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Anárion always watches the moonlight shimmering on the sea in the late hours of the evening, for it gives him comfort as darkness falls over the sky. When Varda clads the darkness with sprinkling stars to light up the night. The moon is almost full tonight, hanging big and low in the sky. It makes him think of Isildur… It will always make him think of his lost brother. If only he had been there, he could have… What? Would he have fallen on the battlefield, too, as the volcano erupted and an entire village was destroyed? Would he have stood there side by side, perhaps holding him as the collapsed buildings fell over them and buried them underneath what was once The Southlands? Would he have been able to save him?
He has made a promise to his father. ‘I will never let anything happen to you, as it did my brother. You can count on me, Father, to always defend you. I will put up my sword, and I will become the most skilled swordsman in all of Númenor!’
In Arda, even… Perhaps he was not the finest, but surely more skilled than most of the King’s Men he had encountered, and he was growing in strength with each passing day. Elendil had sought it so that he was instructed by the most skilled swordsmen in the West.
Now, he is looking up at the moon, feeling that his brother is closer to him than he has been in a long time. There is a quietness, a silence, that has fallen over Andúnië tonight. By the grace of Tilion, the light of the moon shines on him. He will be with him always, constantly reminding him of his loss.
Elendil does not go outside at night when the moon shines this brightly. It is too painful for him. He is in his study, preoccupied with more pressing matters. Anárion believes that his father works late into the night so that he does not have to dwell on the loss of his eldest son. And the loss of his daughter, Eärien, who is still alive but further away from them than Isildur is in many ways.
He carries the losses poorly, Anárion thinks, but he is trying. He shows up every day to keep fighting. For his people. Anárion still remembers when he returned to these shores five years ago. He was surprised to see his father again so suddenly, in such despair. But he hadn’t hesitated one second to embrace him, however strange it felt after so many years apart. He felt relief, for he had long wished that his family would return to him. He had imagined it many times; however, he wished that his father would not return without his siblings.
The sound of hooves approaching him on the stony ground forces him to return to the present. Clip-clop. A neigh that sticks out clearly in the quietness of the late hour. It sounds familiar. Berek used to make a noise just like that. Surely, there is a horse and a rider, but they are moving too slowly for him to tell who it may be. He can only see a dark shape. His heart is now racing, not knowing who is approaching; he has learned to always be on his guard. He moves his hand to the shaft of his sword; would he need it. Anárion is well aware that it is not a good example to wear a sword at all hours, betraying the customs of old; but times have changed, and he is always ready for what the King’s Men might throw at him.
He notices the horse walking at a faster pace towards him, and he reaches for his sword this time. The horse makes a sudden stop, and he still cannot see the identity of its rider. “Show thyself!” he commands.
The horse looks oddly familiar, almost like… his brother’s horse. But it cannot be. They are both lost to Middle-earth. Sometimes, Anárion thinks Elendil mourns Berek just as much as Isildur himself. The horse’s rider is cloaked, but there are no signs of any weapons. He struggles to get off the horse without saying a word, as if he were injured or simply exhausted from a long journey. He breathes heavily. A man with a beard whom he does not recognize.
“Who are you?” Anárion demands.
That’s when he meets his eyes. As the man folds down the hood of his cape carefully, Anárion is shaken by surprise. He would never forget those deep, brown eyes of his brother. He drops his sword on the ground.
“Isildur…?” he gasps.
He cannot move. It can’t be. He feels numb. What sorcery is this?
“Anárion! Brother… It’s me!” the man that admittedly looks like his brother bursts out, out of breath.
“It can’t be. You didn’t survive… You fell in Middle-earth…”
Isildur takes a step forward and embraces his brother, hands framing his face. Anárion still cannot move as he stares into his brother’s eyes; he is in disbelief. He has dreamed of this, wished for it… But still he can’t believe what is in front of his own eyes.
“I didn’t! I survived! And I have been trying to get back to you… To you and father…” he trails off. “I ran into some complications along the way,” he explains, and Anárion hears an irritation in his voice. He finds himself wondering if Ar-Pharazôn had anything to do with it, or Eärien for that matter…
Anárion’s left hand grabs hold of Isildur’s arm; it’s the only movement he manages to make at the moment, and it stabilizes him. It’s him. He knows it is truly him because this was exactly how Isildur embraced him as a young boy when he comforted him after their mother’s passing. He was the only one who was allowed to touch him.
“It’s really you, Isil!” Anárion admits out loud in awe. “My brother has returned, at last!” he announces as if they were standing in front of a crowd. And then the biggest smile forms on his lips, followed by laughter and tears. Isildur dries the tears of his cheek in the same way he did when they were young boys.
“It’s truly me!” Isildur laughs, as if he is in disbelief too, and Anárion can tell that he has not laughed for a long time.
He cannot help but feel regretful. All this time we spent apart, for what?
“Ohh! We have to tell Father!” Anárion suddenly remembers in a moment of voiced panic. “He will be so happy! So relieved. You don’t know how–” he stops himself to take it all in.
“Can we just stay here for a moment?” Isildur asks. “I need to collect myself before I see Father. And I need to see Berek to the stables.”
He could never refuse his brother’s pleading eyes. Anárion nods in an understanding gesture; he knows that Isildur has the most challenging meeting in front of him, and he is glad that he can finally offer some comfort to his older brother.
“Of course, Isil. Take as much time as you need.”
Isildur wraps his arms around Anárion, and they both take heavy sighs of relief as he buries his head in his embrace.
“You are home.”