Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Power Vacuum

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Isildur stood before the ruin of the ancient gate, evaluating the mass of cinders and rubble with a critical eye. This one looked in a worse state than the previous, he thought, doing his best not to appear discouraged in front of his men. The garrison who lived here had disposed of more time to dismantle the fort before their departure, or they had simply been more thorough in their endeavours. Whatever the case was, Isildur felt strongly tempted to shrug it off as a lost case and move on, and only his sense of duty prevented him from doing so. This was a key location, controlling one of the most important passes which connected the South with the North. To leave it undefended would be like leaving the back door of a house wide open.

“Well, at least they did not tear off the foundations”, Captain Abrazân joked humourlessly.

“No, they only have to be dug out from all that rubble.”

“And put all those stones atop other stones again? There is no time and no men for that backbreaking Númenórean work”, Ulmer objected, a grimace crossing his sallow features.

“Númenórean work? Ha!” His half-brother laughed. “Númenóreans never do their own work. I bet it was the Southern folk from the Middle Havens who toiled and broke their backs here.”

“And now, they are the ones who will tear down all that is left when they come our way seeking revenge”, Abrazan retorted. “And don’t you look at me like that, because it is your problem, too! They will kill your tribesmen and rape your women, and your head will be on a pike right next to mine.”

“No one’s head will be on a pike if we do not lose them now”, Isildur interrupted the bickering. “There are four of the ten fortifications in this area which are absolutely essential, and this is one of them. The other six, we will abandon. If the foundations are damaged, stones will be reused to repair them, but we do not have time to build in stone. We will use timber, and hope that your Southern cousins have not learned advanced besieging strategy from the Númenóreans.”

He had long ago mastered the simple commanding ability of making things sound easy, but he had to admit that, this time, the devastation around him did much to undermine his case. When he looked into the eyes of his men, there was still considerable doubt lurking there.

“And where will we find the manpower for that? Will the Númenóreans do their own work this time, or will they leave us to it?”

Isildur’s gaze hardened.

“This work does not benefit the Númenóreans alone. Just as Abrazan said, you have as little interest in meeting our unwelcome guests as we are. So you will do your part, or we will take all our people, put them in ships, and take them North to the land of the Elves, where we alone are allowed to go.”

Ulmer looked as if he would have wanted to argue this point, but prudence seemed to win the struggle, and he looked down. None of the Forest Men, whatever tribe they may hail from, made a habitude of arguing with someone who could defeat them in battle. They preferred to wait until the tide turned to betray them without a word of warning.

“We would be glad to send men, my lord” he said, changing tack. “But we do not have many warriors, and they live scattered.”

“You should be more grateful for our protection. “Abrazan knew better about the situation of the Faithful to believe in Isildur’s Elven bluff – even if their slippery friends agreed to take in thousands of mouths into their kingdom at once, and even if the colonists were willing to abandon what had been their home for decades, the houses they had built and the fields where they had toiled to throw themselves at the mercy of some immortal, the evacuation would prove a long process, and building the ships they needed just as laborious as rebuilding those forts. Above all, Isildur would rather have his own head on a pike than give up everything he had fought for to become a refugee, begging scraps off somebody else’s table. His men knew this, and all of them, both the Faithful fighters who had been forced to abandon the Island like cowards and the rootless mercenaries who had finally found themselves with a piece of the world they could call their own, were of a like mind. Even Abrazan, though of course that did not prevent him from running ahead with his bullshit in front of the barbarians. “If we were not here defending this region, the hordes from the South would fall upon you, and you would never stand a chance against them. But we have generously put our advanced weaponry, our knowledge of strategic warfare and our engineering at your disposition, so you can live in peace and raise your children in a world where you do not have to sleep with a hand on their foreheads and the other on your knives. After we get you out of this crisis alive, I hope you will remember this and stop begrudging us every small thing we ask, as if you were a vendor bartering for his wares in the fishmarket.”

This time, Ulmer was going to open his mouth, but to Isildur’s surprise, it was his half-brother who stepped forward to interrupt him.

