Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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A Shadow from the Mainland

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Isildur stopped for a moment, taking great gasps of breath as he floated in the Sea, his body rocked by the waves. The coast was too close still: he could see the rocky cliffs of Andúnië looming behind him like the Wave of his dreams, and just as impossible to escape. Before him, however, the horizon that he sought remained veiled by clouds, invisible and inscrutable to his eyes. He wiped the itch of the salt away from them to focus his gaze ahead, wondering why the silence always got to him before exhaustion or fear ever did. It could drive a man to madness, if he were to float adrift like this, alone, for days, hearing nothing but the dull hum of the current and the sound of his own breath.

Since he was a child, learning how to swim his first clumsy strokes, he had always been intrigued by the knowledge that this way had been forbidden to Men. His young mind had begun speculating feverishly about what could happen, if he were to stray too far from the shores of his homeland. He had imagined monsters emerging from the deep to swallow him, or the Sea suddenly ending and dropping him into an abyss of nothingness, or perhaps a fog descending on him and veiling his eyes until he could not see the Island anymore or remember where it was. In time, this irrepressible, secret curiosity had spurred him on to cover greater distances, but no matter how he tried his body, he had never seen anything but the infinite expanse of the Sea, its billowing currents always the same wherever he would turn.

According to Malik, who always waited for him where he could still feel the earth beneath his feet, this attitude was utterly incomprehensible. It was one thing to wish for a glorious death, but to be lost at sea had to be the least appealing fate imaginable. Isildur had tried to explain that it was not death he was seeking, but for something great, out of the ordinary to happen, though he was not sure that his friend had understood the difference. Perhaps, a voice inside his head spoke truthfully, he is the one who is right: there is no difference, and you are a fool. A fool who saw cataclysms in his mind so often that he was starting to confuse his dreams with reality.

Many in the house of Andúnië see those things, and yet they do not use them as an excuse to behave like fools, his father would have probably said to this. Isildur grimaced, and took a sharp breath before beginning the long, tortuous way back home. That was not entirely true, either, for Elendil himself did not dream. The curse had skipped him, so who knows how he would have behaved if he did? As for Amandil, Isildur knew that he had done his fair share of foolish things before he settled down into the respectability that he enjoyed now.

By the time he reached the stone stairs -there used to be a small beach underneath them, but the midsummer tides had swallowed it, together with part of the stairs themselves-, his lungs were screaming for air, and his arms felt as if they had been made of lead. For a while, he just stayed there, his hand grabbing the stone as if it were a lifeline, but unable to find the strength to hoist himself up. Malik, who was basking under the afternoon sun, raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement of his presence, but did not move a finger to help him.

“Thank you” he said, though his voice came out so weak that the sarcasm was almost lost. Malik snorted.

“I am too old to fall for that one. If I came anywhere near you, I would be in the water before I had the time to utter even one curse.”

“Coward.”

“If Eru had created Men to live in the water, I would be a coward for keeping away from it. But we have lungs to breathe air, and legs to walk and run on solid ground, which means that I am right, and you are wrong.”

Isildur rolled over the stone surface, biting back a groan as its rough edges sank against his skin.

“And yet it was you, who wished to come here.”

“That was because I wanted to feel the sun.”

“That was because you wanted to stay away from the house, you liar.” Earlier in the week, Isildur’s great-grandfather Númendil had arrived in Andúnië for one of his rare visits, accompanied by three Elves from Lindon. It was not the first time he had seen one of the deathless folk, himself: back when he was twelve, Númendil had brought another of his friends and introduced him to his family. Isildur still remembered feeling uncomfortable at those unnaturally bright eyes, which seemed to scrutinize him to the very depths of his soul. But time had passed since then; he was an adult now, and his behaviour had been flawlessly polite, if not particularly warm, towards his great-grandfather’s guests. Malik, on the other hand…. the sheer aversion he seemed to experience towards their presence went above and beyond any misgivings Isildur might have had, even as a child. “They are not Orcs, you know. Or dragons. Or evil in any way. According to my great-grandfather, in fact, some of their kind see us as evil, as they have been around since the First Age, and back then most Men joined the ranks of the Enemy.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?” Isildur asked impatiently, fumbling with his clothes. Malik’s look had turned into a glare, as if he believed his friend to be acting clueless on purpose.

