Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Baalim

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By dawn, Amandil was already on his feet. He grabbed something from the kitchens and found his way to the stables, where his horse had been locked up the previous night. It glared at him balefully.

“There is no need for a saddle”, he insisted to the bleary-eyed stable hand, who seemed unable to comprehend the meaning of his words even as he started rummaging at the back. Trial and costly error had taught the former soldier to ride as the Umbarian tribesmen did, on the bare back of the horse, and he was able to forego saddle and trappings when there was need for speed or stealth. And there was need for them right now: he did not want to meet anyone in the house.

“I said, there is no...” he insisted, waddling through the muck to get to his horse himself. Before he could finish his sentence, he heard a sound of leather dragging across the floor, and turned back to see Ashad, standing by the doorside with a tangle of horse reins in his fist.

“Oh, here you are,” Amandil sighed. He should have known he would be unable to leave completely unnoticed, not by a boy who never fell asleep in places he categorized as strange.

In any case, he was grateful enough when Ashad untied the horses with silent efficiency, and did not even object when he saw him prepare two horses instead of one. The stablehand shrugged, and went back to sleep.

There was something relieving in the action of galloping away from the stone mansion, first through the empty paved streets surrounding the harbour, and then, as they left the town of Andúnië behind, into the wild rocky paths of the seaside, where no soul rode or walked at that hour of the day.

The way was steep, and Amandil a complete foreigner to the land of his ancestors, but they still had managed to cross the entire cliffside when the sun rose. As the cliffs gentled into orange-tinted slopes, and the wide expanse of untilled fields opened before their eyes, the relief coursing through his veins turned into exhilaration. For a moment, he found himself tempted to pretend he was in a forgotten posting in the mainland, settling petty squabbles between the natives and whiling away his days in the cottage of a straw-haired woman. When had such an unenviable fate, a fate he had tried to escape once, become his fantasy?

Then, however, the crude statuettes with stars upon their brows jabbed into his left side through the leather of the bag he was carrying. He had not left Andúnië for a fantasy of any kind, but to do his duty. No matter how difficult life in the Island seemed to him, it was his life now.

The house he sought was three miles away from the harbour town, tiny but standing apart from several others in the recently settled plain. It lay under a hill, in a slope where a few fruit trees had recently taken root. Three of the inhabitants were outside the house: one of them perched atop the roof, probably thatching it, and two others in the fields. One of them was running in rather erratic patterns, just a child, Amandil catalogued mentally. Years of conditioning had left their mark, compelling him to distribute the peasants into potential fighters and non-fighters as soon as they were in sight. But those peasants, he reminded himself, were not barbarians: they were Númenórean. And not only Númenórean, but Faithful.

Whatever that meant for them.

“Greetings!”, he hailed, stopping on a path of flattened earth which veered off from the road right in front of their house- well, more like a cottage, he observed, noticing the precarious state of the wooden structure. He had not seen that kind of dwelling in Númenor before, only in the mainland. Those people were newcomers; after generations of exile, the house they once owned had probably crumbled into dust or been destroyed, and it would be imperative to find quick shelter before they had the time to build something more permanent.

The man who was thatching the roof was the only one who did not immediately rush towards him and Ashad, eyes wide upon noticing his horse, his clothing, and -he sighed at the thought-, his features. Two more people, women, emerged from inside the house; the younger of them rushing to grab the child, a little girl who was running right at the hooves of Ashad´s horse.

“I am -I am Amandil, son of Númendil.” Suddenly, he felt like an idiot, trying to explain who he was and the unfathomable incongruity of why he was here. “I...”

The woman who had not grabbed the child was looking at him in awe. Before he could finish his sentence, she had bowed, and the rest of the family followed her example.

Ashad´s eyes widened.

“Wow”, he said, eloquently.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

By the time Amandil was divested from his horse, ushered inside the family hearth, and reverentially offered food and drink, he was starting to fly into a panic. They are Númenórean. They are Faithful. They are your grandfather´s subjects, he repeated like a mantra, but that was not enough, because the fear of falling into a trap, instinctive as it might be at this point, was not what was pushing him to the edge.

