Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Shadows of War

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Amandil allowed himself to close his eyes briefly, then opened them again to stare at the semicircle where he had sat for many years, listening to words, learning names and observing faces, factions and intrigues until he knew them as well as the back of his hand. At this moment, he felt as if this had all been an illusion, and the Council he had known so well was not the one in front of him anymore. The dark currents, which had always been buried deep underneath a veneer of courtesy, had emerged with a vengeance, threatening to engulf them with the blind violence of the Wave in his dreams.

“We have to destroy them! Kill them all!”

“And their allies in the Island! It is our duty to free Númenor from their corrupting influence!”

At the right end of the Council Chamber, the landholders were the most violent in their display. Amandil thought he had seen a fell light shine in Lord Zakarbal’s eyes that would not have been out of place among the Haradrim who slit the throats of the Sea People.

“My lords… please…”

The left end, in deep contrast, had the forlorn look of a battlefield after the fight was over. Amandil counted four empty Council seats, eight places in total, which was unprecedented, as far as he knew, in all of the Council’s history. He had been told that Magon had fled Armenelos in the night, and his net of associates was so wide that it was impossible to determine where he had gone. The Magistrate of Umbar had decided it was prudent to withdraw as well, and as for the Prince Gimilkhâd, rumour had it that neither he nor his wife were allowed to leave the South Wing of the palace. Finally, in the row of the courtiers, the Chamberlain, who was kin to Ithobal, Gimilkhâd’s foster brother, had disappeared too, whether by his own decision or that of others, Amandil could not tell. Only a bald man stood alone in the row of empty seats, wearing a splendid leopard mantle that could not hide the trembling of his hands, or the increasing pallor of his face as he tried, in vain, to stem the flow of the tide.

Amandil had always hated the Governor of Sor, but today he was almost tempted to feel sorry for him.

“Please, listen!” His voice was shrill, with none of its usual dignity. “I say there is not enough proof…”

“Not enough proof?” Shemer of Hyarnustar scoffed. “Did you hear the witnesses? Were you listening to Lord Amandil? Not only have they committed treason by allying themselves with the Arnians to stop the supply line, they went as far as to join hands with Mordor as well! With Mordor, the land ruled by the darkest enemy of all men! They stole the hostages, and massacred countless Númenóreans while their representatives had the effrontery of sitting here among us, discussing the governance of the realm as if nothing had happened! Isn’t that right, Lord Amandil?”

“Yes”, Amandil nodded. “That is what happened.”

Looking at that man, he had the definite impression that the Mordor alliance had been news to him. He was a pathetic excuse for a military commander, as blind to the manoeuvring of his allies as he had been to the goings-on in the mainland for years. Now, this would cost him his post, at the very least, he thought darkly. The hounds had smelled blood, and it was driving them mad.

 “Lord Amandil was very brave; he survived countless ambushes and managed to reach Númenor with his men, in spite of the deadly snares of his enemies. If he had not done so, we would still be sitting here, in blissful ignorance of the fact that the Bay had been given over to the Dark Lord, while those vipers spun their tales to lure us into a false sense of security!”

The words of Zakarbal elicited yet another wave of loud indignation. Cowed, the governor did not reply, retreating even more, if it was possible, into his seat.

“My lord King, it is inevitable. We must go to war and wipe this scum and all their accomplices from the face of Earth once and for all!”

At least, Amandil had the grim satisfaction of knowing that his dreams and premonitions were not figments of his imagination, and that the gift of the line of Elros still ran true. Since he had first known of the King’s plans to settle Pelargir, they had been warning him that this would happen, and so it had. And if it had not been for his father and the strange magic of those Elves he associated with, he thought, he would have been dead now because of it.

As it had happened often since that day, he had to struggle not to surrender to the feeling of unreality that came upon him whenever he remembered those events, threatening to dissociate his mind from what was unfolding around him. He was here now. He was alive, and neither this disaster nor his role in it were over.

It had just begun.

Next to him, Tar-Palantir’s was the only face in the room that had not shown any signs of emotion. So far, he had abstained from most of the debate, giving free rein to whatever abuse the Council members had wished to pile upon one another.

