Land of the King
Chapter 7: The Prince of Mariners
Tarondor
The cool ocean wind blew over his sun-kissed face. Far above, he could see the small white specks, seagulls, flying free with their wings.
Once he had dreamed of soaring in the clouds just like them, but as he grew up, he knew that he would never attain that dream. In its stead he chose the sea, proud and untameable. Perfect for him.
He was Tarondor, Crown Prince of Arnor, mightiest and greatest of the kingdoms on land, and when he ascended the throne, he would extend Arnor's power to the seas as well.
His people had neglected their heritage for too long now. They were the Dúnedain, the scions of Númenor, her last noble sons. Only they remained to recall the memory of Akallabêth.
The sea was their birthright. The waves, their heirlooms. Never had Tarondor felt closer to his Númenorean ancestors than the day he had first set foot on a ship. The smell of salt in his nose, the rocking of the ship beneath him, and the cries of the gulls in his ears, the sensations had been overwhelming and he had known then…, he would rather die than be parted from the sea again.
His mother had once said that the greatest passions of a Dúnadan were archery, sailing, and riding. Tarondor loved the second, his father and brother, the third, and his mother… his mother had loved the first.
To please his mother, Tarondor had taken to archery as well, mastering the bow just as he had mastered his ship. She had been so happy that at least one of her sons was as besotted with archery as she was. Tarondor had never had the heart to correct her and tell her he had taken up the bow to make her happy. His mother had corralled all of them into doing things together. Insisting that 'the family that did everything together, stayed together.' On her insistence, they would all go riding together, practicing horseback archery while they did so. His brother, Amroth, and his father had preferred the riding of course. For his own part, the riding and archery had grown on Tarondor eventually.
She would be so proud, his mother, whenever she saw them interacting together so well despite their differing interests and personalities. 'My boys,' she would call them in that sweet, proud tone only mothers could manage. Tarondor and his brother would always blush deeply, whilst their father would have a dashing smile plastered on his face. Looking back, his mother really had been the glue in their family, holding them all together…before she died.
Eru had sent his Gift, and his mother had had no choice but to accept. Death had come in the form of a winter fever. An unnatural shiver, she had complained of feeling cold one winter morning and two days later she had died. Despite the best possible treatment, despite his people's supposed blessings, she had gone and left them. And she hadn't been alone. That year, the cold winds had swept over the Wall, and that same disease had struck down many all across Westeros, highborn and low.
He had cursed, he had raged, shouted, cried, but nothing would bring her back, nothing would fill the emptiness he felt. She was gone, centuries too young to die, and she took a piece of him with her. Tarondor had realized then, for all of his people's gifts, their long life, their great stature and strength, and their supposed immunity to sickness, they were still mortal. So terrifyingly mortal and
fragile. The slightest thing could extinguish the light in their eyes. The day his mother died, Tarondor had put down the bow, and he had never wielded it since.
Immunity to disease; what a lie. His people had been blessed to be free from any ill of body or mind, but that hadn't saved her. He had never felt so mocked.
Little by little, the glue fell apart and he was left with a broken family. His father and brother ignored him for their horses, and he set sail, returning to his original passion, never in Annúminas longer than he had to be, because it had hurt too much. And his father hadn't cared enough to make him stay. He had heard the rumours of his father preferring Amroth over him many times and Tarondor had been too afraid to ask his if they were true. So instead he had run.
Always running away, always trying to flee the emptiness he felt, he had sailed further than any before, ventured to new lands, brought back vast riches for Arnor from faraway lands. He had founded the Guild of Ventures, named for Tar-Aldarion's famous organization. His men had adored him, toasted him and called him their prince, the Prince of Mariners, but the emptiness in his heart had never faded.
Eru, in his infinite indifference, had seen fit to torment him further still. He could no longer count the men he had lost at sea, to storms or pirates, and yet he could still remember each and every one of their faces. Such was the way of life. Everyone will leave you in the end. Whenever he recalled his lost friends and family, Tarondor could understand Ar-Pharazôn's foolish desire for life eternal. For how else could one mend the emptiness in their souls? But it was a foolish thought, eternal life did not save one from the kiss of a blade or an ailment's feverish touch.
