Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Muster of the Fleet

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Gimilzagar paused in his tracks, feeling his innards squirm at the distant roaring of the crowd. His feet felt so heavy that he could barely lift them from the marble floor, and, while he fought the invisible force that kept him from moving, he realized that air was not flowing into his lungs anymore. He tried for a calming intake of breath, keeping his features carefully blank so no one could see his weakness. But it was too late: Ar Pharazôn had already stopped to look at him, and all the generals followed the King’s lead. As he found himself on the receiving end of those impatient, even openly disapproving stares, Gimilzagar felt as if he had hurtled back through the vortex of time and memory, right into a victory ceremony where a small child had a fit right before the altar and interrupted his father’s sacrifice.

Back then, Ar Pharazôn had made light of the situation before the crowd. He had been at the peak of his power, and despite the fears agitating the child’s mind, no more likely to be humiliated or vexed by his behaviour as he would by an annoying fly he could easily swat away. Now, he was celebrating his victory before he faced an enemy he had never encountered on any battlefield of this world, and there were no traces of this easy-going confidence left in his expression.

“Gimilzagar” he hissed. Behind the mask of his gaze, the Prince of the West could perceive both the annoyance at this temporary disruption of his schedule and the pleading. Please do not make things difficult, not now, some corner of his mind was thinking. The Prince swallowed long and hard.

“Father”, he managed to say. Ar Pharazôn beckoned in his direction.

“Come with me. Take my hand.” Almost like an automat, Gimilzagar obeyed. His senses were no longer overwhelmed by what awaited them at the other side, for the King’s feelings were powerful and twisted enough to sidetrack him. He saw a man, struggling against an insidious fear that had taken hold of him and which he did not know how to fight, except by chasing shadows with a fierce determination that did not leave him a moment to stop in his tracks, and see the rampaging beast chasing him. This rampaging beast had many shapes, but the one that struck Gimilzagar the most displayed an old, decrepit likeness of Lord Amandil, who had disappeared years ago without leaving a trace. “There you go. Very good. Now, you will stand by my side for the proceedings, and they will see me share all my glory with you, just as I will share my immortality. Meanwhile, the rest of you will stand back, and stay behind us.” His indulgent expression disappeared when he focused on the generals, and his forehead curved in a severe frown. “And if any of you looks at my son in that way again, I will have him row my ship in chains all the way to the Undying Lands.”

As he allowed himself to be dragged towards the balcony of the platform rising over the shipyards, Gimilzagar opened his mouth on a desperate impulse.

“Father, do not go.”

Now, it was Ar Pharazôn who froze in his tracks. His limbs tensed, and his voice became a low whisper.

“What?”

The Gimilzagar of the past would never have answered the question, or dared pursue this conversation. He would have looked down, perhaps even apologized for his unseemly behaviour. But the Gimilzagar of the present had seen the grey of Ûriphel’s eyes darken, and Zigûr’s malice suddenly lurking from behind them, ready to strike at him and Fíriel. And since then, a new fear had been haunting his own footsteps like a shadow, making him his father’s son in a way he had never been before.

They were standing upon the brink, with little to hold on to. Zigûr was plotting their destruction, while Ar Zimraphel had often pretended to have her son’s best interests in mind, but Gimilzagar was tired of believing in manipulations and prophecies whose fulfilment never came. He could not trust them as much as the visible, concrete actions that Father had always taken to protect him. Now, he did not know if he was acknowledging the debts that he owed, as his mother had claimed, or merely struggling to save himself in a fit of desperate cowardice, but he needed to try something - anything.

“Please, stay here, Father”, he insisted. “No one has ever seen the envoys of the Baalim in living memory. You can pretend they came to you suing for peace, and that you accepted their terms. And what is so great about immortality, that you would risk the life that you have now to achieve it? None of our ancestors had it, none of them ever needed it. I am no longer a foolish child, Father, who faints at the sight of blood. When the day comes, I swear I will not let your empire fall.” He shook his head. “I am- sensing a great danger. Greater than the one I sensed when the assassin was walking towards you, knife in hand. I could save you then, so please, please let me save you now.”

