Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Back to Rómenna

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“You called for me, my lord King?”

Gimilzagar stopped by the threshold, and cautiously explored the sight before his eyes. Ar Pharazôn was alone in the balcony, leaning on the railing to gaze at the Fountain Gardens below.

“Oh, yes. And you are late.”

The Prince could not see his father’s expression, or read much into his thoughts, but at least Zigûr’s absence was good news. The High Priest of Melkor would have known where he came from and why exactly he was late, and he would have found a way to drop it into the conversation.

“I apologize for the delay. I was striving to be properly presentable before I was introduced into your presence.”

“And it is quite difficult to find one’s clothes when they are strewn across a woman’s room. I know, I know.” Gimilzagar stiffened at his father’s matter-of-fact crudity, though he should have known better than to think Ar Pharazôn would need Zigûr to keep tabs on his actions. He wondered why it bothered him so much: after all, it was not as if the King of Númenor would be angry at him for ‘fooling around with his whore’, as he called it. That particular battle seemed to belong to a very distant past, before Gimilzagar proved his loyalty by foiling a hapless Baalim-worshipping assassin’s attempt on the King’s life. Before the day he showed he could fuck her without attributing much worth to her feelings, the cold, hateful voice that was always there to whisper unpleasant truths in his mind rephrased it. But at least this contempt kept her alive, which she surely would not be if her fate depended on the likes of Zigûr, Ûriphel, or the rest of the Court. Armenelos had long ago ceased to be a place where a Baalim-worshipper, a former Baalim-worshipper, or even the children or grandchildren of Baalim-worshippers could live unscathed. “There is no need to be so formal, Gimilzagar. We are alone here.”

Ar Pharazôn’s voice effectively interrupted his thoughts, and forced the Prince to focus.

“May I ask what was the reason for your summons?”

The King gestured at him to approach, which Gimilzagar did, until he was leaning on the railing close to him. From this position, he could already have a good angle of his father’s face. He was pretending to fix his gaze on a gaggle of ladies who sat before one of the fountains, probably exchanging some amusing piece of gossip, but his mind was far away - so far away that not even Gimilzagar was able to follow it. His amiable mood was like one of the multi-coloured dresses worn by the Court ladies, a dazzling pretence to hide the hard edges of some dark truth.

“I was remembering that time when you accompanied me to Rhûn, and we crossed the mountains”, he said at last. “They were impressive, were they not? Their peaks were lost in the clouds, as if they did not belong to the realm of mortals. As if we were not even worthy of laying eyes upon them.”

“And yet you conquered them. As you had already conquered them once, when you first set foot on Rhûn”, Gimilzagar pointed out, wondering if this was what his father needed to hear. He had been too cold, exhausted and miserable back then, not to mention struggling with the ghosts which had taken residence in his mind, to appreciate the majestic beauty of the place.

Ar Pharazôn nodded.

“Oh, yes, I did. They put up a good fight, and yet I forced my way through. But for that, I had to make a choice. I had to decide if I wanted to be a man, content with my Sceptre, the woman I loved, my newborn heir and the glorious reputation of ridding the world of the tyranny of Mordor – or if I wanted to become something else. Something greater than all that.” His forehead curved into a frustratingly undecipherable frown. “And there was no turning back from that choice.”

Gimilzagar watched him for what seemed like an endless interval of silence. Meanwhile, his mind was working furiously, trying to determine if he was supposed to speak up or not.

“I chose the higher path. I had those prisoners dragged to the altar, severed their souls from their miserable bodies, and the power of that sacrifice enabled me to fall upon the largest empire the world has ever known like an eagle snatches its prey from the ground. It was then that I knew I was destined for godhood. But the price…” He sighed. “Well, that is the ultimate truth of this world. The price you pay is directly proportional to the scope of what you wish to achieve. Something you know as well as I do, though you never thanked me for acquainting you with this knowledge.”

Now, Gimilzagar was beginning to feel bewildered as to where this was going. Could his father be having second thoughts, at this stage? Could he be feeling remorse for the things he had done? And yet, this did not only fail to tally with any of their past dealings, but it also seemed belied by the steely feel of Ar Pharazôn’s mind against his. But if that was not it, what else could it be?

He decided to risk a sliver of sincerity.

“Why are you telling me this, Father?”

Ar Pharazôn was not angered by this question. Instead, he averted his eyes from the women and fixed them solemnly on Gimilzagar, as if he wished to hold on to this sincerity before it disappeared again.

