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Chapter Text

Ithilien, year 3399 of the Second Age

When Isildur first walked in this land criss-crossed by mountain streams, he lost the path and was caught unawares by night. Wading through the ferns, he saw how the large, bright moon rose from the east beyond the mountains. It smiled its silver smile at him, and wrapped the ashes and cypresses, heathers and bell-flowers in a bluish veil. The droplets splashing up from forest brooks glinted like diamonds, and then he noticed the path which shimmered pale among the undergrowth like a belt woven of stardust.

He spent the whole night looking at and wandering through the land, and understood that he had found the Land of the Moon, and it was the duty for him, the Servant of the Moon, to take care of it. He named the land Ithilien and built a home there for himself and his family.

Many decades later the moon still rises as bright as on that first night. The White Tower built to the side of Ephel Dúath greets it, glinting in the light. Perhaps some wanderer of the night on the other side of the mountains glances westward at just that moment, sees the tower shine defiant between two grim slopes, and crawls in fear to cower under some thorny bush.

Many guess that Isildur had the castle built so near to the Black Land so that he could climb to the tower and stand there watching the east and the terrible Barad-dûr day after day, planning vengeance against those servants of Sauron the Deceiver who still lurk in the land beset by shadows. The truth, however, is different. The Tower of the Rising Moon was built in Imlad Ithil to guard the pass, Cirith Dúath. The king himself looks east only rarely, for the sight is not a beautiful one. He merely wants his opponents to see that he is not afraid.

This night Isildur does not sleep. He stretches himself out by the side of Ithilduin in the midst of white flowers that open their petals in moonlight, and watches the dark sky that peeks between the tops of the bay trees. Even though the autumn is well underway, the forest grows and flourishes, for the gentle sea-winds blowing from the south warm the land all year round. Isildur is not tired, although he has every reason to be. The last few days have been full of tasks to get done, and tomorrow will be even more important. The guests would arrive, and everything would have to be put in order for the day after tomorrow.

A nightingale sings and trills busily and the river gushes and bubbles as actively as in daytime. Nature does not sleep at night either. So why should the king, when it is not even dark?

At last he rises and continues his nightly walk. He meets no one. The roads outside the white walls of Minas Ithil are empty of travellers. Not that he is expecting Elendil to arrive at night, but he knows that he is not far away now. For a moment he toys with the thought of going to meet them, as he would have done as a child, but rejects it immediately. His father would not wonder, but it is important to maintain dignity in the eyes of his entourage.

Isildur is dressed in his usual disguise: the green and brown costume of a woodsman, with a hooded cloak. With it he can move as an almost invisible figure under the branches, or as a citizen among the rest on the street, although he only uses the costume when he wants some peace — not to spy on his people. For sometimes the king misses the times when he was free to roam, a carefree youth whose days were filled with swimming and riding competitions, ships and sailing, archery, and long treks to the countryside, with his only worry being whether the beautiful maiden that passed him would return the smile he had just given her. It is long since those days, and they only lasted a brief while, but whenever the king thinks of the Land Under the Waves, he remembers first the sunny days of his youth, which turned into darkness and sorrow all too quickly.

He paces along the Ithil road built on the side of the river, which goes through the valley between two mountains. At the end of the valley there is a pass leading into Mordor, but it has been blocked with a high wall, on top of which soldiers walk on watch night and day.

There is, however, another route here from Mordor: a steep and dangerous path over the mountains. High up there is a tunnel inhabited by a dreadful creature, an incarnation of horror and evil: Shelob, a descendant of Morgoth’s Ungoliant. People who have lived long in Ithilien know horrifying tales of reckless youths who with great effort climbed the mountain to catch a glimpse of the giant spider. She stung them unconscious with her venomed sting, drank their blood, and ate their still-living bodies.

It horrifies Isildur a little to think of it. Not because he would be afraid of the creature: so long as she stays in her cave and does not come down, she is useful, because the orcs of Mordor will not dare to travel by Cirith Ungol into Ithilien. He is more horrified by the thought that if he had come to this land as a youngster, he would surely have ended up as one of those reckless youths. He would have climbed the mountain to be able to brag of his deeds to his friends and impress some maiden, and he would have met his end in Shelob’s cave.

Age has brought some wisdom with it, however. In the last decades his greatest fear has been that one of his sons would get it into his head to try his luck in Cirith Ungol. Elendur is too sensible for it, though, and Ciryon too timid, but Aratan is unpredictable and too insubordinate.

Isildur turns to the long bridge that crosses the Ithilduin and goes right to the gates of the city. At the end of the bridge there stand white sculptures in the shapes of animals and men, and both the bridge and the sculptures glimmer in the moonlight. The gatekeepers stand up straighter when they see the comer.

“Beautiful night”, one of them observes.

“True enough”, Isildur replies, huffing a soft laugh. “No need to stand there idly. Take out a game. Nothing will happen tonight.”

Isildur walks along the road paved with white stones that goes through the city. Everything seems to be asleep. Only a grey stray cat comes across him, and stops for a moment to watch the king’s going. Maybe she has come early to the breakfast table, to wait for the boys of the city to wake up and catch fish for her from the river.

The king continues his way up towards the castle built into the mountainside. The castle is encircled by stout white walls, and the king’s black-and-silver flag hangs motionless in the still night. Two soldiers stand on watch at the gate. They are already used to their lord’s nightly wanderings, and his return does not startle them.

“We thought that perhaps you were stricken by regret, and went to catch a boar to be the centrepiece of the feast-table after all”, one of them jests.

Isildur chuckles. “I would not have the audacity to ruin my son’s high day even if I wished to. We respect his will, and there will be no meat on the table in this feast.”

“Good thing I have not been invited.”

“Careful, Tarion. There may still be free seats at the table.”

The moon has already almost set behind Mindolluin, but its last rays still make the walls and battlements glow. The day after tomorrow, if the weather just stays clear, they will continue the feast outside after dinner, and everyone would see the magical shine that lights the courtyard when the wall around it catches the moonbeams within itself. It would be as though night and day at the same time. Nothing like it could be experienced anywhere but Minas Ithil. They would ask how Isildur has managed it, how he makes the marble walls glow like ithildin, and without any words of magic at that, and he of course would not say.

Isildur stops beside the White Tree planted in the centre of the courtyard. He walks around it, looking carefully under the silver leaves. Still no fruit. What happened to those many flowers that in spring were full of promise? He sighs and heads for the front door.

The castle sleeps. Isildur walks past the white pillars and the statues depicting the Lords of Andúnie in the entrance hall, turns into the southern corridor, passes the alcove where the large painting of Tar-Míriel has been placed. Passing it used to make him sad, but now he chuckles, because the memory has been replaced with a new one. Ciryon used to sit on the ground in front of the painting and stare at the picture with as earnestly longing eyes as only a boy a little ways into his second decade can. Many a time Isildur almost tripped on the little figure as he was hurrying to run his errands. Ciryon, his youngest, loves “old stories” as he calls them — to Isildur they are events of the near past. The boy was born too late to be able to understand, but that’s not his fault.

But Tar-Míriel none of them could save. She was left under the waves, the true Queen of Númenor who would have become the High Queen of men in Middle-Earth, the mightiest lady of all time, if she had been allowed to live. Míriel was beautiful and strong, but love and power alike were stolen from her. She had been the only heir of the righteous King Tar-Palantir, but the king’s nephew Pharazôn had forced her to be his wife even though law forbade marriage between cousins, and even though Míriel had been promised to the younger brother of the Lord of Andúnie — Isildur’s great-uncle Elentir. And after wedding Míriel, Pharazôn had declared himself the sole ruler of Númenor, and the Faithful had been able to do nothing, for they had been too few and the King’s Men too many.

That story had once broken young Ciryon’s heart.

Isildur arrives in the royal suite. He takes off his overclothes and leaves them on a chair for the valet to clear away. He pulls off his boots and steps into the dim bedchamber. Outside the sky is more blue than dark, and the moon that was travelling westward is no longer visible.

Isildur casts a brief longing look at his wife, who is fast asleep. Sometimes she wakes up when he arrives, but today she lies unmoving on her side of the bed, the blanket bunched up at the foot of the bed. He would like to wake her up, but he knows it would not be wise.

He settles on his side of the bed and pulls up the blanket to cover both of them. Her back is to him, and he touches the dark locks of hair that have spread across the pillow. They are soft and fine as skilfully woven silk.

At last the king forgets the moon and falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Isildur’s wife wakes him up sometime after midday. “Get up, or do you want to still be in bed when the guests arrive?”

There is reproach in the queen’s voice, but Isildur does not care. He is in a good mood.

“Are they already approaching the city gates? Have they been seen?”

“Elendur has looked into the palantír.”

“Then I still have time.”

Isildur goes to a basin on the side table to wash himself. Marillë hands him a towel.

“When did you get back? I don’t understand those nightly wanderings of yours”, she complains.

“There is not much else to do at night. You get tired too early.” Isildur turns to look at his wife and smirks in a way that makes her remember the proud grandson of the Lord of Andúnie, who always made the maidens smile demurely and then whisper afterwards when he passed them. Marillë had not done so, for she had already known then that despite his handsome looks, Isildur was entirely unsuitable for a husband.

Isildur grabs his wife by the waist and pulls her close to him. “We would still have some time.”

“You scoundrel! Do you not see that I am already fully dressed! And they are expecting me in the hall to take care of the preparations. We will eat luncheon as soon as Elendil has arrived. The travellers must be hungry.”

“At least a kiss then, or two?” Isildur asks, but does not wait for an answer. He knows what he is doing, and in a moment Marillë is almost ready to give in. She forces herself to think of her maid and her weary face when she would have to begin dressing Marillë and doing her hair all over again.

At last she pulls back. “That is enough. And let me brush your hair. Otherwise it will be left like that for the whole day, mark my words. How do you get it all tangled like that? Surely you do not want to look to the guests like you had come home from a trek in the wilderness, fallen asleep as you were, and just gotten up? Even though it is true.”

The king smiles, pushing his fingers through the black locks that certainly are always a little messy, not that he has ever cared about it. “If you think you can brush my hair into being all silky like elven hair, just keep on dreaming. But I will let you try”, he says, since in any case he enjoys his wife’s touch. He sits down on the chair and lets Marillë start working.

“Barely any grey”, she remarks as she pulls the brush through the hair.

“Grey? My hair does not go grey, it turns silver as the moonlight. But that will not happen in many decades yet.” 

“You foresee it. Really, I thought you used your gift for foretelling more important things.”

Isildur’s teasing does not move his wife. “I see what I see. And this is one of the things I see.”

Before Isildur goes to take care of his duties, he turns once more to his wife. “Tonight I will stay home. But the moon will still be full, and you know I cannot sleep then. I hope you will arrange some entertainment for me, so I will not become bored and get into a foul mood right before my son’s big day.”

“You are impossible!” Marillë huffs. “Go on, for soon Elendil will probably be knocking on our bedroom door, and that I could not stand.”

* * *

Elendur sits on a padded chair by a window that opens out to the garden, and browses an old book. The book tells of a time before the Fall of Númenor, when even the shape of Middle-Earth was different. Elendur knows well the legends of the elven realms, but the elves themselves he has not learned to understand even after all he has read. He stands and looks out. The day is sunny and warm, even though the year is well into autumn.

Elendur knows that he should be happy about the guests, but if he could have decided for himself, the celebration would have been much smaller. Only for the family. But his father — whose understanding of family is of course much broader — wanted to call every Númenorean lord from all corners of Middle-Earth. It would have been wrong to waste a good opportunity to bring them all together again. Once, back in Rómenna, they had all lived as each other’s neighbours, and the joys and sorrows had all been shared.

The lords would have daughters with them, each more beautiful than the last. All of them would be introduced to Elendur. And he would get to dance with each one. He would get to choose which of them would be most to his liking. And when he had made his choice, the maiden’s father would decide that actually, they could spend a little longer while in Ithilien than had initially been planned.

His father never knocks, let alone asks a page to announce his arrival beforehand. He pulls the door wide open and marches right up to Elendur, his smile filled with love and approval. He is proud of Elendur, perhaps more so than of any other product of his efforts. Minas Ithil and Minas Anor, Osgiliath with its Dome of Stars, and mighty Orthanc are nothing compared to the radiance of his firstborn son. Elendur knows this, but wishes it were otherwise. The higher he is valued, the higher will be the fall once he eventually fails his father.

Isildur lays his hands on his son’s shoulders. Elendur is as tall as his father. “Senya, this is your last day as a ninety-nine-year-old. Take all you can out of it, for you know that once you have reached a full century, you are man grown and can no longer appeal to your youth if you do something foolish. Although I doubt you’ll get up to any foolishness now, when you have never fallen to it before.”

“Yes, atarinya, I know that. And I have not felt myself young for years now.”

“You do want this, right, senya?” the king asks, worry in his voice. “You have been so very quiet about your wishes. I have nonetheless made sure there will be no meat served in the feast.”

“That is more than I could ask for. I hope the guests will not be disappointed.”

“I am sure they will not be. This celebration will be the finest that Middle-Earth has ever seen. I want these to be everything the celebration of my own one hundredth birthday was not. The times in the land that is gone were bitter then. We did not dare to hold big parties, because anything that could have caught the attention of the King’s Men was bad.”

“I remember that celebration. I liked it.”

“You were a child. It was enough for you that we were home and safe. But now those times are past, and there is no reason for us to conceal our happiness. I hope you will enjoy these days.”

Isildur turns to leave, but Elendur has more to say. “Atarinya, I saw in the stone that Master Elrond was with Elendil’s entourage.”

Isildur looks at his son in surprise. “Are you sure? It is hard to recognize faces in the stone sometimes.”

“I focused the view and saw that it really was Elrond.”

“Then I will believe that you saw true. You can use the palantír better than I do. I get a headache from focusing them”, Isildur says with a smile.

“Is it not strange that Elrond Half-elven leaves the North for such a trivial celebration of men? Or do you think that he has something important to tell us?” Elendur’s glance flicks to the east, and Isildur understands.

