Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Unlikely Fellowships

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The Governor’s farewell was as frosty as the morning in which they began their return journey. Still, he was very careful not to show overt rudeness again, nor did he make the slightest mention to what had taken place only a day earlier. This confirmed Gimilzagar’s expectations about his reaction: soon after he and his retinue had disappeared beyond the horizon, the man’s mind would be brimming with vengeful thoughts of Minulzîr.  In the meantime, he had known better than to send his soldiers after those hapless Elf-friends under Gimilzagar’s nose, which had given them the window they needed to take their most precious valuables and hit the road.

Now, as they advanced across the Andustar’s changed landscape under a cold morning fog, the Prince could not help but wonder if it could really be so easy - and in a deeper, shameful recess of his mind, if he wanted it to be so. Since he was a child, he had lived under a great fear of many things: crowds, his nurse, Lord Zigûr, the King, the unknown. Even after he grew to adulthood, and most of those fears either disappeared or were revealed to him in their true dimension, he had remained affected by the powerful feeling that he was not allowed to step outside certain boundaries. If he did so, at best, he would be unable to get his way, and his defiance would be futile; at worst, he would be responsible for unleashing new and nameless horrors. This deep conviction had stopped him from fighting, from trying to change the world around him. What would be the point, if his efforts were destined to fail? He was not his father’s heir except in name, and sometimes he was not sure of where he stood, of how much he could risk before the thin ice under his feet broke, dragging not only him but everyone around him to a watery grave. He had nothing left to bargain with, no leverage except his hopes that his mother loved him enough to grab his hand when he fell, but even this certainty was tainted in his mind by the memories of her past betrayal, and his frustrating inability to understand her mysterious designs. In Númenor, those loyal to the Sceptre saw him as little more than a weak nonentity, while for the Baalim-worshippers he was an abomination.

For all his life, those considerations had been there, preventing him from following most of his impulses. He had been sympathetic, sorry, disgusted; even sarcastic, when the other emotions proved to be too painful. But at the end of the day, there was simply nothing he could do. At times, there had been one shining opportunity to feel a little better about himself without attracting attention or retribution, but he had always balked at anything bigger than that. Now, he had to wonder if he had not just been paralyzed by fear all this time, like a child alone in the darkness. He was not sure of what had made him emerge briefly from this state, if Fíriel’s morose mood, which had infected his thoughts, or Ar Pharazôn’s fourth and strongest attempt to punish him for his love for the wrong woman, which might soon be followed by a fifth and a sixth, or the unbearable pain and fear emerging from the minds of those people who had been torn from their homes and dragged into the building to be sentenced to die. It was not the first time –nor would it be the last- that he perceived such emotions in the thoughts of others, though on this instance he had not been standing before a ghastly altar, but walking across beautiful gardens which once bore witness to the happiness and prosperity of Fíriel’s family. That must be why he had lowered his guard, and forgot everything except the persistent thought that he could not let Andúnië be further defiled in her eyes. Not when she was already feeling so terrible about herself and her choices.

Still, once he had acted on this impulse, and done things that he could no longer take back, the disaster that a part of him expected had not struck. He had not been ignored, or dismissed. The Governor of Andúnië had been angry, yet wary, and though Gimilzagar had acted like a spoiled brat, he had bowed before the spoiled brat and carried out his bidding. The twelve Baalim worshippers had not been murdered in their beds that night, and they were travelling with them now. Ar Pharazôn might not hear about this at all, and even if he did, he would never hear about it in time. Fíriel had spoken truly: for a moment, he had been all-powerful.

