Adar's New Ship

This story is dedicated to Larner, Inzilbeth, and Suzil. I wrote it as a birthday gift to all three who have been wonderful friends to me and a source of support and encouragement. Happy birthday ladies!

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Isildur’s hand went up to shield his eyes from the bright afternoon sun. He gazed out towards the sails of the new ship and smiled proudly. A tug upon his hand distracted him from his proud reverie.

"Uncle, can we go on it?"

Anárion’s eldest daughter looked up at him with large gray eyes; a look Anariel seemed to know would always work on him. A wide grin came to Isildur’s face and he lifted his young niece into his arms.

"Of course we may, hên vuin. After all, I shall need your approval to be sure it is a fitting gift for your Adar."

Anariel giggled while Isildur ruffled her burnished gold hair. He took care while ascending the plank and stepping onto the new vessel. Anariel’s eyes were wide with wonder and Isildur could not help but chuckle softly when she tipped her head back as far as her neck would allow in order to see the tallest point of the masts.

"Uncle what are those tall trees doing on a ship?"

"They are what we call masts," Isildur explained with a warm smile. "Although, you are very wise to observe them as such for they were once great trees."

Anariel’s eyes opened wider and Isildur could see her young mind attempting to put together the logic of his words. "Are they even taller than Grandfather?"

"Yes, of course, "Isildur laughed. "It would take a tree atleast four times as tall as your grandfather to be a good mast for a ship. And they must be very strong to withstand all the trials they must go through."

Isildur placed his niece onto her feet while keeping a firm hold upon her small hand. He held her steady as her small body teetered back and forth a bit in an attempt to get used to the minimal sway of the docked ship. Before long she pulled him towards a folded sail.

"What is this used for, Uncle?"

Isildur’s hand reached out to run along the fresh cloth. "It is a sail. These help the ship to move at a faster pace."

"How fast?"

Isildur looked down to meet his niece’s inquisitive gaze, "This fast."

Hs mischievous grin served as the only warning before he scooped Anariel up into his arms and held her aloft while he raced in a circle around the center of the ship. His antics earned him more than a handful of shrieks and laughter. Isildur could not help but join in with his own mirth while watching his niece fail her arms about like some frantic young bird attempting to take flight. Anárion would surely hurry into a panic if he saw his older brother’s game. Sometimes Isildur could not help but smirk at the way his younger brother would go to such extremes to protect his only child. Without a doubt, the presence of a firstborn daughter had softened Anárion’s staunch, firm, demeanor.

Isildur could clearly remember how Anárion would never be any more than two steps behind Anariel while she learned to crawl about as an infant. He was an even bigger worried mess once Anariel managed to pull herself upright on her stubby little legs and take her first cautious steps. At first, Isildur had chided his brother for marrying so young. But Anárion’s bride, Anúviel, seemed to bring her husband out of his colder approach. The birth of their daughter came barely a year after their wedding, but the house of Amandil seemed to carry renewed joy within its halls due to Anariel’s presence.

Isildur lowered his niece once she reduced herself shrieks to breathless laughter. "What do you think, hên vuin, is the ship to your liking?"

The small girl nodded with a wide grin, sending her reddish gold curls bouncing while she continued to giggle happily. "I love it, Uncle! Now may I have one too since I said so? I want a ship of my own also!"

"Ah, your humble spirit shines through once more," Isildur murmured after laughing out loud. He carried Anariel over to a bench and sat his niece beside him, his arm draped around her small form.

"First you want a sword, and then this very morning you decided you wanted a pony. Now you have added a ship to that list. Who is to know what the future may hold for you, hên vuin."

Isildur smiled to feel Anariel lean against his side. His face turned to look down at her when she spoke.

"What is it like to be a mariner, Uncle? Is it very grand like in the stories Naneth and Ada tell me?"

Isildur’s eyes turned out towards the Bay of Rómenna and he smiled. "Aye, hên vuin, it is grand to be out on the open sea with nothing but the wind at your back and the opportunity to explore new lands ahead of you. But it is not an occupation without great dangers. The one known as Ossë dwells near the shores and he delights in the making of storms and violent waves. But his lady protects us from her lord’s wild fury. Tell me, hên vuin, do you know her name?"

Anariel grinned wide, "Her name is Uinen, and her hair lies throughout all the waters of the world. Great grandfather sings a song about her to me sometimes. It is very pretty and I would like to know it."

"Well, then I shall teach you," Isildur murmured happily as he leaned down to drop a kiss upon the top of his niece’s head. "And you must always keep that song near to your heart, especially while we are away and sing it often for us. But for now I must ask you another favor, my dear child."

Anariel’s head looked up so that Isildur could see into her inquisitive eyes. "What is that, Uncle?"

Isildur’s smile grew wider as he lifted his niece and placed her upon his lap. "Tel me hên vuin, how would you feel about having an aunt?"

He watched Anariel’s face scrunch slightly in thought before the happy grin returned. "I think I would like that very much. But how would you get me an aunt?"

Isildur’s eyes flicked towards Rómenna, his eyes coming to rest upon a large storehouse near the quays before returning his gaze to his niece. "I asked Tindalómë to be my wife and both she and her father have given me their consent. What say you to that choice, hên vuin?"

A short silence ensued while Anariel seemed to contemplate Isildur’s announcement, but a wide smile lit up her face and Anariel clapped her hands happily. "I like it very much!"

Isildur smiled and embraced Anariel tightly. For some reason he always found a sense of comfort in being able to confide in his young niece. Maybe it was her simple honesty, or the fact she still viewed the world through innocent eyes. He had yet to tell anyone else besides Amandil of his decision, and Isildur was certain the rest of the family had given up on the idea that he would ever chose a bride. Offers came in the past, but none felt right to him, atleast not until he met Tindalómë, the daughter of one of Rómenna’s oldest mariner families. While not of a noble blood, Tindalómë’s family had earned their wealth and prestige through becoming great mariners and traders. Tindalómë’s father became a good friend of Amandil, and it was through that friendship that fate was allowed to work. Isildur knew he had his grandfather’s approval of the betrothal, but Isildur still could not erase all his anxieties when it came to making the announcement to the rest of the household. However, Anariel’s joy over the news served to ease them. If she could give her blessing, then surely the others would as well.

