The Last Temptation (Rewritten, Again) by Fireworks

<I>"Yet such was the cunning of his mind and mouth, and the strength of his hidden will, that ere three years had passed he had become closest to the secret counsels of the King; for flattery sweet as honey was ever on his tongue, and knowledge he had of many things yet unrevealed to Men." (Akâllabeth, The Silmarillion)

“Destiny is no matter of chance. It is a matter of choice: It is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved.”
-William Jennings Bryan</I>

His earliest memory was of walking on wet sand, and slipping. He remembered the muddy earth yielding under his bare feet, the prickly shells he stepped on as he went along the shore, the salty smell of the sea, his mother's singing. He had been chasing gulls, Isildur told him, because they had been a royal nuisance all through their picnic and kept wanting to eat his shrimp. Their mother had a different recollection. Her tale was of how Arien had bent over the earth one last time for a glimpse of the little boy who shared her name, while he whispered messages to the gulls to carry upwards to her. The way his father told it, that afternoon had been the beginning of his fascination with knowledge--watching the gulls swoop down into the water for fish, his eyes would follow the flight up and down. For his part, Anárion liked his grandfather's tale the best. Amandil remembered having told him the story of the unquiet of Ülmo that settles on the Elves when they hear the cry of his messengers, the gulls.

"I swear," Amandil would tell him, "you tried everything you knew to do to spook the gulls away so you could hear their squawking." Anárion clearly remembered his grandfather's keen eyes on his, could almost feel the weight of that measuring stare when his grandfather asked him, "I wonder... Why?"

But Anárion could remember no more.

His pragmatic side felt almost horrified that an Elf could be so grief-stricken by such an ordinary thing. The gull's call was hardly melodious, and seagulls themselves were no more than sanitation engineers with wings, at best; at worst, scavengers. Watching them now, as they pecked and ate at the litter around the port, he could have wondered how many Elves had actually seen gulls in action before the yearning overtook them; except that, this time, he was particularly struck by the high-pitched, mournful quality of the sound. The more he listened to it, the more it seemed to him like an echo--maybe a whisper from the past, maybe a warning of things to come--and it troubled him.

One more thing he found strange was that the gulls here in Rómenna could not be found elsewhere on the island. That small, fascinating fact had tantalized his imagination as a boy. Now, it bothered him enough that on days when things got difficult he could not work at the shipyards for the incessant squawking, and had to leave. Instead of taking control of their own lives, those gulls were content to live on litter day after day, calling their ill omens on half the city's population, who all made their lives out of the port.

Anárion grunted, and raked hands through his hair. He had heard the Foam Princess' horn nigh on three quarters of an hour ago, and still Isildur had been unable to dock for the high traffic. Even his contacts at the port had only been able to do so much to help him and thus the Princess stood, still fifth in line, waiting for clearance. Crowds had always made him uneasy, but there was something macabre about such a sizable audience turning up to receive-- nay, to welcome-- someone whose mere name had conjured visions of terror just a few years earlier. Add to that the King's decision to celebrate the High Feasts away from Armenelos, and you got even the stoutest númenórean firmly on his guard. When he had heard of the King's intent, he had not been entirely surprised. Pharazôn loved nothing better than power, and the last few years had taught him that an important part of keeping power was keeping everyone on their toes. At first, Anárion had seen the move as yet another opportunity to display his might, but as the days went by and he had more time to think on it a darker possibility had occurred. By the time he heard that his family was coming from Andúnië to attend the festival, he could not withstand the tension anymore and had taken his boat out of exile to attempt to relieve the anxiety, and had paid dearly for it. He loved them all more than anything in this world, but he knew that being around them would be a bit of a trial, and he was not ready to deal with Isildur yet. He had lied to them all, but hardest of all was to look his brother in the face and lie to him, knowing that Isildur knew him for a what he was.

He had not allowed himself to think too much of how things would play out with his brother around, but now that he was faced with the inevitable, he felt as if he were an old rag being wrung out. Why he was such an open book where Isildur was concerned, he could not begin to fathom, but for his brother's own safety he needed to keep his secrets where they belonged. He had made that choice a long time ago and he held to it, hard as it was. Not one of them knew what he did, or why he never came home. Sometimes, he wondered himself about his true reasons, but the course had been set and it was too late to turn back.

He waited a full hour, and seeing as though only two ships from the line had managed to make it to port, he resolved to walk the length of the dock and back to release some of his fretfulness, lest Isildur mark it and press him for explanations. He had not made it to the next pier when he was hailed by a boy of about twelve or thirteen who tugged at his sleeve with the force of a boy much older.

"A silver eagle t'spare, lord," came the boy's sing-song voice from beside him, and he was not ungrateful for the interruption. "A silver eagle, sir's all I's missin'."

At first, Anárion could not quite follow, but when the boy dangled his tack and pole in front of him, he understood that the boy was looking for money to pay the fishing tax.

"Are you hungry?" Anárion asked, the first thing that came to mind, but soon regretted it when the boy looked away with a swat at his face to try and wipe some of the dirt there. "What were you fishing?" he tried, instead, hoping that would ease the sting of wounded pride.

"What'er we can find. Them big ships is scarin' the fish."

He nodded at that and attempted a small smile, though judging from the boy's nonplussed expression he had not been very successful at dispelling the gloom.

"Aye," he agreed, looking behind and ahead, trying to spot the end of the lines, without success. "It will be hard to find anything here, no matter what you use for bait. Have you tried going to the Lord Arnubên's docks? Or the student shipyards?"

The boy laughed at that, loud enough that he attracted the attention of a few passerby.

"If I's missin' money for the public tax, what'ya think I h've to pay for private docks?"

Anárion nodded again. "What do you have there?" he asked, a nod to the jar the boy held in his other hand, though fully aware it had to be his bait. At that, the boy grinned and pulled out a particularly plump worm.

"We cau't this at t'square, afore the guards got ev'rybody out. See how juicy?" he asked, then proceeding to squeeze his victim just slightly to demonstrate. "I'd 'oped this would fetch me a snapper." He then proceeded to place the specimen on the back of Anárion's hand as he retrieved another 'juicy' fellow. The boy went on at length for some ten minutes, making Anárion handle each of the worms in his collection, who sounded more and more like they were pets instead of subordinates, explaining how the four or five fish with which he was familiar took bait. Anárion could only half-listen to all of this, hoping he was nodding and smiling and interjecting at the appropriate times, for what was really on his mind was whether it would cripple this child too badly if he simply bought him the food. For just one meal of his life, one worry-less meal... would that make him die a little inside? When the last worm had been returned to the can, the dark eyes looked into his again, waiting.

Anárion tried to smile, though this conversation had left him sadder than he had been in a long time, and let himself ruffle the boy's hair-- thirteen was too old for hugs.

"What is your name?" he asked, kneeling so he could look fully into the boy's face.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours, sir!"

"Fair enough," he said, wondering if the boy was mistrustful or simply trying to act older. "I am Anárion." He extended his hand and waited for the boy to shake it. At first, the response was tentative, but a little grin broke out on the boy's face after a while.

"I am Arannér. Ple'sed to meet ya'!"

"The pleasure is all mine," Anárion said. Emptying his pocket, he took out four gold crowns which he placed inside the boy's outstretched palm, with the warning, "This could buy you food for a week, maybe two, if you bought from stalls and stayed close to the port where there are many clustered together. If you exchanged them for silver sailors, you could use two sailors a day and be well fed. But, if you are smart, you would use them to pay your tax. With four crowns, you could pay fishing tax every day for a month, maybe some three weeks in the private docks. Now, think about it: one week of food, or a whole month's worth of tax money for fishing your own. Use it wisely."

The boy was so stunned that he could not decide whether to talk or to cry, but in the end he squeezed the coins within his palm and with a heartfelt, "Aye, aye! May th'sea be kind to y'a, m'good lord!" began to run away. Before he knew exactly what was happening, Anárion had called him back.

"I am sometimes in need of an errand boy, if you are ever in need of work," he said. "In the student shipyards. If you look for the most unfinished ship of all, you'll find me."

The boy stood gaping at him for a moment, before he nodded and ran off, quickly getting lost in the crowd. For his part, Anárion stood staring at the now-empty spot the boy had occupied for a long time, wondering where this boy would be in a week, a month, a year. What would become of all of those orphans, widows, and all those grieving people who kept losing their loved-ones to diseases no one had even heard of before? It was at times like these that all his sacrifices seemed petty and utterly inconsequential, and he asked himself whether he was not just another hypocrite.

The sounds of Foam Princess' horn broke through his thoughts, and when he looked for her, he realized that she was next in line. He was able to distinguish Isildur now, standing regally out from among the rest of his men as he moved about with utter confidence to perform the docking maneuver. It never failed to impress him just how perfect Isildur was, how lucky he had always felt to have such a brother. He was not particularly clear how he would get through the next few days with him at his heel without utterly compromising the secrets he had kept for the past four years, but was he happy to see his brother! From the beginning, he had known that if he wished to keep his family safe, they could never find out exactly what he did, and it was a price he had been willing to pay. That was then. The truth was that he had not really been able to help as many people as needed helping, and he had begun to doubt his methods. He was so tired and discouraged that the happiest moment of his day came with the oblivion of sleep.

"Ahoy!" he heard the familiar voice that never failed to summon a smile to his lips. "Ahoy, brother! Care to pay a visit to the old lady?"

The familiar wave of homesickness enveloped him in its unpleasant clutches, and he shook his head.

"It's all right, Anárion," Isildur said. "No one need know--"

"It does not make much sense for me to jump on board and disrupt your crew," he said, more forcefully than he had intended, and added, "I'll come back again when we are not so pressed for time."

Gratefully, Isildur said nothing more, but Anárion could tell he had not liked what he had heard. He withdrew from starboard and from him until the docking was accomplished, and stayed behind afterwards for what seemed like an unnecessary long time to complete tasks that could have been given to his first mate. Anárion ran his hands through his hair, splayed his fingers once, twice, then forced himself not to pace until his brother was done and in front of him on the pier.

The stare he gave him then was hard, annoyed, and Anárion bit his tongue to keep from saying what was really on his mind. He loved Isildur with all his heart, despite his brother's propensity to dismiss any thoughts and opinions that did not agree with his. This time, however, as he looked into Isildur's eyes, he saw concern there, and wondered if the irritation he saw there stemmed from frustration instead of disapproval.

"It's been a long time, brother," Isildur finally said.

"You were here for the races back in April."

"I meant since your... Accident. Surely you are ready to join a crew and sail again."

"They have been very busy at the docks, as you can see," he said, turning around to begin the walk back to the house, but Isildur grabbed him by the shoulder and held him fast.

"Everybody knows you are the smartest, bravest man around," he whispered in his ear. "Let go of any embarrassment and just live your life."

"I am," he said, feeling his lips stretch into a smile that Isildur immediately recognized as false. His brother squeezed tighter.

"Not when you stay away from boats you are not building and act like an imbecile."

Anárion's chin lifted at that, but he bit his lip again. He had contemplated the wisdom of fighting with Isildur to keep him away, but whenever he was actually faced with the task he could not make himself go through with it. Experience had taught him to keep his anger and tongue in check when his emotions were running high, and instead of confronting his brother he looked away. As Isildur would not budge, Anárion finally said, still not looking at him. "I took the old skiff out into the bay the other day."

Isildur squeezed even tighter at that but, in the next moment, he had enveloped him in a hug so warm, so full of the old days, that it hurt.

"It's a start," Isildur whispered in a bit of a strangled voice that made Anárion forget all restraint and clutch back at him for dear life.

"I have missed you, brother," Isildur said, unusually quiet. His embrace seemed more raw and urgent than usual, and it took Anárion by surprise. For a fleeting moment of abandon, Anárion held on tightly, almost desperately. He was sure Isildur must have noticed, and fought hard to regain his control.

The moments that followed were a little awkward for him, but Isildur ruffled his hair like he always did and said, with the first smile he had shown him since arriving, "I'm touched you made it. You must love me a great deal to have braved this crowd just to see me."

"Nonsense," Anárion said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I thoroughly <i>love</i> wild, smelly, sweaty crowds. Don't you remember?"

"No, I actually remember you as a scholarly recluse, a hermit, a socially-impaired--"

"Enough, I get the gist. I actually came to ensure that you do not get sidetracked on your way to Grandmother's; there's much to claim one's interest around these days and you, gregarious man that you are, are sure to run into someone or other who would command your attention away from home and hearth."

"Is that what she said?" Isildur's dismay was so plainly written on every line of his face that Anárion had to laugh.

"Nay," Anárion said, then added, "Some things don't have to be said to be known."

Isildur jabbed him on the rib and proceeded to pull him along the dock, toward the throng of people. "Things have certainly improved since the last time I was here," he said with a grimace.

"More excitement, you mean?"

"Tell me about it! The air itself is positively tingling with anticipation," Isildur said, as he rubbed his hands in a conspiratorial gesture. "Where to, first?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, didn't you just say there was so much to see?"

"I said there was a lot to see, not that we would be seeing it. Grandmother would not take it too kindly if I keep you away from all the delights she's cooked up for you."

"Delights!" Isildur cried, rubbing hands in such a comical way that they both had to laugh. "What are we waiting for? Though we may have to stop briefly at Yazdôr's, I've been craving his frog legs for months."

"What about Zîmrazîr?"

There was something about the way Isildur's face tightened that twisted a knot in Anárion's stomach.

"Zîmrazîr is gone."

"Gone?" Anárion asked, halting mid-step right at the foot of the staircase that led to the street above them. "What do you mean <I>gone</I>? Zîmrazîr's family has had a food stall at the market in Andúnië for as long as they have lived on the island."

"There can only be one meaning to <I>gone</I>, Anárion," Isildur mumbled, pulling him along once again.

"I hope you don't mean that. How long ago?"

"Some two months, at most?"

"How is it I heard none of it?" Anárion muttered to himself, but his brother heard him and regarded him with a very curious expression.

"This is not the kind of thing one puts down on a letter, brother."

He was, of course, right and though that had not been, precisely, what had been on Anárion's mind, he let that go. Reaching for his brother's forearm so that they would not be separated by the crowd, he steered him to make a sharp turn away from Mariner's Row, to which Isildur offered slight resistance.

"I thought we were going to your house first," Isildur said, eyebrows raised, but nonetheless following.

"My food is all in the garden," Anárion confessed. "With all the work I've had at the docks, I've not had time to gather nor cook--"

"Gather or cook? Whatever happened to Meldiron and his fa-- Surely not them, too?"

Anárion shook his head, "Not here, Isildur. Let's just go back to Grandmother's."

But Isildur held fast, "Are they... By the cliffs of the Forostar, Anárion! I know what they meant to you--"

"Isildur," he said, gripping his brother's wrist, eyes bent on him in an expression that he hoped conveyed hope but warning also. "I am all right. Not here, please." Then he let go and Isildur did not press him further. He said, "Let us go and get those frog legs you wanted."

They walked for a while in silence until they arrived at Yâzdor's booth. Anárion got them each a couple of legs and wine, and stood to the side as he watched Isildur manage to flirt with Yâzdor's granddaughter while taking a mouthful that effectively halved his piece.

"Are you still thinking of that boy at the docks?"

"You saw that?" Anárion asked, almost choking on his wine. Isildur slapped him on the back a few times, more forcefully than was necessary, but by the time his brother was done Anárion could not hide his lack of appetite.

"I know you well," Isildur said, taking his frog legs from him. "Is this happening much here in Rómenna?"

"Is it not in Andúnië?"

Isildur shrugged his shoulders, looked around them, took another mouthful. "Atarinya Amandil has implemented many programs to stave off hardship, at least for a while: trade schools, orphanages, food banks, things like that. But the truth is there just aren't all that many people wanting to live in Andúnië anymore, though they won't say it to your face."

"There isn't a richer region in Elenna, not even Armenelos itself."

"Oh, come now, Anárion, you well know why. Our moral compass points a different way. It makes people uncomfortable."

He bit the inside of his cheek and looked away to hide it. He hated to talk about their downfall, though he doubted there were many people on the island as well-versed about what was happening all around them.

"Has it been as much a nightmare for you all," Anárion asked, lowering his voice, "as it has been for us here?"

Another meaningful snort from his brother, and they both fell silent. Some topics were best left to be discussed behind closed doors instead of at a market teeming with royalists.

They walked together some way, which was a feat by all accounts. The streets were crowded to the point that they could not take more than a couple of steps at a time without having to stop. Isildur seemed to think it amusing, but Anárion found it dangerous by all accounts.

"I've figured it out," Isildur said, after a while. "Why Rómenna seems infinitely worse in the charitable department: Every soul in Númenor has got to be here today, and heat and crowds tend to make one ill-humored. Are all these people come to see the King-- or This man... Zigûr?"

"Hush!" Anárion snapped. "You have to watch your mouth, Isildur, this is not what you're used to, and neither your good humor, nor your parentage would do much to endear you to the people here. Civility, politeness, compassion... They've largely deserted the streets. Should anyone so much as think your loyalties are not where they should be, they feel justified in gutting you right then."

Isildur frowned. "And you came to live here by choice?"

"There was no other choice for me."

"Wasn't there, I wonder? Anyway, have you seen him?"

"Seen who?"

"Well, this King from Middle-earth."

"Is that why you are here two days early? To catch a glimpse of him?"

"Isn't everyone?"

"I have no way to give you any answers, I don't move in those circles." Isildur's raised eyebrow told him that his brother had seen right through his lie. "Well, sometimes I do, but not in Armenelos, and Zigûr has never been in this part of the island before."

"Or so you think..."

"He has not."

That curious look was back on Isildur's face, and he realized he had blundered. Hoping to divert his brother's attention, he said, "The King will quite make up for all the time lost in bringing him. I hear this promises to be quite the eventful visit."

"Indeed? How so? Those are exactly the sort of scandalous details I was hoping you would provide me with."

"Why so interested?" Anárion asked, stopping mid-stride. "You are not thinking of joining those who admire him, are you?"

"I know better than to trust a known enemy, Anárion. Or unknown, as the case may be. Which is why I am so curious to see this one. For all his bluster, Pharazôn seems rather... It seems curious that he would let this stranger in in such a way."

"No news there, but I think the danger for us all is the worst it's ever been. There is something dark about that man that fills me with foreboding."

"So you have seen him," said Isildur, as he let himself be steered anew along the market's cobbled streets. "What is he like? Come now, Anárion: details!"

He bit the inside of his cheek, an annoying habit, but he could not help it when feeling frustrated or pressured. "Tall, dark, charming, handsome... Elf-like. It would be too hard to describe him to you without making him sound fantastical, so you will have to wait and see for your--"

But, as he turned around sharply to swerve at the last minute and avoid overturning a glass-maker and his wares, he soundly collided against something that spoke to him.

"Describe who?" was the question he heard.

A familiar grin met him head on, but it was his brother who reacted first.

"Emeldil!" cried Isildur, in time that he clasped the other in a brotherly embrace. "It's been so long, my friend, how fare you and yours?"

"As well as one can, nowadays. Anárion told us you would come earlier. Why the rush? It can only be a matter of women."

"You are sadly wrong, Emeldil," Anárion turned to say, arms still clasped in a brotherly salute with Eranion, Emeldil's younger brother, and the youngest son of their father's late friend, Erador. "I'm afraid Isildur has other <i>interests</i> in mind."

"Don't we all? Look at this throng here, and tell me that there isn't but one thing on their minds."

"Sad, but true," Eranion said, while greeting Isildur in turn. "I see the attraction, but I can't understand it. I'd stay as far away from him as I could. Snakes lure one in closer before they strike."

"Is it as bad as that?" Isildur asked.

"I've no intention of finding out, I've got too many other things to worry about as it is."

"<i>That,</i>" Isildur said, saucy smile in place, "can only be a matter of women."

"How I wish!" cried Emeldil, heaving a loud, dramatic sigh. "Although there is some of that in there-- one can never fully stop worrying over Wen for all that she is fully grown, and all."

"Especially now that she is fully grown," said Eranion, frustration and fondness equally apparent on his tone. "She becomes more opinionated by the day, and it's hard to keep her out of trouble now that you have both her wit and dowry to throw into the mix."

"And beauty," said Isildur, who flicked a quick glance his way, as did Eranion. That annoyed him more than he could explain. "I saw her in Andúnië some weeks ago. She has become uncommonly beautiful and interesting, at a time when both women and men are slipping into coarseness and despair. Her particular brand of vivaciousness and gentleness should be quite appealing."

"But we live in perilous times, and one cannot be too careful who one lets into one's life," Eranion said.

"What do you mean by that?" Isildur asked.

Eranion looked around them, tried a smile that he did not quite manage, and that gesture alone put Anárion on high alert. "I am merely saying that everything--everyone is not as they seem, and I have much to contend with without having to worry about Elenwë's suitors, or her charitable endeavors, or the societies she wants to run--"

"Why should that cause you worry?" Isildur asked, turning to look at Anárion briefly before going on. "Elenwë has a good head on her shoulders; she is not likely to make a mismatch, or to put herself in any real danger."

"You be the judge," Eranion said, with a minute shrug of his shoulders. "Here we are, a day before the most-anticipated event of our generation, waiting for her in the middle of the most unsafe place in the city, all because she had to pick up her order from the seamstress herself. No servant we suggested could be risked to try the job. Not even my offer to come in her place could sway her. She just had to do it."

"Or so she told you..." Anárion found himself saying, equal parts annoyed and intrigued, but Eranion and Emeldil both glared at him and made him regret the comment. "Well, you know she is more stubborn than all three of you put together--"

"Which is why we are here, as you can well see," said Emeldil, swatting at an imaginary fly. "We were not about to let her go out into the streets on her own, today of all days."

Isildur tsked at them and shook his head. "I think all three of you are missing a very important point. Blinded by your feelings, as you are, you make her sound immature and inconsiderate, but the truth is that Elenwë would not deliberately endanger herself, or any of you, on a mere whim."

"Don't defend her, Isildur," said Emeldil, eyes narrowed. "I can think of many things I would rather be doing right now that would make me a little happier than being trapped here waiting for her."

"I dare say this is better than any of your other choices," Isildur joked, and it was tempting to join in his laughter, but a disturbance to his left caught Anárion's attention. There was loud arguing that he could not understand at first, but after a few moments it became clear that a woman was screaming. She was inside one of the buildings, so the sounds were muffled, but a crowd had gathered outside the store and they had began to argue also. Another voice broke through the ruckus and what Anárion heard made his heart stop.

"What on earth--" Emeldil tried to say, but Anárion hushed him, left their group to get to the building, heart pounding all along as he contemplated the implications of what he had just heard.

"I beg your pardon," came that voice again, "but we will just be on our way." Light, but he would recognize that voice anywhere, far off as it was coming to him! Torn between dread at what he would find when he crossed the threshold, and what would happen if he failed to do so, he stopped for a quick breath before pushing his way through the crowd. People shoved and pulled him, some clutched at his shirt, some called him names, but he made it through the door in time to see Elenwë struggling to shake off the man who held her by the wrists.

"Let go of the lady," he said, as evenly as he could while Elenwë's eyes were fixed on his, wide and unblinking, and a kind of fear he had never known before threatened to overtake him.The whole company fell silent, all other sounds hushed. He could feel all eyes on him, but his were fixed on Elenwë ahead of him, silently bidding her to be strong.

When nothing happened, he took another step inside and said, more forcefully, "I am not looking for trouble with anyone here, but there will be if you do not let go of her right now."

"Who are you?" One of the men asked.

"What does it matter? All you need to know is that you do not want to fight me, and you do not want to make me fight you." Another step in. "Release her, or I swear to you by the Great City that you will have great cause to regret your poor choice."

There must have been something compelling in his demeanor because the man went ashen white and let go, retreating a few paces, palms raised. Elenwë took a couple of tentative steps in his direction, but another scream rent the air and she quickly turned away. Anárion could not, immediately, find the cause of the disturbance. A cacophony followed where threats were called, more screams followed, and the sound of broken glass began to fill the air. Two men lunged toward him; one of them got a broken jaw, but the other one managed to hold on to Anárion's right arm. He had not wanted to do it but, in a deft motion born of years of practice, he pulled the blade he kept strapped to his belt and with his left hand sliced on the palm side of the man's wrist.

"What's going on?" he heard Eranion call, beside him, but he did not have time to explain. It was hard to find Elenwë in the melee; somehow the thought had entered his mind that that man had been about to take her away, and the idea was doing strange things to his composure. "What's going on?" Eranion called again.

He had to dodge a vase that had been hurled at him before he could say, "Find your sister and let's get out of here."

Another scream, and his heart stopped again. Where was she?

"Lassilenwë," he heard her cry, somewhere to his left, "you have to give it up and let go!"

"I came here for an answer, and I am getting one!"

"Lassilenwë, I am begging you to--" but something had silenced Elenwë and he still had not reached her. He reached the other girl, however, this Lassilenwë, and grabbed her from where she clutched at an elderly woman who sat on a cot in the back of the room. She struggled against his hold, screamed, hit his chest with her fists, and he did his best to drag her away while still scanning the room for Elenwë. From a corner of his vision, he saw Emeldil approach.

"Take this girl outside," he said, handing Lassilenwë to him, "and get as far away from here as you can."

"I'm here for Wen!" Emeldil cried, and would not hold on to Lassilenwë, who had not ceased her struggle to break free.

"Take her!" Anárion cried once more. "Elenwë is not leaving without this girl. I will get your sister, now go!"

He did not stop to see if he had been obeyed, but quickly realized that somebody had shoved Elenwë against a cupboard and was frantically shaking her. An odd fury came over him, and he grabbed hold of the man by his shirt, shoved him against the wall and went forcefully at his neck, his other hand pressing against his eyeballs. As his opponent crumpled to the floor, Anárion took hold of Elenwë's forearm and began walking away, outside. More people flocked in, clusters of fights broke out everywhere around them, and it seemed that they had been forgotten for a moment in the confusion.

"Lassilenwë!" she cried, trying to break free, but he clutched tighter, glared at her.

"Emeldil has her, and you and I are getting out of here, now!"

He had to fight his way to the door and out of the room with Elenwë in tow, but she was fierce when roused and somehow managed not only to keep the pace, but to fight off whoever approached them from her side. She kicked and elbowed, and he thought she may have even bitten somebody. When they finally emerged into the street, there was a big commotion outside the market. He knew it was only a matter of time before the King's guards arrived, and he planned to be far away when that happened. He looked around, trying to determine which way to go, when he heard the most blessed sound.

"Here!" he heard Isildur call. His brother had climbed onto a roof a couple of doors further up the street, and he tugged at Elenwë to follow him there.

"Where is she?" she asked, stalling, struggling. "I cannot leave without her--they'll kill her if I do!"

"They'l kill us if we go back there," he said. "Emeldil had her, she'll be fine."

"Do you not think she can give Mel the slip and run away?"

"And what if she did?" He barked back at her. "She's a grown woman and deserves the prerogative of having her own choice."

"I will not stand by while they butcher her--"

"Oh, for the light of Eléntari's stars, just move forward," he said, and had to watch her blanch at that. She gripped his arms, clutched hard.

"Never say that again," she said, and was right, but he had been unable to control himself. Her stubbornness and the exasperating nature of her personality were just two of the reasons why he should not try to get close to her, but there were more reasons. Knowing all that, he could not understand why she roused such powerful instincts in him.

He took a deep breath to try to find good words to reason with her, but by then Isildur stood beside them and urged them to move forward, away. Very few times had he been more grateful for any intervention. Elenwë, of course, let go of him to attempt her plea on Isildur.

