The Captain and the King by oshun

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The Sailor Who Came in from the Sea

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‘What did you see, onya, in your far journeys that now lives most in memory?’
But Aldarion, looking east towards the night, was silent. At last he answered,
but softly, as one that speaks to himself: ‘The fair people of the Elves?
The green shores? The mountains wreathed in cloud?
The regions of mist and shadow beyond guess? I do not know.’

–Unfinished Tales

It was weeks before Gil-galad heard anything further from the ancient Elf. Instead of showing up with the Númenórean sea captain and his royal grandson, Círdan sent a note with the regular mail delivery:

The prince is coming alone. Expect him in the morning two days hence, allowing for weather. Keep an eye out for his ship—Númerrámar. You cannot miss her, she is a beauty. His given name is Anardil. The two of you can sort out how you will address one another.

As Gil-galad might have known to expect—nothing was ever simple—that very evening he received a storm warning from Círdan’s cosmologist. He had no idea if the lad’s ship would leave early in light of the warning or would wait until the threat had passed. In any case, he checked at the harbor in the morning to find the storm had missed them entirely but no ship by the name of Númerrámar had docked. He wasn’t sure if he should have expected it that morning or the next. There was nothing he could do, in any case, but wait.

He received a message mid-morning the following day from the port master that the ship had docked. But the messenger bore no greetings from the prince. Gil had been nailed to his desk since dawn going over figures with his treasury and other tedious details with his counsellors to allow him to take a couple of days off. He was starving. Instead of exchanging a frustrating series of messages back and forth to the ship, he decided to stretch his legs and walk down to the harbor himself. The thought of a cup of kaffe and some vegetable fritters from one of his favorite vendors on the lane leading to the harbor propelled him forward at an energetic clip.

He reached the harbor in a few minutes, an easy walk downhill from the palace. And there he spotted the ship, newly arrived from the Havens. It was larger than Gil had envisioned. A perfect meld of traditional artisanship and modern shipbuilding technology, graceful and yet imposing. It rode high in water since it held no heavy cargo. Its paint looked newly applied from where he stood—its hull a gleaming black with the white above accented by a deep red stripe.

The presence of a significant influx of visitors created a festival mood at the port. Food carts had appeared in full force and all manner of other vendors were busy setting out their wares.

The upper deck of the ship swarmed with sharp-looking sailors securing the vessel and eager to disembark. Gil noticed the first few sailors to take their leave of the vessel trickling down the gangplank and onto the lane. Impressive in their shore-going rig, they walked in clumps toward the visiting sailors’ hostel—Distant Shores—where Círdan had reserved them, as honored guests, the establishment’s most comfortable quarters. Most of them, at liberty as they were, had already begun to shrug off their outer jackets in the noontime sun. They casually talked and laughed amongst themselves, but were notably well-behaved for disembarking sailors. He made the observation that their young captain ran a well-disciplined but happy ship.

Then he noticed a tall, handsome sailor, sitting on a barrel outside of the most popular wharf-side pie shop, wolfing down one of its celebrated deep-fried, spiced-pork pies. The fellow looked around the harbor with an intelligent and amiable curiosity, licking the grease off his long fingers. ‘I should approach him and ask where to find his prince,’ Gil thought.

“Good day, sailor,” Gil said, unable to control a big grin. “Might you be able to help me find your captain?”

“I’d be most happy to, my lord,” said the young sailor, leaping to his feet with a smile and a bow. “You are speaking with him. I am Captain Anardil and that beauty behind us is my ship Númerrámar.”

“She is a stunner,” said Gil, laughing. “Bigger than I had imagined! You’re not at all what I expected either.” He had no idea what he had anticipated, but it was not this broad-shouldered, gorgeous lad with a wide good-natured smile.

“And who might you be, sir?” he asked, with what Gil would have sworn was more than a hint of animal attraction. Perhaps he was simply projecting a jovial, extroverted nature.

It would be just like Círdan, of course, not to have mentioned the outstanding attractiveness of their guest. He, no doubt, simply failed to take note of it despite his never well-concealed disapproval of his king’s attraction to just such a specimen. Gil let loose a self-deprecating huff and gave the young man what he hoped was a dazzling smile, while warning himself to be cautious. It was one thing to admire the contrast of those bright blue eyes against the deeply tanned face of such a beautiful youth among his own people—to allow any such self-indulgent daydreaming concerning a foreign sailor of the Secondborn, and royalty at that, was ill-advised and inappropriate.

“I am Ereinion Gil-galad—your host for the next period.” He stuck out his hand, eager to cut through any bowing and scraping formalities. He was talking to the heir to the throne of Númenor after all. There was no need to stand on ceremony one-on-one.