"Well, I am very happy indeed to have your approval, hên vuin," Isildur spoke as he lifted Anariel back into his arms. "But I must return you to your mother’s care before she begins to worry that I have carried you off to the other side of Númenor. "

"Oh, must we go, "a tinge of whining could be heard in Anariel’s voice, indicating her growing weariness to Isildur. "You have not taught me the song yet!"

"Be at peace, hên vuin, for I have not forgotten." Isildur murmured soothingly as he carried Anariel from the ship and back onto the quays. Once they reached solid ground Isildur began to sing in his mellow baritone voice a familiar song mariners sang at sea, the lyrics beseeching Uinen to show her protection and safe passage over the water. The melody rolled like the waves on a calm afternoon and before long Isildur could feel the grip of Anariel’s arms loosen around his neck. Her head leaned heavily against his shoulder by the time Isildur reached the stairs leading up to Amandil’s house. He could already see Anárion awaiting their arrival.

"Thank you, hên vuin," Isildur whispered before ascending the steps. He placed a light kiss upon Anariel’s cheek before relinquishing her to her father’s waiting arms. The phrase hên vuin means "beloved child" in Sindarin. According to The Valaquenta, Ossë and Uinen were Maiar in service of Ulmo. More information about them can be found in Valaquenta. According to the text in The Silmarillion, it says mariners would often cry out to Uinen to protect them and their ships. I thought it only natural that the Númenórean mariners would have many songs in reverence to her.

Author’s Notes:

His Match

Tindalómë wrung her hands while a servant carefully laced the back of her gown. Despite her wishes for a simple gown this day, Elendil’s lady saw to it that an exquisite garment was made for the bride of her eldest son to wear on their wedding day. Tindalómë stole a glance at her reflection. She could almost scowl at her simple form clad in pale sea foam green and gold silk. Her raven hair was arranged in shiny ringlets and Tindalómë almost wished the face they framed was more like the ones the local beauties possessed. Surely others would agree that such an ordinary looking woman looked ridiculous in clothing made for a Queen.

She was a daughter born into a mariner’s house. Tindalómë became familiar with her father’s ships from the time she could walk, and as she grew in age and strength of mind, she learned to manage her father’s business in his absence. There were those who said her father had been blessed with a faithful son placed into a female body. Tindalómë was a creature born and bred for books as well as hard work, not to be worshipped for her loveliness by enamored suitors. She never paid much attention to Elendil’s son, even though he often darkened the doorway to her father’s storehouse. It wasn’t until Isildur began to address her personally that Tindalómë became hopelessly aware of herself and what she lacked. Ever since she first caused Isildur to laugh and turn his smile her way, Tindalómë secretly longed to be beautiful.

Now that the day of her wedding arrived, Tindalómë could barely contain her disappointment that her hidden wish had not been granted. When Tindalómë saw the gown that was so graciously made for her this day, she silently hoped it would somehow transform her. Unfortunately, her reflection in the mirror confirmed that she remained the same as before. But there was no time to mourn for such a thing. Once the servants and the ladies of the house finished with their preparations, Tindalómë was escorted to the great hall of the house.  Due to the rising dangers and strict laws enforced by Ar-Pharazôn’s men, the wedding ceremony would be held in secret, attended only by family.

A wide smile spread across Isildur’s face once his bride entered the appointed room. For awhile, Tindalómë’s fears were cast aside while she was able to see the happiness that shone forth in her bridegroom’s gray eyes. She could hear the sincerity and admiration in Isildur’s voice as he spoke his vows to of loyalty to her and asked Eru to bless their union. Tindalómë knew he had always treasured her company, and would likely continue to do so in the future. She knew he admired her strength of will along with the agility of her mind. Tindalómë’s mother always assured her that her body was strong and would easily bear the toil of childbirth in order to fill Isildur’s house with many sturdy sons.  Her hands could create beautiful things and her heart was filled with love. Hopefully all she had to offer would make her a far better prize than any pretty thing that required constant pampering.

Atlast, Isildur interlaced his fingers with hers and Tindalómë watched as Amandil, the last Lord of Andunie wrapped the silken marriage cord around their joined hands as he blessed their marriage. She could feel tears prickle in behind her eyes. For many long years they had waited for this day. Tindalómë’s happy laughter filled the room the room when Isildur lifted her into his arms and spun once. Isildur’s lips embraced her own, pushing away any lingering doubt’s Tindalómë might have of his love for her. Yes, she would make him happy, Tindalómë was sure of it.

The wedding feast was far more than Tindalómë ever expected. The songs and dancing went well into the evening. The moon neared its peak in the sky when the newlyweds finally said their goodnights to the rest of the family. The couple remained in an unusual silence while they walked to their marriage chambers. Usually they could always find something to say, but now Tindalómë was sure Isildur could hear the thumping of her heart even from where he stood beside her.  

A few servants lingered in the chambers the newlyweds would now share. Isildur lifted Tindalómë’s hand to his lips before he disappeared through one of the doorways. The remaining servants whisked Tindalómë away to the bedchamber. They worked quickly to remove Tindalómë’s jewelry and help her out of her wedding garb. The ladies dressed her in a long gauzy nightgown. The fabric felt wonderfully soft against her skin, but Tindalómë could not withhold the flush that heated her cheeks once she noticed how the garment did little to obscure her body. She turned to ask the servants for a robe, except the door clicked shut behind them before the words could move past her lips. Tindalómë’s sigh was the only sound in the room. She turned around to see the large bed with its soft coverings and piles of soft pillows. As a child, she would have killed for such a bed to jump on, but this night the sight of it only served to bring about a fresh wave of anxiety. She needed to do something, anything, to occupy her mind. Tindalómë’s hand brushed through the tangles of her raven hair before she snatched up the brush that sat upon the small vanity table.

Tindalómë lowered herself onto the stool that sat in front of the table. Maybe if she looked into the reflection of her eyes in the mirror it would somehow still the shaking of her hands. She had just begun the task of smoothing her locks when the door opened. The brush dropped clumsily from Tindalómë’s hands when Isildur entered the room. For a second her heart seemed to stop. Her new husband was dressed in nothing but a pair of simple breeches, his chest was not hidden by a shirt, allowing Tindalómë to marvel at the toned muscles underneath the skin, or the dusting of dark hair upon his torso. Isildur’s long dark hair flowed free over his shoulders; a few errant strands covered the side of his face. Tindalómë felt her body go weak when her bridegroom flashed her one of his dashing smiles. Her nervousness increased tenfold to see her beloved this way and she became aware of her own body. She was thankful for the coverage her long hair provided. Hopefully Isildur would blow out the lamps in the room before Tindalómë was required to undress.

