Return to life

I'm not sure it's really necessary to flag spoilers here, as even people with only a slight knowledge of Tolkien or LOTR already know this information, but just in case there's someone there who's only watching the show and hasn't been told this stuff by book/movie fans or guessed it from interviews, there is a major spoiler over here regarding the state of a certain character. There. Civic duty done, anyone who reads on does so at their own risk.

Summary: This is how I imagine Isildur's escape from Mordor and return to Númenor would look like. It's more introspective and character-focused than action-driven, but I hope that's alright.

Personally, I enjoyed the show. I respect and acknowledge any difference of opinion as valid, so please offer me the same courtesy. If you want to bash the show, please do so on Amazon's official message boards and not my fanfic (let's be clear, I welcome intelligent discussions of any kind and that includes criticism of my fic or aspects of the show. But if all you have to contribute is along the lines of "This show sucks *** and so do you for liking it", then please take a deep breath, think it over, and move on. I know people can get passionate about fandoms, but there's no need for personal attacks. I'm sure you guys are reasonable enough not to do this, though).

To those following my other fics: I'm not abandoning you, updates will still be posted as scheduled every Sunday including this Sunday. I just needed to get this out of my system and couldn't wait two years for a resolution (whatever happened to the good times when you only waited a few months for a new season to start?)

More notes at the end (yes, there are more :P)

Ever since his mother's death, Isildur has been certain it will be water that kills him. He's dreamed of it many nights: the roaring tides closing over his head, robbing him of the ability to move or breathe; nightmares that left him gasping but that he masterfully hid from his father, and even from Eärien, although Eärien used to pry and pry, somehow trying to take the place of their mother, even though he had never asked her to.

When the beams of the house fall on him in a shower of sparks and smoke, Isildur almost feels relieved. He will not die in water, after all…

xxxXXxxx

There is darkness and confusion when he wakes. There is not a part of his body that is not sore, his eyes hurt, there is a constant roaring in his ears and he cannot breathe. There are shouts outside, harsh voices hurling words at each other in a language he cannot understand, nor does he want to, as he feels it is a language of discordance and hate, of darkness and fire, like the darkness and fire spreading outside. He knows he is alive, and he knows he will have to remain where he is for now. He will have to time his escape properly if he wants to get out of there undiscovered.

He is frightened, the kind of fear that sometimes comes upon him in crushing waves, so sudden and unrelenting that it robs him of breath and sight, leaves him weak and trembling, with muddled thoughts and heavy limbs. It happened before back home, and Isildur has always tried to go somewhere no one could find him when he feels the fear approaching, because he never wants others to see him like this, not Eärien who worries enough about him as it is and who should be concentrating on her own life and not the life of her troubled eldest brother, not Valandil who thinks Isildur is being difficult on purpose, not his father, ever so composed and secure, a rock for others to cling to in the storm - and how could Isildur live up to even a fraction of that?

He thinks he might have allowed his mother to see, as she had always accepted him for who he was and never judged him for what he could not be. He wonders now if it is because she had not known him, had not seen there was darkness in him, and more discontent than he has a right to feel, and a painful inability to find his place anywhere in Númenor.

xxXXxxx

It is much later when Isildur finally deems it safe to try to get out. The voices are gone, the silence is all consuming and despite the still smoldering fires, he feels cold. It takes him all his strength to move aside the beams, and he is weak and shaking once he is done.

Outside, everything is ashes and darkness, and poison. He vaguely remembers how it had looked before, in those brief glorious moments he had been certain they were victorious, how he had laughed with Valandil and Ontamo out there in the sun, how his father had held him close for the first time in such a long time. Isildur's eyes are wet, and he does not know if it is from the ash in the air or his heartbreak, does not even know if he is mourning the Southlands or the last vestiges of his innocence that went up in flames when the mountain had exploded and the world had turned against them.

He walks for a while, staggering, uncertain of the direction as there is no sun and no stars to guide him, but he thinks he can spot landmarks he recognizes: the remains of the house where they had kept the commander of the Orcs, the hill from where he had watched the charge with his heart pounding from both fear and anticipation, before the Queen Regent had ordered him to join them.

