Chapter Text
Armenelos, 1280 SA
It was the last time Ancalimë walked the up to the summit. Age had settled in her bones, insidiously, until one day there was no denying. Her body had lost its vigour and her mind as not as sharp as in other days. It had taken her some six years to make the decision of passing the Sceptre to Anárion, until one day she had realized that everyone in the Council of the Sceptre was staring at her. She could not remember what had been said just before.
"I shall consider the matter privately. In a week we reconvene," she had said, solemnly leaving the room after.
It had only been a momentary lapse, something that would be entirely acceptable in anyone else. But not her. She had always been the driving force at the Council of the Sceptre, not someone whose thoughts were far away. She could not bear the notion that other such instances might take place.
That night she had called Anárion for a private supper in her chambers. Her son kissed her on the cheek and sat before her. There had been dark days in the past, but Anárion was a good son and a dutiful man. Watching the light from the fireplace flicker on his face, handsome as his father's, Ancalimë felt certain she was doing the right thing.
"Mamil," he said, after a while. Ancalimë noticed the concern tightening the fine lines around his eyes.
"My son." Ancalimë relaxed into her chair. "There are two matters only in my ruling that I have not shared with you in the latter years. Tomorrow we shall go over these two matters."
Anárion nodded. "It's the Elven-king, Gil-galad, is it not?"
Ancalimë took a sip from her wine. "Yes, foreign relations is a part of it. I would tell you to put it in the hands of your most capable and intelligent eldest daughter, but given free rein, Vardilmë would swiftly return us to my father's days, sending ships abroad as if money were water. It took me a lifetime to fill our coffers again."
Anárion sighed. "She has it in her blood."
Ancalimë shook her head. They had had this exchange many times. "The other issue is, of course, succession. I have made several provisions, for you. You will be a fit ruler, worthy of your great-grandfather Meneldur. You care for the land and the people, just like my mother did."
"Mother..." Anárion’s face was crestfallen. "Is everything well?"
"I am not dying yet, if that is what you are worried about. But after tomorrow, we will both climb the Meneltarma, and I will hand you the sceptre. The crown will come later, with due ceremony for the people."
"Mother... I do not know what to say."
"‘Thank you’ should suffice." Ancalimë bit her lip. She was always a tad too dry when she meant to be humorous. That had never changed and Anárion did not always understand. "I jest, son," she added. "I am the one to thank you, for being a loyal son, and never asking me to renounce, even when you are already fully trained in the difficulties of ruling. You will be a wise and kind king, my son. Now, I am tired."
They had not touched their food yet, but suddenly Ancalimë felt as if a great weight had lifted from her shoulders and she was exhausted. Anárion rose and bowed. He looked around, then at his hands and at his feet. Finally, he knelt and kissed her hand.
"Thank you, Mother, for teaching me well."
Ancalimë stroked his cheek, with her fingertips. "Good night, my son."
She had climbed the Meneltarma many times before in her life, as was her due. In recent years, her bones complained, but this time, she felt less the weariness of the ascent and more the fear leaving her – Númenor would not be swallowed by waves if she stopped ruling.
At the summit, before the hierophant and Eru Ilúvatar only, she passed the sceptre to Anárion. Her hands had trembled ever so slightly. Her son had lowered his head in a silent, courteous thanks. It was his turn now. Her death was close and she thought of that day, far in the past, when Hallacar had been there, holding her in her grief. They had been fools, both of them. She wondered if it could have been different, knowing that those thoughts were well-worn paths that lead nowhere.
Almaida, 1285 SA
Now, she lived alone in Almaida, save for one woman servant and her young daughter. She had always thought that she would finish her days in Emerië, like her mother, in a house full of women, refugees from the harshness of this world. But when she had descended the Meneltarma for the last time, she had headed for her childhood home only to find it full of ghosts and dampness. Erendis had been a young woman, when she had taken her there. Ancalimë was too old and tired to build anything anew.
