Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Exile

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“No. Absolutely not.” Just as he had expected, the greater part of his family had opposed the Queen’s plan. Also as he had expected, Isildur was proving the most vocal about it. “We have finally stopped cowering from the forces of evil entrenched in Armenelos, and now it is the moment to show all of Númenor that we will not bow to Sauron, that whoever is willing to fight him can find an ally in us! Or is that not why you did what you did, Grandfather?”

Now that Amandil was able to see it from the outside, he realized how annoying the habit of pacing around the room in front of one’s interlocutor could be.

“Sit down, Isildur” he said, doing his best not to sigh in frustration and exhaustion. He had been riding nonstop for the last few days, and before that he had been imprisoned and wondering if he would last the night. Of all these ordeals, it was his interview with the Queen what had drained him the most, making it unusually difficult to find clarity of thought for a long time afterwards. Fortunately, the men who rode with him had not felt much inclined to engage him in conversation, so he had been free to ponder many issues as they crossed half the Island, heading for his family’s ancestral home. “I will not bow to Sauron, and yet we are all Númenóreans. The King and the Queen still demand our allegiance, and we will not rise in arms against them, or incite others to open rebellion. For that would be treason, and we are not traitors.”

“It would not be the first time”, Ilmarë intervened, darkly. For a moment, Amandil’s attention was turned towards her. It had been long since the last time he saw her, when she climbed into a litter to leave the capital before her pregnancy could no longer be hidden under her robes. In that interval, she had been delivered of a baby girl who, as far as he knew from Isildur’s reluctant report, had been taken to one of Malik’s relatives to raise. Back then, he had been angry at the fact that he had not been consulted, and Lalwendë’s ire as soon as she set foot on the Island had been greater still. But it had been Ilmarë’s own decision, so not even her mother had had the heart to contest it in the end. Now that he finally had the chance to gaze into the hard grey of her eyes, he had begun to realize that perhaps it had not merely been a matter of heart, and if only the circumstances were different, he might have been concerned.

Today, however, Amandil did not have the time to be a grandfather.

“That was different. The Sceptre had two pretenders, and our ancestors decided to back what they believed to be the better claim. Even if they lost, that does not erase the fact that they did what they thought was right, and if they made a mistake, many generations paid for it. But the King and Queen who rule Númenor now took the Sceptre with our support, and shifting it would be wilful treason.”

“And Sauron?” Isildur snorted. “Does he also rule Númenor with our support?”

Amandil was beginning to see blurred lines on the sides of his field of vision. He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, and in the brief silence that followed, Anárion found the space he needed for his first contribution to the discussion.

“Don’t you feel suspicious about this manoeuvre, Grandfather? Both the King and the Queen appear to have a great interest in avoiding this trial. Could it be that they are afraid of people declaring support for your cause? There could be many people who might feel uneasy about Zigûr gaining this much influence, and who would be sympathetic to your motives. After all, you did not steal anything or kill anyone.” Isildur glared at him, but he did not balk. “Perhaps they are merely trying to have you do their dirty work for them.”

The lord of Andúnië blinked, wondering when had his younger grandson changed from someone who tried to be like his father into someone who reminded him more of his father at each passing day. At some point where he had been too absorbed by his own problems to notice, he assumed.

“The point you raise could have been valid not long ago, Anárion”, he admitted. “But our footing nowadays is not as strong as it used to be, and though you may not be aware of this, Sauron’s footing is definitely stronger in Armenelos than it ever was. He has entrenched himself in the New Temple, where word of his miracles have spread among the people. Now, he has become sole owner of the Old Temple as well, and restored the Sacred Fire that most believe to have been extinguished because of me. Yes, we could claim that the real Sacred Fire remains under our custody in Andúnië, together with the last, legitimate High Priest of Melkor, but we are the Faithful, and that should never become our battle. The forces we can, and should marshal, are the belief in the teachings of the Valar and the wisdom of the Elves who brought them to us, who claim that Sauron is the enemy of all Men. But I fear that only our own people will listen to us in this.”