It will take some time, he knows, but he thinks he can make it out of this mess. The Númenóreans will always find their way to the sea, his father told him one night long ago, when Anárion was small and Eärien had not been born yet. The sea is in our blood, Elendil had said. It always calls to us. It always guides us home.

xxXXXxxx

At one point Isildur has to stop when he hears harsh voices up ahead. He ducks behind a fallen barn and sees three Orcs approaching, driving a horse forward. The horse is stubborn and will not move, but the Orcs are cruel and use whips, and Isildur sees red. He grabs a boulder and hurls it at the Orcs, then picks up a wooden board and charges at them, not pausing to think how unwise this is, how he has no chances of winning unarmed as he is and he is rushing towards certain death. He does not care, because he would recognize that horse anywhere, and he would rather cast himself in the depths of that fiery mountain than see Berek treated like this.

He does not remember the fight. He charges wildly and without a strategy – something he often does, as he had overheard the captain of the recruits tell his father once – and it is sheer luck – he does not dare to think it is fate – that keeps him standing. He manages to wrench a sword from one of the Orcs, but there are still three of them and only one of him, and they are laughing at him, shouting in that guttural, incomprehensible language, and he thinks they are allowing him to continue the fight just because his resistance amuses them.

They have him cornered now, his back against a house, and there is nowhere for Isildur to go. He desperately hopes they kill him on the spot, because he has heard the legends of the time before Morgoth's defeat and knows what Orcs do to their prisoners. Then Berek charges at the Orcs and knocks two down. Isildur plunges the sword into the third.

It's just him and Berek now, and Isildur leans against the horse and feels the softness and the aliveness of him and he is laughing and crying at the same time. There are so many things he wants to say and cannot find the words. He wants to say, I found you, and I am never letting you go and never letting anyone hurt you again. Or maybe he should say: You found me, you came for me, you saved me. The truth is, they have found and saved each other, he and Berek, and the notion brings a tiny piece of order to his shattered universe.

xxxXXXxxx

They ride for a while. Isildur does not know for how long, but they finally get clear of the ash, and he is surprised the sun is up in the sky. There is no one left where they had laid anchor days ago, and Isildur panics, but there are tracks of men and horses further north, and he remembers the Númenóreans have a small settlement there. Any survivors would have gone there to start anew, and Isildur leads Berek in that direction.

The ride is long, and Isildur barely remembers his own name by the end of it. He reaches the encampment and spots the guard, the Elf that had been with the Southlanders, Arondir, Isildur thinks his name was. Arondir's eyes widen as he recognizes the tattered and burned remains of Isildur's uniform, and he rushes forward just in time. Isildur slides from the saddle, and Arondir tries to hold him up, calling urgently for someone.

There are voices all around him, now, and Isildur catches his name through the roaring in his ears, so someone must have recognized him. He wishes he could stay awake long enough to ask about his father, but he does not think he has the strength to hear any bad news, and he is too afraid that something must have happened to Elendil, otherwise he would have been there. It does not matter what he wants, though, as he sinks into darkness before he can even say anything.

xxXXXxxxx

It's all darkness and pain and fire for a time. Isildur dreams of the mountain spitting fire, of the fight with Valandil and Ontamo after Isildur had gotten the three of them dismissed from the Sea Guard, of seeing Ontamo's dead eyes staring at him, of the Queen Regent's screams when that house exploded. He dreams of shadows and fire spirits and all the monsters ever spawned coming to torment him.

He dreams of his mother most of all – of the day of her drowning, but also of before. Of the sunny days back in the West of Númenor, of how she used to sing in the morning as she opened the windows and went to feed the horses, of the stories she would tell her three wide-eyed children before bedtime, stories of olden days and the glory of the Edain, of Beren and Lúthien the Fair, of the daring deeds of Elves and Men when the world was wider and the grass greener.

He thinks he calls out for her. At times, a hand runs through his hair and over his forehead, and he hears a soft voice answering him, telling him everything is in order, that he is safe now, and he should rest. She says the shadows have faded, there are no clouds, and the sun is shining again. She sings sometimes, and her voice is soft and deep. It is an unfamiliar song, and Isildur does not want to think about it too much, because then he will lose his last illusion that his mother is at his bedside, and he does not think he can bear this right now.

xxxXXXxxx

When Isildur finally comes back to himself, the sun is shining. He is lying in a hut with thatched roof. A woman is there in the room with him, not a Númenórean, he is sure of that, as she is less tall than the women of Númenor usually are. She looks vaguely familiar and Isildur is sure he must have glimpsed her in the village. She meets his gaze and smiles at him.

