Warnings in this chapter: Pharazôn is very much his own warning. Brief references to the idea of taking one's life, but nothing explicit, and something our two main characters are definitely opposed to, still read with care. And tissue warning for the final part, because this is just me and I cannot help myself. :P
Chapter 3
Isildur thinks he will be unable to sleep tonight, especially with the threat of tomorrow's encounter with Pharazôn looming over him. Still, he goes to his room after the evening meal is over, bidding the others good night in what he hopes is a cheerful tone. He is sure he has not fooled them.
He enters his room and stops there, dumbfounded. He is not sure exactly what he was expecting. Perhaps he had been sure the place would be empty, his family ridding themselves of the reminders of the one they had lost. Instead, all of his possessions are still there: his books, his chest of clothes, several odds and ends all sitting neatly in their usual places.
The room has a fresh smell, so someone must have kept it aired regularly. The bed is neatly made (Isildur distinctly remembers leaving it unmade on the morning of his departure, in his excitement to join the expedition force). The bedding is freshly washed. Everything is vaguely disconcerting to him. It is as though he has never left, as though the expeditionary force and the mountain of fire never happened, except he has the scars and the pain and the darkness in his mind that prove to him it was real.
Isildur strides towards the window and pulls it open. The night air is cool but gentle, smelling of the sea, as it always does in Númenor. Beyond, like a sweeter, subtler caress, Isildur can discern the scent of Nimloth. He closes his eyes and breathes in. The White Tree is Númenor, it will always be Númenor, and the scent greets him almost like a friend, welcoming him home from his trials.
The creak of the door has him turning quickly from the window. Elendil walks in, and his eyes widen when he sees Isildur, as if he was expecting him not to be there, as if something in his father's mind is still convinced that he has not rescued Isildur from Middle-earth, that all this cannot be real. Isildur attempts a smile.
"You have kept the room as it was," he says. "You've aired it. You've even changed my beddings."
Elendil shakes his head.
"That was probably Eärien or Anárion. I never went into this room. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I was afraid being inside would have broken something in me."
There is a small, sheepish smile on his face, as if he is afraid Isildur would not understand such grief. But Isildur does. He does, and he knows that it is all for him, that it was not even necessary, and the cruel irony of it all breaks his heart.
"I am sorry," he finds himself saying.
The words are poor and inadequate, but Isildur does not know what other words to give. What could you say to the person who has spent a month mourning your death?
Elendil waves this aside.
"I hope you will not carry out the practice of not sleeping. You need to rest, Isildur. And never mind what you fear might happen then. There are four people in this house who thought they would never hear your voice again. All of us can handle waking up to your nightmares."
Isildur gapes at him, because he was sure Elendil could not have guessed the reason why he tried to stay awake for as long as he could on the ship. He nods, wordlessly.
Elendil makes to leave, then stops, eyeing the open window critically.
"Just cover yourself warm if you keep the window open all night, will you?"
Isildur's first instinct is to bristle, because he has already asked his father not to treat him like he was still a child. But Elendil has just confessed to being unable to enter his room because of his grief over Isildur, so Isildur understands the worry and the fear of loss and does not have the heart to remind Elendil that he can take care of himself.
Besides, he might feel slightly ashamed to admit it, but a part of him wants this. He wants the knowledge that he can stop and breathe if he needs to, and someone else will be there to help, to make decisions for him when he feels too overwhelmed to do it himself, to guide his footsteps back to the light when there is too much darkness in his mind for him to see the way out.
xxxXXXxxxx
Surprisingly, Isildur does not have any nightmares that night. Or, at least, he thinks he does not. His dreams are jumbled and confused, the kind of dreams that one has when they are so tired, they do not know the difference between thought and reality anymore. He wakes up rested, with the sun on his face. He can hear movement from the street, and the house is also waking up. Midnight is padding outside his door, while Eärien and Anárion are having one of their usual morning arguments, in what they think are hushed whispers so as not to wake the others up. Isildur smiles slightly. Some things never change.
