Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Eye of the Storm

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Whenever he tried to close his eyes and remember the bodies, she was among them. No matter how many times he told himself that it had not been so, that the moment they passed the poisoned cup around the room she had been half a world away, somehow she was still there, a grave yet proud look in her eyes as she embraced her own death, surrounded by her people.

 

There was nothing to be proud about, Mother, he wanted to yell angrily, shaking her cold, inert limbs with his hands. As its ruling council, they had been entrusted with the task of protecting the city, and instead of this they had brought its destruction. In their folly, they assumed that he had marched on Mordor, that he would not be coming back, and seized the chance to organize an uprising, using their fellow citizens as pawns in their mad bid for salvation. The Commander’s concern for their accursed city had been greater than theirs; he had done all he could to prevent an engagement and reach a peaceful solution while he waited for his arrival, but they had other plans. And when the fires started…that had been the end of all, of peace, of both guilty and innocent lives, and, in the end, of the city itself.

 

They must have believed that they were acting nobly, when they locked themselves in the cave sanctuary and put an end to their own lives. But the truth was that they had been nothing but a bunch of cowards. They could not even face what they had done. Had they been able to look into the eyes of the deity of the place, whose statue loomed wrathfully over them? Perhaps they thought that she would forgive them if they died at her feet in some sort of unholy sacrifice, that she would still wish to free them from Eternal Darkness. Pharazôn was no expert in the ways of the divine, but he hoped that she would not.

 

He had never been quite as attached to the city as his mother had been, but it had still shocked him to see it like this: burned and ruined buildings, streets full of corpses, the channel water dark from the soot and the fumes.

 

The sight was terrible, Mother, but it was not the end. It did not have to be. Cities could be rebuilt, and decimated populations could grow back, but they needed to have the will to do so. He had seen the survivors, two days after the disaster: they were huddled together in the quarter at the other side of the channel, which the fire had not been able to penetrate, though there was no shelter for all of them there, and barely any food. Many of them seemed so shocked, their gazes so vacant as they held to their loved ones and looked into the distance, that it did not seem far-fetched to believe that they would have let themselves die as well. Balbazer had confessed to him that he had been tempted to let them, but duty won out in the end and he began the preparations to evacuate most of them to Umbar.

 

They did not have that will anymore. Was it the same with you? Was this what happened?

 

He had been told in no uncertain terms -for in his grief he had felt the need to ask, to pry, to revise every detail- that it had not been any kind of self-inflicted death, like that of the city councilmen. She did not seem to have let herself die, either, as in those ghastly rumours that circulated in secret about his late grandmother, the wife of Gimilzôr. According to those who had surrounded her, she had not stopped eating or drinking, and the freakish ability to have one’s soul leave the body at will was something that only those of the bloodline of Andúnië were known to possess. No, it had been a sudden stroke, and her heart had stopped beating while she prayed in the middle of the night, so there was no one around who could hear her. Such an unfortunate happening was rare but not unheard-of, and she was not so young anymore -and, apparently, she had been overexerting herself with her devotions since this entire affair had started.

 

Still, in spite of what they said, and in spite of the fact that he had never seen her corpse until it was embalmed and ready to pass under the Meneltarma, the scene was fixed on his mind as if he had witnessed it: his mother, lying on the floor at the feet of the statue, exactly as those bodies had been in the cave of Gadir. Two scenes, exactly identical in spite of the great expanse of the Sea between them, like some strangely coordinated sacrifice.

 

Had she known that she would die, from her visions? Had she seen things, as he had for all this time? Those dreams that he had, which he took for an expression of his darkest fears, seemed to have been proved true in the end. Had they been of those that they called prophetic? If so, it was almost too much of an irony to think that he had been worrying all his life because he could not figure how to work the sacred leaf, only for his bloodline to finally gain the upper hand in such a roundabout way. And then, as Amandil had always claimed, it had brought him suffering, but availed him nothing. He had tried to do all he could for her: to keep her city intact, to spare her from malicious charges, and even to follow her wish that he should earn glory at the same time. But he had failed in the end, and if he had never dreamed anything at all, right now he might have believed what they said about the stroke -and at least been spared the agony of suspicion.

 

Defeat. Was this what the creature had said? He would suffer a great defeat. And what greater defeat could there be than this? He had defeated countless enemies, he had defeated the armies of Mordor themselves, but he had not defeated Fate.

 

Fate. He shook his head bitterly. And foolishness. And incompetence. And cowardly schemers, mindless rabble, treacherous barbarians, a venomous Council, and above them all, the insidious mind of the King of Númenor, who had sent him to the Bay to fail. That was all there was to it, and he refused to surrender to the lure of self-loathing. The truth was that he had done everything that he had to do, but he had also been placed in an untenable situation by others. Others who were no less his enemies than the barbarians, the Orcs, and the rebels he had faced in the battlefield, but whom he could not kill as easily as he had killed those. Others who would gloat if he surrendered now, if he fell into the trap of blaming himself, of losing his pride and seeking forgiveness for his perceived mistakes.

