Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Pearl of the North

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“Pssst! Psssst!” Ilmarë sat with her nose deeply buried in the pages of her book, pretending not to hear the rather unsubtle attempts to attract her attention. This, however, did not discourage the invisible presence hiding behind the curtains. “Aunt Ilmarë!”

 

With a sigh, the daughter of Elendil let the book she had just picked rest on her lap, and turned an eye towards the points of the small feet sticking out where the dark velvet of the curtain met the white marble of the floor.

 

“Faniel”, she greeted, trying hard not to let her voice betray her amusement. “What devilry are you trying to implicate me in this time? You can come out now, I promise I am quite alone.”

 

But Anárion’s firstborn did not move from her hiding place.

 

“She will look for me here.”

 

That she will, Ilmarë had to admit. They had had some disagreements in the past about Irimë’s habitude of barging into her sister-in-law’s rooms unannounced, but it was not as if she had much of a righteous leg to stand on by this point. Harbouring criminals –or, in this case, girls fleeing their lessons- was an activity that entailed a number of risks.

 

“I want to go to the beach and play.”

 

Ilmarë put the book aside on the table.

 

“That is impossible. You will be stopped by the gates. And do not even think of asking me to lie for your sake, because thanks to you, all the gate guards have been instructed not to trust my word anymore.”

 

“I was not going to ask you that”, the curtain replied, in a tone which implied that the very suggestion was ridiculous. “I have a much better plan. Do you know the old wall next to the flowerbeds, in the back garden?”

 

The “much better plan” involved Ilmarë distracting Irimë by acting suspiciously while Faniel climbed the wall in the back garden, and then pretending to go on a walk alone to meet with her outside. She did not know if “better” was quite the word for it, but it was true that the girl’s plans were growing more elaborate with time. It was ironic that she would pour so much thought and ingenuity in her attempts to escape her mother’s determination to train and develop her intelligence. A charitable part of Ilmarë wanted to believe that Irimë did it on purpose, to encourage her daughter to develop her strategical skills, knowing that failure would entail endless hours of studying dusty scrolls locked up in her room. Still, though she and Anárion had so far failed to produce a male heir, Ilmarë doubted that even a woman of her ambitions would go as far as to picture her eldest leading armies in the mainland.

 

In any case, whatever the real reason for her actions was, it should have been none of Ilmarë’s business. She was just Faniel and Lindissë’s aunt, and though she once had her own child, she had no authority to give anyone lessons in motherhood. Her daughter had been raised by others, and once that she became a woman, Ilmarë had not moved a finger to prevent her from leaving the safety of Rómenna for a place of unspeakable dangers. Sometimes, she even doubted that Fíriel had ever seen her as a mother at all.

 

Ilmarë was a member of the house of Andúnië by birth, and she was supposed to care about its welfare and that of her relatives. But inside her soul, she could find no deep ties joining her to the fate of others, except those tying her to the girl whose fate she could no longer touch. It should have been easy to live on quietly, a mere spectator to the comings and goings and the petty troubles of the people who surrounded her. To pat Faniel in the head and tell her to pay attention to her mother, who knew what was best for her. Instead, she had let herself be implicated in her schemes since the girl was old enough to babble her first words. And whenever Faniel chose to trust her above her own mother, whenever she gazed at her with eyes full of childish love and admiration, instead of feeling guilty, she felt happy. Even if the girl was already old enough at eight to take advantage of this situation to manipulate her, as Irimë herself had warned her once.

 

“Not so fast! There are holes in this plan. How will you cross the house and reach that garden without being spotted by your mother or her women?”

 

“Through the back door in your yard”, Faniel piped quickly. “I only need the key. Please, Aunt, hurry! They will be looking for me now, and if they find me here, I will be in great trouble!”

 

And so will I, Ilmarë thought.

 

“You are aware that you will be in much greater trouble if you do leave the house and manage to reach the beach, aren’t you?”

 

“I will tell them that I did not really want to go, but you asked for me specifically.” Ilmarë was torn between outrage at her unbelievable cheek, and pity for an eight-year-old who had been taught to use the word “specifically”. “Aunt Irissë says that you miss your daughter and that’s why you want to be with me.”

