Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Governor of Andúnië

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When Fíriel received the summons, she was sitting alone on a clearing, in the lush gardens of the former Lords of Andúnië. All around her, the mallorn trees of her grandmother’s tales made a gentle chiming noise as the breeze stirred their golden leaves, and she was puzzling over the painful question of why she felt more at home in a place she had never seen until now than she had been as she stood on the spot where, according to Gimilzagar’s annoying visions, she had spent her childhood.

Perhaps the blood of Elves had this power. Just as it had been lingering enough to give a daughter of Harad grey eyes, it could also make a child of peasants recognize a palace where she had never lived, perhaps even remember a life she had never had. Or perhaps she should not blame her blood, but herself for turning her back on those who had raised her, until the places and the people of her past seemed like an anecdote from someone else’s life. Even back in the Cave, she was beginning to doubt that her vocal hatred for the priests had been genuine, or the main explanation for the uneasiness that she had experienced. She had refused to admit it while she was there, but the truth was that her feelings had not come from that place, deep within the soul, where she imagined that people carried their most terrible experiences, never to be erased. She had certainly not disliked them any more than she had Retired General Minulzîr, that self-contented, overbearing son of a bitch who had slaughtered the Pearl’s people, or his rival the current Governor of Andúnië. The more she kept trying to go back to the girl she had been back then, the more she was forced to admit that she could not recognize that person anymore, just as she had not recognized the ruins of her humble house. And this disquieted her, as if she had suddenly awoken in her bed to realize that a part of her was missing.

That was why she jumped without the slightest hesitation, and rushed to see what the barbarian could want from her. Anything, even the hostility of someone she had once wanted to be her friend, would be better now than to be alone with her morose thoughts. And if the woman had gone as far as to demand her presence specifically, as Hazin assured her many times that she had, perhaps she was ready to trust her again.

The Lady Rini and her companions had been given a set of airy, beautiful quarters in the Andúnië mansion, which must have belonged to some foremother of Fíriel. For a moment, she could not help but think of what the Lady Lalwendë would say if she saw an old barbarian sitting cross-legged in what might have been her bed, with the head of another in her lap – all this while their young, red-cheeked male companion sat at the foot, munching on nuts and spitting their shells on the beautiful marble floor. When Hazin announced her, he spat the last of them, with a louder vehemence than the others, and struggled to his feet to scowl at her, but his aggressive stance deflated after Rini said something to him. Then, some more words were spoken, and both he and the old woman walked past her and abandoned the room.

Once they were gone, Fíriel could feel the old vulnerability flickering again in the eye of the woman who now sat alone before her. Anyone in the Court would have seized this advantage to assert their own superiority, to remind this barbarian that, even though she had survived the defeat of her people, her fate would be to remain on the losing side forever.

Fíriel bowed before her.

“What does the Lady Rini want from me?”

The barbarian looked puzzled.

“The Lady Rini asks why you bow to her, my lady. She also…” Hazin’s voice trailed away as the woman spoke more words to him “wants to know who is the Prince’s wife.”

Fíriel sighed.

“That is actually a little complicated. May I sit?” Rini immediately gave her permission, but Fíriel was not going to sit at the side of her bed again anytime soon. She looked around the room for a more appropriate chair, which she managed to move just an inch before an alarmed Hazin took it off her hands. After her previous musings, this rankled a little. “You know, I have not always lived the life of a pampered lady, either. No, there is no need for you to translate that, I was addressing you!” Hazin looked both apologetic and apprehensive, and Fíriel cursed herself for her childishness. “Oh, never mind me. I am a pampered lady now, and an idiot on top of that.” She sat on the chair and looked at Rini, who seemed more confused than ever. “Translate this. The Lady Rini is one of the Prince’s wives. In Armenelos there are two others, the Lady Valeria and the Lady Khelened. There used to be a third, but … never mind. “She did not need to think deeply to realize how much harm this piece of information could do at this stage. “Leave out that last thing. As for me, I am not his wife, I am just his lover.”

Rini found all this quite strange.

“But, how can there be a single lover and many wives?” There was a brief discussion, where Hazin shook his head many times. “The Lady Rini wonders if I am… translating something incorrectly.”

Fíriel could not resist.

“No, it is just as absurd as it sounds. The King of Númenor is not –happy that his son loves me, so he keeps finding him beautiful wives to see if he can convince him to look elsewhere. But I do not blame you, my lady, and I would not dream of bearing you any ill will for something that was never your choice.”