Now, for the first time in a long while, he spoke.

“Lord Zakarbal is right. The situation has reached a point where we can hardly turn a blind eye to the happenings in the mainland any longer. The survival of Númenor itself is at stake, and for that we will have to go to war.”

The effect of his words was immediate. An ear-splitting roar of approval swept the room, reminding Amandil of the yells of barbarian tribesmen before clashing with their enemies on the battlefield. He closed his eyes again, disquieted by the memories that this had evoked in his mind. Perhaps he should have listened to Amalket, when she said that it would do him no good to rush into a battle before he had recovered from another. But, what else could he have done? He had made it this far from the dark forest where he was first ambushed; barricading himself in his residence and refusing all summons was not an option.

As if from a distance, he heard Yehimelkor’s voice rise in righteous anger, accusing the King of causing civil strife out of an unholy wish to control the mainland, and the various outraged voices that rose in response. Tar Palantir’s own voice, he noticed, was not among them. He seemed to have decided that a grave and regretful attitude was the most adequate frame of mind with which to begin a war between Númenóreans.

Maybe he regretted it in truth. Maybe Amandil was merely too dispirited to see good in anyone at this moment.

“We will be sending word to the Prince Pharazôn in Umbar at the shortest notice.”

The King’s words brought Amandil back from his thoughts so abruptly that he almost gave a start. He was not the only one: the same people who had been eager for war looked first incredulous, then scandalized at this unexpected development.

“What? The Prince Pharazôn? He is not trustworthy! He… he is their kinsman!”

“Magon the traitor is his cousin!”

“His mother was surely involved in this!”

“He will join hands with them and turn on the Sceptre!” Lord Shemer predicted. “He always thought that he should be King instead of the Princess of the West!”

“There is no other.” Tar Palantir’s voice carried over the din in the room, causing it to stop. “Who among you would lead the Umbar troops to the Bay against Gadir and the combined might of their allies of Arne and Mordor? Who among you would be followed into battle by the Haradric auxiliary troops?”

For a moment, Amandil’s gaze met that of Elendil, and he could feel his son’s dismay as he silently shook his head at him from the other side of the room. He forced himself to ignore it.

“Let me do it, my lord King.”

Elendil looked down. The Council, however, seemed to grasp this opportunity as they would a lifeline.

“That is true! Let Lord Amandil go! He is the greatest hero of Númenor, and the leader of the Faithful!”

“He knows the land, and survived in it for days with only a handful of men!”

But Tar-Palantir shook his head.

“No. Amandil will have to stay here this time.” Before Amandil could open his mouth again, he stood from his seat. “This Council session is over. We will reconvene tomorrow to discuss the expedition. Praised be Eru the Almighty.”

Oblivious to everything else, from proper ceremony to the voices that called to him and even to Elendil’s reproachful look, Amandil strode past the threshold of the Council Chamber, and rushed down the corridor in pursuit of the King.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Amandil had never broken so many rules in the Palace, not even when he was brought in prisoner as a young child. Since the mask of civilization had finally cracked that day in the Council chamber, when the most powerful and esteemed men in Númenor rose to yell for the blood of their rivals, he felt as if he, too, had reverted to his Middle-Earth self, and all his efforts to hide it or turn back from it were failing.

“My lord! My lord King!” Scandalized courtiers stared at him, and ladies covered their mouths with their sleeves in shock, but he did not stop. As he approached Tar Palantir in the Second Courtyard, two men gathered around him protectively, as if they expected Amandil to suddenly brandish a sword at the King of Númenor.

“You can leave us alone now”, Tar Palantir ordered, stopping at last. When he turned to face him in this incongruously sunny landscape of bright flowers and running fountains, Amandil paused for a second, realizing the enormity of what he was doing, and the dangers he was incurring.

But it was already too late.

“My lord King, I…” He inhaled sharply; the chase had left him breathless. “I beg you to reconsider.”

The King would not let go of his irritating composure.

“Why are you so eager to go back to Middle-Earth and risk your life again? You were almost lost forever this time, and that would have been a terrible outcome, for Númenor no less than for those who love you”, he spoke. His concern suddenly seemed just as incongruous to Amandil as the gardens around them.

