Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Plans and Preparations

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As it turned out, there was no need for Ilmarë to investigate or confront anyone about their suspicions. Barely three days after Isildur was awoken by that dream, the news had travelled across the Court and reached the Armenelos mansion of the lords of Andúnië, leaving a huge commotion in their wake. The King and the Queen sought the aid of Heaven in the difficult endeavour of bringing forth the heir to the throne of Númenor, and to secure the goodwill of the greatest of gods, Melkor the King of Armenelos, they were going to offer the most expensive and lavish sacrifices that Númenor had ever seen. Bulls and cows would be brought in great numbers from every corner of their kingdom, even from the mainland, and the sacred altar where they would burn was to be kindled with the hewn wood of the White Tree itself.

“This is madness.” Amandil paced around the courtyard, seemingly unaware of the possibility that any passers-by could see him like this. Or else he did not care. “Sheer madness. Yes, that must be it, his delusions of greatness have grown out of control, and now he has gone mad.”

Anárion looked very concerned, gazing left and right as if he believed the spies of Ar Pharazôn to be hiding behind every column and pressing their ears against the doors. In sharp contrast, Númendil’s grey eyes appeared as serene as a winter morning after the first snows had fallen, but Isildur knew him enough by now to recognize this as an attempt to bring calm to those who surrounded him.

“He is not mad. But I believe he has been listening to someone.”

The lord of Andúnië stopped in his tracks. Gradually, the colour of his face was changing from flushed to livid.

“No. That cannot be. He – he knows this is the last thing, the very last thing that he should do.”

“Neither the King nor the Queen have thought of this on their own. You know that, Amandil. And you also know that the King dismissed you from his presence because he did not share your concerns about exactly how… dangerous the prisoner could be.”

It was a very rare occurrence, to see Isildur’s grandfather completely speechless. The resulting silence was so heavy, so oppressive, that even prudent Anárion seemed to be struggling to fill it with something.

“Is there… do you think there is a way to reverse this? To change the King’s mind?” He swallowed deeply. “The White Tree is the symbol of the royal line, is it not? If it flourishes, the line of the Kings will flourish. If it dies, the line of the Kings will die. For a King to cut and burn it is an act of self-destruction, how could he fail to see this?”

The lord of Andúnië still did not speak. He appeared almost transfixed, as if he was looking at something that none of them could see.

Isildur approached them, and sat at the veranda next to Númendil.

“He has always listened to you, Grandfather. You could try.”

At last, Amandil seemed to gather his composure enough to utter words.

“I have no access to him”, he said, in a strangely hollow voice. “All I can do is speak against him in the Council, but he has never listened to what I say there, not even when… not even before.”

Isildur did not know exactly what had happened during the Mordor campaign, but it was there that something had changed forever in the lord of Andúnië’s relationship with the King. For a while, he had suspected this to have something to do with his father’s actions in Arne, a secret conflict which had culminated in his own return to Númenor as a hostage. But now that he had heard it from Númendil’s lips, he realized that it was Sauron who had been in the middle of it, as he was also in the middle of this business about the Tree. For a defeated prisoner, he appeared to have a large range of action indeed.

“The Tree will fall, no matter what we do”, Númendil said. Though he was talking to Amandil, for a moment he gazed at Isildur, and he had the feeling that his great-grandfather was addressing him. “It is beyond any of us to avert this catastrophe. My advice is that you save your strength for the battles ahead of us, which will be many and bitter.”

Taken by a sudden urge to flee that gaze, Isildur bowed and mumbled some excuse before walking away. He should not have bothered, for no one seemed to challenge, perhaps even notice his departure. As he left the courtyard behind, he could hear Amandil’s raised voice directed at Númendil. Though the lord of Andúnië had no idea of how to solve this problem, refusing to surrender was too much of an inherent trait of his personality – one that Isildur had inherited, according to many.