As it turned out, however, that was not the barbarian’s main concern.

“How long have those other wives been in Armenelos?”

“Five and three years”, Fíriel answered promptly. Rini looked thoughtful.

“And did the Prince… look at them?”

“Not much. He bedded them on their wedding night, and that was that.”

“And they are alive?”

“Alive and kicking”, Fíriel sighed, before it dawned on her. “My lady, Gimil- the Prince of the West has not sucked the soul of any woman in his bed. And believe me, I have given him plenty of chances. He- “What on Earth had she just said?” He is a man like the others.”

“A man like the others? They say he can enter and possess other spirits and that he needs souls to survive. Is that a lie?”

“Ye- no.” The Númenórean woman looked down, miserably. Perhaps it might have been better to lie. “He does have unusual abilities, but those are shared by some members of our royalty. Some say they have… Elves among their ancestors. He- he inherited those abilities from his mother.”

“Do they all need human souls to survive, then? Is this why they take them from the peoples of the world through conquest?”

“No, that is…” Fíriel sighed, her heart plummeting as it did whenever she was forced to think of those issues. “When he was born, it was a very difficult birth. The High Priest of Melkor healed him, but there were… conditions. Since then, every year he grows weak, and he needs… he needs sacrifices to stay alive. But do not fear, my lady, for this will never be your fate.” Rini’s disgusted look made her nervous, and she had to do her best to keep her cool. “It was never his own choice, he was a baby when it happened! How was he supposed to know what life he would be condemned to lead?”

Rini sounded purposeful and cold as she said her next words.

“My lady’s father did not choose to die for him in the fire, either. Her kin were a lineage of mighty warriors who would have died for glory, or for their people, but not for him. You are a Númenórean, so you would not understand.”

Fíriel winced. A part of her wanted to stay silent, to bow and leave that woman with her grief and her well-earned grudges. If each of them stepped on the side of the line which had been drawn in the floor for them, it would be much better for everyone.

“My father died in the fire, too. So did my cousin, who was raised as my brother. There are tribes and feuds inside the Island as well, and my people are a tribe of exiles. My –my mother’s family used to live here, in this house. In this very room, where the Governor has graciously offered you to stay.”

The lady’s eyes widened.

“She thought that you were with him willingly.”

No, I am not. I was brought to Armenelos by force, just like you, but I learned to accept my fate and realized it was not so dreadful. Do as I did, and your life will be happier.

“I am. I betrayed my people because I loved him so much.”

The amazement and pity turned to confusion, and then, once again, to contempt.

“You deserve your fate, then.”

Fíriel sighed. It hurt – but she was no longer a child. She could take this. She could take anything.

“I know I do. But you don’t. That is why I wish to protect you. To do everything in my hand so you will not suffer needlessly. Please, you have to trust me.”

The Lady Rini’s expression did not become any kinder at this. Still, the hostility focused on Fíriel gradually seemed to turn into something else, a grimness that was more solemn and dignified. For the first time since she was introduced to a trembling captive who yelled gibberish at everyone who approached her, the Númenórean looked at her and saw a princess of her people. It was amazing how proper communication, and having her own loyal servants to lean on, could change a person in only a few days.

“The Lady Rini says that you have already helped her. Your information has been very valuable, and she thanks you for it”, Hazin declared. “But now, she wishes to be alone with her thoughts, so she says that you are dismissed.”

Fíriel bowed herself out.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“She is thinking of assassinating me now” Gimilzagar deduced, as Fíriel watched the hairdressers trying to fit a silver crown in his head without his impossibly lank hair looking wet underneath it. “I suppose it is an improvement that she no longer wants to turn the blade against herself.”

Fíriel shuddered. She hated this. All of this.

“I wonder how would the King react if one of them ever succeeded.”

“He trusts that Mother will see it coming, even if my own, weak mind happens to be clouded by guilt or blind self-destructiveness.”

“Oh” she shrugged, a monstrously inadequate response as she rolled her eyes at the mirror. Gimilzagar motioned the hairdresser to stop, and turned towards her.

“But there will be no need for that. You have been wonderful, Fíriel. With your help, I am confident that Rini will learn to survive as Khelened did, instead of… you know.”

