Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Alliances

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It was a chilly dawn, so much that icicles had formed under the eaves of the terrace where he stood, watching the sun’s feeble attempts to rise behind what looked like an impenetrable mass of clouds. A black horizon seemed to hang over Armenelos, cold and pitiless like the winter that forced days to grow steadily shorter and darker, and hid the sunlight away from the mortals who had foolishly invoked the wrath of Heaven.

Yehimelkor did not flinch from the biting onslaught of the wind. His eyes, blinking back a momentary haze, became fixed in the Palace that loomed over the city atop the neighbouring hill, where the impious king and his line were preparing their winter celebrations. Fires would be burning in every hall and every chamber there, keeping the cold at bay; protecting and shielding them from the signs of doom which their own blindness had caused. Surrounded by their fires, covered in luxurious furs, they would remain ignorant of the curse they had invoked on themselves, until it was too late to avert it.

For a moment, his gaze shifted towards his own hands. The palms were pale, almost translucent, but in the fingers he could see some evidence of blue. He should thank Tar Palantir, he thought, without a shadow of irony. Before, he had always remained vigilant in the performance of his duties, but there were things that those who lived in luxury in high and mighty houses remained blind to, in spite of their dedication. Only now, he could see, perceive, and feel the delicate balance between the actions of Men and the power of Heaven.

Just as he did every morning, Yehimelkor turned his back to the view, and returned to the frozen corridors of the Temple. He took good care to close the door behind him, but the gesture had grown more and more futile as days passed by. There was barely any difference anymore between the temperature outside and the temperature inside. Except for the Great Hall, where the everlasting fire still burned bright, the rest of the temple was as cold as it was dark.

It had been a month ago now since the alarm was raised among the priests. At the end of Autumn, the torrential rains that flooded the capital had spoiled the major part of the Temple’s firewood reserves. Before, in more affluent times, this problem would have been easy enough to solve, for the Governor of Sor, by the King’s command, would have furnished them with wood from the forests of the East, but this was now out of the question, and the citizens of Armenelos who generously donated part of their supplies were too short on that particular commodity to be of much use in this situation. And so, for the first time in Temple history, the Sacred Fire had come under threat of being extinguished.

Yehimelkor knew that the King was aware of this, and was probably waiting to see how long it took for the Fire to go out, and for the Eternal King’s presence to leave Armenelos and its people. The fool! In all his wisdom, there was a simple knowledge which eluded him: that the King of the City would never abandon Armenelos for such little reason as a mere shortage of firewood. Tar Palantir appeared to have forgotten that, during the Siege of Alissha, his ancestors had attempted a similar trick, leaving the priests without victims to perform their rites, and the birds themselves had flown into the altar to present themselves for the sacrifice. There was no doubt in Yehimelkor’s mind that the God would show His hand in a similar way, if it ever became necessary. However, in the Siege of Alissha the Great God had not provided new victims to priests who were happily feasting on the flesh of animals who should have been sacrificed to Him; He had intervened after they ran out of resources that they had refused to touch, even as they tried to appease their hunger by hunting rats and munching on tree barks. That was why all the firewood at the Temple’s disposal had to go into the Sacred Fire, to keep it alive, and not a single lump of it could be diverted to avoid human discomfort. And before they finally ran out of it, he thought darkly, they would have to start burning the furniture. The High Priest’s rooms certainly had too much of it, he thought as he crossed the threshold of his chambers, surveying them with a critical eye. Why did he need two writing tables? Why did he need one, in fact, when he had a table for eating, and he usually worked there anyway?

Hasdrumelkor had not arrived yet. He had an inkling of where he could be, so he retraced his footsteps and took the stairs to descend to the lower level. As he made his way through the corridors, the galleries, and then, finally, the colonnade of the Great Hall, he felt the growing warmth of the air stimulating the blood flow in his veins, and the glow of life gathering in his cheeks. Another lesson from this situation, he thought: by the Lord’s fire, there is life; far from it there is only death, a naked truth that decades, centuries of temperate weather, chimneys and comforts had contrived to obfuscate. This winter, the coldest in Númenor that anyone could remember, would remind many of it.