“You cannot send Pharazôn to Gadir.”

“I thought that you were childhood friends.” Now, the King’s equanimity was tinged with a small amount of surprise. “Do you also believe that he and his parents are part of the Merchant Princes’s conspiracy, and that he will turn against the Sceptre?”

That was not the right question. Not by a long stretch. “Do you believe that, my lord King?” And if you do, what is your long-term game? Are you trying to destroy Númenor just in the hope of destroying Pharazôn?

Tar Palantir’s look was guarded.

“You do not speak your accusations, and yet I can see them in your eyes. Perhaps you need to calm your righteous anger and reflect on this. If anyone who is not Pharazôn is sent to the mainland to take command of his troops, do you think he would not be able to prevent it? And if we leave his troops aside, raise another army in Númenor and deploy it so close to Umbar, wouldn’t he be able to stop them as well? Whether in direct command or not, whether by our will or not, he now holds the key of everything that happens in the mainland. If he is in the conspiracy, whoever goes there will be killed. My son-in-law has volunteered, you have volunteered, but I cannot allow either of you to go. It has to be him. This way, at least, we do not put our most valuable resources at risk.”

In another moment, Amandil might have indulged in some inner amusement, wondering how that idiot Prince Vorondil would have fared against the likes of Magon or Noxaris, let alone Sauron. Pharazôn would definitely have wiped the floor with him, if he had been involved in the conspiracy.

“So, you are suspicious of him.”

“He is related to the Merchant Princes of Gadir through his mother. And his closeness to the Princess of the South is well known by all.” That was true enough. Even Amandil had not been sure of how he would be received in Umbar when he brought news of their treachery, he remembered. But back then, his life had been threatened on many fronts, and he might have mistrusted his own kin, had they showed up. And in the end, he had chosen to trust, hadn´t he? If the Elves had not arrived, he would have gone to Pharazôn.

“I cannot claim that he likes you, or agrees with everything that you do, my lord King, but he is loyal to the Sceptre. He… he was estranged from his father, because he refused to fight for what the Prince of the South believed to be his birthright, and stayed in the mainland to avoid their intrigues.” It felt strange to divulge his friend’s confidences, almost like betrayal, even more so in front of the King. “But if you force him out of this position, and order him to fight his own kin…”

“Yes?” Tar-Palantir had the look of a teacher who was expecting his student to find the correct answer to something by himself, instead of telling him outright.

Damn, Amandil cursed angrily in his mind. He had talked himself into a corner. He could either claim to believe in Pharazôn’s loyalty, which would mean that the King’s approach was justified, or he could cast aspersions upon his friend’s character, which he refused to do. Saying that he did not want Pharazôn to be in this untenable position because he was his friend and his heart grieved for him was out of place in this conversation, in this Palace, and in this company. Who cared for what he wanted or did not want to happen, when Númenor was, for the first time in centuries, in real danger?

Yes, he thought, the danger looked real enough. Many lives were at stake, perhaps the colonies and the entire mainland. Should the troops of Umbar revolt now, and join the Merchant Princes, the Arnians… and Mordor…

But no, he realized in a sudden flash of lucidity, not Mordor. That was an impossible alliance, and deep inside the King must know it, too. That was why he was so calm, so composed in this delicate situation. Though he claimed to despise his brother’s family, he knew just as well as Amandil did that Pharazôn would never become an ally of Sauron. To send him there was not a wild gamble with Númenor as stakes: it was merely a calculated risk. If the King would not send Amandil in his stead, it was not because he was concerned for his safety, but because he had a double objective in sight: to win this war, and also to destroy the Merchant Princes and Pharazôn’s reputation among his allies in one single swipe. For so long, he had prevented his nephew from gaining glory in the mainland; now, he could finally go and gain all the glory he wanted, though at a price.

Amandil was appalled at this uncanny ability to take immediate advantage of the most ominous of setbacks. When had Tar Palantir developed it? Maybe it was in the blood of all the Kings of Númenor, to know how to manipulate the Council and their own kinsmen for their own purposes, as if they were nothing but puppets to be moved at will. Maybe it was good for the realm, and the reason why it had lasted for thousands of years.