This power, however, brought a greater uneasiness than any he had felt until now. For if he got away with this, how could he ever forget that he had acted on an impulse, and achieved what he wanted? How could he go back to a life of prudence, of well-meaning powerlessness, of trying to pass unnoticed and not reaching beyond his grasp? That life had been grey and ugly, but it was also safe and familiar, and after a while he had even managed to keep his guilt in check, at least enough to prevent it from swallowing him. This life, on the other hand… what if he was the only one who could save Fíriel’s people from the flames, or change things in the Island, perhaps even prevent the senseless invasion of the Undying Lands? That intoxicating moment, as he was still reeling from the realization of what he had done, had made him feel dangerous emotions: the wish to confront the King, to stand up to him just as he had stood up to his soldier underlings. Fíriel had tried to steer him away from this perilous train of thought, when she had made him see that the only way to feel powerful was to not set one’s sights too high. But now, the insidious doubt was already on his mind, and he did not know if it was a sign that his cowardice refused to accept or if, on the contrary, his previous instincts had been true and he was merely suffering from a temporary delusion, a dream from which he would be rudely awoken by some terrible thing happening.

While he sat in silence, pondering those things, the sun dissolved the fog, and the world started to unravel around him. Fíriel had not made any attempts to engage him in conversation, but it was no longer out of moodiness. Since the previous night, she almost seemed a different woman, possessed by a spirit of boundless energy that had been immediately poured into various causes. Soon after their departure, she had left the cart to bring food to their fellow travelers from Andúnië, after which she had walked alongside them for miles, giving no thought to the damage to her expensive shoes. As far as he could perceive from the distance, most of them were wary of the abomination’s whore, but the children and the two mothers of the group proved approachable enough, and even allowed themselves to be engaged in conversation. After a while of this, Fíriel suddenly decided that young children should not be made to walk such long distances, coming up with the idea of asking Lady Rini for permission to put them in her cart. Gimilzagar did not know what Fíriel had said to her, or how the Middle-Earth barbarian, so hostile on their previous encounters, had reacted to it, but the children were ushered through the curtained opening under the apprehensive look of their parents. This dislodged the youngest of the barbarians from his seat, as the cart was already too full. Gimilzagar saw him jump away from it, and start walking by its side as solemnly as if he was the chief of Rini’s escort –which, in the inscrutable core of his mind, he perhaps was. Both the members of the true escort and the peasants gave him a wide berth.

To have to adapt to a group of walking people, however, had thrown their plans in disarray to a great extent, and driven Lord Abdazer to a frenzy. That was why, as they trudged slowly down the meandering coastline, Fíriel came to inform Gimilzagar that she had given orders to acquire more carts in the first inn they crossed –since of course, none of their fellow travelers knew how to ride.

“That might compromise our deniability of any connections with these people”, he remarked. She smiled.

“You are a soft-hearted weakling who could not bear the idea of those unjustly accused peasants having to cross the Island on foot to escape the wrath of a provincial governor. There, denied. What other problem do you wish me to solve for you?”

Gimilzagar let his gaze trail over her windswept hair and her face, flushed from the effort of walking. He had not seen her look so alive in days, or months, he corrected himself. Perhaps it had not been such a bad idea to get her away from Armenelos, after all.

Suddenly, as he was thinking this, a burst of realization hit him. As a resort, he jumped from his seat and threw the curtain wide open. The road had made a meander to cross a green pasture, where he could distinguish a handful of cows sitting lazily. Their reddish silhouettes were sharply set against the Sea, which acted like a gigantic mirror, reflecting the sunlight into his eyes. For a moment, he could do nothing but stop and blink, blinded by its intensity. As he recovered from this temporary setback, he gazed at the peasants, who were taking advantage of the brief resting pause to wolf down the food that Fíriel had provided for them. The children were there, too, but not alone: both Hazin and the old barbarian woman had come with them, and the youngest was still asleep in her arms.

Taking Fíriel’s hand, Gimilzagar also set foot on the ground – and he saw it.

His vision.

“I was wrong. I thought that to see the ruins of your home would make you happy.” Even as he said it, he realized how clueless and stupid he had been. “But the past only made you sad, because it was already far behind you, and you could not return to it, much less change it. It gave you no purpose, only guilt.”

Purpose. Guilt. Change. The very concepts he had been struggling with for a day that felt like an eternity, and yet he did not want her to perceive his turmoil. Not now that she had been granted a precious reprieve from the doubts that agitated her own mind.

