Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Hopes and Dreams

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“You seem upset, my lady.”

In the garden behind them, the fountains gurgled drops of water in a regular routine that never stopped, as the liquid overflowed from the basin only to return to it through a different channel every time. The sea behind her grey eyes, however, was anything but tame and regulated; it seemed about to rise at any moment and drown him in its depths.

“What is seem?” she asked. Her lips briefly curved in a superior sneer. “One is either upset or not. If you wish to succeed at court, you should know the difference between appearances and reality.”

Elendil inhaled. Of all the things he had needed to learn, of all the things he had been required to do which seemed to exceed his natural ability so much that he longed to escape this world and go back to teaching children after hours, this was definitely the worst of all.

“I am not as far-sighted as you are, Princess. All I can do is guess, and be concerned.”

He had never even felt comfortable around women. They all mocked him, some for his origins, most for his ungainly height. Compared to her, however, they were easy to please. Have some money, find an important father, smile to them... and then, they smiled back.                                                

Míriel never smiled back. Never, ever, since that first time they had met.

“I have heard much about your beauty, Princess”. He had recited the words he had learned by heart, feeling so glad that he had done so, as he was sure they would have deserted his mind here, facing her. “No lies were spoken.”

She did not acknowledge his compliment, and suddenly he could not figure out why she should. Her beauty was not of the sort that could be enhanced, encouraged by the compliments of men. She was like the moon, he realized, in an unusual fit of lyricism. One could write poems to the moon, sing her songs, gaze at her in admiration, but the moon would not shine any brighter, or pause in her cycles.

As he was wondering where had those thoughts come from, however, she stared back at him, and the moon mask cracked slightly. Her eyes narrowed, then widened in surprise.

“Who are you?” He was the center of her attention now, and this was somehow more terrible than her indifference. “What did you do?”

“I...”

She did not let him speak.

“You do not die. I cannot see you die, and I can see everyone else. Even myself. Why is that?”

Elendil did not know what to say. He had heard that some people in the royal family, as well as in his own, had the gift of foresight, and according to his father, Princess Míriel had a particularly strong streak of it. But, as he himself had never experienced those dreams of cataclysms and catastrophes, so often mentioned by his father and grandfather, he did not know how to deal with this.

Long after that meeting, he would still wonder why he chose the worst possible answer.

“Maybe” he smiled winningly, “maybe I managed to escape.”

Her glare could have cut him in two, just like now.

“You would not understand.”

“If you could believe me when I tell you that I deeply respect your ability, and that I wish that you... that you would...” He fell silent under her quelling look. What good was it? He had laughed at her foresight the first time they had ever met. She did not forget.

Why couldn´t the King see, with his far-reaching eyes, that there was no way she would want him as her husband?

And there he was, Elendil thought ruefully, laughing at foresight again.

“Let us play chess. Perhaps that may distract your mind, tempt it to stay in the present for a while. “He pointed at the garden, hoping that he had said nothing which could be construed as a matter for offense. “The present is pleasant. There is sunlight, fountains and birdsong.”

At least, she did not look any angrier. It was something.

“If you wish.”

She was not much interested in chess, but when she managed to focus on a match she was capable of winning, and that might help improve her mood. Today, however, she did not seem to be very interested, and Elendil knew better than to let her win, because no matter how many pieces were lost by her through apparent lack of concentration, if he were to pretend he had not noticed an opening, she would always know. She practices reverse concentration, he thought, ruefully. Maybe she was playing a different game in her head, for which the prize was not victory, but an opening to become angry and rid herself of his company.

Maybe she was playing that game all the time, while he loyally tried to follow the rules of regular chess.

Water was gurgling noisily near his left ear, and he awoke from his own, momentary distraction. A puzzled feeling coursed through his mind. Had he stumbled across an important revelation while his thoughts drifted away from something else?

Was this their famed foresight? Or just the common sense of lesser men?

“Very well”, he said, cleaning the board after his last win and setting the ivory pieces in their customary rows. “Let us do something else. If you defeat me, I will leave. What do you think?”

The Princess of the West looked up, towards him, with a frown. He smiled at her, a plain smile with no fissures.

“You are mocking me”, she accused. “If you wish to leave, you may do so.”

“I do not. That is why I will try to win”, he said. “You can defeat me, but only if you put your mind into it.” If you pay attention to me.

For that, she seemed to have no immediate answer. The frown still upon her forehead, she gazed pensively at her row of white pieces for a while. Then, she spun the board round, until the black pieces were before her.

“Begin”, she hissed, with the unmistakable tone of an order.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Now, that is a hopeful sight. She has never seemed interested in playing with anyone else.”

