Chapter Text
When Isildur returns from his morning ride, the sun has barely risen. The household is probably waking up already. He runs through the many tasks that await him today and nods to himself. He has never much enjoyed being idle, but ever since returning from Middle-earth, Isildur finds himself constantly needing to do something – anything, really. His father has probably guessed this. He always has duties for Isildur, involving him in responsibilities Isildur is often surprised that Elendil entrusts him with.
Isildur enters the house to find Elendil and Amandil already up. They seem deep in conversation, but they stop when Isildur walks in. He feels a sudden rush of anxiety, throat clogging up. He wonders if they are talking about him. He wonders if he hasn’t failed somehow over the past few days. Amandil smiles in greeting, and the relief that rushes over Isildur almost leaves him trembling.
“Ah, Isildur,” Amandil says. “Good, you are here. I was just asking your father if he could lend you to me for a few days – perhaps even a week.”
Isildur approaches Elendil, then Amandil, giving each brief, one-armed embraces. It is something he has started doing soon after his return. He does not even know why he is doing it – the need to reassure his family that he is here, and he is alive, and they have not lost him. Or the need to reassure himself that he is home, safe and alive, and back with people who know him and care for him. At any rate, neither Elendil nor Amandil ever call him out on it and return his embraces readily.
“I would be honored to help with whatever you have in mind, Grandfather,” he says. “A week? Are we going somewhere?”
Amandil sometimes visits small Faithful settlements scattered around Andúnië. The people living there are in his care – or would be, if the lordship of Andúnië was still recognized by the rest of Númenor. As such, it is hard to tell who watches over these people. Not Pharazôn, certainly.
“It is time for my yearly journey to the Hall of Lore,” Amandil says.
Isildur stiffens.
“Oh,” it is all he can manage to say.
Amandil visits the Hall of Lore every year. This has never been a problem, except now matters are different. According to Pharazôn’s new laws, the Faithful cannot enter Armenelos, although they can travel through the rest of Númenor. They should justify their movements to any Kingsmen they meet on the way, they should accept that they could be searched for seditious materials, they should expect that anything they carry could be confiscated. If they ever object – and sometimes even if they do not object at all, if the rumors are true – then they are carried off into the dungeons.
“It is rather risky for you to undergo such a journey, don’t you think, Grandfather?” Isildur asks cautiously.
Any Kingsman encountering the Lord of Andúnië would believe that they had struck gold. They would arrest Amandil without any reason – after all, it would be their word against Amandil’s, and the words of the Faithful no longer matter in Armenelos.
Isildur glances at Elendil. His father looks calm, and Isildur is surprised that he is not protesting Amandil’s intentions. He should.
“Father,” he pleads, “Tell him it is not safe this year.”
Elendil raises his eyebrows.
“I could tell him,” he drawls. “What makes you think he will listen?”
Apparently, Elendil has already tried to have this argument with Amandil and has lost it.
“Then at least we should take more men with us,” Isildur says. “An escort – to protect you, Grandfather.”
“I will have someone to protect me,” Amandil points out calmly. “You.”
At any other time, Isildur would feel flattered by the praise – especially as it does not come often from Amandil. Now, however, he does not know how to say that he might not be enough.
He glances at Elendil, to see what Elendil thinks of this, of entrusting Amandil’s safety only to Isildur. Elendil’s face is unreadable, though.
“If they discover that the Lord of Andúnië is outside the city, they will surely set their sights on you,” he says instead.
“I do not see why they should discover this,” Amandil says. “I do not intend to send Pharazôn a letter detailing my movements.”
“They have ways of finding out,” Isildur insists. “The roads are watched. All roads are watched.”
“Not all roads,” Elendil intervenes then. “There are secret ways through the forest that are known only to the Faithful – and the Drúedain. It might be time you learned about them, too, Isildur. There is no knowing when they might come in useful.”