“Walk with me”, she asked. His eyes widened, and he gazed in the direction of their travelling companions. Most of them were talking amongst themselves without paying attention to them, but a couple had seen him emerge from his vehicle, and were studiously trying not to look.

“I do not think that is a good idea, Fíriel.”

She frowned, giving him her familiar look of frustration.

“There is no one in that group who does not owe you their life, Gimilzagar.”

“And the sooner they are allowed to forget about that, or rationalize it away as some… I do not know, whim of my capricious soul, complex power-plotting whose intricacies escape them, or brief transformation of their enemy into the unwitting tool of the will of their useless gods, who never raise a finger to help them, the happier they will be.”

“For your information, all these people treated me with great suspicion and hostility at first. They would not talk to me. Now, even Zamin has thanked me for the food – she is Saphad’s wife, see. The one who wanted to die and called you an abomination. I can feel he is almost ready to address me without intermediaries, perhaps in a day or two. And Lady Rini’s wetnurse is such a nice woman, I think you would like her.”

“That is not the same. For them, you can be an innocent woman who was forced or tricked into staying by my side. I, on the other hand, am nothing but a monster.”

“I don’t know if you are a monster, but you are definitely a coward.”

“What?” He stared at Fíriel, alarmed. Could she have acquired mind-reading abilities overnight, and learned about the things he had been thinking?

“You are brave enough to save people, but then you are afraid of those you save. Now, it is the Andúnië peasants, and before that it was the Lady Rini as well.”

So she was just trying to egg him on. His relief at this realization was, however, tinged by frustration that she would not see the truth. Seized by an impulse, he walked towards the group, and, just as he expected, the fragile peace found by a bunch of outlaws and barbarian slaves under the vigilant eye of the Palace Guards shattered in a thousand shards before their eyes. Parents brought their children closer, the man Saphad was begged by his desperate wife to lower his head like the others, and Hazin fell to his knees, trembling as if all this was somehow his fault.

“Lord Abdazer has brought to my attention that, at this pace, we will never reach shelter in time to spend the night” he informed them gravely. “I believe all the women and children can be distributed between Lady Rini’s cart and mine, and then the speed of our travel would increase. What do you say?”

Nobody said anything, but their horror would have been conspicuous enough even to someone who could not “pry open a thought to see what was inside”, as Mother used to call it. Gimilzagar turned towards Fíriel, who suddenly seemed to find a blade of grass at her feet very interesting.

“I…” The woman Fíriel had called Zamin looked up, her eyes full of determination. “I will travel with you, my lord prince.” Slowly, a second woman followed the same motions and volunteered in her wake, and then a third, and a fourth. Their attitude was that of a bunch of martyrs volunteering for sacrifice, and their purpose, Gimilzagar saw it clearly, was to protect the children and the youngest of their number, whom he recognized as the impulsive mother of the baby who now lay in the barbarian’s arms. Saphad made an attempt to protest, but his wife covered his mouth with one of her hands, giving him a beseeching look.

“Very well. I will be expecting you as soon as you finish your meal” he said, before turning his back on the group and retracing his steps to return to the cart. After a brief flurry of dismayed whispers, he could hear Fíriel following him.

“I am sorry. I should not have called you a coward. I know how hard it must be for you, to have people look at you the way they do. It was just – I wanted to goad you, because you were so brave when you stood before that general, and I thought that maybe…”

“That maybe the world did no longer hold to the same rules, and what used to be impossible had suddenly become possible”, he finished for her. But that would never happen. The limits were there, just a little farther from where they used to be. “I am sorry that your optimism could not last longer, Fíriel.”

She quickened her pace until she overtook him, and stood before him to cut his way.

“Do not underestimate me, Gimilzagar. I am not just in a good mood because I had my way in something, it is… it is the sense of purpose that being responsible for getting these people to safety has given me. And I do not intend to give that away so easily. We are all Eru’s children here, from the wildest barbarian to the Cursed Abomination of the West. And before this trip is over, we will treat each other as such.”