“Perhaps he knows something, or perhaps he simply wants some variety to his life. Elrond is not like the other elves, and our line has a special place in his heart.” Isildur steps closer to his son and touches his shoulder encouragingly. “Do not worry needlessly about how to speak to him. His presence is a great honour to us, but it will be best for us all to treat him as any other powerful guest.”

* * *

The younger sons sit in a corridor, in a large window niche. There is a game board between them, and black and white pieces on it. Ciryon stares at the board, concentrating hard as he thinks about his next move, but Aratan’s gaze is directed out of the window on the white city shining below.

“Are you loitering here, my sons, even though the guests are coming soon?”

Both of them start at the king’s deep voice. Ciryon sits up straighter and looks at his father in confusion, but Aratan barely moves from his place, simply casting a bored glance at him.

“Atar, what else could we do but wait?” he asks.

“Stand up when I am talking to you”, Isildur orders. Whenever he looks at his middle son, disappointment creeps into his heart. Aratan, having grown up in his elder brother’s shadow, has chosen the road of rebellion instead of hard work and trying, and has so brought much grief and shame to the family.

Aratan stands and looks his father in the eyes. “What would you wish me to do?”

“Go to Elendur. He has something to tell about our guests. And after that: stay at your brother’s side and keep silent. I will not allow you to ruin his feast. It means this: no wine, no fighting, and most especially — no women.”

“So it is best then that I stay in my own room until all the celebrations are over.”

“And no insolence! You do as I say if you still want to live in this house. If you bring shame to me again, I will send you east to check with your own two eyes whether the Black Tower is still as uninhabited as we believe and hope.”

“And if I do not return, you will know you were wrong.”

“Do not put words in my mouth. As I already said, you will come to the feast, but you will not attract attention. Behave well and socialise like a civilised man.”

Isildur looks at his son. Fire burns for a moment behind his ice-grey eyes, but then it goes out. He lowers his gaze. “Atarinya, I will do all I can to not disappoint you again.”

Aratan walks away. Ciryon stares after his brother in confusion.

Isildur’s gaze becomes warmer and his voice softer when he addresses his youngest. Ciryon has only recently begun to resemble a man more than a boy. “Yonya, take a flag and two knights, and ride to meet our guests. They are coming from Osgiliath. Go meet them at the crossroads, on the northern end of the bridge.”

“Me, atar? Would Elendur not be…?”

“I am giving this task to you.”

The boy swallows, breaking out in cold sweat. He looks at the window as though seeking a way to escape, but there is none. “They will not know me… I am too young.”

“Of course they will know you. At the very least after you’ve announced loudly to them who you are. Hurry on now, they are not far.”

Ciryon lifts up his head and looks at his father, but even the last pleading look does not bring any change to the king’s stern face. “Very well, atar. I will go.”

The king stares after his son, shaking his head at his sensitivity. What in Elendur appears as calm preparedness is developing into timidness in the youngest, and that does not please Isildur. How is it possible that his son is so uncertain of himself? He should be proud of his station, and show it to others too.

* * *

A light breeze blows into the flag that one of the knights is carrying. Silver on night-black fabric: the White Tree and seven stars — the Stones that the ships brought from the Lost Land. Ciryon has been allowed to look at the Ithil-stone once, but his father will only teach him to use it later, when Ciryon has grown strong enough in mind. The seven seeing-stones unite them, the three kings who escaped with nine ships the great wave that sank the land that had been received as a gift. It is only a story to Ciryon, but it makes him anxious and gives him nightmares with tearing wind, dark water, and much destruction and loss. He thinks of the blonde woman, the lonely Tar-Míriel, on the slope of Meneltarma, fleeing the wave and death, and his eyes water.

Elendur was there, together with father on the deck of a ship on the hour of destruction. Elendur was the same age as Ciryon is now, and sometimes Ciryon wonders what it would have felt like to be there and watch as the mass of water tore roaring apart all they had. But when Ciryon asks about that moment, his father and brother fall silent. The loss is probably too great to be put into words. There is only silence, and those moments before a meal when everyone looks silently toward the west.

Ciryon must let go of his sadness. Days of joy and celebration are about to begin, as his eldest brother reaches a full century of age. The wind is coming from the west today, and it blows the hair away from Ciryon’s face. He sits up straighter, lifts his head, and looks steadily on to the road paved with white stones that rises from amongst the trees up to the meadow, and continues onward along Ithilduin toward the Mountains of Shadow and the Great Wall.

First he sees a flash, as though a ray of sun had touched the the tip of a newly forged sword, but then the light becomes steadier, and it is like a star, so bright and strong that even daylight cannot dim it. Ciryon’s heart leaps up.

First rides the High King on a white stallion, the elven crystal shining with white light on his brow and a ring that glitters green on his finger. The once dark hair is now tinted with silver, and his face holds a serene look — Ciryon does not dare look into his eyes. He musters his courage, and waits in vain for his heart to calm down. The first riders stop before him, and the moment when he must address those who have arrived has come.

“High King Elendil of Arnor and Gondor, be welcome in Minas Ithil, the city of the Rising Moon! I have come on behalf of my father Lord Isildur to receive you and your entourage and to lead you to the city and the gates of the royal castle.” Ciryon’s voice only trembles a little as he speaks.

The High King looks at the boy, and it is as though the glow of the Elendilmir had dimmed a little, for Ciryon can now see the face of his grandfather, and sees the smile in his eyes.

The king laughs. “Ciryon? How tall you have become!” He leaps down from his horse as nimbly as a youth and has reached Ciryon in an instant. “Come down, grandson, so that I can embrace you!”

Ciryon dismounts and feels the king’s arms around him. And suddenly he remembers the grandfather from his early childhood, how Ciryon would sit on his knee and he would tell of a great riding competition he had participated in in his youth.

“I have missed you, atar atarinyo.”

Elendil looks at the boy, keeping his hands on his shoulders, and shakes his head in amusement. He has followed the boy’s growing in the images that Isildur sends him through the Palantír, but Elendil understands now that the images have been coloured by Isildur’s mind. This broad-shouldered and valiant young man bears little resemblance to the scrawny boy with a dreamy look in his eyes that he has seen in the seeing-stone.

Then the youngster sees elves among the men. His eyes widen in surprise.

“Ciryon, this is Master Elrond Half-elven, lord of Imladris, who has arrived here to bring the greetings of the Firstborn to the men of Gondor”, says Elendil. “He has come here as the representative of my friend Ereinion Gil-galad, as the lord of Lindon was too busy to make the journey himself.”

“This is a great honour”, Ciryon manages to say, and is about to sink to his knees before the greatness of the elf and his companions, but Elrond lifts his hand slightly as a sign of not wishing for such homage. His air is simultaneously distant and familiar, like a portrait of King Elros come to life.

“It is also a great honour to us to get to see the southern kingdom of men. Much we already know of what has been achieved here, but no tale can replace seeing it with one’s own eyes”, the elf says with his bright voice.

“I hope that what you will see here will please you, lord”, Ciryon says. The elf seems friendly, and Ciryon feels a little more confident.

When the greetings have been exchanged, Ciryon mounts his horse and begins to lead the entourage over the bridge toward the city.

Chapter Text

There are moments when Isildur still resembles the smug young man that walked around the streets of Rómenna and charmed young maidens simply with his presence. Marillë was once sure that she would never fall for Isildur like others did. Anyone else, but not him.

Marillë was born late, in a time when the Faithful had already been blockaded in Rómenna, a harbour city on the eastern coast, away from the sunset-gilded Andúnië and far from the light of Avallonë. From her elder brother Yúlaner Marillë heard stories of happier times when Tar-Palantir still sat upon the throne, the White Tree flourished in the palace’s courtyard, and the Faithful were allowed to climb to the top of Meneltarma on their holy days to praise and thank Eru. Of course even then there were signs in the air of misery to come, for more and more people denied Eru and blamed the valar for not being able to live forever as the elves did. They hated and envied the elves, and scorned everything that had been learned or received from them. They called themselves King’s Men, although instead of Tar-Palantir they did homage to his nephew Pharazôn.

Those few who still loved the elves and respected the valar called themselves the Faithful or the Elf-friends. They strived to live as the first númenoreans had, but they were not permitted to meet with elves, and the sails of the oarless elven-ships were no longer seen on the land's western coast.

Yúlaner and Isildur met when Isildur came from Rómenna to Armenelos to learn the business of the land and serve Tar-Palantir, as was customary for the heirs of the Lord of Andúnie to do. Yúlaner was Isildur's guide to the secrets of the city, and in the evenings they would often sit in taverns, gamble, and woo the sweethearts of the King's Men, and it was not particularly rare for them to get into fights. It was said that at last Isildur got into such bad trouble that Lord Amandil, who was Tar-Palantir's counsellor and the leader of the Faithful, sent his grandson back to Rómenna.

Many a maiden considered Isildur a hero when he returned, for he was a strong and handsome man, unmatched in many sports and martial arts, and had also proven in Armenelos that he did not fear the King's Men. At that time there were more than a few maidens who believed themselves to be Isildur's chosen, but they all would ultimately be disappointed, because Isildur took suddenly to sailing, and after that he was not seen on the shores of the Land of Gift for a long time.

But soon many things in Númenor took a turn for the worse. Tar-Palantir died, and his nephew took Tar-Palantir's heir Míriel as his wife, against her will and against the law, and stole the throne from her. In his megalomania, Ar-Pharazôn decided to go to war against Sauron in Middle-Earth, for he was angered by Sauron daring to call himself the King of Men, when that title belonged by right to Ar-Pharazôn himself. The might of Ar-Pharazôn the Golden was at its peak at that time, and his fleet was unmatched in valiance, and even the Faithful could not help but feel pride when they saw the purple-sailed ships of the king set off from the harbour of Rómenna and speed towards the sapphire-blue expanse.

Upon seeing Ar-Pharazôn's army, Sauron understood that he could only defeat Númenor by cunning. So he did not go to battle, but surrendered, and went to Númenor as a prisoner of Ar-Pharazôn. But it did not take a very long time before the Enemy had become the king's closest counsellor, whom he listened to and obeyed in almost everything. Sauron, or Annatar, as he was known then, was pleasing to look upon, more lovely than any elf of Middle-Earth, and hardly anyone could believe that such a fair, friendly, and wise creature would in truth have been evil and schemed in secret against the King and the people of Númenor.

Marillë's family had until then lived in Armenelos, because Yúlaner and Marillë's father Vëantur was the court architect, and a kinsman of the king. Vëantur belonged secretly to the Faithful, and when Sauron and the king ordered him to design a temple for the worship of Melkor, he refused the task. Some months later his wife was taken in the middle of the day, imprisoned, and brought to be burned on the fires of the new Temple. By the time Vëantur and Yúlaner began to search for her, it was all too late. Vëantur and Yúlaner understood then that they were no longer safe in Armenelos, and they fled to Rómenna where Lord Amandil took them under his protection.

Later Vëantur took another wife, even though that was not common and he had not thought to do so himself either. Young and fair Lindissë who had also lost her family to the King's Men's senseless persecution, however, was able to change Vëantur's heart. The Faithful had to go on with their lives, for the moment they would lose heart and retire to their chambers to mourn for what was lost and wait for death, the King's Men would have won utterly.

Despite all the terrible things that met her family, Marillë remembers her childhood as a happy time. She was her father's treasure and a matter of pride to her mother. Thanks to Amandil's influence, Rómenna was still a safe place for the Faithful, and although more grim news reached their ears every day, there was room for happy moments as well. The rumours told that the White Tree, which Sauron had burned at his temple the first chance he got, might still be alive. It was said that someone had crept into the courtyard of the king's castle under cover of night and gone to save a fruit from the tree, and that of the fruit would have grown a new sapling which Amandil nurtured in the great garden of his house. The White Tree was important to the Faithful, because it was the gift of the eldar of the West to the Men, the seedling of Celeborn which grew in the centre of Ëressea and was in turn the image of Telperion — the tree from whose last flower the valar shaped the Moon in the sky. King Tar-Palantir had foreseen that when the White Tree died, the line of the kings of Númenor would also be extinguished.

Amandil's grandson Isildur used to visit Vëantur's house to meet with Yúlaner, and when Marillë began to near the age of maturity, she was sometimes asked to serve the men wine or tea, and sometimes Yúlaner asked her to sit down with them. Marillë listened from the side as the men reminisced about their times together in Armenelos, times when the world had been better and when they had sat at night in taverns and charmed maidens right from the arms of the King's men. Yúlaner showed proudly off the scar on his arm that he had received in some duel. If Isildur had similar keepsakes, he never revealed them, at least not so that Marillë would have seen. He never rolled up the sleeves of his shirt even on the hot days of midsummer.

Lindissë did not much like Isildur, and in this matter Marillë followed her mother. In Marillë's eyes, Isildur was haughty and vainglorious, and she wondered how any woman could fall for one such as him. Of course he was rich and handsome, and maybe that was enough for most, but Marillë also wanted sophistication, tact, and manners in a man. Isildur rarely said anything to Marillë, although she often felt his gaze on herself.

There came a day when Yúlaner decided to marry a certain maiden. Aewen was a quiet and friendly young woman, who by some miracle made Yúlaner calm down and leave behind rowdy evenings in taverns. There was a wedding, which were always popular events in Rómenna. Everyone was welcome, for all Faithful were friends with each other, or at least tried to be, and there was no one in the city to whom the merrymaking would not have done good.

Isildur however did not seem to think so. In the wedding feast he mostly sat alone in a corner of the ballroom, and looked as mirthless and bored as usual, and it was clear that when he rose and asked someone for a dance, he did so only out of a sense of obligation. Marillë was a proud young woman, and when Isildur came to ask her, she refused.

"Oh you do not want to", Isildur had scoffed. "But Yúlaner is my friend, and it must be my right and duty to dance with his sister now, when it is our pleasure to celebrate his wedding."

"But I do not wish to dance with a reluctant man, and surely I have the right and duty to choose who I dance with."

