Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Unlikely Allies

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The news that the sacred altar of the Temple had been extinguished by renegade priests travelled across Armenelos like wildfire. Shouts and lamentations filled streets, gardens, corridors and halls as they were crowded by the disconsolate, the angry, and the curious. Groups of people joined their voices in chants and prayers, imploring the King of Armenelos not to depart the Island, while others, a remnant of the converts of the Former King’s reign, or perhaps overenthusiastic followers of the new rites, jeered and mocked them. Fights broke out in this charged air, before the open indifference of the Armenelos Guards, who were too busy searching each and every room of the Temple for the escaped priests.

 

Zigûr advanced towards the altar, his serene features contrasting eerily with the turmoil around him. When people saw him approach, they ceased in their activities and gaped in wide-eyed awe, moving only to stand aside and let him pass. Though the throng became thicker in the vicinity of the steps which used to lead to the sacred flames, he crossed it without the hem of his robe ever brushing against anyone. As he ascended the stairs, the whole hall grew silent, and all eyes were inexorably drawn towards his figure, small and dark for those who stood at a distance, but visible even to the men and women who stood under the portico of the Entrance Hall because they had been unable to get in.

 

“Do not fear”, he said, and his voice, too, carried across the wide expanse of wrought stone. “Those priests believed they had the power to make the Great God leave the Island. But they are wrong, for the Lord Melkor will never abandon Númenor, as long as the hearts of the people are turned towards Him.” Slowly, yet purposefully, he reached the edge of the great altar, a grand obsidian structure whose ancient reliefs were now visible for the first time in living memory. As he stretched a pale hand and snatched a fistful of cinders, a sigh carried across the hall, and there was the distinct sound of someone weeping.

 

Zigûr shook his head with a smile. His other hand joined his first, hovering over the remains of the quenched fire while his gaze soared towards the heavens. The declining sunrays, filtered through the glass windows covering the ventilation shafts of the dome, lighted his face and made his hair shine like burnished gold. His lips began uttering a prayer, which soon was picked up by those who stood closer, then by those standing behind them, until the ripples reached the farthest stragglers. Never before, not even in the great ceremonies of Ar Gimilzôr’s reign, had so many voices joined in the same chant within those walls; the effect was like the rumble of a powerful thunderstorm.

 

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

 

Suddenly, Zigûr lowered his eyes, as if something had irresistibly distracted him from his devotion. Every single gaze in the Temple followed his as one, and every mouth fell silent.

 

“Look!” he cried, gesturing at the cinders, where a wisp of smoke had begun to rise. A cry of wonder echoed in the hall. “The god is here! The god is with us!”

 

The smoke grew stronger, and turned into bright, dancing flames. As they grew visible, many more cries followed the first, gradually joining into a new and stronger rendition of the chant. People wept, looked up at the heavens, embraced each other and prayed with fervour. Zigûr retreated a step, then two, staring at the roaring fire that spread quickly across the monumental frame of the altar. His lips curved in a expression of satisfaction, and for a moment, those closer to him could clearly see the blaze mirrored in his eyes.

 

When he finally walked down the steps again, everybody bowed low before the new High Priest of Melkor.

 

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

 

“This is terrible, terrible business.” The High Priest of the Forbidden Bay could not hide his glee. He had still been in the Palace when word of the latest development of the Yehimelkor affair had reached them, and he must be silently thanking the Goddess for this unbelievable stroke of luck. “That such a high lord of the realm, and a leading Council member, would conspire with the High Priest of Melkor to rebel against the Sceptre is unheard of! At least before now, the Lords of Andúnië could be relied upon to remain attached to their so-called principles. But well, I guess it is inevitable that a man who has changed his cloak so many times would join hands with anyone to achieve his nefarious purposes.”

 

“Perhaps you are right. But it is still very difficult to believe that a man like Lord Yehimelkor would be allied with the Lord of Andúnië. There must be something else which escapes us at the moment”, the Palace Priest, who liked to affect prudence, objected with a frown.

 

“That ‘something else’ is Lord Amandil’s past”, the priest of the Goddess retorted savagely. “Do you, by chance, happen to ignore that he used to be a priest in the Temple of Armenelos under the guardianship of Lord Yehimelkor? The clergy of the Great God is certainly not what it used to be in the time of Ar Adunakhôr! I wonder how many of them would be ready to strike an alliance with the Baalim-worshippers to protect their wealth and privileges.”

 

“He also used to be a priest of the Lady of the Cave, if memory does not fail me. Does that mean, my lord, that your people could be involved in this conspiracy as well?”

 

“How dare you! He was imposed on us by the King, and my honoured predecessors never wanted…!”

 

Pharazôn stood from his seat. As he did so, the argument died abruptly, and both men turned uneasy looks in his direction. The Palace Priest mumbled an excuse, all of a sudden looking rather frightened, as if he had seen something in his countenance which had unnerved him.