“But our people are here, are they not? And so are we! We have an impregnable harbour, the ability to receive resources from the mainland, allies in Pelargir and the control of Arne!” Isildur’s voice had risen considerably, enough to perhaps be heard from the antechamber where Amandil’s “escort” was waiting. “And the King is away with the Umbar troops, dealing with unrest in the mainland. This could very well be our best chance to be rid of Sauron, should we dismiss it with such ease?”

“It could also very well be Sauron’s best chance to be rid of us, Isildur”, Amandil cut him forcefully. “I am certain that your father will not risk the lives of the Arnians to rise against the King, are the lives of the people of the Andustar any less worthy of consideration?”

“If you care so much about our safety and that of our people, why did you save the priest?” It was Ilmarë again; her voice held an edge of steel. “If you believe that we should keep our heads down and accept what is happening, why did you contravene your own rules? After all, it is because of this that we are in this situation now.”

“Ilmarë…” Lalwendë rebuked her uneasily. But her daughter did not even look in her direction, busy as she was holding Amandil’s glance, her eyes narrowed in accusation.

Amandil stared back at her. So far, he had refused to allow the whispers in his mind to upset his resolve, which had been long and well meditated. The man in between, they said, willing to lay down his life but not to rebel. The man of the useless defiance. The man who had wanted to act as a bridge and instead became caught between the storm and the roaring gale, unable to brave either of them, and condemned to drown. He shook it away.

“We cannot go to war. We cannot convince the Island to rise against either the Sceptre or the demon who is under its protection. If we do, we could manage to hold out for months, years perhaps if we are lucky, but in the end we will lose, and the consequences will be more terrible than anything that our ancestors ever experienced, for us and for those who join us, and even for those who are merely caught up in our actions. To believe otherwise is to delude ourselves.” He stood up, trying to hold all of them in his gaze before he continued. “But this does not mean we must keep our heads down and accept what is happening. Even as subjects of the Sceptre, under the vigilance of Armenelos and in an increasingly hostile world, we must still fight the Shadow in any way we can. If we can speak against injustice, we must do so. If we can save a brave man from a terrible fate, we must do so. If we can offer refuge and support to those who suffer oppression, we must do so. And if we cannot do it from the heights of our fortified city or from our seat in the Council, we will do it in Rómenna, or wherever we may be and with the means we may have. This is something that Lord Yehimelkor taught me, too. For the day he saw that there was nothing else he could achieve by sitting in the King’s Council and raising his voice there, he laid down his privilege and never set foot in the Palace again, but he did not surrender.” In the ensuing silence, he turned towards Númendil, who had been sitting in silence since the beginning of the conversation. “Perhaps some of you might prefer to take ship now and leave Númenor for a place where your existence might be easier. I am sure that the Elves of Lindon will welcome you, if that is your choice, and the Queen will not mind, for she knows that you are no threat to her. But I will return to Armenelos with the men who escorted me here, and remain in Númenor, if not as the lord of Andúnië and a council member, as the leader of the Faithful in exile. If any of you wishes to stay here and rebel, may my death be on your conscience.”

His father nodded gravely.

“For my part, I thank you for the offer, but I will follow you wherever you go. If that had not been my intention from the start, I would have remained with the Elves when the Former King died, or I might have travelled even farther away, to a place from whence no one is allowed to return. But I am here, and so I will share your fate.”

“Thanks”, Amandil mumbled, his voice somewhat hoarse from the emotion. “What about the rest of you? If you have something to say, now is the time.”

It was evident from their countenances that Isildur and Ilmarë were not happy at all with this alternative. Lalwendë did not even appear to be considering it, as all her attention seemed to be focused on them and their reactions. As for Anárion, his old prudence seemed to be back after his brief earlier outburst. He looked down, and gave what looked like a curt nod of assent. Satisfied in that respect, Amandil concentrated again on the more rebellious siblings.

“You are making a mistake”, Isildur hissed. “But I will not escape and seek refuge in foreign land like a coward. I would make a stand here, but I am not the lord of Andúnië, and on this day I think it is to the great misfortune of our house that I am not.”

“Noted”, Amandil replied drily. His grandson glared at him for a while, as if he was the most outrageous sight to ever cross his path, then suddenly turned away and stormed out of the room.

