Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Double Birth

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The ancient custom of the house of Andúnië forbade mourning after Lord Númendil’s passing. Still, as the months trickled by, Amandil found it harder and harder to go on as if nothing had happened. Every morning, he woke up devoid of energy, and sometimes he was tempted to stay under his covers and refuse the summons of the outside world. On the evenings, he took to sitting by the cliffs, in the same spot where his father had been when his soul left his body, as if he was trying to discover some lingering trace of his presence. Elendil did not say a word to him about this, but Amandil knew that he was worried, and that his mood reminded his son of the hopelessness and apathy he had experienced after their exile.

But Amandil no longer had time for hopelessness or apathy. He might be feeling tired and numb inside, and yet the world would not stop for his sake, and the drama he had found himself a part of would unfold regardless of whether he was willing to play his role in it or not. The disease which had ravaged the East of the Island had been contained, officially through Sauron’s power –unofficially, Anárion estimated that between fifteen and seventeen barbarians had been slaughtered for each Númenórean who died, some of them when they were already sick, others just for the peace of mind of their masters-, but now it had broken out in Pelargir. There, far from the King’s gaze, it was far more likely that people’s fear would devolve into open persecution of the many Faithful who crowded its streets. The Faithful in Rómenna had already suffered casualties from the hatred and ignorance of others, and the Governor of Sor had just feigned sympathy, while deep inside he was glad that his people had found an outlet for their basest urges who was not him. The Magistrate and the Merchant Princes who ruled Pelargir would not even bother with the pretence. This disease offered them a golden opportunity to attack their greatest rivals, the descendants of the first settlers brought across the Sea by Tar Palantir, while the crowd of beggars and refugees from Pharazôn’s reign would be caught in the crossfire. To send anyone to Pelargir to await transportation to the North was folly under the circumstances, even if they managed to avoid the ever-increasing volume of restrictions placed upon their harbour. Isildur had suggested bypassing the Bay completely, and sending ships directly to the Northern colonies as a solution. This, however, meant doing away with the last pretence of abiding by the laws of Númenor and being loyal to its Sceptre. The King had never put a stop to their “commercial activities” before, or seemed to care much about them, busy as he was preparing the invasion of Valinor. But if Amandil decided to burn this last bridge, he would be giving him, the demon who had his ear, and the merchants who hated the house of Andúnië a perfect excuse to act against them.

While they discussed this issue, endlessly examining it from every angle under the candlelight of his desk at night, Amandil’s last conversation with his father was often on his mind. What would he do if he knew he was going to die, if he did not have to care for the laws and conventions of this world, or fear any of its powers? In his dreams, it was Númenor itself that ended, and he could feel this end growing nearer every day. But, if they were all doomed, did this mean they could start acting as if those laws had no power over them anymore? Where was the red line that had to be crossed, the point of no return after which obedience no longer held any meaning, and posed even worse dangers than disobedience?

In the end, as it was often the case, it was the most unexpected happening what tipped the lord of Andúnië’s hand. One day, his secretary came in looking rather flustered, informing him that a group of very odd people had arrived by his gates demanding to see him. When they were turned away, they stood their ground, and claimed to be there on behalf of Fíriel. Recalling that other incident with the peasants of the Andustar, Amandil sighed, and gave orders for this new group of would-be victims whose plight had touched the royal mistress’ heart to be admitted into his presence. If they weren’t too many, or too conspicuous, perhaps they could stay in Rómenna while he decided what the next step was going to be.

