Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Devil and the Priest

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The clear eyes bore into his skull like a sharp lance.

“Does the High Priest of the Great God have a problem with my doctrine?” The question was asked in a polite tone, such as one would use to disagree with an esteemed colleague. And yet, Yehimelkor could perceive the cold steel underneath. “I must confess I am surprised. For he has always professed to believe in the sanctity of sacrifice. ‘This is the pledge of our devotion, that we will freely give what we have’, is that not what you have said so often, standing before the altar?”

By now, he had reached the highest step, and Sauron did not seem to be towering over him anymore. In fact, Yehimelkor realized that they were of similar height, though he was thinner and his appearance much less noble and pleasing to the eye. Without the sacred purple, he must cut a rather poor figure, an intruder who had crept in in disguise to disturb a ceremony to which he had not been invited. A common agitator.

But appearances were deceiving, and as he fixed the demon with his own glance, Yehimelkor knew. For the god was in him, giving strength to his voice and clarity to his thoughts. The people who stood before them had realized this, and were gazing at him not with contempt or hatred, but in open-mouthed awe. And Sauron was aware of it, too, which was why he was trying to twist his thoughts to confuse him and rid himself of this threat to his authority.

“That is what I said indeed, as any of those who stand here know, since they have listened to my words many times over the years”, he answered. “But you are not upholding the sanctity of sacrifice, you are defiling it. You are soiling Númenor with evil practices for which the peoples of the mainland are rightly known as barbarians, practices which I am sure they learned from you.”

“And how am I defiling the sanctity of sacrifice, Your Holiness?” The title sounded like a mockery in his voice, a provocation that would lure lesser men to rage. “She gave freely what she had, just as you instructed her to.”

“She did not.” Though the smoke still flew upwards from Sauron’s trickery, if one approached the altar enough, the sinister smell grew evident. If only he could prevent him from doing this, if the god lent him strength to perform a miracle like those that were written into the old books, the assembled people would be able to smell it too, and then they would awake and realize the extent of the horror which had taken place before their eyes. “Sacrifice is a way to thank the gods for the good they do to us, not a way to bind them into our service. We are not to command Heaven to save our loved ones and destroy our enemies in exchange for lives. That is a perversion!”

“And yet the Númenóreans often sacrifice to the gods before they embark upon an important venture. They sacrifice before a journey, a wedding, an expedition, a battle. Are they commanding Heaven to help them in those ventures when they do that?”

“They might do so, unthinkingly. But they do it of their own free will, because of human weakness, and I have never preached it.”

“Human weakness.” Sauron’s eyes looked gleeful for an instant. “So, the King sacrifices because of human weakness, is that so? And when he sacrificed here to ensure the birth of his son, how weak did you think he was?”

Yehimelkor refused to be distracted by petty political manoeuvres, even though a part of him was aware of their importance. But that part could not be allowed to have the upper hand now. Like the day he opposed Ar Gimilzôr’s orders by telling a child what he was not supposed to know, like the day he refused Tar Palantir’s outstretched hand, or walked away from the Council of the realm, he knew in his hearts of hearts that he was not fighting for his own wellbeing or safety, and so he had to keep them out of the equation.

“As weak and as strong as any other man. For all of us, the high and the low, are imperfect, a poor reflection of the divine. Only the Creator is perfect, and only the gods may reflect this perfection without soiling it with the impurity of the flesh.” And you, the poor reflection, are saying this before a god, the insidious whisper spoke in his mind, and this time, Yehimelkor did feel some of the dismay he had kept at bay so far creep in.

He fought against it, with claws and teeth. Sauron was no god, only a minor spirit who had rebelled against everything that was righteous and good. A demon. And a man may be imperfect, but when the god was inside him he could briefly attain perfection, even if it did not belong to him.

