Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Racing Fate

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A strange mood was upon the Council of Númenor that morning, as Amandil and Anárion made their way towards their appointed seats. All around the large chamber, friends, allies and aides gathered in the usual groups to discuss issues and exchange impressions, but their whispered conversations seemed to have an urgent, passionate quality which had been absent from other meetings, presided by the twin blunt instruments of orderly protocol and mindless apathy. The lord of Andúnië stopped for a moment in his tracks, wondering how much of this was only in his disturbed imagination -that night, his nightmares had been the most vivid he could remember in a very long while -, and to what extent were his instincts warning him that something was truly amiss.

“Greetings, Lord Itashtart”, he nodded to the man who sat to his left.

“Well met, Lord Amandil. My dear grandson, how are you?” the lord of Hyarnustar replied, with a vague smile in Anárion’s direction. The young man never challenged the title, Amandil did not know if because he believed in blood ties above those of adoption, or because he was too polite to contradict him. “Are you ready for another round of tedious speeches?”

“Oh, I do not know. Perhaps it is just me, my lord, but there seems to be an uncharacteristic excitement in the air today.” Even as he spoke, he was growing more and more convinced that the strange mood he had detected was not merely real, but appeared to be shared by people who had no ties of friendship or alliance between them other than the privilege of belonging to the highest advisory body of the realm. While he looked at them, he caught several people -the governor of Sor, then the merchant spokesman of Pelargir, and barely a few seconds later, the Palace Priest- returning his gaze. A feeling of uneasiness began to take hold of him.

“Bah, excitement!” Itashtart snorted, in a disparaging tone. “Whoever has known real excitement knows that there is nothing worth that name to be found here. Though I must admit, Lord Amandil, that you are often the only reason why I do not fall asleep, with your futile yet magnificent attempts to oppose the King’s will.”

It heartens me to know that I am almost as entertaining as a whore to you, Lord Itashtart, Amandil thought crossly, even as he smiled to him and left to find his seat. The wretched man would never lift a finger to help him, even though he resented Ar Pharazôn and secretly enjoyed seeing him challenged as much as the next man.

They are too afraid of me to show their true colours, but if they saw me lying on the ground, no one would offer a hand to lift me up. And if they smelled blood, they would attack, he had said that night, his hand clenched over Amandil’s cup. It was almost infuriating how a man who had seemed so airheaded in his youth could turn to be so accurate in his assessment of the people around him.

He certainly had not spared the means to intimidate them into keeping to that subservient position, Amandil thought ruefully. The southern, richer part of Forostar was teeming with “retired” soldiers now, so much that many of the peasants were emigrating to other places, chief of all Amandil’s own lands in the Andustar, and though most of the Armenelos garrison had been depleted by the muster of troops for the expedition, everybody was unpleasantly aware that they had what amounted to an army at a day’s march from them. On the Eastern front, Sor had become a second Umbar, with a temporary town of soldiers growing around the merchant city and threatening to overwhelm it. Frequent deployments across the Island had forced all of them to bear the expenses of repairing and manning all of Ar Adûnakhôr’s ancient roads and inns, spurred on by the knowledge that, if they were not diligent enough, the soldiers would take the food and shelter by their own initiative. Amandil had confronted Pharazôn with all this many times in the Council, though never as openly as he would have wished to, for he could not afford to lose whatever influence he had on the preparations for the war on Mordor. No matter how appalled and pressured the rest of them were feeling at these measures, however, no one had ever joined their voice to his.

And now, they all seemed aware of something he was not. The uneasiness grew as he wondered what this circumstance could portend, until it turned into an ominous feeling. Today, he had entered the Palace bent into what would probably be one of his last battles before the war started, and this had managed to wrongfoot him before it had even begun.

“Ar Zimraphel, Favourite of Ashtarte-Uinen, Protectress and guardian of Númenor and its colonies!”, the herald spoke.

For a moment, he stood there, uncomprehending, as if the words had been spoken in a forgotten barbarian dialect of the mainland. Then, he saw everybody else rise to their feet, and the short and slight frame of the Queen of Númenor walking slowly towards them. She wore a diadem of silver and sapphires, and her robes were sewn in matching hues of blue and grey, the colours she had favoured since she emerged from the Forbidden Cave before the eyes of the superstitious populace. Her features, as usual, reminded him of a statue: extraordinarily beautiful, and unmarred by the slightest trace of human emotion.

She held the Sceptre in her hands.

“Sit, my lords”, she ordered, in a clear, ringing voice. The entire Chamber obeyed, almost in unison, except for Amandil, who was too shocked to register her words in time. Her gaze sank into his, and he felt an instinctive revulsion, remembering that day she had looked inside him and spat words that had been hateful but true.

“What is it, Lord Amandil? Do you already wish to object, even before I have introduced the subject of our discussion?”

A few people smiled, but Amandil paid no heed to them.

“Where is the King?” he asked. Zimraphel feigned surprise, but in a way that seemed remote and misplaced, as if she was going through motions that she had rehearsed before a mirror. Maybe she had.

“What do you mean, where is the King? You were informed of his departure for Sor, as was every lord in this Council.”

“I gather that he intends to return.”

Zimraphel shook her head.

“It has been our decision to advance the date of his departure from Midsummer to Spring, so as to give the enemy no chance to prepare for his attack.”

