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.