Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Prince and the King

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The Court was badly shaken by the events which had taken place during the consecration ceremony. Though every conversation died whenever people noticed his presence, Gimilzagar knew that none of those high lords and ladies had ever been so close to mortal peril, and that the experience had upset them considerably. Most were furious at the evil spirits of the West for the audacity of their attack on the soil of the Island, and strenuously argued in favour of returning the blow multiplied by a tenfold, to show the Baalim that the men of Númenor did not fear them. Deep inside, however, they were afraid, and when they spoke of retribution not a single one of them was planning to be part of the expedition. The King and his brave soldiers would do so in their stead, while they sat behind thick stone walls, protected from the wrath of the elements, and awaited their triumphal return. And a minority was simply scared out of their wits, wishing for nothing else than for the King to give up on his sacrilegious plans of making war on gods. Gimilzagar wondered briefly whether it could be worth the risk to approach those, but they were too weak, too scattered, and too few –and Zigûr had surely spotted them all by now.

As he made his way through the large building where most of the women, and quite a number of men, had retreated as soon as protocol allowed them to disperse, Gimilzagar had only one real purpose left: to find Ar Zimraphel’s chambers. He knew that Fíriel would be there, and he needed to feel her body against his to close the gaping hole in his chest that even now was threatening to swallow everything. Ar Pharazôn had spoken true: Fíriel kept him tethered to this world just as much as Zigûr’s sacrifices. As long as she was there, he could not give up, cut the thin strings that kept him tied to this existence, and throw her to the many wolves awaiting their chance to tear her apart.

Still, before he reached his destination, the Prince of the West found himself intercepted by one of the last people that he wanted to see. He had barely spotted her elaborately embroidered dress, and the glow of the silver and gems crowning her head and hanging from her neck, when she called his name in a sing-song voice, and her arms encircled his body like a trap springing upon some unfortunate hare in the woods.

“Praised be the Deliverer! You are safe!” the Lady Valeria crooned, burying her face in his neck. “The first bolt of lightning fell so close to you that I thought… I thought….!”

“I am entirely unharmed, Lady Valeria”, he replied, as soon as there was enough air in his lungs to do so.

“Oh, I have been so scared tonight! I thought that we were all going to die, and my greatest fear was that we would be s-separated by Eternal Darkness and you w-would remain f-forever unaware of my f-feelings for you!” Her voice grew heavy first, then began shaking with barely repressed sobs. Gimilzagar could feel her mind brimming with disorderly thoughts and emotions, but grief and fear at the thunderstorm were not dominant among them. She was desperate, aware that she would never get what she wanted by playing her role discreetly and waiting for the world to rearrange itself around her, as it had always happened back home in Arne. Fíriel was not going away, other, younger beauties kept coming, and though the Court was fond of her, the Queen had not moved a finger to protect her, but chose to hold to that disgusting peasant whore instead. Unless she changed her strategy, if a bolt of lightning did not kill her, the Queen and her little protégé soon would, just as they had killed her predecessor.

Gimilzagar sighed. He did not have time for this.

“Do not worry, Valeria” he said, tightening his own embrace a little before he let go of her. “I promise I will not let anyone harm you, or rob you of your rightful place in the Court. But please understand that I can only do this if you are careful. If you make a foolish choice like she did, I will not be able to save you.”

Shock caused her grip to relax, and taking advantage from this he extricated himself from it. She did not call him back, but suddenly he did not feel free to proceed in his quest to assuage his own demons. His brush with the Arnian’s mind had reminded him that he had responsibilities towards other people, people who might not even know very well what was happening and could be working themselves into a dangerous panic.

As he set out towards Rini’s quarters, he was further surprised to find Khelened in the corridor. As always, the Khandian looked at him as if he was some sort of disgusting creature that her tribe would not even bother to hunt for meat, but he was used to this by now. He knew that it was nothing personal, just some barbarian defence mechanism of hers. In her world, anyone who fell in the hands of the enemy and did not look at them in this manner would have their throats slit and their blood drunk, while those who did would be respected and spared. Whether they chose to feign love or contempt, in the end, they all wanted the same thing.