“Allies do not begrudge their allies, and we will not begrudge you. We will fulfil the oaths we swore.”

“Good.” Isildur nodded. “Let us start working on this one as soon as we can, then. I have a hunch that they will be coming this way first.” And if their defences did not hold before the first assault, it would be even more difficult to keep the loyalty of their allies than it was now, he thought wryly. They might not belong to the same tribes, recognize their kinship or even speak the same language, but a bunch of severed Númenórean heads might go a long way towards earning them goodwill and buying a reprieve from the rape and plunder. “You are in charge of this outpost, Abrazan. Be nice to our allies. And keep them under tight surveillance” he added, in a much lower tone which the others could not overhear. Then, his voice rose again, and he nodded at them. “Their friendship is very important to us.”

The two barbarians bowed low.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The Arnians had a curious way of eating a formal meal, which had stumped Anárion back when he set foot on their land. While they were seated around the table, there was always a person they took their cues from, and this chosen one decided when they would start eating, when they would finish, how much they would drink or even which dishes would leave the table untouched. The first time he had been faced with this arrangement, no one had told him that, as the guest of honour, such responsibilities fell to him, and nobody would eat a bite from their plates until he did so. For a long time, he had stared at the others across the table, unsure of what to do, until hunger made him bold. To his surprise, the moment he scooped up some pickled vegetable from the side of the dish, everybody had promptly fallen upon the food like a flock of birds upon spilled grain.

This had been just an anecdote, and yet, for Anárion, it stood as a symbol of how much he still had to learn about this strange, fascinating people – and how positive the fruits could be once he touched upon the right note. Up North, the tribes they had met had their habits and their time-honoured traditions, but they were coarse and primitive, and learning them had largely remained an unrewarded effort. At the end of the day, no matter how well he spoke their language, participated in their rites or strove not to offend their chiefs, they only put up with the Númenóreans because the people from the Sea had strong walls and better swords. Isildur had taught him this truth long ago, and Anárion had promised himself that he would not forget it.

Here, however, everything was different. Arne was a civilized kingdom, full of complicated customs that were no less refined for being unintelligible to Númenóreans. Many Islanders had been mystified by this throughout the centuries, and, since they did not enjoy being made to look like uncouth fools, they had simply dismissed their oldest allies as ridiculous barbarians who tried to be Númenóreans but went the wrong way about it. There were myths among the nobility which seemed to support this impression, like the one that made their royal family descend from a Númenórean prince who had fallen in love with an Arnian woman. But a closest look at a history full of brother and sister incest, scheming queens, and kings with rather ambiguous foreign policies was enough to realize that things had always been far more complex than that.

This had been the key to Elendil’s success here, as Anárion had soon discovered. He had been the first of the governors appointed by the Sceptre after the line of their Kings failed, and, so far, the only one who had been interested in more than just keeping them from revolting. He had won over the common people when he rode to meet the hosts of Mordor who had devastated the eastern lands, and the nobility when he ‘convinced’ Ar Pharazôn not to take away the Arnian military and leave their country defenceless. And though he had made controversial decisions, especially when it came to trade agreements, he had debated with them on their own terms, never offending them or calling them barbarians, and remaining unfailingly polite to all.

Still, even this would not have been enough to turn Elendil into an Arnian hero, if it had not been for the inestimable help of his successors, Anárion thought. All the men appointed by Ar Pharazôn for the post had been generals, just as it had happened in the North and Northwest of the Island itself, for the King was famous for his inability to trust anyone who had not marched under the standards of Númenor. Those men had been ignorant of Arnian customs, and they had not been exactly eager to learn. The first had soon found himself with a conspiracy hatched right underneath his nose; the second and third, with popular revolts, and right now, the fourth seemed to think that doubling the taxes to buy mercenaries in Pelargir and replace his dwindling supply of soldiers would save him from the hatred of all those who had seen their fathers, brothers and sons be taken to the farthest edge of the world to die for a tyrant’s pride.