Her heart thudded within her chest as Isildur took a few slow strides towards her. But instead of forcing his bride from her seat, Isildur knelt to retrieve the brush that lay at Tindalómë’s feet. His hand reached out to gently take a lock of Tindalómë’s hair once he stood. Much to her surprise, Isildur began to carefully run the brush through her raven tresses, his fingers trailed ahead of the bristles to gently undo any tangles they encountered.  The action took Tindalómë by surprise. Isildur had always been kind and gentle towards her, despite being a man of great strength and prowess as a mariner, scholar, and warrior. Yet, this was one of the last things Tindalómë expected him to do.  The motions of his hands were slow and measured, and suddenly she realized he was watching the way the dark strands moved under his care. The happy light in his eye made him appear almost like a child looking on in wonderment at a beloved treasure.

“Do you think you would ever find me beautiful?” Tindalómë’s question caught her by surprise, and she instantly wished to take it back. She inwardly cursed herself for buckling under vulnerability.  Tindalómë quickly cast eyes towards the floor, afraid to see the look upon her husband’s face. A seemingly endless second passed before Isildur’s fingers cupped Tindalómë’s chin and lifted it so their eyes met.

“And what makes you think you haven’t been beautiful all this time?”

The sincerity in his tone nearly brought tears to Tindalómë’s eyes, her voice cracked slightly when she spoke. “I am not like the other noblewomen in this city. You could have had any one of them.”

“Maybe that is so,” Isildur murmured as he cupped Tindalómë’s face between his hands, his thumb traced lazy circles upon her cheek. “But why would I want them when my match is right here in front of me.”

Tindalómë gasped when Isildur suddenly swept her up into his arms. Another debonair smile was upon his face as he carried her over to the large bed and gently placed her upon it. The mattress shifted slightly while Isildur lay down beside her. Tindalómë looked up into his eyes while he leaned upon his elbow. Her eyes fluttered shut as Isildur traced a fingertip along the side of her face before allowing it to drag along her neck and the bared skin the wide neckline of her nightgown exposed. His breath tickled against her earlobe.

“I could tell you how beautiful you are in my eyes, meleth nín. But I would rather show you this night, if you would so allow me the honor?”

Tindalómë opened her eyes to see Isildur’s darkened with the same level of passion that was carried in his whisper. When his lips claimed hers, Tindalómë met them without fear. Both of them pulled away breathlessly from a kiss that set them both ablaze. Tindalómë could not help but blush when the flicker of candlelight cast illumination onto the wicked grin upon her new husband’s face. She released him only long enough to pull the sheer curtains around their marriage bed before pulling him close once more. Tindalómë kissed Isildur once more with all the unashamed passion she could muster within her being before their bodies fell onto the rumpled sheets in a mass of tangled limbs and joined heartbeats.

The First Sword that was Broken

Isildur winced as his brother’s howls ricochet off the walls. His eyes flicked to the bloody shard of metal held by the surgeon.

“Sweet Eru, she did manage to stick you good didn’t she,” Isildur said before erupting into gales of laughter which earned him nothing but a stern glare from Elendil and a scowl from Anárion.

“If you find it so funny, brother, next time you can give her lessons on how to properly wield a sword.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare!” Isildur exclaimed in between snickers. His eyes flicked to Anárion’s bare buttocks, exposed for all within the room to see while his brother lay upon his stomach.

“After all, you’re the one who gave her the sword despite your lady’s most wise protests. I don’t know which I should marvel at more; the fact you gave your seven year old daughter a blade, or the fact you found one so poorly made that the tip broke off in your rump.”

Anárion scowled even louder, “It was the only one I could find that was small and light enough for Anariel. It wasn’t even sharp!”

“Well that was your first mistake,” Isildur laughed. “You assumed that even a blunt object in the hands of a spirited seven year old couldn’t be used as a weapon. And second, you turned your back on her while she was holding said blunt object.”

Anárion was about to respond but instead he muttered a string of curses while the surgeon went to work on stitching up the wound.

“Maybe a fine pony would have been a better gift?” Elendil spoke up gently from the other side of the bed. “One of the young mares is ready for a new rider and she has a rather mild temperament.”

“Alas, Anariel would probably teach it to trample me into the ground.” Anárion spoke bitterly. Isildur learned back in his chair so that it rested upon the back legs.

“And all this time you begged the Valar for a son,” Isildur’s amusement over the situation had obviously had a ways to go before it ran out. “You should be more careful what you wish for, and especially what you give that daughter of yours. Now you will be unable to sit for atleast a week, dear brother.”

Elendil was about to reprimand his eldest son when a sharp snap caused everyone within the room to jump in alarm. Isildur went tumbling backwards, his arms and legs flailing in a most ungraceful manner. The chair lay underneath him in a broken pile of cushions and wood. This time it was Anárion’s chance to roar with laughter; even Elendil allowed himself a low chuckle once he affirmed the only thing Isildur injured was his pride. A smug look came to Anárion’s face as he spoke up.

“Keep that up, brother, and you won’t be able to sit for two.”

Honeymoon is Over

The call of gulls was the first sound to reach Isildur’s ears as he surfaced from his sleep. The ever familiar scent of the sea air mixed with the heady fragrance of the flowers that grew outside his window beckoned him to open his eyes and see the world around him. They were the same sounds and scents that greeted his senses every morning, yet something felt different. Isildur rolled over and grumbled when he realized he had been robbed of his warm covers. He propped himself up on his elbow to further investigate. Through the veil of dark hair that fell across his face in his sleep he could see his new bride lying next to him. Her raven hair spread out onto her pillows in an unintentional, yet becoming, manner. Isildur would have sighed in a content manner to see the serene expression upon her face if it weren’t for the fact that her body was lost in a pile of blankets from the chin down.

