Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Interlude XI: Secrets

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Valandil had been lying on that same bed when it happened. Of course, he had not been alone, even though his last years had been spent in increasing isolation from his kin and people. No matter how bitter his soul had grown after long decades of imprisonment, how rigid and harsh towards those who surrounded him, expecting them to bend without giving back an inch because he had already given enough, bent enough for the lifespan of several descendants of Elros in the noontide of their lineage, he would still not depart without bidding farewell to those who had loved him. He had even suffered his children to hold his hands in a tight grip, as if they could expect to hold back his spirit somehow, though they knew that the greatest strength in the world could not avail them in this. He had listened to them, finally listened after years of watching their words fly past the frown in his countenance and into the emptiness of the air. And he had told them that he was proud of them, of how they had borne persecution and hardship without complaint for the sake of their holiest beliefs.

Númendil still remembered the moment when the grey eyes had looked up, towards the invisible circles of the highest Heaven. They had gazed there in silence for a while, and to this day Númendil was certain that he had felt something, an invisible presence fluttering around the room just as they glazed over. It had hovered over him, then departed, and with it a strange feeling of coldness had come upon him, as in a house in winter where the fire had suddenly flickered out.

He looked up, and his eyes became fixed upon the expanse of blue sky visible from the window. How would it be like, to be able to see something beyond that after a lifetime of blindness? Some, among whom his family had traditionally been included, imagined it as freedom from the narrow walls of a cruel confinement, but to many others it was like allowing oneself to fall down the abyss of the unknown. That was why they would never throw themselves into it of their own free will, but waited until they were inexorably pushed into it.

To see it as freedom, however, held dangers of its own. To become free, one must escape, and not all escapes were honourable. Every man, and every woman, had been sent to the world to fulfil a purpose, and when that purpose became too much for them to bear, fear of death was the only thing that kept them tied to their duty. Númendil did not fear death; he did not fear to look up and leave his body behind like he would discard an ill-suiting garment on the surface of the bed. He had never feared it, but the awareness of his duty and the ties that bound him to his family and allies had been enough to banish it from his mind. Now, for the first time in his existence, he was not so certain anymore.

You have suffered so much already, the voice he had been trying to silence for days whispered insidiously in his mind. Imprisoned for seventy years, your child torn away from you, your wife wasting away under your eyes while she waited for a freedom that never came. And you have lived alone since then, trying to help all those whose souls had been warped by the same events which should have warped yours, and yet none of them ever asked how you were coping. Only the Elves had offered him some measure of healing, but their world was now banned to him as well, as remote as Valinor was for all mortals. And he had not complained, but soldiered on, while his son, the son of his son and the grandchildren of his son faced their own demons and hardships. He had been summoned, interrogated, probed for information, explored in the deepest recesses of his mind by the black eyes which disturbed him most in the world. None of it had broken him, and yet the moment that Amandil had returned to Númenor and threatened to fix his own gaze, shattered with confusion and worry, on his, he had finally balked and fled.

Surely it was not this unheard of. He was fast approaching the age at which Tar Palantir had died, and though the Lords of Andúnië enjoyed a longer lifespan, not all of them had made use of this gift. He remembered his grandfather Eärendur, how he had chosen to pass beyond the Circles of the World when Ar Gimilzôr’s men came for him. And Eärendur’s niece, the ill-fated Inzilbêth -she had been unable to silence the voice that whispered in her own mind for long, as the bleakness of her existence made it too hard to withstand its lure. He had held out this long, much longer than either of them, enough for his life to reach the point where the mightiest among the kings of Númenor would be old and doting. Who could blame him for wanting to leave now, and bury his secret with him? When a man’s main duty became to remain silent, to avoid warning those he loved of the thing that would destroy them all, couldn’t that duty be best performed from the grave?

Númendil had never in his life surrendered to the temptation of being selfish. And yet, now that he had opened his soul to it for the first time, he was amazed at how terrifyingly easy it was. He suddenly had a greater, more poignant understanding of things he had always found difficult to explain in the past, of choices and actions he had not been able to accept. Even she seemed to be within the grasp of this new understanding, for once that the door was opened to an act of selfishness, why wouldn’t it grow and escape the narrow confines of one particular instance, until it became a many-headed monster that devoured everything and everyone? She could have been Emeldir, who spent her life of imprisonment praying to be delivered and see her son again, but never blaming Eru in heaven for refusing to listen to her, not even when she was on her deathbed. But she had chosen otherwise: freedom over imprisonment, passion over emptiness, the happiness she could grasp with her hands over the distant horizon of the future. Herself, over others.

