Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Eruhantalë

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“Halt.”

The order passed unnoticed at first, drowned by whistling gusts of North wind as they made their laborious way up the mountain. Then, ripples of it began to echo down the column, and horses were reined in, footsteps froze, and tongues started to murmur.

The path, hewn in the white stone by the ancient hands of unknown craftsmen, stretched farther from what any of their eyes could see. A few feet away from the tenuous foothold of men and beasts, a mist blurred the edges of their vision, forcing them to walk carefully lest they fell in one of the many turns of the narrow and winding road. That fall, the longest in all of Númenor, would end deadly and abruptly in the ragged rocks of a solitary ravine.

Even a dangerous road, however, was better than no road at all, which is why nobles, courtiers and priests watched with apprehension as the King dismounted from his white horse, and checked surreptitiously on each other before they followed his example.

“We are not there yet, are we?” Hiram, the heir to the lordship of Forrostar, whispered to the new Palace Priest, his brother-in-law, who still held to his own horse, staring dubiously at a horizon that neither of them could see.

“This fog must have misled us”, he shrugged. Next to them, a fiery red palanquin had also come to a halt, and a single hand in a long sleeve of golden finery was emerging from it. The Prince Pharazôn almost bumped into them in his haste to hold it.

“How rude!” the Palace Priest muttered, though not loud enough for the Prince to be able to hear his words above the noise made by the wind. “No wonder he prefers the company of barbarians to Númenörean civilization.”

“Speaking of which”, Hiram frowned, thoughtfully, “what is he doing here? I thought he was in the Middle Havens.”

Both turned to watch, as the Prince helped the Princess of the South to her feet and held her by the waist. Like so many other ladies of the court since the King started -or, according to him, “reinstated”- this ridiculous custom, she was not used to walking on a roughly hewn, irregular surface, and needed support. To the front of the column, the heir to the Sceptre, too, was being coaxed out of her palanquin by the Queen. Considering that she was supposed to head the procession one day, Hiram thought, it might have been more to her advantage to act like her mother, his kinswoman by adoption, who rode with the other men and was not afraid of slopes. However, this was something that he did not even consider putting into words. One simply did not question the suitability of the Princess Míriel as the next Queen of Númenor.

As the Princess of the South and her son slowly made their way past them, towards the head of the column, the nobleman and the courtier saw Lord Amandil of Andúnië give a discreet- but not enough- shove to his remarkably tall son, Lord Elendil, in the direction of the Princess of the West. Lord Elendil offered her his arm almost gingerly, as if bracing himself for something. The Princess took it, letting go of her mother.

“Let us leave everything behind, and enter the holy place”, the King spoke, turning his back to them, and disappearing through the mist.

Slowly, far more slowly than they had before, the rest of the column began following him.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The huge clearing on the mountaintop, where the sacred ceremonies took place thrice a year, was totally covered in snow. The month before every ascension, the King dispatched workers to make sure that the way was unobstructed, and in that part of the year, this meant clearing away all the snow. That particular place, however, was considered to be so sacred that no one could step on it outside of the ceremony, and changing the landscape even in the tiniest of ways would be sacrilegious. To compound the misery of the dignitaries of Númenor, horses, palanquins or any other means of transport were forbidden, so soon their feet were dripping wet and freezing. And still, no discomfort was worse than the silence.

Númenoreans were not made for silence, Hiram could not help but think while they walked across the plain, leaving deep trails wherever they passed. They loved to sing in feasts, to chant litanies in religious ceremonies, and to talk at all times. As far as he was concerned, the sound of voices was the mark of civilization, and silence a source of uneasiness, whether at night, when evil shadows hid in the dark, or in the desert plains of Forrostar, where his adoptive father took him regularly to acquaint him with the land he would one day rule. There, he often felt at a loss among mountain goats and taciturn shepherds, and wished he was back in the city with his friends and retainers. Compared to this place, however, even the Northern lands felt welcoming.

The whistle of the wind, which had become more and more like a howl as they progressed, began fading away as they gathered in a circle. There was no landmark, either natural or man-made, showing them where they had to stand, and yet the King always seemed to know where the center was, and everyone stood around him. As they all stopped in their tracks, their eyes fixed on his countenance, the silence was absolute, oppressive, almost like a physical presence crushing their skulls against the solid surface of the earth which they had tried to defy with their long climb.