Isildur grabbed the edge of the blanket that was closest to him and pulled as he rolled over onto his opposite side. He was about to drift back to blissful sleep when the blankets were pulled away a second time. Isildur balled his fist around the edge before he yanked back twice as hard as before. His efforts were met with an annoyed huff from the other side of the bed. Isildur expected a rebuttal but was met with only silence. He was about to fall back to sleep when something cold brushed against his bare ankle. Isildur winced, as much as he loved Tindalómë, he could not stand her cold feet, or the way they seemed to find his side of the bed just when he was starting to get comfortable. For a brief moment Isildur contemplated the merits of gluing slippers to her feet while she slept, but decided it was easier to pull more of the blankets onto his side. A contented sigh escaped his lips once enough of the soft material fell between his ankles and the blocks of ice attached to Tindalómë’s legs.

Another irritated huff reached Isildur’s ears. For a split second, Isildur felt guilty, but the returned warmth around his body quickly erased those thoughts.  The surface of the mattress shifted sharply for a second. But even more curious was the sound of a drawer opening and slamming shut with a sharp thud.  The tension on the blankets increased as Tindalómë tugged back. Isildur was about to sit up and grumble at his wife for being ridiculous when the sound of shears opening and closing on fabric interrupted his thoughts. The tension upon the blankets released and served to confuse Isildur further. He opened his eyes and rolled over to find his wife putting away her good pair of silver handled scissors. His eyes went next to the long lengthwise cut that now separated the covers into two halves.  Tindalómë met his gaze and flashed him a smile before she curled up under her half of the blankets, leaving him to stare at her in a wide eyed, dumbfounded manner.

Hands of Evil, Fingers of Life

The room remained dark except for the reddish illumination provided by the dying fire in the hearth. The hours dragged on, and much of the house long ago retired. Isildur’s eyes flicked to a solitary shadow in the hallway. It disappeared suddenly once the last lamp was snuffed out. Isildur did not bother to speak up to alert the servant that he remained awake even at this ungodly hour. His eyes focused once more upon the orange flames. A few tendrils reached upwards like fingers before fanning out in Isildur’s direction. Such a mundane occurrence stirred dark thoughts within Elendil’s son this night.

With each passing day the evil of this land drew closer to their doorstep. Smoke could regularly be seen from Armenelos. So many had already been unjustly tried and fed to the fires within the gilded temple.  The only real weapon against the growing malevolence was to remain observant and alert. Amandil and Elendil fought to save those they could from certain demise, even if it meant sending them on a secret ship to the eastern lands. Once they left, they would never be allowed to return, but all that remained here in Númenor for the hunted of the Faithful was death.

The fire popped and crackled angrily when Isildur tossed more kindling upon it. His brother and father had stayed with him through most of the nighttime vigil until the hour grew so late that they could no longer resist the call of their warm beds. Isildur refused to relent despite his weariness or the chill within the rooms. It was a small price to pay compared to the ordeal his lady endured this day. Isildur’s senses shot into alertness when a pained cry breeched past the doorway. Isildur’s eyes were fixed on the entry to the next room most of the night, and the sharp sound drew his attention to it once more. More frantic noises followed the first and Isildur was out of his seat. His knuckles were white from the force in which he gripped the door handle. Isildur had never heard Tindalómë make such agonized sounds before and his heart pounded while his mind began to fear the worst.

Isildur's hand gripped the handle harder, ready to open the door and attempt to come to his lady’s rescue when a new sound stopped him in his tracks. It was an odd strangled mew that swelled in volume until it became wailing.  Tindalómë’s sobbing joined in with the harkening of the babe’s first cries. Isildur’s knees went weak as realization washed over him. The first moments of fatherhood were filled a wash of emotions and Isildur had to steady his weight against the back of a nearby armchair before the shaking in his hands and knees would calm.

The door creaked open and Isildur looked up to see his mother smile broadly as she existed the room “You have a healthy son,” she announced proudly and extended her hands. “Come, you must see your firstborn!”

Isildur’s lady lay in the center of the large bed with the covers pulled up to her chest, her head and shoulders were supported by large pillows. Tindalómë’s face was pale, her skin and hair still damp from perspiration, but a warm smile outshone the weariness in her gray eyes. Isildur’s gaze fell upon the bundle cradled in his wife’s arms. A soft whimper came from within the blankets, beckoning Isildur to come closer. His breath caught in his chest when a pair of brand new gray eyes blinked at Isildur. The infant’s mouth opened wide in a great yawn that shook his tiny body before his eyes closed.

“He thinks he is the one who is tired.”

Isildur chuckled softly at Tindalómë’s comment. Their eyes met before Isildur leaned forward to share a tender kiss with his wife.

“I could never thank you for such a precious gift,” Isildur murmured.

Tindalómë smiled wickedly. “I shall forgive you this once. But I will forgive you again if you bear this burden the next time, my brave warrior.”

Isildur could not help but laugh aloud. Inwardly, he was thankful the many long hours of labor had not removed all of his wife’s mirth. Isildur’s eyes filled with pride as Tindalómë carefully placed their firstborn in his arms. He took a moment to silently count the number of fingers and toes the infant possessed, and breathed a contented sigh to find them all there and in the proper place.

It was a dangerous journey in more than just the physical sense. Not only did Isildur worry for the well being of his lady and the child she carried, but Isildur knew even greater dangers lay outside the safety of Amandil’s house. By the laws of Ar-Pharazôn, all new marriages must be conducted by one of his officiates and invoke the name of the false lord this land now worshipped. Like many of the Faithful, Isildur and Tindalómë wedded in secret to avoid the edict. In an attempt to further persecute those who resisted the new religion, the King declared that it was now illegal for all unwed lovers to share a bed. Although the law seemed to rarely be enforced among those who held Ar-Pharazôn’s favor. Many young mothers were sentenced to death for no greater sin than being faithful wives. Not even women with babes growing in their bellies were spared from the temple fires.

But now the tension of the last months was over. Isildur’s firstborn was here at last and Tindalómë was safe and well.  Not only had the Valar protected them, but they had gifted their Faithful followers with a treasure beyond gems.

“What shall we name him? Our son will need a strong name, like his father.”

Tindalómë’s soft voice broke Isildur’s reverie. He looked down to see his son’s large gray eyes trying to focus upon his face. The boy’s head was covered in a wild mop of dark hair that stuck out every which way. Isildur’s pride swelled even more once he recognized some of his father’s features on his son.

“We shall call him Elendur, to honor his grandfather,” Isildur spoke with a wide smile.

“And to honor his own father as well,” Tindalómë chimed in. Isildur’s smile grew even more.