Isildur had then glanced toward his mother, who was following the scene from a short distance away. Isilmë was known to be worried about her son: over eighty years of age, and still a bachelor. The other son, Anárion, had children already.

Isildur let out a deep sigh. "Just for a little while. Then I shall leave you alone, good miss, if you so desire."

Marillë's friends giggled behind her back, and at last Marillë changed her decision so she would not have to meet her friends' amused looks. They all knew what Marillë thought of Isildur, and evidently considered the scene unfolding in front of them well worth watching.

Isildur was by no means a bad dancer, but he was a tall man and moved so swiftly that it was difficult for Marillë to keep pace with the steps. He said nothing for the whole time, but when the music paused for a moment, he grabbed Marillë's arm and pulled her with him out of the door into the garden.

"I am hot", he explained. "I cannot stand being so crowded."

"The ballroom of our humble house must be much smaller than what you are used to", Marillë stated.

Isildur sagged down on the nearest bench. He did not speak, only stared gloomily into the distance. Marillë glanced about, uncertain of what she should have done. The evening had grown dark, and she shuddered with cold after the warmth of the ballroom.

"Can I do something for you, lord? If not, I hope you will excuse me if I return inside. I am cold."

He looked at Marillë in surprise. "I brought you here because I want to talk with you alone. Surely you can have nothing against it? If you are cold, then let us walk here in the garden for a while. Exercise will warm you up."

Marillë went to walk at his side, not entirely understanding why she did so, for walking in the garden did not interest her in the least. And what could Isildur now have on his heart? The situation was odd, and Marillë understood too late what the matter was.

"We have known each other for quite some time", Isildur began without looking at her.

"You must mean that you have known my brother for quite some time."

"Yes, and at the same time I have come to know you, miss Marillë. I beg you, do not say that you have noticed nothing?"

"What should I have noticed?" Marillë asked, but even as the words left her lips, she understood. The long glances in the drawing room had of course not been any accidents. Isildur had had a plan.

"As you know, I am the heir of the house of the Lord of Andúnie, and I have duties that come with the position. And you are a fair young woman, Miss Marillë, and you are of good family and good reputation", Isildur continued. "And that is not all, but… I am not used to speaking of these things, but you surely understand what I am trying to say."

"No, do not continue! I do not wish to hear it", said Marillë desperately. She looked around, but saw no one she could have sought rescue from. They were the only ones braving the chill of the night.

"Marillë, I am trying to say that I wish for you to be my wife."

"I know! But I cannot… I really cannot…"

Isildur stared at her, visibly offended. "You do not like me."

Marillë said nothing, for it was true.

"Still I must ask you to reconsider. Think! Can you truly afford to answer with refusal to the heir of the Lord of Andúnie?"

"You already heard what I said. I really could not become a wife to a man I do not like!"

Isildur stared at her for a moment, looking both disbelieving and disappointed, even shocked. Then suddenly he turned his back to Marillë and fled the garden.

That of course led to a flood of gossip that spread over Rómenna, and it would have been a wonder if its ripples had not reached all the way to Armenelos. For many had seen how the grandson of the Lord of Andúnië had left the wedding very early, a little after he had danced with lady Marillë, and in a visibly agitated mood at that, and that of course could not be caused by anything other than being shamefully rejected. The Faithful were divided into two camps: those who thought that lady Marillë was the most selfish and proud woman Númenor had seen since Tar-Ancalimë, and those who thought it was about time that someone knocked the lordling who valued himself too highly down a peg. Many a time family dinners ended poorly when half the people in the table took one side and half took the other. Soon the incident was forgotten, however, for the times were hard and the Faithful had to stick together.

Marillë continued her herb hobby. She browsed her books and tried various remedies and salves she made out of the herbs that grew in the city parks. Mainly she made mixtures that could be used for skincare, and gave them as presents to her friends. She had first taken an interest in herb-lore as a child, and dreamed of some day getting to go to the hills to gather rarer plants. Now it had become too dangerous, for a maiden wandering alone was easy prey for the King's Men.

Marillë no longer saw much of Isildur. Once, however, Yúlaner gave her a gift that Isildur had asked him to pass onwards. It was an ancient book with wonderfully exact and beautiful drawings of herbs and detailed explanations of their numerous uses. Between the pages there was a short letter in which Isildur wished the book would bring joy to Marillë. His family had many books on plants that were almost the same, for their forefathers had gotten them as gifts from the elves.

Marillë of course could not accept such a precious gift. It was clear that the book was an heirloom of the Lords of Andúnie, and she wondered how Isildur had gained permission to give it away. Or had he even gotten permission? Perhaps he had stolen from his own family. Yúlaner however sternly refused to take the book back, because he did not want to insult his friend. If Marillë would not accept the gift, she herself would have to go to return it. Marillë began to feel that this was some clumsy plot of the two friends, which was meant to make Marillë meet Isildur again, but nonetheless the book seemed to burn her hands, and at last she gathered her courage, wrapped the book carefully up, and began the walk to Amandil's house.

The estate was large and encircled by white walls. Marillë stepped in through the wrought iron gate and knocked on the door. The butler looked in surprise at the book and asked in a stern tone how it had ended up in her hands, and when Marillë had told him, he went to get one of the masters of the house.

The lord's son, Elendil, came to the door. He was very tall, taller than Isildur, and his entire presence had an air of royal dignity, but there was nothing threatening or scary about him. He smiled warmly at Marillë and asked what business she was on. When Marillë handed the book to him, his expression turned serious, even moved. For a while he said nothing, but asked Marillë to come in and guided her to a small parlour where his wife Isilmë sat with her sewing in her lap. Elendil showed the book to his wife and told her that Isildur had wanted to give it as a gift to Marillë.

"Another of his foolish notions! When will they ever end?" she sighed. "Well, it is good at least that you brought the book back, miss, for it is in many ways very precious to us. Where is the boy anyway? I have not seen him since breakfast."

"Practising, I assume, as usual", Elendil said and went to the door to ask that a servant would go fetch Isildur.

After a while the young man arrived. He was dressed carelessly in a loose shirt, and sweat beaded on his face, as he had probably been practising swordsmanship and it was warm outside. He had rolled up his sleeves, and then Marillë noticed that there was a long and large scar on one of his arms, as though someone had tried to cut off his hand. When Isildur noticed Marillë, he started and pulled his sleeves hastily down. His father began to demand an explanation for why he had decided to give the book away.

"It has been lying around in my room for years", Isildur defended himself. "I thought that it was mine and that I could do as I please with it. I have no interest in plants, but I heard from Yúlaner about his sister's hobby, and I thought she might appreciate the book."

"Did it not occur to you to ask before you acted what the history of the book was and how it had ended up in your room?" Elendil demanded.

"I have seen many like it in Amandil's library. I thought that no one would be likely to miss one", Isildur stated.

Elendil sighed. He held the book in his hands as tenderly as one might a child. "Then it must be time for me to explain." He turned to Marillë. "Unfortunately there are some things in our family that we do not want outsiders to hear."

Marillë had already risen to go, when Isilmë said: "I think the girl should stay."

Elendil raised his eyebrows, looked at his wife, and then at Marillë. "Well, all right then. Sit down and I will tell. But first you must promise that you will speak of this to no one else, not even to your own parents."

"I promise", Marillë said in confusion.

Elendil began his tale. "This book comes from far away in Middle-Earth, from the library of Imladris. It was given to our family as a gift by Elrond Half-elven himself, the brother of our first king. Perhaps he foresaw that we would have need for it. For once it happened that my son Isildur was badly wounded. We could not ask for healers, as we had to keep his accident a secret, and we knew no healer whom we could have trusted completely. Then Amandil recalled the book, and we searched it and learned to make herb poultices for wounds, and drinks that ease the pain and help the patient to remain asleep and gather strength. Our younger son Anárion went with a lantern to the hills to look for herbs after nightfall, even though it was dangerous. Our eldest owes his life to this book. We left it in his room so that we would not forget what the book had done."

Isildur said nothing, only stood grimly with his arms crossed, his gaze downcast.

At last Marillë spoke. "I understand now better than before how important it is to your family. Thank you for telling me. I promise that I will not speak of this to anyone."

"You have not yet heard everything", said Elendil. "Isildur? Go and show the young lady what you shed your blood for."

Without a word Isildur gestured for Marillë to come with him. He led her to the large, verdant garden that grew behind the house. Within it there was a small area surrounded by a white wooden fence where low pale yellow and blue flowers grew. In the middle of the flowers grew a young tree that was full of leaves, and looking closely, one could see a small white flower bud at the top of the tree.

"That cannot be anything but the White Tree of Armenelos. And it lives", said Marillë marvelling.

"Perhaps you too have heard how once years ago someone infiltrated Armenelos in disguise, a little before Sauron ordered the tree burned, and picked a fruit from the tree. Now you know who it was", Isildur said, and touched his arm as though he suddenly recalled the pain from years ago. "I could not do it quite so quickly as I had planned. The King's Men spotted me and attacked me, and I still do not understand how I managed to fight my way out of their grasp."

"That was very foolhardy", Marillë said. "But also very… selfless. You could have died."

"Someone had to do it. I hope that one day the valar will yet help us to get rid of the King's Men, since we have not allowed Sauron to destroy everything that is holy and fair in this land."

When they returned to the house, Elendil handed the book back to Marillë. Perhaps he already guessed that it would remain in the family after all. After seeing the White Tree and hearing of Isildur's feat, Marillë understood that she really did not know him at all. Her image of him had been founded on rumours and what little he had revealed of himself, but in truth there was much more to him. Much more good than Marillë had imagined. She decided to give him a chance, and he did not let it go unused.

* * *

One hundred and thirty years have passed since Isildur saved the fruit of the White Tree, and now the tree has grown tall and adorns the courtyard of Minas Ithil with its silver-grey leaves. It has not yet borne any fruit in Middle-Earth, but Isildur is trustful. He has decided that when it at last happens, he will plant the fruit immediately in case something bad would happen to the big tree. He treats the tree with care and love as the daughter he was never given. He believes it is only thanks to the fair Nimloth that Marillë agreed to be his wife and that he now has three sons and the continuation of the lineage is secured.

And when the guests get down from their mounts and carriages, Isildur expects that they will say compliments not only to his sons and wife, but also to the fair Nimloth, by which the family has settled to receive the visitors. He looks at the tree, and joy and pride alternate on his face.

Everyone is gathered again, like once upon a time in Rómenna.

Chapter Text

The Ithil-stone is in the topmost chamber of the highest tower of Minas Ithil, on a black marble table in the middle of the room. It is beautiful and flawlessly round, made as if of deep-black crystal, but how and of what material Fëanor forged them in the dawn of time is a mystery to Isildur. Once long ago the elves gave the seven seeing-stones to Lord Amandil for comfort in difficult times, and through them he remained up to date on the events in Armenelos even after he had been, at Sauron's order, dismissed from the royal council. Now they unite the three kings in the realms of exile.

Isildur still remembers the first times when he and Anárion practised communication through the stones. Anárion's stone was in Minas Anor, and Isildur's stone in Minas Ithil. The stones do not relay sound directly, but rather what one wants to say is formed into words in the mind, and the recipient hears these words as if it was speech in their ears. Images can be relayed in the same fashion: by concentrating the thought into one view, whereupon the recipient sees it as an image on the surface of their palantír.

Once it happened that Anárion explained at length and in depth some event Isildur considered rather dull — it might have had something to do with curtains his daughters had sewed — and as Isildur got bored his thoughts strayed to his wife, who, as the hour was already late, awaited him in the royal bedchamber. An image appeared in his mind of his wife in a white chemise made of translucent fabric, which she then took off slowly, revealing her slim, white body… And then suddenly Anárion's yelp broke the illusion. Isildur understood what had happened and got upset. Anárion for his part was amused, and dared to offer some polite observations on his sister-in-law's appearance, which put Isildur out of his mind with rage. He accused his brother of having purposefully caused Isildur's thoughts to stray, perhaps even wanting to see Isildur's wife in her natural state, curious and indecent as he was. And in his fury Isildur kicked the table the Palantír lay on, and it rocked so hard that the stone fell from its pedestal. It rolled across the floor and Isildur hurried after it, fearing that it was damaged, but as he took it in his hands he noticed that the stone had not gained even a scratch. It was as clear and beautiful as before. Isildur understood then that the stone was such make as could not be broken by human might. In any case he was afterwards more careful when he used the seeing-stone, especially on what he happened to think while listening to the other's speech.

In the Palantír chamber there is also a writing desk with its equipment, and some books. They are for the Guardian of the Stone. For the stones to be truly useful, someone must keep an eye on them at all times, in case anyone happens to make contact at an unexpected time. Isildur has named a few trusted ministers to take care of his stone, and they work in shifts. Because the Ithil-stone is small and its area of effect limited, it cannot be used for communication with Elendil who lives in the North Kingdom. For that purpose there is the Master Stone in Osgiliath, with its own guards who will alert Isildur or Anárion to come when Elendil wants to talk with them.

Now for the first time in a long while the kings can talk face to face, which is a refreshing change, and much less taxing than concentrating on conversations held through a seeing-stone. They come down from the Tower of Ithil, where they had been surveying the surrounding lands, and arrive in the great hall on the first floor. The guests wander about the hall, catching up with each other and examining the statues standing by the walls. Isildur has asked his sons to show the lords and their families around the castle, but Aratan is still in the hall. Isildur is not surprised to see him talking with the Lord of Lebennin, for the lord has six attractive daughters, and all of them are standing by their father. The eyes of each of the young ladies are fixed on the prince, and his lips are curved in a smile, proud and smug. Aratan knows he is liked by women, and is not ashamed to enjoy the attention he gets.

"I heard that Aratan caused some trouble in Minas Anor last summer", Elendil remarks when he notices his grandson.

"Yes, he has become bad", says Isildur.

"Surely not quite bad, only a young man who behaves badly."

"I see no difference there. Manners make the man."

"Have you lost your hope then?"

