Si la mar fuera de leche by Chestnut_pod

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Chapter 3

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Losseth shooed Vardamir and Tindómiel out of the nursery and into the vegetable patch serving as a garden outside. 

 

“Read to her, then,” she said, when Vardamir protested that Tindómiel was a baby and no fun to play with. “I wager that if you’re telling her stories about the fish-birds of Forochel she will listen to you, and then you can tell Admiral Aeglosbes all you have learned about her old home.” 

 

That worked a charm. Elros smiled and held it on his face even as Losseth turned around, set her drop spindle whirring, and raised an august eyebrow at him. 

 

Elros held that even a king could be somewhat informal with a person who had saved his child’s life, seen him covered in regurgitated seaweed, and singlehandedly maneuvered the remnants of the House of Haleth into a position of favor with their ramshackle royal house. Losseth had also made it clear that she was entirely in favor of returning to self-rule for each House if he proved incapable of “living up to his heritage” and “not playing favorites.” Plausibly deniable blackmail was even more conducive to informality, but the eyebrow was really a little much, he thought. 

 

“Are you of the opinion, my lord, that one’s children’s nurse should do double duty as private secretary to the sovereign?” Losseth asked.

 

“There is precedent,” Elros said, repressing a squirm. “My-- mother’s secretary was her nurse when she was young.” 

 

“Should I understand that the position of nurse was one she held before the sack of Doriath, not after Queen Elwing-Who-Called assumed the rulership of Sirion?” 

 

Elros took a moment to be annoyed that Losseth gave Elwing her title and epessë when she could hardly bring herself to address him as “my lord,” and then squashed that emotion as petty. 

 

“Yes,” he said, “However--”

 

Losseth affected not to hear him. “Do you also hold together a terrified band of refugees of dissimilar kindreds, assailed on all sides by diverse evils, using only force of will, personal charisma, an ethic of self-sufficiency, and a magical artifact?” 

 

“Well, yes,” Elros began, and Losseth interrupted him again. 

 

“You do not,” she retorted, and added belatedly, “My lord. You lead a highly determined band of victorious Men whose ancient clan ties were,” she said with a sigh, “Largely left behind in a now-sunken continent. You are assailed only by the forces of nature and are beating those back quite well, you seek trade partnerships and have trade partnerships to seek, and your force of will and personal charisma are as may be.” She gave him a fishy look. “The prototype palantíri have not yet arrived.” 

 

Elros gritted his teeth. He supposed it was true. Númenor was cut off from any enemy who remained, and if they were also cut off from what remained of Middle Earth, that was not forever. Losseth’s own leanings aside, the ship-crews seemed to be a far more salient mode of identification than the shattered remnants of the Houses of old, and there were no Elf-kindreds to complicate things further. The Drúedain -- well, but they were Men too, and kept to themselves. 

 

But was not the situation still terribly precarious? Were they not still unaccustomed to agriculture in this hot, sunny climate? Were the Valar not still making their presence known in every wild patch of this island of gift, seeding the rock with unknown seeds, filling the waters with unknown fishes? 

 

Losseth watched him, some unreadable expression tucked into the corner of her mouth. 

 

“My grandmother lived at Sirion, you know,” she said. “She died of eating poison and drinking ash for half her life after it fell. But she remembered the Queen of Sirion and what she built there, before the Elf-lords despoiled it. She attempted something other than the kingdoms that wrecked Beleriand. But you wish to be a king. I would fain you did not, but if that is what you will be, you must act like one.” 

 

Elros found himself surprised, somehow, that she had ventured so daringly. “You go too far now.”

 

“Do I? I am your nurse and not your secretary, and this allows me some privileges. You act as a judge and a priest and a mediator and a trader, and those are all good things, but kings do not come to their nurses and ask them to make out a treaty in a fair hand.” 

 

Elros gritted his teeth on a number of possible answers. With an attempt at stately slowness, he turned and stared out at the children. Behind him, he heard Losseth retwist her spindle and drop it again with a clatter against the flagstones. Such avoidance of the question was not kingly, and yet… If Elwing at Sirion had bestowed a voice upon the meanest of her people, what of it? It had failed. Her fate was to fly away, and Sirion crumbled in her wake. 