At this point, even the relationship with the Merchant Princes of Pelargir, who for a long time had acted as the true interlocutors of the nobility and kept them contented with their advantageous deals, had started to turn sour. Those slippery merchants’ flair for navigating delicate situations and make profit from them was proving insufficient to withstand the considerable strain of Arne’s relations with the Númenórean Sceptre. Irimë was of the opinion that Númenóreans had unrealistic expectations about the ability of the Arnian nobles to control their people, a people who had seen them humiliate themselves over and over and sell their kingdom in exchange for trinkets. And if their symbolic power had dwindled, so had their military power, broken after decades of oppression and finished off with the departure of their bravest and their best for Rhûn. Under those circumstances, the new business opportunity the Merchant Princes had found in training fighters and selling them to the Governor had had devastating effects, and increasing numbers of nobles were becoming reluctant to be seen in bed with those who furnished the means to kill their own people.

Such as this Lord Xanos, he thought, observing again the man who had offered him his hospitality in defiance of his former partners in business. He was a middle-aged man, tall for the standards of his people, and though the robes he wore would be perceived as gaudy in the Court of Armenelos, Anárion knew that every pattern and every colour had a distinct meaning. His table was fit for a king, full of delicacies brought from the farthest corner of the mainland, and even a few specialties brought by sea from the Island, among them an elaborate fish sauce Anárion was certain that Grandfather could no longer afford. He was reclining nonchalantly on an elongated seat, propped on silk cushions, and while Anárion had been lost in his musings, he had abstained from touching the unfinished food in his own plate, just in case his guest claimed to be no longer hungry or wished for the next course to be brought.

“This is very good, Lord Xanos”, he nodded, taking another bite. “I will be sure to inform my father of your kind hospitality.”

The Arnian smiled.

“I shall be very honoured. My noble father used to tell me how, in his youth, he used to have the Lord Elendil here for dinner, and how he enjoyed our fish sauce with quail eggs. I was an impressionable child back then, and somehow this story was stuck on my mind. Perhaps destiny meant me to entertain you as a guest.”

Anárion nodded gravely. For him, who had known his father for so many years, the strangeness of hearing this people talk about him as if he was a legend of old would never abate.

“That is a sign that destiny will look favourably upon our endeavours” he said, in a sententious tone which only important people felt entitled to use. His companion awarded this an elegant bow.

“Oh, I am quite certain of that. The number of our friends keeps growing at each passing day, and each and every one of them is ready for action.”

“That is wonderful news, but we must be very prudent at this stage.” Anárion drank a sip from the delicate crystal cup laid in front of him. This was the greatest difference between Númenóreans and barbarians, no matter how civilized those might be: impatience. “If we make a move before the King sails West, the loss of lives would not be worth it. We have to be patient, and wait for the right moment.”

“Of course, the Lord Elendil will be the only judge of that.” Xanos gave him a second bow. “I was merely commenting upon our ability to act if it was required. Still, perhaps I should tell you that, in Arne, it is unfortunately very frequent for someone to give away a conspiracy under duress. The more people know about this, the greater the chances are that the Governor will grow suspicious.”

“We will take that under consideration.” Anárion had already heard the same advice from several of his interlocutors, and he had passed it over to his father in the Island. Despite the risks involved, however, everybody in the house of Andúnië had agreed that it would be folly to try anything before Ar Pharazôn sailed away.

“Your Governor believes that the King of the Númenóreans will come back from his expedition turned into a god, and that he will destroy all those who have revolted against his authority” the Arnian remarked, signalling to the servants to bring the next course after it became obvious that Anárion had given up on this one. “Or so he says. I think he is simply scared of the fate that might befall him once the King is gone.”

The son of Elendil watched the plate being pulled before him –raw oysters in some sort of reddish sauce- but made no move to pick any of them. Once they were full to bursting, guests needed to reject no less than five dishes before they stopped bringing any more.

“Do you think he is bluffing when he claims there is a land to the West that can give him immortality?” His previous host, Xanos’ cousin, had said this to Anárion one night, after drinking too much wine. He had been laughing when he did so, but, to Anárion’s surprise, Xanos did not laugh.