Anardil gave his hand a firm shake and laughed, his broad smile showing gleaming white and perfectly aligned teeth. “You are nothing like I had imagined either, sire!”

They stood gripping hands and looking one another up and down, laughing at themselves and one another, their mutual affinity strong and instant. “I am sure you’ve heard from others of my compatriots what we outlanders expect of Elves—willowy, ethereal, and serious in an off-putting way.”

“Ha! You should have met my father!”

“Indeed! And what was he like?”

“Louder even than me. Warm. Outgoing. And as fine-looking as he was strongly built. Nothing willowy or remote about him. Admittedly, my memories are those of a child, but everyone seemed to love Fingon.”[1]

“Fingon the Valiant. Amazing. I am talking to a legend.”

“Hardly! I’ve never expected or received the type of devotion he inspired back in those days. I am content with being considered a competent and approachable ruler. I’d heard that you are some sort of boy wonder—youngest captain amongst Vëantur’s illustrious Venturers Guild.”

“To be honest, I might remind you that Vëantur is my grandfather. One could say I might have started young from a position of privilege, My Lord.”

“Gil is good enough. Don’t be modest. You forget that I know Vëantur. He seems more likely to set higher standards for you than to extend any unearned advantage based upon family connections.”

“As a child, I was big for my age, bright, overly active, and mad for the sea—an irresistible temptation for my grandsire to take charge of my education. One might say a perfect storm! So I did get an early start.”

Talking with Anardil made him more conscious of the young man’s casual confidence and maturity. This was no wet behind the ears pup but the captain of that grand ship, dwarfing all the other vessels around her, a proud and immaculately maintained example of the floating wealth which made up the rapidly expanding Númenórean fleet. Vëantur would not entrust a ship like this to a grandson, no matter how much he favored him, if he were not be able to maintain it. And, doing so would require him to be a skilled and inspiring leader capable of ensuring the safety and security of the grand vessel and its crew.

Anardil had finished his pie, neatly cleaning his hands with his handkerchief while unabashedly studying Gil. “I planned to send a messenger to inform you of my arrival after I had cleaned up and changed.”

“You can more easily bathe and find refreshment at the palace. I’ll send for your luggage. Your rooms are ready so you can rest for a while there if that is your preference. Or would you like another pie first? We probably don’t have anything so satisfyingly greasy and homely in our kitchens. My chef looks down on so-called street food.”

“Perhaps we can come back another time. I do have a fondness for seaport vendors. More than anything, I would love a bath. I am uncommonly sweaty and salty. We ran into the squally end of a storm last night. I got wet through twice.” His eyes twinkled, almost preternaturally pale contrasted against his sun-bronzed skin. “Grandfather promised me I would enjoy your hospitality. He thinks highly of you and your accommodations!” He gave Gil a cheeky grin.

“It will be my great pleasure to make you as comfortable as I can.” Gil tried to fight his natural inclination to flirt. The prince seemed relaxed enough to invite equally casual and friendly responses. But this was diplomacy and of significant importance to both sides. “I had reports of that storm. I hoped you might miss it entirely.”

“I can’t complain. We had heavy rainfall and strong winds that kept us on our toes for a while but we avoided the worst of the storm.”

They continued to slowly amble up the cobbled street leading gently away from the harbor. As they reached the crest of the hill, the palace came fully into view. Gil was proud of how it looked outlined against the blue of the sky. He had spent several years overseeing its design and construction.

There was a wider, more level avenue that curved around the foot of the incline and led to the front entrance of the palace grounds, but Gil loved the vantage point from the top of this hillock. One could see the entire palace and its grounds. He never got tired of showing it to visitors for the first time. His own unsettled youth left him appreciative of this cluster of buildings that he thought of as his first real home.

“Oh, this is lovely. We saw the front of palace as we approached the port this morning, but the perspective from here is quite different. It is so sprawling and open. I expected high battlements and defensive towers.”

“I’m proud of it,” Gil said. “It is not a military outpost but a political and administrative center. Two things that Orcs fear most are the sea and sunlight. I tried to take advantage of that. The ongoing threats we face in this Age harry us at our far peripheries and outlying settlements. You might be interested in speaking with Glorfindel while you are here. He is the head of our armed forces and loves to discuss our defenses or lack thereof.”

“That will be a pleasure indeed! I think I would like to freshen up and rest a while before you start introducing me to such illustrious figures.”

“Of course. I was thinking of tomorrow or even later. Perhaps tonight we can have a dinner alone. You will stay awhile won’t you? We have an early music festival coming up later in the month. I am sure you and your crew would enjoy it. It includes all kinds of music, singing, dancing, eating and drinking . . . things sailors tend to like.”

