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Deific Flame
By Bejai
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"Nine ships there were: four for Elendil, and for Isildur three, and for Anárion two; and they fled before the black gale ... Elendil was cast up by the waves in the land of Lindon ... Isildur and Anárion were borne away southwards ... into the western sea in the Bay of Belfalas; and they established a realm in those lands that were after called Gondor."

- The Silmarillion

Chapter 9: Gondor

Galadriel stood on the edge of the cliff in the midst of the storm, statuesque as sculpted alabaster, her body an insignificant detour for the rain that tumbled from the sky in angry, displaced sheets. It pooled in her hands, folded but upturned near her breast. This rain had been sea but a few days before, compelled heavenward in its watery rhythm.

Although it had traveled the cycle hundreds of times since, the brackish sea-rain remembered well the day it had watched Valinor twisted from the earth and had cried out in loss, clinging to the shores of Aman until its strength failed and it crashed back to its forsaken bed. In its fury it had rolled across the world and devoured Númenor ere it clawed into the shores of Middle-earth with torrents of ruin. Now it streamed from the sky in beads of prophecy, driven eastward by wind that tumbled around Arda Bent. And Galadriel, the seer of water, was soaked through to the skin, to the soul, a witness to all the rain remembered as it lashed through her in its haste to become sea again. The vision returned to her, haunting with familiarity and meaning that lurked, fever-like, beyond the edge of sight. Such death! Yet the sea was not evil; it was simply the sea, and it did not care. It did not care if its chill froze the blood and its fire burned the lungs. It had no concern for its crushing weight, nor of the bodies tumbled in its depths. It had no mercy for a frantic cry, a sputtering last word, a drowning voice that faded to silence. It was the sea, and tears merely added to its depth.

"Mother?" a puzzled voice chided, jarring her from the waking dream. "What are you doing out here? It is pouring!

She composed herself -- badly, she knew -- before turning to face her son. "Yes," she answered faintly. "It does seem to be."

Amroth tilted his head and sighed, as grown children are wont to do when facing the aggravating frailties of their parents, before drawing her under the porch awning. "The dream again," he said flatly. "The vision."

"Which vision?" Galadriel asked, regaining strength enough for an enigmatic parry.

"The vision you don't speak of, but which frightens Father enough to reveal it Celebrían and me, despite your wishes," Amroth answered shortly. "The one you have about death and the sea, though the wave came years ago. The one you do not understand why you are still having."

"Visions of the past are common among the foresighted," Galadriel answered calmly, and Amroth threw up his hands in annoyance.

"You have more control than that, Mother," he answered.

"Not of late," she admitted softly. "Not since the world changed. Somehow, I find that with Valinor farther, my desire for it is greater; since the sea became more unfathomable, my longing for it more intense. And through it all, my visions more persistent."

"These last years have been hard on both you and Father," Amroth said gently, taking his mother's hand. "You suffered through a calamity that we inlanders can scarcely comprehend. I don't think the Sea is good for you; it gives you no ease. I wish you would reconsider, and come to Lorien for a time. The mallorn have grown magnificent; both they and I would delight to have you nearer."

The rained increased its fury, as if in disagreement. "It would be good to see you more often, but we have responsibilities here," Galadriel answered. "We can not simply leave our people behind."

Amroth frowned at her. "Mother, there are more men now in Belfalas than elves, and those who remain will find a way to survive without you! Can you not see that the Sea is tormenting you, that the more time Father spends away from the deep forest, the darker his moods have become? Where is it written that rulers must suffer? What divine edict tells you that leadership means abandoning your own needs?"

Galadriel smiled gently, fully in command of herself again. "We are fine, Amroth. It has been difficult at times, but it has been more important for us to be in this place. Worry not," she said, and managed to glide off the portico and into the house despite her sodden state. Then she laughed softly, like the first whispers of dawn. "But you can help me by ensuring that when you journey to Gondor tomorrow with Celebrían and your father, you take the longest path through the trees."

