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Chapter Text

Story Rated T for swearing and violence. PLEASE NOTE THIS FIC IS ALSO POSTED ON FANFICTION.NET under my other profile of the same name. These are my only two profiles. I thought I'd post the story here [still in progress], too, as this fandom seems slightly more active, and I wanted to give it another lease of life. 

LOOSE ENDS

CHAPTER 1: SUSPICION

I am never late in attending to Queen Míriel each morning, but today I am.

Technically, it should be difficult - nigh on impossible - for me to miss her waking. My room is down the hallway from the Queen-Regent's, and I normally rise with the dawn. A good handmaiden is always close to her mistress from her waking hours until sleep, present to account for every request and need. I have been working in this job for eight years. So diligently that the Queen could not help but promote the Southlander foreigner to the prestigious position of personal maid. It is an honour, and I have never given anyone cause to doubt my appointment.

Except today. Because I am late. This is owing to the fact that I did not spend the night in my own bedroom. Instead, I slipped out quietly at midnight after receiving a missive. Now - after paying a significant amount of coin to be rowed across the port in the greying pre-dawn light - the fastest path from the east to the west of Armenelos - I am hurrying, sweaty and out of breath, up steep and narrow cobblestone paths towards the tower. The sun is faster than I. It climbs inexorably into the sky and bleeds its yellow light first onto the red roofs of nearby buildings and then, fatally, touches the path beneath my feet. Too high in the sky for me to deny that I am late. Very late.

At the tower's base I approach the first of many guards. My stomach sinks when I recognise the face beneath the golden helmet; Delwen.

I have always had the sense that many of the guards do not like me. They find me amusing, in some way. Always they watch me with half-smirks on their faces, like they're witnessing a dog doing tricks. I stare at Delwen coldly as he blocks my path.

"Let me through," I snap, unable to stop my gaze from flickering anxiously towards the top of the tower, where Míriel resides. Has she realised I am missing?

Delwen is unfortunately shorter than I. I am tall for a woman, but he is very short for a man - especially a Númenorean one. He stands nearly a full head shorter than me, although he has deliberately situated himself on higher ground, so that our height difference is negligible. Two years ago, he once tripped me when I was carrying garments to be mended. I still have the scar on my right elbow that I acquired in the fall.

Delwen stares at me, as if unable to believe his luck. "My, my - what a scandal - the Queen's maid-servant caught slinking back into the tower after a night abroad. What have you been up to, Braelyn?"

"Save it -" I hiss, my cheeks flushing bright red. "My business is my own."

"Your movements are of great interest to any wishing to maintain our Queen's safety -"

I bark out a laugh, although I can feel panic rising in my stomach. I need to get past this infuriating man. "You think I would wish the Queen-Regent harm? After all she has done for me?"

Delwen gets a queer gleam in his eye, and he throws me an askance look. "Perhaps, you feel servitude beneath you."

"What do you mean?" I reply, impatiently.

He reaches forward and plucks at the necklace around my neck. I freeze. The necklace is simple - a silver coin on a silver chain. The metal is in fact an alloy, a mixture of many metals, but it's pure shine gives no hint of this. Stamped onto the coin is a crest. The symbol of the King of the Southlands.

"What does this symbol mean? Hmm? That vagrant you call a brother wears it, and so does the whelp that works for the old crone. Is this the reason Captain Elendil treats a mere serving girl like a high-born lady? Is this the reason our Queen keeps you as her lap-dog?"

My blush darkens in my anger. His guess unnerves me, because it is so close to the mark. I have long kept my heritage hidden - not even Míriel knows what this symbol means. Although, as Delwen has crudely noticed, I have always suspected that Captain Elendil of the Sea Guard has correctly guessed. Not that he is so tactless as to say so.

"Captain Elendil -" I hiss, yanking the necklace out of his grip. "- is a gentleman. And I am the Queen's most loyal servant. The trinket means nothing. It is a relic of the past…Now, please, I must get into the tower."

Finally - finally - he stands to one side, allowing me to hurry past. I force my tired legs up flights of stairs, my lungs burning for oxygen, my cloak flapping around my ankles. I dart past servants carrying food, cleaning equipment and other supplies around the tower. When I make it to the top, I quickly unfasten my cloak - a dark blue velvet - revealing the plain dress I'd donned underneath for my night-time mission.

I've nearly reached my room. It will take me only minutes to change into the required attire of a handmaiden. But a voice sounds from behind me:

"Braelyn."

The voice is clear and authoritative. My throat constricts - it's Míriel.

I turn slowly to look at the Queen-Regent of Númenor, framed by the arching pillars of the empty hallway. Her expression is unreadable - a singular skill which I have spent years studying and trying to replicate, with varying rates of success. Míriel is clothed regally for the day ahead in a dress of emerald green, jewels in her hair and at her ears. I wonder who helped her get ready in my stead.

"Where have you been?" Míriel asks me. Her voice is calm, but commanding.

I open my mouth, then hesitate. My dress is stained with dirt, and I know there are dark circles under my eyes, showing my lack of sleep. It is pointless to deny that I've been outside of the tower.

Míriel sighs deeply, guessing, by my reluctance to answer, the truth. "Aland. Again?"

I nod, wordlessly. Her grey eyes turn as flat and dangerous as a calm sea before a storm. "What happened this time? A tavern brawl? Slander? Disturbing the Queen's peace?"

I unstick my throat. "He owed a debt. It needed to be paid."

"So my handmaiden has been out at night fraternising with the criminal underworld of this city -? How wonderful," she replies, tartly.

"It will not happen again, m'lady."

"As you promise every time, Braelyn."

I bow my head. I cannot argue; this has happened, after all, many times before.

Míriel's face tightens, then relaxes. "Can you work today? Or are you too tired?" Her tone is not sympathetic - it is pragmatic. No doubt, she is thinking of her busy schedule and wondering if I will be able to keep up.

I quickly nod. "Yes, your grace."

"Then go and get changed. And be quick about it."

I enter my bedroom and shut the door behind me.

The room I have been awarded is far better than any I thought I would find myself in when I first arrived on the shores of Númenor. The east-facing wall is curved, with long windows that allow in plenty of sunlight. There is a plush, well-made bed, a looking glass, a chest of draws and a desk weighed down with books and papers.

The furnishings are admittedly sparse, but functional. A wealth, considering I had arrived at this place, aged ten, with nothing but the clothes on my back and two sickly younger siblings in my charge. All three of us near half-drowned.

I dress quickly in my usual attire - a white dress with a dark blue pinafore over the top. The crest of Númenor - a golden sun - is embroided onto the chest. I braid my hair into a tight plait.

My hair is another indicator that I am not from this island - it is a reddish blonde, the colour of an autumn-time sunrise. Colouring not usually seen in Númenor, where dark hair and grey eyes prevail. I tie a handkerchief over the crown of my head - wondering, for the hundredth time, whether I should simply dye my hair black to fit in better - and then stare at my reflection in the mirror. Or, more specifically, at the necklace around my neck.

I have worn it every day since I can remember. In its way, it is comforting. A reminder of better times, and of parents and an older brother long dead. But it is also a reminder of pain and horror. A reminder of an identity I have long kept hidden - even tried to forget - and a homeland that plagues my nightmares. The Southlands. Today the sight of it around my throat fills me with unease. Delwen's taunts ring in my ears. The chain, abruptly, feels choking.

Before I can second-guess myself, I unclasp the chain and shove the necklace deep into the desk draw.

Míriel spends much of her morning attending the merchant's guild, listening to the demands of businessmen. In attendance are power-hungry oligarchs and small, family-run affairs alike. I stand unobtrusively at the Queen's side throughout, attending to her with a pitcher of water when she's thirsty, memorising names when she asks, and trying not to fall asleep on my feet. Every time I feel my heavy eyelids threaten to shut, I curse my brother.

Despite my weariness, I hang onto every word spoken during the meeting. Every angry dispute and brokered deal. The mechanisms of statecraft interest me. One of the many reasons I don't find the role of servant-maid as burdensome as some might think - or an insult, as my brother considers it to be.

After the meeting, Míriel politely agrees to stay for lunch. The guild provide the Queen with an incredible feast - wine, mussels, freshly baked bread and olives. They give her a secluded table underneath a leafy veranda, which overlooks the busy port. I only have a sip of the wine and immediately feel my head nodding again, so I ask Míriel if I can take a walk along the harbourside, hoping the sea air and exercise will wake me up.

I take a few steps before I sense a presence behind me.

When I turn, I see a young man roughly my own age. He is dressed in a long white tunic lined with gold and red. It's Kemen - the son of Pharazôn, the Queen's most trusted statesman and right-hand man. I feel my stomach sink. Kemen looks at me the way the Queen's guards look at me - which is to say, like I'm either an amusing oddity or a danger to their nation - depending on their mood and which way the political wind is blowing.

He smiles winningly, a role of parchment and a quill in his hands. "Did you happen to catch the name of the merchant requesting a levy on foreign imports?"

"Zanar D'Ferranoz."

"And the proposed levy? Was that a two percent tax or three?" He asks, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

"Three," I reply, impassively.

"And what of the guild's proposition for another market day each week -?"

"I think you heard, Kemen," I fire back, growing weary of the test, and wanting to shake him from my steps as quickly as possible so I can enjoy the time alone.

He makes an amused sound in the back of his throat, keeping apace with my hurried steps. "Just checking. You have exceptionally keen ears and eyes, Braelyn. One wonders if there is anything that happens in the tower that you do know about."

"One wonders if there is anything that happens in the tower that you do not gossip about like a fisherman's wife-" I throw back, disgruntled. But then I'm fighting back a yawn, and it's a losing battle. He laughs.

"Late night, was it?" he asks, enjoying himself. I hate myself for blushing, because immediately he raises an eyebrow. "Do not tell me you have taken a Númenorean lover after all this years."

"What business is it of yours?" I snap back, through gritted teeth.

Kemen stops walking, even as I continue. "Gossip spreads Braelyn," he calls after me, the taunt only thinly veiled. "I would pay more heed to what is being said of you and yours, if I were you!"

I straighten my back and march on.

When I feel I have walked far enough that I've put a safe distance between myself and Kemen, I sit on a low wall in the shade. I massage my temples, attempting to ward off the threat of a headache. In front of me is a view I will never tire of - Armenelos' vast main port. The deep blue sea glitters under the midday sun. Sea birds dive and squawk, lending their cries to the cacophony of sound. Men shout commands as equipment and cargo is either loaded or unloaded from boats. Carved into the cliff-face at the mouth of the port are statues of old Númenorean Kings, as tall as the tower itself. I inhale deeply, breathing in the scent of brine and fresh air.

"Braelyn?"

For once, the sound of someone calling my name does not worry me. The voice is so familiarly deep and reassuring, it immediately puts me at ease. When I raise my head, I see Captain Elendil walking towards me.

He has known me since I was a child, when me and my siblings were wards of Míriel's father, King Tar-Palantir. I used to play with his son and daughter, Isildur and Eärien. Though I was a few years older than them, and they were closer to Aland's age than my own. I have some memories of his wife teaching me to play the harp.

Of course, the fortunes of my family fell considerably when the King was usurped. I was old enough, intelligent enough and diligent enough that Míriel elected to keep me on as a servant. But my troublesome, wayward brother - uncontrollable even at the age of twelve - was forced into service in the Sea Guard. A service he was quickly exiled from but a few years later. My younger sister, Rian, only seven, was fostered by an old woman who ran an apothecary. The woman already had a vast extended family of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and she expected Rian to work for her keep.

Even now that Rian is fifteen, it is one of my greatest regrets that my work for the Queen kept me from looking after my sister full-time. Some days, I tell myself that I had no choice. But on other days, when my feelings towards Rian edge on maternal, rather than sisterly, I berate myself for allowing us to be separated.

Captain Elendil sits on the wall next to me. He is dressed, as usual, in golden armour, a sword at his side. His brown hair - greying at the temple - is loose around his face.

"Are you ill?" he asks me, concern causing his brow to crease.

I shake my head, forcing a smile. "Just tired."

"You work too hard."

I don't answer this. It's the truth. But I could easily point out that he is just as diligent in carrying out his duties as a Captain - not to mention he has two wayward children of his own that keep him constantly on his toes. Our troubles are not altogether different.

"I didn't sleep last night," I admit, after a moment. "Aland was in trouble with the wrong people in the Chiado Quarter. He owed a debt. I paid the coin."

Elendil stiffens. "The Chiado Quarter is no place for a young woman at night."

"What else would you have me do, Elendil?" I reply, curtly.

He lets out a sigh. "…I will speak to Aland," he replies, after a moment. "Make him see sense."

My lips twitch. "Good luck with that."

If Aland will listen to anyone, it is Elendil. Sometimes, this grates on me - that he will not even heed his own sister. But these days there is little I can say that will get through to him. It seems we disagree on every point. He blames me, I think, for our fortunes in Númenor.

"What of Rian?" Elendil asks me. "How does she fare?"

"It's not your job to worry about my family, Elendil," I reply, fighting back a smile. "You have more than enough on your plate with Isildur and Eärien."

He barks out a laugh. "Don't I know it…But come -" he says, nudging my arm with his elbow. "How is she?"

"No better…no worse," I reply, looking down at my hands. "I saw her…three days ago. I was planning to visit again this evening, if I'm not dead on my feet by then."

"I think I may know of something that can help with that," Elendil replies, his eyes twinkling. He nods his head towards a nearby shop. It's a dwelling at ground level in one of the stone houses that throng the portside, close enough to the markets to benefit from the best produce unloaded by the ships, and far enough away from the chaos to attract wealthier clientele. Under an awning to shade it's proprietors from the sun are a collection of tables and chairs, olive trees and vines. Servants carry trays of wine and hot drinks in and out of the kitchens.

Elendil buys us both cups of strong, dark coffee - the smell earthy and heady. The first sip sends my head spinning, it is so good. I feel a renewed vigour spreading through my veins.

But when Elendil makes to sit down at one of the tables, I shake my head. Already, I can feel the eyes of those close to us on my face. No doubt, they are taking in the red colour of my hair and my handmaiden attire.

"No. I should be getting back to Miriel."

He frowns at me. "You cannot rest a few minutes?"

"People talk, Elendil. About me. And the…kindness you have shown to my family."

I am not an idiot. I have heard many of the whisperings about my friendship with the Captain. Rumours that we are creating an alliance of those Faithful to the elves in order to overthrow the Queen. That I am his mistress. That I am manipulating him, endeavouring to create an army to destabilize Númenor. The mistrust is ever-present and runs through all levels of society.

All of these rumours are, of course, laughable, given my lowly station. I am as powerless as any servant. And Elendil has always been a trusted father-figure.

Elendil takes a large swig from his mug, unconcerned. "I never knew you paid heed to the prattle of idle mummers and fools."

"Because it is not just the gossip of townsfolk," I reply, angrily, under my breath. "It is the talk of statesman. Soldiers. Have you seen the puppet plays they show in the street for children? I saw one last week where they fashioned a doll to look like me. They showed me killing the Queen-Regent."

His grey eyes sharpen on my face searchingly, his expression suddenly grim. "You are not wearing your necklace," he notes, suddenly.

"It felt wise to keep it hidden for a time."

He nods, slowly, thinking. I begin to walk back towards the port.

"…When you see Aland, tell him to choose his words more wisely," I tell him. "Talking so openly of his hatred for the Númenorean elite will get us both exiled."

"Maybe he talks that way because that is what he wants."

The glare I throw at Elendil burns hotter than the sun. He holds up his hands in a peace-keeping gesture. "I will speak to him, I promise."

I breathe a little more easily, a knot in my chest beginning to unravel. "Thank you."

I travel in Míriel's horse-drawn carriage back towards the tower. Even with the windows down, the confines of the small space is stuffy and too warm. I feel sweat beading on my brow as we both fan ourselves with intricately patterned fans. The carriage sways unevenly on the cobblestones. I yearn, desperately, to be outside on a horse like one of the guards. But my place is at the Queen-Regent's side.

"How do you think today went, Braelyn?" Míriel asks me, suddenly. She shows no signs of discomfort in the heat, whereas I know that my face is horribly flushed. I can feel the growing sweat stains under my armpits, sticky and unpleasant. Summer in Númenor, for me, is a special kind of hell: I find myself enduring the season rather than relishing in it.

"The merchant's appeared appeased, m'lady. For now."

Privately, I think that the traders of Númenor are fat and greedy. The wealth that flows into the city is incredible, and yet it's businessmen are never satisfied - there is always another glut of gold and fortune within reach.

Míriel's lips twitch at my choice of words. "Yes. For now. I am sure they will be demanding an audience next week about some other issue. My father always used to say that the most impossible task of state-craft is keeping everyone happy. One day, they may not like my answers to their requests."

"Perhaps not."

She looks at me closely, and it is impossible to know what she is thinking. "You saw Captain Elendil today?"

"Yes, m'lady," I reply, cautiously. It does not surprise me that someone has reported our meeting to her.

"What did my handmaiden have cause to speak of with the Captain of the Sea Guard?"

"Aland, mostly," I reply, speaking plainly. "Captain Elendil offered to speak to him for me. You know he has sympathy for my family."

Míriel arches an eyebrow. "Sympathy? Are you feeling hard-done-by, Braelyn?"

I flinch. "No. Of course not. But Elendil understands my brother's…temper. Aland respects him. He may be more receptive to Elendil than he is to me."

"One can only hope, that lad is more stubborn that the most bone-headed mule," Míriel says, dryly, and I laugh loudly before I can stop myself. She looks at me.

"I said something similar," I explain.

Her lips twitch.

Eventually, the incline of the roads becomes steeper as we draw further away from the port, and the tower comes into view.

"I will need assistance with a bathe when we return," Míriel tells me, brusquely. "And then the evening is yours to do with what you will until I retire for the night."

I incline my head, rejoicing at the opportunity to see my little sister. "Yes, m'lady."

"Braelyn!"

Rian runs to me through the crowd. As always, it's like she can sense my presence, even though I am still some distance from the apothecary.

My sister's hair shines like fire as she darts between merchant stalls towards me. She is wearing a plain brown dress and an old, stained apron. Her face is covered in so many freckles - as a child, I remember her trying to scrub those same freckles off with the rough side of a scouring sponge. I note that she is pale, despite the constant sun. Her work invariably keeps her shut indoors, which worries me. Occasionally, the crone lets her roam the countryside in search of fresh herbs - days when Rian is at her happiest.

Before I can make a further assessment of my sister's health, she bundles into me at full speed, throwing her arms around my neck.

I return the hug with just as much vigour, holding her tightly to me, inhaling the scent of her hair.

"I've missed you," I whisper, berating myself for letting the time between my visits stretch as it has.

"I've missed you too," Rian grins, drawing away. "But you look like shit."

"Excuse you-!" I splutter, my eyes widening.

"I'm not joking, what has Míriel had you doing?"

"Queen Míriel -" I correct, reflexively. I only call her Míriel in my head, but to refer to her as such out loud would be a sign of disrespect - we are, after all, the furthest thing from equals. "We went to the merchants meeting. And then I met Elendil. He was asking after you."

Rian pulls a face. "Did you tell him I've been locked up with the old dragon all summer?"

"Rian -" I wince. Whereas I am all too aware of hierarchy, my sister appears wilfully blind to it. I've impressed upon her a thousand times how important her foster placement is here - there aren't many other families in Númenor that would take on an orphaned Southlander girl. But she never listens.

"Come on - I still have a few jobs to do - Gezzell'll kill me if I don't get them done," Rian says, dragging me back towards the apothecary. The house is narrow and tall, it's stone-front darkened with age. Tables set up outside display a range of herbs and poultices. The owner herself - Gezzell - stands alongside them. She's incredibly old. A wide-brimmed hat shading her face does little to hide her boiled-looking skin covered in white scabs - the result of too much sun-exposure. Her nose is large and covered in broken blood vessels. She does not smile as we approach.

When I offer to help Rian with the remainder of her chores, the old lady is not pleased. Says something about the softness of Southlanders. Rian rolls her eyes gamely and ignores the woman, but the comment nettles me. I would have thought my sister and I had both proved - over and over - that we are tougher than most of the ladies who sweep around Numenor in a constant state of leisure. It is comments like this that sometimes make me think that Aland's anger isn't wholly misplaced.

When we finish, I covertly hand Gezzell some coins - keeping her sweet, if such a thing is possible.

"I would've settled for you taking the youngster off my hands for a few hours," Gezzell grunts, by way of thanks. "She's been a handful today, that one."

Despite her words, I know she would have complained that she was not being properly paid for fostering Rian, had I not brought the coin. And she would have complained about my sister, regardless.

"Let's get out of here," I sigh, throwing an arm over Rian's shoulders.

The two of us head towards the centre of the city, where in the evening food stalls pop up selling a delicious array of meals to the sailors who have docked for the night. I let Rian choose what to eat. She takes the responsibility seriously, circling the market at least twice while making her decision. I'm about to grow impatient that she is taking too long, when she decides on a plate of potatoes, goats cheese and roasted vegetables - possibly sensing my irritation.

"I've got to hand it to the Númenoreans -" Rian says, as we take turns eating from the plate, sitting at a communal table in one of the plaza's. "- their food is much better than the food we would've had at home. I mean, they actually know how to use spices."

I bite my tongue accidentally.

Rian talks of home far more than me. I used to find it strange, considering she cannot possibly have any memories of the Southlands - she was two when we arrived here. But then I realise it's because of her lack of memories that she speaks of home so fondly. She remembers only what I have told her. And I have only ever told her the good. She does not remember the horror of our final few days there. Does not wake up in a cold sweat, screaming, as I do.

"You're right," I manage, lightly. "The food is better here."

Everything is better here, I think, looking at Rian. Because you are safe.

Perhaps even thinking this was tempting fate, however, because as we leave I spot a theatre troop on the stage across the plaza. A thick, knotted crowd watches them - most holding flagons of ale and cups of wine. The noise of laughter is raucous. Rather than acting out stories of old, the current vogue is modern-day satire.

I watch as a giggling actress walks onto the stage, dressed in a red wig and a servants clothing. The crowd jeer.

I duck my head, grab Rian's arm more tightly, and force her away before she can notice.

"Give me your necklace," I say, when we return to the apothecary. The sun has set, leaving everything shrouded in the grey light of dusk. Intermittently, torches have been lit to light the roads, and we stand underneath the glow of one, facing one another.

Rian frowns, touching the trinket around her neck. "Why? Why aren't you wearing yours?"

"It's complicated, but it's safer for now if we hide them away for a while."

A resigned look passes across my sister's face. Reluctantly, she undoes the clasp and hands the silver necklace to me. I quickly stash it deep in my skirt pockets. "Did Aland do something?"

"No," I reply, hastily, kissing her on the forehead. "He's fine."

"You'll visit me again soon, right? Tonight was fun." Her expression is hopeful. Something in my gut twists. I know she has friends among some of the other teenagers in the area, but for the most part, Gezzell and her many descendants are poor company.

"I will. Now get inside - and Rian?" She turns to look at me, already half-way to the front door. She looks so similar to me…it would be easy for someone to mistake the two of us. See her and think it was me. I swallow. "Don't go out by yourself at night. Just for a little while."

A frown touches her features, but for once she doesn't argue. Instead, she nods her head quietly.

A/N The idea for this story had me in a chokehold and wouldn't let go.

This chapter is really about fleshing out the characters, their allegiances and their motivations. Next chapter we'll meet Aland and - maybe! - Halbrand.

Soundtrack for this fic below (copyright of these songs belongs to the artists and not me). Some of these songs are purely instrumental and pretty atmospheric. I don't always choose music to go with fics based on lyrics alone - sometimes it's just feel - but I do think that a lot of the songs I've included this time have lyrics with really strong imagery and themes that just fits.

"Family" - Jordan Rakei

"So Soldier" - #1 Dads, Ainslie Wills

"The Last Man On Earth" - Wolf Alice

"Everywhere I Go" - Lissie

"Change (In The House Of Flies)" - Deftones

"Halbrand" - Bear McCreary - Rings of Power Original Soundtrack

"On The Nature of Daylight - Orchestra Version" - Max Richter, Baltic Sea Philharmonic, Kristjan Jarvi 

"Cornfield Chase" - Hans Zimmer - Interstellar Original Soundtrack

"Nocturne No. 19 in E Minor, Op.72 No 1" - Chopin

Please leave a review if this story interests you.

Last Of The Lilac Wine

Chapter Text

LOOSE ENDS

CHAPTER 2: CAUTION

The tavern Elendil tracks Aland to is not one he has frequented before. Then again, he has not had cause to spend much time in the Chiado Quarter, except to break up fights.

It hadn't been hard to locate Braelyn's brother. He draws attention to himself, riles moods and fans flames wherever he goes. Still, in many ways, he remains the fool-hardy boy that Elendil remembers from years ago. The impish child always at Isildur's side, the pair of them causing trouble wherever they went. It had been difficult to admonish Isildur of his behaviour, when the friendship had burned so brightly; the boys' loyalty to one-another so steadfast.

But that was nearly eight years ago.

Being cast out of the tower by the Queen-Regent had changed Aland - hardened him. Suddenly, he and Isildur were no longer equals. Aland had been forced to join the Sea Guard at the lowest rung. Isildur, his closest friend, had floundered after the death of his mother, and grown distant. Had Elendil not also been distracted by grief, he would have seen that taking in Aland may have been the wiser course in the long-run. A means of providing the boy with stability, and a home. But instead, Aland had run wild in the streets. Though he was, without a doubt, the best swordsman in the city, these days he spent his time picking fist-fights and gambling.

What the lad expects from this life, beyond a prison cell, Elendil can't fathom. But he suspects that his own assertion that Aland would be happiest if he were to be exiled from Númenor is not far off the mark.

"Ah, here he is!" crows a voice behind Elendil as he approaches the bar. "Here's trouble!"

When he turns, Aland is sitting at a nearby table with several other men, a game of dice between them. He is clutching a tankard - not the first of the night, Elendil would wager, judging by his manner and slumped posture. His curly hair is cut close to his skull. Perhaps an attempt to hide how the brown strands take on a reddish hue during the summer months. In his left ear is a small golden hoop.

"Funny, I used to say the same thing to you when you were a child," Elendil remarks, turning back to the bar to order his drink. The ceiling overhead is low, the large room lit by torches hung in brackets on the walls. There is a pervasive fug of pipe smoke.

"Feeling nostalgic, are we?" Aland walks over and slings his arm across Elendil's shoulder, his breath smelling of beer. Up close, there is a discernible bruise on his jaw.

"That's a hell of hit you must have taken." Elendil notes, shrugging the boy's arm off. "What did you do this time?"

"I had the misfortune of being born a Southlander."

"You mean you had the misfortune of being born with a lot of anger. You try to drink it away - gamble, brawl, fight - but nothing quenches it. There's always still an ember left, isn't there? Ready to burn again."

Aland scowls. "I don't think I was born like this."

"No," Elendil sighs. "Probably not."

He looks around the tavern, keeping a close eye on it's questionable proprietors. He hasn't come in uniform. A soldier in these parts, yet alone a Captain, draws too much curiosity. But he has his sword strapped to his belt, just in case.

"Did my sister send you to find me?" Aland asks, sliding onto a bar stool at his side.

"Yes."

"What does she demand of me this time?"

"Let's start with what I'm demanding of you -" Elendil fixes him with a steely look. It is hard to deny that Aland is a man grown now - the stubble on his jaw, the rough demeanour - but Elendil finds it hard not to address the boy he had once known. "- you're not to give Braelyn reason to journey out to this part of the city again. It's too dangerous."

"I didn't ask her -"

"Who else would settle your debts, Aland?" he replies, impatiently. "You have no money. No work. No income."

"I have my ways."

Elendil barks out a laugh. "Ways of digging yourself a deeper hole, you mean?"

Unexpectedly, Aland laughs too. He had always been quick with his emotions - quick to smile, quick to scowl. He spreads his hands. "It's a unique gift, what can I say?"

"I'd call it a curse," the Captain mutters, tiredly, rubbing a hand down his face.

The younger man shrugs. "I refuse to march to the beat of Míriel's drum. I won't fawn at her feet for scraps of gold like Braelyn."

"No, you'll just take the Queen's money if it's your sister giving it to you."

Aland rolls his eyes, heaving a sigh. "I get the picture, Elendil. Trust me, it wasn't me that sent for Braelyn that night."

"I know." He replies. "It was Isildur." Aland chokes on his drink as Elendil calmly continues. "He was at the docks yesterday evening - caught wind of your plight. He sent a runner with a missive for your sister...He still cares about you, Aland. Many people do, try as you might to feel that the whole world is against you."

To his credit, the boy shuts up for a while, his expression troubled and contemplating.

"Now -" Elendil says, bracing his elbows against the bar, facing the wall. An attempt to ensure his face cannot be seen by those near and thus his words known. "The message your sister sent is a request. She wants you to stop making your ill opinions of the Númenorean nobility known. And -" his gaze drops to the leather pouch hanging from a cord around Aland's neck, stamped with a familiar crest. "She suggests that you don't wear this for the time being."

Aland's fingers drop to the necklace, and his face tightens. "I'm not going to renounce our homeland just because it makes it easier for her to fit in at court."

"That's not why she's asking." Again, Elendil glances about them, checking that no-one is listening. He drops his voice lower, pitching it so that it can hardly be heard over the noise of the tavern. "Have you noticed talk about the Queen recently? Talk that suggests people may be dissatisfied with her way of ruling - thinking she cleaves too closely to the old ways?"

"Always. What of it?"

"Ever heard those same people mention Braelyn?"

Aland's eyes narrow. "In not particularly flattering terms, yes. Where do you think I got this bruise from?" he says, gesturing to his face.

Elendil nods. "Now…think on it…if one were seeking to destabilize the Queen Regent's power…you could perhaps call into question those she keeps within her inner circle. A Captain, who speaks Quenya -" he says, gesturing to himself. "- and a foreign handmaid, who many whisper knows too much."

"You think they'll use Braelyn as a scapegoat?"

"Your sister believes this. And her instincts about these kinds of things are usually sound."

Aland nods, absorbing this. He takes a swig from his flagon of ale, and then, flippantly, says: "If such a thing comes to pass…Míriel will rectify the issue by turning you both out. Like she did to me and Rian. We all know she's not above throwing her friends to the wolves."

Elendil closes his eyes briefly, absorbing the pain and the hurt Míriel's actions caused all those years ago. Aland does not understand the difficulty of the Queen-Regent's position in those days. How tenuous her claim on the throne was, after usurping her own father. To keep three foreign-born children as wards of the state would have been unthinkable, after the people's displeasure with her father's seemingly 'soft' ways. So she had employed Braelyn, and found decent, good work for Aland in the Sea Guard, and a reliable home for the youngest, Rian, where she might learn a trade. In her own way, she had watched out for all three of the children. Unfortunately for them all, an end to every avenue of possibility is never clear, and in many ways the dividing of the family had badly backfired.

"Your prejudice blinds you," Elendil replies, eventually. "The Queen is a good person, and she is…very attached to Braelyn, whatever you might think. Braelyn has worked hard for Míriel these past eight years. The Queen will not give her up. Not until the angry mob is right at her door. She may have a good head for politics, but she has her father's stubbornness and loyal heart." He feels a familiar rush of respect for his Queen - so often misunderstood, and so often backed into a corner where there were no correct decisions. "We must do what we can not to stoke the fire, and keep the tide of gossip from rising. You must play your part. There will be no more trouble. No more skulking around the Chiado Quarter."

"I don't 'skulk'," Aland replies, affronted.

Elendil's lips twitch. From his pocket, he withdraws a cloth, drawstring bag of money which he places on the bar between them. He nudges it towards Aland. "Be that as it may be, I am willing to secure your services in an honest trade. If it will keep you from whatever devilry you normally do to pass the time."

"'An honest trade'," Aland echoes, grinning slyly as he weighs the coin in the palm of his hand. "I hope you're not pressing me into returning to the Sea Guard?"

"Not quite. I am in need of a swordsmaster to help train my newest cadets. If you're looking to best the children of the Númenorean elite in a fight, I'd wager this is the job for you."

Aland's smile, if possible, grows wider. "Very well, Captain. Sign me up."

I dream that night of the death of my family.

We are travelling on open road in a carriage, a contingent of guards ahead and behind on horses. I remember the day being dreary. There's a mizzle of rain, a grey sky, and spongy, damp earth underfoot. The lack of sun, now, feels like an omen, but in truth such weather wasn't unusual at that time of year. We are riding away from my father's lands to a place further west, towards the coast, where we spend each winter. Where it will be warmer, without the howling snow-storms that blow down into our valley from the mountains.

Our family is, technically, nobility. But the Southlands have seen better days. The title means little, except that we have slightly more coin than others, and my father is often called upon to end disputes about land, marriage or farm animals. We have no castles, no real wealth. A ramshackle Hall back east is our abode, big enough for a singular throne and court, with a roof that often leaks. A community of sorts has clustered around it over the years. Gradually, with time, it might prosper. It is home. We are happy there.

I sit in the carriage alongside my mother, wrapped in a brown woollen blanket to ward off the cold. Halbrand sits opposite me, next to my father. My younger siblings, Aland and Rian, had been sent west ahead of us several weeks earlier, before the weather turned.

I remember Halbrand winding me up by telling me ghost stories. I became more and more scared until my mother told him to hush. I had stared at him, my eyes big as saucers, trying to pretend I wasn't afraid.

I remember him laughing - not maliciously. Just in that way he had. Everything was funny to him, back then. She's tougher than you think, mother, he'd said.

I'd been inclined to disagree.

The road cut through a hill, the banks of which rose steeply either side of us.

And then I remember a cry from one of the guards outside. The frightened shriek of a horse. Something hitting the carriage, hard. The unmistakable, terrifying sound of orcs snarling and growling as they launched their attack. The ringing clash of steel on steel as swords were drawn.

Halbrand grabbed me - or maybe my mother pushed me - either way, I was forced out of the carriage and into open air. Rain hitting my face, terror blurring the edges of my vision.

This way! Halbrand had cried, a knife suddenly in his hand as we start to run.

I turn, looking for our mother and father. Watch our mother get struck down by a monster holding a crude machete - opening a gash from her shoulder to her hip.

Braelyn!

Halbrand is only thirteen, but he is much stronger and faster than me. I can sense, even in the chaos, that he is deliberately slowing his pace to stay at my side, pulling and tugging my arm when I trip, nearly falling.

Run!

We break from the road, clambering over the steep bank, away from the massacre. I'm sobbing, which partly drowns out the sound of death behind me. But I cannot pretend I don't hear the heavy thud thud of footsteps and clanking of armour as a pursuer draws closer. Our bid to escape has not gone unnoticed.

Improbably, we manage to reach a copse of trees. Their branches are naked and tremulous, and a blanket of frost-bitten leaves crunches underfoot.

Halbrand shoves me hard behind a nearby trunk, out of sight.

Wait here. I'm going to lead it in the other direction he hisses at me. I can see the mist of his breath in the crisp air. He is shaking, but I don't think it's because of the cold.

He is brave. Reckless. Protecting me, until the very end.

I wish I had argued with him, told him not to go, but I had been too stunned. I'm not sure I even said anything, before he was suddenly gone.

I wake with a scream.

My bedsheets are tangled around my legs, my arms flailing as I reach for someone who isn't there.

As usual, it takes me a moment to realise that I am not alone in that forest. I am safe in my chambers in Númenor. It is the dark of night, but when I stand and look out of the window, I can see a pale strip of grey on the horizon, glowing dimly just above the sea. A sign of the coming dawn. I take deep breaths, allowing the sight - more familiar than that of my homeland - to calm me. I have lived on this island longer than I ever lived in the Southlands. But I know that, no matter how long I spend on the far reaches of these Western shores, my true home with forever haunt me.

I stare at the water - the way the waves gently catch the moonlight - and remember my journey across it years before.

It had been our father's advisor, Oisin, who had decided to send myself and my siblings across the sea to Númenor. For our safety. He'd said the orcs wouldn't stop until they had killed my father's entire lineage, so we had to go somewhere far away. And we had to keep our identity a secret, because there was a chance the monsters could follow us across the sea. He had been so convincing - although, then again, I had not been hard to persuade. I had only been ten, and traumatised to boot. I had listened.

Years later in Númenor, when the court politics of the island revealed itself to me in all its ruthlessness, I had seen the wisdom in continuing the deception - the lie that we were not nobility.

We were sent on a boat with a nurse and three sailors. Quickly, a vicious storm dispatched our nurse and two of those men. The remaining sailor had cursed us, calling us bad luck, and dived overboard the moment he spotted a nearby fishing vessel. We'd arrived at a port two days later, bedraggled, sick from trying to drink the sea water, and grateful to be alive.

I remember King Al-Palantir had ordered the last surviving sailor hung, for his cowardice.

It wasn't until I grew older that I guessed Oisin's intentions had not been good. Probably, he was in the Southlands still, and had claimed lordship of my father's hall.

I sigh, deciding that it is unlikely that I will sleep anymore tonight. I dress in my handmaiden uniform and leave my room, trying to banish memories that threaten to choke me. The hallways are quiet, save for the guards, but the silence feels peaceful - safe.

I decide to make for the great tree - Nimloth - an elvish gift to the people of Númenor. It stands on a long terrace that overlooks the city - a huge tree thick with white blossom. Even in a tower that is the pinnacle of breath-taking architecture, the tree's ethereal beauty is unmatched.

The warm outdoor air is threaded with a crisp sea breeze when I step onto the terrace. I move closer to the tree, allowing the sight of it to calm my mind. But then I notice that I'm not alone. There's a figure, dressed in a light cloak, standing at the pointed tip of the terrace, perilously close to the edge. The Queen-Regent.

"M'lady?" I question, softly. Half-afraid of startling her, that she might topple over the ledge.

Míriel turns to look at me, a wry smile on her face. "You needn't sound so alarmed, Braelyn. I won't fall."

"You're very close to the edge," I reply, uneasily. I've never been one to stomach heights.

By way of reply, Míriel points to the silhouette of the jagged cliffs that fringe the port. "When I was a bit younger than you, my friends and I would climb those cliffs, and jump into the sea. Just for the thrill of it."

"Your father let you do that?" I ask, incredulously.

She laughs. "It's the pass-time of many bored young men and women on this island. Father advised me on where to avoid jumping…where sharp rocks lurked at the bottom, where the current could drag you out to sea in minutes. I was reckless, but he kept me safe."

She lapses into silence and for a moment I watch her, wondering what has brought her out here.

Perhaps thinking the same thing, she turns to me. "You could not sleep, either?"

I fold my arms. "Bad dream." Then I amend my answer. "Actually, a bad memory."

"The orc ambush?"

I shiver, even though there is no chill. "Yes."

I told Míriel the story of my parents and Halbrand's deaths many years ago, when the sound of my screaming reached her own room and she asked me point-blank the next morning. I confessed, if only because I was so mortified that my night terrors had been loud enough to wake her. She'd generously hired a healer to visit me, and they'd gamely had me try different poultices and potions to ward off the nightmares. Nothing had worked.

"What about you?" I ask, after a brief pause in which the sky above our heads lightens further, pale pinks streaking the clouds. "What brought you out here?"

She gazes past me, out to the ocean. Then, with a sweeping motion of her arm, she points to the distance. "I have been having visions of a great wave. It surges towards us…higher than those cliffs…higher than the tower…big enough to swallow the entire island whole…It submerges Armenelos and every other city for the rest of time in the watery depths of the sea. The whole of Numenor destroyed, in only moments." Míriel turns to face me, her expression tight with worry. "I fear a grave peril faces my people. And, unlike the wave, I cannot guess yet from which direction that danger comes."

I clasp my hands together in front of me to stop them from shaking.

I wonder, not for the first time, if Míriel thinks that I will be the source of her downfall, as so many of her subjects believe. Is the peril she speaks of…me? I do not think it is true. I would never do anything to bring harm to Númenor, which has long been a safe harbour for me. And yet…could I cause danger indirectly? Might my presence here be causing an unravelling -?

Míriel laughs at the expression on my face. "It feels like your mind will break, trying to consider every possibility, doesn't it?"

I swallow. "Yes."

"Disorientating. And I must be focused."

"M'lady…" I wonder if what I'm about to say is a terrible mistake. "…have you heard the rumours? The people, they do not like that you have a Southlander serving lady. They think I am a spy for the elves. They question your judgement, like they questioned your father's."

"They have always said this -" Míriel says, dismissively.

