Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Númenórean Empire I

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Leaving the land of the Elves again to retrace their steps South across the threatening coasts of the Wild Men was like departing a sunlit glade to venture into an inhospitable forest path. The morning they resumed their route, most of the men looked wistful, wrapping themselves in their cloaks against the cold gusts of the Northern wind. Even Anárion, always so unflappable, appeared slightly out of sorts as he stood near the prow of their ship. His gaze was lost in some unknown feature of the horizon, and he spoke very little.

Isildur, on the other hand, felt possessed by a warm, lively spirit that no fell weather seemed able to quench. Suddenly, he was everywhere, speaking to everyone, making plans, looking at maps, and organizing their next strategy as if eager to take on the challenge of filling the silence around him. He would not admit it to anyone, least of all to Anárion, but departing the Grey Havens had felt like finding himself again, like regaining his bearings after a strange dream which had seemed real while he dreamed it, but left nothing except a vague unease after he awoke to see the sun shine through his window. This dream had veered dangerously close to a dark void that lay in the core of his soul, whose existence he had managed to hide from the prying eyes of others, even from his own waking mind, but not from the keen sight of the accursed Elves. Their host, that Shipwright, an ancient being born under the cold glare of the stars, had found his greatest weakness, his terror of losing the voice that represented the last grip on his sanity, and pounced on it as relentlessly as the fiercest of Isildur’s enemies might have done on the battlefield. After that first night, his mind had constantly obsessed over the horrible bleakness of waking up to find no one by his side, to fight with no one to guard his flank, to make decisions with no one to help him pick apart the threads of his thoughts; to be alone, truly alone in a world full of people.

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.

Lies. If Malik was not there, Isildur would not be of much use to anyone. Just to hear the ghost ponder the convenience of his departure had crippled him, to the point that for days he had been unable to breathe normally unless Malik was in sight. A part of Isildur, the part that was still the young and valiant warrior he had once been known as, had cringed in shame at the idea of anyone learning about this. The eyes of Círdan had been like arrows piercing his defences, or the flaming torches used by Orcs and tribesmen to inspect their hideouts while they were scattered and vulnerable. When their host had realized that Isildur did not want to meet them anymore, and noticed –as it could not have been otherwise- his careful avoidance of the discussions about colonization and territory, leaving Anárion as the only spokesman, he had affected an exquisite courtesy and pretended to swallow Isildur’s excuses, but deep inside the disapproval had done nothing but grow. Isildur did not like to be judged, least of all by an Elf who was unable to even understand the concept of loss.

That was why leaving all this behind had felt as liberating as a breath of pure air. He was active, centered in the outcome of the mission, and it even seemed as if his mind had become sharper than it used to be. When they reached the estuary of the river signalled to them as a convenient starting point for their explorations, he was the one who supervised the manoeuvres of mooring and landing, in a small bay framed by the curve of the coast as it folded to form the river mouth. He was also the one who gave orders to set camp, build a protective enclosure –the trees were the same as down South in the Middle Havens and gave good timber, though they were much more abundant up here-, and establish the watches and patrols which would alert the others to the arrival of natives. Meanwhile, Anárion did nothing but sit inside his cabin, staring at the Shipwright’s maps as if he was trying to find the solution to a hard riddle.

It was already late in the evening when they finished their work, and for that first night they all slept undisturbed. The morning after, however, a messenger from the patrol on duty came early to bring them news of their first encounter with the wild men. He seemed to be in a state of excitement, as if what he had seen had surprised him, though it took more than a few well-directed questions for his garbled story to make sense. As it turned out, they had found a young man, probably sent by the tribe that inhabited the area to gauge the intentions of the newcomers and spy their movements, for he was alone and unarmed, and a search of the area had not given signs of any other companions. But this young man did not look like the people of the Middle Havens at all. At first, when they came upon him, the Númenóreans had wondered if the maps had been wrong, or if they had not been following them correctly –at this, the messenger gave a brief, apologetic look in Isildur’s direction -, for he was tall and beardless, and moved so gracefully and sure-footedly in the wild that he looked like one of the Fair Folk. But the crude fabric of his loincloth, and, above all, his barbaric speech, had given him away as a very much human Forest Man. They had taken him prisoner then, and awaited instructions as to what to do with him.

“The Forest People I know would never be mistaken for an Elf”, Anárion spoke, voicing what Isildur himself had been thinking. “He must be an unusual tribesman indeed.”

“Bring him here”, Isildur ordered. The man bowed and left.