In line with his thoughts, he saw a large throng of priests gathered around the altar, in various kneeling, sitting, and even lying positions. Since the beginning of this crisis, more and more among their number had taken to praying by the fire at night, to escape the cold of their own sleeping chambers. Some were vigilant in the exercise of their devotion, but most of them were only seeking warmth, and fell asleep soon after they began muttering their prayers. Now, as those who were awake greeted him and bowed at his passing form, the sleepers were roused from their dreams, and he saw them struggling frantically to rise from the floor, wipe their eyes and pray as furiously as if their lives depended on it.

Hasdrumelkor, he noticed, was among the latter. He came from the south of the Island, and he had always hated bathing in cold water with a fierce passion. Unlike Hannimelkor, he never had been lazy with his studies, befriended forbidden people, fled his vigilance to practice swordsmanship or consorted with city women in secret; his brand of teenage rebellion against his will had merely consisted on picking up his bedsheets every winter night and spreading them next to the fire. Simpler, if equally dangerous.

“Are you muttering in your dreams, or are you awake now, Hasdrumelkor?” the High Priest asked, dryly. Th young man’s face was red, from the heat as well as the embarrassment -or so he thought at first, until he realized that his nose was redder than the rest of the face, and that it was dripping. Another cold. He was not the only one: even now, some were covering their mouths, trying to hide their coughs.

“I am awake, Holiness. I… I was praying all night, I only dozed off for a minute, I do not know why…”

“This fire is sacred, and it is here for prayer and devotion, not to warm you in your sleep” he berated, not only the young priest, but the other ones as well. It was as half-hearted a rebuke as he could possibly utter without being guilty of downright hypocrisy, for he had not done anything to curb this practice. If his previous thoughts held even a spark of truth, seeking warmth from the Sacred Fire was also a way to feel closer to the Great God, and deep inside their weak spirit they, too, must be aware of that.

This, and he did not want any of them to die, if he could avoid it. Not for the sake of a struggle with a King who slept in a warm bed every night.

“Come”, he said, nodding in his direction. Hasdrumelkor, still sleepy, struggled to his feet, wiping his nose in what he thought to be a discreet move. As they walked away from the warmth, he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, shivering.

The shivers increased when they crossed the doorstep of the breezy Entrance Hall and walked past the guards and temple attendants who had been waiting for them. He scrutinized the room, and counted from twenty-five to thirty people of what seemed to be many different backgrounds. Before them, on the floor, there was the usual: baskets of food, cakes, firewood -alas, in too small quantity as to be able to feed the god’s fire for long-, and some clothing. Cloaks, he realized, made of good wool. Though this did not solve their greatest, more pressing problem, there were smaller problems that it could perhaps solve. The hand of the divine had to be recognized in the smallest things.

“In the name of the Great God and his Temple, I, High Priest Yehimelkor, thank you for the offerings that you bring, offerings you may have parted from in a time of need, out of the pure generosity of your heart. I will remember you in my prayers, and if they rise true to the High Heaven, so will your faces and your names rise with them and be forever blessed”, he spoke his customary words. Then, he began to walk around them, asking them for their names, while Hasdrumelkor walked behind him, picking up the offerings, nodding and smiling as he gave them away to the attendants. When they came to the woman who had brought the clothes, and the young priest gathered the first of the cloaks, Yehimelkor turned towards him.

“Put it on” he ordered. Hasdrumelkor blinked.

“But… Holiness, I already have a cloak.”

“I can see that. But you look like you could use both today.”

“His Holiness is right, you could use another cloak, and a warm soup if you have some in the Temple”, the woman spoke, in an unusual bout of forwardness. When Hasdrumelkor turned to stare at her, however, she went back to her shy demeanour, and her eyes became fixed on the tile patterns of the floor.

The priest did not argue further.

“Your gift is much appreciated” Yehimelkor said to her. She smiled faintly.

At long last, all the people in the hall had finished giving him their names, and their gifts had been taken care of to the last item. As they bowed their farewells and departed, Yehimelkor became aware of a man who had been sitting on the back row, staring at the floor before him, where there was no visible offering on display. He looked like a wealthy man, dressed in good furs of what might have been the hide of exotic animals, and he wore earrings like the merchants. Only when Yehimelkor stood in front of him, he finally raised his eyes.

