Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Reborn

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He waited until the sound of footsteps had faded in the distance in order to move. First, he tried to pull himself up to a sitting position, checking his limbs one by one for signs of injury. His torso was racked by sharp pangs which increased at each breath he took, and his right leg did not look like it would support him at the moment. The right side of his face hurt as well, though when he ran his hands through it he could not perceive the telltale wetness of blood.

Clenching his teeth, Elendil began dragging his body across the invisible room, searching for a wall he could lean against. The floor was made of rugged stone, and whenever his knee hurt one of the rougher patches, he winced in pain. He blinked repeatedly, wondering if the darkness would dissipate, even a little, once his eyes grew used to it. But judging by the flights of stairs he had been able to count, he must be underground, perhaps in the very bowels of the earth, and there were no lights here.

Eventually, his exploring hand bumped against a hard obstacle. The surface of the wall was dripping with humidity, which made it slippery as he carefully let his back rest against it. By the time he managed to attain the most comfortable position he could aspire to in his circumstances, he was beginning to realize that the darkness around him, the lack of any sound or sign of life, were worse than any physical harm. If not because of the feel of the ancient stone beneath his limbs, he could have been floating in the Void, like Melkor when he was expelled from the Circles of the World, or like the souls of mortals after their bodies perished and they were condemned to walk in Eternal Darkness in the ghastly superstitions of Men. For those who believed in such things, this would look like a prelude of death, striking their hearts with enough terror and anticipation as to rob them of the last vestiges of bravery or defiance they possessed. It will not end in pain, in knives and fire, the very air seemed to be whispering around him. That is only the beginning.

Elendil laid his uninjured arm over his chest gingerly, in an attempt to shield himself from the sudden chill. He was not one of those people, he told himself. He knew that only the living could endure torment at the hands of their fellow Men, and that Death was an escape from it. All his forebears had willingly opened their arms to receive it as a gift, the Gift of Men in the teachings of the Valar. Ar Pharazôn knew it, which is why he had taken special care to ensure that Elendil would not escape him in that manner. Deep inside, however, the lord of Andúnië felt deterred by something more than the King’s threats whenever he thought of this possibility. It might be the long shadow of Yehimelkor, or perhaps the lingering weight of what had transpired with his father years ago, but Elendil found himself reluctant to consider his soul’s voluntary departure from his body. Even with the certainty that he would soon be dragged from this cell to be laid upon an altar, an instinct that seemed to reside in the most fundamental core of his being refused this escape, just like he would not have turned tail and fled a losing battle. The very thought disturbed him. How could he will himself dead? He had been given this body to inhabit and walk this Earth and fight until the last spark of life was forced away from it, not to quench it himself.

You cannot fight anymore, my son. Amandil’s voice did not fill the silence of this place, as it would if his father had walked into this darkness to address him. Still, Elendil could hear it in his heart, as clear and distinct in its own way as the voices of the Guards when they shouted abuse at him. The battle is over, and you have lost. What happened to you? You used to be a reasonable man, who knew when he had been beaten. The thoughts of a stubborn old fanatic like Yehimelkor do not suit you.

Elendil looked down, at the place where he knew his knees to be, despite the fact that he could not see the faintest trace of them. He tried to swallow, but his throat was suddenly too dry.

Was his father right? Was this merely an irrational impulse, a pathetic attempt to delay acceptance of the obvious until the last possible moment? The truth was that he had failed, and that his failure had brought down the house of Andúnië. He could have had those ships built sooner, if he had been a little less concerned by the need for anonymity and the possibility of being discovered. He should have imagined that Ar Pharazôn saw them as traitors anyway, and would dispose of them whether he had solid evidence of their activities or not. Or perhaps he should have had only one ship built, to take his family across the Sea and far away from this cursed Island, leaving the rest of the Faithful who still lived in Númenor to their fate. Many of them had already been saved, it was impossible to save them all. That had been his father’s aim, not his, and yet Amandil had sailed away long ago, leaving Elendil with the responsibility, and the burden, of his unfinished projects.

But most of all, he realized, he had been wrong in his decisions concerning Isildur. It was Elendil’s deep inability to trust his son what had forced Isildur to stay in Númenor under his eye, instead of returning to the mainland as he should have done. If not for that, Ar Pharazôn and Sauron could never have laid hands on his heir, and the line of Andúnië would live on in Middle-Earth even after the rest of them had perished. Back when he was in the King’s presence, he had tried to convince him that Isildur should be spared, but he held no illusions that his arguments concerning the Prince of the West and Fíriel would have made much of a dent in Ar Pharazôn’s determination to rid himself of that threat before his departure.