“I agree with Isildur”, Ilmarë spoke, and though she did not glare, stand up or move, her hostility was just as clamorous. “After what we have already lost, I no longer fear anything, whether it is death or exile. But if the decision was left to me, I would make sure that our enemies did not have another moment of rest.”

Amandil closed his eyes for a moment, wondering if there could be a way, either in the waking world or in the turmoil of his mind, for him to stop seeing Ar Zimraphel’s dark gaze.

Without misfortune and persecution, there would be no Faithful.

“And they will not have it”, he said, willing every ounce of determination into his voice. “The less trapped we are by the chains of false honour and power, the farther we are from their sight, and the less they will be able to control what we do. We will be leaders of the Faithful again, like our ancestors, not servile courtiers or councillors to any Kings fallen to darkness. And if we cannot save all of Númenor, we will save ourselves and those who seek us.”

Ilmarë’s features did not soften into a more acquiescing expression. What do I care for any of this, she seemed to be asking with her challenging look, if you could not save the only person I ever wanted you to save. But again, Amandil did not have time to be a grandfather.

“It is decided, then. We will start our preparations to leave this house and head East. Take only what you need, and do not confide in anyone you cannot trust. Lalwendë…”

He stopped briefly, wondering how to articulate what he wanted to say to her. His son’s wife, however, shook her head with an easy smile.

“My place is with my husband and children, Lord Amandil”, she said simply. “If they are in Rómenna, that is where I will be. Besides, it would not be very dutiful of me to go back to Hyarnustar and bring suspicion upon my family by association, don’t you think?”

Amandil sighed, noticing the hidden tension underneath her politeness. His list of allies was growing thin.

“I am very sorry, lady”, he apologized, with all the sincerity he could muster. The smile dissolved.

“You do not need to apologize to me. You are doing what you believe is right, and you are the lord of Andúnië.”

Not anymore, his mind corrected automatically, but he did not say it aloud. She must be as aware of this fact as he was himself. Perhaps she had even brought it up on purpose.

“Be ready to depart at midday tomorrow”, he said, before turning his back on mother and daughter and leaving the room.

He really needed to sleep.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Elendil took the Seeing Stone from its pedestal, watching as its surface slowly turned a silvery hue of grey. As he stared into it, he tried to recall the last images he had seen there: his father’s sad, worried countenance warning him of the approaching storm, and the strong undercurrent of guilt in his thoughts, turning into a flicker of relief when Elendil assured him that he had always known it was inevitable.

This had been no idle expression of comfort on his part. Elendil might not have inherited the foresight of his ancestors, but he had been feeling for years as if they were trying to walk on a very slippery surface, and every effort they made to advance through it did not merely take them back where they started, but brought them closer and closer to the brink. Since even before Sauron came to Númenor, he had seen his father’s advice remain ignored and his own rule brought under suspicion, until Isildur and Malik’s stunt had painted a bright red line on the obsidian floor of the Palace of Armenelos. Then, he had been aware that it was a matter of time, and he blessed his own persistence in convincing Eluzîni to leave Arne before the storm reached him, under the wild and strange guise that all storms adopted in those barbarian lands.

Carefully, he wrapped the stone in the silk bag his wife had once used to bring it to him from half a world away. He remembered her arrival to the river port of Arne years ago, accompanied by their daughter. Back then, he had been concerned by the issue of the alliances with the mountain tribes, but he still saw the governance of Arne as a great challenge he could rise to meet, a chance to do things right and make his mark upon a remote corner of the world. Now that he looked back upon it, it might have been the last time he had felt as if the success or failure of his endeavours depended on him alone. This feeling evoked in him the same nostalgia as the memories of making love to Eluzîni behind the indiscreet walls of the Women’s Court, or Ilmarë’s enthralled curiosity at this alien world that she was discovering for the first time. All of it was but a distant remembrance at this point of his life, like a dream which somebody else had dreamed.

