Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Armenelos

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She died sometime during that night. Whether this meant that she had been waiting just to see him one last time, as his father had implied, her life hanging from a thread for all those years though there was no way for her to know if he was even alive, Hannishtart could not tell, but the thought disturbed him more than grief itself.

 

Every morning since that day, as soon as he woke up, he would flee the house to walk the cliffs and sit by the beach alone. He would rarely meet anybody during those walks, which eerily increased the feeling of unreality that he had felt since the night of his arrival. With something akin to longing, he would gaze towards the horizon, trying in vain to distinguish the lines of the land where he had learned to live a simple, almost animal life, away from the trappings of family, of allies and enemies, and of people who could unsettle him just by looking at him.

 

The people in the house, on their part, seemed as intent on avoiding him as he was on avoiding them. His father had not sought him, too busy with his own grief and probably also too appalled at who Hannishtart had turned out to be. Or rather, Amandil. That was how they had known him, back when he was a young boy and the fire of the holy altar had not yet taken his hair. Maybe it would have been better for everyone to let them think he had died there, or later in the mainland... but the King, of course, had wanted him.

 

Some King always did.

 

On the third day, he trudged inside the courtyard as the sun was about to set, his head bowed under the weight of uncertainty. He had not eaten since morning, so the smell of broiled fish that wafted across the air in his direction made his stomach rumble in spite of himself. Just as he was wondering if he could manage to eat some of it without running into his father, the sound of a familiar voice, chattering away loudly, made him freeze in his tracks and look up.

 

It was Ashad. Ashad, having an animated conversation with Hannishtart´s father on the porch, and effectively barring his entrance to the house. The boy was making broad gestures with both arms, as if describing something, and Númendil nodded with a smile.

 

They did not seem to have noticed his presence- and yet, Amandil made no attempt to announce himself. Suddenly, he wished that he could leave without being seen, but before he could examine his options, Númendil raised his glance. Amandil greeted him with a nod, unable to decide whether he felt guilty, angry, or merely foolish.

 

He knew he was at fault for abandoning Ashad to his devices since that dreadful night. Engrossed in his own feelings, he had been unable to muster the smatterings of human instinct needed to realize that the boy was feeling lost in a house that was not his in a world that was not his. Once or twice, Amandil had been assaulted by a vague notion that he should check on him, but there was such turmoil in his mind that he would always forget before he acted on it.

 

“... and then they said, What on Earth is that monster! They said we could have a horse! And they answered, no, they said you could have a mount. And then they would not climb on it, but that was stupid of them because the mumâkil do not hurt anyone unless they are told to. I told them so...”

 

“... and they paid as much attention as you did when I told you that the ship would not sink”, Amandil interrupted the boy´s story. Ashad´s eyes widened as he realized that he was there. An uncomfortable silence followed, until Númendil spoke.

 

“Did they?”

 

The boy shook his head.

 

“They called me names and told me to get out of the way. One of them tried to hit me.” He smiled again. “That was why I was happy when he tripped on the rope and fell face flat on the mûmak´s hind leg. What an idiot!”

 

“Ashad, we are in Númenor, and this is the son of the Lord of Andúnië!” Hannishtart glared. “What did I tell you about watching your mouth here? You could be killed for saying such things!”

 

Númendil made a gesture of dismissal.

 

“There is no need to watch any mouth around me. Neither of you are strangers.” For a moment, it definitely looked like his father had gazed at him pointedly as he said this. He took breath.

 

“Ashad, go get ready for dinner.” The boy obeyed, a bit surprised. While they watched him leave, Númendil let go of a soft sigh, and Hannishtart noticed that he looked very pale under the dwindling daylight. Pale, and fragile.

 

“He, too, is welcome to our home and family.”

 

Hannishtart did a double take. His cheeks burned.

 

“He is not my son!”

 

“Oh, I know that. There is nothing of you in him. He belongs to the short-lived kind who dwells in Middle-Earth. “Númendil spoke in a perfect, yet heavily accented Adûnaic, appearing to have taken the hint after Hannishtart´s outburst three nights ago. As he thought about it, he felt assailed by even more guilt.

 

“I am sorry. I have... been very rude.”

 

His father shook his head, as if to dismiss this, but that did not make Hannishtart feel better.

