Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Siege of Pelargir I

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Help!

She could not distinguish his surroundings, for they were unfocused, distorted, like the surface of a pond in a windy day. Only his eyes were clear, so clear that he seemed to be standing before her, pleading, about to grab her robe with a skeletal hand in a last and desperate attempt to escape the shadows. Though she knew it was nothing but an illusion, she flinched away, terrified by its vividness.

Help! Please, save me!

She could not save him. There was a time when she could still have done so, but she had chosen to deliver him into the waiting grasp of another power, an ancient one, who was always hungry for Númenórean lives. She had known the price, at least as well as her father and his Council knew the price of their decisions whenever they played with the kings, chieftains and generals of the mainland as if they were pieces on a board game, to be shifted around and discarded at will. This was as much of an affair of State as theirs were, and yet she knew that they would all revile her as a black-hearted monster for it, if they ever learned about the part she had played. They would claim it as a reason why she could not be their Queen, but in truth, they had never wanted her to be Queen at all. Even those who fought for her rights were only fighting for the right to rule Númenor through her.

That was why she had to do it. There was only one person in the world who was ready to see her power for what it was and embrace it, instead of recoiling from it, and it was the same man who had run towards the King of Shadows, sword in hand, while the others fled. Only he was unafraid of darkness, and therefore worthy of ruling by her side. There could be no obstacles between the Sceptre and him.

Please! I do not want to die!

The eyes were still fixed on hers, claiming familiarity, kinship, bonds of duty and love, but she rejected them all, white-hot anger burning in her chest. She had not chosen those bonds, so they were null and void to her. The only decision she had been allowed to make was who would be the doomed man, and she had chosen the most worthless candidate. Her choice had given him a life of power and glory beyond his wildest dreams, next to the fairest woman in the world, but now it was time to leave it behind and die, as everyone must - even her, whose frail mortal body hid the soul of an immortal. It was Eru who had decreed that all men must die, and it was Him he should blame, not her. He should be grateful to her, for now he would never grow old, sick or ugly. A brief image in her head sufficed to make her cringe: he would have been a dreadful, pathetic old man, forever bitter and suspicious of unseen enemies, and despised by all. Wasn’t this a much better fate, to be remembered as a foolish yet brave warrior who died for Númenor?

Stop whining, she whispered, arms crossed against her chest as if to ward herself off from a ghost’s unwelcome touch. This is your last chance to be a hero, and you should not waste it.

Vorondil -no, Kamal, she thought, as this had been his true name since he was born, the scion of a noble house who walked handsome and proud among the ladies of the Court until he attracted the attention of the one he should never have approached- merely stared, his eyes widening in panic. Then, she realized that it not her he was looking at, but something else, veiled by such a thick mantle of shadows that even she could not pierce it. He struggled furiously, trying to escape, but his frantic efforts were like those of a hare trying to extract its leg after the trap had snapped its jaws close.

I am sorry, Kamal, she said, forcing herself to keep her gaze focused on his even as his terror and pain fell like bloodstains over the ivory skin of her face. I am sorry. But you have to die now.

The image blurred.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“You have been summoned here to face an unprecedented crisis which threatens Númenor even as we speak.” Tar Palantir appeared serious, but it was not a look of serious concern, serious triumph, or serious anger, such as others Amandil had seen in his countenance on previous occasions. It was as if his features had been closed off and warded, hiding the faintest spark of feeling from even the most perceptive or familiar eyes. If months ago, in that stormy Council session when the war was first discussed and Prince Vorondil was sent, the strength of the King’s emotions had been painfully conspicuous to Amandil’s eyes, now it was the total opposite. He seemed to have no emotions at all, as if he was one of the great statues in the harbour of Sor, or one of the embalmed corpses buried under the Meneltarma, the morbid thought insinuated itself into his mind.

With a shiver, the lord of Andúnië let his eyes rest for a moment on one of the chairs closest to his, which lay empty. Lord Shemer had fallen violently ill as soon as he heard the news about his son; now, if rumours were true, he lay in bed, unable to either speak or move, his soul struggling somewhere between life and death. But the King was not a frail old man like Lord Shemer; in him, lack of emotion should be read as an affirmation of purpose. Even now, even at this moment, his spirit remained stronger than his body could ever be. Or so he had to believe.

