This story is already complete and has been posted on AO3. I'm posting it here in case anyone who does not go on AO3 might want to read it. As it's rather long, I'll upload it all in a couple of days (about four chapters per night). Just note that it is a sequel to Under shadows, beyond hope, so you really need to read that first. Also, as this story deals heavily with trauma and how one copes with it, do read it with caution if you know this might affect you.
Chapter 1
It has been little more than a month since the disastrous expedition to the Southlands and a week since Isildur's rescue from the orcs. Elendil feels as if the time has passed too quickly and too slowly all at once. Too quickly, because he still cannot believe he really has been given this chance and that Isildur is still alive, once again with him. There are times, especially when Isildur is out of his sight, when a sudden fear clutches at Elendil's throat, a dread that he has wandered into a dream, that all this will be snatched away from him and he will wake up and discover that Isildur is gone and never coming back. Plenty of nights when he has gone to sleep in the tent set up for him, he has woken up sweating and shaking, half tempted to rush to Bronwyn's house and see with his own eyes that Isildur is still there, alive and healing.
At the same time, days have passed too slowly for him, as the reality of going home, of bringing Isildur home with him, has seemed too far and too insubstantial. Many times Elendil has tried to imagine how it would be, that moment when he and Isildur would step together on the shores of Númenor, and the look on Anárion and Eärien's faces when they saw their brother again. The look on Amandil's face too, and Elendil wonders if he should tell his father that in the end, he was the one who was right and not Amandil, and that letting go of Isildur would have been a mistake.
Today, however, the prospect of going home becomes a reality. They are sailing away at dawn, and the crisp air greets Elendil as he steps out of his tent, and he can smell the sea and takes it as a good sign. They are sailing away from Middle-earth. They are going home. And this time, they are not bringing grief but joy.
Of course, he thinks later, after they have already set sail, and Elendil has a brief time of respite, there are still three days to Númenor, and much can happen in those three days.
Since Isildur is still recovering, Elendil decides he will stay in his cabin with him, instead of berthing with the other sailors. Isildur actually agrees to this quite readily, rather shamefacedly admitting that he was dreading the thought of being in a vulnerable position with so many people around him, even if most of them are people he has known and trusted for years. There isn't anyone I trust more than you. Elendil remembers the words Isildur said to him two nights before, and the memory is warm and bright.
The problem comes when he informs Isildur that he is supposed to stay put in that cabin, and only go on deck accompanied by someone – him or Valandil, or maybe one of his fellow captives from the orc camp. This is when he spots the tell-tale hints of discontented impatience in his son's eyes and knows these will be three very long days, and there is little guarantee that he and Isildur will not find themselves at each other's throats again by the end of the voyage.
Númenóreans seldom fall ill and, before the disastrous expeditionary force, they were seldom wounded so badly that they needed to be laid up. Isildur has been in a similar position only once, when he was about thirteen and had a rather bad fall from a tree – Elendil still does not know exactly how that had happened, but he does know it involved a dare with Valandil. The incident left him with a broken arm and leg, which led to him having to stay abed for a week and a half. A week and a half in which Isildur spent every waking moment exasperating everyone who came near him, including Amandil, Elendil recalls with some amusement, as until then he had been certain Amandil could never become exasperated.
"What will the others say when they find out I'm sitting here idle?" Isildur complains. "They will think you're playing favorites again."
Elendil shakes his head.
"Isildur, if you think I would let anyone on my crew stagger around on deck with an injured leg and a month of not eating or sleeping properly, then you do not know me as well as you think. This time, I would really keep any of them down under such circumstances. Not in my own cabin, true, but I just spent a month thinking I've lost my firstborn. I'd hope the crew would allow me this indulgence and understand why I do not want you where I cannot see you."
Isildur looks briefly taken aback by the confession. Still, it does not last long.
"But what am I supposed to do with myself? I could…well, I could…"
He falters and shrugs, trying to find something. Elendil suspects Isildur himself knows he would have a hard time going about the moving ship with a shaky leg to upend his balance even more. Not that he would not try, which is what Elendil is afraid might happen if he does not remain firm in his decision.
"Of course," he adds, a rare flash of uncontained irritation taking hold of him, "There is always the brig, if you prefer that. I never had to actually send one of my people there in my entire career as a Sea Captain, but I suppose we all have to start somewhere, do we not?"
