Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Storm

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The shipyards of Forostar were finished at last. The North, which had been the most sparsely populated region of the Island for so long, had turned into a hub of activity, and a home to the crowds of slaves and free workers who had toiled every day for the last six years to achieve the colossal feat of engineering. As every guest who had seen this marvel with their own eyes had seized the chance to remark, next to it Ar Adûnakhor’s endeavours were reduced to a beginner’s pitiful attempts at greatness. It might seem foolish, since his own conquests on the mainland had amply surpassed those of his predecessor in glory as well as in extension, but Ar Pharazôn had not truly felt that he had beaten him until now. Perhaps he was more of a Númenórean than he had ever believed himself to be, and his glory was only truly quantifiable in the eyes of the people of the Island - those who had never set foot beyond the Great Sea, and for whom the greatest barbarian kingdoms and the farthest lands were nothing but names.

“Oh, this is only the start of your glorious deeds, my lord King”, Lord Zigûr nodded. Ar Pharazôn was already used to have him come in unannounced, both to his presence and into his thoughts, so he did not show surprise. “The Undying Lands may be just a name in this land of mortals, but you can be sure it is not a name like the others.”

No, it was not, he thought, pensively. The weight of superstition carried by the very mention of the Utmost West was so great that it even crushed his own chest sometimes, in the privacy of his sleeping chambers. Perhaps he was also more of a Númenórean than he had ever believed himself to be in this, and yet nothing was achieved by thinking like a coward.

“Did the Queen receive my message?” he asked, changing the subject before Zigûr could notice his misgivings. The High Priest of Melkor nodded.

“The whole Court will be here by Midsummer for the inauguration ceremony.”

“Good.” That left him with a month to prepare the celebrations, and he already anticipated that there would be no second of it to waste. He wanted this to be the most splendid ceremony to take place since he assumed the Sceptre, regardless of the cost. The new shipyard could hold over a million people, both on solid ground and on the vast extensions of land they had wrestled away from the Sea Queen’s grasp, and several thousands more were expected to arrive in ships and boats. The purification rites would last for three days and nights, during which all those people would need to eat, drink and rest. Then, on the final day of the festivities, three hundred priests had been summoned from Armenelos and the East of the Island to take part in a sacrifice to the Deliverer. It would be the greatest sacrifice to be held in Númenórean soil, and the logistics were daunting to contemplate, but none of those things was what troubled Pharazôn the most. Before the sacred flames brought from Armenelos could be fed, he had made plans to address the multitude, and his speech was almost all he could think about.

For years, there had been many rumours about his secret projects, both in the Court and in the Island at large. Some of them had been rather accurate, and most of them quite widespread, but nobody had ever received any official denial or confirmation from his own lips. Now, for the first time, this was about to change, and this made him feel more uncertainty than he was ready to admit. Another superstition, as Zigûr would no doubt tell him if they were to discuss it. It posed no problem to spend six years’ worth of time, effort and revenues in building the biggest shipyards the world had ever seen, which would in turn be producing fleets of ships before long, but to say that he was going to wage war on the Baalim, to speak the words aloud in a place full of people, somehow had a dangerous air of finality that he could not entirely shake off from his mind.

“They will be overjoyed to hear this news from their King”, Zigûr said. “You are their golden conqueror, who defeated Mordor and reached the ends of the world. In their eyes, you are capable of anything.”

“And in yours?” Pharazôn arched an eyebrow. When Zigûr began to open his mouth to reply, however, he brushed him off. “Never mind. Save your prudent turns of phrase for another moment, I am not in a mood for them right now.”

“My lord King, I admit I have not always been confident of your success. The Baalim are powerful, and I possess first-hand knowledge of their strength”, the High Priest insisted. “But seeing what you have achieved in a few years has made me change my mind. Despite your mortality –no, because of your mortality-, your will to carry out the most challenging projects, and to do so in the limited span of time allotted to you, is stronger than ours will ever be. Do you know how many hundreds of years it took me to accomplish what you have done here? I would hide behind my fortified walls, increasing my strength, yet worried to reveal myself, to risk it all and lose it again. Oh, I was strong now, but how much stronger would I be in another hundred, two hundred, three hundred years? Would I not stand a better chance then? That is what we immortals are at the end of the day, my lord King – a bunch of cowards.”

Pharazôn snorted.

