Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Interlude XIII: Death and Immortality

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He had never entered the Hall of Sacrifices like this before, when it lay empty of the crowds of faithful who pressed against one another for a glimpse of the holy rites, filling the sacred space with their prayers and chants. Now, it seemed to him as if every step he took, every sound he made reverberated over this great expanse, magnified by a hundredfold. It did not exactly frighten him, but it made him feel uncomfortable.

He should have summoned him, as he always did. He still was not sure of why he had not done it this time. Perhaps he was reluctant to engage in a conversation such as this in a place full of eyes and ears, though there was no reason why he should have suddenly grown so wary of others. He was the King of Númenor: no other mortal was entitled to judge him, or hinder his plans.

“And yet those close to you still insist on trying”, a familiar voice spoke above him. He stopped on his tracks at the foot of the stairs, where he could already feel the heat of the sacred fire throbbing against his skin. Slowly, the High Priest of Melkor began descending them; as usual, there were no traces of sweat to be found on his forehead, and his countenance was not flushed from the heat. His bright eyes gave off a wild and strange gleam in the half-light.

“This was not merely Zimraphel’s doing”, the King said. “I, too, will not allow you access to the Prince of the West. Do your part to keep him alive as you have done until now, and let him be as he is.”

“I see.” Zigûr’s countenance was the perfect picture of wronged innocence as he stopped by his side, his robes smelling of incense from the evening rites. “You still do not trust me.”

“Only a fool would trust you.”

“Then why are you here?” He even managed to look genuinely baffled, before he shook his head with a smile. “Oh, I almost forgot. You have a succession problem now. The same problem that you do not want to let me solve for you.”

That was already a little too much insolence. But Pharazôn did not think he could afford to waste his reserves of determination on a pointless quarrel at this moment.

“Do you remember when you said to me that there were several ways to make a man immortal?” he ploughed on. “You were in a prison then, and I let you out so you could try the first of them. It failed.”

“It does not have to…”

“It. Failed”, he growled, and the High Priest’s protest died on his lips.

“As you wish, my lord King.” He sighed. “How sad for the Prince, to have his own father give up on him. To treat him like a mistake to be discarded and hidden, something he is ashamed of having created.” For a moment, his eyes looked heavy with some undefined emotion, and Pharazôn almost was deceived into thinking there was a true wistfulness there. But he knew much better.

“Stop trying to pretend that you pity my son, Zigûr. You do not even pity me. Gimilzagar will deal with this as he has dealt with everything I have done until now. by despising the means, yet accepting the advantages they offer. That is why he cannot be the King of Númenor.”

“If I may be so bold, my lord King, how is it that you do not trust me to help the Prince, and yet come here seeking help for yourself? How can you be afraid of the consequences on your son, but not on you?”

Why was it that Zigûr always excited his basest, most violent instincts? At this point, the King of Númenor wanted nothing more than to drag him upstairs and hold his fair face against the flames until it was charred to a crisp. He tried to repress those thoughts, aware that the High Priest of Melkor was able to read them like an open book –and that they amused him.

“Because you failed to convince me of your intentions towards my son, Zigûr. Now, you have a chance to explain what methods you would employ to make me immortal, and what the consequences of those could be, and perhaps you might convince me this time.” He snorted, doing his best to hide his urgency behind a nonchalant tone. “At least if you are not a charlatan who is only good at finding witty retorts and distracting his interlocutors when he does not know how to answer a question.”

“My apologies, my lord King.” Zigûr bowed, with no visible traces of irony. “For all these years, I have endeavoured to prove to you that I am more than that. The Prince is alive, you and the Queen are free of the burdens of age and disease, Númenor is prosperous, and the whole world pays tribute to you. And if I have failed you once, let me endeavour not to disappoint you again.” He raised his eyes again, earnest like those of a soldier. “I will submit my immortal wisdom to your consideration, and then you will choose whether to heed it or not.”

“Do so.” The distant sound of an argument between two priests reached them from the distance, and Pharazôn experienced an eerie feeling, almost as if he had succeeded in convincing himself that they were the only two people in the whole Temple. But Zigûr did not pay any heed to them.

“Immortality is a gift which I was given myself, before the beginning of Time, and yet it is not mine to give” he began. “I can heal ailments, slow aging, and save those at the brink of death –for a time. But you still remain mortal, and the day will always come when I can do no more. Our Lord could have changed your fate, if he had not been banished from treading the soil of this Earth as he did in the time you call the Age of the Gods, and his power limited to answering your prayers through indirect means.”

