Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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A New Life

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The room lay in almost complete darkness. Its windows had been draped in heavy curtains of blue velvet which prevented the sunlight from shining through, so that only the glow of a few candles lit his path towards the deathbed. For a moment, he stood there, blinking, until his eyes became accustomed enough to this dim twilight as to see what lay there.

Death must have been unkind to Gimilkhâd’s looks, at least as much as life had been in his later days. But the embalmers, who had been forced to intervene at an early stage to prevent the body from decomposing before Pharazôn arrived, knew how to force beauty and dignity out of the grisliest fate. The Prince of the South did not look old anymore, or sad, or suffering. He was dressed in his best, crowned and cloaked in purple and gold, and his hair had been dyed and arranged as artfully as it had been whenever he visited the Temple in the high days. The wrinkles in his forehead had been smoothed out, and if his gaze would remain eternally fixed on the same point of the horizon, Pharazôn only had to stand there, and he could pretend that his father was looking at him.

He looks so much happier now, a sinister voice murmured in the back of his mind. One could almost be tempted into dying by the promise of looking like this, of an embalmer carving one’s features into a semblance of calm, sorrowless majesty. It was no wonder that so many people had been led to believe that death was the gate to a higher plane of existence, when given such works to admire.

And yet, it was a lie. His father had not looked like this in life or in death, or at least not for a very long time. And he had died in pain and fear, alone, feeling the darkness surround him and knowing that he was powerless to fight it. Pharazôn had seen so many people die that, even without having been in the room at the time, he knew. For every person like Merimne, or his mother, who were brave or misguided enough to let Death embrace them like a lover, there were thousands who died in terror.

“Did he leave any last words before he passed away?” His voice did not shake as he asked. The woman who was sitting next to the bed -had she been just an attendant, or a lover? Just by the expression on the sombre features, he could not tell-, shook her head.

“Not as he died, my lord prince. The King was here. But there was something that he said often in his last days, and he mentioned your name in connection with it.”

“Oh, yes? And what was it?”

“At times, the late Prince of the South mentioned a ring” The speech of Court ladies was so slow, he had almost forgotten how irritating it could be. “He asked where it was, my lord. Once, he wished to know what you had done with it, but I did not know what to tell him.”

Pharazôn was tempted to sigh.

“I see.” In the end, his father had not forgotten about that. Of all things he could have said in the last moments of his life… “I suppose you did not.”

For a moment, the woman’s glance betrayed a flicker of curiosity, and as he looked at her, Pharazôn could see that she was trying to decide whether it was appropriate to ask the next question.

“Thanks for telling me this”, he told her curtly, turning away from the shadows with a deep bow at the dead man.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

In all his life, he had never been summoned to a private audience by the King, not even when he had to appear before the Council after the destruction of Gadir. This was slightly unusual, for Tar Palantir, always the enemy of crowds, preferred to deal with his enemies one by one. Pharazôn had not found reason to complain of this treatment in the past, as the King had a way to make people nervous, and his own father had been fleeing that unsettling glance for all his life. But he was not his father, and at this point, there were no smokescreens left to hide him from his fate.

Gimilkhâd had been the last one.

“I offer you my deepest condolences for the death of your father, the Prince of the South”, the King spoke. They were not in the late Ar Gimilzôr’s audience chamber, that large, forbidding hall with the obsidian floors, but in a mere back garden, sitting at both sides of a small ivory table supporting a tray with pots of warm wine. Apparently, Tar Palantir did not feel that he needed any external trappings to support his authority.

“Thank you, my lord King” he replied with a dutiful bow.

“I am pleased to be able to tell you that he died painlessly, and peacefully.” Liar. “Now, he will find repose and comfort beyond the Circles of the World.”

“Perhaps.” To be honest, Pharazôn would have preferred to be dragged before the Council to be questioned, like the last time, rather than to be forced to bear this empty demonstration of sympathy. “There are many different ideas of what happens after death, but the truth is that nobody who knows for sure has ever returned to enlighten us.”

Tar Palantir frowned, but said nothing. For a while, he busied himself with an elaborate show of pouring the wine in two silver cups.

“I have heard reports from Sor” he spoke at last. Now, that was more like it. “You came with an entire fleet of veterans from Umbar, and you left them there when you headed for Armenelos, causing considerable disruption.”

“Those men have ended their service. They are not causing trouble on purpose, my lord King, but they are many and in need of immediate feeding and housing while they wait to be relocated where they can spend the remainder of their days. If I had left them in Umbar, they would have caused disruption in Umbar, and if I had brought them with me to Armenelos, they would have caused disruption in Armenelos” he gave his carefully prepared answer.

