Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Siege of Pelargir II

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The dead city was the most haunting spectacle Elendil had ever witnessed.

When it had first come in sight, a blurred silhouette emerging from the Sea, it had seemed no different from Andúnië, Sor or Rómenna: a port city of Númenor, with its hundreds of white towers set against the blue sky. As they approached it, however, the desolation grew visible under the lengthening shadows of dusk. The harbour lay abandoned, except for a few fishing boats that floated forlornly, tied to wooden posts. Behind them, the canal meandered into a sea of ruins, of once proud houses whose magnificent white façades had been blackened by the flames, ridden with dark holes where elaborate doors and windows used to hang before they were consumed. Other houses, made of less noble materials -for some of the merchants had used to hide the evidence of their debt behind ornate palaces of cheap workmanship- had been toppled entirely, dragging others in their fall, and only piles of stone, wood and ash remained where they used to stand. Cobbled streets had fallen into disrepair, and weeds had grown tall between the paving stones; the vanguard of the wild forces of Nature that would one day obliterate any trace of the existence of the proudest city to ever rise in Middle-Earth. Rubble from the ruined houses, boats, and bridges had fallen into the canal, at first slowing the currents which penetrated it twice a day under the influence of the tides; then, gradually, causing sand and deposits to precipitate, forming clots in what had been the greatest artery of the late Gadir, now nothing but a large quagmire.

It was evident that, before its slow death, the canal had absorbed the worst of the impact from the fires, for the houses looked better preserved on the Western bank. It was there that the order was given to find shelter, but, as more and more soldiers landed on the harbour, Elendil wondered if there would be room for all of them. The force they had assembled in Umbar, from the army stationed there and the Númenórean reinforcements, was the greatest gathering of men he had ever seen together in one place. When he had gazed upon them, for the first time in a life spent among grand buildings, palaces, temples, and huge statues commissioned by powerful kings, he had been filled with real awe at the might of Númenor. Now, as he watched those same men disperse around the ruins, talking among them, laughing, and dragging their weapons and belongings with them in search of a good spot to spend the night amid the devastation, he was also struck at its destructive potential. This city had been razed in a Númenórean war, a war where many of those who sought shelter in this secluded spot, away from spies from the mainland, had taken part.

Under his command, he thought, stealing a glance at the man who moved from soldier to captain and from captain to sailor, giving orders, instructions, directions, as if animated by a fiery spirit of which the people of the Island were only allowed to see the embers. If Elendil had been in his place, he thought, he would be so disturbed by this sight as to be unable to set foot in this island for the remainder of his existence. If Pharazôn was unsettled, however, he hid it so well that it was not possible to detect any trace of it.

As if he had noticed that he was being watched, the Prince of the South clapped one of the Umbarians in the shoulder, and turned to face him.

“You should have visited earlier. This city was the fairest of all that the Númenóreans built in the mainland, fairest even than the cities of the Island itself except Armenelos, Now, you will have to take my word for it.”

Elendil nodded, for a moment not sure of what to say to this. He did not feel like exchanging pleasantries about the ruin of Gadir.

“This was the city of your mother’s kin, was it not?” he asked at last.

Pharazôn looked at him evenly, as if trying to decide whether the question had been intended as an accusation. For a moment, Elendil was at the verge of apologizing, for it struck him how often he must he have been subjected to negative judgements since that Council hearing years ago.

“My mother’s traitorous kin, who played with fire in both the figurative and the literal sense, yes”, Pharazôn replied. Elendil’s words became stuck in his mouth. “When you and all your people have found accommodations, I will be holding a meeting on my ship. Be there as soon as you can. Bazerbal, no, do not go that way! That house looks like it is about to fall, and digging your men from the rubble would pose an unacceptable delay.”

