Chapter Text
Elendil arrives on the day after the fire. Isildur and some of the others are still at the farm, trying to assess the damage. When Elendil passes the farm, his heart sinks. He rushes towards the house, relieved beyond belief to find Isildur there, safe and alive. Isildur’s eyes widen when he sees him.
“Father,” he says, striding towards him. “You’re here. You’re back.”
He doesn’t say You’re home, even though that’s exactly where Elendil is, only his home is ashes now.
“What happened?” he asks, taking Isildur by the shoulders. “When did this happen, anyway? Pharazôn sent a messenger to Kemen – recalling his troops to Armenelos.”
Isildur bows his head.
“They did withdraw,” he says. “But Kemen decided to leave us with a parting gift, it seems. If only I could have anticipated this…”
“Don’t.”
Elendil does not mean his interruption to come out so harsh and sharp. He knows Isildur might misinterpret it. But he cannot allow Isildur to take on the blame of what has happened here. This isn’t on him.
He softens his voice, clutching Isildur’s shoulders.
“Don’t, Isildur,” he repeats. “This…this was just a petty act of revenge. It wasn’t even the worst he could have done.”
Isildur bites his lip. His eyes flick briefly to Elendil, then he looks away.
“You had so many memories in that house,” he says.
“We all did,” Elendil corrects. “The memories are still with us, son. We don’t need tangible reminders to cherish the past.”
And this is something Elendil knows they must learn. They must carry the good times in their hearts. They should rely on their own minds to keep the past alive. Anything else, they could lose.
He shakes Isildur slightly, making him finally look up.
“Listen to me,” Elendil says when he catches Isildur’s eyes. “I will not lie. This feels as if they have taken everything from me. I think about how they burned our Houses of the Dead, and how they burned my own house, and I feel as if they have truly taken everything.”
Isildur nods, looking morose. Clearly, he feels the same. Elendil shakes his head.
“But then I look at you, and realize they haven’t,” he adds. “They haven’t, Isildur. And you should remember this. In the days to come, you should remember this.”
Isildur breathes shakily.
“Of course,” he says. “Of course. I understand. They haven’t. We haven’t lost it all.”
Elendil nods approvingly.
“And we won’t,” he adds. “This is a promise, Isildur.”
It is the hardest promise he has ever made. But it is a promise he intends to keep. No matter what happens, no matter where they go, they will not lose it all. They will continue. They will live on. Somehow. They will have each other.
xxxxXXXXxxxxx
When Anárion returns from the shepherds, he is devastated to discover the destruction of his childhood home. However, he is too relieved by Elendil’s arrival to think too much about it. He receives the news of their impending relocation to Rómenna with resignation. In his mind, it will not be as bad as their move to Armenelos. There, Anárion had felt as if he had needed to suppress who he was, to temper the part of him that was Faithful, to adjust his way of talking and thinking and being. In Rómenna, it would be different. He would be among his people. He would still be allowed to be Anárion, with all that entails.
He and Isildur enter the house, although they promise at first to Elendil that they will leave immediately if they discover the place is too dangerous and might fall on them. There is not much to be saved on the upper levels. Isildur finds one of Estrid’s tapestries half-burned. He takes it with him.
“Do you think she will want it?” Anárion asks. “Looking like that…”
Isildur nods thoughtfully.
“She told me once how it feels like – being left behind in the ashes. This will be a symbol that we still have our roots. We still have something.”
Anárion says nothing. He realizes that Estrid knows more than him about childhood homes burned down and memories erased. And if Estrid survived the burning of the Southlands, then he and the others can survive Andúnië.
The root cellar is better. The fire had not spread there. Here there are papers and small statues and things that will be forbidden to Númenor now that Pharazôn keeps pushing for them to abandon the old ways.
“We will hide these,” Isildur decides. “Then come for them when we come for the palantíri.”
Anárion nods. He grins.
“See? We haven’t lost everything, after all.”
Isildur’s smile is warm.
“We never can,” he says. “We never will.”
The pain in Anárion’s heart at the sight of his beloved home, broken and burned, is still there. It will not leave him, it will lodge itself in its heart, but it will not unmake him. Rather, he will keep it as a reminder, as a banner and a battle cry. The things he has lost, the things he wishes to keep at all costs.
He knows it is the same with Isildur. He knows that, in some way, this day will be with them and will encourage them to keep going. Wherever they are. Wherever their roads take them.
“We should go,” Anárion says.
His voice trembles. The thought that he is leaving his childhood home for the last time too sharp to ignore. It is like he is leaving something of himself behind too.
Isildur nods.
“Yes, we should.”
His voice is deep and kind, a voice Anárion remembers too well from the nights of doubt of his childhood, when he would seek out his big brother because who else could give him all the answers and not judge?
“Father will be addressing the people of the Faithful,” Isildur goes on. “We should be there.”
Anárion nods but doesn’t make any move to go.
