Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Royal Wedding

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The people of the Island had seized the chance to celebrate with an enthusiasm that Ar Pharazôn did not remember from the past, even after his greatest triumphs in the mainland. In Armenelos, as well as all the other cities they visited afterwards, the Prince and the Princess were received by rapturous crowds who held their hands towards them, calling their names as if they were gods. The celebrations lasted for days, and in them wine flowed in abundance, and the young caroused merrily until late into the night.

They have not had any reason to be merry for a very long time, Zigûr had remarked, when he detected the King’s puzzlement over the attitude of his subjects. Your preoccupation with the greatest of all campaigns has made you neglect those small victories which made them feel masters of the world. Then, the plague, the floods and earthquakes were perceived as defeats, and they did not see you retaliate against your enemies. You were not even in Armenelos when most of those things happened, but in Forostar with the shipbuilders. They have been feeling abandoned and afraid, and so eager for reassurance that they have latched onto a mere wedding as proof that things are back to the way they used to be.

The High Priest of Melkor had a point, Pharazôn thought, even if tainted by the twin insinuations that he should not leave Zimraphel to rule in Armenelos and that he had to do something about the enemy’s agents in Rómenna. The populace was not so different from a child, who had to be constantly reassured that everything was well, and panicked at the slightest sign of uncertainty. If he wanted to keep the peace in the Island while planning an expedition the likes of which had never been attempted before, if he wanted everyone to believe in him as years went by among costly preparations and harsh setbacks, he needed to adjust his strategy. This insight about how celebrations could be so effective might come in handy: perhaps the portion of the fleet which had already been completed could be paraded around the Island for everyone to admire. Then, he could declare war upon someone or other under the pretext of getting timber for the newest ships, or perhaps quell a rebellion, and celebrate the resulting victory as if it was a major event.

Of course, Zigûr would smile condescendingly at those suggestions, in that way which made Pharazôn feel as if he was a schoolboy trying to get out of an unpleasant task. He often wished he could wipe it off from the spirit’s accursed features, though deep inside he knew that the truth would remain in his mind even if there was no one to remind him of it. There was only one thing which would give the people of Númenor true confidence, and make them feel avenged of all their misfortunes, and that was entering Rómenna, seizing each and every Baalim-worshipper in there and making them pay for the war crimes committed by their side. But in order for that to happen, he would have to break an oath, one of the few things he was not ready to do. It was madness to think that someone ready to take on the Baalim of the West would be stopped by fear of divine wrath, but whenever he thought about it, it was not stone altars refusing to burn for him or sacred curses what he saw in his mind, but that fool Amandil’s face, frowning as Pharazôn swore before him.

You have conditioned our friendship to my support in a civil war. As I do not know what other conditions you will set in the future, I will not take any chances.

It was almost unconscionable that, at this juncture, Pharazôn would still be set on not proving his former friend’s dire predictions right. Amandil was a traitor to the Sceptre, a disloyal weasel trying to get away with a hundred little deceptions that did not make him stick out his neck visibly enough for Pharazôn to smite him down. They had not been face to face often in the last decades, but whenever they had been, the former lord of Andúnië had seemed infuriatingly certain that he was safe from the King’s wrath, merely by virtue of who he was. He probably still thought that he was coated in that protection, and that Pharazôn could not bear the idea of harming him for smuggling wanted people and refugees away from the Island in secret, or establishing them in colonies away from the Sceptre’s reach. He must even believe he could guarantee, by his existence alone, that his people would get away with praying loudly for their Baalim to win this war against Númenor, and punish everyone else in the Island for their perceived impiety.

Amandil, that you cannot tell a King to his face that he owes you his life does not mean that he does not remember it.

His own words from the past made him wince briefly, and as he took a sip of the wine in his cup, he grimaced at the bitterness. Yes, Amandil had saved his life, but how many times had Pharazôn saved his? Even more, how many times had Pharazôn spared him, and the people beloved to him, for that reason alone? They owed each other nothing by this point, except the fealty that Amandil owed him for wielding the Númenórean Sceptre. What was the point of looking back, towards debts which had long been repaid?

Because you long for a time when they were not debts, a rebellious inner voice whispered in his mind. Because you miss feeling so strongly about someone else that you would risk anything to make sure that he lived, and knowing that he would do the same for you. Because now, your own wife has turned into a dangerous stranger, and your son fears and hates you in equal measure. All your comrades are dead, your councilmen and courtiers live in terror of you, and the man who used to be your friend is the last rope you pathetically hold on to, only because he does not fear you as much as everyone else. But you have to understand that you brought this upon yourself, Ar Pharazôn the Golden. A mortal should not strive for godhood before he is sure he can bear the loneliness that comes with it.

“The King is here!” The High Chamberlain’s voice distracted Pharazôn from his unseemly musings, just in time to see that fool from Orrostar making a beeline for him. He was not in the mood for the man’s fawning, however, so he dismissed him curtly and sought the Governor of Sor’s halls for more interesting company. Zigûr rarely came to feasts, and this one had not been an exception. Amandil, as an exile, had of course not been invited, even though his house was only a few miles away. Still not fully recovered from the maudlin mood which had gripped his spirit that evening, the King caught himself longing for a time when he would have just taken a horse and snuck into his friend’s house in disguise. Angry, he wondered what was the matter with him.