His smile fades when the memories from the day before return to him. The meeting with Pharazôn is almost upon him, and now that he is alone, Isildur can admit just how frightened he is. He does not want this. It was bad enough with the garrison commander from Pelargir. But that had been brief, and the man had been as mindful as possible. Isildur very much doubts Pharazôn will award him the same courtesy, he already knows about the chancellor's attempts to intimidate Elendil into doing what he wants. If anything, the thought of being in the same room with the man who threatened his family sickens him.
He closes his eyes and breathes deeply several times, pushing away his churning emotions. There is no way out, so he will have to face this encounter as best as possible. He has been through worse, he reminds himself. He has been through worse and has survived it all, surely he can survive this as well. Isildur shakes his head, because thinking about the evenings spent being tortured is really not helping him calm down.
When he walks out of the room, he is calm, although he also feels distanced from himself and from everything around him. He has left a part of him removed from what is to come. The notion unnerves him, as he does not enjoy the sensation, but maybe, he tells himself, maybe it is for the best. He cannot afford to break down in front of Pharazôn – or worse, to risk the same fury that nearly caused him to crush Tamar's skull to master him in the presence of the Queen's own chancellor.
Isildur walks to the palace with Elendil and Eärien. Elendil is on his way to see Queen Míriel, while Eärien will walk with them as far as the headquarters of the Architects' Guild. Isildur senses a slight tension between his father and Eärien, but whatever feuds the two have with each other, they do not mention them around him. When Eärien reaches her destination, she kisses Isildur's cheek and wishes him good luck. The warmth that fills his heart nearly makes him feel himself again. Perhaps, he thinks, perhaps if he holds on to the good that is still inside him, he might make it through.
He shares a more restrained farewell with Elendil and assures him that he does not need his father to wait for him afterwards, he can find the way home by himself. Then Elendil departs to the main hall and Isildur is ushered into a smaller chamber. Pharazôn is not there yet. Isildur shakes his head. Of course, he would be kept waiting.
As he waits, a servant brings him a plate of cakes and some water, almost pointedly showing to him that he is there for a friendly discussion and not to be interrogated. His stomach is churning, so he does not even look at the cakes. He accepts the water gladly, though, as his throat feels unpleasantly dry. He still suffers from coughing fits after a month spent breathing in the fumes of Orodruin, and the last thing he wants is to start hacking in Pharazôn's presence. Show no weakness is something Isildur has learned all too well from his month with the orcs.
After a while, Pharazôn walks in, magnanimously waving Isildur to remain sitting when the latter tries to stand.
"I hear congratulations are in order," Pharazôn says. "A month ago, you were numbered among the dead."
"I wasn't the only one," Isildur points out steadily.
Pharazôn nods curtly.
"Of course. You rescued others as well. I talked to some of them yesterday. They had only good things to say about you."
Isildur shifts in his chair. Pharazôn must spot the frown on his face.
"Something you wish to say?"
His tone is mild, but Isildur can hear the challenge beneath the friendliness. Still, he ploughs on:
"I was hoping you would have allowed them a day of rest," he says boldly. "A day to spend with their loved ones. They have been through a lot in the past month. Surely they deserved some respite."
Isildur knows he is playing a dangerous game. Pharazôn has not even started with him, and Isildur is already antagonizing him. Besides, the former prisoners are no longer his responsibility. They are in Númenor with their families. They no longer need Isildur to be their champion. And maybe a part of him feels abandoned and useless because of this, maybe now that his job is done, he does not know what he is supposed to do with himself anymore.
Fortunately, Pharazôn's only reaction to Isildur's defiance is a raised eyebrow. He Isildur reaches for the cup and drinks some more water. He has to make a great effort of will to keep his hand from shaking.
For a while, there seems nothing untoward about the questioning. Pharazôn has the report from Pelargir and asks Isildur to confirm some of the information there. Isildur answers readily, knowing this time to keep some of the worst memories at bay. He talks about the defenses they were raising and describes them as best he can, offering to draw a plan of them or, at least to consult with Eärien since she is more skilled than he is. He reiterates his information on the number of orcs present – fifty in their camp, but he suspects there were more in other camps. No, he never saw Adar. The command of the camp was shared between Waldreg and the overseer.
