Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Many Meetings

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If Amandil sometimes forgot, after all those years, that he was not like the politicians who plotted, intrigued, opposed and complained around him in Armenelos, he was forcefully reminded by the shudder that constricted his chest the moment he crossed the polished obsidian threshold of the Audience Chamber. Around him, everybody was chattering away, whispering at their aides, sometimes laughing in a courtly, non-discordant manner that Amandil had not heard anywhere but here, but nobody seemed affected by the feeling of nausea and helplessness which took hold of him. It was an alien feeling, not belonging to the fearless warrior or to the important lord he had become, but to a child who had lived long ago.

“Lord Amandil”, a voice addressed him. It was Zakarbal of Forrostar, and he immediately banished his brief moment of introspection to the deepest recess of his mind.

“Yes, my lord, you were saying?” he inquired smoothly. The Northern lord was the leader of the Council faction that Amandil was meant to join: the landholders and courtiers who supported the King and all his shocking new policies. After the Princess of the West was designated heir without the Council´s approval, Tar-Palantir had decided that his new priority was to give the Western lords back their seat in the powerful advisory body, and that this could be best achieved by having him replace one of the old courtiers. This had caused a long and bitter political war around Amandil, in which he could not even participate to defend himself. Everything about his life had been dragged through the mud: his lowly wife, his obscure son -fortunately both safe in Andúnië by then-, his failed priesthoods, the treasons committed by his family before he was born, and even his actions in Middle-earth down to the most insignificant skirmishes he had commanded. And then, it got even uglier.

To Amandil, the worst of all had been initiated by the King himself. Pharazôn´s father, the Prince Gimilkhâd, had been the most vicious of his critics, and to silence him, the King´s faction had brought up how Amandil had saved Pharazôn´s life back in Middle-earth. Of course, the deed had been conveniently taken out of context, their friendship omitted, and Pharazôn´s own actions forgotten or distorted. That, after all, was the way of all things here.

And now he was one of them.

“I am aware it can be distracting, the first time,” Zakarbal was telling him in a sympathetic voice. “However, remember that you belong to a noble lineage, whose birthright is to sit here since the earliest days of Númenor. It is them, who should not be here.”

The lord of Andúnië is the one who should be here, Amandil thought, uselessly. Of course the lord of Andúnië could not be here: first, because as he was technically their subject, the Cave would not let him, and that battle would be even longer and more bitter than anything he had seen so far. And second, because his father was not made to endure this. To even think of Númendil in the middle of this perverse travesty of a war made him feel fiercely protective.

“Just remember to keep your head high, speak proudly in the language of your birth” -last year, the King had introduced the possibility of using any of the tongues spoken in Númenor to discuss affairs in the council-”, and do not bow or stand for any priest of a false god. You may not think so now, but even though you have spent most of your life in obscurity and hardship, even though you have to degrade yourself even now and sit with the courtiers, you are a guide and a symbol for many people. Your family were leaders of the Faithful even while my own was kneeling before the burning altars to seek advancement.”

Zakarbal´s family had worshipped the King of Armenelos even before the War of Alissha, Amandil thought, but of course he refrained from pointing it out. That was the way of all things here. And after all, who was Hannimelkor to tell anyone they should not kneel before a burning altar?

Maybe to other people, those who did not know his thoughts, he would appear self-righteous and opportunist as well. Probably, Pharazôn was thinking it right now.

“Ah, the doors of the Council chamber are open at last. Come, let me show you where you should sit.”

Numbly, Amandil followed Zakarbal past the colourful throng of Merchant Princes, who gazed at him with genuine hatred. The Prince Gimilkhâd -who looked nothing like his son- made a disparaging remark and the others chuckled.

“Do not listen to them.”

“Of course not.” Stop patronizing me.

He was to sit to the middle of the semicircle, a little towards the left side, which was a good vantage point even though not as honourable as sitting first to the right with the landholders. Still, the courtiers had been admitted before the merchants, so those were even further towards the left than he was. How strangely funny, that the people who had tried to kill him years ago should now be only two chairs away from him.

