Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Attack on Mordor I

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She never stood close to a stream of running water. Back when she was the Princess of the West, she had always avoided the Fountain Gardens of the Palace, which used to attract many ladies for their beauty, the cool shade they offered in the scorching heat of summer, and the pleasant sound of trickling drops acting like a protective frame for private conversations. And now that she was the Queen, the fountains had gone silent for ever.

Did she hate water because she thought that she could prevent fate merely by hiding away from it, as a child would hide under her covers to avoid gazing at the darkness that terrified her? Númendil stole a glance at the object of his elucubrations, who sat on an elaborately carved stone bench, gazing at the dry basin as if she had not noticed his presence. A gleam of sunlight trickled over her hair, but it did not succeed in wringing a lighter hue from the black strands. It was as if even the sun could not touch her.

“Lord Númendil, you may approach”, her voice addressed him. He walked a few steps until he was by her side, and bowed low. “Rise and sit by my side.”

Slowly, he obeyed, and took a seat on the opposite end of the bench. She seemed to find this distance satisfactory, for she said nothing else for a while.

“Can you still see them?” she suddenly asked. Númendil looked up, extricating himself from the maze of his thoughts.

“Yes”, he replied. With Ar Zimraphel pretending, be it out of deviousness or out of prudence, was useless. “I do. They have not yet moved under the Shadow, my Queen.”

“You did not think that this expedition was wise. And yet, you encouraged the Lord of Andúnië to join it, even against the King’s wishes. Do you think that he will be able to change the fate that you have foreseen?”

Those were dangerous waters. Númendil had no experience as a courtier in the Palace, and he had never learned how to lie, or dance circles around the truth. Even if the daughter of Tar Palantir had been a woman like all the others, he would have been at difficulty to answer this question.

“You are a man of great foresight, and yet you seem to think that you can pick and choose the answers to my queries”, she laughed. “But I will humour you, Lord Númendil, and allow you to say what you please.”

Númendil swallowed. For a moment, he was at the brink of wondering something about Ar Pharazôn, but he was swift to kill the thought before it emerged.

It did not matter. Nothing did.

“No, my lord, he does not fear this, because he embraced it long ago. That is why he became fearless”, she retorted. “That is why he became Ar Pharazôn.”

He was rarely afraid of anything, and yet he could not suppress a shiver.

“What you possess is a powerful brand of foresight indeed, my Queen. I cannot help but wonder…”

Ar Zimraphel frowned, her demeanour becoming as cold as ice.

“You still have not answered my question.”

Númendil sighed. He had no choice but to reply truthfully.

“My belief about the outcome of this expedition remains unchanged. A great evil will come from it, and this evil will one day doom Númenor. It may not seem so at first, for the King will achieve a great victory, and then it will seem as if the whole world was suddenly within our grasp. But as the High Priest says from his altar of fire, this pride will lead to our downfall.”

“The Faithful quoting the words of the High Priest of the god they most despise.” Ar Zimraphel laughed. “And yet, he also has the visions.”

“And you, my Queen?” Númendil could not resist. “You have the visions, and yet you, too, encouraged the King to set on this campaign. Do you see something that we do not?”

For a moment, he was afraid that Ar Zimraphel would be angry again. But if all, she seemed flattered by the hope that she must have detected in his tone.

“I see many things that you do not. I see many things that even your friends the Elves do not”, she said. Apparently, pride could still make her lower her defences. “If you did, you would be as mad as the late King Ar Sakalthôr, my great-grandfather. He could not bear to face the truth, and so he hid in the shadows forever, as you would if this knowledge had been your curse. I, however, will not do so. For I know it is no curse, lord Númendil; but a gift. Everybody else is taken by their fate, whether they want it or not, but I alone can choose mine.” Once again, her gaze turned away from him and back to the fountain whose flow had been quenched on her orders. “I can live my life exactly as I wish to live it, and no one may hinder me.”

Númendil had been disturbed quite a few times in his life. He remembered all the times when Azzibal of Sor had forced their family to attend the fire sacrifices of his household, back when they had been his prisoners. He also remembered when Amandil had told him the naked truth about his years in Middle-Earth, and when he had informed him of the King’s project to attack Mordor. Above all, he remembered the moment when he had realized he could never disclose the full truth about his fears to anyone, not even to his son. But this – somehow, it disturbed him even more than those memories.