“Do you seek an audience with me?” the High Priest asked. The man shook his head.

“I came here with the same purpose as all the others, Your Holiness” he said. “To give you something that you need.”

Often, Yehimelkor could divine the origins and true purpose of people before him, merely by looking into their eyes and seeking the information which their countenance tried to hide. This ability, however, a gift of his blood and a frequent source of pride for others who shared in its blessing, was something that he used rarely, preferring to rely on the King of Armenelos to show him what he needed to know, only when he needed to know it. And so, when he spoke next, it was to voice a mere mortal deduction.

“You are a merchant of Sor.”

The man nodded, impressed.

“Indeed I am. I am Maharbal, son of Azzibal, former associate of Magon of Gadir.”

Or Magon of what once was Gadir, Yehimelkor thought. The city lay in ruins now, but the man who had invoked the wrath of the Sceptre was somewhere else, alive and unscathed.

“And what do you want, Maharbal son of Azzibal?” Azzibal of Sor, he had heard that name before, too. From Hannimelkor, he realized: it was the man in whose house Númendil and Emeldir of Andúnië had stayed during their captivity, and where their son had been born.

“I am not here to ask, but to give. It has come to our attention that you are in desperate need of firewood.”

Next to him, he could feel Hasdrumelkor tense. The young man did not have the ability to hide his impulses yet, and the hope in his eyes was so raw that the merchant could read it like an open book.  Yehimelkor blamed himself for not dismissing him before the conversation began, but it could not be helped anymore.

“That is correct. We are running low on it, as you can see from this priest’s conspicuous head cold.” Hasdrumelkor blushed, the brusque change of temperature causing him to sneeze.

“Indeed. But that is not the only side effect of this situation, is it? According to certain illustrious associates of mine, who are greatly concerned over this matter, the Sacred Fire itself is at stake, and with it, the Great God’s protection of Númenor.”

“Then tell your illustrious associates that, if they are religious men, as they seem to be, they should take heart and be convinced that the Great God would never allow that to happen.”

The young priest could not prevent himself from staring at him now. Yehimelkor ignored him.

“The strength of your faith is as admirable as it is rumoured, both in Númenor and the colonies” Maharbal praised him with a polite bow. “But, just as you accept the offerings of the townspeople of Armenelos in the spirit in which they are given, so I hope that you will accept ours.”

“I accept everything in the spirit in which it is given” Yehimelkor nodded. “That is why, before I accept anything from you, or any of your associates, I would wish to know in which spirit are you giving it to me.”

Maharbal extended his arms.

“In a spirit of pure generosity, faith, and admiration.”

“And in a spirit of trying to undermine the Sceptre, too.”

The merchant shrugged.

“Is that something you disagree with?”

Yehimelkor was not a man to look for ways to disguise his true intent behind vague words.

“No. I do not disagree with it, but that does not necessarily turn us into natural allies. If this firewood which you offer me comes from the mainland, I must decline it, for I will accept nothing that comes from beyond the Sea.”

Maharbal laughed.

“You really are as holy as those rumours made you to be! A true holy man! But please, do not worry” he said then, placatingly. “The firewood comes from the Eastern forests, bought at a great price by the highest fortunes of Sor. The only part of the bargain that comes from the mainland is my third-generation ancestors, as they were born in Gadir, though they had a certified Númenórean origin. As do I, at least according to the box I came in.”

Yehimelkor did not smile.

“And what do you want from me in exchange?”

“Nothing. Merely that you continue your admirable work, Your Holiness.”

Your admirable work of sedition, the High Priest finished for him in his mind. The Merchant Princes had always worshipped Melkor, this he knew, and they also disliked the current King with every fibre of their being, so it should not come as a surprise that they would wish to extend their hand in friendship. However, they were also men whose greatest ambition was to control the mainland, and this went against the best interest of the Island as he saw it. Some of them, like Magon, had even gone as far as to deal with the Dark Lord in the past.

