Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Aftermath

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The day after Sauron surrendered, half of the Númenórean host broke camp, and boarded their ships to return South. The remaining soldiers were left under the command of Bazerbal’s Vice-General, Belzamer, with orders to secure all the Enemy’s fortresses and kill those of his servants who had not fled. This was a slight divergence from the original plan, for Pharazôn had been intending to see to this task himself, and destroy the greatest symbol of the Enemy’s power, the Tower of Barad-dûr. Still, when he had seen the Dark Lord kneeling at his feet, he had come to realize the futility of it. For the Black Tower was but the symbol of a power who did not dwell there anymore, an empty shell devoid of its former menace. What had made Mordor into a name of dread was not its fortifications, its hordes of Orcs, or even the clouds hanging perpetually over its formidable mountains, but the creature who had wrought it all in an attempt to destroy the Númenóreans. The land’s defences still had to be dismantled, and the survivors had to be prevented from seeking refuge there and turning into dangerous bands of outlaws which could terrorize the surrounding area, but aside from that, he had no further interest in Mordor.

Bazerbal, on his part, thought that it was an excellent idea to return to Umbar quickly. Though he had soldiered on loyally for the whole campaign, Pharazôn knew that he was secretly pained about leaving the Second Wall so sparsely manned, and worried about what some of the tribes could do in his absence. Belzamer, on the other hand, had reacted bravely to his orders, as though remaining in this terrible place and going deeper into it was an honour instead of a daunting prospect. None of his captains or his men had voiced a single complaint, either, before starting their preparations to march. Everyone seemed so elated, so exuberant after witnessing last night’s events, that it was as if they had found some inner strength in themselves that they did not know they possessed, compelling them to rise above their petty human emotions and be worthy of belonging to the greatest empire in the world.

Everyone but one.

In the last days, Pharazôn had been feeling more and more exasperated by the lord of Andúnië’s attitude. After that stunt on the ship, and the events in Arne, he had been glad to give his oldest friend the benefit of the doubt and rely on his support, no matter how grudging it could sometimes be. But then, they had set camp before the Black Gate, and the dreams had started. Those wretched visions had awoken Amandil’s fears once again, and his distrust of Pharazôn’s actions had returned in full force. Pharazôn did not want to admit this either, but the fell wind that blew in his face every dark morning, as he awoke from long and restless nights where wine was the only pathway to sleep, had made him quick to anger, and more loath to being questioned or doubted than he ever remembered being. He had felt drawn into a battle of wills, the greatest battle of wills of his lifetime, and in his blackest hours he had seen the abyss before his eyes, where he would take Númenor with him if he were to make a wrong move. In this context, Amandil had been determined to make him question everything: his strategy as well as that of his enemy, his thoughts, his reactions, even his ability to remain himself, causing his composure to fray even more around the edges. A part of Pharazôn had thought him merely oblivious to the struggles which were unfolding before his eyes, and he had done his best to suppress his suspicious side, the one that whispered that he was not as oblivious as he appeared, and that he, too, was preying on his weakness to break his will.

Now, that battle had ended in victory, as all the others he had ever fought. As he had proved he was able to stare at his enemy in the face and remain himself, that Sauron could not ensnare him into abandoning his own judgement, Pharazôn had thought that Amandil would have to admit that his fears had been groundless. But this had not only not happened: the wretched man had remained as troubled as before, and though he had not been able to speak of it openly, he was clearly not pleased with the idea of taking Sauron prisoner to Númenor, or with the orders for their quick departure. This infuriated Pharazôn, as to him, that attitude made even less sense than the previous one. Amandil had been the one who had cautioned him against believing in Sauron’s oaths, and he had not believed them, which was why he had not let him remain in his own kingdom. As for the order to leave, it was also Amandil who had been worried about the people of Arne, and surely he could not have forgotten that the fate of that country hinged on the speed of this campaign’s resolution.

