t show him Andúnië, or where the other Seeing Stones are. In time, though, Pharazôn is certain he will see even that. He can catch glimpses of Middle-earth from time to time, though. From the past, usually, but he is not interested in those. The past is gone. The future is what matters, 

Glimpsing the Elf was a stroke of luck, really. Pharazôn knows why he is here, though. He has seen him carry a letter with the High King’s sigil. Which is why he has ordered the Captains of the Sea Guard – now loyal only to him – to bring the Elf to Armenelos.

Pharazôn recalls the explanation that he has give Kemen that morning: I go to war for Númenor. Trades…goods…tributes…Very soon, Elves will take orders from us.

He smirks.

“It seems very soon is approaching fast,” he says.

It is more than this. Pharazôn knows when an opportunity presents itself to him. He would be a fool not to see it.

His time is coming, and the arrival of the Elf-messenger proves this. Soon, Pharazôn will be remembered as the one who lifted Númenor to immeasurable heights, who could drive back Sauron himself. All those of Middle-earth will bow down to him. But more than this – he has found an opportunity to increase his chances of causing significant damage to the Faithful. Maybe, if fate favors him, he might even be rid of the Faithful leaders completely.

Chapter Text

Elendil fills the others in on what happened at the marriage ceremony. There is not much to say, but he tells them everything, even the things that he finds difficult to talk about, the things that make him angry, that make him want to sail away on some unknown shore where no one has ever heard of Númenor before.

“The storm,” Isildur says. “Did you see it?”

Elendil nods.

“It rained all through the ceremony. Everyone was wet to the bone.”

“They still stayed, though,” Anárion mutters.

“I am certain Pharazôn would have been displeased, had they left before it was all done,” Isildur points out.

Anárion nods, dejected.

“How did the people react?” Voronwë wants to know. “To the ceremony? To the union itself?”

Elendil grimaces.

“Many say it’s wrong,” he answers. “Quietly, out of earshot of Pharazôn’s staunchest supporters, but…Míriel is his cousin.”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, because he does not want to think about that too much.

“I still feel as if I have failed the Queen,” he says. “As if, somewhere along the line, I could have stopped this.”

Isildur reaches out and clutches his wrist.

“You haven’t,” he says. “You aren’t. She told you to come here. To reclaim your lordship. To watch over the Faithful. And you’re doing that. You’re obeying her orders. You’re still serving the queen – and you’re still serving Númenor.”

Elendil looks away, but his heart feels lighter than it has in weeks. The burden is not completely lifted from his shoulders, but the weight no longer feels so heavy.

                         xxxXXXXxxxx

Elendil sleeps deeply once he retires for the night. He wakes not to the sound of the trumpets, but to the homely commotion of Andúnië that he knows so well – birds chirping and cows lowing, and the ringing of the town bells. Beneath his window, Isildur, Anárion, and Theo are holding a discussion in what they probably think are hushed voices. Elendil grins into his pillow. No, these are not the sounds that he knows so well, the signal for the Sea Guard to start their duty. But that life is behind him, and this one is not so bad, either.

He gets up quickly and joins the others at their morning meal, saying the blessings to the Valar. Isildur looks relieved. Elendil knows Isildur must have been the one who said them in his absence, just as he is aware that it must not have been easy. He reaches out and squeezes Isildur’s shoulder briefly. Isildur glances at him, eyes bright. Elendil does not explain his gesture, nor does Isildur ask for any explanation. 

After the meal, Isildur approaches him and hands him back the ring of Barahir.

“You can have it,” Isildur says. “I do not think it really fits me just yet.”

Elendil understands Isildur’s hints very well. He shakes his head.

“I think you are selling yourself short.”

Isildur shrugs.

“Maybe,” he accepts. “But whatever I am to become, I still have much to learn from you, Father.”

Elendil smiles.

“Well, I did promise to teach you many things. We now have time for this.”

Elendil is surprised he can refer to that day in the Southlands without the bitterness of before. But now that Isildur is back with him, he can think back on the good of that day, on how Isildur had reached out to him for the first time in so long.

What would it have been like? he wonders. If Isildur had returned with him. If he had stood by him during what had come after…

He shakes himself out of his what-ifs. It does not matter, he tells himself. Isildur is with him now. And he has come into his own in many ways. He has come into his own, and he has found Estrid, and Elendil would take upon himself the sense of loss that drowned him after the eruption, the months of mourning and of loneliness, if this means accepting that Isildur has found some joy in the Southlands.

“Father?”

Elendil blinks back to awareness to find Isildur looking at him questioningly. 

“Nothing,” he says. “It is only that the roads the gods have in store for us are strange and unpredictable. Who knows where we will be before the end?”

“It does not matter, as long as we’re still standing side by side,” Isildur says.

He does not sound too convinced that they will, but he sounds like he wants this, and if Elendil can give it to him, he will.

“I managed to convince those in Armenelos to recognize your union with Estrid, should it happen,” Elendil announces. “Míriel was able to give me that much.”

Isildur looks worried.

“You must have put yourself at risk for this. You shouldn’t have.”

“I beg to differ, Isildur,” Elendil says, tone slightly harsh. “I definitely should have.”

Isildur shakes his head.

“Do you think I care about what Pharazôn and the rest of the Armenelos lot think of me and Estrid?”

Elendil takes his shoulder and shakes him slightly.

“What about Estrid? Have you asked her if she cares or not?”

Isildur’s mouth snaps shut.

“I…”

Elendil’s hands tighten on his shoulders to make sure his message sinks in.

“Listen to me,” he urges. “After you returned from the dungeons, you told me once you might have to do something dangerous, something from which you might not return. Remember?”

He watches with some uneasiness as the color drains from Isildur’s face.

“I did tell you this,” Isildur admits.

Elendil allows his hands to drop.

“Well, I am not too keen on this, and I am sure neither is Estrid. But, Isildur, if something is to happen to you, leaving Estrid in an uncertain, neither-here-nor-there state will not do her any favors. I will take care of her, you have my word on that, but if something does happen to you, your union to her needs to be recognized. By all Númenor. Don’t close doors for her, son. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Elendil watches the play of emotions on Isildur’s features.

“I…I suppose you are right,” Isildur finally says.

He sounds slightly ashamed that he has not thought of this himself. Elendil smiles kindly.

“You still have much to learn. You are a leader of the Faithful, but if you are to build a family, you will be responsible for them as well. And sometimes balancing the two will be hard. Sometimes, it will seem impossible. I should know, Isildur.”

Isildur looks thoughtful.

“I think I have been unkind to you in the past,” he admits. “I did not realize how hard you were trying to protect us and still hold true to who you are.”

Elendil waves this aside.

“Times were different then. And you were not supposed to know. I made sure of that.”

He makes to leave but stops suddenly. He turns and looks at Isildur thoughtfully.

“Míriel told me something. At the dinner.”

Isildur tilts his head.

“Oh?”

He does not seem to be expecting any message. Still, Elendil ploughs on.

“We were talking about you, and I said you missed Nimloth. She told me to assure you that Nimloth is the same as ever.”

Elendil watches as Isildur’s tense posture seems to relax. 

“Oh,” Isildur says. “That…that is good to know.”

Elendil sighs.

“Isildur, you know you can tell me anything, yes? If this is some errand Míriel has given you, I can help with it. The least I can do is be aware of it.”

“It isn’t,” Isildur says quickly. “The queen has not given me any errand.”

Isildur has never lied to him, but he is capable of keeping things hidden from Elendil when he thinks Elendil would be better off not knowing. Elendil thinks this is the case now. He can read between the lines. Míriel has not given any secret orders to Isildur. Whatever errand this is supposed to be, Isildur is the one who has decided to take it upon himself.

“In time, if something is to happen, you will know everything, Father,” Isildur adds. “I promise.”

Elendil accepts this.

“Promise also that, if you need help, you will as for it.”

“Of course,” Isildur answers readily enough.

It is only later that Elendil realizes Isildur has not explicitly mentioned that he would ask him for help.

                         xxxXXXXxxxx

Pharazôn has Arondir cooling his heels in one of the guest chambers. He accepts his letter, though, even though Arondir insists on delivering it to Míriel and Míriel alone.

“I am Ar-Zimraphel’s husband,” Pharazôn tells him firmly. “And as much ruler in this land as she is. Whatever is in that letter concerns me as well.”

He leaves Arondir with a promise to give him an answer “soon.” He intends to have him wait all night.

Pharazôn reads the letter and smirks. Just as he has been expecting, this is a call for help. Directed at Míriel, because the mighty High King of the Eldar is unaware of the changes Númenor has undergone. Pharazôn feels immense satisfaction at the thought of knowing more than Gil-galad. It is a victory, of sorts for him. Right now, Pharazôn is the one in control. He is the one who holds the upper hand, and he intends to take full advantage of this.

He summons Míriel to him and reads her the letter. Míriel listens without saying a word. Pharazôn sees her holding her breath.

“Quite an interesting message,” Pharazôn comments. “Don’t you think so, Zimraphel?”

As usual, she flinches at the name – and Pharazôn wonders if she is even aware of the motion. No matter. She will get used to the name just as she will get used to him.

“What I do not understand is why you allowed Arondir on the island in the first place,” Míriel says. “Given you are going to reject the call for help.”

Pharazôn tilts his head.

“Am I?” he asks amused.

Míriel draws back. She is flummoxed by his answer, and Pharazôn feels the satisfaction of catching her on the wrong footing.

It has always been like this between the two of them, Pharazôn realizes. This back and forth. This power-play between them. Even when they were supposed to be allies, they were still rivals.

“I understand the gravity of the situation,” Pharazôn says. “Sauron is as much a threat to Númenor as he is to Middle-earth. Where, need I remind you, you legitimized his rule. They say you called him the true King of the Southlands and you drank his health.”

He watches the guilt on Míriel’s features. He knows part of Míriel’s decision to work with him is born out of that guilt.

“You gave him a guild crest,” Míriel reminds him. “You talked to him that night when Galadriel came into my father’s chambers. You talked to him at length. What did he tell you?”

Pharazôn turns away from her. He is not going to admit to having been taken in himself – to having seen potential in Halbrand. Unlike Míriel, he is never ready to admit his weaknesses – or his faults.

But Míriel, it seems, does not want to give up so easily.

“Stories have taught us to be wary of those who talk too long with the Deceiver,” she points out. “Who knows what seeds he planted in your mind? Who knows what dreams and illusions he has opened up to you?”

Isildur has told him something similar. Pharazôn feels a stab of fury at the memory.

“Tread carefully, Zimraphel,” he warns. “My generosity can only go so far. Remember I was ready to keep you in chains.”

Míriel smiles coldly.

“You still keep me in chains. Only these are not visible. They are harder to break, though.”

Pharazôn waves this aside.

“These are chains of the mind, Zimraphel. In time, you will learn to feel as if they no longer existed.”

He notices Míriel’s contemptuous smile and ploughs on:

“And sometimes, we agree on certain matters. For example, you think we should give Gil-galad aid. So do I.”

He senses her bafflement, even though he knows she tries to hide it.

“Explain why,” Míriel demands.

“It’s simple,” Pharazôn says. “I will like the favors that Gil-galad will owe me afterwards.”

Míriel shakes her head.

“You’re willing to risk Númenórean lives for favors?”

He walks to her and places a hand on her shoulder. He knows she is trying hard not to move away from him. Pharazôn knows this is how Míriel thinks she is winning – but not allowing him the satisfaction to see her emotions. But Míriel forgets that Pharazôn knows her all to well. There is little she can hide from him.

“Certain Númenórean lives, Zimraphel.”

She freezes under his touch. She understands his intentions then.

“No,” she whispers. “You wouldn’t.”

Pharazôn allows his hand to drop.

“Why shouldn’t I? The Faithful would wish to go to war for the Eldar. If you were on the throne alone, Zimraphel, if you were still Tar-Míriel, you would send a fleet to aid the High King.”

Her silence is answer enough. Pharazôn nods.

“I am only giving the Faithful what they want.”

“You want to force them to go to war. Númenor does not do this. Númenor’s army has always been made of volunteers, people who wish to serve not who are pressed by their rulers.”

“It will not be only the Faithful,” Pharazôn says. “There are some in Armenelos that seem displeased with how I handled the Faithful. They can join their friends. Who knows, they might even return.”

“You do not intend to lead this expedition yourself, though,” Míriel deduces. “And you would not trust the command to one of the Faithful.”

Pharazôn is inwardly pleased that she seems to know him so well now, that she seems to anticipate his schemes.

“Of course I won’t go myself. A king’s place is with his people. My place is here, Zimraphel.”

In case you thought you might make a move to supplant me in my absence. He does not say it. He does not know whether she would, or if she could, given he plans on sending the majority of the Faithful across the water.

“Then who are you sending in your place?” she asks. “Not Kemen, surely.”

Even though it would amuse Pharazôn to no end to subject the Faithful to Kemen’s brand of cruelty, he is also very much aware that his son would be incapable of keeping an army in check. No, Kemen is better suited elsewhere.

“Belzagar deserves a higher position,” he says. “He will be the commander of my fleet.”

He notices hope drain from Míriel’s face. Belzagar’s hatred of the Faithful is well-known, and he will stop at nothing to make their lives miserable – after all, he had been the one to suggest the Trial by Abyss in Elendil’s case.

“You need not worry,” he assures Míriel. “I will not send every single Faithful to war. Their families will remain behind – even those unmarried. I need able-bodied people to work the crops, after all.”

He makes to leave, then stops.

“But, of course, Elendil is going to war. After all, had it been up to you, you would have placed him in command of the fleet.”

How Elendil is going to survive Belzagar’s command, it is hard to tell. Pharazôn is sure Míriel realizes this too.

                           xxxXXXXxxxx

The second night after his return from Armenelos, Elendil wakes up while it is still dark. He can hear movement on the porch. He frowns and shakes his head.

“Isildur.”

It’s been a month since Isildur’s imprisonment, and he has recovered quickly from his ordeal, at least in body. The mind takes longer to heal, Elendil knows this. One would not be able to tell anything is wrong with Isildur most of the time, but Elendil knows there are still nightmares. At times, after the most vicious dreams, Isildur moves to the porch, refusing to sleep in his room. He has confessed to Elendil that sometimes he feels he is back in his cell, and he does not want to have any walls around him. He needs to feel the wind on his face and the empty sky. He needs to convince himself that he is free.

Elendil cannot remember the last time Isildur has not slept through the night. Certainly, it must have been two weeks since the last nightmare. Still, he is not surprised the nightmares won’t leave so soon. He is heartbroken that Isildur needs to suffer through them – but they are to be expected.

Elendil gets up and makes his way to the porch. Sure enough, Isildur is sitting in the chair that Elendil has built with Theo soon after Isildur’s release from Pharazôn’s dungeons – Elendil had reasoned that, if Isildur was going to spend his nights outside, he might as well be comfortable, and Theo had been delighted to help when Elendil had enlisted his aid on their secret project. Isildur had shown himself overwhelmed and touched when Theo had proudly presented their gift to him. So much so that he was speechless.

Hearing the door open and close, Isildur turns slightly. He does not seem surprised to see Elendil there.

“I woke you. I’m sorry.”

Elendil shakes his head. He does not think Isildur has woken him – or, at least, if he did wake up because of Isildur it was due to the instinct that has not faded even now that Isildur is fully grown. A father knows when his children aren’t where they should be. Especially at night.

“Think nothing of it,” he says, sitting down next to Isildur.

He places his hand on Isildur’s shoulder, feeling the pent-up tension there.

“Is it the same as before?” he asks.

Isildur shakes his head, looking annoyed with himself.

“I do not know if there was even a nightmare this time. But I woke up, and I couldn’t stay inside anymore. I thought I should go mad if I didn’t move outside.”

He sounds ashamed of himself, and Elendil thinks he shouldn’t be. He tightens his hand on his shoulder.

“What would help?” he asks. “Is there anything I can do? Anything to remind you that you are here, with us, and not in the dungeons of Armenelos?”

Isildur is chewing his lower lip, hesitating.

“Isildur?” Elendil prompts. “Tell me.”

Isildur takes a deep breath, as if gathering his courage.

“There are places within the woods that are still inside the boundaries that the Faithful must adhere to,” he says. “The…the glade is one of them. The glade with the spring, where we used to go. We can still go there.”

Elendil tries to hide his surprise. He knows the glade Isildur is talking about. He and Isildur would often go there during their night walks. The last time they had been there, they had taken Tindómiel with them. It had been shortly before the drowning. Elendil and Isildur had never gone to that glade again, although they had continued their habit of going together on their night walks – in fact, right after losing Tindómiel, Elendil had insisted on it as a way to offer Isildur some comfort, which he knew even then Isildur would never ask for himself. But they had never tried the glade. Knowing what he knows now about the drowning, Elendil is taken aback that Isildur would mention it in the first place.

He should have expected it to be Isildur who suggested the glade first. Isildur is always like this, tackling things head on, facing his fears. Elendil is not sure he can face the glade, but if Isildur needs this, he is not going to balk from it.

Elendil has hesitated for too long. Isildur shakes his head, avoiding his gaze.

“No, forget I said anything. I shouldn’t have…”

“We’re going,” Elendil interrupts him.

Isildur’s mouth snaps shut.

“We’re going,” Elendil repeats. “Come now.”

Isildur inspects him, eyes wide and vulnerable.

“Are you sure? I would not want to bring you discomfort.”

So much so that Isildur is ready to suffer through his own discomfort if it spares Elendil. 

“I am certain,” Elendil says, getting up and pulling Isildur with him. “It will do us both good, to stretch our legs.”

Isildur’s uncertainty is replaced by relief and gratitude. He smiles brightly.

“I…thank you, Father.”

Elendil could tell him that he does not need thanks, that he is doing only what is right, and that this is for himself as much as it is for Isildur. He knows, though, that Isildur needs to show his gratitude, that for him it is the most important thing in the world to let the people around him know that he appreciates what they are doing for him. He keeps silent, simply motioning Isildur to lead them both to the glade.

                                    xxxXXXXxxxx

Elendil returns to the house only to take Narsil. He offers Isildur his own dagger – Elendil will have to see about a sword for him as Isildur refuses to use the cavalry one with which he returned from the Southlands, claiming repeatedly that it is not really his, and until he can somehow find out who it belonged to, he does not want to have anything to do with it. At practice, he uses an older sword of Elendil’s, not really good for fighting, but the only time Elendil has suggested that Isildur could still use the cavalry sword that he found in Mordor, Isildur had lashed out.

“I didn’t find it. I stole it. I took it off a dead man. That was…you find yourself in my position and then see how comfortable you are using such a sword.”

He had then left the farm and returned only at nightfall, slightly sheepish, but refusing to mention that morning’s argument. Elendil had not mentioned it either but had allowed Isildur to use whichever sword he wanted from then on.

It pains Elendil to go out armed like this. He is not used to walking around carrying any kind of weapon when he is off duty, especially in Andúnië. Yet Númenor is not safe anymore, especially not for the Faithful. Even if Pharazôn might officially order those of Andúnië to be left alone, there is no guarantee that one of his supporters might not want to take matters into his own hands. The forests of Númenor might bring more dangers than wild beasts these days.

They head into the forest on paths that Elendil once knew so well. Isildur is leading, and Elendil suspects that he has probably visited the glade before. He would have gone alone this time as well, but he clearly needs Elendil with him now, and Elendil has no desire to disappoint him.

Elendil’s breath catches in his throat when he sees that the glade is unchanged. The spring is there, and the boulder, and the wind whistling through the grass sounds the same as the last time. He remembers the last time he was here with a keenness that pierces his heart. He thinks he can almost see Tindómiel next to him, eyes bright like stars. He can almost feel her hand in his.

“We can go back. I shouldn’t have asked you to come here. We can go back.”

Isildur’s voice sounds filled with worry and regret. It brings Elendil back to reality – and he tries to ignore the pang of disappointment when he realizes that Tindómiel is not there, that she has not been by his side in a very long time and never will be again. He blinks, surprised to find tears in his eyes – but at least he knows now the cause of Isildur’s distress.

Elendil takes Isildur’s arm and leads him forward.

“No,” he says. “No, I want to be here. Come on.”

This place was sacred to them once. A landmark for his family. And Elendil has neglected it for far too long.

“Come,” he repeats to Isildur who follows him obediently.

They do not really fit the same as before on the same boulder – despite Anárion’s persistent teasing, Isildur has grown, and he is much taller than he was when he was ten. Still, they make do.

Isildur tilts his head back, eyes on the starlit sky. Elendil remembers he has sat like this that last night they were here. He searches Isildur’s face, pleased to see that the signs of discomfort from before are fading. Instead, Elendil notices the awe that Isildur often shows at beautiful things – whether they be the stars, or the moon, or the sea at night. 

Elendil follows Isildur’s example and looks up at the sky. Yet again, he remembers the last time they sat like this. Then, Elendil had wondered if the first Men at Hildórien had sat like this at night, admiring the stars, before Morgoth had sent his emissaries to corrupt them. Now, Elendil realizes he was asking the wrong question. He should have wondered if the first Men had still possessed the ability to admire the night sky after Morgoth’s corruption. Because this is the ultimate test, in Elendil’s mind. To still be able to appreciate beauty and light even after you have seen the evil of the world.

Isildur sighs next to him, and Elendil turns his attention back on his son.

“How are you now?” he asks.

Isildur shrugs.

“Better. I thought I was getting better, though. I haven’t dreamed of the dungeons in several weeks. I certainly have not felt the need to bolt out of my room like this in a while. What does that say about me, Father? I cannot even sleep in my own bed.”

Elendil shakes him slightly.

“It has been only a month. Give it time, Isildur.”

Isildur huffs.

“You seem far more patient about this than I am.”

Elendil hesitates. He does not enjoy talking about his own discomfort – but he has discovered that Isildur is a sympathetic listener, who offers him support without judging, and, in many ways, it would be unfair for Elendil to shut him out simply because he is not used to appearing vulnerable in front of his children.

“You forget I was also a guest of Pharazôn’s dungeons. Although for a much shorter time, and they at least allowed me to move. But I was still alone with my thoughts most of the time. After Míriel took on the Trial by Abyss for me, and I was a free man once more, I took a job at a tavern.”

Isildur turns to him, frowning.

“What? Why?”

“It was certainly not for need of gold,” Elendil admits. “I wanted – I needed – to be surrounded by people. By noise. By life. I wanted to remind myself that I was still alive.”

Isildur leans his head against Elendil’s shoulder.

“I am sorry,” he says. “I hope I can help.”

Elendil smiles.

“More than you know,” he says earnestly.

                 xxxXXXXxxxx

Time flows. Dawn is getting closer. Isildur allows time to pass them, allows himself to sit with Elendil and just be. He needs this, he tells himself. He will be as ready for battle as ever when the sun rises, but, for now, he needs this.

Dawn is almost upon them when Isildur feels Elendil tensing next to him. He knows immediately that something is wrong. His keen hearing picks up something out of place in the forest – sounds that should not be there even though, whoever they are, they are trying to be stealthy, and Isildur is certain neither he nor Elendil would have picked anything up if they weren’t so attuned to this place.

They spring up as one, hands on their weapons. Isildur does not know who would be walking in the forest at such an hour, on the road to Andúnië, no less. There are still a few scattered Drúedain settlements left in Númenor, but the Drúedain are usually deep in the forests and they only seldom approach Númenórean dwelling places, especially now. Isildur fears this isn’t one of the Drúedain. More likely, it is one of Pharazôn’s people.

He and Elendil wait with bated breath, ready to strike. When the newcomer emerges from the trees, Isildur gasps.

“Arondir?”

He looks the same as ever, but he should not be in Númenor, and the presence of someone from across the water takes Isildur aback.

Arondir, on his part, merely bows his head.

“It pleases me to see you, Isildur,” he says, echoing words he has given Isildur back there, in Middle-earth.

Isildur blinks, even more disoriented. Arondir, in the meantime, acts as if he has expected to find Isildur there in the middle of the night. He nods to Elendil.

“Captain,” he greets.

Elendil shakes his head.

“Not anymore. A lot has happened in Númenor since we last saw each other.”

Arondir’s lips twitch.

“So I’ve gathered.”

“How is it you’re here in the first place?” Isildur wants to know. “If Pharazôn got wind that there was an Elf on the island…”

“He knows,” Arondir says quickly. “I came bearing a message from High King Gil-galad – to be delivered to your queen…and, it turns out, your king.”

“I can imagine the message was not well received,” Elendil says. “At least not by Pharazôn.”

Arondir shrugs.

“I have not seen Míriel. As for your King, he has sent me here until he drafts an appropriate response to my letter.”

Isildur and Elendil exchange worried looks. Pharazôn is plotting something.

“Come with us,” Elendil says. “It might not be safe for any of us in the woods.”

They start walking towards the farm. On the way, Arondir fills them in on what has been happening in Middle-earth. The news is far from good – Sauron’s open rise to power, the siege of Eregion, the death of Celebrimbor. There is now open war between Sauron and the Elves.

“We have heard about Halbrand being Sauron,” Elendil says. “But everything else…that is sorrowful news.”

“I am afraid only few can comprehend the gravity of the situation,” Arondir says. “Sauron apparently has learned many secrets from the Elven Smiths. It is hard to predict what he will do with that knowledge.”

They walk on. The peace of the night before feels like a distant memory to Isildur. Beyond their shaky haven, the wide world looms, becoming darker with each day that passes. It is too much to hope that the darkness will not affect them as well.

“Theo will be glad to see you, I am sure,” Elendil tells Arondir.

Arondir frowns.

“Theo is here? How come? What about Pelargir?”

“I asked him to come with me,” Isildur replies quickly. “I think he needs time to understand who he is and who he wants to be – independent of whatever burdens and losses he might carry. I know how these things go.”

He feels Elendil’s assessing eyes on him but does not look back.

“If he wishes to return to Pelargir at some point, he is very much welcome to do so,” Isildur goes on. “If he wants to stay here, he will. Whatever he needs. Whatever he wants.”

Isildur finds it hard to articulate the responsibility he feels for Theo – the notion that he sees much of himself in the young boy, and that he wants to make sure Theo does not tumble into the same abyss Isildur has, that grief does not blind him to who he can be and how he can live.

“Hagen leads the settlers at Pelargir now,” Isildur adds. “And I am certain he is doing an excellent job.”

It is only fair to give Hagen his due, especially as Isildur is slightly guilty about how matters stood between them at their departure. Not about Estrid – not really. Estrid has made her own choices, and for Isildur to feel guilty about that would mean to discount Estrid’s wishes, and this is not something he ever wants to do. Yet, considering how Isildur has left matters at Pelargir – with Kemen and his lot – he cannot help feeling as if he could have done more for Hagen and the Southlanders.

                                              xxxXXXXxxxx

They reach the farm with the rising of the sun. Arondir notices that there are already signs of life and is not surprised to discover that the members of Elendil’s household are early risers. As they approach the house, Arondir hears a familiar voice:

“No, no, Anárion, I do not think you are doing it right.”

“Oh, and you are suddenly a master carpenter now, Theo? Trust me, I know what I am doing.”

Theo is standing by a workbench together with a young Númenórean – Anárion, obviously Elendil’s youngest son, and Arondir sees much of his father in Anárion. Later, Arondir will learn Theo and Anárion are putting together furniture for the newly-built houses of the exiled Faithful from Armenelos. 

Arondir stops in his tracks just as Theo looks up. He gapes at Arondir, then his surprise turns into joy, and he all but bounds on him.

“Oh, but it is so good to see you,” Theo says, holding tight to Arondir, who returns the embrace.

He looks and feels different, Arondir notices as he pulls back. Much more settled than Arondir has ever seen him before. Whatever Elendil and Isildur are doing to Theo, he is obviously thriving under their care.

Theo introduces him to Anárion, who appears suddenly tongue-tied, now that he realizes he is face to face with an Elf. They enter the house.

A woman is busy with the fire in the main room. She gets up at the commotion and turns to them.

At first, Arondir does not even recognize her. She is wearing a Númenórean dress, light blue and green, like the waves of the sea. Her hair is combed and shiny. A silver pendant in the shape of a crescent moon is hanging around her neck. And that is when it dawns on Arondir that he knows who she is.

“Estrid,” he gasps.

He has never seen her standing so tall before. He has never seen her looking as if she knows that she fully belongs somewhere.

Estrid flinches at the sound of his voice, her eyes widening. There is a flash of fear that is quickly replaced by anger. She glances at Isildur, something very much like reproach on her features. Then, she turns around and walks swiftly out of the room.

Isildur blinks, dazed. He looks slightly lost, as if he does not know what to do with himself, whether he should stay with the others or go after Estrid. Then, determination morphs on his features.

“I’ll be right back,” he says.

Without another word, he walks out of the room, no doubt following Estrid.  No one tries to stop him.

Chapter Text

Estrid sits in her room at the window. She is slightly ashamed of herself for running off like that, but she was unable to help it. She was not expecting to ever see Arondir again and finding him here, now, when she is finally convinced she has found a place to belong…it is like her past is coming back to haunt her. It is like a reminder of her old life, when she was nothing more than the mark on the back of her neck.

She shudders. In many ways, she understands Arondir and the way he reacted to her back at Pelargir. And yet, he never gave her a chance. And yet, she remembers he was ready to kill her then, in the woods, even after she had tried to save both him and Isildur. Even when she had shown him she could do the right thing, if given the chance.

It isn’t as if she would have hurt Isildur then, after he had freed her. Even if she had taken his sword, she wanted only to keep him away, to allow herself the chance to escape, not to harm him. Estrid had loved him even then. She does not think she would have been able to strike him even if her life depended on it. And Estrid thinks that Isildur had known that. She likes to think that he would have known.

The door opens. Estrid tenses and turns around, but it is only Isildur. He steps in and closes the door softly behind him. He looks slightly dazed, as if he was not expecting Estrid’s reaction, but also slightly sheepish, as though he knows that he should have.

“I did not know he would be coming,” he says. “And I forgot…well, I shouldn't have. I am sorry.”

Estrid frowns.

“What is he doing here?” she asks tightly.

Isildur seems to hesitate.

“He…has some tidings. A message to the Queen. Estrid…”

Estrid shakes her head. She turns back to the window.

“I was going to tell you, you know,” she announces. “When…before we got to Pelargir, I was going to tell you who I really was. You’re right, I was really using you at first, but I got to know you on the road, and I felt guilty. And I told myself that I would confess everything to you before we crossed the city gates.”

She doesn’t turn around to see Isildur’s reaction to her revelation but keeps going:

“But then came the attack, and yes, Arondir saved us, and those men would have killed us, but he shot his arrow at one of them while he was trying to run and…and I was afraid, Isildur.”

Isildur steps closer to her and places his hands on her shoulders.

“I am sorry. I…I never paused to look at things from your perspective.”

Estrid shrugs.

“Neither did he. He could have taken me aside when he realized who I was. I would have told him about the mark, but he made me show it to you, right at that moment when you and I were…”

She pauses and shakes her head again, remembering how light and at peace she had been feeling in those moments with Isildur, right after they had fixed the fountain, how they had stood together, how she had thought for a moment that she could have a good life, not necessarily with him, but at least in some place where she could still be happy and unafraid. And then Arondir had come and had given her no choice but to confess who she was.

“You know your father all but dragged me to a healer in Andúnië to have a look at the burn,” she goes on. “Alinel. You know her, I think. You were friends with her son, yes?”

She feels Isildur nod behind her.

“Valandil. Yes, my closest friend. Alinel is a good healer. A good person.”

“She is,” Estrid agrees.

She remembers all that Alinel has done for her and thinks that this might be the main reason why she resents Arondir’s presence here.

“I showed her the burn, and I told her what happened. I did not want to, but she is a healer, so she insisted I tell her everything. So I did. And she was angry.”

Isildur gasps and makes to say something, perhaps to apologize for Alinel, because Estrid is certain he misunderstands her words. She turns to face him, placing a hand on his chest.

“On my behalf,” she adds quickly. “She wasn’t angry at the choice I had made. She was angry because I was put in a position to make that choice in the first place. She was angry on my behalf.”

She can feel Isildur’s heart beating faster, and he is staring at her, eyes wide, taking in every word. Estrid lowers her eyes, feeling much too vulnerable under the intensity of his gaze.

“I realized then that no one had looked me like this,” she goes on. “My own people…Arondir…even you…it was all about my choice. About how I somehow failed. And I allowed myself to think of what had happened in those terms. But Alinel…Isildur, she made me see that it should not have happened at all. It made me acknowledge my own suffering. That I had been taken against my will, and I had been so, so frightened, and that I was branded, and that it was painful and an indignity and…”

Isildur suddenly draws her to him, which puts an end to her words. He holds on to her tightly, fiercely, as if he wants to erase it all, what has been done to her, what she has been saying, what people have been saying about her. He holds Estrid as if he wants there to be no one but the two of them in their own world, and Estrid allows the thought, she allows the embrace and all that it means for her.

“Estrid…”

Isildur whispers her name like it is a prayer and a blessing, as if he is ready to fall at her feet and offer her the entire world. As if he is ready to walk through fire for her. And Estrid knows that he would. He would in a heartbeat.

Finally, she pulls away and notices that Isildur’s eyes are slightly wet. Her own eyes are surprisingly dry.

“I am glad of what Alinel did,” Estrid confesses. “Because realizing all that – it was a good thing, Isildur. It was…liberating.”

She had actually burst into tears then, and Alinel had held her as she wept, with the practices ease of a mother, which of course had made Estrid weep all the harder, because she realized that she had her own losses to mourn.

Isildur still has a hold on her shoulders, and his eyes are sad.

“I am sorry,” he says. “We weren’t fair to you. We weren’t kind to you. None of us.”

Estrid smiles wistfully.

“There was so much darkness,” she says. “Perhaps it was not a time to be kind.”

Isildur, however, shakes his head.

“If we cannot be kind in times of darkness, does it really matter that we are in times of light?”

Estrid tilts her head to have a better look at him. He would have no trouble being kind in times of light or darkness. True, he might get fierce at times, and Estrid has seen the shadows in him to know that – but only to the people who truly wrong him, who trample on what he holds most dear.

“I truly didn’t know Arondir was coming,” Isildur adds. “And…this is your home, and I want you to feel safe in it. So…I am sure anyone in Andúnië would be pleased to house a Firstborn.”

Estrid is tempted to say the words, but she cannot. Whatever Arondir might be for her, he is a friend to Isildur, who has saved Isildur’s life several times over. For this, if not for anything else, Estrid should be grateful to him. Besides, Arondir is the closest thing Theo has to a father, and if Estrid drives him away, Theo would never forgive her.

“Now what would they say about you if an Elf can’t stay in the house of the Elf-friend?” she says, winking. “No, Isildur, I was taken aback to see him, but I would never ask you to send him away.”

Isildur smiles, and he is looking at her with so much awe, that Estrid finds herself wishing to see herself the way he sees her.

“How about you go?” she suggests. “You might have important matters to discuss.”

Isildur hesitates.

“Are you sure? I could…”

Estrid grins and pushes him towards the door.

“Off you go,” she insists. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

“Of course you can,” Isildur agrees. “But I’m here now.”

Estrid feels the warmth of the unspoken vow.

“I know,” she assures him. “Go. I will join you soon.”

Isildur nods and leaves. Estrid discover the warmth is still there. It doesn’t matter, really, Arondir’s arrival. Because she isn’t Estrid of the Wildmen anymore. She is Estrid of Andúnië, Isildur’s betrothed, and no one can change this.

                                  xxxXXXXxxxx
Estrid fully intends to join the others at the morning meal. She even intends to be civil with Arondir, because she is very much aware of her position and of what it means to be part of the Faithful. The connection with the Eldar is important to Isildur and his family. Therefore, it has to be important to her as well.

Still, she remains in her chamber, gathering her thoughts. She does not really like to remember her times in the forests of the burned-out Southlands. Isildur might look at the day they had met with joy, but Estrid still feels the jolt of shame. It had not been a good time for her.

Estrid has been honest about one thing, though. She was never among the wildmen. When she had been released, she had found herself with a group of people she could hardly recognize. They were fierce and unscrupulous, their time as slaves having changed and hardened them. They were not simple survivors. Something had broken in them. They wanted to offer pain to others. They wanted others to feel what they had felt.

Estrid was afraid of them. Not only because of what they might do to her, but because of what she might have become in their midst. She was afraid of being contaminated by their darkness. So she had hidden in the forest, surviving as best she could on her own, trying to find a way to get out of there. Pelargir was out of bonds for those like her. But perhaps, if she could have found a settlement far enough, where they had not heard of Adar… 

Leaving would be hard, though. The journey would be long on foot, but also, Estrid was reluctant to leave without news of those she had lost. Her mother and grandmother had perished in the eruption, and Freda had died in Adar’s camp, but she still knew nothing about Gunna or Hagen. And she could not leave without them.

The day she had seen Isildur, Estrid had thought this was a sign. The world telling her what she should do. She had not been entirely honest with Isildur. She had known from the start he wasn’t an orc. Orcs did not ride horses, after all. Before she could see him clearly, though, she had been sure he was one of the wildmen. Her plan was indeed to steal Isildur’s horse – reasoning with herself that it had probably been stolen by its current rider anyway. She had not meant to kill Isildur, though. Only incapacitate him enough so she would not be followed. And then she had wanted to ride north, as far as she could, until she reached a place that would take her in.

Her attack on Isildur had not ended as she had intended, not when Isildur had retaliated so violently, and Estrid had lost her head completely. Then, during their exchange, Estrid had realized he was a Númenórean – not because of his speech or his strange, Elvish name, but because she had seen him before.

Estrid remembers her first sight of Isildur. She has not told him about it, although truly she does not know why. It was after the Númenórean cavalry had liberated Tirharad and captured Adar. Estrid had sat with Freda and Gunna at the table prepared to celebrate the arrival of their new king and the end of the battle. She had spotted Isildur along with two of his fellow soldiers – Valandil and Ontamo, she assumes now. 

She does not even know what had made her look in his direction in the first place. Yet something about him had spoken to her. The way he held himself, the restlessness she could sense in him, something in him that she could not even explain. They said they were half-Elves, the Sea Folk, and even though Estrid had never felt awe when it came to the garrison at Ostirith, something in her stirred now. Something she could not name.

“Be careful,” Gunna said, noticing Estrid’s stare. “Or they might just whisk you away and carry you off to their ships.”

Estrid huffed.

“They aren’t corsairs. They wouldn’t do that.”

“Too bad,” Freda remarked. “Imagine the wonders you’d see there. And there’s three of them. Perhaps we should try our luck.”

Estrid felt the heat rush to her cheeks.

“Oh, you try whatever luck you want, ladies. Keep me out of it, though. Hagen is enough for me.”

And yet, even as she had said that, she had looked at the young Númenórean and wondered who he was. If there was someone waiting for him at home. 

The heart always knows, Estrid’s grandmother had said. And perhaps Estrid’s heart had known even before she had set eyes on Isildur.

Estrid looks around the room that is already beginning to feel like home to her. She walks to the bed and feels the softness of the sheepskin blanket under her fingers. She thinks of the spinning wheel that used to belong to Elendil’s mother and that has been given to her without hesitation. She thinks how neatly she seems to fit into Isildur’s family and wonders if this isn’t fate. If this isn’t the work of the gods. If she has not been meant to find herself here, in this house, in this room, in Isildur’s heart from the very beginning.

When she steps out of her room, she is smiling and confident, ready to face anything.

                         xxxxxXXXXXXxxxx

After leaving Estrid in her room, Isildur walks to Arondir and takes him aside, since he does not want to involve the others in this – it concerns Estrid more than it concerns them, after all.

“She is here because both she and I want her to be here,” he says firmly. “And I trust her more than I trust myself, so do not you say anything against her.”

Arondir’s eyes are grave.

“I was not intending to,” he assures Isildur.

The words are calm, and Isildur believes him, but he still feels the need to prove his point.

“We weren’t kind to her,” he says. “Not you, and not I. We weren’t fair to her. We didn’t even stop to think about…we did not stop to ask ourselves what it was like for her.”

“I suppose we weren’t,” Arondir agrees.

Isildur has expected this kind of response from him, he knows Arondir is the type to remain calm under any kind of circumstances. Still, he finds the words grating.

“I will not say anything against Estrid,” Arondir repeats again. “You have my word.”

Isildur nods curtly. He makes to leave, then stops and turns to look at Arondir.

“You know, it is ironic. When we passed the gates of Pelargir, I was allowed inside without anyone stopping to check whether there were any marks on the back of my neck.”

Arondir looks at him impassively.

“Of course not.”

Isildur nods.

“Because I was Númenórean?”

Arondir does not blink.

“And Captain Elendil’s son,” he adds. “Many at Pelargir remember Captain Elendil.”

Isildur looks away. 

“That does not mean much,” he points out. “My sister stands with Pharazôn.”

Arondir shakes his head.

“I did not know that.”

So Arondir has not seen Eärien in Armenelos. It is quite likely that Pharazôn has kept them apart deliberately. 

Isildur hears the sympathy in Arondir’s voice when they are talking about Eärien. He shakes his head, annoyed, because he is not telling Arondir all of this just to gain sympathy.

“That’s not…she’s had her reasons, and she might still change her mind. And if she does, me and my father are not going to turn her away at the gates.”

He hopes he’s made his point, but he feels the need to drive home what he wants to say even more:

“And you shouldn’t trust someone implicitly just because they are Númenórean, either. Because apparently Númenóreans have been stabbing each other in the back in shrines dedicated to Nienna of all places and rounding up those who believe differently from them in the middle of the night and sending them to the dungeons and poisoning them. You have no idea what my own people did to me when I returned. So if you think Estrid doesn’t deserve a chance because of one mistake that wasn’t even…we don’t know what she’s been through. We don’t have the right to judge.”

Isildur is afraid he’s said too much. After all, he owes Arondir, and Arondir is still his friend, and Isildur still respects him. Yet some matters need to be settled, and it is better if they are settled immediately.

At any rate, Arondir does not seem offended or even taken aback by Isildur’s tirade.

“I understand,” he assures Isildur. “Those were dark times, but, in truth, this isn’t a justification. And I am sorry.”

Isildur smiles tightly.

“It isn’t really me you should be apologizing to. You haven’t wronged me at all.”

He shakes his head and touches Arondir’s shoulder briefly, to show that the matter is settled.

“Come now, the others will be interested in the tidings you bring from Middle-earth. Besides, you should break your fast with us. I am sure Pharazôn did not offer you the hospitality you deserve.”

They return to the main room side by side.

                                  xxxxxXXXXXxxx

Arondir learns a lot about Captain Elendil’s family – he has not realized before that the captain was a widower, although it seems Theo has known that, from Isildur. Which explains why Theo has been so willing to listen to Isildur, the two of them understanding each other, and Isildur offering Theo the kind of help Arondir has been unable to give. Something for which Arondir is grateful for.

He also learns a lot about Númenor, about what Númenor is becoming, and it seems that the news is not good at all. It seems Commander Galadriel was right to be worried about Númenor, about what Númenor might turn into after the failed expedition. It is hard to imagine that anyone would have anticipated this, though. The Faithful exiled, the Queen supplanted, the new King an enemy of the old ways.

“This is why I do not understand why you are here,” Elendil confesses. “I would have expected Pharazôn to send you away without even looking at the letter.”

“It seems he was expecting me,” Arondir remembers.

Elendil glances at Isildur, then at Anárion, who frowns.

“The palantír,” Anárion says. “I knew that thing in Pharazôn’s hands was going to spell trouble. It should be back with us, Father.”

“And I told you if you can think of a safe way to get it to us, I am more than willing to listen,” Elendil replies testily. “For now, I will not sanction anything that might make matters much worse for all of us here at Andúnië.”

Anárion is about to say something, but one look from Isildur stops him. 

“What I do not understand is what is Pharazôn trying to do?” Isildur muses. “He does not care what happens to the High King of the Eldar. He does not care about Middle-earth.”

“He does, though,” Theo speaks up there. “He cares about what Middle-earth can give him. Why else would his son be terrorizing the people of Pelargir?”

Arondir frowns. The news about Pelargir is the most worrying for him. It is not only that it pains him to have Bronwyn’s people at the mercy of a tyrant – again. But it would be so easy for the Southlanders to side with Sauron against Númenor and thus be enslaved once more.

“What is being done about Pelargir?” he asks.

“We have a plan,” Isildur replies quickly. “We are helping them as best we can.”

But would it be enough? Arondir worries that, if Sauron were to offer them more, he would buy their loyalty. He does not say this aloud. He knows Theo would rebuke him – and perhaps he would be right to do so. After what Isildur has told him about Estrid, Arondir does not want to be so quick to damn the people of the Southlands.

                       xxxXXXXxxxx

Arondir watches Theo at swords practice that morning. Once again, he is impressed by how changed Theo is. He is still the same Theo, of course, but he has matured and gained more confidence. Elendil’s family is good for him, and Arondir begins to understand why Isildur had decided to take Theo under his wing and even bring him to Númenor with him.

After the sword practice, Theo takes Arondir for a walk around the farm.

“I was worried to see you,” Theo confesses. “I mean – I was glad, at first. I missed you, after all.”

Arondir nods, cautiously. Theo has not been very effusive in the past, tending more to push people away, and he used to be cautious around Arondir – perhaps, understandably so. Still, things have changed between them, and even if Bronwyn’s death initially raised an impenetrable wall between the two, that wall now seems to have fallen down.

Theo shuffles his feet, looking down on the ground.

“I was worried,” he adds. “I was worried you were leaving.”

Arondir tilts his head.

“Leaving?” he repeats, not understanding.

Theo makes a vague, jerky movement with his head. He points westward.

“You know…leaving. Across the water. That’s what your kind do, right? Go across the water and never return?”

Oh, Arondir thinks. Oh. He now understands the depths of Theo’s concern.

“The High King did offer me this opportunity,” he admits, because he wants to be fully honest with Theo. “He thought that…well, after everything, that it might help.”

Theo nods curtly. His eyes are hard, though. He does not say anything, but Arondir guesses what is in his mind. Theo is grieving himself, but he does not have the luxury of going to a place like Valinor to heal.

