A chapter that's not as intense as the previous one. Remember that puppet show in episode 3? It seemed to be done by someone who was clearly on the side of the Elves. They'll be making a brief appearance here.
Warnings for Isildur's generally all over the place state of mind. His thoughts sometimes take him to dark places. Some references to torture but nothing too overt.
Chapter 4
It is not hard, retracing Isildur's steps from the palace. He was apparently upset enough to make an impression on those who crossed his path, and, since he passed through the marketplace, a lot of people are still here for Elendil to talk to. Isildur would have drawn attention anyway, considering his miraculous return. Add the fact that he was limping heavily and bumping into people without seeing them, and it is not difficult for those that spotted him to remember him now.
"He kept walking straight onwards," an old woman selling sweets and cakes tells Elendil, shaking her head sympathetically. "I tried calling out to him, but he did not seem to hear me – or hear any of us, really. He was somewhere in his mind."
Elendil suspects he knows where Isildur's mind took him. He has no idea what the talk with Pharazôn might have unleashed. Any questioning of his time with the orcs would have been grueling for Isildur, especially in the volatile state he is in. And Pharazôn is not renowned for his sensitivity. Elendil is well accustomed with the man's brand of cruelty and is terribly afraid of the damage it might have done to Isildur.
He makes to leave when the woman takes his hand. He looks at her questioningly, surprised by the sympathy in her eyes.
"You tell him to come by my stall whenever he wants. I'll have honeycakes ready for him. Just like they make them on the western shores, that is where you are from, is it not? No coin needed."
Elendil raises his eyebrows. He barely knows the woman. He thinks her name is Finduilas, but is not sure, and he has heard that she has always lived in Aremenelos. He has seen her many times greeting Pharazôn warmly, so he does not understand why she is suddenly so keen on favoring the Elf-friend's son.
"My youngest daughter's betrothed also returned yesterday, he was one of the prisoners you brought back." Finduilas explained. "My eldest daughter did not make it, but at least my little one has her happiness now. I might have cursed your name once, Elf-friend, but I should not have. I should have seen we were bound by the same grief. Now my Aniriel will at least have joy in her life, and your Isildur is the one who brought it to her. You should tell him that."
He should, Elendil thinks. He should repeat the names of the people Isildur rescued and the people who are grateful for this, over and over until Isildur understands this is who he is and this is what matters, and opinions from the likes of Tamar and even Pharazôn no longer torment him.
"Thank you," he tells Finduilas warmly. "I will send Isil your way. It will do him good."
He sees her with new eyes – not as the proud, Armenelos-born woman, disdainful of the ways of old, but as a parent who has lost one child and has tried to carry the grief of another on her shoulders, ignoring her own sorrows. They might see the world differently, but in many ways, he and she are one of a kind.
Elendil walks on, heading not towards home or towards the docks, but for a secluded spot on the shore. His heart clenches, because no one usually goes there, and the water is restless, and if what people say about Isildur's frame of mind is true…He ignores the thought before it is fully-formed. He knows Isildur. His son is a survivor first and foremost. He takes on the blows given to him and keeps going. A day might come when the blows might be too many, when he might falter and fall – but Elendil is sure that day is not here yet.
He finds Isildur sitting on a deserted beach. Even before approaching, Elendil notices the tension in Isildur's shoulders. Then, Isildur takes a pebble from the ground and casts it into the sea with a swift gesture that betrays his simmering anger even further.
Elendil clears his throat to announce his arrival long before he is close. In such a state, coming upon his son unawares would only result in Isildur turning on him before he could realize the identity of his intruder. Neither of them needs this right now. Isildur stills at the sound of his voice, then bows his head slightly and proceeds to cast another stone in the sea. It is the only acknowledgement Elendil is going to get and he knows this. He takes several steps forward.
"I never told anyone, but this has been a favorite spot of mine since our coming to Armenelos," he says. "It is a good spot for thinking. I often came here when the city seemed too overwhelming to me. When the homesickness was too strong."
Isildur's eyes flash briefly to him.
"You were homesick?"