 

I will forgive you everything, except for a single thing: that you fail to fulfil your destiny.

 

This was the only truth he could be sure of: that she had believed in his destiny until the very end, even to the point of sending him that letter as soon as she had known about his situation. He had not known what the cost would be for her until it was too late, and a part of him was humbled by the sacrifice. If there was anything he could do to bring peace to her soul, he could not surrender. Not now, not ever.

 

Even if she had.

 

“My lord prince, they are calling for you”, the chamberlain announced with a bow. He stood up, and took a long, deep breath as he forced his mind to discard all distracting thoughts and focus.

 

“I am ready.”

 

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

 

He had never entered that chamber before, though not due to his father’s lack of trying. The truth was, that even dealing with flesh-eating savages seemed more appealing to Pharazôn than sitting there, offering vapid smiles to rivals and exchanging barbs over the distribution of revenues and the ratification of trade agreements. If left to his devices, he would have happily continued ignoring their existence in his haven on the mainland, but they had chosen to break this unspoken yet mutually beneficial agreement when they called upon him to lead the military intervention in the Bay. Now, they had summoned him to have him justify his actions in the middle of the mourning period for his mother, and Pharazôn had no vapid smiles to spare.

 

“My lord King, lords of the Council. Father”, he added, sending a brief look in the Prince Gimilkhâd’s direction. He had been allowed back into the Council, but his demeanour was far from triumphant on the day of his return. In fact, Pharazôn thought, it might have been the first time in his life that he saw his father’s hair in disarray, and his eyes bore the sunken marks of a man who had not slept for many nights.

 

A loud murmur rose in response to his formal greeting. For a moment, he let his gaze wander across the men who sat in the Council chairs, conversing with their aides, riffling through sheets of paper, or merely looking at him. Many of the glances were hostile, but others were curious. He saw Amandil sitting at the right end of the row, next to Lord Zakarbal, but he was one of those who seemed too busy to look at him, lost as he was in an animated exchange of whispers with his son. Pharazôn knew him well enough to see that he was doing it on purpose, to avoid meeting his eye.

 

At the other end of the row, the fugitive Magon’s chair had been taken by the King’s son-in-law, the Prince Vorondil.

 

“You have been summoned here to answer the Council’s questions concerning the recent campaign in the Bay of Belfalas”, the King spoke from his throne. Pharazôn had never felt very comfortable when the sea-grey eyes of Tar Palantir looked at him, though he was not sure how or when this fear had originated. Perhaps his father’s tales about how his brother could see the deepest thoughts of men had unnerved him, especially after he began bedding his daughter in secret.

 

Now, he suddenly found, he could not care less about that, either. And so, he held his glance, and nodded.

 

“And I am here to answer them.”

 

To his surprise, the first man to rise was the High Priest of Melkor.

 

“Before we begin” Yehimelkor spoke, his voice as loud and resonating as ever,” I wish it to be registered in the Book of Sessions that it is impious towards the gods to hold a Council meeting while several of our members are still bound by the laws of mourning. My objections, as it often happens, were overruled, but I will have no part in this.” Crossing his arms, his jaw set, he glared left and right until the murmurations died out.

 

“I am grateful, Your Holiness”, Pharazôn replied, earnestly. The man could be exasperating, but at least he had principles.

 

“It has been noted”, the King replied, with a touch of impatience. “Now, as for the matter at hand, we have received notice of alarming events which have taken place in the mainland. According to the latest dispatches, the city of Gadir has been largely destroyed in a popular revolt, and at least half of its inhabitants are dead. This took place in your absence, while Commander Balbazer was left in charge of the garrison in the island. Is this true?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Who decided to let the city council members stay in the island?”

 

“I did.”

 

“Why?”

 

Pharazôn did not blink.

 

“Because I was trying to reach a peaceful solution.”

 

Lord Zakarbal snorted.

 

“Peaceful? After they were defeated in a naval battle?”

 

They were defeated. Pharazôn shook his head in disgust at the choice of words.

 

“You do not have to remind me of my victories, Lord Zakarbal. Though they are many, I remember all of them. Yes, I defeated them, and precisely because of that, I was expecting them, as noble Númenóreans, to yield peacefully and not bring further harm to their fellow citizens.”

 

Now, the same faces who had looked at him in curiosity were looking at him in what almost seemed like approval. He wondered how long it would last.

 

“Was your judgement influenced by your… kinship ties?”

 

Prince Vorondil seemed to have caught himself in mid-sentence and quickly changed course, but it could have been mere affectation. Pharazôn found himself judging him very unkindly. He looked like one of those well-dressed fools who crowded the Royal Court, trying to impress others with their easy arrogance. Especially the ladies, no doubt.

 

“If you wished to mention my mother, you could have done so. After all, this is a matter of State”, he spat. “Now, my lords, I would like to know if we are discussing my possible lapses in judgement, or if any of you still believes me a traitor after everything I have done to prove that I am not.”

 

“Nobody has accused you of treason here”, the King intervened. “And we are all deeply grieved by the untimely death of the Princess of the South.”

 

Was he trying to goad him?