He had been invited to other houses. He had been given food before, and shelter, and sometimes his hosts had not even wanted to kill him or trick him in any way. The love, the reverence he saw in this people´s eyes, however, was something he had never seen in the eyes of strangers before, Númenórean or barbarian. He even had trouble accepting it from a father he had barely met, let alone these peasants, who seemed to expect him to accept their devotion as if it was somehow his due.

“This juice was made with the first fruit from our trees”, the man who had been thatching the roof, and who had come down to join in such a momentous occasion, explained to him as he pointed at the cup of orange juice upon the table. Amandil nodded, and the man smiled. It was a wide smile which showed a few missing teeth, suddenly reminding him of a beggar in a harbour long ago.

You came to deliver us, as it was promised! You are the Lord of Andúnië, our rightful lord! Praise the Baalim and Baal Shamem, the King of the skies!

The remembrance struck him with a jolt.

“Hey, that is good! I thought Númenórean oranges were all disgusting”, Ashad chimed in with his mouth full. Amandil frowned at him, still shaken by his discovery.

“I am sorry. One day, he will learn to remain silent.”

Nobody seemed inclined to take offense, however, at least not with him in the room. Even the little girl was sitting still like a statue, staring at them like they were gods.

Gods.

And there they were, he realized, barely a few feet away from the cushion he had been given at the head of the low table. Two images, similar to the ones he had stowed in his bag, of a male and a female with stars upon their foreheads. Before them, a thread of incense had recently been burning; the faint aroma reminded him of the temples where he had spent his youth.

“The statues.” He cleared his throat, then realized he had the cup of juice in his hand and swallowed a long sip. It tasted very sweet. “The Lord of Andúnië was given ones like these.”

As he was gazing at the woman who had first greeted him, it was her face he saw fall.

“We were there”, the man spoke. “There was a ceremony a month ago. A feast. We had recently arrived and we wanted... we wanted to thank the Lord, and of course the gods, for the end of our exile.”

“The statues we gave to him” the woman continued, “were old heirlooms. They belonged to three generations of our people. Oh, I know they are nothing like the things you are used to, things made of gold, and diamonds, and silver steel. Still... “A blush covered her face, dark and deep, and she looked down. Amandil waited for her to speak, but neither she nor anybody else uttered a word for a long and uncomfortable while.

“He did not like the present”, Amandil guessed. He took a long breath. “I do not wish to inconvenience you, or cause a delay in your work. All I want is to speak for a while with the both of you.” The older man and woman looked at each other in brief shock, but nodded. Amandil stared at Ashad next, narrowing his eyes meaningfully. “Since you have followed me all the way here, you might as well help them.”

Ashad knew that look, and he did not argue. Neither did the rest of the people, who bowed low before queueing to exit the building. Once at the doorstep, they bowed once more, and Amandil noticed that the girl had to be dragged away from the spot. Only when she saw that Ashad was coming with them, her attention was finally directed at something else and she followed him to the fields, not unlike a duckling after its mother.

He turned away from the endearing sight, back to the uncomfortable silence, and his duty.

“These gods”, he spoke, rummaging inside his bag until he caught them. “They are the... the Valar, are they not?” The Valar, worshipped in the shapes of statues, like the Lady of the Cave and the Lord of Armenelos. He could see how that would have horrified Lord Valandil.

“Of course!” The woman nodded with vehemence, as if she was being accused. Maybe she felt she was. “They are the Baalim, the Valar as you call them in the holy tongue. We have worshipped them and only them since we were exiled after the Great War, at the time of my grandfather´s grandfather. There were many hardships and persecutions and unspeakable things we had to endure in order to survive. But we never strayed, not for one moment! There was always incense at their altar, even when there was no food to eat or clothes to wear... even when...”

