Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Attack on Mordor II

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“Be welcome to the city of Arne. I hope you had a safe journey. Please wait here for a moment, soon we will be able to show you to your temporary accommodations.”

His words were met with silence at first, though as he set to read all the gazes which were fixed on him he could see many emotions written there. Some were confused and lost, standing in this large city they had never seen before and surrounded by so many people; others were simply listless, carrying bags with the possessions they had been able to carry or holding their young children as if they could slide away from their grasp at any moment. As for those who recognized him as a Númenórean figure of authority, however, fear and hostility seemed to be waging a fierce war in their countenances. He tried to remember Elendil’s words about Pharazôn’s actions not being his fault, but in this context even they felt like a hollow comfort.

“We have no more food”, a man informed him. “What we could carry lasted only for the journey.”

“Do not concern yourselves with that, you will be given food here”, he replied. That had been a battle to remember, he thought, his mind wandering back to the events of the last days. Ironic as it seemed, it had been easier to convince the peasants to leave their homes and fields than it had been to convince the nobles to open their granaries. “Now, if you please…”

“Maybe now we will. But what are we going to do if the crops are destroyed?” another man, a somewhat younger one who stood beside a woman who held a baby in her arms, asked loudly. “We might as well have stayed there and died quickly!”

The woman grabbed him by the arm, whispering something in his ear. She gazed at Amandil out of the corner of her eye, and he could detect that she was afraid. That seemed to be the main division in their ranks, he thought ruefully: those who were more afraid of the threat of Mordor that hung over their heads, and those who were more afraid of the Númenóreans.

“No one is going to die” he said, willing his voice and his countenance to be as reassuring and regal as he could make them. This was an ability of his lineage that he had not been able to cultivate in his youth, but once he was back in Andúnië he had grown fairly adept at it, though it would never come as naturally to him as it did to Pharazôn, who had sucked it in his mother’s milk. Then again, he would never trade the discomfort that gnawed at his insides for Pharazôn’s self-absorbed certainty. “After this is over, and the Dark Lord is defeated, you will be compensated for your generous sacrifice. The governor will see to that.”

At least no one challenged him openly this time. Trying to feel content enough with this, he sought beyond the throng, to the place where his grandson and Ashad’s son were dismounting from their horses. They seemed to be arguing about something, but at some point Isildur lifted his glance and saw him. Amandil gestured at him to approach.

“Is it true that you can defeat Sauron?”

Distracted as he was by his attempts to catch his grandson’s attention, the lord of Andúnië had failed to register the movements taking place in his immediate vicinity. Now, as he was jolted out of his other concerns by a high-pitched voice, he looked down, and noticed a young boy who was staring at him with eyes full of curiosity.

This one is not afraid of the Númenóreans, he thought. It was a welcome change, even though his innocent question awoke thoughts that he had been trying not to have since he embarked in this expedition.

“The King of Númenor is the greatest warrior in the world, and his army is the greatest army in the world”, he told the child. “You will be able to see them by yourself, when they sail upriver. If anyone can defeat Sauron, it is them.”

“Grandfather.” Isildur had approached him while he spoke, and was staring at both of them with a wry grin. When Amandil turned his attention towards him, his features went back to neutral, but not fast enough. Shaking his head, the lord of Andúnië smiled at the child, and laid an arm on Isildur’s shoulder to steer him away from the crowd. Malik followed them as well.

“I am at a loss to understand your ability to find humour in this situation”, he said, as soon as they were out of earshot. “Perhaps you are not tired enough after riding for three days and not sleeping for as many nights. If so, let me congratulate you on your endurance, for it is impressive.”

Isildur did not seem abashed.

“I am used to riding and spending sleepless nights. All the arguing and the promising and the threatening… sometimes it can be quite trying, I must admit.”

Amandil frowned. Sometimes, he could not help but harbour the thought that his grandson resembled Pharazôn a little in his attitude. Now, all of a sudden, this resemblance struck him as more ominous than ever.