"The coasts are much better," Celebrían said in satisfaction. "That is one of the things I have always admired about time -- its ability to turn desolation into a satisfyingly tangled heap of life."

Amroth laughed and pulled his beloved sister close. They were standing together near the tip of Belfalas, overlooking the coast as it sloped northwest to their right and northeast to their left. "That is one of the things I have always admired about you, Celebrían," Amroth teased. "Your ability to say the most profoundly nonsensical things. You must get it from Mother."

Celebrían reached up and mock-cuffed his shoulder. "And you, my brother, have a great gift for ruining the mood of the moment. You must get it from Father." Down the bluff a few paces, Celeborn folded his hands behind his back and studiously ignored them.

"Truly," Celebrían said earnestly, pulling on Amroth's hand, "it is much better. Try to image the trees splintered up beyond those rocks, see, there? Image the broken cry of the land where bluffs had been torn away, exposing great gashes of sand and rock bone-white against the sea. Image flotsam and bodies caught in the currents, a smell worse than that of the darkest orc pit, and you will begin to understand."

"I do not know if I want to," Amroth answered soberly. "It sounds like a nightmare from some ancient tale, not a memory that should still be so vivid to my own sister. It must have been harrowing."

"It was," Celeborn interjected quietly.

"But it is better now," Celebrían firmly declared.

Indeed, the days following the cataclysmic wave had been more trying than the event itself. The weather had turned foul as the clouds caught up with the sea, and a stream of crushed refugees had pushed the reeling elves beyond their strength. Celeborn remembered stepping under a dripping pavilion, stuffed full with a mass of huddled misery, and being struck by a chill that would not lift. There had been two hundred more in the tent than an hour before, so despite the storm, it should have been steaming the breath and sweat. Instead he shivered at the cold grief pooled in the eyes around him and made a note to recruit some singers to drift through the shelter. The minstrels would not have the heart to sing of joy, but they could sing of sorrow, and thus bring it out into the air where acceptance might warm it.

Celeborn walked among them, and the few that glanced up saw little more than another scout in shifting gray. The lord clenched his fists and breathed, trying to remember how hope felt. A grown man was curled on the mud, rocking as he sobbed. Celeborn knelt and stilled him with a gentle hand.

"Have you seen my son?" the man gasped, gripping the elf's arm maniacally. Celeborn grimaced in vague pain and blinked, trying to follow the fisherman's thick accent. The language of men shifted quickly over the generations, but anguish needed no translation. "My son!" the man cried, burying his face in his hands as Celeborn stood helplessly. "My son!"

A moment later a sodden elf squelched by, his cloak wrapped around a young boy in his arms. The elf glanced up at his lord in grim resignation before handing the child to Celebrían, who was tending a group of little mortals. Orphans all, undoubtedly.

"Do you speak?" she gently questioned, poking a wafer of lembas into his chubby fingers, but the toddler's only answer was a solemn stare from newly-old eyes.

"Where did you find that one, Limnen?" Celeborn asked the scout, his friend of old.

The elf raked his fingers through his muddy hair and sighed. This was not the first disaster he had survived, nor the second, nor even the third. But it did not get easier.

"In one of an unending number of ruined fishing villages," he answered. "Not Númenórean, but one of those tiny coves where men of this shore lived as best they could. Clearly, Ossë did not warn them. Or if he did, they did not understand," he said, shaking his head, and turned to face the storm again.

"Wait," Celeborn said, and catching the captain's shoulder pulled him near so the men would not hear. "Limnen, our supplies are spread thin. There are so many are here with nothing but what we can give them, and I am running out of things to give. Is there no village still standing, no place where these men can go?"

Limnen shook his head sharply. "Nay, lord. The world of men is destroyed from here to Pelargir. In truth, the number of refugees horrify me -- not because the numbers are so great, but because they are so small." He sighed, and turned his head to look across the host of miserable exiles. "Do you want us to abandon the rescue efforts? Do you want us to begin turning people away?"