“That is enough. The Lord Amandil is not here to listen to our pitiful tales, Nimri”, the man cut her, visibly uncomfortable. Amandil felt somewhat guilty for being thankful at his intervention.

It would have happened in a generation or two, similarly to how Yehimelkor had taught him that statues of the Lord of Armenelos and even of Eru himself had begun to be made by people who forgot it was wrong. But then again, in Middle-earth he had met peoples who worshipped statues of those same gods, under slightly different shapes and names, and they claimed to have done so long before the Númenóreans sailed to their shores. He never had the chance to discuss his findings with the priest, but he could imagine him saying that truth and obfuscation waged an eternal war since Men first sought beyond themselves and discovered the divine. If Men forgot the truth even for a moment, obfuscation immediately took its place in their hearts.

Of course, he knew that to be true. Though endowed with a longer lifespan than any of these people, not to mention the blood of the rulers of the Faithful, he had completely forgotten everything he had learned as a child. When his father had explained to him that the Valar were not gods, and that they could not interfere in the affairs of Men, he had been greatly surprised. Since long ago, so long that he couldn´t even remember, he had believed that the Valar were like opposing gods, the gods of light and good against the gods of darkness and evil. After a while, “gods of light and good” had merely become, in his mind, the gods of his family, who might have forsaken him since he was consecrated to the god of his enemies. And then, he had stopped paying much attention to gods in general. The only exception in this life of careful avoidance of the divine had been the birth of his child, and the belief that some higher entity had been responsible, but even then he never knew who it was, or whether they had meant him good or harm. Maybe, he had thought several times in Middle-earth, it had been wishful thinking.

Then, all of a sudden, his father came with his ancient lore and scrolls, and told him that everything he had ever thought was wrong. This would have been a life-shattering experience for him if he had really harboured a devoted attachment for the indifferent or resentful gods that he had imagined. But after the initial shock, everything fell into place. There were no gods watching over Men, therefore all the senseless killings he had witnessed, escaped, averted and perpetrated, the tosses and turns of his own life, made sense after all.

Except for Eru. Eru, the most elusive concept of them all. Everybody believed there was something above Creation, even above the sky and the gods themselves, but most Númenóreans agreed that this Eru was beyond Men and their petty toils and sufferings. It was only among the mainland tribes of the South and his own family that he had encountered the belief that Eru was behind the destiny of every person, that He knew and cared for them and what they did. Amandil did not know how to feel about this, being manipulated by an entity he could not even pray to. Even allowing that he, as his father claimed, could have a brilliant destiny and save Númenor in some fashion, what about everybody else? What about the barbarians who fought and died every day in the hard roads of Harad, their bodies burned like those of the Orcs? What about the people who were exiled from their lands by Ar-Adunakhôr, to live a miserable existence for centuries? Did Eru have a plan for each and every one of them, too?

Why in the world would they be faithful to Him? Even his father´s old admonition, that they had to obey the King who held the Sceptre in Armenelos no matter what he did to them was easier to accept than this. And these people, led by his own family, had already revolted against the King once.

“I am sorry. But I would wish to know.” Suddenly, his musings were interrupted by Nimri´s voice. He focused his attention back on her, and saw the spark of hurt stubbornness still buried beneath her subservience. “What did we do wrong? Is it how we pray to them? The holy tongue was lost in the East, and everything our ancestors wrote down was burned. Do we offend them by making statues with clay? We had no other materials, and it is only now that we can start using wood...”

How could he explain this?

“Lord Valandil believes” he began very carefully, “that the Valar should not be worshipped.”

This time, both looked equally shocked.

“Why?”

Yes, why? Who was he to split hairs with them? His father should have been the one to come here. Or Yehimelkor, for the matter.

“Because they are not... because they do not...” He shook his head, feeling more and more ridiculous. As he did so, his eye fell upon a small tray of offerings in front of the family altar, where he could now distinguish a number of carefully aligned strands of hair. Thirteen in total... not only from the living, but also from the dead in exile.