The faint disbelief reminds Elendil of how they used to dance around the emotions caused by their loss in the days before the expedition. This time, Elendil thinks he knows the right path to tread.
"Parents are not in the habit of sharing their grief with their children. It might not be the right choice, but I fell into this trap. Perhaps I shouldn't have."
Isildur shrugs.
"Perhaps I should not have pushed, either. I know a thing or two today that I did not know then."
It is the closest Isildur would ever admit to being wrong himself.
"I know this is a spot one enjoys better alone," Elendil says, "But would you care for some company?"
Isildur hesitates. If he refuses, Elendil will move further enough away to allow him to be alone with his thoughts – but he does not plan on letting Isildur out of his sight until his son is ready to return home with him. Then Isildur nods briefly, and Elendil tries not to show how relieved the acceptance makes him. He sits down beside Isildur.
For a while, none of them speak. Isildur is still throwing pebbles in the sea at irregular intervals, when it seems that whatever torment is in his mind is ready to get the better of him.
"Your walking stick came home without you," Elendil says at length. "I thought I should come look for you. Even though one of the last things you said to me this morning was that you knew the way home and did not need an escort back from the palace, it seems to me you have wondered slightly off course."
Isildur clenches his fists.
"I had to endure an hour with Chancellor Pharazôn, and he did not hesitate to show me how kind he can be. There was such an outpour of kindness coming from him that I wanted to get as far away as I could from it – and him. I would have gone further, but I ran out of land."
He pauses, takes a deep breath, and reaches for the ground to look for more pebbles.
"I'm surprised you've made it even this far," Elendil comments. "Walking like this, it must have been painful with that leg of yours. You're not doing it any favors."
He probably is not doing the healing welts on his back any favors with how harshly he moves his arm as he keeps casting stones into the sea. Elendil notices that he cannot even fully hide the wince of pain whenever his abrupt movements pull at something on his back.
"It is panful," Isildur admits. "But it has to be, doesn't it?"
The words make Elendil grow cold.
"In the name of all the gods, Isil, why would you ever think it has to be? Whoever told you that you needed to suffer?"
Another shrug, another stone cast in the water. If this is Pharazôn's doing, Elendil hopes the man will never be able to find peace and happiness again. He almost feels guilty to have such thoughts, but Isildur had been calm and content until the moment Pharazôn's summons had come. And Elendil knows Isildur has a long way to heal, that even without the summons his path would have been difficult. But that is exactly why he did not need any more setbacks.
"If it hurts, it reminds me that they are wrong," Isildur says, his eyes fixed on the sea. "Pharazôn who questioned my willingness to remain loyal in ways I cannot even put into words. Tamar who asked me yesterday if I did not come home a traitor. All the people who look at me and think I should not have been the one to return, but someone else, someone better than me."
What about all the people you saved? What about their families who are so glad you were there to bring them back? What about your family, who has lived for a month with a sorrow beyond words, who felt your absence every morning, who would have given their lives and their souls to have you back? Do we not matter at all?
Elendil does not say this, though. It would feel too much like an accusation, and, in Isildur's current state, it would only fuel his guilt instead of dispelling it.
"Isildur," he says instead. "Believe me, please, when I say that you have nothing to prove. Not to Pharazôn or whoever you think looks at you wrong in the street, and most certainly not to me."
Isildur has not even mentioned him, but Elendil feels the need to add this anyway, because he needs Isildur to know that there are no expectations on him now. That the only thing Elendil wants from his son is to give himself the time needed to heal.
"What if I want to prove it to myself, though?" Isildur challenges stubbornly. "What if it's me I need to convince?"
Elendil shakes his head confused.
"Convince of what? What do you need to convince yourself of that you keep treating yourself so unkindly?"
Isildur huffs, finding some dark humor in Elendil's words that Elendil does not see.
"Chancellor Pharazôn told me true kindness can easily be mistaken for cruelty."
Elendil hopes he and Pharazôn do not cross paths over the next few days. He does not know what will happen to the chancellor otherwise.
"Isildur, I very much hope you do not believe that."
Isildur hesitates, then shakes his head.
"No, I…I am not sure."