"She is stubborn, and... and she is single-minded, and she thinks these people can help her, and she won't leave until she gets what she wants out of them, and they have no compassion--they will kill her for trying to pry, and I can't allow that, Isildur! Please! Please," she said, now clutching at Isilsur's hands, "you have to help me find her."

"Listen to me," Anárion said, leaning so he could talk into her ear, "I will pick you up myself and carry you off if you do not start moving away from here right now."

The fight was beginning to spill out and they would be in the middle of it soon; he had to get her out, and he would do whatever it took to do it. Isildur's eyes widened on him, and Elenwë was so astounded at his manner that was rendered momentarily speechless, but she still did not walk on. Anárion growled and was moving to lift her, when he felt Isildur's restraining hand on his shoulder.

"I will go get the girl. You get Elenwë to safety," he said. Elenwë took a step back to put distance between them, and Anárion growled again.

"<I>I</I> will go back and get the girl! I cannot stand being one more moment next to her," he said, pointing, "she won't listen to anything I say!" and he turned around to return the way he had come. He had not gone far when someone grabbed him by the shirt collar and pulled him backwards.

"Where are you going, you idiot?"

Anárion had raised his fist to attack, but years of training had made his reflexes sharp and he was able to correct himself before throwing a square hit at Eranion's nose.

"The girl," Anárion said. "I'm going to get the girl."

"Emeldil has the girl, but not for much longer if we don't hurry back. She is doing all she can to get back to that fracas."

"Not if I can stop her," Anárion said. "Get your sister to move faster and we'll be out of here in no time."

"How?" Eranion asked, more to himself than to Anárion. "This place is a veritable maze and not one of us has ever gone deeper into it than this."

By then they had reached Isildur and Elenwë again, and could now see Emeldil and Lassilenwë a couple of buildings ahead. Anárion could tell the moment Elenwë saw them too because she sped in their direction. Why was she so intent in helping that girl? It bothered him that he had no answer, though he could not say why. It bothered him even more than the girls' lack of cooperation and general ungratefulness. Once Elenwë had reached her, she immediately set out to help her reach a level of calm, to no avail. Emeldil still held her fast, but she was thrashing about, kicking and flailing her arms, and when Elenwë tried to talk to her, Lassilenwë spit at her.

"That is uncalled for!" Emeldil cried, holding faster than he had before, which only agitated her further.

"Enough, Emeldil," Elenwë said. Her brother let go at once, startled, Anárion suspected, by Elenwë's use of his full name. Lassilenwë seemed startled herself, and it was that moment of confusion that Elenwë used to lay one hand on her forearm, her other arm circling around her shoulders. "We have to get away. You saw how violent they became. You will gain nothing by staying behind, but could lose much. If you really are doing this for your sister, you need to stay strong to fight for her."

Lassilenwë spit at her again, but Anárion could tell that her jerkiness and breathing were slowing down somewhat. Without thinking, he reached and wiped the spittle from Elenwë's face. That brought everyone's eyes to rest on him, and he rubbed at the back of his neck before saying, "We cannot go back the way we came. The only way out for us is forward."

"But--" Eranion struggled to find the words. "But--well, you know what goes on ahead."

That he did, but how to explain that to them? The market, like many other public places in Rómenna, had outgrown its original grid-like design. Instead, it had expanded in disorderly patches of buildings and stalls until the original plans were practically outdated and the whole thing was more of a maze than anything else. Outsiders only knew that sinister deeds were everyday occurrences the deeper one went into the maze, and though he did not doubt that shady dealings went on behind many closed doors, his experience was that most market denizens were happy to circulate the rumors just so they would be left in peace. The deeper in one went, the owners also used their stores as living quarters, and he had found that matters got complicated when so many people were together in such close proximity every hour of the day. Relaying all this meant exposing inside knowledge he was not supposed to have, so he struggled with his choice for the space of two or so heartbeats until he realized the odd way Elenwë was looking at him. He was entirely unprepared for the tenderness that welled inside of him at that look, and he had to look away, flex his fingers.

"Let us go before anyone comes after us," he said, and with a quick look and nod at Eranion, he began to walk forward.

Behind him, he heard Elenwë say, "It is in your best interest to follow him out of here, Lassilenwë. Don't be a fool and rally up to fight again." One of her brothers must have jabbed her because she gave a little shriek, then said, "Of course I did not mean it literally. These fellows cannot be defeated by physical force without doing any harm to ourselves. We'll have to figure out some other way."

"And what do you mean by 'defeat' and 'figure out some other way'?" Anárion turned to ask, but realized the need to soften his tone when he saw that they were all following him. He let them be for a while as he picked his way through the streets he knew as well as the streets of his childhood home, trying to shield them from the worst of it and to keep them away from what they should not be seeing. After a while, he could not hold it in any longer, and asked, "You are not planning on going back there, are you?"

"What I do is none of your business, Anárion son of Elendil," Lassilenwë said.

He thought he could have died on the spot from the venom dripping from her voice, but did not pursue the thought when he heard Emeldil and Elenwë voice a complaint.

"Watch your tone," Emeldil said, "we just saved your life."

"Making some allies would not hurt," said Elenwë; then, after a brief pause, hesitant, "You know Anárion?"

He hated himself when his heart skipped a beat at the sound of his name on her lips. She had not called him by name in eight years.

Lassilenwë gave a snort of laughter. "Everyone on the island knows the sons of Elendil. What I did not know was that they kept such juicy secrets."

He started at that, turned around and asked, "What do you mean?"

Her slow smile put him in mind of one of those hyenas he had seen in the Middle-earth. "I would not have pictured Elendil's proper, worthy, respectable sons being such deft street fighters, nor being able to pick their way so well and so deep into the market, too, of all places in Rómenna!"

"Well, did you think we earned our fame just by standing, idly, at home?" Joked Isildur, but Anárion could hear the sting in his voice. If he did not think of anything to divert her, quickly, they would all be in trouble, but a fortunate thought came to him then.

"Have you been able to keep oriented as we've been traveling, lady Lassilenwë, daughter of Galador?"

She gasped at that, and he thought he did a creditable job of suppressing his smile.

"You know who I am?" She asked, the first display of something other than anger and contempt he had seen from her. How to pursue that? He gave her a sidelong look and went with his gut.

"Your father is well-known among the navy," he said. "His actions at the mouths of the Kulub-haza saved many lives." A pause, for effect, which he had to ruin with, "Though, I prefer your grandfather's innovations in strake design. He has truly blazed a trail in ship-building."

"You are a pacifist, then," Lassilenwë said, the contempt back in her voice. He filed that for later contemplation, and shrugged his shoulder.

"I simply love ships."

"Anárion is a student in the shipwrights guild," Eranion supplied. Anárion was touched by the pride in his friend's voice, but even after four years the mention of his status as a shipwright's apprentice still managed to produce a pang of longing. He suppressed it, like he always did.

"What would your father say if he knew you to be here?" he asked.

The snort she let out was both telling and heartbreaking. "What he does not know won't hurt him," she said, in a low, smooth purr that made his neck feel hot.

"How do you figure he won't find out?" asked Isildur. "Men like your father have eyes everywhere. With any luck, he is on his way here right now."

Anárion turned in time to see a small shudder that Lassilenwë mastered quickly before saying, "Men like my father have more important things to do than chase after wayward offspring. And besides," she said, the purr back in her tone, "I doubt he'd be as skilled as you in navigating these... streets."

"Enough," Elenwë said, and he had to turn back to look at her. That small furrow that settled right between her eyebrows and wrinkled her nose was in place, but she would not look back at him. His heart did that odd thing again, and he turned from her to stare ahead at the road. They had been going steadily inwards for some fifteen minutes, and he had began to see signs of the change in the market--there was less noise, more darkness, more buildings, all clustered together upon each other giving the impression of towers, or maybe jagged teeth. The first time he had ventured here he remembered being surprised at the many colors he could see, all the different smells he had never smelled before--so many signs of foreign travel in this unexpected place. He hoped nobody would recognize him by daylight and without his disguise, hoped he did not suddenly start limping.

"Where are we?" asked Emeldil, unexpectedly, moving closer to shield his sister from the crowds at the entrance to a drinking parlor. "Do you even know where we are, Anárion?"

He did not answer. What could he say? But it seemed to have been the wrong thing to do, for it put them all on edge and Emeldil, especially, became quite agitated.

"Anárion, do you know where we are?" he asked again. "We had best begin turning around, rather than go forward with two women in tow. What is this place, anyway?"

How could he explain? Or tell Emeldil that they were far from seeing the worst yet? He flicked a quick glance beside him and, to his surprise, found Elenwë regarding him with curiosity; upon feeling his eyes on her, she shook herself like she had not known what she was doing, and had only belatedly realized she was staring.

"Don't get all twitchy, Mel," she said as she looked away. "He knows what he's doing."

"How can he possibly? Look at this place, it's awful!"

"Supplies," Anárion managed to mouth, still taken aback by Elenwë's unexpected defense. "Supplies. I get some supplies from some people here."

"What kind of supplies?" asked Isildur, a mixture of anger and surprise.

"Inks, papers, twine... Things like that," he said, which was not untrue, only out of context. "For my maps, my research."

"How, in the Circles, did you ever manage to find these people, Anar?" asked Eranion.

Again, silence.

"Let him focus." Elenwë. "Since you are so keen on getting out of here, you should be quiet and let him work on it." 

"Like you are one to talk!" Emeldil cried. "You have not stopped staring at him, and we all know what your pretty, sea-like eyes do to unfortunate fellows who don't know how to guard themselves..."

Elenwë stepped on his toe and he let out a strangled scream. "Lucky for us, he is not an unfortunate fellow and can guard himself quite well. If you really want to put this place behind you, a little more tact is called for, please! Surely you can appreciate the need to avoid any... misunderstandings."

"By all means," Emeldil said. "Let us begin by clearing up the biggest misunderstanding of all: Why are we even here, Elenwë? Or is that another one of your <I>tactless questions</I>?"

"Quiet, please!" Anárion finally snapped, rather than pleaded. "It will all be well," he said, but it was far from the truth. They had drawn enough attention already amongst the market denizens because of their speed and number. He could deal with that. A well-placed word here, a coin there, and these people would leave them to their business, but he could also tell that they were beginning to attract attention of a different, more sinister variety, because of their fine clothes and their women, and he became keen to get them all out as soon as possible. "Can you walk faster, just a while longer?" he asked in a whisper, to which both women nodded an affirmative reply. His eyes lingered on Elenwë before he continued, "As discreetly as you can, pull your jewels and pass them to me; drop them if you cannot. Clutch your purses tightly and follow my lead as we edge out sideways."

Relieved that no one thought to argue with the course he proposed, he began to make his way westward, hoping to exit that way rather than go through to the end of the market. If he had kept an accurate count of their steps and landmarks so far, right about now they should be getting level with Meadowlark Lane outside the market. From there, they could get on the main thoroughfare to Erador's family home. There were two alleyways that ran parallel after passing The Three Mussels, and he was going to split their group into two and have them join him in the far back, when he noticed a man watching him that he was sure he had seen some three blocks behind. That gave him pause. Looking around him, he realized there were three more men watching their group on either side of the street, forming an interesting configuration from whence they could fall on them at will. He kept his pace, and noticed that the men moved in turn. He cursed under his breath, began to move to his left to talk to his brother. "We are just about to be surprised," he said, "by four fellows who are watching us alongside the road. Get Elenwë, and Lassilenwë if you can, and run away. Go westward as much as you can, that should get you out of the market. Count fourteen torches on your way out and, by then, it will be safe to ask for help. Don't try to get back in here, I'll find my way out."

"Are you crazy?" His brother asked lagging behind, but Anárion clutched at his forearm to urge him to keep the pace. "I am not just going to leave you here."

"You have to keep the women from being taken. I have heard... what I have heard they do to women is nothing I would wish on anyone I... know."

"Elenwë's brothers are here, let them take care of her. My duty is with you."

"I am begging you, Isildur," he said, and with one last look, he moved as quietly as he could to reach Elenwë.

He found her hand and took it, still walking forward, and leaned in to whisper in her ear. "Run after Isildur and don't stop until you reach the exit. Fourteen torches westward and you'll be at Meadowlark. The road twists. Just follow the light. Fourteen torches westward."

"What are you saying?"

He gave her hand a parting squeeze and whispered, "Fourteen. Be fast!"

<I>The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
To be lost that their loss is no disaster.
-Elizabeth Bishop

By then the men had realized what he was doing and had lined up by twos to either fall upon them or cut them off the exit, he was not sure. 'Queen Elentári,' he whispered, 'Lord Námo, I need to get these people to safety.' He was not sure if these men had followed them from the brawl behind or if they wanted him for some other reason, so he could not be sure how to appease them, and any mistake could prove fatal. 'Lord of Light, at least save my friends... Don't let my mistakes hurt these people... Anárion stopped, pivoted, and began to run backwards the way they had come. "Now!" He shouted, and hoped everyone would fall into step.

As if he had unleashed a passel of caged roosters, everyone around them started to move. He felt arms snatching him in time he heard Lassilenwë scream and Elenwë call his name. He prayed Isildur would help her as he turned to engage whoever had grabbed him. As if he were outside himself, he saw his assailant preparing to hit his jaw, but he dodged this and received a hit on the shoulder instead. He launched against the man's ribs, then his groin, which made him crouched onto the floor, giving Anárion the chance to hit him in the head with his knees, again and again. Another man fell upon him and they engaged also, while all around them the market seemed to have awoken. From the corner of his eye he saw more men flocking in, and he realized that they would be surrounded in no time if they did not manage to run away. Arms grabbed him from behind, began to choke his neck, and just as suddenly were released following a loud yawp. When he turned, he saw Elenwë beside him, knife in hand, a spatter of blood on her yellow dress.

"Get out of here!" he screamed at her with all the fire and power he was able to muster.

"I'd be dead before I leave you here to yourself!"

He heard someone cry, "You may yet be!" before they threw themselves at her. She jumped away at the same time that Anárion jumped on to the man, but they both missed, though her attacker managed to get a hold of her skirt. In a mere moment his arms were wrapped around her waist. Anárion's limbs suddenly felt hot, a powerful rush of strength pulsing through him in time with his heartbeat. He heard himself growl, though he could not recognize his voice, and surged against the man. His fist throbbed as he hit the man's temple, causing him to fall onto the floor, releasing Elenwë. A part of him knew that he should have taken her and ran away but, by the light, he could not make himself stop hitting the wretch. The man got up and tried to grab a hold of him, but Anárion was faster and hit his face with a high kick again, and again, and again. By the time he felt arms pulling him away, his damaged tendon was throbbing and he knew it would not be long before his knee was on fire.

"The alleyway is blocked," Isildur cried, "there's more of them coming!"

Anárion stopped, clutched his head, worked hard to think. How far had they moved from Meadowlark since the fight began? A little longer and they would be-- dare he do it? He looked around them; there was a temporary reprieve, but he heard calls to their right and knew the men were almost upon them. He could only think of doing one thing--reveal the one thing that he had striven to conceal. Beside him, Elenwë was wiping soiled hands on the yellow silk of her dress. When she realized he was staring, she gave him a weak smile and said, "I could not get a good grip on the knife."

It was all the encouragement he needed.

"Straight ahead," he told Isildur, "and when you get to the stairs go down and left. I'll meet you at the bottom!"

He reached for Elenwë's hand; it felt cold and slippery. "Don't put that blade away," he said, "and if someone comes at you, aim straight at their eyes or hands."

"I'll go at their neck if I have to," she whispered, with a shudder that he felt through their linked hands, all the way to his chest.

"You aimed at their hands before and that was plenty good," he said. The thought of sweet Elenwë killing a man threatened to undo him, and he clutched harder and ran faster than he had ever ran before. She kept calling for Lassilenwë but he pulled her closer to himself to keep her from running away. From a corner of his eye, he saw Lassilenwë following Emeldil out of sight, down the way he had shown them. A relieved sigh escaped him, and he ran until he reached his destination: a cluster of buildings that towered upon each other at the end of Road 54.

"We have to climb," he said, "are you ready? You've done this before."

She squeezed his hand once and nodded her understanding. Did she remember? When their eyes met, hers were wide and stormy, the grays grayer and the blues bluer than even he could ever remember seeing. And then, something incredible happened: he felt himself smile at her--a smile that he hoped was encouragement, reassurance. She was so startled that she tripped, and he had to reach for her to steady her.

"Ready?" He asked and, when she nodded, he knelt and linked hands to give her a leg up atop one of the store's awnings.

"Where to?" she asked as she clambered up.

"Up all the way, then down!"

And up they went, up four levels of awnings and windows, if he had to be precise. He climbed up the first awning and cut its ropes off so they could not be followed, then went after Elenwë until he saw her begin to slow down. "All the way, then down!" he cried again.

"Down?" She asked, in time that he collided with her back at the top and almost pushed her forward. His arms wrapped around her at once to keep her from falling-- a reflex act, he told himself, grateful and terrified at the same time. "There's nothing down there!"

"You'll have to trust me," he said, tightening his hold on her waist and jumping with her into the darkness.

***

"There they are!" Anárion heard Emeldil cry, but he needed a moment to recover before he could attempt any reply or explanation. It had been the gamble of his life, but thank the Valar, it had paid off. The rush of energy that he had felt atop that roof and that had led him to jump to the bottom with Elenwë was beginning to ebb. His knee felt like it had been torn into quarters. His rib cage pounded. But, she was safe.

"We are not out of it yet," he whispered as he tried to help her up from the bed of feathers where they had landed. Her eyes still looked unfocused and she pressed her hands to her temples.

"How did you know this would be here?" she asked in a very low, slow voice that he doubted anybody else had heard.

"Are you hurt? Can you stand?" he asked in turn while plucking feathers off her hair, her face, her sleeves, but she held on to his hands to still him.

"What is happening? What is this place?" she asked, more forcefully this time. The sweet expression of her eyes hardened as she focused on his face, but he was good at fixing his attention where he wanted it and he pushed the regret out of the way, intent on helping her stand. He was not so good at following his own commands, he thought, because he could not make his hands leave her shoulders and he lingered a little longer than was needed to help her steady herself. Then he turned to talk to the men.

"I don't know if we can travel in such a big group much longer without being recognized," he said, trying to convey his urgency. There was only one place they could go where they could hope to escape their enemies, and he was breaking his oath to never to take anyone there. He looked around their little circle: Emeldil and Isildur wore identical frowns; Eranion looked up to him, expectant and uncertain at the same time; Lassilenwë looked ready to collapse on the spot, and Elenwë... The sight of Elenwë's blood-splattered bodice filled him with a fierce emotion that he was not used to feeling, and he hated himself for so easily giving in. He had seen, time and again, that emotions were the enemy of success, and yet he let himself get derailed from his goals at the first opportunity. "Follow me as silently as you are able. We may make it if we stay in the shadows."

"Make it--to where?" asked Emeldil.

"I'm scared to ask," Isildur muttered under his breath, but made to follow him. He had taken this path so many times that the darkness did not affect him, but he knew the others would likely trip over the cobblestones, so he tried to whisper more instructions than he normally would have. Once they had gathered around the spot he sought, the wall with vines and moss all over it, he rolled over a mat of vines and brambles to reveal a door. Pulling the key from under his shirt, he instructed, "You will go to the end of the first hallway and then zig-zag your way to the last room you come to. Wait for me there."

He sent his brother in first and, when the last of them had gone through, he covered the door once again and continued along the cobbled path until he reached the second entrance he had hoped to keep hidden. Slipping through the crack on the wall, the way he normally took on Wednesdays, he began to give some thought to how he would explain what they had just been through and, more importantly, how he would ensure his party's silence. They would need water too, maybe food, but could he return with supplies without making them suspicious? At least for the women's sake, he had to try. That meant a slight detour, but he saw no way out of it.

When he finally reunited with his friends, they accosted him right away.

"Where were you?"

"What is this place?"

"Took you long enough!"

Curiously enough, Isildur and Elenwë remained silent, staring at him like they were seeing him for the first time. His pulse quickened under their scrutiny, but he forced himself to go through the motions with a degree of normalcy.

"There is water here," he said, handing each of the women a skin. Lassilenwë drank, greedily, but Elenwë held the skin at arm's length, still regarding him with that odd mixture of anger and fear that had always unnerved him. He would have called it awe before, but he could not do so now, and had to suppress the pang that made him feel.

"Well, if you don't want it," Emeldil told her, grabbing the skin from her, "I'll be happy to take it off your hands."

Anárion watched them exchange water skins, while he in turn was watched. Elenwë did not take her eyes off him. Isildur, eventually, growled and snatched the water skin off Eranion, then tossed it at Elenwë after one long gulp.

"Might as well quench your thirst," he said. "We won't be getting a word out of him."

After Anárion watched her tentatively take the skin, take one slow, hesitant draft, he nodded and headed toward a dark, quiet corner where he could collapse himself. He was pleased that they all followed suit, in silence. Maybe they were too scared to ask the questions; maybe they were too tired. But, whatever the reason, he was utterly grateful for the reprieve.

For a while he was allowed to sit in silence. He unlaced his boot and pulled his pants up to reveal his swollen knee. He needed a cold compress, and some of his ginger tea, but since he had neither, he had to content himself simply by rubbing the pain away. After a few moments, Elenwë came to sit beside him. With a glare and a frown, she pushed his hands away and began to massage around his knee herself.

"What--what do you think you are doing?"

"Helping you," she said, in a dry tone and without looking at him. "I am quite good at this, you said once, remember?"

How could he ever forget? Torn between the respite her ministrations produced and his resolution to keep her at arm's length, which he had already broken several times today, he said, "Your aunt would throw a fit if she could see you."

Elenwë laughed at that, a mirthless, heartbreaking, defeated laugh. "Let her. There's always somewhere to find fault." But then she whimpered. Anárion caught her hand to examine it and it was then he saw the deep gash that crossed her right palm.

"How did you get this?" he asked.

"Someone wanted my knife and I had to fight them for it, Anárion." She said his name in a strange sort of caress that he hoped no one else could feel.

"There would have been no need for you to fight if you had stayed away from this place. And this bruise here at your other wrist...?"

He saw her draw herself up straight at that, almost physically put up a wall between them that he did not even know had been torn down. And then he understood.

'This was my doing.' All those times he took her hand, when he clutched at her so she would keep up, he was being more forceful than he had thought and had hurt her. He tried to get up, but his knee gave way and he fell down again. A curse escaped him, which they all heard, further adding to his humiliation.

"Calm down, Anárion," Eranion said, moving to kneel beside them. "We all know we owe our lives to your quick thinking."

"And his good knowledge of the market," Lassilenwë said from her corner at the far left of the room.

"I think we all deserve an explanation." Emeldil.

They all looked at Isildur, waiting for him to weigh in, but he simply looked on for a while, still frowning, arms crossed as he leaned onto the far wall. Elenwë tried to resume her rubbing of his knee, which took him aback. For years she would not say more than three words to him in a sentence, and suddenly she could overcome her reticence to care for his knee, no less? He shook his head, grabbed Elenwë's hands as gingerly as he was able and placed them on her lap, while he continued with the task himself.

"You always do this!" Elenwë cried, frustration and anger dripping from her voice. Only once before had he heard such a tone from her, and the recollection brought back all the anger, the hurt, the humiliation he had felt then. It was painful, but it was enough to make him remember his promise. He swallowed once, twice. He would not let her win one more fight, and for that he needed to remain calm.

"I always do this?" He threw her question back at her. "And you always find a way to burst into a rage at the worst possible moment."

"It is just like you to call them outbursts," she said, retreating behind a veneer of sarcasm, "forgetting that it was you who provoked them."

"I never provoke you," he said. "All I have done is try to help you when you insisted on acting like the spoiled child you are."

Her lips flattened into a thin smile. "You call me spoiled? That must be because you have already forgotten your rude requests, your barked commands, your flare-ups of temper--" She was trying to be delicate and not mention the bruise, but her silence spoke as loudly as her words.

"Ah!" He said, raising his palm so as to indicate he did not wish to hear more. "How could I forget that to Elenwë, daughter of Erador, the way one performs the deed is just as important--if not more so--than the deed itself? Next time I will remember to ask permission before I snatch you off the hands of whoever wishes to hurt you."

"I doubt there will be a next time."

"We can both agree on that, because I will make sure your brother does not let you get into this kind of trouble again." He paused, rubbed at the back of his neck. "Have you any idea how close you came to--" Here he stopped. He could not bring himself to tell her the horrors he had heard were inflicted on women taken from their families in the age they lived in, could not tell her what he had seen and shatter her innocence forever, no matter how angry with her he was. He did it to spare her, but it was the wrong thing to do. He knew it in her narrowed eyes, in her upraised chin, in the way her voice hitched then went up one step in pitch.

"And what are all of you going to do--tie me up to keep me at home?" She asked in a show of defiance that would almost have been laughable if it had not followed the little adventure they had had that day. She got up and paced to join Isildur at his wall, "It won't work! I have stayed apart before, and I swear by all that is most precious that I will never stay back again, no matter what any of you do to keep me away!"

"Because you would rather put your family in danger. It's much more fun, isn't it?" he asked.

"Because somebody has to do it!"

"Calm down, Wen," Eranion said, walking to stand beside her, trying to appease her, but she shrugged off his hands and scooted off farther away, like a frightened doe would when accosted. That gave Anárion pause--it looked like a dance that they had engaged in before, and he wondered when it had started, and why.

Emeldil let out a groan. "Let her be, Rani. Her money will run out at one point and then she'll have to stop."

Stop what? He felt like asking, but didn't. When he realized that Isildur's eyes were fixed, keen, sharp, unwaveringly on him, he understood that there was more to the tale than had surfaced yet, and his brother knew what it was.

"What I do with my money has nothing to do with either of you," Elenwë said, chin up, but Anárion could see her hands clasped together in front of her, gripping so tightly her whole body was straight as a rod. He knew what this was costing her, and had to wonder what had happened to her that would make her defy the brothers she loved so much, and who so loved her in return.

When Isildur spoke, they were all unprepared for it.

"Money has nothing to do with it," his brother said, "and it matters little to any of us here, except that when you put your brothers in danger you may have gone too far."

That startled her, and she scooted away from him too, further backing herself into the corner of their small room.

"Well," Eranion said, "in all fairness, she could not have foreseen that a fight would break out. She was just trying to help Lassilenwë. I know why she did that."

"What about the fight after that one?" Isildur asked, one brow raised, arms crossed over his chest.

"What do you mean?" asked Emeldil. "Those men had been following us from before... Hadn't they?"

"How can you know that?" asked Isildur, but his eyes had not left Anárion's for a moment. What was his brother trying to tell him?

The silence that followed his brother's charged question was worse than the quarreling had been. Lassilenwë sat on the ground, forgotten, though Anárion sometimes thought he saw a smile lingering across her lips. Elenwë had sat also, knees drawn up to her chest with her head resting on them, while her skirts spread about her like a marigold spreads her petals around. Eranion had began to chew on his fingernails, a telltale sign of extreme anxiety for him that he had not displayed in years. Emeldil would not stop pacing this way and that, putting them all on edge. And Isildur... Isildur would not stop looking at him. At first, Anárion had tried to give him stare for stare--only liars or cowards look away--but he could not bear the weight of his brother's scrutiny. Under the pretext of tending to his injured knee, he had left his brother to stare away on his own. His hands felt cold, as hot as he had felt before, and that unpleasant feeling that signaled anxiety for him had settled at the pit of his stomach. He needed his tea, he needed to work off his tension, he needed to get all these people away from here and how was he going to do that? What if Isildur had been right? He did not know which was worse--that those men had been after him and he had put Elenwë in danger, or that they had been after Elenwë to begin with...