Ar Pharazôn gazed at him in silence, as if he was too shocked to interrupt his tirade. Once Gimilzagar fell silent, he just stood there, showing no reaction. Behind them, the throng of generals had stopped at his command, while before them, the purple curtains fluttered in the wind, awaiting a sign to be drawn so they could stride out into the platform.

After what felt like an unending stretch of time to Gimilzagar’s warped perception, the hazel eyes darkened. He stepped back involuntarily, preparing himself for the strike. But instead of being angry, Ar Pharazôn did something that his son had not anticipated: he laughed. As he listened to the shockingly discordant sound of this laughter, and felt his father’s mind bolting shut against the intrusion of the thought which would inevitably destroy it, it dawned upon Gimilzagar that he should have expected it all along.

“I appreciate your concern, Gimilzagar, but there is nothing to fear. A common mortal would never be brave enough to take a step like this, and I admit that for long I have been battling my mortality, which also whispered in my ear that I would fail and doom myself and all those who followed me. But no longer. I have conquered my fears, and the day you see me return in triumph, you will conquer yours.” His gaze hardened, and the Prince knew that further attempts to delay or derail either this ceremony or the rest of his plans, from his review of the fleet to the planned departure from the Forbidden Bay a month from now, would not be tolerated. “Now, stop dawdling and follow me. They are expecting us.”

Swallowing the acrid taste of despair, Gimilzagar forced his feet to obey.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

It was late in the night, and she had already sent most of her companions away. Those who remained knew better than to approach her, open their mouths, or make any noise which could disturb what they mistakenly believed to be her peaceful contemplation of the starry sky from her balcony. Instead, they busied themselves with their sewing and embroidering, most of them with an honest relish that bore witness to the emptiness of their minds.

When he came in, however, their training was about to fail them. First, a quiet unease fell upon the group, then Zimraphel heard murmurations as one of them stood up and, after some hesitation, came to stand in his way.

“My- my lord King, we were not expecting…”

“Leave. Now”, he hissed. He was quite drunk, more than she remembered seeing him in a very long time. The lady bowed, and hurriedly stood aside. For a moment, the others seemed unsure of what to do, and Zimraphel knew that they were looking in her direction, hoping to get a cue from her. A lesser woman, worried about petty power struggles, might have hurried to dismiss them before he could do it for her, but she did not even turn around.

As they gathered their things in a rush and left them alone, she could feel Pharazôn staring at her, suddenly transfixed by the sight that met his eyes. She looked like a stone statue, he thought, inert and cold under the pale glare of the stars.

“I am going to conquer the Baalim, Zimraphel”, he said, long after the last of the women had crossed the threshold. At last, she turned to face him, moving back from the railing.

“Yes”.

He had never been one to hide his feelings well, even from other people’s short-sighted gaze. Now, he could not keep them from spiralling out of control. Her calm bothered him most of all, and he was coming to the realization that it always had. She had married him in order to be Queen of Númenor, give birth to Gimilzagar and save the boy’s life, but she did not need him anymore, and his fate no longer interested her. She would look on, never batting an eye as an assassin knifed him on the back, or as he sailed off to declare war on the gods of the West. He was Vorondil to her now, and she was sending him to die with a smile.

Her eyes and Gimilzagar’s were so much alike, dark, unfathomable pools which could see things he could only imagine in his wildest dreams. And yet, he had not been smiling in Forostar, on the day of the final muster. He had not wanted him to sail.

“You are drunk, and letting your most shameful insecurities have the better of you” she said, more bothered than she wanted to admit. “Tomorrow, once Zigûr gives you something for the headache, you will be back in control of yourself, and you will remember that it was you, and no one else, who planned this campaign. And if you are afraid to follow through with your project of conquering the Undying Lands, all you have to do is call it off, and use that monstrous fleet to try to pick the pieces of your lost mainland empire.”

His eyes narrowed. In a fast move, which might have startled her if she had not been expecting it for a while now, he grabbed her by her shoulders, his fingers sinking painfully into her skin, and threw her against the railing.