 

“I appreciate your condolences, my lord King” he said, in his coldest voice.

 

The new governor of Sor spoke next.

 

“When these events unfolded, you were absent. Would you say that the man you left in charge, Commander Balbazer, had a responsibility in what happened?”

 

“No.” Though he could vaguely recognize this as an attempt to help him, he would never stoop so low as to blame his men. “He followed orders while he could, and when he was forced to act on his own, his actions were blameless. He informed me at once, prevented his men from engaging, so as to not kill Númenórean citizens, and after the fires spread, he sought to recover control of the city and save what he could of it.”

 

“But he could have discovered the plot before it unfolded, couldn’t he?”

 

“Why don’t you ask him, my lord?”

 

“It is useless to discuss the actions of a man who is not here, lord governor”, Amandil intervened. For the first time since he had entered the room, Pharazôn swallowed. “May I ask what happened with the hostages after this debacle?”

 

“Most of them weren’t there anymore. Back when the city council was in a cooperative mood, I managed to retrieve all of them and sent them back to their territories -except for the son of Prince Noxaris, of course, who is safe in Númenor.”

 

“Are you sure this was wise, my lord prince? They were the only hold we had on the tribes of the Bay.”

 

“Lord Amandil, if I may remind you, your own situation was different from mine.” It was almost unreal, to be discussing battle strategies in a Númenórean palace chamber with him. His own polite tone rung false in his ears. “You needed those hostages to protect your expedition, but I was going to wage an all-out war, and I needed all the allies I could get.”

 

For a moment, he almost thought that the man who had been his friend would keep arguing the point out of stubbornness. But that had been a different attitude, which had belonged to a different time. The Lord Amandil of Andúnië merely nodded.

 

“I appreciate the insight.”

 

“What about what happened in Arne, after the city fell?” That fool Vorondil again. “I heard that King Xaron of Arne was beheaded without a trial. Did you give that order?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Was it because he had insulted… you?”

 

Pharazôn would have loved to smash his pretty face against the wall. He was definitely trying to goad him, and this second almost-mention to his mother in one of his sentences all but proved it.

 

“No. It was because he was a proven traitor.”

 

At this point, the King saw fit to change the course of the conversation.

 

“You took great risks in your campaign, such as setting your camps where the enemy would be able to surround them, even without knowing how many they would be.”

 

“I was following a strategy, my lord King.”

 

“Is it true that their numbers doubled yours?” the High Chamberlain spoke, with a tone that was infinitely more sympathetic than any of his previous interlocutors. Pharazôn nodded.

 

“I have read reports stating that you fought a general from Mordor who was not human”, the Palace Priest intervened. Lord Shemer of Hyarnustar laughed disdainfully.

 

“Superstitions!”

 

“It is true”, Phârazon said. “It was a creature made of darkness. Its eyes glowed red under its helmet, but underneath it there was nothing. It inspired fear in anyone who approached it, and it could not be touched by any weapon.”

 

“And it rode a dragon, I suppose!” Prince Vorondil laughed. Pharazôn’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

 

“I refuse to trade words with a courtier whose only knowledge of Middle-Earth and its wars comes from his imagination.” Vorondil’s features creased in anger. “I recommend that you stick to your duties, Prince Vorondil, such as giving an heir to the royal family.”

 

Vorondil and his father rose to their feet almost in unison.

 

“How dare you…?”

 

“That is quite enough!” The King stood up. “This is unbelievable, that the greatest lords of the realm should quarrel like barbarians in the Council Chamber! A colony of Númenor has been destroyed, my lords! Let us return to the matter at hand!”

 

But Pharazôn had had enough.

 

“No, my lord King. I will not return to the matter at hand.” He looked all around him; everybody was silent now, staring at him. “I am but a warrior, and I do not presume to know the motives why a colony of Númenor would start a hostile alliance against the Sceptre. I only know that I was sent to fight a rebellion, and I did so. Though some of you suspected me, and both my father and mother were confined unjustly, I defeated the armies of Gadir, of Arne, and of Mordor, and I fought the general sent by Sauron. I will not be interrogated about how I conducted this war by people who have never set a foot outside the Island or faced the perils and the choices that I had to face. If you wish to blame me, do so. If you wish to exile me, I will leave. But if a threat ever rises again in this kingdom, my lords of the Council, take your swords, and your armour, and lead your men into battle yourselves!”

 

That the silence in the room lasted longer than his words was a testament to how deeply he had managed to shock them. When it ended, as he had expected, the chorus of outraged voices rose like a charge of the Haradric cavalry.

 

“How dare he..!”

 

“… never, ever, such insolence…!”

 

“In this chamber!”

 

“This cannot be tolerated!”

 

The yells, however, were mostly confined to one side of the chamber. Most of the courtiers, he observed, were looking at him in a way that he had seen before, though not in the Council, but among his own men in the mainland.

 

It was a look of respect. Of admiration.

 

The governor of Sor, too, seemed impressed, and so was the priest of the Cave, and the representative of Umbar. Between them, his father was gazing at him, thunderstruck, and even Elendil, who was not avoiding his glance like Amandil did, seemed unable to take his eyes off him.

