Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Triumph

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The city of Armenelos had worked very hard to surpass Sor in the magnificence of its celebrations. And perhaps, for the first time in history, it had failed, Amandil thought, revisiting his memories of the events of the past week. Half the Island, including most of Armenelos itself, had flocked to the East, unwilling to wait patiently until the greatest sight of their lifetimes could be brought closer to them. If Sor had been a walled city, like Pelargir, its very fortifications would have burst from the onslaught of people pushing, leaning, pointing, shouting, ready to fight each other for a precious glimpse of the Dark Lord in chains.

Even at the distance from which he looked at them as his party rode by, however, Amandil could detect an important difference between these crowds and those in Arne and Pelargir. The Númenóreans were excited and curious, perhaps enough to risk being crushed or trampled for their curiosity, but in the Island this was nothing new. It was the same reaction elicited by the view of petty Haradric tribesmen, the Northmen captured in the Middle Havens a century ago, or those Orcs that Pharazôn brought after the siege of Pelargir, multiplied by a tenfold because of the infamous reputation of the prisoner. Of the raw emotions of the Middle Earth barbarians and colonists, the deep hatred and fear mixed with elation at witnessing the defeat and humiliation of their enemy, there was no trace to be found here. This is what remained of the regal spirit of their ancestors, he mused thoughtfully. To never feel threatened by anything outside this Island, to see the world as a scene where wars and alliances were as many theatre plays performed for their amusement.

Pharazôn seemed aware of this, and he had taken his role in that play to heart. Whatever he did, whether it was setting foot on the harbour for the first time, riding across the wide avenues of Ar Adunakhôr and Tar Minyatur’s cities, sacrificing to the King of Sor in his temple and to the Lord of Battles in the grandiose new building under the Meneltarma, which the Queen had managed to finish just in time for his arrival, he was always careful to appear to the crowd as Ar Pharazôn the Golden, Favourite of Melkor, Protector of Númenor and the colonies and -a new title which had been added to the traditional ones- Victor of Mordor. Attired in purple and gold, he looked like nothing short of a perfect vision of majesty. His voice never faltered, his hand never shook, and wherever he went he seemed to rise above his fellow mortals, enveloped in a shining aura which stood in deep contrast to the darkness emanating from the abhorred figure that he never let away from his sight.

Only Amandil could not suppress a surge of bitterness whenever he laid eyes upon the Golden King of Númenor. To him alone, this shining aura was nothing but an artifice, a set of glittering, external trappings that hid a mere mortal whose spirit was foundering at the edges. He remembered that morning when a young Temple servant had been hiding from his Revered Father to practise with his sword, only to be interrupted by a boy he did not know, who sat perched atop the garden wall. Back then Amandil had been wary, and as hostile as he could be towards the interloper without running into trouble, but the boy’s eyes shone with a light which pierced the shadows in his heart, and his confidence had given him confidence, healing deep, festering fears which he did not even know he still had.

“Teach me! If you learned this way, I can learn as you did!”

That light had been true, and to him who had seen it, what Pharazôn was showing this crowd was but a pale, pitiful imitation. He knew how to go through the motions, how to look and what to say to charm people, even to make them gape in awe, but the brightness was gone. And at some level, at some profound level, Pharazôn must know it too. Why else would he have gone to the end of the world, ventured into the darkest abyss and stirred the monster awake, even going as far as to coil it, as some Haradric priests would do with a venomous snake, around his own neck? Why would he have set aside the Sceptre he had always coveted, the woman he had always loved, and all the riches and power of the Palace of Armenelos to do this, if not because he felt that he needed to rekindle that fire by proving that he was the bravest, the strongest, the most powerful man in the world?

Amandil recalled that strange moment in the river harbour of Arne, when Pharazôn had suddenly reminded him of his grandfather Ar Gimilzôr. Back then, he had considered this thought to be the product of a moment of mystification, but later he had recognized it as a flash of foresight. Pharazôn, without that inner light which had ensnared Amandil and many others through the years, would be no different from Ar Gimilzôr, a suspicious despot who hid an empty heart behind a façade of regal stateliness. His generous impulses, his sincerity, his spontaneous charm, the self-assurance which made him unafraid of laughing at his own mistakes and forgiving those of others, all of it had been slowly trickling away from him in an agonizing process which Amandil had refused to acknowledge until it was too late. And what they had left in their wake was a man who, unlike Gimilzôr, was not afraid of meeting his enemies in battle, but who, like him, would keep those around him at arm’s length, trust no one, and hide behind the trappings of ceremony and power. He would dangle his generosity before a governor in need, only to force him to give up his own children in exchange for the welfare of his people. He would find no further use for a friendship which had become a hindrance, for Amandil would always feel entitled to contest the decisions that he believed to be wrong. And the most painful of all was that those were not changes wrought by Sauron’s evil influence: they had been there before, in plain sight for any perceptive mind to see. Sauron had done nothing, except perhaps bring them to the fore with his disruptive presence.

