Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Brink

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He did not remember a time in his life when that particular vision had been absent from his dreams. Back when he was a child, recently admitted to the Temple of Armenelos and still secretly frightened of its dark corridors and echoing halls, he had been ignorant enough to confuse it with a recurring nightmare, and dreaded falling asleep because of it. In time, however, he had learned to control his disorderly feelings through prayer, and under the Lord’s guidance he had grown aware of the rare gift he had been sent.

When, years later, he heard another boy crying in his sleep, he already knew why this happened, and what it meant. It was a process that could not be stopped; an ordeal the boy could not be protected from because there was nothing intrinsically evil about it. Whatever visions the young scion of the outlawed house of Andúnië was having in his dreams were only for him to know, his own gift to make sense of and use when he grew older and wiser. Still, he remembered it was then that he developed the habit of praying aloud, so at least the boy would wake up to a familiar sound that could help bring him back to the present, instead of the chilling silences which had heralded Yehimelkor’s returns to the waking world.

Even to this day, Yehimelkor had no knowledge of what Hannimelkor had seen. But he knew what someone else had seen, someone who had unexpectedly confided in him despite the fact that he had been his enemy. Ar Inziladûn, or Tar Palantir as he had forced everyone to call him after he became King, had told him that every night he dreamt of a great wave, drowning the whole Island in punishment for their sins. This dream had been behind his eccentric and disastrous drive for reform, for, seduced by the beliefs of his mother’s family, he had come to identify the worship of the gods of Númenor with the sins they should renounce before it was too late. When Yehimelkor reciprocated by telling him of his own dream, however, he had refused to consider it for longer than a moment, which confirmed the theory that visions were only meant for those who had them.

I see a dark god rising in the mainland, and towering over Númenor like a cloud of black smoke. That is why I have always opposed your campaigns in Middle Earth, and the rebuilding of Pelargir. And that is why I will always oppose you, because I see nothing but godlessness in your path, and if the Island becomes godless, it will fall all the more easily to this dark god.

Tar Palantir had done nothing to prevent this; instead, he had persevered until the end on this double path of destruction, inextricably tying the interests of the mainland with those of the Sceptre, and turning the Island into a godless place. And this, in turn, had paved the way for the godless, incestuous general of the Umbar troops to seize the Sceptre unopposed, to build his blasphemous temples in honour of barbarian advocations of the true gods, and, in his folly, to set his sight on an enterprise that no Númenórean should ever have contemplated: defeating the evil spirit of Mordor, and bringing him to the Island.

When Ar Pharazôn’s fleet reached Sor, and the monster set foot on the harbour, Yehimelkor was already aware that the fulfilment of his vision was near at hand. A lesser man might have lost his sanity from the terrible feeling of impotence and helplessness which had assailed him then, knowing that there was nothing he could do to prevent it from becoming true. But impotence and helplessness were feelings he was already well familiar with. Some of his priests, he knew, still blamed him for relinquishing his Council seat during the reign of the Former King, and for doing nothing to ingratiate himself with the present one. According to their secret whispers, which he was not as ignorant of as they seemed to believe, it was because of him that they had lost their political power, been left behind by all of Ar Pharazôn and Ar Zimraphel’s recent policies and even, greatest of insults! sidestepped by the building of this new and greater temple which would rob them of their religious pre-eminence.

Fools. Even those among them who were not distracted by their own earthly ambitions were deeply wrong, if they believed that a Council seat and a good relationship with the King of Númenor could have prevented this outcome. The Council did not rule the kingdom, and the King would only have a good relationship with those who did not oppose his designs, a lesson which Yehimelkor believed his old pupil had learned too bitterly and too late. Beyond whatever pleasant flattery Yehimelkor might have offered Ar Pharazôn if he was the sort of man his predecessor had been, Hannimelkor – he still refused to think of him as Amandil – had been his true friend since childhood. Yehimelkor himself had been witness to the development of this friendship, and he had been grudgingly impressed by the inability of all the elders who surrounded those two boys to prevent it from happening. And yet, in the end, even those strong bonds had proved worthless before the onslaught of pride and ambition, twisted by the monster to suit his own evil designs. The most genial and accommodating High Priest of Melkor would never have stood a chance, and Yehimelkor was neither genial, nor accommodating.

