Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Lies

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She had fought hard to keep it at bay, for hours in which her eyelids had grown heavier and her conversation had turned in increasingly smaller and repetitive circles, but in the end, sheer exhaustion had brought her to her knees. Since she awoke that morning in her cottage, Fíriel’s heart had been a constant battlefield of emotions. She had kissed for the first time, her life had been in danger, then her whole family, and just when she thought that there could be no greater upheaval, the very foundations of her existence had been shaken by an unexpected reveal.

When Ilmarë told her the secret that she had withdrawn for so long, she was not being animated by any warm or tender emotions. She had been afraid, for the first time in many years, at the thought that the foolish girl would throw herself at the jaws of danger like her father, and furious at the growing realization that they had been fooled by a far-seeing woman who had played with them as if they were puppets designed for her amusement. Still, the moment she saw Fíriel staring at her as if the ground had been pulled violently from under her feet, it had dawned upon her that their lives would no longer be the same. To her horror, she had seen the walls she had so painstakingly built around herself crumble like a sand castle when the tide rolled in, leaving her as defenceless as she had been on the day that a dying Isildur was brought back to the Andúnië mansion alone. No matter how many years she lived after this, Ilmarë would never be able to feel safe again, because now she knew how much of an illusion it had been.

Fíriel was a girl of strong passions, just like her mother had been once – still was. She had also inherited her father’s foolhardy impulsiveness. And she had been courting danger like a moth would a flame, at an age where neither of her parents had faced anything more challenging than ghost stories by the fireside at night. According to her, she and Gimilzagar had met long ago, when she was barely ten years old, and since then she had been dodging risks to herself, to him, and to her family. Though a mere peasant child, she had hit the Prince of the West on the face in front of his Guard, and then proceeded to tell Isildur that she did not welcome his protection unless it was on her terms. And somehow, she had been allowed to get away with all this, though Ilmarë suspected Ar Zimraphel to be behind most of this lack of repercussions. None of it was her fault in any case, Fíriel had claimed in outrage: it was Gimilzagar who had sought her, so insistently that there was nothing she could have done but give in to his spoiled whims, and that was what got her entangled in this whole affair. If she was to be believed, it was the flame who had courted the moth, who had only been trying to fly through the window.

Ilmarë did not think that this was a lie, but it was also evident that it was not the full truth. For Fíriel loved Gimilzagar, with a fierce, protective love which had withstood her self-proclaimed exasperation at his attitude, her awareness of his many weaknesses and shortcomings, and even her fearful uneasiness at everything and everyone who surrounded him. When she had thrown herself between the knife and him, she had not done it for her family or for Zebedin’s sake, as she claimed before them, or out of loyalty for the Sceptre, as Ilmarë had no doubt that she had claimed back in the Prince’s villa. Those considerations had come later, when the attackers were subdued and she was back to the game of juggling her loyalties in an increasingly frantic attempt to prevent any of the balls from breaking against the floor. Those older and wiser than her might have smiled at her clumsy attempts to deceive both others and herself, from the heights of their acquired self-control and experience. But if they had been in her situation, at her age, and subject to her circumstances, none of them would have managed much better.

She even thought that she could make the Prince support her claims against his own interests, Ilmarë thought, in repressed amazement. At first, she had considered this belief to be delusional, a foolish idea the girl had conjured up to shield her mind from the truth that there was nothing she could do to help her loved ones. Powerlessness was a terrible feeling, and as it turned out it could be felt just as acutely by those who should have been used to have no power since they were born. But no matter how many years Fíriel had spent among the lower rungs of society, they did not seem to have had much effect in that part of her nature. Either this, or some ancient power of her Haradric blood would not allow her to surrender under any circumstance, no matter how dire or hopeless.

Then again, Ilmarë thought gravely, it was no coincidence that all the oldest houses of the nobility had been brought to their knees or sent to exile under the rule of Ar Pharazôn the Golden- and she did not even want to think of what happened to the Haradrim who refused to surrender. Or of what would happen to this Zebedin, who also had the same Haradric blood flowing through his veins, to his stupid friends, to their families, and to hers.

No, Ilmarë did not want to think about this. Her daughter’s cheek was pressed against the wooden table, crumpling her features and giving her a childlike appearance in her sleep, and she experienced a feeling of great unreality as she laid a blanket over her shoulders. If her glance was not too sharp, or her awareness less poignant, she could even pretend that those years had never happened: that she had remained hers, learned to take her first steps in the ancestral home of her family, where she had finally fallen asleep after a long day of playing and exploring the world around her. But this was a dangerous fantasy, and indulging in it a form of self-torture. Those years were gone and so was the girl, ripped away from her by her own foolishness, which had fallen for a monster’s cold manipulation.