But he would. Amandil wished that his fears could be attributed to some petty emotion, such as spite for being displaced as an advisor, or frustration for his warnings being ignored, or perhaps even righteous anger on behalf of his son and family. Deep inside, however, he was genuinely afraid. Ar Gimilzôr’s paranoid suspicions about the exiled House of Andúnië, the Faithful, and his own wayward son, had driven him to listen to people who had employed this influence to advance their own interests. Amandil had not always been a victim in this: the late Princess of the South, Pharazôn’s mother, had obtained permission for him to go to the Cave after Elendil was conceived, and earlier, though he had been too young to remember this himself, he had been told that the then Prince Inziladûn had sent his old head tutor, the former Palace Priest Hannon, to convince the King that it was the will of Melkor that Númendil’s son be spared if he chose to enter his service. Before that, however, it had been other whisperers who had convinced the King to take him away from his parents and have him murdered to end the bloodline of Andúnië, and also to exile his whole family and imprison them in Sor for decades. If Pharazôn was willing to listen, there were enough people at the Court of Armenelos who would be only too glad to invent falsehoods against Amandil, starting with the High Priest of the Cave, who had spent years waiting for such an opportunity. This was dangerous indeed, and Pharazôn’s behaviour in Arne had been a reminder of exactly how dangerous it could grow to be. And yet it was nothing, a mere nuisance that the lord of Andúnië would gladly face a hundred times over, against the possibility that this captive who followed the King of Númenor wherever he went would one day have his ear. For Sauron did not only hate Amandil’s family: he hated their entire race, and if he could find a way to bring their downfall, he would use the King to do it. Pharazôn had dismissed his dreams, laughed off his fears, and told Amandil, in no uncertain terms, that he declared the danger officially over after the first encounter. But wars were often not decided on the first encounter, unless one of the sides was brought to its knees permanently. Sauron had indeed fallen to his knees, but Amandil saw nothing permanent about it. And if those thoughts were not ominous enough, by night his dreams would remind him in an even more vivid way, showing him scenes of terror and devastation, presided by the laughing figure of the monster who lay in their hold, waiting to be unleashed on an Island which had been away from his reach until now.

There is nothing you can do.

Isildur rode at his side, his eyes set in some undetermined spot before his eyes, barely acknowledging the crowds around them. He was furious too, Amandil knew, and it was becoming harder and harder to blame him for it. The day they landed in Sor and they came in sight of the first multitude, he had turned towards Amandil and asked him if he was there as one of the victors or as one of the defeated. Amandil had acted as if he had failed to recognize this as a serious question, telling him that he would be in chains if that was the case, but his grandson had not even attempted a smile.

“In chains or not, I feel paraded before the eyes of Númenor as proof of his victory over my father. At least Ilmarë can hide from them”, he had said, with a bitterness which echoed Amandil’s own. Still, he was able to gather his composure enough to frown at him.

“You are here to speak before the Council of Númenor, to help your father’s people. And you should save your eloquence for that, not waste it coining clever phrases to express your discontent.”

They had not spoken further, and yet Amandil was aware that Isildur’s resentment was too strong to be easily forced into a cage and put away. And his sister’s, too, his mind supplied, remembering the stubborn scowl that Ilmarë had kept during the entire sea journey, even, he thought ruefully, when the King was directly addressing her. None of them had their father’s control over his emotions; they were more like Amandil himself, and of course like their mother, who had always been too open about her feelings for a lady who had grown in the Court. And though Pharazôn had appeared quite unfazed by their behaviour, he would be just as unfazed to threaten them to Elendil’s face.

“I would die before I let any harm come to them or Anárion”, he had promised Elendil before his departure. He did not even know if he believed it himself, or how this promise was supposed to fit in the tangled web that his loyalties had now become. And though his son had appreciated his words, it was obvious that he was aware of it, too.

“Thank you, Father. But I am the one whose actions are under scrutiny, not you.”

So far, Amandil had wanted to say, but he had remained silent.