“… have heard that the Prince Vorondil was made a prisoner after the defeat”, the High Chamberlain was saying, the first to raise his voice in this grim gathering. “If there is a possibility that he is still alive, I propose that we attempt to negotiate…”

“There is nothing to negotiate.” Lord Hiram was almost as white as a corpse; in spite of which his voice remained firm as he spoke. “He is dead.”

“My apologies, my lord, but I thought that we were not in possession of any definitive information on this as of yet.”

“The survivors tried to parley after their retreat to Pelargir, but all their appointed messengers were killed. According to the last report that could leave the city by boat before the siege was laid, written by the head of the city council himself, the Orc army was using their severed heads as banners, including, alas, that of Prince Vorondil himself.” Who had been so convinced that riding at the head of his army would be so good to the morale of the soldiers that he had been willing to disregard the counsel of his advisors over it, the damn fool.

Amandil had been discussing this report so feverishly with Hiram and the King in the last hours, that he felt as if he knew it by heart. This was why he did not share in the collective gasps and gestures of horror evoked by the governor of Sor’s words, or even appreciate the exceptionality of the breach of decorum which had just taken place, with such grisly facts being laid so barely before the highest advisory body of the realm.

“So.” Hannon, Palace Priest and Hiram’s brother-in-law, stared at his own hands as if he could find the answer to their troubles written there. “Our forces were defeated by Sauron’s commander and his Arnian minions, Prince Vorondil is… dead, and the army of Mordor has occupied Arne and moved on Pelargir. How… long do you think that the city will be able to remain standing?”

Amandil stood up.

“I was there as the walls were being built, and I can assure you, my lords, that Pelargir is a formidable stronghold, not only because of the work of Men but also for its natural location. Aside from the City Guard and the local garrison, many veterans have settled there over the years, and the remnants of Prince Vorondil’s army have joined them now. Sauron’s troops have the numbers and no doubt the infrastructure to sustain a siege, so the easiest approach for them would be to merely wait until Pelargir runs out of supplies. This scenario would give us time.”

“On the other hand, Lord Amandil, Sauron already knows that Númenor is going to retaliate, and it would be foolish to believe that he has not factored it in his plans”, Pharazôn replied. “If the general chosen to lead this expedition persists in Vorondil’s mistakes and underestimates his enemy, we could be facing a second disaster whose repercussions could affect the Island permanently.”

“How dare you speak in those terms of Prince Vorondil, while his corpse is still warm! Have you already forgotten that he fought and gave his life for Númenor?” Hiram hissed. His hands were clenched, and in spite of the composure he was affecting, Amandil knew that he was a breath away from an explosion of temper. He also knew that Pharazôn could see this as much as he did, and that, with the ruthlessness of a warrior on the battlefield, he would use this knowledge to his own advantage. With a sharp intake of breath, he willed the Prince of the South to focus on him instead.

“I was commenting on Pelargir’s defensive capabilities, my lord prince, as there would be no chance for us to send an expedition if those should fail. How the leader of this expedition should face his enemy is something that will be left to his own choice, and I pray to Eru that his approach is right.”

Pharazôn snorted.

“It is odd that you would consider Eru a war god, like the barbarians of Harad. The more I try to understand the beliefs of the Faithful, the more I am lost in subtlety.” Then, his eyes hardened. “I will not challenge your appreciation of Pelargir’s defences, my lord, but even if they should withstand a hundred attacks from Mordor, you know as well as I do that it is only a matter of time until the city falls, unless we begin our preparations immediately. Now, as you honourable members of this Council are aware of, the King has forbidden me from meddling with the affairs of mainland…”

The end of the sentence was obscured by a formidable outcry, rising not only from the councilmen’s seats, but also from those of their attending people. Pharazôn tried to silence them, pretending to disapprove, but Amandil knew that he was secretly triumphant.

“Silence!” the herald shouted. The King rose from his throne.

“We are here to discuss the current situation, and how we will respond to it. The general who will lead this expedition will be chosen after careful consideration…”

“The Prince of the South is the only candidate!”