Pharazôn had no patience for this.

“And yet there is a way, or else you would not have been bold enough to claim that you could make me immortal.”

“There is a way, indeed.” Zigûr nodded. “For our Lord was not alone in his kind, and there are others who remain here, enjoying the fruits of their betrayal. Others you might access more easily.”

“Do you mean…?” Pharazôn let the words trail away from his mouth, suddenly hesitant to finish the question.

“This secret is the most prized possession of those whom you call the Baalim, and the Faithful honour as the Valar. They can make you immortal, like they did with the Elves, and strong while the world lasts. But they will never do it willingly, for they will not suffer Men to become as powerful as they are.”

Shaken despite himself, the King needed a few moments to process this.

“You mean that the Elves… were not always immortal?”

“The Elves, immortal? Oh, no!” Zigûr laughed - a little bitterly, it seemed to him. “Immortality was never meant to be for the creatures of this world. Look around you, my lord King, and you will see that everything dies. The birds in the sky, the animals that roam the Earth, the insects, the trees, the plants. Someone as ancient as I am has even seen rivers die and mountains crumble into dust! There is no law, no reason you can find to justify the immortality of one type of creature alone among so many, other than the whim of the Baalim. They decided that they needed servants who lived for as long as they did, just like you would extend the life of your favourite horse so you could ride it beyond the years allotted to its kindred, if you could.”

That made sense, Pharazôn had to admit. He remembered some of the sacred texts of the temple of Umbar, where the First Creation were referred to as a monstrous abomination for opposing the laws of Nature.

“They chose the Elves because they thought they were spineless, peace-loving creatures who would never oppose their bidding. But they were wrong. Before Men had even come into this world, some Elves grew tired of this servitude, and rebelled against their masters. They escaped the so-called Blessed Realm and fled to Middle-Earth, with great loss of life. The Lord Melkor wished to help them, but though rebels, they were already too ensnared by the lies of the Baalim and believed him to be a terrible demon, who only affected kindness because he wanted to trick and destroy them. That lie they passed on to your ancestors, though unlike them, Men always had the versatility of mind needed to recognize lies enshrined under the guise of tradition, and think for themselves. Which is the reason why you rule the world, while the high and mighty immortal Elves have mostly been persuaded to return, crawling on their knees, under the yoke they once tried to escape.”

“So”, Pharazôn forced himself to discard all the questions he had, all the thoughts turning in his mind which, if voiced, would have come across as ignorant babble to this ancient creature’s ears. He had to head straight to the point. “You mean that the only way to become immortal is to sail West and –convince the Baalim to make me immortal?”

Zigûr did not seem to have noticed his turmoil, or if he did, he chose not to pay heed to it.

“Yes.”

“And how am I supposed to do such a thing?” the King asked, still pretending that this was anything like a regular conversation. “Should I ask them politely, or would it be more advisable to threaten beings whose power far exceeds my own until they comply with my wishes?”

The High Priest chuckled, though Pharazôn could not find the joke in any of this.

“I would try the first and, if it fails, I would go for the second.”

Now, he was growing angry again.

“You want me out of the way. That is your plan, is it not? You are trying to kill me. No one among my ancestors has ever dared sail to the Undying Lands, and for a reason!”

“No one among them ever dared march on Mordor, and I daresay they believed they had a reason.”

Pharazôn laughed humourlessly.

“Do you think I am that stupid? If you were their equal in power, you would have been the Great Deliverer, and the Lord Melkor would have been your servant.”

Zigûr was not taken aback by this.

“Were you listening to my story, my lord King? The Elves rebelled against the Baalim in the past, and despite their losses, they managed to have their way, at least for a while. And they may have been immortal, but believe me, my lord, they did not have the tiniest portion of the lives and resources that you have at your disposition. You have the greatest fleet to have ever sailed the seas, shipyards and timber to double its size, soldiers to fill every ship, and slaves to move them. Why do you think that the Powers remain hidden in their Blessed Realm? Why do you think they forbade it to mortals? You rule Middle Earth, but you do not remain hidden in your island as if you were afraid to be found. Your subjects see you, know you, and fear you. The Baalim claim to rule the world, and yet they hide from their subjects because they know that they are not invulnerable. And this frightens them.”