All the same, a voice whispered in his mind, there were not many choices open before him now. The Lord of Armenelos did not extend His hand twice; those who spurned His gifts as they came risked invoking His wrath over their own heads.

“If this gift is truly given in generosity and faith, it will be welcomed here”, he spoke at last, weighing his words very carefully. “And if you do not ask for anything in exchange, I will accept it in the name of the Temple. But if your true purpose is to bind me to your will, and have me measure the words I speak against the interests of Númenor in the mainland, let it be said now that you may withdraw your favours at any moment, if you wish, for I will remain the same and so will the words that I speak. Nor will I have anything to do with the Gadirite exiles or your father’s former associate.”

The merchant withstood his gaze for a while, until it seemed to become uncomfortable to him. Then, he looked at Hasdrumelkor instead, trying to draw him in with a conspiratorial smile.

“It must be exhausting, to live in the shadow of such a great man. Someone who never bargains over anything, whether it is a seat in the Council or a piece of firewood.” He laughed; the only one in the room who did so. The young priest merely looked on, too dutiful to even think of speaking without leave. “Very well, if it must be in your terms, then so it shall be. It is not as if we disagree with most of what you say about the mainland, in any case. We also believe that the Sceptre should keep away from it and mind its own business.”

Pelargir was still a sore wound in their side, Yehimelkor knew, one which would not heal or go away in spite of their greatest efforts. But there was no sympathy in his heart for them: they had tried to dispute the mainland with the King, and of course they had lost.

“Then let this agreement stand between us” he nodded solemnly. “In the name of the Great God and his Temple, I, High Priest Yehimelkor, thank you for the offerings that you bring, offerings you may have parted from in a time of need, out of the pure generosity of your heart. I will remember you in my prayers, and if they rise true to the High Heaven, so will your faces and your names rise with them and be forever blessed.”

Maharbal bowed low, then slowly pulled himself to his feet.

“I will return shortly, Your Holiness.”

As they watched him depart, Hasdrumelkor’s composure finally cracked.

“Oh, thank the Lord! For a moment, I thought…”

You thought that I would refuse him, Yehimelkor thought, but he left it unsaid. Most priests could not be bothered with subtle considerations, such as whether an offer of help in a moment of desperate need could be more dangerous than the need itself, if it served to entrap weak minds in a relationship of unholy obligation. If to prevent this he had to be the man who never bargained over anything, then he would have to accept his fate, as well as the anger and hatred that might come with it.

Voicing a prayer to the Lord of Armenelos, who had just spared him that choice, Yehimelkor rose from his seat, and beckoned the other priest to follow him towards the warmth of the main hall.

Tomorrow, he thought, he might need to break this arrangement, as he did not trust a merchant to keep his given word if there was an opportunity to squeeze something out of someone. But today, at least, the fires would burn.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The girl’s hair was raven black, and fell down in silky tangles over his chest as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other. Her skin was white, a mark of her Númenórean heritage, but this land of fierce sun had covered it in freckles from the top of her forehead to the tips of her toes. Whenever she looked elsewhere, and he could not see her eyes, she appeared to him like a marred Zimraphel, a human Zimraphel whose eerie perfection had shattered and turned into real flesh in his arms.

“My lord prince! My lord prince!”

“Who…?” Biting back a curse, Pharazôn felt the warm body go limp against his, and slowly emerged from under the covers of his bed. “Can’t you see I am busy!”

“I am sorry but… Lord Barekbal is here, and he says it’s important!”

Barekbal. Important. Of course. When had something ever not been important, if Barekbal was involved? Cursing, this time loud and clear, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, just fast enough to catch the aide’s look of deep embarrassment as he hurriedly looked away.

“Here”, he said, picking up the girl’s clothes even as he was still fumbling with his own. She received them solemnly, and raised her head to scrutinize the entrance in search of movement. Only when she was wholly satisfied that nobody was looking, she uncovered her body again, and stood up to begin dressing herself. She was a marvel among the Haradrim, even among the half-blood kind, with a sense of propriety that would not have been out of place in the Armenelos court. But her father was a bastard himself, who knows from which nobleman he was descended, he remembered, secretly glad of the tedious paperwork which had been put in place by his predecessors to avoid the very real risk of incest in the Second Wall. When a Númenórean had been staying for so many years among the short-lived folk as he had, one inevitably began seeing long lost daughters -maybe even granddaughters- everywhere, even if he was not aware of having them. Sometimes, he wondered who had been the first to be faced with this disturbing truth, and had the rare presence of mind to rise to the occasion by enforcing those registry laws.