They stayed like that for longer than Anárion had believed they could stay quiet, save Emeldil, but when he had had enough he finally kicked at the wall and rounded in on them all.

"What is this place?" he asked, punctuating his words with wild gestures--as wide as he could go, cramped as they were. "Why are we here? I thought we were going to the seamstress! The seamstress, for Valar's sake! We almost get ourselves killed, and probably killed other people out there, and for what? I want somebody to tell me exactly why I was risking my life out there, by the Valar!"

"Please, be quiet!" Elenwë rose, crossed the room in three strides to stand in front of her brother. "If any one of you swears by the Valar one more time, I-- I--"

"You what?" asked Emeldil. "You will tell on me? I don't care any more, Elenwë!"

"Well, I do!" she said. When she dabbed with the back of her palm at her nose, Anárion realized that she was trying hard not to cry. Her brothers must have understood too, for they both made to go to her at once, but she shook her head and walked away. "Just... please... stop swearing. One day you may swear in front of a royalist by mistake and would be beyond any help. I-- I could not bear--"

Of course she could not, and they had all been stupid to think she had to be strong for everyone. For the first time, Anárion saw the fragility that lurked beneath their facade of normalcy, and felt a little stab at his heart.

"What do we do now, Anárion?" Eranion asked, perhaps trying to diffuse the tension. His friend could not have known that in asking his question he had opened a window that he would have rather wished closed.

Anárion sighed. "This place is well-hidden. We should be safe here until we are ready to leave."

"And when is that?" Lassilenwë asked, the first thing she had said since they had gotten there in the first place. "We camp out here for days until we deplete your secret stash of food? We wait out the night, hoping we can go home with our reputations intact after having spent the night with four men in this cozy, little room?"

Emeldil turned and shook his fist at her, but addressed his sister, "I thought you had better taste in friends, Wen."

Lassilenwë laughed at that. "And here I was bewailing her poor taste in family."

"Oh, please!" Elenwë said. "I hope we can remain civil until we each go our separate ways."

"Does it mean you are going to leave me alone, daughter of Erador?" Lassilenwë asked. "Can we stop this little project of yours?"

"This is not a project, Lassilenwë, and no. I will not stand aside while I watch you put yourself in all sorts of danger without at least trying to watch your back."

"I do not need you to watch my back to assuage your guilt."

It looked as if a physical force had pushed Elenwë backwards, and she said nothing more after that. Neither did Lassilenwë. They still faced the dilemma of getting out of their hideout and back into their world.

"We have two choices, as I see it," he finally said. "We can wait until the morning, but we will surely be seen if anybody is out there watching for us. We can leave tonight, and risk the danger of the dark streets, but trusting in darkness' cover."

"What would you rather do?" asked Eranion.

Anárion thought about it for a moment. He knew he would choose the cover of night, but could it be attempted while they had the women with them?

"Is any of you physically unable to keep a fast pace right now?" he asked.

"You are probably the worse off, at the moment," said Isildur in a clipped voice, still frowning.

"I'll be all right. If you can follow my instructions, precisely, I think we ought to try leaving after twilight. We are outsiders, and the most logical conclusion would be for them to think we would be too scared to leave in the middle of the night."

"Do you really think all five of those men are out there waiting for us?" Asked Emeldil.

"There were seven," Anárion said, "more, if you count the shop tenders that threw the vases and the baskets, though three of them, at least, suffered incapacitating injuries. We cannot be too sure. I'd rather not risk waiting until tomorrow, but we have to be fast and quiet."

"What is this place, Anárion?" asked Isildur.

"A warehouse."

"For what?"

"Papers, inks, that sort of thing, like I told you," he replied, which was true.

"Who owns this place?"

"Someone I know."

"And he is--"

"Someone you don't know," he replied with finality. Which was true enough, in a fashion. "Now let me try to draw out the route for you, in case we get separated."

Their return to the civilized world was so uneventful that it put Anárion on high alert, and he could not bring himself to settle down his nerves, even after they had arrived at Lassilenwë's home. It was late and they all had declined to go inside, though Lassilenwë's pretty cousin, whose movements they all followed as she took the girls inside, had begged them to do so again and again.

They stood looking after them in silence for a long while. It was, of course, Emeldil who broke the quiet. "What just happened?" he asked. "Did we almost die today?"

They all had the bruises to prove it, but Anárion currently lacked the mental capacity to go to that place just yet. They could have died. His brother would have been lost. Elenwë. When she finally returned outside, Anárion had worked himself into such a state that he could not help but ask, "What took you so long?"

He felt, more than saw, everyone's glares on him. Even Eranion, who was usually apt to trust him implicitly, thought it had been in poor taste to berate his sister. Even Isildur, who would not have wasted the opportunity to flirt with as pretty a girl as Lassilenwë's cousin, could not find it in him to be his usual suave self, but Anárion had not been blessed with such restraint.

"You changed?" He asked Elenwë, and she looked down, fidgeted with her hands.

"I asked her to let me wash her dress," Lassilenwë's cousin was quick--too quick-- to say. "It was the least we could do to thank you for bringing Lassilenwë back home. Thank you for watching out for her. I know she can be hard to befriend but she is family and, in these hard times, you have to hold on to what you can. I promise I will watch her better."

"You have enough to deal with on your own, Indilindë," Elenwë said, laying a hand on the other lady's forearm, which Indilindë clasped in turn. Anárion could clearly see that there was more to the gesture than the shared worry of one day and wondered, for what must have been the tenth time that day, how he could have drifted so far apart from these people that he had missed the development of all of it.

They made their way to Emeldil and Eranion's in silence. He noticed that Emeldil began to drift closer to his sister and, at one point, he had his arm around her shoulders as they walked in silence, her leaning her head on him at times. The whole house was in an uproar by the time they finally appeared, making it easy for him and Isildur to lose themselves in the commotion and escape towards home.

"Do we go to Grandmother's or to your place?" Isildur asked.

"Well, she was waiting for us."

"That was hours ago," Isildur said. "They must have figured we went out and, after having a little fun, went to sleep. We'll just wake them up and make them worry if we show at their home late like this."

Anárion looked at him for a moment before saying, "That conversation is not going to happen, Isildur, no matter how you maneuver me into having it. Alone at my house, or alone at Grandmother's--it's not going to happen."

"You have dragged me half-way around the city into the slums and are not going to tell me why?"

"We were keeping Elenwë out of trouble."

"More like pushing her into trouble, I dare say. She is not a girl any more, and the sooner you lot realize that, the easier it will be to deal with things as they are."

"And how are they?" asked Anárion, stopping to look at his brother in the face. "How are things, Isildur?"

"Secrets," Isildur said, in a whisper that made all his hair stand on end. "Everybody has secrets."

Not Isildur too! It felt as though somebody had moved the earth from his feet and he was slipping, slipping far.

"Those secrets are not mine to reveal, Isildur," he said, almost a plea for his brother's understanding, though the bigger part of himself knew that this was the chance to break free from his him, only... only he was too much of a coward to take it. "As much as I long to tell them to you... I-- I can't."

Isildur turned around and began to walk, fast, leaving him to struggle to keep up. Despite his custom-made shoe, his knee hurt so much that he was limping by the time they reached their grandparents' home. The lights were out. It was as Isildur had said, and after a telling look, Isildur kept on walking. He was actually going to make him limp as best he could all the way to his own house. Well, if that was the way of things, he could give eye for eye!

Except-- except a thought struck him.

"Isildur," he called, struggling to keep up, reaching for his brother's shoulder to make him stop for a moment. "Isildur, what was Elenwë doing in Andúnië?"

When Isildur gave his shoulder a squeeze in turn, he knew he would not like the answer. "Those secrets, brother," Isildur said, "are not mine to reveal."

***

They made the rest of the way in silence. It was not very far from Elenwë's house to his, and though he knew he should have chosen to put more distance between them, the spot had been close to the Shipwright's Guild building and it had seemed convenient at the time he settled on the location, or so he had told himself. He made the journey daily, sometimes two times a day, but tonight he was both physically and emotionally exhausted and it was all he could do to focus on putting one foot ahead of the other.

They had been fortunate that Ithil had been shrouded in cloud all night, which had worked perfectly for their escape; but a steady breeze had began to blow westward from the sea, had moved the clouds, and had revealed a bright, full moon, and the entirety of the constellations of the summer sky. Had they waited a few hours, their flight would have been jeopardized and his friends would have been further endangered. The mere thought of it made his stomach twist into awful knots. Reaching his door had felt like what he imagined the Elves would feel upon finally reaching the coast of Tol Eresëa after long years of exile.

"I think being so close to both poverty and corruption has sapped you of your optimism," Isildur said as he went inside and began to work on clearing Anarion's one table of books, maps, parchment, and the odd cup that had been buried amid the lot. Meanwhile, Anárion had sat on his chair by the entrance, as he always did, to begin undoing the laces to his boots--it would be too much to ask that Isildur forget to question him on how he had such an intimate knowledge of the market, and that sort of mindless rhythmic exercise helped him rally for it. Fooling Isildur would be difficult, and painful, but imperative; he had made that choice a long time ago and could not afford to have second thoughts about it.

"It was a tough day today, brother," was what Isildur chose to begin his prodding, "but you did well."

Anárion muttered the perfunctory thank-you and kept working his laces, but he knew better than to think that would be the end of it.

Isildur dropped the last load of books upon the bed. "Better than well! If you had not been there we would have been mugged, or lost and never found again..." he finished with a dramatic air that made Anárion smile like he had done millions of times before this one, for his brother's sake.

"You would have figured the layout eventually, I'm certain of that."

"Before being robbed, or after?"

Anárion tossed the left boot and set to work on the right. 

"I don't think the average man would have engaged all four of us."

"Which means that you must know they have worse than average people there."

"I thought that they might have tried to confuse us, make us lose the ladies. That would have undone our little group; those boys would never have forgiven me if I had lost them their sister."

"Do you reckon? Who would have been the most distraught had that happened--the boys, or you? How did you figure what to do? And that bit about the jewelry? Elenwë was smart enough to venture out with merely that necklace, but Lassilenwë was bedecked like a diamond mine!"

That made him feel inside his pocket. The jumble of chains and gemstones that the ladies had passed to him was still there. Sorting the lot out would be quite a task, but he began, grateful for something to do, something to use as an excuse. He felt Isildur's eyes on him all throughout, but kept to his task.

"You were right," he finally said, "a mine and a half!"

"Do you still have Wen's necklace?"

"It ought to be somewhere in here," he mumbled as he pulled and tugged at the ball of chains, though he had the sinking feeling that the necklace was gone. Isildur noticed his worry and knelt beside him, helping him sort out what pieces he had been able to untangle: a set of chandelier earrings with a leaf motive, three bracelets in the same pattern but different shades of gold, a necklace came next, and three rings tumbled out from that last tangle.

"It's not here," he cried, lifting eyes to Isildur.

His brother frowned. "Have you looked in all your pockets?"

His knee protested as he stood, but he did so the better to search. His pant pockets were empty, but there was this one pocket in his shirt and there it was: a dainty necklace of clustered golden stars, linked together by a clever chain. Isildur studied it as it dangled from Anárion's fingers. He reached for it, a small smile forming on his face as he worked on the necklace to produce a very slender golden chain that had been tangled on the thicker one: a mere strand of gold, with a sun pendant.

His heart did that odd thin again as he contemplated the little relic of the past he had not seen in over fifteen years.

"Did you give her this?" Isildur asked. "It looks an awful lot like your insignia."

"It isn't," he said, snatching the chain back. Thankfully, Isildur left it at that and moved to take the chess set out. He began to arrange the pieces on the board, whistling a little tune as he worked, while he left Anárion to sort out the more complicated jumble of his emotions as he recalled exactly how Elenwë had come by the pendant. His brother did not give him a lot of time to dwell on the past. "What kind of deals have you been making with people there?" he asked, as he pinned him with that keen, probing look that set his hair on end

Anárion's hands stilled, necklace held firmly within his fist. "I told you," he said, as nonchalantly as he was able, "I found good prices on supplies I need for work."

"Is it worth risking your life for a few leaves of parchment? For paper, Anárion?"

"I use a lot of paper."

"Father would give you all the money you asked for--he would probably build you your own paper operation-- if he knew what you have been up to to save a few coins."

"It's all well, trust me,"  Anárion said, hastily putting the necklace back in his pocket and laying Lassilenwë's pieces on the small table by the door. He returned to his half-laced boot, hoping Isildur would not notice he could not look him in the face. When a few moments passed and Isildur was still silent, he looked up, only to meet with a glare.

"What?" he asked, dropping the shoe and rising from the chair. "If you have made up your mind not to trust me, then nothing I can say will satisfy you."

"It's not like you to be untruthful."

"I am not being untruthful!"

"Well, then..." Isildur said, waving a pawn at him, "tell me this: what would you have answered if Elenwë had not stood up for you before the boys?" 

"I would have answered as I answered you: I deal with market suppliers, and can hardly be blamed for it when prices are so much on the rise, now leave it alone, Isildur."

"Why did Elenwë jump to your defense so readily?" Isildur asked, more to himself than to him. "It surprised even me, I must admit. How long has it been since she barely crosses word with you? Five years, at least."

"Nine," Anárion said, grudgingly, as he began to arrange his side of the board.  "Why am I always black?"

"Because you are too slow to settle and choose white first."

"You always take me by surprise."

"And you well know that surprise is the first rule of every good attack-- not my fault if you lower your defenses. It's always easiest to find out what I want from you when we play-- chess puts you in a benevolent mood."

"I hope you have not been letting me win," he said.

"You know I don't have the patience for that. Planning a losing strategy to upend your winning strategy... The mere thought of it makes my head spin," he said with a minute shake of the head. "My pride is simply a campaign casualty."

"What was she doing in Andúnië, Isildur?"

His brother looked up from his king and gave him a slow smile.

"You like to talk about her, don't you?"

"Do you even know, or did you just let me think you did, to goad me?"

"Ha! I upset you. I wanted to see how long it would take you to ask the question." He settled his queen next, looked up from his board to him. "No, I don't know if by that you mean my having heard it from Elenwë herself, but it's not difficult to read the clues."

"What clues?"

Isildur looked at him for a long time before giving his answer. When he spoke again, his tone was not playful but earnest, and that disturbed him deeply.

"Can we talk here?" he asked. "Do you think you could have unwanted ears about?"

It took him a heartbeat to catch on. He rose, checked the door, checked his windows. They were alone. He drew the chair next to his brother's. "What do you know?" he asked, leaning close.

"I am almost certain she has been helping 'traditionalists,' though the exact nature of the help is still a mystery. The story she gave when she was there was that she had come to Andúnië to purchase fabrics for new gowns. She stayed over three weeks."

"What do you think she was doing?"

"There's the rub. I asked Mother; she claimed she knew no more than I did, but Elenwë dined at the house at least twice every week. Always when us men were gone. I thought that out of respect for you, Mother would show some restraint..."

"They always liked Elenwë quite well," said Anárion. "Do you think Mother could be involved in it, whatever it is?"

"It's a thought. She has the influence and, after what happened to Arlen and her family, more than enough motivation. Still, it is hard to think of Mother doing such dangerous work. Or Father allowing it."

Anárion rubbed his forehead, the back of his head. "This is just what I needed," he muttered.

"What do you mean?"

But Anárion chose to ignore that. "What, do you figure, is the big secret?"

"There are a couple of possibilities," Isildur said, taking over the arrangement of Anárion's black pieces. "There is an orphanage in Andúnië. They take all children, but everyone knows that they hold a 'traditional' bias. No one will claim patronage. Yet, despite all odds, the orphanage still stands."

"Could she not just send the money to them, if that's what brought her there?"

"Who would you trust with that responsibility, from Elenwë's circle of acquaintances? Who would have that bit of juicy information and not sell her out? Remember that Elenwë is one of the most eligible girls on the island and that kind of secret would ruin her for good. Or bind her to someone she did not wish to be bound to."

For a while, Anárion could not make himself speak as the implications of that sank. "The thought of Elenwë being so deep in on it," he finally said, "as to have no one to trust..." He grunted. "It makes my blood boil." Isildur raised a brow at him, but he chose to ignore that too. "What is the other possibility?"

"I saw her once with Golasgan."

Anárion snorted. "Golasgan? Elenwë would never look at Golasgan in that way."

"What makes you think that? Golasgan is a perfectly good catch for any eligible lady."

"Golasgan has been around too much."

"He has reformed. I think he is quite fond of Wen."

"Or rather her dowry," Anárion said. "Do be serious, Isildur."

"I thought Golasgan was a friend of yours."

"And he is. Just, not cut out for her."

"Well, at least it is better than the other option."

"Which is...?"

At that Isildur finally showed some signs of discomfort, which somehow frightened him more than any thought of being persecuted did.

"What is it, Isildur?" he asked again, but his brother just cleared his throat and looked away, busying himself with an imaginary smudge on his table. "Isildur," he tried again, moving to kneel by his brother, to make Isildur look at him. "If Mother, or Elenwë, are in trouble, you have to let me know what it is so I can help them."

"And how would you purpose to do that? Through your friends from the market? You know that kittens get caught in tangles when they play with their mistresses' wool."

Anárion could not contain himself at that, and hit the table with his fist, upsetting the board and sending a few of the pieces rolling down on to the floor with a clatter. Isildur did not even flinch; instead, a big grin had spread all over his face. It made him so angry, how Isildur could remain so composed while his own heart was threatening to hammer its way out of his chest! Isildur merely sat, legs sprawled in front of him, regarding him with that fierce, dangerous glint that only signaled trouble.

"I am relieved to see you still have some feeling in you. I had began to think that your secrets here in Rómenna had turned you into a block of ice. Now you know what it feels like, don't you, having truths kept away from you by the one person you should have been able to trust?"

That hurt worse than a warg bite, worse than a knife wound, worse than his useless tendon, worse than the lifetime of dreams he had seen crumble to the dust the day he had taken that stabbing for a man he did not even know. He felt walls closing in on him and found it hard to breathe, but he made himself use all of his will to focus on Isildur's eyes, those dark irises that held the entirety of their life together in their depths.

"If I hide things from you, Isildur, I trust you would know me well enough to understand I would have a good reason for doing so."

"Sure. Just like I have a good reason from keeping my secrets well hidden."

"Secrets are nothing to play with."

"We can both agree on that."

"Then what are you waiting for? If there is anything you know, you need to tell me."

"I have to see you try prying this out."

"We have never competed for anything."

"Nobody could have a better brother," Isildur said, and his voice held that hitch to it that made Anárion's heart squeeze.

"This is not about who gets the upper hand."

"Again, somethin we can both agree on."

"If you know anything, Isildur, you better tell it to me now."

"I don't think so, brother. I think I am going to keep it to myself for the time being."

"What for? I can help them, but you have to let me know how."

"How can you help them, Anárion? Are you ready to tell me the truth?"

All of his time away from home passed before him--everything he had done, what he had accomplished, what he had not told his family. Under Isildur's hard stare, he felt something inside of him snap. Through painful experience he had learned that it was best to say nothing when he was not sure he could be in control of himself, but he could not let Isildur keep this away from him at his mother and Elenwë's peril.

"Would you sacrifice your own mother's safety to wrest my secrets from me?" he asked, afraid to cross that line and unsure of what other choices he had left.

"Would you?" Isildur threw his question back at him, the twitch in his jaw the only indication that he was under heavy strain. "Would you hurt your mother? What about Elenwë?" he asked and, as if outside himself Anárion watched Isildur's hesitation before he decided to plunge the knife further in. "Would you hurt the only woman you have ever cared for, for your stubbornness?"

Something broke inside of him at that, and he had to remind himself that it was his brother he was facing to keep in what was really on his mind to do. He felt his fingernails digging into his palms as he stood, fists clenched, on the verge of becoming what he had always loathed to be.

"What do you want, Isildur?"

"I want you to stop lying to me and to tell me what is going on with you."

"You are bribing me, then? Your secrets about Mother for whatever it is you think I am hiding from you?"

Isildur looked away at that, for a mere heartbeat, before that part of him that was only will-power and strength took over. "Well, isn't the bramble calling the briar prickly?"

"I would never put you in a position to have to choose between two parts of your heart."

"No. You'd rather hide your heart altogether, but I cannot live like this anymore, Anárion. It is eating me up. Every time someone asks me about you, I have to lie to them because telling them the truth--that I have no idea where you are, or what you are doing there--is much too painful; going to sleep every night without knowing if tomorrow I will wake up to the news that you have been found dead on some beach. Or some alleyway, as things stand." His voice caught at that again. "I need the truth."

"Or else?"

If anything, Isildur's eyes hardened, before he said, "You know what else. You know I will never stop."

He did know. And Isildur did not have a very good chance of surviving in the world Anárion lived in now. He would not see any harm come to his brother.

"I will tell you this, Isildur," he said, and watched his brother swallow hard and widen his eyes under his stare, "Mother and Elenwë are in danger if they are messing in the King's affairs. It is real, present danger that will destroy them and our families if knowledge of their activities reaches the wrong people. Now, let me ask you again: what do you know?"

Isildur hesitated. He blinked a couple of times before he was in command again and then, with a clear, measured voice, said, "There is only one way I will ever tell you, and you know what it is, Anárion."

Torn between agony, anger, and fear, he muttered, "Go to the pits," then grabbed his boots, and left.

Chapter End Notes

Chapter Soundtrack: Stay, Rihanna

<I>"Come to the edge.
We might fall.
Come to the edge.
It's too high!
COME TO THE EDGE!"
-Christopher Logue</I>

Elenwë knew it was gross ungratefulness, but coming back home that night had been one of the greatest trials of her life. They made her sit and recount her journey in full and it was hard to decide, on the spot, what could be told and what could not. They made her eat, drink tea, wait for a physician to come and determine she had not suffered any lasting trauma or damage to her hand, rehearse her journey for the physician all over again... and all the while what she had really wanted to do was to be alone to figure out how not to cry, and to take a bath.

She was utterly exhausted--her heart even more so than her body, though that seemed impossible with all the gashes, the blisters, and the muscles that throbbed all over her. There was a time in her life when the danger might have been a thrill, but she was old and cosseted now, and the whole day had been an exercise almost perfectly designed to test wether she had the mettle to attempt what she was about to do with her future. She could still walk away--forget, let go of everything, and go back to the life she knew.

Sighing, she leaned against the closed door of her bedroom, her eyes stinging because of the tears threatening to escape, though she could not even tell why she wanted to cry. She had been through worse before, knew enough to know that wounds to the body healed faster than wounds to the heart, and therein lay the problem. She felt like she had been pushed through a wringer; like one of the king's jugglers struggling against a ball too many, with each ball one of the fears of her adulthood tossed at her to keep in motion at the same time. It had simply proved too much to handle: her fear of helplessness, of royalists, of inadequacy, of lack of foresight, of the people she loved being harmed, of not being able to make a difference, of simply not being enough. And there was Anárion, too, dogging her steps all the way to watch her make a fool of herself. To watch her fail.

Her eyes strayed to her wrist, where the bruise he had left stood out in stark contrast over her pale skin. She touched its surface, gingerly, and was surprised at the odd, random flutter she felt when recalling what it had been like to be held by Anárion. Wished she could forget. And now that she was finally alone, wished that there was at least one other person in the world in whom she could confide the entirety of her soul. She needed to scream. She needed to throw something. She needed to run--running had felt good, she had felt good that her body had not forgotten how to do it, that she had still been able to keep up with the boys. She needed to rid herself of that awful feeling of blood in her hands, so she decided to attempt the bath that her sister-in-law had had drawn for her. Before getting in the water, she inspected the dress that Indilindë had let her borrow, thoroughly, to make sure that she had not stained it. When she was satisfied, she placed it on top of her chest and finished unpinning her hair that had already become a tangled mess after a day's unexpected exercise.

It was then she missed the necklace. Since she was fifteen years old she had worn Anárion's sun chain around her neck--the first gift he himself had ever been able to purchase through his own genius. Never could she forget his pride in presenting it, nor her own pride in being the recipient of such a treasure, for one of his most cherished dreams had always been to make of himself somebody who could be known through his own merit and that necklace proved his achievement. She hoped it had not been lost at the market when she passed it on to him, and the thought of her precious pendant being trampled upon on the streets was threatening to undo her precarious composure.

So she sank under the water, surfaced again, and let herself soak. She soaked for so long that her skin began to itch, but no matter how hard she scrubbed, she still felt soiled. She had been bold enough to ask Indilindë for a change of clothes, not out of vanity, but because she could not stand herself. It was one thing to train, to practice, to pretend, and she had always been so good at it, had always had such steady, remarkable aim, <I>for a woman</I>, that she always assumed whenever it came time to it she would have no problem putting her skills to practice. She had never counted on her presence of mind deserting her, but today had shown her that it was one thing to rehearse, but quite another to slash someone's wrist, and she felt profound gratitude to whatever power was watching out for her that she remembered her lessons and cut at the right spot. She did not believe she had killed anybody today--that horror was not something she desired to contemplate--but she was frightened, nonetheless, at what she had seen of herself. The frailty of human life was staggeringly overwhelming when it was placed upon her hands, and she was terrified of the instinct that had made her pull the knife and harm somebody else. She would never forget what it felt like to stab somebody, to feel the knife struggle and then slide, to feel someone else's blood on her. At that recollection, she could not hold it together and began to weep like a baby-- all that she had been holding inside, all of today, all of the hundreds of todays since she had sworn to herself that she would never cry again.

She had lost.

And that fact made her hurt all the more.

Some time later, and she was not sure how long after it was, she heard a knock at her door.

"It's us, Wen," she heard Eranion's voice from the other side.

"I am not dressed," she called back, hoping they would take her excuse and leave her alone.

"Then you better dress yourself," Emeldil said. "We'll wait."

How can one prepare for the conversation that will shatter one's world? She had been telling herself that the new world she was hoping to build would be a better world, an existence of which she could be proud, a place where she could do something for those she loved without expecting anything in return. But, now that it was time to take the first real step, she was scared almost to the point of paralysis. Still, she managed to dry and dress herself, but her hands were shaking so much, and her bandage so much in the way, that she was not able to braid her hair and twisted it, instead, into a knot at the nape of her neck.

"I almost fell asleep right by your door," Emeldil said as she came into view.

"You should have," she whispered, but he shook his head, stood, and swept past her into her bedroom as if they were still children. Eranion had always been more careful, less self-centered, and he did stop at her door--a silent bid for permission. Elenwë shrugged her shoulders and watched him walk in, stride toward the window seat like he had always done. Taking one last moment to steady her nerves, she prepared to follow her brothers inside when Eralmir appeared. That startled her. Since her eldest brother's marriage things had been different between them and, in truth, she had not expected he would ever come back to see her here. Yet, here he was.

"Do you think it is appropriate that we be here, in her room?" Eralmir asked her brothers, not her. "We could always go to the library..."

"Just get yourself inside and sit down," said Emeldil, which Eralmir promptly did, taking his usual seat opposite Eranion.

Elenwë leaned against her wall for a moment, looking at her brothers. If she needed any encouragement to go on with the course she had purposed, she supposed that she could not find any better than the three men before her. Númenor was falling apart all around them and despite their losses they still had each other, but for how long? Their turn would come--she was convinced of that--and, when it came, would she fight and die with dignity, or would she shame herself at the last by shutting her conscience away? Would she sacrifice the life she knew for a chance to make a better world for her brothers? For other people she did not yet know? Straightening her chin and shoulders, she took one step inside and closed the door behind her.

