Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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North and South II

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The Grey Havens was a beautiful harbour town located on a secluded spot of the inner gulf, near the place where it narrowed to become the mouth of the river Lune. Its venerable stone buildings, old-fashioned and affected by a slight veneer of decay bearing witness to the passing of the centuries reminded Isildur of his first impressions of Rómenna. This had made him reflect upon the future of such places, enclaves of the past whose people remained engrossed in their old ways while the Sors of the world encroached upon them with their high buildings, their giant shipyards, and their hungry crowds hoping to grow rich from the despoiling of foreign lands and the peoples who inhabited them. In those changing times, even the weight that history and legend lent to its oldest and most illustrious names would mean little, before the unstoppable growth of a new order which had already claimed the largest part of the world for its own. If those Elves, like the people of Rómenna, did not stand up soon and reach a determination to stop the tide, it was possible that even they would be enslaved to the Númenórean Sceptre one day, and their past power turned into nothing but a distant memory.

“You are thinking like a mortal”, Anárion said, when he voiced his doubts to him in a moment of privacy. “Elves are here because they chose to be; the moment they do not wish to live in this world any longer, they can take ship for the Undying Lands.”

“Was it them who suggested this whole strategy to you, then?” Isildur snorted. Perhaps he was too much of a mortal, for the idea of fleeing revolted him on a rather deep level. “To answer to every aggression by retreating somewhere else, and avoid fighting for what is yours?”

Anárion, as usual, did not rise to the provocation.

“No, that is sheer mortal self-preservation. What I meant to say is that Middle-Earth is our world, and we can make any part of it our home…”

“… as long as it is not inhabited by anyone else, apparently.”

“… while Elves are just passing through it. Though I do not think they are ready to leave it just yet. This is only a harbour town; to the North, they still have a powerful kingdom, with an army that might give the Face of Melkor a run for his money if he ever comes here.”

“The day I see this army on the battlefield with my own eyes, I will believe it.”

And then, they’d better not be that strong, or quite a few peoples will have a bone to pick with them, Malik added. I know I would.

Círdan’s palace was not at the centre of his city, but right by the harbour. Its windows had a good view of the docks, where a row of graceful ships awaited the arrival of travellers from the East with the intention of crossing the Great Sea. A small group of those, about a dozen Elves in travelling cloaks, were boarding one of them at the moment. Isildur saw the mariners unfurl its sails, richly decorated with silver patterns whose meaning he ignored.

This idle contemplation, however, was soon disrupted by the arrival of their host. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to his lessons –as Anárion would no doubt have told him-, because the Sindarin Elf-lord did not look at all like he had expected. Unlike the other Elves they had met on their way, and also unlike those who had been their guests in Andúnië in the past, he had facial hair, and he had let it grow into a beard like those worn by the barbarians, which Tar Palantir had made fashionable in the Island for a while. He was also not dressed in audience clothes, though Anárion had considered them so important that he even made Isildur get new ones in Pelargir after they were damaged by the Magistrate’s henchmen. Instead, he looked like he had just walked there from the docks when he heard of their arrival, or perhaps the shipyard, considering that he was known as the Shipwright. If he had been a Númenórean instead of an Elf, this would have been read as a great insult to his guests, but his friendly and welcoming demeanour suggested that giving offence was the last thing which had crossed his mind. Perhaps Elves were not so keen on visible marks of hierarchy as Men: after all, they had thousands of years to assimilate who was who in their society.

What surprised Isildur the most, however, especially with the echo of Anárion’s recriminations still ringing in his ears from the previous day, was that Lord Círdan had no problem whatsoever speaking Quenya.

“Of course I can speak Quenya. It is my mother tongue, son of Elendil, the one I spoke as a child under the light of the stars, when the world was new”, he answered his unvoiced question, as they were served wine and food on a low table. “With the years and vicissitudes of this mortal world, it gradually changed into something else, while our kin from beyond the Sea kept a truer form of it. When they returned to Middle-Earth, I spoke it with them, until the day my king issued an edict forbidding its use, declaring that it was the tongue of traitors and kinslayers. As you can see, some things never change.”

“Indeed, my lord,”, Anárion nodded politely, not at all taken aback despite having just learned that his painstaking Sindarin lessons would be of no avail.

“Interesting issue.” Círdan looked suddenly thoughtful. “I wonder what is there in a language, beyond the voice that utters it or the message it conveys, which can make people believe in its evil nature. Am I a traitor and a kinslayer, when I speak thus in your presence? I know I am not, but according to that edict, I am. And what is most amazing of all, a part of me feels that I am. Did we give language this power ourselves, or does it have a power of its own?” When he saw Isildur stare, he snapped out of his reverie, and bowed. “Forgive me, noble guests. I do not meet with Men very often, and when I do I tend to, how do you put it? ‘waste their time’ until I can find my bearings.”