Isildur looks at his son who is so fair of face, yet otherwise everything but. In the summer Aratan lived for a while in Minas Anor, meaning to help his uncle and his cousin Meneldil with the business of the country, but instead of taking care of his duties, he got familiar with the women of the city, sat in taverns for endless hours, and got drunk on more than one evening a week. Awkward rumours began to spread. It was said that two maidens had to break off their engagements to honourable men after being caught in inappropriate circumstances with Aratan. Once some jealous person attacked Aratan in a dark alley when he was returning to the castle, and both of them got bruises in that encounter. When Anárion told his brother about all this, he ordered the boy to return home. He demanded an explanation from him, but did not get one. He had roughed him up, glared sternly, grabbed him by the front of his shirt and slapped him, but the youngster had said nothing, only stared out of the window and looked bored.

"I have done all I can. He is an adult man and it is too late to begin raising him now."

Elendil looks at Aratan, his expression not particularly worried. There is even mirth in Anárion's eyes.

"What is this? Do you two not see a problem here? That boy's behaviour does harm to all our family, it brings shame to the legacy of Atalantë!"

"Brother dear, were you not very similar once yourself?" Anárion asks. "Or have my memories become entirely twisted over the years?"

"Me? How dare you imply that. I was not nearly so bad."

"What of all those love letters that were brought to our door almost daily?"

"Foolish women's nonsense! I had never met them, or if I had, I certainly had not spoken with them. How was it my fault that I was popular? But I never abused my position."

"I seem to recall that there were quite a few rumours going around about you before you met Marillë, and they did not much differ from what is said of Aratan these days", observes Anárion.

"Enough about this! And where is Master Elrond? I have hardly exchanged two words with him since he arrived."

"I believe he went to see the courtyard with Elendur and some others", says Elendil, and Isildur goes to look for them.

Elendur is showing the courtyard to the elves. With Elrond there have come his counsellor Erestor and the minstrel Lindir, who is here to see his relatives that live in Ithilien. Lindir has promised to hold a concert in Elendur's feast.

"The secret is in the way the moonbeams fall upon the courtyard", Elendur is explaining. "The valley is at a good angle to the rising moon, and there is mithril inlaid into certain places in the marble of the walls. When the moon is bright, the rays of light hit the mithril-stones and are reflected across the courtyard, filling it with silver glow."

"Rather clever", says Elrond, and touches the wall where it glimmers with silver.

Isildur hears Elendur's tale, and is not happy. He has wanted to keep his courtyard filled with moonlight a secret, a wonder that would still be spoken of thousands of years later.

"I hope what you have seen pleases you, good guests", says Isildur, approaching the group.

"Greatly, lord. I am glad that I decided to come see this all with my own eyes", replies Elrond.

"And I will gladly show you more of my land, too. Perhaps we could go meet those silvan elves who still dwell here."

"It would make me very happy to do so. Although most of the elves of the woods of Ithilien have likely already gone to the haven in Belfalas. So it is said in the north", Elrond says.

"I wish they would not go", says Elendur. "It feels as though we are driving them from their homes, although such was surely not our purpose when we settled to live here."

"It is not so", states Elrond. "Many elves have begun to be weary of Middle-Earth. They have seen enough evil and long to get away. The time of Men is approaching, and perhaps it will be that fighting against evil and banishing it from Middle-Earth will in the end be the task of Men."

"And though Men live but briefly, they multiply fast, and the son will continue from where the father left off", points out Lindir.

"On my part, I think the elves could stay in Ithilien forever if they wished, for they make our land fairer and they sing beautifully. Perhaps we will hear their singing during tomorrow's feast", says Isildur.

"I am certain that my relatives will be glad to make an appearance", Lindir replies.

"That is well. Let us return to the castle, for soon it will be time for dinner, and I think we all would like to have a moment to prepare for it."

* * *

Three hundred guests have arrived to celebrate Elendur's birthday. The meal on the eve of the celebration is plentiful, and people gather to eat around several long tables that have been carried into the great hall for it. The kings with their families sit in the table in the centre, and in the same table sit also the elves, who are guests of honour. The cooks have done their work well, and hardly anyone notices that no meat is served during the meal. The harvest has been plentiful that fall, and the many sorts of casseroles and stews that have been made out of delicious root vegetables and mushrooms ensure that no one has to leave the table hungry.

Ciryon sits between Aratan and his cousin Meneldil, in a place with a direct view to the table of the lords of the North Kingdom. And as he sits there watching the guests arrive, the youngster suddenly sees before him a woman, the Tar-Míriel of stories, a golden-haired beauty who is walking behind her brothers toward her place with light steps, as though carried by the gentle west wind. Ciryon cannot tear his eyes away from the maiden. He leans from his place to get a better look at where the maiden sits down, and is disappointed to see she is obscured by the head of some unknown man.

"Míriel, Míriel, you live, but how…?" Ciryon whispers, not knowing from where those words rise to his lips.

The youngster hears a chuckle from his side. "She is Caleth, one of the daughters of the steward of Fornost. I would not want to spoil your fun, brother, but you are too young for her."

"Who are you talking about, Aratan? I was not looking at anyone", Ciryon insists, but the blush on his cheeks betrays him.

"In that case you have restless eyes that do their own thing while your mind is elsewhere. But I do not believe that. It is true that Caleth resembles Tar-Míriel, but she is only an ordinary maiden from a good family, although not so good that our parents would consider her for Elendur's spouse."

Ciryon looks once more in the direction of the maiden, and catches a glimpse of her when she leans toward another maiden sitting next to her and whispers something to her. They smile, and Ciryon would really like to know what they are talking about.

"The one whose looks are most to my liking is Tarawen, the second eldest daughter of the Lord of Lebennin. She is the fairest, but at the same time also the proudest and most careful of her reputation. It is a shame, but that is usually the case with fair and high-ranking women. If you would like to get better acquainted with some maiden, Ciryon, pick a shy and plain one — they'll swoon at a mere glance from a king's son."

"You seem to really know what you are talking about, good cousin", replies Meneldil from Ciryon's other side.

Aratan turns to look at him. His lips curve into a proud smirk. "Now now, this must be familiar to you as well, good cousin. Did you not follow the same advice in picking your wife?"

Meneldil's calm expression does not shift. "And when it comes to you, good cousin, you could hardly get anyone to agree to be your wife even if you had the counsel of all the Wise of this world at your disposal."

"That hardly matters as I do not even want a wife."

"Instead of making a proper marriage, you will rather bring shame to your father, who is a good king. He would surely be glad to claim that you are not his son, but unfortunately even a glance at both of you is enough to prove it false."

"I see that you have come here to pick a fight. Why, has your ugly wife become cold and arrogant after your child was born, and so now you are permanently in a foul mood? It happens sometimes, so I have heard. But let us talk of that more after the dinner."

"Let us do so."

Ciryon eats his beet casserole glumly. He wonders whether there might be something he could say to make his brother and his cousin calm down, but he is only a boy between two grown men, and cannot think of any words that could placate both of them. Aratan and Meneldil have never gotten along, and when they were younger, their arguments often ended in blows. And Ciryon knows that both father and uncle Anárion are confused and even angry about this, for surely kings' sons should be able to work together instead of arguing constantly.

After dessert the guests begin to slowly leave the hall, but Ciryon lingers long enough to see Míriel (for so he calls her in his mind) rise from the table and leave the hall with her brothers and her mother. He follows her with his gaze, hoping that the maiden will turn and glance at him, but that does not happen. Only after Míriel has disappeared through the door does Ciryon notice that Aratan and Meneldil have vanished, and gets worried. He stands up from his place and looks for Elendur. His brother is at the other end of the hall, speaking with father and grandfather. Ciryon waits, and hopes that Elendur will leave alone, for he does not want to speak to father about this matter.

It is as though Elendur has sensed that something is wrong, for he leaves the kings and walks directly toward Ciryon. "Have you had a pleasant evening?" he asks.

Ciryon shrugs. "Otherwise yes, but Aratan and Meneldil got into an argument, and I am afraid that they have now gone somewhere to continue it."

Elendur sighs. "Maybe we should let them settle matters for themselves. On the other hand, fighting does not belong to a celebration, and I do not want father to get upset right now. Do you know where they might have gone?"

"No, but Aratan insulted our cousin's wife."

"Then it will not end in just words. Let us look in the side yard."

Elendur's guess is right, and the quarrelling kings' sons are found testing their mettle with swords in a small paved courtyard. Although Meneldil is known for his interest toward history and all sorts of ancient scrolls and texts, he has also trained at swordplay diligently, and is no longer much behind Aratan in that skill. Maybe Aratan finally understands that he ought to practise more often too instead of just trusting in his talent.

"Stop that right there, you two!" Elendur orders. An audience has strayed into the courtyard, a few soldiers who are on watch, and unfortunately also some guests who are sure to tell others about the incident, and so it will reach father's ears too.

"But it is only a sport!" exclaims Aratan. "Meneldil insisted on showing his skill to me."

"Now is not the time! Stop before anything bad happens."

The fight does not seem playful. The blades clash fiercely against each other, and both men are breathing heavily, their faces flushed and sweat beading on brows. They have already been fighting for a good while.

When words have no effect, Elendur walks steadily behind his brother, takes a hold of his sword-hand, and moves him by force away from his opponent.

"You are a spoilsport, brother mine!" Aratan sighs. He throws the sword on the ground for his squire to pick up, and marches to the door and back inside without another word to anyone. Meneldil gives up his borrowed sword, too. He walks up to Elendur.

"I did not wish for this", he says, "but your brother provoked me, and I considered myself to have no choice. He insulted my wife and I had to defend her honour."

"So I heard. Still, I would have thought a sensible man like you would know to turn a deaf ear to my brother's words. You know what he is like."

"Perhaps it is time for someone to oppose him and teach him manners, since you and your father seem incapable of it."

Elendur does not continue arguing, for he knows it to be useless. Meneldil is ready to continue the debate until dawn in order to have the last word. Anárion's only son is outwardly polite and good-mannered, but at least as proud and stubborn as Aratan on the inside.

Chapter Text

Ciryon tries very hard to find the room that has been given to Míriel. He skulks along the hallways, peeks in from the doors, and tries to do it so discreetly that no one would notice. He has seldom gone to the southern rooms of the castle, for they do not usually have residents, or anything else of interest either. For a long time he wondered why the castle was built to be so large, but now he understands. He comes across many unknown people walking in the hallways, not so high-ranking that they would have gotten a room from the north side, but nonetheless renowned captains and minor lords. They all seem to know Ciryon, and greet him kindly.

"Ciryon? Why in the world are you snooping around here?"

Ciryon stops at hearing his elder brother's voice. How did he find him? He turns around, disappointed. "What now, Elendur? Can I not go where I want in my own home?"

"Not now when we have guests. Besides, I thought that you left adventures in the southern hallways behind with your childhood. Or have you turned into a child again?"

Ciryon makes no reply, but follows along after Elendur. He leads Ciryon into the royal suite. "Father will now tell us what is going to happen at the feast tonight."

"Is that not clear? First we will eat and then we will dance."

"He will give us lists of the maidens each of us is expected to dance with", Elendur says.

"Can the men not usually choose their ladies for themselves?"

"Not when it comes to us."

Elendur and Ciryon step into a large room with a large ornate writing desk made of oak in the middle of it. Ciryon cannot remember ever seeing his father sitting behind it, and even now he is standing next to it, eyeing some paper. Instead, in the chair behind the desk sits mother, fiddling with the plain silver crown of the king and trying it on her own head.

"I wonder what the guests would say if I turned up at the feast with this on my head?" she says lightly.

"It is too big for you", states the king without taking his eyes off the paper.

"I would rather wear the Elendilmir, really. These sorts of crowns seem so old-fashioned to me."

Isildur lifts his gaze to his sons. "And Aratan? Why am I not surprised about not seeing him here?"

"I tried looking for him with the Stone, but I did not find him", replies Elendur. "This one I found, though, wandering in the southern hallways amid all our guests."

"Really?" the king looks at Ciryon with mild surprise. "Were you trying to get to know our guests? Maybe find a new friend among them?"

Ciryon hesitates. "Maybe, atar ."

"Have you met the son of Arodon of Orthanc? He is about your age, you could come up with lots of fun things to do together."

"But atar , Thorion is fifteen!"

"Yes? I think you should spend more time with people your own age, instead of just following Aratan and his friends, who frankly are not proper company for you, around."

Ciryon can do nothing but stare at his father, confused by the fact that he really thinks Ciryon could have something in common with little Thorion, who probably only had the heart to give up his hobby horse last summer.

"Well, let us get started then", father continues. "As you know, we of course are not holding this celebration just for fun. Obviously it is great and worth celebrating that Elendur is a full century old already, but we must also take care that our ties to other families will not loosen when we live in this large land with long distances between us."

"And you boys of course have the duty to do your part to care for our good relations to the lords", continues the queen.

Father picks two papers up from the desk and hands one to Elendur and one to Ciryon. "Those have lists of the evening's dances and your ladies. The negotiations with the parents of the maidens were lengthy, but eventually we reached an understanding."

Ciryon stares at his list. There are three names on it, two of which belong to his cousins. Out of good will, the cousins have always danced with him at feasts ever since he was about five or six years old. Out of the corner of his eye he sees that Elendur's list has at least ten times as many names, every dance being reserved for someone. Ciryon is embarrassed. Did he practice dancing for weeks before the celebration for this? "Who is Brethil?" he asks about the unknown name.

"Your grandmother's lady-in-waiting", mother says.

Ciryon casts a dismayed look at his parents.

"She is not very old", mother adds.

"These are all older than me. Much older. And no one is like… like what Elendur's list has", Ciryon complains.

"You do understand, senya , that in the eyes of all the lords of our realm you are still a child?" father explains seriously. "You have not come of age, and you especially are not full grown in mind or body. Likely it did not even occur to any of the lords or their lady wives that you would also want to dance. To tell you the truth, I am surprised too. Would you have liked a longer list? Usually you have gone to sleep at the latest after the third dance."

One name would be well enough for Ciryon, but he does not have the courage to admit who that name should belong to.