"I knew you'd wake up. You are too stubborn to give in after you've made it this far. You are Isildur, right? The Captain's son? One of your people recognized you. I am Bronwyn – from the Southlands. You're at Pelargir, Isildur, and you are quite safe."

She smiles, and Isildur knows hers is the voice he has heard in his dreams. Her hands are gentle as she checks him over, with the practiced, natural gentleness of the skilled healer, but there is more. She is a mother too, and Isildur is ashamed to find himself envying her children, because she is alive and can drive away their nightmares and sing them songs, and he is terribly empty and alone.

Bronwyn looks at him as if she knows, and she probably does, because who knows what Isildur has babbled during his fever? A part of him is embarrassed by the weakness. Another part watches her as she helps him drink, handling him like she cares, and all he wants her is to hold him, so he could feel that kind of embrace one last time and lose himself in the sense of safety he thinks completely lost. Isildur nearly asks her, he is sure she would grant this to him and not judge, but the words die in his throat. Maybe it is pride or maybe he thinks he has no right to ask her to be more than she has already been to him.

When Isildur thanks her for taking care of him, Bronwyn smiles, and sits with him holding his hand and humming almost distractedly. He does not think she is doing this out of pity, she is only giving him what he needs to heal, and Isildur falls asleep to the sound of her voice and the feel of her hand, and for once no nightmares follow.

xxxXXXxxx

In two months, Númenor will send a ship to bring supplies to Pelargir and relieve some of the garrison left there. Until then, the only thing Isildur can do is wait. Pelargir is a colony that is growing all the time, with people starting to build more durable houses for the Southlanders and till the rich soil and find pastures for their animals. Isildur has offered to help with all of that, or at least with guard duty and patrols. He approaches Arondir and volunteers his services, but the Elf shakes his head once and firmly tells him:Not until Bronwyn says so. And Bronwyn barely allows him out of his hut.

Isildur knows she is right. He is of Númenórean blood, and can endure more than others, but he still is a mortal Man and there is only so much his body can go through. He cannot stand for too long – it turns out his mad charge for Berek's rescue has left him with a wound in his leg that Isildur had not even noticed in the general confusion, not until nearly falling off his horse when he arrived at the settlement. Moving too much also leaves him breathless and coughing. It is the smoke and the ash from the mountain, Bronwyn tells him. Many Southlanders who had arrived safely in Pelargir have succumbed to its poisonous effects and died later on. Not him, Bronwyn quickly reassures him. Fate has spared him for so long for a reason – and it cannot be just so that he can languish and die in the settlement.

"You will be strong again soon enough, with many brave deeds ahead of you," she tells him. "But you need to be patient with yourself. That will not happen unless you give yourself the rest you need – and you will not get that if you go traipsing in the wild with Arondir."

She shoots Arondir a sharp glance then, as if to say: Don't you dare give in to whatever he demands or you'll have me to answer to. Isildur watches them, mystified by their interaction, but somehow his heart is glad, as it is a comfort to know there is still warmth and love in a world where victory can be overturned by defeat so quickly and people like Ontamo, who should never have been anywhere near a battle, die buried under ash and rubble.

Bronwyn guesses he is not one to sit idle for long, so she gives him small tasks. Isildur helps her with her herbs and she teaches him about healing, and he finds himself interested and a quick learner. She takes his hand once and looks at it, and says he, too, has the hands of a healer, and she is sure him and his kind are destined to do great things.

In the evenings, Isildur sits in front of the house with Bronwyn's son. Theo is much younger than him, but he has witnessed the destruction of his home, and he knows things Isildur never wishes to find out. They talk often, and Theo tells him of the Southlands, of how it all went wrong, of the strange device he once found and how it led to the breaking of his world. He mentions how he felt, attracted to the power that object gave him, and how he still dreams of it and thinks it will never let him go.

Isildur thinks he understands. He has never been through something like this, but he somehow understands. He does not think he craves power for the adulation and authority that would come with it, but he does long for the control power would offer him. Control that would help him make sure his world could remain in order, that nothing like the devastating turn of events in the Southlands would ever happen again.

He tells Theo that, and then he finds himself talking about Númenor, about the schism between the people, of the Faithful and the isolationists, about Pharazon's son, who had tried to put a devastating stop to the Queen Regent's plans of coming to the aid of the Southlanders, and how Isildur had been tempted, just for one moment, to let the little traitor reap the seeds of his sabotage and go up with the ship – but how he did not do it in the end, because he knows his mother would have been so very disappointed in Isildur, and anyway Eärien is fond of Kemen, although Isildur thinks there is no accounting for taste, and she and Valandil would be so much better suited together.

