The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 25: The Council of Elrond

When Sámaril is summoned to the Council of Elrond, he discovers why the succession of Valandil to the throne of High King of Gondor and Arnor is in question. After agreements are reached, Valandil utters a prophecy concerning broken Narsil, and Sámaril later overhears a heated conversation between Elerína and her sister-by-marriage, Lindissë -- Anárion's widow and Meneldil's mother.

~*~

Many thanks to Jael, Aearwen, Moreth, and Drummerwench of The Lizard Council for comments and nitpicking of the draft.

If it wasn’t clear from any of the preceding 24 chapters that The Elendilmir represents an alternate history of Middle-earth, it should be apparent in this one. A significant fly in the heirs of Elros’ ointment was spawned via the often heretical elements that comprise the overlap of Venn diagrams of Surgical Steel’s interpretations of Middle-earth and my own. Thus I owe Steel a debt of gratitude for graciously allowing me to borrow her characters and concepts. I have linked the Steel's stories that are specific to this chapter in End Notes. You may also find her work here on the SWG, at her LJ repository -- surgsteelfic and on The Last Ship archive. I highly recommended her work. The saga of the surgeon, Serindë, is a compelling one and represents one of the best OFCs crafted.

A genealogical chart of Númenóreans pertinent to the Pandë!- and Steel!verses is included in End Notes.

With The Elendilmir rated as Adult, this may be superfluous, but here's a warning for strong language nonetheless.

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Autumn’s first strokes of red and gold painted the maples and birches, and the ashes of midsummer’s solemn bonfires had long been cold when the last of the emissaries arrived in the valley. The squire’s anguished hailing of Valandil as King had been heartfelt but premature. The deaths of Isildur and his sons threw the kingdoms of Men into tumult when others came forward to challenge Valandil’s right to succession as High King. I had never been one for politics, always letting the maneuverings of rule and realm flow around me while I focused on my craft. Now I found myself swept up in their currents because of my friendship with the young prince and his mother.

Thorno and I watched the last delegation from our vantage point by the forge. The valley’s guards escorted a dozen riders, accompanied by pack animals, across the bridge. Thorno polished an apple against his shirt.

“They represent Gondor?” he asked and then crunched into the apple with vigor.

“Some of them, yes.” I said. The emblems of the House of Elendil -- the white tree, seven stars and a crown – flashed from the black banner lifted by a gust of wind.

“The others with them though,” Thorno said, eyeing the two men and a woman mounted on horses girt with rich tack, their herald bearing a standard with a golden tree on dark blue field. “Those must be the delegates from Umbar.”

“So I would surmise.”

“I thought Umbar had been at war with the Alliance.”

“Other realms of Harad, maybe, but from what Erestor told me, the duumvirate of Umbar -- with the support of oligarchs -- maintained neutrality, at least officially. The people of Umbar are a mixed lot, he says: neither loyal to Sauron nor to the West. They are most loyal to their coffers.”

“So not all were King’s Men,” Thorno said, clipping at the apple with his front teeth.

“Apparently not. Those who established the settlement that became Umbar -- even before you and I were born – were refugees from Númenor.”

“So they have not rejected our people like the King’s Men did?”

“As long as the Firstborn trade with them, we don’t trouble most of Umbar. Erestor says that although most are not comfortable with our people, their leaders still recognize Elrond as kindred.”

“Then they have long memories. For mortals, that is.” Thorno flicked the apple core over the cliff to be caught by a crow in mid-flight. The riders had now crossed the bridge and dismounted from their horses.

“Very long memories from what I have been told. Erestor says they are no less proud of their lineage from Elros than Elendil’s people are. That is why they are here.”

“Which should prove to be interesting. Who is that?”

A tall woman wrapped in a pine-green cloak, hood thrown back and strands of her honey-brown hair floating in the wind, approached Elerína, clad in the dark grey garments of mourning, who had emerged from the front entry of the house and approached the new arrivals in the courtyard.