“No. I think he is a sinner, and that the Lords of the West will smite him down before he sets foot on their Blessed Land.”

“Oh.” He had been staying in this house for almost two weeks, and though they had spoken of many things, half of them treasonous, it was the first time that Anárion had an inkling that his host did not follow the traditional Arnian religion. “Are you, by chance, one of the Faithful, Lord Xanos?”

For some reason, the same man who had conspired with him without batting an eye looked very troubled at this. He gazed at the oysters in his own plate, suddenly reluctant to meet Anárion’s gaze.

“There are… some things about me which are not widely known, Lord Anárion. And if they were, I – well, let us say that the credit I enjoy among my peers would suffer.” Little by little, his reluctance turned into determination, and he looked up again. “But you are not one of my peers. You are the son of Lord Elendil, and you would understand.”

“If you reverence the Valar, there is nothing I could possibly object to that, Lord Xanos”, Anárion replied, hiding his puzzlement. “For so does my family, and so they have been doing for generations, even in the face of persecutions and hardships.”

“I know.” The Arnian nodded ponderously, then frowned, as if looking for the best way to put something. “But in my case, that is not all. As you may have noticed, to worship the Lords of the West is not an ancient family tradition for me. And it is not a custom rooted in the history and lore of my people, either.” He raised his glance, as if he had come to a decision. “Would you come with me, Lord Anárion? I would wish you to meet someone.”

“Of course.” Anárion stood up with his guest, wondering where could all this be headed. To his further surprise, he was ushered towards a part of the house where he had never been before, despite his status as guest of honour. As he was led through a beautiful arch made in gold-painted wood, he recognized Mother’s descriptions of a similar gateway giving access to the Women’s Palace where she used to live. Of course, every noble mansion must have one.

Inside, they encountered several women, which was a rare sight, for there had been none in the places where Anárion had stayed before. One led them into a tiled parlour, where she had them sit before a low table while refreshments were brought. His host was oddly pensive, his fingers twirling on his cup in nervous motions, but instinct told Anárion that it was not a moment for small talk.

Finally, after what seemed like a really long time, the woman who had escorted them to this place re-emerged from the doorstep, and bowed low.

“The Lady is here”, she announced. Xanos put the cup back on the table; Anárion followed his example just in time to see an elegantly-dressed woman enter the room. She was wearing a shining, gossamer Arnian veil, like those that his sister Ilmarë used to dislike so much. But unlike the ones his sister had worn in her youth, it did not cover her face, probably because they were in her territory now, he deduced. Underneath it, her hair was raven black, long and thick. Her eyes were black, too, and there was something hauntingly non-Arnian about her features, a hint of darkness that made him think of much farther South, though mixed with something else. Something –familiar.

Her eyes widened when she saw him, and she covered her mouth with her hand to hide a theatrical gasp.

“Lord –Lord Anárion!”

The sound of her voice brought half-buried memories rushing back into his mind. He recalled that first trip across the Great Sea, when he and his brother had shared their ship with a family of refugees fleeing the Island after the cruel death of their son, the Prince of the West’s would-be murderer. Anárion remembered his surprise at how, despite the danger that haunted their steps and the grief of their loss, those people seemed to find the time and heart to bicker about the most inappropriate things. Their teenage daughter, whose Haradric blood had blessed her with a fully-developed womanly form at an early age, had the whole crew in an uproar, and her mother had forbidden her from leaving the cabin. The sound of their fights had kept Anárion awake more than once, and after they left them in Pelargir under Abanazer’s protection, Isildur had remarked that even the influential merchant would be hard-pressed to protect a girl like that.

“Zama”, he said, remembering the name at last. Sister of the late fool Zebedin, his mind supplied further. And cousin of Fíriel.

Xanos was amazed.

“Do you… do you know each other?”

Zama gave him a coy smile.

