Bride of Sauron (Halbrand / Rings of Power)

The Sound of the Horn

One thing I've been reminded of since becoming immortal: things fall apart.

Cities, forests, families. Feelings of love that, at one point, felt invincible. The mirror on my bedroom wall. Even me—when time itself stops and the world finally comes to an end, I too will fall to pieces.

I will live and breathe until every rock on this island is dust. Until every child is grown old and buried. For this honor, my city has celebrated me and the magic that runs through my veins, passed down from over a thousand years ago.

But the smiles of my kin are strained at the edges, as they pass me cups of sweet wine and put a crown of wildflowers around my head. As they kiss both sides of my face and tell me they love me. The more the wine flows, the more the falseness of their grins' falls away, replaced by darker feelings. Lust for what I have, fear of what I am, of what I could become.

It feels as though I've died. I wish I could tell that to someone.

I walk these blue and turquoise streets of Númenor like a ghost. Beneath the polite nods of passersby, I can feel their quiet sneers. I can feel their anger—that one among them has been blessed with what they've always wanted. The long life of the elves. And why her, I can sense them thinking, the second-born daughter of a common man? A man with no known lineage tying him to the great warriors who fought alongside the elves against Morgoth.

And then, actual whispers, smoking out of alleyways: elf blood. Sorceress.

Quieter, more seething: sea witch.

I want to shout at them: I agree with you. And I don't want it. If I could give this so-called blessing away, I would, to any that would be stupid enough to ask for it.

This morning, I slink along the edge of the city, avoiding people. There's a place I want to go—the one place where I can sit still and think. At the edge of a rock cliff, cool and usually empty. The waves crash hard against this part of the island, reminding me of the ocean's strength. It's willingness to take back what it gives to us. Not a threat, but a promise, coolly spoken and sure.

I used to sit here with my grandmother. She brought me to the grassy edge the first time she caught me crying alone, when I was a child. A boy had called me homely and thrown rocks at my chest. He said no one would ever marry me. Rather than tell anyone about what happened, I crept into the bathroom and let myself weep. I believed every word the boy had said. I wept for hours, until she found me, a puzzled expression on her face.

My grandmother knew that I would never say who hurt me, and that I would never seek revenge. I was too timid. Instead of trying to pull information from me, she took me here, a place of power and serenity. A place that reminds me still of how insignificant one life is in the scope of our world. I breathe in the salt-speckled air and think of her.

The memory of her voice warms my ear: "Look down, Elenna. Look at the rocks." She leans in closer, until I can feel her shaking breath. "It's said that, if you press your ear to them, they will tell you their secrets. What do you think they will say to you, sweet girl?"

I'm two and twenty, and I still don't know the answer. I stand up and walk to the edge, gaze down. I can almost hear them, the voices of the stones, calling out to me. Beckoning me to come closer, to hear an answer to the mystery of what's happened to me. Whispers that will help me understand why I've been chosen for something that feels far too great for a person like me. Someone who was meant to live an ordinary, brief, happy life.

It's in this moment I hear the horns, low and so loud it feels like I'm being pressed against a wall. The ground vibrates under my sandals. The horn announcing an arrival of Númenorean ships—one blast signifies that all is well. Two that there are strangers aboard, rescued or captured at sea. Three that our city is under attack.

I haven't heard three blasts in my lifetime.

I haven't heard two in seven years.

When the second blast sounds, my eyes snap away from the rocks. I step back from the edge of the cliff and direct my gaze toward the ships. The captain steps onto the dock, followed by two passengers who are certainly not from Númenor.

One is a man decorated in bloody cuts and rags. Tall, weary. He has a noble look to him, despite the state he's in. He smiles as he's led into the city by two soldiers, one grasping each of his arms. He seems oddly at ease for someone who's clearly been through an ordeal and now finds himself in a foreign land.

The other is a woman, in a torn white gown. Her hair falls in a golden river to her hips. She looks strange and beautiful. His wife? I keep looking, take her in. For some reason, my heart is clattering in my chest. I take a step closer and, no—it can't be. The woman's ears sharpen to a point. She is no woman. She's an elf.

I gaze back down at the rocks for a moment. Go, it feels like they're telling me. The water froths against them gently. Go and see what the sea has brought you.