But Elendil had felt this way before. When his father had taken him to Andúnië, to be introduced to their newly restored family and learn their ways, he had often looked back at his past life as a swordsmanship instructor on the Palace Hill, whose main concern was to be paid at the end of the month, and wondered if it had been nothing but a wild trick of his imagination. As Eluzîni had wormed her way into his affections, he could not remember the time when his world revolved upon the slightest whim of Míriel’s dark gaze without a feeling of deep unreality. And when he sat in the council of Arne, with all those proud barbarian nobles hanging on his word as if he was their King, sometimes he closed his eyes and he was back in Andúnië, alone, trying to babble the Quenya he had learned under the unkind look of Lord Valandil. Perhaps in this lay his advantage compared with other people, especially those who had been raised with the sole purpose of becoming what their birth had predestined them to be. He might not be the mightiest or the most fortunate man in Númenor, but at least he could adapt to every situation that life thrust upon him. The Elendil he was now could wield a sword, speak Quenya, rule a kingdom and love a woman for what she was. And if he still needed to learn how to survive as an exiled traitor, he was ready to do it too.

A voice interrupted his thoughts from the doorstep, an Arnian courtier who had come to announce Lord Bodashtart’s arrival. As quickly as he could, Elendil hid the Stone under his arm, and sought the mirror which lay next to it to stare at his reflection. He looked stately in his ceremonial armour, the one they had needed to make for him because none of the regalia of the Kings of Arne would fit him. No one who saw him now, in the Palace at close quarters or in the distance as he rode through the city, harbours and fields of the barbarian kingdom would ever imagine who was truly underneath all this splendour, a man so despicable by the standards of the Island that the meanest dockhand of Sor would not even greet him when he landed there. For a moment, he felt caught between two dreams, and he could not help but wonder which one of them was real. Was he a King pretending to be an exile, or an exile pretending to be a King?

Neither, Amalket’s voice spoke in his mind, not the breathless, raspy voice he had heard through the Stone on that fateful day, but the much younger one of a woman who had always seemed full of strength and wisdom to her son. And both. You may have experienced many changes in your life, my son, but you have always remained the same, a man struggling to survive and protect those around him. And that is what you still are.

“Well met, Lord Bodashtart”, he greeted courteously. He had never treated the old man otherwise, and yet he still hated Elendil, believing him to have petitioned the King to take the command of the Arnian military away from him. As soon as the news reached him, basic prudence as the highest ranking Númenórean representative in a foreign land would be overruled in favour of his most vindictive impulses. And Elendil’s advice, no matter how reasonable or polite, would never be heeded. “I am ready to depart now.”

“Very well, my lord. I will make sure that the capital is still standing in a month.” In spite of his dutiful joke, Bodashtart’s eyes remained cold. “By the way, I could not help but notice that you are not taking an Arnian escort this time. It is not that I disapprove, but it feels… unusual.”

A shrewd man, shrewder than many gave him credit for, Elendil mused. He smiled easily.

“I intend to stop at Pelargir when I go South. It will be Erukyermë in two weeks’ time, and, as you know, that feast is very important for those who share my faith. This year, they have invited me to join them, and I have accepted the invitation, in the hopes that it might be a good opportunity to develop stronger ties with the City Council of Pelargir. That is why the men from Andúnië will accompany me this time.”

“I would not be offended if you said the Faithful, my lord.” Bodashtart’s answering smile was venomous. “It would save you many turns of phrase.”

“Oh, but I would never presume that those who worship the gods are less faithful to them than we are to our own beliefs”, Elendil replied. “Be well, Lord Bodashtart, and rule Arne wisely in my absence.” Farewell, petty old man. I will never see you again, and that is the only comfort I derive from this situation.

“Have a productive tour and a safe journey, my lord”, Bodashtart bowed.

Pelargir would be the place where the news would probably cross him as they travelled in the opposite direction, in two weeks’ time. The Queen would have made sure that her orders were delivered to the City Council directly, and then they would be responsible for sending a messenger upriver. Those men had little love for him, as he had thwarted many of their attempts to negotiate private trade agreements with the Arnian nobility, and they also accused him of ruining the metal trade with his inconvenient alliances with the mountain barbarians who used to work the mines in the past. If he cut the inspection trip through Arne short, he might avoid unpleasantness there, but that behaviour would look suspicious, and it would surely reach Bodashtart’s ears. If he figured out that Elendil was hiding something from him, he might even send parties after him, and then all his efforts would be ruined. He tried to imagine that scenario: he and his men being arrested and imprisoned before the eyes of the Arnians, Bodashtart taking charge and threatening the military, the people, and whoever took Elendil’s side. The instability that could arise from this simple action, perhaps enough to fan the embers of the old discontentment into the fires of a new rebellion.