“I refused,” Arondir finishes.

He spots the surprise in Theo’s face.

“You did?” Theo stammers.

Arondir nods once.

“I have responsibilities here. I do not know if there is a place for me across the sea in the first place. But if there is – many years will have to pass before I consider it.”

Theo’s face brightens.

“Good,” he says, clearly his throat. “That’s…that’s good, Arondir.”

Arondir offers him a smile.

“And you?” he asks. “I was surprised myself to see you here. A pleasant surprise, but nevertheless unexpected.”

Theo shrugs.

“Isildur offered. I think he felt responsible for me. I think he feels responsible for everyone.”

It is probably more than that. Isildur, apparently, is also a good judge of character – better than Arondir had given him credit for back at Pelargir. He understood what Theo needed and proceeded to help.

“I do not know if it is forever,” Theo adds. “I might decide to return. I have learned a lot here already. Things that can help my people lead a better life. Once I’ve learned it all, I could find a way to return.”

Theo points to Andúnië in the distance.

“They have cities here. Big cities of stone – like Pelargir used to be. Imagine if we could have that, as well. Cities we could defend. Houses where we wouldn’t freeze to death every winter. Better tools, better weapons. There is much to learn from them.”

“They might have much to learn from you as well,” Arondir says.

Theo offers him a half-smile.

“What could they possibly learn from the low-man?”

Arondir doubts that Isildur – or anyone else from Andúnië – uses that term. Still, Andúnië is just a small part of Númenor.

“They can learn survival,” Arondir says. “How to endure hardship. How to face loss.”

Theo looks away.

“I have a shelf of healing herbs in my room,” he tells Arondir, suddenly changing the subject. “Mum would have loved it.”

Arondir places a steadying hand on his shoulder. He is pleased to see Theo does not try to reject it.

“She would be glad to see how you are faring now,” he says.

Theo frowns in his direction.

“You think so?”

Theo does not bother to hide the vulnerability in his tone. He does not even try to tell Arondir that he cannot know, that Arondir’s brief liaison with Bronwyn does not mean that he knows her or can speak for her now that she is gone.

They have come a long way.

“I am certain,” Arondir says. “You make your mother proud, Theo.”

And he means every word. Theo makes him proud as well, but perhaps some more time has to pass before Arondir gathers the courage to tell him this.

                           xxxXXXXxxxx

The next day, Pharazôn sends a delegation to Andúnië, consisting of Guild-members and soldiers. They present a letter to Elendil, then demand that they be housed at the inn for the next few days. The inns of Andúnië are already full, given not all the homes for the Faithful of Armenelos have been finished, but Anárion volunteers himself to help relocate some of the Faithful, at least until the delegation leaves. 

Elendil reads the letter to Isildur and Anárion. He is taken aback by its content but tells himself he should not be surprised. Pharazôn would always find a way to take advantage of a situation. He cannot help wondering, though, whether Eärien has been informed of Pharazôn’s decision – and what she thinks of it:

“To the Lord of Andúnië,

The High King of the Noldor himself has requested a small favor from us – aid in his battle against Sauron. Given that the people of Andúnië still declare themselves staunch supporters of the Elves (and given that we consider the Lord of Andúnië partly responsible for Sauron’s return), we believe it is for the Faithful first and foremost to provide an army to fight alongside the Eldar.

As such, as King of Númenor and protector of the lands of Middle-earth, we consider it our authority to compile a list of brave Faithful warriors (and their allies) that will be sent to represent Númenor in the struggles against the Great Deceiver. While the summons may not be disobeyed, we believe you will acknowledge that it is your duty to take part in the great deeds that will unfold in Middle-earth.

Lord Belzagar shall be the commander of our army. He and his personal guards composed of members of the New Sea Guard shall accompany you. Ar-Pharazôn and Ar-Zimraphel wish you fair winds and success in this enterprise.”

Elendil’s name is on the list. So is Isildur’s. Anárion’s, however, isn’t.

As Elendil continues reading, he notices it is the same with every other Faithful family. Each has representatives going to war. Each has members staying at home. Ontamo’s brother is going, but his father is staying behind. Mairen’s father is being sent to war, and so is her eldest brother, even though the lad is younger than Eärien and considered still almost a child.

“I think it is very clear what is happening here,” he says.

Isildur shakes his head.

“What do you think is happening? I do not understand. I cannot see what kind of game Pharazôn is playing. He used the expedition with Galadriel against Míriel. Now he wants to send us to war again?”

Elendil glances at Anárion. He is scowling, most likely because he is not included among those who will be sent to fight in Middle-earth. Elendil feels a pang of sympathy towards his youngest. Anárion will feel even more humiliated when he realizes what his true purpose is.

“Pharazôn is trying to put us in danger,” he says. “The Faithful. All who speak for us, too. What better way to do so then send us to war?”

“He is not sending all of us, though,” Anárion points out harshly.

Elendil nods.

“No, he isn’t. Because he needs to keep us in line.”

He notices Isildur’s frown and Anárion’s confusion.

“Pharazôn needs to know that we will not be getting any ideas,” he goes on. “That we will not mutiny against Belzagar, that we will follow his orders. That we will not be asking aid from the Eldar ourselves with matters at home.”

The latter is unlikely to happen. Elendil has no wish to involve others in their internal affairs, and he knows Míriel wouldn’t want this, either. Yet Pharazôn is paranoid, just like any treacherous person. He lives in constant fear that others might do to him what he does to them.

“So,” Isildur says, swallowing, “Anárion…”

Elendil gives a quick nod, seeing that Isildur is about to understand. He places a hand on Isildur’s shoulder and another on Anárion’s, looking at their worried features.

“Anárion is a hostage,” he says. “So is Estrid and Voronwë and anyone else staying behind. They are leverage, to ensure that nothing happens to Belzagar. Their lives depend on how pleased Belzagar is with us.”

He allows his hands to drop.

“As for those of us who are leaving, our safety depends on the whims of Lord Belzagar.”

Chapter Text

That evening, Elendil holds a secret meeting with the heads of the most prominent Faithful families. He cannot summon all of them, because he knows the soldiers who delivered Pharazôn’s letter would immediately be on them. He sends messages in secret and asks them to come to his house one at a time. He does not take them in his house, but down in the expanded root cellar – the place where, he anticipates, they will hold their secret meetings more and more often, as Pharazôn tightens the leash around them.

He is there with Isildur and Anárion. Arondir has joined them. Theo and Estrid have been requested to remain in the house. In case anyone decides to drop by, one of them needs to be there, pretending everything is normal, while the other will rush to give the alarm to those in the root cellar. Theo has, predictably, made a lot of noise, because he thinks his place should be at the war council. He quickly subsided when Arondir took him aside and had a few words with him. Elendil would have done it himself – but he is sure Arondir was much more effective than he would have been. He understands Theo and has been doing his best to help him since his arrival, but Elendil knows his limitations. He does not have the bond that Arondir shares with the young Southlander.

Elendil quickly tells the Faithful the news, and Arondir recites Gil-galad’s letter to them. Pharazôn has, of course, confiscated it, but Arondir knows it by heart, and he does not hesitate to offer his knowledge.

“We would have gone anyway if Tar-Míriel had been the one in charge of these decisions,” Elendil says. “The difference is that we would have gone willingly – and we could have trusted those leading us. The way matters stand now, we will have more than Sauron’s armies to contend with.”

“Pharazôn is using us,” Nolondil, Valandil’s father says, harshly. “He wants us all dead.”

“He certainly hopes some of us will die,” Elendil confirms. “And…we are going to war. I am afraid that is inevitable.”

He breathes deeply. This is not how he imagined it would go. He had anticipated a confrontation with Sauron, but not in such a manner. There is no glory in being led to the slaughter. Still, he has to offer something to his people. He has to give him something to fight for.

“Remember that what you will be doing is the will of the Valar. How this is accomplished matters far less. We are helping our allies, just as our ancestors were. We should think about this – we are doing what Beren and Barahir and Tuor have done. The same deeds that have earned us this fair island in the first place. You will be fighting against the darkness. We will be making your ancestors proud. You will be making the Valar proud.”

He sees their eyes shining and knows his words will be repeated tonight in every Faithful household in Andúnië. He nods to himself. This is good. He has given them hope. Now comes the darker matters.

“As for those that will remain behind – we will have to make sure that nothing happens to them. That their lives can go on no matter what happens to us. I leave them in Anárion’s capable hands. While I am gone, my youngest will speak with my voice. Whatever decisions he makes, I will support wholeheartedly.”

Elendil glances at Anárion. He looks slightly pale, but his shoulders are straight, and his eyes are bright.

“We might have to contend with Pharazôn’s forces,” Anárion says. “He might think we are vulnerable. He might try to provoke us. We have to make sure he has no reason to do anything to us, and we have to be ready for anything. Root cellars such as this one will be used as hiding places. Not only for people. For objects as well.”

Elendil nods.

“During my visit to Armenelos, Eärien let slip something concerning. It is likely that Pharazôn might soon prohibit possession of any texts in Quenya or even Sindarin.”

“We already know that Pharazôn might make a move against the Hall of Lore,” Isildur says. “We’ve rescued as much as we could of what is there. They will be hidden in our root cellars. You should hide yours as well. And any relics you might have.”

Elendil takes a step forward and places his hand on Isildur’s shoulder.

“Hide as many relics and texts as you can,” he adds, “But not all.”

He feels the tense silence of his followers. He knows this will bring them pain – it brings him pain too. Yet the Faithful must survive. And they must be ready for many sacrifices.

“Pharazôn will be expecting to find Faithful relics in our houses,” Elendil goes on. “And Quenya texts and objects that honor the Eldar or the Valar. If he does not find any, he knows we are hiding them, and he will punish us. More than this, he will know for certain that we have hiding places, and he will try to search for them. and this must not happen. He must not find them. he must not think about them.”

“And this is your advice as Lord of Andúnië?” Nolondil asks. “As leader of the Faithful? To give up who we are? To trade our faith for safety?”

Elendil feels both Isildur and Anárion tense, and he knows they are ready to give Nolondil a piece of their mind. There is no need. Elendil welcomes defiance, and he welcomes criticism. And he can fight his own battles.

“If I wanted you to trade your faith for safety, I would have ordered you to accept Pharazôn as king long before he wedded the Queen. And to renounce me and the Faithful ways. But that is not what I am asking you. I am asking you to give yourselves more time. To make sure that the Faithful weather this storm.

“I am not telling you to allow the Kingsmen to find all your texts and all your relics. I am saying that they need to find something.”

“Many of the Kingsmen no longer know much Quenya and have no idea about the value of our sacred objects,” Voronwë points out. “You do not have to give them anything actually valuable. But we will need to give them something.”

Nolondil seems mollified. Elendil wonders if Nolondil’s objections have less to do with what Elendil is suggesting and more with Elendil himself. Elendil does not blame him. He and Nolondil have known each other since they were cadets in the Sea Guard. They have served on ships together and received their captaincy almost at the same time. Nolondil was beyond glad to hear that Elendil was willing to take Valandil under his wing, after Valandil befriended Isildur and the two of them became inseparable. But Valandil died defending Elendil. And this is hard for any father to forgive.

                                     xxxxxxXXXXXXXxxxx

When the others retire to their homes, Arondir takes Elendil aside.

“Thank you,” he says. “I know going to war is not entirely of your free will but thank you. We need all the help we can get.”

Elendil shakes his head.

“Pharazôn is right about one thing. I would have gone anyway. He knows this. I would have also left one of my sons at home to stay with those who remain behind and lead the Faithful in my stead.”

Elendil pauses. Arondir notices that he looks troubled, his face aged and grey with worry.

“Besides,” Elendil adds. “I need to do this. I am the one who brought him to Númenor in the first place.”

“We were all deceived,” Arondir points out. “None of us wanted to see what was behind the mask.”

Elendil shakes his head.

“Maybe,” he says, but he does not sound convinced.

Arondir frowns at the unease on Elendil’s face.

“What is it?” he prompts.

“They say that he offers you what you want the most,” Elendil says. “They say this about Sauron. That this is why he ensnares you.”

“Perhaps,” Arondir acknowledges cautiously. “Commander Galadriel was saying something similar. What of it?”

Elendil’s smile has something bitter in it.

“I was focused on Commander Galadriel, but I am certain now much of what I was thinking at the time must have come from him. I saw Galadriel’s arrival as an opportunity, Arondir. A chance to take back my place among the Faithful. A chance to give the Faithful back what I believed to be their rightful place in Númenor. I wanted the old ways restored.”

“You wanted Númenor on the right path again,” Arondir tells him. “I do not believe that was a bad wish.”

Elendil waves this aside.

“It did place me in Sauron’s crosshairs,” he says. “I started something that I need to finish.”

Arondir hears a familiar note in Elendil’s voice. He knows where this can lead. He used to think similar thoughts when he thought he was supposed to be the one to take Adar down. That had turned out to be more hubris than fate.

“I have learned to be wary of such thoughts,” he confesses. “I used to think it was my job to put a stop to Adar as well.”

Elendil hesitates.

“This is different,” he says. “I feel it in my bones. Whatever I started with Sauron, it might be up to me to finish. One way or another.”

He shakes his head, as if he is himself aware that the thought might sound absurd.

“You do not need to thank me, Arondir. Even if Pharazôn was not forcing me to go to war, I would still be in that army. It is no more than my duty.”

Elendil makes to walk away but then turns to Arondir. This time, he is smiling.

“In fact, I think I should be the one thanking you.”

Arondir raises his eyebrows, slightly puzzled.

“For what am I being thanked?”

Elendil’s eyes are bright.

“I know you saved Isildur’s life more than once. You helped my son come back home to me. I…there are no words, no actions, that could express the gratitude I feel.”

Arondir reaches out and shakes Elendil’s hand.

“Like you, I was doing my duty. But I should say that what you have done for Theo cancels out any debt you think you might owe me.”

Elendil breaks into a grin. Arondir nods once. They understand each other, it seems.

                                   xxxXXXXxxxx

The next day, it is revealed that the soldiers have also brought letters to some of the Faithful from Armenelos. The King, in his generosity, is ready to offer amnesty and an exemption from being pressed into service, if only they renounce the Faithful ways. The act has to be public and include the burning of relics and sacred tests, an oath taken to Pharazôn (or Belzagar, apparently, Pharazôn isn’t fussy), and a detailed report of any suspicious activity in Armenelos (this includes the comings and goings of the three Faithful leaders and any known contacts they might have with those from Middle-earth).

Isildur isn’t worried. He already knows every single Faithful has refused the offer. He has even heard some of them have not hesitated to slam the door in the faces of the messengers and hurl curses at them. 

He is surprised, however, when he gets a letter himself. Not from Pharazôn – who probably recognizes a lost cause when he sees one. From Eärien.

Isildur reads the letter several times, even though it brings him pain every single time, even though reading it breaks his heart. He has thought she wouldn’t do this again. He has thought they finally managed to understand each other. That they were finally respecting each other’s choices. And yet, here she is, begging him to give up who he is. Begging him to betray everything he stands for.

Eärien reminds him that he has seen war already. He has had his share of glory. And Pharazôn offers glory too. He offers risks – but for the right reward. And now that their father has gotten the King and Queen to recognize Isildur and Estrid’s union, should it happen, this means Isildur and Estrid can move to Armenelos any time they want. They do not even need to be husband and wife in any official manner, if this is what they want. Many in Armenelos are being more lax with their relationships. Pharazôn’s reign will offer them freedom on all fronts.

Isildur tosses the letter in the fire. He closes his eyes tight, mercilessly pushing away the tears he feels gathering in their corners.

Eärien loves him. Isildur does not doubt that. All she does is out of love for him. And yet, she does not know him. And yet, she is willing to make him give up his most sacred convictions. 

This is what pains Isildur most. During their youth, Isildur and Eärien have confided in each other more than in the rest of the family. Isildur has told Eärien about thoughts and fears that he has kept hidden from Elendil and even from Anárion. There is only one secret that Eärien does not know – the secret of that dreadful day when their mother drowned. Otherwise, Eärien knows all there is to know about Isildur. And, even so, she still asks him to do something she should know by now is impossible for him. Something that would destroy him. Something that would break him.

“Isil?”

Anárion’s voice has him flinching so violently he nearly topples into the fire himself after the letter. Anárion grabs him around the shoulders, steadying him.

“You were scolding me the other day about letting my guard down.”

Anárion’s voice is warm, as is the hold he has on Isildur. Warm and steady, an anchor for Isildur. He feels the tension melting away from him.

Isildur allows Anárion to turn him around, and he finds himself looking into his brother’s wide, concerned eyes. He tries to smile.

“It is nothing,” he says quickly. “Think nothing of it.”

But Anárion has never given up so easily. Not when Isildur’s wellbeing was at stake. Not even when Isildur told him to.

“What is it?” he asks.

Isildur glances back at the fireplace. There are no traces of Eärien’s letter. Only ash. He shakes his head.

“Nothing, really.”

He does not want to discuss Eärien with Anárion. He has long ago decided to never mention her in front of him, just as he has avoided for a while to bring up Anárion in front of Eärien. 

Isildur does not know exactly when it happened, when Eärien and Anárion’s mostly good-natured ribbing turned into something else, when teasing turned into barbed insults and sullen silences that could last for days. He doesn’t even know who started it first, if it was Eärien or Anárion or both at once. He only knows that, at one point, his two siblings became more like strangers to each other, and Isildur found himself caught in the middle, trying his very best to keep them together. It was only after Anárion’s departure that he began thinking that sometimes what was broken could not be glued back together. No matter how hard he tried.

He shakes his head. He knows he has to give Anárion an answer now, even if he doesn’t mention Eärien’s letter – because he knows what Anárion will have to say about that, and Isildur doesn’t want to hear it. Even though Anárion might actually be right this time.

Isildur places his hands on Anárion’s arms, holding on tight. 

“Promise me one thing,” he says. “Promise you will never ask me to be something I cannot.”

Anárion’s frown of concern deepens. He raises his hands to grasp Isildur’s, even though he does not try to make Isildur let him go.

“Of course not. Of course I wouldn’t. Isil, is this about me leaving Armenelos? Because I thought you wanted to leave, too.”

Isildur shakes his head. That was hard as well, but times were different then.

“No, that…that is in the past. But, Anárion…”

He looks up to meet Anárion’s eyes. It always unnerved Isildur on some level, that Anárion is taller than him, and Isildur actually has to look up at him. But now, it feels different. Now, it feels safe.

“Promise me you will not ask me to change,” he repeats.

Anárion smiles reassuringly.

“Not unless you want to.”

Isildur lets go then, releasing a shaky breath. Anárion eyes him critically.

“What brought this on? This isn’t like you.”

Isildur shakes his head.

“It doesn't matter. It’s over now.”

Elendil calls them from outside, and they both move to answer. Isildur wonders briefly whether he should tell Elendil about Eärien’s letter. He cannot, though. From what Elendil has told them, it seems he and Eärien have reached an understanding of sorts back in Armenelos. Isildur does not want to ruin this for his father. He will keep silent. It doesn’t matter, after all. His answer would have still been no.

                         xxxXXXXxxxx

It is close to evening. Arondir has been in Andúnië for the better part of the day, engaged in various tasks. He has met some of Isildur and Anárion’s network of sailors and ship captains that sneak in close to Pelargir from time to time to help the Southlanders with supplies. He has talked to some of the elders of the city. He has tried his best to assess the situation, so he knows what to tell the High King when he returns. 

Mostly, he has kept his distance from the western shore. He cannot ignore the summons. He cannot pretend it isn’t there. He has never been so close to the Blessed Land before. If Arondir listens carefully, he thinks he can hear a distant song brought on by the wind. There is promise of rest and relief in that song, but Arondir knows that the right decision – the only decision – is for him to turn his back to it. To close his ears to it. 

“It’s not for you,” he tells himself. “Not yet. Not now. Perhaps not ever.” 

He has never expected the last thought to sting so much. He has never been too interested in Valinor. His kind has never looked upon it. He was born in Beleriand. He was an Elf of Middle-earth through and through. And yet…and yet…

And yet there is so much heartbreak in Middle-earth, so much change and so much aging, that it all lies heavily on his shoulders, in ways he has never really thought about until now. Perhaps Middle-earth was never a place for the Firstborn. Perhaps the Valar knew what they were doing when they called the Elves to join them across the water.

Arondir makes his way back to the farm and enters the main room. Only Estrid is there, working at her loom. Arondir stops in his tracks. Estrid looks up. Her face is clear this time. There is no trace of fear or anger on it.

“Isildur is scouting in the forest,” she says. “He always does this at this hour.”

Arondir nods.

“I know,” he says. “I saw him when he left.”

He also knows Isildur intends on searching for the hidden Drúedain and trying to convince them to offer help to the Faithful remaining in Andúnië. Nothing that would put them at risk, but perhaps they could come up with hiding places in the forest that the Kingsmen do not know about, should they be needed.

“Elendil is probably still in the city,” Estrid goes on. 

Arondir nods again.

“With Theo. I know.”

Estrid’s lips twitch.

“Well, then come in all the way and sit yourself down somewhere. There’s only a little light left, and you’re blocking it. I cannot work like this.”

Arondir hesitates, then moves to sit by the hearth. Estrid resumes her work. Arondir watches her, deft hands moving over the threads, a frown of concentration creasing her face. She reminds him of Bronwyn. She used to look like this when she was bent over her healing herbs. He swallows the pang of loneliness.

“I believe I owe you an apology,” he says. “For Pelargir. And the forest.”

Estrid’s head snaps up.

“Did Isildur put you up to this?”

Arondir hesitates.

“I would like to think I would have given you this without his prompting.”

An amused smile is playing on Estrid’s lips.

“Arondir, I was there far longer than Isildur was. He likes to think everyone is deserving of the same treatment. The same second chances. A noble sentiment. Perhaps this is the wisdom of the Númenóreans. The Southlands are different, though. I meant it when I said forgiveness does not come easy for us. I understood your point of view. I did not like it – but I understood it from the start.”

Arondir shakes his head. He remembers Bronwyn standing in front of the gates of Ostirith, telling him that her people were destined to Darkness no matter what they did. That it was who they were.

“I have spent years trying to convince my fellow soldiers that you were not the same people who made a pact with Morgoth.”

Estrid looks away.

“And then we made a pact with Adar.”

“Not all of you did.”

Estrid seems to mull over that thought.

“You know,” she says, “You told me something there at the fountain. Before you revealed who I was. You said: We all do foolish things sometimes. Especially in moments of hopelessness.”

Arondir nods quickly.

“I remember.”

There is a faint melancholic smile playing on Estrid’s lips.

“It wasn’t hopelessness,” she says.

Arondir frowns at the words.

“What do you mean?” he wants to know.

Estrid’s hands finally still and move away from the loom.

“When I was captured, all I could think of was you and that Elven commander who came to our rescue before the Southlands turned to ash,” Estrid confesses, giving a small, sheepish laugh, as if amused by her fancies. “I thought of her coming in with an army of bright Elves to rescue us. Or an army of Sea Folk, all looking grand and dashing on their horses.”

Estrid pauses and shakes her head, as if to dispel her thoughts.

“I didn’t want to die because I had hope, Arondir. I thought if I could only buy myself a little more time, maybe all of this would be over.”

Arondir does not know what to say about this. He has never expected such a confession.

“Hope is never a bad thing,” he says at length. “In fact, many consider it a virtue. And, in your case, you were right to hold on to hope.”

Estrid’s face darkens.

“Yes,” she says flatly. “So we could be rescued by Morgoth’s lieutenant of all people. It seems you were right after all. Now he has a claim on us.”

Arondir fears this, too, and he knows Elendil and Isildur share similar concerns – that Sauron will try to ingratiate himself to the people of the Southlands, reminding them that he has rescued them from slavery. Given the precarious situation with Númenor, it might even work.

“What about you?” Arondir asks. “If Sauron was to come to Númenor…?”

Estrid huffs.

“If he steps foot in Andúnië, I’d slam the door in his face.”

And she would, indeed. Arondir does not doubt it.

“Then you should not think about the past,” he advises her. “And you should look at where you are now.”

Estrid stands up abruptly. She takes several steps then stops in front of Arondir.

“If it is my forgiveness you want,” she says, “I will gladly give it to you. If you want the slate to be wiped clean, then you must do something for me.”

Arondir blinks, slightly taken aback by the words, as he has not expected such a bold request.

Estrid takes his hand. Her hold is firm and unhesitant. Strong in ways Arondir never imagined she could be. He meets her eyes, and they are steady and unflinching. Perhaps Isildur is right, and Arondir has indeed underestimated her.

“Watch over him,” Estrid says. “When you go to war, watch over Isildur. Make sure he comes back home to me.”

As she stands like this, Arondir is reminded of his mother and sister, at his father's departure for the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. They had looked the same way then. Or perhaps it is more than this. Perhaps Estrid seems to him more like a symbol of all those left behind as others go to war.

“I will do my best to keep him safe,” Arondir says.

It is not an easy promise to make. It is not an easy promise to keep. War is unpredictable and cruel, and Estrid very well knows this. But she has not asked for guarantees. Just for Isildur to have an additional chance at survival. And Arondir understands this very well.

                                     xxxXXXXxxxx

Kemen is surprised when his father summons him. He is even more surprised when he discovers Pharazôn is alone. Since the disaster at Nienna’s shrine, Pharazôn has never voluntarily sought out Kemen. Apart from Kemen’s own attempt to stop the wedding from taking place, Pharazôn has never talked to Kemen on his own. Whenever he summoned Kemen to him, Belzagar or Eärien would always be there.

“Father,” he says cautiously.

He notices Pharazôn’s small frown. Kemen knows Pharazôn prefers to be addressed by title, even in private.

“You came,” Pharazôn says, then adds, voice faintly sharp. “You are late.”

Which is true enough. But Kemen is not going to apologize.

“I was packing,” he says. “I assume I would return to Middle-earth on the next ship.”

“You assumed wrong,” Pharazôn informs him.

Kemen blinks.

“Majesty?”

It is too much to hope that Pharazôn has decided he is worth keeping around after all.

“Have I done something wrong? In Middle-earth, I mean?”

Being demoted due to failure is more likely. And Pharazôn looks as if he would like to answer the question with a long list. In the end, however, Pharazôn merely shrugs.

“Lord Herumor will take over Pelargir for a small time. I owe him a small favor.”

“I see.”

This could mean that either Herumor has something on Pharazôn, or he helped gain support for Pharazôn when people were still wondering whether Míriel would not be a much better choice as ruler. Herumor has his eye on things that are more ambitious than a mere settlement of refugees. Like Umbar. This is why Kemen does not understand why Pharazôn has decided on this sudden change.

“In the meantime, what am I supposed to do?”

Pharazôn smiles. Kemen tenses. He knows the smile. It usually comes before one of his father’s carefully-plotted intrigues.

“When the fleet departs to Eriador, you will go to Andúnië. You will supervise a purging of sorts. I want every holy text, every relic, every reminder of the Eldar gathered and burned on a pyre in the center of Andúnië where every Faithful can see it.”

Kemen imagines how that might turn out. If the Faithful were so incensed when he destroyed a single statue, what would they do when all their relics are destroyed?

“Any secret orders you might have for me?” he asks. “Something you do not want my soldiers to know about?”

Pharazôn’s face is tight.

“If you have to punish someone, do it in a manner that doesn’t humiliate you,” he says harshly. “You can do with them whatever you want. But don’t stab anyone in the back this time.”

Kemen looks away.

“I could not allow Valandil to escape that shrine alive,” he says. “He defeated me, yes, but it was about more than humiliation. The Faithful would have rallied around him.”

“They rallied around Elendil and Isildur in the end,” Pharazôn points out. “And they have Valandil as their martyr. They will not have forgotten what you did in that shrine.”

Something in Pharazôn’s tone tells Kemen to pay attention. Anything can be used to their advantage, Pharazôn used to say. This might be one of those times.

“If you’re clever enough,” Pharazôn goes on, “You might ensure that this is an asset instead of a hinderance.”

Kemen smirks, even though he knows Pharazôn does not really enjoy such displays from him.

“Oh, don’t worry, Father,” he says. “I will make sure they remember me.”

Pharazôn gives him a long hard look. Kemen shifts, uncomfortable under that stare. He wonders whether his father has not become more far-sighted, now that he looks regularly into the palantír. Perhaps he is capable of reading men’s thoughts now. Kemen shudders. The last thing he wants is for his father to read his mind.

“You have disappointed me many times,” Pharazôn reminds him. “Make sure this time you do not let me down.”

Kemen digs his nails into his palms.

“I will make sure that I do not.”

He is not even sure why he feels so rotten about Pharazôn’s distrust. He is not Isildur, he tells himself. He does not need his father’s constant approval like a helpless child.

Pharazôn gives a curt nod and makes to leave. On an impulse he knows he will later regret, Kemen stops him.

“Father,” he says, “There is unfinished business between us.”

Pharazôn’s frown could level cities. Kemen gulps.

“Is there?” Pharazôn asks, voice deceptively peaceful.

There is nothing for it. Kemen knows that Pharazôn hates timidity more than he hates audacity.

“You told me once about a prophecy my mother made,” he goes on. “You promised you would tell me about it. You never did.”

Pharazôn is now so close, he is towering over him. Kemen takes a deep breath.

“I did not promise you anything,” Pharazôn says. “I said I would tell you if you impressed me. You haven’t so far.”

Kemen shakes his head.

“Then you might as well admit that you will never tell me. No one impresses you.”

Pharazôn shakes his head.

“How little you know me, my son.”

He turns away from Kemen and remains unmoving, hands behind his back.

“Whatever your mother may or may not have said is irrelevant. There are no prophecies. We make our own ends.”

Kemen clears his throat.

“Still, I would like to know.”

Pharazôn casts him a brief, careless glance over his shoulder.

“Your mother was not well,” he says dismissively. “Her mind was wandering. After all, what kind of mother would say such things about her child?”

Pharazôn walks away, leaving Kemen thoroughly dissatisfied. But, he thinks, this is a regular occurrence when it comes to his father.

Chapter Text

Theo’s name isn’t on the list of soldiers from Andúnië. He knows this means he could stay put. Elendil would probably want him to, if only to have someone on hand if things get bad for the Faithful. And Theo understands this, he does, yet he also thinks he needs to be elsewhere.

“I want to come with you,” he announces bluntly.

He and Elendil are still in Andúnië when he says it. Elendil does a double take, and Theo wonders if he is not being too direct.

“I need to be there.”

Elendil shakes his head.

“Theo, in Númenor you’d still be considered a child.”

Theo frowns.

“Well, I’m not. No more than Isildur is.”

Elendil watches him carefully. It’s a type of look that either makes Theo uncomfortable or makes him feel unspeakably safe. Either way, he does not know how to take it, and it irritates him.

“Are you certain?” Elendil asks.

Theo nods.

“You say that my people need to be warned against Sauron. I agree. That is why I have to face his armies. I have to show my people that he is just as bad as Adar. Perhaps even worse.”

Elendil is looking carefully at him.

“Worse?”

Theo shrugs. Elendil knows a thing or two about the Key and the mark. Not enough to realize how things had stood then, but Theo has dropped a few things.

“Adar thought he had a reason.”

“So does Sauron,” Elendil points out. “This is what makes him dangerous.”

Theo does not really understand this. He does not care for Sauron’s reasons.

“Adar had a reason that was easy to understand.”

Elendil nods thoughtfully.

“I see.”

If there is any judgment in his words, Theo does not hear it, and he already knows that Elendil is not one for subterfuges.

“So, can I come with you?”

A small, amused smile is playing on Elendil’s lips.

“Shouldn’t you be asking this of Arondir?”

Theo stops in his tracks. 

“What are you on about?” he asks, and his voice is much harsher than he intends to, and his words are certainly ruder than they should be considering they’re aimed at the man who’s been kind enough to open his house to him.

Theo can’t help it, though. He’s heard this so often in Tirharad, he’s sick of it. All the snide remarks about him and Bronwyn, about his father leaving – but did he really leave? – and Rowan mocking him that this is why Theo keeps his hair so long, to hide his pointy ears, and Theo knows better than anyone there is absolutely nothing to those rumors.

“I don’t know who you think Arondir is to me, but he isn’t…My father, whoever he was, was human. There’s no elf blood in me.”

Which can’t be said about you, Theo thinks uncharitably, although he knows that, for Elendil, this wouldn’t even be an insult.

Elendil places a hand on his shoulder, steady and kind and understanding, and it makes Theo ashamed of his outburst, not only because Elendil does not deserve it, but also because now Elendil knows more about Theo than Theo ever wanted someone to know.

“I wasn’t talking about blood, son,” Elendil tells him calmly.

Theo blinks.

“What were you talking about, then?”

“I’ve been a ship’s captain, Theo, and have taken many young men under my wing. I was not their father. But they were something to me, and I sometimes would like to believe that I was something to them. You might not be related to Arondir by blood, Theo, but I’ve seen him with you. You are his.”

Theo thinks about what Arondir has told him, that Bronwyn would be proud of him. He thinks of the warmth this caused him. Elendil speaks the truth, he realizes.

“I suppose so,” he says. “But Arondir would say it was up to me.”

At least, Theo thinks so. But Arondir would not have called him Lord of Pelargir only to leave him on the sidelines now.

“Good,” Elendil says. “I am sure no one would object to you coming. But there will be some ground rules.”

Theo can’t help feeling sullen, because he is not one to enjoy being told about ground rules. Elendil must catch the expression on his face. He tightens his hand on Theo’s shoulder, his eyes grave.

“This is about survival, Theo,” he says. “Among other things. I do not know what the chain of command will look like. Belzagar leads the fleet, and, as long as his orders are sound, there is no reason for us not to follow them. In fact, the lives of those in Andúnië might depend on us obeying Belzagar.”

Theo hears the note of unease in Elendil’s voice.

“You think there will be orders we won’t be able to obey,” he guesses.

Elendil hesitates, then nods.

“Belzagar is an opportunist. He might see the war as an opportunity to sacrifice us, to make sure as many Faithful are killed needlessly. But…I fear even worse.”

“What?” Theo asks eagerly.

His heart is pounding, and there is a giddy sense of pride, because Elendil is confiding in him, and this must mean something, mustn’t it?

“If, for example, Belzagar gives us orders to turn against the Eldar…”

Theo shudders.

“He wouldn’t!”

Elendil sighs.

“Probably not directly. But he might put both us and Gil-galad’s army in danger. This is what worries me.”

Theo mulls over the words. It was simpler in the Southlands. Even Waldreg was not really one for subtleties. This kind of game is foreign to him.

“What do we do if this happens?” Theo asks. “You said it yourself – we can’t disobey Belzagar. He has the rest of our people as hostages.”

Our people. Theo says it so easily, he surprises himself. When have the Númenóreans become his anyway? And yet the words feel right. He is something to the people of Andúnië. And they are something to him. And Theo cannot change this. He would never change this.

Elendil does not call him out on his words. He does not even seem to notice them, except Theo knows that Elendil is one to notice everything. 

“We cannot defy Belzagar’s orders openly,” he admits. “But there are other ways in which we can fail to comply. Which is why we need to be careful.”

Theo nods.

“So – the battles…?”

“We are there to fight Sauron’s armies,” Elendil says firmly. “That is our duty. Beyond that, Belzagar cannot ask us for anything else.”

It is a risky game that Elendil is playing, and his opponent’s dishonesty might stand against them all. 

“We can manage,” Theo says. “Can’t we?”

Elendil casts him a sharp look, and Theo is afraid that he sounds too helpless, too afraid, more like a child than the soldier he is trying to be. Still, Elendil takes him by the shoulder and steers him towards home.

“We can try,” he says. “We can do our best.”

                    XXXxxxxXXXX

Since the summons to war has come, Isildur has been trying to be in all places at once. He is in Andúnië, overseeing secret preparations to help the people hide their relics and their sacred texts. He sneaks into the forests to see whether the signs he has left for the Drúedain have been found. He oversees the training of some of the recruits, offering them advice and instructions. 

The others work just as hard, yet Isildur does not stop at all, sometimes missing family meals and retiring for sleep only for a few hours, to rise again before the sun is up. They do not have long. They have been informed they would travel to Armenelos in a week and from then on sail to Middle-earth. And Isildur feels that there is much to be done until then.

It is afternoon, and Isildur is about to go to the docks for a secret meeting with the sailors that usually supply the Southlanders. Estrid plants herself in front of him.

“Anárion said he would be doing this,” she reminds him.

“And I am going with him,” Isildur says.

Estrid raises her eyebrows.

“Why?” she challenges. “Anárion can handle this fine on his own. He’s been handling such things on his own when you were away, and he’s going to have to handle them also when you leave.”

Isildur clenches his fists.

“What do you want, Estrid?”

Perhaps he sounds a little too churlish. But, if Estrid wants him to stop, he cannot have it. He cannot stop. The restlessness in him is welling up and choking him. He could try to explain to Estrid, but he does not think he has the words to explain it even to himself.

Estrid does not seem taken aback at all by his anger. She still stands in front of Isildur, hands on her hips, staring him down.

“You need to stop,” she says. “You need to rest.”

Isildur shakes his head frantically, panic clogging at his throat.

“Estrid, I cannot stop. I am leaving you alone, and everything needs to be…I need to know that you are safe.”

Estrid nods quickly.

“I know,” she says patiently. “But you are not alone, Isildur. Or do you distrust your father and brother? Or me?”

Isildur’s eyes widen.

“What? Of course not! Who told you that?”

“Then why do you insist on doing everything on your own?” Estrid inquires, her tone steady and patient.

Isildur looks away.

“It feels like it’s on me. I have to make sure that everything…I have to think of everything.”

Estrid takes his hand.

“Isildur, you’re not one of the Valar. You cannot think of everything. Have some humility.”

Isildur opens his mouth to retaliate, but no words come out.

“What do you want?” he asks again, on a different tone.

Estrid’s smile is soft. Like tree blossoms. Like sunshine after a storm.

“Walk with me. You are going to war soon. I wish to spend time with you. So I can remember you when you are gone.”

Isildur breathes shakily. He has been so busy trying to make sure that the people left behind in Andúnië have the best chances of survival, that Estrid is given every chance possible to be safe, that he has forgotten that there are other ways to help her. That being by her side before he leaves might be just as important, if not more.

“Is this us saying farewell to each other?” Isildur asks. “Because I do not think I can do that, either.”

Estrid takes his hand in both of hers.

“No. We will walk in the gardens. We will sit somewhere in the shade. We will forget the war and Pharazôn’s orders and our separation.”

She must notice the panic on Isildur’s face. She probably understands how difficult it is for him to just let go. Her hands tighten around his.

“For a little while,” she says. “Yes?”

Isildur nods, throat tight.

“For a little while,” he agrees.

Estrid’s eyes are warm and bright.

“For a little while,” she echoes.

And Isildur is certain now he can give her that. He’d give her anything she wants.

                                          xxxXXXXxxxx

They walk through the gardens hand in hand. The land is peaceful. The familiar sights jolt something in Isildur. This is home, he thinks. No matter what happens or who tries to take it from him, no matter what Pharazôn and Belzagar do or where they try to send him, this is Isildur’s home. Nothing is going to change this.

They finally sit down in the shade of a tall apple tree. Isildur smiles.

“I rescued this tree,” he says. “Have I told you?”

Estrid shakes her head.

“Rescued how?”

Isildur closes his eyes, remembering.

“I was fifteen. We had already moved to Armenelos a couple of years before, but we still came here. My grandfather – Amandil, not Voronwë, he was alive back then. He…he understood me so well at times, Estrid.”

She squeezes his hand.

“I am sure he was a good man. Did he help you save the tree?”

Isildur smiles.

“In a way. He allowed me to do it. I found the tree struck with the blight during one of my visits. I told grandfather I wanted to try saving it instead of cutting it down. I told him I wanted to show that even when something is broken, we can work at putting it back together.”

Isildur does not add that he had meant more than the tree. That he had meant the cracks in Númenórean society. That he had thought of his teetering family. He does not even add that he knows now he was naïve to think that everything could be fixed just like that.

“I worked hard,” he remembers. "I worked until I had to return to Armenelos. Then in autumn, grandfather sent us apples from this tree.”

Estrid reaches back and strokes the bark of the tree. 

“We shall have to make sure it continues to stand,” she says. “For as long as Númenor stands.”

Isildur shivers. Númenor is meant to stand forever. Yet what if it isn’t?

Still, this is not for today. This is not for their time together. Isildur has already promised he would forget the wars and the threats for just a little while.

“Just like Nimloth,” he says.

The flutter of unease beats against his chest, because he remembers the vision in the palantír. He ignores it. It is not time yet, anyway. After all, Míriel had told Elendil that Nimloth was as it had always been. Which means that it hasn’t borne any fruit yet.

They fall silent after that. Isildur leans his head against Estrid’s shoulder, and her hand is in his hair, and he closes his eyes and drowns in the closeness of her. He listens to her breaths and tries to match his own to hers. He thinks he loses time as he sits there, he thinks she does too, and there is nothing in his mind except for Estrid.

Isildur has never been one for idleness. He enjoys a few quiet moments from time to time, but usually he gets restless quickly, feeling guilt and anxiety churn inside him if he sits around doing nothing. He needs to move, he needs to think, to plan, to coordinate. Sitting like this for so long is not him.

And yet, he finds himself welcoming the peace that falls on him. He finds himself relieved that there are no thoughts in his mind, no worries, no fears. There is only him and Estrid, and he doesn’t think he has ever felt anything like this before.

“If I could halt time, I would,” he says. “I know it is a worrisome thing to say. Time must move for us all. It is the way of things.”

“It is,” Estrid agrees.

Isildur sighs.

“And yet, if I could have this…us…if I could halt time to have this forever, I think I’d be tempted.”

He feels her smile.

“You’d probably get bored,” she says lightly.

He shakes his head.

“Not this time. Not with you.”

Isildur wants to talk about the peace that he feels when he is with her, about how his mind and soul are both quiet for once. He wants to ask her if she feels it too, only he does not know how to put it into words. He settles against her instead, allowing her cold fingers to stroke his forehead. 

After a while, he stirs again. He looks up and meets Estrid’s gaze. He notices her rather rueful smile.

“Time to go back to the house,” she says. “Yes?”

He nods, reluctantly.

“I think we should,” he admits.

Estrid smiles and gets up, pulling him up as well.

“This was good for you,” she says. “Wasn’t it?”

“My mind is quiet now,” Isildur admits. “Thank you.”

He is not sure that his clumsy words can accurately depict what happened to him. But, judging from Estrid’s smile, he might have succeeded, if only a little.

                                     xxxXXXXxxxx

They walk back still hand in hand. They are within sight of the house when Estrid stops and turns to face him. Her eyes are grave.

“What is it?” Isildur asks.

“When you return from the war, I want us to have our marriage ceremony as soon as possible.”

Isildur blinks. Their initial understanding had been to wait a few years. It is the custom in Númenor, and anyway, Isildur is aware of Estrid’s precarious position in Númenor. He wants to give her a chance to establish a life here that she could continue with or without him. He wants to be sure that Estrid will not feel pressed to marry him because she thinks she has no other choice.

“Estrid,” he begins. “I…do you think this is wise?”

Estrid smiles slightly. There is understanding in her smile, but there is also a hint of impatience that Isildur cannot miss.

“I know what you would say to me. That this is something that should not be rushed. That we still know each other too little. What if we change our mind? But…Isildur – do you think you will?”

Isildur finds himself shaking his head before Estrid has even finished her question.

“What? No! Estrid, I don’t think there’s ever been…I don’t think my heart has called me to someone the way it calls me to you.”

He recalls the granddaughter of the archivist from Andúnië. Yet it was not the same. He had been so young back then, and he had thought he had known how to love. At one point, Isildur has indeed dreamed of marrying the archivist’s granddaughter, and he is certain she had dreamed it too. 

Not that it matters. Eärien had all but scared her off. She had told Isildur afterwards that the girl had romantic fancies about marrying a sailor, but she wouldn’t have known how to take someone like Isildur. Which had angered Isildur to no end at the time, so much so that he had made Eärien swear she would never interfere in his life like that. Eärien had agreed, but only on the condition that Isildur promised the same.

Now Isildur has to admit that Eärien was probably right. The archivist’s granddaughter wouldn’t have been able to truly know him. But Estrid can. Estrid does. 

“So, you do not think that you would change your mind about me,” Estrid says. “Are you afraid that I might change my mind about you? Is this because of Hagen?”

Isildur draws back.

“No! Of course not! And it’s not even that I think you might change your mind. It is only that I want to give you the choice to do so.”

Estrid lowers her eyes.

“You are very generous, Isildur. But no. I already know I will not change my mind.”

She looks up and there is something in her eyes, something keen and sharp and wise. Isildur holds his breath.

“My grandmother had this saying,” Estrid tells him. “That the heart always knows. And I think my heart always knew Hagen might not be right for me – even though he was kind and settled and a good prospect. But it knew immediately with you, Isildur. And it’s not even about love, although, of course, love is a part of this. It is about… I feel it in my bones, Isildur. In my blood. That this is right. That you and I – that we are right.”

She reaches out and places her warm hand on the side of his face and looks into his eyes. Isildur feels as if he is trying to uncover the most secret corners of his soul. He is slightly alarmed to discover that he does not really mind.

“You feel the same,” Estrid says. “I know it.”

And Isildur would not be able to deny it even if he wanted to – because Estrid knows, doesn’t she? 

“I…yes. I think I do.”

Their meeting did not make time halt around them like that of Thingol and Melian. It did not herald the changing of the world like in the story of Beren and Lúthien. And yet, there has to have been something at work. A fate of some kind. A current that Isildur has no desire to fight against. 

Estrid brings him closer to her until their foreheads touch.

“You will talk to your father then? About us not waiting? About us having the ceremony after you return?”

After you return. When you return. Isildur notices that Estrid does not say once if you return. As if she cannot conceive of Isildur not returning. And it is this faith in him that Isildur wishes to acknowledge.