"But -"

Finally, she steps away from the edge of the terrace. We stand facing one another - she, a little shorter than I. In her simple cloak and nightgown, her hair unadorned and loose around her face, we could almost be equals. "I am aware of the talk, Braelyn. It is but one of many juggling balls I have in the air. But I do not think the mutterings you speak of will be the cause of Númenor's destruction."

I must look doubtful, because she rests a hand reassuringly on my arm. "Peace, friend," she says softly. "Trust that, when it comes to you, at least, I can see clearly."

"What do you see?" I ask, because right now my very soul feels like a tangled, confused thing, full of fear. I am not sure, in that moment, what exists inside of me.

The corner of her mouth lifts. "I see that you are good, Braelyn."

I absorb this as she removes her hand, my stomach sinking.

I want to tell her that I am a descendent of the Kings of the Southlands - the same Kings who fought alongside Morgoth in the War of Wrath. The same evil that was in them still exists in the bones and blood of my body. But I cannot. What difference does a noble lineage make now? When I am but a handmaid? When my lands are broken - plagued by orcs and watched by mistrustful Elves, who wait for the Southlanders to show the slightest hint of that same evil. My father's Hall has probably been usurped by a villain. An advisor who, in my darkest thoughts, I suspect gave the enemy details of my family's travel plans that fateful day?

I stare at Míriel as these tumultuous thoughts wash over me. Searching for some levity, I attempt a smile. "And I see that you are very stubborn, Queen-Regent."

She snorts a laugh. "If I came unmoored at every piece of gossip to reach my ears, I would be a very poor ruler. Now come, the sun is nearly up, and I must ready myself for the day."

I bow my head. "As you wish."

When Míriel's presence is announced, and we enter the court that morning, I feel exhausted. My second night of poor sleep, I'm sure, is showing on my face and in my demeanour.

On court days, I dress in more formal attire. My dress today is made with gold thread, but the pinafore I wear over it is the same dark blue as ever. Unfortunately, it would be unseemly to wear a handkerchief over my head in court, and so my red hair is on display for all to see. I have pulled it back into an elaborate knot behind my head, secured with a net. Already loose strands are escaping, curling around my face in the humidity.

Days in court are for the upper echelons of Númenor to gain favour with the Queen. These are the days I like least. I find the wealth on show distasteful, the openly scheming faces of its upper class repulsive. Of course, these are the people with power. People who control trade, coin and minds - and Míriel navigates their treacherous waters skilfully. Still, I make sure to stand well away, unobtrusive and quiet next to the throne. For the most part, I am left well enough alone, until Pharazôn approaches me.

"Braelyn," he greets, courteously inclining his head.

"Pharazôn," I murmur, uneasy. The statesman has given me cause, over the years, to be on my guard. He is a clever politician, and he is always very polite, and very dedicated to Queen Míriel. However, I have never been able to shake the feeling that he sees me as a chess piece in a larger game.

"The Queen is looking well today, don't you think? Given her early start this morning."

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. "Yes."

"I am told you were with her."

"I was." It is this that puts me on edge when I am around Pharazôn - the implication, always, that I am being watched.

He frowns, concerned. "What troubles her mind?"

"Many things," I hedge. "She is the Queen. There are always several matters for her consideration."

"Anything specific a loyal advisor should know...Perhaps I can help -?"

"I am sure, should she need assistance, she will ask you herself."

"Of course." He takes a deep breath, surveying the crowds in front of us. "She is lucky, to have a confidant like you. You are like a steel trap for all secrets, Braelyn. Once locked away, we can never extract them back out of you. An admirable quality in a loyal servant."

I smile, thinly, sure he does not mean this as a compliment. "Thank you."

"And why were you abroad so early? Kemen says you had business in the city the night before last? And up again before dawn the night just gone?" This time, he does not try to hide the edge of interrogation to his voice.

I can bully Kemen into leaving me alone, but I cannot dismiss the queries of Míriel's right-hand man so easily. Not without giving him cause to think his suspicions are warranted. "It was a family matter," I finally manage to force out, my jaw tense.

"Ah, Aland," Pharazôn nods, sighing to himself. "You have my sympathies. The Chiado Quarter is not a palatable place for young ladies - even those coming to the aid of wayward brothers."

I look at him so sharply, I hurt my neck. "You had me followed?" I all but hiss, under my breath. There is no other explanation for how he knows where it is I went.

His expression is calm, but flat - mask-like. "Out of an abundance of caution, I assure you. It is not a good look, Braelyn, for the Queen's closest confidant to be consorting with criminals. Who knows what information is being exchanged?"

I flush. "Your caution was unwarranted. My business was with Aland, only. Rest assured, I will not be going to that part of the city again."

"See to it," he says, lightly but firmly. "I think you know your movements are being watched."

"Yes," I reply, pointedly. "By you."

But Pharazôn shakes his head. "My eyes are but a pair among many, many more."

I feel my heart beating fast and painfully inside of my chest. "Thank you -" I manage to reply, straining for calm. "For the warning. But I am already aware of this matter. As is the Queen. I can handle myself."

He inclines his head in deference. "Suit yourself. If you need help - my door is always open."

I watch him walk away, my body only relaxing when I see him strike up a conversation with someone else. The mood in court is relaxed - even merry - for all of my misgivings. I'm sure some rest would put me more at ease. Maybe, if Míriel allows it, I can nap this afternoon, while she attends to her father...

But the atmosphere quickly changes when a messenger arrives. He is just a boy - red-faced and sweating, as if he has run here in great haste. Some in the crowd titter as he trips over himself approaching the Queen-Regent.

"M'lady -" the boy gasps between pants of breath. "I have a message from Captain - Captain Elendil -"

Miriel looks amused. "Regain you breath, boy, and then speak your message."

He pauses, bracing his hands on his knees. Finally collecting himself, I watch him straighten. My interest peaks, wondering what has got him so worked up. What kind of message Elendil would send in such haste. "Captain Elendil has found an elf at sea, my lady. And a Southlander man. He's bringing them to you now. To court."

The resulting uproar is like a raging storm at sea.

A/N I'm really enjoying laying the groundwork for this story. As you can see, Halbrand will appear next chapter. I cannot wait to explore the family reunion.

I hope you like my OC characters. I'm trying to work them into the story naturally. I think the benefit of OCs in a prequel series like this one is they keep the suspense up, when some fans already know broadly where the plot is going.

As usual, please review if you are enjoying this story.

Last Of The Lilac Wine

Chapter Text

LOOSE ENDS

CHAPTER 3: OLD WOUNDS

The attendees at court look on with interest as Elendil assures in the two visitors.

The Sea Captain enters via one of the vast corridors on my left, quickly descending a wide set of steps to stand before Queen Míriel. The chamber is filled with the low-level hum of talk; an elf has not been seen on this island in hundreds of years. Judging by the tone of the whispers, none of what is being said is good.

The elf is first to appear behind Elendil, and the crowd fall into a watchful hush.

Even crusted with sea water - her clothing torn, and walking bare foot - the elf is beautiful. Her thick, blonde hair catches any hint of sunlight, and glows brightly. Her dark blue eyes are keen and her demeanour is aloof.

The Southlander man mutters something to her as they approach.

I wonder - as I always do when my path improbably crosses someone from my homeland - whether I will know him. Maybe I will recognize him from the town I grew up in. Perhaps he knew my father. Or he will have news of Oisin's doings these past few years.

Elendil stands in front of Míriel, but instead of looking at the Queen, he looks straight past her - to me.

The intensity of that brief gaze shocks me. He looks troubled by something. There is a strange gleam in his eye I do not understand. Drawn by the look, I take the barest hint of a step closer, trying to get a better view of our two guests. I draw level with Míriel's throne.

The Southlander is tall and he has auburn hair. His looks are rugged, and - like the elf - he has seen better days. White scabs and sores decorate his skin; his tunic is torn in several places.

I don't recognise him at first.

It's when my eyes pass over the trinket hanging on a cord around his neck that my pulse starts to quicken. I feel a little dizzy as I stare at the sigil, sure my eyes are playing tricks on me. Because that is my sigil. The mark of my family's house.

I scrabble, trying to think.

Years ago, in Middle-Earth, on a bleak and dark day, Halbrand's body washed up on a river. It had been two sleepless nights since the massacre. Two nights of praying and hoping my older brother would return, unharmed, laughing and cracking some kind of joke about his absence. The presence of a body put a brutal end to that shred of hope. Suddenly, I had to mourn. Suddenly, I had to account for the vast well of guilt inside of me - knowing that my brother had died protecting me. I only saw the corpse twice: once, at a distance, as it was carried through the town on a stretcher; and secondly, when he was laid to rest in a casket. I'd placed a sprig of lavender on his chest, my vision blurry with tears, as he was prepared for burial. The serving women had not been able to locate his necklace on his person. It was never found.

Perhaps this man picked it up, somewhere. Somehow.

I cock my head, staring at the Southlander more intently.

He has green eyes. So like Halbrand's. The shape of his mouth and face are too similar to discount. Now that I look harder, it is impossible to deny - not to begin to believe that -

Queen Míriel asks for their names. The elf answers first - then he does.

It's the voice that convinces me. Pitched lower than I remember my brother's had been, being, as he was, on the cusp of manhood. But the tone. The wry inflection of humour. "Halbrand," the man introduces himself.

I gasp.

I am unsure how I keep my head, yet alone manage to remain on my feet, through such a shock.

I manage to stop myself from crying out. I resist the temptation to run down the steps, throw my arms around him, and cry like the small child I was when we parted. Whatever else, to openly hug a man who has appeared in Númenor with an elf as his travelling partner would bring about more questions than I am able to answer. And, even in my state, I can tell that Halbrand does not recognise me. Not once do his eyes land on my face, despite the fact I am standing only a few metres from Míriel, who he speaks to.

I feel the elf's eyes on me, though. Galadriel. Her gaze is like a physical thing, weighing and assessing me. No doubt, she senses the barely-contained tension in my body - the way my eyes can't leave his face, as if hardly daring to believe what is in front of me.

When the pair of them are dismissed, I stay rooted to the spot. Already, the court is alive again with gossip.

Elendil approaches, hesitantly.

"Braelyn -" he begins, quietly, so that others cannot overhear.

I fight to see through a film of tears, my jaw clenched so tightly it hurts. "Did you know?" I whisper.

After a moment of hesitation, he bows his head. "I saw the sigil. It was the only reason I pulled them both from the water…But did I know he was your brother…?" he trails off. When he lifts his head again, his eyes are swimming with emotion and something like awe. "Strange are the workings of this world, where miracles arrive on the shores of doubt, unlooked for."

I let out a watery laugh. "How would I have known to look? I thought him dead. - Elendil -" My voice catches.

He smiles, softly. "Go to your brother. The Queen can spare you for this time."

My shoulders hunch, instinctively. "But he did not know me."

"You parted as children. With time, he will know the woman you have become."

It is all the encouragement I need. With a furtive glance at Míriel, I hurry out of the courtroom, holding an empty pitcher of wine to my chest - leaving under the pretext of having it re-filled. I have no clue which way Halbrand went, but it turns out he and the elf have not journeyed far.

I find them walking freely down a corridor. Tall windows allow in shafts of bright sunlight, and rich tapestries adorn the walls. I stop at the top of a small flight of steps.

"Halbrand!" I call out.

He turns.

His expression is passive - maybe a little curious. Even now, he does not recognise my voice. Perhaps he wonders why a Númenorean maid with a Southlander's colouring is running after him. I realise, looking at him, that he is handsome. He has the regal features of a King. The face of a warrior. It is the face of my brother.

There's a ringing, metallic clattering sound, and I realise it is because of me - I have dropped the wine jug. Then I am picking up my skirts and flying down the stairs, fast, and throwing myself against his chest. I hug him to me and squeeze my eyes shut, seeing, in the darkness, the boy I parted with. His fierce, earnest expression as he tells me to hide.

Halbrand makes a surprised sound in the back of his throat, stumbling a little under the force of my assault.

I draw my face away from his tunic so I can look at him better. Already, tears stick strands of hair to my cheeks. "How?" I beseech. "How are you alive? I saw your body. I watched them bury you."

His green eyes search mine - his expression impossible to read. Then, after a moment, his hands cup my face, large and warm. He exhales, slowly. "It was the body of another," he murmurs, the burr of his accent gentle. "Oisin tricked you…By the time I made it back to our home, he had already sent you away…I never thought I would see you again…" His lips quirk. "You are just as surprised as I…Braelyn."

The sound of my name on his lips causes some hurt inside of me to heal. Some deep scar knits itself smooth, leaving a glowing warmth in its wake. Even so, I find myself searching for the right words.

"Halbrand," I say, drawing his hands away from my face and clutching them in my own. "I shouldn't have let you leave -"

He shakes his head. "No. Don't do that. Don't torture yourself over things done. I would not change my actions that day."

"You saved me."

His brow furrows, and for the first time he takes me in, fully. He looks displeased by my attire. "Aye, I saved you - but to what end? So you could be shipped overseas to become a servant?"

I raise my eyebrows, stepping out of his grip and shooting a pointed glance at his own filthy clothing. "Have you looked in a mirror, recently? I'd say my fortunes have fared a little better than yours."

As if by magic, the irritation slips from his face and he laughs. "Fair enough."

"What have you been doing these past thirteen years, anyway - living as a hermit with the sea turtles?" I tease, archly.

"…How about battling sea monsters -?" Galadriel finally interjects, a brief look of amusement flitting across her face. She'd been standing quietly to one side during our reunion, watching us closely. Now she steps forwards, interrupting our banter.

My face slackens with shock as I glance between the pair of them. "There's no such thing."

"I assure you, there is," Halbrand tells me, darkly. "Luckily, the brute didn't find me quite as appetizing as my shipmates."

I frown, despite his jokiness. I've heard tales of the Sundering Seas - bad stories of shipwrecks and drowned men. I wonder what happened to Halbrand out there, and how he came to meet Galadriel.

Sensing, probably, that I am about to ask further questions, he runs his hand through his hair. "- A story for another time. Right now, I need a change of clothes, and some food and ale."

"Don't you want to see the others?" I ask him, confused by his brusqueness.

Once more, Halbrand's eyes meet mine, a slight frown pulling on his brow. Gradually, something dawns on him, and clarity eases the tight lines on his face. "…It's not just you?"

I shake my head mutely. I cannot get used to the sight of his face - the fact that he is really alive. As if sensing my wonder, he reaches out and takes my hand. He breaks into a smile that is giddy - almost dumb-struck. "Aland and Rian…They're here, too?" he asks, his voice catching on their names.

I grin up at him. "Yes."

In the end, I relent, and agree to help Halbrand source new clothes and a place to wash before I take him to the rest of his siblings. Mostly because I cannot deny he has a definite odour.

Galadriel peels away from our company, claiming to want to explore the rest of the city alone. Although I think this may be her tactful way of giving us some time alone with one another. Time, perhaps, that is too much, too soon, as I find many of Halbrand's questions difficult to answer, and his responses to mine are overly evasive.

"Forgive me if I am missing something -" he says, as I lead him down the winding city roads towards the apothecary. He walks with his hands clasped behind his back, shortening his strides to match mine. His brown hair is now clean and curling slightly at the ends, and I've found him a fresh tunic and shoes. "But why do our sister and brother not reside in the tower with you, if you were all taken in under the King's patronage?"

I resist the urge to wince. "It's complicated."

"Try me."

"Things changed. When Queen Míriel came to power, she was forced to find more…suitable accommodation for Aland and Rian."

"Ah, yes, the streets are a perfectly good home for two young children. How generous of her." Halbrand replies, sarcastically, glancing at the city around us. I know what he is seeing. For all of Númenor's good fortune, Armenelos is not immune to inequalities in wealth or circumstance. Though we pass thriving shopfronts, the streets are also populated by beggars and those without homes. When we pass several women loitering outside of what is unmistakeably a brothel, their whistles and cat-calls follow after Halbrand.

"I've done my best to keep them safe," I answer, defensively.

"Clearly."

I stop walking and turn around to face him with my hands on my hips. "Are you judging me?"

He quickly holds up his hands in surrender. "The opposite." But catching the glare on my face, he hastens to add - "Thirteen years is a long time, Braelyn. I've lived those years selfishly, in order to survive…And all that time, you were here, with our family's lives in your hands." He swallows, looking abruptly vulnerable. "…I don't think you realise how different we are. How different I am, from the boy you once knew."

I bite my lip, recognising for the first time the chasm between us. I cannot contradict his point - that we are, effectively, strangers to one another. The idea is incongruous to the strong attachment I feel to him.

"I've been selfish, too," I offer, my anger deflating somewhat.

He raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Shame tastes like bile in the back of my throat, and I grimace. "Often, Aland and Rian have suggested returning home, and each time I have resisted."

"You do not want to go back?"

Unbidden, memories return to me of the orc raid. My mother being struck down before my eyes. Riding away from our homeland, towards a boat that will take me to a foreign world I do not know, with a small child and a toddler tucked under each arm, weeping, asking me where we are going. And I do not have an answer for them, being nothing more than a child myself. It is all I can do not to flinch.

"I cannot," I whisper, turning my face away from him.

Aland and Rian do not know what they are asking, when they suggest returning to the Southlands. They think their lives in Númenor hard? I know with conviction that the Southlands is death. Toil. Pain. There is nothing romantic about returning to a failed kingdom.

When I gather the courage to look up again, Halbrand's expression is sympathetic.

"What about you?" I ask, collecting myself as I begin to walk on. We've reached a busy market, and I browse the produce at each stall, a useful pretext to occupy my mind and distract myself from the swirl of emotions in my head. Halbrand trails after me, following my aimless, zig-zagging path between tables.

"What about me?" he echoes.

"The elf requested ships passage to Middle-Earth," I remind him, weighing a potato in my hand. "Are you going with her?"

Halbrand's lips quirk as I hand over some money to the stall owner, purchasing a quantity of potatoes. "That," he says. "Remains to be seen."

"She's not very diplomatic."

"Mm."

"And a little demanding. Reckless, even."

"Really? I hadn't noticed," he throws back, sarcastically.

I smile to myself, stopping at another stall. "You find her impressive."

He gives me a side-long glance, registering my amusement. Impulsively, he tosses a crisp, red apple into the air. "Well, a crusty sea-hermit like me is easily impressed."

"Somehow, I doubt that," I reply, snatching away the apple the next time he throws it. I add it to my collection, the contents of my basket growing.

He rolls his eyes, changing the subject. "Why are we shopping, anyway? I thought you were taking me to see our sister?"

"You'll see."

At the apothecary, I hand over my bribe. Gezzell sits behind the counter of her shop, smoking a pipe. Moss, flowers and herbs adorn every wall. The room is shaded and without much light, giving the general impression that we are standing inside a cave. The still air smells of dust and spices.

I set my basket down between us.

"We're here to see Rian," I inform Gezzell, politely.

The old woman makes an irritated sound in the back of her throat, her eyes narrowing in displeasure. My arrival in the middle of the workday is unusual, and most likely inconvenient for her. And the glance the old woman throws at Halbrand is dark with suspicion. But after a while, her gaze drops to the basket, and the goods within. Eventually, one gnarled hand slowly reaches out and grips its handle, and she draws it towards her. "The girl's in the back," she tells me, grudgingly. "I cannot spare her for long."

"Of course," I bow my head.

"What a charming old hag," Halbrand stoops to mutter in my ear, half-irritated and half-teasing, as we leave the shop, rounding the back of the building.

I bite back a laugh.

My stomach is a riot of nervous butterflies when we encounter Rian. She is wrestling sacks of something onto a rickety wooden cart, her face flushed and sweaty from the exertion. When she catches sight of me, she looks surprised. An embarrassing sign that I do not normally follow up on visits so quickly. Probably, she was not expecting to see me for another few days at least.

"Braelyn!" she grins, straightening upright and dusting her hands on her apron. Her hair, like mine, is pulled away from her face in a practical bun. She's wearing a man's trousers, too baggy and held up by a leather belt. Her gaze slides from me to Halbrand, who is standing a little behind me. "Who's you friend?" she asks.

He steps forwards readily, holding out a hand for her to shake. "Halbrand," he greets, wryly, barely constraining a small smirk.

She doesn't bat an eye, taking the proffered hand in her own. "Rian," she returns. "I'm told I once had a brother called Halbrand."

"…You still do," I smile. The warm, glowing feeling I'd had when I first made my realisation about Halbrand's identity returns ten-fold. Better than before, because now I get to reunite my older brother with our siblings. Show him how they've grown and changed into adults more than worthy of respect and affection.

Rian's expression becomes puzzled. She looks between me and her brother, still not understanding.

"You were only two when we parted," Halbrand explains to her. "So I'll forgive you for not recognising me, sister."

Her eyes widen comically, and she gapes at him. "Is this a joke?" she demands, finally.

I laugh. "It's not a joke, Rian."

"You're having me on -!" she announces, looking at Halbrand, her shrewd gaze challengingly.

"I am not," he grins. "But if you'd rather we left you to get on with your work -"

"No!" she protests, quickly, laughing. "Anything but that!"

She shakes her head, sobering, looking at him more closely. "…It's true I don't recognise you, but you do feel like Halbrand. Or you feel how I thought you would…How I imagined you, when Braelyn told me stories about you…I'm sorry, I'm not doing a very good job of explaining it."

A lump forms in my throat as I watch them. Even Halbrand is not unaffected. He abruptly pulls Rian into a hug, his voice gruff with emotion. "I've missed you, little sister," he mutters, dropping a kiss onto the crown of her head.

When they part, I step forward and touch Rian's arm, conscious there is still one more reunion to marshal - and he might not be easy to find. "Do you know where Aland is?" I ask her.

To my surprise, Rian looks giddy with amusement. "You mean, you haven't heard?"

I find myself once again at the docks. Rian leads the way, her movements spritely, her whole body a coil of barely contained excitement. It is all Halbrand and I can do to keep up as she darts between houses and people.

"She's fast," Halbrand grunts, hurrying his pace. "I'll give her that."

"Have some pity, then, for the thirteen years I've spent trying to keep up with her -" I remind him, acerbically, holding my skirts away from my ankles as I strive to match his long strides.

He barks out a laugh.

Finally, Rian leads us onto a walkway atop a wall, which overlooks a courtyard. The courtyard is a commonly used training ground for cadets in the Sea Guard. It has a floor of packed dirt and wooden racks of equipment and weapons. The area is full of men and women in padded tunics and vests, dressed for sword fighting.

A horn sounds, and the cadets dutifully assemble at attention. From underneath a veranda, a man walks out in front of them.

"I don't believe it," I murmur, stunned as I recognise Aland. He's dressed, rebelliously, in black and dark grey clothing, devoid of any Númenorean markings. In his right hand is an elegant sword - it glints brightly in the light as he paces in front of the recruits. "How -?" I begin.

Rian grins at me, standing on my left. "Elendil persuaded him," she explains.

I shake my head in disbelief. I knew that Elendil had promised to speak to Aland - I did not think he would be this successful.

We watch as Aland demonstrates a few techniques, evidently meant to disarm an opponent. His unfortunate accomplice has their sword sent flying from their grip in at least ten different ways.

"I think I like my brother already," Halbrand remarks, amused, and watching closely. He's leaning his elbows against the wall, squinting his eyes against the sun.

I shoot him a look, thinking that Aland could do with making fewer enemies, not more. But I can't argue against a path that puts him in more respectable circles, and away from trouble.

The session is clearly gruelling, and my brother is at times overly harsh in his instructions. He does, however, show one moment of mercy. A cadet is knocked onto his back by his opponent - so hard he is badly winded. Aland intervenes before another strike can be delivered, extending a hand, and helping the boy to his feet.

"Is that -?" Rian asks, shading her eyes to try to see better.

"Isildur." I tell her, smiling.

I cannot deny that Elendil's plan has some merit, if it will rekindle the friendship that had once existed between those two stubborn men.

When the training exercises have finished, we descend into the courtyard via a narrow staircase that hugs the wall.

Rian runs over to Aland, first. The two of them have always had a better, less complicated relationship than the tumultuous one I share with him. It is something I have always been jealous of. If I knew of a method to magic away the ill-feeling between us, I would do it in a heartbeat. But somehow, everything I say to him comes out wrong. Everything he says to me seems deliberately designed to be hurtful.

I watch Aland ruffle Rian's hair affectionately, his sword now belted at his waist. The sight causes a twinge of longing in my heart. Makes me feel like an unwelcome guest.

"Let me guess," Aland pre-empts, defensively, when he spots me approaching. "You don't approve."

I shake my head. "On the contrary, I think you have the makings of a great teacher."

He shrugs off the compliment belligerently, and I know immediately that I have misspoken. "What is there to teach? I haven't seen action. I have no experience in battle. I'm untested. What good is being handy with a sword without an enemy at its point? What's the use, if you prevent me, every time, in returning home and fighting for what is rightfully ours?"

Immediately, I feel a bone-weariness. I cannot keep having the same argument with Aland; it is exhausting. And yet try as I might, I can never bring our quarrel to an end.

"Are you really that battle-hungry?" Halbrand interjects, amused. He appears at my side, his arms folded. "Or do you just feel like you have that much to prove?"

Aland looks unimpressed. He glances first at me, then at the tall stranger at my side. "Who's this?" he asks, inclining his head towards Halbrand.

Before I or Rian can reply, Halbrand steps forwards. A lone sword lies on the ground, and with a nifty kick of his heel, he bounces it into the air, effortlessly grabbing it by the hilt. His steps are light and his movements unhurried, but I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, feeling a kind of charged energy between the two brothers.

"What enemy is it you yearn for?" Halbrand challenges, holding the sword loosely at his side. "The Sea Guard? Queen Míriel? An Orc? Your father's old advisor, Oisin Balstrom?...Perhaps a chance to have slain Morgoth himself?"

Aland's eyes narrow with suspicion. "What secrets have my sisters been telling you?"

"Maybe -" Halbrand continues, pacing calmly. "You feel your enemy is Captain Elendil? Or -" he adds, his eyes sliding to my face. "- Braelyn?"

I freeze, my stomach giving a sickening lurch.

Suddenly, Aland has his sword drawn, pointing its tip in Halbrand's direction. His face is tight with fury. "You speak of things you do not understand!" he bites out. I'm not sure if it is the slight against me, or the fact that Halbrand might be right, that provokes him so.

"Stop it!" Rian cries out, horrified. No doubt she also senses the combustible atmosphere. But when she grabs Aland by his arm, he shakes her off.

"You want an enemy to fight?" Halbrand taunts, opening his arms wide as if in invitation. "Go ahead. Try."

The crashing of blade meeting blade is like the sound of a hammer in a forge - the creation, momentarily, of something deadly and powerful.

I back away hastily, dragging Rian behind me as I go.

The two men are evenly matched. Halbrand blocks every blow Aland is antagonized into throwing his way. On the next parry, Halbrand's voice bleeds with poorly restrained irritation: "You have no idea what horrors await you in battle. You should be thanking the Valar that your sister has kept you here all these years. You should be on your knees, grateful that she has managed to keep you alive this long."

With a yell, Aland knocks Halbrand's sword to one side, swinging again for his chest. Despite the fact that Halbrand has spent days at sea - was clearly exhausted when he arrived in Númenor - the speed of his block is preternatural.

"Grateful? For her cowardice!?" Aland snarls, sweat beading on his brow. "She is a Princess grovelling at the feet of a Usurper!"

I make a sound between a gasp and a groan. It isn't as if I haven't heard Aland's accusation before, but these things have always been said in private - not in a public arena, yelling about our heritage for all to hear.

"Aland - stop -!" I interject - part begging, part furious. I take a step towards them, but the next clash of their swords drives me back.

"Why do you insist on denying it?" Aland growls at me, not taking his eyes off of Halbrand's. Their green eyes are exactly the same, a mirror image of one another. Their similarities make the fight worse - the meeting of Aland's anger and Halbrand's ruthlessness horribly discordant.

"I do it to keep you safe -" I cry out, fighting back tears. "It has always been to keep you safe -"

"No. You're afraid -!"

But then Halbrand surges forwards, suddenly overpowering Aland. Probably for the first time in years, Aland finds himself on the losing end of a fight. He is knocked down, hard, onto his back - the blow needlessly savage. Before he can scramble upright, the tip of Halbrand's blade finds his throat.

Panting, eyes burning with fury, Aland gazes up at him. "Who are you?" he demands, raising himself up onto his elbows as much as the sword will allow.

Halbrand's expression is unreadable. "Your brother," he replies, and the cold lack of emotion is merciless. "And if you do not fancy yourself a teacher, I will take it upon myself, as head of this family, to teach you a lesson -" In a blur, the blade at Aland's throat is removed and thrown aside with a clatter. "Let go of your pride. And show our sister a little respect," he warns, before walking away.

I watch him go, shocked and a little sickened by the brutal display.

"Why?" I call after Halbrand, finally. I had not asked for him to defend me. I had not asked for his help. Like Rian, I had been excited for the reunion of our family, and this turn of events leaves me reeling. I feel like I am staring at the broken remnants of my relationship with Aland - the damage perhaps irreversible. "Why did you do that?"

Halbrand turns his head, just barely - glancing back at me through a curtain of his auburn hair. "It had to be done," he replies, firmly.

A/N I loved writing this chapter. I had an instance of writer's block, but then I went on a long walk and suddenly all these amazing scenes came to me.

I hope I am doing a good job of portraying the argument between Aland and Braelyn - I don't think either of them are wrong in their opinions, they just have very different personalities.

Please review if you like what you've been reading - this story doesn't get many hits, so it would be nice to hear from my few lone readers...!

Last Of The Lilac Wine

Chapter Text

LOOSE ENDS

CHAPTER 4: CHANGING FORTUNES

Míriel makes the familiar ascent up the tight spiral staircase. As she climbs, she feels the trials of the day slip from her mind like water.

She makes this same, short journey to the top of the tower each evening. It is both a ritual and a responsibility. The way is heavily guarded - only she and a few trusted servants are allowed here.

The staircase ends and she steps out into a large, circular room. Stained-glass windows cast distracting, multi-coloured shapes of light onto the opposite walls. The ceiling is high and domed, painted to look like the night sky. In the middle of the room is a bed, and on that bed lies her father.

It does not surprise Míriel that he is sleeping. He sleeps much, of late - and, in fact, to find him so is selfishly a relief to her. When he is awake, he is often addled and agitated. Impossible, at times, to sooth. Asleep, he is at peace. She can sit at his bedside and hold his hand, sharing in the calmness of a dreamless slumber.

But tonight, the chair she usually positions at his side is occupied. The man sitting on it is frustratingly recognisable; he is tall, with close-cropped brown hair. If he senses that the Queen-Regent has entered the room, he doesn't show it. Of course, she's come to expect this behaviour from him - an insolent persistence in disregarding her station. It is a routine so established it hardly offends her, now. In fact, she has to admire his sheer stubbornness.

"One of these days, you will tell me how it is you manage to sneak past my guards and get into this room," she announces, amused.

Aland's lips quirk, but he doesn't look up. "I wouldn't hold your breath."

The boy looks careworn, his gaze fixed on her father's sleeping form. Many times in the past, he has appeared here - as if out of thin air - to speak with King Palantir. Occasionally even seeking advice. But Aland has known for years now that her father is in no fit state to help anyone - even his daughter. And yet, still, he comes.

"How is he?" Aland asks.

"Worse," she replies, bluntly. "Did he recognise you?"

He shakes his head. "No."

"Sometimes, he doesn't know who I am, either."

Aland's expression spasms with pain. "I hate seeing him like this…He was like a father to me."

"Many felt that way. He is a kind man."

"Too kind." This, he manages to make sound like an insult, directed at her.

Míriel grimaces. Her father's love of the elves and the Old Ways had endangered his rule, putting their claim to the throne in peril. In the final years of his reign, she suspects the disease that eats at his mind had already begun to take hold. During his periods of confusion and indecision, suspicion and disobedience was rife. It had fallen to her to usurp her own father and steady the boat. She had taken no pleasure in it.

"Braelyn was upset this evening," she announces, changing the topic of conversation. Perhaps somewhat childishly striving to point out Aland's own faults. "Distracted. Withdrawn. I suppose you know why?"

He remains stubbornly silent.

"I know you do not like me, Aland," Míriel states, plainly.

He chuckles darkly at that. "I never tried to hide it."

She nods her head in acknowledgement. Decides to offer an olive branch. "For my part, I have always admired your loyalty to my father. I know you don't think it, but I love him, too. Very much."

Again, the silence.

"…And I care for Braelyn - like family. It heartened me to hear that Halbrand is your brother. A remarkable thing, to be reunited with a loved one after so long."

She is shamelessly fishing, now, for information. She knows about the fight in the courtyard, and she has an unfortunate suspicion that Halbrand will prove as troublesome as Aland.

As she predicts, Aland's expression darkens, but he seems intent on remaining mute. She switches tactic once more.

Míriel steps forwards and sits at the foot of her father's bed, so that Aland cannot avoid her gaze.

Looking at him like this, it is hard not to be reminded of the tower as it had been, eight years ago, before her coronation. Three excitable Southlander children running around within these walls. The sound of her father's laughter. There had been times, when she had been attending court, where she would look out of the window and see Braelyn, Aland and Rian playing. Running around Nimloth, the white tree. Hard to think of all that laughter, now, and not feel like she got things wrong.

She reaches out and touches Aland's hand, which rests on top of her father's. His fingers twitch underneath hers, but he does not withdraw.

"Would you ever accept my apology, if I said how sorry I am for the way I have treated you?" she asks, quietly.

His answer is as she predicts. To his credit, he looks her in the eye, finally, to deliver the blow: "No."

She reaches into the folds of her cloak and withdraws a thin, silver chain. Braelyn's necklace. Gently, she lets the piece of jewellery drop onto the covers between them. The coin - and the sigil stamped onto it - faces upwards.

"Perhaps, I would have better understood the hurt I had done you and your family, if one of you had told me that you were heirs to the throne in the Southlands," she tells him, evenly.

Humiliatingly, it had been Galadriel who had discovered the secret and informed her. Her frustration at a deception that had lasted all these years - with the crest, on this necklace, in front of her eyes every day - had for a moment burned white hot. She had been angry. And then, when her anger had cooled, she'd felt ashamed.

Aland glances down at the sigil - a sharp, quick look - and then returns his gaze to the sleeping King. "Braelyn wanted it kept secret," he replies, through gritted teeth.

"You had me believe the three of you were village children," she accuses, her irritation barely repressed. "Nothing more than refugees."

"Because we were refugees."

"Did my father know?" she challenges - the idea only just occurring to her. A whole other kind of betrayal.

"I don't know," he mutters. "Maybe."

She shuts her eyes and absorbs the blow. For all his faults, there are still moments in her life where she asks herself what her father would do in a given situation. She asks herself that question now.

"Had I been aware of this, I might have found you a position in the Sea Guard more fitting of your station," she says, opening her eyes, making an attempt at a joke.

He actually laughs at that. "Do you honestly think working at any level in the Sea Guard would have made me happy?"

"Probably not," she agrees, her lips twitching. "You are a hard man to please." Míriel drums her fingers against the bedframe. "I understand why you lied, even though I feel like I've been played for a fool. And I understand that there is little I can say to make up for the slight on your pride. But actions speak louder than words -" she continues, after taking a deep, fortifying breath, "- and so, I have decided to release Braelyn from my service with immediate effect. I will provide you all with suitable quarters, and Rian will be removed from her foster home, and placed directly in your care."

Aland's eyes widen. "You're serious?"

She realises this may be the first time she's wrong-footed him. The thought causes her some pleasure.

"Yes. I believe you are right: a Princess should not be working for a Usurper."

At this, he has the good grace to look uncomfortable. He rubs at the back of his neck, avoiding her eye. "You know about that? Gods. I was angry. I - I spoke in the heat of the moment -"

She waves her hand, a smile pulling at her lips, in spite of herself. "I used to think you were more trouble than you were worth, Aland, but it turns out you are worth quite a lot."

Rian slowly walks back to the apothecary. It's been a busy day at the market, and she feels dog-tired. Nothing would make her happier than returning to Gezzell's house, gulping down whatever leftover stew is waiting for her, and falling asleep.

As evening turns to dusk, she remembers Braelyn's warning not to be out by herself at night. She decides to take a short-cut - a tight network of alleyways that spider a more direct path up the hill.

A stupid idea, as it turns out. One she'll berate herself for later.

Her feet drag with each step, and she's too distracted to notice the men behind her, until they are too close to escape.

"What do we have here?" the first man leers, his voice causing her to startle and whip around. There are three men, she notices, with sudden panic - instinctively knowing they want nothing good. Men in tunics, wearing guild crests. They smell like ale.

She doesn't linger to find out what they want, turning on her heel to run. But before she can take her first step, a hand fists in her hair, dragging her back into a broad, hard chest.

"We've got a few questions for you, girlie -" another man announces, as his accomplice shoves her against a nearby wall. He pins her there with a hard grip on her shoulder. She bites back a whimper of pain.

The brute speaking has short-cropped dark hair and a large, beak-like nose. He looks like he's enjoying himself. She feels like spitting in his face - if only to wipe the smirk from it - when he begins to quiz her.

"What has your sister got planned with the she-elf, hmm?"

"I - I don't know what you mean," Rian replies, confused by the apparent randomness of the question. She'd heard about the elf that had arrived on the same boat as Halbrand, but had never seen her.

"We all know the elves and the Southlanders are working together, back over in your parts."

"Are they?" she says, genuinely non-plussed.

"Perhaps you lot were the scouts, hmm? The spies, reporting back to them, so they'd know everything there was to know about this island, before they send their lot over?"

A chilling sense of danger crawls up her spine. She squirms uneasily. "Please - I don't understand - Braelyn isn't -"

"Your sister knew right well what she was doing, sticking her nose into the Queen-Regent's business -"

Rian spots a gap between two of the men and dives for it. This time, she's faster than they are. She makes it to the end of the alley, running at a dead sprint. When she reaches a small courtyard, she makes the fatal error of glancing over her shoulder at her pursuers; suddenly, she's colliding with another body, and strong hands grip her arms. She screams.

"Rian?!"

She flails, her hair in disarray and her face white with fear. It takes a moment, but, finally, she realises she is looking up at Halbrand. She has not seen him since yesterday, when he fought with Aland. Even so, the sight of his face causes a huge surge of relief within her.

Before she can try to explain the situation to him - the absurdity of the accusations being levelled at her - tell him to run - their company arrives.

"Oh, and it's you is it? Must be my lucky day. Where's my guild crest, thief?"

Her interrogator steps into the courtyard. He looks, perversely, more pleased than ever by her brother's appearance.

Rian lets out a little groan as two more men appear in the courtyard, blocking their exits. She wonders if she'll be able to fight, or if she'll just get in the way. Surely Halbrand - who managed to best Aland in a duel - can take on these idiots? But before she can think on it further, Halbrand is firmly pushing her into a small alcove in the wall. It provides only a modicum of safety. But the message is clear: stay out of the way.

He turns his gaze to the leader of the group, his expression grim. "If your quarrel is with me, let the girl go."

"My quarrel," states the leader, strolling forwards with an arrogant puff to his chest. "Is with the pair of yer. But I'll happily deal with you first, and we can leave the girl until the end."

The implication in his tone is not lost on Rian. Her eyes widen, and her gaze meets Halbrand's. To her surprise, he actually smiles at her. Rolls his shoulders. Visibly relaxes. As if he's preparing for a foot-race and he's not about to get beaten to a pulp.

"Gentleman," he says, turning to face the group. "Maybe we can discuss this."

The nearest thug delivers a solid punch to his stomach, causing him to double over in pain. Rian cries out, horrified. The next blow clips his jaw, and when he lifts his head, it's to spit a glob of blood from his mouth.

Slowly she crouches, retrieving a piece of rubble the size of her fist from the floor. She edges forwards, heart beating sickeningly fast, adrenaline pumping through her veins.

"Stay where you are -" Halbrand snaps at her, sharply, as he catches sight of her movements.

A well-placed kick sends him sprawling.

Rian is scared. She cannot reconcile this beating with the fight between Aland and Halbrand, where Halbrand so easily overpowered his younger brother. Even outnumbered, she hadn't expected him to go down without a fight.

Another man yanks him upright by his auburn hair, and suddenly Halbrand is letting out a primal scream of anger. As if finally unleashed, his wrath is like a devastating whirlwind. The precision of his answering blows is ruthlessly effective. She watches him pin an assailant's arm to the wall, using the uneven surface to snap the bone in two. She flinches at the brutality, and at the sound of the victim's pained screech, but cannot bring herself to feel any pity.