“Yes, my lord prince”, he bowed, unseen and unnoticed, to the already departed general.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“So, the situation from the latest reports is as follows.” Barekbal, general of the troops of Umbar, and a dour-faced, grey-haired veteran of many battles, crossed his arms over his chest as he addressed them. “Arne is occupied by the troops of Mordor. When Prince Vorondil engaged them in battle, a large contingent of those troops left Arne to fight him, and afterwards laid siege on Pelargir. The city is still standing, but supplies are running low.” He paused for a moment. “We are not certain on this point, but it is very probable that the Anduin has been blockaded, possibly using the barges of the Arnians, to prevent us from sailing upriver.”

“How many are they, besieging the city?” a man from Umbar that Elendil did not know intervened.

“We do not know for sure. About fifty, fifty-five thousand left Arne to fight the Prince, according to our spy, but they must have experienced casualties.”

“Damn, how can those creatures breed so quickly?” The man cursed aloud, a soldier’s curse involving the name of their outlandish advocation for Melkor. Apparently, they did not fear blasphemy in the mainland as they did in the Island. “Still, we are strong enough to break the siege.”

“And risk being besieged ourselves? No! Now that we have them at our mercy, it would be better to lay siege on them, and crush them against the city’s walls.”

“But how long would that take? Don’t you think that the supplies in the city must be running lower than in the enemy’s camp?”

“We have to press our advantage! Right now, we are…!”

“No”, Pharazôn said. He had been frowning at the map for a while now, and he spoke unexpectedly and without raising his voice, but a dead silence fell upon the tent as soon as he was heard. Elendil did not remember a silence such as this in all the years he had been attending Council sessions, not even when the King himself spoke.

“The enemy knows that we are coming. If it does not bother them, it is because they control Arne, so they can strike at us from the back as soon as we march on Pelargir. If we break the siege, they will be besieging us next, as Eshmounazer was expounding. And if we besiege them… I am sure that you remember what happened in Arne all those years ago. I am certain that they do.”

“We will be caught between one army and the other,” Barekbal nodded grimly. “On the other hand, my lord prince, if we march on Arne, we might lure them away, but risk being trapped there as well.”

“That is why we are going to attempt a different approach.” At last, Pharazôn raised his glance from the map. To Elendil’s surprise, since he had not intervened in the discussion, it became fixed on him. “Lord Elendil, you will command the army that just arrived from Númenor to deliver Pelargir from the siege of Mordor. You can take your own men and the others who sailed with us from the Island, and half of the Umbar troops. It has to be an impressive force, something that the mighty Sea Lords would send from their Island.”

Elendil could not believe what he had just heard. As all the other glances became also fixed on him, he forced his mind to work at a furious speed.

“And you, my lord prince? Where will you be?”

“I will take a contingent of my best troops, with Barekbal, and land on the coast at night. We will not take the river route, but seek the cover of the forest and the mountains, where the tribes live. The political map in the Bay has now fallen in disarray, but many of those tribes were once our allies. Some might remember that I once returned their hostages and led them to victory. If they don’t, I will find a way to persuade them, whether by my natural charm or the swords and spears of the soldiers who come with me.” A few people laughed. “And while the attention of the enemy is fixed elsewhere, I will fall upon Arne, and reconquer it. Once that we no longer have their fortifications at our backs, we can freely march on Pelargir.”

Elendil expected someone more experienced than him, of the war commanders who stood in that cabin, to voice a strenuous opposition to what seemed to him like the maddest plan ever devised. He tried to count all the things that could go wrong; the list had already grown too long before even coming to the Arne part.

“The capital will be difficult to take, my lord”, Barekbal remarked. Pharazôn arched an eyebrow.

“Barekbal and his objections. How long since I last heard one! Arne is still full of Arnians, and I am sure they will be easily persuaded to join the invaders if they see any chance of success.”

“I feel it is my duty to remind you that they do not like us very much.”

“I know that. But Sauron has a way to make other conquerors look good. What would you prefer, if you were an Arnian, an Orc garrison or a Númenórean garrison? I have defeated Mordor in the past, they can trust me to do so again, and to be better disposed towards them if they help me.”

Barekbal nodded reluctantly, and so did others around him. Watching them, Elendil despaired of receiving any support from them.