“Only he has defeated the forces of Mordor before!”

“He is our most successful general! We must send the Prince of the South!”

“Send the Prince of the South!”

It was not the first outcry to take place in the Council chamber; especially during times of crisis and war, tensions used to arise even among the highest lords of the realm. But to interrupt the King in the middle of a sentence -this, Amandil thought worriedly, might have been the first time that such a serious breach of protocol happened.

“Stop, my lords! Stop!” Pharazôn threw his hands in the air, as if embarrassed at finding himself in the middle of this situation. “Only the King may decide who leaves Númenor on such a mission.”

“You hypocrite! This is what you have wanted all along! Even now, your heart is rejoicing at the death of my brother and the defeat of our men, because you believe that it will give you power, that Númenor will have no choice but to turn to you for aid!” Hiram looked almost deranged, his tone rising until it was only a note away from a scream. “But I will not let you! I will go myself, even if… even it should be the last thing I do, I would gladly give my life away to foil the evil plans conceived by your boundless ambition! I will not let you have your way!”

It was over. As he sat there, with the others, watching as the man who had once been the serious and austere lord of Sorontil dissolved into a pitiful mess of frayed nerves, yelling and gesticulating, Amandil was aware that they had lost. If the King had been considering the idea of sending Lord Hiram to avenge his brother by birth, hoping that this gesture would be enough to gain the support of the people, it had become clear in the eyes of all that he could not be entrusted with such a task. He could not even find it in himself to blame the man, he thought -losing his brother and his father almost at the same time would have been too much for any man to bear.

After the commotion, the silence that ensued was deafening by contrast.

“I… I apologize”. The voice was so faint that Amandil had to wonder if it carried to the opposite side of the large chamber. His hands were grabbing those of his son for support, but they were still trembling. “Such a breach of composure… it was intolerable.”

“Intolerable, perhaps, but also understandable, in light of recent events”, the King said. If he intended his words to be reassuring, however, his intention did not manage to cross the Grinding Ice of his tone, which became even more evident as his gaze shifted towards Pharazôn. “I am aware of what I said in the past, and of the reasons why I said it. As of now, however, the dangers which threaten the kingdom of Númenor outstrip all other considerations, forcing me to rectify before this Council. You will go to the mainland to head the troops of Umbar once more, and you will also receive whatever help the lords of this Island can give you.”

For a strange moment, Amandil stared at Pharazôn, wondering if he would refuse the King before the Council. But the Prince of the South merely nodded, a look of deep satisfaction in his eyes as he acknowledged the congratulations, and he was mystified as to why he had thought that his friend would do any such thing. This was what Pharazôn had wanted all along: to be brought back from his ‘retirement’ because the King was forced to acknowledge that he was the only one who could save Númenor. He was as likely to turn away from this chance as a hungry wolf was likely to leave his prey lying on the ground, untouched.

Still, he thought, that steely look of contempt, the prelude to rejection, had been there, and he had seen it. It was as if, for a moment, the Pharazôn he was used to see in the last years had disappeared, and the Pharazôn that he remembered from a long time ago had stood in his place by sheer mistake; the young man who had never compromised on anything, or checked his impulses, no matter the harm they could bring to his position. That young man despised the King for his cowardice, and wished to see him deal with his own mess.

That young man would never have become such a threat to Tar Palantir, Amandil thought wistfully. Though perhaps he would not be standing here now, either, and if he was not, the Island would suffer for it.

This Pharazôn, whatever else he was, was the only man in Númenor who could face Sauron. And since Sauron seemed determined to face them, they needed him. It was that simple.

“We will reconvene in private to discuss the expedition. Praised be Eru the Almighty”, the King dismissed the rest of them.

The Prince of the South bowed low.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“You need not worry.” Amalket leaned forwards to pick a grape with her fingers, and as she did so, she bit back a wince that would not have escaped her son’s perceptive eyes if not for the current turmoil brewing within his mind. Armenelos was free from the humidity that made her joints ache in Andúnië, which is why she had taken to staying there for longer and longer periods of time, but lately she was even having troubles under the familiar dry air of the plain. She blamed it on the weather; surely it had never been this cold in Númenor at this time of the year as it had been in the last decade.