“There could be question as to whether you had the authority to decide that so many men had to ‘end their service’ at once, not to mention bring them with you, instead of leaving them where they were to await the Council’s decision. This situation has no precedent that I know of.”

“Most of these men are already past the age in which they should have retired, but the Council may have been too busy to notice. And I did not consider it right to abandon them in Middle-Earth when I intended not to return. Their fate has been entwined with mine for so long that it would have been an act of ungratefulness to leave them at the other side of the Great Sea, waiting for a decision which might or might not come. I regret that this has caused any inconvenience, my lord King, but I trust it will be but a temporary thing.”

Palantir’s frown increased, and his gaze was set on his. Pharazôn needed to gather the composure he had perfected from many years of facing Orcs, Haradrim, and creatures of Darkness to withstand it.

“So, you freely admit to bringing them here to pressure the Sceptre and the Council into agreeing with their demands.”

“Demands?” Pharazôn pretended to be outraged, and succeeded only too well. “I fail to understand why you see them as enemies, my lord King. They have spent their lives fighting for you!”

“A man who is used to take what he wants by violence will not keep friends apart from foes when he is thwarted. He may protect Númenor one day, and become its worst enemy the next.” The double meaning of the King’s words was so unsubtly laid out that Pharazôn had to wonder if he took him for an idiot, or merely sought to provoke him.

“If a man is considered an enemy even though he has proved plenty of times that he is not, he may become what he is suspected of” he replied. “I do not know anything about ruling, but I know something about leading men in war, and if I had treated the soldiers as if they were going to turn on me at the next moment, I would not be sitting here now.”

“Some men are fast to imagine grievances so they can be excused for acting against laws and authorities that they do not respect.”

Pharazôn drank a large swallow of warm wine. The unreality of this conversation was starting to get to him.

“Forgive me, my lord King. As I said, I know little about ruling, and less still about politics. In Umbar, we call things by their name, and speak bluntly to one another’s face, so that is what I am used to do. As I see it, the problem here is that you do not trust me, and you do not trust my soldiers because you think they are only loyal to me.” Tar Palantir made as if to speak, but Pharazôn pretended not to have noticed it; it was imperative that he finished what he was saying. “I do not know what I have done to deserve this, except having been born the son of the Prince of the South, and the kinsman of Lord Magon of Gadir. But if that is reason enough, then the Lords of Andúnië should have stayed in exile, since their ancestors were rebels and traitors.”

Tar Palantir’s grey eyes had now become the colour of a deadly storm. Pharazôn could see why he had made his father uneasy.

“Despite your claims, I have always treated you according to your actions. I see you are used to charm people into believing your lies, but my mind is not such that it can be clouded by such feeble wisps of smoke.” He paused for a moment, as if defying him to be angry. “You claim to prefer a simple life in the mainland, and yet you have chosen to let it all go without a moment’s hesitation, as soon as you saw an opening which you could use to achieve what you truly desire.  You claim to be nauseated by politics, and yet you want your father’s seat in the Council, where you can be closer to the Sceptre. You claim to know little of ruling, but you are here because you wish to rule, usurping my daughter’s right. You have returned to Númenor because you have smelled the scent of a decaying corpse, and I do not mean that of your father!”

Pharazôn looked into his cup, forcing himself not to gape. That man was as good at blunt speech as the best of the Haradrim, curse him. It was the first time that he had seen this side of him.

He could not afford to be careless.

“If that is what you think of me, my lord King” he said, his tone perfectly even, so much that it reminded him of the lady who sat at his father’s deathbed, “then you should be glad that I wish to leave the mainland. As a Council member, there is little I can do but undermine you with words; with an army, I was more powerful than I will ever be as the Prince of the South. I have surrendered my weapons to you, and you would be well advised to accept them.”

“And that is why you brought those veterans. To dazzle me with the threat of your old power, which you are surrendering, as if this could make me lose sight of the other ways in which you could try to bring harm to Númenor and myself. “Palantir shook his head; whether in disgust or in disappointment, Pharazôn was not able to tell. “You have a claim to your father’s Council seat, and refusing it to you would only reinforce the image of falsely wronged loyalty that your father and your supporters have so carefully cultivated. But from now on, you will have no say in what happens in the mainland or with its soldiers, as you are no longer concerned with matters of armies and warfare. You are a Prince of Númenor, and you will advise me on the governance of the Island.”