 

“Mother died, and I... “Feeling more and more bothered, he massaged his temples with his fingers. He did not know what to say. Death, where he came from, was burning someone´s maimed remains before they could be desecrated by the enemy. He barely recalled any of those faces, but her face -not the one he had dreamed of in his exile, but the one with the old and unfocused eyes which had been suddenly lit by a warm glow when he knelt by her bedside-, was carved in his consciousness with an overwhelming clarity. Men are like Orcs, he had been told, and told others himself, many times in his years as a soldier in the mainland. And now, he could almost finish the sentence, for their own sake.

 

“Long ago, we all belonged to the same kind, and aged as one”, Númendil mused. “What did those added years avail us, except fueling our pride and furthering our estrangement from other Men? I sometimes wonder.”

 

Hannishtart stopped massaging his temples. He shrugged nervously.

 

“Back when we suffered disgrace, in the time of the Blasphemous King, it became hard for us to find wives”, his father went on. “No old families would join their daughters to us any more, so we had to set our sights lower and marry women of lesser lineages. Since that time, there has rarely been a Lady of Andúnië.”

 

Hannishtart stared at him.

 

“Today, I am still quite young. I have many years to live, I can see the prophecies come true, and I have been able to meet you.”

 

Meet. As if his child self had been someone else, someone who had lived once and been forgotten.

 

“Emeldir, however, spent her life in a prison, and could barely see you before she died. She never saw Andúnië again, or even Armenelos. And the irony is that nothing of this would have happened to her if she had not married me. It feels like all she did in her life was paying someone else´s debts.”

 

Someone else´s debts...

 

Suddenly, it was as if the sea breeze had started blowing colder.

 

 “I fear this boy Ashad will have it even harder, here in Númenor. “Númendil finally changed the subject, unaware that it was too late. “Still, if whatever influence our family can regain by the kindness of the King can avail him something...”

 

“I have a wife.”

 

Hannishtart´s voice had crossed his lips so low and garbled that for a moment he did not think that it could have been heard. But Númendil turned towards him and his eyes widened.

 

“She...” The silence was uncomfortable, wrenching the words away from him as if with an invisible force. “She does not know who I am. I couldn´t tell her before, and now she will find that she has wasted her life waiting for a man who will remain young after she dies.” He swallowed hard; no interruption came. “She will never forgive me.”

 

After what seemed like an eternity, Númendil spoke.

 

“There is love, too.”

 

“What?” Hannishtart was not sure he had heard right.

 

“There are many forces at play in this world. There is hate and there is blame and there is guilt, but there is also love. You seem to have forgotten this in the mainland.”

 

Hannishtart bristled at the tone of misplaced pity. But of course. He should have known that they would not understand. Frustration filled him up like a hot drink.

 

“You have no idea of how things are out there.”

 

“True. “Númendil did not bat an eye. “But that was not my fault. I would have been there if I...”

 

“I was a priest of the King of Armenelos. I was a priest of the Lady of the Cave. I was the secret husband of the daughter of a captain of the Palace Guard. I lied to each and every one of them and betrayed them all. And then, in Middle-Earth, I killed more people than years you will live. Ashad´s family, for instance. “He was aware of having started shouting at some point, but that did not make him stop. All that mattered right now was to get this out of his chest. “Do not talk to me about love. And do not say you should have been there, because if you had been, it would not have made any difference!”

 

“I should have been with you. But they kept me here, just as they brought you there. What could either of us have done about it?” Númendil´s voice never changed, Hannishtart realized vaguely, not even when he argued. “We have no control of where or when we will be born, who we will be born as or to which family. It might seem like a cruel joke to be born in the house of Andúnië during the reign of Ar-Gimilzôr in these latter days of Númenor, but only the Almighty Creator knows the ultimate purpose behind it. Our King, too, was born of the Faithful in the house of Ar-Gimilzôr, and he was forced to lie, hide and conspire against his father since he was young. Now, however, he sits on the throne through no sin of his own, and has been given the chance to save Númenor. “He looked up, his eyes probing and persistent until Hannishtart reluctantly agreed to meet them. “I, myself, could see little praise in sitting idle while everyone I loved, and everyone I was supposed to aid or protect was suffering. But then I realized why it had to happen this way.”

 

“Why?” Hannishtart challenged. His father´s long life of imprisonment must not have been an easy fate, either, and he wondered how could anybody possibly find meaning in it. “Why did it have to happen this way?”