When three bodies litter the floor, the remaining two men turn on their heels and run.

It is over.

Halbrand stands there for a moment, panting. His body sways a little where he stands, as if a sudden exhaustion has come over him.

He looks at her. There is blood on his face, but his eyes are clear - the fog of anger lifting. It is like he was momentarily gripped by some kind of madness, and she can only stare back at him, dumbstruck. When Braelyn had told her stories about their older brother, Rian had imagined a joker and a trickster. A white-knight protector. Those qualities are undeniably still there. But everything she has seen of him so far tells her there are other traits, too. Ones she doesn't understand.

"Come here," Halbrand says. And then, maybe seeing her expression - "There's no need to be afraid."

She cannot help but hesitate, and his tone softens.

"Rian -" he coaxes, gently.

She bites her lip. Even if she finds his methods shocking, he still saved her. Like he saved Braelyn.

She drops the rock and gingerly steps out from her alcove. He breaks into a relieved smile - as if he wasn't sure that she would. Trying to reassure him, she smiles back. Everything is going to be alright, she thinks, until they find themselves once again hemmed into the courtyard, this time by the Queen's guard.

When I stare into the mirror, I do not recognise myself.

The dress I have been gifted is unlike any I have worn before. For someone who has lived most of their adult life wearing the same servant's uniform, it is extravagantly ornate. Even living in the Southland's as a girl, I do not remember wearing anything like this. Mostly, my mother dressed me in scratchy, shapeless woollen shawls and skirts. Halbrand used to tease me that I resembled a sack of grain.

The bodice of this dress is velvet, and the skirts and sleeves are made from silk, meant to keep me cool in the warmer weather. Every seam is encrusted with pearls. The colour of the fabric is a deep red - like wine, or blood.

I know I should say I like it, but I am alone and there is no-one I have to lie to; in truth, I feel awkward, like I am trying on one of Míriel's dresses without permission.

I touch the silver necklace resting against my chest, unable to process this change in events. It had been Galadriel who informed Míriel what the sigil meant, and told her who my parents really were. When confronted about it, I had been mortified. Part of me had naïvely thought Míriel would never discover my family's secret, and things would stay as they had been, forever. The duplicity lasted so long, I do not blame Míriel for being frustrated and angry with me. Yet, her emotions had been incongruent with her actions. She had released me from service, and given me a beautiful house.

The still and silent rooms around me feel alien. Like someone else's home. Ironically, I realise I can sympathise with Aland after all these years. Despite the lavish gifts, being cast out of the tower does, indeed, feel like a banishment.

Without the constant stream of tasks that usually make up my day, I feel restless and on edge. An afternoon of walking aimlessly around the house leaves me wanting to tear my hair out. There has been no sight of Aland, or Rian. And I have been too self-conscious to go out into the streets and look for them - not dressed like this, which will surely cause people to talk.

Abruptly, there is the loud banging sound of someone knocking on the front door. I race down the spiral staircase into a large foyer decorated with a plush rug.

I'm all but rejoicing in the intrusion - which breaks up the tedium of the day - but when I open the door, Rian immediately throws herself against me. Intuition tells me that something is wrong - that she is hurt.

"What is it?" I demand, tightly, looking over her head to the guard that has accompanied her here. Isildur. "What happened?!"

He removes his helmet. His expression is grim. "She was attacked."

"What!?" I gasp, pushing Rian away from me slightly, so I can look at her better. Her freckled cheeks are streaked with tears, but there is otherwise not a mark on her. A creeping sense of dread tells me that this does not necessarily mean she is untouched. "Tell me what happened," I instruct. "Now."

She scrubs the tears from her face, gathering herself. "Some men followed me back from the market," she explains, thickly. "They were asking me questions about you, and about the she-elf. They kept saying you were plotting something together. I was scared, so I ran. And then I bumped into Halbrand - he fought them off."

"He's in one of the Queen's prison cell's," Isildur adds. "The guards took him in."

"For defending his sister's honour?" I snap, in disbelief.

"It's his word against theirs. They say he stole a guild crest and started the brawl when they asked for it back. That part, as far as I can tell, is true."

I blink, stunned. What could Halbrand want with a guild crest? Why would he steal one?

"I don't understand," I say, eventually.

"It doesn't make sense to me, either," Isildur replies, with a shrug. He looks at Rian, and his mouth twists into a grimace. "I am sorry. Truly. It sickens me, that my own people would behave like this. Those bastards deserve to be arrested, more so than Halbrand."

Try as he might to maintain his professional demeanour, the emotion that breaks through the façade is far more like the Isildur I knew and grew up with.

The sight softens me. "I am glad," I reassure him, touching his arm. "That a familiar face escorted Rian here. Thank you."

He surprises me by grinning impishly, looking about him with unconcealed interest at our lavish surroundings. "She had to tell me where to go," he teases. "I had no idea you lived here now."

"A recent change in fortunes."

"So it's true? You're royalty?" His eyes widen with awe as he looks between Rian and myself.

Reflexively, I think about denying it. Or explaining that being nobility in the Southlands does not mean what it does in Númenor. That we do not stand to inherit wealth, jewels and cities - only tired villages and mud. Lots of mud. "…Yes," I admit, unwillingly.

Isildur lets out a low whistle. "I thought Valandil was pulling my leg when he told me."

"It's taken some…adjustment…for me to get used to, too."

"Suits you, though -" he replies, his gaze flicking down to my dress. Then he blushes, boyishly. "Sorry -" he adds, clearing his throat. "I didn't mean -"

I laugh ruefully, touching the soft material of my skirts. "It's fine. Nice, even: I don't often get compliments on my clothing."

"Well - you'll have to get used to it," he says, still openly staring. I raise my eyebrows in amusement. I forgot what an outrageous flirt he could be. He must catch the look on my face, because he wisely moves the conversation along. "I guess this explains Aland's pig-headedness all these years…But why? Why did you lie to us? If you wanted it kept a secret, I wouldn't have told a soul, if only you'd asked. I would have done anything to protect your family. My father, too. I swear."

Despite the passionate declaration, I'm forced to roll my eyes at this. "I know that your intentions would have been good, but I could never have risked it."

"Why not?" he presses, clearly affronted.

"Why? Because you're as easy to read as an open book," I laugh, resisting the urge to ruffle his hair affectionately, as I had done when he was a boy.

It still takes me some getting used to - that even though I am three years older, Isildur's Númenorean blood will keep him looking younger than I, long after I have grown old.

"Well, I'm glad it's out in the open, now," Rian interjects, looking relieved. "No more lying. And no more arguments with Aland -"

Her words give me pause. Because she's right: the truth is known - but only by a very few. Míriel. Isildur. People who have always been sympathetic to my family.

I think over something, gazing down at my sister. Gradually, the colour has returned to her face, although her hair is still tangled and knotted. She has shown bravery in the face of something that should never have happened. Even imagining those men interrogating her, on the basis of nothing but gossip and slander, boils my blood.

Quickly, I reach for my cloak, hanging on a hook on the nearby wall.

"Where are you going?" Rian asks, surprised, as I fasten the cloak at my throat.

"To court. I want to request an audience with Queen Míriel," I reply, evenly.

"Can I come, too?" my sister asks, eagerly. Her earlier distress apparently forgotten.

" - You shouldn't go out by yourself -" Isildur protests, holding a hand out to stop me. "Look at what nearly happened to Rian! Let me escort you, at least -"

I shake my head, knowing I cannot leave my sister in this house unprotected. "I don't need help. But will you stay here? And watch Rian for me?" He looks torn. Perhaps it is somewhat manipulative, but I touch his arm again. "Please, Isildur."

Reluctantly, he nods.

"Braelyn -" Rian whines. She has always hated being left behind.

"There's something I have to do," I tell her, clutching her chin briefly between my fingers, ducking my head to her level. "For both our sakes."

Then I leave the pair of them, stepping out of the front door and heading towards the white tower.

My feelings towards my dress soften when I enter the Queen's court.

It takes on the feeling of armour, lending me confidence as I hurry down a side channel. For once, I feel as if I belong in this place. I listen to the hum of chatter emitting from the level beneath me, the court visible between towering pillars. The chamber is nearly full today. And while the sight of all those people causes my nerves to peak, I know that this is a good thing.

At the top of a flight of steps, a guard blocks my path. I do not miss the flicker of recognition and shock on his face. The serving girl, no longer wearing her rags, dressed in riches.

"The Lady Braelyn," I say to him, defiantly. "Requests an audience with Queen Míriel."

He stares at me, not moving. Then, finally, he heralds my arrival, loudly and clearly for all to hear.

Nearly a hundred people turn to look at me. A stunned silence falls across the room. I try to seek out familiar faces in the crowd - catching sight first of Pharazôn and his son, Kemen, and then Míriel.

I descend the stairs, my palms sweating and my heart in my throat.

Míriel takes her place in front of her throne, which is raised up on a dais. I respectfully position myself in front of her, on the level below.

When I look up, Míriel's expression is calm - even cold. When we parted, I had been so stunned by the turn of events I know that I did not do a good job of explaining things properly. I hurt her pride, and her feelings. But on her face, I think I also detect a trace of surprise, too. She had not expected to see me again so soon. Not in such a public arena.

"Lady Braelyn," she greets me, courteously. "What brings you to my court, today?"

I swallow. My mouth is bone dry, and I am painfully aware of every single pair of eyes on me.

"I have come to ask for forgiveness, and to make a humble request, Queen-Regent," I reply, bowing my head.

"Is that so?" Míriel arches one eyebrow. "Speak, then."

I lick my lips. I have thought hard about what to say on my short journey to the tower. I hope it is enough. For Rian.

"When I arrived in Númenor, my lady, I was ten years old," I begin, making sure to speak loudly, projecting my voice clearly for all to hear. "I arrived by boat, with my brother, Aland, who was five, and my sister, Rian, who was two. We had been sent away to escape the orc raids terrorising the Southlands. Specifically, a massacre in which my parents were killed - an event that I witnessed. When I stepped onto the shores of your kingdom, I was a child…Traumatised, afraid, and…lonely. The only crew member to survive our voyage, who knew the truth of our situation, was hung for cowardice. And so, I made a choice - perhaps mis-guided - to lie to your father about my family's lineage. I told him that we were village children. Refugees. I was terrified that the same monsters that had slain our parents would search for us, still.

He took us in. And those years were very happy for me and my siblings.

When I turned sixteen, you, Queen Míriel, succeeded your father and took the throne. It is at this point, I acknowledge, that the truth could have been made plain. But as I had grown, the true politics of Númenor had been made apparent to me. I came to realise it was an island of…divided loyalties." At this, there is a collective mutter of unease and anger from behind me. I force myself to breathe deeply, and continue. "…Where some showed me great kindness, others were mistrustful of a foreigner, whose homeland has long been watched over by elves. I sort to assuage their suspicions. I kept my secret and I served you diligently and faithfully for the next eight years - even, I might add, at some consequence to my younger siblings.

In the time I was your handmaiden, Queen Míriel, I came to respect you. And you became a friend to me. My continued deception chafed at my conscience. I regret it was not me who eventually told you the truth."

At this, I note a flicker of emotion cross Míriel's face, but she says nothing. I pause, gathering myself.

"I believe I know how you came about the knowledge of my heritage," I press on. "I do not blame the informant. I see, now, that it was long past time for the truth to come out. But…I also feel, that events of late have proved my caution justified. I had never met an elf, before Lady Galadriel was brought to shore, and yet I have been accused of consorting and plotting with her to overthrow your rule and claim Númenor for myself. My own sister - a girl of fifteen - of no harm to anyone - was attacked in the streets, just last night. And the reason she was a target? Because she was related to me. Because she was a Southlander.

Númenor has been a home to me, and I have many friends here, but these actions are not the actions of people I thought I knew and trusted. Those who participate in the fear mongering and whispering should be ashamed of themselves. Because they are spreading lies that could not be further from the truth.

I wish this kingdom no harm. As proof, I have come before you today, Queen Míriel, as a Lady myself, and as Princess of the Southlands. I ask for you to forgive me for not being honest with you, and I hope that my story is proof as to why. I also ask for your protection, from those prejudiced enough to wish me and my family harm. In exchange, once more, you will - my friend - have my unwavering, and undying, loyalty." I finish, my voice cracking on the final word.

I feel as if I have been talking for hours, when in fact it can only have been minutes.

Míriel stares at me for some time. If she is shocked by my speech, she does not show it. The room around us buzzes with talk, which does not bother me. I hope their talk will spread, and that news of my words today will spread across the city, putting the rumours and doubts to rest.

"You have my sincerest apology," Míriel answers, finally. "For the harm that befell Rian. No woman should be scared to walk through the streets of Númenor. I will see to it that the men who attacked her are punished."

Some knot in my in chest loosens, and I breathe a little easier.

" - You also have my gratitude, for your years of service. And you have my forgiveness -" She walks slowly down the steps, so that we stand facing one another. " - of which there was never a question."

She reaches out and rests her hand on my shoulder. The smile on her face is like the dawning of the sun after a cold, long night, and I could cry with relief.

"Thank you," I whisper, bowing my head once more.

"So…what of your request, Lady Braelyn?" Míriel reminds me, graciously.

I straighten my back, steeling myself a little. This next matter is one I had been unsure whether to press. Especially in front of so many people - undoubtedly putting Míriel in an awkward position. If my speech had been for Rian, then I was now making an appeal on behalf of Halbrand. Angry with him though I am, I cannot abide the idea that he sits in a dungeon somewhere, having saved my sister from certain danger. I owe it to him to try and improve his circumstances.

"I know you must keep Halbrand under arrest until this…strange matter with the guild crest is put to bed," I announce, choosing my words with care. " - but the fact remains that a little leniency should be shown, considering he acted in defence of his sister. Let him be kept under house arrest, under my roof. A prison cell is no place for a King."

Someone, somewhere in the crowd, scoffs in disbelief. I ignore them.

As I anticipate, Míriel looks unimpressed. "I would be in a better mind to entertain such an idea, if I thought a few guards posted at your door would be sufficient to contain him," she replies, grimly.

By way of response, I fix her with a hard look. "Trust, then, that I can contain him."

I know that I am recklessly overplaying my hand. But then again, Halbrand has never been on the receiving end of my displeasure. He may find me more difficult to overpower in a match of wills than he thinks.

To her credit, Míriel seems at least entertained by my assertion. Her eyes spark with amusement.

"Very well," she agrees, finally. The reaction from those watching on is decidedly mixed - some gasping in surprise. "Halbrand will be released. And you will answer for it, if there are any further misdemeanours."

This, spoken with a threatening edge to her tone.

"That is fair," I agree, reaching my hand out for her to shake.

After a moment, she takes it.

A/N Wrote this one a little fast and loose - it hasn't been edited so any typos I'll be reading back through and fixing later on.

Less of Halbrand this chapter, but rest assured there's more of him in the next. I didn't intend for this story to be so light on Galadriel scenes, so I'm hoping I can work one in soon.

Please leave a review - encouragement welcome!

Last Of The Lilac Wine

Chapter Text

LOOSE ENDS

CHAPTER 5: HEARTS AND MINDS

When I leave the tower, I feel unburdened, somehow. Free.

The blue sky above my head is unblemished. The city of Armenelos, which has felt so threatening of late, unfurls around me as if in welcome.

I know I should cut a direct path home and return to Rian, but I cannot help dawdling at a vista. Like a magnet, my gaze is drawn to the eastern horizon. Maybe it is because I have been openly and publicly speaking about my past, or perhaps it is because my mind is relieved of my usual daily tasks, but I find myself thinking of Middle-Earth. The rigid control I usually exert over such thoughts slips. I remember rolling green hills and humble villages. I remember my mother walking with me to look at some wild horses. Her smiling face. And then, like a bolt of lightning, I see the orc killing her. I hear shouts and screams, as if I am there. Afterwards, I'm left to huddle, alone and crying, in the middle of a drafty grey hall.

My body braces itself against the onslaught and I grasp the railing in front of me tight. I squeeze my eyes shut.

When I allow my eyes to open again, someone is offering me a pretty pink flower.

I swallow, feeling a little disorientated. Galadriel is standing next to me, and the unexpected sight of her catches me off guard. She is so beautiful, it's hard not to feel off-balance.

I take the flower, confused by the gesture.

"Focusing on something will help to ground you," she offers. "When the memories of evil become too much."

I delicately hold it by its stem, admiring the gradient of colour in its petals. "Thank you," I say. I don't ask how she knew what I was feeling; I'd heard about the perceptiveness of elves.

"I watched your speech," she announces, simply.

I nod, biting on my lip. Unable to hold myself back from asking the question: "How did you figure it out? The sigil?"

"There are scripts about your family, in the Hall of Lore, for those who care to look." I must look displeased, because her eyes narrow, defensively. "I will not apologise for telling Míriel the truth. The farce about your lineage had gone on long enough."

"You went digging into my past for your own benefit," I return, hotly. "You want Halbrand at your side when you return to Middle-Earth." Undoubtedly, it would make it easier for her to muster an army against the shadow, if she had the King of the Southlands at her disposal. I cannot help the flare of jealousy I feel, thinking that she could take him away.

Her lips twitch, as if amused. "I want all of your family at my side, Braelyn. Your fate lies across the sea, with your homeland. You cannot remain here, lulled into a stupor by a nest of jewels and pretty trinkets. You know this."

I glare at the insult. The insinuation that I am shallow and vapid enough to be bought with money. "Tell me, does this same boorish attitude work for you when you are demanding ships from Queen Míriel?"

Galadriel leans closer, suddenly insistent. Her blue eyes fix on mine. "Then you must help me! You have Míriel's ear. Persuade her to assist our cause."

"Your cause. Not mine."

"You have a duty to your people," she reminds me, her voice carrying an edge as sharp as a sword.

"My duty," I fire back. "Is to my family."

I think for a moment that we are at an impasse. Galadriel leans back and folds her arms. "Your brother will go without you," she says, finally. There is a gleam in her eyes, as if she is playing a winning card. "If given the means and opportunity."

I snort. "From what I've seen of Halbrand, he's as unwilling as I to return to the Southlands."

"I wasn't speaking of Halbrand."

I immediately stiffen. As her words sink in, anger courses through my veins. I decide that this pointless conversation is over. "Stay away from Aland!" I hiss at her, as I turn and begin to stride away from the terrace.

But Galadriel follows and grabs my arm in a firm grip, holding me in place. "I understand what it is like, to spend waking days plagued by dark memories. But you cannot let this fear control you. You will regret it, in the end, if you do not act."

I reel back, as if slapped. Then, collecting myself, I snap: "Let go of me!"

My heart is beating hard and fast in my chest, as if I've run a mile.

Reluctantly, she loosens her hold and I wrench my arm away.

"Do not come near me or my family again," I warn her.

She raises one eyebrow. "And what if they seek me out?"

I make an angry sound in the back of my throat and walk away. I allow the flower, which has been crushed inside my fist, to drop to the floor.

When I eventually return to my new quarters, I pace the rooms like an angry cat.

The luxuriant contents of the house taunt me, as Galadriel's words about jewels and pretty trinkets echo in my ears.

Rian seems taken aback by my agitation, especially after I snap at her twice, and so she sulkily leaves me be.

Halbrand returns to a household in a sour mood.

He finds me in the large dining room. It is almost completely filled by an extravagant oak table that stretches the length of the room, long enough to seat at least twenty guests. I cannot think that Míriel had any notion that I would be entertaining the Númenorean elite in this house, considering many of them do not like me.

Halbrand appears worse for wear. He is wearing the same tunic I last saw him in, now ripped and dirty. And he's sporting a split lip and a bruised jaw.

He looks at me, apparently amused. I'm sitting at the far end of the table, a half-drunk goblet of wine in front of me, my fingers drumming against the table surface in an agitated manner.

"For someone who's had such a successful day, I thought the celebrations would be a little livelier than this," he teases me, throwing himself down into the nearest chair. He stretches his legs out in front of him, resting his hands behind his head.

"Sorry to disappoint," I reply, curtly.

"What's put you in such a terrible mood?"

"As it happens - your travelling companion."

He raises an eyebrow, and then realises who I'm referring to. "Galadriel," he smirks. "Yes, she does have a…gift…for ruffling feathers. You're angry with her for revealing our true heritage, I guess?"

"One of many points of contention."

He rolls his eyes. "You cannot hold it against her forever. I mean, look at you Braelyn -" he says, exasperated, gesturing in my general direction. "You're not a servant."

I take another gulp of wine, starting to feel slightly drunk. I feel my mood turning ponderous and brooding.

"Does it sound strange to say…I really loved being a handmaiden? I enjoyed the work. After…everything that happened - after losing you - I was so…so traumatised. Being a servant gave me something else to think about. It occupied my mind and kept me busy. Looking after Rian and Aland…the pressure of being their mother paralysed me, sometimes. I could barely handle my own grief. I was only sixteen. When Míriel sent them away, for a while, I was actually relieved…That feeling of relief is my deepest shame, and my biggest regret. I was weak."

All traces of amusement have left Halbrand's face. He looks serious - almost regal. "No," he disagrees. "You were strong."

I let out a watery laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. I don't realise that I've shed a tear until it drops onto the table. I scrub it away. "Sorry," I apologise, embarrassed. "It's been a strange day. I think the wine's gone to my head and loosened my tongue"

Halbrand looks around us, spotting the pitcher of wine and more cups on a sideboard. He stands, stretches, and helps himself to a glass. The glass is made from ornate crystal, and reflects the light that streams in from the western-facing window. He examines the craftsmanship with interest.

"Do you reckon this is dwarven-made?" he muses.

I shrug.

He slumps back into his chair and kicks his feet up onto a nearby stool. "I could get used to this," he says, as if to himself, taking in our surroundings. Then he holds his drink up in a mock toast. Rolling my eyes, I clink my glass to his.

"You'll have plenty of time to, under house arrest," I reply, archly. "Tell me, why did you steal that guild crest?"

To my surprise, he answers with blithe honesty. "I want to work as a smithy here. Unfortunately there were…obstacles. Apparently the Númenoreans don't like foreigners taking their trade…But you already know that," he adds, slyly, taking a gulp of wine.

"So you stole a crest?"

"Yes."

"All that trouble, to work as a blacksmith?" I verify, unable to stop the repressed laughter from bleeding into my voice.

He looks confused. "Does that amuse you?"

I shake my head. "I remember a day when our father told you you couldn't be a smith's apprentice when you grew up, because you had to be King." At this, I cannot restrain my giggles. "You looked so shocked."

"Ah, yes," Halbrand grins. "I believe I threatened to run away."

"You made it as far as the gate before a guard returned you, all but carrying you by the scruff of your neck."

I am not so lost in reminiscing that I don't notice the strange look that passes across my brother's face. Swiftly, he drains the liquid in his cup, and then refills it. After another swig, he says, nonchalantly: "…You were always more suited to the throne than I."

I blink. "You're joking."

"No. Think on it," he insists, almost cocky, as if he knows something I don't. "Which one of us spent the night in a jail cell, and which one of us spent the day excelling in court politics?"

My mouth tastes furry from the alcohol. My mind slow, almost stupefied. "It's your birthright," I manage to say, eventually.

"And if I renounced it?" he asks, lightly. He reaches over with the pitcher and tops up my drink.

I stare, unsure how the conversation has taken such a turn. I shake my head in an attempt to clear it. "I've told you already, I'm not going back, either."

"You say that now. But I warn you, Galadriel can be very persuasive."

"Really? You must be privy to charms that I am not -" I fire back, pointedly.

He makes a scoffing sound in the back of his throat, but I know that I have him with this comment. There is a bond that exists between he and the elf that I don't understand. A lure between them, try as they both seem to resist it.

"So, you're content to remain in Númenor as a blacksmith and renounce your claim to the throne? Tell me why. Really." I press my advantage, digging for information. Because something about this does not fit with what I have seen of him. He was so unhappy to discover the lowly station of me and the rest of his siblings. Why then resist the pull of a title and lands in Middle-Earth?

"Same as you. To avoid orc raids. Death. Despair. We could have a comfortable life here," he shrugs, flippantly. "It would be folly to give it up."

"That's not it," I argue, fiercely.

He finishes his second glass of wine, slamming the cup down a little harder than necessary onto the table. His cheeks are flushed, his expression suddenly darkening, as if a shadow has passed over the room. "Alright. How about because our ancestors served Morgoth?" he answers, broodingly. His eyes are hard and flat. "I share their weaknesses. And so do you. Their tendency for evil - their ruthlessness, their blind obedience and cowardice - lives on in our family."

It is a history not often acknowledged between Southlanders. The War of Wrath. My father had been unusual, in his constant evocation of our past; not in praise, but in shame. To educate his children on the dangers of those same qualities that Halbrand describes.

Some of Halbrand's actions, that I had not at first understood, become clearer to me now. His brutal fight with Aland. His duplicity and theft.

"Maybe," I reply, cautiously. "But I know that the good in me outweighs the bad."

"Can you be so sure -" Halbrand murmurs, softly. As if trying to elicit a different answer from me. " - that the balance of good and evil inside of you will always remain as such? That the scales won't tip, if we return to our homeland? All it takes is a nudge."

I stiffen. My drunk state perhaps lending me confidence and strength where I would otherwise have been unsure. "I know what's in my heart."

"And I know what's in mine," he replies, sharply. Then he quickly looks away from me, as if ashamed.

The gesture makes me feel sad. I remember his assertion, when we were first reunited, that he had changed. That he was not the boy that I remembered. But that goes both ways…I wonder if he had been disappointed to discover how easily I had let our siblings slip through my fingers. To find me toiling as a servant. We are both not what the other expected.

Slowly, I stand and move to his side. "I see a lot of good in you, Halbrand," I tell him, touching his shoulder. "I don't understand why you can't see it, too."

I frown with consternation as his gaze meets mine. His look is searching, as if attempting to find some kind of recompense.

Eventually, he lets out a sigh. He stands, drawing himself to his full height, and then enfolds me in a hug, which I return. We both stand like that for several moments, finding comfort in holding one another.

Suddenly, Halbrand's arms around me tighten, and he's lifting me into the air in a boyish show of strength. I yelp.

"Argh, how have I lasted all these years without you, Braelyn?!" he laughs, the shifting tide of his moods impossible to follow. When he sets me down, I feel winded, but giddy. "It's good to have you back, little sister...Whatever you decide - to go or to stay, I will not leave your side."

"You'll regret saying that, when you sober up," I tell him, good-naturedly.

"No I mean it," he insists, his demeanour intent, almost euphoric. "I swear it."

I had thought, given my change in circumstances, that maybe my nightmares would come to an end.

I was right, and I was wrong.

I no longer re-live the day of my parents death. Instead, I am plagued by visions of a place alien to me, and devoid of life.

It starts with fire. A glow so red behind my eyes I am sure I can feel the burning heat. The flames cover everything, cauterizing the land, which, screaming in protest, buckles and belches magma into the sky. Then comes the ash. Falling gently, like snow. Each flake so light and soft, you don't realise that it is suffocating you until it is too late. Great clouds of it cover the sun, blocking all warmth and light. Eventually, what is left is a wasteland.

I walk amongst the gloom in a dream-like trance. Eventually, through flurries of ash, I see a hall atop a hill. It is ramshackle, and it's clapboard is peppered with holes, as if it has weathered a great storm. The path I take to it is not easy. Along the road are piles of bodies. Villagers. Innocent and unprotected from whatever evil befell them here. It looks as if they had been running for the hall, perishing in their desperate escape. They lie in greatest of numbers at the shut door, as if it has been barred to them - no offer of protection made. Someone has daubed a single symbol on the door in white chalk, angrily, as if in accusation.

The symbol of Sauron.

I am glad that my father never lived to see his home defaced with a mark he would have hated. With trepidation, I pull the door open. It takes some doing, but eventually it gives with a small puff of dust. The hinges creek, showing their age. A skeleton propped against the wall collapses to the ground.

When I enter the hall of my father, it is barren and empty. Decorated with nothing but spiderwebs. The chamber feels impossibly cold and cruel - not at all like the home I remember. There is no one to greet me, no kind face to speak to.

I walk further into the hall, my footsteps echoing. The end of the room is shrouded in darkness, but as I get closer I begin to discern a shadowy figure on the throne. There is a hazy outline of a black crown, perched atop their head. A feeling of dread fills me, but I cannot back away. I'm sure, instinctively, that I know this person. That if I only get close enough, I will see my enemy.

I wake with a gasp.

Immediately, I am aware that my head is aching, and the sunlight hurts my eyes.

The huge four-poster bed I find myself lying in is unfamiliar. I feel like I am swimming in an ocean of covers, and it takes a while for me to extricate myself. When I finally manage to stand up, I realise it has been a long time since the sun rose. Far from feeling well-rested, my mouth tastes acidic and my stomach roils sickeningly. A demanding thirst for water tells me that this is probably thanks to the amount of wine I consumed last night.

A knock at my door startles me.

I'm only in my night-clothes, and so I'm about to cry out indignantly when the door opens and a girl about Rian's age steps through. She has dark hair, and she is clothed in a simple white dress and dark blue pinafore. The sight of my old uniform gives me a strange feeling of vertigo.

"Lady Braelyn," she curtsies. "My name is Däera. I am here to help you get ready for the day."

I stare. It had never occurred to me that along with the house I would have servants, too. It takes me a moment to remember myself.

"Um, thank you," I reply, awkwardly.

Däera helps me bathe. She brushes my hair and selects a dress for me to wear - this one a midnight blue. When I am presentable, and fed and watered, I turn to her, curiously.

"Did the Queen-Regent send you?" I ask.

"Yes, m'lady."

Impulsively, I move to the desk in the corner, searching for a fresh roll of parchment and a quill. "Would you take her a message from me, Däera?" I ask, hastily scrawling out a note. I fold the paper and seal it with a stamp of wax.

Of course, Däera dutifully agrees, and so I manage to arrange to meet with Míriel at a place where I am confident there will be no prying eyes and ears.

The beach I choose is largely empty, save for a few fishermen in small boats. The sky is covered in low, grey cloud - the horizon dark and hazy with rain. As I wait for Miriel, I walk along the pebbled sand. Every now and then, troubling fragments of my dream cross my thoughts. I experiment with Galadriel's suggestion of focusing on an object, and pick up a pretty conch shell. I turn it over in my hand, feeling the grooves of it, and try to wipe my mind blank.

I'm so preoccupied in doing this that I don't hear Míriel approach.

"So you're summoning me now?" she announces archly.

I turn. Break into a smile. "Hardly. I still cannot make you do anything you do not wish."

"Correct. But, as it happens, your suggestion came at the right time. I was starting to feel cooped-up - a walk would do me good."

She's wearing her usual finery, garbed in a dress that drags along in the sand. Lingering behind her are a troop of guards.

If she senses that I have brought her out here with intentions beyond a friendly chat, she's tactful enough not to say so.

"How fares Halbrand?" Míriel asks me, walking at my side as we head down the beach, our steps just fringing the surf.

I roll my eyes. "Would you believe that the King of the Southlands stole a guild crest so he could work as a 'smith's aid?"

"When it comes to your family, nothing surprises me anymore," she sighs, shaking her head. "And what of Aland?"

I grimace. "No sign…Have you heard anything about his location?" It wouldn't be unusual for her to keep tabs on him, and know his whereabouts.

Disappointingly, she responds in the negative. "No…But he'll turn up. When he's ready."

I think about the fight with Halbrand, and the accusations that Aland had hurled at me. How long would he stay angry? Far more concerning that his feelings towards me, I wonder if I will ever convince him to speak to Halbrand again. As first impressions went, neither of my brothers had endeared themselves to the other. And I wasn't keen for another contest of masculine domination.

"I hope so," I reply, fretting.

"What else troubles you?" Míriel prompts, brusquely, clasping her hands in front of her.

"You mean, as if two quarrelling brothers weren't enough?" I ask, joking weakly.

She fixes me with an unimpressed look that I know well. "You know how busy I am. I cannot walk this beach forever while I wait for you to pluck up the courage and ask whatever it is you need to ask, Braelyn."

I draw in a sharp breath. I know I have asked much of Míriel of late, and I worry that I may be wearing her patience thin. Quickly, I glance over my shoulder at her guards. They are close-by, but out of ear shot.

"Your vision of the great wave," I start, feeling my way into the question like a blind man in the dark. "You seem so certain that this lies in your future. How?"

Míriel looks at me, her expression unreadable. "How?" she echoes.

"Yes. How are you so sure? How do you distinguish your visions from dreams? Or from nightmares and tricks of the mind?"

For a long time, Míriel is silent. She looks out to sea, away from me, her long hair hiding her face. "Why are you asking me this?" she asks, eventually. Her voice is so quiet I can barely hear her over the incoming tide.

I fidget with my dress. "I had a dream last night. I saw my home. It was…it was a wasteland."

"Seeing does not necessarily mean it is true. Much has happened of late - your mind is troubled -"

"- But it felt so real, Míriel -!" I insist. The first time I have called her only by her name, and not her title. I know the slip isn't lost on her, because she flinches slightly. But I am so agitated I do not care. "I have to know. Will this come to pass?"

By now, the storm on the horizon is closing in. The wind picks up, blowing easterly. I feel tiny flecks of rain on my face and in my hair.

Still, Míriel looks troubled. "Knowing the future is complicated, Braelyn. Attempting to guess which path leads to peril and which path swerves disaster is all but impossible. The Elves rightly recognise the gift of foresight for what it is: a burden. Shouldered by a very few - not in an attempt to shirk mortality, but to imbibe impermanence with some kind of worth and meaning."

"But there is a way to know the future?" I press.

She holds up a hand to silence me. "What you request is a secret I have kept at the instruction of my father for many years. It is not something I would tell you lightly."

"This is not a light matter," I reply, levelly. "If what I saw is true, then Galadriel is right. The Southlands may fall to the shadow."

We stare at one another until one of Míriel's guards calls to her, advising her to return to the city as the storm roils out at sea.

I hold her gaze as long as I can. Finally, she relents. "Come to the tower this evening. Be discrete, and try not to advertise your visit."

A heady rush of relief courses through me. "Thank you," I curtsey, knowing that, if she and her father really do harbour some kind of machine of foresight, this is no small favour she is doing for me.

But Míriel's answering look is almost pitying. "Do not thank me, my friend" she replies, sadly.

A/N I was trying to figure out how Braelyn would change her mind and decide to return to Middle-Earth. The Palantir seemed like the only way she would be convinced.

I enjoyed writing her interaction with Galadriel this chapter! (Even if they don't exactly get along haha).

Sauron-as-Halbrand is also a lot of fun. (I assume anyone reading this fic is aware of this, no?). In my head, his plan is basically to groom Braelyn as leader of the Southlands, and use her as a vessel by which to control it.

Finally, there is way more of Míriel in this fic than I expected at the outset. I realised as I was writing that her mentorship and friendship with Braelyn is actually hugely important for her character development.

As always, please leave a review!

Last Of The Lilac Wine

Chapter Text

LOOSE ENDS

CHAPTER 6: THE PACT

That evening, Queen Míriel shows me the palantír.

It's existence shocks me. Although, on reflection, I should not be surprised that her father clung to such a magical relic from the time of the elves. She swears me to secrecy. And then, just once, allows me to use it.

I walk towards the orb slowly, wary of the other-worldly energy that it emits. It causes the hairs on my arms to stand on end, and sets my teeth on edge. When I hesitate, Míriel coaxes me forwards again with a nod of her head. The palantír seems to be filled with swirling lights and dark clouds. But as I grow closer, I discern images behind their veil - the familiar silhouette of my family's hall on its hill. When I finally reach out and touch it, I am immediately assaulted with my nightmare of the wasteland. Every detail is exactly the same as it was in my dream. And, as before, it ends when I approach the shadowy figure on the throne, before I can see who they are.

Having my suspicions confirmed - that this vision was no mere night-terror - shakes me so badly I fall to my knees. My lungs feel as if they are being constricted, and it is all I can do to gasp for air.

It is Míriel who helps me to my feet, and finds me a seat and some water. Her taking care of me feels like a strange role-reversal, but her actions are so smooth, almost formulaic, that I judge she expected my reaction. Maybe she had been similarly overwhelmed in the past.

"How do you feel?" she asks me.

"Terrible," I rasp out. I feel shivery and cold, like I am recovering from summertime heat-sickness.

She nods to herself. "You have seen a realm that your mind cannot comprehend. Each time using the palantír gets a little easier."

"I'm not using that thing again," I cough out. "I've seen enough."

Her face tightens. She draws up a chair next to mine. We are in a small, hidden room - one that is even more secret than her ailing father's bedchambers, which lies directly below us. Dusty curtains cover every window, blocking most of the daylight and leaving the interior dim and full of shadow. "So you saw the Southlands? You really think your country may fall?"

A nauseous feeling claws its way up my throat, and for a moment I think I might be sick. "Yes," I answer, eventually.

We look at one another, both of us guessing the significance of this moment. Though the War of Wrath was hundreds of years ago, an impression of its terror remains in the memories of men. If the Southlands were to fall, it may only be the first small wave of the growing tide of evil.

"…Do you intend to go with Galadriel to Middle-Earth?" Míriel asks, her voice hushed. I cannot tell, in this moment, if I am talking to my friend or a monarch.

I swallow.

I cannot see another way. Even though I cannot deny I am scared enough to want to stay in Numenor and pretend I never had this vision, I know that to abandon my people to such a fate would be evil. Cowardly.

"Yes," I confirm again, looking down at my hands, so I do not have to see Míriel's reaction to this.

"Then you support the elf's request for a boat? …Many boats?"

I look at her, confused. "More than one?"

"To defeat the enemy in the Southlands, you will need an army, Braelyn," Miriel spells out, bluntly.

Briefly, I shut my eyes. I suppose in my heart I know there is truth in her words. And, on some level, I know that when I sought Miriel out on that beach it had not been to only gain her advice. Maybe I had sensed that it would come to this.

"I -" But when I look at Míriel, I find I lack the words. I do not know what it is I feel, or what it is I want. I am so wholly unprepared for any of this, that in the face of Míriel's swift practicality I feel inexperienced and child-like. I cannot fathom asking for an army, when until recently I had trained myself to ask for nothing.

Míriel waits a beat for me to form a coherent thought, and, when it becomes clear I have nothing further to say, she sighs. "Give me a few days, at least, to think this over. Then we can meet again."

She stands and throws a shroud over the palantír, looking troubled.

Knowing that Míriel will summon me back to the tower in a short amount of time finally presses the issue of Aland's whereabouts. I decide I must search for my brother.

If I tell him that I am returning to our homeland, he will not protest much at being dragged out of whatever hiding place or tavern he is holed up in.

Luckily - or perhaps sadly - our long history of dispute has meant that Aland and I have forged an alternative means of contact. One that allows us to communicate from a distance, without risk of an argument. We first began it when he was banished from the Sea Guard for insubordination, and I was out of my mind with worry.

I make my way to the docks. Locate the correct part of the sea wall, opposite the statue of Elros - the first King of Númenor, who happened to be half-Elven. I notice that the statue has recently been defaced. Written across the King's feet in dark paint are the words: We Are Not Faithful. For a moment I stare, a feeling of unease settling within me, before I mentally shake myself and continue with my task.

At eye-level there is a brick missing in the wall, leaving a hole. In it, I place a sprig of lavender. And then I tuck a tightly rolled note into a crevice between the two nearest bricks. The address of our new home.

After this, I can do nothing but wait until the next day.

I return to the same location the next morning to find the lavender and note gone, a piece of sea glass in their stead. The sight of it causes me to smile. In times gone by it was a symbol of reassurance: all is well. I pick up the pretty green rock, fingering its smoothed edges. I return to the house with my spirits lifted.

Inside my new home, there are more servants than ever. People dedicated to cooking and cleaning and laundry. I find their presence unnecessary and odd, so I quickly retire to the quiet of my bedroom. I deposit the sea glass in a wooden box that contains many such small rocks in an array of colours. A collection of objects which help to remind me that my brother is not wholly lost to me.

It is not long before Däera knocks on my door. She bows deeply. "A visitor for you on the balcony, m'lady," she says.

I follow her and find Aland standing with his back to us. The balcony is large and wide, made from white stone. It's pillars are twined with vines, and someone - a servant with particularly green fingers - tends to a garden out here of potted plants. There are citrus trees, colourful flowers and leafy fronds. It feels like a mirage or a glade, suspended in mid-air.