Elendil had never been tempted by the sin of pride, for he had grown from child to man under the contempt of the Guards, and of his very neighbours who believed him to be a bastard of unknown parentage. But he knew, with a certainty that left little room for doubt, that he was the most popular ruler of Arne since the times of their legendary kings. For some reason, which he had found unfathomable when he first heard about it, the tales that Arnian mothers told their children about the Mordor campaign were not about Ar Pharazôn’s glory or about their governor’s shameful acquiescence in the ruin of their countryside, but of the tall warrior who routed the Orcs at the head of the Arnian army and saved the kingdom. For a while, he had struggled with his impulse to put things straight, until Eluzîni had convinced him that it was simply impossible. The people chose their own heroes; that was their privilege, perhaps one of the few that was truly theirs.

Now, perhaps those tales would be substituted by others, of a tall man who deceived them and fled. Or a tall man who disappeared mysteriously but would return one day and free Arne from its oppressors, he could almost imagine Eluzîni saying, as she rolled her eyes at him. Bodashtart would do everything in his power to convince those around him of how traitorous, cowardly and underserving he was, but as Eluzîni would also remind him, most Arnians already thought this of Bodashtart himself. And in any case, he could not allow himself to become distracted by such selfish considerations.

“Everything is ready, my lord”, the chief of his escort informed, his hand gripping the reins of his horse a little too tightly to hide his trepidation. Elendil nodded, walking past him until he reached his own mount, and climbed it as easily as he had done a hundred times before.

“Let us depart, then.”

With a smile on his lips, and a pang of uncertainty in his heart, Elendil of Andúnië rode past the gates of the Arnian palace, one step ahead of the gathering storm.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The gardens were empty at that time of the night, their peace disturbed only by the soft creaking of grass under his feet. Stepping away from the circle of mallorn trees, under whose shade he and his late sister had played as children, he gazed at the sky, where the stars gyrated in their immutable dance. Somewhere in the impenetrable darkness behind his back, the rumble of waves grew ever more distant as the night trickled away, and the tide receded as inexorably as the last hours in the place of his birth were sliding from his grasp.

Númendil closed his eyes. There was no wind today, not even a breeze caressing his face with the tantalizing smell of a forbidden Sea. The quiet was almost frightening, as if everything had ground to a halt in anticipation of the last exile of the Faithful. As if every tree he crossed, every blade of grass he trod upon, the air, the Sea, and even the stars that watched over him from the high heavens knew that they would never return, and that the house would remain empty until it sunk under its watery grave.

A slight shiver crossed his body, and he hugged his chest under the cloak. He had often wished he did not have to see the things he did, or at least that they would not be so vivid that their intensity would leave him paralyzed, unable to stand up and take action like so many of his descendants and ancestors. In his mind, their journey to the East was surrounded by an aura of mythical inevitability, like the fated exodus of the Elves from Beleriand, which contrasted deeply with how everyone around him saw it, whether they argued for or railed against it. That was how he knew that a man like him could never have made it happen, could never have stood bravely against a power greater than his own in a beautiful instant of rashness, where every thought became a vague blur and all that mattered was the here and now, and a man who was in danger for speaking the truth. This was, had always been Númendil’s paradox: the world, even the world as he saw it in his visions, remained in motion because of actions that were banned to him. All he could do was watch them unfold, and help with the aftermath.

As his thoughts wandered idly through those familiar paths, his feet took him back to the house, to a wing which had remained abandoned ever since his sister Artanis passed away. That night, however, the ancient structure of stone did not lie empty. The largest window on the ground floor was gleaming bright with a strange glow, so different from the dim starlight guiding Númendil’s footsteps that it seemed almost incongruous, an anomaly in a place such as this. The feeling of incongruousness grew keener as he drew closer, and the monotonous cadence of a chant reached his ears. Númendil could distinguish some words, spoken in a language which his father would have banned from his house even if it had not been used to sing the praises of Melkor.

