Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Choice

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The members of the Council of Númenor entered the chamber in small groups, whispering among themselves with a furious intensity that somehow lay heavier in this charged atmosphere than open talk. An unscheduled, emergency session was never an idle occurrence, and the most oblivious among them would already be aware that something ominous must have happened, but he was certain that the suspicions of at least some of them had gone farther down the road of informed speculation. This was proved by their muted reaction when they saw the Queen and the Princess of the West standing in the place where Tar Palantir used to be, the mother having now joined the daughter in wearing the dark robes of mourning.

Nobody sat down.

“Lords of the Council”, Eärnissë spoke. Her voice was not loud enough to carry across the room, in spite of the charged silence, but as soon as she realized this, she put more strength into it. “Lords of the Council, it is my sad duty to inform you that our King Palantir, Protector of Númenor and the colonies and Favourite of the Powers, passed away last night in his bed, at the age of two hundred and twenty.”

“Hail the King!” someone shouted, though nobody else dared join him in the controversial chant. For a moment, only silence greeted this news, and to Pharazôn, it definitely seemed as if Tar Palantir’s reforms and eccentricities had left everyone in confusion as to how to proceed.

Where is he, now? Where will he go, and who will welcome him there? Has he been taken by the Gift of Men, or the curse of mortals? Do we celebrate, or do we mourn? He imagined that this, and many other such thoughts could be crossing their minds at vertiginous speed, as they stole looks at their closest peers to spy upon their countenances. Though this lack of unified reaction might be only temporary, he might be able to turn it to his advantage as soon as it descended to the level of more concrete matters.

“May he rest in the halls of the Almighty Creator, until He is deemed worthy to pass beyond the Circles of the World and receive life eternal for his good deeds”, Amandil hastened to take the lead. The agreement at his words was unanimous, perhaps a little too tinged with relief, though Pharazôn failed to register this. For something else had attracted his attention as he turned his gaze towards where his friend stood, and saw the man sitting by his side. Lord Hiram’s young son Valacar had taken the place of the Northern lord in the Council today; his father was nowhere to be seen.

They had known. Somehow, they had known.

For an entire day, the news of Tar Palantir’s death had been kept secret, and none of the courtiers who lived in the Palace had been allowed to set foot outside it. Still, in the aftermath of their secret wedding, Pharazôn and Zimraphel had needed to bargain with an important number of people. First, of course, there had been the Queen herself, though to this point he remained largely ignorant of the exact terms that the Princess of the West had discussed with her mother. The duty of winning over the Palace Guard to their cause, on the other hand, had fallen to him, and it had not been an easy task. They had remained sympathetic to his cause since Ar Gimilzôr died, but they were also afraid of being perceived as traitors. Though the talks had been restricted to the upper levels, it was entirely possible that one of their leaders had betrayed them.

Not for the first time, Pharazôn wished that he could have risked bringing more soldiers to the Island.

“Lords of the Council, I see your grief, and I wish to thank you for it, as well as for your strong loyalty and support.” Zimraphel did not show signs of hesitation, either in her voice or in her countenance. She had never spoken in public before, excepting that sham of a succession ceremony where she had been forced to memorize those words in the Elven tongue, and he could see in the eyes of the councilmen that they were impressed. And this without any of them even being aware of the things she saw whenever she was made to stand before a crowd. “Four centuries ago, after the War of Alissha, Ar Adunakhôr the Great abolished a woman’s right to hold the Sceptre. My father, however, appointed me Princess of the West and made me his heir, changing the earlier succession in my favour. Recently, the Prince Vorondil, whose memory still makes each and every one of our hearts shake in grief, fell to the shadows in Middle Earth, and I was left alone and bereaved of my beloved husband, with no heirs to mitigate my loss. You are all well aware of these events, and if I am repeating them now, it is because I need to impress upon you the magnitude of my plight. A plight which my father, with the wisdom he was given through his holy prophecies, was able to recognize and remedy in his deathbed. “Only someone who had been forced since childhood to train herself into affecting normalcy while the world around her was routinely shattered into a thousand shards could have kept her composure in a moment like this. “That is why his last decision was to join me in marriage to the Prince of the South, so we may rule Númenor together and put an end to the strife and division which have shaken and weakened our family. Now, I would ask of you…”

But what Zimraphel would ask of the Númenórean Council was buried under the largest commotion ever heard in that venerable chamber. As soon as her words sunk in, not only the councilmen themselves, but also their attendants and even the interpreters began speaking at the same time, and the words she was going to utter died in her lips.

