Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Last Campaign

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Elendur knelt on the ground, careful not to disturb the layout of the earth near the spot where the morning dew had made it humid, porous, and susceptible to disturbances. In one corner, near the edge, there was a mark that might look haphazard to an untrained eye, but he knew it was both deliberate and recent. It did not belong to a small animal, and large animals never took this particular path since he was old enough to remember. Still, one mark was not a trail, and without a trail he did not find himself much advanced in his endeavours. He did not even know which direction its owner might have taken after he passed through here. If he was somewhere among the rocks, trying to get them to reveal their secrets would be a hard thing indeed.

At least you know he went this way, he told himself, trying to keep his discouragement at bay. And at least he knew that the rocks were the most likely hideout, precisely because it was so hard to trace people in there. Standing back on his feet, he scrutinized his surroundings as carefully as he had been taught. Then, he walked a long stretch of the path, looking for more pockets of humidity. The next one he found was wholly undisturbed, and so was the one after that, confirming his theory. He calculated forty-five paces between the only trace he had found and the untrodden earth, which was the stretch where his quarry must have left the path.

“Never surrender to frustration. Never lose heart, and never drop your guard”, he mouthed to himself, like a litany which had the virtue to calm the turmoil of his mind. A clear head was imperative, and it did not come easily to him; that was one of the first lessons he had learned.

As he undertook his meticulous search, the rising sun hurt his eyes, forcing him to protect them with his hand to avoid being blinded. An enemy would do that, if he had an ounce of sense: to use the sun against him. Everything added up, but he would get no points for figuring this out if he returned empty-handed.

“Let’s see”, he muttered, in order to channel his thoughts. There were two places where it would be easy to leave the path – perhaps too easy. After much observation and calculation, he thought he had discovered a third, but he had to test his footing to see if it was feasible. If Elendur could do it, then he most assuredly could do it too. “Come on, rock. Tell me something.”

The first rocks remained silent, almost insolently so, until Elendur wondered if he was being an idiot, traipsing across the most unlikely places half-blind and risking to break his neck while his quarry laughed at him from some comfortable hideout. But just as the driest earth had pockets of humidity thanks to the morning dew, the rocks that were closest to the Sea had moss, and when he reached those, Elendur scrutinized them avidly. At first, he found nothing, and was about to feel discouraged again – but then, all of a sudden, he saw it. Only the sharp awareness that he should not be making any noises here prevented him from yelling in triumph.

On the surface of one of the rocks, the moss had definitely been disturbed. Gazing closely at it, Elendur could imagine the foot slipping an inch down the surface, even the curses, spoken in that raspy barbarian language. But the Sea had always been the ally of the Númenóreans.

Tal Elmar was sitting on a small cove underneath the cliff, which was not visible from the top, and only emerged from the waves when the tide was low.  If Elendur had been as inept as he was just months ago, the older man could have drowned waiting for him, the son of Isildur thought.

“I have been hearing you trample down the rocks and breathe loudly ever since you left the path. If I was an enemy, I would have fled long ago.”

“How? Swimming?” Elendur snorted, too exhilarated by his victory to allow Tal Elmar’s rebuke to affect him. “You do not know how to swim!”

The barbarian did not bother replying to this.

“It is not enough to know how to follow a trail. You must also learn to do so without alerting your quarry of your presence. Whether it is a man or a beast, all their senses will be trained to detect immediately if anyone is following them.”

“Well, one thing at a time.” Elendur sat on the sand, giving Tal Elmar a winning smile. “Next time, I promise I will make sure that my sword is at your throat before you can notice me.”

“When I was your age…”

“… you already knew everything there was to be known about life. But that’s not fair. How long do your people live when they do not have Númenórean blood? Thirty years?”

“Longer than you will survive in the mainland if you do not listen to me.”

“Grandfather is against this, you know. He says I should not be wasting my time learning barbaric skills such as ambushing and hunting people as if they were animals. Númenóreans do not fight like that.”

