Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Leap of Faith

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Year 3243 -Year 66 of the reign of Tar Palantir.

 

The night was warm, as only Umbarian nights could be this late in Autumn. The sky had cleared during the afternoon, leaving the firmament aglow with thousands of stars, which had seemed to float above his head as he made his way across the camp earlier in the evening. It was a belief of the Haradrim that the destiny of every man was written in those stars, and that it was possible to read it in them as if they were lines from a book, if one was knowledgeable enough. To Pharazôn, this idea had always seemed laughable: stars were immutable, and they never altered their course for anyone, while destiny was forever shifting like the flames of the fire where his grandfather and his mother used to gaze every day. Such beliefs were merely one more example of the Haradric ingrained pessimism, just like their jealous gods who continuously demanded dead souls as if they needed to feed on them in order to survive.

That pessimism was the reason why he had such difficulties to believe that such a trivial thing as a begetting day feast could have a place among their traditions. When Merimne had sent word that she wanted him to attend hers, his first thought was that it had to be a joke. She had never involved herself in anything of the sort in the past, even back when she was a warrior and survival for one more year could be considered a cause for celebration.

There has to be some ghastly component to this, he remembered thinking, but so far, he seemed to have been proved wrong. The feast that she had organized in her dwelling -which had remained a tent made of spun fabric even after he had yelled himself hoarse countless times, trying to have her exchange it for proper housing that would not leave her exposed to the whims of the weather- had everything that he was accustomed to see in non-Haradric celebrations: food, drink, laughter, and song. Merimne herself proved a rather passable host, making sure that her guests had everything they wanted, in spite of how difficult it had become for her to move. She partook in the toasts, and if she sipped the wine carefully instead of downing it as she had used to, it was because she seemed intent on staying awake for them. For some reason, she had even invited Adherbal and Barekbal, though their relationship had ranged from hostile to merely cold since she first set foot on the Second Wall as a prisoner.

“For my people, it is impossible to keep the same enemy for forty-five years. Either they will have killed you, or you will have killed them long before then. So, they are no longer my enemies”, she explained, with a grin that showed her uneven set of teeth. Adherbal rolled his eyes, though he was careful not to let her see him do it.

“I am still intrigued as to what exactly you are celebrating here, Merimne”, Pharazôn asked, after they had downed their third toast. “Before today, I did not even know that the Haradrim had begetting days.”

Merimne shook her head. The hand which held her cup of wine was steadier than usual, he noticed idly.

“This is not a begetting day” she declared. “Begetting days are a foolish Númenórean custom, just because you would lose count of your hundreds of years if you did not find a way to mark them.”

“There is no need for that when you can read and write” Barekbal chimed in, munching cautiously on one of the few Haradric pastries that did not burn a hole in one’s stomach. “Perhaps you should try it.”

“I do not need to read and write to know what I need to know, and count what I need to count” she growled. “Haradu lived twelve times six years since he received his name until his ascension to Heaven.”

“Couldn’t you simply say seventy-two?” Adherbal snorted. Merimne’s glare almost made him physically flinch, which, considering how old and frail she was, was quite a feat in Pharazôn’s opinion.

“My people receive their names only when they are able to speak.”

“So… he was seventy-five? Seventy-six?”

“Seventy-five” Pharazôn spoke. He was not an expert on Haradric culture, but after so many years it became inevitable to learn a thing or two, though most Númenóreans still preferred to claim ignorance out of sheer contempt. “Haradu was seventy-five of our years old when he ascended to Heaven. And you” he added, in dawning comprehension,” are seventy-six.”

Merimne nodded, mollified.

“No one in this land is known to have liver longer than Haradu”, she explained. “We used to believe that it was not even possible. So, this is what I am celebrating. Today, I have become the oldest of my people."

Barekbal shook his head, as if he found this the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. He was about to open his mouth, probably to say this aloud, but Pharazôn silenced him with a warning frown.

“Indeed, you have lived longer than any of the Haradrim I know. And you still look hale.”

“I do not look hale,” Merimne cradled her half-empty cup, letting a bitter glance rest upon it. “You are mocking me.”

“And you should be more grateful,” Barekbal retorted. “If you have lived so long, it is thanks to Númenor. Among your own people, you would have been long dead, killed in some pointless feud, taken by a disease that you tried to cure by drinking horse’s piss, or abandoned in the desert when food became scarce.”