 

“Because, out there, you were meant to forget and be able to face the world. “Forget us. Forget us and live! His father´s eyes had become lost in the distance, as though looking at something that Hannishtart could not see.” I was meant to stay and remember. So, when you came back one day, I would be able to give you back everything that you had lost.”

 

Hannishtart tried to laugh, but the laughter died in his throat. Suddenly, the mere thought appeared to him as frightening, as terrible as his mother clinging on to life for years because she wanted to see him one last time.

 

“I am not so important”, he was able to mutter before he walked away towards the doorstep, once again feeling like a despicable coward.

 

That night, however, as he sat before the hearth watching the dancing flames, his father sat next to him and started reading something in the ancient language. Hannishtart did not understand what it was about, or distinguished more than a few, half-forgotten words, but he did not find it in himself anymore to tell him to stop. After a while, he closed his eyes, and the musical sounds lulled him into a much needed sleep.

 

That night, for the first time in years, he did not dream.

 

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

 

From that night onwards, he and his father came to a kind of unspoken agreement. He would speak the Númenorean tongue himself, but Númendil would talk to him in the Elvish tongue whenever he had the chance. He believed that Amandil -for he always called him Amandil- had not truly forgotten anything that he once knew, but that he had banished it to a recess of his mind where it remained even now, waiting to be freed and brought to the surface again.

 

He had been skeptic at first, seeing this as further evidence of the man´s inability to understand what had really happened in all those years. Hannishtart, even if he was called Amandil again, was not the same child who had fought Balrogs and heard stories of the Valar before he went to bed. That child was gone, and it would not return even if the words of the sacred lore were read to him until it would emerge from his chest like a spirit summoned by a ritual.

 

Still, and to his shock, the words that Númendil and him had exchanged between his escapades to the beach and the comings and goings of each day they spent under the same roof had unearthed threads of remembrances, which had started fitting together with disturbing ease. Sounds brought other sounds, words brought other words, which blended into sentences that he recalled having spoken once. He had needed months to master the language of the Temple scrolls, which Yehimelkor had taught him, and years to make something out of the gibberish spoken by the barbarians of Harad, but he was able to understand Elvish after a few days.

 

The ability, however, did not stretch much beyond that. He could not reply in the same language, and the mechanisms to join words kept eluding him even when the words themselves would swirl in his mind, searching for a way to get out. And, contrary to what his father might have expected, it did not change him in any substantial way. No long-forgotten truth shone suddenly before his eyes, like a beacon to show him the correct path. Understanding what they spoke did not make him any more like them, or helped him find their customs and beliefs any less mysterious. Try as he might, he could not fish back the sense of belonging to that place which had once been his birthright, beyond the shared feeling of grief for a woman who was taken by the Curse and buried deep below the ground.

 

For all his life, he had been hearing that his kin were traitors who worshipped the foes of the Númenorean people, and desired the Sceptre for themselves. A refusal to believe this had needed no reason or explanation.  As his son Halideyid had once put it, quite wisely, one couldn´t hate himself. That his family, once that he saw them again, could not be the same thing as himself, like the King and the Sceptre, was something that he had never been able to think until now. That they would reject him, oh yes, he had expected that, because he had betrayed them by compromising with their enemies. That this would be unfair of them, yes, he had thought that too, because they did not understand the choices that he had needed to make in order to survive. But that they would accept him blindly, and still remain unable to make him feel welcome, that was something he had never believed he would have to face. And least of all that he would find himself weighing their beliefs with the harsh judgement of an outsider.

 

“So...” He squinted hard, as if this simple motion could help clear away the confusion. “They are not gods.”

 

“No. They are the Powers.” The Valar. “They are powerful beings from the time of Creation who entered this world because they loved it, and they live in the Western realm with the High Elves. But they cannot interfere in the affairs of Men.”

 

The conversation had quickly derived into Adûnaic because of the complexity of its nature.

 

“So, they are powerful but they do not receive sacrifices or listen to the prayers of Men.” This was even more shocking a notion than Yehimelkor´s theogonies of darkness and lime. “Then, who is supposed to look after us?”

 

“Did those that the Númenóreans call their gods listen to your prayers, Amandil?” Númendil asked mildly, seemingly unaware of the cascade of bitter remembrances triggered by this simple question.

 

“No.” He winced. “But I was cursed in their eyes, so it was not very surprising. If there is something surprising, it would be rather how I managed to survive so long with their displeasure.”