“Well, exactly that I hail from a noble line which can boast of some twenty or, I don’t know, maybe thirty generations of ancestors loyally fighting for Sauron!” he growled. “And if they look at me, they will know.”

Isildur was perplexed at first; then, as Malik’s words sunk in his brain, his befuddlement gave way to incredulity.

“This has to be most foolish thing I have ever heard! You are a Númenórean! Your mother’s ancestors were exiled by the other Númenóreans because of how faithful they were to their alliances with the Elves!”

Malik shook his head.

“You know, as well as I do, that I am not Malik son of Amal, but Malik son of Ashad. Unless Númenórean blood is powerful enough to obliterate everything else, but then I would not be my father’s son, and I know that I am.”

“Well, the blood of Elros is powerful enough to obliterate everything else. Until me, my kin had only inherited it from one side for centuries, and still they were all equally long-lived, and shared the same features. The line of the Kings, on the other hand, had the same blood on both sides, and look at them…”

His attempt to redirect the subject was not successful.

“My mother is not from the blood of Elros. What of regular Númenóreans? What happens when they have children with barbarians? Are they Númenóreans, or are they barbarians?”

“You were born in Númenor, how could you be a barbarian?” Isildur shrugged. “Look, you have not given this a single thought in all these years, so why would some Elves that you are not going to see more than once in your life cause you to suddenly start worrying about your ancestry? Your father never fought for Sauron, and you have always been proud of him, not wondering if your mother’s blood could… obliterate his, or anything!”

Malik’s eyes narrowed; for a moment, his admittedly not very Númenórean features looked as if they were carved in stone.

“I don’t know. I suppose this is how an immortal being makes you feel”, he spat. “I would never have thought of my ancestors if it was not for them. They died long ago, far away from here, and I never met them, but they could have.”

This made sense in a mad kind of way, Isildur thought, though he had never considered it before. Perhaps because his line was one of the few that had no reason to feel ashamed before a bunch of Elves – at least as far as old chronicles and genealogies could tell, though there could have been omissions, perhaps even lies which only an immortal would be able to recognize as such. But he refused to keep labouring down this path of paranoid musings.

“These Elves are from the North. They lived half a world away from your ancestors, and I’m sure they never met them. As far as they can tell, you are Númenórean. And I can prove it, too.” Taking advantage from Malik’s distraction, he walked behind him, and pushed him into the Sea. His friend fell face-flat on the water with a loud splash, disappearing under the waves for a moment, only to emerge a moment later, spitting and cursing. Isildur smiled.

“See? You can swim. A barbarian from Harad would have drowned!”

“That was not a nice thing to do.” With all the ruckus, he had not heard Ilmarë descend the stairs, so he was slightly startled at the sound of her voice. She stopped next to him, watching in wide-eyed amusement as Malik spouted a rather colourful string of insults which no lady would be meant to hear. Suppressing a smirk, he waited for the inevitable moment when his friend realized that his sister was there.

He was not disappointed.

“Ilmarë!” Malik went red to the very roots of his hair, and for an instant he seemed to be pondering whether to keep struggling or just drown himself. She sent a reproachful look in Isildur’s direction, and knelt to offer him a helping hand.

“There you go!” she cried, heaving him up. “Oh, dear, your clothes are all wet! You should take them off before you catch a cold. If you wait here for a moment, I will bring you…”

“I am fine, thank you!” Malik shook his head, horrified at the prospect of been seen naked by her. Isildur knew his sister well enough as to know that this was precisely what she had intended, and to detect the tiniest of flickers of disappointment when her plan failed. “The sun is still high in the sky, I will be dry in no time. Thank you”, he repeated, perhaps forgetting that he had already said so.

“As you wish”, she said, loftily. “And by the way, Isildur, I came to tell you that a letter just arrived from Armenelos, and Father and Grandfather are both leaving today.”

“Oh.” It had to be important news, for both of them to abandon their guests, not to mention the visiting Lord Númendil, at such short notice. A great upheaval, perhaps even a war. All of a sudden, Isildur was very interested.