 

He thought, as he more or less tried not to think, of his Feänorion years. Had Elwing’s experiments saved her or him from his foster-family, from the Doom of the Valar and the crunching culmination of Beleriand’s great stories? No, nor her people. They had been kings to the end, Maedhros and Maglor. They guarded their folk well and held none who wished to leave captive -- no, not even him or Elrond, in the end! Did he not have the advantage of their training and the example of their leadership, which drove their followers to do terrible things in one body -- yes, terrible, but effective? He did not want to be like them, though. Had not Maedhros fallen like Elwing at the last? All this over a question of a secretary! 

 

The spindle whirred. He did not want to compel Losseth. He did not want to compel anyone. 

 

But -- did he not also have the advantage that all his parents had lacked, that he was all his people, Beörian and Hadorian and Haladin? Was he not also in some way their voice, their will? In the garden were Vardamir and Tindómiel, all of that and more -- born to Númenor, of it, their teeth and bones formed from its rock. 

 

From out of the past echoed the great roaring rush of the wave that had swamped Beleriand at last, and the high, clear note of Elrond’s horn, and from out of the din, the voices of his people, stumbling from their ragged ships onto the ragged beach that was once an inland valley. He had guided them to the boats, screamed orders over the crash of the waters, led them to the safety of the new Lindon coast. 

 

That was not compulsion, he thought; that was acclamation. It was the moment he knew how he must Choose. For what act in any eternal life could be truer and more righteous than the choice of these people behind him, riding the wave into an unknown future where they might, at last, be free? 

 

The sound of the wave roared very loud in his ears, and he thought he might hear a cry, a woman screaming -- he jerked his head up and cast about for whoever she was, but -- it was only Tindómiel. 

 

She ran unsteadily around the chickpea patch shrieking like a peacock, and Vardamir chased her with his hands stuck to his sides like flippers. Seal and penguin, Tindómiel’s favorite game of late. Vardamir was kind to play it with her. 

 

The sound of Losseth’s spindle returned, ticking quietly over the floor. The wave receded.

 

He did not want to compel her. He did not want to compel anyone. Loyalty freely given, responsibility shouldered, freedom for those who swore fealty. And, at the last, freedom for him. Could he not, perhaps, do better than any of his parents?

 

He turned around fully and looked at Losseth once more. She stared back at him evenly, never faltering in the rhythm of her hands. Her mouth still twisted, yet here she was. 

 

“Very well,” Elros said. “Is there anyone you recommend?”

 

Losseth tilted her head. “Are you--”

 

Elros held up a hand to stop her. “Whom do you recommend to me as a secretary? I ask you, Losseth.” 

 

There was a long pause. Elros waited, feeling patient at last. His voice, which came from the people, would be sent out abroad by one of his people. Losseth had been right after all. 

 

“Zâinabên’s second son has a fair hand,” Losseth said, slowly. “Adûnabêl. Named for this island, and he chose the name himself.” 

 

“Does his father not need him to work the land? I would not deprive our chief farmer of his son’s strong hand, however fair.” 

 

“He is Hadorian, yet the family, as you know well, feel themselves Númenorean to the bone. He would bring their loyalty and skill, not their resentment. Zâinabên knows who makes the final decisions on allocating land. This is the purpose of a royal household, is it not?”

 

Elros considered. Losseth stared out the doorway at the children, still running between the rows of food. Her hands fed the spindle steadily, but a shadow remained around her face.

 

“I accept your recommendation,” he said. “It would be well to reassure the farmers that they have a voice in my household.” 

 

Losseth stilled her spindle. She turned to face him fully and gave a bow. 

 

“My lord,” she said, and nothing more. 

 

 

--

The new moon brought with it a high tide that surprised even Uinen’s priestesses. The swell painted their skirts wet up to their thighs as they scampered up and down the sunset-gold beach with the sandpipers, drawing their evening prayers in the sand to be eaten up by the waves. Tomorrow would be a good day for sailing, they said, and the Elven ships rode tall and fair in the water. 