Amandil followed the King´s gaze, and watched Elendil as he pushed a white ivory piece across the board in the Princess´s garden. From his current position, leaning on the veranda at Tar- Palantir´s side, he could not see her expression, but he could see his son´s, and he looked nothing like he imagined a man in love would look. Then again, Amandil berated himself, he could hardly have expected anything else. If the King chose to see what he wanted to see, it was his privilege.

“The game does seem engaging, my lord King”, he nodded, quelling a wave of simmering guilty thoughts, which reminded him pitilessly that it should have been him, he was the one they had wanted to sit there, instead of following his heart like a fool and ruining the lives of other people. It was too late to change that, and his son seemed willing, once again, to pay the price. “Is this why you wanted to see me?”

Tar-Palantir laughed.

“You are even more impatient than I am. No, this is not why I wanted to see you. The reason is inside, if you wish to follow me.”

Amandil had not expected this. Curious in spite of himself, he looked away from the man and the woman playing chess in the garden, and left the veranda. As he walked down the corridor, away from the sunlight, he repressed a brief shiver.

The King took them upstairs, and then through a long and narrow gallery that connected the West Wing with the chambers where he used to spend his private time, away from both courtiers and his own family. In the six years of his reign, Amandil had only been there once that he could remember.

“Wait for us outside”, Tar-Palantir ordered a minor courtier, who stood at the end of the corridor and bowed low as he saw them arrive. The door was small, and would have passed unnoticed to Amandil in this palace full of them, if the man had not slid it open in front of their noses. The King stepped forwards first, and he followed.

“What do you think, my friend?”

The heir to Andúnië had to blink several times, so his eyes could grow used to the limited amount of light that made it past the painted wooden lattice. Then, as he saw it, he blinked again, this time in an attempt to understand what he was seeing.

A large table had been set in the middle of the room, one which could have seated more than twenty people. On its surface, a small landscape had been built, with piled earth and stones representing mountains and valleys, and streams and pools of blue glass representing rivers and the Sea. In the center, encircled by two large rivers, someone had painstakingly built a magnificent miniature city, with walls of wood, streets cobbled with white pebbles, and houses of ivory with tiny, tiled roofs. While Amandil was still admiring it, the King walked towards the window and pulled the lattice open, allowing the rays of the winter sun to cast a brighter light over the whole.

“This is...!” the heir of Andúnië exclaimed, in dawning comprehension. He had only seen the place once, as most of his life in the mainland had been spent much further South, and the final part of it much further North, but it was easy enough to recognize, if only because of the maps. “The Bay of Gadir, the mouths of the Great River, and... and...”

“And our new city, yes. Or, should I say, our old city reborn”, Tar-Palantír beamed. Amandil had never seen those piercing eyes shine so much. “I had it built in miniature, to be able to see how it will look like, and it was finished today.” A shadow of longing crossed his brow. “So far, this is all I have been able to build.”

Amandil´s gaze trailed beyond the enchanting streets of the city that did not exist, towards the blue glass representing the Sea. The end of the blue plain coincided with the end of the table at a short distance from the coast, right where a larger miniature would have had to show something else. An island.

For some reason that he did not even identify until later, he found this absence ominous.

“The Council does not agree.”

Tar-Palantír´s features hardened.

“The Council cannot decide for the King.”

“Your own family...” He let the words trail away, not sure of how he could finish this particular sentence. The King seemed to notice.

“I am aware that you owe them some favours, Lord Amandil. However, this is your birthright. This city was built by your family, in the Bay that belonged to your family. “His eyes were focused on his with such an intensity that Amandil felt the almost physical need to look down. “We must reclaim it.”

Reclaim it. Amandil remembered what had happened, back when others had claimed it from them in the first place. He wondered if it was possible that things could ever happen otherwise.

“I do agree, my lord King” he conceded, carefully. “I am merely concerned that it will be difficult to reach a peaceful agreement with all the parties involved.”

“It might seem difficult, I admit it.” Tar-Palantir stared, pensively, at the same spot where Amandil had been staring before. “But it will be done. I will not back down on this, or bow to the Council on this matter. If need be, I will begin building myself.”

Oh, yes, that was going to go down well, Amandil thought. He tried to focus on his objection.

“If there should be war among Númenóreans, even a small one...” He took a deep breath. “Mordor could seize the opportunity. Right now, it is far more powerful than it ever was during the war of Alissha.”

“Mordor is one of the main reasons why we have to do this,” the King argued. “We need to erect Númenórean strongholds to prevent its expansion. True, Faithful Númenórean strongholds.”

Yes, because Pharazôn would just join hands with Sauron and attack the Faithful with him, Amandil thought, with irritation. At once, he realized that his frustration could be read in his features, and he schooled them back into a calm expression.