“Lord Valandil... is a follower of old lore, the lore from before the war, and he believes that the Valar should only be addressed at certain celebrations, and in the ancient tongue”, he lied. “He might also have been confused by the statues, because they look similar to the statues of other gods, which are also made in the East. But as soon as the situation is explained to him, I am sure he will understand.”

“Really?” Both his hosts looked relieved. The man nodded carefully, as if to help this new information to sink in. “I... this was...we were all concerned, but now... W-we will explain this to everyone else, and then we will all learn the holy tongue and study the ancient ways so we can pray better.”

“We will not forget your consideration. Undeserving as we might be, we are thankful” the woman added. Again, both of them bowed to him, and not just in awe, as they had earlier in the day, but with something more, something he was still not sure of having deserved.

Because Lord Valandil was not going to understand.

“There is no need for that!” he said, a little too fast. “In any case, I have to ride back to Andúnië now, so... I will leave you to your work.”

Ashad had found the basics of seed planting interesting enough, though he seemed very thankful to be freed from the girl who had stuck to him like a limpet. As soon as Amandil called to him, he shook her away and winced when she began to cry. Immediately, he ran towards his horse and mounted it as if a horde of Orcs was following them.

Letting go of the tension for a moment, Amandil chuckled.

“You might change your mind about her in a few years”, he told the sulking boy, mounting his own horse and heading back for the road.

Far ahead, in the cliffs of the Andúnië seacoast, stormclouds were starting to gather.

 

*     *     *      *     *

 

“Is there danger? In what they are doing? I do not think so. Therefore, I do not think it is ne-necess... necessary...”

Amandil paused for a moment, his hand instinctively tracing a path across his face, forehead, and sweaty hair while he suppressed a sigh. He could not argue in Quenya. Not about this. Not with that man.

Valandil scowled.

“What do you know? You cannot properly comprehend what I am saying. You cannot even speak our language, why should you be trusted in religious matters?”

“Father.” Númendil tried once more to intervene. “Father – please.”

“Enough!” For the last hour, Amandil had been trying to explain everything he had learned that morning in a polite and deferential way. He had even gone to Númendil for help in how to use the most appropriate turns of phrase to defend his opinion. He had thought long and hard in his way home, and spun a decent discourse on how statues and prayers were the common people´s expression of sincere devotion to the true principles of the faith of the Elf-friends, and that going against this would only result in pointless strife. Through this, he had appealed to emotion as well as to logic: their faith as they knew it was the only thing which had sustained them through centuries of exile and they shouldn´t be asked to give it up now.

All of it, however, had fallen on deaf ears. It was as if Lord Valandil couldn´t even hear what he was saying. As far as he was concerned, anyone who did not speak proper Quenya was not qualified to be a judge of anything because they had obviously strayed from the proper path, and this included both the other Faithful and Amandil himself.

That man had spent more than Amandil´s entire lifetime confined in a house in Sor. It was as if he had forgotten that there were living people outside the walls of his prison. How could such a man rule a province? Maybe it was better if they remained tributaries to the Cave; at least the High Priest there could be relied upon to be aware of the goings-on of his subjects.

And speak their language.

“That is enough!” Amandil repeated, this time in Adûnaic. “You can understand me perfectly! I have been doing my best; since I landed in Sor, I have worked every day to remember a language I have not spoken since I was a child, but there simply hasn´t been enough time! You, however, have shunned the language of your own people, the language spoken in your lands. How can you rule if you refuse to listen to them?”

For a while, Valandil stared at him as if he really could not understand the sounds he was uttering. There was an instant in which Amandil found himself hoping that this had been the case, but then the Lord of Andúnië´s right hand began to tremble on his armrest, and his face reddened.

“You will stop using that foul language in my house!”

“Adûnaic is not the Black Tongue!”

Númendil looked at both of them in despair. It was the first time that Amandil saw his calm father so affected by something. Let him be, he thought in his rage. Let him see what taking me back will mean for this family.