He realizes only after he has finished what he has said and to whom he has said it, and guilt quickly replaces the anger. He runs a hand over his face.
"No, Isildur, forgive me. I did not…that was unkind of me. It should not have even crossed my mind to say something like that to you after what you have been through."
Isildur is watching him with raised eyebrows, and if Elendil is expecting anger or fear from him, he is not getting it. If anything, his son looks faintly amused.
"I am sure whatever you have down there could not resemble in any shape or form anything I found in the Land of Shadows. Besides," he adds with a smirk. "Isn't being sent there something that runs in the family? I heard when you were young, you had a spot of trouble yourself. Wasn't it on your first sea voyage?"
Elendil wonders why Amandil ever bothered complaining Isildur was hard to contain when he was doing such a good job telling him what a poor example Elendil himself has set when he was Isildur's age.
"That was once. Yes, there was a small altercation between me and another cadet. His parents were traders. They regularly brought furs and scents from Near Harad. He had given your mother the scent of some rare flower as a courting gift, even though he knew I fancied her. I might have gotten a little hotheaded when I found out."
Isildur masks his laughter with a bout of coughing.
"You should know that your mother was quite displeased when she found out," Elendil feels the need to add. "With both of us. She refused to speak to either of us for months. She asked me what possessed us to think she would enjoy having us squabbling over her like a pair of drunken dwarves over a newly discovered gold mine."
Isildur does laugh this time, throwing his head back, eyes gleaming, and Elendil cannot help joining in. It is only when he is on the deck attending to his duties that Elendil realizes that he has spoken about his wife and has felt no hint of bitterness at her loss. Yes, the sadness was still there, but the memory was bright and warm, just as she had been, and he and Isildur have both rejoiced in it.
He wonders then if he had lost Isildur for good, would he have been able to remember his son like this after some time? Grateful that Isildur had been in his life at all, treasuring the bright memories he had of him – or had there been so many matters left unsaid between the two of them that they would have sat heavily on Elendil's chest, forever tainting the way he remembered his son?
It takes a while for Elendil to convince himself that he does not have to worry about such matters. Isildur is alive. Elendil has not lost him. He should remember this instead of pondering about might have beens.
xxxXXXxxxx
Isildur does not sleep at all the first night. Elendil falls asleep in his berth almost immediately, and Isildur can hear his deep rhythmic breathing. It is almost enough to lull him to sleep, but he fights the temptation, digging his fingernails into his palms to keep himself awake. He knows it's hardly realistic for him to keep this up for three nights, but at the same time there is nothing he wants less than to succumb to his nightmares and show Elendil just how bad they are.
He still remembers the night before. He had fallen asleep quickly, exhausted from the many ways in which he overdid it that day. Then the dreams had come. It was not even one nightmare, but an entire parade of images and sounds, jumbled up and confusing, but all from there, all from the Land of Shadows and his time with the orcs. He woke gasping, tears in his eyes, with Arondir keeping him still, since he had almost thrown himself off the bed completely with his thrashing. In fact, Isildur is surprised he did not wake up the entire settlement with his cries, and he thinks the only reason Elendil had been unable to hear them was because his tent was close to the flowing river, which probably covered any other sounds.
"It is not unusual," Bronwyn assured him after the fit had passed. "I do not think there is a single person who was in the Southlands that day who doesn't have bad dreams. As for you, I think they will come more and more often now."
Isildur had balked at the idea, had felt the sky crumbling over him, because it should not have been like that, it should have been over, his time with the orcs should have been behind him.
"Why do you say that?" he asked.
Bronwyn placed a hand on his shoulder, warm and kind, and even though it drove away the shadows, Isildur felt them lurking in the corner of his soul, ready to spring back when he was alone and vulnerable.
"Because now that you are rested, your mind can begin to heal."
Isildur snorted.
"This does not feel like healing to me."
Her hand moved to his hair briefly, and the caress reminded him so much of his mother, he wanted to cry.
"You cannot heal without remembering what you went through. That is inevitable."
Isildur recalls the conversation, one of his last interactions with Bronwyn, and he refuses to accept the need to remember or analyze anything that happened to him in the Land of Shadows. And he definitely does not want to have the entire ship – and especially not his father – wake to the sound of his screaming. What will they think of him then?
xxxXXXxxx
The grey light of early dawn finds him still staring straight ahead, without seeing anything. Elendil wakes up just before sunrise and looks questioningly at him.