The gods are angry with the King, people said. Now, they have even sent us a terrible foe who will wreak havoc and devastation in punishment for our sins.

“Your father is an old friend of the Prince of the South. If he asks him to keep Isildur out of danger, he will do it for him.”

“Mother, I have no doubt that he would try, but when Isildur sailed to Umbar, we all knew the risks that this would entail. Even if he did not take part in Prince Vorondil’s war, there would be others, whether we wanted it or not.” He shook his head with a sigh. “He is an adult, and we cannot shame him in front of the whole army by telling him to stay in Umbar while everyone else goes North. Besides, you know as well as I do that wherever Malik goes, he will follow, even if he had to hide inside a supply wagon. And Malik will definitely be riding to battle.”

“You seem so reasonable about this, that nobody would ever suspect that you were unable to sleep last night.”

“That is not…” Halideyid glared at her. “How do you even know about that?”

Instead of replying, she fixed him with the long-suffering, slightly exasperated glance that she had been perfecting for the last hundred years. At this, he had no choice but to surrender.

“It is not Isildur who is worrying me, Mother. Believe it or not, I think he can take care of himself.”

“Then what?”

He shrugged.

“Eluzîni. Father. You.”

Amalket sipped on her tea carefully. It was so hot that it brought tears to her eyes, but it also helped a little.

“And why are you worried about all of us? We are not going to face the Enemy in war, are we?”

“No. You are not.” He seemed to be steeling himself for something, which alarmed her. “But I am.”

His voice was quiet, as usual, but its effect was as if the ceiling had collapsed over her head. Quickly, she grabbed the cup before it slid from her fingers, and took a sharp breath as a scalding drop fell on the back of her hand.

“So, you think that Isildur can take care of himself, and yet you are sailing all the way to Middle-Earth to join him.” It did not seem like her own voice talking, even to her ears, and yet she desperately felt as if she had to say something, no matter what it was. “That does not make sense, Halideyid.”

He frowned, the way he used to when he wanted her to understand something very badly.

“It should have been me, Mother.”

Amalket shook her head.

“No. No. You are where you are meant to be.”

“Listen to me. I should have married the Princess of the West…”

“Your father should have married the Princess of the West!”

“… and then it would have been me, not Prince Vorondil, facing Sauron’s armies in the Bay of Belfalas. That is what the King foresaw, that is how he meant things to happen.”

“If the King foresaw it, then the King was wrong, because it did not come to pass!” she hissed, perhaps a little more vehemently than she had intended. “And it was not your fault that it did not. It was the Princess of the West who chose Vorondil as her husband, and if someone brought this disaster upon Númenor, it was her!”

But Halideyid still had that frown upon his face.

“I do not have the power of foresight, Mother, you know that. And yet, I feel that something is wrong. I feel it, with such an intensity that I am almost tempted to believe that the inheritance which has always eluded me has finally started to course through my veins. This was not supposed to happen, and I am not meant to be here.”

The power of foresight? More like a heritage of madness, Amalket thought, in growing anger and concern. Her son had never been affected by those screaming nightmares, or the flights of fancy during which the descendants of Indilzar pretended to be able to apprehend the future, as if they were possessed by a god’s spirit. And a good riddance it had been.

“Then, what is supposed to happen? That you, the heir of Andúnië, go to risk your life in the mainland together with your son? Perhaps you have not heard of what has befallen your wife’s house in these last days? The heir of Lord Shemer has died, and Lord Shemer himself is breathing his last, leaving their domain headless, and their family hanging from a thread! Is this what you want to happen to your father’s house?”

“That has nothing to do with our situation here, unfortunate as it is. Father was the youngest lord of Andúnië in a thousand years, and he is in no danger at the moment. I have another son, and a daughter, who are not going anywhere. And I do not intend to die.”

“Prince Vorondil did not intent to die.”