“If you are trying to make me desire immortality, you are not selling it very well. Do you wish me to turn into a coward, perhaps, hiding in my island until a fleet of brave mortals come to tear the foundations of my power to the ground?”

“My lord King, I doubt you will have to wait for barbarians to learn how to sail all the way across the Great Sea to challenge you. “Zigûr sobered, as if he had been forced to remember something unpleasant. “There are people in the Island who would challenge you here and now, if they could get away with it. And once they hear your own admission of what you are planning to do, I fear they may come to the conclusion that they have to act before you become immortal.”

“You mean the Baalim-worshippers”, Ar Pharazôn deduced. “What can they do to me? Many of them have left the Island by now, and those who remain are cooped up in Rómenna for protection. Oh, and their lord could rival any of the immortals in cowardice.”

“Cowards also have their own weapons.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing, my lord King. I just worry that, as a warrior, you value military strength so much that you tend to underestimate other resources. But there are those who, though they could never hope to defeat you in combat, may still worm their way into the heart of those closest to you and use them to plan their strike.”

Now, Ar Pharazôn’s voice grew deadly serious.

“Zigûr, as you already said, mortals have a limited span of time. So either speak to me directly, and start naming names, or take your leave and go, for I am a busy man.”

“A thousand apologies, my lord King.” As he had already guessed, Zigûr stayed where he was. “To say the truth, I have… received some worrying news from the West of the Island. As you know, the Prince of the West has travelled there recently, to visit the Cave and undertake some – inquiries for the benefit of his new wife.”

“Oh yes, I know that.” The fool had come up with an elaborate excuse involving the High Priest of the Forbidden Bay, just to find an interpreter so the barbarian woman could insult him to his face. The more he thought about it, the greater Pharazôn’s astonishment was at the fact that he had ever thought Gimilzagar would be a worthy heir if only he tried hard enough.

“What you may have not yet heard is that, while he was in Andúnië, he barged in the Governor’s rooms while a number of recently discovered Baalim-worshippers were standing trial, forced him to release them, and crossed more than half the Island in their company. And he was accompanied in those endeavours by his mistress – you know, the daughter of the Lord of Andúnië.”

Pharazôn blinked, surprised by this turn of events. His son was a coward, and he had never defied him openly, unless it was to keep that woman as his lover in the Palace, but this he did only because he had the Queen’s support. Ar Zimraphel, inscrutable as her actions could sometimes be, would never fight Pharazôn over the fate of a bunch of Baalim-worshippers.

Then again, he thought, mere moments ago he had thought that Gimilzagar would never fight him over the fate of a bunch of Baalim-worshippers, either. If his son had done this, it was probably because the wretched girl had asked him. Yes, that was it –she must have begged for their lives, and his infatuation and sensitive nature had done the rest.

“Well, I see he has managed to grow a spine. Not a moment too soon, I might add,” he remarked, with a shrug. Zigûr, however, would not be so easily deflected.

“I believe you should be more concerned, my lord King. Back when she entered the Palace, you wisely kept her away from wielding any political influence, and yet one cannot underestimate the hold she has over the Prince’s mind.”

“So what? The Prince does not have any political influence, either. If he tries to be rebellious now and then, what is the harm in that? We will curb his insolence if he goes too far.”

“I beg to differ. The whole Island knows that the Queen loves her son, and as long as they see her holding the Sceptre, they will obey the Prince on her behalf.”

He took a moment to ponder this. Zigûr had never said so outright, but from long and careful observation of his behaviour, Pharazôn had guessed that the High Priest was not very fond of the Queen. Instead of bothering him, this had pleased him, for knowing that even an immortal could be as unnerved by her as he was made him feel less weak. But now, for the first time, Zigûr seemed to be openly trying to introduce dissension between them.

“I just wish you would be more careful, my lord King. There is quite a complicate spider web forming around you, and it may well be that once you wish to escape it, it will no longer be possible. You love the Queen, who loves the Prince, but the Prince loves a Baalim-worshipper, and of course the girl loves the Baalim and her father, the lord of Andúnië. Which means that someone who has access to you may be led to believe that the Island would be better off if you were dead.”

Pharazôn was about to laugh this whole nonsense off as ludicrous. That Fíriel certainly had no access to him, and Gimilzagar would never have either the will or the guts to kill him. He had seen his son feel pity for the fiercest enemies of Númenor, and no matter how opposed he was to his father’s policies, this way of thinking was too deeply ingrained in his squeamish character. Also, all Baalim-worshippers thought Gimilzagar an abomination, and hated him with every fibre of their being. He would never be their Prince, or their King, and if they had their way he would be dead. Even his son had to be aware of that.