“She is fine”, she announced calmly, as if she was talking about the weather. Her row of white teeth contrasted sharply with the darkness of her skin. “Less fine after you come in. But I already told her you had survived, so her disappointment will not be so great when she sees you.”

Gimilzagar found the idea of this woman going to check on Rini so ludicrously strange, that for a moment he did not even know how to react. Khelened had always ignored Fíriel –who was Gimilzagar’s soulmate and therefore a part of him-, and she had never bothered to hide her profound contempt for Valeria and her cowardly schemes. A barbarian from the opposite edge of the world, who had to speak through an interpreter, and who was as thoroughly ignorant of Khandian codes of conduct and defence mechanisms as she was of Númenórean ones did not seem like the most obvious candidate for this woman’s first attempt to make a connection with someone.

“Thank you for the information, Lady Khelened”, he nodded, courteously. “And I am glad you are unharmed, as well.”

The woman hissed a curse in her native language, as if to ward herself from the intolerable assault of Gimilzagar’s politeness. He shrugged. Once upon a time, he had tried to imitate her tone of hostility to address her, just because he thought that she might appreciate it, but it sounded so ridiculous when coming from his lips that he gave up soon enough.

When he was finally announced into Lady Rini’s chamber, he found her surrounded by her Northern servants. Her magnificent blue eyes met his for a moment, then looked down, as if fearful that he would try to use the eye contact to play some devilish trick on her mind. Next to her, the young male barbarian clenched his fists, suddenly reminding Gimilzagar of her earlier determination to find a way to assassinate him. There were guards outside, but perhaps it had been a little imprudent to enter a private room without an escort. Fortunately, none of them had weapons, and Hazin at least was loyal to him. The more Gimilzagar learned about what had been done to him in the past, the more he was certain that he would do anything to cling to his new, painless existence.

“I come to check on the Lady Rini, and to offer her reassurance that the danger is over, and that she can rest safely tonight.”

Hazin raised his gaze a little from the ground to listen attentively to Rini’s response –which, even to Gimilzagar’s ignorant ears, sounded rather like a question.

“The Lady Rini wishes to know why you claimed that she was sick and could not attend the ceremony.”

The Prince had to admit that he had not been expecting this. He blinked, wondering what to say.

“Tell the Lady Rini that… well, that I thought she might find the spectacle too upsetting. But if I was wrong and she wished to attend, I will be sure to keep it in mind for the next time.”

The way she looked at the interpreter as he translated those words was rather aggressive. Perhaps Khelened had been teaching her some things in her visit.

“She says that no Númenórean…” Hazin’s trust that nothing he translated would be used against him had advanced in leaps and bounds since the first days, but sometimes he still hesitated. “That no Númenórean cared that she might find the deaths of her own kin upsetting. So why would you worry that she might feel uncomfortable witnessing the death of strangers? They are nothing to her.”

Right. Gimilzagar took a very, very long intake of breath.

“It could have brought back memories. Or she might have misunderstood the situation. Back in the Cave of the Forbidden Bay, Fíriel told me that she was scared to see priests.” Why was he even trying to justify himself, for doing what he thought was right? It sounded childish to his own ears.

“That was before. But now she has someone – that is, me, to explain things to her. And she already knows you are saving her for something else.”

“I am not saving her for something else!”

Hazin looked immediately troubled, and Gimilzagar knew it was because of his tone.

“Please, my lord prince, do not be angry at me”, he bowed, trying in vain to keep his hands from shaking. Some conditionings were just too hard to shake off, he thought, and as he did, he realized it was even more true in her case. “But- but she does not believe you. She would not be alive if you were not saving her for something. She would be dead or a slave, like her kin and her people.”

