The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

---

Chapter 20: Death of a Númenórean

Sámaril bids farewell to Isilmë and later meets the keeper of the palantír of Annúminas, a man who once worked under Annatar's guidance in Númenor.

~~~~~

Many thanks to Drummerwench, oshun, Jael and Moreth (The Lizard Council) for critique and comments.

A few characters are listed in end notes (see also Appendix). Also in the end notes is an excerpt from The Lost Road, Vol V. of The History of Middle-earth which provides context for the conversation between Sámaril and the old engineer smith.

---

After dismissing Lady Vorwen and Sir Lónando, Isilmë then waved me off when I tried to pour glasses of wine for us. The infirmity of age had not stripped her of her independence. She reached for the glass carafe that sat on a small low table before her, and steadily poured white wine into two crystal glasses. Her hands did not shake, but her movements were slow and deliberate, as if she exerted intense control over her body. I took the glass from her, and she raised hers, the sunlight sparkling gold-green in the liquid.

“To friendship,” she said.

“To friendship.” I returned her salute and sipped the cool wine, its fragrance redolent of grass and spices and its flavor crisp and dry.

A sword of sunlight glittered on the lake’s blue water; black specks of boats bobbed in the distance. A flock of gulls wheeled over the lake, but while I watched, a streak of grey and white shattered their formation. Almost as fast as thought, Fániel the peregrine dove to the balcony, landing on the iron bar of the perch set into the stone of the balustrade. The falcon preened herself briefly then eyed me, bobbing her head.

“Your old friend has come to say hello to you,” said Isilmë. I stood and went over to the bird, whose obsidian eyes were as bright as they were when I first stroked her breast feathers and let her nibble on my finger eight years ago.

“Fániel visits me every day when she is not wrecking havoc among the gulls.”

“Just as her granddaughter wrecks havoc among the wood pigeons in Imladris,” I said.

Isilmë smiled, her skin crinkling into a thousand cracks, disconcerting in one whose blood still bore the echoes of the Firstborn and the Maiar.

“That would be Pilin. I am so glad that Valandil brought his falcon and his hound so that I might meet them! He is such a fine boy. His love for you shines, Istyar, and you have done so much for him. His father owes you a debt of gratitude. I have told Isildur as much.”

“My affection for Valandil comes as easily as breath.”

“I am glad to hear that. I am also glad that you are here. I realized this might be hard for you. I was not certain if you would come.”

“I would not have done otherwise, my lady. I am honored that you wished to see me. I am also sorry that I did not come to Annúminas sooner. The passage of time often escapes me.”

“There is no need for apology,” she said. “I savored every moment that I lived with you and the Fair Folk in Imladris. It was quite an experience, like living in a dream yet so intensely real. I am grateful that we forged such a friendship so quickly. I would never have expected that from one of the Firstborn. Sometimes, it feels like you and I share a kinship.”

“I have felt the same way, my lady. Whatever it is that connects us, I will always cherish the friendship that blossomed from it.”

She reached from her chair, taking my right hand in her left, and looked deep into my eyes. “It is with love for you that I say this: I hope you find peace and can resolve that which troubles you from within. I will soon leave my earthly cares behind. You, I fear, cannot escape yours so easily.”

“I cannot,” I said, squeezing her hand gently. “But the memories of good people who have been part of my life, whether through the long years or just a short time, ease my troubles.”

We sat quietly for a time, our hands clasped, watching the lake. The peregrine fluffed out her feathers, her eyes half-lidded. Then Isilmë spoke again.

“I said farewell to Isildur through the palantir. He understands that I have not the strength to rule until his return. He has named Lord Vorondil as steward until he returns to take up the scepter of the High King.”

“Lord Vorondil seems a capable man,” I said. “What of Lord Anardil?” I had not forgotten what Isilmë had told me about this ambitious nobleman and her fear that he might harm Valandil.

“Ah, Lord Anardil," she said, her smile sly. "Isildur, in his wisdom, listened to his old mother’s advice, even when his sire did not. He has named Anardil the duke of the province of Rhudaur. A number of Lord Anardil’s loyal retainers have been honored with similar appointments in our northern territory.”

I nearly spit wine from my mouth.

“Rhudaur? There’s nothing but rocky fells and pine forest there. And trolls.”

“Quite a few orc-nests, too,” she said dryly. “I am sure Lord Anardil will do a fine job of bringing it all under control.”

“And well-removed from Annúminas. A brilliant maneuver, my lady.”

She bowed her head graciously. “Thank you, Istyar. I never thought you were one to appreciate politics.”

“Perhaps not its finer points, but I cannot help but recognize fine craftsmanship when I see it.” I raised my glass again to her and took a long drink. “When will Isildur return?”