“They are being forced to leave their homes, their fields, and all the things they rely upon for their livelihood and that of their children. We cannot expect them to be always reasonable about it, especially when it is us who are bringing this war to them.”

“That would be the King, not us.” Isildur sought Malik’s glance for support. “We were here, defending the frontier and minding our own business, while he sat in Umbar making grand plans which involved the destruction of everything we were risking our lives for. And no, Grandfather, there is nothing amusing about it, except that you would call a man who cannot even fight his own battles without involving innocent bystanders ‘the greatest warrior in the world’.”

Those were treasonous words, and yet, upon hearing them, Amandil’s bad mood improved a little.

“The will of the Sceptre binds all Númenóreans. The King’s policy is our policy, and his war is our war, so it is us who are bringing it to Arne, regardless of our personal feelings in this matter”, he rebuked him, perhaps more half-heartedly than he should. He had not planned on saying anything else, but after a brief pause, he found himself continuing his speech, in a lower, pensive tone. “And you should know that wars always have innocent victims. If you were in Númenor now, and the King came back victorious, would you spare a moment’s thought for the Arnians? If you were a soldier in his army, and you saw that your general’s strategy worked and your enemy was crushed without the ranks of your comrades dwindling around you, would you spare a moment’s thought for the Arnians? That is how it has been for thousands of years, and Ar Pharazôn knows it better than anyone, which is why I consider him the greatest warrior in the world.” He swallowed, wondering where those words were coming from, but unable to stop himself. “And yes, he has proved that he can defeat Sauron in battle, and I believe it is possible that he can do it in the Dark Lord’s territory as well as in our own. What concerns me is what will happen afterwards.”

“Afterwards?” By the looks in both their faces, Isildur and Malik did not seem to have given much thought to this. Amandil was on the brink of sharing his fears with them, but then thought better about it. This was not the place, nor the moment, to speculate about the future.

“You have to protect this kingdom and its people, no matter what happens”, he said instead, a new frown upon his face. “Now, all you have to do is keep them safe, but after the Orcs are destroyed and there is peace, we will have to make sure that help arrives. And that is why you cannot antagonize the King in any manner, within his earshot or outside it, for you never know who may be listening to your words. He has never cared much for Arne or the Arnians, but there are ties joining him to our family, and if these ties are broken there will be nothing to prevent him from leaving this people to their fate. Think about that.”

“So, that is why you pretend to get along with him. To give your people an advantage.”

Amandil was shocked at this crude statement, and yet there was no censure in Isildur’s tone or expression, only a relieved understanding - even, to his further surprise, an edge of admiration. It was so raw, so sincere, that he was shaken, and the angry words explaining why this was not true died on his lips. Because perhaps it should be true, he realized. Perhaps that Amandil would be a better lord of Andúnië, a better councilman of Númenor, and even a better man. For what did one person’s feelings matter, when weighed against the wellbeing of thousands?

“Oh, there you are! I thought you had been delayed!” a new voice shook him out of his present musings. Isildur’s eyes narrowed as they all turned towards Ilmarë, who walked towards them in the company of eight ladies from the Women’s Court. Though they were wearing the traditional veils, the folds were transparent enough for him to detect their discomfort and resentment for being forced to endure this indignity, even as they bowed in unison. “Greetings, Grandfather.”

“You are not supposed to be here. And least of all with these Arnians! You know very well that the courtiers will make a fuss about the impropriety, and…”

“Who cares about impropriety now? The city is swarming with refugees, the King’s army might arrive in a day or two, and the Orcs will soon follow.” Ilmarë argued, picking at her own veil with her thin, graceful fingers. “Besides, I am even wearing the veil!” She turned to Malik for support, and Amandil noticed that he nodded with a little too much enthusiasm at her words.

“See?” she smiled. “At least Malik can be relied upon to know what is important!”

Isildur looked at his friend crossly, muttering something about Malik knowing what was important for him. While he was speaking, however, he seemed to grow aware of Amandil’s ability to hear his words, and a look of alarm veiled his expression. For a moment, the lord of Andúnië could even have sworn that his cheeks had grown red, but then he regained his composure.