Checking that he was alone, he let go of a long, shuddering breath. He had no idea of how much Númendil knew, about either his thoughts or his dreams. He did not even know if his great-grandfather was aware of something about his own fate, as the Seers were said to receive visions about the future deeds and perils of individual men when under the influence of the sacred herb. However it may be, Isildur could not take the word of a man, of any man, and simply refuse to face the situation that his dreams had been preparing him for since he was a child. Deep inside, he had always been sure that those visions had a purpose, that Eru had chosen him to do something, and that he would know what it was if only he could reach the elusive end of the dream and find the key to interpret it.

Now, at long last, the time had come. The purpose was clear, as clear as the crystalline waters of the fountain where he washed his face after he awoke drenched in sweat. All those sleepless nights, the fears of a child which had turned into the obsession of an adult, had revealed themselves to have a meaning, and the meaning was right in front of him. The White Tree would go up in flames, and disaster would follow his heels, but he would be given a chance to prevent it. Not Númendil, not Amandil, not Anárion, but him. And if that was true, it followed that the required action had nothing to do with wise counsel or political manoeuvring of any sort. It was meant to be something that he could do.

“Isildur.”

The voice calling his name startled him, and his whole body tensed. Absorbed as he had been by his feverish train of thought, he had not heard Malik approach, but that was not the only reason for his reaction. His feeling of vindication because his dream was finally coming true had managed to obscure, even for a moment, the least pleasant aspects of it. Now, upon hearing the familiar voice he had been forced to listen to every night as he tried to climb the white branches, they came crashing into his mind, and his heart sank.

“What is the matter? You look upset.”

“It is nothing”, he replied, but fooling Malik had never been that easy, if it was possible at all.

“Are you thinking of your dream?”

“How on Earth… how could you know that?” Isildur stared at his friend wide-eyed. wondering if Malik would suddenly reveal himself to possess powers that eluded even the most gifted of the Line of Elros. The half-Númenórean, however, merely shrugged, bemused by his shocked reaction.

“Ilmarë told me about the White Tree. The same White Tree that features in all those mad dreams you keep having at night”, he explained. Then, with a matter-of-fact expression, he sat by the fountain, and gestured at Isildur to approach. “In the end, it was not that complicated, was it? To think you spent decades trying to argue that you needed to dream it again and again, and remember every detail so you could make sense of what Heaven was trying to tell you!”

Isildur swallowed, not sure of whether he should take the bait or refuse to be engaged in this conversation.

“To think you spent decades trying to argue that my dreams were meaningless and I should not have them”, he surrendered at last, his mind still reeling with visions of his friend’s ghost.

“I never said they were meaningless.”

“You told Ilmarë that you did not believe in them.”

“Well, she was very worried about that! She seemed to think I was in danger, or something of the sort.”

“I see your ghost.”

“What?” Now, this had achieved the intended reaction of giving Malik pause. And perhaps even unnerve him, he thought, seeing him shift his position at least twice before he opened his mouth again. “In your dream, you mean?”

“Yes.” Isildur nodded, almost savagely. “I am trying to escape the towering waters and get to the Tree, and I need your help, but you cannot help me because you are already dead.”

Malik shook his head with a snort, signalling the end of his moment of vulnerability.

“Well, that is clearly wrong. I am here, very much alive, and I can help you with whatever it is that you are planning to do. Which is stealing the fruit from the White Tree before they burn it so you can plant another, right?”

“Forget it. You are not going to help me with anything.”

Malik ignored him.

“What do those waters mean, anyway? Are we supposed to factor them in the list of dangers, right under all the Palace Guards and a Queen who could be having a vision about us?”

“Since centuries ago, my family has believed that this dream of the Wave represents a catastrophe that will sink Númenor in retribution for our sins. But as long as the White Tree remained standing, there would be….”, Isildur began replying mechanically, before he realized the full implications of what he had just heard. “And stop speaking in the plural.”

“Ha! My father believed that an island could sink, and they called him a barbarian!” Malik snorted. “In any case, those waters would not be able to pursue you while the White Tree was still standing, would they? You must be dreaming of things that will happen at different times. And in that case, what is so strange about my death? We were born at the same time, but we will not die at the same time. You know that. “His friend’s gaze was briefly lost in the distance, and Isildur was distracted by remembrances of that fateful conversation in the beach of Andúnië, when Malik had returned from visiting his widowed mother. “Listen, your dream shows you fleeing the waters, does it not? Do you think the dream means that, if you get to the Tree in time, that catastrophe could be averted?”