“His departure”, Amandil repeated. The others were looking at him with a mixture of apprehension and amusement, probably coming to the realization that he had been played for a fool in public as some twisted form of revenge for his insolence, but he refused to surrender to discouragement. “The King of Númenor’s departure for the mainland.”

“Yes”, she nodded blandly, as if they were talking about the weather. “That is right, Lord Amandil.”

For all this time, Amandil had been aware that Pharazôn intended to be personally at the head of the conquering army, but the King had been careful not to state as much in words, not even when he revealed his plans to the Council. For he had known well enough that this was, perhaps, the only way in which Amandil might successfully challenge him. In the thousands of years since the realm of Númenor was established, with the only exception of a King whom time had turned into little more than a paradigm of impiety in children’s tales, no ruling King had ever left the Island of Númenor, much less led his armies to war without leaving an heir behind.

In the end, as it turned out, he had left anyway, without discussing it with the Council or biding an official farewell to the nobles and dignitaries of the realm. All he had done was send notice to the councilmen before his departure, and those spineless fools had done nothing to prevent it.  And Amandil, who had been involved with the preparations since before those men even knew what was in the King’s mind, had been purposefully left in the dark.

Still, not even the biting awareness of the futility of any resistance at this point could deter him from pressing his argument.

“I must have missed this message, my Queen, for I knew not of it until now. The King’s haste must have been great, indeed, to depart at such short notice, with no official ceremonies, no farewells and no sacrifices. I am aware that speed may present us with an advantage in the upcoming war, but why would there be need to leave the capital like a thief in the night? Are there spies of the Dark Lord in Númenor, reporting on the King’s every move?”

“Mind your words, Lord Amandil!” General Eshmounazer, as ever, was quick to jump in response. “We were all informed of the King’s departure. If you were not so, perhaps it is because he is not certain of your loyalty?”

“My loyalty? How dare you, General?” His anger was quicker, and its fire hotter than usual. “I declared for him when the Island was in chaos, put all my resources at his disposition, and fought for him in the civil strife that followed. And in Harad, we were fighting side by side long before you had even met him!”

“Perhaps the message did miss you by accident, my lord”, the lord of Orrostar intervened, in a placating tone which Amandil found even more repelling than the general’s outright mistrust.

“That is not the point, my lords, my Queen! No King had ever left the Island for any reason since Aldarion, and there is no precedent whatsoever for a ruler of Númenor risking his life in the mainland without having any heirs of the body!” he said, his voice raised above the murmurations. “Think about it! If anything should happen to him, may Eru forbid it! this realm would be thrown into chaos, and the resulting crisis would have no precedent in our long years of history! How could the Council, the highest advisory body in Númenor, accept this risk with such unseemly indifference?”

This time, he could see some of them squirm uncomfortably at his words. The lord of Orrostar refused to look at him, and at the other end of the Chamber, the governor of Sor was exchanging whispers with the Magistrate of Umbar.

Ar Zimraphel’s black, frozen eyes met his.

“He will not.”

“What?” His mind set on his own tirade, Amandil could not make sense of this affirmation. Her gaze narrowed in contempt, as if he was a fool for not understanding.

“He will not fall. He will come back alive”, she clarified. The High Chamberlain rose, his lips curved in an ingratiating smile.

“Of course, my Queen. We have the same faith in his greatness as you do.”

The contemptuous glare shifted towards him.

“I do not have faith, Lord Chamberlain.” The word was like a curse in her mouth. “I have knowledge. A knowledge which is beyond each and every one of you, no matter how much you raise your voices, speak threateningly and pretend to know what you are talking about.” She stood on her feet, animated by an unusual spark of activity that seemed to clash with the fallacy of the ivory goddess. “The King will be back, and his triumphant return will herald an age of Númenórean glory, a glory which cannot be augmented by your flattery or diminished by your jealousy. For you are nothing but mere mortals, fated to remain unaware of the designs of Heaven until they are forced upon you.”

The silence that followed those words were absolute. Even the murmurations died out, as everyone turned to stare at Ar Zimraphel as if she had somehow managed to grow taller than her stature. Even Amandil, who had known her for a long time, felt his voice die in his mouth as his eyes beheld a sudden vision of a large shadow, cast by a woman who could not even reach his shoulder with the top of her head.

She did not look at him again.

“Now, my lords, let us discuss the matters pertaining to this Council session.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

A dark mood lay heavily upon Amandil as he abandoned the Palace and headed for the Armenelos residence. He must have looked so forbidding that not even Anárion spoke a word to him on the way, and after they arrived, he gave orders to be left alone. As the sun gradually declined in the sky, he sat in the garden of his study, brooding, all notions of time lost in the turmoil of his thoughts.

At some point, recalling that he had promised to sit with Amalket in the afternoon was the only thing that could jerk him away from his listlessness, as he had to gather his composure enough to go looking for her. He found the lady of Andúnië sitting in her favourite spot of the courtyard, drinking tea with sweets, one of the pleasures she still liked to indulge in. As always, seeing him brought a frown to her already wrinkled forehead, though Amandil had grown to suspect that it was largely a pose, just because she no longer remembered how to interact with him in a different way. He listened to her usual complaints about her day-to-day activities, and the people who were supposed to help with them, but instead seemed bent on hindering her at every turn. Then, she asked him about the Council meeting, and before he was aware of it, he was pouring all his bitterness onto her.

“I do not understand you”, she grumbled, after he had been talking for a while without interruption. “You are angry because he left without telling you, and yet what could you have done if he had? If you believe that you could have stopped him from doing exactly as he wished, you are deluding yourself. He has been set on leading this expedition since he began his preparations, probably much earlier than that, and he would have done it over your dead body.”