 

“Your Aunt Irissë is a loudmouth, and if you repeat what she says you will be like her. And you do not want that”, Ilmarë spat. Instead of looking chastened, Faniel nodded wisely.

 

“Mother is always saying that, too.” Then, without warning, the gloves came off, and she adopted her best wide-eyed, piteous look. “Please, please, please. You cannot let her lock me up until I know the Ainulindalë by heart. There is sun outside and it is very warm and that would be cruel!”

 

“Well”, Ilmarë looked at the stars painted in her ceiling, letting go of a long breath, “perhaps it will be raining when you have to spend a week without setting foot outside after she catches you. Or perhaps not, it is none of my business.” She stood up, and started rummaging through the drawers and boxes in her bower. “There. You can have the key. Use it wisely.”

 

“Thank you, Aunt Ilmarë, you are my favourite!” the girl cried, emerging from her hiding place and grabbing it with the same enthusiasm with which a son of Fëanor would grab a Silmaril. The woman rolled her eyes.

 

“You could show your thanks by not incriminating me too much if you are caught on the way!”, she shouted after her, but the girl was already gone. Left alone, Ilmarë closed the drawers carefully, and sat back on her chair with the book in her hands.

 

Soon afterwards, the sound of raised voices distracted her from her pretence, and she raised her eyes from the blurred lines. Had the girl been caught so soon? To her own surprise, she was saddened by the idea of not being able to go to the beach with Faniel, despite knowing how hare-brained the plan had been in the first place, and how very angry Irimë would be at her if they had done it. Perhaps the loudmouth was just a little too right for comfort.

 

As she was still trying to discard those useless regrets, she heard footsteps drawing close. To her shock, she realized that they were not coming from the front door of her chambers, but from the back. She only had time to fix her eyes back on an undetermined page of the book and pretend to be absorbed by it, before Irimë emerged from the backyard in all her righteous glory, her footsteps trailed by two ladies and a very chagrined eight-year-old girl.

 

“… and no matter how clever you think you are, remember this well: I am much cleverer than you!” her sister-in-law was admonishing her daughter as they came in. Then, her eyes fell on Ilmarë and her anger was instantly redirected. “And you! You insist in aiding and abetting her ill-advised attempts to evade her lessons and run wild like an uneducated peasant!” The shot embedded itself a little too close to the target for Ilmarë’s liking, but she was able to keep her composure. “Now, you even give her a key so she can leave the house, and then what? Was she going to wait for you after she climbed the wall, or did you just intend to let her roam across the wide world on her own, without anybody to protect her?”

 

The second shot’s aim had been true. Ilmarë let the book fall.

 

“These are my rooms, Lady Irimë. I will not tolerate to be scolded like a child in here, much less in the presence of one”, she said, with as much dignity as she could muster. At least, this seemed to give her sister-in-law some pause, if only to send the other women away with the girl, under strict orders not to drop their vigilance for a moment.  But apparently, she was not finished with Ilmarë.

 

“I apologize, my lady, for that was uncalled for. As uncalled for as it is for you to interfere in my attempts to raise and educate my daughters” she said. It was remarkable how she could apologize and demand an apology in the same breath, Ilmarë thought wryly. “I am aware of your circumstances, and that is why I have always endeavoured to treat you with understanding and respect. Still…”

 

That was too much. For a moment, Ilmarë no longer saw a book, the face of a woman, or even her rooms: she only saw red.

 

“Then do not” she hissed. When she realized that she had succeeded in shutting Irimë’s mouth even for a moment, she went on. “Do not treat me with understanding or respect. Whatever you want to say to me, say it to my face, and I will return the courtesy. I was a terrible mother, I ruined my child, and now I am trying to ruin yours. Is that, by chance, what you wanted to say?” Her voice had risen, but she did not care who might be listening. “Is it?”

 

Irimë shook her head, gazing at her with a look that Ilmarë did not know how to decipher.

 

“I would not presume to judge…”

 

“But you do!” Ilmarë felt some strange emotion being unleashed within her, one that made her want to punch her sister-in-law on the face, and not merely for who she was or what she had said, but because she was there. “You do it all the time! You think that I am a bad mother and you are perfect. But if that is so, then why do you have to chase after your daughter all day? Why is she so desperate to be away from you?”

