Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The King and the Queen

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It was Midsummer, and the Forbidden Bay was basking in the most glorious summer season that many of its inhabitants could recall from past memories. Throngs of people had arrived from every corner of Númenor, surpassing the number of pilgrims which usually attended the yearly festival in honour of the Queen of the Seas, and even the High Priest’s wildest estimates. As a result, the measures taken to accommodate the crowd had proved insufficient, and armed priests had been forced to prevent the entrance of any more people to the sacred enclosure. Those who had not been able to secure a place had sought other options: the sea, for example, was teeming with ships, which could not land because of the ancient interdiction, but whose passengers were still allowed a glimpse of the ceremony from afar. The bulk of the multitude, however, was aligned by the side of the road connecting the sanctuary with the capital, and as more of them arrived during the last day, they had needed to camp farther and farther from the coast, at such distance from any urbanized area that vendors had to cover large distances to provide for them.

It was no mere devotion what had brought all those souls to attempt the pilgrimage this year. As the day approached when, year after year, the priests of the Bay commemorated the Queen’s battle over the monster of the deep, it was as if the very air of the Island had become rife with speculation. Everybody knew that this festival would be different from the others, though no one could tell exactly in which manner it would unfold. All they knew was that, only a week ago, the new King Ar Pharazôn had emerged from the roots of the mountain with no Sceptre in his hands, and no High Priest of Melkor among his deliverers. This had brought back all the whispers which had been slowly beginning to dwindle in the long month that passed after the announcement of his wedding to the Princess of the West and the ominous happenings in the Northern region. Rumours flew about, some wilder than the others, about the High Priest refusing to condone the marriage between cousins, or about he and the Queen joining hands and forming a secret resistance movement which had absconded with the Sceptre to prevent their enemy from wielding it. The Princess of the West, too, had been conspicuously absent for all these proceedings, and this lent credibility to the strongest rumour of all: that she had been married against her will, taken away from her grieving widowhood to serve her cousin’s political ambition.

Some of the people of Armenelos had felt encouraged by these signs to speak of this openly, and declare their opposition to the new King, but they had been fewer and more isolated than what might have been expected. Many were frightened by the fate of the Northern Line, and did not wish to invoke a similar kind of trouble upon themselves and their families. Others had always believed that the Prince of the South would make a better King than either Tar Palantir or his daughter, who as a woman could not even prevent Sauron from threatening the mainland colonies, and welcomed the idea of a restoration of the old ways of Númenor, no matter how it came about. And finally, there were others who did not know very well what to think of this, but were eager to see how the events unfolded, and excited to speculate about what would come next. Those had flocked in the greatest numbers to attend this festival, where the King would be paying tribute to the Lady of the Cave in person.

As the royal procession made its progress through the Western Mittalmar, its magnificence was remarked upon by all. Not since the reign of Ar Gimilzôr had the Royal Court been on display outside the narrow confines of the capital, and there were villagers who had never even seen the King with their own eyes before. The soldiers, too, were a new occurrence, even for those who lived in Armenelos, and the way they marched before the procession was a thrilling sight this West of the Island. Those were real soldiers from the mainland, as a husband whispered in his wife’s ear as they passed next to the ditch where both had prudently retreated to avoid being trampled, not like the Armenelos guard or the amateurs who guarded the strongholds of the lords. They had cut through the best army of Forostar like it was made of paper, and that was when only a handful of them had been in the Island at all.

The King, who rode among them, carried himself like one of their number, and it might have been difficult to recognize him from afar if he had not been wearing his purple cloak and golden armour. As he drew closer, however, silence fell like a powerful incantation in his wake. Through the last decades, word of his great victories against Sauron and his evil allies had often reached Númenor, and many of those who sought to catch a glimpse of him had grown up hearing stories of his deadly struggles against the Haradrim, his conquest of Arne, his single combat with the General of Darkness, and his deliverance of Pelargir. Since he had not set foot on Númenor very often during those years, each man and woman had imagined the protagonist of those stories with a different face, but such was the power of his appearance that a single look was enough to banish those false images at once. As he passed them by, it immediately dawned in the mind of the onlookers that this was how it was meant to be: that a man who defeated the enemies of Númenor in battle could never have looked any different. Even his fiercest detractors were unable to utter a word upon meeting his gaze, whether impressed or intimidated, not even they could tell after the spell went away.