Now, it was Isildur who was given pause. Before Malik arrived, he had been savouring the brief triumph of his realization that the dream meant something, and that there was a course of action he could take to prevent disaster, but to hear it said out loud was different.

Could that be? Could he be the one who was called to end his family’s long nightmare, and to save Númenor from its fate? If he thought rationally about it, the claim seemed vain and preposterous. Lord Númendil had said that Ar Pharazôn was listening to Sauron’s counsel now, the lord of Andúnië had no access to him anymore, and Isildur could not figure out how saving the lineage of a tree, even the White Tree, would change this. But the logic of prophecy could not always be explained by the logic of the waking world, and a part of him yearned to put his trust in the first when the second seemed so paradoxically remote and out of his grasp.

“It could be”, he admitted, grudgingly, though he was aware that he was playing into his friend’s hands. Malik nodded.

“In that case, this would give you the opportunity to change all our fates. Should you hesitate to risk your life over this, when the gain is so great?”

“My life, Malik. I am the one who was sent those dreams, not you.”

“You are not a good gambler, Isildur.”

“What?” He frowned, for a moment unable to understand what Malik was on about. His friend shook his head, as if he was speaking to someone who was unbearably slow of mind.

“When a gambler has only one stab at success, he does not keep a part of his money stored away for the next time. He gambles everything, all that he owns, because there will be no next time. If you have only one chance to save the White Tree of the Kings or perish in the attempt, why on Earth would you go alone, when you can go with me and have more chances of succeeding in your endeavour?”

In his dream, Isildur had always been filled with anguish at some unsurmountable obstacle. Sometimes, it had been his inability to outrun the Wave, but what he most remembered was standing before the White Tree and knowing that he was unable to climb it. And he always, invariably thought of Malik, who could do nothing to help him with his ghostly hands. But Malik’s hands were not ghostly now; one of them was grabbing his, and his grip was as firm as ever.

“To get to the Tree, I will need stealth, not strength.” He still refused to use the plural. “Two are stronger than one, but the Guards would still outnumber us by far.”

“And yet, they do not have to know how many we are. This means that one can still succeed if the other fails.”

“You mean like in a spy mission?” He remembered their fighting days in Arne, and a rather fateful night when one of their companions was caught and they could not give away their position. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, the screams still haunted him. “No. I will not do it. Besides, if you die, I will have to die too, because Ilmarë will kill me.”

Malik chortled, but he did not seem amused.

“I marvel at your confidence, Isildur. You cannot climb to save your life, you are much worse at stealth than I am, and your arm is no stronger than mine. And yet you assume that, of the two of us, I am the more likely to fall.”

Isildur felt his cheeks grow red.

“That is not…! Were you even listening to me before? I said I saw your ghost! I was alive and I saw your ghost, not the other way around! This has nothing to do with your abilities or mine.”

“So, you are going to pay heed to what you saw in a dream, instead of what is right in front of your eyes?”

“I thought you believed in my dreams now!”

“I do not!” Malik’s eyes narrowed as he set them on his. “I cannot believe in a prophecy that asks you to die to save an old tree, or else let Númenor be swallowed by a giant wave. And I will not believe it is my fate to die now because you dreamed of a ghost! I may be a barbarian, or half-barbarian, or whatever else people may wish to call me, but I will be ruled by common sense, not mad superstitions!”

Once again, their argument was dangerously veering towards the edge of absurdity. Isildur longed to turn his back to it and go someplace where he could be alone with his own thoughts, but he suspected that leaving this business unfinished could prove dangerous for his immediate future. Their immediate future.

“Then why did you claim earlier that you never thought they were meaningless? Why were you trying to convince me of the need to accept your help by interpreting parts of them for me? You are not making any sense in this conversation, and I have had enough of this!”

His friend answered his glare, unfazed.

“On the contrary, I am making all the sense in the world. Those dreams are not meaningless to me because you believe in them, and because you are going to steal inside the Palace to follow your vision. And if you die for this, your death will not happen in your dreams, it will happen in the waking world, and Ilmarë will kill me. “He shrugged, feigning a nonchalance that fooled neither of them. “What could be more meaningful than that?”