“Númenóreans do not fight like that now. But when their great armies, their high citadels and proud cities are gone, when the Forest People and Desert People and Easterlings no longer gaze at the Sea in fear, looking for sails in the horizon, you will do what you must to survive.”

“Father has no great armies, no high citadels or proud cities, and if he saw a Númenórean fleet in the horizon, it would be worse news for him than for the wild men. And yet he holds the North, and he has always prevailed against his enemies.”

Tal Elmar did not even blink at this argument.

“Perhaps you should ask him how he has managed this feat. His insight might be different from your grandfather’s.” His gaze was lost in the horizon now, in the direction of his old homeland. Elendur wondered if he ever missed it. Once or twice, when he was younger, the boy had gathered enough of his courage to ask, and Tal Elmar’s reply was always the same: there was nothing left for him beyond the Sea. His father and mother were dead, his brothers had wanted to kill him, and Isildur had destroyed them all. His loyalty was only for Isildur, and this meant that he would be where Isildur wanted him to be, and nowhere else. It seemed very simple, and yet Elendur somehow could not quite manage to wrap his head around it.

“You mean that… he knows all these things, too?”

“Of course he knows all these things. They have saved his life countless times. But, if you think we are wasting our time here…”

“No!” Elendur shook his head. “I wasn’t saying that! Look, if I thought I was wasting my time, would I be here?”

It was a winning argument, and yet Elendur had to admit it was also a little disingenuous. The real truth was that he was here because he wanted to be - because he liked it here. The thrill that crossed his spine when he hunted, when he learned to recognize the signs, the pride he felt when he did something well, or found something new, could not compare with the boring lessons his family wanted him to learn, which trickled away from his mind as water from a sieve. Their attitude towards him – whether it was the frequent disapproval of his elders, the mockery of Findis, or even the inane, meaningless praise of a mother who would celebrate him for tying his shoelaces- had never made enough of a dent on him to care about impressing or disappointing them. But Tal Elmar was different. He was the one who knew Father best, and the only one from whose lips Elendur could hear Isildur’s words coming out. Therefore, being good enough in his eyes was the only thing that truly mattered, whether it was at tracking, hunting, fighting, standing on his head or breathing underwater.

Something of this must have been apparent in the youngster’s expression, because Tal Elmar relented. He nodded gravely and stood up, just in time to retreat from a wave that would have engulfed their feet.

“You did well enough, for the time being. You will do better in the future, perhaps better than your father, since you are younger than he was when he started learning these skills.”

Elendur smiled. It was scant as far as compliments went, but that was just the way it had been since he was old enough to remember.

“But never better than you, because I am a Númenórean oaf”, he finished. This time, Tal Elmar smiled as well. As he drew closer to him, Elendur suddenly grew conscious of the fact that he had already become his equal in height. At nearly seventeen, the Sea People were still quite far from their full maturity, and for a moment he allowed himself to contemplate a thrilling future where he towered over the barbarian.

“Height is not always an advantage”, Tal Elmar reminded him, easily guessing his thoughts. Elendur moved aside for the wave that swept across almost the full distance of the small beach, and grinned.

“It makes you the last to drown. And speaking of drowning, we might still drown here, if we stay much longer.”

While they climbed the rocks in search of the way back to the path, Elendur was determined not to embarrass himself by slipping or falling. To be sure-footed and agile was another of the skills Tal Elmar had impressed upon him since a young age, and he was quite proud of his balance. Still, by the time they were halfway across the distance they had to cover, Elendur realized that to remain on his two feet was no longer the sole objective.

“The Sea is loud enough, and still, I am hearing you”, the barbarian scolded, when Elendur jumped across a rather wide crevice. “Go back and try again.”

“But…”

“It is very important that you are not heard.” And there was no arguing with Tal Elmar when there was something stuck in his head.

On the second attempt, Elendur discovered that he only had to freeze in his tracks, and wait until the larger waves broke against the rocks in order to move, as the ruckus they made had the ability to drown any noise he made. After he managed it, he tried not to look too cheeky, wondering if Tal Elmar would accept his little subterfuge. To his surprise and relief, he did.