Soon afterwards, two more men came in with the prisoner. He was very young, practically still a boy. His hands had been bound, though he did not oppose much resistance, or show any reaction except to stare in bewilderment at his surroundings. When he saw the ships, however, he looked very frightened, and when they tried to bring him closer to them, he dug in his heels and refused to budge.

Why is it that all barbarians hate the Sea? Malik wondered aloud. Does it come from their nature, as your friend the Shipwright would have said, or is it simply that they connect it with the Númenóreans?

The young man did not surrender easily. At some point, he pulled back yelling something in his language, and kicked one of the men in the shin. Immediately, the other two retaliated and pinned him to the ground, where he kept struggling until Anárion walked towards them, talking some sort of gibberish that Isildur could not understand. In shock, he realized that it had to be some form of the Forest People’s dialect. Upon hearing it, the young barbarian ceased in his attempts to escape, and lay still. Tentatively, he spoke some words to Anárion, who nodded, and said something else. The prisoner frowned, as if he could not understand, but just when Isildur thought that his brother’s attempts to speak the native language had not been as successful as he had hoped, he spoke again.

“Where did you learn that?” Isildur asked, disgruntled, while the men slowly retreated to allow the young man room to stand back on his feet. Anárion shook his head impatiently, as if he found it distracting to have to reply to stupid questions in the middle of important business.

“Grandfather’s notes. He was stationed in the Middle Havens, once upon a time”, he explained. “Isildur, this young man has Númenórean blood. He was either kidnapped in a raid as a child or, more likely, his mother was.”

Someone like me, Malik said, though from his tone Isildur could not tell if this amused or saddened him. The only difference is that this one grew up on the wrong side of the Sea. Or the wrong side of the world, one might say.

Isildur watched almost numbly as Anárion continued his mysterious attempts at conversation with the prisoner. As he did so, he tried to take everything in: the boy’s clear eyes, the dark colour of the locks of his hair, the telltale features, especially the shape of his nose, which set him drastically apart from the flat-faced men who inhabited these parts. He was quite fair, even by Númenórean standards. Looking at him from up close, it did not seem so ridiculous that he had been mistaken for an Elf by the men who first came upon him in this savage corner of the world.

“He is afraid of the ships because of the Middle Havens raids. But from the way he speaks, he does not seem to have lived through one; rather, they must have become some sort of legend for his people. In which case, I daresay we have turned into the demons of their children’s stories”, Anárion explained. “Perhaps some Númenórean commander reached those places long ago, looking for greater glory than his predecessors, or perhaps it was only the tale that travelled. But I do not understand what is he doing here, then, so far away from the Númenórean settlements. My grasp on his language is not good enough to tell.”

“If he is a Númenórean, he will learn our language easily enough”, Isildur replied, though he did not know what made him so sure of that. Anárion arched an eyebrow, but he did not comment on it. Instead, he focused on the young man again.

It was obvious that the deeper their conversation ran, the greater the communication problem became, until even Anárion’s countenance gave some open signs of frustration. In the end, he was forced to surrender for the time being, and told the men to feed the prisoner and find him a place to stay. Isildur was sure that his brother would spend the whole afternoon poring over Amandil’s old language notes, perhaps even trying to correct their omissions and shortcomings with the reluctant help of the young man –whose name, at least, had been revealed as “Tal-Elmar uHazad”, or “Tal Elmar son of Hazad”, according to Anárion. This confirmed their suspicions, as “Elmar” did not sound like a Northern barbarian name at all.

“You would do better to stop trying to learn his language and teach him our own”, Isildur insisted. This time, Anárion did not ignore him.

“It takes months to learn a language properly, sometimes more. And it is not a matter of blood. It took our father years to learn Quenya while Grandmother grasped it easily, and your friend Malik had as much trouble with the tongues of the Haradrim as you did” he told Isildur. “We need current information on the geography and the people who live in this place. All I could gather from his words was that he hails from some kind of large settlement at the other side of the forest, and that they have a chief, whom he calls the Master, who sent him here. But he could not understand my questions about the number of warriors they have, the weaponry they use, and their alliances with neighbouring tribes. Either that, or he pretended not to understand.”

“I saw no cunning, or traces of double dealing in those eyes” Isildur claimed. He could not speak or read many tongues, but at least he could read people. “Probably your grasp of the language is simply too tenuous.”

This touched a nerve.

“At least I have some grasp of it. And unless you somehow manage to look into his eyes and find all this information written in them, that is what is going to give us the intelligence that we need.”