“That, I would guess, is Lindissë: Anárion’s widow and King Meneldil’s mother.”
Elerína greeted her sister-by-marriage while the first cold drops of rain spat from the scudding wet-wool clouds that had blown in from the northwest, the coming chill of winter matching the cold formality between the two women.

Thornangor grimaced while he watched them. “I can see from here that there’s no love lost between those two,” he said. “I would wish to be as far away as possible should they come to disagreement.”

“I hope it does not come to that.”

“How is Lady Elerína faring?” Thornangor asked.

“Not well, but that is to be expected. I would think that you know as much as I do, given Lairiel’s friendship with her,” I said while I watched the two women walk arm-in-arm into the house, knowing that such affection between them was feigned.

“She has not spoken to you about Isildur’s death? Or her sons?”

“Not yet,” I said. “She has been preoccupied with the affairs of the succession.”

“Lairiel has noted the same, that she has avoided speaking of them, but we are worried for her,” Thornangor said. “Lady Elerína needs to mourn. Truly mourn.”
“I understand, but I respect that she must do so in her own way and time.”

“You’re right. It’s just that Elerína is dear to my beloved, and I hate to see Lairiel unhappy. That is not to say that I do not care about Lady Elerína’s well-being, but I share my bed with Lairiel.” Thorno crossed his arms, hugging himself against the chill wind. “Valandil seems to be holding up. At least we are keeping him preoccupied.”

“He is overwhelmed, and you know it, Thorno. He did not expect to ever become a king.”

“I know. I think there is nothing more that he wanted to do than study the lore of nature, hunt with his bird and hound, and craft wood. Poor lad...”

“He’ll be all right,” I said with a confidence I did not feel.

Thorno and I left the ledge, returning to the forge where I remained in my office well into the darkest hours of early morning, using the excuse of working on a project to delay returning to the hearths and halls, but in truth wishing to avoid the numbers of new arrivals that swelled the House of Elrond. However, when I passed by the Hall of Fire that night, a lone figure seated near the great hearth caught my eye. I recognized Elerína’s silhouette against the firelight. Briefly, I debated whether I should leave her to her solitude or to talk to her. My concern for her won out.

She stared at the fire, now burning low, but she met my eyes when I approached, rising to her feet and holding out her hand to me. I brushed her smooth skin with my lips.

“I am sorry to intrude, my lady.”

“Don’t be silly, Istyar,” she said. “It is no intrusion. You know I welcome your company. I could not sleep so I thought I would find peace here.” She gestured to the chair opposite hers, inviting me to sit. “I regret that we haven’t spoken much these past weeks.”

“There is no need for regret.”

“I would like to talk to you sometime, Sámaril. Really talk to you, I mean. It’s just that...it’s just that I fear that if I speak of my losses, I will break down and grief will never release me.”

“You must acknowledge your grief, Elerína. It is not healthy to keep it bottled up. It is natural to break down. You will recover. I did.”

“But such grief never truly vanishes, does it?” she said, less of a question than a pronouncement.

“No. It never does, but you learn how to keep it from consuming you. Please know you have understanding from me and a sympathetic ear whenever you wish to talk.”

“I know. I know you understand. But I need all my strength now.” She twisted her fingers together on her lap. “For Valandil and the kingdom.” She gazed into the embers of the fire before turning to me again. “Valandil and I need your strength now, too. So I have asked that you attend the Council of Elrond.”

“I have no stake in these high matters,” I said.

“Ah, but you do. The shards of Narsil must be reforged. I cannot imagine anyone more qualified and fitting to forge the sword anew than you, my friend. The Elendilmir has also been lost -- lost along with my husband’s body. Isildur shall not be laid to rest to sleep on cold stone...” her voice drifted, trembling with the threat of tears, but she sniffed, wiped her eyes and regained her composure. “Yes, I believe that you do have a stake in these matters, Istyar. For better or worse, you have entwined your life with that of my people.”