On the other hand, there was Zimraphel to consider, and it was when thinking of her that those certainties became less fixed in stone. The suspicion that she knew something that he did not, that she no longer had his best interests in mind, had never wholly abated in the last years: now and then, it reared its ugly head, forcing him to wrestle with the implications. If she cared for Gimilzagar more than she cared for Pharazôn, what would prevent her from playing both sides against the middle, and convince both him and the Baalim-worshippers that she was on their side, only to betray them when they were no longer useful? She could use them to be rid of Pharazôn, and then be rid of them so her son would live, and rule after her. And of course, once Pharazôn was gone, Zigûr would only have to shift his loyalties a little to keep his position.

As he became aware of the twisted place where his thoughts had led him, the King of Númenor could not help but cringe. This was madness. He was not a person who second- and triple-guessed the words and actions of others. He was not Ar Gimilzôr, who had never stepped out of the nest of intrigue that was the Palace of Armenelos, or even looked beyond it. He was Ar Pharazôn the Golden, the man who had conquered the world, and who would soon stake a claim to godhood. He did not have time to engage in this. No – he refused to engage in this.

“As I said, lord Zigûr, my son’s rebelliousness is of no concern to me. He can try to be a hero behind my back as much as he likes, but we both know that the moment he stands before me, he will be nothing but a coward, the same way he has always been. And if he is under his mother’s protection, so be it. Though he has been a bitter disappointment to me, he is still my son, and I would not wish anything to happen to him.”

For a moment, he thought that Zigûr would challenge his words, and was ready to dismiss him in anger. The dark spirit, however, must have anticipated his reaction, because he just bowed with a tight smile in his lips, and said no more.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

The Queen left Armenelos with her Court nine days before Midsummer. Usually, the heat of the sun would be falling without mercy on those who travelled at this time of the year, but the weather had proved rather inconstant of late, and the skies had a leaden grey colour for most of their journey. The day of her arrival, the wind was blowing with such intensity that their public reunion on the ramparts was far quicker and more perfunctory than what had been originally planned. All around them, disgruntled courtiers and dishevelled ladies did their best to keep a stoic grip on their composure, but there were moments when nobody could even hear anything over the roaring of the elements. Still, they were all duly impressed at the grandeur and scope of the works, and gazed in curious trepidation at the barbarians who still toiled to give the finishing touches to the constructions.

“Very impressive”, Zimraphel remarked, though there seemed to be no emotion in her features as she spoke, other than vague boredom. Ar Pharazôn pretended to nod graciously.

“I am very glad that my Queen approves.”

“Congratulations, my lord King” Gimilzagar said, bowing formally. He looked even less enthusiastic than his mother did –in fact, the expression in his face conveyed nothing but unhappiness. Behind him, his three wives advanced with their respective entourages, and Pharazôn could see that the latest acquisition to the list had finally been tamed enough to appear in public. Beside her, there was another barbarian of her same kind, perhaps the interpreter Gimilzagar had taken such trouble to find –and next to him, as if she was just one more lady of the Court, stood the whore from Andúnië herself.

Pharazôn had not meant to dwell on the tales of conspiracy that Zigûr had tried to feed him, but now he found that he could not stop thinking of them. Suddenly, he was only too aware of the growing disharmony between the members of the ruling family of the realm, which he could no longer stop perceiving in every word they spoke and every movement they made. More bothered by this than he was ready to admit, he turned towards Gimilzagar, and realized that his son was staring wistfully at the barbarian workers.

“What is it?” he asked, with a sharp edge to his voice. The Prince of the West lowered his gaze.

“Nothing, my lord King.”

“The Prince looks troubled”, Zigûr intervened, with perfectly feigned concern. At the sound of his voice, Ar Zimraphel seemed to emerge from her own thoughts, and shed her disinterested mood to size the High Priest with her glance.

“You know how our son is, Pharazôn. He can see that all those men are going to be sacrificed in the inauguration ceremony of the shipyards they built with their own hands, and this makes him sad.”