Why, of course, Father. What did you expect? The chill returned to his limbs when he heard the whisper of Isildur’s voice in his ear, and suddenly he was taken by the agonizing doubt of whether it was his imagination, or if his son was already a dead ghost. If my own father cannot bring himself to trust me, why would a paranoid tyrant’s judgement be any kinder? He was probably able to look into your eyes and tell that you did not even believe in the bullshit you were feeding him.

“I am sorry, Isildur”, he whispered in a hoarse voice. “I am so sorry.”

Too late. Those words were spoken by Irimë, who was holding her infant son in her arms. He was strangely quiet and still, and Elendil realized that he was dead. It is too late now, for words, for actions, even for regrets. You can die, but your death will not bring us back. You were not allowed to fail, and you did.

Elendil covered his face with his hands, for the first time shaking with a terror which had nothing to do with the darkness, the quiet, or even the thought of his impending death. As he did so, he realized that his temples were throbbing; his forehead burning with the heat of a fever. Unable to keep himself in an erect position any longer, his back slid across the wall, and his body curled against the cold floor.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Elendil, her voice whispered in the middle of his agitated dreams. Elendil, wake up. You cannot do this. You cannot leave me.

Her gaze was reproachful, even though her fingers were gently caressing the side of his face. In a foolish, half-dazed impulse, he tried to raise his hand to grab hers, but he immediately lowered it when he remembered how much it hurt to move.

“Eluzîni”, he mumbled. All of a sudden, the point of a boot connected with his exposed side. The pain was so intense that he retched, though his mouth remained dry.

“I told you he was still alive”, a loud voice exploded in his ear, its sound as painful, in its own way, as the kick had been. Almost at the same time, the burning gleam of a lamp seared itself in his eye. “Those stories of separating souls from bodies at will are nothing but foolish superstitions.”

Despite how unbearably difficult it was, Elendil gritted his teeth and managed to struggle into a sitting position. He would not seek death, but if it came for him, he would look at it in the eye. He remembered those Faithful who had been caught trying to sail to the mainland years ago, and the woman who smiled before she was led to the altar. He could be at least as brave as she had been.

“There’s food and drink for you, noble and powerful lord of Andúnië. And take your time; the way the celebrations are going, it could still be days until it is your turn.”

They left immediately after that, leaving the echo of their laughter in their wake. Elendil had only caught a short glimpse of a jar and a bowl filled with something brown and lumpy between blinking back his tears at the light. He extended a hand towards the place where he reckoned they should be, and grabbed the jar first. It smelled strongly of mould, but he still made an effort to drink it. As it trickled down his throat, and despite the taste, it brought him some relief. He touched his forehead; it was much cooler already.

It could still be days, they had said. Days of lying in this darkness, waiting to be taken to feed the fires of the Great Deliverer. To his shame, he had felt his heartbeat increase when he believed they had come for him, and he had also experienced a foolish relief when his expectations were proved wrong, but the truth was that this delay was nothing but an extension of the torture. The longer he lay alone, the more agonizing the wait would become, and the more his ghosts would torment him.

I am not judging you, Father. After all, I barely know him, and only have second-hand knowledge of what you and Grandfather shared with him. But I do think that, deep inside, you always believed that he would refrain from harming you and your children, even after Lord Amandil left and Sauron had been whispering in his ear for sixty years. Anárion was frowning gravely, as he always did when he was pondering something difficult. I have to wonder, what was it that made you so certain? A man who could easily order an entire capital city razed to the ground for a matter of pride, sacrificed barbarians by the thousands, and did not even hesitate to condemn Númenóreans to the same fate! Was your bond ever so strong, or you merely wanted to believe that it was? You taught me that wishful thinking should not factor in our calculations, and yet this looks like an instance of it to me.

Elendil reflected upon this question carefully, for Anárion deserved no less. Yes, at some point of his past, he admitted that Pharazôn’s oath could have made him lower his guard, but at the time, such a conclusion had been warranted. The Pharazôn who did those things now was no longer that man, but a shadow of his former self. Should Elendil have deduced this shift by analysing his deeds alone, without looking at him in the face and seeing a different man staring back at him? It was ironic how Men would fill the gaps of absence and lack of knowledge by making up narratives that fit their preconceptions. If the Sceptre ordered cruel deeds, it was Sauron who had done them. Sauron had told the King to conquer the East, to prepare an invasion of the West, to sacrifice all those men, women and children and persecute the Faithful – and yet, somewhere behind the wall of his deceptive powers there was Pharazôn, the Pharazôn Elendil had once known, as if neither Time nor the evil which surrounded him, emanated from him and spoke through his mouth could make a dent on him. It was an illusion that the conscious mind would always have rejected, but that would grow invisible, yet powerful roots underneath it.

