Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

---

The Gamble

---

The first to spot the approaching fleet was a young boy, who had climbed upon one of the ruinous stone pillars of the ancient harbour to point excitedly at the horizon. A stir of anticipation shook the crowd who had gathered underneath him, and soon enough his cry was taken up by others, who counted white, golden, and purple sails until they became too many for mortal eyes to keep track of. Both the old and the young gazed at the standards fluttering in the breeze, seeking to distinguish their symbols and arguing among themselves about their significance. But when the first battalion left place to a second, and then a third, a fourth and a fifth, the voices died out, and they merely stared wide-eyed, silenced by the sheer immensity of the greatest fleet to ever sail the seas.

“They say that, if you stand in the same spot without moving, you can see them pass in front of you for a whole day, from dawn till dusk”, a woman ahead of them remarked. No one challenged this exaggeration, and soon after, her voice rose again. “The Baalim-worshippers must be quaking in fear. The time for their reckoning draws near!”

Ninlil’s grip on her hand tightened, as if he was trying to convey without words that he was ready to fight for her sake. Faniel had to do a considerable effort not to laugh in his face. Forget the King, the High Priest of Melkor, or even the Governor of Sor: if someone as unimpressive as the Rómenna magistrate stood facing him now, she was certain that his bravado would desert him pretty fast. If she was holding hands with him, with anonymity and the flimsy cover of a plain disguise barely hiding her from her hostile surroundings, it was not because she trusted him to protect her. No, she wanted to feel the thrill of the forbidden, the shivers across her spine that only sheer danger could excite. That was why she left the safety of her home and let someone like him touch her, braving her mother’s wrath and the perils of the old city, where her people were despised and sometimes even assaulted. He was the proud scion of one of their most ancient families, said to be present on the day the city was founded. Their family lore even tracked their ancestors back to the first priest of Melkor in Rómenna, which Faniel found laughable, since the city was older than the Númenórean worship of their so-called god. But if his grandfather were to hear that their golden child was fooling around with the daughter of a Baalim-worshipper from the wrong side of town, noble or not, he would be livid. Ninlil claimed not to care about this or any other danger, but it was still Faniel who met him on his territory and therefore risked the most. And she knew that their roles would never be reversed.

Ar Pharazôn’s fleet did not need an entire day to pass by Rómenna, but it still took much longer than she had expected. Back home, they would be looking at the sails in quiet gloom, perhaps wringing their hands for the umpteenth time because there was nothing they could do to prevent Fate. Faniel had little patience for this, and no sympathy at all. Since she was a young child she had always loved the old tales, where heroes fought their terrible foes without stopping to ponder if those monsters could anticipate their intentions, if the forces they mustered were smaller or greater than theirs in number, if retaliation could be risked or if they could afford being branded as traitors. Of all of them, Lúthien was her favourite, because she had always done as she wished and came out victorious, whether she had to fight her parents, Sauron, Morgoth, or even Mandos himself over it. Closer to her own time and place, she was fascinated by the whispers she had managed to overhear about her aunt, Ilmarë, and her daughter whom Faniel had never known. The mother had loved a handsome, daring barbarian in her youth, flouting the rules of her station, and she had borne his illegitimate child after he died fighting the King’s guards in a secret mission.  And this child, Fíriel – well, she had grown up to be even more adventurous than her mother. She fell in love with no less than the King’s son, the Abomination whose very name was like a curse in the land where Faniel had grown. Because of him, she had left the protection of her kin to go live in Armenelos, under the gaze of the most powerful enemies of her people. And then, though she could never become his wife, she had remained in the Palace, refusing to hide or flee from the Princess of the West, whose husband she had stolen. Faniel’s mother found all this very scandalous, and not worthy of imitation, but she had never been able to prevent Faniel’s imagination from being captivated by those stories, and carried far away from the narrow limits of what she had been taught to be acceptable behaviour.

“I am bored of seeing ships. They all look the same”, she whispered in Ninlil’s ear. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

The small beach which stood at walking distance from the harbour, just far enough not to be considered part of the city proper, was the place where young couples went for their secret trysts since time immemorial. But that was at night-time: now, in broad daylight, they would be neither alone nor invisible. After briefly evaluating the situation, and counting the groups of people who took advantage of this festive day to sit with jars of wine and food and watch the spectacle, he shook his head.

