Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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A Dark Future

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After the worst of the storm had abated, the Queen began ushering her gently but firmly towards the gates of the main building. A part of her was grateful for this, so grateful that her heart could have burst, but another part did not wish to leave Gimilzagar alone in that horrible altar, a target for his father’s cruelty and the wrath of the Valar. In the end, only Ar Zimraphel’s assurances that he would not be harmed were strong enough to tear her from that place. As she followed in the Queen’s footsteps, so did the rest of the ladies, including Valeria, who had dropped her perfect façade and looked more distraught than ever, and Khelened, who gazed at the sky with a frown that seemed to be daring Heaven to do better. She looked more alive than she had since she first set foot on the Palace of Armenelos, her eyes gleaming with a fell light and her cheeks flushed. While she watched her, Fíriel had the sudden, uncomfortable thought that she might have been praying for the lightning to strike the Prince of the West.

Those musings came to an abrupt end as the sounds of an argument reached her ears from her immediate vicinity. Focusing on her surroundings, she realized that the querulous voice belonged to the Lady Valeria, and that she was pointing at Fíriel.

“… and I refuse to be in the same room as her!” she said. “This… this commoner has been usurping a place that does not belong to her for far too long now, and I have stayed silent, smiling through her every insolence. But that is enough! I will have no more of it!”

Ar Zimraphel laughed. Her laughter was cold, and gave Fíriel chills.

“Commoner? Usurping? Insolence? Oh, I am afraid that you misunderstand many things, girl. You are but a short-lived barbarian, whose beauty will only last a day. You are here to serve as a brief distraction, a charming pet, but soon you will grow old and die, and Fíriel and Gimilzagar will not even remember that you existed.” She traced a finger down Valeria’s livid forehead, a movement Fíriel was familiar with, and which had also disturbed her at the beginning of their acquaintance. “But while you are still here among us, I advise you not to forget your place again. And do not make these faces, for I hear that the skin wrinkles easily among those of your kind.”

A deathly silence fell across the corridor, as every woman stopped on their tracks to witness this scene. Suddenly, Valeria tore herself away, and Fíriel could hear the unmistakeable sound of a choked sob while she stormed off. A dull rumour erupted all over their surroundings, which the Queen had to quench with a severe look.

“Come, Fíriel” she said, holding out her hand. More unwilling than ever to cross her, the young woman took it and allowed herself to be led to the Queen’s chambers.

“Do not pity her”, Ar Zimraphel admonished. “She despises you with every fibre of her being. And she is not the only one. If I was not here to protect you, you would be dead by now. Never forget that.”

Fíriel imagined that she was referring to the Princess of Rhûn, but did not remark upon it. Instead, she sat on the chair drawn for her, drank the wine poured for her, and quietly prayed for Gimilzagar’s safety.

He did not show up until many hours later, when the candles were almost spent, and most of the women who sat with them had fallen asleep. His hair was wet and dishevelled, there was a bloodstain in his left cheek, and his eyes were those of a living corpse. Fíriel could not help but remember those fateful days after he returned from the mainland, when she had been barely able to bring him back to the world of the living. What had they done to him this time?

Next to her, Ar Zimraphel rose to embrace the Prince and kiss him on the forehead. Her coldness was gone, and for a moment she was a loving mother, her features reflecting her child’s pain like a mirror.

“Go with him, my dear”, she told Fíriel, grabbing her shoulder in a tight grip and pushing her gently in his direction. “Do not leave him.”

Fíriel did not intend to leave him, and much less the way he looked now. She followed him through a maze of corridors in silence, until a door finally closed behind them and they were alone.

What happened next was something that Fíriel did not expect. She had been waiting for him to talk, to share his griefs with her, perhaps even cry. Instead, he lay his hands on her and began taking off her clothes, as fiercely as if those silk fabrics were a hateful obstacle that he had to tear down.