Yet as he felt himself dropping further into despair, he had seen her. Hair as black as night and grey eyes the colour of the fiercest sea storm. She had been the daughter of a great Dúnedain lord, Lady Miriel of Tarnost.
When he had seen her that day, waiting on the harbour piers of Annúminas, he had fallen for her, it had just taken him a long, long time to realise it. She had come barrelling into his life like a hurricane. 'I wanted to meet the famous Prince of Mariners' she had said. Her father had been made an advisor to the king and she had come along.
Tarondor knew it was likely she had been told to pursue him, seeing as he was the heir yet, he could not help but feel drawn to her. She was idealistic and bold. She saw the world in an optimistic and perhaps slightly naïve way but in his cynical despair and grief, that was exactly what Tarondor needed. Like a moth drawn to flame, he began staying in Annúminas loner and longer each time.
However, the sea would not relinquish its grip on him and still he would continue on his journeys, being away at sea for months and occasionally, years, at a time. He feared marrying her and breaking her heart when he left for sea yet again. 'Aldarion and Erendis' a famed tale from Númenor of old had warned of this very same thing. Erendis would not share her husband with the sea, and her marriage failed for it.
Tarondor had confided this fear in Miriel.
"Worry not. Erendis was a fool. I need not share you with the sea for I know you shall always return to me," she said and Tarondor had felt such love for her in that moment, he knew that he would marry her one day.
Finally, after 3 years of courting, he had asked for her hand in marriage. When it was granted, he felt the happiest he had been since before his mother died.
When he had told his father, he feared the joy would turn to sorrow. Officially he needed the King's permission to wed. It was unlikely he would deny him, but the fear remained. His father had congratulated him and given his permission.
As he walked out of the room though, Tarondor was surprised to hear his father's words, "I'm proud of you, Tarondor." Soft and barely audible. No doubt without his enhanced hearing, he would never have heard it.
Tarondor had looked back briefly but his father had been at his desk, sorting through his letters, almost as if he had never said it all. Afraid it had only been his imagination, Tarondor had walked out, unaware of the sad smile on his father's face as he watched him go.
The day he married Miriel, Tarondor had almost forgiven his father. As he felt such great love, he felt he could sympathize with his father's loss and understand why he grew distant. Almost that is, until he was reminded of his father's continued closeness with Amroth. Such a clear and blatant reminder on his own wedding day, that his father favoured his brother over him and the memory of the rumours returned to plague him.
'The King favours his younger son over the elder' they said.
'Perhaps it is Amroth who will be King, not Tarondor' they would whisper to one another.
NO! He forcibly ignored the whispering. He would not listen to this nonsense, not on his wedding day. This day was for him and Miriel and he would not listen to these parasites today.
So he had walked past the rumourmongers and when he had kissed Miriel as her husband, he had felt everything was alright. He cared not if his father loved him, because he had Miriel and she was all he really needed. Yet, deep down in his heart, Tarondor still wanted his father's love, no matter how much he denied it. And even with Miriel's love, the emptiness he had felt since his mother died did not go away. It had only been soothed slightly… for now.
A year after his wedding, Tarondor's son had been born. Valandur had been a strong and loud boy. As he cradled his son in his arms, Tarondor swore to himself, that his son would never have to feel insecure, wondering if their father loved them or not.
For his son's sake, he began shortening his voyages, always returning swiftly to see him. To his pleasure, Valandur showed as much interest in the sea as Tarondor himself had at the same age. When he was ten, Tarondor took Valandur with him on his first long voyage and taught him how to sail.
As he watched his son learn how to trim the sails and row the oars, Tarondor felt proud. He will make a fine king one day.
Tarondor had been sleeping in the captain's quarters when he had been woken up. A loud rapping on his door from his first mate.
"Enter," he shouted as he got up.
Rusty hinges creaked as the door swung open and his son and first mate Valandur walked in. At 169 years old, Valandur had more than enough age and experience to captain his own ship but annoyingly both he and his two younger brothers insisted on serving on his ship still. Personally, Tarondor felt like he needed to kick them off soon, but not quite yet.
"Forgive me Father, but we've spotted a longship, Greymen. Requesting permission to pursue."