“To your family’s warehouse, then”, she proposed. “It will be empty now, since no one is working today.”

Just as she had anticipated, there was not a single soul in there, and the silence and the darkness were a little intimidating. Still, a caress or two proved enough to dispel their initial awkwardness. Soon, they were both sitting atop a pile of boxes, their feet dangling precariously while their mouths met in a passionate bout of kissing.

“Hey” she protested, grabbing his hand the moment it went lower than her stomach. Fascinated as she was by her more daring kinswomen, she was not going to let the likes of him impregnate her. Her Fall, if she ever had one, would not be caused by a spoiled, rich nobody from Rómenna.

“Come on, you have to let me. I have been waiting for months”, he begged, his wide-eyed look similar to that of an abandoned puppy. She shook her head.

“What if you leave me pregnant?”

“I won’t. Women have products that they drink all the time to prevent pregnancies”, he retorted. His voice became a whisper. “I can go and steal some from my mother right away, and give them to you. She has been using them since I was born.”

Traditional Númenórean families, especially those of merchants, never had more than one son, to avoid splitting the inheritance and to prevent family conflict. Faniel’s family did not believe in this practice, and yet sometimes, when she witnessed the perpetual bickering of her mother and her aunt and got wind of certain tensions that everybody seemed determined to pretend did not exist, she was able to see its point.

“And what if I am married in the future? My husband will be able to see I have been with another man. They say that you can tell”, she argued, doing her best to look as if she genuinely cared about this possibility. He shrugged.

“What if I marry you?”

Faniel laughed.

“Why are you laughing? It’s not funny.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Oh, I was trying to imagine the scene. You, telling your parents that you want to marry the lord of Andúnië’s great-granddaughter, and they saying yes to it.” When she saw the earnest expression suddenly illuminating his features, however, she dropped her mirth to size him with a frown. “And just in case you are tempted to take this as a dare, know that if you tell them about me, you will never see me again.”

“I see.” The hurt look was in his eyes again. “You do not love me at all. You are just playing with me.”

“Don’t be silly.” She kissed him again, effectively shutting him up. “Of… course… I… love... you.”

Right then, taken by the moment, she did not feel as if she was lying. He was handsome, passionate, and absolutely clueless about everything, and this excited a tenderness in her that she could not even explain to herself. And he was so fascinated by her, by her beauty and forwardness, even by the very thought that she had broken the faith of her ancestors just to be with him, that it was difficult not to feel flattered.

“Maybe one day”, she muttered, letting her lips trail across the back of his neck. “When I am … ready.”

Later, as she walked back home following the coastline –finally empty of ships and ship-gazers-, Faniel felt vaguely bad about herself.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Fíriel was feeling very restless today. Since Gimilzagar’s marriage to Ûriphel, she had rarely left her quarters in the South wing for any reason, as her sole presence outside them would be understood as an insult to Her Exalted Highness. Usually, this quiet life did not bother her: she was no longer subject to the judgemental stares of the courtiers or the gossiping and intriguing of the ladies, and, above all, she was no longer required to attend those pestilential religious ceremonies she had always abhorred. But now and then, she got wind of unusual movements and preparations around her, and she had to wait for Isnayet or Gimilzagar to bring her news from the outside world. That was when it dawned upon her that she was not free to go wherever she wished, and she felt as if the high walls were closing upon her. And once this started, all the air and sunlight of her gardens were no longer enough.

“The triumphal celebration will take place three days from now, as soon as all the troops have reached Armenelos”, Isnayet spoke on, pretending not to notice Fíriel’s fidgeting. “The King wishes this feast to surpass the previous ones in magnificence, and word is that he has ordered every single prisoner from this campaign to be sacrificed to the Great Deliverer.” She shuddered. “Men, women and children.”

“Why would he do that?” The Prince’s mistress was shocked. “He has never killed children before.”