“I should have known. I should have known what would happen.” Valandil began mumbling in a deceptively low tone, almost as if he had been able to read his grandson´s thoughts. He stood up from his seat, his gaze growing stormier and stormier. “The late King wanted to kill the heir of the Western line, and he did. You who are standing here before me, are not one of us. You are a slave to their foul gods, a parrot for their evil! You have shamed yourself with one of their women, and produced a spawn that is not our blood! Take them and go back where you belong, to the Shadow-infested land of Middle-earth with your friends, the priests, the barbarians and the filthy merchants! Take them and begone!”

Amandil did not even hear the last words. All blood had drained from his face, and for a moment he was sure that his eyesight and hearing had deserted him too. When he was able to see again, he reeled back from his shifting surroundings, feeling for a moment as if he was on a ship during a storm.

This was it. This was what he had most feared for his entire life, the reason why he did not allow himself to think of them, of what they would say when he met them. How many times had he composed this same speech in his mind, those same accusations when he was involuntarily reminded of his lost heritage? Not even all the undiluted wine in the world had been able to dull the pain. And now...

Now, he could not accept it. All the reproaches he had always believed he deserved had been thrown to his face, and he could not accept them.

“You are wrong”, he spat, as calmly as he could manage. “You are as suspicious, as inflexible and as wrong as the late King Gimilzôr. And if you refuse to listen to those around you, they will abandon you, just as his own kin abandoned him.”

Turning his back on his grandfather, he clenched his fists and abandoned the room.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The vase made the most satisfying crack of all as it shattered against the stone wall. There was something beautiful and fierce about watching the painted shards scatter at his feet irreversibly, which the ricocheting tables and chairs were not able to emulate.

“Amandil.”

“I am a barbarian.” The words came out calmly from his mouth, almost dangerously so. “This is what we do when we are angry.”

A second vase followed the first. Crack.

“I see.”

“Stop pretending that you do.”

“Amandil, I was present for the entirety of the conversation.”

“In that case, I am sure you must have realized that you should never have brought me here at all!” Realizing that he had run out of things to throw, the former warrior strode towards a lower table which was already on the floor and kicked it savagely. If only he had a sword, he could slash at the curtains too. That would feel even better.

Númendil did not even flinch.

“No. You are where you are meant to be.”

“Well, if that is true, then somebody else is not. And I am not the lord of this land, nor will I ever be!”

“Lord Valandil cannot disinherit you.” Braving Amandil´s violent disposition with an amount of aplomb that couldn´t help but surprise his son in spite of all his fury, Númendil picked up one of the toppled chairs, restored it to its former position and sat upon it. “You are my only son and I will never have another.”

“And what about my son? The spawn who is no blood of yours?”

The sharpened edge of these words proved stronger than flying furniture. Númendil breathed sharply.

“That is not true.”

“Is it not? After all, his mother is not my wife, merely a woman who made me shame myself! We were not married in the eyes of Eru, or the Valar, or whoever you call upon to oversee proper Faithful unions. We were only married in the eyes of the Goddess of the Cave and she is a false idol, so why shouldn´t I marry a proper wife and have a proper son now that I am back in my proper place?” Every word was spit with more bitterness than the last. “You wanted me to marry the Princess of the West!”

“The Goddess of the Cave is not false, she is merely no goddess. “It figured, that this should be the main objection to come to his father´s mind. “Neither are Manwë or Varda.”

“Then why shouldn´t people pray to them if they want to? They are not listening, they do not know, and they cannot be offended by it! We are not your Elves, Father! Men need to believe that someone is listening to their prayers! They need to give them a face and beg them, talk to them, give them offerings and sacrifices in return. I have seen this behaviour in Númenor, in Harad, among the Forest People, the Northerners, and even among your Faithful. It is human nature! If they believe in the Valar, they will make statues of the Valar, if they believe in the Lord of Armenelos or Uinen they will make statues of them. And if they believe in Eru they will make statues of Him too!”

