Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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New Policies

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“So?” Irimë lifted her face from her book, her expression immediately alert upon hearing his voice. “Were there any rumours circulating around Rómenna today?”

“No.” She gave the book to Findis, who efficiently slid a marker into the page her mother had been reading and went away to put it back on its right place of the shelf. “Our people have not reported a single word on this matter. But in the situation we are in, no news is the best news.”

On the eve of the previous day, several boats full of refugees had been dispatched and sent to board a ship that would take them to the mainland. It had been a while since Elendil had been in charge of such an operation, as their precarious hold over the North had not counselled it. But after long talks and negotiations, which he had undertaken in person, the Elves had finally been persuaded to send military help to protect the Númenórean settlements from the threat of the Southern Forest People. Irimë had expressed concern about Isildur’s reaction to this, for his elder son was not the kind of man who would welcome a bunch of immortals telling him how to wage his wars, and his opposition might prove fatal for the joint enterprise. But in the end, she need not have worried, since Isildur did not even use the Seeing Stone anymore. When the Elves landed on the Númenórean harbours, he had left long ago to lead the defence of the forts in the Southern frontier, and they had only met in the thick of battle. After that, there was nothing his son could do but swallow his pride, and act grateful towards the army that had helped him achieve what turned out to be a most unlikely victory.

Meanwhile, Amandil’s reaction, which Elendil had been chiefly concerned about, had been strangely listless. The lord of Andúnië had left the management of the North to Isildur, and he had never had a very warm relationship with the Fair Folk- a circumstance for which he always claimed they were at fault, and no argument would convince him of the contrary. Now, however, he did not have much of a warm relationship with anybody, not even with Elendil. His face was always veiled, as if he came back from Sor without the ability to put away his mask and show his emotions properly, and there was no way to know to what extent his son’s striking deals behind his back had angered him. All he had said after he heard of the whole secret operation was to predict that the King would hear of it, and the Elves would not sail to Númenor to protect them from his wrath. Elendil was fairly certain that the King was too busy with his Eastern and Western campaigns at the moment, and even if he were to retaliate, a promise of destruction was always better than the certainty of it, and their Middle-Earth assets more valuable than anything the King had within his reach at the moment. Also, Elendil was long past apologizing for saving innocent people at the expense of anyone’s pride, and if his interference had got the job done, he would never regret it. Still, he admitted he had expected more of a fight, and that this outcome had bothered him more than the alternative.

“That is true, but we must remain vigilant for at least three days. If there are news from Sor, they might have not reached Rómenna yet.”

“That is something which you may have the chance to find out very soon”, she retorted, her lips twisting in a brief but expressive grimace. “If there should be good news, at least one positive outcome might come out of your ordeal.”

Elendil had to keep a tight control over his features at the reminder.

“Indeed.”

His voice was met by a thoughtful silence.

“Lord Amandil worries me”, she spoke again after a while, when Elendil was already about to leave. “Please, take care of him.”

Many in their family would think that the woman was being abrasive; that it was not her place to give him this particular advice. Elendil, however, recognized her genuine concern, and though it did not come from the same place as his own – she could not prevent herself from thinking of the family as the leaders of an enterprise which could be jeopardized by the slightest weakness in one of the links-, it felt close enough to be welcome.

“I will try to”, he nodded.

Tomorrow morning, for the first time in his life, he would take the road to Sor with his father. Both had been invited to attend the Festival of the King in the temple of Sor, the oldest ceremony in the religious calendar of Númenor since Tar Palantir’s attempts to revive Erukyuermë, Erulaitalë and Eruhantalë had been discontinued. And, since Sauron imposed his dark rites on the Island, the most horribly desecrated.

Knowing what awaited him did nothing to calm him down, as he laid in bed and tried in vain to catch some sleep that night. Already close to the break of dawn, he slumbered off for a while, only to wake up shivering from a nightmare. Aghast, he realized that Amandil was sitting by his bedside, watching him with eyes that seemed to bear into his skull in the half-light.

“It is time”, he said. Elendil did not ask him any questions, but gathered his courage to throw the bedcovers aside and step into the chill air.