“There are no excuses needed”, Anárion protested firmly. “Because of our current circumstances, I have often asked myself similar questions, about what is it that makes a language good and another evil. According to our old books, Adûnaic used to be held in contempt as an inferior language in the past, for it was the tongue of lesser Men who had lived under the Shadow, while now it is the language of power and civilization. Quenya, on the other hand, was shunned in the First Age, but then it was adopted as a sacred tongue by our ancestors, only to become a language of traitors again, in the present day. If a language had power on its own, would this power not be constant throughout history?”

Círdan seemed extremely pleased by this opening, and both he and Anárion continued talking in this vein until the sun was almost halfway through the sky. Isildur watched them in an increasingly restless silence, for the subject did not interest him enough as to participate, even if he had had any valuable insights to add. As far as he was concerned, ‘wasting their time’ was an accurate description of what his brother and the Elf lord were doing, the latter because he probably could not comprehend the concept of running out of it, and the former because, as always, he was too eager to give a good impression.

Isildur had never been very keen on that, and he felt strongly that to remind their host that they were here for a reason should be no discourtesy, once a certain limit had been reached. So, when Lord Círdan fell silent after reminiscing at length on the variety of tongues spoken by the tribes of the first Men to settle on Beleriand in the First Age –most of which had gone extinct- he seized his opportunity.

“Speaking about settling and tribes, my lord, that is the reason why we have sailed all the way here to ask for your counsel”, he said. Anárion frowned in his direction, but Círdan just smiled apologetically.

“Of course, Lord Isildur. As fascinating as this conversation is, you must have graver matters to discuss with me –and not too much time, before the Merchant Princes of Númenor start wondering what you are up to in the far North, away from their eyes and ears.”

Well, not so clueless as he looks, is he? I always told you, Isildur, those Elves are devious. He was probably reading your innermost thoughts while he pretended to be discussing nonsense with your brother. For a moment, Lord Círdan looked up, and his eyes widened slightly as he set them on Isildur, who looked down at once, his heart beating very fast.

Could he have noticed?

Whether he had or not, however, he chose not to comment upon it. Instead, he listened attentively as they informed him of the latest developments in the Island, and of their family’s plans. Once they had finished explaining the situation to him, and while they were served more drinks, he began giving them a detailed account of the area over a large map, describing its geographical accidents, the fertility of the land and the kind of vegetation which grew in each place, together with the tribes that inhabited it, their origins and their disposition towards each other and towards strangers. Anárion nodded with an alert expression, his brain working furiously under the furrows of his brow to assimilate all this information. Isildur, on the other hand, thought it would be wiser to focus on what was of immediate interest to him, such as where to find easily defensible spots to build fortresses and who were the natives that might cause more trouble. Even as he did so, he marvelled at the growing realization that their host was not like the commander of the Middle Havens, a man who had learned the lay of the land after spending a few years in his post, but an ancient being who had had whole millennia to study the world, and knew it as well as the palm of his hand.

Perhaps you thought that he had not heard about what was going on outside, here in his quaint little town. But how could he not? I am sure that he must have a great time sitting here, listening to news of how Men kill and enslave other Men, and discussing if this evil is within us or if it comes from outside and rubbish of that sort.

Isildur was not as keen to befriend Elves as other kinsmen of his, but he could not agree with Malik’s criticism of them either. The way he saw it, as long as they remained unchallenged, Elves were within their right not to rise in arms to help those who had never helped them in their own wars. As for those who had been their allies, the Númenóreans, it would be poor behaviour indeed to wage war against them, either to defend a faction against another, or to save them all from themselves.

That, and also because they would lose.

Perhaps you are right, he conceded, in part so Malik would shut up and he could stop feeling as if Lord Círdan was looking straight at the ghost of his dead friend.

“So, that area is exceptionally fertile, but it is teeming with Orcs, you say”, Anárion was saying at the moment, engrossed in the geopolitical complexities of their future enterprise.

“Goblins”, the Elf corrected, though Isildur had never before known that there was a difference. “And there are also many trolls in the neighbouring hills. You would need a very large army to claim those lands, and even if you succeeded, the wild tribes would hear about it and try to take them from you as soon as your back was turned. And it is too far from the Sea.”

“We need to establish trading settlements near the coast.” Anárion concurred, gazing at the map. “Otherwise, we will not be able to defend them easily, and there are good chances that the King might hear of it, and grow suspicious of our intentions. I was thinking that, perhaps, it could be a possibility to establish a presence around the mouth of this river here, and then explore the other territories from there.”