“Stop playing games with me!”

She rode the pain as well as she could, refusing to give him evidence of her weakness.

“What do you want from me?” she asked. His breath smelled of wine, which went well with the rage and desperation reaching her in waves. “Tell me.”

His answer was remarkably fast in coming.

“I want you to tell me what you see in the future. You are denying me information which is crucial for the fate of Númenor, and I will not have it”.

She let go of a shaky breath.

“That is not how it works.”

“Enough of your attempts to mislead me! Speak!” he yelled, pressing her harder. Tears welled into her eyes.

“Very well. You die. Your fleet sinks, and your expedition ends in failure and disaster” she enumerated ferociously. “Is this what you wanted to hear? Oh, I see it is not.” She laughed over her tears, and he let her go as if her skin had suddenly acquired the ability to burn him. “No, you already have Zigûr to tell you better and more accurate stories about your glorious future. What you want from me is something else, something you are too proud to admit.” He gazed away, but it was her turn to attack now. “You want me to beg you not to go. You want to leave me in tears, wringing my hands and worried by your fate, so I can prove my love for you. Is that not so?”

Now, he turned from her abruptly, and leaned on the railing himself. His hands trailed down his head, forehead and face, and she heard a smothered groan.

“I cannot turn back”, he said at last, after a long silence. He no longer sounded so drunk, Zimraphel realized. “I will not turn back. I will not pretend I have not been… entertaining doubts about what I am about to do. But my gamble has been such, that if I do not follow through with it, I will lose everything anyway. We are not far away from death, Zimraphel. Do you not feel it in your bones? I do, every single day I wake up in my bed. And by calling back my troops from the mainland, as you say, I have lost most of our territories. Barbarians have revolted right, left and centre, and the Baalim-worshippers have joined hands with the Elves.” She could not see his bitter smile with the eyes in her face, but it was clearly visible to the ones in her mind. “Unless I become immortal, I will never have the time or the energy to regain what I have lost. And after I die, I will be remembered as the worst king of Númenor, who brought a great ruin to our empire, and sacrificed it all for a cause he was too cowardly to uphold in the end.”

“So, you will try to win back the time and energy you need with the strength of your arms. And if you cannot, at least you will get yourself a glorious death. And you want me to weep for you, Pharazôn?” She spat in disdain. “It is you who does not care about me, or love me, or worry for my fate. You will leave me and Gimilzagar alone with Zigûr’s plotting and surrounded by Baalim-worshippers, in a world where all peoples and races spit upon our name and want us dead. Do you think I have the time to worry about you?”

For a moment, Pharazôn looked as if he had been struck. It took him some time to regain his aplomb.

“That is not true, Zimraphel. I would never leave you defenceless! Zigûr is powerful, and he has sworn to protect you…”

“And you trust him to do that!”

“… and even if he should think of trying something against Gimilzagar and you, he knows he will never have the loyalty of the Númenórean people. As for the barbarians, they cannot cross the Sea to challenge you; if the worst comes to pass, you will always have a safe place to retreat. And I promise you I will deal with what remains of the Baalim-worshippers myself.”

This time, Zimraphel’s smile was genuinely sad. Slowly, she walked back towards the railing, and came to stand right next to him. His mood had shifted now: he was no longer angry, accusing, or desperate. Instead, he was gazing at her with a look she had almost forgotten, a look he had given her long before Zigûr came into their lives.

That was what he had wanted from her, all along. He had wanted weakness so he could feel strong, just like millions of men before him. Despite all his gallant victories, and the daredevilry of his youth, Pharazôn was not a god, or even a king: he was a man like the others. And he needed a woman like the others.

“Do not sail West” she said, the words leaving her mouth easily despite her awareness of their deep futility. He leaned forwards, and suddenly his arms were pulling her into a strong embrace, as if she was an anchor and he a drowning man. But she was the one who was drowning, and she could not save him any longer.