“I will,” he says. “You are right. With the times as they are – waiting would not be practical.”

                           xxxxxXXXXXXxxxx

Eärien is in one of the palace hallway, inspecting a colonnade. She has delivered some of her sketches to the head of the Builders’ Guild – a proposal for a more solid wall around Armenelos. Pharazôn requested this of her. Eärien suspects he worries that the Faithful might consider attacking the city. Eärien wishes to tell him he need not fear this. Elendil might have many faults, and some of them Eärien is willing to point out herself. But he would never sacrifice Númenórean lives in such a manner. He would never consider a civil war.

Her hand hovers above the colonnade. She has always been fascinated by the designs of others. The palace is old, almost as old as Númenor itself, and this must be the work of the earliest of architects. She can spot the motif of the sun on it, but also that of the ever swirling sea-waves. Her own works are full of the sun, but they turn away from the sea waves. The sea waves are for the Faithful, Eärien thinks. And she is not Faithful. Perhaps she has never been.

“I was looking for you.”

Pharazôn’s voice is calm, as always. Eärien does not think she has ever seen Pharazôn get angry, although Kemen had once told her he could be frightening when he lost his temper. She’s often wondered if Kemen wasn’t exaggerating. After all, she always thought Kemen loved to play the victim.

Eärien curtsies.

“Majesty,” she greets. “I was not aware you wanted to see me. I would have come to you.”

She inspects Pharazôn’s features, trying to determine his mood. Has she done something to displease him? Suddenly, she knows.

“If this is about the letter, I thought…well, there were other letters sent, weren’t there?”

Pharazôn’s smile is tight.

“Of course. In truth, I expected you to send one, Eärien. Just as I anticipated that it would be unanswered.”

Eärien feels her face heat up.

“We do not know yet if it is unanswered,” she says. “There is still time.”

And yet, she knows. She knew even when she was writing the letter. A part of her had been convinced Isildur would say no – if he said anything at all.

Pharazôn’s smile has something indulgent in it. Something that almost feels as if he understands her. This is what draws Eärien to Pharazôn. That he always seems to understand her. To care.

“My eldest brother is the reasonable one in the family,” she says. “He might surprise us yet.”

Pharazôn quirks an eyebrow.

“And here I was thinking you were the reasonable one.”

Eärien pushes back the warmth his words always bring her.

“I do not wish to give up on him so quickly,” she confesses.

“Understandable,” Pharazôn says. “In some way. But, Eärien, the day will come when you will have to make a choice.”

Eärien thinks of Andúnië and all the doors that are barred to her there.

“Strange,” she comments. “I thought I already did.”

She turns away and looks at the palace corridor. It leads to a flight of stairs and a door that is always locked. Pharazôn follows her gaze.

“Do you know what used to be up there?”

Eärien shakes her head. Her heart is pounding for some reason, and she wishes she could tell that she doesn’t want to know. That she doesn’t need to know.

Yet Pharazôn never asks questions without a reason, and Eärien now wonders if he has really stumbled into her by chance, or if he was always waiting to catch her in this corridor.

“Those were my first quarters at the palace,” Pharazôn says. “I lived here with my first wife. Before my son was born.”

Eärien suppresses a shiver.

“Your first wife,” she repeats, and the words sound strange to her because the Númenóreans marry only once. “She was from Andúnië. Wasn’t she?”

A dark look crosses Pharazôn’s face, but he nods.

“She came from a Faithful family,” he confirms. “She had Faithful notions herself. I might as well tell you. Quite a few in the palace court know. And your father knew her.”

It shouldn’t be surprising if she was from Andúnië, and yet Eärien still tenses.

“He did?”

Pharazôn nods again.

“They were probably childhood playmates, even though she was slightly younger than him – and much younger than me. It scandalized the Faithful. Your grandfather – Amandil, I mean – never quite forgave me for the marriage. Especially after Lothíriel’s death.”

Eärien’s heart is pounding. She can hardly believe Pharazôn is giving her so much information. She has heard rumors, of course, in Andúnië, but she has always wanted to hear Pharazôn’s side of things. She had always believed there was more to the story than what the Faithful were trying to make of it.

“Yes, I heard that you and my grandfather were friends,” she comments tentatively. “I always found it hard to believe, really.”

Pharazôn chuckles.

“I imagine Amandil never had good things to say about me.”

Eärien hesitates. To be fair, Amandil never badmouthed Pharazôn in front of her or her siblings. But Isildur would often find creative ways to listen in on the conversation of his elders - claiming that he was doing it for a good cause, because he needed to know everything so he could be better prepared to help and even protect his younger siblings. Through him, Eärien discovered that Amandil would often complain about Pharazôn to Elendil – his policies, his suggestions, his practices. Amandil had always acted as if Pharazôn was Númenor’s greatest enemy, who was not supposed to be given any kind of authority at all. Even then, in her youth, Eärien had asked herself whether this assessment was really fair, or if it only showed that her grandfather could not let go of whatever personal grudges he had against Pharazôn.

“Grandfather never really spoke treasonous words,” Eärien finds herself saying. “But it certainly did not sound as if he thought of you as a friend, majesty.”

Pharazôn laughs, not really sounding surprised.

“Amandil and I were great friends in your youth,” he confesses. “Even then, we disagreed, but back then, it did not matter. Our arguments kept us sharp. I argued for a progressive Númenor, he argued for the Faithful, and neither of us wanted to give in to the other.”

Eärien thinks that, at one point, it was the same with her and Anárion. The two shared opposing viewpoints about almost everything. There had been a time when they had enjoyed provoking each other about those viewpoints. It felt as if they were both keeping their minds sharp, keeping their wits about. But gradually, it all changed. Opposing viewpoints became unforgivable sins. Anárion became a stranger, and Eärien is certain this is how he sees her also. She does not really care. Or so she tells herself.

“When I became chancellor, and I started to have influence over what was happening in Númenor, your grandfather and I often clashed. The clashes made maintaining a friendship difficult. Then I started courting Lothiriel.”

From what Eärien has heard, it was not much of a courtship. Pharazôn had spoken to Lothiriel’s parents, had pressed and threatened and cajoled. Lothiriel’s parents were adamant that they would not sell their daughter, not for anything. But something must have convinced them. Pharazôn must have pressed them harder than he is hinting to Eärien.

“Lothiriel was never happy in Armenelos,” Pharazôn goes on. “She called the city too crowded, too stuffy, too formal. I am a kind and understanding man, as you well know, Eärien. I tried to see the matter from her point of view. I allowed her many indulgences. I even turned a blind eye to her insisting on attending Faithful ceremonies in the Shrine of Armenelos. Even though it looked unbecoming for the wife of someone in my position to be attending such ceremonies, especially without her husband.”

Eärien listens, fascinated. She does not want to admit it, but she has always hoped she would know more about Pharazôn. She thinks she understands him, but she still wished she would be given more. And now, this is exactly what is happening. 

“What happened?” she dares to ask.

She knows what happened, at least she knows the rumors. Yet Pharazôn has lived it. Pharazôn can tell her the truth.

“In the end, I sent her to one of my houses close to the Meneltarma,” Pharazôn says. “I thought the vineyards, the open space, it would make her feel better. It would give her solace. And she was carrying my son. I thought a child might give her happiness – and a purpose. That is how it usually goes, isn’t it?”

Eärien shrugs.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Pharazôn chuckles, shaking his head.

“Of course. You are different. You have ambition and a vision. This keeps one on the right course.”

Unbidden, Eärien thinks that the Faithful also have ambition and a vision, at least if they are to go by Elendil and Isildur. And maybe Lothiriel had them too, only they were different from Pharazôn’s. She quashes the thought, annoyed that it came to her in the first place. 

Pharazôn looks thoughtful now, his eyes turned inwards.

“In her final years, I think her mind was wandering. Her death was a relief, really.”

Eärien swallows. Elendil rarely talked about her mother, but she is sure he would have never described her death in such a manner.

If this is so, then which of them is more worthy of your loyalty?

Eärien drives away the thoughts, just as she drives away any doubt that comes into her mind about Pharazôn and the cause he is following.

Pharazôn’s eyes are fixed on her. Eärien shudders, suddenly uneasy, suddenly afraid that he might guess what is in her mind. 

“Sometimes, sacrifices need to be made, Eärien,” he says. “I do not think Lothiriel ever understood this.”

Eärien nods.

"I understand."

What is he sacrificing?

Elendil planted this question into her mind right before the wedding, and Eärien would like to hate him for it.

“You will accompany my son to Andúnië,” Pharazôn announces unexpectedly. “I do not trust him to fulfil his task without making some disastrous mistake.

Eärien swallows, legs suddenly weak.

“Majesty?...”

Pharazôn pretends not to notice how affected she is.

“You speak the people’s language,” he points out. “In more ways than one.”

“They know I betrayed them many times,” Eärien whispers. “They won’t just…accept me.”

Pharazôn shakes his head. 

“They do not have to accept you, Eärien. They have to fear you.”

Eärien searches for something else that would convince Pharazôn not to do this to her. but she knows that, once Pharazôn has made up his mind about something, his decision is law. Eärien has no choice but to obey. Refusing the errand might diminish Pharazôn’s trust in her. And she has worked so hard to get where she is.

Besides, she argues with herself, it’s not as if Isildur and Elendil will be there. Only Anárion and Voronwë. And Estrid.

Eärien breathes deeply. She is never one to walk away from an opportunity. Anárion and Voronwë are lost to her. But perhaps Estrid is reasonable. Perhaps she could talk to her. Convince her that, if Isildur comes back from the wars, he should be persuaded to give up the Faithful.

After all, Eärien reasons, Isildur has always placed a great importance on family. And now he is building one of his own. Surely, if Estrid is made to believe that Armenelos and the Kingsmen would be a better option for Isildur – well, perhaps he will not say no, will he?

                              xxxxXXXXXxxxx

The army rides out of Andúnië towards Armenelos early in the morning. Elendil leads, with Isildur and Arondir by his side. Elendil has said his farewells to Anárion, officially entrusting the stewardship of Andúnië to him while he and Isildur are gone. Anárion has accepted head held high, shoulders straight. Dignified and brave, and Elendil is immensely proud of him. He still hopes he will seek out Voronwë or Estrid while he is alone and share his troubles with them.

Since his abrupt departure to Andúnië, Anárion has been facing many hardships on his own. The estrangement from his family, Isildur’s death, rumors of his father’s arrest. Elendil’s arrival and, later, Isildur’s, have given Anárion the opportunity to lean on others again for a change. Yet Anárion is stubborn, and he does not enjoy burdening others with his troubles. And Elendil worries about him. He worries about how his youngest son will cope while they are gone.

The army is flanked by Pharazôn’s guards. Elendil thinks that his people outnumber the guards, and maybe, if they move quickly, while they are still in the woods, they could overpower Pharazôn’s people.

Elendil gives an annoyed shake of his head. And then what? They will still be in a precarious position. Their only option would be to retreat to Andúnië and Pharazôn would send more soldiers after them as soon as he got wind of what had happened. They would start a civil war, and Elendil cannot have this.

Besides, Arondir’s message from the High King binds them to this quest. Elendil knows Sauron is a problem, perhaps even greater than Pharazôn. This war has to happen. And they have to be involved in it.

Still, it is hard for Elendil to convince himself that they are doing the right thing when the choice is not theirs. It is hard to find any honor in their task, when he knows he and his people are being used, that Pharazôn is sending them to die in Middle-earth. That Pharazôn is expecting – and fervently hoping – that Elendil and his people will not return.

Chapter Text

Elendil discovers that there are several ships sailing to Middle-earth, and he is given captaincy of one. It is the flagship, which means it will also be carrying Belzagar. This is a way of keeping him in line. And yet, he thinks that Míriel might have had something to do with placing him in a position that could be considered one of command. At least, it means that he can consider himself in charge of those on his ship even when he is on the battlefield. And this will give him something to work with.

For now, it also means that he is in charge of loading supplies and horses on the ships and making sure everything is in order. Just like the last time. Elendil shakes his head. Even the weather is the same, sunny and bright. Deceptively bright, he thinks now. He knows how easily it can turn against him. How a day of hope can turn into a day of wrath.

Shaking his head to dispel the memories of last time, he goes to seek out Isildur. The sooner they get the job of loading supplies on the ships, the better.

                            xxxxxXXXXXXxxxx

Isildur is standing on the docks. He finds himself in the place where he had that disastrous conversation with his father the last time. When he had tried to convince Elendil that he could make Númenor proud. That he could make Elendil proud.

I want to serve.

Nothing would make me prouder. But you had your chance. And you made your choice.

The words echo in Isildur’s mind, and he remembers the helplessness welling up inside him, the urge to go after his father and tell him everything that had been bothering him all those years, the fear that he was being abandoned by the one person who had always been by his side, the anger that he had finally done it, he had driven everyone away from him, and maybe it was better this way.

Isildur breathes deeply, trying to remind himself that this is in the past. And, anyway, Elendil never really abandoned him. He was by Isildur’s side as soon as he thought Isildur might have need of him. And that meant something. That had to mean something.

You had your chance. You made your choice.

Why can’t he put those words out of his mind, then?

“Isildur?”

Isildur nearly jumps at the sound of his father’s voice. He turns and meets Elendil’s gaze. He knows that look in his father’s eyes. Steady and comforting, with a veil of concern that can barely be discerned.

He shakes his head and tries to smile.

“I was just…I was…well, I was being idle, and I shouldn’t have been, so if you have any orders for me, Captain, I’ll gladly take them.”

Elendil’s eyes move briefly to a spot behind Isildur.

“There are a few matters that I would like you to help me with, yes.”

Isildur releases a strained breath.

“Of course.”

He is relieved that Elendil does not look about to call him out on his uncharacteristic behavior, but he should have known better. He should have also expected Elendil to know exactly what he is thinking.

“You know, I regretted those words,” Elendil confesses.

Isildur tenses.

“What?” he asks hoarsely.

Elendil shakes his head, his eyes taking on a faraway look.

“I was haunted by those words for days on end,” he goes on. “During those months when you were… I kept thinking – what if you remembered those words back there, in the hut?”

And Isildur would give anything to erase that thought from his father’s mind, he would give anything to reverse time and make it out of that hut together with Míriel and Valandil and return to his father.

He grasps Elendil’s arms.

“Father, no. Do not think like this…”

He stops, because Elendil has thought like this. He was tormented by such thoughts when he believed Isildur was dead and there was nothing to be done to mend the cracks between them.

Isildur could remind Elendil that it is over, that he is alive, and he is back, and anything that might still be wrong between them, they can work together to solve. But this does not matter. Because Elendil has still lived through those days when he thought Isildur gone, with the words he thinks have done damage to Isildur echoing in his mind.

“What you said,” Isildur begins, “You had every right to say it.”

Elendil wrenches himself free.

“How can you think that?”

“Because I had done wrong,” Isildur replies steadily. “Because I was moving through life without caring that my decisions had consequences for others. Because I needed to be made aware that I could not just expect things to be handed over to me. That I needed to earn them.”

He takes a deep breath, preparing to go on.

“You and I both know you’d given me plenty of chances before. I squandered every one of them.”

“Isildur…”

He shakes his head quickly, putting a stop to Elendil’s protests.

“And just so you know, the last thing I remember when the roof fell, it was indeed about you, but it wasn’t what you said to me here on the docks.”

He feels Elendil tense.

“What was it then?”

Isildur smiles. How could he explain to his father that this memory has sustained him through some of his darkest moments, that even when he had borne Elendil a grudge for abandoning him in Middle-earth, it was this memory that had told Isildur not to give up on his father so easily?

“The only thing I could remember was you and I outside Tirharad. With Berek. How you reached out to me. How you…it felt like old times. And in that hut, all I could think of was that we bridged the distance that was between us. And I was content. I was more than content.”

He hears Elendil breathe shakily and pulls him forward until their foreheads touch.

“I thought – if I was to be given nothing else in my life, if it all ended there, then at least I had one last moment with you. And that was enough.”

Isildur lets go, sooner than he’d like, because they are on the docks, in full view of everyone, and he knows his father is a private man who does not want his vulnerabilities aired out in public.

“So whatever memory we might have of what happened on the docks that day, I think we can both put it behind us,” Isildur suggests. “Yes?”

Elendil hesitates, because he is one who feels the need to hold on to guilt, real or imagined.

“You did not drive me away that day on the docks,” Isildur adds. “Nothing you say or do would ever drive me away from you.”

Elendil shakes his head and clutches Isildur’s shoulder hard.

“Good. I…it is good to know, Isildur.”

Isildur feels himself brightening.

“So, what else can I help you with?”

Elendil grins and claps him on the back.

“We’ll be loading the oil barrels now. Try not to set them on fire this time.”

This surprises a laugh out of Isildur.

“What? I didn’t…. I was trying to get Kemen to hand me that lamp.”

“Well, next time, might I suggest exploring better solutions than wrestling with someone holding an open flame on a wooden ship covered in oil?” Elendil puts in mildly.

Isildur snorts.

“I’ll make sure to keep that in mind. For the next time.”

Despite everything, his heart is lighter than he thought it could ever be under the circumstances.

                             xxxXXXXxxxx

“I wish to make you my Lieutenant.”

Elendil has been watching Isildur pouring over the supply list for a while. When Elendil says the words, Isildur freezes, hands clenched around the parchment.

“What did you say?”

He looks up at Elendil, eyes wide, lips trembling.

“I want you to be my Lieutenant,” Elendil repeats patiently.

Isildur drops his gaze.

“But…I did not even make it out of the Sea Guard,” he protests.

Isildur has come a long way, from complaining that Númenor favored uniform over skill to refusing something because he does not think he has earned it. Yet Elendil is sure that he has.

“I think we can consider the expedition in the Southlands your Sea Trial. Your conduct then was beyond reproach.”

Isildur shakes his head.

“I got myself trapped in a burning house.”

Elendil frowns.

“You nearly gave your life in service to the Queen. Making sure others got out alive. And you used every resource available to return to Númenor.”

Isildur scoffs.

“I couldn’t have done it without Berek. Or without Arondir. Ask him how many times he had to rescue me.”

“I did talk to him,” Elendil says. “And I think your objections have nothing to do with what happened in the Southlands – or even with you not finishing the Sea Trials. Have they?”

Isildur flinches, and Elendil is half-tempted to turn away and let him be, but he cannot. Isildur is about to become a great leader. He has it in him, if only he could see it for himself. And Elendil has guided him so far, but it is time for him to make the final push.

“It is about Valandil,” Elendil says. “Isn’t it?”

Isildur gasps, and Elendil sees how tempted he is to deny it. In the end, he only shrugs.

“Valandil was your Lieutenant.”

Elendil shakes his head.

“Valandil is not here, son,” he says gently.

Anger flashes in Isildur’s eyes.

“Don’t you think I know that?” he hisses. “He’s not, and I know you need a Lieutenant, but it feels disrespectful to Valandil’s memory for that person to be me.”

“I actually think he would want no one but you in his place,” Elendil says.

Isildur laughs.

“He would have a long list of people he’d think are better suited than me. I think Tamar and his drunkard friends might be on that list as well.”

Elendil knows that Valandil was at times tough on Isildur – with good reason. But he also knows how Valandil was when he returned from the expedition and had found himself mourning someone he’d loved as a brother.

“I listened to him talk about you in the time we thought you gone,” Elendil says firmly. “Enough to know that you are wrong.”

He might not have wanted to talk about Isildur himself, but he was certainly ready to listen to others talk about him. Valandil understood this well enough. Eärien didn’t seem to. But perhaps he should have explained it better to her.

“Valandil saw your worth,” Elendil stresses. “He saw it up to that moment you stepped together with him and the Queen inside that burning hut.”

Isildur swallows.

“I…don’t know what to say…”

Elendil places a steadying hand on his shoulder. He has said his piece as Isildur’s captain, but now he can be Isildur's father. Because Isildur is grieving for his friend, just as Valandil had been grieving for Isildur, and Elendil knows nothing can really end this grief. But he can encourage Isildur to make it a part of himself in a way that doesn’t harm him.

“Valandil was a great man,” he says. “Accept his position. This isn’t you replacing him, Isil. This is you honoring his memory.”

Isildur looks at him, eyes wide, in a rare show of vulnerability he would not allow in front of many others.

“You…do you really think so?”

Elendil shakes him slightly.

“Have I ever lied to you, Isil?’ he chides gently.

Isildur releases a shaky breath.

“No. No, of course not.”

“Then – will you accept? I want you by my side, Isildur. I do not think I want anyone else but you in that spot.”

Elendil is slightly ashamed to admit it, but before leaving for the expedition, he always found himself regretting it wasn’t Isildur who had won the wager to be his Lieutenant. He knew it was unfair to Valandil, and he was immensely proud of Valandil, but a part of him still wished the position had been given to Isildur, even though he also thought that Isildur had made his bed and fully deserved to lie in it now and suffer the consequences of his decisions.

Isildur’s eyes are bright, and he nods fervently, and Elendil realizes with a pang that Isildur has been longing for this just as dearly.

“Yes,” Isildur says breathlessly. “Yes, I will…I will make you proud. I will make you both proud.”

You make me proud every single day, my son, Elendil thinks.

“Come then, Lieutenant,” he says. “There is work to be done.”

And despite their predicament, despite Elendil’s fear of what Belzagar will do to them in Middle-earth and how Anárion and those behind will be faring during their absence, Elendil can take this moment to enjoy the brightness on Isildur’s face, the sense of something that was always meant to happen, the image of the two of them fighting side by side.

                       xxxxxXXXXXXxxxx

At dusk, Isildur notices one of the guards approaching them. So far, the guards had made their presence known from time to time, harassing the Faithful crew. Elendil has had to intervene on several of these instances. The last time, he went to have a long talk with Lord Belzagar. Isildur does not know what Elendil has told him, but it seemed to have had some effect. The guards do not bother them after that.

This new guard doesn’t seem to particularly want to bother them, either.

“Chancellor Eärien wishes to speak to you,” he announces.

Isildur tenses. Elendil’s face clears.

“By all means,” Elendil says.

Isildur keeps silent.

Eärien approaches them, and the guard leaves. She looks out of place on the docks, Isildur thinks, which is a strange notion as Eärien has grown up close to the sea, just like him.

Elendil rushes to embrace her, and Eärien accepts readily. Isildur longs to do the same. And yet, he cannot make his legs move towards her.

“If this is about another letter, I do not want to hear it,” Isildur finds himself saying.

He senses Elendil’s eyes on him, and he remembers belatedly that Elendil does not know about Eärien’s letter.

Eärien lowers her eyes. There is a faint red flush on her cheeks. Shame. Or anger. Isildur does not know. He realizes with a pang that he cannot read her anymore. Not as he used to do before.

“I was hoping you would come to your senses,” she says. “I would have sent a letter to father as well, but I already know he wouldn’t have listened to me. He’s shown me plenty of times he would rather die than listen to me.”

Isildur clenches his fists, because she cannot have her talking about Elendil like this, especially not when Elendil is there to witness it.

“Wrong,” he says through gritted teeth. “He would rather die than listen to Pharazôn. Which, I must remind you, so would I.”

Eärien flinches at this, and maybe Isildur regrets it, maybe he wishes to unsay it, but deep down he knows he does not wish it enough. Not after the letter.

Arondir approaches them and asks for Elendil's assistance with a conflict between one of the soldiers and the guards. Elendil nods and follows him, not before taking Eärien’s hand in his and pressing it to his chest.

“Take care,” he says. “The Valar keep you well.”

Eärien nods, but she does not look her father in the eye.

“Be careful out there.”

Elendil leaves, even though Isildur would like to ask him to stay, but Elendil has duties he cannot shirk from. Arondir follows. Eärien turns to glare after him. No doubt, she blames him for Elendil and Isildur being sent to war more than she blames Pharazôn.

“Arondir saved my life,” Isildur announces sharply. “Several times over. I would not be here, if it hadn’t been for him.”

Eärien does not look mollified.

“You wouldn’t have needed saving if it hadn’t been for another of his kind,” she retorts. “And for father.”

But he had needed saving. From himself. From his dark thoughts. From a guilt that drowned him more and more as the years passed.

“I became something else in the Southlands, Eärien. I do not regret going there.”

Eärien rolls her eyes.

“Clearly. And you probably don’t regret leaving now.”

“I regret the circumstances,” Isildur says pointedly.

Eärien bites her lips.

“You did not tell father about my letter,” she says.

“He has enough on his mind. And you two…he seemed to have reached an understanding with you on his last visit.”

Eärien turns around.

“I really wished you no ill will with that letter. I want you safe, Isildur.”

“And all I have to do is swear an oath of allegiance to Pharazôn, burn texts and relics that our mother revered as sacred, and report on my own father and brother.”

Isildur knows his words are harsh, but he cannot keep them inside them anymore.

Eärien turns to him.

“Is there nothing I can do to convince you?”

Her eyes are wide, and Isildur recalls her childhood days, when she would come to him and beg him to stay with her one evening instead of going on some adventure with his friends, or to take her to the play put forward by the Kingsmen’s artists instead of that of the Faithful…and Isildur would give in every time. But now…he cannot give in now.

“So,” she says, “This is how we part.”

Isildur shakes his head.

“Not for good. I intend to return.”

Whatever Belzagar might be planning for us, I will be returning.

Eärien takes his hand. He does not try to pull back.

“This is how we part,” she repeats.

Her voice is steady, and Isildur is sharply reminded that Eärien has already mourned him once. She knows what to expect.

“I…” he begins but stops and swallows, suddenly at a loss.

What can he say? I understand you? But he doesn’t. I’m not upset? But he is. I forgive you? But does he, really?

Isildur cannot tell her what would make her feel better. He cannot give her lies. It would be the worst thing he ever did, if he decided to lie to Eärien, even for her sake.

“I shall miss you,” he finally says, because this, at least, is the truth. “I miss you every day.”

She squeezes his hand and lets go. Isildur would like to reach out and hold her, like he did that day in Míriel’s chambers, but her letter is still between them, and maybe such affectionate gestures would not be wise anyway, not for her sake. There are guards on the docks watching the Faithful. If Eärien was to be seen so close to him… perhaps it would not do her good. And Isildur has to keep her safe. She is still Eärien, and he needs to keep her safe.

Isildur does not know it yet, but he will spend many days regretting that he did not get to hold Eärien there on the docks, that their parting was so cold, like the parting of two people now belonging to different worlds.

                           xxxxXXXXXxxxx

The Faithful soldiers are housed in some improvised barracks on the docks. They are kept under guard, of course, because Pharazôn cannot risk them deciding to run off or worse, to cause havoc in Armenelos. As Captain, Elendil is allowed his own room. Before retiring for the night, he summons Isildur to him.

Elendil has not had much of a chance to talk to Isildur alone after Eärien’s departure, and he is sure Isildur has designed it this way. Yet Elendil is not going to allow the matter to remain untackled. Not with their departure tomorrow.

“You did not mention you received a letter,” Elendil says carefully.

Isildur looks for a second as if he would like to bolt out the door. He masters himself and shrugs.

“It was from Eärien,” he says. “Not from Pharazôn.”

“So I’ve gathered,” Elendil replies calmly. “And you didn’t tell me.”

Isildur nods once.

“I didn’t tell you,” he confirms.

Elendil sighs, reigning in his exasperation. Sometimes, Isil refuses to make it easy for him, especially when he gets sullen and uncooperative as he is now.

“Why?”

He waits and is half-afraid that Isildur might decide not to answer at all – that he might simply leave.

Isildur leans against the wall, his posture defeated.

“I didn’t tell Anárion, either. He saw me right after I burned the letter. I didn’t tell him what was wrong.”

Anárion has, in fact, expressed some concern about Isildur’s state of mind to Elendil. But Elendil had put it on the strain they were all under and had thought keeping Isildur busy and grounded would help. Now, he thinks he should have looked into the matter while they were still in Andúnië.

“Why not tell me, though?” he presses.

Something stirs behind Isildur’s eyes. It looks very much like anger, and Elendil actually prefers it to Isildur’s previously defeated posture.

“It’s not as if I was going to defect to Pharazôn,” Isildur snaps.

Elendil approaches him until he is standing right in front of him. He could reach out, but he doesn’t just yet.

“The thought never crossed my mind,” he says earnestly.

Isildur searches his face for the truth of his words. He seems to find there what he needs.

“You seemed to have come to an understanding with Eärien,” he says. “I didn’t…I didn’t want you to feel upset about the letter.”

Elendil shakes his head.

“Isildur, Eärien is my daughter. I needed to come to an understanding with her, no matter what she believes in. But you are mine also, Isil. And I do not want to see you carrying something like this all on your own. It is not yours to carry. Not alone.”

He finally closes the distance between them and pulls Isildur towards him. Isildur does not return the embrace, but he leans heavily on Elendil, breathing shakily.

“I didn’t even want to think too much about it,” Isildur admits. “I am…I am so afraid, father. Whenever I think of Eärien, I am so afraid.”

Elendil tightens his hold.

“Why?” he prompts.

He feels Isildur shrug against him.

“So many reasons. I am afraid that I might be tempted to accept her offer one day. Just to please her. Just to see her smile. And I know it would break me, and I know I would not be happy serving Pharazôn, and I know I would come to resent her.”

Elendil does not think that is likely to happen. Isildur might do many things for his family, but he has always possessed a will of his own. He has always known right from wrong.

“Or, I am afraid I might say something to her,” Isildur says. “Something so terrible that it would place us on opposite sides forever.”

This might be more likely, but Elendil has no remedy for it. Not for Isildur, and not for Eärien.

The truth is something neither Elendil nor Isildur seem willing to admit. It is a truth that terrifies and breaks. A truth that could shatter their family. Eärien does not simply have different opinions from the rest of the family. She has placed herself on the opposite side of what might eventually become a civil war. Elendil knows this. Isildur surely does as well. Perhaps Eärien knows too. And yet, there is no way out of this abyss that Elendil can see.

Elendil holds Isildur against him for a while longer. When he finally moves away, he keeps hold of Isildur’s shoulders, looking intently at him.

“Next time, you tell me,” he says sternly. “Don’t let me catch you carrying such burdens all on your own.”

Isildur is usually one to bristle at such orders. He certainly seems to be fighting with the instinct to do so now as well. He overcomes it, though, and simply nods.

“Of course. Thank you.”

Elendil lets him go.

“Get some rest,” he orders. “Tomorrow at first bell I expect you to be in armor. Make sure the others are as well.”

Isildur gives a curt nod. He makes to leave but stops, uncertain.

“What hope is there, Father?” he wonders. “For Eärien? For us?”

And Elendil would like to say that of course Eärien will return to them. That, at one point, she will realize the error of her ways. That they can be reconciled. It would erase the worried look on Isildur’s face. It would drive away the clouds in his eyes.

But Elendil has never lied to his children. He has built the foundation of his relationship with them on their trust in him. And, no matter how much pain he might bring his firstborn, he cannot change this now.

“I do not know,” he confesses. “My heart tells me that there is great pain for all of us where Eärien is concerned. But – Isildur, this does not mean we can’t have hope. Yes?”

It is important to him, Elendil realizes – it is important that Isildur does not despair, especially not about Eärien.

Isildur tilts his head as if to have a better look at him. Finally, he nods.

“Hope. Yes. I will not lose hope, Father.”

Elendil smiles.

“Good. Well, you will have need of hope come tomorrow.”

Isildur nods.

“I will try to have enough for all of us. For Eärien too.”

“For Eärien, too,” Elendil agrees.

And, perhaps, they will not hope in vain. Perhaps, one day, their family will be reunited once more, all the stronger for the obstacles that have been placed in their path.

                            xxxXXXXxxxx

Early before dawn, Eärien and Kemen ride up in a carriage flanked by armed palace guards on their way to Andúnië. Going on horseback or crossing by ship would be easier, but Kemen is neither a good rider nor is he comfortable on boats – he has spent the better part of the wedding feast complaining about the voyage to Middle-earth. A carriage, it has to be then.

Eärien feels uncomfortable with the close quarters, though. Since the Shrine, she has avoided Kemen – and Kemen has often called her out on it. Still, the king has asked that the two of them work together. And the last person Eärien wants to disappoint is Pharazôn.

The carriage shudders as it takes the forest roads. Kemen grimaces.

“It’s a disgrace,” he comments.

“What is?”

Eärien does not really want to know. Kemen calls anything he does not agree with an embarrassment and a disgrace. Still, she knows he expects her to interact with him.

“The roads,” Kemen says. “The Faithful have allowed the roads into their towns to fall into complete disrepair.”

“Well, the Guilds haven’t really been offering Andúnië enough to maintain the roads,” Eärien points out.

This was a problem even when Amandil was alive, she remembers. Whenever they visited Andúnië in their early youth, Amandil would complain about how Tar-Palantír might propose projects to better develop Andúnië, but the guilds and the council – with Chancellor Pharazôn firmly at the head of those decisions – always opposed, claiming that the lifestyle of the Faithful did not make such developments worthwhile. Pharazôn called it strategy. Amandil called it persecution.

Kemen scowls.

“They still should have tried to do something about the roads,” he insists.

“Perhaps your father might,” Eärien muses.

A dark look passes Kemen’s face at the mention of Pharazôn.

“I have heard father has plans for Andúnië. But, if so, he has told me nothing concrete. Belzagar might know more. Or you.”

Kemen looks at her meaningfully, as if he wants to let her know he has not missed how she has gotten closer to Pharazôn, how the king seems to take her in confidence unusually often these days.

“Well, I do not know anything,” Eärien says steadily.

Kemen’s lips curl into a small smirk.

“No?” he mocks. “Not even why you’re here?”

The carriage feels suddenly too small for Eärien. Kemen is sitting across from her, but it no longer seems far enough for her.

She urges herself not to flinch under Kemen’s frowning gaze.

“The king told me I might help you with the locals. That I know them. That I might anticipate their moves.”

Kemen scoffs.

“Of course he would say that.”

Eärien shifts, fighting with the twinge of impatience Kemen’s cryptic words bring forth in her.

“Well, why do you think I’m here?”

Kemen looks out the window.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? You are here to keep me in line.”

Eärien wants to protest that it is an absurd thought. She is not so sure, though. Everyone knows Pharazôn does not want a repeat of the events in the Shrine.

“Do you need keeping in line?” she retorts.

Kemen tenses.

“We used to understand each other, Eärien,” Kemen says. “At the start, I was sure we understood each other. What happened?”

You killed one of my dearest friends, Eärien thinks. And now, neither Elendil nor Isildur want to listen to what Pharazôn has to say because of you.

“Perhaps you were using me from the start,” Kemen adds.

Eärien does not answer. Because she was, wasn’t she? When Kemen had approached her, she had seen an opportunity, and she had decided to take it. Why not, after all?

“I’ve always wondered if it was not the other way around,” Eärien says. “I was accepted in the Builders’ Guild the very same day my father rescues an Elf. And then the chancellor’s own son deigns to speak to me.”

It was Isildur who first voiced this thought, a few days before the expedition. He told Eärien that he feared that Kemen’s overtures were started at his father’s bidding. Eärien had been cross and had told her brother he was being ridiculous. It was one of their last conversations before Isildur left for Middle-earth.

“You don’t have to give me an answer,” she tells Kemen, who remains stubbornly silent. “Whether you used me or not, it doesn’t really matter now. I am where I want to be.”

Are you now? Eärien tries to ignore the thought that she has never wanted to terrorize her father’s people because, in the end, this is what Pharazôn wants them to do. It is necessary, Eärien knows this and believes this – but still no less tasteless.

She also tries not to think that this will be the first time she meets Anárion since her brother has run away from Armenelos. She does not have to wonder about him welcoming her or not. The very sight of her with Kemen is bound to anger Anárion. He will greet her with scorn, no doubt.

A small part of her is convinced she might actually deserve this.

                 xxxxXXXXXxxxx

The next day, the ships depart for Middle-earth. The soldiers are mostly Faithful – from Andúnië and Armenelos, but also from other parts of the island, where they have been left alone so far. There are also plenty who have spoken out against the Faithful treatment – in the square or in the palace or even privately, only within earshot of people they knew and trusted. These are also now sent to battle. Pharazôn has sent guards after them to press them into service, declaring that if they cared so much about the fate of the Faithful they might as well die side by side.

Elendil recalls the expedition to the Southlands and how the people had cheered them then. There is no one to cheer them on now. The people on the docks who have come to watch the ships depart are grim. None of them wish them well. Even if they might think what is happening is wrong, they would not dare to voice it out loud. Not unless they want to find themselves on the same ships.

Eärien has not come to bind the branch of oiolairë on Elendil’s ship, not that Elendil has expected her to. She refused to do it during their first departure, too. It had been Míriel who had tied it then. There are rumors that she wanted to do the same now, but Pharazôn has denied her the request. There are no oiolairë branches on the other ships, either. The relatives of the captains are all in Andúnië. Elendil tries not to think that this looks very much like bad luck, that it feels as if they sail without the favor of the gods.

Belzagar appears on the docks almost too late. Half an hour later, and they would have missed the tide. He climbs on Elendil’s ship and glares at the soldiers gathered there. His speech is predictable. They are his to command. They must leave whatever ridiculous Faithful notions they might have behind and follow Belzagar and Belzagar only. Those that will not obey, will find themselves disobeying the King himself, Ar-Pharazôn the Resplendent, and disobeying the King comes with great punishments.

After Belzagar’s speech, Elendil takes a step forward. Belzagar probably does not expect him to address his troops, but what Belzagar expects is his own affair.

“You are doing the will of the Valar,” he tells them. “You are going to fight the enemy of Light. Be proud of yourselves. I know I am proud of each and every one of you this morning.”

The soldiers have stood in sullen silence during Belzagar’s speech. Now, their faces brighten, and they cheer, then proceed to go about their duties in ordered fashion.

Belzagar glares at Elendil.

“You had to have the last word, didn’t you?”

Elendil does not flinch under Belzagar’s stare.

“I needed to give them something. They are going to war.”

“If it is an incentive they needed, I had already given them one myself,” Belzagar points out. “Serving their king should be incentive enough. And, if not,” he adds with a grin, “Then they should remember there are many of their loved ones still left behind in Andúnië.”

“They do remember this,” Elendil says tightly. “But Lord Belzagar, please listen to me. I have been a captain for many years. I know people serve you better if you offer them kindness than if you wave your whip at them.”

With a curt nod, he moves past Belzagar, to supervise the launching of the ships. The winds are fair, he thinks. They can begin their voyage to Middle-earth, with every mile leading them closer to war.

Chapter Text

Theo’s second crossing of the sea is just as bad as the first. Well, not entirely, if he is honest with himself. At least he is not crammed up with Estrid in a crate this time. But the constant rocking still unnerves him, making him sick to his stomach and dizzy.

At first, he is certain he can handle his discomfort, even hide it, and he is ready to receive whatever duties will be given to him. Elendil takes one look at him on the deck the first afternoon and sends him to his quarters, because he does not want to have to explain to Arondir if Theo happens to fall overboard. Theo protests, of course, he does not like to be idle, he doesn’t want special treatment, and he doesn't need to be coddled. Elendil calmly tells him he can choose to pass the voyage in his quarters or in the brig. Elendil isn’t fussy about the location, but perhaps Theo might have a preference. And Theo has no choice but to slink to the sailors’ quarters, miserable and embarrassed.

He spends a depressing day with nothing but a wooden bucket to keep him company, and sometimes his shipmates coming in to commiserate briefly with him. Theo doesn’t really want company, though.

Isildur visits him at dusk. He frowns, not really liking what he sees.

“Would you like me to send Arondir to you?” he asks. “He is in my father’s quarters, going over army positions in Eriador. But I am sure he can spare a few minutes.”

Theo feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“No!” he protests loudly. “No. Would you be fine with your own father seeing you like this?”

At any other time, he would remember how much he insists that Arondir isn’t his father. But Theo can blame the sickness for wanting something he can never have. Isildur, at any rate, does not call him out on it. He does not even act surprised.

“Well, I wouldn’t,” Isildur agrees easily. “But I think he would like to help.”

He hands Theo some water. Theo glares at it.

“No way. I won’t keep it down anyway.”

He doesn’t enjoy admitting it, especially not to Isildur, who looks even more comfortable on a ship than he does on dry land – then again, that describes almost everybody on that ship except for Theo. And maybe Belzagar. Belzagar has retreated to his quarters quite promptly and has not come out at all, so far. This gives Theo a sort of petty satisfaction.

Isildur does not budge and thrusts the flask into Theo’s hands.

“You not drinking water will only make it worse,” Isildur says. “Trust me.”

He probably won’t leave until Theo complies. Theo shrugs and makes to gulp the water in one go – the quicker he gets this done, the quicker he can get back to being alone and feeling sorry for himself. Isildur’s hand fastens around his arm.

“Small sips,” he advises. “And take it slow.”

Theo rolls his eyes.

“Perhaps you should try your luck as a healer,” he mutters.

Isildur grins.

“That is an honorable profession, Theo. I think I’d leave it to you, though.”

He pats Theo on the back and watches him assessingly.

“Did I tell you about the time during cadet training when I got smacked over the head with an oar?”

Theo snorts.

“No. But I should have liked to have seen that.”

Isildur chuckles.

“It was by mistake, of course. Imrahil, one of the other cadets, he was a bit, well…let’s just say he needed to gain more confidence in his abilities. He’s on one of the other ships now. I am sure he’s doing very well.”

Sometimes, Theo thinks, Isildur is too generous for his own good. Theo is sure he would not have been speaking so nicely about the person who had smacked him over the face, accidentally or not.

“I was sick and miserable for two days,” Isildur adds. “But my father was there, even though we were fighting all the time back then.”

This surprises Theo enough that it distracts him from his nausea.

“What, you two? You and Elendil? I find it hard to believe.”

Isildur has a soft smile on his face.

“We came a long way, you know. But we’ve made it. So will you.”

He makes to leave, then stops again and turns to look at Theo. His face is unreadable.

“You know,” Isildur confesses, “This is the first time in a long time that I’m at sea and I don’t hear her voice.”

Theo’s eyes narrow. Isildur has confided in him that he could hear his mother’s voice every time he was at sea. That he thought she was calling to him – reproving him for what she had led her to do, asking him to join her in the depths.

“Something that one of you said about not blaming myself must have stuck,” Isildur adds. “I cannot hear her anymore.”

“That is good,” Theo says neutrally. “Isn’t it?”

Isildur looks briefly lost.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I miss her voice.”

He says it as if it is a terrible secret. But he seems to know that he is telling it to someone who would understand.

Theo spends the rest of the day thinking about what Isildur has told him – and about his own loss.

                        xxxXXXXxxxx

Estrid finds the house strange now that Elendil and Isildur are gone – and Theo, too. Voronwë comes to live with them without either she or Anárion asking first, because times will be hard, he says, and they need all the support they can get. He does not say that the farm might be attacked by the Kingsmen. He doesn’t say that they will need to defend it and themselves. They do not speak about their fears. They all anticipate dark times, but they do not speak about them out loud.

Anárion puts on a brave face, but Estrid knows what lies beyond it. She thinks that Isildur and Elendil must have sailed away by now, and her heart hammers at the thought that they are on the open sea, going to war, and she is left behind, and there is nothing she can do for them, nothing to tell her if they are still alive, or how long they will stay this way.

Estrid knows Anárion is thinking similar thoughts, even though he never once mentions them. He talks a lot about Isildur to her, though, and Estrid lets him, welcoming those insights into Isildur, because she can see Anárion knows Isildur in ways Isildur probably does not even know himself.

The shrine to Nienna has been moved in the root cellar, in anticipation of a possible raid by the Kingsmen. They cannot keep it lit all night there, but Anárion still insists on lighting it in the evening for a little while. He has also placed a shrine to Uinen, the Lady of the Seas, and even makes offerings to Ossë, her ill-tempered husband, so they both watch over the mariners while they are in open waters.

Anárion explains all this to Estrid as he invites her to light the candles and pray with him.

Estrid is warmed by the invitation. Anárion’s faith is wrapped around him like a protective cloak. He clings to it and uses it as a shield against the hurts of the world. He braves the storms with its help. This is one of the reasons why he is so tied to the Faithful and so hurt by the betrayal of those from Armenelos. Because of this, Estrid has feared that Anárion might see her as an outsider. She has not been taught the names of the Valar and what prayers to say to them. She is not even sure if they are the same gods that her people believe in.

To her surprise, though, Anárion doesn’t hold her lack of knowledge against her, but offers to teach her what the Númenóreans believe in, and he never once seems to think of her as someone different, someone born in another land, a stranger to his ways.

When he invites her to light the candles with him, she almost reaches out to embrace him, she is so touched by his inclusion, even though Anárion looks slightly unsure.

“I know it helped me the last times they were gone,” he admits. “I hope it will help you too.”

Estrid feels herself smiling for the first time since Isildur left.

“I think it will help. And more than anything, I hope it will help them.”

Later, she asks Anárion to tell her more about the gods.

“I fear that very soon this knowledge will be forbidden,” Anárion says. “Pharazôn might not be openly against the Valar yet, but the resentment is there. I feel it.”

“What will happen when the resentment becomes open?” Estrid wants to know.

Anárion shrugs. He is wringing his hands, and Estrid understands the burden he feels at being the only one left.

“I suppose we will try to fight against this decision,” Anárion says. “Or…or find a place that accepts us.”

Estrid says nothing but reaches out and clutches Anárion’s hand.

“Thank you,” she tells him. “For including me in this so readily,” she adds, when she notices Anárion’s puzzled frown.

Anárion shakes his head.

“How could I not? You are my brother’s betrothed. And more than this, you have been welcomed in this household with open arms. You are one of us now, Estrid.”

Estrid thinks of Pelargir, of the burn on the back of her neck made in a desperate attempt to hide something worse, something that would have barred her from belonging to the Southlanders. From being truly one of them.

She swallows against the memories and urges herself to focus on Anárion’s easy acceptance.

“Do you regret it?” Anárion whispers. “Leaving Pelargir?”

Estrid shakes her head.

“Pelargir was never really my home,” she points out. “Even after everything, it felt only as if I was just passing through. My home is…my home has fallen. It’s ashes now.”