Such a realization would have taken most men aback, those men who did the rash things that moved the world. But Númendil was not one of those men, so he just walked in quietly, and sat on his sister’s old armchair to watch High Priest Yehimelkor kneel and pray to his sacred fire.

The old man was even thinner than he used to be when he preached against Ar Pharazôn’s war at the Old Temple of Armenelos. There were also more wrinkles in his face and hands, and his used joints should be screaming in protest from the effort of kneeling on the hard marble floor. Deeper than this surface pain, Yehimelkor was disquieted in spite of himself by the eerie light trickling into his rooms, by the wild gardens around him, and the silence. Since he was a child, he had been taught that those were telltale signs of a fell presence, whom his god abhorred. And now, he had been saved from the clutches of a black demon only to find refuge in a place where other horrors lay subtly hidden under a normal guise. His companions had all fallen asleep, deceived by those appearances, but he would remain awake for them.

“I did not invite you in, nor gave you leave to disturb my prayer”, a harsh voice interrupted his thoughts. “As I understand them, the rules of hospitality imply accepting that the rooms given to your guest are for his personal use, to invite you only if he is willing.”

No one would wait to be invited to his rooms in this house, or on any of the others where they would reside before the end. Since he set foot in Andúnië for the first time, Yehimelkor had been treated as if he was invisible, or rather, as someone whose presence should not be acknowledged lest it would somehow become real. If he was not there on the lord of Andúnië’s orders, he would never have been allowed in, and even after Amandil had given express instructions that he should be treated with courtesy because he was not at fault for their current plight, many still seemed inclined to blame him.

“Did you come only to pity me, or you wish to join me in my prayers?”

Númendil smiled apologetically. Of course, his tendency to wander through the maze of his thoughts would be too much for this impatient, masterful man to bear.

“I am sorry, Lord Yehimelkor. But I have long wished to make your acquaintance, and pity has nothing to do with it. I was wondering if perhaps we could have a conversation.”

The man’s brow creased with the beginnings of a frown, but he did not go back to his prayer. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the shifting flames.

“There is no need for you to alienate yourself from your people in a misguided attempt to make me feel comfortable. You know as well as I do that they blame me both for worshipping my god -which is foolish because He is their god too, even if they refuse to admit it-, and for their lord’s actions.”

Alienate himself from his people. Númendil felt tempted to smile ironically at this choice of words.

“Lord Yehimelkor”, he said, and he stood up and approached the kneeling man so he would have to gaze at him, instead of at the fire. The flames gave off an unpleasant heat which the priest did not even seem to notice, but Númendil found it extremely challenging not to step away from it. “You must understand one thing before I take my leave. Long ago, you saved the life of my only child, and raised him into an adult by taking the place of the father that I was not allowed to be. I would do more than alienate myself from my people, I would give my life for you if necessary.”

It was quite odd to see Yehimelkor’s gaze trail down, even for a moment. Before Númendil could register this moment of weakness, however, the grey eyes had turned into steel.

“Give your life! Would you lay it down by forcing your spirit to depart your body, as those of your ilk do, or would you climb the steps of Sauron’s altar to have your life force enhance mine? Since when did giving one’s life away become godlier and more honourable than living it until its bitter end as the Creator intended? I do not recognize or desire such gifts, and if you ever had a debt towards me, your son has now paid it in full, of his own accord and against my wishes.” He grimaced bitterly. “It was because of you and those like you that the men of Númenor were first led to believe that their lives were theirs to give.”

And it was because of you and those like you that Sauron could convince them that sacrifice was the holiest rite of all, and that the dearer the blood spilled was, the greater its power to achieve men’s wishes. Númendil knew that this was the reply he would have been expected to give, and that Yehimelkor was waiting for him to say it. And then, he saw it clearly: any other man’s instinct would have been to confront Yehimelkor in defence of his beliefs, and then the High Priest would have had a ready-made excuse to dismiss him, ignore his outstretched hand, and live the rest of his life in proud isolation.

