It astounded her how much she missed all that had been left behind.  Isilairë had never been one to regret what could not be helped or changed; she had been bred to set an example of grace and strength in all circumstances.  And she had endeavored, in the horror of the crossing, as the storms wracked the seas and tossed their ship about like a child’s toy, to keep her people from despairing and comfort the exhausted men when they came below decks.   

But now, safely landed on this distant shore, with tents set up and weary women, children and mariners to feed, and a world to remake, Isilairë’s mind strayed backward.  She thought of her beautiful writing desk, that had been her mother’s gift; the silver and marble fountain in the rose garden, the book of household accounts, the nessamelda trees, the beloved old gelding in the stable and the other horses, the cats, the dogs, and the impudent kirinki…and her sons.  All of their servants had boarded the ships in time, but there was only room for a few of the animals.  Her sons had gone to their own ships; and Ulmo alone knew where those vessels, and three others, had gone; for the nine ships of the Faithful had been separated two days out on the voyage.   Had the ships, bearing her boys and their wives and her grandsons come to safe harbor elsewhere in Middle-earth?   Or had those ships sank in the storms, or foundered on some rocky shore? 

Isilairë had not wept when they had sailed away, waters rising behind them.  She had not cried out when the seas that nurtured their island had turned monstrous and swallowed not just the white shores but the entire Land of Gift, even the Meneltarma.   All was gone; houses, harbors, hills, and home!  Tears would not wash away the memory of it.  Tears would not bring her sons to safety.  She had people to see to, and it was time she set about doing so.  Her lord and his men would be hungry when they returned from their errand.  Isilaire had presided over the extraction of the supplies.  Despite the loss of many containers and sacks of foodstuffs in the storms, there was still enough left – fruits, beans, jerky, nuts, one dry sack of flour, and water - to provide sustenance for a few more days.    

At least she still had one grandchild left.  Her lord had decided, wisely, that all the children, the lore-masters and craftsmen, would be dispersed throughout all nine ships, so that even if some of the ships were lost, some of the younglings and wise ones would survive.  Meneldil, her youngest grandchild, and his mother, had come in the great ship from which her husband commanded the fleet.  The baby and his mother now slept, exhausted, in one of the tents.

We are the Faithful, Isilairë reminded herself.   We survived the persecution by the King’s Men and even the King we once trusted.  We survived the sacrifices of the temple, the burning of Nimloth.  And even now, if Nimloth’s fragile seedling had perished on her son’s ship, Isilairë knew she would still survive and tend to her tired, frightened people.   

She had left jewels and fine gowns behind, so that she could bring something more precious.  Isilairë had brought what was now the last of the pure, Númenorean athelas; four mature plants and a bushel of seeds, to enrich the athelas strain carried to Pelargir hundreds of years before.   She was not a wise-woman; but had studied enough herb-lore to believe that the hardy athelas could thrive in more than one clime.   

Isilairë had to believe that what was left of the Faithful could also prosper in this strange and shadowed shore.    She rubbed her eyes and stood up, squaring her shoulders.   

“Lady!”  Her clerk was calling her, but Altanar’s thin voice held no fear.  He pointed toward the darkening hill.  A group of men hastened down the slope.  The tallest broke away and began to run toward Isilairë. 

It was her lord! 

“Isilairë!” shouted Elendil, lord of drowned Andúnië and leader of the Faithful.  He was smiling, nay, grinning; and Isilairë let herself breathe again.   

Elendil reached Isilairë and swept her up joyously in his great strong arms, as he had not done in too many years. “They live!” he said, as he set her down again.  “Isildur and Anárion live; their ships came safely to harbor.” 

“Where, Elendil?” she asked, her heart pounding so loudly that she was almost surprised no one else heard its roar. 

“We set a palantir on the hill, and I have searched through its depths this past hour.  Beloved, I looked southward, and saw the lads and all four of their ships berthed at Pelargir.  Isildur and Anárion seemed well.  I watched them bear Nimloth’s seedling onto the docks, and saw many men of Pelargir cheer them.  I saw Elendur, Aratan and Ciryon, and their mother, standing close; our grandsons bore only a bruise or two and held themselves well.  And many of their people were coming forth from the ships, walking gladly, though slowly, on land-legs in the light of that warmer sun.” 

The sudden relief cut so deep it hurt her.  Isilairë found herself trembling, and then the tears flowed up and out her burning eyes.  “They live,” she managed to say between heavy sobs; “Elendil, our sons yet live.”  She had not known until this moment how much she had feared that her children were dead. 