Anárion touches her arm briefly.

“I am sorry.”

Estrid meets his eyes and sees the question in them: how can she survive with her birthplace forever lost? Who is she now without the roots that have bound her to this world? She knows why Anárion would want to know this – because he fears one day it will happen to him as well.

“A part of Hordern still remains in my heart,” Estrid tells him. “In my memories. I hear my mother singing as she hung the wet clothes out to dry. I hear my friends laughing in the fields. I hear dogs barking and can tell you their name only by listening to their voices. None of this is truly gone, Anárion. None of it will be gone as long as I am alive.”

Anárion listens to her, breathless. At the end, he closes his eyes.

“I felt so alone in Armenelos,” he confesses. “I know I shouldn’t have left. But I felt like I was choking there, and I did not know how to put it all in words.”

Estrid hears the sorrow in his words. She used to wonder about Anárion’s departure, about his separation from his family. Even before meeting Anárion, Estrid realized how much his desertion has hurt Isildur. Now she is not sure anymore it was really desertion. Now she thinks it was simply Anárion doing the best that he could to keep faith with who he was.

Their conversation is interrupted by a messenger who announces that a carriage bearing Pharazôn’s marks is approaching and will probably be in Andúnië the next morning. It seems that it is carrying Kemen and Eärien.

Anárion pales and staggers. Estrid wishes to reach out to him, but he shakes his head. His eyes are smoldering.

Estrid wonders if this is how it starts: the Kingsmen taking over Andúnië while the rest of the Faithful have gone to war.

                     xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Eärien and Kemen ride into Andúnië the next morning together with the soldiers. There is a crowd already gathered in the main square, showing that their arrival has been spotted. Eärien shivers slightly as she gets out of the carriage. Andúnië is unchanged, which does not surprise her. Andúnië is always unchanged. There are no new buildings. All old constructions are well-maintained and in working order, but the innovations found in Armenelos are missing here completely.

Part of it is the Faithful’s own desire to have only as much as they need and to enjoy the labor of their hands. Another part is more practical. Eärien has meant it when she mentioned to Kemen that Númenor has not invested in the development of Andúnië for a very long time. Even the repairs done to the older buildings were still done by the inhabitants of the city, without any help from the crown or the guilds.

Eärien hardly dares to look at the crowd. She recognizes them. They are all people she knows. People she grew up with, who had known her since she was a little girl. People from Armenelos, who have seen her depose a queen and betray them. People who have every reason in the world to wish her ill.

Unlike her, Kemen is confident. He smirks at the crowd.

“Greetings, citizens of Andúnië,” he says mockingly. “Now, there might be a bit of a muddle about who is in charge of you, considering the Lord of Andúnië is off to war…”

“There isn’t any muddle. I am in charge.”

Eärien flinches at the new voice. She blinks as she finally recognizes Anárion. She hasn’t seen him in almost a year, and now it feels as if he is an entirely different person. Perhaps he had been unable to reach his full potential in Armenelos, but he is fully doing so now. For a moment, Eärien actually feels in awe of him.

Anárion glances at her only briefly. Then his attention turns to Kemen.

“To what do we owe this visit?”

Kemen smirks.

“And you are?”

Anárion’s eyes flash. Eärien holds her breath. This is what Kemen does, she realizes. He gets under his opponent’s skin. He works on them and provokes them until it feels as if they are the ones delivering the first blow, when in reality he is the one leading them on all along.

“I am Anárion, son of Elendil. My father has given me leave to speak for the people of Andúnië.”

“Anárion,” Kemen repeats. “I somehow pictured you differently. Then again, you aren’t like your brother, are you?”

Eärien nearly tells Kemen that if he thinks he is going to provoke Anárion by trying to make him jealous or resentful of Isildur, he is in for a lot of disappointment. Anárion worships his brother. Even when he claims that he is his own man, he still acts as if Isil can do no wrong.

“You still have not answered my question,” Anárion repeats. “What are you doing here?”

Kemen straightens his shoulders, assuming an official pose.

“Inspection,” he declares. “Of what, you will find out tomorrow. We are tired, and we request a day’s rest.”

Anárion hesitates, then shrugs, his face full of resignation.

“There are still some free rooms at the inns, you are welcome to them. As long as you pay the innkeeper, of course. Even the King’s soldiers can hardly expect to stay there for free.”

Eärien suspects the Faithful refugees from Armenelos stay at the inns for free. The Faithful are not that materialistic anyway. This has to be Anárion trying to appear in control. Trying to have something over Kemen.

Kemen takes a step forward, and Eärien knows immediately that he is not going to allow Anárion to win this bit of control.

“The soldiers will stay at the inn, yes,” he accepts, amiably enough. “However, Chancellor Eärien and myself wish to stay at your farm.”

Anárion’s eyes flicker to hers, his expression unreadable.

“Chancellor,” he repeats. “I see.”

Kemen smirks.

“After all, for two people in such important positions, only the house of the Lord of Andúnië will suffice. And there is plenty of room there now, isn’t there?”

Anárion pales.

“Eärien can stay,” he says. “My father would never forgive me if I denied his daughter shelter in her former childhood home.”

Eärien understands the message clearly. Anárion is only letting her stay for Elendil’s benefit. Because it is his duty to let her stay. 

“I will come too,” Kemen insists.

Anárion’s face is tight.

“I will be dead thrice over before I allow the likes of you under my roof,” he snaps. “Do you think I am unaware of all that you have done? To my father? To my brother’s best friend?”

Kemen tilts his head. There is a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Oh, I have done a lot to your father, once there was no one to defend him,” he says. “The soldiers held him down and I gave him back the blow I was owed.”

Eärien feels cold. She feels ill. She has not known any of this before, she has thought Elendil was struck while resisting arrest or trying to escape, and now to hear Kemen talk about him raising a hand against her father, she cannot bear it.

Surely, whatever Kemen had done then had been against Pharazôn’s orders. Pharazôn has assured Eärien many times that he had no desire to harm either Elendil or Isildur (or any of the Faithful for that matter). That it was them who were forcing his hand.

Anárion shifts, and Eärien is afraid that he is about to take the bait, that he will lash out at Kemen and strike him for all that it’s worth – and a part of her thinks Kemen would fully deserve it. If this was Isildur, perhaps he would have indeed attacked Kemen. But Anárion is not Isildur. Isildur’s wrath is explosive and violent, hot like fire. Anárion’s anger is a cold and patient thing. Eärien does not know if this is necessarily good. Isildur’s anger may be devastating, but he is much quicker too forgive. Anárion can nurse grudges for years.

“I know exactly what you did,” he repeats. “There will be a reckoning one day.”

“There might be a reckoning here and now for you,” Kemen says. “Or for any of your people. You do not seem to understand, Anárion, that right now, I have power over those of Andúnië. I get to decide if they live or if they die.”

Anárion doesn’t even flinch.

“Only the One has the right to decide life and death for those who walk this earth. You are far exceeding your authority, master Kemen.”

Kemen lifts his chin.

“This isn’t about rights, Anárion. This is about ability. Right now, I have the ability to take down any one of you here.”

“Do your worst,” Anárion says. “I do not fear you. I do not fear your father. I never have and I never will.”

Eärien is afraid she will have to interfere, to get between the two and convince them both to stand down. Yet Kemen has no desire to fight Anárion directly. He has other weapons.

Kemen nods to one of his soldiers, who approaches a young boy from the crowd and grabs him, putting his sword at his throat. Another soldier grabs hold of the boy’s desperate mother.

“What are you doing?” Anárion demands. “Let them go.”

“Here is what is going to happen,” Kemen says harshly. “I have the upper hand, Anárion. Now, you either are going to grant me entrance to your house, or there will be one less Faithful whelp to worry about in the years to come. Do not think I will not order my man to slit that child’s throat, because I have no qualms about it. His blood will be on your hands, not mine.”

Eärien waits with breath held, and she wishes she could speak out, she knows that she should, but she has chosen her side, and after all, Anárion only needs to let go of his pride and agree to Kemen’s demand. It isn’t even that big of a demand, and Kemen can be made to see reason, and Anárion needs to be reasonable also.

Anárion raises his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Let him go,” he says. “Please.”

Kemen’s face flushes, and Eärien sees clearly that he enjoys the idea of Anárion humiliating himself enough to plead with him.

“Only you can decide if he lives or dies, Anárion,” he insists. “You should be thanking me, really. After all, I am granting you the power of a god.”

Eärien knows that, at any other time, Anárion would never tolerate such blasphemies out of anyone. Yet there is a child’s life at stake, and Anárion can apparently see that Kemen means business.

Anárion’s shoulders sag. His face is pale, eyes wide and slightly wet.

“You can stay wherever you want,” he says. “Only, please, let him go.”

Kemen seems to take some time to think carefully about it. Then, he nods to the guard, who releases the boy and allows him to run to his mother.

Anárion’s eyes meet Eärien, and she flinches at the cold fury he sees in them.

“These are the people you associate with,” he says quietly. “The people you follow. This is what they are capable of.”

Eärien would like to deny, she would like to protest, she would like to convince Anárion that he should see things from her perspective. Only, she has stood by while Kemen has ordered his men to terrorize innocent people. And she understands, in some way, why Anárion might think she is just as guilty as Kemen.

                      xxxxxXXXXXXxxxx

At Anárion’s request, Estrid has stayed behind at the farm while Anárion has gone to meet Eärien and Kemen. She is surprised when she discovers that he is granting both of them shelter, but she senses that something has happened in Andúnië. Anárion looks pale and lost, and he refuses to meet her eyes.

Kemen is given lodgings in one of the guest wings. Eärien is lodged in the main house, in a room reserved for visiting family. It is not her old room, since Estrid is now occupying it. Estrid actually makes a tentative suggestion of vacating it so the room’s previous owner can stay there, but Anárion vehemently refuses this, and Eärien does not seem too keen on the suggestion, either.

Kemen retires to rest early, not before making some snide remarks about Estrid, asking her to have drink and food prepared for him, acting as if she was a servant of the house and not one of the family. The fact that he speaks slowly to her, with plenty of hand gestures, even though he surely must be aware that she knows their language, irritates Estrid even more. Still, she has heard and endured far worse and is not in the mood to give in to Kemen’s little power trip.

Eärien is different. Eärien searches the house after Anárion returns to Andúnië. She opens every door and peers into every corner. She goes through Elendil’s papers thoroughly.

“Looking for something in particular?” Estrid asks at length.

Eärien flushes.

“You do not have to shadow me like this, you know. I have every right to be in my father’s study.”

Estrid leans against the door. She has not entered the room fully – out of respect for Elendil. True, Elendil isn’t even here and won’t ever know that Estrid was in the room – and probably wouldn’t have minded even if he knew – but Estrid does not want to invade someone’s private space without their knowledge.

“I wonder what could interest you in here,” Estrid muses. “After all, you’re not one to care much about sailing and the open sea.”

Eärien’s face is red, and Estrid knows she has hit a nerve. Eärien probably understands that the differences between her and the rest of her family are about more than her refusal to accept the Faithful.

“Are you?” Eärien asks. “Interested in the open seas?”

Estrid shrugs.

“In truth, I do not know. My only sea voyage was under less than enjoyable circumstances.”

Eärien looks away.

“I was never on the open sea.”

She looks up, and Estrid knows that she is slightly baffled by this admission.

“I would have thought your father…” she begins uncertainly.

She stops, because she has sensed before there might be a barrier between Eärien and Elendil, that even though there is love on both sides, there is also an impassable gulf that cannot be mended.

Eärien’s face is harsh.

“Oh, he tried. Of course he tried. But I wasn’t interested.”

There is something challenging in Eärien now, as if she is daring Estrid to ask more, to judge, to disagree. Estrid remains silent, and this seems to irritate Eärien even more.

“The sea took my mother,” Eärien says. “I have no interest in the sea.”

Estrid blinks. She knows Isildur has not told Eärien yet about the reason their mother was in the water in the first place. Isildur has often confessed to Estrid that he was afraid of how Eärien might receive the news, that perhaps she would be angry with him – after all, it was all Isildur’s fault that she hardly knew her mother.

“And it’s more than that,” Isildur had added. “I am afraid that she might be angry at Mother as well. Because, however you put it, she chose me over her other two children. And I would not blame either Anárion or Eärien if they were angry because of this.”

But, Isildur had insisted, he could not bear the idea of them being angry at their mother, he feels the need to protect her even in death, it is the least he could do after all that she had sacrificed for him.

Estrid had told Isildur then that it was not about Tindómiel choosing one child over the other, but about instinct, and being where she was needed most, and in a way offering them all the outcome that would have kept the family whole even in loss. Isildur had frowned at that, as if he was not really convinced that the trade was really worth it, but had admitted almost reluctantly that Elendil had hinted something similar when Isildur had first confessed to him about the drowning.

Now, Estrid knows it is more complicated than that, and she has no idea how Eärien would react to the news that her mother had given her life to save Isildur. Eärien loves Isildur, despite their differences in beliefs and personalities and temperament. Yet her life was different from almost all other Númenórean children, and it is difficult to say what she would feel if she discovered who was responsible for that.

Not that Estrid has any intention of revealing Isildur’s greatest secret to Eärien. Isildur might see it as an unforgivable betrayal.

“I am sorry,” she finally says. “It does not sound like enough…but I am sorry.”

Eärien shakes her head. She moves away from the table.

“I know I gave my father texts in Quenya, but I couldn't find them anywhere in the house. I couldn’t find the shrines, either.”

“Are you surprised?” Estrid asks. “You know we had to hide them.”

Her heart is pounding. If Eärien asks about the root cellar, how could Estrid deny it in a way that is convincing enough to put Eärien off guard? But Eärien does not ask, and a part of Estrid hopes that it is because she does not want to be forced to report her findings to Kemen.

Eärien is suddenly frowning, gazing at the table. Estrid follows her gaze and freezes, guessing what has caught Eärien’s attention. It is one of Estrid’s own weavings, a small decorative piece she has made for Elendil a few weeks after their arrival and Isildur’s return from Armenelos. The pattern she followed was that of the Sea Guard uniform, as those of Andúnië still had some older chest pieces. It is the sun flanked by the figures of Úinen and Ulmo. Elendil has claimed to love the weaving. He often says it reminds him of the old days when he was free to sail the seas.

“What is this?” Eärien asks. “I’ve never seen this before.”

“Oh,” Estrid says, at a lost. “I made it. It’s…it’s mine, it was for your father…”

“And the pattern?” Eärien asks tightly.

Estrid shakes her head, confused.

“Well, it is…I mean, I was told they are…”

She suddenly feels tongue-tied and annoyed with herself.

“You shouldn’t have such things in the house, Estrid,” Eärien says sternly. “Ar-Pharazôn will soon decree that worship of the Valar is a private affair. It need not be shown through rituals and trinkets.”

“It’s my own home,” Estrid protests weakly. “Our own home.”

She falters, because it was Eärien’s home before it was hers. There is a brief seed of defiance in her, because Eärien has renounced her home, hasn’t she? And now she barges in here and tells Estrid what should and shouldn’t be in her house.

Eärien’s fingers are moving deftly over the cloth, unthreading it. Estrid remains rooted to the spot, watching in horror as her work is undone before her eyes. She wishes to protest, but all she can think of is the battle of the Southlands and the eruption and the time in Adar’s camp, even though that was much, much worse than what is happening now.

“Eärien, wait, no. That is my…I made that…”

She wishes she could wrench what is left of the cloth from Eärien’s hands, but she does not want to cause a conflict with Isildur’s sister over a piece of cloth.

“You should make something else,” Eärien advises casually. “Something with the pattern of the sun. That will always be Númenor, and the new Númenor especially reveres the sun. We equate it with our true monarch. The sea patterns are acceptable to the King, even if they are considered highly old fashioned.”

Estrid’s eyes sting.

“This was made by me,” she points out, voice trembling against her will. “The work of my own hands. You are a maker as well, Eärien. You must know what it feels like to have someone destroy the work of your own hands.”

And it was a gift for Elendil. This is what stings the most. That Estrid has given Elendil something, and now that something is no more.

“Your father opened his home to me. Even after he knew all there was to know about me. He could have given me scorn, but all he offered was kindness. And I…I gave him something to repay him. And you…”

Eärien’s cheeks are red. It could be regret. It could be anger. Estrid does not know. She does not know anything about Eärien, she realizes. She has seen her so far through Isildur’s eyes – but Isildur’s descriptions of her have never prepared her for this.

“One day, you might thank me,” Eärien says. “You especially. Father and the rest have only taught you about the Númenor of the Faithful. I can teach you about the other Númenor. And you can teach your children about it in turn.”

The chill in Estrid’s heart now feels painful. She swallows past her bitterness.

“So I can teach them to turn against their father’s beliefs?”

“If the Faithful beliefs are kept hidden, suppressed, no one will care about them in a few years,” Eärien argues. “If there are no more reminders of the past, then we can finally move on to the future.”

“Did Ar-Pharazôn tell you that?” Estrid asks coldly.

“Ar-Pharazôn is always right,” Eärien states.

Estrid straightens her shoulders, a surge of defiance emboldening her.

“He’s not right about this,” she says. “Let me tell you something, Eärien. Faith is nothing if it’s abandoned in difficult times, and these people will not abandon theirs. Your persecution will only strengthen their convictions. For every shrine you destroy, ten more hidden ones will be built where you cannot reach them. Every text you might burn, they probably know it by heart, so they can whisper it to their children in the dead of night, so their children can remember it and pass it on in turn. And I will be among these people, the people of my betrothed, my chosen people. I will be among them and worship at their secret shrines and teach my children the way of the Faithful. And your glorious new Númenor? It will be nothing but an oppressor for us. Their ways will be rejected just as you reject ours.”

Estrid turns swiftly and walks out of the room, not waiting for Eärien to say anything in return. She goes to her own chamber and bars the door. Leaning against the wall, she bursts into tears.

It’s just a piece of cloth, she tells herself. Just a piece of cloth that you can make again.

But it isn’t, it was a gift to the father of Estrid’s future husband, the man who had learned of her scars and had not looked at her with scorn, who has trusted her more than she thought she could be trusted. And she might make another piece, she might even replace it without telling Elendil what happened to the old one, but it would not be the same. It would be deception, and Estrid cannot give Elendil that.

Estrid does not mention the incident during the evening meal, and Eärien keeps silent about it as well. Anárion and Voronwë look concerned, and Estrid knows that her eyes are red-rimmed, and the evidence of her heartache is probably clear on her face. She pleads fatigue and retires before the meal finishes, just at the moment when Kemen walks in, demanding his own meal. Anárion intercedes before Kemen can say too much to Estrid. She feels guilty for allowing Anárion to deal with Kemen on his own, but she wishes to be away from all of them right now.

Estrid knows there is no way she can tell Anárion about Eärien’s gesture. She tries to convince herself that Eärien might have had her reasons, that if Kemen had found the cloth, he would have done the same, if not worse, but nothing Estrid can come up with can truly change what happened.

There could have been other ways, Estrid thinks. She needn’t have torn it like that. She needn’t have ruined it.

                 xxxxxXXXXXXxxxx

The sea voyage goes smoothly, apart from a few power clashes between the sailors and Belzagar’s guards. Elendil solves those quickly and tersely explains to Belzagar that he isn’t above putting the guards in the brig if they cause trouble. Belzagar tries intimidation, but Elendil points out that at sea people need to listen to the ship’s captain first and foremost, offering a long list of what could go wrong if they do not. Belzagar is, fortunately, sensible enough to acknowledge that he, too, would suffer if the ship was to sink and instructs his guards to obey Elendil while they are in open waters.

Nine days after sailing away from Armenelos, they are finally approaching the Grey Havens. The wind was in their favor, as their voyage could have lasted longer. On the morning of their arrival, Elendil heads for Belzagar’s quarters. He has to wait for the guards to admit him – because Belzagar is, apparently, not sensible enough to completely give up his power trips.

“We are approaching land,” Elendil announces stiffly. “We will be docking soon.”

Belzagar gives him a curt nod in acknowledgement.

“I want you to be the liaison to the Elves,” he says, to Elendil’s slight surprise. “Ar-Pharazôn wishes to make a good impression on them. After all, he will want some gains from this war.”

Elendil says nothing. He already knew he was being used.

Belzagar looks him up and down.

“Of course, this does not mean you forget you are under my command, Captain.”

“How could I possibly forget that?” Elendil asks tersely.

Belzagar’s shoulders stiffen, but to Elendil’s surprise, he does not call him out on his impertinence.

“My orders will be laws that I expect followed,” he goes on. “That the King expects followed as well.”

“That I know,” Elendil replies. “And I also know what is at stake, so you need not remind me.”

Belzagar tilts his head.

“This also means that you will have to be careful about the conversations you have with the High King. Of the requests you make.”

Elendil feels himself grow cold.

“If you are telling me to make sure I do not inform a foreign power of the political troubles in my land, maybe even asking them to intervene and make war on the land – what you suggest is treason, Lord Belzagar.”

Belzagar’s lips curl in a faint smile.

“And that is beneath you,” he mocks. “Isn’t it?”

Elendil looks Belzagar in the eye.

“I am loyal to the true Númenor. I will serve the Númenórean ideals till my dying day.”

Belzagar’s thin smile is like a shard of ice.

“Well,” he declares, “Let us hope that does not come too soon, yes, Captain?”

Elendil knows Belzagar means exactly the opposite.

                          xxxXXXXxxxx

Isildur stands on the deck, looking at the distant line on the horizon. He remembers the last time he approached Middle-earth. He shakes his head, slightly amused and mortified, recalling his brief exchange with commander Galadriel. It wasn’t one of his finest moments, Isildur knows. Not when his childhood hero caught him on deck tossing apples into the water like some unruly toddler (and he shouldn’t have been on deck then in the first place). Nor were his conversations skills able to rise to the occasion.

I did not join this expedition to be humbled, Commander.

Isildur’s cheeks burn at the memory. Has he really said that to one of the most revered Elves in history? What was he thinking?

Beyond the mortification, though, there is the memory of his first sight of a land that was completely unfamiliar to him. Isildur remembers the awe, the sense of fulfillment, the keen joy and wonder that can hardly be described.

Isildur now feels a deep sadness for the young boy who had stood on the deck that day, watching the Southlands reveal themselves to him in the rising sun. It is almost as if he is mourning the loss of another person and not someone who was a part of him. Because he cannot remember much of who he was then. He has been shaped into something different now. At least, this is what he thinks.

It would have happened anyway, Isildur tells himself. He was on his way to growing up even without the expedition to the Southlands. Yet he knows exactly when his younger self died, in that moment of fire and ash and smoke, when he had caught his first glimpse of Ontamo’s dead eyes and understood that he is not untouchable.

Isildur wrenches himself from the past in time to see one of the soldiers heading up the deck. For a moment, he freezes, afraid that his memories have conjured up Ontamo’s ghost. But it is only Ontamo’s younger brother, Bor, who sometimes used to trail after them, although he got on far better with Anárion.

Bor’s eyes are fixed on the shore. Isildur smiles slightly when he notices the expression on his face. Bor hears him approaching and turns to him.

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” he asks, slightly breathless.

He seems to remember then that there is a hierarchy on the ship, and that Isildur is his superior now and not his brother’s playmate. He blushes.

“My apologies, Lieutenant. I…”

“At ease,” Isildur orders, slightly amused. “It is, indeed, a magnificent sight, soldier. Enjoy it.”

After all, Isildur understands. And he remembers that day in the Southlands, and how his father didn’t reprimand him when he had caught him on deck, even though he could have. And Isildur thinks that is because Elendil understood. He comes from a long line of mariners, after all, with sea faring in their blood. Who better to know the joy that the first sight of a foreign land could bring to those who have spent days upon the open seas?

                         xxxxxXXXXXxxx

Círdan watches as the Númenórean ships pull into harbor, a few of the soldiers debarking. Their leader, Lord Belzagar, coldly introduces himself as “the Commander of his army”.

“You may inform the High King that we are willing to enter his fight,” Belzagar says. “However, the Númenóreans will be under my command. I will be the one deciding where they go and what they do. Even if my decisions might not coincide with those of your High King.”

Belzagar is trying to be intimidating, and there is certainly something dangerous about him, but his bluster is also bordering on absurd under the circumstances.

“That seems a strange way of cooperating within an alliance,” Círdan says calmly. “But, by all means, Lord Belzagar. Your people are your own.”

Belzagar shrugs.

“I will retire now. It’s been a long journey, and I am tired. My men will raise me my tent, no need to bother with anything. I will leave Captain Elendil to deal with you. Communicate whatever battle plans you have to him.”

Círdan turns to Elendil, who bows his head.

“Master Círdan,” he greets.

His respect makes a stark contrast to Lord Belzagar’s haughty attitude. Círdan already understands a little of the frictions within the Númenórean army. He can also tell who is on their side and who is simply playing political games.

Elendil intrigues Círdan. Galadriel has already told him much about the man who had rescued her from the sea and supported her in Númenor. What Galadriel has not mentioned was how much of Elros there seems to be in Elendil – and how much of his even more ancient forefather, Tuor.

“Captain,” Círdan replies. “The High King is due tomorrow, he is currently overseeing our defensive positions. He will no doubt tell you more when he comes, but I have some maps with the situation in Eriador – if you wish to look at them?”

“Certainly,” Elendil says. “I will leave disembarking duties to my Lieutenant and join you.”

He turns to the young soldier beside him, who has so far been staring straight ahead, the picture of discipline. Yet Círdan senses the tension in him, the keen restlessness and knows it is only Elendil’s orders that are keeping him still.

“See to the unloading of the supplies and weapons, Lieutenant,” Elendil addresses him. “Coordinate with the other ships and with whoever is in charge of this on shore.”

The young man nods.

“Yes, Captain,” he says curtly.

Elendil hesitates, then places his hand on his Lieutenant’s shoulder and says something to him. The words are spoken in a low voice, obviously meant only for the two of them. Círdan watches as the Lieutenant’s face softens, becoming bright and eager and so, so youthful that it pierces Círdan’s heart, reminding him that he himself is ancient, and surrounded by others who have lived for centuries. Sometimes, he forgets about the fire of youth and how brightly it can burn – especially in mortal Men, where it is doomed to be extinguished all too soon.

The Lieutenant beams and gives another nod, then he leaves to carry out his Captain’s orders. Elendil remains where he is, watching him depart, following his movements. Eventually, he turns to Círdan.

“It is a fine thing, I am told,” Círdan remarks. “For a father to have his son following in his footsteps so closely.”

Elendil tilts his head, slightly surprised that Círdan has guessed the nature of his relationship with his Lieutenant, although it is plain for anyone with eyes to see. Then he grins, eyes bright with pride.

"Thank you. I am told the course of history has often been changed by such ties."

“Tonight, you could share the evening meal with me,” Círdan offers. “Your son may certainly join us, if he wishes, although the young might find the long-winded speeches of the old rather tedious.”

Elendil shakes his head, a knowing look in his eyes.

“Oh, Isildur will definitely enjoy it. I thank you. If his duties can spare him, he will most certainly come.”

They head for Círdan’s workshop. Círdan thinks about captain Elendil and his son – and about Belzagar. He feels a great tension in the Númenórean fleet and tells himself that he will need to get a full report from Arondir. Even with people like Elendil, the friction within the army may make the Númenóreans rather unreliable allies.

Chapter Text

Belzagar does not particularly enjoy his tent, although it has everything he needs and more. But he does not like being away from the palace, and he does not particularly enjoy Middle-earth either, the little he has seen of it. It will only get worse, of course. He does not intend to involve himself too much in the battle, but he has to be close enough to the field to plan his army’s moves.

He wonders what Círdan and Elendil are discussing, then dismisses the thought. Elendil will not mention the friction he has with Belzagar – or with Pharazôn. Not only because Belzagar has ordered him – and because Elendil knows that following Belzagar’s orders will make things slightly easier for those left behind in Andúnië. But it is also a matter of pride. Elendil loves Númenor. He would not readily admit to an outsider that Númenor has started to disappoint him.

Belzagar glances at the improvised table. He has already set a map of Eriador on it – made by Aldarion himself, so it was said. Beneath the map, there are Pharazôn’s secret letters to him. Instructions that will help with their problem.

Belzagar was telling the truth. Pharazôn wants this war won. He wants the admiration of the Elves. More than admiration, he wants leverage over them. But he does not want to sacrifice proper Númenórean lives in this endeavor. Not yet.

War brings death to the soldiers who fight it. This is inevitable. It is inconceivable to expect that all the Faithful will return from this war unscathed. Even leaving things to chance would help Belzagar’s cause. But Belzagar doesn’t want to simply leave things to chance. No, he has plans to even the odds.

The flaps of the tent are pushed aside and one of his guards walk in.

“Izgûr,” Belzagar greets. “I have been waiting for you. I was wondering why you are so late.”

Izgûr scowls.

“Apparently, everyone was to help with unloading the ships. Isildur said so, and I would have given him a piece of my mind…”

“But I ordered you to keep your head down,” Belzagar interrupts. “I am glad you obeyed me.”

Izgûr doesn’t seem pleased at all with the praise.

“He doesn’t even seem to remember that the last time I saw him I was forcing poison down his throat.”

Belzagar suspects Isildur remembers well enough and has recognized the guard, but he is not going to give anyone the satisfaction of showing that he is upset. Treating the guard like it doesn’t matter is Isildur’s way of showing he is in control.

“My father is right, you now,” Izgûr grumbles. “We should drown all these Elf-lovers in the sea.”

“They know how to swim better than you do,” Belzagar remarks dryly.

Izgûr’s father, Tamar, is a nuisance himself. But he is a nuisance who supports the Kingsmen and follows Pharazôn through thick and thin.

“I have an assignment for you,” Belzagar says. “Well, I will have one. Not yet, but soon. when we ride off to the battlefield.”

Izgûr nods eagerly.

“Whatever you need, my lord.”

Belzagar wonders if the willingness to help is genuine, or if Izgûr is not simply after impressing Belzagar to advance in the ranks. It does not really matter, Belzagar tells himself. He will not be advancing in any ranks after this.

“It’s simple, really,” he says. “We will probably be marching further into Eriador tomorrow or the day after. Whenever we stop for the night, I will send one of the soldiers to scout ahead. One of the Faithful soldiers. You will volunteer to join him.”

Izgûr’s eyes light up.

“I have heard there’s a lot of wilderness in Eriador,” he comments. “A lot of untamed places. Much could go wrong.”

Belzagar smirks. He understands, then.

“Do nothing the first time,” Belzagar warns. “I do not want the Eldar to suspect what we are up to, it would interfere with Pharazôn’s plans. And as for the second time, try your best to make it look like an accident.”

Izgûr shifts.

“Or an orc attack?” he asks hopefully.

He seems to be enjoying this. Pharazôn has chosen well. Belzagar is grateful – up to a point.

“An orc attack would have the entire camp on the alert. They will search the area and discover there are no traces of orcs. They will suspect you, then.”

Izgûr sighs.

“I understand, my lord. An accident it will be.”

They will know, Belzagar thinks. Elendil will immediately suspect that any death to one of the Faithful could be Belzagar’s doing. But Elendil won’t be able to do anything about it. Because he will be too busy wondering what Pharazôn might be doing to those left behind.

“Of course, you will be amply rewarded,” Belzagar tells Izgûr as a parting shot.

He won’t. Pharazôn doesn’t want people to know how he is trying to decimate the Faithful. They might not accept it yet. Izgûr will be a casualty of war. It cannot be helped.

Belzagar hopes Tamar has other sons and daughters.

                  xxxXXXXxxxx

Anárion does not visit the shrine in the root cellar tonight. It would be too dangerous with both Kemen and Eärien in the house. It makes him feel guilty, though, makes him feel incomplete, as if there is something he should be doing but he cannot. These little moments at the shrines are more than simple rituals to him. They reinforce who he is. They allow him to be Anárion. Without them, he feels empty. Hollow. Hopeless.

After a few hours of tossing and turning, Anárion finally gives up the notion of sleeping. He leaves his room and heads for the porch. He is surprised to see someone already there. At first, he thinks it is Estrid. But it is Eärien.

Anárion hesitates in the doorway. Eärien is looking up at the night sky, and she does not seem to have noticed him yet. Anárion could leave. He could go back into the house and find something else to do. He could avoid a confrontation that would be painful for the both of them.

Then Anárion grits his teeth and moves away from the entrance. Eärien is his sister, he reminds himself. She is family, and he cannot avoid her forever.

Eärien turns to him at the sound of his voice. Her eyes hold a knowing look.

“I was wondering if you would come out all the way,” she says.

Anárion’s smile is sheepish. He feels himself blushing against his will. He should have expected Eärien to already know he was there.

“You’ve left the place almost unchanged,” Eärien remarks. “The chair on the porch might be new, though. I don’t remember it.”

“It is new,” Anárion confirms. “Father made it with Theo’s help. For Isil.”

He does not add that it was because Isildur spent nights sleeping on the porch after his release from Pharazôn’s dungeons. He does not know of a way he can phrase this without it sounding like a reproof to Eärien and her choices.

“It is strange, though,” Eärien says. “Being here without Amandil.”

Anárion closes his eyes.

“I’ve had time to get used to it. I miss him, of course. I miss him terribly.”

He misses his father and Isil, too. He cannot voice it out loud. Not to her.

Eärien points to the hill in the distance.

“That is where we would wait for father to return from his sea voyages,” she says. “Remember?”

Anárion has never forgotten. He remembers the keen joy of those days, the connection he felt with both Isildur and Eärien as they ran down the hill, the wind in their hair. He remembers it all and holds it all close, but he knows those times are gone, he knows the three of them have changed, and that connection has shifted into something else. In Eärien’s case, whatever connection is left is frayed and fragile, and Anárion is not sure he is capable of keeping hold of it for much longer.

Suddenly, he feels angry. Not really at Eärien, but at what they have both become. Strangers more than siblings. The Chancellor of Armenelos and the second son of the Lord of Andúnië. So different from each other, it is at times hard to believe that they used to race each other down the hill as children.

Anárion seldom deals well with anger. He either ignores it or he turns against whoever is with him at the time.

“What are you doing here?” he snaps.

Eärien stiffens. Whatever truce there was between them is about to be broken. Anárion feels ashamed for being the one to damage it first, but he cannot take back his question.

“If you mean in this house, I was not aware Kemen was planning on requesting shelter from you,” she says coldly.

Anárion snorts.

“I would have invited you anyway,” he says. “Not Kemen. Just you.”

Eärien’s smile is full of ice.

“Ever the dutiful son,” she mocks.

Anárion shakes his head.

“Not really. I had my share of transgressions.”

Eärien turns to face him.

“Is this what you think this is? What you think I am doing by choosing Ar-Pharazôn instead of Andúnië? You think I am transgressing?”

Anárion bows his head. The night is too dark for this conversation.

“Does it really matter what I think, Eärien?”

She turns her back to him.

“Not really,” she admits.

And there is enough truth in this to hurt Anárion, but he also thinks Eärien is trying to convince herself just as much as him.

“Kemen’s actions today were unforgivable,” Anárion says. “They were orc-work. And you must know this. You must see this.”

Eärien bites her lips.

“You asked what I am doing here. Ar-Pharazôn ordered me to come here. It was not of my doing.”

Anárion has guessed as much.

“Why would he do that?”

Eärien shrugs.

“You don’t question the orders of a king, Anárion. Ar-Pharazôn knows what he is doing.”

Anárion cannot help the snort of derision that escapes him, even though he is aware that it will upset Eärien.

“Oh, he knows what he is doing, alright. Do you know the real reason why he sent you here? Not alone, but with Kemen, who is obviously planning to do much worse than what he did today?”

“You’re the clever one,” Eärien says tightly. “You tell me.”

The sharpness in her voice makes it clear that no matter what Anárion has to say, Eärien will dismiss it. Still, Anárion has to tell her the truth.

“You are here because Pharazôn wants to close the door for you for good.”

Eärien shakes her head, confused.

“Speak plainly. It is too early for riddles.”

“Plainly then,” Anárion accepts. “The people will see you standing next to Kemen as he flaunts his authority about and repeats scenes like the one this morning. They will see you as the enemy, Eärien. If you ever wish to return to us, it would be difficult for you to be welcomed in Andúnië.”

Eärien will not meet his eyes.

“It is a good thing that I have no desire to return, then.”

Anárion does not know why he feels so disappointed. He has already given up on Eärien, has started considering her a lost cause even long before Pharazôn’s ascension. Or has he?

“Ar-Pharazôn has sent me here to be a buffer between the people and Kemen,” Eärien says. “You can help me with that – or you can hinder me, but it will go bad for you, and it will go bad for Andúnië.”

Anárion swallows the anger that scratches at his throat.

“You cannot think that what Kemen did today was right. He threatened to have an innocent child killed before out eyes. Just to prove a point to me.”

“The child wouldn’t have been killed,” Eärien says. “Ar-Pharazôn would never approve of needless bloodshed.”

Anárion nearly laughs at her words.

“We shall see how true this is. But either way, Pharazôn was not here, Kemen was, and Kemen seemed quite comfortable with the idea of shedding blood, needlessly or not.”

“That child would not have been killed,” Eärien repeats with more confidence. “You would have stopped it. Kemen expected you to stop it. All you had to do was comply with him. And you did.”

“It is going to be more and more difficult to comply,” Anárion says. “And more and more lives will be at stake.”

Eärien crosses her arms.

“Ar-Pharazôn does not want this. He does not want to destroy the Faithful.”

Anárion could tell her many things. He could remind Eärien of the Faithful that were captured in Armenelos, of Elendil who was branded a traitor for fighting against the desecration of one of their most sacred Shrines, of Isildur, imprisoned in the dungeons of Armenelos, of all the Faithful pressed into service and sent to war with a commander who does not care at all about them. He could say all these things, but he doesn’t, because Eärien knows them. She knows, and she sees them in a different light than Anárion, she sees them from the perspective of Pharazôn’s lies, and Anárion could try to persuade her until he is blue in the face, but he does not think that it would make much of a difference.

He shrugs and makes to leave. Perhaps he could go to the stables and check on Berek. Isildur has left him behind this time, even though Anárion had argued against it, after all, Berek had saved Isildur’s life last time, if it hadn’t been for him… But Isildur had refused, had claimed that he wanted Berek safe – or, at least, safer than those going to war would be. It was also a practical choice, Isildur had insisted. Berek had pushed himself beyond his limits for him in the Southlands, he was so tired out after rescuing Isildur he had allowed himself to be stolen. Berek still needs to regain his full strength and Isildur could not, in good conscience, take him to war. He would remain behind to watch over Anárion and Estrid.

Eärien grabs his arm.

“Don’t go just yet,” she says. “I need to understand something.”

Anárion freezes.

“What is there to understand?” he asks.

“Why do you place your trust so blindly in the Valar? What do you get from worshipping them?”

Anárion could repeat one of Amandil’s many lessons. That it is not about what you get in return. It is about doing the right thing. But Eärien has never taken this lesson to heart, so she would need a different answer.

“What I get? I get solace, Eärien. Comfort. Stability.”

“Stagnation,” Eärien says.

She sounds disappointed. Anárion shakes his head.

“No. Not at all, Eärien. We evolve and change as all mortals must evolve and change. But we do it slowly. Gradually. Like trees. So that when we do reach a certain point, we are fully ready for it, and we fully need it.”

“And you think in Armenelos we move too fast and want too much,” Eärien accuses. “You think we are too greedy.”

Anárion looks at her pointedly.

“Your king brought a mumak to the island so he could show it off at his own marriage ceremony. You tell me, Eärien.”

He would leave it like that. He would walk away and let her chew on his words, but Anárion finds himself incapable of such final gestures. Perhaps it is because his father has left him in Andúnië as his representative. And Elendil would have never been so petty.

“I know you have your dreams, Eärien. I admire them. Always have. But this is not the way for you to fulfil them.”

Eärien sighs.

“In the end, we will see who was right and who was wrong,” she says. “I think you will find that it is Ar-Pharazôn who wishes to lift Númenor to unspeakable heights, and it is you and the Faithful who wish to cast the island into a dark abyss. As father informed me, it’s a long way to the bottom, Anárion.”

She turns and heads back into the house. After a moment, Anárion follows her. Estrid and Voronwë are still asleep inside, and Anárion does not know where Kemen is. But he does not want to leave his family alone right now.

Anárion does not sleep for the rest of the night, musing on Eärien’s words.

                xxxxxXXXXXxxx

Gil-galad arrives in Lindon with a cortege of wounded from the battlefield. Galadriel accompanies him. They have left Elrond and Vorohil in charge of the fighting.

“We did manage to make them fall back,” Galadriel says. “Perhaps if we push them further and further we could at least keep them away from Eriador for good.”

“We aren’t nearly enough for this,” Gil-galad points out. “We can, perhaps, drive them away from Eriador. What then?”

Galadriel doesn’t answer. She looks tense.

“There has been no sign of him,” she says.

Gil-galad knows who she is referring to. Sauron’s army ravages Eriador. Sauron is nowhere to be seen.

Or perhaps that is wrong. He is everywhere, it seems. There are sightings of him in Mordor, at Pelargir, even in Harad, if their spies are to be believed. Some say he was spotted headed for Rhûn, others say a Necromancer has been courting the men who live close to the Greenwood.

“Some of the rumors could be just rumors,” Gil-galad says. “Even he cannot be anywhere at once.”

“He’s up to something,” Galadriel replies. “Don’t you feel it?”

Her keen eyes search his, and Gil-galad knows what she is asking. What glimpses into uncertain futures is Vilya showing him today? They are the same as ever, Gil-galad thinks. Death. Destruction. Ruin. At first, when he had first seen these visions, he had been convinced it was the destruction of Eregion he was seeing. And perhaps part of it was. But it was more. So much more.

And always, it ends the same. It ends in fire. And Gil-galad knows it is a fire meant for him. It is him that will be burning. This is how his story will end.

“High King?”

Galadriel looks at him as if she can read his mind. Gil-galad has not told her of the fire. A king knows he must sacrifice himself for the greater good, but this is a burden he must bear alone.

“You will hold council with me and the Númenóreans,” Gil-galad tells her instead.

If she knows he is avoiding something, she does not mention it.

“Do you think it will work?” she asks. “Our alliance with Númenor? Now that so much has changed?”

As soon as Arondir debarked the previous day, he had a messenger sent to Gil-galad with his report. The news is not really good. Míriel is more of a figurehead on her island now. Ar-Pharazôn has no love for the Eldar or for the Faithful. Lord Belzagar, the army’s commander, seems to be too full of himself for his own good and is following his own agenda. And the people that have come to fight on Númenor’s behalf have been more or less forced to come, with both the king and the army commander hoping many of them will die on the battlefield.

“It is sad,” Gil-galad comments. “How far Númenor has fallen.”

“When Elrond hears of this, it will break his heart,” Galadriel says. “His brother’s kingdom.”

Gil-galad knows. Elrond never talks about his brother, but Gil-galad knows how much love there was between the two.

“Such is the way of things, I am told,” Gil-galad remarks. “Especially when it comes to the Second Born.”

Galadriel shakes his head.

“Do not underestimate Men, High-King,” she tells him. “Especially not the Men of Númenor. Not all the Men of Númenor.”

Gil-galad wishes he had her faith.

“Still, if they bring their internal disputes to the fight, they might be unreliable allies.”

Galadriel dips her head in acknowledgment, but Gil-galad can tell she is not completely convinced.

“It could very well be the hope of Middle-earth shall come from Númenor,” she says.

How do you know? What have you seen?

“Hope always comes from the West,” Galadriel goes on. “Doesn’t it?”

Gil-galad knows he cannot hope for a host of Valar to come sweep away the current problem as they swept away Morgoth. But perhaps Galadriel is right. Perhaps Númenor can also bring them hope.

                                  xxxXXXXxxxx

The meeting between Gil-galad and the Númenóreans is rather tense. Lord Belzagar is exactly as Arondir described him – arrogant, slippery, devious. From the start, he informs Gil-galad that he is in charge of the Númenórean contingent and that they will not march under any other banner but their own. Belzagar will be equal to whoever commands the entire Elven army (which means he sees himself as equal to the High King himself). Gil-galad has heard similar grumblings from King Oropher, and perhaps Oropher is much more justified to make such claims. Belzagar’s attitude is not encouraging, but as long as they want the same thing, Gil-galad supposes it can be tolerated.

“We will discuss compensation after all this is done, of course,” Belzagar adds.

Gil-galad notices Galadriel shift next to him, her posture tensing. A couple of months ago, he would have been worried, but Galadriel has learned to temper her defiance.

“Compensation,” Gil-galad repeats smoothly. “I wasn’t aware we had hired mercenaries.”

His eyes move to the man standing next to Belzagar. Captain Elendil. The Lord of Andúnië now, Arondir has informed him. The one Galadriel thinks can be trusted without reservation. Elendil’s face is devoid of any expression, yet Gil-galad senses the brimming anger in him.

“We are allies,” Belzagar says, drawing Gil-galad’s attention back to him. “Allies give to each other.”

“We would hope you did not come here only in the hopes of receiving something from us,” Galadriel tells him. “Our purpose is to fight Sauron.”

Belzagar smirks at her.

“Granted, I did not have the pleasure of meeting you during your visit to our fair isle, my lady, but weren’t you the one hoping to receive something from us back then?”

“Not for myself alone,” Galadriel says smoothly.

“I wonder,” Belzagar says. “Still, we wish to win more than valor in battle during this campaign of ours.”

Gil-galad exchanges a brief look with Galadriel. Do you still wish me to have faith in them? he wants to ask, but he does not.

“It is too early to discuss such matters,” he says. “The enemy is close to our lands. After we will drive them out, you and I can have this discussion once more, Lord Belzagar.”

Belzagar grimaces but shrugs, as if he finds himself forced to accept Gil-galad’s terms. Gil-galad tells himself to watch out for the commander of the Númenórean forces. Perhaps he might not sell them all to Sauron, but he is most certainly up to no good.

               xxxXXXXxxxx

Gil-galad tells Belzagar that, since he wants Elendil to be their liaison, then he wishes to converse with Elendil alone. Belzagar leaves, but not before casting Elendil a warning look.

