Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

---

Return to Agar

---

He had never been one of those people who put their faith in omens, or even listened too closely to the misgivings of his own heart, attributing the smallest sign of uneasiness to the foresight of his ancestors. In his life, he had been better served by keeping a rational mind than by running away with untrustworthy instincts; something in which, as usual, he had proved the opposite of the man who shared the responsibilities of this expedition with him.

That was why Anárion knew that there was substance to his fears this time. The news of the plague in Pelargir, though scarce and perhaps garbled, would have been worrying enough on their own as to approach the place cautiously. Perhaps they might even have done better to avoid it, but after they had started ferrying people in secret, it had been judged convenient to be seen following proper procedure. Also, they could not forsake those loyal to them inside the city, and all the people who awaited their arrival as the sole chance of delivery from the dangers which assailed them. Even if he was ready to sacrifice them in the name of the greater good, neither the Lord of Andúnië nor Isildur himself would have agreed to it. And the mutual understanding that they should pretend to like each other and work as one could hardly take any more hits at the moment, he thought ruefully.

It was so very ironic, he mused, that Isildur should be the one to resent him. If one of them had a reason to grow up bitter, that would be Anárion, forced by the avatars of birth to be second to a man for whom responsibilities always took a back seat to his selfish, immoderate passions. Sometimes, it struck Anárion that all he had been doing since he was old enough to remember was compensating for his older brother’s absences and shortcomings. He had been Grandfather’s aide in the Council and taken care of Grandmother when Isildur and his empty-headed Haradric friend were needlessly risking his life on the mainland for thrills, and helped Father while his brother wallowed in self-pity for getting Malik killed. He had persuaded Irimë to marry him, which in turn left the way open for Isildur to marry her sister. Lady Irissë had been the less demanding of the two: all she wanted was someone who treated her well and gave her children, but even that had proved too difficult for his brother at times. Then, after they were sent to the mainland, Anárion had established alliances and built settlements, organized, ruled them even. Isildur had only showed interest in matters of governance in two instances: when he could lead his troops to war, and when the boy he wanted by his side as a substitute for Malik saw fit to put all of Anárion’s efforts at risk by asking for their protection. And in both instances, of course, his will had prevailed.

Tal Elmar. That day, when their men came upon him in that inhospitable forest, had been the beginning of it all. Since then, the more he looked, talked with him, the more Isildur let his unseemly fascination for the barbarian shine across his features, and dictate his movements. Anárion had already suspected this, from the moment his brother began pondering the idea of kidnapping Tal Elmar and taking him home, even knowing that this would put an end to their possibilities of an alliance with the Agarenes. It might have been just a mad idea then, but at some point, he knew it would cause problems. And so it had: the unrest among the tribes which eventually had ended in war had been the ultimate consequence of some of the concessions they had to make for the Master of Agar when Isildur took Tal Elmar under his wing. And, though Anárion did not even want to think about this, the barbarian’s presence in Rómenna had also set something in motion, something much subtler but no less dangerous. Both the lord of Andúnië and Father were happy because they finally had their long-awaited heir, and neither of them would look beyond that, but Anárion did. Isildur’s sudden interest in his wife, his ferocious feeling of vindication when she gave birth to a son, covered a deep disarray which had appeared naked in his eyes on that fateful night. And Isildur knew that Anárion knew, which had brought his resentment to the fore again.

A resentment that made no sense. Even if he wanted to, Anárion could never do anything to hurt Isildur. All he had ever done in his life, all the gifts he had trained and put to use and which now seemed to turn him into some kind of threatening figure, were there for him –or, rather, because of him. Because he had to be everything that Isildur was not. And, if Isildur had managed to have his wife bear a son, no one was more relieved about it than Anárion himself. For a long time, he had felt he was the only one who could do that, too, and the fact that none of Irimë’s pregnancies managed to fill this void had worried him to no end. Oh, she still wanted a son, and now more than ever, Anárion was aware of that. Mother thought she was just feeling humiliated for having lost to her sister, but there was more to it than mere jealousy. Irimë had always been a woman of great ambitions, and she envisioned them ruling free territories in the mainland, territories that would not stay under the same rule as easily as Númenor had. In those circumstances, it was not impossible that he could establish his own house, but for that he would need male heirs who could keep the more warlike barbarians at bay. Anárion, however, did not see as far as she did, and in the here and now, his duty was done.

