Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Númenórean Empire III

Extra warning in this chapter for violence and gore.

 

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The capital of the kingdom of the Seres was farther away than Gimilzagar could have imagined. They had to ride for weeks, until the pain of his saddle sores faded into a dull discomfort, and as they progressed across that strange country, the landscape began changing dramatically before his eyes. The North had been a mountainous region: wherever one looked, white-crowned peaks always loomed ahead, dwarfing mortal men with their majestic height. Cities lay ensconced in deep valleys, where they were protected from the cutting winds which nipped all growth in the bud and froze the water springs in winter. Villages, on the other hand, were miserable places, no more than a few straw huts protected by flimsy enclosures of piled stone from the raids of the wild mountain tribes. The roads between settlements were often excavated in the rock itself, and they were narrow and dangerous except for the one that led to the capital, used to drive the tribute bound for the West once a year. That was the road taken by the Númenórean host, and after it left the mountains behind, they followed it through a flat plain full of crops of several kinds, cleaved in two by a river which must have been much wider before a net of channels was excavated to irrigate the surrounding land. It reminded Gimilzagar a little of the Númenórean works of engineering in the south of Harad, though there the problem had been much more complex, as the only water at their disposition was rainwater and, on draught years, fresh water which the Sceptre had to bring from the Anduin in ships. Here, the land and the elements were much kinder, and the kingdom must have been greatly prosperous before the Númenóreans came.

Ar Pharazôn the Golden had only sent the message for the Emperor a couple of days ahead of his own advance, but as they rode South, everyone seemed to have received notice of what had transpired in the Northern lands. When they passed through the fields, they could see no one working them, even though the ears of the unknown plants they cultivated appeared ripe and full of grain to Gimilzagar’s untrained eye. The soldiers obviously thought the same, for they grabbed as many as they could without stopping their march. As for the cities, which in this part of the country were generally walled and perched atop the few hills standing above the average level of the terrain, none of them dared refuse entry to the King of Númenor. But when the gates were opened so they could ride in, Gimilzagar’s attempts to catch a glimpse of the local life proved of no more avail than his attempts to find people in the villages they crossed. Shops were closed, doors barred, and windows shut. Every street seemed to be empty of curious bystanders and passers-by, who must have run in fear to their houses as soon as the foreign standards appeared in the horizon. The people of this land hid from them, as if they believed the Islanders to be Orcs, there to slaughter them and snatch their children away.

And they were right, the disheartening thought immediately emerged in his mind. The lands of the West owed their civilization to centuries of Númenórean dominion, and even if this dominion had become more brutal now than it had been in the past, there was still something to be had in exchange, or so his father had endeavoured to show him while they were in Harad. But here, they had brought nothing but terror, and a tributary system that slowly bled those lands of their people or forced them to go to war elsewhere to protect their own lives. One of the most disquieting sights, which he needed a while to process, was the absence of beggars, who were such a familiar sight in every Númenórean city that people took them for granted. They had probably died first, Gimilzagar thought with a shiver. Either this, or they had been sent to till the fields in lands where too many villagers had succumbed to raids – or to forceful requirements of tribute sent from the cities themselves. He still remembered some of the stories he had learned and the visions he had dreamed, back in the ashen plain before Mordor.

Once, Gimilzagar had heard of a theory –one which his tutor had pronounced ludicrous, as it gainsaid the lore of the Four Great Temples- about the origin of the Orcs, which claimed that they had been Men from the past, twisted by an evil influence or just by their own savagery. As he thought about it now, he wondered if perhaps what Lord Zigûr intended was to turn the Númenóreans into Orcs, who did his bidding like his minions back in Mordor, destroying and sacking other peoples. Father had tried to reassure him, telling him that he, not Zigûr, remained in control of his kingdom and his men, but Gimilzagar had not breathed any easier for it. For if Ar Pharazôn truly saw through Zigûr, why on Earth would he listen to him?

In every city where they stopped, the King of Númenor always brought his interpreters and demanded to see all official documents, where every detail about the delivery of tribute had been registered. As far as Gimilzagar could tell from what his father would mention in front of him, however, there were no further irregularities to be found. Each of those documents was more fuel added to the fire of the sacrificial altar where the man who walked behind them in chains would pay for his crimes. Gimilzagar would not have needed to read anything to know this, for he had seen his guilt as soon as the Governor stood before him in the council room of that ghost fortress. After Mordor, something had given way in Gimilzagar’s mind, as if a blinder had been pulled from his eyes, and as much as he had struggled to stop the process, afraid by all those twisted, tortured thoughts that he was suddenly able to perceive, Mother was not here to help him make everything better. There was only Father, but when Gimilzagar grew desperate enough as to broach the subject in his presence, Ar Pharazôn had immediately seen it as an opportunity, and started pressuring his son to put those “gifts” at his service in this affair.

Gimilzagar knew that he was being foolish. There was no way in which he could be held responsible for the fate of that governor or his accomplices, and no reason why he should care for the lives of people who had lied and schemed and been responsible for the death of so many others. But he had been threatened with a knife once, seen the hatred and contempt in the eyes of his attackers directed against him, and heard Fíriel’s screams as she was hurt for his sake. And still, the day he was forced to watch as those three were sacrificed and burned in the altar, his horror at their end had erased all this from his mind, leaving nothing but the wish to save them if he could. Not that it had made any difference: they had attacked him because they believed him to be a monster, and his father had proved them right. Now, he could not help but think that those powers would turn him even more into the abomination he had never wanted to be, an unnatural creature destined to be despised and feared by all. Even Fíriel, if she did not do so already, would hate him if she could see what he was turning into. For the first time since the day of their farewell, he did not feel sad, but happy that she was gone.