“That is incest!” the Palace Priest cried. “The Princess of the West and the Prince of the South are first cousins!”

“It is a lie! The King would never have agreed to something like this!”

“Traitor!” someone yelled at him, as he hastened to Zimraphel’s side to shield her from the open fury spreading like fire around them. Her dark eyes were fixed on his for a moment, and he could detect the familiar mask of disdain for common mortals that she affected whenever she was ill at ease. Her hand grabbed his with more strength that necessary.

Queen Eärnissë glared at him, leaving him in no doubt as to who she would blame for all that happened afterwards.

“How dare you call your Queen and your Princess of the West liars?” His voice rose above the din, with the same power he had gathered countless times when addressing vast armies in the mainland. “You may call me a liar if you wish, for only too well I know of the reputation I have among some of you, but if you believe for an instant that they could be in league with someone of evil intent, then your very thoughts are treasonous!”

“How dare we? How dare you!” Valacar replied. “Have you no fear, not of the Valar, but even of your own false gods, who have forbidden Men from marrying their own close kin?”

Pharazôn had always expected the landholders to be opposed, and his main line of strategy consisted on preventing them from reacting quickly and decisively, and above all, from building a united front. As he had noticed Lord Hiram’s absence, however, he had begun to realize that, together or separate, they could not be underestimated, and that he had to hold fast to his other alliances. The Governor of Sor, the merchants, the courtiers and the priests favoured his succession, but though at least the first two could be relied upon to have a pragmatical view of his means to achieve it, the incest taboo was an obstacle for religious mindsets of any creed.

On the other hand, as Zimraphel herself had implied in her speech, someone had to hold the Sceptre, and soon. Even the minority who had favoured her succession would have to see that she was as married to him as he was to her, and that there was no way for things to go back to the way they had wanted them to be. Even her mother had understood as much.

“The gods themselves have blessed our union. We were married by the sacred rites in the sight of Earth and Heaven, and the omens proved favourable!”

“Leaving religious considerations aside.” With a jolt, Pharazôn realized that it was Amandil speaking; Amandil, in whose direction he had been unable to look since Zimraphel’s announcement.

“How can we leave religious considerations aside?” Valacar intervened, but the Lord of Andúnië silenced him with his glance.

“Leaving religious considerations aside, I say, you claim to propose an alliance to end the strife which has affected the governance of the Island for centuries. But in what terms? Is this marriage a union of two hearts, or just one more of your conquests? Or, in other words, is she our rightful Queen still, and you her husband, or are you intending to usurp her Sceptre and become King through the annulled succession decree of Ar Gimilzôr?”

Pharazôn could not help but smile wryly at his friend’s perceptiveness. He was a step ahead of everyone else – which is why he had shed the blind denial and was already at the more productive endeavour of discussing the terms. That he would keep such a presence of mind, after what had probably been a devastating revelation for him, just proved how formidable an enemy he could grow to be.

“Does this matter, Lord Amandil, when our souls are one?” Zimraphel asked. Amandil frowned, far from satisfied by this response, but the Palace Priest was faster.

“Will you be King, my lord prince?”

He could have spent hours explaining what he and Zimraphel were planning to do, but it was too soon, and too much controversial information to assimilate in one afternoon. So, sparing a brief instant to send an apologetic glance in Amandil’s direction, he nodded.

“Yes.” For the first time, some of the murmurs were of approval, and he realized that he had made the right choice.

“Then, you are not merely a sinner, but also a usurper!” Valacar spat. Pharazôn was going to open his mouth to deliver a reply, but, to his surprise, it was Queen Eärnissë herself who spoke.

“No. If the Princess of the West were to surrender the Sceptre, every law in Númenor, including the late King’s succession decree, would make the Prince of the South its rightful recipient.” Her voice was so flat and toneless that it did not seem to be coming from the lively woman’s mouth at all. Suddenly, he became aware of how old she was, too old for his husband, people had said even back when they married. And yet, there she was, while he rotted in the darkness of his chambers. “If you consider the Sceptre to be her legitimate birthright, then you must also respect her right to do as she wishes with it.”