They travelled in a covered carriage, since according to Amandil the streets of Sor were no longer a place where the lord of Andúnië and his heir could ride freely and show their faces to the passers-by. Still, despite sitting in such close quarters, they barely spoke a word during the trip. The lord of Andúnië did not appear to be in a talkative mood, and Elendil did not feel like filling the resulting void. Only when the Temple was already visible, looming threateningly over their heads, Amandil seemed to emerge from his deep reverie.

“I was a very young boy when they took me from my parents. Back then, I thought that the key was to act brave and defiant, to show them that I was not afraid. That they could never break me, no matter how hard they tried.” He smiled bitterly. “But the only thing that truly keeps them away is to look broken. So broken that, deep inside, even you start believing yourself broken. Because if you do not, they might notice.” For a moment he stared at the road ahead, his forehead curved in a frown. “At some point, you always end up wondering if you are pretending or not.”

Elendil winced.

“Father…”

“You must never do that”, Amandil interrupted him. “No matter what happens, do not forget who you are. I will be here to bow and make excuses for your behaviour.”

“I do not believe that will be necessary.” He forced himself to smile, to hide how disturbed he felt. “I am not exactly Elendur’s age, and I know when to keep my mouth shut.”

The lord of Andúnië did not even seem to have heard him.

“Promise me that you will remember what I have said.”

“I will…well, I am not going to cause a scene, Father, when there is so much at stake. But I promise I will not be broken.” One of us cannot be, the sombre thought crossed his mind, and he tried not to think of Irimë’s worries about weak links putting their plans in danger.

The first tests were easy enough to pass: Elendil had been searched for weapons before, made to wait until the officer in charge received word that he could cross some line, even addressed rudely. Meeting the Governor of Sor was harder, for the man was arrogant and overbearing, and seemed determined to prove how much he despised the Faithful and all their breed.

“My, if this isn’t the famously elusive Elendil of Andúnië! Or should I say, of Rómenna” he greeted him with a sneer. “Have you found your piety yet?”

“Yes, my lord governor, I believe I have”, Elendil replied, in a polite but steady voice.

“Good! You will both be among my guests of honour, and stand by my side during the ceremony. The Great Deliverer will be greatly pleased to witness your devotion, and so will the assembled people of Sor. And, who knows?” His lips curved in an ominous grin. “Perhaps you will meet some long-lost friend in there.”

Elendil had to admit that, when the man turned his back to him, he felt as if his innards were crawling with snakes. Amandil raised an eyebrow.

“I am fine, Father”, he claimed, a little too hotly. In the last months, they had not heard of any true Faithful being caught, but of course there was always the horrible possibility that he might recognize someone. Amandil used to inform them of the names and kinship of those whose deaths he had watched, as matter-of-factly as if he had looked them up in a book - until, one day, he just stopped doing so. Elendil did not know if there had not been any more Faithful since then, or if Amandil had simply decided not to mention them anymore.

It had been a really long time since Elendil had last attended a sacrifice, in the mainland. Back then, only bulls had been slaughtered and thrown into the fire in the name of the Lord of Battles, but he had still been disgusted at the senseless carnage and the blind, superstitious devotion of the soldiers. Now, the trappings were the same, the fire burned just as hot, and the prayers had a similar ring, but it was no longer animals bellowing as they were dragged in by the priests. It was miserable, pitiful barbarian men screaming in their own tongue, perhaps vain threats, perhaps pleas for mercy. One of them needed four priests to pin him down, and for a moment his revolving eyes, half-crazed with fear, set themselves on Elendil. An invisible hand pressed skeletal fingers against his throat, and he realized that he could not breathe.

“Praised be the Great Deliverer”, Amandil said, taking Elendil’s hand and pressing his fingernails into it until the pain brought him back to his senses. He had not even blinked, and watching him, Elendil felt himself taken by a feeling of unreality, as if nothing was wrong around them; as if the smell of burned flesh was only in his imagination.

Then, however, came the second batch of victims, all of them Númenóreans. The fear of recognizing any of them almost turned into panic, though the rational part of Elendil was aware that it did not, should not matter. Not knowing them could not possibly make this crime any less heinous. Not even if they were all black-hearted, cold-blooded murderers would this evil be justified, for the blackest, coldest hearts would never gut their victims among prayers and call it piety.

“Edifying, is it not?” the governor’s voice rose above his thoughts, piercing them like a knife. “It truly makes one reflect upon life and death, and the importance of keeping one’s soul on the right path. I personally find it a humbling experience.”