She had stayed there for two excruciating days. The hills, dotted with sheep, reminded her of Hallacar and her youth. And Îbal, that dear friend, and his mother, a warm woman, always busy, always smelling of freshly baked bread. And Zamîn, Todaphel, Azruarî, laughter and tears. She had found a box of her mother's poems, from the time her mother had travelled with her father by ship around Númenor. Ancalimë had read them all. They were vibrant, joyful, not marred by the sadness that always veiled her mother. And they were about the sea. It was obvious, even then, that Erendis was looking to the land, from the sea, while Aldarion had been looking from the sea to the nether shores. Ancalimë smiled, a bitter old woman smile, and called her servants. She left the house to their care. She would gift it to her granddaughter Ariel. The girl had her head full of dreams and poems and wanted to be the second Erendis Poetess or Ancalimë Shepherdess. Ancalimë had stopped trying to show her that the reality of both lives was more and less than the romanticized version. Ariel might as well have the house and live the dream. Maybe one day, even, a handsome fake shepherd would come along and sweep her off her feet.
The poems had made a deep impression on her, however. She always felt as if she were a child peeking into something forbidden, whenever she read her mother's words. Maybe she should have just burned them, as Erendis had asked in her will. She kept thinking of the landscapes, Númenor through the sea mist, as seen by her mother, silver and gold, green and blue. Almaida. That was where she wanted to be. She had only been there once, while on a state visit to Andustar. One of the horses had lost a shoe and they had stopped for lunch and shoeing at the small fishermen town.
It was a good choice. Andúnië was close enough for Anárion not to worry about her and for his messengers to reach her easily, but far enough for the sycophants not to bother visiting her. It was small and quiet. Her life was spent, her strength had gone. It was time to wait for death, in peace.
Her eldest granddaughter came often to visit. While Ancalimë rued not that the youngest, Ariel could not be bothered with ruling, she did so with Vardilmë. Her granddaughter was formidable, a true ‘Pirate Queen’. Tall and golden, mind sharp as a blade, Vardilmë had been rightfully named after their honourable ancestor. Ancalimë saw the brightness, the iron will, but she also saw the dreamer, a woman with a heart after Aldarion’s, set on the sea.
Vardilmë should have been queen, but Ancalimë still could not let her rule, knowing that another disastrous wave of expansion would come, returning Númenor to poverty and ignorance, and in this, Anárion, agreed with her. It was a terrible waste of talent to render her granddaughter useless, but fortunately, Vardilmë seemed content with her part of the bargain – the guild in her hands.
They still argued, frequently. She loved this granddaughter very much, even when she was insufferable. She had her mother’s tender heart and many tattoos. She came to Almaida to show her the latest, a crown with a rose, on her shoulder, which was supposed to be a homage to her. Ancalimë was peeved that her granddaughter had found, yet again, a way to make her laugh, be proud and be angry at the same time.
It was Vardilmë who was by her side when the darkness fell. Ancalimë sat on the sand, enjoying the warmth of the sunny afternoon. She was heavily warded against the cold, covered in shawls like the old woman she was now, but after yet another altercation with her granddaughter, this time about interpretations of the history of the settlement on the island, she felt a sudden urge to leave the house.
Vardilmë took her down the path from her sandy lawn to the beach. A soft breeze murmured through the reeds and gulls flew overhead, letting their shrill cries echo through the skies. It was still cold for the children to go out on the water, but far away two or three played with a ball. Ancalimë’s sight had been better.
The day felt as perfect as a day can be perfect, for an old woman. Vardilmë felt strong and hale, by her side. She was proud of that unnerving woman. When they sat, they did not resume their quarrelling. Ancalimë gazed at the horizon for a long time, until sky and water melded and the rolling of the waves was all that filled her mind. Then she closed her eyes and turned her face up to the sun. The West could wait a few seconds more. She could see in the redness of her trembling lids, tiny black dots swimming up and down and to the sides. It almost felt like being young again.
The sun dimmed and Ancalimë opened her eyes. Everything was dark and pale, as if the colours had been bleached. With a start, she realized it was time. Her chest heaved, but quickly she controlled herself. Death was naught but another journey. There was no need to scare the girl. She lay back against the dune and closed her eyes again. Her breath slowed. Her body slackened. Her heart gently stopped thrumming in her ears. And then, she felt featherweight, travelling through halls of light.
“Ancalimë!” her mother laughed as she called. “Daughter,” her father said. Strong arms held her. A kiss fell on her cheek. Isilmë’s warm hand laced her fingers.
“Emerwen…” she heard Hallacar calling. “Emerwen Aranel.” His arms, strong as ever, closed around her.
Ancalimë felt young again. She opened her eyes to find those of her loved ones. She was no longer alone. She never had been.
Finis
June 2015