“I cannot let you die for something you do not even believe in!”

“And am I supposed to let you die for something I do not believe in?”

Isildur’s frown became a scowl. That stubborn, idiot fool was just too much.

“You cannot prevent me from following my destiny.”

“What if I told the lord of Andúnië about your plans?”

“I would still find a way to escape, and he would not be able to prevent it.”

“And neither would you be able to prevent me from escaping with you.”

“Stop making up retorts for everything I say!” How could such a momentous decision, such a turning point in his life, end up resembling one of their childhood’s pettiest fights? “This is something that I have to do on my own, and if I fail, the weight of my failure will be on me alone.”

“Can I make one last retort?”

Isildur shook his head, but no words made it past his lips. He was so tired of this. He longed to splash his face with the cool water of the fountain, as he did when he wanted to clear the haze of his dreams. To go back to the feeling of triumph, of purpose, that he had experienced when he first realized the truth of his visions.

“I will not let you risk your life on your own. This is something that I have to do, too. I do not care if that fruit is worth a kingdom or if it is just a fruit like any other. I will see you return with it, and if you do not, I will return with it myself.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You may have noticed that I am not even trying to dissuade you, because I know it is useless to change your mind once it is bent upon an objective. Now, will you award me the same courtesy, or not?”

Isildur’s glance, which until now had been fixed on Malik, slowly trailed down, until he was gazing at the floor. He was defeated, both of them knew it, and there was no need for an open acknowledgement of the fact.

“We might as well come up with a good plan, then.”

He should feel heartened that he was not alone, but instead of that he felt a heaviness of heart that he found difficult to explain even to himself. It was not just the memory of the ghost in his dream, though this had not fled his mind for a moment, or the thought of his sister, who might never forgive him this time, and with good reason.  In spite of Malik’s dismissive words, he had seen the events depicted in his dream with his own eyes. He believed in them, knew that they were real, and that Eru had sent it to him for this very purpose.

Still, the more he thought about it, the more he kept returning to the thoughts that he had harboured right at the beginning of their conversation. Almost guiltily, he remembered opposing the logic of prophecy to the logic of the real world, and choosing to believe in the first, because it meant that he could do something. But, could everything in this world bend to this logic, and be controlled by it? There was Malik, who refused to pay heed to those dreams or recognize the importance of the White Tree, and claimed to be able to take on Fate on his own means, with a strength of conviction that equalled, perhaps surpassed that of Isildur himself. If the rest of Númenor was like Malik, if their King was like him, what could the act of saving a fruit mean in the larger scheme of things?

And yet, he is ready to die for that fruit, just because you believe in it. He could almost see Lord Númendil before him, his serene grey eyes fixed on his. Do not underestimate the logic of prophecy, Isildur, for even those who dismiss it are bound to it.

The real Númendil, the one who had looked at him for a brief moment as he told the lord of Andúnië that he could not save the White Tree, did not want Isildur to go. But he had not interfered then, and Isildur knew that he would not dare defy the logic of prophecy either, no matter what his personal feelings were.

“Come”, he said, standing on his feet and gesturing towards Malik, who was still sitting by the edge of the fountain. “Let us go somewhere more private to discuss this.”

Malik stood up in silence, and followed him on his way to his rooms.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“You are both insane. I will not help you. No… I will not let you do this.” Her ashen-grey features seemed carved in stone like those of a statue, except for her eyes, which were very much alive and glowering at them. Upon looking at her, Isildur was unpleasantly reminded of his mother for a moment, but he could not allow such sentiments to sidetrack him.

“With your help, we would have no problem getting into the Palace. Once we are in, we can have the deed done.”

“Oh, is that so? Silly me, how could I fail to see how easy it is to steal the fruit from the heavily guarded White Tree inside the heavily guarded Outer Courtyard of the heavily guarded Palace of Armenelos!” Ilmarë’s voice had risen well above the whispers which Isildur considered the only safe way to communicate without being discovered, but he knew that, if he told her this, she would only speak louder. So he forced himself to swallow his anxiety, and prayed that no one heard her. “Even if you are in, even if you somehow get past the guards, how will you get out?”