“Good night, Pharazôn”, she whispered, running her hands over his face for the last time before disentangling herself from him.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

With the death of Lord Númendil, and Amandil’s subsequent departure, the House of Andúnië had developed a worrying weakness which left their flank exposed. They had lost the people who had the ability to perceive danger, like an old man might predict a storm by feeling the ache on his bones. Others still remained who had the dreams, yes, but they were either erratic and absorbed by their personal troubles, like Isildur or Ilmarë, or, like Anárion, too reluctant to let go of their solid anchor to reality in order to sail the perilous waters of fancy.

That was why when, mere days away from the King’s planned departure from the ancient Bay of Eldanna and the completion of the first of their ships, the Governor’s men broke into their home in the dead of the night, no one had been expecting it. They had no warning, no cue to prepare themselves for the evil that befell them, though perhaps a logical mind should have known better than to sleep so peacefully in a world like this. For years, after all, they had heard and seen similar happenings in many houses of Rómenna, even if their family had remained relatively secure in their status. Despite their apparent compliance with all his whims, they remained under the Governor’s watchful eye, and anyone Elendil had had dealings with could have betrayed him, willingly or under duress.

Still, he did not allow this thought to discourage him, or interfere with the presence of mind he needed to get his family out of this alive. Careful to behave like the innocent, unjustly wronged man that he was, he gave his complaints to the leader of the soldiers in a voice that vibrated with righteous indignation. The captain did not answer, merely watching with a sardonic smile as his men demolished everything in their path and dragged out people in their night robes, including the nurse who held a terrified, crying Meneldil in her arms.

This attitude made a chill travel across Elendil’s spine. If he was not afraid of dealing unfairly with a noble house from the stock of Indilzar, then the Governor of Sor could not be the only one behind this. And that could only mean…

“You will come with me, Lord Elendil”, the man said at last, once he was satisfied with the level of destruction. “The rest will remain here for now, under close vigilance. And if that brat keeps screaming at the top of his lungs, my men will have permission to throw him down the cliff. Is that understood?”

“If anyone touches him he will lose that limb. And then, the others”, Isildur threatened. A shrill noise rent the air, as several swords were pointed at him at the same time. Elendil swallowed hard, but before he opened his mouth, Anárion had stepped in front of his brother.

“Meneldil will calm down once there is not as much excitement around him. And that goes for all of us”, he said, laying a hand on the closest sword and pushing its point downwards. Even in the middle of this terrible situation, Elendil could not help but admire his coolness. “If we stand accused of something, there has to be a trial. And if there is, I daresay the Governor would prefer us to stay alive at least until then.”

There was a sob, not coming from the boy this time, but from Irissë, who was burying her head in her sister’s shoulder. Irimë, however, gazed at her surroundings with a look of dignified superiority, and her eyes were dry.

Elendil made an effort to look at them all for the last time: at Isildur, trying to contain his battle rage, at the more conciliating Anárion, at the frightened Irissë and her proud sister. Behind them, Ilmarë was holding Lindissë to keep her from shaking, a glare of defiance in her eyes which, as always, mirrored that of her brother Isildur. Elendur was struggling furiously with a guard, and Faniel and Findis were staring worriedly at Eluzîni, who stood rooted at the spot and only had eyes for Elendil.

You cannot die away from me, the eyes were saying. You cannot.

Taking a long, sharp breath, he turned away, and followed the soldiers outside.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Elendil’s suppositions had been right, as he discovered as soon as he set foot in Sor. His stay in the Governor’s palace was brief, little more than the time it took the man to level him with his gaze, gloat at his situation, and declare that he would be taken to Armenelos straight away.

“Unfortunately, the King does not want to leave your fate to me” he grinned. “Rumour has it that he is in dire need of sacrifices to win divine favour for his enterprise. As you know, the supply of barbarians has dwindled considerably, and all those who are in the Island now have been assigned to row his ships across the Sea. Some think the Great God may be feeling short-changed, and a victim of high blood like you would make a handsome replacement.”