“Not for another year at least. He will remain in Gondor to instruct Meneldil, which I believe is wise. But his return is not as soon as his wife would like, I fear.” She sighed. “Elerína is not Erendis, thank the One, but my son’s long absences have caused difficulties on occasion. That is their challenge to meet.” She sipped her wine and changed the subject.

“I thought you might like to know that I have bequeathed my sword to Surien, Elendur and Irimë’s eldest, and have requested that the sword should be passed along to the eldest daughter of our house.”

“A most suitable choice,” I said, smiling as I remembered Surien, a vigorous and outspoken young woman who had left Imladris a few years ago to join her grandmother here in Annúminas, but not until she had enticed a couple of the Silvan men to ride with her out on the moors, and -- I was convinced -- to ride her in secluded groves of the valley.

“Isn’t it though?” Isilmë laughed. “Surien is such a firebrand, a true warrior of Haleth!”

“The Istyanis would have been pleased to know that her sword has been passed on to such a woman.” And how appropriate, I thought to myself, given the connection of Mélamírë’s grandsire to the founder of the House of Haleth.

“Surien would be such a fine queen, if this were the rule of our people. I am merely a steward when it comes down to it.”

“As I have said before, my lady, there is nothing ‘mere’ about you.”

“Thank you, Sámaril.” She squeezed my hand and then met my eyes, with just a hint of the old light in hers. “Three hundred and twelve years I have seen on this earth, but I am ready to leave it. First the downfall of my people and our homeland, and then Anárion’s death. Now my beloved has gone on without me. Even when we were apart – when Elendil took to the sea or off to war -- I always felt his presence with me. That is gone now. He has flown beyond the circles of the world."

"I'm sorry, Isilmë." I squeezed her hand gently again, trying to convey my sympathy for her through simple touch.

"I must follow him." She paused, her voice catching with uncertainty, but she raised her chin, and continued, now with conviction. "I intend to give up my life the day after tomorrow. I wish you to be there when I leave to join my Elendil.”

I did not hesitate with my answer to her invitation to be present at such an intimate moment, my revulsion vanquished now that I saw Isilmë’s acceptance of death and her yearning to join her beloved beyond the confines of the world.

“You humble me with your grace, my lady queen. I will be there.”

~*~

The sun sank into the west when we gathered in Isilmë’s chambers. A wide columned bed of dark wood dominated the room. The queen lay against white pillows on that bed with a lace coverlet over her. I stood back by Lord Vorondil and Elrond while Valandil and the women of the House of Elendil gathered around her. But it was Elerína who sat on the bed beside her mother-by-marriage, holding her hand. Soft words of farewell had been spoken amidst subdued weeping. Elrond’s face was immobile, but I saw the tears in his eyes that matched those welling up in mine.

The light streaming through the open doors to the adjoining balcony turned golden-red. The queen closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Her brows knitted in concentration when she triggered the gift to the high-blooded Númenóreans, setting in motion the cascade of events in her body that would cease her life. Her breathing slowed, becoming shallow and strained as death took her, step by step. The sun sank low in the western sky until its copper light fell across her face, illuminating it with extraordinary beauty. Her eyes fluttered open, and she exclaimed, her voice rasping with her last breath but full of joy:

“My love!”

Then she was gone.

Weeping became audible among the women. Elerína passed her hand over the dead woman’s face and closed her eyes. I walked away with my grief outside to the balcony where Fániel perched on the iron bar. She bobbed her head, her black eyes glinting. With the sharp snap of wings, she took flight. I watched the black silhouette of the falcon fly straight and true into the red light of the sunset, never to be seen again.

~*~

The death of a Númenórean, I discovered, entailed great ceremony. Among Elendil’s people were embalmers of surpassing skill, practitioners of an art alien to my folk who buried our dead beneath cairns or under layers of soil, exposed so that the earth would consume them rapidly. Isilmë’s body was subjected to mysterious procedures to forestall decay and laid out on a bier in the Hall of the King where the folk of Arnor filed in to pay their last respects to their queen. Summer flowers and other small offerings piled higher and higher around the bier as the morning progressed.

Many words were spoken in the King’s Hall that morning, eulogizing the queen. I listened rapt as speaker after speaker recounted her courage during the last days of Númenor and her resourcefulness when the ships were driven upon these shores. At the last, Elerína, clad in the dove-grey robes of mourning, walked to the podium where she recited the words of an ancient poet of Númenor:

I dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms,
hoping to gain the perfect pearl of the formless.

No more sailing from harbor to harbor with this my weather-beaten boat.
The days are long passed when my sport was to be tossed on waves.

And now I am eager to die into the deathless.

Into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss
where swells up the music of toneless strings
I shall take this harp of my life.

I shall tune it to the notes of forever,