The cheers of the crowd grew louder, and belatedly, he realized that they had arrived in sight of the Palace gates. The assembled Court was gazing at them from the high terrace, and Ar Zimraphel stood at their centre, crowned in silver and pearls, her hand holding the Sceptre of Númenor. As she saw them approach, she stood closer to the railing and the midday sun fell upon her face, revealing her radiant, miraculously unaltered beauty to everyone’s eyes. The general noise faltered for a moment, and Amandil could perceive a rumble of murmurations around him, the same reaction of superstitious awe that she had commanded ever since she emerged from the Cave.

She smiled, a smile which widened even more as Pharazôn climbed the steps to stand next to her. Their hands found each other, their fingers became entwined, and, shortly afterwards, their mouths met in a passionate kiss. The silence of the crowd was quite noticeable now, from where Amandil stood, and he could even see the imperfectly hidden shock in the countenances of some of the courtiers. No King and no Queen, in all of Númenor’s three thousand years of history, had ever behaved like this in public.

The moment they were finished, however, the cheers erupted anew, more deafening than ever. It was not traditional, but the crowd still liked it. As they had liked their lovemaking in the floor of the Sacred Cave, without minding either the sacrilege or the incest, he thought ruefully, wondering why he was even surprised. Pharazôn always had an ability to do things that people liked, whether he was meant to do them or not. This was part of what had once endeared him to Amandil, and later to his soldiers and to many of Tar Palantir’s councilmen and courtiers, and he apparently was well on his way to win the love of his people as well. To look at them now, he could almost believe that the events in Forostar and the turbulent years before they set on this expedition had never happened.

All hail the Golden King, he thought, ironically. And the Silver Queen as well, who loved him enough to betray her father and veil her far-reaching eyes to the dangers of the future.

According to Númendil she, more than him or even Tar Palantir, had the ability to see beyond the immediacy of the present, but she gave no sign of this now, while she gazed at her husband as if there was nothing else in the world beside him. She did not even have eyes for the dark creature who stood below them at this moment, showing the same disinterest as if it had been a common tribesman displayed before her. How on Earth could she have eyes for his future deeds?

“Have you been struck dumb, Lord Amandil? Come closer, and bring your grandchildren with you! The view is impressive from here.”

Forcing himself to discard his inconvenient musings, Amandil managed a smile, and motioned Isildur and Ilmarë, who had abandoned her litter at the foot of the stairs, to follow him. Lord Númendil and Anárion should be somewhere in that terrace, but he had no time to look for them now. Instead, he followed Pharazôn’s glance and pretended to admire the view of the procession and the surrounding crowds from the heights. The sight was grandiose indeed: a vast, colourful multitude of men and women pressing against each other everywhere that his eyes could reach, their thousands of faces mirroring the same feeling of awe at the spectacle offered for their benefit. And yet, all that Amandil could see, all that his attention could focus on, was that single black dot upon the pavement, surrounded by a hundred soldiers drawing a protective circle around him. For the first time that he could remember, he wished that they were there to witness the bloody spectacle which had always been scheduled at the end of triumphal celebrations, where the enemy leaders would meet their gory ends.

“What would happen if they were to try?” Isildur asked, as if he had read his disgraceful thoughts and not minded them in the slightest. “If they ran him through with a sword, would he bleed?”

Ilmarë’s curiosity was piqued enough by this question as to approach them, to join in their conversation. Amandil sighed.

“That is not an appropriate…” he began, but the King’s voice interrupted him unexpectedly.

“He is wearing a body, and that body would suffer almost the same as ours would. As tempting as I know that this will sound to you, however, I do not think that it would be appropriate for the crowd to witness it.”

“You think too highly of the crowd, my lord King”, the Palace Priest laughed. Amandil, however, could see the point he was trying to make. Pharazôn wished to appear before them as the man who had beaten an immortal, and an immortal who bled would be too similar to a mortal for comfort. Even if some of them understood that immortality was not an attribute of the body, not everyone in the crowd could be expected to be so knowledgeable.

And also, if somehow they managed to kill the body, who could tell what Sauron would be able to do as a spirit? He might be powerless until he managed to latch on to some solid shape (Númendil’s lore seemed to confirm this to some extent), but he would also be free, as no chain or device wrought by mortal hands would be able to contain him. And if he was free, what would prevent him from hiding away in some dark corner of the world, until he had recovered enough of his former strength to take his revenge? Beneath Pharazôn’s arrogance, there was also uncertainty, and Amandil could tell that he was not as confident of his hold on the prisoner as he appeared to be.