“I have heard only good things about you, Captain,” Gil-galad says. “Both Commander Galadriel and Arondir tell me you are loyal to the true Númenor and would be a staunch ally in our time of need.”

Elendil bows his head slightly.

“They do me a great honor, then. I thank them for their faith in me, and I will do my utmost not to disappoint them. Or you.”

Elendil’s words are calm, his voice steady. There is no forced humility in his speech.

If it was only him, Gil-galad would trust him. But Elendil is under someone else’s command.

“What about Lord Belzagar?” he asks. “What would be the price for disappointing him?”

He watches Elendil’s slight hesitation and gives a curt nod.

“You need not hide this from me, Captain, Arondir has informed me of your situation. You are not here of your own free will, and you have hostages in Andúnië that depend on your conduct here.”

“Has Arondir also informed you that I have instructed the people following me to make sure they do their duty to the fullest extent on the battlefield?” Elendil asks, tone still respectful, but with a faint edge to it.

Gil-galad does not want to offer the man before him doubts. He does not think Elendil deserves them. And yet, he is the leader. And yet, he is responsible for so many lives. He realizes with a jolt that so is Elendil. Belzagar might be the commander of the Númenórean army, but it is Elendil who will watch over the Númenóreans and keep them safe.

“I do not wish to make you feel unwelcome,” he says. “Or untrusted. Yet I sense we both value honesty above all other virtues. Let there be truth between us.”

Elendil nods, his keen eyes finding Gil-galad’s gaze and not flinching away.

“So shall it be. The truth is that I am here to see this through. I will fight against Sauron until my very final breath if there is need of it.”

Gil-galad tenses slightly at the wording. He remembers the visions of the all-consuming fire. He thinks of the knowledge in his blood. And he thinks of Elendil, and how from the very first moment there was a sense of familiarity in him. No, he has not seen Elendil before, and this has nothing to do with Elendil’s ancestors. Yet there is a sense of kinship Gil-galad cannot ignore. He and Elendil are the same, he thinks. He does not know in what respect, yet – but he cannot deny that the threads of Fate have already bound him to the Númenórean sea captain, and there is no knowing where that bond might lead.

                        xxxXXXXxxxx

After the meeting with Gil-galad, Elendil is ready to head back to his troops, when Galadriel approaches him.

“Elendil,” she calls.

Elendil turns and bows slightly to her.

“Commander,” he says. “It pleases me to see that you have found your way back. I am glad you arrived again among your people safely.”

She tilts her head, looking slightly surprised at Elendil’s non-confrontational stance. Elendil supposes he cannot blame her. The last time they had seen each other, he had been far from friendly towards her.

“I believe I should ask your forgiveness,” he says. “That day on the shore – I was not fair to you.”

Galadriel shakes her head quickly.

“No, there is nothing to forgive. I know grief, after all. I know loss. And a loss like the one you thought you suffered…I never expected you to be fair with me. I think the anger was mostly deserved, anyway.”

Elendil thinks differently now. He used to be angry. He used to search for someone to blame, because it was better than blaming himself, even though the anger, the guilt, the resentment was directed at himself more than at Galadriel.

He knows better now. He has long realized that there is little difference between him blaming Galadriel for Isildur’s decisions and Eärien blaming Míriel for them. If he wants Eärien to forgive Míriel, he has to do the same with Galadriel.

Besides, there is something else. Something he has thought about many times, after the attack at the Shrine, when he was waiting for Pharazôn to pass judgment against him. It is something that has to do with the morning of their arrival in Middle-earth. The moment he caught Isildur on the deck with Galadriel.

“Back in Númenor, before Isildur’s return, I had a chance to think of how he was in Middle-earth,” Elendil says. “And I realized that you gave my son something I had been trying to give him for years, without much success.”

“What?” Galadriel wants to know.

Elendil pictures Isildur’s face that morning, the shadows of doubt receding from his eyes, the look of awe and wonder on his face, the smile that for once wasn’t forced or strained or barely there.

“You gave him a purpose,” he says. “A sense of direction. At first, I resented you – that you, a stranger, who knew nothing about him could give him something that I, the father who raised him and watched over him since the day he was born could not. Yet that was a selfish thought. I should have been grateful that my son was given a chance to prove himself, that he was given something that made him happy, even for a short while. And I am, Galadriel. I am so unspeakably grateful.”

He takes her hand ad squeezes it briefly, then lets go.

“Thank you,” he tells her. “Thank you for giving him that.”

He turns and walks away, his shoulders feeling much lighter than before.

Chapter Text

Kemen goes through every room in the house the next day. He even enters the cellar, but since the hiding places are behind a false stone wall, he finds only the barrels of wine from their vineyards. His nose wrinkles.

“Some of this should be given to the King,” he says.

Anárion grimaces, hackles rising.

“Why? Doesn’t the King have his own vineyards, close to the Meneltarma no less?”

Anárion is too young to remember the scandal of Pharazôn’s vineyards. The area around the Meneltarma should have been holy – for all Númenóreans. Then Pharazôn was given lands there that would be his and his alone. Amandil had been furious.

Kemen smirks.

“He does,” he confirms. “But all Númenor is his, have you forgotten this? He has the right to ask for this wine.”

Anárion shakes his head.

“My grandfather tended the vineyards. His hands picked the grapes. What has your father done?”

“Nothing,” Kemen replies smoothly. “He does not need to do anything to ask for whatever he wants in Númenor. He is the king.”

Anárion would say more, but Voronwë places a steadying hand on his shoulder and gives a subtle shake of his head. Anárion understands. Perhaps it is not wise to antagonize Kemen in the cellar of all places. He might decide to do a more thorough inspection.

Kemen goes through the rest of the house. Anárion already knows that Eärien has done the same the day before – Estrid has mentioned it, although she had refused to give more details, even when pressed. There are still papers in Sindarin, yet none of them are valuable. Eärien probably realized this the day before. Kemen, apparently, does not.

Kemen locates several papers in Sindarin and scowls at them, waving them in Anárion’s face.

“Important communication from the Elves, no doubt,” he comments.

Actually, it’s a tally of Voronwë’s sheep, but Anárion is not going to let Kemen know that. Instead, he pretends to be upset.

“Is this why you are here?” he asks. “To take away our possessions?”

“Your possessions are dangerous,” Kemen declares.

He turns to Eärien and meets her eyes.

“You’re his sister,” he says smoothly. “You make him understand.”

Anárion feels a jolt of anger on Eärien’s behalf. Kemen is clearly toying with her, forcing her to choose a side.

Eärien swallows, looking uncomfortable.

“The King deems it unwise for his subject to have ties to the Old Ways. Which means ties to the Elves. Old Elvish writings are forbidden. Anyone caught with Elvish texts in their house will be considered a law-breaker.”

Anárion scowls.

“And what do you intend to do to these law-breakers? Throw us to the Sea Worm?”

Eärien flinches, and Anárion regrets his callous words. She is Elendil’s daughter, he reminds himself, and she loves her father. The memory that Anárion’s words brought to her mind is obviously dark for her.

Kemen acts as if he has not noticed the tension, although it is clear that he has and that it brings him great joy.

“Today, nothing will happen to you,” he declares. “Today, we will search every house in Andúnië and simply purge it of unwanted materials.”

“Purge,” Voronwë repeats. “What do you have in mind?”

Kemen turns to Eärien once more. Eärien’s cheeks are bright red.

“We will set fire to all Elvish texts that we find. In the city square.”

Anárion staggers. He knows. They have all been preparing for this. But now that the verdict has been delivered, the heartbreak is no easier to bear.

“What about the Hall of Lore?” Voronwë asks.

“Never mind the Hall of Lore,” Kemen tells him. “Rest assured, it is being dealt with.”

He continues his search. He notices scattered papers in Estrid’s room, all filled with her still clumsy handwriting. Some is in Sindarin, but a lot of it is in Adûnaic. Kemen snorts.

“Yours, I presume?” he asks Estrid.

Estrid looks away.

“I…I’ve been learning…”

Anárion takes her hand and squeezes it, because she does not need to explain herself to the likes of Kemen. He and Isildur have been teaching Estrid how to read and write – at Estrid’s own request. They have spent many pleasant evenings engrossed in this practice. Estrid is a diligent student, with a keen, sharp mind and willingness to learn.

The contempt on Kemen’s face has Anárion’s hackles rising.

“I didn’t know your lot could learn such things,” Kemen mutters.

Estrid’s eyes flash.

“Theo knows, too,” she says, not willing to allow Kemen to make a mockery of her people. “And in the Southlands – there were many traders who knew.”

Kemen rolls his eyes.

“Clearly, I underestimated you. I was wondering why even someone like Isildur would bother keeping you around. Except for…well, whatever he thinks he gets out of you.”

Anárion sees red. He takes a step forward, placing himself between Estrid and Kemen.

“Leave her be,” he snaps. “You’re here to do whatever it is the king ordered you to do. Fine. We will accept that. But I will not let you insult her in her own home.”

Because this is Estrid’s home. Because she is one of them. And even if she was not, Anárion would still speak out for her.

Kemen’s eyes take on a dangerous glint. For a moment, Anárion wonders if this is what he looked like just before he stabbed Valandil.

“You forget what I told you yesterday, Anárion,” Kemen says. “I am the one who decides what is appropriate and what isn’t. I am the one who decides what I can and should do. And I could be the one who decides if you live or die after defying me.”

He nods briefly to the guards and they both grab Anárion, holding him still. Before anyone can react, Kemen is in front of Anárion, his dagger pressed against his throat.

“I am the one who has power over you,” he reminds Anárion. “Over all of you.”

“Kemen!”

Eärien’s voice sounds as if it is coming from somewhere far away. Anárion blinks, fear and humiliation and helplessness battling in him. He can feel nothing but the sharp blade placed against his throat. He can see nothing but the dark look on Kemen’s face, and he knows beyond any doubt that Kemen would kill him on the spot, that he wants to do this.

“I could slash your throat right now,” Kemen tells him. “And who would take on your responsibilities then?”

Anárion does not answer. He does not look away from Kemen’s gaze, either, but this is the only act of defiance he is capable of at this moment.

Kemen presses the blade. Anárion blinks against the sting. If Kemen pushes any harder that will be it. He wishes he could struggle, that he could pull away, because he does not want to die like this, without the chance to defend himself, in front of Estrid and his grandfather and his younger sister. But any movements would only drive the blade deeper and that would kill him outright.

Surprisingly, Kemen draws back his dagger, but only just.

“Only, it won’t be just you,” he says, voice low, so that only Anárion can hear him. “Because my next act would be to do the same to your grandfather and your little Southlander pet.”

Kemen pauses, his eyes gleaming.

“Now that I think about it, perhaps I will let you live. Imagine the look on Isildur’s face if he returns from the war only to discover you allowed his betrothed to come to harm.”

“Kemen!”

Eärien’s voice breaks the tension, sharp and commanding. She pulls at Kemen, forcing him to remove the dagger and turn to her.

Kemen is tense, and Anárion is concerned that he will turn on Eärien next. He is relieved when Kemen lowers his weapon.

“Remember the sides that you choose, Eärien,” Kemen says coldly. “Because right now it looks as if you are choosing the wrong side.”

Eärien’s face is bright red, her eyes blazing.

“Right now, I am choosing your father’s side. The King’s side. Do you think he would want you to do this? Ar-Pharazôn wants the Faithful to cooperate. Do you think they will if you slaughter the family of their lord?”

Kemen looks as if he is about to say that he does not care. And Anárion is sure that he probably does not, that to Kemen a moment of absolute power would be worth it.

“Kemen, please,” Eärien insists, voice trembling slightly. “This is not… we are not oppressors, Kemen. We aren’t.”

“We are if it is needed,” Kemen says.

Eärien wavers slightly.

“But right now, it isn’t,” she points out. “Anárion will do what you say. Won’t you, Anárion?”

Eärien’s eyes are pleading, silently begging Anárion to cooperate, to allow Kemen to believe that he is the one in charge. Anárion feels the flush of humiliation choking him.

But what can he do? Kemen holds all the cards right now. Kemen could do much worse than what he has already done. And Anárion needs to protect his family, and he needs to protect the people of Andúnië. And he needs to be alive to do so.

“I’ll…I won’t say another word against you,” Anárion replies.

He knows by the look on Kemen’s face that this will not be enough.

“And will you also apologize to me?”

Anger and pride flares inside Anárion. But he needs to do this the right way. If he can protect the people of Andúnië by humiliating himself in such a manner, then he will have to do it.

“I’ll…I’ll apologize,” he says.

He can feel Estrid and Voronwë’s eyes on him. He knows Eärien is also watching. His cheeks burn and there are tears in his eyes. Tears of anger that he hopes he can still keep at bay.

Kemen notices all his emotions.

“Make it convincing enough,” Kemen says. “And I might consider letting you go.”

Anárion breathes deeply. There is a roaring in his ears, and he half-feels as if what is happening is not really about him. As if his mind has left his body, and he is now watching the scene from somewhere up above.

Anárion thinks of the people of Andúnië counting on him. He thinks of Voronwë and Estrid – especially Estrid who has survived hellfire and slavery and unspeakable terrors. He thinks of Eärien, wide-eyed and fearful, caught in the middle by her loyalty to Pharazôn and her love for her family. And he thinks of Isildur and Elendil, who trust him, who hope that Anárion can manage to be what they would be.

It isn’t a difficult choice, he tells himself. It is not really a loss. It isn’t even a true victory for Kemen. Only an illusory one. And it allows Anárion the chance to be there to defend his people later. That is enough. That has to be enough.

“I am sorry,” Anárion says, voice hoarse and small at first, but as he gathers his thoughts he starts speaking more and more confidently. “Forgive me for disrespecting your authority.”

Kemen looks briefly as if he is considering asking Anárion to do more. Perhaps he wants Anárion to fall on his knees before him. Anárion feels sick with dread.

In the end, however, Kemen shrugs, and signs to the guards to release Anárion.

“I’ll be merciful,” he says. “This time.”

He leaves the room, calling Eärien and the guards with him. Eärien hesitates briefly, biting her lips, looking as if he wants to say something to Anárion.

“Go contain that wretch,” Voronwë says tightly. “Do not give him a reason to persecute someone else.”

Eärien looks hurt, but she gives a curt nod and turns away. Anárion notices that her fists are clenched.

Now that he is released, Anárion staggers slightly. He places his hand to his throat and is surprised to find only a faint scratch that isn’t even bleeding anymore. Still, the memory of what happened, the feel of the blade, the ice of Kemen’s mockery, they cling to him, bowing his shoulders. He is shaking, he realizes, and the discovery makes him angry at himself.

Anárion would give anything to walk away. To slink into his room and lock himself there and not get out until Kemen has left. He wishes he could wash clean the memories of this morning, that he could make Voronwë and Estrid forget as well. He wishes he did not know that he would be forced to live the rest of his life remembering what happened to him this morning.

Estrid’s hands are on his arms, and she draws him forward and holds him tight. Anárion wants to pull away. He wants to assure her that he is fine, that he can handle what happened to him, that his father and Isildur and Estrid herself have been through much, much worse.

But he thinks of Eärien wavering between him and Kemen. He thinks of his world upside down. He thinks that he almost died only a few minutes ago, and if it had not been for the fact that Kemen was in the mood to humiliate and not to harm, nothing would have saved Anárion from what Kemen was planning for him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I should have…I should have protected you all better.”

Estrid tightens her hold around him, and Anárion closes his eyes, and allows the world to disappear, if only briefly.

“We protect each other,” Estrid says. “And you did look after us. You did the best you could.”

Anárion does not think so. He is sure Isildur would have known what to do. He wouldn’t have allowed Kemen to get under his skin like this. Isildur wouldn’t be panicking now, shaking because of something that did not even happen.

Anárion wonders if he is truly ready for this. Ready to be a leader. Ready to face what is coming for them.

                        xxxXXXXxxxx

For the rest of the day, Kemen and his guards search every house in Andúnië for Elvish texts. Kemen does not touch the relics and statues that he finds, but he advises the inhabitants to get rid of them on their own.

“Otherwise, when we come back, and we will, we will have to do it ourselves,” he says. “And that is such a bother, don’t you think?”

Anárion accompanies Kemen, despite the fact that his skin crawls whenever he is close to Pharazôn’s son, but he needs to make sure that Kemen does not terrorize anyone else. He watches over the people of Andúnië and tries his best to keep them calm. There are a few close calls when conflicts seem about to flare up, but Anárion puts a quick stop to them.

Voronwë congratulates him, placing a hand on Anárion’s shoulder.

“You’ve done a good job, son. Your father would be proud.”

Anárion searches Voronwë’s gaze, uneasy. After his abysmal behavior this morning, he is afraid Voronwë is only humoring him. Yet his grandfather’s eyes are clear. There is no lie in them. Somehow, this makes Anárion feel worse. As if Voronwë refuses to see that Anárion is a coward.

“I don’t know if I’ve done much. I only stood there.”

Voronwë shakes him slightly.

“You kept them calm. You kept them cooperant. You showed that you are willing to stand by them. I think you’ve done plenty.”

Anárion waits with bated breath for Voronwë to mention this morning. He doesn’t. As if what happens this morning no longer matters, and Anárion doesn’t know what to do with it.

“At least there were no incidents,” he says.

“And they have you to thank for that,” Voronwë insists. “You kept your head.”

Anárion cannot take it anymore.

“I didn’t this morning,” he points out, voice coming out harsher than he intended.

“This morning was a learning point,” Voronwë replies. “It happened because it needed to happen. At least now you know a little bit more about your enemy.”

Anárion glances at Kemen, who is talking to three of his guards. His fists clench.

“He will not get away unpunished. He shouldn’t.”

Voronwë grips his arm in warning. Anárion subsides, understanding the message. There are guards everywhere. They might overhear them and accuse them of talking treason.

“He will not,” Voronwë tells him. “There will be a reckoning, Anárion. Even if it does not come from us.”

But Anárion wants that reckoning to come from him. He wants to be the one to take revenge on Kemen. For Valandil. For his father. For Eärien, in many ways – and for those dreadful moments of humiliation that still burn in Anárion’s mind.

                    xxxXXXXxxxx

Kemen and the guards gather all the texts they can find and place them in a pile in the town square. Kemen summons all the Faithful to attend and makes it clear that he will be merciless with those who refuse.

“I want to see even the children here,” Kemen says. “They should learn from an early age that actions bring forth consequences. And beliefs come with their consequences as well.”

It takes a while for everyone to gather. By the time they are all there, it is nearing sunset. Kemen stands in front of the pile of texts, a torch in his hand. He is flanked by two guards. The other guards are facing the Faithful. Eärien is standing further apart. Anárion notices she looks strained.

“Faithful of Andúnië!” Kemen addresses them. “By decree of the king, all Elvish texts are now forbidden. The possession of an Elvish text will henceforth be considered a crime of treason and will be punished accordingly. Depending on the text and the offender, it can mean flogging or a week in the dungeons. Direct correspondence with the Elves might even mean death.”

A murmur of protest arises from the Faithful. Anárion’s throat tightens. Death is rarely used as a punishment in Númenor and only for the vilest crimes. As for flogging – Anárion is certain never in the history of their island have pain and torture been considered suitable penalties, especially not for simply owning something.

Kemen raises his hand to put a stop to the crowd’s protests.

“Be careful what you say and how you say it,” he warns. “I am not above having you all arrested for sedition and instigating a riot.”

Anárion tenses. The last thing he wants is to interfere in Kemen’s behalf, but he knows this is exactly what he will have to do, if he wants to keep the people safe.

Fortunately, the people subside, although it is clear that they are not pleased.

“Now, I will be lenient,” Kemen says. “This is your first offense, and you were unaware of this new law. So there will be no punishment for you…well, except a very minor one.”

They all hold their breath, waiting for the verdict. Kemen prolongs the moment, thriving on their anxiety.

“Your illegal material will be torched,” Kemen finally declares. “And you will be forced to watch.”

There is some unease, but they were all probably expecting something much worse.

“Now, I could force your leader to light the pyre…” Kemen begins.

Anárion doesn’t dare to breathe. He can see that Kemen is seriously considering doing this to him.

He will do it, if he has to. After all, they have all selected the least important of their writings. The rest are safely hidden. Yet the thought of being forced to set fire to their own possessions leaves him with a bitter taste in his mouth.

Please, do not let him do this to me, he thinks. By all that I am, please, do not let him.

Kemen draws a deep breath. Looking at his smirk, Anárion realizes he has made up his mind. His heart sinks.

“I will do it. I will set them on fire. I want to.”

Eärien’s voice is clear and confident. She means every word.

“I believe it is wise for me to do it,” Eärien adds.

Anárion stares at her. He does not know if he should be grateful that she is sparing him from yet another humiliating ordeal or horrified that she is offering with so much eagerness to be the one to light the pyre.

Kemen shrugs, then steps aside.

“By all means,” he tells her.

Eärien takes a lit torch from one of the guards and moves to light the pyre. Her hair obscures her face, and Anárion cannot see her expression. He wonders, though. He wishes he could know whether she is upset or pleased or indifferent. It would mean the world for him, he thinks, if he knew for sure.

Anárion watches as his sister casts the torch onto the pile of papers. Has she done this only to spare him from doing something that might alienate him from his people? Or is this a symbolic gesture to her, a way for Eärien to burn her own bridges, to let go of her Faithful past once and for all? Anárion suspects that, even if he asked, Eärien would still not give him a clear answer.

His heart breaks for what is burning. True, everything on that pyre is more or less insignificant, the least important texts they could find, official documents and tallies and letters between friends. Yet even if they do not hold any historical value, they hold plenty of personal value to their owners. Part of their lives is on that pyre. Their memories. Their everyday routines. The things that make them who they are.

And all they can do is stand and watch, as it all goes up in smoke.

                          xxxXXXXxxxx

The Númenórean army rides across the long leagues of Eriador towards the battlefield, accompanied by Gil-galad and Galadriel who lead a group of Elven reinforcements from Lindon. There are no incidents, not for a few days.

On the third evening, Bor is sent to scout ahead. Belzagar orders Izgûr to accompany him. Isildur feels his hackles rising, because Izgûr is Belzagar’s man through and through, because the combination of a Faithful and a Kingsman guard feels like something to be concerned about. At the very least, Belzagar is sending a message that the Faithful are under constant supervision. Yet Isildur fears there is something worse at stake.

He nearly offers to go in Bor’s stead, but he is Elendil’s second in command, and Elendil needs him in camp. Still, he is reluctant to allow Bor to go scouting. He knows, though, that he cannot speak out. Belzagar makes the final decisions, and what he says is law. Isildur speaking out will achieve nothing – except to shatter Bor’s confidence.

Isildur is nervous throughout Bor’s absence. Still, he returns after only a few hours with Izgûr in tow.

“Nothing to report,” he tells Belzagar. “All is quiet. There is no trace of any orcs.”

Belzagar looks at Izgûr, eyebrows raised.

“It is as he says,” Izgûr replies. “All is quiet. There is nothing out there but wilderness.”

Belzagar seems satisfied. He dismisses Bor with a cursory nod. Izgûr, he actually thanks.

Isildur does not like the exchange between Belzagar and Izgûr. It feels too much like a code for him. He takes Bor aside the first chance he gets.

“What really happened in the woods?” he asks.

Bor tilts his head, confused.

“What do you mean?” he asks. “We went on a scouting trip. We scouted.”

Bor is still getting used to Isildur being above him in the ranks, and he has a spark of defiance that Ontamo lacked. Yet Isildur does not care about this right now. He only cares about the dark thing twisting his insides, the thing that whispers to him that there is something terrible on the horizon.

“Of course,” he says patiently. “But tell me about Izgûr.”

Bor’s face darkens.

“Izgûr is a rotten wretch.”

Perhaps Isildur should warn him about insubordination. Yet it is only the two of them, and he is fine with the truth.

“Did he say anything to you?”

Bor scowls.

“The usual. How we Faithful are wrong. How we are taking up space in Númenor. Space that could be used by those true to Númenor and not the bootlickers of the Elves.”

Isildur places a calming hand on Bor’s shoulder, sensing the younger man’s rage.

“Pay no mind to him when he says things like this. He is only trying to provoke you.”

Bor does not look convinced.

“Perhaps,” he says.

Isildur clutches his shoulder.

“If you have suspicions, now is the time to tell me.”

He watches Bor for any sign of discomfort, for any sign that something might have happened in those woods beyond mocking words.

“Did Izgûr do anything?” Isildur prompts.

Bor bites his lips.

“He didn’t do anything,” he finally says. “Yet he was shifty. Nervous. As if…” he pauses and shakes his head. “As if he wanted to test the waters. I think he’s up to something.”

Isildur nods.

“Thank you for telling me.”

Bor searches Isildur’s face curiously.

“What are you going to do?” he wants to know.

Isildur feels warmed by how Bor assumes that he will, indeed, do something. Given their situation, acting against one of Belzagar’s men might prove dangerous. Yet Isildur cannot simply let Izgûr unfold whatever dark plots he might be hatching. He cannot allow his fellow soldiers to be at risk.

“Officially, I cannot do much,” Isildur says. “Even if I object to Izgûr joining the patrols – even if my father objects – Belzagar can still overrule us.”

Bor’s face falls. Isildur does not like to see one of his own losing hope. He shakes Bor slightly.

“I said officially,” he points out. “Don’t worry. I might have a plan.”

Bor looks at him curiously.

“What plan?”

Isildur winks.

“Never you mind. The fewer people that know, the better.”

He notices Bor’s uneasy gaze and shakes his head.

“Trust me,” he insists. “I know what I am doing. I wouldn’t do anything that puts my father in a bad position or that endangers those back home. Yet I cannot sit idle when I perceive my men are being threatened.”

Bor’s face clears, and Isildur is glad that he is being trusted, despite his rather tumultuous past.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. “For telling me. For trusting me.”

Bor’s eyes are bright. He shakes his head, as if surprised that Isildur feels the need to thank him for something he believes comes naturally.

“You are one of our own, Isildur,” Bor says. “Who can we trust, if not our own?”

                          ***

Isildur knows he needs to be careful how he handles this. He could take it up with Elendil, but the chain of command is clear. Elendil is doing his best to protect the troops from Belzagar, yet he cannot openly countermand one of Belzagar’s orders. And Elendil has already told Isildur that Belzagar has warned him against asking the Eldar for help or even mentioning the conflict between Faithful and Kingsmen too openly. Yet Belzagar has not forbidden Isildur from seeking out the Eldar, and there are ways in which he can find a solution that would not harm anyone and that would keep his people safe as well.

The next morning, Isildur strolls into the Eldar camp on the pretense of delivering a message from Theo to Arondir. Then, he goes after Galadriel.

“Commander,” he greets.

Galadriel turns to him, and Isildur’s heart stutters, just as it had on the day of their departure. She is ancient, and he can see it in her. She was born in the Blessed Realm, and Isildur is sure that she carries the light of it with her, that when he is in her presence, he can get close to that light and be bathed in it.

Galadriel smiles when she sees him, that warm smile that he remembers so well from that morning on the deck of the ship that was to carry him to the Southlands.

“Isildur! It pleases me so to see you safe and well.”

She takes his hand and presses it in both of hers, and Isildur has to keep himself from acting again like the tongue-tied stable sweep who had not known what to say to his childhood hero. He is here for a reason, he reminds himself.

“You look different,” Galadriel notices. “You look changed. For the better.” There is a smile playing on her lips. “You have the look of your father now more than ever, Isildur son of Elendil.”

Isildur finds himself grinning, basking in the pride and the warmth that her words bring him. He does not allow himself to dwell too much on the praise, though. It is not enough for him to look like he is Elendil’s son. He has to act like it, too.

“There is something I must tell you, Commander,” he begins. “Well, I think I might need your help?”

Her eyes become searching.

“Oh?”

Isildur breathes deeply. He knows he needs to phrase his request carefully. He does not want to lie, but he cannot admit what his greatest fears are, either.

“Lord Belzagar intends to send scouting parties of two nightly to search the area,” Isildur says. “Consisting of one of our soldiers and one of his guards. It is a wise move, I admit, but…I am worried.”

Galadriel draws closer to him and grasps his arm.

“Worried how?” she asks, voice keen and sharp.

She knows, Isildur realizes. Of course she does. She would have figured everything out anyway, but Arondir has probably told her about Pharazôn’s schemes and the status of the Faithful.

Isildur breathes deeply. If they understand each other, things will be much easier.

“We are from Númenor. We do not know these lands well. But your people do. Your people have walked these lands since before any of us in the Númenórean army were born.”

Galadriel nods, and Isildur can see that she suspects where he is going.

“Continue,” she orders.

Isildur swallows. This is it, he thinks, and he feels slightly nervous. He trusts her. He trusts her instinctively, as he trusts all Eldar. Yet, if words reach the Númenórean camp of his intrigues, and Belzagar guesses the true motivations behind his request, what is he going to do to Isildur?

Still, Bor suspects Izgûr is up to something, and Isildur is certain that he is right, and he does not want to sacrifice any of his people to Belzagar’s malice.

“I think…well, I think perhaps one of your people…I do not necessarily say they should scout together with the Númenóreans. Lord Belzagar is rather proud, and he might take offence…”

Galadriel tilts her head.

“But you want us to keep an eye on your scouts,” she guesses.

Isildur’s nod is full of relief.

“And intervene in case…well, in case they look as if they are in trouble. In case they get lost or…a lot of misunderstandings can happen in the woods of an unknown land, Commander, I am sure you know.”

Galadriel squeezes his arm.

“Leave it to me,” she tells him.

Isildur nearly staggers, his knees slightly weak at the thought that maybe they can do this, they can defy Belzagar and fight this war with honor and return home.

“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you so much. I…”

But he stops, because he already told himself not to say too much, not to give away the true danger of their situation, even though Galadriel is well aware of it.

Galadriel’s smile is kind and bright like sunshine after a season of storms.

“I still remember who pulled me out of the sea, Isildur son of Elendil,” she tells him. “And I remember who rode with me into battle for all the right reasons.”

Isildur makes to move away, then stops.

“My father…” he begins, “He doesn’t know I am here.”

Galadriel bows her head.

“I am sure he would commend you for your ability to think on your feet. And for how well you can handle your burdens.”

Back in camp, Isildur takes Bor by the shoulders and shakes him slightly and assures him he need not worry anymore, Izgûr will be taken care of. He is grinning from ear to ear and feels lighthearted and confident.

They have allies, he reminds himself. They are not alone.

                xxxxXXXXXXxxx

Belzagar is certain Izgûr can set his plan in motion the very next evening. He sends the same pair to scout ahead. He waits, biting his nails, even though he tells himself not to appear nervous, because those wretched Faithful see everything, and they are quick to draw the right conclusions. He is surprised when, several hours later, the pair returns. Both of them.

“Why on earth isn’t Bor lying somewhere with his neck broken?” Belzagar hisses, taking Izgûr aside.

He clutches the young man’s arm, having to control himself, because what he actually wants to do is twist until he hears bones breaking.

“I couldn’t do it,” Izgûr gasps.

Judging by the boy’s pale features, Belzagar’s self-control is slipping. He shakes Izgûr.

“Do not you dare tell me you developed a conscience now of all times.”

Izgûr shakes his head vehemently.

“No! No, my lord, I swear I haven’t.”

“Then why do I see Bor alive and well?”

Izgûr gulps.

“I was ready to do it, I swear I was,” he insists. “I was ready to push him over a slope. It was slippery, taken at unawares, he would have fallen and maybe cracked his head open or…or broken his neck.”

“And what stopped you?” Belzagar challenges.

Izgûr points vaguely in the direction of the Eldar camp.

“They did! There were two Elvish scouts. They appeared just as I…”

Belzagar feels cold.

“If you are going to tell me you were seen by the Elves as you were trying to murder one of your own…”

If this is the case, Belzagar will have to act. He will have to silence Izgûr before he is made to talk. He searches for ways in which he could do this. Perhaps stab Izgûr while he sleeps, then hide the body somewhere. The next morning, he can say Izgûr has disappeared – probably deserted. Given that he might have been caught contemplating violence against someone from his own army, it would not be so unexpected.

Desertion would bring shame to Izgûr’s family, and Elendil and the Faithful will probably guess what really happened. But Belzagar cannot be bothered with either problem.

“I do not think they know,” Izgûr said. “They were friendly. They acted as if they were not aware we were sending scouts, too.”

I wonder, Belzagar thinks. The meeting feels too much like a coincidence to him.

“Perhaps you will have better luck tomorrow,” he suggests.

Izgûr looks like he would like to call the whole thing off. Belzagar does not care. It isn’t Izgûr’s decision. It’s his.

                xxxXXXXxxxx

The next evening, however, Izgûr is just as unsuccessful, meeting Eldar scouts before he can kill his Faithful companion. The pattern repeats itself for the next two evenings. Belzagar is at the end of his tether. He is certain now that the Eldar are doing this deliberately, that they have found a way to protect the Faithful from his schemes. He suspects it is Elendil’s doing, but Elendil seldom leaves the Númenórean camp in the evenings, as he is busy with his duties.

Then they reach the defenses set up by the Eldar close to the battlefield. Belzagar breathes easily. Tomorrow, they will ride into battle. and whatever Elendil is doing to keep all the Faithful soldiers safe, it will not matter anymore. People die in war, and whatever the outcome of the fight, the Faithful army will be much diminished.

Perhaps, Belzagar thinks hopefully, perhaps tomorrow’s battle will rid him of either Elendil or Isildur – or both.

Chapter Text

Elrond is familiar with the Númenóreans. How can he not be? They are his brother’s people, led by his own father to a land that was to be their treasure. They might be of the Edain, completely different from him, just as Elros himself was different – but they are still, in some way he cannot explain, his. Not in the sense that they belong to him, but that they are a part of him. Or something of him is a part of them. It is hard to explain.

Long ago – at least, long ago for the Númenóreans, time passes differently for the likes of Elrond, something which, he is beginning to understand, mortals might not always understand and appreciate – Elrond used to visit Númenor. He was there often when Elros was still alive, even though he was absent in Elros’ final years. Not because he had wished it so, but because Elros had asked him to.

“The Second Born age, my brother,” Elros told him. “Their hair turns grey, then white. Their face wrinkles. They lose something of who they were.”

“I have seen Men age, Elros. Why do you think that should frighten me?”

Elrond still remembers that day. He has not told anyone about it. Not even Galadriel. Not even Gil-galad. Not even Dúrin, and usually, he gives more of his mind to Dúrin than he does to many of his own people.

He was in Armenelos, admiring the beauty of Nimloth, the young White Tree that the Eldar from the Blessed Realm had gifted the Númenóreans. Elrond had always felt drawn to Nimloth, because it had been born over there across the Great Sea, where his people hailed from, where he longed to go one day.

When Elrond had asked Elros why Elros believed seeing mortals age should frighten him, Elros had turned Elrond to face him. His keen eyes reached out into Elrond’s soul, as they did when they were both children, only now it felt different. Now, it felt as if something of Elros was withheld from him.

“Because you never wanted to see me as one of the Second Born,” Elros said. “You still refuse to do so.”

Elrond had wanted to deny this, had wanted to insist that he knew what his brother had chosen and what that meant. Deep down, though, he knew that Elros was right. He was unnerved by who Elros was becoming. The aging was slow in him, but the changes were there for someone as keen-eyed as Elrond to spot. Elrond had been spotting them for three visits now. And he was afraid.

“I want to be there,” Elrond said. “When it…when you…I want to be there.”

I want to be there when you die. Even thinking it had made him almost physically ill.

Elros had pulled him towards him and had held him, and it was more the embrace of an older brother than that of a twin, because they were no longer that, not really, because Elros had grown beyond him.

“You do not,” Elros said firmly. “You actually dread the thought of my death.”

The word, spoken so calmly, so resignedly, had Elrond flinching. Elros tightened his hold.

Don’t let go, Elrond had thought. Don’t let go, just let us have this, you and I, forever, because if you let go, I will lose you, and if I lose you, I will lose myself as well.

How could Elros talk about death as if it had been waiting for him all his life, even before being offered his chance to choose? How could he talk as if he might even be looking forward to it?

Elrond knew how. Death was a Gift to Men. The Eldar called the Second Born ungrateful, because they seemed to fear their gift, and some clung to life even when their own souls were begging to be set loose.

Yet Elrond wished Elros would refuse to let go. He wished he would cling to life. If not for his sake, then for Elrond’s. Because where would Elrond be without his brother?

He did not voice his thoughts aloud, having enough presence of spirit to know it would bring Elros pain. Knowing he was unfair and selfish and asking Elros to stay or to change his choice would be a heartless manipulation, and you did not do such things to the ones you loved.

And yet, the knowledge that the final parting was approaching slashed at his soul. He would be diminished soon. He would be alone. He would be brotherless.

Elros probably guessed his thoughts. Elros had always been good at guessing what Elrond was thinking. Even after Elrond had started to realize that Elros’s choice was making his mind hard to understand.

Elros had held him for a long time, then he had looked at him as if he was trying to memorize every inch of Elrond’s face. Painting in his mind a picture of his brother, to take with him wherever he was going, beyond the confines of the world.

“Let this be our last parting,” Elros said. “Here, between the Western lands and Middle-earth. Don’t you think it is fitting?”

And it was, Elrond acknowledged, on the day he sailed away from Númenor, knowing that, if he ever came again, everything would be changed, as his brother would be no more. It had been fitting for the two of them to part there, on an island that stood between two worlds.

Elrond and Elros, he had always felt, had also been unable to belong to only one world.

                           xxxXXXXxxxx

Since his brother’s death, Elrond has been in Númenor only a few times. The first time, it was a personal visit at the request of his nephew. The second time, it had been as an official envoy, sent by Gil-galad. The third time, his ship had been turned away, with the clear message that Númenor wished to cut ties with the Eldar.

Elrond has felt many things about this change. Mostly, he has felt betrayed. Because his brother would have certainly not wanted this. His brother would have looked at what Númenor was becoming, and he would have wept.

Galadriel’s description of Númenor tells him that things are getting worse there, but there is still hope. Arondir’s account, that Gil-galad sends to Elrond ahead of their arrival at the battle camp, paints a worse picture. The people true to the old ways are still fighting for what they believe in. Yet they are exiled on their own island, despised and sent to die in foreign lands. Pharazôn is as much Elros’ descendant as Míriel, yet the difference between the two is like that between darkness and light.

The difference between Pharazôn and Elendil, Elrond thinks when he meets the latter, is probably just as massive. The first time Elrond sees Elendil it is in Gil-galad’s large tent, holding council with Galadriel and with Belzagar, the commander of the Númenórean army. Commander, Arondir has informed him in private, is a loose term. To the Faithful, he is a tyrant. To the Elves, he seems to be the person who makes unreasonable demands and sends others to die for him.

Elrond walks in with maps that detail the current status of the battlefield. He stops in the entrance and cannot suppress a gasp. In the light of the candles on the small table, it is as if he sees Elros again.

“Commander?”

Gil-galad’s voice is clipped, but with a hint of concern that only those who know him well – like Elrond – can discern.

He knows then, Elrond thinks, then nearly laughs, because of course he knows. How couldn’t he? Gil-galad has probably seen the resemblance just as clearly as Elrond has.

He tears himself out of his memories, because the man before him is not Elros.

“High King,” he says, then turns to the Númenóreans: “Honored allies. I bring you our latest battle plans.”

He strides forward, bows to both Belzagar and Elendil and places his battle plans on the table.

“Both armies are at a stalemate now,” he comments. “The orcs are not advancing. Then again, neither are we.”

“Why not?” Belzagar asks sharply.

Elrond raises his eyebrows, but he has been a diplomat longer than he’s been a warrior. He knows how to deal with disgruntled dignitaries. Galadriel might accuse him of being too much of a politician, but Elrond thrives in such situations. Perhaps, he thrives better than on the battlefield. He is a warrior by necessity. Like most of them are.

“The orcs have conquered a human settlement,” he reports. “It’s to the east of Tyrn Gorthad. That is a land we do not want to enter.”

He swallows briefly, remembering their disastrous venture in the foggy downs. Daemor’s death still haunts him. Even after Eregion, even after so many others dead, it is Daemor who appears more often in his dreams.

Galadriel brushes her arm against his. To an outsider, the touch would appear almost accidental. Elrond knows it is an attempt at comfort. Given that she could have showered him with I-told-you-so’s about Daemor, given that  he had discounted her advice back then out of sheer petulance, Elrond finds himself immensely grateful for the way she is.

“We need to go around the Downs,” Galadriel says. “And we need to free the village.”

“Free the village,” Belzagar repeats. “Wouldn’t that be a waste of our resources? And we are essentially talking about starting a siege. That would take time.”

It is on the tip of Elrond’s tongue to ask Belzagar if he has somewhere else to be. He stops himself at the last moment. He’s been reading too many of Dúrin’s letters – he’s even starting to sound like him.

“I would prefer to meet them in the open field myself,” Elendil admits. “But if we cannot meet them on the open field, a siege will have to do. Of course,” he adds, frowning at the map, “I would also like to make sure I do not harm the inhabitants.”

“Even if they’re orc collaborators, Captain?” Belzagar asks smoothly.

Elendil holds his ground.

“They are not collaborators if they are enslaved by the enemy, Commander,” he states calmly.

Elrond watches the two of them, the silent clash of wills, the lightning that seems to bubble beneath the surface of their interaction.

“They are low-men,” Belzagar reminds. “Although, perhaps you do not care about such things. After all, if you allow your own son to marry one and spoil your bloodline…”

If this was Elros, he would have been at Belzagar’s throat, and it would have taken the efforts of everyone in the tent to pull them apart. Yet, however much Elendil might look like Elros, his temperament is far different, it seems.

“I have been taught that no man is above another in worth,” he says. “They might not be Númenóreans, but they are still our kindred.”

Belzagar’s lips curl in something that looks half-mockery, half-disgust.

“Are they our kindred enough for you to risk an entire army for them?” he asks, then waves the question aside. “I suppose we will follow the decisions of the Elves anyway.”

“Given that otherwise we would be in each other’s way, I think we should,” Gil-galad says smoothly. “I would also recommend the liberation of the village.”

“Doing so would offer us an additional base,” Galadriel points out. "And the villagers might help us. With supplies from their fields. With shelter, if needed. Good deeds bring their own rewards.”

“There is also the matter of keeping the Men of Middle-earth on our side,” Elrond feels the need to add. “If we do not offer them something, Sauron will.”

He does not mention the rings. They have all agreed not to mention the rings. Not those made for the Elves, not the Nine Sauron has in his possession.

“Already, men are flocking to him,” Galadriel adds. “In the South. In the East.”

In Númenor, too, maybe, Elrond thinks. After all, if Sauron walked among the Númenóreans for however short a time, who is to say who is corrupted and who isn’t?

He thinks of Belzagar. He cannot deny it. Belzagar would be the type of person Sauron would offer one of his Rings to. Belzagar would also be the type of person to accept it.

                          xxxXXXXxxxx

In the evening, after the planning session with the commanders of the Elven armies, Elendil goes in search of Isildur. He finds him with the horses – not that he is surprised, even though Isildur has left Berek at home, he’s always had an affinity towards horses that he never bothers to hide (in this respect, Elendil thinks, Isildur is Tindómiel’s through and through).

Isildur is inspecting Elendil’s mount, because Elendil has mentioned this morning that the horse seemed a bit too breathless and uncooperative of late.

“I think you’re healthy, aren’t you, old friend?” Isildur is saying. “You just miss home, don’t you? You’ve been moved around for too long. From Armenelos to Andúnië and now to Middle-earth. But don’t worry. We’ll have the finest hay waiting for you when you get home.”

“Careful,” Elendil warns. “Otherwise mine will become just as spoiled as yours.”

Isildur looks up at the sound of his voice. His grin is bright, his eyes twinkling.

“Now where would I have learned about spoiling someone in the first place?” he asks cheekily.

Elendil chuckles.

“Of course. My father did warn me when you were a child that you had me wrapped around your little finger and then some.”

“I don’t remember you ever complaining, Father,” Isildur points out.

His grin fades, his eyes growing grave.

“How did it go?”

“We should prepare to meet them in a village they occupied.”

He notices Isildur’s frown and nods.

“I know. Siege-work is not what we are good at, and it could put the inhabitants at risk.”

“It could also free them,” Isildur points out. "I doubt they want to be slaves to the orcs.”

Elendil wonders if Isildur is thinking of Estrid and what happened with her in the Southlands. It is not something he wants to ask, especially not here.

“What about him?” Isildur asks. “Is he also there?”

Him. Sauron. Elendil feels the shadows of the night grow around them. Even thinking about him draws them close.

“Apparently we do not know yet where he is.”

Isildur nods. His face is pinched. Elendil reaches out and touches his shoulder.

“What is it?” he prompts.

Isildur draws a deep breath. He isn’t looking at Elendil.

“I keep thinking…that day, during the battle of Tirharad. When you…when you were down…I keep thinking about that.”

Elendil’s heart clenches. He has been thinking about this, too. He has been thinking too much about it.

“I keep going over that moment,” Isildur confesses. “It keeps happening before my eyes. over and over.”

“Mine as well,” Elendil says.

Isildur clenches his fists.

“I keep thinking…how easily it would have been for him to divert that spear somewhere else. He could have pointed it at you…”

Isildur stops and swallows. Elendil can see his face is pale, as if the mere thought makes him ill.

Elendil himself has never thought of this. He does not think it is really that likely.

“If he had wanted me dead, he could have simply allowed the orcs to finish the job,” he points out.

Isildur is not looking at him.

“Or he could have wanted to make sure and thrown that spear your way.”

Sometimes, Elendil is frightened by the way his firstborn finds thoughts and fears to torment himself with.

“He had no reason to do this, I think,” he confesses. “We call Sauron cruel, and of course he is, yet he never does something without a reason.” He pauses and breathes shakily. “That is why him saving my life worries me.”

Isildur’s eyes find his. Elendil notices the sharpness in them.