“Sacrificing birds, bulls, or trees to ask something of the gods is human weakness, but it is not a sin. To give away your life, however, is the most grievous of all sins, for it never belonged to you. It belongs to Him who gave it to you so you would fulfil the purpose you were assigned in this mortal world, and only He may decide when this purpose is over. If a man sacrificed his neighbour’s cow, would this sacrifice be holy? It would not, and he would be considered a thief.” The faces he could see most closely, of those that stood near the altar, not far from the foot of the stairs, had begun to show reactions other than shock or surprise. He saw a man looking suddenly disgusted, and a woman nodding her head as he spoke. They had not yet fallen to evil, and he could not let them. “If instead of your neighbour’s cow you sacrificed his son, you would not be a thief, but a murderer. And so it is with all the lives of beings who have souls, including our own.”

Sauron’s anger was growing, though it was almost impossible to detect it on the surface. He obviously had not expected to encounter such resistance.

“And you think you have the wisdom to determine what is the purpose in a man’s life, and when it is over?” he said mockingly. “What if I told you, Your Holiness, that this woman was given her life for the purpose of bearing this child and saving him? Would you have condemned her sacrifice if she had jumped into the fire to save him from the flames? I believe that you would not. You would have praised her, and judge that her purpose had been fulfilled, even that she had earned the right to be led to the light and obtain eternal life.”

“I do not have this… wisdom, as you call it. But if I claimed that I did, and the people believed me, I would have the power to eliminate all my enemies without repercussion. I would be the only judge of life and death, more powerful than the Sceptre.” Now, the looks were turning into renewed murmurations. “What would an evil, twisted spirit be able to do with this power? It is a terrible thing to even contemplate.”

Sauron was livid now, enough as to finally relax his tight grip on his composure. Yehimelkor saw a red fire in his eyes, and for a moment he was about to flinch, as if the flames that consumed the poor woman’s flesh had risen to consume his own. A black horror threatened to overwhelm him, and he had to strive to remember the words of one of the litanies he had repeated every day and night for one hundred and fifty years of priesthood.

Lord of Light, Victor of death, King of Armenelos. Lord of Light, Victor of death, King of Armenelos.

“You call me evil and twisted because you believe your narrow insights to be the only laws that move the world. And yet, Your Holiness, how little you know of it! As a mortal, you are bound by your limited knowledge of a Creation which you never saw unfold before your eyes.” He was affecting condescendence now, brandishing it before him like another one of his weapons. Yehimelkor realized that if he had not been able to find the words to pray a moment ago, he would be feeling this shame and doubt as acutely as the fear that came before, and that both would have reduced him to a quivering mess. “I was there when the one whom you call the Creator wove the world into His Music. I was there when your kind was created, and the other kinds, and each of them was endowed with a purpose. Do you know what I see when you discuss such matters, and pretend to be the keeper of the truth? Do you know what I see when you pray to your god, and believe that you know Him better than I do? I see an insolent child who knows nothing of the world, foolishly gainsaying his elders.”

I was there when your kind was created. The doubts that had crept into his mind before came back again, and each time they grew harder to disperse, just like the waves would return taller and stronger as the tide rose. What if Sauron, despite the evil which had corrupted him, still kept a kernel of true knowledge that could topple the painstakingly built edifice of faith? What if there was something in his doctrine, buried beneath all the lies? What if the Great God had wished for them to worship Him in this manner, and conquer the world to His greater glory? What if Tar Palantir had been right, and he had been wrong from the start, worshipping a shadow of evil whose true nature he was unable to grasp?

His eyes widened in horror, and he did so he saw Sauron’s eyes widen as well, but in triumph. In all the years of his life, insignificant as they may seem to an immortal, High Priest Yehimelkor had never, ever doubted his faith. He had kept it firmly through every circumstance, no matter how difficult, and even when his life had been on the line, he had not been afraid to risk it for such high a cause. It had sustained him through the darkest of times, and, in exchange, he had protected it, and battled its enemies. Even here, even now, the very words of a prayer had been able to protect him from crawling at the Deceiver’s feet in defeat. And if he was the only man in all of Númenor whose mind reminded sharp and clear enough to oppose him, this defeat would mean the ruin of millions.