Several hours later, Gil sat with a rested and refreshed Anardil on a second-floor balcony facing the setting sun.

“Everything about this place and the way you live feels familiar but totally different. I am constantly aware of how much of our culture in Númenor is evocative of yours—due no doubt to our first ruler Tar-Minyatur, your kinsman Elros. It’s overwhelming that for me he is an ancestor, a distant historical figure, the founder of our line of kings, and yet for you he was a real person, who had a childhood, and has a living brother. You tutored him here in this very palace as a young man to become a worthy leader.”

Anardil flashed his wide smile at Gil. He did look well-rested. His soft, clean hair, rinsed of salt and grime, looked lighter hanging loose around his face and fluttering softly in the gentle ocean breeze. “I am rambling!” he said, with an unselfconscious laugh.

“Not at all. I am totally fascinated by your impressions. I am not what you might call a type disposed to philosophical observations. I tend to get wrapped up in the quotidian tasks of governance. I want to hear more of how we appear to you.” A servant entered bearing a large tray with a carafe of wine, a platter of assorted olives, cheeses, flatbreads, and plate of sliced fresh fruit.

“Let me offer you a glass of this Dorwinion. I have been told it is good for its kind.” Gil watched him raise the glass and examine its contents with a look of serious interest—he swirled, sniffed, and then tasted the wine.

“It is better than good, sir,” he said. “It is wonderful.”

Gil grinned. “You seem to know your wines.”

Anardil grinned back at him and blushed. “I suppose I know what I like.” They both laughed.

Afraid he might have embarrassed the lad, Gil quickly changed the subject. “I would have loved to have seen Elros as a king. I watched his brother grow and change so much after he left. Elrond was a rebellious young Elf, resentful of the hand he had been dealt, unhappy about losing his brother, but he settled a lot. He has turned what he has endured into a well of understanding and compassion for the suffering of others.”

“One would have thought that given the usual descriptions of the differences between Elves and Men that our first king would have changed more and Elrond less. But your descriptions might indicate the opposite is true.” He colored again. “Of course, I learned what I know about our founder only from the history books.”

Gil responded, “It is true I have a long memory and lived through these events, but even Elven memory is not flawless. Our emotions and our personal experiences continue to affect how one recalls the past. Prejudices and trauma can subtly alter one’s memories.”

“Ha!” Anardil tossed back his head and laughed. “So true! Our thinkers often say that written history may tell us as much about the writer as the peoples they describe. Our history tells us that the Valar sent us to a perfect island designed to provide us with everything we need to lead free and happy lives. The truth is that it remains an island. And free and happy people tend to reproduce! Our land is finite and surrounded by the sea.” He took a deep breath, as though reluctant to go on. “Naturally, we have looked to the sea . . .” His voice trailed off and he looked beseechingly at Gil as though he hoped he would finish the thought for him.

Gil was certain that he could see where this discussion was leading. It was growing clearer and clearer why Anardil had been so anxious to meet him personally. Númenor’s thriving population was running out of land and resources, while Gil had more land than he could oversee with a scattered, often beleaguered, population that he could not always protect.

But Gil did not throw him the rope he hoped for. He wanted to hear Anardil's version. Instead he said, “Please go on. I am listening.” It seemed a bit unkind, but he needed for him to present how he interpreted the situation.

Anardil tossed an olive into his mouth and chewed. He neatly spit the pit into his palm and placed it upon his plate. He looked into Gil’s eyes without wavering but took a huge gulp of his wine, liquid courage perhaps. “First, I need trees for our ships. I also have people who need land where they may settle and farm or gaze herds. We have many craftsmen, scholars, and younger sons who feel constrained by the limitations of our isle.” Gil liked that the lad did not intend to beat around the bush. He was as transparent as those clear blue eyes might lead one to believe. Gil was not any kind of thought-reader but he could tell if someone was hiding something.

“If you can tell me what you need, perhaps we can help one another.”

“We seek security and peace for our people,” Gil said. “We have never regained the population we lost in the Great War, the emigration of my people to the Undying Lands, and the departure of those who left to settle your Land of Gift.” He sighed deeply wondering if the prince realized how incomplete the victory over Morgoth’s minions had been in that war. “It is only along the most populated areas of our coast that one can guarantee absolute freedom from marauding Orc bands. Throughout Eregion, Elves, Men, and Dwarves co-exist, trade, and dwell largely in a watchful peace. Beyond the mountains Silvan Elves have their own communities. The Avari do not form organized communities or practice agriculture in any but the most primitive and impermanent manner but exist as they ever have since long before the rising of the Sun and the Moon.”

“I have heard much of this from Vëantur. He said the wilderness areas are rough and dangerous—still filled with remnants of the Dark Lord’s fiends.”