“In the end, Father was right,” he says. “There really was nothing for us on the western shores.”
Isildur shakes his head.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. We’ve gained quite a lot in the time we stayed here.”
And, with the way Isildur phrases it, this does not seem like a defeat anymore.
xxxXXXXxxxx
Elendil stands in the town square, his family around him. The people of Andúnië and from the neighboring Faithful settlements have gathered to listen to him. Elendil tries not to think of the gatherings Kemen had ordered when he and Isildur had been in Eriador. He tries not to remember that this is the very place where Kemen announced the burning of the Houses of the Dead. The same place where his youngest son had been flogged, as punishment for resisting. No, not all the memories he has of Andúnië are worth keeping.
Now, Elendil glances at Anárion, standing close to him. Anárion looks calm and self-assured. He is still paler than Elendil would like, still looks pained when he makes certain movements, the wound sustained in the retrieval of the seventh Palantír still bothering him. Yet the other wounds, the ones inflicted on his soul by Kemen’s actions seem to have finally healed. And Elendil is beyond grateful for this.
He looks at the people gathered there. The people who trust him to see them through. To protect them from Pharazôn. He knows that they will not completely accept his compromise, but he also knows that they would follow him anywhere. That they trust him and understand that everything he is doing is for them.
“People of Andúnië,” he begins. “People of the Faithful. We have been sorely tested in the past few weeks. We have had many things taken from us. We have been attacked and persecuted by our own people. Blood has been spilled on our streets, in our houses. Our homes were set aflame. We were forced to do unspeakable acts to remain alive. We have passed terrible trials, but we remain standing, and we remain Faithful. And this means something. When the Valar look upon us, they see people who stayed true to their convictions no matter what happened to them. And this is an encouraging thing to remember.”
He takes in the brightness in their eyes, despite the weariness in their faces. They are tired of fighting, but they would fight till the end if Elendil asked them to. Yet Elendil knows that fighting will not save them this time. It is why he secured this deal with Pharazôn in the first place, and he hopes that the people of Andúnië will see this too.
“Pharazôn does not trust us on the western shores,” he goes on. “He believes we would seek help from across the water. From the Eldar. Even from the Valar. I do not know.”
The people shake their heads and mutter darkly. Elendil nods.
“I know,” he says. “We probably wouldn’t. But Pharazôn has a treacherous mind and fears treachery from others more than anything else. And he has already been betrayed by one of his own. He will be less lenient to us because of this.”
“So, what will happen?” Ioreth’s mother asks.
Elendil breathes deeply.
“What happens next is up to you. I have secured an understanding of sorts with Pharazôn. Yet it is on me to present it to you in case you wish to choose differently.”
He pauses. The Faithful wait for him to continue. Elendil does not sense any hostility towards him. He does not even sense mistrust. It could be so easy for them to mistrust him, though. He has abandoned them once, left Andúnië for Armenelos, and even though his father apparently had never stopped believing that Elendil would return to the Faithful ways, Elendil would not blame others for thinking otherwise.
Still, Elendil has to convince them that he has their best interests at heart. That he wants them to survive and remain who they are, and there is only one way in which they can do both. That way involves sacrifices, and even though he is ready to make them, he has to be sure that so are they.
“Instead of relocating us somewhere to his advantage, I convinced Pharazôn to allow us to move to Rómenna.”
The square falls silent at his words. They are all listening intently. Elendil knows that the next moments are of outmost importance. He needs to convince them that this is the only way for them.
“Those of you who knew my father well are aware that he also proposed a relocation to Rómenna once,” he goes on.
If only Voronwë was still with them. He could confirm Elendil’s words and vouch for him. Yet Voronwë has been taken from them, and Amandil himself is gone, and it is on Elendil now to lead the Faithful without their staunch support.
“What if we do not wish to leave?” Bor asks. “What if we want to stand and fight?”
Elendil feels Isildur stir restlessly beside him. He makes a quick gesture, urging him to settle. This is on Elendil to tackle alone.
“You can certainly do this,” Elendil says. “We can do this. If any of you wish to stay in Andúnië and fight the Kingsmen, then I will be right beside you. Even if the others will make for Rómenna with my sons, I will remain with you and face Pharazôn’s forces with you.”
He ignores Isildur and Anárion’s eyes fixed on him, because he knows that, to them, this was not part of the plan. Yet if others choose to stay and fight, then someone from the House of Andúnië needs to stay with them. And Elendil seems the logical choice.
“However,” he goes on, “You need to be aware of the truth. If we stay, we will be destroyed. Eventually, the Kingsmen will crush us. There will be nothing left of the Faithful. Our defiance will not be remembered even in songs, because Pharazôn and his people will make sure that history knows us as chancy, wild folks, disturbers of the peace and rebels. The memory of the true Númenor will vanish with us. And we cannot let this happen. I believe we have a duty – both to our ancestors and to those who might come after us. We have a duty to keep the true light of Númenor burning. We have a duty to ensure that something of the past survives. This will entail sacrifices. And perhaps the greatest sacrifice of all is abandoning Andúnië and choosing to live our lives in Rómenna.”