For a moment, Gimilzagar saw his father’s face in his mind’s eye, and the challenging look with which he had ordered him to hold the captive’s shoulders against the stone slab. He shuddered, suddenly too tired to even think. What was the point, anyway?

“Tell her that she is here for no reason other than the King thinking it would be a good idea to punish me for loving the wrong woman. Tell her that she is worth so little to him that he does not care a damn for whether she lives or dies, and that, if her eyes had been less pretty, she would be a pile of ashes now. But instead of that, she was brought here, and she was made my responsibility. And this, I can guarantee, is the only reason why I travelled so many miles to find her an interpreter and company, why I had her stay in this room while awful things happened outside, and why I am here now, inquiring as to her wellbeing.”

Hazin’s eyes were wide; his voice as quiet as a whisper as he resigned himself to conveying the woman’s answer.

“The lady Rini asks if she needs to be grateful for this.”

Gimilzagar wondered why he had allowed her to make him upset; if it was anger or shame what he was feeling, even if she was the real target of whatever it was that drove him at the moment. But focusing solely on Hazin had the virtue of calming him, as everything inside that mind was silently begging him to do so, unaware that Gimilzagar could hear the thoughts as loud and clear as if they were being screamed at him.

“No, of course not. Tell her to see it as restitution for the wrongs done to her family. Perhaps this way she will accept it, and save me the trouble of more pointless arguments.”

This did not elicit much reaction from the woman, who just stared morosely at the floor and remained silent. As Gimilzagar was already turning away, however, he heard her speak again, and Hazin’s louder voice stopped him in his tracks.

“My lord prince, my lady wishes to know if the Lady Fíriel is well.”

The Prince’s eyes widened, but for the first time since he entered this room, he felt a tiny gust of warmth entering his chest. He nodded.

“Yes, Hazin. Tell her that she is well.”

By the time he left her room, the ruckus had largely subsided outside, and most of the courtiers had been divided in smaller groups, or left the halls and corridors to take a well-deserved rest after the strong emotions of tonight. Now, he could finally go and see Fíriel, and no one would stand in their way anymore, he thought hopefully.

But even before the anticipation had fully blossomed in his mind, the sudden sight of the Chamberlain waiting for him in the corridor put an abrupt end to it. He raised his glance, doing his best to compose his features in a dignified expression so he could meet him properly.

“Greetings, Lord Chamberlain. Were you looking for me?”

“Yes, my lord prince”, the man answered with a bow. “The King is back in his chambers, and he wishes to see you.”

Gimilzagar’s heart sank.

 

*      *      *      *      *      *

 

Ar Pharazôn the Golden was cleaning his face and hands when Gimilzagar’s arrival was announced. He must have been at it for a while, because the water inside the silver basin he was using had acquired such a deep tinge of red that it almost looked as if he was washing himself with blood. As Gimilzagar waited by the threshold, hesitant to walk in, the King noticed his presence, and the way he was staring at his endeavours. He put the water away with a disgusted look, as if he had just realized what was wrong with it, and ordered a clean basin to be brought.

“Come closer”, he told Gimilzagar. “You can hold the basin for me, and then we can speak in private.”

The Prince advanced rather slowly, studying his surroundings. Lord Zigûr was not there, at least, which relieved him a little. He was probably still outside, supervising the last stages of the slaughter, which would continue to take place over increasingly slippery surfaces even after the public was gone. Gods did not grow tired.

When the basin was brought in, Gimilzagar took it in his own hands and approached Ar Pharazôn. There was something unreal in standing this close to a man who had been avoiding him for years, or so he could not help but think. Unreal and ominous, his mind supplied, remembering what had transpired mere hours ago under the stormy skies. Suddenly self-conscious, he wondered where to look, if at the water, which soon began growing red again as the King splashed it over his face, at the soiled clothes, or directly at the man himself. It was so long since he had done this, that it felt as if it was the first time he saw things which must have been so familiar to him once: the sharply chiselled nose, the thick, dark eyebrows contrasting with the golden sheen of his forehead, the curls falling in a graceful way that Gimilzagar’s own hair had never been able to replicate; the arrogant hazel eyes, which seemed clouded by an unspoken trouble. There were still no wrinkles on his face, preserved in the full splendour of his youth by a magic more powerful than the craft of any embalmer, except for a solitary crease on his forehead that told the Prince that he was deep in thought.