In the end, nothing freed Pharazôn from the obligation of exchanging words and accepting florid congratulations from the most important people in the East of the Island. He listened to men and women wax lyrical about the bride’s beauty and the radiant glow of her face, and remark upon Gimilzagar’s extraordinary resemblance to his father. Their happy union, blessed by the gods of Númenor, was a joyful anticipation of the soon-to-be achieved victory over the evil forces of the West. Of course, Ar Pharazôn was aware of all the analogies, some subtle, some rather less so, established by poets and singers between the love wars taking place in the Prince’s bed and the real war to be waged outside the Palace. The daughter of the Baalim-worshippers was a wanton whore, like all those of her kind, and her wiles had kept the Prince of the West in thrall for a very long time. But the righteous innocence of the Lady Ûriphel’s love had prevailed in the end, and her wholesome beauty had triumphed over her rival’s dark arts, just like Númenor itself would triumph over those trying to destroy it. Some poems and songs had even gone as far as to express a wish to see Amandil’s bastard humiliated utterly, and her total absence from the proceedings had been found disappointing by many. That would certainly have been a way to improve the morale of the public that Pharazôn would not have minded, if it had not meant breaking his pact with the Queen, who had scrupulously kept her side of the bargain so far. Unlike the oath sworn to Amandil, this pact was the equivalent of a fortified border, protecting the Palace of Armenelos from a very real war which he could hardly afford at the moment.

“My lord King”, the bride saluted him, bowing slowly and with great care not to have the red veil fall back over her face, where it used to be before she was officially married. Her features were indeed radiant, if only from the excess of white paint that her women had spread on her skin so it would be visible to the crowds. As for the rest, her eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and her smiles looked forced. Gimilzagar had always liked to act as the champion of the weak, saviour of the oppressed and comforter of the unfortunate, but this did not seem to extend to the woman who had usurped Fíriel’s place. Then again, if someone was ever in need to live in a state of perpetual delusion about his real nature, that was Gimilzagar. The night that Pharazôn had glimpsed this truth in his son’s horrified eyes, that he did not wish to die no matter how many lives were lost, he had realized that Gimilzagar might not be as different from him as an entire life of denial had made him appear. And if so, this would be the only thing that the flock of Court sycophants had managed to get right.

The Prince’s greeting was much more perfunctory, yet adequate enough to avoid breaking etiquette.

“Please, have a drink” he offered, gesturing at a cup-bearer to fill Pharazôn’s goblet. The King smiled.

“Only if you share it with me.”

“Forgive me, my lord King. I do not know if I could possibly drink any more” Gimilzagar objected. Pharazôn shook his head dismissively.

“You look sober enough to me. Drink; it will help you perform tonight.” As he turned his gaze slightly to catch a glimpse of Ûriphel’s expression, he did not see her blush, as one might have expected. Instead, she had a stony look in her face, and for a moment she even seemed about to open her mouth and say something. But prudence won out, and she looked down in silence.

The Prince of the West pretended to ignore her, while he had his own cup filled. Still, he had to be aware of what Ûriphel had left unsaid, and of what Pharazôn had seen. When they raised their cups together, the maudlin mood came back, this time accompanied by a more familiar anger. Why couldn’t they be a father and a son, even in this?

“Listen to me, Gimilzagar”, he said in a sharp, yet low tone intended for his ears alone. Ûriphel drew closer instinctively, but Pharazôn gestured at her to stand back, and she stopped in her tracks. He took Gimilzagar by the arm, pretending that he was off to impart wisdom like a normal father would have done at times like this. “You will need to keep your wife either happy or in line. I would have thought you more suited to the first than to the second, but if you truly cannot do your duty towards her, you will have to frighten her so much that she never dares speak a word of this to anyone. Right now, she was entertaining the idea of telling me that you have not touched her yet. And if she can even think of doing that, I am sure that many gossiping women and a few meddlesome men will have heard already. Do you know what this means?”

The Prince of the West did not gaze at him, choosing instead to pretend he was absorbed in the movements of the dancers who entertained the distinguished audience from atop a marble-sculpted dais.

“Yes, my lord King.”

“You are the Prince of the West. You are free to be as unhappy as you wish, but you may never look unhappy to others. And that goes for your wife, too.”

For a moment, Gimilzagar looked at him. It was only a brief instant, and yet Pharazôn had a strange feeling, as if their thoughts had collided and the intrusion had left a faint, burning sensation in its wake.

“And for you, my lord”, his son said. There was no challenge in his tone, or in his countenance: anyone who did not know what they were speaking about would see nothing there but the most perfect courtesy. Ar Pharazôn blinked.