“The armies of Númenor have pulled away from Rhûn. Now, those mountains have once again become the end of the world.” He seemed to realize that Gimilzagar was about to open his mouth, and made a gesture to silence him. “But I made sure that, this time, there are no more worlds beyond that which belongs to us. We have destroyed the Emperor’s capital, which he made the mistake to abandon to pursue his sneaky tactics elsewhere. All those proud buildings have been torn down, the fields burned, the wells poisoned, and the people put to the sword. If this barbarian wishes to reign over his kingdom, he will have to build himself a new city, a new Palace, and a new Court. Oh, perhaps he will crawl into a cave, where he will feel at home surrounded by bandits, with whom he belongs. “His lips curved in a smile, but even his vindictive glee came across as hollow. “Whatever he does, I care not.”

Gimilzagar needed a while for his throat to be able to swallow the horror away.

“But, my lord King…” he began, as soon as his voice was back. You did this, too, the voice in his mind whispered insidiously. Do you remember the list you used to keep, when you wanted to know if you deserved to live? Take it out, quick, there are some more names to add. “Is that not a risky manoeuvre, to anger a powerful people who can regroup and retaliate against another of our mainland territories, which now lie almost defenceless?”

Ar Pharazôn’s eyes narrowed, as if he was going to be angry, but he merely shrugged.

“Let them regroup. Let them retaliate! When I return from the Undying Lands, I will be waiting for him at the head of my troops. He has already learned to feel the displeasure of a man, but he still has to learn to feel the displeasure of a god.”

To this, the Prince of the West could find no reply worth uttering. Even if he began listing his misgivings about the outcome of the King’s expedition, he was aware that his father would only wave them away. As this conversation had just reminded him, there was too much at stake, and a man who had gambled with his own body and soul and that of everyone who depended on him would no longer listen to prophecies of doom. Little by little, since before Gimilzagar had even been born, every thread of his life had grown inextricably linked into the fabric of the sails that would transport him to the land of the gods to meet his ultimate fate. And Gimilzagar himself had averted the only knife which could have cut them.

“You seem concerned”, Ar Pharazôn said, noticing the furrows in Gimilzagar’s brow. “Do not worry. Our empire will not be diminished by such temporary setbacks. And you do not need to be concerned for the mainland, either. The Númenóreans who live there will be quite well protected, as barbarians will not dare venture in the Bay or beyond the Second Wall of Umbar. Even the Baalim-worshippers have their Elves to watch over them, or so I hear.” His voice was deceptively casual when he spoke of the situation North of the Middle Havens, but Gimilzagar knew very well from other times that this, too, was a matter the King did not intend to drop. “It will not be long now, I promise.”

Not long. Like a dying man’s agony, the Prince thought sombrely, whose only comfort was that it could not last forever. Then, he remembered that he was an exception to that law, from the day he had been snatched as a baby from the warm embrace of death.

“That is good to hear”, he said, averting his eyes from Ar Pharazôn’s smile.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Isildur swallowed, trying not to pay heed to the cramps on his legs, or to the growing feeling of restlessness which threatened to overwhelm him in his current position. He pressed his forehead against his knee, to avoid looking at the wooden lid above his head, whose invisible weight seemed to increase whenever his eyes fell upon it. Outside, it was very long since he had last heard any noises of trampling feet, loud voices, or boxes being dragged, lifted and dropped. Still, he had never been good at calculating time without the sun’s trajectory to help him, not the way Malik had once been. As far as he was concerned, he could have been alone in this hold for an hour, or for an eternity.

At some point, the temptation grew too great, and he raised his arm to move the lid slightly above his head. To his dismay, it was shut from the outside, and it did not budge an inch. He was trapped here, until they came for him. The strength of mind required to put this naked truth out of his mind enough as to settle back into a semblance of normalcy almost failed him this time.

Look at the bright side of this, Isildur, Malik said. If the Governor’s men find you now, you will be too relieved to be out of this box to worry about what they might do to you.

“I should never have come”, he mouthed in a low voice, partly for Malik’s benefit, partly to himself. “The North may be safe now, but Númenor is definitely not, and the risk outweighs the gain by a tenfold.”

Oh, really? He could almost see Malik arching an eyebrow at this affirmation. Since when do you care about risks and gains?

“Well, perhaps it is high time I started thinking about that. Here in the Island, no Elves are going to ride in and save the day. And neither will you, since you are dead.”

