Under Silver Moon and Golden Sun
Author's Note: This story uses the character I created for Isildur's wife in my story Flowers of Nimloth; however, you do not need to read Flowers of Nimloth to read this story. But I will warn you that some of the flashbacks in this story will give away parts of the ending of Flowers of Nimloth.
The timeline and other information for this story are taken from The Silmarillion, the Appendices to LOTR, and HOME XII. The rest is simply my own speculation.
Part 1: Under the Silver Moon
The sun rests low in the sky, her rays barely topping the hills that encircle the great city of Annúminas, nestled deep in the valleys of Arnor. Nearby Lake Nenuial is already under the hill's shadows, but the light of the golden sun still reaches the face of the woman standing on a high balcony in the king's tower.
Lienilde closes her eyes, absorbing the sun's warmth. This is only her second evening in the city, so far from the lands of Gondor where she has made her home for the last century, and even further from the fallen isle of Númenor where she spent her early years. Yet she is reminded that the sun is one of the few constants in her life, something that has always been with her, in whatever faraway lands in which she has lived. For she has traveled through many lands, and while all have many memories, both incredibly loving and horribly painful, none of them can compare to this valley and the peace that fills it.
She sighs. It seems like so many years ago that she lived in the splendor of Númenor, once the Land of Gift, now Akallabêth, The Downfallen, Mar-nu-Falmar in the tongue of the Dúnedain. Many happy memories of that land fill her heart: memories of her childhood, her parents and siblings, the early years of her marriage, and the birth of their first child. She lived in Númenor during the height of its prosperity, and never did she have any want for food, clothing, or shelter -- things that were much harder to come by here on the shores of Middle-Earth. The early years of her life were full of joy, for her young eyes could not fully see the darkness that surrounded her.
For by her day, Númenor's bliss had all but faded -- slowly, steadily, unnoticeable in the bustle of daily life, and hidden by the wealth of the land. Yet those whose hearts were untainted and whose memories reached far could see the changes, and they mourned. For Lienilde had also lived during the height of Sauron's rule, and ever did the Faithful fear his persecution. She had known righteous men who were sacrificed on Sauron's altar to Melkor, and she had known men who could have been righteous if only they had possessed the strength to defy Sauron's rule. But the Faithful were truly a remnant, for the number of those who worshiped the Dark Lord Melkor side-by-side with Sauron far outnumbered those who stayed true to Eru.
And to think of Númenor's Fall -- Ai! Tears slip down her cheeks as she remembers the terror: the tremendous, crashing waves cast up by the sinking island; the fearful flight to Middle-Earth in ships that barely withstood the raging waters; and most of all, the despair of knowing that most of her family and friends had fallen to the depths of the sea with that glorious but tarnished isle.
The sun finishes her descent behind the hilltops, and the cool shadow on Lienilde's face slowly pulls her mind from her sorrowful memories. She glances up to the sky. It is a clear night; the sky is purple and black with a warm orange glow above the western hills. Bright Eärendil already shines in the east as he begins his trek across the sky, and the silver moon glows faintly above.
The moon! The moon has also been a constant in Lienilde's life; indeed, it is more precious to her than the sun will ever be. The Elves name the moon Ithil, and recall tales of the Maia Tilion, who sails the skies each night carrying the last flower of the great tree Telperion. Yet the moon, and indeed even Telperion itself, mean so much more to Lienilde! For many years ago, on that fallen isle of Númenor, Isildur nearly gave his life to rescue a fruit of Nimloth, the White Tree of Númenor. Legend says that Nimloth was a descendent of Galathilion, made in the image of Telperion, the White Tree of Valinor. Surely Yavanna herself had a hand in Nimloth's creation, and Isildur alone preserved its line by his valor.
Lienilde had been only a young woman at the time, a healer's apprentice who was called upon to tend to the injured young man, but the healer and patient formed a bond that had yet to be broken. She had always admired the courage Isildur had shown on that fateful night in the courts of Armenelos, and now she knew that that courage was just a foreshadowing of the great king that he was now becoming.
Devoted to the Moon: that is what Isildur's name means in the Common Tongue, and Lienilde has never been able to look upon fair Ithil without thinking of her beloved husband. Indeed, it was under moonlight and starlight that he asked for her hand in marriage, and it is under that same light when she finds him the most beautiful now.
She turns her eyes from the sky and looks down to the lake below, yet her mind's eye still sees the moon and remains lost in memories. Minis Ithil, Tower of the Moon -- that is what Isildur had named the tower he built when he established his kingdom in Gondor, and Ithilien was forever after the name of the nearby lands. Though his throne had been in Osgiliath, his heart had remained in Minis Ithil. It was there that Isildur planted the White Tree of Gondor, the seedling of Nimloth that he brought across the seas. Lienilde spent much time in that tower with her husband, and their third son was even born there. Even though the tower was nigh to the borders of Mordor, she had always felt safe behind its great stone walls.
O, bright Minis Ithil! That place too has fallen to Sauron's evil. Once light and fair under the silver moon, it is now dark with evil and black with ashes. Tears come once more to Lienilde's eyes. Is no land safe from the threat of Sauron? Is there no place the Faithful can hide where he cannot find them? For the Second Dark Lord escaped the Drowning of Númenor and followed the Elendili even to the shores of Middle-Earth. Mordor was refortified, and stood as a constant threat to the kingdom of Gondor which Isildur and his brother Anárion defended for so long. Yet in the end, Sauron was victorious once again.