“I should have left you there” he said, his tone deceptively calm as he leaned on the railing. As the mountains receded in the distance, he noticed that breathing had suddenly become easier, though he did not remember feeling suffocated while they were in the camp. “Even this morning, I was thinking of having you take Belzamer’s place.”

“Do I have to thank you for your magnanimous generosity?” Amandil replied, with an edge of sarcasm that was not as hidden as it used to be. In spite of all his poorly thought words, he had not seemed to be actively trying to provoke him while they were still in Mordor, but now there was no other way to read his attitude.

“Why are you in a foul mood?” Pharazôn asked, tired of pretending. “Everything happened as you wished it to happen. We successfully challenged the might of Mordor, Sauron surrendered, and he has not ensnared or deceived me. By the King of Armenelos, Amandil, just close your eyes and try to imagine the future for a moment! Our greatest foe is gone. The power behind every major insurrection we have fought in our lifetime is no more. No longer will our colonists, our allies, need to look towards the horizon in fear, alert for signs of the enemy. Did I not tell you that this would be the outcome, that the prophecies did not lie, that I was destined to do this since I was born? To bring our Island to its highest peak of greatness in three thousand years?” It was much easier to feel the truth in those words, warm and powerful in his chest after he had seen the Dark Lord kneel to him. “Or what is it that you do not like? Do you, perhaps, believe that we should have remained in fear of Mordor for three thousand years more, treading cautiously upon the soil of the mainland because of a demon who cowardly hides in his tower while he sends army after army of dark creatures against us, and persuades the barbarians to make war on us? Or do you believe, as your Revered Father does, that we should abandon all our possessions in Middle Earth and leave millions of people to die?”

Amandil’s forehead was creased in a frown, as if he remained too deep in thought to pay much attention to Pharazôn’s tirade. Still, despite the appearances, he had been listening to it quite closely.

“You know, as well as I do, that Sauron did not make the barbarians hate us, and that this hatred will not disappear with him. If all, they will hate us more, because our claim to protect them from a darker power than ourselves is now gone.”

“It is gone because I destroyed it. How could they ever hope to defy the man who defeated Sauron?”

Amandil shrugged.

“They cannot hope to defy you successfully, but unless you could exterminate them all and turn Middle-Earth into a barren wasteland, they will do it still. And when they do, more Númenóreans will die in the process.”

The anger was becoming too difficult to hide behind a casual tone.

“Do you truly derive pleasure from that thought? Or are you merely pretending in an attempt to spoil my victory? Sauron is defeated, and all you can think about is the possibility of revolt by a bunch of backwater barbarians?”

“No. I am merely replying to your words.” For a moment, Amandil’s glance became so intense that it even gave him pause. “All I can think about is that Sauron is still here.”

“What?” Pharazôn snorted. “In the hold in chains, you mean?”

The lord of Andúnië did not seem tempted to join in the amusement.

“At this moment, yes. Soon, he will be in Arne, in Pelargir, in Sor, and then in Armenelos. Wherever you go, he will go. And what he could not achieve yesterday, he will have years to achieve.”

Now, this was unbelievable. That man was unbelievable. Pharazôn had always known of his old friend’s stubbornness, but this was somehow beyond it, beyond any conceivable human limits. At that moment, it was all he could do to bring some semblance of order to the turmoil of his emotions. For all he felt like saying or, indeed, doing to the man before him would be below his dignity as King, and there were many eyes on this ship.

“Are you implying that this will never end, Amandil?” he asked. His voice came out with a strange quality, which surprised even himself. “That you will remain suspicious for the rest of your life, watching over my movements as if I was the enemy, questioning all my decisions, because you believe I can be ensnared at any time by the words of a war prisoner?”

Amandil did not answer. This sudden silence could be interpreted in many ways, but to him, it felt as damning as if he had said “yes” to his face.

“In that case, I believe the logical conclusion is that you and I should cease working together. For you would only interfere with my endeavours, and a King should not be hindered by those who are meant to help him.”

He could detect a slight pallor in the Andúnië lord’s cheeks, but there was no other hint of a strong emotion he could find.