 

Irimë’s eyes widened: she had clearly not been expecting this. Her weakness, however, did not last much; after a split second her features sobered, and the emotion was gone.

 

“Because she is too young to know that I am doing what is best for her.”

 

“As you did for your sister? She is an adult and she still resents you!” Ha, and there it was again, flickering in and out of her eye.

 

“You are obviously too upset to have a civilized conversation.” Irimë shook her head with a long-suffering sigh. “While, funnily enough, I am the wronged party, but that is how childish temperaments react when they are rightfully challenged. I will leave you to your reading, my lady, and a good day to you.”

 

Ilmarë bit back a very unladylike curse. Damn that woman. She had got her into this state, left her with no one to target, and now she would pretend that everything was Ilmarë’s fault. If something was her fault, it was that she should have known better than to allow herself to be provoked.

 

“And to you too, Lady Irimë” she managed to coax out of her system, accompanied by an exaggerated bow. “The sun is out and the birds are singing, it is a good day to keep a child reciting meaningless words in a dark room.”

 

If only she could go back in time, and an eight-year-old Fíriel was standing before her, she would have taken her to the beach and played every day. She would never have wasted her time with meaningless cruelties that would not avail either of them once the shadows came for her.

 

Fortunately for her dignity, Irimë left the room without turning back- for, if she had, she would have caught a glimpse of a lone, very undignified tear rolling down Ilmarë’s cheek.

 

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

 

“No, no, no, look.” Fíriel took a deep, sharp breath, her eyes fixed on the light blue orbs that kept darting quick and terrified looks in every direction. She pointed at her own chest. “I, happy. See?” She smiled, but the smile died on her lips when it did not elicit any kind of recognition. Did those people even know what a smile was? Perhaps they did not smile in their daily lives, just as there were barbarians who did not eat meat or did not know how to build houses. “You happy, too. We all happy. This, nice place.”

 

She spoke very, very slowly, but the woman did not seem any closer to grasping the meaning of her Adûnaic words. Instead, she shook her head with violence, and let go of a torrent of gibberish in a high-pitched voice, which sometimes broke down as her chest shook with a sob. Fíriel sighed.

 

“I do not know what you are saying, but it’s not true, okay?” She tried to extend a hand to caress a strand of straw-yellow hair from the woman’s forehead, but she flinched abruptly. Damn. “Wait for me here, I will be right back.”

 

As she was about to cross the threshold of the room, she looked back for a moment, and saw the woman curling into a ball once more, her body shaken by shivers. A knot formed in her throat, which she could barely manage to swallow. No, she definitely could not hate this one. Of all the wives that the King had brought his son from the mainland, handpicked among the greatest beauties of Middle-Earth in an attempt to distract him from his unseemly attachment for Fíriel, this had proved so far the hardest to dislike. When her ship had arrived to Sor, the locals had gaped at her white, almost translucent skin, her large blue eyes and the yellow colour of her hair, and nicknamed her the Pearl of the North. She, however, had not derived any pride or pleasure from their admiration. She could not understand a single word of the language of Númenor, though soon it had become apparent that the people of the Island frightened her, and the sight of Gimilzagar was enough to work her into a panic. It was him who had insisted that Fíriel tried to communicate with her and calm her down before she could hurt herself, though Fíriel had doubts that she was the appropriate person for this endeavour.

 

“She cannot understand a word. A single word, Gimilzagar. Whenever I say nice things, she behaves as if I was telling her that I am going to torture her with a knife and throw her remains into the fire.”

 

“As far as I know, that is what happened to her family”, Gimilzagar remarked, with a thoughtful frown. Fíriel stared at him for a moment, then began shaking her head. “Well, at least she does not hide under the bed or point a knife at you when you are there, which is a start. Though perhaps the latter circumstance can be explained because they had all sharp objects removed from the room before she came in.”

 

Sometimes, Fíriel would bemoan her own fate, even though she had Gimilzagar’s love, his mother’s protection, and the ability to communicate with her fellow Númenóreans. But then, something like this would happen, making it significantly harder to feel sorry for herself.