A plaything for the abomination. Ilmarë felt tempted to laugh bitterly at her own words, coming to mock her from the recesses of her memory. How could she have been so blind? The plaything had not been Fíriel, and the Prince had not been the abomination. Before the terrifying powers of the Queen of Númenor, the real abomination, all of them, Fíriel, Ilmarë, Malik, even Gimilzagar himself were nothing but playthings, some to be kept, perhaps even cherished, others to be discarded without a second thought.

Ilmarë was no match for Ar Zimraphel. Her confused dreams were not foresight, but a mere mockery of it that tortured her with riddles, whose meaning she would never be able to guess in time to save those she loved. The ruthlessness she had acquired in the last years was just a thin varnish to hide the passions burning deep within her soul. She was largely alone, surrounded by men who despaired of their own valour or opted for looking down and weathering the storm for as long as it lasted. If she listened to the raging transports of her soul, which demanded her to take revenge, to hurt that woman however she could, even if it was the last thing she ever did, she would be no different from those hapless peasants who had tried to strike at the Prince. Her fate would be the same as theirs, and the fate of those who surrounded her too. And all that suffering would be futile, as futile as her attempts to keep Fíriel safe because, she knew it now, against such an enemy there was no victory.

“Perhaps it is not possible to win, but it is still possible to survive”, a quiet voice spoke behind her. “For many who live in these times, there will be no greater victory.”

“Great-grandfather.” Ilmarë could not keep the anger away from her voice. Of all the cowards around her, he was the very worst, because he could have done so much more. “If you know so much about what will happen, why don’t you tell us? Why do you let us struggle on blindly, while refusing us an advantage which our enemies put to good use? What right do you have to do that?”

The infuriating man did not even flinch at her words; he only looked thoughtful.

“Foresight has terrible consequences. Those who use it as you say have merely decided to ignore those consequences, as a child will topple an anthill because it amuses him to watch the pitiful struggles of the tiny creatures under his gaze. But to me, men are not ants, and I would never be able to bring myself to see them as such.”

“Look at Fíriel!” she hissed. “Look at the situation in which she is now, and then tell me about children and anthills. If you are indifferent to the suffering of your own flesh and blood, how can you claim to care about other people?”

He did not flinch this time either.

“I am sorry, Ilmarë”, he said, with such vehement sadness that she was briefly shocked into silence. By the time that she opened her mouth to reply, he was already gone.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Ar Pharazôn had just reached Sor when the summons for the Governor came from Rómenna. It had been a regular trip, to supervise the arrival of tribute from the mainland and inspect the progress of fleet repairs, and yet it could not have happened at a worse moment for Amandil. For all the strategies he had carefully built to influence the Governor of Sor had been rendered useless, and the risks to anyone foolish enough to allow himself to be entangled in this perilous business had grown exponentially the moment the King stepped through that threshold. Even the Prince of the West seemed to think it was so, as he was fleeing his father’s glance and acting in a manner that reminded Amandil of those who had been paralyzed by a great anxiety.

As for Amandil himself, it was all he could do to keep his composure while he bowed and let the governor elaborate on his flowery greetings. Grovelling provided him with a good excuse not to look at his old friend too closely, which in these first moments proved essential enough to his struggle to keep his mind sharp and alert. It had been many years since the last time he had seen Pharazôn in that prison cell, and in that time Amandil, though he belonged to the long-lived line of the lords of Andúnië, had acquired quite a few wrinkles and grey hairs. The King, however, looked exactly the same as he had been at that time, no, younger, a voice whispered in his mind while he fought the horror that the quickest glimpse had been enough to awake in him. His face was flushed and full of life, even more so in his anger, as it had been back when he was a handsome young soldier fighting Orcs and barbarians in Harad. His chestnut curls had no hint of grey in them, nor was the golden skin of his brow wrinkled, and Amandil could not banish from his mind the terrible knowledge of the means which had rendered this artificial prolongation of youth possible.

Ar Pharazôn did not even look back at him. Before he came in, he must have been reading the report written by the captain of his Guard and the confessions of the would-be assassins, for, even before the Governor had finished speaking, his full attention was already focused on the Prince of the West.

“Who is this girl, Gimilzagar? And why were you alone with her when you were ambushed?”

Amandil’s heart sank. It would have been too much to expect that the role of Fíriel in this affair could have passed unnoticed, even to eyes less keen and suspicious than those of the King.