“That would bring you quite close to the Dark Men who have deep-seated grudges against your people. Some of them have settled as far as its Southern shore. We could send you aid and troops for your protection, but…”

“… but as soon as news of this alliance reach the Middle Havens, it will also reach Pelargir and from there it will go straight to the King”, Isildur finished the sentence for him. Círdan nodded gravely.

Oh, how convenient.

“Do not be discouraged”, their host counselled, in a kind voice. He must have seen something in Anárion that mortals were not able to perceive, for Isildur found his composure as perfect as ever. “As a matter of fact, we have barely begun to scratch the surface of the problem. You Men tend to prefer quick solutions, but there is something to be said for letting knowledge settle in the mind. At some point, roots and branches will inevitably grow from the seeds that you have planted, and you need time to be able to follow them wherever they will go. Not time as we Elves understand it, of course”, he added, as if realizing what would be Isildur’s next argument,” but I would advise you to take back this information with you, enrich it with explorations of your own, and plan your next move in Númenor. Your kinsmen are very wise men, and perhaps they may reach insights that you have not contemplated.”

Isildur had never thought much of the insights offered by people who were not there, staring at a problem face to face. Still, he understood this advice as a cue to stop discussing business for the day, and when this was followed by an invitation to have dinner in a beautiful terrace with a view of the Sea, even Anárion reluctantly stopped asking questions.

“In any case, we need to be back by the end of the summer season, if we do not wish to raise suspicion. Before that, we will engage in labours of exploration of the coastal areas we find promising, so my calculations tell me that we will only be able to stay here for a few days, three or four at the most”, he resumed his efforts later, while they indulged in lavish platters of seafood from the Gulf of Lune. “I wonder if we might be allowed to borrow some maps…”

“Of course, you are welcome to take anything you might need”, Círdan nodded pleasantly. His ancient eyes twinkled for an instant, then grew serious again, as if something amusing had crossed his mind but the mirth aroused by the thought had been quenched by sobering implications. Anárion must have noticed it, and though he repressed his curiosity, he stared at the Elf for an instant longer than usual. “If you forgive my indiscretion, my lord Anárion, you remind me very much of someone.”

Everybody said that his brother was the spitting image of their father, at least physically, though their personalities were not too dissimilar either, or so Isildur was starting to discover the more attention he paid to him. Still, he should have known that an Elf who was thousands of years old would not stay at something so trivial.

“He went on to become the first king of your people under the name of Tar Minyatur, but before that, we knew him as Elros. He and his twin brother Elrond were close friends of mine, before and after the turn of the Age.”

Isildur stopped drinking from the silver chalice to stare at their host, interested in spite of himself by this turn of the conversation. Anárion’s eyes widened, and he appeared speechless for one of the few times in his life.

“May I - ask what is it about me that reminds you of Tar Minyatur, my lord?” he asked, as soon as he managed to find the words. Círdan shook his head, as if lost in a fond reminiscence.

“Since he was young, he always seemed in a great hurry to grow ahead of his years. When we met, all that mattered to him was proving his worth, and he already seemed to know exactly which steps to take and how to go about it. An ambitious one, you might say. After a while, however, I realized that making detailed plans for the future was second nature to him, from the number of children he would have to the irrigation system for the crops of his kingdom. All this while his brother did not even know what he was going to wear to a reception starting in half an hour! He detested uncertainty, and untidy loose ends.” He sobered again. “I assume that, for him, eternity was the greatest loose end of all.”

“That does sound like Anárion”, Isildur said, his words filling a silence that felt a little too uncomfortable to him.

“Isildur, on the other hand, would feel more identified with the brother who did not know what he was going to wear.” He must be out of sorts, if the most intelligent thing he can make up after this is this retort, Malik snorted. Círdan, seemingly oblivious to the effect that his words had made on Anárion, turned his attention towards Isildur. Again, he had the feeling that the Elf was looking not merely at him, but also, somehow, beyond him.

“Oh, but your brother is not like Elrond at all! If he does remind me of someone, it would have to be their father. A curious man, Eärendil. He had many things, and came upon many others in his wanderings, and yet he could never stop chasing after something that he could not find anywhere.”

It might have been his imagination, but Isildur thought there was an accusing edge in the Elf’s tone, hidden under all that politeness. He felt defensive.

“As far as I know from the old tales, he found what he was looking for.” Elves know your ancestors better than you do, which means that they know you better than you do, Malik had said once, back when Isildur tried in vain to convince him to forget his stupid apprehensions and meet with them in Andúnië. “And saved the world in the process.”