Amandil frowned.

“He has done something which has no precedent in the history of Númenor.”

“Such as marrying his own cousin and sharing the Sceptre with her?” she retorted sharply. “He does not follow laws or precedents. He is the Golden King, and he does what he wants.”

“It is not so simple.”

“For him, it is. If you cannot see that, then you are blinder even than that bunch of fools in the Council.”

If blindness is refusing to see that Men cannot be saved, then it is the noblest of all flaws, my lord King. His own words to another blind man, who had also mourned his own inability to change the tide in spite of all his power, came back to his mind to mock him. He bristled in discomfort at this parallel, and at the general idea that a man who saw clearly was a man who knew there was no point in trying to change anything.

“You were expecting the King to appear before the Council to announce his departure, but what then? What did you expect that would happen? Would year after year of costly preparations have been undertaken, only for him to agree to stay in Armenelos?”

“I was trying to win us some time.”

“Time for what?”

“For me and Father to persuade him to… rethink his plans.” It sounded foolish even to his own ears. Damn her. “If he could have been made to stay here until he had an heir…”

“An heir!” Amalket laughed dryly. “Is it not obvious that he cannot have one?”

“It is treasonous to speak in that manner”, he replied. He did not want to discuss Pharazôn’s lack of heirs with Amalket, much less the old rumours about the Queen which had grown more insidious than ever after she took a second husband.

“Or perhaps you wanted to go face Sauron yourself, as a legate?” she inquired, as if she had not even heard him. “Because Sauron would not be able to play games with you, the leader of the Faithful!”

Amandil did not rise to this bait, though his mind was racing. In spite of her uncomfortable bluntness, he had to admit that Amalket had a point. Deep inside, he knew that Pharazôn would never have sent him; he had always led all his expeditions himself, and being King would not be enough to deter him. It would merely have been one more ancient law for him to break. As for convincing him to wait, it had been hard enough to restrain him for the last years, as reports from his informers had arrived one after another to the Island, telling him that the time was ripe for an attack. If Amandil was completely sincere with himself, this was no battle that he could ever have hoped to win.

But then, why was he so angry? Was it for the deception? The humiliation before the entire Council? He should not feel insulted by it, considering that he had been marked by this action as the only man who, in the King’s mind, could have possibly opposed his departure strongly enough as to become an obstacle he would rather avoid. But if that was not the reason, what was? What was eating at his insides, so much that it was impossible for him to dispel the clouds from his mind even for a moment?

“I had the dream last night, Amalket.” He saw her expression begin to contort in her familiar grimace of distaste, but ploughed on before she could speak. “It is connected to this… event, I know it is.”

“You have always had this dream. Since you were a child, that Wave has been terrorizing you in your sleep. Do you mean to say that your whole life has been connected to this event?”

At those words, Amandil’s irritation finally became too much to be contained.

“I do not know, Amalket. But let me remind you that our son is in the mainland, at the head of the largest army of our allies. If something goes wrong, he will be caught in the middle of it. If there is anything to be flippant about, please tell me, because I cannot see it.”

Her stricken look gave him pause, and the next moment he was already sorry for his words. She loved Elendil with all her heart, more than what even Amandil himself could, and he knew that all she looked forward to in the years that remained to her was the moment when they would be able to meet again.

“Do you… think that Halideyid will be in danger?”

He sighed, wondering how to fix his mistake.

“No. No, no. I mean, no more than he usually is, with his borders so close to Mordor. He will probably have to deploy the Arnian troops around the border while the King launches his attack. I do not imagine… He has always been cautious and prudent.” He could not think of anything else to say. “You should not worry.”

“Because that is all it takes for a mother to stop worrying. For you to tell her that she should not worry”, she spat. “You also told me that he would be back soon from the Pelargir war!”

That was not true; it was Elendil himself who had promised her this, and then found himself unable to fulfil his promise. But her memory had always been selective when it came to their son. If someone had wronged her, even against their will, it could never be him.

“You are right. I do worry, too” he nodded, placatingly. “That is the reason why my temper is so short these days, and I apologize for it. Please, Amalket let us make peace. At least then we may be able to worry together.”

Amalket’s lips barely uncurled, and her brow unfurrowed only for the time that she needed to ponder his words.

“I do not need you to worry by my side. You are not good at that”, she said, with a contempt that was tempered by a hard, appraising look. “You are only good when you can do something.”

Amandil had no answer for this.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

His father was standing in the corridor, still like a statue with its features shrouded in shadow. For a moment, Amandil stopped in his tracks, unable to recognize him until he heard the familiar voice.

“Will you walk with me?” Númendil asked. Amandil had no wish to see people at the moment, much less the crowds in the streets of Armenelos, but somehow, his head nodded on its own accord.

Dusk was falling as the two of them left the mansion wrapped in cloaks, hoods drawn over their faces to avoid being recognized. He and Pharazôn had done this quite often in the past, Amandil recalled, and it seemed that they had been unable, each in their own way, to let go of the habit.

Like a thief in the night, he had said before the Council, that very morning. Strong words, inspired by his anger, but ironically spoken by the man who had spent a large part of his life in hiding. If Pharazôn could have heard his speech, the irony might not have been lost on him, and perhaps he would have crafted a suitable retort to mock Amandil with subtle reminders of his past.