“Do you want me to leave?” she asked from the floor, where she was putting her shoes on. He pondered this for a moment.

“I think that would be better, yes. I may call you later on, depending on how important this business turns to be.”

She nodded, then went back to her endeavours as if he was no longer in the room. Pharazôn shrugged and stepped out towards the corridor, where the aide was patiently waiting for him to finish.

“Does this important meeting require full armour?” he asked. The young soldier’s eyes widened, and he felt briefly tempted to laugh.

“N-no that I know of, my lord prince. He did not say…”

“Fine, then we will let him speak for himself.” He passed him by, walking at a brisk pace towards the audience hall, where Barekbal rose to greet him. “He has much to answer for, don’t you, Barekbal? I was very busy when you interrupted me!”

The Númenórean commander withstood his gaze with an impassive brow.

“A thousand apologies, my lord prince, but this was very…”

“…important, yes, yes, I know!” he finished impatiently. Would that wretched man ever learn how to take a joke? “Have we been attacked? Has someone declared war on us?”

“I bring news from my spies in Arne, my lord.”

“Oh.” He sat at the other side of the table, searching for the aide, who had lagged behind. “Find Adherbal and Merimne. What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You will have to explain yourself better than that.”

“I will try.” Barekbal watched as he poured two cups of hot wine, which had become merely lukewarm after lying in its casket for hours. “As you know, my lord prince, Queen Eärnissë visited Pelargir with Prince Vorondil and Lord Amandil, and Valentia went there to greet her. According to our reports, she and the Queen met repeatedly, and they discussed business and the governance of the kingdom of Arne. And then – nothing.”

“So, nothing means that she is still the Queen of Arne”, Pharazôn deduced. Barekbal nodded, sipping his wine.

“Poor lad. I spent two years in that nest of vipers, and I was more than glad to see the last of them.”

“Poor, yes, but a great fool too”. Phaleris had brought this upon himself, ignoring his advice in favour of that stream of idiocy which Hiram and his family had been putting in his head for years. Perhaps Pharazôn had been the man who defeated his father, but that was precisely why he should have listened to him, instead of trying to earn the approval of people who had never set foot in Middle-Earth. People who would drop him at the blink of an eye if it suited them. “The King must fear me indeed, if he is willing to go this far to ignore treason in the court of his allies. I should feel flattered.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.” As ever, Barekbal was too circumspect to speak openly against the Sceptre. “But in any event, this is how things stand now, in the Bay of Belfalas.”

At that moment, the aide came back with both Adherbal and Merimne, who sat by their side, received their wine, and listened intently as the report was repeated to them. Their hair and cloaks were wet; apparently, it had started raining outside while they talked.

“How weak is this King of yours?” As always, Merimne was the only one who dared to voice what everybody else was thinking. Her weather-beaten countenance creased into a frown, as she stared at them by turns, defying them to oppose her words. “He does not want you to go to Arne, he does not want you to go to Númenor, he does not want you to do anything. Among my people, someone in his position would have moved against you long ago, and if you proved stronger than him, he would have died in the attempt. Is it because of your long life? Perhaps he feels he can try in another fifty years?”

Númenórean lifespans were somewhat of a sore spot with her: as years passed by, and though she had never complained aloud, she was growing visibly older than the rest of them. Pharazôn felt sympathy for her plight: if their roles had been reversed, he would have found it very difficult to take it with such equanimity.

“I do not think this sort of talk is appropriate for…”

“Peace, Barekbal. She is raising a valid point” he cut him before the dour commander could fly into a diatribe about barbarians who lacked respect for the Númenórean Sceptre. “I believe I have become Tar Palantir’s greatest problem at this moment, and his way of dealing with me is to pretend that I do not exist. He cannot send me to war, so he has to make sure that there are no wars. He cannot let me attack Mordor, so he will have everyone forget about Mordor, pretend it is no longer a threat. And he would kill me if he could be sure of both success and secrecy, but he cannot be guaranteed that, so he has to be cautious. By allying himself with Valentia, he is trying to buy himself time.”