“You may have lived for years uncounted”, he said, his voice rising powerfully until even the last man and woman in this large hall could hear it. “But if we are to be called into account for how we employed the time which was given to each of us, I will stand proud before my judge, while you will be convicted of wasting your eternity miserably. Five years ago, you were sitting in your Dark Tower, in the land of Mordor, bringing death and devastation to people who lived in fear of your name. Five thousand years ago, you were doing the same. Is this what the Creator wished your purpose to be? Do not compare yourself to me, Lord Zigûr, and do not use your immortality to silence me, for it is I, who can silence you. For if you had any intention of renouncing evil, you would have done so long before our King threatened you with his army and brought you here as his prisoner. But you did not, and so I do not believe in your wisdom, in your sanctity, or in your righteousness. They are nothing but lies, and you the enemy of Númenor!”

“How dare you!”

The murmurations had now erupted into something more, something that felt like the first stirrings of scandal. A swift premonition seized him, and he was aware that he did not have much time. Before he could lose control of the crowd, or rather, before Sauron could wrest it away from him, he turned towards them, even though with this action he risked turning his back to his enemy. Lost among the multitude beneath them, Hadrumelkor looked small and frightened.

“I am the High Priest of Melkor, Lord Zigûr. You may have your own temple, but you still owe obedience to me. And I henceforth forbid human sacrifice here and everywhere else in the Island. If we behave like barbarians, how can we claim to be any better than them?”

Knowing that no one would dare attack him while still under the influence of the voice he had used, Yehimelkor descended the long flight of stairs, and purposefully walked on, cleaving a path among the faithful. As he made his way across the hall, with Hasdrumelkor tottering behind his steps, he could perceive the strong emotions shifting around him like waves in a stormy Sea. Those changing forces would soon fall again under his control, he saw in a sudden and devastating bout of foresight. He would marshal them together with even more powerful ones, come back for revenge, and Yehimelkor would be hard pressed to withstand that second assault. This would happen tomorrow, perhaps the day after that, so his victory would be as short-lived as it had been foolish and dangerous to risk himself in this way. All this was true, he was aware of it from the depths of his heart.

And yet on this day, at least, the High Priest had stood against evil.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

He could not believe that this had happened now. Of all the reasons he had to be displeased by the news, he could not help but feel that the timing was what angered him most of all. It was as if Heaven -the stars, as the Haradrim would have said- was conspiring to thwart his departure for the mainland, which he had been about to announce to the Council that very day.

“That High Priest has always been a troublemaker” the High Chamberlain nodded, in what Pharazôn had come to recognize as his sycophantic voice. It was the tone that he used whenever he said something that he believed was exactly what the King wished to hear, and it became especially gleeful when it had someone else as a target. “In the times of the Former King, he was expelled from the Council for agitating, and I am told that before that, during the reign of your noble and pious grandsire…”

“He was not expelled, he resigned”, Pharazôn cut his tirade. “That is the level of pride and arrogance we are contending with.”

“I am not allowed to speak ill of my superior, my lord King”, the Palace Priest intervened, his look of circumspect modesty belied by the satisfied gleam in his eye. “But I must bring your attention to the fact that his Holiness is not young anymore, and old people often lose the ability to adapt to the changes taking place in the world around them.  It is not their fault, of course, just the inexorable laws of nature, but…”

“In any case, he questioned your suitability to wield the Sceptre, as well as the sanctity of the sacrifices you have officiated until now and, of course, your authority.” Even though they should have had enough time to grow used, courtiers still looked a little out of sorts whenever Zigûr spoke in their presence. The High Chamberlain, that undisputed master of etiquette, did not allow his countenance to betray him, but the Palace Priest looked at their immortal guest as if he had suddenly heard a disembodied voice in the room. “And not just in private, but in the middle of a ceremony attended by thousands of people. This is exactly the kind of situation that you can least afford on the eve of your departure for the mainland. The Queen is an admirable woman, but looking after the Prince of the West absorbs much of her strength. Would you leave her to face a situation like this alone?”

“The Lord Zigûr is right”, the Chamberlain nodded. “This cannot be tolerated.”

“Furthermore”, Zigûr continued, “he said that, as High Priest of Melkor, he would not allow anyone in the Island to conduct sacrifices involving Men. Anyone.”