Elendil had always been a very prudent man, and it was not often that he spoke a word out of place. But now, he turned towards his interlocutor with eyes so full of contempt that it even gave the man pause.

“I would never have been able to guess, lord governor.”

“Elendil, please”, Amandil said, with just as much feeling as when he had chanted the accursed words of the prayer. The governor merely smiled.

“I see we are not feeling very humble yet. Perhaps it is time for the next ones to come in.”

Elendil did not know why the man suddenly sounded so gleeful, but he had an ominous feeling about it. At a sign from the Head Priest, the gate opened again, and with it the muffled sounds of scuffling, dragging, and cursing. Unsure of what to expect, but resigned to the prospect of more death, he looked in that direction. What he saw made him freeze.

No, he thought, frantically. It could not be. This was a mistake, perhaps a nightmare. He had to wake up now, or they would never be in time for the ceremony in Sor.

“Have you recognized someone, by chance?” the governor inquired, with apparent detachment. Amandil’s hand moved to hold his again, but Elendil did not take it. If he did, the man would see.

One by one, the men and women they had sent away in the boats, the ones who had rowed away from the shore with a mixture of hope and trepidation at the great adventure that awaited them, were ushered inside the hall. As they drew closer, Elendil realized that they were unable to resist their captors enough to require the strength of several acolytes, as the others had- that, in fact, they were barely able to walk. They must have been tortured for information. At this point, the only viable course of action would be to hide his feelings until he learned how much the enemy knew about the operation.

All of a sudden, one of the women saw him. She was advancing like a drunkard, supported by two priests, but when they came closest to him, she pretended to stumble. As the priests bent their backs to gather her up, their gazes crossed for an instant, and she shook her head with a weak but proud smile. Luckily, the governor of Sor was too busy talking to Amandil to see it.

“… and they arrested the crew before the boats arrived. After that, it was just a matter of hiding away and waiting until the targets were all aboard the ship to reveal themselves. A flawless operation, if I may say so myself. No one was killed or injured in it, and we caught so many of them! Perhaps this will finally dissuade those wretched Baalim-worshippers from ferrying people outside the Island without permission, and taking them beyond the borders of our Empire. They have been doing it long enough, but no matter how often I asked the Sceptre to be allowed to apply more stringent measures, my words always fell on deaf ears. Until four days ago, when I was finally given full authority to curb their manoeuvres.” The first man was gutted on the altar, and as his body was thrown into the fire, the acolytes wiped the blood from the surface so they could lay the woman who had smiled at Elendil. She was not smiling anymore, but she did not scream. When her arms were thrown backwards and her chest exposed, she moved her lips, probably to utter a prayer. The officiating priest went livid, and gave orders to gag her.

Four days ago. Probably the moment the King heard that, against all hope, their Northern colonies were safe and more out of his reach than ever. Out of sheer spite, he would have removed the leash from his watchdog and set it on them. His old friend had known him well.

Amandil nodded attentively.

“I see. I assume you know the identity of the traitor who was behind this?”

“Oh, no. They refused to talk, the thrice-damn fanatics. But one day, I will catch one who will be less inclined towards heroism. It is a pity there were no children among them, they work wonders when it comes to loosening the tongues of their parents.” He fell silent, watching the woman burn with a thoughtful expression, then turned unexpectedly in Elendil’s direction again. “I see you look humbler now. I am glad to see that the god’s power is finally getting to you.”

Elendil opened his mouth; then realized that he would not have been able to utter a word, even if there was a sword pointed at his throat.

“Do not distract him, my lord governor. As you can see, he is deeply immersed in prayer”, Amandil’s voice said, from a very great distance.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

It took much of the voyage home for Elendil to be able to smell something that was not burned flesh, hear sounds rising above the mixed crescendo of chanting and screaming, or see anything except the woman’s last smile as she turned towards him. It was as if the black fumes had enveloped him, and anything beyond them was weak, blurred, and unreal. If she saw him now, Eluzîni would be worried sick, and Irimë would feel it was her duty to remind him that he did not have the luxury to wallow in his personal misery. Please, take care of him, she had said, the evening before they left. Ashamed, he realized that he had not only failed to do this, but that it was Amandil who had taken care of him instead, once again setting his worn shield between him and the enemy to have it ripped apart by the points of their spears.