"Are you up to this, Wen?" asked Eranion.

Emeldil did not wait for her to reply. "This has to be done, Rani," he said, "and, the sooner, the better. Don't you feel like... like we are being sucked into a whirlpool? The world keeps revolving around us, sucking us each one by one, and we are just drifting in the current, waiting to go under. Today was Wen's turn, and we need to know exactly what happened if we are to keep her afloat."

"I have told you already," she said, touched by the sentiment, but unable--and unwilling--to further explore it. She sat on her bed, propping her back against the headboard, her feet tucked under her, opposite Emeldil. They had now divided into their usual two camps: Eralmir and Eranion, Emeldil and Elenwë. This time, however, she had the distinct feeling that this was purely out of habit and the last time the lines between their thinking would be so clear. Eralmir and Eranion were always the steady influence that Emeldil and herself needed to temper their wild, outlandish schemes. What would the future bring for them? She rubbed her eyes, sighed, forced herself to focus on the present. "Today is a day I would just as soon forget."

"I told you it was too soon," muttered Eranion.

"All we need to know, Elenwë, is why you were there."

"I told you all already, several times: I saw Lassilenwë leave the seamstress' through the back door, and I could not help but follow her because I knew she'd be courting trouble, and I was right."

"What kind of trouble, exactly?" asked Emeldil, "Because, it seems to me like the one courting trouble was you."

"I have told you before, I have told you what she wants," she said, wishing the conversation over but hesitant to give them what they wanted to hear to end it. Still, "She wants to know who... hurt her. Her sister."

"What for?" asked Eralmir. "Is she going to avenge her brother-in-law? It would be a laughable notion if I did not know that she may yet be planning such a scheme. She is too volatile, Elenwë, and you need to stay away from her. We have talked about this so many times, and you know-- even before the law, as we explained to you--you know you have no part and no blame in what happened with her sister's family. Today, though... you almost got all three of you killed."

"I did not!" Here she had to stop, take a breath, blink away the tears that were threatening to come again, and curse herself for her foolishness. She used to have more nerve than this! "I am sorry, but this sort of thing would not be an issue if you all left me alone. Then nobody would ever be in danger, nobody would get hurt by my doing, and we would all be happy."

"Only you could call it happiness when you were risking your life for somebody who cannot stand your guts," Emeldil said with a loud snort, as he uncrossed his legs, stretched, then crossed them again.

"You know it's not going to happen," said Eranion, "so don't even go there. We are not just going to leave you alone to your own devices. You need as much protection as ever, if not more. Give us at least some credit for figuring that out."

"It has been over ten years since I became a woman with rights before the law," she said. "I think I am well past protecting."

"Like it or not, you were protected today," said Eralmir, which made both Emeldil and Eranion look at each other in what they must have considered to be subtlety. So, they had not told their eldest brother that she had fought and had hurt people and had, generally, given like she had been given herself? It was an interesting development, but she had no time to think on it, for Eralmir was speaking again. "You were protected, not only by your brothers, but by Elendil's sons also. What would we have told Elendil if either of them had come to harm?"

The answer to that was ready on her mind, but she waited a moment for politeness' sake before saying, "Elendil's sons are full-grown men and it is disrespect to imagine them needing protection from their own choices, and besides they're hiding something themsel--" but here she bit her tongue. She had spoken out of turn. All three brothers turned to look at her in silence, for a mere moment, before unleashing the torrent that they must have kept inside since earlier that day.

"I knew they were hiding something!"

"That Anárion, so sneaky, got out of revealing exactly what he's been up to!'"

"I don't think it's both of them. You could tell Isildur was fuming all throughout--as angry as I was, I had to pity Anárion. I'd hate to have to take that man home with me in the state he was in, can only imagine he gave it to him hard, you know how he gets if there's any hint of trouble for his little brother."

"That was when they were little, but Anárion is quite capable of speaking for himself and being listened to, as you saw today; he always has."

"An older brother never outgrows the propensity," put in Eralmir with a rueful smile.

"From what I saw today, I'd have to say Isildur could use some protecting himself. How could Anárion have known exactly where to go in that maze of a market? The way he took charge... if we got out of that mess unscathed it was because of him."

She had to agree with that, though she would not say it aloud in front of her brothers. Anárion's drive, his strength, his determination were things she had always admired, but today she had seen an altogether new side of him that was as intriguing as it was frightening.

"I knew Anárion liked to keep his own counsel, but venturing into the market?" Emeldil continued in an altogether too-animated tone that almost bordered on approbation. "Having friends there? I swear, when he gave us instructions--fourteen torches, ten houses, zig-zagging paths, what was all that about? Such precise minutiae! I could not believe what I was hearing, but I was so scared and so desperate to get Wen out of there that I did not stop to ask how he knew the slums to such detail! It is creepy, if you ask me," he finished, by then positively excited.

"You know Anárion has prodigious memory and a head for numbers," said Eranion. "I was not as surprised by the kind of instructions we received as I was by their existence in the first place. I knew Anárion was bold and adventurous in his own way, but I never thought he would get entangled with people from the market."

"It's like we don't know him anymore!"

<I>That was it!</I> she thought, as she recalled the strange glint in Anárion's brooding grey-blue gaze, the earnest way he had looked at her as if he'd both dreaded and--well, it was as if he <I>almost</I> longed to stay beside her as much as the thought of it disgusted him! She knew she was being ridiculous; Anárion had not once sought her out since that day nigh on ten years ago, why ever would he initiate any sort of contact now? But he had, hadn't he? She had the bruise to prove it. For as long as she lived she could never forget the sheer relief she had felt when he walked into that parlor that morning and demanded that she be released, nor the absolute assurance flooding through her that he would see it through until she was out of harm's way.

For years she had missed his presence, but she thought she had learned to live with the hole. The idea that she could still count on him was oddly... disquieting. Even more disquieting was her own response to his help. It had taken her this long to assert herself out of all the men in her life to be able to finally think of carving her own future. It's what she had always wanted, what she had envied from all the men she knew: the ability to master their own destiny. It was the only good thing that had come from her falling out with Anárion, because she had been forced to see herself raw, and to start thinking of who she was if she did not have his friendship to define her. It had been awful. Terrifying. Anárion's friendship and acceptance had been a source of contentment, of comfort, of pride for her. If a man like Anárion could look at her and see worth amidst all of her imperfections, if he could accept her for who she was without caring that she was <i>only</i> a woman and her greatest value lay in what kind of man she could snatch for her father's ally, if he could look to her for friendship, for intellectual comradeship, for companionship... That had meant more to her than any praise she could have received from any other quarter, and the reason was because he offered his regard because of her, nothing more. He did not need the rise in station a connection with her family could provide. He did not need friendship with her brothers; he had his own brother whom he adored. He did not need any of her land, or her friends, and light knew she had nothing to teach him or give him in return but her own self. And that had been enough. It had been plenty. Even thinking about it now she felt that special warmth in a corner of her heart that would never forget what it felt like to be well and truly cherished.

She had always known her father and brothers loved her, and as grateful as she felt for their love, she had always felt terrible guilt for not being satisfied with just that, but she wanted more. They were family, they had to love her, but they never trusted her with anything that mattered, so busy were they trying to protect her. And since she never did anything that mattered, that truly mattered, she was never able to glean admiration that fulfilled her. Being thought pretty, or accomplished, was such hollow praise, and had nothing to do with her own merit. She did not make herself pretty, her looks came from her parents, and the kind of money that they had spent on lessons for her would have made the lowliest cricket accomplished. She wanted more, and Anárion had understood that essential fact about her because he himself wanted more also. If she had just been able to see things with such clear eyes then!

After breaking free from that one tie, all the others had naturally followed: who she was to her father, to her brothers, to the men around her that had hoped to make alliance with her house, and even those who hadn't. She had to stand on her own and expose herself to the world, and that had given her a new bravery that she had only dreamed of before. It had allowed her to be with others the way she had always felt free to be with Anárion, and the release that brought was what got her through her other losses. If it had taken this long to reach a place where she could, at least, think of her past with a certain degree of objectivity, how could she give it up, no matter how wonderful it had felt to have someone with whom to share a burden?

She shook her head, determined to squash that trail of thought, when she realized that the conversation was fast getting ahead of her.

"I don't know if I want you around him, boys," said Eralmir, slowly, uncertain.

"Oh, come now, Mir!" Both boys cried, identical pouts on their faces that they had probably outgrown before she was even born.

"What Anárion really needs now is help," said Eranion.

"Well, I want none of you to be providing it!"

"Elendil's sons are our oldest friends," said Eranion. "Do you really think we would shirk from providing any help they needed?"

"Anárion is playing with fire, and those who play with fire inevitably get burned."

"Eralmir, how can you read 'The Star' and have failed to catch the vision of what is going on?" asked Emeldil. "The world we know is falling apart. If they had people at that market that were desperate to go after us--that would risk the consequences of going after a lady like Elenwë--it is only a matter of time before they find us in our usual places and they give us whatever they deem deserving."

Eralmir raised a hand to forestall him, which made Eranion snort and Emeldil chuckle.

"What does that mean?" Eralmir asked, "And don't involve 'The Star,' you know what the rules are."

"Phaugh! And it means that Elenwë here could probably lecture us about the kind of obscure news and unsavory tortures that you are trying to protect her delicate ears from," said Emeldil, very much in character. "Sorry, sister, but it's true. You're hiding something. And don't think your little lace enterprise is not suspect." He wagged his finger at her, but then a curious light entered his eyes and he asked, "Is your fight with Anárion a cover for your covert collaboration?"

The room was deadly silent for a heartbeat before Eranion and Eralmir exploded into laughter. She was so stunned that she could not think of an effective way to stop their mirth, so she did not try. Emeldil, however, did not laugh. He was very seriously looking at her with an expression she had never seen in his playful eyes. It was something like surprise, respect, caution, all at once but, more than anything, intrigue. He had never looked at <I>her</I> like that, and she had to acknowledge that she rather liked it.

"The way he came to her rescue after so many years of estrangement..." Emeldil broke off, and all noises stopped again. "Well, they have not exactly been best friends for a good while."

The reminder of the painful past snapped her off the lethargy she had fallen under, and she cleared her throat before saying, "We never were best friends if we could cross that line away from each other with such ease. Now, if you think that Anárion would involve me in a secretive enterprise before he would involve his own brother, you do not know him at all."

"But you did not say you would not have accepted."

"He would never ask," she replied, firmly, trying to put the uncomfortable topic to rest, but full of her own questions. Still, it was better if she did what she could to disabuse her brothers of any thoughts of covert operations. "If he had not tried to do whatever he could to help, I would have been quite disappointed in him and so would you."

"She's right," said Eranion, a curious expression on his eyes now, but he had a little bit more tact than their brother and refrained from pursuing a path that he knew was hurtful to her.

Emeldil had no such compunction. "You saw how he held on to her and would not let go. He has not touched Elenwë in five years--or is it six? It was that Eruhantalë before he joined the king's navy... No, wait, it must have been more than that, he has been back from campaign these past five years or so. He has not walked with her, sailed with her, danced with her... Nothing. No running, or studying, or building things, or going to the lectures together... For over six years! Will you really tell me that you can snap out of that kind of disaffection at a moment's notice?"

"If he thought her life was in danger..." said Eranion, "and remember that his own brother was there also, and so were we. Anárion has his pride and he has his quirks, but he is honorable to a fault, in every way a man ought to be. Light, he would help even the King's executioner if he thought it behooved his honor to do it."

"Whatever the case may be, Anárion is not the reason we are here," said Eralmir.

"Well, in a way it is, since he saved our hides at the market." Emeldil.

"Watch it, Mel. Whatever Elenwë may have learned of the world, she still won't hear bad language from us," said Eranion.

She sighed. They were insufferable and endearing at the same time, and she was about to deeply hurt them. Once she could not hide what she did any more, she would have to leave and lose them forever.

"I am tired, boys," she said, her own attempt at hedging. "Can we do this another time?"

Eralmir looked long at her before saying, "I am almost scared that another time you would find another way to put it off." His lips curled, the same way their father's lips would curl when he was trying to master strong emotion, and it brought a pang to her heart. "I want you away from Lassilenwë. I want you away from any covert operations. I want you away from the market. I want you away from all of it."

She could lie, to appease him, but he deserved more than that. Forcing herself to meet his eyes, she tried to give him what she could. "The time is coming when those who stand on the sidelines are going to become enablers. You know I have been there before, and I don't think I can go through that again."

"Would you rather be hurt?" Eralmir asked, desperation beginning to show in his raised tone, but she had had so many nights to ponder her answer to that question that it did not unnerve her like it would have before.

"What would you, brother?" she asked. "Would you rather destroy your body, or your soul? Would you have me destroy mine?"

"What do you mean?"

She swallowed, looked down at her bandaged palm, at her bruise, before looking back up at her brother. "If you believe what we have been taught--what the Elves have said, what Elros our first father believed so much in that he changed his fate and the fate of us all for--if you believe that death is Eru's gift and that our soul keeps on living free of the constraints of this mortal life--if you believe in any of it, you cannot knowingly do any lasting damage to your soul and put your freedom, your future, your very being in such jeopardy. You just can't."

Eralmir got up after that, began to pace. Emeldil let out a low whistle. Eranion scratched the back of his head.

"Lassilenwë does not appreciate your meddling," said Eralmir, rounding in on her, trying another tack.

"No."

"Then, why?" Eralmir asked, the expression on his face such a sweet mixture of befuddlement and annoyance that she had to smile. "Lassilenwë is a spoiled child, and I cannot believe that anybody would waste a breath trying to help her. I certainly wish you would not waste yours..."

"I can't just walk away from her, from what I know. From what I will become if I don't make a choice now." When three pairs of perplexed eyes focused on her, she grit her teeth, flapped her hands. "Don't you see it? How can I ever look at myself again if I walk away from her now? I promised myself--" here she stopped to swallow, her fists clenched so tightly that the gash on her palm split open and the wound began to bleed anew all over her bandage.

As one, all three of the boys sprang into action: Eranion rose to hold her by the shoulders and lead her to the water basin, with Emeldil pouring water onto her wound, and Eralmir waiting with soap, then a fresh towel. She bit her tears away so hard that she drew blood from her tongue. Oh, why was the choice so hard, if it was the right one? How she would miss them when the time came to go away! And the time would come. Today had shown her the helplessness of putting those she loved in danger, and it was a feeling that she did not care to experience ever again. Nor could she expect them to understand what force was driving her now, why even her love for them could not calm the need she felt.

After her wound had been re-dressed, Eranion fluffed the pillows behind her and had her lay down again, while Eralmir blew out her candle.

"She's had enough for today, boys," he said. "So have you, I suspect. Let us all go to sleep and talk this over tomorrow."

One by one they said their goodbyes and filed away, but Emeldil lingered at the door. Wanting him gone so she could vent her sorrow, she said, "Ask your question, Mel, and then we can both call it a day."

Her second brother hesitated for a mere second before saying, "I just want to know--what was she really looking for? Because it looked like she was wanting to hurt that old woman..."

It had, but she could not know for certain. It did not escape her that, should Lassilenwë hurt somebody while under her vigilance, it would fall on her head too. Sighing, she said, "She must think that someone from that house was involved in the attack on her sister's husband. I know she has been trying to trace the source. Or the motive, though I don't know how she expects to be able to do that."

"Why is she looking for a motive? If he is one of the Faithful, isn't that reason enough for him to be attacked?"

She had puzzled over the same thing for days, but Lassilenwë despised her--there was no way Elenwë could coerce her into revealing any of her intent. Which was precisely why she had to follow her closely whenever she had the chance, Elenwë's best attempt at figuring out what she was planning to do until she could think up a better way to find out what she needed in order to save her friend.

Emeldil clucked his tongue, in lieu of a sigh, she supposed, though it sounded far too interested for her comfort. "And she was seeking these answers from an old woman?"

"Old people see more than anyone else."

"Why, Wen? This is her half-sister who, from all we know, has been a thorn in her backside all her life."

"Why, indeed? Sometimes we all do crazy things."

"What questions is she asking? If she is right, by half, she is dealing with murderers and you can't just walk up to a murderer and ask him if, by chance, he was the one who happened to kill your family member."

She nodded, though she doubted that he could see under the dim light of the candle he carried.

"What are the questions, Elenwë?"

She closed her eyes. "What would your questions be, brother, were you in her place?"

He hesitated again, was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost some of its forcefulness. "The questions I would ask would not necessitate a trip anywhere." Then, "I am not sure that I believe she is merely asking questions and I want you away from her."

"That, I cannot promise to do."

A pause. Then, "I hope you'll think differently tomorrow morning."

He turned to leave, had his hand on the knob, but turned toward her once more. His face was cast in dark shadows under the single lamp he carried, but she saw enough to know that he had never leveled her with that sort of look, keen and demanding. The lump in her throat would not let her speak, so she raised an eyebrow in question.

Emeldil took his sweet time before finally asking, "What about Anárion?"

"What about him?" she asked back, more of a croak.

"Are you in cahoots with him?"

"You should know better than to even ask the question," she said, rising from the bed and moving to push the door closed but, when she did so, he was able to snatch hold of her forearm, which he turned around to take a better look at her bruised wrist, then up at her.

"This--" he said, giving her arm a gentle shake, "This is a man in despair."

Had Anárion been desperate to help her? To keep her safe? Ha! Rather, to keep his own secret safe!

"<I>That</I> is a careless man," she countered. "Anárion has never been desperate in his life."

"Don't wish that on him," he said. "It would be hard for Anárion to deal with that kind of emotion."

"Right. Good night, brother."

"So... Do you want him to be desperate?"

"Emeldil, I want him gone from our conversation!" she said, pushing on the door.

"So... You would help him if he asked?"

She grit her teeth. "Anárion would never ask! And, more than anything, he would never ask me."

"So... That means you want him to ask?"

She managed to push him out before she was obligated to find an answer to that.

***

Sleep had effectively fled her afterwards and she spent an awful night torn between pain in her hand, pain over what she had lost, pain at the memory of what she had done that day. Every moment of what they lived played itself in succession in her mind time and again, and no matter how many times she had to go through the same recollection, she was still at a loss as to what she could have done differently to help somebody, for once--could she have steered Lassilenwë out of danger? Could she have prevented her own wounded hand, or the flare up of pain in Anárion's injured knee? Had Anárion truly been worried for her safety, or was he protecting himself? And, from what? Why did she feel like it was important that she find out? And, what was she going to do about her brothers? How could she keep them out of trouble while staying true to herself? Why was she feeling such relief at her good fortune in averting the split she knew would happen between them--or a lie, or a confession--at the same time dreading anew the moment when any of those would come, the same way a skiff sailor wishes for waves and also fears them?

There was little purpose to remaining in bed, but she could not bring herself to face the day just yet. Erulaitalë was tomorrow. After tonight, the Númenor she knew would be divided into 'those who clung to the old traditions' and 'those who clung to the King.' Could one cling to both, keep her life, and not offend the Powers? Eralmir had gathered the whole household the moment the King's intent of forsaking the Prayers for Rómenna had been announced, and had warned everybody against outbursts of any kind.

"The King's beliefs," he had said, "have nothing to do with us, and as long as we don't cross him, we shall all be fine."

Elenwë herself was not so sure of that, but while she lived under Eralmir's roof she needed to comply with his wishes as best she could. She certainly did not know that the world would have much use for dead heroes, but was it right to lose one's honor to save a man's life? She knew of only one other person who would have found worth and even some humor in the debate, but he was now lost to her. Had she entertained any possible doubt (or any possible hope, as things go) his stilted behavior of that day had shown her that Anárion would never seek her friendship again. She had grieved that loss before, had believed herself done grieving. The incident at the market had shown her that she had merely fooled herself.

With these gloomy reflections she greeted the sun, and greeted the knock at her door. The sight of her nephew clambering onto her bed did put a smile on her face--it always did--and she let herself be cheered, hugged, and kissed. Lalriel, Eralmir's wife, followed behind, bringing with her a tray that she placed on the nightstand beside her bed.

"I hope you were able to sleep at least a little?" she asked, to which Elenwë only smiled. Lalriel gave her son a look and tilted her head in a question to Elenwë (Should she send Erassor away?) (No, let him be. This cheers <I>me</I> more than it does him). Lalriel took her seat by the bed then and watched as Erassor prattled on about the day ahead and the celebrations. Elenwë loved how Erassor could always lift her mood. With him, she did not have to worry about all the politics and diplomacy and dissembling that were fast crowding her world. Erassor needed nothing more from her but for her to be herself, and that was a priceless gift to give somebody. Today, however, he was veering into a topic that made her stiffen into a sudden panic.

"... and when Anárion comes tonight, I will show him all my boats and we will play together all night long! And..."

It was Elenwë's turn to look a question at Lalriel, who gave her a minute nod before covering her eyes with her hands.

"I know, I know, and I am so sorry..." she said. "Eralmir thought it his duty to thank Isildur and Anárion for their help yesterday, but he also thought that it might not be a bad thing to have some company tonight. The celebrations always begin at dusk, and he wishes for Amandil's counsel on what can still be observed and what we need to let go. They had agreed months before to each keep their families close at home, to avoid any trouble, but I think Eralmir... After what happened yesterday, I think he... He was up early sending a message to Haldor and is standing by the window, watching for Glandur's return with the reply."

"So early, Lalriel?" she asked. "Surely Eilinel and Haldor are still abed. Elendil and Elanya were not set to arrive until later today, from what Isildur said."

"That tells you how anxious he is," Lalriel said as she rubbed her son's leg, pausing to smile at her. "But, I know for a fact that they are not abed." Her smile widened as she produced an envelope and extended it to her.

"What is it?"

"Look! Elanya has sent you a message. I can only assume they have already arrived and are ready to go about their day if she had time to write and send this out. What does she say? Is she hoping to make a visit earlier than dinner?"

That was Lalriel's subtle way to ask what could Elanya possibly be writing to her. It puzzled them all how Anárion's mother could still reach out to her when Anárion and herself had such a difficult time even looking at each other, but Lalriel was very proper and she never asked any intrusive questions. Elenwë toyed with the envelope while she let Erassor regale her with a story of how the shipwrights all wanted the Prince Anárion to be their teacher, but she could only half-listen.

"Go on!" Lalriel said. "Open it!"

Elenwë smiled, a small smile that could not fool anybody. Whatever Elanya could be telling her so soon after her arrival could not be good news.

"You don't think she is going to tell you anything about Anárion, do you? She has too much sensibility for that."

No, it was not about Anárion. Elenwë wiped too-damp hands against her bedcovers and tore the seal open.

<I>The 20th day of Cermië, 3265

Dearest Elenwë,

I hope this finds you well since we have last been in each other's company. I beg your forgiveness in disturbing you so soon after daybreak, but I have brought a few samples of that lace we discussed. Would you be so kind as to come and give me your opinion? At your earliest convenience, please. I am desirous to see you and cannot be assured that we will have the opportunity once the festival begins.

Yours always,
Elanya

Blessings, etc.</I>

Elenwë stared at Elanya's usually graceful script that now looked hasty and jumbled, re-read the note a few times before lifting her eyes from the paper.

"Well?"

"She does not know."

"What doesn't she know?"

"She knows nothing about yesterday. She has not seen her sons yet."

"Does that bother you? Is that a bad thing?" Lalriel asked and, in an uncharacteristic outburst for her, added, "What did she want, then?"

What, indeed? Clearly it was a code for something else, though Elenwë could not really make it out. She pushed the bedcovers away, then hesitated before stepping off the bed, stopped to ruffle Erassor's hair.

"She wants me to come to see her."

Lalriel's eyes widened at that. "That's strange. She knows Anárion will probably come there too at some point during the morning and then he'd have to run into you, at his house... hmm... Do you want me to fetch her here, instead?"

"No!" She cried, belatedly realizing how her eagerness could be construed. She rubbed at her temples. "This must be about that project we have been engaged in--the workshop. I better come and see what she needs." She kissed Erassor's forehead and gave her sister's hand a quick squeeze before getting off the bed. What could possibly be the problem? She opened her armoire and ran her hand through the dresses there.

"Do you want me to send Vendethiel in to help you?" Lalriel asked. "It might be difficult to get dressed with a bandage on your hand?"

"Yes. No! I'll be all right if you will help me with my ties."

Lalriel gave her a puzzled look but soon sprung into motion. "Which dress do you want?"

"Oh, it does not matter."

"How can you say that?" her sister asked. "Two of the most eligible bachelors in the whole of Númenor will be seeing you in this getup. Surely--"

"Not you too!" Elenwë cried as she walked behind the screen and proceeded to get out of her nightgown. "Please, not you too. I have enough with my brothers teasing me about this all the time."

"You're right, and I am sorry. I just can't help myself, sometimes. You used to be so happy when Anárion--"

"Please. Here, could you help me lace up?"

Lalriel sighed and went behind the screen to help her with her chemise and other undergarments, with admonishments to her son to stay put on the other side.

"Is it too trying for you, Elenwë?" Lalriel asked as she worked on her ribbons. "We do this all the time, don't we? Visiting them, having them here for dinner so often... I am ashamed to think about it now; we should have been more mindful of your feelings. Why have you never said anything?"

At first, she did not know how to answer, so she kept working on adjusting the drawstrings at her chemise's neckline. Nobody had ever asked her how she felt, or what she thought, about her family's continued association with the one person with whom she could not get along.

"Would you say... the gray dress?" she asked, instead.

"It's too hot for gray."

"The light gray then." Their families got together often, and often Anárion was not there, and at those times it was as if nothing had ever happened. "The light gray with the gauzy underskirt?"

"Which is also gray?" Lalriel tsked. "Yesterday you were wearing your yellow dress and you looked so beautiful!"

"Only because Father liked that dress so much." She left the rest unsaid. Yesterday had been the anniversary of her father's birthday, and now she had probably ruined the dress with the blood stains.

"Love--you can do this. Your father would certainly be glad you are displaying your beauty to gladden those who look upon you. How about the light blue? Pink? Fern Green?"

"People are not gladdened by beauty," she said, "even if there were any to display. I look just like every other girl in Númenor--I have such ordinary features! But, what about the tan dress?"

"Oh, yes! That one accentuates your figure in a very fetching way."

"No. Fern green it is."

Lalriel laughed at that, which made the heat rise to Elenwë's cheeks.

"Hide it how you will: you <I>are</I> beautiful, and men can see through your facade of 'There's more to me than my looks.'"

"Well, there is! Or so I hope."

"Of course there is, but why must you have one and not the other?"

"Because men cannot get past one to discover the other. Now, help me put this on."

They worked in silence while Lalriel helped her into her gown. This one had a darker green underskirt that made her feel like she had gotten lost somewhere in the Emerië. It was lovely and, she had to admit to herself, sometimes she felt like she should not be wearing something so fine when so many people around her were in such deep trouble. Still, she let Lalriel help her and fuss to her heart's content.

"Perfect!" her sister declared when they were done, though her eyes lingered a very brief moment on her bruised and bandaged hands.

"Well, there's no hiding that now," Elenwë said, "and I am not going to change out of this, it was too much trouble to put it on in the first place. Maybe a shawl?"

"If it was too hot for the gray dress, it is definitely too hot for a shawl. You would look ridiculous." Lalriel then gave her a saucy smile. "Never you mind that. Let Anárion see what he did and find a way to make it up to you."

That stung her, though she could not say why. Her hands stilled over the embroidery in her bodice, and she took a deep breath. "Please, do not joke about it."