 

“If you wish to engage in this game of suspecting and accusing everyone who ever associated with the lord of Andúnië, you would do well to remember that he used to be my dearest friend”, Pharazôn said, his voice deceptively even. The High Priest of the Cave’s eyes widened, and his face went pale. He bowed, fashioning some sort of elaborate apology, but the King of Númenor did not do anything to acknowledge it. Instead, he merely walked past them and left the room.

 

As he walked across the Painted Gallery towards the old Fountain Gardens, his forehead was still twitching. At this moment, he did not want to see or listen to anyone, and the last thing he wanted to do was to discuss Amandil with other people. It felt like it must feel to be hanging from a tree and slowly gutted to death while a barbarian tribe celebrated all around.

 

It was not as if he could possibly have ignored that this day would arrive. His rational mind had long ago made the calculations and realized that it was inevitable, but Pharazôn had a history of taking for granted that the world would rearrange itself to suit his purposes. This had given him strength and confidence, which was good, but it had made him oddly vulnerable to some things which seemed determined not to happen the way he wanted them to. His son was one of them: he had been born, and he lived, which perhaps should be enough, and yet he would not grow strong and hale, and outrun the shadows that hovered over his small frame since he came out from his mother’s womb. And Amandil was another.

 

As he crossed the Fountain Gardens, he encountered many shocked faces of courtiers who acted as if he had ambushed them by springing upon them without an escort. Some bowed, others knelt, a few ladies dropped what they were carrying, and one of them even smothered a shriek behind her sleeve. He ignored them all, as he had ignored the councilmen, belatedly wondering why had the Kings of Númenor ever wanted to surround themselves with so many fools. In the Second Wall, no one had ever made such a fuss when he walked among the tents of the soldiers. If only he could have been there now, he thought in a sudden burst of raw longing, facing the enemies of Númenor in battle and surrounded by like-minded men, instead of in a Palace where he still felt like a stranger, and the only wars he waged were against those who should have been his allies. He had never wanted to be King for this.

 

When he crossed the threshold of the prison, the damp smell immediately reminded him of the other visits he had made to this place in the last years. Back then, Zigûr had been Sauron, and Pharazôn had been trying to follow Amandil’s advice not to trust any word that came through his lips, irrationally afraid that the cunning demon would be able to addle his mind and put him into some kind of trance. Now, it was not the cunning demon who had openly defied him and extinguished the King of Armenelos’ sacred fire. It was not him who had sent his family and accomplices to his stronghold of Andúnië to have them out of the reach of the Sceptre. And it was not him who was sowing rebellion and unrest in the Island and delaying his departure for Sor, putting the colonies of the mainland at great risk.

 

“Are you sure you want to go in, my lord King?” the Guard asked. Pharazôn let go of a bitter laugh.

 

“The day I hide behind bars for fear of this man will be the day I no longer deserve to hold the Sceptre.” As he walked in, he heard movements in the dark, and the lamplight fell upon the features of the lord of Andúnie, who was sitting on the floor, his back propped against the stone wall. He flinched a little, trying to hide his tears as he was blinded by the light.

 

Pharazôn brought the lamp even closer, and gazed at him at length. He was very much unscathed: though the Palace Guards who had taken custody of him hated the house of Andúnië since that bloody incident a year ago, they would have been too frightened of his high office to do as much as touch him without his permission.

 

“My lord King”, he greeted, with a nod. He was no immortal spirit, so his voice was a little hoarse, but it cleared easily. “You came.”

 

For a moment, Pharazôn wondered what would happen to his irritating composure if he lied and told him that his family had been intercepted in their way to Andúnië and were now in his power. But looking at him, he realized that his anger was so great that it didn’t even leave space for pettiness. He decided to cut to the chase.

 

“Were you aware that Yehimelkor had extinguished the sacred fire before you met him outside the Old Temple?”

 

Amandil shook his head.

 

“No.”

 

“How curious. I wonder if anyone in Númenor would ever believe that the leader of the Elf-friends and Baalim-worshippers had nothing to do with desecrating the altar of the King of Armenelos.”

 

“Probably not.”

 

“Did you tell your family to head for Andúnië before you went to the Old Temple?”

 

“Yes, I did.”

 

“And why did you do that?”

 

“Because they are innocent of this, and I did not want them to share in my disgrace, or put them at risk.”

 

“Oh. And are you aware that Andúnië has a harbour?”

 

“I…” Amandil hesitated for a moment. “I would have to say that I am, my lord King.”

 

His voice was cautiously polite, the perfect opposite of what it had been both in Council sessions and in wine-drinking nights. He did not seem to be either upset at his current situation or in terror of what might happen to him, as others in his position might be, and yet, at the same time, Pharazôn had never heard him give such prompt and stilted replies. It was as if his vicinity somehow repulsed or unnerved him, and not merely his questions. Perhaps he thought that he was in a trance already, under the control of someone else, he wondered, his anger growing at the thought.