Isildur bites hips lips. He does not know why Elendil isn’t on his side in this. Elendil is, after all, the first one who recommends not taking needless risks. They have to watch over each other. They have to make sure Pharazôn has no reason to strike at them. They have to conserve their resources, waiting for the right time to take back Númenor.
He does not say any of those things, because he might argue with Elendil, but he never enjoys speaking out of turn with Amandil.
Still, Amandil must guess his worries. He reaches out and places a hand on Isildur’s shoulder.
“Rest assured I do not take this lightly, Isildur,” he says. “I would not undertake such a journey if it was not absolutely necessary. This isn’t just a whim of mine.”
“What is it then?” Isildur asks.
Amandil and Elendil exchange brief looks. Isildur wonders if he will be made privy to whatever secrets they have. He senses that they would have hesitated to invite him into their confidence before the expedition. Or perhaps he is wrong. Perhaps he should stop seeing himself from the perspective of his failures and accept that others might find something about him to believe in.
“If you can tell me, of course,” he adds, just in case he is wrong.
Amandil smiles, clutching his shoulder.
“Well, if I did not want you to know, I would not have asked you to escort me, would I?”
Isildur feels the flush climb to his cheeks, even though Amandil’s voice is kind and full of understanding, as if he knows the reason behind Isildur’s self-doubts and does not judge him for them.
“The Hall of Lore hides more than just manuscripts,” Amandil says. “Although, indeed, there are scrolls that I would wish to take from there and hide somewhere else.”
Isildur leans forward.
“What else is there?” he asks.
Amandil breathes deeply.
“A palantír,” he admits. “And we think the Hall of Lore might no longer be a safe hiding place for it.”
Isildur looks from Amandil to Elendil.
“You want to bring it here,” he discovers.
Amandil dips his head.
“Your father and I have talked about this. It seems like the safest course of action.”
Isildur understands. He thinks they are right.
“I see the need for secrecy on this journey,” he admits.
“Yes,” Elendil agrees. “An escort would draw attention. Two people on the road, on the other hand, they might even go unnoticed.”
Isildur realizes this is more than simply accompanying Amandil to the Hall of Lore. His heart beats faster, excitement and restlessness mingling inside him.
“Well then, I am honored that I am the one chosen to go,” he admits. “I am truly honored.”
Amandil squeezes his shoulder.
“I meant it when I said I would not want anyone else by my side. Truly.”
And Isildur grins, his insecurities vanishing. He can do this. He can accompany Amandil and see him safely back.
His eyes meet Elendil’s.
“Don’t worry,” he tells him. “I will guard grandfather with my life. I will make sure he does not come to any harm.”
He spots an exchange of looks between Amandil and Elendil. There is so much pride in Elendil’s eyes that Isildur thinks that he should maybe look away. He is sure the knowledge that he is trusted will sustain him for many days to come.
xxxXXXXxxxx
Isildur hurries to make ready for a journey that will last a couple of days, maybe even more than a week. They will be going on foot. Amandil prefers walking. He has not ridden much since his last horse had died of old age. He often says that it feels like a betrayal, to take another mount. Isildur, who cannot even fathom the notion of losing Berek, understands this quite well. He too feels that he would never be able to give another horse the affection he gives Berek – and it would be unfair for any other horse to be deprived of his rider’s love.
As he packs, Isildur thinks about the past few months. He is still dazed by how everything has turned out. He still cannot believe he has lost so much but also gained so much at the same time.
In many ways, Isildur is grateful for the changes in Númenor, because it means that he is back in Andúnië instead of in Armenelos. He is not sure how he would have fared in Armenelos after his time in Middle-earth. He thinks about the pressure of conforming to the rigid society of the guilds, the rules on how to behave and what to say, the looks he often gets because he bears a Quenya name and even when he isn’t mixing Sindarin words in his speech, his accent clearly marks him as one from the Western shores, and those in Armenelos often looked down on him for this.