Pharazôn was sure that Merimne would be angered by those words, but he seemed to have misjudged her on this occasion. Instead of rising to the provocation, she shrugged, for a moment looking nothing at all like the deadly warrior she had once been, but just an old woman. A very old woman by the standards of her people, as her story had reminded him only now.

“Here, drink some more. Barekbal is just bitter because he is growing old, too.”

“Old? Him? I am old!” Adherbal complained, perhaps taking the hint. “My bones hurt whenever I have to ride one of those damn horses, and still you will not let me retire.” It was a long-standing point of contention between them, though sometimes it was difficult to guess how serious the man was about it, since this life was practically the only life he had known, and he had no wife or children waiting for him. “I swear, one day I will take all my veterans and go settle in Pelargir!”

“To protect it from the Arnians the next time they revolt?” Pharazôn laughed. Merimne smiled at this, her festive mood apparently restored.

“Those Arnians! I do not understand why you are so worried about them, they are the worst fighters I have ever met. And so full of themselves, too!”

“We are not worried about the Arnians, it is them being so close to Mordor what concerns us. If only we could relocate them somewhere, we would save ourselves plenty of trouble!”

“Now, that’s an idea!” Adherbal extended his cup to receive more wine. Merimne made a sign to her attendant, who moved swiftly behind them. “We could settle them here, in Harad, and bring the Haradrim to the Bay. Sauron would never be able to strike deals with them, because if one tribe declared for him their neighbours would declare against him just on principle. It would be perfect!”

“Yes, the problem is that they would do the same to us.” Barekbal sighed. Seizing the opportunity, he went on to expound the latest troubles he had had with the envoy of some Eastern tribe, and Pharazôn nodded, pretending to be interested. At some point, however, Merimne’s attendant came closer and started whispering something in her ear, and he completely lost track of the conversation.

“Is something the matter?”

Merimne stared at him solemnly.

“There is someone waiting outside for you. A messenger, with a dispatch. They say it is urgent.”

All things considered, it was not proving to be a bad feast at all. He felt a pang of regret at the disturbance.

“Carry on, I will be back soon” he said, with an apologetic look in the old woman’s direction. She might be old, however, but not yet senile, so she was aware that he had no control over his immediate future in circumstances such as this. Perhaps the stars could tell, he mused wryly, breathing in the night air in an attempt to clear his head from the last cup he had drunk.

“Where is the letter?” he asked the man, who stood in the clearing outside the tent. His hands were empty, and though he bowed in Pharazôn’s direction, he made no move to fumble with his bag or gather anything from his immediate vicinity. This alerted him that something was amiss.

“Well?” he insisted, somewhat impatiently. The messenger shook his head.

“There is no letter, my lord prince. I have come from Armenelos at the greatest speed I could manage, to deliver the news to you.”

“News? What news?”

“The Prince of the South, my lord, your father. He is very ill. You are requested to return to Númenor at once.”

“Ill?” For a moment, the meaning of this word would not sink in his brain. “How, ill? What kind of illness…?”

His voice died when he glimpsed the man’s expression under the dim light, and his breath halted.

“You mean that he is dying.”

“Yes, my lord prince. I am very sorry.”

Dying. Death. Words he was familiar with in all their shapes and forms, but which he had never before considered in connection with his father. The Prince Gimilkhâd had not seen his best days since the demise of his beloved wife, Pharazôn’s mother, but he still belonged to the long-lived line of the Kings of Númenor, like his older brother who held the Sceptre even now, or Amandil’s father. He was not even two hundred years old, an age in which the scions of this lineage were still healthy and strong, at least from what the memory of living men and dead chroniclers could tell.

“Wait” he hissed, still under the effects of shock. “I need more details. What is this illness, that would affect him so young? You must know something else, tell me!”

“I… I do not know more”. The man looked uneasy, and his febrile imagination began building sinister theories. Perhaps he had been poisoned? With him away, no one would know… no one would care… and that would be one less thorn on the King’s side, one less obstacle for his precious succession decree.

Or perhaps… but the alternative was so terrible that he could not even finish the thought. His father would never lay down his life, like the Princess Inzilbêth had. Though the blood of those freaks ran in his veins as well, he had always despised them and their ways. The King and his supporters, however, would no doubt claim that he had done something to offend the gods, just as their enemies had done with the Princess of the West’s sterility. Lies, all of them, but still as believable as the next theory, for how could anyone explain why Gimilkhâd was dying?