“But this is a betrayal of her father’s memory! He would never have approved of this!”

“Nor would he have approved of such a marriage!”

“Enough! That is enough!” For the first time since the session started, Zimraphel’s mask was breaking, and her profound turmoil was beginning to show through the cracks. Though evidence of what they called her insanity could perhaps work in favour of his claim to power, it could also add fuel to the predictable rumours about her being too unstable to make her own decisions -and then, both the Sceptre and their marriage could be threatened by unscrupulous kinsmen who wanted to rule with what they believed to be a frail woman as their puppet.

Slowly, carefully, he moved towards his wife, knowing that his presence would be able to steady her. Once again, however, Eärnissë was first to arrive, and laid an arm over her daughter’s shoulders.

“That is right, my lords, it is enough. You are dismissed from this Council, and I will have to ask of you, shameful as it is to even put such a thing in words, to pay your respects to the late King’s remains without upsetting the Princess any further! Everything else can be discussed in another session.”

“Before you leave, I will say one last word”, he intervened swiftly, willing his voice to rise powerfully again. “We promised the late King that our reign would usher a new era for Númenor, an era where all the former enmities, rivalries, and factions would finally be forgotten. For the Princess’s friends and allies are my friends and allies hereby, and my friends and allies will also be hers. If you swear loyalty to us, my lords, I will call all the gods and the Baalim to bear witness of my solemn oath not to bear a grudge against any of you, no matter what may have been said and done until now. But if you do not, then you will be at war against both of us, and there is no one in whose name you can rebel!”

“No one in whose name we can rebel? What of Queen Míriel’s name, prisoner to a usurper?”

The words had not been said aloud; in fact, they had been little more than a whisper on Valacar’s lips, and yet they had carried across the chamber, even above the noise of furious debate and the creaking of the ancient ivory chairs as the most powerful men of the realm rose from their seats. Pharazôn paled.

“Where are you going?” the Queen barked at him as he stormed away through the door that gave to the King’s gallery. Pharazôn ignored her, as he also ignored the men who seemed to be waiting to accost him when he passed by their side. Taking a shortcut to the inner courtyard, he even ignored the Palace Guards who had been stationed there since the morning, trying not to ponder how many traitors there could be among them, if even one member of their leadership was compromised.

“Eshmounazer!” he called. The faithful soldier from Umbar had been sitting by the fountain, throwing pebbles into the water, but upon hearing his voice he stood to attention at once. Pharazôn was almost irrationally glad to see him.

“What is it, my lord prince?”

“Take a large escort of soldiers -not Palace Guards-, and depart at once for the Lord of Sorontil’s residence. Lord Hiram has left Armenelos during the night, but his son is still here. Seize him and bring him to the Palace, without raising more attention than what is necessary.”

“The… lord of Forostar’s son, my lord?” Eshmounazer’s eyes widened slightly. Pharazôn nodded, meeting them with a steady gaze.

“Yes, Eshmounazer, the lord of Forostar’s son. Go. I trust you.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

His intuition -or, perhaps he should better say, his fears- had been correct. Lord Hiram had left his son as decoy and abandoned the capital for his fortified city of Sorontil, where he was no doubt raising an army and a fleet for a full-scale uprising. Even worse, the foolish young man Tar Palantir had been considering for the title of lord of Hyarnustar had left with him, and Pharazôn had a very clear idea of what his presence would be used for. Though the King had never formalized his appointment to the lordship, the rebels would appoint him themselves, perhaps even claiming, as he and Zimraphel had done, that it had been Tar Palantir’s last will. And then, he would have not one, but two major territories in rebellion against him.

There was no time to waste, for he was aware that any delay on his part would be a gift to his enemies. Any accession ceremonies would have to be postponed until the crisis was settled; until then, he would merely take up supreme authority in the Palace, and risk being considered a mere acting King whose royal status remained a matter of debate. If there was something he had learned in the mainland, it was that symbols were important, but only when they were backed by facts.