At this, the Palace Priest looked more than visibly uncomfortable. Watching him, Pharazôn was forcefully reminded of the truth that not all Númenóreans accepted that new custom. Though it was a very rare occurrence, compared to the ceremonies in which animals or other things were sacrificed, it had of course attracted all the attention, and drawn scandal, criticism and fascination in equal parts. Too many saw such practices as only fit for the feared and loathsome Middle-Earth barbarians, and though they were as eager to see the blood of their enemies as anyone else, they balked at the notion of it being spilled on hallowed ground, and even more of it belonging to fellow Númenóreans, no matter how willing they were. As Zigûr had predicted, the common folk was slowly warming to it as news of the miracles had spread around, and even if the numbers of those who were ready to go this far to ask something from the god were naturally very few, those who attended the ceremonies were many. Once that Ar Pharazôn was back from the mainland, they would not object too loudly if barbarian enemies were killed inside a temple instead of in the open air, but if a man like Yehimelkor took it upon himself to reverse the tide of public opinion at this point, there was no way to be certain of what he might find after he landed on the harbour of Sor. If the opposition to Zigûr’s sacrifices became violent, or even political, his reign could be thrown in turmoil yet again. And if he was forced to give in to pressure and forbid the practice, his position would be weakened, and he would never be able to harness the effectiveness of those miracles for his own interests. And then, Gimilzagar would die.

“Very well”, he said, breaking an uncomfortable silence which had lasted for too long while he pondered those matters. “We will order his arrest and that of his accomplices, and have them brought in today. I cannot tarry in the Island for much longer, and yet this issue must be resolved before my departure.”

“But, my lord King… today is the Council meeting”, the Chamberlain reminded him. Pharazôn rose from the chair where he had let himself rest for part of the conversation.

“Well, then perhaps the Council will have to wait, won’t it? If its honourable members grow too impatient, I will ask the Queen to go in my stead; this way you could all entertain the Prince and he might cry less for a while.”

“With all due respect, I believe that you would do well in bringing this issue before the Council.”

Pharazôn had not expected Zigûr to intervene again, much less to make this suggestion. Though he had never committed the mistake of speaking of this openly, Pharazôn had gathered that he thought it ridiculous that the King of Númenor should condescend to explain his actions before a mishmash body of councillors who each had their own idea of what was good for the realm. Surprised, he stopped in his tracks.

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Lord Yehimelkor is the High Priest of Melkor, my lord King. He may not be in the Council anymore, but he is still the holiest man in the Island. If you take action against him without the support of the Council, there might be… unrest”, he explained. Right behind him, both the High Chamberlain and the Palace Priest were nodding along. “Your noble ancestors might have had a point when they chose this system of governance. The Council is often difficult, but it is still easier to frighten twelve men than to frighten millions.”

Now, they had stopped nodding, and the look the Palace Priest gave him was one of deep offense. Pharazôn felt tempted to laugh, wondering if Zigûr had done it on purpose.

“Very well. I will follow your advice, and delay the arrest until I have discussed it before the Council”, he decided. Then, he frowned, and he could see the men tense slightly under his gaze. “I will need to trust in your discretion until then, my lords. If the news travel too fast beyond the walls of the Palace, there is no telling how this situation might escalate.”

“Of course, my lord King. We will be the very soul of discretion”, the Chamberlain protested, as if upset by the very suspicion that he would commit such a breach of confidence. Ar Pharazôn, however, knew better than to take such displays at face value.

“For your own sake, I hope so”, he threatened for good measure, before finally leaving the room.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Council sessions had never been much more than elaborate stage plays, at least since Ar Pharazôn sat upon the throne of Númenor. The King would pronounce the charade open, asking them to discuss important issues and advise him on matters of governance, only to sit back and watch them argue with a bored expression until he felt like passing to the next subject. The best that could be said about him was that he did not draw things out, as rumour had it that Ar Gimilzôr used to do, allowing the councillors to expound endlessly on minor points, while he consigned each word and turn of phrase in his mind so he could examine them for signs of treason. At least with Ar Pharazôn, things were kept simple, and everybody knew where they stood. When they spoke, they were aware that he was not paying attention, both if they suggested improvements for his projects or if they voiced any type of criticism about them. Even back when he had been a general in the mainland -no, Amandil corrected himself, even back when he had been a young boy -, the Golden King had never had much time for those who did not agree with him. That was why he had filled the Council with people who nodded along, or at least would not cause too much trouble if he decided to turn an immortal demon into his advisor, allow said immortal demon to perform human sacrifices in the Island, or leave for a grand campaign in the mainland while his infant son’s health stood upon the brink. Those people could be relied upon to keep debate to the minimum if he suddenly added a new item to the day’s agenda, and demanded their approval to arrest the High Priest and “all the accomplices of his treason”.