“If I am to be a decoy, I would like to know what are the chances that the army which should come to my aid will succeed in its endeavour” he spoke. “I also wish to know what my response should be, my lord prince, if the troops before Pelargir decide to engage in battle and attack me before you have been able to complete your plan.”

He heard some murmurations behind him, and he wondered if he had just committed a serious breach of protocol. As far as his understanding of war went, those councils were the place where such discussions were meant to happen, but if they had considered Barekbal’s words to be an objection, he had to admit that his could also be seen as one.

Pharazôn made a gesture, and the murmurations subsided.

“As the appointed general of the Pelargir army, it will be your duty to ensure that our enemies remain where they are for as long as possible. Besiege them, cut their supply lines, parley with them, tell them whatever you want. Anything that can buy us time. I will need…” He seemed to be pondering something briefly, “ten, no, twelve days. Once the twelve days are over, you can expect me to reach your position with the Arnian reinforcements. If I am not there, you will flee downriver and retreat to Gadir, because they will be coming for you instead.”

“What if you are only delayed, my lord?”

“I will not be.”

Each time that Elendil opened his mouth, he realized that the murmurations grew in intensity. Still, he could not prevent himself from doing so once more.

“You seem very certain of success.” What had his father said, before they took their leave in Armenelos? As a commander, and as a warrior, he works on instinct, and sometimes he does things that pose large risks, both to him and others. Not that his instincts are not sound, most of the time, but I worry about the day that they are not.

This city, he realized suddenly, was a living monument to what happened when they were not.

“You will worry about your duties, Lord Elendil, and I will worry about mine.”

This was so final that it did not leave room for further insistence. As he desisted on that front, however, the reality dawned on him that “his duties” had grown immensely larger than they used to be mere instants ago. Decoy or not, he had just been appointed general of the larger part of the army, which would march on Pelargir under his command. And once there, he would have to rely on his own wits not only to do the Prince’s bidding, but perhaps also to ensure his own survival and that of his son, not to speak of the rest of his men.

Was he ready? Or did Pharazôn’s penchant for taking large risks include the appointment of an unexperienced man who had set foot on the mainland for the first time? Elendil had never proved himself to him, or to anyone, but the Prince had always claimed to be certain of his future greatness. Was this one of his sound instincts, or just a foolish gamble?

“I believe that we are done here. You should all go and get some rest, for tomorrow will be a busy day. Barekbal, do not go too far, there are things that we need to discuss about the expedition. Eshmounazer, go and tell the priest to prepare everything for the sacrifice tomorrow”, Pharazôn spoke, as Elendil stood pondering those things. Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by an unpleasant jolt in his stomach. He looked up, and the Prince’s eyes met his; he had been looking at him, and what he had seen on his face seemed not to have been to his liking.

“Elendil, stay”, he commanded.

His nod of acknowledgement came with some delay, betraying his distraction. In silence, the heir of Andúnië watched as the throng of Núménórean commanders walked past him towards the exit, some of them fixing him with appraising glances, others with barely hidden critical stares.

“You do not look very much at ease since we landed here”, Pharazôn said, as soon as they were left alone. “I understand that the ruins of this city have an unsettling quality that extends even to those who were once its bitter enemies” Like you, he did not need to say. “I am also a trying man to follow, as Barekbal has been reminding me over the years, and as your father might have mentioned to you sometime. Still, I will not apologize for that, as being too certain that I will not fail, as you put it, has often proved to be the fine line between life and death. War is not just about weapons, Elendil, it is also about persuasion. You need to persuade not only your allies or your men that you are invincible, but also your enemies, and you will never succeed in that if you are not able to persuade yourself first.”

And what about the fine line between confidence and folly? Elendil wondered, though he did not say it aloud.

“And speaking of persuasion” Pharazôn continued,” tomorrow we will be holding the most important ceremony, which will persuade each and every soldier, in their heart of hearts, that we cannot be defeated by any minions of Darkness as long as the King of Light stands beside us. The sacrifice.”