Fíriel knew, indeed. They never spoke her name, but she was aware that, when the wretched woman was dragged to the New Temple of Armenelos to be sacrificed, he had blamed himself. She could have been on the right list; instead, her name had joined the hundreds written in blood and fire.

“So, what is next in your official schedule?” she asked, wishing to change the subject. “To feed bread to the ducks in the pond in the company of the Council of Settlers? To be taken on an inspection tour of the harbour with the Military Governor? Or just a private dinner with a hundred people that you do not know?”

“The dinner will be later, once the sun sets. Before that, the Military Governor has ‘tedious yet unavoidable duties to perform’, to which I have to assume I am not invited. He really does not like me, for all his hypocritical grovelling. He knows I have been staying in Minulzîr’s house, and he does not want to leave me the slightest opening to interfere with any of his dealings. That is why he keeps organizing those events, in the hopes that he can tire me or bore me to death and throw me off his trail.”

“And why don’t you let him? You are not Minulzîr’s spy, and there is no reason why you should care about what General Nimrakor is up to.” The hairdresser returned to his duty, as if there had been no interruption. “The truth is, I am feeling a little… out of sorts, Gimilzagar. Some company would be appreciated.”

“I know”.

“And I know that you know, but when a woman goes to the effort of confessing a vulnerability, you could learn to act as if you had not read it in her mind an hour before!” she spat angrily. His eyes widened.

“I am sorry.”

What was it with her, anyway? To be honest, she could no longer tell what was bothering her more, if her confusing feelings about her past or Rini’s words. What she knew is that all this was equally related to Gimilzagar in her mind. Suddenly, she saw herself with the barbarian’s eyes, and she marvelled at how she had allowed this man to have so much power over her. He had separated her from her family, turned her into something different from what she used to be, even made her a traitor in the eyes of her people.

Except that none of this had been his doing. It was all on her, and she was just looking for someone to blame.

Gimilzagar motioned to the hairdresser to retreat again, stood on his feet, and pulled Fíriel into an embrace. He did not kiss her, or whisper words in her ear, just held her body against his until it dawned on her how much she had been yearning for this. Perhaps mind reading was not always so bad, after all.

“Come with me. We will find a way to distract ourselves from our thoughts” he said at last, retreating a little until he could look at her face. He was only slightly taller than her, so their eyes were almost in line, even if one of his was half-hidden under a tuft of dark hair which the servant had been vainly trying to curl artistically on one side of his head. “After all, we already have some practice with that.”

For the first time in days, Fíriel smiled.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The afternoon went by slowly, lazily, in a way that Fíriel would later recognize as the ominous calm before a storm. First, Gimilzagar took her on a walk through the lord of Andúnië’s gardens, where she showed him the mallorn trees, and briefly felt better as she told him the legend of how their seeds had been brought from the Undying Lands by the Elves. Then, they walked down the coastline, and reached the vicinity of the military headquarters which had been built using part of the former grounds. While they were there, the noise of the drills and the neighing of horses disrupted the magic spell of the place, and she began feeling nervous and edgy again. At some point, she suggested that they made their way back to the house, to prepare for the evening feast. He was reluctant to do so at first, claiming that he was still tired from the walk, but in the end he agreed to go with her.

As they reached the main entrance and were about to cross the entrance hall, Fíriel was stopped on her tracks by an unusual noise, coming from the Governor’s quarters upstairs. It was the sound of raised voices, which was quenched as abruptly as it had started, though not before she could see Gimilzagar’s eyes widen, then narrow in a way that made her uneasy.

 “What is that?” Fíriel asked. They finished climbing a flight of marble stairs that took them to the upper quarters, where they found an entire row of guards on duty before the Governor’s doorstep. Suddenly, the voices reached her ears again, this time from a closer distance, causing her heart to jump. As she listened on, she could tell apart one that was pleading desperately, another ordering silence –and someone that sounded like a child crying to the top of their lungs.

“Gimilzagar, what is that?” she repeated. He, however, kept walking in the direction of his quarters, and when she did not follow him, he took her hand and tried to pull.

“Governor’s business, I suppose” he said, in an evasive way. “Come on, we should hurry.”

“There is a child in there”, she insisted. He looked slightly pained.

“I know, but this is none of our concern.”