He had no particular destination in mind, or knowledge of where they might go, so he merely followed his father past the narrow, winding streets of the Palace Hill’s lower slope. It was a warm Spring evening, and their way was often crowded by people who had finished their day’s work, hurried to do their last shopping, or merely sought for a tavern where they could meet with friends and drink a cup or two. This routine seemed at odds with the momentous events happening a mere hundred miles away from where they were, and Amandil often needed to remind himself that none of these men and women had any way of knowing that the war had already started. Or would start in a few days, at any rate, when the King sailed from Sor with the last of his army.

The slope gradually grew less pronounced, then disappeared as they arrived at the flatter part of the city, cleaved by large and wide avenues where horses, chariots, carts and palanquins hurried in every direction. Amandil watched them pass by him, wondering if his father had intended this hustle and bustle to act as some kind of distraction for his current worries. Númendil, however, did not stop anywhere, but walked on as single-mindedly as if he was heading towards a precise destination.

When at last he stopped, past the avenues and even more winding streets up the slope of the next hill, Amandil could not believe his eyes.

“Is this your destination, Father?” he could not help but exclaim, blinking at the large gates of the Temple of Melkor.

Númendil nodded, and proceeded to cross the threshold. When he saw that his son hesitated, he stopped in his tracks and turned to face him, an apologetic look in his eyes.

“I am sorry. It did not occur to me that you might feel uncomfortable.”

Uncomfortable? Amandil could not believe his ears.

“I thought that you… never mind.” His father was definitely an odd man, he thought, able to feel at ease among Elves and in the temple of their bitterest enemy. But what on Earth was Númendil expecting to find in this place was something that escaped him.

“Did you know that I was forbidden to cross this threshold?” he spoke after a while, as they walked past the public gardens and the running fountains towards the inner gates. “When Elendil was conceived, I left the god’s service to be consecrated to the Goddess of the Forbidden Bay, so from that point onwards I could not speak his name, enter his temple or sacrifice to him.”

“Would they throw you out if they recognized you?” Númendil seemed genuinely curious. Amandil shrugged.

“I doubt they are keeping a lookout for me.”

The air became warmer as they entered the hall of the dark marble floors, whose capricious veins of white and grey he had once memorized in the long hours of his vigils. For a moment, he was overwhelmed by a strong feeling of unreality at the thought. He put his palm over his forehead, and realized that it was smouldering hot to his touch, and humid with sweat. It had not been this hot back then, or had he merely grown used?

A man was preaching at the foot of the altar, surrounded by a throng of the god’s faithful. His voice sounded familiar even in the distance, and as they drew closer Amandil could distinguish the severe features of his Revered Father, High Priest Yehimelkor. Out of an impulse, he stopped in his tracks, but Númendil kept walking in slow steps towards the crowd.

Angry at himself, Amandil forced himself to walk on. He was not afraid of Yehimelkor, of his invectives, or of the wrath of his god. Once, the priest had warned his wayward pupil that a great disaster was in store for him if their paths ever crossed again, but after that they had both sat in the Council for many years, and nothing had happened.

“Listen to him” Númendil whispered in his ear. His eyes widened.

“Have you done this before?” The idea of his father loitering around the Temple of Melkor listening to its High Priest in the fire altar was almost impossible to contemplate. Númendil laid a finger on his lips.

“… and the offspring of evil will grow in the mainland, but it will not remain there, no! Soon, it will rise like a shadow over mountains and plains, over the proudest colonies of Númenor, and cross the Great Sea, which until now had remained untouched by evil! And then it will gather over Númenor, and Armenelos will be buried in darkness.”

The crowd was listening avidly to every one of those words, so much that not a single sound could be heard in the entire hall. In spite of himself, Amandil became interested, too.

“The wars in the mainland are a rebellion against the Lord’s will. This Island was given to us as a haven from evil, and yet we could not be content with what we had, but sought riches which did not belong to us, and became involved in wars which did not concern us. Our power became great, but our ambition grew even greater, so no matter how many lands and peoples we conquered with the strength of our arms, we still judged our acquisitions too mean and unworthy of our greatness.” He made a long, significant pause, his eyes narrowing to convey the gravity of his warning, and Amandil was shocked to see the new wrinkles in his face. Yehimelkor was younger than his father, and he also belonged to the line of Elros, but the last years did not seem to have been easy for him. “Now, at last, the time has come! Our pride has grown into a monster, and this monster will be unleashed on the world! Every night I dream of a demon rising in the mainland, awoken by the wars led by an impious King, who lives in sin. And I tell you, this is the war, and the demon who will be awoken is Sauron! He will destroy us, our colonies, our cities, our holy Island, and the Great God will let this happen, because what else is Sauron but the instrument of His wrath?”

Murmurs awoke around them, and Númendil seized the opportunity to retire. Still somewhat dazed, Amandil followed him outside, where he experienced a pleasant feeling of relief as the night breeze cooled his face.

“What do you think?”

“Why would you listen to this man?” he asked, ignoring his father’s question. “He is a priest of Melkor!”

“It was you who taught me that I had to look for truth in places I would not have previously considered”, Númendil replied, with an air of- was it pride? “This man often says things which are true, and when he speaks of his dream, I know in my heart that he has dreamed it.”

“He has”, Amandil confirmed, in a voice that came through as hollow. “When I was a child, he forbade me to learn swordsmanship, and he did not want me to even harbour thoughts of becoming a soldier in the mainland. He often said that the doom of Númenor would come through one of these wars.” He paused for a moment, thoughtful. “Apparently, he thinks he has found the right one.”