Elendil’s worst suspicions were confirmed.

“My lord prince.” He did not know how to put this in a way that it would not sound too confrontational. “I cannot participate in that.”

Pharazôn’s brow creased into a frown. Even though he had probably been expecting this answer, he still feigned surprise.

“And why would that be?”

“You know why. I am the leader of the Faithful in the mainland at this moment, my lord.”

“No. You are not.” Elendil began opening his mouth, but Pharazôn was faster. “As of now, you are the leader of the Faithful and the Unfaithful alike. You are a general of soldiers, most of whom are devoted to the Lord of Battles and pray to him to protect their lives and give them courage against the enemy. Those soldiers are going to war tomorrow, and for them this sacrifice is a matter of life or death. As one of their leaders, you cannot disregard this for the sake of faction politics and conventions which belong somewhere else, in a place where people feel safe enough to engage in theological disputes.”

Elendil stood his ground.

“I understand how they feel about this. But I do have men too, and I also need to understand how they feel. I cannot sacrifice…”

“Attend.” Pharazôn corrected. “You only have to attend. You are not familiar with this custom, so I will explain it to you: I am the one who does the killing.”

“If that is so, then my absence will not in any way hinder the correct development of the ceremony, will it?”

“It will be perceived as an act of hostility, by the very men you will be leading from tomorrow. And I cannot have that. Not at the eve of a war where the fate of many lies on the balance “The Prince of the South’s voice had become as steely as the sharp edge of a blade. “No general has ever done such a thing.”

“The King has not sacrificed for fifty years. He has declared this custom to be abhorrent and sinful.”

“The previous King declared your customs to be abhorrent and sinful, and you did not stop practising them. Who knows what the next one will say?” Pharazôn threw his hands up in the air. “You were close to the Princess of the West, have you ever asked her what she believes in?” Elendil’s glance must have betrayed a flicker of surprise or doubt, because the older man latched on to it in triumph. “I see that you have not. Or perhaps it does not matter to you, as it does not matter to these men.”

“If you are trying to introduce dissension among the Faithful, my lord prince, it will not work.” Elendil willed his voice to be perfectly even, in an attempt not to reveal how much this insinuation had disturbed him. The Princess of the West had not always been the most balanced of women, and now her husband was dead… but from this to fearing that everything they had built would suddenly be thrown in disarray through her actions as Queen, there was a long stretch. Pharazôn, whom many believed to covet her Sceptre, was the last person who should be trusted on this.

“Is that what you believe I am doing?” The Prince of the South laughed, as if the very thought was ludicrous. Then, however, he sobered again. “Elendil, I know that you are a reasonable man, and that you know, in your heart of hearts, that I am right. Even if your loyalties do not allow you to say as much in words, you understand that you cannot jeopardise your position and the whole mission for something like this. That is why I know that you will be there tomorrow at midday. And one day, after the campaign is over, and Arne and Pelargir are free from danger, we can discuss religion over a glass of wine, and you can tell me stories about the Valar and about the evils of sacrifice.”

Had he already managed to persuade himself that he would be right?  Elendil took a sharp breath, feeling anger and exasperation burn in his chest, both at the man who stood before him and at himself for the decision that brought him to stand here in the first place.

“If you will excuse me, my lord prince”, he muttered curtly, turning away and heading towards the cabin door at a brisk pace.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“You cannot do that. He cannot expect you to do that. It’s outrageous!”

Elendil leaned against the hull of the ship, watching the stars shine over the cursed city. A feeling of unreality was taking hold of him, and he could not help but wonder about the power that this sacrificial issue had to obscure everything else, even the pressing awareness that he had been promoted and turned into a key piece of the game of chess that the Prince of the South was playing against Mordor, the first time that he set foot outside the Island, without any prior experience or clear ideas on how to act.

He looked around him. Isildur, of course, was the most vocal, but Adûnazer, who had been in the mainland before with his father, had an air of disapproval about him that wasn’t any less evident for being quiet.

