Moon of the Sea by pandemonium_213

Chapter 1: Sea-Blessing

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The wave broke, its foam slipping across the white sand to wash over her bare feet. She clutched the infant to her breast and bent to dip her hand into the sea. With dripping fingers, she caressed her child’s head, leaving diamonds of water caught in a net of baby-soft down. The other women chanted the prayer to the sea goddess, while one of their number kept watch to ensure that no men would discover them in this protected cove where they invoked Uinen and Rána.

“Isilmë,” the woman whispered, kissing her baby’s soft forehead. “My moon of the sea.”

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Chapter End Notes

Rána - "the Wanderer" - is the primitive Quenya word for the moon.

Chapter 2: Pearl

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She waited at the waves’ edge with the other girls. The hammered brass ripples of the water’s surface shattered when a figure emerged from the waves, followed by another and yet another. Full breasts and rounded hips were silhouetted black against the brilliant light. Did goddesses arise from the sea? No, it was her mother who walked with the waves, leading the other women to shore. Bags of oysters and scallops slapped against wet thighs.

The mollusks clattered into the sea-reed basket. Her mother grasped an oyster and ran her sharp knife around it, prying the shell open, and then smiled.

“Here, Isilmë – a pearl for you.” Her mother placed the tiny moon of the sea onto her open hand.

Chapter 3: Sails

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“See, Isilmë! There is the fleet!”

She clutched her mother’s hand tighter, watching white sails emblazoned with blue crescent moons draw closer to the harbor. Like great water birds, the ships glided alongside the stone quays. The tall man with the long black hair, whipped wild in the wind, ran down the gangway. Her mother released her hand and cried out to him. He swept her mother into his arms. The man and her mother, oblivious to her and the rest who milled around the docks, kissed with hunger. When they severed their embrace, the man – his storm-grey eyes intense like her own – lifted her up.

“My daughter, my Isilmë!”

Chapter 4: The Same Moon

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Father and daughter sat high above the harbor and looked down upon Rómenna, its narrow streets crackled among the roofs, domes and arches like the crazing of ancient glaze. Purple shadow blanketed the white city as the sun sank below the highlands in the West. She leaned against him, and tears ran down her cheeks. He would leave tomorrow at dawn with the fleet. He wiped a tear from her face with his forefinger, the gold ring of marriage catching the last fire of the sun.

“I will miss you very much, my dearest pearl. But take heart!” He pointed to the rising moon, the color of an orange. “When Isil sails into the heavens, you may look at him and know that I will also see the moon and think of you.”

Chapter 5: Mystery

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She padded barefoot on the cool stone tiles of her family’s villa and found her mother with her grandmothers, aunts and cousins tying intricate knots in the new fishing nets.

“Mama,” she said, her excitement mixed with trepidation. “It has come.” Then she grimaced when a cramp gripped her.

Her mother’s sun-burnished face broke into a wide smile. The womenfolk began to chatter and plan.

After she threw the symbols of her childhood into the sea and her old uncles and young boy cousins had departed, her mother whispered to her of the mysteries she would celebrate with the women that night.

“It is said that the steersman of the moon – Tilion - is a man, but in the most ancient of days, before our ancestors came to this island or even to Beleriand Lost, the moon was a goddess. We women know that is still true, but we must take care in telling our men of our belief.” Her mother placed her hand on Isilmë’s belly. “Rána – the moon goddess – will guide your body for many years to come.”

Chapter 6: Night's Respite

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She slipped out of the doors and onto the terrace, escaping the boisterous celebration. Her father’s fleet had returned to port yesterday, and he opened his home on this night to his captains and crews and other guests of Rómenna. The atmosphere was a heady one, now that the King - the Farsighted One - had taken the scepter. The Faithful at home and at sea had cause to celebrate.

However, she was accustomed to a quieter home. Although exciting, the festivities –- laden with wine and songs that were sung openly in the beautiful elven tongues –- wore at her. She needed some respite from the crowd of guests.