Still, as it often happened, he had not managed to find a way to communicate this to Isildur successfully. Instead, instinct had made him lash out unkindly at his brother’s drunken abuse, and now they were dancing around each other for the umpteenth time. In the almost three weeks it took them to cross the Great Sea, they had barely spoken twice. Their ship was rather small compared to the war galleys that the Sceptre was building in Forostar, even compared to the merchant ships that sailed back and forth across this same route to bring goods and commodities to Númenor, but for Isildur, it might as well have been as large as the Island. And with Anárion’s mind pondering the dangers that awaited them, he knew that this lack of communication was not a wise move.

Finally, on the day Pelargir came in sight, and the Magistrate’s envoy hailed them, Anárion decided that enough was enough.

“I can do the talking, if you wish”, he began, wondering why it was that his diplomatic skills often did not avail him when Isildur’s brow curved into a frown. “If not, perhaps we could establish a strategy that enabled us to present a united front before them.”

The elder son of Elendil did not answer for a long while. At some point, he had that look in his eyes that told Anárion that he was about to say something argumentative, but before he could blink, it was gone again. In the end, he merely shrugged.

“Fine. Do the talking, then.”

The envoy was dressed ostentatiously, just as that other man who had received them the first time they set foot on Pelargir. Unlike him, however, he was not surrounded by an entourage of slaves and secretaries, but by armed soldiers, and his courteous manners had an edge to them, as if they were just a thin veneer that barely hid the rough surface underneath.

“I apologize for the inconvenience, my lords. But the plague, sent by Númenor’s Western foes, is causing great devastation in our fair city, and the Magistrate has his hands full trying to contain its spread.” It did not pass unnoticed to Anárion how the man gave special emphasis to the words ‘Western foes’, or the way his gaze rested on them as he did so. “The crews of the ships sailing from the Island are not allowed to disembark, until they have undergone a month of quarantine.”

“We are all healthy here”, Isildur intervened, predictably forgetting the agreement about letting Anárion do the talking. The envoy nodded, a little too fast.

“Oh I know, my lord, I know. We have heard the rumours that the… people living in Rómenna are not affected. And still”, he continued, before Isildur could speak,” the rules are the rules. Your crew may not disembark. But the Magistrate is not unreasonable, and he knows that you are scions of a noble family and people of good breeding. He will allow you two to conduct your business in Pelargir, if you agree to certain rules for your protection as well as ours. It is not- advisable for a Baalim-worshipper to show himself openly, in the current climate, which is why you will be escorted by the Magistrate’s men at all times, and sleep in his own house.”

This development forced them to retreat for a private discussion, while the man sat in waiting. As soon as they were out of his earshot, Anárion was the first to voice the obvious.

“It is a trap.”

“Of course it is a trap.” Isildur began pacing over the deck, as he usually did when he was thinking. “Anyone but a fool would be able to see that. And still, it is not that easy to avoid it. If we turn away from the Magistrate’s invitation and sail North, we will leave our flank open to accusations of acting behind the Sceptre’s back…”

“We can claim that we were concerned by rumours of the plague.”

“… and we will also abandon our allies in Pelargir to their fate.  Did you hear what he said? ‘It is not advisable for a Baalim-worshipper to show himself openly.’ What do you think that might have happened to those who remain faithful to the Valar inside the city?”

Anárion did not reply to this. This was quite unusual in him: to know what he had to say, what had to be said, and yet not being able to say it. But deep inside he knew that, if he did, Isildur would refuse to accept it, and hate him even more. And he was just too tired of being hated.

In the end, he took a sharp breath.

“I should go with him, then. You cannot afford to be detained here, much less to put your life at risk, while our people need you in the North.”

“What?” Isildur had not been expecting this.

“I will stay here, and try to learn what has happened to our friends. But you cannot come with me. If something happened to you, and the news spread, our colonies in Agar would be unprotected. And if something happened to the both of us, Agar would only be a part of the problem. The blow to the house of Andúnië’s endeavours would be devastating. You have a son now, Isildur, but I daresay we have no time to wait for him to reach adulthood.”

“That is not…” His brother looked speechless. “You are not… I should…” He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, as if he could get physically rid of the fog that clouded his mind. “You are not staying in Pelargir. It is too dangerous. If anyone is staying, it is me.”