“It has been three months now since Malik and I arrived at the Second Wall, and in all this time, we have never participated in any of their rites and sacrifices. Of course, there were men who did not like that, and the General was not too fond of us, but we would never have given up on this point, and he was aware of that.”

Elendil shook his head.

“That is commendable, but the situation was different. First, because you were not on a military campaign, with an entire city and the lives of its people at stake. Second, because you were only responsible for yourselves. “

“But that is exactly why you cannot…!” Words did not come easily to his son in this state of excitement. “That is the reason, Father! You are responsible for the Faithful!”

And what of the Unfaithful? Elendil mused, remembering Pharazôn’s sarcastic choice of words.

When he was young, he remembered attending the sacrifices of the temple of Melkor in Armenelos. Once, in one of the high days, he even remembered seeing the King from afar, though he could not recall his face, obscured by the smoke of the altar fires where the corpses were burned. Back then, he had not known that it was wrong - a simpler time, as he was tempted now to think of it.

Back then, too, he had seen the Prince of the West next to the King, participating in the sacrifice. There were many rumours that he did not approve of it, and that his father was suspicious of him because of that, but there he had been, nonetheless. If he had refused, perhaps he would not have been allowed to take the Sceptre after Ar Gimilzôr’s death.

And back then, though he had not seen it with his own eyes, Amandil, his father, had been a priest of Melkor and Uinen, she whom the Númenóreans worshipped as the Queen of the Seas. Neither of them had wanted to do it, but they had been forced by the circumstances, to avoid danger, death or failure. Now, it was danger, death or failure what threatened them, as well, and if Isildur was too young and Adûnazer too short-sighted to recognize it, his own eyes had to be as keen as those of Tar Palantir. He had to look beyond, and make his own decisions.

Even if your loyalties do not allow you to say as much in words, you understand that you cannot jeopardise your position and the whole mission for something like this.

It was remarkable that Pharazôn could sound like the voice of reason, right after he had devised the most risked plan that Elendil had ever heard about, refused to think of the consequences of failure, and expected him to go along with it. But even here, even in this, he could appreciate how it all had to do with feelings, with the way in which they were evoked and controlled. This seemed to be the Prince’s way of operating in the mainland: he created ties of feeling, of belief, strong enough to move people in the directions that he intended. Riding this dangerous wave, he appeared more at ease than other men who calculated hard figures or relied on conventional tactics. Elendil had to admit that he had never seen such a large body of people, islanders, colonials, barbarians even, of different origin and station, be so easily controlled by anyone. If he wanted to do the same, and Pharazôn had made sure that he would need to, he would have to join this communion, not destroy it.

“As much as this personally bothers me, the Prince of the South made an important point”, he said, suddenly aware that everyone had fallen silent, expecting him to speak. “I am now responsible for a much larger army than the one I set sail with.”

“But the Faithful…”

“…are inside the city, besieged, hoping that we will deliver them before their defences are breached.”

“And you think Morgoth will deliver them?”

“No. Neither he, who lies is the Void, nor any other Vala or Maia will help us or hinder us. They have their own tasks to perform, and they do not include interfering in the affairs of Men. We have to do it ourselves, and for this, we have to stand as one. There will be time to argue about faith afterwards, if we are still alive.”

He was starting to sound like Pharazôn. And, as he should have expected, Isildur did not fail to notice.

“I cannot understand why both you and Grandfather can be so taken with him. Why do you heed his advice? Can’t you see that he is the enemy?”

“The enemy”, he spoke slowly, intently, willing himself to keep his calm,” is Sauron. The Prince of the South is our commander, appointed by the King. You would do well to remember that.”

“If you forgive me for saying this” Adûnazer had been silent for so long that they both turned in surprise at the sound of his voice. “The King may have appointed the Prince of the South, but he may also have expected you to exercise a balancing influence over his most… unorthodox tendencies.”

Because that would work so well, Elendil thought, bitterly. Leading figures from opposing factions in the Island squabbling over ceremonies on the eve of a decisive battle.