 

“You could enter her mind and make yourself understood, even if none of you speaks the other’s language. She is very scared of you, but once that she sees you mean well…”

 

“She does not want me inside her head.”

 

“So what?” Fíriel stood right in front of where the Prince of the West was sitting, her hands resting on her hips. “I never wanted you to be in my head, either, but that hasn’t stopped you.”

 

“This is very different, Fíriel” he hissed, as if frustrated that she could not see his point. “She really does not want me inside her head.” She raised an eyebrow. “If I force myself in, it would have devastating consequences. She might even die.”

 

“Oh.” Fíriel’s anger evaporated as fast as it had come, leaving nothing but a renewed disgust in its wake. “But still, there has to be something we can do for her.”

 

“You are truly sorry for her.” It was not a question, and for the first time, Gimilzagar smiled. “You are a kind-hearted person, Fíriel.”

 

Her cheeks flushed scarlet.

 

“I am sorry for myself. If she dies, you know as well as I do that they will blame it on me. I am the evil, rival-murdering concubine, remember?”

 

“So what if they do? Everybody will be afraid of annoying you and becoming the next victim. Just imagine the Lady Valeria’s reaction! What can there be more chilling than a dead body, and no incriminating evidence except whispers?” Gimilzagar had developed a dark sense of humour through the years, which she had learned to understand as a sign that he wanted to survive, just like a soldier would carry a shield to protect himself from enemy darts. Now, however, she was feeling bothered, and she could hide it no longer.

 

“All right, you win! Yes, I am sorry for her. So stop talking about her death as if it was a likely possibility, will you? We will get through to her. Damn it, Gimilzagar, isn’t there anyone in Númenor who speaks a word of her language?”

 

“Well, technically the general who led this campaign retired after his victory, so he is in the Island now. And I say ‘technically’ because though I do not know him, I know the type, and I do not find it very likely that he took the trouble to learn their language before conquering them. And even if he does know a word or two, I bet that “I will not hurt you” is not among them.”

 

“But someone near him must have known something. The King has interpreters, doesn’t he?”

 

“Yes, but those would have stay…. wait.” Gimilzagar’s eyes widened, and there was a spark of hope in them. “Some generals who are sent to relatively unknown territories do not trust official interpreters, because there is no one among them who understands the language. Instead, they rely on natives who have learned the Adûnaic tongue, usually from Númenórean territories close by who have some kind of language kinship with them.”

 

“But would they have taken them back to Númenor?”

 

“If they were free, probably not, but most of them are slaves.”

 

“So that… general who is here in Númenor might have someone in his household who understands this woman?”

 

“Yes. Yes, he might have.”

 

“That is great!” she cried. “You must find him, then! Do you know where he lives?”

 

Gimilzagar’s brow furrowed in thought, and he gazed distractedly at the door of the Northern Pearl’s chamber.

 

“He has lands in the Andustar. In the South.” Fíriel’s smile died, and though the Prince kept talking, she knew that he had picked up her feelings immediately. “They used to belong to the Cave, and before that there was a long history of disputes between the High Priest of the Forbidden Bay and the Lord of Andúnië.”

 

“Oh. And how did he come by them?” she asked. For a moment, she could not recognize her own voice, as if it had come from someone else’s lips. “In a similar manner to how he came by the lands where your esteemed new wife used to live?”

 

“The King gifted them to him, after the High Priest had already driven you away.” Gimilzagar sought her glance apologetically. “It was not his fault –at least not this.”

 

“I see.” Despite her words, Fíriel had not seen anything, and barely even registered what Gimilzagar had just said. Instead, she was diving through the deepest recesses of her mind, trying to find the crying girl who had hugged her grandmother as the burned fields of her home receded in the distance for ever. It was strange, how she could barely remember that fateful day anymore. She supposed that the things which happened afterwards had obscured the memory of that loss, and everybody who had been with her that day was either dead or lost to her now. All that remained now were bits and pieces, like the warmth of Amal’s body, the smell of charred vegetation, or the shape of the clouds that covered the sky that morning, though she was not even certain that she had not imagined it. This disturbed her more than she expected.