“Your surroundings are your allies. If there is a tree, you can hide behind it. If there is bare rock, you can use it to hide your traces. If the Sea makes noise, it can drown the sounds you make, if you use it wisely”, he nodded. Before Elendur could feel too proud of himself, however, his forehead curved into a frown. “But remember: in Middle-Earth there are vast extensions of land whose inhabitants have never heard the Sea. In the heart of a silent forest, any twig you step on, any breath you take through your mouth instead of your nose, will be like a thunderclap, alerting everyone of your presence.”

That is ridiculous. Elendur could almost imagine Grandfather’s frown of puzzlement, and his head shaking in disapproval. Who would you need to hide from? Are you planning on becoming a bandit, to hide in the wilderness? And yet, according to Tal Elmar, his father had hidden, and this had saved his life in the past.

“May I go on, then?” he asked, shrugging those thoughts away as if they were some distracting insect. Tal Elmar looked down, the frown still on his features, but now it looked more thoughtful than reproachful.

“Yes, you may.” His lips curved into a smile, unexpected and a little strange. “That is more than enough Forest People wisdom for today. Now, it is time to go up there and learn how to be a Númenórean.”

To think a Númenórean might find that a little easier, Elendur mused wryly, pushing his body up behind him until he reached the path, only to realize that he had managed to ruin yet another pair of shoes.

 

*     *       *     *     *

 

The fleet was finished. On this month, every shipyard in Forostar had stopped its production, and now each of them kept its own squadron of ships secure in the stone embrace of the artificial bays built to protect them from the storms raised by the Valar. Further care had been employed to tie them securely, with strong ropes and iron chains, to prevent a repetition of the disaster that struck the Main Shipyard in the early days of its service. Ar Pharazôn would not leave anything to chance anymore, for he was no longer the golden ruler blessed with divine luck, but the enemy of invisible agents who could use their mysterious powers to twist the elements and foil his plans.

That was why, for the last years, he had also allocated a substantial amount of the resources at his disposition to the task of fortifying the Island. Citadels and watchtowers had been built in strategic locations of the North and Western coasts, to stand in vigilance of the enemy and intercept their spies. And yet, none of the soldiers who manned them had reported signs of life in the horizon. Plagues, disasters and strange weather were all they seemed inclined to muster, which so far had done nothing to weaken the King’s resolve. Not even the downfall of those who invoked their name and expected their help seemed to have angered them enough to alter their strategy - or perhaps the sufferings of those people were just too human to cross the invisible line drawn across the solitary expanse of the Western Sea.

Gimilzagar could not comprehend how Men could worship gods who did not listen to their pleas; gods for whom they meant nothing. They were like the dog who starved while awaiting the return of a master who had abandoned it long ago. He remembered that Baalim-worshipper he had saved in Andúnië, how his heart had been hardened by his folly to the point of preferring his wife, his kin and their children to die horrible deaths rather than saying the word Gimilzagar needed him to say. This had been his second encounter with this particular brand of madness: the first had been in the cliffs of Rómenna, when three fishermen’s sons had tried to kill him. But in the last years, he had seen many more instances, too many for his nerves to bear. And he hated them for it, all the more because the heaviness of his heart kept increasing day after day, and he had no one to unburden it with. Fíriel loved him, but despite all claims to the contrary, they were still her people, and her guilt for being in the wrong side had kept growing with each and every death until it threatened to choke the air they both breathed. That was why he could not ask her if she knew what they were trying to accomplish; or what did they expect that would happen after all the blood had gurgled out of their still palpitating chest and their body was consumed by the flames. From what Gimilzagar himself had heard, the teachings of the Elves said that not even the Baalim knew where Men went after they died. Was a futile death, followed by an uncertain afterlife better than the alternative, than any alternative? Gimilzagar’s death would not be nearly as futile, and yet he would be too afraid to die.

Having morbid thoughts again? Pharazôn would chide him if he heard him speak those thoughts aloud, no longer with the cold disdain he had exhibited towards his son in a past that now looked more and more like a dream. By the Great Deliverer, son, you are not killing these people. They want to die, and there is not a single one among them who would not be granted their wish if you were not here.