Once we board that ship, we will be 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, Pharazôn had said in the Palace, before their departure. With a pang in his chest, he remembered also other words, those of the priest who had raised his father, when the man had declared before the Council that the Númenóreans should never have set foot in Middle-Earth, or laid claim over territories that did not belong to them. He might be a worshipper of Morgoth, but, just as with the Prince of the South, there was also truth in his words, however involuntary, and he saw it now in a flash of terrible clarity.

As long as they held the mainland, as long as they needed to fight Orcs and Men to hold to their territories, homes and possessions, as long as they kept large armies stationed in the fringes of the world, the Lord of Battles would prevail. Tar Palantir had been wrong, when he spent so many of his energies trying to secure the colonies and binding them to his reform. It may have seemed like he was succeeding, in times of peace, but the logic of war was reasserting its hold now, and the Wave was back to torment the dreams of his kinsmen.

He stood up, trying not to shake.

“I will attend the sacrifice tomorrow, though I will not take part in it.” Isildur made as if to open his mouth, but he did not allow him the opportunity. “After the danger has passed, we have prevailed and Pelargir is safe, however, I will no longer be bound by this obligation, and then I will honour my duties towards the Faithful of the Island. This I can promise to you, my son.”

And, before either of the men could think of a reply to this pronouncement, he walked away from them, praying that he would be able to find rest that night.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Dawn came upon them under a thick veil of fog, which the timid glow of early sunrays did not manage to dispel until midday was nearly upon them. From the prow of his ship, Elendil could see the throng of soldiers slowly filling the harbour like a swarm of ants. He wore a heavy ceremonial armour, whose weight slowed his steps, and for a moment he felt as if it was slowing his breath as well. When he reached the stone platform, however, and the throng was parted to let him pass amid whispers and murmurations, he came to the realization that the weight that was crushing him was not from the armour alone. Raising his gaze, he willed himself to quicken his step, and show no emotion.

Pharazôn was waiting for him by the altar, which had been erected next to the prow of his ship. As soon as the Prince saw him, his eyes shone triumphantly, and for a moment it became difficult to keep himself from clenching his teeth. Instead, he offered him a tight nod.

“We were waiting for you, Lord Elendil. Stand over there, you do not want to approach further.” Surrounding Pharazôn, the priest of Melkor -a man whose name he did not know, but who did not look anything like the priests of Armenelos, and would have been virtually undistinguishable from the soldiers who surrounded them if not for his robes of office- and Barekbal, the general from Umbar, subjected him to long, judgemental looks. The first made a sign to the acolytes, who started pulling at the ropes to lead the bulls to the platform where they stood. The process was as slow and painstaking as Elendil remembered it from his youth, for the animals were frightened by the multitude and fought hard to remain in the safety of their cages, bellowing to the skies as they were dragged away from them. He wondered if they, even with their beastly intelligence, could have a premonition of their approaching fate, like some Men would catch glimpses of the future in their dreams. This thought, however, excited his pity, which had no place in a ceremony such as this, so he was forced to discard it.

When the first bull reached the altar, a strange silence fell upon the multitude, broken only by the sounds of struggle and hissed instructions of the officiants. The priest of Melkor and Barekbal grabbed hold of two of the ropes, manoeuvring the animal into a favourable position with a quiet expertise acquired through years of experience. Pharazôn had not moved in all that while, seemingly oblivious to the danger that one of the bull’s sudden movements could pose to him, but now he advanced one step, wielding the sacrificial blade. Suddenly possessed, in spite of his conscious mind, by the unhealthy urge to see more, Elendil committed the mistake of leaning forwards just as it was plunged, with uncanny precision, in the back of the beast’s neck. With a heart-wrenching bellow, its legs gave way, and as the enormous bulk was toppled to the ground, drops of blood sprayed his hands and face. They felt warm against his skin, and the sight filled him with a dull horror. For a moment, Pharazôn looked up from the writhing beast, and as their eyes met, his lips curved in a smile.

“I told you not to approach further”, he said.