 

“That is because they cannot hear you. The only God that is would not judge us by the name of the house to which we were born. Eru Ilúvatar sees your heart and hears your thoughts at each and every moment of the day.”

 

The King of Armenelos sees your heart and hears your thoughts. He knows everything.

 

“That is something that... someone said to me.” Amandil blinked, unable, and unwilling, to say Yehimelkor´s name. “He said it about the one you call the Dark Lord.”

 

Númendil seemed surprised at this. He nodded slowly.

 

“Men have not forgotten good, only the truth.”

 

“And how do you know what the truth is?” The familiar frustration that he had felt at the Temple of Armenelos was growing inside him again. “Have you seen Eru Ilúvatar? The priests said that nobody ever could. That he was outside this world because he had created it and could not be a part of it. Then how does any of you know what his true name is or how is he like? What if you are all worshipping the same god?”

 

He had thought that Númendil would be scandalized -Yehimelkor would have been-, but all he did was look thoughtful again.

 

“Nobody has seen Eru Ilúvatar, true. The Dark Lord, however -he has been seen, by people who died long ago and wrote records, and by people who are still walking this earth today. And he was neither a god, nor a friend of good. He did many evil things. The Dark Lord that dwells in the land of Mordor in our days was his vassal, and the Orcs who serve him were his original creations, a twisted race created from the Elves.”

 

Back in the Temple, Amandil had never been one to be swayed by the big absolutes, and this had exasperated his teachers. But this was nothing compared to the person he had become now, after years of darkness and blood.

 

“I have seen human sacrifices offered both to the King of Armenelos and to Eru Ilúvatar. I have seen people claim that he had ordered them to kill the Númenóreans, while the Númenóreans would claim the opposite. I have seen what people call the oldest temple of Eru, whom his priests called Ilu, on top of a mountain, and there he sat with bull horns, side by side with his consort, the Lady Asherah of the many breasts. I have seen a man save my life and claim that he had been sent by the King of Armenelos, and he was the holiest man I have ever known. But the most deeply revealing truth I have found in all my life is this: Men are worse than Orcs, Father. So the latter creation is no less twisted than the former.”

 

Finally, Númendil was aghast. He stared at him, looking troubled, and Amandil did not feel proud.

 

It wasn´t until a while later that he spoke, and it was to ask an unexpected question. A question that Yehimelkor would never, ever have asked.

 

“And what did you think of all this? How do you explain all those things you have seen?”

 

Amandil looked down. Suddenly, he remembered his conversation with his own son, on that Armenelos night ages ago.

 

“I think – I think that in the mainland, in Armenelos and here, everybody attributes good things to their own god, and evil things to the gods of the others. But you can find the good and the evil everywhere, and the evil more than the good. Maybe… maybe that pattern is the only thing that is real and true everywhere, and not any of those names and stories that everybody makes up against the names and stories of the others. Though I can´t see how the Creator, whatever his name is, could have wished for it to be that way.”

 

Númendil was staring at him as if he was seeing him for the first time, but not with revulsion. It was a different kind of look, a stranger one he couldn´t pinpoint, though he did not feel attacked by it.

 

“I think that the Creator has a plan for each one of us, but that we cannot see far enough in space or in time to see how it makes sense. So we must trust Him.”

 

Amandil smiled wryly.

 

“The priests of Armenelos were always saying that, too. I remembered it when the woman I loved became pregnant though it should have been impossible, and it seemed like everything that I did would turn out to be a sin or harm someone. I wondered who had sent it, and why, and whether it was a gift or a curse.”

 

“Well, we might have the answer to many of those riddles shortly.” Númendil suddenly smiled. “The King has summoned us to Armenelos, and there we will be able to meet your wife and son. And then we will visit Andúnië, the home of your ancestors.”

 

Amandil could not keep it bottled in his chest any longer.

 

“You are not disturbed by any of this?” 

 

He had expected a very different reaction. Maybe he had even said certain things just for the sake of provoking it, so strange had been the feeling of total lack of judgement that he had encountered here for the first time in his life. Man could grow used to misery too, he supposed. He remembered barbarian allies from the desert who had refused to sleep on beds under their roof, setting their beloved tents in the backyard instead and sleeping on the hard floor. Like them, he had grown so used to anticipate people´s hatred and contempt -renegade Faithful, renegade priest, Númenórean- that now he did not know how to act without it. So he had put into words the strange thoughts and blasphemies that had often swum in the depths of his mind, like the dark Sea monster who had defied the Lady at the beginning of time, but never burst to the surface.

