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Chapter Text

All he knows is darkness. He has not seen the sun in…he does not even remember how long it’s been. He cannot remember how much time has passed since his imprisonment. He tried to keep a tally at one point, but he’s lost count. He thinks six months had passed by then. Now, however, now he no longer knows.

Each day is like the one before. He wakes up in his cell from his fitful dreams to the sound of the guard coming to bring him food and water. The guard never speaks to him. No one does anymore. Except for Pharazôn and Belzagar. From time to time. Once, it had been Kemen – probably on a brief visit from Pelargir.

There are questions. Predictable questions. Questions he’s been expecting ever since he was caught:

Are there any hiding places in Andúnië? Does Amandil’s farm have any secret tunnels?

Where are the six palantíri? We know at least one belongs to Lord Amandil. Where is he keeping it?

Was the Lord of Andúnië ever in secret contact with the Elves from Tol Eresseä?

Where would those from the Hall of Lore hide if the Kingsmen came upon them?

What are the most important texts in the Hall of Lore? What are the most important texts in the library of Andúnië?

Monthly, some of the Faithful are leaving for Middle-earth in secret. How? Where are they going?

Are the Druedain helping the Faithful in secret? Do they all have a contingency plan in case the Kingsmen come for them?

And on and on and on. Questions that he stubbornly refuses to answer. No matter what they do to him. And they do plenty.

The violence against him has stopped bothering him. It’s all he’s known, for however long he’s been held captive. It feels normal to him at times, and if it saddens him, it is more in a detached, philosophical way. He is not upset because such things are being done to him, he is upset because such things are being done in Númenor.

The words are harder to bear. The mockeries cast at him remind him of all his failures, of all the deeds unfinished and all the words unsaid and everything that he has failed to accomplish.

They all think you’re dead. Your father, your friends. They have no idea you’re languishing here, on this very island, so, so close to them. They think you are ash and bones in Middle-earth.

It hurts, because his father has mourned him for so long. It hurts even more to think that his father would never forgive himself, were he to find out the truth. Were he to find out how his son languishes in prison, forgotten, abandoned.

Kemen says there is a Southlander woman waiting for you to return for her. She’ll wait all her life. Or maybe she won’t. She thinks you abandoned her now. She thinks your promises are worth nothing.

Estrid, sweet Estrid, she deserves more than this. She deserves to know the truth, because she should not believe herself unimportant and unworthy and left behind. He hopes she has moved on with her life and chosen another. He also hopes she hasn’t.

You could have been so many things. You could have done so much. For yourself. For Númenor. Instead, you’ll die here. This is all your life will amount to.

When he was ten, his mother drowned to save his life – it was his fault. The guilt hurts badly enough, but the knowledge that her sacrifice was in vain, that she saved him only for him to die in indignity and squalor, tortured by his own people, that hurts worse.

One day, you will realize this. One day, it will all be too much. I am a patient man. I can wait for that day.

“It will never come,” he whispers.

His voice is hoarse. He does not often use it. He seldom speaks.

Pharazôn’s hand is on his shoulder. Heavy and hard. In the beginning, he used to flinch away from its touch. Now, he really doesn’t care anymore.

I think that day is coming soon, Isildur.

Pharazôn leaves. The prisoner releases a shaky breath.

“Isildur,” he whispers.

Isildur. He is Isildur. He is the son of Elendil. He is Faithful.

This is all that matters now to him. This is why he is still holding on.

                   xxxXXXXxxxx

Beyond Númenor, in Pelargir, a woman waits for months for someone who has promised to come for her as soon as possible. Someone who has claimed to love her, who has confessed to wanting a life with her. And she believes him. And she watches his ship depart. And she comes every morning on the shores of the river, hoping to see the ship return.

Days turns into weeks. Weeks become months. Eight months pass since Isildur’s departure, and there is no sign of him. Ships come and go, Kemen’s ships, bringing more soldiers, more weapons, more building materials. Conqueror ships, that take away timber and animal pelts and metals and leave only scraps of food behind.

No ships come in aid of the refugees, either. Isildur has promised that as well. He seems to have broken two promises.

Estrid walks the settlement like a ghost. She lives alone in a small hut. She refuses to see people. She weaves for gold and food but does not speak with anyone. Not even with Theo. Not even with Hagen.

At first, Hagen appears sympathetic. He is as kind as ever. He comes one day, during the seventh month of the long waiting period and tells her that he is ready to have her back. They can put the past behind them. They can start their life together. As they were meant to be.

“Our fist house was knocked down,” Hagen tells her, face scrunched slightly in disgust. “But we can build another, you and I. It won’t be much. It is all I have to offer.”

And at least I won’t abandon you. The words are not said, but Estrid hears them loud and clear.

“Our house would be built on lies,” she says. “That is a weak foundation. It would crumble.”

Hagen’s eyes narrow.

“So what then?” he shots. “Will you spend your entire life waiting for someone who has clearly abandoned you?”

“He hasn’t,” Estrid insists.

She clenches her fists and digs her nails into her palms and urges herself to see past the doubts that everyone is trying to plant into her mind.

“He hasn’t,” she repeats.

Something in her face makes Hagen draw back.

“Estrid…” he gasps.

Estrid does not know why he suddenly looks at her as if she is a stranger, as if she is a witch, as if she is marked by darkness. She is, of course. They are both marked by darkness. And she is a stranger to him now, or he is a stranger to her. The witch part, Estrid is not sure of. If she were, she would have found a way to bring her beloved back to her. To keep him by her side and never let him go.

She doesn’t want Hagen there. She doesn’t want to be reminded of how she has lost both of her hopes – the old and the new.

“Please leave” she tells him. “Please do not come here again.”

And Hagen leaves, shoulders bowed, eyes lowered. And Estrid cannot bring herself to feel sorry.

“Do not come here again,” she repeats in the silence of her empty hut.

After Hagen’s departure, Estrid makes her way to the horses’ enclosure. She smiles as one of the horses whines in greeting. He is easy to distinguish from the others – much taller than the Southlander horses. Eyes bright and eager.

“Hello, Berek,” she greets.

Berek whines again and tosses his head. He allows Estrid to stroke him, though.

“You miss him too, don’t you, my boy?” Estrid asks.

Berek shifts and stamps his hooves.

“I know,” she says. “He would not abandon us both, would he? He will be back. He will be back for both of us. He has to.”

                     xxxXXXXxxxx

Hagen keeps his word. He does not come back to Estrid’s hut for a long time. He nods when he sees Estrid in the street but does not talk to her. As far as Estrid knows, he never mentions Isildur at all. Neither does she. Not out loud.

Then, one night, there is a knock at her door. Estrid leaps to answer, heart beating, breath short, trembling at the thought that this is it. The waiting is finally over. He is back.

The disappointment that she feels when she spots Hagen and Theo on her threshold is like a heavy, physical thing.

“What are you doing here?” she snaps.

“We need to talk,” Theo says. “Let us in, Estrid.”

Estrid does not budge.

“Need to talk about what?”

She has become secure in her loneliness, her isolation a shield no one dares to attack. When she is alone, no one asks her about Isildur.

“Please, Estrid,” Theo says. “We cannot talk out in the open. Not with…not with them.”

Them. Kemen. The Númenóreans. The people Estrid has once taken as allies.

Relenting, she steps aside.

“You’d better be quick,” she tells them.

She doesn’t like how they both look around her hut, as if they can smell her loneliness, her sadness, her longing. She doesn’t like their pity, and she doesn't like their concern.

“Well?” she prompts. “You seemed very eager to talk while you were at the door.”

It is Hagen who finally speaks, taking a step forward and clearing his throat. Estrid notices that he is loth to look her in the eye.

“It is about Isildur,” he begins.

The fury that takes hold of Estrid feels like fire and ice at the same time.

“What more do you wish to say about him, Hagen? You’ve made your thoughts quite plain. And they’re lies. They’re not true. He will come for me. He will.

And yet, there are times when she doubts it. And yet, there are times when she wishes she could hate him.

Hagen takes a step towards her. He makes as if to take her hand but stops at the last moment. Estrid’s lip curls. Good. She doesn’t want his tenderness.

“No, Estrid,” Hagen whispers. “No, he is not coming back.”

Estrid glances at Theo.

“What does he want? What do you both want?”

Theo, she notices, looks pale. His eyes are wide. Like he has lost a friend. Estrid’s own heart clenches.

“Theo?” she whispers.

Theo’s shoulders slump.

“Hagen heard Kemen and…some of his soldiers talking. About Isildur.”

Estrid staggers. She catches herself against the side of the table.

“Theo…” she begs, and she should hate herself for begging, but what are they trying to tell her?

“They said Isildur was captured,” Theo says. “Kemen must have given orders before the ship left the Southlands. The captain of the ship arrested Isildur and took him to the king. According to Kemen, Isildur has been in the King’s dungeons ever since he left.”

Estrid feels as if a heavy thing has landed on her shoulders, bowing her, seeping away her strength. She clenches her hands.

“But…but why?”

Hagen and Theo exchange looks.

“If what we heard Kemen say that day was true,” Theo says, “If Isildur’s father was indeed wanted for treason and the Queen herself had been dethroned – well, Isildur is…Isildur told me some things about his family. The King would not let someone like Isildur out of his hands. The things he knows alone could…”

Hagen sends him a warning look, and Theo stops. Somewhere beyond the shock, Estrid registers the look, and it annoys her to no end.

“You need not protect me,” she snaps. “You can tell me the truth. I am capable of figuring it out for myself. You’re saying Isildur might be tortured for information as we speak.”

Theo flinches, and Estrid herself feels the sharpness of her words. Yet the truth, however horrifying, can be a medicine. The truth can give her something she has desperately needed – answers. And more than answers. A reason to keep going.

Estrid turns and walks to the window. She feels unsteady, but she also feels a fire surging inside her. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, focusing on this new feeling.

“He did not leave me,” she whispers. “He did not abandon me.”

She senses Hagen close to her, but she doesn’t turn to look at him.

“He didn’t,” Hagen says. “And…I’m sorry I tried to convince you otherwise. It was unkind of me. Unfair. To you. To him. Maybe to me as well.”

Estrid allows herself a smile.

“You’re forgiven, Hagen.”

She has enough anger inside her to flatten the entire Pelargir settlement, yet there is no point in making Hagen the source of that anger.

Hagen places a hand on her shoulder.

“But, Estrid,” he begins, “The situation has not changed otherwise.”

Estrid swirls round.

“What exactly are you saying, Hagen?”

Hagen does not back down.

“I am saying that Isildur is not coming back. It might not be his fault, but Isildur is never coming back for you.”

Estrid would hit him right now. Theo senses this, no doubt. He places himself between Estrid and Hagen.

“Estrid…” he says warningly.

Estrid shakes her head.

“You are not telling me to just resign myself to never seeing Isildur again. And you are most certainly not telling me to resign myself to Isildur dying in some dungeon.”

“Well, what can you do?” Hagen bursts out. “You’re here. You’re not there. His own people…”

“His own people have no idea where he is!” Estrid snaps. “But I do. What kind of a person would I be – if I had such knowledge and not used it?”

Theo backs away slightly, probably thinking that Estrid is no longer contemplating lashing out at Hagen.

“Estrid, what do you intend to do?’

Estrid walks to a chair and sits down.

“I intend to leave,” she says. “I intend to go to Númenor.”

Hagen huffs.

“Estrid, Númenor is in the middle of the sea. You can’t just walk to it. And Kemen won’t give you passage.”

Estrid shakes her head.

“I don’t need passage from Kemen. There are other places that deal with Númenor. Umbar, for example.”

Hagen takes her shoulder and shakes her.

“Estrid, it would take months until you get to Umbar. And even more time until you find a captain willing to give you passage. By then, Isildur could be dead.”

Estrid wrenches herself free of him.

“Don’t you ever say that to me again. He won’t be dead.”

She looks at Theo.

“He’s helped us,” she says. “He deserves help in return.”

Theo avoids her gaze.

“It will be a hard journey, Estrid.”

Estrid nods.

“Of course. But it will be far easier than sitting here, wasting my days away.”

Hagen stirs, still trying to play the voice of reason.

“Even if you do get to Númenor – what then? Do you intend to storm the palace dungeons, asking for Isildur?”

Estrid has to admit she has not thought this far. Then she remembers Isildur’s stories on the road to Pelargir.

“Andúnië,” she says.

Theo and Hagen exchange puzzled looks.

“What?” Hagen asks. “What is Andúnië?”

Theo gasps.

“That is the town Isildur grew up in, right?” he remembers. “His brother lives there.”

Estrid nods quickly.

“If I could bring them news of Isildur’s plight…”

“They might not be able to help,” Theo points out soberly. “It is not easy, storming the palace dungeon.”

Yet Estrid has found a small seed of hope, and she does not intend to give it up.

“I can at least bring them news about Isildur,” she says. “I can at least do this much for him.”

                              xxxXXXXxxxx

Estrid rides away the next night. She gathers supplies, aided by Theo and a reluctant Hagen. She takes Berek and leaves. It will be years and years before she is seen in Pelargir once more. And, by then, both she and Pelargir will be irrevocably changed.

Apart from Theo and Hagen, who keep silent, no one at Pelargir knows where Estrid has gone. Some notice that she has taken Berek the horse with her, but they do not pay much attention to a horse that was never theirs in the first place and was just an extra mouth to feed.

There are stories about Estrid – stories that Theo and Hagen encourage. They speak of Estrid’s mind and heart breaking after being abandoned by the son of the Sea Folk. They speak of her riding into the sea, until the waves swallowed both her and Berek.

                   xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Estrid rides and rides. Berek must know they are finally going to join Isildur. He does not complain and carries Estrid where she needs to go. Even so, the road is long. She spends months in the wilderness. She meets a caravan of small folk, the Stoors, they call themselves, and they are wary of her at first, but she warns them to be careful in the forests in those parts and not to go near the wasteland of the Mountain of Fire, and to especially steer clear of Pelargir. They share their food with her – snails and berries, but still, it is food, and Estrid cannot complain. Then she rides on southwards.

It takes her months to reach Umbar. The prices to be ferried to Númenor are steep, especially as Estrid does not explain why she wants to go and especially as she insists on taking Berek with her and will not take no for an answer. She talks about a trader there that left his horse behind in her care – and there is enough truth in the story to at least have people consider taking Estrid. But only with a price. With a lot of gold Estrid does not have.

Estrid finds an empty hut outside Umbar. With the little gold she does have, she buys wool. She sits and weaves for days and makes intricate tapestries that she then sells to the markets in Umbar, and people then buy her more wool and give her more commissions. And so, slowly, little by little, Estrid earns the gold she needs to get to Númenor.

By this time, nearly two years have passed since she has met Isildur. She doesn’t even know if Isildur still needs her rescue. If he is still alive.

“It doesn't matter, though,” Estrid tells Berek on the night before their departure. “It doesn't matter what we know because hope is all we need. He said that, once, remember? Hope is all we need.”

On the road to Pelargir, Isildur had talked a lot about his family. His grandfather, apparently, would tell Isildur this often. That sometimes the most important thing is to not despair – that despair in itself could be used as a weapon, and that those that held on to hope were often rewarded.

Estrid leans her head against Berek’s and closes her eyes. It has been so long, but she can still picture Isildur’s face so clearly. Like he is a part of her. Like she is bound to him.

“Hope is all we need,” she whispers.

                    xxxxxXXXXXXxxxx

Elendil begins every morning by making the rounds in Andúnië. He goes to the marketplace and talks to the vendors, trying to see how they are faring, if they need any help, if there are any of Pharazôn’s guards moving about, giving them a hard time. Then he goes to the taverns and exchanges news with those working there – has anyone from outside Andúnië come of late? What about anyone from outside Númenor? Foreign traders are usually few and far between. Most prefer to sell their wares in Armenelos instead of crossing the entire island. Finally, he leaves the city proper and passes through the farms to see if anyone needs anything.

He has been performing this duty diligently ever since his return to Andúnië. Amandil has given it to him without protest. Elendil has no idea what his father thinks of this insistence to be the one to check on the people of Andúnië in the morning. Perhaps he imagines that Elendil is trying to make up for his years-long absence. Perhaps he thinks he wants to regain the trust of the Faithful – although Amandil is also the one to always insist that Elendil has never lost it in the first place.

Elendil does not mention that his morning routine does not have much to do with this. It is only that mornings are the hardest for him. Even two years after he has lost Isildur, those moments just after waking up are unbearable for him. Because for an instant, when he lies between sleep and waking, Elendil has this piercing belief that Isildur is still alive. His Isil is alive, and Elendil will see him soon.

The return of consciousness erases this feeling, replacing it with a bitterness and a despair that does not get better with the passing of time. So Elendil gets up as quickly as he can, and he focuses on his tasks, because otherwise he would have to focus on his grief, and he cannot.

Besides, he has argued with himself many times, this is a much better way of honoring Isil than cursing the world that has taken his son from him.

Perhaps Amandil knows this, now that he thinks better of it. Perhaps this is why he has never questioned Elendil’s morning work. Amandil, after all, seems to understand his grief much better than Elendil would have expected.

“I envy you sometimes,” Elendil told him once, when he was lost in the mire of his sorrow. “I envy you, father, because I am alive, and you do not know…you have not lost a son.”

Amandil had not shown any anger at Elendil’s bitter words – even though Elendil had immediately regretted them. He had knelt before Elendil and had held his hand in both of his.

“You are right,” he had said. “I have never lost a son. But, just like you, I have lost Isildur. And Elendil, he was so, so dear to me.”

Elendil shakes the memory out of his mind. Why is he thinking of this now? It’s been two years. Why can’t he let his son go? Why can’t he allow Isildur to be at peace?

Elendil passes the courtyard of the main inn when one of the horses suddenly makes his way to him. Elendil raises his arm, ready to patiently steer the horse back to its rightful owner, when he suddenly freezes. He knows this horse. It’s been two years, but he knows. He knows. He remembers.

“Berek?’ he gasps.

The horse – Berek, it has to be him – neighs and bumps his head against Elendil’s shoulder, and the gesture is so familiar that, if there have been any doubts left, they are all vanishing.

“Berek. How?”

Berek does not look too good. He has been cared for, Elendil can see this, but whoever has cared for him did not seem like they were able to afford pampering him the way Elendil’s family used to pamper him.

“How is it you are here?”

Something clutches at Elendil’s throat, something he does not want to think about, a breath of a hope he wishes to reject.

“I left you in the Southlands.”

He left Berek in the Southlands, when the horse had refused to return with him to Númenor. He left Berek in the Southlands imagining that the poor beast would cast himself in a fire pit, missing Isildur too much to live without him.

“I…how did you come back?”

And there is the thought that will not abandon him. If Berek went looking for Isildur – what if he had found him? If Berek is here, why is it so hard to believe that Isildur…?

Elendil firmly wrenches himself away from the question, pulling away from Berek, leaving the horse bereft and puzzled. Because he cannot think like this. Because, if he expects Isildur to be alive, to be finally given back to him, then all he will get is heartbreak and disappointment, and he cannot have that. He cannot live like this.

“Captain?” the voice of the innkeeper startles him. “I mean – my Lord Elendil.”

He turns, trying to clear the darkness of his mind.

“The horse…” he begins, and he half-expects the innkeeper to say that there is no horse, that Berek is only a phantom that has come to Elendil and Elendil alone, maybe sent by his son, but that is too much to hope for too, because the dead do not reach back to the living and maybe they really shouldn’t.

The innkeeper nods.

“Yes, I was about to send from you. The one who brought him – she wishes to speak to you.”

She. So not Isildur. Elendil does not know why he feels so disappointed. Isildur is….

“Take me to her,” he says.

The innkeeper leads Elendil to a small room that is adjoined with the Common Room but not quite. Clearly, he thinks Elendil will need privacy for this.

“I will leave you two alone,” the innkeeper says, then walks away, closing the door softly behind him.

In all this time, he has not looked Elendil in the eye. Not once.

A young woman is sitting in a chair close to the fire. Elendil is certain he has never seen her before. She is tall and looks Númenórean, but her clothes are Southlander clothes.

“Are you the one who brough Berek here?” he asks. “The horse I mean – did you bring him?”

The woman nods. She is young. Maybe Isildur’s age, maybe younger. But there is something about her that is hard as steel.

“Are you captain Elendil?” she asks.

Elendil shakes his head.