She did not even know why she was resisting him. Her rational side was very much aware that he was right; that it was none of their business, and that barging into the Governor of Andúnië’s quarters was the last thing they should be doing. Her irrational side, on the other hand, was scared of what they were going to find. Gimilzagar had told her that this man was deliberately keeping him away from things, what if he was engaging in something sordid, such as torture or murder, perhaps even a sacrifice? Nobody in Númenor was allowed to hold sacrifices in private, though they could buy souls to be sacrificed by the priests of the great temples. Fíriel had never understood this ban, as it literally could not enter her mind that anyone would wish to do something so horrible for their own, private pleasure, but Gimilzagar had explained that ambitious folk would seek to increase their fortunes in such a fashion, and that some of them could pose a threat to the Sceptre. This had been the case with one of the Magistrates of Umbar some years ago, and also with the son of the Lord of Orrostar- at least until they had both been betrayed and their activities stopped.

But that was just it. If the man was up to something unlawful, then Gimilzagar should be able to stop him. And if not… she preferred not to think about that.

“Please, Gimilzagar” she said, letting this impulse have the better of her prudence. The child’s wails grew stronger as she spoke. “You are still the Prince of the West. They will have to let you in.”

Gimilzagar looked down, she did not know if to flee her glance, or to gather his resolve for something. Belatedly, it struck her that because of his uncanny powers, he might already know what was happening inside – and if so, it had to be something he was afraid of.

He swallowed, and took a very long and deep breath.

“Fine” he said, his voice practically a whisper. “I will do as you wish, Fíriel.”

The Military Governor of Andúnië was sitting on his desk. His guards reluctantly moved aside at Gimilzagar’s advance, though not before making the attempt to warn him that “it could be dangerous in there”. Behind them, they saw a number of chained people, which Fíriel was too shocked to count, though she could distinguish three children among them. The smallest of the three was the one who was crying, despite a woman’s frantic attempts to quiet him down. She looked at the woman’s face, and her stomach plummeted. Her mind was flooded by an avalanche of images, of the time when her family was seized by the Governor of Sor’s men and accused of conspiring to kill the Prince of the West. Fíriel had been waiting outside when they were released, and she had caught a glimpse of their eyes when they saw the soldiers open the doors of their cell and believed that it was their time to die. For some reason, she had forgotten that this particular memory was inside her mind until now.

“… there is truly no need for the Prince of the West to watch this unpleasant business. That is the reason why governors are appointed, after all.”

“I am sorry, Governor, but I just cannot believe there are still Baalim-worshippers in these shores!” Gimilzagar remarked, in a tone of surprise. Fíriel’s heart plummeted even further. They were Faithful! “Why would they remain here, so long after the rest of their people left for a place where the King himself guarantees their safety? Do they not know that they are risking their lives as well as those of their children?”

“Fanatics will do whatever they need to do for the sake of their cause, my lord prince.” Fíriel grabbed Gimilzagar’s arm again, and sank her nails so deeply that he bit back a wince, but he did not look away from his interlocutor.

“And they managed to pass undetected until now? Very impressive. Unless… I wonder.”

“What is it, my lord prince?” The Governor did not seem in a good mood, though Fíriel barely had the wits to notice this. She was too busy looking at the crying child, and the mother who cradled him, and the older woman who stood protectively over the two other children, who were shaking.  

“I heard some rumours on my way here. Some people claim that you are a little worried about your reputation, and that you may be trying too hard to make yourself indispensable by catching so-called Baalim-worshippers by the dozens. That you do not even have solid evidence to back your actions.”

“Oh, I see.” The Governor scowled. “That old viper Minulzîr has not been wasting a second of his time. He is sore about my appointment, everybody knows that, but I cannot believe he had the effrontery to subject the heir to the Sceptre to his untruths”.

Everybody in the room was looking at them now, even the prisoners. One of them, who stood before the others and looked like their ringleader, managed to hide his fear to subject both of them to a very hostile glance.

“Men like you would not recognize the truth if it was shining like the Sun, an inch away from your noses”, he spat. One of the guards hit him in the stomach, and he collapsed with a groan. A woman let go of a sharp cry.

“See? Seditious to the core! How could they be anything but Baalim-worshippers?”

“I hope that is not all the evidence you have.”

At this point, the Governor seemed to decide that he needed to change tack. His tone became softer, condescending, as if he was trying to educate a young child in some basic fact of life.

“Of course not, my lord prince. I know what I am doing, and I have plenty of experience in such matters.” He made a sign to one of his men. “Show the Prince what they had hidden in their cellar.”