He would not say anything else, only replying to Elendil’s attempts to gain information about the charges against him with a self-satisfied smile. Once he grew tired of this game, he ordered his men to put together an armed escort, put him on a carriage, and start the journey before dawn, ‘for the King would not tolerate any delays’.  As they took the main road across the plains of Mittalmar, however, and Elendil’s eyes grew lost on their changed landscape, arid and treeless from the extensive plantations of grain which had sprung all across them, he felt that he had already been given enough to think about.

The King had been the one who had wanted him. The King, not the Governor or Sauron. It was true that Ar Pharazôn was about to leave Armenelos, and in theory Sauron could be using his name for his own purposes, but the fact remained that the King would still be there when they arrived, and that he had been the one to tell the Governor to make haste. And Elendil was unsure of how to feel about that.

Once upon a time, before Ar Pharazôn became the Dark Lord’s protector, Elendil had believed that he knew him. Not as well as his father, perhaps, but he had been given the chance to acquire some insights of his own on his character. The man had always been ambitious and proud, though for a long time the less pleasant aspects of his personality had remained hidden behind his considerable charm and his other qualities as a leader of men. Elendil himself had admired him, enough to let go of his prudence and follow him to Middle-Earth on that fateful campaign which ended with the heir of Andúnië becoming the unlikely governor of Arne. There, he had been personally acquainted with the new King’s swollen head, his unhealthy need for praise and his distaste for listening to anyone else’s advice, not to mention his casual disposal of the less fortunate pawns on the board in the altar of his higher purposes.

Still, even in his worst moments, Elendil had somehow remained unable to hate Ar Pharazôn. And the reason for this was that, deep inside, some part of him had always had the certainty that Ar Pharazôn was unable to hate him. Even when Elendil did things that would have sealed anyone else’s fate, he had always turned a blind eye, or let him go easily. Some might claim that the King’s hands were tied by that oath he had sworn before his friend’s son was born, calling Heaven’s wrath upon his head if he ever allowed any harm to come to the child he had promised to protect. But Ar Pharazôn had felt himself entitled to break other oaths before, prompting an incensed Amandil to declare that he had no honour left, and that Zigûr had addled his mind too much to keep right apart from wrong. Perhaps he had finally decided it was time to break this one as well, to sever the last, unseemly ties with a family whose existence, even in exile, had always made him look weak. Perhaps he would no longer find it difficult to hate a traitor, or to speak the words that would have him dragged to the altar and executed. Still, if there was a chance, even a small one, that the young prince who had made sure that a mother and her child were safe from Ar Gimilzôr’s men, or the exiled general who had snuck into the Andúnië mansion to give him a precious Arnian heirloom as a wedding present were still alive somewhere, in the depths of the tyrant’s soul, then the lives of Elendil’s family and the future of his people could depend on it.

Dusk was falling when they reached Armenelos. For a brief while, as they negotiated their path through the narrow streets of the old quarters, the lord of Andúnië experienced the anguish of not knowing whether they were taking him to the Palace or directly to the Temple, until the carriage turned in the direction of the Palace Hill. The high dome of the New Temple hung sinisterly over the city, half-obscured by a dark mist emanating from the fumes of the sacrifices. Though he knew that they were too far away, he fancied he could catch a whiff of the smell of burned flesh. That will be your flesh, sooner or later, a voice that resembled that of the Governor of Sor, with its hint of cruel mockery, whispered in his imagination. At least I hope they let me have your family.

Elendil forced the voice away from his mind. He could not afford any distractions now. As long as there was any chance of salvation, he had no right to succumb to panic or despair. His life had been at risk before, and he sought his memories for the particular brand of alert calm which had taken hold of his thoughts in the middle of the battlefield, once his consciousness had accepted that he could die at any moment.

They entered the Palace by a back door he never remembered taking before, and the corridors they walked him through after that remained unfamiliar to him. At some point, the soldiers from Sor who had escorted him left him in the care of armed men with vaguely Haradric features, whose leader had the bearing of a high commander of Pharazôn’s Palace Guards. This man informed him, in an accented Adûnaic, that the King would see him ‘as soon as he was back from the Temple’. Elendil nodded in silence, refusing to let his thoughts dwell on the ominous connection.