“Not captain anymore,” he corrects. “But yes. This is me.”

The woman nods.

“I thought so. You look just as I imagined you would.”

The words puzzle Elendil. He sits down at the table, across from her.

“Do I? Who are you?”

The woman looks away briefly.

“I am Estrid. Of the Southlands. Well, of Pelargir now, I suppose.”

Elendil shakes his head.

“You’re a long way from Pelargir. Did someone there from the Númenórean garrison tell you the horse belonged to me?”

He strongly doubts it was Kemen. He does not think any of Kemen’s followers would care, either.

Estrid straightens her shoulders and looks him straight in the eye.

“Except, he doesn’t really belong to you,” she says. “He’s your son’s, isn’t he?”

Elendil feels cold.

“Did they…did whoever told you about Berek tell you that as well?”

Estrid tilts her head. There is something in her eyes, bright and confident. Something that Elendil doesn’t quite understand.

“No, Isildur told me that.”

Elendil springs up. His fists clench and he can hardly see straight.

“What did you say? How can you…? How dare you…? My son is…my son is gone, and you surely know it. And you come here and tell me…how can you?”

Elendil realizes only belatedly that he is now towering over her, looking intimidating and dangerous, as he never wants to be for someone who is not attacking him, only he cannot bring himself to pull back, he cannot quite pull himself away from the brink of his despair – and this stranger, whoever she is has brought his grief home so sharply and is seemingly making a mockery of it, and who is she to do all that? Can Elendil be blamed for wanting her to hurt just as much as he hurts?

Surprisingly, though, Estrid does not seem intimidated. More than this, she seems to understand. She stands up and reaches out to him and touches his shoulder, and the touch is gentle and kind and so full of compassion that it takes Elendil’s breath away.

“We met on our way to Pelargir,” she says. “Isildur and I, I mean. He talked about Númenor a lot. He told me about Andúnië, that is how I knew to come here. And he told me that there is a glade here, in the forest, where you and he would go at night. He told me that this is how you two found peace - walking together at night, under the light of moon and stars. He said that even when you were cross with each other, that these walks still brought you close. That they reminded him how much you loved him and how much he loved you.”

Elendil finds himself drawing back, his knees weak. He falls into his chair, breath shallow.

She cannot know all these things. Not even people in Númenor know about their secret place in the forest. Only Elendil knows. And Isildur.

“But…” he begins shakily. “But…you mean…?”

Estrid nods quickly.

“Please, you have to believe me,” she says. “Isildur is alive. You have to believe this – for your sake and his.”

Elendil makes a habit of always telling the truth. It makes it easier for him to spot those who are lying. And Estrid isn’t lying.

“But then…” he tries again. “It’s been two years, Estrid. Where is he? Is he at Pelargir?”

He is certain this isn’t true. Isildur would not let his family believe he was dead for so long. He would not cause them all such pain.

“Where is he?” he repeats.

Estrid reaches out for his hand.

“I only found out eight months after he left,” she says, her tone apologetic. “Otherwise, I would have come to ask for help immediately.”

The words do not offer the answer Elendil needs.

“Speak plainly,” he urges Estrid. “Do you know where he is?”

Estrid bows her head.

“I think I do. I think he is a prisoner of your king.”

Elendil gapes at her in shock.

“What?”

It seems unbelievable, that all this time Isildur would be so close, and Elendil wouldn’t even be aware of it. It seems ironic and cruel, a twisted jest of fate. Elendil almost refuses to believe it, even if its truth means his dear firstborn is alive. Because, if Isildur is alive, then he is also suffering, and has been for two years, and Elendil has not even known.

Estrid tells her tale. How Isildur has actually returned to Númenor two years ago, on the first ships that came from Pelargir after Kemen’s promotion to commander of the city. How, because Kemen denied Estrid a spot on the ships and it looked as if things were going ill at home, Isildur had promised Estrid to find a way to return to her and bring her to Númenor in secret. How he had even left Berek as a guarantee of that promise, but also because he was afraid of what Kemen’s sailors might do to him. How Estrid has waited and waited, eight long months until she heard the news of Isildur having been taken prisoner as soon as he had set foot on the island.

“No ship from Pelargir would have taken me to Númenor,” Estrid adds. “They were all controlled by Kemen. So, I took Berek and made my way to Umbar.”

“It is a long way from Pelargir to Umbar,” Elendil comments. “Especially on land.”

Estrid nods curtly.

“This is why it took so long,” she says. “And when I got there, I needed passage for both myself and Berek. I could not simply stowaway without him. I needed to pay my way. I wove for the harbor people. Blankets. Carpets. Tapestries. It took me some time, but I finally got enough for a place on a trade ship bound for Armenelos.”

She sighs, looking down at her hands. Elendil notices that they are covered with callouses and scratches. He imagines her weaving without pause, working tirelessly, even late into the night, in an attempt to shorten the time it would take her to get the gold she needs.

“It took me so long to get here. I am sorry.”

Elendil touches her wrist.

“You are here now. And I have hope that my son is alive. Which is more than I had this morning.”

Elendil feels himself smiling, and for the first time in two years, it comes easily, without guilt or constraint.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you for giving this to me. Thank you for doing this for him.”

                                   xxxXXXXxxxx

In his cell, Isildur endures another day of questioning and taunts and pain. They were worse today, he thinks. He had believed they were getting bored with him, that they had finally realized that Isildur would never give them anything, no matter what they did. And yet, today, they’ve started everything again, in full force, and he does not know why.

It doesn’t matter, Isildur tells himself. Belzagar and Pharazôn and whoever else they recruit to work for them, they can do their worst. They can do whatever they want.

Because he is Isildur, son of Elendil, and he is Faithful. And that is the only thing that matters. For as long as he has left to live, this will be the only thing that matters.

Chapter Text

Elendil takes Estrid to his home and summons Anárion and Amandil to leave anything they might be doing and join him, as he has discovered an important development. He also sends for Valandil, because Valandil has been more or less part of his family for a long time, especially ever since the Shrine, but also because this concerns Valandil closely. This is about Isildur, after all.

Elendil asks Estrid to tell her story once more. She does, and Elendil notices that it is the same story she has told him, which confirms to him that she is, indeed, telling the truth. The others ask her questions, over and over, testing her, trying to discover the cracks in her account, but since there seem to be none, they too must come to the conclusion that she is not lying to them. That Isildur is indeed alive and most likely a captive in Pharazôn’s dungeon.

Elendil glances at the others. He takes in their reactions. Anárion’s face is pale, but his eyes are wide and hopeful. He is trembling, breath punching out of him. Elendil approaches him and places a hand on his shoulder. Anárion does not acknowledge him, but Elendil can read the gratitude in his face.

Amandil’s face is, as usual, hard to read. He keeps his counsel, not expressing any opinion of the news. His tone as he addresses Estrid is courteous, but cautious. It is hard to say what Amandil is thinking, if he believes Estrid’s tidings or not.

Valandil’s state is easier to guess. Valandil’s face is dark, his scowl more pronounced than usual. He is shaking his head, pacing restlessly as Estrid speaks. He eyes her with unhidden distrust.

“And why are you here?” Valandil speaks as soon as Estrid finishes her story. “Truly.”

Estrid does not flinch under his glare.

“I do not blame you for mistrusting me,” she says. “I would find it hard to trust this wild tale myself, if I were in your shoes.”

Valandil’s face does not soften.

“How do we know you’re not trying to trick us?”

“For what reason?” Estrid asks.

Valandil glances at Elendil.

“To get at least some of us in Armenelos. To get us close enough to be arrested. What better bait to use than Isildur?”

Estrid straightens his shoulders.

“I have his horse.”

“Which you could have stumbled across in the Southlands,” Valandil points out. “Then, anyone at Pelargir could have told you who the horse belongs to.”

“What about the things I know?” Estrid asks. “About Isildur?”

Valandil shrugs.

“Someone from Kemen’s garrison could have told them to you,” he says. “They could have instructed you on what to say. Perhaps even Kemen himself. After all, he knew Isildur.”

Elendil is about to interfere, but it looks like he does not have to. Estrid draws herself to her full height and stands there, facing Valandil, hands on her hips.

“Oh really?” she mocks. “Because Isildur did not strike me as the type who was easy to know. Not everyone could peer into his hidden corners. You had to be patient. You had to earn it.”

Valandil holds his ground.

“Well, how did you earn it?”

Estrid hesitates.

“I do not know,” she says, and her voice is less certain now. “I suppose…because I was the first person he met after…and…you form bonds on the long road. You get to know each other. Especially when you realize you are all alone. There is no one left.”

Estrid’s voice wavers, and she shakes her head.

“He told me something he said no one at home knew,” she says. “But I am not going to tell you what it was. Because I refuse to break his confidence. I refuse to betray him in any way, and if you do not understand this, then I have to ask myself if you really care about Isildur at all?”

Valandil looks about to retaliate, and Elendil knows he is not going to hold back, because no one dares to question his devotion to Isildur’s memory. He takes a step forward and puts a hand on Valandil’s shoulder.

“She did tell me things only Isildur and I knew,” he says. “And…as far as the other matter is concerned, the one apparently no one in Númenor was aware of, I think I know what that is.”

When Elendil had returned from the Southlands, he had discovered a letter left behind by Isildur, to be read only in the event of his death. Elendil still remembers how his hands had shaken as he had held the letter, how he had been tempted to toss it in the fire, to tear it into pieces, because his beloved son was gone, he was gone, and some meaningless words on a piece of parchment were not going to bring him back. Yet he had stayed his hand, because Isildur had deemed those words important enough to leave them behind for his father, and Elendil could not squander Isil’s last wish.

He had often wished he had not read that letter, as it had brought him nothing but grief. In it, Isildur had confessed that he had been the reason for his mother’s drowning, and that he had been living with the guilt of this incident ever since he was ten. That was enough to break Elendil’s heart, because Isildur had seen himself as wrong, as guilty, as unforgivable, and had obviously believed that his father would see him in the same light. And it was too late for Elendil to correct that belief, and the notion that Isildur had died thinking such horrible thoughts about himself, unable to forgive himself and fully convinced he was not deserving of anyone else’s forgiveness, either, that still keeps Elendil up at night, even two years after he has lost Isildur.

And now, it seems that he might have a chance to set Isildur straight after all. That he might have a chance to show Isildur that there is nothing to forgive, and that Elendil could never see him as anything less than his son. How can Elendil turn his back on this?

He still remembers the letter. Every word of it is burned inside his mind. He could recite it even in his sleep.

“Isildur left me a letter telling me the truth,” he informs Estrid. “In it, he said that he felt bound.”

Estrid nods quickly.

“He told the same to me,” she answers, eager to prove that she has indeed spoken to Isildur and that she is on their side. “That he wanted to do something singular. Something special. To earn…well, to earn his mother’s sacrifice.”

Elendil closes his eyes. Hearing the words spoken by someone else gives them an even darker significance.

“I told him that is not something you earn,” Estrid goes on. “That it is something you accept as a gift.”

Elendil sighs.

“I would have told him the same.”

He turns to the others. They all know about the letter (Isildur had requested Elendil to show it to the rest of the family). He nods.

“Those were Isildur’s words in the letter. Word for word. That is all the proof I need.”

Amandil bows his head.

“It seems there is truth in mistress Estrid’s tidings,” he declares.

“I believe her,” Anárion announces, then adds, meeting Estrid’s gaze. “I believe you.”

Estrid offers him a small smile. She glances at Valandil who seems to hesitate. Elendil clutches his shoulder.

“You know I value your opinion, whatever that may be.”

Valandil seems tense. He avoids looking at either Estrid and Elendil.

“I am still not fully convinced,” he admits, and there is no hint of apology in his voice – not that Elendil would have expected or requested any. “But I am willing to consider that this might be the truth. For now.”

Elendil clasps him on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Valandil. I do not ask for more.”

                          xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Elendil sends Estrid to wash off the dust of her journey and then rest. Estrid seems to sense that he now wishes to talk to the others without her being there. She does not give any indication that she might hold it against him, only asks him to please keep her involved in whatever plan they might have for bringing Isildur home.

“Rest assured that I intend to do just that,” Elendil promises.

Within reason. He does not know much about Estrid yet, and he knows even less about Estrid and Isildur. He is not sure that Isildur would be pleased to discover that Estrid has risked her life for him.

“Well?” Elendil asks, once Estrid is gone. “We can speak freely now.”

“I still worry it might be a trap,” Valandil says.

“That is a fair point,” Elendil agrees. “Yet – she knows things about Isildur that only Isildur could have told her.”

Valandil sighs.

“Yes, but…what worries me most is the timing of it all.”

Elendil understands. The timing. Because the Faithful have been making their own plans. Because they have been meaning to take back something from Armenelos. Something that belongs to them.

“The timing could be unknown to Estrid, but that does not mean her arrival is not significant to us.” Amandil muses. “And perhaps we can use it to our own advantage.”

“What do you mean?” Anárion wants to know.

“I mean that there are many other forces in this world, and not all support Pharazôn. Some might be on our side.”

Valandil walks back to the table and sits down next to Anárion.

“There is something that worries me, though. Estrid comes from Middle-earth. Well – that is where Sauron hides, isn’t it?”

“And you think that is where Estrid knows about Isil?” Anárion asks, skeptical.

Valandil looks away.

“Sauron was here, after all. As Halbrand.”

Elendil understands what Valandil is hinting. But he also knows Valandil is wrong.

“No,” he says quickly.

Valandil raises his eyebrows. Elendil shakes his head, as if to stress how convinced he is that it cannot be possible.

“No, I know Isildur barely exchanged two words with Halbrand. His entire focus was on Commander Galadriel. I think he was completely unimpressed by Halbrand and ignored him for the most part. His interactions with him were even fewer than yours.”

He notices the greyness in Valandil’s features and regrets his words. Yet Valandil needs to know how unlikely it is that Estrid might be a spy of Sauron’s – and that Sauron might know so much about Isildur. The thought is inconceivable to Elendil.

“I believe she is telling the truth and that she has, indeed, met Isildur,” Amandil reiterates. “And I believe it is possible for Isildur to have been taken prisoner if he tried to return to Númenor on one of Kemen’s ships. And yet – I think we are all avoiding something. Another possibility. A grimmer possibility.”

Elendil tenses. He feels the hope in his heart turning to ice. He refuses to let that happen.

“No,” he snaps, voice harsh and cold. “No, that is not possible.”

Amandil shakes his head.

“My son, it has been two years,” he reminds Elendil gently.

Elendil swallows against the anger.

“He is not dead,” he says, words cutting at his soul. “He isn’t. I’d know. We’d know.”

Elendil does not like the compassion in Amandil’s eyes, because these aren’t just his emotions urging him to cling on to hope. His rational mind tells him the same thing.

“You know Pharazôn, father. You know the grudge he has against us – against me. Do you think he would not hasten to let me know that Isildur was dead, if he had died in his captivity?”

He searches Amandil’s eyes, urging him to see what he sees. To understand that the workings of Pharazôn’s mind are clear to them, and that Pharazôn would choose cruelty as a weapon against the Faithful without hesitation.

“Think what a blow it would be against the Faithful,” Elendil adds. “Against this family. If it was revealed that my son was…that he had been held captive for two years on this island without me even being aware of it, and that now he was dead and beyond saving…do you not think Pharazôn would not want to gloat to me about this? To look at my face as he drives that stake through my heart? To offer me news so demoralizing it would send me off balance and make me doubt my position among the Faithful? After all, what kind of Lord of Andúnië would I be, if I’m incapable of keeping track of my own firstborn and allow him to perish in some dungeon?”

His voice breaks. He senses Amandil’s hand on his.

“Isildur is alive,” he insists. “He has to be.”

Amandil withdraws his hand.

“You make a compelling argument,” he admits. “Yet if he is alive, it is only for one reason.”

And Elendil knows this too. He takes in Anárion’s pale features and Valandil’s hard eyes. Oh yes, he knows this too.

“Then all the more reason to get him out of there as quickly as possible,” he declares. “Don’t you think so?”

“Of course,” Amandil agrees.

There is something in Amandil’s voice that puts Elendil on edge. He cannot blame him. Amandil needs to think of every possibility, even the more unpleasant ones. This is not because Amandil might doubt Isildur. It is just that someone has to see reality from all angles.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Elendil says, and he is proud that he can keep his voice calm. “I guarantee that hasn’t happened, either. No matter what they do to him, Isildur would never betray us.”

“Because we would know,” Anárion says. “Yes?”

The Faithful have their own hiding places. Their own secrets. Their own plans. Isildur was aware of many of these. The Kingsmen had descended upon Andúnië many times. They had never been able to uncover any plots or even know where to look.

In fact, Elendil remembers an incident a couple of months ago when the Kingsmen soldiers had been convinced they knew where one of the palantíri was located. They searched a place where no one had ever hidden a palantír and had left disgruntled and humiliated. Elendil meets Amandil’s eyes, and he knows Amandil is thinking of the same thing.

“That day when the Kingsmen seemed to have the wrong information,” Amandil says. “Do you think it was Isildur who gave it to them? Who deliberately led them astray?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Valandil mutters. “Isil is a master at infuriating others.”

“Perhaps he thought he was sending the Kingsmen a message that he would never cooperate with them,” Elendil says. “Perhaps he was trying to send us a message.”

If so it did not work, because none of them had imagined that someone had deliberately sent the Kingsmen on a wild goose chase, that there was someone imprisoned in the dungeons who badly needed help. But no, Elendil thinks. That isn’t the message Isildur had wanted to send to them. He was trying to warn the Faithful that no hiding place would be safe. That they needed contingency plans. That they needed to come up with new spots and new strategies. Which is what they had done.

Elendil’s hands are trembling, and he does not know what is in his heart, whether it is sorrow or awe or pride. His son – his brave, wonderful Isil – has still been trying to help the Faithful even from the dark place where he had ended up in. Despite everything that was being done to him. Despite everything he was risking – and Elendil is certain that, once the Kingsmen had realized they had been thwarted, they had taken their frustrations out on Isildur, and they had not been kind about it.

“We need to get him out of there,” he says. “We need to…it is not about what he might reveal. He will not reveal anything, and everyone in this room knows this. Yet I cannot allow him to spend even another minute in the dungeons.”

Still, he knows that, if the rescue is to be a success, they need time and careful planning. However much Elendil might want to storm the palace dungeons of Armenelos right then, he would not be able to accomplish anything.

“First we will have to verify if the tidings are indeed true,” Elendil says. “And whether Isildur is still in the dungeon.” He meets Amandil’s eyes. “Contrary to what you might think, I am not willing to risk the Faithful on mere rumors and ideas. We will need to know for certain what is happening.”

“How about I try to find one of the sailors who was on Kemen’s first ship to Pelargir?” Valandil suggests. “They can’t all be in Middle-earth. With luck, one of them might be off rotation.”

Valandil has learned the art of spying in the past two years. He navigates the streets of Armenelos, using secret ways and hidden passages. He hears many tidings that he passes on to the Faithful.

“Good man,” Elendil praises him. “Yet you are not going alone.”

Valandil accepts this readily enough.

“Fine, Captain. Can I take Estrid?”

Elendil tilts his head.

“Is this your way of continuing to test her, Lieutenant?”

Neither of them bears their titles now, and yet they still use them to address each other, a pattern that neither seems to want to give up.

Valandil grins.

“In part,” he admits. “There are other reasons, though. One, I want to see if the soldier will recognize Estrid – not as a test, but because I think I can come up with a plan to draw him forward. If Estrid agrees, of course.”

“Of course,” Elendil echoes. “Any other reasons?”

“Maybe,” Valandil says. “I’m curious. After all, if she’s crossed the water just for Isil – well, that’s bound to make me curious.”

Elendil dips his head.

“Very well,” he accepts. “You will take Estrid. But be careful. If she has a claim on Isildur, then she has a claim on my protection.”

Valandil seems to agree immediately.

“I won’t let anyone harm a hair on her head, Captain,” he says. “You can count on me.”

“See that you don’t,” Elendil orders. “In the meantime, Anárion, how are you with sifting through the papers we rescued from the Hall of Lore? Is there any chance there might be a detailed plan of the palace in there?”

The Hall of Lore was burned down a year ago. Pharazôn had it thoroughly searched beforehand. Still, Elendil and his family had been expecting the attack for quite some time, and they had removed many of the manuscripts.