Men. They. Amandil realized belatedly that he had laid himself open to questions that he did not want to answer. But maybe because of their very inevitability, they did not make it past his father´s lips.

“I think that you may be right, my son.” Stunned by this admission, Amandil´s tension subsided for a moment. “Lord Valandil is wrong. There is no evil in having travelled to many places and lived among many people. As I have claimed before, this enables you to understand things that come with great difficulty to people like us and endows you with greater wisdom. However...”

“However, I was out of line. He is the lord of Andúnië and I should bow and admit that he is right. In Quenya.” Amandil added with a sharp laugh.

“However,” Númendil continued as if he had not heard him, “there is a wisdom that eludes you. You wish him not to hold your previous life against you, because you were forced to do many of the things that you did. You wish him to accept the insights that this life has given you. But you refuse to do the same for him. He was forced to live in a prison for the entire lifespan of a lesser man, and now he is old and frail and in the twilight of his life. All that he is, all his insights about the world are a consequence of this, just as yours are the consequence of how you lived. I can remember him, how he used to be when he was free of this bitterness, of this suspicion, as you call it.” His eyes narrowed for a moment, and Amandil´s stomach gave a small turn. “As I also remember how you were when you were free of yours.”

Damn.

Sometimes, Amandil thought, he would prefer a hundred confrontations with Lord Valandil than a single one with his father.

“Then what do you suggest I do? “His voice became even hoarser. “That I beg his forgiveness, listen to his insults, stand aside while he sets his own peasants against him?”

The look in Númendil´s eyes felt like insecurity, too, if just for a moment. He visibly forced it away.

“I will speak with him about that. As for your son...”

“I would prefer for him to have no part in this”, Amandil said, disparagingly. “And no knowledge.”

“He may be the son of a Palace Guard´s daughter, but he is your son. If your marriage should not be found valid, all Lord Valandil can do is make it so. No man may have sons with a second woman, even if it should be with the Princess of the West herself. This is our way.”

“I... see.” Amandil nodded, wading past the shards of the vases he had broken to make his way towards the door. He would not show anyone how this admission relieved him, not even his father. “So you are stuck with the both of us.”

“And you with us.” Númendil stood up, his lips curving in a conciliatory smile. It looked so touchingly hopeful that Amandil was sorry for him.

“I will see you later”, he muttered, in Quenya, before he left.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Things became quiet after that, though not with the kind of quiet Amandil associated with peace and harmony, but rather with the concealed mistrust which was already such a familiar feeling to him. To think that it would end like this, he mused, his lips curving in a bitter smile as he watched Halideyid teaching swordmanship to Ashad in an empty courtyard. All the years in the Temple of Armenelos, in the Cave, in Umbar, in the Middle Havens, surrounded by enemies and fending for himself, only to set foot in the homeland of his mother´s tales and find it not so different.

At least he was used to that. It was in many ways preferable to automatic trust and love, of the kind he had seen in the eyes of those peasants who welcomed him into their home, even though they had never seen him before. This was his life. His fate.

His son, however, and his wife...they were a different matter.

Amandil felt the suppressed anger boiling to the surface. Yesterday, his father´s sister, his aunt Artanis, had arrived from Armenelos. She had spent their entire imprisonment in Sor with her father, and seemed to be as embittered as he was for it. Though she had greeted him and Halideyid politely, her smile had not reached her eyes, which looked touched by frost as they gazed at him. This woman would be the lady of Andúnië now, the one whose favour Amalket would have to court if she wanted to thrive here. Amandil did not think it would be easy for her, or maybe even possible. Bringing his wife to this place, the wife who had spent decades waiting to share his life in happiness, was looking more and more like a bad idea.