 

“For a long time now, the High Priest of the Forbidden Bay has been complaining because the King does not visit his sanctuary. He feels that the power of the Goddess and her earthly servants has dwindled considerably in later times, as the worship of Melkor is all the King cares about” Gimilzagar droned on, though Fíriel did not know why he was speaking of this, or cared to find out. “I could pay them the long-awaited official visit, and take my bride to see the marvels of the Western shores. Once there, we will find the interpreter, and see if the general can be persuaded to part with him as a wedding gift. And since the woman cannot stand to be in the same room with me, I will arrange for you to accompany us so you can keep an eye on her in my stead, and see your old home again. What do you say to this?”

 

At long last, the purpose of his speech became apparent to her – and she did not like it one bit.

 

“What makes you think that I want to do that?” she hissed. “No, Gimilzagar. There is nothing left for me in the West. The places where I spent my childhood will belong to others now, and all the people I used to know back then left with us!”

 

“I can sense a wound in you. It could use some healing.”

 

“Stop reading me!”

 

“I am not even trying!”

 

“Then why don’t you go inside that room and do the same to this woman, so all three of us can stay in Armenelos?”

 

Gimilzagar sighed.

 

“That is not how it works, Fíriel. I know very well what she is feeling. She is terrified. Her people was conquered, her family was killed, and she was taken across the world as an offering to a demon. Wherever she looks, she sees the faces of her enemies, and she thinks that I am going to suck her life away.” He shrugged bitterly. “I do not have to invade her to see this, but I cannot communicate with her. And I have the distinct feeling that if we do not go West, and get her as far as possible from this dreadful place, she will not last much longer. But if we do, we could save her, and then her name would go down in the right list, which does not happen very often. If you do not want to go to the Andustar for yourself, do it for this. Please.”

 

Fíriel hesitated. This whole obsession with lists had started six years ago, when Gimilzagar happened to be in Sor at the time a man had been accused of conspiracy. Before that, he had always tried to lie low and remain inconspicuous, afraid of the reputation that preceded his unnatural powers, not to mention his father’s reaction, but that day he had been able to read the man’s thoughts loudly and clearly, and knew that he was innocent. Unable to remain silent, he had revealed to the Governor what he had seen, and, to his own surprise, the man was immediately released with an official apology. That day, Gimilzagar was struck by the momentous realization that he had saved someone who would otherwise have died, without repercussions for anyone. As soon as she learned about it, Fíriel had suggested that he put him in a list, and this had gradually evolved into the belief that the more names he put in that list, the closer he would get to cancel the other list, the one with the names of those who had died for his sake. If the first list ever got to be as long as the second, it would be the sign that he had the right to live. Privately, Fíriel did not think that Gimilzagar would ever save enough people to make up for those who had died, but it moved her to see him so intent on something.

 

“Very well, I will go with you” she conceded, acknowledging her defeat. “But do not think for a moment that you are doing me a favour, because you are not, Gimilzagar. I do not care what you have seen in my mind, the idea of going there does not bring me any joy. I will only be doing it for her, and for you.”

 

It seemed as if the Prince of the West was going to make a retort, but he thought better of it and closed his mouth. Only after a rather long silence, he opened it again.

 

“As a matter of fact, I feel very much the same about having to bed the High Priestess of the Cave.” When she did not react to this, he sobered. “I do see how it could be difficult to… go back there, Fíriel. But considering the circumstances, this journey might turn out better than you think.”

 

 “Considering the circumstances? Has your famed foresight perceived something in our immediate future? Or you just think I cannot possibly resist the charms of a journey to the seaside where you will bed a woman and be wedded to another, and I am neither of them?” He tried to reply to this, but she was faster. “Heavens, how I hate your father.”

 

“The King is only trying to ensure my happiness to the best of his ability, just as any loving father would”, he said, with a reproachful look at the door behind them. Perhaps one day he will even discover my type. I have you follow me everywhere just to see if he will pick up the clues and choose the next woman accordingly.

 

“You are wasting your time. He does not see me, because I am invisible.” That is why I can kill my rivals and make it look like an accident.