“You can both go, then, while I stay here, drying the clothes that someone got wet.” Malik affected a long-suffering tone, but both knew that he was only too glad for the excuse. He was quite stubborn; once that an idea got into his head, it was almost impossible to dislodge it from there, and one discussion was far from enough to convince him that those Elves were not judging him. One day, perhaps.

“See you later, then”, Isildur said, following his sister up the winding stairs towards the garden of his family’s house. 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Are the spies certain of this information?” Hiram rose from his chair, but did not pace around the room as his adoptive father had used to do. Instead, he frowned at an invisible spot, as fiercely as if the poor man who had made that report had been standing there. “This is very serious, and we should not act until we are absolutely sure…”

“On the contrary, we should act, and immediately,” Amandil retorted. “There are many Númenórean lives at stake.”

He could not believe that anyone would counsel more inaction, to be added to all the other inactions they had already been guilty of in the past. For years now, the King’s greatest obsession had been to prevent a new war, either for the sake of Númenor, as Amandil thought in his more charitable moments, or for the sake of his daughter’s succession, as he suspected in his less charitable ones. When rumours and reports reached Armenelos, of a new alliance brewing between King Xaris the Fourth and Mordor, he had been foolish enough -yes, foolish, Amandil had to say it, for there was no other word to call it- to turn a deaf ear to them, and accuse the Prince of the South of agitation. This Xaris was not at all like his grandfather, who had joined hands with Mordor and the Gadirites to threaten the Sceptre decades ago. He was a puppet, like his father had been, and it was his mother who ruled Arne in truth; they could be sure of her loyalty, and he would ultimately do nothing she did not agree with. That the brat would seek Sauron’s help to be rid of her and rule Arne on his own had apparently not factored in those calculations, much less that Sauron would use the opening to take Arne for himself. Thanks to the spies, they had just learned that his minions were on the move to control the country before he launched his next, predictable attack on one of the greatest Númenórean cities: the neighbouring Pelargir, which had been enjoying the peak of its prosperity. Amandil had overseen the construction of the city’s walls himself, and he knew that they were adequate for defensive purposes, if they were well manned -but it was not an island, as Gadir had been, and if Sauron joined the strength of Arne to his own, they could not hope to hold him indefinitely.

“What do you propose that we do then, Lord Amandil?” Lord Shemer of Hyarnustar was growing older and frailer by the day; in the Council, he usually refrained from intervening because he had lost his ability to raise his voice, and even in the privacy of the King’s chambers it had become harder than ever to hear him. As Amandil was on the receiving end of his expectant gaze, however, there could be no mistake as to the nature of his query. He wondered when he had become the person to ask for counsel if the King failed them.

“Send the largest army we can muster at short notice, and close on Arne fast”, he replied. “Before the rest of the tribes of the Bay decide that they cannot be expected to die for our former alliances.”

“And who would lead that army?” Prince Vorondil asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Amandil sighed. Pharazôn would be the obvious choice, though one which could cost the King his prized succession, for not even he would expect his childhood friend to refrain from actively seeking to strengthen his position, if presented with such a good opportunity. On the other hand, they could not allow Palace intrigues, even such intrigues as involved the highest instances of power in the Númenórean empire, to cloud their assessment of what was at stake. But he knew very well that, if he were the one to speak this aloud, they might trust him on everything else, but they would refuse to trust him on this.

“That is for the King to decide”, he said, simply.

Tar Palantir sat among them, but his gaze was absent, as if he was lost in his own thoughts. Though Amandil had indirectly been addressing him, he did not acknowledge it, and a long silence ensued, pregnant with unsaid worries and grievances.

Prince Vorondil was the first to break it.

“I should be the one to go.”

“My son…” Shemer’s voice croaked in concern. Finally seeming to break away from his mysterious elucubrations, the King frowned.

“No.”

“I am the Princess of the West’s husband! If I cannot defend Númenor, then who will?”

“We know very well who will”, Hiram chimed in, “but we cannot allow that. We cannot make the same mistake again. This victory must be a true, Faithful victory.”