For a moment of madness, the lord of Andúnië wondered what would happen if he were to run the demon through with his own sword, if the results of this action would be worth the risk to himself and his people. Ar Zimraphel smiled at him, in a way which made his heart freeze in his innards.

“They would not, Lord Amandil”, she said. Everybody stared at her uneasily except for Pharazôn, who alone seemed unperturbed by her behaviour.

“Let us go inside”, he said.

Doing his best to tear his glance away from the dark shape, who was being dragged away by the soldiers now, Amandil nodded, and followed the King and Queen inside with the rest of the party.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Númendil had not been in the Palace with the Queen, nor was he anywhere else in Armenelos. Anárion informed them that he had departed for Andúnië some time ago to take care of affairs there, leaving him to attend the Council sessions on his own. There was nothing objectionable in this, by itself: since no one but an appointed councilman was allowed to speak before the Council, it made no difference whether it was Númendil or Anárion in attendance, and Anárion was probably the more adept of the two at remembering relevant information. Still, something in his voice as they discussed this made Amandil pause, and if a more urgent subject had not arisen, he would have pressed his grandson to reveal what he was not telling him.

“Grandmother is not well”, Anárion said, his look of open worry piercing Amandil’s thoughts and shattering them in the brief span of one instant. “This last month has been hard on her.”

As it turned out, Amalket was no longer able to stand on her feet without the help of at least two people. Even worse, she was feeling dispirited and apathetic, to the point that she would have remained in bed if Anárion had let her be. As it was, he said, it had been difficult enough to coax her into a chair every morning -and, knowing her, Amandil was sure that this was no understatement.

“Grandmother. Grandmother, it is us.” Ilmarë leaned forwards until her face was aligned with hers; her voice came out a little too bright. “We are back from Middle Earth! Isildur is here, too.”

Amalket smiled at them, though she was trying to look past their faces to scrutinize the space behind. When she found only Amandil, she could not hide her disappointment, and he had to swallow at the sad look in her eyes.

“Only… you?” she asked. Her voice had a raspy quality, as if there was something wrong with her lungs, and the sound of it rent his heart. Suddenly, all his other concerns seemed to have vanished as if blown by the wind, and even the reserve he had been perfecting for years, for decades now wherever she was concerned, was seriously threatened.

“Elendil is fine. He is doing very well in Arne, Amalket. Unfortunately, his people rely on him too much, so he could not leave them, though I know how much he wants to see you.”

And perhaps he will never have the chance, he thought, his mind agitated by the spectacle before his eyes. And what a terrible irony that would be, to be allowed to remain in charge of Arne, only to forego his last chance to see his mother in this world.

“And what are Ilmarë and Isildur doing here, then? Why are they here, if he is not?”

Amandil opened his mouth, then closed it, wondering how to explain this. Before he had the chance to try, however, Ilmarë was already ahead of him.

“Isildur is here because he has to petition the Council for aid to rebuild the country after the war. He speaks for Arne now, though I am not sure this is a good idea!” Isildur muttered something, but not loud enough to be heard above her voice. “And I am here because I was bored in Arne, and I did not want to be the only one left out.”

Amalket did not smile.

“Was this the King’s doing? Did you do something to displease him, that he needs to have our family under his eye now?”

She was no fool, Amandil thought ruefully. Whoever took her for one did not have the measure of her, not by a long stretch. Her weak point was her son, and her logic was only ever impeded when discussing him, to the point that she would never be able to consider that this could somehow have been his fault as governor of Arne.

“Isildur, Ilmarë, you can go outside and send off Malik, if you want” he told them, in a meaningful tone. “I heard he was intending to ride to Andúnië right away.”

They nodded, and bowed almost in unison. Though they smiled at Amalket when they took their leave, it was evident that they had not expected to find her like this, and that this realization had had a sobering impact on both of them.

As soon as they were gone, Amandil sat next to his wife.

“I will not lie to you, Amalket. Things have happened in the campaign, and the King is not too pleased with me right now.”

“You and your stubborn fixation with… with sailing off to Middle-Earth!” she hissed, though her voice failed her halfway through her sentence. “Nothing good ever comes from going where they do not want you.”

That much was true, Amandil had to admit. Following Pharazôn to Mordor on an impulse had brought on a chain of unpleasant consequences. Then again, a voice in the back of his head reminded him, if he had not been there to play middleman, what would have happened to Elendil and the Arnians? The events, as they unfolded, had left little room for optimism, but perhaps they could still have been worse without his presence.