A wave of guilt swept over me when I recalled the flaw in Narsil that I had deemed insignificant and had not repaired using my unique talents, fearing to apply them to the sword that had resonated with such power. But perhaps Elerína was right, and that gave me hope for redeeming myself. Yes, I could forge the sword, correcting my past hesitation, and perhaps making amends for the dark paths my other works had taken and the terror they had inflicted on Men, not least those who bore the nine rings.

“Your confidence honors me, my lady. I will answer Elrond’s summons.”

“Thank you, Sámaril. I must warn you that the debate of the succession could become ugly. The lineage of Elros is...” She paused and frowned. “The lineage is entangled, shall we say?” She yawned and then smiled. “Well then. It seems I am sleepy. Good-night, Sámaril.” I rose along with her and kissed her extended hand again. She padded away on bare feet, her robes rustling a soft benediction, and left me alone in the empty hall.

~*~

Two days later, the peal of the tower-bell summoned us to Elrond’s council. We gathered on an east-facing porch, the morning sun filtering down upon it through a filigree of green and amber leaves. The river roared below, providing the steady bass to the fluting of orioles that still lingered deep in the forest. Seated in the inner circle were Erestor and Laurefin, Elerína, Lord Vorondil of Annúminas and their counselors. There, too, were Lord Anardil and his advisors from the province of Rhudaur and by them, Lindissë and Meneldil’s other representatives. The three ambassadors from Umbar, led by the Lady Zimrazra, were positioned near the delegation from Gondor.

Few could tear their eyes away from Zimrazra, whose beauty stood out among the women of the North like an exotic lily among wood violets. Her long black hair, partly held in place by golden clasps, rippled with tight waves over her shoulders; her shrewd eyes were blue-grey like many Númenóreans, in striking contrast to her golden-brown skin.

The Lord of Imladris arrived last, his gait stately and his mien formal. All rose when he walked onto the porch and remained standing until he settled into the dark wooden chair, and thus completed the inner circle of the Council.

“I welcome you to Imladris – Queen Mother Lindissë, Queen Mother Elerína, Lord Anardil, Lady Zimrazra and Lord Vorondil,” Elrond said. “You were summoned because of the issue of succession. You are my brother’s heirs and therefore my kin, so I have an interest in your decision, but ultimately, these are the affairs of Men. I will only advise and facilitate.

“The issue at hand is the succession of Valandil, Isildur’s heir, to the crown of the High King of Arnor and Gondor. Who comes to challenge this?”

“I challenge the succession,” said Lord Anardil, rising from his seat. “I claim direct descent from Eärendur, brother of Tar-Elendil and the second son of Tar-Amandil the third king of Númenor.”

“Which on behalf of Valandil Isildurion and as Steward of the realm of Arnor, I reject,” countered Lord Vorondil, springing to his feet. “The House of Elendil claims the right to the throne of the high king through primogeniture. The line of Isildur descends from Silmariën, eldest child of Tar-Elendil.”

“And that is a stronger claim than from a second-born prince?” Lord Anardil retorted.

“Who would question succession through Silmariën?” Lord Vorondil's words carried a weight of authority but the ruler of Rhudaur was undeterred.

“I do,” said Lord Anardil. “The law of succession was changed after Tar-Aldarion ruled in favor for Tar-Ancalimë. You cannot make such a claim through Silmariën retroactively. Furthermore, if you insist on this argument, then why does not Princess Súrien, eldest daughter of Elendur Isildurion, stand here today to claim the throne as High Queen?”

“Because the Andunië hold to the tradition of sons claiming rule like our Eldarin kin did in the most ancient of days.”

Lord Anardil huffed with exasperation. “Then how is my claim the lesser? You contradict yourself!”

“You leave me no choice but to say it, my lord,” said Vorondil. “Because it is questioned if Caliondo was truly Malantur’s father, and so the legitimacy of your lineage is in great doubt.”

“To which I say that is rank speculation.”