And yet, even he had accommodated the King enough by keeping out of his way. It was years ago since Ar Pharazôn had left him under the custody of his soldiers while he sacrificed at the Sacred Fire, knowing that Yehimelkor would do whatever was in his power to hinder him unless he was restrained by force. These days, he did not bother with guarding him, interfering with Temple business, or even sending spies anymore. He did not consider him a great threat, and neither did the demon who whispered in his ear. The faithful of the Lord of Armenelos were flocking in growing numbers to the new temple of the so-called Lord of Battles, where Sauron himself -who now went by the presumptuous name Zigûr- presided over outlandish rites brought from the mainland. The royal family preferred to grace those with their presence, and this in turn had proved an irresistible attraction for the noblemen and courtiers who orbited them. They, and also many among the common folk, parroted the belief that it had been this Zigûr and his god who saved the Prince of the West’s life. It should not have taken the cunning demon a long time to realize that flashy tricks and false miracles were the surest way to reach the hearts of the superstitious populace of Armenelos.

“Holiness”, a familiar voice interrupted the bitter drift of his thoughts. “Holiness, may I come in?”

“Yes, you may, Hasdrumelkor”, he answered, somewhat ruefully. In the past, when the younger priest had been a boy and then a young man, he had been afraid to be caught doing things that he shouldn’t. Now, it was Yehimelkor who, in his old age, was tempted to feel like the boy when Hasdrumelkor came upon him like this.

“Holiness! You know you should not kneel on the floor like that, not without at least something to… oh, by the King of Armenelos, you have spent the whole night in that position, haven’t you? Do you think the Lord will not listen to your prayers unless you cripple yourself for His sake?”

Yehimelkor did not grace this insolence with an answer. Deep inside, however, he could not help but feel slightly disturbed at the implied connection with the doctrine of sacrifice, the one that the former lord of Mordor had twisted to suit his own purposes.

Of course, that had been his intent all along, he thought, to make even a man such as he doubt his own teachings.

“What is it? Do you come to report something? I trust you would not interrupt my prayer merely to inform me of the health risks involved in my current position.” He gave Hasdrumelkor the most severe look he could muster, while struggling to his feet and pretending that he did not need anyone’s help to do so. Unfortunately, it was a long time since the seventy-nine-year-old priest had stopped cowering from it. In fact, he even had the evil courage to offer him his hand for support when Yehimelkor faltered, though the High Priest did not take it.

“Sit”, he said, motioning towards one of the chairs before his table. Hasdrumelkor was already talking again before he reached it.

“Your Holiness, I am indeed here to report something. There are… disturbing rumours which have reached my ears, concerning the rites of the New Temple. I have barely managed to find sleep tonight, thinking about them.”

Yehimelkor sat before him, using the support of both his arms to slide into his seat gradually, instead of falling on it.

“So you have heard about that, too”, he nodded. Hasdrumelkor blinked, wrong-footed, then strove to regain his composure.

“Forgive me, Your Holiness. I should not have assumed that you would be ignorant…”

“… only because I have done nothing about it”, Yehimelkor finished for him. “If I was the King of Númenor, Hasdrumelkor, I would have swept on the nest of iniquity as soon as the first whisper reached my ears, and I would have demolished the place until not a single stone was left standing. But I am not, so this course of action is banned to me.”

“You are still the High Priest of Melkor!” the younger priest argued, some of his hidden frustration coming to the fore as his composure slipped. “Even this Zigûr, immortal as he may be, would have to submit to your religious authority!”

“Sauron is not here to submit to anyone’s religious authority. His plan is to become the highest authority in the Island. That is why he is trying to provoke us into an open war, which he will inevitably win with the support of the King.”

“But how could we stand aside and do nothing while he fouls the sky of Armenelos with the smoke of his sacrilegious ceremonies? We will be reviled as cowards, and rightfully so!”

Yehimelkor understood Hadrumelkor’s feelings, perhaps better than his former pupil thought. This was why he could not find it in himself to be angry at his display.