The capital was a great, sprawling city, almost as populated as Armenelos. Unlike the Númenórean capital, however, it boasted of only one hill, where the king’s palace had been built. Its slopes were mostly covered with greenery from his private gardens, but there were at least three circles of fortified walls visible from the distance, protecting his abode and his court from unwelcome visitors. This must have availed his dynasty for centuries, before the God of the West arrived with his huge army of living soldiers and his power to recruit the souls of the dead to further his cause. Despite the fact that everyone here must also have received notice of what had happened in the North, Ar Pharazôn found the gates of the city open, and a procession of kneeling courtiers humbly welcoming him to the seat of power of the greatest of his Eastern dominions.

To Gimilzagar’s slight surprise, the King of Númenor was rather courteous, telling them that his army would remain outside the city’s walls, and that they would not set foot inside as long as his requirements for provisions were promptly met. They set camp on a large plain by the riverside, where wooden barracks and walled enclosures had been erected for the purpose of keeping and counting the tribute until it was ready to be sent West. Once that the work to erect the royal tent was underway, Ar Pharazôn sent notice that he would accept the Emperor’s invitation to visit him in his palace. Gimilzagar’s surprise increased, and when he saw his father heading towards the gate in his ceremonial armour, surrounded by an entourage of scarcely a hundred men, his unease became so great that he rushed towards them on foot.

“What are you doing, Father?” he asked, his heart beating hard in his chest. “That man knows that you have brought his relatives with you, and that you are here to investigate his actions. How can you enter his dominions so unprotected? He could entrap you, do anything to you while you are there!”

Ar Pharazôn stared back at him, unfazed.

“Because that is what an immortal god does, Gimilzagar. He does not care for assassination plots or for attempts on his life, for he cannot die.”

“But…” The Prince of the West could not believe his ears. “But you are not immortal, Father!”

“And the day I fear for my life, they will know, and then the largest army in the world won’t be able to ensure my safety. Or yours”, the King replied. Then, his gaze softened a little, and he laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Do not worry, Gimilzagar. I may not be immortal, but Lord Zigûr has made me at least invulnerable to the most cowardly attempts to kill me. And the man I am going to meet is a coward, a superstitious coward who does not want to leave his Palace for fear of having an ox cross him on the left side. That is why I chose him for the Sceptre.”

Gimilzagar was not wholly reassured by this. People who were afraid could lash back, like animals when they were cornered. And what if one of his kinsmen or advisors decided to act on his own? His father, however, would not listen to any of his fears, and when some mad instinct he would never have believed himself capable of harbouring prompted Gimilzagar to say that he would go with him, he laughed and rejected his offer.

As he saw the King of Númenor recede in the distance, the Prince was amazed at the anguish that tore at his insides and oppressed his chest. In spite of everything which had happened, of all the horrors he had seen, he was still afraid at the idea that his father might die. For if he did, Gimilzagar would be left in charge of an army in the middle of hostile territory, with no idea of where to go, or what to do in order to survive. Ar Pharazôn had been his protector, his only fixture, like a strong bulwark keeping everything from falling apart around him. While he was there, the Prince’s thoughts had concentrated on all the reasons that made his presence unbearable, but with him gone, he realized that his absence would be an even more terrifying prospect.

Yes, that will be your world after I am gone, he could almost imagine the King telling him, if he had put that thought into words. Enjoy the day when it arrives, my wayward son.

The wait was agonizing, made even longer by Gimilzagar’s inability to sleep, eat, or even think of anything else while it lasted. Dark musings gathered in his mind again, and he wondered if his newfound powers would make him able to feel his father die in the distance. If he did, would his soul become twisted by the need for revenge? Would he find it in himself to order cruel deeds which not even his own narrow escape had made him wish to do? Or would he remain the same pitiful coward he had always been, powerless to do anything as the oldest generals seized command of the army and threw him out to the wolves, a useless prop after the man who had unsuccessfully tried to raise him to be his heir was no more?

It was already late in the night when he heard shouts, and the neighing of horses. Like a resort, he jumped from the bed where he had been lying listlessly, and ran out of the tent. There were many men there, chattering and dismounting, and at first he could not distinguish anything amid the clatter and din that they made. But when he suddenly caught a glimpse of Ar Pharazôn in his white horse, he choked a sob, and such was his emotion that he needed a long while to recover his composure enough to approach him.

“You are back”, were the first words that came through his lips. The King finished laughing at some joke that a general had told him, and turned towards him, the mirth still in his eyes. When they fell upon Gimilzagar’s expression, they widened slightly.

“Of course I am back. Did you truly think that my fate was to die here, victim of a fool’s intrigues?” As the surprise was over, its place was taken by another emotion, which was not anger or exasperation at his son’s foolishness –despite his words- but a warmer one, almost as if he was feeling pleased. Again, Gimilzagar wanted to hate him, but the renewed awareness that his life depended on the object of this hatred made that emotion hollow. “You should go and rest now, and get a grip on those undignified fears. Tomorrow will be a great day, for the Emperor will be returning my visit.”

“Is he coming here?” Gimilzagar exclaimed, incredulously. If he had been the ruler of Seria, he would have crawled through the sewers before he willingly walked into the wolf’s den. Perhaps Lord Zigûr had also taught his father how to charm his victims into trusting his word. Or perhaps the man had nowhere to go, and was just too frightened of his subjects being slaughtered and their souls used to destroy him. He might feel comfortable in the knowledge of his innocence, or his usefulness as a puppet for the Númenóreans. And perhaps he was right, for what would Gimilzagar know? He had seen his father behave differently everywhere they had been, and here he had adopted a mantle of friendly politeness, as if the ruler of the kingdom he had despoiled was an esteemed vassal who was owed respect.