Lord Zakarbal repeated his list of instructions all over again, before reluctantly leaving him to his devices and going back to his own seat. Amandil nodded with a smile, his teeth clenching underneath. When the other two courtiers reached his side, he greeted them politely, watching their fawning bows as if from a world away. The High Priest of the Cave did not even look at him as he walked past.

Finally, everyone made it to their own seat, and the noises began to subside. Only one of the chairs remained empty, and, for a moment, Amandil caught himself wondering who could be so late to a Council session. Just as he was using invisible fingers to tick off the titles of everyone who had the right to a seat in the highest political body of the Númenórean kingdom, the silence in the room suddenly became heavy as a wall, startling him away from his thoughts. People began to rise, and he started doing the same, believing that the King had arrived to begin the session -until he caught sight of Zakarbal sitting on his chair, and fell back at once.

Do not bow or stand for any priest of a false god. He had been told that at least thrice.

The High Priest of Melkor walked past the row of merchants, courtiers and governors, accepting the homage of the believers and the insult of non-believers with the same regal indifference. As he and his attendant passed Amandil, their eyes met for an instant.

It was Yehimelkor.

The even footsteps paused and died momentarily next to his position. Suddenly, the voice he remembered from endless days of study, nights of prayer, exasperated scoldings and you are but a child, you do not know what life is, you do not know what death is. If you let them kill you now, your still imperfect and unfulfilled soul will find little mercy with the Creator, made itself heard above his head.

“Gratitude is such a hard thing to find nowadays”, the new High Priest remarked to his attendant. Amandil´s pallor must have been substituted by a purple blush, because he could feel his cheeks burning. He refused to look up until the footsteps resumed; the interval felt to him as if seconds had stretched into years.

When he raised his head, he could see Lord Zakarbal frowning in disapproval.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The King did not enter the room with any similar dignity; he rather swept over them like a bird, rushing to his seat and beginning the session immediately. Amandil was so shaken by his previous encounter that he failed to follow the first minutes of conversation, including Tar-Palantir´s formal address and Zakarbal´s reply in painful Low-Elvish. It was only when he caught his own name that he forced himself to pay attention, and regain his bearings before the enemies of his family could see his weakness.

“... as part of this Council”, the King was saying, piercing gaze fixed on him. Amandil nodded, guessing he had just been introduced. As if they did not know who I am, he thought, easily reading the different layers of hatred and suspicion in each pair of eyes around him. Still, the only pair of eyes he cared about right now, the hard grey ones of the man seated at the other side of the room, were the only ones that did not look at him.

A great disaster is in store for you if our paths ever cross again.

The priest had said it back then, on that fateful night: their ties were broken, and henceforth they would not have anything to do with each other. He had even sealed it with a prophecy of doom, of those that the descendants of Elros sometimes made, and were true.

And yet, there he was. There they both were.

“I will endeavour to prove worthy of the trust you have laid on me, my lord King”, Amandil replied in flawless Quenya. The interpreters, who had invaded the Council after the King´s new decree, fumbled helplessly with the translation, giving Amandil a kind of fierce vindication. Even the most enthusiastic supporters of the old ways were unable to go beyond Low Elvish, or Sindarin, and still they used that tongue to shame those who only spoke the Adûnaic language of Númenor. Amandil was not sorry to do the same to them, and from what little emotion he could discern in the King´s glance, he was expected to.

Among the councilmen, Yehimelkor alone had not called for the translator. Of course, Amandil remembered -back when he was a child, the Revered Father had learned Quenya from him. The whole idea felt so strange, when dragged to the surface sixty years later, that it had no place among his current thoughts. Focus. He needed focus.

“I wish to know if his family is going to remain under the authority of the Cave now that they have a representative in this Council”, the high priest of the Cave spoke bluntly. Tar-Palantir shook his head.

“We are not here to discuss Lord Amandil. He sits among the courtiers and does not speak for his family, as you very well know from our previous discussions of the matter. “It was not Quenya, probably because the King could not afford to be misunderstood, but it still felt almost as sharp. “The subjects of this meeting are two: the situation at the Middle Havens and the refoundation of the colony of Pelargir.”