Ssssh. Stop spouting nonsense and listen at your surroundings for a moment, the ghost counselled. Isildur froze, suddenly hearing the dilapidated wooden planks of the floor creak under the weight of footsteps. There are younger and better looking men eager to ride in and save your day now, though I do not know if you deserve them.

Somebody began struggling with what must be the box’s closing mechanism, and Isildur tensed, torn between tension and anticipation. When the lid finally burst open, a light blinded him, and he had to blink several times until he realized it was not sunlight, but lamplight. It struck a sharp contrast with the darkness of the warehouse, but as he grew used to its glow, he saw it shine over a set of features he knew and loved. A pair of dark-grey eyes stared back into his, widening in a relief which soon turned into warm anticipation. Underneath them, the mouth curved into what he could recognize as a brave attempt to hide a sudden weakness in his knees.

“You look like a beggar who had spent a month in prison for stealing” Tal Elmar said. Isildur held out his hand to be helped to his feet, as his legs would probably not respond well after the long abuse they had been subjected to. Once he was standing, however, he used the manoeuvre to pull the barbarian close, and claim his mouth in a rough kiss that almost caused the lamp to fall. As Tal Elmar responded to it, he could gradually feel his body wake from its long state of lethargy – even parts of it which he would be unable to exercise now.

“Who had the idea of sending you, of all people?”

“Well, I am not from the house of Andúnië, but they still consider me trustworthy. I am a barbarian, so I do not care about risking my life, and yet I can dissuade Elendur from coming with me”, Tal Elmar replied. “In short, I was the perfect candidate.”

“To me, your life is not worth any less than Elendur’s”, Isildur whispered in his ear. “But I must admit it was the most pleasant surprise to be welcomed back to Númenor by the breathtaking sight of your face.”

Tal Elmar wrinkled his nose in disdain. He had always been remarkably invulnerable to compliments, as if a wild part of him could not understand the form of love that made a loved one’s features appear fair to their lover’s eyes. Isildur had never been one to wax lyrical about such things, but for the barbarian, they seemed to come across as some sort of insult.

“You stink”, was his sole reply. Isildur nodded, letting one of his hands trail across his shaggy, month-long beard. “Which is good. Your merchant friend is outside, waiting for us; as soon as he gives the all-clear, we will have to cross half of Rómenna to get to the Lord’s house. The more you look like a beggar, the less they will stare at you.”

Tal Elmar was right: if he bent his back a little and looked down, leaning on the barbarian and pretending that his legs were still unsteady, none of the people they encountered spared him a second look. Like this, they walked across a maze of streets until the houses grew less frequent, and the sounds and smells of the beach began to assault Isildur’s senses.

“Wait here for a moment”, he said, letting go of Tal Elmar. “I am going to take a bath, so I can look a little more presentable before the Lord and the Lady of Andúnië.”

“But they are waiting for us!” Tal Elmar protested. Isildur ignored him, taking his clothes off. Belatedly, he realized that most of the stench came from them, so he threw them at his lover, who caught them just barely.

“Wash them. Or just soak them in the water, I don’t care. I do not want to smell this again.”

Tal Elmar gave a long-suffering sigh, and watched him head towards the breaking waves and dive in. Once his feet were no longer able to touch the sand at the bottom, he began to swim. At first, his arms and his back ached, as if he had truly become a prisoner inside the crippled beggar’s body, but the more he persevered, the more his former strength and grace kept flowing back into his limbs.

When he finally floated back towards the shore, combing his matted hair with his hands, he felt like Isildur, son of Elendil, for the first time in days. Meanwhile, Tal Elmar had made the most of this delay to wash the filthy clothes, and then wring every drop of water out of them. They were still wet, of course, but at least he would look marginally more dignified when he entered the house.

“How good are you at dry shaving?” Isildur asked, pretending to be evaluating his beard. Tal Elmar stared at him as if he was the most aggravating man he had ever met, and he repressed the urge to laugh. His sense of humour was coming back together with the flow of blood through his veins, the invigorating and cleansing feel of the cold water over his skin, and the sight of the beautiful barbarian before him. For the first time in almost a year, even the grim shadow of his mainland failures seemed to desert him, as if his wars with the Forest People had been nothing but a bad dream. “I was only joking! We will go as soon as I have my clothes on. Though perhaps, before I put them on, we could…”

“There is no time for any of that!” Tal Elmar exclaimed, though Isildur detected the telltale bulge in his throat when he swallowed, and also what could be the shadow of a very different bulge underneath his lower clothing.