“Whatever reasons he thinks he has, he is wrong,” Isildur says firmly. “And if he entertains the notion that you might join him, then he isn’t as knowledgeable of men’s hearts as he likes to think he is.”

There was a time, Elendil remembers, when he was afraid that Isildur had lost all faith in him. Clearly, if he has indeed lost it, he was quick to gain it back.

“I saved his life,” Elendil reminds Isildur. “Or at least… I pulled him out of the water.”

Isildur nods at this.

“Of course you did. And you pulled Commander Galadriel also. But that does not matter. Whoever was on that raft, you would have saved them.”

Isildur takes his arms and clutches them, and the look in his eyes is so fierce and so full of love and admiration that it takes Elendil’s breath away.

“Because that is the kind of man you are, Father. And I am proud of the man you are. And you must not let him take your act of kindness and twist it. You must not. I won’t let you, you hear me?”

A year ago, even a few months ago, Elendil wouldn’t have expected Isildur to defend his actions with so much vehemence. But perhaps he is wrong. Perhaps he has never really lost Isildur’s admiration – perhaps it has grown into something else; not the adoration that a son naturally gives his father, but respect born out of careful observation.

“When have you grown so wise?” he asks.

Isildur’s grin is bright as sunlight. It makes Elendil think that he might be wrong – that he hasn’t been tainted, that he hasn't been chosen by the wrong side.

It makes him even more determined to fight against Sauron and what he stands for – here and in Númenor.

             XxxXXXXxxxx

Elrond had not meant to eavesdrop on the conversation between Captain Elendil and his son. He wouldn’t have, but then he heard them mixing Sindarin in their speech, and it sounded as if they did this all the time, as if Sindarin is as much a part of them as Adûnaic, and Elrond is once again reminded that these Men are his kin, that they come from Elros and are now the only reminders that Elros did, indeed, walk this earth.

After Elendil walks away, Elrond approaches Isildur whose eyes widen when he spots him.

“You are…” he begins, breathless and shaky, “I know who you are.”

Elrond smiles.

“News travels fast, I see. I have not even been introduced to you, and others have already gossiped about me to you.”

Isildur shakes his head quickly.

“No. No, you see, I recognize your face. It was on a tapestry. In the Hall of Lore back home.”

Elrond does not know what to feel about his face being on a tapestry.

“That is rather unexpected,” he quips. “Has everyone seen it?”

“Well, I do not know if Belzagar’s guards have ever seen the inside of the Hall of Lore,” Isildur replies.

He checks himself, as if afraid he has said too much, then shrugs.

“If this was Númenor in the old days, more people would have been to the Hall of Lore. And more people would have seen the tapestry.”

Elrond nods. He understands.

“I remember seeing the Hall of Lore once,” he confesses. “When it was being built. My brother took me to see it.”

Isildur’s face takes on a solemn look.

“Oh.”

His voice holds something in it that surprises Elrond. It is not awe – usually, when mortals realize how old he is, how he has known this or that personage of legend, they show their owe. But Isildur sounds subdued – as if he was somehow sorry for Elrond.

“Your loss,” Isildur adds, confirming Elrond’s suspicions. “It can’t be easy.”

Elrond frowns. This is the first time anyone has addressed Elros in such terms.

“Such is the nature of choices, I am afraid,” he says. “They often lead to loss.”

Isildur bites his lips.

“It still can’t have been…I have a brother myself. And a sister. If I were to lose them…”

He stops and gives a curt shake of his head.

“I am sorry. I am being maudlin.”

“Understandable,” Elrond says. “You’re far from home. You’ve left much behind.”

Isildur looks away.

“I want to be here,” he says.

There is a hard edge to his voice. A defiance that shows he is not going to allow anyone to doubt him. No matter who they are.

Elrond nods.

“Personally, I would prefer if I was back in Lindon. With my books and my speeches. Or…in our new settlement. Taking care of the refugees from Eregion and trying to salvage what little is left of the city.”

“That must have been hard to witness,” Isildur remarks. “The falling of a city that was supposed to last forever.”

Elrond could mention the felling of Feänor’s statue. The burning of so many tall buildings. The loss of the river. Yet there is something else that haunts his dreams even more.

“We had writings there that had been salvaged from Beleriand,” Elrond confesses. “From Nargothrond and Gondolin – even some from Doriath. Celebrimbor had stored much knowledge over the years. They burned it all before our eyes. It’s all lost now.”

He expects Isildur to dismiss this. He expects him to not understand and is taken aback when he looks at Isildur and realizes that he actually does. That he can imagine the burning of so many ancient writings and grieves for it just as much as Elrond does.

“I fear the Hall of Lore will suffer a similar fate,” Isildur admits. “And I fear it will be my own people who will light the flame.”

He stops and shakes his head, eyes wide, as if afraid he has said too much. Before Elrond can respond, Isildur moves away.

“I have to…I have duties…” he explains hurriedly.

Elrond lets him leave. He stands there in the middle of the camp and cannot escape the dreadful certainty that his brother’s beloved kingdom will fall, destroyed from within.

                             XXXXxxxxXXXX

Eärien knows Kemen plans to remain in Andúnië for a while, probably until the fleet returns. She does not know if these are Pharazôn’s orders or if Kemen is improvising. She does know that nothing she says will convince Kemen to return to Armenelos.

Anárion does not comment on Kemen’s decision to stay. He merely shrugs and asks Kemen exactly what he expects to get out of his prolonged visit.

“Perhaps I have grown fond of this quaint place,” Kemen remarks.

“I very much doubt that,” Anárion retorts.

Kemen smirks. Eärien watches, tense and nervous. She remembers Kemen and Anárion’s previous confrontation and knows that one wrong word from either of them will put Anárion’s household in danger.

It’s your household, too, Eärien reminds herself. She does not know why the words sound so difficult to believe. She does not know why she feels so disconnected from everyone in Andúnië. As if they are not really hers. As if she has never been theirs to begin with.

“You tell me then, Anárion,” Kemen invites calmly. “Why am I staying?”

Anárion squares his shoulders.

“Because you like to remind us you are in charge.”

Kemen nods.

“Correct. I am. You shouldn’t forget that too soon, Anárion. Otherwise, you’ll get dangerous ideas into your head.”

“You also want to catch us on the wrong footing,” Anárion goes on, ignoring Kemen’s warning. “You want someone from Andúnië to break your father’s laws. You want bloodshed.”

Kemen’s face is devoid of any expression.

“Do I?”

Anárion turns away.

“I know your mind, Kemen. I know it better than you think.”

Kemen shrugs.

“And I know yours, Anárion.”

Anárion shakes his head.

“You do not.”

Kemen comes to stand close behind Anárion. Eärien takes a step forward, heart pounding. She is suddenly afraid that Kemen will stab her brother in the back just as he did Valandil. But no – Kemen had not meant to stab Valandil. He has repeated it over and over again, that the act had been instinctive, that he had lost his head, that he had instantly regretted the deed the moment it was done.

Anárion, on his part, does not turn to face Kemen. Whether his mind has gone to the same place Eärien’s has is hard to tell. Eärien would want him to turn around, but she understands what he doesn’t. for Anárion, it is important to show that he does not fear Kemen. Especially after the last time.

“You do not know me at all,” Anárion insists. “You can’t.”

Kemen snorts.

“You’re much easier to read than your brother, Anárion. Isildur has darkness. He’s ruthless. In many ways, I think he’s like me.”

Anárion swirls round at that, as Eärien expected he would. His eyes are smoldering.

“Do not you ever talk about my brother in such a manner. Understand, Kemen? You’re nothing like him. You can’t even dream of becoming half the man he is.”

He takes a step towards Kemen. His fists are clenched.

“And you will never in your wildest dream have people following you the way they would follow Isildur. Not out of fear, Kemen. Not even because you’re your father’s son. But because they cannot imagine following anyone else.”

“Not even you” Kemen points out.

Anárion shakes his head.

“I know I am not my brother. I don’t want to be. If one of your objectives is to turn me against Isildur – you have already failed. It will never happen.”

He walks past Kemen, head held high. Eärien cannot quite quell the twinge of admiration she has for Anárion now, although she is afraid. Kemen makes enemies quickly and does not forget humiliation.

“What exactly did you think you were going to accomplish with that?” Eärien asks.

Kemen shakes his head. His eyes have that dark, frustrated look that tells Eärien he is plotting something.

Eärien takes his hand and clutches it, forcing Kemen to meet her eyes.

“What are you not telling me?” she accuses.

Kemen grabs Eärien’s arm and takes her outside. He leads her up the path that heads into the garden.

“I don’t want us to be overheard,” he says through clenched teeth. “I wouldn’t put it past your brother – or that Southlander.”

Eärien feels a twinge of fury she can’t quite contain.

“Estrid,” she corrects. “Her name is Estrid. She has a name, Kemen. The least you can do is use it.”

Kemen is still walking.

“Her name won’t matter soon enough.”

Eärien’s entire body grows cold.

“What do you mean? Kemen!”

Kemen still has not stopped, and Eärien finds herself irrationally afraid. For herself. For her family. For the values she is sure she has given up, but that still exist in her mind, nonetheless.

“Kemen tell me,” she orders.

Finally, Kemen stops. He lets go of her arm. Eärien briefly considers running back to the house. But she needs to know what is happening. She needs to know what is in Kemen’s mind.

“Tell me,” she insists.

Kemen’s shoulders slump.

“Can I trust you, Eärien?”

What kind of a question is this?

Eärien is ready to say yes, but she hesitates. Pharazôn can trust her – but even he can only trust her up to a point. She has already worked against him. Once for her father, alerting him of the arrests of the Faithful. Then, for Isildur, giving Estrid the maps to the prison where he was being held.

“You can trust me to be loyal to the king and his laws,” she says.

She tells herself that this is the truth. She is loyal to Ar-Pharazôn. She is ready to uphold his ideals, his visions of a new Númenor, his beliefs. Even against the Faithful. Especially against the Faithful. But not against her own family. She cannot do that.

Still, Kemen is the last person who needs to know this. Kemen is the last person who would understand this anyway.

“I have never broken an order from Ar-Pharazôn,” she adds.

This much is true. Because Pharazôn had not ordered her not to warn her father on the night of the arrests. He had not ordered her not to get involved in Isildur’s imprisonment.

Kemen’s shoulders slump. He smiles at her.

“Thank you, Eärien. You have no idea how lonely it is. I do not know who to trust.”

Eärien thinks uncharitably that this is mostly his fault. Still, something in Kemen’s attitude speaks to her. She finds herself remembering him as he was in the early days of their acquaintance – when she had toyed with the idea of making a life with him. The notion no longer has much of an appeal to her, especially not after Valandil, yet she thinks that at times she understands Kemen. That she feels for him.

“I’m here to listen,” she says.

Kemen’s eyes are dark.

“No, actually you are here to keep me in line.”

“Not now,” Eärien protests. “Now I am here to listen. What were you trying to do today with Anárion? Get him to attack you? Anárion might be an unwilling fighter, but he is a skilled one nonetheless.”

She regrets the words as she feels Kemen withdrawing from her.

“Unlike me, you mean?”

Once again, Eärien thinks of Valandil. She swallows against the anger.

“What is happening?” she insists. “Why aren’t we going back to Armenelos?”

Kemen turns away.

“I am out of favor with my father,” he confesses. “Surely you know that.”

“Well…”

Kemen waves her attempts at being diplomatic aside.

“Of course you know. The entire wretched island knows. I am out of my father’s good graces. Well, I want to get back my rightful place. I want his respect. I want his trust.”

Eärien frowns.

“What does this have to do with Anárion?”

She falters when she notices the ice in Kemen’s eyes.

“Anárion is currently the only heir to the lord of Andúnië left on Númenor.”

“Not exactly,” Eärien feels the need to point out.

Kemen looks surprised that she has reminded him of this – because Eärien is more likely to reject her legacy than acknowledge it so freely.

In the end, Kemen nods, accepting this.

“Not exactly,” he agrees. “But the Faithful will never follow you, would they? Especially not after you were seen with me. Not after you set fire to their texts.”

Eärien looks away. She feels the heat of shame on her cheeks.

Do you know why you are really here?

Anárion’s words form a refrain in her mind. Anárion is convinced Pharazôn wants to completely alienate Eärien from the Faithful. Eärien has initially rejected this. She thought it is beneath Pharazôn. Yet Pharazôn has always been ruthless when it comes to strategy. And Eärien has to admit, this would be a good strategy. She still cannot help feeling slightly used – slightly betrayed.

“You are right,” she says heavily. “The people will not follow me. But they will follow Anárion.”

Kemen takes a step closer to her. There is something in his eyes that reminds Eärien of his father. There is something else as well – maybe it also comes from Pharazôn or maybe it belongs only to Kemen. Either way, it frightens Eärien.

“That is exactly it,” Kemen says. “I want to provoke him into doing something so rash, that he is immediately taken off the board. I want to have him arrested or…or disgraced.”

“Kemen!”

She wants to stop him. She has to stop him. She cannot allow Kemen to do this to Anárion – to her own brother.

Kemen smiles, indulgent and almost kind, as if he understands Eärien’s turmoil – but Eärien knows he is only pretending to understand.

“I am sorry it has to come to this, Eärien. But the lordship of Andúnië is dangerous. And Anárion has to go. One way or another.”

Eärien urges herself to remain calm.

“What about when my father and Isildur return?” she asks.

Kemen hesitates. Eärien closes her eyes against the horror that hesitation brings.

“Why do you seem convinced they won’t return?” she challenges. “They’re both skilled warriors. They’re both survivors.”

Kemen places his hands on her shoulders and bends down to whisper in her ear.

“Do you think my father and Belzagar will allow things in the hands of fate alone?”

He lets Eärien go then and walks back to the house.

Eärien remains in the garden, stunned by Kemen’s words.

“No,” she tells herself. “No, he’s got it wrong. It can’t be.”

The wind is blowing from the west. It is a cold wind, icy and cruel, as if something from the land of the Valar is rejecting her.

Eärien shivers. She has never felt more alone.

                  xxxxXXXXXxxxx

The army does not reach the village when the orcs attack them. The fight is fierce. Elendil barely has time to get his own troops in order, and he needs to ensure that they are not driven back, because the orcs seem bent on separating the Númenóreans from the Eldar and driving the Númenóreans towards Tyrn Gorthad.

Elendil’s men fight bravely, keeping the orcs at bay. Yet the fight is different from the one in the Southlands. Then the orcs had been mighty opponents, true, but Elendil can now assess clearly the difference between the orcs and Adar and the same army under Sauron. Now, it is as if they do not care whether they live or die. Not as long as they take as many enemies as possible with them.

The battle lasts for a full day with brief pauses. At first, Elendil tries to keep track of Isildur as much as he can, but his attention is divided into many places, the rest of his people need him as well, and it is hard to keep your mind on one single thing in a battle. He does not know when he loses sight of Isildur, but once the battle is over, he cannot say where Isildur is or where he has seen him last.

There are casualties, of course. Elendil loses ten soldiers, and he knows it could be worse, but each death is like a dagger in his heart. Each death is a victory to Pharazôn, but more than this, he sees it as proof that he was unable to protect his people, that he is not what Amandil would have wanted him to be, that there are worse dangers to come, and Elendil does not know how many of them will be left alive by the end.

He thinks of those left behind in Andúnië. He thinks of the doors he will have to knock on his return, of the news he will have to deliver. So many doors already. Just like last time, in the Southlands.

Gil-galad meets him after the battle and sets his own people to help with the bodies, digging mounds for the fallen Númenóreans. Elendil has not asked this of him. He would have handled it all himself, but he is grateful for the proof that they are allies, that the sacrifices of his people are acknowledged and respected, especially given Gil-galad’s doubt during their first meeting.

Still, the help can only bring little comfort. It does not completely erase Elendil’s guilt. It does not negate the fact that ten Númenóreans will never see their island again, and they are buried in exile, on a foreign shore.

“Have you seen Isildur?” he asks Theo after the burials are complete.

He hopes he will not have to add Isildur to the fallen as well. He hopes that it will not be like this again, him losing his firstborn without even a chance to see him one last time.

Theo chews his lower lip.

“He was fine the last time I saw him,” he assures Elendil. “Standing on his own and all. He and a couple of others cut off some of the orcs from the main hoard. They drove them away from the village.”

Elendil breathes deeply. Isildur is a good fighter, he tells himself. He doubts that he can be brought down by mere orcs. And yet…

“Well, where is he, then?”

Theo shrugs.

“Lord Belzagar, he wanted to talk to him,” he says. “From what I gathered, it was urgent and could not wait.”

Elendil turns away. Belzagar… why would he summon Isildur? What is he playing at?

“He can’t be trying anything,” Theo says tentatively. “Not with all the Elves in camp. They’d know if something happened…we’d all know who to blame.”

But by that time Isildur could already be dead, so it would not matter.

“Where is Lord Belzagar?” he asks.

Theo’s face darkens.

“He pitched his tent on the other side of the river,” he remarks with disgust. “Away from the battlefield. He said he was coordinating the battle. From a distance, of course.”

Elendil looks around him. There is nothing he can do for the fallen, although they would deserve more of his time – they would deserve his thoughts and his silence and his gratitude. But he must look to the living now. He must watch out for those of his army left alive – Isildur included.

He hurries towards the river and the tents he can see on the other side. His mind is full of dark imaginings, because there are only Belzagar’s men in that place, and if Isildur is alone with them, then that can mean nothing good.

Chapter Text

Isildur feels tendrils of panic when Belzagar summons him to his tent. He searches for Elendil, but he cannot find him. He would like to request a respite. He would like to ask for time to at least make sure his father is still alive, that he has made it out of the battle. Yet the guard who has come for him is Belzagar’s man through and through. And he will not take no for an answer.

“You do not keep Lord Belzagar waiting,” he says. “Not if you know what’s good for you.”

So Isildur crosses the river and walks into Belzagar’s tent. Belzagar scrunches his nose when he catches sight of him.

“You look filthy, Lieutenant,” he reproaches.

Isildur keeps his face blank.

“There was a battle, Commander,” he points out. “Battles are seldom clean.”

Belzagar eyes him critically.

“Do you know why I summoned you, soldier?”

Isildur shakes his head.

“I am afraid I do not.”

He tries to remain calm, but his throat is dry. He has mentioned more than he should have done to Elrond the night before. Not that Elrond would have said anything, certainly not to Belzagar, yet they were right in the middle of the camp. Who can tell who was eavesdropping on their conversation?

Belzagar looks at Isildur as if he is a prisoner facing judgment. He had looked the same back then in the cells, when he had ordered Isildur to be chained to the wall for five days, when he had taunted Isildur with hints of what was in store for him.

“I am not pleased with you, Isildur,” Belzagar remarks.

Isildur shrugs, trying to appear as if it does not matter to him one bit whether Belzagar is pleased or not.

“I should imagine not,” he says lightly. “But I am afraid there is nothing I can do that would please you.”

Belzagar’s fists clench.

“I know you had something to do with it,” he says. “With the Elves patrolling in the same places Izgûr went. You were having them spy on Izgûr, weren’t you?”

“And why would I do that, Commander?” Isildur counters.

Belzagar gets up and walks to Isildur. He places a hand on his shoulder.

“You are far too confident for your own good. You know that.”

“Is that a crime, Commander?”

The hand tightens on his shoulder to the point of pain. Isildur remains still, face blank staring straight ahead.

“One way or another, you thought you should interfere with Izgûr’s patrols in the woods. And I do not like that.”

Isildur turns his head slightly to look Belzagar straight in the face.

“Why not?” he asks.

His voice is all innocence, as if he is genuinely curious. Belzagar’s face is flushed red, anger getting the better of him. Still, once he has started, Isildur finds that he cannot stop.

“If all Izgûr was doing was accompanying Bor on patrols, why should he care that there were Elf scouts in the forest? What didn’t he want them to see?”

There is a hard glint in Belzagar’s eyes, and for a moment Isildur is worried that Belzagar might strike him. He’d bear this too, if needed, yet he would prefer not to go through the indignity.

“Who did you tell?” Belzagar asks. “Was it the Southlands Elf?”

Isildur shakes his head.

“I’m afraid it wasn’t.”

“Well, it can’t have been the High King himself, can it?”

Isildur’s lips curl in amusement.

“Of course not,” he says. “What would I be doing talking to a High King?”

Belzagar bends over him. Isildur can feel his cold breath against his face. He would move away – but making a point has always felt more important to him than his own self-preservation. Defiance is a weapon in itself, Amandil has always told him. And defiance is all Isildur has in these situations.

“You think yourself invincible,” Belzagar accuses again. “Am I wrong?”

Isildur shakes his head.

“I am not invincible,” he replies. “My fate is in the hands of the Valar.”

Belzagar’s searching eyes have something malicious in them. Something terrifying. Whatever he is planning, Isildur knows he is not going to like it.

“And do you trust the Valar, son?”

Isildur swallows the instinctive reaction. Belzagar already knows Isildur does not like to be addressed like this, not by people who aren’t Elendil.

“I trust the Valar,” he confirms. “I must.”

Belzagar moves away from him. Isildur allows himself a breath of relief when Belzagar’s back is turned.

“Must you?’ Belzagar asks. “This means – you would accept your fate, whatever that is supposed to be? If there was an orc now about to attack you, you wouldn’t fight back?”

Isildur huffs.

“Of course I would.”

Belzagar smiles innocently.

“But, if the Valar and the One do not want you to die, then surely you won’t. Whether you defend yourself or not.”

Isildur is starting to wonder what Belzagar wants him to say. What answer is he supposed to give to this drivel?

“That does not mean I should go through life expecting the Valar to just drop things in my lap. Of course I need to act. I need to make my own choices. The consequences of those choices are mine and mine alone, yes, but my life is always in the hands of the gods.”

Belzagar eyes him critically.

“Do you think you are chosen, Isildur?”

This time, Isildur does not hesitate.

“No. Of course not.”

He remembers the vision in the palantír. Nimloth burning and him holding a fruit in his hand. Him dying for Nimloth. But that is different, he tells himself.

“I am the one who chooses how to act,” Isildur repeats. “I do not see myself as having any great destiny.”

He thinks of his mother dying for him when he was ten. He thinks of how many times he believed that might mean something. Yet this does not mean that he is chosen. It cannot mean that he is chosen.

Belzagar nods. He seems to be pondering Isildur’s words, but Isildur can spot the trace of mockery in his eyes.

“So,” Belzagar says eventually, “If I were to stab you now and leave you here to bleed, what would it be? My will or that of the Valar?”

Isildur tells himself not to allow himself to be intimidated.

“Who says I would die? Perhaps I could make it out. Perhaps I could escape you. Get help for myself. The camp is right across the river. The Eldar are formidable healers, I am told.”

Belzagar looks as if he is seriously considering putting this to the test. Isildur squares his shoulders, bracing himself for an attack. He does not even know what he would be expected to do in the event that Belzagar does try something with him. The Númenórean army requires respect for superiors but not blind obedience – and a commander that acts with violence towards his men runs the risk of being removed. But these are the old ways, and the old ways are dying to make room for rules that encourage persecution and oppression. And Belzagar holds all the cards. The Kingsmen have the people of Andúnië as hostages, after all.

“I survived once,” Isildur feels the need to point out. “I survived your dungeons and your plots to poison me. What makes you think I won’t survive again?”

Belzagar grimaces.

“You’d do it just to spite me, right, boy?”

Before the expedition to the Southlands, before all the responsibilities that were thrust upon him, Isildur would have probably considered quipping that spiting Belzagar would be an added benefit. Now, he has too much resting on his shoulders to risk it.

“I’d do it because I know there are people who still have need of me,” he replies tightly.

Belzagar shakes his head.

“The world will continue moving without you, Isildur. This you can know to be true.”

He knows it. How can he not? He’s returned home to a Númenor who had given him up for dead. He’s seen it.

Belzagar takes a map from his table and summons Isildur forward.

“The High King of the Eldar was kind enough to provide me with a map showing what they think are the enemy’s movements,” he says. “Come have a look.”

Isildur is surprised by the change and even more surprised by the request. He approaches, hesitant.

“This is the village,” Belzagar points on the map. “The path is clear, so there will be a siege tomorrow. Against my advice.”

Isildur has heard from Elendil some of Belzagar’s advice in the war council. He decides not to tell Belzagar what he thinks about it.

Belzagar’s finger moves beyond the village to a hilly area.

“What worries me is this place,” he says. “The orcs are supposed to have a small encampment here.”

“Perhaps this is for reinforcements,” Isildur says. “Or supplies.”

Belzagar nods.

“You have your wits about you,” he says. “Too bad that you refuse to see just how high in the ranks you would advance if you joined the Kings Men.”

Isildur stiffens.

“I do not want to advance in any ranks.”

Belzagar looks amused.

“It is quite likely that you won’t, anyway.”

The words hold a hint of a threat in them. Combined with everything else Belzagar has told him, it worries Isildur. He wonders if he will leave this tent alive.

Belzagar turns his attention to the map.

“Take fifteen men and lead a skirmish to this base. The goal would be to delay their supplies. If you manage to crush the base entirely, no one is going to complain.”

Isildur swallows. The mission is a sound one. It reveals a bold strategy, but it could work. He is worried, though. Because it comes from Belzagar.

Some of his thoughts must be visible on his face. Belzagar rolls his eyes.

“I want a victory,” he says. “The king wants a victory. You’re bold and brave, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons. You won’t fail me. Who else do you think I can send? Izgûr?”

Praise from an enemy is a dangerous thing, Amandil has once told him. It can make one giddy. It can make one throw cautious to the winds. More than anything, praise from an enemy might come with an ulterior motive. Unless you know exactly what that is, you should think twice before accepting it.

Yet Amandil has never been in Isildur’s situation. Isildur cannot say no. He has to obey Belzagar – and, in truth, he had been expecting worse orders. At least, Belzagar does not want him to attack the Eldar.

“Very well,” he says. “I will go then.”

Belzagar approaches him once more. His hand fastens on Isildur’s shoulder. Isildur can feel the nails digging in and wishes he had not discarded his armor after the battle.

“You will go now,” he tells Isildur. “You will choose your men and take them away immediately. You will not look to inform others of your departure.”

Isildur’s heart misses a beat.

“You mean…?”

He knows what Belzagar means. He simply does not understand why.

“Leave now. Tell no one except the people you take with you.”

“But…”

He feels cold. He knows Belzagar is doing this on purpose. Belzagar is doing this simply out of cruelty – because he knows the impact of his decision on both Isildur and Elendil.

Belzagar smirks, as if he guesses Isildur’s thoughts and agrees with them.

“This is war, Lieutenant. And I am the commander of your army. You obeying me is more important than you saying your farewells to your father.”

He shakes Isildur slightly.

“Don’t worry,” he tells him. “If you do not return, I will make sure to remind your father that you have certainly died with honor.”

Isildur has no idea if it will really be so. For all he know, Belzagar could deny this meeting ever took place and paint Isildur and his fifteen companions as deserters. Not that Elendil would believe Belzagar. But still…

“You have no choice, Isildur,” Belzagar points out. “Remember that.”

And that, Isildur knows, is the truth.

               xxxXXXXxxxx

Isildur finds Theo and asks him to join him on Belzagar’s mission. He also takes Bor and a few of the others he knows well. Theo informs him that Elendil has been looking for him.

“He was worried about you. Being with Belzagar.”

Isildur does not answer. No doubt, Elendil will worry more, and there is nothing Isildur can do about it.

Still, if Isildur is good at something, that is circumnavigating the rules. Belzagar has told him not to talk to anyone except those he will take with him on his errand. He has mentioned nothing about writing.

Isildur leaves Elendil a message pinned to his saddle. He mentions an errand from Belzagar that will take him away from the main army. He also adds a confident promise to come back and meet Elendil in the besieged village. The message is unsigned, but Isildur draws a small crescent moon on it. Not necessary, as his father will surely recognize his handwriting, yet this is his way of reaching out to Elendil. Of comforting him. Of assuring him he fully intends to return.

                xxxXXXXxxxx

When Elendil is finally allowed to see Belzagar, Isildur is already gone. Belzagar only gives Elendil vague hints and suggests that Elendil should concentrate on the task at hand – meaning the beginning of the siege tomorrow, that will ideally free the village and destroy the orcs.

“Of course, we could simply set fire to the village,” Belzagar muses as an afterthought. “This would take care of the orcs, wouldn’t it?”

Elendil fights with his outrage.

“And kill the villagers,” he says through gritted teeth.

Belzagar’s long-suffering sigh is clearly an act meant to provoke Elendil even further.

“Ah, yes. Your desire to do the noble thing still hasn’t left you, has it, Lord of Andúnië?”

Elendil does not rise to the bait.

“It is the right thing,” he corrects calmly. “And I hope this desire you mention never leaves me. Otherwise, what would be the point of going on?”

Belzagar does not look too impressed.

“I could order you, you know. I could order you to have your men set fire to the village.”

Elendil says nothing. Belzagar could, indeed. He would not be the first Númenórean commander to give orders that go against the ideals that Númenor was built upon. Elendil knows that, when the Númenóreans first came to the northern parts of Middle-earth, Tar-Aldarion, their king at the time, ordered them to take timber from the woods, but always sparingly and always replacing the trees they cut with fresh saplings. Yet others that came after him were less respectful. They made people cut  down all their forests, they stole timber and other resources and drove away many forest dwellers. Númenor has a complicated relationship with those of Middle-earth. Some come as benefactors. Others are conquerors. And if Belzagar chooses to be the latter, he could indeed order his army to follow his lead.

“I am afraid I would find myself unable to obey such orders, Commander,” Elendil says. “They go against my conscience. They also go against the conscience of the men I am leading.”

Belzagar’s eyes are hard as ice.

“Are you threatening mutiny, Captain?”

Elendil doesn’t blink.

“You should know me by now, Lord Belzagar. I do not make threats.”

Belzagar huffs.

“Of course. You simply tell things like they are. Well – I shall be honest too – you want that of me, don’t you?”

Elendil shrugs.

“I would appreciate it. Yes.”

Belzagar nods.

“Well then. I sent your first-born away. It doesn’t matter where, but I might decide when he returns that he actually misread my intentions, and I had not actually wanted him to go anywhere. That would make him a deserter, Lord of Andúnië. You understand that, right?”

Elendil closes his eyes, briefly, struggling to contain himself.

“He would have a chance to rebut your accusations,” he points out.

Belzagar does not look concerned.

“Well, yes. But it would be his word against mine – and, if we make it home, who do you think Ar-Pharazôn will believe?”

Elendil does not answer. Belzagar is not done. He knows it.

Indeed, Belzagar turns his back on him, looking thoughtful. Elendil has to restrain himself from the thoughts of overpowering Belzagar while his back is turned – of stabbing him, even. This would make things worse, and anyway, this is not Elendil. He cannot stoop so low. Not for anything.

Your desire to do the noble thing hasn’t left you.

It’s the right thing. It needs to be done.

Even at the expense of your son’s life?

Even at the expense of everything.

If Belzagar notices Elendil’s inner torment, he doesn’t comment on it. His shoulders are relaxed, and Elendil realizes that he knows he can safely turn his back on him, that he knows Elendil would never attack in such a manner. In a way, Belzagar is mocking him, showing him exactly just how helpless he is.

“I think you forget you have another son in Númenor,” Belzagar remarks casually. “And that his life might also depends on how pleased I am of you.”

Elendil holds his breath.

“I have not forgotten our situation, Lord Belzagar.”

Belzagar finally turns to face him.

‘And yet, you refuse orders.”

Elendil swallows. His throat is dry, but he knows what needs to be done.

“I refuse orders,” he confirms. “If you order me to set fire to the village, I cannot obey.”

Belzagar tilts his head. He inspects Elendil as if he were a curiosity, a being Belzagar cannot quite figure out.

“And what would Anárion say?” he wonders.

The way Belzagar says his son’s name has Elendil’s blood boiling. There is a sense of ownership that Belzagar has no right to assert – the smug belief that he has the power of life and death over Anárion. More than this, that he holds this power over Anárion’s very soul.

Elendil clenches his fist. He thinks of Anárion – sunny and bold and so, so passionate in his beliefs. He thinks of how hard Anárion has always tried to be what his conscience dictated him to become, even at the expense of friends and family.

It has not been easy for Anárion, Elendil realizes with a jolt. His flight to Andúnië, his distancing from Armenelos and his family, it has not been easy. It had hurt Anárion, it had torn him apart and gnawed at his soul. And yet he has done it, because he could not be something other than what he knew he needed to be.

It was a difficult decision, and Elendil knows that he must make difficult choices as well. Not for Anárion’s safety – but for Anárion’s soul.

Elendil clears his throat, swallowing against the instinct of saying the wrong thing only because it is his duty as a father to protect his sons.

“Anárion would say that I am doing the right thing,” he replies. “And he would not accept anything else from me.”

It is also his duty as his father to live up to his sons’ expectations of him – to show them how one must always choose the right path, how one must always live according to their ideals and principles. It is a harder duty to follow, yet Elendil is learning.

“If you wish me to burn the village, Lord Belzagar, I am afraid I will have to say no. And I am afraid my answer will not change. So do what you will with me.”

Belzagar’s face is like a stone statue.

“Not to you,” he reminds.

“If you harm my children, you are harming me,” Elendil replies. “And you know that well enough.”

Dimly, he cannot help noticing that Belzagar has not once mentioned Eärien in his threats. He does not know if this is because Belzagar thinks that Elendil no longer cares about Eärien and has disowned her to the point that he does not see her as his daughter anymore. Yet, if this is so, Elendil is ready to allow Belzagar to keep believing it. Eärien is in the enemy camp, but Eärien is safe there. And Elendil must do everything to keep her so – even if it breaks his heart.

Belzagar sighs. He looks as if he is tired and exasperated by Elendil’s stubbornness.

“You know what might save you now, Elendil? These people might be more valuable to us alive than dead. If we liberate them, they will have to show their gratitude to us, yes? How would an annual tribute to Númenor sound? Or even a monthly tribute? It can be anything – crops, timber, furs.” He pauses and grins, baring his teeth. “Slaves.”

Is he trying to provoke Elendil? Is he trying to get a rise out of him? Never in Númenor’s history have they considered taking humans as thralls.

“I think what you are suggesting might be more fit for Sauron, Lord Belzagar,” Elendil says. “We have never accepted slavery.”

“We are living in difficult times, Elendil,” Belzagar points out. “Values change.”

“They shouldn’t, Lord Belzagar.”

What worries Elendil the most is that Belzagar has clearly thought this through quite carefully. Surely, he has planned something like this before sailing away – or he might be acting on Pharazôn’s orders.

“Still think we shouldn’t just set fire to the village, Elendil?” Belzagar asks idly. “Given I intend to make life difficult for them one way or another.”

Elendil makes to leave.

“I am not a warlord, Belzagar,” he says firmly. “That village will not burn while I am still breathing.”

Belzagar does not even blink.

“We shall see later what this act of defiance will cost you, Captain. Because, make no mistake, it will.”

Elendil bows his head.

“So be it,” he accepts.

                    xxxXXXXxxxx

Elendil returns to his side of the camp. He discovers Isildur’s message. He clenches the paper in his hand, heart beating wildly. Where has he gone? What is Belzagar making him do? Elendil knows it cannot be anything that goes against Isildur’s principles – just like Elendil, Isildur would have outright refused to set fire to the village. Whatever it is, though, must surely be risky and dangerous. Perhaps more dangerous than Isildur knows.

“Your men fought bravely today. They should be congratulated.”

Elendil turns around when he hears Gil-galad’s voice.

“High King,” he greets.

He has not seen Gil-galad since the funeral rites.

“I wish to thank you once more,” Elendil says. “For your help today. For…”

Gil-galad shakes his head.

“Their loss cannot have been easy,” he says.

Elendil looks away.

“No. They grew up where I grew up. They were friends – and children of friends. I knew them well. Their names, their wants, their dreams. Cirion was the son of a shepherd, but he wanted to join the Sea Guard, before they banned the Faithful from serving. Amdir was the same age as my second born. They grew up together, for a while. They liked to climb our fruit trees and stay there for hours.”

He stops, because these are strange things to be telling a High King. But Gil-galad nods, and there is only understanding in his eyes.

“It should not be easy,” Gil-galad says. “War. What it brings forth. It should be fought but never accepted.”

Elendil thinks of Númenor and of the Southlands and of all the lands that are now in peril of falling.

“I was afraid,” he confesses. “Of the way of the Faithful. Of the sacrifices that came with it.”

Gil-galad looks sharply at him.

“I am surprised to hear that. You seem to have risen to the occasion whenever you were called to serve. In fact, I think you would rise even higher if ever you were called to lead.”

Elendil wants to deny it. He wants to turn away from the words. Because he is a sea captain and a father, and this is the only leading he wants to accomplish. Yet he is more – Míriel gave him the lordship of Andúnië, and even though he wants to deny it, Elendil thinks he knows why.

“I do not know what you see me as, High King – but Lord Belzagar is the leader of this army, whether I like it or not.”

“We both know what Lord Belzagar is and what he isn’t,” Gil-galad replies.

Elendil says nothing. Speaking more clearly about Lord Belzagar, about what he represents would mean acknowledging to an outsider just how far Númenor has already fallen. And he cannot do it. It feels like a betrayal of his own people. It feels like abandoning the island he loves so, so dearly. And he cannot do it. The very thought of it tears his heart in two.

He meets Gil-galad’s eyes and realizes with a jolt that the High King has probably guessed his thoughts.

“I also grieve for Númenor. Elros was a dear friend. So was Tar-Aldarion.”

It is strange, Elendil thinks, to hear someone talk of figures of legend in such a manner. Yet, he realizes, Gil-galad is a figure of legend himself. Still, Elendil does not see him in such a manner. He sees Gil-galad as someone who can know him - someone who can understand him.

Someone with whom he can easily imagine sharing his burdens.

         xxxXXXXxxxx

Of late, Míriel thinks of herself more as Ar-Zimraphel than as who she used to be before. It is easy to take on this persona. Ar-Zimraphel is neither Faithful nor progressist. She simply is, remote and cold. She watches over the people, she speaks for them, she judges their disputes, but she does so in an impartial manner – not caring who they are and what they ask of her. Certainly, she does not stop to think if they have Faithful sympathies or not.

It has to be this way. She has known from the start that it would be this way. The night Elendil had asked her to flee with him to Andúnië, she had known she could not – and she had also known what would happen if she stayed. Who she would become. Who she would need to be.

At times, Míriel wonders how history will remember her. As the daughter of Tar-Palantír, who was Faithful through and through? As the wife of Ar-Pharazôn, who broke the island with his conflicts and haunted down the Faithful, because they were inconvenient for his views? As Queen Regent Míriel, who had tried to keep Númenor together, who had thought Faithful and Kingsmen still had a common goal, the well-being of their Island Kingdom, and if they were led right, their differences would not matter?

Míriel spends her days mostly in the tower or sitting under the White Tree. She sometimes reaches out to Nimloth, she searches the branches that bend over her. She finds leaves and flowers – but no fruit.

“You will bear no fruit, will you?” she asks. “Not yet, at least.”

She wonders what would happen if the tree bears fruit while Isildur is still in Middle-earth. Should she send word to Anárion, instead? But no – Isildur has already told her that no one but him must know.

Míriel strokes the trunk of the tree. As always, she finds it vibrant under her skin. Alive, just like she is alive.

“We are both exiles, my friend,” she says. “You and I – we face the storm together.”

Who will fall first, though? And will either of them survive?

“Zimraphel.”

This time, Míriel turns instinctively at the sound of Pharazôn’s voice. She hates herself sometimes, how quickly she answers to Zimraphel. How she has started to associate the name with her.

Míriel remembers that Lothiriel too had an Adûnaic version of her name. She cannot remember if she ever responded to it, though. She has never asked Lothiriel if she had ever come to see the name as her own. And she regrets it now.

But, then again, how was she to know back then that she would need to know this? That she would find herself in the same situation as Lothiriel?

“I always find you here at this hour,” Pharazôn says. “I sometimes wonder why.”

Today, Pharazôn seems kind. He seems like the man who Míriel thought could be an ally and a close advisor. Like someone she could trust. Like someone who could guide her.

She hears Pharazôn approach and feels him take her hand briefly.

“It is just a symbol, Zimraphel,” Pharazôn says, the gentleness in his tone vaguely patronizing. “The tree, I mean. It belongs to the old times.”

Míriel feels cold. Her hand reaches out and touches the bark once again. She needs to feel it is there. She needs to be certain it will not be taken from her. like everything else.

More than anything, the White Tree needs to stand but a while longer. It needs to bear fruit.

“My father predicted that the end of Númenor will come with the cutting of Nimloth,” she reminds Pharazôn. “That the kings of Númenor will fall soon after Nimloth falls.”

“I have looked in the palantír many times,” Pharazôn says. “I have never seen this. I have never seen the fall of Númenor.”

“I have,” Míriel confesses.

She senses Pharazôn’s smirk.

“So you’ve told me. It’s why you never tried to fight back, isn’t it? You have allies. You have Elendil. He would fight for you.”

He would have. Míriel remembers just how eager he had been to march in her name. Even against their own people.

“He is a good man,” she says. “His sons are good men as well. I did not want to drag them into bloodshed and civil war. I did not want to order them to kill their own kind. I did not want them to sell their souls to the darkness for me.”

Pharazôn’s hand is heavy on her shoulder.

“Is this what you think I am doing, Zimpraphel? Selling my soul?”

Míriel shuts her eyes against the images in her mind. Pharazôn, always at her side. Biding his time. Advising her and plotting against her at the same time.

“I think you have already done it a long time ago,” she retorts. “And now you have forced me to sell mine as well.”

Pharazôn does not say anything. Míriel turns to leave. She stops.

“I know you gave Belzagar orders to make sure Elendil and Isildur do not return,” she accuses.

He does not try to deny it or act scandalized. Míriel finds herself appreciating him for this.

“You will fail,” she says. “You underestimate them. They will return.”

“Did the palantír tell you that?”

Pharazôn knows she hasn’t been anywhere near the palantír since her arrival from the Southlands. She does not even know where Pharazôn keeps it now.

“It didn’t need to,” she said. “Some things are just known. Take heed of my words, Pharazôn – they will return, and they will outlive you.”

They will outlive us both.

“Perhaps,” Pharazôn concedes. “I wonder, though, what Andúnië will look like when they return. I wonder if they might not think they would have been better off dead.”

Chapter Text

Isildur and his group ride through the night. They only stop the next morning to feed their horses and have something to eat themselves, then they ride again. In the evening, Isildur calls a halt.

“We still have two days until we reach the encampment,” he says. “And we will need to be freshly rested when we get there. We don’t know what we’ll find, but I’m certain we will have to fight it.”

“Stopping to rest means delaying,” Theo points out. “The battle for the village could be over by the time we reach the encampment.”

Isildur nods.

“And if any of the orcs are retreating, they will be coming our way.”

Theo looks worried.

“And that’s good news?”

“For us? Not really. For the army behind us, yes. Quite likely. If the retreating orcs meet us on the road, and we cut them off from the encampment, they will not be able to request reinforcements. Even better, they will not be able to inform other parts of their army that they are being attacked. Not until the battle is over.”

Isildur has thought long and hard about this. it is one of the reasons why he accepted Belzagar’s plan so quickly. Because, whether it’s a trap or not, it could work to their advantage.

“It could work for those left behind,” Isildur explains. “For the High King. For my father. This is how we increase their chances.”

“There’s only sixteen of us, Isildur,” Bor points out.

Bor has been raised on stories of Beren and Lúthien single-handedly fighting their way out of Morgoth’s fortress. Yet many things have happened to make him cautious and skeptical of victories that might sound too easy. Isildur places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

“If they make it away from the Elvish army they will be scattered and disorganized. In few numbers. Sixteen of us can handle them.”

“Is this why you want to stop?” Theo asks.

Isildur shakes his head.

“I want to stop because we are tired. And our mounts are tired. We rode them hard since last night.”

“We could still go on,” Bor says.

They could. Númenóreans, especially, are hardy. They tire almost as seldom as the Eldar themselves, and they find strength in their stubbornness.

Isildur himself feels tempted to ride on until the encampment and hurdle straight into battle. He is tempted to not stop, not until he is back with Elendil and the rest of the army.

Yet he is the commander of this little group. He is responsible for them. He must make decisions that bring them closer to victory but keep them safe at the same time.

“We need to be at full strength when we reach the encampment,” he says. “Both us and the horses. We need to be alert and well-rested, able to make decisions on the spot. And if the retreating orcs will indeed try to reach the encampment and approach us from behind, we will need to be ready for that as well.”

Theo does not look completely convinced. Isildur does not blame him. He has his own doubts about his decision.

“What if something happens to the army while we’re gone?” Theo asks.

Isildur swallows. He is just as worried. It is the thought that will not leave his mind – the idea that Elendil is out of his sight, and anything could happen to him while Isildur is gone on some wild goose chase of Belzagar’s, and Isildur would not even know it until it is far too late.

He takes a deep breath and wills himself to drive such thoughts out of his mind.

“This is war,” he says levelly. “And in war a soldier must concentrate on the task given to him. Our task is to take out the encampment. This is how we help the main army.”

Theo tilts his head. Do you really believe this? he seems to ask.

“I have to believe this,” Isildur answers out loud.

He looks at his men. They are all young – some even younger than him. A few are survivors of the Battle of the Southlands. Others have not seen war at all.

“We stop for the night,” he says, voice firm and steady, because he is their leader, and he cannot afford to have doubts in front of them. “We will keep watch in pairs. At first light, we will be on our mounts, riding on.”

He does not think he will be able to sleep at all, not with how worried he is about his father, about what could be happening to Elendil right now. But he has no choice. He needs to set a good example.

“We’ll set up camp here,” Isildur decides. “We have a few hours’ rest, and we should take full advantage of it. We leave at first light.”

            xxxXXXXxxxx

Isildur dreams of Amandil that night. He is standing on the shore, and Amandil is in a boat, and Isildur would dearly like to join him, but Amandil is sailing West, and the Númenóreans are not allowed to sail in that direction.