“With all due respect, we find that idea unacceptable.” Gimilkhâd wasted no time before standing up, and though he did not clarify the term “we”, from the looks in the faces of the so-called Merchant Princes it was obvious who he meant. “Nobody knows the situation in the Bay of Gadir better than our esteemed friends here, and they do not consider re-founding Pelargir to be anything but a mistake which will hurt the interests of Númenor.”

And their own, the phrase went unfinished. Amandil had never been down there, but from what little information Pharazôn had sometimes let slip past the stone wall of his supreme disinterest in petty politics, he knew enough to discern that having a new trading post so close by, a new trading post which, moreover, would be strategically placed in the very river which brought the Gadirites their merchandise from the inland tribes was going to prove detrimental to the island colony, maybe even disastrous if the people who re-founded the ancient settlement were hostile to their interests. Which of course was what the King intended.

They are our real enemies, he had told Amandil one day, years ago, after listening to a complete account of how his younger cousin had escaped the assassination plot laid for him after the late King´s demise. As long as they exist, we will not know peace.

The only problem with having them cease to exist, as it appeared, was the fact that they and their trade alliances were singlehandedly responsible for most of Númenor´s wealth. True to his pattern of seeking guidance in ancient lore, Tar-Palantir had found a solution to this problem in the accounts of the ancient prosperity of the abandoned settlement of Pelargir, which used to thrive under the protection of Amandil´s own family. But the Merchant Princes were no fools, and Magon of Gadir would be too well aware of the stakes to even consider any peaceful, civilized agreement. Before they allowed themselves to be robbed of all they had, they would risk it. And then there would be war.

That moment, however, had not arrived yet. After a sharp but short debate, Magon and his allies bowed down as obsequiously as ever, and the King adjourned the discussion to some distant later date.

The next subject was the Middle Havens.

“There has been a revolt of our Middle-earth allies, and the commander of the outpost has sent for aid in an official dispatch”, the governor of Sor, ultimate authority on military matters since the reign of Ar-Adûnakhôr, informed the rest of the Council. Amandil remembered the man well enough: neither he nor his dour mainland deputy had ever been interested in anything the Forest People wished to say, and as far as they were concerned those savages were as good as conquered. The subtleties of treaty interpretation had been left to people like Amandil himself, who had to deal with them and their complaints on a regular basis.

The last time he had seen any of the Forest People, a frightened young man had been trying to convince him that a mass slaughter of timber workers had been the work of the Northerners, a warlike people Númenóreans were bound by the treaty to protect their allies from. It had been easy to see through the ruse, though the knowledge he gained was not very comforting. It was the Orcs who had killed the Forest People, a great number of very well-organized Orcs. Amandil´s resolve to persuade his superiors to take that threat into consideration had died when he was ordered to sail for Sor at once, and, unsurprisingly, they had failed to follow his advice.

Also unsurprisingly, the Forest People had turned against them.

“It was a mistake to sign a treaty with the barbarians”, the governor of Sor concluded, darkly. Nobody seemed to have a more informed opinion on the subject, except for Yehimelkor, who expressed his belief that the true mistake was to have an outpost and soldiers in Middle-earth in the first place. Any difficulty they faced in the mainland was the result of their foolishness and ingratitude for not being content with staying in the island the gods had created for them.

Amandil thought he saw the King stare at the High Priest in surprise for a moment, but it was so quick that he could not be sure. Yehimelkor´s views were certainly not new to him, having suffered them, and transgressed against them more times than he could count, while he was under the priest´s care at the Temple.

“They be probably allied with Orcs now”, Zakarbal guessed, still in that atrocious Sindarin. “Such as Umbarians.”

“We will have to send relief troops immediately and destroy them before they grow stronger”, Shemer of Hyarnustar nodded. Amandil shook his head, astonished at how they spoke as if they knew what they were talking about, those people who had never set a foot in the entire mainland and much less in the Middle Havens.