“Answer!”

Gimilzagar looked down, still as if under the effects of a daze. An observer who did not know the circumstances might almost believe him to be the culprit, instead of the victim of the attack. If he was not so afraid of what he might say, Amandil would have been tempted to feel sorry for him.

“She was… a girl from the village”, he muttered at last. “No one important.”

“And yet she was family to one of the attackers, and told them where they could find you.”

At this, Amandil could see a fleeting glimpse of spirit in the young man’s eyes. He looked up, his pale cheeks flushed.

“She had nothing to do with it! She even risked her life to save mine!”

Pharazôn’s eyes widened slightly, in what once upon a time Amandil had been able to recognize as one of his ways to express surprise. But whatever had surprised him, it could not be his son’s news, for he would have read them in the report.

“So, are you saying that an anonymous girl from the village who is no one important took it upon herself to act as your bodyguard, fought her own kin, and risked her life to save yours?”

“Y-yes”, Gimilzagar replied, fleeing his father’s glance again. Pharazôn shook his head.

“You are such a bad liar it is almost embarrassing to listen to you.”

The Prince blushed even more. Amandil did not expect him to speak again after this, and his mind began working furiously, searching for the best way to intervene and repair the damage. But before he could open his mouth, he was interrupted.

“She showed great loyalty to the Sceptre, Father. Even against her own kinsman!”

Pharazôn snorted contemptuously.

“You are not getting any better at it.” He paced around the room, and Amandil saw the Governor of Sor retreat an instinctive step when he approached him. “Very well, then. Since you do not volunteer it yourself, I will have to interrogate her family for more information.”

Gimilzagar grew very agitated at this – which was, of course, what Pharazôn had intended. Amandil watched on in impotence as he stood on his feet.

“No, Father, please! Fíriel’s family is innocent, leave them alone!”

The King stopped in his tracks.

“Fíriel, hm?” For the first time since his arrival, he turned towards Amandil. “She sounds like someone you might know.”

“I do”, he answered, knowing that Pharazôn was already aware of all this from Abdazer’s testimony, and hating him for it. “She is one of the exiles from the Andustar, and she has been in Rómenna for about ten years. An orphan, but adopted by kin. Her parents greatly revered the Lords of the West.”

“I see.” Ar Pharazôn seemed to be pondering something, but only for a brief moment. “The report states that she was brought here, and then fled mysteriously right after the healer tended to her wounds.” The Prince of the West cringed, a movement that Amandil was sure that Pharazôn had registered as much as he did. “Am I correct in my deduction that you know where she is now?”

The former lord of Andúnië had known Pharazôn for much longer than Gimilzagar, and so did not need the King to threaten Fíriel’s family to be aware of what was as stake if he gave the wrong answer.

“You are correct, my lord King. She… was under the impression that the rest of her family could suffer wrongly from their kinship ties with the accused, and so came to me for aid and protection, as many others before her.”

“I am aware of your delusions of still being the lord of a domain.” He turned towards the Governor of Sor. “Summon her from Lord Amandil’s house, I want to see her by myself.”

Once again, the Prince began to grow agitated, but this time Amandil managed to speak first.

“Perhaps I should be the one to go, my lord King. When she set foot in my house, I gave her my oath that I would not allow any harm to come to her. If you send your men, or the Governor’s men, my kinsmen and people might – misread the situation, and believe themselves bound to keep this oath.”

“When will you learn that offering protection that you cannot provide and swearing oaths that you cannot keep does not make you a hero, but a fool?”

“Father, please!” Gimilzagar could be restrained no longer; he looked very upset. “Do not hurt Fíriel, I…. I love her! I was lying before, and I am sorry, but I love her, I have always loved her!”

This time, Ar Pharazôn looked genuinely thunderstruck. So, if he was wholly sincere with himself, was Amandil, though he had known more about this than his old friend. A deep friendship forged between two children who came from different worlds had been unusual enough –not to mention poignantly familiar-, without love becoming part of the equation.

“Well.” The silence was almost deafening as the King pulled the mask back over his features. Amandil wondered if this weakness he had glimpsed would be a last hope to latch onto or, on the contrary, the wall against which all his attempts would inevitably crash. “Now I feel much better about this.”

“Please, my lord King, allow me to mediate. I will bring Fíriel to you myself, and she will gladly volunteer all the information you require. But things will go much more smoothly if she is made to understand that she does not stand accused of any crime, and that you are grateful to her for saving the Prince. I can see that he is feeling quite devastated after his terrible ordeal, and as a father, I know that, when our children are upset, the last thing that we wish is to bring further disruption to their world.”