To achieve those facts, swift and forceful action was required. He had been able to prevent Lord Hiram’s son from leaving the capital to join his father, and now he had acquired an invaluable hostage that should, theoretically, allow him to control the situation. Hiram’s state of mind, however, remained one of Pharazôn’s chief concerns, as he had seen him deteriorate visibly after the deaths of his birth father and brother, and he suspected he may have travelled even farther down the road of instability in the last months. As for the Hyarnustar issue, he had rushed to appoint the late Shemer’s degenerate brother Itashtart as the new lord -something which had been very much against the late King’s wishes, not to mention those of Itashtart himself-, and sent an official announcement to the province. He hoped that this would divide the people in the Southwest, and perhaps cause Hiram’s puppet to be contested, deposed, or even delivered to him by his own kinsmen and subjects. If that did not happen, however, he would have to go there himself, and fast, which would give the North more time to prepare for war.

Pharazôn clenched his fists, and shattered the glass that lay in the wooden table beside him. This was not what he had planned. He had never hoped for universal acceptance, but he had trusted that the opposition would remain political. Now, thanks to an unbalanced fool bent on revenge and to an unnamed traitor in the Palace Guard, his controversial marriage and accession to the throne would be further blighted by civil strife, and his reign would begin in blood.

“My father will defeat you, usurper”, the prisoner informed him, in a challenging tone. For a moment, remembrances of another young fool crossed his mind, one who had also been a hostage in the mainland long ago. That other young fool had been a boy, not a man, and yet his expression had made it clear that he knew very well what could happen to him. Valacar did not even seem to be aware of that much.

“Who told your father that the King had died?” Pharazôn repeated for what should be the fifth time. Valacar snorted.

“Your efforts are in vain, for it is not one man alone you should seek. You are surrounded by the Faithful. And wait until the Queen hears that I am here, her own brother’s grandson, imprisoned like a criminal!”

That is why the Palace Guard does not know that you are here, he thought, feeling rage again at his inability to retaliate against them at this point. If they should discover that he did not trust them anymore, they might be tempted to shift their support, tenuous as it was, towards his enemies.

“Give me the name of one man, and then I will see about the rest”, he insisted, as if he had not heard the rest of his ramblings.

Valacar shrugged.

“I do not know. I am not good with names. Did you murder the King?”

That was enough.

“Look, I do not care whose son, great-grandson, or great-grandnephew you are. You are only a hostage to me.” He stood to his feet, towering over the sitting young man, and noticed with some small satisfaction that, in spite of himself, he flinched. “And hostages are sometimes useful alive, and sometimes they are useful dead.”

Zimraphel was waiting for him outside, no longer shaken by the previous day’s ordeal. Her dark eyes shone, in sharp contrast with the gloomy mood that had seized him.

“He is here”, she announced, “waiting for you to receive him.”

“Thanks.” As he was about to rush past her, she grabbed his hand with a strong grip, forcing him to pause. “What is it?”

She embraced him, using his own body as support to tiptoe and claim his lips in a fierce kiss. After so many years of hiding, of being afraid to die for a glance, Pharazôn was irrationally scared of this freedom, and yet for her it was such a natural, matter-of-fact action that her mood began to infect him. Taken by a sudden euphoria, he kissed her back under the shocked gaze of the soldiers.

One of them smiled weakly, and did something with his head that resembled a nod. The other, however, looked away, as if seized by a superstitious fear.

“If we had not done this, we would never have been free” she whispered, her warm gaze still fixed on his. “Remember this, Pharazôn.”

As if I could ever forget, he thought, reluctantly disengaging himself from her and giving her hand a last squeeze before charging into his next battle.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Amandil was pacing across the study like a caged beast, any attempts at courtly dignity discarded together with his Council robes. He was so busy scowling at an invisible target that Pharazôn was almost reluctant to make his presence known, only to see this rage redirected towards him. But the time when he could afford to keep some choice weaknesses, as a young man would keep a few of his childhood toys in a box, was long past, and neither could he afford to waste more time.

“Amandil”, he called from the threshold, in a low voice. As he had predicted, the lord of Andúnië’s gaze radiated pure hostility, though not of the fiery, explosive kind he had grown used to over the years, but a colder, more purposeful one. “I am glad that you came.”

“It is a great honour to be summoned to your presence, my lord King”, he bowed ironically. “Or are you still a prince? So many things have happened in such a short time that it becomes hard to keep track of them.”

“Just Pharazôn, please.” He sat down, wondering if his friend would follow his example or if he would remain standing, walking in circles around him for the entirety of the conversation. “You have forgotten to congratulate me for my marriage. Though I suppose I forgot to invite you to the wedding, so we are even.”