“If I may speak”, he began. It was the first word he had said since he was introduced, and he said it in Quenya, but a rapid assessment of the situation told him that if he was not understood by all, his opinion would not register. So, to the quiet shock of his allies, he shifted to Adûnaic. “I have been a captain in the Middle Havens, and I am aware of the situation because I have dealt with it personally. The Forest People were attacked by the Orcs, and murdered in great numbers. They asked for help and did not receive any. If they revolted, that was the reason.”

The governor of Sor looked at him as if he was a cockroach that he could not squash.

“That is hardly relevant, lord Amandil. They have revolted; the reason why they did so does not matter at this point.”

“It matters because it has happened before and it will happen again!”

“Peace, both of you”, the King intervened. The governor of Sor shrugged at the translator. “The Governor is right; this has become a military matter. However, I will not overlook your expertise in this matter, lord Amandil. A private council will be convened tomorrow and you will both present me with your insights.” The look he directed towards Amandil seemed sad, and intent at the same time. “I do not wish it to happen again.”

“Very well, my lord King”, Amandil murmured dutifully, back to Quenya, and to his seat.

“This session is adjourned, then. “Tar-Palantir rose, looking up, at the heavens. “Praised be Eru the Almighty.”

The reply was discordant; some answered it in Sindarin, others in Adûnaic, and others not at all. To Amandil, this cacophony of sounds and languages seemed like a good metaphor of both this Council and Númenor itself.

“You did well. The Governor was surely not expecting to be undermined by you.”

It was Shemer of Hyarnustar who had reached his side, and was patting his shoulder amiably, as if to congratulate him for a job well done. Amandil put a great effort into smiling back at him.

“You are too kind, my lord.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“You did fine, Amandil. Not only yesterday, but today as well.”

Amandil´s mouth seemed like it was going to hurt from so much smiling. His morning had been entirely occupied with a grueling session of discussing the Middle Havens situation with a man who knew little about it and yet hated him passionately. That man was going to do what he wished anyway, and nothing Amandil said now would have any bearing on his later decisions, or those of the Middle Havens commander, who had a very good excuse to ignore any orders coming from Númenor when faced with a quickly-shifting combat situation. And, at any rate, as the King himself had pointed out, once war had been declared there was little they could do except fight back. Amandil was quite certain that next time, those politicians would deal with the problem as if it was a completely different situation again, and whine that there was nothing else which could be done at that point.

Back in Middle-earth, he had hated these people, for making his life difficult, for causing so many deaths. And now, he was one of them.

Gloom over difficult decisions, however, were not grounds enough to cancel social visits, much less “family visits” of those the King was so fond of. And so it was that Amandil had to return to the Andúnië mansion, change his “formal audience” clothes for his “casual audience” ones, and return to the Palace in time for the afternoon meeting in Tar-Palantir´s private quarters.

“After all the years I have spent learning what to say and when to say it, I am not sure I have much to show for it”, he said, with not as much modesty as repressed irritation. The King shook his head with a chuckle.

“I remember when I was young, and thought as you do. It seemed like I would never learn to behave and please my father.”

“I never did”, the Queen chimed in with a bright smile. She had decided to attend the meeting that day, and for that Amandil was glad. He found her refreshingly different from the rest of the courtiers he had been forced to interact with in his last years at the Palace: a woman of hard edges and blunt words who despised the artificial moods which others affected around her, and who was always ready to trade stories with Amandil. She had seen the world in her youth as much as he had, perhaps even more, and she didn´t have the misplaced decency of pretending that she hadn´t.

Since a while ago, Amandil suspected that the King invited her for that very reason, because she could make him relax and behave like one should behave in private, even in this place. Be it as it may, he was still thankful for her presence.

“We are three of a kind, hard to tame”, she continued, in a conversational tone. “No matter how our responsibilities weigh down on us, there is still a wild spark in our hearts. Why, some days I wake up and I feel like finding a good ship to take me North, where the Sea becomes ice!” She shrugged with a sigh, the laughter in her eyes dying down a little. “If only Míriel wasn´t so frightened of water.”