Isildur almost starts to believe that this time, he can get through this. He can plough on, answering Pharazôn's questions, and then he will be allowed to go home. And it will be really over and behind him this time. There will be no reason for anyone to bring up his month with the orcs again. Except that not talking about it will not wipe it out from Isildur's mind, and Isildur knows this all too well.
"Now,"Pharazôn says suddenly and there is a shift in his voice that has Isildur tensing – a coldness that foretells nothing good, "I will have to ask the more difficult questions. I know you were given some…special attention from the orcs."
Isildur shrugs.
"Better me than any of the others."
Pharazôn does not look too impressed, but Isildur was not aiming on impressing anyone, anyway. He was telling the truth. It was better the orcs had their attention on him instead of Lania – or anyone else, for that matter, although he knows there were others who had known the special attention of the chief torturer, and he had been unable to do anything about them. He just hopes Pharazôn was less combatant with them than he is with him.
"These are questions I need to ask," Pharazôn points out almost apologetically, and all Isildur can think of is: You might trick the entire marketplace into believing you're the man of the people, but you couldn't trick my father, and you can't trick me. "I assume any torture wasn't only for their own amusement, although, if the stories of old are to be believed, they do get a lot of enjoyment out of causing their enemies pain."
Isildur shifts again. His leg is hurting, and he can feel again the weight of the shackle around his neck. He knows the sensation has more to do with Pharazôn's words than with any actual pain.
"You need not wonder anymore about that," he says and is surprised to find his voice steady. "They do."
"But they also asked for information, I am sure," Pharazôn insists. "Which, according to Commander Revion, you claimed quite strongly you never gave."
Isildur looks Pharazôn straight in the eye. He does not see anything there, as if Pharazôn deliberately keeps himself an empty vessel, so that others would not discover what is in his mind.
"I told the truth," he says calmly. "I didn't say anything. I wouldn't have said anything no matter what they did to me."
The pointed look Pharazôn gives him tells Isildur he has made some miscalculation.
"Really?" Pharazôn asks mildly. "But you already mentioned yesterday there was at least one thing you were less willing to sacrifice. Even for the good of Númenor."
Isildur's heart is pounding, suddenly at a loss for words. How does he know? Amandil would not have revealed Isildur's confession to anyone, least of all to Pharazôn. So, who had heard them? It is unthinkable: to have people spying on others, reporting conversations to the palace in such a manner. It belongs to a world that is not Isildur's, a world closer to the darkness of the Land of Shadows than the ideals of Númenor.
He feels tainted, suddenly. For being there – in this room, in this town, on this island. He remembers what he told Commander Galadriel that fair morning: he is not even sure the real Númenor still exists. The uncertainty comes back now, making him forget his month of homesickness. This is not the home for which he has endured the whip and the knives and the mockery of Waldreg and the chief torturer. He has not spent a month of darkness and pain and humiliation for a place where people turn on each other in such a manner, where no word can be said safely on the streets, where trust between friends and even kinsmen becomes a risky commodity.
"I do not know what you want me to say," he finally responds. "I would have died before I revealed anything that could betray Númenor – or the colony at Pelargir."
Pharazôn gives him back look for look.
"And yet, here you are."
Isildur stares uncomprehendingly at him. The words do not make sense, unless his mind has suddenly become too sluggish for him to make sense of them.
"I am not sure I see what you are trying to tell me, Chancellor."
Pharazôn smiles tightly.
"Answer me this. Honestly please, Isildur. It is easy to say that you would have died before revealing any secrets. But tell me this: after those torture sessions, at night, in your cell, alone or with that little Southlander, did it not once cross your mind that the next time they come for you it would be far worse? We do not know, none of us do, how much we can really withstand, not until we come face to face with what we fear. Did it ever cross your mind that there might come a day when you would break? The pain would be too much, the threats too horrible to bear anymore, the despair in your heart too great – and that you would have wanted everything to stop, no matter the cost?"
Pharazôn has gotten up now, suddenly animated, and is pacing the small room, gesturing as he speaks. Isildur watches him move with a sort of detached interest. Something in his mind starts to realize where Pharazôn is going with this. The rest of him is stuck in some numb suspense, half here, half in the Land of Shadows, and Pharazôn's words make him see everything in a new light. All his deeds, all his decisions back then are on the verge of being overturned.
