Chapter Ten: A Voyage to Lindon

With the prodigious wealth I had stored away in the island's banking houses, it was a relatively simple task to arrange a ship, and within a month everything was ready. Unlike my previous voyages to Middle-earth, I was departing from Andunië, rather than Rómenna; the havens of Amandil's city were perfectly adequate for my purposes, and the less contact with the likes of Raphizôn in the current political climate, the better. In the meantime, I had the run of Amandil's home, old Lord Numendil being too sick and too drunk to object. Andunië was a pleasant city, quieter and more thoughtful than Armenelos or Rómenna, and during the evenings, I frequently went for walks along the edge of the harbour. The skyline of the city was, of course, dominated by Tar-Minastir's tower, which sat upon a nearby hill. Looking at the sheer height of it, I almost felt sorry for my uncle having to continually climb those steps with his crippled legs and his cane. Well, the man was devoted, I would give him that.

Elendil proved to be a tall and sullen young man. He was frosty towards me, no doubt hearing from his mother about the depravities of King's Men. For my part, I made a point of keeping my depravity to a minimum, lest that thrice-damned woman intervene to stop her son travelling. Not that I got any gratitude for my uncharacteristically wholesome behaviour: neither mother nor son would speak more than a few words to me, and Elendil could often be heard muttering to himself in Elvish. I could not for the life of me understand what Amandil saw in this son of his. If the future of our people hinged on this lad, I decided, then Númenor was probably doomed.

The day of departure came. Our ship, small but fast, was well-provisioned, and had an experienced captain and crew. Amandil had also provided some of his father's guardsmen to keep watch over his son. I told Amandil that such precautions were not necessary: I had men of my own in my employ, but my old friend shook his head, and said that it was the only way he could convince his wife to let Elendil out of her sight. As it was, Amandil's wife was there on the docks to see us off. She said nothing to me, but hugged Elendil before he boarded. I noticed she did not wave as we hauled anchor and set sail. That woman approved of nothing.

The winds were favourable, as we made our way west, then north, around the coastline.

"Fortune favours us today," I said to Elendil, as we watched the cliffs of our island slide past.

"How so?" Elendil towered over me like some sort of mortal Meneltarma. It was quite disconcerting.

"The sky is clear, the Sea is blue, and the winds are as we desire. We are strong and healthy, the epitome of the greatest Empire the world has ever known. What more could a man wish for on such a morning?" Other than women for company, I thought, but Elendil was less tolerant of ribald jests than his father. Indeed, it would not have surprised me to learn that he was still a virgin.

"Our Empire is rotten to the core," he said grimly. He was parroting his mother, I supposed. In her fortuitous absence this was something that needed to be set aright.

"Have you ever been to Armenelos, lad?" I said, wishing that Amandil had been more forceful a father. "Have you seen the cities and towns that have grown up along the coastline of Middle-earth?"

"No," said Elendil, sulkily. It was as I thought. For all his physical stature, in his mind he was still a little boy dominated by his mother. He needed to learn a thing or two about life, with all its pleasures and uncertainties. A campaign would do the trick. I made a mental note to enlist him should I ever lead a force against Mordor.

"Our 'rotten Empire' brought civilisation to the dark reaches of the world," I said. "We saved Middle-earth, throwing off the dark shackles of Mordor. Were it not for us, Sauron of Barad-dûr, not my uncle, would be the King of Men."

Given the recent behaviour of my uncle, the cynical side of me privately noted that that might not necessarily have been a good thing. But even the lembas eaters agreed that Sauron was bad, so the argument still held. I'd had enough practice debating Inziladûn and Zimraphel over the years, and this Elendil was hardly as formidable as them.

"But we neglect the White Tree," the young man said. Beliefs can be obstinate things. "Everything that was good and great about Númenor was given to us by the Elves and Valar, yet we reject them and fear them. Our people are too arrogant." He wiped his nose.

I smiled. "Elendil," I said, completely patronising the poor fellow, "Men have to make our own way in this world. So the old myths say that the Gods raised our land from beneath the Sea. It may even be true. But we are not pets or perpetual children, forever obligated to bow and scrape before our betters. The Númenórean Empire has been built with the blood and steel of our people alone. Thank them, not the Elves."