The sun was starting to decline in the sky when the party finally reached the Bay. An almost religious silence fell over the place as they approached the Cave, which had been closed to all visitors for days, whether they be pilgrims or priests. The servants of the Lady were standing at the entrance in their ceremonial robes, and when the King dismounted, they knelt before him. Slowly, under the eyes of the curious multitude, he surrendered the reins to one of the soldiers who came with him, and walked past them towards the sacred enclosure. Before he could enter it, however, something moved near the entrance, and he stopped in his tracks.

For a moment, the multitude was thrown in confusion, as people tried to stand on the points of their feet, push their neighbours, and blink the haze away from their eyes to be able to follow what was happening. Suddenly, they saw a silhouette emerge from the shadows of the Cave, and those who were closest to the scene gasped in shock.

It was the Lady. The Lady of the Cave, the Queen of the Seas, come to life, exactly as she was in the famed statue that stood in majesty inside the sanctuary. Her skin was pale as ivory, her raven-black hair fell over her shoulders, black like a starless night, and her brow was adorned by a delicate diadem of silver. Her dress was the colour of the sea in a summer day, embroidered in silver thread, and, free from the constraint of their folds, her white breasts looked small and delicately round.

“Daughter of the white foam” the chant began, no one knew exactly where, but it did not matter as more and more pilgrims added their voices to it.

“Fairer than silver

Fairer than ivory

Fairer than pearls

Mother of All.”

The prayers lasted until the goddess revealed something that she was holding in her hands, and the King advanced boldly to hold them in his. Standing against his tall figure, she looked small, too small to be a goddess, and yet her serene beauty was enough to make the strongest hearts ache. Slowly, they raised their hands, so the people in the back rows could see it more clearly.

It was the Sceptre.

Most people had by now realized that the goddess was a mortal woman, the elusive Queen of Númenor whom many had believed to be a prisoner in the Palace of Armenelos. And yet the horror, the anger at the sacrilege that was being perpetrated, did not come. Instead, those who were closest to them fell to their knees, and slowly, gradually, the spell extended towards every direction, until even those who had just been waiting to satisfy their curiosity were filled with awe.

The High Priest of the Cave lowered his head, his features tightly covered by an unreadable mask as the chants redoubled. At some point, a part of the crowd began chanting the litany of the King of Armenelos as well, something which had always been strictly banned from the premises of the sanctuary by the Goddess’s law. But today, all those ancient strictures seemed nothing but absurd children’s games, here where the likeness of the Goddess herself had descended upon Earth to embrace her eternal enemy and turn him into her eternal companion. After all, didn’t the Sea meet the earth in each and every beach of the Island? Didn’t night meet day, every single dawn and every single dusk? Didn’t life meet death, in the world of Eru´s Children?

As if on an invisible cue, the Queen took the King inside, and both disappeared under the mountain. Nobody moved or spoke even after they were gone, for every priest and every Númenórean who had ever been to the sanctuary of the Lady knew what happened when a man entered the Cave alone. Until today, however, the priestesses had been there to stand for the Goddess, and the High Priestess would have bestowed the Lady’s blessings on the King, as she had on many members of the royal family until Tar Palantir had discontinued the custom. But now, the Queen herself stood in her place, looking so strikingly like her that it was as if the divine presence had descended the steps of her altar, eager to take Ar Pharazôn into her own embrace.

The High Priest did not move, not even to ease the pain from his legs after what seemed like an eternity of kneeling. Behind him, the priests were growing restless, and the courtiers were shooting scandalized looks at the soldiers, who whispered coarse remarks to each other. The crowd was beginning to grow restless, too, as if slowly waking up from a strange dream after she who had plunged them into it had withdrawn from their sight. Little by little, they began to stir and to talk among them, trying to make sense of what had happened.

Then, at last, they reappeared. They were still holding hands, but even under the receding light of the summer evening, it was evident that they had done much more than that inside. His hair was tangled, the purple cloak laid crookedly over his shoulders, and his lips were curved into a slight smile. As for her, she did not look similarly dishevelled, but her once pale face was flushed, giving it a sheen of wild joy and warmth that no religious artist had ever been able to capture in a statue, though Ashtarte-Uinen was the goddess of love.