Then Pharazôn stops and looks straight at him. Isildur feels trapped, like the prey of some snake, mesmerized into submission. He wishes he could close his eyes or look away, wishes he could revolt and defend himself and justify his decisions. He opens his mouth, but no words will come out. His body no longer seems to obey him, caught in Pharazôn's snares.
"Have you ever thought that maybe you would be better off dead than risk giving in and becoming a traitor?" Pharazôn asks, and his tone is soft and gentle, despite his words. "And, if so, why not act on it? Surely you could have found the means?"
Isildur takes a deep breath, feeling the walls closing in on him. There is a roaring in his ears, and he does not know if it is anger or something else, does not even know if it is directed at Pharazôn or at himself.
The truth is, Pharazôn is right, there would have been many opportunities. But the thought never entered his mind. True, he had thought many times death would have been an easier alternative than what was happening to him. But never once had it actually crossed Isildur's mind to take matters into his own hands.
He remains stunned, not knowing how to answer Pharazôn, not even knowing which answer is supposed to be the right one. What is he supposed to say? That he insisted on clinging to life at all costs? That Elendil had taught him to always keep fighting and that in that land of darkness so far away from home, not disappointing the father who might not even know he was still alive had become something of vital importance? That he had people he was responsible for, and he would have offered a poor example if he had given up in such a manner? That Dinsír had tasked him with bringing news of him to his mother, so Isildur had to live and make it to Númenor for that reason if for no other?
The last part, in particular, is something Isildur would never want to share with Pharazôn. What could he understand of Dinsír? And why would Isildur use Dinsír's name in such a manner, to justify a decision that has been fully his own?
He does not even know now if it had been the right one. Pharazôn obviously disapproves, so maybe there are others. The Queen. Or Amandil, despite showing himself so understanding yesterday, when Isildur had told him about Lania. Or maybe Elendil himself disapproves. A part of Isildur reminds him how impossible that would be, how Elendil has made it quite clear he was overjoyed to have Isildur alive and safe – but maybe Elendil has not thought of it in the same terms as Pharazôn. And maybe, if he would, he might think less kindly of Isildur remaining alive, risking a torture session that would have broken him so completely, he would have given what he knew away to the enemy.
His fists are clenching and unclenching, anger and frustration battling in his mind. Dimly, he realizes he still has to answer Pharazôn, but he knows his silence is answer enough.
Pharazôn approaches him and now leans over him, and Isildur has to use everything he has to keep himself still, not to flinch or, worse, give in to the impulse of tearing Pharazôn's eyes out – he has learned a thing or two from the orcs, that particular threat was the overseer's favorite. If he attacks the Queen's right hand man, nothing Elendil could do would spare Isildur from the repercussions that would await him.
Pharazôn does not look upset with Isildur's refusal to answer. In fact, he looks kind, almost fatherly. For a moment, Isildur is brought back to the time he had first met Waldreg, when he had used that mocking imitation of a tender, fatherly gesture that had caused Isildur to lash out and instill Waldreg's wrath for the duration of his stay with the orcs. Pharazôn is made of a different cloth than Waldreg, of course, but the disgust Isildur feels at his pretense at understanding is quite similar.
"You might think me cruel, Isildur," Pharazôn states. "But the truth is different. I care about Númenor – and about you implicitly, as you are part of Númenor. Those questions are painful, I know, but I am only asking them because I have your best interest at heart. Kindness can often be mistaken for cruelty, Isildur."
Something of Isildur's old fire stirs in him then.
"In that case, Chancellor, they were exceedingly kind to me back there. In fact, you should take lessons from them, their brand of kindness was quite similar to yours and equally enjoyable."
Pharazôn recoils as if struck. Isildur tries to ignore the sense of satisfaction his look of amazement gives him. He was not expecting defiance, but he will forever remember how Isildur caused him to lose face – even if it is just the two of them there.
"I do not know what answer you want me to give," Isildur ploughs on. "I do not know which answer you would give either. All I can do is repeat what I have been saying ever since I woke up in Pelargir: I never told them anything. Not even when they were being kind to me, Chancellor. And…if you want my honesty…"
"I would expect nothing less from Elendil's firstborn."