And what makes you so sure that it will be a victory? Amandil mused, though he did not say it. The King seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

“This victory must be a victory, or the mistake will be the most grievous we will have ever committed”, he said. Vorondil went very red; for a moment, Amandil thought he would choke on his rage.

“You still do not trust me. None of you trusts me.”

“This has nothing to do with trust”, the King said, but of course it did.

Slowly, but no less inevitably, Amandil reached a decision. There was nothing in this world which appealed less to him than to utter the words he was expected to say next; and yet, there seemed to be no other choice left.

“I cannot boast of as many victories as the Prince of the South, but I also know the mainland. Whatever expertise I may claim to have in the matter at hand, I will be glad to put it at your disposition, my lord King.”

“Thank you, Lord Amandil.” To his surprise, however, the words that should have followed this did not come. “We will consider all the options.”

Could it be that Tar Palantir had… foreseen something?

“The Council session has been scheduled for tomorrow,” Hiram muttered, worriedly. “There is not much time left. I think Lord Amandil’s brave words are worth taking into consideration, my lord King: he has been in Arne before, and if given enough resources, he could lead a successful campaign.”

“I agree”, Shemer nodded.

With a screeching noise that made Amandil’s hair stand on end, Vorondil rose from his ivory chair, let it fall to the floor, and stormed away from the room.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

He had refused to discuss the meeting with her, his efforts to hide his rage and hurt as desperately futile as those of a child who hid his face under a cushion and believed that no one could see him. She had humoured him for longer than even a mother would her son, for so many years that her heart ached to remember, but no more.

“I am ashamed to be your wife”, she told him, pouring into her voice all the contempt that she had ever bred in her heart for this little man.

He stared at her, thunderstruck, as if he did not know. But then- perhaps he didn’t. It had been too long since the last time she had bothered to read his insignificant thoughts. They made her ill.

“They do not respect you. If there is trouble in the mainland, no one trusts you to take care of it, though you should be the one to take command. My father would send the meanest courtier before he even considered sending you.”

“You talk of things you know nothing about.” He was trying the dignified approach first. “Lord Amandil is not the meanest courtier, he is the King’s kinsman and ours, and a man of great military expertise. He is also well known in Pelargir, so he should be the obvious choice.”

“The obvious choice?” Zimraphel laughed. “The second choice, you mean, because you know as well as I do who the obvious choice is. You know who is the man that everyone in Númenor would rather send to the Bay.” Suddenly, her laughter froze, and her eyes grew as cold as the winter moon. “The man who wants to steal my Sceptre. Perhaps I should surrender it to him of my own free will, because with you as a husband, who will protect me after my father dies?”

“Míriel!” Vorondil shouted, scandalized. Her voice rose above his.

“I am alone! Defenceless! Princess of the West in nothing but in name, as I will be Queen in nothing but in name! I trusted you to be my protector, the man who would lead my armies to victory, but you are just a coward who says strong words in the Council chamber and hides in my rooms at any sign of real danger!”

Now, this was already too much for Vorondil. As he stood up to face her, she watched his red face, his stuttering lips, and even the slight trembling of his hands as rage overtook him. Fascinated, she tried to wonder if he would attack her, but it was a vain pursuit, for in none of the scenarios she envisioned he had ever mustered the courage.

“Why don’t you say those things to your father? He is the one who does not see fit to trust me with this issue, or any other, for the matter! I am your husband, the scion of a noble house, and a councilman of many years, and yet he still treats me as if I was but an errant child! All those years ago, when Mordor attacked, I volunteered to go, just as I did now, and he chose to send that insolent traitor! If he had put his trust in me back then, how much trouble could have been avoided?”

And how much boredom and disgust, she thought, with an almost poignant feeling of regret. But then, it could never have worked that way.

“Do you know what I think? This is why the King does not trust you! You volunteer on a mission, he refuses you, and what do you do? You leave the chamber and sulk! If I were him, I would believe that you did it just because it was expected of you, and that you never intended to follow through on your words.”

“What do you expect me to do, then? Should I point a sword at his throat and force him?”

She shook her head, appalled.