Theo listens to his stories, silent and wide-eyed, and Isildur is reminded of the way Anárion used to look at him years ago. He remembers that day when he had taught Anárion how to tie knots on the ship. Isildur had begged and pestered his father to allow him to be the one to do it, until Elendil had given in, throwing his hands up in exasperation. Isildur knows, though, that it was all pretense, as he caught Elendil laughing with their mother afterwards, and had seen the glint of amused pride in his eyes as Anárion stood listening to his big brother's instructions with grave solemnity, as if Isildur was imparting to him the secrets of the universe.

Isildur finds himself sharing the memory with Theo, who throws back his head and laughs loudly. Isildur notices Bronwyn's eyes on him from the garden, and she smiles when he catches her eye. He is warmed by both of them, and he reaches out to grasp Theo's shoulder. Theo isn't Anárion, just as Bronwyn is not his mother, but the moment of connection shifts something in the depths of Isildur's soul, and he thinks, There is still good in this world of ours, and that good is worth defending against all the fiery mountains and all the Orcs ever spawned.

xxxXXxxx

Two months pass, and the supply ship finally arrives from Númenor. Elendil isn't its captain, as there is no need to give such a task to someone so high ranking, but the ship's captain is a friend of Elendil's, and he grins and shakes Isildur's hand.

"Lad, your father was devastated. My ship cannot bring you home any sooner."

Isildur wonders at that, as he cannot remember a day when his father has allowed others to see he was devastated by anything. He does not know why, but he is afraid to go home. His family has mourned him for two months. They do not doubt he is dead. Can they still welcome him back as if nothing has happened? Does he still have a place among them?

He is surprised to discover that Bronwyn and her small family seem sorry to see him leave. Theo is morose and mutters about people going and not coming back, and Isildur knows Theo's father supposedly left, just as he knows Theo is upset that their new king has ridden off with Commander Galadriel right after the battle, and no one has heard anything of him since. Isildur is sorry to add to the list of abandoners, but he solemnly promises he will come back, and thinks that maybe he can somehow wrangle something out of his father to allow him that. Theo brightens up then.

Arondir shakes Isildur's hand and pats his shoulder, telling him he should be proud of himself. He's been through fire and survived, he fought with all his might to get back home.

"If you ever decide to join the battle against our enemies one day," he says, "I will be honored to fight at your side."

Isildur turns to Bronwyn last, and this time he does embrace her. She deserves to know how grateful he is to her – for the way she nursed him back to health and refused to give up on him, for understanding more than she let on and staying by his side without hesitation, for the days of peace and warmth she and Theo and even Arondir have offered him, despite him being a stranger, not even of their own people. Bronwyn returns the embrace, even seems glad of it, and it's a moment when Isildur wishes he could stop time and have this forever.

xxxXXxxx

The voyage back to Númenor feels both too long and too short, and Isildur often finds himself disconcerted by the movement of the ship. Before, he had been as confident on sea as on dry land, maybe even more so, but now the ceaseless rocking reminds him of the way the ground had started shaking right before the mountain had erupted. It turns his stomach, and he cannot help wondering what his father would say, if he found out Isildur now cannot even stand on a ship without breaking down.

The others inform him of what has been happening in Númenor. He is devastated to hear about the Queen Regent's blindness – the Queen, he corrects himself, after learning that the old King is dead. He remembers the moment sparks started falling from the ceiling, right before it collapsed entirely, and he wondered if there had not been something he should have done. Perhaps he should have tried to keep the Queen from entering the house in the first place. He and Valandil could have handled getting the family out on their own.

Isildur starts wondering if his homecoming will be glorious after all. He was with the Queen, he was supposed to keep her safe, to give his life for her. He forgets that he very nearly did, that Tar-Míriel would have never agreed to allow them to go alone in that house, that the world was burning and in chaos and they could not have done more. He only thinks that he has failed somehow, that he might be a disappointment after all, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he should not be returning.

xxXXxx

The news of Isildur's survival spreads before they even drop anchor. He is not the only one, there were a few other stragglers that had found their way to Pelargir, but he, apparently was the only one everyone was firmly convinced was dead. The thought brings a bitter taste into his mouth.