Although I had long been aware that paternity among Men was sometimes questionable, that it was equally problematic in the royal lineage of Elros took me by surprise. However, Vorondil’s challenge of the legitimacy of Lord Anardil’s ancestors was only the beginning. The debate continued between Vorondil and Anardil until a feminine voice interrupted them.

“Umbar wishes to be heard!”

Silence fell leaving only the river's muted roar and the birds' piping among the trees. Zimrazra stood. All eyes were drawn to her.

“Umbar challenges the succession to the seat of High King. The Judges hold that the claim of Valandil, fourth born son of Isildur, does not supercede the claim of Princess Isilmë, daughter and eldest child of Isildur.”

Daughter of Isildur? Eldest child? My breath caught at the startling wrench that had been flung into the machinations of succession. Lindir, sitting beside me, leaned over and whispered incredulously, “You did not know? How could you not...”

“She never told me. No one ever told me,” I hissed, the tingles of shock crackling along the back of my neck.

Elerína rose from her seat, her hands fisted, and her voice tight but controlled. “I would remind Abârî Zamîn’s envoy that Princess Isilmë is not a legitimate heir,” she said, facing the envoy from Umbar. “Númenórean matrimonial law did not and does not recognize the union of Isildur and the Abârî. Neither the princess nor her brother can make such a claim.”

“And I would remind the Lady Elerína that the first rites of betrothal were performed between Zamîn and Isildur prior to your liaison with the king, a liaison which in turn Umbar does not recognize. Umbar would therefore argue that neither Valandil nor any of your sons by him are of lawful get.”

My hands clenched the arms of my chair and my thighs tightened, but Lindir’s hand was on my arm, re-directing my impulse to leap to my feet and rebuke the one who insulted my young friend, his dead brothers and their mother.

“Does sacrificing a goat or worse to the Black Foe of the World constitute betrothal rites?” Elerína snarled, her composure crumbling. “How dare you slander the dead and insult my only living son!”

“Do not insult Umbar with your insinuation that we encourage human sacrifice! As for daring? How daring was it for your lords to wash up upon these shores and then make claims of empire, ignoring the long history and rule of Umbar?”

“Ah yes,” said Elerína, her voice controlled again but its cold tone dangerous. “Umbar’s long history: a history of those who so nobly claim neutrality but who cozened the King’s Men – those who persecuted and murdered my kin; Umbar who opened her hand in trade to Gondor and with the other treated with the Deceiver.”

“We were never in league with Zîgur!” Zimrazra exclaimed, her voice heated. “Would Lord Elrond permit us to even enter his realm if we were?”

“Enough!” Elrond raised his hand. “No progress will be made if diplomacy is breeched.” Both women became silent but remained standing. He then addressed Zimrazra. “Do I understand from the duumvirate’s missives that the primary objection raised is the designation of a new High King – a ruler of both Arnor and Gondor? But that Umbar sees room for discussion should the heirs of Elendil rule southern and northern kingdoms separately?”

“Yes, there might be room for such a discussion,” replied Zimrazra, her voice with its sinuous accent now silky. A cool smile flitted across Lindissë’s face.

“Then I believe we have a starting point.”

Lindir whispered, “They have at last reached the heart of the matter.”

The negotiations extended through the morning and into the afternoon, but my attention waxed and waned. During the discourses, I watched my friend: the mortal woman who had knitted my scarf, picked apples with me, who took pride in balancing the ledgers, who had laughed and danced with me, and who had cried in my arms. Now I saw her in another light, a light in which she showed as much regal steel as her late mother-by-marriage. She remained firm in the face of what had to be terrible humiliation, only losing her temper when Zimrazra had called Elerína’s sons – in essence -- bastards.

The porch had long been in shadow by the time the parties came to foundations of agreement upon which treaties would be drawn. In the end, Umbar, Gondor and the province of Rhudaur recognized Valandil as King of Arnor and that he would take up the Sceptre of Annúminas when he came of age. At this point, Elrond called upon me to escort Valandil into the council and bring forth the shards of Narsil.