“I see the uneasiness, the fear in his eyes, and I feel as if I was standing before a mirror”, Númendil confessed. Behind them, the fountain reflected the pale orb of the full moon. “Countless times now, I have sat before the King and answered his questions, and what I heard in his voice, what I read in his countenance, disturbed me greatly. But there was nothing I could do, for I could also see that nothing I said to him would ever make him change his mind.”

“I could see that, too.” Amandil remembered his conversation with Amalket, and the bitterness he had been feeling then came back to him, to jolt him into an unpleasant state of awareness that the unreality of their walk and their visit to the temple had dulled for a while. “Still, I was a fool, and I tried. I helped him, and I hoped that he might trust me in exchange.”

“Tell me, Amandil.” They exited the temple under the vaguely curious gazes of the gate guards. “If you had known that he was leaving, and your attempts to have him stay had failed, as in your heart you knew they would, would you have been willing to go to the mainland with him?”

Amandil blinked at this question.

“Yes”, he replied, surprising even himself with his lack of hesitation. “I do not know if I am wiser than he is, but I, too, have dreams. He does not, and that is what makes him so fearless, so… ready to brave the greatest perils of the world as if they were but an ordinary threat. Do you know that the Haradrim force those among their people who have dreams and visions to enter priesthood, and that they often become advisors of what they call their kings? This way, a brave warrior leads the tribe, but his recklessness is tempered by the prophecies of doom of their advisor. Or so the idea goes, anyway. In the end, most of those advisors support their king’s harebrained schemes, at least those who wish to keep their head on their shoulders.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I am known to be remarkably difficult to threaten, which I suppose is the reason why he chose to pull this stunt to leave me behind instead.”

“I see.” Númendil nodded in a slow way, as if he was gradually growing aware of something. “He left you behind. And this angers you.”

Did it? Well, yes, Amandil thought in an exercise of honesty, perhaps it did. Perhaps this was the answer to his brooding thoughts earlier, when he wondered what could have unleashed all this bitterness. He could never have truly believed that his opposition would have hindered the King’s departure for long, but even if Pharazôn had gone ahead and done as he wished, Amandil would never have let him go and face Sauron alone. He would not have let the fate of Númenor hinge solely on the outcome of one person’s actions.

Do you think that this would change anything? A contemptuous voice, which he easily imagined as that of Yehimelkor, but with the hostile eyes of his grandfather Valandil fixed upon his countenance, spoke into his mind. You are almost as bad as he is. Your mind is filled with nothing but strife and conflict, and your hands are red with the blood of Orcs and Men. And you think that you would be able to face Sauron? He has your measure, too.

Disturbed, he fought to quench those thoughts.

“I know that Sauron is an immortal being of extraordinary cunning, and that he can never be trusted. And yet, Father, he fights only for himself. I do not believe him to be an instrument of divine providence, or of heaven’s revenge” he said. “This enterprise poses an enormous risk to Númenor, I agree, and I wish it had never been undertaken. But it has, and believing that Fate has closed its snare around us as a consequence for our sins will avail us nothing at this point. All that the King can do now is defeat him, or else fail and be lost together with his kingdom. And damn it, I should have been there to help.”

Númendil nodded again; too calmly, in Amandil’s opinion.

“I see. But if that is what you believe, then you should go.”

“Go where?” He snorted. “To Sor?”

His father did not blink.

“Yes, to Sor. The King has not departed yet.”

Amandil sighed. He appreciated his father’s insights, but sometimes it became rather trying to argue with him.

“That is ridiculous. You do not know what you are saying. I have not been summoned, and I have no army or fleet at the ready, no…”

“The King has enough of all this in Sor. The only thing that he does not have there is you.”

“And that is exactly as it should be! Father, he did not tell me he was leaving even after he informed the rest of the Council! I think he has made it clear enough that he does not want me to be part of this expedition.”

Númendil shook his head.

“He did not want you to find a way to hinder his departure. Since it would be difficult for you to do that anymore…”

“That is not the point, Father! To him, I am a hindrance, whether in Númenor or in the mainland. I argue with him, bore him with my premonitions, and say things that he does not wish to hear.”

“And since when has this stopped you?”

The truth was that, in spite of his own better judgement, the mad idea was beginning to spread across his mind like wildfire. He could do it, why not? He could grab a sword, a horse, a cloak, something to eat, and gallop a hundred miles through the King’s Road to Sor. He could join the expedition as an unwanted stowaway, right under Ar Pharazôn’s nose, and prove him that as accurate as his assessments usually were, this time he had grievously underestimated his foe.

It was madness. It was folly, not only because of the many breaches of protocol he would be committing, and the dangers he would be getting himself into, but also because he was the lord of Andúnië, and a councilman, and there were responsibilities that he could not discharge on others. He should not even be contemplating it.

“I would take care of everything in your absence, my son. You can lay your trust in me.”

He swallowed, for a moment too overwhelmed by his feelings to even speak. In his mind’s eye, he could see Amalket snorting at him, claiming that she had known all along he would pull something like this. The whole Council, rocked by a wave of furious gossip and perverse amusement as soon as they heard the news.

Pharazôn’s anger when he saw him.

“I appreciate it, Father.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Is everything ready, then?”

“Yes, my lord King. The wind is favourable, and the Admiral wishes to take advantage of it.”