And then the King spoke, and the silence died. Ancient words, in a language understood by none but a few of those who stood there, came from his mouth in a litany. He did not shout, but it carried like thunder in the absence of sound. Hiram felt a superstitious dread take hold of him, which even the goriest sacrifices in the temple of Melkor had failed to awaken.

Then, slowly, the crowd dispersed, carefully retracing their footsteps across the snow. The moment they reached the stone road, and the first whispers began to arise among them, Hiram let go of a long, deep breath of relief.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The ascent to the Meneltarma was the most important of all the solemnities that marked the start of winter in the new King´s reign. After Tar-Palantir reached the foot of the mountain at the head of his followers, the procession continued through the streets of Armenelos, bustling with large crowds of people who were eager to catch a glimpse of King and Court. Disgruntled, cold, and their robes wet with melting snow, however, most of that court was only too happy to ride past the gates of the Palace, where they were to congregate in the Outer Courtyard for one last ceremony before the feast.

It had been another of the King´s erudite eccentricities to decree that the old White Tree, which had stood there, according to him, as a symbol of Númenor for millennia, had to be honoured at every important occasion. As a part of the winter festival, its boughs were decorated with garlands of purest silver, giving it a more otherworldy look than ever. After the customary song and prayer, Tar-Palantir and the Queen drank wine from their ivory cups, and the feast began. Seven bonfires had been lit across the courtyard; seventy times as many, at least, would warm the common people in the streets, squares and gardens of the ancient city beyond the walls.

“Amandil!” Pharazôn called, while attempting to negotiate a path across a small throng of courtiers. “Have a cup of wine!”

“Later”, the heir of Andúnië refused, shaking his head wistfully. “The King wishes to see you. My lady”, he added, with a courteous bow towards the Princess of the South, whose mouth curved in a smile of acknowledgement before she followed after her son.

“Happy Eruhantalë, my lord King”, she spoke first, as they both bowed in his presence. Tar-Palantir had been deep in conversation with Lord Zakarbal and the Queen, but as soon as he noticed their approach, he turned to face them.

“Happy Eruhantalë, Lady Melkyelid”, he replied. His gaze, however, was on Pharazôn. “I was very surprised this morning, when I found that my nephew was among us. Did you arrive last night?”

“Yes, my lord King. And quite late, at that. I barely had time to fall in bed and I was already being waken up for Eruhantalë”. The Prince picked a cup from a servant and drank from it, carefully ignoring the piercing look that narrowed the sea-grey eyes. “I figured I would pay my respects afterwards.”

“I see. If you sent notice, I am afraid to say that it did not arrive in time. We were not even expecting you.”

“I usually travel lightly.” Pharazôn was now looking inside the wine, as if trying to count the grains of cinnamon which floated there. “It is a habit I picked from war campaigns.”

“And speaking of wars”, Lord Zakarbal intervened. “I thought there was one in the Middle Havens. Or have the Forest People decided to give up arms for Eruhantalë?”

Now, Pharazôn raised his eyes. A glint of steel appeared in them as he fixed them on the Northern Lord.

“As a matter of fact, they did give them up. I have sent the last of them to Númenor by ship, as I did the others, but it is so laden with metal that it does not travel as fast as I do.”

“Do you mean to say that the campaign is over? “Lord Zakarbal arched an eyebrow. “And that, instead of informing the Sceptre and awaiting instructions, you merely... decided it was so?”

“No, that is not what I...” Pharazôn´s hold on the cup tightened in frustration. The Princess of the South laid a hand on his arm, and stepped forwards.

“Actually, lord Zakarbal, it was I who sent for him. Since things were quiet in the barbarian front, I thought it might be possible for my son to spend Eruhantalë with his mother. “She turned towards the King, covering her mouth with her hand as if in a gesture of embarrassment. “I do hope that a silly old woman´s wish will not cause trouble for him.”

Now, it was the King´s turn to smile, a polite smile that did not reach his eyes.