“I am sorry, Father”, he said, only belatedly realizing that Amandil might think him delirious. But the lord of Andúnië did not even blink.

“It was the first time. And he threw something unexpected at us, something you were not ready for. But the next time, you will be. See?” He smiled, a twisted smile which Elendil had never seen in his father’s features before. “You are not broken. You cannot be. Broken people do not feel grief, horror, or indignation. They feel something entirely different … something that always feels cold, but not enough. Never enough.”

Elendil pondered this in silence. Just as this morning, an instinct was telling him that something was off… wrong somehow, even more than usual. And yet, his mind was still lagging behind, trapped in that temple, and his thoughts were slower than ever.

Amandil’s next words came only much later, when they were already in the vicinity of Rómenna.

“I am leaving.”

Sluggish as his mind was, Elendil was jolted out of his musings by this.

“What? Right now, it is dangerous even to…” Surely he could not be referring to.... “You are too young to lay down your life!”

Amandil shrugged.

“I am not going to lay down my life, like someone would leave a useless possession by the wayside for another to pick it up. That would be a cowardly deed. I am going to do something with my life, Elendil, something that only a man who has nothing left to lose could ever do.” For the first time in months, in years perhaps, he looked feverishly excited as he spoke. “I am taking ship for the Blessed Lands, where I will seek the Valar, like our ancestor Eärendil is said to have done. If they have eyes, ears, and minds, they will see me, hear me, and understand what I have to tell them. I would gladly give my life a thousand times over if that will convince them to save Númenor, and help our family and our people. “His features darkened. “And if they do not listen, then I will die knowing for sure that neither us, nor any of our forebears should have revered them, or suffered persecution for their sake. Whichever it is, I will be at peace at last.”

“Stop talking like that.” Elendil’s soul was slowly filling with a new kind of fear, different from the one he had experienced earlier in the day. “Please. I am sure that Eluzîni has dinner waiting for us. She will have made your favourite dishes, you should eat something.” He could not stop babbling. “And then you need to rest, and I too, and wake up tomorrow, when the sun is already high in this sky. Then it will be a new day, Father, with new tasks, and worries, and hurdles to overcome. We only have to focus on them, one at a time, and this darkness will dissipate.”

Amandil laughed.

“Of course your darkness will dissipate, Elendil, my son. But not mine. There is no longer a place for me in Rómenna, in Númenor, or in the mainland, and there has not been for a very long time.” For a moment, he looked contrite, almost beseeching. “You must understand.”

“Understand? What is there to understand?” His voice sounded unexpectedly childish, which made him feel angry at himself. He was not a child being wilful, he was a man trying to dissuade his father from what could only be described as a sudden attack of sheer madness. “You cannot sail West. The Valar will not allow you passage. And besides, we- we need you here. Now more than ever.”

“No, you do not. You have never needed me, though I always did my best to pretend that you did.”

“Is this because of my dealings with the Elves? Are you angry at me because I made that decision without you?”

“What? No!” Amandil shook his head, as if he had just said something ludicrous. “You were quite right to do what you did. A few people got caught, yes. Maybe others will be, in the future, and maybe Rómenna will be razed to the ground one day. But none of this matters. All that matters is the mainland, our colonies and our people there, because they are our only chance at a future. You saw this, and I did not, which only proves my point. When we had our first conversation, you were already fully grown, in body and in mind. Since then, you have been a governor, a commander, a leader. And once I am gone, you will be a lord, a king, and whatever else you are required to be.”

“This is…” The words did not come out easily. “I do not… you are not thinking clearly. And I refuse to engage any further in this discussion until you do!”

Elendil had never been familiar with irrationality –which, he realized now, only made him more helpless against it. Standing up, he called for the driver to hold the horses, and jumped out of the carriage.

Amandil did not follow him.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Back when he first came to terms with the inevitability of going to the Temple with Elendil, he had never expected this to happen. He had been worried about his son, of course, and sorry that he could no longer protect him from evil. He had been concerned about Elendil’s encounter with the Governor of Sor, about there being some victim he could perhaps recognize. What he had not expected in a hundred years was that, by the time he stepped across the threshold and left the butchery behind, his feelings of horror would be directed at himself alone, at the monster he had become. Elendil’s emotions, understated as they had been, had acted like a powerful template, against which he had measured himself and realized what he had turned into: a vapid courtier, an empty soul, who smiled as an innocent was killed before his eyes and felt nothing.