Elendil's powerful hand stroked her upper back, helping Isilairë relax.  “Praise the Valar, for they have cast down those who would have destroyed us all.”  He said. 

 “And they have brought us, and our children and all our folk safely in from the sea,” Isilairë added.  She would miss the many special things she had not been able to bring and the home they had loved; but their children were alive, and for the first time in years, Isilairë was filled with hope.  The scouts had reported a goodly stream a mile inland; they would send out hunters to find game.  The bay might well contain edible fish. They were short on warm clothing and blankets for the oldest and youngest among them; and the storms had soaked much of what had been packed.  Isilairë had already directed the setting of fires by which the blankets and cloaks could be dried and people could huddle together.  Fortunately, though the air was distinctly cooler than the sea-warmed winds of Numenor, this land was in its spring season; so they should fare well enough at night, if only it did not rain.   

“I have more good tidings, my lady,” Elendil declared. “Tell me.”  For an instant, Elendil looked as gleeful as Isildur had been, as a boy, upon hearing that the kitchens had planned a special dessert, a candied cinnamon-encrusted apple, for his birthday celebration.   

“After I saw our sons in the Stone, I also searched out the lands near to this harbor.  Can you guess what I saw?” 

“A rose garden?”  It felt strange to make a joke, that is, if Elendil would even know she jested.  She had not laughed in a long time.  But perhaps she would plant roses again someday. 

Her lord had the wit and kindness to smile.  “Nay, even better!  A party of Elves rides to meet us; they look to be but thirty miles away.  The Elven King Gil-Galad himself leads them, I saw his standard.  And they bring carts full of supplies; flour, wines, blankets and cloth, and much else, even cattle and pigs we can use for food.  I think they will arrive in two days.” 

Isilairë could scarcely believe it.  They could survive on what they had and what they would forage, but such relief would ease many hearts, including her own.  “Good tidings indeed, my lord.” 

“Come, my lady,” Elendil urged, holding out his arm.  “I shall bring all these tidings to our people.” 

Hand in hand, they crossed the beach to the busy camp. Anárion’s wife Almiel had awakened and came to greet them, bearing little Meneldil, her fair young face tense with worry. 

“Let all follow me, for I have glad tidings,” Elendil cried to their folk.  He took up Meneldil in his arms and strode to the edge of the sea.  There, he addressed the gathering throng.  “Rejoice, Elf-Friends, for I have news to gladden all hearts.  The rest of our fleet has landed; far from here, but safely, in Pelargir.  My sons, the Lords Isildur and Anárion, and I believe most of those aboard their five ships, have come through the storm alive.  Praise the Valar, and the One, who have guided us all to harbor!” 

Loud cheers erupted, awakening Meneldil, who started to cry, then hushed as his grandsire rocked him.  Almiel finally smiled; and Isilairë patted the girl’s shoulder. 

“And I have word that the Elves themselves are coming to welcome us to these lands with friendship, help, and good food and wine!  Let us greet them well, and offer the Eldar what food we can spare, and show them that we are not beggars.” More cheers filled the air.  Isilairë’s heart swelled with pride in her lord; even though his words would give her more tasks to do.  It would take more than Sauron’s cursed fires, the relentless storms, even the terrible fall of their homeland, to break their spirits! 

“Stand with me now in place of thy uncle and cousins, grandson,” Elendil told little Meneldil.  The looked up and cooed at his grandsire. Bowing his head, Elendil chanted, filling the air with his deep, mountainous voice: 

"Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta!"

Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come. In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world."

Author's Notes:

The name and character of Isilairë owes a debt of inspiration to Pandemonium 213 and her character Isilme (seen in the story Moon of the Sea, http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=315 ); she has graciously given me permission to use a very similar name.  I derived the name Isilairë from the Elvish Name Generator ( http://elffetish.com/names.html); it means 'Summer Moon' in Quenya.

Thank you, Linda Hoyland, for some excellent editorial advice!

Meneldil, son of Anarion, was the last "man" born in Númenor; and HoME:  The Peoples of Middle-earth puts his birthdate at 3318, so he could be less than a year old in this story.

The kirinki birds and the fragrant nessamalda evergreen trees, both species not found in Middle-earth, are mentioned in Unfinished Tales, Description of the Island of Numenor.

Elendil's words at the end are, historically and canonically, the same words that Aragorn spoke at his own coronation in Gondor.  Presumably neither gentleman would have any objection to my using them.

I wrote this story in a hurry for Thanksgiving; and it hasn't been completely beta'd yet, much less completely polished.  There are a few details I might yet change...

The story is written for creative homage to Tolkien's works, and entertainment value, not profit.  None of these characters belong to me.