“I can look,” Anárion volunteers. “And ask the surviving loremasters, of course. Yet we hear rumors that Pharazôn is expanding his dungeons. If so, old plans might not be of any use.”

Elendil has been fearing this as well, but he thinks he might know of a solution.

“Well, I do know the palace architect, do I not?”

He senses the tension mounting as the others try very hard not to look at him.

“If you have something to say, I would appreciate it if you said it and were done with it,” he urges them, barely keeping his impatience in check.

“You haven’t spoken to Eärien since the night you left Armenelos,” Amandil points out.

Elendil frowns in his direction.

“The night she helped me escape, you mean? Well, I think it’s high time I speak to her again. She will not betray me.”

“Do you think she knows?” Anárion wonders. “About Isildur?”

Elendil shakes his head without hesitation.

“No. She would not stand for it.”

No one tries to contradict him, and he is grateful for this.

                   xxxXXXXxxxx

Valandil and Anárion leave the room, Valandil to talk to Estrid, and Anárion to find the loremasters. Amandil is the only one who remains with Elendil. He watches his son carefully. Elendil has been his usual composed self since he has brought Estrid with him, but Amandil is not fooled. He knows the turmoil in Elendil’s mind.

Now, Elendil sits at the table, staring at his clenched hands. Amandil guesses that they would be shaking, if Elendil would not be trying so hard to hide it. He crosses the room and places a careful hand on Elendil’s shoulder.

“It is only you and me now, my son,” he says. “You need not hide the turmoil in your heart from me.”

Elendil’s shoulders slump. He lets out a breath that sounds more like a sob. Amandil tightens his hold.

“Two years,” Elendil whispers. “He’s been…for two years…”

Amandil feels his own heart breaking.

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

Their Isildur. His beloved grandson. The only thought that has been sustaining Amandil through his loss was that now Isildur was at peace. Especially once he had discovered how tormented Isildur had been since the age of ten, Amandil was clinging to the notion that, at least, Isildur had peace now. To find out that the truth was different shatters him.

Amandil does not let this show. He will, later on. The time will come when he will concentrate on the demons in his mind, but that time is not yet here. Now, he needs to stand by Elendil. Because Elendil would not allow anyone else but Amandil to see him break.

“I think something in me knew,” Elendil says in a small voice.

Amandil tilts his head.

“What do you mean?”

Elendil is silent for a long time. Long enough for Amandil to wonder if he really wants to share his thoughts out loud.

“Something in me knew,” Elendil repeats. “Back there, at Nienna’s Shrine, I almost did not light the farewell candle. And…and every morning when I woke up, I was so convinced that Isil was alive, it made so much sense to me, that I could not stand the thought that it might be otherwise.”

Amandil is not really surprised. There has always been great love between Elendil and his eldest son – a bond that held and shone despite adversities. Perhaps, in some way, Elendil had indeed sensed that Isildur was still alive. That he was close by.

“I thought it was my grief,” Elendil goes on. “I thought it was my inability to let go of him. I wondered at times if I was not selfish, clinging to him like that.”

“No one would fault you for that,” Amandil tells him. “Certainly not I.”

Elendil bows his head.

“And all this time, he was here,” he whispers. “So, so close to me. All this time. And he was…for two years, Pharazôn must have…they must have hurt him so badly, Father.”

Amandil watches as Elendil clenches his hands again, trying to keep the pain at bay.

“Two years…” Elendil repeats. “He…even if we do manage to rescue him, what will he be after two years of that?”

“Your son,” Amandil tells him curtly. “And my grandson. But more than this, he’ll be Isildur, the man who has never let any obstacles stand in his way. Not ever. Not even after two years of torture.”

He feels Elendil flinch beneath his hand. Amandil does not blame him. The words taste like poison in his mouth. Yet they need to be said. They need to be acknowledged. For their sake. For Isildur’s.

“If he is surrounded by darkness, we will bring him back into the light,” he insists. “You especially, because you’ve always shared this bond with him, you’ve always made him so, so happy.”

Elendil shakes his head.

“In those final years before the expedition I’ve given him nothing but grief.”

Amandil chuckles, despite the situation.

“I think he would be the first to agree that it went both ways. Fathers and sons quarrel from time to time, Elendil. I should know. I quarreled with mine when I was growing up. You quarreled with me. Isildur and Anárion…well, you understand. It happens. It passes.”

Elendil eyes him curiously.

“You quarreled with yours?” he asked disbelievingly.

Amandil shakes his head.

“My son, the impetuousness of youth is something that ails us all during the beginning of our lives. Wisdom is a hard-won gift.”

Elendil looks away.

“I do not know if I have won mine yet,” he admits.

“Humility is also a precious gift, Elendil,” Amandil says, moving away. “So is determination. And I am sure you are determined to rescue Isildur and help him through whatever shadows he is lost in.”

Elendil raises his head. His eyes are hard.

“Of course I am.”

He sounds slightly offended that Amandil might think otherwise. Amandil smiles inwardly.

“Then you need not fear. Whatever comes, we will face it together.”

And yet, he knows that the storm is not over. He knows that there are hard days ahead for all of them. He knows that Elendil will try to be strong for his children, which means that Amandil will need to be strong for Elendil. None of this will be easy, and yet, it will be worth it, Amandil thinks. It will be.

His grandson is coming home.

                      xxxXXXXxxxx

“You know this situation only has one end – don’t you?”

Pharazôn has gone yet again to visit Isildur. His approach takes Isildur by surprise.

“You were here yesterday,” Isildur comments. “Should I be honored?”

Pharazôn maintains his calm.

“And you are talking to me. That is a momentous occasion in itself. Of late, you’ve been ignoring me completely.”

Isildur’s eyes are fixed somewhere behind Pharazôn. Given that he is kept mostly in darkness, the lamp Pharazôn has brought with him must be bothering his eyes. Pharazôn brings it closer. Isildur does not even flinch. Of course. Pharazôn has already learned in the past two years the lengths his men have to go to for Isildur to show even the smallest hint of pain.

“As I was saying – you must know how this ends, Isildur.”

Isildur’s smile is like ice. At first, Pharazôn had thought it would be only a matter of time, breaking Isildur. But even after two years, Isildur shows now signs of allowing to be broken.

“I know your men will torture me to death,” Isildur says. “The problem is – I do not intend to make it easy for them. It will take a long time for them to accomplish their mission.”

“That is not their mission,” Pharazôn insists. “Their mission is to make you talk.”

Isildur laughs.

“I thought I made it clear that, even if I do talk, you have no guarantee that you can trust what I have to say.”

Pharazôn knows what Isildur means. He shakes his head.

“I should think you’re not going to repeat that offense again. Given that you know what comes after.”

Isildur shrugs.

“I think you know by now I can handle a little discomfort.”

What Pharazôn had ordered to be done to Isildur after he had sent his men on a false trail had been more than “a little discomfort”. Pharazôn had thought his men had killed Isildur then – and probably would have, if Isildur wouldn’t have been so stubborn, if he had not seemed to think that him dying at the Kingsmen’s hands would be a victory to Pharazôn, and that is obviously something Isildur does not want to offer him.

“For how long?” Pharazôn challenges. “Granted, two years is already longer than I expected. In fact, you’ve exceeded even my wildest expectations.”

This is not flattery just for the sake of it. Pharazôn truly is impressed by Isildur’s resilience – even if he does not want to be. But Isildur is Amandil’s grandson – and just as Pharazôn has unwillingly admired Amandil all his life, he has to admit – if only grudgingly – that there are reasons to admire Isildur.

This does not mean that Pharazôn intends to be lenient with Isildur. If anything, this makes Pharazôn determined to be even harsher. Because Isildur is dangerous, and Pharazôn cannot abide threats to his reign.

“How long do you think you’ll last?” he asks, and he sounds genuinely curious.

Isildur shrugs.

“For as long as it’s needed.”

Pharazôn raises his eyebrows.

“Surely you cannot think there is someone coming to rescue you,” he says. “No one knows you’re here. Not your father. Not Eärien. Not even Zimraphel.”

Isildur’s eyes are on him, challenging and hard.

“And how long do you think you’ll be able to keep me a secret?” he counters. “Such things have a way of coming to the surface. When they do – well, you will have some explaining to do. I do not envy you, Majesty. The people might stand for a lot of things in this new Númenor of yours. But have you taken them far enough from the right path for them to stand for this?”

Pharazôn knows that Isildur is right. He knows that there are people even in his inner circle that will be scandalized by how he had treated Isildur, a war hero, a survivor of that disastrous expedition. Eärien, for one, might defect from his side for good. But there are others who would protest as well.

“A time might come, when they will not care,” Pharazôn says. “Surely, you will not want to be in my dungeons then.”

Isildur looks away.

“The answer is no. To whatever you have to say.”

Pharazôn turns away.

“We shall see tomorrow,” he declares. “I truly regret having this done to you, Isildur.”

“Yet you do it nonetheless.”

As Pharazôn walks away, he cannot help wondering what Amandil would say, if he knew. In a way, he is honest. He truly regrets what he has to do – but not enough to make himself stop.

                                  XXXxxxxxXXXX

Left alone, Isildur listens to Pharazôn’s footsteps echoing down the corridor, further and further away. He finds himself breathing easier only when he cannot hear them anymore. When he know Pharazôn is no longer in the dungeons. Since Isildur’s world is now limited to his little cell, having Pharazôn away from the dungeons is like having him in another world. One in which he cannot do anything to Isildur.

He waits a while more, body tense, senses alert, to make sure everything is quiet, and no one else intends to visit him. A visit now would break the pattern, but Isildur knows how to be cautious. Then, he turns to the chain that keeps him tied to the wall.

He can move for about three paces in his already small cell. Or, he could at the start. Isildur has worked patiently, trying to weaken the link tying the chain to the wall. It has been a long and arduous task, with frequent interruptions, because each interrogation session with Pharazôn’s men leaves him in a weakened state, and there are days when he cannot do anything. Still, Isildur has never been one to give up. Not even now.

Now, he can free the chain from the wall, meaning he can walk around his cell and, more importantly, approach the door. He has spent days upon end listening to the voices in the corridors, the changing of the guards, the news they exchange, learning what is happening outside and how the dungeons are organized.

One day, he will consolidate his escape plan well enough to give him the best chances. One day, when the guards come to give him food, he will show them exactly who he is.

He is Isildur, Elendil’s son, and he is Faithful. And he will not die in some forsaken dungeon. Not without putting up a fight worthy of the songs and tales he is so fond of.

Chapter Text

Valandil finds Estrid in the stables. She is tending to Berek, talking to him all the while. He does not announce his presence at first, but remains leaning against the doorpost, watching them.

Estrid's movements with Berek are gentle. She looks comfortable with him, and Berek looks comfortable with her, and perhaps that should be proof enough for Valandil, especially given the way Berek had treated them after the eruption, how aggressive he had become with them. True, Berek had always been fiery – like his owner, Valandil thinks wryly – yet there was an urgency in him that could not have been denied. The memory now jolts Valandil. Had Berek known? Had he been telling them all that time that Isildur was alive and they were abandoning him to the wilderness, to a foreign shore, to a life away from Númenor?

Valandil shudders and closes his eyes. The doubts he has now anger him. He takes a step forward.

“How did you come across Berek?” he asks.

Estrid flinches and turns to face him.

“Did you find him first or did you find Isildur?” Valandil continues.

He decides to mention Isildur as if to show that it’s not his doubts about her that are prompting the question.

“Isildur already had Berek when I stumbled across them,” she says, then smile nervously. “Or maybe, it is better to say, they stumbled across me. He told me Berek was the one who helped him escape from Mordor. That he would be dead without Berek's timely help.”

Valandil approaches Berek and reaches out. The horse sniffs his hand then seems to recognize him. He greets him with his usual enthusiasm that Valandil always thought had more to do with Berek’s hope of getting more treats than anything else.

“He didn’t say more?” he asks.

Estrid shrugs.

“He mentioned a tunnel and some spiders,” she says. “But only in passing. You need to understand, for us the events that had just happened were almost unspeakable. The past – the distant past – that was better to talk about. Safer.”

Valandil certainly understands. He wishes he did not – but he does, all too well.

“He talked a lot about you,” Estrid says. “On the road to Pelargir, I mean.”

Valandil’s heart clenches, remembering how he had left Isildur in that burning hut.

“What did he say?” he asks cautiously.

“That you two fought something rotten,” Estrid tells him.

Valandil’s heart drops.

“Oh,” he says.

Well, what was he expecting, really? He has said plenty of things to Isildur, and he can’t just hope that Isildur would simply forgive him for them.

He meets Estrid’s eyes and spots a glimmer of amusement in them.

“He also says you were his brother of the heart,” she tells Valandil. “And any fights were worth your friendship.”

Valandil finds that it is hard to breathe.

“Well,” he laughs shakily. “That’s Isil for you. Sometimes he says those things that make you want to clobber him over the head, because there’s no need for him to say them.”

Or hold him tight, Valandil thinks. Gods, he would. He misses his friend so badly, he might even tell Isil that when he next sees him.

Estrid laughs, clear and glad.

“I am not going to ask you whether you believe me now,” she tells him, growing grave again.

Valandil clears his throat.

“Good. Because I’m not sure whether I do or not. But I want to believe you – if that helps.”

Estrid dips her head.

“It will have to do. For now.”

Valandil grins.

“Good. Because I want to ask you for a favor.”

Estrid raises her eyebrows. She looks intrigued. There is no sign of panic on her face.

“Do tell,” she encourages him.

Valandil gives Berek another pat, then turns his full attention to her.

“I have ways of getting into Armenelos. And I want you to come with me.”

“Why?” Estrid inquires.

Valandil watches her carefully.

“Because I want to find one of the sailors that was on the ship Isildur boarded. And someone that would recognize you would be preferable.”

Estrid does not flinch.

“Is this still a test?”

“Maybe,” Valandil concedes. “But more than this, it’s a way of having a better idea where Isildur is. And who else knows about him.”

And if he’s still alive. But Valandil can’t really bring himself to add that.

“So?” he asks Estrid. “Will you join me? The Captain says it’s fine, by the way.”

Estrid grimaces.

“I think I would join you even if he said it wasn’t fine,” she admits.

And Valandil cannot blame her, but this is not the Southlands, and discipline is needed even from her.

“If you want to stay here, you’ll do best to remember something,” he says. “The Captain won’t order you to do anything – in fact, he will welcome opposition from you, as long as you explain it properly to him.”

Estrid nods.

“All good and proper, so far,” she says. “And?”

“He watches over us, the Captain does,” Valandil adds. “So, even if he doesn't order us, we do our best to follow his advice. Because it’s well-meaning. And because he tries so hard to watch over us.”

He spots the faint flush on Estrid’s cheeks.

“I understand,” she says. “Well, if he says it’s fine for me to join you, then I can hardly say no, can I?”

Valandil grins.

“I will come for you this evening,” he says.

He makes to leave when Estrid calls him back.

“If Captain Elendil watches over all of us – who watches over him?” she asks.

Valandil smiles at the question.

“We do, of course,” he says. “Discreetly, so he doesn’t realize it but – we all do.”

Estrid’s smile is now bright.

“I understand,” she repeats. “Well, it does not seem an easy task, but I’ll do my best.”

And in this moment, Valandil really hopes that she is telling the truth. Because he sees her potential as an ally and would be glad to have her by their side.

                          xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Anárion sits in a chamber of the Andúnië council hall, surrounded by papers. The chamber is behind a hidden panel, a new addition that only the inhabitants of Andúnië know about. It has been built a year ago, quickly and in secret, its purpose to house the manuscripts rescued from the Hall of Lore.

Isildur does not know about it.

Anárion blocks the thought. Even if Isildur did know about it, they would still be safe. And yet, perhaps it is a good thing. One less thing for Isildur to be tortured for.

Anárion groans and takes his head into his hands. The images crowding his mind certainly do not help with his concentration. His stomach churns, and his throat feels dry. He reaches a trembling hand for the pitcher of water and curses when he finds it empty.

He’s been doing this for a while, he realizes. Whenever he tries to focus on the papers in front of him, all he sees is Isildur in the dungeons, surrounded by Ar-Pharazôn’s torturers. They have heard of them in Andúnië. That Ar-Pharazôn has set up a new guild, that is part of the dungeon systems, but not really. The King’s Tormentors, the people call them. They are good at interrogations and spying and causing pain the likes of which is hard to imagine. Some even say they are good at assassinations as well.

When Anárion feels a hand descending on his shoulder, he nearly jumps out of his skin. Given where his thoughts have been taking him, he turns, fists clenched, ready for battle. He sighs and relaxes when he notices the young woman in front of him. He knows her, he reminds himself. He’s known her since childhood.

“Ioreth,” he breathes.

He eyes the mug that Ioreth is carrying hopefully.

“Is there any chance that is for me?”

Ioreth places the mug carefully on the table. Anárion reaches out and gulps greedily. The water is cool, and he can feel a faint taste of roses and honey.

“Thank you,” he says.

Ioreth tilts her head.

“Didn’t you hear me push open the door?” she chides. “Anárion, shouldn’t you be on the alert whenever you’re here?”

Despite the words, her voice is kind and warm. Anárion shakes his head.

“Indeed, that was thoughtless of me,” he admits. “I am sorry. I have…I have a lot weighing on my mind.”

Ioreth sits down next to him.

“Does this have anything to do with the rumors that have been flying all day in here? They say Berek is back.”

Anárion hesitates. Elendil has not forbidden him from mentioning the tidings about Isildur – but Anárion understands the need for secrecy. Still, rumors are apparently already running rampant, and these are their allies. They need to know the truth. It isn’t as if they are going to inform the Kingsmen of what they know. As for Ioreth, Anárion trusts Ioreth. With his life. With his soul.

“A woman came today,” he says. “From Pelargir. She had Berek.”

Ioreth’s eyes are uncertain.

“To return him to you?”

Anárion swallows. How can he tell the truth when the thought of what might be happening even now, as they speak, is stabbing his mind with a thousand sharp knives?

“To tell us that Isildur is alive and has been Pharazôn’s captive for two years.”

Ioreth’s eyes are wide.

“Oh, Anárion.”

She reaches out for Anárion’s hand and clutches it in both of hers. The touch grounds Anárion – allowing his thoughts to focus.

“It is a good thing,” he says. “It…at least Isil is alive. And where there’s life, there’s hope, yes?”

“Of course,” Ioreth agrees. “You should think about that. I am sure you already have plans to get him out.”

Anárion huffs. What they have are vague ideas.

“I was looking to see if we didn’t have any maps of the dungeons in here,” he explains to Ioreth, gesturing vaguely to the papers scattered on the table. “Not that it will help much, there are more than the palace dungeons now…”

He trails off. Ioreth draws her chair closer to his.

“Can I help?” she asks hopefully. “Two heads are better than one, aren’t they?”

Anárion squeezes her hand.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Well, Isildur is the heir of the Lord of Andúnië, isn’t he?” Ioreth points out. “And even if he wasn’t, he is dear to us in Andúnië. You both are.”

Anárion looks away. The Heir of the Lord of Andúnië. For two years, the title had been his. And Anárion has always thought that it did not fit, that he did not deserve it, that he could not be anything without Isildur.

“Those two years,” he tells Ioreth, “I’ve felt as if I was missing a limb.”

Ioreth hums sympathetically.

“Well, you will be glad to feel whole again.”

But will he? Will Isildur?

“He’s been two years with Pharazôn,” he whispers. “And I am sure they haven’t been kind to him.”

His voice breaks. Ioreth’s hand is on his shoulder, soft like a summer breeze from the unseen western shores.

“What will he be after those two years?” Anárion adds.

“He’ll be our Isildur,” Ioreth tells him. “And, if he does not remember how to be that, we will help him and remind him ourselves.”

Anárion feels the hope of Ioreth’s words. He smiles.

“We will,” he vows. “We’ll help. Whatever he needs.”

And, suddenly, the difficulties that he has previously thought insurmountable no longer seem so hard to beat. There is still hope. And there is one thing that is certain, and that brings him joy.

Isil is coming home.

                            xxxXXXXxxxx

Pharazôn’s men have left. Isildur lies in a dark stupor, the world winking in and out. It is not what they did to him physically. It is what they said that has shattered his world.

“Amandil is dead,” Belzagar had told him. “He has chosen it, I am told.”

Isildur had felt as if his heart had been wrenched from his chest.