Númendil could not be like this. Paradoxically enough, to know how easy it was, how understandable, made him fight harder than ever against it. He would remain where he was, though his presence would make little difference in the final scheme of things. He would not let that door open.

And yet, he also knew that facing Amandil again would still take him a very long time. For it required a much different kind of courage, one he could not yet trust to remain with him in the hardest moments, when he saw his son suspect, worry, reach in the dark for the core of the problem until he was almost able to touch it with the tip of his fingers. When he saw him ready to do anything, to risk everything, to face it head on and save the Island.

If someone like Ar Pharazôn learned about the One Ring, where Sauron had poured his own essence to build the most formidable weapon ever made, it would inevitably lead to disaster. The King wanted power; his ambitions were great, and not yet sated by his possession of the Sceptre and his defeat of the Enemy in his dark land of Mordor. Even while he celebrated his victory, he was already thinking of ways to profit from the power vacuum created in the lands which had been subject to Sauron to impose his own rule. He would consider the Ring to be his by right of conquest, and take it away from Sauron, so if he was not corrupted by him who wore it, he would be corrupted by it, a choice which did not leave much room for hope. And yet, that was not even the harshest truth to assimilate. The bitterest of all was the knowledge that, in the end, it did not matter who took it: a power-hungry man, or another whose sole ambition was to save Númenor and prevent the shadow from engulfing them all. Because, once they had the Ring, it would make no difference.

I am sorry, Amandil. Númendil did not know whether his lips had moved, or the words had only been uttered in his mind. It was all the same: his son would never be able to forgive him, because Númendil would never be allowed to seek his forgiveness. He would remain silent for as long as he lived, and, once that he was gone, he would take all knowledge of this with him beyond the circles of the world. And only there, if Eru was as merciful as the ancient Númenóreans believed Him to be, he would be able to forget.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“No.”

Zimraphel leaned on the side of the bed, her eyes lost among the thousands of stars gyrating in the night sky. She could perceive his agitation, and deep underneath it a sliver of fear, pulsating like an infected wound.

“Very well. Then let us think of a different solution. If other families can adopt their heirs, so can we.”

Pharazôn shook his head, his tension subsiding a little, but not enough.

“We are not the other families.”

“You could also have an heir yourself”, she continued, still aware of every shift in his emotions. “Only not with me.”

“That would never be acceptable, and you know it.”

“The people would not have to know.” Her lips curved in a crooked smile which did not reach her eyes. “There are women of the line of Indilzar who would have no other choice but to carry our child.”

He knew of whom she was speaking, and a part of him was considering it even as the other revolted against the idea. The line of Forostar was extinct only in the male line, and not all of Hiram’s daughters had been married at the time. After the downfall of their house, those who were not had been forced to face the reality that they never would -but they still could bear children.

In the end, distaste won over utility, and he shook his head.

“No.”

“We do not have children. In the end, no matter what you think of these options, you will have to make a choice.”

“There is still time.” Now, his forehead was curved in a familiar, stubborn expression. “We have many years ahead of us.”

“Not for this” she hissed. Suddenly, she rolled on the bed until she was lying on her back, and, taking his hand in hers, she laid it over her stomach. “Can you feel it?”

“Feel what?” he asked, the tension rising again. She swallowed, waiting for a few seconds before she finally answered.

“The child.” His eyes widened, but she spoke again before he had the chance to. “Dying.”

“What… Zimraphel, what child?” he asked. All of a sudden, his emotions seemed to be scattered all over the place, and he was trying to chase after each of them only to be distracted by the others. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I have been pregnant. Many times”, she confessed. “Even before we were married, even while I was still with Vorondil… not because of him, I would never have let the likes of him impregnate me. But each and every one of the children we made died in my womb before the third month, and so will this one.”

Now, she was almost sorry to see his look of devastation. His fingers roamed over her skin as if they somehow could touch the small, doomed life pulsating underneath it.