“Finish that wine and get out of my sight”, he hissed, letting go of Gimilzagar’s arm and gesturing at the Governor of Sor to approach.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

They reached the small cove they used as an impromptu harbour late at night, when the vigilance was low and most of the Governor’s coast guards had been pulled from their duties on the occasion of the Prince’s wedding festivities. Isildur, Anárion and the men who travelled with them had squeezed themselves into the tight space of a small lifeboat for the last mile, while the bigger ship kept to its usual route towards Rómenna, where the local authorities would inspect their merchandise. According to Lord Amandil, they would be very lucky not to have it seized and confiscated on the spot for not having the seal of approval of the Pelargir Magistrate, the way things were going in the Island of late. But, just like every single coin invested in this costly enterprise, the money used to buy that cargo had been counted as lost from the moment it was spent. If the Powers that Be did not see fit to strike down Ar Pharazôn soon, the lord of Andúnië might be reduced to a beggar, Isildur thought wryly.

This time, however, it was Elendil who was waiting for them at the meeting point. He greeted and embraced them without any undue emotion that could attract unwelcome attention, or lengthen the process more than what was strictly necessary. Then, he guided them through paths that did not cross the main road, which would be full of revellers tonight, until they reached the foot of the cliff. There, and only there, he allowed his mood to relax a little.

“You smell as if you had not bathed in a month” he said.

Anárion smiled.

“I wonder why.”

Isildur climbed the familiar path in silence, walking behind his father and brother with the others while he listened to their animated conversation. A fitting position, as far as he was concerned, he mused idly. He had never felt too close to Elendil in the past, and his decision to attack Agar without awaiting the permission of the Island seemed to have put a drastic end to whatever understanding they had managed to reach while they worked together. Isildur could feel it even through the brief exchanges they had over the cold surface of the Seeing Stones: his father did not trust him, and probably wished Anárion to be his heir as dearly as the former King Gimilzôr had once wished to appoint Gimilkhâd his successor. But, if a younger Isildur would have been only too happy to relinquish his birthright, and not looked back once, these last years had made him keener to lead than he had ever been. The more he learned, the more he knew the things that needed to be done, the less happy he was about all that tiresome questioning, second-guessing, and evaluating of his actions. Not to mention that only a leader would be entitled to break those absurd laws and customs that made Númenóreans slaves to an Elven nature they would never partake in.

A King once knew an enormous success after saying something similar. He was called Ar Adunakhôr, I think, though our parents would not even say his name aloud because their parents had taught them to revile him as a monstrous sinner and an enemy of Heaven. Malik did not come to him as frequently as he used to, back when Isildur needed his presence even to breathe. Still, now and then he still saw fit to impart his peculiar brand of wisdom to his old friend. The current King has him as a model, but should the leader of the Faithful share his model with Ar Pharazôn?

“Perhaps he was right, at some fundamental level.” Malik raised an eyebrow, and Isildur knew he was remembering Isildur’s outrage long ago, when Elendil followed Pharazôn’s lead in the matter of the sacrifices at the siege of Pelargir.

I was also remembering the day Ar Pharazôn had me tortured and sacrificed to Melkor by the hands of his demon. But I think too highly of you to believe you would destroy others only to achieve your desires.

“Well, that same day, we killed innocent Palace Guards for the sake of a tree. How do you call that?” He sighed. “I do not remember you being so judgemental before.”

I am not anything. I am here because of you, so whatever I say or do, I say or do it because you need me to. In other words, I am what you are missing.

“And right now, I am missing a conscience. But when Tal Elmar was throwing himself at me, I had too much of it. Do you have fun trying to pull me apart in every direction?”

Now, Malik’s voice sounded angry.

I am preventing you from pulling yourself apart in every direction, Isildur. Denying your desires would only have turned you into a monster. But having them prevail over everything will not make you a good ruler, either.

This struck a nerve inside Isildur.

“I am not just thinking of my desires. I think of Lord Amandil’s vision of the Faithful being led to a safe homeland before disaster strikes. I think of the colonists, of their lives and those of their children. I think of this, and of so many other things that I often do not have the time to sleep at night. And you grow more out of touch with me the longer you stay dead, even if you try to pretend the opposite.”

Malik retreated after this, and Isildur knew it would be very long until he returned. It was not a moment too soon, for the path was nearing its end by now, and his eyes could make out a throng of people waiting to receive them despite the late hour. There was Mother, of course, and Grandfather, with Irimë, Irissë, Faniel and Ilmarë standing right behind. All were determined to embrace them, and as Elendil had predicted, none was deterred by the smell that emanated from their bodies after a full month of sea voyage.

“Father!” Faniel cried, almost knocking Anárion off his feet in her enthusiasm. “Did the Elves guide you past the coastal guards? Did they make you invisible so you would not be seen?”

“There were no Elves. We did it all by ourselves”, he smiled. Irimë watched her daughter’s inappropriate behaviour with a frown, but for once she did not say anything. Instead, she waited until Faniel disengaged herself from her father to greet him with dignity. Beneath her composure, Isildur could detect a subdued yet warm glow of happiness.