“Do you wish me to resign from the Council?”

“What? Of course not! Being on good terms with the King has never been a requisite to be part of the Council. In fact, I believe it was created with the express purpose of keeping one’s enemies closer.”  Pharazôn was serene as he said those words, but, in truth, he felt as if the solid deck of the ship was cracking open under his feet. “And it would be too much to expect that anyone will notice a significant change in your attitude.”

Now, however, what they see will be the only truth, were the words that remained unsaid. As if it was a memory from a different life, he remembered that day when they had clashed in the Council about Pharazôn’s measures to mobilize resources for his secret war project. Amandil’s persistence to get to the bottom of it had left him with no choice but to deliver one of the cheapest attacks he could think of: to cast aspersions on the lord of Andúnië’s leadership during that disastrous Arnian expedition. That day, for hours after the session ended, he had been restless, strangely unable to string his thoughts together, and feeling his temper rise at the slightest disturbance. Until then, he had been trying to stick to the resolution that the most prudent and detached part of himself had reached, to trust no one and keep the treacherous nobility of the Island at arm’s length, only involving them in his plans when it became absolutely necessary. In the end, however, it was his worst side which emerged victorious, the sweet voice telling him what he wanted to hear. Amandil had always been his friend, he could be trusted, he was in possession of insights which could be necessary for the development of his enterprise, and besides he was so close to guessing it for himself that it might be wise to silence him before it was too late. It was not wrong to pay him a visit in the Andúnië mansion, to leave the Palace in disguise, like an outlaw who could not afford to be recognized, and have a honest conversation over a jar of wine as they used to do in the past, before the Sceptre came between them. He had given in to this temptation, and now, at last, he could regain enough clarity as to realize how much of a mistake it had been.

He was the King. He had no friends.

“For whatever it may be worth, my lord King, I have always had the best interests of Númenor and the Sceptre in mind.” Amandil’s voice was firm, much firmer than his might be if he had been the one to speak, though his eyes were sad. “And I always will.”

Pharazôn pretended to lean over the railing, his gaze lost in some distant point of the landscape.

“I know.” It might seem like a declaration of loyalty, but it was not. It was not enough to be loyal to the Sceptre if you were not ready to trust the person who wielded it. That small discrepancy between symbol and person might appear unimportant to some, and yet it made all the difference in the world. “I will need you to meet me on deck before we dock in Arne.”

Understanding this as a dismissal, Amandil bowed and left. As he did so, Pharazôn realized that his knuckles had turned white over the knotted wood of the railing, though he was unaware of having applied any undue pressure. He cursed, trying to stare again at the shifting horizon, but he had forgotten what he was supposed to be looking at in the first place.

You are wrong, Amandil, you fool. I do not know what you see in this fiend, but he will never have the best of me. Fuelled by the embers of his outrage, he set his mind to work, gathering and examining his memories of the previous day, every image, sound, smell, thought and sensation. The demon had ridden towards them under the guise of a mortal; a fair, radiant form designed to have him appear friendly and harmless before his enemies. His hair had been golden, and his eyes a haunting shade of blue. A lesser man who knew Sauron’s past actions less well might have been deceived by these appearances, but he knew what this being was capable of, he had seen men, women and children slaughtered by his Orcs and his foul allies, and had experienced his treachery in many campaigns. That was why he had seen the cunning, the furious calculation behind those eyes. And then, his fears had disappeared like the mist before a strong morning sun, because if the Lord of Mordor had been able to make him see what he wanted, he would certainly never have chosen to let him see this. And he had gone as far as to believe that Amandil would share in this realization, that he would be reassured….

His turmoil magnified even further by this new reminder of the person who had caused it, Pharazôn was thrown into a renewed burst of activity. Belatedly, he noticed that his feet were taking him across the deck, past his aides who called after him, and sailors who hurried to bow at his already retreating form. He reached the stairs and took them, one flight after another, until he found himself at the lowest level.

“My… my lord King”, the chief guard stammered, his low bow unable to hide his surprise at seeing him there.