“Stay still.” Involuntarily, Gimilzagar had stepped back as a few drops of bloody water spattered on his cheek. “It is only blood. You have seen much worse - and risked worse, I daresay.”

He was not only thinking of the lightning bolt which killed that unfortunate priest who stood beside him, the Prince realized. Before that, his fate had been in the balance somehow, but in the end he had escaped unscathed – if one could use the word “unscathed” after being forced to lean over an altar to be the accessory of a murder, and having a man’s mind brush against his in the death throes of his agony.  Still, he knew it now, with such certainty that it almost felt as if the King’s thoughts had invaded his instead of the other way around. It could have been worse.

“It could have been Fíriel” he said aloud, seized by this same impulse. Ar Pharazôn paused briefly in his endeavours, and stared at him in shock. The emotion, however, was brief, for he had already grown accustomed to this kind of sorcery.

“Once again, you have your mother to thank for that” he snorted, putting his fingers into the water and realizing that it was as red as the previous basin. “Oh, just bring me a towel and let us get this over with! I will wash more thoroughly later.”

Numbly, Gimilzagar took the basin away, and did as he was asked, though his mind could not stop racing with the implications of everything he had seen in the last moments.

“My lord King, please believe me when I say that Fíriel has never, ever, harboured the slightest disloyal or treacherous thought….”

“Normally, I would say that you cannot know what people hide in the innermost depths of their minds. But you can, can’t you? Unfortunately, you did not inherit this trait from me, so I cannot prove your words either true or false, and you have too many reasons to lie to me.”

“My lord, I swear…”

“Be quiet! I have no need for your oaths. I do not have uncanny powers, but I am not defenceless. As a leader of men, I needed to develop my own brand of insight soon enough in my life.” Wrapping the towel over his head, Ar Pharazôn began wiping it energetically. It was a while until he emerged from under its folds again; almost all the blood was now gone. “I detest Amandil’s little bastard, and I would gladly have cut her throat upon that altar, I admit it. But I have also come to realize that she was not the true reason why you tried to defy me in Andúnië. It is you, Gimilzagar. You wanted to show me, to get my attention, and you would not have stopped until you had it, in one way or another. Well, you have it now. So if you wish to speak your mind, this is the moment to do so.”

Gimilzagar blinked, pondering what to answer. A part of him was wary of this being some sort of trap, designed to make him betray himself. And even if it was not, he thought, what good could his words possibly do at this point? In the last years he had been chasing after shadows in mounting frustration, wishing he could have an opportunity such as this. But now that he finally had it, after been made to undergo an ordeal in the process, he could not be more aware of how futile it all was. After everything that had transpired today, how could he think he would ever convince his father to break his pledge before the whole Island, swallow his pride, and just back away from his designs? It was simply unthinkable –an impossible.

In the end, ironically enough, it was those disheartening thoughts what made him reckless enough to open his mouth. And once he did, he found he was unable to remember the prudent turns of phrase that he had painstakingly perfected over the years.

“My lord King, I think you should desist from this dangerous project of making war on the gods to achieve immortality. I am… afraid for you, for Númenor, and for the world. If you fail, you will not come back alive, and the Island will never recover from the devastating effects of this war.” He was fast, forcing the words to come out as fast as possible before he could be interrupted. “And if you win, I am concerned about what you will become.”

The King, however, did not look angry at all. He heard him in appraising silence, as if he was listening to a report from one of his generals. After Gimilzagar fell silent, he nodded.

“Noted. Anything else?”