“There is no truth, Lord Númendil, only a constant stream of change. Like with the Sea, you can either follow the current or try to swim against it, but if you do that, at some point your strength will be exhausted and you will inevitably drown.”

“It would still be better for me to drown, my Queen, than for each and every one of us to do so.” He was beginning to see clearly, now, though what he saw chilled him to the marrow. Perhaps she was right about something: hiding in the shadows and refusing to see the truth could seem like deliverance, and some would think it was worth it to forsake one’s sanity, or sacrifice other things which were even more important. “I do not believe my life to be above the lives of other men, whether they be beggars or kings.”

“Oh, but I think that your life is worth more than most, Lord Númendil. And so are the lives of your son and grandson.” Ar Zimraphel smiled, and for a moment there was a strange, terrible warmth in her expression. “Take comfort in that, for your loved ones are dear to us, too. The King shares a remarkable bond with the Lord of Andúnië, which many years of family feuds and the twists and turns of their respective fates could not manage to destroy. You know this, which is why you encouraged him to join the expedition, regardless of what you think of its outcome.”

Númendil shook his head, aghast.

“There are powers able to destroy anything that is good in this world, and it is not wise to underestimate them, my Queen.”

Ar Zimraphel’s agreeable mood dissipated at these words. Her brow creased in a frown, she stood on her feet, and he did the same at once, his head lowered in a bow.

“It is not wise to underestimate me, either. I thought that you knew this by now”, she said, in a cold voice. “You are dismissed, Lord Númendil. We will meet again at the next Council session.”

As he stood gazing at her retreating form, alone in the large expanse of the now silent Fountain Gardens, Númendil could not prevent himself from wondering if what he had seen was just an illusion, if there was a chance that the naked truth had not been revealed to him in those dark, unflinching eyes. Once he left the Palace, and returned to the Andúnië mansion, however, those thoughts left their place to other, even more worrisome ones, as he realized that he did not know which of those two options could have a more terrible outcome.

 

*     *     *     *     *   

 

In the long centuries since it had been built, the harbour of Umbar had never been made to withstand such an onslaught of traffic. Unable to find a place for all the ships which had sailed from the Island to bring soldiers to the Second Wall, the Umbarian authorities had been forced to order every other vessel removed. For as long as this campaign lasted, no fishermen would be allowed to bring their captures directly to the city, and no merchant ships could follow their accustomed trading routes. Small coves under the cliffsides of the rough coast near the Númenórean settlement had turned into impromptu harbours, but the difficulty of their access, and the long distances that the food and merchandise had to cover were a common subject of complaint in every house, street and marketplace of Umbar.

Down at the fields surrounding the Second Wall, things were more chaotic still. Though this town, originally but a misshapen blemish on the skin of the proud merchant city, had outgrown it long ago to become the real seat of power in the region, even the abode of the largest garrison of Númenórean soldiers in the world had been unable to absorb the impact of the latest arrivals. As a result, the newer soldiers, who had arrived from the Island and various Middle-Earth garrisons, had been forced to camp in the fields, harming and sometimes destroying the crops with their temporary settlements. Those flourishing at this time of the year, such as the fruit tree plantations, had been taken by assault and devoured by the newcomers, and the owners had withdrawn to their city houses, taking most of their slaves with them and contributing to the crowding of a city where supplies were already running low. The stream of complaints from the wronged parties had been flowing steadily since their arrival, and the King, who somehow still found the time to exhibit an evil streak of vindictiveness, had delegated on Amandil the duty of listening to them.

“I still fail to see the point in all this, my lord King” he complained for what seemed like the tenth time, his fist clenched over the wooden table of Pharazôn’s military council room. “My hands are tied, and there is nothing I can do to ease this situation.”

The King shrugged.

“Oh, but there is something you can do. You can listen to them, and they can vent their anger on you.” Some of the other occupants of the room smiled. To see Amandil at difficulty seemed to be one of their chief sources of entertainment while they prepared for war, he thought wryly.

“I keep telling them that they will be compensated after this is over, but not even this seems to bring them any satisfaction.”

“They hail from old lineages of merchants, of course it does not bring them any satisfaction. They will keep pressing and pressing, and if needed they will invent new grievances that will allow them to receive a larger amount. But once they realize they can have no more, they will take what is given and count their profits.”

