Written for a Fireside Tales competition in Minas Tirith, a Kingdom of the LOTR Fanatics Plaza.

My sincere, heartfelt thanks to GhettoElleth for taking the time to beta this.

Oh Father

Dawn was breaking over the wide expanse of ocean, which looked deceptively tranquil in the half-light despite the subtle storm of dark power that now held the once-blessed island in sway. The man by the window was accounted tall even amongst his kindred- most of whom could stand eye-to-eye with the Eldar themselves- and had to slouch his shoulders slightly lest the top of the window obscure his vision. As he considered his island home, he remembered a time in his far childhood when the Western Sea was still widely seen, not as a dangerous foe, but a beloved guardian, and the waves broke gently upon all the shores of Anadûnê. At that time only one or two ships per year may be lost to the deep waters, always one of the lesser ships and often due to mishap or sabotage, and all occurred closer to the shores of Middle-Earth in the East where there had ever been people who envied the might and majesty of the Sea-kings.

Now three or more ships would be reported lost within a moon’s cycle, and even the immediate waters around the island could be hostile. All save those around the ports of Rómenna, which remained as pleasant as in times of old despite the unrest of its neighbours. Instead of taking this singularity as a sign, however, those not of the Faithful only grew envious and bitter towards the Lords of the West; this small sign of the Powers’ favour only caused their grievance against the Elendili to fester deeper.

Around him grew the sounds indicating the awakening of the rest of the household, but he kept his solemn silence even when a slightly shorter, stockier figure darkened the doorway into the room.

“He has gone, then?” asked the newcomer.

The man only nodded, and the growing light cast into relief the lines of weariness etched upon his still youthful face. He did not turn when the other approached him, nor did he respond when a comforting hand was laid upon his shoulder.

“Did he leave any instructions?”

Turning away from the muted sunrise, he met grey eyes identical to his. He remembered that a year past, those eyes could have almost belonged to a youth with only a handful of seasons to count as being a Man in his own right. But a deep grief had seated itself in that gaze, and a fresh pink scar running down the corner of his left eye compensated for the lack of age-lines in the telling of experience. He shuddered, remembering the feel of his son’s bandaged hand in his, the very same hand that sought to give him comfort now. He had felt Mandos’ summoning of his firstborn’s spirit. Never before had he felt so helpless as he had then. His own father had beseeched Eru Himself, recalling the unfailing faith of their House even when the King himself had turned from the West.

The next morning a shapely white leaf had sprouted from the young shoot in their small private garden, hidden amongst the wildflowers where the soil was richest. His eldest son rose from his bed and broke fast with his rejoicing family.

Nay, his son was no youth any longer, and had earned the right to his father’s confidence.

“To keep secret this disappearance,” he replied slowly, the hoarseness in his voice a testament to a night spent first in anxious silence, then voicing final unheeded pleas against his father’s intended course of action. “To prepare what ships we can without rousing the attention of the King’s Men, though they will be distracted in the coming days. To put into the ships all that can be saved, should the wrath of the Powers make it so there will be no returning to Númenórë. To gather our people, and lie quietly in our haven here until such a time when we may depart for the east, to Gil-galad; or a sign should arrive from the West of the success of the embassy. And, above all, to not meddle in the deeds of the King and he who calls himself the Lord of Gifts.”

His son nodded. “Anorian and I shall see to it, Father.”

“My thanks, Son.”

Just then, a young serving-girl appeared at the door. “Masters, have either of you seen Lord Amandil? A family from the south has just arrived. Their home has been raided by the King’s Men. Or so they claim.”

Isildur frowned. “I thought I espied a distant column of smoke this morning, and wondered at the source. Is their lord with them?”

“Nay, there are only two Men, both injured and attired as guards. The lady of the house is heavy with child, and the healers have seen to it that the exertions of the night will not cause her to go into an early birth. With her are her two children, one a maiden nearly old enough to marry, and a young boy who carries his father’s sword. The woman’s two sisters have come also, with their children. They say that the rest of their Men stayed behind to fight, in order to give them time to flee.”