A broken man.

Long ago, Númendil had told him that Men had a mortal body and an immortal soul, and that the mortality of the body was nothing but a release of the soul from its earthly constraints. When the body was tired, it was time for the soul to flee it and seek eternal life in a higher plane of existence. But what if the opposite happened, and the body, tired as it was, became the only link to life a man had left? His body still flinched when it stood too close to the flames, it felt a vague nausea when the smell of burned flesh grew vivid, and it shivered with cold after they left the warmth of the main hall. If somebody tried to stick a sword in it, it would defend itself, and if wounded, it would feel pain, because it did not want to die. The soul, on the other hand – he could barely feel it anymore. It was retreating somewhere from which he was unable to draw it out, and this panicked him, for the only one who could have helped him was no longer in this world. The day it was truly gone, and he could no longer find the faintest trace of it, he would not just be like one of the lesser men who could not separate their bodies from their souls at will. He would be no different from an Orc, struggling to lengthen the agony of his own existence out of sheer animal instinct. And after a long life of fighting to wrestle his fate away from the hands of others, this would not merely be another battle lost, but the entire war.

That was why he had sought to flame the embers of the strongest emotion that remained to him: hatred. Undiluted resentment for those who had abdicated their role of guardians and left them to their fate, all of them, from the first Elf who was dragged to the pits of Utumno to the last Man who had been cut open in the altar of the Temple of Sor today. To speak to the Valar, he would be ready to sacrifice his body, to leave it behind as the meaningless carcass it was supposed to be. And this meant that it was the only thing which could still save him.

Elendil, of course, would never accept this. He would claim that Amandil was temporarily mad with grief, that he would feel better after a while. As his mind had never been able to perceive the divine in the same ways as Amandil himself and their ancestors, the ultimate understanding of those processes also escaped him. To him, Eru and the Valar were entities to be worshipped and revered, but they had nothing to do with the world of Men, and it was foolish to expect them to intervene or help them with their problems. Deep inside his heart, he was his mother’s son, a woman who had religiously paid her dues to the temple of Melkor and lit candles to the Goddess of the Seas until she moved to Andúnië to be taught the rites of her new family, without ever feeling the agonizing need for an answer to her prayers. The house of Andúnië was proud of the immortal blood running through their veins, sole remaining proof that this separation between mortal and immortal had not always been the immutable law it was now, but it had never made things any easier for them. As it had not made things easier for the Royal House of Armenelos, he realized, suddenly understanding the descent of proud and powerful kings into the spiral of madness which had led to this.

That was why they all had to go. If Amalket’s world was the only future they could hope for, Elendil was the one who could rule it. Her blood, not his, had predestined him, and Amandil had just been an unwitting instrument of Fate when he met her in the gardens of the Temple of Armenelos.

“I am not hungry tonight”, he told Lalwendë, who followed his retreating form with a worried look in her eyes. “When you see your husband, please tell him to forgive me, if he is able to do so.”

“When will you be back?” she asked him from the distance. But he did not turn around, and his pace quickened until he could no longer hear her voice.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Elendil had never known what made his father abandon the house so often to wander through those cliffs. Perhaps it was merely solitude what he sought, though being alone with one’s thoughts was not always the wisest or safest path to take. Perhaps he believed he could find some lingering traces of Lord Númendil’s presence there, which on second thought should have acted as a warning that something was seriously amiss since much longer ago. When someone refused to complete the full journey of mourning, and understand that loved ones had passed beyond the Circles of the World, it was like watching ripples on the surface of the water: one knew that the currents were much stronger underneath it. It had been so with Isildur, but Elendil guessed he had always needed to have a different image of his father. Fathers were wise: they offered advice and help. And though they might need it themselves, now and then, if they refused to accept it they ultimately knew what they were doing, and had to be respected.