“I will teach him to read and write. And you can help me teach him how to man a ship. He will have a ship of his own as well as a set of fine armor. I shall have the smiths make him a fine sword straight away!”

Tindalómë laughed softly as she held out her arms for their son.”Those are all fine plans, meleth nín. But before your aspirations for your heir get too far ahead of you, let him have his rest and his first meal. The smithy can wait for at least a few more days.”

Isildur’s gaze softened and he carefully placed Elendur back into his mother’s arms. He knew the wisdom in Tindalómë’s words. Isildur had held his nieces on the day each was born and watched with melancholy right along with his brother as he watched them grow all too quickly.  Anárion’s eldest, Anariel, already resembled a grown woman, much to her father’s pride and dismay. No doubt Elendur would grow just as swiftly.

Isildur climbed onto the bed with his wife and child, his arm draped protectively around Tindalómë’s shoulders as they watched Elendur fall to sleep.  Tindalómë’s weight began to rest heavily against Isildur’s arm, her eyelids fluttered before closing. Isildur pressed a kiss to his wife’s brow before he reached for Elendur once more. He pressed a finger into the infant’s palm. Isildur marveled at the way Elendur’s tiny fingers grasped his even as he slept.  Now that his son and wife slept, weariness caught up with Isildur and his head suddenly felt heavy.  The new father lifted a silent prayer of thanks to the Valar for this long awaited day before he placed Elendur in the cradle that sat next to the bed.  His eyes remained ever watchful upon his wife and child until sleep finally claimed him as well.

Elendur's Hero

Isildur’s attention was suddenly drawn away from his book when he heard the sounds of shouting. The five year old voice of his son was unmistakable and Isildur was on his feet without wasting another second. Elendur’s voice grew more frantic with each passing moment and Isildur began to fear the worst. The hallway seemed entirely too long to traverse in a panicked state, even with the full strides of Isildur’s long legs. A door that was normally closed lay wide open. Isildur could see the shadows of his son’s body dance upon the floor while Elendur darted back and forth in an attempt to evade his imaginary foes. The ceramic pot in which the seedling of Nimloth grew sat in the center of the room where the sunlight from the many high windows could reach it. 

Elendur extended a wooden sword in front of him as he waved it from side to side. I his other hand he held a half eaten apple, the exposed interior already browned from being exposed to the outside air. The boy looked over his shoulder and flashed his father a grin that was already missing a few baby teeth.

“Look, Ada! I am defending Nimloth just like you did!”

Isildur’s lips half upturned in a wry smile while he inwardly released a sigh of relief. He was still getting used to his son’s exuberant games; although he should have guessed Elendur was defending their household against more imaginary foes.

“And who told you I did such a thing, my son?”

“Naneth told me so,” Elendur announced with pride as he ran to his father’s side.”I was eating the apple when I remembered the story she told me. Someday I want to be a brave hero and a protector of the just.”

Isildur could not help but release a low chuckle as he easily lifted his small son. “Well then, if you wish to be a courageous hero, my son, then you must be sure to do all that your Naneth bids you to do and pay close attention to all your lessons.”

Elendur scrunched up his face as if a foul scent suddenly invaded his nostrils. “If you say so Ada.”

Isildur smiled and gently ruffled his son’s dark hair before placing him back onto his feet and nudged him gently towards his mother who now stood in the doorway of the room. The boy ran to her and happily clutched at Tindalómë’s skirts. “Ada says I can be a hero too, and someday I’ll protect all of us from the bad monsters too!”

Tindalómë laughed as she met her husband’s gaze, a slight blush turned her cheeks a soft pink. “It would seem we’ve gotten a bit carried away with the bedtime stories as of late.”

Author's Note: According to Tolkien, Elendur was Isildur's eldest son, born in Numenor in the year 3299. The account of Isildur stealing a fruit from Nimloth before the tree is burned can be found in Akallabeth of The Silmarillion. I am currently working on a story concerning the incident with Isildur and the fruit from Nimloth called "Fruit of Life", and it shall be posted soon. The story will be based off canon events as well as my own perspective of missing details.

Ashes Upon the Water

Many days have passed since the news of your passing has reached me. I do not know if I shall ever understand why so many innocent lives have been suddenly snuffed out, cast into the fires like worthless kindling. But you, my dear Anúviel, were worth far more than that.

I stand here near the prow of one of my ship.  I can see her twin sister out of the corner of my eye, but on this day my proud vessels do not bring me much comfort. The only thing that would quell the rage that boils within me is to hear your voice once more, smell the scent of your hair, or the feel of your skin underneath my palm. But all hope of that chance is now gone. I do not even have your body since the temple fires have claimed it. I would have covered your cask with flowers, and given you the last rites of a Queen. You deserved no less, my beloved wife.

You had many long years ahead of you, many that I hoped to fill with joy and laughter. My beloved, you blessed me with three lovely daughters, whom I treasure beyond riches or coin. I would have been content to watch them grow and fill our home with songs and beautiful things. But alas! You gifted me with a son! It grieves me beyond words that our Meneldil shall never know you. Be at peace, my love, for we shall not allow him to forget the one who gave him life.

Anariel lies at death’s door. It is a miracle that she did not share your fate, yet it pains me to wonder if such might have been a kinder fate. Her body has endured great torment, but I fear more for her state of mind. It shall be many years before the wounds of her ordeal heal, if they ever do.  I have not had the heart to hear her tale, or learn of your agony. My insides twist into knots to even consider the manner in which you died, my priceless gem. Being burned alive is fate far worse than many. I know you have endured great pain. Was your suffering brief? I have heard rumors that they drive a knife into the heart of some of their sacrifices. Did they release your spirit from its mortal shell before they tossed it into the flames? No! I do not want to think of these things any longer! I have failed you completely, Anúviel, forgive me!

I never would have let you go had I known. Why did you not send a servant in your stead? What was it you ventured out into the city for? I had warned you to never venture out into the streets of Romenna without an escort. Did you not know that Anariel would come for you? Why, Anúviel, why? Did you not realize how much our children need you? How am I supposed to go on without you by my side? Yes, even this warrior heart of mine is afraid, afraid to face the days that lie ahead without the one who completed me.

