The Last Day of Our Acquaintance by SurgicalSteel

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Chapter 1

Credit is gratefully given to pandemonium_213 for encouraging me to write this.

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But this is the last day of our acquaintance
I will meet you later in somebody's office
I'll talk but you won't listen to me
I know your answer already

Sinead O’Connor, ‘The Last Day of Our Acquaintance’

Zamîn had never expected that things would come to her meeting this man, of all people, under these circumstances.

The arrival of refugees from Númenor in Umbar had been difficult enough. The news that some of these refugees seemed to be setting up kingdoms in the North had been distressing. The announcement that Elendil was claiming to be ‘High King’ had led to debates in the Assembly which began with ‘High King of where?’ and ended with ‘High King of whom?’ and had led to a politely worded ‘request’ that Zamîn re-enter political life and deal with the Situation In The North.

They’d suggested a meeting in someplace called Osgiliath, which Zamîn hadn’t heard of before, but which her contacts advised her was the new capital being built for one of the kingdoms these people were creating. She’d countered with the observation that the climate was far more pleasant in Umbar this time of year. The response to that had been a stuffily worded letter suggesting Belfalas as relatively neutral ground with a more personal note scrawled at the bottom of the page.

Much as I would personally enjoy visiting Umbar again and seeing the monument to the victory over Sauron in person, my advisors will skewer me if I accept, it read, and was signed with the runes ‘L’ ‘ND’ ‘L.’

Well. Belfalas would be acceptable, and Zamîn had always been curious about Elendil.

Her contacts had advised her that the standard these people seemed to have adopted featured the White Tree, and flying that emblem on Mordor’s doorstep was almost an invitation to further bloodshed.

They’re late, she thought with irritation, brushing her tunic back down into place. She’d had to pick through every last garment in her wardrobe before she’d found the one that would not-so-subtly remind them who’d been here first, the dark blue tunic with the gold laurinquë tree embroidered on the breast and around the bottom of the sleeves. Their lateness, she knew, was a not-so-subtle way of attempting to let her know who was in charge.

When the door finally opened to admit these ‘kings,’ she was immediately struck by the thought that at least Elendil lived up to his moniker of ‘Tall,’ and that she’d never expected Anárion to have golden hair. Isildur…

She took a deep breath and forced herself not to rise to greet them, a not-so-subtle way of suggesting that ‘you’re not my kings,’ even though she desperately wanted…

I never imagined things would come to this, she thought.

“Lady Zamîn,” Elendil said, nodding to her. “We had not expected you to come in person.”

She tilted her head to one side, saying, “You did. Why would I not?”

Elendil’s eyes narrowed at that, as if realizing an unpleasant truth, while Isildur avoided even looking at her and Anárion muttered something about ‘one of the rulers.’

“Which I am, much to my distaste,” Zamîn said. “If you’ve something to say to me, Anárion, I suggest you say it plainly.”

Elendil turned his look on his younger son, who shook his head, and then all three men moved to chairs which had been placed around the low table at which Zamîn was seated. As Elendil was halfway down, Zamîn said, “Please be seated.”

He froze at that, and shook his head with a twisted grin. “You are apparently every bit as clever as I’ve heard,” he said.

Zamîn shrugged at that, and an uncomfortable silence fell for several minutes which she broke by asking if she could send for refreshments for them. Elendil was opening his mouth as if to speak when Anárion said, “My brother and I and the High King broke our fast earlier…”

“High King of what, precisely?” Zamîn snapped. “And by what right?”

“Princess Silmarien,” Elendil said, but he sounded half-apologetic as he named his ancestress.

“Princess Silmarien had no claim to the throne of Númenor,” Zamîn said. “Princess Quildelótë had a far better claim…”

“And renounced it,” Elendil stated.

“In hopes of escaping her tyrant of a grandmother,” Zamîn returned. “But for you to claim kingship based on a law created after Silmarien had already died?”

Elendil had the good grace to look a bit embarrassed at that – although Anárion looked irritated and Isildur’s face was still carefully blank.

“And in any case, should the newcomers not ask permission before claiming lands not theirs?” Zamîn added.

“The people of Pelargir were pleased to accept…” Anárion began, but fell silent at a sharp look from his father.

“They accepted the inevitable, which does not necessarily please them,” Zamîn said. “The people of Belfalas are pleased enough that they have refused to pay taxes to you, are they not?”

“They’ll change their minds quickly enough if Sauron makes war…” Anárion said.

“A war which would be of your provocation,” Zamîn said.

“Our…” Anárion spluttered.

“Your noble father has sense enough to settle far enough North to avoid the Dark One,” Zamîn said. “It is you boys who seem eager…”

“You didn’t always mind eager,” Isildur said, finally speaking, causing his father and brother to both look deeply uncomfortable.

“A young man’s eagerness to please a woman is one thing. A man old enough to know better who seems eager to bring down destruction on his own head? Vastly different,” Zamîn said.

Elendil coughed. Isildur looked down at the floor.

“If anything he provoked war by what he did to our people in Númenor,” Anárion said, and began to recount the horrors of human sacrifice and other unsavory things which might or might not have happened in the Temple.