 

“You are wise. You have seen many things, heard many things, and learned from them in ways I would not be able to imagine”, Númendil said, and his voice was earnest. “For a long time we of the house of Andúnië have dwelt in isolation, both imposed by others and created by ourselves in our pride. In this, I see it now, we are not very different from the Kings of Armenelos. Doctrinary feuds have made us all short-sighted, and there lie the seeds for failure. And because the stakes are so high, we cannot afford to fail now. Yes, I see it now.” The look that Amandil had caught the other day, the one that seemed to be looking beyond him, was back in Númendil´s eyes again. “Taking you away, sending you to all these places... it was necessary so you would become the person that we would need in the future.”

 

Providence again. As though everything in this world, from leaving a wife and son alone for many years just because his seed had gone the way it shouldn´t in a tryst of youth, to the often senseless butchery going on daily in the mainland, was supposed to be part of some important plan. As though he was supposed to be a part of it.

 

“And what would you need me for?”

 

Númendil´s visionary optimism waned from his features at this question. His grey eyes darkened.

 

“Soon, my son “he sighed, “soon you will see.”

 

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

 

Two days later, they finally left Rómenna for Armenelos. Amandil had been making great progress at the ancient tongue, though not, it seemed, through any effort of his own. The knowledge just seemed to be there, to have always been there waiting for him to tap into it again. If only that could also be true for everything else, it would have made things much easier -but, then again, it would have spoiled Eru Ilúvatar´s great plan according to Númendil. The “love” explanation of the whole thing - that is, finding out that Númendil just loved him blindly and refused to see any of his faults-, would have been less troubling to Amandil than the feeling that his father really believed him to be some sort of chosen one destined for something that only he could do. Númendil´s evasive answers whenever he tried to ask him what this something might be did not help much either.

 

The capital city looked exactly the same as the last time he had been in it, twenty years ago. It had been much longer for Númendil, of course, and Amandil had to shake him repeatedly out of deep reveries as he gazed at some palace or some impressive vista. He was a strange man, one that other men would define as “Elvish” with a suspicious grimace on their lips. Whether this was because of his long imprisonment or because his family had mixed with the Elves, Amandil could not tell, but, even though they were supposed to share the same blood, they were nothing alike.

 

They settled in the Andúnië mansion, the greatest building Amandil had ever set foot in since the Temple. The inside, however, looked destitute and full of dust, the look of a place which had been abandoned for many decades. Their voices echoed on the large marble halls, and Amandil had to prevent Ashad from sneaking away with his bedcovers to camp on the unkempt back gardens, which reminded him of the mainland and therefore unsettled him less.

 

Amandil was feeling no less out of his depths, which made him sympathize with the boy. He would rather have been looking for his wife and son, but the Palace audience had to take precedence over everything. Kings were kings, and this one had saved his life in the past, it seemed, back when he was still the Prince Inziladûn. Númendil told Amandil the story of how their kinsman had moved strings in the Palace, though Amandil did not remember anything about him, not like he remembered the young woman who had pressed him against her trembling chest on that night of assassins, or the priest, his second father, who told him the truth and saved him from the fire. Still, Yehimelkor was a subject that he was not prepared to breach with anyone, not even his blood father, or his son, or his mother had she lived. So he kept his thoughts to himself, and nodded through it all as they made their way through the successive courtyards.

 

When a courtier guided them through a hall of massive obsidian columns that tugged at some part of his mind, the first indication that all was not so well as his father claimed it to be finally appeared, in the shape of a grave look in Númendil´s features.

 

“It might not be wise if you were to... let the King know of some of your deeper thoughts just yet.”

 

Amandil blinked, surprised. His first thought was, did his father think he was going to share any of his thoughts with a King? His imprisonment had really made him naive, then. Soon, however, a more worrying notion displaced the sarcasm from his mind. This King was supposed to be a friend, an ally of the Faithful. If he was going to ask and probe and question him about his life...

 

“I will let you do the talking”, he said. If only that could be enough.

 

“He has penetrating eyes, and sees through people. That gift of his line is very strong in him.”