“Time for what?” Adherbal asked, shaking his head.

“Time for the people to turn their hearts towards him. While he remains so unpopular, I am a threat, but if his project of Pelargir succeeds, if trade with the mainland goes back to the levels from before, if there is peace and prosperity…then he can win the love of his subjects, and I will no longer be a concern. Or necessary.”

“And the people of Númenor will accept the Princess of the West as his successor.” Adherbal finished for him. He was much more forward with this kind of talk than Barekbal, discussing it with the practical matter-of-factness of a commander in charge of a combat situation. “While if there are wars, they will turn to you.”

“Exactly”, Pharazôn nodded.

“And what are you going to do?” Merimne asked. “He has shown his weakness, hasn’t he? You should strike now, attack Arne whether he wants it or not, and from there launch an attack on Mordor. If you succeed, he won’t be able to touch you. You will be beyond his grasp, stronger than he could ever hope to be.”

“Are you suggesting treason against the Sceptre, woman?” Barekbal was furious, and even Adherbal could not hide his worry for a moment. In spite of this, Pharazôn was sure that they would follow him to the end of the world if push came to shove, whether by the will or the King or no, as would his veterans of many campaigns. The people of Númenor, however – that was another matter entirely. Neither the nobles nor the common folk would be so understanding or sympathetic to his motives if there was any manner of treason involved, no matter how unpopular the current holder of the Sceptre was among them.

“Civilization is complicated, Merimne” he smiled wryly. “We must look terribly boring to you, but that is why we need long lives: to be able to compensate for wasting so much time.”

“Hmph”, she shrugged.

“I was impatient once, but not anymore. The King might have secured the allegiance of Valentia for now, but the situation will not last long. It never does. Sooner or later, Arne will go to war again, Mordor will seize the opportunity, the tribes will rebel, and Pelargir will be threatened. I know it, as I know that a rebel tribe of Haradrim will rise against us this year, and the year after this year.” You will be the one to defeat the might of Mordor, she had whispered in his ear, in the warmth of her embrace. “War is like a strong current, and I am the one who is rowing with it.”

“A fine metaphor.” Adherbal complimented him. “But I can think of another one, my lord prince.”

“Which one?”

“That strong current is also the current of time”, the warrior explained. “And you are also rowing with it. Our King is growing old, and his daughter is still heirless.”

Pharazôn laughed.

“See, Barekbal? You can relax now, and sip your wine at ease. There is no treason required. I will not go to war until I am ordered to do so. “Softly, he laid his arm on the other man’s shoulder, looking at him until he finally reciprocated. “But once I do, I hope I will still be able to rely on you.”

For once, the serious commander smiled back.

“That, my lord, you need not even ask.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

He was standing in a courtyard that he remembered from one of his earliest memories, a large, empty space encircled by huge walls of stone. The sky was dark, not with the black clouds which had been hanging over their heads as they played outside in the snow, but with the impenetrable darkness of night.

The air was hot, terribly, almost unbearably hot. Beads of sweat fell down his forehead, and he tried to wipe them away with the back of his hand, to no avail. It was at this point that he began feeling the dread gather in his chest, though he still could not see why he was so scared.

What had happened? Why was he alone?

“Malik!” he shouted, looking left and right. But there was nobody there to answer his call, and his chest constricted painfully. “Malik!”

And then, he saw it. Far above the walls of stone, far above the towers and the mountains that loomed behind them, a giant wave was advancing towards him. As he stood there, paralyzed with horror, it advanced inexorably in his direction, swallowing the stars in the sky with its foaming, gaping mouth. He heard screams; strange, disembodied voices of terror whose owners remained out of his sight.

Though reason told him that it was useless, his instinct forced him to break into a run, to escape from this thing before it could swallow him too. His eyes fell upon a tall tree that stood before him, with powerful branches that gleamed like silver, and leaves that were white, like the ghosts in the tales of Malik’s father. Though he knew that he was not good at climbing trees, he was desperate enough to try, so he jumped and grabbed at the lowest branch with both hands.