He had said those words in the hope of provoking an explosion, which might be easier for him to deal with, but Amandil parried the move without difficulty.

“No, you were right not to invite me. What would I do, bearing witness in a stranger’s wedding? For I do not know you. I thought I knew you once, but now I am wondering if I ever did.”

“Amandil, I could not tell you I was bedding the Princess of the West without risking her life and mine. I hope you can understand that. As for the rest, nothing has changed.”

The lord of Andúnië laughed, and in this laugh, at last, Pharazôn could detect some smouldering embers of the fury that he sought.

“You think I care if you were bedding the Princess, or for how long? I have seen brothers bedding their sisters in the mainland, and to find a wife who deceives her husband or a husband who deceives his wife I do not even need to go that far. Even I have done so, though my excuse was that I doubted I would ever see her again.”

“Because this and that are the same thing!” Pharazôn snorted. “Amandil, look at me in the eye and tell me, truthfully, that you would never have told anyone in Númenor about the Princess committing adultery with the King’s greatest enemy.”

Amandil did look at him in the eye, with such an intensity that for a moment he was even tempted to look away.

“I would never have told anyone in Númenor about you and the Princess committing adultery. I would have done nothing, no matter what, that could put your life in danger.” Damn. “But you chose not to tell me, and now, I cannot even be sure that this is all it was.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It means that people are talking! The worst rumours go that you are keeping both the Princess and the Queen prisoner, and that you are forcing them to agree to your demands. Others claim that she is infatuated with you, but that you are using her. And some even think that the King was murdered because he would not agree to your marriage!”

“And I suppose her mother is infatuated with me as well?” Pharazôn laughed, though he was not amused. “Which is why I convinced her to support me after I killed her husband, who was still so young and full of life, and claimed his Sceptre and his daughter. What else? If they were my prisoners, would they be so frightened of me that they would not dare denounce me, or ask for help before the assembled Council of the realm?”

“I noticed that the Palace is full of your soldiers.”

“Because I cannot trust the Palace Guard! They are in communication with lord Hiram of Sorontil, and now because of this I have a war on my hands!”

“And you are not responsible for this war at all, are you? You merely married the heir to the throne, your recently widowed cousin for more details, over her father’s still warm body, and took her Sceptre!”

“I love her, Amandil!” Pharazôn was losing his patience. “I already did when we frequented the seediest taverns in Armenelos and you accused me of not knowing the meaning of love, because of course I was never free to love any woman in front of you! When we first sailed to the mainland, the jewel I wore around my neck, the one which saved our lives after the Orc ambush, was a gift from her, for she had predicted that I would find myself in danger! And when your son was told by the King to court her, she pretended to love Vorondil and married him because she knew I could never harm Elendil, damn it!”

“For all my life, I have been in the dark, buried alive in a pit of lies”, a vibrant voice spoke from the threshold. “If to crawl back into the light I have to start a thousand wars, I will. I have sacrificed myself for Númenor for too many years, but no longer. None of us killed my father, Lord Amandil, but if he had stood in my way on this matter, it would have been my life or his.”

For the first time since the start of the conversation, Amandil looked truly unnerved. His gaze wandered from her to him, then back to her.

“Princess…” he whispered, as if he did not know how to finish the sentence. She shook her head in disdain.

“Your son is a decent man, perhaps the only decent man I have known. I thought you would be more like him, and not one of those evil lords who only care for my rights of succession as long as I do what they want. How can you wish me to be the rightful Queen of Númenor, if you won’t even let me rule over my own body and soul? You are nothing but a bunch of filthy hypocrites!”

It was very difficult to oppose Zimraphel when she was in a mood such as this. Amandil, however, had not acquired a reputation for bravery in the mainland for nothing.

“Forgive me, Princess, but this is a matter of State. Your father was our rightful King for seventy-eight years, and yet he could not even marry my aunt Artanis, who was the woman that he loved. A ruler cannot put a kingdom at risk merely for the sake of his personal happiness!”

Zimraphel’s face grew even paler than usual. Her eyes narrowed to slits, and for a moment, Pharazôn feared for his friend.

“You are wrong. My father could not love. If he had, he would never have given it away.” Suddenly, she let go of a sharp, contemptuous breath. “And neither can you. There is a hole in your heart where your love used to be, and it is ugly and empty.”