 

“Why did you prevent the priest Yehimelkor and his followers from being arrested, when those orders came from both the King and the Council?”

 

Amandil let go of an almost imperceptible breath.

 

“Because, as you said yourself, I owed him a life debt.”

 

“How touching.” Pharazôn’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. “Though a little inconsistent. You remember some debts, and forget others. There must be a rationale behind it, perhaps political expediency?”

 

“There is nothing politically expedient in defying the King of Númenor. I sought no gain by it. If I had, my lord King, I would have fled to Andúnië as well, so I could at least entrench myself there like my ancestor did.”

 

“Are you referring to the ancestor who sought the alliance of the Middle-Earth Elves against his rightful King?”

 

“Those Elves never came. I am sure they have no intention of meddling in any sort of civil strife among Númenóreans.”

 

“The Elves, perhaps not. But what of the kingdom of Arne, under the control of your son Elendil? If his wife and children should leave the Island now and join their father, what would prevent him from rising against the Sceptre on your behalf?”

 

Amandil pondered this for a moment. In all his life, Pharazôn did not remember ever having a conversation like this with him, where all his questions were answered so helpfully and so quickly. If the lord of Andúnië had acted like this when he was still his advisor, he thought in some irony, he might even have let him keep the post. Others might have felt tempted to attribute this improved disposition to fear for his fate, but he knew better. Pharazôn had seen that kind of fear many times, and this was not it.

 

“Many things will prevent him from taking that course, my lord King.”

 

“Loyalty?” Pharazôn snorted.

 

“Loyalty, yes.” Amandil seemed perfectly serious. “Also, reluctance to risk the millions of lives depending on him, which as you know he refuses to see as mere stakes in a gamble. Not to mention the fear of risking my life…”

 

“And if you die?”

 

It had been an impulsive question, and he had been too carried away by the interrogation to even realize all its implications. As he spoke it, however, the possibility dawned on his mind, and he was forced to ponder it. According to the traditional laws of Númenor, a councilman should be tried by the Council, where Amandil had some serious enemies. On the other hand, if the situation was considered to be dangerous enough for the stability of the Island, the King could do whatever he wanted, but this King had no time to decide the fate of a lord of Númenor without risking to lose Harad - much less a lord of Númenor whose son was in charge of an army in the mainland, and whose grandchildren were riding towards a fortified harbour city as they spoke. And even if he did, an inconvenient voice whispered in his ear, what would his decision be?

 

In contrast with the turmoil of his thoughts, Amandil had barely flinched at the question.  This brought Pharazôn’s anger to a new high. What on Earth was the fool trying to prove? Had he even stopped to consider the cost?

 

“If the trial is just and only the guilty parties are prosecuted, they will be reasonable and submit to its verdict.”

 

“Oh, yes? And who will make this decision, the son who forged a royal edict before the council of Arne, or the grandson who snuck inside the Palace and killed two Guards to steal a fruit from the White Tree?”

 

“My father.”

 

“Why did you do this?”

 

Amandil’s features did not even betray the natural exasperation that a man would affect when someone asked him the same question twice.

 

“As I said, my lord King, because I owed Lord Yehimelkor a life debt.”

 

“Liar!” Finally unable to keep up this ghastly charade, Pharazôn grabbed Amandil by his shirt and pinned him against the wall, until his face was right in line with his, and he had no room to flinch. “Tell me the truth! What brought you to foolishly squander all my efforts to have peace with the Faithful in the Island and with your house? I have closed my eyes so often in the past, I have forgiven so many things which would have doomed others, that you could as well rule Númenor yourself! There is a reason why you decided to throw all those years of goodwill at my face, and if you bring up this life debt again, I swear by all the gods that you will regret it!”

 

“Very well”. Amandil’s voice was hoarse again, and belatedly Pharazôn realized that he had been choking him. “I will tell you the truth. Lord Yehimelkor’s actions made me realize that I could not look away while Sauron takes over Númenor. If I must die for this, so be it, but I cannot be complicit with this great evil.”

 

And there it was. The old argument, which had prompted so many bitter fights before they even walked under the shadow of Mordor. The invisible demon which, more insidious than the visible one, had not stopped until it destroyed their friendship.

 

“I see”, he said, willing his voice not to shake. “You remain convinced that Zigûr is behind everything I do.”

 

“Should I not?” For the first time since the start of the conversation, Amandil’s eyes sparked with something akin to defiance. “Would you have burned the White Tree and allowed human sacrifice to take place in Armenelos, if he had not been here?”

 

Pharazôn let him go abruptly and saw him crumple against the wall, then pull himself up again, repressing a wince.

 

“Of course I would not, because I would not have known that it could be done! Instead of that, my son would be dead, perhaps my wife also, and I would be heirless. The woman whose death so horrified your Revered Father would not have saved her child, and your grandson…!”

 

“Would be dead.” It was said so matter-of-factly that it even gave Pharazôn pause. So he knew, he realized in amazement. For how long had he been aware?