When the barbarians came in, however, Amandil felt his heart sink from a dark premonition. They must hail from a land far to the North, or so he deduced from the colour of their skin and the straw-blonde of their hair, which reminded him of a woman he had loved so long ago that he could not even remember her name. There was an old woman, a young man with outlandish manners who stayed near the threshold of the door instead of approaching Amandil, and the strangest couple the lord of Andúnië had ever seen. She was a beautiful woman, but no – beautiful was not the appropriate word. Lalwendë was beautiful, Ilmarë was beautiful, Amalket had been beautiful, but this woman was something else. Her oval face, the perfect curve of her lips, the striking blue colour of her eyes inspired him with the same sort of awe that Ar Zimraphel evoked in fellow mortals, though if her beauty was that of a goddess, it was a foreign and remote deity who would scorn Númenórean prayers. When she advanced towards him, her companion advanced by her side, and his appearance struck such a stark contrast with hers that Amandil almost recoiled. He was missing one eye, covered by an eyepatch, and one side of his face had been badly burned. Still, when she leaned towards him to whisper some words in his ear, she did not seem bothered by any of this at all. Amandil saw him nod gravely and her lips curve in an encouraging smile; then, he fell to his knees before him.

“Powerful lord of Andúnië, we are here to seek your protection against a great evil that follows our footsteps”, he spoke, in a very good Adûnaic. “The Lady Fíriel, in her infinite kindness, sent us here.”

As he explained their plight, Amandil’s bad feelings were confirmed. These people were not peasants, or fugitives from an overzealous governor who had found figurines of the Baalim in their cellar. She was none other than the Lady Rinitisipamushi, daughter of Molmak the Grey Wolf, and wife –at least in the very loose sense of the word which Ar Pharazôn had decided to employ for any of the Prince’s concubines who was not Fíriel- of the Prince of the West. After getting wind of her illicit affair with her interpreter, the burned man, Fíriel had helped them escape, and told them to come here. Amandil would find it difficult to believe that the girl he had known, the one he had claimed as his own daughter, had planned this elaborate scheme to get rid of a rival, and put her own family in danger because of it. But then, that she was sincerely trying to help these people did not make him feel much better about the whole issue.

Was she mad? Had she somehow forgotten the dangers that assailed the rest of them, safely ensconced in the ivory tower of the Prince and the Queen’s protection? Or was she just the same foolish, impulsive peasant she had always been at heart, the one who wanted to throw her life away by bearing false witness in front of the King to save her cousin’s life?

“I will be glad to offer my hospitality to the Lady Rini and her companions” he said, hiding his turmoil and his anger from his guests. “The Lady Lalwendë will have our best rooms available for you so you can rest from the hardships of the journey.”

The barbarian woman listened to the translation of his words with a frown, and a brief exchange ensued. Then, the interpreter bowed to him apologetically.

“My lord, the Lady Rini says that she does not need any rest. That unless we leave the Island fast, they will try to take her back to Armenelos, and then she will kill herself. The Lady Fíriel said…”

Amandil’s gaze hardened.

“The Lady Fíriel lives in Armenelos. She remains ignorant about a number of important details concerning our situation here”, he told the man, who flinched as if he suddenly expected to be hit. “Tell your lady that she would do well to accept my hospitality for the time being, as she will not receive many such offers in the days to come.”

Though he left the room without waiting for their answer, his son came later to report that the four barbarians had finally decided to stay – a foregone conclusion, since, as Amandil had just reminded them, they had nowhere else to go.

“What are we going to do about them?” Elendil asked. Amandil tried to pour himself a cup of wine from the jar, but the dregs were all that were left. He winced at their bitter taste.

“How would you feel about delivering them to the King’s Guards?”

“I would prefer to explore every other option before resorting to that”, Elendil replied calmly, sitting at the other side of the low table. The lord of Andúnië shook his head.

“Let us do so, then. Should we send them to Sor to find ship for the mainland, when they look like the most easily recognizable fugitives to ever try to escape the Island? The man with the burned face is the only one who can speak the language, for the Valar’s sake! Should we opt for taking them in our own ships and try to sneak them into a Pelargir which has become an impregnable fortress, where the lives of those loyal to us hang from a thread, and where the slightest wrong move on our part would mean the death of many? Or perhaps we can let them stay here instead, with us, and pray that nobody ever recognizes them?” He shook his head, and gazed inside the empty cup. “No, Elendil. There are no other options. We have run out of options, both for them and for ourselves. All that is left is a line before us, and our only remaining choice is whether to cross it or not.”