“What?” he had croaked. “But…he was young still..”

Pharazôn’s age. Amandil was Pharazôn’s age, and he was capable of captaining a ship and fighting and leading Andúnië.

It was only after he had spoken that Isildur had realized he had broken his pact. He never spoke during the torture sessions – well, he had spoken once to send the Kingsmen on a false trail, but that had been all.

Belzagar had, of course, picked up on Isildur’s weakness. He had smirked.

“Apparently the pain of losing you was too great,” he had told Isildur. “And the pain of losing his notions of what Númenor should be…I am told all the Faithful gathered before the Houses of the Dead to bid him farewell.”

Now, Isildur clenches his eyes shut. It cannot be, he tells himself. He had wanted to be there the day Amandil died. He had wanted to say farewell to his beloved grandfather. He had wanted to hold Amandil just one more time – to tell Amandil how much he had done for him, how much his teachings had meant for Isildur. How Isildur survived, day by day, partly because of him.

And it is more than what Isildur wanted. Because the loss is not his alone.

“Oh, Father,” he cries.

He knows Elendil’s love for Amandil. Isildur had always been planning to be there for his father at Amandil’s passing. And now, he is not there. True, Elendil has Anárion – but this should be Isildur’s job.

Isildur bites his lips. He should have escaped sooner. Perhaps, if he had, then Amandil would have still been alive now. And, if that is so, then Isildur will never forgive himself.

He tries to get up and check his chain. He manages a few steps before his right leg gives out under him, and he crashes to the ground. He lies there panting. The Kingsmen had focused on his right leg today. Isildur hopes they had not broken it this time, but, really, he cannot tell anymore.

They are getting crueler and crueler, Isildur knows, and it is taking him longer and longer to heal. He should face reality. He is not walking out of here.

Oh, yes I am!

Especially now that Amandil is gone. Isildur’s place is with his family, and he will do everything he can to get back there.

                       xxxXXXXxxxx

Valandil takes Estrid to Armenelos by hidden roads and confusing paths. Together, they prowl the taverns in the evenings, especially the places where soldiers and sailors are want to gather. Still, it takes three nights for Estrid to finally recognize someone.

“Him!” she says, pointing to a man of about her age, who is ordering drinks. “I am sure he was there that first time.”

Valandil frowns.

“Are you sure?” he asks sharply.

Estrid nods.

“Yes. His name is Izgûr. He is…”

Valandil nods grimly.

“Oh, I know very well who he is. His father is a smith, but he himself didn’t make it past his apprenticeship. We were in the Sea Guard together, even though he was older than us. He didn’t make it there, either. Or – he hadn’t made it in the old Sea Guard. Now – now they take what they can get.”

Estrid frowns.

“Is he still Sea Guard?” she asks. “I’ve stopped seeing him a few months before I left – and that was quite a while ago.”

“He wears the uniform of the King’s Guard now,” Valandil tells her. ‘Well, well, the little ferret has moved up in the ranks.”

“The King’s Guard,” Estrid repeats, thoughtfully.

He would be close to the king, then. He could know about Isildur.

“And you are really sure he was on the same ship with which Isildur returned?” Valandil presses.

Estrid nods again, without hesitation.

“Yes,” she insists. “He spoke to us, before Isildur left. He…well, he made some rather crude comments.”

Estrid had been afraid Isildur would actually strike this time, but he had seemed to master himself. It was only his wish to go home and try to help his family as best he could that had kept him in check.

Valandil snorts.

“Why am I not surprised? Well, get yourself inside and draw him to you.”

Estrid nods.

“Of course.”

She understands what she needs to do, the role she has to play.

Valandil is still frowning.

“Find yourself a seat close to the window,” he orders. “So I can keep an eye on you.”

Estrid is taken by surprise.

“I thought I was supposed to lead him into the alley once our conversation was done. And that you will be waiting for us there.”

Valandil nods quickly.

“I will,” he assures Estrid. “But I want to keep an eye on you while you’re inside as well.”

Estrid’s lips curl.

“Still don’t trust me, I see.”

It shouldn’t bother her, she tells herself. After all, Valandil hardly knows her. But the distrust reminds her too much of the early days in Pelargir, and the burn mark on her neck. She can still feel the scar left behind. It no longer hurts, but whenever she touches the back of her neck, she can feel the ragged edges of a stain that can never leave her.

To her surprise, Valandil actually shakes his head.

“It’s not that,” he says. “Or – it’s not just that. But the captain told me to keep you safe. And besides that – if anything happens to you out there, Isil will have my head.”

Estrid laughs.

“Well, you can tell him I’m just as good as he is at getting into trouble.”

Valandil actually looks horrified.

“Don’t say that. Or I’ll have second thoughts about sending you in.”

They laugh together, and Estrid feels a camaraderie of sorts with Valandil – despite the mistrust.

                        xxxXXXXxxxx

Estrid walks into the tavern, confident and ready. At least, she is confident on the outside. She did not want to admit it to Valandil, but she is frightened. If something goes wrong, if they fail, then they will be left with no knowledge of where Isildur is now. And what are they supposed to do then?

Still, Estrid follows Valandil’s plan. First, she pretends to bump into Izgûr, who casts her a glare, no doubt about to berate her for not looking where she is going. He does a double take, eyes widening in recognition. Estrid glances only briefly at him, then goes to the table by the window.

She sits down and doesn’t have to wait long. Soon enough, a hand descends on her shoulder. Before she can react, Izgûr sits down at her table.

“I know you,” he accuses.

Estrid shrugs.

“Oh, I am sure you do, good sir,” she says dismissively.

Izgûr frowns, showing that he can see through her pretenses.

“Don’t start with me. I know you. You’re not Númenórean.”

Estrid smiles coldly.

“Don’t be so certain. Besides, isn’t this a harbor? Plenty of ships not from Númenor here.”

Izgûr grabs her wrist.

“You’re from Pelargir.”

“Not really,” Estrid says. “At least – I didn’t stow away on one of your ships, I came with a trader’s ship from Umbar. The proper way. So, if you want to toss me into the sea, I’m afraid you might not have any grounds to do so.”

Izgûr looks as if he’s contemplating just that, though.

“They haven’t seen you in Pelargir for a very long time,” he remarks.

Estrid dips her head, conceding to this.

“Yes – I wasn’t there.”

Izgûr tilts his head, eyeing her suspiciously.

“They said you died of a broken heart,” he tells her. “That you rode straight into the sea and drowned.”

Estrid throws back her head and laughs. She is loud, and she draws a lot of attention, but that is the plan. She hopes Izgûr would not do anything to her in public if there are so many people watching.

“Oh, you Sea Folk, so self-important!’ she exclaims. “Why, do you think your lot is so special that if one of you abandons a woman of Middle-earth, she withers and dies? Thrown myself into the sea, I say! For what, a half-grown boy playing soldier?”

Izgûr points to her.

“Well, you’re here for some reason.”

Estrid nods firmly.

“I’m here because I was promised a grand life on this island,” she says. “And a man cannot promise that to me without there being consequences. What, he thought the sea between us would keep me away?”

Izgûr chuckles. Estrid doesn’t like his laughter. It makes her skin crawl.

“And what makes you think Isildur could give you a good life?” he asks mockingly.

“He can give me something better than Pelargir, that’s for sure,” Estrid says.

Izgûr leans forward, appearing interested.

“And do you know where he is?” he asks.

Estrid makes a pretense at shrugging.

“I have heard his family is in the west. Living on some…arrangement or something.”

“A dispensation,” Izgûr concedes. “Given by the Queen. For now.”

Estrid feels a shiver down her spine. She wonders what this for now means. But she cannot ask. She has to appear clueless and interested only in getting what she is supposedly owed. This is the plan. She does not enjoy playing this part. She does not enjoy acting so mercenary when Isildur’s life is at stake – but this could help them find Isildur, so she will grit her teeth and bear it.

“Anyway, Isildur isn’t there,” Izgûr asks.

Estrid raises her eyebrows.

“Really? Well, I suppose I could see his father and ask him to do right by me, anyway.”

Izgûr winks.

“Or, you can come with me.”

Estrid leans backwards as if trying to put some distance between her and him.

“With you? Why would I do that?”

Izgûr tries for a friendly smile. It only puts Estrid even more on the alert.

“Because,” he says conspiratorially. “I know where Isildur is.”

Estrid straightens up. This is the signal she has been waiting for. She hopes Valandil can see that they are about to leave.

                       xxxXXXXxxxx

Valandil has stayed hidden in the shadows of the harbor, watching Estrid and Izgûr. He can see they are talking animatedly, but he is too far away to hear them. He is tense. There are so many ways in which this could go wrong…

It is more than this, though. It is being in Armenelos that has him on edge – and isn’t this ironic and bitter and twisted? Unlike Isildur, Valandil was born in Armenelos. He used to love the city with all his heart. In many ways, he loves it still. Perhaps this is why being here hurts so badly.

Have I abandoned you? he silently asks the familiar harbor. Should I have stayed? Should I have fought harder for you?

But he could not have, they would have arrested him, even wounded as he had been back then. He discussed this with Elendil, several months into them settling in Andúnië. And Elendil had told Valandil that he was needed there, in Andúnië, with the Faithful. Armenelos…Armenelos does not want them anymore.

Estrid and Izgûr get up. Valandil tenses. He slips among the shadows, reaching the dark alleyway behind the tavern. He hears Estrid’s voice, loud and rather shrill. This was also agreed by them. That she would give him a sign when they were approaching, so he knows to be ready.

“Are you saying Isildur isn’t with his family, but you know where he is? How does that go?”

“Do you want to join him?”

Valandil tenses, hearing the darkness in Izgûr’s tone. His hand is on the hilt of his dagger, heart beating wildly in anticipation.

Two shadows appear at the head of the alley. Estrid walks slightly ahead, out of Izgûr’s reach, but seemingly oblivious to the murderous looks he is casting her. Valandil can see that her hands are clenching and unclenching. Whether it’s fear or whether she knows how close they are to finding out about Isildur it is hard to tell.

“What do you mean by that?” Estrid asks. “Join him where?”

“I think he’d love to see you,” Izgûr mutters. “So much so that he might finally start talking to us."

He is about to take his sword out, no doubt to threaten Estrid with it, because Valandil has been right in thinking that, if Estrid showed herself to the Kingsmen, she would be captured and used as incentive to make Isildur reveal the secrets of the Faithful. Only Valandil has no intention of allowing this.

He approaches Izgûr from behind, grabbing him, placing his own dagger at his throat.

“Do not move an inch if you know what’s good for you,” he hisses.

Izgûr freezes.

“You!”

Valandil snorts.

“Never expected to see me again since I was tossed out of the Sea Guard. Funny, I always thought you would be the one to go. Well, in a fair world, you would have.”

Izgûr struggles, and Valandil tightens his grip.

“I think it’s time we had a long talk about Isildur,” he says.

Izgûr freezes. He is glaring at Estrid.

“You knew,” he accuses. “You tricked me.”

“Are you alright, Estrid?” Valandil asks.

Estrid nods curtly.

“Where’s Isildur?” she demands. “You said you knew where he was.”

Izgûr has resumed his struggles.

“You tricked me!” he snaps at Estrid.

“Well, you wanted to trick me as well, so forgive me for not feeling too remorseful, master Izgûr. Where is Isildur?”

Izgûr spits at Estrid’s feet, muttering curses. Valandil tightens his hold.

“Do not make me repeat the question. I won’t be friendly. We’ll take you away from here, and then I’ll make sure you tell me everything you know and more.”

He is banking on Izgûr being a lot like Kemen. Privileged and a coward who is lost when overpowered, even if he could be dangerous if underestimated. But Valandil has learned his lesson. He is not going to underestimate Izgûr.

“You won’t do anything to me,” Izgûr taunts. “You lot – you do not have the stomach for it.”

Valandil twists his arm. Izgûr nearly screams, but Valandil covers his mouth.

“Tell me again what I don’t have the stomach for,” he snarls.

He remembers Kemen, after all, and he knows he cannot afford to be kind. It is why he volunteered to be the one asking questions about Isildur. Because he would not want this on anyone else from Andúnië. Especially not Anárion. Anárion would probably resort to such tactics if he was desperate enough – and with Isildur in danger, he would be – but Valandil does not want to put something like this on his shoulders.

“You lot have been torturing my dearest friend for two years, so don’t think I’d have remorse about causing you pain, Izgûr. Because I’ll tear you apart limb from limb if you don’t tell me where Isildur is. And I can do that. Just ask Kemen.”

In some twisted way, Valandil finds he is enjoying this. It feels as if he is taking some of his own back. He remembers the Shrine, and the broken relic and Kemen about to hit Elendil. He remembers the moment Kemen stabbed him when his back was turned, almost killing him. He had meant to kill – Valandil knows this. What he is doing to Izgûr, it is only retribution.

“I won’t ask again,” he threatens Izgûr, who gasps and splutters.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, we captured him, curse you! And curse him! There’s nothing you can do about it. He’ll rot in that dungeon.”

Valandil shakes him slightly, then pushes him against the wall and turns him to face them. He is careful to keep his blade at Izgûr’s throat.

“The palace dungeon?” he asks.

Izgûr laughs brokenly.

“Oh, no. No, it is a new dungeon. Built under a new building. A school that teaches Ar-Pharazôn’s wisdom.”

Valandil snorts.

“I do not even want to know.”

“There’s a labyrinth beneath it,” Izgûr goes on. “It’s complex. Intricate. Isildur’s is the only cell there occupied.”

Valandil swallows, feeling sick. Dimly, he hears Estrid’s barely suppressed whimper. Izgûr notices their distress and smirks.

“And do you want to know who designed the labyrinth?” he taunts. “Well, she does not know what it’s for, of course. That is…rumors say she doesn't know.”

Valandil gasps.

“Eärien,” he whispers brokenly.

He thinks of how Elendil will take the news. He fervently hopes the rumors are true, and Eärien indeed does not know. Yet Valandil has no idea who to trust these days. He trusts those of Andúnië, but he cannot trust anyone else. Not even Eärien.

Izgûr glares at him.

“I’ve told you all I know. I assume you’ll let me go now.”

Valandil does not hesitate. He lifts his fist and punches Izgûr, who goes limp and falls to the ground as soon as Valandil lets him go.

“What have you done?” Estrid gasps.

“He’s alive,” Valandil reassures her. “He’ll sleep for a while. Which will give us time to flee before he raises the alarm.”

Estrid bites her lips, looking worried.

“What if he talks?” she asks. “Won’t they know we’re looking for Isildur? Won’t they try to move him?”

Or worse. But she does not mention what could be worse, and Valandil finds himself appreciating her for that.

“I doubt he’ll talk.”

Estrid tilts her head.

“Why not?”

Valandil smiles grimly.

“Because then he will have to admit he broke and revealed all those secrets to us,” he says. “As soon as he does that, he’s dead. And he knows it.”

It is strange to find himself thankful for the cruelty of the Kingsmen, for their disregard of life, even towards their own. Because this might be what will keep Isildur alive in the next few days.

                         xxxxXXXXXXxxx

Elendil is relieved when Valandil and Estrid return. Estrid looks shaken and upset, and she does not say much. Valandil draws Elendil aside and tells him everything they have managed to find out.

“At least we know for sure that Isildur is indeed a prisoner,” Valandil finishes. “And that he is still alive.”

Elendil nods.

“And we also know where he is,” he says.

His heart feels heavy. The notion that Isildur is kept in a building designed by Eärien…he does not want to think about it. He is certain that Eärien does not know – but this might make matters worse in a way.

He notices Valandil watching him with open concern. He tries to smile.

“Well done, Lieutenant. Now we can proceed with the next step of our plan. Or, at least, I can.”

Valandil frowns.

“And that is…?”

Elendil straightens his shoulders.

“The time has come for a meeting I have been putting off for two years.”

He needs to see Eärien. And he finally has a clear reason to go to her.

Chapter Text

Eärien returns to her home late into the night, as she usually does. There is a lot of work for her to do, especially as Ar-Pharazôn now wants to turn his attention to the rest of Númenor, rebuild other cities, make them great and bright and powerful. It will start in the north, with Belzagar’s domains. After all, there is a reason why Belzagar has been hanging on the king’s coattails all those years. Eärien shakes her head. The thought is unkind. A lot of people are saying this, but Eärien is a close ally to both the king and Belzagar. And she should not be thinking such things.

The house is quiet. Eärien leans against the door and closes her eyes. She remembers the time when the house was never quiet, when she could walk in and hear Isildur arguing with Elendil – not always in conflict with each other, but more because the two of them both enjoyed a good debate now and then – or Valandil and Ontamo on one of their evening visits laughing with Isildur and Anárion. She remembers her father talking about his most recent voyage, or counselling one of the youngsters from the Old Quarter who wanted to join the Sea Guard.

Eärien swallows against that memory. With the Faithful gone or practicing their rites in secret, the community spirit of the Old Quarter has also faded. Now everything is cold and impersonal. People still interact with each other, but Eärien has the distinct impression that she is being isolated. Because of who she is. Because of her success. Because of her family.

It has not taken Eärien long to realize that she had been wrong. She had once thought the society in Armenelos rejected her simply because they believed her to be just as Faithful as her family. Yet the truth is – they would have rejected her anyway. Because many in Armenelos are contemptuous creatures, envious of others’ success and always longing for more advantages for them and them alone.

Eärien shakes her head. She does not know why she is so maudlin. After all, she has everything she wants. Or…almost everything.

Her father’s house has remained her own. She received a letter from Elendil after Míriel’s marriage to Pharazôn and the dispensation given to the Faithful. Elendil had given her the house, because, after all, she is his heir, too, and since Elendil is never returning to Armenelos, it is much better for the house to remain in the family.

Ar-Pharazôn has suggested many times that Eärien could take up rooms at the palace. After all, she was a Chancellor now, she was entitled to them. Eärien has refused every time. She asked once whether Ar-Pharazôn needed to confiscate her father’s house, but Ar-Pharazôn had said that it was not necessary. He would have given it to someone on the council anyway, and, if Eärien wanted to remain there, then it was less bother for everyone involved.

Eärien sometimes suspects another motive. She thinks that, if there are still secret Faithful in Armenelos, they might come to her. Eärien doubts this. She has burned too many bridges with the Faithful. They have no reason to trust her.

She takes several steps inside the silent house, then stops. Her heart starts pounding. There is someone there. She knows this. She has no idea how, as the door was locked, but she is certain that she is not alone.

Eärien fumbles with a candle, until she is finally able to make her shaking hands work long enough for her to light it. Then, she takes the small dagger that she now wears all the time – a gift from Belzagar, who thinks that someone might come from Andúnië to assassinate her, even though Eärien has always disagreed with this assessment, because she knows for certain that Elendil would never sanction this. Her father might never forgive her, but he most certainly does not want her dead.

Clutching the dagger in one hand and the candle in the other, Eärien advances further into the house. Her thoughts are scattered. She does not know who it could be, except that, for a moment, she thinks of Isildur. Yet this is ridiculous. Isildur is dead. And the dead do not return to visit the living – no matter how much the living want to see them again.

Eärien enters her father’s study, dagger at the ready. She freezes in the threshold when she notices the tall figure. Sighing, she lowers her knife.

“Father,” she whispers. “I thought you were an intruder.”

Elendil looks contrite.

“Forgive me,” he says. “I did not mean to frighten you. I would not have snuck up like this in the dark, but…”

He stops and gives a helpless shrug. Eärien understands what remains unspoken.

I would not have snuck up like this, but I am forced to sneak in like a burglar in the house that used to be mine and see my daughter in secret because Pharazôn won’t accept my beliefs.

Eärien is glad that he does not say it. It isn’t that he would be telling a lie. But these are things that you do not tell. These are matters that you do not admit. At least, not in Armenelos. Here you pretend the Faithful do not exist. Or that they do, but they have isolated themselves voluntarily. The word “exile” in connection with them is frowned upon and considered in poor taste.

“What are you doing here?” Eärien asks. “I haven’t seen you in two years. Why now?”

Elendil has not cut her off completely. He still writes to her, perhaps more than Eärien thinks, because every letter that comes from Andúnië is opened first by a special branch of the palace guards and passed on to its intended receiver only if deemed appropriate. Eärien sometimes writes back. As far as she knows, her letters are not checked for inappropriate content.