Dying. Not dead yet, he reminded himself, forcing his turmoil to subside and trying to focus on a new purpose. Who knows, perhaps he would be there on time…if he could discharge himself from his duties swiftly, if the winds were favourable, if the roads were in a good state… if his father lasted another month….

Even as he thought it, he knew that it was impossible. Long-lived they may be, but his line had never been struck by long, consuming illnesses such as lesser men had. That was why it was possible to tell when one of them was at the brink of death.

“You may go now” he spoke to the messenger, who did not need to be told twice. Following his retreating form, with eyes that did not even take in what they were seeing, Pharazôn lowered himself towards the ground, and sat on his knees.

It was ironic that even now, in his commotion at this news, he still could not muster the feelings of loss and grief that would have most others in tears. He felt empty, as if there was a gaping hole inside him where the love for his father should have been. He tried to gather threads of old memories, of his childhood and youth in Númenor before he felt the calling for the mainland, but they would not come. All he could see in his mind’s eye was his father as he had been in later years, dishevelled and strangely frail, clinging to the shadow of a dead woman and to the hopes he had laid on an absent son in order to remain alive. This was a sorrowful thought, but it did not let him weep, for wasn’t the death of someone who had been half absent only half a death? Old, frail, and slow as Merimne was, whenever she laughed or glowered in anger there was still more life in her than there had been in Gimilkhâd for decades.

“Your father is not old, is he? For your people.”

Startled, as he had not heard anyone coming, Pharazôn turned back to see the very woman he had been thinking about, leaning on her walking stick. In spite of the warmth of the night, she was trembling underneath her heavy cloak, and for a moment he felt the strange dispersion of his feelings rearrange itself into the familiar emotion of exasperation.

“You should not have left your tent. Go back and entertain your guests.”

Merimne ignored this.

“We cannot know why Nergal calls for people when and how he does, but the gods have no obligation to explain themselves to us. Not even to the Númenóreans.”

Who could ever be as terrible as the Haradrim for giving comfort? Even the so-called Faithful in Númenor would have better words to offer, he mused to himself, and that was saying quite a lot.

“Would you say the same if you could not die of common disease? If you lived in a place free of war and violent death? If all your forebears, if your own family, lived for much longer?”

Hot anger was starting to fill the hole within him, though he still had not figured out who or what was its target. The Númenórean gods, the King of Armenelos he had made countless sacrifices to, the Lady of the Cave that his mother had always worshipped? The Baalim, who lived in a distant land and refused to bestow upon them the immortality that they had given the Elves, considering them to be impure and below their notice? His mother, for taking his father’s spirit with her when she died in such a suspicious manner? Or was it Tar Palantir that he blamed?

But no, he thought. The belief in foul play would be comforting, if guiltily so, but deep inside, he knew that his father had not been poisoned. If Tar Palantir had wanted to get rid of his brother, he would have done so long ago, back when he could still be considered a threat.

“If Númenor was the paradise you all claim it to be, you would not be here”, Merimne said. “I am sure that your Island must be a place of wonder, even more than the garden that Haradu found in the heart of the desert, but people still grow old and fall ill. You live long, and yet you are mortal, just like we are, so sooner or later, death will come.”

It should not have come so soon, he wanted to say, but suddenly the words sounded childish to him. Childish because it was her standing there, listening to them, and she could not understand, and somehow she was making him see things from her barbarian perspective. Perhaps the other Númenóreans had been right to ignore whatever the Haradrim had to say to them, he thought.

As a Númenórean, he knew that it should not have come so soon. His father should have lived to see him fight for his inheritance, and take the Sceptre. He should not have died before knowing that his lifelong wish had been fulfilled. He should not have died while his son was away in the mainland, still waiting for the right opportunity.

Could it be himself, the one he was angry with?

It was unfair. In all his calculations, how could he ever have factored this?

Death cannot be factored, the Haradrim would probably answer. But the Haradrim did not know. They could not know. There was nothing to discuss with any of them, not about this.

“Merimne, go back to the tent, it’s a damn order” he repeated. When he did not hear the telling sound of her walking stick, he sighed, biting back a curse. “Fine. I will come with you. I have to announce my departure anyway.”

“Wait.”

She was not looking at him when he stood on his feet to face her. Instead, her eyes were lost in some undetermined spot on the ground, almost as if she was purposefully fleeing his glance.

“Before you leave, there is something I need to ask you. I know this message is weighing heavily in your mind now, but… there is no other time.”