This charade was effectively kept throughout the greater part of the following day. The Emperor arrived at midday, riding a palanquin like those Gimilzagar had used back in Númenor, before he was judged too much of a man to keep using them. Apparently, barbarians did not share those compunctions, and even considered such contraptions to be more exalted and honourable than horses. As soon as he came in sight of Ar Pharazôn the Golden, however, he was helped by his courtiers to set foot on the ground, whereupon he walked slowly across the remaining distance before falling on his knees and prostrating himself before the God of the West. The King told him to rise, and invited him to his own tent together with his highest-ranking companions, who followed in meek silence. Gimilzagar wondered at their outfits: they all wore ample tunics of very delicate fabric, embroidered and bejewelled like that of the Northern Governor, save for their king alone, who was dressed in plain white like the priests of Melkor. Perhaps it was one of the strange customs of a strange land, or perhaps he had simply thought that dressing plainly would speak in his favour.

Whatever it was, no one made reference to it, and while they shared food and drink across the table the conversation remained subdued but amiable. The only outward sign that not everything was as it seemed was the way the Emperor’s body tensed slightly when Ar Pharazôn addressed him, and how he would rush to reply to the most innocent of queries in his accented Adûnaic, as if his life depended on the speed of his answer. He did not ask any questions of his own, even though his mind was brimming with them as far as Gimilzagar could perceive, and some were so pressing that it was sheer agony to keep them hidden in his chest. One of those questions concerned the Prince himself, whose identity he was left to guess as the meal progressed, for Ar Pharazôn said no word about him.

After the spiced wine, which they had brought all the way from Umbar, was passed among the guests for the toasts, the King finally deigned to introduce Gimilzagar.

“This is the Prince Gimilzagar, my son, whom I have brought from the land beyond the Sea. Since he was a child, he has been fed with the souls of the enemies of Númenor, and this has endowed him with considerable powers, the most useful of which is the ability to enter the minds of people to see if they are lying or speaking the truth.” The cup slipped from the Emperor’s hand, and wine stained the tablecloth. There were many apologies, followed by as many assurances that it had just been an accident, not worth making a fuss about, but the next time the man looked in his direction, Gimilzagar saw the newfound fear in his eyes.

Abomination. He had been called that so often in the West, that being called the same thing in the East should be of no consequence to him. After all, he was used to it, or so his father must have thought.

This introduction was taken as the cue for the prisoners from the North to be ushered in. As they came in through the tent’s back entrance, led by soldiers, a visible turmoil travelled across the dining table. So far, the Emperor and his courtiers had been treated as guests, and endeavoured to show courtesy in exchange for hospitality, despite the hidden currents of anxiety that ran underneath. Now, the pretence was finally over at the sight of those high personalities from their own number, whom they had all been personally acquainted with, being led in chains, in such a pitiful state that even Gimilzagar, who had seen them daily, was struck by the contrast between the luxury of their table and the misery of the captives. They had been driven in a relentless march from their distant home, until their fancy clothes had turned into rags that barely covered their shaking limbs, and their flimsy shoes were ruined, leaving the soles of their feet bleeding raw. When they were disposed in two lines –one for the Governor’s family and another for his courtiers- and made to kneel before them, the rattle of the chains was the only sound that could be heard in the whole tent.

“As you can see, there is a spot of unpleasant business to be dealt with before we can continue to enjoy the benefits of our mutual hospitality”, Ar Pharazôn said, as if he was talking about the dessert wine having turned out to be spoiled. “As I passed through the North, certain irregularities were brought to my attention. When I tried to pay a visit to the person apparently responsible for them, he closed his gates against me, and killed my envoy. A Númenórean envoy, one of the most esteemed captains of my army. I would have concluded the affair then and there, for I saw no reason to bother you with it, but this wretch uttered very serious accusations against your person when I interrogated him. Will you repeat them now, or have you thought better since then?”

The prisoner flinched when he was addressed, and for a moment Gimilzagar thought he would think better about it, and retract his accusations. But he had misjudged the Governor, whose persistence appeared to have remained unquenched by all the pain and discomfort he had experienced – and who had very little left to lose.

“I stand by what I said back then, because it is the truth, Divine One”, he said in a hoarse voice, with a furious, defiant glance at the man who sat next to Ar Pharazôn. “The Emperor, his daughter and my eldest son hatched a conspiracy. They are trying to become gods by stealing souls from the tribute that is to be sent to the West. I tried to denounce them, to warn others about the crimes that were taking place under my nose, and would inevitably bring upon us the just wrath of the god that walks on Earth, but I was not heeded. Worse, I became a prisoner in my own fortress!”

“That is a lie!”, his son, who seemed to have inherited his determination if nothing else, intervened before he had even closed his mouth. He was naked from the waist up, and Gimilzagar realized that he had given his tunic to his mother. “He was the one who hatched the conspiracy, and he kept us prisoner, hostages so Grandfather would not be able to retaliate against him!”

At that point, the woman started talking as well, but in her own tongue, which most of the Númenóreans could not understand. Her husband tried to silence her while the courtiers, secondary wives, sons and advisors behind them began arguing too, taking the side of one or the other. The courtiers sitting on the table were also beginning to stir, when Ar Pharazôn rose.

“What does the Emperor of Seria have to say about this?”

The man gazed down, as if trying to concentrate on the tips of his fingers over his lap. Gimilzagar knew that he was not trying to flee his father’s gaze, but his, and this knowledge made him terribly self-conscious.

“Well?”

Suddenly, the Emperor stood from his seat, gave some tentative steps towards the rows of kneeling prisoners, and fell to his knees as if he was one of them.

“Forgive me, o Divine One. I have been unworthy of your mercy by my cowardice and my inaction. This man, whom I honoured by appointing him Governor and married to my most beloved daughter, betrayed my confidence and committed treason against you. But I was weak, a doting father and grandfather, and did not dare risk the lives of my loved ones.” He pressed his forehead against the ground, trembling and shaking. “Please, forgive me. Please.”