It was morning, and the gleaming sunrays made the proud towers of Sor look as if they were on fire. The colossal statue of the Warrior, erected by Ar Adûnakhôr at the Eastern end of the great harbour, seemed, by a trick of the light, to have been crowned by a wreath of flames, like those which had consumed the flesh of the sacrificed bulls on the eve of their departure.

“A good omen for our expedition, my lord King”, the priest of Melkor remarked brightly.

Ar Pharazôn smiled, remembering how he, too, had used to put his faith in omens once. In his life, he had engaged in many outlandish rites and complicated superstitions, something for which people like Amandil had often derided him. But his mind had been clouded back then, devoid of the glorious clarity it had acquired in the years leading up to this enterprise. This clarity did not leave room for doubt, for hesitation, for second thoughts. It had driven him to accept Zimraphel’s dangerous gifts, which he had once upon a time feared, to take by force what should have belonged to him, and to stare at Death on the face and accept its challenge. Now, at long last, the challenge would be answered, and he had the certainty, embedded in each bone and sinew of his body, that he would be victorious.

King of Men, the creature of darkness had whispered. The King has come, the soldiers had chanted. Conqueror of the world, the Queen had smiled. All those prophecies were about to become true, when the King beyond the Sea finally set foot in Middle-Earth. He would conquer the vast territories which past Númenóreans had always feared to tread,  the realms of Men who paid tribute to the Black Tower, and of those too savage and remote to accept anyone’s dominion, who used their wars as a mere excuse to disappear at the fringes. Once the dark idol had fallen, and with him the only resistance worth that name, those Men would have to put his trust on him alone, on Ar Pharazôn the Golden, the only King of Men who was deserving of that title. And when they were all joined in a single race, and a single kingdom, there would be no one left to withstand its might. The sacred words contained on the scrolls of the Four Great Temples would reveal themselves true, and their kind would dominate the world as they had been originally created to do. The foul Orcs would be hunted down and destroyed, greedy Dwarves would crawl back into their dark tunnels, and the haughty Elves would sail back to their own land beyond the Sea, which the Baalim protected with their sorcery, and renounce their last claims on Middle-Earth.

As the towers and the two great statues finally faded in the horizon, leaving nothing but a line of shining blue in their wake, Pharazôn became animated by a sudden burst of activity. Wiping his eyes, which had become irritated after staring at the reflected light for so long, he left his lookout at the stern of his ship and descended the stairs for the privacy of his cabin. He dismissed all those who attempted to follow him, making sure that he was alone before he opened the coffer on the table, where the most valuable heirloom of the Kings of Númenor glowed magnificently under the lamplight. When he gazed inside it, he felt a fire burn in his chest, and it was not long since this fire urged him to pick it up.

The sword was heavy, and yet not as much as it seemed when it lay in its case, with that large and elaborate pommel of silver steel embedded with rubies. Of all the old wives’ tales Lord Númendil had subjected him to in the last years, the most important information he had been able to glean pertained to this sword, which had been lying in the King’s treasury for thousands of years with no other role than to function as prop in some long-forgotten ceremony. According to the Faithful, this sword was the greatest heirloom of the Sindar, an ancient race of Elves who had built the most powerful kingdom of the First Age. No wraith could possibly withstand the wielder of such a sword, and even Sauron, though he could not die, might cower at the sight of it.

Númendil had also said many other things, such as the reason why this sword had come to be in the Númenórean king’s treasury. According to his tales, it had come to Ar Indilzar through his direct descent from the King of the Sindar himself, Elu Thingol of Doriath. Pharazôn knew that the entire clergy of the Island rejected the idea of their royal line being descended from Elven abominations, and that such a claim was tantamount to heresy, but he was no priest, and those controversies interested him little. If there was some trace of Elven blood in his veins, he could find a way to use it to his own advantage, as perhaps Zimraphel had done. And if there was not, and this sword had come to them through warfare or conquest, he would not feel as a lesser being for it. More than ever in his life, he felt above those petty squabbles that opposed Elf-lovers to Elf-haters, Baalim-followers to the worshippers of the gods, people who sacrificed to people who believed that sacrifices were evil. The late King, and the previous one before that, had poured their life and strength into those matters, while the mainland lay in chaos, and Sauron’s armies were allowed to rampage as they pleased. He had lived through their long rule, and wanted to believe he had learned from their mistakes to recognize what was important. In his own reign, he had favoured the worship of Númenor’s ancient gods because they were the gods of his family and his people, built a temple to the Lord of Battles because he owed Him many debts, and rejected Elvish teachings about cousin marriage being incestuous, because this had become a matter of State after his wedding to Zimraphel. But, in spite of Amandil’s paranoia over this matter -that oath he had made him swear!-, nothing could be farther from his mind than to engage in religious strife and persecution. If the Faithful behaved like subjects to the Sceptre, that was enough for him, and there were enough troubles to deal with in Middle-Earth to go house by house asking all Númenóreans whom they prayed to.