As for Halideyid, he was accepting his new situation with the same gravity, the same lack of complaint with which he had accepted every other situation he had been dragged into since he was born. Amandil could not help but remember that fateful night when he had told his son the truth about their shared heritage, how he had nodded and learned to live with it. He also remembered how his son had refused Pharazôn´s money as soon as he came of age, choosing to leave the Guards and make a living for himself when they would not give him what was his due as his grandfather´s heir. Most of all, he could not forget the lack of reproach with which Halideyid had borne his father´s absence for all those years. He did not deserve a son like him, he thought, watching his movements with an unexpected surge of tenderness which also turned to bitterness after a moment. Bringing him here was perhaps the worst thing he had ever done to Halideyid, to this place where he was thought of as the spawn of a disgraceful woman and refused even the courtesy of being addressed in his own language.

“You are leaving, Father?”

Jolted out of his thoughts by the young man´s own voice, Amandil realized that he was standing on the porch. Impulsiveness -another of the many bad habits that he had to get rid of.

“Carry on”, he said with as much dignity as he could muster, turning on his heels and walking away from this place and company. If he could not sit still, he would go wherever his feet would take him.

They took him to the corridor that connected this with the main courtyard, where the noise of raised voices first caused him to stop in his tracks.

“Never. I will never allow you to do this.”

It was his grandfather´s voice, he realized with a jolt.

“It is my decision to make.”

Amandil swallowed in surprise. He had never heard Númendil sound so... determined. So cold.

“Not yet. I wear the ring of Barahir in my finger still.”

“Father...”

“I will not lay it down if it is not my wish to do so. Like my life. This has been our gift for thousands of years.”

“A gift to be used, not misused. You are old, Father. If you refuse to lay down your rule when the time comes, the first among our kin to do so...”

“How dare you?”

“... it will be proof that the Shadow has invaded our land as well, and there is no more hope for Númenor.”

“Silence!”

There was a brief pause.

“Please reconsider.” Now, this was more like the Númendil whom Amandil was used to: conciliating, beseeching. “The future of Númenor is uncertain, and great challenges will arise that neither you nor I are capable of dealing with.”

“And he will deal with them, I assume?” Valandil snorted, and from the contemptuous way in which he spat the pronoun, Amandil was sure that he was referring to him. “The former servant of the Dark One, who has spent his entire life sacrificing and killing for our enemies? The Prince of the South´s son’s dearest friend? The husband of the guard´s daughter? The barbarian who came here only to deride our oldest...?”

“That is enough, Father. He did what he had to do because there was no other choice. He understands what it is to live persecuted, among enemies, to do what he needs to survive. He can build bridges with other people who might be our allies in the times to come!”

“We are the Faithful! All of Númenor has compromised with evil. Even the King has been forced to compromise with evil to hold the Sceptre! If we compromise, too, what will be left of our island?”

Another silence. Amandil knew that he should leave, that he should not be listening to this conversation, but he could not bring himself to move.

“I will hear no more on this matter. I will only bequeath the ring to you if you swear that you will keep it until your time is over.”

“I am not made to rule, Father. I never was.”

“Then you will learn! Or I will keep it myself until old age defeats me and disgrace our lineage forever!”

This yell finally acted as a wakeup call for the stricken Amandil, who regained his bearings and walked away. His heart was beating fast inside his chest.

I will bequeath the ring to you only if you swear that you will keep it.

I am not made to rule.

He wanted him to be the next Lord of Andúnië, he realized. His father wanted him to be the next lord of Andúnië, forsaking his own birthright.

From outcast to lord, he thought, laughing. The laugh sounded strange even to his own ears. He was scared. He was more scared than the time he was tied in a cave with a dozen Orcs who had killed the rest of his party.

“Did something happen, Father?” Halideyid greeted him with eyes full of concern. Ashad was gathering the combat gear to put it back in the storage closet, raising a ruckus which seemed to reverberate incongruously across the quiet expanse of this place.

Amandil shook his head. He had to rein his emotions. For Halideyid´s sake, at least; he owed him this much.

“We... should eat. I am sure you must be hungry after the exercise.”

For a moment, Halideyid seemed about to say something, but whatever it was did not make it past his lips. He nodded.

“As you wish.”