"But Nimloth…"

"Is a tree," I said. "A very pretty tree, to be sure, and it is a shame that my grandfather neglected it. Ar-Gimilzôr never was the arboreal type. But it is nothing mystical or special about the White Tree of Armenelos. Believe me, I've seen it."

Unlike you, I thought, who has spent their entire life being cossetted by a mad woman in Andunië.

"Tar-Palantír on his last visit to Tar-Minastir's tower said that if the White Tree failed, the line of Elros would fail."

"Did he indeed?" I said, genuinely surprised. Not that Nimloth was in any immediate danger of failing. It was just that there was no obvious political advantage to be gained from such a statement. I would have to give the matter some thought.

"Yes," said Elendil. "I was there. The King was just getting into his litter to go back to Armenelos, when I heard him say it to Lord Numendil my grandfather."

"Did the King say anything else during his visit?"

"Not that I can recall."

Worth a try, I thought. Elendil was young and naïve; who knew what information he might cough up? As the next few weeks revealed, the lad actually rather excelled at coughing up, though not in a nice way: Elendil had had little experience of long sea voyages, and, much to my private amusement, was frequently afflicted with horrific bouts of sea-sickness. I saw little of him during that time, and when I did see him, much of his conversation was peppered with queries as to how much longer the voyage would last

In the event, the ship made very good time, and it was not long before the twin coasts of Forlindon and Harlindon hove into view. The Blue Mountains, heavily wooded and with a small coating of snow, dominated the horizon.

"Of old, there were Dwarven cities in those Mountains," said Elendil. Looking rather less green today, he had ventured above deck. "They were destroyed by the breaking of Beleriand."

"There are few Dwarves there today," I said. "If you're looking for Dwarves, you really can't go past Khazad-dûm. That's many leagues away, beneath the Misty Mountains."

"I'm not looking for Dwarves," snapped Elendil. "Treacherous backstabbing swine!"

I raised my eyebrows at that. Some men have the oddest prejudices. "Since when have you met a dwarf?"

"I don't need to. It's in all the histories. The Dwarves destroyed Doriath and stole…"

"Who wrote the histories?"

"The Elves did. When I am older, I intend to write a history of Númenor in the style of Pengolodh."

I shook my head. "Don't believe everything you read, lad."

Making our way through the Gulf of Lune, we soon arrived at Harlond, where High-King Gil-galad and his court still dwelt, millennia after most of their race had gone back to Aman. During the reign of my grandfather, some of Númenor's lembas eaters had gone running to Lindon for shelter, and, frankly, no-one had cared. It really says something about the true level of faithfulness among the so-called Faithful that they resort to such self-imposed exile and martyrdom at the slightest criticism. Inziladûn treated my father like mud, yet neither I nor Gimilkhâd had ever considered abandoning our ancestral homeland. Under my uncle, of course, most of those exiles had then returned to Númenor, though from what I remembered, there were still quite a few Men left in Lindon. They weren't likely to be pleasant to me, but then that was why I had brought Elendil.

Harlond was small, and lacked the vibrancy of Rómenna or Andunië. It was quiet, melancholy, and somewhat alien. As I came ashore, I felt as though I were stepping back in time, a feeling only enhanced by the gentle mist that was starting to sink over the harbour. We encountered our first Elves before long. Strolling around the wharf, they were tall, thin, and pale. Most had long, dark hair, finer than you would ever see on a mortal, but it was their eyes that truly set them apart. There was something unholy and terrifying about those eyes: millennia of anger, bitterness, spite, and desire compressed into a single mind. 'Deep wells of memory' some have described them, but I think cauldrons of memory more fitting, and that which rises to the surface is not necessarily friendly to mortals. Inziladûn was mad to worship them, I realised, utterly mad. It was like a mouse worshipping a cat.

Elendil, who walked with me, had no such qualms. He was merrily calling out in Quenya to everyone we passed. That he only got quizzical looks or polite nods in reply did not dent his enthusiasm. It was only when some tall figures in chainmail marched up to us that I realised our presence had finally been noticed.