Was that genuine concern, or just pig-headed warrior pride?

“It will be just as dangerous for you, Isildur. You fought and killed five bodyguards once, but you cannot fight an entire city garrison. You will do more good elsewhere, at the head of your troops.” Then, he could not help himself. “Besides, if there is a way to come out of this alive, it will be through subtlety and diplomacy, which has never been your strong suit.”

Isildur’s eyes fixed themselves in his, glowering with anger. Then, he turned away from Anárion, and returned to the place where the Magistrate’s envoy was waiting for them.

“We are not coming with you”, he announced, and Anárion felt relief coursing through every limb in his body. The reprieve, however, was short-lived, for the man’s steely expression confirmed his worst suspicions. The Merchant Princes wanted them dead.

“I must insist that you accompany me. If you do not trust me, I will swear all the oaths you require, but the Magistrate needs to see you.”

“Oh? I thought he was only being generous by allowing us to break the quarantine and do business in his city.”

“There is an… unpleasant business with a man called Abanazer. He has been accused of treason, but he claims that you could vouch for him.”

Anárion’s breath caught on his throat, and he froze, waiting for the inevitable.

“My men will escort you and yours back to your boat”. Isildur’s voice was so cold and deadly that it even gave him goosebumps, but it did not show hesitation.

“We will not leave until we have reached an agreement”, the envoy insisted, sending a significant glance in the direction of one of his soldiers. Then man’s hand immediately went for his sword, but Isildur was faster. Before the weapon was out of its sheath, his own blade was already an inch away from the envoy’s exposed throat.

“As you wish. You will accompany us for the first stretch of the journey, then.  Once we are through the Bay, I will release you in a boat, and you can go back to your master and tell him everything. Disarm them and tie them up”, he ordered the men, who had gathered around them at the first sign of trouble.

When Anárion followed Isildur to the front deck, however, the latter’s mood was far from exultant.

“I am sorry about Abanazer” he ventured. Isildur stopped in his tracks for a moment to look at him, and Anárion realized that the resentment was back once again.

“No, you are not”, his brother said, before walking away to yell orders to the sailors.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Anárion had been right yet again to keep them away from Pelargir, despite Isildur’s reluctance to admit it. Once their ship managed to sail the coastline beyond the reach of the city’s navy, and evade the Middle Havens patrols –who, thankfully, had not had the time to be alerted of their arrival-, they reached the safety of Agar only to come face to face with an even more dire scenario. As they set anchor on the harbour of the settlement, the first sign that not everything was well was to find the docks full of armed men, who looked both gaunt and relieved to see them. While they escorted them to the town hall, they were surrounded by a very large crowd, filling every street they had to cross on their way. Wherever they looked, all they could see was ragged people who pressed against one another and held their wide-eyed children in their arms. Isildur did not remember ever seeing so many men and women inside those walls, and he knew that their presence could only mean serious trouble.

“Thank the Valar that you came!” the captain of the Guard cried as soon as they came in. He was in the Council Room, except it was not a council room anymore. The chairs had been taken away, weapons lay scattered about, and soldiers and captains stood around the table by the fireside, where there was a map and many empty glasses.

“Give me the status report” Isildur ordered, not wasting any time in greetings. Anárion, meanwhile, walked closer to the table, to take a closer look at the map they had been discussing before their arrival.

“It is the Agarenes, my lord. Those damn savages broke the alliance with us.”

“What? Why?” Isildur had never thought too highly of the short-lived folk’s promises, but Agar had stood with them for so long –and gained so much for it- that this news shocked him. He stole a look at Anárion, who was frowning at the map, though he did not look surprised.

“Somebody seems to have offered them more”, the captain explained somberly. All of a sudden, Isildur had a flashback to a conversation he had with Lord Sorekbal in Pelargir, years ago, when the insolent wretch had offered to buy Tal Elmar from him. Something tells me that the current chieftain of that backwater tribe would not grieve too much at his disappearance, he had said, and Isildur had briefly wondered if the Merchant Princes of Pelargir could be in communication with the Forest People. But at that point, he had been so absorbed by his own inner turmoils that soon after he had forgotten the issue completely.