“Go ahead and find it then.” Isildur shrugged, affecting nonchalance. To say the truth, not even he could fully understand why he was reacting like this to this young half-breed who had wandered into their camp. Perhaps he had not recovered as well as he had thought from his experience with the Elves. “Meanwhile, I will go on patrol myself, to make sure they don’t come looking for him in greater numbers.”

Anárion nodded gravely.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

But no more barbarians came in to get their companion, and, as time progressed, Anárion began to gather clues which helped them to piece the situation together. He had taken it as a personal challenge to improve his language skills, bringing his precious notes to the prisoner’s tent, where he spent all day from early in the morning until Isildur barged in to remind his brother that this Tal Elmar, despite what the men might had thought when they first saw him, was no Elf and needed to sleep. The boy’s eyes grew wide when he saw him, and he instinctively retreated, until Anárion sighed and explained something to him. At this, the prisoner blinked, then nodded thoughtfully.

“For the last time, Isildur, he cannot understand you. If you act unfriendly in his presence, he will believe himself to be the target of your hostility. After all, he is surrounded by enemies, and from what I have been able to gather, this seems to have been a constant throughout his life, even while he lived among his own people.”

It makes sense. I doubt the Forest People would be very well disposed towards someone who looks so much like… you.

Still, it was not so easy as it seemed to solve the mystery of the young man’s parentage. Throughout all his conversations with Anárion, he often mentioned his father with an air of worry that pointed at the man being in some kind of danger, one which seemed to concern his son even more than his own plight. Whenever Anárion tried to mention his mother, however, he looked nothing if not unresponsive, as if the very word did not mean much to him. If she had been a Númenórean, she had probably died when her son was young. Death did not look like such an unappealing fate for a woman who had fallen captive to a tribe of forest savages, Isildur thought, remembering some of the things he had seen back in Arne.

Resigned to this, Anárion had kept pressing Tal Elmar on the subject of his father, and his persistence had borne some interesting fruit. This Hazad was the son of an old chieftain, a very powerful warrior who had obtained a great victory over the tribe’s enemies in the past –most likely troops sent from the Númenórean garrison of the Middle Havens, Anárion explained needlessly. Later, the family had fallen under some kind of hard times, and another clan had gained ascendency over their people. The new chief, Mogru, had never stopped seeing Hazad, his sons and his clansmen as a threat to his rule, and he seemed to hate Tal Elmar most of all. That is why the young man had been sent here, in the hope that the Númenóreans would do his dirty work for him and finish him off.

“This could become a good opportunity”, Anárion declared, as both walked across the camp under an unusually clear sky, full of bright stars. “If there is such a division in the tribe, we could take advantage of it to establish our influence in this area. This Mogru was foolish enough to send us his rival’s son: we can make use of him now, and help Hazad’s clan get rid of their ancestral enemies. In exchange, they would have to strike an alliance with us.”

“After all the tales they must have heard from their Southern neighbours, I very much doubt they will be eager to trust a Númenórean”, Isildur objected. “And I would be even more wary of trusting them. If our suspicions are correct, and I see no reason why they would not be, this Hazad raped a Númenórean woman to bear a half-breed child.”

“Whatever he did to her, he seems to have a good relationship with his son, and that might make him better disposed towards people who look like him. Or who keep him hostage and yet are treating him well, at any rate”, Anárion replied. Then, he seemed to anticipate Isildur’s answer, because he stopped in his tracks and gazed into his eyes. “I still have much information to gather, which is the reason why I was so reluctant to let him rest. Until we know the facts and the figures, this is just idle scheming, of the kind which may develop into something more or be discarded as a bad idea if the circumstances do not play along. And you will be the judge of that, of course.”

“Are you humouring me like you humour the governor of Sor?” Isildur snorted. He knows by now that it tends to work with most people, Malik chimed in. “You do seem cold-hearted enough to make your own choices in a war situation.”

“Perhaps.” There was no way to tell whether Anárion had taken this as a compliment or as a reproach. “But I still do not know anything about war itself.”

“You will learn soon enough”, his brother predicted, before walking away in the direction of his own tent.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The next day, Isildur spent long periods sitting on the tent where Tal Elmar and Anárion persisted in their arduous attempts at conversation. He still could not understand a single word of what they spoke, but he took to scrutinizing the young man’s features as he talked, looking for something, though he was not even sure of what it was. Sometimes, Tal Elmar became unnerved enough to lose the thread of his speech, and then Anárion gave him reproachful looks to which Isildur paid little heed.