“Whatever you say. You are here now, so you might as well stop chattering and do your duty to this people. I hope there is still a corner we can fit them in.”

“Chattering? Look who is talking!” she snorted indignantly. “Of course there is room for them; while you were away we sent many of the earlier arrivals West, to the river port. But, where are the mountain tribes? I was looking forwards to catching a glimpse of them!”

The women closest to her gave her a scandalized look. It was plain that the Arnian ladies of the nobility did not share her curiosity for the appearance of the mountain savages.

Malik shrugged.

“They did not want to come.”

“But do not feel too sorry for them,” Isildur added swiftly. “It may well be that we will find many of them pillaging Arne before this is over. I was going to report this to you, Grandfather.”

Amandil had just been paying a passing attention to their words, too busy preventing his treacherous mind from distracting him with unseemly remembrances of old and withered Ashad, lying like a broken doll in the arms of a woman who still looked young. As soon as he was directly addressed, however, he nodded.

“I see. Well, I suppose this will mean more food for those who are here.” And more vanquished foes for Pharazôn’s great campaign, too. “Now, Isildur, you should go back and report to your father in the palace, and then have some rest, if it is possible.”

“I will, Grandfather. As soon as she is done”, he sighed, pointing with his chin towards where Ilmarë was addressing the refugees with what looked like her best impression of a military harangue, surrounded by her reluctant ladies. Amandil nodded.

“I will go first, then. But you have to rest, Isildur. That is an order. And you too, Malik.”

“Right, my lord”, the half-Haradrim nodded dryly, though with a slight, impish gleam in his dark eyes which belied his solemnity. “You can trust me to tie him to his bed if necessary.”

Doing an effort to smile back, and trying again to forget how much the young man looked like Ashad, Amandil took his leave from them, and headed back towards the palace.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The next day, a little before midday, the first ship was sighted by the lookouts. As everybody sought to man their posts and organize themselves at all speed amid the turmoil, it sailed past the Arnian harbour and headed North, followed by more and more ships and barges, until even the most persistent observers had lost count of the vessels passing before their eyes.

Amandil and Elendil had already made the preparations to ride towards the fortified port town as soon as they received the news, and the most important courtiers and Númenórean officials had been mobilized since the previous afternoon. As they took the winding path downhill towards the harbour, the lord of Andúnië was struck at his son’s terrible appearance. Elendil’s last four days had been more exhausting than those of anyone else in the entire kingdom, and if Amandil could, he would have told him to stay in the Palace now instead of riding off in full ceremony to meet the source of his problems, all while beside himself with worry over the possibility that some Arnian noble would be unable to restrain his fury in the King’s presence. In spite of his attempts to dress and look like a proud governor of Arne, his face was gaunt, and there were dark circles under his eyes from rising at dawn to coordinate the evacuation procedures with Amandil, and retiring long after midnight from closed rooms where he debated with the leaders of the Arnian military until his throat was raw and dry.

The lord of Andúnië had not been present in any of those meetings, as he was the King’s emissary, and his presence would have been perceived as a way to exert pressure and coercion over those talks, destroying what little Arnian goodwill still remained in the process. From what he knew, however, the arguments had been savage, sometimes little different from fights. In the end, Elendil had to swear that he would ride personally to defeat the Orcs as soon as Sauron surrendered, and that he would guarantee they received aid from the King afterwards. If Pharazôn refused to honour this oath, Amandil would have to find a way to do it himself, hopefully without attracting the wrath of the Sceptre.

Still, even if no lives were to be lost by the end of this, either from war or famine, the hit taken by Arnian pride would be hard to heal. If the Númenórean army was not so huge, or if Sauron had not been at his weakest, they would have been tempted to block the river and perhaps reach yet another agreement with the Dark Lord. With another governor of Bodashtart’s ilk, perhaps they would have attempted it anyway, and played into Pharazôn’s hands, but Amandil had to admit that Elendil’s reputation with the Arnians, in spite of all the difficulties, had surprised him and filled him with pride. As it turned out, to assume command of the Arnian army instead of Lord Bodashtart had not been such an empty gesture of defiance as it had seemed at first sight. Angry and rebellious as they were feeling towards Númenor and its Sceptre, they still respected Elendil, and did not doubt his oaths for a moment.