Turning towards the High Priest, his retinue, and the crowd, Ar Pharazôn laid an arm over her shoulders, holding her in a tight embrace. Reluctantly, she tore her gaze away from him to turn it towards them, and they could see that her right hand was still clenched over the Sceptre.

“Hail Ar Pharazôn! Hail Ar Zimraphel!” the High Priest shouted. This time, it was the soldiers and priests who took up the chant first, and after a short while the courtiers and the rest followed suit, first hesitantly, as if trying the alien words in their mouth to see how they sounded, then louder and louder, until the clamour filled the Forbidden Bay.

The Queen closed her eyes and leaned against the King, her lips slowly curving into a tremulous smile.

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“My lord.”

“Yes? What do you suggest, then?” Elendil had been looking perfectly alert while the man spoke, his features serious and intent upon each one of his words, though his mind might have wandered a little towards a dark corner of his thoughts where sometimes he secretly fantasized with coming up with a plan to ship him back to Númenor.  “Maharis has supporters in many corners of the realm, and if we drive him away from the capital he might manage to stage an uprising.”

Bodashtart threw his hands up in the air. He liked to pace around rooms when he was preoccupied with something, like Elendil’s own father -though, fortunately, that was where the resemblance between both men ended.

The first time he had set foot on the palace, he had been out of his depths, unsure of what he might find within those walls. Bodashtart, successor of the late Barekbal as governor of Arne for five years, and a man of long experience, had been the one to advise him on how to deal with this new situation. Still, and  though he had been thankful for some of the suggestions he had received from the old man -especially regarding the Women’s Court and the necessity of keeping it at arm’s length-, most of his advice had been unsuitable for what Elendil perceived to be the challenges at hand. At the end of the day, the Palace was just a cold, gaudily luxurious battlefield where everyone seemed to be lost in their own petty fights, disconnected from the reality beyond its walls. All that everybody seemed to care for was how to advance in it and drive their enemies away from it, without seeming to remember that their last power struggle had ended in Sauron’s minions conquering Arne. As he saw things, they were there to put an end to this self-destructive mindset for the good of the kingdom, not to become infected by it.

“That man is plotting with the Lady of the Keys to become King of Arne, I tell you. He has many allies in the Women’s Court. If he is allowed to stay in the Palace…”

“… he will be unable to rise up in arms or strike another deal with Sauron, seek aid from the tribes, or whatever else high nobles do here whenever they cannot have what they want. He will be followed by your excellent spies, which will report to you on his every movement, and meanwhile, we can focus on important things such as securing that trading deal with the Dwarves and getting the mountain tribes on our side.” The Arnian royal family had never wanted to unify the tribes of the Bay, as they relied on their petty conflicts to remain the greatest power in the region. They had only extended their protection to the richer, agricultural tribes of the Anduin area, while others, especially those that dwelt on the mountains, had preferred, or perhaps been driven to throw their luck with Mordor. This gave Arne a good excuse to engage in unequal wars that they would always win, and reap the benefits in the shape of tribute or slaves for their mines, not to mention an aura of military prestige in front of their subjects. The Númenóreans, who for a long time had refused to engage directly that far inland, had in turn reaped their own benefits from this, until the day when everything had blown up in their faces.

Elendil had received no clear instructions of what he was or was not allowed to do, as the Prince had just told him to go and rule Arne, and the King had done nothing but ratify his appointment in a rather grudging manner. He had, however, assumed that, after two great wars, nobody in Númenor could possibly think that the past strategy was beyond reproach anymore. And so, the first task that he had undertaken was to take advantage of Sauron’s retreat to reach out to all the tribes, whether they dwelt in the forests, the river plains, or the mountains. Many had been interested to hear what he had to say, but after so many years of mistrust and enmity towards Arne and between themselves, the gap was proving difficult to bridge. Since packs of lawless Orcs roamed the region even now, plundering and pillaging, Elendil had made it a priority for both the Númenórean army and their new Arnian subjects to rush to the tribesmen’s aid as soon as they asked for it, hoping that such concrete action could convince them of the benefits of an alliance with them. Even now, his son was on one of those missions, and though a part of him still balked at the idea of Isildur risking his life, at least there was some sort of comfort in knowing that it was for an important cause, with reasons behind it other than boundless Númenórean ambition. A unified Bay, however, even if such a thing were possible, would pose a new set of problems, such as needing alternate sources of wealth, and having to deal with the volatile tempers of the treacherous Arnian nobility, whose ability to forget the past surpassed even their reputation as short-lived folk.