"This list does not mean that you could not dance with anyone else", father continues. "If you see a maiden who is free, go and ask her. You can do as you like."

"I would honestly gladly give a few maidens from my list to Ciryon", Elendur says. "I did not know there were this many unmarried highborn women in Middle-Earth. I doubt if I have the strength to dance with this many."

"Of course you do", says the king. "In my youth I danced at best with fifty maidens in one evening."

"And you were so quick at it that most of those good maidens hardly knew what had just happened to them when you were already bowing to the next one", comments Marillë.

"It has its risks, of course", the king carries on with his eldest. "If you do not look properly at who you are dancing with, you might yet end up married to some talkative and proud woman that's constantly reminding you of your past mistakes, and you will only notice it when it is already too late."

The door to the room opens and Aratan hurries in. "Did I miss something?" he asks.

The king picks up a third list from the desk. "Here is a list of maidens it is wished you will dance with. More precisely, it is a list of maidens who wish you will dance with them. For some reason every lord deemed it necessary to stress that the wish was specifically the daughter's, not his."

"Interesting", Aratan says and holds out his hand.

"In fact I believe you would be wiser not to dance with anyone tonight. I have not forgiven you for the things that happened last summer."

"But surely you would not wish to disappoint the lords and their daughters?"

"Not indeed", the king says and hands the list reluctantly over to Aratan.

Ciryon sees that Aratan's dance list is as full of names as Elendur's. He is glad he managed to fold the list and hide it in his pocket before Aratan came, for he would certainly have laughed until his face was red if he had seen it.

* * *

Ciryon has really looked forward to this ball. The last time one like it was held, he was more interested in the food being served than in maidens. This evening he struggles to eat a single bite. Father said that he could ask for a dance from any maiden, if there was the chance. Ciryon cannot imagine how that could happen. He knows it would be easiest to hide behind his brothers and hope that the evening would pass as quickly as possible. Then he could forget his disappointment and return to continue his dull life with books and studies until he died.

His plan doesn't work, however, as Elendur and Aratan have to dance all evening. Ciryon stands around by the wall on his own. The only one who stops to chat with him is his servant Targon, who is over the moon to get to serve in as great a feast as this. He is young, the same age as Ciryon, and not very skilled at his work. Really Ciryon thinks that Targon is a fool, but tolerates him because his antics are funny to follow.

Even now Ciryon amuses himself by watching how the grumpy butler Iorphen takes Targon aside for a talking-to. They try to hide behind a statue by the wall of the hall, but Ciryon can easily hear how Iorphen scolds Targon for the way he has been serving the shortbread to the guests. Targon has been offering them a little too eagerly, all the while praising how good they taste.

"Have you lost your mind? You are a servant, not a peddler!" Iorphen growls.

Targon already made the blunder of pouring wine to some lady from her left side during the dinner, which shocked the butler so badly that he will hardly be able to sleep at all for the next few nights.

The youngster turns his attention back to the dancing couples. And suddenly he notices the maiden: Míriel and her flowing fair hair, which glimmers like stars under the chandeliers. The man dancing with her is Aratan, and he does not look at all as bored as usual. Aratan looks the maiden straight in the eyes, says something to her, smiles. She smiles back, her face glowing. Suddenly hate surges up in Ciryon's chest, hate toward his own brother. Aratan said last night that he does not care for Míriel, that he is only interested in Tarawen, but now everything seems to be changed. Ciryon would like to march up to his brother and tear the maiden away from his arms, by force if necessary. It's wrong that Aratan gets to dance with Míriel, but not Ciryon who actually likes her.

"You look rather lonely here."

Silently as a shadow the king has appeared beside Ciryon. The youngster does not turn to look at his father.

"Would you not come to the front of the hall where the rest of us sit following the dance and talking about important matters?"

Ciryon tries to swallow his rage. "Maybe later", he says, voice trembling a little.

"Something is weighing on your mind", notes the king.

"I am having fun", Ciryon lies. He looks at the ground lest his face betray him.

"Before I came here, your eyes were following Aratan, and that maiden of the north that he is dancing with."

"Just to have something to look at."

"That is the daughter of Caladaer of Fornost. They are beautiful folk. And the daughter bears some resemblance to Tar-Míriel."

Father has of course guessed everything. Ciryon lifts his gaze, looking for an escape. He could claim to be in need of fresh air and head out of the side door that leads to the front yard. A lot of people are there admiring the stone the walls are built of that glows in the moonlight.

"If you wish to dance with her, go to her and ask her when this song is finished."

"I do not wish to dance with her."

"Your face tells otherwise. What is holding you back? We have all had our first crushes, and there is nothing to be ashamed of in that."

"I do not have any crush on her! Besides, she would only decline because she thinks I am a child."

"Have you foreseen that or are you just imagining? You will never know unless you ask. Or do you want me to do it for you?"

"No, no, atar . I will do it myself."

Ciryon is horrified to understand what he just said. But he could not stand the thought that father would go speak for him. All the maidens of the realm would laugh at him, and he'd become the subject of mockery for a long time.

Then the elves stop playing. Ciryon's heartbeat hammers in his ears. He watches how Aratan returns the maiden to her friends on the other side of the ballroom.

"Hurry now, before someone else takes her."

How Ciryon wishes that father would stop meddling in his affairs. But father always meddles in everything. There is no thing so small that the lord of Ithilien wouldn't consider it to belong in some way to himself.

Ciryon takes a step. Then another. After the third, walking becomes somewhat easier. He's halfway through the hall, then a little over. The maiden sits with her friends, cooling her face with a fan. She is wearing pink and white and she looks like a rose blossom. Ciryon waits, hoping that another young hero would dash from somewhere to sweep the maiden away with him, but that does not happen. He keeps approaching the maiden, glancing to the sides, thinking that he still has time to change directions and pretend he is on the way to somewhere else.

Then it is too late. The maiden takes notice of Ciryon, a small smile rising to her lips. Ciryon stops in front of her, bows as though she was a queen, and begins to speak. "Forgive my audacity, for I know my name is not in your dance card, but I thought that if it chanced that you have no one else for the next dance, then perhaps you could be so kind as to allow me the joy of coming with me."

Míriel looks Ciryon in the eye, smiling all the while. "Very well, but with one condition."

Ciryon was not expecting this kind of response. He stands in confusion for a moment, before asking. "What is it?"

"That after me you will dance with my friends."

Ciryon only now properly notices the two other maidens who sit on each side of Míriel. One is a brunette, the other has night-black hair like almost everyone in Gondor. "With pleasure", Ciryon replies, wondering. Do women want to dance with him after all?

"Then we will go!" Míriel exclaims and stands up. She holds out her hand and Ciryon takes it. He leads her to the middle of the hall as the music begins again.

"We were told that Isildur's youngest son had only seen ten summers", says Míriel. "But you have already grown to manhood."

"I am twenty", Ciryon specifies.

"Ten years here or there, we would say otherwise. But in this case those years make a great difference! Who are you, king's son, and why did you stand so long alone over there across the hall? Your glance was rather grim, and we wondered whether that is your nature too, or are you just trying to charm the maidens so. Many of us like serious men, and perhaps you wanted to impress us."

"It wasn't on purpose", Ciryon replies awkwardly, "but I am not grim in mood either."

Ciryon is uncertain, nervous. He has never been this close to a young unmarried woman. His heart is pounding, and he is afraid he will get the steps mixed up and step on the maiden's feet. But Míriel does not seem to notice anything. Fortunately for Ciryon, she is talkative and completely content for him to reply to her every now and then with a few words. Ciryon could not come up with anything to say himself.

"In the North they tell a lot about the sons of Isildur. It is said that they are tall and fair, and that the eldest is like young Elendil. But it is also said that Isildur is training them to be mighty warriors and that he will not let his sons marry until they have destroyed every orc in the lands of Gondor. Is this true? Have you already had to deal with those loathsome creatures too?"

"I have not been to hunt orcs, because father thinks I am not yet ready. But my brothers have indeed, especially Elendur, for out of us he is the most skilled fighter. Aratan would be almost as good, but he cannot be bothered to practice."

"Aratan is very handsome… but you will become so, too! Practice that grim look of yours — it will be of great advantage to you one day."

The song ends and Ciryon takes the maiden back to her friends. One of them rises and Ciryon must return to the dancefloor almost immediately. He is already a little hot, and can feel how the white silk shirt clings to the skin under the dark blue jacket and cloak. This maiden is not as talkative as Míriel, but there is a calm, pleased look on her face when Ciryon places his hands on her waist. It takes a long time before Ciryon gets to catch a breath of fresh air outside. When he has danced with Míriel's friends, three new maidens who absolutely want to dance appear from somewhere, and after them four, and after them two more. Once Ciryon finally gets out into the cool night, he leans against the white wall and takes a deep breath. His heart is still pounding, though now it is out of sheer exhaustion.

There are still a lot of people in the courtyard. A group of elves have gathered before the White Tree to sing about the lands beyond the sea and the history of the tree. Ciryon sees his parents. Father seems very pleased with himself. He grabs mother into his arms from behind and laughs. Mother struggles free but turns around and they kiss, even though there are a lot of folk in the courtyard. Ciryon turns his gaze away. It is strange that as old as they are, they still cannot control themselves in front of people.

Aratan appears next to Ciryon from somewhere. He sways a little as he walks.

"Well, did you get what you wanted?" he demands from Ciryon.

Ciryon shrugs his shoulders.

"I told that maiden of the north that you are head over heels for her. It is a wonder she agreed to dance with you!"

"You did not tell her! Surely you did not?" Ciryon breathes in horror.

"I did. Or did I? At least I meant to tell. I think I will go ask her if I did."

"I think you should go to sleep. Before father notices what state you are in. You did not have permission to drink that much wine!"

"It seems to me like our good king would not notice anything tonight, even if Sauron himself came and started dancing in a ring around the White Tree with those elves."

Ciryon follows his brother's gaze and sees his parents still kissing.

"I still think it is a good idea to go to sleep."

"You might be right. I am rather tired. It is not easy to dance with all those clucking hens. Who can bear to listen to them sober? 'Have you ever killed an orc? Oh, say you did not let it suffer?'" Aratan says in a shrill voice. He rolls his eyes. "I am going to sleep so I still have the strength for this stuff tomorrow."

Aratan goes. Ciryon leans against the wall a moment more, but then decides to follow his brother. In the hallway he almost catches up with his brother, and notices that he is by no means going to sleep alone. He has one of the daughters of the Lord of Lebennin on his arm, though not Tarawen. Ciryon stops, and waits until their voices have faded into the depths of the castle. He cannot help but wonder at how thoughtless both of them are. Despite that, he does not intend to tell anyone about what he has seen.

Chapter Text

Elendur's birthday is celebrated for three days and three nights, as is the custom. The lords give him many gifts he does not need: sword belts and saddlebags adorned with gems, a silver-grey horse, a cloak made of a rare and beautiful cloth that is light as a gentle breeze to wear, and yet warm.

At last, however, the time comes to cease the merriment and concentrate on more serious matters. Now that all the most important lords and princes of the north and the south are present, it is a good occasion to talk about the state of the realm and of problems in need of urgent solutions. Isildur has asked his sons to join the council. He has decided that even Ciryon is no longer too young to hear about matters of his land. The men are gathered in a meeting room furnished with a large table and chairs around it. But even more important is the smaller round table with a map spread on it. Everyone is gathered to stand around it, even though some of them have to peer over the shoulders of others to see what place on the map Elendil or Isildur is pointing at.

In the council they talk about which parts of Middle-Earth servants of the enemy have been spotted in, and what actions should be taken to get rid of them. Elendil tells about northern military campaigns against orc hordes. Gil-galad has been able to keep Lindon clean, but things are not so well in Eriador, especially in its easternmost and northernmost parts. Goblins lurk in the Misty Mountains, and it is said that further north there would live a dragon, or maybe more than one.

In the south orcs have been spotted in Rhovanion, between Greenwood the Great and Mordor, but they rarely cross Anduin and come to the side of Calenardhon in the lands of Gondor, let alone stray to North Ithilien which the soldiers of Isildur guard. Instead the largest concern for Anárion and Isildur are the men of the south, especially Umbar and the Black Númenoreans who live there — those who once moved to colonies they had founded in Middle-Earth, enslaved the natives, and began to worship the darkness according to the teachings of Sauron. Every now and then the ships of Umbar sail to the southern coasts of Gondor, and raid the towns and villages.

Then there are the wild men who live here and there in the forests of Anórien and in Calenardhon. They fought on Sauron's side when the elves, led by Gil-galad, were at war against him, and even after that have always bent more to the will of the East than listened to the counsel of the men of the West.

"Those who call themselves the Men of the Mountains have made trouble north of the White Mountains for a long time now, and bothered those clans of wild men who look more favourably on us", explains the lord Berenor of Morthond Vale. "And recently they have begun making attacks on my lands south of the mountains. My folk are scared. I have ordered my archers to patrol in the villages, and it may have been a little help, but I need my men for other duties, too."

Lord Maion continues: "And these same mountain-folk have also troubled us over in Lamedon. Hiking secretly over Tarlang's Neck and making raids into my lands. I tried talking to their chieftain — the one who calls himself the King of the Mountains, but he only said that he will not negotiate with invaders."

"Their audacity seems to have only grown over the years", states Isildur.

"I do not have the soldiers to protect all of Lamedon", complains Maion.

"Perhaps we ought to attempt to solve this problem with diplomacy", suggests Elendil. "I advise that you my sons go to meet with this chieftain of the mountain-folk, and try to get him to make an alliance with you. Perhaps he will listen listen to a king."

"It will not be easy", says Berenor. "He has ever been on the side of the Enemy, I deem."

"I will go", says Isildur. "I will not suffer anyone but myself, my brother, or my father to call himself king within the lands of this realm. He must submit and recognise us as his kings, or he and his men will come to rue it."