The recklessness grew even greater, fuelled by this strange quiet.

“Yes. I wish you would stop forcing unfortunate women to marry me. I will never love any of them, and you know it.”

The King dropped the towel to the floor, where the red of the bloodstains contrasted sharply with the blue and white tiles. Then, his lips curved into a smile, and, slowly, Gimilzagar grew aware of the truth. His father had realized where all his recklessness came from, the despair, the terrible impotence that lay underneath. And, like a general who watched his starved enemies break the siege for a last, desperate charge, he had known that he had nothing to fear from him as a player. In this twisted, paranoid battle he was waging, only a cautious Gimilzagar would have been deemed a worthy foe - an outspoken Gimilzagar meant nothing.

“I am afraid I cannot grant your first request” Ar Pharazôn replied. “As for the second, perhaps we could reach an agreement.” He sat on a chair, grabbing a cup from the nearby table and filling it with wine from a silver jar. “If you keep one of them, I will consider that you have made your choice, and out of respect for it, there will be no more women.”

Gimilzagar felt the anger course through his veins again, and refused the invitation to sit.

“I assume Fíriel cannot be my choice.”

“Of course not. The Prince of the West cannot marry a peasant’s bastard.”

“And yet he can marry the daughter of a cannibal.”

“Cannibals have their own royalty, too,” Pharazôn retorted, drinking from the wine.  “But if that is too distasteful to you, you are also free to choose a Númenórean lady of higher lineage than the one who warms your bed now.”

“Fíriel has the blood of Indilzar running through her veins, Father. She is high-born enough!”

“That might have been true once. Now, the house of Andúnië is a house of exiles, whose loyalty for my declared enemies is stronger than their loyalty for the Sceptre. I will never become allied to them by marriage, and allow them to add yet another cloak of respectability to their treason. Your great-grandfather already did that, and he bitterly lamented it when the snake he had fondled bit him in the hand. How much of a fool would I have to be to imitate his example?” He downed the cup quite fast, despite the fact that the wine was undiluted. “Fíriel is not good for you. She may even love you sincerely, as sincerely as her father ever called himself my friend, but you are a fool if you think that she will be any more successful in forgetting the ties that bind her to her family and her people than he was. And they do not like you. No matter how many of them you try to save, they will always believe, deep down, that you do not have the right to live. If you ever lived in a world ruled by them, they would kill you without a second thought.”

“They would let me die.”

“What?” For the first time in a long while, Pharazôn appeared genuinely shocked at his words. Gimilzagar did not back down.

“They would not kill me. They would let me die. It is not the same thing” he explained, the words leaving his mouth as if a vengeful god was using his body as a puppet. “The first thing would be a crime. The second would follow the laws of Nature.”

The King put the cup down with a sharp noise, and gazed at Gimilzagar.

“I see” he said, simply. “Well, I suppose that is one way of looking at it.”

For a moment, the Prince tried to perceive his father’s thoughts again, but there was nothing in that mind anymore, except a cold, black void that made him flinch instinctively, as if he had come face to face with a corpse. Then, suddenly, instinct kicked in, and he began to feel afraid.

“That is a way of looking at it, indeed,” Pharazôn continued, his voice eerily calm once more. “Bringing you to life was a mistake; keeping you alive, a sin, and I am an evil man because of it. The fault is all mine, for selling my soul to a demon, while you would rather be dead to spare those poor people. But for all those years, and indeed even now, I have been a mortal, you have been my heir, and I have needed to keep you alive for the sake of Númenor and the Sceptre. You had no say in it, and no responsibility, which left you with the freedom to blame me. Isn’t that rather convenient?”

The Prince of the West felt his heart sink again.