Elendil did not need to ask for clarification. Instead, his face took a thoughtful expression familiar to Amandil: that which he would adopt before he said something he had been meditating for a long time.

“Perhaps this has happened for a reason. Perhaps it is the sign that we needed.”

“A sign of Heaven advocating treason, you mean?” Amandil laughed bitterly. “Elendil, you are fully aware of how terrible the consequences would be, if we were discovered. And we will be. The Merchant Princes keep a tight control on the coast of Middle-Earth from Umbar to the Middle Havens.”

“There may be a way to avoid their vigilance.”

The lord of Andúnië raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“The Elves, Father! Once, a crew sent from Lindon was able to take you and your men past the vigilance of the Merchant Princes, through the mouths of the Anduin and around the island of Gadir itself.”

“The Elves have so far proved very reluctant to do anything that can be construed as open hostility to the Númenórean Sceptre. Father used to say…”

“The Elves will not refuse to help us save people’s lives, if it is in their hands to do so.” Elendil stood up, suddenly looking rather determined. “Let me speak to them.”

“I suppose we lose nothing by asking”, Amandil acquiesced, wondering why he could not feel more hopeful about this idea. Perhaps it was just habit. Or the accumulated resentment after so many years of receiving nothing but empty, meaningless words from that end. “But you should bear in mind that Elves do not necessarily have the exact same views on mortal peril than we do.”

For many of them, especially those who do not deal with mortals too often, death is but the fulfilment of our destiny, and they cannot understand why we seek to avoid it, Númendil had said once, adding that he had never imagined it would be so difficult to explain the difference between a timely and an untimely death. In the end, he had been humble enough as to concede that even mortals were not too sure of the meaning of those concepts, and that one’s timely could be another’s untimely end. But outside the realm of pointless debates, Amandil was quite sure that the barbarian lady and her strange lover did not want to fall in the hands of Ar Pharazôn’s Guard.

“I will ask them, Father. And if we reach an agreement, we will send a first shipment with this lady and her companions, and men that cannot be traced back to us too easily, though at least one of them must have knowledge of the Elven tongue.” Elendil was already thinking ahead, as if all that was still left to do was but a mere formality. “And if it works, we will be able to establish a shipping line directly to the North, bypassing Pelargir. This way, we can escape the vigilance and control of both the Sceptre and the Merchant Princes. Isildur and Anárion will travel as before, to avert suspicion, but while they do so, others will be ferried in secret, unbeknownst to everyone. Wouldn’t that be a good asset for us?”

“It would, if you could convince our very diplomatic friends that engaging in treasonous contraband of people is not an intervention in our internal affairs and a breach of their ancient alliances with the Númenórean Sceptre. But for that you would need to be at least as persuasive as Father, and as knowledgeable of their ways.”

Elendil nodded gravely.

“I will do my best to prove worthy of my lineage.”

Amandil opened his mouth, but his son had already left.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

The barbarians stayed in Rómenna for three nights, and they spent most of that time in a state of barely repressed anxiety, as if the enemy they feared was going to appear on their doorstep at any moment. They ate in their own chambers, kept to themselves, and though the burned interpreter –Hazin was his name- routinely made excuses for their behaviour and grovelled before anyone who would listen, he seemed to be the only one who bothered. Unlike others in her family, Ilmarë could not blame them for acting like this: she understood the fear of fugitives, and knew that neither slaves nor princesses could expect any mercy if they were caught.

That was why she left them to their own devices, until Father came in one morning to inform that their departure would be scheduled for midnight of that same day. He had been using the Seeing Stone for long stretches of time, and he looked terribly drained from the experience, so much that Mother had to coax him into resting, claiming that other people could take care of the remainder. This was Ilmarë’s cue to volunteer herself for the task of announcing the auspicious news to their guests, and instruct them to be prepared.