“Ask me?” He would have ignored anyone else, but she had never come to him with something unimportant before. Besides, with thoughts of mortality clouding his mind, it was growing harder to pretend that he did not see the wrinkles in her face, her grey hairs, or the way her back bent as she shivered against her walking stick. What if she was not there anymore, when he returned? “Very well, go ahead.”

She still did not look at him.

“What the Vice-General said before, during the feast. About me living for so long because of Númenor.”

“Never mind the Vice-General” he said, surprised at this choice of subject. “I have wanted to kill him many times, too.”

“He was right. About all the ways in which my people usually die. If someone grows old in spite of war, feuds and diseases, they eventually go out in the desert looking for Haradu’s garden, and die there. There is no use for someone who consumes resources, yet cannot fight any longer.”

“I’ve heard of that.”

“So, why am I still here?”

“What?” Pharazôn had been finding it difficult to focus in the conversation at hand, but this brought him back to it sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I joined your army to fight for you, but I have not fought for many years, and yet I am here, consuming your resources.”

Númenóreans were purposefully slow in understanding the ways of the Haradrim, but that worked both ways, it appeared.

“There are two reasons for that, Merimne. First, we have infinitely more resources. Second, we are not barbarians.”

“The others who fight here usually return to the land of their tribes after they are done.”

“Yes, but you did not want to.” Pharazôn shrugged. “Wisely, in my opinion.”

“But…” For a moment, it seemed as if she was going to make a point, but then her eyes became clouded and she shook her head, as if angry for not being able to explain herself properly. With old age, she had been growing more and more prone to forget words, and yet this time her frustration seemed to be of a different nature, like a sense of bafflement at her inability to express what she wanted to convey. “I am not a Númenórean, and this was not our agreement. I was here to fight in exchange for my life.”

“And you fought.” He had no time for this. “Is there anything else that you wish to say?”

“I do not know why I am here.”

Pharazôn was growing impatient. If this was so important to her, couldn’t she have asked him at some other point in the last twenty years?

“You are here to grow older, and die one day. Here, if you wish to be. Elsewhere, if you wish to leave. Númenóreans do not abandon their allies in the desert when they grow old. We do not even do this with animals. Your people are… they are barbarians, damn it. And now, if you do not mind, I have to enter your tent.”

Merimne shook her head.

“It is not my tent” she hissed after him, still staring at him with the doleful look of someone who is unable to express the nature of her problem.

This time, Pharazôn ignored her.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

“You can count on me, my lord prince.” Barekbal’s eyes were briefly distracted from their detailed surveillance of the camp’s comings and goings to look into his, as he probably considered that ceremony required. Dawn had broken only a short while ago, and yet the Second Wall was already teeming with activity, from soldiers practicing and cleaning their weapons to barbarian concubines bathing their noisy children.

Pharazôn nodded, trying to hold his glance without his own bloodshot eyes watering from the cool morning air. He had not been able to sleep at all that night, not even after drinking what others would consider an impressive amount of undiluted wine. He had not dreamed of his father dying, like he had dreamed of his mother long ago, but whenever he tried to close his eyes he was there, his grey hair in disarray, huddling against the purple cloak he wore in public ceremonies, as if he was feeling cold. When he tried to look closer, he realized that the old man’s skin was whiter than usual, like paper, and his eyes gleamed with the golden colour of the embalmer’s mask. Pharazôn asked him why he was dying so soon, but Gimilkhâd laughed and said that he was not dead, for he would enjoy eternal life under the slopes of the Meneltarma. But that is not life, he tried to argue, his words sounding crazy as he whispered them in the lonely night. And then Merimne came, accusing him of not killing her. This is not life, either, she said, and she sounded more passionate, more articulate in his vision than she had been in real life. I live in a house that does not belong to me, eating food that does not belong to me, in a body that does not belong to me, and I cannot win them back any longer. Pharazôn told her that he could see her problem, but that it was nobody’s fault, least of all his. Even we grow old, even we die. Even I will, one day, perhaps sooner than I believed I would.

The Curse of Men. Old age, and then, Eternal Darkness, unless the Great God took pity on their souls and led them to the light, as the priests believed. He had always felt satisfied with that explanation, but now, somehow, even this vague comfort eluded him.