Lienilde closes her eyes, trying to forget her last night in the tower of Minas Ithil: for after many long battles, Sauron's forces finally breached the great tower, the tower that she thought would never fall. No matter how hard she tries to forget, she will always remember the cries of the defeated, dying soldiers of Gondor; the clanging swords and harsh laughter of the Orcs; the sickening smoke and great red flame as the White Tree burned in the night. Yet Isildur had shown foresight once again, and had hidden away a seedling of the tree before the attack. As Isildur and his family fled the tower to the ships waiting for them on the River Anduin, he brought the seedling with him, praying that the next generation of Nimloth's line would survive.
After a long and hazardous flight to the north, Lienilde and her husband, with their three sons and a few faithful men, finally arrived in the shelter of Annúminas, just one night prior. Her husband and sons had been in council with Elendil all day, and she had been left alone to wander the halls of the tower and the shores of Lake Nenuial. She had found the shoreline peaceful, relaxing, and soon the Enemy had seemed so far away, despite the vivid memories of his attacks. Yet now that night has fallen, the solitude of the lake no longer comforts her. She stands on the balcony to the room that Elendil had given her and her husband, and now she longs for the comfort of her beloved's arms.
As if bidden by her thoughts, at that moment she feels a warm hand rest on her cold shoulder. She smiles but does not turn yet. Isildur moves to stand beside her, and slides his arm down to her waist, where he grips her firmly.
"It is a cold night," he says, staring out across the lake, wondering what sight has captured his wife's attention.
"And your arms are warm," she replies, nestling into his arms, and after a short moment she finally turns to face him. He turns also. He is dressed in a silver and blue tunic loaned to him by his father earlier that day, and the Elendilmir shines bright on his brow. The light of Elendilmir, the stars, and the moon mingle in his hair and sparkle in his eyes, and once again Lienilde is struck by his kingly presence. How different he seems now, compared to the young man she once knew in the land of Númenor!
"How have the councils gone?" she finally asks after a moment of silence. Neither wishes to dwell on the terrible events that brought them to these councils; yet both fear to ignore the future.
"Father and I spoke for many long hours," he replies, "though little was decided. There are many whom we wish to consult with who are not here now. We have sent messengers to the High Elven King Gil-galad, and to the Lord Elrond in Imladris, and to many others."
After a slight pause, Lienilde says hesitantly, "Yet you will return and fight, no matter who will come with you."
"You are perceptive," he answers, with the slightest hint of a smile. Yet that smile fades as soon as it appears. "My brother cannot hold Sauron back forever, and I cannot leave him alone to that task."
"I know." Isildur's free hand is resting on the balcony's rail -- for the first is still on her waist -- and she grasps it in both of her hands. She knows the pain that her husband feels, as he thinks of his only brother Anárion, alone in Gondor without his brother or father, struggling to dam the tide of Sauron's constant attacks. Her husband will never be content in the safety of Annunimas while his brother is in danger. And she knows that Anárion would do the same, were he in his brother's place: she still remembers the pain in Anárion's eyes when Isildur lay near death after taking the fruit of Nimloth. There is a great bond between the two brothers, so strong that sometimes she doubts which tie is stronger: the bond with his brother, or the ones with his sons and wife. Yet over the years, she has come realize that perhaps no one is stronger than the other: perhaps they are simply different.
Lienilde looks into her husband's eyes once more, and suddenly she sees a different kind of sorrow: while a moment ago it was clear that his mind was far away in Gondor, now she can see that his sorrow is focused here, on her. She knows then what he fears: he fears for his brother in battle, but he also fears for his wife's safety in these terrible times. When he leaves for battle, she knows he will want her to stay in the protection of the North, yet neither know how they will bear the separation. Even during Sauron's worst assaults on Gondor, they knew that the other was at most only a few leagues away. Though Lienilde's heart filled with fear each time her husband and sons went into battle, being so near to them was a small comfort that she had never recognized until this moment. This time when her beloved and her sons go to war, it will be to the far ends of Middle-Earth. Whether the war went good or ill, it would likely be a year or more before she learned of it -- a year or more here alone in the bright North, waiting for news from the dark South.
"I love you, Lienilde," Isildur says, drawing her even closer to him. "But I fear--"
"Sssh," she whispers, and brings a hand to his lips. "I know what you fear, for I fear it too. But let us forget our fears for one night. We are far away and safe in the North, and let us enjoy what little time we may have here."
Isildur finally smiles, for the first time that evening. They stand a moment in silence, as they realize nothing more needs to be said: they each know the other's fears, thoughts, and desires. Lienilde then releases his hand from hers, and he brings his hand up beside her face, pulling her in for a long, slow kiss.
When they finally draw apart, Lienilde reaches up and gently takes the Elendilmir from Isildur's brow. Isildur smiles again, for he knows that she has always preferred him without his kingly raiment. Without the bright light of the Elendilmir, the moon and stars are free to shine fully in his dark hair and grey eyes. She smiles too: seeing him so always brings to mind that night under the stars when they were betrothed, and he knows this.
Isildur then wraps his arm around her once more, and leads her from the cold balcony to the warmth of their room, where small, flickering flames already fill the fireplace. She places the Elendilmir on a bedside table, then he draws her into a tight embrace, and soon they are kissing once more -- not the slow, languid kiss they shared on the balcony, but the kiss of two lovers who have spent many nights together over the long years, who suddenly realize that their time together will not last forever. Laces on tunic and dress are untied as each pair of hands searches the other's body, each spouse longing to preserve every touch, every curve, even every scar, to memory forever.
It is not until late into the night that they finally fall asleep, safe and warm in each other's arms. Yet little do they know that the child they conceived this night will one day be the High King of the Men of the West, the hope of the Exiled Dúnedain.