As soon as they saw him kneel, all the courtiers that were sitting promptly stood up and imitated their king, falling to their knees and causing so much ruckus that Gimilzagar was barely able to hear anything, even what was being said in his language. But his father chose that moment to turn in his direction, and silence fell upon the crowd.

“We will see. The Prince Gimilzagar is here to tell if you are innocent or guilty. You cannot deceive him, or hide anything from him, for he can read your innermost thoughts.”

He quaked inside, taken by an instinctive disgust at the very thought of playing the role that had been set for him. But if he did not, there was no telling of what his father might do to retaliate, and Gimilzagar did not want to find out.

“The Governor is guilty” he said. His voice rang so loudly across the room that it almost frightened him. “The Governor is guilty” he repeated, in a lower tone. For a moment, he wondered if he could leave it at this, if he would be able to get away with not revealing anything else of what he could read in those minds despite their frantic efforts to become invisible to his eyes. After all, his father did not share in his gift, and he had no way of knowing what Gimilzagar had seen. If only…

“You astound me, Gimilzagar.” Ar Pharazôn’s gaze narrowed, and his voice was so low that no one but the Prince was able to hear it over the wretched man’s protestations of innocence. “I know that you are soft-hearted, but to the point of sheltering criminals who have committed treason against the Sceptre and harmed their own people? Do you think I will simply humour you, and let them go back to their plotting as soon as my back is turned?”

Gimilzagar looked down, cursing himself for his stupidity. Ar Pharazôn the Golden may not be able to read minds, but he was able to read his son’s turmoil like an open book.

“I…”

“I will not, Gimilzagar. If you do not tell me the truth, I will kill them all, and let the Great Deliverer judge who was innocent and who was guilty.”

The Prince swallowed. Abomination, the peasant Zebedin spat at him, before he was led away towards the fire. Abomination, Fíriel whispered, her eyes filled with disgust.

Abomination, the courtiers who knelt in this tent would call him, as they told the story to their children, and their children’s children.

“The Governor is guilty”, he said again in an even lower voice, almost a whisper. “So is his wife, and his eldest son. When you stormed into their fortress, they turned against each other in a desperate attempt to survive. The Governor brought the Emperor into this business because he knew of those rumours about him, and thought that you would find his version more believable. And the son would see his own father torn to pieces before he let any harm come to his mother.”

Pharazôn nodded, gravely.

“I see. You did the right thing, Gimilzagar.”

The Prince did not acknowledge his praise. Instead, he turned away from his father, his soldiers and the pitiful spectacle of the kneeling people, and walked away from the tent.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

But it was not so easy to escape his role in the affair as it had been to leave that tent. The following day, Gimilzagar was made to oversee the preparations for the sacrifice of those guilty of treason against the Númenórean and the Serian Sceptre, including the installation of the seats of honour from where the Serian Court and its Emperor would be invited to watch the King of Númenor himself performing the true rites for their edification. To the Prince’s surprise, the Emperor was quite successful at keeping his composure before such a terrible prospect. Perhaps he was even relieved, for he had come out alive and unscathed in spite of everything, and the Númenórean Sceptre had never been known to those people as having a penchant for mercy. As for his son-in-law, his daughter and his grandson, he seemed to have believed the news about their guilt, and if he harboured any doubts about Gimilzagar’s abilities, he had known better than to express them aloud. Still, whenever they had to exchange words, he acted so polite and obsequious that the Prince knew he was trying desperately to hide the fear and hatred that wrestled each other inside his mind, as if his external behaviour could somehow efface his inner feelings. Those emotions were familiar to Gimilzagar, for they were what he had often perceived in the minds of others when they were confronted by his father. Now, they were directed towards him.

“You will assist me”, Ar Pharazôn told him on the very morning of the ceremony. The smell of smoke and burned wood was strong throughout the encampment, for the priests had been busy building the fire and feeding it since long before the sun emerged from the horizon. Gimilzagar stared at his father, uncomprehending.

“Yes, Gimilzagar. You are beginning to learn what it means to face your responsibilities as a ruler, and to work with me for the sake of Númenor. But there is still a long way left to walk, and the sooner you walk it, the better it will be for all of us, including yourself. If you accept your place as my heir, your life will no longer depend on my wellbeing. If one day I do not come back, you will be able to step forward to take my place and keep everything together.” So he had been able to read Gimilzagar that other night, too. He had no trace of his and his mother’s abilities, and still Gimilzagar remained helpless against him. “Now, I want you to climb the stairs of the altar by my side and assist me in my endeavours. That will earn you the loyalty of the soldiers and the fear of your enemies. Though after what you did yesterday, you might not find that too difficult.”

Gimilzagar swallowed. Ar Pharazôn’s tone was one of pride, as if his son had finally managed to do something that was not a source of disappointment or anger for him, but he had never felt so far away from a worthy recipient of praise than he did now.

“I have told your aides to adjust a purple cloak for you. You will be dressed in the King’s colour, Gimilzagar. I hope you wear it with the required dignity.”

It was the first time that his father acknowledged him as his heir since they were in Rhûn. Even before that, though he had received the official title of heir to the Sceptre when he was born, Gimilzagar had never dressed in purple, or been associated to the King in a public ceremony. Though the natives would not grasp the meaning of Númenórean symbols, the soldiers surely would, which meant that, from then on, Gimilzagar would come to be held in the same consideration as the King in their eyes. They would no longer judge him, criticise his actions, or refuse to obey him if his father were to fall. And if he was threatened, they would all die before allowing any harm to come to him.

“I will, my lord King”, he declared, aware that any other response would not be acceptable.

Still, when the time came to step away from the circle of watchers, Númenóreans who sang to the Great Deliverer with great fervour in their eyes and barbarians who listened to them in quiet terror, the Prince of the West felt his heart sink. The flames were already blazing high, and the heat they exuded suffocated him and made his skin throb even from a distance, though it did not seem to affect his father or the priests who surrounded them, clad in their robes of pure white.