"Have you slept at all?"
Isildur shrugs and mutters something vague and probably inaudible too. He does not want to lie to his father outright, especially not after everything between them, but he senses Elendil's concern, and he does not want to add to it.
"You need sleep," Elendil adds, which tells Isildur that he does not need to say anything – his father already knows he has not slept at all last night. "If you want to be back on your feet quickly – and we both want that, Isil – you need to be kind to yourself and allow yourself to rest."
Isildur looks away.
"I know. I will try."
Elendil smiles at him and nods and the quick acceptance melts something in Isildur's usual resistance. The ease he starts to feel fades away though, when Elendil sits down on the bunk next to him.
"Your leg, I need to check it and bind it again. Bronwyn said I should have a look at it for several more days."
Isildur tenses at that.
"I can do it," he offers. "I can re-bandage it myself, you don't have to…"
He is babbling and he knows it. Elendil watches him, his eyebrows raised.
"I always tend to my crew like this," Elendil points out. "Why would it be any different with you? You do not have to do everything by yourself, you know. You are not there anymore. There is someone here to help you. So let me. Please."
Isildur does not know how to say that it is not about allowing others to help or being used to doing things alone. He does not want Elendil to see the wound on his leg, does not want his father to be faced with the harsh reality left behind by his injuries. Isildur has seen the guilt in Elendil's eyes, and he would dearly want to squash it, because not once has Isildur held him accountable for the Land of Shadows.
In the end, he nods, because he has already declared that he trusts his father, but also because a part of him wants this: the care, the sense of safety, the knowledge that he can stand down and allow someone else to take the watch for a while.
Elendil makes quick work of the bandage, his hands so light, Isildur can barely feel them. He hears his father gasp as the wound is finally revealed.
"It is healing," Isildur feels the need to point out. "Bronwyn said the last time that it looked much better than before."
He meets Elendil's eyes briefly, then Elendil looks away. He cannot discern any expression in them.
"Then I would hate to imagine what it looked like before. What happened here, Isil?"
He lets out a breath, trying to appear unconcerned.
"It must have been while I was trying to rescue Berek. Did I tell you this is how they caught me?"
Elendil shakes his head wordlessly.
"Well," Isildur goes on, "One of them must have sliced me with his sword. I do not remember exactly how, I only noticed it when I woke up in the cell. I thought it was healing but then…well, then it got re-opened a couple of times. Unlike Bronwyn, they did not seem to believe that keeping still was needed to make sure my leg was fine. I did not have a lot with which I could bind it there…the rags I used were probably not so clean, which was why the wound festered. Bronwyn told me that."
He does not mention the other time the wound had gotten reopened. The time right after Lania's disappearance, when the chief torturer had unexpectedly taken a dagger to his leg during one of their "interrogations". Isildur remembers biting his lips to keep himself from crying out as the blade had sliced through his already injured leg. Then the chief torturer had dug his fingers in the wound, and Isildur had been unable to keep himself from screaming that time, more out of surprise and disgust than anything. He remembers now seeing the chief torturer inspecting his bloody hand, tasting it even.
"I've never sampled islander blood before," the orc had growled. "It tastes different. Tangy, maybe. A bit like an elf but with something dark in it." He leered at Isildur. "I should keep this to myself, of course. No reason why I have to share you once you outlast your usefulness."
Isildur gasps and his eyes snap open, the memory so keen and so sharp that for a moment he can still feel the orc's paws on his leg. His eyes roam the cabin until they find Elendil, who is sitting back, startled by his reaction.
"Was I hurting you?' Elendil asks concerned.
Isildur looks down at his leg and notices it has already been bandaged again. He is surprised to realize he must have lost some time trapped in his memories.
He cannot tell Elendil what happened. He cannot even speak the words without his stomach churning, and there is a bitter taste of shame and humiliation in him, even though he knows there should not be, even though he knows that despite everything, he has stayed true to himself.
"It is fine," he finally says, his voice still shaky. "You are right. I must be tired."
He is ashamed even more that he wants to ask Elendil to stay with him, to keep the jeering laughter of the chief torturer at bay, but of course he cannot, Elendil is the captain of the ship, he has duties to attend to. Isildur has already upended his life in more ways than one. The least he can do is handle himself on the return voyage.
