Moon of the Sea by pandemonium_213

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.

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.”