“Wait until you see how much Elendur has grown while you were away. He is the most handsome, clever, audacious little boy! And the spitting image of his father through and through. Oh, I swear that whenever he looks at me with those eyes, I gaze back at them and I can almost pretend you never left!” Irissë had always been eager to grab any chance to fill his head with mindless chatter, but since she had a son, Elendur had turned into her only subject of conversation. “When he heard that you were coming, he was so excited! For days now, putting him to sleep has been a nightmare, because he was sure that you would arrive as soon as he lowered his guard and closed his eyes!”

While she spoke, Isildur had the time to hug Eluzîni, bow to the lord of Andúnië, and reach Ilmarë, who greeted him with a slightly listless smile. Whenever Irissë waxed lyrical about their son, Isildur had grown used to see her roll her eyes or even mouth a retort outside her sister-in-law’s earshot, but this time she did not even appear to notice.

“He will not be deceived easily, that one! And you should be thinking of what you are going to tell him, because he is adamant about following you to the mainland this time! In his own words, he wants to ‘sail to Middle-Earth and fight the wild men with Father’. Isn’t he adorable?”

“You spoil that boy too much”, Irimë interrupted the torrent severely. “He may be adorable now, but when he grows up he will be rowdy and lawless if you let him get away with everything. We are fortunate to have that barbarian Lord Isildur brought from the mainland, at least he knows how to deal with him.”

Irissë’s cheeks blushed purple.

“Oh, I am sorry. Apparently it is wrong to wish your child to love you, instead of resenting you and doing anything they can to spite you!”

“You are doing admirably”, Eluzîni cut them before they could start an argument. “But it is true that children are difficult by nature, and there are not two of them who will respond equally to the same upbringing. For example, take Isildur and Anárion. After my experience with the first, when the second came along I was certain that if I took my eyes off him for a second he would break every object in the room, bash his head, sprain his ankle and fall down a cliff. But as it turned out, the most destructive thing he ever did was to make a mess of trying to repair the binding of a book with glue, so we would not notice he had damaged it. Elendil went to pick it up and realized it was glued to the table!”

At this, even Irimë had to smile, and the incident was closed. Only Ilmarë’s expression remained vacant; she did not seem to be listening to anything they said. Belatedly, Isildur remembered the reason why they had scheduled their arrival at this particular date, which was no other than the Prince of the West’s journey to the East to introduce his new Princess. Fíriel had not returned home, choosing instead to stay in the Palace under Ar Zimraphel’s capricious wing. Isildur tried to imagine how it would be like to live as the whore of Armenelos, beneath the gaze of your lover’s wife.

This train of thought, however, only brought him back to the subject of Tal Elmar, so offhandedly mentioned by Irimë as the sole reason why Elendur had not turned into a little monster. For all those years, the young half-barbarian had been there, taking his self-appointed duties as seriously as if they were in Agar and Isildur was an elder tribesman. Whenever Isildur came on a visit, Tal Elmar reported on the boy’s progress proudly, and snuck away with the father for a few stolen hours of lovemaking. Irissë did not find anything strange in all this, though Isildur had no idea to what extent this was mere pretence on her part. He knew that she was not as stupid as people thought, and also that she had a penchant for pretending that things were rosier than they were, only acknowledging a harsh truth if stood before her screaming in her face. With Isildur treating her well, and not neglecting any of his duties, she may have decided it was better not to disturb the proverbial anthill. Still, somehow, he had a hard time imagining that her mind would be able to comprehend what truly took place between her husband and the barbarian whenever they were alone. And if she did, Isildur doubted very much that she would be able to remain so impassive. Even wilful blindness had its limits.

On the other hand, what worried him even more was the feelings of Tal Elmar himself. For the last years, Isildur had often found himself pondering feverishly the few details he knew about the ways of Agar. Those had been all transmitted by his lover, because asking Anárion was out of the question, and the Agarenes themselves had been expelled from their lands years ago. The young man’s reaction to that had already given Isildur a good measure of just how different the Forest People could be from the Númenóreans: when he heard, he merely shrugged and told Isildur that this meant he no longer had an obligation to go back and challenge his brother.

One thing alone was clear to him: the warrior bond was not meant to last forever among the Agarenes. It was meant to involve a young man who was still not knowledgeable enough in the ways of war and life in general, and an older man who would teach him and help him attain his own status. Once this happened, the young man would no longer allow the older to have his way with him. At some point, he would find a wife, and then, Isildur guessed, he would also find a young man of his own. But he did not know where did the raising of the other man’s sons fit in all this, if it was done while there was still a physical relationship, or later, while the young man still didn’t have children by his wife. He also did not know what was the right age for doing any of those things –or to stop doing them. Trying to translate the count of years among men of lesser lifespans to Númenórean patterns gave him a headache, and even if he managed to do it, he had no idea of where Tal Elmar fit in all this. He had Númenórean blood, yes, but would that be enough to age like a Númenórean?