"What happened between you, Elenwë?" Lalriel slowly asked while she worked the ribbons at her back. "It is just so puzzling. One day you can read each other's very thoughts and the next--well, there's.... There's..."

"Nothing," Elenwë said, and left it at that.

"I know I have no right to ask you--"

"It's not that, Lalriel, it's just that-- well... having to talk and think about that part of my life brings it all back fresh, and I had hoped that at this point I would have reached some equanimity."

Lalriel was silent for a while, enough to make Elenwë feel grateful that it was all over. Not so. "I am not sure that you will ever reach the detachment you wish for," she said, though it was more of an uttered thought than anything else.

Elenwë imagined that a knife to the heart would feel much the same, then berated herself on the next breath for being so childish. The truth was that she could not contemplate what the rest of her life would be like if she never reached some sort of truce with her past, and the prospect was so painful that she willed herself to set it aside.

"Why is that?" she forced herself to ask, because she did not wish Lalriel to fret about having hurt her feelings. There was silence for a while, and Elenwë was beginning to think that Lalriel had not heard her. When her sister spoke again, it was still in that same dazed, soft murmur.

"And we don't make it better by throwing you into each other's company all the time..."
Lalriel then placed a hand on top of hers and squeezed it. In a louder, firmer voice, she said, "I am sorry for having caused you pain, sister, but I want you to know that I am here for you. I will talk to Lissilomë and change sitting arrangements, at least, so that you do not have to be beside him all evening long."

"No!" she cried, more forcefully than she had wished. After swallowing, she added, "This is the way we have done things since I was a little girl and, if we change it now, everybody will know it was my doing and I won't be able to bear the shame... Please, allow me to figure out my way through this. There was a time when I would have wished someone to come and save me from my suffering, but I have since understood that this is something I have to work out for myself."

"You are braver than I, Elenwë, and I greatly admire you for it."

Elenwë tried a small smile. "Will you be all right without my help while I go to see Elanya? I should be here helping you prepare for tonight instead."

"I should be convincing your brother to cancel the whole thing," Lalriel said with a lady-like snort. "Do you want me to?"

"Of course not," Elenwë replied, oddly grateful, as she gave her sister a kiss on the cheek. "If you would tell them that I went out for a spell, I will be back to help with whatever you need me to do."

"I won't make you do that."

"If you don't, they'll send me out front to wait for Amandil's party, and surely that will be much worse than preparing for their arrival. "

"I see. And this way you show off your domestic skills in the bargain."

"Oh, but you are so irreverent under that demure exterior," Elenwë said, and ducked at the cushion that Lalriel threw her way. Scooping Erassor up for a quick hug and kiss, she left for Elanya's house and for whatever awaited her there.

"Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot in sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never:
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into Hey nonny, nonny."
-William Shakespeare

"MY own heart let me have more pity on; let
Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
Charitable; not live this tormented mind
With this tormented mind tormenting yet.
I cast for comfort I can no more get
By groping round my comfortless, than blind
Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find
Thirst ’s all-in-all in all a world of wet."
-Gerard Manley Hopkins

It was not a long distance between her home and Anárion's grandparents, and she had walked the way so many times during her years that she could do it in the darkness of a new moon. Actually, she had, a couple of times, but that was neither here nor there. Her brothers would be furious when they realized she had ventured outside on her own during festival and truth was that, after what happened yesterday, she did feel an inkling of fear here for the first time in her life, but it had to be braved--she could hardly appear to a meeting with Elanya with her three brothers trailing behind her. Not to this kind of meeting, anyway. She hoped they would not give Lalriel any grief on her account.

This early in the morning the warblers were beginning to wake and fill the air with their sing-song cooing, and she was grateful because their song had always soothed her heart. The lane was still filled with the flowers' evening scent. She was too preoccupied to stop to play her favorite fragrance game, but she spared one look for the phlox and the clusters of jasmine and sweet peas that lined her way. She heard the gulls' squawking in the distance--the noise that would always mean home to her--above the murmur of the waves, and the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth at that ridiculous thought relaxed her clenched jaw. Oh, but she could have cried from the relief, she had not known she was so tense! She loved every bush, every leaf, every pebble, every petal, every critter, every noise in this lane. Was this the last time she would ever walk on it? The oddest misgiving had been growing in her heart that she would lose it all, though she was not sure what she would be losing it to. It was not just her home, or her family--the whole world was changing all around her. Her own world had keeled over a few times, but this was different, though she could not exactly put her finger on what this was.

Elenwë's nature was prone to look for cheerfulness, and light knew she had tried so hard to find cheerfulness despite her petty sorrows, but it was easier to feel ashamed at how readily she had given up even though her little problems were like grains of sand beside other people's mountains. As horribly as it had come about, her having a cause had woken her from herself and her misery. It would have been a nice tale to tell her nieces and nephews someday: When she understood how many women were left abandoned without any means to support themselves, she realized that something had to be done and it was within her power to do it. The truth was much different. She had to be compelled by tragedy knocking at her door to realize the women's plight and to purpose to do something about it. That Elanya had so thoroughly fallen in with her scheme was beyond anything even a wild imagination like hers could have conjured. Elenwë knew she should have prevented her friend from getting involved, but she understood that neither of them, alone, could have achieved anything. Together, however... Ah, together they were on the verge of opening the very first salon for women crafters in Númenor. One day they may even establish a guild! She expected opposition from all quarters, but she had to go on because those women needed her, and she had the financial means and the relative freedom that her unmarried status afforded to be their voice. After this she would have to resign herself to a life of solitude, and she believed she was reconciled with the idea. It would be easier to leave her home if she thought of how she would be helping Lalriel, upon whom she had so unfairly imposed all these years by remaining behind, a figure with whom to be compared and pitted against by every man or woman who made their living by working in their house. As for herself... well, no man would ever want her after what she was about to do, she would not deceive herself on that particular point, but this was larger than any man or woman. Entire families would benefit from this effort if she had the guts to see it through. If she had been born for something, anything, let it be for this!

But Elanya's letter had troubled her. They had agreed that the style of their correspondence needed to appear harmless enough that anyone who happened to see it could not discern anything of deeper meaning was going on behind the scenes. But, a request for evaluating some lace samples before breakfast could not fool even the most casual of observers. Was she in distress? Maybe she did not fully know what had happened at the market and wanted more information? But, why not get any answers she needed from her sons? And, if her sons were not available to be asked, then where were they? Had something happened to either of them on their way back home last night? Was this what Anárion had been fearing? Suddenly, it was very important that she reach that house at once, and she did not care whoever saw her running. The blisters on her feet made it unbearable to try to run as they rubbed on her slippers, so she took her slippers off and ran the rest of the way to Haldor and Eilinel's house. Stopping for a quick dip of her fingers and a wish for Anárion's safety--and Isildur's of course--at the fountain of the Lady of the Sea in the front garden, she ran the length of the courtyard in a short fifteen seconds (a new personal record) before knocking on the door. And, when Mithrennon opened to greet her, she found out, to her dismay, that everyone was--

"Gone?" she repeated his words back to him, a hand on her chest while she tried to catch her breath after her run. Mithrennon regarded her with surprise and a mild look of disapproval. "But she--the lady Elanya sent for me just a short while ago. Are they--are they... well?"

"As far as I know, my lady. Would you care to wait for their return?"

If they were all gone there could be no harm in her waiting alone though this was largely Anárion's house, she thought, and if anybody gave her any trouble she could always say she had been summoned. Mithrennon ushered her into Elanya's sitting-room, which was the sitting-room of her youth before her marriage to Elendil, an altogether fascinating place that had figured prominently in her fantasies when she was a little girl. Would she grow up to be the queen of her own sitting-room, much as Anárion's mother was a queen of hers? Would she teach any of her peers? or small children? entertain influential men and women? receive suitors? Would she save the world from her lofty position in her own sitting-room? Shaking her head at the memories, Elenwë thanked Mithrennon and sat to wait, as expected, though sitting was the farthest thing from her mind just then. How could she manage to stay put, still, when so many questions--so many fears--swirled in her mind over and over again? That unpleasant tickle in her stomach grew and grew until it became a very uncomfortable pressure under her rib cage that she had to stand to attempt to alleviate. When she sat back down, she chose a lovely hard-backed chair, carved with flowers and birds so life-like she would have had to look twice to make sure they were not alive, if she had not known the chair already. It had been a gift upon Elanya's coming-of-age, she remembered being told, though nobody ever spoke of who the giver had been. Elenwë had wondered why Elanya had not taken such a stunning present home to Andúnië with her, but Anárion had enlightened her on that particular with the same pragmatism that he bestowed upon everything else: should they be forced to entertain the King at any time, the chair would surely be remarked upon for its elven-like craftsmanship. It was more out of the way here, where the King or anybody else who could cause trouble for them was more unlikely to call. She still remembered how the fringe of soft, black hair had fallen over his eyes when he had bent his head to run his fingers over a particularly winsome blackbird. There it is! she thought, mimicking his movement as she gazed upon the beautiful bird.

Her mother had told her stories of how widely courted Elanya had been before she had married Elendil. Everybody's son, it seemed, had wanted to score her for his prize, but once Elendil got into the game very few people doubted that he would not win the girl in the end. Elendil had that same drive, that same single-minded focus that Anárion had inherited, her mother had said, and coupled with the otherworldly charm that he had passed on to Isildur, there was little for anybody else to do. From her own observations, it was very much obvious that Elendil was just as besotted with his wife as she was with him, and it was a favorite game for her to try and discover what had won the boy in the first place, though she had not had a lot of opportunity for observation now that she was more mature and skilled at reading people. What she liked best about Elanya was her firm kindness--how she never compromised, and still managed to do it with grace. Her disarming smile probably played a big role in that, for once Elanya smiled it was hard to resist falling in with her plans. That smile, and her ability to understand people at a glance, she had passed on to Anárion, never mind that he never thought of using those particular traits on her.

The torture of the next few hours would have been hard to describe. Everybody and their brother must have walked by the main road, visible from Elanya's left-hand window, and she watched them all go to the slow, painful ticking of the mantel clock. After the clock struck ten, Elenwë was ready to burst into a million anxious fragments. Leaning against the windowpane, she fought to control the nervous energy pulsing through her as she thought of what tomorrow would bring with it, or how today would end. If Anárion and his brother had been hurt in some way because of what they did to help her, she could never forgive herself. If fortune smiled upon them all and she had been worrying over them for nothing, she would count herself blessed, and worry about Númenor tomorrow. It still seemed unbelievable, unthinkable, that the whole island would rebel in such a way as they were about to do. They were not only abandoning the old celebrations but they were making new ones to replace them.

"Oh, but I have to do something!" She cried, pushing away from the window and surveying the room around her for something to do. Maybe Cook could use her help in the kitchen? Maybe there was a garden somewhere that needed weeding out? Splendid! And then she would miss Elanya's return altogether for being so out of the way. Surely there was something, somewhere, that she could do to get her mind off this miserable uncertainty! She looked through the shelves and stacks of books, hoping she could find something to organize, but the books were meticulously arranged and free of dust, as if somebody else used this space every day of the year. The thought occurred to her that she could make a catalogue for Elanya--she was good at making lists, and her handwriting was one of her best talents. Chiding herself for not thinking about it three hours earlier, she set to find some ink and paper. She had already sat on the desk, was about to dip her pen in the ink, when she thought better of it. How could she be so free with somebody else's supplies? Paper was expensive, and had not Anárion said he'd rather brave the market than pay for paper full price? If her extravagant ways sent him off into the market's danger, her conscience would give her no respite. No. She had to find something else to do. Looking around the room again, her eyes caught sight of a basket tucked into a corner behind one of the settees. Upon closer examination, they were clothes for mending. Elenwë returned to her favorite chair, fervently grateful for something that would occupy her, but she had not worked long before she felt her eyelids close.

***

The beach stretched before her. Not just any beach, but that particular stretch of shoreline in Andúnië where they always found those amazing pearls. The water was warm against her ankles and it beckoned to her--she felt so cold, so tired! Even hitching up her skirts to wade in deeper was a monumental effort, but she kept trying because, despite her fog-like state, she recognized that if she went further in with her full skirt on she may not be able to pull herself out. The water still beckoned. The clear surface let her see fully into the ground beneath, where colorful fish swam lazily about, and oysters clustered here and there. Suddenly she saw what she had been looking for: it was not an oyster, but a snail. Oh, if she could remember what it was called, but no matter! What was important was what the snail held inside. It was so close, maybe no wading was necessary! If she stretched just a little, maybe she could reach...

But she misjudged.

Water closed in on her, like a wall slamming against her body, pushing her downwards, herself powerless against such massive force. Now she knew despair! Moments stretched out in endless succession while she sank deeper and deeper and deeper into black oblivion and then, when she had all but given up, she felt a strong grip hold on to her fingertips, then her wrist, holding her tight, tighter, never letting go. She thought her wrist might snap in two, but what did that matter when she was being pulled out of the hole--

"Elendil!" was the first word Elenwë heard through her gasps. Soon, hands were clasping her shoulders forcefully, more words whispered around her that she did not really comprehend. A hand was pressed against her forehead, then the sides of her face.

"No fever," she heard.

"She must have been having a nightmare."

That other deep, masculine voice grabbed her out of the clutches of her dream and jarred her back into the present. Her eyes snapped open, but after the darkness of the water around her, of the hole she had been falling into, the light was too much to bear and she had to close them again. Desperation threatened to reclaim her when she tried to shield her gaze from the brightness and found she could not move her hands.

"Shhh," she heard, softly, against her ear. A gentle voice. A mother's voice. When was the last time that she had heard such a sweet sound? It was such delicious agony that a sob began to form in her throat, when the thought pierced through her consciousness that she had no mother and this beautiful, wonderful voice could not possibly be addressing her. That made her even more frantic for a connection, and she leaned in against the caress on her cheeks.

"Dear child, are you well?"

"Hmm?" she heard herself ask--not what she had been hoping to say. Where was she, and why was she here?

"Elenwë, darling, are you all right? I am sorry to have made you come all the way here. Had I known what you have been through, I would have come to you. After the chase at the market..."

The market! That was it, how could she let herself forget? With a final struggle she managed to release the hold on her arms and sit up straight against the chair. "Where is he?" she asked, the first thing that occurred to her to say. "Is he all right? He did not come back here last night, did he?"

"Who?"

The puzzled, yet commanding tone of that last question dispelled the last of her confusion, and when her eyes had focused once more she found Elendil looking straight at her. Elendil! Elendil, of all the people who could have happened upon her! Her face grew hot. What must he think of her, finding her asleep in his house, in his wife's own sitting-room, asking about his son like her whole life depended upon the answer! The whole episode was so mortifying that she briefly toyed with the idea of falling back asleep, or letting herself faint, but hysterics were never becoming and there was too much she needed to know to let herself be overcome just then. Clearing her throat, she pushed her back straight against the chair behind her, hands clasped in a knot against her stomach.

"I'm sorry." She was able to get that much past her throat, but nothing more. Right then what she needed was to think, but that was hard as she tried to steady the jumble of emotions that were pressing upon her. It had all been a dream, and she had awoken disoriented and confused, but what was real was that Anárion was missing and she needed to find out where he was. Her heartbeat was in her throat still, but she had enough wits left to seize upon the thought that Elendil and his wife would certainly not be wasting any time on her if either of their sons was in trouble or missing. Whatever had happened must have been resolved by now. Yes? Clearing her throat again, she tried, "You are... all... well...?"

"Never mind that, love, but are you well?" Elanya asked in turn. "You were moaning and thrashing about. I thought you must have been hurt."

"She was," said Elendil, holding her arm aloft, much as Emeldil had done the night before. "What is that wound there? And this bruise? Did you get these at the market?"

All she could do was nod, but that put a very grim line on Elendil's mouth that she did not like at all. Her gaze strayed to her hands, her wrist, felt a shudder pass through her when she recalled the darkness of her dream, the raw feeling of pure despair when she thought she was trapped forever.

"How did you get these?" Elendil asked again. "Has a physician looked at these for you, Elenwë?

She nodded her assent, but thought that she would rather cut her tongue than tell him how she came by the bruise.

"It might not be a bad idea to let Côfniben take a look at her," Elendil said, intent as he looked at her himself, then suddenly breaking contact and grunting, of all things. Anárion sometimes did that, when they were younger, but she noticed how he did that less and less as they grew older. She had never once heard Elendil grunt but, thankful nonetheless for the reprieve, Elenwë sank back against the chair, only to have that last register a heartbeat later.

"A physician? No, please!" she cried, leaning forward to seize upon Elendil to prevent him from humiliating her further which was, in turn, one of the most humiliating things she had ever done. Letting go of his sleeve at once, she leaned back against the chair, her strength spent after such a small struggle. What was wrong with her? Why was she so slow today? Why could she not think straight? Trying to calm her breathing enough so she could talk, she began, "I--I'm sorry; I sat here for a moment to wait for you and... I'm sorry, I must have fallen asleep."

"It must have been more than a moment," Elendil said, "Mithrennon says you came here soon after we left, and that was at breakfast."

"Have you had any food?" Elanya asked, the look she was directing at her troubled and a little frightened. "I am sorry you had to wait here by yourself when you could have been resting at home. I did not think, when I wrote to you, that I would have to leave in such a hurry."

"Yes!" Elenwë spoke aloud, too grateful they were finally discussing what was really important to check her eagerness. "As soon as I read your note, I knew you had not heard about the market, and when I got here and heard from Mithrennon that you were all gone, I knew something was wrong. It was late--too late--when we finally got home last night. I should have made Eralmir ask Isildur and--ask the boys to spend the night."

"It is a kind thought, though wholly unnecessary," Elendil said, standing to pace away from them. "The boys made it back to Anárion's place without a problem. It was what happened afterwards that made the whole mess."

"Mess?" she asked, without thinking. "What do you mean?"

A rueful chuckle was all she received by way of reply. Beside her, Elanya grunted in a way very reminiscent of her husband's.

"You must let it go, Elendil," she said, moving to face him, "if you want to get to the bottom of their quarrel. Getting angry will not endear you to either of them, and might make matters worse. I know it's hard; I feel like giving them each a good earful myself, but what will that do? They are grown men, and will have their reasons--"

"Their reasons?" he cried, fisting his hands. "I don't care what reasons they might have. A man does not fight his own brother, no matter what--"

"Fight his brother?" she asked, perplexed. "Anárion and Isildur would never fight each other--not really. Sure, they like to tease, to provoke each other sometimes, but it's always done in the spirit of fun. Are you... sure... that..." Here she trailed off, realizing that she had been on the verge of lecturing the heir to the throne of Andúnië on his own children, and felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Truth was, she could not imagine a world where Anárion and Isildur were at odds with each other. If enmity between them could grow, their decay was farther along than she had hoped. "But they are... all right?"

"As all right as can be expected," Elendil said, which did not tell her much except that he was done talking about it. His lips were pursed as he watched her from the window she had previously occupied, and his unblinking eyes were fixed on her with such intensity that she felt their force like a physical weight on her. Elendil was not known for his amiable disposition, but under his scrutiny she had that curious sensation that he did not find her irksome but amusing. How she could feel that way was beyond her, but that was, nonetheless, the sensation his stare evoked. It was a serious look, intent, not so much angry but assessing, with that hint of curiosity in it that made her rack her mind to discover what part of their interaction could have induced such feelings, but to no avail. Elanya's countenance was an interesting mixture of pity and caution, all traces of motherly concern suddenly erased while she momentarily slipped from her role as her friend into that of Anárion's mother.

It was mortifying to find herself thus observed by people she respected, and thankfully she found her voice in time to say, "I apologize for all the inconvenience. You are both busy right now, and I can come back later when you are free to send for me."

To her surprise, they both cried, "No!"

"We are not busy," said Elendil.

"You need a physician!" added Elanya.

"Please, don't," she pleaded, unsure if their wanting her to stay was a good or a bad thing, wondering wether her staying would help or hinder her from finding out what had happened between Anárion and Isildur, and feeling like she should have left the moment before the conversation began. "Last night my brother sent for--" but she was cut off by Elanya squeezing both her shoulders, giving her a minute shake of the head.

"I would feel much easier if we sent for the physician, Elendil, or a healer at the very least," she said, which sent Elendil out of the room in search for help. Elanya followed her husband's progress out of the room, enveloping her in a warm embrace the moment he had stepped out of her domain. As awkward as it was, Elenwë found herself returning the contact with abandon.

"I am so sorry that I sent for you like I did and then left you to fend for yourself. Are you well?"

"Well? Yes, I am well. Are you?"

"When I wrote to you my head was so full of what I had to tell you that I was quite oblivious to propriety and delicacy. I must have gotten you out of bed! But just as we sat for breakfast the messenger we had sent to bring the boys over returned with the story of your adventure at the market, and I had to see for myself that they were all right."

"Are they? As soon as I read your letter I knew you had not heard, and that made me wonder where they had gone--if they had been hurt--"

"Everyone is all right, though when we first got to Anárion's house he was not there..." She shook her head daintily, then tried a smile. "So you are well?"

"What do you mean he was not there?" Elenwë asked, feeling the panic rise as she went over every possible explanation in her mind. "He would never have left Isildur when he was just come home, something must have gone wrong!"

"They had some sort of altercation, but he returned just as we were setting out to look for him."

"This morning?" she asked. "You mean he was gone all night? Where to? Why?"

"I'm sure Elendil will pluck that out of the deepest recess of his heart sooner or later, but right now I could not tell you." The tough facade faltered for a moment to reveal worry lines around her eyes, around her mouth, that Elenwë had mistaken for smile creases in the past. Elanya rubbed that spot right between her eyes, while shaking her head. "He refuses to say where he went, but assures us that he was not in danger and feels bad that he left, and so on and so forth. You tell me whether he is repentant or is trying to throw dust over what he did."

"By fight, you don't mean that they hurt each other..."

"No, no, I don't think they would dare come to blows, though I did not think that they would dare walk off on each other."

"Did either of them say why?"

"No, and that's what's interesting," she said, biting the inside of her cheek for a moment before shaking her head again. "You can bet if Anárion had started it, Isildur would have let that slip by now, but he is keeping mum. You know Isildur would not keep that kind of detail to himself."

No, he would not, but what did that really tell them?

"Their protecting each other is a hopeful sign," she said, trying to sound hopeful herself.

"A sign of mutual necessity, if you ask me." Elanya sighed, and knelt beside her again, though she simply looked at her for a while, before asking, "Does Anárion normally do things like that? Go off? Walk away without saying where he is going?"

She felt like saying, All the time, but that was not what Elanya was asking. She finally decided to go with, "I could never tell you for sure. All I know is how he acts when I am around, and I could not say if that is how he normally behaves. I doubt it. I am different when he's around, too; it can't be helped, and I think we both agree about that. If you want to ask my brothers, they will probably have something more helpful to report."

Elanya's penetrating gaze unsettled her. It seemed to look inside into corners that she had not wanted to shed any light on, and Elenwë did not like how it made her feel. Elanya had never looked at her like that, and once more she had the feeling that the woman she trusted had gone and left her Anárion's mother--someone she had, astonishingly, avoided all these years. She made herself return the look, only because cowards are the only ones who look away, or liars, and she wanted Elanya to know that she was neither. Still, it was very difficult and the strain of it was making her head spin. And then Elanya squeezed her hand.

"He acts differently when I am around too, but he does not know it. Or does not know that I can tell." She sighed. "This fight with Isildur worries me. Anárion is always so self-possessed. Even when he was a child, he was always remarkably in control of his own reactions. I cannot imagine what Isildur could have said to him to push him over the edge like that, or what his purpose was in doing so. He was ashamed of his lapse, I could tell. Isildur was too, in his own way, but you know how he tries hard not to dwell on his mistakes for too long when he is embarrassed."

"Yes, that is one of the core differences between them," Elenwë said. "They never used to fight... Not like that. No younger brother could idolize his older brother more. Where would you have gone to look for him? He gets around all over this city... I suppose you could have started at the Guild?"

"That was the plan," Elanya said, her pursed lips telling Elenwë that she was still upset, "but thankfully he spared us the effort. He did not say anything about this bruise, or this..." she made to feel her bandage, but reconsidered at the last minute, which made Elenwë heave a small sigh of relief. The area was still tender.

"We had to fight our way out of the market," was all she gave by way of explanation. Elanya raised a brow (That had Isildur written all over it!) but, thankfully, said nothing else. "What about the lace?"

"Oh. You won't like it." Elanya looked around them and, seeing as they were still alone, she whispered, "Before I left Andúnië, I received word that some of the girls we had still not found shelters for had ran away. Nobody knows where they are, but I cannot shake the thought that they are coming here. They have not come to me--where else could they hope to go? Unless they have gone to Golasgan?"

"He has said nothing of it to me."

"Unless something else dreadful has happened and we are all in danger."

Elenwë felt her heart race, but forced herself to take a deep breath and steady her hands.

"Let us think it through," she said. "What could have happened? If they had been discovered, word of it would already be all over the island, and we have heard nothing so far."

"You are right, but where could they be?"

"If they set out to come here on foot it will take them a while."

"These are women with children that will also need food. We are not physically prepared to house anybody else, and most certainly not here! But, more importantly, can it be done? This takes our plan to a whole new level that I am not certain we are prepared to explore. On the other hand, can we really abandon these women?"

Elenwë felt herself tremble. They were already traitors to the crown but, in far Andúnië, they ran less of a risk of being caught. For those women to be homeless meant there had been a charge of treason placed upon their husbands or guardians, or on themselves, though women were still unlikely to be under harsh surveillance yet--how would that change if anybody knew what Elanya and herself were doing! These women were in hiding from the king. If they did not provide help, the women would die. If they provided help, they themselves would be in danger of being found out and executed.

Elanya clasped her hands. "I feel as you do, and I have no answer, either. I sent word to Golasgan before I left. That way, the messages would come from the usual channel and less likely to be suspect, though they will take longer to reach him."

"Does Elendil know?"

"Not all of it." Elanya closed her eyes for a quick moment. "I do not want him to ever be found guilty if he should be questioned. I could not do that to him."

"But you will destroy him just as well if anything should happen to you! You cannot hide this from him, Elanya. How will you keep it up? Think about that. You will have to go on lying and lying to cover yourself up, until he will no longer trust you." Elenwë moistened her lips. "I think you need to tell him. The sooner you do, the better."

"How? How do I tell him that things have gotten so far out of hand? He'll make me step away, and I believe in what we are doing."

"I do too, but--"

The door opened again, but this time a voice that she knew as well as her own drifted inside, arresting every one of her senses. She stood, or rather jumped out of her chair, only to find his eyes already fixed on her. That was enough to root her to the spot, left alone to endure the weight of his gaze, of his judgement.

"What are you doing here?" he asked from the threshold, his commanding presence suddenly making the room feel very small and crowded. Elenwë knew she should have looked away from him, but she could not. She was not sure what she was hoping to find, but seeing the genuine surprise register on his face at finding her in his house for the first time in years helped settle her nerves a little.

"Anárion!" Elanya cried, looking from her son to her, then back at him. "I think you need not be asking those questions of my guests in my own home. You still have some explaining to do yourself."

He had the decency to blush, though his blushes usually did not signal sheepishness. He did, however, lower his eyes when he next looked at his mother.

"Forgive me, Mother," he said. "I was not expecting... I thought you would be alone."

"I sent for Elenwë to show her some pieces for a new project we have been working on together. She was telling me about... yesterday."

"What part of yesterday? When she risked herself on a fool's errand? When she got hurt? When I got hurt?"