“My lord King, I do not…”

“Why do you look so wary? Someone who thinks so little of his own life should not know fear. You are alive only because I have forced you to live, aren’t you? If I become immortal, if I am no longer in need of heirs, you could finally dispose of your own fate, and be righteous in the eyes of your Baalim-worshipping friends.” His lips curved into a mirthless, yet savage grin. “Wouldn’t you like that, for your life to be in your hands alone? To be able to let yourself die, and turn from abomination to marthyr. Or perhaps when the time came, you would realize that you love life too much, after all. That you wish to fight for it, and leave the inconvenient self-righteousness behind. Would you be able to pick your prisoners, lead them to the altar, and sacrifice them with your own hands? Oh, I think you would. After all, we both know by now that you can kill, just as well as I do, or better. By the Deliverer, you can even make them offer themselves to the knife willingly, like Zigûr does!”

Gimilzagar felt the blood leave his face, and his heart beat swiftly against his chest. Whatever defiance he had been able to muster for this conversation was now gone, together with the vengeful god who had spoken through his mouth, leaving only the scared little boy he had been once.

“There is no need to look so pale. This is all mere speculation”, Ar Pharazôn reassured him. “Idle speculation, so far, for there is still a war to be fought, battles to be won, immortality to be conquered. But if you feel so attached to your own existence as to fear for it, perhaps you should cease blaming me for keeping you alive. Do you not think so, Gimilzagar?”

The Prince shuddered, unable to make a reply.

“Well! You look tired, and it is quite late.” The King stood up from his seat, his voice no longer cold. “You may retire, if you wish to do so. After all, I think we have both had our say by now.”

 “Yes, my lord King.” His own voice was much smaller than he remembered it. “I will… retire.”

“There is also four women you can bed, if you would prefer to take your mind off things”, Ar Pharazôn called after him as he made to depart. His father’s voice was friendly again, the same voice he used to banter with his generals, but Gimilzagar did not even register it. Numbly, he bowed at the threshold, and left the King’s chambers without speaking another word.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

The sword drew an arc in the air, and fell on the ground of Abanazer’s backyard with a clatter.  Tal Elmar looked just a little embarrassed as he headed to retrieve it.

“I sorry”, he claimed, picking it up and returning towards Isildur. “It happen again.”

“That was pathetic!” Isildur’s frustration grew fast enough these days, but today the motives were multiplying at such speed that he could barely find the strength to keep up. “Are you people entirely useless in one-on-one combat, or what? When a warrior comes at you and tries to deal a blow, you do not duck, you do not hide and you do not flee, you block and parry it! And for that you need a proper grip!”

“That not how we do it”, Tal Elmar grumbled mulishly. Isildur fell back into his stance.

“I do not care how the Forest People do it. You are in Númenórean territory now!”

“And your enemies come at me with many swords. And then I learn proper combat and they all afraid.” Tal Elmar’s sarcasm struck a nerve.

“Listen to me, Tal Elmar”, he hissed, trying to keep his composure. “I cannot take you back to Agar with me because of your brothers. And if you stay here, you are a target.”

“A target why?” the young barbarian quickly seized the opportunity to ask. In the last days, Isildur’s changing moods and wavering dispositions had left him bewildered, and though he had pretended to play along with it, it was clear that he wanted answers. He wanted to know why it was suddenly so dangerous to stay in Pelargir with Abanazer, why Isildur insisted on training him from dawn till dusk, and probably also why he was so short-tempered. The son of Elendil had not told him anything, because he had no idea of how he could ever explain what had transpired with the Magistrate’s nephew, and much less the unspeakable thoughts which agitated his mind since that day. Instead, he had come up with the idea of teaching him combat, but his delusions of turning Tal Elmar into a killing machine who could successfully evade all the mercenaries in Pelargir were nothing but a desperate way to feel as if he was in control of something. Worse, the opinionated young man, usually so ready to prove himself and take on any challenge, had guessed that there were ulterior motives to all this that he was not being told, and reacted to it by performing poorly- Isildur suspected that on purpose.