Amandil’s gaze was lost in the patterns of the tiles in the wall. He tried to feel nothing else, think of nothing else, and strive for nothing else than to successfully keep it there. For if he did not, it would meet the King’s gaze at some point, and then there was no telling of what might happen. Or worse, it could meet the gaze of the others, those who sat in their appointed seats like despicable cowards, waiting for him to raise his voice for them, and blaming him when he did not. He had come this far, tolerated the intolerable for the sake of his family and his people, and not even the insidious voice telling him that it would make no difference in the end, for they were all doomed from the moment that Sauron set foot on the Island, would distract him from his current duty of acting like a perfect member of Ar Pharazôn’s council.

If you compromise with evil, even for the sake of good, all the good you try to do will turn into evil, a man had once taught a boy who did his best to listen attentively, though he was too young to appreciate the importance of those words. That man had followed his own teachings to the point of facing Sauron before the altar of his temple yesterday, refusing to flinch from his immortal wrath. And today, his fate would be sealed before their damning silence.

“My lord King…” he began, suddenly too ashamed of himself to keep his silence any longer. As he saw him rise, Ar Pharazôn abandoned his indifferent pose, and frowned at him. Though there appeared to be nothing but coldness in his expression, Amandil could see the fire in his eyes.

“Lord Amandil, I believe that you are compromised in this matter, which means that your judgement cannot be trusted. You owe your life to this man, so naturally you will feel honour bound to defend him, no matter what manner of treason he has committed.” Do it, the fiery eyes were saying even as the words left his mouth. Do it, you coward. Give me an excuse to destroy you.

Or perhaps this was merely in Amandil’s own imagination, exacerbated by his shame. In any case, Ar Pharazôn was right about something: he was compromised, and he could not even trust himself. So he sat down again, and fell silent.

“That man has been a thorn in the side of three Kings of Númenor. Now, he has finally gone too far”, the High Priest of the Forbidden Bay remarked in a loud, pleased voice, as if enjoying the fact that he was rubbing salt on the wounds of his enemy.

Sauron has been a thorn in the side of twenty-five Kings of Númenor and their ancestors, and yesterday he killed a woman on Temple grounds, but that is not far enough for you. What kind of standards are those? the old Amandil would have retorted. The old Amandil had not been afraid to raise his voice in any gathering, no matter how hostile to him, not even to gainsay the King himself. But the old Amandil was dying a slow death in a dark prison since the day Malik disappeared forever and Isildur lay in agony before his eyes, and everyone he had ever loved was a hostage to ensure that he stayed there.

The day Malik disappeared. A vaguely ominous feeling tugged at the back of his consciousness as the bitter memories filled his mind. There were no remains, the King had told him, and for a moment he had looked almost… guilty as he said that, despite the fact that he believed he had every reason in the world to feel self-righteous. They had been burned in the manner of his ancestors. Burned, like the body of that poor woman who had died to save her child.

No, his mind screamed, too late, for it was already taken by assault by the images of a dying Isildur suddenly opening his eyes, and gazing at something invisible. As if he was living through it again, he felt the heat leaving his grandson’s skin, and colour returning to his cheeks while his laboured breath became quieter and even.

Malik, no!

Back when he had appeared before the King, Ar Pharazôn’s first question had been about Isildur’s health. Amandil had understood this as a veiled threat, and a subtle reminder that he was aware of the details of what had transpired in the Outer Courtyard of the Palace. But now, as he revisited the conversation, the question acquired a new meaning, which made his heart freeze in his innards.

I am the High Priest of Melkor, Lord Zigûr, they said that Yehimelkor’s words had been in the New Temple. And I henceforth forbid human sacrifice here and everywhere else in the Island.