He expected Pharazôn to be sarcastic or dismissive of his words, even to be brought back to heel like a dog whose barks had become too loud or annoying. What he had not expected was for the King to give him such a malevolent glare that it almost felt as if he had been physically struck.

“So be it”, he said. “Go. But no matter how hard you try, you cannot save everyone all the time, Amandil. Not even your Baalim can.”

The former lord of Andúnië swallowed.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Fíriel did not object to being taken back to the villa. Whatever Amandil might have said in the presence of the Prince and the King, the girl would have jumped at what she mistakenly believed to be a chance to save her loved ones as easily as she had grabbed the knife intended for Gimilzagar, even if there had been no assurances involved. The foolishness of youth knew no bounds, he thought, unpleasantly reminded of his own past again.

Ilmarë, however, was another matter. To his great consternation, she had been so shaken at the girl’s disdain for the perils that surrounded her that she had sought to bind her with the very knowledge she had chosen to deny for so many years. Now, the gates were open and the long overdue flood could no longer be stopped: his granddaughter no longer cared for her honour, for the Queen, for revenge, or for anything beyond Fíriel’s immediate safety. She did not even care for the girl’s family, who, as she saw it, was as good as dead. Once she realized that she could not prevent her from departing, she made Fíriel swear that she would do nothing that could jeopardise her life in the slightest, no matter what she saw or heard. Not even if you see them die before your eyes, she hissed, making the girl so upset and terrified that Amandil had to lead her out by the arm.

“You must try to understand her. Your father was the love of her life, but he did not listen to her warnings, and he never came back”, he told her as they rode back to the villa, she with him on his horse, for she did not know how to ride and was too badly hurt to have done it properly anyway. Her body was very tense against his, not just from the strain on her injuries.

“I do understand how she feels. But my family is everything to me, too! I- I am not going to discard them just because I have another family now. No offense, my lord, but none of you taught me to swim, or catch shellfish, or was there wh-when I w-woke up at night with a n-n-nightmare.” Her speech dissolved into sobs, and for a while he could do nothing but hold her as comfortingly as he was able while keeping away from her bandaged area.

“I know. But you have to be strong, and keep your wits about you. Ilmarë’s advice was good: be careful and do not try to lie or pull schemes, or speak unless you are spoken to. The King will see through you, and the Prince won’t be able to save you.”

“B-but…”

“Not all is lost, Fíriel. I believe I can save your family. “Again, swearing oaths that you cannot keep, Pharazôn’s mocking voice insinuated itself into his mind. Or you think that because you do not word it as an oath you can back from it later, pretend that it was nothing but a miscalculation? “But you have to let me work. Anything you might try will only jeopardize my attempts. Do you understand?”

She did not answer.

“I heard some news before I came for you. It appears that the families of your cousin’s two friends were caught trying to flee. They wanted to reach Sor and take ship for the mainland. Your family, on the other hand, was home. Do you know what this means, Fíriel? They did not know. The only good thing that Zebedin did was not telling them, and now this contrast with the attitudes of the others will help their case.”

By itself, Amandil did not delude himself into believing that this evidence would matter much. He had seen enough to know that their attitude could be presented as wilful disregard of danger for the sake of their evil cause, or attributed to an attempt to act as accomplices and cover tracks, or something ludicrous of that sort. But if this hope gave her reason to keep her mouth shut, it would more than fulfil its purpose.

“And Zebedin?” she asked, after a while. Amandil took a long, very deep breath.

“You should forget about him. I am sorry, Fíriel.”

“I cannot do that!” The villa was already in sight, ensconced between tall walls in a hill that rose majestically over the sea. The former lord of Andúnië did not want to think about the things that might be taking place there at the moment.

“You can, and you will”, he said, helping her down the horse before a line of armed guards. His forehead curved in a stern frown. “For if you do not, you will not merely harm yourself, but also the rest of your family. They will only survive this if we play our parts well. Do you understand me?”

Fíriel’s gaze was lowered, and she muttered something that could be assent, but she still looked rebellious as she followed him inside.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Of the many wild guesses that Amandil had been forced to make in the last hours, the first to be proved right came as soon as they were brought again to the King’s presence. Fíriel’s eyes, so wide that they seemed about to leave their sockets when they were set on Ar Pharazôn’s countenance, did not pass unnoticed. It was only a moment before that Guard, Abdazer, forced her to kneel and look down, but that moment was all the King needed. He turned towards Amandil with a look of dawning comprehension.

