Out of the Great Sea by Lyra

Out of the Great Sea

Vëandis' skirts were soaked and stiff with salt and sand, grating against her legs. Every step hurt. Every step was an enormous effort against despair and grief and the heavy garments that threatened to bear her to the ground. The storm had abated, but the wind was still whistling mercilessly, tearing at her hair and making her eyes water, as if she did not have reason enough to weep. The very air tasted of tears and death. A bitter night had passed, and the joyless morning was shrouded in a salty haze. Vëandis paused in her struggle up the beach, turning to look behind her. Wan light fell upon the rumpled sea, the wreckage of their once-proud ships in the shallows, the grey shore littered with flotsam and the corpses of animals that had been smashed upon the sand: starfish and shells, seals and porpoises, the bloated remains of a drowned horse. The shrieking gulls were having a feast. The waves were tiny in comparison to what she had witnessed earlier, but they came hard and fast, breaking sharply upon the sand like the lashes of a punishing whip.
Elendil had not yet come out of the water, hadn't even made it to his feet. He knelt where he had stumbled, beaten by the billows, shaking, his head tilted back and his face clenched in agony. Vëandis empathised - did she not feel the same pain in her heart? - but did not have the strength to go back and offer him comfort. It took all her strength to keep herself on her feet. Her husband would have to pull out of it by himself.
Suddenly, he began speaking. "Et eärello." His voice was hoarse and hollow, his words punctuated by the steady crashing of the waves. "Endorenna... utúlien. Sinome maruvan... ar hildinyar... tenn' ambar-metta."

Vëandis wondered whether he was speaking to anyone in particular, or to himself, or maybe to the wind, hoping that it would carry his words to Manwë. They seemed to be more than a mere statement of fact, spoken in the ancient tongue, the language of forbidden prayer. Perhaps it was a prayer. Et eärello Endorenna utúlien: a concession of defeat, an acceptance of judgement. Yes, they had come out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth. Their homeland was lost beneath the waves. But at least they had been brought out of the sea, alive, to this land. Sinome maruvan tenn' ambar-metta: Here they would stay until the end of the world. They did not expect that they would be given a new land of gift. They would certainly not try to reach the uttermost West again. That was a solemn promise. Ar hildinyar: That bit, perhaps, a fervent plea. And my heirs. Yes, let their children be alive. They had not been washed ashore anywhere in sight: they might still be lost at sea, or they might have been drowned in the tempest, or they might be wrecked in some hostile place where they would starve or be slain quickly. The mere thought very nearly broke her, the final weight upon her heavy heart. No. They must be alive. If Elendil and herself, their servants and followers, had by some grace or coincidence survived, then surely their sons, and their children in turn, had also been saved. They must be. For the sake of her sanity, Vëandis could not allow herself to think anything else. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe through her nose, smelling the salt and the decay, until the urge to scream until her voice gave out had passed. There was no change in the quality of the wind, no indication that Elendil's words had been heard, measured, accepted or rejected. The wind continued to whistle sharply from the sea, indifferent to their ruin and despair.

One of the servants approached Vëandis, making her jump. "My lady?" Lastië said, giving her an imploring look. "What should we do?"
Vëandis found herself staring through the other woman, unable to to think of an answer. "I am no lady," she heard herself say, her voice as raw as if she had worn it out screaming after all. "I have no halls. I have no land. We are exiles." There it was, the bitter truth. They were exiles, citizens of the Downfallen, homeless, dispossessed, driven before the wind. They had no home here, no claim to anything except ancient links of friendship, strained heavily already by the politics of the past years, and who knew whether their old friends would still know them, now that they had fallen from grace and glory. During her history lessons, Vëandis had never quite been able to understand why the Fëanorians could have chafed against their exile in Formenos - there could have been harsher judgement - but now, when it was her own House that had been exiled, the resentment was a lot more relatable. True, they were not guiltless: perhaps they should have risked more, rebelled openly and in force, rather than keeping a low profile, attempting to protect themselves and the community at Rómenna but never trying to release their country from the grip of Ar-Pharazôn and his councillor. Perhaps they would have failed, yes. But perhaps they could have achieved something after all. For fear of failure, they had never tried. They had done small things, but not nearly enough.