All that he knew for sure, however, was that it nauseated him.

“I apologize for my poor behaviour, my lord King.” It was possible that his feelings were visible to him even now, but he did not think that he could help it. They were too strong. “It seems I am still affected by my experiences in the mainland.”

Tar-Palantir nodded gravely. For a moment, his sea-grey eyes met his.

“Your apology is accepted, lord Amandil. If this knowledge is of any use to you, I, too, wish that things could have happened differently.”

Amandil swallowed, and lowered his head in a bow.

“I am glad to know that, my lord King.” But it was of no use to him.

No use to him, and much less to Pharazôn, the thought came to his mind as he stood there, oblivious of the courtiers who dashed past him, and watched the King of Númenor disappear through the Painted Gallery at a brisk pace.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

He had never been very fond of incense, of its heavy scent smelling of long and tedious ritual, which intensified to the point of nausea when it became necessary to hide the smell of blood. Outside, he tolerated it for the sake of appearances, and of course she would always bring traces of it in her robes and her hair. But here, after several days and nights, he could not stand it any longer, any more than the monotonous drone of the litanies, which seemed to bear into his skull and pierce the remainder of his scattered thoughts.

“Will you ever stop praying?” he shouted above the chants. The woman’s voice died, but she did not move an inch from her bowed position before the altar, as if she had merely switched to moving her lips in silence.

Gimilkhâd approached her.

“I understand your wish to do your duty towards your father.” That old bastard had lived too long, in his opinion, and now he had left them with this mess. “But I believe there are more pressing concerns at this moment. Magon has not been found yet, and I just heard that war has been declared against the magistrates of Gadir and their allies.”

Melkyelid did not answer for a while. Then, with an air of reluctance, she bowed thrice, and looked away from the ivory throne of the Lady of the Seas.

“Indeed?”

“Yes. The King has declared it, and the Council was very supportive of his decision. Or what remains of the Council, I should say.”

“Oh.”

He was beginning to grow angry at her attitude. She should be as interested in this subject as he was, pestering him with questions and desperately looking for information. After all, it was her family who had been declared traitors, her cousin who had run away from Armenelos to hide from the King, and her city in rebellion against the Sceptre, not to mention in collusion with the Dark Lord of Mordor. She should be worried for them as well as for herself, but all she did was pray, as if prayer could solve any of this! Even worse; whenever he tried to talk to her, she seemed to treat his news as a mere distraction.

She had always been religious, which as a former priestess was nothing but understandable, but before, there had been purpose behind her worship for the Lady. Like there had been purpose behind Magon’s alliances with the barbarians, and his undermining of the Sceptre, until the insane bastard decided to invite the Dark Lord to his front yard and screwed them all.

“There is something else. Your precious son is going to lead the troops to the Bay of Gadir.”

This time, she did show emotion. With a look of sadness, she gazed at the hands she had crossed over her lap, and involuntarily, Gimilkhâd’s eyes travelled in the same direction. The new lines of age he saw on them disquieted him a little.

“Yes, I know. I heard.”

“You heard? How…oh, never mind.” Always with her mysterious nets of spies, he thought, his anger growing as he pondered the implications. “If you know so much about everything, how did your own family’s plans escape you? Or perhaps they did not?”

Could she have been making a fool of him in collusion with them?

“They did, as I knew not of them, but I will gladly pretend that I did if you believe that it would clear you of suspicion.” she replied, raising her glance to meet his. Gimilkhâd’s train of thought stopped dead at her look, and he cursed.

“I did not mean… I was not accusing you, or trying to lay the blame on you”, he apologized, ashamed. “You are my wife, and I will protect you.”

“I know” she smiled, even as the tiny voice in his head accused him of being a hypocrite and a coward. What could he protect her from? All his allies, his titles, his high blood, could avail him nothing in this situation. Even worse, the entire outcome might well depend on their son, that selfish shit who had always ignored his wishes since he was a child, and done exactly as he wanted in all matters.