Elendil is already on the docks when Isildur finally makes it there. People move aside, as if giving father and son a moment together, but Isildur does not pay attention to any of them. He only has eyes for his father, who is standing there frozen, looking at Isildur as if afraid he might disappear – or afraid this is not really his son but some malicious specter come to torment him. Once more, Isildur wonders if he had any right to come back, when everyone he knows has already mourned him and laid him to rest.

"Father," he tries.

He cannot make his voice work and he is not sure his words come out. But something seems to change in Elendil. He shakes his head and moves forward, reaching out to touch the side of Isildur's face. The touch is gentle, hesitant, even, as if worried Isildur might shatter into pieces in front of him, and Isildur is reminded of watching his father hold baby Eärien for the first time, so carefully and almost half afraid, and their mother was laughing and shaking her head. She's not made of air, Elendil, she had chided. She can handle you holding her.

I'm not made of air, he wants to say, but the words will not come. He watches the light in his father's eyes, as if Elendil is driving away the shadows of grief that have plagued his mind for two months, and Isildur feels slightly ashamed that he thought of not coming back. How could he think his family would not prefer to have him back, even if they had come to terms with his loss two months ago?

He does not know who makes the first move, if his father finally takes hold of him, or if Isildur is the one who rushes towards him, but suddenly he finds himself in Elendil's arms, and his father's embrace is desperately tight – it should be too tight for Isildur's still healing lungs, as there are times he still finds himself breathless, but this is not one of them. This time, he thinks he can actually breathe better, as if the arms holding him are giving him life once more, calling him back from the darkness that had threatened to engulf him back in the Land of Shadows.

"Isil…"

His father rarely calls him by his pet name, but this time he does, and his voice is slightly cracked, and Isildur can feel him trembling slightly, maybe even weeping. It's that display of vulnerability from someone who often chooses to ignore and lock away his emotions in order to watch out for others that makes Isildur realize just how all-encompassing and painful is his father's love for him.

It feels like that moment in the Land of Shadows when the roof had fallen on him had shattered him into thousands of pieces, and he has spent all the while since he woke up gathering them back to himself. He found them when he and Berek had rescued each other and during his days at Pelargir. Bronwyn's kindness to him, the evenings he spent talking to Theo, Arondir's parting words, they all helped him gather the lost pieces of his life back to himself. But it is in this moment, in his father's embrace, that Isildur is finally put back together. This is the moment when he finally feels safe, feels whole, feels himself again.

He closes his eyes and does not let go and allows himself to focus on the voices of Númenor all around him and the smell of the sea, and the feel of his father. For the first time in a long time, Isildur thinks he is truly home.

OK, I've never really done this stream of consciousness type of writing before, but it was actually fun. Now that I think of it, I might do a companion fic from Elendil's POV at one point.

Some notes on my creative decisions:

-We know from episode 7 that Good Boi Berek will have a part to play in Isildur's rescue (plus there's a season 2 set pic with Maxim Baldry on a horse). Now while Berek deserves all the credit and appreciation (and an apple not tainted with human saliva…), I decided to do a little twist and have both of them rescuing each other. I'm sure we won't get to see that in the show, but for the moment I'll enjoy my version.

-From what I got in episode 7, the Pelargir colony/settlement was already there, and I also think they left a garrison just in case. If that's so, it would make sense for Númenor to send supplies now and again and relieve the garrison with new people. Such a mission probably wouldn't have been given to someone of Elendil's status, and anyway I wanted Elendil and Isildur to reunite in Númenor.

-If Isildur does make it to Pelargir, it would make sense for him to meet Bronwyn &co. Since he probably wouldn't be doing so well after a house fell on him and all, he might need some healing, and since Bronwyn herself is a healer, I thought why not? I didn't initially plan for her to have anything other than a small passing role, but the two characters demanded a different kind of interraction.

-I did make a few Lore references, most notably one to my favorite moment in LOTR books, in "The Houses of Healing" chapter, in which it's told something along the lines of "The hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and so the rightful king will be revealed" (quoting from memory here). There are others, but I'll let you spot them yourselves ;)

-The flashbacks to Isil's childhood are my own invention and probably some of the stuff I'm most proud of in the entire fic.

-Apologies if accents are not always placed where they should be, my keyboard and word are temperamental when it comes to special letters, and while I think I got them all I might have missed a few.

Thanks for reading!