 

In the past, she had sometimes thought that there would be a special punishment from Heaven for those who tried to be funny in a world like this. But in a world that was its own punishment, there was very little left to be afraid of, except losing one’s mind.

 

“Well, then. Go back inside, and tell the good lady that we will depart as soon as I secure official permission. Or tell her bawdy jokes, it does not matter, for all the good it will do.” He sighed. “But do it with a kind face. It -breaks my heart to see her like this.”

 

Fíriel nodded, once more swallowing a knot from her throat. Damn it, again.

 

“I will do whatever I can to calm her down. I am as sorry for her as you are, Gimilzagar. Believe me, I am.”

 

“I know.” Gimilzagar kissed her brow. “You are such a good person.”

 

How about a decent person who happens to remember how the walls of this Palace used to close around her, leaving her trapped inside and with no way to escape? Or are all decent people already dead around here? she wondered, kissing him back and preparing to face what awaited her beyond the threshold.

 

As she went in, she froze in her tracks. The woman was lying on the bed just where Fíriel had left her, motionless, and suddenly she was not even aware of running to the bedside to check on the body, her heart beating swiftly against her chest. There were no traces of blood anywhere, all sharp objects had been removed from her vicinity, Gimilzagar had said. She did not carry poisons on her person, either, for they would have checked that a hundred times before she even set foot on the ship. She could not be…

 

The barbarian’s breasts heaved up and down in a rhythmic cadence. Just asleep. It must have been really obvious since the beginning, but Fíriel had been too upset to pay attention to the telltale signs. In any case, a great sense of relief washed upon her, and she felt herself breathing normally again.

 

With great care not to wake up, she picked up a blanket, and covered the lying body with it. The Prince of the West’s new wife stirred a little, but she did not wake up. She must have been deeply exhausted, to have surrendered her watchful guard like this. Who knew how long it had been since she last slept.

 

“Sleep well, Pearl of the North” Fíriel whispered, settling on the bed and curling next to her.

 

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

 

The docks were lively at this time of the day –not, perhaps, as much as those in Sor or Pelargir, or even Rómenna, but the hustle and bustle around the fishing boats and trading ships unloading their cargo was greater than anyone could have hoped to find in this remote corner of the world, only a few years prior. Isildur stood by, idly watching the interactions between buyers and sellers, and recognizing the faces of several people who had sailed with them from Pelargir only a fortnight ago. He could even see children, three of them, being herded by their mother towards the fish stalls. Until the previous year, Anárion had refused adamantly to take anyone but adults, claiming that the settlement was not safe enough yet, but he had been forced to surrender to the inevitable when he realized that those who had already settled were having children of their own. Lord Númendil said that the Elves marvelled at Men’s ability to procreate regardless of whether the world they brought their children into was safe or not, and considered it both their greatest strength and their peculiar brand of immortality. Personally, Isildur did not think that those lofty words were likely to be of help to either the parents or their offspring if an enemy tribe managed to breach their defences, but Anárion’s attempts to have everything under control were equally vain. Those people could not be easily scared, for many of their number already knew what it was to live under the risk of death. Between true barbarians and soldiers and minions of the Sceptre who behaved like barbarians, they must have thought there wasn’t that much of a difference.

 

At least now you can do something to protect them, Malik remarked. Isildur had indeed done his best to organize the defence of the settlement, overseeing the construction of the walls, establishing a permanent garrison composed by men from Andúnië and a handful of veterans and mercenaries from Arne, and getting them to train every settler who could bear arms so they could defend themselves. The alliance they had struck with the Forest People from the tribe of Agar had held through the years, and several other smaller tribes who had ties with them had followed suit, though both Isildur and Anárion were aware of how flimsy that protection was. Other barbarian tribes, traditional rivals of their allies or merely discontent at the new state of things, either because their enemies had grown too powerful or because their forests were being destroyed – the Númenóreans had sworn an oath not to fell a tree in Agarene territory, but the timber to build their settlement, their ships and their boats had to come from somewhere-, were agitating and attempting to find allies for their cause. There were also the rogue tribes, bands of warriors with no fixed abode who made a living of raiding and plundering their neighbours. Some of them were descended from the legendary brotherhoods who shook off the yoke of the Númenóreans in the Middle Havens over a century ago, and it was rumoured that fathers made their sons swear blood oaths never to take a Númenórean prisoner. So far, none of those potential enemies had grown strong enough to even attempt breaching the well-protected walls of a Númenórean town, but they had harassed their weaker allies, and even given Hazad himself trouble.