While they waited, they took him to a cell, where he was offered food and water and a place to sit. He had not been tied or chained; overall, those in charge of him in Armenelos were treating him better than their counterparts from Sor. This gave him some hopes that his fate might not have been decided yet, and that the Governor had exceeded his mandate out of sheer desire to see him brought down.

He could not know how long he was held there, as there were no windows or any other way to keep track of time. At some point, however, word came that the King was back and ready to receive him. The soldiers did not tie his hands this time either, and one of them even surveyed his appearance with a critical eye, as if he had to make sure he was presentable for the audience.

They found Ar Pharazôn in a large room, surrounded by military men who appeared to be discussing something over a large table map. Elendil could not see the map across that distance, though he could not help but wonder if the Blessed Realm was depicted on it, and how it might look like, since no mortal Man could boast of having been there and returned to tell the tale. Guards had been stationed at every entrance, and those escorting Amandil were not even allowed to cross the threshold. Instead, they had to wait while an aide tiptoed in to announce their presence, under the severe, watchful glare of those who had been awarded a higher clearance. It seemed that the brave conqueror was no longer feeling so brave, even in his own palace.

Not long afterwards, orders came back to deliver Elendil to the King’s bodyguards, who would take him to an adjacent room. Elendil could perceive that those large and burly men were used to dwarf all the courtiers they intimidated, and that they were more than a little unsettled by his size as he stood close to them. This had the unfortunate effect of making them more unfriendly towards him than they might have been in other circumstances. When they ushered him through the door, they grabbed him and forced him to kneel, with a zeal that forced him to repress an involuntary groan as his knees collided against the floor.

“Oh, please, there is no need for that”, Ar Pharazôn exclaimed, shaking his head in pretended shock. “We are related, this man and I. Do you know what this means? There is royal blood running through his veins, and he deserves to be treated respectfully. Why, some in the mainland even call him king, or so I have heard.” His eyes narrowed, and Elendil felt his stomach knot. “Sit down and have a drink.”

“My lord King, there is no one, Númenórean or barbarian, who has ever called…” Elendil began, as earnestly as he could. Ar Pharazôn, however, did not let him finish the sentence.

“I said, sit down. Now.”

While he lifted himself up and obeyed in silence, Elendil could take a closer look at the King of Númenor than he had in the last sixty years. What he saw shocked him first, then saddened, and finally worried him. Pharazôn’s outward appearance was still that of a proud warrior in the flower of his life, the same one who believed he could take on Mordor because he was mightier and cleverer than the immortal forces of evil who had tormented his primitive ancestors. But beneath this shell, he had very little in common with the man Elendil had seen brimming with a sometimes exasperating confidence. After watching him for a short while, and even though he could not boast of his ancestors’ inner eye, it struck Elendil that all that reminded him of the old Pharazôn in the way he talked and behaved had the powerful feeling of a forced act, as if he was trying to fool others, or maybe even himself. A scared soldier, drunk on the eve of battle, trying to pretend he was a great conqueror.

As he grew aware of this, the hopes he might have entertained of establishing some sort of rapport based on their past experiences dwindled rapidly -and with them, his hopes of coming out of this alive. With luck, he might have convinced Ar Pharazôn the Golden of his good intentions, but the man before him had grown too used to see enemies everywhere.

“May I ask why I have been taken from my home in the dead of the night and dragged all the way here?” he asked, opting for the dignified approach in the face of despair. “The Governor of Sor would not tell me what I stand accused of.”

“That is because the Governor of Sor has no idea of what you stand accused of”, Pharazôn shrugged, handing him his cup. The Guards had retreated a few steps, but they had not left, and Elendil realized they were going to remain there for the entirety of the conversation. He tried not to think of where they might drag him after that.

“My family was threatened and manhandled by his soldiers. Even now, he is holding them prisoner; men, women and children.”

“Of course. We would not want your sons to cross the Great Sea, join their co-conspirers, their armies of mercenaries and their Elven friends and plan an attack on Númenor while I am away. Would we?”