“Forgive me for my lack of enthusiasm, my lord King. I have been in enough wars for one lifetime, and this has made me cautious. Too cautious, maybe. “He smiled, self-deprecatingly. “This is a wonderful city, and I want to see it built. I will help in any way possible.”

Tar-Palantir mirrored his smile, though the King’s smile was the truer of the two. It was obvious to Amandil that he had already fallen in love with the city of his imagination. When Tar-Palantir fell in love with a project, there was nothing one could do, nothing except to try and follow the whirlwind as best as one could.

“You will help, Lord Amandil, later. But there is someone who will help me first. “To Amandil´s bemusement, the King went back to his familiar habit of pacing around the room. “I will be making preparations for a journey soon enough. It has been so long since I was there last.”

“Where, my lord King?” he could not help but ask. For a moment, he thought that the King had not heard.

“Where? To your own house in Andúnië, of course. “His eyes were shining again. “I wish to speak to your father, Lord Númendil. There is a service I want him to render me, and I am certain he will be happy to do it.”

“A service, my lord king?” Amandil did not wish to seem concerned or in any way unenthusiastic after their disagreement earlier, so he tried to ask this with mild interest, but his heart was racing. What was the King going to make his father do? What role could someone like Lord Númendil have in this controversial affair?

“It is a secret. For now”, Tar-Palantir replied quellingly. “Let us go and meet your son and the Princess now, before the sun sets.”

Amandil was not reassured.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

From Elendil, in Armenelos, to the Lady Amalket, in Andúnië.

Dear Mother,

Things are quiet in the capital since the end of the winter festivities. Father is busier than ever: he spends long hours in the Palace with the King, making plans about the future of the Island and the kingdom. I, on the contrary, am idler here than I was in the West. My only duties consist of paying family visits to the Palace, and getting to know the Princess of the West. She seemed a hard woman at first, but not by her own fault: loneliness and the gift of foresight weigh heavily upon her. In time, we have reached an understanding over sunny afternoons in the Palace gardens, and now we get along well.

In my spare time, I am doing my best to practise my Quenya. In Court, many people pretend to speak it, as it has become fashionable, but no one really does. They even think I am good at it! I cannot be satisfied with their praise, however, as it is our family duty to keep the language alive and not merely to boast of knowing a few words. I wish there was someone here who could help with my pronunciation, as you did. Or that you could have told me the real secret of how you managed to learn it, before I left. I am your son!

Amalket smiled tremulously, gazing at the top balcony of the grey mansion, which appeared empty and closed. As her son had very well known, however, she was there, ready to dart out and glare in disapproval if she ever heard their voices from the garden path, raised above what was proper and in the language of their birth.

“You know the real secret,” she muttered to herself now, in this very language. Sometimes, though she was aware it could seem insane, she was afraid that she was going to forget it if she did not use it, that it would begin trickling away from her mind like wine from a pierced wineskin.

“My lady?” a surprised voice asked behind her. Amalket frowned, folding the paper in her hand.

“This is a letter from my son. You should not approach me while I am reading it.”

“Oh! I am very sorry!” The young woman bowed many times, and retreated from her presence, but not completely. She went to join other two ladies, who sat on a mouldy, ancient stone bench in the white rose garden. All three were gazing at her, expectantly.

Amalket wondered if they would be able to follow if she just ran away. It was a foolish thought, she knew. Of course they would try, even picking up their long robes and running after her if it was needed, because it was their duty, as it was her duty to allow herself to be followed, be courteous to her new family, and behave like a grand lady. Things, all of them, that this people had never believed she would be able to do.

Like speaking Quenya.

It had been poignant, for her, to be asked by her strong and independent son, in a voice heavy with desperation, about the means she had used to learn the language while he was still losing his own battle for its mastery. Back then, she had first comforted him to the best of her ability, and then told him what she thought: that, deep inside, he did not really wish to learn it (oh, how he had protested this!), because it hurt him that he was not good enough as he was, and resented everyone´s belief that it should come naturally to him if he truly was his father´s son.

“Then what about you, Mother? How can you wish to learn the language more than I do?”

She shrugged, bitterly.

“Because no one thought I could.”

This had been enough for her, back then, enough to keep her going forwards, never losing her momentum. Now that she felt she had reached her destination, however, she could not help but feel that she needed more. It was like her hatred for Amandil, which she always refused to discuss even with her own son. Wishing to defeat someone or make him suffer was a short lived impulse, and life was long. Not as long as that of the great families, maybe, but too long, nonetheless.