Still, brave as he was on the battlefield, Isildur had never been brave enough to bring up this subject in Tal Elmar’s presence. When they were together, it was as if every want, every need he ever had was sated, as if there was nothing wrong with the world anymore. And then he felt deeply afraid that a single word, or a wrong move, might shatter this happiness in a thousand pieces. Despite his diligent study of Númenórean customs, and his indifference to the fate of his people, there was some inner core of the young man’s being where he remained an Agarene through and through. That core allowed him to love Isildur the way Isildur wished to be loved, but one day, it could also make him stop loving him.

Feeling the weight of other people’s gazes on him, Isildur did his best to discard those distracting thoughts for the time being, and followed Irissë to her chambers. There, he took the bath she had prepared for him, and ate the food she served him. When she told him that she had made it with her own hands, he made sure to compliment her cooking. She might have hoped he would bed her afterwards, for she was wearing lipstick and powder, but when he claimed he was too tired from the journey, she accepted his excuse readily enough, curling against him on the large mattress.

“Elendur will be so excited to learn that you are here” she whispered in his ear before he fell asleep.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

The following morning, however, Isildur was not awoken by any boys shouting in his ear or colliding painfully against him. As he emerged from his deep sleep, he realized he was lying in Irissë’s bed alone, and that the sun was already high in the sky. Still dizzy, he wiped his eyes until he no longer saw blurry shapes, and proceeded to look for his clothes. Fortunately, she had left him some new ones, because those he had discarded the previous night had been taken away to be washed, and he did not want any of Irissë’s women to see him naked.

When he came out from her quarters, heading for the kitchen to take a bite, he was promptly intercepted by Lord Amandil’s secretary, who told him that his grandfather wished to speak with him ‘at his earliest possible convenience’. Since most of the essential news were transmitted through the Seeing Stone, the briefing was not very long, but Amandil always made the most of Isildur’s presence at the other side of his desk to convey approval or disapproval by his tone and expression, tools which were not at his disposal through their usual means of communication. He seemed aware of certain things that Isildur had never mentioned in his briefings from the mainland, allowing him to deduce that Anárion, despite the way he had been ogling his wife on the previous night, had been the earlier riser.

“That is all for now”, the lord of Andúnië said at last, once Isildur claimed to have understood that they could receive gifts but not tribute, and that it was not a technicality. “We will have plenty of time to discuss affairs in the days to come, but you have a son who is very eager to see you.”

“I was beginning to wonder about that”, Isildur remarked, raising an eyebrow. “The last time I was here, he snuck into Irissë’s rooms before dawn and woke us up.”

Lord Amandil chuckled.

“Well, perhaps he has outgrown that by now. Or perhaps Tal Elmar has him tied to a tree somewhere.” He sobered almost at once. “I am joking, of course. I will not lie to you, Isildur, your son is even more of a handful than you used to be, and that is saying something. But while you had a barbarian who pushed you into every mess imaginable, his own barbarian keeps him out of them. That is quite an improvement, I have to admit.”

Isildur did not say anything, though deep inside his spirit bristled at hearing his grandfather speak so carelessly about Malik. It had not been the son of Ashad who pushed Isildur into the futile enterprise which cost him his life. Still, smiling back was safer; it allowed him to pretend he was stronger and less tormented by the demons of his past.

“I am glad to hear that”, he said.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Isildur’s pretence of strength was further tested mere minutes later, however, as Elendur and Tal Elmar had gone to the part of the house which he had been studiously avoiding for years. Since the whole family was exiled to Rómenna, he only remembered having entered that courtyard once, out of an ill-advised curiosity which turned bitter as soon as he stood before the young tree that stood on its centre, as crowning glory of his great achievements and token of the blessed predestination of his house. He had barely even gazed at the mosaics on the walls, depicting their valorous mission, his miraculous escape, and Malik’s heroic death. The tree alone commanded his full attention, its small branches fluttering in the breeze together with the stalk from which they grew, so thin that it seemed as if a gust of wind would be enough to uproot it.

Isildur had dreamed about that tree many times since he was a child, even risked his life to save it. And yet, now that it stood before him, he felt as if it was an evil thing, mocking him with its presence. I was always worth more than your friend, it seemed to be whispering to him. That is why I am enshrined here, while he was consumed by the flames in my stead.

Now, as he reluctantly stepped into one of the four footpaths, he could see that the tree was no longer so young and frail. It had grown a trunk, as wide as Isildur’s hand, and its branches, white and elegant, had shot upwards and became entirely covered in silver leaves. Beneath them, in the exact spot where two of the footpaths converged, stood Tal Elmar and Elendur, the former pointing at one of the mosaics in the opposite wall and talking, the second listening restlessly.

“Father!” the boy shouted, the moment the gravel under Isildur’s boot betrayed his presence with a faint crunching sound. Then, he broke into a run, leaving the pathway to follow a more direct route across the well-tended grass, in spite of Tal Elmar’s admonishments. Isildur barely had the time to register this before the boy’s full weight crashed against his legs.

“Merciless is his attack, for he leaves naught but ruin in his wake”, he quoted the ancient warrior’s poem, picking up his son in his arms and lifting him. Elendur held to him like a limpet, and for a while he was all Isildur could see, hear and smell. Just as Irissë had claimed on the previous night, their son had grown in the last months: he was bigger, heavier, and his hair even more unruly than the last time they had been together. His eyes, however, shone with the same adoration as he gazed at his father. “I was beginning to think you had forgotten I was here, since you did not come to greet me!”