“In the Island”, a dry voice retorted. Surprised, Fíriel realized it had come from Khelened, who rarely took part in their conversations, to the point that it became easy to forget she was even there. “In the mainland, it happens all the time.”

Isnayet ignored her.

“I do not know, my lady. I would not presume to be able to comprehend what goes on inside the King’s mind, or why he makes his decisions.”

 “Well, I do”, the Khandian insisted, unperturbed. Apparently, she was feeling talkative today. “The Númenóreans are no longer excited just to see the blood of their enemies. It happens too often, so they grow tired of it. If the King wishes to make them excited again, he has to give them something new.” She spat on the floor, in an easy way that made such a rude gesture look almost elegant. “It is obvious.”

“I do not think any civilized Númenórean would find the death of a child ‘exciting’.” Isnayet replied indignantly. “Only a barbarian could say such a thing!”

Khelened did not even bat an eye.

“And yet it is the Númenóreans who do it.” She stretched under the sunlight like a very large cat. “People here look shocked because we used to eat our enemies, but we raised their children. And both things made us stronger. Númenóreans just throw all their spoils into a fire and destroy them, as if their wars were fought for nothing.”

“It must have been Zigûr’s idea”, Fíriel intervened, before they could start an argument. “His influence has grown large, and his counsel usually prevails in the King’s mind.”

“If that is so, then you might be next if you are not careful”, Khelened retorted, with no trace of pity in her gaze. “He has a very close friendship with the Princess of the West.”

“How can you say something so horrible? The Queen and the Prince will never allow the Lady Fíriel to suffer any harm! Under their powerful protection, she will always remain safe!”

The Khandian shrugged, as if it was of no concern to her either way. Even though, with her protector gone, she might find herself in quite a terrible predicament too, Fíriel thought. But Gimilzagar had once told her that, for Khelened, it was second nature to hide her weaknesses, her worries and fears, in the belief that this would throw the enemies who surrounded her off her scent. After having known her for years, Fíriel had to admit she still did not know if there was anything she truly cared about in this world. Then again, the strategy seemed to have worked so far – she was the sole survivor of all the barbarian women who had been in Gimilzagar’s bed, and she had blended so well with her surroundings that neither the Queen nor the Princess of the West seemed to even remember that she existed. Sometimes, Fíriel found herself wishing she could be more like her.

This train of thought, together with the gruesome talk about sacrificing children, served as a powerful wakeup call, allowing Fíriel to remember why she was much better off in the safety of the South wing than exposed to the horrors outside. She had no hope of passing unnoticed as Khelened did, but at least she could hide from the most unwelcome attentions.

“Do not pay her any heed to her words, my lady. I will bring you some tea, and you can sit and enjoy this lovely evening”, Isnayet announced. “Listen to the delightful birdsong! I am sure it will take off your mind from fires, altars, and ghastly things.”

When she sat back on the stone bench, her forehead curved in a pensive frown, Fíriel was not listening to the birdsong, but at least the restlessness had abated for the time being.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Ar Pharazôn took a step back. With one hand, he motioned the chamberlain who had spent the last hour ponderously shifting the golden wreath around his head to stand aside, so he could stare unhindered at his reflection in the mirror. As always, the man who stared back at him was the perfect image of youthful, daring majesty, the great conqueror the world of Men had been yearning for. No grey hairs marred his chestnut curls, confidence sat upon his brow, and the fierce look in his eyes would not be withstood by anyone, whether friend or foe. In his resplendent, elaborate attire, nothing was out of place, nothing missing. Out there, the crowds flocking to Armenelos from the rest of the Island would be in awe when they saw him preside over the triumphal celebration, and realized that the passing of the years could not touch him or dim his strength and his glory, just as it had been with the legendary Kings in the earliest days of Númenor.