Elendil refrains from sighing in frustration. He sees that this is not Isildur unwilling to tell him what is wrong. It is simply that, whatever is the matter, Isildur still finds it difficult to put it into words.
"Sometimes," Isildur says choosing his words carefully. "Sometimes I am not sure what returned from the Land of Shadows in my place. Because I often don't recognize myself."
Elendil remembers that moment after the death of the overseer and feels guilty that his mind had taken him in the same direction.
Seeing that his father remains silent, Isildur seems to gather the courage to say more:
"At times it feels like the world is moving too quickly for me – or I am the one standing still unable to move, and I do not know why. Sometimes I feel as if I am still there. I can taste the ash and smell the blood and feel that wretched shackle around my neck."
He pauses and pulls at the scarf he is wearing all the time now. It is the same scarf he has borrowed from Elendil for the talk with the garrison commander. Isildur seems more comfortable when people cannot notice the mark left by the shackle around his neck, or the small cut above it that he still will not explain.
"And sometimes," he goes on, slightly breathless, dropping his hands in his lap and clenching them into fists. "Sometimes I become so…I keep expecting something to happen to take me back there. To hear the crack of the whip or…or Waldreg's mockeries or…and I become so angry, and I become so frightened, and I do not know what to do. All I know is that this does not feel like me. This is not me, and I cannot recognize myself any longer!"
Isildur's sentences are becoming more and more desperate and breathless. Elendil can feel the increase on tension. Hesitantly, he reaches out and places a hand on his son's shoulder. Isildur tenses even further briefly, then seems to settle into the touch.
"Steady," Elendil says, trying to keep his voice calm and convincing. "Steady, Isildur. You're in Númenor now, and I promise the only thing you can hear is the waves and the cries of the gulls and my voice. And there is nothing of the Land of Shadows here, I give you my word."
Isildur manages a deep, shuddering breath. He unclenches his hands and places one to his face, surprised and obviously ashamed when he feels the tears on his face. He lowers his head.
"What must you think of me…" he mutters.
Elendil's heart clenches, because he only thinks that his son is strong and brave and defiant even in his suffering, and he would give anything for that suffering to vanish, for Isildur to forget about the Land of Shadows and Pharazôn and all his other doubts that keep him awake at night.
"I think you're in pain," he finally says, then adds quickly when Isildur tenses again. "No, please don't start. You were in pain since before all this happened, and I only recognized this when it was far too late. You were already grieving before you fell in the Land of Shadows and what happened there…Isildur, you're wounded. In body and in your soul. And you are not used to this, and it frightens and confuses you. I understand. But trust me, Isildur, you are still yourself. And in time, you will come to realize this."
Isildur is looking straight at him, eyes wide, the hope and surprise and fear reflected plainly in them. Elendil hopes there will never be a time when Isildur becomes able to master the emotions on his face. With how he likes to pretend at times that nothing is bothering him, it is the only way Elendil has to read him.
"In time, you say. When? It is all so dark around me sometimes…"
Elendil's hand moves to the back of Isildur's neck.
"How about we find out way back to the light together? Would you like that? Let me help you, Isil. Please."
Isildur remains silent for a long time, as if he is mulling over Elendil's words. When he speaks again, his voice is steady, but slightly distant.
"The night when they came for Lania the first time, when I went in her stead I thought of you many times. It may sound childish but I wanted you there at first. I thought I would be able to bear anything if you were there."
He pauses, and Elendil is close enough to hear his harsh swallow. Elendil almost asks him to stop. Isildur does not need to go back there, certainly not for him. Still, he listens, caught in some kind of twisted, suspended horror and fascination. It is painful to hear more, and yet he needs to know. How else is he going to help his son if he does not see through his eyes, if he is not aware of all the darkness and sorrow that were there?
"But then when they brought me back to my cell, I realized the state I was in, and I wanted you anywhere but there. I would never have wanted you to see me like that."
"I wouldn't have, either" Elendil says honestly.
Isildur turns to look at him fully, taken aback by the admission.