Celeborn released his friend's shoulder, and stood aside, his head bowed. "No," he said at last, shaking his head. "No. I will not send them back into rain and death. The healers tell me that half of these are already ill, from this cursed storm, from the sickness of rotting corpses, from grief ... no, I will find a way."

"Good," Limnen answered, and something in the ferocity of the reply cut through Celeborn's preoccupation.

"What have you seen, my friend?" he asked quietly.

The elf sighed heavily. "I thought I had seen all the faces of death at Doriath, at Sirion, at Eregion. But this! The smell in those villages is so thick I could feel it on my skin. As if ... " The captain gestured at the air, trying to form it into some meaning, then continued: "As if it was crawling up from the mud in a horror of death and fish. In one village the only living thing was a mangy black dog that stalked our patrol. I do not think it had gone without food, although even orcs would have turned away now. We found the boy in the next village, sitting on a pile of wood, a dead woman beside him. In the village beyond, there was no life at all. And it goes on, my lord, for miles without end."

Celeborn nodded tiredly, then with a sharp breath submerged his own weariness and despair. "Do what you can, my friend, and be careful," he said in dismissal, and with a bow Limnen faded into the rain.

With a sigh, the lord slipped through the despondent mass toward several scouts, who were gesturing over one of Celeborn's old maps. He paused beside a small fire, where some of the more self-possessed survivors were warming themselves. He spoke gently to them, although he knew what they would say. They would speak of a fine, clear morning shattered by terror, of lives lost or saved at the whim of an eddy, of homes and wives, of children and parents, all gone. When their tales were over Celeborn would ask them to stay a few days, in case he required more information. He knew they had been proud men, not takers of charity, but if sorrowful tales were all they had, at least he could give them value.

The scouts stood silently aside when Celeborn arrived at their table. He turned the map and frowned at their notations, which sketched the halting progress of the rescue effort. The map was outdated, but it was no matter -- the land had changed so profoundly in a few short days that even newly surveyed maps would not have been accurate.

"I know we have not done enough, my lord," one of the youngest scouts broke in nervously. "The rubble on the shore is treacherous ..."

"Have any of you had any rest or food in the last day and a half?" Celeborn interrupted, his eyes still on the map.

The youths shifted guiltily. "I fear we are not hungry, my lord," one answered. Celeborn nodded, unsurprised. "My lord?" the same scout asked tentatively. When Celeborn looked up, he continued. "What caused this?"

"A wave," Celeborn answered, and smiled faintly at the other's ill-smothered sigh.

"My sister is foresighted," the youth pressed. "Not like your lady, but yesterday she told me that Valinor is gone. And in my heart, I feel the sorrow in the world, as if it has been twisted and shattered to its very bones. What if it is so? What if the wave destroyed Aman? What of my grandfather, who sailed to those shores long ago? What of my mother, in Mandos' Halls? And what of us, if the Valar are dead?"

Celeborn looked down again. He was tempted to snipe that if that Valar were gone, life would be no worse than usual, and possibly much better, but he knew that it would be the wrong thing to say to these young men and women. In truth, he doubted that he actually believed it himself; if nothing else, this proved that the Valar had kept the world in balance. But if not with sarcasm, he was unsure how to answer.

"Yes," he answered slowly, still choosing his words. "Much is wrong in the world; I can feel it as well as you. When I reach for the earth, it snarls its pain into my blood. The world has changed. But I cannot tell you of Valinor, or Mandos, or the Valar. I cannot tell you why people must die in their homes or why a child must sit for three days beside his mother's corpse. I do not know. I doubt even Manwe on the Mountain, if he still has a mountain, truly knows."

At the fallen faces and bowed shoulders of his scouts, Celeborn silently cursed the crushing melancholy that he could not seem shake. He was old enough to know that a leader was not permitted to display such frailty, even if it was the truth. He reached to an ancient memory of Elu, standing bloodied in battle, for stronger words. "Yet I think the world will be better again," he said, his conviction false, although the youths could not perceive it. "We are not yet at the end of joy. Neither are we at the end of work. Now go and find some rest. I will need you again later," he said, dismissing them all.