Her astonishment at his bringing all those private details out into the open must have shown on her face somehow, because his lips compressed into a very thin line, and she could see he was biting the inside of his cheek. Taking a step in, he asked, "What part of yesterday?"

She felt her hands clasp the armrests as she returned his look stare for stare. "I did not come here to talk about you. I came because of... of a... a project--"

"The mystery project..." he said with that tilt of the head that always conveyed suspicion from him, and something new that she could not place--disbelief? Disdain? Anger? Frustration? It alarmed her. Where had he heard anything about her workshop? Could her brothers have betrayed her to him? To anybody else? "What have you to talk with my mother about any of that?"

Elanya's jaw dropped at his tone. "Son, I may entertain whomever I wish on my own. I do not need your opinion, nor your permission."

"I know that, Mother," he said, looking at Elanya briefly, his gaze softening for a moment, before turning all his compelling force on her again. "I want her to tell me why she is here."

Elanya was about to protest, but Elenwë lifted her palm to forestall her, squared her shoulders before saying, without taking her eyes off him, "He is concerned because he thinks our persecution at the market yesterday may have had something to do with me, and he does not want any of you embroiled in that type of risk."

"Did it, Elenwë?"

The way her heart thudded at the sound of her name in his voice should have been shameful, but her wits deserted her and she could not think clearly enough to feel the sting. She had not heard Anárion say her name since that last day they had fought in her grandfather's garden, when he had come to tell her he was leaving with the navy, and she was utterly unprepared for the wave of homesickness, of sadness, of longing that enveloped her whole at the sound. It was such a concrete, physical manifestation that she clutched at the air and had to sit, all the while hating herself for being such a weakling. Hands pressed fast against her stomach for strength, she made herself look up at him again while delivering the little speech she had prepared in case anybody wanted more details about her activities: "I would think you, of all people, would know that the king needs no excuse to persecute others--all he needs is a craving. Were those men following me? I could not know; but, do I have any one thing that the king could possibly desire? I doubt it. I'm the fourth in my house, the least in my father's line of succession, and a woman at that. When the world looks at me, they see nothing. If those men were following me, I suppose I should probably feel flattered rather than terrified."

The little attempt at humor at the end was lost on Anárion. She had watched the progression of emotions play upon his face while she was talking, from expectancy through pity through rage through disbelief, and other things she could not name that made his presence utterly overpowering and his eyes pierce her to her core. The force of his personality and whatever strong emotion he was conveying to her was such that she felt herself tremble. She had always felt perfectly at ease with Anárion, like she belonged wherever he was. This man before her now was different, new, in many ways unknown to her, and that frightened her.

"Surely you don't mean that," he said, taking two steps closer to her. "Those men could have killed you. They had it within their power to do so and, if they were after you and they did not do it, the only possible reason is that they need something from you that they can only get with you alive. What is it, Elenwë?

She was little better prepared for it this time, but at least the yearning did not take her by surprise and she was able to face him without flinching. He was doing that on purpose, and how she hated him for it! Well, she'd just have to remind him that she could fight too, and let him see how he liked it. It would be hard, but she saw no other way; there would be plenty of time later to berate herself.

"What if they were not there for me?" she asked. Elenwë could tell the exact moment her arrow hit the target because his demeanor transformed completely and the mask slipped on once again, that invisible wall of aloofness that he carried with him wherever he went, that he always put up between them. Once again, she was unprepared for it to hurt her, but oh, how it hurt. There was no way out but to continue the way she had began. "I see I've struck a nerve." She could almost touch the distance between them now. It would get worse. "Now you tell me, Anárion, why those men were there at the market. How was it you knew where to go, and how to hide?" The sudden, almost imperceptible widening of Anárion's eyes at that last, the way they flicked quickly to his mother and back at herself was meant to tell her something, though she could not precisely understand what it was. Later, she would not be able to say wether it was force of habit, or something else, but she stopped--all the strategy she had devised to make him let off her at the wake of his own secrets died out right there under the weight of his stare, of his silent pleading. She always let Anárion win. She was a fool, and a coward.

Suddenly, she could not stay there any more. "Elanya, I will think about what you showed me," she said, rising to leave, fumbling for,the right words and hoping Elanya would understand. "Please, let me think about it. I can take care of it. Just wait before ordering any samples."

She averted her gaze so she would not have to look at Elanya's puzzled, pleading countenance, and walked past both her and her son, only to collide with Isildur at the door.

"Whoa! What did I miss?" He asked, palms up, legs spread out to block her exit. She saw his eyes travel to his brother, then his mother, eyebrow raised as if to ask them what he should do next.

"Nothing," she said, "I am on my way home."

"She was waiting for the physician," Elanya added, but Elenwë shook her head.

"If you would please grant me this one wish, I really must get home now."

"I will take her." That came from both brothers at once, and Elenwë could not help but turn to Anárion. He would not have offered any such outrageous favor to her. Something was wrong.

"You have other things to do here, brother," Isildur said, in time that he reached for her hand--the bruised one--and placed it on his own forearm, linking them both together for the journey home. Her astonishment was complete when Anárion walked to his brother, a mere pace away from herself, and put his hand on Isildur's shoulder.

"I recall Grandfather wanted you to look at some of his books."

"You have a better head for numbers than I do."

"Not his finances, his maritime logs."

"Certainly!" Isildur said, removing Anárion's hand and leading them both away, "I will look at every single book he puts in front of me, as soon as I get back. Oh, and before dinner; remember we are expected at Elenwë's for supper! You left in such a hurry last night that I could not ascertain if you had heard."

"Isildur?" she heard Elanya call behind them, but Isildur kept on going.

"I will be right back, Mother. Elenwë's is not very far."

As flaming hot as Elenwë's face and neck felt, she risked one last glance behind her. Anárion stood, fists clenched, lips pressed into a thin line that matched his narrowed, unblinking eyes rather well, as he watched them walk away.

***

"Why did you do that?" Elenwë asked Isildur as soon as they were out of the room, but he shushed her and walked faster, leading them toward the back door that overlooked Eilinel's herb garden. "And why are we here?"

"Because it takes longer to get to your house this way, of course. Unless you also fancy some mint, or perhaps a little tarragon?"

"What foolishness are you talking about?" She asked, trying to pull her arm off Isildur's hold, but Isildur held fast. "And why are you holding me like this?"

"I need to talk to you. I promise I'll let go if you promise you will listen to what I have to say."

"Right now?"

"Well," he said, a slow smile drawing itself on his face, "I have to confess that I also wanted to see what Anárion would do."

"That was not very smart," she said, not bothering to disguise her unladylike snort. "You know your brother's work ethic is compulsive; you should have stayed and done your chores like you were expected to do."

Isildur's bark of laughter bothered her quite a lot. "Do you think work is what all that was about?" he asked.

"Maybe he is still angry with you about last night. What could have possessed you to argue with your brother? As bad a day as we all had yesterday, you should have tried harder to keep him safe at home."

"Do you think it was my doing that he left?"

"Well, who else's? Look," she said, trying to pull her hand free again. "I have enough trouble with your brother as it is for you to be making more for me and, I am telling you, if you do not release me at once, I swear I will scream."

Isildur then let go with yet another laugh. "I suppose I should listen to you, he'd come to help you in a heartbeat, and then my whole purpose in bringing you here would be thwarted. I did not know that about him."

"Of course he would not come, but Mithrennon or somebody else would hear and bring your mother."

"He would come," Isildur said. "You didn't see his face when we left him standing there? But, I have no desire to quarrel with you. Instead, I have a proposal."

That gave her pause. "What kind of proposal? And why me? The last time you proposed something to me I ended up gutting fish for three whole days. Believe me, it is not an experience I care to repeat. Sometimes I can still smell the fish in my fingers."

Isildur laughed again. "You were so good at it, too! That little episode taught me that you are a woman of your word, more stubborn than weed, and that you absolutely won't give up. All qualities I need in the person who will help me now."

"Help you with what?"

"I need to find out what Anárion is hiding."

It was said in such a nonchalant way that it took Elenwë a few moments to realize that he was, indeed, serious.

"He is hiding something, isn't he?" she asked, forgetting for a moment that she should not be interested, and that she should not be giving that kind of fodder to Anárion's brother. "It's not just yesterday at the market. Have you never wondered why he stopped coming to the meetings at the public square? All meetings--he does not even come to town assemblies any more. And I know that Eilinel got help from Lalriel to plant a small garden for him: chamomile, licorice, ginger, peppermint--and he even got a goat!"

"Yes, I saw the goat last night. How did you know? I thought that Lalriel had been sworn to secrecy."

"Eranion," she whispered. Placing her hands on her cheeks to hide the blush that would surely be there. "Something is worsening his heartburn."

"Yes..." he said, rubbing an eyebrow. "Yes. I can't let this go on any more. Will you help me?"

"Why me?"

"Because you know him better than anybody else."

"Not anymore," she said, shaking her head, dropping the handful of rosemary she had been fingering and plopping down onto one of the small benches Eilinel had placed to either side of the path. "If I ever knew him... Sometimes I think that was... an illusion."

"You may say whatever you want, but you could always tell what he was thinking just by looking at him. You still can. I know that, deep inside, you know there's something wrong with him, and it bothers you."

"It bothers everybody, but what can be done? He has closed that door. There is nothing for me to do."

"Because you are too proud to try and soften his heart, but if anybody were to do it, it would only be you."

She snorted again. "This is painful for me, Isildur." She rose and shook her skirts. "You'll have to find somebody else."

"There's nobody else, Elenwë," he said, rising, taking her hands in his, the closest she had ever seen Isildur to pleading. "Did you know that he has no food in his house besides that stupid goat? His garden is in shambles because his gardener took his family and left. He is completely alone there."

"Meldiron would never leave Anárion."

"He did, I'm telling you. Wait-- did you know Meldiron?"

"I have met him before. They have that darling little girl."

"Well, he is gone. To the Hyarrostar."

"So you mean to say that Anárion has nobody to cook for him, or make sure that he sleeps and has clean clothes? He has no time for my of that, he arrives at the shipwrights' at dawn and does not leave until there is no more light to work." Isildur's smile widened to a grin that filled almost all of his face and she added, rather belatedly, "Or so I've been told."

"Who would have known?" he asked, that insufferably smug expression on his perfectly-sculpted face. "It sounds like you have begun to spy on him already."

"I would never spy, and certainly not on your brother! You forget," she added, pacing away from him, "that my brothers are in contact with him all the time. Not to mention that I have to hear about his various exploits from every single woman I encounter in the city. He is quite popular around these parts."

"I knew it bothered you," he said, crossing arms over his chest. "Try to deny it."

"It does bother me! I would be quite happy if I did not have to hear about something or other he did at least twice every day. Since he worked that little improvement on the city's irrigation, I even have to suffer the servants singing his praises."

"Say you'll help me."

"I can't, Isildur. How do you propose I find out what you are looking for? Do you think your brother will just confess everything to me? He does not want my meddling."

"That is the least worrisome part of it. Will you help me?"

"Your brother and I cannot be friends."

"I beg to differ. That bruise you've got there..."

That was the last straw. She let out a small scream--that shamed her later, but she could not help herself--and turned in on him by the potted oregano. "Why--?" she began, coming back until she was level with him, "why does everyone insist on bringing that up? He obviously does not know his own strength. The most logical explanation is that he hurt me because he was careless, or maybe even because he wanted to!"

"You know Anárion would never hurt a woman. And he would sooner hurt himself rather than hurt you. Was it not enough to see him risk everything to get you out of that market? That place where he had us hide... That place is part of it, and he was willing to expose himself for you. Is that not proof enough that he cares? But, if you want more, how about what he just did back there?" he asked, gesturing back towards the house with his head. "He was angry with me, because I took you away."

"He was angry with you already."

"That was your doing, too," he said, in a sort of slow drawl that spoke more of manipulation than reluctance.

"What do you mean?" she asked, taking a step back, suddenly eager to put distance between them. Perhaps she had invited his acrimony, but the way he said it put her on her guard. Feeling ashamed for backing down from him, she put her best, bravest face on before asking, "How am I to blame for your disagreements with your brother?"

Then he showed her exactly why the world could be fooled into thinking he was the more decisive of the two brothers. Closing the distance she had created, he took hold of her chin and tipped it so she would look straight up at him. He was as gentle as if he had been touching a flower, and she knew that any other girl on the island could have swooned at the gesture, but she hated how he thought he could take that much from her, and do so without her leave. He released her not a moment after he had command of her gaze and her attention but, to her mind, it was a moment too late. He sent her a smile to show her he knew what she was thinking, and that irritated her even more.

"What do you want, Isildur?" she made herself ask to prove to him, to herself, that she could not be cowed. "Say it now before you waste any more of my time, or yours. You are not going to tell me what you and your brother quarreled about, and I am not going to give you the pleasure of begging you to do so."

He laughed! But gave her what she wanted. "He wants me to tell him what I know about your enterprise in Andúnië, and I almost did."

"There's nothing to tell," she said, perhaps too quickly, but she made herself lift her chin to go on. "Everybody will find out, eventually, but I hoped at least to have things in place by the time they did."

"I said I almost told him."

She knew what he expected her to say and, seeing no way out, asked, "What stopped you?"

"You did." He paused, long enough to attempt a smile that she did not return. "When I saw that the knowledge gave me leverage with him, I thought it best hidden from him. For now."

"I would slap you right here," she said, splaying hands against her hips to keep from fisting her palms and bleeding all over Eilinel's garden, in front of Isildur. "I should do it! But I remember you used to have some decency about you, and in honor of that memory I will forget everything you just said. And because I care for your mother. Don't get too far ahead of yourself: you very well know your brother was probably trying to find the chance to talk to me and to berate me for my foolishness in endangering everybody else. I'm sure he wants to question me regarding my involvement with your mother."

"Yes, that's the rest of it."

"Well, there is nothing to say. Your mother will happily tell you what we are doing herself, if you would just ask: we want to create a place where helpless women can earn a living."

"That is beautiful, except helpless women are everywhere and you are setting yourselves up to get mobbed. No," he said, after a pause where she felt herself thoroughly laid bare under his scrutinizing gaze, "that is not it. But, you let me puzzle out my mother. It is Anárion I want you to figure out."

"I told you already: your brother and I are no longer friends."

"I'm not asking you to be his friend," he said. "I want you to find out what he is hiding."

"Why would I do that, Isildur?"

"Because you have secrets of your own that you do not wish known," he said, pointing the way toward the path out of his house and waiting for her to begin walking.

"That's why they are called secrets," she said as she passed him, but could not help feel a stirring of alarm. She had heard that tone before. Isildur generally portrayed himself as being self-absorbed and uncaring, but she knew better than to believe that. And, when he used that tone, he could be as single-minded and relentless as his brother. She would have to tell Elanya they needed to guard themselves against his interest.

"You know it is only a matter of time before I find out."

"Is that a wager?" she lashed out at him in her anger, but had to check herself at the expression of pity in his eyes that took her by surprise.

"A logical conclusion. As unfair as it is, women on their own cannot keep these sort of secrets for long: you need money, resources, contacts, henchmen to help you enforce discipline, none of which you currently have; nor are you in a position to find any of that on your own without giving yourself away. Look," he said, stopping, lowering his head in a show of contrition that was not the norm with him, "I deserve your slap, and I will happily let you indulge if it turns out I am wrong. But if I happen to be right, and you really could use my help, I can help you, if you will help me figure out Anárion."

She resumed the walk, eager to escape his gaze. "If you think you'd be so good at figuring out my secrets, why can't you use your talents on your brother?"

The smile he gave her was so heartbreaking that she got distracted, skipped a step, and had to accept his support.

"I am sorry for being so insolent, Elenwë, but I don't know what else to do! He's pushed me away too and, for the life of me, I can't break through that wall he's built." Without thinking, she gave his hand a squeeze. Didn't she know what that felt like? "But when he looks at you I can see emotion there that I don't normally see in his eyes. If there's anybody who could rouse him, it is you. I saw it today. I saw it yesterday. You saw it too. Please, say that you will help me. I will do all I can to help you on your quest if you help me out on mine."

Elenwë stopped walking, looked ahead toward the oaks that lined the path, upward toward the sky were light filtered through the canopy in dappled beams. Knowing what she knew she would be facing, could she really afford to let Isildur's offer pass? What would Elanya think? Would Isildur really help her? She had never known him to willfully deceive anybody, but she knew that he was cunning and could certainly find ways to twist his words so he would not have to do exactly as he had promised if that suited him better. Without thinking, her hand reached to pull her absent chain that she always kept tucked under her chemise. Isildur's smug expression when he discovered what she had done was beyond enduring, and she was forced to cover the movement by reaching for that errant strand of hair that had always plagued her by escaping its confines, to twist it like a silly flirt. Birdsong was all around her, the wind whispered answers that she could not understand, and her hands felt clammy and cold. What would it take to discover Anárion's secret? How close would she have to get? Could she risk herself in such a way again? She did not think she could survive another wound like that other one.

"I need some time to think about this," she finally said, feeling disgusted that just a few years ago she would not even have contemplated that sort of betrayal. "And, should I agree, I would need an advance from you. Just so I know you will hold to your word."

"I always hold to my word, but how will I know that you will hold to yours and carry things through to the end? No advance, darling," he said, but she did not miss that look of pity he gave her before he added, "but I know that, if you put your mind to it, you will think of something to give me that we can begin to work on. Do that, and you shall have what you want. Don't wait too long."

For the first time, she wondered if there was a biological reason why the sons of Elendil were so good at overcoming her defenses, or if it was her own weakness that made her a good prey. She could not come up with a good answer.

"away from you
i feel a great emptiness
a gnawing loneliness

with you
 i get that reassuring feeling
of wanting to escape"
-Roger McGough

Before yesterday, the last time he had been face to face with Elenwë he had walked away. Now Anárion knew what it was like to be the one left behind, and he did not care to taste that particular dish again. Time to move along, he thought, before I make a fool of myself. The problem was that he had thought those thoughts before and still here he was, like a hovering fly that buzzes endlessly in a circle without making up its mind. That made him angry with himself, with the world, and with Elenwë most of all.

He was aware of his mother sweeping past him out the door to follow Isildur, was aware of her returning, but it was not until her hands cupped his face--like she used to do when he was a boy--that he snapped out of his lethargy and was able to focus on her. For a long time she said nothing, just stood there looking at him like she had never seen him before. It was a bewildering look, coming from his own mother, and just when it was beginning to turn annoying, she said, "Now you know what insolence looks like. And it's ugly. I raised you both better than that."

"I have apologized, but I will do it again just for you: I am sorry, Mother. Believe me, I feel my blunder. I know I should not have left last night like I did."

"There's apologizing. And there's apologizing. Which one did you do? Somehow, I am not sure you are as contrite as you would have me believe."

"Tell me how you want me to show you," he said, "and I will do it."

"I want to know what is happening, Anárion."

"So do I. Tell Isildur he'd do well to stop playing games. Mayhap he will listen to you."

"Love," his mother said, that one word breaking through his defenses and making him lean into her touch, "your brother would never knowingly hurt you. You know that. I also know that you are not easily provoked, especially by Isildur's antics; you know him much too well for that. What did he do to rise your anger? Whatever he did--is it nothing that can't be overcome?"

"What is she hiding, Mother?" he asked in turn, surprised to find himself so tired, of a sudden, and afraid. "You know what it is, don't you? Has she confided in you? Are you a part of it?"

Elanya kissed his forehead. "Why would you assume people are hiding things? Is it because you are hiding things yourself?"

That broke any illusion of respite he could have felt. The way everybody around him reminded him of his own secrets was the biggest barrier he faced for finding out the truths he needed. He left his mother's embrace and paced to the window, where Elenwë and Isildur could not even be seen.

"The King's men are ruthless, Mother. They would not care that you are a woman, nor would they care that you are Elendil's wife, and a high lady in your own right. And you must know by now that Elenwë is as stubborn as they come. She has it in her head that she is the one most suited to take all gambles because she has no parents and no family of her own who need her. If there is any risk involved, she will take it upon herself, and they will hurt her. They are cruel and vicious. They would have a festival with Elenwë as their prize."

He saw his mother shudder at the crudity, and was sensible enough to stop talking and turn away.

"We are all at risk now, Anárion, in one way or another."

"But you don't have to be. Let it go. Let me fix it. If you care for me, Mother, I beg you to stop. Whatever it is you are doing, whatever you are planning to do, I will take care of it for you--no matter what it takes--but, please--"

"Love--" she began, but was interrupted by his father, just arrived with Côfniben, who happened to also be the physician Eralmir had summoned to see Elenwë the night before.

"She just left," his mother said by way of greeting but, at Côfniben's puzzled look, added, "You are not here for Elenwë?"

"I saw Elenwë last night." Then, sketching a quick bow to Anárion, Côfniben said, "Your grandfather wanted me to look at you, boys. Where is Isildur?"

"He will be here shortly," his mother hastened to put in before he had had a chance to speak at all, "but what a great idea. This way, if you please. Anárion has a slight limp--I would rest easier if you were to take a look at his leg."

Côfniben's lips curled in a small, wry smile as he raised his eyebrows to look up at him. He knew what his mother was doing, no doubt, but still humored her; everyone always humored Elanya. He had him sit on that one carved chair Elenwë had just occupied, knelt beside him, and began his examination in the same way he had also examined her the previous night.

"Had I known you were also hurt, I would have looked at this when I was at Eralmir's," Côfniben said.

"I have no new injuries. My old wound is acting up again, no need to make more of it than it is."

"Due to all the excitement, I'm sure. But, I will not let you say that a knee injury is a small matter. If you did anything to aggravate it, you probably should take things easy for the next few days." Here he stopped and glanced up at him in that odd way of his, eyebrows raised, gaze almost cross-eyed, while his mouth did that crooked smile that was not quite amused, but not quite annoyed either. "Are you still doing your exercises?"

"Faithfully. Every morning."

Here Côfniben actually snorted. The cheek! "Faithfully, to you, means... say, every three months?"

"Not anymore. I am quite interested in keeping the use of my leg, thank you very much."

"Praise be--" He coughed to cover up the lapse. "You will need something cold on it. How can we manage that?"

This sent his father out again, intent on fetching him some ice from the ice house, while his mother went out to find a servant to prepare his room for him.

"I can't rest right now, Côfniben," he said, when they were alone.

"I can tell you are wound tighter than a fiddle string, but you have to try. You'll be no good to anybody if you don't care for yourself properly."

"We are talking about the festival, here. I can't just miss."

"And the fact that your--" another cough, "that the lady seems to have been targeted has nothing to do with your reluctance?"

That last made Anárion jump, a reflex act, but he still managed to kick his friend, the physician, on the shin. His mother was just walking back in and witnessed the whole scene, fretted about him hurting his leg anew, then about him hurting the physician who had come to help them. He fell back on his chair and let her fuss, focusing his efforts on the pain in his knee to try and cool off his flushed face. Côfniben, on the other hand, began to laugh.

"Pardon me, my lady, I-- I don't think I have ever seen Anárion-- But, no matter. For now, all we can do is try to alleviate the discomfort until the inflammation goes away. This is a chronic situation for him, I'm afraid, but it can be kept under control, if he is careful."

"Did you hear that, Love?" his mother asked, adding love to sweeten the sternness of her usually gentle voice. To Côfniben, she said, "Easier said than done, but I will do my best to try and reason with him."

His father returned and, of course, had to hear all the particulars again. Still, no Isildur. His mother sent for refreshments and had the ice brought to him while they sat in her sitting-room--a small mercy--then plied Côfniben with all sorts of questions about such mundane topics that Anárion was forced to conclude she was stalling. Even still, no Isildur.

When they had exhausted the weather, the upcoming tides, the festival preparations, and festival memories of when they were children, Côfniben rose to pack his instruments.

"Are you sure you have had enough to eat?" his mother asked, a hint of desperation in her tone. "You have yet to taste the sweet cakes with spice--"

"I am grateful, my lady," Côfniben said, "but I must go now. Did you say you had wanted me to see Elenwë?"

"When I found you on the grounds this morning," Elendil said, "I was actually on my way to your house. Elenwë had come and we found out her hands had been injured."

"Yes, I looked at them last night. Her hands, and a thin scar behind her neck." Anárion's reflex kicked in again at that, and he dropped the ice on his mother's southern rug. The block shattered into hundreds of pieces, and created a new commotion that he had no interest in suffering through.

As his parents tried to retrieve the ice fragments and wipe off the damage before the water soaked through the wool and then the rug had to be taken outside to dry, he pulled Côfniben aside to say, "I had not noticed that."

Côfniben was puzzled for a moment before he comprehended what Anárion was really saying. "Nor had she," he said, "and I would not have seen it if I had not conducted a thorough examination, as is my custom. The wound itself is quite thin; it may sting until the skin heals properly, but she did not seem bothered by it last night, and... I left it at that."

"What does that mean?"

Côfniben's amiable look turned serious of a sudden. "Another half inch down and she could have bled to death on the street." That stopped Anárion's heart for a heartbeat or two. "I did not tell her that, and I hope you won't either."

"I never tell her anything," he managed to push past his dry throat. "That is--we don't really talk that much."

"You didn't before. But now?"

"Now?"

"After all that's happened?"

"After all that's happened, there is less of a chance for us to ever have to talk again, if it can be helped."

"And who decides that?"

Anárion could not answer, but that gave his parents a chance to finish cleaning and insert themselves into their conversation. He had to hear all over again about how Elenwë came by the gash in her hand, with its exact measurements and the anticipated time of recovery, but he learned something new he did not like.

"I am not sure that she really understands the importance of rest in her situation," said Côfniben as he finally closed his bag and slung it on to his shoulder, "but hands are some of the most delicate structures to heal and she could have consequences if she is not mindful of her care."

Anárion followed him out and intercepted him just before he had set foot on the staircase. "What do you mean by that? You never said anything like that to me of my knee."

"That's because your knee is not a hand."

"I know that! What consequences?"

Côfniben pulled his bag off his shoulder and set it beside him on the ground, then extended his palm in front of him and looked up to meet his eyes. "Hands perform very specialized work that requires great skill and very fine motor development. She still can move her fingers, which is a small cause for celebration, but we simply cannot predict what kind of sensation she will have after the wound has had the chance to heal itself. Flexing fingers is good enough for most everyday tasks, though she could experience some discomfort, on occasion, most of the time, we cannot know yet. But, will she be able to perform some of the more intricate movements? I know she likes to weave and knit, she likes to write. Those are very repetitive movements that could, potentially, be complicated to perform depending on how she heals. It's, simply, too soon to tell."

"Do you mean to say that this wound could give her trouble for the rest of her life?"

"All I am saying is that she needs to keep her rest so that the wound can heal properly, and then we'll see."

"What about her other hand--the bruise?"

"That was quite the bruise. How did she get it?"

He hesitated for a moment before saying, "I did it."

Instead of the disapproval he thought he would see in Côfniben's face, he saw a very small, very relieved smile. "I am glad you thought you could trust me with that," he said.

"How did you know it was me?"

"By the way you hovered over us until I had eased your conscience and pronounced it not a serious problem."

"Were you being truthful? Or, did you say that for my sake?"

"When have you known me to be untruthful? She'll be all right, Anárion. The bruise will heal. But you need to be careful because you're beginning to lose control of small things. I have never known you to lose control, and I am worried about you. You would never have been that careless if you had not been desperate. Something is bothering you, and you need to regain your balance, or things could go really wrong for you." He then scratched the back of his head, muttered an apology, and reached again for his bag. "I was hoping for a chance to tell you that, and now I have."

"What about her hand?"

"Her hand should heal and, with proper care, we'll make the best of it."