Amandil nodded in sympathy, feeling a little uncomfortable. If the rumours he had heard were all true, the heir to the Sceptre´s fear of water was the least of her problems. She sees things days and night, was how Pharazôn had explained it to him, one day in a very distant land.

After the sword-bequeathing ceremony, he had seen the Princess several times, and always she had said very little in his presence. Still, her unearthly beauty alone had been enough to unsettle him, as much as it had seemed to unsettle Pharazôn the few times he had mentioned her in his presence. He could not imagine himself married to her, much less Elendil.

And yet, he was aware that whatever he thought about it, it might well happen.

As if reading his thoughts -which he probably had- the King smiled.

“How is your son doing?”

“Oh, he has made enormous progress. I am quite proud of him”, Amandil replied. More than I am of myself over this matter, he thought darkly, remembering how he had once, for the tiniest of moments, felt like he could be there for Elendil and help him with the language and his new life. That very day, he had been summoned to Armenelos, where he had spent an entire year playing courtier in the Palace, and after that he had been forced to split his time between capital and province, with six or seven-month absences which had not helped at all in his endeavour to be a proper husband and father. And Amalket...

Too little, too late, he told himself, recalling her aloof bearing, the awkward courtesy and the withdrawals during his visits to Andúnië. If he had only been there when she arrived, things might have still been different. Sometimes, when they drank a little too much wine and he caught her gazing at him uncertainly, he could not help but wonder -but she would always withdraw again.

At least they have learned fucking Quenya, he cursed to himself. And the mother before the son, proving to his dark satisfaction that whatever the Faithful might think, it had never been a matter of blood.

“Do you feel he is ready to return to Armenelos and be introduced to the Palace?”

“I think he still has much to learn. Besides, my other obligations have forced my father to rely heavily on him. I do not think he would lend him to us for anything short of a civil war”, Amandil replied. It surprised him the little effort with which the half truths passed through his lips; maybe the ways of the courtiers were finally beginning to rub on him.

“I see. Well, as we have not reached that point yet, he will have to stay with his grandfather for a while longer.” The King´s mouth was smiling, but his eyes were not. “I just hope that my old friend Númendil is aware that his grandson is destined for great things, and that he will not be able to keep him for ever.”

“If you wish to rule a land, you must first learn to rule a house.” Amandil recited. “Or something like that.”

“I had never heard that saying before, but it is applicable”, the King nodded graciously. “So, Zarhil... what was that barbarian food which you wanted us to taste?”

Recognizing the change of subject for what it was -the friendly equivalent of the adjournment of all Pelargir discussions with Magon the previous day -, Amandil plastered a smile upon his features again, and rose to follow the Queen towards the porch.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

That night, Lord Amandil of Andúnië received a very inappropriately worded message.

I have been up to my knees in blood and shit in Umbar for the last years. I need some Númenórean wine, and I need it now. I hear you had been made a Councilman, but whatever important thing you need to do for tomorrow, it can wait until I leave Armenelos for the next seven years. Pharazôn.

His friend had never been a person to write proper letters, stand on ceremony, or even give him the common courtesy of a warning before springing on him after “coming all the way” from some wretched hole a world apart. Usually, however, Amandil had heard of his arrival from other channels, for the prince was a very public person. His “arrivals” were more like triumphal processions with crowds, or at least dignitaries, coming from distant places to gaze upon his glorious countenance. This time, though Amandil was a politician himself, a member of the highest advisory body of the realm and a kinsman to the King, he had not even been aware that Pharazôn had landed in Númenor.

Even more shocking than that, was the fact that Pharazôn wanted to see him. Had nobody told him, or written to inform him that Amandil officially belonged to the opposite faction now? Had he been too “up to his knees in blood and shit” to keep track of what happened in Númenor while he was away? What would Gimilkhâd think of his son visiting him?

What would Amandil´s family think?

In spite of those misgivings, he scribbled a response so fast that he almost felt ashamed at his loss of dignity. He would have wanted to invite his friend to his house, but of course it would be highly inconvenient for the Prince of the South’s son to be seen in the Western lord´s heir´s residence. After thinking for a moment, he proposed one of the taverns they had frequented in their youth. If they wore cloaks and hoods, hopefully they would not be recognized.