“Then, perhaps they should not have sent you”, Isildur sighed, putting his pants on. “You distract me from my purpose.” The barbarian’s eyes widened, but his outrage had no bite behind it. “Next time, they would do better to find someone else.”

He had not been expecting Tal Elmar’s features to sober.

“There will be no next time.” The son of Elendil dropped the left leg, and cursed as the wet fabric fell on the sand.

“What?”

The barbarian walked until he was but inches away from him. His gaze had a newfound intensity that gave Isildur pause.

“Elendur will be twenty years old next Spring. Even for the Númenóreans, he is no longer a child, and there is no more I can teach him”, he said. “The next time you sail to the mainland, I will be by your side, and I will fight for you. It is my privilege as your bonded warrior.”

Of all the things that he could have said, this was perhaps the most unexpected for Isildur. For years, he had grown accustomed to their current arrangement: he would sail to the mainland to fight and rule their colonies, and Tal Elmar would wait for him in Númenor, looking after Elendur and making it much easier for Isildur to keep a cool head and focus on all the other problems at hand. He tried to imagine his lover in Middle-Earth, trying to prevent some ramshackle fort from being overrun by Forest People. Or riding as part of Isildur’s suicidal charge against them, ready to give his life in payment for Isildur’s miscalculation, as Malik had before him. His blood ran cold.

“We will talk about that later”, he replied, in a voice that came out more cutting than he had intended. He tried to soften his tone a little. “As you have reminded me so often in the last hour, we are in a hurry.”

Tal Elmar nodded in silence, though it was obvious from the steely look in his eye that he would not give up on this easily. Isildur sighed, torn between exasperation at his defiance and the contradictory urge to kiss it away. In the end, of course, he did neither.

“Let us go”, he said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the invisible cliff where his father’s house stood.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Elendil and the rest of the family were waiting inside the house, as it was no longer deemed prudent to gather in a place where they could be spotted by the Governor’s spies. Eluzîni was there, eager to embrace her long-lost son, and so was Irissë, her usual penchant for mindless chatter deserting her for an instant as her eyes grew moist with tears. Ilmarë was with them too, standing next to her three nieces –Findis had grown into a woman since the last time Isildur had seen her, thin and shrewd of gaze like her mother-, and so was Anárion, holding a very pregnant Irimë’s hand.

“Congratulations” he said to his brother, remembering the foolish and bitter words they had exchanged years ago, and cringing inwardly at the thought. Anárion nodded, and thanked him in a studied, polite voice.

“We have high hopes for a boy this time”, Irissë remarked. Even she had grown magnanimous in her victory, Isildur thought wryly, though her sister did not seem thankful for the remark. Instead, she tensed, and her smile looked forced.

“Only the Creator may know such things before they happen”, she said. Before Irissë could answer, Elendur came to stand before Isildur, distracting him from the exchange between the sisters.

“Father” he greeted him, with an awkward bow. Gone was the loud boy who jumped into his bed or collided against his legs; in his place, there was a young man whom Isildur barely managed to recognize. Suddenly, it struck him how many years he had been away, attending to other matters, while his son turned into this stranger.

“I am glad to see you, Elendur” he replied, with a solemnity that covered his turmoil. Meanwhile, his eyes were busy trying to take in the young man’s changed appearance. He had grown tall –very tall, perhaps the tallest in the family after Elendil himself. This growth spurt lent him a certain ungainly air when he stood still, as his arms and legs seemed almost too long for the rest of his body. His features had grown sharper, and his resemblance to Isildur much less pronounced. Still, what surprised Isildur more were his eyes, which used to be a faithful mirror of each and every one of the boy’s emotions. Now, they were veiled, and it was no longer possible to read anything in them, aside from a vague discomfort.

“Your father has missed you very much” he heard Tal Elmar say. “He has been asking many questions about your progress.”

This barefaced lie made Elendur smile, not openly as when he was younger, but it was still a smile. Isildur tried not to feel guilty about this. He would have asked about Elendur at some point, if the way had been longer, and there had been more time. And besides, it was not his fault that his son had receded into a back corner of his mind: if they had not sent him to the mainland to do the dirty work of the Faithful, he would have had the chance to know him much better.

Right. Because you would have loved to spend twenty years here, with no duties but being a good husband to the Lady Irissë and a proper father to Elendur.