After the first surprise, she let him do it, not caring that her most expensive ceremonial dress would be ruined. Tentatively, she tried doing the same to him, too, which only seemed to encourage him further in his endeavours. Soon, they were both lying on the bed, naked, their limbs entwined until they could no longer be sure of where each of them ended and the other began. But this was still not enough for him: he wanted more, like a man who had been about to die of thirst would gorge on water even if it killed him. In all their years together, he had never been a forceful lover, and the feeling was so new that it almost felt like the first time all over again. A whirlwind of contradictory emotions shook her: there was pain, and then there was pleasure; she gasped for air, and then she recovered her breath only to bury herself in him. She cried, and she laughed; it was too much to bear, but at the same time it was not enough. In the end, both collapsed side by side, and she was so exhausted, so overwhelmed at their physical exertions, that it took her a long while to figure out what had been wrong.

He had not given himself to her- not truly, at least. For the first time in all those years, his mind had retreated. Their bodies had never been closer, and yet their souls had never been so far apart.

“Fíriel”, he whispered, as soon as he realized that she was stirring under the covers.

“Yes, Gimilzagar?” she asked. But he did not reply, until a long time afterwards.

“You should not be on the wrong side.”

“What are you talking about?” The haze had dissipated by now, and she was feeling as alert as if she had slept all night and awoken just in time to watch the crack of dawn.

“I am talking about the war. Númenor is at war now, with the Baalim. You were here tonight because of me, but this is not your side. This is not where you should be.”

Fíriel took a very deep breath, wondering what on Earth she could possibly say to this. Without feeling his mind against hers, she could not be sure, but she wondered if this was all about the mortal peril they had been in last night – and not, as she had assumed, about the King’s actions and his treatment of Gimilzagar.

“I am fine, Gimilzagar,” she reassured him. “The Queen kept me safe.”

He seemed not to hear her.

“This is wrong. All wrong. You stand before the fuming altars and pray, but you abhor those sacrifices. You speak the name of the Deliverer before the assembled Court, but you believe him to be a demon. If the war goes wrong, you will fall with us, instead of being spared together with your people.”

“That is also true of you.”

“It is not. My circumstances are very different from yours, Fíriel. You could be there now, with them, but there is no place for me anywhere but here.”

This discussion was beginning to enter a territory Fíriel was very familiar with –the territory of her troubled conscience, where she found herself whenever she thought she had finally left it behind. She did not want to be in that territory again, so she shook her head vigorously.

“Wherever there is no place for you, there is no place for me, either. I thought that you knew.” Then, just because she thought that dark humour might be able to break the tension, she let her lips curve in a wry grin. “Besides, you should not be so defeatist. From what I have seen and heard, the King intends to win.”

Gimilzagar paled, and though she still could not hear his thoughts, it suddenly dawned upon her that this, and not Ar Pharazôn’s defeat, was his worst fear.

“Gimilzagar…” she began, not knowing very well what to say. He looked away. “Gimilzagar, what happened? You… spoke with the King, didn’t you?”

“Do not worry”, he said, with a studied, overdone nonchalance. “He is still human enough, and too much of a mortal, to risk the life of his heir by throwing you into the flames. Even though Lord Zigûr has been trying to convince him that he should. “The pretence broke, and his dark eyes were brimming with anguish. “But the very moment he becomes a god, our reprieve will be over. I will be less than dirt under his feet, and you a poisonous insect that he will enjoy crushing.”

Fíriel swallowed. What was wrong with her, that she was more afraid of what he was not saying, than at the idea that whatever the outcome of the war, she was doomed?

“Well, Gimilzagar, the King might become immortal, but for me, such a fate was never an option. So, sooner or later, I will have to die. According to you, if I stay here and the Baalim prevail, I will die, and if I stay here and the King prevails, I will die.  But if I go with my people, what makes you think I would fare better? Do you think the Baalim will not know what is in my heart? As for an immortal Ar Pharazôn, he might not think oaths sworn in the name of fellow immortals are worth keeping. He can storm Rómenna in a day and reduce it to ashes. Or Pelargir. Where can you escape, when a god is chasing you?” In the heat of the argument, she was not even scared of what she was saying, though she knew that later, in the privacy of her own bed, the panic would come. “So the answer is no. No matter what you say, I will not leave you.”

“I could have you bound and put inside a cart, and delivered to the lord of Andúnië.”

“I would escape him and come back.”

“If you left Rómenna on your own, you would be killed.”

“Then congratulations, my lord prince”, she snorted. “You would have achieved exactly what you set out to do.”

“Why do you have to be so stubborn?”