 

Wonderful. Amandil shivered, remembering that first audience in the throne room, back when he was a child. The black eyes.

 

“He takes after his father, then.” Númendil stared at him in surprise, but said nothing.

 

They were not taken to that same throne room, but to a small gallery which stood over a beautiful garden with a fountain, where a man leaned over the railing in thoughtful silence. Before Amandil could guess the purpose of this detour, the courtier announced them as the son and grandson of the Lord of Andúnië, and he came to the realization that the man standing there was the King himself. Immediately, he tried to bow, but a voice restrained him.

 

“There is no need for that! We are family.”

 

“We greet you, Protector of Númenor and its colonies”, Númendil said. It was not a recitation as Amandil had always heard it, but held the warmth of a friend´s greeting.

 

The King smiled. He looked remarkably like Númendil, with the same nose, the same eyes and the same disheveled hair, though the beard he sported on his face -a fashion Amandil had not seen in the Island before- set them dramatically apart. Also, where Númendil´s mood was calm and serene, the King looked positively brimming with activity. He approached Númendil with a very unroyal haste and embraced him, claiming to be very happy to see him and offering deepest condolences for the death of his wife, then immediately set to look behind him, inspecting Amandil with an avidity for detail that took the former soldier very aback.

 

“So, this is Amandil! How different you look from that first time I saw you! You were a child back then, and you seemed to find the Palace as much of an unsettling place as you do now.” The younger man swallowed. “But those were dark times for all of us. Now, you come as a friend, and there is no need to fear!”

 

The words had been spoken in the ancient tongue. This, coupled with the way in which the King was looking at him, made him feel weighed and tested instead of genuinely welcome. He tried to look comfortable, but it was the first time he had needed to feign anything of the sort, so he failed.

 

“He only just arrived from the mainland, where he has spent the last twenty years”, his father came to his rescue. “He came in secret, as there were assassins trying to kill him as soon as he set foot in Sor.”

 

Of course. Númendil had known about that, hence the men who had been sent to escort him. It felt strange to hear him talk of assassins.

 

“The Merchant Princes were behind this”, the King said, fortunately distracted by the new topic. “They remain your bitterest enemies even after so many years of exile.”

 

“The Almighty Creator looks after us.”

 

“So he does.” Both shared a brief look of solemnity, then turned again towards Amandil. “Has your father filled you in on the state of things in the Island?”

 

“I am really sorry, but it was barely six days ago that we met, and he came in time to see his mother die.” Númendil answered for him again. “We have not spoken of much else.”

 

“Of course, of course. There will be time to correct that in the following months. We have great plans for you.” That again. “It has come to our knowledge that you are a great warrior.”

 

“I was a... captain in the mainland. Twenty years.” Unsure of his knowledge of the language, Amandil hesitated.

 

“Also, that you were a friend of my brother´s son.”

 

The younger man froze. Next to him, his father also looked a little taken aback for a moment.

 

“We drank... together, in Armenelos” he constructed prudently. Those were dangerous waters. “Then, we met again in mainland. Our party died. He had wound. I saved his life.”

 

To them, he probably sounded like some kind of foreign barbarian.

 

“Do you think he remembers it?” The probing eyes again. Could he know more than what he was letting on? Was he aware of who had helped him escape the Middle Havens?

 

Was his father?

 

“I do not know, my lord King.”

 

“Did he know who you were?”

 

An instinct told Amandil that lying was no use here. He seized it.

 

“Yes, my lord King.”

 

He realized that this had been the correct answer when the probing look became speculative.

 

“This is interesting. Númendil, I know that you have not seen your son for a long time... but would you agree to lend him to me for a while here?”

 

“My King, my father, the Lord Valandil of Andúnië, has sent summons demanding my son´s presence in the West, so he may to be introduced to him, the family and the rest of the people, and schooled in our customs and traditions. I am aware that your wish overrides any other pledge or consideration, and that time is of vital importance - and he is aware of this too. “Suddenly, Númendil´s voice became lower and, it seemed to Amandil, more charged with a purpose that he could not define. “However, there is a... number of delicate situations to be dealt with there. In the name of my son and mine, I ask you for some of this precious time.”

 

“Delicate situations?” The King frowned thoughtfully, and a moment before Númendil opened his mouth, Amandil knew what he was going to say.