“Tomorrow, you will show him everything you can do” Tal Elmar continued. The young man opened his mouth, as if to protest, but the barbarian gave him a significant look and he closed it again. It was the first time that Isildur had seen his lover look up at Elendur, but this circumstance did not seem to affect the nature of their interactions in the slightest. “And then, you will tell him.”

“Tell me what?” Isildur asked. Tal Elmar, however, just shrugged, and ushered Elendur out of the way so Elendil could approach him.

The new lord of Andúnië had never been the most amiable of men, at least as far as Isildur was concerned. He knew it was different with others, like their mother, or even Anárion, but whenever Elendil was in the presence of his older son, his demeanour was guarded, and he barely managed to hide his disapproval. Now, since Lord Amandil had sailed to Valinor never to return, he was the leader of the Faithful in this darkest of times, and the look with which he levelled Isildur as he stopped in his tracks before him was enough to tell him that his father’s tolerance for wayward sons was lower than ever.

And your leg to stand on is shakier than ever, Malik remarked.

“Well met, Father”, Isildur said, with a somewhat exaggerated bow. “Though I could not be present at your accession ceremony, I salute you and acknowledge you as nineteenth lord of the House of Andúnië.”

“Thank you”, Elendil replied gravely. Then, before Isildur could speak again, he extended a hand towards him. “Come. We must speak.”

“Now?” Eluzîni asked, visibly surprised. “But, Elendil, our son is just back from an exhausting journey. His wife and son…”

“Yes, now.” He met her frown with his own gaze. “But do not worry, Eluzîni, this will hardly take long.”

This promise seemed to put an end to her objections. Left to his fate, Isildur took the proffered hand and allowed his father to usher him into his private study, steeling himself for whatever else might follow.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Elendil had never resembled his father much, and when it came to leadership, Isildur suspected that he was going to follow his own mind as well. When Isildur was starting his mainland venture, Amandil had forced him to report often, inquired after every last detail and scolded him for not following his orders, but this attitude had had its edge gradually blunted by the years. The former lord of Andúnië was too old, too tired to face the challenges beyond the Great Sea, and the struggle between his conscience and his duty had proved too hard to withstand. This had created a power vacuum which Isildur had immediately used to his advantage, in order to act like the undisputed ruler of the northern colonies. Even Anárion had left the scene, prudently claiming that there was nothing else with which he could be of help to his brother. Free from his meddlesome family, the older son of Elendil had managed his alliances, his conquests, his defences and his army with an authority which remained undisputed for years –until the fateful day when disaster struck.

Of course, it had not been Isildur’s fault that Ar Pharazôn decided to evacuate the defences of the timber corridor and left them at the mercy of attacks from the South. Where he had been at fault, and grievously so, was when he believed himself capable to deal with this threat on his own. He had employed all his resources to prepare for war, sparing no thought for evacuation – after all, evacuation would mean failure, and he could never fail, could he? Whenever he remembered the moment when he had charged against the enemy horde in his last, desperate stand, and recalled how he had come to the sudden realization that no matter how great a warrior he was, or how bravely he behaved on the battlefield, the North would still be lost and the colonists would die, he was tormented by the terrible flaw he had discovered in the thread of thought which had led him there. How could he call himself a leader, if he could not accord the same importance to other people’s lives than to his own glory and pride?

That was why he had not objected when the Elves called in by his father had saved the day. He had welcomed them with open arms when they proceeded to reorganize their Northern possessions, help them build new defences, and overall behave with a superior, holier-than-thou attitude which Isildur would have found intolerable at any other circumstance. He had not even said anything when they insisted on leaving an “advisor” upon their departure, who never shut his mouth about how he considered that most of Men’s wars could be avoided if they learned to treat other Men differently, as if Elves had never fought among themselves or killed those of their same blood. But for all this time, he had known that everything had been Father’s idea, and that Lord Amandil had nothing to do with it.

Now, as he sat in the small study and gave his report on all those happenings, answering every question with grudging accuracy and thinking of how much his head was starting to ache, he was careful not to appear either ashamed or antagonistic. For he knew that Elendil would pick on any of those two feelings, and use it against him. Still, though he evaded the most obvious openings for the attack, he should have known that the new Lord of Andúnië would not be so easily deterred.