Ciryon is excited to be allowed to be present and listen, and when the council finally ends, he decides to hurry immediately to tell Míriel all about it. He has slowly gotten to know the maiden, for they have talked for a while every day after dinner, and today they are going to meet before it already. But before Ciryon can slip out the door after the lords, a hand falls on his shoulder.

"Did you learn anything, yonya ?"

"Yes, atar ", replies Ciryon obediently. "It was a most interesting meeting."

"I see that you are in a hurry, but come to my room today before dinner. I have to talk a little with you and your brothers."

"Of course, atar !" Ciryon calls, and soon he is hurrying toward the guests' rooms.

Míriel had promised to wait for him on the first floor, next to the statue of Tar-Minyatur. When Ciryon is almost there, he slows down his steps and tries to act like a gentleman coming by chance across an acquaintance in the hallway. Míriel receives him with a smile.

"Well, may I now at last see the thing you have already spoken of so many times!" she exclaims.

"Perhaps the time for it has come already", replies Ciryon. "But would you not first want to hear what we talked about in the council?"

"If something interesting was discussed there, then by all means, tell me."

"May I first lead you to somewhere more quiet, where it will be easier for us to talk?"

Ciryon offers the maiden his arm, and she takes it. He leads her to the hallway where his room is located, although he is of course not going to show the room to her — that would not be proper for a gentleman. But at the end of the hallway there is a large window niche where Ciryon often sits and looks down upon the city. He is only rarely disturbed there. Soon they are sitting next to each other in the niche.

"This is a beautiful city, but I cannot wait to see Minas Anor. You must know it like the back of your hand", she remarks.

"We visit there every year", Ciryon tells her. "It is a wonderful city, in its way. It rises up the slope of a mountain, and is made up of seven circles — the topmost one has the royal castle, and it is white and shines in competition with the sun. And when the sun sets behind Mindolluin, its last rays paint the castle in brilliant reds. It was made so, because my uncle Anárion loves warmth and the sun, and Minas Anor is never cold or dark."

"I have heard that King Anárion is a gentle lord."

"That he is. He is never grim or in foul mood."

"Well, soon I will see his city. My father has arranged for us to travel to Minas Anor after mettarë and spend our time there, until spring comes and we can travel back to the north."

Ciryon wishes she would stay the whole winter in Minas Ithil. Yet he understands that the lords of the north would want to see all the large cities of the South Kingdom now that they are here. The distance between Arnor and Gondor is long, and no one travels it in the cold winter months. Ciryon is happy, however, that he still has several weeks to get to know the maiden he calls Míriel better.

"What did you talk about in the meeting? You sounded so excited a moment ago."

Ciryon chuckles. "Do you really want to hear? Perhaps such things do not interest young women after all. Although how should I know? I have never known any young woman."

"Have you learned nothing of the thoughts of women from your own cousins?"

Ciryon shrugs his shoulders. "They are older than Elendur, and only the oldest still lives in Minas Anor. The younger ones married and moved away a long time before I was even born. I only see them during feasts, and they do not seem very young to me, since they already have children of their own."

"I understand. But I at least am the kind of young woman who would be interested in knowing more of the matters of the realm. My father thinks they do not belong to women."

"I do not think so!" declares Ciryon. And then he tells her everything he remembers from the meeting. Especially he remembers the King of the Mountains and that his father has decided to go meet with him.

"I hope that man is not dangerous! I at least would not wish to meet him", says the maiden.

"But if you were a king, you surely would not wish for anyone to live in your realm who does not recognise you as their lord. That man is a rebel! But my father can surely put him in order."

Then Ciryon takes her hand and leads her to where they were originally going. It is only a little further, on the next hallway: the alcove with the picture of Tar-Míriel. The painting is huge, almost the height of the entire wall, and on both sides of it stand ornate candelabras that light the picture. But they are not truly necessary, for the fair-haired Míriel clad in white glows like the moon even in the dark. Even in the painting she is fairer than silver, ivory, or the pearl in the shelter of its shell, more beautiful than the White Tree on spring nights when it opens its sweetly scented flowers and shines in competition with the full moon.

"It is said that she was the most beautiful woman ever to live in the Akallabêth", the maiden remarks.

"That she was, if not the most beautiful in all the world", says Ciryon.

"Even more beautiful than Lúthien?"

"I do not know, for I have never seen Lúthien."

"Míriel was beautiful, in any case. This painting is wonderful and fine. Who has made it, and was it brought from the lost land?"

"No, it was painted by an artist at my father's request, after my family had come to Middle-Earth. So that we would not forget her, the last queen."

And now that the women are side by side, Ciryon sees that Caleth is not Míriel. She is fair of hair, and beautiful, but her features seen up close are not Míriel's. The face is rounder, the nose a little shorter, and the grey eyes lack the sorrow and wisdom that make Míriel so wondrously beautiful. Still, Caleth is there, right by him, and Ciryon has to only reach out his hand in order to touch her curling hair and feel its silky softness between his fingers.

Just then Caleth takes her eyes off the painting, looks at the youth, and a playful smile is kindled in her eyes. "You must have a crush on Míriel. Do you not?"

"Why would I? There is nothing left of her but this picture!" Ciryon defends himself.

"But in your daydreams you see her as a living maiden. And that is all that is needed for a crush."

"What do you know about it? And besides you're wrong. I do not tend to daydream."

"I am sure some would believe that. But I say that you are lying greatly, young lord Ciryon. Did your father not teach you honesty?"

The maiden is smiling all the while, and Ciryon is confused. He does not know what to say, and his face is flushing. "You are mistaken, lady", he continues at last. "I do not have a crush, but I do admire her. And not only because Míriel was beautiful — she was also strong, and would not fall even when she was the only Faithful in Armenelos. Imagine what her life must have been like! She has sat at the same dinner table with Sauron. Could you have done it?" Ciryon gives the maiden a demanding look.

She turns serious and lowers her gaze. "I understand what you mean. And no, I do not think I could have done it."

"I do not think I could have, either", states Ciryon and lets a cautious smile rise to his lips.

"I must hurry, king's son", she says then. "Time flies, and soon it will be time for dinner again. Shall we still meet after it? Is there still some place in the castle that you have not shown me yet?"

"I will be glad to see you. And I promise that you have not yet seen anywhere near all the secrets of the castle!"

* * *

Ciryon is the last to arrive. His cheeks are red and he is out of breath, having come running like a child late for his lessons.

"Forgive me, atar , I nearly forgot…" he mumbles as he comes in, avoiding his father's gaze.

"It is still not fitting for a king's son to be running like that. You are young, but not a child anymore", says the king sternly.

"I apologise."

The king stands behind his desk and looks at each of his sons in turn before beginning. "As you heard in the meeting, there is trouble in Lamedon and Morthond. And after considering the matter and speaking more with Maion and Berenor, I see that I cannot let this wait. They should have turned to me or Anárion long ago. I have decided to go take care of it right away on the day after tomorrow, and that Aratan and Ciryon will come with me. Elendur will stay and take care of the castle and the people."

Ciryon looks at his father, hardly believing what he hears. He should have to go away from Minas Ithil now while Caleth is here?

"But atar , what about our guests…", he begins. "Surely a king cannot leave his home while he is hosting guests?"

"They will not stay here", father says. "They will each soon go their own way. Most will go to Osgiliath, for they want to see the city, especially those who have come from the north. Besides, we will hold the mettarë feast in Osgiliath this year. If we hurry, we will make it back from our journey in time for it."

"I assume you will be going by ship", Elendur remarks.

"By ship is the only reasonable way to travel this time of year", says father. "And I presumed that you would not be upset that you cannot come."

"Not at all, atarinya ."

Aratan bursts into laughter. "Elendur is afraid of the sea! The oh-so-brave, wise, and perfect heir of kings does not dare to board a ship! What other things do you not dare to do, my dear brother?"

Father's jaw clenches threateningly. "You, Aratan, had better keep your mouth shut. A couple times on the deck of a ship does not make you a bold seaman. We are seafaring people, but I will not force anyone onto a ship who has had to watch how Atalantë broke and foundered. My father has not boarded a ship since either, despite having once been one of the most skilled sailors of our people."

" Atarinya , if you wish, I will come along. I do not fear to step on a ship, even though I do not like sailing", Elendur says.

"I know, but you are needed here, yonya . Much more so than your brothers, who are still in many ways immature."

The conversation has ended. Aratan does not seem to have anything against a sea journey; quite on the contrary, he seems rather satisfied. But Ciryon cannot rejoice, although at another time he might have been excited about the coming adventure. He cannot hide his disappointment from his father, of course. He stops Ciryon at the door before he can follow his brothers out of the room.

"Something is wrong here. I thought you would be happy that I am taking you along on the journey."

"I… I should hurry to dinner."

"They will not start before I am at the table. We can very well talk for a moment."

Ciryon turns slowly, father closes the door, and they are alone.

"What is it now? Tell me."

It is one of those moments when Ciryon wishes he had the courage to oppose his father, like Aratan does. He is silent, but cannot long endure his father's inquisitive gaze. He tells the truth. "I do not want to go."

"You want to stay here. Or perhaps you would rather like to go to Osgiliath with our guests."

"Perhaps."

The king sighs. "You have spent too much time with the daughter of Caladaer of Fornost. I seem to have made a mistake in encouraging you to ask her for a dance. Surely you understand that you will have to forget the maiden, and the sooner you get started, the easier it will be."

"I do not want to forget her."

"But you must, Ciryon. There is no other option. She is older than you and you are in any case too young to associate with maidens, let alone that you would begin to consider marriage. The family of the lords of Fornost, though of high standing, is not as long-lived as the line of Elros. This maiden will age more swiftly than you, and if you were to be together, you would be torn apart before you knew it."

"I would not care about that! Even a moment of time together would be enough for the rest of my life!"

"And what of your children? Would you like to leave your lands and property to a man nearly as old as you are — or perhaps already dead by the time you grow weary of the world? You should know that in our family a man does not marry or bring a child into the world until he is at least fifty — so it has ever been and so it ever shall be. An heir must be a man in his best years, not already nearing his grave. No, Ciryon, you are not so foolish as to even consider her for your spouse."

Ciryon pulls back and turns away from his father. He feels anger seething black within him. "I am not considering her for my spouse!" he yells at the wall before him.

Silence. Ciryon hears his father taking a deep breath before he speaks. "Is that so. For what are you considering her, then?"

Ciryon does not reply. He wants to leave, to go to his room and sulk there for the rest of his life. He hears his father walk from the desk over to the window to look out into the darkening evening.

"I guess what you want and what you plan, but you must forget it. You must understand that what Aratan is doing is wrong, and there is a danger in it. So far he has been lucky, but every day I fear. Ciryon, you must promise that you will not follow in your brother's footsteps, for I could not stand to have two of my sons stray from the straight and narrow."

Ciryon finds he is sweating. Has it always been this hot in the castle? He turns and sees only the back of his father who stands staring at the stars. " Atarinya , I do not want to bring you shame. And I was not thinking of anything dishonourable, I swear! I only wanted to get to know her, and perhaps, if she would allow it, I would have touched her… but only her hair. I am not Aratan!" Ciryon does not know why he is telling all this, but he does not want father to think of him as of Aratan.

Father turns around slowly, casts a measuring look at his son. "Maybe I have read you wrong. It is still better that you no longer meet with that maiden. You will understand it later. And now we will go to dinner."

Ciryon knows then that it is over. He is not hungry at the dinner table. When Caleth looks at him, Ciryon shakes his head a little and glances toward his father. The maiden understands. She casts a compassionate smile at Ciryon. After dinner Elendur comes to Ciryon and guides him sternly to the room where young men often come to play games with their friends before going to bed.

Chapter Text

Osgiliath, the city of kings, is the capital of the realm of Gondor, spreading out on both sides of the River Anduin, and it is exactly halfway on the way from the Tower of the Moon to the Tower of the Sun. It is a clear but cold day in late autumn as the entourage travels along the straight and wide road paved with white stones from Minas Ithil down toward Osgiliath. The road goes along the cheerfully babbling stream of Ithilduin, but between the trunks of the trees it is at times possible to catch a glimpse of a larger stream, flowing fast and free in the middle of a green valley, making its way toward the Sea faintly visible far in the south.

The first riders reach East-Osgiliath at noon. A large crowd is there to receive them, for it is rare for all three kings to arrive in the city at the same time. Many want to see a glimpse of the High King who bears a silver sceptre in his hand, a ring adorned with emeralds on his finger, and an elf-crystal glowing like a bright star on his brow. And when the High King at last rides past them toward the Great Bridge, many of them have to lower their gazes and some fall to their knees, for King Elendil is more than their minds could ever have imagined.

But those who dare to look are all the more astonished to see that behind the High King and his sons, there ride elves. Most have never met anyone like them, but all still recognise those of the fair folk upon seeing the light in their eyes and the glow of their skin, and are struck dumb at their wonderful beauty.

The riders stop in the middle of the bridge, for that is where the Dome of Stars has been built. In this wonderful round-roofed castle is the Great Hall of Osgiliath, where Isildur and Anárion hold court every month. Up in the dome there is the Great Stone, by which they may be in contact with the north when their own counsels are not enough or they need their father's approval for their decisions.

The men guarding the throne room bow as the lords step in. The hall is bright, for large patterned glass windows adorn two of its walls, and the floor is white marble, polished so clear that one can see his reflection in it. Many white pillars hold up the ceiling, and stern-faced statues depicting the first kings of Númenor stand along the walls. At the end of the hall there is a dais with two thrones carved of white stone set side by side, and on the wall behind them is carved an image of the White Tree, its leaves adorned with many jewels shining like silver.

"What do you think, atar ? When last you visited, everything was still unfinished", notes Isildur.

Elendil looks around himself and smiles approvingly. "It is very beautiful, but does all this white not make the palace seem a little chill? In Annúminas we have used more wood — there is plenty of it available in the north."

"Wood burns, or if it doesn't burn, it rots. But here is a castle that shall never break. It will stand here unchanged until the end of days, or so I hope and believe", says Isildur.

"I do not think there is any stone yet that would not crumble with time", Anárion says however. "If we had enough mithril , Isildur would surely come up with a way to build the whole city out of it."