He is not me, Isildur, Malik reminded him, with his usual brutal honesty. Whatever the circumstances of his birth might be, he is one of the Forest People. You are his enemies, and he probably even blames you for the contempt and mistrust his fellow tribesmen always heaped upon him.

But despite Malik’s opinions, there was a point where even Isildur, with his limited understanding of what was taking place, was able to realize something. Tal Elmar was not just sidetracked from Anárion’s single-minded interrogation by his difficulty to understand the questions. He was also trying, with an insistence that seemed to grow with the knowledge that he was in no immediate danger from them, to hijack the conversation with questions of his own, which Anárion sometimes answered, and sometimes dismissed with barely concealed irritation. When Isildur asked his brother for the nature of those questions, Anárion explained that the prisoner wanted to know where they came from, whether they belonged to the same kindred as the Sea People who drove his people off to be sacrificed to their god, and whether they were all as tall as they were, with their clear eyes and long noses.

“You belong to that kindred, too”, Isildur intervened, so Anárion would translate his words. “Your mother was one of us.”

Tal Elmar frowned, and shook his head defiantly, saying something where the same word was often repeated. “His father”, Anárion informed him, with a soft sigh, “he is speaking of him again.”

Still, Isildur was seized by the suspicion, which did not come only from his personal demons, that the young man’s hostility at the idea of a connection between them hid a strong curiosity, which kept growing the more they interacted with him and he saw his own features reflected back at him. Perhaps, behind the almost overpowering terror of the dark ships which swallowed his people, and took them into the heart of the seas to never return, there were brief lapses of wondering how his life could be among those who did not find his appearance a cause for hatred and suspicion. For a moment, Isildur found himself wishing there could be a way to tell this young man about Malik, about his happy childhood and lawless youth in the Island, and the renown he had acquired as a warrior.

You should also warn him that it didn’t end well, Malik declared, effectively yanking him off from his unseemly reveries. Irked, Isildur shook his head to discard those idle thoughts. Anárion’s plan, if there were means to put it in practice, did not involve taking the young man with them to Númenor, but using him and his family affiliations to establish a presence in this land. Isildur might have been left with the authority to decide on their course of action, but he could not misuse it to kidnap Tal Elmar for the boy’s own good and engage in open warfare with those savages he thought he owed a debt to.

Things, however, came to a head soon afterwards, in a way that Isildur had to admit he had not expected. On the third day after Tal Elmar was first brought to their presence, the men on patrol sent news that they had made a second prisoner. This one did not look at all like an Elf or a Númenórean: he was an old tribesman whose ugly features and hairy head reminded them of his southern kinsmen, though there was a wilder glint in his eyes that bore witness that he had never bowed to a Númenórean before. As he was dragged before them, he was yelling something in his own tongue, of which Isildur could only make out the name “Tal Elmar.”

“Bring him with us”, Anárion ordered, and they took him to Tal Elmar’s tent. The moment his eyes were able to distinguish the identity of the person who sat inside it, he ceased in his resistance, and gave a cry of joy. Tal Elmar rushed to embrace him, mumbling a strange litany of singsong gibberish in the old man’s ear. The word which Anárion had previously translated as ‘father’ recurred at least twice.

Isildur stared. Though he had already imagined that their first prisoner would not favour his father’s looks, it was somehow worse to see it with his own eyes. There was nothing of the older man in him, not even the slightest resemblance. Could a Númenórean child have been taken from his cradle, to be led away by the barbarians together with his mother? If so, Tal Elmar did not seem to have an inkling of this. For a while, it was as if none of them were even there, as he talked to the other man and exchanged updates at a much faster pace than the one he had employed to speak to Anárion for all those days. Isildur could see that his brother was frowning, trying to glean as much information as he could from their first, careless reactions. Only when the older tribesman turned a wary look towards them, he gave a step forward and nodded courteously to him.

“Hazad uBuldar” he greeted. Astonished at hearing his own language from the lips of a Númenórean, the man first studied Anárion as if trying to commit every pore of his skin to his memory, then slowly answered his nod.

Isildur had grown used in the last days to watch the countenance of their interlocutors, to calibrate the tone and inflexion of their voices, even without understanding a word of what they were saying. As the four of them sat down and the conversation progressed, however, it became apparent that Hazad did know some Adûnaic himself, with which he tried to impress Anárion as much as Anárion had impressed him.

“Wife?” Anárion asked. The old man shook his head, and Isildur bristled in anger. Did he think he could simply deny it, while sitting on a camp full of armed Númenóreans?

“Mother”, he replied. Anárion blinked, then pointed at Tal Elmar.