“A High Priest does not care for what others think of him. The only orders that he follows come from Heaven, and they alone are worthy of his attention” he replied, with a serene dignity that, for once in his life, was a mere appearance.

For a moment, Hasdrumelkor seemed at the brink of asking him if the Great God had ordered him to stand aside and let corruption spread through the Island. In the end, however, seventy years of learning obedience appeared to have the better of his impulse, and he bowed his head.

“Yes, Your Holiness. O- of course you are right. Forgive me, I have not slept very well tonight. And I do know that this is no excuse, but…”

Yehimelkor shook his head, waving the apology away. If he were to be honest, he would have to admit that the King of Armenelos had not spoken to him, let alone given him orders in a very long time. And though this had not made his faith waver for an instant, it had disquieted him more than he was ready to admit.

Then again, perhaps he had simply not been listening hard enough. Could old age and fear have made him deaf? And if he was, could the god be feeling angry enough as to send Hasdrumelkor, of all people, to remind him of his duty?

“Lack of sleep is no excuse. But perhaps the reason why you did not sleep could be”, he said, reaching a sudden determination. Hasdrumelkor raised his glance again, surprised. “I have heard… things, but rumours are often distorted and blown out of proportion. For example, certain people have been claiming that, today, something out of the ordinary will take place in the New Temple. But according to others, it is merely an ordinary ceremony, and there is nothing blasphemous or censorious in it. If I wish to be able to fight my enemy, I need to see for myself what is happening. And you will escort me.”

The younger priest’s eyes widened.

“To the New Temple?”

“Yes”, Yehimelkor nodded, and stared hard into the embers of the sacred fire of his room. “To the New Temple.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“How is he?”

Those had been the first words he spoke as he crossed the threshold of her chambers, and the commotion as the ladies looked up, stood, knelt, bowed and arranged the folds of their robes made it difficult to register if there had been a response, even to be sure that they had heard him at all. Only Zimraphel looked back at him, her hand absently caressing the black hair of the child on her lap.

“Much better than he was yesterday. Look, Gimilzagar, your father is here! Greet him!”

The young Prince had indeed noticed his presence, for he promptly arched back until his head collided against his mother’s chest and started crying. At least it sounded louder now, Pharazôn thought, glad for small blessings. Only the previous day, he had been so sick that he seemed too exhausted to move or even make sounds.

“Do not worry, I am not going to take you away from your mother.” He felt ridiculous talking to a baby who could hardly make sense of his words, but Zimraphel had told him that part of the reason why she despised the adults who surrounded her as a child was that she could understand them better than they thought. Her ability to intrude in their minds had played a role in this, and since it was too soon yet to know what this child was able to do, he should not rule it out. Pharazôn was at difficulty to see how a child who was too weak to even cry properly would be able to read people’s thoughts, but he had to admit that, if he did, he would not be too impressed with his.

He swallowed, forcing himself to empty his mind and start anew. He did not want his son to hate him. His life had been dearly bought, and he knew that he and Zimraphel would never have another. Before this was over, it could well be that millions would curse his name every day, but he had to make sure that Gimilzagar did not.

“Well, at least you are trying”, she said, a little sardonically. “But you should not be concerned. He does no longer have fever, so he is feeling stronger, but the pain is still there. That is the only reason why he is fussing.” With utmost care, she bared her breast and introduced it in the child’s mouth; after wriggling a little, he slowly went limp in her arms.

Pharazôn saw everyone avert their glances, as if seized by an almost religious awe. In the first month or so, there had been a great scandal whenever she did this in front of him, as if she had been fully dressed when the child was conceived, but gossipers had grown bored after a time. Scandalous rumours lost their value fast, if they were too widely known.

All the same, Zimraphel’s resemblance to the goddess of the Cave was as uncanny as it was intended, he thought, briefly shifting his weight from one of his legs to the other.

“I am glad to know that.” He turned towards the other ladies. “Leave us alone.”