The happiness of the boy turned into outrage when the meaning of Isildur’s words sunk into his brain.

“He did not let me disturb you! He said that you needed to sleep. “He turned back to gaze at Tal Elmar in resentful vindication. “See? Father wanted me to wake him!”

The barbarian shrugged.

“Then you may wake him at dawn next time, before he has even completed two hours of sleep. If he gives his permission, I have nothing to object.” Isildur pretended to wince at his glare. Kissing Elendur one more time, he set him on the floor.

“Well, I have to admit that I needed that sleep, too” he conceded. “But why did you come here? Was there no other way to remove yourselves from my vicinity?”

“Tal Elmar was showing me the White Tree, Father. And he was telling me of your brave exploits, when you broke into the wicked king’s palace in Armenelos, defeated all his men single-handedly and took the fruit of the sacred tree back to our family!”

“I was not alone.” It was the second time in that morning that someone had disparaged Malik’s memory, and Isildur felt the irrational anger coursing through his veins again. This time, too, he did his best to repress it, but he knew that Tal Elmar, more attuned to his moods than Lord Amandil, had noticed.

“I told Elendur about your heroic companion. But like other boys of his age, he only has ears for his father’s exploits.”

“I would not be here today without Malik.” Even Elendur noticed that something was wrong this time, and he looked down, ashamed. Tal Elmar patted him on the shoulder reassuringly, then knelt before him until he caught his eye.

“Your father owes a great debt to his bonded warrior, Elendur. That is why he wants us to remember him with the honour he deserves. You understand this, don’t you?”

Elendur nodded slowly. Soon enough, he had regained his powers of speech, which he used to point at every scene in the wall and ask for what was happening in it. Isildur was only half-aware of the questions, so it was Tal Elmar who answered most of them to the boy’s satisfaction. At some point, Irissë came in with her women, claiming that Isildur needed a proper meal, and Elendur a bath. Both her attentions and the boy’s bitter complaints suddenly seemed to be coming from a place far away.

“I will meet with you later, then. If you dare to show up, that is. For if your form is as appalling as it was last time, I will wipe the floor with you”, he said to Tal Elmar, with a bravado that came out slightly overdone, as if he was an actor in the middle of a play. Irissë rolled her eyes, more in fondness than irritation.

Late in the afternoon, as he could finally extricate himself from his loving wife’s presence and his son’s excited games, he headed for the smaller courtyard. Tal Elmar was already waiting for him, holding a training sword in each hand. Instead of taking the one he was offered, however, Isildur shook his head, and pointed at the exit. The young barbarian followed him wordlessly across the corridors and through the gate, then down the cliff path which led to the beach.

The fight, if it could be called so, was short and erratic. Tal Elmar had improved his Númenórean fighting skills with the help of Elendil, but they did not suit him. His features were very similar to those of an islander, and yet his body seemed to have been built to fight like a Forest Man: all speed, litheness, and graceful agility. Isildur would have feared him if he had encountered him as a foe in an ambush among the ancient trees of his homeland, but here, fighting man against man in broad daylight, he looked out of place. And deep inside, he knew it, which is why his fierce, competitive side rebelled against the injustice of always having to meet Isildur in his own ground by refusing to take the whole thing seriously.

Then again, fighting was nothing but an excuse, and both knew it. After Tal Elmar’s second defeat –where he made a show of falling flat to the ground with an exaggerated groan, even though Isildur had barely touched him at all- the swords were discarded, and the fighting gave way to more pleasurable pursuits. Suddenly, the son of Elendil grew aware of how long it had been since he had last been able to grasp true joy with his hands, of how empty the intervening months had been. As he prepared himself for their coupling, a single moan kindled a fire in his limbs, while the slightest touch had the ability to arouse him, as if his senses had fallen under a spell of heightened awareness. By the time they were both fully undressed, his body was so eager that it took all his efforts not to climax before he was buried inside the young man.

Later, however, as their last forces were spent, and they were left to lie on the surf like puppets whose strings had been cut, Isildur’s mood grew pensive again.

“What is the matter with you?” Tal Elmar inquired, as blunt as ever. “You promised you would not have Númenórean doubts again.”

Isildur blinked.

“Well, that escalated quickly”, he snorted. Then, his expression sobered. “I was… wondering about something you said before, back when we were with Elendur.”

“Did I make a mistake? I asked Lord Elendil himself to tell me the story, and I learned it by heart so I would not pass it on to your son incorrectly. I am also trying to make sure he learns it well, though he is young, and sometimes he…”

“No. No, no, no”, he cut the barbarian, before he could steer the conversation away from the track where Isildur wished to keep it. “You did not make a mistake, though perhaps you may have understood something… incorrectly. Back then, you spoke of Malik as my ‘bonded warrior’. But the truth is that Malik was my age. As far as I know from the customs of your people, a bonded warrior is someone- younger.”