“His mother?” he asked again. Hazad pointed at himself.

“Mother”, he repeated. Suddenly, a loving expression crossed his savage features, softening them. Isildur stared at him, speechless.

Hah. Sometimes children do not look at all like their parents, do they?

If Anárion had been taken by surprise as Isildur had, his look did not betray it. Instead, he seemed to take the whole thing as a sign that his scheme was destined to succeed, for if the old man’s words were true, that would turn his whole clan into kin to the Númenóreans. And if he had loved his mother, as it seemed from the way in which he had spoken of her, it might not take much effort to convince him that not all Númenóreans were evil. Or at least not evil to him, Isildur rectified the thought.

While the conversation progressed, and thanks to the tentative Adûnaic of their interlocutor, both Isildur and Anárion gained a better understanding of both the situation of their clan and that of the whole tribe. As it turned out, Hazad’s father Buldar, the old chieftain, had been the one to take a Númenórean captive home and marry her against her will. Other tribesmen had spoken against this behind his back, and when bad luck seemed to haunt his footsteps they had whispered among themselves that he had invoked a curse upon his clan by marrying one of the Sea People. She died early, and one by one, their sons had predeceased their father as well, some falling in war, and others of sickness. In the end, Hazad was the only one who remained, and he had been unable to fight when Mogru, leader of an ancient rival clan, had made a grab for power and displaced him. Since then, he had borne many sons –seventeen, the man revealed proudly-, in the hope that one day they would be strong enough to regain the power that their father had lost. But except for Tal Elmar, the youngest and most beloved of them all –here, he briefly patted his son’s hand, though the young man could probably not understand what they were saying- the rest were a bunch of lazy cowards, who would never find it in themselves to rise against Mogru and his people. That was why Mogru had contrived to send Tal Elmar to the ships, hoping that the evil Sea People would take him away and sacrifice him in their altars. And when he did not return, he had ordered his father to go, to make up for the boy’s failure.

Almost in spite of himself, Isildur was feeling his respect for the man grow, as his previous judgement had given way to new appreciations of his character. Above all, he liked how he spoke of the evil Sea People and their altars in their presence, without mincing his words or even looking apologetic.

“We are not going to sacrifice anyone”, Anárion answered the unasked question, as if it was nothing but a minor point. “But perhaps we could help you. After all, you are part-Númenórean yourself, and so are your sons.”

The man’s countenance did not change visibly at these words, but Isildur’s penetrating eye could detect a slight rigidity in his spine, a brief gleam in his eye, which told him that the old man was ready to talk business with them. He had seen this many times in Arne, and, above all, in Harad: barbarians ready to turn against their own people on behalf of foreign invaders, if this would allow them to have what they had always coveted: riches, power, or revenge.

Because the Númenóreans have never fought or killed each other, have they, Isildur?

That night, when Isildur left his brother and Hazad to their animated discussion by the fireside, he walked outside the tent to find Tal Elmar sitting on the wet ground. He was hugging his folded knees with his hands, and gazing at the Númenórean ships with a strange frown.

Isildur stopped in his tracks.

“You could still come with us if you want”, he said, though he already knew that the young man would not understand his words.

“Why the sails is black?” the young man asked, in a heavily accented Adûnaic. For the second time in that day, Isildur was too shocked to say a word. “Is that not… evil?”

Of course, the father would have taught his favourite son all the useful skills that he had at his disposition. Malik rolled his eyes. But it was really clever of him to hide it from you. I am starting to like the lad.

Isildur took a very deep breath.

“The sails have stars embroidered in them”, he explained. “The star is the symbol of Númenor, and before that, it was also a symbol for the Elves. But for the stars to appear, the sky must be black. A starry sky at night is beautiful, not evil.”

“Old men always say, sails black. No stars. Kill people, burn in altars. Evil” Tal Elmar objected somberly. Isildur shrugged.

“We are all evil sometimes. Your grandmother knew much about that.”

Tal Elmar did not flinch.

“Will Father be Master of Agar land? Thanks to you?”

“This remains to be seen. But if we reach an agreement, yes.”

“And the Master?”

“If he opposes us with violence, he will die. Such is the way of war.”

“Why? Why help us?”

No, he is not stupid at all. He deserves an honest answer.

“Because we need a Master who owes us a great debt so we can settle in these lands safely.”

“Like… South?”

This time, it was Isildur who was tempted to flinch.

“We are from the house of Andúnië, Tal Elmar uHazad. We are not like the other Númenóreans your people has met. If you keep your word, we will keep ours.” He managed a brief smile. “And if you ever decide to step into our ships, we will not sacrifice you.”