 

Elros and Zamîn rose before dawn to see them off. Vardamir had begged and begged to come with them to say goodbye to Aeglosbes, but when Elros crept into the nursery in the wee hours, he was fast asleep, curled around Tindómiel, curled in turn around her soapstone goose. 

 

Instead, Elros walked in torchlit procession with Zamîn and her spinning ladies to the quays of the Second Harbor, then slipped away while she bade a formal farewell to each merchant. 

 

The seven youths Aeglosbes had consented to take with her to trade with the Lossoth stood in a huddle near her great double-clad ice-ship Nais. The bustle of loading and sail-settling eddied around them, and Elros thought they looked rather lost amid the crystal-lit whirl of the fleet. They would all have been small children the last time they set foot on a vessel larger than a fisher’s dinghy. 

 

The night before, Elros and Galor Guildmaster and Aeglosbes had instructed them in their purpose: to learn the tides and currents to the northeast; to study Sindarin and Quenya with the crew; to be educated in the construction and upkeep of a great ship; to act respectfully towards their hosts at sea and on land; to gather their share of whale and seal oil; and to come home and share it all. Elros’ purpose in this halting daybreak, was, however, different. 

 

All seven looked out at the water and up at the ship, talking quietly amongst themselves. Elros caught snatches of the Taliska-flavored Adûnaic common among the youth born in Beleriand but raised on the island. He walked close to them, then cleared his throat and bid them good morning. To his amusement, the whole group spun around with wide eyes and scrambled to bow, or make the Hadorian salute, or even to kneel -- Elros recognized that one as the girl he had healed after she cut herself on a rusty knife and began seizing.

 

“None of that, now,” he said with a smile, deliberately informal. “You are all rendering me a great service, and I wish to thank you.” 

 

There was a general mumble and shuffling of feet, and then a tall youth stepped forward and said, “I am Pharâzindil, daughter of Boron of the Haladin, who came on the Pharâzbalak, Your Majesty. We are proud to be of service.” 

 

“Thank you, Pharâzindil,” said Elros, thinking with amusement that Losseth had done well to place this one of her people on this expedition. “It gladdens me to know that my kin will represent Númenor on our first voyage beyond our waters.” 

 

He smiled again, making sure to look each young person in the eyes. They were a fine crew, he thought, with all three Houses and a fair mix of ships represented. It was no small thing to venture out on new waters yet unmapped and go sailing over the drowned lands where their grandparents had been born — with an Elf, no less. It was no small thing either to be burdened with the expectations of every person on the island, to feed and light and warm them through the winter and to teach them every season thereafter. Galor and Zamîn and Losseth had spent a full day with him deciding who could be spared and who should be spared, and Elros thought they had done well.

 

Îbal there was a fisher’s son the sailors said was beloved of Uinen. The small lad behind him, Zhân, had a Drúedain mother and a head for directions and mapping. That Pharâzindil was quite the young firebrand and had thrice petitioned Elros for, of all things, infrastructure investments -- and had announced to her family that she was, in fact, a young lady by organizing all the spinners on the island into a guild and then spinning herself a dowry. 

 

“You will make us all proud,” Elros said, and nodded to them, not quite a bow. “I would ask of you one more small thing, a favor for myself only.”

 

Everyone crowded in, but Pharâzindil was the one who spoke. “What would you, Your Majesty?” 

 

“You go to learn many useful things from your hosts and the sea,” Elros began, “And I wish only that you seek to learn a little more, perhaps, than is taught to you outright. You will be in the company of our allies, and it is good to learn about their ways, their troubles, their thoughts of home. In Beleriand we lived side-by-side, of course, and fought shoulder-to-shoulder, but these days it is passing difficult to hear of movements and changes from across the sea. We would not wish to cause offense through ignorance, or be caught unawares by some strange news! What if one day we were to awaken to find another island raised beside us?” 

 

He widened his eyes, and a laugh swept through the group in front of him. “We would welcome neighbors, of course, but it is good to be prepared. Would you agree?” 