“By disguising myself as a guard.”

“And if they raise the alarm?”

“If the plan goes well, they will be chasing after Malik. The wall of the Outer Courtyard can be climbed, for it is not that high. I remember there are old and sturdy vines growing near the garden where the White Tree stands; they can support a grown man’s weight.”

“Climb?” She snorted. “You?”

“I am not…”

“I am the one who will do the climbing.” It was the first time that Malik spoke since the beginning of the conversation. “He will take advantage of the commotion to flee, pretending to be a guard chasing after me.”

“Oh, is that what you think?” Ilmarë’s anger was redirected towards him now, giving Isildur the opportunity to breathe. “How long did it take you to accomplish such cunning strategies and precise calculations? How could you drag Malik into your mad schemes, Isildur, wasn’t almost getting him killed in the mainland exciting enough for you?”

Now, that had been one very short breath.

“He did not drag me into anything. He did not want me to come, and it took me a long time to convince him”, Malik replied, rather vehemently for what Isildur was used to hear from his mouth in her presence. “There is no way he can do this alone and succeed. He needs me. And we need you.”

That beseeching tone was more familiar to his ears. And probably more effective, he thought, as he saw Ilmarë flinch and look suddenly upset.

“But why? Why risk your lives for a… for a dream? What is this going to change? The White Tree will be saved, and then what? Will that make Sauron disappear, and the Faithful to be restored to their former honour?”

“I do not know.” Isildur intervened again, perceiving Malik to be at a loss. “All I know is that I was sent this dream when I was a child, and that it has taken me this long to understand its meaning. Now, we only have a few days to act before Sauron achieves his purpose, and in my dream, this purpose was followed by the destruction of Númenor. And do not tell me that it is just a dream”, he added quickly, frowning at her. “You, of all people, should understand.”

“Yes, I have the dream, too.” Instead of deflating, she seemed to grow taller at his words. “How do we know that it is not I who has to steal the fruit? You seem very sure of what Eru is asking of you, did you even ask Lord Númendil for counsel? Oh, I forget. “She snorted. “You always know better than everyone.”

“Lord Númendil knows.” Isildur was almost certain of this, and he willed that certainty into his voice. “And Ilmarë, how can you not see it? You were sent this dream because you are meant to give us your aid. If we all perform our appointed tasks, everything will be well.”

“And what is Malik’s appointed task? In your dream, he is dead! Even I saw him die once!”

“As far as you told me back then, I died saving you from the Wave.” He was becoming good at interpreting visions that he believed to be a bunch of utter nonsense, Isildur thought wryly. “That should mean I survive this, as it is meant to happen later, if at all.”

“Your plan sounds very dangerous! There is too much left to chance!” He knew his sister well enough as to detect that she was nearing the point of – calling it surrender might be too much of a stretch, but she might be open for a tenuous alliance.

“Not chance. Fate”, he could not prevent himself from replying. Now, it was Malik who gazed at him in contempt.

“But Fate needs plenty of help. Otherwise, why shouldn’t we stay here, sitting idly while the King burns the Tree? Fate would save it for us.”

“What if I tell Grandfather of what you are about to do?”

Malik laughed.

“I said the same thing to this fool, so I can save you his answer. If he is hindered in his plans, he will find a way to do it anyway, probably on his own and without plans of any sort, and he will die in the attempt.”

“I hate you.” Ilmarë spat. At him, of course. “Why do you always need to have your way in everything? If something happens to either of you, I will blame you, Isildur! And I will never forgive you!”

He had in mind some flippant retort about her need to wait for her turn after the King and the lord of Andúnië, but abandoned the idea when he realized that she was at the verge of tears. It was not that he did not understand her reaction: she cared for them, and they had just told her that they were going to risk their lives to achieve a perilous mission he had been sent in a dream.

And besides, they needed her help.

Before he could manage to compose a stirring speech signifying their unwavering compromise not to stop before any obstacle in order to come back alive, however, Malik had already embraced her, and his only opportunity to appear as less of a monster was gone.