Aland is looking out at the city - of which the palace and white tower are centrally commanding features.

He turns as I approach, and I drink in the sight of him. He's wearing his usual dark clothing, dirtied at the elbows and knees. The same elegant sword I saw him use as swordsmaster for the Sea Guard is strapped to his belt. The sword is long-familiar to me. Up close, you can see that the blade and it's scabbard are stencilled with an elvish design. As usual, Aland's aim, I suppose, is to be deliberately insubordinate of Númenorean anti-Elvish feeling. I have asked him many times who gave him such a weapon, suspecting Elendil. But Elendil swears it was not him, and my suspicion has since fallen on King Tar-Palantir.

Aland stares at me with a similar intensity. I realise I must look different, with my expensive dress and my hair intricately styled by Däera. I still, self-conscious and worried that he will dislike the show of wealth. It's hard to know what he will approve of, when it comes to me.

I'm surprised, then, when his face breaks into a smile. "Finally," he says, his tone thick with emotion. "They will see you as I have, all these years."

I'm touched at this. And then amused. No re-writing of history can pretend that while he may have seen me as a Princess, he has never exactly put me on a pedestal. Hate would not be a far-off word for what he has felt towards me, at times. "You mean, as an annoyance?" I tease him.

He rolls his eyes. "As I understand, being unrelentingly irritating is a good trait in politicians and leaders."

"Which means?"

"That you're like a dog with a bone, Braelyn." He holds up the sprig of lavender I left for him, twirling it between his thumb and fingers. "What do you need?"

I walk closer, folding my hand over his, gently cupping the herb in the palm of his hand. "I wanted to see your face, is that not enough?"

My words make him vulnerable and unsure. He looks down at me, his expression strained. "…Even after the things I said in the courtyard? I was…not kind."

It had not occurred to me that his avoidance of my presence had not been out of anger, but out of guilt. "You spoke many truths that I needed to hear," I admit, reluctantly. "You were right. I have been a coward…I realised that I needed to stop hiding us away. We must act."

For a second, he looks floored with surprise, then he raises his eyebrows. "Maybe I have too much sea-water in my ears. Are you saying what I think you're saying?" he verifies, incredulous and somewhat exasperated. "After all this time?"

"Yes. I'm agreeing to return to Middle-Earth."

"What changed your mind!?" he demands, before something like jealousy crosses his features and his face darkens. "…Was it him?"

I realise that Aland is referring to Halbrand.

I shake my head quickly. "No…This is going to sound strange…but I - I dreamt of the Southlands. Only, it wasn't just a dream. It was a vision…I saw what will happen if I do not help: our home will fall in a deluge of fire and ash…I realised that I couldn't live with myself if I stayed in the West, consigning our lands and our people to a fate worse than death. To slavery and misery. Our parents raised us better than that. They raised me to be braver than that, as you tried so often to remind me, in your own way. So -" I add, sensing a presence behind me, hidden within the shadows of the house. "I've invited you here because Queen Míriel will soon summon our family to discuss options. I'd like you at my side. Halbrand, too."

I turn. Summoned by my words, a figure behind us steps onto the balcony and into the light. Halbrand is dressed in a smarter tunic than I have previously seen him in - coloured a deep blue and belted at the waist.

His green eyes are unreadable as he surveys his younger brother. Aland immediately stiffens, and I don't miss the way his gaze darts over Halbrand's person - presumably checking for some kind of weapon. His hand drifts to the hilt of his sword warily.

Halbrand lips quirk in response to the gesture.

"I need you both to set aside your animosity," I tell them, trying to sound more confident in this outcome than I feel. "We must show a united front."

"I agree," chimes in Halbrand, gallantly.

Aland glares at him. "It's so easy for you to charm your way back into her good grace, isn't it? Agreeing with anything she says. Problem solved."

"It's called being agreeable, brother. Taking the path of least resistance. You should try it, sometime. Maybe then your friends and family wouldn't have to resort to contacting you using herbs and smoke signals," Halbrand returns, wryly, rocking on his heels in an easy manner.

"Halbrand! - Aland -" I censure, sharply, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on. "Please."

To my surprise, Aland does relax an infinitesimal amount. Perhaps he really does sense that the issue at hand is bigger than the differences he shares with his brother. Although he continues to look upon Halbrand with suspicion.

"What of Galadriel?" my younger brother asks, turning his gaze to me, finally. The question takes me by surprise.

"What of her?"

"She has opinions too, that should be heard. Is she attending this meeting?"

I stare at him, confused, but it is Halbrand who catches on first with a barking laugh. "And what do you know of Galadriel's opinions? Unless - let me guess - she has already shared them with you?" The expression on Aland's face is confirmation enough of the answer. Halbrand shakes his head, half impressed and half rueful. "Didn't I tell you, Braelyn? Galadriel is impatient. It seems that, rather than waiting around for you and the Queen-Regent to make up your minds, she's been covertly assembling your army for you."

I stare at Aland, my eyes widening. The idea wrong-foots me. That while I have been struggling to come to terms with the enormity of the task before us, the elf and my brother have been racing on ahead. "Is this true?"

Aland raises his chin and nods. "Yes. With the help of Elendil and Isildur, many of the Sea Guard have been swayed in favour of action…If Míriel agrees to it, we have an army."

Míriel's summons arrive at the house hours later.

It does not surprise me, when we step outside of our home, that Galadriel is lying in wait, leaning against the opposite wall in a bored manner. Spotting us, she shrugs off from the stone, her movements lithe and graceful. Someone has found her a beautiful blue dress to don, but even this she wears like armour.

"Lady Braelyn," she greets me, with a nod. Though her voice is pitched low and respectful, I can't help but think there is a trace of amusement in her voice. As if she knows that she has been successful, and I have been swayed to her way of thinking.

Then her eyes turn to Aland. "Soldier -" she says, and they grasp one another's forearms. The gesture of comradeship causes my eyes to narrow. Even if we are effectively in agreement, I cannot pretend to be happy that she sought out Aland against my wishes. He returns the greeting with familiarity.

Galadriel then hesitates in front of Halbrand. My older brother looks down at her, eyes gleaming. "You've been busy without me," he tells her, and it's hard to tell whether this is a compliment or an accusation.

She quirks an eyebrow challengingly. "You asked me to leave you to your peace, and so I did. I let you be."

"I was arrested. Not exactly peaceful."

"Yes. Over a stolen guild crest, I hear? Apparently you fancy yourself a blacksmith."

"I am a blacksmith."

"Among other things."

"…So in my absence, you've been planning sedition with my little brother?"

She shrugs, but her eyes don't leave his. "He happens to be more motivated that you are."

"Galadriel -" Halbrand says, his voice lowering; her name, on his lips, almost a caress.

"Halbrand -" she replies, evenly - a dare.

I know enough to guess that there is more to their words than appears at the surface. And to suspect that Galadriel seeking Aland out was not only to rile me up.

Today, Míriel has granted Halbrand leave to walk the streets of Armenelos freely, and so our group follows the most direct path to the palace. When we are ushered within, a guard shows us to a large, stately room utterly devoid of furniture save for a huge round table and two chairs. The table is made from marble. Intricately carved stone chairs face one another from opposite sides. The chamber has the unusual feature of an exposed aqueduct - a raised channel of water running the length of the floor - bisecting the room in two. The murmuring, unobtrusive noise of the stream is relaxing.

Queen Míriel sits in one of the chairs, flanked by Elendil and Pharazôn, who remain standing. Elendil is wearing his armour, and Pharazôn his court finery.

Míriel gestures to the remaining seat graciously, the lavish sleeves of her gown trailing.

"Please, whoever is going to speak on behalf of your family should sit."

I wonder if the single chair is a ploy, meant to flush out any discord between me, my siblings and Galadriel. I glance across at them all, trying to keep my expression impassive.

Halbrand clears his throat. "Braelyn," he says to me, indicating that I should step forwards.

I stare back at him for a moment, dubious. He is, after all, my King. Even if he had once tried to convince me - while we were both drunk - that he does not want the title, the fact remains that this is an unusual gesture.

But Halbrand returns my look stubbornly. He nods his head pointedly in the direction of the table.

With a sigh, I move forwards and take the chair.

Míriel looks at me, but addresses the room as a whole. "It has come to my attention that the threat facing the Southlands is greater than we feared. Lady Galadriel has brought us information to indicate that Sauron may yet live, which troubles me greatly. We have also received reports that Orcs are abroad in those lands, their legions now organised and deadly. Once more, a kingdom of Men finds itself on the precipice…It cannot be allowed to fall. I have therefore decided to offer the might of Númenor in support of the Southlands. Both in light of our friendship, Braelyn, and in recognition that my people, too, once migrated from the shores of Middle-Earth following a period of war and blood-shed. We were gifted the great isle of Númenor because we helped the Elves to defeat Morgoth. I believe, to resist action now, would be a sign that we no longer are worthy of such a home."

To her right, Elendil stands a little straighter, as if invigorated by her words.

I bow my head, acknowledging the value of this show of support. Knowing that words alone are not enough to convey my gratitude. "Thank you."

Alongside Halbrand, Galadriel adds: "Though I cannot speak on behalf of those who lead my people, it gladdens my heart to hear you speak so, Queen-Regent. Long may the Valar continue to shine on you with good-favour." It is the most generous language I have heard the usually-prickly elf bestow on anyone. Proof that somewhere deep down, she is capable of some form of diplomacy. Or perhaps her need is so great that she has curbed her antagonistic instincts, for once.

But something in Míriel's face tightens as she continues - her speech taking on a slower cadence. A chance so subtle, it could easily be overlooked for what it is: reluctance. "Captain Elendil tells me that I can muster three hundred fighting men as soon as today, to bolster your cause. However -" she says, and now her eyes, involuntarily, flick left, towards Pharazôn. "- Pharazôn informs me that I could have two hundred men more, if I am persuasive enough. As I'm sure you would agree, five hundred men would far increase our chances of success, and lessen our number of casualties."

But I have spent too long at Míriel's side, and at court, not to recognise her tactics - the enticing carrot she dangles before me, and the coming stick.

"These men - how will you persuade them?" I ask, suspiciously.

"There are many in Númenor who would question sending soldiers to foreign lands, risking the death of their sons, husbands and brothers. They must see how this could be beneficial for them. My first proposal is a trade agreement. A pact, between my country and yours, to boost commerce. The Southlands have many minerals and ores that Númenor could benefit from. We would, of course, wait for you to get your country back on its feet before enacting this."

I nod, seeing the fairness in this. I cannot ask for an army and give nothing in return. "That is fair."

Míriel leans back in her seat, surveying me unhappily. "Such an alliance would need a symbolic gesture of recognition. A signature on a piece of parchment is all very well, but there are many who might think you would take my soldiers, restore your lands to their formally glory, and turn you back on us."

"I would never -" I begin, but she holds up a hand.

"I am aware. However, we come to the crux of the issue. The men need a sign of your dedicated and lasting allegiance to Númenor."

In my peripheral vision, Halbrand looks at me sharply. He has no doubt figured out the suggestion, and I feel a creeping sense of unease as it dawns on me what Míriel might be demanding.

"We need Rian to remain here," she announces, finally. "At court, as my ward."

"You can't be serious!?" Aland bursts out, immediately. His voice is loud and heated.

I try not to flinch at Míriel's scheme. Aland's fury does not surprise me, but it does shock me that my friend would ask such a thing. She knows the trials my family have endured to be together now. And yet to ask us to sail across an ocean and leave Rian behind…?

In an attempt to dis-spell the growing anger, Pharazôn steps forwards. "Peace," he says, combing his fingers through the ends of his long beard. "The Queen-Regent is aware that this may not be a…palatable proposition to your family. However, consider the benefits. Rian would move in respected circles and receive an excellent education. She would gain an understanding of state-craft and court politics. What is more, she is fifteen - nearly a woman. Should she meet a nobleman at court who takes her fancy, a union through marriage between our countries would be mutually beneficial." At this, Aland makes a nauseated sound. I'm sure he can't think of anything worse than Rian marrying into Númenorean nobility. I'm sure Rian can't either. I picture the likes of Kemen introducing themselves to her as potential suitors: my sister would laugh in their faces.

I cannot deny it - I do not like the scheme. And there is something about Pharazon's practiced delivery that makes me think that it was he, rather than Miriel, who devised this plan. But I also cannot discount this all out of hand. If we are to save the Southlands, we need an army.

Pharazôn must see the indecision on my face, because he raises another point he thinks likely to move me. "Let us also be realistic. You want to take Rian with you, but a war-zone is no place for a young lady. Who knows how long your campaign will last? She is safer here."

"Really?" Halbrand asks, speaking for the first time. He stands with his arms loosely crossed, calm and relaxed, though his accusation is pointed. "Because I seem to remember saving her from a mob of men, loose on your streets. Why should we believe that she is any safer here?"

"Your concern is understandable," Elendil interjects. "But Rian will be safe. She would live with Eärien, under the watchful eye of a chaperone. She would receive the same care and protections as my own daughter." His intent gaze finds mine, and I know he is trying to impress on me the truth of these words. "No harm will befall her."

Elendil's daughter, Eärien, is nearly the same age as me. She is stunningly beautiful and intelligent. I remember Rian following her around like a loyal puppy when she was between the ages of four and nine. Such a pairing would not be terrible…But the fact that I find myself actually considering this troubles me greatly. Pharazôn is not wrong: bringing a child to a land in open warfare would be madness. I cannot fathom putting Rian in danger; I cannot comprehend leaving her behind.

"If we agreed to this," I begin to say, and my words come unwillingly, stuck in my throat. I feel my heart skip a beat. "Rian would not remain in Númenor forever. At a certain point, she should be able to return to the Southlands, to be with her family."

Míriel nods, clasping her hands in front of her. "Yes. If she remains unwedded, that would be acceptable."

So the issue of timing is up for negotiation. I frown, thinking. "She can stay here for one year," I assert. I cannot help but aim as low as I can, thinking with my heart and not with my head.

If I look closely enough, I think that Míriel's mouth turns down at the corners, slightly. I know she finds negotiating over this as distasteful as I, but she maintains her professional demeanour. "Five years," the Queen-Regent counters.

I shake my head. "Five years is too long. I will never convince Rian to agree."

"She is a minor. She will do as you tell her to."

Despite the severity of the situation, I nearly laugh at this, thinking of Rian's wilful personality. When she wants to, she can exhibit Aland's stubborn streak. There is no chance of her obeying such a command. "Three years," I try.

"Three years is but a matter of months, in a Númenorean life span," Pharazôn rejects. "It is not enough."

In my answer to this, I turn intractable and icy. "I assure you," I reply, coolly. "That for a mortal like me, being separated from my sister for three years will feel like a lifetime." But seeing that I have not moved either Pharazôn or the Queen-Regent, I change tactic. "Three years is enough time for Rian to be present in court and visible to all," I insist. "She will develop her understanding of Númenorean politics and customs. She could become an effective ambassador between our two countries. But such an asset would be useless, if you restrict her from travelling beyond your shores."

Though it looks as if the statesman may continue to argue, Míriel's mask finally slips, and she smiles ruefully. "Well argued."

I wonder if she regrets the years she has spent teaching me about persuasion and reasoning.

"So we're in agreement?" I press. "Rian will remain in Númenor for three years?"

I dare not look around at Aland, who is probably waging an internal war within himself greater than my own. I know how badly his pride drives him to return home. I know how long he has lusted to fight the evil forces responsible for the murder of our parents. And yet, I also know how fiercely he loves our sister. Does he deem her a worthy sacrifice to his and Galadriel's cause?

"We are in agreement," Míriel confirms.

I have the strange dual sensation of relief and gut-wrenching guilt.

A court advisor brings in a large scroll of parchment. Stamped at the top of the paper is the Númenorean sigil of the sun, and already written below this is details of a trade deal. The advisor quickly adds in a section about 'the Princess Rian', then it is for Míriel and Halbrand to sign.

After speaking for so long, it feels strange to step away from the chair and defer to Halbrand. He takes my place, sitting and taking up the quill.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" he checks with me, his expression serious as the pen hovers over the parchment.

I swallow, reminding myself to be brave. That there are families like mine, back in the Southlands, who need protecting. "I am," I nod.

A/N I really loved coming up with the detail of how Braelyn and Aland have communicated over the years, and her box of all the tokens he has left for her. I hope that though their relationship isn't harmonious, they still feel like siblings. I also love drawing a contrast between how he acts around Braelyn and how Halbrand acts; I think Aland is beginning to sense that there is something not completely trustworthy in Halbrand.

I'm currently watching Season 2 of Rings of Power. I'm not really a fan of the Númenor plotline so far. Pharazôn (spoilers) feels a little too much like a pantomime villain. I wanted to portray him in this fic as a threat, but clever, and not so obviously evil.

Finally, poor Rian! When I was originally figuring out how I wanted this story to play out, I didn't actually see this for her. I kind of wanted to keep the family together. But I think it's a bit more gut-wrenching splitting them up.

Anyway, please review and share your own thoughts!

Last Of The Lilac Wine

Chapter Text

LOOSE ENDS

CHAPTER 7: PROMISES

I am trapped within my own thoughts as we leave the palace.

The ink with which Halbrand signed his name on the treaty will be dry, by now. Rian's fate sealed. With no way for us to turn back.

How will I explain to my sister what I have done? How will I persuade her - no - make her - obey the terms of an agreement she had no part in?

When fresh waves of doubt threaten to submerge me, Halbrand places his hand upon my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. We stand at the palace entrance, the long terrace thrust out before us, ending in a point at the cliff face. The white tree, Nimloth, shades us from the sun. Halbrand cannot know how many memories this place holds for me; right in this very spot, is where I used to sit with Rian when she was young. I used to tell her stories and legends. Sometimes, I would tell her that the people of Númenor believed that the white tree would shed its flowers, like tears, if they strayed from the True path.

I find myself hoping for those petals to rain down on me now, because what I have done cannot be right. But the buds stubbornly cling to their branches.

"Braelyn," Halbrand says, drawing me back to the present. "You did your best in an impossible situation. You never know - given the opportunity, Rian may well've chosen this path for herself, if she knew it meant helping her family."

He is trying to be reassuring, I know this. But unexpectedly, a fierce, hot anger bubbles up inside of me. The sensation overwhelms me before I can reason with it, and I shove his hand from my shoulder. "But she will never have the opportunity!" I reply, glaring up at him. "She will never have the option to decide for herself! She is a fifteen year old girl! The course of her life has been decided for her at every turn. Until she is married, as head of our family, you control her fate. And when she is wedded, that responsibility will pass to her husband. So do not comfort me by acting as if she will ever be able to make her own choices. She cannot!"

Halbrand appears taken aback by the fury of my words. I am unable to bring myself to feel guilty - he has been his own master for so long, it is clear he does not understand.

To my surprise, it is Galadriel who intervenes. She appears at Halbrand's side, her expression not unsympathetic. "Your human customs are hard on women…," she murmurs. "But Rian is strong…I believe she will forge her own way - guided by the example of her sister."

Our eyes meet, and I realise that Galadriel is not as aloof or as blind to human traditions as she would have us believe. I feel my shoulders sag. The anger drains out of me as quickly as it surfaced.

But my feet stay rooted to the ground, unwilling to move forwards. Several minutes pass. I am stuck, staring at this tree, wallowing in the past. Eventually, Aland stands next to me. I wait for more placating words, but none come. When I glance across at him, he is looking straight ahead, his expression far-off and occupied. I realise that he sees the same things I do. The same memories. The same childhood laughter.

I am glad he does not speak, and we can stand there, together.

Convincing Rian that she must remain in Númenor for the next three years, while the rest of her family sails for Middle-Earth, is predictably eventful.

I convince my brothers to let me speak to her alone, first. I locate her in her room - a pretty, sun-filled space, decorated with dried flowers and poorly executed landscape paintings. Like me, Rian is so used to days of hard work and toil that now finding enough to occupy her mind can prove challenging. She was never taught the things most noble girls her age know of. Her rushed and frustrated attempts at artwork are an example of this.

My sister sits at her desk, wearing an expensive dress the colour of evergreens. She looks up when I enter, giving me a rueful smile as I look over her shoulder at her most recent drawing. It is better than the others - this one drawn with only black ink - a minute, detailed picture of a chunk of corral.

"It's not very good," Rian says, with a shrug.

"I like it," I smile, moving to sit close by on the edge of her bed. Rian twists on her seat to look at me better. "There's something I need to discuss with you," I tell her, grudgingly.

And so I explain the meeting with Míriel. The danger that faces Middle-Earth, and the need for ships and an army. I explain the price of those things; what they will cost us.

Rian jumps to her feet, furious and horrified. "No way!" she cries out. "You can't leave me here!"

"We cannot take you to war," I beseech her. "And three years is not so long. Elendil says you will stay with Eärien -"

This, as it turns out, is the wrong thing to offer. "With Eärien?!" Rian echoes, incensed. "I hate her!"

"No you don't -!" I reply, shocked and confused. "You used to love Eärien -"

"- When I was five, maybe. Now she's a stuck-up cow -!"

"- Rian -" I cut in, as severely as I can. I see that my ambition for her to become an ambassador will prove fruitless if she doesn't learn to keep her opinions to herself. "You have to see that there is no other way. We cannot ask for so much from the Queen-Regent, and not make an offer of good-faith in return."

"Well, I'm from the Southlands, so I shouldn't have to obey the Queen of Númenor!" Rian fires back, her cheeks flushing red with anger. Her hands ball into fists, and I can practically see her digging in her heels, determined to be obstinate.

"But you will obey me," I reply, my voice hard. I promised myself I would remain calm throughout this - and it is proving every bit as challenging as I'd anticipated.

Rian's eyes widen. In the past, I have always indulged her. Because I loved her, and I felt guilty. Every time I went to see her at the apothecary, I would let her pick the route for our walk, or where we would go for food. While I'd have chided her on her manners, she isn't used to me being this firm.

"I won't do it -!" Rian sputters. "I'll run away! I'll hide myself on a ship!"

"Then I will have those ships searched, and you will be dragged back to Armenelos."

For a moment, she gapes at me, and then her eyes fill with hurt tears. "How could you do this to me?" she appeals, wounded. "I want to go home, with you and Halbrand and Aland!"

My resolve slips, just a little. "It hurts me, too -"

But a missile sails past my head, as Rian's tumultuous emotions flip back to anger once more. "I hate you!" she screams at me. I realise the thing that was thrown at me is a small toy dog, patched up in several places to keep the stuffing in where the fabric has worn thin. I was the trusted surgeon, years ago. I pick it up, examining it. Feeling Rian's words like a knife in my gut.

"You will come to realise," I tell her, standing. "That this is for the best."

I place the dog with care on one of her pillows, hoping that when she calms down it will remind her how much I care for her.

"Get out!" she cries at me, pointing a finger at her door. "Leave!"

When I am outside of the room, the door slams shut behind me. I hear something on Rian's side of the door break, like it's been thrown.

Over the next few days, Númenor prepares to send forth it's armada. Armenelos is filled with soldiers and those contributing to the preparations; ships are loaded with supplies and equipment. Míriel releases Halbrand from the terms of his house arrest, and he spends most of his time at a forge making weapons. Aland decides to persuade Elendil to ride out to the north of the island, in search of more soldiers. They return days later with eighty more men - all of them decent fighters.

Braelyn teases him - with a hint of an accusation - that he isn't capable of staying put in one place. Aland would not dare admit it to his sister, but the trip actually gave him an excuse to escape the grim mood inside their home. When Rian isn't locking herself away in her room, there is a lot of door slamming, harsh words and sullen silences.

Bolstering their army is a welcome distraction.

Aland watches as the men he has gathered from the Forostar region attend a shrine to their God, Eru Ilúvatar. Such shrines to the old ways are common in Armenelos, but many lie empty and forgotten. This one at the harbourside is more well-attended. The space has a roof but no walls, and in front of a white statue is a pool of water. Candles float on the water's calm surface.

Each man kneels before the statue and bows their head in a sign of respect. When they are done, Elendil himself moves forwards and takes his place. Aland watches the Captain linger there, his eyes closed, his face smooth and calm. As long as he has known Elendil, the man's faith in this God and other elvish traditions has never wavered. It's a quality that Aland has always respected in him, even when Elendil spent most of Aland's youth chasing him across the city, berating him for some misdemeanour.

"I thought you would be happy," Elendil says, spotting the troubled expression on Aland's face when he returns to his side. "Eighty more soldiers is no small achievement. They want to help their cousins in the Southlands…Every one of them is loyal. They are all -"

"- Faithful?" Aland guesses, arching an eyebrow.

They leave the shrine. The men from Forostar are presenting themselves to the Sea Guard, so that they can be given armour and weapons.

Elendil looks at him, inclining his head in confirmation. "This concerns you?"

Aland rubs at his jaw, thinking. "We're draining your country of most men who were loyal to King Tar-Palantir."

He does not add that he doesn't trust the likes of Pharazôn, or his grinning son, Kemen. He's made that plain enough, over the years. Though he'll be glad to get away from Númenor, something about leaving the city in their hands feels ominous.

"And many of those men will return from Middle-Earth, to broaden the horizons of their brothers."

"But will their brothers listen?"

Elendil lets out a sigh, clapping him on the arm. "We cannot fight a war on all fronts, Aland. You should focus on what lies ahead, not what you are leaving behind."

Aland's face tightens. "Even if I'm leaving behind my sister?"

"Forgive me, I spoke without care." Elendil looks out over the port. Four huge warships are anchored proudly in the harbour - boats large enough to hold a hundred and fifty men each. Sea birds perch on their rigging, diving intermittently into the water for fish. "Many times, I have sailed from here, leaving my late wife and children in Armenelos. Every soldier makes a similar sacrifice. It is no easy thing. But we leave because we must, to ensure that the world our loved ones live in stays safe, and good…"

Aland nods in response to this, and Elendil continues: "Your worries are natural - there is always too much time to think, at this stage, before setting out. You'd do well to find a way to make your peace, and calm your mind." But as Elendil begins to walk away, towards the nearest ship, he seems to catch himself. He turns. "But no taverns!" He calls back to Aland, his lips quirking upwards and his eyes dancing with mirth. "And no dice!"

Aland laughs and holds his hand up in farewell. He can't make any promises.

As he begins the walk back along the portside, he takes in the sights around him. The city is full to bursting, every street clogged with people and produce. It is undeniable that Armenelos is an incredible spectacle - a feat of architecture and engineering. But ever since he was a boy, Aland remembers craving open space and rolling hills. He wishes the ships could sail today. He needs movement. Momentum.

He pauses outside a public house selling ale. Many soldiers are already assembled within, drinking and talking. Joining them would be an easy distraction. Drinking had always been his preferred method of drowning the restlessness that has plagued him since he was a boy. Along with a sense that he doesn't belong here. This time he moves on. Drawn by the relentless sound of a blacksmith's hammer, hard at work.

The air inside the forge is hot. A large fire burns in one corner, and Halbrand is bent over an anvil, working at a piece of molten metal that glows like a sunset.

When he senses Aland's presence Halbrand straightens upright. He's wearing a leather apron to protect his clothing, and his face is covered in a light sheen of sweat and soot.

"You're back," Halbrand announces, looking at his younger brother appraisingly. "I thought you'd be next-door with your new friends, enjoying a drink."

Aland rolls his eyes, leaning against a nearby pillar. "I decided it was time to exercise a little restraint."

Halbrand grins, plunging the rod of metal into a pail of water. It emits a hissing sound. "And so the boy becomes a man," he jests.

"There's a lot at stake."

"Not getting cold feet, are you?"

Aland lets out a snort of amusement. "The exact opposite, actually. I've spent every day since I was twelve years old, desperate to return to Middle-Earth."

Halbrand shakes his head, giving a hollow laugh. "It may not live up to your expectations," he warns, his tone unexpectedly bitter.

Braelyn had often warned him of the same thing. That the Southlands was likely a much sadder, more broken place than the land of their childhood. If anything, the idea had only strengthened his resolve. "It's still home," Aland replies, folding his arms. "And it can be restored."

He wonders, not for the first time, what roads his brother has travelled, during all their years of separation. What he has seen, to make him so jaded. He cocks his head. "Where did you go -" Aland asks Halbrand, suddenly, "- after you left the Southlands?"

His brother glances at him out of the corner of his eye. "Here and there."

"What were you doing for thirteen years?"

"Hiding," Halbrand announces, without shame. "Mostly. And apprenticing as a blacksmith." He grasps the now cooled metal and passes it once more over the fire, tempering it.

"Hiding?" Aland echoes, sceptically.

"Oisin and his followers would have had my head, if he'd found me," Halbrand reminds him, dryly.

"You bested me easily in a sword fight when we first met. There's not another man in Armenelos that's been able to do that. And you're telling me you were afraid of that spineless worm?"

"Even one man cannot take on an army," Halbrand replies, impatiently. "Although I'm sure you'd give it a go."

Aland shrugs away from the pillar. He moves around the anvil to stand closer to Halbrand. The heat from the fire is scorching, bathing them both in a red-pink glow. They are very nearly the same height - their eyes level. "You never thought about trying to re-take the throne?" he challenges. 

He doesn't see how Halbrand could stand it. To linger in Middle-Earth and be taunted, every day, by what they had lost. It had been bad enough for Aland in Numenor. But for Halbrand to have been so close to their old life - and yet so powerless...how had it not driven him mad?

Halbrand grits his jaw, avoiding Aland's gaze by staring down at his work. "I believed my whole family dead. What joy is there in returning to an empty home?"

"But you're committed now?"

His brother's lips quirk into a half-smile. "You're not one for trust, are you?"

"I've been burned before," Aland returns, with a kind of sarcastic dark humour.

When Halbrand moves to lay the metal on a nearby workbench, Aland grabs his forearm, holding him back. "You didn't answer my question." He states, evenly. "Are you committed?"

The way for him has been clear since he was a child. But he knows Braelyn is only a recent convert to his way of thinking. And Halbrand remains an enigma.

Halbrand plays dumb. "Committed to what?"

"Taking the throne!" He snarls, finally exasperated. "Being King of the Southlands! Rebuilding what we've lost!"

Halbrand's eyes meet his own, intently. A thousand emotions war in their depths all at once. Aland can't even begin to guess what he is thinking. Maybe he'll never be able to figure that out - but right now, all he needs to be sure of is his brother's word.

Eventually, Halbrand nods his head.

"I need your oath," Aland presses, dryly. "I don't want to get to the front of a charge and find out you stayed behind to smelt some iron."

At this, Halbrand actually laughs. It is barely perceptible, but something shifts between the two of them. The development of a kind of grudging respect. Where Aland's hand rests on his forearm, Halbrand places his own hand over it. He applies the tiniest bit of pressure, enough to communicate the sincerity of his intentions, and imprint a sooty black mark. "You have my word," he vows.

Däera helps me to pack for the coming journey, and it is not long before a problem presents itself.

Númenorean clothing is not made for long periods of travel, or for inclement weather. There will almost certainly be rain in the Southlands, and bogs and swamps and difficult terrain not fit for pretty silk dresses.

Vexed, I send Daera to a nearby seamstress, giving her sketches of clothing I remember my mother wearing: woollen cloaks and shawls, leather bodices and cotton shirts and dresses. Fabrics that the Númenorean's will no-doubt think ugly, but I would rather be warm and dry.

Though I have spent most of the day in the house, I have not seen Rian. She has kept herself locked away, commanding a servant to bring food to her bedroom door until I put a stop to it. I'm unsure what she's doing now for meals; stubbornly starving, probably.

Her avoidance of me makes me feel heartsick. But there's not much I can do to remedy that, except get used to it.

Aland and Halbrand return home that evening to find me pouring over maps of Middle-Earth by candlelight. I'm sitting alone in the dining room, perched on the edge of a grand chair upholstered with red velvet.

The appearance of my brothers side by side - and not arguing - surprises me.

"Good day?" Aland asks me, throwing himself into a seat across from mine. He's dressed for riding in a dark jerkin, trousers and long boots. I know that he has travelled to the north of the island with Elendil, to secure more soldiers.

"Oh, you know, the age old problem, too many clothes and nothing to wear,." I aim for a flippant, teasing tone, knowing that my problem in no way compares to the myriad of others before us. "What about you?"

"We now have eighty more men from Forostar," he replies, somewhat smugly.

I nod as I process that. An army of five-hundred-and-eighty men. I have no concept of whether this will be enough to re-take the Southlands. It occurs to me that we have little to no information about the orcs - their numbers, their movements or their leader - beyond Galadriel's now-dated intelligence. Our first priority when we make land should be to seek out news. I make a mental note to discuss this with Míriel during the long voyage. Elendil had told me the trip across sea would take six days. As someone who has not been on a boat since they were ten years old, I am not looking forward to it.

"Here," Halbrand announces, rounding the edge of the table to set two knives before me, sheathed in scabbards made from white and blue leather. He draws one knife to show it to me. It is a handsome weapon - it's blade sharp and the metal bright and pure. "I made these for you and Rian," he tells me, re-sheathing the blade.

I look up at him, startled at the gesture. I touch the white leather encompassing the closest knife.

"They're beautiful," I admit. "Though it seems strange to describe a weapon as such."

He looks pleased by my words. "Thank you."

I shake my head, biting my lip. "I've never used a knife before."

"We can teach you -" Aland interjects, leaning forwards and bracing his forearms on the table. "You should be able to protect yourself, if needs be. Both of you." His eyes drift to the ceiling above our heads. "Dare I ask how Rian was today?" he asks, grimly.

Although the situation isn't funny, I do smirk a little. "Much the same. It has not escaped my notice that my two brothers - supposedly great warriors - are too cowardly to spend a full day in a house subjected to their little sister's wrath."

Aland scoffs at this, and Halbrand holds up his hands in surrender.

I turn sombre, my face falling. "We sail tomorrow and I don't even think she will say goodbye."

"She will," Aland assures me, although his confidence sounds false.

I bid them good night and head to bed, dreaming as I sleep of being trapped between a vast, lonely ocean and a mountain of fire. I wake the next morning feeling exhausted and no more rested than if I had simply stayed up all night. Through my bedroom window, I can hear a cacophony of sound from the docks and the rest of the city. The people of Armenelos are already assembling to watch the pageantry of the Queen-Regent and her army marching forth from the palace, accompanied by the Southlanders.

Däera is up early and knocking on my door within minutes, to help me get ready for the event.

"Any sign of Lady Rian this morning?" I ask her, as she helps me into a dress of silver, and a ceremonial chestplate. Probably the first and last time I will be seen in armour.

Däera shakes her head, sadly. "No, m'lady."

My stomach sinks, but I try pretend the feeling is nerves. "The clothes, maps and my notes - everything is all packed -?"

"Yes, m'lady."

I turn to face the younger girl so that she can adjust the armour at my shoulders, tightening the hidden straps. I try to catch her eye. "Are you sure you want to come with me to Middle-Earth, Däera? I've managed most of my life without a servant to help me."

It had surprised me, when Däera had announced that she was accompanying me to Middle-Earth, without batting an eye. As if this had been obvious all along. A small part of me had briefly wondered if Pharazôn had planted her, as a spy. But she is so guileless and genuine, I hadn't been able to entertain the thought for long. "Yes, I'm sure, Lady Braelyn," Däera replies, with a brusque albeit nervous smile. "And I know you could manage yourself. But you'll be a Princess, and it wouldn't be proper, not to have a lady's maid."

Guards escort me to the palace, where Míriel is waiting at the beginning of the road. Scores of Númenorean flags ripple in the wind. Somewhere nearby, a band of musicians with drums and horns warm up their instruments.

Like me, Míriel is wearing ceremonial armour. Her dark hair is braided and secured away from her face. She looks proud and fierce.

"Braelyn," she smiles at me, as I am assisted onto my own horse. I nudge the animal's spurs, encouraging it to move alongside the Queen-Regent's mount.

I smile back. "Míriel." Then I look out to the pomp and fanfare that surrounds us. The sheer scale of it overwhelms me. A hundred soldiers are assembling into their regiments, preparing to follow their Queen to her warships. And the crowds - every street in Armenelos is packed with bodies garbed in every colour.

"I don't understand," I say, looking at it all with some bemusement. "Most of these people hated me. And now they're lining the streets with banners and tokens? I had half expected rocks and mud."

"They're here because there is something you have offered them which transcends their suspicion," Miriel answers, her eyes gleaming. At my questioning look, she explains: "Glory. A chance to demonstrate to the rest of the world Númenor's power and might."

Elendil arrives, followed by Pharazôn. Then Aland and Galadriel. And, finally - a part of me wondering if he would show - Halbrand. Both my brothers are dressed in identical armour, interlaced with scales of bronze and iron.

Then the horns sound and the drums begin their rhythmic marching beat. The procession begins, and as our horses slowly make their way down the road, we are showered in confetti and dried petals. I stare in confusion at a woman who offers me a flower, my fingers numbly accepting the gift. It feels odd. I walked these same streets as a servant, reviled and hated. And now I am worthy of gifts and adoration?

I share a look with Aland, and by his expression I know he is thinking the same thing.

As we approach the docks, I twist to get one final look at the palace and white tower. I realise, in my own way, that I will miss them. While I have many regrets about my time in Númenor, it was also a place of safe-harbour at a time of dire need. Under the patronage of King-Palantir, I have good memories of a childhood that could otherwise have been ruined by strife and misery. I learnt much during my time in court. And, though they are few, I have made friends. Allies. While at times the cost felt too great, it was not all bad.

Large ferry boats await us, prepared to sail across the port to Míriel's ships. Many of the Sea Guard are already aboard the warships, readying the vessels for their imminent voyage.

When Míriel and Elendil step into such a boat, I hesitate, telling them I will join them soon. Aland and Halbrand stand on the gangway itself, not having to ask what I am waiting for.

I linger until every last man, horse and piece of equipment is loaded onto the ships. I pace the sea wall until the last possible minute - until a guard approaches me hesitantly:

"My lady," he presses. "We must go."

Agitated, my eyes sweep over the gathered crowd and the shops and establishments alongside the harbour. Then I reluctantly turn.

I begin the walk to the final ferry boat.

"Braelyn!" A voice rents the air, clear and desperate. "Braelyn!"

My heart skips a beat. I whirl around in time to see Rian sprinting across the wooden dock towards me. Her face is flushed, her hair streaming behind her. Rebelliously, she has worn her old working attire of a man's trousers, Halbrand's knife strapped to her hip. A lump forms in my throat. I walk, then run, to meet her halfway. Knowing she has sprinted some distance.

Her body collides into mine, fitting into the familiar groove of my embrace. She hugs me tightly, and as I press my face into her hair, I can feel that she is crying.

I hold her to me, trying to imprint upon my memory the feel of her in my arms. Middle-Earth suddenly feels very far away; three years so long.

"I'll miss you," I whisper to her. Finally, I gently extract myself from her grip.

Rian stares up at me, her eyes swimming with tears. I touch her cheek, trying to wipe away the moisture there. "We'll see each other again soon."

Her chin wobbles, but I can see that she is gritting her jaw. Trying to be strong. "You promise?" she asks, her eyes blazing with an ember of her old anger.

I nod, leaning in so that my forehead touches hers. "I promise."

An oath made for my benefit, as well as hers.

A/N I didn't realise this chapter was going to be about promises and oaths, but I kind of love the symmetry of it.

It was also fun to get into Aland's head for a scene. He's been so central to this story, and understanding what drives him is pretty important.

Leaving Numenor is also a really significant moment in the show and I wanted to capture that moment without making the whole thing too wordy. The city itself also has a lot of significance to Braelyn and her development, so it was necessary for her to say goodbye to it as a location, so that they can move forwards to the Southlands.

Only a little bit of Galadriel and Elendil in this chapter, but I really enjoy writing both of them.

Finally, please leave a review if you are enjoying. This story will only cover the events of Season 1 of Rings of Power, so it won't be an incredibly long fic.

Last Of The Lilac Wine

Chapter Text

LOOSE ENDS

CHAPTER 8: THE BELLS TOLL

I spend most of the first and second day of our voyage on deck. Not so that I can take in the stunning vastness of the horizon, but because I am that sea-sick. The ship tilts and rolls with every wave, and my nausea is unending.

Night-time brings no relief. I share a cabin with Däera and Galadriel; three narrow cribs are our beds and the room is so small it feels vaguely claustrophobic. Däera is a fisherman's daughter and apparently used to these conditions. And of course the elf is unaffected, blithely keeping her footing as I stumble with every swell. Far from being concerned about me, Galadriel seems amused. When I leave our room for the third time that night, she lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. I had thought her asleep, so I startle when she speaks.