“I am sorry, Barekbal, you were saying?” He had not been paying attention -for the second time since the previous evening- to a long and detailed explanation of the progress made in the peace talks with the envoys from the East. As he was expecting the man to evidence his displeasure at this, even in the subtlest of ways, he was a little surprised when Barekbal looked guilty instead.

“My apologies, my lord. I did not mean to bore you with details. You should be focusing on your impending trip, and here I am, distracting you with talk of issues which fall under my responsibility.”

Though not given to open demonstrations, he seemed to be genuinely sympathetic towards his plight, or whatever he could guess about it, presumably from his own experiences. Barekbal’s own father had died years ago, as far as Pharazôn knew, and he had also been away when it happened. If Death was the Curse of Men, absence was the curse of the soldier.

“I know that, whatever the problem is, you will deal with it in the best possible way. “Except perhaps for one thing, he thought, remembering what he had been planning to say. “Take care of Merimne, Barekbal.”

“What?” One of the bushy eyebrows shot up in an inquiring expression. “Is something the matter with her?”

“No.” Pharazôn did not wish to sound accusatory. “However, I am aware that you have never been the best of friends, to say the least. I do not know for how long I will be away, but she should be taken care of in my absence.”

Something seemed to dawn in the other man’s mind.

“Oh, surely you do not believe I would abandon her in the desert! I was merely remarking upon the fact that her people, the same people she speaks about all the time, would have done just that. “He shrugged. “To be honest, I do not even have the heart to dislike her anymore. I may even feel tempted to check on her personally, but I expect I will be able to withstand that particular urge whenever I remember her insolent temper.”

“Then do not. There is nothing which excites her temper more than pity.” At last, their footsteps had brought them close to the edge of the encampment, where her tent was tied to a set of wooden poles.

It is not my tent, she had said the previous night. But why had this suddenly bothered her?

“Merimne” he called, standing next to the entrance. “Merimne!”

There was no answer.

“Maybe she is still asleep”, Barekbal ventured, with the slightly impatient air of a busy man being forced to waste his precious time.

Ignoring him, Pharazôn entered the tent without invitation, only to find himself face to face with the attendant. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, in the usual barbarian way, and did not raise his glance to meet his until he was directly addressed.

“Where is Merimne?”

“She gave this to me, so I might give it to the Lord of Númenor” he replied, handing Pharazôn a roll of paper. For a moment, instead of reading it, he looked behind the younger man’s back, searching for a sign of her, but the tent seemed empty except for the two of them. Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps a premonition, but his heart began to sink.

He unrolled the message. In all these years, he had never seen Merimne’s handwriting. He had never even known that she could write, but she must have learned at some point, since he knew that the man before him couldn’t have helped her with this. Trying to ignore the sinking feeling, he began to read.

When you read these lines, I will be in the desert. Do not look for me, as it will be nothing but a waste of time. I should have done this long ago, but I wished to know if I could live longer than Haradu. I believe now that he would have been very uncomfortable by the end of his life. He was lucky to be admitted in Heaven.

The above lines were my original message, but now I must write more, because I know that you will blame the Vice-General for his remark, and yourself for not being able to answer my questions. I was planning to do this since long ago, and it was the reason why I celebrated that feast at all. It is a custom of my people, before leaving on their last journey. If I asked you, it was only because I needed to know your thoughts before I left, but I should have guessed that you would not be able to understand me. I have tried to understand you. You were sincere, you respected the deal that we made, and you only broke it for what you perceived to be my best interest. I am honoured to have served you, and my death wish will be that every battle you fight ends in victory, and that you will take the Sceptre and become the king of your people, alongside the woman you love. My people believe that death wishes are always answered; there was once a man from my tribe who had his whole family killed so the power of their death wishes would make him king. But you are too civilized to understand this, too.

Farewell, Merimne.

He cursed so loudly, that even Barekbal broke his reluctance and peeked inside to see what had happened. As he handed him the paper, Pharazôn turned towards the man from Harad who sat before them, growing irrationally angry at his unshakeable composure.

“Why on Earth did you let her do that?” he hissed. “Did you take her there? Where? She could not have gone on her own!” Behind him, Barekbal gasped.

The man shook his head.

“I cannot tell you.”

“What did you say?” It was too much for him; after the news of his father, and this terrible night, this was already too much. Letting go of the self-control he still possessed, he unsheathed his sword, and laid it against the man’s chest. “Tell me right now, or I will kill you. I will not say it twice.”