Had the High Priest been a fool, unable to realize that Sauron would not have been doing what he did without the support of the Sceptre, which superseded the will of everyone else? No, his own mind answered. Yehimelkor was no fool: he probably knew his orders would be overridden and his words used against him, and also that, with them, he was setting himself as the deceitful spirit’s most conspicuous enemy on the Island. But none of these considerations had stopped him, for he had seen Sauron’s threat for what it was, and realized that there was nothing in this world which could ever be more important than fighting it. People like those who sat in this Council would laugh at a man like him, who could perform an action regardless of its consequences, and yet without a man like him, Amandil himself would be dead, and the family he had been vainly trying to protect would never have existed. And if there was the tiniest sliver of hope that the tide could be reversed, and Númenor saved from drowning, it would be because of men like him.

As the Council session drew to a close, Amandil found it harder and harder not just to pay attention to the matters discussed, but even to remain sitting, giving no signs of his inner turmoil. He remembered his harsh, uncompromising grandfather, whose struggles he had never been able to appreciate. All those generations of venerable ancestors, whose difficult yet honourable lives he had memorized: the ones who had wasted away in exile, the ones who had died untimely, and the ones who had sacrificed themselves, because they held fast to their belief that they alone could save Númenor from destruction. Through all their ordeals, they had proudly called themselves the Faithful, the only ones left to oppose evil after the rest of the Island had turned their backs on them and their struggle.

Now he, Amandil of Andúnië, was their eighteenth-generation successor. He was the current heir to their dynasty, and by virtue of that, the leader of the Faithful in both the Island and the mainland. He should have been the one to stand proudly before Sauron and speak against his foul deeds, but he had not. He had been too busy hiding like a coward, careful to measure his words in the Council so as to not cause offense. Though he already had more than enough evidence against this evil, he had still tried to contemporize, to compromise with what was happening, not actively collaborating with it, perhaps, but enabling it with his silence. And while he was doing that, the High Priest of Melkor, a man whom his predecessors would all have shunned without a moment of hesitation, had become the leader of the Faithful.

You still do not understand, do you? There is nothing you can do.

I will not listen to you, he told the hated voice from his dreams while he walked past the labyrinthic corridors full of courtiers, the gardens, the gates whose guards had stared at him in outright suspicion ever since a man of Andúnië was convicted of killing two of their colleagues. For you, too, are the voice of evil, and we must close our hearts and minds against it or it will take hold of us. And once it does, it will be too late.

As he set foot outside, and felt the warmth of the sun on his face, Amandil’s mind finally fell silent.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The High Priest stood before the altar, whose fire he had guarded and worshipped ever since he was a child. He remembered the first time he approached it, quaking under its unbearable heat, to give a lock of his hair to the flames. He had been frightened, and needed to be pushed forwards by his Revered Father, the Former High Priest, until he finally stood close enough. Fear is a requisite to recognize and honour the divine, the man had said to him, while great beads of sweat fell down his burning forehead and blurred his sight. You are afraid because, in your heart of hearts, you know that the god is there.

Yehimelkor had consecrated his life to the god, and for every moment of every day of all those years, He had received his unquestioning love and devotion. Fear had soon receded into the background, pushed aside by those warmer emotions, and yet he had known better than to discard it completely. A god should always be feared, and this fear should act as an anchor when the world was in turmoil and everything seemed to have been turned upside down. If a King proclaimed it was sinful to sacrifice to Him, backing it with the authority of his Sceptre, if another gave his heart to terrible superstitions brought from the mainland by a demon who should have stayed buried in darkness, only fear of the god’s wrath, much greater than that of any mortal King or immortal spirit, could keep a man’s imperfect soul on the right path.

Now, for the first time since those childhood memories, this fear was holding him back, instead of showing him the right path to follow.

“Should we… do it?” a voice behind him asked, the hesitation evident in its tone. Yehimelkor’s mouth opened to reply, but the words did not come out. He tried not to think of the endless vigils by the fire altar, the daily sacrifices, the way the flames had soared higher after receiving their due tribute on festival days. This fire has burned bright under the watch of generation after generation of High Priests. One day, it will be under your care, and if you ever let it die the god will leave the Island forever, and His wrath will be upon your head for eternity.