“Prince Vorondil had no experience, and he committed many mistakes. The Prince of the South, however, is an experienced general and I trust him. If I can trust him with my son, you can trust him with yours. Please, Mother, listen to me.” Amalket had already opened her mouth to object again, but he left her no chance. “Since I was young, and Father first left for Umbar, this has been buried deep in my heart. Somehow, I knew that I, too, was meant to go to the mainland, though I did not know where this knowledge came from. But Father was gone, I had duties to see to and people to support, and I could not afford to pay heed to fanciful thoughts, so I ignored it. The Prince of the South, who was the Prince Pharazôn back then, was the first to see it, and he taunted me with it, though I pretended that I did not know what he was talking about. At some point, I was so taken by my responsibilities, by the trappings of the life I had accepted and the family I had built, that I could almost claim that this was true. When this war broke, however, and Vorondil volunteered, the feeling came back with a vengeance, and I was about to surrender to it when my own son got ahead of me. Eluzîni was upset, Father was worried, and I was left to deal with it. But now, I have finally made my mind.” His look was different from any other she had ever seen in his eyes, she realized. Usually, she gathered more from gazing at him, at his eyes and his expressions, than she did by listening to his words, but not this time. It was almost as if a stranger was sitting in front of her, and this feeling unsettled her. “Please, I ask you to accept it, and trust me.”

“But…” This was pathetic, why couldn’t she find any words to say? “But why? What are you trying to do? If you trust the Prince of the South so much, why not leave this to him?”

“There are many reasons” he replied, firmly, as if he was truly convinced of what he was saying. “First, there must be a prominent member from our faction in the mainland who can be perceived as defending the interests of the King and the Princess, and Father does not wish to do it, though he would go if the King ordered him. Second, the majority of the citizens of Pelargir are our people, and we have a duty towards them. Sending a few men might suffice for the other houses, but more will be expected from us. And third, I know that I cannot expect you to understand it or agree with me, but as I already said, I was meant to be there instead of Vorondil. I do not care for what the Princess of the West might or might not have chosen; in my own eyes, I have failed, and I will not allow myself to fail again.”

“Halideyid…” Amalket frowned in dismay. Would she have to rely on Amandil to dissuade him? Never before had he been able to claim success where she had failed, not when it came to their son. But, if he did fail, what then? And what if Eluzîni, too, failed? They had all been unable to convince Isildur, and though she had believed this stubbornness to be a particularity of her grandson’s character, she had to admit that father and son were not always so different as she would have liked to believe.

“Mother, it is only a campaign. I am not going to stay in the mainland for thirty years.” At least he was still concerned about her feelings. “Please, tell me that you understand this, at least.”

“I do not have thirty years” she muttered, a knot in her throat. “Please, tell me that you understand this.”

He sighed, taking her hand in his. Against his skin, hers looked older than ever to her eyes, ugly and wrinkled, even though those who surrounded her usually lied through their teeth and claimed that she remained as young and beautiful as ever.

He has always been by your side, a small, traitorous voice spoke inside her mind. Even when everybody else left you, your father, your mother, even your own husband, and now your grandson. You cannot hold him back for ever.

But then, ‘for ever’ did not hold the same meaning for them than it did for her, did it?

“I will be back soon, Mother. I swear it to you, I will.”

She shook her head, but could not speak.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“So.” The Prince of the South’s gaze was amiable, and still slightly mocking as he leaned back to fix him from head to toe. It seemed to be saying ‘I told you so’, without the need for words. “You finally decided to follow your calling. I must confess that I was not expecting you to resist it for so long. You are an extraordinarily dutiful person.”

“With apologies, my lord prince, but I am not abandoning my duties to follow you to the mainland”, he protested. “To fight in this war is the highest duty I can be entrusted with at this point of my life.”

“I see.” Pharazôn nodded, then filled a cup, which he offered to him. Elendil refused it politely. “Yes, someone from the house of Andúnië has to be there when the Faithful are delivered from the Dark Lord’s clutches. The Lord of Armenelos forbid that they should owe their lives to someone like me.”

“That is not true. You are the general, and the legate. If we should defeat the Dark Lord and rescue Pelargir, it will be your victory.”

Pharazôn laughed.

“Very well. I was exaggerating, and you are right to call me out on this. But whenever I exaggerate, it is because I wish to drive a point across. I learned that subterfuge in the mainland, long ago.”