“If Pharazôn refuses to do the King’s dirty work, do you think that we will be charged with treason? After all, we are nothing but hostages here.”

“If he refuses, he will disappear in barbarian land and never come back, for he will not join hands with the Dark Lord. He will live his life in exile, and he will never be King.”

“He will never be King? Are you mad? Is this all you can think about now? Your family, your city, even our own lives are on the line!”

“You are the King’s brother. Your life is not on the line” she argued, her voice raised slightly above her usual soft tone. Gimilkhâd was taken aback a little. “Now, if Pharazôn does his duty, you will be cleared of all suspicion. As for the rest, I do not worry: my family is this family, and my city is this city, as it was ever since the day I married you.”

And you son is all that matters in this world, he thought, bitterly. Even now, in spite of knowing that Pharazôn doing his duty would be the best outcome for him personally, her indifference to all the other things she had ever claimed to love felt outrageous, almost  -monstrous.

Would she let him go like this, too, if Pharazôn was threatened?

He did not wish to contemplate the answer to that.

“So, you want him to destroy our allies, your people, so he can be King one day. Whose King, I wonder! If he agrees to work for our enemies, soon he will be seen as one of them, but they will never accept him.”

“That is what the King wants.” Her golden forehead curved in a frown. “Far-seeing they call him, and indeed he is. He has predicted this outcome, and he will take advantage of it. But there are other far-seeing people in this world, some more than he. And the Queen of the Sacred Cave, she sees farther than any mortal.”

That, again. Gimlkhâd shook his head in irritation.

“If you claim to see with the Lady’s eyes, perhaps you should have prevented this from happening, instead of making vague prophecies that do not avail us now.”

“Perhaps it is not our place to prevent what the gods have in store for us” she retorted calmly. “All we can do is learn how to react to it.”

“I did not know my brother was a god”, he snorted, turning away to leave the room. Behind him, after a brief silence, he heard her voice taking up the litany again, as if nothing of consequence had interrupted it.

Later, as he tried to find an elusive sleep on his empty bed, he thought he could still hear her, monotonously muttering the words of the Goddess in the darkness of the night.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“These are the conditions.” Pharazôn sat at the makeshift chair, which sunk a little on the sand of the beach from his armoured weight. He felt restless, and, at the same time, so very tired. “You open the gates of the city, you return the hostages, and you and the rest of the council, including the Magistrate, surrender for trial. Now, do you accept them, or not?”

The man in front of him -some merchant sent as an envoy by the Magistrate, probably after drawing the shortest straw in the city council- had a strange way of conducting talks. He nodded attentively, giving the impression that he was listening to everything that was said, but then, instead of replying, he persisted in entangling him in his own gibberish.

“Perhaps, my lord, it might be more advisable to negotiate in the city, ah, protected from indiscreet ears and eyes. As I was saying, this way you can see with your own eyes that the hostages are alive and well-treated, and some trust can be gained by both parts. Then, we could proceed to…”

He had only been sitting for a moment, but he already felt the urge to stand again. Behind him, he could imagine Adherbal rolling his eyes, and Barekbal’s forehead twitching.

“Shut up, you stupid fool!” The merchant’s retinue stared at him in shock, seemingly not appreciative of the great levels of restraint he had been exercising for the previous half hour. If it had been anyone else, anywhere else, it would not matter whether they were standing before the Black Gate itself, he would have had him shot and given the order to attack. “I have repeated myself enough, I will do so once again. Do you accept the conditions, or not?”

“I am sorry, my lord prince. Those are not the conditions we voted on before I left, so I would have to return and ask for instructions. Unless you are willing to negotiate on the terms that…”

“Look.” Pharazôn took a sharp intake of breath, forcing himself to dismiss the growing suspicion that they had deliberately sent this idiot because they had no intention of surrendering. “You appear to be under the wrong impression that I was sent here to negotiate with you. I was not. I am not authorized to conduct any kind of negotiations or to alter the conditions decided by the King and his Council, only to see them done.”

The merchant looked left and right, then leaned forward, as if trying not to be overheard. Suddenly, he did not look so much like a bumbling fool, and more like a calculating tradesman.