The women obeyed, though rather slowly, and with obvious reluctance. It was deemed dangerous that the Queen should be alone with her child, without at least twenty other people to keep watch over him. But Pharazôn could not see why they would be more effective than Zimraphel at ascertaining her son’s condition. After all, she was always the one who knew what was wrong with him, and the one who took care of it immediately.

Once he deemed that they were out of earshot, he met the black pools of her eyes again. Their surface was calm and serene, and he took a deep breath.

“Go”, she said. “There is no reason why you should not be where they need you.”

Of course, she already knew what was bothering him; his rough skin was not harder to pierce than Gimilzagar’s soft one. Not for those eyes.

“Those damn fools!” he exploded, releasing the tension he had been accumulating since he read the latest dispatches from the mainland. “They should not need me. They have the most powerful army in the world, that should be enough for them!”

Belzamer had pulled out too many troops from the Second Wall, and for far too long. Of course, he had undertaken his expedition to the East of Mordor without gathering the necessary intelligence beforehand, thinking that what lay beyond Sauron’s realm was only a few uncouth tribes who would be too terrified of Númenor to oppose his advance. In the end, his triumphal march had been considerably delayed by circumstances he had failed to foresee -such as the uncouth tribes being part of vast kingdoms whose layout and strength they ignored-, and this had robbed Bazerbal of the necessary resources to deal with what might turn into the largest uprising in Harad since Pharazôn himself won the last Haradric War, in the last years of Ar Gimilzôr’s reign. And this time, as that accursed pest from Andúnië had once predicted, without the help of Mordor.

“I am not knowledgeable about war, but they say that an army is only as good as its commander”, Zimraphel said, as she manoeuvred the child so he would have access to her other breast.

“If that is the case, does it mean that I will have to spend our entire reign on the mainland, cleaning up their messes? That is not how the King of Númenor is meant to pass his days! I defeated Mordor, is that not enough?”

He could fool many people, even himself sometimes, but not her.

“Why are you pretending that you do not want to do it?”

Pharazôn discarded the fleeting impulse to protest and deny her claim, aware of its futility. He put aside all the trappings, all the artifices, until all that remained was the naked truth, a frightening yet very liberating ritual.

“Because I should not be leaving you alone.”

“You have left me alone before.”

“Yes, but not with… not like this.” She raised her eyebrow, and he lost his patience. She knew well enough what he meant. “First, it is not only you anymore, but also our son, the heir to the Sceptre. And second, I have enemies to be wary of, and friends to be even warier of. If I leave now…”

“You do not believe me capable of dealing with Zigûr on my own”, she determined. He shook his head, but she continued talking. “You think that, if you are not here, he will seize his chance to usurp the Sceptre, and get rid of Gimilzagar and me.” She laughed. “As if he could do something like that! He may have knowledge and powers that mortals can only imagine in their wildest dreams, but at heart, he will always remain a spineless coward, who hides behind others to pursue his designs and flees open confrontation. He will not turn against you, or harm me.”

“I know that you are far sighted, Zimraphel. But in this matter, I cannot help but wonder if you are failing to consider that he is an immortal, and that a mortal like you might not be able to read his fate.”

Zimraphel chuckled disdainfully.

“I do not read his fate, any more than I read your fate. There is only one Fate, for all of us. Zigûr will never sit upon our throne, as he never sat upon the throne of his former master. He knows that he would not be able to hold it for long, for you would come for him at the head of the mainland armies, and the outcome would be the same as the first time that he faced you. Only this time, he would not be given a second chance. He knows this, has known it ever since he swore allegiance to you, and he has neither the bravery to risk what he has on a small chance of success, nor the foolishness to be deceived by false hopes.”

Pharazôn fell silent for a while, pondering her words. Meanwhile, Gimilzagar had finished feeding, but he let go of a small whimper of protest when his source of nourishment was gently removed from his mouth. And who could blame him, Pharazôn thought as the white, round perfection of her breast came in his full view, clouding his mind and derailing his thoughts for an instant.

As if she had noticed -and she probably had- Zimraphel smiled.

“That was my second argument, in case you did not agree with the first one.”

“Very funny”, he snorted. “I will think about it.”

“As long as you think fast. The situation in Harad is only going to get worse, and Belzamer is cut away from the only route which would allow him to be there in time.”