“Is that all?” Pharazôn arched an eyebrow. “In that case, perhaps he could give us ideas of what we should do with over a thousand mouths we have no further need for, and who are too spent to be of use anywhere else. Not to mean the logistics of bringing perfectly able people from the mainland to suffer their same fate, minus the sentimentality. But I forget, that is not how his mind works, is it?  He grows attached to what he sees; that people die to keep him alive is fine as long as he cannot see them.”

Now, Gimilzagar’s cheeks grew even paler than usual, but he did not flinch.

“Really, Pharazôn…”

“I am fine, Mother”, the Prince interrupted her. “Perhaps a little tired from the long and uncomfortable journey. If you will excuse me…”

“Of course, my son”, Zimraphel replied before Pharazôn could open his mouth. The Prince bowed and took his leave, and his ladies and their entourage followed him like a multi-coloured serpent trailing behind his footsteps. For a moment, Pharazôn caught a glimpse of the Baalim-worshipping whore, who was looking troubled. What was she afraid of?

Then, he turned towards Zimraphel, whose anger lurked just underneath her dark orbs.

He is not your enemy, she had claimed, years ago. But if you keep walking down this road, he will be.

“You are dismissed, Lord Zigûr”, she told the High Priest of Melkor, grabbing Pharazôn’s arm and walking with him in the opposite direction from the gates which had just swallowed their son and his people. “And the rest of you, too.”

Slowly, if a little disconcerted, the procession continued making its way inside the great building. The weather made it unlikely for others to catch on their conversation, but perhaps she thought they would be able to see a look, an expression that appeared out of place and might alert them that something was wrong.

“I see that your lack of communication with Gimilzagar is being taken advantage of, to make you doubt his loyalty” she began, pretending to gaze at the miles of shipyard stretching below their feet. “A lack of communication which you started, Pharazôn, but now is being made to look like his fault.” She leaned over the stone balustrade, the dishevelled locks of her hair flapping hard against her pale face. “You need to talk to our son.”

“You are right.” He tried to smile easily, but the smile would not come. “I need to talk to him.”

She gazed at him in suspicion, with that familiar look that told him she was reading something far deeper than the expression of his features.”

“We will talk, but after the ceremony” he continued, trying to ignore her probing eyes. “Before that, I am afraid I will be too busy to give Gimilzagar the attention that he clearly deserves.”

But after all these years, he should have known much better than to think he could hide anything from Ar Zimraphel.

“I see. It is not only Gimilzagar’s loyalty what is worrying you, is it? By all the gods! That you would listen to Zigûr’s garbled lies and consider them in your mind even for a moment, you, who used to be so proud of your ability to keep him under control!”

He was not even sure if he was feeling angry or ashamed.

“Zimraphel, that is not…”

“Oh, let me ease your mind on this count, Pharazôn. Unlike you, I do not intend to play into Zigûr’s hands, or give him what he wants”, she interrupted his sentence, as if she had not heard him. “This is between Gimilzagar and you, and that is how it shall remain. I will not intervene, take sides, or give that poisonous snake any more chances to feed your mistrust.”

He sized her up, wishing with all his heart that he was able to read her mind as well as she read his. For a moment, he felt seized by a strange vertigo when he remembered how he used to love her with such a burning passion that it had seemed more than enough to bury all his misgivings.

“Not even if he runs to you in tears?”

She did not give this a second of thought.

“He will not do that, Pharazôn. Despite what you think, his feelings towards me are no warmer than his feelings towards you, and he would rather die than ask for my help.” Her voice became heavier now, and for a brief instant, so brief that he had to wonder if it had just been wishful thinking, she seemed genuinely upset. “Which is exactly what will happen if you kill her.”

He did not answer this, too busy feeling irrationally angry at everything and everyone– at Zimraphel, for reading his weakness like an open book, at the little whore, for clinging to his son’s back like one of those parasites in the mainland, who could not be dislodged from the host body without killing it; at Amandil, for finding such a creative way to get back at him even from his place of exile. And above them all, at Gimilzagar, for refusing to be his son.

“That transgression has always been its own punishment, Pharazôn. Always.” Zimraphel shrugged, turning her back to him and beckoning to the ladies who had remained patiently waiting for her by the threshold. “If you were not so blinded by resentment, you would see it yourself.”

The King still did not answer, partly because they were within earshot of other people now, partly because he could not come up with anything worth saying. Instead, he followed her to the entrance hall, where the councilmen and courtiers bowed obsequiously as he appeared among them.