“I should be the man, not you! Tomorrow there is a Council session, isn’t it? Well, what better opportunity for you to have your offer be heard by all the councilmen in the realm and their people? Let him see that you are not afraid of committing yourself to the task in front of witnesses who will hold you to your word, as the prince of Númenor that you are! Perhaps then you might make him proud for once, and I would no longer be ashamed of being the wife of such a coward!”

Zimraphel almost spat her last words. She wondered if he was seeing the beauty of her countenance grow distorted, like the surface of a pond when a stone was cast into it. Many people had experienced her displeasure, but very few had seen her anger, and all of them had fled from it -all except for him, that time when he had come to her after defeating the creature of darkness.

She could not allow Vorondil to flee her. And so, she started crying.

“Oh, Vorondil, I am so afraid!” she sobbed. “I c-can no longer feel safe here! My f-father is old, and I am alone, while the Prince of the South is g-growing stronger and stronger, and everybody loves him, even in this very Palace! What will become of me?”

Vorondil rushed to hold her as she dissolved in tears, and she leaned into his embrace, reeling from the virulence of the visions erupting in her mind as he built his resolve. For an instant, while the horror of those images sank in, she was tempted to surrender to the lukewarm emotions of the people who surrounded her every day: fondness, pity, compassion. But she could not do that. Those were but the weaknesses of lesser mortals, of those who spent their lives fretting, worrying and wondering what Fate had in store for them. To her, a greater gift had been given, and she had to make use of it.

She would not allow herself to fail.

“I will protect you” he whispered in her ear, comfortingly. “I will protect you, my love. I will never let anyone threaten you, even if I have to risk the King’s displeasure or my very life for it. I swear this to you.”

“I believe you”. She wiped her cheek, watching the moist gleam in the palm of her hand with a strange fascination. Mourning, daughter of Morwen, she thought, remembering the absurd play they had been rehearsing all those years ago.

At least he deserved those tears, she thought. Many would be shed for him in days to come, but he would not see them, or know of them. Those were his and only his, because she may not love him, but he had loved her, and done it for the sake of this love. He should be allowed to take his memories of them where she would not follow.

“Forgive me” she muttered. “Forgive me. It is not your fault. I love you. I love you.”

He held to her tighter, as if suddenly afraid that she would vanish from his arms like a ghost.

“I love you, too”, he said.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The Council session started gravely enough, with the King declaring everything that had been in the spy’s report, without omitting a single word. Of course, Pharazôn did not miss the chance to express his outrage at the fact that it had taken Tar Palantir so long to heed the warnings, and he did such a good job of keeping the satisfaction away from his voice that his anger even seemed sincere. The King allowed him to speak for a while, then cut him, reminding him that every minute they wasted without looking for a solution increased the risk to Pelargir by a thousandfold. Once they reached the particulars, it turned out that there was little to disagree about: everybody advocated for war, for sending the largest force they could muster, and for doing so at the shortest possible notice. When it came to the point of naming possible leaders for the expedition, however, Amandil detected the shift in everybody’s mood, and prepared himself for the inevitable.

“Why, of course the Prince of the South should be the one to go! Who else?” the Magistrate of Umbar spoke. The Governor of Sor and the courtiers nodded vehemently, to signify their approval, and Pharazôn smiled at them.

“I thank you, my friends, for your confidence, but I must remind you that the King does not wish me to concern myself with the affairs of the mainland any longer. If you wish, I can recommend men of courage and experience who are not known to this Council, but who have proved themselves to me.”

Amandil took a deep breath, and stood up. He had been trying, unsuccessfully, to catch Elendil’s glance while Pharazôn spoke, but his son was already aware of what he was about to do.

Before he even managed to open his mouth, however, someone else spoke first.

“Thank you, but there is no need for you to bother, my lord Pharazôn. I will go myself. This situation is grave enough as to require my presence.”

Amandil’s eyes widened. He could not believe what he was seeing, or what he had just heard – and he was not the only one. Next to him, Lord Hiram choked on his own saliva, and Lord Shemer grabbed his armrest as if he was about to faint. As for the King, his reaction was the strongest of all: he stood up from his throne to face Vorondil, his face turning very pale.