Pharazôn raised his glance from the cup, and for a moment, their eyes met again. His hands clenched over the cold metal.

“As you wish, my lord King.”

“You are dismissed now.”

Carefully, he set the cup aside, unfinished, and stood up, bowing low as he did so. His pace was quick as he left the august presence, and only after he had crossed the threshold of the waiting room, he allowed himself to seize a moment of blissful solitude in the darkness of the corridor to let go of a long, shuddering breath. Slowly, the tension trickled out of his chest, substituted by a feeling of relief and triumph.

He had not seen it. The King of Númenor could see many things, and guess many secrets tightly hidden in one’s soul, but he had been able to prevent him from seeing the one thing that he could never, ever know.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“He does not know anything.” Zimraphel chuckled, even as she languidly kissed his face in the dimly lit room. “He cannot let go of what he thinks that he knows, so he can know in truth. He is no different from all those others who cannot let go of what they see with the eyes in their faces, and so are unable to look at the world with the other eyes.”

Pharazôn was already used to this kind of speech, and could even claim that he understood most of it at this point. Not all, of course, as he was not able to fathom from his own experience what having “the other eyes” was like.

“Is this how you prevent him from looking inside you?”

“No one can look inside me” she claimed, between kisses which were growing fiercer by the second. “I am fathomless, like the Sea.”

“That is not true!” he laughed, risking her displeasure. “I am looking inside you now. And I know what you want.”

To have this rarest glimpse of her black eyes turning even darker with raw need was the greatest accomplishment he could ever achieve in his lifetime; not even defeating Sauron would compare with it. Their lovemaking always had this hungry and desperate edge whenever they had not seen each other in a long time, and the risk of discovery hung over their heads to magnify every single emotion. Once, she had told him that whenever she lay in his arms, all her visions went away, and she could only see with the normal eyes of mortals. It did not last more than a few instants, and yet to her it was an even greater bliss than the spasms of pleasure themselves.

“I missed you” he whispered in her ear. “I missed you so much.”

“I am glad that you finally decided to stay.”

“Zimraphel, if it had depended on me…”

“If it had depended on you, you would still be in the mainland” she cut him, reproachfully. It seemed that today was the day in which everyone refused to believe him. “It was your father’s death what made you react. And the death of that woman. Do you know that she cut her throat herself? She was not afraid, not at all. She was smiling.” Her ivory forehead was slightly marred by the imperfection of a frown. “I envy her.”

Years ago, Pharazôn would have been unsettled. He might even have fled her embrace, in an instinctive panic that he had not experienced when facing the deadliest of his enemies. That, however, had been years ago, too many to count.

“I am glad to know that.” He caressed the frown away. “Thank you.”

She did not bestow her gifts under pressure, plea, or command, unless she wished to, like the goddess of the Forbidden Cave. Usually, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason in the way in which she did so, but that did not concern him as much as it used to, either. She seemed to have some kind of instinct advising her of what was truly important, and he was forced to admit that, in spite of her pretended irrationality, she was often right.

“You will do well in the Council. All you need to do is learn to get along with my husband.”

“Is that all?” Pharazôn snorted. “I believe I prefer to fight the nine Ringwraiths rather than sitting next to Prince Vorondil.”

Zimraphel laughed, an almost innocent sound. Suddenly, she struggled to her knees and arched her back, the only warning he received before she fell on top of him. He pretended to complain, but it was not long since their games devolved into a second round of lovemaking.

“Are you tired now?” she whispered, millions of years later, their limbs entwined as if each of them was one another’s second skin. As he lay there, his body against hers, his mad imagination made him feel her power pulsating against him, filling him even, and allowing him to see with the eyes of the gods for the brief span of a moment. He saw himself holding the Sceptre, ruling in Armenelos, conquering the mainland and the entire world.

“You are not the first man who has felt like this after bedding the woman he loves” she smiled sardonically, reading him like an open book. Embarrassed, he dislodged the visions from his mind.

“My father asked for the ring in his deathbed” he said, changing the subject. “Apparently, he wanted to know what I had done with it.”

Gently, the Princess of the West disentangled herself from his embrace, and left the bed. Her absence felt colder than it should, at this time of the year.

“Do you mean this ring?”

He stared at her outstretched palm, where the golden serpent turned in a circle over a bed of rubies. Shaking his head, he sought for the chain of the amulet that he kept always hanging around his neck, the precious stone she had given him, long ago, to protect him from evil.

“I own no rings. I exchanged the one I had for this, long ago, and have not regretted it ever since.”