 

“Yes!”, he nodded in irritation, unwilling to allow himself to founder in the deep waters of this issue. “Now, listen to me, you fool! I have not given myself, or Númenor, to anyone. I have received knowledge that is very valuable both to me and the realm, but the choice of how and when to use it remains with me. A man with a weapon remains in control of it as long as he can choose when to use it, and when to put it aside. He will only have surrendered his will if he cannot be the judge of what should be worth killing or dying for. And this I have not done, nor will I do it while I still draw breath!”

 

Amandil listened to his words in silence, a blank expression set upon his features. Only when he saw that the tirade was finished, he spoke.

 

“And neither will I.”

 

When the blow came, he did not duck, and it made a strong impact against his face. Perhaps he had not seen it coming, or perhaps he had deliberately goaded him so this could work in his favour if there was to be a trial. A trial where, as he had threatened to his own face, due procedure would have to be scrupulously followed or else his family might contest it. To have him show up with signs of having been beaten to a bloody pulp might not be considered due procedure, Pharazôn thought, and it might go a long way to earn him sympathy.

 

And yet, none of this mattered now, because Amandil would not be showing himself before anyone anytime soon.

 

“As you must have known so very well when you chose to do this, I was intending to leave for Sor tomorrow, to take ship for Umbar, where the situation is quite dire at the moment. I cannot evade or postpone that journey without terrible consequences for our Middle-Earth colonies, so I will not tarry here, for you or anyone else. As this affair is too complex to be solved before my departure, you will have to remain here until I return. But I warn you, Amandil! If your son, your grandson, or anyone else among your kinsmen or people makes a single wrong move in my absence, it will be you who pays for it!”

 

The lord of Andúnië grimaced, touching his jaw fastidiously until he seemed to be satisfied that there was no serious injury. Then, he turned his head to the other side and spat out the blood.

 

“Could you pass me the water?” he asked. Pharazôn stayed still for a moment, unable to decide whether to pass him the jar or strike him again. In the end, he did neither. “I guess this is farewell, then. You will emerge victorious from your war, as always, and your enemies will be slaughtered upon some sacred altar in one of the mainland temples. But your new friend Zigûr will not waste such a good opportunity to eliminate me in your absence. And if this allows him to throw Númenor in turmoil and set Andúnië against the rest of the Island, all the better for him.”

 

The King of Númenor gazed at his old friend, incredulously, but there was no mockery in his expression, and no deceit either. He was perfectly serious.

 

“Zigûr knows better than to move a finger without my permission, I assure you,” he hissed, angry again at the man’s stubbornness. “You should fear him less, and fear me more.”

 

Amandil did not answer. With a shrug of irritation, Ar Pharazôn turned away from him, and made a sign for the guard on duty to open the door. Before he left, however, he stopped one last time to gaze at the figure that leaned on the wall, under the faint glow of the lamp. There was still some blood on his face and he was not moving, and, for the brief span of a moment, he had the eerie feeling that he was looking at a corpse.

 

I guess this is farewell then.

 

It is not farewell, Amandil, he thought, as he walked back into the red light of dusk. I am not done with you yet.

 

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

 

“You should be thinking about the war ahead of you, but instead you are beset with concerns from so many fronts. Are you sure that this is the mindset with which you should take ship for the mainland?”

 

“On the contrary, a war is the only thing which could possibly distract me from this.” Pharazôn watched idly as little Gimilzagar grabbed the hem of his mother’s robes from the floor, but of course he was not strong enough to pull himself up, even to a sitting position. Frustrated, he began to cry, and she promptly scooped him up in her arms. Perhaps she should let him try harder for once, he thought. “I must admit, however, that if I could allow myself to have second thoughts, I would be tempted to claim that privilege.”

 

“I can see why you would.” Her smile was a little tense as she cradled the child against her chest. “But I can also see that you are forgetting something.”

 

“Am I?” For a moment, he was almost ashamed at how eager he was to be pointed towards some flash of insight, as insufficient as it may be to solve his current problems. His departure was set, Amandil was secure in his prison, the Fire re-established and Zigûr appropriately cowed into submission, but the doubts introduced in his mind by the fool from Andúnië had proved annoyingly persistent. Zimraphel had said that the former Dark Lord of Mordor was a coward at heart, that he would never dare oppose him openly. But his ability for subterfuge and hidden dealings could still allow him to wreak damage that no one would be able to trace back to him. Perhaps he would be well advised to take him to Middle-Earth, where he could keep him under his eye at all times.

 

“You chose to bring him to Númenor to cut him away from his power base, and to prevent the possibility of his escape. If you take him to Harad, where his former allies have risen in arms and you may find yourself in perilous situations, wouldn’t it be harder to keep him under control?”, she asked. “And what you are forgetting is that, while you are in the mainland, I will be here, holding the Sceptre.”