For a moment, the Prince did not know what to say, or even what to think about her new, self-appointed mission. But as it turned out, he did not have the chance, for, before he had managed to open his mouth, she had already left.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The afternoon ride was just as quiet as the morning one, though there were six people inside the cart now, instead of just two. The peasant women huddled together as far from him as it was humanly possible, and despite Fíriel’s efforts to draw them into a trivial conversation, they would not speak, move, or even breathe loudly. Gimilzagar wondered if the presence of children might have changed this, forcing them to interact through the sheer force of their mindless innocence. But he could not find any excuse to have any of them brought here, not to mention that it would have been counterproductive to scare their parents even more than they already were. As things stood, it was unpleasant enough to reconcile himself with the ghastly image of him that he saw in their minds, a distorted reflection that wasn’t him –and yet was.

That was what Fíriel had failed to understand earlier, he thought. To her, all he needed to do was to correct their gross misapprehensions, to set them right. He was fair, and good, and innocent of every evil that happened in the Island. But deep inside, even she was aware at some level that it was not so easy, which was why she carried as much guilt for keeping him alive as he did for living. Both had made a habit of drowning this small point, and yet they knew that sooner or later, it would always emerge. They would find it in the hateful glance of a defeated enemy, in the revulsion barely hidden under a Baalim-worshipper’s eye, or in the fear of four peasant women forced to share his space. And then he had to wonder what would have happened if only he had been braver… if he could put an end to his own life, or at least risked it to save them all, every man, woman and child, not just a small handful of them.

Now, Fíriel’s doubts seemed to be set aside for the time being, but his were not. Thinking about it, he realized how ironic it was, both that a show of bravery had left him feeling like a coward who did not do enough, and that an attempt to comfort someone else had had the opposite effect on himself.

“You do not look very happy”, she said, and her words cut the thick silence like the slice of a blade. He shrugged, dismissive, but she did not drop it. “Is there anything I can do to cheer you up?”

“There is no need for th…” he began, but before he could finish the sentence she was leaning on him, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. What are you doing? he asked, feeling terribly self-conscious under the gaze of the four women.

Helping your image, she thought back at him almost instantly.

Or rather, damaging yours.

Women do not react the same way as men to those things.

Well, as I recall, in the Court…

In the Court, anybody is a rival. In this side of the Island, every woman you will encounter will care about only one thing: whether you are an abomination who will harm her family, or not.

Gimilzagar turned towards the women, almost in spite of himself. As soon as they felt his eye on them, they immediately pretended to look elsewhere, but before they averted their gaze, he could see the immediateness of their fear blunted by a powerful curiosity. Just to see what happened, he threw an arm around Fíriel and pressed her close.

“Thank you”, he said, gravely. She grinned.

“Are you feeling better now?”

He sighed. Whatever her ideas about women’s reactions were, he was not about to open his heart to her in their presence.

“I will be.”

“I am sorry. He is in a brooding mood now, though usually he is a good conversationalist”, she told the others in an exasperated tone, as if she was a fellow peasant complaining about her husband. They seemed as flabbergasted by her attitude as he was, and once again she got no answer. But this time, it did not seem to bother her. “It shocked him deeply to see how the Military Governor treated you. As his father uses to say, he is too sensitive to be his son.”

Fíriel!

“We – are thankful to you, my lord prince.” For a moment, he was too stunned to hear Zamin’s voice inside the cart to make sense of her words, or even realize it was him that she was addressing. “Even my husband. They… hurt him very much, and he is still perturbed about it, but he is thankful. Please, forgive his rudeness.”

This was so unexpected, that Gimilzagar did not know how to answer. He felt that no matter what he said, or which words he chose, the moment that he addressed her the illusion of normalcy would be shattered, and the women would remember exactly who he was.

Oh, I know that he is not thankful, and that he wants me dead, but I bear him no ill will for that. I have also wanted myself dead sometimes, ask Fíriel about it.