Another clap of thunder comes from over my head and I watch as lightening streaks from cloud to cloud. The storms seem to be endless in these past days. I know I cannot hold anger towards you for what cannot be undone.  Forgive me, meleth nín, for I do not know how to let go. I have loved you since we were children, and I cannot imagine loving any other even if I were to live as an old man. But something in my heart tells me I shall not see the elderly years of life. This fire for vengeance burns too hot within my spirit.

My eyes focus upon the helm you commissioned for me, your last gift. It is strange that it should be such a thing. Normally I would have reveled at its majesty. It is a fine thing with wings made of pearl and silver.  The seven clear stones at its base reflect the light from overhead. But my eyes cannot turn away from the red stone set on top. It now symbolizes my need to spill the blood of my greatest enemy, to avenge all those who went without a voice, to avenge Anariel, and you. Your death will never be in vain so long as I have life within me and my bloodline remains in this world.

My eyes turn to a sheet of damp parchment and narrow. It is the order sent by that false King to all able bodied men of Númenor to attend to his armada. The bright red ink is already spoiled and runs down the page like spilt blood. A sense of satisfaction courses through my veins as I tear the parchment to shreds that can never be put together again. I open my hands and allow the tiny remnants to scatter upon the wind. It is only a small victory, my love. But one day our enemy will fall, and his evil shall be no more.

I look upon the helm once more, and I cannot hold back the tears. It is a helmet made for a King. Surely you must have sold you finest jewels to have it made for me. But I am not a King. Maybe if I had been one, I would have been able to save you. The rain begins to fall, helping to disguise the grief upon my face. I cannot help but cradle your gift close to my heart and place a kiss upon its metal surface.

I do not know what will become of us. The earth quakes and the skies thunder in rage. A terrible dread haunts me, and I do not know if we shall long survive the wrath that is soon to be visited upon us. If I am to die, then I shall rejoice in knowing that we are soon to be reunited, my beloved Anúviel. But if I am to live, then I shall proudly wear you final gift into battle against my enemy. You deserve no less than justice, my love. And I shall not rest until that hour, that moment, when I am with you once more.

Author’s Note: There is a more detailed account of the death of Anárion’s wife, Anúviel, in my stories “A New World” and “Esquire of the King”.  Anúviel is killed soon after Meneldil is born. Some might consider it a bit AU that Anúviel’s last gift to Anárion is the helmet that later becomes Anárion’s crown as a King of Gondor. But I felt it was fitting.  It is the same helmet/crown that Anárion wears at the time of his death when his helmet is crushed by the stone. Seeing as how Anúviel is one of the Faithful sacrificed to Melkor in the temple in Armenelos by Sauron, it seems fitting that her husband would wear her final gift at the time of his death also.

Sunlight warmed the skin of Tindalómë’s eyelids, beckoning her to rise from a deep sleep. There was light, and warmth, again. But how was such a thing possible? Tindalómë could easily recall the darkness, pitch blackness deeper than any night. How could light ever exist past such a void? Tindalómë’s mind searched for answers to the multitude of questions that surfaced. Where was she and how had she come to this place? The fog lifted from her mind, and slowly memory began to return.

Age had finally caught up with Tindalómë. Her raven hair blanched years before. But little by little, the once great Queen of Gondor began to feel her age. After a life of toil and hardships, she felt her time draw near. Valandil had not moved from her side. Tindalómë could remember the look of strength and love in the eyes of her remaining son.

Throughout the years, Tindalómë found both comfort and melancholy in the fact her youngest child grew to closely resemble his father, a father he never had the chance to know except through his mother’s stories and the various trinkets and drawings she kept. They had been a family together, her and Valandil. And even though Tindalómë was sure the overwhelming grief would kill her after the loss of her Isildur and their sons, her love for Valandil had kept a spark alive within her. Although she had grown weary of the world, and her body began to grow weak from wear and age, Tindalómë had been reluctant to leave her son.

“Go to your reward, Naneth,” Valandil’s words still echoed in Tindalómë’s memory. “You have more than earned it. Be at peace now.”

His words were able to give her the last ounce of courage she needed to surrender to the unknown. Her son’s lips were the last thing Tindalómë felt before she slipped away. There had been no pain, no fear, only the sensation of floating away into a warm, and welcoming, darkness. Tindalómë came to the Halls of Waiting. She could hear her name murmured by those who gathered to welcome her, or bid her farewell; Tindalómë was not sure. Tindalómë recognized could recognize some of the faces. They were people that she encountered at various points within her lifetime. The crowds parted as Tindalómë walked towards a pier outside the vast house. A small ship awaited her, a lantern hung from its prow. Tindalómë’s gaze had looked out to see a multitude of points light. The dark water was filled with many of the lamp bearing ships. To her it seemed as if the world had suddenly been turned upside down and the stars now dwelled upon the water.

The journey across the Encircling Sea felt endless, yet Tindalómë wasn’t sure how much time had passed since her ship drifted out into the darkness. Icecaps glittered in the dim illumination of the lantern.  Yet somehow, Tindalómë was unable to feel the certain chill of the air around her. The sound of music reached her ears, a haunting, and unearthly, melody. It sang of her birth, and the unyielding joy of her parents. A rich harmony joined in as the song began to tell the tales of her life, her joys, and sorrows. Tindalómë had looked for the source of the singing only to find it came from within the water itself.

But the song faded too quickly as Tindalómë’s ship drifted into the blackness. A strong wind blew, tossing the lamp upon the prow until finally the ring that held it snapped free, and all light was gone. At last Tindalómë had faced true darkness, a pitch night that existed without a single star. Tindalómë had been both afraid and in awe of that place. The memory of her family served as the only light within the great darkness and she clung to them as sleep overcame her.

But now she was here in a place with light once more. Tindalómë blinked in an attempt to adjust to the sunlight that filtered through the window. Her mind tried to search for some sort of understanding. She was dead, how could it be possible that the warmth of the sun touched her skin. She could feel, but how? A shadow moved into the window, blocking out much of the light. Tindalómë blinked in an attempt to focus upon the figure that looked upon her. Elendil’s features became clear; a warm smile upturned the corners of his lips.

“Welcome home, child.”

Tindalómë sat up upon the couch she was placed on and smiled to see her father in law standing in one of the floor length windows that covered the walls of the room. A happy shout took her attention away from Elendil, but before Tindalómë could identify the voice strong arms wrapped tightly around her.  Tears filled her eyes to find herself enfolded in the combined embrace of her three eldest sons.  Laughter intermingled with the kisses Tindalómë placed upon each of their faces. Joy surged through her heart, for she feared at times she might never see them again. Even in her most hopeful moments, Tindalómë never imagined such a wonderful reunion.