“How do you… never mind”, he corrected, feeling slightly foolish. He should know better by now than to ask a question like that. “As I said, I will think about it, if my Queen lets me.”

“Very well”. With an exaggerated move, she covered her breast, and looked up at him. “You may think now if you so wish, my King.”

In all the years that he had known her, Zimraphel had rarely been so stable for such a long period of time, let alone condescended to engage in harmless bantering. Since Gimilzagar came, something seemed to have turned inside her, and instead of throwing her emotions in turmoil, as popular lore said of new mothers, it seemed to have settled them instead. Perhaps that was what she had always needed, he thought. An anchor. He had tried to be that for her, but he had left her side too often and too long, wandering here and there to chase his own ambitions.

Now, if he decided to follow her advice, he would do it again. And if she was wrong, even if it was just for this once, it would no longer be her stability on the line, but perhaps her life.

“I am never wrong”, her voice followed his footsteps as he departed.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 Yehimelkor did not know what Hadrumelkor had been expecting. Perhaps his fanciful imagination had been coming up with scenarios where they were stopped at the threshold, captured and taken as victims for their unholy sacrifices. Or perhaps he thought that the altars of the New Temple would be teeming with images of the demons worshipped by the mainland barbarians, their hideous faces and monstrous expressions gaping at them from every direction. In any case, as they crossed the massive stone portico erected as the entrance to the main hall, he looked visibly relieved to find a temple like all the others, if significantly larger and boasting of more impressive, if not more delicate workmanship. His hands unclenched under his sleeves, and the tension in his limbs eased as if a weight had been taken from his shoulders.

Yehimelkor took a moment to marvel at the fact that his old pupil could have kept his childish innocence intact through the years. Real evil did not declare itself openly, for Men were naturally disposed to abhor and loathe it, and the only way it had to creep into their hearts was to cloak itself under a fair disguise. Even Sauron had taken such a shape when he threw himself at Ar Pharazôn’s feet, knowing that he would never gain his trust if he showed his true form. Now, there was no reason to think that he would abandon a subterfuge which had served him so well; from what Yehimelkor had heard, he pretended to worship the Lord sincerely, and to want nothing more than to guide His faithful through the path of righteousness.

That was why he had been so shaken by the rumours. For if they were true, and despite the fact that Sauron had cleverly twisted existing doctrines to support his practices, many Númenóreans should have balked at this. Númenor was not Harad, or those lands in the savage East where Men would take the still beating heart from their enemy’s chest and eat it. That this could happen in the capital of the Island, that civilized Númenóreans who had always lived in accordance with Heaven’s principles would ever accept it, or participate in it, almost escaped his comprehension. If it had not been for his vision, he would have refused to believe it.

“So many people!” Hasdrumelkor exclaimed, his voice almost a whisper. The younger man had not lived during the reign of Ar Gimilzôr, when the Temple of Armenelos had been just as crowded as this one, if not more. All his memories of great multitudes came from the age of Palantir, when those who congregated to listen to Yehimelkor’s words were there in open defiance of the King. And since Ar Pharazôn’s accession, even those had scattered away, leaving only the most faithful to attend the celebrations of the Temple of Armenelos, now humiliatingly referred to as the Old Temple. The rest had disappeared, never to return, and the more he gazed attentively at the throng of people who surrounded him now, the more familiar faces he spotted among them. It was ironic to think that those fickle souls could turn their backs to the man who had risked his life to keep the Sacred Fire kindled during the seventy-eight long years of Tar Palantir’s reign, only to follow a creature whose armies of darkness had been killing their fellow Númenóreans in the meantime.

Suddenly, as he was trying to mutter a prayer to exorcise the bitterness of his thoughts, he heard a smothered cry in his vicinity. He turned towards its source, only to see a woman who quickly turned away from him, her hands fumbling with the hood of her cloak in an attempt to cover her face. But the hands were trembling, and the hood just slid down her hair.

Yehimelkor recognized her at once. She had been one of his faithful at the Old Temple, and she had never missed a single ceremony, sacrifice, or high day. He did not know her name, but he remembered her since she was a child, tottering behind her mother’s steps as she came to offer the Temple food and clothing, back when the Former King had tried to suffocate them by withdrawing all funds.