 

Turning his back to them and leaving the room gave him the same thrill as when he had allowed the enemy to surround him in order to be able to further his strategy. It was like taking a gamble, of those that could end in victory, or death.

 

Pharazôn took it.

 

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

 

The South Wing of the palace had never loomed so large, not even when, as a child, he used to sit on the floor to gaze at the ceiling vaults, believing that they were as high as the sky. For many years, his life had shrunk to the size of a camp, where men came and went without barely any ceremony. Even before that, when he still lived in the Island, these corridors and gardens used to be full of ladies, always gravitating around the imposing presence of the Princess of the South. Now, they were all gone, and this empty greatness felt more alien to him than any Haradric mountain village.

 

The echo of footsteps reached his ears, and reverberated across the hall for a long time before he could catch a glimpse of the people who approached. Not a good place for ambushes, Merimne would have remarked.

 

It was the Prince himself, accompanied by his Council attendant and another courtier. Pharazôn did not recognize either of them, as he did not recognize many others, and it had been years since he had stopped pretending that he did.

 

“Leave”, Gimilkhâd said. They bowed out almost in unison, and Pharazôn took a sharp intake of breath.

 

“Father, look, I apologize for what happened, but…” His voice trailed away, wondering how he should finish the sentence. But they angered me? But they are a bunch of fools? That sounded too childish, and the truth would sound even worse.

 

I blame them for what happened, and I will allow them to rule me no longer.

 

Gimilkhâd waved off his words impatiently.

 

“Forget it! You were impressive before the Council. There was no trace of fear in your voice or in your words. You said things as they were, and you said them to their faces. You were not even afraid of the King!”

 

For a moment, there was little that Pharazôn could do but stare. This was so different from what he had expected, so different indeed from the Gimilkhâd he was familiar with from countless other arguments since he was a boy, that the feelings of strangeness he had been pondering before his arrival grew even stronger.

 

“I doubt I will be allowed to remain here after this.” As I know you always wanted, though I never paid much heed to your wishes. “I will be lucky if they respect the last two weeks of the mourning period before shipping me off from the Island.”

 

“Oh, they will.” Gimilkhâd’s features were lighted by a manic smile. “Of course they will. Don’t you see? Your enemies are in the minority. The same Council who was calling for our blood only a year ago supports you now.”

 

“But the Council does not rule in Númenor. You know that, Father, being a councilman yourself.”

 

“This is not a matter of ruling or not ruling. The King is already perceived as having treated you unfairly, and he cannot afford to treat you unfairly again. After all you did in the mainland, you are a hero!”

 

A hero? Pharazôn wanted to laugh. The deserter of his bloodline, who had fled to the mainland and relinquished his birthright? Had Gimilkhâd been suddenly possessed by his mother’s spirit, or what?

 

This thought sobered his mood almost at once. That very morning, as he stood in the Council chamber, he had been shocked by his father’s appearance. The spitting image of his own father, Gimilzôr, the Prince of the South had always been very preoccupied with how others saw him, especially when it came to his hair. In all his life, he had never, ever forgotten to do his hair in the most fastidious manner before he appeared in public. This included combing it, curling it, dyeing it even, until not a single white hair could be detected by the shrewdest observer. But that day, when he appeared before all his peers from the highest advisory body of the realm, he had not merely dressed in a way befitting mourning, or remained unshaven, but his hair, his prized hair, was undone. Looking closely at it now, Pharazôn could see that the white hairs were many, perhaps too many for his age, considering his lineage.

 

What had Melkyelid taken from him, when she left? Pharazôn had been too busy with his own grief to think of this until now, but now the question loomed as large in his mind as the vaults of the Palace of Armenelos.

 

“Father, I…” He wondered how best to put this. “If I am a hero, it is because of the mainland. It is there, where my battles are fought. If I had stayed here, I would never have amounted to much.” Like you, the unkind thought came to his mind. “That is why I have to return, even assuming that they do not arrest me and throw me in the hold of the first ship to depart from Sor.”

 

To his surprise, the Prince smiled.

 

“I know that now. She always knew, your mother, and she was right all along. You had a destiny that I could not understand or fathom, as I was buried deep in Court intrigue, and my mind too bound to this Palace to be able to see beyond its walls.”

 

Pharazôn wished he could say that he had spent all his life waiting to hear those words from his father. To be honest, however, he had never cared much for what Gimilkhâd thought of him. Or for Gimilkhâd himself, the unkind voice whispered in his head again.

 

Now, for the first time in a life of easy indifference towards his father’s censure, he felt a stirring of emotion underneath it. But it had nothing to do with the need for approval, or the urge to prove himself to him, or anything of that sort; it was an odd protective concern, which had grown inside him just from the sight of his hair.

 

“I will visit as often as I can”, he said, belatedly realizing that it was a complete non sequitur. “But while I am in the mainland, I need to have someone here to defend my actions. Someone strong, who sits in the Council and holds influence at Court.” Pull yourself together, damn you. “Will you do it?”