 

“Amandil has a wife and a son in Armenelos. He married before leaving for the mainland.” The news went down like a silent bombshell. The King´s eyes widened in open shock.

 

“Is that true?”

 

“It is not all. The circumstances surrounding the boy´s birth are... worthy of our attention, my King.” Númendil went on, unfazed. “Apparently it happened against rather remarkable odds, back when he was serving at the Temple of Armenelos. He saw it as a signal in that time of hopelessness, and it gave him the courage to break with that attachment and leave the capital for the sake of the child´s safety.”

 

This was stretching the truth quite a little, though Amandil wasn´t going to be the one to remark upon it. He would rather not be on a King´s bad graces again.

 

“I see. Perhaps... Perhaps it might be too soon, in any case. The late King was expecting me to rush things and make a mistake, but I won´t. Take your time and do things your way. Family ties are the most important thing, and they must be tended and preserved.”

 

Númendil smiled.

 

“Yes, my lord King.”

 

“I have one request, however. “The grey eyes narrowed as they were set on them, as if to underline the importance of what he was about to say. “Keep the balance.”

 

“I understand, my lord.”

 

Amandil didn´t. As they sat on a covered palanquin on the way back to their large and unwelcoming home, he could not keep himself from asking. He was expecting an enigmatic answer, but instead his father breathed deeply.

 

“The King was able to give us back our freedom and lands and recall our people from exile, but he could not push for a return of the Council seat that we lost under Ar-Gimilzôr. We are landholders, and yet we have no voice in government and remain vassals of the Cave. For my part, I would be content with this state of things and seek no further than what I am given, but the King needs his allies in Armenelos to help him carry through his reforms. So his next priority is to find a way to give us political weight again. And he has thought of you.”

 

Amandil had never been much used to frankness, and after the interview with the King he had not expected it to return so soon. Then again, Númendil was his father. Even though he had not told him everything before.

 

“Me? I am no politician. I am not even first in line. And I do not think he will... like me much, when he knows me.”

 

“You belong to our family, and he trusts our family.” Not the way he had been looking at him before  Amandil thought, but said nothing. “And yet he thinks that you are someone that people of different... allegiances might also trust. You were a priest, a warrior, you saved the prince Pharazôn´s life...”

 

“I angered all the priests in Númenor, I spent many years among the barbarians, and I saved the life of someone that the King and his party would rather see dead”, Amandil corrected, quite brutally, judging by his father´s shocked face.

 

“That is not true.”

 

“You do not understand, Father. Standing between two parties means being hated by everyone, not loved by everyone.” And how true that was. It had been the dominant theme of his life up to now, and, as far as he could see, it seemed like it might remain that way. He shivered, remembering something else.

 

“Lord Valandil is not going to approve of me, is he? That is why you spoke of a delicate situation.”

 

Númendil looked even more taken aback, if that was possible.

 

“He has had a hard life. His imprisonment weighs heavily upon him, and he feels that he is running out of time. This has made him more... rigid than he was before”, he admitted. “And to make things worse, he has been met with troubles at the Andustar that he had not expected. He might be a little guarded around you at first, especially when he hears about your marriage. To be honest...” Númendil sighed. “A wedding was being considered for you.”

 

“A wedding? With whom?”

 

“With the Princess of the West.”

 

The Princess Zimraphel. Pharazôn´s cousin.

 

Amandil´s blood ran cold. That meant...

 

“Oh. I... see why they would be unhappy, then”, he advanced, while his mind worked furiously. That meant that they had been planning for him to have a claim to the throne of Númenor. A claim which would oppose Pharazôn´s claim.

 

Suddenly, he missed Ulfin´s miserable cottage in the Middle Havens more than ever. At least there he had not been a political pawn, a toy for kings to play with.

 

“But that was merely a possibility, and it is out of the question now. And then, your story of how the child was conceived made me see that maybe Ilúvatar did not want this from the beginning.”

 

Ilúvatar. Or the Other God, who loved Pharazôn more than him. Maybe they were both the same. Or maybe his lust had managed to ruin the whole affair for them without any help from the divinity.

 

“I am sorry”, he said, just because he could think of nothing else to say. Even though he was not.

 

“There is nothing to be sorry for. And whatever happens, I will be here to help. I...” Númendil opened his mouth, as if to say something else, then thought better about it. He seemed uncomfortable. “Why don´t we go and find your wife and son? I am very eager to meet them.”