The chest heaved in a deep breath, with which the barbarian sought to gather his resolution. Suddenly, wondering how he could still have this memory from so long ago, he remembered Merimne doing the same thing, on the first time they had met, right after he returned from the Middle Havens and that fateful Eruhantalë in Armenelos.

“I cannot tell you” the man repeated.

Pharazôn would have killed him, just because he was a convenient target for his rage. Fortunately, Barekbal had not lost his composure as he had, and he was there to pull him away, fearlessly wrestling the sword away from his hand while he reasoned with him in slow tones, as a mother with his child. Pharazôn did not take in a single word of what he was saying. All he could see was the drops of blood, trickling from his hands as he spoke.

After what seemed like an eternity, he finally managed to push the man away, and his hands flew to his face to cover his eyes, in a desperate attempt to regain some measure of clarity.

“She may still be alive” he muttered. Like his father. Alive, yet dead at the same time. Out of his reach.

“If I know her, she will have killed herself as soon as she got there. She would not wait passively for a slow death, my lord prince. Please, you have to let her be. She was within her rights to leave whenever she pleased, you said so yourself, and we have to respect that!” Of course he would say that, he had always hated her. As if he could guess his thoughts, Barekbal shook his head in denial; his look was pleading now. “Your place is in Númenor, my lord, with your father.”

Pharazôn blinked. Why was it so difficult all of a sudden, to understand what other people were saying?

“Leave me alone” he said, turning his back on him, the barbarian and the empty tent, and walking away.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“The King Tar Palantir, Favourite of the Powers, Protector and guardian of Númenor and its colonies!”

The herald shouted this from the doorstep, in the same ringing tones that he used whenever he entered the Council Chamber, or a huge hall housing a throng of people. Palantir opened his mouth to silence him, shocked,  then closed it as he realized that he was to blame more than the man was. He was only doing his duty, while Palantir should have warned him to keep silent around a sickbed. Since he was young, he had despised protocol as form of rebellion against his regal, stately father, whose hundreds of Court rules and restrictions he had found ridiculous and tried to ignore as much as he could. But in all his years as King, he had been forced to admit the unpleasant truth that protocol was there, whether he followed it or not, and that ignoring it entirely only resulted in discomfort and confusion, for others rather than himself.

Now, he thought, a second, even more unpleasant truth was facing him, and there was not nearly enough time left to admit it. Allowing himself no more than a brief moment of hesitation, he sought him with his gaze, slowly growing used to the shadows in the room. He was lying in the bed, white silk sheets covering his body up to his chest, in a sinister reminiscence of what would soon be his death shroud. His face was pale, his hair undyed, and his dark eyes reflected a powerful feeling of terror, only barely disguised as bravado as he became aware of his presence.

His brother. This man, whom Ar Gimilzôr had sired as a threat to him and his wayward mother, to be his father’s son through and through, before he became the proud in-law of those traitorous merchants and the father of his greatest threat, was his brother. They had been born of the same womb, but he had spent so long denying this in his own mind, that it felt as if his memories of it belonged to a different person.

And now, he was dying. For whatever reason, Eru Almighty had decided to cut the thread of his life shorter than any in the line of Elros ever before, unless they willingly laid down their existence. Others in his faction could barely dissimulate their vindictive glee at this, considering that the Creator had decided to show Númenor whose line was truly cursed in His eyes, but Palantir was not sure that this curse, if it was one, was on Gimilkhâd alone. What if it was meant to reflect on their entire lineage and the Island itself? Day after day, his dreams of the Wave had become more and more vivid, instead of disappearing as he had once been so certain that they would.

Gimilkhâd smiled, though the smile looked more like a grimace in his taut features.

“Look who is here!” His voice was a hoarse whisper, as the air seemed to have some difficulty passing through his lungs and into his mouth. “The King of… Númenor himself! To…what do I owe this… honour?”

Palantir sat on an ivory chair, next to him, and motioned to the courtiers and attendants to leave. They bowed deeply before retreating.

“You are my brother.” There was no time left to pretend anymore. “Your wife passed away, and your son is on the mainland, so the duty of attending your sickbed falls to me.”

There was a weak laugh, almost like a gurgle.

“Is that so? What…leads you to believe I would not… rather be looking at… the tiles in that wall?”

Palantir could not give a damn for what Gimilkhâd would rather be doing, especially when he was so obviously lying about it.

“You are afraid of dying alone.” It was not a question. The Prince of the South looked angry now.

“Are you h-here to gloat?”