 

The Prince of the South nodded in silence, staring at the floor. For a while, he seemed at the verge of tears, but thankfully that moment passed.

 

You would know what to do, Pharazôn thought, almost angrily. You always knew what to do. But she was gone now, and the only person his father had left to hold on to was him. And he was leaving.

 

What would she have done?

 

Suddenly, he knew. It was such an abrupt burst of inspiration that, deep inside, he was certain that it must have come from her.

 

“I need you to help me, Father. Listen to me. Do you remember how Mother used to say that I would be King one day? This is only the beginning, for I intend to follow the path of her prophecies, and claim the Sceptre after the death of Tar Palantir.”

 

Gimilkhâd looked up again. His glance was filled with awe and pride.

 

“Do you mean… that you will not flee your birthright any longer? That you will follow the wishes of the late King?”

 

Pharazôn nodded. He was vaguely aware that he should be scared out of his wits, but at this moment, all that mattered was that his father believed him. Later, he would have time to sit down and try to convince himself. It was what a good commander did - or a bullshitting commander, which often amounted to the same thing, after all.

 

King of Men.

 

“Yes, Father. I will”, he promised.

 

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

 

It was the new moon, and the night was so dark that he could not see his own feet as he crossed the garden in the direction of her bedchamber. Still, he remembered the way so well from their many encounters in the past, that he believed he would have been able to walk it under a blindfold.

 

Back then, she had been waiting for him, which meant that she would have found a pretext the previous evening to order her room empty from nurses and ladies. Perhaps there were no nurses or ladies around her anymore, but someone else could be there, someone who entered her bed as her husband. Pharazôn did not know why he did not fear this, if it was because he secretly, recklessly sought for an opportunity to kill Vorondil, or because deep inside, in his heart of hearts, he believed that she was still expecting him.

 

The room was darker than the garden outside, and, though he could not see it, he knew her gaze was even darker still. As he stepped inside the threshold, and closed the door, he heard a faint rustle of silk sheets that told him she had sat on the bed.

 

“You!” she hissed. “What are you doing here? I thought you already gone. I heard that this morning you insulted the Council, in an attempt to continue deluding yourself into believing that you are in exile, instead of running away.”

 

“I am not running away, Zimraphel.”

 

He walked, slowly finding his way around through the sound of her voice – a voice so full of hatred that anyone in his right mind would have walked away from it.

 

“My name is Míriel now. Princess Míriel, to you. And I am also a married woman.” They were inches away from each other now, so close that he could hear the sound of her breath. “If you touch me, you will not be exiled any longer, you will be dead.”

 

“Will I?”

 

She tried to fight, but good as she was at scaring people from afar, at close quarters she was no match for him. All she could rely on was her agility, which surprised him enough as to land one knee to the side of his stomach and a blow to his face that might have drawn some blood. He groaned, but did not let go, holding her while he took both their clothes off and entered her.

 

His mind reeled, spiralling out of control for a powerful moment where the whole world seemed to be crashing down on them. Years ago, they had done this in this very bed, but it had not been like this; it had been but a pale reflection of the intensity of feeling he was experiencing now. Love and death, he mused, joined into one.

 

“I hate you” she hissed in his ear.

 

“No, you don’t”, he hissed back. “You are a liar, Zimraphel. You could have cried out any time you wanted, and then I would be dead, but you did not. Who would have thought? I am not the only one who deludes himself, am I?”

 

Maybe because his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, maybe because he could picture her features in his mind as accurately as if she was standing under the light of a thousand candles, it seemed to him that he could see her face now, her eyes alight with the kind of loathing which he had hungered for, during all those years that now seemed empty as he tried to remember them.

 

“You left me! I told you that I loved you, I gave my heart to you, and you left me! You sailed away, and abandoned me here.”

 

“Was that why you married that fool?”

 

“I am the Princess of the West! I cannot remain unmarried like you! Would you rather I had married Elendil?” she spat, furiously. He embraced her.

 

“You are right.”

 

“And now, you are leaving again! I cannot rely on you, because you always leave!”

 

“Do you still wish to be rid of him?” He kissed her, again and again, as if she was a cup of strong wine that he could not put down.

 

“Yes. Yes.”

 

“But then, we will have to wait. For the King to be older. For my fame to be wider. For the people to want me as your husband” he explained. “I will never achieve that by merely staying here and fooling around in secret, and it is unfair of you to ask that of me.”

 

“Did Sauron’s fell spirit tell you that it was your destiny to defeat the might of Mordor?”

 

For a moment, he had to stop, shocked in spite of himself at her words.

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“I know many things”, she replied sternly. “You should never forget it.”

 

Indeed, how had he been able to forget about her gift? His mind teemed with the many questions that he suddenly wanted to ask her, about the spectre and his prophecies, about Mordor, about the future.

 

As he was about to open his mouth to ask them, however, she threw herself at him, and silenced him with a kiss. His shock at this suddenly forward behaviour eclipsing his reaction to her previous words, he kissed her back, and felt the fire in his chest kindle anew until all his thoughts were burned away.