This memory of Amandil made him wince, much in spite of himself. Carefully, he laid the sword in its scabbard, shut the case, and closed the coffer. The almost intoxicating clarity of thought, which he had often enjoyed since he set on this enterprise, always seemed to lessen whenever Amandil was involved. His childhood friend had a way to press all his weak points and detect every small doubt, every small contradiction, focusing and magnifying them until Pharazôn was at the brink of showing signs of weakness. In his heart, Amandil had always remained the haughty older boy he had met in the Temple gardens, who had taught him his first swordsmanship moves and believed that he knew better than this pesky, pampered prince whose head was too swollen to see the ground below his feet. No matter how much they had grown, how far they had travelled and how much they had accomplished, he still acted often as if he knew everything, and Pharazôn knew nothing. Ever since they had started planning this enterprise -or rather, since Pharazôn had started planning this enterprise and forcefully recruited him-, it had been firmly lodged in his head that it was a bad idea, and though he had pretended to go along with it, all he had been looking for was an opening to sabotage his endeavours. Pharazôn had pretended not to notice, both because, at some level, he knew that he needed his help, and also because, as embarrassed as he was to admit it, he wanted to hold to the illusion that his old friend and him were once again joining their efforts for a common cause. The cause, however, was his, not Amandil’s, and whenever they stood facing each other in the Council Chamber, acting like enemies for he still was not sure whose benefit, he was unpleasantly reminded of this fact.

How would he have reacted, when he heard of Pharazôn’s departure? With great anger, probably, if Pharazôn ever knew him well enough to tell. He would never forgive him for playing him in this way, and after the expedition returned to Númenor, the last bridge to their past friendship would collapse into a cold routine of protocol and formality. The most practical, matter-of-fact part of him knew that this would make things much easier on the long run, but another, traitorous part which he had been trying to starve for decades, probably since his mother died, or at least since Merimne did, felt sad.

He shook his head, refusing to surrender to this weakness. It was not the moment to engage in this way of thinking. The next time he saw land before his eyes, he would need to be ready for the greatest challenge of his lifetime, no, the greatest challenge that Númenor had faced since the first ships came into the Bay of Rómenna and their kingdom was founded.

And he would be ready to face it.

“My lord! My lord King!”

Someone was knocking at his door, and he returned to reality with a frown of irritation.

“What is it? I said I did not wish to be disturbed!”

“I am sorry, my lord King, but there is a situation on deck.” The voice was lower now, as if it was endeavouring to be less intrusive, but it also became more difficult to hear. With a sigh, Pharazôn walked towards the door, and opened it for his aide. “A man we cannot identify as part of the crew has been found in our ship. We do not know if he is a spy, or an agent of the Enemy, or…”

“What? How did he get in here, and how was he not discovered earlier? Is he a Númenórean?”

“Yes, my lord, he is.”

Surprised, Pharazôn returned to the deck, where the shouts immediately told him where to go. As he recognized one of the voices, his heart almost stopped beating in his chest.

He paled. It was not possible. That son of a bitch… that outrageous, foolish, overbearing son of a bitch could not have gone this far.

Amandil stopped arguing with the men who were holding him, and his grey eyes met his.  He was wearing old and dirty clothes, and his face was unshaven and filthy, as if he had not checked on his appearance for many days. Immediately, their grip on him tightened, as if they expected him to attempt murder on the King as soon as they relaxed their vigilance.

“This is the man, my lord King. He claims to harbour no evil intent, and demands to speak with you.” The aide laughed nervously as he said this. “The nerve of him!”

“I am neither mute nor deaf, and I can speak for myself”, the lord of Andúnië said in a loud voice. “Release me and I will explain my presence!”

“He also claims that he knows you, my lord King.” one of the soldiers asked. “Shall we throw him overboard?

“He looks suspicious indeed. And violent.” Pharazôn could not resist. “Throw him.”

They did not need to be told twice; at once, they proceeded to drag him to the railing, and threw him against it with a little too much enthusiasm. To his credit, Amandil did not let go of a sound, though it must have hurt.

“Wait”, he intervened, slowly, before they could push him into the water. “I think I recognize him, under all that dirt and rags. Let me look closer at his face.”

As Pharazôn walked towards them, they held him up once more, and now he looked rather angry. This anger, however, was not as it had been instants before, when he quarrelled openly with the soldiers and crewmembers, but quiet, restrained, and focused on him alone.

“By the Lord of Battles!” Pharazôn exclaimed. “This is the lord of Andúnië!”

A great commotion followed his words. Many gasped, others stared incredulously at the stowaway, and those who had been restraining him suddenly let go as if his arms burned them. Amandil had to struggle to recover his balance, before he could further his loss of dignity even more by falling face flat at his feet.

“Yes, I am”, he said, with the same pride as if he had been standing by his rightful seat in the Council of the realm instead of being caught hiding on a ship. “I am glad that my lord King has recognized me.”

“And what on Earth are you doing here? Where are your men?” A mad idea was beginning to form in Pharazôn’s mind, an idea too ludicrous to be true.

“There are no men. I came on my own. Could I please speak to you in private, my lord King?”

Pharazôn breathed deeply.

“Very well. Follow me, then.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

As soon as they reached the cabin, and the door was closed behind their backs, Pharazôn turned immediately to give Amandil a glare which could have melted stone and withered fields. The wretched man, however, did not even blink.

“I am still trying to decide whether I should put you on the hold and chain you there for the rest of the journey”, he said. Amandil’s lips curved in a mirthless grin.

“Why go to all this trouble, when you can just throw me into the Sea?”

Pharazôn was not amused.

“What were you trying to achieve with this ridiculous stunt? You are a great lord of Númenor, how can you think so little of your dignity!”

“And you are the King of Númenor, sailing towards the most important war in the history of the Island. In spite of that, you decided to forego all concerns for your dignity to leave the capital in secret, under cover of the night. I am merely following the King’s example.”