Zimraphel’s lips curved into a tentative grin, her eyes gazing at her gift, then at his.

“You know the power that this ring has. If you still owned it, you could have made my father yield to all your demands without taking recourse to subterfuge and grovelling.”

“Well, I still achieved what I wanted, didn’t I?” Pharazôn shrugged, letting the stone rest against his chest again. “And it is always more rewarding, to do things the hard way.”

Zimraphel laid the ring on her finger, as if trying to see if she looked good wearing it. As it was to be expected, it was too large for her small, graceful fingers, and she took it off again, turning it over her palm until the serpent was facing her.

“He does not know anything” she smiled, as if happy about something she had just been reminded of. “Anything at all.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Amandil sat on the porch, a good vantage point from which he could watch everything that happened in the courtyard. A cool Autumn breeze was blowing across the Andúnië mansion of Armenelos, shaking the treetops above their heads, and producing a low rumble which vaguely reminded him of the Sea during a storm. This brought him unwelcome memories of the storm that raged in their minds at night, the fateful shared dream which had become more recurring and vivid than ever before in the last year.

For a while, he remembered, he had dared to believe that it had died with him, that either Amalket’s descendants could not be plagued by his affliction or that, being born in the time of Palantir, they had been blessed with nights of peace and quiet. Even he had stopped dreaming for a blissful while, until the day that Isildur returned from Ashad’s house, deathly pale, and asked him about the Wave.

The deranged house of Andúnië, their enemies would say, if they knew. And not only their enemies: he knew only too well that Amalket blamed him, irrationally enough, for the visions that tormented her grandchildren.

“Now!” The clash of practice swords rose above the din of the gale, and Amandil focused on the voices. “There, that is very good, you see?”

He forced himself to pay attention to the fight. Young Anárion was learning how to hold his own, though he was still more than a little hesitant to let go of his conscious mind and surrender to the pull of instinct. Unless he somehow managed to overcome that barrier, Amandil thought, he might make a decent warrior, but he would never be a great one.

Not that it mattered, he told himself at once, almost guiltily. There was no reason why Anárion should ever fight: there were many more options in his life than being a soldier in the mainland or a Palace Guard, and he certainly did not need to earn money as an instructor. Still, he had been taught swordsmanship, and he took it as seriously as anything else he had ever learned. Amandil had to admit that, when one was having nightmares, exhausting oneself to the brink of collapse might not be such a bad idea.

Perhaps he should try it himself.

A clatter interrupted his musings, and he looked to see that his grandson had just been disarmed again. Elendil was too honest to let him win even once, though at least he tried to be encouraging, in his own way.

“You were doing very well, but when you parried the last blow, you should not have left your left flank unguarded” he was explaining now. Anárion nodded several times, even as he crouched to pick up his sword from the floor. His forehead was wrinkled in a frown of concentration, as if he was trying to commit to his memory every word of his father’s explanation. Yet one more thing to add to the already long list of distractions that prevented him from winning.

“He has to stop thinking! Only then he may realize that it is much easier than how he makes it to be.”

Amazed, Amandil wondered if he had somehow spoken his thoughts aloud, even without meaning to. Almost at once, however, he realized that he had not, and that someone else had said it. Someone else who had just sprung upon him, unannounced as ever.

“Pharazôn! What… what on Earth are you doing here?”

“Amandil” his friend acknowledged him with a nod, before engulfing him in a strong embrace. As always, he had come in disguise, but there was no mistaking the golden skin under those dark curls, or the gleam of joy in the hazel eyes as they met his. “And there is Elendil, too. And this one is… Anárion, isn’t he?”

“Be welcome to the Andúnië mansion” Elendil’s voice reached his ears from behind his back. Both had approached them while they greeted each other, abandoning their practice swords on the courtyard floor. Anárion just gave a shy nod, muttering something as he did so, but Elendil walked towards Pharazôn and bowed formally. “We wish to offer our deepest condolences for the death of the Prince of the South.”

Right. Pharazôn’s father. He had only just died, and the Palace still harboured his body until it was ready to pass under the Meneltarma in a fortnight. Pharazôn had sailed to the Island only to bury and mourn him, and Amandil should have been the one to say those words.

“Do not worry”, Pharazôn said to him, as if he had detected his sudden embarrassment and guessed his thoughts. “He was my father, but I know how you felt towards him.”

That was nothing, he only tried to have me killed once. Your grandfather tried much harder, he thought, but he knew that Elendil would gaze reproachfully at him if he said that aloud.

“Yes, but I would be offering my condolences to you, not him.”