Tindalómë sucked in a sharp breath as Anárion entered the room with his lady, Anúviel, at his side. Any signs of Anúviel’s ordeal that brought about her death were completely erased. Only a happy light in her blue eyes and a warm smile upon her face remained as Anúviel stepped forward to take her turn in embracing her sister through marriage.

It was Tindalómë’s turn to let forth a jubilant cry when she caught sight of a figure standing underneath a tree outside. Her feet moved swiftly towards one of the floor length windows, her hand brushed back the sheer drapes. At first Tindalómë was unsure if she should allow her heart to hope. The figure standing underneath the branches laden with pure white flowers turned around and tears prickled at the back of Tindalómë’s eyes. All the many years she had grieved without her beloved by her side could not compare to immeasurable joy that filled ever fiber of Tindalómë’s being as she ran towards her Isildur. She could see that he strode towards her with arms outstretched; their bodies collided in a tangle of tight embraces, laughter, and happy tears. Tindalómë’s hands cupped Isildur’s face while her eyes studied its features. Gone were the lines caused by age and worry. A gasp forced its way past her lips when Isildur lifted her off her feet without warning and turned their bodies in an elated circle while their combined laughter filled the air.

--------------------------------

The joys of Tindalómë’s arrival had not diminished since her first happy reunions. She was elated to find her parents and siblings among those who dwelled in this wondrous realm. Like so many others who had suffered at the hands of evil, the spirits of her kindred lived free from the oppression their bodies faced in life, yet it felt as if life had never ended. Just about anything she could want was here in this place. She was walking towards the shoreline when she noticed Isildur seated on the sand, Tindalómë caught sight of a frown upon her husband’s face for the first time since she arrived. It seemed that Isildur disappeared often for these moments of solitude, and although Tindalómë could guess why she was still curious to hear it from Isildur. Neither of them spoke for a long while, even after Tindalómë sat down near to her husband’s side.

“Do you think of Valandil still?” Isildur’s eyes were still staring off into the farthest reaches of the horizon as he spoke.

“Every day,” Tindalómë whispered back. “How could I not?”

She watched Isildur’s expression shift through a variation of curiosity and sadness. His mouth formed the beginnings of questions, but the words never seemed to leave Isildur’s mouth. Tindalómë shifted her upper body so that her eyes met his.

“Isildur, what is it?”

The level of pain carried upon Isildur’s face increased as if Tindalómë had punched him rather than enquiring about his well being. There was another long silence before Isildur spoke up again.

“I remember the day he was born.”

A wry grin matched the humor in Tindalómë’s eyes, “I’m sure you do. I’m not quite sure who squeezed whose hand harder, you or me.”

Isildur chuckled softly, “I don’t remember. I simply recall the experience of greeting our son together. You were far braver than I, and to think you had gone through such an ordeal four times!” His eyes focused upon the horizon once more.

“Was it difficult leaving him?”

Tindalómë was taken slightly aback by her husband’s question, yet somehow she was not entirely surprised. Now it was her turn her face to take on a morose expression.

“It was difficult at first. But our Valandil has much to live for still. He has a beautiful wife and children who are not all yet grown. His life is not without joy.”

The look in Isildur’s eyes shifted although their gaze remained upon the horizon. For a moment Tindalómë thought he would weep, the pain in his gray eyes was so great as well as the regret and longing. He did not have to speak for Tindalómë to know what his thoughts lay far beyond these shores.

“I am so very sorry that I did not return home sooner, that I broke my promise to you. It is something I fear I shall always regret. I foolishly abandoned you, and our son, and for that I can never forgive myself for doing, among many other things. I had a chance, a chance to make everything right again, but I failed in the one moment where it meant the most to be strong.”

Tindalómë had to avert her gaze. The pain in her beloved’s voice was so great, and for a moment, she feared she did not have the strength to carry him past it. She did not want Isildur to see the last lingering splinters of her anger in her eyes. She remembered how she loathed him in her darkest moments of weakness on the longest nights. There were times she had been angry at Isildur for leaving her and taking their three eldest sons with him. She had been angry at times throughout Valandil’s growth into a man that his father was not there to praise him like he had Valandil’s older brothers. But now that Tindalómë heard the agony in her beloved’s voice, she could not deny that he had suffered as much as her, if not more so. Guilt flooded over the anger, making it seem so small and insignificant in the greater picture. With a small measure of courage, Tindalómë managed to look back into Isildur’s eyes and brave the torment held within them.

“You may have made an error, but one that any man would have made had they been in your predicament.” Tindalómë reached out to take both of Isildur’s hands in her own.

“I do not know why things were allowed to happen the way they did. But I remember our days in Númenor, and the way things have to come to be how they are, and I cannot help but feel that we are only a smart part of something far greater than ourselves.”

Her head turned so that she could look out into the horizon before returning her gaze to Isildur. “I feel in my heart that what has begun has yet to be finished. One day the answers will come to use from beyond that horizon, and another ship will come to those shores. Maybe then you will find the peace you seek, meleth nín.”

Isildur nodded slowly and slowly pulled his wife into a tight embrace. Words seemed to fail to bring the needed reassurance. Tindalómë pressed a kiss onto Isildur’s brow.

“All shall be well again, you will see.”

At last a smile came to Isildur’s face just before his lips covered those that belonged to his beloved. For a moment that seemed to stand, nothing existed but the two of them and the deep love they shared for one another after all these many years.

“Come,” Tindalómë murmured once the kiss ended. “I am sure the others will be missing us soon.”

Isildur responded by grasping Tindalómë’s arm and pulling her tighter into his embrace. “Let them miss us for a little while longer, for I have waited a long while for this moment with you at my side once more.”

Tindalómë released a soft giggle as Isildur pulled her into his lap. His hand reached up to push back the hair from her face as he spoke, his eyes reflecting a happiness that Tindalómë had not seen since the days of their early courtship.

“I think I shall enjoy making up for lost time.”