And then, there was his own people.

“Lord Bodashtart, you know this Palace and its inhabitants better than I do, and I trust you to keep an eye on Maharis. As long as you can keep the situation under control, there is no need to cause any more ripples here.”

His exquisite courtesy was meant to leave no openings for the old man to exploit. From other instances, he knew that this was the only way to prevent him from flying into a long tirade about how his experience was disregarded by younger men who believed that they knew everything. Someone like the Prince of the South would have sent him back to Númenor instead of just fantasizing about it, but Elendil could not yet afford the luxury of making personal enemies. His family already had enough of those in Númenor, and in Middle Earth, everyone would always see them as a threat unless proved otherwise.

If only Eluzîni was here, he thought, not for the first time in those long months. He was sure that his wife would not mind living in the mainland, and that she would not be daunted by the Palace of Arne or the Women’s Court, but his position was still too precarious here, and her family was going through a delicate situation with the succession crisis. Sometimes, however, he missed her so much that the soundest arguments sounded like hollow excuses to his own ears. He had even caught himself wondering if perhaps she would take a ship and join him without asking or consulting anyone. Though a part of him was horrified at this idea, deep inside he suspected that he would be secretly glad of the chance to lay down his responsibility and just go along with things.

“I will bring you hard evidence of his plotting, and then you will have to take me seriously!” Bodashtart growled, stopping his pacing to glare at him. Elendil shook his head.

“I am taking you seriously, Lord Bodashtart.”

“Oh, yes. Indeed, my lord. In that case…”

But what would happen in that case was something that Elendil never got to hear, for they were interrupted by a discrete knock on the gold-painted sliding door. He would have been glad at the interruption, he thought, if it had been a pompous Arnian demanding an audience to complain about some terrible slight that he had received. At least this would have been a distraction from the no less pompous Númenórean,

The man, however, was one of the resident Númenóreans, and this caused him to stiffen a little. Those would only interrupt him on a private meeting for an emergency, especially one with which they would not dare trust an Arnian.

“What is it?” he asked, praying that it had nothing to do with Isildur or Malik. The man bowed from the doorstep.

“An envoy of the King has just arrived from Númenor, my lord. He claims that he has instructions that his tidings can only be delivered to Lord Bodashtart or to you, and since you are both here…”

“From Númenor?” This seemed to have distracted the old man from his obsession with the Arnian Chief of Cavalry. “Not evil tidings, I hope.”

The man did not raise his face, but kept his eyes religiously fixed upon the floor. Behind him another man, who looked rather windswept and dirty from what had no doubt been a long journey, walked past him and stopped at a short distance from them, coughing formally.

“Well met, Lord Elendil, Lord Bodashtart. I am Zakashtart of Sor, and I have sailed from the Island to deliver a message which, though not evil, will still fill you with the deepest sadness, and yet also with the greatest hope. The King, Favourite of the Powers, Protector of Númenor and the colonies, has passed away in Armenelos”, he recited. Then, he paused, as if wishing to create expectation for what came next. “The Sceptre has been taken by the Prince of the South and the Princess of the West. They are known as Ar Pharazôn and Ar Zimraphel now, Favourites of Melkor and Ashtarte-Uinen, and Protectors of Númenor and the colonies.”

“What?” The stunned silence that followed this pronouncement was broken by Bodashtart first. “The Prince and the Princess? Does this mean that they… that they are husband and wife?”

“Yes, my lord. They were married before the King’s sickbed.”

For all his life, Elendil had favoured the approach of examining every angle of a new situation inside his mind, and staying silent until he was sure that he was ready to react to it in an appropriate manner. This time, however, such certainty would take such a long time in coming that he was aware he would never have the luxury of waiting until it did.

You do not die. I cannot see you die.

Black eyes swam on the edge of his conscious mind, fixed on him with an emotion that he had never, ever been able to read.

Father, Mother. This is the man I have given my heart to.