and when it has sobbed out its last utterance,
lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent.

Then Elerína walked to the bier where she lifted a long strand of Isilmë’s hair and cut it with a silver knife. She then leaned over and kissed her the white brow of her mother-by-marriage and joined her family. Six tall men – the queen’s knights -- stepped forward and lifted her body on the pallet. Elerína, escorted by Elrond, and her family followed the knights. I joined the others who trailed behind as the queen’s body was carried along a stone-paved path lined with cultivated pines to the Hallows. We entered the solemn but beautiful domed building of white and black marble where Isilmë’s body was interred in a crypt and left in the silence of the dead.

Many gathered in the dining hall of the palace afterward, eating and drinking while a harpist and a flautist provided understated music as a backdrop. From a quiet corner of the hall, I watched the members of the court and the nobility from the surrounding lands pay their respects to Elerína and Valandil. It was odd for me, an elf, to see these mortals engaged in something that seemed like celebration after a death. I stood apart, watching the others, some at the edge of tears, some with guarded expressions, but many smiling as they recalled Isilmë.

Elrond stood by Elerína and Valandil, taking his position as guardian of the line of Elendil to heart. The Fall of Númenor and now Elendil’s death had shaken the dynasty of his brother. Elrond knew all too well how quickly families and their lineage could disintegrate among the Firstborn. It was no different for Men.

A tall man with a neatly trimmed beard and grey-peppered hair moved along the line, his robes black as night and trimmed in silver. Every one of his gestures was graceful yet calculated. Elerína accepted a kiss on her hand from him, but her expression remained bland. When the man bowed his head to Valandil, Elrond placed his hand protectively on the boy’s shoulder.

He must be Lord Anardil, I thought, judging from Elrond’s cool gaze and tight-lipped expression when he spoke to the nobleman. Proud Anardil, soon to be our neighbor in the rugged land to our north, flinched slightly under Elrond’s scrutiny, appropriate that he should, given that along with the master of Imladris’  kindness came a fierce courage born from hardship and a mind that grasped far more complex political machinations than Anardil’s ambition.

Valandil looked overwhelmed by it all, but he caught my eye and smiled wanly. I winked back at him, recalling our short conversation when we had filed into the hall after the interment. He had come up beside me and taken my hand in his, looking up at me with those sky-blue eyes.

“Do you think we could go fishing later, Istyar? Grandmama said there are many fish in the lake.”

“Yes, let’s do that.” I had squeezed his hand in return. “We can fish and think of your grandmama. I think she would like that.”

Standing in stiff formal robes in the receiving line, Valandil shifted from foot-to-foot restlessly. I knew he would rather be out on the lake fishing than accepting condolences from people he did not know or who, in spite of fair words, did not truly wish him well. Elrond leaned over and whispered something to the boy who looked up at his distant kinsman and smiled with an expression of relief. I found myself once again envying Elrond’s familial connection to the young prince.

A shuffling noise drew my attention away from the others in the hall. A man shrouded in midnight-blue robes, his hood drawn up over his head, limped toward me. I wondered if this man was so shrouded because he was immersed in mourning. A deep warm voice spoke from the shadows of the hood.

“Pardon me, my lord, but if I may ask, are you Istyar Sámaril?”

“I am.”

“Ah! I thought so! Well met then.” He kept his hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his robes. “I daresay you do not remember me, but I saw you briefly when you repaired the palantíri.”

“I must apologize,” I said, “because I can’t say that I recall your presence. I was drained by that experience.”

“Whatever you did, we are grateful.” He shifted his head a bit so that I could see the glint of bright eyes beneath his hood, but his face remained dim in the shadow.

“The queen suggested that I seek you out and introduce myself.” He then extended gnarled scarred hands from beneath the voluminous sleeves and drew back his hood. It took strength for me not to recoil from what I saw.

Although the left side of his face had the normal skin of mortal age and the chiseled bone structure characteristic of the Númenórean nobility, the right side was a contorted mass of scar tissue. Miraculously, his right eye was intact.

“I am Finion, master of the palantir of Annúminas.”

“Well met, Master Finion.” I struggled to keep my eyes locked with his.

“It’s all right, Istyar. I know I am a grisly sight. But I believe the queen wanted me to tell you how I came to be this way. It might be better if we stepped outside.” He gestured to the terrace that looked out over the lake. I offered to get a glass of wine for him, but he refused.

“Thank you, but no, I do not drink these days. Burns my stomach something fierce.”

He shuffled beside me while we made our way to the terrace overlooking the lake. We sat side-by-side on a white marble bench. Only a few boats bobbed far away on its waters. The breeze carried the faint resinous scent of the dark pine forest that covered the hills surrounding the shores of the lake.