 

“Believe me, I have not forgotten that for a moment”, he said wryly. She frowned, in obvious displeasure at his choice of words.

 

“Then, why are you having second thoughts?” Her look and her voice were challenging, both of them reminders of her old flights of temper from before Gimilzagar was born. “Do you doubt my ability to rule Númenor?”

 

If he could merely hide his thoughts, he would have made a greater effort to be conciliating.

 

“It depends on the circumstance. Each person has their strong and their weak points. Not everyone is suited to the same purpose.”

 

“I know what you are thinking. I know what everyone is thinking. I see your miserable fates day and night, and people are too scared to meet my gaze, because they think they can hide things from me if I do not look into their eyes.”

 

“I know that!” he argued. “That is why when we join forces, no one is able to withstand us, but when we are left to our own devices, we have our weaknesses. Foresight alone is not all-powerful, Zimraphel. You could see your own death, but you still needed Zigûr to prevent it. Now, you could also see many things, and still be unable to prevent them. You are no general, no warrior, and no politician. You have never concerned yourself with those petty struggles, or cared for getting your hands dirty. And now you expect me to drop someone who has never learned how to swim in the raging waters of the Sea, and just hope for their survival?”

 

She stood up, livid, and too late he realized his poor choice of words. In her arms, Gimilzagar promptly started fussing and crying again.

 

“Do not speak to me about raging waters. I have been swimming in them ever since I was born, and I saw my brother drowned before my eyes. And I will be swimming in them on the day I die”, she hissed. “Go and defeat your petty savages in a forgotten corner of the mainland! Númenor will be waiting for you upon your return, as will Zigûr, Yehimelkor, the lord of Andúnië and all his wretched family. And then you will celebrate your triumph before the adoring crowds, and take back your Sceptre.”

 

“Our Sceptre”, he corrected, aghast at her anger. “Zimraphel, I did not mean to imply… I was only…” He took a long, very sharp breath, wondering why it felt so damning to speak some things aloud. “Very well, if that is your wish, I will say it. I am worried.  You may not know how this feels, as uncertainty is such an alien emotion to you. But every other mortal battles it at some point, even those who are known as the Golden King of Númenor!”

 

“That is what I am trying to tell you, but you will not listen!” As she spoke, she laid Gimilzagar on the floor again, and this time the child set his sight on him.  Clumsily, he began trying to stretch his body in his direction, but he lacked both the coordination and the strength needed to advance.  “Uncertainty is an alien emotion to me, Pharazôn. When I say that your worries are groundless, I know it. And you should take my word for it.”

 

Gimilzagar gave up, and dissolved in a mess of tears. Still, he had tried for longer than usual this time, and Pharazôn stretched his hand, to see if he could help him. The boy gazed at it wide-eyed, then extended his own, pitifully thin hand to grab his finger. There was barely any strength in his grip, but he did not let go.

 

“He needs you to leave now, too. Look at him, Pharazôn. He needs your victory more than any of us– to give him the strength to go on. Will you fail him?”

 

The King swallowed, assailed by a sudden turmoil of contradictory emotions. The innocent gaze of Gimilzagar became Amandil’s accusing eyes, narrowing in insolent disbelief while Pharazôn claimed that he had not surrendered his will as long as he could decide on his own what should be worth killing or dying for. A memory of the Haradric fool’s blood trickling down his chest while Zigûr pressed the knife against his throat flickered in and out of his mind, turning into an endless succession of Haradric fools bleeding to death as the altar consumed their life force.

 

Gimilzagar gurgled happily, and the images disappeared as they had come. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, letting his palm linger there for longer than necessary, pressed against his throbbing temple.

 

It had been worth it. Everything would be worth it, in the end, and if uncertainty was to be the price, then so be it. After all, in spite of Zigûr’s fantastic tales, he was still a mortal.

 

“Very well, then”, he surrendered, with a bow. “I will sail to the mainland and leave you to it, my Queen.”

 

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

 

It was difficult to find sleep while on a cell. He was not exactly uncomfortable – he had been given everything he required, and he was not old enough to have forgotten what it was to sleep in a tent or even in the open field-, and the silence was almost absolute, broken only by a few smatterings of conversation whenever a Guard came to relieve his comrade. But his head was full of thoughts, and there was no one to help him disentangle them until they were orderly enough to be dealt with one at a time. He had been trying to do so himself, but it was proving a slow and painstaking process that absorbed most of his energy, even though he had nowhere else to direct it. And though on the outside he was a model of composure, complex elucubrations about his fate and that of his loved ones tended to obscure everything else for long, morbid periods of time.