“Well, I am no merchant, my lord King. I do not know how to haggle.”

When he saw some of the eyes around him widen, Amandil realized belatedly the implications that those words could have. He had not uttered them with that purpose in mind, but he did not feel like either explaining himself or apologizing.

“No, that is true”, Pharazôn nodded. “You belong to a noble family which knows little about engaging in useful pursuits.”

Amandil sighed inwardly. Of course, he had to come out on top, as he did in every single one of their petty battles. His behaviour had become so predictable that it did not even bother him any longer.

“And now that we are done with this matter, let us move to a more pressing subject”, the King continued after a brief moment of silence. “As you all know, the war preparations are now complete, which means that we are ready to march on Mordor.”

A murmur of excitement spread across the room, and even Amandil felt his heart leap with an emotion which he found hard to identify. He tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry.

“What is the plan, my lord King?” The commander of the garrison of Umbar, Balbazer, was the first to ask the question that was in everyone’s lips. As soon as he did so, all eyes became fixed on the King eagerly.

They all thought that the Golden King’s victory was a foregone conclusion, Amandil realized in surprise. Since he first set foot in this city, he had witnessed how his friend had grown from an untried but likeable young man, who demanded to live like his fellow soldiers and share every danger with them, into a beloved general, whom they would gladly follow to their deaths. And yet, he had also known the name of Mordor to hold a superstitious sway on their minds, and back when he fought in the mainland no one would have dared to speak openly of attacking the Dark Lord’s fortress. They believed him to be an evil god, and though his minions were mortal and could bleed at their hands, only a god had enough power to challenge another. They see him as a god, Elendil had written in one of his letters after the events in Pelargir, but until now, he had thought his son’s words to be a mere figure of speech.

“It is a very simple plan”, Pharazôn said. “We take all our ships and we ferry our troops to the bay of Belfalas. Two voyages will suffice. Once there, we take our ships and the barges of the Arnians and sail upriver. If my calculations do not fail me, on the third day we should disembark on the North, and from there we will march on Mordor.”

Balbazer started to smile, as if he thought that the King had just made a joke. When Ar Pharazôn did not laugh, however, it froze in his lips.

“I -I do not think I have quite understood, my lord King. We are going to attack him directly?” Now, that was more like the superstitious fear Amandil had perceived among the soldiers in the past. “Without any subterfuges, without military tactics?”

“Do you think that the Dark Lord of Mordor will fall for our subterfuges, that he will be baffled by our military tactics?” Pharazôn laughed mirthlessly. “You fools! You cannot outwit a demon!”

“Then, how….?”

“Our army is superior to his. That is not merely the greatest advantage we have, but also our only one.” Pharazôn’s glance shifted, and for a moment Amandil was surprised to see it fixed on him. “Tell them, lord Amandil. Tell them who Sauron really is.”

Amadil took a deep breath, feeling how everyone followed the King’s cue and started to look at him.

“According to the old lore, he is a spirit created before the world itself was made”, he spoke. His voice came out hoarse, probably because of the dry spell in his throat. “He was learned in the ways of evildoing when the race of Men did not yet tread the soil of Earth.”

“Exactly. He is all those things, and we cannot expect to deceive him, outwit him, or take him by surprise”, Pharazôn concluded. “And yet, we can defeat him. We will stand at his gates with the largest army to be gathered in thousands of years, and we will let his minions see us. When they become aware of what they are facing, they will know that it is folly to oppose the might of Númenor, and then they will revolt and desert him. Now, the closest pass out of Mordor lies in the border of Arne itself, a deep vale which gives the Arnian soldiers much trouble. They will escape through it.”

Amandil looked up.

“But then we will have to warn the Arnians so they can fortify the pass.”

Pharazôn shook his head. All of a sudden, his expression seemed devoid of any emotion, which struck the lord of Andúnië as ominous even before any words made it past his mouth.

“No. It will stay open, so they can desert freely. We are going to smoke out the vermin, and then, Mordor will be ripe for conquest.”

Slowly, the scope of the plan seemed to be sinking on the war commanders’s minds. A few of them looked at each other, exchanged whispers, and nodded. Others seemed to be pondering the difficulties, perhaps wondering if they could risk voicing their doubts, but none of them seemed to be thinking along with Amandil.