 

Elros cocked an eyebrow slightly, and thought of how Maglor could make his eyes hard as flint behind a smile. Zhân bit his lip, but the young Hadorian alnerwen beside him boasted a mischievous sort of smile, and Pharâzindil had the look of one presented with a pearl oyster and a knife to open it. He kept smiling, and one by one, everyone nodded. 

 

"Wonderful,” he said. “I will learn so much from you, and I expect that you shall each come home with a tale to last you all your life. Númenor needs such as you.” He clapped his hands, and took a step back, shrinking his shoulders in his tunic. 

 

“Now, where is that second mate of the Murre-Admiral’s who is meant to be seeing you safely stowed with the dried fish and kelp jerky?” 

 

Pharâzindil giggled and pointed over his shoulder. “There, my lord, with the firkin barrel.” 

 

“Very good. Then I suggest you ask them to put you away in the right place, and go with my blessings.” 

 

There was another awkward rush of bowing and salutes, and they gaggled off to, presumably, be stowed or put to work. Elros watched them go, wondering if they would be quite so adolescent when they returned. He did hope so. At that age, he and Elrond had been fighting in orc-skirmishes for years, and their first great journey had been to Gil-Galad’s war camp, alone, unsure of their welcome. These youths might have been born in Beleriand and grown up in the hungry, anxious early years of Númenor, but still, they would have known purpose, sanctuary, and hope. 

 

They would do well, he thought. He looked out into the fray, searching for a sight of Zamîn. 

 

“Do you suborn my crew, Your Majesty?” 

 

The voice drifted out of the dimness above him, and Elros crouched on fighter’s instinct, casting about for its source. 

 

“Here,” it said, and the blue glow of the Fëanorian lamp hanging from the beak of the Nais’ murre figurehead shifted and rose, and there was Aeglosbes, stretched along its back like a great panther. 

 

Asking if she had been here this whole time would not do. Elrond would have heard her lurking there, the damnable Elf. Elros straightened and reached for cool. 

 

“I encourage my subjects to educate themselves.” 

 

Aeglosbes let the lamp crystal swing gently, the cool light casting her round face into shadow, then light, like the changing moon, while the figurehead seemed almost to beat its wings. Elros could not read her expression. 

 

“Much knowledge could they have for the asking,” she said, and her voice was oddly gentle. “My work is trade, is it not?” 

 

“The gifts of Valinor come at a high price,” Elros replied. 

 

Aeglosbes sighed. “Think you that I represent Valinor, my lord? These gifts I have ferried across the sea are not those of the Valar, who believe your island gift enough. Other ships from fair Tirion and the Lonely Isle may have dealings with the Great Singers, but under my command we sail where we please and bring with us what we will.” 

 

Tindómiel’s precious soapstone bird fluttered across his mind’s eye. And what divinity would send recipes for beet tops?

 

Elros reached up and stopped the lamp in its arc. The blueness scintillated through the gaps in his fingers, moonlight through clouds, and lit his hand red. Dawn neared, he noted, almost absently. Without the lamp, the sky was more grey than black. 

 

“Why does Elwing send you?” he asked. 

 

There was a little silence. Aeglosbes looked down at him from the prow, cheek to cheek with the great murre. 

 

“Because I let her,” she said. 

 

“That is no answer.” 

 

“It is a true one. What she asks, I would fain grant her, for she is my sworn lady and has my love besides. What is more, I esteem Númenor and find it noble in its aims. And I think Vardamir and Tindómiel and I would miss each other now were I never to return.” 

 

“That is why you come, not why she sends you.”

 

Aeglosbes sighed again. She released the strap of the lamp and slid off the figurehead, landing in a crouch at Elros’ feet. He looked down at her, still holding the lamp aloft. The light was coming quickly now, and he could begin to discern true colors, the coppery brown of her skin, the dark green of her tunic. It discomfited him, having her crouched like this, and he was grateful when she rose and looked him in the eyes once more.

 

“Because she loves you and misses you and wishes for you to be happy,” she said. “Because when she was queen she had none to aid her, and when her children needed her, she had little aid to give.”