The soldier opened a bundle he was carrying, and threw it carelessly at his feet. Fíriel could not help but see that some of the accused winced as the wooden statues hit the floor.

“What, this?” Gimilzagar knelt to pick it up, his brow furrowed in a politely incredulous way. “It looks like some kind of old heirloom.”

“Do you know what this represents, my lord prince? It is an image of their gods. At nights, when nobody is looking, they kneel before them and speak their evil incantations in the Elvish tongue. Believe me, nobody would keep this in their house for mere sentimental reasons, though of course that is what they all claim.”

“Perhaps you should investigate those claims, Governor. The King keeps a four-thousand-year old sword forged by the Elves as an heirloom, and believe me, he is not an Elf-friend. Now, remind me, what is going to happen to them if they are found guilty?”

“They will be taken to Armenelos to die.”

“And the children?” Fíriel could not see any emotion in Gimilzagar’s face, but she could perceive something, some kind of new energy crackling around him which she had never felt before. This gave some pause to her horror.

“I do not know, it is not my concern. Sold, most likely. Minulzîr might be interested.” The woman who was holding the child pulled him closer and whimpered.

“Then, I am sure you can give me stronger evidence than an old heirloom before you go around sending fellow Númenóreans to die. Otherwise, I might start wondering if Minulzîr was right, after all.”

“We also have witnesses…”

“That bastard wanted to get our pear orchard!” a young man shouted, before he had a chance to be silenced. The Governor snorted.

“Forgive me, my lord prince, but this is ridiculous! You do not know the situation in the Andustar, except for some malicious rumours spread by a bitter old man who is jealous of my success and covets my position. I do not think…”

“Enough!” Gimilzagar hissed. “I know very well who is a Baalim worshipper and who is not. I am able to tell from the moment I look into their eyes, and I never make a mistake, do you know why? Because they all want me dead, and I can see the hatred blazing inside their minds the moment they set eyes on me. Many have tried to hide it, but none has been successful. “He turned towards the first man, who had finally managed to struggle back into a sitting position after the blow. “Look at me. Do you think I am an abomination? Do you hate me and wish for my death? Speak!”

For a moment, a long, horrible moment, Fíriel was sure that he was going to say yes. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then gazed at Gimilzagar as if he was suddenly transfixed.

“We do not hate you!” the woman with the child cried desperately. “We would never wish you anything but long life and prosperity! Please, my lord prince, you must believe us!”

The man turned slowly towards her, mesmerized.

“No, my lord prince. We do not - hate you.”

Gimilzagar smiled in triumph.

“There, see?” His expression sobered. “Release them. Give them back their lands and everything you took from them. And stop chasing after shadows, Governor.”

Now, Fíriel could notice that the old general was definitely furious.

“With all my respects, my lord prince, I am the Governor of the Andustar. You cannot interfere with my decisions.” He turned his gaze in her direction, and she realized that he was doing a great effort to bite his tongue. “And neither can she.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“She used to be one of them! All the Island knows that!”

Gimilzagar kept his cool admirably, in Fíriel’s opinion.

“I will inform you of your options, Governor. If you send them to Armenelos, I will see that they are released once they get there, and you will be in trouble for persisting in your ill-advised attempts to have innocent people condemned. If you execute them right here, after the news reach Armenelos, I will make sure that you get in trouble for that as well. So if I were you, I would do as I say, and remain friends with me.”

“I will write to the King”, the man said, livid. “And I will complain about your behaviour. This is an interference… an intolerable meddling… after an entire life of duty and honour, I …”

“Very well, Governor. Write to him.” Right then, Fíriel saw it in his eyes: an unspoken yearning, a spark of defiance, not directed at this small man, but at the King himself. “Let us see if he can spare some of his precious time to listen to your grievances. Meanwhile, let these people go. It is an order.”

For a while, the governor of the Andustar just stared back at him, trembling with rage. Then, he made a sign with his hand, some kind of spasmodic jerk, and the soldiers started taking the prisoners’ chains off.

“Gimilzagar…” she began, but he shook his head and her voice died on his lips. He gazed beyond her, to the place where the group’s ringleader had a look of deep horror on his eyes.