“From the Haradrim?”

“From the Forest People of the Middle Havens, actually. The Haradrim do not fight with words.” He drank a long swallow from his own cup. “If you wish to have a good working relationship with me, you will have to learn to drink.”

“What point did you wish to drive across, my lord prince?” Elendil insisted, even though he knew the answer.

“The point that, as you well know, the King will try to rely on accounts of your warring prowess to undermine me as much as he can.”

After a moment of hesitation, Elendil finally took the cup. It exuded a powerful smell; apparently his father had not lied when he had spoken of the Prince’s penchant for drinking undiluted wine.

“Are you complimenting or accusing me?”

“Both”, Pharazôn replied bluntly. Then, to his surprise, he smiled. “I am happy to have you.”

Amandil had not lied, either, when he had said that many considered the Prince of the South to be a charming man, and that he had to be careful not to allow this to affect his discernment. But that was something that Elendil had known for a very long time.

“Does this prospect not concern you then, my lord?”

“Not much. You may be destined for greatness, but I am greater still.” It was impossible to tell whether he was joking or perfectly serious, until he broke the impasse himself with a shrug. “At least, in every meaning of the word but one.”

“Do I still have permission to be taller than you, now that you are my commanding officer?”

Pharazôn stared in surprise, then chuckled, as if he had not expected him to come up with something like that.

“Now, now, that is a very good question. Perhaps I should be concerned about you, after all.” He shrugged. “Very well, I will be perfectly serious for the length of one minute, so listen to me. Once we board that ship, and lose sight of the King and the Warrior of Sor, we will find ourselves in the middle of a difficult campaign, and neither you nor I will have the time to worry about what the King, the Council, the Court, or the people of Armenelos are saying about our respective actions. I will be pouring my heart and soul in my attempt to outmanoeuvre and defeat a dangerous enemy, knowing that any mistake could be my last, and cost us Pelargir and perhaps the entire Bay. And you will also have plenty to do, believe me. “He swallowed the last of his cup to the dregs, barely grimacing at the bitterness. “You may not think that this is even possible, but soon we will forget that Armenelos exists. And, once that we do, you will find that we can understand each other much better.”

Elendil pondered this. It sounded strangely appealing in this context, but also, somehow- treasonous. If they were to pretend that the court of Armenelos did not exist, didn’t this extend to ignoring orders as well? He remembered the last Arnian war, when the Prince had been summoned to explain his actions to the Council for a similar reason.

I will not be interrogated about how I conducted this war by people who have never set a foot outside the Island, or faced the perils and the choices that I had to face.

He remembered feeling, in his heart of hearts, that the Prince was right back then, and that his arguments were sound. But back then he had been a younger man, unable still to perceive certain subtleties. Now, he was older, and about to commit, of his own free will, to following a man who admitted that he would recognize no authority above his. A man who opposed the King, worshipped Melkor and, or so rumours went, wanted the Sceptre for himself.

Or was he, perhaps, overthinking things? Just as he remembered telling his students countless times that thinking too much prevented a swordsman from focusing in the task at hand, it was only reasonable that a soldier would need to forego certain concerns, suspicions, and considerations which could distract him from the war he was waging. Perhaps it was just this, what the Prince was trying to tell him.

There is only you, and your enemy. Nothing else, he had used to say, to an interminable succession of swollen-headed boys who were more preoccupied with their small rivalries, the approval of their parents, their chances to join the Guards and, above all, the girls who watched them, than they were about the fight before them. Nothing but the enemy.

And the enemy, he realized, was Sauron. Someone they could not afford to turn their backs to, even for an instant.

Without even noticing what he was doing, he drank from the cup that he had been holding for a while. The powerful wine caused his throat to explode with heat, and he broke into a cough.

“By the Lord of Battles, it is only wine!” Pharazôn clapped him in the back, until the cough subsided. “That was woefully inadequate. You need to practice before our departure.”

“I am sorry, my lord prince.” He wiped the tears from his eyes, looking for words that could convey the gist of his thoughts without betraying himself too much. “I am… looking forward to it. To the departure, and also to the moment when, as you say, we will not have enough time to remember the factions and the intrigues in Armenelos. It might be a welcome change.”