“Out of my way”, Pharazôn ordered. As he crossed the last threshold of that hellhole, he encountered four more guards, who had been huddling over a lamp until they heard him come. “And you, wait outside.”

They did not need to be told twice, and filed past him one after another, leaving the lamp behind them. It took his eyes long to become accustomed to its faint gleam, but, once they did, he could see the outline of the silhouette sitting at the opposite end of the cavernous room.

As he approached it, he could hear the rattle of chains, which told him that Sauron must have made at least an attempt to move towards him as well. Taking a sharp breath, he used the lamp to light the prisoner’s features. To his slight surprise, Sauron did not flinch from it, or even blink, but gazed back at it with an unmoving stare.

“Not as human as you pretend to be, are you? You still need to work on a few details”, he snorted.

“The King of Númenor”, the fiend greeted him, with that beautiful voice he had adopted to match the body. “You honour me with your visit.”

“I fail to see any honour in your situation”, Pharazôn spat. “Tomorrow we will land in Arne, a kingdom which, even in its short history, has suffered the downsides of having you as a neighbour so often that their children are taught to use your name as a curse. I am sure that to see you displayed in chains will comfort them for their recent hardships.”

“Hardships which I did not cause” the wretched creature replied. Feeling angry enough as to let go of his remaining prudence, Pharazôn bridged the remaining distance between them and dealt him a blow across the face.

He did not know what he had been expecting, but he found himself letting go of a breath he had not known he was holding when his knuckles met human flesh. Both the feel and the sound of the impact were loud and oddly satisfying.

Sauron’s form remained bowed for a while, then, slowly, he struggled back to his previous position, spitting a mouthful of blood. As he came back under the glow of the lamp, Pharazôn realized that his lip had been split, marring the perfect symmetry of his features.

“That looks inconvenient”, he said. “You should heal it. For this is not your body, is it? It is just a raiment that you wear, and you can alter it at will.”

For a moment, he had a feeling that Sauron wanted to glare at him in hatred, and silently dared him to do it. The prisoner, however, did not rise to the provocation, and lowered his eyes instead, to gaze at his own knees.

“Perhaps”, he said, in a low voice. “But then, I would rob you of your satisfaction.”

“Do it.” Pharazôn hissed. “I wish to see it.”

Sauron did not answer, or move, and so he struck him again. This blow was even stronger, and it took him longer to recover from it.

“I say, do it!”

Sauron spat the blood again.

“I cannot”, he muttered. His voice was so low, that Pharazôn had some difficulty to catch the words.

“You lie. You lie as easily as you breathe.”

This time, the hatred rose much closer to the surface.

“And why would I? What interest could I possibly have in keeping bruises I could heal?”

In his mind’s eye, Pharazôn was suddenly able to see Amandil snorting.

“An interest in trying to make me lower my guard, maybe. But if that is your purpose, you will not achieve it. I will not relax my vigilance for a single moment, and least of all while we still remain in Middle-Earth. I believe you capable of trying anything, save for meeting me in battle and defeating me honourably.”

“I understand the reasons for your mistrust, King of Númenor”, Sauron replied. “I am a defeated enemy, and in normal circumstances you would have had me killed. The fact that I cannot die must distress you immensely. And yet, I was speaking the truth. The farthest I am from my seat of power, as you call it, the more my… abilities begin to fail. But I cannot force you to believe me, any more than I can force you to set me free or even to stop hitting me. For if I could, I would have done so.” Suddenly, the glow in his eyes turned sinister. “If I could, our positions would be reversed now, and you would be bleeding on the floor, King of Númenor.”