“It is in my blood. My true father was of the Haradrim, and he chose death rather than abandoning his friend.”

“I only want what is best for you. I love you, Fíriel. I do not want you to… I would not be able to…” All of a sudden, the veil was torn, and she could feel his mind in hers, and his thoughts filling it like the rising tide on Midsummer’s day. She saw a pitiful man struggling in terror, until Gimilzagar touched his mind and he went limp, to await his fate meekly. She saw Sauron smile, and Ar Pharazôn’s bloody face, as his hazel eyes were set on his with a look of challenge.

Would you be able to pick your prisoners, lead them to the altar, and sacrifice them with your own hands?

Her contentious mood died as fast as it had come, leaving nothing but grief and pity in its wake. In a swift impulse, she embraced Gimilzagar and held him close, even as his chest began to shake with the long-repressed sobs.

“Yes, Fíriel. I- I am the one w-who is doomed. B-but you do not h-have to be.” He wiped his eyes furiously. “You should not be.”

“Do not say that.” Disturbed as she was, she refused to surrender to despair. “Never say that. He will not carry out his threat, and even if he wanted to, you know there are those who would never allow it.” She remembered the Queen sitting at her bedside, telling her that she would doom millions so Gimilzagar would live. But as he caught this thought, the Prince’s eyes widened in horror.

“No, Fíriel. No. This has to stop one day. If the King decides to set the date himself, then so be it. He was the one who started it, so it should be his privilege.” His eyes were lost in some undetermined spot of the ceiling, and his voice was practically a whisper. “The longer I live, the more the list grows out of my reach. No matter how hard I try, I will never catch up. And deep inside, I… I think I have always known it.”

“Shhhh.”. She stroked his hair as he leaned tentatively against her, trying to hear without listening, without understanding. Like this, she could feel his turmoil and exhaustion, which was the same as hers, and yet so clearly distinct at the same time. “You are tired and upset after everything that happened out there. Tomorrow, you will be able to see things differently. We will go over everything again, with a clearer head, and laugh at how stupid and morbid we are acting now.” And if this fails, we will make love over and over until it no longer matters if we die young.

Gimilzagar let go of a choked sound, which might have been laughter or a sob, and rested his head against her shoulder.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

That room always exuded a pungent smell of herbs, which was already noticeable before the guest had even crossed the threshold of the door. The great heat coming from the Sacred Fire contributed to spread it, and as he braced himself to enter the small, suffocating space, Amandil felt an almost overpowering urge to reach the windows and open them to let the fresh air in.

Númendil was not there. To be honest, Amandil had hoped to find him by the old priest’s bedside, for it was here that his father spent most of his days of late. This visit had largely been a pretext to see him, the sole person whose presence might be able to help Amandil in his current state. Since the news from Forostar had reached him, his turmoil was so great that he had been avoiding everyone else, and speaking to no one.

Now, however, he stood before a man who, even as he lay in bed unable to lift his own head from the pillows, could size him up with a glance as piercing as that of a young priest whose unruly charge was trying to hide some misdeed from him. And he knew that it was too late to escape it.

“My lord”, the priest Hasdrumelkor acknowledged his presence with a bow. He was holding a cup, full of a hot tea he must have been giving Yehimelkor before Amandil had interrupted them. The High Priest’s glance was briefly directed towards him.

“Leave us.” Any chance Amandil might still have had of escaping died as the younger priest carefully left the cup over the bedside table and exited the room. “Approach.” It had become increasingly difficult for the old man to speak, so he had adopted a perpetually imperious mood that did not leave much room for superfluity. In the past, Amandil would have thought it impossible to dissociate the eloquent priest from his longwinded debates and incendiary speeches, but now that he heard him talk like this, it struck him how fitting it was. “Help me.”

His gaze was pointing at the tea, and though Amandil wanted to say that he was too busy and had no time for this, his body seemed to obey on its own. Feeling a drop of sweat trickle down his forehead, he approached the bedstead, took the cup, and sat down to feed its contents to Yehimelkor.

Once he had finished drinking, Yehimelkor closed his eyes for a moment, as if willing the substance to work its effect. Perhaps he would fall asleep now, a hopeful voice whispered in Amandil’s mind, but he did not even have time to feel guilty for this wish.