Tal Elmar nodded solemnly. Still, Isildur could not help but realize that his gaze had closed again, bolted shut with a mistrust which was the boy’s only inheritance from his father’s people. Repressing a shiver from the chill of the night, the son of Elendil drew his cloak tighter over his shoulders, and left him sitting there.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Gimilzagar and his father stayed in Umbar for over a month. The Prince of the West spent most of that time in training –his skills on horseback had been judged particularly important for the challenges ahead- and being taken on short inspection trips beyond the Second Wall. In all that time, the events of the first day were not mentioned again, as if they had decided wordlessly to pretend they had never happened. Sometimes, Gimilzagar even wondered if he could have dreamed them, for no outlaws were brought in from the desert again, and no women or children were sacrificed. Whenever they rode to some Haradric village or town, the roads seemed peaceful enough, and the natives -who did not look as different from the Númenóreans as Gimilzagar had been led to believe, at least when they were in their own territory and going about their business- did not gaze at him with the hatred he had expected. Instead, they fixed him with long, penetrating glances that often made him feel quite uncomfortable, before they reluctantly tore them away and bowed low.

“The Haradrim believe you can see the soul of a man through his eyes if you know how to look”, Ar Pharazôn explained. “As you can see, your soul is of great interest to them, for you will rule their destinies one day.”

He seemed to be in a good mood these days, and more talkative than usual, both answering the few queries that Gimilzagar actually voiced and the many more that he could anticipate. He also told his son stories of his life and campaigns in Harad –Gimilzagar could not help but feel struck with awe whenever he thought that his father had spent the entire lifetime of a lesser Númenórean here-, of the people he had known, the victories he had won, and even, to the young man’s surprise, bits and pieces of Haradric history, lore and culture which not even the merchants of Umbar knew. Most of those things had been revealed to him by a Haradric woman who had joined the ranks of the allies of Númenor, and became leader of the cavalry during Pharazôn’s generalship. She had been a barbarian, but whenever he spoke of her, Gimilzagar could detect genuine admiration in his voice. The Prince was seized by a renewed feeling of unreality. How could a man who knew and loved Harad so well be so cruel to its people?

“I will never forget her tone of superiority whenever she told me that I was too civilized to understand how things worked here.” Gimilzagar had not voiced any of these questions, but some wistfulness in his look seemed to have betrayed him. He swallowed: they had never skirted so close to the edge of acknowledging their previous disagreement. “Now, at last, though we Númenóreans are slow learners, I believe I am beginning to understand. Civilization does not bring peace; it is peace, which might one day bring civilization.”

Gimilzagar looked down. Suddenly, he felt that he knew what his father had been trying to achieve with this, taking him on all his trips, having him meet those people who lived peacefully, even telling those stories and anecdotes. He had been expecting a surrender; an apology, secure in the knowledge that one day, sooner or later, it would inevitably come. And then they would work as a team again, the lieutenant properly humbled into acknowledging that his captain’s judgement was never wrong.

He bristled, the very idea inspiring such a degree of aversion in his soul that even he was surprised at its virulence. After all, apologizing to his father, to the King of Númenor, ruler of the world and supreme commander of the very army Gimilzagar was now a part of, should not be anything out of the ordinary. It should be a foregone conclusion, something instinctive, as it had been to Gimilzagar himself back in Númenor. And yet, this time, he could not bring himself to do it. He remembered those terrifying, half-whispered words he had heard while he lay in the dark, she knew that her soul was the only thing she had left to deny us, and she did. A part of him felt identified with that wretched woman, who seemed to have no room left to fight her implacable fate, and yet had found a way to do it. His father could make him do many things, but he could not force him to apologize, which is why he was trying to have him do it of his own free will. And he needed Gimilzagar as much as Gimilzagar needed him. This thought gave him strength, even in these places where his love of Fíriel seemed like nothing but a distant memory.

“She was an outlaw once, was she not, Father?” he asked, feeling reckless. “And yet you let her live, and she became a great asset to Númenor and to you. I wonder how many Merimnes are being burned in the temple of Umbar nowadays.”

His aim had been true. Ar Pharazôn’s good humour was gone, and his golden forehead curved into a scowl.

“The circumstances back then were very different, Gimilzagar”, he said, in a cutting tone that brooked no argument. “One day, you will understand this. Meanwhile, you will observe everything I do, keep your mouth shut, and learn.”

Gimilzagar bowed.