 

Only much later, when he was back in his own chambers with a cup of wine in his hands, he could not help but wonder how much she actually knew.

 

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

 

Palantir frowned, re-reading the letter he had just finished writing. He was still not satisfied with the wording he had used, as he needed it to be as precise as possible, without any vagueness or ambiguity that could foster misunderstandings. This was a matter of great import for both Númenor and Middle-Earth, of that he was certain –  and yet, he still needed to know to what extent. Númendil would know, with his access to the immortal knowledge of the Elves, who had memories of every creature, good or evil, which had walked the earth since long before Men even existed.

 

A creature made of darkness. Its eyes glowed red under its helmet, but underneath it there was nothing. It inspired fear in anyone who approached it, and it could not be touched by any weapon.

 

Those had been the words that Pharazôn had used in the Council Chamber. Later, other reports had led him to reconstruct the scene in which his nephew, showing an astonishing degree of reckless overconfidence which, he had to admit, had not been entirely unwarranted, had weakened the spectre and forced it to abandon the battlefield. After having its mount killed by an arrow -that, at least, had been mortal -, Pharazôn somehow managed to get within fighting distance of it without suffering lasting damage, though he had experienced successive bouts of fear, illness, and paralyzing cold. He claimed to have discovered that the armour was not defending it, but holding it to its mortal shape, and proceeded to attack it. The most surprising thing was that it had worked, and the sorcery that allowed the creature to be harmful to mortals had been undone by his sword. How such an idea could have occurred to him at that moment, Palantir did not know, and until now he had never considered his brother’s son to be either knowledgeable in the ways of the supernatural or one of the world’s greatest thinkers. But it seemed that in this, just as in many other things, he might have been wrong.

 

Carefully, he put the letter away to dry, feeling the overpowering need to close his eyes. His fingers began tracing a pattern over his forehead, and he let go of a long, deep breath. Right now, he had to admit, he almost felt like one of the creatures that he was investigating: the light of the candles hurt him, he could barely feel his limbs, and his thoughts were dark.

 

For Zakarbal, Vorondil and the others, this campaign had been a crushing victory for their faction. The Merchant Princes of Gadir were no longer in the council, their might by sea and by land had been shattered, and it seemed unlikely that they would ever regain their former influence after the disaster that befell their city. The way was open for Pelargir to be rebuilt, and for the Bay of Belfalas to fall under the sway of the Sceptre yet again. Arne had been pacified, its new king was being raised in Númenor, and Mordor would be unlikely to pose much trouble in a long while. Closer to him, his sister-in-law had died, and she had always been the driving force behind his brother’s opposition to him. Of course, there had been all kinds of rumours spread by his enemies, either suspecting foul play, or downright stating that she had died of a broken heart after her city fell, but those were all malicious lies. First, because she had no way of knowing what had happened in Gadir when she had that stroke, and second, because she did not have the ability to let herself die. That ability, as Palantir himself had learned in the most painful of ways, was only present in the line of Elros Tar Minyatur.

 

So yes, he had won. And yes, his conscience was clean, before the Creator and before men. He had only declared war after there was the proof of a large-scale rebellion, and everything that happened afterwards were accidents of that war, provoked by decisions that others had made at their own cost and peril. But still, this triumph rang hollow to him, as he considered both its cost and its consequences.

 

Back when he was a young man, he had an intellectual awareness of the fact that change would mean struggle. Later, he had learned that lives would be risked, and lost, in this struggle, but only the lives of those who willingly sacrificed themselves for their cause. That war and large-scale devastation, targeting both guilty and innocent, willing and unwilling, would be the outcome of his policies was something that he would never have accepted back then, and felt the need to turn away from to preserve the purity of his intentions. But he was no longer a young man, and as King of Númenor he had needed to look at the naked face of power, and see death behind it. He knew that some people, Amandil among them, resented the role that he had played and mistook his resignation for the hypocrisy of the schemer, for they had no access to his thoughts. Therein lay the greatest danger of all, one he was especially vulnerable to: to be isolated even in victory, feared and hated by friends and foes alike who could not understand or follow the thread of his actions.

 

And then, there was Pharazôn. That day, in the Council chamber, he had come to the momentary realization that there was his perfect opposite, a man who could not be isolated either in victory or defeat, who was liked and respected by friends and foes -Amandil remained, even now, his friend-, and who was able to take actions, for the good or the bad, that everybody could understand and follow. Who wouldn’t have let their calculations fail them, when entrusted with the fate of the city of their kin? Who wouldn’t have lost their temper when insulted by a traitor defeated in battle? Who wouldn’t have felt tempted to snap at the Council when mourning for one’s mother?

 

It had seemed a good idea at the time, to have him lead the troops of Umbar: first, because he had been in that post for many years and was considered a capable commander, and, second, because it was a great chance to cut off the base of his support, the same that sought to make him King instead of Palantir’s own daughter and heir. But instead of that, he had managed to come out of it as the hero who destroyed Arne and Mordor almost singlehandedly, while sympathies had not turned away from him for what was perceived as an unfortunate accident. Now, because of this war, he had not only remained a threat; he had become a larger one than ever before, and what remained to be seen was merely whether he had the cunning and scheming ability needed to profit from the situation. Up until the present, Palantir would have answered in the negative: Pharazôn was an air-headed young man with no ambition in life except to feast and drink immoderately and gain renown in the mainland. But he was not so ready to underestimate him now.