 

He had done the right thing. This was something he had known since the beginning, and he still remained convinced of it now, while facing the consequences of his actions. Pharazôn’s visit had proved quite illustrative: as he sat there speaking to his old friend, listening to his words and studying his expressions, he had the total certainty that if Yehimelkor had been in his place, he would be dead. Not that Amandil was not in danger himself; not so much from the trial, which, in spite of the King’s loud words after the White Tree incident, he knew would be scrupulously fair, as from its postponement. He had done his best to impress upon his interlocutor the dangers he incurred by trusting the former Lord of Mordor, but he was not sure if his concerns had been heard or addressed, or even if it was possible to address them in an effective way. If it was not, sudden death could find him at any moment, during his waking hours or while he slept, perhaps after he finished drinking that jar of water or eating his breakfast. Amandil was not unfamiliar with the concept of his life being at risk –in fact, he had made its acquaintance quite early, while still in his childhood- but the risks to his family and the people of Andúnië concerned him. If he should die, custom dictated that Lord Númendil should take charge, at least until an official succession ceremony could take place and the King ratified it. Since the King was not available to ratify anything at the moment, even if he should be in the mood to do so, and Amandil’s own heir was at the other side of the Great Sea, everything hinged on Númendil being willing, and able, to control everyone around him. And though he had many excellent traits, including the wisdom to face this crisis and many more, a forceful personality was not among them.

 

If only Elendil was in Númenor. But then, if he was, people would not be walking on eggshells around Amandil, as if any false move could spark a civil war. The Council, even Pharazôn’s fears of what could happen might very easily turn into accusations of what Amandil had wanted to happen. And though Amandil knew that Elendil would never rise in arms against the Sceptre, if his father should die while in the Palace of Armenelos and his family made the terrible mistake of seeking him instead of the protection of the Elves, he would be treated as a rebel nonetheless. In his place, Amandil had to admit that he might be tempted by the idea of declaring Arne an independent kingdom, free from the growing shadow of Sauron, his evil rites, and his twisted designs. But Ar Pharazôn had not let the Dark Lord himself be when he was entrenched in his tower of Barad-dûr, and he would never let Elendil be in his fortified citadel of Arne. There was only one possible answer for any challenge to his power: war and devastation, and that was something Elendil would never allow in Arne again.

 

“Lord Amandil.”

 

The voice was not loud, and yet its sound carried in the silence of his prison like the rumble of thunder. Feeling his heart flutter in spite of himself, he sat upon the mattress and gazed through the bars of the window to meet the unfriendly look of the Guard on duty. Behind him, there was movement, and in spite of the dim lighting, he deduced that there was someone else behind him.

 

“What is it?” he asked, with forced calm. The sound of keys jingling was followed by the shrill noise of the door turning on its hinges. As they entered, he counted three people in total. “What do you want?”

 

“You must come with us.”

 

“Where?”

 

The man did not answer, and his features could not entirely hide his glee for getting under Amandil’s skin. Noticing that he had betrayed his emotions, the lord of Andúnië forced himself to stand up without saying another word. Under this pretence, however, his mind was racing.

 

Was this it? Was he going to be taken before Sauron now? The monster had probably decided that the King was already far enough from the Island, and that he was free to do as he wished. And then, a dark thought blindsided him: what if he had misjudged the demon, and he was not even pretending to abide by the King’s will anymore? Could Amandil be destined to perish like Malik had a year ago, and could this be destined to herald a new era of dominance of the Dark Lord over Númenor? Many of the people who attended his ceremonies might already be too lost in their worship of Darkness to oppose any resistance.

 

While his mind was lost in such sinister musings, he was taken through empty corridors that he vaguely recognized as being part of the Palace, though he had never seen them before. There were no courtiers there, only a few Guards who nodded at their companions with a grunt as they passed and gave him curious glances. On their way, they also encountered a woman or two, who avoided them studiously. One of them was carrying what looked like a basin of bath water. Amandil stared at her, slightly confused.

 

“This way”, the Guard barked, and he tore his eyes away to follow them through the threshold of a very ornate antechamber, whose white ceiling was carved in imitation of crystal formations from the deep caves of the mainland. More women stood there, causing his confusion to grow even more. Two of them walked in silence towards a silver-gilded door, which they knelt to open for them. Behind it, he could hear the sound of a child crying, and the truth slowly began to dawn in his mind.

 

Ar Zimraphel’s black eyes bore into his skull, shattering his thoughts.

 

“Leave us” she ordered the only Guard who had followed him through this last threshold. Then, she turned towards the women. “And you, too.”

 

“My Queen”, he bowed, unsure of what to say or do. She seemed to have the ability to always take him by surprise, robbing him of the ability to plan ahead or to marshal his wits for the confrontation. This time, he had been so certain that only Sauron could have orchestrated this that a part of him still expected his dark-robed figure to emerge from behind a corner.

 

“Sit”, she ordered, gesturing at an ivory chair before hers. The seat, however, was not empty, for the Prince of the West was curling against the left armrest, his mouth firmly pressed against it. The crying which Amandil had heard as he came in might have been an attempt to be picked up, or perhaps he was sick or in pain, as rumour had it that he was more often than not. As if to corroborate this impression, his body was racked by an ugly cough, and he began crying again, as if scared of the noise that he had made. “Give him to me.”