"So I would, for I will not again stand by and watch while my home falls to pieces and disappears into nothing."

They keep going, examining the palace and then moving on to see other buildings in the city. Elendil is impressed by all he sees. It seems unbelievable how swiftly his sons have managed to build three large and fair cities for the refugees come from the Sea, and for those folk who already lived in these lands. Even the poorest here have spacious and comfortable dwellings, and all the area, streets, walls, and roofs, are bright, white, and clean. He no longer wonders why the people look at his sons as if they were more than men, more alike perhaps to Master Elrond. Elendil is proud of what he himself has achieved in the north, in Annúminas, Amon Sûl, and Fornost, but he sees now that his visions have been different than his sons'. He has built his city for men, not kings.

They end their tour at the houses Isildur and Anárion have built for themselves to live in when they are in the capital. They bear a surprising resemblance to the white mansion where they once lived in Rómenna.

"Very impressive", says Elendil again when his sons cast expectant glances at him.

"Nothing like this has ever been seen before", Elrond, who has been with them the whole way, says for his part.

"It is still no Armenelos", Isildur points out.

"But it does not lose to it in beauty, only in size", Elendil states, for Armenelos truly had grown huge, especially in the last years, and not in a good way.

"Osgiliath is no Armenelos, for here there are no Black Númenoreans", says Isildur. "And thus this is by far the more beautiful."

* * *

Marillë wishes Isildur would not go. He is away too much, travelling, taking care of matters too important to leave to someone else. Only when their sons were still small children did Isildur stay at home, as is the custom. Those were the best years of Marillë's life, and somehow she finds herself wishing she could still have one more child.

The ship is in the harbour in Osgiliath, ready to set sail. It is the ship of the lord of Lamedon on which he and his entourage sailed to Elendur's celebration, and it is big enough to have room for the king and his retinue as well. Isildur has decided to go first by ship to Calembel, the capital of Lamedon, ride from there to the hill of Tarlang, and travel the rest of the way from there to Morthond on foot.

Marillë has wrapped her arms around her king and pressed her head against his broad chest.

"You will return soon, right? Promise me that!"

"Of course I will. It is only a task I must take care of. I am not going to stay there longer than I must", the king replies. He caresses her back. He is not going gladly on this journey either.

Marillë asked to come along, but Isildur did not allow it. "There is no reason for it, and the journey is too hard for a woman in any case. Besides, who knows what manner of a man this rebel is? It is better you stay safely at home", he said.

"That man might be dangerous!"

"Perhaps, but I do not fear him."

"Why then did you call for your knights? Are you taking them all with you?"

"Only the best twenty and their squires. Just in case. The south I fear more, the folk of Umbar, even if their corsair ships have not recently been seen in our waters."

That did not comfort Marillë.

"You are delaying our departure", says the king gently.

Marillë sighs. She lets go at last, already looking at her husband with longing as she steps back. "Go then. May the Valar protect you and our sons on your way."

"Ossë and Uinen will guard us as ever before."

"It is not the sea that I fear, but what is moving on it and what awaits beyond it."

"Your fear is for nothing, I promise. Now I must go", Isildur says and presses a light kiss on his wife's lips. He turns away and boards the ship.

Marillë stares after the ship for as long as she can make out its white sails against the blue of Anduin. Then she feels Aurië's touch on her arm.

"Do not worry, dear sister-in-law. Now we finally have time to speak together about all the important things the men do not understand. When was the last time we have done that? Have I already told you about my grandson, and how incompetent the poor child's mother is! And my daughter-in-law will not listen to my advice at all, only claims she knows what she is doing. Even though it is her first child! Oh Marillë, you do not know how lucky you are to not have such problems!"

Marillë smiles at Anárion's wife and follows her obediently to the house of the youngest king.

* * *

The day is cloudy. Ciryon wraps his fur-lined cloak tighter around himself as they approach the mouths of Anduin and a chill sea-wind begins to blow. He watches how father teaches Aratan to control the ship, for lord Maion has given the king's sons permission to practice captain's duties during the journey. Holding the wheel, Aratan seems tense, but it is not lost on anyone how excited he also is. He has hardly ever smiled so much in father's presence.

"Is it my turn soon?" asks Ciryon hopefully.

"As soon as we get to the open sea", father promises. He places his hand on Ciryon's shoulder. "Do you feel its call already too?" he asks.

Ciryon does not reply. He looks at the horizon where the Great River splits into many narrower channels all flowing toward the grey expanse ahead. There is the Sea, of which Ciryon has only heard stories about. It is a much larger water than Anduin, Ciryon understands at once. Most he marvels at not seeing the far shore when looking past the island of Tolfalas, and he wonders whether it might have once been otherwise. Is that what always makes father and Elendur fall silent? He looks at his father's smiling eyes, and decides to ask.

" Atar , do you know whether the Akallabêth could be seen from here before?"

The king turns, his expression becoming more solemn. "No, senya , not from here nor from anywhere in Middle-Earth, not even from the tip of the furthest cape of Lindon or from the top of the highest tower. For Númenor was much closer to Tol Eressëa and the Blessed Realm than to Middle-Earth."

"Then it must have been very far indeed. Did you ever sail from there to Middle-Earth?"

"Once, with my father and my brother, when Tar-Palantir still ruled, and journeys to Middle-Earth and back were permitted. I am sure you remember that in later days those Faithful who sailed to Middle-Earth were forbidden from ever returning to Númenor. Thus many did not have the heart to go, even though life in our land became harder by the day."

"Was it Lindon you visited?"

"Yes, we went to meet Gil-galad."

Ciryon stops with his questions, for he does not want to ruin father's good mood. He watches how the ship floats past banks where tall reeds grow, and lush meadows where white lilies and golden bellflowers bloom seen further behind them, and he sees how all the time the sea comes nearer and nearer, and feels the ever more salty scent of the wind. Flocks of sea-birds swoop to and fro above the ship, and for a moment Ciryon forgets the chill wind. Silver flow the streams from Celos to Erui, in the green fields of Lebennin! He recalls the song his nurse used to sing years ago. She was from Lebennin.

Ciryon looks at his father again. The smile is gone from his eyes.

* * *

"Originally we built these for the use of the soldiers", Anárion explains. "We were seeking a way to help them recover from heavy practice more quickly."

"Hot baths. Very clever", says Elendil. "Reminds me of the hot springs where people used to bathe before climbing to the Meneltarma."

"Yes, that is precisely where we got the idea from. The baths not only help one to relax, but also clean the body. Clean mind in a clean body, as the saying goes", Anárion continues.

The water of the pool is comfortably warm. Elendil leans back and closes his eyes for a moment. A page comes to pour more wine into the goblet sitting on the edge of the pool.

"Of course it didn't end there", Anárion tells. "We soon understood that other people besides soldiers might benefit from such cleansing. So we built baths across Osgiliath for all people to use, and of course everyone with the means built a private pool in their homes."

"How do you make the water stay warm?" asks Elrond who still seems to have some reservations. Perhaps he is surprised to have been invited to bathe in the same pool with two mortal men.

"There is a brazier under the floor that heats the pool evenly. But we also have pools with no heating — in case one wants to freshen up in cold water", Anárion says and gestures at the pool next to them. "It also hardens the body."

"Fascinating", Elrond remarks. "I have truly been impressed by how well you treat your soldiers. They must make for a skilled and hardy army."

"Without a question. Isildur has designed a training program for the soldiers, and by it anyone has the chance to be promoted into a knight, if he is talented and bold enough. This chance makes all our soldiers try their best, or so we think."

"Hopefully they are ready to try their best even when the reward might be 'death before its time', as men often phrase it", Elrond says.

For a moment it is quiet. Elendil has opened his eyes and is looking sorrowfully at his son and Elrond. "Is that why Ereinion sent you here — to find out how strong an army my sons have built?"

"Oh, no, your word would have been enough to convince him", says Elrond. "But he did wish for me to tell you that the army will be needed yet, and he did not mean only the threat of the south."

"But the orcs and the wild men are nothing without their master", says Anárion. "I doubt that they by themselves could arrange such a great attack that it would be a significant threat to us."

"I would not like to worry you", Elrond says. "But Gil-galad suspects that Sauron is not, as we had hoped, entirely gone. And while I have been here I have seen signs that he may have returned to Mordor already. And if it is so, then I believe that he will rather strike sooner than later, for he does not want to give your people too much time to grow stronger after the fall of Númenor. You he hates most of all right now, and you he wants to be rid of first. His intention was to destroy all the people of Númenor and end the line of Elros, but now he has found that he did not succeed at it, and that fills him with wrath."

Anárion grows worried, almost frightened. "I cannot believe that! He was in Atalantë when it sank. His body lies at the bottom of the sea, just like Ar-Pharazôn's army."

"Yes, that fair body which he built for himself is indeed gone. But you know what he is. He is not bound to his body. And Gil-galad believes him to have returned in new shape, strong but terrible, for he knows that he cannot ensnare you Faithful with fair form and speech. Fear is his new weapon."

"Why are you telling this now while my brother is gone? He would know what to do and get to work at once!"

"I think he knows already, or at least guesses somewhere deep in his heart, and has already taken action", Elrond states calmly.

"What do you mean? Did you speak with him?"

"I did not. But why else would he have gone in such a great hurry to make sure that all the people in this land truly are on your side?"

* * *

Ciryon stands on the deck of the ship and watches the scenery passing them. White flocks of sheep roam the coastal hills of Belfalas. Fishing villages stand scattered here and there. Ciryon looks at a young fisherman rowing toward a pier on the shore. He wonders what it would be like to be him, an ordinary youth from the countryside, just working, eating, and sleeping, and if he has the time, perhaps going to woo the neighbour's girl. On the other side of the ship there is only open sea. For some reason father finds that more interesting. He leans on the railing, staring at the horizon, and has hardly moved from his place all day. Aratan is captaining the ship. Carastion, their cousin on their mother's side, stands by the wheel, and Aratan is trying to advise him.

Ciryon is bored. He has no companion his own age on the ship. His servant Targon was left in Osgiliath, because father thinks valets will not be needed on such a journey. Ciryon would like to go to talk with uncle Yúlaner, but he seems almost as absentminded and grim as father. Yúlaner is father's captain of the Guard, and has been his best friend since the days of their youth. Ciryon wishes that he would also have a best friend with a beautiful sister whom he could then later marry. It would make many things much more simple.

It is quiet on the deck of the ship, only the wind hisses in Ciryon's ears. The occasional bursts of laughter from Aratan and Carastion carry well all the way to the bow of the ship. Eventually Yúlaner apparently has enough of listening to the young men's clamouring, for he stands up and goes to tell them off. Ciryon leans forward and looks at the bow of the ship cleaving the surface of the sea and tossing up white foam and droplets of water. He sees no sign of Ossë or Uinen.

At last Ciryon gathers his courage and goes over to his father.

" Atarinya ? My apologies for bothering you, but how much longer is it before we arrive?"

The king does not respond. Ciryon lays his hand gently on his arm. " Atar ?"

It is as if father was awakened from a dream. For a moment he glances around in confusion, as if he did not entirely remember how he came to be on board a ship, but then he looks at the sun glowing dimly from behind the curtain of clouds, and turns to Ciryon. "If the winds continue to favour us, we might reach Edhellond tonight. We will stop there for a day. Then we will continue up the Ringló and Ciril to Calembel, and that will take at least a day, and probably two."

"Alright."

"Why are you asking? Does the travelling bore you?"

"A little."

"I understand, but riding or marching would not be that much more interesting. Thoughts go astray, and suddenly you find yourself knee-deep in a swamp or surrounded by orcs", he says.

"But surely nothing bad could happen on this journey?"

"I do not think so, but one can never be certain."

Father turns to look at Aratan, who is holding the wheel as steadily as a seasoned sailor. "That seems to come naturally to him", he remarks. "He has learned swiftly, even though I never saw a great mariner in him. Not the same way as in you, Ciryon, and that is where your name came from. But I have never seen as far as some others of our people. Nonetheless, why are you not there learning to be a captain like your brother is?"

"He will not let me touch the wheel. But he has promised that it will be my turn on the way back."

"Very well then. When did you last eat, senya ? Let us go to my cabin and see if they can find us anything to eat."

Ciryon follows his father into the cabin that Lord Maion has given over to the king's use. A servant quickly brings them tea and wheat cakes. Father does not sit down to eat. He wanders around while sipping the tea, and keeps glancing out of the round window of the cabin.

"Is there something troubling your mind, atar ?" Ciryon ventures to ask, for father's behaviour is a little strange, or at least stranger than usual.

"Many things, senya ", he states. "The sea brings to mind memories of the past, and not all of them are good. And Umbar worries me. It is a good thing their ships have not been seen recently. But do not worry, senya . The kings of Umbar have no cause to attack us, for they have plenty to do in their own realms. So long as Sauron stays away, we are in no real danger."

"But he died in the destruction of Akallabêth, did he not? Surely he will stay away for ever."

"So I have thought and so I still hope." Then suddenly he shakes his head and chuckles grimly. "I should not speak of this to you, Ciryon. You are young and should be enjoying your life and leaving troubles to your elders. Go back to the deck and tell your brother to let you have the wheel, if only for a moment. Believe me, captaining the ship will calm you."

Chapter Text

Isildur's retinue stops for a day in Edhellond, where there is a haven of the elves. Thence they sail to their own realm beyond the Sea where mortals cannot go. Ciryon thinks about his great-grandfather Amandil, who set sail for Aman to beg for help to the Faithful. No one knows whether Amandil ever got there. Now it is useless for any man to attempt such a journey, for only the ships of the elves can still sail on the Straight Way. The ships of men turn and come as if by a will of their own back to where they came from. At least so it is said. Ciryon does not think he will ever sail so far that he would find out for certain.

"Before the elves came, there was a primitive fishermen's harbour built by men here", Lord Maion tells about the history of Edhellond. "The people of the fishing villages feared the eldar, however, and fled to the mountains, and this became a city of the elves. But for how long, that I do not know. Now it seems to me instead that the elves are going away, out of the way of mortals."