“I did not know… you should have told…. is that what you meant back then, when you said that if you had kept something from me, it was not with evil intent?”

She cradled his hand in her smaller, colder ones.

“There was nothing you could do about it. There was nothing I, or anyone else, could do at the time, so why let you suffer needlessly?” He tensed, as if he wanted to give an angry retort, then deflated, as if realizing there was no point in that particular line of attack.

“How many?”

“This is the sixth.”

“By the King of Armenelos! Are you sure there is no way on this Earth to save it?”

“There could be.” She sat up, and her eyes narrowed to pierce his like the sharp edge of a blade. “It could be brought to term, and then we would have a child, you and I. But that will only happen if we put our trust in him.”

“What? No.” He shook his head nervously. “Never. I said that was out of the question, and I mean it.”

Zimraphel did not even blink.

“Then” she shrugged, “the line of the kings of Númenor will die with you and me.”

“That remains to be seen”, he retorted, as fearless and defiant as he had always shown himself before the world. And yet this fearlessness was a lie, and his defiance was empty. Empty, and as pointless as all the promises and oaths of mortals who tried to control Fate, without realizing that it was Fate who controlled them.

“You should know that I do not have much time left”, she warned. “We are not gods yet, Pharazôn. Once that the last chance has slipped from our grasp, not even the full might of the Sceptre that we hold will be enough to recover it.”

Ar Pharazôn was not a fool. He was a warrior, hot-headed and proud, but he was also intelligent, the only man who would have held out his hand to his vision-ridden mad cousin, not merely because he was infatuated with her beauty, but because he knew that he needed her by his side. And though he stood up now, glaring at her as if she had said something beyond outrageous, deep inside his heart he knew that she was right.

“Stay in bed. Do not move. I will… I will tell the Court and the Council that you are not feeling well. The best healers will examine you, and perhaps they will find something that you have overlooked.”

“They will not”, she shrugged. “Only one can ever find what you seek, and you know who it is.”

“For the last time, I will not let that fiend near you even if I have to search all the brothels in Umbar to find an heir for the Sceptre!”

He had no male children alive left, but she did not tell him this. Both knew it was an empty promise, yet another one among many, for if there was one thing that even this abased Númenor would not tolerate, it was a barbarian ruling in Armenelos. In any case, it did not matter, because he would never have the chance to try.

“As you wish”, she said, a brief, mocking smile crossing her features as she turned her back to him, and pretended to be looking for a comfortable position to sleep.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

He was lying on the floor, gazing at the ceiling as if there was something interesting written in its ancient stones. At first he gave no sign of being aware of his presence, though no noises could be heard in this dark underground vault aside from his footsteps as he came in. And still, just as Pharazôn was going to utter the first word, he spoke.

“Yes, the Queen is right. I can do it.”

His charming voice had not suffered any deterioration since he was imprisoned, though any mortal would have been speaking in hoarse and raspy tones by now. This added to the general aura of unnaturalness surrounding him, forcing Pharazôn to swallow an uneasy feeling which, in turn, increased his anger at the words.

“I was not going to ask you that, you disgusting creature!”

Sauron rose to a sitting position. He looked like the very first day they had met, after he rode past the Black Gate of his realm.

“Then why are you here, King of Númenor?”

Pharazôn found himself at a loss as to what to say to this. To say the truth, he was there on an impulse, fuelled by his argument with Zimraphel, but that was the last thing that he wished to admit now. And, at the same time, he was aware that it did not matter if he admitted it or not, because Sauron knew.

As he was about to turn away and leave this wretched place, cursing the moment that this ludicrous idea had first entered his mind, the voice made him freeze in his tracks again.

“You were brave enough to defeat me, but not to take advantage of your victory. I am here now, and all my knowledge could be at your service to help you achieve anything that you wanted. And yet, you still hesitate. Since when is the Golden King afraid to use the means that Fate has put at his disposition?”

Was he trying to goad him? Did he think mortals were that gullible, so far beneath him, that all he needed to do was dare them to throw themselves down a cliff and they would do it?

“I do not need you to achieve what I want. And you are not in Númenor so I can take advantage of your presence, but of your absence.”

“And you will take it. You will build a great empire, all by yourself. But then, King of Númenor, once that you are taken by the Doom of Men, who will inherit it?”