"We are not doing well," Celeborn said to the shadows.

"I know," Galadriel answered, speaking from where she had stood, unseen.

"At first I thought our own people fared better," Celeborn said quietly, "but I begin to doubt. Our losses look smaller but feel as great. There is no song in Ennor, save for a whimpered gasp to Ilúvatar to undo whatever He has done. I see the same heart-sickness in the faces of our people as I feel within myself, and they ask me of Valinor. They ask me if we will rebuild the port, but I cannot even tell them if there is a place to sail toward."

"I believe Valinor is gone," Galadriel answered, "but not destroyed. Beyond that, I cannot say. Círdan will know more. Have you received any world from Mithlond?"

"No. I do not image that Calandil has been able to reach it yet, assuming it still exists. Nor have I had word from Amdír or Oropher. We need aid, Galadriel," he said urgently. "Already we are caring for more than we are able: the elves of Edhellond, the dark men of Ennor, minor lords of Númenor, the survivors of Pelargir, numerous children, four little people, even two dwarves. More are coming every hour, our supplies are already breaking, yet I cannot turn them away."

Galadriel nodded, and in the pause Celeborn reached for her hand.

"And what of you, lady?" he asked gently, and she smiled wanly at him.

"Valinor is not destroyed," she answered, as one trying to will it so. "And we will survive this."

"Even after all this, the sea calls to you still," Celeborn said flatly. It was not a question.

"It is not something I can control," Galadriel said, a little stiffly.

"I know," Celeborn said, and smoothed the back of her hand. Then his gaze lengthened to follow a swift-moving group of scouts across the room. "This bodes ill," he said, his concern rising as they pushed heedlessly through the crowd.

"What is it?" he had asked shortly, stepping toward the out-of-breath leader. Although he had not known it then, the answer would change Middle-earth for the rest of time.

"Ships, my lord," the elf had gasped. " Númenorean ships, not five miles down the coast."

"Ah, Lord Celeborn!" Isildur cried. "At last! I began to fear that you would not come. Forgive my faithlessness; I should have remembered that haste is a mannish custom, and that the elves come when they arrive." At the words Celeborn laughed, a sound like dancing trees and as rare, and clasped Isildur's arms.

"We are here now," he answered, "and forgive us our long wandering through the forests; we had intended to arrive less tardily, but when groves wish to sit and remember, I fear I am as apt to lose track of seasons as days." Celeborn turned, his palm out, and said: "Isildur, my daughter Celebrían, whom you know."

"Lady," Isildur effervesced, bowing deeply.

"And Amroth, my son, a lord of Lorien."

"My Lord Amroth," Isildur nodded, and gestured for the elves to follow him. "Welcome to Minas Ithil and the Tower of the Rising Moon."

"This is certainly a place to be proud of," Amroth said cordially, coming to stand beside him as they walked the marble boulevard. "It is my understanding that this is the seat of your house, with Minas Anor the house of your brother? But that you do not rule Gondor from either place?"

"Indeed," Isildur answered. "Osgiliath is our chief city. But with father ruling Arnor in the north, we both felt it was time we had our own homes for our children and families."

"Of course," Amroth answered, nodding knowingly. "You have done well for yourselves."

Isildur shook his head in bemused gratitude. "I scarce could have imagined this when we arrived here those years ago, no better than beggars, and exiled beggars at that. Have you ever heard the tale of our first days? Before we sailed up the River Anduin?"

"Not the whole tale, and certainly not from the lips of one who lived it," Amroth admitted.

"We came ashore in a small harbor, still in the midst of the storm," Isildur began, "for I feared we would be dashed to our deaths on the cliffs ..."

Isildur splashed into the thigh-high water with his men and heaved the longboat onto the uneven shore. He breathed with relief at the land beneath his feet, for his most prized possessions were aboard -- his children, and a sapling tree.

