A Storm Above the Sea by SonOfMandos

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Chapter I

This chapter was written for Matryoshka: Meet & Greet challenge.

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It was not the sea nor his father that humbled Isildur, but the lingering sickness in his stomach. Crouched down on the deck, he held the rope tightly. The ship was rocked by the waves. Isildur could not walk straight. His stomach jolted now and then. Isildur was jealous of his father: emboldened by the adventure, Elendil was a new man.

His throat was tight; Isildur swallowed with difficulty. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing. This travel was a mistake. He felt punished. Had he been made aware of the reality of seafaring, he would have stayed in Númenor. Had he been forced to sail but given the choice whom to travel with, he would have traded places with his brother and travel with his mother.

At the tender age of twenty-one, Isildur held the firm conviction he knew better than everybody else what was right, and most importantly, what was right for him. None of his aspirations, his struggles, his strengths and weaknesses were unknown to him, the same way he questioned society, governance, bad and evil, and the notion of truth.

He challenged the authority of his father whom he believed could not choose his battles. He resented his seeming passivity under Ar-Pharazôn’s regime. Isildur wished for nothing more than to dismantle the system from within. Escaping was not an acceptable solution in his eyes. He held the opinion that Sauron was a piece of propaganda crafted by Pharazôn to submit Númenóreans to fear. Isildur and his family lived far from the royal city. The young man reasoned that if Sauron’s presence were real, he would make appearances on the entirety of the island. Yet he had never met the Maia. Sauron was to him a distant worry built by the power of imagination.

To Isildur, the departure from Númenor was cowardice. He had been heard they travelled to the Falas to meet Círdan, Gil-galad and Elrond. Lies! Isildur had been fed with nought but a bare-faced lie.

As nausea took over him, the young man sat down and pressed his back against the wooden fence. His grip tightened around the rope.

He felt the pressure of a wet cloth on his head.

“If I were you, I’d face the water,” said Elendil. “Better to vomit in the sea than on the deck.”

Isildur grimaced. “I can’t stand up. If I move, I will…” The words died in his mouth. He winced as his stomach turned.

Two strong hands took him by the armpits and lifted him. Quickly, Isildur spun around and bent over the fence. He emptied what was left of his stomach. Elendil handed him an old piece of cloth.

“Blow your nose, wipe your mouth and throw it away when you’re done,” he said.

“I need to wash my mouth first,” Isildur mumbled.

He begrudgingly accepted the leather water bottle Elendil gave him. He spat the moment a salty liquid touched his tongue.

“Saltwater?!” he bellowed.

“Rations. The amount of potable water we drink is monitored. It’s not ideal to use saltwater as mouthwash, but it’s what we have.”

“Bloody Void,” Isildur swore behind his teeth.

Elendil ignored the cussing. “I brought ginger root, peppermint and the bitter root you hate with me. Chewing on those helps.”

Frustration was replaced by a wave of helplessness. Isildur fought the urge to cry.

“Why did you bring me with you? I never wanted to leave,” he croaked.

“I know,” Elendil said simply.

He knew Isildur wanted to be with his mother. Elendil and Nindiel chose not to travel together after a fight broke out between Isildur and Anárion. Nindiel judged it wise that Elendil took Isildur under his wing, for Isildur needed the guidance of his father who was less permissive than his mother (often a subject of disagreement between Elendil and Nindiel). Anárion travelled with his mother on one of the three ships that followed them.

“We will be back,” Elendil reassured his son.

From the scowl Isildur gave him, it was evident he did not believe him.

“If the departure were definitive,” said Elendil, “we would not be two hundred leaving, but thousands. This is a visit to the Falas. We are following the traditional trading route.”

“Will my hair grow back when we return home?” The tremor in Isildur’s voice had the ring of a supplication.

Elendil smiled softly. “Once in Númenor, yes, you will grow it back.”

Shaving his head was mandatory before sailing. Hairlessness was mandatory, with the exception of eyelashes that were not to be removed. To Isildur, his naked skin reflected his prepubescent self. It filled him with shame to have given up the symbol of his manhood. From the bottom of his heart, he knew that the threat of lice was greater than the pride he took in his appearance.

Still, Isildur grieved the loss of his hair. He had kept his mane long to his upper back for years. He had inherited the loose tresses of his mother; his brother had the straight mane of their father.

‘The Veiled Ones’—such was the name the Falathrim designed Númenóreans with. Númenórean sailors were famous among the Sea-Elves for their bald heads they covered with embroidered veils and colourful scarves, fashion they had borrowed from Haradrim mariners centuries ago.

Isildur did not understand why Nindiel insisted on bringing multiple scarves with her. He now knew why.