Of course your darkness will dissipate, Elendil, my son. But not mine. The more he remembered the words, the voice which had spoken them, the look on those features, the more they chilled him to the marrow. It had been a different brand of horror from the one which had left him speechless in the temple of Sor, more understated but no less powerful. Though consciously he refused to think of it in those terms, the back of his mind was constantly smothering comparisons between the visible agony of the body and the invisible agony of the soul. This explained his anger back then, the irrational anger he had found himself unable to deal with as he had with all his emotions until now. It had been an attempt to convince himself that his father was to blame for being in this state, because the alternative was just too terrible.

“It is not your fault”, Eluzîni claimed, engulfing him in a warm embrace. She had to tiptoe and raise her arms to pull his face towards her, for he did not lean forwards as he used to. “And it is not his fault, either! Why do we insist in assigning blame amongst ourselves, while there are people hunting innocent refugees and murdering them in public for a matter of pride? By all the Valar, sometimes I think that we are our own worst enemies!”

“He wants to sail to the Undying Lands and defy the Valar, Eluzîni.” Though his path had diverged long ago from that of his old friend, somehow, they still retained the ability to converge in the strangest of ways. For a moment, he found himself wondering if Ar Pharazôn would have enough sense of irony left to appreciate this. “The Valar. He thinks they have wronged us, and that he can somehow get them to see the error of their ways.”

“That is because he no longer sees a point in living in this world, Elendil. And who could blame him? Not your ancestors, who used to lay down their lives whenever they felt tired of them! In fact, he has more reason to want this than any of them ever had: his wife died long ago, his friend turned into a monster, his father, who was his anchor, went ahead of him and left him here, and all he has to look forward to is witnessing senseless deaths upon senseless deaths!”

“He has us! A son, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, all of whom love and reverence him!”

“And do not need him at all!” Taken by the urgency of the discussion, Eluzîni did not seem to realize what she had just said until it dawned upon her, and her eyes widened. “I am sorry… I did not mean… all I wanted to say is that this is how he sees it!”

Elendil did not revert to the irrationality of hours before. Instead, he looked perfectly reasonable as he gazed back at her contrite expression, though he felt hollow inside.

“That is how he sees it because we gave him this idea. I gave him this idea. I have been making more and more choices without consulting him, not just because I wanted to take the burden off his shoulders, but also because I thought… I thought I could do better.”

Eluzîni let go of a long, shuddering breath, and released him.

“A man like him believes he is in the world so he can shoulder everything for everyone else. If he cannot do so any longer, then he is bound to feel that his life no longer has any meaning. But this is not the fault of whoever is called to replace him, Elendil, and I am sure he knows this as well as I do.”

The last part had been spoken forcefully again, as she managed to regain her bearings and convince herself of the truth of her statement. Elendil pondered it in silence.

“But in that case....” It was long until he could bring himself to say the words aloud. “Even if he… truly wanted to go, why come up with this madness? Why not merely lie down until his soul departed his body, as all the previous Lords of Andúnië have done before him?”

Eluzîni shook her head.

“Because that would be cowardice. He would not do a thing like that. He has to achieve a worthwhile deed, fight against the evil which has spread its roots everywhere around us. And…” Her voice trailed away; when it came back it was much lower and tentative. “It could be that, for him, the idea of facing the Valar is less painful than facing Ar Pharazôn.”

“And infinitely more dangerous.”

“Why? Do you also believe that they are evil? Perhaps he is right, and there is something to be gained from that course of action. Perhaps he could still be a hero, like our hallowed ancestor was according to the old tales!”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Elendil had to look at his wife’s countenance, unsure for a moment of whether this was not a poor attempt at a joke. But she was not merely serious: the tiniest spark of hope shone in her eye, and he wondered if he was the only person in this household who had not gone mad.

“I do not believe that the Valar will oblige those who seek them in a land where they are not welcome in order to make demands, with or without an armed fleet to back them. How can you not see it?” He sighed. “I certainly do now. We have lost perspective. All of us. Númenor was raised from the waters closer to Valinor than to Middle-Earth, and this has addled our minds and made us think we were closer to them than to our fellow mortals beyond the Sea. But we are not! We are Men, we toil, we grow old and then we die, just like the millions of barbarians out there. That is all there is to it, and that is all there ever will be!”