Isildur flinches at the unexpected voice. He notices Pharazôn's eyes widen as he moves away from Isildur. Freed from the exchange of stares, Isildur can turn around to look at the new arrival.
Míriel herself is standing there, now full Queen, not Queen Regent, as she had been the last time Isildur had seen her. There is anger blazing on her face, but when she reaches Isildur, she smiles softly in his direction. So, the anger is directed at Pharazôn and not at him.
"It is good to have you home, Isildur," she says kindly (the real type of kindness, not the one Pharazôn professes to have). Her tone turns to steel when she addresses Pharazôn: "Chancellor. I did mention I wished to be present when you spoke to Isildur. Was I not clear enough?"
Pharazôn smiles tightly.
"Given the circumstances, I thought it would be prudent to see him first, Majesty."
"Prudent," Míriel repeats. "People have accused you of many faults, Pharazôn. Being prudent was never one of them. You were saying something about giving us your honesty, Isildur. You may speak freely. Whatever you have to say, there will be no consequences."
Isildur bites his lips. He would throw himself into the fire again for her – but he has just spent nearly an hour being grilled by Pharazôn. Trusting someone takes far more effort than it should.
"And then I can go?"
He does not want to sound like a petulant child, not in front of her, but the room feels too small, and his hands are shaking, and if he has to break down, he wants it to be anywhere but there, under Pharazôn's cold eyes.
Pharazôn makes to say something, but one look from Míriel stops him.
"Then you can go," Míriel agrees. "I am sure they are waiting for you back home, and we are not cruel. Your family has been deprived of your presence long enough."
Isildur takes a deep breath to steady himself. The promise of the end of this ordeal gives him courage he did not know he possessed:
"Then I'll tell you this: they were worried about something, and it wasn't us. Something was on the move against them – still is maybe. That is why Adar was never at the camp. He was somewhere else checking this threat out. Or fighting it – I don't know. The orcs were more interested in us raising those defenses. They were so invested in those defenses, they were willing to keep me alive despite all the trouble I was causing them. There are two factions battling there, and until one of them wins, they won't care about Pelargir…or Númenor. That is why…that is why they went easy on me as far as the questioning went. But even if they hadn't, my answer remains the same: I would have died before telling them anything."
He stands up and moves away from the table. His staff is still leaning against the chair, but he ignores it, turning away and leaving the room without another word – he has Míriel's permission, after all, and, anyway, she does not call him back. He walks out of the palace ignoring the pain in his leg as he sets his entire weight on it, paying no mind to the people staring at him, caring about nothing except to make it as far away from the palace as he can.
Isildur does not head home. He does not even know where he is going. Only that walking seems like the only way for him to silence the memories in his head: the images and the fear and the voices, and the inescapable feeling that everyone can see the Land of Shadows on him, that even though he has washed himself many times since his rescue, the ash and the dirt and the blood still cling to him – and always will.
xxxXXXXxxxx
Elendil is hesitant to leave the palace after his meeting with the Queen and considers loitering outside until Isildur is done with Pharazôn. He dismisses the thought immediately. With his strange moods, Isildur might misinterpret his worry as belief that he is unable to handle himself. Isildur needs his independence, so the only thing Elendil can do is respect his son's wishes and head home. Walking away from the palace is one of the most difficult things he's ever had to do.
Only Amandil is home, as Eärien and Anárion are at their respective apprenticeships. Anárion had started his apprenticeship with the Healers' Guild soon after his arrival, in the unspoken understanding that he would remain in Armenelos since Isildur's death changed everything. Now that Isildur has turned out to be alive, Elendil has to wonder if Anárion is not considering leaving westward again.
Since he was promoted to Post Captain, Elendil has enough duties ashore to keep him away from long sea voyages unless otherwise required (such as the mission to Middle-earth). Míriel has granted him a week of leave, and in the following weeks he will have only light duties: inspecting the shipyards, checking the supplies, verifying schedules. All work that can be done quickly, without much fuss (or danger).
"I should take Isildur with me during my rounds next week," he informs Amandil. "It will do him good. Keep his mind off his troubles. I did that on the way here, you know. Gave him reports to look over. He has a keen mind."