“Oh, please, lady Melkyelid! You are as far from being old as you are from being silly. You are as beautiful and intelligent as ever, and if you are a mother, there is nothing wrong with that. I am confident that you will be able to see your son to your heart´s content, once that this spot of trouble in the mainland is finished once and for all.”

“I am grateful for your words, my lord King”, she said, bowing gracefully. Her blue and gold winter dress rustled against the floor. “I will try not to begrudge Númenor her warriors when she has need of them.”

As she left the royal presence, her son followed her footsteps, both passing by a group of courtiers who stood aside to let them pass. Amandil watched them go until they disappeared, swallowed by the sea of people, then slowly looked away.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“You have to stop being so careless.” Melkyelid´s gaze had become openly reproachful in the privacy of her rooms, where she and her son had retired to sit in silk cushions by her own fireside. A lady came with bowls of spiced tea, but she dispatched her with a wave of her hand. “They could have discovered you.”

Pharazôn scowled.

“Stop being careless? I thought you approved of my carelessness!”

“I never said it was a good thing to abandon your duties overseas whenever you felt like it, only so you could enter the Princess of the West´s bed.”

“No, you only said it was a good thing to love her. You argued that there was nothing wrong with it, back when I had made up my mind to avoid her!” he retorted angrily.

“You would not have avoided her for long. “Melkyelid sighed. “There is no one in this world who can keep you from doing what you wish and seeing whom you wish, my son.”

“Then, what is it that you truly want me to do? Leave her? Let the King marry her off to Amandil´s son and mind my own business? Wait sixty years? Elope to the mainland with her? Usurp the throne to have her? Or just ask the King for her hand in marriage?” He laughed bitterly. “You were the one who told me that I could have her and be King. Perhaps you could also tell me how.”

Melkyelid drew a long breath. Her eyes had become fixed in the flames of the hearth.

“These things are going to happen. I know they are. The Lady showed me.”

“But she did not show you how.”

“With patience.”

“Were those her exact words?”

“No. They are mine.” She frowned. “The Goddess has watched over you since you were born, and you should respect her.”

“I do!” Pharazôn was doing visible efforts to rein in his temper. “I do respect her. But I cannot see how the King could be made to approve of a marriage between me and his daughter. He hates Father, he hates me, and he believes such unions to be incestuous. As does the rest of Númenor, by the way. And how could he possibly leave his heir unmarried? He will marry her as soon as possible. He has been throwing Elendil at her for the last two years.”

The Princess of the South shook her head.

“They do not love each other.”

“As if that would matter to him!”

“There is another father involved, my son. You forget about him.”

For a moment, Pharazôn looked confused. Then, he stood up, staring at his mother incredulously.

“Amandil? Are you saying I should tell him?”

“You trust him.” Melkyelid held her son´s gaze steadily, until he looked away. “You have always trusted him.”

“This is different.” Pharazôn began to pace up and down the room, not unlike a caged beast of the mainland. “His precious son is going to marry the Princess of the West. If he could pull off from the arrangement without telling the King why, it might be different. But he can hardly go and say 'I am sorry, my lord King, your daughter the heir to the fucking Sceptre is lovely and all, but I think I have found a better match for my son.' “He smiled mirthlessly. “No, all he will know is that his son´s wife-to-be is fucking... oh, sorry, Mother.”

“You can speak candidly to me. “Melkyelid frowned. “You know why.”

Obviously uncomfortable at the reminder, Pharazôn decided to shrug it off like an inconvenient garment.

“His son´s wife-to-be loves her cousin, and there is nothing he can do about it, except give me away. Give us away.”

“His son owes his life to us.”

“That does not... that was...” For a moment, the Prince hid his face behind his hands to smother a groan. Then, he rubbed his eyes and stood still, searching for his mother´s glance again. “Amandil cannot prevent this any more than I can.”

“Well, then it might be time.” She joined her hands under her chin elegantly. “For you to be discovered.”

“What?”

“You will be discovered at some point, as you were discovered by Ar-Gimilzôr before he died. The gods have ways to make their will known and respected by mortals.”, Melkyelid continued, ignoring the effect of her words. “So why not now?”