Andúnië is safe, though. Andúnië allows him to be who he is – no compromises, no holding back, no keeping things inside him. True, Isildur is sorry that his father has been exiled in such a manner. His heart breaks for Elendil, and he would give anything for Elendil to be back in his position as Sea Captain that he used to love so much. Yet he is not sure that, if matters had been different, if they could have still stayed in Armenelos, he himself would have remained there.
Isildur even admitted as much to Elendil only yesterday evening.
I think even if we were still living in Armenelos…I think I would have wanted to come back here, Father.
And he had said it with a little fear, because he remembered Elendil’s constant objections before the expedition and the feud between his father and Anárion (the feud seems to be resolved now, more or less).
Elendil had looked at him long and hard then, to Isildur’s surprise, had nodded.
Of course. I understand now. I understand how it drags you down, the expectation to be someone you are not.
Then he had taken Isildur’s hand in his, clutching it to his heart.
You are safe here, he had added. Safe to be whoever you want to be.
You too, Isildur had answered quickly.
And maybe it is more complicated for his father, who, while never giving up being Faithful, had tried to live as more than that, had tried to prove that he was a Númenórean first and foremost.
Still, Elendil did not point out to Isildur that he had actually been forced to give up many parts of his identity in order to stand with the Faithful – he had been forced to give up Eärien, too, and Isildur does not want to think too much about this, because then he would realize that he might never see her again, and maybe she prefers it this way.
But Elendil did not mention Eärien to Isildur. Elendil did not mention his dream of serving the Sea Guard for many years to come. Of serving the Queen.
Instead, he had looked grateful when Isildur had included him in such a manner, when Isildur had claimed that he too was safe.
Yes, he had said. Me too. Thank you, Isildur.
Isildur thinks about this now as he makes ready to leave. He writes a letter to Anárion – away at sea, attempting to get in touch with the Southlanders at Pelargir without Kemen finding out what he is up to. Maybe even attempting to get in touch with Estrid as well – if Estrid is still interested in Isildur’s proposal. He understands why she would not be. After all – Númenor does not seem so grand with the Kingsmen in charge.
Isildur does not know if he will return before Anárion or not – and is rather nervous about leaving his father on his own in such a manner. Still, Anárion should be due back any day, and Isildur wants him to know why he is away. He asks Anárion to take care of Elendil, even though Elendil would probably point out that he does not need it. But Isildur knows better. And so does Anárion.
There is a brief moment of restlessness – maybe even of fear, although Isildur would never admit to that. He is leaving again. He is leaving their safe haven. After Middle-earth, adventures do not always sound so exciting to him.
“Nonsense,” Isildur tells himself. “You should be glad. You should be honored.”
And he is. The gods know that he is. He feels warm and bright when he thinks that he is trusted by the people he respects and admires the most. He is ready to live up to their expectations in whatever way he can.
At the same time – there is a nagging in the back of his mind. Something scratching in the shadows. Something warning him that he needs to be careful. That things might be about to go wrong.
xxxxXXXXXxxxx
It is not the first time that Isildur has accompanied Amandil on his yearly visit to the Hall of Lore. In fact, the first time Amandil had taken him had been when Isildur was nine, a year before his mother’s drowning. Nine was old enough for such a journey, especially given that Isildur was such an active, adventurous child. If he wanted adventure, Amandil had said, then at least he could have it accompanied by his elders and even learn something from it.
Of course, Amandil had first asked for Elendil and Tindómiel’s blessing – and he had gotten it readily enough. He had later shared the news with Isildur, who had immediately jumped at the opportunity to go with him. He had asked for a few days delay, though, until his father returned from Sea Duty. Because he always welcomed Elendil back from Sea Duty, and he was not going to squander his duty this time.
Amandil had tried to argue that Elendil already knew Isildur was going with him, that Amandil had spoken with him before Elendil had left for Sea Duty, and Elendil expected not to find Isildur home. But Isildur had dug his heels into the ground, lifting his chin up and staring Amandil squarely in the eyes. He would not be leaving, he insisted. Not until his father returned.