They continue the journey up Ringló, and when the river forks they pick the western stream, which is called Ciril. The wind from the sea speeds their way, and Ciryon is happy when they arrive at last in the harbour of Calembel. The city was built by the Númenoreans, and resembles Osgiliath somewhat in style, but its white buildings are more simple and the city itself much smaller. Ciryon can also see many trees and bushes between the buildings, and it reminds him of home, of Minas Ithil.

It is some way further still from Calembel to the dwelling of the King of the Mountains. For that reason they stop for a few days in Calembel to rest and make ready for the last leg of the journey. They ride to the house of Lord Maion, which is built on the large hill standing at the edge of the city, on horses that have been brought to the harbour.

Ciryon watches from the side while father, Lord Maion, and uncle Yúlaner plan the journey, and discuss the current state of Lamedon and what is going to happen in the future. Aratan's attention, on the other hand, seems to be on Maion's two daughters, who have not come of age quite yet and were therefore not at Elendur's feast. The daughters wish to show Aratan and Carastion around the house and the city, and to Ciryon's surprise Aratan takes him along when they go take a look around the lord's estate.

Ciryon is surprised again when the younger daughter wants to talk with him instead of Aratan and Carastion. Her name is Ailinel, and she lets her brown locks flow freely in the wind as she sits on her white horse. Unlike her sister, she uses a men's saddle and is dressed in simple and sparsely decorated clothes. Ailinel tells him her family's story; how her father and grandfather fled Númenor with their wives after Sauron had his temple built and the persecution of the Faithful began. Her grandfather founded the city of Calembel in Lamedon and began to farm the land.

They ride to the top of a low grassy hill and look from there toward the White Mountains rising steep and steadfast everywhere in the northern and eastern horizon.

"It is hard to believe that there is anything at all beyond those mountains! Or that anyone could cross them", says Ciryon. He has seen them many times before, but he had never understood how far west and south the lines of snow-capped mountains stretch.

"Behind them in the north is Calenardhon, a green country of tall grass and few people. But going further north, beyond the borders of Gondor and all the way to the Vales of Anduin, you would meet Northmen", explains Ailinel. "They are strong people and good riders. Father has travelled to them at times and bought horses from them."

"Are they friendly with us?" asks Ciryon.

"They are good men, and they have never fought on Sauron's side", Ailinel tells.

Aratan and Carastion overhear the conversation. "I have heard that they have straw-coloured, unkempt hair that reaches at least to the waist on men and women alike", says Aratan. "And the men of course are hairy all over like beasts, and they wear no clothes but for a loincloth of animal skin. And though they may be good at fighting, they have no weapons, unless you count wooden spears and clubs!"

"So they are like wild men then?" Ciryon says.

"Not at all", Ailinel corrects. "They are distant kin to us, descendants of the Three Houses of Men who fought among the edain against the Great Enemy in the First Age. But they did not accept the summons to come to Númenor, wishing rather to remain and dwell in their own lands that they knew. And these days they speak the common tongue in their own manner, and wear clothes like civilised men. And they can farm the land and make tools of iron, for Númenoreans taught them those skills many hundreds of years ago."

"And what about these men of the mountains that our father is going to meet? Are they also kin to the Northmen, and if they are, why are they now rebelling against the kings?" Ciryon asks.

"Oh, they are not at all like the Northmen. They are kin to the ancient peoples that lived in the mountains even in the Elder Days. They hunt for their food and use clubs and other such primitive weapons. They are rather short and ugly in appearance, if I may say so. They are exactly the ones that we tend to call wild men", Ailinel says.

Later when they have returned to the house, Ciryon overhears Aratan and Carastion continue the conversation on the Northmen, and in particular their women, amongst themselves. They are already planning a trip together beyond the White Mountains. Both of them claim to be by now utterly weary of the proud daughters of lords, so careful of their reputations, and that it would be time to go and see what sort of women other peoples would have on offer. Ciryon doubts that father would give permission for any such journey.

Ciryon's own thoughts stray constantly to Caleth, and he wonders what she might be doing while Ciryon is away, and whether she has found someone else who would show her around Osgiliath as Ciryon did in Minas Ithil.

* * *

The married ladies have gathered for tea at Isildur's house. They are eagerly planning the mettarë-feast, and, of course, talking about their children. This year's feast will be special since there are people all the way from the north present too. Unfortunately many of the lords of the south have decided to celebrate at their own homes, which makes it more difficult to see to it that some of the younger ladies and gentlemen might come to an understanding with each other.

"Elendur should absolutely marry Tarawen of Lebennin", Aurië is saying. "She is strong and intelligent and has the makings of a queen. It is a shame that the Lord of Lebennin took all his daughters away so soon."

"Oh, no, Tarawen would not be at all suitable for Elendur", says Lindissë. She believes she knows her daughter's son better than anyone else. "Elendur needs a woman that is friendly and gentle-hearted. Tarawen is courteous, but I see that she is proud also, and hides too much in her heart. Two such closed-off people as Elendur and Tarawen would never learn to live together. Or what do you think, yenya?"

Marillë sets her teacup down on the saucer and smiles. "I do not know the girl well enough to judge her, and as for Elendur, he may choose for himself."

"Choose for himself?" cries Isilmë in shock. "Elendur will be king. He cannot make such an important choice by himself. Besides, forget this Tarawen. Elendur absolutely must marry someone from the North Kingdom. He is only known through rumours in those lands, even though it will one day be his home. If he means to win the people of Arnor over to himself, he simply must take one of the maidens of the north for a wife. I have written to my son many times to ask him to send Elendur to Annúminas for ten or twenty years, so the people would come to know him properly and so a suitable wife could be found for him, but no, he will not listen to his poor old mother."

"Elendur is needed here", Marillë states. "Isildur is so often away travelling, and someone has to look after the castle and the army while he is gone."

"Nonsense, someone else could always be found to do that. Aratan is no good and I understand if my son would not leave Minas Ithil in his care, but at the very least he has his faithful friend Yúlaner, in whose hands he would trust his very life. He simply loves Elendur too much and could not bear to be apart from him for years. That is not healthy. The younger two are left in Elendur's shadow, and Elendur himself is constantly afraid of disappointing his father, and so he spends all his time working instead of socialising with the lords and their daughters, which would be much more useful. You, Marillë, must step in, for you are the only one of us that Isildur will heed."

Marillë smiles awkwardly. She wishes deeply that Isilmë would not get constantly involved with her family's life, and especially that she would not criticise her and Isildur in front of the other women.

Besides, Isilmë does not know everything about her grandson's life. It is true that Elendur works perhaps too hard, but he has not always been like that. When he was younger he associated with maidens more, of course not in the same way as Aratan, but in polite conversation or on walks in the garden. When they still lived in Pelargir and Elendur was still a youth, he might even have had a sweetheart. Marillë does not know the details, but sometimes she wonders whether the first love left some wound in Elendur's heart, and whether that painful memory is the reason why it is so hard for him to make acquaintances with maidens now.

"But what are these rumours about Elendur having written a play for the mettarë-feast?” asks Aurië.

"They are true", Marillë says. She was a little surprised to learn of Elendur's writing hobby herself, but then again he has always resembled his grandfather who is known to be an avid storyteller. Elendil wants to write down as much knowledge as possible about Númenor so that future generations would not forget the history of the land, and Marillë guesses her son's goals to be similarly noble. "Elendur is well acquainted with elven-lore, and he wants to share his knowledge with the people. Everyone will be welcome to see the play, regardless of wealth or status. It is going to be very educational."

"Let us hope that it is also going to be entertaining", states Isilmë. "And that it will not have too much war and death in it. Maidens would not like that."

None of the ladies brings up Sildë, Anárion's eldest, who has never married despite being only ten years Marillë's junior. Perhaps difficult experiences have made Sildë grim in mood. It has happened to many others who witnessed the last years of Númenor, too.

Sildë came to know great sorrow already as a child, when her grandparents on her mother's side were killed by the King's Men. They claimed that Aurië's father had cheated in the sale of a horse, and for that he was dragged off to be sacrificed in Sauron's temple. Aurië's mother died from the shock and grief not long afterwards.

These days Sildë prefers her own company and rarely takes part in feasts or events. She came to Elendur's celebration, of course, but even there she spent most of her time drawing sketches on the scrolls of paper she always carries with her. She is talented at drawing and painting, and her embroidery is unmatched, but she has not taken a husband, seeming rather to be content to spend her time on interests of her own choosing.

Sildë did not stay in Osgiliath but returned to Minas Anor with Meneldil soon after the celebration was over. Meneldil on his part could not have stayed any longer, for he has a wife and a young child at home, and in that situation it is not proper for a man to be away from home much. Anárion's younger daughters, Tindómë and Athiel, are happily married to lords' sons. They are still in Osgiliath and are listening to the older women's plans in silence, now and then exchanging amused glances over their teacups.

* * *

The journey to Morthond Vale toward the steep slopes of the White Mountains is exhausting and dull. Ciryon has not made many long journeys on horseback and his body is unused to the strain. They have not yet had to spend the night in tents, for in the villages along the River Ciril there live friendly folk who are glad to house the king and his sons in their humble homes. At the same time father speaks with people and asks what kind of damage the mountain-folk had caused them, and promises to compensate all their losses.

Ciryon looks suspiciously at the straw mattress, wondering how many people have lain on it before him and when it has last been cleaned.

"What are you waiting for, yonya? Are you not tired?" father demands. "These good people have given up their best room for our use tonight. Be grateful while you can enjoy it, for tomorrow night we will sleep in tents, and I would not be surprised if it rained. The weather does not tend to be kind to travellers this time of year."

"I know, atar", Ciryon says. He sits down reluctantly and takes off his boots. "I worry that there are pests in this mattress."

"And what about it? They will not eat you to death", father responds.

Across the room, Aratan laughs. "Go to bathe in the Ciril in the morning, it is only a stone's throw away", he advises his brother. "Give the country girls something to look at."

Ciryon lets his brother's suggestion be. "Atar, what will happen when we get there? Will we be guests in the house of the King of the Mountains? What kind of house does he live in?" he asks.

"He lives inside the mountain, and I think that you will miss this little chamber yet once you see it. But we will not spend long there, instead we will of course stay in Berenor's house. Quiet now, both of you, I want to sleep tonight. We all will need the strength for the remainder of the journey."

They get back underway early in the morning. Yúlaner, Carastion, and the knights and their squires are all in good spirits, even though there was not enough room in the house for everyone and they had to spend the night in a barn. At first the weather is clear, but during the afternoon clouds begin to gather in the southern sky, and the sky is all grey before the evening comes. As father guessed, it starts to rain after nightfall. They just barely make it to the foot of Tarlang's Neck, where they can shelter under the cliff walls that lean out from the mountain. They are only a little help, for the wind grows stronger and the rain begins to come down slanted. It is useless to even try to light a fire, and a piece of waybread has to do for supper. Ciryon curls up as close to the rock face as he can and wraps his cloak around himself. Despite it, he trembles from the cold. He waits while the squires put up tents and wishes that they would hurry.

Yúlaner entertains them by telling a story about the origin of Tarlang's Neck. It is said that in the olden days giants dwelt on the shores of the sea, and that one day they decided to build the White Mountains to keep other folk away from their lands. Once it happened, however, that a giant named Tarlang tripped while the construction work was going on, and broke his neck when he fell. The other giants were not much disturbed by it, and used Tarlang's body as a part of the mountains they built, but left his head and neck separate from the other mountains. Thus the part of the mountain range sticking out southward was named Tarlang's Head, Dol Tarlang. At the place of the broken neck there is a lower point in the mountains, and the road they must take tomorrow goes across it. It is rough to travel, and because of that they had to send the horses and most of their supplies back to Lord Maion's estate and continue on foot themselves.

Ciryon crawls into his tent and tries to sleep, but he is too cold and his body aching too much for him to fall asleep. He cannot help but hear the conversation his father and uncle Yúlaner have right outside his tent.

"Are you not afraid that the journey will be too much for the boy?" Yúlaner is asking.

"It is time for him to toughen up. The Dúnedain are a strong and hardy people, and I believe that he has those traits too, once they are coaxed out. He will endure it, you will see", says father.

Ciryon knows they are talking about him. He hopes fervently that father will be right.

The next day they climb a rocky path, if it can be called a path, up to Tarlang's Neck. Ciryon can only see grey boulders of different sizes all over the slope, and no kind of track between them. The stones wobble threateningly underfoot, and the fact that father is constantly warning about the landslides that a single rock being wedged from its place could cause does not help Ciryon's going at all. Suddenly Ciryon trips, getting bloody scrapes on his palms. Father is instantly with him, checking over his injuries, and does not listen when Ciryon says he is alright. Father seems to suddenly remember something and spends a good while digging through his pack. He pulls out a box with some kind of greenish salve in it, and tells Ciryon to put it on his hands. Ciryon feels like a helpless child who would not survive a moment in the wild without being constantly looked after by an adult. Perhaps father thinks the same way, for he does not let Ciryon out of his sight for a moment all through their trek in the mountains.

In the twilight that evening they begin a descent down from Tarlang's Neck, and a lush green valley stretches out before them. Down in the vale flows the Morthond, which father says he has once sailed on. There is hardly any place in the lands of Gondor that father would not have explored. Ciryon sees the Hill of Erech standing under the mountains in the distance, and the small black spot of the round black stone on top of it.

"Would it not have been easier for us to sail directly up the Morthond to Erech?" Ciryon asks his father while taking in the sight.

"Perhaps, if the winds had been favourable. But Morthond is in any case long and hard to sail, and sooner or later we would have had to row. Besides, I had to visit Edhellond and Calembel and speak with Maion and the villagers before coming here. But we will make the return journey on one of the ships that sometimes sail from Morthond to Pelargir and Osgiliath."

They descend the last mile of the slope. A troop of Berenor's soldiers with torches in hands is waiting to meet them down in the vale, and they lead the travellers into their lord's house for the night.