“Yes, my lord King”,

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Once the King judged that they had spent enough time in Harad, and the chosen troops were prepared to march, he set a date for their departure. Gimilzagar did not look forward to the prospect of covering large distances through foreign lands, whose landscapes and fascinating curiosities paled in his mind before the promise of more horrors, wars, and deaths. The hardships of the journey would also be considerable, especially for someone who, like him, was not used to riding horses or wearing armour. In Númenor, he had always travelled on a palanquin, but this contraption was made for ladies, according to his father, and had no place in an army. Here, he would have to ride next to the King and feel grateful for it, for there were those who walked on foot, and they were not surrounded by a squadron of the best soldiers of Númenor bent on the sole task of their protection. In certain inhospitable lands, isolated soldiers of the army’s vanguard or rearguard could have their throats slit by Orcs or bandits who crept on them while they least expected it. Gimilzagar, by comparison, would remain as safe and comfortable as anyone could be, and any complaints would be regarded as a show of wilful ungratefulness on his part. It might have been payback for the Prince’s mention of Merimne in that conversation, or just the stress of the preparations for their long march, but Ar Pharazôn seemed to be done being nice to his son for the time being.

The route they followed took them first through the North of Harad, where the desert was at its most merciless. The South had ceased being a wasteland thanks to the costly irrigation systems built by Númenórean engineers through the centuries, but the North had been neglected until recent times, which is why it had become the home to the poorest and fiercest tribes, and also why most outlaws chose to try their luck there. All that really mattered about this province seemed to be keeping the large road built for the deployment of soldiers and caravans in a good state and safe. As they rode through it, Gimilzagar saw that there were many forts with Númenórean garrisons, standing at regular intervals. Beyond that closely-delineated space, he was told, only beasts and lawless savages roamed, killing and eating those mad enough to venture in their territory.

After this bleak landscape, the crossing of the river Poros gave way to what looked like a wholly different world. Peaceful agricultural tribes toiled in their fertile fields, in a land which appeared as blessed by the gods as the neighbouring one had been cursed. They were all subject to the ancient kingdom of Arne, which had become a governorship in the final years of the reign of Gimilzagar’s grandfather Ar Inziladûn. Compared to the Haradrim, those people did not give the Númenóreans much trouble; as Abdazer would have said, peace and prosperity did not breed fierce warriors. Once upon a time, however, when the kingdom of Mordor had thrived behind the impressive chain of mountains which separated this land from the dark plains, it had been a rather different story. The kings and noblemen of Arne had schemed and established alliances with the enemy of Númenor, and this had brought Ar Pharazôn to conduct two wars here, ending in two of his most glorious and best remembered victories. But after they no longer had a powerful ally to turn to, and allegiance to Númenor was the only option that remained, their behaviour had improved significantly. In the last twenty years, there had only been a minor uprising, which had barely surpassed the stage of conspiracy, but still provided a useful opportunity to weed out the wolves masquerading as sheep among the Arnian nobility. Now, only the genuine sheep remained: a splendidly attired, decadent folk, rich and fat from the benefits of their trade with the Merchant Princes of Pelargir, who had sold their pride in exchange for comfort and safety. When they stopped by the capital to enjoy the Governor’s hospitality, their whole company was treated with a servile reverence which Gimilzagar had not seen anywhere in Harad, not even in Armenelos.

If he had assumed that this would put the King in a good mood, however, Gimilzagar was sorely mistaken. Ar Pharazôn was especially irritable during the week they stayed there, and he seemed to have nothing but scathing words for the Arnians and open contempt for their culture, no matter how hard they tried to win his favour. The Prince wondered about this paradox: to be bent in eradicating rebellion from a population at any cost, only to lose all interest and respect in them once this succeeded, like a dog would spit out a bone after all its substance had been absorbed. Perhaps this applied to him too, if on the reverse. Back in Númenor, he had been like the Arnians, and his father had scorned him for it, while in Middle-Earth he had grown a rebellious streak which had displeased and angered the King, but at least seemed to have made him worthy of notice. Of course, he thought immediately after, the Arnians could hardly afford to become worthy of notice - and even if he could, for now, he did not know how far he would be able to push it before something gave way.

The day they left Arne, Gimilzagar had barely recovered from his last saddle sores, and the moment he jumped on his horse he could feel them break anew. It was a rather insidious sort of pain, constant and self-regenerating, and connected to an activity that took most of his day but at the same time did not require any thinking, which at least would have provided some distraction. Perhaps his father’s cold demeanour was a blessing in disguise, for the thought that he was being tested prevented him from bursting into tears and calling for Mother, as he might still have done not too long ago.