To climb the steps of the altar was the first ordeal he had to withstand. At some point, Gimilzagar became so single-mindedly bent on withstanding the great discomfort that he could not see anything around him, whether it was the eyes gazing at him with reverence, fear or curious anticipation, or the moving shapes of the priests who led the chant, brought utensils to the King or purified the surface of the altar. When one of them knelt before him, he needed to be addressed twice before he noticed that he was being presented with a long and sharp sacrificial blade. Shocked, he stared at it in uncomprehending silence, until he realized that he was supposed to take it and give it to his father. He let go of it as fast as if he had been holding a burning log from the sacred fire with his bare hands.

“Do not look away”, Ar Pharazôn hissed, in a voice that only he could hear. “Everybody is watching.”

The admonishment came at the right moment, for just then the crowd stirred in an undefinable mixture of anticipation and consternation, and Gimilzagar saw that the Governor was being led towards the altar by two priests. For some reason, they had taken the rags away, washed him and dressed him in all the finery of his former office. Perhaps Melkor would not appreciate the offering if it was not presented in a proper way – or perhaps it was just part of the reminder to all the barbarian dignitaries in attendance that anyone who offended the divine Emperor of the West would meet the same end, no matter how high and mighty they were.

The chanting grew in intensity as the wretched man was made to climb the steps towards the altar, covering his cries and struggles. Though his Adûnaic was broken, and made worse by the turmoil in his mind, Gimilzagar gathered that he was pleading, trying to convince them that he had been wrongfully accused.

“My son says that you are guilty, and he does not make mistakes”, Pharazôn answered, simply.

The Governor’s words turned into a yell of terror, the moment the knife touched his chest to cut the heavy silks of his ceremonial robes. He flinched in such a violent way that the blade cut into his skin. Drops of blood fell on the precious embroideries, staining them, and for some reason, their sight seemed to take the fight out of him. Instead, he began to sob quietly, which was the moment that Gimilzagar’s father chose to bury the knife to the hilt in the exposed chest. The Prince heard a laboured gasp, but he focused his gaze on the man’s twitching feet, a compromise he found between watching the butchery as his father intended him to and his need to look away. While he did so, he could feel his thoughts, agitated beyond comprehension by his impending end, crash into a red wall of pain and fade away abruptly. Unable to help himself, he groaned, reeling from the impact, and if a bloodstained hand had not steadied him, he would have fallen.

“Be careful”, his father admonished. One of the priests was collecting the blood from the wound, as diligently as if he had been gathering water from a fountain. Once the red liquid was tipped into the fire with the accustomed prayer, the entire corpse followed suit. The flames made short work of it, though the smoke, as Gimilzagar knew now very well, would linger on in the air, in their clothes, in their hair and everywhere they would go afterwards. No matter how many times he washed himself, or tried to breathe fresh air, human flesh would be all he would be able to smell or taste for days.

He had still not recovered from the first when the priests were already bringing in other victims: first, the guilty advisors, and then the Princess herself, also dressed in her best finery like her husband. Gimilzagar could not prevent himself from gazing in her father’s direction, and again, he was shocked at the contrast between his composure and the thoughts and feelings underneath. At a certain moment, their eyes met, and Gimilzagar could feel him grow rigid and immediately look down, afraid that he had betrayed something before the monster who read minds, perhaps something bad enough to have him dragged upstairs after his daughter.

The woman, however, had a much more dignified end than any of the men who had preceded her. She did not need to be hauled over the altar, for she lay on it herself, refusing to let the foreign demons see her weakness. Still, as Ar Pharazôn approached her, she addressed a formal plea to him, one which the King could not understand, as the words were not spoken in Adûnaic.

“She asks you not to show her body in public, Father”, Gimilzagar explained, not even certain of how he knew this. Ar Pharazôn shrugged.

“Very well”, he nodded. Gimilzagar felt her relief shine clear and bright against his mind.

“She is grateful.”

The sacrificial knife made a red line across her throat, and blood trickled away in droves, so much that the priest could not contain it in the basin without it spilling in many directions. In contrast, her dying thoughts were rather orderly, and Gimilzagar could not help being impressed by her bravery. But there was no time for such thoughts up there: while he was still marvelling at the modesty with which she had arranged all her clothes so no one would even guess at the shape of her limbs, both the dead body and its covering were thrown into the fire, and then they were no more.

There was only one victim left now: their son, who had tried to protect his mother until the last moment. When they brought the young man upstairs, Gimilzagar was floored by the intensity of his thoughts. He had seen her die with his own eyes, and now he no longer cared about anything else. His hatred was stronger, purer than anything Gimilzagar had ever seen; next to it, the peasants of the Andustar had been mere children at play. As their gazes met, the Prince could see a deep yearning to wrestle the knife away from Ar Pharazôn’s hand, grab Gimilzagar by the neck, throw him against the surface of the altar and gut him. If only he could do this, he would gladly suffer the most ignoble of deaths afterwards.

I am the one in control, Gimilzagar tried to tell himself, even as his body began to shake in fear at the threat. I am standing here, dressed in the purple, at the King’s side. He has been brought here to die. But he could not prevent himself from seeing the vivid images: the blade drawing red lines in his exposed body, the unendurable pain, the gasps of agony as he tried to call for help but it was already too late. And then he was him, his aggressor, and he was feeling happy, so very happy to see Gimilzagar suffer and die because he deserved it more than anyone had ever deserved anything.

“Gimilzagar” a voice called him from behind the haze. “Gimilzagar!”

“I- I am s-sorry, m-my lord K-king” he stammered, trying to return to his normal self. His eyes focused, and he could distinguish an object right in front of his eyes. The sacrificial blade.