“Your father…will never make you do this”, the High Priest spoke with great effort, his grey eyes open again and firmly set on the lord of Andúnië. “So I will.”

Amandil knew better than to engage in this particular debate. Even the most zealous among the Faithful knew that nobody could be forced to die, just as nobody could be forced to live. Amandil, moreover, did not consider himself the most zealous of anything, and, very deep down, he had to admit that he found the man’s bravery admirable. For him, holding to life was not the desperate reflex of a man terrified of death: it was a sacrifice, the greatest and most perfect sacrifice he could ever offer.

If only his god would accept it, he thought, wistfully. But the King of Armenelos had turned into the Lord of Battles, and then into the Great Deliverer, too busy feeding on the souls of thousands of unwilling victims to pay much attention to subtlety. And all three of them had always been Morgoth. Just like his favourite servant, the Vala had once entered the Island as an embodiment of everything that was right and good, only to reveal his true colours later.

His despair came back in full force at this thought.

“I received news from the shipyards of Forostar this morning” he began, before he could check his impulse. “The King has announced his plans to wage war against the Valar and wrestle immortality from them. They say the Valar answered by sending him a terrible thunderstorm, which killed nearly a hundred of those who were assembled there, among bystanders and priests. He was unharmed.”

His matter-of-factness hid a disarray which, even in his current state, Yehimelkor was able to perceive. He tensed, gathering his strength to speak again.

“Are they your gods?” he asked. Amandil blinked, surprised at this question. The High Priest of Melkor knew the doctrines of the Faithful well enough, and the few points he may have ignored while he sat in his Temple of Armenelos had been gladly explained by Lord Númendil after he came to live with them. Could he be losing his mind?

“They are not gods. They are guardians of the world, chosen since the beginning of Time, and their role is…”

“Then why blame them?” Yehimelkor interrupted him. “You do not pray to them. They do not answer you. They are just… immortals. Feeling threatened.” The effort seemed to be taking its toll on him, and he took several sharp intakes of breath. “They defend themselves… as… they… can.”

“Please, do not overtax yourself”, Amandil begged, concerned that the priest’s unusual excitement would harm his health even further. But the High Priest shook his head.

“Pride. He defeated… Sauron. Now, he thinks he can… defeat the… Baalim. If he… won… he would defy… defy the Great God. It is… unstoppable. The most… terrible sin. Has beginning but… no end.” His eyes, made huge by the contrast with his unbelievably thin features, fixed themselves on Amandil. “All of Númenor is consumed.”

That was quite right, the lord of Andúnië admitted. Ar Pharazôn and his Númenor would not stop, would not rest until they had brought their collective ruin. The Valar might not be acting decisively now, out of unwillingness or inability, but as soon as Ar Pharazôn and his fleet sailed off to invade Aman, they would have to do something. And even if they did not, the Great God, the one who dwelt beyond the Circles of the World, would do it in their stead, because He had appointed them Himself. And this time, the storm would sink them all.

As he thought this, Amandil felt the overpowering urge to rebel at the unfairness of it. Why did it have to be like this? They knew what was going to happen, and yet they would not stop it before it happened, while their actions could still make a difference. There were still many in the Island who had not been swept away by this madness, why shouldn’t they be worth saving? Why fulminate a few hapless bystanders in the shipyards, when so much more could be done? As a matter of fact, why hadn’t it been done earlier, before Ar Pharazôn could take the Sceptre, and he managed to draw so many into his dreams of conquest? What kind of guardians would simply wipe Númenor off the face of the world for something they had allowed to happen?

“Are they your gods?” Yehimelkor asked again. This time, Amandil understood the question.

“Not the Valar. But they were appointed by Eru, to do His bidding. He is my god.” He shook his head. “And He does not listen to my prayers.”

“Mine are not… answered either”, Yehimelkor hissed, and suddenly he looked more vulnerable than Amandil had ever seen him. For a moment he could do nothing but stand there, amazed by this confession.

“Well”, he said at last, with a bitter grin. “Then, perhaps we should stop praying and do something worthwhile.”

The expected explosion did not come. Instead, Yehimelkor merely frowned, Amandil did not know if in disapproval or in an unvoiced question. He leaned forwards, feeling a manic energy seize his body, fuelled by his own frustration.