None of them would be able to see the truth, the insidious voice whispered in his mind. The people who lived in the Island had no way of knowing that the great victory they were celebrating was just the quelling of a revolt in a small, forsaken corner of Middle-Earth. They certainly had no idea about the motives, of how he had chosen it as the most appropriate place to rehearse a withdrawal of the bulk of his troops just to see what happened. The results of the experiment had been negative: barely a couple days after most of the Númenórean army left, the natives had fallen upon the skeleton garrison, burned it and hanged every soldier from a tree. Oh, yes, this circumstance had given him an opening to send word to the nearest general to return in force and give Númenor a victory to celebrate, not to mention showing all the surrounding peoples what would happen to them if they challenged Ar Pharazôn the Golden. But, at the end of the day, it was still a failure, despite Zigûr’s efforts to relativize it. The King of Númenor could build thousands of ships, but if he wanted to attack the land of the Baalim, he also needed battle-hardened soldiers to fill them. And for that, he had to pull them away from the conquered territories of Middle-Earth. Most of them were in areas directly controlled by the Sceptre, such as Harad, the timber corridor of the Middle Havens or the Bay of Pelargir, where there were Númenóreans living, and their absence would result in many Númenórean deaths, great loss of land, and –what was even worse- a call to arms for the peoples further East who delivered yearly tribute to their abhorred oppressors in exchange for independence. Zigûr believed that fear could be enough if it was enforced properly, if every minor revolt taking place now was dealt with like this one, and if rumours were craftily spread about Pharazôn becoming a god and returning in divine guise to judge and punish those who had been disloyal. If Númenóreans were superstitious, barbarians were generally even more so.

Still, strategical considerations were not all that bothered Pharazôn about his current predicament. He could not put out of his mind that this was the first time in his life that he presided over a triumphal celebration without having led his troops to victory himself. Oh, he had received his generals when they came back boasting of new conquests, he had awarded them honours, lands, and riches, but he had never claimed their victories as if they belonged to him alone, standing before the whole of Númenor in triumphal garb. Zigûr, his Council, and the people around him could regale his ears all they wanted, claiming that he was the supreme commander of the Númenórean armies and therefore every victory they obtained ultimately belonged to him. Behind their sycophantic flattery, he could still distinguish the ghastly shadow of a truth he did not wish to face. Kings who needed to hide behind the deeds of others were not great conquerors: they were either cowards, or spent old men. Pharazôn was not a coward, and the mirror told him he was not an old man, but in the last years he was beginning to suspect that the mirror lied to him, just as much as the courtiers of the Palace.

In the last decades, he was aware that his mind had been withdrawing more and more from Middle-Earth. He had travelled less, focusing his efforts on the only invasion that mattered, until he came to see the very idea of sailing across the Great Sea in person to be at the head of his armies as ludicrously risky. Now, it would be simply unthinkable for him to participate in a major campaign like the siege of Mordor, the Haradric war, or the conquest of Rhûn. Instead, he had become a cautious man who supervised the building of ships and the muster of soldiers, who counted odds and waited for a right moment that would always be in the future. Every morning, when this cautious man woke up in his bed, it cost him a greater effort to leave it; every evening, he found himself yearning for it sooner. Excess drinking made him feel ill, and his joints ached when he stood outside for too long in the cold plains of Forostar. Of course, he always wore his armour when he found himself in the presence of soldiers, and he bore its weight well, but he did not remember being so conscious of it before, or secretly wishing he was alone just to be able to take it off. His arms practice had been neglected -because he was too busy, he always told himself, though he was beginning to feel scared that his limbs would not respond the day he took it up again. He looked like a young man, at the height of his vigour and vitality, and yet every day this youth felt more and more like a disguise that might fool others, but not himself. Just as it would not fool Death, the day it came for him.

“Take this away from my sight”, he hissed, seized by a sudden, irrational rage. The men who held the mirror did as they were told, without even trying to point out that his appearance was as magnificent as always.

Did Zimraphel feel the same way as him? On the surface she, too, retained the breath-taking beauty she had always been famous for, who could fill people with religious awe just to be in the presence of such unsettling perfection. But she was even older than he was, and both were drawing closer and closer to the age when Gimilkhâd passed away. Though it was too long since they shared an honest conversation –if there had ever been such a thing- he could not believe she would be indifferent to the loss of her youth, or to the looming threat of the loss of her life. How could she? She had always believed herself to be above all other mortals, a goddess trapped in the body of a woman. And yet, she had never shown support for Pharazôn’s plans of winning immortality for them. Perhaps she saw doom and destruction down this path, though when pressed about the subject, she would always refuse to speak a word. He might have agonized more over this in the past, but he did not wish to be ruled by superstition anymore. If he had been born one of those unfortunate barbarians in the mainland, he would rise in arms and kill as many Númenóreans as he could, even knowing that men or gods would come back in great strength to take revenge on him, his family and his people. Because just sitting and waiting for powers greater than he to take them away and kill them one by one was pointless cowardice, and it would not save anybody.