And before she could make a move to follow him, he was gone.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

When the line of the horizon began clearing with the light of impending dawn, Amandil had been sitting in the same spot for hours. His hands had gone numb from the chill of the air, and the audience clothes he never took off felt damp against his skin. When his son offered him his own hand, so he could struggle to his feet in the slippery surface of the rocks, he could barely close his grip on it.

“You sure took your time to find me”, he said, a greeting which came out as a pitiful attempt to defuse the tension. Elendil acted as if he had not even heard it.

“You are shivering. You need to go inside, change, and drink something warm. Otherwise, there will be no life for you to throw away foolishly.”

Amandil let go of him. Thankfully, his balance did not betray him, and he was able to remain standing on his own means.

“You are still angry with me. And deservedly, I suppose.”

“Very much so.” Elendil headed for the path, each of his long strides sure and elegant and so difficult to follow. Just as it had been since so long ago that Amandil could no longer remember. “Eluzîni thinks that others deserve my anger more than you do. But you are my father, and I expected something - more from you. To be the voice of reason when there is only madness left.”

“You are describing yourself. Father, too. But me? I was never that kind of man. I was never the voice of reason. I was Ar Pharazôn’s friend, and I think that, somewhere deep inside, I still am.” He took a long breath, laboriously following his son’s footsteps. “I am sorry for disappointing you.”

Elendil frowned in the half-light, but said nothing. Suddenly, Amandil found the resulting silence intolerable.

“Elendil, I… I do not know which words I should use to explain it, so you might understand. But- staying here, doing nothing, would result in a fate worse than death. If I had left years ago, you would never have seen me like this.” The words were rushing to his mouth now, fighting to get out. “And if I leave now, you will not see what I may still become.”

This time, Elendil winced.

“I am beginning to doubt the wisdom of our ancestors, Father. I think Lord Yehimelkor had the right of it. To -think that you only have the right to live for as long as you can appear a hero, and a paragon of strength and virtue, is nothing but yet another negation of our mortality. You may not wish to live forever, but isn’t the wish to live forever in the minds of others as someone who never despaired, never grew old, never had to be comforted or protected almost as unnatural?”

“You cannot protect me or comfort me.” And he should have known that, wise as he was in his own ways, Elendil would never be able to see it.

“No. All I can do is let you sail away into the unknown, from whence no one will return bearing tidings about your last hour, or tell me where your body lies. Is that it?”

“After a man dies, the body is only dead flesh. And, even if you are denied knowledge of how my life ended, you can be certain of one thing: that I chose this end, and the choice gave me peace.”

In all his lifetime, he had never seen an expression as haunting as that of his son when he turned his gaze towards him now.

“Very well. I will be honest with you, Father. Before I came here, I had spent long hours calming my anger. I was determined to be conciliating, which would give me the chance to bargain with you. I would beg for time, a year perhaps if you were amenable, and in those twelve months I would endeavour to prove to you that you are needed, both here and in Middle-Earth. That was the plan.” He shrugged, shaking his head as if he had said something very foolish. “But I cannot. I cannot be conciliating, I cannot convince you, and I cannot prove something that is not true. Because you are right: I never needed you. I only love you so deeply that my heart breaks just to hear you speak like this, and I will never be at peace with your choice.”

Suddenly, Amandil had trouble swallowing. For a moment, he even thought he could feel his soul ache a little, like an old wound would itch after picking on its dried scabs.

“Elendil…” he began, but he did not know how to end the sentence.

“That is why you must not come to me” his son continued, as if he had not heard him. “You may do as you wish without my leave, Father, as long as you remain the lord of Andúnië. If you want to take ship and seek the Valar, do so. If you want to lay down your life, or throw yourself down this cliff, do whatever you want, but do not ask for my approval, because I cannot give it to you. I am sorry.”

If it was difficult to keep up with Elendil when he wished to be followed, to do so when he did not want to be followed was sheer impossibility. Amandil watched him leave in wordless shock, then bowed his head, burying his face in his palms. But even now, his wretched eyes remained dry.

Orcs cannot cry, someone –probably Pharazôn- had told him once in the mainland. Not even when they are in great pain. Once, I heard a soldier claim that he had cut up a lot of corpses and discovered that all their tear ducts had been burned away, but I think he was trying to pull my leg. He was a mad old bastard.

“No, Elendil. I am sorry”, he mouthed to the empty air, repressing a shiver.