“Lord Anárion brought me in his ship across the Great Sea, husband.” Husband. Of course, why settle for a sailor or a merchant, when she could have a barbarian noble who owned a palace? “It is thanks to him that you and I could meet.”

“But that means…” His mind was working furiously again, but this time the conclusions he was reaching seemed to delight him. “That means it truly was destiny that you should come to my house, and not only because of your noble father! And to think I was hesitant about – disclosing this information. Oh, not because I did not trust you, nothing farther from my mind than to distrust the son of the great Elendil. But this is somewhat of a… delicate issue.”

“Lord Anárion would never think badly of you”, Zama intervened. “See, my lord, when my husband married me it was a great scandal in Arne. I was not of high birth, I was not Arnian… I did not even look very Númenórean! They called me the Haradric dancing girl.” All of a sudden, she seemed to realize what she had just said, and blushed. “But you must not think I was ever a dancing girl! Oh, no, no! Those were filthy lies made up by horrible people who could not stand the idea of someone like me marrying my noble husband.”

“I have no doubt of that, Zama”, Anárion reassured her, wondering for a moment if Isildur, if he had been here, would have pointed out that their own grandmother had been a dancing girl. But unlike Zama, neither he nor Isildur had ever needed to do a great effort to appear respectable to others. “So, you do not wish to speak of your wife because it is a delicate issue here in Arne. And also because she has convinced you to worship the Lords of the West.”

The redness in the man’s face could now easily rival hers. She frowned reproachfully.

“My husband worships the Baalim because his heart was so inclined. He may be Arnian, but he has the soul of a true Faithful.”

“Wife, it is not seemly to lie to the Lord Anárion”, Xanos retorted, gazing at his fingers again. “She said she could not marry me unless I converted. So… I converted.”

“Perhaps you did it for that reason at first”, she argued, though Anárion’s perceptive eye could detect that she was feeling very pleased with herself. “But soon, you realized that it was the right thing to do, didn’t you?”

He did not contest this, and the son of Elendil suddenly had the feeling that he had wandered into a very convoluted theatre play. He did not even know whether to be amazed, impressed, or amused.

“And that is part of the reason why you have given yourself heart and soul to our cause, though you cannot admit it to the others without compromising my efforts. Because to fight for freedom and to honour Elendil’s son is seen as a noble reason, worthy of your house, while other – explanations might not be so well-received.”

“They do not know that she is one of the Faithful. Or that I am”, Xanos said. “If the information came out, the Governor would come for me, and my peers would desert me without looking back once.”

“That is why I keep out of sight. Even more out of sight than other noble Arnian women, which is already quite a feat, if you ask me. This way, he can let them think I am just a mistake of his hot-blooded youth he is properly ashamed and sorry about.”

Just like your cousin beyond the Sea, Anárion almost answered. Thinking of the irony of those two women’s parallel fates, however, had the virtue of sobering him.

“You have done well. And thanks to you, I now have a steadfast ally in times of need”, he said, with a solemn bow in the direction of his host. “It might be good for the Faithful if there were more women like you.”

Zama smiled impishly.

“Well, that was not quite what my mother used to say. But she was no great lord, and could not see… what do they call it? The bigger picture.” Then, something seemed to cross her mind, and she grew serious too. “Would it be very rude to presume…I mean, I do know you are very busy, and that there are weighty matters you must discuss with my husband and his allies. But if you had some free time… even if it was just a little while, could I ask you for news of my family? It would all be proper and seemly, and my women would be present. Even though they won’t understand a thing, bless them.”

“Wife, the lord Anárion did not come here to chat. He is a very busy man”, Xanos objected, a little uncomfortably. Whatever authority was in his voice, however, seemed to desert him before Zama’s gaze, and Anárion began to see how she had convinced him to marry her and view this marriage as a great honour he should pay a steep price to receive. Helpless, he turned to Anárion. “You can tell her, my lord. She never listens to me.”