Still, the closest they rode to the dark plains of Mordor, and the more its poisonous air choked his lungs, the more depressed Gimilzagar felt, and the more futile he found his childish defiance. His thoughts and dreams of Rómenna and Fíriel, the last bulwark of his spirit, were beginning to fade inexorably from his mind, their place taken by a host of nightmares. He always had trouble remembering his nightmares since he was a child, but those he had now were so vivid that they remained etched in his mind long after he awoke. In all of them, he saw people dying violently, and his father suddenly turning into Lord Zigûr, who laughed and claimed that he had been masquerading as Ar Pharazôn all this time, and that Gimilzagar would die for opposing his plans. Somehow, before the creature killed him, the Prince was able to see those plans come to fruition: the island of Númenor, Harad, Arne, the whole world turned into a dark and poisonous plain, a giant Mordor where the sun was no longer allowed to shine. And in the spot where the Palace of Armenelos once stood, slaves brought from every conquered land toiled ceaselessly to build a black tower, taller than any building Gimilzagar had ever seen, taller even than the Meneltarma, where a red eye glared malevolently at him from the top. That eye looked strangely familiar, though as much as he wracked his brains, Gimilzagar was unable to tell where he had seen it before.

One day, they crossed an impressive ravine which used to be the main gateway to the Dark Lord’s kingdom, and came upon the large plain where, once upon a time, the army of Númenor had laid siege to Mordor. By this point, he was so shaken by his dreams that he no longer felt confident in his ability to tell them apart from reality, so when he saw a huge camp, erected around an enormous enclosure holding more people than his eyes could count, he had to blink repeatedly and press his fingernails against his palms until he was sure that what he saw was real. Those people were all chained, like the slaves brought from beyond the Sea to the market of Sor. Some of them were white-skinned, others sallow, and others dark, just as the men and women who populated his visions. Some wore rags, others rich clothes; others nothing. Some had dark blue eyes, others brown or black, but all of them held the same expression: a terrible hopelessness which tore his innards like the cold hand of the executioner of his dreams.

“Who… are they?” he asked, willing his voice not to shake. His father did not answer, Gimilzagar did not know if because he had not heard him or because he was pretending not to, but one of the commanders of the army turned towards him.

“This is the tribute from Western Rhûn, my lord prince. Every year, it is assembled here to be taken South to the Númenórean lands, where it will be sorted out. Some of this people will be used as slaves, while others will be sacrificed to the Great Deliverer. A number of them will be shipped to Númenor, where I am sure you must have seen the likes of them being offered to the god in the great spring and summer festivals.”

“And what have they done?” he inquired, still in the same calm tone. His father remained firmly gazing ahead, giving them his back. The man shrugged.

“Who knows? You could ask their rulers, my lord prince, for it is their responsibility to choose whom to send. The wisest ones will send us their criminals, the cleverest, their enemies, and the stingiest, their old and infirm - until they realize that those shipments die before reaching us and they have to make double payment. I have heard rumours that there are places where they draw lots, and those who lose end up here, but I do not know if this is true.” He shook his head, repressing a shudder which had nothing to do with the cold. “To have your life depend on something as arbitrary as picking up the wrong stick or the right pebble… even though they are barbarians, it sounds too horrible.”

Gimilzagar nodded politely to the soldier, his eyes busy searching for his father, who had suddenly galloped ahead in the middle of the conversation. Since they left Umbar, Ar Pharazôn had always kept him close, just as he had promised back in the Palace of Armenelos, and though they had not spoken much in the last weeks, the proud, purple-clad silhouette riding a white steed had never been away from his line of sight. Now, for the first time, the King was gone, and no matter where he looked, Gimilzagar was unable to find him. If only he had not known so much better, he might have thought his father to be hiding from him. But by now, the Prince understood that a man who did those things would not be affected by the criticism or the censure of those around him, no matter how close they were in kinship or estimation. All that was left for them was the choice of sharing his world, or leaving it altogether.

“My lord prince? My lord prince, are you feeling well?”

Gimilzagar had been pondering death since he was too young to remember, but he was not ready to die yet. Even if this meant living in his father’s world, he had to grit his teeth and endure, if only for the distant hope that one day his mother’s prophecies would become true. He had given enough signs of weakness in the past; now, he needed to be strong.

“I am perfectly fine, Commander.”

That night, however, in the privacy of a royal tent where Ar Pharazôn had not set foot since their arrival, the Prince of the West cried himself to sleep.