“Arne is an allied kingdom, and it is full of people. We cannot allow the Orcs, and the Men who are loyal to Sauron to enter Arne freely to burn and pillage as they please.”

“I was expecting you to raise this objection, Lord Amandil.” The King made a point of sighing in exasperation. “There is no need to concern yourself unduly. It will be but a temporary measure; once that Mordor lies defenceless, your dear son can set himself to destroy as many evil creatures as he wants.”

“By then, it might be too late!”

“There can be no victory as important as this without casualties, Lord Amandil. You should be content that they will not be Númenórean casualties, if all goes well.”

“Is that what my son should tell the people of Arne?” He tried to keep his voice even, but he was too angry to control it. “That they have to open their gates to the Enemy because they are not Númenóreans?”

“Your son can tell them whatever he wants. If I was in his place, I might do well to remind them that Arne has been living in the shadow of Mordor for centuries, and that they have never been even close to defeating it. Now they may be free of it at last, and receive the gift of peace, but no gain can be obtained without sacrifice.” Amandil saw that many were nodding along, and belatedly wondered why he was even shocked. Pharazôn disliked the nobles and courtiers of Armenelos because, at heart, he was not one of them, but he knew exactly how the soldiers thought. Amandil had also shared this knowledge once, even if he had endeavoured to forget it for the larger part of his life.

“Wise words, which apply to everyone except you, it seems!” Again, he was aware that he should be trying to restrain himself, but it was as if he had been possessed by a fell creature which spoke through his mouth. “You wish to rule the world, and yet you base all your triumphs and your gains on the sacrifice of others. Is this what your god has taught his faithful to do?”

“You go too far, Lord Amandil!” Balbazer stood on his feet, and only a gesture from Ar Pharazôn was able to prevent him from lunging at Amandil. In his face, however, he could see that he, too, was angry.

“Peace, all of you! It is not seemly to fight among ourselves in a war council!” he rebuked them. “Now, listen to me very carefully, for I do not wish to repeat myself. Tomorrow we will reassemble at this same hour to discuss the logistics of the sea journey. Meanwhile, you will go back to your postings, and tell your men to be ready. The departure will take place on the third day of the month, after we have conducted a sacrifice to the Lord of Battles with all due solemnity.”

“Hail the Lord of Battles!” someone chanted. “And hail his chosen one, King Ar Pharazôn!”

His ears still resounding with the echo of their answering chants, Amandil bowed curtly, and stormed out of the room.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Deep inside, Amandil had to admit that he had been half-expecting Pharazôn to come looking for him at some point. When it became clear that he would not, he sent for a basin of cold water and washed his face with it, slowly forcing the remaining anger away from every inch of his writhing insides. Once he was done, he critically stared at his image on the surface of the mirror, wondering if he could ever become that man who stared back at him in indifference, without betraying any of his weaknesses or emotions.

“I am here to advise you, for I do not believe this to be a good idea” he spoke to his reflection. “The results might be good on the short run, but on the long run we can have a full-scale rebellion in our hands. My son…”

He saw a flash of irony in the face staring at him from his mind’s eye, and the words died in his mouth. Muttering a curse, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and tried again.

” Please, do not do it. I beg it of you.”

The irony became incredulity, and he could almost swear he heard the ring of laughter in his ears. He tried to focus on the image in the mirror, only to realize that it did not look beseeching anymore, if it ever had. It looked fierce.

He could not do it. He wondered why he had even come here. More than ever, it seemed as if it had been nothing but a terrible mistake, to be blamed on his impulsiveness and his pride.

Pride. That was it. He had grown prideful in his later life, as the years of trying to survive by forcing himself to look down and pass unnoticed slowly turned into a distant memory. He had been given a mansion, a lordship, lands, a seat in the Council, and this had made him forget who he truly was: a man who could lose all that he had as easily as those barbarians from Arne, without any of the men who sat in the various councils he had attended even batting an eye over it. He had made himself believe that he could change things, perhaps to quench the residual guilt for disappointing his ancestors when he supported Pharazôn’s claim to the Sceptre. But, in the end, there was only so much he could do, and the thread of friendship that linked them together had already been stretched too thin.

It was pointless. Meaningless. And yet, he thought, he still was not allowed to surrender. He had to try, if only for the sake of his son.