And Amandil had been sorely tempted to refuse, to drag Isildur with him anyway, because Isildur was getting his way too often, and he needed to learn that the world did not move only as he asked it to move. True, Isildur would have been angry with him, their trip would have been unpleasant, but Amandil hoped the lad would understand his reasoning in time.
And yet, he hadn’t done it. Because Isildur had looked more than defiant. He had looked frightened, digging his nails into his palms to hide his unrest. And Amandil had been concerned that Isildur would spend the journey worrying himself sick that he would not be there to greet his father, wondering whether Elendil had indeed arrived home or had not been delayed or even lost at sea. True, Amandil wanted Isildur to learn how the world worked, and he wanted Isildur to learn that people would not always cater to his whims – but he did not want to torture his grandson in such a manner.
In the end, he had agreed for them to wait for Elendil’s return. They would leave that very day, though. Not a moment later. Isildur had easily accepted the compromise and had rushed to embrace his grandfather and thank him for understanding him. Amandil was not sure that he did, but he accepted the embrace anyway, not being one to refuse such gifts when they were so readily handed over to him.
It had turned out to be a good choice, and that had made Amandil often wonder what was in Isildur’s mind, and what insights the Valar had blessed him with. Elendil had looked worn and haggard when he had arrived, but his face had brightened instantly when Isildur had greeted him together with his siblings.
I am glad to find you still here, Amandil had overheard Elendil telling Isildur. I was worried you had already left.
I wouldn’t leave before seeing you first, Isildur had countered. Grandfather understood that.
No mention of Amandil’s arguments and objections, because Isildur was like that.
Amandil managed to have a quiet word with Elendil, sensing that something had happened on his journey, and unwilling to leave while his son might have been troubled. After some probing – because Elendil had never enjoyed admitting to pain – Elendil had told Amandil the whole story. His ship had encountered a trading vessel from Harad gone astray and now attacked by corsairs. Elendil had ordered his crew to engage the corsairs and, after the battle was over, he offered aid to the beleaguered ship - repairs were needed and some of the crew had need of healers. The ship was repaired and sent on its way – but not all of the crew had made it.
“The cabin boy must have been about Isildur’s age,” Elendil confessed. “He did not look anything like Isildur, of course but…it was hard not to think…well…”
Elendil did not have to mention to Amandil that the cabin boy had not made it – and that Elendil felt guilt about failing to save the lad. As for thinking of Isildur – what father wouldn’t have instantly thought of their own children in such a situation?
“Well, you can see that your own son is safe and sound and very much alive,” Amandil said.
He was unspeakably relieved that he had gone against his instincts and had actually listened to Isildur. He did not want to think about Elendil’s troubled state of mind if Isildur had not been there to greet him this time.
“If you want,” Amandil added. “I can postpone our journey. Or I can leave Isildur at home.”
Predictably, Elendil had refused.
“No need,” he stated quickly. “It’s not for Isil to take on my burdens.”
Amandil would have pointed out that Isildur would have done this gladly, but he understood. Isildur needed to live. And part of living was being away from home from time to time.
Now, years after their first journey, Amandil thinks of what awaits them on the road. Of the uncertainty that had been only negligible in their past. And he wonders if it is fair to draw Isildur into this adventure. But, of course, Isildur would be glad to come. Because Isildur does not understand what might be asked of him.
Does this make me cruel? Amandil asks himself. After all, the last thing I wish to do is cause him pain. The last thing I wish to do is put more burdens on his already laden shoulders.
Yet Isildur is more than his grandson. He is one of the leaders of the Faithful. And this means that hard choices will come to him, whether Amandil wants this or not.
xxxXXXXxxxx
Isildur is inspecting his pack when Amandil walks into his room.