Círdan gazed through the window, where the Evenstar glowed bright over the quiet surface of the waters.

“And yet, he is still wandering.”

That night, both Isildur and Anárion were rather quiet as they took leave from their host to return to their appointed quarters. The moon was emerging from behind a silver-rimmed cloud, filling their path with a brighter light than that of the candles. Anárion mumbled something that Isildur did not hear, as he had not been paying attention, and then he was gone.

Isildur crossed the threshold of his bedroom, wondering why he felt so out of sorts. His unease became downright terror when he realized what was wrong: he could not see Malik anywhere. The ghost who had followed him for all those years was gone, and the room was empty.

“Malik!” he called. His voice came out broken from panic, but he was unable to feel shame. “Malik, where are you? Malik!”

His friend was outside, sitting on the edge of the balcony, his gaze lost on the glowing surface of the sea. When Isildur found him, he did not even look up to meet his eye.

“You scared me. What are you doing here?”

It was some time before the ghost answered. When he did, his tone was strangely subdued.

Am I doing the right thing, Isildur? Or am I ruining your life?

Isildur sat down next to him, the taste of a fear he did not even know he could experience still bitter in his mouth.

“Where did you get this idea?”

The Elf. Malik spat. According to him, you should be always grateful to me for giving my life to save yours, but you should live it in full, since Men’s lives are so short anyway.

“I am not…” It proved surprisingly hard to put the turmoil of his thoughts into words. “You are not preventing me from living my life in full, Malik. That is just Elven bullshit. They probably do not even know what those words mean, for who can live their life in full if it will not end? And besides, since when are you supposed to care? Have you ever heard of a ghost who asked for permission to haunt people?”

In case you haven’t noticed, I am not here to cause you pain.

“Well, there you have it!”

The truth was that Isildur had grown so used to the presence of his dead friend that it was almost mind-boggling to imagine a life without hearing his voice, or listening to his opinions. Even if Malik was no longer alive, if he could no longer fight, love, or grow by his side, it comforted Isildur to know that he was still there in some form. Sometimes, he had wondered if he was being selfish, but Malik had always seemed to be acting of his own free will, just as he had in life. And in all those years, Isildur had never even thought of looking at it from the opposite angle.

I have prevented you from growing closer to your brother. From turning to your family when you needed them the most, and when they needed you. Now, you are going to be married, and I will prevent you from giving your full attention to your wife and children.

“I never wanted to marry, and much less that woman!” The old resentment boiled again close to the surface. But Malik shook his head.

Perhaps you would like her if you made an effort to know her better. Like your brother. But whenever you need someone to confide in, I am here, usurping their rightful place.

“I do not… I am not… and where would you go?” He was so out of sorts that when the question came through his lips, he did not even know where it had come from. 

I do not know. Malik’s expression became closed, though, for a brief flicker of a second, Isildur was able to detect unease. But I hope it was your father who was right about the afterlife. The Haradric afterlife is shit.

“No. Forget about it.” Renewed in his determination, Isildur frowned at his friend. “I will never discard you for others, as if you were a tool that has overgrown its usefulness. The place you hold in my heart is yours alone, and you are not usurping it from anyone else, because you were there before all of them!”

But what if I am no longer there? What if we are just pretending that I am because we do not want to face the truth?

Isildur did not have an answer for this - and, thankfully, Malik did not insist. That night, however, he needed to empty the wine jar on the marble side table before he could find sleep, and when it came, it was a restless slumber full of vivid visions, of the kind he had not seen since the day he almost died stealing the fruit of Nimloth. In them, his friend was always sitting on a branch of the White Tree, watching as Isildur fled the Wave that engulfed everything in its path. As he had done since he was a child, he begged his friend to help him, and Malik shook his head in sad impotence. But instead of waking at that point, as he always had in the past, he saw Malik vanish like a wisp of smoke before his eyes, and the Wave stand still over his head like a black cloud of dread, frozen in mid-air. And then he was struck by the paralyzing, horrible knowledge that he was trapped here, trapped in that moment for eternity, for he no longer had anyone to shake him until he opened his eyes.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Gimilzagar had terrible dreams that night. In all of them, he saw a young boy, his skin darkened by the desert sun, dragged towards a flaming altar that looked like the one standing in the middle of the temple of Sor. Sometimes, he saw Lord Zigûr cut the victim’s flesh open, sometimes his father, but the worst of all was the dream where he wielded the blade himself, and he did not hesitate to slash the pulsating throat under the proud gaze of the King of Númenor. And then it was Fíriel who stood before him, a ghost Fíriel whose grey eyes were veiled by a cloud of sadness and betrayal. You killed my grandfather, Gimilzagar, she said, in an accusing voice. You killed my grandfather, and now, I will never be born. And you will die, just as you deserve, for I was the only one who could save you.