If Anárion heard about how you dismissed such serious concerns because you were too busy making sense of your lust for a young man, I do not think he would be surprised, Malik whispered in his ear. Isildur bristled at this notion. This was not his fault, and he would not let anyone, not even his dearest friend, pretend that it was so.

“And what have they done, so far?”

As it turned out, the farthest of the two settlements the Númenóreans had built upriver had been entirely destroyed, and its refugees were many of those who crowded the streets outside. The other, whose walls had been finished by the time the attack started, was still standing. The Forest People had no idea of how to take a fortified enclosure, so they were in no danger of being breached, but the colonists could not leave the settlement and their provisions, even rationed, would not hold for much longer. When Isildur and Anárion arrived, they had been discussing how to send them aid without compromising their defenses or running into the many enemy tribes who roamed the forest now.

“Damn those Agarenes, and thrice damn the Merchant Princes and all their ilk”, Isildur hissed soulfully. The lord of Andúnië would be livid when he heard of this setback. He had been quite insistent in his plan to build two more colonies to be added to the three that were already established, but now there were only two of those left, and perhaps, if things turned ill, just one. They had brought a Seeing Stone with them on this journey, which they had already used to inform Rómenna of what happened in the harbor of Pelargir, but Isildur would not be so fast to report this news. Not until he had been able to solve the situation by his own means.

“Very well. We will go to war with Agar. How many armed men do we have?”

While the man gave him the numbers of available men from the garrison of each settlement, and those of the colonists who could bear arms, Isildur looked at Anárion again. His brother had raised his eyes from the map now.

“So, is that it? You are not going to try negotiating with them first? There is a good chance that they will back off if we equal the offer from Pelargir. After all, we live closer to them.”

“No.” He had had more than enough of diplomacy in the last years. In fact, if it had not been for Anárion’s insistence in doing everything his own way, and the Lord of Andúnië’s absurd compunctions about conquest, all their settlements would still be standing now. If anybody should bear the blame for what had happened, it was them, not him. “I told you once, those people will never accept your friendship, keep your alliances or respect your laws. They will only take your gifts and pretend to be helpful while it is convenient for them. War is the only thing they truly understand, and now, I am going to make myself understood.”

That makes two of you speaking the same language, Malik retorted, raising an eyebrow. Isildur ignored him again, and focused on the men who gathered around them instead.

“We need to send a very important message. Nobody, no matter how powerful, attacks a Númenórean settlement without expecting swift retribution! They attacked our homes; now, we will attack theirs, and we will root them out.”

Anárion nodded in acquiescence, for his sense of propriety would never allow him to disagree with Isildur in front of others. But Isildur could clearly see in his eyes that he was not quite happy with this decision, or with the fierce enthusiasm with which the others had received it.

“Do not worry, Anárion” he said, more for their benefit than for that of his brother. “Tal Elmar has taught me how his people fight, and I know how to counter their strategies. Also, our weaponry and technique are superior, and this time, we will have the element of surprise.”

“I see.” Anárion nodded again, almost cautiously. He was gazing at the map again, Isildur did not know if because something in it interested him or because he did not wish to meet his glance. “I know how great a warrior you are, and I do not doubt your victory. I just hope that, after we emerge victorious, we will be ready to stand on our own in a hostile mainland.”

Isildur walked until he was before the table too, at the other side of the map. There were painted tokens in it, he realized, marking the estimated locations of all the tribes that had an alliance with the Agarenes. Reaching towards it, he swept the tokens away with the open palm of his right hand, until there were none left on the board. The clatter they made as they fell felt oddly satisfying.

“After I emerge victorious, you can reorganize the territory as you like”, he said. “Agar has enough fertile land to settle every refugee in the North, and many more to come.” And the Faithful of Pelargir, if we are ever allowed to set foot there again, he thought, with a sudden pang on his chest. But the impotence he had felt that day only served to harden his resolve now. “Tell the men to be ready to march tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lord”, the captain barked. Slowly, everyone began filing away towards the exit, their eyes gleaming with a spark that had not been there instants before. As soon as they were gone, he turned towards Anárion.

“I will go to bed now, too”, he announced, picking up the wine jar and leaving his brother to stand there in silence.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Amandil did not know when had walking down the cliffs until he stood at the exact place where his father had died become a habit for him. Or spending increasingly long periods of his day alone, unwilling to see other people or talk to them, no matter who they were. Only today, his own son’s attempts to engage him had been rebuffed twice. As always, Elendil seemed to take it with equanimity, but Amandil could see that he was just hiding his concern.