 

The unreality of the situation was almost overwhelming. A moment ago, he had been waiting for death, and even on his way here everybody had behaved around him as if he was a dangerous traitor. Now, he was in the private chambers of the Queen of Númenor, being asked to pick up the heir to the Sceptre.

 

The daughter of Tar Palantir sees everything, he remembered Númendil saying often. His father was unnerved by this woman, and if there was someone that he feared almost as much as Sauron, it was her. Amandil should not lower his guard.

 

“He does not bite. The day he does, the Palace will rejoice because it will be a sign of progress”, she remarked drily. He still hesitated, standing there in silence while the baby’s cries redoubled. “Have you never held a child before? I find that hard to believe. You have a son, grandchildren, and even a great-grandchild now.”

 

Her tone had not shifted when she spoke the last words, and still Amandil was tempted to flinch. This, however, had the welcome consequence that his survival instinct finally kicked in, and he extended his arms towards Prince Gimilzagar.

 

“I have never held the heir to the Sceptre before, my lady”, he replied. The child’s wails rose to a higher pitch when he saw him approach, and he tried to grab the armrest with his tiny fists, but Amandil scooped him up anyway. As he did so, he was amazed at how little he weighed, and how his bones could be felt right under the skin. All that crying soon brought a new onslaught of coughing, which was ugly enough to have convinced Lalwendë to send for a healer straight away if it had been one of her children. He wondered if the Queen was so calm about it because she foresaw his growth to maturity, or because she foresaw his death. Whatever the case was, he experienced a flicker of pity for the child.

 

“You do not think of him as an abomination”, she remarked, extending her arms to receive him. His protests subsided a little when he found himself enclosed by their protective frame. There was nothing of Pharazôn in him: he was all ivory skin, black hair, and even blacker eyes. “Not like others, even in your own family.”

 

Amandil sat down, his features a careful blank, but thinking fast at the same time.

 

“It was always the belief of my ancestors that Evil cannot create life”, he spoke after a moment. “This child received his from the only Creator that exists, just like everyone else, my Queen. Certain… forces may have played a part in preserving it, that I do not know, but he does not owe them his body or his soul.”

 

She smiled, perhaps a little derisively. From what he knew, she was as convinced as her husband that the baby had been brought to life by Sauron, but this was the least appropriate moment to debate such matters.

 

“You are right. We are here to discuss you”, she nodded. “After all, this is your trial.”

 

He could not prevent himself from betraying some of his shock at this statement.

 

“I am sorry, my Queen, but I am afraid I do not understand. The King departed the Island two days ago, and before he left, he said…”

 

“Some of you still do not realize it, do you?” Her voice was calm enough, but there was a spark of anger in her eyes, wild like the Sea. “I am the King. I am Ar Zimraphel, Favourite of Ashtarte-Uinen, Protectress of Númenor and the Colonies, and I hold the Sceptre in my hand. I can do whatever I wish, and if I order your throat slit right here, it will be.”

 

Amandil lowered his glance. Of course she was right; Pharazôn himself had told him as much in that fateful conversation after Tar Palantir’s death, but some part of him had never believed his old friend entirely. He might be in love, as strange as it might seem for Amandil to accept such a thing at that stage of their lives, but enough to let go of even the tiniest parcel of his power? To have her be addressed as Ruling Queen had been a popular eccentricity which assured him of the support of those who had wanted her to succeed her father, not to mention a perfect excuse to leave Númenor to engage in his wars on the mainland. But at the end of the day, he had figured that if Pharazôn wanted things done in a certain way, his will would prevail.

 

“Forgive me, my Queen”, he apologized, belatedly aware that she might have read a large part of his thoughts. His mouth went dry.  Would she go as far as to have him killed for offending her in his mind? “You hold the Sceptre, and I am yours to command.”

 

“That is right. Now, you must forget about the King, about Zigûr, and about the Council. You will submit to my will in all things, and if you do not, both you and your loved ones will die. It is not a threat: I have, as you say, foreseen it.” This surprising pronouncement was followed by her uncovering of one of her breasts, so she could insert it in the fussing Prince Gimilzagar’s mouth. Amandil averted his gaze as fast as if the sun itself had emerged from behind the Meneltarma to blind him with its rays. For a moment, he allowed himself to think of his previous interviews with Ar Pharazôn, and how his old friend could never have unsettled him as deeply with all the threats in the world.

 

“You are henceforth dispossessed of your lordship and your lands, and your seat in the Council. You will be exiled to Rómenna, where you may live in the house your ancestors built for themselves there, under the guardianship of the Governor of Sor. Your son will also lose his governorship and be recalled from Arne.”

 

Amandil blinked several times, trying to take it all in. In spite of his efforts, however, he could not wholly succeed in this endeavour. Part of the reason was his inability to look at her as she spoke, but he was also bedazzled by the incongruity of this place, this voice, this tone – this woman who had taken the place of all the opponents he had carefully considered and expected.