He smiled.

“Be at peace, my lord, and forgive my choice of words. For I should have been aware of what you saw at the New Temple, and what you were forced to speak against when you were there,” he replied. “Your voice rang clear and true then, even as you had to withstand the gaze of the most terrible creature to walk in the mortal world for an Age. We may have different beliefs from yours, but we will never feel tempted to bend to the will of Sauron or accept any of his teachings. You know my son as well as I do, and you know this to be true. So please, accept us as allies, honour my friendship with your own, and do not let the strangeness of our ways or the hostility of our people blind you to the fact that Amandil and I admire you, that we are proud to have you with us, and that we have a common enemy.”

Yehimelkor looked at him once again. For the first time in the conversation, Númendil detected a hint of bemusement in his countenance.

“You are a strange man, Lord Númendil. Others may call you weak and unprincipled, but underneath this there is a strength of will and a persistence which your son clearly inherited from you. You do not surrender easily, even if you have to brave the heat of flames that you never grew used to approach.” His voice grew lower, losing the contentious edge which had been there since he set foot on Andúnië. Underneath it, Númendil felt a softness which seemed alien to the inflexible man who threw invectives at his enemies and spoke diatribes in the Council. The softness Amandil must have latched on to, when there was no one else for him, he thought with a small pang to his chest. “I can have no friends in this place, but I will honour your kindness towards me, and answer it with gratitude. And you should know, Númendil of Andúnië, that this is something that two Kings of Númenor tried, and failed, to have from me in the past.”

Númendil nodded. He did not know what had transpired in the High Priest’s talks with Ar Pharazôn at the beginning of his reign, but Tar Palantir had told him long ago of his vain attempt to secure the proud priest’s allegiance for their side. He had rarely looked so disappointed than when he broached this subject.

“Kings cannot be expected to know how to bend.”

“And only those who know how to bend can hope to have a good relationship with me. Is that it?” In spite of the challenge in his words, the tone was one of dry amusement. Númendil found it an encouraging sign.

“My father, the late Lord Valandil of Andúnië, was just like you. Sometimes I may have resented him, but I also admired him for never giving an inch of his position despite the fierceness of the attacks that assailed him from every side. It is not in my nature to be like this.”

“That is deeply untrue, Lord Númendil. You may bend, and yet you do not give an inch of your position, either. If I were a King, I might be warier of those like you. And your son would do well to have you as a model, now that things have come to this, instead of me.” He turned aside, back to the contemplation of his eternal light, while he pursed his thin lips into a thoughtful expression. “I must finish my prayers now.”

Númendil acknowledged the dismissal, and quietly walked away. As he put distance between him and the fire, its scorching heat and its blinding glow, he could not help but sigh in relief. The gardens, by contrast, were cool and welcoming, and he basked in the familiar light of the stars, aware that in a short while it would disappear, chased away by a mightier and even more pitiless fire than the one he had left behind. And then he would have to depart, never to lay foot on this place again.

As he thought this, and was about to give in to the temptation of discouragement, a long forgotten memory suddenly emerged in his mind, causing him to stop in his tracks. In it, he saw Emeldir, leaning on Azzibal’s terrace while she pointed at the stars twinkling on the sky above their heads. A beautiful smile shone in her features, one of the very few that he remembered from their exile.

Look! she was saying. The stars are the same here as in Andúnië!

Perhaps this was the key to the secret of bending without giving an inch of one’s position, as Yehimelkor had said. To look at the sky and see the same stars, no matter what remote corner of the world one was forced to live in. If it was so, it was she who had taught it to him, and to their son too, the day that she interrupted his meaningless lecture about their duty to scream at Amandil that he should forget them and live. He had lived so many years, and she so few, that the newer generations of his family barely remembered that she had existed, but he wanted to believe that her influence remained there, invisible, like the roots of a tree spreading under the ground.

“You are right, my beloved.” His lips curved in a smile, that mirrored hers across the unbridgeable expanses of time. “The stars are the same, and so are we. There is nothing to fear.”

Far in the distance, the Eastern sky glowed with the dim light that heralded the dawn.