 

“How did he become your friend?” he remembered asking Amandil once, genuinely curious. “You knew who he was, and he knew who you were, but instead of hatred for each other, you built a friendship and held to it. How did this happen?”

 

“Because of all the boys I have known, none was ever as full of himself as Pharazôn”, Amandil had answered. And then, as Palantir registered his astonishment, he added, “Only someone like this could be so generous to a boy like me. He did not care about whether it was appropriate, or whether the adults would object, or whether I could bring harm to him, and it certainly never crossed his mind that I could possibly hate him. He wanted me as his friend, and that was all that mattered, his own judgement.”

 

“You mean to say, that he was impulsive, rebellious, and too proud to listen to others, and that he could have made a mistake by trusting you.”

 

“Yes.” To his further surprise, Amandil smiled. “Something like that, my lord King.”

 

He had thought no more of it back then, but now this conversation had become fixed in his mind, and he could not dislodge it. Perhaps, he thought, it was because that situation was strangely similar to what they were facing now, as, once again, Pharazôn seemed to have blundered his way to success. Before, he had gained the devotion of only one man, though one who seemed predestined to be his enemy, while now, at a much larger scale, he had gained the respect of many. If this was the effect of his irrational impulses, then those impulses should be feared above the coldest and most rational of calculations.

 

In all his life, Palantir realized with a sudden jolt of dread, he had never faced an enemy such as this.

 

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

 

Amandil breathed deeply, trying to put his thoughts in order. He had only been so reckless in this Palace once before, the day he ran after the King on the fateful Council session when war was declared in the Bay. Now, as he pushed past guards, servants and courtiers in his way to his objective, he had to wonder if he was turning recklessness into a habit, and whether it would bode ill for him on the long run.

 

“He… he is in here, my lord, but…”

 

Ignoring the apprehensive courtier who trailed behind his footsteps, Amandil pushed the ivory door himself, and stepped inside. Pharazôn was sitting before a table, where a half-empty glass of wine was lying a little too close to the edge. As soon as he saw him, his eyes widened in shock.

 

“Amandil?” he exclaimed, a little too slowly, perhaps, but with no less genuine incredulity.

 

“Yes, Amandil”, he said, standing at the other end of the table and looking down at him with what he expected was an effective glare of disapproval. “I heard you were leaving tomorrow for Sor. I did not want to believe it, even when all my messages came back unanswered, but it seems it was true: you were actually planning on leaving Númenor without meeting with me even once.”

 

Pharazôn let the palm of his hand hover over his eyes, and shook his head ruefully.

 

“No” he said, as if talking to himself. “I am not that drunk. You are here. In the South Wing of the Palace.”

 

“And why shouldn’t I be?” Because you shouldn’t and you know it and everybody knows it, you fool, Amandil answered his own question in his mind. But before he had taken the drastic decision of coming here, he thought, he had vowed to himself to leave that Amandil behind. “If you do not meet with me, I will have to come to you.”

 

“Aren’t you afraid of the entire Court learning about this? You are the lord of Andúnië, and the leader of those fools who call themselves the Faithful because they worship strange beings who are not gods.”

 

Amandil ignored everything but the direct question.

 

“No, I am not afraid. You always accused me of being afraid of being seen with you, so I am proving to you that I am not.”

 

“Congratulations.” Pharazôn downed the rest of the wine. “Will you have a seat? I am tired of looking up at you.”

 

Amandil sought across the room until he discovered the wine jar on an ebony table, closer to the door. Picking it up, he served himself a glass, and sat down before Pharazôn.

 

“What about me?”

 

“You already had too much” he said firmly. “And you won’t escape this conversation by getting piss drunk on me.”

 

“Are you angry? I cannot think of anything I have done to you, but I have done so many things to people recently that you cannot blame me for losing count.”

 

“You have been ignoring me.”

 

Pharazôn shrugged.

 

“My mother just died.”

 

“And I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for that.”

 

“Why? Did you kill her?” The Prince of the South’s son smiled bitterly. “Well, if you felt that way you could have refused to interrogate me in the Council, like your former Revered Father did.”

 

“Is that why you are angry?”

 

“Of course not! I faced the armies of Mordor in battle, I can handle a few morons trying to be mean to me.”

 

“Or is it because I started this? Because I interfered in the Bay and this was what led to the war?”

 

“You gave me a good opportunity to shine. I believe your friends are regretting it now.”

 

“Do not call them my friends.”

 

“Are they not?”

 

“They are my allies. You are my friend.” For a long time, he held Pharazôn’s glance with all the intensity he could muster. He could see him fumble to say something, probably another witty retort, but it did not come. “When I heard about the destruction of Gadir and the death of your mother, I was beside myself with worry.”