"Would you talk to her, Côfniben? Would you explain what's at stake? She will listen to you."

"I have talked to her. She knows all she needs to know."

"You know she won't rest her hand."

"Just as you did not rest your leg."

"It's different. Nobody cares if a man like me gets a limp, but she's a lively, beaut-- she's a young woman, with her life ahead of her. She does not deserve to be a cripple."

"Would you call her a cripple?"

"Of course I would not, but that is beside the point. The people she would be dealing with would consider her a cripple; they would say she has begun her decay before her time, and then nobody would look at her again. Loneliness would wither her heart."

"Do you want others to look at her?"

"I just want her to be happy!" he snapped back, then said, "Please forgive me. You're right, I am not myself."

"You won't be until you have eased the cause of your urgency. Take it for what it is: advice from a friend. Or so I hope."

With that, Côfniben left him, and Anárion would have followed him if he had not had to climb down the stairs to do it. But, truth was, he was hurting. He was hurting everywhere, but he could not go back to his parents just then, he needed to be away. When he felt the hand on his shoulder and turned to see his grandfather, Haldor, he could not care that his smile was just a bit too bright, or that his voice was just a bit too chipper. He needed an excuse to be gone, and he was going to take this one.

"I have a task for you, Anar," his grandfather said, a little hesitant, a little too cheerful. He must have heard his talk with Côfniben, and this was his way of trying to distract him. As humiliating as it was to be treated like a child, he seized upon the work like crab claws seize upon their prey, because if he did not do something, he would probably burst. Moments later he found himself in the library, attempting the repair of an old clock that had been damaged for years. This sort of repetitive motion normally soothed him and he liked the challenge puzzles presented; but, today it was difficult to focus, and he found himself losing patience rather than recovering it.

He could not be sure how much time passed before Isildur stumbled upon him in there. Without any embarrassment, his brother grabbed a chair and sat beside him.

"So, this is what you have been doing?" Isildur asked. "You could have looked at those books of Grandfather's for me, if you were looking for a mindless task."

Anárion would be lying if he tried to pretend that he had not been essaying what he would say when this conversation finally happened, but he found his mind a blank now that he was faced with the task. His feelings were in big turmoil, and that worried him. He chanced a glance at Isildur, whose legs were crossed upon the table, as he regarded him with the most artificial smile Anárion had ever seen.

"I cannot believe you, Isildur," he muttered, before he even knew he had said anything. "Where did you come from? Father and Mother could never be as cavalier, as manipulative as you are."

That made his brother laugh.

"We all manipulate, one way or another. Don't make the mistake of supposing that Father or Grandfather, or even Mother, got where they are by being on the passive end of things."

"You have made it an art form."

"I guess I have you to thank for that," Isildur said, the smile suddenly looking like a pathetic excuse for a grin. "Trying to keep up with you is quite a task."

"How am I supposed to answer to that?" he asked. "You tell me right now, before you disgrace yourself. What do you want me to answer? I am not a child to be manipulated by you and your fake benign expression."

"No, you're not a child. You have made a point of showing me enough times, though you still can act like one."

"It takes one to know one," Anárion said. "If you have something to say, you better say it."

"I never thought you would leave."

Neither had he. He went back to his clock, but his hands were unsteady and he could not grab a good hold of the pincers.

"Where did you go?" Isildur prodded further. "You were gone all night."

"Does that matter to you, Isildur?"

"It is of the utmost importance."

That sent a stab of guilt that Anárion found hard to ignore. Isildur could have injured himself if he had tried to go out looking for him, and he never would have forgiven himself for that.

"I should not have left," he said, setting the pincers carefully on the table.

"You're right; you shouldn't have."

"You gave me no choice."

"But I did!" Isildur cried as he pushed himself away from the table, the first time in years that Anárion remembered him losing control. "I gave you a choice!"

"No," Anárion said, rising also, walking to the other side of the room to put some distance between them. "You tried to trap me, but it's not going to work."

"Because you would rather lie to me--"

"No. Because you cannot accept that there are things I am not at liberty to tell you; you cannot trust me to know best about this one thing, so you would rather endanger everybody else to satisfy your whim, but I won't let you, Isildur. You may do whatever you wish to me--you may tease me, ridicule me, ignore me if you must but, by all that is precious, I will not let you hurt yourself, and I will not let you hurt Mother or... Elenwë. They do not deserve that kind of fate."

"Hurt myself? Hurt them?" Isildur actually smiled. "You forget that I am a trained warrior also."

"Training has nothing to do with it. This is a battlefield you have never played in."

Isildur walked to within an inch of him and looked him straight in the eye.

"How dare you keep this from me, Anárion?"

"Because I love you."

"Don't give me that!" Isildur cried as he clenched his fists and turned away. "This is not about me, this is all about yourself, but no matter. I promised you I would find you out, and I will, no matter what I have to do, who I have to ask, where I have to beg--"

"Is that what you want with... Elenwë?" Anárion asked, the thought springing into his mind, fully formed, that in his ignorance Isildur could resort to using Elenwë to further his own agenda. "Leave her out of it."

"I can't afford to do that. Not if it will lead me to you."

"It won't. Her and I parted ways a long time ago, irreversibly so. However you pursue her will only hurt both of you. And," he added, in a quivering, raspy whisper that he could not fully control, "it will hurt me. Leave her alone."

"You make your incontrovertible promises, and let me make mine," Isildur said. "It is within your power to change matters. The moment you tell me what has changed you like this, I will cease pursuit."

"I told you already why I can't do that. She has nothing to do with any quarrel between you and me, and you forget that Mother is also in the way."

"Then more of a reason for you to stop this stupid charade and tell the truth."

"I don't believe, for a moment, that you would hurt Mother like this. You may think it's funny to go around pretending to be indolent, but it annoys everybody and it does not fool any of us one bit."

"Indolent?" Isildur cried, that infuriating smile firmly in place. "So says the most fastidious and persnickety of pedantic men alive!"

"Pedantic? If I were pedantic, I would correct your redundancy and ill-usage, but I let that go because I care for you, because I admire you, and because I can't possibly fathom why you would choose to address people with that ridiculous condescension, but you are going too far, and I know you don't want to go there. You would never forgive yourself if Mother got hurt by your misdeed and, whatever your feelings for Elenwë are, I know you have too much decency in you to go as far as you need to go in the path of this phantom secret."

"And what path is that?"

"You know what I am saying, Isildur. Don't play the fool; there is not one foolish bone in your whole body."

"You are right, but this shows you why I do it," he said, a bit of a fierce gleam in his eyes that took Anárion by surprise. "You have been hedging this sort of talk for years, but now that I discovered what riles you up you are going to have to face the music, sooner or later."

"What music?"

"The lame music you have been playing for yourself. This half-life you lead here--it can't be fulfilling for an intelligent man like you, and it sure does not look like happiness! You are alone all the time, don't feed yourself properly, have no close friends, your job is a fantasy... What are you doing to yourself? And why? What is going on with you, Anárion?"

Anárion felt himself begin to breathe harder, and he could not afford to lose control in a quarrel with Isildur. He clenched his fists, relaxed them a few times before he found his voice to say, "Grandfather really wants you to look at those books."

"I am not taking that, Anárion!"

"He is losing money on silly mistakes."

"Don't give me that," Isildur said, advancing on him again until their eyes were level, and went so far as to push him. "You do this all the time and I let you because I respect you too much, but no more!"

Anárion was so stunned that he could think of nothing to say, nothing to do, for a very long time. Isildur had never laid a hand on him in that way, but that opened his eyes to what they were doing to each other, and he knew they needed to stop. "You need to leave me alone right now, Isildur. Please, please..." he said, putting hands against his temples, "I need a moment to myself."

"So you can put the same old mask on and plan your next lie? No, I think not. We are talking right now, brother."

"And what do you want to talk about? What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to tell me the truth!"

"What truth? What truth do you want to hear?" Anárion asked, almost screaming. "Truth is ugly, and sharp, and dangerous--is that where you want to go?"

"I want to go wherever you are, Anárion."

"No! There's nothing, nowhere, and you need to back off now."

"One truth--that is all I ask," Isildur said, taking a step backwards, his voice more subdued but his jaw set, eyes narrowed on him. "You give me one truth right now, or I will never back off, Anárion. On everything that is pure and sacred, I swear to you that I will never rest until I have found you out--"

"And then what? What do you do once you have?"

"Then I will carry the burden with you."

Isildur seemed as astounded at his own words as Anárion himself felt to hear them. He said he wanted one truth, but what truth could Anárion give him? The secret Isildur wanted was no longer his alone to carry even if he had been inclined to burden his brother with it, and going down the path of his parting with Elenwë was so painful that he had shut it away so he would never have to hurt again like he had then. The only truths left were the truths of his ugly, messed-up heart, what he had never wanted anyone to know, to see. What was more, how could he tell Isildur unless he showed him, and would his solution not make the problem worse?

"I will give you what you want," he finally said, "but not here. Let us get out."

"Where to?"

"The Central Square, near the King's House."

Isildur's head jerked back at that, and Anárion noticed that he had to bite his lip to keep from gaping.

"Why would you take me there? What will we see?"

"Zigûr," Anárion replied, watching with an odd, shameful relief as Isildur's eyebrows shot up and that slight, amused curl of the lip made its appearance. Isildur would leave him be, for the time being, though Anárion knew enough to understand this was a calm before the storm. "He sits for audience daily at the Square near the King's house. It's awfully conceited--"

"Why are you taking me to this meeting of intellectuals?"

"I would not call him intellectual," Anárion said, straightening the collar of his shirt. "At least not in the sense that he pursues knowledge for knowledge's sake alone. He strikes me as quite practical, actually."

"Have you attended many of these audiences?"

"One," he said, to the floor, "and there is your secret."

"I think that, if you are giving me a secret, I get to decide which one it is."

"You had not stipulated that, and I fear it might be too late to change the rules of the game."

"I won't let you trick me, I have thousands of questions for you, but this is a good beginning," Isildur said, rubbing his chin. "Why did you not go back?"

Anárion tried to smile--a lopsided thing that must have resembled a grimace better. "I think you'll be able to figure that out once you have been there."

***

The Square of Sailors was the main plaza in Rómenna. The King's House and the Guild of Sailors franked it to the North and South, to the East the statue of an eagle that had miraculously survived the riots, and behind that courtyard the House of Commerce. Clearly, people had forgotten the ancient symbolism of the eagle, or else they would not have let it stand. Anárion met an old sailor once who claimed the people had been scared to touch it and they had passed it by as if it had not been there, preserved by some elvish power. To the West stood the House of Magistrates where all legal matters in the city were decided. But, between the house and the plaza there was a big, empty space of blackened earth and soot. Anárion knew from his grandfather, Haldor, that the empty space had once nurtured an elven tree of magnificent beauty, maybe even a Yavannamírë, but the tree had been hacked by a mob and nothing grew there now. Anárion had taken a sample of the earth left for study, but he could not determine whether it was true that nothing would grow, or if people were simply too afraid to try to grow anything there.

In the middle of the square was a great fountain with spouts that gushed forth water in rhythmic succession. It was beside this fountain to where Zigûr retreated every afternoon, since his arrival in Rómenna, with the pretense of observing life in the real Númenor. And, it was said that even the water would hush to hear him speak.

"He draws quite a following," Isildur whispered as he pressed forward through the throng, trying to get at least a glimpse of the King of Middle-earth. "You'd think that Pharazôn would be jealous."

"You would, wouldn't you?"

"What's the secret?"

"You'll see..."

They had not made it too far when they heard a voice that would have enthralled the most dispassionate of men: compelling, but not loud; not harsh, but not soft; silky and rich, insinuating itself into the innermost corners of one's mind; both pleasant and terrifying. Anárion could not, for all that he had read and seen in his life, put a descriptive to that voice, other than to call it terrible--both dreadful and awe-striking. With alarm, he watched Isildur stare, mouth agape, at the stranger as he engaged in dialogue with representatives from the guilds of Healers and Physicians. The question of the day centered on what constituted health and the various causes for the decay of the body. When the Healers argued the mind's unfitness to support the body as a major cause for health's deterioration, the Physicians were for the opposite. As it was to be expected, the discussion quickly degenerated into a complaint against The One for the unfairness of the gift.

"What can be done to circumvent these natural causes?" someone asked. "Surely there must be something those wretched elves do to keep hale longer that we can mimic."

"It takes a strong mind," one of the Healers said.

"A strong mind avails nothing within a corruptible body."

"But their bodies look just like ours, don't they?" someone else asked, turning eyes to Zigûr. "And, joined through the bond with them, we can reproduce, as we all here are a testament to." There were some calls and ribald jokes after that, which the man put quickly to rest by climbing atop the fountain steps and whistling above the crowd. "As you know, two beings cannot reproduce if they are not, in essence, compatible. Equal. So, there must be a core similarity between our species that we have not discovered yet."

A hush fell among all present, which was no small feat given the size of the assembly and the time of day. Anárion had long rolled his sleeves and undone the collar of his shirt, yet Zigûr stood under the blistering sun wearing cape and long sleeves without looking the least bit ruffled. His raven hair fell to below his shoulder blades, perfectly straight and combed, giving an illusion of softness and perfection that was hard to match. The fine embroidery of his tunic glistened under the summer sun like scales on a rainbow fish; his boots shone like the finest onyx stone; his patronizing smile encompassed the whole crowd without being aimed at anyone, though Anárion somehow felt like Zigûr was smiling just for him. But his eyes... his eyes glimmered with a fire all their own, something compelling and magical that Anárion had never seen, that he could not put a name to, that he was not entirely certain he could trust. Or, withstand.

"This pebble," Zigûr said, lifting a rock from the ground and fingering it as he spoke, "is different from the rocks that made this fountain. None would dare pronounce them equal."

"Are you saying that we are like the pebbles?"

That small, thin smile made its appearance again. "No. But a daffodil cannot make itself an oak."

"Is it hopeless then?"

The look he gave them, full of pity and benevolence, made even Isildur lean forward, awaiting an answer. Anárion caught himself gripping his brother's forearm, for all that he had been prepared for such strong reactions and was trying with all his might for objectiveness.

"Elves are different from humans in many fundamental ways, but even Elves themselves are powerless to alter fate."

"But there must be a way?"

"They have healing herbs, like you do, but generally have no need of them save during war time."

"It is not fair!" some cried. "Curse the so-called powers!"

Zigûr lifted a conciliatory palm. "No one has said that Elves may not die; only, it takes them longer to reach that point."

"Equality is what we want!"

"Who made Elves better than us, descendants of mighty Elros and Eärendil himself?"

Anárion did not like the slight curl of the lip he saw then; there was a smugness to it that bothered him very much, as if Zigûr knew things he was choosing to conceal. And what could he know? What was there to know? And, how had he learned it?

"Quite true," Zigûr said, "and a bitter reality. The real question, it seems, lies in the core of the differences."

"Ask cursed Eru!"

"Eru?" asked Zigûr, with a raised eyebrow.

"Isn't he guilty of it all?" someone from the back of the crowd cried, resulting in loud revilements and shouts. When a fist brushed his back and people began to jostle around him, Anárion took hold of Isildur's shirt and began to drag him to the rear of the crowd.

"You do not accept a reduced lifespan to be a gift, then," Zigûr went on behind them, and Anárion actually wondered wether he was asking him, personally. Around them, some people went so far as to spit at that.

"Do you accept that Eru created you--" Zigûr was asking, but the people's shouts drowned the rest of his speech.

"Have you had enough?" asked Anárion as they reached the thinning edge of the crowd. His brother kept glancing back the way they had come.

"Not by far!" cried Isildur, but still followed him without complaint. They walked for a while in silence with only the crunch of their boots on gravel for company, and the pestering gull who joined them soon after, flying low around them and squawking. Isildur was somehow blessedly able to ignore it, but the deep noise reverberated through Anárion's very being, bringing forth unwelcome and annoying vibrations from somewhere deep within him and, after a while, he could not remain unaffected.

"I will throw my boot at you if you do not find somewhere else to squawk!" he called to the gull, but that only made it squawk louder. Beside him, Isildur laughed, hard, and that alone was motivation to follow up on his threat. He crouched to unlace his boot as he had promised and had it raised above his head, when the gull flew right past them, landed straight on his path, and fixed black, beady eyes on his. By the Light, he could almost believe that gull could see right into his heart. His arm fell to his side as he stood, almost transfixed, staring at a seagull, of all things.

"Have you met before?" Isildur asked. Then, leaning forward, added, "I could swear that bird knows who you are! Watch it stare at you, Anárion!"

"I know; it feels like it can see right through me."

"But not in Zigûr's odd way..."

"Did you feel that too?" Anárion asked, surprised. Relieved. Curious. "I am not crazy, then..."

"Crazy?" Isildur asked. "Well... You are staring at a seagull."

"Look at it, though. Could it be wanting to say something?" It did sound deranged, once he had said it aloud, but there was something in the way that gull looked at him that, somehow, gave him just a bit of comfort. "I won't throw my boot at you," he said, as he sat by the side of the road to lace it back on, "but, please, no more squawking." The gull almost nodded, and went off to peck at the ground a few paces away. By then, Isildur had sat beside him, waiting for him with elbows on knees, holding his head firmly with two hands as he stared at the patch of ground between his shoes.

"What was the secret here, Anárion?" he asked, without looking up. "Why did you never come back?"

"You have already figured it out yourself. For all that he does not even talk to you, Zigûr has a way of making you look inside, doesn't he?"

"And?"

And... "I didn't like what I saw."

<I>"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth..."
-Robert Frost</I>

They paid their price for their little excursion to Zigûr's audience. They had tarried too long and, upon reaching home, their father was waiting for them by the outside gate. Elendil sent them inside without a word, which had always meant trouble and, as long into their majority as they were, they respected their father too much to choose not to bear his lecture. Elendil discoursed, at length, about the consequences of rashness in the perilous times they lived in—particularly an ill-advised trip to listen to whatever any old king of the Middle-earth had to say—particularly after their little escapade of the day before, and particularly after who-knew-what-else Anárion had engaged in that whole night that he went missing. They had to hear about how soon it was to command any clear discernment on Pharazôn's reasons for inflicting such a questionable person upon the númenóreans, and all the dangers of being out alone in the streets for children of prominent people, as they were...

In short, one hour's lecture from Elendil did more to restore their brotherly relationship than any two or three attempts they had made on their own since Isildur had arrived in the city. By the time they were finally free to make ready for dinner, Anárion's restraint had worn so thin, his composure had been so tested, that the mere thought of spending the evening at Eralmir's was threatening to make him ill.

His family must have sensed his discomfort on some primal level, for each one of them came at different times to see him, ostensibly to ascertain that he was, in fact, capable of the task ahead. He almost asked his mother to make his excuses. After all that had happened, dinner at Eralmir's promised to be an awkward affair of epic proportions. Nobody would miss him, and he would be infinitely grateful if he could put off another encounter with Elenwë just then. Light, Elenwë herself would probably be grateful for the reprieve! Three brushes with her in a single day were more than his fortitude could support; but, how long could he postpone the inevitable? If he did not see her today, he would be having to do so the next day, or the day after that. If he saw her again for the first time at the festival, and he made a fool of himself, tongues would never stop wagging, and he was not sure he could endure that. So, instead of asking his mother to go on without him, he forced himself to accept, politely, her help in selecting clothes appropriate to the occasion. Isildur also came to offer his help, then Elendil himself, with an abbreviated version of his earlier lecture, and what seemed to be an apology. Then Haldor. Then Amandil. Even that stupid seagull that had followed him back all the way from the plaza stared at him as if it, too, wished to scold him.

By the time they were all ready to set out, he could not think to be anything but relieved. Everyone's attentions had heightened his anxiety, and the gallons of chamomile he had taken to counteract its effects made it impossible to conceal his uneasiness from them. They further annoyed him by stealing glances at him on the way--some troubled, some even amused--but all unwelcome.

"I must tell you all," he finally said, as the last passenger had descended from the carriage in front of Eralmir's home, "that this ceaseless looking my way and whispering does not make it easy for me, I will not even attempt to hide that. Is there anything any of you wish to ask? Let us get to it now so we can move on with our evening."

He looked around at the faces that had gathered around him; some at least had the decency to look ashamed. It was, not surprisingly, Isildur who broke the silence.

"How do you purpose to get through the night with everyone in constant lookout to see how you fare?"

That unleashed a chorus of protests, denials, and apologies.

"All we worry about is your happiness, darling," came from his grandmother, Issilöme.

"It will be all right," from Haldor, his maternal grandfather. "We trust your judgment, Anarinya."

"We just wish for clarification," chimed in Isildur in a mutter.

"Leave him alone," said his father, gesturing with his hands for emphasis. "Anárion knows what he is doing. You all treat him like a boy still, but he is a man full-grown and capable of making a man's decisions."

"So says the man who lectured him like a boy fresh from school, not three hours earlier!" said Amandil. "If you all trust him, then you trust him. No need for further reassurance. It's the greatest compliment you can pay him."

"Do be polite, though, darling," said his mother.

"I cannot believe this, all of you! Do you think that living in Rómenna I do not have occasion to meet with..." (There it was again, that annoying hesitation before he ever spoke her name! How was he going to convince them all that it was safe to leave him alone if he could not even speak her name with equanimity?) "...occasion to meet with Elenwë in public settings? Believe me, I have plenty of practice with that."

"Love," said Eilinel, his maternal grandmother, as she pressed a gentle hand to his forearm, "all we wish to know is: will you be all right?"

Anárion heard all the other things she had not asked, but was grateful for her delicacy and the out it had provided him. Giving a nod that was rather terse, he scratched the back of his head and said, as he moved along toward the door, "I'm always all right, you need not be worried on my account. We'll be late if we tarry outside. Lalriel will fret about it and the lady Lissilomë will harp on it all evening."

It was a curt dismissal, if there ever was one, but it was the best he could do to acquit himself. He tried to make up for it by being even more solicitous of his grandmother and her comfort, offering his arm when they ascended the steps that led to the door, waiting on her when she had to stop to adjust her slipper.

When the door opened, Emeldil and Eranion were there to greet them in a pleasant breach of protocol. They were shown in to the main living room where the rest of the family had gathered to receive them, and what opened before them was a scene that had always meant home and happiness to Anárion. Erador's family had been big and boisterous, and uncles, aunts, and cousins were in and out of the main house all the time. Greetings and hugs were exchanged among all; Isildur was generally praised, particularly by the lady Lissilomë, Elenwë's venerable aunt and self-appointed family matriarch. The men all stopped to greet him and comment on the progress he was making on his boat. The ladies greeted him with lovely smiles and rosy cheeks, and Elenwë was, thankfully, absent from the vicinity. The wonderful smells that came from the kitchen were so tempting and the general atmosphere so lively that Anárion found himself actually anticipating a pleasant dinner.

To complete a picture of cheerfulness, baby Erassor, Eralmir's son who was now nearly five but still the youngest in the family, attached himself to him like lichen sticks to rock. Anárion had anticipated this and had smuggled a bag of candied almonds, which he produced to the boy's great delight and Lissilomë's scolding. Isildur noticed this and was fast at her heel, distracting her and freeing Anárion to enjoy the moment with his young friend, which was great kindness and a big relief to him. At some point, Erassor produced a flotilla of wooden boats for Anárion to arrange, and they withdrew to a corner of the room to fight their battles while conversation went on around them. It was not until they were summoned to dinner that he noticed Elenwë had sat close enough to them that she could watch their game and hear their conversation. It was she who came to the rescue when Erassor was sent to sleep yet he would still cling to Anárion's leg, hoping for more play time.

"You may visit with him another day soon," he heard her say as she knelt beside him and gently reached to pry the small hands off Anárion's calf. The worried look she sent his way seemed to ask wether Erassor had bothered his knee but, gratefully, she did not verbalize the question. "Go to your own tasks while he takes care of his. You would not want him so weak that he could not finish his boat."

Erassor grudgingly shook his head, gave Anárion one last hug, and thanked him for the almonds before she led him out to his nurse.

In his anxiety, he had failed to recollect that birth order always had him seated between Eranion and Elenwë, but the fact was forcibly brought to the forefront of his thoughts when she walked past him to her seat and the sleeve of her deep green gown brushed against his chest. The confusion that followed as that distinctive scent of gardenias and lemon wafted to him had him rooted to the spot without much awareness of his surroundings. When it was time to help the ladies be seated he simply stood awkwardly there, quite rude and useless, as Elenwë helped herself to her own chair.

Suddenly, what appetite he had summoned for the evening was gone. But eat they must. They were served fish broth and herbed dumplings to begin and, though the usual salutation had to be dropped because of the persecutions in the city, they observed a moment of silence before Eralmir began the meal.

"I thank you all for coming," he said with his own small, shy smile that quickly turned melancholy. "When we are all together like this, I can almost feel Father and Grandfather near us."

Elenwë's spoon rattled against her plate at that, which everybody dutifully ignored. For his part, he could not bring himself to look at her. In what was probably his worst breech of decency yet, he had never approached her regarding the tragedy that took her parents and grandparents. He couldn't. He didn't know how. It happened while he was away at sea and, after their falling out, he was not sure if any gesture on his part would or would not be welcome. Instead, he had sent her the seeds of a beautiful plant he had encountered on his journey, and he had been assured that it would be particularly adaptable to life in Númenor. It was a dark green tree of very thick, very smooth leaves that gave out big, sturdy, enduring white flowers. He had thought of her the moment he saw this tree, and in an uncharacteristically rash move on his part had bundled the seeds and sent them back home for her. He never found out if she had even received them.

"Those were good times," Amandil said, with his crooked smile, taking up Eralmir's thought. "The best. We lived many dreams together, Erassuil and I, but watching our children grow was always the best dream of all. He would be so proud of all of you."

"Sadly, the dreams were cut short," said Emeldil, as he downed all his wind in one quick gulp, then put it forcefully back on the table. From the corner of his eye, Anárion watched Elenwë grip her napkin. "Númenor used to be a place where death by old age was embraced, welcome. It is harder to accept it when lives are snatched away cruelly."

Isildur gripped his friend's shoulder, briefly, and they all ate in silence for a while afterwards. Anárion remembered times in this house when one could not hear one's own thoughts for the noise. Laughter and music were everywhere then—where had they all disappeared to?

Elenwë seemed to have lost her appetite, as well. The meal went on, but she ate little, and spoke even less. When the main course arrived, he watched for a while as she pushed the shrimp back and forth in circles with her fork. When he could not stand it any more, he placed his utensils back on the plate with an unintended clatter, turned to Lalriel, who sat at the end of the table to Elenwe's right, and asked the first question that came to mind.

"Have you taken Erassor to the docks, yet? They are giving tours of the battleships for the festival."

Everyone turned to look at him but Elenwë, and he knew he must have blushed, but it was done. Lalriel, at least, seemed grateful for the opening and change of subject, though controversial.

"Not yet, Anárion," she replied with her pretty, self-conscious smile, and a quick glance at her husband. "Eralmir was not sure that we wanted Erassor to think battle was as glorious as the ships he likes so much. Have you had to give a tour yourself?"

Anárion shook his head. "Thankfully, no, though it has proved impossible to avoid the onlookers that drift to my little corner of the docks. Work has been quite slow because of that, and I think that may account for at least part of my ill-humor, for my deadline is looming close and I really wish to be done."

"How much longer, Anárion?" asked Amandil.

"I hope to make it no more than a couple of months. Three at the most, though I still have a long way to go, sir."

"And after you finish, what then?" asked Eralmir.

"Well, I have to stand for my review with the guild masters, and they will either love my design and endorse it, or tear it to shreds."