You are very welcome, good woman. I have always felt sorry for the plight of your people, for I have seen them slaughtered upon altars by the dozens, some of them to extend my own life.

I know you are of the Faithful. Just a curious question, what do your gods think about me? Should I exist?

“I know you have suffered much in the last days” he said, internally wincing in anticipation of a reaction which did not come. “It is not my intention to measure every move you make and every word you speak in search for offense.”

“He is right! Things are more than awkward enough already with his lady wife” the incombustible Fíriel chimed in before either of them could say anything else. “Do you know that we came all this way just to find an interpreter who could speak her tongue? She was so terrified when she came, poor thing, we had to find a way to make her understand that we did not mean her any harm. I wish the King would stop forcing wives upon him! After all, he will never love any woman but me.”

“That is not a subject for…” he began, but one of the younger women spoke right at the same time, and their words cancelled each other. When she realized what she had done, she blushed to the roots of her hair, and began mumbling excuses.

“You were saying?” Gimilzagar asked courteously. She seemed to be teetering on the edge of withdrawing her words and apologizing for interrupting, but, just as he thought that she was going to do so, she gazed at the points of her feet.

“I… I was saying that I was very sorry when I heard the Lady Rini’s story. A- and that I am happy to know that she is safe with you.”

“Well- yes.” Now, it was he who wanted to blush. Stop it, Fíriel. Stop it right now, or I will throw you out. But she just smiled vaguely, giving an affectionate pat to the back of his hand, as if she had already said everything that she wanted to say.

The ensuing silence was somehow heavier than the previous one, and he could not help wondering if he had been too cutting. The women, however, were no longer so tense, and it also seemed to him that they were not trying to stay as far away from him as possible.

Good. Now, soon enough, their husbands and brothers will be following their lead.

And what is the point of deceiving them into liking me?

Says who? Fíriel burrowed her chin on his right shoulder, looking for a comfortable position, and he had to repress a small wince. Everything I said was the truth.

A very small part of the truth.

They are our travelling companions. Is there a point in frightening them with things that they will never understand? Tell me, for I am all ears.

Gimilzagar sighed. She was right, of course. To judge his person in its entirety was no one’s business except his own – and depending on the day, even he did not always feel up to it.

I love your person in its entirety, Gimilzagar.

And you thought I needed to hear that.

As much as I needed to hear yesterday that my presence had made you stand up to the Governor and save these people. Do not forget that whenever you touch my mind, I touch yours, too. She smiled briefly, then sobered again. But that is enough of bravery, Gimilzagar. The King may not hear about this, but if you grow too reckless, I am afraid of what might happen to us. Remember that there is also Lord Zigûr to consider. Please, promise me that you will be prudent from now on.

Gimilzagar blinked. How on Earth could she know that he had been thinking about this?

Just promise.

“Very well”, he whispered in her ear, still shaken at the revelation that she had read him. “I promise.”

Fíriel smiled, and this time, the smile remained in her lips for a long while.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

It had not taken much effort for Tal Elmar to adapt to life in Abanazer’s house. From his tribe’s extended acquaintance with the Númenóreans, he already had knowledge of what a bed was, what chairs were for, even of how to eat their food, and the good-natured merchant found it easy to be gracious and patient with his guest’s mistakes, if he made any.

Still, whenever Isildur had visits, he always told the young barbarian to stay out of the way. Something told him that Tal Elmar, with his unusual story and strange circumstances, was bound to be of interest to people here, and the last thing he wanted was to attract more attention. Moreover, it had been his intention to leave the young man in Pelargir when he sailed North, as it would not be wise for him to be seen in Agar again –Anárion had been right about that much. But the more he studied this option during their stay, the more its own, separate set of dangers began to appear plainly before his eyes.