"So”, he said. “Now, everything makes sense. A peasant with an Elvish name whom you shelter at your own home and try so hard to protect, even considering your penchant for taking foolish risks to save people, seemed a little too suspicious. Tell me, who is the father? Is it Isildur? It would be just like him to act so carelessly, even in the Island.”

Amandil shook his head. Since it had become obvious to him that he could not prevent Pharazôn from laying eyes on her, he had been pondering what he would answer to this question. He could nod along and confirm the King’s assumption about the black sheep of his family, but though Isildur might perhaps not object to it, Amandil could not allow this information to come out now and jeopardize his painstakingly built marriage alliances. To reveal the truth was, of course, out of the question, not merely because of Ilmarë’s honour, but because Pharazôn might be persistent enough to follow this thread further than any of them could afford. Elendil, on the other hand, was married, and Númendil too old; there was only one possible way out of this.

“She is mine, my lord King.”

“What?” Pharazôn had obviously not been expecting this. The shocked look he gave Amandil now was so reminiscent of older, happier times that it felt almost painful. Fíriel, on her part, briefly looked up from the floor to stare at him, but thankfully she said nothing. Only Gimilzagar did not have a visible reaction, though there was a slight frown in his countenance.

“This is the most shameful thing I have ever been forced to admit”, he said, willing every shred of conviction he could marshal into his voice. He looked down, with an embarrassment which was not as feigned as he had imagined it would be. “But after Amalket died, and Zigûr grew powerful in Númenor, I was feeling very out of sorts. Enough as to… do the unthinkable.”

“And not for the first time, if memory does not fail me.” Pharazôn’s shock was gradually turning into furious thinking. “Oh, Amandil, could this be the workings of Fate? Are our children destined to right our wrongs and forge new ties between our estranged houses? Will the sweet love of this girl triumph where your loyal friendship failed?”

The former lord of Andúnië knew better than to answer any of those questions, so he remained silent. Pharazôn, however, was having none of it.

“You knew about this since the beginning! Tell me, did you set them up to meet?”

“That is not what happened! I met her on the beach by chance. And Mother knew about it!”, Gimilzagar intervened, rather unexpectedly. Pharazôn’s glare turned towards him.

“Be silent, or an assassination attempt will be the least of your troubles.” But all the threats in the world would not be enough to unsay what had been revealed, and the King knew this as much as anyone else. He looked out of sorts, as if he was as close to leaving the room and riding back to Armenelos as he was to have them all join the ranks of the accused for high treason. It was now that he was at his most dangerous, Amandil mused, but at his most unguarded as well. “Look up, girl, and answer my questions. Is it true that you met the Prince of the West nine years ago?”

“Yes, my lord King”, she answered, withstanding his gaze quite well considering the circumstances.

“Where were you, then? Was someone with you?”

“I was gathering shellfish, my lord King. Down at the beach, by the rock pools. There was no one with me.”

“Was the Prince’s Guard present?”

“No, Father. I had… escaped their vigilance”, Gimilzagar said, forgetting the warning to remain silent.

“Leave the room.”

“But, Father…!”

“Remove him from the room”, Pharazôn ordered Abdazer, who rushed to obey in an obvious attempt to make amends for his past failings. Gimilzagar did not offer resistance, but he turned back one last time to look at Fíriel, kneeling on the floor.

“When did you know who he was?” the King continued, as if there had been no interruption. Fíriel took breath.

“Not at first, my lord King. But when I came home that night, I was told that the Guards had been looking for him, and I… guessed.”

Like this, she went on answering his queries for a long time, weathering his relentless quest for information that could validate his suspicions, and avoiding his traps with a skill that others might attribute to guile, but which Amandil realized was nothing but her determination, drilled on her by both Ilmarë and himself, not to speak anything but the truth. As long as the interrogation kept to the events of their first summer together and their later, innocent encounters, she did not seem to be at much difficulty. When Ar Pharazôn asked her about the circumstances leading to the assassination attempt, however, things changed. She took much longer to think her answers, looked out of sorts, and sought Amandil’s glance often, as if seeking confirmation. She also began to shift around, as if trying to find the least painful position to kneel on the hard floor, and nurse her injured arm. Perhaps she thought that she might be cut some slack for this, though she was very mistaken. If Amandil was able to read Pharazôn correctly, that she was not being tortured at this very moment was already enough of a concession as far as he was concerned.

Not for the first time, he prayed to Eru and all the Valar that the girl would not even think of disregarding his instructions at any point. Though she seemed to be growing aware enough of the gravity of the situation, if she became too nervous this could prove just as damning as an excess of daring.