Yehimelkor should not be this afraid. They had harvested three burning coals for preservation, and every precaution had been taken to store and protect them from the other treacherous elements, which would always seek to weaken it. He was aware that the King’s men were coming for him, and that once the demon had sunk his claws on him, he would want to lay a claim on this Temple, the chief temple of Númenor and earthly abode of the Great God. He would defile the altar, and its holy flames would be darkened and corrupted by his sinful rituals. With a shiver of disgust, he remembered the smile in the woman’s face an instant before her body toppled over and fell. Even if the god’s wrath was upon his head for eternity, he could not allow this fate to befall the sacred fire of the Temple of Armenelos. And if He left the Island forever, it would not be through his actions, but through the actions of those who had forced him into this.

“Do it”, he said, his voice steady at last. It proved a hard battle to stand there without averting his glance, watching as priests carried the drapes, wet and heavy, and dropped them over the fire. The fight was long and intense, and smoke flew in all directions, making them cough, and their reddened eyes tear. Through all of it, the last High Priest of Melkor alone did not retreat, spasm or cry, but he was aware that half of his soul had died, quenched together with the flames of his altar.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

When Yehimelkor crossed the threshold of the Temple for the last time, he was followed by only twenty-two priests, those who had been either unable or unwilling to seek shelter somewhere else. Closing the procession, Hasdrumelkor held the last remains of the Fire tightly against his chest, encased in a silver box. The sun’s afternoon rays were declining, and under their waning light he could see that the soldiers were already waiting for them.

“You are not to oppose any resistance, or speak a word”, he ordered, in a sharp tone. “It is me that they seek.”

“Your Holiness, look!” A very old, wizened priest by the name of Abibal pointed at the riders gathered on the square, his eyes widening. “These are not the King’s soldiers!”

Yehimelkor frowned, wondering if the old man’s mind had become addled with the years. As he did so, however, he could hear a hum of excitement grow around him. A man was approaching them on horseback, and the High Priest stared sharply at him in search of signs that might allow him to recognize his opponent.

Two familiar sea-grey eyes stared back at his.

“Holiness”, the rider saluted, with a respectful bow. Yehimelkor’s stomach plummeted.

Our ties are broken, and I advise you to respect this notion. A great disaster is in store for you if our paths ever cross again.

Back when he had said those words, the young priest had looked so broken, so devastated that for a moment he had felt pity for him despite his betrayal. But Yehimelkor had not been able to take them back, because they had never been his to take. They were true, as true as all his visions had always been, and he had thought that Hannimelkor understood this, being another descendant of Ar Indilzâr endowed with foresight.

Apparently, he had been wrong.

“Amandil of Andúnië”, he replied, the alien name sounding almost like an insult from his lips.  Worry and rage waged a battle inside his soul, the very soul he had thought would never feel alive again. “Why did you disregard my warning?”

Hannimelkor ignored this question.

“There is no time for arguments. We must hurry, or all will be lost. These men” he pointed with a gesture of his hand at a small army that seemed to wait patiently behind him, doing their best not to pay heed to the crowd that was starting to gather around them, “will take you and the other priests to Andúnië, where you will find refuge from those who seek to harm you.”

“If you do this, you will be charged with opposing the King’s orders. Instead of preventing my downfall, you will merely add yours to it. Have you learned nothing in all these years, you fool?” he hissed, pretending not to see the raw hope in the eyes of his followers flicker and die as he spoke.  He, of course, noticed it, and rushed to take advantage of this opening.

“They will be taken, together with you.” And the Fire with them, and then the Island will truly be godless, a voice whispered in his mind, one that could never belong to Hannimelkor because he was not aware of this. “The King’s presence is needed in Middle-Earth, and this affair has postponed his departure. If he decides to deal with you now, he will be in a hurry, and you have no hope of being heard, or of receiving a fair trial. And if he decides that this can wait until his return, how long do you think you will last in prison, with the Lord Zigûr bent upon your destruction? He will finish you and your people, before there is any chance that you can change the King’s mind.”