For a moment, as he listened to those words, Pharazôn could not help but remember Amandil, and imagine his look of horror at this conversation. But Amandil’s horror was nothing new: he had been horrified when Pharazôn told him about his designs on Mordor, and also when human sacrifices were first allowed in Armenelos. Even if Zigûr’s fantastical projects were nothing but an attempt to goad him into risking his life, he had to admit there was some substance to his idea that Elves, and the Men who listened to them the most, were fearfully disinclined to alter their preconceived notions about things. Ar Pharazôn the Golden had often thought differently from his ancestors and from those who surrounded him, and though he had been expected to fail, he had not.

“So” he spoke, trying to anchor his thoughts. “You claim I can sail West and defeat the Baalim?”

Zigûr shook his head.

“I do not know, my lord King. Only the Creator knows that.”

“What? Are you mocking me, then?”

The High Priest withstood his glance.

“I am telling you nothing but the truth, as you wished me to do. All I have said is true, but if I presumed to be able to extract a clear-cut conclusion from it, I would be lying and doing you a great disservice. The Baalim are far more powerful than I am, and their kingdom is well-defended. They are not unassailable, but I cannot tell if it is your fate to defeat them or die in the attempt. All I can tell you, my lord King, is that, if you wish to be immortal, this is the only way.”

Was he mocking him? Could this wretch be having fun at his expense? Or was he afraid, just like the human advisors who would give him all kind of roundabout answers because they were afraid to risk their position on the accuracy of their statements, and yet expected him to risk much more on it?

“Then perhaps I should send you back to your prison, for failing to deliver on your promises.”

“As you wish”, Zigûr replied, unfazed. “But that will not save Númenor.”

Which was, unfortunately, true.

“I gave you much safer advice, but you refused to take it. You are the King, and you will do what you want, for that is your prerogative, but it would be unfair to blame your decisions on me.”

That was, again, true, though Pharazôn hated him with every fibre of his being for it.

“You are such a fascinating man, my lord King. You could have led a sheltered, easy life, and yet you always feel the need to take the harder road. No matter what you achieve, it is never enough for you. You could have had any woman you wanted, but you chose to love your cousin, though this was forbidden by your laws. You chose to claim the Sceptre against the Former King’s will, though you knew it would mean strife and peril, and then, though you already ruled the rich possessions of your ancestors, you chose to challenge me. Once I was your prisoner, you found that this glory was still not enough. So you crossed mountains and plains seeking new places to conquer, lands that always lay farther away. And now that you stand at the pinnacle of your power, you will not suffer to relinquish your Sceptre to a compliant heir, but keep it yourself, for ever, even if for this you have to challenge the gods themselves. Behind all your doubts, behind all your questions and the pangs of uncertainty, I can perceive this truth about your character” At first, Pharazôn dismissed this as the usual flattery, but the more Zigûr spoke, the more he fancied he could detect a spark of grudging, genuine admiration behind his tone. “I cannot give you full assurance, my lord King, but I can tell you one thing. These qualities of Men, whom you embody to the highest degree I have ever seen, are the reason why the Baalim fear your kind more than any other. For they know they can make everybody else conform to the place allotted to them in their world order, but not you. My master saw this long ago, and that is why he favoured you, because he, too, was of a similar disposition.”

“And now you are continuing his noble work” Pharazôn finished. His mind was very agitated, and he pretended to be looking at the fire just so he would not have to meet Zigûr’s eyes again. “I think we have spoken enough for today. I will… summon you, if I have further need of you.”

As he crossed the great hall back in the direction of the gates where his escort awaited him, the King of Númenor’s could hear his heart beat hard against his chest, louder even than the echo of his footsteps over the black marble floor.

 

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The Wave towered high over the hills and plains of the Island. Its long shadow hung over the proud city of Armenelos, and over the roads through which its panicked inhabitants, men, women, and children, pressed against one another in a vain attempt to outrun it. He could see their faces, their eyes clouded by fear, and their mouths distorted in agonizing screams, but he could not hear them. Their crumbling world was outside his reach, and though shaken to the core by pity and horror, there was nothing he could do to save them.

“My lord. My lord, please, wake up.”

Slowly, Númendil emerged from the vividness of his vision and into the blurred awareness of the real world, where he was lying on a disorderly bed, and an apologetic face was hanging above his in the shadows. Briefly disoriented, he gazed towards the window, where he was not even able to distinguish the faint luminescence that heralded the arrival of dawn.

“What is it?” he asked, still struggling to anchor himself to the here and now. “Why did you wake me?”

“It is the priest” the voice informed him, in a discreet whisper. “He is outside, and he looks very upset. He says that his master requires your help.”