Pharazôn, however, did not seem to be thinking in the same terms. He appeared without a hood, his face painfully recognizable for anyone who looked in his direction, and greeted him from the opposite end of the establishment.

“Hannishtart! Or, I should say, Amandil! I am so glad to see you!”

Darkly, Amandil wondered if his friend had somehow been put up to this, to try to discredit him in some way. Almost as soon as he had that thought, he had to remind himself that Pharazôn stood to lose as much as he did with his own people, if they were recognized. Such considerations had never discouraged him before.

As his mouth broke into a wide smile and they embraced, Amandil was angry at himself for ever thinking that this would change after all those years.

“It has been such a long time”, he said in a low voice, tugging at the younger man´s arm until he managed to push him out of the establishment. The night was cool and quiet, and more inviting than the ruckus inside, the smell of sweat and the eyes uncomfortably set on them.

“Where are we going?” Pharazôn asked, confused.

“To the temple villa”, Amandil replied. It was there that they had first met, so many years ago, practiced swordsmanship, and said goodbye before one of their longest separations. “We can buy the wine on the way.”

“Afraid to be seen with me?” Pharazôn snorted. Amandil´s heart constricted a little.

“Afraid to be seen.” He took a deep breath. “What the...- Pharazôn, what are you doing here? I had no idea...!”

“Nobody does. For now. I am sure tomorrow people will report seeing me in that tavern, and the King will demand to know why I came.”

“And why did you?” After years of training and moving around the unsteady field of faction wars, this kind of impulsive, selfish action could not even enter Amandil´s mind anymore. To behave like a particular, like a soldier, who had no other people or interests depending on him... “Did your father request your presence?”

“No. He was as shocked as you were when he saw me. I suppose he is afraid I will get him in trouble, just as you are.” He grinned. “No, that was not the reason. I wanted to see Númenor after so many years, and I missed someone.”

“Who? Me?” Amandil was half-joking, but the suddenly serious look in his friend´s eye gave him a little pause. Then, as soon as it had come, the look left, and Pharazôn laughed.

“Oh, no, no. I mean missed-missed, if you see what I mean.”

Ah. One of his lovers. Did he still remember her after seven years? Now, that was unheard-of.

“I did not know that you were in love. Still, it is shocking that you would just abandon your post and sail all the way here merely to...”

“Does it matter?” Pharazôn had already been drinking before Amandil showed up; he could smell the alcohol in his breath. “Anyone can fight barbarians in my absence. If all, I abandoned my post here by going to Middle-earth in the first place. I am my father´s heir, and still I was down there fighting wild tribes while the Princess of the West was made the heir to the Sceptre against the will of the late King.” He shrugged. “Or so my father said to me in one of his angry letters, and he has a point.”

“I am sorry.” The words came automatically to Amandil´s lips, even though the appointment of Míriel was a great victory for his faction, and he could well become her father-in-law one day. He remembered Pharazôn´s concerns years ago, how he had stolen the sacred leaf in Umbar and tried to stir awake the visions which would make him a proper heir of his line. His friend had always been certain that he would be King one day, ever since he was a child and told Amandil of his plans to defeat the dark armies of Mordor.

But Pharazôn shook his head.

“There is nothing to be done about it. The Princess of the West will be Queen, and I wish her well.”

For a while after this statement, there was nothing but silence between them. Pharazôn bought the wine in a tiny shop, and they climbed the wall of the old villa unseen.

“Just like in the old times”, Amandil chuckled, in an attempt to lighten the mood. Another of the courtiers´s ploys, which had not been necessary between them before.

Pharazôn ignored him, continuing the previous conversation as if there had been no interruption.

“My father wishes me to be in Númenor and oppose the King. The King wishes me to be in Middle-earth, as far away as possible.”

“And what do you want? Where do you want to be?” Maybe he is trying to decide this even now, Amandil thought as he took a swig of the wine, the way he used to do it when he was in the army.