Still, he grabs Elendil's hand and gives himself a moment to hold onto it. Elendil remains still, allowing Isildur to take whatever he needs.
When Elendil leaves, Isildur is still half-shaken, still searching the dark corners of the cabin for something that is not there, still on the alert with his skin crawling as the words of the chief torturer keep repeating themselves in his head. But he thinks he has gathered enough strength to last the day without losing his mind, and really he cannot ask for more.
Elendil comes back briefly after the morning meal with a handful of maps and papers and reports on the state of the ship and the Númenórean fleet in general. He helps Isildur to the table and tells him to look over them and mark down any pertinent observations he might have. Isildur is a bit taken aback by this, as Elendil is experienced enough not to need help and advice in such matters, and especially not the advice of someone who has not even possessed the patience to make it through his Sea Trials. He recognizes Elendil's attempts to keep him busy and distracted and is immensely grateful for the way his father suddenly seems again to instinctively know how to handle him. He gives the task his all, and, in the evening, Elendil looks over his notes, comments on them here and there, and never once mentions that Isildur has wasted his potential by dropping out of the Sea Guard.
xxxXXXxxxx
By the end of the second day of their voyage, Elendil hopes he has kept Isildur's mind engaged enough so he could get a good night's sleep this time. He has not missed the way Isildur seemed briefly somewhere else that morning, and Elendil has his own suspicion about where his mind had taken him, even though he is sure Isildur will not say. There is a part of him that wants to pry everything out of his son: every detail because he needs to know, how else would he move forward, how else would he take care of Isildur if he does not know what to look out for? But this is not a conversation someone like Isildur would appreciate having on a ship, surrounded by water, with nowhere to retreat. He does not want to make his son feel trapped – the Valar know Isildur has probably felt this way a lot during his month of captivity.
Isildur does indeed fall asleep quickly soon after the evening meal. Sometimes Elendil thinks those that move the wheels of the world enjoy playing games with their charges, as he himself has trouble sleeping. He dozes off and on, but his mind will not rest. There is guilt, there is fear, there is the sense that just as he has regained his world so quickly, he can lose it again more completely than before.
It is the middle of the night when he glances at Isildur's bunk. Isildur must have moved in his sleep, as his covers are on the floor. The night is chilly, and Elendil remembers Bronwyn's warnings about Isildur's health being less strong than before. He gets up and bends to retrieve the covers.
There is a faint glow of moonlight making its way through the beams, enough for Elendil to spot something that has him freezing in his tracks. Isildur's tunic must have lifted up slightly as he shifted in his sleep, and Elendil notices the red lines on his back. They move further up, probably as far as Isildur's shoulders. They seem to glare at Elendil, an accusation and a condemnation, a reminder of his failure and of the reality of his son's captivity.
Elendil swallows harshly and tries to contain the whirlwind in his mind. He places the covers over Isildur then twists round and staggers out of the cabin. He makes it as far as the deck where the cool sea air revives him some, although he still feels ill and dizzy, and he thinks he is shaking so hard his teeth are chattering.
He wants to cry and shout and howl his pain and fury at the uncaring stars. He wants to set fire to the Land of Shadows, tear the buildings they were raising apart with his bare hands, track every single orc in creation down and give them a taste of the pain he feels, the pain his son must have felt. His son. His Isil. And they had done that to him.
By the Valar no, he thinks. Not this. Not to him. Elendil would give anything to trade places, to be the one with the pain and the scars and the memories. But he cannot take someone's pain once it has already been inflicted.
Finally, Elendil returns back to his cabin once he feels more settled. The rage is still there, like a storm waiting beyond the horizon, the indignation at the unfairness of it all nearly making him wish he could set sail straight to Valinor and show them what he thinks of their world order. How can you allow something like this to happen? How can you sit idle while your charges endure fire and terror and pain? My son has always been loyal to you – maybe even more loyal than myself at times – how could you have stood by and allowed them to do this to him?
Amandil would tell him he is being unreasonable, that only because Isildur is loyal it does not mean the Valar owe him something. But Amandil has not seen what he has seen.
Once inside the cabin, Elendil makes his way to his berth. Isildur stirs and turns to him.
"Father? Everything alright? Where were you?"
Elendil stiffens. He knows beyond a doubt that he cannot tell Isildur that he has seen the lashes on his back – after all, he has seen how Isildur had gotten that morning when he was checking his leg.