“But he died for you.” Tal Elmar retorted, more vehemently than Isildur had expected. “As Númenóreans, I recognize that you do not have the same customs as my people, and perhaps he did not have the proper age to be bonded to you. Perhaps you did not follow the ways of Agar, but what he did immediately turns him into a bonded warrior, in my opinion.” He struggled to his knees, animated by a sudden activity which made him start picking fistfuls of sand and watching as it trickled through his fingers. “Some things do not change from one people to another.”

“Oh.” Isildur thought long and hard about this before opening his mouth. “So… if I understand this properly, unwavering loyalty is what you value most, even above other considerations.” He hesitated again. “Such as age.”

At this point, the son of Elendil had to wonder if his interlocutor was giving him his back by chance or by design. In any case, he did not speak, until it was Isildur himself who gathered his courage to go on.

“This is interesting, because I had the impression that age was very important for your people. That there were… cycles in a man’s life, and you could not deviate from what was proper for each cycle. That, if you failed to respect those cycles, it would be seen as immoral.”

Tal Elmar tensed.

“Since when do you know everything about my people? Did you even bother to learn a word of their language before you destroyed them?”

Isildur blinked, shocked at the strong reaction.

“I was only trying to understand!”, he protested. Tal Elmar still did not turn back.

“Understand what?”

This was something that the older man did not know how to answer. Or at least not in a way that might bring the naked back that glistened in the moonlight to relax. How on Earth had this even happened? Just a moment ago, they had been sated, happy, and talking about an academic question –or, at least, of something that Isildur thought that could pass as an academic question.

I should not be helping you after your previous ingratitude, but perhaps it is not an academic question for him either, Isildur.

“Nothing”, he replied. Even as it was leaving his lips, he realized how terribly inadequate this answer was. Slowly, a mad idea, a dangerous hope, was making its way inside his mind, and though a part of him tried to silence it, another forced him to open his mouth yet again.

“I loved him.”

“What?” Now, Tal Elmar turned to face him at last, and his forehead was curved into a frown, as if he could not decide whether to credit his ears or not.

“Malik.” Isildur struggled to his knees as well, then back on his feet, where he began brushing the sand off his body. “I loved Malik as a bonded warrior, though he was my age. If he would have had me, I could not have cared less if he was bound to me or I to him, or if we were both a hundred and fifty. Why would I? I would already be flouting every law and custom of my people anyway. What are other people’s customs to me, once that I have pronounced my own to be meaningless, and disdained the wisdom of my ancestors? It would make no sense, none at all!”

“I…” Tal Elmar’s voice trailed away, his gaze again lost in some undetermined spot of the horizon. Perhaps the place where he believed Agar used to be, thousands of miles across the water. “My… people cannot be a hundred and fifty.”

It had taken so long for him to speak that Isildur had managed to get fully dressed in the meantime. Tal Elmar, however, remained fully naked, and he did not even move. It had been many years since the son of Elendil had mistaken him for an Elf, but now, under the moonlight, he could see it again, that indefinable quality which made each and every limb in the young man’s body appear at perfect harmony with one another. As he let his gaze roam over them, he found himself suddenly unable to grasp the concept that Tal Elmar could ever grow old or die. Just as he was unable to grasp the concept of just ceasing to love Tal Elmar, like a bloodthirsty soldier might deposit his weapons at the Lord of Battles’ shrine and retire to live a peaceful life in a farm.

“We will cross that bridge once we get to it”, he said, turning away and leaving the barbarian alone with his own thoughts.

 

*      *      *      *      *      *

 

Ûriphel was crying. It had been difficult to find enough privacy to hide her tears, for she was the Princess of the West now, if only in name, and courtiers, ladies, nobles and rich merchants pressed around her every day, clamouring for her attention and seeking her favour with extravagant compliments and useless advice. Even in the bathroom, there was always a woman waiting for her with a perfumed towel, ready to look sympathetic and shocked if she saw a suspicious redness in her eyes. Ûriphel had needed a great presence of mind to make it through the last days of their journey without alerting anyone in the crowd of well-wishers about her real feelings, but the moment she was back in the Palace, she had claimed to be sick and exhausted so she could throw all her women out. They had been a little flabbergasted, but they had complied.

She let go of a tremulous sigh, remembering the fateful night where her last hopes had crumbled. As she did so, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, though she knew that it would not stem the flow of her tears.

“The King believes we should sleep together, or people might get wind that something is wrong and start to talk”, Gimilzagar said to her, after they both retreated to their chambers in the Governor’s palace in Sor. His voice was courteous, and yet devoid of any emotion. “Please excuse me, my lady, but he was very clear about his wishes, and there is nothing I can do to oppose him.”

He had undressed her methodically, then proceeded to take off his own clothes. For all that time, she stood still, her mouth treacherously silent despite the many thoughts that agitated her mind. She did nothing to hinder him, and yet nothing to encourage him, as if the Goddess had suddenly struck her dumb and she had lost the ability to react, to tell him that she was his wife and he should not make excuses before bedding her as if she was a stranger. That he should not bring up the will of his father as the reason why he was carrying her to his bed. That he should want her.