When he announced himself, Pharazôn made him endure the further indignity of standing at his doorstep while he finished settling a number of important affairs with his aides and the General’s envoy. Amandil willed himself to stand still, and not betray his impatience either while he waited or after he was called in.

“I understand and appreciate your efforts on behalf of your son, Amandil, Really, I do”, the King’s voice greeted him even before he had crossed the threshold. “But before you start talking, you may wish to know something about him that I am now certain that you ignore.”

Of all the ways he had expected this conversation to begin, he had to admit that this was the last thing he had imagined. Surprised, he paused in his tracks, even as Pharazôn gestured at him to take a seat.

“Something about my son?” he inquired, stupidly. Wrongfooted again, he thought, biting back a curse. “And what could that be?”

Pharazôn’s hazel eyes gazed at him without blinking.

“That he is a traitor.”

Amandil felt his throat become dry again, as it had in the war council before. A part of him, the proud part, was urging him not to speak, for his voice would come out broken and undignified, but the impulse won.

“What do you mean, a traitor?” he asked. Was this how he intended to break Elendil’s resistance, by pressing false charges on him? Had he already travelled that far down the road to tyranny? “That is not true. He is loyal to the Sceptre. He has always been.”

“Not when I ordered him to surrender the Arnian military to the command of Lord Bodashtart, so I could deploy it in this war”, Pharazôn replied. “He was faced with discontent at this decision, for it was the belief of the Arnians that I intended to bereave them of their only protection, and that I would use them as disposable bait in my war. Which was a wrong assumption, given that I do not intend to play hide and seek with the Dark Lord, but I suppose that my reputation precedes me. In any case, he decided to give in to their demands and remain in charge of the Arnian armies himself, and he had the devious courage to claim that he had done so on my orders.”

For a while, Amandil could do nothing but stare. His mind, however, was racing furiously, trying to remember their last exchanges through the Seeing Stone before he set on this journey. He could not recall any conversation where Elendil had done as much as drop a hint about this. Either his son had tried to shield him by keeping him ignorant of the affair -which was a possibility-, or he had wished to escape his censure -a much rarer possibility-, or else, Pharazôn was lying. And yet, the lord of Andúnië had to admit that this sounded too much like something that Elendil might do, if he truly believed it necessary.

“Do not worry, I let it pass. He is your son, how could I not?”, Pharazôn continued. “But this is not a good situation for him to disobey orders again. I cannot ignore blatant rebellion twice, or the realm will descend into chaos. If he tries to oppose me this time, I will have no choice but to give Arne over to Bodashtart and bring Elendil back to Númenor for trial.”

So, Elendil had fallen right into the trap. Amandil could recognize it as a typical strategy which Pharazôn used in war: to bait the enemy with a false attack, while he kept a larger force hidden and ready to crush them as soon as they dropped their guard.

“I cannot speak for my son, for I knew nothing of this until now”. It was difficult to find the words, bur once that he began, he found that they came more easily than they had when he had been facing that mirror. “And yet, I can tell you that he has always been loyal to the Sceptre. If he did this, he must have felt that the kingdom of Arne was under serious threat of rebellion, and did his best to keep it loyal to Númenor without bringing harm upon your authority as King. Now, I fear that this threat may return, if your strategy brings chaos and destruction to the Arnian territory.”

“You do not seem to understand, and neither does your son.” Pharazôn sighed, as if he was talking to a halfwit. “I could not care less about rebellion. In fact, once I defeat Sauron, Arne will no longer have a reason to exist, as it used to be a buffer zone that prevented the Orcs from getting too close to the Númenórean settlements. If they give me a reason to conquer it right away and give it over to my veterans after the campaign, I will gladly take it. Your son, however, has come to think of the Arnians as his own subjects, and it seems that he even has succeeded in convincing you of it. I can indulge his idealism because he has not known them in the same circumstances as you and I did, but only to an extent.”

Amandil took a deep breath. Unbidden, memories came to his mind of the conversation they had held in the mountain passes of Forostar, over the Northern Lord’s dead body. Back then, Ar Pharazôn had not thought twice of waging war on Númenóreans, and he would think even less of waging it on the Arnians. All that mattered, all that had ever mattered, was his own glory.