This is a dream , Isildur tries to tell himself. Because, of course, Amandil would never break the Ban of the Valar, and, more than this, Amandil is dead and cannot sail anywhere anymore.

Still, Isildur has missed his grandfather so much, that he would take even a confusing dream if it means looking at Amandil’s face one more time. He would take anything, if it gave him the chance to be with Amandil for a few minutes, to listen to his wisdom, his words of comfort, even his recriminations would be welcome now.

It is not secret that Isildur and Amandil shared a strong bond. Everyone in Andúnië and beyond considered Isildur Amandil’s favorite grandson – even though most would have been certain that title would have gone to Anárion, that Anárion was closer in temperament to Amandil, and Amandil often seemed baffled by Isildur’s impulsiveness.

Isildur himself has often been taken aback by the title. Amandil has often been heard chiding Elendil for allowing Isildur too much leeway. Isildur has overheard many of these arguments himself. They have left a bitter taste in his mouth, although the distress had more to do with him than with Amandil. He was the one, he has always thought, who should try to improve, to live up to Amandil’s expectations. As for Amandil, he had every right to have these expectations, especially when it came to Isildur. Isildur has always been the heir to the lordship of Andúnië, after all.

Even though he was sparing with his praises – especially when it came to Isildur – Amandil was generous with both wisdom and affection. He would listen to Isildur’s incoherent ramblings and try to make as much sense of them as possible, helping Isildur navigate many of his confusions. He was honest and stern when needed, but always patient and always loving. And Isildur realizes now just how terribly he misses him.

In the dream, Isildur makes up his mind and tries to wade through the water to reach Amandil’s ship. But Amandil raises his arm and points behind him. Isildur turns around.

He instantly freezes, because all he can see is fire. Something is burning on the horizon. He can smell the choking smoke, he tastes the bitter ash. He knows what ash tastes like, after all, he knows what a blaze like this feels like. He has seen it all before.

Yet Isildur knows he isn’t in the Southlands. This is homeland, and it is burning.

He forgets Amandil and the boat and runs towards the fire, thinking that he can save people, that he can salvage some of the treasures they possess, so they do not perish in the flames.

The palantíri, he thinks. We cannot lose our palantíri!

He dashes into the burning house but stops before he can make it to the basement. He sees Anárion and Estrid lying motionless, felled by the fumes. Isildur bends over them. they are still alive, and he can get them out – but by the time he does so, the house will be engulfed in flames, and there would be no way for him to recover the palantíri from the basement.

There is a brief moment of hesitation, and Isildur thinks of duty, and he thinks of risks, and he thinks of his responsibilities to the people of Andúnië. They need those palantíri. If they recover the seventh as well, they could use it to communicate with one another, to warn one another when the Kingsmen are coming, to keep each other safe.

And yet, there is the responsibility to his family. And yet, this is about more than responsibility. And yet, if Isildur loses Estrid and Anárion, he will lose his soul as well.

Mind made up, Isildur strains to carry Estrid and Anárion back to safety. The task is difficult. Suddenly, it’s almost as if he cannot move. His feet feel like led. He staggers against the additional weight, nearly falling to his knees.

The fire has spread, and beams are falling from the ceiling. One cuts off their retreat, and Isildur turns to find a different way out. He sees a figure standing next to the basement. Amandil, he thinks. It is Amandil again.

“Help us!” he cries. “Please! We need help.”

Amandil shakes his head. He opens the trap door to the basement instead. The message is clear. Isildur is to rescue the palantír. He is to choose duty over family.

Isildur shakes his head.

“No! No, they need to live, too. I cannot abandon them. My duty is to them as much as to the others.”

Amandil’s eyes are inscrutable. Isildur does not know if he approves or not. He does not know if this is a test, or if he has chosen right or wrong.

The flames engulf them. There is no way out now. Isildur tries his best to cover Estrid and Anárion with his own body. At least they’re unconscious, he thinks. At least they are not awake for what is to come. But he is, and he knows what it feels like to think you are dying in fire, and he does not want to go through this again.

Then he finds himself in Armenelos, and Armenelos is burning as well, and the White Tree is burning, and Isildur knows that this time he must not fail. He needs to take a fruit from the White Tree. He needs to make sure that something of Nimloth survives the flames.

Isildur staggers towards the White Tree, and he think Amandil is standing under its branches, and Isildur quickens his pace, because he needs to get Amandil away from the flames, even though Amandil is dead, and no fire can hurt him anymore.

“Isildur?”

He twists round at the sound of the familiar voice.

“Estrid?” he calls.

He remembers the house burning down, and Estrid and Anárion lying motionless – but that was not real, was it?

“Estrid,” he repeats, breathless.

Estrid is in front of him, only she is different, and she is holding a child, and Isildur knows instantly that it is his child, his son, and he thinks it is the most beautiful child he has ever seen. He longs to reach out, to hold him, to hold Estrid, to watch his family grow and prosper and be happy.

“Isildur!”

It is Amandil calling him this time, still standing under the branches of the White Tree, still surrounded by the flames.

Isildur knows what needs to be done. He knows he has to walk into the fire. He has to rescue Nimloth’s fruit. Just as he has seen in the palantír.

Yet, if he does this, Isildur knows he will die. He will die, and he will abandon his family. He will die, and he will leave them alone. And who knows what will happen to them in this terrifying, new Númenor, if they are left alone?

Amandil is still looking at him, and he is nodding encouragingly, urging Isildur on.

“Have Faith in the Valar, my child. Always. Do the right thing and leave the rest to the Valar.”

Amandil has told Isildur this many times. And Isildur has accepted his words. He has thought them easier to follow. Only now, he wavers. Only now, he is not sure of the stakes.

Estrid’s voice still calls from behind him, and Amandil expects him to turn to the tree and leave Estrid, and Isildur feels torn in two, and he fears that, whatever choice he makes, it will somehow end up being the wrong one…

               xxxXXXXxxxx

“Isildur? Isildur!”

Isildur sits up with a gasp. He shivers in the cool night air, the memory of flames making the faint breeze feel icy against his skin.

He blinks in the darkness. He is not in Armenelos. He is not in Andúnië, either. Then he remembers – the battle, Belzagar’s request, his departure from the main camp.

“Isildur?”

Theo is leaning over him, eyes wide. Behind him, Isildur can make out his companions sleeping. Except for Bor, who has probably been keeping guard with Theo.

As Isildur comes back to himself, he realizes it is still night. They have a few hours left before dawn.

“What is it?” he asks Theo.

Theo backs off slightly, but his eyes are wary.

“You were…well, you were having a nightmare.”

“Oh.”

The dream still has Isildur in his clutches. He remembers it clearly. Every detail.

“Yes, I suppose I was.”

He tries to sound calm and collected. Theo is familiar with his nightmares. They’ve shared a small hut in Pelargir, after all, and they did not have the luxury of hiding their distress in the night.

Theo has nightmares, too. Isildur remembers the second night after Arondir’s departure, hearing Theo call out in the night. He had hesitated, unsure if Theo wanted company for this, or if he maybe felt like being alone. Still, he had gone to him in the end. He had not mentioned the nightmare but started casually talking about insignificant things – his childhood in Númenor, some of Berek’s anticks, this or that gossip Isildur had picked up when he was out getting water. Trivial matters, not related to Theo’s distress. Theo had accepted the comfort and had seemed grateful for it, even if he had not mentioned it the next morning.

The practice had become a routine for them during their stay at Pelargir. When one of them had nightmares, the other would wake him up and talk about all sorts of things. They rarely mentioned the subject of their dreams. They did not have to.

This time, it seems different. This time, Theo eyes him with wide, concerned eyes, and Isildur guesses that he wishes to ask for an explanation but does not know how to do it.

Isildur cannot blame him. Things were different at Pelargir. Now, Isildur is the leader of his small company, and, as a leader, he needs to conduct himself in a certain way. He cannot allow the others to see him distressed – or weak. He needs to be in control.

There is also the matter that they are in the wilderness, and there could be orcs prowling the forests all around them. they cannot afford to draw attention to themselves because Isildur cannot control his bad dreams.

“Did I…?” he begins and stops, licking his lips somewhat embarrassed. “Did I make noise? Did I cry out?”

Theo looks behind him at the others, who are still asleep.

“No, of course not. I thought I should wake you up before you did, though. I was sure you wouldn’t appreciate it, if I let you draw attention to yourself like that.”

Isildur nods stiffly.

“Thank you,” he says.

He feels awkward, never one to show vulnerability to others. He is learning, but still there are only few people he would be comfortable seeing him in distress. He is not sure yet if Theo is one of them.

Theo’s face is grave.

“You looked like you weren’t able to breathe. Was it…was it the fire? In the Southlands, I mean?”

Isildur suppresses a shudder.

“It wasn’t anything that happened,” he answers, truthfully. “It was only…a warning.”

“A warning,” Theo repeats.

Isildur nods.

“A reminder,” he adds.

“Of what?” Theo insists.

Isildur shrugs, because he most certainly does not want to talk about Amandil, or about the choice he was forcing Isildur to make. Well, Amandil was not forcing to make Isildur any choices. Amandil is gone, however much Isildur would want him back.

“That one day, there might come a time when I will have to make difficult choices.”

“Won’t we all?” Theo points out.

Which is true enough.

Isildur gets up, while Theo is watching him warily.

“What are you doing?” Theo asks.

Isildur shrugs.

“You should get some sleep,” he tells Theo. “I’ll take the rest of your watch.”

Theo hesitates.

“Or,” he begins tentatively, “Or we could send Bor to sleep instead. And we can keep watch together and talk. Like before.”

Like before. Like Pelargir. Isildur feels warmed by the notion that Theo remembers Pelargir as well.

It is tempting. He would give anything to accept Theo’s offer. For the two of them to keep guard and talk in whispers about everything but the worries that weigh their mind. But Isildur does not think he can do this. Not this time.

“Thank you,” he says. “But I think I should remember this time. I should remember the dream. I should think about what it means – and where I stand.”

Isildur expects Theo to object or to ask more questions. He is immensely grateful when Theo seems to accept his request without a fuss.

“Just remember,” Theo tells him, “That wherever you stand, we stand with you.”

Isildur wishes he could take hold of these words and keep them close to him. He wishes he could become worthy of them.

“Thank you,” he repeats. “I stand with you too.”

They stand together, he thinks. They have to.

                    xxxXXXXxxxx

Isildur ends up sending Bor to sleep as well. Bor makes a lot of noise about this, but Isildur insists that he can keep watch on his own, and Bor should rest.

“What about you?” Bor points out. “Shouldn’t you be rested?”

Isildur is about to tell Bor that he does not need to worry about him. He is fine. Bor seems to know him enough to anticipate his words – most likely Ontamo has told him much about Isildur’s character.

“You’re the leader, after all,” Bor reminds him. “If we need to be well-rested, then so should you. Who is making the decisions, after all?”

And Isildur cannot deny Bor’s words. He knows there is plenty of truth in them. but now, it is not rest he needs.

“There are many matters that need to be planned,” he says. “Right now, I need to think more than I need to rest.”

Bor hums. He tilts his head, eyeing Isildur surreptitiously.

“Could I speak freely, Lieutenant?” he asks stiffly.

Isildur is rather surprised by the sudden formality but decides to take it in stride.

“Always. I should hope you know that by now.”

Bor nods.

“Of course. Well, Isildur, Ontamo said this was your greatest fault. That you acted like you were alone in the world.”

Isildur blinks.

“I…don’t understand…”

“It’s like when you did not tie that rope properly,” Bor tells him bluntly. “You thought you alone would suffer the consequences. But you didn’t. My brother also paid the price. He was kicked out of the Sea Guard.”

And reinstated only through a special dispensation that Elendil had fought hard to get. Isildur knows that. Just as he knows that the only way the reinstation had been possible was under the condition that Ontamo join the expedition to the Southlands. An expedition from which he would not return.

Isildur looks away.

“I understand,” he says.

But Bor still hasn’t said his piece.

“I don’t know that you do. You’re not alone. Every single decision of yours affects us all. Especially now.”

Bor turns and walks to his sleeping place. Isildur remains staring into the night.

Bor’s words, after his dream, feel like a sign. This is what his dream has been trying to tell him – Isildur is certain of this. That he will need to make painful choices. That, whichever choice he makes, someone will have to suffer. That there will need to be sacrifices, and he needs to get used to this.

                xxxxXXXXXxxx

Anárion goes to the town square in Andúnië early in the morning as he often does. Estrid accompanies him, because he has no desire to leave Estrid alone with Kemen in the house, even if Eärien is there to act as mediator. Even if Kemen decides to snoop, Voronwë is there to call him to task – and everything is hidden too well for Kemen to find, so perhaps it would be better if Kemen did look around and then report to Pharazôn that (regretfully) there is nothing to find.

The atmosphere in the city is tense. Some of Kemen’s guards have gone back to Armenelos, but others were quick to arrive and replace them. Apparently, their mandate is to protect Kemen and Eärien and keep the peace. Anárion nearly asks why it is necessary to keep the peace. Andúnië was peaceful enough before Kemen’s arrival. It is Kemen and his guards that cause the inhabitants to be on edge.

Anárion is talking to one of the tavern-keepers while Estrid is contemplating some wool at a booth nearby. She is talking to the owner of the booth, laughing with her. Anárion catches Estrid looking at him from time to time. He blushes. If they are talking about him, he really does not want to know.

A hand on his shoulder causes him to turn around. He frowns at the old man – Thalion, he remembers, one of the oldest inhabitants of Andúnië, still a skilled hunter despite his age.

“What can I do for you?” Anárion asks.

He feels strangely nervous, as he always does in Thalion’s presence. They say no one knows the woods better than Thalion, and that he can converse with the dancing bears and many of the other beasts that walk in Númenor.

Thalion grabs his arm and pushes him away from the crowd.

“Be in the forest tonight,” he says.

“Why?” Anárion asks.

“Your brother has left messages for the Drúedain. Yes?”

Anárion nods.

“Before he left, yes. He thought he could convince them to help. In case…”

He stops, because some things cannot be said out in the open anymore. Thalion nods knowingly.

“Well, be there in the forest. By the stream. They will speak to you.”

Anárion hesitates. If he walks out of the house at night, Kemen might get wind of this and become suspicious.

“It will be difficult,” he acknowledges.

Thalion does not look as if he were too sympathetic to his plight.

“Many matters will be difficult from now on,” he says. “Can you do it? Without being discovered by them?”

Anárion nods.

“I can try.”

“Well, do be careful,” Thalion advises. “The Drúedain have rules of their own. I do not know what they will do if the Kingsmen were to provoke them.”

He walks away. Anárion searches for Estrid. It is time they went home and made a plan.

                  xxxXXXxxx

Estrid has been introduced to Ioreth by Mairen, who has firmly insisted that Estrid cannot simply live in isolation at the farm, and she needs to know more people than the members of Isildur’s family. The Faithful are a community, Mairen stresses. They were one in Armenelos, and they are certainly one in Andúnië, especially now with so many of them living in exile.

“We take care of our own,” Mairen had said.

“But…” Estrid began then stopped.

I am not one of your own. The words were lodged in her throat, yet she could not voice them out loud. She did not doubt her place by Isildur’s side, she did not even doubt her place among Isildur’s family. But her place among the Faithful was something different altogether. This, she is not so certain she has earned yet.

Mairen had seemed to guess her thoughts then. She had taken her hand and squeezed it.

“You are one of us,” she had told Estrid. “And to prove it, why not meet with Ioreth and me on Market Day? We will have many things to say to each other.”

Ioreth is not a stranger to Isildur’s family. She lives in Andúnië, and she has grown up with Isildur and his siblings. She is Eärien’s age, although she confesses she and Eärien have rarely spoken. Ioreth is the daughter of a shepherd, and she dyes the wool after the sheep-shearing season is over and sells it at the market. The rest of the time, she heals livestock and other animals. There is little she can have in common with Eärien, who has always aimed for higher things and is now a lady of Armenelos.

Ioreth does not say this with rancor. She is not jealous of Eärien’s status, nor is she contemptuous of it, although she is clearly disappointed by Eärien’s allegiances.

Estrid likes Ioreth. She is merry and warm and full of life. She reminds Estrid of Gunna at times, and the memory is painful and welcome at the same time. But Ioreth is her own person, too, and it is to this person that Estrid offers her friendship, nor to the vague memory of her dead friend.

Of late, Ioreth’s conversations with Estrid have often involved Anárion. The questioning starts discretely and tentatively, as if Ioreth is not sure why she is asking them in the first place, but when Estrid encourages her interests, Ioreth becomes bolder. Nothing has been said out loud about Ioreth’s feelings for Anárion, but Estrid can see them plainly on her face. They have a lot on their mind now, with Kemen and his cohorts, but Estrid still resolves to tackle the subject of Ioreth with Anárion.

If nothing else, it will be proof that we are still alive, Estrid thinks. That we can live even through this adversity.

Besides, it would allow Estrid to pretend she is not thinking about Isildur, that she is not worried about him and missing him so, so much, it feels as if a part of her has been lost, as if she has been torn in two and the wound is still sore and bleeding and cannot be healed – except only through Isildur’s return, and that is surely a long way from happening.

When Anárion approaches them, however, he seems too preoccupied for Estrid to deem it the right time to draw him into a conversation with Ioreth. She says her farewells and joins Anárion on his way back to the farm.

“What is it?” she asks. “You look troubled.”

Anárion squares his shoulders.

“I must go this evening to meet the Drúedain. I would like you to come with me. Isildur was the one who tried to get to them, after all.”

“I am not really connected to Isildur yet, you know,” Estrid reminds him tentatively.

Anárion nods.

“I know. But you will be – or at least, you want to be right now.”

“I am not in the habit of changing my mind as the wind blows.”

If Estrid sounds a bit curt, she will apologize later. Yet she is sometimes afraid that others might expect her to walk away from Isildur just as she has walked away from Hagen. They have not said it, of course, and, if Estrid really thinks about it, they have not given any clear indication of this. Yet she is protective of her place by Isildur’s side. She does not want to be seen as whimsical, as someone who abandons others when she gets bored.

Anárion’s face is flushed.

“Of course not,” he says quickly. “My apologies if I sounded…well…”

Estrid smiles at him to show that it is forgiven.

“In truth,” Anárion adds, a little sheepishly, “I want someone I can trust there with me. I…it would help.”

Estrid nods.

“Then I am with you.”

Anárion’s face is still clouded.

“I don’t know what to do about Kemen, though. If he finds out…”

Estrid understands. She thinks of the herbs Theo keeps in his room. He has told her about them. This is for healing wounds. This is for curing pains. This is to make you sleep long and hard through the night.

“He won’t,” Estrid says. “Leave it to me.”

Anárion looks at her wide-eyed.

“What are you planning?”

Estrid winks.

“Better you do not know. Leave it to me.”

Anárion looks hesitant, and Estrid is worried that he will remind her he is responsible for her safety now Isildur is gone.

She reaches out and squeezes his hand.

“Trust me. I am not planning on doing anything that might get me in trouble. I will be careful.”

She clutches his hand harder, willing him to understand that, if they all must take risks, then she should take them as well. She cannot sit on the sidelines. She doubts Isildur would really want her to sit on the sidelines, either, and, anyway, this is not Isildur’s choice to make. It is hers.

Anárion’s eyes search hers, and Estrid notices the burdens of his choices that bow his shoulders, and she hopes that he understands that, as long as she lives in his house and wishes to wed his brother, they are her burdens as well.

Finally, Anárion nods.

“Alright,” he says. “Alright. I will trust you. I do trust you.”

Estrid grins.

“Good. Then be ready for tonight.”

            xxxxxXXXXXxxx

Early in the afternoon when she knows Kemen is out terrorizing the people of Andúnië, and Eärien is probably trailing him to see that he does not go too far and kills someone, Estrid goes into Theo’s room and heads for his medicine shelf. Her hand wavers over the bottles.

She knows what she is looking for. Theo has told her there are herbs and infusions to make one sleep.

“Mother used them,” Theo told her. “I was glad to find them in Númenor as well.”

“So, they help you fall asleep?” Estrid had asked intrigued.

Theo had nodded.

“Not just fall asleep but stay asleep. For a while. Mother used them when she needed to sow stitches on unruly patients or when she had to do something to cause the patient great pain.”

Theo had swallowed, eyes turning inwards, some memory briefly taking hold of him. He had shaken himself out of his darkness quickly.

“It’s kinder this way,” he had added. “They do not feel pain like this, and they also do not thrash about, making your work worse.”

Estrid had nodded, her eyes on the vial.

“And can you use them even if one is not hurt?” she had asked. “Just to make them fall asleep if they cannot rest through the night?”

Theo had raised his eyebrows.

“You’re not planning on using them on Isildur, are you?” he had asked shrewdly. “Given the way he drives himself on without pausing to rest…”

Estrid had felt herself flushing in indignation.

“No! of course not, and certainly not without him knowing. But…well…I have nightmares, so…”

Theo had agreed to help her and to show her how to measure doses, so she takes enough but not too much. Estrid has never actually taken the sleeping draughts, but she knows what to do.

Smirking slightly, she takes the vial and hides it in the folds of her dress. Theo has already told her she can use it, and, anyway, he will not mind when he discovers exactly how she had used it in the end.

                    xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Isildur and his group find themselves in a forest once again close to evening. Isildur sends scouts, who arrive quickly saying there is a group of orcs and men close by.

“Orcs and men together?” Bor asks, unable to hide his disgust.

Theo snorts as his scandalized attitude.

“You still have a lot to learn, you know,” he comments.

“How many?” Isildur asks. “How many are there? Could we engage them?”

It turns out there are ten orcs and five men – fifteen, so there are even odds, since there are sixteen of them. If they take the enemy by surprise, these odds will increase.

“We must move quietly,” Isildur tells the others. “We will disperse and try to approach them from all sides. We will do it now, while the sun is still up.”

A few of his followers do not look convinced.

“You wish to fight them? But…some are not orcs.”

Theo rolls his eyes.

“Whoever these men are, they will kill you without blinking,” he says harshly. “And they’ll see you burn and not even bat an eye.”

Isildur is less sure of this. He has heard the same about Estrid and Adar’s former slaves. He has no idea why these people have allied themselves with Sauron.

“We will give them the chance to surrender,” he decides.

He is doubtful, though. They are not equipped to carry prisoners, and any captives might slow them down and endanger them.

Still, he is just as loath as the others to attack his own kind.

                                    xxxXXXXxxxx

When Isildur gets close to the clearing, the orcs are quarreling among themselves. The numbers have evened up a bit, he thinks grimly, when he observes that one of the men lies dead at their feet. Orcs are not trustworthy allies. They would stab you in the back sooner than they would shake your hand. And they would do it to their own kind just as readily.

Isildur sounds the attack, and his small company springs on the orcs. They are, indeed, taken by surprise, but they recover quickly. All conflicts forgotten, the orcs spring into action. Swords are drawn.

The battle is swift and harsh and brutal. Isildur manages to keep his own company under control, and they stand back to back as the enemy tries to corner them. Both orcs and men fight viciously. They fight as if they have nothing to lose. As if they are afraid of losing the battle even more than of dying.

Some of the orcs try to escape, but Isildur orders his company to make sure this does not happen. No one must know they are coming after all. They need to be swift and deadly and give everything they have. They need to win.

Isildur holds his ground. He slashes and parries and feels lightheaded and filled with a strange exhilaration. He does not really enjoy battle for its own sake, but he does enjoy the succession of quick, physical decisions he needs to make. It feels as if his mind is clear for the first time in a long time – free of thoughts. Free of doubts.

At the end of the battle, the orcs are all dead. Isildur offers one of the men left alive a chance to surrender, but the man slashes at him with his sword, and Isildur hits back. His enemy falls, face blank.

Isildur stares at him, panting. He’s only killed orcs before. And this…this feels different. This feels like it diminishes him.  Like it takes something away from him. A part of his soul. Perhaps the best part.

“Isildur?”

Theo’s voice sounds concerned, close to his ear. Isildur turns around and fights against the onrush of nausea. He cannot afford this kind of behavior in front of his men.

“They did not want to surrender,” Theo says.

Theo looks just as pale, and he has seen more than Isildur. He knows more of the treachery of men, and he should be used to it. Yet perhaps, Isildur muses, perhaps this is what distinguishes them from those who ally themselves with orcs. That they do not wish to get used to it.

“I suppose they didn’t,” Isildur agrees.

He bends over the body of the slain man.

“He was young,” Isildur says.

Anárion’s age, a voice tells him. Or maybe younger. It is hard to tell with the men of Middle-earth.

“He was young,” he repeats. “He shouldn’t have…he shouldn’t have been here.”

He knows he will not sleep that night, that Anárion’s face will be superimposing itself over the face of the first man Isildur has killed  him every time he will close his eyes.

                          xxxXXXXxxxx

In the evening, Estrid crushes the plants into a thin paste as Theo has told her. He has mentioned that they do not have a strong flavor, so unless they are taken in water, no one can feel their taste. Estrid smirks.

“It’s lucky you’ve taken such a shining to our wine, Master Kemen.”

Her hand is shaking. She remembers something else Theo has told him. Something she has been trying not to think about ever since the idea came into her head.

“You have to be careful,” Theo had warned her. “Only two small spoonsful of this. Too much, and it’s bad.”

“How bad?” Estrid had asked, eyes wide.

Theo’s face had been stony.

“It could kill,” he stated bluntly. “In fact, too much of this, and it will kill.”

Now, alone in the kitchen, Estrid remembers the words.

Too much of this, and it will kill.

Why not? Kemen is responsible for so much of their misery. Ever since Estrid had seen him there in Pelargir, he has given them grief. He has torn down the houses of the refugees, has insulted them, has forced them to break promises. Under his tyranny, the people of the Southlands suffer.

And there is more. Estrid thinks of Isildur’s sadness when he discovered Valandil had been killed, and Kemen had been the perpetrator. She thinks of Kemen threatening a child in Andúnië just to show Anárion he is the one in control. Of that dreadful scene when Kemen had held a blade at Anárion’s throat.

And she thinks of much more. Of how her skin crawls with Kemen now in the house. Of how they are not safe. Of how Kemen’s presence casts a dark shadow over them.

Too much of this, and he will be out of our lives for good.

Estrid swallows heavily. She feels suddenly lightheaded. There is no denying that she wants to do this, and the fact that she is ready to kill someone makes her ill.

“No,” Estrid says. “No, I cannot do it. I cannot.”

She cannot kill a man in cold blood. Not like this. Not even if it’s Kemen.

Her hand now steady, she pours two spoonsful into a goblet, then mixes it with wine. Enough to make Kemen sleep very deeply tonight. Not enough to do anything else.

Estrid leans against the table and releases an involuntary sob, head hanging low. She cannot believe what she was about to do. What she was ready to become.

What she is still ready to become if Kemen ever tries to harm her new family again.

Chapter Text

It is nothing like the Tirharad battle. That had been swift and over quickly, and despite the final tragic outcome, the liberation of the village had been a victory no one is able to deny. Certainly not Elendil. He remembers the liberation of Tirharad as a good thing – a good day, before everything turned to ashes.

Then they had the element of surprise. Today, the orcs have been expecting them. Elendil very much suspects they have attacked and occupied the village exactly to provoke a confrontation with the Elves. He has mentioned this to Arondir, who agrees.

Belzagar does not mention setting fire to the village again. In fact, his official orders for the Númenórean army are to make sure that the village is liberated of orcs and that minimal damage is done to the houses and crops of the villagers. Belzagar has either decided that extracting tributes from the villagers brings more advantages than watching them burn – or he intends to pretend that Elendil has won for now on, only to hit him with something terrible later. Given Belzagar’s threats the night before, Elendil suspects where those hits are intended to land. He knows his sons can handle them – but he is still afraid.

The siege rages on all day and half the night. The village does not have a wall, although it does have a sort of gate, and the orcs have raised barricades of their own. Elendil’s task is to make sure these barricades are breached. He directs his army to harass the orcs from as many positions as they can. This will weaken their defenses and allow Gil-galad’s troops to move in.

The orcs do not offer them a clean fight. Their arrows are laced in poison, and Elendil watches many die that day – both Elves and Men. Fireballs are hauled towards their army, one even hitting close to where Belzagar and his guards are supervising from what they had hoped to be a safe distance on the hill. Elendil has to deploy some of his people to help. They grumble, but Elendil reminds them sternly the safety of those of Andúnië depends on Belzagar’s return to Númenor.

Some of the villagers realize the army has come to liberate them from the orcs. They organize themselves as best they can, trying to keep the orcs attacked on both flanks. But they are simple farmers and shepherds with no battle training and no weapons. And the resistance of simple folk can often end up brutally quashed.

Still, the forces of the Elves and the Númenórean army combined manage to wipe out most of the orcs. Many scatter and run. Elendil hopes they are not running towards wherever Isildur has been sent.

At midnight, there is a lull in the battle. Half the village has been liberated. The Elves set up an infirmary for both wounded soldiers and villagers. Belzagar calls it unnecessary. Elendil would not be surprised, but he is vaguely disturbed that Belzagar does so almost in the same breath as he demands to speak to whoever is in charge of the village.

“The village master is dead,” a woman tells him.

Belzagar frowns.

“So no one is in charge of this…this hovel?”

The woman frowns. Elendil notices that she looks very much like a Southlander, although she is shorter. There is a cut across her forehead.

“I am the master’s wife,” she says. “Therefore, I am in charge now.”

Belzagar is about to say something scathing. Elendil takes a step forward. He knows the risks of contradicting Belzagar, but he is also aware of the risks of antagonizing a people who currently might believe they have nothing to lose.

“We will need to coordinate our attacks,” he explains. “We should like to liberate the village and at least drive the orcs away, if not defeat them entirely. We might also need places to stay – and places where to house our wounded.”

The woman – Lanta, as Elendil will later learn – hesitates, then nods.

“The Common Room at the inn for the wounded. There are rooms also for some of you. Perhaps some of the villagers have rooms as well.”

Belzagar does not look too pleased by this arrangement. Elendil, however, is quick to accept this.

“Thank you,” he said. “We will take it.”

Lanta looks from him to Belzagar, no doubt wondering why the two of them are so different, why one of them makes only demands while the other is ready to accommodate her and her people. Elendil is afraid she might distrust them both equally.

“What about food?” Belzagar demands. “You’ve got crops, yes? A granary?”

Lanta’s lips curl.

“On the other side of the village,” she snaps. “With the orcs. You’re welcome to go get your food, Commander.”

Belzagar’s eyes flash. His lips curl, and he looks about to strike Lanta. Elendil sets himself between them.

“No,” he says, then, more quietly, so that Lanta does not hear them. “I will not let you.”

Belzagar takes a step back.

“You’d better be careful, Captain,” he states quietly. “Otherwise, whatever you say may be taken out of your hide. Well, no – not yours.”

One day, Elendil hopes that he will be able to find a chance to get his own back – to make Belzagar understand the consequences of threatening his sons in such a manner. Or maybe not. Judgment should be left in the hands of the Valar. But he is made of flesh and blood, and he cannot prevent himself from wishing that the Valar would allow him to be the instrument of retribution against Belzagar. For what he is threatening to do to Isildur and Anárion. For what he has done for Eärien.

That day is not there, yet. Today, Elendil needs to hold his ground in a different manner.

“My sons can handle it,” he says. “I can handle it.”

Lanta is all but forgotten – except that both he and Belzagar speak in whispers, not wanting her to hear. He is sure, though, that Lanta must guess herself that he and Belzagar are in conflict.

Belzagar nods curtly and moves away. He stops and turns again to Elendil.

“See to it that everything is set in order in here,” he orders. “And get to work retaking that granary.”

Elendil gives Belzagar a tight nod.

“Of course.”

He sees Belzagar breathe deeply, as if he is trying to contain himself, as if he is sensing Elendil’s defiance brimming beneath the surface.

“We shall discuss the matter again when your son returns,” Belzagar says. “Or we will wait until we get home – to your second born.”

Elendil pretends not to hear him. He has time until Isildur returns to find a way to defend him from whatever Belzagar has planned – because Elendil might be willing to choose to follow his principles, but that does not mean he is ready to completely give up protecting his son. As for Anárion – there is still time there, as well. Many things can happen before they return to Númenor and to Andúnië. Anárion is on his own now, but Anárion has always been capable of holding his own.

                           xxxxXXXXXxxxx

After dinner, Estrid has the goblet of wine at the ready. Kemen is a creature of habit. He calls Estrid to bring him wine in his chambers every evening. Estrid is grateful she has never refused to do his bidding, even though she knows she could have. Anárion has actually told her plenty of times that she need not humor Kemen, and she need only say the word, and Anárion would try his best to get Kemen to leave her alone at least in this respect. But Estrid has always told Anárion that she can handle it.

It is mostly a matter of pride, of course. Estrid does not enjoy Kemen’s smugness, but she also thinks that being alone with him and showing him that she does not fear him at all, that she is not one bit intimidated by him, that she has seen far, far worse than Kemen and survived, that is a form of victory in itself. Kemen probably does not know her thoughts. Estrid never gives him any indication of what is in her mind – and Kemen is full of himself enough to actually think that Estrid is either afraid or in awe of him. Estrid is willing to let him think that while she inwardly laughs at him and his fancy airs.

And tonight, it is about more than laughing at him. Because tonight, she is the one who will ensure that Kemen does not get wind of Anárion’s departure.

Estrid is close to Kemen’s chambers when she encounters Eärien.

“I thought I might find you here,” Eärien says. “You always come here in the evenings.”

Estrid straightens her shoulders.

“I assure you, it isn’t because I want to. Kemen is the one summoning me. I am not seeking his company of my own free will.”

Only, you are this time, aren’t you?

Estrid hopes she does not look too guilty. She does not want Eärien to suspect anything.

Eärien is already looking at the goblet of wine in a way that makes Estrid uncomfortable.

“I can take that, you know,” Eärien says.

Estrid’s hand clenches minutely on the goblet.

“You don’t have to,” she states coolly.

The dismissive words seem to take Eärien aback. Her eyes widen slightly. Estrid thinks that she looks hurt, and she regrets this, because, despite everything, Eärien is Isildur’s sister, and the last person Estrid would want to hurt. But what else can she do? If the plan falls through, what would happen to their meeting with the Drúedain?

Eärien sighs.

“Fair enough. I suppose you are entitled to feel anger towards us.”

Estrid shakes her head.

“I do not feel any anger. Not towards you.”

Eärien smiles knowingly.

“You feel anger towards Kemen, though.”

Estrid shrugs.

“I do not think you can really blame me for that, Eärien.”

She makes to walk past Eärien, who grabs her arm.

“What are you planning?” Eärien whispers.

Her eyes are fixed on the goblet. Estrid is afraid Eärien might knock it from her hand. After all, Estrid remembers the tapestry. Eärien had not hesitated to destroy that – and Estrid is still uncertain why she has done it.

Estrid draws slightly back.

“Nothing, Eärien,” she says. “I am not planning anything. I do not scheme. That is for the Kingsmen.”

Eärien snorts.

“You just arrived on this island,” she points out. “You cannot fully understand everything – the Faithful and the Kingsmen and their conflict. You’ve picked your allegiances based on affection. Not on logic.”

Estrid closes her eyes. Her heart is thudding in her ears. She does not know if it is anger or simply the unfairness of it all.

“You and Kemen – you both see me as nothing but a low-woman,” she accuses. “Someone who cannot understand your sophisticated ways. But I understand, Eärien. See, what do you think happened to the Númenóreans who founded Pelargir – fleeing persecution from your own island, no less?”

Eärien shakes her head, frowning slightly at the question.

“I do not know. They kept in contact with the Faithful for a while. At least, according to my grandfather, they did. But that was before his time and certainly before mine. They stopped sending news a very long time ago.”

Estrid nods. She looks at Eärien and wonders what she will have to say when she finds out the truth.

“I do not know where they are now – but they expanded beyond Pelargir. And some stopped and mingled with the other people of Middle-earth. The lowmen, as you call them.”

Eärien gapes at her. Estrid smirks. Oh yes, Eärien is beginning to understand, alright.

“You mean…?” she asks, voice small and uncertain.

Estrid nods. Later, she will be ashamed by her small sense of satisfaction. Not now, though. Now, she thinks she is entitled to it. To getting even with the people who doubt and despise her just because they think they know who she is.

“My grandmother was half-Númenórean,” she confirms. “On my father’s side. She was long-lived. In fact, she died in the eruption. My father would have probably been long-lived as well. I do not know. He died before his time, as well. As for me…”

She stops, because she does not know whether she will also die before her time.

Eärien is trembling. She looks at Estrid as if she is seeing her for the first time. This annoys Estrid. Because, despite this new information she has offered to Eärien, she has not changed. She is still Estrid.

“Does Isildur…?” Eärien begins and clears her throat. “Does he know?”

Estrid huffs.

“No. No, he doesn't. I will tell him, of course. But there hasn't been much of a point telling him now. And he’s accepted me without knowing. He’s accepted me just as Estrid the Low-woman, although, of course, he would never dream of using that word. He does not believe it is a suitable word to be directed at anyone, see.”

Eärien looks away.

“Isil is too idealistic for his own good,” she comments.

Estrid does not want to hear Eärien describing what is probably Isildur’s greatest trait as if it were a fault.

“He sees the good in the world,” she says, then swallows. “He’s made me see the good too. I was…my faith in my own kind, in everything, it was shattered when I met him, Eärien. He…he’s given me much more with his acceptance than I can ever begin to describe. Than I can ever begin to understand.”

Eärien takes a step towards her.

“If you want,” she begins. “Well, you need not face Kemen this evening.”

Estrid is tempted by Eärien’s unspoken offer. Yet she needs to be the one to give Kemen the drink. She needs to be able to report to Anárion that they are safe.

“Kemen has requested me by name,” she points out. "And I am not one to shirk from duties, however unpleasant.”

She turns around when Eärien calls her back. Estrid waits, slightly nervous. Eärien does not seem too comfortable herself.

“I…,” she begins and stops, licking her lips. “I think I’ve misjudged you. I…”

But Estrid cuts Eärien off before the apology could be fully said. Estrid does not want it. Eärien would not have given it to her if she had not known that Estrid had Númenórean blood.

“No, you judged me as you thought was fitting to judge me,” she says. “I am the same person you met in Armenelos. The same person you looked down on the first time you saw me. The same person you’ve treated with suspicion.”

Eärien draws a step back.

“But…”

Estrid shakes her head.

“I am still Estrid,” she says, and her voice is almost gentle. “The Númenórean blood you’ve learned I carry in my veins has not made me a different person. You see me differently now, maybe, but I am still me.”

She turns and walks away. This time, Eärien does not try to call her back.

When she is standing in front of Kemen’s door, Estrid realizes that she is no longer shaking. If anything, she should be grateful for Eärien. Estrid’s confrontation with her has given her the courage to face Kemen as well.

                xxxXXXXxxxx

Kemen enjoys having control over others. He likes the power that this gives him. He knows Isildur is the same in this respect – Isildur needs control as well. Kemen recognizes this in him. This is why he is fully convinced that he was telling Anárion the truth. He knows Isildur. Maybe even much better than Anárion does.

Of course, he also knows Isildur wishes to have control over events, not people, and he does not wish it for the sake of power alone. There are lines Isildur would not cross. Isildur would never stab a man in the back.

Or leave someone to die in a fire.

Kemen waves the thought aside. He owes Isildur nothing, he reminds himself.

The idea does not even belong only to him. Pharazôn himself agrees with him.

Of course, Kemen has told Pharazôn about the ships. After the expedition left, Pharazôn called Kemen to him, demanding to know what involvement Kemen had in the explosion. It is never possible to lie to Pharazôn – at least, Kemen has never learned how. He told his father everything. His plan to stop the ships from living. His intention to set the ships on fire. His struggle with Isildur.

He also mentioned the rest. How he had collapsed on the ship. How Isildur had gained a good head start, and yet he had stopped and turned to him.

“He was nearly out,” Kemen had remembered. “But he turned and got me out of there. He could have just left. He would have died himself if he had failed. He could have abandoned me there.”

Pharazôn’s expression was one full of contempt.

“As you would have done, no doubt.”

Kemen had not answered. But he had known the truth. He would have abandoned Isildur to burn in a heartbeat.

Pharazôn’s cold smile showed that he knew exactly what Kemen was thinking.

“And that, my son, is why men would never follow you,” he said. “Not as quickly and as enthusiastically as they would follow someone like him. Men want a captain who would walk into fire for them.”

Kemen had eyed Pharazôn skeptically.

“Would you have walked into fire for others?” he had asked.

Pharazôn had nodded.

“In a manner of speaking, at least,” he had said. “For one, I would have expected them to walk with me.”

Kemen had shaken his head.

“I suppose you will also say I owe him now. That I owe Isildur.”

Pharazôn’s hand had descended on his shoulder, hard and unrelenting.

“You don’t owe him anything,” he had insisted. “That was your mess, and you were supposed to face the consequences. If you let what Isildur did for you guide your relationship with him – then he has a hold over you. And we can have that, my son. We can’t.”

Remembering this, Kemen shakes his head. He knows Isildur’s father would never have shown himself so disappointed by his son’s survival. And he hates Isildur for this – and if he can take out his hatred on the people Isildur loves most – well, why not?

                xxxXXXXxxxx

Kemen’s conversation with Pharazôn is the first thing on his mind this evening when Estrid brings him the wine. It’s often been on his mind while he has been staying in Andúnië. He does not owe Isildur anything. He most certainly does not owe anything to the people Isildur loves.

Or maybe that’s not true. He does. He owes them misery. And he is ready to deliver.

Estrid walks in without knocking. Kemen has once requested her to knock, but Estrid has her own defiance. Kemen thinks that the time will come when she will regret every single moment she has tried to show him that she is better than him.

The low-woman! Kemen thinks. How dare she? How dare she act as if she is better than him? He, who is the son of a king, who has the blood of kings himself running through his veins. And she? Who exactly is she?

“You’re late this evening,” Kemen says.

Estrid does not even blink. She sets the goblet on the table before answering him.

“Eärien wished to talk to me.”

Kemen scoffs. He sometimes thinks Eärien is too sentimental for her own good. Her loyalty to her eldest brother is nothing short of ridiculous. Kemen has no idea how to cure her of it, but he wishes he could suggest to his father to attend to it. After all, it does not do to have an ally that is so deeply connected to the Faithful.

“Well, next time don’t keep me waiting.”

Estrid makes for the door.

“I’ll try not to.”

She says it in a way makes Kemen aware that she actually won’t try at all and that keeping him waiting might actually be something she enjoys.

Kemen feels the blood rushing to his ears. Without thinking, he blocks her path to the door. Estrid freezes, but her expression is blank.

“I think you should let me pass,” she suggests calmly.

So calm and so composed, Kemen thinks, and his anger ratchets up a notch. He would give anything to wipe that serenity off her face. He would do anything to get to see fear in her eyes. Just once. Just to know that he’s won.

“What do you think is going to happen to you?” Kemen asks.

Estrid raises her eyebrows.

“What do you mean? Happen how? Do you mean here and now? You’re going to let me pass, of course. You should drink your wine before it spoils, after all.”

Kemen scowls. He does not move.

“I mean, how do you think all this will end? You in Númenor – how do you think it will end?”

Estrid looks confused.

“I do not know. It is not on us – to know how things will end.”

Kemen rolls his eyes.

“I do hope you do not intend to lecture me about the Valar, Estrid. I could have gone to Anárion if I wanted a lesson in the Old Ways. Perhaps you are set to marry the wrong brother.”

Estrid’s eyes flash. Anger is not the emotion Kemen wanted to provoke in her, but it is still better than the stubbornly unaffected look of before.

“Isildur is not coming back,” Kemen says.

Estrid does not even blink.

“Of course he is.”

She says it as if she has seen the future. For a moment, Kemen is actually unnerved, then he tells himself not to be ridiculous.

“And if he isn’t,” Kemen insists, “What do you think will happen to you here? All alone on this island.”

Estrid straightens her shoulders.

“If Isildur does not return,” she says, taking a step towards him, “Then it will be only for one reason – treachery. And I swear on everything I am that, if it happens, I will not rest until every single person responsible for his death is found and punished.”

Unbidden, Kemen shivers. The momentary fear irritates him.

“I thought you would leave punishment in the hands of the Valar,” he tries.

Estrid shrugs.

“Or maybe I will consider myself their instrument. Arrogant, maybe, but I have been accused of worse.”

She side-steps Kemen while he is still stunned. Before he can react, Estrid has left the room.

Kemen contemplates going after her. Then he decides against it. It doesn't matter, he thinks. Her time will come. All their time will come.

Kemen takes the goblet of wine that Estrid brought and makes an imaginary toast.

“We shall see in the end who will win, Mistress Estrid,” he says, bringing the goblet to his lips.

              xxxXXXXxxxx

Isildur and the others decide to bury the bodies of their fallen enemies.

“We can’t leave them here to be discovered,” Isildur decides. “Otherwise, people will start asking questions, and we don’t want anyone to know we’re here until our mission is complete.”

He also wants to bury the man he has killed. To cover his face. To make sure the wolves and the ravens do not get him.

Isildur shakes his head. It is not as if burying him is going to turn back the time and make him stay his hand.

“You had to do it, you know,” Theo tells him. “It was you or him. You know that. Right?”

Isildur grimaces. Theo is becoming too perceptive for his own good.

“It does not erase his face from my mind,” he says.

Driven by a sudden idea, he searches the slain man’s belongings. He does not know what he thinks he will find there. Most certainly, someone who has been marching with orcs will not be carrying letters from his loved ones close to his chest.

Although, why not?

Isildur’s eyes widen when he does find papers there.

“What is it?”

Bor has joined Theo and is now standing close as Isildur unfolds one of the rolls of parchment he has found. He frowns at the unfamiliar signs.

“A map,” Isildur says. “It has to be a map.”

He thinks he can recognize Lindon amid the strange lines. He thinks he sees the village also, as well as a secret route from the encampment of the orcs to the lands still under Elven control.