“Zairani!” To his surprise, Hasdrumelkor did know her name quite well, and his face went pale as he saw her. Yehimelkor knew that not all young priests were insensitive to the charms of the ladies who attended the Temple, even if it usually did not lead to begetting children and abandoning their priesthood as Hannimelkor had done. Still, judging from his expression, she must have meant something to him. “What are you doing here?”

“Hasdrumelkor! I… I was not expecting to see you here. I… well, actually, I…” The woman’s features were no less pale than Hasdrumelkor’s, but there was also something else in her expression, something that went beyond mere embarrassment at being discovered in the wrong place by the wrong person. “I came to pray for my child. He is very sick, and I wondered…”

Not sick. Dying. Yehimelkor could see the fear in her eyes, and underneath it, a raw desperation that gave him pause. He tried to dig deeper, but just as he was detecting something else -a determination of some kind?- she became aware of his eyes on hers. A strong feeling of shame took hold of her, and she withdrew violently, her face as red as it had been white before.

“Forgive me, Your Holiness. I am sorry!”, she cried, turning away from them and pushing past two women who walked before her to disappear into the crowd.

“How could she come here?” Hasdrumelkor looked angry. “Does she think that she can heal her son by worshipping evil? How can she believe…”

Yehimelkor shook his head. His expression must have looked frightening, because Hadrumelkor’s voice died at once. But if the younger priest was expecting a rebuke, it did not come.

“She believes it because the Prince of the West lived”, he said, simply. Deep inside, however, his innards had frozen, and he could see nothing, hear nothing around him, as if he was standing before a fathomless black void.

Far in the distance, a voice summoned them towards the altar.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The ceremony was presided by Zigûr himself. So far beneath him, and surrounded by thousands of others, Yehimelkor should have passed unnoticed, but the immortal spirit knew that he was there, and at times the piercing blue eyes grew fixed on his, as if silently daring him to reveal his presence. The High Priest of Melkor did his best not to surrender to the evil creature’s arsenal of illusions, to silence the whispers and quench the visions that he put in his head. And still, shaken as he was, he was unable to prevent himself from feeling as if all the words that came from that mouth were meant for him alone, and that each and every one of them was a challenge thrown to his face.

“…for this is the original meaning of this sacrifice, of all the sacrifices performed here and the sacrifices that you perform yourselves, in your homes and hearths. It is a pale reflection of the original sacrifice, the Lord’s sacrifice. Those words were spoken by a wise and holy man that you all know, and though his limited mortal nature does not allow him to fathom the ultimate truth behind them, the inspiration that he received from the Lord was true. For the model for every sacrifice you perform is this: you give what you have, and by so doing you imitate His action. And what could be closer to the sacrifice of an immortal, if not the only figment of immortality that each of you have, the spark of life that you were once given to tread the world for a while?”

Everybody was gazing at him, enraptured, as if they were those snakes from the mainland that could be put in a trance by trained men. Yehimelkor alone had his head bowed down, forcing himself not to look. For if he did, he would play into that fiend’s hands. He did not know how he knew this, but he was sure of it, with such a fatal certainty that suddenly his impulse to come here appeared to his mind as the most foolish choice he had ever made.

You were not foolish, you were wise to come and see for yourself, Your Holiness. For these people were taught by you, and now, thanks to your teachings, they are ready to accept mine.

The voice was cold and mocking. He fought hard to drive it away, but as he did, it left his senses as if floating in a void, and for a while he could not hear anything, neither the rest of the speech, nor the chants of the multitude. As if in one of his prophetic dreams, he saw religious fervour shine in a thousand faces, the flames of the unholy altar rising higher, the barbarian priests who flanked it with an unfathomable look in their eyes. And then, all of a sudden, she was there, climbing the marble steps as if on a drunken trance, and someone was grabbing his arm with such strength that it would have hurt if he had been able to feel it.