On the other hand, Amandil had to admit that the King was not entirely wrong in his assessment of the barbarian kingdom. During his own lifetime, the Arnians had ranged from reluctant allies to enemies to reluctant allies again, and most Númenóreans would not trust them as far as they could throw them. Even Amandil himself had not forgotten the treachery of Prince Noxaris, which almost cost him his life and killed so many of his men. And yet, this grudge had not made him blind to the fact that there would also be many innocents among them, as there had been in Forostar, and that they would probably be the ones to take the brunt of Mordor’s advance. Elendil would have to take sides, and Amandil was suddenly terrified to contemplate which one he would choose.

“Do you trust me?”

“What?” Now, it was the King’s turn to look at him in surprise. “What kind of question is that?”

“Just answer it”, Amandil insisted, his look turning into a stubborn stare. “Do you trust me, or not?”

Pharazôn shrugged flippantly, though Amandil could tell that he was feeling uncomfortable.

“It depends. Trust you to do what? To follow me half across the world to hinder me at every step? Yes. To make a correct assessment of your son’s faults? No.”

He ignored the retort, too focused in what he was going to say next.

“And to leave Umbar tonight and sail to Belfalas ahead of you, to tell my son of your plans personally, so he can have some time to vacate the area West of the Vale and take its inhabitants to fortified places?” he retorted. “It would not interfere with your plans, and still it would minimize the worst of the impact.”

Pharazôn did not evidence his surprise a second time.

“In that case, you asked the wrong question. It should not be whether I trust you, but whether I trust your son with four, perhaps five extra days to plot something to defy me.”

“My son will do as I tell him” he retorted, the long overdue frustration finally emerging as an edge to his tone. “So, do you trust me, or not?”

“Interesting. You expect me to believe that he will do as you tell him, but he did not even do as the King of Númenor told him.” Pharazôn’s laugh was almost a bark. “A strong basis where to lay my trust, indeed!”

“When I was young, my father told me something. They were words that his father had once told him, and that his grandfather had once told his father. “Amandil crossed his arms over his chest. “We must obey the King who holds the Sceptre in Armenelos. And so we always have, and so we always shall, whether we agree with him or not, whether he believes us traitors or not. Against a world which sees us as disloyal and evil, we must endeavour to prove our loyalty no matter the cost. Now, I was not allowed to raise my own son, so perhaps he does not keep these words as close to his heart as the rest of our lineage, but I do, and I will remind him if necessary.”

For a while, it seemed as if he had finally managed to leave Pharazôn speechless. That illusion, however, did not last long.

“I do not hold the Sceptre, the Queen does. And I am not in Armenelos. But if you were intending to exploit this loophole, I suppose that you would have rephrased it. After all, you were raised in the Temple.”

“It is not an oath, so there is no need to concern oneself too much with the precision of terms.  And yet, I can assure you that I have always lived by it.”

“I see.” The King seemed to be pondering something. “And you would require, how many ships?”

“One. The fastest you can spare.”

“I suppose it would not be an insurmountable loss. And neither would you.” His eyes narrowed then, however, and the easy mood was gone. “You will tell your son that if he tries to be clever one more time, he will regret it. And that it is just as well that I cannot kill him, because dead men regret nothing, and he will. Tell him this.”

“He will be glad to hear from you”, Amandil replied, his flippancy as false as Pharazôn’s. “May I leave then, my lord King?”

“Yes”, Ar Pharazôn shrugged. “You may.”

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

It was a very late hour of the night, and yet he was fully awoken when they knocked at the door of his chambers. He had been finding it increasingly difficult to find the path of dreams in the last days, most of all since he received notice of the King’s arrival to Umbar. Though Ar Pharazôn had not sent any messages to him, from the Island or the mainland, and his leadership of the Arnian military had passed unchallenged, Elendil was aware, deep within, that the issue was far from resolved. He also knew that, whatever tactics the King decided to use for his campaign, it was geographically impossible to lead an assault of Mordor without involving Arne in it, whether he meant to use the Arnian troops or not. Every day, he prayed that they would only be required to provide passage for the greatest army to ever tread the soil of Middle-Earth, which would be difficult enough, but not to the extent of draining the morale or their resources of the kingdom of Arne. If Ar Pharazôn meant for the surrounding region to become a battlefield, however, there was no telling how such an ominous scenario might unfold.