Elendil’s determination not to give the Prince or his men the satisfaction of seeing his emotions was even further tested when the bull was cut open, and the priest of Melkor stood by with a basin to gather the sacrificial blood and pull the liver, still pulsating with life, away from its bowels. In his mind, the silence was oppressive, almost frightening in its own subtle way. Just when he was thinking that he could not stand it for another moment, however, the priest gave a nod, and Pharazôn rose, the oozing liver held in his hands.

“The omens are favourable!” he yelled. “The Lord is with Númenor!”

The crowd erupted in a deafening roar, loud enough, or so it seemed to him, as to bring down the ruins that still stood proud against this desolate landscape. Slowly, from its indistinct, thunderous rumble, words began to emerge, impossible to isolate at first, then coalescing into a chant. It was a litany, Elendil noticed belatedly, one that he remembered hearing in religious ceremonies very long ago.

“The King has come!”

“Hail the King!”

“He came back from the Darkness in triumph!”

“Hail the King!”

“Now he treads upon the living world, where he will dwell ‘til the end of time!”

The first bull was followed by another, and then another, until the sun was almost halfway down the paths of the sky and Elendil had lost count of the victims, the carnage, and the chants of the fervorous multitude. At some point, the violence ceased disturbing him, and instead he became unsettled by the attitude of the soldiers. Until that day, he had seen them as fellow Númenóreans, who spoke his tongue and shared in his customs, with the unfortunate exception of their beliefs and religious practices, but now he realized that he had been wrong. This people, who grew ecstatic at the sight of blood, who hung on the slightest sign of hesitation in the priest’s countenance while he inspected the bull’s bowels, as if their lives depended on it, and plunged themselves into a frenzy singing the praises of their god, had nothing in common with him or his men. And what was even worse: this false god, this Dark Enemy of the World whom they addressed in their prayers, was invoked through the mediating figure of Pharazôn, until the edges between man and god grew dangerously blurred, and Elendil could not say who was truly receiving their devotion. Men needed someone to listen to their prayers and save them, or so the enemies of the Faithful claimed, but what happened when a fellow man was perceived as being able to fill that void? For those soldiers, the Prince of the South was their true saviour, the one who could lead them to victory against the forces of darkness.

Could this claim be enough to turn mortal man into god?

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” With a slight jolt of surprise, he realized that the object of his sombre musings was now standing next to him, seemingly done butchering his victims. He extended a hand, which was entirely covered in gore up to the elbow, then shrugged apologetically when Elendil did not take it. “We are going to take a bath in the Sea now, to wash this out. You are welcome to join us, Lord Elendil, as I see there is also blood on you, in spite of my best precautions.”

“That was my fault, my lord prince. I was careless, but it will not happen again”, he replied, trying for a firm voice. Instead, it came out as cutting. “If you excuse me, I have preparations to oversee.”

“Oh.” In the Prince of the South’s remarkable poise, the smallest hint of hesitation seemed to have crept, just enough to make him look human again. After his thoughts of moments ago, this came as oddly reassuring, in the way a child would be reassured when he awoke from a nightmare, and his eyes rested upon the immutable arrangement of the furniture in his bedroom, the view from the window, the frown in a familiar face. “Very well, I will leave you to it then. Be sure to meet me here at dusk, as there are things we must discuss before my departure tonight.”

The voice was now back to businesslike, and Elendil took it as such, bowing to indicate that he had received the message. Then, unwilling to be dragged by the currents of people who sought to either approach them or disperse, he turned away and started the laborious process of withdrawal to his own ship. His eyes sought the horizon, in search of familiar faces, but at this point there were none that he could see. Not for the first time, he wondered if it had been madness to travel this far, only to be where he did not belong, surrounded by a sea of strangers.

Had this been how his father had always felt?

“You have blood on your face, my lord”, a voice disturbed his thoughts. He turned towards it, suddenly so glad to see Adûnazer that even the subtle hint of accusation in his tone could not reach him. He nodded, gravely.