“Grandfather,” Isildur greets. “I am nearly ready. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
Amandil remembers their first journey once again and looks at the man that stubborn boy has become. His heart swells and breaks at the same time.
“I have something for you.”
He hands Isildur a sword that he has taken out for this very occasion. Isildur takes it, looking puzzled.
“It used to be mine,” Amandil explains. “In my youth. My very first sword.”
Isildur meets his eyes, a question hovering between them.
“I noticed you had some discomfort using your sword from the Southlands,” Amandil explains.
A cloud passes over Isildur’s face.
“It was never mine. I…never felt comfortable using it.”
It is all he says, and Amandil does not ask for Isildur to give him more. Isildur has not told them everything that happened to him while he was lost in Middle-earth. Elendil is frustrated by his secrecy. Amandil, however, has advised Elendil to wait until Isildur is ready to talk to them.
“Whatever happened there, it was certainly not easy for him,” Amandil told Elendil a few days after Isildur’s miraculous arrival. “And if it wasn’t easy for him to live it, then it might not be easy for him to remember it now.”
Elendil has often protested that they should not wait. They should know the shadows of Isildur’s mind, because how else could they help him?
“But you know when Isildur is troubled,” Amandil reminds him whenever Elendil says this. “And even though you might not know the reasons, you still try your best to help him.”
And this is what Amandil is doing now. He has noticed that Isildur does not enjoy using the sword with which he returned from the Southlands. The reason does not matter. What matters is finding a solution. A new sword seems like the right course. Well, an old sword actually.
“Well, this one is still mine to give, so I wish it to be yours now,” Amandil says. “It is a good sword. It should be used by a good swordsman.”
Isildur stares at him wide-eyed, with that look that shows he is touched but also afraid that he is not worth being thought of so highly.
“I… are you sure, Grandfather?” he finally asks. “Perhaps you might find better use of it elsewhere.”
Amandil places Isildur’s hand around the hilt of the sword. He rarely comments when Isildur gets like this. He prefers to show Isildur by deeds that he values his grandson.
“I am not using it anymore,” Amandil points out calmly. “And Elendil has Narsil. As Elendil’s eldest son, you should have my sword.”
Isildur smiles, his usual half-smile that he reserves for moments like this. Moments that he sees as solemn and momentous for him.
“Thank you, Grandfather. I shall endeavor to be worthy of bearing your sword.”
Amandil wonders if Isildur is aware that Narsil would be passed on to him as well. He does not mention it, though, because he knows how Isildur feels about the idea of losing his father, even in the distant future.
He places his hand on Isildur’s shoulder. Isildur looks up and meets his eyes.
“You already are worthy of it,” he says, speaking slow and clear, so Isildur can understand that he means it. “You have always been worthy of it.”
Isildur closes his eyes and bows his head.
“No, not always, Grandfather,” he says. “I know…it wasn’t always.”
And Amandil has often been the first to point out when Isildur was making mistakes. He never did it out of malice, he never did it to control Isildur or show him as unworthy or inadequate. He has only attempted to help Isildur become the best version of himself. Now, he realizes that no one can criticize Isildur worse than Isildur himself.
“Even in your darkest times, you were very much worthy of my sword,” Amandil says. “And so much more.”
He means it, too, and Isildur must understand this. His shoulders slump in relief.
“You honor me,” he says.
“It is all well-deserved,” Amandil insists. “Shall we go?”
Isildur grins, bright and eager, reminding Amandil once again of the young boy who had seen his first outing with his grandfather as a grand adventure.
“Yes,” Isildur says. “The road awaits us, Grandfather. We should go.”
Amandil places his hand on Isildur’s shoulders again and shakes him slightly.
“Good. Go say farewell to your father. I will be waiting for you outside.”
He watches Isildur as he walks away, shoulders straight, head held high.
Give him a long life, Amandil prays. Give him a long life and the chance to become the great man that he can become. No matter what happens with us on the road, give him a long life.