Some of the people are nodding. Some still look only half-convinced, but they are thinking about Elendil’s words, and that is a good thing.
Elendil takes a step forward. He looks at each of them in turn.
“There is another option,” he adds. “I think you know it.”
The faces of the people become dark and closed-off. Elendil understands this reaction, too.
“I would be a bad leader if I did not present this option to you,” he adds. “Whatever you may think of it.”
“Then you know we do not think much of it,” Nolondil says.
Elendil spares him a smile.
“Of course I do. Still – Ar-Pharazôn is willing to allow you to renounce the Faithful. Any of you can do so. You will be allowed back in Armenelos if you are from there. You will probably be allowed to remain here if you were born here. All persecution of you will cease. However, I cannot guarantee that Pharazôn will keep his word or if he will not force you to reveal the secrets of your friends and your kindred in exchange.”
They keep silent. It is almost as if they cannot deign to reply to such a proposal. Elendil bows his head.
“I already know what your answer to this proposal will be. I still had to present it to you.”
He notices the smiles on some of their faces now that they know he does not expect any of them to choose this alternative.
“I am proud of you,” he tells them. “You are true Númenóreans, worthy descendants of the Edain. If Eärendil and Beren and Húrin could look down upon you now, their hearts would soar with pride. I know mine does.”
He pauses and squares his shoulders.
“As for the other two options – I regret that I cannot give you enough time to think them both over. Pharazôn has given us a grace period. When this expires, any Faithful caught outside Rómenna will be executed.”
Elendil closes his eyes briefly, remembering the night spent waiting for Pharazôn to make up his mind. He remembers his memories of light, and wishes he could give this light to his people. They deserve it.
“Whatever you choose, I will stand beside you,” he vows.
Nolondil takes a step forward.
“So will we,” he says. “We will stand with you.”
Elendil allows himself to breathe.
“You mean – you are ready to choose Rómenna?”
Nolondil bows his head.
“And wherever else you might wish to take us. Because you wish to take us towards the light, and it would be wrong of us to scorn such gifts.”
Elendil and Nolondil have been friends ever since Elendil’s arrival in Armenelos – although, as a devout Faithful, Nolondil of course knew the family even before that and had interacted with Amandil from time to time. Their ties had deepened in Armenelos, given the bond that their sons shared. They had looked out for each other – the Faithful of Armenelos always supported each other in all things. For a long time, Elendil and Nolondil have been equal. But now things are changing – Nolondil is willingly accepting Elendil’s authority and that of Elendil’s sons. Given that Nolondil’s own son has died while in Elendil’s care, given that Nolondil has every cause to resent Elendil, the change in him leaves Elendil feeling humbled.
“I wish to take you towards the light,” Elendil agrees. “And I am ready to give up my own life to make sure that you never have to live in darkness.”
And he means it. They are not empty words meant to encourage. Because these are the people under his care, the people who look up to him and expect him to watch over them. And he will. Right now, Elendil has so much love for them, that he would give them the world if he could.
All he can give them is Rómenna, and a chance of rebuilding their lives there. It is not enough, but he will try to make the best of it, for now.
xxxxXXXXXxxxx
Isildur kneels in the garden of their burned-out home. Close to the apple tree he had once fought so hard to save, he has spotted a small sapling, perhaps even the offspring of his own tree. He is now carefully trying to pull it out, planning to carry it all the way to Rómenna and planting it there.
Isildur does not know why it is so important for him to do so. Perhaps he remembers his own words to Amandil all those years ago, when he wanted to show that some things could be saved, and one should try to save them. Perhaps he remembers what Nolondil told him in the morning of the fire – that Isildur’s deeds have not been in vain. Perhaps he wants a memory of home, a reminder of Amandil, a reminder of all those Isildur has lost. Or maybe he simply does not want to leave the sapling at the mercy of the Kingsmen. They would tear it apart out of spite.
“You are going into exile with us,” Isildur tells the sapling. “But do not worry. We will take good care of you. Because you are one of us. You are us.”
They too are being uprooted. They too only have each other.
The image that he had seen in the Palantír while it had still been in Pharazôn’s hands flashes through Isildur’s mind. The White Tree on fire. Isildur mortally wounded, but carrying one of its fruits. This small sapling is not the only tree he will rescue, it seems.
Isildur shakes his head. For the first time, the vision in the palantír no longer fills him with doubt. If he is needed to serve, he will serve. If he is needed to give his life for the White Tree, he will. And maybe, just maybe, the Valar will look kindly on his deed today, and they will help him survive.
“We are both survivors, you and I,” he tells the sapling. “And we’re the offspring of survivors. This will count.”
He actually looks forward to planting the apple tree in Rómenna. He will find a place in the garden just for it. And, if one day another tree joins it, well, surely there will be room enough.