The strongest challenge, as always, had come from Maharis, a man both Pharazôn and Elendil had mentioned often enough in the past as for Amandil to feel as if he knew him personally. Today, he was not riding with them, for Elendil had left him in charge of guarding the Palace, a way to ensure that he would not be present in the meeting with the King without giving him the chance to take offense. Elendil was good at not offending people in general, except when he decided to disobey royal orders.

“Are you sure that he is going to stop, Father? Judging by the time lapse, he does not seem to have stopped even in Pelargir”, the subject of his musings asked, as they entered the town followed by a hundred Arnian nobles in their finery, and their colourful trail of attendants. They had been able to see the river from several stretches of the road, and every time, their eyes had fallen upon an interminable procession of ships and barges. None of those ships were the King’s, but Amandil knew that it would be in the rear, for Balbazer was in command of the vanguard.

“Yes, he will. He will wish to make sure that Arne is following his orders to the letter.”

“Well, perhaps he will get more than reassurance if he stays for too long”, Elendil replied, his frown deepening again. Amandil knew what he was thinking: beside the courtiers, the harbour town was packed with refugees from the Eastern countryside, and not even the full might of the Númenórean army might be able to intimidate them enough to prevent an anonymous act of defiance, which could in turn spark a riot.

“Do not worry, I do not think he will. He has bigger concerns at this moment than to provoke the Arnians”, Amandil replied, to reassure his son as much as to reassure himself.

As they reached the harbour and took positions, the ships continued sailing slowly before their eyes. Watching them glide past, one after another, with their white, red and yellow sails billowing in the wind, and the gleaming sunlight reflected off the steel armour, helmets and shields of the rows of soldiers standing on deck, the lord of Andúnië had a strange feeling of unreality. He had thoughts which suddenly seemed like waking dreams, where he saw the assembled might of Númenor sail towards a dark abyss which rose to swallow it whole.

Angry with himself, he blinked those visions away, trying to focus in his immediate surroundings. Many curious Arnians had left their houses and appointed refuges by now, and were trickling in towards the harbour in groups, quickly filling up all the remaining space. For now, Amandil and Elendil’s fears seemed to have proved unfounded, for they appeared to be too mesmerized by the interminable procession of ships as to show hostility.

“Sometimes”, Elendil broke the silence after what could have been an eternity, his voice hoarser than it had been when he left the Council room, “I forget about the power of Númenor.”

And by the looks of it, you are not the only one, Amandil thought wistfully, looking at the expressions of the noblemen who surrounded them.

“Perhaps we all needed the reminder”, he replied.

He did not know for how long they had been standing there when, at last, the King’s galley slowed down before their eyes. It was a larger ship than the others, so much that they were keeping a respectful distance from it to avoid a collision. Its sails were made of brilliant purple fabric, and the star of Númenor was embroidered in gold thread upon them. As the docking manoeuvres were slowly achieved, a gangplank was stretched out, and everyone around them stiffened visibly. A deep silence fell upon the crowd, and Amandil threw a quick glance in the direction of his son, only to see his hands clench over the reins of his horse until the knuckles became white.

A succession of Númenórean officers wearing rich, elaborate sets of armour, disembarked first, walking haughtily down the plank until they set foot on the stone harbour. Among them, Amandil could distinguish most of those who had composed the war council in Umbar. They all bowed curtly at both of them, and then formed ranks to receive the King. As each of them found their position, a trumpet rang in the clear sky, and Ar Pharazôn the Golden appeared over the railing.

