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Anárion and Elendil look back at Isildur with wide eyes, horror manifesting in real time, as Isildur tells them the story of how Berek saved him from the giant, monstrous spider in the deep corners of the Black Forest. His memories are vague, yet to this day he remembers the moments of relief as he realized it was truly Berek who had come to save him. Not an illusion, not a dream. He was barely conscious when Berek had found him, and it’s still a mystery to him how his stallion could find him; deep into the forest where only malicious creatures lived. His bravery was inspiring. Isildur later remembered that he had called out for Berek, even though he was not doing so consciously.
He knows that his father is grieved by these stories from Middle-earth, even through his attempts to retell them in a rather positive and thrilling way. They all know the scars that will last forever, but on this day Isildur makes his best attempt to cheer his family up. The Valar know they sure could need it. His family requested this, but he is the one who has to figure out how exactly to tell the story without leaving them with too much pain.
Correction: Anárion requested this, not their father. He has too much guilt to do such a thing. But deep down, Isildur knows that Elendil is curious about his journeys, even though he would never ask Isildur to revisit those painful memories in such detail. That is without even knowing why it is so painful for him to revisit them. Not for the reasons Father suspects.
“I have no idea how I ended up there, or how long I was there. I crawled through a tunnel after the building in Tirharad collapsed, and the next thing I knew, I was in the giant spider’s nest!”
Anárion cannot help but make connections to old tales. “I cannot believe my brother faced an offspring of Ungolinat, destroyer of the Two Trees!” he burst out in awe. He shakes his head in disbelief with a smile on his face. Elendil’s face looks more tormented, most likely blaming himself for leaving Middle-earth while his son was caught in the big spider's nest.
“How did you get out?” he simply asks, eyes clear as the water in the Bay of Andúnië.
Isildur recalls Berek’s footsteps, still unconscious, hearing his whinnies in the back of his head. He remembers how Berek nuzzled his head and neck as he came to his rescue. Isildur had lifted his head carefully, waking up, only being able to say his name.
“Berek,” he says, just as he did back then. His father smiles back at him, eager to know the details without having to ask. Elendil knows.
“Berek would not come with us, so I let him go. Reluctantly, and only after Valandil told me... I should have known he could sense you. I am sorry, Isildur. I should have not doubted—”
“It’s alright, Father,” he reassures him before Elendil can go on another ruminating, apologetic speech again. “He found me, and quickly after we managed to escape both the orc and the spiders. We were safe again,” he explains, trying his best to ease his father’s mind. “It wasn’t easy, but we survived.”
In truth, he was scared. Fighting that orc, and wrestling the giant spider. He remembers the darkness and fear, holding his blade in a steady grip as she lurked in the shadows, being sure that would be the end of him. If it hadn’t been for Berek, he surely wouldn’t have escaped.
He doesn’t tell them, but Elendil knows there is more to the story. It pains him to see his father with so much regret, but at the same time, he understands. He would have felt the same shame had he been in his father’s position. He feels the same shame that he was not here to prevent his best friend’s demise. Isildur looks back at him, eyes full of forgiveness.
“You must stop blaming yourself, Father,” he says, offering a light squeeze on Elendil’s shoulder. He cannot remember the last time he spoke to his father in this way, if ever. Elendil looks up to meet his gaze, nodding and sighing. “I will do my best, but it will take time.”
Anárion sits quietly as he watches Elendil be more emotionally open than they have seen him. He looks thankful, as if overwhelmed with relief. He is more honest than he has ever been before.
“I do not know what I would have done without your brother’s comfort,” he admits as he shifts his gaze to Anárion. “Your focus to not to let us stray from our mission. To not let our grief bring us down a dark path.”
Anárion nods, clearly still not used to receiving such honest words from his father. Isildur notices how strangely quiet his brother suddenly becomes and wonders if he is struggling to find the words to return the same sentiment. His gaze implies that he is searching for the right thing to say.
Finally, he speaks up. “I have learned, since Mother’s passing, that this is the only way for one to honor a loved one’s memory.”
Isildur grimaces at the formal way his brother tends to express himself regarding personal matters. But then, he recalls that the words remind him of Estrid.
She had said something similar… What was it? I have to accept Mother’s sacrifice as a gift… She gave it freely because she cared for me.
Anárion looks back at Isildur. “What then, brother? What happened after you escaped the descendant of Ungoliant?” he demands eagerly.
“Berek carried me at a fast pace, fleeing from the nest. It’s a good thing those creatures don’t handle daylight well. But the spider was not the only monster I encountered over there… If it was not for Estrid, well, I am not sure we would have survived the mud monster.”
“Mud monster?” Elendil remarks.