Isildur’s hands tighten around the map. He grins.

“This…this will prove invaluable. We should take it with us. Get it to Gil-galad.”

Belzagar probably had no idea Isildur would strike gold on his mission. Now, whatever he is planning will probably fall through if Isildur returns with a plan detailing the movements of the enemy.

“What about the next parchment?” Theo wants to know.

Isildur unfolds it and frowns at the illegible scroll. He shakes his head, helpless.

“I am not familiar with the writing. I cannot read it.”

He does not know why this makes him feel as if he is disappointing the others. It is not as if he can be expected to know everything.

“We should take it with us, anyway,” he decides. “The High King might know.”

“Shouldn’t we return right away?” Bor asks. “If we’re carrying something so valuable… going further might be risky.”

Isildur bites his lips. He sees the truth in Bor’s words. And yet – what can he do? Belzagar has ordered them to go to the encampment.

“We could split up,” he says, uncertain. “Some of us can go back, while others go on to the encampment.”

“We don’t know what you will find in that encampment,” Theo points out. “We don’t even know if it is an encampment or something else. We don’t know how many orcs there are in that place. You cannot spare the men, Isildur.”

Isildur nods quickly.

“That is true,” he admits. “I cannot spare any of you.”

There is something else that bothers him about the plan. Whoever is sent back will have to face Belzagar. And Isildur thinks right now that brings as many risks with it as facing the orcs. Isildur cannot have his men take that risk, not without him taking it as well. But he cannot be the one to go back, either. He is the leader, after all. He needs to be there in the final stages of their errand.

Isildur bites his lips. His shoulders feel heavy. Once, after his disastrous decision that got him frown out of the Sea Guard, Elendil had accused him of never pausing to think that every decision of his affected others – not just him. Well, now he understands this alright. And it feels harsh and exhausting and overwhelming.

Isildur breathes deeply. No one can make this decision for him. Commander Galadriel is not here. Elendil is not here. But he is here, and he is in command. And he needs to pull himself together and prove to his men that he can do this.

Finally, Isildur nods.

“We will go on.”

“Are you sure?” Bor asks, voice doubtful.

Isildur isn’t, not really, but he still nods again.

“I think going forward is the wise thing to do. We complete our errand. Then we return with the plans and with the encampment dealt with.

In different circumstances, he would have also added We will be welcomed back as heroes. But since they are dealing with Belzagar, Isildur highly doubts that will be the case.

               xxxXXXXxxxx

Estrid and Anárion sneak out of the house and head for the woods. Since their farm is on the outskirts of Andúnië, no one from the city will know that they are gone – and that includes Kemen’s guards.

“I still worry about Kemen himself,” Anárion admits.

Estrid reaches out and clutches his arm briefly.

“Don’t be.”

She is calm, and Anárion does not know whether this is truly a good thing.

“I still wish you’d tell me what you did to him.”

Estrid shakes her head.

“I did him no harm, Anárion. Is that enough?”

Anárion senses the tightness in her voice. He realizes how it must sound like, his suspicion of her. He knows that Estrid is trying to hard not to feel like she is the outsider. She is a part of their family, Anárion reminds himself. And he should trust her accordingly.

Trust is difficult for Anárion, though. Maybe even more difficult than it would be for Isildur. Because he is always reminded that Eärien is also a member of his family. And yet Eärien cannot be trusted.

Estrid is not Eärien, he reminds himself. No, Estrid is something else.

“I am sorry,” he says. “I should stop asking questions and trust you like you asked me to.”

Estrid nods.

“You should.”

They walk for a while in silence, then Estrid takes his hand and turns Anárion to face him.

“I didn’t hurt Kemen,” she repeats. “But I wanted to. I wanted to so, so badly, Anárion. I could have – and I wanted to.”

Anárion can see her wide, puzzled eyes, as if she is unsure of what she might become.

“You might have wanted to, but you didn’t,” Anárion reminds her. “And that is all that matters.”

Estrid tilts her head. She is looking at him as if she wants to believe him but is not sure that she should.

“I was afraid,” she admits. “I was afraid that what I wanted made me…well, made me like him.”

Anárion places his hands on her shoulders.

“You are nothing like him, Estrid,” he states with conviction. “And, no matter what happens, you never will be.”

There is a light in Estrid’s eyes now, although she still looks uncertain. Finally, she bows her head.

“Thank you, Anárion. I believe I needed to hear this.”

They walk on until they reach the glade. Anárion knows that the glade holds many significances for Isildur and Elendil. He knows that, after their mother’s death, Isildur has firmly refused to come here. Anárion has often wanted to visit the glade – but not under such circumstances. This is a sacred place for his family. Using it to conspire feels wrong.

He senses Estrid’s shallow breathing next to him.

“Are they not coming?” she asks.

Anárion shakes his head.

“They will. They must.”

He shivers. The Drúedain are creatures of legend for him. He has never seen one up close. Isildur has, several times, and so has Elendil. They have both told Anárion that the Drúedain are an honorable people. And yet, there is an air of mystery around them that makes Anárion nervous.

Anárion searches the silence of the woods and thinks that there is an alert quality to it. He takes a step forward but signs to Estrid to stay still.

“Unless they are already here,” he says.

He squares his shoulders. This is his moment now. It all depends on him.

“I am Anárion son of Elendil,” he says, speaking loudly and clearly, hoping that his voice isn’t shaking. “I was sent here to meet you.”

Estrid gasps behind him. From the darkness of the forest, three shapes advance. They are clearly not Númenórean, and they are unlike anything Anárion had seen. If he had not known better, he would have thought he was looking at the dancing bears.

Anárion has heard the people of Armenelos often describe the Drúedain as unlovely. Anárion doubts any of them had actually seen a Drûg. They are certainly strange. But not unlovely. There is something about them that Anárion can actually admire. A kinship with the woods. A strong bond with the land itself.

The tallest of the three figures stops close to Anárion.

“You are not Isildur,” he says.

His voice is flat. If there is anything accusing in his tone, Anárion cannot catch it.

“No,” he admits. “No, sadly I am not. But Isildur is my brother.”

Estrid takes a step forward.

“And I am Estrid,” she says. “Isildur is my betrothed. He is gone to war.”

The three men look at her, then nod.

“We may talk,” their leader says.

Anárion releases a shaky breath.

“It is getting dark in Númenor. We are all in danger.”

“There is a conflict – yes. But it has to do with you.”

Anárion bites his lips.

“It will have to do with you as well. The Kingsmen despise you. They will not allow you to keep living on peacefully.”

Back in Armenelos, Anárion has often heard disturbing sentiments concerning the Drúedain. Many of Pharazôn’s people were talking about hunting them as if they were nothing but mindless beasts.

The leader of the Drúedain confers with his people. Anárion tries to make something of the guttural language, but he has trouble understanding it. Even those that have regular dealings with the Drúedain know only a word or two of their language. The Drúedain are a secretive folk – with their names, with their language, with who they really are.

“What do you wish from us?” the leader finally asks.

“Help,” Anárion answers, then adds quickly: “We do not wish for you to get involved in any of our battles, but we might need shelter. For some of our objects that might draw unwanted attention. For our women and children. Also,” he continues, licking his lips, “You might hear things. News that might not reach us.”

“What would you give? In return?”

Anárion hesitates, because neither Elendil nor Isildur had mentioned negotiating with the Drúedain and what to do if the situation arises. Then he berates himself for thinking like a child. He is the leader of Andúnië in Elendil and Isildur’s absence. The decision must be his, and it must be the right one. Nay, Anárion thinks, more than this, it must be what he thinks is the right decision – not what he thinks Elendil or Isildur would consider right.

“What would you ask of us?”

The three Drúedain exchange glances. It is almost as if they are conversing in thoughts with each other. Anárion suppresses a shiver.

Finally, the leader takes a step forward and places a heavy hand on Anárion’s shoulder.

“Your kin are great men of the sea – yes?”

Anárion nods, pride stirring in him.

“You can say that.”

“And great shipbuilders?”

Anárion bows his head.

“Some. Yes.”

The Drúedain nod.

“Then you will build a ship for us one day, and you will carry us across the great water. Back to our forests. Back home.”

Anárion shakes his head, confused.

“You want to go to Middle-earth? All of you? For how long?”

But he knows the answer as soon as he looks into the eyes of the leader of the Drúedain.

“You do not intend to return.”

“This land is not a good land anymore. It is getting dark. We do not wish to face the darkness.”

Anárion wishes to tell him to wait. That they might still hold back the darkness. That Pharazôn’s realm won’t last forever.

Still, it is not his right to ask the Drúedain to stay. Some of his own people are leaving, after all.

Anárion bows his head, as if he feels Númenor diminishing, and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

“I give you my word,” he says. “When you wish to leave, we will do all we can to help you go.”

                         xxxXXXXxxxx

Isildur is leading his group towards the encampment when all hell breaks loose. They are riding through a narrow valley when a large group of orcs falls upon them. Isildur urges his men to stand fast, even as he understands the significance of the attack. He has been given faulty information. Belzagar must have known that the encampment was closer, that it was well-guarded, and that the orcs were in greater numbers than he had let Isildur think. He has known all this, yet he has deliberately kept it from Isildur.

Because Belzagar has sent Isildur out here to die.

Chapter Text

Time blurs for Isildur. He issues orders to his men, but he does not really know what he is saying. It is as if he has become two people. One is clear-headed, able to manage the battle, untouchable by the horrors around him and the pain of betrayal. The other is frightened and broken, reproaching to himself that he has never thought of this very obvious possibility – that Belzagar might have deliberately misled him.

Isildur will later admit to himself that he has been far too naïve. He has believed that Belzagar would leave things to chance. That he has sent Isildur on this errand simply to increase his chances of dying, because people died in battles. He has even thought that Belzagar might deal with Isildur on his return, claiming that he has, in fact, never ordered Isildur to leave and accusing Isildur of being a deserter. But no – Belzagar had a far subtler plan.

It is probably why Belzagar has forbidden Isildur from telling anyone where he was going. It wasn’t just cruelty for the sake of it. Elendil and Galadriel and maybe even Arondir probably knew as much as Belzagar did about the encampment. If Isildur had told any of them where he was going, they would have tried to stop him. Or, at the very least, they would have given him accurate intelligence and told him to take more men with him.

The orcs are fierce opponents. They slash with swords and knives, they do not hesitate to use their teeth and claws, either. Isildur manages to bring one down that would have crushed Theo’s skull. He does not have time to check if Theo is alright, though.

“Stand your ground,” he urges his men. “Whatever you do, stand your ground.”

His heart is pounding, and he thinks of the letters and maps he has discovered on the previous group of orcs. These need to be taken to Gil-galad. Yet he does not know if he will have a chance to do so.

Isildur stumbles, and two orcs are upon him. He manages to dislodge one and snaps his neck. The other, however, brings him down.

Isildur feels the back of his head hitting the hard ground and is grateful that his helm softens the blow. His head still rings from the impact, and for a moment he has to blink against the dizziness. He grabs the orc’s arm and twists until his opponent drops his sword. Before he can get up, though, the orc’s hands fasten around his throat. Isildur struggles, the loss of air making everything distant and not true, while the knowledge that he might die soon brings the world into sharper focus. The contrast between the two sensations nearly splits him in two. He concentrates on the hand holding his sword and urges it to move. He manages to stab the orc, but it still won’t let go of his throat.

This is it, Isildur thinks, then he rebels against the knowledge. No, it isn’t. It can’t be. I won’t let it.

And yet, it is not up to him to determine if his time is up or not. Hasn’t Amandil told him this often?

Yet Amandil had been talking about not clinging to life when old age creeps upon you. Amandil has surely never meant that Isildur should resign himself to having an orc choke the life out of him.

It might not be on me to determine when my time comes, he thinks. But it isn’t up to that foul beast, either. And it most certainly isn’t up to Belzagar.

The thought gives him fresh strength. He drops his sword and concentrates on dislodging the orc’s hand. His mind is too foggy. His hands too weak, and he is annoyed that he is giving in so quickly.

Then he feels the weight of the orc removed. Isildur rolls over, gasping and coughing. He feels a hand on his shoulder and nearly explodes.

“Hey!” Theo’s voice is indignant, and Isildur realizes that the hand belongs to him and not to an orc. “Try not to take me down as well. It won’t be a good look on you.”

Isildur shakes his head to dispel the confusion. He clutches at his throat, and he feels blood where the orc’s nails dug into his skin. He shudders. He doesn’t even want to know where those nails have been.

Finally, Isildur pushes himself up to his knees. The battle seems to be over.

“Have we any wounded?” he asks.

Theo raises his eyebrows.

“You mean besides you?” he shots.

Isildur dismisses this.

“I am alright. What of the others?”

Theo seems to be avoiding his eyes.

“Two wounded. Not gravely, it seems.”

Isildur finally staggers upwards.

“I’ll be the judge of that. What else?”

Theo bites his lips.

“We lost a horse. I’m sorry, Isildur.”

Isildur nods, suddenly unspeakably grateful that he has not brought Berek with him.

“Well, then one of us will have to share,” he says, trying to keep his tone light. “What else? Have we lost anyone?”

Theo seems to hesitate. Isildur is put immediately on the alert.

“Theo?” he asks carefully. “Has anyone else died?”

Theo jerks his head.

“No. At least, I don’t think so.”

Isildur fights to contain his impatience.

“This isn’t something you can answer with not exactly, Theo,” he scolds. “Either someone is dead, or he isn’t.”

Theo looks even more frustrated.

“I can’t answer you precisely,” he insists. “The last time I saw him, he wasn’t dead. I don’t think he was dead…”

Isildur takes a step towards Theo and grabs his arms.

“Who? Speak plainly, man!”

Theo’s wide eyes find Isildur’s.

“Bor,” Theo gasps. “Isildur, the orcs have taken Bor!”

Isildur releases Theo’s hands. He feels as if something dark and heavy has descended upon him, as if he has strayed into a nightmare and has no way of getting out.

                         xxxxXXXXXxxxx

It takes two days to take back the village. Two days of endless skirmishes, of back-and-forth battles, as the orcs retreat, then come back again in full force, only to be crushed again by the resistance of Elendil’s army – with great help from the villagers. In the end, their main advantage comes from reinforcements sent by Círdan.

“It is as if he knew we were in difficulty,” Elendil comments to Galadriel after the final fight, when the orcs were either killed or scattered.

Galadriel is avoiding his gaze.

“Is this what you think, Captain?”

Elendil is already aware that the Elves are hiding something from him.

“Under other circumstances, I would allow you to keep your secrets, Commander.”

Galadriel’s eyes flash.

“Secrets?”

“You need not tell them to me,” Elendil says hurriedly. “Unless they have the power to affect my men. I do not want another Southlands on my hands.”

He has forgiven her many things and is capable of admitting that the Southlands were not really her fault. Yet he wants her to understand that he expects some trust from her – for the sake of the people he is responsible for.

Galadriel looks away briefly.

“I suppose that is fair,” she accepts. “Your men are safe with us. No one here will betray them to Sauron.”

Elendil can accept that.

“And the rest?” he asks.

Galadriel shakes her head.

“The rest…I foresee you will learn about the rest, too. When the time comes.”

Elendil fights with his impatience.

“And when might that be?”

She looks sad. For him. And suddenly, Elendil does not want to know. He does not want her to tell him what she sees.

And yet, he has never turned away from something. He has no wish to turn away now.

“What is it that you see when you look at me?” he asks. “You. The High King. Even Master Círdan. When you look at me, it is as if…as if you see the future.”

He watches Galadriel’s face closely.

“It is dangerous to guide your path according to portents, Elendil,” she warns him. “Or according to what you think others might see in you. I thought you knew this.”

Elendil would say more, but Arondir summons him to discuss building stronger defenses for the village. He gives Galadriel a curt nod.

“I think we might talk about this matter again.”

“Perhaps,” Galadriel accepts. “Or perhaps there will come a time when those of your kind will know what we know – and they might regret the knowledge.”

Elendil feels the cold winds of prophecy surrounding him. He shakes his head to dispel such fancies. Only the One knows for certain what will come to pass. No one else does. Not even Galadriel. Not even the Valar.

                    xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Isildur’s world has stopped making sense. Theo’s words sound in his mind, over and over. The orcs have taken Bor. But why?

“And you say he was alive?” he asks.

Theo nods.

“I am sure of that. But…Isildur – I do not understand why. Orcs rarely take prisoners.”

But Isildur thinks he knows why.

“They need information,” he says. “They picked one of the youngest of us – it may as well have been you, Theo.”

Theo’s eyes widen.

“You mean…?”

Isildur nods quickly. He does not want to say it any more than Theo does.

“They are hoping they might get information from him. Orcs enjoy causing pain for the sake of it. They do not need a reason. Yet this time, they will have a reason as well.”

Theo gulps.

“Do you think Bor will say anything?”

Isildur feels a jolt of anger, and he would like to jump at Theo’s throat and shake him, because this isn’t what matters most, is it? Except that it matters. Isildur knows that it does.

“We have to do something,” he says. “We have to…Bor needs to be rescued.”

Theo gapes at him.

“Isildur, we do not know where he’s been taken. We cannot…”

Theo stops when Isildur grabs his shoulders, hold almost painful.

“Isildur…” he begins, half in surprise, half in warning.

“I cannot leave him,” Isildur says. “I cannot!”

It is more than the fear of Bor’s breaking – Isildur is not sure Bor would break, and he in fact suspects he would die before telling the orcs anything. Yet Bor cannot die like this. Not on Isildur’s watch.

“Not him,” he says. “I cannot lose any of you like this, but especially not him.”

Because he is Ontamo’s younger brother. Because he has already lost Ontamo. Because he thinks he owes it to Ontamo and to his parents to keep Bor alive.

And it is more than this. It is what Bor told Isildur. That Isildur sometimes didn’t realize others were affected by his actions as much as he was or even more. That he sometimes didn’t take others into consideration. Well, he is taking them now.

“I cannot allow Bor to be taken,” he says. “I cannot allow Bor to die in an orc camp.”

Theo draws a step towards him.

“So,” he begins, hesitant, as if afraid of setting Isildur off, and Isildur should feel ashamed that he’s made Theo think he cannot discuss things with him, but he cannot feel anything right now, “So…we go after Bor?”

But Isildur cannot allow that, either, can he?

“It is a risky enterprise,” he says. “And I do not want to lose any of you.”

There are also the letters. He cannot risk losing those, either.

Theo draws Isildur away from the others. He had looked uncertain before, but now he seems ready to take Isildur on and give him some uncomfortable truths.

“Then you will have to make a choice, Isildur,” he says soberly. “We can go back with the letters and no more losses. Or we go after Bor. We might succeed. We might all die. We might lose information that the Elves might need right now. Information that might help them win the war.”

Isildur turns away. He thinks of his father in the burning Southlands. He wonders if Elendil has felt this himself – how being torn in two feels like. Having to choose between two duties. Having to abandon someone.

Isildur clenches his fists. No. He does not have to abandon anyone. He can do something else.

He turns to face Theo. His heart is beating so hard, he thinks he cannot breathe.

“Take command,” he says.

Theo takes a step back.

“What?”

He sounds shaken. Like he thinks Isildur has taken leave of his senses. Only, Isildur is certain he hasn’t. In fact, his mind has never been clearer.

“Take command,” he repeats. “Lead the others back. If they are still fighting for the village, help liberate it. If not, take the letters to either my father or Gil-galad. No one else.”

Theo shakes his head.

“Isildur…what in the name of the gods has gotten into your head?”

Isildur does not have the patience for objections.

“I do what I must,” he snaps. “I need to go after Bor. If you think my heart is leading my head, then here is a rational reason: I cannot allow what Bor knows to fall into the hands of the orcs.”

“You do not think Bor will give anything away,” Theo points out.

Isildur shrugs, helpless.

“I can’t know that for certain, can I? Listen, Theo. Take command. Lead them back. Try to keep yourselves out of Belzagar’s way. Ask for protection from Gil-galad if you have to.”

Isildur has been planning to be there on their return, so that, if Belzagar was to play any games, they would fall on Isildur as the commander of the group. But Bor needs him more.

“I have to rescue Bor,” Isildur insists. “And the letters need to get to Gil-galad. So, I see only one solution. We have to split up. You take the group and go home. I will go on.”

Theo does not look as if he is convinced at all.

“What chances do you think you have if you do this alone?” he challenges. “At least split us up. Let me deliver the letters to Gil-galad, and you take the others and rescue Bor.”

Isildur shakes his head. This might only mean more lives lost.

“It will be easier if it’s just me,” he says. “With stealth, I might be able to rescue Bor.” He pauses and gives a strained smile. “Like back in Pelargir. When we went to rescue Berek. You said too many people would spoil the mission.”

Theo does not smile back.

“That was different. Those were Southlanders.”

And these are orcs. And they will not hesitate to kill Isildur. He knows this.

“I had a dream last night,” he says. “I’ve been having variations of it for quite some time.”

Theo shifts from foot to foot, impatient.

“What’s this got to do with anything?”

Isildur breathes deeply.

“I think I know what it means. It means that I will have to make difficult decisions. Like this one.”

Theo bites his lips.

“Isildur…”

There are too many protests, and Isildur tells himself that he cannot allow them anymore.

“Theo, take the others back,” he says, tone firm and clipped this time. “That is an order.”

Theo flinches, as if he was not Isildur to bring up his rank in such a manner – and Isildur supposes he cannot blame Theo. And yet, this needs to be done, and if this is the only way it can be done, Isildur is willing to go through with this.

It could still go wrong. Theo could remind him that he is not technically Númenórean. That he could choose to remain in Middle-earth with Arondir and cut ties with Isildur and Andúnië. And Isildur sees all this on Theo’s face, and he knows he is thinking the same thing.

“You said you are with me,” he adds. “Then prove it. Do the one thing that I am asking – that I am ordering you to do. Take the letters. Lead the others back. Tell my father where I am and what happened.”

Theo’s posture changes. He still looks belligerent, but he actually manages a nod.

“Is there anything else?” he asks. “Anything else that I should tell your father?”

There are many things. So, so many things still left unsaid between him and Elendil. Yet these, Isildur wishes to be the one to tell his father himself. And he has to believe that he still has the time to do so.

“No,” he finally says. “No…just…. just warn him to be careful. Any order from Belzagar – it could be a trap.”

Theo nods again.

“You could be walking into a trap, too,” he points out.

Isildur knows this. He’s known this from the start.

“That’s why I am going alone,” he says.

Theo makes to protest but then seems to think better of it. He reaches out and shakes Isildur’s hand.

“Good luck, then.”

Isildur’s smile is tight.

“You too. I will see you back at the village.”

He knows Theo believes he will never see Isildur again. He is immensely glad that Theo does not say it.

                          xxxxxXXXXXXxxxx

Kemen wakes up with a splitting headache. He is ill several times and cannot escape the impression that the world is spinning with him.

He sits on the bed and tries to pull himself together. He has seldom fallen ill – Númenóreans don’t, not often, although those in Armenelos are sometimes more prone to the occasional bout of illness, more so than the hardy Faithful. Still, Kemen knows being unwell is never an option. Growing up with Pharazôn, he was quickly taught what things were considered inconvenient and a weakness – admitting to discomfort was high on his father’s list.

Kemen remembers that his mother had been ill often. She would be kept in her room for days, seeing no one. Not even Kemen.

He shakes his head, not wanting to remember. Remembering never helped. Remembering has no bearing on the present – and on the job they have to do in the present. They cannot remake Númenor in their image if they keep clinging to the past.

Kemen straightens up. He glares at the empty wine goblet. He picks it up and sniffs. It smells like wine. He shakes his head, confused.

“She couldn’t…” he mutters. “Could she?”

His mouth feels dry. If Estrid has indeed put something in his wine last night…

“She could have killed me,” he thinks. “Perhaps she even wanted to…”

There is a swirl of anger in him, and he contemplates bursting into Estrid’s chambers and dragging her to the nearest dungeon. His father wants him to catch the Faithful with something, after all. Well, Kemen wouldn’t exactly be catching any of the Faithful, just Estrid, but given the humiliation his father has suffered at the hands of Isildur’s family, casting Isildur’s betrothed into the darkest, dampest hole and forgetting her there might just be an appropriate enough punishment.

The door opens and Eärien walks in. She stops short when she sees Kemen’s rumpled state.

“Please tell me you are not drunk.”

Kemen throws back his head and laughs.

“Oh, it is good to know where I stand with you, Eärien! Is this how you see me? Is this what you think of me?”

Kemen has never been able to drive Eärien to feel guilty whenever he thinks she has slighted him. She receives his outburst with her usual calm.

“What am I supposed to think, Kemen? Look at you. If your father…”

Kemen interrupts her with a curt movement of his arm. It is shaking, he notices, and he hopes Eärien has not spotted that.

“Do not start giving me lectures about what my father would think of me now. I know perfectly well what he would think – now, and every time I walk into a room. In fact, I know it better than you. Because your father is nothing like mine, Eärien.”

Eärien does not even blink.

“My father has never stumbled over me after I’d indulged myself with too much wine, especially when I had duties, so, actually, I have no idea what he would do or say.”

Kemen turns his back on her.

“I did not drink too much wine,” he says.

“Of course not.”

Kemen can hear from Eärien’s voice that she does not believe him. The way she is trying to indulge him, as if he was a child, angers him even more.

“I only drank the one goblet. The one the Southlander brought to me.”

Kemen turns to face Eärien.

“I think she…I think she put something in my drink.”

Something flashes over Eärien’s face.

“Why would she do that?”

The question puts Kemen on edge.

“You saw her last night,” he accuses. “That is why she was late with the wine. She said she saw you.”

Kemen half-hopes Eärien will deny this. Then, he will have proof that Estrid was up to something last night, and no one will stop him from pouring all his wrath over her.

However, Eärien has never played by his rules.

“Yes, I saw her,” she says. “We talked. But we did not discuss poisoning your drink.”

Kemen runs a hand over his face.

“Something happened here last night. Who knows what they’re up to?”

Eärien shrugs.

“Unless you catch them, they’re not up to anything.”

Kemen does not enjoy how fair Eärien is at times. She wants to play by the rules. She does not understand that these Faithful are cunning. They will never break rules they know they are expected to break, or they will do so in a manner that makes it difficult for them to be caught. Kemen knows they have to cheat if they want to punish the Faithful. Yet Eärien is still squeamish about that.

Eärien takes a step forward into the room.

“Anyway,” she says, “I think you should forget Estrid. For now at least.”

Kemen’s frustration is now probably visible on his face.

“Whyever should I do that?” he complains.

Eärien’s raised eyebrows make him feel slightly ashamed by his outburst. It makes him hate her a little. He does not enjoy it when others act as if he is humiliating himself.

“A messenger came,” Eärien says. “From the king. He has an errand for us.”

Kemen’s grudges are forgotten. His heart pounds, excitement taking over everything else.

“What errand?” he asks, voice tight.

Perhaps Ar-Pharazôn wants to arrest some of the Faithful. Perhaps he wants Anárion removed. Perhaps even permanently.

Eärien turns to leave.

“He says he will tell what it is only if you are present. It must be important.”

Kemen hums. His excitement mounts. He suspects another reason why the messenger will deliver the message only to Kemen is because he thinks Eärien might not tell him about it. So, whatever it is, they probably think even Eärien, with her undaunted loyalty to them will object to it.

“You will be coming with me, of course,” he says. “We should both hear the message.”

If Eärien realizes he is trying to be generous with her, she does not let it show. It makes Kemen regrets even trying.

“You should get dressed,” Eärien tells him pointedly. “The messenger did not look like he wanted to wait long. And wash your face.”

She leaves, not seeming to realize Kemen is fuming now.

                     xxxXXXXxxxx

Eärien is glad that Kemen does not take long to get dressed and meet the messenger. Otherwise, she does not know what she would have done. She is sure that the messenger would have reported Kemen’s erratic behavior to Pharazôn and Pharazôn would have believed that Eärien is not doing her job properly. After all, she is there to keep Kemen in check. Pharazôn has told her to do that. And Eärien does not know how long she can do this for.

A part of her is hoping they will both be recalled back to Armenelos. She cannot stand Andúnië anymore. She feels shame burn in her blood every time she meets someone. The people greet her friendly enough – she is their lord’s daughter, after all. But she is also a traitor, and something in their looks does not let her forget this.

Is it their looks or your conscience?

Eärien crushes the thought. It does not matter.

Finally, she and Kemen are standing in front of the messenger, who hands Kemen a letter with the royal seal on it. Kemen breaks it eagerly. He reads it and his eyes widen.

“Now this…this might be a start,” he comments.

There is something in his voice that feels dark and heavy and makes Eärien think of her mother’s stories about the servants of Morgoth.

“What is it?” she asks.

Kemen meets her eyes.

“We got rid of every relic from the city, yes?” he says.

Eärien nods, half-hesitant. She is certain her family and the rest of the Faithful have hidden plenty of their relics in places she and Kemen will never be able to find.

“Well, there is a place where there might be more,” Kemen says.

“Where?”

Kemen smirks.

“The Houses of the Dead,” he says. “I was never inside them. Were you?”

Eärien finds herself struck dumb.

“What?” she gasps.

Kemen smirks.

“Our orders are to set fire to the Houses of the Dead,” he announced.

Eärien draws back in horror.

“Kemen!”

Kemen goes on, oblivious to what this means to Eärien.

“It must be done,” he says. “There are all those Elvish altars. The names aren’t written in Adûnaic. It’s nothing more than a place where the old practices are seeping into its walls, corrupting the entire land. It has to go, Eärien.”

Eärien grabs his shoulders and shakes him. He looks uncomfortable, still ill from whatever happened to him last night, but she does not care.

“Don’t you understand? My ancestors are buried there. My mother is buried there! What you’re saying…. what you want to do…Kemen, you can’t!”

Kemen wrenches himself free.

“You do not seem to understand,” he says sharply. “This isn’t my idea. It comes straight from the king. And I happen to agree with it.”

He takes several steps away from Eärien and turns to face her. His eyes are cold.

“It is time you made up your own mind, Eärien,” he tells her. “It is time you understood that you cannot cling to any kind of former loyalties. Not to this place, not to your family, not to your dead ancestors. If you wish to serve my father, you must do so completely. Where he tells you to walk, you walk. Who he tells you to hate, you hate.”

He walks away swiftly. Eärien remains rooted to the spot. She feels as if all her dreams are crumbling. As if all the things she has believed in have turned out to be nothing more than ash.

Your path is made of seawater.

Oh, father, she thinks, if you only knew. If only I had believed you then.

The wind is blowing from the west. It feels cold. Eärien wonders if it is not a sign that she is being rejected – that, no matter what she thinks, she will never be allowed to return home.

                           xxxxxxxxxXXXXXXxxxxx

Elendil hears the news of a group of riders approaching from the east from Galadriel herself.

“There are only fourteen riders,” she says. “This is what our scouts reported.” She pauses and swallows. “Sixteen men departed.”

Elendil understands. He understands quite well what Galadriel is trying to tell him. He wishes he could ask, but he finds that he cannot.

They hasten to the edge of the village without informing Belzagar. The group of riders approaches, and Elendil notices that Theo is leading them and that Isildur is nowhere to be seen.

“What happened?” he asks. “Where were you?”

Where is my son? Elendil wants to ask this, but it dies in his throat, driven away by the memory of asking the same thing in the Southlands – of being met with the Queen’s blank eyes and Valandil’s stammered explanations.

“Lord Belzagar sent us to deal with an encampment of the orcs’,” Theo says. “According to Isildur, it was supposed to be a smaller one.”

Galadriel takes a step further.

“The encampment to the north you mean?” she asks sharply. “But…we discussed this during our war councils. We agreed we needed a larger force to defeat it. He sent sixteen of you?”

Theo shakes his head.

“It went wrong,” he says. “They were upon us before we even reached it. I think Lord Belzagar did not even reveal its exact location with us.”

“What happened?” Elendil asks tightly.

Theo meets his eyes.

“Isildur is alive,” he says. “At least, when last I saw him, he was alive.”

Elendil refuses to allow himself to feel any relief.

“Well, then where is he?”

Theo explains haltingly: how Bor was taken by the orcs, most likely to be tortured for information. How Isildur refused to allow this to happen and decided to set out on his own rescue mission.

“I tried to talk him out of it,” Theo adds. “Or at least to take some of us with him. But he wouldn’t listen. And he refused to leave a comrade behind.”

The words cut deep. Because, of course, Isildur would refuse this. After all, he’s been left behind himself and he knows what that is like.

Theo gets closer, looking from Elendil to Galadriel.

“But we found something,” he says quickly. “Papers. Well, Isildur did. He deemed them important. That is why he sent us ahead. We had to give them to you,” he pauses and holds Elendil’s gaze. “You or the Elves. Not Belzagar.”

He hands Elendil a roll of battered parchments. Elendil unfolds them, frowning. He hands them to Galadriel.

“The first is a map,” he says.

Galadriel nods tightly.

“This seems to be their attack plans. Where they attempt to strike next.”

“And the letters?” Theo asks. “None of us could understand the tongue they were written in.”

Galadriel frowns at the second parchment.

“It is the tongue of Rhûn,” she says. “Elrond is our lore-master. He will surely make better sense of this. But it seems to be a vow of allegiance to Sauron. From a lord of the East – Khamûl, it seems his name is.”

There is much more that she is not telling him, Elendil senses. Yet right now he is willing to let her keep her secrets. Something else is on his mind. Someone else.

“So, the information is valuable,” he says.

Galadriel nods quickly.

“It is beyond value.”

“Good,” Elendil says. “Then I want those that brought it to you to be placed under the protection of the Eldar. If Belzagar for some reason deems they have done something wrong, I want the High King’s assurance that they will be treated fairly and that this information they brought holds some weight.”

“You shall have all the assurances you need,” Galadriel promises. “But…”

“I want the same assurances extended to my firstborn,” Elendil interrupts. “When he returns, I want him treated like the hero he is, not like a deserter.”

Galadriel’s eyes narrow.

“Elendil, what are you planning?”

Elendil squares his shoulders.

“I’ve abandoned my son in the Southlands,” he says bluntly. “Yes, we could argue that I did not know he was still alive, but the outcome remains the same. And I do not intend to repeat it here.”

Elendil takes a step towards Galadriel and holds her gaze.

“I intend to go bring my son back.”

Chapter Text

Elendil might want to go after Isildur himself, but he realizes even as he says it that he might not be able to do so. Leaving now would mean abandoning his men. Given Belzagar’s anger at Elendil, he might decide to avenge himself on the Faithful. And Elendil has already seen how this works.

He could ask the Elves for protection – but how much can even Gil-galad interfere in this situation? The Númenor army belongs to Belzagar. It is his to treat as he sees fit. Only Elendil’s presence protects them. If Elendil leaves, even for a short while…

“I cannot leave,” he discovers. “I cannot go after my son.”

Just like in the Southlands. He must let Isildur find his way out of the darkness without help. Or, at least, without his help.

He grabs Galadriel’s arm.

“If those papers are really worth something to you, then you must return the favor.”

It is not on him to be so mercenary. Especially not to someone like Galadriel. Yet he is in a desperate situation, and he owes Isildur help. Not because Isildur is his son. But, as a member of his army – as his lieutenant – Isildur is just as much his responsibility as anyone else. He will fight for him – in any way he can.

Elendil allows his arm to drop and breathes shakily.

“The truth is, Commander, I need help. Isildur needs help.”

Galadriel nods.

“You need someone to go looking for him. To bring him back.”

Elendil looks away.

“I know you cannot spare the fighters. I know Isildur is…he’s just a common soldier to you, he isn’t…”

Galadriel quickly takes his hand in hers.

“No,” she says, and there is immeasurable comfort and wisdom in her voice. “No one is unimportant, Captain. No life should be dismissed in such a manner. We cannot tell what tasks are given to us. Who knows what tasks have been given to your son?”

Elendil thinks about this. He thinks of how much Isildur has endured and survived. He thinks that it is time someone was there for Isildur as well.

“So, you will help me?”

Galadriel bows her head.

“Come with me,” she orders.

Elendil follows her, daring for the first time to hope that he will see Isildur again.

Galadriel takes him to Elrond and explains the situation. Elrond is ready to help.

“Vorohil will go,” he decides.

Elendil nods quickly. The relief is so great, he can hardly think.

“Vorohil is one of our best,” Elrond adds. “The finest tracker in our army. He’s never let me down.”

“This will not be forgotten,” Elendil says.

Elrond waves his words aside.

“No, there cannot be any debts between us,” he says. “After all, my brother would want to help you. I am sure he would not be pleased if I refused.”

When Belzagar summons Elendil to him, Elendil can look the commander in the eye and know that Belzagar is not winning as much as he thinks he is. If Isildur is found safe, then Belzagar’s plan would have failed, and they will both know it.

                      xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Isildur has given up his horse, sending it back with Theo and the rest of the soldiers – since they had already lost one horse, it means two of them will not have to share. He knows going on horseback would be quicker, but it is also difficult terrain for riding, especially for someone who does not know the land. Besides, he can be stealthier on foot.

He tracks the orcs. They move fast, but they leave plenty of traces behind. It is not difficult for Isildur to determine the direction in which they are heading. Perhaps there is indeed some sort of base close by, although it is clear that it isn’t where Belzagar indicated.

Night falls, but Isildur does not stop. He pushes on. He has to. He does not think what will happen when he does find them – he only hopes that Bor will still be alive.

He runs into a small group of orcs hiding in the forest. They do not have Bor with them. Isildur cannot pass them without doing some damage, though. Most of the orcs are asleep and only two are on guard. Isildur sneaks behind them. He steps on a twig, which alerts them, but before they can raise the alarm, Isildur has already run his sword through them.

He does not kill the sleeping orcs – even if they are orcs, they are in a defenseless position, and the idea of killing them when they are asleep turns Isildur’s stomach. He does not want them awake, either. The fight would be brutal, and Isildur has no time for it. Instead, he finds their supplies and takes them with him. 

It is not much, he thinks, but it will hinder the enemy’s plans a little bit, and Isildur is certain every little helps.

He is on his way again, following the trails of the other orcs – the ones that have taken Bor. He needs to find them quickly. Before Bor spends too much time with them.

                       XXXXxxxxXXXX

News of the King’s orders spreads all across Andúnië. Thirty more Kingsmen descend upon them to carry out the deed. Anárion is the first to protest, and he does so loudly. He knows better than to turn violent, but he uses all the arguments he can think of to stop this atrocity.

“Even if Ar-Pharazôn wishes Númenor to change its course – how can he deny its previous course? Once we were friends of the Elves. Once, our people spoke Sindarin just as readily as they did Adûnaic.”

“In your case, even better,” Kemen interferes, tone bored. “We do not care about the ways of peasants, Anárion.”

Anárion closes his eyes and clenches his fists. He breathes deeply several times to steady himself.

“You cannot erase history, Kemen. Not even a King may do that.”

Kemen rolls his eyes.

“A King may do anything he pleases.”

Anárion shakes his head.

“No, Kemen,” he says, and he is surprised to find his tone patient, gentle even. “A wise king knows that, even though it might seem as if his power is limitless, it is not really so. That the need to be a good king constrains him when it comes to what he can and cannot do.”

The men around him nod. Kemen frowns. He takes several steps until he stands face to face to Anárion.

“Have you forgotten that first morning in your home?” Kemen asks. “You weren’t that mouthy with my blade at your throat.”

Anárion tries to erase the memory of that morning that flashes in front of his eyes. He can even feel the coolness of the blade. Only he knows about the nightmares that have plagued him, of Kemen being true to his word and killing Estrid and Voronwë in front of him.

He must not show any of this to Kemen. He must hide the horror. He must hide the pain. After all, he tells himself, he is good at that.

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” he says.

Kemen tilts his head.

“Are you sure? Because it sounds to me that you are challenging my father’s authority. And that’s sedition, Anárion. And if I have to be cruel with you, I will.”

Anárion huffs.

“I have no doubt you will.”

Kemen nods thoughtfully.

“You see, my father has told me that any punishment I delivered here is up to me. Within reason, of course.”

“Of course,” Anárion repeats.

Perhaps he should not continue on this road. Mocking Kemen will do him no good. And yet, seeing Kemen struggling to retain the upper-hand in their conversation offers Anárion a little satisfaction. It is a petty sort of joy, and Anárion will be ashamed of it later. Yet right now, it is the only way he can control the situation. And he cannot stop himself. He would be helpless, otherwise. And if he cannot help himself, he cannot help his people, either.

“Back in Armenelos, Lord Belzagar proposed that the punishment for sedition should be death,” Kemen announces. “No exceptions.”

Anárion tells himself not to react. Kemen will not kill him. He knows he will have a riot on his hands if he does so.

Unless, a voice in his head whispers, unless this is exactly what he wants. Unless he wishes for a riot, so he could put a stop to the Faithful resistance once and for all.

Anárion is conscious of everyone gathered there – of the Kingsmen and the Faithful, of his foes and his friends. He wishes it was just him and Kemen. Or better yet, he wishes that he was not the representative of the Faithful, the one who had to stand for the sake of his people. He does not know how good of a job he is doing, and he wishes there was somebody else.

Yet then he realizes that, if there was somebody else, it would have been Elendil or Isildur. And Anárion cannot stand the thought of either his father or his brother being the target of Kemen’s taunts.

Besides, Anárion tells himself, they have both done it before. Both my father and Isil have suffered and bled for the Faithful. Now it’s simply my turn. As it should be.

The thought gives him courage. The thought changes him and gives him the power to endure. He can face whatever Kemen has to throw at him. Even if it’s death. Even if it’s worse than death.

“Somehow, I do not think your father has given you the authority to execute any of us,” Anárion says. “Otherwise, Eärien wouldn’t be here to keep you in check.”

Kemen scoffs.

“Eärien cannot keep me in check,” he says. “Not if I do not want to be kept in check.”

He turns to those gathered there. Anárion knows that they are all waiting to hear Kemen’s judgment.

“I will be merciful,” Kemen announces. “I will not kill. I could strike Anárion here and now. But I will not.”

Kemen turns to look at Anárion again. There is a smirk playing on his lips. Anárion feels cold.

“When I complained to my father that he was having me be too lenient with those pesky Southlanders at Pelargir, he told me that I could have them whipped in the public square, if that was what I wanted.” He pauses and nods. “I have to say the idea holds some appeal. When it comes to them…or to you, Anárion.”

“No!”

It’s Estrid who steps forward, fists clenched, glaring at Kemen.

“How can you?” she shots. “How dare you?”

Kemen does not react to her fury.

“Be careful, Estrid,” he warns. “Or I might just extend the same invitation to you.”

Anárion takes her by the shoulder and pulls her gently back.

“It’s alright,” he says.

Estrid shakes her head. She looks furious.

“But…but you can’t! He can’t do this to you.”

“I’d teach her how to behave if I were you,” Kemen comments. “Unless you want her to take your place. Her or…anyone else here, really. Well, anyone who is Faithful.”

Anárion swallows against the turmoil Kemen’s words bring to him.

“What are you trying to say?” he asks.

He does not want to know, but at the same time, he needs to. He needs to know just how dangerous Kemen really is. He needs to determine exactly what they are up against.

Kemen is quite happy to provide Anárion with an answer. If there is something Anárion has determined about Kemen from the start, is that he enjoys being the center of attention. He especially does so when he is being cruel.

“I am offering you a deal, Anárion,” Kemen says. “Your words are treasonous. We need to punish you. We need to make an example of you, so that everyone learns what is at stake.”

Anárion holds his ground.

“So you’ve said. I can hardly stop you, can I?”

Kemen seems satisfied by his answer.

“You are learning. However, I did say I am generous, Anárion. I am sure that every single one of your Faithful is guilty of treasonous thoughts against the King.”

Anárion raises his hand to stop the angry mutterings of his people.

“Our thoughts are our own,” he says. “Even the King cannot take them from us.”

Kemen casts him a look of warning.

“Careful, Anárion. You are getting dangerously close to another charge of sedition by telling me what the King can and cannot do.”

Anárion clamps his mouth shut. He does not know if he can prevent himself from telling Kemen exactly what he thinks of him and his king. Such recklessness is usually more Isildur’s style and not his – but Kemen is pushing his limits.

“Nevertheless, I would implore you not to punish my people just for what they might or might not be thinking,” he says at length.

Kemen makes a show of thinking carefully about Anárion’s request.

“Perhaps,” he says. “Perhaps I won’t. Perhaps I’ll take a leaf out of my father’s book and do what he did to your brother.”

Anárion feels cold.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Kemen’s eyes glitter. He is clearly enjoying the game.

“Only that I am giving you a choice, Anárion. I can have you whipped in the public square – or I can deliver the same punishment to one or more of your people whom I judge guilty of sedition.”

Anárion blinks, mind blank.

“What…?”

Kemen shakes his head as if he thinks Anárion is slow and incapable of comprehending even the simplest things.

“It is either you or one of them,” Kemen says. “My men have listened to many things. Your people rarely complain, true, but from time to time they speak of matters that the king might consider…inappropriate. Now, you can choose to take their crimes upon yourself…”

“What if we take whatever crimes you think Anárion is guilty of upon ourselves?” Voronwë asks, stepping forward. “I would volunteer.”

Anárion’s throat is dry.

“What?” he cries. “Grandfather, no! You…it would kill you.”

“I also volunteer.”

It is Ioreth who says this, stepping forward to stand besides Voronwë, and Anárion thinks if anyone was to even contemplate hurting her, he would tear the entire Kingsmen army apart with his bare hands.

Several more people step forward, including Mairen and Estrid and Ontamo’s father. Anárion cannot have this. He is the one who needs to suffer for their sake. The sacrifice needs to be his. Not anyone else’s.

Anárion remembers Elendil telling him about the moment Queen Míriel had decided to take the Sea Trial upon herself. Hearing Elendil’s objections, she had said that she was the only one who could do it. If we are to walk the path of the Faithful, it must be me who takes the first step.

Anárion understands. It is the burden of leadership. The call to sacrifice himself for the good of others. He is in charge of the Faithful. He is the one who needs to suffer for their sakes.