She shook her head with a snort. Lord Númendil, of all people, had been the one to help her realize this, right after her biggest row with the Lady Artanis. It was that day when the witch had asked her if lesser women could truly conceive by a man that they hated, as this seemed to be the case with her, and Amalket had answered that Lady Artanis obviously had no idea about lesser women, conception or love, so it was a good thing that she should ask more knowledgeable people for information. What had made this whole affair especially infuriating was that she had apologized at some point, while Lady Artanis merely accepted her apology as if it was a grand sacrifice on her part, not even thinking of offering one in return. Amalket, however, was so sure that she was in the right, that she even said so to the Lord of Andúnië himself, when he came to speak with her. She liked the man, mind, or as much as one could like someone who usually pretended that things were fine so he could avoid taking sides.

She had to admit she was surprised when, instead of his usual vague lines about Lady Artanis having suffered so much during her captivity, Lord Númendil began telling her -in every detail- the sad story of the impossible love between Lady Artanis and the prince who was now the King of Númenor. How she had to watch him marry another woman, chosen by his father Ar-Gimilzôr, and father a child, knowing that she would never love another man.

“She tried to pretend that she was well, that nothing had happened to her. She still thinks she has succeeded”, he said, looking at Amalket in a deep sort of way that made her feel judged.

“I am well” she replied. But she was not.

She was bloody well not. And his son was not, no matter how many cheery half-truths he wrote to her in his letters.

“You do not love that woman, and you never will. At least your father and I loved each other once”, she muttered again, glaring at Halideyid´s writing as if it was a substitute of him somehow. “Do you think that somebody is going to hand you a prize if only you pretend long enough? Your life will be much longer than mine, my son!”

“Lady Morwen.”

“I believe I told you...!” She stopped her outburst when she realized that someone else was standing right behind the young lady-in-waiting. Someone that, as ever, she did not want to see. “Lady Artanis.”

The Lord of Andúnië´s sister did not acknowledge her bow. She looked even less friendly than usual, and for a moment, Amalket wondered if she had somehow heard her talk to herself in the other language. Then, however, she noticed that she looked pale, as if she was not feeling well, or had heard some disturbing...

“Has something happened?” she asked, suddenly trying to keep her heart from beating too hard against her chest. Lady Artanis did not answer for a long while, as if she had not noticed her anxiety, or simply did not care.

“The Lord of Andúnië has just received word from his heir”, she finally said. “The King is coming to visit next summer.”

Is that all? Amalket would have wished to say, but fortunately she stopped herself before the words made it past her mouth. If Lord Númendil had been correct about his sister, and there was no reason to doubt that he had been, for Lady Artanis this visit should be the worst possible news in the world.

She almost felt sorry for her.

“Well, we will have to prepare the royal visit, then”, she nodded. “I will help you in any way I can, my lady.”

Lady Artanis did not acknowledge this, either.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The Wave towered over the once proud city, ready to drown it as it had drowned it a thousand times before. Amandil tried to run, to escape the roaring waters as he had tried a thousand times before, knowing that, like every other time, he was trapped, and there was no escape.

Only that, this time, the water did not roar. A strange silence, heavy with doom and death, weighed upon the scene, and he felt more terrified than ever.

He turned back, and froze. The Wave was still towering upon him, but it was not made with water. It was made of blue glass, and instead of foam it had jagged spikes, pointing at his heart.

Númenor would not be drowned, he realized with a start. It would be pierced by a thousand shards of glass. There would not be water, but blood, flooding the streets of the city.

As he woke up, drenched in sweat, the first thing he did was to feel the mattress around him, looking for cutting edges. When he saw that there weren´t any, he slowly came back to himself.

The miniature. The King´s miniature had blue glass representing the Sea. It had obviously stayed in his mind, enough to figure even in his prophetic dream. It had already happened before: he had dreamed of a wave of blood when there had been a battle, or that time when Pharazôn had come to wake him up drenched in bull gore, from those outlandish rituals honouring the Lord of Battles.

It was because he was worried about it, he reasoned feverishly. The Powers that Be would not warn him about a political move, as ill-advised as he thought it might be, bringing the end of Númenor. If even a war with the Merchant Princes could be the end of Númenor, then the Island was beyond help.

“The Doom of Númenor will come through one of these wars in the mainland”. It was Yehimelkor, now the High Priest of Melkor, who had used to say that, and Amandil never knew if it had been a prophetic statement or merely a way to express his disapproval at his pupil´s views. That man had always been uncompromising to the point of stubbornness. He did not distinguish lesser evils from greater ones. The King was much better at that sort of thing.

It was the King, not a priest, who should be trusted on this.

Still, and though Amandil felt much better after reaching this decision, he was unable to sleep again that night.