“Peace, Vorondil. There is no need to risk the life of my own son-in-law for what remains a problem in our mainland border.”

“For once I agree, my lord King.” Pharazôn stared lengthly at Vorondil; he seemed to be trying to prevent himself from laughing. “The Prince Vorondil would do better to stay safe in the Island, and leave the mainland to the soldiers.”

“And the Prince Pharazôn would do better to shut his insolent mouth and stop behaving as if he is the divinely appointed saviour of Númenor and the colonies.” Vorondil frowned. “You merely played a part in the defence of Númenor, as many have done before, and as many others will do after you! The mainland is not your private hunting ground, and neither do the armies of Númenor belong to you, as this Council already agreed once in the past.”

Amandil saw an opening to intervene.

“This is not a contest for personal glory, it is war! And in war, the army should be led by experienced men who know the lay of the land. I will offer my services for this task, if the King sees fit to consider it.”

But Vorondil was not going to let anyone wrongfoot him this time.

“I know what war is, Lord Amandil. And, be assured of it, I intend to take it as seriously as it deserves. Sauron is staking a claim on Númenórean territory, and as such, he is threatening my beloved wife’s inheritance. It should fall to me to oppose his designs, and show him and the rest of our enemies that Númenor stands strong, with our present King and with our future Queen as well!”

Pharazôn shook his head, muttering something, but Amandil could not hear it from the opposite side of the room. Next to him, Lord Hiram was telling Lord Shemer to calm down, in an almost crooning voice that sounded very strange coming from the haughty man’s lips.

The King’s pallor, however, concerned the Lord of Andúnië more than anything else. It was as if life was bleeding away from him in this very place, at this very moment, while nobody else in the Council Chamber seemed to notice.

“Vorondil, I have always cared for you as if you were the son I never had” he spoke at last. “That is why I wished to spare you this predicament, but I see that your resolve is strong. You may go to the mainland, but you will take the best men of Númenor with you, and the most knowledgeable advisors. And if you care for the realm and for the Princess of the West as much as you claim, you will be prudent and refrain from needlessly putting your life in danger.”

“I will not disappoint you, my lord King”, the Prince replied. For a moment he stood so tall and proud, surrounded by his peers, that Amandil could almost forget how much of a fool he had always been, and see him as the hero that he was determined to pretend he was.

The illusion, however, was as brief as the semblance of composure in the King’s speech. When Tar Palantir stood up from his throne, and called the meeting to an end, his expression briefly met Amandil’s, and the lord of Andúnië had to lean against the back of his seat even as he stood up, reeling from the intensity of the despair he had seen there.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“He would never have sent me, and you know it. Age has made him even more suspicious than he used to be. He reminds me more and more of Ar Gimilzôr at every passing day. It is funny, isn’t it? Everybody always claimed that it was my father who resembled him the most, but it is my uncle who was truly born and bred in his likeness.”

Amandil frowned at Pharazôn’s attempt to change the subject of the conversation. Since his friend had returned to the Island years ago, he found that he had been spending more and more time frowning during their encounters.

“And yet you did not even offer to go. Were you afraid of losing face before the Council? It did not seem to bother Vorondil, and he did get what he wanted.”

“Vorondil was right, as much as I hate to admit it. It was his place to go, as he is the one whose wife is going to inherit the Sceptre against the wishes of most Númenoreans. He needs to convince them that at least he will be there to protect them and their interests in the mainland.”

“It occurs to me that it would be very convenient for you if he should die there.”

To his slight surprise, Pharazôn did not try to feign denial. He merely shrugged.

“It would be the best outcome, yes, but I am sure he will be too well protected for that to happen. It is the soldiers who will probably pay the price for his folly, as they often do.”

The flicker of a wistful look that appeared in the Prince of the South’s eyes was something that Amandil could finally mirror without reserve. He held on to it for as long as he could, wondering why it was so difficult to go back to the times when they agreed about everything. Or almost everything, he corrected himself after a moment.