“Not all Númenor has been drawn into this. Many people are just trying to survive the madness. I am no god, not even an appointed guardian of the world, but I swear I will not rest until they have been led to safety.”

“In the mainland” Yehimelkor spat, and finally, the disapproval emerged in all its glory. “Where they will conquer… others. Where they will…” His voice broke as his chest was racked by an ugly cough that instinctively made Amandil rise to help him, though there was nothing he could do. In the end, it subsided. “Take… what belongs to… others… again.”

Amandil shook his head, feeling the familiar irritation which he remembered from most of his past dealings with this inflexible man.

“So what would you do, then? Let the innocent be destroyed together with the guilty, without moving a finger to save them? Oh, I know you believe that we should have stayed in the Island, and that we should never have established our colonies in Middle Earth. And I agree with you, as long as there is an Island to retreat to. If we no longer have that, should we disappear from the world altogether?” Yehimelkor did not answer, but the lord of Andúnië could see that he was not convinced. “The Faithful have stood aside from Zigûr’s sacrifices. They have taken no part in the atrocities done to the conquered peoples. And if our dreams become true, the memory of the Island’s fate will endure forever as an example of what happened once the brightest civilization on Earth lost its path. We will know better than to lose it again.”

Yehimelkor made a gurgling noise, but it was not a new cough, as Amandil thought at first. Strange as it was to even imagine, it was laughter.

“Do you think our… ancestors thought… differently?” he asked. “Civilizers. Teachers. Helpers”, he spat. “Pride… consumed us. All of us. It is… too late. If you… believe in… divine will, then you… should not… contest it.”

Amandil snorted to hide his turmoil.

“Perhaps, if I was like you, but I am not. Once upon a time, you said I had the mind of a heathen in the body of a soldier, remember? That I was remarkably impervious to any faith, whether true or false” he said. “Well, perhaps you were right. Because if I have to accept this to be a man of faith, then I am not one. If no god or higher being will move a finger to help us, I will not stay here, waiting for disaster to strike me, those I love, and those who trust me to protect them. I will fight it to my last breath, and use whatever small power I still have to alter this fate as much as I can.”

Yehimelkor managed to shake his head a little.

“You sound… like the King”, he said, simply. Amandil refused to let this provoke, much less disturb him. He had come in here looking for his father, damn it, and his father was the only one who should have heard his innermost thoughts.

“That must be why we were friends for so long.” At least until Amandil’s mind learned to tell the difference between conquering the world, sacrificing people to the Great Deliverer and attacking the Valar in their own realm, and striving to protect innocent men, women and children. A difference which, for the likes of Yehimelkor, seemed not to exist. “Now, if you excuse me, I have things to do.”

“You are excused”, Yehimelkor replied, as dignified as if Amandil had truly been asking him for permission to go. Before the lord of Andúnië could abandon the room, however, he heard the hoarse voice again. “Thank you. For your… visit.”

Amandil’s bravado died, like the flickering flame of a hearth after a gust of cold wind had blown through the window. With it, his anger and frustration were also gone, and he could see clearly that not even the great power of his inflexibility would keep this man alive for much longer. And once that he died, a part of Amandil would die with him –whether the better or the worst part, he did not know.

“It was no trouble”, he said, and right then he meant it. “I will come and visit you more often, if my obligations allow.”

But Yehimelkor’s moment of weakness, if he had had one, was long gone.

“They will not” he predicted bitterly, his eyes growing lost in the paintings of the ceiling.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

In all his life, Tal Elmar had never been unable to see land. The only time he had been on a ship, on their way to Pelargir, the trees and the mountains had always been there, if he leaned on the railing and looked hard enough. But when he set foot on the big ship that would take him beyond the last edge of the world and into the mysterious Island of the Sea People, it was all he could do not to let the immensity of the Great Sea, magnified by the haunting power of the tales he had heard as a child, drive him into a panicked frenzy. At first, it had been easier to remain brave because he knew that Isildur was watching, and the last thing he wanted was to be shamed in front of him. After the ship departed the harbour and the last, narrow strip of land disappeared beyond the horizon, however, he had needed to remind himself, many times, that the people who surrounded him all knew Isildur and would report to him.