The lord of Andúnië did not shiver as his exposed body received the brunt of the strong North wind that blew across the coast. This was nothing, compared with the cold he had been feeling in his soul since the Seeing Stone had given him the latest news from the mainland. Pelargir was closed to them now, their allies there in dire peril from the machinations of the Merchant Princes, and the unfortunate people who had been waiting to be taken North left to the mercy of their enemies and the dangers of the plague instead. Amandil prayed that the malicious rumours could be true, and the Faithful were immune to it, but he was afraid that this was just a misconception prompted by the isolation of Rómenna, and that Sauron’s lies had done the rest. None of the natural catastrophes which had happened until now had spared innocents, and if his visions of the future were accurate, the Wave would not stop for those whose hands had remained clean.

That is because no one is innocent. If you could look inside the hearts of people, you would find nothing but various degrees of guilt, Yehimelkor would have told him, if he had been alive and Amandil had gone to him for counsel. Look at yourself for example, at your own people. You think you are much wiser, holier, and better than the King and his men, and yet the moment you are given a measure of power you show evidence of your true nature.

The former Hannimelkor of the Temple of Armenelos had always been stubborn, and reluctant to admit that the priest could be right in his inflexible, absolute judgements. If there was something he had learned, in a long life of adapting to the sweeping currents of the world in order to survive, it was that the world of mortal Men was complex. This complexity was often ugly, sometimes sordid, and never easy to navigate. Only the immortals, or those among them who had seen absolute good and absolute evil staring back at them in the eye, had known a different reality, and those who had once learned from them struggled to live on their borrowed memories –even those who had long forgotten where those memories came from.

If you believe in divine will, then you should not contest it, the High Priest had said. According to him, Númenor had taken possession of the mainland unjustly, and the Wave would put an end to this injustice. He had never set foot on a ship, seen anything outside the Island, or met a barbarian in his life, but Amandil, who had done all these things, could not even deny the truth of this assessment. All he could do was assure Yehimelkor that the Faithful would not do those things, and that they deserved a chance to survive, start a new life, and prove their good faith in a changed world. They would have to face complex situations, of course, but they would find a way to solve them. They were entitled to find a place to live, just like the peoples of the mainland, and they should not be judged or condemned for seeking it.

Now, he could almost hear his former Revered Father laughing at him from whatever hereafter his god had led him to. They had only suffered one major setback, and the solution had not been any different from those adopted by their guilty ancestors who established the first colonies on the shores of Middle Earth. But the worst of all was not that Isildur had acted behind his back, that the Forest People had been expelled by force from what had been their ancestral lands, or that their forests were cut to provide land for the crops that would feed the settlers from the Island. It was not even that this was happening before the Wave fell upon Númenor. The worst was that Amandil had always known that this was how it worked, not because the Númenóreans who had done it were not faithful to the Valar, but because it was the only way it could ever work. And what made him feel a void in his soul that all his hypocritical anger at Isildur could not fill was that, even so, he could not find it in himself to feel guilty. The Faithful were his people, and he could not abandon them to die for an absolute concept of justice. He would save them, no matter who had to perish in their stead. Because, at the end of the day, that was what a leader did.

You sound like the King, Yehimelkor had also said once, in an accusatory tone. Amandil wondered if Pharazôn, even in his better days, had ever been driven by the need to protect the people of Númenor. But in the general meaning of the term, the priest was right: he had sounded like a King. Kings, unlike gods or their servants, could not have a glance that encompassed the whole world, and unlike mere individuals, they were not free to make their own choices. They only saw their people, and their wellbeing was all that mattered. As Kings, they could be good or evil, just or unjust, but they could not hold others in a balance with their own subjects, and have them prevail.

The wind was blowing with more intensity, and belatedly, Amandil realized that he was shivering. He had never given deep thought to this, but if Ar Pharazôn the Golden brought the line of the Kings to an end with his sacrilegious war, and the Faithful escaped the approaching disaster, he might be the King of what remained of Númenor. And then every deed of his people, every act of oppression, every injustice would be blamed on him, and he would stand before mortals and immortals to be judged for it, before and after his death. There would no longer be any higher instance to fall back to, no loyalties to keep, no orders to follow or to disobey.