“Fair enough.” Pharazôn bowed politely. “I accept them then. But I did not mean to disrupt your fighting, or practicing, or whatever it is that you were doing.”

“Well, a visit from you is not something which happens every day.”

He had the feeling that his friend had been waiting for him to say just this.

“Not any longer. From now on, you will see me much more often. I have relinquished my post in the mainland, and claimed my father’s seat in the Council.”

“What?” Amandil stared at him, wondering if he could have heard correctly. Pharazôn would not be making jokes during his mourning period, would he? Especially not when he was sober, and there were witnesses. “You did what?”

“I will henceforth live in the South Wing of the Palace, sit in the Council of Armenelos, and be addressed as Prince of the South. The King has decreed it.” His friend’s stare was almost defiant, as if daring him to object or register his disbelief at such a surprising pronouncement.

“Congratulations, my lord prince”, Elendil said, with a sincerity that was clearly evident under the trappings of courtesy. “I am very glad to hear this, though the occasion is sorrowful.”

“Congratulations, my lord prince” Anárion repeated after his father. Pharazôn smiled at them in return -but not so sincerely, Amandil thought, looking closely at his features.

“Thank you, thank you. By the way, before you noticed my presence, I was looking at the way you fought. And I must say, you should stop worrying so much about what your opponent’s next move is going to be, and how you are going to counter it. You should just follow your instinct. Have you ever seen your grandfather fight?”

“No, my lord”, Anárion replied. “He does not engage in practice swordplay.”

“A wise attitude. Once that you have fought for your life, you cannot quite return to the proper frame of mind. For him, there are no opponents anymore, there are only enemies. You are not his enemy; therefore, he cannot fight you.”

“Is that your excuse as well, my lord?” Elendil asked. Pharazôn grinned.

“Are you challenging me?”

“No, he is not”, Amandil frowned. Since Elendil told him that Pharazôn had tried to convince him to go to the mainland, years ago, he had been irrationally worried that his friend would somehow succeed in waking his son’s warrior spirit one day, as he often did whenever he set his mind to something. Elendil could take care of himself, as he had proved more than enough times, but even knowing this, this fear had stubbornly refused to depart. And now, there was Isildur to consider as well…

As if he had guessed his thoughts, Pharazôn’s features adopted an inquiring expression.

“And your other son? Where is he?”

“Isildur is in Andúnië, with his mother and sister”, Elendil replied. “He is not very fond of Armenelos. Or of practicing swordsmanship, to say the truth.”

“I cannot believe that he would not excel at it, his father and grandfather being who they are!”

“Oh, no, it is not that. He excels at it, indeed, so much that it bores him. There is not enough of a challenge, he says.” Elendil sighed. Pharazôn laughed.

“That is more like it! I also remember feeling that way once. I thought that there was no challenge worth that name in the Island, so I left and tried to find one elsewhere. Now, I have returned, and I am afraid that this place is still as boring as it used to be back then.”

Yes, Amandil thought, the Island was boring, and entirely too small to hold Isildur for long. But that should be none of Pharazôn’s concern.

“Then, why did you return?”

As usual, Elendil was able to gather the shifts in his mood without the need for signs or words. With a brief nod in his direction, he gestured towards Anárion.

“I am very glad to see you here, my lord prince. Now, if you allow us, we will return to our practice and leave you both to your own company, for you must have much to say to each other.”

For a while, both were content to see the father and the son descend the steps towards the courtyard, where dusk was already beginning to fall. As they picked up their swords again, the wind suddenly started blowing with a greater intensity, tearing leaves away from their trees and chasing them in circles across the stone paths.

Pharazôn broke the silence first.

“You seem surprised”.

“I am not surprised. I am astonished,” Amandil corrected. “You hated the Council. And the Palace. And Armenelos.”

“Can I claim I have changed my mind?”

“I am sure the King did not believe that, so why should I? I should know you much better than he does.”

“Then, why do you think I am here? According to him, I have been driven by the smell of his rotting corpse, like a vulgar carrion bird.”

Amandil stared.

“I cannot believe he said that.”

“Well, in case you have not noticed, he despises me.”

“Still…” What on Earth had been going on in the Palace in those last days? For some time, Amandil had harboured the suspicion that the King excluded him from his confidence whenever Pharazôn was concerned, because he did not trust him on that subject. And perhaps he was right. He was indeed disposed to think the best of Pharazôn, ever since he had befriended him in the Temple gardens as a boy, and if a part of his mind attributed twisted designs to him, another would instinctively rise to defend him even as he tried to harbour the thought.