Even so, his body had betrayed him, and he had fallen sick. The sailors and merchants all smiled and behaved as if this was normal, but none of them had vomited overboard until their limbs were shaking and their mouths dry. They probably meant that it was normal for barbarians, for Forest People, who were weak and short-lived and could not help their impulses. Tal Elmar resented this greatly. He had spent his entire life trying to prove that he was a warrior of Agar, but he could not prevent his fellow tribesmen from seeing him as one of the Sea People. Now that he was among the Sea People, a part of him had hoped that things would be different, but so far nothing seemed to have changed much. Even Isildur, who often said that he would make a fine Númenórean, had not wanted him. Oh, his body had wanted him, that much was obvious, but when he was faced with the need to acknowledge it, he had balked. He had even made up some story about Númenóreans not knowing about those barbarian customs, which did not make sense to Tal Elmar at all. If the Númenóreans were so different, why would Isildur be excited to touch him, or look at him like that? Why would he come up with some story about Tal Elmar being in great danger to justify dumping him on a ship and getting rid of him?

Long as this journey had proved to be, whenever he was not vomiting or trying in vain to spot something that was not water in the horizon, Tal Elmar could not stop thinking of this. Often, he had managed to work himself into a state of anger, not only at Isildur, but also at himself. When Hazad uBuldar lay on his deathbed, he had made him swear that he would give the Sea People his allegiance, and obey them in all things. If Isildur said that he had to go to Númenor, Tal Elmar could not oppose his will. But, did he have to go so meekly? The more he thought about it, the more he regretted his lack of insistence. He should have gazed at the Númenórean right in the eye, without looking away, and informed him that he would not leave until he was told the whole truth.

Back when he was still a man of Agar, nobody had found Tal Elmar pleasing to the eye. No warrior would have chosen him, and maidens would walk faster whenever he approached them. This meant no formal training for him, no clear status, and no prospects of marriage alliances. He never became part of any warrior band, and all that he knew about fighting had been taught by Hazad himself, or by the grumbling brothers whose unwilling help his father had successively enlisted. Isildur had been the first person to ever look at him in a different way. Even back when Tal Elmar was his prisoner in that encampment by the beach, and everybody believed him to be an ignorant barbarian who could not speak a word of their language, the Númenórean kept staring at him as if bedazzled by his appearance. When the young man was feeling exhausted from withstanding Anárion’s extensive interrogations, and scared that those prying eyes would end up seeing inside his soul and discovering his deception, Isildur was the one who strode inside the tent and forced his brother to leave him alone. And when Hazad showed up and there was no longer any reason to hide his knowledge of the Númenórean tongue, Isildur’s shock had immediately given way to relief, and the first thing he asked Tal Elmar was whether he would be interested in leaving with him on his ship. Later, he had repeated his offer, angry on his behalf because they would not let him participate in the burial of the warriors. Tal Elmar had refused both times, frightened by the possibility of such a great upheaval in his life, and mistrustful of Númenórean promises, but he had often regretted it later. For not even Hazad’s chieftainship, or the considerable goodwill he always showed him, even in public, had succeeded in turning Tal Elmar into a proper warrior of Agar. No one had chosen him, and no one had married their daughter to him, as the advantages of becoming allied to a son of Hazad turned into disadvantages the more it grew obvious that his many older brothers considered his existence as a source of shame for their clan, and that one of them would soon be the next chieftain.

Now that he thought about it, Tal Elmar was certain that Hazad had known. He had been aware of the way the leader of the Sea People looked at his youngest son, and his mind had slowly come up with a plan. Even before he was bedridden for the last time, when he still spent his days sitting by the hearth and staring thoughtfully at its embers, Tal Elmar remembered him remarking more than once that the Sea People did not reckon years as they did; that he, already an old man, was barely a grown warrior for them, and that Tal Elmar himself would be just out of childhood. Grandmother’s blood was strong in him, which was probably why he could not manage to grow a beard yet, and, if this was the case, he might be destined to be long-lived. What could have been the point of all those elucubrations, which seemed to preoccupy him so much at a moment where it might have been more practical to worry about whether either of them would be alive the next day, unless it was to reach the conclusion that Tal Elmar was still of an age to be chosen by a Númenórean? But in this as in all things, hindsight was crucial, and Tal Elmar had remained unaware of his father’s true intentions even as he swore by his deathbed, left his home never to return, and knelt before Isildur to ask for his protection. It was only later, in Pelargir, when he had come to understand the entire thing. And then, it had just been one glorious moment of clarity before Isildur remembered who he was - and rejected him again.