"Probably not for the same reason you think, though," Elendil goes on steadily. "Tell me, Isildur, if it were Anárion instead of you – or if it had been me – would you have been more bothered by how we handled the pain, or by the fact that we were in pain at all?"
Horror flashes through Isildur's eyes at the notion of Anárion or Elendil going through whatever he went. Then he shakes his head.
"Of course not," he mumbles.
"Then why apply a different standard to yourself?"
Isildur does not say anything this time. He turns to face the sea again, only this time he is leaning slightly against Elendil.
"Can we stay here for a little while?' he finally asks.
Elendil sighs. They should really go back home. Amandil is probably getting worried. Besides, Isildur has probably eaten next to nothing since waking up, and the lack of sleep and food, as well as the exertions he has put himself through, not to mention whatever happened with Pharazôn have obviously taken his toll on him. Still, he looks slightly more at peace than before, and Elendil does not want to ruin that.
"For as long as you need," he vows.
Isildur relaxes slightly against him, his breath finally evening out. His hair smells strongly of salt and sea weed, the smell of Númenor, washing away the memories of blood and smoke that still plague Elendil's nightmares. Elendil follows Isildur's example and stares at the ever moving waves, allowing himself to concentrate only on how close his firstborn is to him, safe and alive and on the mend, despite all the pain he is feeling. They are both home, Elendil reminds himself, and whatever they have to face, they are facing it together.
It brings a peace of sorts to his mind. And maybe, Elendil hopes, maybe this is the first step towards healing for the both of them.
xxXXXxxxx
Isildur knows he has overdone it. He makes only a token protest about the walking stick when Elendil pointedly hands it to him on their way home. His leg throbs and the welts on his back sting, and he has a strange, lightheaded sensation – maybe from not eating, maybe from everything else that has happened today. He could complain about his weakness, but Elendil has already made it clear to him where he stands on the subject: Isildur is to allow himself to heal. It sounds far more reasonable when Elendil says it, and Isildur does not know how to tell his father that he feels they are running out of time. That he needs to be ready for something and cannot waste his days being easy on himself.
Still, he knows he will be lucky if he makes it home without falling flat on his face in the state he is in right now, and he is also starting to feel guilty that he has made his father search for him all over Armenelos. Although, when Isildur points this out to Elendil, his father laughs and calls it an exaggeration.
"I didn't look for you all over Armenelos, there would have been no point in that. I started at the palace and followed your steps through the marketplace. You make quite an impression, Isildur."
He does not know if that is a good thing or not, and he decides not to ask. It must not be that bad, though, Elendil does not look too distressed.
They walk at a slower pace because Isildur no longer has the energy to pretend he can keep up – he could, he tells himself. If it were really needed, he could run the entire lengths of Armenelos, bad leg or not. But there seems to be no need of this, and Elendil appears content to measure his footsteps to his, choosing roads that are less traveled and easier to walk on.
There is a commotion at one street corner that has Isildur tensing. This is where the puppeteers usually gather to rehearse for their evening performances. Several palace guards have surrounded one of the puppeteers, a woman about Elendil's age, Morwen someone had once told her she was called. Considering the plays she usually writes, she is clearly Faithful through and through and not afraid to show it. The guards are mocking her, saying something scathing, while she stands there defiant, glaring at them.
Elendil has noticed the situation, too. He huffs an impatient breath and shakes his head.
"Wait here," he tells Isildur testily then, because he probably knows this will not be enough to hold his son in place, adds in a tone that borders no insubordination. "Don't let me catch you moving from that spot. You'll make matters worse. Wait here."
He heads for the brawlers while Isildur stands rooted to the spot. He knows an order when he hears one, knows Elendil will be greatly disappointed if he disobeys, but it feels as if he is allowing his father to walk into the fire all by himself, and this is something Isildur cannot handle at this moment.
Elendil seems to have everything well in hand, though. He approaches the group, says something to the men who turn to him, eyeing him up and down. Isildur tenses. One wrong move, he thinks. One wrong move and orders be damned, he will teach them a lesson that they will not bother anyone again. The memory of the overseer and how he had nearly killed Elendil is now in front of his eyes. There is a roaring in his ears, and he can feel himself shaking with a fury he can barely suppress. A part of him even longs for something to happen. It will give him cause to vent his frustrations on those who actually deserve it.