"That he does," Amandil agrees. "And a swift temper to go with it. I am afraid it is something you will have to address…if left unchecked…"
Elendil feels a stab of cold fury.
"Father, you were not there. Neither you nor I have any right to judge Isildur, we haven't been through what he's been."
Just like that moment after the memorial ceremony, Amandil is calm and accepts Elendil's wrath without flinching.
"Elendil, you do not need to tell me that he has suffered, I can see it plainly on his face. And on yours. He needs time to heal, of course he does. You know it and I know it. The question is: does he know it?"
Elendil hesitates. He knows what Amandil is trying to say.
"Think about it," Amandil goes on. "I told you that day that Isildur has always been restless and stubborn, and I do not take back those words. Perhaps it is this very restlessness and stubbornness that kept him alive last month. But the very same restlessness and stubbornness is working against him now. He expects everything to be the same as before his departure to Middle-earth."
Elendil shakes his head.
"Shouldn't it be? Shouldn't he be allowed to want to get back to his normal life, whatever he wants that to be?"
"You know full well that is not possible," Amandil says steadily. "We had a bit of an altercation with young Tamar on our way home. Granted, there are days when the man makes me lose my temper as well, but I haven't seen Isildur so driven before. I had to take him away from there. Before there was blood."
Elendil sits down heavily in his chair. He wants to point out that Isildur's temper has always been explosive. There have been plenty of altercations before. Instead, he looks at Amandil and wonders what lies behind his father's words.
"I very much hope you are not trying to suggest that he is tainted somehow, father," he says, and is surprised that his voice is just as level as Amandil's. "Because I do not think this is something I will accept from anyone – even from you. Isildur needs to heal. And I will not have anyone in my house who might put such thoughts in his head. Not now. Not after…"
He pauses when he feels his voice breaking. It is true – Isildur may not be the same again. But this does not mean that he is made of darkness now.
Amandil approaches him and places a hand on his shoulder. Elendil looks up and sees only understanding on his father's face.
"My son, far be it for me to speak any ill of him. I am just as overjoyed as you are to have him home – and just as heartbroken as you to see that he has not left the shadows entirely behind him. Elendil, I know you are ready to do everything in your power to help him. And he trusts you more than he trusts anyone else. But this is not something that you can tackle alone."
Elendil sits there and remembers the month that has just passed, the loneliness and grief and endless days of wondering how he can still hold himself together. He thinks of the day he found Isildur again, of the fear and sadness and overwhelming relief.
"One month," he says, and his voice is hoarse. "I left him there for one month."
He expects Amandil to deny the words, but Amandil says nothing, standing beside him and listening to Elendil, as if it is the most important thing in the world. Elendil goes on, almost unable to help himself.
"He saved my life back there. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him."
"Then I should remember to thank him properly the next time I see him," Amandil says, his tone devoid of any emotion.
Elendil shakes his head, suddenly angry – at himself, at the Valar, at the world. It feels as if they had all failed Isildur.
"He saved my life and how do I repay him? I left him there to rot for an entire month! And don't tell me that I did not know he was still alive, father, because something in me knew. I might have been unable to read the signs, but something in me knew."
He gets up and walks to the window. Their street is empty even at this time of day – it was one of the reasons why Elendil chose this house when they had moved. It is quiet and peaceful, just like their former home in the west had been. There is no sign that Isildur is coming home yet, so he thinks it is safe to continue. He turns around to face his father, although he is not looking at Amandil.
"Do you know all that happened to my son in that month? I know only bits and pieces – snippets here and there, because he will not tell, because he does not seem able to talk about it and when he does…you should have seen him with the garrison commander. One moment he was giving his report, cold and detached and professional, like a soldier, you would have been proud of him. And then he starts talking as if he is still there. as if his mind keeps taking him back to this place, and how can I possibly bring him back?"
He pauses and draws another breath. His chest hurts, all of a sudden, his throat tight. He does not know if this is about making Amandil understand what Isildur has gone through, or about making himself finally accept it.