“There is nothing I can do if I stay here, except get into trouble.” Pharazôn´s voice sounded firmer. “In the mainland, at least, I can be free, and do something for myself. Maybe gain enough glory to ensure that those slimy courtiers and fake warriors of Númenor will not be able to ignore me.”

Amandil had to ask then.

“So, what am I? Slimy courtier, or false warrior?”

Pharazôn grabbed the clay bottle and stared at him, long and hard.

“Less slimy than my cousin Magon and less false than your friend Zakarbal.”

The warmth that pooled inside Amandil´s chest at that moment was not entirely caused by the wine he had drunk.

“He is not my friend. He is my ally.”

“I am glad to hear that. How is your son?”

“As fine as anyone could possibly be, in his circumstances.” There he was, Amandil thought, being more honest than he had been in years, with a man who was meant to be his enemy. “He is in Andúnië with my father, learning the language and the customs of my people with great difficulty. All those years of study, and for some of them he is still unworthy of being my son, much less a future leader of the Faithful.”

“Ha! Just like you, when you were in Armenelos as a young man. You always complained that you did your best, and yet they would not accept you.”

Amandil swallowed.

“Precisely.”

“Do not pity him too much. He always had more spine than you did.”

“You only met him once!”

“I had spies on him since he was born.”

Amandil did not know whether to laugh or cry, so he took another swig of the bottle instead.

“This does not seem real.”

“What does not seem real?”

“This.... us, meeting after so long and talking as if nothing had happened, here in this place where we have not sat for decades... all while you and I are supposed to be enemies, and the King accused your father in front of the Council of being ungrateful because I had saved your life in Umbar.” He was babbling. “My family also supported your cousin´s appointment.”

“I do not care about my cousin´s appointment. I said it, and I mean it.” For some reason, that Amandil was incapable of comprehending, it appeared that Pharazôn did mean it. “And, as for that business with the Council, I would blame my father first. If I was not supposed to support him as well, that is. So, you see -we have the same problem.”

Amandil was not sure that their situations could be considered the same, but he guiltily accepted the gift horse without looking at its teeth. As long as it allowed him to keep this friendship, he would not argue.

“There is going to be war soon, in the Middle Havens. The idiot commander did not listen to me and refused to help the Forest People with their Orc problem, and now he has found himself with a large-scale rebellion in his hands. Maybe they have even gone ahead and allied themselves with the Orcs, since at least those allies are happy enough to slaughter us without splitting hairs over fine points.”

Pharazôn grimaced, whether at the bitterness of the wine or at the stupidity of the commander of the Middle Havens, Amandil could not tell.

“I see.”

“Do you think they could send you there? It is the first all-out war Númenor has had in years.”

“Bullshit. There is war all the time. They just don´t call it by its proper name. No”, Pharazôn shook his head. “I believe the King will prefer to have me deal with “skirmishes” and “raids” for as long as he can. This way, he can have the people in Númenor believe that I am biding my time bedding women and engaging in degenerate pleasures.” His lips curved in a smile. “Out of the way, out of mind. But, of course, that works both ways.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you should drink as much as I am drinking or it will not be fair.” Pharazôn handed him the bottle, deflecting the question. “Come on, Hannishtart. Amandil. Whatever. Who knows when we will see each other again.”

Amandil looked down, taking the drink and downing it without even thinking of what he was doing.

“Will you be going back soon?”

“We will not be able to meet before I leave, if that is why you are asking.”

“I..” Amandil took a very long breath. “Do not be an impulsive idiot.”

“What do you think I am, forty? I outgrew that long ago.” Pharazôn laughed. “Or maybe not. I came here, after all.”

Amandil never knew what impelled him to utter what he said next.

“You must survive this. Please. Just as I survived the reign of Ar-Gimilzôr, you must survive the reign of Tar-Palantir.”

Pharazôn stared at him in a strange way for a while, even forgetting to grab the wine back. When he finally did, all flippancy had left his countenance, and the effect was as raw as Amandil had ever seen him look before.

“I will”, he promised, quietly. “Of course I will.”