Other eyes, lighter-coloured and clearly besotted by a strong infatuation, joined the first, until both converged on a pair of hazel eyes that he knew so very well, ones that had a spark of mockery dancing right below their surface, as if they knew a funny joke that nobody else was aware of.

You were close to the Princess of the West, have you ever asked her what she believes in?

No. It was not possible. She had not loved him, and perhaps she had never loved Kamal, or not in the way in which they had both loved her, but him? Enough to give him the Sceptre, her Sceptre, of marrying him in defiance of the gods both false and true, against the will of her father? Enough to crush the hopes of the Faithful to change Númenor forever?

It would not be the first time, a voice, that sounded suspiciously like Eluzîni, whispered in his mind. You remember that Erulaitalë, don’t you? Or have you chosen to forget it? She loved to play the madwoman so she could always get what she wanted, and you all fell for it. Every single time.

“My father”, he managed to say, in his struggle to gather his thoughts and regain his composure before anyone could notice his turmoil. This man was the King’s own envoy. The other, who was kneeling behind him, was not from Andúnië, either, and who knew whom or where he could be reporting to. Even Bodashtart had been one of Pharazôn’s veterans from Umbar. “I trust he has already sworn allegiance to the Sceptre in the name of our house of Andúnië.”

“Indeed he has, my lord. More than that, he has distinguished himself, helping our new King put down an uprising in the North after the late King passed away. Your noble house, as ever since it was restored by Tar Palantir seventy-eight years ago, remains the greatest ally of the Sceptre.”

An uprising in the North? Elendil’s mind was thrown in renewed shock at those words. What on Earth had happened in the Island, and what had his father’s role been in it? Lord Hiram and the ruling family of Forostar had always been among the staunchest supporters of Tar Palantir and the beliefs of the Faithful, their own natural allies. True, his father had always been the Prince’s friend, but Elendil could not imagine that he would put even this friendship over his duty towards his family and his people. If he had supported something, whatever it was, it had to be because it was the best option in the circumstances he had found himself in. Perhaps, like their ancestor Eärendur, he was wearing a sheep’s skin in an attempt to coexist with their ancestral enemy, one who, in spite of all, had never suffered their presence for long.

Melkor, the King of Armenelos.

“Hail Ar Pharazôn, Favourite of Melkor, Protector of Númenor and the colonies!” Bodashtart exclaimed fervently, falling on his knees. To him, this was easier, Elendil thought. He probably felt that the Prince of the South should be the rightful King, and that any means he could have employed to achieve his goal, whether they be incest or war, were justifiable. He was well acquainted enough with the soldiers of Umbar by now as to know this to be a fact.

“And Ar Zimraphel, my lord”, the man insisted. “She is Queen too, the daughter of the late King, and Favourite of Ashtarte-Uinen.”

“Hail Ar Zimraphel then, Favourite of the Goddess of the Seas”, Bodashtart conceded, good-humouredly. Elendil decided that he could not prevaricate further.

“Hail Ar Pharazôn and Ar Zimraphel, Favourites of the gods of Númenor, and protectors of the Island and the colonies”, he pronounced carefully, kneeling next to the older man. “From Arne, I remain their humble servant. Do they have any new orders for me?”

“Only that you remain governor of Arne, and that you keep performing your duty with the same dedication which you have been showing until now”, Zakashtart replied. “And this is also valid for you, Lord Bodashtart. You are to remain here, as an advisor to Lord Elendil, for as long as he may need you.”

“I will fulfil this duty proudly, to the best of my ability!”, the old man said, his face flushed with pride for the recognition of his role. Elendil wondered what would happen if he were to say that no longer needed him.

That he would return to the Island and slander him in front of whoever cared to listen, he answered his own question. For now, it appeared that he and his father both had the favour of the Prince -the King, he reminded himself-, but if there was a knowledge that his father’s experiences, his own upbringing, and the stories about his ancestors had managed to instil in his mind, it was that the Lords of Andúnië could not allow themselves the luxury of taking any of this for granted.

And then, his mind went on, what about her favour? For all these years, he had convinced himself that she had merely felt contempt for his attempts to court her on her father’s orders, but now, he had discovered that her inscrutable countenance had hidden even more layers than he had given it credit for. If it had, however, how could he know for sure where he stood among all of them?