His screams must have awoken others, because at a certain point he heard whispers in his vicinity, and someone pressed a wet cloth against his burning forehead. He felt paralyzed, too afraid to let himself fall asleep again, but also to open his eyes and confront whoever was there. So he lay down, completely still, trying not to shiver or to give any sign of being awake. After he did not know how long, he must have dozed off for a moment, for other screams, which had not come from his mouth this time, violently jerked him away from his slumber.

Gimilzagar opened his eyes just enough to see the light of dawn filter through the slits. In his vicinity, he heard voices engaging in a whispered conversation, and he listened in.

“…one of the women, we do not know how she did it, it should not have been possible.”

“Apparently, it was.” The King. “A chain is enough to throttle oneself as long as there is enough willpower.”

“These people are all insane, my lord King!”

“Of course they are. Desperation breeds insanity. She knew that her soul was the only thing she had left to deny us, and she did.” For a moment, his voice sounded wistful. “She reminds me of someone…”

“I will give orders for the rest to be closely watched until it is time for their departure”, the other voice spoke again, after a few seconds of respectful silence. Ar Pharazôn must have nodded his agreement, because Gimilzagar could hear the sound of retreating steps.

“I know that you are awake, Gimilzagar”, his father declared, once they were alone. Gimilzagar shivered, huddling up under his covers. Deprived of the pretence of sleep, he felt that he desperately needed another protection, something that stood between him and the crushing weight of reality.

Ar Pharazôn was standing near the bed, his familiar features looking strange and, to Gimilzagar’s feverish imagination, sinister in this half-light. But the rational part of him knew that it was nothing but an effect of the residual terror from his dreams, augmented by the bleak details of the conversation he had just overheard. His father was the same today as he had been any other day.

Perhaps, a dark voice whispered in his mind, he had not looked properly until now.

“I am awake, Father”, he replied, trying to keep his voice from trembling. Pharazôn sighed, a soft but surprisingly human sound.

“You made quite a ruckus tonight. I think that even the soldiers on duty at the wall must have heard you. Thankfully, that woman took it upon herself to steal your spotlight.”

Gimilzagar did not know what to answer to this, so he said nothing.

“They say you are not seriously ill, only somewhat feverish because of the violence of your dreams. A few hours’ rest will take care of that. Oh, and the healer also said that you had to drink. Drink.”

There was a glass of water on the bedstand, and Gimilzagar picked it up, his mind too lost in turmoil to do anything but automatically react to the command. Once he took the first sip from it, however, he realized that his throat was parched and dry, and he swallowed the liquid greedily until there was not a drop left.

“Well, he seems to have been right about that, at least.”

Gimilzagar left the glass back on the small table, pulled the covers away, and sat by the edge of the bed. The room spun around in his head, but he mastered the spell of dizziness.

“Father, please. I beg you, let those children go.”

Pharazôn snorted.

“Let them go? Where? Into the desert? That would be quite a show of mercy and kindness for the hungry beasts roaming out there.”

That had not been a good start. The Prince of the West tried to think quickly, raking his brain to search for options.

“Then have them sold to some merchant in Umbar. I am sure…”

“No one can buy or sell an outlaw in Harad, whether they be men, women or children. If it was allowed to do that, most would still end up in flames, as merchants do not have much use for Haradric rebels, though of course they would find a way to make some profit out of them first. But it won’t happen, because those outlaws belong to the Sceptre, each and every one of them, and their fate is already decided.” His expression grew deadly serious. “This is not about business, just as it is not about morals. It is about striking terror in the enemy.”

“Then give them away. Please.” Gimilzagar was hearing the words, but just like the previous day, he was having trouble understanding most of them. He tried to hold on to what he was able to grasp. “A King’s gift cannot be refused.”

“No. Even if it could be done, I would not. They have to learn, and so do you.”

Gimilzagar did not know where this recklessness came from. In the past, on the precious few times when he had felt like this, Fíriel had always been involved. Though perhaps she was involved here too, he thought, remembering her ghost’s accusing gaze in the dream.

“I will not learn this, Father. Ever. If I am to be King of Númenor, I will abolish those laws on the very day I take the Sceptre! No innocent will ever die upon an altar under my rule.”

Ar Pharazôn’s eyes widened in surprise at this unexpected show of rebellion. As Gimilzagar forced himself to withstand the intensity of his glance, he wondered frantically if he was going to be hit, or worse. But instead of that, his father’s expression was lit with a wild spark, and he laughed.