“An emissary from the King in Umbar, my lord”, the voice spoke behind the door, first somewhat uncertainly, then gathering its resolve to grow louder. “My lord, an emissary from the King in Umbar is here. He wishes to speak with you at once. My lord…”

“I will be there shortly”, Elendil replied, before it could become a yell. Apparently satisfied, they retreated, and he left the bed to get dressed as fast as possible. Audiences with the King’s messengers, even if they came in the dead of the night, were a protocolary affair, and he could not appear before them in anything less than his best finery.

As he hurried down the hallway, courtiers and attendants trailing his footsteps, the turmoil in his mind was raging harder than ever. There it was, at last, the moment he had been fearing and anticipating for so long. The moment of truth, when he would have to face his fate.

When they entered the old audience room, however, and he had a look at the man who was standing there, his face unshaven and his cloak stained with what looked like mud splashes from the road, all those thoughts immediately died in shock at the sudden recognition.

“Father!” he cried. Amandil looked up from the seat he had been offered, close to the empty fireplace, and acknowledged him with a silent nod. Then, he made a gesture towards Elendil’s companions, who were also staring at him.

Slowly, Elendil regained his bearings.

“Leave us alone”, he told the others. As they filed away from the room, the sound of their footsteps reverberated eerily across the vaults where the Arnian kings had walked for centuries.

“Father”, he began when they were left alone, advancing towards him” Father, what…?”

“… am I doing here?” Amandil finished for him. He stood on his feet, but when Elendil tried to embrace him, he stepped back and shook his head. “I am here as the King’s emissary.”

His formality hid a deep worry, which Elendil could not fail to perceive. In growing uneasiness, he saw that his limbs were in an unusual state of tension, and that his grey eyes, so similar to Elendil’s own, were clouded. This put an end to the brief respite that his father’s presence had brought to his own concerns, and as he quickly pondered the implications of the visit, it even increased them.

“Then I will receive your message”, he said in his best ceremonial manner, bowing low. “What are the orders of Ar Pharazôn, Favourite of Melkor, and Protector of Númenor and its colonies?”

“The King will leave Umbar with his troops on the third day of the month, and ferry them to the Bay of Belfalas. Then, he will use his ships and the barges of the Arnians to sail upriver to the North of Arne, whence he will march to the Morannon to wage war on the Dark Lord Sauron”, Amandil spoke. There was no human inflection, no warmth whatsoever in his tone, and for a moment Elendil was reminded of the seers who took the sacred herb and claimed to speak with their god’s voice.

“I see.” It was better than he had expected. But in that case, it made no sense for his father to be acting like this. “And yet, I can also see that there is something else. Something that worries you.”

“You are perceptive, my son.” For a moment, he saw the first flicker of warmth in his father’s demeanour, but it was gone as soon as it had come. “This will not be pleasant to hear. The King wants to intimidate Sauron’s minions so they will desert their master. He will stand before the gates of the dark realm with his army and allow every Orc and every Man who wishes to do so to flee. So he orders you to leave the passes of the Vale open for this purpose. You are not to man its fortifications, set any vigilance or establish a garrison there.”

Now that he was presented with the full extent of the situation, Elendil could not blame his father for his aloofness. Weakened by shock himself, he could not refrain from breaking the protocol, as he needed to sit on the chair vacated by Amandil to prevent his legs from giving out.

Amandil followed his movements with his glance, but for a while he, too, said nothing. The resulting silence was deafening.

“I cannot do that, Father”, he said at last, unable to measure his words as carefully as he usually did. “I cannot.”

“And yet, you will”, Amandil answered, his tone almost savage now. “You will, because you have already defied the King once, and you cannot do so again.”

“He told you.” It was not a question, but a certainty. “The King told you.”

“Yes, the King told me how he had entrapped you.”

“Are you implying that he did it on purpose?”

“He might have.” Amandil shrugged. “I do not know. The mark of a truly brilliant strategist is that you can never be sure of whether he intended to create his opening since the beginning, or he merely seized an opportunity to turn defeat into victory. Perhaps he did not care for the Arnian army since the beginning, but he knew that you would feel forced to defend their interests and thus lay yourself open to his accusations. Perhaps he did care for it, but changed his strategy when you denied him, and now the new plan is better than the old.” He shook his head, as if suddenly aware that he was talking too much. “In any case, that does not matter now. What matters is the situation before us. You should not have defied the King the first time, and you cannot defy him again.”