He did not understand either why his brother suddenly had no hair left, and why he had shoved a razor in his hands. To hear Anárion’s amused giggles persuaded Isildur that he was pranked. The goak went further when Elendil appeared behind his youngest son, as smooth as marble.

The point of no return was reached when Isildur realised it was not trickery and he took the razor.

The oscillation of the ship brought the young man back to the present. The wind, slightly stronger, brushed his sweaty temples.

“Chew this,” Elendil intimated him. “It helps to combat seasickness. You may feel a bit tired in an hour or so. Don’t be taken by surprise; it’s your least favourite root.”

Isildur obeyed.

As predicted, the root Elendil had given him was infect. Unbearably so. He winced. Between a bitter root and seasickness, he had no choice. The foul taste already distracted him from his lingering nausea. He was too focused on eating his medicine to notice his father had gone stiff.

“It’s never done that before,” mumbled Elendil to himself.

“Never done what?”

Elendil jerked his head toward the horizon. Faraway but black and menacing clouds formed a thin line in the sky.

“I’ve never seen clouds this dark,” he explained. He added, muttering to himself: “I offered her my ring.”

Isildur narrowed his eyes. “To whom?”

Elendil blinked. “Ah. An offering to Uinen.” He shook his head. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. The ship crew knows what to do in case of a storm.”

Isildur glanced around him and saw that many people had gathered on the deck to observe the curious amalgamation of clouds. He hoped the sky would not send him to his doom.

***

Silence fell on the city. Dim clouds covered the sky. An opaque veil masked all sources of light. The air was heavy. Birds and insects had flown away to hide. In the distance, a dog barked.

Tar-Míriel and her friends gathered their things from her balcony. Her maids rushed to help.

“Don’t forget to close the shutters,” Tar-Míriel said to no one in particular.

“I don’t like that,” said Gaeriel, Tar-Míriel’s confidante.

“Me neither,” agreed Faelben, another woman. She wiped the sweat above her upper lip with her knuckles. “It has gotten humid all of a sudden.”

“We still have some time before the wind rises,” added Gaeriel.

“But not too much. Hurry up inside,” ordered Tar-Míriel. “The shutters! Don’t forget the shutters!”

She ran to every window. Gaeriel and Faelben trotted behind.

“Storms are exciting, don’t you think?” asked Faelben.

“Not this one,” replied Tar-Míriel dryly.

Gaeriel contented herself with a shrug.

“I have to find my husband. You,” Tar-Míriel pointed a finger at her friends, “make sure the floor is secure.”

The queen pushed her silver wristbands higher on her forearms, tightened the tie of her burgundy scarf around her shoulders, and exited the room.

She found Ar-Pharazôn in his library. He was partially hidden behind a pile of books, old scrolls, candles and incense smoke. He wore a large tunic with geometrical patterns and warm colours. His sandals were simple and tied around his ankles. A simple circlet with sapphire stones orned his head.

Ar-Pharazôn was not alone.

Sauron was above acknowledging the queen as custom dictated. He greeted her with nothing but a curt nod. Tar-Míriel did not return it. The Maia sneered and walked to the nearest window. The queen followed him.

“It is no normal storm,” declared Tar-Míriel.

The voice had not the lightness of a question; it bore the weight of one who knew. Sauron considered her.

Ar-Pharazôn, oblivious to the gravity of the situation, scribbled in a bound book. Earlier, he had only commented it was dark all of a sudden. He failed to see the threat of such gloomy weather.

Tar-Míriel stepped forward. “It is not your doing.”

Sauron crossed his arms. “Indeed, it is not.”

“Then, whose is it?”

The Maia scowled. He apprehended the worst. “I don’t know,” he confessed.

“I can confirm he doesn’t,” commented Ar-Pharazôn. “He’s been staring at the sky since the moment clouds showed up.”

Tar-Míriel put her hands on her hips. “Whose doing is it, then? The sea? It cannot be. The sea is our friend.”

Sauron’s mouth twitched with irritation. He doubted Ulmo conjured this shadow. He suspected it was Ossë’s desire to taunt him.

The heaviness of the air and the absence of wind concerned him.

“I can see you are not to blame,” said Tar-Míriel. Her arms fell on her sides. “I will make sure that all windows are secure,” she repeated for the umpteenth time.

On her way back to her quarters, she was intercepted by one of her maids. According to her domestic, a strange lady was left unattended in the garden.

Tar-Míriel found a young woman picking flowers. Gaeriel and Faelben stood in the doorway, watching her.

“It’s dangerous,” Tar-Míriel addressed the stranger. “Come inside! The rain will pour at any moment.”