That was true enough, Gimilzagar had to admit. People would still die as long as there was a Zigûr to claim that those sacrifices were necessary, a Númenor to subdue the tribes and kingdoms of the barbarians, or fools who rebelled in vain. And as long as there was an Ar Pharazôn to protect Zigûr, conquer the world, and outlaw those who did not share his vision of Men rising above the gods.

He is your father, Fíriel had said the last time he saw her, when they fought on the morning of his departure. You did not need any excuses to save his life. Gimilzagar had fled her quarters like a coward, but it had not been as easy to outrun her words. She still knew him too well for comfort, and suspected what lay underneath his most carefully chosen words and expressions, even underneath the surface of his conscious mind.

“My lord prince.” His voice was very polite, and seemingly unobtrusive, and yet somehow, Gimilzagar always felt as if disrupted his thoughts in the worst possible moment. Or rather, as if there could be no good moment for his interruption.

“What is it, Lord Zigûr?” he asked, not bothering to hide his distaste. The slippery demon had found himself in a precarious position just a few years ago, in the aftermath of the assassination attempt, but he had managed to regain his footing soon enough, like vermin always found another hole to creep inside a house after the first one was blocked. Even now, Gimilzagar could not help but wonder if there was something he could have done to prevent the King from relying on him again and listening to his lies. But, while he was still lying on his sickbed, struggling with the feverish visions which assaulted him after the incident, the High Priest of Melkor had already been at work, searching the assassin’s mind for the evidence that best supported his own designs. And Ûriphel’s, he added belatedly, remembering how his loving wife would have implicated Fíriel in the plot if the Queen had not warned him in time of their plans. Still, though Gimilzagar had been able to protect her, the long shadow this whole business had cast upon the loyalty of the Baalim-worshippers had remained hanging over her head since then, making her existence even more precarious and difficult.

“And I must say she has done little to dispel those suspicions, my lord”, Zigûr said, his eyes smiling even though his mouth was not. Gimilzagar knew better than to try to penetrate his thoughts, but he still flinched from the black hole of nothingness that touched his mind for an instant as it instinctively retreated.

“Is there a reason why you are here?” he retorted, in an attempt to hide his disarray.

“Of course, my lord prince. I would not dream of bothering you without a reason”, the High Priest replied smoothly. “I came to inform you that the inspection tour has been delayed, as the King is –otherwise occupied. He has decided to return to Armenelos tonight.”

“What? What happened?” The King would not change any plans he had made unless it was for something important.

“Regretfully, I have no time to report to you, as he wishes to see both of us straight away”, Zigûr replied, as if he truly regretted denying Gimilzagar an information that might help him prepare for a difficult conversation. But Gimilzagar was determined not to let his anger show.

“Let us go, then.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Ar Pharazôn was not in a good mood. He was pacing across the room, something he had been doing less and less frequently over the last years, Gimilzagar suspected that because he no longer had an excess of energy that he needed to spend in order for his restlessness to abate. Today, however, sheer frustration seemed to have lent him renewed forces.

“What happened, my lord King?” Gimilzagar inquired, detecting that the news had nothing to do with the Palace, and that it was safe for him to ask. Pharazôn stopped in his tracks for a moment, and fixed him with his glance.

“I just received word from the mainland. The rebels of Rhûn have taken the capital. According to the report, they have entered the Palace, captured the Emperor and sacrificed him together with his heirs. San has proclaimed himself Emperor, picked the fairest daughter of his predecessor to be his Empress, and informed all his new subjects that he requests a tribute of Númenóreans. Those who do not bring him Númenóreans will be treated as his enemies.” The words had been spoken in a rather deceptive calm tone, though Gimilzagar could feel the rage simmering underneath.

“A bold man!” Zigûr remarked, risking to unleash this wrath. “He is not afraid to turn the world upside down, and have the hunters hunted. It is unfortunate for him that this boldness is not accompanied by a deeper understanding.”