"Surely," she murmurs, her lips twitching. "You haven't got anything left in your stomach by now."

I glare at her. But another wave of sickness forces me out of the room.

I trip through unlit passages, feeling weakened and drained. I'm sure I look terrible when I make it to deck and throw myself against the nearest railing. My stomach heaves, but Galadriel's right. There's nothing left.

"Braelyn?"

I grit my jaw, stubbornly refusing to turn around.

Isildur appears at my side. He's carrying a small lantern, and the golden light illuminates us both. He lets out a low whistle when he sees my face. "Still not found your sea legs, then?"

"Obviously not," I bite out, curtly, before I can stop myself.

"You should speak to the Healer; they'll have some ginger root. It'll do you good."

Rian would have about known this cure for sea-sickness, too, from working in the apothecary. The thought causes my heart to twinge, and I shut my eyes briefly.

"I'll do that," I reply, eventually.

I lift my head, taking a moment to look at Isildur more closely. I realise that he's not wearing his Sea Guard uniform. Instead, he's dressed in an old, badly stained tunic and trousers. There is muck on his hands. I raise my eyebrows in confusion.

"What are you wearing?"

"Oh -" he hesitates, scratching at the back of his head in chagrin. "I'm a stable-hand."

I nearly laugh, but succeed in restraining myself, just in time. "Since when?"

He shrugs. "A disagreement with my lieutenant."

"Following in Aland's footsteps, I see."

"I wish. Aland isn't mucking out horses." He sets the lantern on the floor and leans against the railing. "Father forbade me from coming, so I stowed away. When we make land, I'll persuade Valandil to get me some armour, and a helmet. I'll join the cavalry."

I cannot help but be slightly impressed, although his persistence to join this fleet baffles me. "You're so keen to fight? Why?" I think about Míriel's words at the beginning of the parade in Armenelos. "For glory?" I guess, sceptically.

He sighs, looking out over the dark sea. The waves lap at the ship's hull, and the wind is strong and chilled, carrying a tang of salt. Above our heads, the night sky shines with all it's stars and constellations on full display. I shiver, dressed only in a simple night-dress. The inappropriateness of my attire only just occurs to me; I fold my arms tightly over my chest.

"No, not glory," Isildur shakes his head, so deep in thought that he does not notice the gesture. "…When I was little, Númenor used to feel like the whole world. I didn't realise our ancestors had lived anywhere else. And then my mother told me stories about other countries and other lands. Places where men lived alongside elves and dwarves and other magical beings. I used to waste hours staring out at the sea, imagining what lay beyond the horizon."

This doesn't surprise me - he was always a day-dreamer when we were growing up. It was charming and sometimes irritating when he was a child - now, I frown. "This is hardly an explorer's expedition," I point out. Those stables he tends to are full of war-horses. Under the deck of this ship alone, over one hundred soldiers sleep.

He rolls his eyes at my pedantic correction. "You misunderstand me…Even if the suffering from a thousand wars in Middle-Earth never reached our shores, I would still feel a whisper of that pain, in my heart. My conscience wouldn't let me rest until I'd helped. Your home was once ours, too."

"Thousands of years ago."

His lips pull into a half-smile. "Not so long ago that the mothers of Númenor have forgotten. They still tell stories of a magical place, leagues away, so that their children will sleep, and dream."

I do not have to ask if he misses his mother, who died years earlier. It is clear from the way he speaks of her that he does.

"Your people have long memories," I reply, quietly. I am touched - I did not realise there were those in Númenor who thought of Middle-Earth in this way. I'd always assumed they felt superior to their brethren, and glad to have left.

"Well," Isildur notes, his eyes dancing with mirth. "We live a lot longer than you."

"Oh, yes, how could I forget," I fire back, sarcastically. "When I am old and grey, you will still be young and reckless. Sneaking onto ships and setting out on adventures in mysterious lands."

For some reason, he looks horrified at this thought. "That's not what I meant -!"

I laugh at the expression on his face, and I'm still laughing when he finally seems to notice that I am wearing only a thin dress.

"Braelyn! Forgive me - you must be freezing!" he exclaims, his brow creasing in consternation. The skin on my face feels chilly and cold, and my arms have goose-pimpled.

I shake my head. "I'm fine." I've been much happier up here than I would have been in my stale, musty cabin. I realise that for a short while I've been distracted enough to forget to feel sick.

But I can't deny the night has grown too cool to stay outside. I start to make my way to the steps that lead below deck.

"Thank you," I say to Isildur, as he walks ahead of me with the lantern, lighting my way through the shadowy corridors. He effortlessly keeps his feet every time the ship's hull rocks, while I have to always keep one hand against the wall for support. "For telling me that story about your mother. I know you do not often talk about her."

"You don't talk about your parents much, either," he notes, as we stop outside the door to my cabin. He turns to look at me, and I dimly wonder where the sleeping quarters of a stable-hand would be. Probably on a much lower level than this one. I hope they do not have him sleeping alongside the horses.

I shrug uncomfortably. "I spent so long lying about who they were, it felt easier to avoid the subject altogether."

"And now?"

I hesitate. I have spent thirteen years dreaming of the orc massacre. The pain and anguish of that day never dims. It became so that I even feared the memory of the thing itself. I had to exert such control over my own mind, to avoid thinking of it, and anything connected to it. Even if that involved banishing thoughts of my own parents, too.

I swallow, feeling a flare of guilt. "I suppose talking about them still causes me some pain."

Isildur's eyes soften with sympathy. "It won't always be like that."

I pray that he is right.

Then, I suddenly realise that the sight of the two of us alone together, should anyone walk by, would be considered improper. No doubt the watchmen on deck will inform Míriel that we were together by the railings, of which there is no harm. It is known we were friends as children. But to be seen down here, lingering outside my cabin, would be much worse. Isildur is standing so close, and his expression is so earnest, that I find myself blushing.

"I should go to bed," I say, ducking my head quickly.

I think he is developing feelings for me, and I'm unsure what to do about this fact. Despite the pretty stories that his mother used to tell him, the fact remains that Númenor and Middle-Earth are two very different countries. Our people have different lifespans. And while I will stay in the Southlands when this is all over, no doubt he will return home to Númenor, when he has had his fill of exploring the great wide world.

To my surprise, Isildur is calm in the wake of my obvious embarrassment. He registers the way I am now avoiding his gaze with a kind of solemn amusement.

"As you wish…m'lady," he says, bowing his head.

I stare for a minute, unsure if he is jesting. But his demeanour is utterly sincere. As respectful as if he were kneeling before a monarch at court. But I am a Princess, not a Queen - and even if I were a Queen, I would not be his.

"Goodnight," I bid Isildur, with as much composure as I can, and then I turn and unlock my cabin door.

When I am within, I take a deep, steadying breath.

"You should eat more," Galadriel instructs me, brusquely, when she notices that I have hardly touched the contents of my plate. "There will not be time, when we make land, for you to recuperate. We will still have several days of hard travelling before us. You need your strength."

We are sitting side-by-side, on a raised level on the deck of the ship. It is the fifth day of our voyage, and living in such close proximity has forced the elf and I to become more well-acquainted than perhaps either of us would have liked. I have made the startling realisation that Galadriel sleeps with her eyes open, holding a dagger against her chest as she does. She doesn't eat meat. And, the long days of boredom have made her restless. In an attempt to occupy herself, she has spent much of her time focusing her attention on me. My human short-comings bemuse her. Though I have not been properly sea-sick since the Healer gave me some ginger root to nibble on, my queasiness has persisted and I have struggled to eat.

What is more, Galadriel has insisted on teaching me to use the dagger that Halbrand made for me. She demonstrates first using her own knife, and then has me repeat the same techniques and motions under her ever-watchful and critical eye. Under her tutorage I feel I might just be able to threaten an orc - but only, she is keen to point out, if I was able to take it unawares, and if it wasn't looking.

Along with this insult, Galadriel offers me one piece of encouragement:

"But you do have a look in your eye as if you would be capable of felling an orc," she notes, with satisfaction. "And convincing your enemy you will kill is to win half the battle."

Now, we are sitting for our lunch-time meal. Bread, meat and roasted vegetables. I can see the wisdom in her advice that I should regain my strength, so I force myself to eat the lot.

Afterwards, we are summoned to a meeting with Míriel.

The Queen-Regent has a war-room near the ship's stern. As far as rooms within this boat go, it is a big space, filled with dark oak furniture and a large table. Nautical charts paper the walls and a window allows in bright sunlight. Already gathered around a map unfurled on the table are Elendil, Míriel, Aland and Halbrand. The men wear tunics, and carry swords strapped to their belts. Over the course of several days, Aland has grown some light brown scruff on his jawline, and his hair has grown a little, now curling. The change only makes his resemblance to Halbrand more striking, although the earring glinting at his ear sets them apart. On Míriel's brow is a simple gold circlet, worn as a crown. She is the only person in the room sitting - placing herself at the head of the table.

This is our time to solidify our plans for when we reach Middle-Earth. We will decide where to make land, where to make camp and where we will most likely find the orcs' lair.

Halbrand is already gesturing at several locations on the map.

"…Men of the Southlands live along this coastline," he explains, confidently, "but so do wildmen, who will no doubt be in league with the enemy. They will inform the orcs the moment they spot our ships on the horizon. Speed is therefore of the essence. I propose sailing up the Anduin and making land at Pelargir - a port your people used to know well. From there, we will have to cross the Ephel Dúath mountain range via this pass - which will take four, maybe five days. Beyond the range lies the Elvish watchtower Ostirith -" he points to a mark close to the mountains "- and Dren -" a town, a little further south.

Míriel frowns in confusion, listening intently to Halbrand's information. "What lies in Dren?"

Aland, Halbrand and I all share a look. "Our home," I say, stepping forwards to answer. "And our father's hall."

"And - you believe - your father's old advisor Oisin Balstrom?" Elendil guesses, shrewdly. He folds his arms.

It is true. If the man who betrayed my family can be found, he will be there. Even thirteen years later, there is a strong chance that Oisin took the throne for himself and remains in Dren still.

I give Elendil a defiant look, and he sighs, surveying the map once more. "Dren is too far South beyond the pass," he decides, reluctantly. "And we do not know whether Balstrom stayed there, after your family left. None of us can say for sure whether the town is home to friend or foe. But should it have fallen to evil, they would know we were coming, and they would have too much time to fortify their defences. Ostirith is the better mark. It has the higher ground. And we can be confident of finding allies there."

"But we do not yet know who commands the orcs -" I insist, unsure why I am pressing the point of Dren so fervently. "It stands to reason Dren may be their stronghold! Or Balstrom could be persuaded to give up the location of their leader -!"

Galadriel shoots me an unimpressed look that tells me she knows I am clutching at straws. "This is all guesswork," she interjects, impatiently. "There can be no debate over the best course of action…My people are at Ostirith. They are experienced fighters, and they will have information for us - there is little that happens in the Southlands that they are not aware of...Need I remind you that we are here to dig out the very roots of evil. We have not sailed with a host of five-hundred soldiers to take revenge against one man."

Halbrand braces the flat of his palms against the table. He surprises me by asking Galadriel, challengingly: "Is that so?"

The question is so acerbic that I guess that Halbrand knows something of the elf's motivations that the rest of us do not.

The pair of them stare at one another for a long moment, but it is Galadriel who looks away first, angry.

Though I am sure Míriel has registered the significance of this interaction, she does not show it. She weighs the opinions as they have been presented, and then makes her decision calmly. "We will take the path that Halbrand suggests - making anchor at Pelargir and taking the passage through the mountains. As for information, our last report tells me that Pelargir is filled with refugees. We may be able to glean some useful information before we travel east…If not, I feel Ostirith the most sensible objective." Her gaze finds mine. "I will be bold, in helping you to re-take Dren, but I will not be needlessly reckless."

Her tone brooks no argument and I can only nod my head in agreement. Eventually, Halbrand and Aland indicate their consent, although Aland looks unhappy. As we leave the room, I touch his arm.

"Míriel is right. We must be patient," I remind him, taking in the tense line of his shoulders. We walk through corridors towards the front of the ship, and the steps to the upper deck.

"I've been patient for thirteen years," Aland replies, somewhat sarcastically. "And I'll die a very old, very patient man, if I have to wait for her to stop stalling."

"Are you never satisfied!?" I follow after him, laughing. Leave it to Aland to get the armada he's always wanted, and then complain that it's all taking too long.

But when my brother replies, it's in a tone of darker humour than I expect. He stops mid-way up the stairs and turns to face me. Above our heads is a large square of blue sky, seeming far off. "That vision you told me about? It is a fiery wasteland our home turns into, isn't it?" He watches as my face slowly falls, his pointed reminder turning my good-humour sour. Aland shakes his head, appearing resigned to have caused me further trouble and doubt. He moves back down several steps so that we are level, and then he rests his hand on my shoulder. A small apology. "You want to stop this from coming to pass. But you have no idea how much time we have left, Braelyn," he elaborates. "Neither do I."

That evening, as I ready myself for bed in our cabin, I glance at Galadriel over my shoulder.

The room is lit by a single candle, and it casts a soft glow over the space. Galadriel is sitting on the edge of her bed, a whetstone in one hand, and her knife in the other. Each time she sharpens it's edge, the blade gives a pure, high note.

I finish braiding my hair and turn to look at her more fully. There is a small frown on her face, and she appears preoccupied with her work and her own thoughts, although I guess she can sense me looking.

I clear my throat. "What Halbrand said earlier…he seemed to indicate that you have your own reasons for returning to Middle-Earth."

Galadriel does not lift her head, and continues to sharpen the knife at regular intervals.

I hesitate. "Are those reasons linked to revenge?"

She pauses, her whole body going unnaturally still. "If it was, that would hardly be any of your business," she murmurs, tersely.

I stand up and move across the cabin to stand in front of her, my hands on my hips. "That's not fair," I reply, raising an eyebrow. "Considering you went rummaging around in my past for your own personal benefit. And then you made my heritage public knowledge…Which you still haven't apologised for."

She raises her head to look at me, finally, her eyes narrowing. "Nor will I be," she responds, coolly.

"…Who did you lose?" I press, my voice quiet.

She stares at me, unblinking, for several moments. Her eyes are so blue and stern, I have to force myself to hold her gaze. Eventually, she sets the whetstone down and cups the knife in her hands. As if it is a precious gift.

"My brother, Finrod, gave me this blade," she explains, after a while. "Before he sailed to Middle-Earth to battle with the forces of Morgoth. He fought valiantly, and after the war was over, he committed himself to tracking down Morgoth's lieutenant, Sauron. Finrod found Sauron, and was killed by him…" At this, she pauses. Anger replaces grief. "His body was returned to me de-faced by the mark of the shadow. A taunt, from the enemy, that he evaded us still. I have vowed to find him. I have searched the corners of this world. I will never stop looking," she asserts, her words almost ending in a gasp. I have never seen her so emotional.

"You think Sauron may be in the Southlands?" I ask, thinking of my vision. The mark on my father's door. It is all I can do to repress a shiver of fear. A legion of orcs is one thing, but a dark wizard is something else entirely. I hope for all our sakes that she is wrong, although I do not think the elf will allow us to be cowed by anything, even certain death.

"It is only a guess," she admits, grudgingly. "The activity of the orcs in your homeland is unusual. There is someone there who commands them. We will soon discover who."

I wake on our final day at sea to hear someone pounding on the door. When I open my eyes, Däera sleeps curled up like a cat in the cot beside mine. Galadriel's bed is empty.

The knocker is loud and insistent. I hurry to the door, fearing some calamity. But when I open it, Isildur is standing breathless with excitement on the other side.

"They've spotted land!" he exclaims.

My heart does a great leap. I hastily throw a cloak on over my night-dress, fastening the intricate silver broach at my throat. Then I follow Isildur up to the deck. He takes the stairs two at a time, running, and I am nearly out of breath when I burst out onto deck behind him. He leads me to the bow, where many soldiers are already gathered, straining to catch a glimpse of the coastline. Above our heads the sky is a pale blue streaked with thin clouds, dawn having only just broken. The sea is calm - the visibility clear.

Isildur pushes his way to the front, tugging me along with him. I am so excited I do not object that he has a firm grip on my hand.

"Look!" he says, pushing me before him and up onto a ledge. Reflexively, I grip one of the many nearby ropes connected to the vast sail above our heads in support. Lest in his eagerness Isildur accidently pushes me overboard. I am so giddy that the thought is almost funny, and I am smiling by the time I straighten, looking out to the east. I feel like a child. And I feel younger - even though I am still in the prime of my youth - than my careworn years.

"Can you see it?" Isildur asks me, using the flat palm of his hand to shade his eyes.

A strong wind blows my hair about my face, and I squint at the horizon. At the stern of the boat, a Númenorean soldier rings a great bell, indicating to the rest of our fleet that land has been sighted. It's pealing resonance is soon answered by the bells on the other ships. The sound causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end - a herald of a new beginning. 

I see a thin strip of dark colour between the sea and the sky.

"I can see it!" I cry out, over the din.

The sight of Middle-Earth moves me greatly. Until recently, I had believed I would never return home. Sentimentality gets the better of me, and tears prick my eyes.

After a while, I turn and look over the heads of those standing behind me. A little apart from the cluster, Halbrand stands alongside Míriel, Elendil and Galadriel. In that moment, I have eyes only for my older brother. His gaze meets mine, and I know he sees the storm of emotions within me. Joy. Fear. Hope. Doubt. Rian's absence only adds another complicated layer of grief, and a tear streaks down my cheek - whether in happiness or sadness, I cannot say. I know that Halbrand's response to the sight of Middle-Earth will be similarly mixed. By way of reply, he gives me a small, understanding smile.

Then I take in the others. They are all of them dressed in full armour. Ready to set out to fight and battle the enemy the moment we set foot on Middle-Earth. They remind me of our true purpose here, and abruptly I feel my excitement turn to disquiet. When I turn back around, I examine the looming country before me with trepidation. With the wind behind our sails, the mass of land quickly grows bigger. Soon, I can make out cliffs, green countryside, and the mouth of the river Anduin. I imagine the wildmen that Halbrand spoke of, moving along those ridges, already conveying news of our coming to our foes.

I square my shoulders and raise my chin, acting stronger than I feel. Trying to persuade myself that I am prepared for what lies ahead.

A/N OK, so I will admit this is a bit of a filler chapter. But I did really want to write a bit about the voyage to Middle-Earth. Part of the criticism levelled at Rings Of Power is that people seem to teleport from location to location. When you read Tolkien, you can really feel that to him the journey was just as important as the goal. So I wanted to give a sense of that here.

Also, I became a bit stuck writing this because I honestly cannot remember how the show explains how the Numenoreans know where to go when they get to the Southlands? How did they know where the orcs were? So I've tried to build a bit of strategy into the war planning.

There is also way more Isildur and Galadriel in this chapter than I was expecting there to be. And also a hint of romance(?) Braelyn's journey isn't really a romantic one, but I do think the interactions she has with Isildur helps to shape her character development. I don't want to bang on about things I don't like in the show (because I enjoyed a lot of s1), but one of those things is the characterisation of Isildur. I've kept him as a bit of dreamer and a romantic here, but I hope there's slightly more depth to him and he's not quite so whiney...

Please leave a review if you are enjoying this story.

Last Of The Lilac Wine

Chapter Text

LOOSE ENDS

CHAPTER 9: DARK TIDINGS

Our ships sail down the river Anduin unimpeded. The silence of the country surrounding us is unnerving.

I stare at riverbeds thick with reeds and vast swathes of untamed wetlands. There are only a few signs, here and there, of life. A small farm-dwelling; a collection of huts; a wizened fisherman, standing up to his waist in the brackish water. He raises his eyes in amazement at the sight of Númenorean warships. But these glimpses of humans are seldom. More prevalent are the animals: eagles, river birds and waders, otters, deer, fish. The sight of them reassures me. If orcs had made it this far, creatures such as these would have fled.

As the day progresses, and we travel further down the river, I begin to see the ruins of old towns. The look of the structures that still remain standing - a collection of sleek archways and pillars made from white and grey stone - is somehow familiar to me. I do not understand why, because when I lived in the Southlands I never travelled this far west with my family. But then it occurs to me that these ruins resemble architecture I have seen in Númenor. And I remember my history books.

"These are the old Edain settlements?" I ask, bewildered. I look at Halbrand for confirmation; he stands at my side at the ship's handrail. "They are ruins."

"Yes…Does that make you sad?"

He turns to me, his expression curious. His demeanour and voice are subtly different, somehow. Grave. Kingly. 

I think for a moment, and realise I do feel a kind of sorrow when I look upon them. "I understand why the Edain followed the Elves to Númenor," I answer, slowly. "But it does make me sad, seeing what they left behind."

"The Valar thought that those worthy of beauty would not find it in Middle-Earth."

I hear the edge in his voice. "You don't agree?"

Halbrand shakes his head. "No…Do you?"

I stare out at the riverside. I look at the way sunlight dances on the water. The trees and undergrowth, though impenetrable and wild, are green and lush. As I watch, an eagle perched on a branch spreads its wings and flies over our heads.

Though Middle-Earth is unquestionably home to horrors that Númenor is not, there is still beauty in this place. "No," I decide, eventually. "I don't."

Halbrand smiles, as if satisfied by my answer.

Just past midday, Pelargir comes into view. Here, at least, there are obviously people. The town is made of the same stone as the other settlements I have seen, falling into disrepair in many places. The tallest structure is an old bell-tower, but age has caused one wall to crumble. Most of the other houses are low, and hug the waterline tightly. Even from a distance I can see that the streets closest to the river are teaming with too many people. The crowd seem to be concentrated at the far end of a long wooden dock, no doubt gathered in amazement to look at our ships.

Míriel instructs the soldiers to drop the anchor, and several small boats are prepared to ferry a number of us to the dock.

I clamber into a boat, and as we are rowed closer to Pelargir I watch two townsmen separate themselves from their comrades and walk towards us. They wait patiently as our vessel is lashed securely to a post. I look up at them, noting that the younger one with dark hair is missing an arm - his elbow ends in an ugly-looking stump. The man next to him is old enough that his hair has turned white. Both their clothing is ragged, and stained in many places.

Númenorean guards help Míriel up a ladder and onto the dock. She is followed by Elendil, his armour glinting brightly.

"Declare yourselves and your purpose here," demands the man with white hair, his voice hoarse. "We do not offer safe-passage to war-ships, unless you come to these lands to hunt orcs. In which case, we will offer our waters gladly."

Míriel inclines her head respectfully. "You have correctly guessed our intentions, sir. We have travelled some way to reach your port, and we have further to journey, still. Our purpose lies in the Southlands, which I believe is under imminent threat by a large force of orcs. We have come to offer our help in eliminating that threat, once and for all. As for declaring ourselves, I am Miriel, the Queen-Regent of the isle of Númenor -" At this, the two men share a look of wonder and hastily plunge into kneeling positions, bowing their heads. Behind them, the watchful townspeople murmur among themselves. "- Beside me -" Míriel continues, "- is Captain Elendil of the Sea Guard. Under our command are five-hundred Númenorean soldiers. My company also includes an Elf - the Lady Galadriel of the Noldor. And, I believe I am returning several someones your people long thought lost to you: King Halbrand, of the Southlands, and his brother and sister - the Lord Aland and Lady Braelyn."

One of the guards helps me to step up onto the dock. Halbrand and Aland follow.

If the men had looked shocked by Míriel's presence, it is nothing compared to their reaction at the sight of my family. They stare at Halbrand, utterly dumb-founded.

"It is not possible -!" the older man gapes. He squints his eyes at Halbrand hard, as if not trusting their focus.

From the crowd, a joyous voice cries: The King is alive! King Halbrand lives!

"All can be explained -" Míriel interjects, swiftly. "But quickly, for we must travel in great haste. Whom am I speaking to?"

The man swallows, visibly attempting to collect himself. As he speaks, his eyes keep darting to my face, as well as my brothers. "My name is Wyle, your Grace. I am a son of Wells. And this is my own son, Maxwell." He gestures to the dark-haired young man at his side. "We hail from the Dúr Rûl valley - which lies much further east from here - but we have been forced to flee our home."

"What can you tell me of the orc army's recent movements, Wyle?"

He grimaces. "You travel with an Elf, you say? She may not like what news I bring you. Her kin at Ostirith were captured, some weeks ago. The watchtower has stood empty for the first time in a thousand years. Although word is Men from the nearby area are now using it as a refuge from the enemy…If you bring aid, they are in desperate need of it."

This grim tale startles me. The only elf I know is Galadriel, and she is such a superior warrior that I cannot conceive of a force fierce enough to take a whole contingent of elves captive. Reflexively, I turn around and look back at the nearest ship, where Galadriel waits with our soldiers. What will she do, when she finds out?

I am not the only one in our party troubled by this information. The skin around Halbrand's eyes has tightened, and Elendil and Míriel both look dismayed. "These are dark tidings, indeed," Míriel murmurs to herself, and then, more clearly she instructs Elendil: "Begin the disembarking of the ships immediately." To Wyle she asks, brusquely: "We must speak further, but in private. Is there anywhere you can host myself and King Halbrand?"

When Wyle nods in the affirmative, she and Halbrand follow after him, accompanied by the guards. Aland and I linger at the end of the dock, stunned by the speed at which events have turned.

"Come - we should help with the preparations," Aland states, already heading for the nearest ferry.

But I find myself gazing towards the tightly knotted crowd, who watch us still. Women with shawls wrapped around their hair stare at me, clutching sickly-looking children to their skirts. There is not a single young man among them who is not maimed or obviously ill in some way. Miriel's reports had been accurate: this is a town of refugees. What had they hoped for when they had spotted our ships? Help? Salvation? We cannot leave them in misery like this.

"They need provisions," I realise.

"We've nothing to spare."

"We can spare something -!" I insist, following Aland onto the boat.

Back on deck, I press Elendil to let me have a small amount of our food, to distribute around Pelargir. Like Aland, the Sea Captain looks dubious.

"You heard the Queen-Regent, Braelyn, we haven't the time to help them - I'm sorry," he adds, sincerely. Though he is quickly distracted by supervising the lowering of boxes of equipment, using a complicated system of ropes and pulleys, to a smaller vessel in the water below.

"We have as long as it takes to unload five-hundred soldiers and warhorses," I reply, evenly. "Do not think me a fool: this is no quick task. There is time, Elendil."

With a sigh, he agrees to relinquish a portion of our food stores. I enlist Däera and a deckhand to help me, and, back on land, we carry baskets of bread, apples and vegetables through the streets. I am shocked by the conditions I find in Pelargir. Most of these skeleton houses are without rooves, and many people clearly sleep in the open air, on cold stone. Here and there fabric and tarps have been erected to provide shelter from the worst of the weather. Sounds of sickness - coughing and spluttering - fill the air. But there is happiness, too. Children play and skitter underfoot, safe, for now, from the menace of cruel monsters. Women gossip and laugh over cooking pots. In some faces I see my mother. In others, myself.

"You are too kind, m'lady!" One older woman thanks me, ringing my hand profusely when I hand her family a sack of potatoes. "Bless you!"

Another man is not so complimentary. His greasy hair has been combed from his face, revealing one seeing eye and another covered by an eye-patch. "Númenorean charity," he snarls, when I offer him the final contents of my basket. He hacks a great glob of spit at my feet, to the general shock of those nearby. Then he gives me a grin that is devoid of humour, and full of wounded pride. "You sure we're worthy of your cast-offs, lass?"

I keep my face impassive and move on. But I'm grateful when Däera says, cautiously: "Perhaps we should go back towards the river, m'lady."

We thread our way down narrow alleys and passages. I cannot help but look around me at what has survived since Pelargir's prime. There are remnants of an old waterway-system, as well as shrines to Er Ilúvatar and other intricate carvings. Such foundations could be built upon.

We reach the river once more and see that the land to the north of the town is now covered in ranks of soldiers and horses. Even from here, I can see several banners flying in the wind, bearing the Númenorean mark: a golden sun, on a dark blue background.

Elendil waits for us at the docks and beckons me over.

"It is time to go," he announces. "Are you done?"

"Yes."

The corner of his mouth lifts and his eyes soften, all traces of exasperation apparently forgotten. "You did a good thing, Braelyn. These people will not forget it."

He assures myself and Däera across the town and onto open land. It is the first time I have seen the full scale of our army massed as one, and my eyes widen as I take it in. Elendil guides us through their midst and it takes several minutes of walking over damp grass before we reach a large oak tree, under which Míriel and Halbrand wait, along with Aland. To my surprise, Galadriel is already astride her white horse, and the beast paws at the ground, sensing the impatience of its rider. It turns and prances on the spot, and she digs her heels into its side to hold it in place, arguing with Halbrand about something.

"I will ride out now," she insists. "If I can get to Ostirith first, I can get a message to the villagers that help is near at hand. And I can find out where my people have been taken."

"There's a legion of orcs out there!" Halbrand fires back, holding fast to her horse's bridle.

"By myself, I can out-manoeuvre an army," she replies, just as heatedly. "I am faster than they are. I will not fail."

He shakes his head, as if in disbelief. But I can see that his resistance to the scheme is failing him. "…Always so confident," he chuckles, wryly, and yet despite his humour there is also respect in his voice.

"I know what I am capable of."

Finally, Halbrand releases his grip on Galadriel's bridle with a sigh. The palm of his hand lingers on the horse's neck for moment, near Galadriel's own fingers, before he takes a step back. "Go on then…And be safe."

She holds his gaze, then gives a tiny nod. Wheeling the horse around with a pull of the reins, she turns to face Míriel. "If all goes according to plan, I will re-join you before you reach Ostirith."

"Very well," Míriel concedes, agreeing to the plan. Although, if she had wanted to prevent the elf from going, it would have been an impossible task to make her stay.

Galadriel makes a clicking sound with her tongue, urging the horse forwards. It trots, then picks up speed into a gallop, cutting a straight path through the multitude of soldiers that surround us. She bends low over its neck, riding fast, the braid of her blonde hair streaming behind her, her armour shining until she disappears over a hill.

I watch her go, feeling uneasy.

"What if the enemy holds the pass at Ephel Dúath against us?" I ask.

Míriel looks at me thoughtfully. "Wyle does not believe that that will be the case. He thinks the orcs are bending all their might to search for something. Even if they are told that we are coming, they will not divide their forces."

I do not know whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. I suppose it means our journey through the Southlands will likely be unobstructed, yet a far greater army will wait for us at the end, because of it.

The sun is beginning to set, and it casts a golden hue across the sky and surrounding landscape. Behind us, the river Anduin is calm. The orange sails of the Númenorean ships glow bright, like fire, where the light passes through them.

"Give the order for the men to mount up - we will ride as far as we can tonight," Míriel tells Elendil. When the instructions are given, a mighty horn is blown - loud and fierce. As if in answer, the horses cry out and snort, tossing their heads. In a ripple, the soldiers around us climb into their saddles. Someone brings me my own steed: a mare the colour of sand.

When I turn and look, I realise it is Isildur. 

"Her name is Clover," he says, introducing us. "She's a good horse - not easily spooked. Reliable." He gives Clover an affectionate scratch behind her ears. "She'll carry you well."

As if to confirm this, the animal waits patiently for me to mount, unconcerned by the motion around us. 

I look at Isildur. He's wearing a quilted tunic - clean, this time - and a section of his dark hair is tied back from his face with a leather cord. I wonder when he will don his armour and slip into the ranks of the cavalry, unnoticed by Elendil. The thought makes me feel a stab of unease. So many people I care about are here, risking their lives for my home.

Isildur holds onto Clover's reins, hesitating in handing them over to me. 

"Why don't you stay here? In Pelargir?" he asks. "You'd be safer." 

I cannot tell if he asks because he is curious, or if he genuinely wants me to remain at this port town.

"No," I reply, firmly. "I won't stay behind." And then I amend my statement, grudgingly. "I will go as far as I am able, until the men fight, and blades and blood stop me."

Miriel won't be taking part in any battles, either. And yet she will stay close at hand, to relay commands to her army. I do not plan on leaving her side. 

To my surprise, Isildur's face breaks into a grin. "Well, it was worth a try," he shrugs, as if he had never expected his appeal to work. "Here -"

He interlaces his fingers and holds them out, offering to boost me up into my saddle. Then he helps Däera up behind me. Even though there are two of us, Clover bears us with no complaint - without armour, we are likely much lighter than others.

I am glad to have Däera near me. Though I am not unused to long days of riding, having accompanied Míriel on many state visits to other regions in Númenor, it will be good to have some company.

Isildur takes a step back. It is my turn to pause. He is about to join the ranks of five-hundred soldiers - becoming another face under a helmet, undistinguishable from those around him. Easily swept away in the chaos of battle. Unmarked. Unrecognised. 

"Have you changed your mind? About -?" 

But he shakes his head, just as emphatically as I had. "No." He holds my gaze for a little longer before gesturing in a direction away from me. "I should get going -" 

I bite my lip, but nod my head in agreement. Before I can say anything more, he walks away, quickly disappearing from view.

When I raise my head, I realise that Elendil has been watching my interaction with his son closely. His expression is unreadable, and I cannot guess what he makes of the situation. To avoid catching his eye, I look away to the east. In the distance are snow-capped mountains - the Ephel Dúath mountain range. I feel a great surge of anticipation and dread.

Soon I will see my home again, and find out how much of it is left.

Galadriel rides without stopping through the night. She readily shares her energy and spirit with her horse, Näemrel, whenever the creature shows signs of flagging. They have made fast progress over flat plains, but now the land has turned hilly. She eventually lets the horse slow to a walk as they climb a steep, grassy slope. At the top, she dismounts, sweat gleaming on her brow, and gives the horse as much to drink from her waterskin as she can spare. Dawn is breaking over the snow-capped mountains. She does not like the look of the sky beyond - so red it is almost bloody. The enemy has been active overnight - at what evil plans, she cannot guess. But she hopes that her captured brethren are alive, still, to see this same sunrise. Considering any alternative makes her heart turn cold.

The horse finishes it's drink and she mounts up again, whispering encouragements in elvish into Näemrel's ear. Urging her ever faster onwards.

On the second day, after a steep ascent, they reach the base of the mountains and the pass through Ephel Dúath. Though she is watchful and keeps her hand always close to her sword, nothing troubles their progress. They reach the end of the pass at a high elevation, and Galadriel gets her first glimpse of the Southlands, unfurled below her. What she sees makes her gasp.

With her keen eyes, she can see that every village within a league's radius has been hastily abandoned.

Ostirith stands a little below her, towards the bottom of the mountain. The watchtower remains intact - resolute and yet lonely - connected to a bridge that arches over a river.

What troubles her most is that she cannot glimpse a hint of the orc horde that supposedly plagues these lands. Even in the daylight, she had expected to see some clue as to their movements, or a camp. The tower appears vulnerable and friendless amongst such an empty, alien landscape - the absence of the monsters' presence all the more threatening.

Who was their commander? How had they become so organised? And what were they looking for?

She cannot answer these questions, but she hopes there are those in Ostirith who will enlighten her. She nudges Näemrel's flanks with her heels, urging the horse to begin their descent.

She makes for a solitary figure, riding alone across the bridge.

A villager, standing on the battlements to watch the tower gate, lets up a warning cry as she approaches. More people appear at the top of the wall. Galadriel looks up and surveys their faces. They are all townsfolk- their expressions pinched with fear and terror. A few carry swords and bows - but most only hold the most rudimentary of weapons. Hammers, hatchets and hoes - farming equipment, dulled by use.

"Open the gate!" someone within Ostirith instructs.

Her heart leaps in anticipation. Perhaps a friend remains here, still.

Slowly, the heavy doors are winched open, and within she can see a large courtyard of stone. A lone Elf walks through the entrance towards her. He has close-cropped dark hair and wears a chest-plate, intricately carved to resemble a stern face amongst leaves and trees. Across his shoulders is a grey cloak, and he carries both a bow and a sword.

The lines of his face are set tight and grim, but as he looks at Galadriel they soften in amazement.

"Arondir!" Galadriel realises, recognising the soldier who once hailed from the woodland realm of Beleriand. Gracefully, she slips from Näemrel's saddle.

"Commander Galadriel. It gladdens my heart to see you," he replies, reaching out to grasp her hand. Then his eyes flicker to Näemrel - sweat cooling and steaming on the horses flanks - and back to Galadriel herself. She knows that she looks worn, and it is clear that she has travelled hard and fast to get here. Arondir's brow creases, just barely. "But why have you come?...The hour here is darker than you may realise."

"I heard about your plight," she explains. "You must tell me what happened. Who of your comrades were captured? What do the orcs want? Why are they so focused on scouring this land, and tormenting these people?" She is unable to restrain her questions from spilling out. Such thoughts have been taunting her throughout her journey. Worse, she cannot shake the notion that Sauron may be behind all of this. Her body hums with excitement and expectation, that her hunt may soon be over. But she forces herself to show some restraint; bowing her head. "Forgive me for speaking with such haste, but I am in need of answers. And I can offer help, in return."

Arondir's face hardens once more. He glances up at the villagers who continue to line the battlements. "Help would be most welcome…Come inside -" he adds, somewhat darkly. "I will tell you all."

He leads her into the courtyard, and to a sheltered section of the inner wall. It is covered by a wooden roof and they sit on two benches. She swiftly takes in her surroundings. There are at least one hundred and fifty humans here - men, women and children. And very few supplies.

Close to Arondir lingers a human woman - she is beautiful, with dark hair held back from her face by a strip of cloth.

"About four weeks ago," Arondir begins. "I discovered orc tunnels near the village of Hordern. The presence of orcs in these lands had been hitherto unknown to us. While searching the tunnels, I was captured and taken to their fell camp. To my dismay, I discovered that many of my comrades had also been taken prisoner. Among them were my watch partner, Médhor, and our warden, Revion. The orcs had us digging more tunnels and trenches, so that they could navigate the Southlands quickly, and move by day, without fear of the sun. During our captivity my friends were cruelly slain…It was around this time that I encountered the camp's leader."

Galadriel's heart skips a beat, and her eyes widen. "Sauron?" she breathes.

Arondir shoots her a startled look. And then he frowns deeply. "No. But it was a being no less evil. Part elf. Part orc. He goes by the name of Adar. The orcs call him Lord-Father, and he sees them as his children, for whom he will claim this world, and craft it into their home. They are undyingly loyal to his vision. Adar allowed me to return here, in order to inform the Men of his wishes: that they should swear fealty to him, or perish." He shares a displeased look with the woman at his side. "Unhappily, there were many that chose fealty. Out of fear, and out of some predisposition to evil that still exists here. But where there is weakness in some, there is goodness and strength in others. I have seen it with my own eyes. As you can see, half remain."

The pride in his voice is unmistakeable.

Galadriel ponders what he has said. The thought of a creature who carries the blood of both orcs and elves causes her to recoil in revulsion. Such a thing debases the very laws of nature. Adar would undoubtedly carry traits of both species: he would be both cruel and strong.

"What does Adar want?" she asks, eventually.

"Some tool, or weapon, that he believes will aid his purpose," Arondir replies. "I will show it to you."

Quietly, the human woman slips away, returning with a boy in his teens. He has dark hair and tanned skin, and he holds an object wrapped in cloth. The woman's hands rest on his shoulders and her expression is uneasy. "My name is Bronwyn, Lady Galadriel," she says. "And this is my son - Theo."

Galadriel schools her face into a neutral expression, feeling that Arondir is watching her closely. Looking at Theo, it is clear to her that this is Arondir's child, and that the Elf has pursued a relationship with the human woman. Such a love is rare, for their kind, and not encouraged. But Galadriel cannot judge him; she herself has formed unusual connections with Men of late.

"Around the same time Arondir was taken prisoner -" Bronwyn continues the story. "- Theo discovered this knife in our village, Tirharad." Giving him a little push, she nudges her son towards Galadriel.

The boy looks at her mistrustfully and it is with some reluctance he draws a small piece of the cloth back to reveal what lies beneath.

A chink of a black blade, broken at the hilt, is just visible. Galadriel can sense it's wrongness, even without touching it.

"The blade belonged to Morgoth, we think," Arondir tells her, leaning close, his voice quiet so that they cannot be overheard. "I guess it is this that Adar seeks."

For such a weapon to fall into the wrong hands would be disastrous. She glances at Arondir, her expression troubled. "He must not get it."