The Prince of the South nodded in proud approval, as if he was a precocious child.

“Very well! You will go far with that attitude. Now, try again!”

Whatever possessed Elendil to take a second swallow from the cup at Pharazôn’s indication, he did not know, but to his surprise, it went down easier this time. As it trickled down his throat, he could feel warmth gathering in his chest, much stronger than the familiar effects produced by mixed wine. It was not unpleasant, he thought, appreciatively.

“Better and better”, the Prince of the South chuckled.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“May you have a fair wind in your sails, and the protection of the Valar.” Eluzîni had encircled his neck with her arms, forcing his back into such a pronounced curve that it was aching even as he stood, but he did not complain. “And may you be very, very careful.”

Before he kissed her, their eyes met for a moment, and he could see that hers were red and swollen. Most of her last weeks had been spent in the mansion of the lord of Hyarnustar, attending her uncle and adoptive father’s deathbed with her cousin Hiram. Elendil had visited several times, and he was still haunted by remembrances of the gloom of those corridors. Accusations of being cursed by the gods flew easily enough from one side to the other in the crossfire of the Armenelos court, nowadays, but if there was one house which looked as if it had truly been cursed, it was that one. Both the lord and his heir had perished within the same month, leaving no direct descendants of the main line.

When he told her of his decision to leave for the mainland, he had feared the worst. After what had happened to her cousin Vorondil, he assumed that she would be in a distraught, irrational state. And in a sense, she had been, but not in the way that he had expected.

Thank you for doing this, she had sobbed, before he could even explain his motives. If I lost him, I don’t know what I would do. He is so young and impulsive, and the mainland is so dangerous!

Isildur would probably be quite angry, if he were to hear about this. Elendil did not plan on telling him, but he had promised Eluzîni that he would try to prevent their son from doing “anything impulsive”, and he intended to hold to this promise as best as he could.

Their kiss lasted for a long time, in which she seemed to be holding to him as if he was an anchor to life and warmth, her lips caressing and measuring every inch of his face. He kissed her back, praying to the Creator that she could live the rest of her life free from the cold grip of misfortune. Gloom did not suit her; she was made for joy, like the flowers that only blossomed in Spring when the weather was mild, and whose colours were the brightest.

And that was some appalling poetry, he thought ruefully, giving her a last kiss.

“Ahem” someone cleared their throat behind them. At once, Elendil let go of his wife and stepped back, his heart plummeting in his chest. As they turned towards the source of the voice, he saw a slightly uncomfortable Amandil standing by the door.

“I thought you had finished already” he said, in a tone that could be construed as apologetic. Elendil shook his head, too embarrassed to speak, but Eluzîni chuckled nervously.

“We are done now. He withstood my attack with bravery, and now he is ready for new battles.”

“I see”. Amandil smiled at her, but his eyes were on him. “Could you excuse us for a moment? I need to have a word with him.”

“Of course,” she said, departing with a bow. Elendil watched her leave, then turned towards his father.

Since the day that he confronted the lord of Andúnië with his determination of going to the mainland with the Prince of the South, they had held so many conversations that it had proved an impossible task to keep count of them. Some had been calm and composed, others, not so much. In two occasions, his father had ended up yelling, and Elendil was sure that the entire household must have heard what he said.

The previous night, after they welcomed the captains from Andúnië and Elendil was almost finished with the last preparations, they had spoken for a long time, and he had been certain that they had exhausted all the topics anyone could possibly think of covering before going on a military expedition in the mainland. Apparently, he had been wrong.

“What is it, Father?” he asked, trying not to sound either exasperated or apprehensive. Amandil did not even give signs of having heard him: staring intently at his son seemed to be requiring all his energy at the moment.

Elendil sighed. The second time that he had raised his voice, it had started like this, too. But now, the house was teeming with people who were sailing to the mainland with him, and loud disagreements were the last thing that he could afford.