Only, he had to wonder…was this what had exactly happened? Even now, Tal Elmar could not be wholly sure, and this gave him the tiniest sliver of hope. Back in his tribe, at least, rejection had not looked like this. Tal Elmar had never known of a warrior who refused the favours of a younger man, and yet trained and protected him anyway. And he had not just sent him anywhere, but to Númenor, with his own family. Whatever he planned to do with Tal Elmar, he was not getting rid of him. Sometimes, the young man wondered if he did all this just out of pity, but Tal Elmar was not Isildur’s son or his kin, and the Númenórean had no reason to pity him as Hazad used to. Above all, his reactions to their physical contact did not tally with this idea.

Maybe he wanted, really wanted Tal Elmar, but was just ashamed of what the rest of the Sea People would say if they saw him with a barbarian. That could be why he always mentioned Hazad’s oath as the reason why he had taken him in, though even a Númenórean had to be aware that an oath between Hazad and Tal Elmar should never have been binding for him. And in that case, why shouldn’t there still be a chance of success? Tal Elmar had been shunned in Agar because he did not look like the Forest People; that he followed all their laws and customs and behaved like the bravest of their warriors never had the ability to make the slightest difference. But in Númenor, it was the opposite. He looked like the Sea People, and even in Pelargir he had noticed that whenever he kept his mouth shut and imitated their behaviour and their movements, he could pass as one of them. This meant that, for the first time in his life, he held his fate in his own hands. If he followed every one of their rules, memorized all their beliefs, imitated their movements, their speech, their courtesies, and learned to fight like them and worship their gods, there would be nothing to remind them that he had once been a warrior of Agar. And then, he could earn their respect, and Isildur would no longer be ashamed of him.

“Oh, look at you!” One of the sailors had just landed on deck after dangling rather precariously from the mast closer to Tal Elmar; a high and frightening structure that looked like the Sacred Tree of his people’s tales, but planted in the water. “You are not sick anymore. Good for you!”

“Thanks.” Filled with this new determination, Tal Elmar stood up, his back against the railing in a good impression of a warrior stance. It might have been his imagination, but the floor felt a little less unsteady under his feet. “Maybe I help you. If you need me. Go up there”, he added, pointing at the moving tree. The sailor’s eyes widened as understanding set in.

“Whoa. You are spirited, boy! Just finds his sea-legs and already fancies himself a sailor”, he laughed, shaking his head. Then, however, Tal Elmar’s smouldering look seemed to give him pause, and he sobered. “No offense. Now I think about it, if you want to make yourself useful, there is something you could help us with. There are sails in need of repair; if you know how to use a needle you are welcome to join us. It’s not the best job in the world, but it beats rowing a galley under the midday sun, I guess.”

Tal Elmar had never used a needle, and in Agar he might have felt insulted if a man had asked him if he had, but he kept his thoughts to himself and nodded eagerly.

“I will help you.” It had not looked that difficult when the women did it.

“Great. Come with me.” To walk was a little different than to stand; now, the floor seemed to move much more, but Tal Elmar managed to keep his balance. The realization that yes, a random Númenórean could trust a face like his, no matter where it came from, gave him heart. “By the way, can you feel it? The Island is already close by. I can always tell from the smell of the pine trees of the Hyarrostar.”

“Er…” The young barbarian’s confidence faltered, for he could not smell anything of the kind. He was struggling with something to say, when the sailor laughed again.

“I was pulling your leg! I mean, joking. Nobody can smell pines from hundreds of miles away, but I like to pretend that I can. I was born there, you know, and sometimes I pine for my ancient home. Did you get it? Pine. By the way, what was your name again?”

That evening, Tal Elmar was taught how to sew damaged sails and repair them so they could be hung on masts and move ships across the great water. And as the stars were kindled one by one and the Sea People exchanged jokes and stories all around him, he swore to himself that one day he would also learn all the rest.