Or almost nothing, his thought continued relentlessly, as his conscious mind rebelled against the idea of looking at their past friendship through the distorted mirror of idealization. The truth was that they had begun their acquaintance because Amandil had not been able to resist the temptation to beat Pharazôn up without repercussions, and this anger has remained a constant, steady undercurrent that balanced the affection they felt for each other. It had been there before they both sat in opposite sides of the Council chamber, and it would always be there, as much as the affection itself. For some time, it was true, the first had been coming easier to him than the second, but none of them had ever been strong enough as to negate the other. And that is how it would remain, in spite of all.

“Are you done interrogating me for today, then?” Pharazôn asked, as if he had perceived his moment of weakness. “Can we remain friends until the next Council session?”

Amandil was not amused.

“We will remain friends for as long as you wish to be. If my questions bother you so, you are welcome to leave at any time.”

“Why would I wish to leave? Your cheerful disposition warms my heart.”

The lord of Andúnië sighed. He was doing it again.

“I am sorry. To be honest, this whole situation makes me nervous. Prince Vorondil should not have been allowed to go to the mainland. And now, to make things even worse, my grandson wants to go with him, and I…”

“What?” Pharazôn interrupted him. “Isildur, you mean?”

“Who else?” Amandil shook his head. “As you know, he is the adventurous sort, and this Island is too small for him. And he is of age, so he feels he should be allowed to go wherever he wishes, but I will be damned if I leave him in Prince Vorondil’s charge.”

“Do not even think of it.” Pharazôn hissed. The news seemed to have shaken him so much that for a moment, the old suspicion reared its ugly head again, and Amandil wondered if there was something that his friend was not telling him. Almost at once, however, he berated himself for harbouring such thoughts, as it should be obvious enough from their previous conversation that both considered Prince Vorondil’s command to be a potential recipe for disaster. “That man is an idiot and a fool, and you do not give your most precious treasures to a fool to keep.”

“You do not need to convince me.” Amandil replied. “You only need to convince him.”

“Let me talk to him, then. I could find a good place for him someplace else, with people that I do trust.”

“Do you know that this has been one of my greatest fears in the last years? That you would take my son or my grandson with you to the mainland?”

Pharazôn stared at him, then briefly abandoned his grave demeanour in order to laugh mirthlessly.

“Fine. Let him go with Vorondil, then.” He grew serious again. “Neither your son nor your grandson will stay in this Island forever, whether you wish it or not. The only choice you will be allowed in the end will be whether to avail yourself of my help or do without it. Perhaps you do not trust me as much as you did when you left your yet unborn child under my care, but believe me, I am still a better option than a man who wants to defy Sauron in order to impress his wife.”

“Perhaps your perception of his motives could be slightly coloured by your rivalry?” When he saw that Pharazôn was not going to even attempt a retort, Amandil’s jaw clenched. “Very well, you win. Speak with Isildur, if you wish. As long as you can dissuade him from doing this, I do not care what price I have to pay afterwards.”

“You make it sound as if I had been seeking to take advantage of your situation.”

No, you do not seek to take advantage from any of this. It just happens. If Vorondil is defeated, you will profit. If the King’s authority is weakened, you will profit.  If Isildur wants to go to the mainland, you will profit. The blessed luck of the Golden Prince, isn’t it? Even as he was thinking this, however, Amandil was already appalled at the direction of his own musings.

It is this hostility, he admitted to himself at last. This cursed hostility, in the Palace, in the Council Chamber. It was never there before, not in this way, at least. And unless he learned to fight it, it would end by eroding and destroying everything, maybe not today, or even tomorrow, but one day.

“You are right. I am behaving like a total bastard, and I should offer you my apologies and then thank you. There, I said it”, he said, his lips curving in a tentative smile. After all this time, it took an amount of effort. “Now, do not let it go to your head, it is swollen enough as it is.”

If Pharazôn was surprised, he hid it well.

“Apologies are nice, but a drink would be better. Especially now that you seem to have recovered your ability to smile. Maybe you could end laughing in an hour or two, if you try hard enough.”

“If you get me drunk enough, you mean” Amandil snorted, struggling to a sitting position so he could go fetch the jar in the table of his study. As he peered inside, he saw that it was half-empty.

Or half-full, he thought, silently promising to himself that he would hold on to whatever he had.