“A deeper understanding of what, Zigûr?” Ar Pharazôn hissed. “Of war? He seems to understand that well enough. Of politics? Of how to win people’s hearts and make them believe that he is a descendant of their gods, raised to save them from their oppressors? He understands that, too.”

“They say he claims that you are dead. That all those legends about you being a god are nothing but lies, told by the Númenóreans to frighten them into submission. And he also believes that his victories mean that Númenor is no longer powerful”, Zigûr recollected. “All those are signs that he misunderstands the situation most grievously. For you are alive, and the only reason why he has been able to gather so much power is that your gaze is set elsewhere for the time being. On a prize compared to which his great kingdom is but a handful of dirt.” His lips curved into an unpleasant smile. “And once this prize is yours, you will march against him, and none of his false claims will save his life.”

Ar Pharazôn did not smile with him.

“I can do that right now.” Gimilzagar’s eyes widened, but Zigûr remained almost infuriatingly calm.

“That would be most unwise. The most powerful king in the world cannot fight a war on two fronts. And this barbarian may be a common enemy, but the Baalim are not. For all those years, you have been preparing to face them, and your preparations are almost complete. You have pulled away many of your troops from the mainland by now, deciding to risk the lesser wins to achieve the greater victory.”

“If I allow such a blatant challenge to the authority of the Númenórean Sceptre to go unanswered, the whole mainland will revolt! And if they think I am dead…” The King grimaced, as if the very word was intolerable to him. “I have to go in person to show them that I live.”

“And you will! Once the Baalim are defeated, you will not only be able to show them that you live, but that you will do so forever.” Pretending to be at a loss, Zigûr turned towards Gimilzagar, who was listening to their conversation in silence. “My lord prince, please help me. Wouldn’t it be foolish to risk a mortal life in vain, just before crossing the long-awaited gates of immortality?”

The Prince of the West swallowed, wondering what to say. A part of him wanted to scream at his father to gather himself together, and stop listening to this demon. Before it gained the upper hand, however, his mind was invaded by a sudden vision of the King of Númenor lying on a faraway battlefield, his life bleeding away from his many wounds. He shivered.

“I… I do not know”, he blubbered. He cringed at how pathetic and cowardly he sounded.

“You must excuse the Prince”, Zigûr smiled, laying a very unwelcome hand on his shoulder. “He is overwhelmed by his concern for you.”

“Enough!” Pharazôn hissed. “I do not wish to listen to any of you right now. Leave!”

The grip on his shoulder increased, and slowly, the Prince found himself manoeuvred towards the exit.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“We were not expecting you so early.” Ûriphel’s features looked like a vivid picture of genuine worry. “What happened?”

“The King has urgent business to attend to”, Gimilzagar replied, doing an effort to sound both unconcerned about his news and perfectly polite. As usual, his objectives were made more complicated by the negative feelings that this woman’s presence evoked on him. Sometimes, when he looked at her, he thought he could almost see the girl who had not known how to hide her disappointment, the one he had pitied. But she had rejected his pity, and chosen Zigûr instead. Now, an insidious poison ran across her veins, and he had learned long ago that any weakness he betrayed before her would be used against him. “There is a situation in Rhûn, but it is nothing that should concern you unduly.”

“A barbarian challenged him to a pissing contest”, Ar Zimraphel retorted, rather more crudely. Of course, she already knew everything. “And now, Ar Pharazôn the Golden is trying to decide if he is more attached to his life or to his pride.”

Ûriphel’s eyes widened just a little.

“Do not worry, my lady. Whatever the situation is, I am sure that Lord Zigûr will advise him well. The wisdom of the Lord is with him.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that”, the Queen replied, her voice as cold as it was in all her dealings with her daughter-in-law. “Still, I am concerned about the Númenóreans who are in danger in the mainland. Perhaps you should go and pray for them”, she suggested. And then, furrowing her brow in an imperious gesture that made it impossible to mistake her words for a mere request, “Go.”

After the Princess had departed, Gimilzagar expected his mother to speak, but she remained absorbed by her own thoughts. Finally, he was the one who broke the silence.