He pushed his soaked hair out of his eyes and looked around their landing. Clearly, something was badly amiss, for what remained of the beach was strewn with splintered detritus. Although he had not considered it before, it certainly followed that any calamity that could destroy Númenor could do the same to Middle-earth. He looked to his children, shaking with cold, and his heart sank. He had hoped to find aid here, some shelter, but with rain filling the small boat their only welcome was desolation. He wished they had been able to remain on the ships, but had not trusted the storm or the towering rocks to the left and right of this little port. The ships, which held many of the jewels of Númenor, were anchored beyond, but Isildur had little hope that they would be able to return.

"There is no sign of father or his ships?" Anárion asked, his brother's voice weak with illness. The trip, borne on the fury of the waves, had been the most difficult days any of them had ever lived, compounded by the grief of watching Númenor be devoured by the sea. No one was well, but no one could be afforded the luxury of rest.

"No," Isildur answered shortly, and would not permit himself to think on it. He had to consider all the lives that five ships could save before his own grief. "We need to unload the boats. Carry the supplies ... up, to those rocks beyond, do you see? We need to work on a shelter, a fire, if it is possible in this downpour, and food for the children."

"Where are we, Isildur?" his wife asked, climbing shakily from the boat with their youngest babe in her arms.

Isildur shook his head. "Middle-earth, somewhere. I lost our precise our position days ago."

"Something feels wrong," Anárion interjected softly, his eyes darting around the empty shore. "We are watched, brother. Stalked. Do you not feel it?" Isildur did, and remembered abruptly that this was not a paradise created by gods, but a wild land. This was Sauron's abode, where lived orcs, and dwarves, and fell beasts. He turned back to his anchored ships, barely visible in the storm, and wondered whether it would be more dangerous to stay, or more dangerous to face the rocks.

"Perhaps we should return to the ships for the night ..." Isildur began warily.

"I think not," a strange voice spoke from beside him, and Isildur stiffened as a group of cloaked figures stepped out around them from the thin air. He could not see their faces under their hoods, and they faded at their edges as the wind stirred around them.

"Who are you?" the voice spoke again, unkindly.

"Men of Númenor," Isildur spoke firmly, and was certain that somewhere there were unseen weapons pointed at his heart.

"And what brings you here now, Man of Númenor?" the other probed. "The last time we saw your red sails, you came for war, and to claim things which were not yours."

"We are refugees," Isildur answered angrily. "We are no army. Surely you can see the women and babes behind me?"

"My understanding," the other answered pointedly, "was that the men of Númenor slayed women and children on the fiery alters of Morgoth. Perhaps they are your future victims?"

"They are our wives and children, and we will protect them with our lives!" Isildur exploded, reaching for his belt dagger.

"That would not be wise," the other said mildly, and Isildur was inclined to agree, faced suddenly with dozens of deadly points. He carefully unwrapped his fingers from around the hilt and moved his arms away from his sides. "Why would men of Númenor seek refuge here?" the stranger continued, unfazed.

"Our land was destroyed by the hissing words of Sauron the Snake and the foolish pride of our king," Isildur answered, quietly seething. "Who thought himself lord of the world, and damned us all when he sailed to Valinor in war." Although the intruder did not move, Isildur felt that he was unsurprised by the revelation. Clearly, this one had known of Sauron's plans.

"What of Sauron?" he asked, too offhandedly to be truly disinterested.

"Dead," Isildur said smugly, and he knew the answer had disturbed his interrogator.

"You must be one of two people," the other said after a long pause. "Elendil, or Isildur."

"Isildur," he confirmed with surprised suspicion, and jumped when the inquisitor moved for the first time, pulling back his hood.

An elf! But this was no elf of Valinor, not one of those bright and merry mariners Isildur had known in his youth. No, this was an elf of Middle-earth, one who had been born in the darkness and was on comfortable terms with death. This one, with his shrouded eyes and grim demeanor, was far more dangerous. The elf looked over Isildur's people with something like brittle resignation in his face.

"You clearly need refuge, and you need aid," the elf said. "We have both a short march north. My patrol will carry your belongings." Isildur would have protested this presumptuous command had not several dozen more unseen elves stepped out from the rain.