Time passed strangely in this isolated place. As it was impossible to measure, its trickle was unbearably slow, and unbearably fast at the same time. Elendil spent most of it alternating between lying prone and resting his back against the wall, trying to spare the contusions that peppered his upper body. At least he could stretch his leg now, and the side of his face was no longer swollen. Whenever he was seeing to his physical injuries, his mind also felt clearer, though at some point the cloud would always return, and with it the dazed stretches of helplessness and the ghosts.

Sometimes, he heard noises coming from beyond the invisible door, such as a sudden flurry of footsteps or a muffled exchange of voices. The first two times that this happened, his body tensed involuntarily, but they never came in again, even after the swill they had served him in that jar was long gone and the food bowl lay empty. Then, after he had counted the fifth sign of life –footsteps again, receding in the distance-, there were no more.

It could still be days, they had said. But, how long had it been since then? All he knew was that his stomach rumbled loudly, and that they had left him alone in this place. Perhaps they were somewhere getting drunk, and forgetting about his existence. Perhaps they had all forgotten about his existence and just left him to die here, in silence and darkness. He wondered if his soul would finally agree to secede from his body if that happened, or if it would hold on to the smallest ounce of strength as if it was still in his power to change his fate. Eluzîni came to him several times, but she no longer spoke a word. Instead, she stared at him with an undefinable mixture of worry and reproach.

“I am alive” he croaked, partly to reassure her, and partly to reassure himself. “I am still alive.”

His next dreams were even more agitated than the previous. Horrible images tormented his mind, of Eluzîni’s chest being pried open with a knife, of Meneldil and Anárion bursting in flames, and a great wave burying his house in Rómenna with everyone inside. After he awoke, and forced his heartbeat to still, he realized that it might be more than just feverish nightmares. By now, he could well be the only member of the house of Andúnië left alive. His image of Eluzîni could be a lingering ghost, trying to trick him with the illusion that he could still meet her in this world.

So much pain. It was his grandfather, Númendil, looking as peaceful as he had in life, yet there was also sadness in his gaze as he set it on Elendil. And so needless that it breaks my heart. Let go, Elendil. It was the Creator who made us weak and mortal, and unable to move mountains, gather winds, or access unlimited reserves of strength on the whim of our minds. A man cannot fight whole armies, wrestle gods or save a doomed people singlehandedly, but he was never meant to. Surrender to your nature, as I did, accept your failure, and break free from this suffering.

Elendil’s eyes were filled with tears. Behind the haze, he had a vision of the old man beckoning to him, and behind him, an open sky shining with a thousand stars. A light breeze caressed his face, and on instinct, he stretched out his hand. But his fingers closed on thin air, and for a moment the feeling of longing was so overwhelming that he could not utter a word.

Númendil was right, he realized. This was futile since the beginning. If he ever had the chance to rise above his ancestors since the time of Elros Tar-Minyatur, he had lost it, and his lineage, together with Númenor, was doomed to sink into the shadows. All that was left was pointless suffering, to atone for the crime of not being a greater, or a luckier man. That was what his father had already realized long ago, and he had tried to rebel against it by confronting the Powers themselves. But at the end of the day, there was no escape for any of them within the circles of this world. They were but puppets in the hands of higher powers, and they could never triumph against fate. Leaving the game was no cowardice: it was wisdom, a wisdom which kept eluding him even now.

No, Elendil. Do not listen to him. Do it for me –for us.

“There is no you, Eluzîni”, Elendil whispered. “You are not here. I can no longer lead anyone, help anyone… save anyone.”

All of a sudden, the stone floor underneath him began shaking with a low rumble. Instinctively, Elendil pressed against the wall for support, but it, too, was shaking. The whole earth was vibrating, as if it was a giant dog trying to dislodge a bunch of fleas from its back. One of the jolts made him lose his balance, and he bumped his head hard against the stone.

Right before he lost consciousness, he thought he could hear the sound of screaming, reaching his ears as if from a great distance.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Mother.” The boy was tugging sharply at her sleeve, but the woman, who was usually able to hear his voice across an entire wing of the house after he woke up from a nightmare, did not seem to notice. Her gaze remained fixed on the piece of paper she had propped against her lap, and she did not even look at him. “Mother, why are you crying? Did someone hurt you?” He frowned, suspicious. “Was it the man who came earlier?”