But the worst of all was how the long hours of fencing, the sweat and the sight of naked limbs was affecting Isildur, to the point that the frustration at the young man’s lack of progress was constantly threatening to turn into something else, which he found too terrifying to contemplate. He was on a perpetual state of confusion those days, not knowing where to direct his feelings so he could successfully evade those deep waters. If Malik was here, he would have exorcised this by fighting him, but the ghost had stayed gone since that day, to punish him for his flight of temper –Isildur refused to think of any other possibility-, and he had found himself with no one to turn to. He had never been so lost, so alone, since the fateful night when he stole the fruit of Nimloth in Armenelos and his childhood friend died.

“A target for all those who are my enemies, but will not act openly. And now let us try again”, he replied, in a tone of voice that would have deterred anyone from asking more questions. Tal Elmar, however, ignored it utterly.

“Why they attack me? I not known in Númenor. Not important.”

“You are kin to a reputed chieftain of Agar, ally of the Númenóreans”, Isildur replied. But this answer did not fool the barbarian any more than it had fooled the merchant.

“Eldest Brother wants me dead. That is no good reason.”

“You talk too much, and fight too little”, Isildur retorted, advancing towards him with his training sword in hand. As he did so, he surprised a gleam in Tal Elmar’s eye that had not been there before. With a little more ferocity than what was warranted by a mere training fight, Isildur struck at his opponent, who once again ducked from the blow. “And… stop…. ducking!”

He chased Tal Elmar all the way across the training ground, while the young man -remarkably agile, he had to admit-   evaded all his thrusts. As he did so, his lips began curving into a self-satisfied smirk, and suddenly Isildur wanted nothing more than to wipe it off his features.

That occasion presented itself when they were already near the kitchen stairs, and a crack in the ground made the young barbarian trip and fall. The son of Elendil immediately loomed over him, but instead of looking defeated, Tal Elmar just gave a critical look to the sword he was still holding and dropped it to the floor.

“Not much use” he claimed. “You kill me anyway.”

“It might have been harder if you had known how to use it.” Isildur leaned over the young man to deliver the mock death-blow. As he did so, in a very fast movement, Tal Elmar produced a small knife from his left palm, which rested a mere inch away from stabbing Isildur’s foot.

“But I distract you, and this poisoned. So you dead too” he declared. “Perhaps so much in pain that blow misses, and I escape. But you never escape. So, I win.”

Isildur stared at the knife, incredulous.

“You, little…!” Unable to find a way to finish the sentence accordingly, he let go of his sword, and grabbed Tal Elmar’s wrist until he forced it away from his foot. Then, he twisted the arm until the blade was at Tal Elmar’s own throat. “There is no poison in this world fast enough to prevent me from doing this to anyone who pulled…”

All of a sudden, he grew aware of the contact between the two bodies, and his voice died abruptly. An uncomfortable heat had gathered in his groin, and he tore himself apart from the barbarian as if his skin had the ability to burn him, though not before he was betrayed by the visible signs of his arousal. For a while, he sat on the floor, pretending to be catching his breath after his exertions but, in truth, just unable to say a word. Tal Elmar did not say anything, either, until the silence grew so unbearable that the Númenórean warrior experienced an almost physical need to escape it.

You were right, you son of a bitch, he wanted to cry to an invisible, silent Malik. Are you happy now?

Finally, it was Tal Elmar who reacted first. He sat on his haunches, gazing at Isildur as if all the pieces of his world had clicked together and everything made sense.

“So this is reason why your enemies go after me” he said. “Why you not say it before?”

This could not be real, a part of Isildur was repeating inside his mind. This had to be a dream. Or a nightmare.

“What do you mean by this?” he asked, in a voice that seemed to belong to somebody else. Tal Elmar was not taken aback by the question.

“You want me as…” His voice trailed away, but not in embarrassment; rather as if he was trying in vain to rack his brains for an Adûnaic word he did not know –probably because it did not exist. “You know, when a warrior chooses a younger man, and the young man has to share his fire, and lie with him…”

Isildur looked at him in incredulity.