“It is very lucky for Númenor that you are its King, then, instead of the leader of its enemies”, a voice spoke from the doorstep. Taken out of his musings, he turned back to greet Zigûr, who was accompanied by Gimilzagar. His son looked out of sorts and uncomfortable, both by the vicinity of the High Priest and because of the armour he had been forced to wear for the ceremony. Threadbare as it was –it was the same that Pharazôn had made for him long ago, when he made the Prince accompany him to the mainland-, it was obviously too heavy for him. “The Princess is already heading towards the Temple in the Queen’s company, and we are ready to follow you outside.”

Gimilzagar’s discomfort augmented upon being included in this we. His resentment for the ancient spirit who kept him alive was nothing new, except that, before, it had practically been undistinguishable from the resentment he felt towards his father. But since Zigûr had wormed his way into the Princess of the West’s affections, and she spent more time in his Temple praying and sacrificing for heirs than in the Palace, the intensity of the Prince’s hatred and mistrust had done nothing but grow. Pharazôn had to admit that her shows of piety had cast a shadow not merely upon Gimilzagar’s performance –and the presence of his mistress-, but also upon the royal line in general, which is why he had been unable to object when Ar Zimraphel put an end to her public displays. Still, they had argued when she claimed that their son’s inability to sire a child came from Zigûr’s magic, and not from the young man fooling around with his whore instead of focusing on his wife. Foresighted or not, all women were the same when it came to absolving their children of every responsibility, and her irrational hatred of Zigûr was more than ready to do the rest. In any case, the Princess had not desisted from her practices in private, which meant spending even longer hours with Zigûr in his own quarters. If either Zigûr himself or Gimilzagar had been any other people, Pharazôn would have dismissed the whole thing as jealousy; as things were, he was not even sure of what it was. All he knew was that, as long as Zigûr could control the woman and keep her hopes alive with his wiles, life in the Palace could go on under a semblance of peace despite Gimilzagar’s determination to achieve the very opposite. And the day Pharazôn returned from Valinor, there would no longer be need for Gimilzagar, his wife, his whore, or his prospective issue. The day he became a god, all his failures, his demons, the things that tormented him in his sleep would depart forever, like leaves scattered by the wind, and only he would remain, too powerful for regrets.

“Let us depart”, he ordered, forcing Amandil’s annoying laughter away from his mind.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

The triumphal procession was the first to take place in Armenelos in a long time, and people responded to it with the same joy and relish Pharazôn remembered from the wedding years ago. The more he looked at the crowd, however, the more he detected a new, harder edge to their enthusiasm. A wedding was beautiful and uplifting, and it could raise people’s spirits after evil times, but at the end of the day, Zigûr was right: nothing could compare to the reassurance that they still owned the world, and therefore had nothing to fear. Women threw lustful glances at the soldiers, while their children stared wide-eyed at the display of animals and curiosities, brought from lands far away just for their entertainment. Above all, as the rebels were dragged across the streets, the ferocity with which the populace met them surpassed anything Pharazôn had seen this side of the Great Sea. The colonies of Númenor had often known the threat of war, but not the Island: in the heart of the seas, their homes and children remained safe. Now, after the Baalim’s cowardly attacks on Númenórean soil, they were ready to be united against any outside threat, even if naked and miserable savages who could barely duck as they were pelted with rotten fruit was the best the Sceptre could offer. The Baalim are powerful and wise in their own ways, but they have kept themselves apart from Men, and never bothered to learn anything about their nature, he remembered Zigûr telling him. They do not know what drives them, which gives us another advantage.