“Estrid?” Anárion demands. “Who is that?”
“We met her on our way to Pelargir, after escaping the spider. Although our first encounter was not what you could have expected. She stabbed me, thinking I was an orc.”
“I do see how she would confuse you with an—”
“Anárion!” Elenedil dismisses his younger son with an annoyed gaze. It shifts with a soft smile facing Isildur. “Let us hear the rest of the story, son.”
The two of them have fallen so easily into their old dynamic. It makes Isildur’s heart full of joy in the middle of the somberness of revisiting the heavy memories from Middle-earth. The times of their rift seem so distant now, although their history hangs over them along with new burdens.
“She realized her mistake and helped me treat my wound. And we made our way to Pelargir.” He doesn’t go into the details of the attack by the men who took Berek; his father wouldn’t have appreciated how recklessly he lost his horse. He does not need to know all the details of this story. He looks so proud, and he wouldn’t want to change that.
They both nod, listening carefully as if the danger still lingered over them.
He chuckles to himself. “I guess the Ent really didn't like her. They do not like weapons!”
“Was that… after or before the, uh.. the mud monster?” his father asks.
“I’ll get to that,” Isildur responds as if it was obvious. “Theo, Bronwyn’s son, was captured, and we had to go look for him. Arondir was accompanying us. You might remember him, Father; a Silvan elf who had been guarding Tirharad for many years before the orc attack."
Elendil nods, looking pained by the mere mention of that village. So many men lost their lives during the battle. For a second, his mind wanders to Ontamo, but he quickly dismisses that thought. Not now.
“We were walking in the forest when it appeared. I fell into the giant puddle of mud, and I could not get up. Arondir tried to pull me up, but he fell into it as well. I was certain I was not going to make it… Arondir and I were nearly swallowed by a giant mud monster, but Estrid lured the creature up to the surface and…” he cannot help but smile at the mention of her name and the extreme circumstances of that moment when her action ensured their escape.
“How does one fall into a puddle of mud?” Anárion teases.
Isildur only shakes his head, ignoring the question. “We survived that,” he sighs, recalling the memory. Anárion gives Isildur a suggestive glance, and Isildur tries to hide the smile on his face, continuing with the story.
“I am not sure exactly what Estrid did to make the monster ascend from the mud,” he says in awe, as if she were there to receive the compliment. “But it allowed Arondir to slash our way out of the monster, saving us from becoming its dinner. Instead, we had it for dinner!” he chuckles, remembering how he laughed with Arondir. The supper had been slightly awkward given the strain between Arondir and Estrid. Another part of the story he had intentionally left out. Arondir was not much of a talker, but Isildur had taken the opportunity to ask him all the questions he had of elvendom. At some point, he had grown tired of the endless questioning and left Isildur and Estrid to themselves. He cherished that moment, her trusting him with stories of what her people had been put through once Adar took over the lands that she used to call home.
Both his brother and father look at him in disbelief. Elendil nods, taking in the information that a young woman of The Southlands was the reason for the survival of his son and an elf. He does not remember him well, only that he was fierce in battle.
“And then you saw Ents?” Anárion asks all of a sudden, looking as if he cannot believe that his brother met so many different creatures in the far-off land. He almost looks envious.
“Yes. Ent Wives, too! Remarkable creatures. I have never felt so close to Yavanna herself. Can you believe she made them?” he smirks.
“I can,” he responds very promptly and with great gravitas. “If you had listened to my recounts of–” he stops himself with a sigh. “I am happy for you, Isildur, even though I would be lying if I didn't admit I envy the sight of Ents.”
The two brothers chuckle, but Elendil stays silent, deep in thought. His gaze is stuck on the floor, and Isildur can tell that he is yet again going through all the things he could have done to prevent these life-threatening events in his head, blaming himself for leaving his son in Middle-earth all alone with these horrors.
“Are you envious too, father?” Isildur asks jokingly, in an attempt to bring him back to the conversation.
“No,” he sharply responds. “But I wish I had been there with you.”
Anárion and Isildur exchange a look. “I told you… It is alright. I am home now.”
“Suppose you are,” he smiles. Do I want to know how you ended up in the company of Ents?” Elendil mutters.
“Most likely not,” Isildur admits with a smile. “But I will tell you anyway!”
“Good,” Anárion remarks. “I have many questions for you about it. In fact, it needs to be written down for the records,” he remembers as he puts forward his notebook and a pencil.
Isildur shakes his head. “You are always preparing for what’s to come, brother. Can you just live in the present?” he asks. He did not intend to, but he realizes that it bothers him. Back when they lived in Armenelos, Anárion always lived in the past. Now, he was tormented by the fate of their island, leading him to fear for all that they hold dear.