"Where did they come from?" Isildur asked, shocked.

"They have always been here," the elf answered, and Isildur heard a ripple of amusement in his voice. It was incongruous compared to the earlier imperious menace in the elf's voice, a musical undertone that utterly banished the dark interrogator. Isildur fought himself, not wishing to trust it, for Sauron had used such tricks. Still, he could not help but wonder if the stars sang when this one laughed, and how many years it had been since it was so.

Movement at the edge of his sight startled Isildur from his reverie, for the elves had heaved the tree from the boat. "Wait!" he begged, the plea still half-formed in his heart before he spoke. They were elves; surely they would not harm a tree. Yet his soul cried out in anguish, lest they take it from him.

"Release that!" the leader of the elves ordered, and in that moment Isildur knew he was hearing a voice that had commanded armies, an elf of terrifying depth. He walked around the tree, and Isildur could not see who was more awed: the tree, or the lord.

"What is this?" the elf breathed reverently.

"The White Tree," Isildur answered, faintly at first, though his voice firmed as he spoke. "Grown from the fruit of Nimloth the Fair, which stood in the courts of the Bang at Armenelos ere Sauron burned it. It is a descendant of the Tree of Tirion, that was in the image of the Eldest of Trees, White Telperion."

"I begin to understand the light in Elu's eyes," the elf murmured, his words clearly not meant for Isildur's ears. "And Galadriel's."

The elf looked up with new respect in his ancient gaze, and strangely, a hope that had not burned there before. "Come, Isildur, Friend of the Tree," he spoke. "I am Celeborn, lord of this land. Permit us to help you in your need."

"The Tree is doing well here in Minas Ithil," Celeborn said, walking slowly around it where it stood proudly in its new shrine.

"It is," Isildur answered, coming forward to smooth the milky bark. The elf watched the caress, his eyes filling with deep merriment.

"It is very fond of you, you know," the elf teased, and Isildur grinned.

"Do you think so?" he asked modestly.

"I know so," Celeborn answered. "I do not think I have ever met a tree so pleasantly voluble. Not every tree can regale visitors with tales of a daring rescue from execution, a mad voyage on the jaws of a storm, or trips up rivers and over mountains."

"True," Isildur laughed. He was not sure about the elf's claims that the tree spoke to him. While he had never heard the tree's voice himself, there were moments when he thought he felt it singing just beyond the range of sound. And then there were other moments when he though Celeborn was having him on.

Although he had come to love the elf lord in the years he had know him, he had never entirely shaken the distrust of their first meeting. Since that day, he had not seen him in any mood other than smoothly unruffled. But Isildur knew it for what it was. During his youth in the court of the King Isildur had known one of the large cats imported from the southern parts of Middle-earth. It had reclined most days on a silk pillow, condescending to sit regally in the presence of men with an air of supreme unflappability. Isildur had not thought the gorgeous beast dangerous until the day he heard it had mauled one of its keepers, springing from bored indifference to liquid savagery ere the man could cry out.

Such was the ancient silver lord.

"I knew not that you had a son," he said, gesturing for the elf to join him at an alcove in the star-covered pavilion. "Wine?" he offered, and lit a lamp.

"Please," Celeborn answered. "Amroth is my son, but also the adoptive heir of my great friend, Amdír king of Lorien, and spends most of his time there," he continued after he settled in. "We do not see as much of him as we would like."

"My father likely has the same complaint about me," Isildur chuckled.

"True," the other answered, tilting his glass in agreement. After a pause in which both enjoyed the wine and the stars, he continued: "your city is becoming beautiful and impressive. You should be proud of what you have done here, and of the contentment of your people."

"Thank you," the Lord of Gondor said. "We owe much of our present success to the support you gave us during our darker years."

"Hmm," Celeborn answered noncommittally, and turned his face to the peace of the night sky. He looked, Isildur thought privately, quite cat-like. "However, I must admit to some concern about the location of your city," the elf continued after a moment, "here upon the shoulders of the mountains of Mordor."