“How dare you!” Again, he thought, his composure, his clarity, all of it thrown into turmoil by this infuriating man. “For your information, I have departed Númenor with all due ceremony, and after holding the prescribed solemnities in the harbour of Sor.”

“You left Armenelos without appearing before the Council, because you feared they would raise objections to the King’s departure from the Island, and to his involvement in a war while leaving no heirs in the Palace,” Amandil retorted. “And you conveniently forgot to send me notice, the only member of the Council who was not given the slightest warning, because you did not wish to present me with an opportunity to react. Tell me, did you merely want me out of the way when you departed, or you wanted me away from this campaign? Do you think I am a traitor perhaps, or a spy for the Elves working against you?”

“Neither, you fool! And, if I believed everyone I have left behind to be a traitor, wouldn’t I be the greatest fool in the world for turning my back on an island full of traitors?” He tried to keep his voice even, but it was becoming harder and harder by the moment. “I know what you are trying to do, but you will not distract me by pretending to feel wronged by my actions. I want the truth, and I want it now. Why are you here?”

“To help you defeat Sauron.”

Pharazôn shook his head, incredulously.

“By yourself?”

Amandil nodded, still bent in acting as if his behaviour was nothing out of the ordinary.

“You have enough men already, and enough horses, weapons, and ships. You do not need any more, and if you did, you would have had them long ago. All I can offer that you do not already possess is my company and my advice, which are the reasons why you once came looking for me at my home. I am aware that I have been opposed to this expedition, and that you may have been led to believe that I only helped you half-heartedly, with the intention of hindering you. No, listen to me!” he nearly hissed, when he saw that Pharazôn was opening his mouth. “You may think what you wish of me, but I am not going to sit idly while the future of Númenor is at stake. That is why I am here now, and I am ready to assume the role that you wish me to assume. If you want me to fight, I will fight. If you want my advice, you will have my advice. If you want to know my dreams, I will tell you about my dreams, and if you want me to do nothing at all, you can send me back to the Island.”

“Of course I can. And I will. I…” Pharazôn’s face was flushed, and yet his anger was starting to lose focus and escape his grasp, like a handful of foam in the surf would trickle away from his fingers when he was a child. That fool. That outrageous, reckless, stubborn fool. “For all these years, I believed that you had become a respectable grandfather, the lord of a domain, a wise councilman. But you are still the exact same fool who travelled to Middle-Earth for the first time, believing himself a hero!”

“Is it just me that you are describing?”

And now, he had even forgotten when to keep his mouth shut.

“Say one more word, and I swear by all my gods and yours that I will throw you overboard.”

Amandil did remain silent, but his look was one of satisfaction, and deep inside he seemed infuriatingly aware that he had won this battle. For a moment, Pharazôn thought he might still punch him in the gut, but he remembered the bruises he would have got when they threw him against the railing, and tried his best to persuade himself that they were an adequate substitute.

“Wash yourself and put on some proper clothes”, he spat. “You stink.”

Were they still the same fools? As he left the cabin and banged the door shut behind his back, Pharazôn was forced to ponder this humiliating question. Since they were children, they had both shared dreams of glorious battles, of defeating large armies and terrible mythical creatures. And as soon as they had the chance, they had sailed to the mainland to realize them. He remembered their first adventure in the desert roads of Harad: how their party had been ambushed by a band of Orcs who killed everybody except the two of them; how they had walked into a trap set by what looked like an innocent peasant family, and how they had survived by a combination of sheer luck and desperate resourcefulness. Back then, when the situation was dire, Amandil had spurred his horse against two Haradric warriors who came in pursuit, yelling at Pharazôn to leave and save himself. As he fought and killed the first of them, he had managed to get his reins tangled with the man’s saddle and fall to the ground, and if Pharazôn had even contemplated listening to him, he would be dead.

Now, however, everything was different. Pharazôn had been fighting and leading men in the mainland for longer than the lifespan of a lesser man. He had learned how to calculate the strengths and weakness of his enemies, the loyalty and deceit of his allies, and the adequate balance between the risks he could take and the prudence he must show. He knew how to prepare a campaign, how to gather intelligence, how to exploit his enemy’s openings, how to get men to follow him and die for his cause. He had come this far, and the foolish young man was nothing but a fond, yet slightly embarrassing memory of the past.

That was why talking to Amandil was so upsetting, he thought. He forced him to remember, to look back towards that past. Perhaps this could even be one of the reasons why he had tried to leave him behind and not involve him any further; because he could not afford to be distracted and confused by the remembrances of the Pharazôn he had once been. The more he thought about it, the more the rest seemed like a heap of bad excuses, reasonable but empty.

He was not a swollen-headed, pampered prince anymore. He was not a foolish would-be hero gallivanting across the Haradric countryside. He was Ar Pharazôn, the Golden King, and soon enough, the King of all Men. Amandil could act as an advisor, as the Lord of Andúnië and the only councilman to be present in the field of battle, but that would be the full extent of his interference. Pharazôn would not even waste his time trying to guess whether he had pulled this stunt because he, together with his father and their elusive Elf friends, remained bent on hindering his plans, or because he still saw himself as his oldest friend and believed that full unconditional trust was somehow his due. For those were idle thoughts, and they would not alter the outcome of the expedition.

He would defeat the Demon, he thought, and with him, the private demons that remained in his life would perish as well. And then, he would rise to meet his destiny.