Reaching forwards, she delicately covers the blade once more with the fabric, careful not to touch the thing itself. The moment she is finished, Theo clutches it back to his chest, jealously.

"He will come with a great army," Arondir reminds her, bleakly. "Hundreds of orcs, at least. We will not be able to withstand such a force."

For the first time since she arrived, Galadriel feels a smile touch her lips, happy to be able to provide some light amongst these dark accounts. "I told you I came to offer help, did I not, my friend? A host from Númenor travels here, days behind me. An army five-hundred strong. They have journeyed very far, to come to the aid of the Southlands."

Bronwyn gasps, and she covers her mouth with her hand, her eyes filling with tears. "Then there is hope?" she asks, her wavering voice gaining strength as she utters the final word.

But before Galadriel can reply, Arondir cuts in, reluctantly. "They will come too late. The orcs will be here at nightfall."

"You cannot hold out? Fortify the watchtower?" she questions, unhappily. But already she sees plainly that he is right. One good battering ram, and the orcs will be through these gates. Any siege waged against Ostirith will be short-lived, and Arondir and his family will not be on the winning side.

He knows this, and remains realistic about their odds. "No," he says, glancing around them at the villagers. Proud people, and perhaps capable warriors, but not enough to withstand such a foe.

"…What if we weren't here, when they arrived?" Bronwyn asks, suddenly, looking thoughtful.

"You cannot hope to flee with women and children through the mountain pass," Galadriel tells her, shaking her head. "You would travel too slow. They would run you down."

But Bronywn is unperturbed. "No. What if we were in Tirharad, instead? And they found the tower empty?"

Suddenly, Arondir is alert, and listening closely. "A trap?" he guesses, already nodding his head in agreement. He glances at Galadriel. "It would buy us the time we need. Until reinforcements arrive."

She hesitates, uncertain if even this will be enough. But she is careful to hide her doubt behind a calm expression. This is the only way open to Arondir, and the Southlanders in his care; it must succeed. And she must make Míriel's forces travel as fast as the wind, to reach them in time.

She stands. Already the sun is high in the sky above their heads, and Arondir and Bronwyn have a day of hard work ahead of them, if they are to prepare Ostirith for evacuation.

"It is a good plan. I would stay and assist you -" she announces, apologetically. "But I must relay what I have heard here to the Queen-Regent." And the King, she adds in her mind, privately. But there is no need to tell them of Halbrand, yet. They need to remain focused on the task at hand.

"Will you not at least stay and eat and drink a little -!?" Bronwyn asks her, surprised. "You have travelled so far." Galadriel surprises herself by finding this show of hospitality oddly touching - given how little Bronwyn and her people have to spare.

She hesitates, drawing short to give the human woman a reluctant smile. "No - thank you. I must set out at once." Then she is striding across the courtyard to where Näemrel's reins are tied to a nearby post. She loosens the reins and slips a foot into a stirrup, boosting herself into the saddle. Näemrel tosses her head, ready to run once again.

She pauses for a moment, looking to Arondir. He stands to one side, Bronwyn and Theo behind him. To others of her kind, it would be strange - an Elf, standing alongside a group of lowly mortals as they face their final moments. But she sees honour in it. And feels respect. "Good luck," Galadriel tells them, fervently.

He inclines his head. "Thank you," he replies, his voice uncharacteristically thick with emotion. She knows that his thanks are not only for her well-wishes.

As she rides away, she feels her resolve sharpen. She promises herself that this is not the end. These people are not doomed.

Our ride finishes at dusk, in view of the mountains.

A rudimentary camp is assembled - enough to provide food and shelter for the night, until dawn. Though I am saddle-sore and weary, I find myself feeling restless. I walk towards the edge of our tents, gazing over the landscape.

We have ridden through a persistent drizzle for most of the day, and it has only just stopped raining. My red hair is damp and curling, my brown cloak heavy around my shoulders and only half-dry. Above my head the clouds are still thick and grey, but they are beginning to show signs of breaking.

I reach the top of a hill and shiver. If I'm not careful, I will catch a chill. I should return to the fireside and help myself to food and a hot drink. But need drives me forwards; I reach the top of the hill and look north-east, knowing what I will see ahead.

About a mile away, there are two small hills, a shallow valley between them. The land there is craggy with rocks and a little to the right lies a thick tangle of trees and brambles.

This is where we were attacked.

This is where my parents were killed.

Those trees, that is where Halbrand and I fled.

I stare, the memory vivid and terrible in my mind's eye. I wait for the familiar rush of fear and grief, but instead I am surprised when I feel only anger. Anger that we were tricked and betrayed, my loved-ones taken from me, and Halbrand separated from his family. The feeling burns hot and wild, and I press my lips together, worried I will let out some howling noise of fury. Is this how I would have felt, these last thirteen years, if I had not been crippled by trauma? Is this how Aland has felt, all this time? It is unbearable.

I search for something to distract myself with. My fingers brush over the dagger Halbrand made me. It is held close to the red bodice of my dress, secured by a loop in my belt. I remove it, holding the knife still within its scabbard. I focus on the intricacy of the craftmanship at the hilt - the care that Halbrand put into its making.

When I had received the gift, I had been confused why he would make me a weapon. I have never been a warrior. But now I understand. Perhaps he knew I would come to feel like this. Perhaps he knew I would yearn for a balancing of the scales. Not revenge. No. But justice, maybe. A restoration of peace and prosperity in the Southlands. 

In my peripheral vision, I see movement. I jerk my head up, sharply, fearing an enemy scout. But then I realise I am looking at white and silver. A person, riding hard and fast from the east towards our camp.

I gasp. It is Galadriel.

The clouds have burst, and shed on her a shaft of dying light as she speedily approaches.

Quickly, I knot the knife at my waist and turn on my heel. I feel the wind shift with me as I run back towards the heart of the camp as fast as I can, my skirts blowing around me. I know there is no time to waste now - that whatever tidings the elf brings, we must be ready to set out at once.

"She's returned!" I cry out, when I finally burst into Míriel's tent, out of breath. The Queen-Regent sits at a small table with Elendil and Halbrand, eating supper. "Galadriel has returned from Ostirith!"

At once, Halbrand leaps to his feet. He grabs my elbow and together we both duck back out of the tent in time to see Galadriel and Näemrel expertly navigating the camp at speed, followed as they go by exclamations of surprise. Galadriel draws her horse short a little in front of us, her blue eyes gleaming like fire. The horse's forelegs and her own armour are flecked with specks of dirt and mud. 

"It is worse that we feared," she informs Halbrand, her expression a mixture of concern and fierce determination. "We must set out at once, and ride through the night. If we do not get to the Southlands by dawn, we will be too late to save your people."

"And what of your own kin?" he answers, troubled.

I know that it will go ill for us, if the elves remain prisoners and useful hostages. But what Galadriel says next is far worse: "Dead," she replies, turning her face away as she grimaces in pain. "The orcs left only one alive." 

EDIT: Section of dialogue significantly altered; originally a conversation between Braelyn and Aland has been changed to a different conversation between Isildur and Braelyn.

A/N Woo the longest chapter of this story to date!

This was so much fun to write, especially the Galadriel POV sections. It was also interesting to think about Pelargir and how that might look.

Only small snippets of Elendil, Halbrand and Aland in this chapter - it is actually really hard to juggle this many characters so fair play to the writers for just about managing it in Season 1. But I hope you enjoyed their character moments when they popped up.

I think you can all probably guess what might be coming next chapter, although I hope there are more than a few surprises for you, too.

As usual, please leave a comment or a review if you like what you're reading.

Last Of The Lilac Wine

Chapter Text

LOOSE ENDS

CHAPTER 10: FIRE AND ASH

The night feels never-ending. The wind picks up, blowing from the east. I feel as if I can hear on it the faint cries of men, and the battle-hungry growls of orcs. The sounds make my skin crawl. Eventually, our company reaches the end of the mountain pass. The black sky seems to lighten. At first, I think it may be the coming of the sun. But by my reckoning it is still an hour, at least, before daybreak. As we reach the top of a high ridge, I feel my stomach drop.

The light I had seen is no sign of day, but of a hellish fire. It nearly consumes a town, lying only a league below our position. The flames are a beacon in the darkness, and so similar to my fiery vision that I pause instinctively, the air leaving my lungs. War cries and the sounds of fighting rent the night air.

Am I already too late to change our future?

"Save us -" Därea whispers, from behind me. A prayer to whatever God she believes in.

"Braelyn -!" Míriel calls to me, sharply, as my horse stops in its tracks. My hesitation barely lasts longer than a few seconds, but already I am in danger of being left behind. Soldiers flow around me like the tide of a great river, and the Queen-Regent's entourage is suddenly far ahead.

Stealing myself, I dig my heels into Clover's flanks, forcing her into a run. The army is given instructions to halt, albeit briefly, and I am provided with a chance to re-take my place next to the Queen.

"We will make a camp here -" Míriel is busy instructing Elendil, speaking fast yet clearly. The both of them look out towards the battle taking place in the distance, their expressions stern. "You will leave me with a rear guard, and go on ahead with our army to Tirharad. My soldiers are yours to command now, Captain."

Elendil bows his head. "As you wish." The helmet he had been clasping underneath his arm, he now places on his head. Moonlight reflects off the winged helm, making the metal gleam. He seems transformed from the man I know - more a King than a loyal vassal. His great horse carries him before his men, and he raises his voice to address them.

"Take these moments to prepare yourselves!" he cries out, to those closest. "Ready your steeds! Secure your armour! Sharpen your swords! With the dawn we ride towards death and danger. But you are men of Númenor and you have been blessed with hope, and honour! Deliver our brothers from the evil that has befallen them, and you will be rewarded with the glory of the Valar once again!"

A great cheer goes up from those around me, and I feel my own heart sore in response.

As Elendil passes before me, his blue eyes catch mine. "Say your goodbyes," he murmurs to me, lowering his voice intently so that only I can here. "You have only a little time left."

I swallow the lump in my throat and quickly dismount my horse, searching the front-line for Aland and Halbrand. I do not have to hurry far. I find Halbrand standing to make an inspection of his horse's bridle, his back to me.

"Halbrand -!" I call out.

When he turns, I halt in my steps. His face is bathed half in the shadow, half in the light cast by the stars and the flames. I wonder how it can be, that this face has only been familiar to me for but a few weeks, when my love for him has lasted my lifetime.

"I was told I should say farewell," I explain, the strength of my voice suddenly undependable and small. "But now it comes to it, I don't want to…Not to you, not again."

He takes in my upset frown, his expression understanding. "What do you want to say?"

"That I love you," I reply, reminding myself to be strong, and not to cry. "Very much."

Tears prick my eyes, but I do not allow them to fall. As if suddenly seized by some emotion, Halbrand quickly covers the short distance I have left between us. He hugs me, the gesture bestowed with as much care as possible, given the cold and rigid armour covering his chest and arms.

"You will not lose me," he reassures me, his accent thicker than usual, his voice gruff. "…As I would not lose you."

Another horn sounds, announcing the imminent departure of the Númenorean army. I startle, drawing away from my older brother so I can look about us.

"Where is Aland?!" I ask Halbrand, urgently.

Before he can reply, a voice behind me says, with some humour: "Do you ever grow tired of asking that question?"

My shoulders sag with relief as I spin around. I am already moving towards Aland, and we are both throwing our arms around each-other.

"Yes," I reply, both a laugh and a sob. "You stubborn fool."

I press a kiss onto his cheek before he can stop me. I cannot remember the last time Aland permitted me to hold him like this - so long have we been at odds - and the sensation is bittersweet. Of course it has taken imminent war to end our quarrel.

"Soldiers!" Elendil cries out, loudly, as another horn blares. "We ride now!"

I release Aland, hastily stepping away. Already, troops jostle us as they mount their horses, and I am suddenly very small and lonely standing on my own two feet amongst them. Aland and Halbrand mount up, and I give them both one final, long look before I hurry back to my own steed. Däera has waited for me, her anxious face clearly showing that she is worried about being caught up in the charge.

"M'lady!" she cries out, reaching a hand down and helping me up.

Once in the saddle, I quickly kick Clover forwards. We ride like the wind across the knife-edge of the ridge. To our left is the battle at Tirharad - the sky slowly lightening as dawn approaches, making visible the dark horde of orcs surrounding the village - and to my right is the full might of the Númenorean army. Just in time, we reach the cavalry's fringes. Five hundred horses begin to walk the descent into the Southlands, until they build momentum and break into a canter. I watch breathlessly as Elendil, Galadriel and Halbrand lead the charge.

Míriel sits solemnly at my side as we look at it all. We are engulfed by the noise of thundering hoofbeats, and the very earth beneath us seems to vibrate. Briefly the Queen-Regent's hands tighten around her reins, her knuckles turning white, as if she is thinking about following. But then her grip relaxes and she lets out a heavy sigh. "I pray we have arrived in time," she murmurs, as if to herself. "And they save as many souls as they can."

The battle lasts hours.

I cannot tear my eyes away from the chaos, thinking every cry of pain I hear is Aland or Halbrand. Or perhaps Elendil or Isildur.

Smoke billows into the sky, blocking, for a time, the morning sun. But as the Númenoreans show signs of prevailing, the fires begin to die out and the black clouds start to clear. I watch the force of orcs scatter under the charge of our cavalry. Many are crushed in the initial wave, and many more pursued across nearby fields and into the woods, and slain.

Eventually, all is still.

A final horn is sounded; jubilant and victorious. The soldiers lend a hoarse cheer to its chorus.

A messenger from the battlefield arrives for Queen Míriel. The man's body is flecked with gore and mud, but he is otherwise unharmed. "My Queen," he greets her, with a smile. "We have vanquished the enemy, and taken their leader prisoner. The battle is won."

Míriel receives the news with confidence, although I think the set of her shoulders hints at her relief. "Congratulations, soldier."

"What of the Southlanders?" I ask him, with some trepidation.

The messenger turns to me, inclining his head. "They fought with great courage, Lady Braelyn. Many of their fighters perished defending Tirharad. But some live, and their women and children survived the conflict, hidden in a tavern."

Míriel gives instructions for our camp to prepare to receive any wounded. I marvel at her assuredness, as if she has seen the sun rise over many such a fight, when in truth the island she lives on has enjoyed hundreds of years of peace. I watch her request that food and drink be prepared for the soldiers, and a contingent of guards readied, to escort us to Tirharad. We ride out, and I am filled with anticipation. As the dead and injured are carried past us on stretchers, I feel my face turn white, and I glance quickly over every form for my brothers. The solemn sight is too familiar. A reminder of that terrible day in Dren, when the bedraggled body of a teenage boy was carried by me, through the streets. I had thought for so long that it had been Halbrand.

Míriel catches my look and, correctly sensing the direction in which my thoughts have turned, she leans across to touch my arm. "The messenger would have informed us, had they fallen, Braelyn. You are riding now towards joy and celebration - not pain."

But I can scarcely bring myself to believe her until our horses cross the small bridge leading into Tirharad, and I see them. The centre of the town has been cleared of bodies, although bloody marks and signs of destruction still remain. Soldiers carry tables into the open space and already there are mugs of ale there to be enjoyed. Talk around us is full of laughter and mirth.

Aland and Halbrand are alive and well, standing at the opposite end of the table and smiling as they discuss something. The sight of them releases all the tension in my body, and I relax in my saddle. However, I am prevented from joining them as Galadriel accosts me the moment I dismount.

"Come with me. There are some people I want you to meet," she announces, with a small, secretive smile. To my surprise, she leads me over to a woman with dark hair, a male Elf hovering at her side. The woman wears a bandage across her chest and shoulder, under her shawl. But though she looks tired, she seems happy and unconcerned by her injury.

"This is Bronwyn, and Arondir," Galadriel says, introducing them to me. "They are responsible for organising the defence of Tirharad, and it is by their courage your people live."

I look at the two of them in wonder, before quickly bowing my head in respect. "You have my thanks."

Galadriel turns to Bronwyn. "I would like to introduce you to Lady Braelyn - she is Halbrand's sister and Princess of the Southlands...Without her persuasion, the Queen-Regent's forces may not have been here today."

I blush at this. And it shocks me a little, to hear Galadriel tribute me so plainly with such a feat. Bronwyn's eyes widen and she gives me a look of sincerest gratitude. "Then it is you we should be thanking, m'lady."

"It is nothing," I hasten to reply, embarrassed. "Compared to the valour of your town."

"Even the smallest acts of bravery can have consequences of a much greater magnitude." The elf - Arondir - tells me, firmly. "What you did was not insignificant."

I think privately that they should also be thanking Galadriel, Aland and every other person who nudged me into petitioning Míriel. I did not start all this. In fact, I think it may have been begun for me by some unseen force, when a small girl was travelling with her family across the Southlands at winter-time.

Instead, I say to Bronwyn: "I have something for you." And then I hesitate, thinking, before amending my statement: "Or, well, I have something for us."

From my saddlebags I take that which I have carried with me from Númenor. Commissioned when I sent Däera to the seamstress all that time ago. The roll of fabric is large and heavy and I set it down on the table before Bronwyn. I unfurl it slowly by its edges, careful not to dirty it.

The banner is a rich, dark red. Embroidered onto it in bronze thread is the sigil of my family - the mark of the Southlands.

"I hope that soon we will rebuild the Southlands - together," I tell Bronwyn, staring at the banner with pride. "And unite our people once more under its lost sigil."

Bronwyn's fingers trace the edges of the fabric in amazement, before she looks me in the eye, determinedly. "I would like that…I promise to help you where I can."

I leave the flag there a while for others to see, before merriment and the threat of a spilt drink makes me think it would be a good idea to store it away again. Standing next to my saddle bags I realise that someone else is now approaching me, and I turn. It is Aland. The lustre of his armour is dulled by dirt and black orc blood, and though he has clearly made an attempt to wash his hands and face before the festivities started, I can still see traces of mud.

He is staring down at the pristine banner draped over my forearms with a peculiar expression on his face.

"You had this made?" he asks.

"Yes."

His gaze lifts to meet mine. I know that he remembers this same flag flying over our family's hall, when we were children. "It's perfect."

I cannot stop myself from beaming at the compliment. But then my smiles fades. Looking at him like this - tired but proud, and victorious after battle - I cannot help but think he had been right, in his own way, this whole time. We should have returned home much sooner. "I'm sorry," I apologise, impulsively. "For holding us back, for so long."

To my surprise, Aland has to fight back a laugh. "If it had been up to me, I'd have had us sailing here in a leaky old fishing boat years ago…Had we survived the journey, we'd probably still be stuck in Pelargir with no friends. No army. No King." He glances around us, first at Míriel and Elendil, and then at Halbrand, who is conversing with Galadriel. Finally, his eyes land back on me, his expression rueful as he admits: "I think your way was better."

Before I can reply, there is a rumbling sound, coming from the very earth itself. Suddenly, a geyser of water erupts from the covered orc tunnel at the entrance to Tirharad - leaping twenty feet into the air. It sprays me in droplets of metallic-smelling water and bits of soil and dirt. I automatically raise my arms to shield myself. Then another turbulent jet of water breaks the ground nearby. And another. Those around me cry out in surprise and shock as planks of wood and larger chunks of rock are dislodged and sent spinning through the air like projectiles.

"Braelyn -!" Aland shouts, pointing at something to the east. I turn and look, a powerful gust of wind battering me.

And my eyes widen in horror.

The top of a great mountain has exploded, sending up a plume of fire and smoke. The smoke mushrooms, the cloud becoming larger even as I watch, as if intent on consuming the whole sky. And then I see streaks of fire. Chunks of rock and magma hurtling towards us.

Women and children scream. Captured orcs break free of their restraints and fight for their freedom, cutting a bloody path through Númenorean soldiers as they go.

I can only watch the explosion in front of me in disbelief.

But we won, I think. Unable to comprehend, when the first ball of fire hits, how I have failed.

When I come to, I am aware of the gentle, warm weight of the ash. It covers me entirely - it's in my eyes, mouth, nose and ears - and I cough, fighting for breath.

I am looking up at a grey-black sky, and then I roll onto my front and I am looking at the ground which is of much the same colour, littered with rubble. I get my knees underneath me, and succeed in pushing myself to my feet. My forearms are grazed bloody and my dress is ripped in several places. I feel dizzy and weak. It takes a moment for my surroundings to come into focus.

Tirharad has been destroyed. Around me many bodies lie in the wreckage, blanketed in cinders, unmoving. A few survivors like me have begun to stumble to their feet, clutching at their injuries. Dimly, as if from a long way away, I can hear screams and groans of pain.

I make a small, choked sound. My eyes are streaming and my throat parched. I need water. But already my gaze runs desperately over the scores of dead, searching for familiar faces.

I take a few awkward, lurching steps to my left. Then come to an abrupt stop as a shrieking, terrified horse canters across my path, kicking up a plume of dust as it goes. When the cloud finally settles, I see a body slumped against a low stone wall. They are lying at an awkward angle, as if the force of the blast threw them back into the structure.

His head is limp on his neck, his body pitched to one side.

"ALAND -!" I cry out, a few swift steps bringing me to him. I collapse onto my knees, and use my hands to lift his head. My fingers brush the back of his skull, and I feel them turn slick with blood.

His face is slack, his eyes open and unseeing.

A bolt of terror electrifies my whole body. Desperately, I shake him, but there isn't a flicker of life in the slack muscles and bone, and his weight leans heavy against mine. "ALAND!" I howl, scarcely able to believe it as I gather him closer to me, staring at his face.

He is dead.

I sob. The pain is so great - in my chest, my throat, behind my eyes, and in my heart - that I want to lie down here beside him and never move again. Rivers of my tears sluice the dirt and soot from my face. I cannot let him go, and yet strong arms are grasping me, attempting to pull me away.

"NO!" I scream. Uncaring if they are friend or foe. I will not let them part me from Aland, and I cling to him more tightly.

"Braelyn -" Even though my ears are ringing, I recognise that voice. Halbrand tugs on my shoulder, again, but I resist.

"No - no - no -"

I look at Aland, and feel the knowledge that he is dead stun the very core of my being. And yet still my mind rebels.

Eventually, Halbrand manages to pull me to my feet and drag me away. His expression is set in an impossibly grim mask of sorrow. I am numb. We reach the edge of the destroyed town. Out of the gloom a white horse trots towards us - I recognise it as Galadriel's horse, Näemrel. But where is the horse's usual rider? Galadriel had been several feet away from me when the mountain exploded. I wonder if she is dead, too. And what of Isildur; Elendil; Míriel; Bronwyn; and Arondir? I shudder.

Halbrand boosts me into Näemrel's saddle and then climbs up behind me, taking the reins. He directs the horse up a grey hill, pock-marked with burning craters - towards our camp which is at least two miles away. Everything around us is a wasteland, entirely consumed by fire and ash, as my vision had predicted.

During the slow journey, I alternate between heartsick crying, and expressionless despair.

"We'll go back for him -" Halbrand attempts to assure me. But then he seems to realise that any attempts to comfort me are pointless, and he ceases his efforts. Although he makes sure that his arms boxing me into the saddle are gentle.

We climb high enough that some of the low-hanging smoke and cloud dissipates a little. We reach the edge of a small forest, threading in between trees.

And then something causes Näemrel to pause, her ears twitching back and forth as she listens. Then the horse gives a small shriek of alarm, and bolts forwards. I cry out, and Halbrand grunts, pulling on the reins.

An orc arrow hisses through the air and lodges in Näemrel's flank. She rears up onto her hind legs in pain, unseating Halbrand. He hits the ground hard, thanks to all his armour, and lies there for a second, winded. I struggle to get the horse in check, my heart beating fast as another arrow whizzes past my face.

"Halbrand!" I cry out, finally regaining control of Näemrel, and tugging the horse around to face him. In her desire to spirit me away, she has taken us several paces uphill from my brother. He is getting to his feet a little further below.

Out of nowhere, an orc appears, roaring, and swings for Halbrand with its ugly sword. Halbrand has no time to draw his own weapon, and instead grabs the orc's own arm. They struggle for a moment, until Halbrand unsheathes a knife with his free hand and thrusts it through the beast's eye.

"GO! Run -!" He shouts at me, commandingly. But I hold Näemrel still, my eyes widening in terror as another orc joins the fray. This time, he draws his sword and swings it hard enough to behead his foe in one stroke.

"Braelyn, run!" Halbrand cries. But in facing me, his back is turned to the south, and I see what he cannot. A group of orcs, making for us like blood-hounds on the hunt. The number of them running through the trees too large for Halbrand to fight. He must see the expression on my face, because he whips his head around and finally looks at them. Though the horde is great, he remains standing between me and them, and slowly raises his sword once more.

I will not leave him, again. Especially not now that he is my only surviving brother. He has to know this.

I spur Näemrel forwards, careful to avoid the wound that leaks blood down her side. She runs down the slope, towards the orcs and towards Halbrand.

"I'm not leaving you!" I tell him, drawing the horse up short at his side. I reach my hand down for him to grasp. There is still time for us to escape, even as the orcs close in. "Take my hand!"

Halbrand reaches for me, just as an end of rope is thrown over Näemrel's head. She snorts in fear, and the noose tightens. Orcs burst out of the trees on my left, and evil hands pull me from my saddle before I can draw my knife, which is still tied to my belt. I hit the ground none-too-gently, but immediately one drags me by my hair to my knees. I let out a pained gasp. It presses an ugly dark knife to my neck, the blade serrated and sharp, stained with red blood.

"Drop your weapon," it jeers at Halbrand. "Or we'll slit her pretty white throat."

Halbrand looks at me, his eyes turning wide with despair. He's panting, still holding his long sword at his side. A ring of gleeful orcs surround us, but do not make a further effort to press their attack.

Reluctantly, he casts aside his blade. The orcs let out a crude cheer. Three push him to his knees, and we face one another as our hands are bound. I know I must look terrified.

As I am pulled to my feet, the orc that had held it's knife to my throat roughly pulls the silver chain from my neck. Then he yanks the sigil that hangs on a cord from Halbrand's armour. The monster holds up its spoils to examine the sigil better.

"The King and the Princess of the Southlands," it jeers, and its kin laugh with relish. I shut my eyes. "Now Princess of Nothing. And King of Nowhere…This ain't your home anymore! This land belongs to the Uruk! This land, we christen Mordor."

Another sickening cheer goes up.

"Let my sister go!" Halbrand snarls. But the leader only cackles.

"I don't think so. You are now prisoners of Adar. And Adar would like to meet you both."

I had been mistaken in thinking that Tirharad, destroyed and on fire, had been hell.

This was hell.

We are brought to the orc camp on foot, our hands shackled, our captors holding us by chains attached to metal collars around our necks. The journey lasts a day - enough time for our grim new world to torment me half to despair. All around us is blackened, cauterised earth, and dead trees and grey skies. What is left of my homeland has been rendered unrecognisable. They keep Halbrand and myself several paces apart. If one of us gets too far from the other, the chain connecting our collars yanks taut. If we get too close, the Orcs threaten us with spears and swords.

For the most part, I am silent. I think about Aland. And I think about Rian...Now that I have been captured, it is unlikely I will ever see my little sister again. I stare at Halbrand's armoured back as we are marched along, in a kind of trance. Allowing my grief to numb me to our plight. My thoughts become darker and darker until I am deep in their tunnel with no way out. With regular frequency Halbrand turns his head and catches my eye, risking stumbling on the uneven ground. As if to check I am still following; still there; and have not blown away, like dust on the wind. Each time he glances around, the Orc holding his chain viciously pulls him forwards again.

Finally, we reach the outskirts of the Orc's camp. It's a vast, sprawling collection of tents and rudimentary shelters, marooned on a sea of mud. The smell coming from it is foul. In the distance - visible even in the gloom - is the volatile mountain, which emits an orange light and boils with molten rock.

As I am led past the first wooden shack, someone steps into our path, surprising even our captors. 

They are human. A man. About forty years of age, slight of build, with colourless blonde hair and similarly colourless grey eyes. He is dressed in finery - a black tunic embroidered with golden thread. He has aged much since I last saw him - the man I remember was fair, with a forked tongue - but this is unmistakeably Oisin Balstrom.

"I did not believe the reports -" He marvels. "I had to see it with my own eyes. Halbrand, son of Lanad, and Braelyn, daughter of Allicent - captured by Orcs. Free folk, no more."

The sight of him snaps me out of my trance-like state.

"YOU!" I cry out in fury. All my troubles - all my fears - can be traced back to this one man. The anger burns white-hot and senseless, and my grief for Aland feeds it. I pull against my chains, and then spit as hard as I can in his direction. "You bastard!...Traitor!"

My anger does not move him. I can only imagine he has waited here, at the entrance of the camp, to gloat. "I didn't think you would be stupid enough to return to Middle-Earth, Braelyn," he taunts. "But I was wrong." His eyes flicker to Halbrand. "Family loyalty can make people do stupid things indeed."

"What would you know of family? Or loyalty?" Halbrand's voice rings out, coldly. His whole body is rigid. Where he had been relatively calm for the entirety of our long march here, he is now tense, and watchful.

Oisin turns and surveys my brother closely. Then he walks over to stand in front of him. Our father's old advisor is over a head shorter than Halbrand, but I remember a time when he loomed large in our lives. The Orcs begin to make impatient sounds, muttering among themselves and clearly wanting to move along. "I suppose it was some village boy we buried in you stead," Balstrom remarks, surveying Halbrand closely. "...The look was right. Auburn hair. Face so disfigured by his wounds - nobody could tell who he really was..." He smiles, grimly. "You would have done well to enjoy death, Halbrand...So much more peaceful."

I watch as Halbrand's lip curls. Hatred burning in his eyes. 

In irritation, the Orc's leader rattles my chain pointedly, shouting at Oisin: "Move it along, Balstrom! We're deliverin' these two to Adar! We've got no time to bandy words with you!"

But Oisin's eyes flash. "I'm not done yet -!" he snaps, ignoring or perhaps aloof of the unhappy Orcs that surround him. Then turning once more to Halbrand he says: "You must listen to me. The mountain's eruption has all but destroyed Dren. You must persuade Adar, if you can, to spare the city...I will serve as Lord to those Southlanders who swore fealty. I will protect them, if I can, in your stead. Persuade Adar to let the throne stand, and I will preserve your father's legacy." 

I gape at Oisin, incensed. Wondering how he can dare speak of my father, his throne or his legacy in this way, after what he has done. 

Yet I do not know what my brother will make of this offer. I shoot Halbrand a fast, covert glance, trying to assess his reaction.

I watch as Halbrand leans forwards, leaving only a few inches of space between his face and Oisin's. The tendons on his neck stand on end. "I would rather see Dren raised to the ground," he replies, his voice low and tight. "Than have a pretender like you sit on my throne."

Something in his gaze has Oisin hastily stepping backwards, putting some distance between them. "Very well," he replies, coolly, after he has collected himself. "Have it your way."

He wraps his cloak tightly around his shoulders and stalks off in the opposite direction. I think that the only piece of consolation I may be able to glean from our situation is that in throwing his lot in with the Orcs, Balstrom has clearly lost everything. And Adar and the Orcs do not care. I share a look of grim satisfaction with Halbrand. 

We are moved along, further into the heart of the camp. The enemy's soldiers laugh as we are paraded past them like prizes. My old fear returns, potent and sickening, and I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead. Trying not to consider that the deeper I go into this place, the less likely I am to escape; we will never be released alive.

Eventually, we come to a muddy, open space. A throne made from dead trees stands before me, and on it sits an Elf the likes of which I never thought could exist. He is regal, yet foul. With long, black hair and orc-like grey skin. His dark eyes are keen and piercing and his ears are distinctively pointed. This can only be Adar. The irony that he was the prisoner of the Numenoreans, not hours before, is not lost on me.

The Orcs stand us before him, me next to Halbrand. I am exhausted, but I force myself to stand tall and proud. I do not want to appear as afraid or as cowed as I feel. Cannot show any weakness that may be seized upon. A pointless exercise, as it turns out, because when Adar's gaze fleetingly falls on me, there is something in his look that tells me that he sees through my act. He sees my pain. But I persist, regardless. If only because feigning courage is the only thing keeping me from breaking into pieces.

"The war is over," Adar announces, by way of greeting. He leans forwards on his throne, his voice soft. His brethren instantly quieten, allowing their master's voice to be heard. "My people have won. Whatever aspirations of revenge your survivors may entertain - now, or in the future - can be put to rest. I will hold you both here as my prisoners. No friend or saviour shall ride to your assistance. For I have broken the great Men of the West, and I will instruct them to sail back to their fair isle on their ships, never to set foot on Middle-Earth again. The pathetic refugees on the banks of the Anduin shall cower there. Should they cross the border into Mordor, they will be killed. And your blood will be spilt."

His words cause a chill to travel up my spine. There is an approving clamour of noise from the on-looking orcs. Their devotion to their leader is clear.

I look at Halbrand. His jaw is clenched, his eyes dark with anger and defiance. Though Adar has not said anything we had not already guessed, it is still a blow for our worst fears to be confirmed.

"Separate them." Adar suddenly instructs the orcs.

To my horror, the monsters dutifully detach the chain connecting me to Halbrand. Roughly I am pulled in one direction, and Halbrand in another. I cry out as a female orc closes in on me, a wicked knife in her hand; she takes my red hair in her fist and hacks off a sample, holding the strands aloft for others to see. I shy away as they jeer.

"Don't hurt her -!" I hear Halbrand yell, but I am taken further into camp, and lose all sight or sound of him. So quickly I can barely comprehend how it has happened, I am alone with my enemies. 

Adar remains in the clearing as Glug informs him of the details of the King's capture.

"We came across them in the forest, Lord-Father," Glug says, handing him a silver necklace and a leather pouch, both stamped with the same sigil. Adar weighs them in his palm, before setting them aside. They were trinkets - relics of a failed household - and nothing more. "We took their weapons, too. And we'll strip the man of his armour."

The weapons themselves are laid at Adar's feet, on a slab of rock. Two knives and a sword. Even in the very dim light, their blades gleam brightly. The orcs do not love man-made tools such as these, but Adar notices that the eyes of those humans who are present flicker greedily at the sight. One in particular steps forwards.

"These blades are of excellent craftmanship, my Lord," Oisin Balstrom says, crouching over the rock to examine them more closely. "They would make fine gifts."

Adar ignores this. Balstrom is no favourite of his, although he has served their cause well, over the years. The man is a traitor - a wolf. Everything he has done has been for his own personal gain. To him, the orcs were only a means of grasping power. Adar can see a time in the future where Balstrom will attempt to strike his own path; Oisin had been greatly displeased by the eruption, which had destroyed the town of Dren, and his throne.

But for now Adar's focus is captured by the closest knife. Though it glimmers, to his eyes, the metal also appears to flicker insidiously with shadows.

"Give that to me -" he instructs, reaching a gloved hand out.

Obediently, the human hands him the knife. Adar takes off his glove and wraps his fingers around the hilt. He tilts the blade this way and that as he considers it, broodingly. Something about the weapon stirs suspicion in his heart.

"…They say every creation carries in it some part of the spirit of its maker," he murmurs, as if to himself. "I sense an echo in this blade…an echo of the past."

Oisin and Glug watch him closely, but he continues to look at the knife. He feels the trace of evil hidden within. It seems to him that a fell, arrogant voice echoes in his mind, speaking of a new age, and a new Master for all Orc-kind. But he had rejected that vision...He had struck the speaker down. 

"Who was carrying this knife?" Adar finallys asks Glug, tearing his eyes away from the weapon. "The man or the woman?"

"The woman, m'lord."

His mind races as he thinks through every possible scenario. There is little doubt in his mind that this blade is of Sauron's making. But try as he might, he cannot remember the sorcerer ever wielding it. So where had it come from? Trinkets of the Deceiver did not fall into innocent hands by chance...Had the woman been given it? By whom? When?

It would serve him well to be cautious, here. To assume that his misgivings are correct, and Sauron somehow lives, and crafts weapons anew. 

"I will speak with her," he announces, swiftly getting to his feet.

"What of the blade, m'lord?" Oisin entreats, as Adar passes him.

He shakes the man off, dismissively. "I will keep it."

The orcs leave me in a cage made of strong wood, with a hard dirt floor. The bars are spaced close together. Through their gaps, I can see the camp surrounding me, and the people in the camp can see me. There is nowhere for me to hide, and nothing in here with me, save for a waterskin filled with a foul-tasting liquid.

My whole body aches with weariness. I try to remember when the last time I slept was. But I am too scared to shut my eyes.

It is not long before there is a change in the atmosphere; the orcs and men grow watchful, and Adar approaches. I get to my feet.

To my surprise, Adar gives those nearby a curt instruction: "Leave us."

His followers look at one another in confusion, but do as he bids. Even the guards are dismissed. I do not relax, however. Even when Adar opens the door to my cell, I do not make an attempt to escape. His measured, lithe movements radiate danger. At his hip, a lethal-looking sword is sheathed. I know I would not make it a step before I was captured, or worse, so I remain still.

"Lady Braelyn," he greets me, his voice soft and gravelly, shutting the door to the cage behind him.

I do not reply.

Behind him, I watch two Southlander women carry water between tents. He follows my gaze.

"Does it shame you? That I took in your people? Welcomed them with open arms and kindness, when you abandoned them?" he asks me, his eyes gleaming darkly.

"Abandoned them?" I repeat, coldly. "I was sent away. By that snake you keep at your side, so that he could take my father's title."

"And now there is no throne in the Southlands."

"No," I agree, my lip curling into a sneer. "But there is a throne in Mordor. Yours. And Balstrom will covet that, next."

Something behind Adar's eyes flicker and he steps closer, cocking his head. I raise my chin, trying to push my fear deep down. I cannot sense where the conversation is going, or why he has sought my out, alone, so soon. I strive to keep my wits about me.

"So you think I should fear betrayal? Though all my children love me?"

"There is always a knife waiting in the dark."

He quirks an eyebrow. "Indeed."

He is too watchful, too still. I sense the peril, even before he moves, but he is too fast for me to evade. Suddenly, he is grasping the back of my neck with one hand, and bracing a knife at my throat with the other. I let out a gasp of fear. "An interesting choice of words  -" Adar whispers, mockingly.

My eyes widen when I realise that it is my own knife that he holds to my skin. It is the second time today that a dagger has been held to my throat, and I feel the ease with which my life can be taken from me acutely. 

"This blade," he hisses close to my ear. "Where did you get it?"

My whole body is a tight coil of fear, and yet I am seized unexpectedly by a stubborn loyalty to Halbrand, it's maker. It is clear to me that I have chosen my words poorly, sparking some suspicion Adar has about the knife, it's provenance and my intentions. "What does it matter to you?" I spit back. Determined not to give him the answers he seeks.

But he presses the sharp edge against my skin, and there's a stinging, cutting sensation. "Do not play games with me," he replies. "It would be nothing to me, to cut your throat; I would still have your brother as a useful prisoner. Where did you get the knife?"

"It was given to me!" I cry out.

"Who gave it to you? Who was its maker?"

But I press my lips together tightly.

Adar leans closer. "I will kill you -" he promises me, softly. "Tell me." The blade presses harder and hot blood runs down to my collarbone. I can feel my pulse behind my ears, and in the arteries in my neck, an inch from the knife's edge. My tongue feels heavy and unwilling in my mouth. Whatever he wants, I feel compelled by the notion that I cannot give him Halbrand. Not my brother. Not when I have already lost Aland, and Rian. I feel tears leak from the corners of my eyes. Waiting, in stubborn silence, for the orc leader to cut my throat.

After several seconds of watching me intently, Adar suddenly relents and releases me. I stumble, then right myself. He does not move an inch and remains close, holding the knife loosely at his side.

"If you will not answer my questions, perhaps I should find some other use for you," he murmurs, his brow furrowing. "Some of the men here might work harder in the day, if they had a woman to offer them comfort at night. Some orcs, too."

I cannot conceal the naked revulsion on my face. At this, the corner of Adar's lips quirk upwards. "Ah, look at how that suggestion disgusts you. As if my children are not made of flesh and blood, and do not feel emotions like love, or the spurn of rejection."

I lunge for the knife in his hand, tearing it from him easily - too easily - he may as well have handed it over - and hold it before me in a white-knuckle grip. "They would feel more than rejection, if any one of them laid a finger on me!" I snap, white-faced and desperate. 

But Adar merely seems amused at my defiance. He raises his chin, looking down at me imperiously. "Give me the blade."

I nearly let out a hysterical laugh. "No."