“Not quite the sea,” said Finion, gazing out over the lake. “I miss it, but many here do not. The flight from Rómenna was terrifying. We were lucky to have survived.”

“By the grace of the Valar, they say.”

He snorted. “More likely we survived in spite of them, thanks to our sturdy ships and brave sailors!”

“I suppose one shouldn’t cross the gods,” I said while I looked over the lake toward the blue sky, dotted with flocculent clouds, wondering how many times I had crossed the Valar’s will.

“Indeed not, if that’s what the Valar are.”

“You sound like you have your doubts.”

“I do,” said the old exile, “but I am not wise enough to speculate on what their true nature is. There was another I knew, one who dared to speak against the gods, challenging them. Much of what he said was pure manipulation, but sometimes, I think, there were glimmers of truth peeking out from behind his veil of lies.”

I stared at him, forgetting his disfigurement entirely. “You speak of the Deceiver.”

“Yes. Annatar. The queen said...” He broke our locked gaze momentarily, looking out over the lake, but met my eyes again with a strangely welcome directness. “She said you had familiarity with him.”

“I did.”

“Ah. A less voluble answer than I’d expect from one whose race takes such pride in their word craft. Well, then I will open up to you. Before I turned to the gentler arts of the palantíri, I worked under his guidance in the shipyards of Rómenna. I was the chief smith of engines.”

“Engines?” I focused my entire attention on the man, but he did not blanch. “What manner of engines? I would have you tell me more, if you please.”

“If I please?” He brightened like a thirsty man drinking cool water after days of heat. “I am more than eager, Istyar. I haven’t spoken to anyone about this since…well, since we were washed up on these shores.”

He then began to describe a form of curwë with which I had familiarity from the valves I had created for the pressurized furnaces in Ost-in-Edhil. But here, valves were used to control pressures that were harnessed to drive great engines.

“Yes, yes, a piston in a cylinder!” he exclaimed in response to my eager questions. “That in turn is attached to a crankshaft and that to a flywheel…”

He held forth with me as his doting audience while he explained the details of the engines, sketching out forms and movements in the air to illustrate the mechanisms.

“Amazing. How did you use these engines?”

He hesitated. “They powered steel-hulled war ships. These were the pride of Ar-Pharazôn’s fleet.”

“I see. Your arts were turned toward war and domination.” I was swiftly coming to realize how much this old craftsman and I might have in common. “Still, those engines...their design and mechanism must have been elegant with their own kind of beauty.”

He looked at me with shock. “I have never heard anyone other than a few of my colleagues of Númenor say such, let alone an elf. Elendil loathed them, but then they represented what he despised: Ar-Pharazôn’s unbridled pride, inflamed by the Deceiver. Isilmë though...she always saw things a little differently. She was my cousin, you understand. She made sure I was on her ship before the eruption. Otherwise I would be crumbs for the fish at the bottom of the ocean.

“Once when I visited her in Rómenna, we stood on the cliffs and watched one of Sauron’s ships pass by.

“‘Elendil hates them,’ she told me. ‘He loves our wooden sailing ships. I must say that your steam ships are not lovely. But they could be. What if they were crafted for trade or even for pleasure instead of war? With a graceful design?’

“That was often how she looked at things, turning what might be ugly to beauty in a different light. Yet she could never do that for Annatar even after what happened to me. She always tried to understand my conflict, but once she met you, I think she believed she had found one who could understand me.”

“Tell me what happened, Finion.”

“The day the boiler exploded, Annatar was in the workshop. He was the only one who kept his wits about him and was swift enough to pull me away from the cloud of steam before it engulfed me. The pain from the burns was agonizing, but somehow, he reached into my mind, calming me. He took the pain away. He saved the sight of my right eye. More than that, he saved my life, Istyar. It may be that he did this only because I was one of his more skillful workers, but still...”

“Why did you serve him?” I interrupted him. “You knew what he was.”

“I worked with Annatar for the same reason you did -- for what I might learn from him. His knowledge was immense. Irresistible. Can you understand that?”

“Yes, I understand all too well.”

“Then perhaps you understand my remorse. I was so driven to learn that I took up my lot with the one who inflicted such evil in our land and here in Middle-earth. However, I was not entirely discouraged in taking this path by my kinfolk. I remained one of the Faithful, keeping that secret, and was thus able to pass information to Lord Amandil.

“I was instrumental in creating the ships that let Ar-Pharazôn assault Valinor and bring ruin upon our people. And yet...” Finion’s voice caught. “And yet Annatar could have let me die an agonizing death. But he did not. He even came to visit me while I recovered, making sure I wanted for nothing. How is it that one who worked such great evil among my people was still capable of kindness? I hate him for what he did to my people, to my land, but I am also grateful to him for saving my life. I feel terribly guilty for that.”