And yet, this…

“So? Why do you think I am here, then? I wish to know if your judgement is any kinder than his.”

Amandil tried to meet the challenging stare without flinching. As he did so, he caught his friend at unawares, and for a moment he saw something poignant lurking behind his nonchalant pretence.

“I would not judge you before I heard you. So, tell me, why did you come back?”

Pharazôn’s eyes hardened.

“To claim what is mine, as my father wished.”

“And what is yours?” Amandil tried, in vain, to keep the accusation away from his voice. Far away, at an almost unfathomable distance, Anárion had been disarmed again; his sword ricocheted against one of the columns of the porch.

“The seat in the Council and the title, of course”.

“And the Sceptre?”

Pharazôn held his gaze for a very long time, with such intensity that at some point Amandil thought that he was going to hit him. Inside his soul, two opposite impulses were battling one another: the first wanted Pharazôn to do it so he could hit him back, while the other strove to apologize and defuse the tension. Refusing to surrender to either of them proved a greater effort than he could have imagined.

“Would you fight me?”

The words took him at unawares, to the extent that for a moment he was not sure of whether they had been a proposal, a threat, or a mere question. He blinked.

“Fight you?”

“Now. As your son and your grandson are doing, with practice swords.”

Oh. In spite of the tension, Amandil had to marvel at how some mysterious link remained there in spite of everything, for he had been yearning for the same thing, exactly at the same time.

“Yes, but somewhere private, where they cannot see us.”

“This is your house. Lead the way.”

It was surprisingly easy, to find two practice swords, lock the door of his study and descend the steps to its small back garden. As they fell into a stance, Amandil could not help but think of how often they had done this in the past, when both were much younger and used to meet in the Temple villa.

The first attack was initiated by him, and fiercely countered by Pharazôn. Slightly out of practice as he was, the lord of Andúnië had to hold to his balance to avoid being thrown backwards. He expected to be taunted, but Pharazôn was alarmingly silent.

The second assault was launched by Pharazôn; the third, again, by him. He did no longer remember their fights from before, after all, he suddenly realized, or else this was nothing like them anymore. It reminded him of other, more recent fights in the mainland, against the Arnians or the Haradrim.

For him, there are no opponents anymore, there are only enemies. Pharazôn’s words earlier reverberated in his head as he tried to parry with increasingly erratic movements. You are not his enemy; therefore, he cannot fight you.

Is that how it was, then? Or was this just a very elaborate charade, merely to avoid answering his question? Did he think he could distract Amandil from his concerns with... this?

“You are just like your grandson.” Agony exploded in his right hand, and this time he did lose his balance. His kneecaps connected with the floor, and for a moment he could not see anything but a blur of light. Forcing himself not to cry out, he tried to ride the wave of pain. “You think too much.” He was pushed to the floor, and the blunt sword tip pushed against his throat.

Amandil did not move, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing him struggle or beg. His situation was already humiliating enough as it was.

“If you wish to kill me, you will need a sharper sword than that” he said at last, tired of the pretence. Pharazôn arched an eyebrow, but he finally let him go. After a few moments, in which he seemed to be pondering something, he offered his hand to help him up. Amandil hesitated.

Suddenly, Pharazôn withdrew his hand, and sat on the ground next to him.

“My cousin is the heir to the Sceptre, Amandil. We were childhood friends, like you and I, in spite of our elders, also like you and I. I would never do anything to hurt her interests.” At long last, he allowed his lips to curve into a grin. “And you are very out of practice.”

“So will you” Amandil’s attempts to catch breath were still painfully obvious in his voice. He winced. “The… longer you stay here.”

“A bleak prospect.” Pharazôn leaned back, his arms behind him for support. Amandil, however, had not given up yet.

“Then, why did you do this? What are you trying to achieve?”

“To turn the King’s life into a nightmare.” As if amused by Amandil’s shock, the Prince of the South snorted. “But that does not necessarily mean treason and murder.”

“If you are too much of a thorn on his side, he will merely exile you back.”

“He will not. He does not want me anywhere near an army again. I am like your Revered Father Yehimelkor, a thorny problem, but I am his nephew, and he cannot expel me from the Council, so he will have to deal with me, as he already had to deal with my father. Except that I am a thousand times worse.”

“Do not overestimate yourself. “

“Of course not.”

“Oh, by the Valar’s sake! Do you have to do this? Must you leave the life that made you happy, only for the sake of a crusade against a King who is doing his best to stabilize the realm? Does your father’s ghost demand that much from you? You knew who he was before he died, why are you so intent on following his wishes now?”