Both Amandil and Elendil dismounted, and stepped forwards to receive him. The lord of Andúnië took a sharp breath when he saw the King’s figure walk towards them, at a brisk pace which somehow did not appear undignified, perhaps by the sheer force of the man’s confidence. He was clad in a silver steel armour with gold engravings, partially covered in a purple cloak which flapped in the breeze. A golden helmet, fashioned like a crown, seemed to match the metallic varnish of his skin under the rays of the midday sun, and Amandil became suddenly aware of how easy it was to see him with a stranger’s eyes, the eyes of the people who were gathered in this harbour and who had never seen the King of Númenor before, much less fought him, drank with him, quarrelled or laughed with him. Just like them, he could see him as this image of terrifying majesty, and feel his heart freeze in dread at the very thought of attracting his displeasure. His mind swarmed with images, which he believed long forgotten, of a small child who trembled under the cold gaze of a frightening King.

He forced them away, appalled. What was he doing? Ar Gimilzôr was long dead – dead and buried under the roots of the Meneltarma.

Pharazôn stopped next to them, and his eyes were not black, but as hazel as they had always been. When he set them on Amandil, the lord of Andúnië remembered himself.

“Hail Ar Pharazôn, Favourite of Melkor, Protector of Númenor, its colonies, and the kingdom of Arne!” he saluted, falling to his knees. Next to him, Elendil also went through the same motions.

“Rise, Lord Amandil, Lord Elendil”, Pharazôn said, with a smile. “I see you have been working hard in the last days.” His glance moved past them, briefly trailing over the assembled courtiers and military officers of Arne and then beyond, at the displaced peasants who stood beside the townsfolk. “Words are not enough to thank you for the great efforts you have made to safeguard the people of Arne. I am sure it has been very difficult to accept what was requested of you in this campaign, but I am certain that the outcome will compensate all those hardships. “His voice rose powerfully, and Amandil was sure that it must carry to the farthest edge of this open space. “For the Dark Lord Sauron, the ancestral enemy of Númenor and Arne, is about to be defeated at last. No longer will those mountains loom threateningly over your heads, dark with the promise of death and destruction! I pledge upon this sword, the greatest heirloom of Númenor since the Age of the Gods, that he will never harm you or your children ever again.”

Some segments of the crowd broke into scattered applause, enthusiastically followed by the most sycophantic of the Arnian courtiers, until almost everybody but the military officers followed suit. Bedazzled, Amandil realized that the sword in Pharazôn’s hand must be the fabled Aranrúth, a blade whose name he had heard in the old stories, but which he had never set eyes upon. The craftmanship was definitely Elvish, beyond the skill of any mortal man, Númenórean or otherwise.

He sought Elendil’s glance, but his son’s expression was so carefully neutral that Amandil knew his anger had to be quite strong at this moment. He could not blame him.

“See?” Pharazôn drew closer and pulled him into an embrace. As he did so, his voice was lowered until it almost became a whisper. “It was not that hard.”

Suddenly, Amandil could not believe he had been intimidated by this man, even for an instant of confusion. If it was not for the crowd, he could have punched him then and there.

“If Elendil had not sworn on his honour that Númenor will send relief in compensation for their destroyed crops, you might have found a very different welcome”, he hissed, while he threw an arm over the King’s shoulder and pretended to be speaking to him as an old friend. “And if Isildur and others had not ridden across the entire Eastern countryside evacuating villages, your own promises would be meaningless.”

The hazel eyes met his with a perfectly unfeigned look of serenity.

“And I appreciate all those efforts, my friend. You have laid an important groundwork for my victory, and for that I am thankful. Why! In the end, it was fortunate that you came, after all!” He turned towards Elendil, his lips curving into a grin. “And it was also fortunate that I changed my mind and let you remain at the head of the Arnian army. Who knows if Bodashtart would have been the equal to this task? He is loyal, but he never quite managed the subtle art of earning the respect of the people.”

Elendil bowed again, still with that carefully neutral expression.

“I am honoured to hear these words of praise from you, my lord King.”

“You have come such a long way! To think that, only a few years ago, you were asking me to appoint a more experienced man in your place to lead the vanguard of the army!” Pharazôn chuckled. Then, his expression sobered. “But I believe we have tarried enough in this excellent country, my lords. We must proceed North now, where our foe awaits us, and perhaps also our destiny. Lord Amandil, would you do me the pleasure of accompanying me to my ship? Believe it or not, you would have the King’s express invitation this time.”