“Is this what you do in your tribe?” After all his years in the North, he had no idea that such a thing existed. Perhaps Anárion would shake his head at him for not paying more attention. Right before he stared at him in disgust. “To pick men to… act as women?”

“What? No!” Tal Elmar shook his head, scandalized. “Women are… not like men. They different. They… take seed into belly and make babies.”

Wherever Malik was now, he was probably rolling over the floor in laughter.

“I am a married man, Tal Elmar. I know that. As a matter of fact, I already knew that back when your grandfather Buldar was alive and a hero of your people. I…” This was insane. “The Númenóreans do not have that custom.” And the fact that those who did were a bunch of savages, whom the Elves called People of Darkness because of their ancient corruption by the Dark Lord, was not exactly a great endorsement.

“Oh.” Tal Elmar seemed surprised at first, then thoughtful. “Then, I do not understand.”

“There is nothing to understand.” He had to stop this, now, before the current carried him too far and he was unable to find his way back to the shore. “This was only a mistake, a…an accident, which will not be repeated.” The next words were even more difficult to utter, but he knew that he had to. “And you will not remain in Pelargir without me. It is too dangerous. I will leave instructions to Abanazer to put you in his next ship heading for the Island, where my family will take care of you until my return.” That would put an end not only to the plotting of the Merchant Princes, but also to any temptation Isildur might have to ignore the customs of Númenor in those distant shores.

Still, as he stood up, he found that some vile part of him was feeling disappointed that Tal Elmar would not wish to argue this. But why would he? He had simply told Isildur that his people had this shocking custom, not that he would have appreciated to be subject to his… attentions in any way. The way he had described it, in fact, it rather sounded like a process where the ‘younger warrior’ did not have much of a say. It had probably been a relief for him to know that, in Númenor, this sort of abasement was entirely off the cards. Which was one of the advantages of civilization.

“I would not mind”, a voice stopped him in his tracks, and his heart froze.

“What do you mean?” he asked, unwilling to invite any more misunderstandings in a situation which was already embarrassing on its own merits. Tal Elmar struggled to his own feet, and fumbled to pick up the hated training swords.

“You. Choosing me. You are high ranked. Rich. Good warrior. Good looking, though not in the way of Agar. And you always very good to me” he enumerated, as if he was a maiden enumerating the good qualities of her prospective husband –minus the coyness that a Númenórean maiden would at least have known how to feign.

Some figment of Isildur’s deep disarray must have grown apparent in his features, because, for once in his life, Tal Elmar looked sincerely apologetic.

“I am sorry. I do not know Númenórean customs, just customs of Agar”, he sighed. “But I learn. I make great effort and become good Númenórean, as I swore my father.”

Isildur looked away from him, pretending to be very interested in the woman who had just stepped out from the kitchen to release the chickens from their cage.

“And I wish you good luck with your endeavours.” Better luck than mine, anyway, was a coda which he left unsaid. “I will write a letter for you to give to my family, explaining who you are and the reasons for your presence among them.”

“I can explain. My Númenórean much better now”, Tal Elmar argued, following him. Isildur snorted.

“You could be a fountain of eloquence, but I still would not trust anyone other than myself to explain your situation to my family.” Little by little, as he grabbed at the lifeline of normal conversation, the paralyzing shame and the agonizing doubt were subsiding, and he began feeling a little more like himself.

Congratulations, Isildur, a familiar voice, which he had not heard in days, whispered in his ear. You defeated temptation. Now, you can go back to your happy, productive, and peaceful life.

For the rest of the day, Isildur did indeed feel productive. He did not only finish recruiting, but also undertook most of the preparations for his departure, spoke to Abanazer and wrote the long letter for Tal Elmar, where he conveniently omitted any mention to the exact nature of his fear for the Magistrate’s actions. And yet, when he finally put out the lamp and lay on his bed at night, he could not find sleep, and deep inside he wondered if he ever would.