I placed my hand on his shoulder, still hard with the remnants of strength from his days of smith work. “Finion, I hate him, too, with all my heart and all my being. He destroyed my family and my home. But I also remember the useful things I learned from him. As you say, his gestures of kindness were likely self-serving, but I can’t be certain all of them were. So, yes, I understand you.”

He clasped his scarred hand over mine, his keen eyes in his old face now rheumy with tears. “Thank you. I never thought I would have this conversation with anyone else.”

“I suggest we continue our conversation, Loremaster, although on other subjects if we are to join the others for the funeral feast. I would be honored if you would join me.”

“The honor is mine.”

Finion and I spent the rest of that day and into the evening immersed in conversation. We sat apart, barely eating and drinking while we spoke. As the afternoon lengthened, we were the only two in the hall, save for a few servants who cleaned the tables and swept the floor.

“You have not told me of your work under Annatar’s guidance, the work that troubles you so, just like the steam engines trouble me.”

“I cannot tell you. At least your invention has the capacity to be turned to good, like Isilmë said. Mine never will.”

Evening turned into night. Finion suggested that we ascend the tower so we could look out over the lake at the stars and rising moon.

He took the winding stairs at a slow pace while I followed, alert in case he might stumble, but in spite of his limp, his steps were sure in the dim light. We reached a closed door at the uppermost floor. Finairon, panting, reached into a side pocket of his robes, extracted a silver key and unlocked the door.

We walked through the chamber that housed the palantír, which lay dark and quiescent on its stone platform, and out to the balcony encircling the highest level of the tower. The moon rose full in the east, bathing the lake with silver. From far below, I heard singing. Glimmers of lamplight wound through the street far below and made their way onto the docks. A group of six women walked with measured steps together, their voices half-chanting, half-singing in a language I did not know, although I could make out words that sounded like Adûnaic and the most primitive elven-tongue.

“Who are they? And what are they doing?”

“They are the devotees to Rana, the Moon,” replied Finion. “The worship of Rana is one of Men’s most ancient beliefs, one that we held long before we met your people or even before the Dark One found us. Men have pushed aside Rana, but the women still keep her close. Now they mourn the passing of one of their own: Isilmë."

Their leader, clad in white robes that reflected the moonlight, turned when they reached the docks where a silver-sheened boat was tied. I recognized Elerína. The women slowly climbed into the boat, four of them taking the oars, one woman standing at the stern holding the rudder, and Elerína standing at the bow. The boat slipped away from the quay, the women rowing in silence toward one of the islands in the middle of the lake.

“There is a grove sanctified to Rana on that island,” said Finion. “In the most ancient times, they would have borne the queen’s body to the grove and burned it on a pyre. But in these civilized days, they will take a lock of her hair and sacrifice it to the sacred flame, sending her essence back to Rana.”

“Devoted to the moon,” I said to myself, recalling Elerína’s words and the standard of Isilmë with the phases of the moon. More pieces of the puzzle came together. Yet what I saw that night added more layers of mystery on the mortal woman who stood at the bow of the boat receding from the docks, a woman whom I did not wish to find so enticing. The pale boat slid across the silver water like a great swan toward the dark island. A song in an ancient language drifted to the Moon, a song of supplication and mourning.

The next day, Finion sought me out in my quarters. I invited him in where he sat down with a huff on a settee in the little parlor, taking the cup of tea that I poured for him. He handed a brass-studded leather cylinder to me.

“Go on. Open it and have a look.”

I extracted a tightly rolled scroll and opened it to see the detailed schematics of a steam engine. It was not beautiful like a jewel or a precisely curved blade, but it was breathtaking all the same.

“That’s the only drawing of such a device in these lands,” he said. “As far as I know.”

“This is extraordinary, but I cannot take your only plans for the engine. Even if I wanted to, I haven’t the resources to build such a device.” I did not add that I knew Elrond would not be inclined to countenance such a project.

“No, I want you to have this, whatever you choose to do with it. I am not much longer for this world, Istyar. The crab eats at my guts. I will be dead before Mettarë. Take it and remember me.”

~*~

I had one more errand before I left the city by the lake. I found Elrond on the balcony of his suite taking his breakfast on a bright morning two days before we were to depart. When I had asked Elrond of Lord Alcarin’s legion, he shook his head, new grief clouding his clear slate-blue eyes.

“They all fell before the Morannon. To a man.”

I took my leave and left the palace, walking to the marketplace to tell a shaggy-haired farmer that his son would not return to the green fields of his homeland.

---

Chapter End Notes