“I trust you will have learned a number of valuable lessons from your failure”, he said at last, fixing him with an intent, judgemental look that Isildur could no longer pretend he had not seen. Reluctantly, he lifted his hands from the surface of the table and laid them on his lap, feeling like a small child.

“I will not overestimate my strength again”, he said. Elendil’s eyes only narrowed a little further. “And I will not let my pride matter more than the lives of the people under my leadership.”

This time, his father nodded, but the frown remained upon his brow.

“That is correct. I have seen this pride before, Isildur. I see it, feel it, suffer under it every day, and I will not tolerate it beyond the Sea. Our fellow Men are not pawns to be risked or discarded for the sake of our personal glory. The Former Lord thought we could turn a blind eye on your defiance as long as you accomplished what you set out to do, but if the current state of affairs in Númenor has taught us something, it is that the greatest accomplishments will only serve as stepping stones for the prideful man’s ultimate fall.”

The accusation implied in his father’s words made Isildur bristle, even despite his better judgement.

“Is that what you see me as? A second Ar Pharazôn? Do you think Sauron could convince me tomorrow to invade Valinor, and cut people open as a gift to his god?”

Though Elendil’s expression did not change visibly, his features grew a little paler at this.

“After you have been here for a month, you will no longer speak so flippantly about Sauron’s sacrifices. Nor should you speak flippantly about Ar Pharazôn. When he was your age he was a great man, sincerely admired by many, including Father and me. Tyrants are not born, they are made, and you will never become one while I live.”

Well, at least now you know why he does not like you, Malik chose the inconvenient moment to whisper in his ear.

“Well, then.” The words came out from his mouth, as if of their own volition. “Perhaps you can send Anárion in my stead, and make him your heir. He has always been the better candidate, hasn’t he? And now, he is probably even going to have a son, who will be as perfect as his father in every single way.”

At long last, Elendil’s eyes widened, even if he mastered his emotions fast.

“That is not, and has never been, my intent. If Anárion makes a mistake, there will always be others to tell him about it. But if a ruler who does not need to listen to anyone makes a mistake, and he is too proud to admit it, he will persevere with it until the bitter end. You are going to be this ruler, not him, and that is why you, not him, are the subject of my concern.”

Isildur took a very long intake of breath.

“I admitted it.” And he knew what he had done, damn it, without the need for anyone browbeating him into recognizing his mistakes. “I admitted it, didn’t I? And I welcomed those Elves, followed their advice, and did everything they asked. Because I knew they had saved me. I knew you had saved me when you managed to convince them to sail South, and all the lecturing they put me through was your idea as well. So I had to listen to it. What else do I need to do, fall on my knees and beg for forgiveness?”

“I will be content if you keep it in mind, not only while the memories of what happened are still fresh, but in the future as well.” Of course he would never surrender an inch, Isildur thought, his head throbbing again. “Even after I am gone.”

It might have been a trick of the light, but for a moment it seemed to him that Elendil looked very, very tired - and older than he had ever seen him. They may have been as different as night and day, but Isildur knew how much he had loved his father, to the point of following his lead whether he agreed with him or not. He tried to imagine a scenario where Elendil no longer walked upon the earth, and there was no one left in the house of Andúnië who could tell him what to do. Would he feel devastated, like the man before him, or liberated?

Perhaps your father already knows the answer to that. It would explain his behaviour.

“I will”, he promised, in his best earnest tone. Elendil appeared to be considering him at length.

“And you will stay here for the time being. With the Elves watching over our mainland colonies, and our King too busy to pay attention to them, danger is no longer as pressing beyond the Sea, and leaving the Island without authorization has turned into a suicidal mission.”

“But….” Isildur tried to object, though he was silenced before he could continue.

“The end is getting near. Ar Pharazôn’s fleet is ready to depart, and he will be setting the date any day now. I have commissioned ships to various builders in Sor and Rómenna under false names, all I have been able to without attracting suspicion, so we can escape and take as many people as we can with us. We have to contact and organize them while the eye of the Governor remains fixed on us, avoid his snares, and lose as few people to his vindictive fires as we can manage. If you want to risk your life, you can risk it here and help us. “His forehead curved into a frown again. “Also, it will do you good to spend time with your loved ones. Enjoy the company of your wife, your son, and Tal Elmar, and meditate on the consequences of having their lives pay for your mistakes in the future.”

Isuldur tried to swallow, but his mouth was suddenly too dry. Then, he tried to speak, but no words came to his mind. As if he was aware of everything that was going on inside him, this time Elendil waited calmly until he managed to put together an answer.