“My lord, I know you are here by order of the Sceptre, but I am sure you wish to arrive to a peaceful solution as much as we do. Your own flesh and blood have dwelt in this city for generations uncounted, and your radiant mother used to tend to the Lady’s statue in the temple. Moreover, we are very rich, and there is nothing we would not be willing to pay for...”

“I am not authorized to commit treason, either” Pharazôn cut the man loudly. Damn him. And Magon. And the King. And Amandil.

“Do we… detain him?” Barekbal asked with an intent frown. He shook his head.

“No! Escort him back to his boat. He has to go back to the city council to correct some misinformation they seem to have received by mistake, and then come back with their new answer.” The envoy did not rise at this cue, and for a moment he even seemed about to open his mouth to say something else. Then, however, he felt the soldier’s hand on his shoulder and immediately stood up, his face as pale as if he had been attacked. As they made their way down the beach, Pharazôn could still hear him complaining about this unbelievable show of rudeness towards the colony’s chosen spokesperson.

“Rudeness? He is lucky to be alive! He came here to waste your time, and tried to bribe you into the bargain!” Adherbal snorted. “As a matter of fact, you showed remarkable restraint.”

“This is not Harad, and they are not a barbarian tribe!”, Pharazôn hissed. “This is one of the greatest colonies of Númenor, and the most ancient of all. It contains the oldest of the Great Temples, and it is also home to people of great nobility.”

Your family. Neither Adherbal nor Barekbal needed to say it aloud; he could read it in their faces.

“You are right, my lord prince.” It might have been his imagination, but it seemed to him that there was a conspiratorial air to Adherbal’s next look in his direction. “We will abide by whatever decision you make.”

Pharazôn let go of a long breath. He was even more tired than moments ago, more tired, he thought, than he had ever been in his life. And still, the restlessness would not leave.

“I do not make any decisions here”, he said, turning away from them to head towards the ruins of Amandil’s fort.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Night was falling as Pharazôn walked back across the surf, his body gradually becoming aware of the slight chill of the breeze near the river. Above his head, the sky was still red, with the eerie colour of newly spilled blood. At what seemed like a short distance, he could hear his men’s comings and goings, but he had no wish to approach them.

He knew that he had little ground to stand on, when he reviled the city envoy for his short-sighted folly. For he, too, was acting like a fool, like a coward who waited for things to rearrange themselves to accommodate his needs, while in his innermost of hearts he was terrified of acting. This fear was a strange feeling, and entirely new to him, but he did not know how to make it go away. All he could do was pretend in front of his men and in front of his enemies; lie through his teeth, and claim that he did not make any decisions, like all cowards did.

Of course you make the decisions, you fool, he thought bitterly. You have the army, the King only has the Sceptre. What are you afraid of?

But that was not how things worked, the more reasonable part of himself, the one that he always imagined sounding like Amandil, attempted to argue. He could not disobey orders without rebelling, and even if his men followed him, even if he could get away with it, he would find himself caught between Númenor and Mordor. If he fled, he could become a renegade, maybe a king somewhere, but he would never see the Island again, or his mother and father-  or her. And damn if he knew why he would ever want to see her, but there she was, buried deep under his skin like an ever-festering wound.

Who knew the King could be such a clever bastard? Many believed him to be a high and pious man, of those who stood above mundane matters and the pettiness of politics, but anyone who could entrap him in such a manner had to spend at least half of his prayers thinking up schemes. Others in his faction would have been scared to put him in charge of this business, believing that he would betray them, join hands with the rebels and overthrow the Sceptre. They would not even remember that Mordor had to factor in the equation, or worse, they would believe him capable of dealing with Sauron. After all, his cousin Magon had, hadn’t he? Who among them knew that Pharazôn could not care less for his cousin Magon, or remembered that he had been fighting Sauron’s allies for all his life? Amandil, maybe, but he probably could not risk defending Pharazôn in such illustrious company.