Gimilzagar stared, unable to comprehend what this was about. Had his father decided not to kill this young man? Had the ceremony ended?

“It is your turn” Ar Pharazôn said then, and the truth emerged in all its horror. The King wanted Gimilzagar to do the killing. Gimilzagar, who had never even been able to crush a fly before.

Gimilzagar, who was so lost in the thoughts of someone else that every fibre of his being yearned to grab that knife and sink it on the flesh of his enemy.

The hilt was gilded and cold to the touch, and he shuddered when he touched it. Ar Pharazôn was watching him attentively, perhaps mistaking his turmoil for mere rejection and disgust for the task he had been assigned. Gimilzagar could feel that fear and that rejection twisting his innards, but he also felt an instinct for murder seizing him. He saw images of a twisted creature of evil, an ungainly, wretched being with eyes as black as the pit of Eternal Darkness. This creature trailed the footsteps of its master, who had bred it through dark rites only to bring ruin upon others. It scrutinized minds in search of the best kept secrets, those that their owners would rather die than reveal, forcing them to betray themselves and those who had laid their trust in them. He did not care for the most sacred bonds of obligation, of bravery or loyalty, but how could it? It had no soul, they said, which is why it needed to absorb the souls of others so it could keep walking and breathing. Killing it, even if it was the last thing he ever did, would rid the world of a great evil. It would be a very praiseworthy deed, and he could not let himself be touched by pity at the sight of it writhing away and cowering as if it was a real person, because it was not.

The train of thought died abruptly, in an explosion of pain. He blinked, and beneath the haze of his eyes he saw blood on his clothes, on his hands, on the knife which was buried almost to the hilt in the body of another. It had died at last, was his first thought. He had killed it, but then he saw the face of the dead man, and he realized that he had killed himself. His throat choked a scream.

“Gimilzagar” a voice spoke behind him. “Gimilzagar, you can step back now.”

Gimilzagar. Who was Gimilzagar? The body was dragged away as he stood there, uncomprehending, and two white-clad men threw it into the fire. He flinched as he saw the Emperor of the West himself approaching him, but he only seemed to be giving instructions to someone, and then a hand was pressing his arm, steering him towards some unknown direction. His own hands were pale and twitching, blue veins visible under the skin wherever the blood had not stained them. At first, he could not believe it, fought it as if it was a hallucination which the fiends of the West had put in his mind to subdue him. But when it finally dawned in his mind, he was floored by the realization.

He was it. He was the evil creature with no soul who had caused his mother’s death.

When the screaming started, Gimilzagar was already halfway through the deserted camp, and no one could hear him. The priests led him into a tent, where he was coaxed into a bed with pleasant words and entreaties. Someone pressed a cup against his lips, begging him to open them, to swallow it because it would make everything much better.

Gimilzagar drank it, wishing that it could be true, but all that he saw after he finished it was darkness.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The battle took place on the following day. Once it became apparent that their ally Hazad had no intention of betraying them, they left a few men guarding the fort and undertook the crossing of what even Isildur saw as a rather daunting maze of forest paths towards the main settlement of the Forest People. Tal Elmar walked several steps ahead of them, his silhouette barely visible under the thick shade of the ancient trees. His feet made no noise as he walked on, in sharp contrast with the Númenóreans, who trampled on twigs and fallen leaves with the subtlety of a rampaging herd of horses. Sometimes, it became so difficult to spot their guide in this alien territory that the men grew unnerved, and Anárion had to order him to remain in their line of sight. Isildur could perceive the boy chafing at this, and his exasperation at those slow and careless oafs he was trying to lead. Maybe he was even wondering if their skills on the battlefield would be similarly abysmal, since, as far as the son of Elendil could tell, the Forest People simply did not understand fighting separately from hiding and ambushing. But that, of course, was as much of a weakness as it was a strength, if they were forced into a terrain where the conditions for this were not favourable. The Númenórean commanders of the Middle Havens had seized on this knowledge soon enough, and turned all their territory into a barren wasteland.

The settlement was not quite a barren wasteland, as it was surrounded by forest on all sides. Still, its enclosure was a territory more suited for Númenórean style deployment, and Isildur immediately gave orders to advance in formation towards the centre, where the Elders’ hut was located. When Tal Elmar made a move to follow him, however, the elder son of Elendil sized him up with a frown.

“Stay back and do not get in the way. Your work here is done.”

“I am warrior” Tal Elmar objected, his own frown matching Isildur’s. As he was only carrying a dagger and no armour, the Númenórean could not prevent himself from laughing, which seemed to anger the young man further.

How well do you think that would have worked with me? Malik asked, arching an eyebrow. Isildur sobered a little.

“I can see that” he said, trying to placate Tal Elmar. “But we fight in formation. If you have not been trained to fight as we do, you will only get in the way. Perhaps one day I can teach you, and you can teach me to fight like your people.”

“Isildur, we have no time for this”, Anárion hissed. Despite all his learning and extensive preparations, he seemed to be more than a little nervous, and this was obviously a feeling that he did not enjoy.

“Lead the left flank, and do not forget what I said about the archers. I will go on the right”, Isildur told him, with an apologetic shrug in Tal Elmar’s direction. “Go and look for your father’s warriors. And be careful.”