"They won't. Trust me," put in Eranion with a chuckle. "I've seen Vinyëlotë-- she's amazing! Anárion has made a lighter, more powerful vessel, more sturdy. She's a beauty. The guild masters will go wild for it. And, one day, even I will be able to have one."

"Do you think they will offer you work?" asked Eralmir.

Anárion thought about that as he gripped the stem of his wine glass. "At one point I had really wanted that, but I am not sure now."

"Why?" asked Eralmir.

He felt the flush creeping up his neck, had to loosen his shirt collar before saying, "Vinyëlotë is an exciting ship, and I am inordinately proud of her, but I wonder if I can watch others sail away to have adventures on my ships and leave me behind. I don't know if I can build ships for other people and be... content."

Emeldil chuckled at that, but otherwise the whole table fell silent.

"To the King, and to those friendly to him," said Lissilomë, "the only adventure that is worth any investment is conquest."

Anárion opened his mouth to protest, but had to close it when he found nothing to say. Lissilomë was right, much as it galled him to admit it, and that opened a world of conflict for him that he had so far managed to push away.

"Do you deny that?" Lissilomë asked, further trying to probe him. "One would expect you to be morally opposed to that."

"I am," said Anárion, in what he hoped was a tone of finality, while certain that it would be lost on Lissilomë.

"Yet you would still persist in that line of work?"

"If we had halted progress because of the evil uses it can be put to," he found himself saying, "we would not enjoy many of the comforts we have today. I believe in discovery and advancement."

"I believe in tradition."

"Aunt," said Eralmir in a grave voice, "this is not the best time--"

"It will always be a good time to instruct the young," said Lissilomë, lifting her chin. "And getting sweaty all day with the builders is hardly fit for someone of your station and your skills, Anárion. Surely a man with your family tree has better things to do than go begging for work from those inferior to you."

"It is hardly begging, my lady," he said, and he bit his tongue before pointing out that many men would actually kill for the privilege of setting foot within the secretive Guild of Shipmasters. "There are other alternatives I am interested in, but none that can materialize until I stand for review."

"Or you could become a gentleman and do a gentleman's work," said Lissilomë with a curl of the lip.

"It is not the work he likes, Aunt," Elenwë interrupted in a soft voice, "but the challenge."

Her remark brought silence as effectively as a command, but it was the uncomfortable hush of people who have a lot to say but cannot bring themselves to say it. He risked a glance at Elenwë then; she was making a knot of her napkin, but he could tell the blush on her cheeks even in the candlelight.

When Isildur cleared his throat to speak, all eyes but hers--and his own--fixed on him at once.

"Being a gentleman in this time and age can become quite tiresome, I'll grant," he said, "though opportunities for unusual work are not lacking with the political situation being what it is. I read that some of the refugees were actually tricked into going to the Middle-earth where they were--" Anárion was grateful that his brother checked himself before relating the rest of the gruesome tale though, judging by the gasps and the averted eyes, they all knew exactly what Isildur was going to say and where he had read about it. Anárion forced himself to relax his grip on the fork. Any mention of The Star--even an implicit one-- still managed to agitate him, though it was a few years now since he had been dealing with that particular situation.

"If any of it is true," he made himself say, to help his brother as well as deflect unwanted attention from himself, "we will all have much accounting to do some day."

"Some of the farmers near Andúnië have already began to claim the failing of crops comes from the departure from... Ahem... Tradition... causing the increasing weather changes, making entire herds sicken and die," said Elendil in a tight tone. They all knew that he spoke of the turn from the Valar, but Anárion knew it irked his father to have to speak in riddles when plainness would have done.

"Here also," said Eranion, "and elsewhere. My farmers in the Emerië have had to alter planting and harvesting schedules twice in the year, and they have began all sorts of little rituals to appease various imagined deities or forces of nature, or whatever else they think is to blame... Of course it will not do much good. I wonder if it does not do harm instead..."

"It helps them cope, I suppose," said Anárion, "and if it helps them, it helps you. The Valar are, after all, the guardians of nature, so it is not a big stretch to go from one to the other. The mind is a powerful thing."

"Which is why I wonder at everyone being so carried away with the Middle-earth buffoon when we all know of his evil," said Emeldil.

At the mention of Zigûr another hush fell among them. Finally, his grandfather, Amandil, said, "I would not speak so lightly of him, Emeldil, were I you. Clearly, he is possessed of a power that draws people to him and should not be trifled with."

"Nobody trifles, believe me, sir," said Eralmir. "You will know when you see him, though it is quite amazing that he garners such sympathy when he has been such a thorn on Pharazôn's heel. I suppose people are apt to forget when there is food and drink to be had, and the promise of a revelry. When the King arrived to port with him I thought the city would destroy itself, so hard did they feast, and when he promised them Erulaitalë for their support of his campaign of conquest, the cheer was so loud that I was certain you had heard it back in Andúnië. Whatever the reason, the whole festival is merely a parade, and I wonder who it is for: the people, or Zigûr."

"I wish he had at least paraded in Armenelos," said Lissilomë. "Attending makes me nervous lest I be counted amongst the unbelievers by those whose judgment truly matters, but not attending will certainly mean falling under suspicion. Or worse. Where have you ever heard of Erulaitalë where there will be no climbing the Meneltarma? It is preposterous!"

"It is," said Haldor, "but attend we must unless we wish to bring trouble over our households."

"It worries me as much as it does you, Lissilomë," said Eilinel. "Anárion said the King has had a staircase built in the hall of feasting... There is no telling what it is for. Do you think he would use that for a blessing-place?"

"What blasphemy!"

"It cannot be worse than what he has already done," Anárion said, trying to appease the exclamations. "We know what is in his heart; it makes little difference if he now goes about it openly."

"He is doing it for Zigûr's benefit," his mother said. "For all that he appears just as besotted as everyone else, he must feel the threat it presents to his position."

He did not doubt it. They had held out hope that, in his heart, the King still kept some shred of fear for the Powers, but Anárion did think that Zigûr was making him bold for all the wrong reasons. He turned, searching for his father's face, his grandfather's, but they merely looked thoughtful. Anárion felt little fondness for their king, but he knew what the man Pharazôn had meant to his sires and felt on their account. As for hope, he harbored none.

Busy as he was with these reflections, he did not notice the conversation getting ahead of him. When next he registered meaning, it was to hear Isildur say, "Anárion and I saw him this afternoon."

For the first time that evening, Elenwë fixed her eyes fully on him, wide, alarmed, with a glint of fear, a glint of anger that was difficult to abide. How dared she think it was all right to judge him? The same fear, mingled with distinct surprise, pervaded the hush that immediately followed Isildur's slip of the tongue, intended or no, but excitement and curiosity won in the end. A barrage of questions followed from all but her, and that silence irked him in a way that he knew was unwarranted. The rest of the meal passed quickly sorting through the myths for all who cared to know their view. Fortunately for him, Isildur seemed to relish the attention and he was only applied to for a word here and there, which was just as well--he did not wish to blunder anymore with her so near.

After the meal was over, everyone finally dispersed into the usual groups: the married women to Lissilomë's sitting room; the older men and Eralmir to the drawing room; Isildur and Emeldil drifted to the kitchens for the wine, and Eranion beckoned to him as he followed Elenwë out to the gardens. He always did that, even though he knew Anárion would not come after them. Eranion would later make his way to the library to find him, and the night could go on as usual. It was their tacit arrangement so Elenwë would not be altogether alone and, awkward as it was, it seemed to work. Except, this time, Anárion found himself following him.

It had been years since he had been to this part of the house, but he remembered it so well that he could have found his way blindfolded. A jumble of perception-- of memories-- flooded him as he made his way through the lilies and nasturtiums, the forget-me-nots and evening primroses. Elenwë and her grandfather had never planted gardenias here, which he had always thought a little odd, but he had never asked why. He knew where the siblings would be and made his way there, to a spot under the lemon tree where their grandfather used to sit and tell them all stories of his travels. When they saw him appear on the path in front of them, both jumped to standing.

"What are you doing here?" Elenwë croaked, but Eranion elbowed her and cleared his throat.

"So glad you could come!" Then, more subdued, "If you still want the library we can..."

But Anárion understood his friend's predicament and shook his head, found his usual spot on a clump of old, hard roots to Elenwë's left and, after a moment's hesitation, sat down.

It was plain sad how uncomfortable the next few minutes were. He remembered sitting under the shade of this tree when they would talk on top of each other, when there would be laughter, when Eranion would dance a little tipsy, and Elenwë would have them play 'tell-a-tale,' and he would spout mathematical axioms that nobody else cared to hear but which they listened to anyway. Anárion had not thought of that in years, but now that he was faced with the reminder of his loss of comradeship, of this one place where he could be himself without anybody judging him, the pain was acute.

They remained silent for a while. A long while. He knew he should have gotten up and left, but suddenly he yearned so badly to belong somewhere that he did the only thing that felt natural. "Things which are equal to the same thing are equal to one another."

The crickets could be heard immediately in the wake of his statement but, after a few heartbeats, both brother and sister began to laugh.

"If equals are added to equals, the wholes are equals," came Eranion's surprising declaration.

"I've got one," Elenwë said, "things which coincide with one another are equal to one another."

"And there's: if equals are subtracted from equals, the remainders are equal."

"And don't forget: the whole is greater than the part--" Elenwë's voice and mirth died out after that. He felt the void physically, like a part of his own heart had suddenly been ripped and left a hole. She looked down and began to fidget with the lace in her skirt.

"Sorry, brother," Eranion said, "we should be more cheerful, but we've had a little setback today."

"What happened?"

"One of our servants has gone missing."

"What do you mean <I>missing</I>?" he asked, looking for Elenwë's eyes to read what he could there, but finding them veiled. "How? When?"

"I found out after I came back from your grandparents' house," she finally said, still not looking at him. "I had promised Lalriel that I would help with preparations but, when I got to the kitchen to make sure things were underway, I found a big commotion. Mindöniel made bread at dinner time and was our baker's assistant after working with the herb and fruit gardens during the morning, and she had not been at her post in two days. Can you believe nobody had said anything for two whole days?"

"What did you do then?"

"She sent for Eralmir and began to get the bread ready."

"How?" he asked, angry, and not bothering to hide it. "How are you thinking of kneading bread with your hand in the condition it's in? Did you not hear a word of what Côfniben said you should <I>not</I> do?"

She was taken aback at his brusque tone, and that small frown that wrinkled the bridge of her nose made its appearance right away.

"I still have two hands," she said, by way of reply, which really did not clarify her meaning.

"I don't know how you can knead with just one hand."

"If you ate the bread at dinner, you will see that it is not only possible, but yields high quality results."

"I did not eat the bread at dinner," he said, without thinking. Then, as he watched her eyes dim, added, "I was too distracted by the general inquisition to be able to eat more than a mouthful or two."

"Maybe you were not distracted but embarrassed," she blurted out, then covered her mouth with her hands--a belated attempt to stop herself.

He watched Eranion elbow her, but he was in no mood for false apologies and preempted her attempt by asking, "Have they found her?"

"No," Eranion said. "But the King's Chief of Patrols sent a deputy who is looking into the case."

"That's right--he <I>looked</I> into the case," Elenwë added, sarcasm and scorn dripping from every word, "but you know that nothing will be done. He seemed to imply that girls like Mindöniel would want to disappear on purpose to cover up other lapses in conduct. As if the only reason for a girl to disappear would be because she found herself with... because she found herself..." The blush crept swiftly up her cheeks then, and she needed no further clarification for what was on her mind. She was proud and likely mortified that, at her age, she could still fluster at the thought of what men and women do together, so she plunged bravely on trying to verbalize matters in a delicate manner, without much success. "If she had been... if <I>someone</I> had compromised her... her reputation--which that man seemed to think was the case--then she would have left... But what if matters stand as everyone thinks? These things don't always happen by mutual... by mutual agreement, and what then? Then you have a frightened woman, alone in the streets, in a delicate condition, and ready to fall prey to somebody else."

"In that awful scenario you have so... hum... <I>skillfully</I> depicted," muttered Eranion, "I am ready to side with the man and believe she left of her own accord."

She swatted his forearm then. "You are just as horrid as him, but worse, because you should know better."

"The man speaks from experience, Wen."

"Would you be so cavalier if it were me out there?"

"You would never have done something like that!"

"That is the whole point!" she said, leaving her seat and pacing away, only to turn around to face them from her distance three steps later. "What if she has been hurt, and is out there, frightened, and with nowhere to go?"

"Then the King's patrol will find her!" cried Eranion, punctuating his words by wide gestures that told Anárion his good-natured friend was fast reaching the end of his patience. They clearly had had that particular conversation before, and it made Anárion wonder what had been said to have brought about such a deadlock between them.

"You don't believe they will try to find her?" he ventured to ask, mostly to provide Eranion with a moment to collect himself.

Elenwë bit her lip, quickly, before saying, "I think Eralmir should have sent for his own enquiries."

"Who would he send, Wen?" Eranion asked, now himself rising. "I feel bad about it too, believe me, I do, but what can Eralmir do? Food was sent to her family. He sent for the King's Patrol, like one is supposed to do in situations like these. He has promised not to employ anyone else in her absence. What can he do beyond that? Even if he were going to do so, how could he begin looking during festival time? Everybody is out and about. The city is teeming with people. Maybe she went to a party, maybe she left the city afraid of the festival's implications--you've heard what they are saying: that the whole city will be cursed because of our rebellion. Maybe we should have left too."

"If I were the one lost, you would be out there looking for me," Elenwë said in a quick whisper, ''or so I hope."

"If that were you out there, I would never come home until I came back with you in tow, but you have to understand that Eralmir has his own family to worry about."

"But we don't, Rani--"

"Not that again!" Eranion said, echoing what he himself was thinking. "<I>We</I> are your family, and I am beginning to get annoyed that you can so easily deny the fact."

"I am not denying the fact! What I mean to say is that we have no dependents that would suffer should anything untoward--"

"Untoward?" Anárion asked back, and got a glare in return when he failed to mask the mockery behind the question. "<I>Untoward</I> is the mildest of what could happen if you should be found on a trail you ought not to be in. You should listen to your brother and let those in charge take care of things."

"So we should just sit at home and congratulate each other on sending for the King's Patrol?"

"That's unfair, Wen, and you know it," Eranion said. "We've had this talk already: Suppose there really is something shady going on, how can Eralmir involve himself? He's trying to keep all of us safe."

"At some innocent woman's expense?"

"I know it feels awful, but what else can be done? You know what happens when you get involved with the wrong crowd."

The way she had no counter argument for that made warnings sound in Anárion's head, and he asked, "What happens?" But all he got as a reply was a sidelong glance and a sigh. She slumped onto a bench opposite them and began to chew on her fingernails, which she only ever did under extreme agitation.

Eranion knelt beside her and tried to put his arms around her, but she shook him off.

"I just can't get rid the thought of that poor woman out there, alone and helpless... What if that were me?"

"It can still be you," said Eranion, "if you get involved with the wrong people..."

"Don't even joke about it," Anárion surprised himself by saying, looked down at his palms to cover his embarrassment and began to twist his ring about his finger. It was his own signet which he had received upon his majority, a combination of his father's lineage and his own name for him to pass on to his son, if he ever had one. "Your brother is right, and you would do well to listen to him. The world is more dangerous than it seems, more dangerous than you are used to seeing."

"And how do you know that?" she asked, almost an accusation. She pushed herself up from the bench and resumed her pacing. Eranion sought his eyes, shook his head, then he too bit a fingernail. She turned to look straight at him; next came that downward tilt of the head, then that upward look that had always so entranced him. "You have become very secretive, Anárion."

"So have you," he said, belatedly realizing that he was biting his lip like a boy.

"How can you talk about danger and risks, when you go to see Zigûr on your spare time?"

“Or you, on your secret errands to Andúnië whose purpose no one can wrest out of your tight lips?" It came out of nowhere, and surprised him. His anger surprised him. He could not back down now. "Why did you go there?" The question had been unexpected and she jerked back, but she deserved it for prying into his own affairs. "It is rather amusing how you think to question me but resent my questioning of you."

"You are not just questioning. You are trying to tell me how to live my life, and I will not allow that--not from you, nor from anybody else."

"It is impossible to tell you anything because you do not listen to any reason, but I feel it my duty to enlighten you when I know you don't have enough information to go by."

"If I don't, it is because all of you hope to coddle me as if I were some defenseless child, but I don't deserve that kind of treatment. You would never do that to each other--you respect each other too much. What does it take to earn that sort of favor?"

"We're just trying to keep you safe--" Eranion had began to say, but Anárion's own tack was much brasher.

"Honesty," he said, firmly. "Lies are the death of respect."

"I do not lie to you, Anárion," she said, but this time she almost choked on the name.

"I find that odd, considering that you have told everyone you went to Andúnië to buy lace. That is a lie, if I ever heard one."

He had expected her to lash out at him, and a part of him even wished for it because that would mean that his fears on her account were unfounded and she was still safe. He had expected her to slap him, which he would have welcomed too--he probably deserved it. He would even have expected her to walk away. What he did not expect was for her to sit down and say nothing.

"So it is true, then?"

"Why is my business in Andúnië important to you?" she finally asked after a long, uncomfortable silence. "Why do you keep asking about that over and over again? You have not cared about one single thing I have done in years--why now, why this? You answer that, and then we'll talk of my affairs." When he could say nothing, she rose from the bench and said, "Well. I suppose you were not that interested in finding out, after all."

"We cannot have a conversation when all you are going to do is accuse me and project all your insecurities onto me."

"How can you say that when you just called me a liar?"

"I said nothing but the truth, and that is what I have always told you. I have ever been forthright with you and treated you with the respect I would have wished to receive for myself."

"Until the day I said something that did not agree with your plans, and then it was time to walk away, yes?"

"That is unfair, and you know it," he said in a loud voice that he almost did not recognize. He was aware of Eranion's humming somewhere to his right, but even that did nothing to check his rising temper. They had never revisited that last day in all the intervening years, and he was not ready to go there now, but what could he do if she could stand there and so shamelessly accuse him of injustice? "I have been many bad things in my life, and I will be the first to acknowledge them, but I have never used you as a buttress to my plans. If I ever said, or did, or encouraged you in anything, I did so to my equal, and out of genuine interest and confidence. If I never took any additional pains in acknowledging that, I hope you know me well enough to believe that I did so because I did not think that precaution necessary. You won't really stand there and make all those years into a lie, will you?"

"You don't need <I>me</I> for that," she said, glaring daggers at him, though the fire in her voice had died.

"And what does that mean... Elenwë? You can't throw down that glove and fail to follow through with your threat."

"That's all you think of--threats, plots, and danger. Is that why you go to Zigûr's? Is that why you go--you, who love to preach to people about how the world is so full of peril and things are not as they seem?"

"That's right, and you can be sure that I hate doing it.”

"Then why do you do it? Why do you go?" she asked, taking one step closer to him, then another one, but he found that he did not want to look at her. He could not. And that was the last drop in an already full cup. He heard the growl before he saw the hem of her skirts on the floor beside his boot. Then she leaned forward to peer into his face, to make him look at her, when she said, "Oh, it is only wrong for me to put myself out there; you are strong enough to withstand any attack to your impenetrable facade!"

"Elenwë, that's enough!" cried Eranion. "You're my sister and there is no way that I could love you any more than I do, but I won't let you abuse my friend when he is a guest in our house."

"Just let her, Eranion," Anárion said, tightening his fists beside him so hard his bones cracked, his anger powering his movements as he rose. She had no choice but to rise with him, or else she would have fallen on her bottom. As close as they were, he could see the red-rimmed, glittering eyes, the quivering jaw and the lips so pursed that they were white, the intent expression on that gentle face that transformed her into that new person that he did not know at all, and he hesitated. Why were they fighting? What was he doing? They never used to fight--what had changed? But then her eyes narrowed, and her chin lifted, and his heart ached so much that he had to do battle. "This is an old sore between her and I; she's had plenty of time to let it sting, I suppose. It must be…. infected now."

"Infected?" She asked, her voice steadily rising to that pitch that meant trouble, hands on hips in a very beguiling manner that took him by surprise, given the fact that they were arguing and he should not be thinking of those things. "Because I am calling your own bluff you say I'm letting the sore get infected? It is all well and good for you to put yourself out there, but when I suggest a plan, when I make a plan of my own, then everybody has to question me about it, to tell me I'm wrong, to point out how unsafe it is for a girl like me to make things change, to even dare say that girls go looking for their own trouble! It is humiliating! It is disrespectful! Time after time I have had to watch all of you find your place in the world and be praised for it while I get sent to embroidery class, or to the kitchen. Well! I did go there, dutifully, like all of you told me to do, and I found that there are things in that world of women that need fixing, and I am going to fix them or die trying. All of my life I have let everybody dictate where I go and what I do and have been unhappy as a result, but no more. Take it or leave it, this is who I am."

"Because we want you safe, Elenwë! And there will be no thought if dying, or so help me!" Eranion cried, now completely invested in the argument. "It's different for men! Women have no experience having to cope in a world of men!"

"All the more reason for me to get involved. Nobody would expect poor, innocent me to be any trouble..."

Eranion rose at that, waved a finger at her, "You stay away from trouble, Elenwë, or so help me I will see you guarded day and night. It's enough to have to worry about everything else going on to also have to worry about you prancing about the city and prying into business not your own."

"This woman is my business," she said, chin up, a strange gleam in her eyes that frightened him and, strangely, beguiled him all the more. "Never again will I stand aside while someone is hurt by my indifference."

"Indifference?" asked Eranion.

"Never again?" asked Anárion, a weight like iron settling on his stomach. "When have you been in this position before?"

She looked away from them both, resumed her pacing, but he could not let that go. He walked to her and, upon her turning to pace back the way she had come, stopped her by grabbing her shoulders, turning her to face him.

"When have you been in that position before?" he asked again, trying to gentle his urgency, unsure if he was succeeding. His heart was racing, his legs felt weak, that tell-tale flutter at the pit of his stomach told him he was scared, but why should he be? It made no sense! "When have you seen someone get hurt? In Andúnië? Is that why you go there?"

"What do you care why I go to Andúnië?"

Why did he? And, what could he say? "You have involved my mother."

She laughed at that. "If that's the case, then take all your questions to her." Her eyes fixed on his, and the feeling was as dizzying as it was delicious, which made no sense either. "Tell me why you seek out Zigûr. Tell me what that place was where we hid at the market. Tell me why you stopped going to the meetings at the city square, and I will tell you about Andúnië."

"Are you bribing me, or threatening me?"

"Neither," she said, strangely breathless.

"Then... Then..." he began, but found it difficult to continue... "Then--"

"Then, you better relax," Eranion said, breaking them apart, looking at each of them sternly in turn, "both of you."

"You're right," Elenwë said, moistening her lips, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her skirt, "We should be out there looking for Mindöniel instead."

"I think we established your personally looking for her was out of the question," Anárion said. "Won't you sit down and wait until your brother's men--"

"Ar-Pharazôn's men only care about themselves, they don't care about that poor woman!"

"Enough!" Eranion screamed, visibly shaken and with such authority that Anárion saw Elenwë's jaw go slack. "Only children and lovers quarrel in this stupid manner--which are you?"

Again he looked at each of them in turn. "Well?"

Anárion shook his head, slightly, and looked away so he would not have to see Elenwë's reply. When the silence stretched for a few more moments, Eranion grunted and said, "I thought so. And what if you yourself get lost, Elenwë?" Eranion asked. "Then we'd have double the trouble trying to find you."

"You have to give them time to do their job," Anárion ventured to add, trying to put his thoughts out there for all the good they would do, trying to find a way to convince her to stay out of trouble. "Your interfering can only muddle whatever tracks she may have left." That seemed to call her attention, so he let that sink in for a moment before continuing with, "Whatever these men's allegiance, now that the case has been brought forth before the law they will collect their biggest dues upon a resolution. You should trust to that."

"How can you tell me to trust and expect that to appease me? I have trusted before..."

Yes, she had. She had trusted him, once. She had trusted her brothers to let her fly, had trusted her father, her grandfather who never came back, trusted those who had the power to bring justice for her dead father, and no one had done anything. Eranion tried to offer comfort, but she shook him off again.

"If we let this go, that woman's fate will be on our hands. Please," she said, leaning forward, that tilt of the head, that gentle, eager expression of the eyes that he had nearly forgotten, "we have to do something."

"Eralmir won't like it, Sister."

"He doesn't have to know."

"I won't hide something of this import from him," Eranion said, brow furrowed. "Should anything happen to you, it will be on my hands if I knew and said nothing."

She looked at her brother, looked back at him, and for a moment reminded him of a cornered doe, unsure and frightened, but determined to make the best of it. Maybe it was that which undid him, for the one thing he had most admired about Elenwë, the thing that won over his reticence about befriending a girl during their childhood together, was her mettle--her absolute certainty that she had something important to show the world, and her determination to make them see it--and he could not abide that pitiful look in a warrior like her. Or maybe it was that decided sparkle in those stormy eyes despite her fear and helplessness, or even the way she had poured out her innermost struggle to him after all those years of silence. Maybe it was the way her lips had parted as his eyes fastened on hers, as if she had read there all the years of pain and loneliness he had upon his back, and had felt for him. Maybe it was the way his heart had almost galloped out of his chest when she had been in his arms. Or maybe the decision had already been made for him the day their paths crossed again at the market--but, against his better judgment, he knew that he could not run away from this.

"Leave it to me," he finally said. "I will find her and bring her back to you if she is still to be found. In return for a favor from you."

"You would do that? You would go out to look for her?"

"I give you my word, if that still means anything to you, that you shall know what became of her. But I will need your word also."

"Anything!" she cried, and her eagerness made his heart ache, but he needed to go through with his request if he was going to keep his promise to her.

"Stay out of it," he said.

"What?"

"Stay out of it. I can't risk what needs to be risked to find Mindöniel if I know you could be hurt in the bargain."

She was hurt already. He could see it in her eyes, in the rigid stance she had immediately assumed, in the way her arms crossed about her, protecting herself. She would never open her heart to him willingly again, he knew that, but at least she would be safe.

"So, what is it to be?" he prodded, needing to get this whole ordeal behind him already.

"I would never let myself be tricked by you into such a promise. How could you do this to me, Anárion? You are just like everybody else. This is why things ended as they did."

Eranion let out a low whistle at that, but the widened eyes and eager expression told Anárion that he was actually quite interested to hear more of the mystery that had ended Anárion and Elenwë's friendship. Well, he would not go there, and certainly not after she had shown herself all too eager to drag the past back to the present again. There was only hurt to be gained by going that route, and he was done hurting.

"Whatever happened to the proper lady?" he asked, unwilling, or unable, to keep the disdain from his tone.

"She's at the same place Anárion, the gentleman, vanished to," she said with that distressing quiver of the jaw that could only mean one thing. When she turned her back on him, he knew with finality that things between them could never be the same they had been when they were young. She wanted something from him that he could not give her--he could not very well understand what it was, or why he seemed so incapable of providing it. He thought he had learned to forget, that he could never be hurt by her. Just that morning he had vowed to himself he would not stand like a fool to watch her leave over and over again. So, he followed her.

"Where are you going?" he asked, falling into step after her. "Off to get ready for the ball-- give a tease to your many admirers?"

He had known Elenwë all of her life and he could not recall ever seeing a more withering look on that lovely face. She was almost seething with rage. Walking back the steps that divided them, she looked up straight into his eyes for a long, painful moment, before saying, "Maybe I will."

<I>"I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."
-Robert Frost</I>