“Let us wash it away, then.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Pharazôn’s expedition was scheduled to sail to the mainland under cover of the night, to avoid detection. Those going with him had taken all the boats from the ships of the fleet, where they huddled together in an attempt to cram as many men in as little space as possible. Once they landed, the boats would be sunk, so no one would be able to discover their presence through them. This, however, would also leave them without their only escape route if things did not go as planned.

Elendil wondered once more at this ability to let go of all fears and doubts, and trust a man enough to be ready to gamble one’s life on the outcome of his strategy. Perhaps it was sustained by the knowledge that there was no way that the Prince of the South would fare differently than the others, if they were to fail. That someone so powerful, whom many viewed as a contender for the Sceptre in the years to come, could plan to die here was so unthinkable, so ludicrous, that victory would appear as the only valid alternative.

“I wish you good fortune, my lord prince. The fate of Númenor rests upon your shoulders”, he recited, as they watched the sun sink in the ocean like a great ball of fire.

“Not only mine.” Pharazôn’s forehead curved in a frown. “You will need to buy us as much time as you can, and keep the attention of the enemy fixed on you. That will be no mean feat, especially for someone who has never fought a war before.”

Having second thoughts about his appointment? Elendil wondered. His pride would hardly allow him to express such doubts, and yet, for all his self-assured airs, the Prince of the South was but a man. Even if he tried to pretend otherwise.

“I will do my best, my lord.” He tried to affect the veneer of confidence that everyone seemed to respect here more than ranks and titles.

“Listen, if you…” Someone yelled out an order from one of the boats, and Pharazôn’s attention shifted for a moment towards the direction of the voice, then back towards him. “If you do not see me arrive after twelve days, you have to retreat and regroup. There will be time to fight another day. And do not even think of engaging them directly.”

“I won’t. “He could not resist the temptation to go on. “I do have to say, however, that it would have been no offense to me or my family if you had chosen a more experienced man in my place, if you felt that the situation required it. I would not even blame you if you did it now, because you have thought better of it since yesterday.”

The Prince of the South eyed him appraisingly.

“That is generous of you, but I never go back on my decisions. You will do well, Elendil, of this I am sure, and neither my pride nor your status have anything to do with this certainty.”

So, he did trust him, even with something that could also mean his death and that of many other people. But then, why did he seek to entrap him, why did he treat him as an enemy?

“I owe you an apology”. These words came as such a surprise that, for a moment, Elendil’s composure was frayed around the edges, and his eyes widened. “For earlier.”

“There is no need to apologize, my lord.” Not if you would do it again, which I am certain you would.

Pharazôn shrugged.

“Think about it in this way. According to you, there are no gods, or else they are away, unable to hear our prayers. This should mean that everything you witnessed down there was but an empty charade, performed by a bunch of superstitious fools. Not even your Baalim whom you honour could possibly blame you for witnessing a bunch of fools doing foolish things, could they? I have stood at the Hallow of Eru on the Meneltarma many times, as the King spoke his holy words, though I do not believe Eru was listening, and I think that the King is a fool for trying to engage Him in conversation.”

Elendil was tempted to snort. One would almost think that the Prince of the South was truly sorry, the way he was rambling. But for the tiny detail that he knew, as well as Elendil or perhaps even better, that whether the gods were listening or not, the men definitely had been. Listened, seen, and witnessed one more of the Prince’s victories.

“Be as it may, that is already behind, in the past. As I believe you once said, my lord prince, we have to focus on the perils at hand, and forget about the troubles that we left behind, lest they distract us from our duties. Once that we have delivered Pelargir and routed the enemy, we can have this conversation.”

“You are right, of course.” Back when she starred in those Court plays, Eluzîni could have learned a thing or two from this man. And so could he, now, he mused, thinking of how this type of ability might have to avail him in the days ahead. “I will see you in Pelargir in twelve days. Good luck and fair fortune to you and yours, Lord Elendil, though I do not believe that you will need it.”

Bowing for the last time, the heir of Andúnië silently watched the Prince walk away, towards the boat where Barekbal and his other companions awaited him.