“Ilmarë, I promise that we will succeed in our mission”, he whispered against her ear. “Even if you cannot trust him, trust me on this, for I would never lie to you.”

Smooth bastard.

“I d-do not care about the mission” she muttered in a tremulous voice. “I care about you. And about Isildur, too, though he does not deserve it. If… if there is a choice between your lives and the mission, you have to swear that you will choose your lives.” The voice became firmer now, and she slowly let go of the embrace. “That is my price.”

“Very well.” Malik’s gaze held no trace of hesitation as she held her hands in this. “We swear it.”

Isildur opened his mouth to protest: he had not sworn anything of the sort, and he was not sure that he could. However, as he was about to state this, he saw the relief on Ilmarë’s countenance, and her nod, and realized that he could not afford to reverse the outcome of this particular battle.

“Fine. Shall we go back to the plan again?” he spoke loudly above the noises of their kiss. With more than a little reluctance, they broke it up, and he knew that tonight he would have a hard time reminding them that the sounds of their farewell should never reach the ears of the other denizens of the Andúnië mansion.

“Very well”, Malik sighed, sitting down, her hand still in his. “I will be part of Ilmarë’s escort when she enters the Palace in the morning. Normally, I would not go beyond the entrance, but she is going to need me to help carry something heavy. Won’t the Palace Guards want to do that themselves?”

“I will not allow those barbarians to lay their rough hands on my precious belongings”, she answered, in such an arrogant tone that Isildur was certain that the Palace Guard in question would step back, bow, and dislike her inwardly.

“Ha! If only they knew where barbarians lay their rough hands…”

“Stop talking. Right now.” Sometimes, he hated Malik.  “Well, once that you are in, Ilmarë will hide you and you will bide your time and try not to be discovered. Meanwhile, I will be getting ready to accompany the lord of Andúnië to the Council session that afternoon.”

“How will you manage to convince him that you are suddenly interested in matters of governance?” Ilmarë surveyed him with a critical look, in such a good impression of their grandfather that Isildur almost felt as if he was being judged by him.

“Because the debate is going to be focused on the fate of the White Tree. Grandfather knows that I have been dreaming of it since I was a boy, and he will not think it strange that I am interested in this particular issue. If all, he may be a little worried about my ability to remain silent, but as he will also lose his composure soon enough, that will not matter.”

“And he will also believe you when you claim that you have to see me, and stay in the Palace after he leaves?”

“As I said, he will lose his composure. If things go very badly, he might not even hear me. He might not even remember I am there.”

“He might not even remember who you are.” Malik retorted wryly.

“That would be even better.” Isildur laid both hands on the table, and bent forwards so he could turn his voice into a whisper. “Now, we are both inside the Palace, and Ilmarë leaves.”

“Wait. Before that, I have to disguise you somehow and give you instructions, or they will spot you very soon. In fact, I think that they will spot you very soon even if I do all that! This is one of the weakest parts of the plan.”

“Not many know me in the Palace, I have only been there once since I was a child! Now, if I was Anárion…”

“You have the features of the lords of Andúnië. You will have to try better than that.”

“Then hide me in a storage room, or something!”

“I will hide you both, then. They cannot see either of you. Yes, Malik, you are just as conspicuous as he is. You can only be mistaken for a Guard, but they know each other and you cannot pass as one of them for a whole day without being discovered.” For someone who had been railing against the plan a mere while ago, she seemed quite ready now to organize the whole operation. “The laundry storage! You can go where the dirty laundry is piled for cleaning! It is huge and dark because it is underground, so even if they come to take a part of it for washing, you only have to retreat deeper and hide behind another pile. And there will surely be Guard uniforms there that you can use later. They will not be very clean, but they will do.”

“So, I will be hiding in an underground, windowless cave among mountains of dirty clothes for a day”, Malik summed up. Isildur snorted.

“That sounds terrible. Even worse than the time I hid among corpses for a whole night, five years ago. It was hot and they smelled terribly as they began to decompose, but I am sure that dirty laundry smells worse. And the humidity will kill your joints.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something? I was there among the corpses, too.”