That same evening, as the Court retired to their respective accommodations to find some rest from the hardships of the journey, Pharazôn gathered Zigûr and the head priests, and gave them the final instructions for the ceremony.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

The purification ceremonies had been as dull and tedious as it could be expected, full of chanting priests, petty battles over pre-eminence, ladies complaining over the weather and the quality of their accommodations, and the dull, disheartening feeling of anticipation that seemed to seep into Gimilzagar’s mind whenever death and suffering loomed in the horizon. This feeling was both immediate –the slaves working on the site were chained and kept under surveillance, and as the pyres rose in the huge breakwaters built over the Great Sea, some of them were beginning to suspect and despair- and far-reaching, for this impressive work of engineering had been built with one purpose in mind, which left no shadow of a doubt for any who saw it. There was simply no reason why so many new ships would be needed, unless the most ominous rumours all turned out to be true.

Soon, everybody was whispering about the speech that the King was going to give on the night of the closing ceremony. But instead of despondency and terror, as it was the case with the doomed barbarians, there was a sense of giddy excitement behind most of those whispers. Gimilzagar wondered if he would have been like them, if not for the gift, or curse, which told him that the future was growing as dark as the sky above their heads. Perhaps if he could not feel Ar Pharazôn’s troubled mood whenever he set eyes on him, he would also have been fooled by his kingly look of confidence, by his airs of predestination. But as it was, the only thing the Prince of the West felt was fear, in such a deep level of his soul that he had to fight with every ounce of his determination not to succumb to it.

As the fateful night approached, Gimilzagar sent the Lady Rini and her companions to their quarters, claiming that she was feeling indisposed. If he could, he would have done the same for everyone, for Fíriel, for Khelened, even for that annoying Valeria who, behind all her aristocratic arrogance, hated the sight of blood and was growing more apprehensive with every passing hour. But he had the suspicion that the King was watching his movements closely, and that something would give before long.

“Do not worry about me”, Fíriel said to him, in one of their rare moments of privacy. “Once, you told me that the key to this was practice, and I have as much practice as any of those people by now.”

Practice. She was trying to make light of the situation, but in truth she found the word as macabre as he did. The thought that she, that he, that all those who surrounded them had grown used to make a spectacle of the death of others gave him a renewed awareness that nothing he could do would make a difference anymore. He tried to remember the twelve people he had saved, who with luck would be on a ship bound for the mainland by now, but the whole trip from Andúnië, and the tenuous bonds of trust they had established on the way, felt like a fever dream of those he used to have when he was younger.

Still, it was not until they stood under the cloudy sky, chanting prayers under the direction of the priests, and the King suddenly beckoned at him from the highest altar, that Gimilzagar realized the full truth. His father had been acting like this because he knew. He had been made aware of his transgression somehow, probably through the dark arts of his demon counsellor. And now Gimilzagar finally had what he had wanted for so long: his father’s attention. But as he slowly climbed the stairs towards the fire, he could no longer understand how he could have ever believed that this was something desirable. He felt like a hunter on a mad chase, whose prey suddenly dug on its heels and turned back to eat him. Fíriel had been right all along.

“Gimilzagar, you will assist me” the King announced, watching as the two priests assigned to him as acolytes carried the first struggling victim towards the altar and threw him across it. “I cannot sink the knife unless he stops moving his head. Hold it in place for me.”

You cannot be one of them, his mind was saying, and it was amazing that Gimilzagar could hear this clearly over the victim’s disconnected yet terribly strong emotions. You will never be one of them. You are an abomination, and the moment I am not here, your life will be worth less than the lives of these barbarians.

“Father.” He could not believe how weak and pleading the voice came out of his lips. It was as bad as conceding defeat, the proudest part of him thought, but the other, the one who had always known where he stood, did not even bat an eye. “You know what happened the last time. Please.”

Until now, he had been certain that, despite everything, Ar Pharazôn did not want him dead. Removed from his presence, yes, away from the Sceptre, certainly, but dead? Had his expectations of immortality eliminated the barest human instincts from his heart?

“Oh, I know what happened the last time. Your little Baalim-worshipping whore saved you, and anchored you to life. We have been feeding, clothing and housing her for years because of this alone, even keeping her alive despite our better inclinations. Are you telling me that she would be unable to do it again?”