“I want him in my chambers. As soon as possible. And you, too.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

If Gimilzagar had expected the Faithful peasant to be grateful to him for saving his life, he had been sorely mistaken. By the time the man crossed the threshold of the Prince’s chambers, the look of horror had evolved into one of revulsion, and he did not make any effort to bow, kneel, or show his respect in any other way.

“You are welcome”, Gimilzagar nodded. This irony finally had the effect of prompting his interlocutor into speaking.

“You – you abomination! What did you do to my mind? I felt… I- I still feel…” He shuddered, pressing a trembling palm against his forehead. He looked almost at the verge of collapsing, though his righteous anger seemed to give him strength. “Your foul darkness is still inside my head!”

“I apologize for that”, the Prince replied courteously. “I would have respected your death wish if you had not been about to drag other people into it.”

“As if that mattered to you! You are a soulless monster, you do not care about any of us!” The shudder evolved into shivers, as if the temperature of the room was suddenly lower. “All that matters to you is your petty power struggles. I am not afraid of you. None of us is. The Lords of the West are mightier!”

“That is good to know”. Gimilzagar smiled; the smile almost looked authentic to Fíriel’s trained eye. “Because you and your people are going to travel to Armenelos with me. Then, you will proceed to Rómenna, and you will not stop until you get there. As you should have done at least ten years ago.”

“I will not abandon my post!”

This time, Fíriel herself felt the overpowering urge to intervene.

“Post? What post? Listen, good man, I was born here too, and my family worshipped the Baalim just as yours did! But when they realized that they had to abandon their homeland to give their children a better life, they did not think twice about it. The lord of Andúnië has accepted his exile and is in no need of secret agents to help him ensure his return. And if you think that the Baalim will need lookouts to land on the Island and conquer it for the Faithful, then you are even more wrong about them than the rest of Númenor is!” she spat. He stared sideways at her, and was about to open his mouth when Gimilzagar interrupted him.

“I understand your need to lash out at someone. After all, you were about to die horribly, and see all your family die horribly around you. But Fíriel was not the one responsible for your ordeal. Now, get the rest of your people, pack only the essentials, and go. We will meet in the road tomorrow.”

The man still looked defiant as he limped across the threshold, but Fíriel knew that he would do as he was told –if not for him, because the others could not fail to see the danger and the futility of remaining in the West after such a close call, under the thumb of an enraged and vengeful Governor.

“I am sorry for involving you in this situation, Fíriel”, Gimilzagar apologized as soon as they were alone. She stared at him in incredulity.

“What do you mean, you are sorry? I was the one who forced you to go in there!” Suddenly, she did not know whether to laugh or cry. “So. You didn’t have the authority to threaten victorious generals, you said?”

For once, his smile was genuine.

“Not unless I start acting like a spoiled brat. Once I do, it may turn out that no one has the authority to send me to bed without dinner, after all. But you are right, Fíriel. I would never even have set foot inside that room it was not for you” he continued, after a brief pause. “As always, anything good I do, anything that requires courage, I do because you are here with me.”

She blinked, not knowing very well what to say. Had he given in to her insistence, and got into trouble with the General, just because she had been feeling uneasy about her life’s decisions?

“You are feeling better now, are you not?”

For a moment, she wanted to do many things at once: to kiss him, but also to roll her eyes at him, to be angry at him even – and in the end, she managed none of them.

“I am. Of course I am. Only, I am a little worried- what is going to happen now? The Governor is very angry, and he said he would complain to the King.” She recalled the fey spark in Gimilzagar’s eye as he had dared the old man to follow through with his threat. “Aren’t you afraid of that?”

The Prince of the West shrugged, it seemed to her that just a little uncomfortably.

“Do not worry. Generals Nimrakor has a well-known feud with General Minilzîr, and he was only too ready to identify his rival as the main responsible for poisoning my mind against him. I am just a gullible, spoiled young man with no will of his own, and accusing me will bring upon him the wrath of the Queen who holds the Sceptre in Armenelos. So, after a day or three of heavy thinking and cooling his temper, he will decide that it is Minulzîr he needs to move against. He will accuse him of something, possibly of being a secret Faithful, and Minulzîr will accuse him of conspiring against the Sceptre. And by the time the dust clears, these people and their children will be safe and hidden somewhere in the mainland.”

“Oh.” Fíriel could not help but be impressed at the clever plan he must have figured out even as he argued with the Governor. Usually, Gimilzagar did such a good job of hiding what he was capable of, even from himself, that it never failed to take her by surprise. And yet…. “But what if he hears?”