Elendil drank a sip from the cup, searching his innards again for that frozen core that would allow him to remain calm under any circumstance.

“My family is loyal to the Númenórean Sceptre, and so am I”, he declared. “We have always kept our oaths, even while the oaths sworn to us were broken. In fact, all the measures my father and I took had the sole objective of protecting our lives and those of the people who depended on us, after they had been endangered for that reason.”

The King’s cup made a sharp noise as it hit the ivory table.

“You do not justify treason as a necessary means to protect other traitors.” His voice grew louder. “I have been turning a blind eye to your manoeuvres, as I had no time to deal with all of you. But I will take the appropriate steps to ensure that my wife and son are safe from your plotting while I am away.”

Elendil’s eyes widened.

“My lord King, if you believe me capable of harming a hair of the Queen or the Prince’s head, you are either deeply mistaken, or led astray by others. Perhaps you should consider that you are following the advice given by a counsellor who never strove for anything but the utter destruction of any mortal he encountered. He is the one who will betray you as soon as your back is turned, and I am the one who will thwart him for as long as there is any life left in my body.”

Pharazôn stared at him for a while, in silence. Then, he laughed.

“Such high-sounding words from those who protect assassins, smuggle traitors away from the Island, take possession of lands in your own name and establish alliances with my enemies! You are just like your father: a pig-headed fool who was always arguing and attempting to justify the unjustifiable, and never stopped seeing himself as the valiant hero of his own tale.”

We all do, Elendil thought, but he did not say this aloud.

“And now, you remain silent. Was that all you had to say for yourself?”

Elendil forced himself to take a second sip from the cup, though his fingers were so stiff that he had difficulty bending them enough to grasp it.

“What else do you want me to say, my lord King? Do you wish me to remind you that you swore yet another oath never to let any harm come to me? You thought it prudent to break all the rest for the good of the realm, why would this one be any different?”

The old Pharazôn, the one who had felt proud of Elendil whenever he showed spirit, would have smiled in indulgent approval at this. But this Pharazôn no longer tolerated dissent even from his closest collaborators, and Elendil was his enemy.

“You are right. I have chosen to put the good of the realm above any oaths I may have sworn to a man who disappeared like a spy in the night, a man I owe nothing to. And you are not merely his son, you are his accomplice. Yours is the greatest lineage of traitors in this realm, affecting meekness and loyalty while you constantly conspire against the Sceptre. And, do you realize what the greatest irony of all is? You could have lived longer, if only you had left the Island and hid away among your allies. But your desire for power betrayed you, did it not? and you chose to bide your time here until I was gone. Because you think your Baalim will win this war, and then you will be able to usurp the throne and fulfil my uncle’s dearest wish of a Númenor ruled by the house of Andúnië!”

Elendil abandoned all that remained of his prudence.

“If you doubt the wisdom of your enterprise, my lord King, perhaps you should not blame me, but the one who suggested it to you. Perhaps you should arrest him, see through his pretence of meekness and loyalty, and return to the path of true wisdom before it is too late.”

Ar Pharazôn rose from his chair, livid.

“Get this man out of my sight. I have no more time to listen to his ramblings.” Elendil heard the brisk, regular thump of the Guards’ steps, advancing towards him, and suddenly grew aware that his time was drawing to a close.

“In any case, my family has nothing to do with the grievances you may hold against me. They do not have the power or the will to rebel against the Sceptre. Please, my lord King, let them go.”

“Not the power or the will?” Pharazôn laughed again; a mirthless, terrible laugh. “Not under the Governor of Sor’s watchful vigilance and cut away from their supporters, no. But to keep a man-eating tiger in a cage, and claim he does not wish to attack me based on his behaviour behind bars is only wishful thinking, is it not? Your son Isildur is a tiger, Elendil.” The lord of Andúnië’s arms were caught in an iron grip, and he felt himself inexorably pulled upwards. “I have known it since he stole into the Palace of Armenelos and murdered my Guards. And now, the time has come when I cannot afford to ignore this knowledge any longer.”

Elendil had only one chance left.