However, the men seem respectful to Elendil. They nod and slink away, and Elendil pats Morwen on the shoulder and shakes her hand, then goes to rejoin Isildur.
"Home now" he says curtly.
If he guesses the state Isildur is in, he does not comment on it.
"What was happening?" Isildur asks. "Who were they?"
Elendil's mouth tightens.
"The Chancellor's Men. Pharazôn wanted a group of people to enforce order when things got too heated. Something different than the palace guard."
Isildur frowns.
"That was not enforcing order. That was persecution."
This morning's encounter with Pharazôn has taught him not to speak of such matters in the open streets, where the houses apparently have ears. But he is too shaken by what he has witnessed to control his thoughts.
"It's because Morwen is Faithful, is it not?"
He can feel Elendil's barely concealed irritation.
"After Middle-earth, Morwen and her troop have been more and more vocal about their allegiances."
"They have every right to be," Isildur interrupts.
He falls silent when Elendil gives him a warning look.
"You are not talking to Tamar, Isildur," Elendil says sharply. "I know the same things you do. Everyone in Númenor has the right to speak their minds. That includes the Faithful."
"And then the Chancellor's Men come after you?" Isildur challenges.
Elendil grabs his arm and steers him onwards.
"Keep your voice down," he urges through clenched teeth. "That was an isolated incident. It happens. You contain it and move on. It is done."
It is not done, Isildur thinks. And it is not an isolated incident. It is the start of something bigger. Surely Elendil can see this too.
"Father…" he begins.
Elendil must hear the anxiety in his voice. He moves his hand to the back of his neck briefly, squeezing away the tension. Or trying too. Isildur is too much on edge after seeing his father challenging four hotheads and, while they had willingly bowed to Elendil's authority this time…what about next time?
"This is still Númenor, Isil. We iron out our differences in the market place or in the palace. We do not knife each other in the back in dark alleys. I told you that."
"And Morwen?" Isildur asks.
Elendil huffs.
"Morwen can handle herself if need be. She has her group of performers with her most of the time. Don't worry. We can look out for each other, yes?"
Isildur suspects there is more to what Elendil is saying, but unlike him, Elendil seems to have become more familiar with this new Númenor, where words said in confidence can reach Pharazôn in an instant.
They do not speak much until they get home.
xxxXXXxxx
If Amandil is in any way worried by how long they were away, he does not let it show. He pulls Isildur in an embrace as soon as he and Elendil enter the house, and although Isildur appears a little puzzled by the open outpour of affection from his usually restrained grandfather, he does not mention it and simply allows himself to enjoy what he is given.
"Mind you do not get lost like that again," Amandil says when he lets go of Isildur. "You had us worried. Eärien was here," he adds, meeting Elendil's eyes. "With Kemen in tow."
Elendil shrugs helplessly. He spots Amandil's disapproval and is not surprised to see it mirrored on Isildur's face. Elendil, however, has no desire to interfere in Eärien's choices – he has learned from his mistakes with Isildur. Besides, however much he might be against Pharazôn – Kemen is not his father.
"She could do worse," he finally says.
Isildur disguises his snort as a cough.
"Tamar already has a wife, I believe," Amandil comments, and Isildur sniggers.
"I am most certainly not going to alienate Kemen simply because I disapprove of his father," Elendil says firmly. "That would make me no better than Pharazôn."
Something flashes in Isildur's eyes: fire and indignation that he does not bother to hide.
"You are nothing like him," he states.
Amandil looks at them questioningly, but Elendil shakes his head. He still does not know what happened with Pharazôn – and, given Isildur's propensity to keep everything to himself, it might take him a while to find out. But whatever took place at the palace was obviously largely responsible for Isildur's agitation on the shore, and Elendil is determined to get to the bottom of it.
I will definitely be addressing Pharazôn's comments in the previous chapter soon. Not that Elendil can do much about Pharazôn, but he can at least set Isil straight. Or try.