"At Pelargir, Bronwyn was the one who took care of his wounds. I did not see them – he wouldn't allow me. I barely got him to agree to me rebandaging his leg on the ship. Then one night he must have shifted his tunic as he slept and I saw…" He swallows harshly, the pain and fury of that moment tasting like ashes in his throat. "There were markings on his back, I didn't even see them all…but what they did to him…Father, what they did to him…"
The tightness in his chest becomes unbearable. His vision blurs, but he still manages to see Amandil heading towards him. Before he knows it, he is weeping in his father's arms, like he has not done in such a long time, finally accepting the comfort that he denied himself after his wife's death or when he had thought he had lost Isildur. He cries for the pain he has felt then, the memory of which still grips him in dark clutches now and then, even though Isildur is safe and alive and back home. He cries for all that might have been and for everything that happened, for every single day that Isildur spent in that darkness, for every single torture that his son had endured. He weeps for the image of Isildur's wounds ingrained now in his mind, there every time he closes his eyes, and the knowledge that, even though he has indeed, brought Isildur home, it was too late to stop any of those torments from happening, and now Isildur is suffering the consequences.
Elendil does not know how long they remain like this. When it all passes, he feels lighter, somehow. The guilt and pain is still there, but he can manage them now that he has shared the burden with someone else. He pulls away, and nods towards Amandil.
"There are no words for what you are going through, my son," Amandil says. "Certainly none that I can think of. They all ring false. But, for what is worth, I am proud of both of you."
Elendil smiles tightly.
"Are you?"
Amandil clutches his shoulders.
"You carry this…you've carried all of it for a month. And yet, when I see you with Isildur, I can hardly spot it. You carry your burden and hold him together at the same time, and it cannot be easy."
It is not, Elendil thinks, yet at the same time, it is. At the same time, he would not have it any other way.
"It is no more than what he deserves. And no less than my duty to him."
"Of course," Amandil accepts. "He is your son. But Elendil, your guilt will not heal him. You wallowing in the past, tormented about what might have been will not help you, and it will not help him. What is done is done. Now you must focus on what is to come."
It is more difficult than Amandil can understand, to let go of the thoughts that torment him. Yet Elendil knows that Amandil is right. At times, he can hardly look at Isildur without feeling the guilt assault him and choke him. And Isildur must have realized this by now – and it cannot be doing him any good.
"You are right," he says. "I will…I will have to accept what happened, and my part in it and shift my attention on how to heal this family."
He goes to wash his face of the evidence of his former distress and thinks that maybe one day he will talk to Isildur about his guilt for returning to Middle-earth so late. One day, but not yet. Neither of them is ready for such talk right now.
A messenger from the palace comes bearing Isildur's staff. Apparently, Isildur has forgotten it in his hurry to leave. The Queen expresses her hope that Elendil's son is well now, as he was rather upset when she last saw him.
Elendil's stomach is churning with worry. Isildur is not home, even though he should have left the palace a while ago. So, where is he?
"I will go look for him," he tells Amandil. "You stay here in case he comes back before me."
Elendil makes to leave, then stops, and turns to Amandil once more. He does not think he would have been so calm about this new development, had Amandil not allowed him his moment to break down and acknowledge his own sorrow.
"Thank you," he says. "I fear I have been unfair to you ever since you arrived."
Amandil shakes his head. He looks old and tired, Elendil realizes with a pang, but there is a light in his eyes that he has not seen for a long time.
"Bring your son home, Elendil," he says. "We will look after the rest."
The promise brings some light in his overwhelmed mind. Elendil remembers Míriel's question on the ship: Who has you? He smiles and shakes his head. It turns out somebody does.
This chapter was intense to write and took a completely different turn from what I was planning to. I realized Elendil needed his own catharsis and I did not think breaking down in front of Isildur in the state Isildur is now would have been beneficial to either of them.
That bit with Pharazôn when he tells Isildur about kindness being similar to cruelty and Isildur's smart-mouth reply was one of the earliest scenes I came up with (right around the one from "Under shadows, beyond hope", where Elendil recites the Lay of Lúthien to Isildur). I just needed to give this a context and boy, did my mind take me to dark places.
I gave Anárion an apprenticeship as a healer on a whim, really. I assume the pressure for him to join the sea guard wouldn't have been as great on him since he wasn't the firstborn, and anyway after Isildur's presumed death, I think Elendil would have tried to let his two surviving children choose their own paths in life.