That much was true, Pharazôn realized. And it certainly tallied with the other things he had heard. Númendil’s stories of Sauron’s past deeds, which the old man had intended as a cautionary tale against trusting this creature, had another reading, which any Elf-friend would be too faint-heartedly respectful of their lore and tradition to even see. Sauron was someone who had wheedled his way out of desperate situations by using those wiles because, once all the trappings he surrounded himself with were taken away, he was ultimately weak. If he had been strong, like the gods, it would not have mattered to him that his servants were gone, or that an army of mortals stood at his doorstep. He would not have let himself come to this, never abased himself to this point. And this knowledge of the weakness of his enemy, far from causing Pharazôn to lower his guard, made him strong against any such attempt. For he knew that deceit was the only weapon that this twisted fiend had to hurt him with, and that, as long as he was kept in his place, immortal or no, he had no other way to gain the upper hand.

You are wrong, Amandil. Again. And you were foolish enough to throw away my friendship for fear of a creature like this.

“Is this why you hit me? Because you are angry at the lord of Andúnië?”

The third blow ended with Sauron thrown across the floor, chains rattling all around him.

“If you truly cannot heal yourself, you should shut your mouth now,” he warned. “You are going to be seen by the Arnians, and also by the people of Pelargir, who suffered a long siege by your troops. And then, it will be the turn of the Umbarians and the Haradrim. You have a reputation to maintain as the terrible foe who haunted their nightmares, and the least you can do now is give a good impression.”

The creature raised his face slowly.

“A defeated enemy cannot give a good impression, for all dignity is stripped away from him. An interesting human paradox, is it not? You only feel victorious if you have triumphed over a worthy foe, and yet you will go to any lengths to show yourself and others how despicable he truly is, thus negating the impact of your victory. Having heard so many things about you, I thought you would be less small-minded, King of Númenor.”

For a moment, it crossed Pharazôn’s mind how he would enjoy beating him within an inch of his life -or even beyond, since this creature could not die. But then, another thought stopped him. He was letting himself become too affected by Sauron’s words, and even if the emotions they had evoked in him had nothing positive about them, they were still strong emotions. And this was a territory he knew better than to step into.

“You were despicable long before I ever laid hands on you”, he spat, before turning away and leaving the prisoner to lie in the darkness where he belonged.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

They laid anchor on Arne on the following morning, though in that barbarian harbour there was only room for a small part of their fleet. The rest of the ships were to proceed to Pelargir with Belbazer, where they would begin organizing the great solemnities in honour of the King’s victory. The man had insinuated to him that perhaps it would be better if he left with them, to celebrate his triumph in a proper Númenórean city instead of wasting his time with barbarians who might be feeling discontent after the loss of the lands of the South-East. Pharazôn, however, did not agree. If there was someone who needed to see Sauron’s defeat for themselves, it was the Arnians -and besides, he had some unfinished business to take care of in the place as well.

He had sent dispatches ahead, in the first, lightest ship which had left camp on the previous day, so he could have an idea of the situation before he arrived. His emissary was waiting for them at the harbour, and he informed Pharazôn that Elendil had ridden to battle the day before, and that no news from him had reached the royal palace yet. It was Bodashtart who had been left in charge of the citadel, and upon hearing that the royal fleet was heading there, he had been busy preparing their welcome. Ar Pharazôn nodded, noticing belatedly that Amandil’s forehead curved in a familiar frown of worry at the news. He still worried about his son, no matter how much taller, stronger, and older he grew with the years. Though not a father himself, he knew well enough by now that a parent always would.

As they disembarked, and proceeded to cross the harbour town to start their journey towards the capital, he saw that rumour had preceded their arrival. The Arnians had left their houses and shelters to crowd streets and roads, in such great numbers that it became necessary for the soldiers to force a way among them. Pharazôn remembered the looks of hostility, veiled only by the sheer force of fear, on the previous time he had set foot on this country, and he was satisfied to realize that it had turned into awe. Wherever he passed, everybody stopped struggling to get a better view, yelling at the children or complaining at the soldiers, and the silence became absolute. Every single eye was irresistibly drawn towards him, and towards the one who walked behind him in chains.