“No.” He reined his temper; there was no time left for that, either. “But you would be less afraid if you had allowed yourself to accept the simple truth that death is not an evil, that it is merely a path to something better. Even now, it is not too late.”

“Fuck you” Gimlkhâd spat. “And your Gift of Men.”

Palantir raised his hands in a placating gesture.

“As you wish.”

For a while, Gimilkhâd did not reply. He seemed too weak to speak for long periods of time, so when Palantir noticed his eyelids drooping, he looked away, and pressed his hands against his forehead to meditate. It was difficult to find the required calm, however, when the currents were running so strong below the surface as they were now. Unbidden, thoughts of his dying father came to his mind, his dying father who, in his wilful yet desperate pride, had resembled Gimilkhâd so much.

When you reach old age and your limbs wither, you will not resign your Sceptre or give your life away, but crawl to the altars of your outlandish gods to beg for more years of life.

He shuddered. The words of this curse, which had been seared into his brain since that day, still had the power to disquiet him, perhaps now more than ever, with the fateful day approaching when he would have to face his own mortality. He had always thought that he still had time, calculated it as if every year that remained was somehow his due as King, but his brother had been younger than him, and he was in his deathbed.

A faint sound, almost like a groan, interrupted his sombre thoughts.

“What is it?” The word “brother” would not come to his lips, not even now. Whenever he contemplated it, he saw two serpents devouring each other: his father’s dream.

“Do you k-know what? For years, I… for so many years… I could not bear the idea of m… meeting your glance.”

“I know.” Like father, like son, even in this.

“But you do not know why.” For a moment, it seemed to him that Gimilkhâd’s voice had grown steadier, and he blinked, curiously.

“Are you going to tell me now?”

“I was afraid that you would… notice. Realize what I had done.”

“Realize what?” For some reason, Palantir felt a cold weight on his chest at those words.

Gimlkhâd ignored his question.

“I do not care anymore, now. I am d-dying. Why should I care about anything?” He sought his glance, defiantly, and Palantir was taken by a feeling of strangeness, of something being out of place. It was true; in all those years, his brother had never looked at him in the eye. “Go ahead, find it. I d…dare you.”

Perhaps ironically, it was now Palantir who was apprehensive. Forcing himself to overcome this emotion, he stared into Gimilkhâd’s eyes, and sought them for signs of what his brother was thinking. Almost at once, the shape of their mother, pale and clammy as she had been in her own deathbed, rose before them. Palantir’s heart jumped.

He had not expected this.

“I did not want to. It was all her fault. But I wept. I wept until I had no m-more tears, I swear. Sometimes, I st-still dream of her. She blames me, I know sh-she does.” He shivered. “D-do you think it could be her ghost, wh-what is killing me so early?”

Palantir could barely contain his horror. He remembered the Princess, lying in bed in her violet robes, after her spirit was forced away from her body by some invisible power. His father’s fury, when the young Inziladûn had dared to confront him about it. Had he been wrong all this time?

“I did not want to” Gimlkhâd repeated weakly. All of a sudden, his bravado was gone, and with it Palantir’s anger at the foolish young man who had -inadvertently- caused their mother’s death.

“I believe you.” It was not so difficult to say those words as he had thought it would. “Your soul is twisted, and you have done little good in this life, but you did not mean for Mother to die. There were many forces at play for that to happen as it did, and you were the least of them. I am sure she knows it, too.”

For a long time, Gimilkhâd said nothing, merely stared at him, as if his eyes were something that he had discovered only now and needed to explore and commit to his memory before it was too late.

“Your soul is as twisted as mine” he said at last. Palantir sighed. His own disappointment took him by surprise; after all this time, he thought he was familiar enough with his brother’s bitter nature to know that he should expect nothing better from him. “You made Father suffer so much.”

“What happened between me and Father is none of your concern.”

“Oh, is it not? It was because of it that I was b-born!” Gimilkhâd shook his head angrily. “Born because your f-father wants you to replace your brother. Then discarded… because he did not have the guts to do it.”

Palantir lowered his glance. There was too much truth in this to dismiss.

“I am not here to argue with you” he said instead. “You should keep your strength. Perhaps your son will be able to come in time, and then my unwelcome presence will be replaced by his welcome one.”

“Is that one of your prophecies?” Though the tone was scathing, deep inside, Palantir could perceive Gimlkhâd’s raw desire that this could somehow become true. He regretted bringing it up, for it had merely been a possibility, as remote as the stars in the sky in the present circumstances.