It could have been worse. If that was not the most pathetic comfort of all, then what else was?

“You must have heard that Sauron was brought to Númenor as the King’s prisoner. I was opposed to this, but my advice was not heeded.”

“And what about Halideyid?” she asked, as if Sauron and the dangers that he posed were nothing to her, a mere useless distraction from their conversation. “Did he follow your lead, and is this why his own children have been taken here as hostages?”

“They are not hostages, Amalket.” If it was this obvious even to her, Isildur had been right to feel paraded through the streets of the Númenorean cities. “Where did you get this idea?”

“From Ilmarë. She was trying to humour me.” And Ilmarë had so much to learn.

Amandil sighed.

“It could be said that Elendil followed my lead, yes. And our King has grown less… trusting than he used to be in the past.”

“Of course he has! He is a King! And a King who started his reign by destroying one of the noblest families in the realm and disbanding the Palace Guards to… to….” She had run out of breath again, but as he made a gesture to approach her, she shook her head. “To recruit barbarians in their place.”

“They are not barbarians. Most of them are not, anyway”, he argued pointlessly. Her father had been in the Palace Guards, and for many years he had thought that she had cut them off after their son was forced to leave their ranks. Apparently, however, she still harboured some feelings towards the guild.

She did not contest this point. Instead, she gave him a vulnerable look, almost - pleading, if such a thing was possible in her.

“Whatever it is that you said to the King, take it back. Please.”

“I said nothing to him.” Or rather, it was not something that he said. “We simply disagreed over this.”

“Then agree with him!” She was becoming more and more agitated. “If something happens to our family…”

“…you will rise from your grave and haunt me forever, yes, I know. You already told me once.” Somehow, it was less funny than ever to speak of death now. “I will not let anything happen to your son or your grandchildren, Amalket. I can promise this to you.”

She believed his promise as much as her son had, though he was by far the more diplomatic of the two.

“And how are you going to uphold that promise? When Ar Gimilzôr took you away from your parents, was there anything you could do? When you had to leave and hide to protect me and my son, was there anything you could do? There is nothing you can do against the power of the Sceptre, nothing!”

Amandil could not prevent himself from showing surprise at her choice of words.

“I never – not once, in all these years-  thought I would hear you admit that I had to leave you for your own protection. No, do not speak”, he cut her, before she could launch into an outraged tirade about him misinterpreting her words. But she merely shrugged, and there was a flicker of something in her eyes which gave him pause.

“I was not going to.”

If it had been in any other circumstance, Amandil would have been overjoyed at this admission. Now, however, he felt too empty, or perhaps too full, for that feeling to take root.

“The King is not going to persecute us because I disagreed with him on something, Amalket. He is merely… taking no chances, as he would with any family who was ruling wide territories so far from his reach. I can assure you that we are quite safe.”

She did not look wholly convinced, but at least she seemed ready to drop the argument for the time being. Amandil felt relieved, for her fears were too close to his own for his pretence to be as believable as he would have wanted it to be.

“I never blamed you for having to leave”, she suddenly spoke after a while, taking him away from his disjointed musings.” I blamed you for lying to me. I hope you are not doing it again.”

The lord of Andúnië smiled. Out of pure instinct, he took her hand, and soon her other hand joined them to cover his.

“You have nothing to fear, Amalket. Trust me.”

He could do nothing but lie to her, it seemed. But if it could help her live the remainder of her days in peace, at least this lie might be worth it.

Slowly, clumsily, as if she had forgotten how to do it, she smiled back.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

His feet stopped, so close to the edge of the cliff that he could almost feel the pull of the abyss. He looked down, and watched the sea crash over the rocks, its battering attacks releasing powerful jets of white foam at regular intervals. In a distant spot towards his left, where the coast seemed to fold, a small cove protected the beach he had visited so often since he was a child. There, he had used to walk into the Sea until his feet could not reach the bottom anymore, and then began to swim farther and farther from the shore, as if possessed by a manic, self-destructive energy which no one in his family had been able to understand. He had not really understood it either, but he had been content to go along with it, to chase his impulses and feel, for a glorious instant, as if he was where he was meant to be, doing what he was meant to do.

Usually, the instant lasted until someone, perhaps even the small voice in his head that he identified with his father, questioned his motives and he found himself out of valid answers to give. But not all his impulses had been equally foolish, and in the dangerous lands of Middle Earth, they had even saved his life many times. You have the heart of a warrior, Malik had said to him once. Warriors need to risk their lives even if there is no danger in sight. That is why they need to be waging war; otherwise they will look like fools to other people.