Tarondor smirked, if there was one thing he liked more than Miriel's body, doting on his children, and sailing on the open sea, it was hunting down Greyborn corsairs and sending them to their Drowned God. Those bastards had killed enough of his sailors to crew a whole galleon, and Tarondor knew that their raids on Arnor's ships had been increasing. Ever since Elendur had built the beacon system, it was no longer viable for them to raid Arnor's coasts so they had switched to attacking her shipping instead.
"Did you even have to ask?" he said in an amused tone. "Pursue and destroy."
With a smirk matching his own, Valandur turned and walked out the door, "Aye aye, Captain."
By the time they had caught up to the longship, the sun had already begun peeking above the horizon. As the first rays of the morning illuminated the sea, Tarondor could see the flag flown from the pinnacle of the mast clearly. A bone hand, white on red. House Drumm.
Interesting, flags are inexorbitantly expensive for the Greyborn, due to the dyes needed, which means a member of that particular family is on board.
When he had first started sailing, Tarondor had used a normal merchant ship. However, as he lost more men to Greyborn raids he had shifted his ship to a combat role and took it upon himself to patrol Arnor's waters. Under his leadership, a nascent navy had developed to protect their sailors and their warships were all of them armed.
Like idiots, the Greyborn did not make use of their superior speed but instead charged at them. Of course, if they had tried to flee, Tarondor had other methods to deal with them but they didn't know that.
He ordered his ship to meet their charge and repressed a smirk when he heard their hull being broken by the ram fitted to his ship. The moment their ships came into contact, his men lowered the corvus, which came crashing down onto the longship.
"For Arnor!" he yelled, as he charged into battle, his sons and soldiers following behind him. The battle was laughingly easy after that. These Greyborn were so entertaining to fight. They were arrogant enough to believe they had the upper hand at sea and Tarondor loved proving them wrong.
"Father, we have ourselves a highborn captive!" Valandur proclaimed triumphantly dragging a rather ugly one-eyed man by the hair before throwing him at Tarondor's feet. "Dunstan Drumm!"
"You won't get away with this. My brother is the Lord of Old Wyk!" Drumm choked out, his hair was greying and his mouth was bloody and missing teeth. Valandur had obviously not been gentle.
"I'm afraid that you will find that I will indeed get away with this. You do not need to know how of course because you will soon be dead. Any last words?"
Dunstan spat at his feet. Unfortunately, he ended up spitting some of his blood and teeth as well. Unamused, Tarondor drew his sword and beheaded him swiftly.
Wiping his blade clean, he ordered, "Execute the survivors and throw all the bodies into the sea. Loot the cargo hold. Their ill-gotten booty will be returned to Arnor."
Some would say he was unnecessarily cruel. After all, those men had surrendered, but Tarondor could care less. In his opinion, a good Greyborn was a dead Greyborn and he certainly wasn't about to waste resources carting the prisoners to the Wall.
A day later when they sailed into Annúminas harbour, he was surprised to see Amroth on the pier waiting for him. His wife, daughters, and goodaughters were always there to welcome him and his sons, but his brother Amroth had never been there before. And he hadn't come alone. An entire contingent of Arnorian soldiers was with him as well.
By Eru, what have I done now? Has Father decided to arrest me?
His wild idea was disproven by the reassuring presence of his wife and family but Tarondor was still confused about his brother and the soldiers being there. When he greeted his wife, she looked troubled, almost afraid to say anything.
Turning to his brother, Tarondor demanded to know why he had come and brought soldiers as well.
"Are you planning on arresting me Brother?"
"Hardly," Amroth drawled. Turning serious he continued, "This is an honour guard for the King of Arnor."
Tarondor, his sons and all their men looked shocked. But that would mean! Turning to his wife, she nodded confirmation.
"Your father is dead, Tarondor."
His father was dead. He was king.
It was the 712th year since Elendil's Landing. Tarondor had left port the Crown Prince and returned the King of Arnor. Long may he reign.
Author's note: Tarondor has daddy issues. The mother died from Shivers/Winter Fever. This is what I mean by 90% gifts intact. The Dunedain are not quite immune to disease anymore. They are resistant to it but some super diseases can kill them.