“This is not only about him.” Pharazôn’s glance became lost somewhere in the distance, where the shadows were already too long for Amandil to see a thing.

“Is it Gadir? Your mother?”  he insisted. “You belong to the royal line of Númenor. Should you be imperilling the realm for the sake of petty feuds?

“Is it so difficult to believe that I would fight for what I believe is right? Because when the King or your Revered Father say the same, you believe them. Have they done any less harm to Númenor than I have? Have they?”

Amandil looked at Pharazôn, speechless. For a moment, it seemed to him as if the man before him had been suddenly replaced by a stranger, whose serious gaze scrutinized him as penetratingly as the King’s eyes ever did. The feeling was so uncomfortable, so alien, that he could not prevent himself from flinching unconsciously, as if from a very bright fire.

This was insane.

“If it is difficult to believe, it is because in the past, you have never claimed to be fulfilling any high moral purpose” he replied at last, aware that he was being evasive, and despising himself a little for it. “And yes, I know, you have never committed treason either, so please let us call it a draw and stop this absurd quarrel, shall we? We will be fighting enough in public as to do so in private as well.”

“It is not a draw. I defeated you. Soundly, I might add.” Before Amandil could say anything to this, Pharazôn laughed. The lord of Andúnië let go of the breath he did not know he was holding, and his throat made a strangled noise as well, one that could vaguely be identified with his own laughter.

“I will pay for the wine, then.”

“No”. Ruefully, Pharazôn rose to his knees, and then to his feet, shaking off the dust off his clothes. “I am in mourning, remember.”

Amandil had never felt so disappointed that they could not overindulge in cheap alcohol at night.

“I forgot. Sorry.”

“But I will hold you to it in the future.” It was already so dark that Pharazôn had to fumble around for a while before he managed to find the cloak that he had discarded before the fight. “Meanwhile, be a good lord of Andúnië, and try to set a good example for your two generations of descendants.”

As he heard his footsteps disappear in the distance, then the door slide open and click shut, Amandil remained there, lying on the floor in a motionless position. He tried to empty his mind, but the thoughts kept pouring inside it like rain in a thunderstorm.

Was he, Amandil of Andúnië, fighting for what he believed was right? Or was he merely too selfish to let go of his friendship?

Somehow, he thought, gazing wistfully at the rising stars, he did not wish to know the answer to this.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Before we begin this session, we bid welcome to Pharazôn, son of Gimilkhâd, Prince of the South, who stands among us today as heir to his father, may Eru have his soul.”

Amandil nodded like the others, perceiving smothered echoes of a turmoil which affected the entire Chamber around him. It was not hostile, he observed, except in his immediate surroundings, where a brooding Hiram of Sorontil had taken his father’s place as Lord of Forostar, and neither Prince Vorondil nor Lord Shemer bothered to hide their displeasure at the fact that the son of Gimilkhâd had been given what he wanted. The rest of the councilmen held expressions which ranged from approving to neutral, mostly on the side of approval, he checked himself, wondering why this still surprised him. Pharazôn was very popular in Armenelos, and the councilmen did not live in another island, separated from the rest of men. That many of them had been among those who believed the former Prince of the South to be a traitor and protested the decision to send his son to the Bay did not mean much, either: life was long, in Númenor even longer than in other places, which made a degree of fickleness inevitable. And, he had to admit, Pharazôn had done a good job of changing their minds with his heroic stunts.

As the first point of the discussion was introduced, however, Amandil had not expected such open support for the demands of the soldiers in Sor -or, should he say, of Pharazôn’s demands for them. The Governor of Sor was the one most directly concerned by this issue, as they were staying in his territory, so perhaps it was understandable that he should advocate for a prompt agreement between the implicated parts, but he abstained from voicing any concrete complaints for the attitude of the veterans, which was remarkable. The Umbarian representative was Pharazôn’s ally, and he was no doubt feeling very grateful that the problem had been lifted off his shoulders, but people like Amandil’s own private enemy, the High Priest of the Forbidden Bay, or the courtiers, had no reason to get involved in something that was of no consequence to them, and yet they were nodding in fierce approval whenever Pharazôn opened his mouth.

“These men subdued the tribes of Harad, conquered Arne and defied Sauron! And now, they do not even have a place to stay, in the Island which has been kept safe with their blood and their toil!”