“So, you claim that you had not told your cousin about where you were going. That he merely overheard you that morning.”

“Y-yes, my lord King.”

“Then, are you implying that the whole attempt to murder the heir to the Sceptre in cold blood hinged on a chance event? That it was unpremeditated?”

“I d- well, I mean, I don’t… “She shook her head, as if furiously trying to focus. “I don’t understand the question, my lord King.”

Amandil saw prudent to intervene.

“The King wants to know if you think that they only decided to kill the Prince that very morning, when Zebedin heard where you were going.”

“I do not know what they were thinking, my lord King. But…” She hesitated for a long time, then looked down, only to continue in a much lower voice. “They were never too clever.”

Pharazôn chose not to comment upon this.

“Did you receive any indication whatsoever that they, or anyone else, wished the Prince dead? Before they came in with the knives?”

This question came very near to undoing Fíriel. She went pale, then flushed, then repressed a groan as she moved her arm too abruptly in an unadvised change of position.

“Not in my family’s house, never!” she said, in agitation. “Please believe me, my lord King, I am not lying!”

“I did not say that you were”, Pharazôn remarked coldly. “Interesting. According to Abdazer, your family claims the same as you, and even the families who were trying to buy passage in a ship for the mainland claim the same as you. And yet your cousin and his friends somehow acquired the idea that the Prince was an abomination who had to be destroyed. Where do you think they could have acquired it?”

This question seemed to Amandil to be directed towards him, so he took his cue to answer.

“Some… people have been led to believe that the Prince is a malevolent spirit out of ignorant superstition. They think that Zigûr brought him to life…”

“… and keeps him alive with the help of sacrifices”, the King finished, ignoring the girl’s gasp from the floor. “Sacrifices whom every loyal Númenórean has accepted and attended for decades now –except here in Rómenna, and in Pelargir. I wonder why that is. I wonder what could be the thread connecting all those things.”

Amandil did his best to remain calm.

“You swore that you would never persecute my people for their beliefs.”

“The moment those beliefs include that my son is a monster who should be eliminated…”

“Only a few think like this!”

“… and they even give them the evil courage to act upon it, it is not a matter of faith anymore! It is a matter of State, and I must treat it as such!” Pharazôn continued, as if he had not even heard his interruption. Amandil shook his head.

“Murdering people has never been part of the beliefs of the Faithful, my lord King. Those young men were just bitter because they were forced to abandon their former homes, and their frustration caused them to be led astray!”

“By whom? Tell me, Amandil, by whom?” The King’s voice had almost turned into a yell now. “Give me the name of this instigator, and then I will believe you!”

Can’t you even see it? You are the instigator. You brought Sauron to Númenor, darkened every temple with the fumes of your horrible sacrifices and plunged the world into a darkness greater than the reign of the former Dark Lord. Your rule has brought the displacement of thousands of innocents in the Island and the death of hundreds of thousands beyond the Sea. Did you think that even you could remain invulnerable before such a monstrous accumulation of hatred? Have you truly grown so deluded?

“There is no instigator”, he replied, suddenly feeling very tired. “Just a few malcontents willing to resort to desperate measures, who were ‘never too clever’, as Fíriel said. From what I have heard, the Prince invited trouble by instructing his Guard to stand aside and giving them the slip. Greatness often excites envy and discontent, as you very well know, and his behaviour was reckless.”

“That is why I am interrogating your precious bastard, Amandil.” Pharazôn’s voice was lowered now, but this calm was largely deceptive. “She made him act recklessly. I am trying to determine whether this was done in collusion with her people, or if they merely used her without her knowledge. Her wound was deep enough, according to the healer, as to make me favour the second option, which is why we are only having a friendly conversation here. But so far, she is the only inhabitant of this hellhole who has given me any reason to feel merciful.”

Liar, Amandil thought. In the middle of this situation, it felt strangely comforting to still be able to read his old friend better than Pharazôn was able to read him. But Kings had much less training in suppressing their emotions than exiled lords who grovelled in provincial courts and were called upon to speak on behalf of criminals.

Meanwhile, Fíriel’s difficulties at grasping the intricacies of learned language had not prevented her from understanding the gist of Pharazôn’s implications. She had been leaning on her good hand for a while, but now she took it away from the floor, sat back with a wince and stared at him in great alarm.