“Father, I will be careful.” More than you were, in any case. He was not so petty as to remind him that this was how he and his mother had felt whenever it was Amandil fighting beyond the Sea, but he had to admit that he had been tempted more than once in the last week. “I will not overestimate my strength, or underestimate my enemies, and I will bring honour to the house of Andúnië.”

“I… “What on Earth was ailing him? He seemed almost physically unable to force the words out of his mouth. “Pharazôn once swore an oath concerning you, as you very well know.”

Elendil blinked. Whatever he had been expecting, it was not this.

“Yes, to protect me when I was a child. And here I am.”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No.” Amandil repeated, with even more vehemence. “That was not the oath that he swore. I still have it in my memory, and it went like this: ‘May the King of Armenelos and the Lady of the Forbidden Bay rip my soul to pieces if I ever let any harm come to your child while I live.’.”

“Oh.” Elendil nodded, letting the words sink in. It was the first time that he heard them, and they shocked him, both for the strong terms that had been used, and for the unreal feeling of hearing those divine titles from his father’s lips, even if he knew that he had been a priest of both false gods in the distant past.

The emphasis, however, had been on neither of those elements. After the first surprise, his mind worked fast.

“So, the oath is not fulfilled. If those gods were keeping count, which I find unlikely…”

“He believes in them. For him, they are keeping count.”

“That is reassuring. But, Father “In spite of everything, Elendil had the impression that the main point was still eluding him, “why are you telling me this now?”

Amandil’s frown was fiercer than ever.

“Remind him. In case he has forgotten, you have to remind him.”

“By the Valar, Father! Do you think he will try to get me killed?”

For a moment, he thought that the lord of Andúnië was going to nod in assent, but, to Elendil’s unspoken relief, he shook his head. As he did so, his gaze seemed to clear slightly, and his tone became lighter, as if trying to balance the previous intensity.

“No, of course he will not. I merely… worry about what amount of risk he is likely to find acceptable. As a commander, and as a warrior, he works on instinct, and sometimes he does things that… pose large risks, both to himself and to others. Not that his instincts are not sound, most of the time, but I worry about the day that they are not.”

“I thought you admired him as a general.” Until his son and his grandson were in his army, for that of course would be the time to find the fissures in his strategy, Elendil mused, not unsympathetically. “Father, you know better than I do how these things work. There can be no certainty of anything. But if our general has sound instincts most of the time, and you trust me, as you have said many times that you do, you have to admit that it is the best we could hope for.” He frowned. “I will not remind him of the oath, even if he has forgotten it. With the fate of so many people hanging on his mostly sound instincts, I do not think I should interfere with them merely for the sake of my self-preservation.”

“You are right.” In all the discussions they had had in the last weeks, those words were a first. Elendil even had to wonder if he had heard correctly, or his ears had played him false. “Perhaps I have already forgotten my warring days in the peace of Númenor. Yes, that must be it. Or perhaps…” This seemed even harder for him to admit. “Perhaps I have not forgotten at all; I simply never knew what it was, to stay here while your loved ones put their lives in danger.”

This was so remarkably close to an apology, for the thirty years as well as the later Arnian debacle, that Elendil decided to take it as such, saving him the embarrassment of having to elaborate further.

“You did what you had to, Father. And you always fulfilled your promises, and came back alive. Now, I will endeavour to do so as well, for your sake as well as that of our family and our people.”

For a moment, Amandil’s eyes seemed to darken, with the stirrings of an unknown emotion. Then, he shook his head.

“If you were the fool I used to be, I would have reason to be concerned. Thankfully, you are not. Take good care of Isildur, too, though that is not something I should need to tell you.” He looked like himself again, his composure finally back through who knows what great effort. For a moment, Elendil allowed himself to remember the day before Isildur’s departure, how difficult it had been to look like the proud father that he was expected to be when what he truly wanted was to restrain him and forcefully prevent him from leaving the Island. True, Isildur had been much younger than he was now, but did that really matter? Had it ever mattered to any parent in the world?

“Thank you, Father”, he said, trying to convey all this without words, the appreciation as well as the understanding. He did not know whether he had succeeded, but at least, Amandil smiled.

“May you have fair wind in your sails and the protection of the Valar, my son”, he spoke the traditional words.

Elendil bowed.