Gimilzagar took a long breath and lowered his head to stare at the point of his toes, not unlike a child who had been caught sneaking cakes from the pantry. Fíriel was about to reach for him and pull him into an embrace, when his gaze suddenly hardened, and the child was gone.

“It is his strategy, Fíriel. What do you do when you wish to elude someone? You stay ahead of them, so all they can see of you is your back. He always takes the initiative, so I have no choice but to react to it. And he keeps throwing distractions at me like a dog is thrown a bone, forcing me to chase after solutions for a hundred upsetting problems, while he prepares for the greatest war in the history of the Island. A war where Númenor will either triumph or perish.” She bit her lip, remembering her fateful conversation with the Queen. “I admit I might consider it a welcome change if I could make him turn back for once.”

Fíriel strove to wrap her mind around this.

“But, Gimilzagar, even if he were to turn back and react to what you have done, what do you think that would happen? Do you think he would no longer invade the Baalim just because you are creating additional problems for him? Or…” Now, it was she who looked down, unwilling to meet his glance. “Do you think that, if you were in his presence, you would be able to convince him? But, at what cost?”

“I do not know. I have just convinced you that this trip was worthwhile, have I not?” he retorted flippantly. When she did not smile, his face fell, and she wished she had smiled. She had been the one who had dragged him into this, and she was being so terribly, terribly ungrateful. “No, no, no, do not think that! You are right, Fíriel. I am a fool. My father is out of my reach and I cannot change his mind, or prevent anything. But do you know what?” He laughed bitterly. “Just for a moment, the thought that I might anger him just for the sake of it also looked worthwhile in its own way.”

Personally, Fíriel had not liked the look that crossed Gimilzagar’s face as he thought that. She did not want Gimilzagar to engage Ar Pharazôn in a game that the Prince could never hope to win, and where the number of casualties could be so high. But she was beginning to realize that Gimilzagar saw this as well as she did, and that it was merely his frustration speaking. Impotence did not seem to come easily, not even to those who had grown to adulthood under its ghastly wing.

“One would think I should already be used, right?”

She shook her head, suddenly feeling rebellious.

“No. This is absurd. You are merely setting your sights too high, Gimilzagar. There were twelve people there just now, twelve, and you saved them all. Do you realize what this means? As far as they are concerned, you are all-powerful.”

He looked at her in silence, for a long time. Then, in the end, he shrugged.

“That is true. I probably am an all-powerful abomination to those people.”

“Gimilzagar!” Her voice was reproachful, but only half-heartedly so, since the edge of his bitterness was gone.

“What do you think we should do now? Go to the feast and brave the Governor’s ire, or stay here and… find something better to do?”

Fíriel took his pale hand and manoeuvred it away from her cheek, acutely feeling the loss of its warmth.

“You will go to the feast and brave the Governor’s ire, while I stay here and organize our departure for tomorrow. Barbarians, Baalim-worshippers and all.”

“Hm.” He stood on his feet, absently smoothing the wrinkles in his clothes. “Do you realize that you would all be arrested at the first checkpoint if I was not travelling with you?”

Fíriel gave him a brief kiss before turning away.

“We shall try not to lose you, then.”

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Isildur sighed in irritation. He had never been too fond of Pelargir, that quaint, stone-carved replica of Rómenna with a dirtier underbelly than Sor, but having to conduct diplomatic relations with the Merchant Princes just to be allowed to close deals in what they considered their territory was positively revolting. Back when Elendil had been governor of Arne, he might have tried to be friendly to everyone, but he would never have allowed those people to rule the Bay as if it was theirs by right of conquest. Whenever Isildur was forced to smile and exchange small talk with one of those greedy upstarts, he felt more violent than if he had been facing a hundred Orcs in battle.

That was why Anárion should have been here with him, he thought wistfully, dealing with them while Isildur did the hiring and the recruiting. But he had remained up North, claiming that the situation with their barbarian allies was delicate enough as to require his presence. If he closed his eyes, Isildur could almost picture the gloating at his perfect revenge for his older brother’s transgressions.

You are in quite a desperate situation, Isildur. Who will do the talking for you now? Oh, wait. Perhaps you could let him try.

The son of Elendil ignored the ghost, but he turned back to check if the young barbarian was following him. Since they arrived to the city, he had already got lost twice, just because he tended to stare wide-eyed at his surroundings instead of following Isildur as he was supposed to do. It was like being in charge of a child, he thought.