Inside the house, I found Valandil, nervous and pale, sitting next to Thornangor on a bench in a dim alcove. Thorno cradled the broken sword wrapped in black silk.

“They are ready, my lord.”

Valandil said nothing, but rose to his feet, slowly walking toward the double doors that opened onto the porch, Thorno and I on either side of him.

The council quieted when Valandil appeared. Elrond rose from his chair and spread his arms, a gesture of welcome to the boy.

“Hail, Valandil, King of Arnor!” Elrond cried. The rest of the council rose to their feet and -- some more enthusiastically than others -- echoed Elrond’s words, hailing the young prince.

“Bring forth the sword,” Elrond commanded.

Thornangor placed broken Narsil on a small table that had been moved to the center of the inner circle and stepped back. Elrond walked to the table and lifted the black folds of cloth, revealing the halves of the blade.

“Who shall reforge me? Who shall he be?” Elrond half-whispered when he ran his fingers over the metal and touched the large garnet embedded in the hilt.

I took that as my cue and spoke clearly: “I – Sámaril – will forge Narsil anew.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Elerína’s smile. Elrond nodded his silent approval, opening his mouth to speak as I reached for Narsil’s hilt.

“No!”

All eyes turned to Valandil, white-faced and trembling, who laid his hands over the hilt of the broken sword, blocking my intended grasp. “No!” he repeated. His eyes clouded, and shadows deepened on the porch. Then he spoke strange words intoned as if another had taken his voice:

Til Isildur’s bane comes forth
Narsil broken remains.
Til hope springs from the shadows
All smith craft shall be in vain.
When brilliant shines the elfstone
When light born of dark weaves its spell
Then shall the shards be made into one
And renewed be the blade of the Moon and the Sun.

A vision of flame blazed before my eyes, and I saw a smith’s hammer striking the hot metal of a blade, white-gold sparks flying against the darkness, but the hand that wielded the hammer was not my own. The image evaporated as quickly as it had appeared.

The members of the council murmured in response to Valandil’s words: Isildur’s bane? What does this portend? A few, myself included, likely could make an astute guess as to the meaning of Isildur’s bane, but nothing was said. Elerína came to Valandil, his thin face white, and put her arm over his shoulders. The new king leaned against his mother and wrapped his arm around her waist.

His expression solemn, Elrond met my eyes. “We will honor the prophecy of Valandil. You will not forge Narsil anew, Istyar. The blade that was broken shall be an heirloom of Valandil and his descendants...until Isildur’s bane comes forth.”

“So be it,” I said, lowering my eyes to the shards, the steel dull and lifeless. Although no argument could be made against Valandil’s prophecy, the demon-imps of hurt pride stung me even before I stepped away from shattered Narsil.

Elrond adjourned the council. All stood to file back into the house, leaving behind the shadowed porch. When Elerína glanced back at me over her shoulder, I hurled a spear of thought toward her:

Why didn’t you tell me?

She winced as if I had struck her, quickly averting her eyes, and turned her back on me, walking away with her son at her side.

My disappointment hung over me like a cloud through the rest of the day and well into the evening. Conversation swirled around me at the head table while I picked at my food. Although I followed the rest to the Hall of Fire after the evening’s feast, I did not join those who listened to songs and tales, but remained apart. Laurefin found me slumped against a pillar in the Hall of Fire that night, nursing a glass of red wine, while the others gathered around Lindir and his musicians.

“You couldn’t possibly be more obvious, Istyar.”

“About what?”

“That your damned smith’s pride has been hurt. You’ve been wearing your anger all evening. I think everyone assumed you would be the one to reforge Narsil, but when Valandil spoke...”

I cut his sentence short. “So are we to believe the words of a boy who has suffered from fits and nightmares and whose life has been turned upside down?”

“I understand your skepticism, but let me assure you, another spoke through him.” Laurefin looked away, grimacing a little. “I would rather not say who I think it was, but Valandil’s words were not the stuff of madness, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’ll take your word for it. You know far more of the Ainur than I do. One was enough for me.”