He rose to his feet.

“You have travelled a long way, Lord Zakashtart, and you must be exhausted”, he said, politely. “I will show you to your rooms now, and you can rest there until tonight, when I hope you will agree to dine with me.” With the help of some good wine, he would have no better chance of gathering information about what had happened in the Island. There were questions that could not be trusted to letters, no matter how private, but in an enclosed room, things could be said out of earshot of others, and their easy deniability could lure the most cautious souls into revealing more than they had intended.

The envoy nodded, even though he could probably guess Elendil’s ulterior motives. Perhaps he did not mind. Perhaps he was being too cautious, and the Prince would laugh at him if he could see him now, plotting to acquire information that might already be available to all and sundry in the Island.

But the Prince was now the King, and Elendil would take no risks.

“I will be honoured to dine with you, my lord.” the man smiled. “I have not eaten a decent meal since I left Sor, so I have high hopes for your hospitality!”

Elendil smiled back, and turned away from Lord Bodashtart before he could manage to find a way to insinuate himself into the dinner invitation as well. As he walked past the long corridors of the Arnian palace, nodding and speaking platitudes at his guest, however, his mind raced faster than a Haradric horse. A plethora of unintended images flashed across it, things which had happened months ago but remained as fiercely vivid in his memory as if he had just seen them: the Prince of the South striking the killing blow to the neck of an agonizing bull…. acclaimed fervently by thousands of soldiers, covered in battle gore, flushed from the fierce joy of victory….

If no god saved Pelargir, then I did.

Father, he thought, wishing more than ever that he could be in Andúnië, or in the Armenelos mansion, talking over a glass of cold wine without the need to watch out for unwelcome eyes and ears. Father, I hope that you know what you are doing.

 

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

“Wake up! I… say… wake… up… dammit!”

His limbs shook, shivering under the cool air after the blanket had been yanked from him abruptly, and also, perhaps, from the lingering terror of his dream. Dazed, he tried to shake away the last tatters of that reality, that infinitely more vivid reality where the roaring might of the Sea dogged his steps to drag him into a watery grave, and focus on his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was that he could not move his arms; they had been pinned to the ground above his head. Letting go of a loud curse, he tried to break free, but to no avail.

“Stop struggling and I will let you go.” Malik’s voice reached him from somewhere in the darkness.

“I am awake now, you fool! I am not going to attack you, though if you do not let me go, I…”

“You what?” his friend snorted. “You still owe me a black eye and two bloodied noses, and I am still pondering whether I should go ahead and claim payment for that debt.”

“That would never have happened if you had not been so intent on shaking me awake every time!” Not even the most disadvantageous position in the world would be able to deter Isildur from arguing his point. “These dreams are an expression of my gift of foresight. As such, they are sent by Eru, to warn us of perils that lie ahead of us in the future, and you are not supposed to interfere with them!”

“That is rubbish! Eru cannot possibly want you to spend the night screaming like a girl, and neither do I.” With what Isildur guessed to be a last glare, invisible to him in this darkness, he finally let go of him and moved aside. “And it will be a poor lookout for all of us if you are dozing off tomorrow.”

“Remind me of a single time I have not been fit for duty because of a dream.”

“That is because I have always been here to wake you up as soon as they started.”

It was useless to engage in debate with the Haradrim, for all words fell on deaf ears, or so Isildur had heard from every soldier he had encountered since he set foot on the mainland. And at moments such as this, it became difficult to forget that Malik was part Haradrim. Ever since Isildur had first dreamed of the Wave, while staying in his house in Andúnië, he had reached the conclusion that those dreams were no good, and that the prized foresight of the line of Elros was no different from an inherited disease. He had already been persistent about this in the Island, but after they crossed the Great Sea, the soldiering life had made it almost impossible for Isildur to get rid of his vigilant presence at nights, and concrete arguments in favour of stealth and safety had been more likely to win the day than esoteric ones about the divine origins of his night visions.

Isildur, himself, had to confess that his heart beat so fast with the fear and terror of what unfolded before his sleeping eyes, that he never woke up without an overwhelming feeling of relief entering his body, like the first ragged breaths of a man who had been about to drown. After the dust had settled down and he was already aware of his surroundings, however, he could not help but feel guilty at his own cowardice, at his timely escape. Why was he, and his family, sent those dreams, if not to receive information that would be instrumental in helping their people? Why would they have inherited this foresight at all, if not because they were strong enough to bear the discomfort?