"Nothing is wrong," he said quickly. "Go on back to sleep."
He reminds himself ruefully that the words had not worked when Isildur was a child, so why would they work now?
"But where were you?"
Elendil hesitates. He could simply tell Isildur that he was simply making his rounds. But he rarely does this at night, and Isildur knows it. And anyway, although he cannot bring himself to tell Isildur the truth, that does not mean that Elendil is willing to give him a lie, either.
"I thought there would be a storm," he finally says. "But it's passed now."
Isildur does not need to know that the storm was inside Elendil himself – nor does he need to know what caused it.
xxxXXXxxx
The next day passes in a flurry of preparations as their arrival draws closer. Isildur hardly sees Elendil, as he is busy on the deck and the few interactions he has with his father are brief and terse. Elendil seems to have a hard time looking him in the eye, and Isildur can hardly understand why. He wracks his brains in an attempt to figure out what he has done wrong – has he said something? He cannot remember anything that would have driven his father away. But what about during the night? What about in his dreams? Elendil had seemed agitated the night before. And Isildur has already learned he can be very vocal during his nightmares.
He wonders if he should say something – maybe apologize, although he does not know for what and apologizing has never come easy for him, anyway. Or maybe he should simply call Elendil out? Challenge his father to tell him exactly what is wrong. Isildur dismisses the idea with a scoff. Elendil has never responded well to such tactics.
Thankfully, after the evening meal, Elendil seems himself again. He smiles warmly at Isildur and tells him that they will all be happy to see him back home.
"All," Isildur says. "So Anárion is back. To stay?"
Elendil shrugs.
"If he wants. It is up to him. Up to both of you."
Isildur senses the unasked question but does not know how to answer it. The future is an unknown land for him, formless and insubstantial. He finds it difficult to focus on the here and now, his thoughts constantly sliding back to the past, to a world of darkness and pain, to jeering laughter and rough, unkind hands.
Elendil looks at him as if he knows, compassion and concern in his features. He reaches out, hesitantly at first, but then confidently grasping his shoulder.
"No hurry. There is still plenty of time for you to rest. Just allow us to help you – me, Eärien, Anárion. Amandil too, I think he will stay a while more. He will be glad to see you."
Isildur releases a shaky breath, suddenly overwhelmed. The unspoken promise Elendil makes is too much for him. His mind switches between the hate of the orc camp and the love that is waiting for him in Númenor, and he wonders against his will if he is not more worthy of the former than of the latter.
The hand on his shoulder tightens slightly bringing his wandering thoughts back to the cabin.
"Isil?" his father asks, concerned. "What is it?"
Isildur shakes his head.
"We did not dream in the Land of Shadows," he says. "Or when we did, our dreams were…not pleasant. That place had a way of twisting everything that was good and bright, of tainting it until you asked yourself if you had ever known anything but darkness. But, at times, I did have a good dream. I dreamed I could see Númenor in the light of the rising us."
He stops and bites his lips when he feels tears in his eyes. His father bends over him until their foreheads almost touch.
"And you will," Elendil promises, like it is the most important thing in the world for him. "You will. Tomorrow we will greet our land together, just as it should be."
Elendil does not leave him, not even when Isildur is nearly asleep, and Isildur does not mind the closeness, feeling it as a shield to keep nightmares and dark thoughts at bay, if only for a little while. It is easier to turn his back on the past and imagine a future without darkness when Elendil is there to guide him away from the shadows.
Tomorrow…tomorrow he will stand on the deck of the ship together with his father and Valandil and the Númenóreans he has rescued from the Land of Shadows. The ship will glide by the ancient statues of Ulmo and Elros and the first kings, towards the docks where the statue of Eärendil the Mariner, Isildur's own ancestor, will be waiting to receive them. and beyond, the land of his birth, the island that holds his soul, his cradle and his home will still be there for him. He imagines it all: the docks, the people, the White Tree, all of it his again.
He thinks of shadows looming over him, and even over Númenor, the hints that Valandil and Elendil have dropped, of a shift in allegiances, a growing discontent, a breach between groups that have so far managed to tolerate each other. There might be trouble for him and his family in the months and years to come. But he will be there, and however dark it will get, it will still be home. And on this night, as the ship glides across the for once benevolent sea, on this night Isildur thinks that no one can ever truly take his home away from him.
Thanks for reading!