“My people did nothing, my lord King! They were not using me, they were innocent! It was only Zebedin who....” Her eyes widened in horror upon realizing that she had accused her cousin. At long last, she started sniffling, and tears trailed down her cheeks, which Amandil was tempted to look away from. He could not afford these distractions. “B-but he is an idiot, he was led by the others!”

“Oh, he is an idiot! That settles the matter, I suppose, I will have him freed now”, Pharazôn snorted. Amandil took a step forwards.

“Please, my lord King, she has also suffered a great ordeal, and the wounds she received are still fresh. She has already given you all the information she has, perhaps you could let her rest now.”

To his shock, it was Fíriel herself who opposed this idea.

“No! Wait! I still have something else to say!” she cried, furiously wiping her tears away. “It was all my fault! Gimilzagar came to Rómenna because of me! They resented him because of me! And he also told his Guard to stay away because of me! So kill me instead, my lord King, and your son will never be in danger again! My family will not be a threat to him!”

Amandil’s blood froze. There it was, he thought in dismay, exactly what he had feared the most. If Ilmarë had been here, she might have slapped her, in front of the King and all.

Pharazôn’s frown was back on him.

“Amandil, teach your brat that trying to tell me what to do is not likely to end well for her”, he hissed. “And get her out of my sight.”

“Come, Fíriel.” He knelt to help her up, for her legs were already too stiff for her to do it without help, and she could not use one of her arms. She tried to protest, but he threw her a quelling look.

As they emerged through the threshold, he intended to tell the Guard on duty that she had to be looked after and supervised, but making clear that she was not to be counted among the prisoners. But the first face he met was that of the Prince of the West himself, who had been standing at the other side of the door for what seemed like the entire time.

“Oh, Fíriel”, he sighed in relief, trying to embrace her without exerting pressure on her wounds. Though he had already been able to glean many things about the true nature of their relationship, this tenderness still amazed Amandil.

“I will entrust her to you, my lord prince”, he said. “I believe the King is not done with me yet.”

The frown which had darkened his features at the start of the interview was back on Gimilzagar’s brow again.

“Why did you lie to him?”

Amandil considered him at length before replying.

“For the same reason as you, my lord prince. To protect those I care about.”

Gimilzagar seemed to be thinking hard about this. His brow grew even stormier.

“It is useless, Lord Amandil. In the end, everything will be known. It always is.”

Trying not to feel out of sorts by the Prince’s warning, which made him think of the Queen, Amandil bowed and returned to the King’s presence. Pharazôn was gazing at the window, his back to him, but he heard him enter.

“Ah, here you are again. Where were we? I see no reason to target the girl, beyond forbidding this foolish love story to continue. You know that nothing good has ever come from allowing our families to mix. Tar Palantir brought Númenor to the brink of destruction with his foolish dreams, you betrayed our friendship, and now this Fíriel almost got my son killed. Which brings me to the next issue at hand. Can you see the thread? The famous thread.” A shiver crossed Amandil’s spine as Pharazôn turned a cold look towards him. “Behind all those actions, there was not merely a grey-eyed fiend from your lineage, but a matter of faith, of your faith. Its potential for wreaking havoc and destruction appears to be infinite.”

“The great majority of the Faithful are peaceful folk, my lord King.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Would you be ready to vouch for them?”

“I will be responsible for them. I will make sure that nothing like this ever happens again.”

“How arrogant and deluded of you. Age is not doing you any favours, Amandil,“ Pharazôn snorted, before sobering up. “I am not going to destroy all the so-called Faithful living in the Island. But from now on, I will destroy anyone who tries to worship their Western devils anywhere in the Island outside Rómenna, and in the mainland outside Pelargir. I will destroy anyone who refers to the Prince as an abomination or wishes him any harm, which includes opposing the ceremonies which ensure his continued existence. And I will destroy those who have tried to harm him now, with their families and whoever might have partaken in their treason by support or omission. The heir to the Sceptre will walk safely on the land of his fathers, Amandil, no matter how many people have to die for it.”

Amandil feigned indifference at those words.

“I see. You must be very certain that your protection of your son will be effective, my lord King, if you are even willing to have him hate you forever over it. That is a noble sacrifice, indeed.”

Pharazôn stiffened at this, which served as belated proof for the second of his assumptions.

“That is none of your concern. My son is too young and sensitive to understand the world yet, but one day he will.” He took a sharp breath. “And he will forget about that girl.”

“Your son might forget their childhood friendship. He might forget her kiss. He might forget that he ever loved her”, Amandil pressed on, relentlessly. “But he will never forget that, of all the people who have ever shed their blood so that he could live, the only one to ever do so willingly was unjustly robbed of her loved ones by your command, and lived only to regret her good action for the rest of her life. I have seen his eyes, and I tell you, my lord King, he will never forget that.”