“So, according to the Prince of the South, there are only two choices: to discharge over three thousand men at once and welcome them into Númenor, or to do nothing at all and be reviled as ungrateful. But this alternative is false, and I reject it!” Hiram argued. “This is an issue that should have been solved in stages, by age, by time of service, case by case, and in the mainland! It is the Prince of the South who had decided to bring them here, to this very Island he seems to care about so little, threatening it with chaos and disruption!”

“Well, perhaps if this Council had been more attentive to their demands in the past, it would be trusted to do so in the future!”

“It is not the place of a soldier to determine how and when his demands should be heard by the Council!” Prince Vorondil stood to face Pharazôn, pure hostility radiating from his gaze. Since Lord Shemer’s son had married the Princess of the West, Amandil knew that he viewed Pharazôn as a threat to his position, but now that his friend had decided to return to Númenor, this feeling seemed to have been increased by a thousandfold. “Nor is it your place! You are not the King of Númenor, and considering what we have just witnessed, I am sure that we are all the better for it!”

Pharazôn shrugged contemptuously.

“Little as you may know of what it means to be a leader of men in distant and perilous lands, I am sure you will understand that it is necessary to establish close bonds of trust, or chaos and self-preservation will soon take over. I am not the King of Númenor, as you remind me, perhaps believing I may be confused on this fine point. But in those lands, I am the closest representative of the King, of the Council, or of Númenor that they could ever hope to meet! They trusted me to defend their interests, and so I shall.”

Now, it was the King himself who intervened.

“You are no longer their commander now. You are a member of this Council.”

“But for this one thing, my lord king. I promised them that if I could retire, so should they. And if they cannot, I will have to go with them.”

“That is not much of a threat.” Vorondil laughed. “This Council has managed to advise the King without you for thousands of years!”

But the greater part of the Chamber was not laughing. Amandil could hear the low rumble of their murmurations, and he was sure that Pharazôn was able to hear them too. He rose again, looking taller than before, and for a moment Amandil was reminded of that strange instant in his garden several nights ago, when his friend’s glance had turned into something that he had never seen before.

Is it so difficult to believe that I would fight for what I believe is right?

No, he thought, it was not difficult to believe that Pharazôn would defend his veterans because of a sense of morality, of the respect for bonds of trust given and received. But if he was to do it here, now, and in this manner, Amandil found that could not blame the King or his kinsmen for thinking otherwise. He did not even know what he thought himself, and the worst of all was that he felt guilty for even thinking.

Since when had this friendship, which he had fought so ardently to preserve, started to become a trap?

“The wild tribesmen of Harad have a custom. When their warriors can no longer fight, they walk into the desert, and they are not seen again. This is done to avoid wasting resources on people who are too old to be of use. It is a barbaric practice, a terrible crime that seems beyond even the black race of the Orcs, and yet it is done among our fellow Men. Are we so far apart from them as we would like to believe, or is this an evidence to the contrary?”

Now, he had definitely gone too far. The murmurations rose, and Hiram jumped to his feet to protest his outrage among a ruckus which made it difficult even for Amandil, who was sitting next to him, to hear his words. In the middle of it, he could not prevent himself from stealing a passing glance in the King’s direction, and he was shocked at how weary he looked. Until this day, the passing of years had not seemed to have much effect on him, but now his younger brother was dead, and his present appearance was like an uncomfortable reminder of this fact. Amandil remembered Pharazôn’s words on corpses, stench, and carrion birds, and all of a sudden they seemed so appropriate, so terribly and accurately appropriate, that it shook him to the core that Palantir himself had been the one to speak them.

“Silence!” the herald cried, reinforcing the impression that the King’s own strength was much diminished. “Silence!”

Little by little, the arguments subsided, and everyone sat down, some more reluctantly than others.  Pharazôn was the last to do so.

“We will appoint a commission to determine which lands can accommodate the veterans, and in which number and conditions. Those who want to do so, who have families, and certainly the oldest among them, will be able to stay in Númenor, but there are many who, once retired, might prefer to continue to live in the mainland.” Tar Palantir frowned. “It is remarkable, Prince Pharazôn, that you have both started and ended your career in the mainland with acts of insubordination. You will not be part of that commission, and in the future you will remain removed from all affairs pertaining to the army and the colonies. I hope that this will help you focus his gaze in Númenor and its inhabitants, whose welfare will concern you now.” Their eyes met only briefly, as it seemed, and yet there was as much determination there, from both parts, as for their exchange to have lasted ages. “This Council is dismissed for today. Praised be Eru the Almighty.”

Only when he was already outside, saluting his peers in the antechamber, Amandil realized that for, the first time since he joined the Council, he had not spoken one word for the length of the session.