Well, that cannot be helped now, he thought, his anger rushing back to a surface it had barely left for the last weeks. A fool he would have to be, trapped in Númenor and taken away from his true calling, from the place where he was meant to be, and from those he had viewed as his comrades and his people. A fool who wasted away his days in frustrating idleness because of the games that a paranoid King saw fit to play with his father or grandfather, he no longer was sure which. He had done nothing wrong, and yet he was a prisoner in all but name.

After he finished pleading the case of the Arnian people before the Council, Isildur had expressed his wish to travel to Andúnië, to visit the place of his birth and join Malik once he was back from visiting his mother. But he had been told that this was not possible, as he was not allowed to leave Armenelos without special permission. In the end, it was only thanks to Ilmarë that they were there at all: she came up with the idea of asking the Queen, who had said yes. According to his sister, Ar Zimraphel was the embodiment of the unexpected: one never knew how she would answer to any query until she did, so trying to get something from her had the advantage of pure randomness when all other avenues seemed closed. Their grandfather always claimed that the Queen had the gift of foresight, and that her decisions appeared random only because no one could see the things that she did. In that case, Isildur had said bitterly, the Queen must have seen that none of them would betray the Sceptre in the next month.

The only one in the family who seemed oblivious to the pressure exerted by the Sceptre was Isildur’s great-grandfather, Lord Númendil. While the King was in Middle Earth, he had returned to Andúnië with some pretext about needing to take care of business there, but as far as Isildur could see he mostly spent his days sitting under the mallorn trees in the garden, alone or with his sister Artanis. He had not even done anything about the granary whose ceiling had collapsed, and which would need to be filled soon after the harvest was finished. And he was always kind and courteous when Isildur tried to engage him in conversation, but there was also an odd, listless air to everything he said and did which could prove quite off-putting. To say the truth, Isildur barely knew the man: even though he was his great-grandfather, he had lived in the mainland until recently, and when he returned to Númenor it was Isildur who had left. He could not know if this was Númendil’s usual behaviour, or if there was something bothering him, and he did not feel comfortable asking such a delicate question, so he had merely left him to his own devices. Until Malik’s return, he had mostly spent his time taking care of any matter Lord Númendil might have neglected, leaving the house to take long walks around the cliffs, and swimming in the Sea whenever his inner rage became too much to bear.

Now, Malik was back at last; he had arrived in the early afternoon after taking his leave from his family that morning. From the few words that Isildur had exchanged with him then, they seemed to be doing well, and his mother had grown accustomed to her life as a widow, though she was no longer the cheerful woman that she used to be. Still, she had been overjoyed to see Malik, and at her insistence he had stayed there twice as long as he had originally intended. And came back twice as fat, Isildur had added, arching his eyebrow. Before the banter could derive into anything remotely meaningful, however, Ilmarë had claimed him, and he had not seen either of them since then.

Though they might have been under his nose all this time, and he had just been too distracted to notice, he thought, becoming aware of a sudden movement in the beach under the cliff. He was about to avert his glance, embarrassed at what he might see, but something stopped him at the last moment. It might have been his self-destructive, risk-taking warrior instincts again, twisted into the most unexpected shapes by this inaction he was forced to endure. If that was what it was, they turned out to be as accurate as they were back in Arne, for there was only one person in the beach, and as he leaned to take a better look he recognized Malik. If he had been there with Ilmarë, she must have left at some point, while he had chosen to remain. For a while, Isildur merely gazed at the small figure sitting on the sand, closer to the surf than he usually allowed himself to be, watching the waves come and go. Though he could barely see him from that distance, much less his expression, he had the feeling that something was wrong, with such an intensity that he was reminded of some weird talk he had heard from the Elves about spiritual bonds and mind speech.

Trying to put this out of his mind, Isildur began the laborious descent from the cliffside. He had missed his friend in the last weeks, and he wanted to talk to him, which was more than enough reason to go find him where he knew he would be. There were no strange forces driving him, no mysterious channel between their minds telling him that Malik needed to see him now. And if he was walking faster than what was prudent in this slippery terrain, and was about to fall a couple of times, his warrior foolishness was once again to blame.

When he reached the end of the stairs and set foot on the shore, the sunrays were already declining beyond the mysterious land which their eyes were forbidden to see. Malik had not moved from his initial position, though the tide had almost reached his feet, and soon enough it would soil his shoes, perhaps even his clothes. He had never been a great lover of water, but today he seemed impervious to its quiet menace.