The woman jerked her head up and grinned. She wore a long linen dress; she kept her curly hair loose around her waist; foreign hieroglyphs were tattooed on her arms; she had at least two golden rings per finger. She tiptoed her way inside with grace. Her hair was auburn with a red undertone, her eyes shone like ambers, and her skin had the colour of pale copper. Her appearance contrasted with Númenorean dark hair and olive skin. Her nose was straight and lacked the aquiline character of Númenóreans. She was of Haradrim ancestry, Tar-Míriel thought.

Curiously, the woman’s naked feet left faint prints on the flagstones. The queen noticed a palm tree leaf was tucked under the stranger’s belt.

“What is your name, and what were you doing in my yard?” inquired Tar-Míriel.

“I’m Uzilāwiya. I was summoned here,” smiled the young lady. She pointed at Faelben, “She wanted me here.”

“Me? No!” protested the suspected one. “I don’t know you!”

Uzilāwiya tilted her head. “Oh no? I heard you say you wished to consult a fortune teller.”

“I may have done that, yes,” mumbled Faelben. She blushed under Tar-Míriel’s and Gaeriel’s scrutinising gaze.

“One coin and I will predict one thing about the weather.” Uzilāwiya tapped the pouch that hung on her hip with a hand and pointed at the sky with the other.

Gaeriel frowned, “You are very sure of yourself.”

“Yes. I talk to the rain,” Uzilāwiya’s grin widened.

Gaeriel rolled her eyes, yet she slid a hand under a dress to retrieve a small case.

“Genius,” Faelben breathed out. “I, too, should keep my pouch under my boobs.”

Gaeriel glared. “It’s held by a cloth, not by my breasts.”

Tar-Míriel shook her head.

Uzilāwiya held an expectant hand.

“Tell us,” said Gaeriel after she tossed a coin to the Haradrim, “when will the storm start?”

“When would you like me to?”

“Pardon me?”

“I said,” repeated Uzilāwiya, “when would you like me to awaken the storm?”

Gaeriel blinked. “Later. Tonight? I don’t know. Rain would be nice. I don’t know. It’s humid, and I have enough of these dim clouds,” she stammered. “Wait—people can’t control the weather. What am I talking about?”

Uzilāwiya bowed her head. “Understood. I’ll see what I can do.”

***

Rain poured but the storm never came. Winds howled. In her bedroom, from under her sheets, Tar-Míriel listened to the clatter of the tempest.

Ar-Pharazôn stormed in her room. Annoyed, Tar-Míriel closed her eyes. They had agreed to sleep separately. She did not want him near at nighttime nor see him.

“A lone girl is roaming in the corridors,” he exclaimed. “A girl with a palm tree leaf. She said you left her in. I don’t remember agreeing to take stray people in.”

Tar-Míriel rolled to her side. Her back faced her husband. “She’s a fortune teller. I sheltered her. She’s harmless.”

Ar-Pharazôn grunted but said no more.

***

Humming, Uzilāwiya explored the palace. She went from room to room she found the bathing room. The bath, a large rectangle dug into the stone floor, was empty. She wiggled her fingers, and the bath was filled with steamy water. The woman undressed, tied her hair on the top of her head, wrapped it in a scarf, and entered the water.

Rain poured harder and crashed against the small bathroom windows. It was a delight to her ears.

The door creaked and closed with a deep thud sound. A tall and slim figure entered the bathroom. Spheres of light emerged from his raised palm and floated in the room. Not noticing Uzilāwiya’s presence, the figure motioned to hang his towel on a hook but dropped it. He picked it up and frowned; some parts were strangely wet. He had made sure to take a clean towel. His eyes scanned the room. He froze when he realised someone was in the bathtub.

Uzilāwiya, unfazed, hold his gaze.

“You’re bathing,” Sauron stated the obvious.

The Haradrim remained still.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be here,” continued Sauron. “It’s indecent, or so they say.”

Uzilāwiya pursed her lips.

Sauron shook his head at the awkwardness of the situation. Without a word, he left the room.

Alone, Uzilāwiya observed the reflection of the floating lights he had conjured. To look at water was to look at the world through a mirror. With the tip of a finger, she troubled the still water of the bath. Darkness and light crashed together. The bulbs buzzed softly above her head.

The woman untied her scarf, let it float on the water, and immersed herself completely. She had been walking in the air for too long and missed being in her element.

The interaction with Sauron looped in her head.

“Ošošai wasn’t lying. He’s here.”

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Chapter End Notes

1st prompt: 'It's never done that before'

2nd prompt (Zdenka's): 'Look into a mirror'