Laurefin grunted in agreement. He sipped his wine and then said, “It’s not just the broken sword that is eating at you, is it?”

I swirled my wine, watching the fluid trail back down the sides of the glass like misshapen spider legs.

“No. I’ll grant you that I am not the historian that either Elrond or Erestor is, but I have studied the lore of the Númenóreans. Nothing was written of this.”

“You would expect such a sensitive subject as Isildur’s other family to be documented here in Imladris? It’s a matter of some delicacy as you witnessed. Still, I would have thought Lady Elerína might have told you.”

“I would have thought so, too.”

“Are you angry with her for not doing so?”

“Yes. No. More hurt than angry. I had hoped she trusted me enough to tell me such things.”

“Have you told her everything about your past?”

“I have not.”

“Then you have little cause to complain. At least speak to her, Sámaril. After today’s events, I expect she would welcome kind words from a friend.”

Laurefin’s words cut through my selfish shroud. I excused myself and approached Elerína where she sat near Lindissë and the others off to the side of the hearth.

“Lady Elerína, if you will allow it, I would like a few words with you.”

She rose, and taking my proffered arm, she let me lead her away from the group gathered around musicians and the fire. I stopped in the shadow of a pillar near the entryway.

“Elerína, I am sorry for what happened earlier -- for intruding into your thoughts like that. It was selfish of me...”

She laid her hand on my arm, stopping me in mid-sentence. “No, Istyar. I am sorry. I should have told you of these family complications before now. You must understand what a difficult subject this is for me. I have been living in Zamîn’s shadow for years.”

“Then today’s council must have been very hard for you to endure, especially when Lady Zimrazra...” I stopped, seeing pain flicker across my friend’s face. “You handled it well. I admire you for it.”

“Thank you, Istyar. It was hard for you, too, was it not? When Elrond told you that you could not forge the sword anew?”

“Yes. I want so much to do something for you and Valandil, for the sake of Isilmë and Elendil -- and yes, for Isildur, too.”

“Thank you for saying that. About Isildur. He had his flaws, but I loved him.”

“No one is perfect, my lady. I will set aside my disappointment that I cannot forge Narsil because I think there is something else I can do.”

She nodded silently, encouraging me to continue.

“With the Elendilmir lost, the King of Arnor will need a new crown. I may not have the skills of the artisan who crafted Silmariën’s fillet, but I will try. I will replicate the Elendilmir as faithfully as possible.”

“I had hoped you would say that. I have no doubt that you will create a work of great beauty.”

“I do not have the materials I need to craft it, but I expect an arrangement can be made with Durin’s folk in Hadhodrond.

“I will leave those particulars to you.” She made a move to return to the others, but I laid my hand on her arm, staying her.

“Elerína, we truly must talk.”

“I know. We will, Sámaril. Please give me more time.”

“Very well.”

She held me with her eyes, darkened to the color of twilight in the shadows of the hall. I resisted falling into those eyes, but with no success. We had spent only superficial, fleeting moments together these past few months, and I missed her company desperately. Reaching toward her, I traced the line of her jaw with my fingers. She clasped her hand over mine and pressed my palm against her cheek.

“Soon, Sámaril. I promise.” Then she released my hand and turned away, returning to the musicians with Lindissë’s eyes locked on her.

I left the Hall of Fire and walked out into the night, the autumn air clear and chill with the diamond-dust of stars scattered across the vault of the sky. Although vague plans for the new Elendilmir floated in my head while I hiked along the trail high above the river, a thought flickered and guttered in my mind: What exactly did she mean by “Soon...I promise?” That we should speak soon or something else? I snuffed out the thought thoroughly – a hopeful thought but a wanton one -- realizing my hröa was taking too much control of my mind and causing me to misinterpret what was no doubt an innocent remark.