“Malik”, he spoke, unsure if his presence had been registered. Though he no longer had an excuse for it, his friend remained silent.

“Malik, what is it? What happened?” he insisted, wondering if he would have to shake him to get a reaction. As he was about to walk towards him and do it, however, the other man spoke.

“Hello”, he said. The incongruity between this word and the context in which it had been uttered was so great that Isildur would have teased him mercilessly at any other moment.

“There is something wrong with you”, he said, decided to seize the initiative, since it did not look as if Malik would. “And it is either with your family or with my sister. Normally, I would not even want to know, but…” He did not really know how to finish that sentence, so he did not. “What is it?”

Now, Malik did turn towards him, and when his spoke his voice had a normal, conversational tone – so normal, in fact, that it seemed oddly out of place, like a man who spoke of the weather in the middle of a raging battlefield, or appeared before the Council swearing the way he would in a tavern.

“There is nothing wrong. Do not worry, Isildur. In fact, I think I have some good news for you, and I know you have been sorely in need of those. Ilmarë and I are no longer involved.”

“What?” His reaction was totally spontaneous, the kind of shouting that did not even seem to have passed through the brain before it was already on the mouth. “What… do you mean, no longer involved?”

Malik scowled, and the pretence of normalcy was lost.

“You know very well what I mean! That you will no longer have to keep our secrets while you frown at us and disapprove, and wish we had never met because we will get you in trouble if anyone finds out that the precious granddaughter of the Lord of Andúnië is in love with a barbarian!”

“Are you mad?” Isildur could not believe his ears. He shook his head, taken aback by the unexpected virulence directed against him.  Since when was all this supposed to be his fault? “I have never frowned or… fine, you are right, maybe I was concerned about what this whole affair could mean for all of us! But what kind of hare-brained idiot would not? She is my sister, and you are my friend, and yes, if they found out I would have had to admit that I knew about you! But above all, if that happened, I was worried about what might happen to you. And for the last time, stop calling yourself a barbarian!”

“Oh, but I am.” Malik’s tone seemed to imply that even this was Isildur’s fault somehow. Perhaps he had inherited his grandfather’s guilt for bringing Ashad to Númenor, he thought in sarcasm, though his mind was racing. “My father’s blood flows through my veins, whether you wish to admit it or not. And now, he is gone, and my mother will never be whole again.”

The hostility was gone, as fast as it had come, leaving Malik strangely deflated. Upon seeing his miserable expression, Isildur, too, forgot all the outraged replies he had been building in his head. He was about to fumble with some expression of sympathy for his loss, when, all of a sudden, an idea occurred to him.

“Is this why you left her? Because you think that you will die, and she will still…?”

“I do not think it. I know it. Whether I live as a Númenórean or as a barbarian, I will be dead long before her.”

Just like Malik. He still did not care a damn for what her family, the King, the Court, or whoever else might feel entitled to judge this affair might do, but now he had decided that Ilmarë had to be protected from his death. Whatever his reasons were, Isildur had to admit that it was greatly convenient that his friend had chosen this particular moment to see reason. Ilmarë was attending the Court now, the real Court, and things were only going to become more difficult and dangerous from that moment onwards.

It was such a pity that Isildur had to choose this same particular moment to not see it.

“So, is that it? You made her think that you loved her, and then left her because you realized something that she has probably known since long ago? Do you know what, Malik? You could have been killed at least ten times in the last year alone. Unlike the Gift of Men, you could have avoided this easily, and yet you did not. Because when you see danger, you run into it!”

“That is different!”

“Why, because you are invulnerable and you can only die of old age? Who decided it was different, you? Have you even asked her what she thinks?”

Malik stared at him as if it was the first time that he saw him, and a part of Isildur had to agree with this assessment. He could not believe he was defending that Ilmarë, of all people, had enough discernment to make a choice like this. He could not believe he was encouraging this whole situation to go on. Warrior instinct was one thing, but this was not merely about risking his own life; he was pushing two people he cared deeply about to -perhaps not risk their lives, but there was still much at stake.

What was it with him?

“I thought that you of all people would understand.” Malik said. “Ilmarë told me about the Lady Moriwendë, back in Armenelos.”

Isildur winced at the memory. He had found his grandmother’s state shocking, but even then, he remembered thinking that his grandfather did not seem to take it as badly as they did. He recalled something that he had been told once, about the lords of Andúnië being forced to marry women of lesser lineages for many generations, until they were restored in the time of Tar Palantir. Back then, he had wondered if seeing one’s mother die of old age while one’s father lived on could somehow prepare them to accept what would befall them in the future. Apparently, this had not worked for Malik.