“Yes, Father”, he said at last - not the wittiest of responses, but the only one he could come across at the moment. “I will… do that.”

“Very well”, Elendil nodded. “You may retire now, and rest, as I promised your mother that you would. Other discussions can be postponed for a later date.”

Isildur did need to hear this twice. Giving his father a perfunctory bow, he left the room, and walked away as fast as if a horde of Orcs was chasing him.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The next morning, Elendil made good on his word of letting him rest, at least long enough to mull over his words, Isildur thought resentfully. In compensation, he was treated by Irissë to the extended tale of Irimë’s pregnancy, and to every detail of the pitfalls it had encountered since its inception eight months ago. The sight of her sister’s swollen belly, moreover, and of the way Anárion waited on her hand and foot, seemed to have inspired his wife with the wish for a new baby of her own. Elendur was already too old to fulfil her need for a little boy she could spoil rotten, but still too young to be able to give her grandchildren. Isildur realized he had grown a little too comfortable with their previous arrangement, where she would refrain from clinging to him all day long. He fended her off as best as he could, though he was unpleasantly aware that he would not be able to do so forever. Not with Elendil name-dropping Tal Elmar in the middle of their business conversations.

As things were, it was in a preoccupied, listless mood that he was led away from the house, to be presented with a demonstration of how proficient Elendur had become at every fighting and survival skill Tal Elmar had taught him. Watching his son at his endeavours, however, he could not help but forget about his troubles enough to feel impressed at the shift that came upon the boy’s awkward demeanour and ungainly pose. Suddenly, it was as if there was not a muscle of his body he was not in control of, or a finger or a toe out of place. He was a silent hunter, an agile climber, and a very hardy and resilient fighter. Anything the barbarian told him to do, he did brilliantly, with an expertise that must have cost him sweat and tears. Tal Elmar had become the boy’s father now, Isildur realized, wondering where on Earth did that leave him.

Oh, don’t be so hasty to surrender your claim. Look at how he stares at you whenever he thinks you haven’t noticed, trying to catch a gleam of approval. And he is so nervous about what he is meant to ask you that he has not been able to pull his courage and do it yet, Malik remarked, arching an eyebrow. Surprised, he sought his son’s gaze as the young man was fitting an arrow on his bow, and saw him look away hurriedly. After he completed the shot, Isildur decided to compliment it. The flush of pride he saw on Elendur’s cheeks was only replaced by a look of renewed determination.

“Father”, he said, approaching him. “There is… something I would like to ask you.”

“I was wondering if we would ever get to that”, Isildur observed, crossing his arms over his chest and turning towards Tal Elmar, who had not moved from his side in all that time. At first, the barbarian did not give signs of being in any way involved in this, and yet before Elendur spoke again, he nodded in his direction.

“I have learned many things. I know how to survive in a hostile land, and how to fight my enemies. And… I will be twenty years old soon. In the mainland, a twenty-year old can marry, even have children.”

“Do you wish to marry?” Isildur joked, though the more he could guess where this was going, the less amused he felt. “Your mother would be happy to hear that.”

“No!” The disgust Elendur seemed to feel at the very idea made him appear for a moment like his father’s son through and through. “What I wanted to say was that… I wish to sail to the mainland with you and Tal Elmar, Father. I wish to fight by your side. And I do not say this as a child who does not know what perils may lie in waiting. I know all about the mainland, and I am prepared to face the risks.”

Isildur’s fears were confirmed. First, he stared at his son, who, shifting his weight from one leg to another like an impatient child, was inadvertently undermining his own case. Then, he turned his gaze towards Tal Elmar again.

“Well, to begin with, you cannot know about a place where you have never been, and to believe that you do only proves how young you still are. And secondly, I have not even given my permission for Tal Elmar to accompany me yet.”

If looks could kill, the barbarian might be claiming his life right now.

“You cannot deny me this. I am your bonded warrior, not a woman, and it is not in your power to force me to stay home.”

“And I am not a child anymore! Aunt and Uncle told me how young you were when you first sailed to Harad!”

Meditate on the consequences of having their lives pay for your mistakes in the future, his father had said. Though he should know better, a tiny, mad part of Isildur’s brain had to wonder if it was Elendil who had put them up to this.

“This is not Agar. This is Númenor, where bonded warriors do not exist, where you are just a barbarian under my protection, and you are definitely still a child” he said, more hotly than he had intended. “So you will both do as I say.”