 

“Now, you will do two things. First, you will tell your son that, if he does not step down peacefully and return to Númenor on the first ship, terrible things will befall his family. “Gimilzagar whimpered a little, then fell silent. “Then, you will be escorted to Andúnië, where you will convince your kin and the priest to follow you to the East. But you must be discreet about it and avoid involving anyone else in this affair, if you do not want civil strife to break out, and your people to come to harm.”

 

“How do you know I will not merely stay in Andúnië myself, and start a rebellion? Or flee by ship to Middle-Earth?”

 

Zimraphel grew angry again.

 

“Because if you were the sort of man who would do either of those things, I would never have decided upon this course of action. I know you, Lord Amandil. You are the man in between, and that is what you will always be. Born from the Faithful, yet raised by Melkor. A lord and an exile. You hate what Númenor has become, what the King has become, and yet you would never bring yourself to turn your back to them. You wish to rebel and stand by your principles, and you are even ready to die for them, yet you would never commit open treason because loyalty to the Sceptre despite all its failings was ingrained on you from a very young age. What I am offering now is the only option that a man like you has to survive and keep his family safe.”

 

Amandil pondered this. He had to admit that he never had anyone describe him with such desolating accuracy, unflattering as the portrait was. And yet…

 

“But how do I know that my family will be safe? And Lord Yehimelkor, and the people of Andúnië? What if you want me to give my word to them, only to betray me later?”

 

“You seem to be under the mistaken impression that to convince you of the sincerity of my intentions is the only way to solve this problem. I daresay there are more people with their own ideas on how to solve it. You are right about the King, he has a weak spot when it comes to you, but it does not extend to Lord Yehimelkor, or your father, or any of the others. And in any case, this does not matter because, as you have also predicted, if Zigûr wants to make you disappear, the King will be too far away to prevent it. There, my love. Do not cry, you already had more than enough!”

 

Disgruntled as he was, it took Amandil a moment to realize that those words were addressed to the Prince of the West, not to him. Though it appeared that she was no longer breastfeeding her son, he still kept his gaze down.

 

“This has been your family’s place for generations, Lord Amandil. Exile. Others may see it as a calamity, even you will claim it is so, and grind your teeth at the injustice of suffering persecution for being the only ones who speak the truth in the Island. But it is still your place, the only one you ever had. Because of it, you are the Faithful, and you raise your children to speak your own language, keep your customs, revere the Baalim and call each other with strange names. My father never understood this. He thought that he could welcome the Faithful in Armenelos, turn the whole Island, even himself, into Faithful, as if it was a fashion that anyone could adopt at will. But without misfortune and persecution, there would be no Faithful.” At last, he ventured a small peek in her direction; thankfully, she had covered herself, and the child was falling asleep in her arms. They both looked like the very picture of peaceful serenity, the Mother and the Child whose praises he had sung in the sanctuary of the Cave as a much younger man. “That is why your grandson stole the fruit from the White Tree, and why you saved your Revered Father the other day. Deep down, you feel the call of your blood, the yearning to be Faithful again. You should be grateful that you are being given the chance to fulfil your purpose at last.”

 

My purpose has never been to be righteous in isolation, but to save Númenor. And so it was with the Former King, he was tempted to say. But then, he remembered her previous words, and his resolve faltered. The man in between. He was not a ruler, like Tar Palantir, but he was not a rebel either, like Ar Alissha and her supporters had been. He would not proclaim that Ar Pharazôn and Ar Zimraphel were unworthy to rule Númenor and call for the populace to depose them. He would not even encourage Arne to revolt, and they were barbarians living at the fringes of the world. If he did that, he would doom everyone around him if he lost, but what was worse, he would be unable to live with himself if he won.

 

He was the man in between. He could not save all of Númenor with the grandest of his gestures. All he could do, all he had ever been able to do, was resist day after day, persevering in his efforts, try to save those around him, and pray until his throat was hoarse. Perhaps someone would listen.

 

“Oh, they do listen”, she smiled bitterly. “They simply do not care. Now call the chief of the Guard back in, if you please.”

 

That night, after the escort was chosen for his journey, Amandil was not sent back to his prison; instead, he was invited to stay in the Prince’s quarters. As he tried in vain to fall asleep in a mattress that four disgruntled ladies had been forced to carry to the foot of Gimilzagar’s bed, the suspicion that Zimraphel might be hiding him from Sauron grew into an almost certainty. Perhaps she had foreseen that the demon would strike on that day, and anticipated his move. Perhaps she genuinely wanted to help, or perhaps she was doing it for Pharazôn, or because she derived satisfaction from the knowledge that she had thwarted the Dark Lord. Or perhaps she was not ruled by any of those considerations, and she was merely playing her own game, with her own purposes in mind.

 

In any case, Amandil thought, he would never make the mistake of underestimating the Queen of Númenor again.