“Oh, will you now? And when the Haradrim go back to their past of plundering and revolt, will you be ready to meet them head on? You will need to be a general on par with me, no, better than me, if you would deny yourself even this advantage: that they will fear you before they have seen your face.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and surveyed him critically. “You are not making much headway so far. But perhaps with the right incentive, you might work harder.”

Gimilzagar gaped, unable to believe this. Did Ar Pharazôn think he could use his son’s defiance for his own advantage, to mould Gimilzagar into what he had always wanted him to be? Was it of no consequence to him whether the children of Haradric outlaws became an object lesson or hostages awaiting delivery in a distant future, or even whether his own son was driven by love or by hatred of him, as long as his objectives were met?

“Then again, perhaps I am a fool for paying so much attention to your words. A spoiled child will say anything to upset his parents, but he will never have the guts to back his words with actions. For if he did, he would be a man, and one day, perhaps, a King.” His voice was mocking now, not unlike how Gimilzagar would imagine him taunting an enemy on the battlefield.

The purpose of taunting is having the enemy lose his head and make a mistake, the distant recollection of his teacher’s voice during his strategy lessons came to his mind. Except that Ar Pharazôn did not want him to make a mistake, he wanted Gimilzagar to stop making them so he would not embarrass him any further. Unless Númenor was upside down, a dark voice whispered in his mind, as the customs of the Haradrim who had been deceived by Zigûr, and everything was a mistake.

In any case, there was something that Gimilzagar could not deny: he had never felt so frustrated at his weakness, never hated his powerlessness so much as he did now. He was angry, which meant that his father’s strategy was working, as all his strategies would always work in the written accounts of his mainland campaigns.

With some effort, the Prince of the West struggled to his feet. The floor seemed to rise to meet his gaze when he made the mistake of looking down, but he managed to steady himself just enough not to fall.

“I am not a child, Father”, he said. “But I am younger than you were when you first set foot on the mainland, and I…”

“Is that your excuse? You are very quick to whine and complain, but not so much to prove that you can do better.” Ar Pharazôn’s face was flushed, his eyes gleaming, and if Gimilzagar was not so upset, he would have been cowering away. “This is my Harad, a peaceful land where a few innocents are sacrificed in a temple. If you do not like it, you are welcome to create a land of justice and prosperity where no one has to suffer needlessly! This could start by gaining the trust of your soldiers and allies, and learning the lay of the land and the customs of your enemies, their strengths and their weaknesses. Then, you could listen to the concerns of the colonists, study their trade routes and protect them against raiders, riding to meet them in battle if necessary. And you should hide your own weakness so deep within you that no one can detect it and take advantage of it because if they do, you are lost. I will have you know that your behaviour until now would be found contemptible by every tribe in Harad, and that when they rebelled against you, many innocents would die in the process. Only if you learned how to crush them in war then perhaps, just perhaps, they might respect you despite your misplaced mercy. Do that, Gimilzagar, and I will consider listening to you.” He shook his head with a sneer. “But I do not think that you can.”

Gimilzagar’s breathing was heavy, as he tried to concentrate in the patterns of the morning sunlight shining through the window bars. Blood had rushed to his face, and he might be looking even more flushed than his father did, for both shame and anger were fighting for pre-eminence within him. He looked down, willing himself to be calm, to not embarrass himself any further.

He could not win. This whole challenge was but a charade: Ar Pharazôn would not listen to any of his pleas unless he became like him, but if he became like him, Gimilzagar would already have lost. In the obfuscation of the moment, it did not even strike him as shocking that he was thinking of his relationship with his father in terms of winning and losing, much less that he could identify the second of them with the act of fulfilling the King’s expectations. Until that day, this had been the ultimate goal of his life, as remote as the Undying Lands but still a desirable outcome. Now, everything was upside down, and he did not know anything anymore.

“I will be downstairs, overseeing the training and deciding which troops will accompany us in our journey East”, Ar Pharazôn informed him matter-of-factly, as if oblivious to everything which was going on in Gimilzagar’s mind. “You can come with me if you wish. Or you can stay here as the healer recommended, resting and recovering from your terrible ordeal of last night. I will excuse your absence to Lord Balbazer and the men; I am sure that they will understand.”

Gimilzagar sat again at the foot of his bed. Though the day had not even started, he already felt as exhausted as if he had run a hundred miles. All he wanted was to lie down, curl against his pillow in the dark, and try to focus in thoughts of the Sea, of the bay of Rómenna, and of Fíriel’s smile.

“I will get dressed and join you shortly, my lord King.”

Pharazôn nodded in approval.