“Your grandfather is right about both things. Evil creatures occupy pockets of those unsettled lands to the east and south. The weather conditions are often harsh—cold, wet winters to the east and north and hot, arid lands to the south. This vast land is not a simply a larger version of your island paradise. It is filled with well-nigh uncrossable mountains, dense forests, swamp lands, raging rivers, and volcanoes.”

“Are there no communities of Men in those remote parts?”

“There are Men in both the east and the south but we know little of them except that when encountered they are often found to have fallen into a darkness that is reminiscent of those enthralled to Morgoth in the last Age. To put it simply, the armies of the West uprooted Morgoth and banished him and many of his minions, but far from all. His influence still casts its shadow over the lives of many in isolated areas.”

“One often thinks of the Valar as the fount of all wisdom but apparently they are not.” Anardil said, looking shocked and more than mildly appalled. Gil could not resist laughing aloud.

“You are over simplifying!” he said.

Anardil’s face clouded over in anger or confusion, or maybe both and he stuck his lower lip out in the most attractive way. Gil chuckled again.

“Don’t take that wrong. I do it myself. Círdan has tried to explain to me that it is the intent of Eru that we, Elves and Men, have free will and must determine our own fates. But the Ainur, who may, in many ways, be wiser than us, have perhaps exercised an overly protective instinct and are fallible as well.”

“They surely are!" Anardil said, glaring at Gil with a boyishly grumpy face. “Look at Sauron! Not to mention Morgoth himself! Seems like we have been given enough rope to hang ourselves.”

Gil did not mean to tease him, but he could not control a grin. “Maybe,” Gil drawled, still smiling. “Or maybe we are supposed to learn from our past mistakes.” He shrugged. “I do the best I can do. That’s all any of us can do.”

Anardil squirmed in his chair. “Do you think we could go for walk? I am feeling stiff and dying of curiosity. Show me more of how you live!”

“With great pleasure! We can pick up this discussion again later. I do feel we have things we might be able to do for one another, but there are a lot of angles we must consider.” Anardil gave a sharp, almost businesslike, nod to him, but somehow looked more relaxed again.

Gil wanted to defer any serious negotiations until he had time to think and learn to know the prince better. He did want to show his guest his beloved palace and its surroundings. “Want to see our formal gardens in the moonlight?” He thought the remark sounded like something a suitor might say to a potential sweetheart. What a blunder that could have been. He felt his cheeks burning in the evening shadows of the terrace. He needed to rein in these feelings of attraction for the young mortal.

A perceptive and kind-hearted lad, Anardil defused any tension with a gentle taunt. “How romantic! Who could resist that offer? Certainly, not I. Actually, my mother will be desperate for a description of your palace gardens. Although, I know next to nothing about decorative horticulture.” He released a soft laugh almost a giggle and, for a moment, seemed excruciatingly young to Gil.

The king considered the fact that he had never been dismissive or off-putting with Men and could still be considered young by the reckoning of most of his Elven compatriots. Being around this charming but serious youth made Gil feel hopeful of a future friendship at least, if no more.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We will find a beautiful book in the library with drawings and pressed flowers that you can take to your lady mother as a gift from me.”

“That would work well for me. If I treated her with greater consideration I might be able to convince her to stir herself to be more of an ally to me in some of my disputes with my father.” Gil intended to pursue that loaded remark further another time but did not want to counter the sense of pleasant lassitude to be found in a fragrant garden lit by a hazy moon in the company of this gorgeous youth.

Feeling mellow, content, and slightly tipsy, they wandered deeper into the interior of the gardens enjoying the balmy summer air and the heady scents of common and more exotic bloom. They ended up enjoying the reflection of the moon and stars in a fountain of which Gil was particularly proud—its unique stonework of the classic Westward-looking Noldorin style, harked back to the First Age, but it was tempered by simpler and more modern Dwarven elements.

But they did not speak of flowers or moonlight. They discussed horses, the sport of swordsmanship and other martial arts, poetry, and ancient history. They avoided talk of future alliances, old growth forests, or what kind of timber might be suitable for building the masts of deep-sea sailing vessels. Anardil unconsciously demolished any fear on Gil’s part that his lively intelligence might be limited to only ships and the sea.

At well past midnight, Gil signaled an attendant and ordered them a nightcap of potent, amber brandy which promised to send them relaxed and sleepy off to their own beds, agreeing to meet in the morning for breakfast and plan the following day.

[1] The Silmarillion gives Gil-galad Fingon as his father. Tolkien later changed him to Orodreth in some notes but never incorporated this version into any narrative. By the time I first encountered Orodreth as a possible paternal figure, my head-canon was firmly established.