I quickened my pace, breathing in the chill night air, and made an effort to walk as quietly as I could on the dry leaves littering the trail. I managed to walk within a few strides of a fox before it caught my scent and melted into the forest undergrowth. I looped back along a narrow trail that branched off the main one, and made my way to the margins of Elrond’s expansive gardens where the heads of cabbages squatted like fat silvered flowers under the starlight and the musky odor of ripe grapes drifted from the arbors.

Still taking care to walk silently, I picked my way through the maze of squash vines and along the rows of kale, and approached the flower gardens closest to the house. Late-blooming roses sent their perfume into the gentler airs nearest to Vilya’s presence, but sharp voices from one of the balconies overlooking the rose garden caught my attention. I recognized Elerína’s voice and then Lindissë’s rising in answer. Their words slurred subtly, suggesting they had imbibed a fair amount of wine. I sank into the shadows of the tall boxwoods nearest the house and almost directly beneath the wooden balcony where they stood, knowing full well that I should not eavesdrop, but strangely compelled to listen.

“That was quite a spectacle this morning, Elerína. How could you let that woman get the better of you?”

“‘That woman’ you say," Elerína retorted. "Zimrazra was merely Zamîn’s voice. Do not think I am so naïve as to not know you and Zamîn were in league to secure Gondor for Meneldil and push Valandil aside.”

“Zamin!” Lindissë spat out the name. “She lets her injured pride rule her decisions. For all her strength and wisdom, she is not so difficult to manipulate when it comes to her heart. If you had kept Isildur better served, he would not have sired a second bastard on her. That daughter of hers – Isilmë – is bad enough.”

“Enough, Lindissë! You know nothing of my marriage.”

“Oh, something of it, I think. Enough to know that your loose hold on Isildur confounded the claims of the House of Elendil.” Lindissë paused and then continued with a venom-drenched voice:

“How you must resent Isildur’s wetting his sword in a foreign sheath! I’m not at all surprised that you linger here among the elves with their wanton ways -- with their men who cannot sire children unless they call upon the gods or whatever strange thing they do. Tell me, Elerína...that elven-smith. Has he fucked you yet? Surely he has by the way he looks at you. And Isildur not dead even a year. Or maybe he has been fucking you all along.”

Footsteps thumped above me followed by the sound of a slap that carried across the gardens.

“You miserable bitch!” Elerína cried.

“So you prove your worth: a common woman’s common daughter from dung-heaped sheep pastures,” Lindissë rasped, but then she spoke with poisoned honey. “I bid you good night -- sister -- and wish you well here where you hide like a vole under the faerie hill.”

Footfalls stepped away, and a door slammed. Silence fell for a few moments, and then the sounds of Elerína’s weeping filtered down to my burning ears.

I had witnessed Elerína’s humiliation this morning. And now? I was the cause of her humiliation. My stomach now clamped in knots, I saw with startling clarity how I had allowed this –- no, how I had encouraged this -- to happen. How many times over had I heard the admonishment given to my people: Take care when mingling with the Followers. Liaisons with them only result in sorrow? It was time to heed those words. My plans crystallized at once – hard and jagged like winter’s ice over the river -- and I knew what I must do.

---

Chapter End Notes

Zimrazra (Adûnaic) – from Zimra, jewel and azra, sea.

Abârî (Adûnaic) -- a title constructed from abâr, meaning strength, loyalty, fidelity plus the feminine ending.

Hadhodrond – (Sindarin): Khazad-dûm

Elrond's reflection on the shards of Narsil, "Who shall reforge me? Who shall he be?" is taken from the prologue of Gandalf's Apprentice's The Sword of Elendil, a wonderful fic that inspired me to start writing this monster-WIP and whose canon strongly influences this story.

Similarly, Surgical Steel's vision and characters of Middle-earth make an appearance in this chapter, so because of this confluence of Surgical Steel’s ‘verse and mine, these end notes are more extensive than usual.