When she entered their living quarters, she realized in some surprise that the four of them were sharing the same room –and, not happy enough with this, that they were mostly on one side of it. The old woman, the interpreter and the lady were all sitting on the bed, while the young man alone was leaning against the window, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Acquaintance with Tal Elmar, not to mention her sojourn in the Women’s Court of Arne, had already taught Ilmarë that other peoples had different customs, and that what passed as politeness for one could be rudeness to another, but she had to wonder what the stuffy courtiers of the Palace of Armenelos must have thought of this behaviour.

“Did you live in tents?” The words had escaped her mouth before she had the time to check her impulse, and she blushed. “Back - home, I mean.”

The barbarian lady looked very nonplussed when the interpreter transmitted the question to her.

“Only during the hunting season, my lady” Hazin explained, as usual adding the politeness himself. “This time of the year is not hunting season yet.”

“I see”, she nodded, gravely. For a moment, she remembered a young and adventurous Númenórean girl who had been disappointed because her father’s Arnian subjects did not live in tents. She had been quite a handful, she thought, with the indulgent fondness she would have reserved for a niece, or for a younger sister of her own daughter. “I am here to inform the lady… the lady Rini that arrangements have been made for her departure, and that it will take place tonight. She will be taken across the Great Sea to a settlement founded by our family in the Northern coast of Middle Earth, where she will be outside the reach of the Sceptre.”

This news seemed to cause quite a stir. The two women immediately started pelting Hazin with questions, their faces flushed and their expressions livelier than they had been since their arrival. Even the young man approached them at some point to join in the conversation.

“If you translate the questions they are asking, perhaps I could help you”, Ilmarë suggested with a smile. After apologizing profusely, the interpreter proceeded to transmit the words of the others, and Ilmarë sat down to explain the plan as well as she was able, including the route they would follow, the length of the voyage, and the layout of the place where they would be taken. That was the part she was more knowledgeable about, for she could draw from both Isildur and Anárion’s reports and from Tal Elmar’s stories about his life in Agar. The only thing she remained vague about was the involvement of the Elves. Most peoples of Middle Earth seemed to share a fear and hatred of them, which her family believed to be a consequence of the lies of Sauron. Even Tal Elmar had had some ludicrous tales to share about Elves stealing Agarene children from their cribs, and leaving horrible monsters in their place. So instead, she spoke about their allies in the North, without ever insinuating that they were anything but human.

“The lady Rini wishes to know if we will have freedom in this settlement, my lady”, Hazin asked. Ilmarë blinked, taken by surprise.

“Of course you will have freedom. There are no slaves there. You can even marry, if that is what you wish.” Rini nodded to all, matter-of-factly, and Ilmarë had the suspicion that Hazin had not translated the last thing.

“So, does this mean that we will be able to leave?”

“Leave?” From what Ilmarë had gathered, the lands in Northern Rhûn where those people used to live were under Númenórean control now, used for mining, and all their settlements had been turned into piles of rubble- or rather, piles of ashes, for she doubted they had known how to build with stone. Worse, they were almost half a world away, and that half of the world was definitely not empty. Even near Agar there were fierce enemies, waiting for the first sign of weakness to destroy them. “I would not advise it. The Agarenes are friendly to us, but many other barbarians are dangerous and hostile.”

The young man blurted out something that Hazin refused to translate. Instead, he bowed to her, and thanked her for the information and for her family’s help.

“You should not thank me, but Lord Elendil and Lady Fíriel.” Recognizing at last the opening she had been seeking, Ilmarë made a pause to rack her brains for the most appropriate words. “She - must have appreciated you very much, to have allowed herself to be involved in this, even at the risk of her own position. Back when I frequented the Palace, I know for a fact that most of the women there would have preferred to see their rivals die.”

Lady Rini did not hesitate in her answer.

“Lady Fíriel is not like that. She was always kind to my lady”, Hazin translated. Then, he paused to listen to something else. “My lady says that she looks very much like you. She knows that you are blood kin, but still, she finds the resemblance remarkable.”

Ilmarë tried to keep her heart from fluttering unduly, but her lips curved into a proud smile.