Had Pharazôn ever been as terrified by this thought as he was now? Or would he laugh in Amandil’s face, and tell him that if he had allowed himself to be distracted by that pile of rubbish he would never have got anything done? The second option appeared more likely, and yet his old friend, with all his blind arrogance, was living proof of all the reasons Amandil had to feel afraid.

Then lay down your life, as all you cowards do, his inner Pharazôn, let loose after such a long time, challenged him. Isildur knows much more about being a king than you ever will. You are half an outlaw, half a priest, half a warrior, and half a lord, and somehow all those halves do not even amount to a complete man. If at least you stepped out of line instead of skirting around it, perhaps I could still do you a favour and put you out of your misery, before I sailed away to meet my doom.

Amandil grimaced. A man made of halves. Or the man in the middle, as the Queen had called him once, gazing at him with those piercing black eyes that seemed to examine every inch of his soul in search of everything he was, had been, or would be. Now, he saw himself as standing between Númenor and the mainland, ferrying those who departed yet unwilling to depart himself, to let go of the Island both in body and in soul. To leave behind who he was, and turn into someone else.

That afternoon, as he returned to his house and had a cup of warm wine trickle down his throat and warm his chest, the lord of Andúnië forced himself to reach a decision.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

“Governor of the Northern colonies?” Elendil was surprised, but as always he managed to turn his shock into a form of mild disbelief. Amandil nodded.

“Obviously, it will be an unofficial title, as the Sceptre has not been informed of it. But for the good running of our enterprises in the North, it would be convenient to have Isildur established in a clearer position of authority, valid for our people, if not for the rest of the Númenóreans”, he clarified. Elendil, however, did not lay down his disbelief.

“I thought that you were angry with him, for going behind your back and starting a war on his own after entirely disregarding diplomacy.”

“I am not in Middle Earth, Elendil. I am sitting in my house of Rómenna.” He served himself a cup of wine. “Perhaps what we truly need is someone who will go behind my back more.”

His son nodded slowly.

“I see.” The tension had not left his features, and it was obvious that, though he might understand, he did not quite agree. “And what about Anárion?”

The lord of Andúnië arched an eyebrow.

“What about him?”

“Will he have some form of authority, too?”

“He is there as his brother’s advisor. He does not need to derive any authority from me.”

“I do not think that is a good idea.”

“Obviously.” Amandil raised his glance to meet that of his son, who as always towered above him. “Now, perhaps you can tell me why.”

“Because Isildur is a rash and impulsive man, and though this makes him a good warrior, it does not necessarily make him a good ruler.” He paused for a moment, as if it cost him to say this, but his voice was so steady that it might have just been Amandil’s imagination. “He has never liked listening to others, and if he is rewarded for following his natural inclinations, he will not even find it necessary to correct his faults.”

“He was right. And he was successful.” And we cannot afford to think deeper than that, Amandil finished the sentence in his mind. But Elendil did not seem about to let this go.

“So is Ar Pharazôn. Until the day he is not, and he leads his people to their deaths.” The jar made a sharp noise as the lord of Andúnië dropped it on the low table. “Even though he used to be your friend, you were not blind to his faults, and when he was being hailed as a victorious King, you saw clearly that success was not the sole measure of a person’s acts.”

He sounded unusually solemn now, and something in his gaze troubled Amandil, bringing back the musings that he had thought he could discard. For a while, he stared in silence at his cup, his forehead curved in a frown.

“And you think it would be a better option to have them disagree with each other’s decisions and thwart them?”

“Anárion will never thwart Isildur. He knows that his duty is to help him, and nothing is as important to Anárion as duty.”

“And what if he decides that there are more important duties? Or, what if others tell him that he should?” He left Irimë’s name implicit, as he did not feel comfortable accusing her, though he was sure that anyone perceptive would be able to guess who those words referred to. That woman certainly had the brains and the ambition to tell Anárion what he should do, and there was reason to believe that he might not be able to remain as level-headed when it came to her.

Now, it was Elendil’s turn to look troubled. Amandil knew that he had struck a nerve, though this did not make him feel any better.