The lovemaking was careful and experienced, so she did not feel pain –she strove not to think of where he had acquired this experience, but the thought would not leave her mind even during the climax-, and yet she had never felt so terrible in her life. For his eyes held no love, or lust, or any other feeling. If at least she had looked up to see them darkened by hatred and resentment, if he had hurt her on purpose, she even thought in an instant of madness, it would have meant that she was someone in his eyes, someone worth anything besides sheer indifference. But nothing lurked behind them, and she felt like a prostitute that someone had left in his room by mistake.

“I am sorry, Ûriphel”, he had told her, when he saw the tears swimming in her eyes. She shook her head, doing her best to greet his stupid pity with a bright smile. She was here to be the Princess of the West, the loveliest, most perfect, dutiful Princess of the West there ever was, even if the world was crumbling around her. It did not matter if she was a prostitute in his eyes: she was a noble woman from a high house of Númenor, a descendant of the great Indilzar. And he would not take that away from her.

“Do not be. I will be your Princess and I will bear your heirs, and that will make me happy”, she said. He winced, as if he had struck him, but she had no time to enjoy her triumph.

“I cannot have children, Ûriphel. I was born dead, and my body is cursed.”

Again, she wiped her tears, distraught at the mere memory of those words. In the end, the truth was that she had nothing, only a host of glittering appearances which would scatter before the slightest gust of wind. Her marriage was not real, she could not have children, and her husband would only enter her chambers to keep up the appearances. The feeling of being a prostitute had grown stronger and stronger since that night, together with the darkness of her thoughts - for, after all, wasn’t she there only as the result of a deal, struck by her family? Was there any love on either side? Back when she was a child and eavesdropped on adult conversations, she had sometimes heard about women called ‘courtesans’, a sort of prostitute who behaved like a noblewoman, always wearing beautiful, glittering dresses and talking nicely. They were hired by the rich merchants of Sor to stand beside them, and pretend they were their wives. She had always found the idea horrifying and fascinating in equal parts, but never, in her worst nightmares, had she considered the possibility that she would ever count herself as one of their number.

“That is sad indeed”, a voice spoke behind her. “It is heart-breaking that a young, beautiful and noble lady such as you would be brought to think so little of her own worth. Heart-breaking, and cruel.”

It was the kindest voice that Ûriphel had heard in a very long time. Her heart fluttering in her chest, she slowly turned back to find the High Priest of Melkor standing beside her. She had seen him before, both at the god’s altar and attending the wedding ceremonies in the Palace, but there he had appeared distant, remote, while now his blue eyes were brimming with sympathy. Without even knowing very well why, she felt comforted.

“Your Holiness”, she saluted. “I… am sorry that you had to see me like this.”

“Do not say that, my lady”, he said, shaking his head to dismiss her apology. “I was the one who intruded upon your privacy, and I will apologize to you and leave, if you wish me to do so. But I am here because I want to help you.”

“Help… me?” She blinked, slow to comprehend his words. As they began to sink on her mind, however, Ûriphel felt an unreasonable hope stir in her chest. They said he was some sort of god, or at least a mighty spirit, who had powers beyond human understanding. “But how could you do that, my lord? Are you able to… change the hearts of people?”

“Only of those who are ready to lay down their pride and base animal passions and listen to wisdom”, he answered ruefully, and her hope died. “But please, do not despair, my lady. I am indeed powerful, and with me as an ally, if you have patience and perseverance, you will be able to achieve things that lie outside the Rómenna woman’s grasp.” His lips curved into a radiant smile. “Like a son to carry the royal line into the new era.”

“But…” She felt like an idiot, blubbering and stammering and objecting to everything. “But he said he could not sire children. The… the Prince, he said it to me.”

“They said that the Queen could not bear children, and that those who came from her womb were born dead. Until I came, and the Prince Gimilzagar was born.”

“Oh.” I was born dead, and my body is cursed, had been his exact words to her that night. And yet, he was made of flesh and blood, like every other human being, and he had grown to adulthood as his father’s heir. Perhaps her future children could be like this, too. And if she was the only one who could have them, he would have to honour her above his mistress, who could do nothing but give him pleasure.

Give him pleasure. The Ûriphel of months ago would have been shocked and ashamed at the vulgarity of her own thoughts, but now she did not even blink at them. She had been so naïve before, to think that good manners and lofty words would protect her from the crudest realities!

“Yes, my lady Ûriphel. In time, and thanks to the might of Melkor, I promise that you will be able to bear fruit, just as the Queen did” he said, still in that kindly voice. “But there is no reason why you should merely trust my word. If you do me the honour of accompanying me now, I can show you how the power of the Great Deliverer works, and how those who pray and sacrifice to Him have their wishes fulfilled beyond the narrow confines of their mortal limitations.”

When he extended his arm to her, she grabbed it on instinct, before having the time to think if she was being too forward. Once she was walking by his side, however, it felt so natural, and her heart so much lighter, that she impulsively banished those concerns from her mind, and allowed herself to be led.