“Because... because...” There seemed to be no words to convey Pharazôn´s horror at the enormity she had proposed. As he had in a distant and almost forgotten time, he did not look at her as the person who had the right answers for his troubles, but rather as he would a madwoman. A madwoman who had to be avoided. “Mother, you were right earlier. I- I have been careless. It will not happen again. “He swallowed, as if steeling himself to make a decision. “Tomorrow, I will ride back to Sor.”

For the first time since the start of the conversation, the Princess of the South lowered her own gaze. Her eyes became fixed on her lap, and there was something akin to sad resignation in them that made her look defeated, and older than Pharazôn had ever seen her.

She had been ninety-three this Spring. And she was a daughter of a lesser lineage.

After he left her chambers, Melkyelid picked up a handful of powdered incense and threw it to the flames. As she watched them twist and contort before her eyes, a single tear rolled down her cheek, and she quietly shook her head.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Are you going to leave without telling me?”

The pallid glow of the moon was falling on her face, lighting her features, but it was not reflected in those bottomless eyes. They were fixed on his, with a dark emotion that felt different from the contented afterglow of their hidden encounters. It was brimming with the threat of a storm.

“What?” he mumbled, feigning surprise.

He should have known better.

“You have made a decision. We have spent the night together, and tomorrow, you are leaving for Sor. If you wanted to tell me what your decision is, you would have done so already. But you haven´t”, she explained, solemnly. “You are trying to hide it from me.”

“I am not hiding anything from you”, he protested, wiping his forehead and smiling in what he believed was a winning manner. “I know that is not possible.”

The Princess frowned.

“No, it is not. You should know by now.” She cut him before he could open his mouth. “You do not wish to come back. You will stay in Middle-earth because you are afraid that my father will discover you.”

“I am not afraid.” Pharazôn protested. “I just...we have never thought things through, but this is not going anywhere, and...”

“And I will have to marry Elendil” she spat, her fury growing with each word.  “I will have to marry Elendil and have his children, and you will do nothing to prevent it because you are a coward. You will stay in the mainland hiding behind your insignificant duties among your insignificant men. And when my father dies, I will be the Queen of Númenor, and you will be an exile because if I find you, I will kill you!”

“What do you want me to do, then?” For a moment, Pharazôn had the feeling that he was back in his mother´s chambers, arguing with her, and his frustration grew. Why was it that all these women were so sure that they could see the future and yet remained blind to what was right in front of them? He remembered Amandil´s words in a distant land about visions being an obstacle, rather than an advantage for a ruler, and thought that his friend had been absolutely right on this. “Maybe I could ask the King for your hand tomorrow. I can say I am older than Elendil, and more experienced. Better looking, too. As for my lineage, it is not bad, considering I am your first cousin. Oh, wait.”

Zimraphel did not laugh.

“Do it”, she challenged. “Do it, and stop being a coward.”

“You want me to come here and see you, and yet you are trying to make sure I will not be able to set a foot in Númenor ever again.” He kicked the covers away, suddenly finding them too oppressive. “Maybe it is you, who wishes to get rid of me. So you can be with Elendil.”

“Then prevent it. Kill him.”

A shiver, which had nothing to do with the chill of the winter air in his naked body, crossed Pharazôn´s spine.

“You are out of your mind.”

He had carefully avoided saying this for years, even though he had sometimes thought it, but this time, he was not sorry.  Nor was he as sorry as he would have been, in other circumstances, of what he did next.

“I am leaving”, he announced, jumping to his feet to begin foraging for his clothes. She sat on the bed, her right hand trailing down her naked breast, white as the purest ivory. But he did not look.

“Coward” she spat.

Pharazôn ignored her.

“I will marry Elendil.”

He crawled under the bed to pick his left shoe, mumbling a curse as his forehead collided with the bedstead.

“I will tell the King everything tomorrow.”

“You cannot prove it.”

“Maybe I can. Maybe I am with child.”

Ignore her. He had to ignore her. She was hurt. She was lashing out at him, but in a while, she would calm down. She always did.

She was not with child.

“I love you.”

His resolve almost crumbled . That voice, that look... he couldn´t. Oh, how he wished he could.

He loved her, too.

As he hurried down the stairs towards the Western courtyard, minutes later, he could not help but wonder, with dawning horror and disgust, if she was right to consider him a coward.