He knows the answer. He cannot. Things are not as they were, and his brother is under more pressure than he has ever been before.
Anárion stares back at him with sad eyes, not needing to say anything. Elendil notices the moment in between them, but keeps silent. Isildur can sense his father’s wish to speak up, but he too has changed in many ways since they last lived under the same roof. He has found his way back to the Faithful; he has been put to the harshest of tests by the Valar themselves. He has suffered, but he has also learned to treat his sons with a certain compassion and openness that he previously lacked.
Is this what happens when you lose your youngest child? You treat the ones who are still there with more grace.
He still had not told him everything that had happened with Eärien in Armenelos, and he was desperate to find out. Anárion said he refused to speak of it. Isildur would not accept that for much longer, but that was a topic for another day.
"How about it?” Anárion asks impatiently, snapping him out of his own thoughts. “Isil! I am listening, without taking notes, however absurd that may seem!”
He smiles. “I am thankful for that, brother,” he nods at him. “Where were we? Yes, the Ents… It’s a long story, but once Estrid took my sword and drew it high, it upset the Ents, and they made themselves known among us. It was only Arondir who could calm them down with his soft speech…”
Anárion, now a skilled swordsman, seems to get tired of remarking on the absurdities of his brother’s stories, but Isildur notices how he raises his eyebrows with a big grin on his face.
“How exactly did she manage to disarm you, brother?" he asks in a tone they all recognize.
He is hesitant to say anything else, and when Isildur ignores his remarks, he only laughs to himself. But Anárion cannot fool him; he wears the same look as he used to when he was questioning their tutors of the way of things. He is wondering why she would have a reason to disarm him in the first place.
Elendil, on the other hand, looks more concerned about the state of Estrid’s safety. He does not ask why Estrid took his sword, but he looks troubled.
“But they did not harm the woman… Estrid?” he asks thoughtfully.
“They did not.. Arondir spoke to them in a way I could have never. Without him, I don’t know how it would have ended,” he admits.
“Good,” he nods quietly to himself. “And this new friend of yours… She is still in Pelargir?”
He wants to sink through the floor, but at the same time, however painful it is to speak of her, he appreciates his father’s questions. Perhaps he would have welcomed her into this family. He simply nods. “Yes, she is. Building her new home just as many others are.”
“You have seen much beyond these lands, Isil,” Elendil ponders. More than I ever would have wished at your age. But with it, you have grown, and before me now stands a much wiser and grounded man than the one who joined the expedition for stable sweep.
“Stable sweep?!” Anárion sniggers into a full-blown laugh. “Are you serious, Father? You could not have found him any lesser position?”
“Anar…” Elendil warns without addressing his question.
Isildur lets his brother have his laugh; he is not ashamed of it anymore. “Commander Galadriel told me not to despise the labor which humbles the heart,” he remembers out loud with a softness in his voice. He has never forgotten her words, and they have given him strength. He feels content, reminding himself of her words and the brief moment they shared as the sun had risen over the sea. Elendil’s eyes widen at the mention of her name, and Isildur has no idea why.
“I didn’t know she told you that. If I meet her again, remind me to thank her. And, to ask for her forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness? Why?” Isildur demands.
Elendil sighs with a deep breath. “I blamed her. For what happened to you, to everyone… I… I thought I lost you.”
“I am sure she understands. She is the wisest being I have ever met!”
“I still cannot believe The Galadriel was here, and I did not get a chance to meet her,” Anárion complains.
“Perhaps our paths will cross again," Isildur muses. He has that feeling again; as if he can sense a path that is laid before him, and now, he knows to trust it.
“Let us not hope we have any reason to leave this isle in a long time,” Elendil says. He looks relieved to have reunited them long at last, and they have much still to accomplish.
Isildur nods, wishing he could agree. But he is not at peace, because his heart is left in Middle-earth. His father cannot know. Not yet. Perhaps never.
“I am glad to be home,” he says, as his father hugs him lightly. It is not a lie. He is glad to be reunited. He only wishes Estrid was here too.
Elendil has left the room to attend to his duties, leaving the two brothers alone. Isildur has waited for a moment to tell his brother of the details he would not share with his father. Elendil might accept that he has befriended a woman of the Southlands on his journeys, but he would not support the ways in which their bond had formed. He would not support how he leaned in to kiss a betrothed woman. He is not so sure his brother will approve either.
Anárion carefully looks his brother up and down, and then his gaze searches the corridor behind the door to make sure their father is truly gone. He walks over to the door and closes it. Isildur can sense the tenseness in his younger brother, and suspects that he will waste little time and cut right to the case.