Very slowly, he steps backwards and draws his broadsword in one smooth movement. He seems to grow even larger and more intimidating. But the way he looks at me is incongruent with his actions. His gaze and words are strangely soft - almost kind. "You do not even have to give it to me," he coaxes. "You need only drop it. Let it go, girl."

I shake my head. An automatic, quick gesture. My thoughts feel oddly clouded and sluggish.

Then Adar's tone turns harsh and commanding, his voice waking me like the ringing of a bell. "Let it go!"

In a spasming movement, my fingers unfurl, and I let the knife fall to the ground at my feet. I suck in a great, gasping breath of air.

The Elf moves forwards and scoops up the knife. He weighs it in his hand for a moment, considering it, before sheathing it at his belt. 

"You are stronger than you look, daughter of Lanad," he remarks, with some measure of respect.

I realise, with abrupt clarity, that I have just been tested. Although why and to what purpose I cannot fathom. Perhaps he has cursed the knife. Perhaps he means to sow discord between myself and Halbrand. 

"I don't understand," I say, feeling a creeping sense of unease.

But already Adar is turning his back on me, leaving me in my cage. "You will."

A/N Edit - nothing major, but I've adjusted the arriving at the orc camp scene so that Halbrand and Braelyn meet Oisin before they meet Adar.

I've had this scene between Braelyn and Adar in my head for ages. I couldn't wait to write it.

This chapter was composed of a lot of different scenes with a lot of different emotions - I hope it all worked.

Really sad to have killed off poor Aland, but it was important to isolate Braelyn from her family.

Please leave a review!

Last Of The Lilac Wine

Chapter Text

LOOSE ENDS

CHAPTER 11: THE WARGS

Adar goes to the man, next.

But first he stands and breathes deeply in the open air.

He has succeeded in crushing the human resistance, and has created a home for himself and his children. There will be no more hiding in dark places - in tunnels and caves. Years of patience and planning has led to this moment, and he allows himself to feel the satisfaction of victory. But there is also a sense of disquiet. Of being watched. The human girl was right: there is always a knife waiting in the dark. He cannot afford to be complacent.

He strides across the compound to a shack, adjacent to the enclosure they use to house the wargs. Through the fence, Adar can see that the beasts are in a volatile mood, snarling and snapping at anything nearby angrily. One slams itself against the barrier, splintering the thick wood, then paws madly at the earth.

"What is wrong with them?" he asks their handler, Driznak, as he approaches.

But the orc only shakes it's head, perplexed. Driznak holds a long spear, and occasionally thrusts it through the fence at a warg if it gets too close. "Something has the wargs on edge, Lord-Father. I've never seen 'em like this before. They've already taken the arm off of one of my men."

They are interrupted by a loud, wet tearing sound. Two of the animals take either end of a goat carcass in their jaws and tear it in two.

Adar watches dispassionately for a moment. Wondering if the animals behave this way because they sense the knife's presence.

"Get them under control, if you can," he tells Driznak, finally, laying a hand on the orc's shoulder. "If you can't, kill them. They're no use to you rabid."

Then, he walks towards the shack. In its shadowy interior he finds the human stripped of his armour, sitting in his tunic and trousers with his back up against the wall. Lengths of his brown hair have turned tangled and greasy, and fall into his eyes. Halbrand had been staring into the dark nothingness, but when Adar enters, the open door allows in a shaft of dim, grey light, illuminating the space.

Adar looks at Halbrand. He guesses, by all that he has seen and heard of the King of the Southlands, that the sister provides the best leverage on him. But there is much about Halbrand that remains a mystery. Both the man and his family had appeared as if out of the blue, having survived a calculated attack years ago, meant to destabilize the grip of humans on this region. Balstrom had informed him that the three younger children were exiled to Númenor. So where had Halbrand been hiding? Adar knows every shadowy corner of what had once been the Southlands, and he has never encountered this man.

Taking his time, Adar walks forwards and crouches in front of Halbrand. The human is still shackled, attached to a spool of heavy chains.

"…If I did not know any better, I would say your sister is under the influence of Sauron," Adar states, calmly. Then he watches the other man's reaction closely.

Halbrand startles, his eyes blazing. Several emotions flicker across his face, before he settles on anger and denial. "That's a lie!"

"I do not lie. I have seen it for myself. She shows the signs. And she would be a common mark for The Deceiver: she is in a position of power; loyal, vulnerable…pretty. He can be so very…predictable with his targets."

Halbrand seems to struggle with this information for a moment, his lip curling. "How?" he asks, finally. "How can you be so sure? Braelyn's been safe in Númenor for thirteen years…" He quirks an eyebrow and adds, distrustfully: "…and Sauron has not been seen in centuries. What if your paranoid accusations aren't true?"

But Adar ignores this barb. By way of answer, he produces the knife. Even in the dim light inside the hut, it seems to glow with a light of its own. "Do you recognise this blade?"

"It's Braelyn's."

Adar nods. "Tell me who gave it to her."

"Why not ask her yourself?" Halbrand scoffs.

"Because she cannot answer the question, which is answer enough." Adar replies, silkily. "Tell me who gave her this."

But the man only stares at him, his jaw clenched. It takes several moments for Halbrand to accept his sister's situation, and another long pause for him to finally admit the truth. "Galadriel." He spits out, between gritted teeth.

Adar leans back, pondering this. The Elf's name sounds false, somehow, and his eyes narrow. "You expect me to believe that the Light of the Noldor is The Deceiver in disguise?" He senses a wrongness, and his grip on the dagger tightens. The atmosphere around them grows tense. "Tell me, who is the liar now?"

"It's the truth!"

"Is it?"

Halbrand looks back at him, defiantly, his voice now carrying an edge of impatience. "You've just told me that my sister is under the sway of Sauron. Why would I lie?" Then, indifferent to his shackles, or to Adar's suspicion, the man leans forward to examine the knife more closely. "Who gave Braelyn the weapon, and who made it may well be two very different people. That knife could've passed through many hands, before it reached her."

Adar sees the logic in this theory, but remains mistrustful. He rolls the thought over in his mind, considering it, wondering if this is all misdirection. There is some mystery around Halbrand that does not make sense, and yet he seems genuine. "You think the blade was intended to control someone other than the girl?" Adar questions, finally.

"Most likely. Galadriel hasn't been quiet about her desire to seek out and destroy Sauron, has she?"

He acknowledges that this is accurate. "But why would the Elf pass it on?"

He had seen the struggle the human girl had gone through to cast the knife aside. Parting with such a gift was not easy.

At this, Halbrand looks bleakly amused. "I know Galadriel. She's not an easy person to influence, or trick. The knife may not have affected her, and her decision to give it to Braelyn was likely meant without malice. Someone Galadriel trusted gave this to her. An Elf."

Suddenly, Adar stands upright. A hum of anticipation courses through his body. Were his instincts correct? Did Sauron live? Could he truly be hiding amongst the very people he had professed to hate so much? If this was the case, Adar would not be able to rest - would never be safe - until the Deceiver had been sought out and killed.

But then, like a phantom reminder, the wound on his left hand gives a pang. It had been run through by Halbrand's spear, and his palm is now heavily bandaged. He flexes his fingers experimentally, and pain shoots through them. The sensation prompts him to remember that this is all the guesswork of one, desperate human. His attacker. And Halbrand's words sound a little too much like a story that he thinks Adar wants to hear.

"When you inflicted this wound on me," Adar says, slowly, holding the injured hand in front of his face, turning his palm to examine both sides. "You asked me if I remembered you…I do not recall having seen your face before."

Halbrand lets out a short, bitter laugh at this. His shoulders hunch, his expression angry and brooding. "Of course you wouldn't."

Adar feels his whole body stiffen. He senses the implied insult, and yet try as he might to search his memory, he cannot remember Halbrand. They have never met - he is certain of it - and to convince him otherwise would be a desperate trick.

Halbrand elaborates: "You gave the order for my entire family to be murdered, because Oisin Balstrom requested it. Your Orcs carried out those instructions. Or they tried. They succeeded in killing my parents. And then they chased me down, and Braelyn. You can't imagine the fear she felt. The fear I felt, trying to protect her. I was only thirteen - hardly a man. And yet you don't remember me, because you weren't there. The person responsible for all my pain. For ruining my life. And you never once saw my face. You don't even recognise me."

Adar makes a fist with his left hand, ignoring the discomfort the action causes. He appraises Halbrand, contemplating his next words carefully. He knows that he has taken so much from him - his throne, his lands, his family - and yet leverage still remains. There is still a chance that he can turn Halbrand into a useful spy. They have a common enemy. But he must be cautious - his heart still carries misgivings; Halbrand must convince him that he is the man he appears to be.

"I had your parents killed thirteen years ago…Balstrom told me you yourself were dead and buried…But here you sit…" His eyes narrow dangerously. "Where have you been, all this time?"

Halbrand has a ready answer: "I fled North," he replies, though his tone is still sour. "Then, about a year ago, I gathered my courage and returned to the Southlands, only to find it still plagued by your orcs. I met a caravan of refugees heading West, to the Sea. They were planning to travel to a land where a man could start a new life. Their quest appealed to me. So I joined them."

Once more, Adar crouches down until his eyes are level with Halbrand's. He hopes the man does not think such a vague story will let him off easily. "You fled North?" he questions. "Where did you go?"

"South of Rhovanian, around the Vales of the Anduin."

He lifts an eyebrow. "There is no one to vouch for your movements?"

"I was little more than a vagrant."

"And the caravan of refugees?"

"Perished at sea."

One corner of Adar's lips twitch, scornfully. "How convenient."

"I survived by being selfish," Halbrand fires back, aggrieved. "I'm not proud of it. There's no joy in being the last man standing."

Adar settles back on his heels, thinking. "Yet you have changed your ways," he observes, calmly. "You fought with honour, to protect your homeland, though you lost."

He watches as Halbrand's shoulders sag, his expression now contorting with pain and sorrow. "…I found the new life I was promised in Númenor…" he confesses, hoarsely. He struggles to collect himself, and then, swallowing dryly, continues: "I found my family…But one of my siblings we were forced to leave on the island, when we sailed for Middle-Earth. Another lies dead in Tirharad…Braelyn is all I have left."

Adar stares at Halbrand for a long minute. Then, finally, he allows himself to feel convinced. He sheaths the dagger with a fluid metallic sound. Fixes him with a hard look. "You hate me," Adar states, succinctly. "…But will you put aside that hate, now, and help me to uncloak Sauron?"

Halbrand raises his head and looks Adar in the eye. His expression shifts from suspicion to acceptance to resolve. "Is this the only way to release Braelyn from his power?"

"Yes."

He nods his head - reluctantly at first, and then with greater determination. "Then I will do what must be done."

Adar's focus sharpens, a plan already forming in his mind. "You will go to the Elves for me. You are an Elf-friend: they will welcome you with open arms. Find out who made the dagger, and who passed it to Galadriel."

But Halbrand is shaking his head before Adar can finish speaking. "I'll need a reason to leave the South," he protests. "People will grow suspicious if the King leaves his people in their hour of need. Galadriel most of all."

Adar's mouth twists. Already, the man is stalling. "What would you suggest?" he snaps, irritably. But to his surprise, Halbrand, again, has an answer at the ready:

"A wound," he proposes, looking at Adar's bandaged hand, as if drawing inspiration from the sight. "One that only Elvish medicine can heal…Galadriel cares for me; she will take me to her people for help."

"You would sustain such an injury for this pursuit?" Adar asks, raising an eyebrow sceptically.

Halbrand leans forwards until his chains pull taut. "I will do whatever it takes," he assures the Elf, his jaw clenched. "As long as you release Braelyn, too."

But now he pushes too far, and overplays his hand. This could all be a ploy - a lie - to persuade Adar to release Halbrand and his sister - allowing them to escape, and to rally a new resistance to rival Mordor. While Adar is convinced Sauron lives, if he allows both brother and sister to go free, there is nothing to ensure Halbrand will hold to his word.

"No," he replies, his voice gravelly. "You will go. And the girl will stay, until you fulfil the terms of our agreement. I will not release an agent of Sauron…Should you falter, or fail, rest assured she will suffer the consequences."

"I beg you - let her go!"

But Adar gets to his feet once more - symbolising the end to their conversation, and any chance at negotiation. The King is mistaken, if he thinks that a prisoner can make such demands. "As long as you play your part, I promise your sister will come to no harm. I will even offer her a seat at my own table…In time, I will learn what she knows…Perhaps the knife did not come to her by happenstance, after all."

From what he has seen of the girl, he is not as wholly convinced that any of this has befallen her by chance.

Halbrand's eyes flash, but Adar is already drawing his broadsword.

"Stand," he instructs the man, calmly.

His expression tight with anger, Halbrand reluctantly gets to his feet. Chains slither and rattle across the dusty floor as he moves.

They stare at one another. Adar holds his sword at his side, considering the man before him dispassionately. A wound to the arms or legs will prevent him from travelling with any speed, and would not be a serious enough injury besides. Aim for the stomach and he will bleed out before he reaches the Elves.

Eventually, Adar raises his blade, balancing the tip against his injured left hand. He decides he will stab him to the right of his chest.

"Get it over with -!" Halbrand grits out, his hands balled into fists in their shackles, just as Adar thrusts the sword forwards.

The weapon sinks into soft flesh, and he feels the nick and crunch of a rib fracturing. He sees the body brace and then buckle against the shock. Immediately, red blood gushes. Halbrand lets out a shout of pain as Adar pulls the sword cleanly out; the sound of his yell intermingling with the howling of the wargs outside.

I think it may be dusk, although it is hard to judge the time of day, with the thick ash cloud and gloom.

I sit in my cage, pondering the reason for Adar's interrogation, and the meaning behind his words.

It is evident that he recognised the knife that Halbrand made for me. Or, at least, mistook it for the work of another. Adar had been so…fierce with his questioning…He'd held the knife to my throat, threatened me in every way he could think of, flattered me, and yet in giving no answer I seemed to have convinced him of something.

Why was Adar so interested in the blade, and why did he want to know who gave it to me? To my untrained eye, the weapon looked no different to any other - although it is undeniably exquisitely made.

I worry my lip with my teeth, turning it all over in my mind.

I remember when Halbrand first became interested in metal-work. He was ten, and he became immediately obsessed with the blacksmith trade. He made all sorts of things - a lucky horse shoe, a set of door hinges, a misshapen bracelet - before moving onto weapons. All his creations were cast in bronze and iron - the most commonly found metals in our region - and all were clearly the workings of a novice. Between then and now, Halbrand has become some kind of master craftsman. Someone, I suppose, taught him these skills. Perhaps Adar's quarrel is with them.

But these are all my own assumptions. There is too much about my brother's past that he has kept secret from me. Too much I do not know about his movements during the time we were separated.

The only conclusion I can draw with any certainty is that Halbrand is squarely in Adar's path. And by not giving Adar a name, I hope I have shielded Halbrand from his wrath - but I cannot be sure.

I wonder when, if ever, I will be allowed to see my brother again. There are so many questions I want to ask him…

A cold chill races through me, and I draw my knees into my chest, clasping my arms around them. I haven't been provided with a blanket or any other comfort. The thought of sleeping on the cold ground - in full view of my captors - is unsettling. Although I am so tired, I just might be capable of it.

I am thinking about resting my head when the camp around me livens once more. I hear the orcs jeering, banging their shields and spears against the ground. A capering procession of the monsters comes into view. They are celebrating something - what, I cannot figure out, until Adar walks into the clearing, followed by Halbrand and Näemrel.

I jump to my feet with a distressed cry.

Halbrand can barely stand upright. His head hangs low, and his feet drag with every step. His armour has been taken from him, and his tunic is stained with fresh blood. The blood seems to have originated from around his chest and right shoulder, and it soaks the rest of his shirt, with drip marks on his trousers. It is clear by his demeanour that he has suffered a grievous injury.

"Halbrand -!" I shout out. But my concern only seems to amuse the orcs.

A tall, reedy one - the orc that I think may be Adar's right-hand man - stands close to my bars. It gives a hoarse, rattling chuckle. "He's goin'. He's off. Leavin' you behind, lovely. Savin' his own skin, he is. You'll be all by yourself with us, soon. With no big brother to protect yer."

I feel the colour drain from my face. I cannot believe that this is true - that Halbrand is being released, so soon after our capture - but the orc is right. I watch them unlock the shackles around Halbrand's hands, and then remove his collar. Free, he seems to sway on the spot for a second. I cannot believe my eyes. I feel confused, worried and slightly sick. Why were they letting him go? Had he made some kind of deal to secure his own freedom? …Was I to stay behind, as the orc said?

Putting aside my fear of the orcs, I rush to the bars closest to my brother and wrap my hands around them.

"Halbrand!" I cry once again, more desperately this time. My throat feels tight.

Up until this moment, Halbrand has not looked at me, using a curtain of his hair to separate us. But now he lifts his head and his eyes meet mine. In his gaze I see nothing but pain and guilt. My stomach drops.

Näemrel lets out a nervous, discontented snort, skittish around so many orcs. A foul black paste has been smeared over the arrow-wound in her flank, and it stands out starkly against her white hair.

I watch as Adar turns to face my brother, and his lips barely move as he instructs: "Say your goodbye."

Halbrand walks slowly towards me. As he gets closer, I realise he looks even worse than I had thought. His face is grey and drawn, and he seems to be fighting back a wince every time his wound pains him.

"What's going on!?" I ask, when he is close enough. My heart is racing, and despite my best efforts tears are already pricking my eyes. "Are they letting you go?"

The idea causes me to feel a strange combination of hope and despair. One of us, at least, will escape this place.

Halbrand grimaces. "Yes…I've promised to carry out a mission for Adar. If I am successful, they will release you."

And if you are not? I think. But I cannot bring myself to say it.

His admission scares me. I cannot imagine that the task Adar has set Halbrand is easy, or safe. "What mission?" I press. "Who hurt you?"

It makes no sense, to injure a useful agent, before setting them free. I feel queasy at the thought that perhaps Halbrand has been coerced into this scheme through other methods - like torture. But Halbrand shakes his head, his lips quirking upwards in a weak attempt at bravado. "I'll be alright in the end. Don't worry about me."

"Impossible." But my own attempt at humour chokes me.

Then I reach through the bars and touch his face. I've every intention of saying something encouraging, but instead my voice comes out small and childlike. "You don't have to do this," I beg. "Not for me. Don't go."

I've lost too much of my family to risk losing Halbrand, too.

"I have to," he replies, sounding pained. "You'll be alright…You're tougher than you think, Braelyn."

Intentionally or not, he has spoken the same words he teased me with when we travelled in the carriage, thirteen years ago, the day of the orc attack that killed our parents. The thought makes me feel slightly ill. 

"We'll see each other again?" I insist, forcing back memories of him leaving me alone in a forest, promising to protect me. I cannot believe that history can repeat itself so brutally.

But Halbrand's answer is carefully devoid of any such a promise. "I will see you freed," he says, with determined sincerity, instead. Then he reaches up for my hand that rests on his cheek, taking it, and squeezing it once before releasing me. My arm drops limply to my side.

I watch him awkwardly mount Näemrel, listing ever so slightly to his right in his saddle, his shoulders hunched. Then he turns the horse and I am left looking at his back as he rides away.

That night, I fall into a fitful sleep plagued by terrible nightmares. I toss and turn, hearing the terrified screams of the dying in Tirharad, after the mountain's explosion. I see Aland's dead body - hear Halbrand promise me that we will go back for our brother. But we do not go back, and Aland is condemned to lie in the ruins of the village forevermore. Unburied. And I am condemned to mourn him from leagues away. I wake with a horrible start, only to realise that the screams of pain I had dreamt of are real.

It is the middle of the night. The blackness is punctuated by flaming torches hung from brackets. I roll onto my side, disorientated but already awake and alert as the wall of noise hits me. I hear screeching, growling, confused battle-cries, and the howling of some terrible animal.

I scramble upright in my cage, watching as orcs and Southlanders run in all directions around me, carrying weapons.

Adar hears the first sounds of fear and strides out of his tent, holding his sword. He is greeted with a camp in disarray. Several tents and structures have been trampled or accidentally set on fire. On the ground nearby is a pool of orc blood and the grisly remains of internal organs and dented armour.

Driznak comes running, his eyes wide. "The wargs are loose m'lord!" he shouts, over the din.

Adar feels the skin around his eyes tighten as he considers the chaos and blood-shed. "How many are free?" he asks, trying to anticipate the scale of the damage.

But Driznak looks at him, the orc's face resigned and afraid. "…All of them."

Something bursts into the clearing. A beast like I have never seen before. The size of a bear, but more similar in looks to a particularly brutish dog, with coarse hair and long fangs that drip with blood. A warg. I know that orcs use such creatures as violent killers, and sometimes ride them like horses. But this one seems to have turned against its masters, and has gone half-mad.

The orcs try to bring it down with crossbows and spears, but it is far too fast, and it's body too bulky for the arrow shafts to do much damage. I watch the animal lunge, grab an orc by its head, and shake.

I am so horrified, so focused on what is before me, that I am wholly unprepared for the blow to my cage that comes from the left. I scream at the sound of splintering wood.

Another warg easily barrels through my bars, breaking them as if they are nothing more than toothpicks. The momentum behind it's charge has it scrabbling and rolling in a wild tornado before it manages to right itself once more. The scent of unwashed animal and blood hits me. The thing is too big. And so close. It takes up nearly the entirety of my cell, and there is nowhere for me to go; it stands between me and the hole it created in the cage wall. I back up against the nearest set of bars, breathing fast, shaking with fear.

The creature exhales a threatening growl, and it's fetid breath blows over me. It takes a testing step forwards. Lowers its body closer to the ground, hunching its shoulders. It's eyes are a yellow-orange, focused and hungry, and fixed unblinkingly on me.

My heart hammers painfully in my chest. I wait for the moment it will grab me. Expecting it's jaws to take me by an arm or a leg - drag me to the ground so that it can deliver it's killing blow.

I am utterly defenceless, with no weapon to speak of.

The beast inches forwards until there is no more than a few inches of space between my face and its snout. Then it sniffs.

I inhale shakily, holding my breath.

Then something miraculous happens. The tension leaves the animal's body. It relaxes and straightens out of its crouch. The evil look in its eyes suddenly clears, as if it has decided that I am not worth killing after all. The warg backs away - very deliberately freeing up the path to my only exit.

I stare, panicked, wondering if this is some kind of trick.

But the thing just looks at me patiently, lingering in the corner. Stiffly, I take a small step forwards, every muscle in my body tensed with adrenaline. The warg doesn't move. I take another step, then another, and then I decide to run, fleeing through the hole it has created. It doesn't so much as take a step towards me.

I am sprinting across the clearing when I throw a glance back over my shoulder, checking if it is pursuing. I see the animal step leisurely into the open, and then it charges off in a different direction after an orc.

I have enough of my wits about me to know that I should be dead by now, but I don't have time to dwell on the warg's unusual behaviour. I seize the opportunity presented to me and run as fast as I can. My dress - the one I had donned days ago while travelling from Pelargir to the Southlands - is now so dirty its original colour has been obscured. It is torn and ripped in several places, and yet despite its threadbare state it is still cumbersome to run in. I pick up my skirts, dodging between tents. Catching glimpses of more rabid wargs. More orcs doing their best to kill or contain the animals, as their comrades are mauled.

I don't get far before an orc soldier appears in my path. It spots me, and it's eyes widen in recognition.

"The prisoner is escaping -!" it shouts out, in a guttural voice. I freeze in my tracks, watching it raise its axe.

But another warg leaps into view and pounces. The orc is carried away in a brief but vicious glimpse of fur, flailing arms and strangled cries.

I gasp.

But I hesitate before continuing. In the attack, the orc has dropped its weapon. It lies on the ground, the metal of the axe head glinting. I stare at it, trying to decide whether to pick it up or not. I am no fighter, and yet, to strike onwards without a means of defending myself would be folly. I remember Galadriel telling me that I am capable of fighting, and so I make myself walk forwards and pick it up. The axe is not too heavy, and compact enough that I think I could wield it, if needs be.

I keep going. I am confident that I am travelling north, because of the fiery mountain in the east, which lies on my right. I know that if I continue in this direction, I will eventually reach the outskirts of the camp. And if I can keep going from there, I will get to the mountain pass, and the road to Pelargir.

That is, if I can survive such a journey by myself. Without supplies.

But I forcefully shake off such thoughts, telling myself to focus on escaping this place, alive, first.

Each time something or someone hinders my escape, a warg appears. I begin to suspect that these attacks aren't happening by chance, but I cannot understand what is driving the beasts to behave like this. Maybe they have been mistreated at the hands of the orcs, and this is their bloody revenge…Or maybe...they are protecting me.

Do these animals recognise in me the evil of my forefathers? A capability for evil greater than anything Adar can conjure? I cannot believe it, and yet my heart misgives.

Eventually, I come upon something that causes me to halt once more.

I stand in a small space between two decrepit structures. The light here is at its dimmest, and everything is either moonlight or black shadows. As I approach, I can hear the gurgling, wet wheeze of someone gasping for breath.

Straining my eyes, I see the silhouette of a human lying on the ground. The horrible sound is unmistakeably a person in their death throes. As I get closer, I am able to make out the face of Oisin Balstrom.

The sight shocks me.

He has been mauled by a warg. There is a bloody, fleshy stump where his left leg should be, and his stomach is a mess of flesh and intestines so grisly I cannot look too closely at it. His shoulder and part of his throat have been torn ragged by violent teeth. Balstrom's grey eyes find and hold mine in the darkness. On his lips flecks of blood bubble.

He recognises me.

His mouth works for a moment as he stares at my face. "…End…it…" he manages to beg.

I had thought about Oisin Balstrom many times during my voyage to Middle-Earth. I had considered what I would do when Miriel's forces arrived at Dren, and we inevitably captured him. I had always imagined a trial. A court. Justice. Never this. Never that the decision would be left to me, alone, clutching an axe in the night.

I look down at him. My betrayer. The reason my parents are dead.

He is dying slowly. It will be a horrible, agonising end. Despite all my anger and my hatred, I do not know how I feel about that. I do not know whether I am capable of killing an unarmed man in cold blood. I do not even know whether I can kill an unarmed man in mercy. But to leave him to the wargs would be inhumane. Wrong.

I continue to stare, and realise I am starting to feel something else. Something I never thought I would feel for him. Pity.

"…Please…" Oisin manages to choke out.

I try to walk away. And I manage to take several steps before my conscience stops me. I pause. Turn. My stomach sinks as a I recognise what must be done, and I attempt to brace myself.

I do not have the right to dole out judgement. But I do have the responsibility to ease suffering where I can. Though this man is my sworn enemy, he has the right to a clean death. My fingers around the axe handle abruptly feel clammy. I swallow. I am shaking, and I try not to. I tell myself to be strong.

Oisin looks up at me as I prepare to inflict my blow. I try to line up the blade as well as I can. I murmur a silent prayer - for my own soul, as well as his; he closes his eyes as I allow the axe to fall.

Afterwards, I stumble to one side and vomit.

Against all odds, I reach the edge of the camp.

Adar's home behind me is consumed by a hellish mayhem. Even still, I can hear screams and confused shouting. But over it all, a deep yet piercing horn sounds. The signal that their prisoner has escaped. I look out over the fire and the carnage and wonder how long this will hold them at bay. How long will it take for pursuers to set out, in an attempt to re-capture me?...Will I be able to stay ahead of them? One human girl in the wilderness? I doubt my own abilities, but I know that if I am to live, I must try. The way is not completely hopeless; I have a chance.

I take a moment to cast around me. There are no orcs here - perhaps drawn further into camp to deal with the wargs - and so I dive into the nearest dwelling, in a hasty search for supplies. I am rewarded when I find a gritty loaf of bread and several waterskins. These, I wrap in a stained cloth and fashion a sling-like bag out of a blanket, bundling other useful items into it. I am nearly finished, and I look up to take in the sight around me. I realise that I am standing in a home - my surroundings appear familial. And then a quiet sound to my right startles me.

I whirl around, forgetting my axe, which lies on the table behind me. It still drips with the red blood of Oisin Balstrom.

A small orc cowers in the corner behind a makeshift chest of draws. To my shock, I realise that it is just a child. It's grey skin is delicate and baby bird-like, it's eyes large and fearful. I stare at it, almost amazed. So much of my time in Adar's camp has reinforced every prejudice I have against the orc species, and yet this child - clearly terrified of me - disarms every one of those notions. As I watch, a tear rolls down it's cheek, and it sniffles.

Slowly, I hold up both hands, trying to indicate that I will not harm it.

We look at each other for another long moment, and then, feeling like a thief, I edge out of the home.

Another horn-blow rents the air. I run for the bleak hills ahead of me. Half-expecting the whistle of a crossbow arrow, or to be run down by Adar on a horse. But I make it to the top unscathed, and then I am sprinting breathlessly down the other side, plunging into the night. Free.

In the aftermath, Adar walks through the camp, assessing their number of dead and wounded. It has taken hours, but eventually every last warg has been slain. The beasts bodies are piled high - thirty two in total - on a great pyre. The smell of their burning flesh gives the air an acrid taint.

He reaches the clearing where the girl had been kept prisoner. Sees the hole a warg had trampled through the bars. Then he turns and walks to the shack where the man was kept, next to the warg enclosure. He runs a hand over the thin wooden wall that separates the two spaces.

"All the wargs are dead, Lord-Father," Glug reports, having sought him out. "...Our scouts have found no sign of the Southlander woman."

"Don't bother chasing her down," Adar replies, quietly. "She is not the one we want." He feels Glug look at him quizzically, and Adar removes his hand from the wall. "There is only one being that I know of who is capable of controlling wargs in the way we have seen tonight...It is the man we must follow..." He sighs, feeling the weight of history, and past mistakes. It is all so clear to him now: the reason the girl would not tell him the maker of the knife. "I have been deceived once more, my friend. I allowed myself to be blinded to what was in front of me. I allowed Sauron to walk free, when I had him at my mercy." A white-hot frustration lances through him, although outwardly he is calm.

"Then it is true?" Glug's eyes widen. "Sauron has returned? He has taken on a new form?"

"Yes."

So clever - so convenient - he thinks, for Sauron to wear the face of the King of the Southlands. A figure with a dubious past; tortured, yet somehow sympathetic; rugged, but also fair. Loved, unconditionally. Though the love given by those around him is based on lies. He takes what he needs, and gives only what will consolisate his position in return. 

"Tell the scouts to post themselves around the Elf cities of Lindon, Eregion and Mirkwood. Tell them they should not be seen, and that they should watch for the arrival of the King of the Southlands."

"But why would Sauron continue to follow your instructions, m'lord?" Glug asks.

"Because seeking out the Elves was not my idea," Adar replies, realising that the only benefit of his folly is that Sauron has provided him with a small glimpse of his intentions. "It was his."

A/N So this was actually a strange chapter to write. My initial plan was to have Adar release Braelyn along with Halbrand, and then I realised that makes absolutely no sense for Adar to do. I had some dialogue I was really looking forwards to between Braelyn and Halbrand during their travels - and I had to scrap the whole thing! These are the problems you encounter as a writer I guess haha. I managed to sneak some of that dialogue into their goodbye scene, at least.

It was a fine balance to make Braelyn not a superhero warrior in this chapter, but also not a damsel in distress. I hope I just about pulled it off.

Next chapter are a couple of long-awaited reunions (and a little more angst...)

Please leave a message if you're enjoying this fic!

Last Of The Lilac Wine

Chapter Text

LOOSE ENDS

CHAPTER 12: CATHARSIS

The darkness of the night is impenetrable, so black that I can only see the haziest outline of the uneven ground beneath my feet. Deciding that I risk breaking an ankle if I continue much longer, I stop and rest. Curling up amongst the roots of a dead tree, hidden from view. I drink a little, and eat some of my bread, and then fatigue pulls me into an uneasy sleep. I wake with every sound, fearing that the orcs have discovered me.

Daybreak brings with it only a bleak, dim light. But it is enough to navigate by, and I travel further north. Evil swamps and thickets of tangled thorns slow my way. It is not long before every exposed bit of skin on my body is caked in mud or dirt; my hands and face covered with scratches. And yet I press onwards with grim determination.

Of the orcs and Adar, there is no sign of pursuit. After I have travelled several leagues without sight of them, I risk climbing to the top of a hill and survey the land to the south. In the distance, I can see Adar's camp. But between it and me nothing moves in the desolate wilderness. Not even a breath of wind. I frown in confusion. Is the lack of a tail in itself a trick? Is the way ahead somehow watched, or barred? A trap?

But as I travel further, unimpeded, I gradually let my guard down…If Adar had set out to find me, I would surely have been caught by now.

And something else lends me courage: I am no tracker, but occasionally I see the recent imprints of a horse's hooves clearly on the ground. I think I must be following Halbrand's path, and the thought invigorates me.

After a full day of walking, I begin to see tufts of green grass in amongst the grey. My heart-beat quickens at the first sighting of life, and I let out a small laugh of glee, crouching to examine a tiny, hardy flower that has managed to exist on the fringes of this inhospitable environment. After Aland's death, and after being taken prisoner, I had reached the depths of despair, but I now feel a small lift of hope.

The land starts to slope upwards, and I begin the steep ascent out of the ruined valley. By now I feel half-dead with exhaustion, and every step is painful. But I can see something at the top of the hill that catches and holds my attention. I think that my eyes are playing tricks on me. Then I realise I am looking at a fluttering corner of red fabric, framed by my first real glimpse of blue sky. As I climb, a flag rises into view; a flag I recognise…It is the banner I had made, bearing the sigil of the Southlands. No longer pristine and new, but stained and torn in places. Nevertheless, to see it intact is a shock.

I pause and stare up at it for a moment, a lump rising in my throat. Whoever raised it flies the mark as if in defiance against the wasteland it overlooks. I spot the Númenorean flag blowing in the wind at its side.

Scarcely daring to believe that Míriel's camp remains, I scrabble over the ridge and see Númenorean tents, looking as they did when I set out for Tirharad - when I thought we would be celebrating a great victory. My whole body slumps in relief.

I take a moment to catch my breath, and then limp towards the guarded entrance.

I am allowed into the encampment, followed by many looks of amazement. When I stumble, a soldier offers to support me, but I shake him off, impatient to find out news of Halbrand's whereabouts.

Soon, a figure comes striding forwards - nearly, but not quite, breaking into a run. Galadriel stops in front of me, her expression a mixture of disbelief and relief. She is covered in almost as much dirt as I am, and she still wears her full battle armour.

"You escaped," she breathes. "How?"

"I promise I'll explain later," I reply, clasping her by her shoulders urgently. "But first tell me if Halbrand made it here."

She becomes cautiously guarded. "He arrived yesterday night," she confirms. "Although you should prepare yourself…his condition is not good."

She leads me down a muddy track which cuts a path through the camp. I look around me, feeling my uplifted spirits sink once more as I take in the subdued atmosphere around us, the sorrow etched on many a soldier's face. Each tent we pass carries the scent of death, or the cries of the wounded. Even the once-bright fabrics used to assemble each dwelling - oranges, blues and yellows - appear sapped of their colour. I cannot help but feel like an ill-omen as I walk among the Numenoreans…It was I who persuaded their Queen to come here, after all.

"Who else survived?" I ask Galadriel, as my thoughts turn to Míriel.

"Captain Elendil. Arondir…Bronwyn and Míriel have sustained injuries, but they will live."

My stomach twists with guilt. And then I realise I have been listening for a name that I have not heard her say.

"What of Isildur?"

Galadriel glances back at me, sympathetically. "He is dead. Elendil has taken it hard."

Her words affect me more than I expect. The news that Isildur is gone is like a punch to my chest, leaving me winded and choking. I falter and halt in my tracks, wincing as a concurrent stab of pain lances through my feet. Suddenly, I feel as if I cannot take another step. This is too much. Too much loss. Too many young men dead. And for what? 

Galadriel stops. Then, seeing my distress, she returns for me, looping an arm around my shoulders to help me on - perhaps mistaking my immobility for physical fatigue, rather than emotional.

"I caused this," I tell her, numbly. "I convinced Miriel to come to Middle-Earth."

For a second, her face spasms as some pain inside of her rises to meet my own. "No," she replies fiercely. "It was I who persuaded you. We came to this place with a just cause - to liberate, and to save. We can mourn our dead, but do not allow the pain of defeat to lead you to regret. You were right, Braelyn, to try to help your people."

Somewhere inside of me, the dam that holds my grief at bay breaks. While it feels as if I have shed many tears of late, the sudden and uncontrollable sobs that now wrack my body are of a different kind. Perhaps it is the exhaustion - the aftermath of so much adrenaline from the past few days - but the overwhelming emotion comes from somewhere deep inside of me - someplace primal. I cannot seem to steady myself amongst its storm.

I bury my face into the Elf's shoulder as I cry, feeling the cool metal of her armour against my cheek. Together, we are but two survivors of an unprecedented disaster.

Galadriel holds perfectly still, not removing the arm around my shoulder, but not drawing me in any closer. She allows me to weep until I have nothing left to give.

"Come," she murmurs, leading me in the direction of a nearby wash-station. "They will not let you see Halbrand like this."

A basin of water is provided for us, and I hastily cup palmfuls of it onto my face, rubbing the grime and the tears away. When I am done, my skin is left tingling and raw. But the cold water invigorates me, and I feel more centred, somehow. At my side, Galadriel carefully washes the mud from her own skin with a wet cloth, then uses a bar of soap on her hands, before passing it over to me.

I scrub at my own palms as hard as I can, knowing that Númenorean healers have strict rules around attending their sick and dying. It goes beyond mere cleanliness - the soul itself must be cleansed and purified. The room of the invalid is a place of peace, and cannot be tainted.

We enter Halbrand's tent somewhat cleaner, and at least presentable. The space is lit by many candles and there is a pleasant smell of burning herbs. Healers move around quietly and unobtrusively.

When I see my brother lying on a bed I instantly drop to my knees at his side.

Halbrand looks worse than when we parted a day ago - much worse. His eyes are closed, and his brow is covered in a light sheen of sweat. The skin on his face has a sickly hue - partly grey, partly yellow. And the covers have been stripped back to expose his ruined tunic and his wound, upon which a poultice has been slathered.

I look at him and then at Galadriel, searching for some kind of update on his health.

"He needs Elvish medicine," she informs me, keeping her voice lowered, her tone apprehensive. "If I do not take him to my people soon, he will die."

I absorb this. Then turn my gaze back to my brother. I take his hand in mine. "Halbrand?" I ask, wondering if he can hear me.

At my voice, his eyes open blearily, and I rejoice at the sight. When his gaze lands on my face, the corner of his mouth lifts, ever so slightly. "...Am I dreaming?"

I shake my head, smiling. "No. I'm here. I escaped."

Something rattles in his chest as he asks: "How?"

"The wargs got loose. In the chaos, I ran free."

He coughs, and then winces. "I knew…you could…do it."

My eyes search his face, and I wonder if I am wrong to ask the question I have been burning to put to him. He needs rest, and he can hardly talk. "What did you promise Adar?" I whisper, finally, leaning in closer. "Why did he let you go?"

But it is Galadriel who answers my question. "He told him he'd find Sauron. In exchange, Adar would free you…A doomed proposition, considering you will live a human lifespan, and I have hunted the Deceiver for hundreds of years without success. But he was determined to set out on his quest the moment we reunited - even though he could barely stand." In spite of her words, her tone is gently amused. She looks at Halbrand with a softer expression that I have seen her bestow upon anyone else.

Halbrand tilts his head limply on the pillow, and he answers Galadriel with a weak gleam in his eyes. "I had to try."

He attempts to take in a deeper breath, but gasps in agony, his face contorting. I watch, feeling helpless.

"I will come with you to the Elves," I tell Galadriel, thinking that the sooner we set out, the better.

But to my surprise, Halbrand's hand grips mine tighter, drawing my attention back to him. He is shaking his head. "No," he manages to reply. I stare, confused. He attempts to rally his strength. "You must…stay…For our people…Take…the throne."

I gape at him, staggered. "I - I cannot -" I reply, shakily. Never mind that the throne in the Southlands has been destroyed, and exists now only as a symbol - our people have long expected their King to lead them.

Halbrand grits his teeth, struggling now. "Take it," he insists.

An order, not a request.

The full weight of his wish hits me; he speaks as if he is on his death bed. I know I cannot deny him, and yet at the same time I still feel reluctant.

"I will hold it for you," I reply, searching for the middle-ground. "Until you return."