The woman let go of a tremulous sigh at this, and she absently ran her fingers through his hair.

“No, my dear. He was here on an errand. He brought… letters.”

The boy’s head tilted to the side, trying to decipher one of the lines that were visible to him. Before he could do so, however, she grabbed the paper in her fist until it crumpled, which put a stop to his curiosity.

“It was from your father”, she said, after what seemed like an eternity. “We cannot go visit the Cave again.”

His eyes widened.

“Why?”

This time, Amalket turned to face him. She was no longer crying, but her eyes were red and swollen.

“Because one of his superiors saw me with him, and guessed who I was.”

He had never understood very well why they needed to pretend they were other people to meet with his father in secret. All that he knew was that Mother had crossed half the Island with a warm light in her eyes, that she had sung and played with him for the entire duration of the journey, and never complained about the heat, the crowds, the long distances or the shabby accommodations. And he also knew another thing: that the priest she had identified as his father had looked left and right before allowing himself to gaze at him, with a look of unbearable longing which had stayed in Halideyid’s mind as if seared with fire.

Out of an instinct, he climbed on her lap to pull her into an embrace. The letter fell to the floor at her feet, but she did not even notice. Instead, she put her own arms around him, and kissed the top of his head.

“I should never have told you.” The world shifted, and she was still sitting in the same position, holding a letter in her fist, but he was looking at her from above; a man fully grown. “The secret was not mine to give away. He did not have the chance to reveal it, to look into your eyes and use the words he intended to use, and now you will never give it to him.”

“Then go with him!” Her voice was trembling with rage; a rage that was not directed towards the young man in front of her, despite the appearances. “Go and take your place as his heir! If you do so, he will leave me alone. After all, you are everything that he and the lofty house of Andúnië truly need from me.”

“That is not true, Mother.”

She laughed bitterly.

“Believe me, Halideyid. I would not be welcome among them, and anything that might remind the house of Andúnië that you were born from me will only bring shame and suspicion upon you. They will tell you that you are your father’s son, the heir of a man you only saw twice in your life. They will try to make you forget your ways, your upbringing, your family and your gods, even the language that you speak and the name by which you are known.” For a moment, she seemed to realize his shock, and her voice became a little softer. “And you should do so. You are one of them now.”

The young man needed a considerable effort to swallow the knot from his throat. Suddenly, he saw her as he had never seen her before: small, frail and bent by the invisible weight of an age which would prey on her mortal body long before it touched the brow of his father’s people. His people.

He shook his head, and knelt to hold her hands in his.

“No, Mother. I do not blame Father for my plight, and I will do my duty to the house of Andúnië. But I am, and I always will be your son. You gave me life, put your spirit in me, and made me the man I am now, and however the circumstances around me may change, this will not.”

Amalket smiled sadly. Her hands caressed his hair, as she had done when he was a child and she was comforting him after a bad dream or a painful fall. He was about to open his mouth and tell her that he was too old for this, but the words failed him as the haunting suspicion that she knew better than him entered his mind.

“That is right, my child. You are my son. Even now, it is my spirit which still lives in you. That is why your father, your grandfather, your precious house of Andúnië, could never understand you. That is why all their advice and their examples ring so hollow to you in the darkest times of your life. You are not them, and you will never be.”

His limbs were starting to feel the growing uncomfortableness of the floor again.

“Then what is your advice, Mother?” he asked. “When you only saw darkness around you, what did you do?”

Amalket shook her head.

“You already know the answer to that.”

A chill travelled across his spine as he saw her lying on her deathbed, a thin, weak thing wracked by pain.

“Do not… do not worry for me, Halideyid. I am fine. I-it is just a little illness. I will be up in no time.” Her lips curved into a tight smile, and he wanted to embrace her, but he could not, because she was too far away. Still, he could see it in her eyes, and as recognition dawned in his mind, her image started growing blurry and distant.

“You endured everything”, he whispered. His words, once again, sounded eerie in the silence. “For all your life, until the last breath you took. You clung to life with claws and teeth and pride, though you were aware there was no chance of victory or recognition, and though you lost all the battles you ever fought.” And there lay the difference, he realized, his mind suddenly emerging from its sluggishness to work in a feverish overdrive. This simple, down-to-earth strength that his noble ancestors would have considered beneath themselves, and yet it made all the difference in the world. “And I will… I will endure, too.” He struggled upwards again, listening to the sound of footsteps approaching his door. This time, they sounded much nearer than all the previous instances, and as they drew even closer, he heard the unmistakeable metal clang of keys. He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to keep the images of her in his mind for as long as possible. “For as long as I live.”