“It is not that remarkable” she retorted. “I am her mother.”

Those words were met by shock. After a moment, the barbarian lady began to frown, as if trying to recall something.

“Once, the Lady Fíriel told my lady that her father had died in the fire. Later, we were told that she was the daughter of the lord of Andúnië, but he is alive. My lady is ashamed to have reached the conclusion that she was lying.”

“And she was lying- but to others, not to you. She told you something which could have put her reputation in serious danger, for this father who died in the fire was a traitor who killed Palace Guards. And he was also a barbarian.” Ilmarë made a great effort to swallow the sadness that always came back to her throat whenever she spoke about Malik, even if she did not mention his name. “She must really have seen you as a friend.”

Lady Rini shook her head, and for once, her voice sounded genuinely apologetic.

“My lady rejected her friendship. She felt that she could not trust a woman who harboured such love and loyalty for the Prince of the West.”

“I see.”

It was a mechanic answer, but deep inside, Ilmarë’s mind was working fast. She remembered her daughter’s torn look as she stood before that cliff, agonizing over her choice to abandon her family and all her loyalties to save the one who owned her heart. Back then she, her own mother, had told her that no loyalty or bond was worth anything if it stood in the way of her happiness. But Ilmarë had been too wrapped in her own issues to consider that those who devoted themselves to selfish goals also became estranged from everyone else - that, at the end of the day, they would find themselves alone. For their kin, their friends, those who surrounded them would never forget where their hearts truly lay.

And yet, she told herself, Fíriel was not like this. She might have chosen her Prince Gimilzagar, but she still cared for others. Back when she was just a young girl, she had been ready to die for her stupid cousin; then she had used her influence to convince the Prince to save those peasants who were guilty of engaging in the worship of her fathers, and now she had saved this woman and her lover. Her heart was bigger than Ilmarë’s heart had been; and in it, there was space for many. Maybe even for the mother who abandoned her.

“I was… wrong.” To her shock, Ilmarë realized that it was the Lady Rini herself who was speaking, in a tentative, heavily accented Adûnaic. “Fíriel was… trust-worthy. I know… it… now.”

She gesticulated wildly as she spoke, as if she could not conceive of others understanding the meaning of the words she was uttering, the daughter of Elendil realized, unsure of whether to laugh or sob.

“Could you please do something for me?” she asked. Before even waiting for the answer, she was already ploughing on. “It has been many years since I last saw Fíriel. Though she is my daughter, born from my womb, I have no access to her, and I know very little about her. There are no…” She wanted to say ‘letters’, but she knew from Tal Elmar that few barbarians knew how to write, so this would probably not make sense to them. “No messengers carrying news of her.” She gave Rini a formal bow, struggling to prevent her voice from breaking. “We have many hours left until the evening, and I was wondering if perhaps you could use some of that time to tell me about her. Anything you know, every word you have exchanged with her, even the harsh ones –anything you have heard from others, I do not care. It will all be equally welcome.”

Hazin’s voice was low, and Lady Rini’s beautiful blue eyes were wide open as she listened to him. Near her, the old woman looked touched too.

“The lady Rini will grant your wish to the best of her ability” the interpreter nodded, solemnly.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

At midnight, the Lady Rini and her companions boarded a boat in a small cove behind the Lord of Andúnië’s house. Soon, the shadows had swallowed every trace of them, as they were rowed towards the ship that awaited their arrival near Rómenna. None of the four would ever set foot in the Island again, or so the young woman had said to Ilmarë in the solemn tones reserved for the most unbreakable of oaths. The daughter of Elendil hoped that they might find some well-deserved peace wherever they went, and that the barbarian could live a happy life away from the reach of the Sceptre. Some people thought Rini foolish for putting herself –and others- at risk because of love, but Ilmarë knew about love and foolish risks, better than any of them. And so had her daughter, who felt closer to her now than she had for a long time.