Elendil sighed. “A noble deed, but if they had not all been killed, they would have been captured and sacrificed at that abomination they call an altar.” He nodded at the girl. “I have an idea which family this is, for I have visited the lands in that region many times. I know that we are running out of room, but will you see to it that they are made as comfortable as possible?”

She nodded. “And what of Lord Amandil?”

The tall man blinked, dismayed that she had not forgotten her original question, but before he could stitch together a plausible story, Isildur interceded. “My grandfather experienced a seizure of the heart during the night. He seemed to have been expecting it, and commanded us not to alert the household for he wished to pass in peace. His two dearest servants bear him now to the tombs of our fathers.”

The serving girl gasped at the news. “The Lord is dead? But he was a great Man, surely he deserves better than a quick burial in secrecy?”

Gazing disconcertedly at his son for a moment, Elendil shook his head sadly at the girl’s words. “The King would not dare to openly defile my father’s final rest, Mistress, but there are many lords who hate us enough to take any action that may bring pain to us. In any case, it is my father’s wish to have a secret but decent burial, and I cannot bear the thought that his body might be exhumed after we leave it.”

Such words shocked the young woman, for once upon a time such a thing would have been unthinkable in the Land of the Star. But all the Faithful had seen enough degeneration in their kinsmen over the past century to no longer be surprised at the depths to which the agents of darkness could stoop. There was nothing too sacred now for their mockery. Her eyes flickered to Isildur, whose posture indicated that he still favoured his left leg over the right, and she observed also the grief and hollowness of Elendil’s eyes. With a mournful sigh, she bowed her head. “I cannot yet feel the grief over the shock, Masters, though I am sure it will come soon enough. Oh, but he was a great and worthy man! I regret only that I did not get a chance to bid him farewell, but it would be like him, to conceal a foreseen death so as not to trouble the hearts of others. A Man made for better and more honourable days than these.”

She passed a hand over her eyes. “I take my leave now, Masters.” Hesitating a moment, she ventured to ask, “I am no gossip-monger, Masters, but would you have these occurrences kept secret?”

“Nay, tell any within the household who ask, and I shall formally announce it myself at mid-day,” replied Elendil after a moment’s thought. The serving-girl nodded, and then curtseyed towards Isildur, saying, “A good day to you, Master Isildur.” But when she turned to him her curtsey was deep to the point of kneeling, and she inclined her head. “I am to serve a son as worthy as his father, Lord Andúnië.”

After she had disappeared through the door, Elendil cast his son a dark look. “You lie too easily and convincingly, my son. I was thinking earlier that by saving the line of Nimloth, you have earned my trust and proven yourself to be a Man of worth. But now I wonder if your heart carries still a fragment of your childhood from when you told stories of dragons and fair maidens and valorous knights. This is no game with your brother, my Son and Heir. Lies are the tool of the Unnamed one.”

His son’s gaze was equally solemn, and within it he saw a subtle shadow that troubled his heart, though he could not discern why. “But the truth now will only endanger us, my Father. Will you waste our Lord’s sacrifice?”

Elendil’s eyes narrowed, and he sighed. “Nay, though I abhor this need for secrecy. But many depend on us, not just the members of our House. Yet even now I would wish that my father were still in this house and ever the Lord, and Elenna, as beautiful as she had been when Eärendil first took to the sky.”

“I know, Father,” Isildur said sadly. “As Lalaith said, you and grandfather belong to an older, more honourable world than ours has become. That is why I lied for you, so that you need not take on the burden of falsehood.”

Elendil looked sharply at his son. “And what right have you to take a responsibility not your own?”

Isildur was closer to him now, and he could see clearly the haunted look in those storm-coloured eyes. “The duty of a son to his father and lord. A duty to keep you whole so that you may lead our people, and be an example of what Men should be after even the greatest of us has fallen.”