These words had the virtue of making him land firmly on solid ground. Without waiting for more details, the former lord of Andúnië threw away his covers, and sat by the edge of the bed.

“Help me get dressed” he said, repressing a wince as the brusque movement brought a dull ache to his back. “And have him come in.”

Hasdrumelkor was one of the few priests of Melkor who had been with their High Priest the day he abandoned the Temple of Armenelos. He had also been one of the even fewer who followed him to Rómenna, and over twenty years later, he was the only one who remained, stubbornly refusing to leave the old man’s side as the others had done one after another. Now, he and Númendil had become close collaborators in the act of nursing the most difficult charge any of them could have been entrusted with.

“What happened?” Númendil asked in a calm voice, in an attempt to soothe the nerves of the man who strode inside the room in a state of great excitement. As always, it passed largely unremarked.

“His Holiness happened, my lord! Though he was not supposed to rise from his bed without help, he is lying face flat on the floor as we speak, and I cannot get him back on his feet!”

“Is he conscious?” Long experience made Númendil quick to come up with the right questions, even as he stood up and followed the priest towards Lord Yehimelkor’s chambers. Hannimelkor threw his hands up in exasperation.

“He says he is fine where he is. I… I would have summoned others, my lord, but you know very well what would happen if I did.”

“Indeed.” Yehimelkor was too stubborn for his own good, and his deteriorating health was a prime example of the truth of that saying. If he had not overtaxed himself so much, he might have been old but hale now, just like Númendil, who had quite a few years on him. But no matter how many times he had been told this, he never listened. The only voice that Yehimelkor would ever heed was that of a god who did not listen to his prayers, and the only judgement he would follow was that of the legitimate High Priest of Melkor – his own.

As they neared the room where the remnants of the Sacred Fire burned on the fireplace, the unmistakeable, monotonous cadence of the King of Armenelos’s litanies reached their ears. Númendil crossed the threshold first, and the sight made him blink. Just as Hasdrumelkor had claimed, the High Priest was lying on the floor, his forehead pressed against its hard and cold surface. His body was contorted, as if he had been trying to kneel and it had toppled over on its right flank. His folded arm was buried under his weight, and Númendil was immediately afraid that it could have been broken. At the very least it would be completely numb, he thought, wincing in sympathy.

“Holiness. Holiness, I brought Lord Númendil” Hasdrumelkor was saying. The litany paused.

“That was rude of you. You should not have disturbed his sleep.”

“I do not mind”, Númendil hurried to say, while he knelt at his side and deftly checked him for possible signs of injury. “Hasdrumelkor, bring a chair.”

Knowing that the former lord of Andúnië was the only one able to hold this conversation, the other priest immediately bowed and went to do as he was told.

“I do not need a chair. I am well enough where I am” Yehimelkor hissed, unable to keep the strain away from his voice any longer. Númendil, however, knew better than to remark upon this. “You are interrupting my prayers.”

“And I apologize for that” he said. “Once you are on this chair, and I can check if you have suffered any harm, I will excuse myself and leave you to your devotions. But please, my lord, be reasonable. Your god cannot expect you to take so much pain.”

Hannimelkor was back with the chair, and on the count of three, they held him by his arms and shoulders and pulled him up. Yehimelkor’s face was very pale, but to his credit, he did not utter a sound.

“Oh, Holiness, look at you!” There was no blood on him, but it was obvious that he would have a black eye by the next morning, if not half a black face. “I cannot understand why you keep doing this. At the very least, you could call me when you need help! I am right there, in the next room!” Hasdrumelkor chided, unable to hide his frustration. But there was no sign of remorse, not even sheepishness, in the High Priest’s emaciated features.

“That is between the Lord and me. If you are able to sleep placidly every night, and wake only when I call you, then there is nothing for you to understand. So go back to sleep, and spare me your preposterous judgements.”

Númendil winced –age had not softened the old man’s character, indeed.

“Thank you Hasdrumelkor, you can go”, he intervened. “I will stay with him.”

The younger priest obeyed without comment. His departing steps were followed by a tense silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire on the hearth.

“You are not like him”, Yehimelkor spoke after a while, his gaze lost in the movement of the flames. “You, too, dream. You know.”

Númendil measured his words very carefully before he answered.

“And yet, Lord Yehimelkor, I do try to sleep. For I know that my discomfort and my pain will avail no one.”

“The Lord is angry with me. Very angry.” It was a painful confession, and Númendil’s heart turned in instinctive pity as he listened to it. “If He cripples my limbs and forces me to lie on my face while I pray, I will bear it gladly. But no matter what I do, no matter how much I pray, his displeasure with Númenor will not be abated.”