 

His wife and son. If they still lived here. It suddenly occurred to Amandil that, if they did not, Pharazôn was the only link between them and him. And how could he contact Pharazôn now? How could he ask him for any favours in his new position? The mention to the failed wedding project had been a wakeup call, as had been the King´s plan to exploit what had happened so many years ago, in that distant trade road of the hinterland of Umbar, for their own political benefit.

 

They were enemies. They had always been, even back when they were too young and foolish to know it – and if Eru Ilúvatar had planned this from the beginning, Amandil thought bitterly, then he was a bastard.

 

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

 

His wife´s house, as it happened, had been sold to other people long ago. Those, in turn, had relocated to Sor and sold it again to a young man and his wife, who, fortunately enough for him, were from the neighbourhood and could point him towards the school which “the tall man who used to live in the house” had been operating for years. Amandil thanked them, and turned towards his father, who had insisted in donning a “common disguise” similar to his and accompanying him in his search. He was wearing a hood at Amandil´s insistence, as two men with outlandish looks were a little too conspicuous for his comfort. Or maybe he was just too used to hiding to ever be comfortable in the open sun of Armenelos.

 

“There it is”, he said, pointing at a small wooden building that looked old but well-cared for. Southern Hill Sword Training School was written in large ink lettering above the door.

 

“There does not seem to be anyone here”, his father remarked. As they drew closer, indeed, he noticed that he could not hear any of the excited voices and yells which could be expected as soon as two or more children were gathered together in the same place, be it the tent of a soldier´s whore in Umbar or the novice courtyard in the Temple of Armenelos. Disappointment battled with guilty relief.

 

“We will have to come back tomorrow.”

 

“Wait.” As he was turning back, Númendil put a hand on his shoulder. “I think I saw someone.”

 

Amandil frowned, looking at the small window his father had signaled to him. He could see no one there, but just as he was about to say so, it struck him how odd it was that he would leave the place without having even checked. What was he afraid of?

 

He walked towards the door and knocked, swallowing a sigh. Of all the things in the world, it was not his son he was afraid of. It was not his son... but what he might find out through him.

 

An unmistakable sound of something hitting the floor greeted his knock almost instantly. Planks creaked.

 

Númendil smiled.

 

“So he is here.”

 

“I do not know if...” Whatever he was going to say, he could not finish it. The door opened right then, and a cloud of dust assaulted his nostrils.

 

“Coming! Who...?”

 

He had forgotten how tall Halideyid was. Which was strange, as in his mind´s eye he could see his son´s features, the look in his eyes that night so long ago, with the same clarity as if it had been yesterday.

 

He looked up to see his son´s -older, so much older- features grow pale, and his lips stammer as he recognized who stood on his doorstep. A broom he was holding fell to the floor with a clatter.

 

“I thought the letter had been wrong. I thought you were not coming”, Halideyid mumbled after a while. The words barely registered. Amandil took a long, sharp breath to cover his emotions. He remained in silence, rooted to the spot until someone pushed him gently from behind.

 

“Welcome your father back home, Halideyid. The time for waiting and hiding is over, and now it is time to be a family again. “Númendil pushed back his hood and beamed at them. “I am your grandfather, Númendil.”

 

Amandil had been wary of parading both their outlandish looks, but to say the truth, his father looked much more outlandish than he did. His pale face, the perpetually serene, almost bland expression of his clear grey eyes would have made anyone in that quarter turn back and stare. He looked out of place, almost incongruously so, away from his marble halls and moonlit gardens.

 

And still, Halideyid seemed to find it less troublesome to look at him.

 

“Welcome, Grandfather. I am... honoured to meet you at long last”, he articulated.

 

“I did not know you had written your son a letter telling him of our arrival.” Númendil turned towards Amandil, who blinked, confused. Letter? What letter?

 

“I didn´t.”

 

“No, the letter was... was not his”, Halideyid ventured, prudently. Oh, no. Pharazôn.

 

Númendil did not betray his curiosity for more than a second. Easing the tension seemed to be his first priority, and Amandil would have been thankful if he had not been feeling a sudden dark premonition.

 

“Where is your mother?”

 

At this, Halideyid´s face fell. Fleeing his father´s glance, he glued his eyes to the floor, and shook his head.

 

“I... “He swallowed deeply, painfully, as if he was reaching a difficult decision. “I am sorry, Father.”