This came to a head on the day the Magistrate’s envoy came to dine with him. After the first time Isildur and Anárion had docked in Pelargir, and their invitation to the Magistrate’s house had almost got them killed, it had been their policy not to go into enemy territory anymore. According to Anárion, if they made enough excuses the Magistrate would send someone to them anyway, because he needed to keep track of their movements and could not afford to waste a good information channel by pretending to be offended. This time, he had seen fit not to send a mere associate, but his own nephew Sorekbal, a refined young man who evaluated the table arrangement with a critical eye, swallowed every bite with the slightly resigned grimace of someone who was used to better, and refused to discuss business until the meal was over.

“Oh, there is no need to ask the Magistrate for permission to hire bodyguards, my lord Isildur”, he chuckled, as if this entire, elaborate charade had just been a quaint mistake. “If that was so, the whole city should be fined. Now, if you had come to ask him to regulate the prices, that might have been a more interesting conversation. I am afraid this whole security craze has made them a very expensive commodity. A good bodyguard might cost you more than it would to avail yourself of the services of the Chief Healer in the Palace of Armenelos! There are stories of soldiers in Arne deserting en masse to sell their skills in Pelargir… which might pose a problem, if only anyone was able to remember the reason why they were posted there in the first place!”

Anárion would have smiled at this, and bowed obligingly. Isildur, however, just remained there, staring at his interlocutor in silence until he stopped chuckling at his own jokes.

I just realized, you have something of the warrior of Agar in you, Malik remarked. Perhaps it has been rubbing off from someone lately.

“We will manage” he said.

“Oh, yes”, Sorekbal nodded, recovering fast. “Your noble grandfather is very wealthy, I forgot. You still have not squandered all his fortune, have you? Or perhaps your trading settlement in the North has proved unexpectedly lucrative, after all. Of course, you know that, if you find precious metals of any kind, you are expected to inform the Sceptre and the Magistrate.”

“Of course”, Isildur replied. He knew that Anárion had been on the lookout for rumours about mines and such, but even if they had the manpower, the risk of exploiting them would be too great. Even the Great North was too small to defy Númenor openly.

“My lord Isildur, I hope this will not be understood as a prying question, and that you will not be offended by it.” A little too late to worry about that, isn’t it? Malik rolled his eyes. “But I feel I must ask. Are you in need of money? Because, if you are” he immediately continued, just in time to silence Isildur’s angry protest,” I could help you.”

Isildur bristled at this. He was used to those people’s subtle attempts at weighing the scope, and spying the development of the threat that his family posed to their own interests. Though it was usually Anárion who found the correct answers to fend them off, he, too, was aware of what they were doing, and how they did it. But, in the past, none of them had ever been so blunt.

“As I said”, he forced himself to reply, in an even voice, “we will manage.”

“Oh, I see that your noble soul is offended by the very idea. But it is not charity what I was proposing. Kings have taken loans from us, and this never made them any less noble in the eyes of their subjects.”

“We are in no need of loans”, Isildur said. There, very well. Breathe deeply, then let go, then breathe deeply again. Anárion would be proud of you.

“And what if I told you that you have something we are interested in? Something we would pay a great amount of money for – perhaps enough to hire an army?”

“I would say that I am not aware of having anything that fulfils those specifications” he answered, now warily. Though he felt ashamed for even thinking this, he wished Anárion was here. “The most valuable possession I have at this moment is my ship, but you own a fleet of them.”

“Very well, my lord. You are playing coy with me, so I will cut to the chase”, Sorekbal declared, with a perfunctory laugh. “It has come to my knowledge that you brought a very unusual young man with you from the North. Some describe him as a barbarian Númenórean; others, as a Númenórean barbarian. Rumour has it that his mother was carried off by a wildling, even that he was stolen from a cradle of the Middle Havens and raised by the Forest People. Because of this he looks like one of us, though he talks and behaves like one of them.” The wretched man was taking full advantage of Isildur’s sudden inability to come up with words. “And we are very interested in him, the Magistrate and I, enough to let you name the price. Oh, perhaps you will say it is terrible business to squander so much money on a mere whim. But people around these parts are inordinately interested in anything uncommon. I suppose that is what happens when you run out of common things to own.”