“The great are often the first to fall if they do not remember a time when they were not great,” Elendil murmured quietly, though his eyes searched his son’s, wondering if the darkness he saw therein was caused only by his recent tale-spinning. It disheartened him to realise that he could not put his own sons above suspicion of treachery. ‘He is right’, Elendil thought, ‘I believe too wholly in the goodness of Men’. Could he have concocted so convenient and believable a tale as Isildur had? His son moved to look out the window himself, and the sunlight made the haunted look in his eyes clearer to see.

“What ails you, Ithil-iôn?” he inquired gently, reverting to the Sindarin-based pet name he had given his son when his eldest was a child. It had come about because Isildur at first could not pronounce the ‘s’ in his own name, pronouncing it ‘Ithildor’ instead. Also it seemed a proper way of privately honouring the Eldar, as they would have hardly used such names outside the safety of their immediate kin and trusted friends.

His anxiety increased when Isildur subconsciously wrapped his arms about himself. “I do not know, Êl-ada,” the younger Man admitted in a soft voice. “I have not felt the same since- since that night in Armenelos. I feel… tainted, somehow.” Those eyes turned to him, and Elendil saw for the first time the fear and horror they held. “Remember how the wounds would not heal? How you found a shard of the weapon still in my flesh, working itself deeper?”

Elendil nodded, sharing in the horror of the memory. “I do. In all my years I have never come upon such a thing, though your grandfather recalled hearing of it once from our friends in Lindon.”

“I had such nightmares, Êl-ada. Even now, though I have been untroubled since a White Tree lived once more upon the land, I still feel dread before sleep. I feel it has weakened me, somehow, and my greatest fear is that it would cause me to betray you and all we’ve worked for.”

Unable to bear the vulnerability in his son’s voice, Elendil closed the gap between them and enveloped Isildur in his arms. For a long moment they stood there, simply being father and son, as the warmth of the sun pouring through the window draped her gentle comfort over them both. In the distance they could hear the squalling of gulls, and it was a further comfort to them, for the white birds were a reminder of another land further West, where it was said that all hurts of body and mind could be healed. Finally Elendil kissed his son on the brow, and smoothed back the rather unruly hair the boy had inherited from his mother so that he could look into Isildur’s eyes.

“That was another burden you should not have taken upon yourself. Perhaps time will heal these wounds; but remember that your brother and I will always stand by you to chase away the Shadow.” Even as he spoke a whisper against giving such promises sounded in Elendil’s heart, but his love for his son would not allow him to do any less.

“Oh Father, I dreamt that Grandfather disappeared into the West, as if over the edge of the World, and we shall never see him again!”

Ah, now the truth emerges. “And is that what made you suspect, at first?” Isildur only nodded. Elendil sighed heavily, glancing momentarily through the window and out at the sea that he had been pondering throughout the night. “Likely it is truth, for I do not believe, short of sending Annatar to the West for judgement and a full repentance from all, that our people’s betrayal can be wholly forgiven. Nay, the most we can pray for is the survival of a few so that not all of the works and wisdom of this past Age will be forgotten and lost.”

“Then my lie was close to the truth.”

“I believe both your grandfather and I suspected the outcome ‘ere he set out. Aye, your lie was close to the truth, but …“ At this, Elendil gripped Isildur’s shoulders so that his son looked him fully in the eye. “- Never mistake the two, or you will be no better than Annatar. To offer that which seems to be truth and what the recipient wishes to be truth, is yet a lie, and there is no changing a falsehood.”

“I have not your will, Father, but I shall try not to disappoint thee.”

“I am proud to have you as a son, Ithil-iôn. But for you and your brother, I might have gone with my father.”

Isildur shuddered. “I am grateful you did not, Êl-ada.” Then, for the first time since returning home with only strength enough to thrust a most precious fruit into an astonished Amandil’s hands before crumpling over as if dead, Elendil’s firstborn son smiled, and a great weight upon Isildur’s spirit was eased for a time. Sensing this, his father was filled with gladness and pride, restored in his faith that the son should prove worthier than the father.

Translations
ithil-iôn: moon-son
êl-ada: star-father

Author's Note: I apologise if my use of Sindarin is incorrect, but these are the literal translations.