 

The last eight years had not been kind on the Master of Agar. From the age and number of his descendants, Anárion had calculated him to be already over sixty when he took the chieftainship, and seventy was already a very old age for a short lived barbarian. It had been long since he last led his men to war, and these days he did little but sit in his hut by the fireside, leaving the fighting to his sons. All of them had sworn their father’s oaths, but Isildur wondered what would happen if they proved to be less steadfast in their observation, and their enemies managed to organize themselves into a larger threat than they were now. Anticipating this, he had often pulled the men he brought from Arne off from their duties, and sent them to lend aid to the Agarenes, even leading them personally into battle whenever it was possible. This had not been a very popular measure among the settlers, who did not enjoy feeling less protected because their soldiers were gone to aid barbarians in their petty feuds. Fortunately, Anárion was as good as Elendil at convincing people of things, and he had made them see that they were not strong enough yet to stand on their own without alliances, and that their allies would betray them the moment they did not see a significant advantage in their mutual arrangement. To that effect, they had also made sure to bring gifts whenever they came from the Island, and offer them privileged deals to acquire all types of merchandise. If present-day Arne was proof of anything, it was that rich allies had less to complain about than poor ones.

 

Well, to be honest, the Arnians would be rich, malcontent schemers if Ar Pharazôn had not destroyed all the noble families that opposed him. Perhaps you need to bring less money and more soldiers here. Or to turn some more of your money into soldiers.

 

“There is only so much money we can spend on war purposes before the King starts wondering what is it exactly that we are doing in these distant shores. It is better to make our own soldiers by having the soldiers we already have train this people.”

 

And tell me, how many of those colonists would you trust to meet a horde of barbarians head on?

 

“You are too impatient. As Anárion says, these things take more years than we have yet spent here.”

 

A very Númenórean assessment. But here, life goes faster than it does in the Island, as you will soon find out.

 

“What? What do you mean, Malik?”

 

Look behind you. There, by those barley crates that someone has piled up so precariously. Do you recognize him?

 

Isildur automatically looked towards the spot the ghost was pointing at. There, he saw a figure standing perfectly still, as if oblivious to the comings and goings of the people around him. He appeared to be gazing in Isildur’s direction, though most of his face was covered by the hood of a cloak, one of the rich garments of Númenórean origin that the lord of Andúnie had gifted to his most powerful allies.

 

When the newcomer realized that Isildur had spotted him, his whole body seemed to tense. He even retreated one step, as if he was about to turn back and leave. But as the son of Elendil covered the distance between them, he remained in place.

 

Isildur swallowed, trying to extricate his confusion at this unexpected happening from the contradictory feelings that the young man’s presence evoked in his mind.

 

“Tal Elmar”, he greeted him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

The half-barbarian shook his head, causing the hood to be pulled back a few inches, revealing his eyes. There was some sort of strong emotion buried within them, but Isildur could not identify its nature.

 

“You and I. In private place. Please.”

 

The Númenórean lord blinked.

 

“I suppose that can be arranged.”

 

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

 

Isildur brought Tal Elmar directly to his own quarters in the settlement’s “palace” – a larger house than the others, which had the hall reserved for council meetings annexed to it. As they entered the building, nobody looked at them twice, for it was usual to have barbarian envoys arrive at any hour of the day to discuss alliances, military campaigns or trade agreements.

 

“Well, here we are. In private, as you requested”, he said, closing the door behind them.

 

Tal Elmar took away the cloak, and hung it over a chair. He had not grown in height in the last years, which left him as somewhat shorter than the average Númenórean, but his features had grown sharper, and his body fuller. It would no longer be as easy to confuse him with an Elf as the day Isildur’s men found him roaming the forests in the vicinity of their encampment. And yet, he still looked nothing at all like his barbarian kin, no matter how much he let his hair grow, or the efforts he poured in moving and talking like them. Sometimes, when Isildur and Anárion had been invited to Hazad’s hut, he had seen the young man participate in their games, drinking bouts, and war rituals with an enthusiasm that rang false to both his and Malik’s perception. He is always trying to make up for something, Malik had observed, wistfully. Was I ever so obvious?