The moon sailed full in the sky, bathing the harbor waters with quicksilver. She inhaled the sea-air deep into her lungs and closed her eyes. When she opened them, someone stood beside her. Golden light from the villa sculpted high cheekbones and an aquiline nose, but his eyes snared the moonlight.

“It’s too beautiful an evening to remain indoors,” he said, gazing over the harbor and the white stone quays and buildings that glowed in the moonlight.

“Yes, it is.” She felt foolish but that was all she could say, her breath taken away by this tall man. They stood silent, both watching the harbor under the moon and listening to the lapping waves. He broke the silence first.

“I am Elendil.”

“I am Isilmë.”

“Do you wish to go back inside?”

“No. I will remain here for a while.” Then she met his eyes and smiled while Rána in turn smiled down upon her.

Chapter 7: Emergence

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It was daring, diving alone, but the calm waters of the secluded cove soothed her. She had seen Lord Amandil’s ship glide into the harbor this morning, but she became so restless with waiting that in exasperation, her mother had sent her out to gather shellfish.

She rose from the cool water into the summer-kissed air, the sack of oysters thumping against her naked thigh. She pushed sea-drenched hair away from her face and drank in the sun. Then she was aware that she was not alone.

Without moving her head and belying her awareness of the other, she glanced from the beach over tumbled rocks and to the top of the low cliff that overlooked the bay. He stood there, watching her.

Elendil.

She raised her head then to capture his eyes, a half-moon of a smile on her lips, and was gratified to see the blush cover his face.

Chapter 8: Crescent

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His kisses traced the moonlight’s path down her belly. She parted her legs, gasping with anticipation as his lips and tongue danced along her inner thigh. Then he stopped.

Trembling with desire, she ran her fingers along his jaw in question, but she knew what he had found. His fingers traced the shape of the crescent moon –- the mark of Rána –- that was tattooed on delicate skin, luminescent in the night.

He looked up at her, his eyes catching the moonlight, piercing and silver.

“You worship Rána,” he whispered. He covered the mark with his hand but pulled himself level with her face to search her eyes.

“Yes.”

“But there is only Eru.”

She did not welcome a theological discussion, but she knew the inevitable -- that he would find the mark of Rána on her. Better now than later.

“Eru is everywhere and everything, the male and the female. Rána is an aspect of Eru –- one that women can hold close. But she keeps her secrets, and that is what I am giving you this night, you who will be my husband. Only you among men will see the mark.”

He kissed her in reply, rekindling her desire, the rhythm of the nearby surf matching her escalating arousal as he caressed her.

“Forgive me for the interruption, my Isilmë. I will seek the moon again.”

Chapter 9: Audience

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Hot and tired, she longed to step out into the rain and join the lush green leaves and exotic flowers that fluttered in the enclosed garden. The rain that washed away the dust would ruin her delicate gown, so she remained under the loggia, a temporary escape from the stiff reception that followed the matrimonial audience with the King.

She had quailed when they entered the hall of the throne –- the scale of columns and the soaring dome above overwhelming, reminding her that the arts of the Fays had contributed to its construction. Elendil had squeezed her hand in his.

“We will be fine, my love,” he had whispered before they began the long walk to the throne. Her heart had pounded like drums at the Festival of the Summer Moon, and her stomach was as tight as knots in a fishing net. Then it was over, and she and her husband had been escorted to the King’s House where she watched the rain now.

Then someone was standing by her side. She looked up into the sea-grey eyes of Tar-Palantir. Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, but she ripped it away.

“My Lord King...”

He stopped her with a smile and lifted her hand, kissing it. But a fey look glazed his eyes; his focus became remote, yet bored into her. Frightened by this spell, she tensed. He spoke, his voice coming from far away like wind from the West.

“Isilmë. Mother of kings.”

The spell passed. He released her hand.

What did he mean by mother of kings? What had he seen? Neither she nor her husband was in the line of succession. She shivered in spite of the humid warmth that shrouded her.

“Forgive me, Lady Isilmë! Sometimes the Sight takes me unawares.”

The King of Númenórë stepped to the edge of the loggia and cupped his hand to catch the rain.