 

“Thank you.” This time, there was no irony in Pharazôn’s tone, at least. However, when he spoke again, there was something else in his voice, something disquieting that Amandil could not quite lay a finger upon. “Yes, very well, I admit it. I was ignoring you. But do not bear me a grudge, for there was no ill will in it. I merely do not see how it could ever work.”

 

There was no need to ask what “it” was.

 

“I am who I am, and you are who you are. The times when we could pretend not to notice are behind us. Call them your allies, your friends, or whatever you will, you have obligations towards them, as well as towards your family and your people. And I do, too.”

 

“Does this mean” Amandil tried to choose his words carefully, but anger was a very poor filter”, that now it is you, who is afraid to be seen with me?”

 

“I am not afraid, you idiot! But I cannot see how I can manage this, how can you?”

 

Pharazôn looked genuinely baffled as he asked that question, and Amandil felt a pang in his chest.

 

“You have changed.” It was neither a question, nor a reproach, but perhaps it held a bit of both. “It was always the other way around, don’t you remember? Since the day I was taken from my parents, I lived in fear of my own shadow, and you were always there, full of outrageous confidence, telling me that nothing was impossible. Back then, I would never have been able to imagine that you would change so much merely because things were not going your way!”

 

Now, he had finally succeeded in provoking him as well.

 

“Things are not going my way? Oh, aren’t they? Last I knew, I had just won a war!”

 

Amandil forced himself to drink a long swallow.

 

“You did, I…I admit I would not have been able to do what you did there. And I probably would have failed in Gadir as well. They deceived me from the start, and I didn’t even have the excuse of being their kinsman. Damn it, I did more stupid things in my time in Pelargir alone than you did in your entire campaign.” He shook his head. “But that is not what I mean.”

 

“No, you are trying to imply that I have become what you were back then. That now, it is me who is worrying about every little thing that can bring trouble to my precarious position.” Pharazôn snorted again. “That is why I walked out of the Council chamber, and that was why I was being interrogated in the first place, wasn´t it? Because I am so careful!”

 

“Then, are you trying to imply that it is fine to be careless, except when it comes to our friendship? Is that what you mean?”

 

All of a sudden, Pharazôn seemed to have lost his argumentative demeanour. As if he had just remembered all the wine he had been drinking, he fell into a renewed bout of stupor.

 

“It is not… I mean…curse it, I do not even know what I mean anymore! I just thought it would be a good moment to merely… stop acknowledging each other, that is all. That it would be simpler that way. And I also admit that I thought you would not mind so much.”

 

Amandil had never wanted so much to remain angry.

 

“But I do.”

 

“Well, then. Why don’t you give me some wine, and see if you can make me drunk enough to apologize to you?

 

“You have to travel tomorrow.”

 

“I do not care.”

 

With a sigh, Amandil stood up again, and filled both cups; Pharazôn’s much less than his own.

 

“I saw that.”

 

Amandil ignored him.

 

“It is not that I do not understand what you are trying to say. About it being simpler that way” he said, after a moment of thought. “No concerns, no expectations, and no disappointments. I will confess to something: back when I was in Pelargir with many wounded men and a single eyewitness of the Gadirites’s treason, I was pondering whether I should try my chances in Umbar. With the fate of my men and the entire Bay depending on me, I almost didn’t do it, only because I did not want to be disappointed.”

 

Pharazôn greeted this confession with a very long silence.

 

“Well”, he said at last. “It seems that your father’s allies managed to spare you the disappointment. That was very kind of them.”

 

“But I still made my mind. I was going to go, anyway, when they arrived.”

 

“Then, I do not know whether I should thank you for your trust, or call you a bastard for being about to put me through that situation.”

 

Amandil shrugged. He was out of practice; the wine was starting to become a crushing weight in his limbs.

 

“As you said, it is not very simple.”

 

“No.” Pharazôn drained his cup in one swallow. “And in the future, it will be less and less simple.”

 

“Oh, are you in possession of foresight now?” It had been a shameless attempt to defuse the tension, because Amandil had felt a chill in his stomach in spite of the heat of the room. Pharazôn shook his head, but did not see fit to answer.

 

What could foresight avail them now, anyway? Amandil thought, rebelliously. The truth was that, when everything was said and done, mortal men only had the ability to put their heart and their soul in the situation that was before them at each moment. And at this moment, this was all that existed. For all that he knew, the future was a lie, made of fears, misapprehensions, and tatters of dark dreams that kings and priests insisted came from a higher instance, through the will of the divinity or the Elven blood in their veins.

 

To chase those shadows, as Tar Palantir tried to do, instead of what his heart told him was true here and now, was madness. And what his heart told him now was that the only real friendship he had ever had in this life was worth fighting for.

 

“As soon as you can stand up, we can take a stroll to clear our heads. My house is not far from here, and I believe my family will be happy to greet you. Unless you have lost your battle against the wine already, that is. Or unless you are afraid of being seen with me.”

 

“Damn you, Amandil.”

 

Now, he thought, he could only hope that this logic would prevail with Pharazôn as well.