Feeling empty inside, Gimilzagar grabbed the barbarian’s shoulders and pressed them against the stone slab. Practice, the word repeated itself over and over in its mind. It is just a matter of practice. But his grip was not powerful enough, and even this man, whose bones could be felt from malnourishment right underneath the broken skin, found the strength to break free.

“For both your sake and his, I advise you to find a way to keep him still”, the King hissed. Out of a panicked reflex, Gimilzagar dived into the man’s mind. He saw many images, faces of people he did not know, turning in circles at vertiginous speed. Do not look at them, he forced himself to remember. Do not get lost here. You are not him. You do not know any of those people.  You are Gimilzagar, the Prince of the West.

The barbarian’s eyes widened in horror as he detected the intrusion. His struggles increased, but now he was not trying to flee the knife; instead, he was terrified of the dark magic taking hold of him.

Do not resist. It will be painless, I promise. You have suffered much, but now all your sufferings will finally be over. The Great God will take you to a place where your soul will heal and rest for eternity. But for that, you must stop moving. Please.

Suddenly, the barbarian stopped struggling. His eyes stopped darting in every direction, and instead they fixed themselves on Gimilzagar. At some point, his lips started moving, and though he did not know the language, the Prince was somehow able to understand that he was asking him if this was true.

Yes, he said, glad that he did not have to use his voice for this, for it would break. Yes, it is true. You only need to…

The connection broke violently as the knife severed the artery with the cold precision of the butcher. Practice, Gimilzagar thought, wishing to laugh and cry at the same time. Just practice.

When he lifted his glance, he saw the silhouette of Lord Zigûr looming over the King’s shoulder. To his shock, he saw approval in the demon’s eyes, and a proud smile on his lips. The fact that this was a twisted mockery of what a much younger Gimilzagar had hoped to see in his father’s eyes made it even more horrible than it already was.

There. It was not so hard this time, was it?

The death of this man, chosen as the first victim, was meant to be the signal for the beginning of the ritual. As soon as his body was consumed by the flames, the other altars surrounding them would start their own activity, but before this, the King had to make his long-awaited speech. While Lord Zigûr poured the blood and threw the corpse into the fire with a prayer, Ar Pharazôn advanced towards the edge of the platform, and beckoned Gimilzagar to stand by his side. The ultimate humiliation, the Prince thought, to be next to his father while he announced his plans for immortality.

The crowd had been praying in unison until now, their chant loud and monotonous like the breaking of the waves. When they saw them, however, an almost religious silence fell upon the rows of courtiers, their retinues, and the commoners who pressed behind them hoping for a glimpse of what was happening. All the eyes were fixed upon the figure of Ar Pharazôn, who looked more golden than ever in his bright armour and his royal purple. The mysterious, unchanging quality of his features brought nostalgic memories to the oldest in the audience, of a young and bold general whose victories had made the rest of Númenor believe that anything was possible. Next to this perfect image of beauty, strength and confidence, Gimilzagar would look more despicable and ungainly than ever. And yet, the Prince could not envy the man who stood by his side, and the very idea of being like him brought nothing but nausea.

“People of Númenor!” the King spoke, in a strong voice. “In the last years, we have claimed ownership of the world through the strength of our arms and the power of our great civilization. We have ruled Middle-Earth from the Western shores to the farthest East, enjoyed the fruit of our conquests, grown wealthy beyond our most audacious dreams! We have broken free from the ghastly grip of many fears which assail the peoples of darkness: the fear of our children succumbing to the sword of our enemies, the fear of poverty, of starvation and slavery. There is only one dark stain in the happiness of our kingdom: that we still grow old and sick, and eventually die. This was a curse inflicted upon us by the Baalim at the beginning of time, for they did not wish us to grow into our own and challenge them. But now, people of Númenor, the time has come for this to change, for the curse to end, and for our power and happiness to be absolute! And this will not happen through prayer and abasement, because no god on Earth or Heaven will end this curse for us. What master surrenders his dominion willingly? If we wish to rule the world as gods, we will have to wrestle the gift of eternal life from their hands through war, expel them from their Blessed Realm, and conquer it for ourselves. And this is a feat that I, alone among all the kings of our people, am willing to attempt. I will build the greatest armada the world has ever seen, here in this shipyard where we now stand. I will fill it with soldiers and rowers, and I will invade the kingdom of the Baalim. I will swear an oath never to rest, never to turn back, never to let fear, discouragement or blind superstition have the better of me before I have attained my goal! But I will need the Island to stand behind me, in body and soul. So I ask you now, people of Númenor, are you with me?”