For a long, agonic moment he hung there, his feet hopelessly dangling in the air. It was impossible… he would never make it without Malik to help him. His friend always climbed first, and then held his arm to pull him up.

“Malik!” he shouted again. Where was he?

I am sorry, a voice whispered, so close to his ear that he was startled, and almost fell down. I cannot help you. I cannot help you anymore.

Malik was there, standing on a branch above his head. Instead of feeling hopeful, however, Isildur froze with dread at the sight. For his friend was as white as the leaves on the tree, and his eyes were dim and sorrowful as he met his.

Don’t do it. Don’t do it, he begged. Please.

Isildur let go.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Hey! Wake up! I say…wake…up!”

The boy was aware of arms grabbing him by the shoulders and pinning him to the mattress, first as if from a distance, then gradually closer, his physical pain and discomfort growing even as the blind terror receded from his mind.

“Ouch! Let go!” he cried, shoving the intruder away. Black eyes met his, with a mixture of concern and relief. As he recognized them, however, the blind terror came back.

“You are dead” a whimpering voice that did not seem to belong to him muttered. “You are dead.”

Confusion replaced the relief. Malik sat back, and stared at him as if he had just grown dragon wings.

“What is the matter with him?”

Voices -disembodied voices, like the ones in his dream- whispered and argued in the darkness, but he could not hear what they were saying. As he grew more aware of his surroundings, he realized that they were in Malik’s house, so the voices should belong to Malik’s family. Had he really awoken them because of a stupid nightmare?

He felt so ashamed at this thought that, when he saw Ashad’s dark face hovering over his, he felt tempted to hide under the bedcovers. But only babies like his brother Anárion could believe that it was possible to disappear by covering one’s face, so he forced himself to withstand that urge.

“Are you all right?” the man from Harad asked.

“Y-yes.” He tried to sound brave, but the shivers from his frozen sweat caused his voice to break. “It was just a nightmare” he tried again, more successfully this time. “I am sorry for waking you.”

“I will bring you some water, and then you will feel better” a woman’s voice announced behind them. Malik’s mother. His embarrassment came back in full force, and before he even knew what he was doing, he had risen from the bed. The cold was so unbearable that it was almost like a physical blow, jolting him back to his senses.

How could one dream of such heat, when it was so cold?

“I will go myself. Please, do not worry about me. Go back to sleep, I just… I am fine now, all right?”

He did not even know how many mattresses, feet, bedcovers he stumbled upon in his bid for freedom. To his shock, as he came close to the doorstep he felt the panic rise again, as if the wave from his dream was following him and he was still fleeing from it. Angry at himself, he ran towards the water basin and sunk his head into it, searching for that glorious clarity which only the cold seemed able to give him.

When he realized that it had been a bad idea, it was already too late.

“Ouch!” he yelled, uttering a curse that he had heard Malik’s eldest brother say once. His shivers were back with a vengeance.

“Are you insane? What did you do that for? Here, take a blanket.”

Of course, Malik had followed him.

“Was it so terrible?” Though he feigned nonchalance, it was obvious that his friend was worried. “I mean, it was only a dream, wasn’t it? After you wake up, it all disappears.”

“I know. I am fine.”

“It was probably because of the cold. The heat and the cold bring nightmares, everybody knows it. That, and you ate half of the apple pie last night. Mother says…”

“That’s not true” Isildur protested weakly. It still did not seem like his voice, he thought, his heart racing again. Had he been drowned by the wave, and now he was no longer himself, but a ghost like…?

He shook his head, in shock at the stupidity of his own thoughts. What was the matter with him? He was awake now, wasn’t he?

“By the way, I am not dead, and I am not planning to die anytime soon.”

“How do you know I dreamed that?” he shouted. Malik’s eyes widened.

“You said it yourself when you awoke.”

“Oh.” Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Look, whatever it is, you will have forgotten it by tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Are you coming back to sleep, then?”

“Just a moment. Go ahead.” But Malik did not move.