“Good.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

She pored over the documents carefully disposed over her desk, craning her neck to put as much distance as possible between her eyes and the written lines. The tiny letters, however, seemed to jump from the page in a mad dance, until even their contours grew blurred and she was forced to blink repeatedly, in an attempt to clear the fog. While she struggled with this, the might of Sea thundered against her ears, and she could not suppress a shudder of anticipation, imagining the feeling of cold water against her ivory skin. Behind the noise, she could distinguish the telltale sound of footsteps, and suddenly she knew why her senses were so out of sorts.

“Zigûr”, she greeted, blinking the prickling tears away. “Do you know of a way for my eyes to be what they were, or is the appearance of youth merely an illusion to deceive gullible mortals?”

The demon bowed before her. His twisted face was made even more unsettling by the red gleam of his eye, for the beautiful robe of flesh he wore over it was not enough to hide his naked ugliness from her. At his arrival, the waters rose higher and roared louder, and she needed to use her full concentration to keep the intensity of the visions at bay.  If only that sight could grow tired and blurred as well.

“I know of ways to help you with this ailment, my Queen. As for your other concerns, however, I am afraid there is nothing I can do. When it comes to gifts and curses that are not of our bodies, but lie embedded in the depths of our souls, our Creator saw fit to make them persistent enough that even the likes of me would not be able to make much headway with them.”

Zimraphel frowned.

“You would know all about that.” And yet there were many, even here in Númenor, who had swallowed the tale that he could make them immortal.

Zigûr stood before the table, towering above her sitting frame.

“Immortality is not a gift I can give anyone, my Queen. Should you ever wish to pursue it, I would only be able to tell you how to reach those who can, and which are the weaknesses you can exploit in order to succeed in your endeavour.”

“So you can revenge yourself upon them, using us in the process”. She laughed. “A perfect plan.”

Zigûr did not deny this. To his credit, not only his raiment of flesh, but also the inner core of his being appeared guileless, almost like the young servant of the gods that he had been once.

“I could never hope to earn the trust of discerning people, my Queen, by trying to persuade them that the former Dark Lord of Mordor would do anything without any concern for his own gain” he said. “And yet, you have almost as much reason to feel wronged by the Lords of the West than I do.”

“I suppose so.” Zimraphel closed the eyes on her face briefly, and willed the other eyes to stop showing her glimpses of doom. She did have something against the Valar, indeed.

“I am sure you must already know this, but the King and the Prince are already in Umbar”, he said then, changing the subject. “It appears that there is strife between them.”

“Of course there is.” She frowned. “If I had been a man, the King and I would have destroyed each other long ago. Being, as I am, a woman, we found a way to coexist in the same world, even upon the same throne. But Gimilzagar is like me, and yet he is Pharazôn’s son, and his father will not allow that.” Her lips curved in a bitter grin. “Our child bears the burden of our unnatural alliance.”

“Unnatural”, Zigûr repeated, pensively. Zimraphel could not read his innermost processes –she hesitated to call them thoughts-, and yet something in the tone in which he said this, in the way he suddenly gazed at her with those piercing eyes of his real being, gave her a subtle clue.

“You think I am unnatural”, she guessed. Before he could open his mouth to protest, she silenced him with her hand. “But not for the same reasons as the fools who surround me every day. I am unnatural because I was born of something unnatural, as does my entire lineage, including the King. And yet, of all of them, I am the one who reminds you the most of it.”

Usually, she was more careful in her interactions with Zigûr. He was dangerous, just like those wild beasts who were taken as pets by foolish barbarian chiefs in popular tales, until one day they killed the whole family in their sleep. She had to let him underestimate her, for his contempt was infinitely preferable than to be exposed to the things he could do if he considered her too much of a threat for his plans. Zimraphel was the Queen of Númenor, but her body was that of a mortal woman, and she was not all-powerful. Her greatest weapon lay in knowledge, but this weapon had to be kept hidden, or it could be wrung out of her mind and used against her. She might look like her, but she was not her.

“You know your old lore, my Queen”, he nodded, with a strange edge to his voice. She pretended to smile.

“My father bored us to tears with it. Most of all, he was keen on the story of our exalted origins.” She remembered how Tar Palantir had looked when he spoke about his beloved books, his eyes shining with a bright light that would never have been elicited by something as mundane as his own family. “There is a trace of the divine within us, he used to say.”