“I am indeed busy, and yet you have been too polite to prevent this from letting me enjoy the full honours of your hospitality” he said, careful not to say anything that might be construed as an offense. “I have slept more, and eaten more than I need in order to survive, and it would not affect my duties if I took some time to ensure your wife’s peace of mind about the loved ones she left in the Island. Tonight, for example, we have no meetings planned, and I have no objection to staying late.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, my lord!” she smiled. The smile had the same effect as if a sunray had touched her face, and Anárion could hear his host swallow hard.

“And I, too, am thankful on my dear wife’s behalf”, he said. Zama gestured at the woman from earlier to approach, and they whispered some words in the Arnian tongue. While they talked, he leaned closer to Anárion. “To be honest, she has never been too forthcoming about her life in Númenor. I do not mind, generally, but sometimes, I have been brought to feel some –curiosity. Perhaps I will stay.”

It was the truth, Anárion realized, not just some half-baked excuse to keep watch over them without confessing to his honoured guest that he did not trust him as much as he claimed. Even though he was only too well aware that Zama had quite an effect on people.

“As far as I know, there is more pain than shame in her past, my lord” he replied. “As it is often the case with the Faithful who have been forced into exile. “

The Arnian frowned, and opened his mouth to ask something. At that moment, however, the woman returned to the table, and he abandoned his attempt to smile at her. Her own smile was coy, but she did not seem dismayed to see him there. Perhaps she also saw this as a chance, Anárion realized, an opportunity to disclose certain things to her husband that she had never felt ready to tell him.

“Well”, he said, taking a sip from his cup. “Let us begin.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“On my signal.”

Isildur’s words were just a whisper, audible only for those who stood closest to him, but everybody stood alert at his gesture. Straining his eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun, he counted the men who advanced through the pass. It was not too difficult, as the Forest People did not walk in tight formations, but tended to spread across the available space, as if they could not stand to be in close vicinity of each other.

Definitely more of them than yesterday, he realized, struggling to keep the insidious ghost of disheartenment away from his mind. The pauses between one battle and another were the hardest, while they buried the dead, made repairs, grabbed a bite and went back to their posts to await the next wave of attackers. They gave him too much time to think, and thinking was the worst thing that men in their circumstances could do. Sometimes, Isildur felt a mad yearning for constant fighting, for a battle which had no end until death or victory was theirs. No thinking, no pondering numbers or chances in his head – just killing and trying to stay alive, until the red blur gained control of his mind and he no longer remembered himself.

As his hand went down, the arrows whooshed over his head. A number of them sunk in the flesh of their intended targets, men with no armour or protection, who cried in pain and fell. Their comrades did not help them, or even check on them; instead, they left them strewn across the path and charged. In a more favourable territory, they would have disappeared into the forest instead, and it would have been impossible to root them out, but in this narrow pass Isildur had the advantage, forcing them to do manoeuvres they were not accustomed to.

Today, the battle was over before the sun had sunk enough to touch the summit of the mountains. Isildur had killed thirteen, all of them unarmoured and naked except for their warrior paint, swinging inferior weapons made of wood and flintstone. Still, the number of defenders was dwindling at every day that passed, while there seemed to be no end to the invading hordes. It did not matter if a hundred enemies died for every Númenórean: hundreds more were always waiting to spring upon them the next day.

“There are five dead, and seven wounded, my lord Isildur.” The sky was rent with groans as the wounded and agonizing Forest People were finished off and their bodies dragged towards a pile. “But only two are serious.”

“Does this mean the other five can fight tomorrow?” he asked. His interlocutor gazed at the floor in silence, as if at a loss as to what to say. Isildur shrugged it away.

“Never mind.”

“Look! A rider!” the sentinel cried from his tower. At once, everybody dropped what they were doing, and many glances turned towards Isildur.

“Bring him into my presence”, he ordered.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The man who had just covered many miles through a hostile land was Belzagar, Abrazan’s second-in-command, but he did not have the time to be celebrated for his feat. Instead, he let two of the men disengage his feet from the stirrups, leaned on them as they helped him dismount, and sized Isildur with one of the most haunting looks the son of Elendil had ever seen directed at him.