Surgical Steel’s emerging vision of Umbar is an appealing one. Rather than the proto-Islamic/Moorish interpretation often seen in fan fic, her Umbar recalls ancient Carthage. Canonically speaking, Tolkien had Umbar ruled by a duumvirate: two leaders who shared equal power. In Steel’s version, Umbar is ruled by two elected Judges and governed by a group of powerful folks known as the oligarchs, also a nod to Carthage (see Aristotle’s discourse on the Constitution of Carthage).

Steel also gives a nod to the founding of Carthage by the legendary Princess Elissa a.k.a. Queen Dido of Phoenicia. Umbar is founded by the (canonically unnamed – of course) daughter(s) of Tar-Anárion, the son of the first ruling queen of Númenor: Tar-Ancalimë. From Unfinished Tales:

Her son Anárion, who was afterwards the eighth Ruler of Númenor, first had two daughters. They disliked and feared the Queen, and refused the Heirship, remaining unwed, since the Queen would not in revenge allow them to marry. Anárion's son Súrion was born the last, and was the ninth Ruler of Númenor.

In Steel’s ‘verse, the two daughters of Anárion flee their overbearing grandmother. Some of the circumstances behind this – and a wonderfully subversive consequence of the “round Middle-earth” view may be found in The Far Side of the World.

Zamîn, who is mentioned in this chapter, is a descendant of the eldest daughter of Tar-Anárion – named Quildeló. Zamîn at the beginning of the Third Age is one of the two Judges of Umbar. I gave her a title of “Abâri” from the Adûnaic – abâr meaning “strength, loyalty, fidelity” plus a feminine ending. In Survivors of the Downfall, which is told from the point of view of the ship’s surgeon, Nemir, Zamîn and the crew of her ship sail toward Númenor after hearing what sounds to be a massive explosion and experience a huge swell at sea – a nod to the mutually held theory of Steel’s and mine (again consistent with a round earth as opposed to the mythic flat one) that Númenor’s destruction resulted from a volcanic explosion on the order of a Krakatoa or a Santorini. They also drag a mysterious survivor from the sea. Note that Sámaril mentions a “year without a summer” in an earlier chapter. This refers the climatic change that resulted from the particulates thrown into the atmosphere from the explosion.

Zamîn also has a strong connection to descendants of Silmariën, in particular Isildur, the son of Elendil. This is developed in Steel’s The Men Who Would Be Kings, The Last Day of Our Acquaintance and The Price of Doing Business.

From Unfinished Tales, footnote 10 of “The Disaster of the Gladden Fields:

Meneldil was the nephew of Isildur, son of Isildur's younger brother Anárion, slain in the siege of Barad-dûr. Isildur had established Meneldil as King of Gondor. He was a man of courtesy, but farseeing, and he did not reveal his thoughts. He was in fact well-pleased by the departure of Isildur and his sons, and hoped that affairs in the North would keep them long occupied. [Author's note.] – It is stated in unpublished annals concerning the Heirs of Elendil that Meneldil was the fourth child of Anárion, that he was born in the year 3318 of the Second Age, and that he was the last man to be born in Númenor. The note just cited is the only reference to his character.

My ‘verse is not a chaste one. Neither is Steel’s. Well, heck, not many are on the SWG. There are consequences of that, including the political. My bet is that Meneldil did not particularly embrace the idea of a High King and may very well not have wanted his young cousin Valandil to assume that role. I'm sure the more canonically inclined might look askance at the concepts put forth here, not least of which would be Elrond allowing representatives of Umbar into Imladris. However, if it were not already evident, I don't see these things as black and white; neither does Steel. And I tend to think, neither does Elrond. I'd like to think Elrond was a pretty savvy fellow, capable of seeing many sides to an issue and of nuanced thought. I mean, he's been around the block a few times.

Finally, here's a handy genealogical diagram at the end of the draft for reference to help decipher the complex canonical Númenórean lineage as well as the quasi-canonical and OCs. Succession to the crown is not so facile in our primary world. Why should it be any different in Middle-earth?