Amandil watched her departing frame with such an expression of dismay that, in spite of the situation, Pharazôn almost felt sorry for him. But, as he reminded himself immediately, he was not there to feel sorry: he was there to press his advantage.

“Now that you are convinced that I am merely a selfish fool, and not an opportunistic seducer or a power grabbing ravisher, I believe we can proceed to the next stage of the conversation”, he concluded. “First, I have to say that I was not completely honest in the Council chamber, when you asked me about the Sceptre.”

“Well, honesty does not seem to be among your strongest qualities of late.” The lord of Andúnië seemed to be recovering slowly but surely from the impact of Zimraphel’s devastating words. If something could be said about him, it was that his endurance was impressive. Just as in battle, no matter how hard he was hit, he would always struggle back to his feet, a trait that he shared with Pharazôn himself.

“We have plans, but our position is still too precarious to reveal them to the Council. You must see that all this… the fact that we are both heirs in the eyes of many, our respective gifts, which seem to have been divided among us in a way that we can only be truly strong if we work together… our love, which was fated by the gods, who could believe it to be nothing but a coincidence? For the first time in the history of Númenor, there are two rulers together, two who think as one. And so it will be for us. I will hold the Sceptre, and so will she. We will be Ar Pharazôn and Ar Zimraphel.”

“But there is only one Sceptre!” Amandil seemed almost more shocked at this than at Zimraphel’s words. “Never, in our thousands of years of tradition, has anything like this been allowed!”

“The Sceptre is an object like any other, it can pass from one hand to another, and also go back to the giver. And in our thousands of years of tradition, no one has ever wished to attempt such a thing, which could be the reason why it has never been done. But, think about it! There are two gods who protect Númenor, the King and the Queen, and yet for all these years only the King has walked the Earth in mortal guise as the Númenórean sovereign.”

The frown became even stormier.

“So, you will bring back the kingdom into the fold of your old gods, against the wishes of Tar Palantir.”

Pharazôn suddenly wanted to shake his friend.

“Don’t be a fool, Amandil! The kingdom has never left the fold of the old gods, only a few people did! Do not ask me to rule while turning my back to reality, because seventy-eight years of this folly was enough!” Great job gathering allies, Pharazôn, a voice whispered in his mind, but he paid no heed to it. “I never told you about Zimraphel, and yes, I admit it, claiming that our marriage had the King’s approval was a necessary deception, but that does not mean I am a liar in everything else. I will not lie to you.”

“And yet you expect me, the leader of the Faithful, to support you against my own interests.”

Damn.

He would try arguing feelings first, he thought. Feelings were a nicer subject of conversation among old friends, and after so many years they came easier to him.

“Before, you said that you would never have done anything that could put my life in danger. Well, Amandil, my life is in danger now, don´t you think? I would hate for it to seem as if I was keeping count, but I think I recall it is your turn to save me. The last time, I betrayed my mother’s kinsmen to get you out of Middle-Earth before they could lay hands on you.”

The cold bastard, however, shook his head.

“You got yourself into this danger because of your lust and your ambition, and I have no obligation towards you. For the sake of our friendship, I would stay neutral, but I cannot help you. I am sorry.”

“Your neutrality is not enough. If none of the great lords of the Island declares for me, the people will see me as a usurper, even though I am not.”

Amandil shook his head again.

“I am sorry. But you can win this war without me. I have seen you triumph against much worse odds.”

Well, then. He seemed determined to force him into this position. Perhaps it could even be his true purpose since the start, the thought crossed his mind, to remove all those useless smokescreens that prevented the issue from being laid bare in all its glorious sordidness.

“Of course I will win this war, Amandil. It will be bloodier and longer than it would be if you supported me, but in the end, I will prevail. You are right, I do not need you. But you need me. Your people need me. Your lineage, your province, has persisted in the worship of those Lords of the West whom you call the Baalim, even after successive exiles, imprisonments and persecutions. If you take my side now, I can protect you, but if you do not, you will be alone and friendless in a world where everybody views you with suspicion and hatred.” He tried to soften the blow by adopting a beseeching expression, but of course nothing could completely erase the effect of his words. “I do not want that to happen, Amandil. Please, let us remain friends.”