“Our fort has fallen. We… we were overrun, and the captain sent me t-to inform you at all haste. He is dead now”, he added, uselessly.

Isildur cursed. The fire of the battle was still burning in his chest, so he could not feel the pain of the wound. But he knew only too well that, just as it happened with real wounds, at some point the fire would leave and the pain would come.

“Those damn traitors”, he raged. “I knew we had to keep an eye on them! I bet they dropped their weapons and joined the enemy as soon as they had a chance.”

Belzagar shook his head fervently.

“No, my lord. They… stayed loyal. Ulmer is dead too. It was…” All of a sudden, his eyes were veiled by a haunting emotion, and his hand began to shake. “They came in the night. They did not make any noise… like demons. They scaled the wall, caught the sentinels by surprise. Slit their throats.” He took a long, tremulous breath. “Then they kept coming, and coming. No matter how many we killed, there were more. They opened the gates, and then…”

“I see.” So that was where the bulk of their forces had gone. “I suppose they did not stay there for long.” Around him, he could see many looks of deep horror, as the men who had families near the Sea began to realize what this news meant.

“Give this man something to eat, and look after his wounds”, he ordered mechanically, while his mind worked. “Before the sun sets, each of the horses we keep in the stables must have a rider. We will ride North at all haste, and intercept the enemy before it reaches our wives and children.”

“I can go”, Belzagar offered. Isildur, however, had no time for survivor guilt at this moment.

“No. You are in charge of this post. Not all the tribes will have heard that the way is open to the East; we have to leave a garrison here for the stragglers who keep coming in this direction. The rest of you, move! What are you waiting for, the Valar to send a host from across the Sea?”

Those words galvanized the soldiers into action, and soon afterwards lots were being cast, horses pulled out, and men already tired from fighting were munching on dry meat while their comrades helped them with their armour. As for Isildur, he threw himself on the thick of the preparations, not only because he was the leader, but because he could not afford to let the fire go out and the truth of the situation emerge in his mind in all its terrible crudity.

Night was falling as their improvised force of three hundred riders rode through the pass in the Northern direction. The enemy had no horses, so, allowing for four hour resting pauses after every twelve, they would find them in two days at the maximum. Once they did, however, Isildur had no idea of how many they would be, or if they would be stopped by such a small number. He had left Belzagar instructions to send messengers to all the forts, asking them to let go of all the soldiers they could spare. After their defences had been breached, it made little sense to keep as many men at the fortifications, and all the sense in the world to intercept the enemy in an open fight. But of course, it was Forest People they were talking about: slippery, disorderly Forest People who would prove as hard to contain as grains of sand slipping away from his grasp. Perhaps his plans were merely an illusion of control, and they were already doomed. He had assured his family in Rómenna that he could deal with this, that there was no reason for them to worry, that there was no need to flee or relocate or ask for help – and now, thousands of people might die for his miscalculation. At least he would die together with them.

Stop thinking, Malik warned him, dead serious. You have to stop thinking right now.

The next day passed by in an uneventful blur, without any friendly or hostile encounters. In the afternoon, however, they came to the first Forest People settlement that had been sacked by the enemy. There were no signs of life: just huts burned to cinders, and corpses strewn among them. The bodies were few, which gave Isildur the hope that the rest had managed to flee.

“At least we know they went this way”, one of his men joked humourlessly, when they passed near the third destroyed village. The fires were still kindled on this one, and Isildur knew that they were getting nearer and nearer to their quarry. Now, something else was beginning to worry him: the absence of reinforcements. The soldiers from the closer forts should have been in the vicinity by now, at least if they had not fallen by the time the messengers got there.

And there you are, thinking again.

That night, as they huddled around the fire to get some rest before the impending battle, nobody was talking, and yet very few were sleeping. Which means that most of them are also thinking, Malik deduced, and falling prey to their thoughts. Only you can keep them together, Isildur.

“Do not worry”, he said aloud. His voice was confident, and did not reflect his current disarray. “I will wake you up so you do not miss the fight.”