“And you think that the King will be too busy with his war to pursue me all the way to Andúnië, and that you will escape unscathed from this defiance because you are his friend?”, Yehimelkor spat. He remembered when both had been children, playing in secret in the Temple Gardens, and the Prince Pharazôn’s friendship had meant so much to Hannimelkor that it had given him the will to defy the Temple authorities and his Revered Father, even to risk his own life. So much trust misplaced, he thought bitterly.

But his former pupil shook his head.

“No. I do not believe I will escape unscathed. But you did not let this stop you when you saved a child who was the son of traitors.”

Yehimelkor bit his lip angrily.

“Our ties were broken long ago. There is no debt between us, no alliance, and no love. I did not save the son of traitors for his own sake, but for the sake of justice and righteousness, and he owes me nothing.”

Though there had been no friendly words between them since that fateful last night in the Temple, he would not have spoken so harshly if he had not been driven by concern. But harshness was the only way to make Hannimelkor back away, and leave him alone to suffer his fate in peace instead of persisting in his foolish attempts to share it.

The lord of Andúnië, however, seemed bent on proving him wrong.

“Then, I do not help a man falsely accused of treason for his own sake, but for the sake of justice and righteousness, and he owes me nothing” he replied serenely, withstanding his glance as he had never been able to do before. “If this makes us even, it is not by design, but because you raised me, and I learned from you. And I swear I will never forget your teachings again.”

Yehimelkor had to swallow an unexpected knot from his throat. He cursed himself for his weakness. His spirit felt quenched, like the altar fire after they smothered it with wet cloth, leaving only wisps of smoke as it died.

“Take them with you” he asked, ashamed of his surrender. “Protect them from harm, and especially Hadrumelkor. Do not let any of the minions of the Dark Lord approach him, for what he carries is more important than all of our lives put together.”

Hasdrumelkor protested in loud tones, guessing his intentions, and his protests kindled a surge of argument around him. He frowned in irritation. There was no time for this.

“If they have me, they will not bother with you. I am the one they want.”

“I beg to differ”, Hannimelkor said, setting foot on the stone pavement and standing before him. He had grown taller, the High Priest realized. “Now, they also want me. And if I lay myself open to their accusations by taking your men under my protection, that you are among them or not will make little difference. Except to you, of course.”

“We will never leave without you!” Hasdrumelkor shouted, emboldened in his defiance. A chorus of voices rose in support, and Yehimelkor realized, in a sharp flash of foresight, that if they did not hurry now, they were lost. Giving up the last of his pride, he took the lord of Andúnië’s hand, and let himself be helped on the horse’s back. The man’s arms were strong and steady, though as Yehimelkor was lifted by them, he was able to detect the smallest upsurge of fear and trepidation at the consequences of the decision he had made. But it was a contained emotion, not one that threatened to overwhelm his composure or upset his resolve. Everything he had said, he had truly meant it.

“Go. Adûnazer will guide you and protect you on the way. “As he said this, Hannimelkor nodded at one of the other men, who looked like a seasoned, rather elderly veteran. The looks that this man gave Yehimelkor were slightly hostile, as was to be expected from one of those who called themselves the Faithful, but it was also apparent that he would fulfil any duty his lord demanded of him to the best of his ability. Satisfied on this count, the High Priest of Melkor watched as about half of the Andúnië party dismounted and offered their horses to his fellow priests, who mounted them quickly, some on their own, others with help. Hasdrumelkor seemed to be at some difficulty to manage his delicate burden and the reins at once, but after a while he managed to find the appropriate position.

Once they were all set, Hannimelkor made a sign, and Adûnazer barked orders at his followers. Slowly, the party was set in motion, and two of the riders fell back to escort Yehimelkor at the back of the column.

While they rode away from the square and into a narrow street, the last glimpse he had of his former pupil was that of a small, vulnerable looking figure, standing in the midst of a large crowd. As he gazed in his direction, he suddenly had a vision where a towering shadow rose above Hannimelkor’s head, and threatened to swallow him. Before he could see whether this was the famous Wave the Former King had spoken about, however, it disappeared, and Hannimelkor with it.

Quietly, Yehimelkor muttered a prayer.