“If it was truly so bad, why did you not leave sooner?” Zamîn said. “And do not dare to tell me of the things you would necessarily leave behind. My ancestress left when her life became intolerable… and we received the refugees wise enough to leave when your Minul-Târik began smoking and shaking the earth the first time. They did not wait for the thing to explode and cause disruptions to currents which made sailing more difficult, they were received happily by the people of Umbar.”

“You know why we couldn’t seek Umbar,” Isildur said.

Zamîn sat back in her chair, feeling as if he’d just slapped her across the face and wishing for a moment that he had. He’s made that choice, then, she thought.

“We’d no wish to settle in a place which gave safe haven to so many of those who sought to persecute us,” Anárion said, and Zamîn wanted to thank him for trying to cushion the blow, wondered if he even knew.

“Sought to persecute?” Zamîn echoed.

“The King’s Men who worshipped Morgoth and sacrificed…” Anárion began.

“Who pay their taxes, and are harming no one in Umbar,” Zamîn said. “Who sacrifice not so much as a chicken without tidying up afterwards and make far less nuisance of themselves than the so-called ‘Faithful’ with their Three Prayers and who cannot be bothered to remember promises made.”

Isildur winced at that, and Elendil gave both of them a sharp look. “Perhaps we should agree to disagree on worship,” Elendil said mildly.

“Perhaps we should agree that you will leave Umbar alone,” Zamîn fired back.

“It is difficult for me to claim to be High King…” Elendil began.

“I truly care not,” Zamîn said. “I remind you that Umbar has governed itself for two thousand years without interference from kings of Númenor. We have no desire to bow our heads now…”

Anárion gave a disbelieving snort.

“Our Assembly is chosen by our people. Our rulers are chosen by our Assembly for only one year at a time. If the people of Umbar wished to be ruled by some ‘High King’ with less claim to that sort of title than my cousin the trainer of mûmakil, we would not be having this debate,” Zamîn said. “More specifically, you would not be having this debate with me.”

Another uncomfortable silence fell.

“If you wish to claim kingship of Umbar, you will have more than one descendant of Princess Quildelótë to convince,” Zamîn added. “You may of course address the Assembly if you would like…”

Elendil shook his head minutely at that, and appeared to be calculating something in his head.

“Or you may choose to fight a war on two fronts, since you’ve already decided to fight on one,” Zamîn said.

“I don’t believe any of us want that, Lady Zamîn,” Elendil said.

“Very good, then,” she said. “You will leave us alone, and so long as you stay north of the River Poros, we in Umbar do not care if you choose to call yourself High King or Emperor or anything else equally ludicrous.”

“You’ll stop calling it ludicrous,” Elendil said.

Zamîn shrugged. “You will never hear it from my lips again,” she said, leaving unspoken the fact that at this point she’d rather crawl over hot broken glass than be anywhere near any of these men again.

“The Harnen,” Isildur said.

“The Poros, and if you want Fornumbar, you will have to take it from us,” Zamîn replied.

“Perhaps that might be discussed another time – an exchange of ambassadors, perhaps?” Elendil suggested.

“My cousin,” Zamîn began, hoping to leave the ugliness behind.

“The trainer of mûmakil?” Anárion said with a disbelieving laugh.

“Who has also been a Judge of Umbar,” Zamîn said. “As I have been a merchant captain, and witnessed the wave created by the Minul-Târik…”

“The wrath of the Valar,” Elendil said.

Zamîn snorted. “If you wish to believe so,” she said.

“Perhaps one of your children,” Isildur suggested. “You have a son who’d be…”

“I have a daughter older than my son,” Zamîn stated. “Older than your wife’s eldest, I believe.”

Isildur blushed at that, and Elendil closed his eyes, and Anárion rocked back in his chair as if he’d been struck.

He must only now realize, Zamîn thought.

“How are they?” Isildur asked quietly, almost as if afraid to hear the answer.

“They miss their father,” Zamîn said. “They will continue to miss their father.”

“They would be more than welcome in Arnor,” Elendil began.

“You should ask your queen and your son’s queen also before you make such an offer,” Zamîn said. “Unless I am certain they will be received with the respect they deserve, I will advise them to avoid your lands.”

Isildur flinched again at that, but remained silent as his father said, “Be assured I will mention your children to my queen.”

Zamîn nodded at that. What had she been thinking all those years ago…

You were thinking that he was a beautiful, eager young man who would give you beautiful children. You were thinking that it didn’t matter if he had a wife, because she was in Númenor, she told herself, knowing that it was useless to wish that he’d never visited Umbar before, useless to wish that she’d never known him.

He will stay north of the Poros, or he will regret it deeply, she thought, setting aside the young infatuated woman she’d once been.

“I would be pleased to respond to any letters your queen might wish to write to me,” Zamîn said, leaving the statement intentionally vague – but she knew Isildur’s answer without even asking the question.

Better to ignore him. Better to leave the unpleasant truths alone and pretend he was a stranger.

And better to keep their children safe in Umbar.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The Minul-Târik is Adunaic for the Meneltarma, the 'Holy Mountain' at the center of Númenor.