Eärien searches her father’s face. He looks different. Older. Careworn. Bowed down by his responsibilities. And yet, at the same time, he also looks better. There is a glimmer in his eyes. He holds himself with pride and confidence. As if he is exactly where he was meant to be.

But there is more, she thinks. He looks as if something has happened. As if he has something to tell her. She does not know what she wants to do with this moment. If she wants to ask Elendil to stay, or if she should send him away. By law, she should call the guards on him. Any Faithful caught in Armenelos should be reported. But how is Eärien to send her own father to the dungeons?

Eärien notices Elendil make a half-aborted movement towards her, and she knows he would like to embrace her, but is not certain whether she wants that or not, and Elendil is not one to impose himself on anyone. In truth – Eärien does not know what she wants. She misses her father’s embraces, but in a detached, abstract way. It is like she misses the Eärien of old, who would enjoy her father’s embraces. She is not certain if this new Eärien does – and she is even less certain whether this new Eärien deserves them in the first place.

“Why are you here, Father?” she asks. “Surely it was not because you were nostalgic for your old house.”

Elendil shakes his head.

“We can talk freely?” he asks uncertainly.

Eärien shrugs.

“I live alone. But come upstairs to my room. I’ll close the window if you’re afraid we might be overheard.”

Elendil follows her. True to her world, Eärien closes the window and draws the curtains shut for good measure. Elendil bends down to light the fire, even though Eärien has not asked him.

“We will need warmth for what I have to tell you,” he says.

Eärien already feels cold.

“What is it?” she asks.

She searches through her mind for what could have brought Elendil here. Nothing good comes to her.

“Is it grandfather?” she finally asks. “Is he…?”

Only a few days ago, Belzagar asked Eärien about Amandil. Eärien was surprised, but she had told him that she heard about him from time to time from Elendil’s letters. Amandil has written no letters to her. She had not mentioned that this was probably because he considered Eärien a traitor to the family.

“But what about his health?” Belzagar had insisted. “He is old, yes?”

The question had taken Eärien aback. Amandil was a descendant of Elros, after all, just like Pharazôn. They were usually long-lived and healthy until the end.

“He is not that old,” Eärien had protested. “At least, no older than Ar-Pharazôn.”

She had stopped then, because Ar-Pharazôn did not like to be reminded that he was getting old.

Now, as she looks back on that unusual conversation, Eärien wonders uneasily whether Belzagar had not been aware that something might have been wrong with Amandil.

“He is well,” she adds. “Isn’t he?”

Elendil straightens up. He looks slightly taken aback by Eärien’s question.

“What? Yes, of course he is well.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Eärien insists.

Elendil motions for her to sit down. Eärien sits on the edge of her rocking chair, heart beating.

“What is it, Father?” she asks.

Elendil takes a deep breath.

“This…this will come as a shock,” he warns her. “But we will find a way through this. Yes?”

Eärien nods, dazed. She could mention to Elendil that she has not been part of their family for two years, and it is strange to hear him talking about them finding a way through something together. But she is too frightened of what might come to say anything.

“I know you designed a building with a labyrinth beneath it,” Elendil says. “Two years ago. Yes?”

Eärien blinks.

“Right after you left,” she says. “Ar-Pharazôn wanted it to be built very quickly. I think it was ready in less than six months. But – it’s just a schoolhouse. What’s it to you?”

Given how Elendil looks, Eärien is taken aback by the question. She would not have imagined Elendil would be here to talk about her buildings. Surely there is more to this.

“Do you know its purpose?”

There is something in her father’s tone that sets Eärien on edge. He is controlled, but it is not his usual self-control. He looks as if he is trying very hard to keep himself together.

“It’s a schoolhouse,” Eärien repeats. “And the labyrinth is supposed to be an endurance test. A trial. You know, like the Sea Trials for the cadets.”

She falls silent, because talk of the Sea Guard brings back memories she does not want to dwell on. Especially not with Elendil there.

“That is not its purpose,” Elendil tells her. “It’s supposed to be a dungeon.”

Eärien springs up.

“Father, that is absurd. We already have dungeons.”

Elendil’s face is set in stone. Eärien wishes she could be like Isildur – who always seemed to know what their father was thinking.

“Anyway, what kind of prisoner would they keep there?” she argues, trying to remain reasonable. “Unless you’re trying to tell me they want to capture Sauron himself and put him there…”

“It’s already occupied,” Elendil cuts her off. “The dungeon. There is already a prisoner there.”

Eärien freezes.

“What are you talking about? Who do you think is there, Father?”

Elendil hesitates.

“Tell me the truth,” Eärien urges. “You’ve never been one to beat about the bush like this. There is no reason to do so now. Tell me who it is. Give me their name.”

Elendil closes his eyes briefly. When he answers, though, he is looking straight at Eärien, and what she sees in his eyes makes Eärien’s heart shrink, because it cannot be so, it cannot be.

“Isildur,” Elendil whispers. “It’s Isildur, and he has been there probably since the construction was finished.”

Eärien clenches her fists.

“How dare you?” she hisses. “Isildur is dead!”

Elendil flinches, but Eärien goes on.

“He is dead. He burned to death in the Southlands, and it’s your precious queen and your precious Elves who caused his death.”

There are tears in the corner of Eärien’s eyes, and she hates her father for bringing her grief to light in such a manner.

“I never thought you could be cruel,” she accuses.

Elendil springs up. He takes a step towards her, but Eärien moves away.

“I never thought you would…I never thought you would do this.”

Elendil’s face is pale, and Eärien knows her words are hurting him, but she hurts as well, and she cannot stop.

“Eärien, would I ever trick you with something like this? Would I ever lie to you about something like this?”

Eärien closes her eyes. Her father does not lie, and she knows that. He tells the truth even when it is harsh and dark and unpleasant. Even when it is something like this.

“How could you possibly know?” she asks. “It can’t be. It simply can’t be.”

Elendil looks at her in that way of his, the one full of compassion and understanding, as if he knows what is in Eärien’s mind and why she is reacting like this. And Eärien almost hates him for this.

“You can’t…” she tries again. “It can’t be true.”

Because, if it is, what does that say about her? if it is true, what has she done to her beloved brother?

“That labyrinth, it can’t be for him.”

Elendil looks away.

“When they had you design it, what did they say?”

Eärien is about to refuse to play this game. Only…her father does not play games. Now, she knows who does, even though she closes her eyes to the evidence in front of her, even though she pretends not to see, because how is she supposed to live with herself, otherwise?

Yet, if this is about Isildur, if there is a chance that Isildur…Eärien cannot walk away from this. She might want to, but she cannot.

Almost against her will, she finds her mind going back to that day almost two years ago, when Pharazôn and Belzagar called her to them to talk about the schoolhouse and the labyrinth. And the more she remembers, the more her horror grows.

                    xxxXXXXxxxx

The arrests of the Faithful had taken place a week before. Eärien had heard nothing from her father since that night, but she assumed he had reached Andúnië by now. She did not expect news from him too soon. He would have to find a way to reach her without drawing Pharazôn’s attention.

Eärien felt lonely. She had not expected to feel this way, not when she was so fulfilled. But the other chancellors and the folks from the Guild looked at her askance, as if she was an intruder, as if they did not really trust her – which was ironic, given how she had betrayed her family’s legacy for a place among them.

One evening, Ar-Pharazôn and Belzagar came to see her. Eärien was surprised by the visit. Usually, the king called people to him. He did not come to visit them.

“Have I done something?” she asked cautiously.

Her heart was pounding. What if they had found out how she had warned her father? What if they had come to arrest her?

Yet Pharazôn had smiled, kind and paternal, and perhaps Eärien had been deluding herself all along that he was not trying to use her, because Pharazôn never smiled like that at his own son, so why should he smile at her?

“You have not done anything, of course,” he had told her. “Yet – we still wish to talk to you.”

Eärien was feeling slightly self-conscious, to have the king and lord Belzagar in her humble little dwelling place. When they had moved to Armenelos, Elendil could have obviously afforded something bigger and more lavish and closer to the palace. Yet Elendil was Elendil, never one for lavish or luxurious. He had chosen a house on the docks, in the Old Quarter, still with the Faithful even though Isildur and Anárion kept on accusing him of deserting his people. Eärien had never really minded the house. It served its purpose, big enough so they did not trip over each other all the time, but small enough to be cozy and intimate. And, if she was being honest with herself, she was not one for lavish or luxurious, either.

Still, now that Pharazôn and Belzagar were standing there, the house looked terribly inadequate. Eärien blushed, wondering what they might be thinking of her.

“Have you heard from your father?” Ar-Pharazôn asked.

Eärien tensed, then shook her head.

“No,” she said, and that was the truth – she had not heard from him since she had helped him escape, and she was certain the reason why Elendil kept silent was exactly so she could tell Pharazôn there had been no contact with him.

Belzagar’s eyes are searching but not disbelieving. Eärien forced herself to relax.

“Well, it isn’t as if we do not know where he is,” Belzagar said.

Eärien remained silent. Yes, they all knew, but she was not going to be the one confirming it.

“By now he’s probably sought sanctuary in Andúnië,” Pharazôn agreed. “And, of course, he would be granted it.”

Eärien bit her lips.

“So – what will you do?” she asked.

She tried to keep her voice calm. Tried to pretend they weren’t talking about the man who had raised her.

Pharazôn waved a hand in the air, as if the matter was no longer of much concern to him.

“Many things can change,” he said. “And we are not really here to discuss your missing father, Eärien. We can see that you have severed ties with him.”

Eärien did not answer. Had she? She supposed it was true. She didn’t want it to be true, but…that was what she had done by choosing Pharazôn’s side, hadn’t she?

Pharazôn reached out and took her hand. The touch was kind, and she shivered.

“We know that you have suffered much in so short a time. Your brother…you loved him dearly, yes?”

Eärien closed her eyes. She pictured Isildur’s face the last time she had seen him. The twinkle in his eyes. He had been happy. That day, marching on the street of Armenelos, he had been so happy.

She opened her eyes again and blinked against the tears. She couldn’t weep in front of the king. That was unseemly. And yet, Pharazôn was looking at her as if he understood, and Belzagar was also so kind, and she thought that they truly cared about her grief.

“What if we offered you something?" Belzagar asked. “Something you could see as a way to honor him? You mentioned once he was the one who urged you to reapply to the Guild after their initial – and rather hasty, I might add – rejection.”

Eärien nodded quickly.

“Yes,” she said, her voice breaking slightly. “That…that was Isil through and through. Always looking after us.”

Belzagar smiled indulgently.

“He would have been proud of you,” he said. “If you were given an important project, he would have been proud.”

Eärien tried to picture Isildur’s face. It was strange, but he could picture him more often than not disappointed and not proud. She supposed she deserved it – she had deposed the Queen in his name, knowing fully well that he would have disagreed. Yet she had been angry – at him as well. Perhaps, especially at him. He was the one who had left.

She did not say any of this to her guests. They did not need to know this.

“I suppose so,” she said instead.

She noticed Belzagar and Pharazôn exchanging brief looks. She could not read what was behind them but started to feel inexplicably nervous.

“We would like you to design something for us,” Pharazôn told her. “A schoolhouse of a sorts, where Númenóreans can be educated in a manner that is different from the old ways. And beneath the building, we would have a labyrinth.”

“A labyrinth,” Eärien repeated, slightly puzzled.

“Think of it as an endurance test,” Pharazôn went on. “Something that will help young Númenóreans prove their worth. Something better than the Sea Trials.”

Eärien thought of that. It sounded impressive. Not many her age would have been asked to design something like this.

“We want it done quickly,” Belzagar said. “In a few months. But that won’t be a problem to you, will it? It will take your mind of your grief.”

Eärien looked away.

“I suppose.”

Pharazôn took her hand again.

“Do it for your brother,” he said. “Do it in his honor. In his memory.”

                     xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Do it for your brother. In his honor. In his memory.

Eärien remembers the words with absolute clarity. And now, she knows what they mean. Now, she knows what they had done to her. What they had made her do. They had used her. They had pretended to comfort her. They had been so sympathetic. So kind. And all the while…all the while they had known the truth. How they must have laughed at her!

She has done this to Isildur. Unknowingly, unwillingly, she has been complicit to his imprisonment. Do it for your brother…Gods, what have they made her do!

The thoughts send her in a panic. Her heart pounds, and the bitterness in her throat wells up until she nearly chokes on it. She staggers to the small basinet at the end of the room and is violently ill. The world greys around the edges for a while, or so she thinks, because she cannot concentrate on anything else save the roaring in her ears and the horror of her thoughts.

Hands are on her, hands that have always been gentle and kind and competent, the touch so very different from Ar-Pharazôn’s pretense at tenderness, that Eärien cannot believe she has ever fallen for it. She finds herself on the bed, with Elendil close by, running a wet cloth over her face. He has been calling her name, she thinks.

He looks devastated, Eärien notices. Heartbroken and concerned and so, so very tired. Yet he doesn’t look angry, and this surprises Eärien.

“You aren’t going to say it,” she mumbles.

At the sound of her voice, Elendil’s eyes focus on hers.

“There you are,” he says, slightly breathless. “You gave me quite a fright.”

He helps her sit up and gives her water, and Eärien wonders how much time she had lost – enough for Elendil to leave the room and fetch water, it seems.

“You aren’t,” she says again. “You really aren’t going to say it, are you?”

“Say what?”

Elendil sounds distracted, but Eärien knows his attention is all focused on her, concerned about her wellbeing – truly concerned, not simply pretending to get something out of her just like Pharazôn and Belzagar. And Eärien is not really sure whether she deserves this.

“That you’ve told me so,” she finally answers. “That you were right, and I was wrong.”

Elendil’s eyes widen slightly.

“Eärien…” he begins, then stops, shaking his head. “This does not matter at all right now.”

Eärien frowns. Her father forgives too easily. He shouldn’t.

“I think it matters very much,” she insists.

Elendil shakes his head.

“It really doesn't. Drink some more water. Catch your breath.”

Eärien takes the goblet but does not drink.

“I am alright,” she says.

She is better than Isildur, at any rate, she thinks. And most likely he is not given water every time he needs it. She swallows against another wave of nausea.

“I am not alright,” Elendil confesses, which surprises Eärien, because Elendil usually keeps his own torments to himself. “No one would be. Not with…not with those tidings.”

“They told me,” Eärien feels the need to confess. “In a way.”

Elendil frowns.

“What do you mean?”

Eärien bites her lip. She blinks several times, annoyed at the tears in the corner of her eyes, because she knows if she starts crying, her father will try to comfort her, and she really does not deserve it. Not after everything.

“They pretended to comfort me,” Eärien says. “To understand my sorrow. They said…about the schoolhouse and the labyrinth, that I should do it for my brother. In his honor, they said. In his memory.”

Her voice breaks. Elendil’s eyes are full of horror.

“Eärien,” he whispers, and Eärien realizes that he sounds just as broken as she does.

“They…they used me to design my own brother’s prison and…it is almost as if they turned it into a game.”

She cannot speak anymore. She wishes to leave the room, to flee, she knows not where, maybe to Pharazôn to claw at his face and beat at his chest and demand justice and vengeance, maybe simply just as far away from Númenor as possible.

Eärien cannot go anywhere, though. Elendil pulls her towards him and holds her tight, and Eärien drives away the thoughts that she might not be worthy of this, because she knows something like this had never mattered to Elendil.

Elendil’s arms are tight and safe around her, just like Eärien remembers them to be, except that he is trembling as he holds her close, but that does not really matter, because she is shaking too, the horror of it all too overwhelming to bear.

                 xxxXXXXxxxx

Eärien doesn’t know how long she sits like this. She wishes Elendil could hold on to her forever. She wishes the world could stop, and that only this could remain, she and her father, holding on to each other. Pharazôn has talked a lot about eternity, and he has done so in his usual manner, mesmerizing Eärien, making her think that he is reasonable and wise. Yet now she wonders if Pharazôn could ever understand the true value of what should be eternal. Because this is the only eternity Eärien wants.

She is the first to pull away. She does not want to, but there are pressing matters to discuss, and the world has to keep turning whether she wants to or not. When she notices the look on Elendil’s face, she flinches. He is stricken and angry – but she knows that he is angry on her behalf, and she does not know what to do with that.

“I suppose you are here to ask me for the plans to the labyrinth,” she says.

There is no question in her mind that Elendil intends to rescue Isildur.

Elendil dips his head.

“It would be incredibly helpful, yes,” he concedes. “Especially if it is a maze, designed to make sure any intruder loses himself inside.”

Eärien feels a jolt of anger.

“I did not design it for that purpose,” she says sharply. “I thought this was supposed to be an endurance test. A puzzle. And because they asked me to make it in Isildur’s honor, I thought – why not? Isil always enjoyed a good puzzle.”

Enjoys a good puzzle, she reminds herself. He is still alive. Or, at least, Elendil thinks he is still alive. Eärien finds herself trembling. How is she supposed to do it? How can she pass from grief to relief so quickly? And, it is not even relief, because Isildur might be alive, but he is far from safe.

“I do not have the plans here,” she tells Elendil. “They do not allow the architects to keep plans in their homes – only at the Guild’s headquarters. Probably for situations like this, I would say. I can go now to the headquarters and bring them to you.”

Eärien had expected Elendil to agree. To her surprise, he shakes his head.

“Not unless you make it a regular occurrence to go to the Guild’s headquarters at night,” he says.

Eärien tenses.

“The sooner you have those plans, the sooner you can rescue Isildur.”

Elendil places a hand on her shoulder. He looks tormented and gnawed by worry and by choices that would be impossible for anyone.

“Listen to me,” Elendil says. “If we want any rescue attempt to succeed, then we need to be careful. You doing something that is out of habit is going to draw suspicion, and we cannot have that. In fact, bringing me the plans would be dangerous. What if someone discovers they are missing?”

Eärien understands what is in Elendil’s mind. She knows he is right.

“I could draw them for you,” she says. “I remember most of it. After all, it came from my mind. It would take time, though, and I will need to look over the final plans at the Guild…”

It could take days. And all this time, Isildur…

Elendil seems satisfied with her answer.

“Do it as soon as you can, but be careful,” he advises her. “Valandil will come to you in a few days. Have the plans ready by then.”

Eärien feels her throat go dry.

“Valandil,” she says. “I see.”

She hasn’t seen Valandil since that day on the docks. He had been sent to Andúnië even before the arrest of the Faithful, before the Trial by Abyss, while he had still been suffering from the wound Kemen had inflicted on him in Shrine. For a long time, she had thought he might have died, but then she had begun to hear rumors of Valandil entering Armenelos in secret, as a spy for the Faithful. Unconfirmed and vague rumors, as otherwise Pharazôn would have done something about it. Yet it seems the rumors are true.

“Then it might take a while,” she says. “Before we can free Isildur.”

Elendil puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Eärien, every instinct in me is urging me to go to that schoolhouse now, at this very moment and try to set him free. But we cannot walk in blindly. It will do nothing but have him killed. And he’s survived this long, Eärien. I cannot be the one who brings him death.”

Except, Eärien thinks, and she cannot believe that such thoughts could cross her mind – except that every day Isildur spends in that dungeon is a day of torment. Except that, if they can get him out – in any way – perhaps they should try that too.

She meets Elendil’s eyes and is astonished to realize that he knows what is in her mind.

“I thought of that, too,” Elendil confesses. “I thought of trying to get him out even without a clear plan. If we’re caught and he is… at least that would put an end to his suffering.”

He turns his back on Eärien, and she can see that his shoulders are shaking. Eärien wishes she could go and comfort him, that she could go give to him what he’s given to her so freely. Yet she finds herself rooted to the spot, unable to make a sound.

Elendil seems to recover. When he turns back to face Eärien, his eyes are clear.

“It would be unfair to Isildur,” he says firmly. “He’s survived this long. When we break him out, I want him to have the best chances of surviving that we can give him. He deserves this much from us.”

Eärien nods quickly.

“Of course. I will give you the plans – well, give them to Valandil.”

Elendil hesitates.

“You do know that… when Isildur escapes, I do not think it will be safe for you here. They will suspect you first and foremost. I do not want to leave you in a place where you are in so much danger.”

Eärien feels dizzy.

“Where am I supposed to go, Father?”

Elendil approaches her and takes her hands in his.

“Come home, Eärien,” he whispers.

There is a slight pleading note in his voice. Enough to stop Eärien from pointing out that she is not certain that Andúnië has ever been home to her.

