By Way of Tears by StarSpray

Chapter 1

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Messages came through the palantíri when Isildur finally departed Osgiliath. When the news came to Rivendell, Valandil whooped with joy, and Lirulin felt nothing but relief. "At last," she sighed, smiling at her sister. It had been a long fourteen years—though the past few had not been nearly as difficult as the twelves years the war lasted. Valandil had grown from a babe in her arms to a gangly young man almost as tall as she was, at that stage where he had not yet grown into all his limbs.

Lícumiel hummed in acknowledgment, but her gaze was faraway, and she did not smile. "What route are they taking?" she asked abruptly. "Southward by way of Orthanc?"

"No," Elrond said, glancing away from Valandil's antics. "They intend to come north first, passing near the Greenwood before crossing the Misty Mountains. It is a shorter route than going round the other way, especially since they have no horses."

"I see." Lícumiel seemed to shake herself, and finally smiled. "Then they will be here before we know it."

In the days that followed Rivendell went into a flurry of activity, preparing for Isildur's return. Most of his men would go on to Annúminas, or home to their own towns and villages. Valandil had been fitted for new clothes—Valar knew he needed them, having grown nearly five inches in the past year—and Lirulin had only had to prick him with a pin once to get him to stand still.

Then, in the middle of the night, Lícumiel roused Lirulin from a troubled sleep. "Someone has just arrived," she said when Lirulin mumbled a question.

"Not Isildur…?" It was too soon, and he surely wouldn't try to enter the valley in the dead of night…

"No, but I think someone from his party."

That could mean nothing good. Lirulin threw on a dressing gown and followed Lícumiel to the Hall of Fire, where the two arrivals had been taken. Both were young men, by the reckoning of Númenor; Elrond knelt by one, examining a rough splint on his leg. The other sat with a mug of something steaming in his hands, with an expression of grief and dread on his face. Lirulin knew him at once—he was her cousin, Terendil, who had long served as Isildur's squire.

"Cousin, what has happened?" Lirulin cried, and Terendil jumped to his feet, staggering a little before kneeling before her.

"Your grace," he said, and faltered.

Lirulin reached blindly for Lícumiel, who gripped her hand hard. "Ohtar Terendil, tell me what has happened," she said. "Where is my husband?"

"I fear your lord husband is dead, your grace," Terendil said without raising his head. "By the Gladden Fields near the Greenwood we were beset by many foes—orcs out of the mountains. The fight went ill, and my lord told me—he told me to keep this from capture, at any cost." He picked a great sheath from the bench and offered it to Lirulin.

The shards of Narsil.

Lirulin accepted the heavy sword with as much grace as she could muster. "What became of my husband, and my sons?" she asked.

"I do not know, my lady," he said. "My lord commanded my companion and me to take Narsil and flee—to keep it safe at even the cost of being held cowards who deserted him. And so we fled, 'ere the orcs closed in around us."

Lirulin closed her eyes. Lícumiel kept a hand on her shoulder, the weight warm and comforting. The gift of foresight was not uncommon in their family, and Lirulin had enough of it to recognize when it came upon her—and she knew, without a doubt, that her husband and her sons were dead, routed with all their men there in the Gladden Fields.

"I thank you, Ohtar Terendil," she said finally, taking refuge in formality for the moment. "I promise, none shall call you cowards for following your lord's last orders. Rest, now."

In the corridor outside the Hall of Fire, she paused a moment to try to gather herself; Lícumiel stood at her side in silence. After a few moments, Elrond joined them. "A party has already left for the Gladden Fields," he said. They would find and give proper burials to whoever they found. Lirulin did not think there would be any survivors, barring a miracle. "I will take this to the treasury," he added, holding out his hands for Narsil. Lirulin gave it up gladly. She was no weakling, but Elendil's sword was heavy, even broken. "We will speak again in the morning," he said.

"Yes," Lirulin said. There was a strange, muffled roaring in her ears, and her own voice sounded muffled and far away. "We must speak of Valandil—he's too young to take up the scepter…"

Elrond murmured something likely comforting before departing, his robes whispering over the moonlit stone. Lirulin pressed shaking hands to her lips.

Dead. Isildur was dead. And her sons, her dear boys, Elendur and Aratan and Ciryon—all of them were gone, cut down by orcs after surviving so much—the drowning of Númenor, the siege of Mordor and the defeat of Sauron…now when peace was finally within their grasp…

It wasn't fair! She wanted to wail and tear at her hair and scream to the skies how unfair it was—but she couldn't. Valandil was only fourteen years old, and until he came of age someone must take up the rule of Arnor, and there was no one else but her. "Lícumiel," she said finally.

"What do you need?" her sister asked immediately.

To turn back time. "Your hand. Your writing has always been fairer than mine. In the morning, we must write to the lords of Arnor, and to Meneldur in Osgiliath, to tell them what has happened."

In her own room, in the bitter watches of the night, behind locked doors, Lirulin fell apart—she wept and cursed and screamed into her pillow until her throat was sore and her voice gone.

When the sun rose on the green gardens of Imladris, Queen Lirulin emerged stone-faced and regal, to take up the Regency of Arnor.