 

Now, however, Tal Elmar was not looking very boisterous. Even after Isildur had closed the door, he stood still, as if fascinated by the view of the sea from the window, and it was a long time until he finally spoke.

 

“Father is -dying. Perhaps dead now.”

 

His eyes widened.

 

“Hazad? But we have not heard…”

 

“Not yet. News soon here.”

 

It was not as if this took Isildur truly by surprise; the old man had to die sooner or later. But something in this situation was off, and it did not take him too long to pinpoint what it was.

 

“And what are you doing here, then? Shouldn’t you be at his deathbed?”

 

Tal Elmar did not answer, though his throat moved as he swallowed. Then, before Isildur could say anything else, he fell to his knees solemnly, and raised his face towards him. Looking at them from up close, Isildur could notice that his eyes were red and swollen, but they were also filled with a growing determination.

 

“I make oath. Father forces me. To leave Agar and go to Sea People, and ask for protection. So, as Master of Sea People, I ask you.”

 

“Protection?” Isildur could not believe his ears. “Protection from what?”

 

“My brothers”, Tal Elmar explained. “Eldest Brother ruler of Agar now. Other brothers side with him. and he not challenged. Too powerful. Father… wants me to be ruler and not Eldest Brother. But this impossible, so he tell me to go. I stay, I die.”

 

“Oh. I see.” Isildur’s mind was working furiously, pondering this new situation. Damn it, Malik had not been wrong when he said that things happened faster in these lands. Hazad had not only passed away just nine years after their alliance, he had also seen fit to leave them with a parting gift that might turn out to be a significant complication. He could only imagine what Anárion would say once he heard about this. “Did he also leave any instructions on what we were supposed to do if the new Master of Agar took issue with us sheltering his… enemy?”

 

Tal Elmar seemed to be steeling himself to speak again, as if the next words he had to utter were harder still than what he had already said.

 

“You once said, I go to Númenor with you. I go to Númenor, I no longer nobody’s enemy. They say I back with my own people, my own blood, no longer a warrior of Agar. Please take me to Númenor with you.”

 

Isn’t that great, Isildur? This is exactly what you wanted.

 

“Well, your father must have a very dim view of the rest of your family if he would rather have you taken to the evil island of dark sacrifices” he snorted, trying to hide how much this whole situation unsettled him. “Whenever I offered you the possibility in the past, you turned it down so fiercely that I must confess I was not expecting this development.”

 

Despite his current status as a supplicant, Tal Elmar’s eye shone now with the familiar spark of white-hot anger than Isildur had detected in all those previous occasions.

 

“What I want matters no more.”

 

He did not seem happy at all, prey to an intense shame and discomfort which seemed to radiate through his every move. It had taken a deathbed oath to get him to kneel there and say those words, and as he grew aware of this, Isildur’s heart could not help but go out to him. He sighed deeply.

 

“Very well. I will honour Hazad uBuldar’s last will.” At least until Anárion hears of this, Malik snorted. Because once he does, he might feel tempted to take a page out of the Forest People’s book and murder you. “This means that you can stand up now. I will find you a place to rest, though I would advise you not to leave it until this business is sorted out. Are you hungry?”

 

“I am not hungry. Or tired”, Tal Elmar replied, still angry, even as he struggled to his feet. “Back home, I stay awake three nights for Father’s funeral.” His face fell, as if he had just grown conscious of the gulf between where he was now and where he should have been. “I… stay awake here.”

 

If Isildur’s mother had been with them, she would have hugged the young man. Isildur, however, was no good at providing comfort to others, and there was no telling how the barbarian might react to any overt show of pity for his plight. Besides, the idea of touching him made him uncomfortable for some reason. So, in the end, he just shrugged, and motioned him to follow.

 

Slowly, and rather reluctantly, Tal Elmar uHazad started walking behind him.