“But I’ve done so much to the Faithful,” she reminds him. “Who will welcome me in Andúnië?”

Elendil’s grip tightens.

“We will,” he says, almost fiercely. “As for the rest…it might take time with the rest, but…we can make it work.”

Eärien looks away.

“You do not ask me which side I will be on,” she says.

Elendil lets her go.

“I do not have to,” he says.

The conviction in his voice takes Eärien aback. She meets his eyes, and they are clear – free of any doubt.

“I am more than certain that you would not be on the side of those who used you in such a manner – of those who are doing what they are doing to Isildur.”

There’s so much faith in her father’s voice, that Eärien wishes she could see herself as Elendil sees her. More than anything, she wishes she could say with certainty that she would have switched sides even if the person being harmed in such a manner wasn’t Isildur. She wishes she could say there are lines Pharazôn would never be able to convince her to cross. But she does not know. She really doesn’t know.

                         xxxXXXXxxxx

Elendil makes ready to leave soon after. Eärien asks him to wait first, and she opens the door and steps out into the street. It is empty. The soldiers will be patrolling the Old Quarter later on, but there are still a few hours left until then.

“We have a curfew,” Eärien explains. “Well, of a sort. Chancellors and heads of guilds are allowed to move freely. Others… Ar-Pharazôn suspects there might still be Faithful in Armenelos – or people who support the Faithful. Moving about at night is discouraged.”

“I see,” Elendil says, voice cold.

The coldness is not directed at her – Eärien is very much aware of this. Elendil is angry at Pharazôn and his policies, and he is within his right to be so. And yet, Eärien cannot help feeling guilty. Because she’s accepted Pharazôn’s changes without question. And now she sees with different eyes – how they are reshaping Númenor indeed, but not in a shape she would have ever agreed with. How they are twisting and corrupting everything that was good about the Island Kingdom.

“Are you going home now?” she asks Elendil.

She senses Elendil’s hesitation and feels cold.

“Where do you intend to go now if not home?”

Elendil shakes his head.

“I need to see Míriel,” he confesses.

Eärien grabs him abruptly and draws him back inside, shutting the door.

“What?” she cries. “Do you know how risky that is? Father, if they catch you…”

Elendil squeezes her hand.

“They won’t,” he assures her. “I have my ways.”

Eärien shakes her head.

“But…” she tries to protest.

Seeing Míriel is an unnecessary risk in her mind. What could Elendil hope to accomplish with this?

“Listen to me,” Elendil says. “Míriel might not have much authority, even now when she is married to Pharazôn and supposedly rules with him.”

Eärien nods fiercely.

“Supposedly is right, Father,” she agrees. “Zimraphel’s powers are limited, and we all know this.”

“But she still has some authority, and she still has some support, even among the Chancellors and Heads of Guild. Right?”

Eärien shrugs. Míriel’s feat at the Trial by Abyss has not been forgotten. And while some have gone along with Pharazôn’s explanation that she had been aided by Sauron, not many had really believed that. Eärien is not sure she has truly believed it, either.

“Well, what of it?” she asks.

“Eärien, if Isildur is to be rescued, I need to make sure that he will remain safe afterwards. That he will not be arrested and dragged back to the dungeons or knifed in the street or…if I am to do this for him, then I have to do this properly. I need an ally in the palace. Someone to speak for me. Someone to speak for him.”

“She will not be able to persuade Pharazôn to free him,” Eärien points out.

“Of course not,” Elendil agrees. “I am talking about what happens to Isildur after he is freed. He will come with me to Andúnië, yes, but as an escaped prisoner, all I can promise him is a life in hiding, and I cannot accept that.”

Eärien understands. Elendil and most of the other Faithful have been left alone in Andúnië because of an understanding Pharazôn has with Amandil. They are fine as long as they remain in the west. Yet Elendil has outwardly sought sanctuary from Amandil before he was formally arrested a second time. With Isildur, it would be different. With Isildur, he would be an escaped prisoner, and Pharazôn could drag him back whenever he wants to.

“And you think Zimraphel will help you?” she challenges.

“I think Míriel will try,” Elendil says tightly. “And I have to try as well. Otherwise, what do I have?”

Eärien hears the desperation in Elendil’s voice and finally understands that this is not only about saving Isildur. It is about making sure that Isildur gets to remain safe for a long time afterwards.

“What about the Faithful ships?” Eärien asks.

Elendil’s eyes become clouded.

“How do you mean?” he demands, voice sharp.

“Well, there are rumors,” Eärien points out. “That Faithful ships are sailing away again. To Middle-earth. Leaving for good. I would not want Isildur to leave, but Pharazôn will not pursue him in Middle-earth, and if you have settlements there…”

She has also heard that many of those ships are seized and confiscated by Pharazôn, but she is certain that Elendil will take every precaution to keep Isildur safe during the journey to Middle-earth.

Yet, by the way Elendil is shaking his head, Eärien realizes that he has no intention of sending Isildur anywhere.

“I have thought of the possibility,” he admits. “And I will put it forward to Isildur. But I am more than certain Isildur will not want to go anywhere.”

Eärien clenches her fists, anger and concern battling inside her.

“Then knock him out and throw him on one of those ships anyway,” she snaps.

She knows she has said the wrong thing, but it is too late to take it back.

Elendil’s face is grey.

“I think he’s had enough of being knocked about and dragged to places where he doesn’t want to be,” he retorts. “Don’t you?”

Eärien recoils.

“My words were ill-chosen,” she admits.

She hears Elendil sighs.

“There was no malice in them,” he allows. “But Eärien…if we do free Isildur…his wants, his choices are going to be very important. He has spent two years without… I want to give him back the ability to choose for himself, Eärien. Because that is what freedom means.”

His voice breaks, and Eärien understands that this is just as difficult for Elendil, that he is fighting with every instinct he has, that he himself would take Isildur somewhere safe, whether Isildur wants to or not, but this would do more harm than good to Isildur.

“I understand,” she says. “I… you can count on me, Father.”

Elendil smiles and pulls her towards him again. He holds her as he always does, firm and tight.

“I know,” he assures her. “I know I can.”

It is forgiveness of a sort, but it is more. It is a blessing. A homecoming. And Eärien relishes it, even as she doubts her father should give it to her so readily.

Chapter Text

Isildur has no idea whether it’s night or day outside – time does not exist in this place. He does not have a way to measure it – or he has, but it is not pleasant. He knows that a few weeks must pass between each of his…interrogations, for want of a better word. That isn’t surprising. They need to give him time to recover first. If he’s too weak, he won’t last enough. He’ll lose consciousness too quickly – or even die. And they do not want to kill him. They want him to reveal whatever secrets of the Faithful he knows.

He thinks of what Belzagar told him – that Amandil is dead. He cannot know whether this is true, though, can he? They could say anything to him. Anything to break him. That does not make what they are saying true. What Pharazôn told him recently, that he has been locked up for two years – that cannot be true, either, can it? He doesn’t feel two years older. He doesn't… he can’t have missed that much of his life in here. It is not possible. He cannot accept it.

Isildur is only certain of the first six months of his captivity, because these he spent in a cell in the palace dungeons. That had a window, and sunlight made its way through it from time to time. But, since he had been moved, there is no sunlight. There is only darkness. He knows only this room and the torture chamber. But he knows other things as well. He knows who made the labyrinth. And he thinks that can help him.

Isildur remembers clearly the day when he had been moved. He remembers his interrogation afterwards. He remembers everything he had found out then.

                         xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Isildur had felt confused and disoriented when he woke up one day to discover he was no longer in the palace dungeons. He recalled falling asleep soon after the evening dinner, in a manner that suggested someone might have drugged his food – or poisoned it, he had thought then, terrified that if he went to sleep, he would never wake up again. But, apparently, they had not wanted him dead. Just moved.

He tried to get up, fighting with the dizziness left over by whatever they had given him. He managed to stand, leaning against the wall. It was a wall of stone, he discovered, new stone, that had not been damaged yet by the passage of time. A new building, then.

There were no windows here. The room lay in complete darkness. The darkness disoriented Isildur. It had his nerves on edge. How could he tell whether he was alone? How could he tell if he was safe?

He stood there for a while, nearly holding his breath, honing his other senses, so he could determine where he was. He could not hear anything in his cell. Not even the scurrying of mice. The world outside was equally silent. The silence bothered him even more than the darkness. It made Isildur fear that he might have been dead.

Isildur moved away from the wall. He took three steps, but stopped, impeded by the chain keeping him tied to the wall. He turned and tried to wrench it free. He could not. Perhaps, in time, he could weaken the chain – but it would take time.

He shuddered. He was not that good with being patient, so his father had mentioned often enough. And, of course, Elendil was right. Isildur wanted things done as quickly and as efficiently as possible. But now, even if he had an escape plan, he would not be able to implement it, not for a long time.

Isildur sat down, laying his head on his knees. It wasn’t so bad, he told himself. Yes, he had been moved, and he was somewhere without light, without sound, where he could barely take three steps before the chains stopped him. And he had no idea how long it would take for his situation to change again. But that did not matter, he thought. It did not matter, because he would survive this as well. He would. He had to.

He was Isildur, the son of Elendil, and he was Faithful. And this was just one more hurdle that he needed to cross.

                             xxxXXXXxxxx

Isildur had been in his new dungeon for a while. He could not really tell how long – perhaps a month. Perhaps two. It was then that Kemen had returned to Númenor.

Isildur had been taken to another “interrogation”. He was surprised to notice that Pharazôn wasn’t there, and neither was Belzagar. When Kemen had walked in, all he could feel was anger.

Still, he tried to keep calm. Kemen would only be amused by his anger – and Isildur did not want to give him any satisfaction.

“Pelargir too much for you?” he taunted.

Kemen’s eyes flashed.

“What have you done to those wretched lowmen?” he snapped. “What have you told them?”

Isildur had not expected this – yet he supposed he should have. He had instructed the people of Pelargir as best he could during his stay. It was not only that, of course, before leaving, when he had realized how bad matters were going to get with Kemen there, Isildur had taken Theo aside and had given him some advice on how to handle things – the weapons they could hide, the people they could use, the steps they would need to take to form an eventual resistance against Kemen.

Of course, he had no intention of telling this to Kemen.

“Have you tried treating them with respect?” he asked mildly.

The torturer had walked in then. Isildur had tried not to look at him. Acting as if the torturer did not exist was his only way of keeping some semblance of control in his mind.

“Leave us for a bit,” Kemen ordered. “I wish to speak to him in confidence before you start on him.”

The torturer grunted. Isildur could sense that he was displeased. He had no idea what kind of conventions this sinister guild Pharazôn had set up followed. Still, Isildur had observed that neither Pharazôn nor Belzagar ever addressed the torturers. Perhaps they talked before entering the chamber, but in that room, Pharazôn and Belzagar talked only to Isildur. They did not even order the torturer what to do or when to stop or how much pain to inflict on Isildur. The torturer decided that himself.

Kemen’s action felt like the breaking of a social convention. Not that Isildur cared. But it was interesting to note. Kemen was dangerous, but he was a danger to himself, as well. And Pharazôn was not the type to put a son above his ambitions. If Kemen brought him shame or threatened him in any way, Pharazôn would not hesitate to act against him. and this, Isildur thought, this was good knowledge to have. Useful.

In the past, Isildur would not have been able to contemplate such things. He would have been completely incapable of imagining that a father would ever conceive of doing harm to his child, especially not for something as petty as advancement or title or position. But not every father was Elendil – Pharazôn most certainly wasn’t. Months spent with him in the torture chamber had taught Isildur the darker aspects of the world – even the darker aspects of Númenor, once considered so noble and so wise.

Kemen’s words brought Isildur back into the present.

“Do you remember Estrid?” Kemen asked, voice almost careless.

Isildur’s heart clenched. Belzagar had mentioned Estrid a few times, stressing how she might now think Isildur had abandoned her.

“Leave Estrid out of this,” he snarled at Kemen. “Your quarrel is with me.”

Kemen snickered.

“You’re easy to read, you know,” he said. “I’m surprised father has not uncovered all of your weaknesses by now.”

Isildur clenched his jaw.

“Why don’t you just get on with it?” he snapped.

If anything, Kemen looked even more amused.

“Why, I’ve never seen anyone so eager to endure pain before. One might ask what you’re afraid of. What you think I will say to you.”

Isildur did not answer. He knew that Kemen had mentioned Estrid for a reason, and he knew he did not want Kemen to talk about Estrid. Unfortunately, Kemen knew he did not want that, also.

“Estrid is gone,” Kemen announced.

For one moment, the world seemed to become black and cold, as Isildur asked himself what Kemen could have meant by “gone”. He knew Kemen wanted him to ask. He told himself he shouldn’t – he shouldn’t give Kemen any such satisfaction, it would count as a defeat, it would tell his enemies exactly what weaknesses he had and where they should hit. And yet – Isildur needed to know. He could not just leave it at that.

“What are you talking about?” he snarled. “Estrid is fine. She has to be.”

Because Isildur was not going to accept anything less. He was not going to accept a world where something had happened to Estrid. Not for anything.

“She’s gone,” Kemen repeated. “No one knows where. One day she was in Pelargir, the next she was gone. She took that horse of yours with her, you know.”

Isildur frowned. He did not understand. What could that mean?

Kemen was quick to tell Isildur what he thought that meant.

“Do you know what those low-men are saying? They’re saying your betrayal broke her mind. They’re saying she rode that horse of yours into the sea and drowned.”

Isildur felt nausea welling up in his throat.

“No,” he repeated hoarsely.

Not drowning, he prayed. Not Estrid. No.

The clearheaded part of his mind was telling him that Kemen had to be lying. Isildur knew Estrid. Estrid was a survivor, through and through. Just like him. She wouldn’t give in to despair like that. And she wouldn’t try to drown herself. Not after what she knew.

“Lies!” he told Kemen, and he hoped he sounded much more confident than he actually felt. “Estrid would never… Estrid is not like that.”

Kemen ignored him.

“Didn’t your mother also drown?” he asked, as if the question was an afterthought.

Isildur felt as if he had been stabbed.

“Do not you ever…” he began, when Kemen cut him short.

“Really, Isildur, has anyone wondered if you’re cursed? You bring bad luck wherever you go.”

Isildur fell silent. The words cut too close to his own thoughts, to his own self-loathing, his own moments of doubt after his mother’s drowning.

Kemen was no longer looking at Isildur. He was inspecting the walls of the torture chamber, a thoughtful look on his face. Isildur knew he was done talking, that soon he would call back the torturer and let him take other. At least, Isildur hoped so. Kemen’s words struck deeper than any physical blow.

“This is an interesting place, this dungeon,” Kemen said. “It was built especially to house the Faithful. Well, you’re the only one here now. But soon we might have your father here as well. And your grandfather.”

Don’t talk to him, Isildur told himself. Don’t respond. Don’t show him any anger.

Kemen’s eyes found his. Isildur felt his throat go dry. There was something on Kemen’s face, a knowledge meant to hurt Isildur more than anything else had hurt him before.

“But you know what makes this labyrinth special?” Kemen taunted. “Do you know that it was your own sister who built it? Poor Eärien. If she only knew.”

If Isildur had not been bound, he would have probably throttled Kemen then and there.

“Do not talk about Eärien,” he snapped. “Do not you even think about her.”

Kemen’s smirk showed his delight at rattling Isildur so.

“Oh, but I do  think about her, I think about her a lot, and there is nothing you can do to stop me, Isildur.”

Kemen approached him and bent down to whisper in Isildur’s ear:

“Do you know, my father told Eärien to build this place for you? Well, in your honor. But he wasn’t lying to her, was he? This place is for you. Only, she does not know what that really means. And she never will.”

Isildur had lost his temper then, anger blinding him to everything else. He hurled curses at Kemen and at Pharazôn, much to Kemen’s amusement.

After that day, Isildur had sworn never to speak to Kemen or Pharazôn or whoever else would be there during his torture sessions. He had managed to keep his vow. For the most part.

                                 xxxXXXXxxxx

Now, Isildur sits in his cell and thinks about what Kemen had told him. He thinks that, sometimes, ill intentions can bring something good with them. Eärien has made the labyrinth. Well, that has to mean something.

Isildur recalls one evening in Andúnië, visiting their grandfather. It was one of the few times when Eärien was not bothered by being away from the capital city and did not seem inclined to start a row with Amandil over his Faithful convictions. They were talking about buildings, as Eärien had announced that she was thinking of apprenticing with the Builders’ Guild when she grew up, as an architect. Amandil had congratulated Eärien on her choice, then had asked her what had prompted it.

“Well, you can learn a lot about a building,” Eärien had said. “Not only its purpose and its history, but also the minds of those who built it – and the mind of the one who designed it.”

Well, Isildur thinks, he knows quite a bit about the mind who designed the labyrinth. And, if it is true that Pharazôn had requested Eärien to design the labyrinth with Isildur in mind – well, then he can guess even more. Already, he knows the way to the torture chamber, and he knows that, when the guards arrive to bring him food, they arrive from the opposite direction.

Isildur presses himself against the wall and tries to move his leg. He bites his lips against the pain even the smallest movement causes him. He touches his knee and feels it swollen and hot to the touch even through the fabric of his clothes. He curses.

An escape right now would be impractical. He would be unable to move as quickly as he needs to in order to elude the guards. He could be killed.

The Isildur of old would have probably taken this chance. The Isildur of old would have seen this as a victory. It would have meant he was dying in battle.

Yet Isildur knows it is not enough. Isildur knows that, if he dies, his death would be used against Elendil. His father would suffer greatly when he found out the truth about him – especially if it is true that Amandil is also dead, especially if it’s true that Eärien designed the labyrinth. And Isildur cannot have this. He cannot do this to his father.

No, he thinks, if he breaks out, then it’s for one reason and one reason only. He is going home. And nothing and no one is going to stop him.

                          xxxxxXXXXxxxx

After leaving Eärien’s house – once his house as well – Elendil travels through secret ways towards the palace. It is risky to get so close to Pharazôn’s center of power. His own people are discouraged from such rash actions. But this is an emergency.

Elendil does not go straight to the palace but stops in front of a smaller outhouse. Here, he knocks four times. The door is opened by an old woman, wearing the badge of the healers’ guild. Her eyes widen as she sees him.

“You cannot be here,” she hissed.

Elendil bows his head.

“Greetings, Lady Vardilmë. I was wondering if I would ever see you again.”

Vardilmë is Míriel’s healer. She is probably the only Faithful left in Armenelos – or, at least, the only one who does not hide who she is. Pharazôn has allowed her to tend to the Queen, one of the few concessions he has given Míriel after their marriage.

Vardilmë acts as the secret liaison of the Faithful with the palace. Through her, they learn many matters that would be hidden to them otherwise – the wars the Kingsmen have started in Middle-earth, the lands they had conquered, the slaves they had taken. Vardilmë tells all. She meets with the hidden spies from Andúnië – more often than not, Valandil, or some other former sea guardsman of Elendil’s. From the look on her face, she has never expected to see Elendil again and thinks that Elendil is making a terrible mistake, being there.

“I know it looks reckless, me being here,” Elendil begins.

Vardilmë rarely has the patience for recklessness, and she certainly has none for needless heroics, which is how she usually refers to many of Elendil’s actions. She drags him inside and bars the door behind him.

“Reckless!” she scoffs. “You being in Armenelos is already reckless. You being so close to the palace is…I do not even have the words for this! Are you seeking death, Captain?”

Elendil’s lips twitch.

“No, in fact I think I might have uncovered several more reasons to stay alive,” he says.

Vardilmë blinks, confused.

“If you wish to speak in riddles, you have come to the wrong house, Elendil.”

“I wish to speak to Míriel,” Elendil announces bluntly.

He sees the glint in Vardilmë’s eyes.

“What makes you think I would allow you anywhere near her?” Vardilmë challenges. “You’d endanger her. You’d endanger all of us. Do you know how important it is for us to have a Faithful on the throne, even in this manner? Do you know all that she is risking for us, for the little that we have on this island? Do you know all that she is suffering for our sake?”

Elendil closes his eyes. He knows. He guesses. And he would never ask anything of Míriel – except this.

“Vardilmë, this is a matter of grave importance. “I would not be asking it of you if it wasn’t.”

Vardilmë’s shrewd eyes search his.

“A matter of great importance,” she repeats. “Like the seventh palantír?”