Pharazôn did not care for Magon, for his so-called Gadirite family, or for the city itself. It was beautiful, yes, and ancient, but it was not worth committing treason. Still, there were two important issues to consider here. One of them, the one that was probably in the forefront of the King’s mind, was that they had always been his father’s natural allies, and that fighting them would destroy his family’s footing in the Island. The other, the one that was in his mind, was his mother. His mother, who misled him with outlandish prophecies of grandeur, but still loved him more than anyone else in the world. Since he was a child, she had raised him on stories about her beloved city, its beaches, its channel, its giant trees with floating roots, its ancient temple of the Lady among the seashell rocks. She had told him about the tall houses full of towers, where they would climb to see their ships arrive, loaded with merchandise from distant lands. She had spoken of her love for her family of merchants, and always did her best to explain the honour and the glory that she saw in their profession, though many noblemen in Armenelos considered them to be beneath their notice. Pharazôn had nodded through all of this, rolled his eyes more often than not, and privately agreed with the noblemen of Armenelos. He had visited the city often, and his kinsmen, but in spite of his efforts he had never felt comfortable around them. When the opportunity had arisen, he had double-crossed them and snatched Amandil away from their grasp without even thinking twice: of course, the life of his friend had to come first.

And yet, through all of this, he had always remained certain of her feelings. If a solution was not reached soon, if he was forced to destroy the city, it would be like killing her with the same stroke.

“My lord! My lord prince!”

“What is it?” he barked, not happy to be disturbed. It was a young man, who advanced towards him a little too slowly. Pharazôn did his best to school his features into a less frightening expression. “Is that a letter? From the King?”

“No. I mean, y-yes, it is a letter, but no, it doesn’t have the King’s seal.”

“Well, give it to me, then!”

The young man obeyed, and quickly turned away. The faint glow of the receding dusk was barely enough to see the words on the paper, but still Pharazôn broke the seal and tried to read it. It was a very brief note, so short that he began to wonder if it could be a real letter, but then his eyes fell upon the signature, and his heart turned.

“How on Earth…?” he began, but of course it was useless. The man who had brought the letter was now half a beach away.

As fast as if a horde of Orcs was chasing him, Pharazôn grabbed it and headed towards the encampment, which consisted on tents hastily set inside the ruins of the fort. Several men stared at him, and some tried to address him, but he did not pay heed to any of them, and did not pause until he was in the privacy of his tent.

To the Prince Pharazôn, legate to the King in Pelargir, the lady Melkyelid, Princess of the South, in Armenelos,

My dearest son,

I will forgive you everything, except for a single thing: that you fail to fulfil your destiny. Look no more to the past, and set your gaze upon the future.

Your loving mother.

Unsettled, Pharazôn stared at the message as if it had just dropped from the sky, instead of been delivered by a regular channel. This letter had been written weeks ago, it had been carried on horseback, on a ship, on a boat, but somehow it had come to him right at the moment when he was thinking of her, to provide an answer to his anguished thoughts. It was almost unthinkable. How could she have known? When he was young, he was sure that she must have prophetic powers of some sort, at least before everything she professed to have been building began to crumble in front of their eyes.

Fulfil his destiny.

No matter what happened, she had kept this obsession with his glorious fate. He could not understand it. How could she still choose those elusive dreams, even over her own, living people? Had the gods enlightened her beyond other mortals, or were they blinding her?

How could he ever be sure?

That night, as he finally surrendered to a fitful sleep, he dreamed of her. In his dream, she was smaller and frailer than he remembered her, her once beautiful face laden with wrinkles. She sat on a tower, watching the horizon for something that he could not see.

Come with me, Mother, he begged, offering her his hand, but she would not take it. Fire roared around them, large flames that burned his flesh and filled his nostrils with smoke. Coughing, he looked from the tower, and saw the troops of Umbar lighting the fire. His own army.

Please, Mother, come with me, he insisted, trying to take her arm. Whenever he touched her, however, his hand only grabbed at wisps of smoke.

Suddenly, she smiled.

Fulfil your destiny, she said, and went up in flames.

Pharazôn woke up yelling himself hoarse, surrounded by three guards who had galloped into the tent with their swords unsheathed. Even as he struggled to smile and reassure them that it was nothing, only a dream, the blind terror remained, twisting his innards until the break of dawn.