Isildur leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his goblet in his hands. "Sauron is dead," he said quietly. "I watched as the land he corrupted, Númenor, my home, was buried under the waves, and the Snake with it. The price was too high, but it was the only good thing to come out of the cataclysm. I have a vision, now, of retaking Sauron's land as my own, of reclaiming Mordor in a kind of poetic symmetry. I know it will take longer than my life, or the lives of my children's children. But I hope that someday you will stand beside my heirs and tell them of the glorious reclamation. And I hope they will not believe you when you tell them such desolation ever existed."

"A beautiful dream, my friend," the elf murmured, his eyes closed as he reclined back into his chair.

"You do not think that Sauron is dead," Isildur stated.

"No," Celeborn answered simply.

"Why?"

"It was too easy."

"Easy?" Isildur replied, mildly outraged. " Númenor's death was too easy?"

"Yes," Celeborn replied, and Isildur had no answer.

"I have something to show you," he said, changing the subject, and drew a parchment out of a pouch. "We have made the borders of Gondor official, drawn up the proper legal documents and maps, lest there should ever be dispute about what land is ours."

"One does not claim land with lines on a map," the elf philosophized drowsily, his eyes still closed. "It claims you, if it wishes."

"Humor me," Isildur said, and the lord sat up with a smile, which quickly faded.

"Are you jesting?" he asked, looking sideways at his companion.

"No," Isildur answered, puzzled.

"You've annexed Belfalas."

"What?" he cried, and turned the map toward him. Then he burst into laughter, deeply amused. "Well, my lord, it seems I have. Welcome to the kingdom of Gondor! You may direct your tithes to us at any time, so long as it is once a year." At the look on Celeborn's face, Isildur quickly bridled his mirth. "Now I am jesting, my lord. Of course we do not intend to claim your country. I will have this all redrawn correctly."

"No," Celeborn said slowly, his face troubled. "It is not that. You are direct heirs of Elros, are you not?"

"Yes," Isildur answered, surprised at the shift in conversation. "Through a female line, but it is direct."

"His only living heirs?" Celeborn pressed.

"Yes, I believe so."

"What do you know of his ancestors?"

Isildur shrugged and recited: "Elros was the son of Earendil the Mariner and Elwing the White."

Celeborn stood and paced. "Those people are but names to you. But I knew them. Elwing was my brother's grandchild, did you know that? But she was more than that. She was also the granddaughter of Luthien, who was the daughter of my king."

"Indeed?" Isildur answered, startled, but not fully following.

"Elwing was precious to us," Celeborn continued, "for she was the only living heir of Elu Thingol, who was king of all the elves of Middle-earth, ere he was slain. When Elwing brought forth two sons, we rejoiced. They were Elrond, whom you know as Lord of Imladris; and Elros, your great ancestor, who was a king. Have you ever wondered why Elrond never took an equal title?"

"I haven't," Isildur admitted.

"Elrond was the younger," Celeborn answered simply, "Elros the elder."

It took Isildur a beat to absorb the implications. "Are you saying ..." he started, amazed.

"Elrond would never take the title, not while his brother's children still lived," the elf lord said. "And I am saying that if you wish to claim Belfalas, I do not have the authority to withstand you. I will not oppose the return of the king."
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continuing ...
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Next chapter: Sauron returns.

A/N: I'm ashamed to admit I haven't updated this story since January. I've had several life-changing events in the last several months, and there are more coming. In May I completed a major goal: I graduated cum laude from law school. After that, I packed well over 10,000 miles of traveling under my belt. The first trip was a dream vacation around the Caribbean. The second trip across the country was, unfortunately, for my grandfather's funeral. The third was a trip back a week later to help wrap up some of his affairs. In my spare moments I've been studying for the Bar Exam, which I'm taking at the end of July. I start a new job in August, am planning on buying my first house soon after, and need to get a new car. Whew! Crazy life. It should calm down one of these days. At least, that's what I keep telling myself ;) Still, my deep apologies for the delay.