This was met by a few timid smiles, and even one raucous laughter, too overdone to be sincere. But at least they were not thinking anymore, and he could only hear a few whispered conversations before, one by one, they all surrendered to sheer exhaustion.

At dawn, they ate the last of their food, dumped their excess baggage, and readied themselves for whatever awaited them. Isildur’s mind was on overdrive, anticipating the enemy’s move and preparing strategies. He had only one advantage over the enemy: he knew the land like the palm of his hand, the places where he could spy on them without being seen, and the most favourable terrain for engaging in battle. For all morning, he sent scouts ahead, in several directions, until one of them returned with word that the Southern Forest People’s main force had been located.

“How many?” he asked. The man’s voice was so low that he had difficulty hearing it.

“Thousands. But I could not see their vanguard.”

Right.

“That is good news. They must have stayed together instead of scattering across the whole territory plundering and pillaging. If we can defeat them here, we can stop the invasion.”

“But…” Now, the man was gazing religiously at the dirt under his feet. “But we are three hundred men.”

“Three hundred riders, with Númenórean armour and weaponry. If we take on ten men each, we can face three thousands of them. And if my calculations are right, our friends will have reached the opposite side of the plain just in time to catch them on a pincer attack.”

“Oh.” The relief in those eyes was almost painful to behold. “So… that was part of a plan.”

Isildur snorted.

“A mad plan, like all the plans that work. Now, get ready.”

He was surprisingly unaffected by the idea of dying in battle, or even by the horrible visions of their people losing their lives and their settlements being destroyed. All he could think about as he rode towards the battlefield was Grandfather, Father, Anárion, and how furious they would all be with him for this. You thought you were so clever, that you knew so much better, he could almost hear Amandil’s voice hissing in his mind. You never listened to your brother or me, and now all our colonies will be lost because of your poor decisions, Elendil chimed in. See? That is why I could never trust you.

They would still say those things about him, he realized, even if he fell among a hundred enemy corpses he had killed with his own hands. At this point, no bravery, no gallantry, no strength could avail him, nothing short of success. In the absence of success, he could die a coward or a brave man, and it would not make any difference. He would still be the man who had lost them the North and caused the death of many.

“On my signal!” he shouted again. This time, everyone heard his voice, and the arrows whooshed through the air to sink into their appointed targets, who groaned as they fell. Their comrades yelled in rage and defiance, brandishing their axes and spears as the riders, in close formation, broke into their ranks. The clash was terrible, but Isildur did not have the time to appreciate it, too busy sinking his sword in one enemy after another. Around him, ferocious gazes turned into alarm, savage cries fell silent, and many turned tail and fled.

Perhaps you can still win, Isildur.

The path he was cutting, however, went deeper and deeper into the enemy ranks without finding an end. Slowly, he could hear cries of dismay and groans multiplying in his side as well, as the Forest People surrounded them, hacking at their legs, and pulling them from their horses to butcher them upon the ground. One of the savages grabbed hold of his foot, yelling at his companions to come and help. Isildur disengaged his sword from the throat of a man and cut his head off.

I did my best, Father, his mind thought feverishly. At least you will have to give me this.

“What is that?”

The voice belonged to one of his men, shouting above the din raised by the enemy. Isildur had just routed a threat, so he had a brief moment to look up before the next one arrived in his vicinity. As he did so, he was blinded, as if he had stared directly into the sun. Blinking the tears away, he heard a strange sound, coming from the distance, but growing louder and louder. Horns, his mind supplied, just before his eyes managed to make out a column of riders, whose armour was reflecting the sunlight back at them. Suddenly, the density of the enemy ranks that pressed around him seemed to dwindle, and he took advantage of this new freedom of manoeuvring to call for his men to regroup around him.

“They are Elves!” one of the former mercenaries exclaimed. “What do you think? Elves, coming to our aid!”

“I’ll be damned!” another chimed in. “What on Earth are they doing so far South?”

Isildur could not answer at first, too busy swallowing the large knot stuck on his throat.

“Let us get there so we can ask them."