This also meant that everybody hailed Pharazôn as he rode among them, without seeming to care that he had not docked in Sor days ago with his victorious troops. The deafening roar of their acclamations was like a balm to soothe the rawest wounds of his uncertainty, and for the while it took for him to cross the city, he felt more at peace than he had been of late. He even managed not to be too annoyed at Gimilzagar’s fidgeting whenever he drew too close to the doomed barbarians, or at the delay they experienced when a flock of long-horned grey bulls grew so agitated by the noise that they tried to make a bid for freedom.

When they entered the temple, all the highest dignitaries of the realm were already waiting for him, presided by Ar Zimraphel the Silver-Crowned and her dutiful daughter-in-law. The Princess Ûriphel was wearing a daring red and gold mantle, which attracted most glances in the great hall and surprised even Pharazôn, who still remembered the subdued girl who had trailed behind her father’s footsteps in her first visit to the Palace. When Zigûr smiled at her in approval, she blushed.

The sound of chanting echoed across the great hall as they climbed the steps leading to the main altar, and the priests started ushering the first victims in. This time, only a part of them would have the honour of dying here, as sacrifices to the Great Deliverer. After much consideration, Pharazôn had decided that his ancestors had a point when they allowed the crowd to witness the spectacle of their enemies meeting their well-deserved end, so there would be several raised platforms outside for the more public deaths.

With the years, Gimilzagar had grown less squeamish when it came to assisting his father in the grander ceremonies. Whenever he was there, at the head of the acolytes, it was much easier for Pharazôn to kill his victims, as they all stopped struggling after they set eyes on the Prince.  This power, so similar to Zigûr’s, made Pharazôn wonder how things might have developed if he had been less scared of forcing his son to put his abilities to use, and less worried about breaking him in the process. Perhaps Gimilzagar would have become great, even greater than his father, in his own way, and the idea of the Western expedition might never have been conceived. Was Zimraphel aware of the irony? he thought, sinking the blade in the first victim’s throat.

Still, even without having to deal with unruly victims, the effort started taking its toll in Pharazôn as early as the tenth sacrifice. After the fourteenth, he was forced to give up, and call Zigûr in to continue his work. This brought back the gloominess he had been feeling in the morning, as all his fears insidiously trickled back into his mind as strong and pure as if they had never left. It did not matter that he surrendered the knife with the regal matter-of-factness of a King who had had too much of a boring, unpleasant task which his underlings could finish for him: his short breath, the pangs in his joints and the sluggishness of his limbs had the effect of a truth being yelled in his ear.

Gimilzagar was perhaps able to detect the thoughts that tormented his father’s mind, but he did not ask any questions –a sign of prudence-, or even gave any sign of being aware of what had just taken place. Instead, he merely left the bloodstained utensils on a golden tray for a priest to deliver them to Zigûr, and followed him to the sacred chamber behind the altar. There, some priests were helping each other get dressed as they waited to be called in for the ceremony. When they saw Pharazôn and Gimilzagar enter, they immediately dropped what they were doing and bowed low.

“By the Great Deliverer! It is quite hot in here”, Pharazôn claimed. “I need some refreshments before I go back. Bring wine, but with a double measure of water.”

One of the priests said something to a colleague, who left, presumably to fetch what Pharazôn had requested. While they waited, more of them bowed off to follow one another through the passageway that gave to the altar, the one the King and the Prince had taken in the opposite direction. Gimilzagar walked a few steps, to let himself fall on a chair close to the table. As the faint light of the candles illuminated his face, Pharazôn could see that he was very pale, and that his forehead was curved in a pained frown.

“I see you needed the rest even more than I did”, he remarked, refusing to let himself be sucked into Gimilzagar’s pathetic stories. “You do not seem to be enjoying yourself very much on this festive day.”

The younger man’s features did not even register the implicit reproach.

“Neither are you.”

“What?” Pharazôn had been expecting a morose silence, perhaps some whining, if his son was feeling too upset, but not this direct challenge. This surprised him. He had believed Gimilzagar to have grown more prudent, and yet drawing his father’s attention to the fact that he could read things in his mind was the farthest from prudence that Pharazôn could imagine. “What do you mean, neither am I?”