The door turned on its hinges, and Elendil was blinded by the sudden burst of light that shone through the opening.

 

*     *     *     *     *    

 

“Elendil. Elendil!” He blinked back tears, but he was not able to focus and make sense of the blurred shapes moving behind the blinding light. Instead, he held on to the voice, which sounded familiar –impossibly familiar- to his ears. For a moment, he thought he had to be dreaming, and she was just another ghost of those who haunted his visions. After all, she, too, had left her imprint in the deepest crevices of his soul, even though he always did his best to pretend it was not there. “Stand up. There is no time to waste.”

A white, ivory hand was offered to him, and he took it, marvelling at its very real grip. Slowly, painfully, he managed to struggle to an upwards position, first using the wall as support and then cautiously disengaging himself from it. His leg had not healed yet, and various parts of his body were still aching, but he could do it.

“Yes. You can”, she nodded. Her face was inches away from his, and he could see it clearly now: as radiant in its otherworldly perfection as ever, as if the passing of years, so devastating on others, did not have the power to touch her.

“Where is… where is the King?” he asked. His voice came out broken and croaky from lack of use.

“Gone. He left this morning. “Ar Zimraphel informed, except that this made no sense. Ar Pharazôn had him dragged to Armenelos to kill him, to end the threat that he represented. He would not simply have forgotten about him in the rush of the last preparations.

“You made him think”, she replied to his unvoiced question. “His thoughts were heavy and his heart shaken, and you managed to introduce a sliver of doubt in his mind. In the end, there was no one he could trust, so he left you all with a fighting chance of committing treason, hoping that you would hinder one another.”

“I gave him that idea?” Elendil could not believe it. He had done what he could, but he would never have imagined that his words could have the power to sway the King’s will in any way.

“In his heart, he never truly wanted to harm you, and you gave him an excuse not to. Thanks to you, he managed to keep one of his oaths unbroken, one less weight to fall upon his head when judgement arrives.” She seemed to anticipate Elendil’s next words, because she nodded. “Your family still lives, but not for long. Like you, they have barely any time left to manoeuvre. Zigûr will be back soon, calling for your blood, and the curse that haunts the dreams of your kin will ride in his footsteps. Forget about your former plans: take every ship capable of sailing, put your people in them and do not look back.”

Elendil shivered. The curse that haunted the dreams of his kin could only mean one thing. The Wave.

“Come forth”, she ordered, and lost in his own turmoil, Elendil could not tell at first whom she was addressing. Once he heard movement behind the Queen, however, he focused on it, and the sight made his heart flutter briefly. She advanced with slow steps, looking at him cautiously from the corner of her eye, as if she was not sure of his reaction to her presence.

“Lady Fíriel”, he mouthed, but when he saw her flinch, his gaze grew warmer. “Granddaughter. I am glad that you are well.”

This did not reassure Ilmarë’s daughter as much as he had hoped. Instead of greeting him back, she remained where she was, flanking Ar Zimraphel in silence.

“You will be heading East now. Nobody will hinder you or detain you, because you will be in the company of my son”, the Queen explained. Now, Elendil realized that there was someone else behind Fíriel, someone whose features remained hidden in darkness, as they had been for most of his life. “That is the price I set for your life and freedom: you must swear an oath to take the Prince of the West to the mainland safely, and protect him from Zigûr, your people, and anyone who may try to harm him.”

Elendil’s heart sunk at this. He would have done anything for Ar Zimraphel in exchange for what she had done for him, and, Queen of Númenor or not, he would have followed the wishes of a mother trying to save her child. But this –it was the only thing that he could not do.

“I am sorry, my Queen. I can be responsible for any life under the sky, but that one. Sauron’s enchantments will not endure in the mainland, and without them…”

The shadows stirred, and Gimilzagar’s melancholy features emerged.

“I will not go, Mother. Lord Elendil is right, there is no place for me where they are going. And there should not be.”

“Then I will stay here with you!” Fíriel sounded very upset, and Elendil’s heart sank further. In his heart, he cursed Sauron and his black sorcery.

“I have not asked the lord of Andúnië to swear an oath to keep you alive by invoking the Deliverer and killing others”, Ar Zimraphel spoke, as calm and regal as she had been for all the conversation. “I have asked him to take you to the mainland and protect you from those who may wish to harm you. I am well aware that he can do no more.”