“He will abandon Rhûn to its fate. Won’t he?”

Ar Zimraphel’s lips curved in a faint, vaguely reproachful smile.

“After all these years, you should know your father better than that! For all his life, he has believed himself to be undefeatable, and he will not allow the world to think otherwise.” He was about to open his mouth again, but she beat him to it. “That does not mean he will be rash enough to ride at the head of his troops to the rescue. Zigûr will be able to convince him of that much. He needs him safe and sound to drive a spear against the heart of the gods who once banished him. Isn’t it ironic? The Golden King will believe he has mastered his pride by remaining in the Island, while in fact he is saving himself to be the puppet that avenges the pride of another.”

“I saw him lying on a battlefield in Rhûn.” Gimilzagar could not keep it to himself any longer. “Just as I saw him lying in a pool of blood at the assassin’s feet years ago. And… my conscience keeps screaming that this is where he should be.”

To his surprise, Zimraphel’s smile only grew warmer.

“That is only fitting, Gimilzagar. For a very long time, your father’s conscience screamed that you should have been under the Meneltarma, a child born dead and embalmed among his ancestors. Deep inside, your soul recognizes this debt, and acts in consequence.” As she became aware of the pallor in her son’s features, she reached for his hand and caressed it. “The cruellest thing of all is that death in battle, even death by a traitor’s hand, would be a kinder fate than the terrible curse of immortality.”

Gimilzagar tried to swallow, but his throat had grown as dry as paper.

“Is he…will he achieve his purpose, then? Will he become… immortal?”

He did not truly expect Ar Zimraphel to answer his question. In his life, he had learned that when someone, anyone, dared to pursue a knowledge that she considered forbidden for mortals, she would fall silent, and no King, demon, priest or beloved son would be able to extract a word from her lips. Even when she sat before him, and her skin felt warm against his, she could appear as remote as any of the Baalim who hid in their island beyond the last edge of the world.

“Oh, yes” she sighed, suddenly looking sadder and older than Gimilzagar had ever seen her. “He will.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Amandil stood watching the Sea. From his vantage point, he could distinguish the dark sails standing in formation, headed for the distant shores of Middle-Earth. They were rather few, as the Sceptre did not have too many ships or men to send East while its eye was fixed in the West, but he had heard reports of how the King intended to remedy this problem, and the news had added fresh worries to an already full heart. At first, the King had only given orders for new troops to be forcefully recruited in both Arne and Harad, something which might not be harmful for the interests of the Faithful on the long run. If Anárion played his cards well, he could even make the resulting discontent work to their advantage. But then, Ar Pharazôn had also decreed that the Middle Havens garrison was to be abandoned and dismantled. Every soldier guarding the timber corridor would be pulled out from the North and sent East, a core of experienced veterans to keep the barbarian auxiliaries in check. The reason cited had been the exhaustion of the main resource of the area, which rendered its control useless, but Amandil knew better.

I believe you will have many people to ferry across the Great Sea now. Do you have enough ships for all of them? And, what about your lands and resources in the barbarian North? Can you keep feeding and housing them all when they arrive in droves, and protect them from the retaliation of the natives?, the King had asked on that last, fateful interview, days before his soldiers appeared in Rómenna to change their lives for ever. He had wanted to make sure that Amandil understood that, no matter how far his people went, they would never be able to escape their fate. That they would always be tracked, always in danger in a hostile world.

Now, he had found a way to make the threat come true. Ar Pharazôn had always possessed a remarkable ability to turn the worst possible situation to his own advantage, and, this time, his little war with that barbarian from Rhûn had provided him with an opportunity to destroy the Faithful exiles on the mainland.