 

Elros’ hand clenched on the lamp. His pulse throbbed in his fingers and pounded in his ears. Elrond came to mind -- a small boy, shivering in the sea cave where they had once held dinner parties with the seabirds Elwing sang out of the sky, telling Elros again that Emig had said to wait for Círdan, just wait, and -- Elros felt he might shatter the very crystal of the lamp in his fist. 

 

“Yet she might have given more,” he gritted out. 

 

“Might she?” 

 

“She might have come herself.” 

 

Aeglosbes gave him an assessing look. “Did she not?” 

 

Elros stood silent. The tide lapped at the harbor wall, and he remembered striking at it with his palms while the pelican bobbed before him. He had begun, almost, to think it had been a dream -- or perhaps he had wished it so. How Mannish of him, to seek forgetfulness. Even so, she had been there; he had looked her in the eyes. 

 

“In a seeming, only,” he said. “She did not speak and she did not touch the Isle. I wondered if it was her in truth. Am I to consider that a visit?”

 

A slanting smile played around Aeglosbes’ lips, eschewing her eyes, and she reached up to pat the figurehead. 

 

“Pelicans are silent,” she said. “The young ones scream like monsters, but it is as if the adults forget how to speak. They are not like gulls, who say their own names, or albatrosses, whose cries wake Ulmo’s people in the mornings. They do not cry, or perhaps they cannot.” 

 

She turned to face her ship fully, and Elros was about to offer a retort when she spoke again, as if to the sea, but loudly enough for him to hear. 

 

“She cannot come. Do you not know? ‘They shall not ever walk again among Elves or Men in the Outer Lands.’” 

 

The sea slapped hard against the Nais’ keel, somehow out of rhythm with the other boats. Aeglosbes’ shoulders jerked, whether in laughter or anger Elros could not see. 

 

“Thus spake Súlimo his Doom!” Aeglosbes said in ringing tones, and the water rose up in a column level with her chest, then plummeted with a great splash and was still. This time, Elros was sure she laughed, but she kept her face to the harbor.

 

“You think he would have had enough of that, by now,” she said, once again the collected, soft-spoken diplomat Elros knew. She turned, the front of her green tunic black with seawater. Gesturing to the place where the wave had fallen, she smiled, and it seemed true this time, if sad. 

 

“Yet she is still beloved, you see?” 

 

Words clotted in Elros’ throat. He shook his head. Aeglosbes’ smile grew, and Elros spared a thought to wonder when he would feel old enough to be immune to the glimmering condescension of Elves. 

 

“Changeful Ossë did not raise your island as a gift to the Valar,” she said, “Nor even for you, child of the seashore, grandchild of Tuor! He raised it at the bidding of his master, who raised up your mother, who raised Valinor from its complacency.” 

 

At once she was serious again. “The gifts of Valinor come at a high price indeed,” she said. “Yet I do not think it is you who paid for this Gift.” 

 

If Elros tried to speak, he felt he might simply spit, or choke, or vomit some ball of words rooted in his throat since Círdan had failed to come soon enough and Elwing had failed to come back. A Doom, again. Had his line not suffered enough of Dooms? 

 

He drew a deep breath, to say he knew not what, and then, all at once, it seemed that the world was bathed in gold. As it did every morning, the Sun crested the Meneltarma in a rush, and the ocean glowed, and the sails of the tall ships blushed into wisps of cloud in the bright dawn.

 

“Ah! Bright Arien, who re-enacts each day the work of her creation!” Aeglosbes sang, and Elros smiled despite himself. For that was Losseth’s prayer which she had written herself, years ago, when Vardamir woke her for milk before dawn almost every day, and she said she needed to find something to be grateful for. Tindómiel’s first word had been a mangling of Arien’s name. 

 

He exhaled, pushing down the tangle of unknown words. The proper response, as Vardamir told him every day, was a gratitude that Manwë had returned his fëa within him, pure. And as he did every day, he kept silent, and simply felt the warmth of the new sun on his face. He reached into his robe, drew out his letter, and handed it to Aeglosbes. 

 

“You may tell her it is from Elros,” he said, “And I prefer my letters to have signatories.” 

 

Then he turned and went to find Zamîn, leaving Aeglosbes and the water behind him.