Even the King dreams of this Wave, he remembered saying to Malik during one of their arguments, only to receive a supremely unimpressed shrug in return.

Then, we have nothing to fear, have we? I am sure the King is better equipped than you to figure out what it means.

“Where are you going?” he heard his friend’s voice from the other side of the tent as he rose from the heap of his blankets.

“I am going to take a watch. We are close enough to enemy territory, so we should be extra vigilant.”

“It is not your turn.”

“Well, since I am awake anyway….”

A sharp noise behind him told him that Malik, too, had left his bed abruptly.

“You should sleep. I will go.”

“Stay where you are, damn you. I wish to clear my head.”

“You did not sleep yesterday, either. That is two nights in a row.”

“Neither did you”. Isildur tried to prevent himself from feeling guilty about that: if he did, Malik would detect it, and he would be lost.

“Yes, but you are the leader of this expedition, and this means that you are the one who needs to be awake tomorrow.”

This was absurd. As absurd as their arguments always were, a tiny, truthful voice spoke in his head.

“Well, then, we can both go. Or we can both stay, and trust the people who are in charge of the night watches to do their duty.”

There was no sound of movement coming from Malik’s end. Isildur sat back on his makeshift bed, wondering how his hand could not have steadied yet, though it seemed so long since he had left the dream and the towering waters behind.

“I much prefer that option”, his friend muttered at last, struggling fiercely with his own blankets.

Little by little, Isildur also forced himself to lie down, and stopped moving. He almost never had the dream twice in the same night, but once he was awake it was very difficult for him to find sleep again, if he even managed it. However, he was aware that, if he did not look at least as if he was trying hard, Malik was more than capable of knocking him unconscious.

There must be something, he thought, as he slowly relaxed against the covers, and the uneven breaths next to him gradually grew into the tell-tale even rhythm of sleep. Something I can do. Eru, I know there has to be something I can do.

When his eyes slid shut at long last, he did not have the dream again, but he saw the White Tree, the one that stood in the Outer Courtyard of the palace of Armenelos. Like a silent ghost, it hovered somewhere in the back of his consciousness until he awoke, feeling as tired as if he had not slept at all that night.

 

*     *     *     *     *    

 

Once, he had been brought to the presence of a King, and they had discussed their prophetic dreams as they faced each other in the shadows of a cluttered study. The King had mentioned a great wave that came from the West, drowning the Island in punishment for their sins, while he spoke of a darkness approaching Númenor from the East. Just as it had been in real life for both of them, their dreams had been opposed, and yet, at the same time, they had also complemented one another.

Now, that King was dead. He had been laid to rest under the Meneltarma, in the artifice of preserved sleep he had always despised, and with him his dangerous dreams of an innocent and godless past, where Men did not need to pray and sacrifice to live happy and virtuous lives. Yehimelkor had been fighting him for what amounted to the lifespan of a lesser Man, of those who dwelt in the mainland like savages. In that time, there had been many bitter words, strong condemnations, public confrontations, withdrawal of resources, and idle threats, but through all of it, he had remained sure of two things. One of them was that, in spite of his error, his impiety, and his blindness, he respected Tar Palantir, for he was a believer of lies, and yet the beauty of those lies had seemed to him worth fighting a losing battle to his very last breath. The second was that Tar Palantir, in spite of everything, had respected him back. Behind the anger and the exasperation at what he perceived to be Yehimelkor’s rebellion, there had always been that look that betrayed his recognition of a kindred spirit.

But Tar Palantir was no more. The man who stood before him had taken both his daughter and his Sceptre, and then, with the casual ease of the brutal conqueror for whom nothing could ever be sacred, he had also taken Sorontil and defiled the Cave with the fawning connivance of the High Priest. And now, at long last, he had come for Melkor.

“Look, you have to understand that we are not enemies”, he was saying, still affecting a lamb disguise which would come off soon enough. “I have always attended all major celebrations, sacrificed to the god before every campaign, and consecrated my victories to Him. As King, the first thing I have done is restore the Temple of Armenelos to its former wealth.”