Malik did not even say anything this time. If his expression was any indication, however, he was almost as upset as Isildur.

“Lord Sorekbal” he spoke after a while, giving the most studied inflection to every syllable of the name, “I do not know who informed you of the existence of Tal Elmar, but they seem to have made a number of important mistakes. For one, he is the beloved son of an important chieftain of the Wild Men who struck an alliance with my brother and me, and he is staying with us as a hostage of rank. He is not for sale.”

The merchant arched a dyed eyebrow.

 “A hostage of rank?” he asked, with an expression of polite incredulity that Isildur wanted to punch off his face. “Something tells me that the current chieftain of that backwater tribe would not grieve too much at his disappearance.”

So they already knew that Hazad had died. It was a serious matter to consider that there were spies among their people, probably a lot more serious than the present conversation about Tal Elmar, at least if Anárion had been there to judge. But somehow, Isildur could not find it in himself to even think of this right now. If it had been revealed that the Merchant Princes were deep in talks with the new Master of Agar himself, he would have just brushed the information aside.

“Listen to me very carefully, Lord Sorekbal” he hissed, in a very cold voice. Inside, by contrast, he was feeling hot, as hot as if a fire was burning in his innards. “I do not care what you have heard, or what you think that you know, but as I have told you, Tal Elmar is not for sale. He is a free warrior of Agar, and his father left him under my protection. And even if this was not so, I would never sell him to you. So take your offers, your money, your deceitful manners and your schemes, and be gone from this house, or I will throw you out myself. I wish to breathe some fresh air, and I have already had enough of your foul poison.”

At this point, Isildur fully expected the merchant to stand up and leave in a rage, vowing retribution for his insults. He knew that Anárion would be angry later, that there would be new problems to deal with in the future, and that he would be responsible for them, but he did not care. He did not care for anything at the moment, there was nothing and no one for him except this man that he suddenly wanted to offend as deeply as he had been offended.

Instead of storming off, however, Sorekbal drank the last sip of his wine. He grimaced at the bitter aftertaste, and stood up with a studied slowness.

“A thousand apologies, Lord Isildur. I had not been made aware of the nature of your relationship with this barbarian. I will inform the Magistrate, and we will not insist further.”

Thunderstruck, Isildur watched him perform a polite bow, and turn away to leave the room.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Abanazer’s house had a backyard, though it was not like the one in Rómenna, where Isildur used to practice swordsmanship undisturbed. This one was constantly invaded by servants who came and went from the kitchens, and there were about a dozen chickens running mindlessly in every direction, pecking the ground and making annoying noises. No one in their right mind would have chosen this spot to spend their free time, except for Tal Elmar, who seemed to find the hustle and bustle of the household fascinating. At this very moment, he was watching in great interest how a woman hung fine slices of salted fish to dry under the sun, and –from the looks of it- pelting her with questions which she answered in fond resignation.

“Does he look anything like me?”, he asked Malik, scrutinizing the young man’s features with a critical eye. He had fine Númenórean skin, and a beautiful head of hair which looked nothing like the coarse mane of his barbarian kin. He was not as tall as a full-blooded Númenórean, but he was well-proportioned, if perhaps a little too slender, probably from his diet and from not having been trained in proper combat. His eyes, however, were darker than those of the house of Andúnië, and they became even darker when he looked grave or focused, as he did now. As for his nose, though longish, it was nothing like theirs in shape -a little thicker perhaps, but significantly less sharp, and much more pleasing to the eye.

Do I have to fill in Anárion’s shoes and remind you that you did not set foot in the North until ten years ago? No ten-year old would look like that, even among the short-lived folk, Malik remarked from behind him. But then again, you are not an idiot, are you? You already knew that. You are just in denial.