Now, the former lord of Andúnië felt an involuntary shiver travel down his spine.

“Does he… speak to you, my lord?”

He would never have expected his question to have such a strong effect on his interlocutor. The High Priest flinched, as if he had been struck, and glared at him with a mixture of anger and grief.

“No!” he hissed. “He does not speak to me anymore, Lord Númendil. He has retreated from Númenor, filled with wrath for those who have used His name to kill and enslave others and foul His sacred altars. All I can feel when I approach the flames is His anger, His… rejection for all our sinful kindred, falling on me with the thunderous strength of the Wave of your visions.” He shuddered. “If I fell tonight, it was not old age and infirmity alone what caused it.”

“Do you think a god cannot tell apart the innocent from the guilty?”

Númendil had not asked this to be confrontational, or to mock the man’s beliefs. It was an honest question, a question whose answer he did not know, but which chilled him to the marrow. Yehimelkor seemed to perceive this, because he gazed at him with something akin to sympathy.

“What is it that you see in your dream?”

Númendil frowned, remembering the men, women and children crowding the roads, trying to escape in vain. The innocent, the guilty. All dragged to the same watery grave.

“There are no innocents, Númendil son of Valandil. There are those who commit evil acts, and those who allow them to happen.” His features grew paler as he tried to move his arm, and the pain of the effort took a toll on his composure. “I should have died in Armenelos that day. But I did not, and now I must bear the consequences of my choice to the bitter end.”

Númendil shook his head. This was something that he did not accept. He simply could not.

“You should not speak in this strain, my lord. The night is long and our dreams are dark, but we must not forget that there is still hope. Even as we speak, my great-grandsons Isildur and Anárion are building refuges for those of our people who need to leave the Island in order to escape persecution. If we cannot save everyone, at least we must endeavour to do what we can, with the means that we have. For that would also be a way of opposing evil, and it might still bring redemption, to you as well as to us.”

To Númendil’s surprise, the humourless High Priest smiled wryly.

“Who are you trying to fool, Lord Númendil? You know as well as I that I do not have the strength to save anyone, or to help you with your projects. I do not even have the strength left to pray. If I try to do so, my very body will betray me, and I will fall. I will wake Hasdrumelkor, and he will wake you, and one more night, you will be inconvenienced because of me. “The smile was gone from his lips, and Númendil had never seen such a poignant, raw look in his eyes. “I am nothing but a burden to others.”

Someone much less tactful than Númendil might have pointed out that this was the reason why the house of Andúnië had the custom of voluntarily giving their souls back to the Creator when they felt it was the right time to depart. But then, he knew that the old man would start pontificating about the need for each and every creature to conform to Heaven’s plan, and how it was the duty of Men to await Death whenever and however it chose to arrive. The pain and the uncertainty would be once more hidden under the cloak of the polemist, and no one would be able to see them again –but they would still be there.

Instead of that, he took Yehimelkor’s hand in his.

“Please, my lord” he spoke. “Let me help you finish your prayer.”

“You?” The High Priest stared in incredulity. “You are a Baalim worshipper. As I believe I said to you long ago, I do not require your help, and even less your pity.”

“I do not know the words, and if I knew them, I would not say them. But I can support you so you will not fall”, Númendil retorted. Then, he did his best to attempt a smile of his own. “You are not a burden to me, Lord Yehimelkor. You have never been one before, and you will not become one now that your body has betrayed you through no fault of your own. But if you are still not convinced of my sincerity, I can promise I will let you fall the moment I change my mind.”

For a moment, not even his penetrating glance could read the emotions in Yehimelkor’s face. Then, before he could blink, it was all gone again, hidden behind a mask of sternness.

“Sarcasm does not suit you, Lord Númendil” the priest declared. “But if you insist, you may help me. When you and Hasdrumelkor entered my rooms without permission, you interrupted me in the middle of the longest of the Lord’s litanies, and now I have to start all over again.”

“Of course.” Before Yehimelkor could even move, Númendil was already holding him by the shoulders and waist, and helping him up. The High Priest’s famous defiance must have finally been a little exhausted, because he did not oppose resistance, not even when they both manoeuvred to kneel before the fire, Númendil clenching his teeth to bear most of the weight.

For the next hour, while the priest chanted his own prayers next to him, the former lord of Andúnië closed his eyes, and prayed to Eru to have pity on His children.