“There is something about all your stories that doesn’t add up,” Anárion states confidently.
“You take me for a liar, brother? I promise you, everything I told you happened!”
“No, no, I know. It’s just… Something is missing,” he suggests with a smirk on his lips. “I saw the look in your eyes when you mentioned the woman. Estrid, was it?”
Isildur nods. “Yes. She is quite remarkable, huh?”
“She seems quite impressive. For one, I have her to thank that my big brother was not devoured by that giant mud monster,” he ponders before remembering the stabbing. “And I have to give her credit for having such quick reflexes with her dagger!”
They both chuckle, recalling the story Isildur told them earlier when their father was present, too. He did not seem as delighted by the stabbing. However, they were both fascinated by his survival skills they did not know he possessed.
“And you care for this woman from The Southlands?” he asks without judgment in his eyes.
Isildur nods hesitantly, reminded that he cannot hide anything from Anárion. “I do, yes,” he admits with a caught gaze. “I am as surprised as you are that I would find myself in this position.”
His heart feels heavy, thinking of their sudden departure. How his future changed in such haste when Kemen refused Estrid on his ship, mere minutes after he tasted a glimpse of a possible future he could have had with her.
Anárion studies his face. “I am assuming there is a catch, by the look on your face.”
“Apart from her not being of a noble Númenórean line, you mean?” he snaps, because he knows his brother cares about these things. He carries their line with great pride.
“The catch is she is not here with me.”
“...And?” Anárion demands, as if he knew all the things Isildur has done that he should not have.
“She is betrothed to another…”
A deep sigh escapes Anárion’s mouth as he shakes his head. “Isil…” he growls.
In truth, he looks disappointed, just like their father used to look at him. That warning gaze never fails to escape him.
“It’s not what you think! She does not love him…”
“It matters not, if she is already sworn to him,” Anárion reminds him. “Did you not mention she is still in Pelargir, building a new home? With this other man presumably.”
He swallows, bracing himself to tell his brother the whole truth. “She wanted to come with me, but Kemen would not let her on the ship. ‘No low-men allowed’.”
Anárion nods understandingly. “She would have come with you then, and left her betrothed behind, abandoning her duty to this man? If she was granted passage?”
Isildur knows that he cannot help but smile, because the thought of that reality coming to pass makes his heart swell, even if it did not happen. “Yes… I believe so,” he says, remembering how sweet her lips tasted on his. Anárion notices the sudden joy in his eyes.
“What?” he snarls.
“I kissed her… Before asking her to come with me. She returned it… The kiss. More than that, she–”
“You did what?!” Anárion bursts out. “Have you gone completely mad, brother?”
Anárion looks at the door, as if planning his prompt exit to tell their father of these tidings. He doesn’t walk out, but he moves in circles, demonstrating his disapproval. Collecting his thoughts. Avoiding eye contact.
Isildur rolls his eyes as he follows his brother around. “I know, I know… It was not the proper thing to do. But the important thing is that the feelings were returned!”
“We may have different understanding of what is important,” Anárion remarks as he suddenly stops his movements and turns to face him. “What is your plan, then, to steal a ship to bring her here?” he suggests ironically with harsh words that imply the absurdity of this situation.
Isildur’s eyes widen, realizing the possibilities of how to reunite with Estrid. Although his brother has not suggested this as a serious course of action, he realizes that he has not even considered that possibility until now.
“It is a good idea, háno. Will you help me?” he instantly suggests with a smile, hopeful that Anárion will assist him in figuring out a plan. He cannot refuse his begging eyes. At least, he didn't use to.
Anárion sighs. “I wasn’t serious!” he exclaims. When Isildur says nothing, only letting his deep eyes stare into his brother’s, it pushes him to consider it.
“How would you even…” he starts to think out loud.
“If I cannot convince you to forget about her, and let me introduce you to the extraordinary women of Andúnië I have met… I might as well.”
Isildur has no desire to court anyone else. His brother has taken an interest in a lady of noble upbringing like themselves, but he himself wants no part in it.
“You cannot.”
Anárion’s shoulders fall back as he takes a deep sigh. “Then what kind of a brother would I be if I did not help you?” he says, a mischievous smile on his face showing. “You really do care deeply for this woman, do you not?”
Isildur smiles, nodding. “I do,” he confesses. He did not expect Anárion to help him this quickly, but he is relieved. He has missed his brother so much. He cannot believe all the years that have passed since they last lived together.
“Come on, let us take a walk. We cannot risk anyone in the house hearing of this scheme.”
Isildur nods eagerly in response, already picturing Estrid stepping on the shores of Andúnië.