“Elendil, you have been a governor in the past. You know that we must think in practical terms. Do you remember how you used to complain about Bodashtart in Arne? All the things that you could not do, all the measures that you could not take because he was appointed to watch over your shoulder?” He gazed into his son’s eyes. “Or have your views on this changed because you can trust yourself and Anárion, but not Isildur?”

Elendil winced at this, in a very rare show of open emotion. The answer, however, did not come, and at some point, Amandil realized that it was pointless to wait for it.

“I see”, he said. “I will have your insights in mind when I make my decisions, Elendil, though I have to say that we do not have too many options. We need to settle in Middle Earth, and to do it now. We need to feed and protect the people who trust us with their lives. And if Isildur can give us that, we will have to trust him.”

He stood up to leave. Elendil did not move, not even to follow him with his eyes, but before Amandil crossed the threshold of the room, he could hear his son’s voice behind him again.

“I love Isildur, Father. And I know that both his strength and his lack of qualms are necessary for the success of your enterprise. But if it was my choice to make, I would never let him rule without supervision.”

Amandil was forcefully stopped in his tracks by the quiet pain in those words. All of a sudden, he felt his own demons depart his mind for a moment, chased away by a rare impulse of protectiveness towards this son who had been an adult since the first time he had ever spoken to him.

“And I do not think any less of you for it”, he said, swallowing that knot from his throat. “Know that in a better world, where we were not in dire peril, I would have been furious at Isildur too.”

By the time he reached the end of the gallery, Elendil had still not moved from his seat.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Isildur lowered his head, repressing a shiver as he stepped inside the dank darkness of the hut. The fire that used to burn there, diffusing a faint glow that made the most mundane sight appear strange and mysterious, had been long spent, and the misshapen figure those people had called their god had been taken away. All that remained was a mound of cold cinders, visible under a small patch of sunlight passing through a small ventilation shaft, whose curtains had been pulled out from the pole where they used to hand. He avoided them carefully.

The Elders had been quite conscientious in their task, he had to admit. They had left nothing behind for their enemies to despoil, whether sacred objects, consecrated offerings, ritual adornments, or the pottery they used to partake the god’s meals. They had even gone through the spent fire taking all half-consumed logs with them, perhaps because they also considered them to be sacred, or perhaps because they foresaw a harsh exile in a land with no trees, where they would not be able to give the god his due. Before the Númenóreans came, there were no such places in these wild lands, but now, the forest which had long been receding down South in the Middle Havens was being curtailed to the North too, through the efforts of the colonists.

Through the efforts of the colonists and the active participation of their allies, he reminded himself. These people had watched gleefully as others lost their own lands, even derived profit from it. Now that they had been foolish enough to run afoul of those who protected them, they would find little support wherever they went. They had believed in the empty promises of the Merchant Princes, thinking that they would send them shipfuls of mercenaries and riches beyond their wildest dreams, if only they agreed to rid them of their enemies. But not all Númenóreans were ready to honour an alliance with a tribe of savages, and all that the Magistrate had seen in them was a convenient means to wipe out the presence of the Faithful from the North without repercussions. And if Isildur and Anárion had taken longer to arrive, or if they had been detained in Pelargir, he might even have achieved his purpose.

“Isildur”. He heard the sound of tentative footsteps by the entrance, and turned towards it to see Anárion advancing slowly in his direction. As his brother’s eyes became accustomed to the darkness enough to see the empty sanctuary, he looked slightly shaken. Isildur remembered the first time they had been here, when they supported Hazad in his war against Mogru. Back then, his brother had entered this place guided by the Elders themselves, to kneel before their outlandish god and swear their most sacred oaths to defend him and his people.

“There has been plenty of oathbreaking around here”, Isildur remarked. “I suppose that even they must know, somewhere deep inside their soul, that their god is false and would not strike them down for refusing to honour their oaths. Then again -perhaps he has struck them down.”

Anárion’s brief moment of weakness was over fast.

“No gods were involved in what happened That much I know.”

Isildur shrugged in silence, awaiting the continuation. Since they sailed away from the Island, Anárion had not sought him unless he had some business with him, and after they reached Agar, Isildur was sure that his disapproval had done nothing but grow. He had not taken part in the war, instead taking up the task of organizing the refugees and distributing aid among the most affected. Once Agar was defeated, the colonists rescued, and Isildur gave his enemies three days to leave the territory with whatever they could carry, however, he had set out to rebuild the settlements, to parcel and distribute land for farming as if the Valar themselves had made it emerge from the waters as a reward for their toils. As always, those who affected moral superiority were fastest to seize the advantages won by the actions of those they disapproved of, like it had also been the case with their father and grandfather in Númenor.