“Keep your strength” he repeated, pressing his hand against his burning forehead again.

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“My lord prince.”

“My lord.”

They had been waiting before the entrance of his conference room, for who knows how many hours, perhaps for the sun’s entire journey since it rose beyond the Second Wall until it was about to disappear behind the reefs that guarded the harbour of Umbar. For all that time, he had wandered outside the camp alone, and it must have been a very difficult decision for them to forego sending search parties, knowing well that the supreme commander of the Umbarian troops could be lost in enemy territory. But they either had kept an unshakeable trust in him, in spite of everything, or they had understood, from his demeanour, that today he would prefer to fight Orcs or barbarians to the death rather than be disturbed by his own people.

Merimne was impossible to find, of course. Deep inside, he had known this, even before he set off in his path. Barekbal had been right, there was nothing they could do about it anymore. But he still needed solitude to gather his thoughts, to find a thread which linked them, and, above all, to be able to think them, to examine them until their complexities gave out like a rugged stone turned smooth by the action of the sea. And nobody could see him while he did that; it was bad enough that Barekbal had been there for the worst of it. He tried not to stare at the bandages covering the man’s hands, for he could not afford feeling any more guilt now.

He was the Prince Pharazôn of Númenor, the Golden, general of the Umbar troops. And as soon as he set foot on Númenor, he would acquire new titles to add to those old ones.

“My lord prince, the ship is waiting for you in the harbour…”

“That ship will not be enough” he cut Adherbal before he could finish the sentence. “We will need more. A fleet.”

“What?” Barekbal stared at him, probably wondering if he had gone insane, after all. “A fleet… for what, my lord prince?”

“For Adherbal and his veterans, remember?” Both were staring at him now. “How many are they?”

“Er...I… well…” It took him a moment to find his footing after such an unexpected pronouncement, but Adherbal was never a man to disregard an opening, whether on the battlefield or elsewhere. “About three thousand, my lord prince.”

“That will require quite a number of ships. We can use part of the Umbarian warfleet to transport them. What do you think?”

“May I ask…?” Barekbal insisted, but Pharazôn interrupted him before he could finish the question.

“Why? Or rather, why now? I have decided to resign from my post, and leave Umbar for good, so it is only appropriate that I take them to Númenor with me, so I can see to their well-deserved retirement. And our friend Adherbal together with them, of course. I have to admit it has grown tiring to listen to his constant complaints, though the Lord knows it is the Council he should be addressing them to.”

“What?” For the first time in what could be a lifetime, Barekbal did not seem to have heard the whole pronouncement before reacting. “Leave Umbar for good? But that… but who…?”

To render him speechless might have been a first in his lifetime as well.

“You are still in charge, but it will be for a longer time now. Until you decide to resign, or until the King tires of you. But, as he does not have to listen to you daily, that might never happen if you are lucky.”

“I thought you did not want to go back to Númenor, my lord.”

“And I thought they did not want you back in Númenor either, if I may be so bold”, Adherbal chimed in. After countenancing so much borderline treasonous talk over the years, however, his boldness was entirely justified.

“You are both right, but things have changed now. With the death of my father, I have a duty to claim his title of Prince of the South, as well as his seat in the Council. This is something I cannot do if I stay here.”

“A seat in the Council!” Adherbal sounded horrified. “You want to become a politician, my lord prince?”

“No, but what I want does not matter now.”

“And what about what the King wants? Won’t you need his approval to remain in Númenor and sit on the Council?”

Pharazôn frowned. Tar Palantir had been often in his thoughts today, though he had not particularly wished him to be.

“He will give it.” He tried for a winning smile, but it would not come, not in the mood he was still in. “After all, he is still my uncle. Family has to stick together.”

Barekbal shook his head, but said nothing.

“I will warn the men of the incoming departure, my lord prince, if you give me leave.” Adherbal proposed.

“You have it.” To his ears, his own voice sounded strangely drained, but Adherbal was too happy, and Barekbal too brooding to notice. His resolutions already made, there were no cracks in his composure, no disorder in his thoughts, but the hole, the huge, gaping hole inside him had not closed, nor did it seem like it would for a very long time.

If Númenor was the paradise you all claim it to be, you would not be here.

You were right, Merimne. As usual, he mouthed in silence, wondering if the desert ghost would be able to hear his words.