Pharazôn’s features were flushed in anger now.

“And why should I care? I am King of the World! I have no time to waste with petty feelings!”

Amandil did not flinch, nor did he take his gaze away, like a man lost in the wilderness might try to hold the glance of a bear whose slightest swipe of its claw could gut him alive.

“I think that you do care, my lord King.”

“Go away. “His former friend’s eyes looked old, in striking contrast with his unnaturally rejuvenated face. But even through this renewed awareness that he was having affair with a monster, somehow, a part of Amandil felt sorry for him. “Leave my presence.”

He bowed, and took his leave in silence.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The outcome of Amandil’s intervention was bittersweet, which was the closest to success that any of them could hope for in these dark and hateful days. The three would-be assassins were condemned to die, together with all of their relatives, as their clumsy attempts to flee were considered proof that they had been aware of their intentions and yet failed to stop them, which was guilt enough. The oldest among them was a hundred and twenty-six; the youngest, fifteen. To the horror of many besides Amandil, the King decreed that they would be sacrificed to Melkor on the temple of Sor, and their lives used to extend that of the Prince even longer. The former lord of Andúnië was certain that Ar Pharazôn was doing this to bait other potentially rebellious Faithful into “opposing the ceremonies which ensured the Prince’s continued existence”, which according to his new laws was also proof of treason. Even someone as prudent, and as unlikely to be sympathetic towards the Faithful as the Governor of Sor came dangerously close to it when he tried to protest that the traitors were still Númenóreans. To this the King had merely shrugged and stated “Not anymore”, with such a cold indifference that the man was rendered speechless.

On the other hand, Fíriel’s family was found innocent and released. The main reason adduced for this was that the girl’s brave defence of the Prince had earned them the King’s goodwill. Behind that wording, aside from the obvious political implications, Amandil recognized his old friend’s clumsy attempts to establish a better relationship with his son, though the former lord of Andúnië had seen enough to doubt that those efforts would ever meet with much success. Before Pharazôn had become King of the World, Amandil would have sworn that he was destined to be a good father, if he ever settled down enough as to be blessed with offspring. Now, however, it was unlikely that the remaining vestiges of his humanity would be enough to satisfy Gimilzagar’s desperate need for love, in a world that cursed his name even as it knelt at his feet. One could try to blame Sauron, but even recognizing his hand in these events, he found, did not make Pharazôn any less guilty. For the first time, it struck Amandil that his past fears that the man who once was his friend would be put in a trance by the fiend’s evil magic had hidden a twisted brand of wishful thinking.

Meanwhile, Fíriel spent most of her time crying. She had cried when she embraced her grandmother, who looked fifty years older than she had a mere three days ago, but whose scarred face, once again, showed an admirable resilience before the harsh tests of life. She had cried when she embraced her aunts, uncles and cousins, and even more when her aunt, the one who had raised her, yelled at her and told her that it was all her fault. She cried also when she took her leave from Gimilzagar, whom she still loved, though those with a similar nature to her aunt would have been tempted to blame him for what had happened. And most of all, she cried when her surrogate brother –a foolish idiot with the brains of a pea, she repeated many times, almost incoherently- was slaughtered and his body burned like an animal carcass in the altar of Melkor.

At that point, she had already sought temporary refuge in the house at the cliff, for she could not bear to face her aunt, not even the rest of her kin who did not blame her openly, and thanked her many times for helping establish their innocence. Amandil did not hold many illusions that her new status as his bastard would not reach the ears of the whole Island soon, for Pharazôn would not waste the opportunity to attack his reputation, but at least it had provided him with an excuse to take her in. His family welcomed her, especially Lalwendë, who was able to coddle her to her heart’s content at last, though Amandil seemed to have become her new favourite, lending credence to the rumours that he himself had contributed to spread. And yet, the only one of them who sat in her room at all times, even when she spent whole days crying and refusing to speak to anyone, was Ilmarë. She did not say anything, just sat there, looking at her with eyes that brimmed with a painful understanding.

“When will this be over?” Amandil found himself asking one day, as he stood in the gallery and gazed at the two women from afar. To any other listener, it might have seemed as if he was referring to Fíriel’s state, and some perhaps could have taken his words as a criticism of her excessive wallowing in her woes, but his father, as always, understood the real meaning behind them.

“For a few among us, one day”, Númendil replied, his tone darker than it had ever been in his son’s presence. “For many others, never.”

Amandil shivered.