“I am not going to die” he repeated, his frown deepening even more. Had he managed to unnerve him, too? Isildur did not know he could still feel any worse about this entire affair. For a moment, he had the shameful wish that he was back home in Andúnië, with Mother. Only she could find a way to cheer him again, and make his mind stop going in circles over this.

“Malik, go back to bed.”

It was Ashad’s deep voice. Dismayed at the prospect of having to face yet someone else, the boy wrapped the blanket tighter around his shoulders, and set his gaze on the wooden planks of the floor.

“I said, I am fine!” he yelled. Even as the words came out of his mouth, however, he felt appalled at himself. What on Earth had possessed him to be so rude to this man in his own house? “I am sorry, I… I just…”

Had a nightmare, he finished in his mind, feeling like a stupid child. He had no right to complain if they were worried; he was the one acting like a fool in front of them.

Ashad ignored both his rudeness and his apology. His black eyes were fixed on his, with a silent intensity that no Númenórean was quite able to replicate.

“You dreamed of a great wave” he said at last. It was not a question, and for a moment, Isildur was simply dumbfounded.

Had he cried out? Had they heard everything? That had to be it… and as he had been an idiot already once before, when he had forgotten that Malik had heard him say he was dead, he would not repeat the same mistake again.

“You heard me.”

Ashad’s forehead creased in a small frown.

“I heard you scream as I heard your grandfather, the Lord of Andúnië, scream countless times in the night. I asked him many of those times, as indelicately as my son, I am afraid, and he always told me the same thing: he dreamt of a great wave which drowned everything in its wake, as did his father, and his father’s father, and everyone from the line of Andúnië.”

Isildur blinked, shaking his head as the information sank in. It simply could not be, he thought. His grandfather? Then, why had he never heard…?

Would you go around telling people about this? a sarcastic voice spoke inside his head. Still, it seemed too unbelievable… his grandfather, the strongest and greatest warrior that he knew, screaming from a nightmare? And, did this mean that his father dreamed of it, too? But that was not possible, they were adults! How could adults be scared of nightmares? It was simply unthinkable.

“Nightmares are not real” he said, more to himself than to the man who stood before him. Ashad seemed about to open his mouth to reply to this, but then, in an unusual move for the outgoing Middle-Earth barbarian, he appeared to think better of it.

“I am not the right person to talk about this, Isildur” he said eventually. “I am not from the line of Andúnië. I am not even a Númenórean. It is your family you should speak to; they will be able to explain these things and provide comfort.”

Comfort. For a nightmare, which would be forgotten on the following morning. Unless it wasn’t, the thought seemed to plummet in his chest like frozen lead. Countless times, Malik’s father had said. Countless times, and all those times, his grandfather had screamed.

Was he going to see Malik’s ghost countless times? His grandfather and his father could not have seen him too, could they? Shivering again, he huddled against his friend’s blanket.

“Is it… real?” he asked, his voice so low that it did not seem like Ashad would even be able to hear it. But his eyes flickered in a strange way in the dark, and Isildur knew that he had.

“It might be a premonition. A memory. I wouldn’t know.” It was the first time that he had seen him nervous. “If you need answers so desperately, I can take you home tomorrow.”

“Thank you, but…” Isildur wanted to go home, more than anything in the world. But then, he thought, if he did that, he would be perceived as spurning this people’s hospitality. Malik would be angry at him, his parents would be disappointed, and Isildur’s own family would be displeased with him. The trip back to Andúnië was long, and it had not been planned until next week, so he would not merely be disrupting the family’s rest at night, but also their daytime activities for the next two or three days. All because he had freaked out at a nightmare. Had his grandfather ever stopped a Council meeting, or a battle, because of his nightmares? “There is no need. I will… have plenty of time to ask them when I am back.”

Ashad shook his head, perhaps with a shadow of regret.

“Are you sure? It would be no trouble…”

“Yes, I am sure, sir.” Now, it had to be now when his traitorous voice finally managed to be as firm as that of a First Age hero. “I am fine.”

Only when Ashad nodded, and stood up to leave, Isildur’s shoulders slumped against the wall, and he allowed himself to hate his own presence of mind.