Tindalómë’s body jerked sharply as she was forcefully yanked from her sleep for a reason she could not explain. The room was calm and Tindalómë could hear nothing but the sound of sea birds and the waves of the ocean. Her hands reached out by sheer instinct for her husband, but found only a cold space where his body normally rested. It wasn’t the first time it happened since Tindalómë’s arrival in this place beyond the Circles of the World. This was supposed to be their paradise, their long awaited reward. Yet Isildur’s mind remained troubled even though he was no longer a prisoner of his earthly body, a shell subjected to shame, age, and illness.

Her hands glided over the fabric of a robe she covered her body with. Tindalómë did not even have to think to know where her Isildur was. Just as she predicted, Isildur stood along the shoreline, gazing out as far as he could see. Even from where she stood, Tindalómë could feel her husband’s anxieties.  No matter how much she, or their sons, tried to reassure him, Isildur would not cease the endless search of the horizon, or allow his spirit to be at peace. Sometimes she wondered, and even feared, Isildur’s search would never end.  Tindalómë had hoped the arrival of Valandil and his gift of forgiveness towards his father would help to bring about the peace Isildur needed. He now had everything he could possibly want here in this beautiful realm, but Isildur’s search carried on.

One successor after another arrived, struck down long before their time. With each of their stories, Tindalómë could see more of the light leave her Isildur’s eyes. So many had come to this place, yet none brought the news of hope that her beloved yearned for so desperately. Isildur had wept in her arms more than once, and Tindalómë was terrified that his own fear and hopelessness would consume him entirely in those very moments. Somehow her deep love had kept Isildur from tumbling over the brink of madness and despair. After awhile, Isildur no longer looked towards the horizon for hope. He withdrew into himself, hiding from even his own family.

Tindalómë closed the distance between Isildur and herself before wrapping her arms around his waist and resting the side of her face upon his back. She came to learn that words were sometimes unnecessary during these times when Isildur stood at the water’s edge. Tindalómë could feel Isildur interlace his fingers with hers.

“Come back to bed, meleth nín. All will seem so much clearer with the rising of the sun.”

Usually Isildur protested, but this night her husband allowed Tindalómë to gently pull him back towards their home by the sea. Much to Tindalómë’s relief sleep came quickly to her beloved once they settled in to enjoy the peace of the evening. Before long, the sound of night birds and insects lulled Tindalómë into a state of rest, in her dreams she visited other lands within this paradise made by Eru for his faithful children. But Tindalómë’s journeys were brought to a grinding halt when Elendur’s shouts roused her.

“A ship approaches! Come see at once!”

Isildur sprang from the bed and peered out the window before hurriedly throwing clothes onto his body.  Tindalómë could see the brilliant white sails set against the blue sky, her heart raced once she noticed the black standard emblazoned with the white tree and seven stars. Isildur already waited upon the quays for the great ship and Tindalómë hurried her pace to join him. She could feel her husband squeeze her hand once he reached for it. A man that bore a similar appearance to their eldest son stood near the prow of the boat. Tindalómë’s eyes went to the woman standing beside the regal looking man and gasped. Even from her vantage point, she was the most beautiful woman Tindalómë had ever laid eyes upon.  She turned her head to the side as Isildur squeezed her hand tighter. They turned so their faces met and Tindalómë could see the unshed tears of joy and relief within her Isildur’s eyes. Tindalómë could feel a lump rise to her own throat as she learned forward to place a kiss upon her husband’s brow.

“At last, our hope has arrived. Let us go forth and greet your heir.”

A great hush fell over the room and out into the streets of Annúminas. All eyes fell upon the sceptre Elendil took into his hands. Its silver surface gleamed bright in the midday sun, as if it somehow caught a small portion of Telperion’s beams within its reflection. If one looked closely they would happen to catch the glint of the Ring of Barahir upon his finger. A flash of green hinted at the hopes of new life for them all. But even more impressive was the white star that shone upon his brow. Before them stood Elendil the Tall, a man who bore the past even in raiment, a man that now would be their King, a protector of their hope for the future.

The darkness within the room felt heavy and oppressive. It took all the concentration Tindalómë could muster to focus upon the sewing held in her hands. Shadows lingered close to the walls, dancing in and out of the glow cast by the fire in the hearth. Already the weather began to cool despite the fact the fall just began. Tindalómë’s eyes flicked towards the folded letter upon her pillow. Her husband’s scent left his belongings long ago and the single piece of folded parchment provided a lingering shred of hopeful comfort. Isildur would be home soon, his letter promised that, and Tindalómë always knew her lord to be a man of his word. Even now she spent many of her sleepless nights preparing for the return Isildur and their three eldest sons. How she missed them so! The war had been so immensely difficult; each day Tindalómë feared a message that would verify her worst fears. But alas, the Valar spared her husband and sons. Without a doubt Tindalómë knew she would be wise to count her blessings. Many wives and mothers were not so fortunate.

Sewing provided a welcome distraction. Hr men would surely need new things once they returned. A humored smirk came to Tindalómë’s face while she considered the sloppy stitches and patching her husband and sons’ clothing likely bore after all these years. A soft cry pulled the Queen from her musings. Her feet were already halfway to her youngest son’s bedchamber. By now the young boy sobbed through the throws of another nightmare. Much to Tindalómë’s dismay they seemed to come more frequently these days.

"Be at peace, ion nín," Tindalómë soothed with the voice only a mother of four could master over the years. "I am here now."

Valandil clung to her sleeves as he rose back into wakefulness. "Ada, where is Ada? I want to see him!"

"Hush, "Tindalómë spoke gently before attempting to quiet her son’s sobs. "Ada will be home soon. He is only delayed. I will read you his letter again if you agree to dry your tears."

Valandil curled further underneath his covers while Tindalómë reached for the companion letter Isildur wrote for their youngest son. Thankfully the words seemed to calm the boy. Eventually his eyelids drooped and fell shut. Even so, Tindalómë waited until she could hear the slow, even, breathing that would indicate her son slept in peace once more.

Her eyes fell upon the letter once she returned to her room. Now that Valandil had his comfort, she too required the loving words she would find upon that page. Each sentence brought a fresh wave of varied emotion and Tindalómë could not help but wipe away a single tear when she reached the signature that became so familiar to her after all these years. Her hands brought the letter to lips. Somehow she liked to believe that each tender kiss somehow made its way to her beloved’s lips and reassured him she had not yet lost faith, or eagerness, in the day he, and their sons, would return.

"May Eru guide your steps back to me, meleth nín. Surely it can’t be long now."