She had been wearing the hood when she first stood up, but it soon fell down, exposing her features, and she did not put it back. Every gaze was now fixed on her, as if she was no longer a common woman from Armenelos, but a manifestation of the divine. The god is inside her, their looks said, giving her the courage to walk on without flinching, without feeling self-conscious, ashamed or frightened anymore.

The first signs of doubt emerged when she stopped before the roaring flames, and the terrible heat made her flinch. The basin where the fire was kindled and kept by the priests was even larger here than it was at Yehimelkor’s temple, and there it had been large enough to receive the carcasses of the large bulls that were sacrificed on festival days. Where had they brought that fire from? his mind wondered, but those religious considerations which used to be of the utmost importance were now unable to distract him from the scene unfolding before his eyes. For a moment, her countenance showed nothing but undisguised terror, but it slowly abated, turning into renewed determination as Sauron spoke to her. His hand was grasping the sacrificial blade, and Yehimelkor was reminded of certain priests who were so skilled that they were able to lure the most skittish of victims into a false sense of security to ensure a clean kill.

You will not even try to save her. Which is wise, for what would you say to her? It was not my words that brought her here, it was yours.

“No!” It was the first real sound that he could hear in a long time, and it had the power to shake him awake from what he now recognized as the first stages of a trance. Next to him, Hasdrumelkor was attracting hostile stares; it was him who had yelled. Yehimelkor saw danger encroaching upon him, and in a protective impulse he turned towards him. The very moment he did so, the knife slit her throat, and a stray sunray coming from the dome above their heads fell upon the last smile etched on her features, as her lifeless body tipped over and fell to the flames.

“No, no!” Hadrumelkor repeated, horrified, trying to struggle against his grip. The smoke was dark and pestilential, but only briefly, for it did not linger among them. Instead, it flew straight towards the sky, one more show of the fiend’s trickery. “You killed her, you monster!”

The danger he had seen earlier was coming, slowly but surely hounding the steps of a young man who was beyond worrying for his life. An angry crowd was a fearful thing, indeed, and the people around them were all in Sauron’s thrall. The murder of a priest on holy ground was a grievous crime, but the evil creature only had to claim that Hasdrumelkor had made an attempt on his life, and none of those witnesses would gainsay him. He knew this, as much as he knew that if Hasdrumelkor opened his mouth again, he was dead.

“Be silent, Hadrumelkor!” he hissed, with all the authority he was able to pour in his tone, which was a considerable amount after seventy years of high priesthood. The hostile glances turned towards him, and in some of them he saw recognition. Of course, he thought: they were his old faithful, the people who had flocked to the Temple of Armenelos to listen to his teachings in the past.

It was not my words that brought her here, it was yours.

Sauron smiled apologetically, his eyes brimming with a foul mockery of understanding.

“I did not kill her. She chose freely to sacrifice her life for her child. ‘For this is the pledge of our devotion, that we will freely give what we have’.”

The quote had been intended as another slap to his face. But this time, Yehimelkor did not wince or flinch from it; instead, he let go of his old pupil, and forced himself to stand tall among the multitude. Everybody was watching him in silence now, with looks of frightened anticipation.

“That is a misquote”, he said, and to his unspeakable relief, his voice came across as strong and clear as ever, with no trace of his previous confusion. “You took my words from my mouth and twisted them to support your false doctrine. If this woman chose death freely, her soul will be cursed for eternity, but if you convinced her that her actions were good and holy, then you are the only murderer.”

Sauron’s eyes did not look apologetic anymore. They narrowed in fury, and for the brief span of a moment his features were creased in such a twisted expression that some of the spectators had to blink, in sudden confusion. Taking heart from this, Yehimelkor took a step forwards, and the people before him stood aside to let him pass, as if they had been pushed by a hidden force. As he walked towards the altar, the murmurations around him became louder, like the ominous rumble of thunder before a storm.

Finally, he reached the foot of the stairs, where the heat of the flames was intense against his skin. He looked up at the figure who waited for him, towering from the heights like a bird of prey. Or a carrion bird, he thought, the remaining clouds of his fear scattered by a strong wind of righteousness.

Withstanding the intensity of Sauron’s glance with his own, Yehimelkor climbed the first step.