“We needed the rain," he said, letting the captured droplets slip through his fingers to fall onto the terrazzo floor. "Now we will be blessed with a bountiful harvest.”

He left her to watch the raindrops fade on the stone surface where no seed would ever sprout.

Chapter 10: Birth in Moonlight

This is a bit longer than the preceding ficlets, but I figure that the birth of an icon deserves a few more words.

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The sensation was like nothing she ever had imagined. A large round stone prepared to burst forth from her body. Fear gripped her. Surely this thing would rip her asunder, and her life would flow out of her body.

“I can’t! I can’t!”

“Yes, Isilmë, you can. You will.” Her mother squeezed her right hand hard, no longer gentle. Behind her, her aunt massaged her lower back.

The midwife squatted before her where she sat on the birthing stool and watched the stone between her thighs, rubbing the stretched skin around it with almond oil.

“Breathe deep now, my lady,” said the midwife. “Then push long and strong. Think of the waves.”

She inhaled to her very core, answered her mother’s grasp and pushed again, a wave swelling as it gathers strength in its rush toward the shore.

The awful pressure crested then crashed. She felt a sensation like the sliding of waves across the sand. Then she heard a cry, mewling like a distant gull and then building to an indignant wail.

“You have a son, my lady!”

The midwife placed the infant on her belly. He was slick with the leavings of her womb, the cord still attached to the shadow child. She examined perfect fingers and toes, soft cheeks, the black cap of hair over the misshapen skull, molded by his journey. He was beautiful.

Her mother helped the baby latch on to her nipple. The child suckled tentatively at first and then tugged at her with surprising avidity.

After the shadow child had been expelled and she and her son were cleaned, her mother and aunt guided her to the bed where she lay back against the pillows, baby at her breast. She looked out the window and saw the moon rising in the sky.

She thought back to the night when this child was likely conceived. She and Elendil had made love by the cove they liked to think was their secret. The light from the moon had shone down upon them when their pleasure swelled and crested. The same light now poured through the window and silvered the impossibly soft skin of the fruit from that union.

She looked up and saw her husband standing in the doorway, his beloved face -- his beautiful face – sculpted by the moonlight that filled their bedchamber. He came to the bed and sat beside them.

“Isildur,” she whispered and then met Elendil’s eyes to see tears of joy.

“Yes,” he said, reaching out to caress his son’s cheek. “Isildur.”

Chapter 11: Diamonds Bright

Happy Birthday to Rhapsody!

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Isilmë awoke hard and fast from dreamless sleep. Her hand reached to find an empty space where her bundled child had lain, tucked against her belly. After a moment’s panic, she realized Elendil was not at her side either. The disorientation passed. She knew that her husband had taken the restless infant to soothe him and allow her a few minutes more of precious sleep.

She rose from the bed and pulled the dressing gown over her naked body, her milk-laden breasts tight and beginning to ache. The contrasting textures of cool tiles and warm wool rugs pressed against her bare feet as she padded across the room and out through the open door to the balcony.

Standing in the moonlight, the tall man rocked on his heels and cradled the tiny baby, singing the haunting sea shanty to his son. Tears of sentiment welled in her eyes while she watched and listened.

We raise the sails to morning’s light
And spill the dew like diamonds bright.
The waves they crest, the waves they swell
As we bid farewell to hill and dale.
And so our journey has begun
West of the Moon and East of the Sun.

Chapter 12: On the Beach

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The boy teetered on the edge of the rock, and she held her breath.

“Now, Isildur!” called his father from where he treaded water below the high rock.

The boy yelled, launching himself into the air, a whirlwind of arms and legs. He hit the water with a splat. Still, she dared not breathe.

The small head, black hair plastered against his face, popped out of the water, sputtering. His father caught him up in his arms. The boy squirted like an eel from the man’s embrace and swam toward shore, her husband following their son.

Man and boy emerged naked and shining-wet from the waves and walked on to the beach where she waited. Elendil sat beside her on the rush mat. He saw the question in her eyes but said nothing. He turned his attention to the boy.