Elendur seemed about to argue, but Tal Elmar shook his head, and gestured at him to stay back as he endeavoured to follow Isildur’s pace down the path that led towards the beach.

By the time they reached the roaring surf, his irrational anger had started to abate, but not the darkness veiling his mind.

“I apologize” he said, letting the cold water break against his feet. “For speaking to you like that.”

Tal Elmar approached, moving as silently as he always did.

“It was Elendur you hurt, not me. I know you and your stupid Númenórean ways, that say that you cannot love me without treating me like a woman, for that is the only kind of love that you are able to understand. But he does not know you so well, and his worst fear is that you will see him as a child.”

“Well, he is.”

Tal Elmar did not argue this affirmation.

“Was it so dreadful, what happened in the mainland?” he asked, instead. “I heard the story, but I would rather hear it from you.”

“Oh, there is not much I can add to what you already know.” Isildur shrugged, forcing a smile. “I was led astray by my foolish pride, as my father reminded me just yesterday, doomed the people I was supposed to protect, and then led all my men into a suicidal mission in an attempt to redeem myself. Though that, of course, would not have helped the rest of the people who died because I had not evacuated them when I could. And now, I am only alive because a bunch of sanctimonious Elves came to save me at my father’s request.” His forehead curved into a painful frown. “If you or Elendur died because of me, I would never forgive myself.”

“I see.” Tal Elmar nodded gravely. “Then, I suppose you will be able to understand my problem, as it has to do with guilt as well. If you fell and I, your bonded warrior, was not by your side to defend you, I would never forgive myself. In fact, I would have to kill myself, and even in death, I would be dishonoured.”

Isildur’s eyes widened in incredulity.

“If I died, nobody would blame you!”

The barbarian shook his head in contempt.

“Nobody would need to, Isildur. Because this is a shame that comes from the inside, not the outside. Just like my love for you. And Elendur’s.”

Isildur needed to inhale sharply before he could speak again.

“And what is his excuse? Surely you would not want him to die with us! You have practically raised him yourself, by all the Valar!”

“You cannot raise a boy if you refuse to recognize his right to become a man when the time comes. For what else have you been striving for? I spoke only for myself, but I recognize his right to speak for himself, too. Otherwise, I would have two faces: one to ask you to respect my wishes, despite your attachment to me, and another to deny his, because of my attachment to him.”

“A colourful way to define hypocrisy.” Isildur was feigning nonchalance, but he was very far from feeling it. “As it happens, Tal Elmar, right now we are all stranded here: him, you, and me. Father does not want me to leave for the time being. I do not know how long this will last, if Sauron will destroy us first, or if perhaps that Wave we keep seeing in our dreams will drown us. But the day I can go back to the mainland, you would do well to remember that the man I loved died for me long before you were even born. And if I have to treat you like a woman to prevent this from happening again, I will.”

For once, Tal Elmar looked truly speechless. As he opened and closed his mouth like a fish underwater, he seemed torn between the highly contradictory emotions of pity and aggravation.

“What if you leave me behind as you left the settlers, Isildur, only for me to die far away from you?” he asked at last. “What if there is no longer a way to ensure my safety? Back when I lived in Agar, we all knew that if the warriors were defeated, the village was lost. That was why we would never have thought of leaving warriors behind.” In his excited state, his whole body straightened up, and suddenly he seemed to rise above his limited height. “Your kinsmen say that your Island is doomed, Isildur. And in the mainland, women and children are never safe. Never. The sooner you come to terms with that, the better.”

Come to terms. Or meditate on them, as Elendil had put it. However it was worded, Isildur could not do any such thing without Malik getting on the way; not the companionable ghost who never left him, but the man of flesh and blood who had burned in Sauron’s altar after saving Isildur and refusing to betray him. You must be happy, Father, he thought. There are things that matter more than pride to me, after all.

“You will be, if I send you with the Elves. They might be glad to have a true Forest Man staying with them, so they can analyse the primitive, irrational impulse that leads him to feel responsible for the life of another man without a reason.”

“You are the one being irrational! You, the one feeling responsible for the life of another man without a reason!” Even as he walked away, Tal Elmar’s voice was loud on his ears. “How did you say it was called just now? Oh, yes - hypocrisy!”

Isildur did not grace that with an answer, and neither did he pay any heed to Malik when the ghost shook his head at him.