The audience was enthralled by the King’s words, Gimilzagar had to admit, but everyone in the front rows was a courtier, and their enthusiastic clapping was a survival skill they had learned early in their lives. Perhaps others would not be so keen on this, he thought, clutching at straws.

All of a sudden, while he was still in the middle of this thought, Gimilzagar had a premonition, a horrible feeling that made the hairs of his neck stand on end. As he was still trying to recover from it, he saw the sky light up with an eerie bright flare, and his ears exploded with a deafening noise. A strong smell of charred meat reached his nostrils, and he turned back in shock to see the blackened corpse of the priest who had stood at a short distance from him. Someone screamed, but he heard it from a great distance, as if his eardrums had stopped working. Trying to break out from the paralyzing terror, he looked at the crowd, and saw them panicking, pushing others in their urge to flee while another bolt of lightning fell upon one of the farthest altars, and then another on one of the boats moored in the channels, causing it to explode in flames. He looked for Fíriel, but he could not find her, and this was so terrible that he could not find it in himself to care for his own safety. Please, gods of the West, she is one of yours, he muttered, not even knowing if anyone could hear him. Do not kill her.

Meanwhile, next to him, Ar Pharazôn had stayed still for a moment, for once in his life unsure of how to proceed. But soon, Lord Zigûr had advanced towards him, taken his hand in his, and whispered words in his ear. Gimilzagar could not hear those, either, but whatever it was that the demon had said, it seemed to restore the King’s courage. His eyes gleaming with a furious, fell light, he glared at the sky in defiance.

“So the Baalim think they can turn us away from our path with a conjurer’s trick! So they think we are still the superstitious, easily frightened barbarians we used to be when the world was new, and they visited their curses on us. But I say, no more of this! No more!” Mesmerized, many among the panicking people had stopped their flight to listen to him, to stare in wonder at the proud silhouette set against the flashes of lightning, unconcerned about his own safety. “They have struck first. The next blow shall be ours!”

First, the words were met by a hesitant silence, as the crowd seemed to wait in trepidation for the next blow to fall. But it did not, and when Gimilzagar’s recovering ears could finally hear a deep rumble, it was not coming from the sky, but from the crowd. They roared their approval at the King’s words, no longer as a courtier would applaud a King’s eccentricities, but as a people who had felt threatened in their own homeland by an evil enemy whose destruction they suddenly wished more than anything in the world. He reeled back in dismay. What had the Baalim done?

The thunderbolts were slowly but steadily receding into the distance, leaving the battleground to a steady downpour of rain. Ar Zimraphel had remained in position; when the confusion around her cleared, Gimilzagar could see that she was holding someone in a protective embrace. It was Fíriel, and as soon as he recognized her, his throat unclenched a little.

“And what do we do about this?” Ar Pharazôn had recovered his composure in appearance, but there was still an edge of tension in his voice as he walked around the dead priest and pointed at the extinguished altar. “We cannot simply stop the ceremony now without it looking like defeat.”

“Indeed not, my lord King. That would be very inadvisable under the present circumstances.”

In the end, the King and Lord Zigûr came up with a plan to send a message to the Baalim, conveying the unshakeable nature of their resolve. The plan involved butchering all their victims as it had been originally planned, and then loading them in boats to be sent West with the current. If they were proper gods, Gimilzagar doubted very much that they would allow a thousand rotting corpses to find their way into their realm. After tonight, however, he found himself doubting more than ever that those beings that Fíriel’s people so revered were anything like proper gods. Though he hated to admit that Zigûr or his father could be right about anything, he was starting to envision them as the erratic, frightened beings of the King’s speeches, afraid of being challenged, yet powerless to prevent it. For a true god would have struck down Zigûr, Ar Pharazôn and his abomination of a son, not hapless priests who had just followed orders, or random people who gathered to listen to his words. Or perhaps he would have sunk the entire shipyard beneath the waves with everyone on it, as in that recurring dream that Gimilzagar had years ago. Whatever his preferred course of action had been, he would have put a stop to this here and now, not shown a million people that his enemy was able to survive his attack and laugh at him afterwards.

Later in the night, as Gimilzagar was finally able to retreat from the altar with the images of blood and carnage still etched in his memory, he found himself wondering, for the first time, what an immortal King of Númenor would mean for the world.