And even now, exile was the kindlier judgement, for Vëandis was certain that none who had been on the island could have survived the cataclysm, and she had no doubt that the usurper king and his army had found no mercy, either. Perhaps they were the only survivors. Even her children, her grandchildren, so many of their neighbours might have been lost in the ruin -- again, the thought threatened to incapacitate her. She ground her teeth in her struggle to maintain composure. It was so tempting to give in to despair, to give up, to lie down and wait till the cold or the flood took her: Better to be dead than to go on after this.
But no: she had been allowed to survive, and there was an obligation in that. Though she was now reduced to exile, she had still been raised and trained to be a lady, and that among other things meant providing guidance and comfort. Vëandis managed to focus on Lastië's face. She saw the younger woman's chin tremble, saw the tear-glaze in her eyes, but saw also the resolute glare behind it. Lastië's mother and lover had been sacrificed in the Temple, and her father had been forced to row Ar-Pharazôn's ship: if Lastië, in the face of such losses even before the Downfall, could hold herself up and look for a purpose, then certainly Vëandis could do the same. Was she not of the line of Elros, however much watered down? Then she, too, must have the courage to face the unknown and begin anew, even in the face of loss and horror. She would find the strength. She had to.

"I am sorry. That wasn't helpful of me," she told Lastië. "Let me see." She surveyed the surroundings, their ragged crowd of neighbours and servants, fellow survivors, fellow exiles. Some of them were huddling together, trying to find comfort in closeness; some stood or lay curled up on the beach, transfixed by despair; others - very few - had already found something to do: Elendil's valet had managed to get his master back on his feet, slowly walking him away from the waterline; an elderly healer was using driftwood to splint a broken leg, and some brave folk had managed to keep the surviving horses from running off in a panic and tried to keep them herded together. Seeing their activity made Vëandis feel thoroughly ashamed of her own inaction. With Lastië by her side, she slowly made her way to the largest group, stopping here and there to offer a hand up or a gentle word. Seeing her move purposefully, several people got to their feet and followed her.

"What now, my lady?" asked Tiutalo, one of the senior members of their community. His jaw was set resolutely, but there was an emptiness in his eyes and in his voice. Like Lastië, he appeared desperate to have a purpose, to give some sort of meaning to his existence, since all meaning it had previously had now lay lost beneath the waves. Finding some kind of purpose, at least temporarily, would probably do them all good.
"We will need shelter, and warmth, and food," Vëandis said. "And we need to find out where we have landed - whether this shore is hostile or friendly, and whether we can reach anyone who might lend us help."
"We have to save the books," said Uruitë, who had worked as her assistant in the library at Rómenna. Vëandis agreed - she had prioritised survival, but of course they needed to try and save as much of their ships' cargo as possible, which might now be all that was left of the lore and culture of Númenórë. "Yes," she said. "We need to unload the ships, as quickly as possible, before the sea does further damage. But first, we need a place where we can store these things."
"Perhaps we can pull one of the ships wholly ashore," said Elendil, having reached them at last. "Or all four, if we have the strength. The hulls can provide shelter, even if they are no longer seaworthy." He still sounded hollow, but Vëandis was relieved that he, too, was beginning to make plans.

"But first, we should give thanks for our rescue," suggested Uruitë. "And pray for those who are..." she hesitated, then said, "lost."
Vëandis wasn't the only one tempted to shush the other woman. She could see several people wince or cast apprehensive looks around before they all realised that there was no more need for secrecy, no need to worry about traitors in their midst or spies listening in on them. Who should any such spies report to? Who should arrest the Faithful now? There were no dungeons of the king now, no temple of Morgoth. Exiled they might be, tempest-tossed arrivals at an as yet-unknown shore; but at least they were free. Despite herself, Vëandis felt the corners of her mouth tugging upwards in a tentative smile that she saw mirrored on the others' faces, too.
"Yes," Elendil agreed solemnly, covering his hair and bowing his head. "Let us pray."

Much later, Vëandis would marvel at that brief moment of peace. Hard work lay ahead of them, bitter loss behind, and dealing with either would take them many years to come. But as they joined hands and, for the first time since the death of Tar-Palantír, dared to pray openly, for that moment they felt that hope was stronger than grief. They stood together, wrapped in the sunlit haze; and as they called upon Ilúvatar and spoke the names of their loved ones, it seemed that at last the restive sea calmed and the wind turned, carrying with it an inland scent of grass and roses that reminded Vëandis of happier days.
They would rebuild their lives.