It makes me feel somewhat guilty to barter with him like this, when he is now too weak to argue. I look at Halbrand and he seems to sink into the bedclothes; to my eye, it is as if he is already fading. I feel worry take hold of me. Though I do not want to be separated from him again so soon, I hope fervently that Galadriel gets him to her people in time.

Däera's joyful expression when we are reunited is oddly touching. It is clear by the stunned reactions from others that when Halbrand returned injured, without me, I was thought lost forever…To be fair, I would not have betted on the odds of me escaping in one piece, either.

Though I make my wish to see Aland known, Däera persuades me to bathe and rest a little, first. I am so weary that I agree.

The Númenorean camp is being hastily disassembled - the tent that Däera leads me into is one of the very few left untouched. While I am not surprised that preparations are being made for imminent departure, I am troubled. I know the instructions must have been given by Míriel or Elendil, and yet I have seen neither of them since I arrived. Their absence feels mysterious - like a deliberate avoidance…After all that has happened, I am paranoid enough to take this for blame. I imagine that Míriel hates me, for bringing her to a wasteland. And Elendil must surely resent me, because Isildur is dead.

The tent is made out of richly coloured fabrics, and is pleasantly warm and clean inside. Heated water is carried inside so that I can bathe with a cloth and sponge. The process of getting clean is arduous, but cathartic. I strip naked and scrub days worth of ash, muck and sweat from my skin, eviscerating from my body any reminder of the mountain's explosion or my time as a prisoner. I shudder when I realise that there are red blood stains on my arms, too, although Däera only pauses for a split-second when she sees these, before continuing with her tasks brusquely. She helps me pour water through my tangled and knotted hair - which has turned a brownish black from dust and ash - and then she carefully combs through the strands. As it dries, my hair slowly returns to a glowing red that catches the light. Then she helps me to bandage and salve the many blisters on my feet. Finally, Däera brings me a fresh dress from the small collection I brought here with me. The sight of it causes my face to drop, briefly. The dress is made from black cotton - mourning colours.

I remember when we packed for this venture, and I noticed that Däera had subtly bundled this outfit in with the others. Preparing, I suppose, for every eventuality - even death. I had not allowed myself to believe it would be needed, but now I am grateful for her foresight, even if wearing such a garment upsets me.

When I am clothed, I turn and look in a small mirror. My face looks pale and unhappy - my white skin stark against the dark fabric. I attempt a smile. "Thank you, Däera. I was beginning to look a little too much like a wildwoman."

"I wasn't going to say anything, m'lady," Däera replies, her lips quirking with a hint of humour. She is wearing a simple blue pinafore over a white dress, her dark hair slicked back into a tight bun. But then her heart-shaped face turns anxious, and she worries her bottom lip with her teeth. "They say you will not return to Númenor with us."

I sigh, turning around to face her. "No. I will stay in Middle-Earth."

"But where will you go?"

I have not thought about this, and I try to consider my options. I know I must think of not just myself, but any surviving Southlanders I am now responsible for.

"…Pelargir, I think," and as I say this, I feel a sense of rightness. The look of dubiousness on Däera's face is nearly enough to make me laugh for the first time in days. "Is there something wrong with Pelargir?"

"Only that it's…a little rough around the edges."

Now I do laugh, and the act of it feels good.

"…What about your sister? Princess Rian?" Däera asks, tentatively.

I immediately still, a wave of indecision hitting me. Rian. What should I do? I have not seen Míriel, and I have no idea if our pact still stands. I have no land, and no resources to offer Númenor anymore. And in providing me with an army, many young Númenorean men have died - including the son of their Captain. If Míriel's people had hated me before, I will be loathed now. Is there a chance Rian will be released from the terms of our agreement - or will they hold onto her all the more tightly for my failure?

The thought causes me to flinch.

It occurs to me I have signed away control over my sister's fate. That in staying in Middle-Earth, I leave her all the more alienated.

I take Däera's hands in my own. "I do not pretend to know Miriel's wishes. But will you watch over Rian, Däera, when you return to Armenelos? For me?"

She is quick to nod her head, and I feel a rush of affection for this girl. I had never asked for a servant, but I will miss Däera's companionship, when she leaves. She and Rian are the same age, and I hope that, at least, Däera will be a friend to Rian. And a comfort to her, when she learns of Aland's passing and Halbrand's injuries. Our defeat.

"Of course. I will not leave her side," Däera promises, loyally.

I reach for a woollen cloak in dove-grey - my old brown one all but destroyed. It fastens at my throat with a silver pin. I am about to take my leave, when I notice a bunch of dried flowers in a vase. I have no idea who picked them, but the sight of one - the same little white flower I'd seen on my journey here - causes me to pause. I take a sprig, and then leave in search of Aland.

Positioned a respectful distance from the chaotic scramble to de-camp, the death tent remains standing. Many of the bodies within will be prepared for transport across what remains of the Southlands, so that the soldiers can receive a sea burial. Having been exiled from the Sea Guard at the ripe age of fourteen, I do not think Aland would thank me for this, as a last rite. I must make other plans.

I enter the tent. It is filled with a hushed, respectful silence. As in Halbrand's tent, candles and incense burn. Everything is very still - even the living who attend to the dead. The number of those who have passed steals my breath. They lie in rows, only an inch of space between each body. None are shrouded, and I see the faces of all.

A healer notices my arrival and leads me down a narrow walkway to Aland.

My little brother lies at the end of a row, deferentially elevated on a pallet. Someone has removed his armour, and cleaned him, clothing him in a tunic of forest green. The only hint I can see of his injuries are some small lacerations which have been carefully stitched up. I take in a deep breath, and kneel at his side.

He's wearing his necklace, which bears the symbol of the Southlands.

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, willing back the tears - which seem to so easily spring to the surface these days - and then lean forwards and press the white flower into Aland's stiff, open hand. My message to him. I am thinking of you; you are loved.

I press a lingering kiss to his brow, thinking of my box of sea glass, back in Númenor - a souvenir of his every reply. I wish I had it here with me. A tangible reminder of him, to hold on to.

It is not long before I feel that someone is watching me. When I lift my head, my stomach drops. It is Elendil.

I have never seen his calm features so stricken - so utterly crumpled by grief. Still, he wears his white armour - although it has been cleaned of blood and mud, as is the Númenorean custom. But his hair is unwashed, and his nails are still blackened with dirt.

I open my mouth, searching for something to say. The only words I can offer feel feeble. "I'm sorry -" I whisper to him. "So sorry. For everything."

Elendil moves to my side and kneels heavily. I reach out and touch his shoulder, uniting us in our sorrow, but his gaze remains fixed on Aland's face.

"I thought of him as a son," he tells me, his voice pitched low, as it always is, but muted. "…A son," he repeats. "I come here, and I can mourn Aland. But where is Isildur?...Where is my boy?...Where is his body?"

He weeps. Letting his head bow as if he simply cannot hold it up anymore. I realise with a jolt that Elendil means that Isildur's body is not here - that it was never recovered from the wreckage in Tirharad. I feel the news pierce my already weary heart.

It is as if two bright stars have gone out. Aland's star guided me. But something about Isildur's brightened my path - shed light on the dark places when I seemed most likely to falter.

I leave my hand on Elendil's shoulder as he cries, and I feel his pain at their passing. The night sky will feel darker - more lonely - forevermore.

Däera tells me that the Númenoreans will depart at daybreak. At the same time, Galadriel will ride forth to Eregion with Halbrand.

I decide to seek out Arondir and Bronwyn. I am unsure if they and the other Southlanders will respect Halbrand's choice to pass leadership over to me, but to my surprise, they readily accept the news. When I describe my intentions to travel with the Númenoreans as far as Pelargir, Arondir agrees with the wisdom in this plan.

"Of all the ruins along the Anduin, Pelargir's foundations are the strongest. And there are many people there, who can help us build a new home."

"Us?" I echo, glancing at Bronwyn. In the brief time I have known this pair, I have sensed that some kind of relationship exists. His words practically confirm this for me. Why else would he continue to journey with those not of his own kind? "You're not leaving us for Eregion, then?"

Arondir's lips twitch. "You have much to learn about Elves. Eregion Elves and Silvan Elves are as different as the sun is to the moon. I would be more at ease where there are woodlands and forests, than where there are tall towers and glittering jewels." But his amusement is fleeting, and his face now hardens. "And you forget that Adar still marshals a great army on your doorstep. Why he let you walk free across Mordor, I cannot guess. But it would be folly to believe he will leave a final bastion of Southlanders untouched. And even if he turns his attention elsewhere, you will find your lands plagued by wildmen and other such foes."

"Then I will take all the help I can get." I have to smile ruefully at his bleak outlook. Like Galadriel, the Elf doesn't exactly sugar-coat his opinions, though perhaps having someone as pragmatic as Arondir at my side is exactly what I need, if I am to lead well. I must ensure that the bloodlines of my people continue. I've been told that after the battle of Tirharad, only seventy-three survived - those seventy-three people are mine to protect, now.

The three of us stand on the main track that once lead through camp. With all the tents dismantled and supplies loaded onto horses and carts, the road now only leads West, to the Ephel Dúath pass. This morning there was barely a sunrise - its light overshadowed by the dark clouds in the East.

After her injury, Bronwyn appears in better health. Her cheeks have regained a healthy pink flush, and her bandages are fresh and unstained.

"What of your brother, Aland?" she asks me, with quiet tactfulness. "Will you lay him to rest here, before we set out?"

But I shake my head. Instead of sleeping, I had given much thought to this overnight. To bury Aland here would make a mockery of his desire to see the Southlands rebuilt. This ridge is too close to the evil of Adar, and Mordor. Too easily tainted.

"I will take him to Pelargir, and bury him there," I reply, my voice only slightly breaking with emotion as I speak. With any luck, Pelargir will become my new home. A place I will remain for many years…There, I will be able to visit his grave, and be often reminded of him. He will see our people prosper, as he had wished.

" - I think Aland would have liked that -" A voice from behind me interjects. I startle, turning, but my surprise at the interruption is nothing compared to what I see before me. It is Míriel, accompanied by Elendil. She wears a dress of dark blue underneath a travelling cloak. Tied over her eyes is a strip of fabric. She is utterly blind - her head turned a little to one side, and I suppose her gaze is directed somewhere over my left shoulder. Underneath the fabric, her lips are twitching upwards, although her stance is somewhat self-conscious. Though she and Elendil are not touching, it is clear to me that he has helped her walk here. He hovers at her side, barely a few inches from her elbow, ready to guide her again.

Míriel's injury shocks me. Nobody had breathed a word of her blindness to me, and I can only assume she sustained it when Tirharad was obliterated. Once more, I am filled with a flood of guilt and shame. I open my mouth, ready to apologise as I had done to Elendil, but he catches my gaze and gives me a small but firm shake of his head. I shut my mouth.

Míriel would be too proud to accept an apology for such an affliction.

Instead, I curtsy, hoping that she will hear the rustle of my skirts and correctly interpret the movement. "Thank you."

"I am sorry for your loss, Braelyn," she tells me, sincerely. Like Elendil, she had known Aland since he was five years old. Though the Queen-Regent and my brother had never seen eye-to-eye, I always sensed that she respected Aland - if only for his single-minded stubbornness.

To reply that I am sorry for her loss - hundreds of her own people dead - her very eyesight gone, would sound trite. Instead, I say: "We won the battle with few casualties. It is unfair that so many have perished, thanks to Adar's devilry."

I watch her face tighten, and she moves her head so that she faces me squarely - zoning in on my voice. "Our mistake was thinking there would be any fairness in our dealings with the enemy. Trickery. Cunning. Sorcery. There is no honour in such tactics."

"No," I agree.

"But we are wiser to their methods, now."

I do not understand where she finds the strength to say such things. To find hope in the midst of defeat. I stare at her, feeling a choking surge of awe and respect.

"I hope you know that I will not hold you to our deal, Braelyn," Míriel continues. "When I return to Númenor, I will send Rian to you, if this is what you wish."

I stare, moved by her offer. But then I look at Bronwyn and Arondir. I think on Arondir's assertion that Pelargir will not be safe. Even there, we will face continuous threats from orcs and other enemies. I so badly want to see my little sister, but I cannot risk losing her. Not like I have lost Aland.

Eventually, I reach into the pocket of my dress and withdraw a letter. I wrote it last night, while I was unable to sleep. Each side of the paper is covered in a tight, cramped handwriting. I have folded it neatly and sealed it with a stamp of wax.

"…I think she is safer in Númenor, if you are willing to harbour her, still. I hope that in three years, I will have built a home safe enough for her to return to Middle-Earth." I step forwards and take Míriel's hand in mine, passing her the envelope. Her fingers tighten around it as she feels the paper touch her palm. "Will you give Rian this letter from me? I've explained about Aland, and Halbrand, and why I have chosen to stay here. I'll wager she won't be happy, but I've told her I want her to stay in Númenor for the time we agreed. And I've told her to heed you and Elendil, and to mind her manners."

Míriel chuckles. "Easier to tell a fish to stop swimming." She holds the letter in front of her with both hands. "Of course I will pass on your message. And of course I will watch over her."

A knot of tension eases in my chest. I will never not worry about Rian, but perhaps now I can worry a little less. "I'm very grateful."

Something in my peripheral vision catches my attention. I twist, looking up in time to see Theo - Bronwyn's son - climbing nimbly up a nearby flagpole. Bronwyn clocks him at the same time I do, and her expression turns part exasperated, part fearful. "Theo, be careful!" she cries out, warningly.

His only answer is a dry chuckle.

We watch him climb twelve feet into the air. He carefully lowers the Southlands flag, then climbs back down a little way before dropping to the ground with it safely tucked under his arm. He folds the banner neatly, and then wraps it in a clean cloth, ready for travelling. "You think I was going to let you forget this?!" he yells back to his mother, waving it above his head.

Míriel's head cocks to one side, a small smile on her face as she listens. "What was he doing?" she asks.

"Climbing. Thinking he's invincible," Bronwyn answers, huffing out a breath.

But Míriel looks amused. Somehow, I know she is thinking of a story that she told me some time ago - about the sea cliffs she used to jump from, when she was a reckless youth. "A brave lad."

Arondir and Bronwyn share a look, as if they disagree that this should be said as a compliment. But it is Elendil's expression that arrests me. It is filled with nostalgia and sorrow. Probably, he is thinking of Isildur at that age, and I cannot help but think of Isildur, too. How he would laugh at Theo. Encourage him, boyishly. Or challenge him, racing up the other flagpole for the Númenorean banner.

I clear my throat quickly, forcing down a pang of sadness before it can get a foot-hold.

Our horses are brought to us - and I am greatly relieved to see that Clover survived the devastation at Tirharad. The horse seems to sense my loss, because it noses my shoulder and cheek gently, it's muzzle warm and lightly wet. For the final time, I mount Clover with Däera sitting in the saddle behind me. This will be my last journey alongside Míriel and her people, and the finality of it is unexpectedly melancholy. Soon, we will reach Pelargir and they will sail for Númenor, and I will remain behind. For once, I will be without the company of any of my siblings. Only Arondir and Bronwyn will be familiar faces, and I will have to rely on their counsel to guide me.

For a moment, the enormity of the task before me overwhelms me. As the procession of Númenorean soldiers starts forwards, I turn Clover to face north-west, looking in the direction that Galadriel took Halbrand. Eregion lies many miles away. I wish badly that Halbrand and I had never been captured, and he had never been injured. That he could stand where I stand now, and lead our people. But I have promised to do what I can in his stead. I must pray that he survives his wound, and returns when he is able. Until then, I can only wait for him. 

A/N I think I spent about five hours today writing - I just couldn't stop! 

As the chapter title suggests, writing this was very cathartic. It felt like such a release to have Braelyn and those around her pause and process all the death and suffering they've been through. Obviously it felt emotional saying goodbye to Aland, but I also felt a bit sad saying goodbye to other characters like Däera and Miriel, too.

Next chapter, Braelyn will arrive in Pelargir...And so will another familiar character. Will she ever see Halbrand again...? Who knows.

I probably won't be able to update for a week or two now, as I have a busy week coming up. 

Please leave a comment if you're enjoying this story! 

Last Of The Lilac Wine 

Chapter Text

LOOSE ENDS

CHAPTER 13: LEFT BEHIND

I wake before dawn, adopting a habit I had shed when I stopped being Míriel's maidservant.

Today, there is much to be done.

My new bed chamber is still dark. It is a stone-walled room consisting of only a straw-stuffed mattress on the ground. Through a window-like hole high above my head, I can see the sky turning a light grey-purple colour. I slip out from underneath several blankets and don my black dress, and then step through the door that joins my room to a large hall. The space is drafty, thanks to the fact the hall is missing part of its roof. Someone once attempted to fix this, but evidently gave up half-way through. Only a few pieces of timber have been braced overhead, with gaps between each slat through which rainwater has dripped. Still, despite the hall's poor condition, it is one of the largest structures in Pelargir, and I take the villagers' insistence that I stay here as a sign of respect.

The rest of the room is filled with a cluster of sad-looking furniture, tapestries and rugs - left behind by refugees who off-loaded their weight in search of better fortunes, or died. Much of the wooden furniture has been broken up for firewood - mounds of kindling stacked in one corner. I sigh to myself as I take it all in, and begin to clean what I can.

Many of the tapestries - depicting old Kings and wars - have been ruined by black mould, and so I bundle them up for burning. Some of the furniture I save - a small table, a few chairs. Most of the books are water-logged, but a handful - wrapped with care by their previous owner in brown paper - are sound. I blow dust from boxes of trinkets and furs. Pick up a small doll - made for a child. As I stare down at the toy, I cannot help but wonder where these people went. To see all they have left behind makes me sad. And it worries me, that they were desperate enough to abandon all their worldly possessions in their haste to escape these lands.

Finally, I kneel in front of the empty hearth and kindle a small fire, gently blowing the flames into existence. By the time the sun has fully risen, I have turned the hall into a somewhat presentable space, ready to receive guests. There is a rug, a table and some chairs. The fire crackles cosily.

Hard work has succeeded - briefly - in taking my mind off of today's purpose: for today is the day I will bury Aland.

The hall doors open - broken, and creaking on their hinges - and Arondir enters, wearing his usual chest-plate and cloak. He walks into the chamber, holding a note aloft.

"A message," he tells me. "From Galadriel."

I hasten forwards eagerly and take the letter, breaking the seal. The message is characteristically brief. All Galadriel writes is that she has arrived in Eregion with Halbrand. Though she gives few details on Halbrand's condition, the message fills me with hope; I find myself smiling.

Arondir watches my reaction closely. "Halbrand lives?" he guesses, his expression inscrutable.

"Yes."

I fold the paper neatly and slip it into my dress pocket. While this day may be a sad one, it feels fortuitous to receive good news at its opening.

Arondir's brow is deeply furrowed. He seems to be contemplating something - then, abruptly, he asks: "Tell me, again, how you managed to escape Adar."

I sigh, knowing any answer I give him will not satisfy. He has pursued this line of questioning many times over the past few days. My reply by now feels wooden and rote. "I've told you: the wargs escaped. One of the animals damaged my cage. I ran free."

Brusquely, I begin to sweep the floors with an old broom, but he follows me as I work. 

"And you walked through a camp - home to thousands of our enemy - unchallenged."

I can feel his gaze on me, though I keep my head bowed. It is hard to tell, when we have this debate, whether he is accusing me of something; whether he thinks I will suddenly change the story, or remember some detail I forgot to share. Arondir is a great warrior, but I know that he suffered greatly as Adar's prisoner. And I know that it confounds him that I walked free.

"It was chaos…the animals killed any that stood in my path." I try not to shiver as I remember…It had felt like they were…following me…protecting me. Such a notion is hard enough to admit to myself, yet alone to Arondir.

Arondir's eyes flash. "…They say that once a warg has the scent of its Master's enemy, it will not let them live."

"What are you suggesting?" I snap, defensively.  The hall around us echoing as I raise my voice.

"That perhaps the beasts did not see Adar as their Master, that night."

I stop sweeping, straightening and holding my broom in a white-knuckle grip. I must look outraged, because Arondir adds, calmly: "Rest assured: I am not accusing you." Then, the skin around his eyes tightens, and he seems to struggle against something within himself, before he exhales reluctantly. "How well - really - do you know Halbrand?"

This is not the first time Arondir has hinted he suspects something of Halbrand. Sometimes when he suggests such things, I think of the knife, and I feel uneasy. I remember Halbrand's words when he was released from Adar's camp: I will see you freed. But on occasions like today, I fire up angrily. Aland is dead; Rian is an ocean away, and will receive nothing but a note from me. Halbrand is mortally injured and may yet perish - and it is with desperation that I cling to the hope that he will live, and return.

"I know him well enough! Need I remind you that he led an army in defence of his people - in defence of you!" I reply, my eyes blazing.

Arondir rubs at his jaw-line, visibly uncomfortable, yet unwilling to back down. "Forgive me. I do not say these things with the intention of upsetting you."

"I bury Aland today!" I remind him, my tone brittle and reproachful. The grief I had diligently tried to repress with odd tasks rises to the surface. His words are ill-timed, and ill-chosen.

The Elf sighs. "I apologise. But you have said you are in need of counsel, and I must give it - even when I tell you things you do not wish to hear. If Halbrand returns, you would do well to be on your guard."

My mind is a swirl of confused emotions. Yet one word above all others pierces me, for Arondir has voiced aloud my greatest fear.

"- If he returns - ?!" I echo, feeling my entire body stiffen; my left eye twitches once. The word speaks not of doubt that Halbrand will live, but doubt that he will come back to the Southlands.

Arondir is unrepentant. "Think on it," he advises, as someone else enters the chamber, interrupting us.

I am suddenly glad I rose early to make the hall presentable, and take time for myself. It is doubtful, with the constant traffic of people who visit this chamber, that I will be alone again for the rest of the day. 

Wyle enters - the old man with the hoarse voice who had greeted us when we first made land all those days ago. He is dressed in a dusty tunic and trousers. Since my arrival, he has appointed himself as representative of the refugees in Pelargir, often seeking me out to discuss several issues. Currently most pressing: the lack of food.

Though I had been about to angrily dismiss Arondir, I now shut my mouth.

"Can I speak with you, m'lady?" he asks, glancing between me and the Elf - probably seeing, from my demeanour, that we have disagreed over something.

I force myself to take a deep, steadying breath. I know that I am allowing my reactions to be dictated by sorrow and fear…that I must get a better handle on my emotions. Even if it means putting all thought of Aland's burial behind me, and focusing on the problems at hand.

"Yes," I reply, aiming for a calm and courteous tone. "Please come in."

I do my best to make Wyle feel welcomed and appreciated. He is well-respected among the villagers, with a wealth of knowledge on the surrounding region. Once he has sat at the nearby table, and I have offered him a cup of water - which he drains thirstily in two gulps - he speaks:

"What are we to do about the wildmen? There was another raid in the early hours of this morning. Mal Alwyn and his daughter sent us their spring harvest, only for the lot to get stolen."

"Is the farmer alright?" I ask, concerned. I sit opposite him, but remain uncomfortably balanced on the edge of my seat, unable to fully settle. For Wyle's part, he is slumped in his own chair; the weary sprawl of old-age and he who bears yet more bad news. There are permanent wrinkled bags under his eyes, and age spots cover his face and the backs of his hands. Though he moves slowly, he has the determination and fortitude of a much younger man.

"Unharmed. But we badly needed that food."

From what I understand, the wildmen have hounded this region at Adar's behest for at least a year. An attempt to demoralise the remaining Southlanders, and prevent them from regaining their full strength. Wyle thinks that Adar promised the wildmen all the land that lies to the east of the Anduin and the west of Ephel Duath. The only problem is, since creating Mordor, the orcs haven't lifted a finger to help the wildmen take their prize. They have therefore sullenly taken to harrying our farmers, and ambushing caravans of supplies. Unwilling to sacrifice their own, poorly-equipped people to open warfare - hoping to starve us out, instead.

I share a look with Arondir, knowing that this subject is yet another point we disagree on. While Wyle and Arondir think we should take a wildman prisoner and…persuade…them to give up the locations of their hiding places, I see a diplomatic opportunity. Knowing that Adar has likely abandoned the wildmen - his attention wholly turned to finding Sauron - I think that some kind of deal could be reached.

Wyle had all but laughed in my face, when I had suggested this.

"What about the crops at the remaining farms?" I question, trying to understand the scope of the problem.

"Ready to be harvested. But without men to defend their route here, those farmers may as well hand it all over to the thieves and the lawless." Wyle's face contorts into a grimace; he places much value in hard-work, and hates to see the efforts of his kin go to waste.

Arondir folds his arms. "That road stretches ten leagues to the furthest steading. We have perhaps thirty able-bodied soldiers, and they are all of them exhausted. It is not enough to hold the path safely."

Already, I feel a headache coming on. "How much food do we have in stores?"

Wyle answers, grimly: "Enough to last another two weeks, if we begin to ration it. Some families grow their own small gardens, but it is not enough to sustain a town of four-hundred."

"Can we offer a guard to the furthest farm for harvest? And then they would travel to the next closest farm? And so on?"

"That's placing an awful lot of eggs in one basket, m'lady. A mighty gamble. All our soldiers. And all our food. The wildmen aim to avoid casualties, but if the right opportunity presents itself, they'll fight. And mark my words, it'll be bloody when they do."

"…I can see no other solution," I admit, frustrated with myself, for being unable to conjure up other options. Because Wyle is right - it is a huge risk. In the summer, I might be able to persuade many of the farmers to leave their homes, offering land and protection closer to Pelargir. But this does not solve the immediate issue. They are too far away, and in need of help.

"There is still one other play we can make," Wyle reminds me. "We send out bait, and catch ourselves a fish."

My mouth tightens. I should have seen this solution coming. "You know I am not happy with the idea of taking a prisoner." I find the suggestion distasteful for a number of reasons: not least because I have been captured myself, and know how it feels to be a thing in a cage. But more greatly, I fear that it will escalate the conflict. "What if our captured wildman does not talk? What if their people then retaliate?"

Wyle, if possible slumps lower in his seat. He drums his fingers against the table's surface. "You are not without empathy, but you will have to learn to stomach hard decisions, if our people are to survive. You are right - the enemy may retaliate. But if we do nothing, we will starve."

I stand and pace the floor for a moment. I know exactly what Aland would say to such a plan: he would do anything - whatever it took. And yet still I feel doubt.

"Can we not meet with them, to negotiate, before resorting to such tactics?"

Now the old man does give a wheezing laugh - not unkindly, but exasperated nevertheless. I immediately feel like an inexperienced child. "Meet who? Where? The wild-people have no fixed abode. We could search the wilderness for days and never find one. The only time those cowards show their faces is when there's something to steal. Or an honest man's settlement to claim."

Arondir has remained silent for much of our talk. He watches me carefully, registering my indecision. "I can go forth as a scout - whatever you decide," he offers. "I can spend many weeks or months in the wild, if needs be. They would never realise I was there."

At this, I feel a flicker of amusement, thinking of Bronwyn and Theo. "There are some who would not thank me for sending you away on such a mission, for so long."

He clenches his jaw, but I can see the conflicted look in his eyes. He is practical by nature, but his heart will always be with his family.

Above our heads, the sun shines down through the slats of timber. It is nearly at its highest point; it is nearly time.

"I will take a day," I announce, finally, "to think this through, before making my decision."

There is another matter I must see to, first.

Wyle heaves a sigh, holding up his empty cup. "Then I would like something stronger to drink than water."

Resisting the urge to scowl, I snatch up his cup and walk off in search of wine.

Aland's burial is held at midday. The fine mist that had gathered at dawn has yet to dissipate. It traces the river and seeps into valleys and the narrow streets of Pelargir. Everything it touches turns lush and damp and silver. The waterfront is calm; no longer a harbour to Númenorean warships, which sailed away days ago…Their departure feels like a lost limb. I often find myself looking around for Míriel and Elendil before I catch myself, remembering that they're no longer here.

Bronwyn rescues me from my hall, where increasingly I feel as if I am being presented with problems I am not equipped to fix. She glances around the chamber when she steps within.

"I like what you've done with it," she comments, noting the change. For a moment, I cannot tell whether she is joking - but then I realise her expression is genuine.

I manage a thin smile. I cannot help but compare this place to the grand courts and palaces I had spent time at when I was in Númenor. I can feel only amusement at the stark difference. "It will look much better, once it has a roof," I reply, wryly.

Where the coin will come from to pay for the repair, I do not know.

Together, we leave the hall. The narrow streets of Pelargir are busy, filled with clamouring voices. What little food that is available to trade is being haggled for at extortionate prices. The people who throng the roads are dressed in drab colours. A few bow their heads as I pass; others merely stare at me, as if dubious of my presence here.

I look at a gaggle of small children - pale, their skin stretched tight over their faces, their ribs and shoulders bony and prominent through threadbare tunics. I grit my jaw.

"I wish there was something I could do to help," Bronwyn murmurs, aggrieved, as she follows my gaze. "So many mothers have brought me their children to heal…Yet I cannot give them what they need. They're all starving. They need food, not medicine."

I flinch.

Bronwyn cannot know what Wyle, Arondir and I spoke of this morning. But at her words I feel a weight on my chest. The pressure to make a decision that will allow the farms to deliver their produce here feels crushing. I struggle with the concept that what may be the right decision for my people, may not be the morally just one.

"I'll find a way," I reply, eventually. Bronwyn shoots me a look when my tone comes out much grimmer than I intended.

"We'll find a way" she corrects me, with a slight frown. "You asked me to help you rebuild our home. You are not alone in this, Braelyn."

We walk to the edge of Pelargir, and then across a grassy field that slopes gently downwards towards the banks of the Anduin. We come to a large oak tree, and it is here that I have decided to bury Aland. Already, a cluster of people wait - Arondir, Theo and Wyle, as well as a handful of Southlanders who fought at Tirharad. The grave has been dug deep. Aland's closed casket lies alongside it, a sprig of white flowers laid on top.

I watch as the coffin is lowered within.

…I can't help but recall seeing Halbrand's body - or the boy I had thought to be Halbrand - buried in a similar fashion…Even though I remind myself that my older brother yet lives, the sense memory gives me a terrible feeling of dual loss. Of having been parted from not only Aland, but from Halbrand, too. I feel exactly like the child I'd been at the time of Halbrand's 'death' - desperately afraid, and in need of guidance. With dependants who's lives could be saved or ruined, based on my choices.

Just as I am lamenting the silence around us - the lack of an instrument playing, or a mourning song - Theo surprises me by clearing his throat and reluctantly stepping forwards. His youthful voice is self-conscious, and cracks as he speaks:

"Beneath the soil, and soft wind's sigh

You rest where roots and shadows lie

The earth has closed its gentle door

Where I will find you evermore.

Where moss is thick and rivers bend,

I'll feel you near, my friend,

Though now apart, the truth is plain -

We'll walk together, once again."

I stare in surprise. Even Theo looks somewhat abashed, and he shrugs uncomfortably under my gaze.

"It's something we say, when people pass on" he mutters, embarrassed.

Next to him, his mother gives a small, pleased, smile. I feel a surge of gratefulness, that Theo has put into words what I cannot.

When the earth is packed over Aland's casket and levelled, I step forwards and kneel, resting my flat palm against the ground. I close my eyes briefly, feeling the light breeze ruffle my hair.

I will do right by you, I think - my brow creasing with a small frown of concentration. I try to picture Aland as he had been - clothed in black and grey, a determined gleam in his eyes - every emotion felt with his whole heart - never once a slave to indecision. I will rebuild our home.

Then I straighten upright. "I'll miss you," I say, out loud.

After the funeral, I instruct that the Southlands flag should be lowered to half-mast over Pelargir. It flutters in the wind, high in the air next to the broken bell tower.

It is by now deep into the afternoon. I find myself seeking some time alone to think. I stand at the end of the dock, staring out to the west, where I know the sea lies. I cannot help but wish that Míriel were here, so that I could ask for her advice. I wonder what she would do in my position.

I can feel that I am close to making my choice, and my heart feels heavy, for I understand what must be done.

I stare for a moment at the brilliant blue of a kingfisher as it darts across the water's surface. Turning on the spot, I then look east - to where the sky darkens to black over the mountains, and glows faintly orange.

Beneath this burning sky, someone approaches on horseback. They appear at the top of a distant hill, and cut across the green fields to the north of the town. I squint, trying to make out who it could be. I cannot be sure, but I think they are wearing the white armour of the Númenorean cavalry. It would be improbable, but they are likely a soldier who survived the explosion at Tirharad, and found themselves separated from their comrades. The sight both excites me and makes me feel slightly sad: whoever they are, they have missed their boat home, by several days.

Of course, there is also always the chance that it is a wildman, in a stolen disguise.

I watch as the figure draws close to Pelargir, and two villagers walk out to challenge him. It shouldn't be hard to discern a true Númenorean soldier from a wildman posing as one, but nevertheless, I decide to verify that the townspeople have made the correct decision. I make my way back down the dock, weaving through the streets towards the northern side of Pelargir.

The way is not easy - the road dotted with rubble, rough sleepers and ramshackle market stalls - but eventually I reach Wyle, who had evidently been returning to seek me out.

"Ah! -" he greets me, pausing in the middle of the street to catch his breath. In one hand he grasps a spear, which he currently uses like a walking stick - leaning on it heavily. "The lads've stopped a soldier wearing Numenorean armour just yonder. The fellow says you, personally, can vouch for his identity."

"Me?" I frown, wondering who this person could be. A man once part of the Queen's guard, perhaps?

But when I start forwards, Wyle grabs my arm. "Hold on, lass. It may be a trap," he warns. "Meant to flush you out."

At this, however, I roll my eyes. I cannot deny that much of Wyle's counsel thus far has been brutally honest, yet useful. But in this, I think he finally borders on paranoia. "You think a lone wildman would attempt to assassinate me, in the middle of the day, surrounded by so many of our people? I have been here but a few days; I'd be surprised if they even know who I am, Wyle."

Grudgingly, he lets me go. "They have spies - even here…They'll know who you are. Go back to your hall, at least. Let us bring him to you, where you are better protected."

I very nearly argue, but cannot see the harm in pandering to caution. I therefore turn on my heel once more and walk back to my chamber. Someone, kindly, has tended to the fire, and kept it burning. I sit on the large stone chair - wishing for a comfier seat - and wait.

Eventually, the wooden doors are thrown open, and I lean forwards, my interest piqued.

Wyle enters first, followed by his son, Maxwell.

Then comes the Númenorean soldier, flanked by three more village men.

I realise I am looking at Isildur.

With a startled cry, I jump to my feet.

Isildur's eyes widen, and he gives a strangled kind of laugh - his shoulders sagging with relief. "Braelyn!" he exclaims. But when he attempts to step forwards, Maxwell restrains him by grabbing his shoulder.

Even accounting for the days he has spent travelling alone in the wild, Isildur looks terrible. He is filthy - covered head to toe in mud, though the white of his armour just about shines through. His black hair is matted and hangs in clumps. It is the look of someone who has walked a long path through Mordor - I recognise it well.

"Release him!" I command Maxwell - bemused, despite myself, by the villagers' suspicion, when none could be more loyal that Isildur. "This is Isildur, son of Captain Elendil of the Sea Guard…And he is a dear friend."

Now, the guards let us greet one another unimpeded. My eyes are shining as I stride forwards, my spirits soaring. I am smiling when I barrel into Isildur, throwing my arms around his neck.

He returns the hug tightly, then seizes my face, his hands cupping my cheeks - I am sure leaving marks of dirt, though I do not care. For one, heart-stuttering moment, I think he is going to kiss me. Instead, he rests his forehead against my own.

"I thought you were dead," I manage to gasp out.

If anything, he looks amused at this. "It was a close thing. I was very nearly eaten by a giant spider."

"A what?"

"Berek saved me."

My brow crinkles in confusion. "Who?"

"My horse."

I manage not to roll my eyes at this, stepping away from him just a little. He seems reluctant to let me go, but drops his hands nonetheless. "Of course you were rescued by your horse."

The sound of a throat being cleared pulls my attention away from him. It is Wyle. He has his eyebrows raised as he looks between the two of us. "A dear friend, indeed," he notes - and the comment is not without innuendo. I cannot help the blush that rises in my cheeks. The old man gruffly turns his attention to Isildur. "You know you have arrived several days too late, lad? Your kin sailed for the Western shores the day before yesterday. You are now the only Númenorean in Pelargir."

I watch as Isildur's face falls, his expression turning pained. "I saw there were no ships anchored," he states, sounding resigned. He glances at me. "My father has left?"

I wince, feeling a pang of sympathy and sadness in my chest. "Yes, Elendil departed with Queen Míriel." Attempting to absolve Elendil of any blame of abandonment, I hasten to add: "He thought you gone. We all did…" I pause again, unwilling to continue, and deliver the final blow. There is no possibility of Isildur crossing the ocean to reunite with his family - not unless they themselves return to Middle-Earth. "…We have no boat with which you can hope to follow him…I'm sorry."

I can see that this news is a grievous injury. That perhaps during his long journey Isildur had held out hope of making it in time for the voyage home. I cannot imagine how crushing it must be to have that dream obliterated. To realise that he has been left behind.

To my surprise, however, his face tightens with something like resolve. "It doesn't matter," he replies eventually. "It would have gladdened my heart to say goodbye - for my father to know that I lived - but I would not have sailed with him."

I stare at him, blinking in confusion. "What do you mean?"

His brown eyes soften. "I came here to rid the Southlands of evil…Last time I checked, Adar lives. His orcs have dominion over Mordor. And your people still need help. I would not return to Númenor, cowed and defeated, to let you face such an enemy alone. I will not go until you have your victory."

I gape at him as he suddenly kneels, unsheathing his sword. It glints brightly in the sunlight that falls in shafts through the broken roof. Though he must be tired and exhausted, Isildur holds the blade aloft with both hands - presenting its hilt to me. "You must know - you have always had my allegiance, Braelyn."

Of everyone in the room, none can be more stunned than I. I had not expected our reunion to turn into a pledge of fealty. My throat abruptly feels very dry. It is only dimly that I sense what Isildur is truly offering. It makes me feel a flutter of something in my stomach. Unease, and some other emotion I can't name.

"I cannot allow you to forsake your family," I reply, eventually, shaking my head. My conscience could not bear such a thing. In swearing fealty to me, there may come a time in the future when Isildur must choose between his duty to me and his homeland. It hurts me deeply, to think that he might come to regret a rash decision.

But Isildur is unmoved. He speaks confidently and steadily. "I do not forsake them. I honour them, and our family name, by choosing what is good and just. My heart tells me that this is the way…I must listen."

He gazes up at me, his eyes fixed on mine, and I cannot look away.

Slowly - against my better judgement - I reach out for the hilt. It is the first time I have ever wielded a sword, and it takes a little effort to hold the weapon aloft, and feel its heavy weight. The blade is long; it takes a moment for my brain to get a sense of its balance. I hold it before me, feeling a strange shift in the dynamics of power between us. Isildur and I have always been equals, yet now I am to be his ruler. It feels unnatural, to command him - it is even more difficult to accept than my command over my own people. But where I am uneasy, he remains steady.

"I accept your oath," I tell him.

As I had once seen my father do, I gently touch the flat of the sword's blade to his shoulder, and bid him stand.

He gets to his feet, and I hand the sword back. He sheaths it, then glances at me - a light sparking in his eyes. Somehow, he has the air of someone who is enjoying himself -  as if he has just won some kind of bet. And yet at the same time he is utterly sincere and respectful. 

"What are your first instructions for me, my lady?"

I swallow, sensing the Southlander soldiers watching on with interest. Wyle and Maxwell close at hand, to hear my words. Isildur knows nothing of the problems ahead of us - he does not know that Pelargir is on the brink of despair. Does not know that Halbrand is leagues away, in Eregion. But his arrival, for me - and for my people - is fortuitous. He is, after all, a skilled fighter. Which is exactly what I am in need of.

I wonder if he will still think this is the path of the good and the just, when I have made my request.

"I want you to capture a wildman - and bring them to me, alive."

A/N Wooo, Isildur has returned! I liked playing with the return of the King trope here, and the parallels between Halbrand - who is expected to come back - and Isildur who shows up unlooked for. 

Isildur also brings a much needed dose of levity to this fic, because it was definitely getting a bit dark there for a few chapters. (Although the angst will continue...) 

Please leave a comment if you are enjoying this fic! 

Last Of The Lilac Wine