Sauron’s bruises healed quickly, though there was still a faint trace of them in his face that morning. For the rest, he walked on without signs of faltering, though a real man would be dragging his feet and doubling under the weight of the chains, and he did not lower his face for an instant. Perhaps he had paid heed to Pharazôn’s mockery about “giving a good impression”. For the first time, he did look more like what was expected of an immortal, or at least like something other than all the defeated enemies he had had at his mercy in the past. Whether Sauron could feel the need to protect his pride before what he no doubt saw as no more than ants crawling in the dirt, or whether he was doing it for Pharazôn’s benefit, with some ulterior purpose in mind, that was something that he did not allow himself to contemplate at length. Amandil, however, appeared to be contemplating it for him, to judge from the perpetual furrows he could detect on the lord of Andúnië’s brow every single time that he chanced to turn in his direction.

As they arrived at the capital city, the crowds grew even larger, and the steep streets which climbed towards the citadel much too narrow to allow for the passage of the entire procession. It appeared that Arnian generals had not engaged in this custom back when they still ruled themselves, so they had never experienced the need to open a large, wide avenue for this type of display. The only such structure they had was the open square before the fortified enclosure of the royal palace, so it was there that they lingered while everyone, from rich ladies in elaborate palanquins to refugees in rags, had their fill of the sight of the demon and his conqueror. Meanwhile, Lord Bodashtart ordered the gates open and rode to meet them with the entire Arnian court behind him, arrayed in full magnificence. Next to him, surrounded by a retinue of veiled barbarians, he could see the Lady Lalwendë with her daughter Ilmarë, who stopped in her tracks, her face white, as she saw Sauron standing next to him. Lalwendë took her hand in hers, and seemed to search around her until she found something which appeared to give her some degree of relief – probably Amandil.

“My lord.” The old man dismounted slowly from his horse without taking his gaze off Sauron, as if he was transfixed by his presence. “My King, this… this is…”

“You are not very eloquent, Bodashtart”, Pharazôn laughed. As if the sound of his voice could somehow manage to break the spell, the Vice-Governor turned towards him at last, and gave a few steps in his direction, almost stumbling like a drunkard in the process.

“I- I humbly salute you, Favourite of Melkor, Chosen One of the Lord of Battles, Protector of Númenor and the colonies and brightest light of the West!” he cried, falling to his knees. “The people of Arne bow before your glorious feat, the greatest deed ever reckoned in the chronicles of those who came before us, which will not be surpassed… which will not be surpassed by any of those who come after!”

Pharazôn nodded with a grin.

“Now, that sounds better. Rise, my lord, and let us enter the Palace. I have swallowed my fill of dust, and now I am dying for a jar of good wine.”

As Bodashtart slowly struggled to his old feet, still stealing glances at the impassive figure of Sauron, Lalwendë leaned to whisper something in her daughter’s ear. For a second, Pharazôn could detect a gleam of hostility in her eyes, though he could not be sure of whether it was directed towards Bodashtart, Sauron, or himself. Before he could gather more information, however, she noticed him looking at her. Immediately, she became flustered, and her head was lowered in a bow.

Pharazôn smiled.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Two days passed by in feasts, ceremonies and sacrifices (which Amandil and his ilk refused to attend, though the Arnians at least did not seem to share their compunctions), before Elendil finally returned from his own campaign, accompanied by his son Isildur. In contrast with Pharazôn’s own triumphal arrival, they were covered in blood and grime as they crossed the gates of the Palace, and the crowd that gathered around them was made of refugees from the Southeast, desperate to hear the latest tidings. Elendil’s news were encouraging enough: the greatest part of the rogue army had been drawn into a trap and defeated by the Arnian troops, leaving only isolated groups who had mostly fled further South, where they would sooner than later fall prey to the patrols who guarded the river from Pelargir. As for their noxious activity before they were intercepted, the reports he brought with him made some preliminary claims that everything which had been already harvested or kept in storage appeared to be lost, including the seeds, and about half of the houses destroyed or damaged, especially in the village they had been pillaging when the trap closed around them. The crops, too, had been affected in all areas where the enemy had spread, though even there some of them might yet be salvaged, and more patrols would have to be sent to ascertain the exact extent of the damage.