The lord of Andúnië’s countenance, by contrast, was unreadable. Usually, Pharazôn was able to read him even when he was trying to hide his thoughts from the eyes of strangers, but this time, somehow, all those skills and knowledge were of no avail.

“I see.” he said, in a low voice which immediately grew into the usual, brisk yet grave tone that Amandil used to speak before the Council. “Then, I guess we shall have to begin negotiations, my lord King.”

Pharazôn swallowed. Damn him. Damn him forever.

“I will not negotiate with you, you fool!” he hissed. “Tell me what you want, and I will agree to everything.”

“To everything?” Amandil feigned surprise. “I would not presume to tell you how to rule, but I believe a king should exercise greater prudence than this. Otherwise, you might be taken advantage of by people.”

“Yes” he replied, his forehead creasing into a frown. “To everything.”

In his life, he thought, he had taken many gambles, but perhaps none as unnecessary as this. And yet, sheer pig-headed stubbornness, coupled with his flaring temper at Amandil’s attitude and of course his thrice-cursed, damned pride, would never let him back down now.

Amandil shrugged.

“Very well. Then, I will have two oaths from you.”

“More oaths? I haven’t yet fulfilled one and you are already asking for more.” Pharazôn chuckled, feigning good humour, but abandoned the attempt when he realized that it would not work. Not this time. “Very well. What do I have to swear?”

“First, you will swear that you did not kill the King, or either ordered or contrived his death. If I am going to stand by you at any of your endeavours, I need to be absolutely sure of this.”

Pharazôn swallowed a retort.

“Very well”, he nodded, trying to banish the striking memory of Zimraphel’s tears as she burst inside his bedroom. She had said that he had not died by her hand. “I will swear to that. Next?”

“You will also swear that, while you rule Númenor, neither those of my lineage, nor any of my people will ever be persecuted for adhering to our beliefs, and that we will be allowed to honour the Valar and worship Eru in the manner which is traditional for us.”

“Is that all? I thought you would ask for the lands of the Forbidden Bay. Or the lands of Hyarnustar. Do you realize that your son’s sons are prospective heirs through his wife? She was adopted by her uncle before she married him.”

“I do not need any lands other than those which have always belonged to my family. I have never been blinded by ambition” Unlike you, the thought remained unspoken. “Perhaps because, as a child, I was taught that not even my own safety, or that of my loved ones, could be taken for granted.”

“You offend me.” Pharazôn was finding it harder and harder to suppress his anger.” We are friends, Amandil. I do not persecute my friends.”

Amandil shrugged, not in the least impressed.

“You have conditioned our friendship to my support in a civil war. As I do not know what other conditions you will set in the future, I will not take any chances.”

Fine. You are in the right, and I am in the wrong, you stubborn idiot. If I did not need your support so badly, I would apologize to you.

“What god or… supernatural being who cannot be worshipped as a god do you wish me to swear on?”

“Your gods. Melkor and Ashtarte-Uinen.”

“Aren’t they false to you?”

“But not to you”, Amandil retorted. “And that is the only thing that matters, is it not?”

“Very well.” Pharazôn paused for a moment, so he would remember the words. “I swear by the King of Armenelos and Lord of Battles, my protector, and by the Queen of the Seas and Lady of the Cave, my mother’s protector, that I did not kill Tar Palantir, ordered or contrived his death. And I swear by the same gods that, while I rule Númenor, neither your lineage, nor any of your people will ever be persecuted for adhering to your beliefs, and that you will be allowed to honour the Valar and worship Eru in the manner which is traditional for you.”

As he finished the oath, it seemed to him that Amandil was a little surprised, almost as if he had not believed him capable of doing this. For a second, it even looked as if there was a touch less of hostility in his glance, but it might have been wishful thinking.

“My men and my fleet are at your service, then.” He stood up, looking oddly formal against the backdrop of the obsidians and marbles of the Palace. “Please, use them to put an end to this fast. If only one person were to die for your ambition and Lord Hiram’s folly, it would be one death too many as far as I am concerned.”

“Do I have to swear on that, too?” Why did he keep his feeble attempts at humour? He sobered. “I will be fast, Amandil. As fast as I can. But you have been in the mainland, and you know that to be fast means to be more violent than you might otherwise be.”

“You do not need to seek my approval. You are the King.”

And with a look of supreme disdain, Amandil gave him a bow and turned his back on him to leave the room.