“But then…” Fíriel began, but she fell silent as soon as the Queen’s gaze fell upon her.

“Without you, Lord Elendil and Fíriel will never be able to reach Rómenna. And after that, who knows?” She caressed her son’s face. “You still have time: months of life which are worth being lived, and battles which are worth being fought. Once you step beyond the reach of the shadow which has always governed your steps, there is no telling what might happen. Perhaps the Elves Lord Elendil has befriended can save you with their magic.”

They would recoil in horror, the lord of Andúnië thought, an acute awareness of the younger man’s unspeakable tragedy shaking him to the core. Still, once that Fíriel’s safety was in question, the Prince did not protest further.

“You are by far the best man among all those who fell in love with me”, the Queen smiled, turning towards Elendil. “That is why I could never return your feelings.”

The lord of Andúnië forced an unexpected knot down his throat.

“Come with us, my Queen”, he said. The words came out with greater emotion than he had expected, like a plea. “We can take you to safety, too.”

A veil of melancholy fell on her eyes, and for a brief instant she appeared like a mortal woman to him, sad and afraid.

“I cannot see beyond the dark swirl that sucks my body into the deep. That is where my road ends, but not yours.” “You do not die. I cannot see you die, and I can see everyone else. Even myself. Why is that? she had asked him in the Palace gardens that day, so long ago that it almost seemed like a different life. “Only you can find where it leads.”

Elendil could not accept this, any more than he had accepted it back then. And now, after the visions he had been granted in his ordeal, he was more aware than ever of Amalket’s spirit living underneath his skin, and her contempt for noble-sounding pretexts not to fight.

“How do we know that this outcome cannot be changed, if we do not even try?”

Her moment of vulnerability was over at this, substituted by her usual expression of disdain at those who could not see what she saw, or understand the things that she understood.

“Spoken like one who is truly ignorant of the workings of fate. Let us return to the surface now, there is no more time to waste in foolishness. Gimilzagar, hold on to Fíriel and do not let go.” Immediately after she had said this, a tremor shook the earth, and Elendil almost lost his footing again. “Come with us.”

“I will not leave you to face Sauron alone” he insisted stubbornly. “You are still the Queen of Númenor, and it is my duty to protect you.”

“Not any longer.” She took him by the arm, somehow managing to avoid the spots where contact would cause him pain, and as she guided him towards the stairs, she fixed him with her unfathomable black eyes. “Do you know how long you spent buried in the bowels of the earth, Lord Elendil? Do you know how many days you were lying in shadows before you stepped back into the light? Three. Think about it.”

Shock made the lord of Andúnië temporarily rudderless, and he followed her lead in docile silence. All he could do, even as he heard her call out orders to the terrified Guards who stood upstairs, and take her son away from a fidgeting Fíriel to speak to him in private, was contemplate the meaning of her words.

He came back from the Darkness in triumph. This figment of the popular litany emerged to the forefront of his mind, together with his memories of a ritual every Númenórean had been familiar with for centuries. For many generations -since the shadow fell upon the Island, the house of Andúnië claimed- every heir to the Sceptre had passed under the Meneltarma after the burial of his father, only to emerge from the caves three days later and take his rightful place as King of Númenor. That ceremony had been deeply connected with the cult of Melkor as it used to be before Sauron’s arrival, and the old myths which had the so-called King of Armenelos die for mankind only to experience a glorious rebirth. As such, it had no place among the true traditions, bequeathed to them by the Elves, and yet its strength as a symbol was undeniable, like so many other weeds which had silently grown around the trappings of power since Ar Adunakhôr took the Sceptre.

Hail the King! they had sung, before the gates of the dead. But Elendil was no king: he was an exile and a fugitive, and if Númenor was truly doomed, he would be so until the day that he died.

“If anyone can see beyond the end of Númenor and the death of all prophecies, it is you.” Ar Zimraphel was already back; behind her, the Prince of the West’s face was pale and gaunt. “These Guards will take you to the stables, where the horses and the Prince’s carriage will be waiting for you. Farewell, Lord Elendil. Live on, and endure for all of us.”

Endure. Suddenly, he had a vision of Amalket smiling at him with the Queen’s lips, and looking at him as she had done in his dream. Then, as fast as it had come, she was gone again, and Ar Zimraphel was giving her back to him.

With a last, haunted look in her direction, Elendil turned away, and limped after the rest of the improvised party.