It made sense, the lord of Andúnië admitted, considering the strategy from a place of cold detachment he was growing increasingly unable to shake himself from. For years, they had been forced to leave the Island, one after another: the peasants whose hands had never held anything but a shovel, the defenceless women, the small children who stared wide-eyed and scared at unfamiliar surroundings. All those weak, useless mouths had been ferried across the Sea, where they needed to be protected and fed from crops grown in the Forest People’s ancestral lands. Isildur’s victories and his ragtag army, improvised from mercenaries and trained settlers, had lured them into a sense of security, but without the Southern frontier, and the line of Númenórean outposts preventing the Northern Forest People from joining hands with their southern cousins, this situation could change very drastically and very soon. Every Númenórean had heard stories about the fearful brotherhoods of wild men, sworn to kill all the Sea People they encountered and drink their blood. Regardless of the outcome of Pharazôn’s wars in the far East, Amandil’s visions of escape and deliverance could turn into visions of death, a trap he had blindly led other people into when he decided to believe that the forces sending him those dreams had any concern for their wellbeing.

“Do not worry, Father”, a voice spoke behind him. Amandil winced at its sound: he was not in the mood to listen to Elendil right now. “Things can still turn out well.”

“Oh. I did not know you possessed foresight”, he spat, his tone sarcastic. His son did not flinch.

“You will remember that I had many misgivings about Isildur’s actions in the North, Father. I did not approve of his methods, and believed that you were wrong to put him in charge of all our operations.” Amandil merely nodded, wondering where this was going. “Well, as it turns out, Isildur is the only one who could possibly hold the North against our enemies now, and protect the settlers. I do not possess foresight, Father, but you do, and this might have been an instance of it.”

The lord of Andúnië shook his head in incredulity. The last years had been witness to a constant war between his own, bleak view of their future and his son’s attempts to dispel the darkness from his mind, as useless as Amandil’s efforts to change the fate of the Island and save his people. But unlike him, Elendil never gave up.

That was no foresight, you fool, he wanted to say, though, once again, his mouth did not let the words through. It was the knowledge of the inevitability of war and death, the knowledge that, for us to survive, others would have to die. But we are no better than the Forest People, in the end, and there is no reason why Heaven should watch over us and help us triumph over them. If every Númenórean should die, if every vestige of our civilization was obliterated, the world of Men would go on, and no higher being would shed a tear.

“Isildur is a brave and experienced commander”, he said instead, “but the forces he commands are too few.”

“In the last years, they have been increased by the recruiting and training of new settlers. He has even incorporated some of the most loyal Forest Men to his forces, and they have instructed the Númenóreans in the forms of warfare employed by their people.”

Amandil shrugged. Of late, he rarely touched the Seeing Stones: Elendil, even Irimë, had taken over most of his tasks, so he was less informed about the details. But he was not surprised that Isildur would be open to barbarizing his army, as even Amandil could realize that his eldest grandson was becoming more and more of a hybrid between a Númenórean and a barbarian the longer he spent on the mainland – and, of course, the longer he was friends with Tal Elmar. His own son, Elendur, had been raised to be familiar with the usages of the mainland savages, often to the dismay of Elendil himself. Amandil was no longer bothered by such considerations, for he knew well enough that, if they were ever going to survive in some form, they would no longer be Númenóreans, Islanders, or Sea People. Isildur had never been judged the wisest or cleverest in their household, but he had been the first to see this truth.

If only it could be enough.

“Perhaps you are right”, he conceded, more to put an end to this useless conversation than anything else. Elendil was too perceptive to fall for this, and yet, for some reason, he chose not to challenge it.

“Ar Pharazôn is struggling to keep control of the mainland. Those setbacks in Rhûn must have wounded his pride, and I do not think the armies he has sent will be enough to contain the spark of rebellion which has been kindled there”, he said instead. “In the end, if he suffers a defeat, this will only harden his resolve to attack the West. I believe the attack on Valinor is near, and we must be prepared for it when it comes.”

We. Amandil could not help but smile wryly at the choice of words, but once again, he did not give voice to the thoughts in his mind.

“I need to be alone for a while”, he said instead, blinking away the radiance from the sun’s reflection on the surface of the water. Elendil bowed. Amandil was not looking at him directly, so he could not see the expression in his eyes, but he could imagine his son’s concern, growing and growing until it reached a point where even his unshakeable prudence would no longer be able to contain it.

“I will leave you to your thoughts then, Father”, he said