“Then send them. And make sure the reports are accurate, for I do not wish to be swindled”, Pharazôn declared. Until now, none of the occupants of the room had noticed his presence, and they seemed quite shocked to see him there. The first to recover was Elendil, who promptly knelt before him. It had been at least half an hour since he had crossed the gates of the Palace, and yet the blood and grime still remained on him, at it also remained on Isildur, Isildur’s Haradric friend, and the other men he only vaguely recognized as Amandil’s men from Andúnië. The only clean person in the room was Amandil himself, who had been listening to the report as if someone had appointed him in an official capacity.

“Forgive me, my lord King. I was on my way to attire myself properly and appear before you with tidings of my campaign, when I chanced to meet my father”, Elendil apologized. “He has told me that you have achieved the most glorious victory in the history of our kingdom, so allow me to extend my heartfelt congratulations in the name of Arne and its inhabitants.”

Pharazôn held out his hand in a dismissive gesture.

“Rise, Lord Elendil. Your Vice-Governor already took care of that part. I will meet with you presently to discuss these tidings, but not before you have taken a proper bath, of course.” He looked beyond him, at the rest of the men who had knelt following his example. “And you are all excused as well.”

As they filed past him towards the door, he could see Amandil looking at the floor, pensive. Only when the last man had left the room, he finally looked up, and did not seem surprised when he found Pharazôn’s eyes fixed on him. He let go of a long breath, and for a moment he appeared to be at the verge of speaking.

Do it, Pharazôn challenged him voicelessly. Say it.

But Amandil merely bowed, and followed his son and the others outside.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“We are very grateful for your generosity, my lord King. Your aid will save the lives of many Arnians, who will remain forever in your debt.”

Since when had Amandil’s son become such a diplomat? It was one thing to act like this before the Court or before a crowd, but they were in private now, and Pharazôn still had fresh memories of a much different attitude, even at the time when they participated together in the Pelargir campaign. A part of him missed that Elendil, who was blunt enough as to register his disagreement or his displeasure whenever it was warranted. But of course, this had been before the son of Amandil had any real reason to be wary of him -and, as it usually happened with this kind of thing, such feelings were meant to be mutual.

“That is so encouraging to hear!” he replied, unable to keep some of the irony from seeping through. “I feared they might resent me for forcing them into this situation, but you have showed me the error of my thoughts.”

Elendil did not blink.

“They have seen the Dark Lord in chains. I am certain they understand the need to sacrifice themselves for this.”

There was no trace of sarcasm in his tone, nothing but the same, diplomatic humility of moments before. And yet his words, the way in which he had phrased them, left a tiny sliver of a doubt as to his true intentions. Now, he thought, that was a little more like the other Elendil. Though he was no longer the boy’s protector or his father’s friend, this still managed to please him for some twisted reason, which he attributed to his need to engage with worthy opponents.

“While I am in Pelargir, you will conduct your investigation. I wish to have all the facts and figures brought before the Council of Númenor, so I can consider your request. However, I do have a warning for you. Back in Umbar, I also had to promise reparations to many people, and you know how those merchants can be. They will send their representatives to hound me to the ends of the Earth if necessary, and they will definitely try to have all the money for themselves. They have a considerable influence with the Court and Council as well, not to mention the way that Sor is teeming with their associates.” He served himself wine from the jar that a secretary had lay upon the table, purposefully lengthening the pause. “You should send someone who could speak for you, someone who cannot be easily dismissed.”

Elendil frowned.

“My father…”

“Your father is the lord of the Andustar. He can be favourable to your cause, but he cannot speak for Arne”, Pharazôn cut him. “Someone like your firstborn son, on the other hand, would be a wise choice.”

For a moment, he seemed to have left the son of Amandil speechless. Elendil, however, was not one to go without words for long.

“Isildur is needed here, my lord King.”

“I see.” Pharazôn nodded, drinking from his glass. “In that case, you will have to decide where he is needed the most.”