~~~~~
Characters:

Surien - eldest daughter of Elendur (Isildur's eldest son) and Irimë.
Lord Anardil - nobleman of Elendil's court with regal ambitions. He was mentioned previously in Chapter 10.
Finion - keeper of the palantír of Annúminas; former chief smith of the engine works in Rómenna.

To put Isilmë's remark that Elerína is no Erendis in context, see "Aldarion and Erendis: The Mariner's Wife" in Unfinished Tales.

The poem that Elerína recites is “Ocean of Forms” by Rabindranath Tagore.

With regard to the steam engines, this excerpt from The Lost Road (vol. V of The History of Middle-earth) inspired the discussion between Sámaril & Finion. Here, "Herendil" (the earlier predecessor of Isildur) speaks to his father, Elendil:

And behold what hath happened since, step by step. At first (Sauron) revealed only secrets of craft, and taught the making of many things powerful and wonderful; and they seemed good. Our ships go now without the wind, and many are made of metal that sheareth hidden rocks, and they sink not in calm or storm; but they are no longer fair to look upon. Our towers grow ever stronger and climb ever higher, but beauty they leave behind upon earth. We who have no foes are embattled with impregnable fortresses - and mostly on the West. Our arms are multiplied as if for an agelong war, and men are ceasing to give love or care to the making of other things for use or delight. But our shields are impenetrable, our swords cannot be withstood, our darts are like thunder and pass over leagues unerring. Where are our enemies? We have begun to slay one another. For Numenor now seems narrow, that was so large. Men covet, therefore, the lands that other families have long possessed. They fret as men in chains.

Wherefore Sauron hath preached deliverance; he has bidden our king to stretch forth his hand to Empire. Yesterday it was over the East. Tomorrow it will be over the West.

To me, that passage rings with modernisms: the ships, the towers (skyscrapers? I think Louis Sullivan might beg to differ that beauty was left behind when high towers were built) and darts like thunder (sounds like ballistics of some sort to me). So Sauron apparently incited the birth of the military-industrial complex.