A whole month had almost gone by when, one day, the Seeing Stone informed Elendil that the ship had reached its destination. For the house of Andúnië, this was momentous news, mainly because of the new possibilities it offered, to pursue their activities outside both the control of the Merchant Princes and the insidious reach of the plague. But Ilmarë’s happiness was entirely for the young woman who had offered some comfort to a mother in the middle of her own troubles, and for the one-eyed, burned man who had managed to become the object of her affections.

As the days passed by, however, the memory of this unlikely love began receding to the back of her mind, displaced by the urgency of other developments of a no less unlikely nature.  Shortly before the coming of Spring, Irimë gave birth again -to yet another daughter. For the first time since she had married Anárion and began having his children, her disappointment was great enough to compromise her unshakeable composure, and she made excuses not to appear in public, leaving the task of naming, introducing and celebrating the new child to her husband. Ilmarë’s mother forbade everyone but Anárion from visiting or otherwise bothering her, claiming that her health had been affected by the delivery –a lie that everybody pretended to believe.

Barely two weeks later, things gave yet another turn when Irissë went into labour. She had been unusually quiet about her sister’s disgrace, but that was only because she was having trouble with her own pregnancy. The baby she was carrying had swollen not just her belly, but what looked like every part of her body, and drained her so thoroughly of her strength that she had to remain bedridden for a month. Everything seemed to anticipate that the delivery would be long and difficult, so whenever Eluzîni was done reassuring Irimë that she would have sons in the future, just as healthy, beautiful and clever as her girls were, she had to drop by Irissë’s sickbed to convince her that she had gone through the same when Isildur was born, and that everything would be fine.

Ilmarë was there too, as was her duty, adding her own reassurances and volunteering her help for the ordeal. That was why she was one of the first to see the red, wailing baby boy still hanging by the thread of the umbilical cord. And once she did, the most immediate thought evoked in her mind by the vision of the heir of Isildur, and third in line to the lordship of Andúnië, was that her eldest brother was a lucky bastard.

Irissë, despite her exhaustion, looked quite thrilled by her own feat. When they wrapped the baby and gave it to her, she gazed at it with such pride and excitement that a part of Ilmarë was touched, while another part feared that the relationship between the sisters would take a sharp turn for the worse.

“Since the first day she had to stay in bed, I was afraid that this would happen”, Ilmarë’s mother told her in a low voice, while Irissë slept and the baby was being fed. “Her –symptoms were so very like mine, back when I was pregnant with Isildur.”

“I am shocked to hear you speak like this, Mother”, Ilmarë remarked. “Shouldn’t the birth of an heir for our house be a momentous circumstance?”

Eluzîni dismissed her words with an irritated, yet elegant shrug.

“Irissë is made to have children. She would have had a boy anyway, only at some other time. Some other time when I would not need to put peace between two women who are not even my real daughters.”

“Are you sure? Isildur certainly took his time with this one. I…” Ilmarë’s voice trailed away, as she realized that she was unwittingly entering dangerous waters. “I think it is a good thing that they no longer have to live with the pressure of bringing forth an heir.”

“Isildur will agree with you on that”, Eluzîni retorted. “As for that simple girl, she will consider herself fortunate, even if she might have been better served by her husband having to return to her every once in a while.” She fixed a slightly too penetrating glance on Ilmarë. “I wonder if there is anyone in this world who might be able to enter Isildur’s thick skull, and convince him that the obligations of marriage do not end here.”

“I am not sure that forcing Isildur to return to Irissë just to bear a son would increase their chances of a happy marriage, Mother” Ilmarë retorted. “You simply cannot force love, and in this he was a victim of the decisions of others. So far, he has tried his best to do his duty, even had a son by his wife, but what if one day he meets someone whom he truly loves? What then?”

Eluzîni looked troubled.

“You are still thinking of that barbarian woman who eloped with her one-eyed lover.”

“I am thinking of Fíriel. And of myself. I cannot believe you have already forgotten.”

Ilmarë’s voice was so unusually passionate that it seemed to give her mother pause.