And he was not stupid at all, either. Tense as he was, he managed to hide his distress enough to give him a small nod.

“As you wish, my lord King.”

“And now that Isildur will be returning to the Island with his grandfather, it occurs to me that it might be also a good moment to speak of your daughter’s future”, he continued, relentlessly. This time, Elendil needed a harder effort to hide his dismay.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Surely you do not intend such a high lady to waste her life away among the barbarians, do you? I admire her dutifulness in following her mother all the way here, but it is not she who is married to you, and she should not be tied to your fate. She should be occupying her rightful place in the Court.”

“On her behalf, I am very grateful for the concern you show for her, despite the fact that we are nothing but humble subjects of the Sceptre.” Despite the fact that she is nothing to you and what she does is none of your business, might have been blunter, but of course less diplomatic. “Ilmarë is happy here, and she loves Arne.”

“What, surrounded day and night by those ghastly veiled ladies who keep to themselves and do not speak to anyone?” Pharazôn laughed. “I doubt it. And even if she is, she will have to marry one day. Are you intending to marry her to a short-lived barbarian?”

“She is still young for our people, my lord King.” Amandil would have been itching to hit him by now. “I believe it is yet too soon to speak of this.”

“Yes, that is what the former King thought, too.” Now, Elendil’s eyes widened in disbelief, and perhaps in wonder that Pharazôn would openly acknowledge his greatest transgression against both the Sceptre and the gods. But Pharazôn had an ulterior motive. “You cannot imagine the secrets which could lie hidden behind the most innocent of looks.”

“My lord King.” Elendil seemed at the brink of surrendering the pretence, and he prepared himself for it. “If you have any reason to suspect my loyalty, then it might be more beneficial for the realm if you took the governorship of Arne from me and bestowed it upon a worthier candidate.”

“Your loyalty!” Pharazôn feigned surprise. “Why would I suspect it, Lord Elendil? There is no room for suspicion here, for I know the full extent of it, and how far I can trust it.”

This was too direct even for Elendil’s composure, and his cheeks became slightly tinged with red.

“Then, perhaps you could accept my resignation, and spare yourself the unpleasantness of taking all my children from me to be your hostages.”

“I am shocked to hear you talk like this. I thought you cared about the people of Arne, and yet you seem to imply that you would abandon them at their time of greatest difficulty.”

“I have underestimated you then, my lord King. It is not only my children you would take as hostages, but an entire kingdom. Nothing less from the victor of Mordor!”

Pharazôn smiled again, but this time it was in spite of himself. It was truly remarkable how, no matter how harsh the struggle, how full of bitter words and unkind deeds which could never be taken back, he still could not prevent himself from feeling proud of this wretched man’s responses.

He is not your son, a voice, which suspiciously sounded like Amandil, mocked him from the back of his mind. And he will never be. You still cling to this illusion because you cannot have children of your own, you incestuous sinner.

“Come on, Elendil. Let us keep our good relationship intact, and continue to reap the advantages offered to each of us in our respective positions”, he said, forcing himself to return to a neutral tone. “Stay here, be governor of Arne and rule it at will, and I will give you everything you need to keep your peasants fed. I only ask that you also trust me in exchange. Your children will be safe in the Island, safer than they could ever be here, with Isildur toiling in the wilderness and Ilmarë surrounded by a court of scheming barbarians who could start a conspiracy at any moment and slit her throat in her sleep.  Even you feared this once, feared it enough to defy me. Let me take this fear from you.”

Now, Elendil’s look reminded him uncannily of Amandil, in the ship’s deck days ago. It was the look he had when he came to the realization that there was no way out of their conflict, and accepted it with a proud, yet tired, matter-of-factness, as if a part of him was relieved that he could finally let it go.

As if I still needed a reminder of whose son he is, he thought, bitterly.

“As you wish, my lord King. I am nothing but your servant. If you tell me not to fear, I will not.”

“Good”, Pharazôn hissed, turning away to depart.

Somehow, he did not feel at all triumphant.