Amandil gazed surreptitiously at Elendil. Though he had sailed to Middle-Earth to accompany the King in his campaign, now that he was faced with the decision of leaving his son alone in this difficult situation, it almost felt like irresponsibility to persevere in this plan. For a moment, he must have showed signs of hesitation, because Elendil himself stepped up.

“I wish you fair fortune and the help of the Valar in this greatest of enterprises, Father” he said, in a solemn voice. “Do not concern yourself with thoughts of us; for we, too, will do our duty and repay the King for his trust.”

Pharazôn answered the bow with a nod of his own, and grabbed the lord of Andúnië by the arm. The trumpets played again, and Elendil fell on his knees, followed by the entire party behind them.

As he stood on the prow of the great ship, the last thing that Amandil was able to see before the docks disappeared in the distance was his son’s silhouette, almost incongruously tall against his background, and looking strangely alone among the Arnian crowd.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The rest of the journey went by slowly. Ahead of them, the fleet’s momentum was dragging to a halt as they presumably manoeuvred to find space to dock and disembark in such great numbers. Pharazôn, who disliked inactivity, had soon disappeared downstairs to discuss something over one of his maps, but Amandil remained on the eerily silent deck, leaning on the railing while he watched the shadows lengthen over the mountain range that divided the North of Arne from Sauron’s land.

He had been this far upriver only once before, though not on a ship, but riding through the path of the forest which lay somewhere West of their current location. There, he and his men had been betrayed by the Prince Noxaris, and ambushed by an army of Orcs who managed to kill most of their party. The desperate bid for escape after surviving this massacre, lost in a hostile land, had been the last time that Amandil had felt close enough to death as to be able to brush it with his fingers. At some point, it had seemed to him as if his body and mind had merely been animated by the awareness of his duty to bear testimony of the treachery of their allies and the Merchant Princes of Gadir, no matter how painful it was to go on, leaving a trail of corpses of those he could not save in his wake. And if they had not been able to capture the barges of those villagers, his own bones might still be lying upon this countryside.

Today, they had crossed at least four villages upon the riverbank, each with a small harbour full of barges, where the Arnians stood to watch them pass with a wide-eyed look of the purest awe. Amandil, however, had not been able to recognize the one he had attacked back then, and he imagined that his memories had somehow become clouded by the frenzy and desperation of that moment. Devoid of this immediacy, the thin line between life and death blurred away by time, the peaceful villages he saw now could never have resembled that one, where villagers screamed and soldiers toppled piles of crates in search for food and dragged their wounded comrades on deck. In fact, the more he tried to think of it while he stood on the prow of the royal ship of the mighty Númenórean warfleet, surrounded by ships full of soldiers as far as his eyes could see, the more he was seized by an arrogant feeling of invulnerability which banished those memories of past helplessness from his mind, until he found himself wondering if they had even happened. No matter how hard he tried to recapture them by seeking the scenario of his defeat and flight, by staring at the sombre peaks which had once frightened him as he came under the shadow of Mordor, it was no longer there.

Perhaps this is what happened to Pharazôn, he thought. In appearance, the Pharazôn of their youth had been generous in risking his life to the point of temerity, and there was no indication that he had abandoned this trait in later years. In the Arnian war, when he already was Tar Palantir’s legate, reports told that he had stood alone against the wraith, and when he was sent to break the siege of Pelargir he had taken upon himself the task of going behind the enemy lines, while Elendil was left to act as a distraction. But Amandil did not believe that his friend had truly believed, at any of those times, that he could die. The first time they met, in the gardens of the Temple of Melkor in Armenelos, he had boasted to Amandil that his mother had foreseen his defeat of Sauron. Then, as it appeared, the Princess of the South’s gift had left its place to that of Tar Palantir’s daughter, whose greater powers had cocooned him into a much stronger feeling of predestination than before. The prophecies were coming true: he had survived near-death situations miraculously, defeated the Nazgûl, reconquered Arne, and now, he had even seized the Sceptre his mother had promised to him while she rocked him asleep in his cradle. With this formidable shield of foresight, how could he not feel like Amandil did now, protected by the full might of the Númenórean fleet from the hostility and dangers of his environment? No, he corrected himself, that was not even an adequate comparison, for what was a mere accumulation of armed soldiers before the protection of Heaven itself, of the power of its gods bent upon blessing every step of the mortal they had chosen?