Elendil wavers. The seventh palantír is, indeed, on his mind. But he and the others have already decided not to involve Vardilmë or Míriel in its taking. And the time has not come to take it, anyway.

“No,” he says. “No, but… this concerns one of the Queen’s subjects, and surely, she needs to know when they are treated unfairly.”

Vardilmë is silent for a long time.

“You really need to see her?” she finally asks.

Elendil knows how protective Vardilmë is of the Queen – as if Míriel is her own daughter. Perhaps Vardilmë sees her in such a manner. She has taken care of Míriel for a long time. Since Míriel was a child.

Elendil places his hand on Vardilmë’s shoulder. Surely, she can feel it trembling.

“I could try doing this on my own,” he says. “But I can only do so much. Besides, Míriel would want to know. I know she would.”

He lowers his arms and bows his head. He does not know what will happen if he does not have Míriel’s help with Isildur’s situation. He does not know how he will be able to keep Isildur safe in Númenor then.

“Ultimately, the decision is yours, Vardilmë,” he tells her. “Whatever it is, I will abide by it.”

Vardilmë’s eyes search his. Elendil has the impression that she is trying to see inside his very soul. That she is trying to discern his intention and discover if they are worth it.

“This is life or death, isn’t it?” she asks. “For you – and for the Faithful?”

Elendil nods. It is life or death for him, indeed, but it is more than this. Isildur is more than just his son. By surviving the conflagration in the Southlands, by suffering in secret in Pharazôn’s dungeons and refusing to betray the Faithful, Isildur has become a symbol. A rallying point. And the Faithful will desperately need this in the days and years to come.

“It is very important for the Faithful,” he confirms. “Yes.”

Vardilmë turns away.

“Then I have no choice,” she declares. “I will take you to Míriel.”

The relief is so great, Elendil almost wants to weep.

“Thank you,” he breathes.

Vardilmë shakes her head.

“The truth is, the survival of the Faithful no longer depends on my Queen,” she says. “It depends on Andúnië. It depends on you.”

Elendil can hear the slight resentment in her voice. He cannot blame her, though. If Vardilmë really sees Míriel more as a daughter than a Queen, Elendil understands. He is a father himself. He understands all too well.

                           xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Elendil waits in Vardilmë’s dwelling place. He tries to quell his impatience, tries not to see every moment when he is not actively working on securing Isildur’s freedom as a moment wasted. It is difficult. He cannot even think of Isildur now. Because he is certain that Isildur is suffering. That he is in pain and cold and heartsick. And, if Elendil thinks too much about this, if he imagines for too long what Isildur must be feeling at this very moment, then he is afraid he will not be able to help himself. He will head straight for that schoolhouse and brave the labyrinth without any map and break down the doors to Isildur’s cell with his bare hands.

Yet he cannot. It is tempting, but it is also reckless. He meant what he said to Eärien. They need to rescue Isildur, but they also need to offer Isildur every chance of survival possible. Rescuing him only for the guards to catch and kill them all would feel like a mockery of the things Isildur has endured for them.

Finally, Vardilmë returns. She hands Elendil a cloak to hide his features and wordlessly motions for him to follow her outside. Elendil does so, hunching slightly. The cloak might hide his face, but nothing can really hide his height, and Elendil is tall even for a Númenórean. If someone was to spot him, they might have little trouble recognizing him.

Vardilmë leads Elendil to a side entrance and then through a narrow passageway. It is not the same one Elendil had used after Míriel had been supplanted. He supposes that one is probably watched. Pharazôn certainly knows about it.

“The Elf used this passage,” Vardilmë informs Elendil. “When she thought she could see Tar-Palantír.”

Elendil’s interest is stirred by this.

“Galadriel?” he asks.

Vardilmë nods.

“We found out only after, of course.”

“Of course,” Elendil repeats.

It all feels so long ago, yet it’s been less than three years since Galadriel’s arrival. So much has changed his then. Elendil’s entire world has been upturned.

He’s often wondered what would have happened if he had done things differently that day. If he had turned his back on the raft and its castaways. If he had left Galadriel to the Sea. But the Sea does not present one with such things without reason, and Elendil is a loyal servant of the Old Ways and has always been. He would have been unable to allow someone like Galadriel to simply perish in the waves. Well, he could not allow anyone to perish in the waves. Because, at the end of the day, that was all his gesture amounted to. Saving lives, because one did not walk away from someone else’s distress.

And anyway, Elendil suspects that Númenor’s troubles wouldn’t have been averted simply because Galadriel was not there. No, Númenor’s course was already running astray, and Tar-Palantír’s death might have led to Pharazôn trying to usurp the throne anyway.

Finally, Vardilmë leads him through a door that leads to the chamber in the tower. Míriel still lives there most of the time. She and Pharazôn do not share a sleeping chamber. Thank the gods for small favors, Elendil thinks. The very idea of Pharazôn and Míriel now being husband and wife already makes him sick to his stomach.

Míriel is already up and dressed, standing in the middle of the room, her fists clenched. Vardilmë has informed her he was coming, then.

“My Queen,” Vardilmë greets.

The look on Míriel’s face is tight.

“Is he with you, Vardilmë?” she asks, voice sharp.

Elendil takes a step forward.

“I am, your majesty,” he replies.

Something flashes on Míriel’s face.

“Very well,” she says. “Leave us, Vardilmë.”

As Vardilmë hesitates, Míriel frowns.

“Leave us,” she insists. “I am quite safe. But come back in an hour and lead Elendil back.”

Vardilmë leaves by the same way she led Elendil. Míriel nods.

“Good,” she says. “If we are to talk, then it is better if we are alone, yes?”

Elendil finds himself not knowing how to begin. He remembers two years ago. He remembers their vow to fight together and then her orders to be still. He remembers most of all her visit to his cell and then her decision to face the Sea Worm for him. These are hard things to forget. These are hard things to put behind. But they do not take back the notion that she gave him orders two years ago, and by being here, Elendil seems to have broken them.

“I know it might appear that I have disobeyed you by coming to you,” he begins.

Míriel’s face is unreadable.

“You have put it better than I could have, Elendil,” Míriel points out.

Elendil breathes shakily.

“I would not be here without a good reason. I have received disturbing news and…and I think you should know it, too.”

“Continue,” Míriel orders him.

And so, Elendil tells her everything. Estrid’s arrival and the news she bought with her. The confirmation they got from Valandil. Eärien’s account of being asked to build the schoolhouse and the labyrinth.

“How sure are you of this?” Míriel asks.

“My son is alive,” Elendil says. “Of this I am certain now. He is a prisoner of Pharazôn’s. That cannot be denied.”

Míriel grimaces.

“No word of this has reached me,” she says. “I knew about the schoolhouse. I even visited it – only the surface of course. I had no notion of what was beneath it.”

Elendil tries not to think of Isildur being tortured right then, when Míriel was being led by Pharazôn through the rooms of the schoolhouse. He closes his mind against the thought.

“I never thought you knew,” he assures Míriel. “I have no doubts that, if you had known, you would have fought to put a stop to this.”

Míriel dips her head, in acknowledgement of Elendil’s words.

“I am pleased to see that you have not lost your faith in me,” she says. “I will of course do my best to see that your son is freed.”

Elendil feels a stab of panic.

“No!” he exclaims.

Míriel’s confusion is easy to see – and perhaps not at all surprising, given the circumstances.

“No,” he insists more quietly. “I fear that you revealing that you know about Isildur will only result in his death. Knowledge of his captivity must be kept secret.”

Míriel shakes her head.

“Then – what are you planning, Elendil?”

Elendil hesitates.

“I think it is safer if you do not know.”

Míriel walks to him and takes his arm. The grip with which he holds him is almost painful.

“Then why are you here?” she insists. “You say you do not need my help – you think me intervening would be dangerous – so why come to me?”

Elendil closes his eyes. He is not afraid that Míriel will deny him. But he does not know what games Pharazôn might be playing with her. He does not know what her help would cost her. And she is his Queen. Putting her at risk – doesn’t this make him a bad Númenórean?

“Elendil?” Míriel prompts.

Elendil sighs. Isildur’s life is at stake, he reminds himself. And he is Isildur’s father. And he has to try.

“I will need your help after,” he confesses. “I will need you to exert whatever influence you have with Pharazôn, so that when Isildur is freed and returns with me in Andúnië, it will be under the same rules of sanctuary as for the rest of the Faithful. I do not want to risk him being dragged back in chains. I could hide him but…not forever.”

Míriel lets go of his arm.

“You could also send him to Middle-earth,” she muses. “The Faithful there might need leadership such as his.”

Elendil’s heart beats faster. If she orders this – what will he do?

“He will not wish to go, your majesty,” he says, repeating the same words he has already told Eärien.

Elendil can say this with confidence. He knows Isildur. Besides –

“You told me once that Númenor needs men like me,” Elendil reminds Míriel. “This may be so, but she also needs men like Isildur. Don’t rob him of the chance to serve the Island Kingdom that he loves, Majesty.”

Míriel turns away.

“I see,” she says.

Elendil does not hear any reluctance in her voice. He hopes this is a good sign.

“I know this might feel like…I know it must feel like a request born out of selfishness…” he begins, suddenly uncertain of his daring.

Míriel turns swiftly to him.

“Selfish?” she repeats. “Elendil, Isildur is my subject. I have a duty to him. And what has been done to him…”

She stops, her voice brimming with anger.

“I will do everything that is in my power to make sure he is safe,” she says. “You only need to make sure he gets out safely.”

Elendil is relieved that she does not challenge his notion that, if she reveals to Pharazôn that she knows about Isildur before he is set free, then Pharazôn would order Isildur killed.

He walks to Míriel and takes her hands in his.

“Thank you,” he says. “I…thank you.”

Míriel clutches his hand in response. Elendil recalls once again the bond that they shared during those days of loss and horror. Still, he does not think he was ever closer to her as he is now.

“When you set your plan in motion,” Míriel tells him. “Send word. I will arrange for a carriage to take you and Isildur to Andúnië unmolested.”

Elendil does not know if he can accept this – if this might not be a favor too much.

“You will not be able to walk or ride all the way to Andúnië with the state Isildur will be in when you rescue him,” Míriel tells him bluntly.

Elendil flinches at her words. She grips his hand tighter.

“Accept the help,” she urges. “For his sake, if not for yours.”

Elendil feels his shoulders slumping.

“I…yes. I will. Thank you.”

Her smile is soft like sunlight.

“Good luck, Captain,” she says. “In this endeavor – and in any future tasks that fate might offer to you.”

Elendil knows then that this is it. He will never see Míriel again after tonight. Their roads now are truly sundered.

                   xxxXXXXxxxx

It is late next night when Elendil finally returns to Andúnië. His return is still earlier than he thought it would be, but he is certain his family was worried in his absence – although, they probably know that nothing had happened to him. If he had been captured, Pharazôn would have made sure the news would reach Andúnië. On the other hand, if he had been captured, he would have probably been with Isildur now.

Elendil dismisses the thought. He would not be doing Isildur any favors by volunteering to suffer by his side. More than this – he knows Pharazôn would try to use him to get Isildur to talk. Izgûr was ready to capture Estrid for this very purpose, after all. And Elendil does not want to put something like this on Isildur’s shoulders.

When he enters the house, he is surprised to find Anárion asleep at the table. His head is flung backwards at what is surely an uncomfortable angle. His face is pale, and there are dark shadows around his eyes.

Elendil frowns. Has Anárion slept at all since the news of Isildur’s imprisonment? He knows Anárion’s dreams cannot be pleasant right now – his own aren’t, after all – but still, they all need rest. In a bed, not on a wooden chair.

Elendil feels a twinge of affection mingled with regret. In the two years since the expedition and Elendil’s exile in Andúnië, Anárion has forgotten past conflicts, forsaking them to stand by Elendil in all things. And Elendil has tried to show how much he appreciates this, but now he thinks that perhaps he has not appreciated Anárion enough. In his mourning for Isildur and his grief for Eärien’s absence, he might have inadvertently taken Anárion for granted. While he is busy mourning the children he has lost, he tends to lose sight at times of the one who has stayed.

He bends down and places his hand on Anárion’s shoulder. Immediately, his other hand reaches out to catch Anárion’s fist. They are not armed in their own houses and do not carry swords and daggers at the ready – matters are not that dire yet – but the situation has been tense, and Anárion is more often than not ready for battle.

“Settle, Anárion,” he whispers, tightening his hold. “Settle, your father is here.”

He feels the tension bleed out of Anárion almost immediately. Anárion shifts his head and blinks sleepily at him.

“Father?” he asks uncertainly. “You’re back?”

Elendil still has a hold on Anárion, now to comfort and not to restrain.

“I am back,” he confirms. “And it is late, and you should be sleeping.”

Anárion offers him a confused frown.

“I think I was.”

Elendil huffs.

“In a bed. Lying down, preferably. What are you trying to do here, anyway?”

Anárion shrugs.

“I was worried.”

Elendil pulls Anárion slightly against him.

“No need to be worried,” he says. “If something was to happen to me, you would have gotten wind of it quickly enough.”

Anárion’s face is slightly flushed. Elendil wonders if this is what he was expecting – a knock on the door in the middle of the night, the Kingsmen bringing his father’s body home, “as a courtesy”, as they would have put it, but really just because they knew how Anárion and Amandil would break down at the sight of it.

Elendil tightens his hold on Anárion, wanting to block out the image of his younger son grieving for him.

“Nothing happened,” he says, as if to convince both him and Anárion. “And I bring news.”

He moves away and lights the candles that have extinguished themselves while Anárion was sleeping. He lights the fire as well, then brings to goblets of wine for him and Anárion.

“Tell me everything,” Anárion urges.

They talk until dawn, planning their next moves.

Chapter Text

Eärien does not sleep after Elendil leaves. She goes to Isildur’s room, opening the door for the first time since the return of the expedition. She gasps, surprised to see everything in order. The room is dusty and smells stuffy, but it is not in any disarray. The bed is made, the clothes chest is closed, the books are arranged in a tidy manner.

Eärien knows Isildur, especially the Isildur that might not exist anymore, not after two years of torture and imprisonment and the horrors and fires of the Southlands. He was not exactly a tidy person, not when he was excited about something, as he would have been before the expedition. He would not have stopped to make the bed before leaving. He would have ruffled through his chest of clothes, leaving them in disarray, and he would not have bothered to put them back, afraid he might waste time and miss the ship.

Someone has been in this room before. Someone who made the bed as if its occupant would return. Someone who put the clothes back together, who arranged the books in order, who even arranged the few odds and ends that Isildur had in his room, placing them neatly on the wooden shelves.

“Father,” she whispers.

Back then, she had not really bothered to see how her father grieved, simply because she was angry that he did not grieve like her. Her grief had turned to rage, and Elendil had been so calm, that she took that calm for something it was not. She had thought no one could grieve for Isildur without being angry. And yet – and yet Elendil had clearly mourned, quietly and privately, because that was him. His grief had never been loud, and it had never been angry. And Eärien had been unable to understand this. She still does not think she understands but looking at what her own grief has led her to, she thinks that maybe she had been the one who should have been still.

Eärien walks further into the room and touches the chest of clothes. When she leaves, she will have to take some of the clothes there for Isildur. After all, it isn’t as if he can borrow some of Anárion’s – or, gods forbid, of father’s. They wouldn’t fit.

The amused smile that plays on her lips surprises her. it feels easier to smile now that she knows Isildur is alive. Even with the worry and the terror, it still feels easier to smile.

Squaring her shoulders, Eärien walks away from the room. She searches for parchment and charcoal and starts working on the plans. She does not sleep at all that night.

                      xxxXXXXxxxx

She visits the Guild’s headquarters early that morning, seemingly to make sure that all the plans are in order for any potential inspection by Ar-Pharazôn. Since Pharazôn likes to show how involved he is in the Guilds by inspecting them on a regular basis – or maybe, what he is trying to determine with these inspections is whether anyone is corrupting the Guildmembers with even mildly Faithful ideas – Eärien’s actions cause no suspicion.

Eärien looks over the plans of the labyrinth. She compares them with the plans she drew for Valandil and makes a few additions to those. Yes, she thinks, nodding to herself. She has done a good job. This will offer her father the best chance he has at navigating the maze – and rescuing Isildur.

Some guards enter the building. Eärien stiffens. Their presence is not unusual. Ar-Pharazôn likes to keep the Kingsmen always on the alert, therefore such patrols happen daily. Still, now that Eärien sees matters with a critical eye, she realizes how much this looks like an occupation. Like Ar-Pharazôn is afraid they might rise against him. Like he is trying to remind everyone who is in control.

Eärien closes her eyes. How could she have been so blind? Númenor has always been egalitarian, always encouraging debate, always encouraging proposals. We steer this ship together, these were the words of Elros Tar-Myniatur, words that are carved in stone at the entrance of the council chamber (there is talk of removing them, they are written in Quenya, after all). When has Pharazôn decided that only he can stand at Númenor’s helm? When has their open, vocal society descended into something else? And why has it taken something so shocking, so grotesque to finally open Eärien’s eyes to the obvious?

One of the palace guards nods to her. The nod is respectful. Eärien answers in kind, because she cannot arouse any suspicions. Behind the guard’s back, her fists clench. She wonders if he knows about Isildur. If he has been to Isildur’s prison.

Are you the one that gives him food? she wishes she could ask. The one who takes him to the torture chamber? The one who carries him back?

Eärien suppresses a sob.

“Lady Eärien?” one of the apprentices asks. “Are you unwell?”

Eärien looks at the young, eager face, and wishes she could tell this apprentice whose name she does not even remember to walk away, because all she will get in this place is darkness. Or maybe it is her younger self she wishes she could tell that.

She plasters a smile on her face.

“Quite well, yes,” she says. “It is rather dusty in here, that is all.”

The apprentice shrugs.

“I could dust the place more for you, my lady,” she says.

The old master of the apprentices had thought the best use of Eärien’s skills was to have her mopping the floor. Or the goblets. Until Pharazôn had swooped in and offered her grander things. Eärien does not enjoy abusing her power over the apprentices. Their skills should be utilized in a fair manner. This, Eärien realizes with a jolt, she has learned from Elendil.

“No,” she says with a smile. “No, I can do it myself. After all, I have a perfectly good pair of hands, and I’m the one bothered by the dust.”

Lead by example. Do not ask others something you would not be ready to do yourself. This, Eärien has also learned from Elendil. Pharazôn would never think of doing something like this.

                               xxxXXXXxxxx

In the evening, Eärien is requested to have dinner with Belzagar and his two daughters. Belzagar’s wife is managing his estates in the North. Estates that include lands once owned by family of Eärien’s mother, this Eärien has learned much later. In fact, she has learned that her mother and Lord Belzagar could not stand each other. She does not remember it, she was five when her mother died, after all, yet apparently there had been almost an open feud between the two. Isildur probably remembers…

Eärien would refuse the invitation. The sight of Lord Belzagar now makes her ill. All she can think of is how he and Ar-Pharazôn have used her, how they must have laughed at her gullibility, how they had done everything to turn Eärien away from her own kin, and all the while they knew where Isildur was, and they were hurting Isildur – and how could Eärien share food and drinks with such people?

Yet she knows the stakes. She cannot break any habits right now. It would cause suspicion. Especially since Eärien is such a creature of habit to begin with. She always dines at Lord Belzagar’s home the third day of the week. Suddenly refusing would have people wondering why. And they would start looking more closely at her, and they might spot her giving the plans to Valandil, or they might guess what is on her mind, and she cannot risk it. Isildur’s life depends on Eärien pretending she does not know about him.

Belzagar is distracted this evening. He seems angry about something. Eärien wonders when he has been to see Isildur and whether Isildur is the cause of his anger.

I hope he is, Eärien finds herself thinking. I hope he spits in your face every time he sees you.

It is strange. Eärien once pleaded with her father to accept Pharazôn’s rule. If she was brought to Isildur when he had been captured, she might have pleaded even with him to do the same. And yet, by keeping Isil a secret from Eärien, by using her against him in such a manner, Pharazôn and Belzagar have shown their true colors.

Now, all she hopes is to defy them. And all she hopes is that Isil gets at least some small satisfaction in defying them as well.

Belzagar once more asks about Amandil.

“My father’s letters say he is well,” Eärien replies.