“Tal Elmar!” he called, biting back a curse as he saw that the young man had stopped again, this time to look in astonishment at some beggars who had organized a street theatre involving mock-fighting and head-clubbing. All around them, people clapped and cheered whenever one of them got hit. “What are you doing? We are expected at Abanazer’s house at midday.”

“Is this… ritual fight?” Tal Elmar asked. Isildur grabbed him by the arm and negotiated his way around the crowd, making sure that his other hand was on his bag.

“No. It is entertainment. Game. Dance. Feasting.” Of course, none of those terms could explain what they were seeing, but Tal Elmar knew no others. He had literally never seen anything but the village where he was born. “They entertain people in exchange for money.”

This was such a strange concept to assimilate that it prevented the barbarian from coming up with new questions. For a while, he just walked on, mulling over this with a silent frown –until they reached the marketplace, and he saw the display of stalls.

“That is much food!” he exclaimed in amazement. “Where it comes from? Númenor?”

“Arne, mostly. They have very fertile lands down there” This, and the Arnian nobles give it all away gladly in exchange for baubles while their own people are starving, Malik contributed helpfully. “But you must stop letting everything distract you. You are a warrior of Agar, not a child. Would you give a bird who is, I do not know, chirping in some branch your full attention while you are on the battlefield?”

“Is Númenórean land battlefield?” the young man asked him, with two parts of curiosity and -or so it seemed to Isildur-, one part of challenge.

“Yes, it is” he answered bluntly. “Your brothers wanted to kill you, did they not? Well, among the Númenóreans, there are also many who want me dead.”

“So”, Tal Elmar seemed to be mulling this over. “I go to Númenor because I in danger. And you come to Agar because you in danger.”

Malik laughed.

“Fortunately for us, the Númenórean empire is much larger than your tribe, and there are still places where people do not want me dead. There are even places where people are loyal to me, like the house where we are going now. But out in the crowd, where you do not know the faces of the people who press around you, there is always danger. Years ago, we were waylaid here, and I killed five men. “Men working for the very man you are seeking favours from, Lord Diplomat.

“If you attacked here, I fight for you”, Tal Elmar declared hotly, his hand closing over the pommel of his dagger. As he saw this, Isildur was forcefully reminded of the need to teach the young man proper combat.

“You would be a great bodyguard, Tal Elmar” he said, doing his best not to sound condescending. By now, he was aware that the young barbarian was always able to detect any traces of this in his tone, and that he reacted quite negatively when he did. “But the safest strategy is to rely on anonymity.”

“What is anonymity?”

Isildur knew the answer to this one.

“Hiding, like the warriors of Agar do. But instead of hiding in the forest, we hide here.” He made a gesture, encompassing the crowd around them. “We lose ourselves among all these people, and the eyes of our enemies will not be able to spot us among them. But for that, we have to behave exactly like them. We cannot stand out.”

“They do not stop and stare” Tal Elmar deduced – very quickly, Isildur had to admit. “So I do not stop and stare. I walk quick and look busy.”

“Exactly.” Isildur smiled. “You are a fast learner.”

“And they get food.” Suddenly, there was a cunning glint in the young man’s eyes, and Malik arched an eyebrow. “So we get food?”

Isildur laughed.

“Nice try. But we are on our way to have food right now, and we do not want to offend Abanazer, do we?

The notion of offending someone by refusing their food was a constant in every culture as far as he knew. Still, perhaps the scene in Tal Elmar’s mind was a little more violent than what Isildur was able to conjure up, because he dropped the idea at once.

As they walked on, it soon became evident that the barbarian had taken the idea of anonymity quite seriously. The warriors of Agar could mimic every animal and tree in their forest, and once Tal Elmar’s mind translated that notion to imitating the people around him, Isildur could not help feeling amazed at how much like a Númenórean he walked. Even the sense of wonder was gone, replaced by a purposeful frown that did not disappear from his features until they were ushered through Abanazer’s threshold. Then, and only then, he allowed himself to relax.

“Do I do well?” he asked Isildur, with pride in his voice. The older man gave him a solemn nod.

“You did very well. You will be a great Númenórean, Tal Elmar.”

At least if they let him, Malik remarked, shrugging apologetically when Isildur turned to glare in his direction.