Once, in those dark years between the accession of his uncle and his first Arnian victory, Pharazôn had experienced raw doubt, the agonizing confusion of watching his glorious destiny trickle away from his grasp like water. Amandil had been aware of this, and his heart had gone out to his friend. Now that he remembered it, he realized that it was the only time that they had been true equals, the only time that Pharazôn had faced life with the same courage as the rest of them, battling uncertainty at every step. If only he could remember this, if he could go back to where his mind had been back then, he might understand Amandil’s position, Elendil’s struggles with the Arnian people, and Númendil’s concerns. But he could not, and trying to do it might prove even harder for him than it was for Amandil to recall that fated expedition of over sixty years ago.

This train of thought, instead of further resentment, somehow managed to calm the quiet anger he had been feeling for the last days. It was a strange brand of comfort, to weather the fury of the storm while knowing that the clouded sky, the heavy rain, the turbulent Sea and the raging gale did not have the ability to be anything else than what they were. Probably hollow, to an extent, and perhaps even delusional, for what was the difference between believing that Pharazôn could be nothing else than what he was, and believing the same of Sauron, or Morgoth himself? For they, more than any of them, had a separate fate from the Children of Ilúvatar since their creation, and no obligation to understand or share in their pitiful struggles. And yet, the harm they had wrought on the world was no less devastating for it, and their share of the blame a merely academic question, left to people like Númendil or Palantir to ponder. Amandil had never cared much for such elucubrations, but there he was now, employing a similar reasoning to absolve Pharazôn from his sins, and himself in the process for his inability to put a stop to them.

Human weakness, he thought, with a wry grimace. For Sauron or Morgoth had never been his friends, and he had never needed to justify himself for standing by them in their endeavours. He had never felt guilty for this complicity, even in the face of his own family’s well-earned anger, or pitifully sought for excuses to forgive them. And even with the knowledge of how foolish he was being, he was still here, sailing towards the gates of the abyss in Ar Pharazôn’s company, not to hinder him or curry favour with the Sceptre, but because he would not be left behind.

“Still busy having doubts for the both of us?” a teasing voice interrupted this self-deprecating train of thought. He stiffened, wondering how Pharazôn would react if he were to reveal the nature of his musings to him. “Do not be concerned about your son. I am confident in his abilities, and I know that he will manage.”

“The Orcs and the Arnians, I am sure.” You, I am not so sure. The unfinished sentence was louder in the momentary silence than it would have been if he had spoken the words aloud.

“I am not your son’s enemy. I wish him well, and I always have. But he needs to learn when it is time to discard his own judgement and follow orders. He is in Arne as a governor sent from Númenor, not as their king, and the interests of Arne cannot prevail in his mind over those of the Island.”

“That is why governors are so hated by their people”, Amandil could not prevent himself from replying. Pharazôn merely shrugged.

“So, what if they are? There are those who hate me, too, even in Númenor itself. You will not see me lose a single night’s sleep over this, or I would die from sheer exhaustion.”

“That is what Sauron’s name means, in Elvish. Did you know? The Hated One.”

This did give the King some pause. He stared at Amandil, coldly.

“You are right. What does it matter to the Arnians if I am their King or if Sauron is? Which is interesting, as I was under the impression that your son had sworn upon his honour that I would send them relief from the Island after this is over. If he does not expect me to do it, who will? Perhaps the Elves? But that would be treason, would it not?”

“I will.” Amandil retorted. “Andúnië is rich, and after this war is over, I am sure that there will no longer be need for such heavy taxes.”

Pharazôn sighed in irritation, a sound that reminded Amandil of more carefree times in the past, when their arguments were about inconsequential things, and their disagreements ended around a jar of wine.