“The real tiger is feeding from your own table, my lord King. You are afraid of what may befall the Queen and the Prince once you are gone, but my son would never harm them. In fact, if they were ever in danger, he might be the only man in Númenor brave enough to stand up for them.”

Ar Pharazôn made a gesture, and the Guards stopped in their tracks, though they did not let Elendil go. Once again, his conversational tone was feigned; behind it lay the shadow of a deep unease.

“Truly? Oh, yes, I am sure that Isildur would fight tooth and nail for the one you have called an abomination since he was born! Those of your kind have always woven the most incredible lies without as much as blinking, but you must be the most shameless of them all, to stand here and say this to my face.”

Elendil sustained his gaze at length, until he almost felt as if his eyes were burning.

“You forget who is it that loves the Prince, and is loved by him. The woman who chose to share his fate, whether he lives or dies. You may prefer to keep her out of your mind, but Isildur will not.”

“That bastard child of your father’s? The shame of the house of Andúnië?”

“She was never my father’s child, my lord King. She is the child of Isildur’s dearest friend, the man who let himself be caught by your Guards and killed in his stead, and my own daughter”, he revealed, without missing a beat. “And anything she asks of him, no matter what it is, he will do, because he takes his debts seriously.”

Ar Pharazôn frowned.

“You lie.”

“I am not lying. Ask your son, and he will tell you.” At last, he could see he had made a dent in Ar Pharazôn’s act, one through which he could glimpse at the real extent of the King’s disarray. And then, as he did, the whole truth began to dawn upon him. “You are not certain that you will survive the upcoming battle. In your heart, you are starting to fear that Sauron has misled you. But you feel it is already too late to turn back from your path, and you have chosen to believe that we are the danger you are leaving behind merely because you cannot face the alternative.”

The hazel eyes were clouded, and anger rushed to cover the cracks of his weakness.

“Silence!” He frowned at the Guards, as if it was their fault that Elendil was still there. “What in the name of the Deliverer are you waiting for? Take him away!”

For the first time since they had taken him from his house, necessity made Elendil succumb to the indignity of struggling. The Guards were taken by surprise by his strength, and one of them hissed a curse as he was pushed against the wall.

“Destroying us now will not bring you any advantage! If you lose your war, we will oppose Sauron, and keep him from becoming secure enough in his position that he can afford to move against the Queen and the Prince. And if you become a god, you can easily subdue all your enemies upon your return. No matter what happens…”

The Guard had recovered enough to punch him on the stomach, and he doubled over, rendered voiceless by the pain. The King watched in apparent indifference as he was pulled back into an erect position. Once that he was standing upright again, Ar Pharazôn approached them, until he was practically breathing in Elendil’s face.

“Say one more word”, he hissed, “and I will make sure that you watch all your family die, one by one, before your turn arrives.”

The lord of Andúnië looked down, his spirit sinking. He had tried. He had done everything he could, just like his many generations of ancestors, whose efforts had crashed like as many waves against the stone foundations of the harbour of Sor. A terrible feeling of impotence shook him, and suddenly he knew what they all had felt: Eärendur, Númendil, Amandil, as well as the countless others who, one after another, had surrendered and left the burden upon the shoulders of their descendants. Except that now, they had finally run out of both time and shoulders to bear the weight of what was coming. Elendil’s failure would drag all his descendants with him, and Númenor itself was hanging from a thread.

“That is much better”, the King nodded, in mock approval. “Now, you will be taken to your temporary accommodations, where you will await your fate. And remember this: any attempt to take it into your own hands will only make things worse for your family. Especially those who are still too young to have mastered the cowardly ability to separate their souls from their bodies at will.”

Elendil did not oppose further resistance. Numbly, he followed the Guards as they took him across the threshold of the door, where he paused only for a brief moment to look at Ar Pharazôn’s receding silhouette for the last time. The King was still standing on the same spot, both hands grabbing the table as if he needed the support to stay on his feet. When their eyes met, he broke the connection immediately and looked away, as if Elendil had intruded upon something he should never have witnessed.

“Move”, the Guard hissed, pushing him through the doorstep.