“I do not think Isildur would have the same views on this as you do.” Her gaze hardened a little. “You think like a woman, but he is a man. And, ever since the Children of Ilúvatar have walked upon the surface of this Earth, it has not been men who were ready to sacrifice their kinship ties, their duties and privileges, much less their reputation, because of love. It does not matter if you read the annals of Númenor, the stories of the Elder Days or the myths of Rini or Tal Elmar’s people combined; you will not find a single example of such a thing. I doubt they are even able to comprehend this concept.”

Ilmarë pondered her mother’s words in silence. She remembered Isildur’s agitation when he discovered the exact nature of his feelings towards Tal Elmar, and how he had dealt with it by refusing to hear another word on the subject, pretending to love Irissë, and promptly siring a child on her. Now, the woman and the young barbarian shared the same house, perhaps even the same bed, and, deep inside, Ilmarë knew that Isildur had convinced himself that he could do well by the both of them. Her mother might have a point, she thought. Yes, her brother loved a man, but that would not be enough to turn him magically into a woman. He was still the Aegnor to Fíriel’s Luthien –and to his wife, he would always remain an Aldarion.

Luckily for the house of Andúnië, poor Irissë was far from being a heroine of old. And though she felt guilty for even thinking this, Ilmarë realized that the true fate of their family hinged on her remaining content with the scraps that life had given her, and not daring to hope for better.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Isildur’s day had passed by in a haze of mindless happiness.  He did not remember ever feeling such a fierce, complete, uncomplicated joy as the one he had experienced when he saw the tiny shape of his son wrapped in that silk sheet. His father had embraced him, his grandfather congratulated him, and even Anárion had not found anything to criticise. For once in his life, Isildur had done what they all expected of him; for once his oh so perfect brother had not needed to step up and compensate for his inadequacies.

Elendur. The name left no doubt as to who this child was. He was the next link in a long, unbroken chain, the embodiment of the house of Andúnië’s hopes of a new life beyond the Great Sea, and of Isildur’s claim to a role that, up until now, he had always felt unworthy of fulfilling. He was not cursed, after all: he was the heir of Andúnië, a father, a man. The feeling was so wonderful, so magnificently liberating, that he had found himself kissing Irissë all over her face, for the first time with a true feeling of tenderness. And he would have done the same to his son, if his mother had not warned him that the baby was still too frail to be subject to his transports. Even so, he had spent a long time just gazing at him in wonder, registering every movement, every gesture, every sound, every line of his face and body, until the child had to be fed and the women threw him out. Only then, he allowed himself to be dragged towards the celebration, where his family and a few honoured guests who had arrived at short notice were toasting to Elendur’s good health. There, he was immediately kidnapped by the lord of Andúnië, who paraded him everywhere and did not even object when Isildur’s glass was refilled for the seventh time.

It was already early in the evening, and the shadows had begun to fall when Amandil decided to retire from the banquet. Elendil was otherwise occupied, and taking advantage of his newfound freedom, Isildur gazed across the room in search of Anárion.

“You do not look very happy”, he said, as he finally located him near one of the windows that gave to the Great Sea, at the other end of the table. After the lord was gone, the feast had begun to languish, and most of the guests were either leaving or had already left. His younger brother, however, was not personally sending them off, which was rather unusual for a conscientious host like him. Instead, he was drinking on his own, and when Isildur approached him he even pretended to be surprised.

“What? Of course I am happy, Isildur. Why would I not be? The house of Andúnië has a new heir at last.”

“You know, now that I have a son, you no longer need to try so hard” Isildur continued, as if he had not even heard him. Two of the remaining guests, who were speaking to Elendil by the door, turned to look at him. “You can have as many daughters as you want.”

“Having daughters or sons is not really a choice” Anárion replied, looking at the guests and feigning an easy smile. Always afraid of what others would think.

As you would be, if you were not drunk, Malik retorted.

“The Haradrim believe that the conception of a child is the result of two spirits doing battle, the male and the female. If the male wins, the child will be male, and if the female wins, female.” Elendil said something to the guests, who looked away, and proceeded to walk them across the threshold towards some unknown destination.