“I am aware of that.” Elendil forced himself to stay calm. “And yet, there are more reasons to defy him now than there were before. He is ordering me to lay Arne open to the Enemy’s attack. No, not even the Enemy, but the Enemy’s former servants, who will roam lawlessly, caring for nothing but pillage and plunder! I would die before I…”

“You will not die.”, Amandil interrupted him. “As you know very well, you are protected by an oath.”

“That is…”

“You will not die”, his father repeated, as if he had not even heard him. “However, someone else will. You have a wife, you have children. Anárion is in Númenor now, cut away from you. If you have not understood that he is a hostage, then you still have much to learn.”

Elendil stared at him, speechless.

“His words were: You will tell your son that if he tries to be clever one more time, he will regret it. And that it is just as well that I cannot kill him, because dead men regret nothing, and he will. I trust you can solve the riddle, for your mind is as bright as mine, if not more.”

“It is hard to believe that a King of Númenor would behave in such a way, knowing that he will earn the deepest censure from his subjects.”

“The King is set to conquer Mordor. If he does it, and it is possible that he will, he will have no reason to care anymore about the censure of his subjects. His kingdom will stretch over a much larger territory, and Númenor will be little more than a province. If we do not agree with his policies, there will be others who will. In fact…” Amandil smiled, a bitter smile with no trace of real joy. “He told me, in no uncertain terms, that he would be glad of an excuse to conquer Arne and give it over to his veterans.”

Elendil remained seated, gazing into his hands, while his father began the familiar activity of pacing around the room.

“So, why were you sent here, Father?” he said, after a while of each of them engaging on their respective, listless pursuits. “Did he choose you for his own twisted amusement?”

Amandil stopped in his tracks.

“No, Elendil. I asked him to be sent ahead, so you would have time to prepare Arne for the invasion.”

“And yet, according to you, I cannot prepare Arne for the invasion.”

“Not in that way. But you can still save the people. You can have them leave their houses and their fields, and retreat to a safe place. It will not be for long: once that the campaign is over, you are allowed to intervene.”

“The crops will be destroyed. Many people will die of hunger. And what of the tribes? My authority, or that of Númenor, is still not respected among all of them; and if they refuse to be cooped in our fortifications, they will die as well.”

Amandil frowned.

“I will convince him to send you aid after this is over. And if I cannot, I will send you aid myself. Perhaps with some help from the Elves, who knows?” His smile was forced, and yet for the first time, it was not angry. “Do not despair. There are still things I can do, in Númenor and outside it.”

Elendil took a deep breath.

“At least you still seem to be able to convince him of some things.”

“Less and less at each passing day.” His footsteps stopped next to his son’s chair, and for the first time since his unexpected arrival, Elendil could feel his father’s touch on his shoulder. “I am sorry, Elendil. I do not know if you can ever forgive me.”

“Forgive you, Father? Why? You argued with the King and came all the way here for my sake!”

“And yet, before that, I helped him take the Sceptre.”

Elendil had not seen his father so genuinely remorseful since he had returned home after forty years of absence, and his wife confronted him with the truth he had been hiding from her. He had understood this feeling both times, and yet to be honest, he could not accept it.

“There is one thing that you used to say, which I thought very wise. For mortal men, the situation that is before them at each moment is the only reality they can grasp. Some may have a glimpse of the future in their dreams, but it is uncertain and shielded from the eyes of even the greatest seers” he said, wondering if Amandil was even listening. “Back then, you reacted to the situation before you, the only one that was real at the time. Now, and in the future, the King may do many things under the authority of the Sceptre that you helped him to seize, but they are his responsibility, not yours.”

Amandil sighed, his grip on his shoulder tightening for a while. Then, he shook his head, as if trying to dispel an invisible cloud.

“You remind me more of Father at each passing day”, he said. “I only hope that you are more of a man of action than he is, for this kingdom will have more need of such a person at present.”

“I will do my best”, Elendil willed his voice to sound firm. “But Father, I have not realized until now… you must be terribly tired! I will have accommodations prepared for you so you can sleep.”

“Never mind about that now.” Amandil shook his head, and walked towards one of the large windows of the hall. “Dawn is almost upon us, and we do not have a moment to waste.”

He gazed down again, at his long fingers stretching over his knees under a subdued light that still came only from the lamps lighted in the room. For a long while, the words did not come, no matter how he tried to force them out -until, suddenly, they did.

“Thank you, Father.”