As if you did not know yourself! She is sure the palace guards tasked with reading Eärien’s correspondence pass on what they know to Belzagar before the letter even reaches Eärien’s hands. Perhaps this is why Elendil’s letters have always been so controlled. Cold, at times, even. Keeping his distance from Eärien to protect her. Eärien bites her lips, then forces herself to calm down.

“Is there a reason for this sudden interest, my lord?” she asks. “I thought Ar-Pharazôn wishes to leave the Faithful alone.”

Belzagar’s smile is tight.

“He does,” he concedes. “However, one wonders what they are doing there.”

Eärien shrugs.

“I should say they are trying to live.”

“I heard they have a rich farm,” Belzagar’s eldest daughter speaks then. “Amandil’s family, I mean. Vineyards and beehives and horses.”

Eärien breathes deeply.

“Not horses, not anymore,” she says. “The horses were mother’s. Now there’s probably only my father’s horse. My brother might have one too. I don’t know.”

Belzagar’s daughters shift in their chairs. It is almost as if they feel uncomfortable to be reminded of Eärien’s family background. That Eärien is indeed related to the people they are holding in exile.

Well, why should I be ashamed about that? Eärien thinks. They were my family. Even if they were misguided…

But they weren’t, she reminds herself. She was the misguided one. That is a hard truth to learn.

A messenger arrives for Belzagar. They talk in whispers in the hallway. Eärien is tense, trying to hide her trembling. Is it about Isildur? Do they know his presence in Númenor is no longer secret? But no – even if it is about Isildur, they cannot know. Elendil would be incredibly careful about this.

Belzagar returns to the table. His face is unreadable. He announces that he has been called away on urgent business, but Eärien is welcome to stay behind, if she wishes to. His daughters always enjoy her company.

Eärien knows this is a lie. Belzagar’s daughters are cautious around her. As if they do not really understand her. As if she had something that was different from them. A Faithful father, Eärien thinks. That’s what you have that they don’t. Eärien’s lips nearly curl into a contemptuous smile. Their loss.

She pleads a busy time ahead and announces that she will leave also. She and Belzagar walk out together, but they head in opposite directions. Eärien turns to watch him disappear on the darkening street, mingling with the evening shadows. He is heading in the direction of the schoolhouse.

For a moment, Eärien is tempted to follow him. She is tempted to join him in the labyrinth and knife him and free Isildur. It is a foolish dream. She would not be able to carry it out. For one thing, Belzagar is bound to be accompanied by guards. And the only thing she will accomplish is make matters even worse for Isildur.

With regret, Eärien turns around and walks back to her house. All the while, she thinks of Belzagar’s tense posture, of the weariness and annoyance in his eyes, and she knows without a doubt that Belzagar will not be enjoying the visit. Isildur is making matters very hard for him, apparently.

Eärien smiles. Good. Serve Belzagar right.

I hope he spits in your face, she thinks again.

She hopes Isildur uses all the defiance and stubbornness that defines him to make matters very uncomfortable indeed for Lord Belzagar.

                           xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Belzagar strides down the long corridors of the labyrinth. He knows the way by heart now. He does not need a map. Of course, he usually visits Isildur only in the torture chamber. He rarely sees Isildur in his cell, although he suspects Ar-Pharazôn comes from time to time. Belzagar does not know what Pharazôn is after. If Isildur will not bow down to them to stop the pain, he will hardly bow down only after a conversation with Pharazôn. Isildur is as stubborn as his father and grandfather – and just as dangerous.

Many times, Belzagar has argued with the king that he should cut his losses with Isildur.

“Kill him majesty,” he told Pharazôn once. “Use him in the only way he can be used. Kill him and then send his body to Andúnië and let his father know that he is to blame. For not being aware Isildur was here. For running away. For thinking he could play at being Lord of Andúnië.”

“I have thought of this, of course,” Pharazôn had conceded. “I am afraid one day it might indeed come to this.”

“Then make that day come sooner, my king,” Belzagar argued. “Why delay?”

Pharazôn’s smile was cold and dark.

“Because the longer I delay, the harder the blow will be for Elendil,” he pointed out. “And there might still be a chance Isildur will reveal something.”

Belzagar shook his head. He wanted to think that everyone had their price, and everyone had their breaking point. Not Isildur, it seemed.

“I do not believe in that chance, my king.”

Pharazôn bowed his head.

“I do not believe in that chance, either, Belzagar,” he confessed. “But I am still going to try and see if I can break him. Who knows, maybe something I do will matter.”

Belzagar doubts this. Unless they drag Elendil or Anárion or even Eärien in chains and threaten to make mincemeat out of them if Isildur does not reveal the secrets of the Faithful. Yet those at Andúnië are untouchable because of Míriel and because Pharazôn still holds some sentimental respect for Amandil (although, Belzagar thinks wryly, he has a strange way of manifesting it, given how he’s been torturing Amandil’s favorite grandson for two years). As for Eärien, she is useful to them. The daughter of the Lord of Andúnië following Ar-Pharazôn. She is a symbol to the Kingsmen and cannot be touched.

Pity that wretched Southlander from Pelargir has disappeared without a trace. And pity Kemen had felt the need to be petty and deny Estrid passage to Númenor. If he had possessed some brains, he would have allowed Estrid to travel with Isildur. Then – matters would have finished much quicker. Isildur might have talked, if they had threatened his little Southlander pet.

Belzagar scowls. It is too late now. Estrid is gone, who knows where. If she has any sense, away from Pelargir, in search of a land that Númenor has not heard of. And all Pharazôn and Belzagar have is Isildur, who refuses to tell them anything – and after the disaster of last year, even if he does tell them, who is to know that he isn’t leading them on once again?

With these thoughts in mind, Belzagar is already fuming when he reaches Isildur’s cell. The guard is already inside. Isildur is sitting against the wall, ignoring them both.

“What is it?” Belzagar asks. “Why summon me at this late hour?”

The guard scowls.

“I was bringing him food, and I discovered something disturbing. I thought you or the king should see immediately.”

And the king is busy, so the pleasure has fallen on Lord Belzagar. Charming, he thinks.

“Well? What of it?”

The guard approaches the place where Isildur’s chain is tied to the wall. Isildur does not even look at them.

“I think you should see this, my lord,” he repeats.

Belzagar approaches cautiously, glancing at Isildur. The guard is there, and Isildur has not tried to attack either Belzagar or Pharazôn before. Still, he cannot help feeling nervous. Like he is too close to a caged wolf and doesn’t know when he might become violent.

Isildur seems to notice Belzagar’s reluctance to get to close to him. His lips curl in a sardonic smile.

“Go ahead,” he tells Belzagar. “I won’t bite.”

“You keep that mouth of yours shut, Faithful whelp,” the guard barks.

Isildur shrugs.

“Of course,” he says calmly. “My mistake.”

If anything, Belzagar is even more nervous after Isildur’s mocking reassurance. But he is not going to sacrifice his dignity in front of a bound prisoner, and especially not in front of Isildur. He gets close to the wall and looks at the chain. He gasps.

“How on earth…?”

The chain is only rudimentarily tied to the wall. The last ring has been wrenched open almost completely.

Belzagar gapes at Isildur.

“You can…you can free yourself.”

Isildur does not say anything.

“Well, not really,” the guard sees fit to intervene. “He can walk around the cell. He cannot leave it.”

“Not yet,” Belzagar mutters. “What is the meaning of this?”

He meets Isildur’s eyes, but they are vacant.

“I fancied a little stroll from time to time,” Isildur replies calmly. “Keeping me motionless wasn’t exactly comfortable.”

Belzagar’s frown deepens.

“We never set out to make you comfortable,” he says.

The ring looks as if it has been worked on for a very long time. Isildur has put a lot of effort into this. He has also put a lot of effort into his captors not noticing. And they wouldn’t have. When Isildur is taken to the torture chamber, the guard unlocks the shackle around his neck that keeps him in place. They would never bother to check if the chain is still secured to the wall. Why would they?

Belzagar’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“I am sure there is more to this than you fancying a stroll,” he comments.

Isildur stares at the ground. Belzagar approaches him this time and places a hand on his shoulder. Isildur flinches. Is he hurt there? Belzagar wonders. He has lost track of the many things Isildur has had done to him, so he doesn’t know. Perhaps Isildur’s flinch is more because he doesn’t enjoy the closeness and not one of pain. Either way, Belzagar takes satisfaction in making Isildur uncomfortable. Especially now. Especially after what he has done.

“Were you planning on trying to escape?” Belzagar asks. “Do you know what this place is? We know it, and you do not. We’d catch you. And you don’t want to know what we’d do to you.”

“He needs a stronger chain, he does,” the guard interferes. “One he will not chew on so quickly.”

Belzagar nods curtly.

“See to it.”

He watches Isildur thoughtfully.

“Perhaps we’ll bind your hands as well. So, if you do get ideas next time, you will not be able to do anything about them.”

Isildur glares at him. Belzagar sighs.

“I am disappointed in you,” Belzagar tells him. “And you should be, too. Who knows what this little act of defiance of yours might cost you?”

Isildur leans his head against the wall. He looks beyond tired.

“I am sure your chief torturer has run out of ways to punish me. What more can he do to me, do you think?”

Belzagar bends over him and whispers in his ear.

“What if it’s not you he’ll be punishing?”

Isildur’s eyes widen, but he still tries to appear unconcerned. Belzagar takes advantage of the moment of weakness. He has already told Isildur that Amandil is dead – but Isildur still has his father and his brother – and his sister.

“What if we bring Anárion here in your stead?” Belzagar muses. “You love Anárion very much, don’t you? They all say you were an immensely protective older brother. Didn’t you once attack the son of the Head of the Traders’ Guild for mocking how Anárion mixed Sindarin words in his speech?”

Isildur looks away.

“You cannot touch Anárion,” he says. “Not unless you have proof that he is planning to move against you, or that he is hiding a Palantír or sacred texts or… And you don’t have proof of any of this. Which is why we are playing this game.”

Belzagar’s hand tightens on Isildur’s shoulder.

“This isn’t a game, Isildur,” he points out. “You’ll rot in here, you understand that? You won’t be able to keep your brother safe. Or your sister, for that matter.”

Isildur bows his head.

“My sister is loyal to you,” he says wearily.

“But she is still your sister,” Belzagar says. “And that might matter more than her loyalty to us.”

He notices Isildur stiffen.

“No,” he whispers.

Belzagar forces Isildur to stand up. He notices that Isildur is favoring his right leg. Ah, Belzagar remembers now. The day he told him about Amandil, the torturer wasn’t exactly kind to Isildur’s knee. It would take a while for him to walk properly again. Which means that no matter how much he ruined that chain, he still wouldn’t have been able to escape just yet.

“You’ll rot in here,” Belzagar repeats. “And when you’re dead, I will personally drag your body to Andúnië and leave it on Elendil’s doorstep.”

Isildur reacts then, moving far more quickly than Belzagar had expected him to move. His hands are around Belzagar’s throat, and Belzagar tries to push him away, but Isildur’s hold is desperate, driven by hatred and fear, and the need to put a stop to Belzagar’s torment, no matter what happens to him afterwards.

Things would have probably gone ill for Belzagar, but the guard is there, and his raises his armored fist, hitting Isildur on the back of his head. Isildur’s hold on Belzagar slackens, and he falls to the ground, where he remains motionless.

“He’ll sleep for a while and wake up with a headache big enough for him to think he’s had the entire weigh of the Meneltarma fallen on him,” the guard says. “Are you well, my lord?”

Belzagar splutters, trying to regain his breath. He feels humiliated more than anything.

“See to that wretched chain. I must report this to the king.”

He walks away very much hoping Ar-Pharazôn is in a bad mood as well and ready to take it out on Isildur.

                             xxxXXXXxxxx

When Isildur wakes up, his head is pounding, and his throat is parched. He’s probably been out for quite a while, he thinks, if he is to judge from his thirst. He coughs slightly, trying to get rid of the dryness in his throat.

There are often moments like this one, when Isildur wakes up, and he has no idea what has happened to him this time. It is hard for him to piece together the events from before he loses consciousness. Usually, they are all the same – the questions in the torture chamber, Pharazôn or Belzagar’s taunts, Isildur’s silences that anger them more and more. This time, however, he thinks it was different.

Isildur closes his eyes and breathes deeply. He ignores the pain in his head and the general discomfort that has been a part of him for two years that at times he even finds himself wondering how he would manage without it. He searches through his scattered memories, trying to piece together a coherent chain of events.

It was not time for one of his interrogations. Isildur knows this, because they would wait for his leg to heal a little bit more, for him to gain more strength. Then what had happened? Why was he hurt this time?

Isildur shudders. He remembers now. He remembers the guard and the discovery of the torn chain and Belzagar’s threats. He remembers Belzagar’s threats most of all, and his anger at what Belzagar was saying.

He lifts himself to his knees, then stands up completely, leaning heavily against the wall. How long has he been without consciousness? What has happened to him during this time?

Isildur touches the chain and runs his hand over it. He cannot see much in the dark, but he does not need to. He knows the guard has replaced it. This is a new chain. Untouched. Unbroken.

“Well,” Isildur says resigned. “You were expecting this, weren’t you?”

He runs his hand over the chain again, until he reaches the wall. The ring tying the chain to the wall is just as unbroken as the rest of it. Isildur does not remember how long it took for him to work on loosening it the first time. Months, maybe. And he cannot bank on them not checking if he is not doing any mischief to it this time as well.

Isildur’s hand then moves to the rung keeping the chain in place. He digs his finger against it and feels it loose, just as it’s been since he started working on his second escape plan. He does not pull it all the way out. That is for when he will finally leave this place.

He bends his head and laughs quietly, relief making his knees weak. All is not lost.

“You think I only had one escape plan up my sleeve, master Belzagar?” he whispers.

No one answers him in the darkness – which is a good thing. But he still wishes he could see the look on Belzagar’s face when he discovers that Isildur has bested him after all.

                     xxxXXXXxxxx

Valandil waits two days, then prepares to set out for Armenelos again, this time on his own. He needs to find Eärien and get the plans of the labyrinth from her.

Valandil feels flattered when Elendil entrusts the errand to him. After all, given it is to make contact with Eärien, he would have expected Elendil to send Anárion and not him. Yet Elendil shows that he trusts Valandil, even with this. Even though Valandil has quite a few reasons to resent Eärien. Of course, Elendil also tells him rather sternly that Valandil has the right to keep his opinions on Eärien, as Elendil cannot order Valandil to feel differently than what he was feeling. Yet Valandil is to be very careful not to let his rancor for Eärien cloud his judgment.

“I’ll be as civil as I can with her, Captain,” Valandil tells him through clenched teeth.

“I certainly hope your days of punching people behind taverns are over, Lieutenant,” Elendil warns him.

Valandil is startled. He has not expected Elendil to know about that. Isil would not have told him of his own free will, and it is difficult even on a good day to drag something out of Isil when he does not want to reveal it to you.

The thought isn’t exactly comforting, because all it does is remind him of where Isildur is now, and how people are trying to drag things out of him and not being at all gentle about it. Valandil swallows harshly. If he needs to make friends with Eärien again to rescue Isildur, he’ll do that as well.

“You only need to get the plans from her,” Elendil reminds him. “That is all.”

Valandil knows that is not all.

“But she will be coming here, right?” he challenges. “After Isildur is freed…”

“It will not be safe for her there, Valandil,” Elendil points out, voice patient, but with a tight edge to it.

Valandil nods quickly.

“No, I know that. It is only…”

He stops. Valandil usually tells Elendil everything. At times, he can tell him matters he finds hard to talk about even to his own father. Yet he cannot do it this time. Because Eärien is Elendil’s daughter. And he cannot confess that he feels incapable of forgiving her.

Valandil meets Elendil’s eyes and notices the concern there. He cannot see any recriminations, and it is this more than anything that makes him feel slightly ashamed that he holds on to his grudge against Eärien in such a manner.

“I… things would be different,” Valandil says. “If she hadn’t conspired with Belzagar and Pharazôn, we wouldn’t have left Armenelos at all, yes?”

Elendil shakes his head.

“I do not know. They might have found other ways to supplant Míriel. I do not know, Valandil.”

Valandil nods.

“Yes, you do not know. It might have been different. What came after.”

What came after. The docks. The Shrine.

Valandil shakes himself out of the tendrils of terror that have no business taking over him right now.

“I will, of course, abide by any decision you make, Captain. If Eärien wishes to return, I will welcome her because you tell me to welcome her. And I will do my best to put the past behind me.”

Elendil reaches out and shakes Valandil’s hand. He does not let go immediately.

“We steer this ship together. Yes, Lieutenant?”

And Valandil nods, eager, because he would walk into fire for this man, so the least he could do is work on forgiving his daughter.

                           xxxXXXXxxxx

It is evening and Valandil has been shadowing Eärien for a while before he approaches her. He knows not to get too close to her near the Builders’ Guild, and he realizes how dangerous it would be to approach her in the Old Quarter – especially after Elendil’s visit.

Eärien is passing a narrow alley when Valandil grabs her and drags her to him, hand over her mouth to keep her from making any sound of surprise.

“It’s me,” he tells her quickly. “I’ll let you go, but you need to be quiet, yes?”

He feels her nod and releases her.

Now that they stand facing each other, Valandil does not really know what to say. The street is badly lit, so he cannot see much of the expression on her face. He only sees the shadows – and is that not fitting?

Valandil ignores these thoughts. He has already promised Elendil to cooperate with Eärien.

“Valandil,” Eärien says. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“So, you have the plans?” Valandil asks.

Eärien nods.

“In my satchel.

She fumbles with her satchel and hands a series of folded up rolls to Valandil.

“What will you do next?” she asks.

“That’s for the captain to decide,” Valandil replies. “But you should be ready. When the sign is given, leave Armenelos.”

He notices her shudder.

“I will have to leave,” she says.

She sounds lost. Valandil would feel sorry for her – but the circumstances make it difficult.

“They will know we wouldn’t have been able to free Isildur without your help,” he points out. “They will come for you. Nothing that you say will convince them to take you back.”

Eärien’s eyes flash.

“They’re torturing my brother,” she snaps. “I don’t want to be taken back by them. I shared an evening meal with Belzagar yesterday, and the closeness of him made the food stick in my throat.”

Valandil draws slightly back. This is the Eärien of old. The Eärien he used to be so fond of back in their more innocent days.

“It wasn’t all bad,” Eärien tells him. “This place… I loved this place.”

Valandil’s hands clench.

“I was born in this place,” he reminds Eärien.

And he does not want to feel resentful, but he cannot help it. Eärien was born in Andúnië. She is going home. Valandil has been living in exile for two years. and it was Eärien’s actions that led to this.

“I should go,” Valandil says. “People might…someone might come here.”

He moves to leave, but Eärien takes hold of his wrist.

“I am not going to ask for your friendship back,” she says. “Or for your forgiveness…”

Valandil sighs.

“I keep telling myself that Númenor was already broken,” he says. “That Pharazôn would have found a way to usurp the Queen even without you. Yet I cannot forget that it was you who stood upon those stairs with the palantír, and you who cried our Isildur’s name in a cause he would have never supported.”

Eärien’s face flushes.

“I was angry,” she says. “I was grieving.”

And Valandil doesn’t tell her that so was he – that they were both grieving the same person whom they had both loved in different ways.

“Isil went into that burning hut not just because Miriel told him to,” he says. “He went there because there were people trapped inside. And they might not have been Númenórean, but he did not care. He saw their lives as just as valuable as his own. And that is… that should be honored, Eärien. That should be praised.”

Eärien stands there, wide-eyed. And Valandil wonders if she ever understood what she had done that day. If she will ever understand in the future.

“By standing there and using his name like this,” Valandil goes on, “You dishonored who he was, Eärien. You mocked his sacrifice. And that…that is worse that the changes that came after.”

He lets go of her hand, but does not leave, as he needs to give her everything – the good and the bad.

“I do not know if I can forgive you for this, Eärien,” he confesses. “But the captain wishes to welcome you back into his family. So, you will have my protection and my acceptance.”

Eärien nods.

“I see,” she says, and her voice is cold. “Acceptance and protection. But not friendship.”

Valandil wishes he could give her the answer she needs. But he has never lied to anyone. And, for the sake of what they had in the past, he cannot lie to her, anyway.

“One day, perhaps,” he concedes. “But not yet.”

It is the only thing that Valandil has it in him to give her.