“We have just received news from Pelargir”, Anárion said at last. “Abanazer is dead, and his family was outlawed. All their money, estate and ships have been seized and put at the city’s disposal.”

Revenge, Isildur thought, feeling a coldness settle in his stomach.

“He was dead in any case, and there is nothing we could have done to save him” Anárion continued, as if he had been able to guess Isildur’s thoughts. “He was the leader of the Faithful faction. Now, life will be even more difficult for them out there.”

“This is insane. They are at least two thirds of the city’s population, and they do not move a finger to protect their own.” Vaguely, Isildur was aware that he was being unfair, but it proved too satisfying to find someone to blame, in a primal, savage way. “They are outmatched, outmanoeuvred, outvoted at every turn, and they are too scared to even raise their voice.”

“The remaining third has the support of the Sceptre. This means that a revolt would turn them all into traitors. Not to mention that the Merchant Princes have all the soldiers and mercenaries in their pay, plus the garrison of Arne, and the greatest Arnian families are counted among their debtors” Anárion predictably reminded him. “All they can do now is look down and mind their business and hope that, once the plague settles, it will be easier to leave the city. But then…”

“Thanks for your analysis of the situation” Isildur cut him short. “I am not as clever as you are, but I also have an analysis to submit to your consideration. Pelargir used to be a Faithful colony, settled by our people. When the Merchant Princes arrived, the original settlers turned a blind eye to their interference and their manoeuvres, thinking that they could coexist peacefully. Now, they are slaves in their own homeland, unable to protest the injustices done against them, even as they are picked one by one for slaughter.”

“And that will never happen in the North as long as you are here to prevent it” Anárion finished for him. “That is why you have to destroy anyone who has ever listened to them, believed in their promises, or shown themselves ready to welcome their interference.”

Isildur nodded, though he found Anárion’s sudden acquiescence more than a little suspicious.

“I would never have done this. I would have requested talks with the Master of Agar, and I like to think that I would have convinced him that he could not trust the Merchant Princes. I speak his language and know his mind, and I know how to make him see which alliance is more advantageous to him on the long run. “Anárion paused for a while, as if he was trying to find the right words to say. “I - would have averted this crisis without further bloodshed. But the next time we left, the Merchant Princes would have tried again. And again. And if that Master proved unwilling to listen, they would have sent their mercenaries to establish an ambitious kinsman in his place. Our peaceful coexistence would have been a perilous road fraught with dangers at every turn, because peace always is. That is why our King’s ancestors changed the complicated policies of their own predecessors, and since they had the greater, better trained armies, they conquered the territories they were interested in, killing and enslaving their former inhabitants.”

“We did not…”

“I know, you let them leave, and even let them take their belongings. That was very generous of you.” Again, Anárion’s expression had become completely unreadable. “Grandfather agrees.”

Lord Amandil had been very angry, but he had swallowed his temper to ratify Isildur’s decisions after they had been put into practice.

“On the other hand, this show of strength has made all the other tribes very afraid of us. They have been flocking here to swear loyalty to us almost nonstop, and bringing us tribute. I feared this war could leave us in a precarious position, surrounded by hostile natives, but I was wrong.” He took a deep, long breath, his eyes lost in the pile of ashes. “The path of violence is easier.”

Isildur bristled.

“So? When will you get to the part where you tell me I still made the wrong choice, despite all the misleading indices to the contrary? I am awaiting it with impatience.”

But Anárion shook his head.

“You do not care for my opinion, Isildur. And neither does the world. Both of you are the way you are, and I cannot presume to change either of you.” He seemed to hesitate, as if he could not decide whether to go on or not. “All I can do is understand you better, so I can make the best of what I have.”

Isildur thought he had finally learned to predict Anárion -but, just like whenever he entertained this delusion, it turned out to be wrong.

“Let us go out” he mumbled at last, after discarding several answers that went nowhere, or sounded ridiculous to his ears. “Our men are waiting outside to burn this hut, and we have been hindering their efforts for too long.”

After a while, he heard the sound of footsteps following him from a distance.