He did not wait enough to hear the boy’s answer, too busy with the preparations for the attack. From then on, the pace of events grew faster, in that familiar, glorious way which made it impossible to care about any of the small things that made life unnecessarily complicated. They advanced on the settlement, and soon they could hear darts whistling over their heads. A man cried and fell to the ground, but the others rallied around Isildur and attacked. The natives did not meet them head on, as he had already suspected from Tal Elmar’s attitude and from the information Anárion had gathered about their battle customs: instead, they hid behind walls, climbed on roofs, and threw darts and daggers at them, which, after the first shock, proved easy to parry with their shields. They did not encounter armed resistance until they drew close enough to their target, a kind of round hut with a higher roof than the others, and even there it crumbled as soon as Anárion’s column met theirs in a pincer attack. Once they had taken it by assault and routed the enemy, he gave orders not to follow those who fled. Instead, he had the enclosure surrounded, and forced those inside to leave it one by one, to be searched for weapons and put under watch. They were just seven men, rather old, dressed in vividly coloured furs and unarmed. Isildur left Anárion to deal with them, and set to regroup his people before the arrival of the second wave of attackers.

The wait was long, so much that, in the interval, they had time to care for their wounded and put the corpses aside for burning. While Isildur was taking care of those activities, Anárion seemed to be making headway with the Elders. He established communication with them in their language, talked to them at length, and even ventured inside the hut accompanied by one of them, perhaps to be introduced to the savage deity they worshipped.

As he was surveying and pondering his brother’s actions, Isildur suddenly heard a familiar voice calling him. He looked up, to see Tal Elmar running fast towards his position.

“I told you to…” he began, but the boy interrupted him.

“Father is danger”, he said, looking upset. At the sound of his voice, Anárion emerged from the hut.

“Where?” Isildur asked. As it appeared, Hazad’s treachery had been discovered earlier than expected, and Mogru and his men had turned against him. They were battling each other out there as they spoke, something which had not been part of any of their preferred scenarios.

“They are in the forest”, Isildur said, with a significant glance in Anárion’s direction. His brother nodded gravely, understanding very well what this meant. The forest was the Forest People’s territory, and as soon as they stepped on it to fight, the balance would not turn so easily in their favour as it had in the treeless enclosure of the settlement.

“Can’t he try to lead them towards us? Pretend to be retreating?” Isildur asked. Tal Elmar seemed bewildered, as if he could not understand what he was being asked.  Isildur sighed, sheathing his sword and looking around him. He knew a thing or two about ambushes and unequal battles, but most of the men they had brought with them on this expedition would not be trained in such endeavours. And though he was spoiling to risk his own life, he would not prove his brother’s complaints about his excessive temerity right. “Very well. Anárion, bring forth the Elders. It is time to know how important they are to this people.”

Isildur did not know what his brother said to the old men, but whatever it was, they did not appear to oppose too much resistance. One of them, a man with a grizzled grey beard that reached lower than his belly, hobbled into the enclosure and came out with a bundle which he reverently covered with his red-dyed fur cloak. Isildur had the suspicion that it might be the god, and when he saw the other old men fall to his knees before it, the suspicion turned into certainty.

“What is he doing? What did you tell him?” he asked, taken aback at this readiness. “Does he know that we will kill him and his companions if they betray us?”

“Yes. He also knows that I will lose my voice and stop moving and turn into a tree if I betray him”, Anárion replied. “Back when I entered their sacred enclosure, I swore the holiest oath they have that I would not let any harm come to their god. If the god lives, the tribe lives, and compared to this the rest is unimportant. There are both relatives of Mogru and of Hazad among them, you see.” He turned to fix Isildur with his gaze. “Do not lay a hand on the one who carries the god, because if you do so, I will have to kill you.”

“You swore what?” Even knowing that the ‘god’ was probably just a crude wood or stone statue, Isildur could not help but balk at the idea of an oath sworn so lightly. Anárion, however, did not seem anything but deadly serious.

Perhaps this is his idea of taking risks for the sake of the mission, Malik whispered helpfully in his ear. We often risked the wrath of men, of kings even, but we never risked divine wrath, did we?

“Very well.” He shrugged, trying to feign a nonchalance that he was very far from feeling. “I suppose you will have to go, then. Take Tal Elmar and half of our men with you. And make sure to remind this Elder fellow that they have not sworn any oaths, and that they have orders from me to kill him and cut their god to pieces if any harm comes to you.”

Tal Elmar gave him a scandalized look, where horror and fascination seemed to be struggling for the upper hand. Isildur ignored him, and started organizing the host that would accompany his brother into the woods.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

In all the years he had spent in Arne with his father, Isildur remembered feeling often mystified at Elendil’s insistence on establishing peaceful relations with everyone, from the most devious of courtiers to the wildest savage. Even if they had them at their mercy, he would refuse to press his advantage, and instead endeavour to wheedle concessions from them of their own free will. That was the only way for alliances to last, he always claimed, though Isildur, whose duty was to deal with the fallout, had a rather more nuanced view of the effectivity of this method. Now, it was his younger brother who had revealed himself as his father’s heir in this, though he had not been present in Arne for any of their disagreements. He had learned the language of the savages, swore outlandish oaths before outlandish gods, and decided to trust an old priest he had met at swordpoint a mere half hour ago to hold to his agreement –Isildur did not, so he sent scouts after them and readied his host for war-, all in an attempt to implement his clever plan with as little casualties as possible. Of course, he had refused to think of the fact that a wrong move would mean multiplying those casualties by a tenfold, and jeopardising their position. Perhaps Isildur should have met this with the refusal that he had never been able to give his father. The more he thought about it, the longer he waited for news from the forest, the stronger he felt about it. It might even have been a trap since the beginning, he thought, designed to lure them away into the forest. Had he been too ready to trust Tal Elmar for reasons that did not strictly belong to the realm of logic? Had his instinct been no more than a mix of emotion and wishful thinking?

It is no good to start mistrusting one’s instinct, Isildur. Once it turns into a habit, you are dead. You should know better by now.

When he heard the boy’s voice calling him, he was so lost in those musings that at first he thought he had imagined it. But when he saw the slender silhouette running in their direction, he immediately stood up, and his senses were sharpened. The soldiers grabbed the pommels of their swords, then relaxed their grip as soon as they saw some of their comrades at walking distance from the young tribesman. Among them was Anárion, and the Elder with his god, and Hazad too, followed by one of his sons carrying what Isildur guessed was his enemy’s head on a spike.