“Oh, were you?” Isildur feigned confusion. “But if that was the case, why would you complain now? It makes no sense.”

“Stop it!” Since she had declared herself in charge, Ilmarë appeared to have decided that she was entitled to glare at them as well. “I have had enough of your… baiting, and your boasting! You are both very brave, but I could not care less! I only want you to come out of this alive, and for that you will have to do as you are told!”

For a moment, their eyes met, and Isildur realized that Malik was also growing aware of the fact that they had just created a monster. But unlike him, Malik did not seem particularly displeased about it.

“You are right. And do not worry, we will. So, at some point he will join me at the room of the dirty laundry, will he not?”

She nodded.

“And after that?”

“After that, she will no longer be there, Malik”, Isildur reminded him, wondering if he did it on purpose. “We will stick to the rest of our plan: to wait until midnight approaches, around a half hour before the guard around the White Tree changes. They will be paying less attention then, as they will be busy with the report they must deliver to the newcomers, perhaps even discussing what they are going to do after their watch ends.”

Ilmarë seemed about to ask a question, but she closed her mouth without saying anything.

“Then, while they are there, I will sneak in under the cover of the darkness”, Malik continued. If they were Orcs, that would probably even work, Isildur thought. “Once they spot me, Isildur will come running, disguised as a Guard, and since the helmet will cover most of his features, they will not recognize him in the confusion, nor have the time to ask many questions. He will pretend to have been chasing me, and hopefully send them in the wrong direction. There are six of them, and most will join the chase, so it will be a matter of doubling back and overpowering the one or two who remain. Once he has the fruit, he will go to the main gate to raise the alarm and call the guards in to detain the intruder. Taking advantage of the confusion, it will be easy for him to sneak past them. Meanwhile, I will have climbed the wall and jumped towards freedom.”

Ilmarë stared at them, her eyes wide open. Then, all of a sudden, they became as narrow as slits.

“Towards freedom? Even if all you have said comes true, and that is saying much, how can you think that as soon as you cross the walls of the Palace you will be safe? You will have a bunch of guards chasing you!”

“The Palace Guards cannot leave the Palace for long. They might give chase through a few streets, but then they will be forced to return to their posts. That quarter is full of revellers at night; it should be easy to give them the slip.”

“You are insane.” And there they were, back to where they started. Isildur sighed, about to be won by discouragement.

“Look, Ilmarë, I understand how you feel”, Malik spoke, pressing his hand against hers. She withdrew it furiously, and he shook his head with a regretful glance. “But we are both soldiers. For years, we have been following one insane, unsure, dangerous strategy after another. Believe it or not, this is our life, and that is why the least you know about it, the less you will suffer.”

“You are not in Middle-Earth! This is Númenor! Here, you should be… we should be…”

“Safe?” Isildur chuckled mirthlessly. “But we are not. An ancient evil spirit has taken residence in the royal palace, the White Tree of the Kings is about to be burned, and you and I and our brother are hostages to prevent our father from opposing the King’s will. At any moment now, we can be persecuted like our ancestors were, like our own grandfather, who had narrowly escaped death thrice before he was ten years old. And if our dreams are true, the whole of Númenor may be in grave peril. How could we be safe in these circumstances?”

Ilmarë stood up. Her face was livid, and her hands were balled into fists under her sleeves.

“I do not care what you say. I will still hold you to your oath. Both of you”, she hissed, levelling them with an angry glance before she turned their back on them and left. Malik stood up in a hurry, and gave him an apologetic look. When Isildur shrugged, he bolted after her.

Before night fell, he realized, he would have to make sure that they made peace. If he had to bear the blame for everything, so be it, as long as Ilmarë did not waste it in anger at Malik. And if he had to stand watch at their doorstep, he would do that too. In spite of all, he had always wanted them to be happy, not for a night but for many years, and if there was a way to ensure that, Isildur would give anything in the world to achieve it.

Anything, but your dream, an insidious voice whispered in his mind. Which is the only thing that might truly destroy all of your happiness. If that is not irony, then what is it?

“Be silent”, Isildur hissed, standing up as well to step out of the dark room, and into the courtyard.