Anárion shrugged.

“It would be just like the Haradrim, to imagine even marital relations as some sort of conflict. But surely you know better than to believe in those superstitions.”

You should really drop this now, Malik warned, but Isildur ignored him again. He had scented blood, and he would not retreat.

“I do not think it is your fault. A spirit like Irimë’s must be very hard to defeat.”

Anárion’s features tensed, which was the closest to a loss of composure that Isildur could expect in public.

“At least the Haradrim would know I have battled it. You, on the other hand, have never engaged a female spirit, Isildur, and you never will.”

With a curt nod, he left his cup by the table, and walked past Isildur to join Elendil and the guests.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Tal Elmar had been doing some drinking of his own, but not nearly as much as Isildur. During the celebration, he had not been his usual boisterous self, the one Isildur remembered from feasts in Agar, and he wondered if the young man could be feeling angry at him. But when Isildur told him he would be at the beach later, he simply nodded and said that he would join him there. For the Forest People, wives did not belong to the same sphere as warrior bonds, and Isildur had to admit that he envied this particular custom of theirs.

“Among my people, I would have the honour of raising your son in the ways of war” Tal Elmar explained, once they had finished making love next to the breaking waves. “But the customs of the Númenóreans are too different. We have to hide our bond instead of boasting of it, and I will never have any claim to your child.”

A claim to your child. Upon hearing this, the memory of Anárion’s words in the feasting hall returned to Isildur’s mind. You have never engaged a female spirit, he had said, as if implying that Irissë had not really been there when he held her in his arms, that she was nothing but a receptacle for his son. He wondered if that was true. As a matter of fact, he wondered if he should even be here, doing this after his brother’s warning. But the feeling of recklessness, of being untouchable, that filled every inch of him since the birth of Elendur could have withstood a hundred Anárions tonight.

“Oh, our customs might not be the same as those of Agar, but you are still allowed to teach him things” he said. Tal Elmar smiled, and his profile looked so beautiful under the dim glow of the stars that Isildur felt his heart stir at the sight. “Especially since I will often be away in the mainland.”

The smile froze.

“Are you leaving again soon?”

Isildur sighed.

“Yes. The situation beyond the Sea is becoming quite dangerous, and since the children can survive without us, Grandfather will probably decide that we need to leave Rómenna any day now.”

“And I cannot go with you.”

“Not with your brothers there.” And mine, he completed in his mind, imagining Anárion’s look if Isildur told him that Tal Elmar would travel with them. “But perhaps one day we will establish colonies so far from Agar that they do not need know that you are with us.”

“Or perhaps I can challenge them, and kill Eldest Brother in battle.”

“Unfortunately, we do have an alliance with them.”

“If I killed my brother in battle, you would still have it. Like you had it when Father killed Mogru.”

“You are right.” Isildur shrugged. Why not? “Perhaps we will do that.” The day he finally told Anárion that he no longer needed his advice, and meant it.

“Then again, I do not think my tribe would accept a Master who was bound to a Númenórean” Tal Elmar added, and for a moment it seemed to Isildur as if he was looking at him a little too intently. “Perhaps in the future.”

Isildur was careful not to let his composure slip. He was aware that warrior bonds did not last forever, but as a Númenórean, this notion of an attachment that had a fixed date was simply incomprehensible to him. Which is why he refused to even consider it, and why he always put it out of his mind as soon as he was able.

“Perhaps”, he mumbled absently. Then, he sat up, trying to shake the sand from his hands before picking up his clothes. “Well, I will return home now, and try to have some hours of rest. Tomorrow will be a day of solemn ceremony, as my son’s name will be announced in public, and every noteworthy person living in Rómenna will come to pay their respects to him.”

Isildur was half-expecting Tal Elmar to make some sarcastic comment about paying respects to a baby who could not even open his eyes properly. But, instead, he just got on his knees, and began gathering his own clothes in silence to leave.