The story they told was the strangest that Isildur had heard in a long time. As it appeared, the appearance of the Elder had brought both armies to a standstill. The old man had claimed that the feud should be resolved in the ancient way, through single combat, for which each of the chieftains had to choose a champion. Mogru had chosen his best warrior, and Tal Elmar had immediately volunteered to fight for his father, but Anárion had discreetly taken Hazad aside and offered him the services of one of the men they had hired in Pelargir; a veteran soldier of the Vale of Arne whom Isildur knew of many battles. Hazad had much preferred this idea. Though they were supposed to fight only with knives, this was no problem for the Númenórean, who knew his way around with most weapons and was not only taller and stronger but also more experienced in combat, after almost eighty years of service.

And still you would have gone ahead and volunteered yourself, wouldn’t you? Malik snorted.

In the end, Mogru had lost his chieftainship in favour of Hazad uBuldar, and, as he refused to swear loyalty to him – ‘for it is the Sea People, whose bastard blood runs through your veins, who have defeated us, and they will enslave our people and cut the forest and take our children away to be sacrificed if you let them settle in this land’- he had also lost his head. Few of his people had joined him in this gruesome ritual; most chose to kneel and swear to follow Hazad uBuldar under the gaze of the tribe’s god. Then, they had gathered the corpses of those fallen for the side blessed with victory, including four of Hazad’s own sons, and marched back to their village to prepare their funeral pyre. The Forest People never cut wood from trees: they were only allowed by their gods to pick what fell to the ground by its own will, and to build their fires with dead trees that no longer bore leaves. But for those fallen in battle, an exception was made: they had the right to have trees felled for their sake alone.

Leaving them to their solemn endeavours, accompanied by the high-pitched cries of women who had emerged from the huts where they had been huddling together with their children while the men fought, Isildur and Anárion gathered with Hazad in the hut of the Elders. There, the god was put back in its proper place –it was the strangest piece of wood Isildur had ever seen, pitch-black and hard as iron, with a twisted shape which did not resemble man or beast-, and many oaths were sworn in its presence, in Adûnaic and the wild men’s own tongue. Hazad seemed very happy, despite his losses, and he made them many promises of land, labour to build their settlements, food and advice. Neither Isildur nor Anárion were ready yet to take him at his word, but they showed their thanks and promised to attend the feast where their oaths would be made public before every warrior in the tribe.

“Well, that did not turn out too badly, so far”, Anárion said in a thoughtful tone, as they were served food by silent women who watched them warily. “To have been able to establish an alliance without any spilling of blood would have been ideal, of course, but the circumstances…”

 Isildur chuckled.

“You did well, Anárion. And this was as peaceful as it could possibly be.”

He knows that, Malik said, but Isildur did not need the ghost to tell him. All that Anárion needed was to be reassured that they were still good people, that their actions were unavoidable, even beneficial on the long run, and all that shit that one needed to be told after a month or two on the mainland. He wanted this reassurance, perhaps even thought that he needed it, but with or without it, he would be fine. If there was one thing Lord Círdan had been right about, it was Anárion’s ambition. Like their father, his younger brother would do his best to avoid spilling blood and try to achieve his objectives by peaceful means, even going out of his way to do it, but he would never be stopped.

Outside, the air was thick with smoke, from the pyre lit for the funeral ceremony that would start as soon as the first stars appeared in the sky. The Númenóreans would not take part in it, since they were outsiders, but the entire tribe was already gathering there.

The entire tribe, save one, Malik noted, as their eyes fell upon a familiar silhouette who sat on the ground, as he had back when he was a hostage in the Númenórean encampment. He is just as much of an outsider here as he was there.

“Why aren’t you with the others?” Isildur asked. Tal Elmar must have heard him approach, because he did not seem surprised.

“I am not…” He frowned, as if baffled by a concept which he did not know how to put in Adûnaic. “They celebrated funeral. For me. Dead.”

“That was a ruse.” Isildur sat next to him. “You are obviously not dead.”

Tal Elmar shook his head.

“No. I alive. But they think I dead. They burn my hair. Now I no hair. Cursed.”

Oh, by the Valar’s sake. “Are you an outcast now because you pretended to be dead?” Isildur asked in disbelief. The young man looked puzzled at the question.

“They do not want you because you pretended to be dead? Is that it?” This time, he nodded, and Isildur stood up angrily. “Come with us, then. There is room for you in the Island.”

Tar Elmar seemed briefly thoughtful, but at once he began shaking his head with vehemence.

“Father Master of Agar now. He make things right. But not today. Today he careful. Very important ceremony.”

“Oh. So he still wants you as his son, but not in front of others”, Isildur retorted, unimpressed. “Perhaps he might even acknowledge in secret how much he owes you.”

Now, it was Tar Elmar’s turn to be angry. His eyes gleamed with a strange, wild light, so similar to the one he was used to see in another’s eyes that Isildur was taken aback despite himself.

“Father loves me. I love him. You very wrong. I never leave him and he never leave me. I go with you, he break all the oaths and fight your people to the death.”

“All right, all right. I did not mean to offend you, Tal Elmar uHazad”, he said, backing down. “If you are so certain that this is your place, I will insist no further. I was only showing concern for your wellbeing.”

“Why?” Tar Elmar asked, but his tone was no longer challenging. It was rather surprised.

Good question, Malik nodded, approvingly. He always has this tendency to go to the crux of the matter, doesn’t he?

Isildur took a sharp breath.

“Because I had a friend who was half-barbarian, half-Sea People like you.” He dearly hoped that Anárion was not listening from inside the hut. “And whenever I look at you, I am reminded of him.”

And before the boy could come up with another question, he turned away and left.