“She was one of the greatest and brightest among us”, Zigûr said, still gazing aat her in that unsettling way. “And as all those who were great and bright, she was not happy with the Valar, their foolish restrictions, their reluctance to allow each of us to achieve the full purpose of our being.” He paused for a moment, and Zimraphel felt a shiver travel down her spine at the contrast between his real and his false face, as for once, it was the first who looked closer to human, while the second remained aloof and expressionless like the statues on the temples. “But instead of fulfilling her potential, she tied herself to a foolish creature who was beneath her, and became a diminished, hapless shadow of her former self. And then, when he met his fate, she ran back crying to the Valar.”

For one of very few times in her life, Zimraphel was fascinated. So that was how it felt, she thought, to learn things from the mouth of someone who could withhold them at will. Things too remote and sacred for anyone to know. She was deeply reluctant to break this instant of complicity.

“I hope you are not creating a parallel here, my lord, beyond that of shared blood and physical resemblance.”

Zigûr was not taken aback at this. Considering his limited experience as a mortal lookalike, it was remarkable how he could play the courtier better than the oldest and most experienced denizens of the Palace of Armenelos.

“Oh, no, my Queen! For in that case, I would be guilty of the same crime as you, as I too am here, wielding all my powers in the service of this - mortal cause.”

“And yet you are not here by your own will.” She retreated further back into the image of the foolish mortal Queen, who believed that she could control him. That persona was much safer. “Never forget that.”

He bowed.

“I will not, my Queen.”

As he stood expectantly before her, she realized that her next move should be to give him leave to depart, so she could go back to her onerous duties. But when she opened her mouth to do so, she closed it again, feeling reckless. Once upon a time, her father had made her hate scholars, lore, books and debates about irrelevant things from the past that did not provide real knowledge, and yet he was also somewhere inside her, just like the Queen of Doriath and all the others.

“She created life”, she said. Zigûr’s blue eyes blinked; the red ones just flickered slightly.

“I beg your pardon, my Queen?”

“You and the one you served spent many of your efforts, of your power and your brilliance trying to create a form of life that resembled you, and yet you were defeated in all your endeavours”, she explained. “She succeeded, thanks to that foolish creature who was beneath her. She created us, and now, our kingdom rules the world and has you in thrall. You must be so jealous.”

This time, she had truly managed to surprise Zigûr. His red eye glowed, and for once, in its depths, there was true hatred glaring back at her. The other lips, however, curved into a smile.

“That is a very particular way of looking at the issue of the creation of life. And yet, if you forgive me for saying so, it is a fallacy quite common in women to confuse the perpetuation of a species with creation.”

“A fallacy, you say?” Zimraphel laughed. “What species did Melian perpetuate? The truth is that she created a new one, which did not exist before her spirit set foot in the world with the shape of a female.”

“If you mix different breeds of equine, you get better horses, but that does not make you the creator of horses.”

“Perhaps you are right”, she smiled. “I did not believe Maiar to be just another breed of worldly creature, like Elves and Men, but I may have thought too well of you before the King made you kneel at his feet. You are dismissed, Lord Zigûr, and a good day to you.”

As she heard his footsteps grow lost in the distance, she let go of a breath that she did not know she had been holding. After a lifetime of being surrounded by lesser people, to stand before a being like Zigûr felt exhilarating, yet she could not forget the dangers. Perhaps that was how he was trying to draw her out, she thought, tempting her with the excitement she had always been denied. It would be just like him to engage her in this game until she forgot her caution and gave away a little too much of her true self. In any case, the very fact that she could sit there speculating felt so new, so vertiginous, that it was all she could do not to surrender to its lure and call him again and again. She needed to think of Gimilzagar to steady this excitement, and remember everything that was at stake – the risks to her beloved son’s wellbeing, which terrified her more than her own danger.

So curious, she thought. Gimilzagar is living proof that Zigûr’s power can do more than a mother’s womb, and yet he did not bring him up. Perhaps this proves that he is not feeling as sure of his hold on the boy as he pretends to be - at least for now.

Poor Gimilzagar. He was in a desolate corner of the world, being forced to face the cruelty of those who had made him with the sole purpose of continuing their sad work. He could see no escape from this mortal trap, no hope of ever being free, just as he had despaired from being free of the need of other people’s deaths to ensure his own life. She had done her best to comfort him with vague prophecies, and yet she could tell him no more, for he could not know the whole truth. Unlike Pharazôn, who believed that his son had to withstand everything that he could withstand, Zimraphel would never ask Gimilzagar to take the same burdens as her. And if those petty souls whose life strength filled him every day crippled his foresight as much as they did his confidence, it was an evil which was not altogether inconvenient. There was already too much suffering laid in store for him, for any more to be added.

Repressing a soft sigh, Zimraphel dipped her quill in the inkpot, and painstakingly sought the empty spot underneath the blurry document to scribble her signature.