This time, there was no reply, which annoyed him even more. He was opening his mouth to make an angry retort, when the acolyte returned, holding a tray with watered wine and glasses. Pharazôn immediately walked towards it to serve himself a cup.

“There is… h-honey on this pot, my lord King”, the man pointed out. His hands were shaking, and he seemed very nervous. Pharazôn realized that he was quite young; being in the presence of the King had probably intimidated him. More to put his unresolved conversation with his son out of his mind than anything, the King focused his attention on him.

“Are you going out there now, with the others?” he asked. The young acolyte had retreated and begun fidgeting to open a lacquered box; when he heard Pharazôn’s voice, his fingers slipped and it hit the table with a sharp noise.

“O-only to aid my superiors, my lord King”, he said. “I am the one who hands utensils to the officiants. To –you, if you had been there, my lord King.” The box finally opened, and he took a large sacrificial blade from it, its hilt shining with rubies.

“Oh, I will return soon enough. And since the Prince of the West is in need of some fresh air, you will be my sole helper. I hope you are not as averse to the sight of blood as he is.”

This time, Gimilzagar did show a reaction.

“There is no need for that, my lord King! I will be there with you.”

Pharazôn arched an eyebrow. Was his son deluded enough to believe that he was letting the victims down, if he was not there to hold their hands as they gave up their souls to the Great Deliverer?

Right then, he heard the distant sound of voices coming from the back entrance of the room, belonging to the newest batch of priests who came in to get dressed for the ceremony. Gimilzagar gave a start, as if their arrival had caught him by surprise.

“I will endeavour to be worthy of my holy mission, my lord King”, the acolyte promised, walking slowly towards where Pharazôn stood. His voice had grown steadier now, but there was still a faint shadow of fear lurking underneath it. “I will not turn away, and I will not shirk from the sacred duty of drawing the impious blood of those who have offended Heaven.”

The Pharazôn who had fought a thousand battles and withstood countless ambushes would have realized that something was wrong before the blade was swishing across the air. But he had grown old, his keen senses dulled into a comfortable feeling of security, as if he was one of the Baalim who sat indolently on their thrones in the West. Even his reflexes had grown slower, so much that for a moment he could do nothing but stare, a mere spectator to the events that were taking place.

While the acolyte was still speaking about his mission, Gimilzagar had stood on his feet. This providential circumstance meant that, when the young temple denizen swung the blade, the Prince was already there to push him away from its trajectory. Pharazôn fell to his knees, but the dull pain of the fall barely registered. He heard his son’s voice cry out, then the other young man yell with rage, and suddenly there were more voices and the sound of running, as the priests who had just arrived rushed towards them. Pharazôn had already recovered from his stupor by then, and like a resort, he jumped back on his feet, taking advantage of the assassin’s distraction to charge against him and bang his head against the wall. The blade fell to the floor with a clatter.

“My lord King! By the Great Deliverer!” The priests’ faces went pale as they grew aware of the enormity of what had happened, and saw the blood staining the white marble. One of them ordered the barely conscious traitor to be seized; others flocked towards Pharazôn, who rejected all their attentions and ordered them to check on Gimilzagar instead. The Prince of the West was sitting on the floor, holding the arm whose shoulder had had his clothing ripped and was oozing blood. He appeared in pain, but as he gazed up to look at Pharazôn, the King saw something else there, something far more powerful. Shock, pure and undisguised.

“You saved me”, Pharazôn said, his words surprisingly low amid the ruckus that surrounded them. The disbelief and the horror were growing apparent in Gimilzagar’s features, and yet there was no going back now, no pretending that could obscure what he had just done. What had just happened. “You.”

The Prince shook his head, in denial.

“N-no, I just… I merely… I was…”

“Put this man under surveillance so he cannot kill himself, and summon the chief of my guard. From this moment, no one is allowed to walk in or out the threshold of the Temple”, Pharazôn ordered, regaining his aplomb. The priest who was not holding the assassin down or looking after Gimilzagar had knelt, shaking in fear. “And bring Zigûr here right now.”

Still grabbing at his arm protectively, as if he did not want anyone to see it or touch it, Gimilzagar looked down, and shivered.