Isildur shook his head with violence. Since that infuriating man had left, he had not even been able to do something as simple as focus his thoughts. It was like trying to hold on to a handful of grain; the stronger his grip became, the more it escaped him. At some moments, he was filled with the overwhelming urge to chase after the merchant and confront him about his words; at others, he frantically tried to forget that this conversation had ever taken place. In between, he wrestled with attempts to rationalize it away, or convince himself that something entirely different had been meant. Because if Malik was right, then Isildur’s honour had been compromised before his very face, and he had done nothing, said nothing, which was as good as accepting the resulting dishonour.

Or perhaps just as good as accepting that he is right.

“He. Is. Not”, he hissed, trying not to choke on his own words. “What is the matter with you? Tal Elmar is under my protection, nothing more. I have never acted inappropriately towards him, and you damn well know it!”

I know that. But I know many other things, too. Like the way you have looked at him since your men brought him struggling into your camp, unsure of whether they had caught themselves a wildling or an Elf. Or the way you do not look at your wife when you are in bed with her. Or…

“Stop, Malik.” Isildur had never desired so fervently that the ghost whose fate had been forever entwined with his would stop talking. “Stop. Now.”

Or the way you looked at me, back when you were young and clueless enough to believe that you loved me as a brother, and I was young and clueless enough to believe you.

“I never did… never even thought…” Again, words failed him. “You were involved with my sister!”

And yet I am here with you, not in Rómenna with her. She accepted my passing, be it bitterly and grudgingly, but you couldn’t. Your love is all that keeps me here now. And I thought that you knew.

“I know that. Of course I do. But this and that are not the same thing. We are not only speaking of love here, and that man certainly was not.”

Do you know what? One of the advantages of being dead is that you see things as they are, as you no longer need to waste your time seeing them as you want them to be.

“How can you accuse me of feeling an unnatural lust? You!” Isildur could not believe his ears. To hear the words from that degenerate merchant had been bad enough, but this – this man, who had been with him since childhood, who slept by his side on a dozen campaigns, who gave his life in exchange for his – how could he think that of him?

You are in love with your freedom, and with a dead ghost, Malik had said once, back when Isildur got drunk at his own wedding ceremony. And he had nodded, knowing deep inside, with the certainty that only wine was able to give people, that it was true. True, and yet, somehow, incomplete.

As incomplete as he had felt every single night after that one, when he did an effort to keep his distaste at bay and bed the woman his grandfather had forced him to marry. He had convinced himself that it was merely her looks, the bitter aromatic taste of her lips, her annoying voice what he found difficult to stomach. But it was not just her: every other woman was the same to him, and he had told Lord Amandil that he did not wish to marry at all. And he had meant it.

Isildur rubbed his eyes several times, feeling the burning heat of shame radiating off his skin. Tal Elmar was still busy helping the woman, and had not noticed his presence yet. Aware that he had to take advantage of this circumstance while he still could, he turned away, hurrying across the gallery and towards the privacy of his room as if the enemy was close at his heels. Once he was there, however, he realised that Malik’s words had made it much harder to banish the young man’s image from his mind than it had been to stop looking at him. It was as if a dam had broken, and visions of many strange, impossible situations began rushing through it in a relentless cascade. Greatly distressed, he put his forehead against the wall, but even the steady feel of the stone was not enough to cool his senses.

“Damn you”, he hissed, angry at the ghost’s infuriating composure. “You did this to me.”

I did not…

“Silence! Lord Círdan already warned me about you, and I did not listen! What if you are an evil spirit, seeking to undo me? What if you are… what if you have been preying on my mind all this time?”

I have never meant you any harm, Isildur. You know it. He sounded wistful, almost –sad; a very different attitude from his usual bravado. Isildur, however, was too angry to be stopped by such underhanded means.

“You are a liar”, he said, raising his voice, “and I do not want to listen to you anymore. “

But…

“Go away!” he yelled. Malik did not insist further: his shadow retreated, and all around Isildur there was suddenly nothing but silence.

Hours later, he was still sitting alone in an empty room, but the disturbing images had not left his mind. And then, a shudder crossed his spine as he contemplated the terrifying possibility that they never would.