“Go find me three shells, Isildur.“ He watched his son speed away. Then his gaze traveled to the far horizon. She looked at the beloved profile of his face –- the aquiline nose, high cheekbones, blue-grey eyes sheltered by black lashes –- a profile as noble as the peregrines that soared over their home.

“You intend to leave soon,” she said.

“Yes, a month from now.”

For six years, Elendil had remained in Rómenna, forsaking the long voyages with Lord Amandil, to be a father to his young boy. And that he had done. She had entered into this marriage knowing full well what it meant to be the wife of a lordly mariner of the Faithful. I should count myself lucky. He is a good father to our son, and I am no Erendis.

But already her heart ached. A tear tracked down her cheek. Her husband caught the tear with his forefinger.

“Isilmë...” He kissed her, his lips caressing hers slowly, then with conviction, his tongue sliding against hers. More tears squeezed from her eyes. He released her. He placed his hand against her face and pulled her eyes to his. She felt the faint touch of his mind to hers, something they shared from the traces of the Firstborn and the Fays that ran in their blood, but he spoke the words all the same, the simple words that meant so much.

“I love you.”

Then he was on his feet, running with long strides to the boy whom he picked up and flung into the air, the child squealing with glee.

Chapter 13: Returning

For the occasion of Gandalf's Apprentice's birthday. Many thanks for turning me on to the Númenóreans and their famous descendants.

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Beyond the beacon of Calmindon, the westering sun set afire the sails of the approaching ships. The quay seethed with activity: workers yelled at one another, assuring the great coils of rope were ready and that the loading chutes were in place. She stood by Vardilmë, her mother-by-marriage, at the end of the quay with the other women of their household clustered behind them. Isildur, charged with excitement, danced away from her and back to his cousins as they awaited their men.

The sun sank behind Meneltarma, and the moon rose amber in the east when the two vessels slid into the harbor, the oarlocks clicking in rhythm, faint at first and now louder. The oars were drawn in as Lord Amandil’s craft, the Vingelenion, pulled alongside the long quay and then behind it, the Celumë, Elendil’s ship. Orders were shouted from quay to ships and back again. Then brows were fastened to the ships, their cargo unloaded and the mariners disembarked.

The moon had turned silver-white and climbed toward the zenith by the time she saw him. As always, he was the last man off his ship. The unmistakable figure, so tall yet gifted with powerful grace, walked down the brow to the stone quay. Isildur challenged that grace when he sprang into his father’s embrace, nearly knocking Elendil over. Together they came to her, her husband a little unsteady on his sea legs.

He stopped before her. The sweeping light of Calmindon briefly illuminated the sculpted beauty of his face – the high cheekbones and the curve of his lower lip above the firm round chin. She drank him in, falling into those beloved eyes that caught the moonlight. She ached for him, so much that her skin hurt.

He carried something in his left hand: a wreath of oiolairë leaves. As he raised the wreath to set it on her brow, she watched his hands. Heat welled up from deep within her body when she thought of the pleasure those fingers had given her and, she hoped, would give to her soon. But first there were the formalities.

“The Bough of Returning returns to you, Lady Isilmë.”

The fragrance of the ever-summer leaves filled her senses, but most of all she wanted to fill her senses with his male scent –- musk and sea -- and to have him fill her. Later, she would ask him of his travels, of Gil-galad the Elven-king and his realm and the even stranger lands and folk of the far East that he had seen. But now, she wanted to move past the ritual and take him home to ravish him.

She answered in kind, measured and stately, as befitting the wife of a lord of men.

“I rejoice that Uinen has given you safe passage to return to me, my Lord Elendil.”

They stood silent for a moment, the formalities past. Then they fell as one into each other’s arms. Their kiss was not chaste but joyful and robust. They released one another reluctantly. Elendil reached for Isildur’s hand and put his arm around her shoulders. He pulled her against him, leaning down a little to press his cheek against her hair, ruffled in the sea breeze, his deep voice soft and husky with desire that matched her own.

“Let us go home.”