He struggled not to show evidence of how much this question upset his resolve. He could not show his weakness; if there was something Amandil had not been mistaken about, it was that, defeated or not, his enemy remained his enemy.

“That is none of your concern.”

“The Queen is pregnant. She will lose this baby, as she lost all the others. After that, there will only be one more chance.”

Perhaps if his head was severed from his body, and buried deep enough, he would be able to stop listening to his words. Almost at the same time as he had this thought, however, Pharazôn marvelled at his own obfuscation. What was he thinking? All he needed to do was leave this place and never return, and Sauron would not be able to follow him. He only had to throw away the key, forget that he was there, and not engage him further in dangerous conversation. This was as true now as it had been before, when his feet had carried him here, but somehow he had failed to see what a clear mind would have seen at once.

This worried him deeply.

“There are several ways to make a man immortal. One of them is through his offspring. But he can also become immortal himself, and I could help you with both.”

Lies. They were all lies. Zimraphel might be scared enough of her visions to put her trust in him, but he had to be there to keep a cool head for both of them. And he had not done a very good job of it so far.

“You are just desperate to be let out of here. I never thought I would see such an ancient and powerful spirit brought so low as to act like this”, he spat. If a mortal could become immortal, he would not be the first man in thousands of years of history who had been presented with this possibility.

“You are not the first. Your ancestor Eärendil, father of Ar Indilzar, became immortal, and he still lives. If you do not believe me, ask those who call themselves the Faithful. They know many things about Númenor’s past, and have preserved many records, though they twist them to suit their own purposes.”

Pharazôn swallowed; his throat was surprisingly dry.

“I suppose that you, on the other hand, should be relied upon to tell me of the events from the past exactly as they happened. Like, for example, how you betrayed everyone you had ever served or befriended to suit your own purposes.”

Sauron sighed, a very soft but surprisingly human sound.

“If they have your ear, King of Númenor, there is nothing I can do.”

How dare he? Pharazôn bristled, only belatedly aware that he was letting himself be involved again in an argument that prevented him from leaving this place. The creature’s words were acting like invisible, insidious chains which kept him rooted to the spot in spite of his better knowledge.

This had to end. Now. Paranoid thoughts agitated his mind: if he did not leave at this very moment, perhaps he never would.

“No one has my ear. And least of all, you”, he hissed, forcing his feet to finally obey him and walk away from the shadows of the chamber.

As he was back under the light of the sun, the warmth and brightness of the world of the living seemed to clear his mind, as if he had awoken from a dream. He was letting go of a sigh of relief when, suddenly, his blood froze anew. Such a feeling brought him back to his childhood, when he had nightmares and the relief of waking up in his own room had foundered abruptly as he remembered the details of his dream and wondered, for a split second, if it could have been real.

There are several ways to make a man immortal.

Swept away by an urge to do something, Ar Pharazôn gave orders for Lord Númendil to be immediately brought to his presence. As soon as he had done so, however, he changed his mind, so he sent a second messenger to find the man he had dispatched for the Andúnië mansion and intercept him. He did not want to see Númendil again, to hear his unvoiced recriminations, or to perceive his silent, condescending concern for the temptations that he, as a mortal, would never be able to withstand. And above all, he did not want Amandil to know that he had spoken with Sauron, that he was pondering those things, and seeking information about something which that lying creature had told him. He imagined the expression in his features as he reached the conclusion that he had been right all along, and Pharazôn had been wrong. In his mind’s eye, he saw the lord of Andúnië successively looking smug and worried; both images were equally unbearable to him.

No, he thought, his face growing red. Amandil would never know about this. And Pharazôn would never step inside that place again, even if Zimraphel should give birth to six other dead children.

There will only be one more chance.

“Then so be it”, he said to himself, feeling the urge to hear the words aloud, so they could acquire the steel armour of finality that suddenly seemed more necessary than ever. A courtier, less proficient than the others in the refined art of masking their reactions, blinked at him; two others looked away. He ignored them.

That night, however, the King could not manage to fall asleep. And when a month later, to the great consternation of the Court and the people of Númenor, Ar Zimraphel miscarried despite the combined efforts of healers and priests, he felt as if a hand had squeezed his heart with cold and invisible fingers.