“You stubborn fool! If I was Sauron, would you even notice the difference? What I was trying to say is that I will honour his agreement, but if you feel happier reducing your own family to poverty, by any means, do not let me stop you.”

Amandil fell silent, abandoning the retort already building in his mind about the need to excuse him for not recognizing favours under such haughty wordings. At the end of the day, Ar Pharazôn was still the King of Númenor, and the lord of Andúnië had gone already as far as he could go.

“I apologize, my lord King”, he said, formally. “Please allow me to thank you on my son’s behalf.”

Pharazôn shook his head.

“Keep your gratitude. I prefer not to lose hope that one day, he may even learn to ask for things through the proper channels.”

That is what Tar Palantir could never stand about you, Amandil thought, though these words, too, remained unspoken. A large territory could not be ruled from the Palace of Armenelos, and as much as the Kings of Númenor might resent this fact, men in charge of difficult situations were forced to make their own decisions all the time. All the same, Pharazôn had gone as far as to threaten Anárion to force Elendil to comply, and even if he chose to act as if this had never happened, he knew perfectly well that the governor of Arne would remember, and think twice before doing anything of the sort again. That was why he could afford to be so magnanimous and understanding now.

At that moment, someone shouted at the other side of the ship, and Amandil instinctively craned his neck to look in that direction. Ahead of them, the river widened abruptly, and in its middle an island, which was roughly the shape of a very large ship, was overrun by line after line of smaller vessels, filling all the available space between the long stretch of its coast and the river’s Eastern bank. There, under Bazerbal’s directions, a provisional encampment was already being built, the radiant white of its tents appearing to stand in open challenge of the darkness ahead.

“There it is.” A gleam of excitement had appeared in Pharazôn’s eyes, as he, too, gazed in their direction. “The most powerful army in the world, now finally ready to show its true worth. Do you still think that we can lose this war, Amandil?”

“I did not say that”, he protested. “I, and my father, have merely advised you not to underestimate Sauron, for this is not the only time that someone has faced him with a greater army.”

“Oh, yes. Your father’s stories about how he deceived the Baalim and the Elves.” Pharazôn laughed. “Do not concern yourself over it, my friend. I may be but a mortal, but I also have the ability to learn from my predecessors.”

Amandil frowned.

“May I ask you a question, then?” It was not often that Pharazôn allowed the conversation to veer so closely to the centre of what had been Amandil’s deepest worries since his father, first, and then Yehimelkor, had put the idea inside his mind. “You are very certain that Sauron is not trying to lure us into a false sense of security to slaughter us, that he really is weak. So, let us imagine that everything goes according to your plan and he surrenders to you, swearing that he will not rise in arms against Númenor or its allies again. How can you be sure that you will be able to withstand his powers of persuasion, the powers of an immortal, if he should direct them against you? How can you know that you will remain yourself once that he has you under his spell? And, even if you should stand firmly against his attempts at deceit, what then? He is not King Xaron of Arne, and you cannot behead him. There is no exile, no prison, which can hold him for long. Will you pretend that a temporary win is the same as a definitive victory, and if so, what will be the price for our descendants, lured into a false sense of security? I am not the only one who has a dream where our Island is destroyed. What if challenging Sauron directly is a catalyst for this catastrophe?”

Now, he was sure that he had gone too far, but he did not care. He had been allowed to join the expedition as an advisor, and though his advice may be as unwelcome as that of a Haradric seer babbling about his prophecies of doom, he would give it. And, more than anything else, he wanted an answer for himself.

Pharazôn gave him a long, solemn glance. In it, Amandil could detect no trace of doubt, dismay, or any other sort of reaction a man might show when confronted with something he had not previously considered. About to open his mouth again, he paused when, suddenly, his friend grabbed his shoulder in a tight grip.

“Do not worry, Amandil. All you have to do is trust me. I hope this does not prove too hard for you.”

And with this, the King of Númenor turned away from him and departed, before the lord of Andúnië could manage to utter another word.