“Not the first”, Yehimelkor retorted, unimpressed by the enumeration. “The first was to be joined to your cousin in incest and kill her kinsmen.”

Ar Pharazôn’s cheeks flushed a little, but he still did not rise to the provocation.

“I am the rightful King according to your religious laws. You owe me allegiance, and so did they. And yes, I am aware that marrying my cousin is a sin, but it was necessary to silence her supporters and end this rift which I sadly inherited from the misrule of my predecessor. What do I need to do to be forgiven? Tell me, and I will do it!”

“Renounce this marriage and wed a lawful wife.” Yehimelkor replied. “There is no forgiveness for a sinner who does not repent and persists in his sin.”

“You know I cannot do that.” He shook his head in irritation. “If you stopped thinking like a priest for a moment, you would understand why.”

“I cannot be anything else than what I am”.

“Well, then. You are a priest, and I am the King, so I order you to let me sacrifice in the temple which my ancestors built, paid for, and supported for hundreds of years.”

Yehimelkor withstood his glare without flinching.

“If the Temple is yours, you are free to expel me and all the priests from it, man it with your own soldiers, and sacrifice as often and as magnificently as you want.”

Now, Ar Pharazôn’s anger was boiling almost near the surface.

“This is unbelievable! You have been denouncing the late King’s absence from your festivals for decades, and now you wish to prevent me from attending?” he laughed, though not in amusement. “There is no rhyme or reason to your temerity, is it? You are just an old man who has forgotten how to bend to anyone’s will.”

“The late King did not believe in the god, but he lived righteously. You, however, are worse than him, my lord King, because you do believe in the god, and yet you live in sin.”

“I see.” Yehimelkor watched as the cold mask closed upon his opponent’s features. “Well, if we are speaking of differences between my predecessor and me, I can think of another. He often wished to kill you, and yet he did not. I, on the other hand, do not wish to kill you, but if you force me, I will.”

Many times, since he received the priesthood, Yehimelkor had been ready to sacrifice his life for the Lord of Armenelos and his Temple. And yet, as he gazed at the man who stood before him, a part of him was aware that this possibility had never been as real as it was now.

“I know.”

Suddenly, he remembered his dream about the demon rising in the mainland, and among the tatters of recollections that emerged in his mind he thought he saw something familiar, something that connected the dream with the man he was speaking to here and now. But the more he tried to isolate, to explore this connection, the more it vanished from his grasp.

Lost as he was in those dark thoughts, he did not see the soldiers approaching until they had surrounded him. They were only four, fewer than the Palace Guards who had come for him that one time, but just by looking at them once, he knew that each one of them was more dangerous than ten Guards. Those men were killers.

“I meant both things. I do not wish to kill you. Even if you do not respect me, I respect you, and I respect your office, and I have a friend who respects you even more, though he would never admit it.” His look was almost wistful now. “This is why I will not give you the chance of creating a scene down there, when I approach the altar. You will be indisposed, and unfortunately your illness will prevent you from attending.”

Yehimelkor reviewed his options, even as he took in the appearances and expressions of the soldiers. He remembered the time when the Palace Guards had seemed intimidated by his person, but there was no similar emotion to be found in their countenances now. Judging by the features of two of them, they were not even Númenóreans. On the other hand, if he tried to challenge them, nobody would ever know the truth about his death. The King would appoint another High Priest who did his bidding, and he would call it a victory. He would not lose a single night’s sleep over this.

How ironical, he thought, that Tar Palantir’s successor would be able to turn even someone like him into a good King.

“You may do as you wish today, but tomorrow, everybody will know of your sacrilege.”

“Tomorrow, you can denounce me all you want. If you still can, after I have sacrificed in your Temple.” The King shrugged. “But take heart! You will not have to suffer my presence for long. I have plans to build another temple in Armenelos and consecrate it to the Lord of Battles, for I cannot allow my favoured advocation of the Eternal King, the one who has listened to my prayers for all these years, to have no temples in the Island. Once it is finished, I shall bother you no longer.”

The Lord of Battles. The elusive remembrances returned to his mind again, where they swam in disarray as Ar Pharazôn disappeared through the doorstep. Could this be the demon from the mainland?

One of the armed Southrons turned away from him with a shrug, and sat on the floor to warm his hands in the sacred fire.