“And even if you did not understand,” his friend’s voice went on”, I thought that you would be relieved, at the very least. Do not pretend that you have been happy about this, because I know that you have not!”

“I would be relieved if she had told you to stop seeing her. But she has not, has she? She loves you, and she will keep stupidly loving you because that is what all the fools in my family have done for thousands of years!” This, too, was not among the things he had thought before uttering them. “Do you see my grandfather’s aunt Artanis? She was in love with the former King in her youth, and she has spent the rest of her life in grief, refusing to love another man! And my grandfather! My grandmother has been treating him coldly since before I was even a thought in the mind of my parents, and yet he still loves her! If my sister is unhappy for the rest of her life because of you…”

Malik looked daunted at this perspective -which had obviously not crossed his mind until now. For the first time, he seemed to waver slightly.

“That is… it is not… And what if it is not because of me? What if we are separated in the future because our relationship is deemed unacceptable and she has to marry another?”

Isildur glared at him. He had been trying to get this very thing to sink into his stubborn head for years, to no avail, and now he would dare use it against him? The nerve!

“That is something you should have considered before you became involved with her. But you did not, and now it is your responsibility”, he said, as evenly as he could manage. “This means that it is for you to find a solution, not me. And to leave her and break her heart is not a solution!”

“I do not want to leave her. And I am not trying to flee my responsibility!” Malik was just as angry as he was now. “I am just back from staying with my mother, a woman who walks as if half of her soul had been ripped away from her! And if I was not aware that you are different from us because of your Elven blood, you will have to excuse my ignorance, for I can only judge from what I know!”

As so many times before, it belatedly occurred to Isildur that perhaps there was no point in arguing. More often than not, their arguments tended to be foolish, and though this one was serious, that did not make the assessment any less valid. For no matter how deep their disagreements were, they never were about where they had to go, but about the manner in which they should get there. And in this case, as loath as both were to admit it, the end of the line, for either of them, could be no other than Ilmarë’s happiness.

And Malik’s happiness, the most charitable part of his soul added, once again taking note of his friend’s pallor, and his miserable expression.

“To break your heart is not a solution, either” he admitted, grudgingly. “Though that would be nobody’s fault but your own.”

“And what other solutions are there?” Malik let go of a bitter laugh. “The world does not rearrange itself to suit our preferences, Isildur. If it did, all three of us would be in Arne at the moment, and we would have convinced your mother to convince your father that our marriage was a good idea, your grandfather would not have opposed it, and the King would have been too busy to care. And all Men would live the same number of years above this Earth.”

“Now, that last wish sets the bar a little too high.” Isildur joked, though there was nothing farther from his mind than amusement. Even Ilmarë, as much as she may be in love with Malik, would be hard pressed to take the worst hit from this inexorable law, a terrible voice whispered in his mind, but he forced himself to discard this thought, which felt like a freefall into a dark nothingness. He had to focus in the here and now. Even if Malik could not, because he was blinded by fear and worry, he had to do it for both of them. “As for the rest, for whatever it is worth, you would have my support.”

Malik shook his head.

“You are as foolhardy as they say.”

“And you are not. Your fame has been blown out of proportion.”

“Do you really think that she would be unable to forget me? Like… the Lady Artanis?”

Isildur sighed. He had been doing his best for years not to see what was happening under his nose because he did not wish to face it, but even like this he had been aware of the truth. And then, it had taken no less than Malik’s show of idiocy to make him realize that he knew it.

“Yes.”

The silence was long after that, only broken by the rocking sound of the waves. Isildur did not know how it could have escaped them that the tide had been turning as they spoke, and that they were now almost entirely into the water. He stood up, suppressing a shiver as the cold breeze of dusk blew on his wet clothes.

“Then, I guess that, the longer our happiness lasts, the more happiness we will have in our lives”, Malik spoke after a while, in such a low voice that Isildur almost did not hear it.

Above them, the Evenstar was beginning to rise before the departing sun. As his eyes fell idly upon it, his mind wandered towards a story he had often heard as a child, of how this star was his own ancestor Eärendil, who sailed the skies with a Silmaril upon his brow. He had not had much time to enjoy the happiness in his life, either, compared to this eternity of lonely wandering. At least mortals were finite, so the balance would always be kinder.

“Precisely”, he nodded.