Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

---

The Sacrifice

---

Amandil forced himself to blink, in an attempt to alleviate the pain in his eyes. He had been staring into the flickering light of the lamp for so long that they had gone entirely dry, and felt like strange appendixes which did not belong to his own body.

“I do not understand. Why would they do something like this?”

Inside the room, Isildur was tossing and turning on the bed. It had been impossible to reanimate him, no matter how they tried, but even in this state he was remarkably sensitive to any sound and movement around him. Now and then, he would say things aloud, things that seemed to make no sense when one tried to string them together, but which always had something to do with the son of Ashad.

“Isildur has been having a dream since he was a child. That dream told him to save the White Tree, and he believed that the time to fulfil it had come. But he failed to understand the price he would have to pay, until it was too late.” Númendil shook his head sadly. “And not only him.”

The lord of Andúnië followed his glance towards the bent figure of Ilmarë, who was sitting by Isildur’s sickbed with her back to them. Her shoulders were hunched and her head bowed, and she had not said a word since he was there. Amandil suspected many things, but in his current state it was proving harder than ever to turn them into certainties. They kept chasing one another from his mind, one half-formed thought replacing another until he was left feeling like a halfwit, who lived in a state of perpetual daze.

“You knew”, he frowned, trying to hold on to this idea before it, too, disappeared. “You sent people after Isildur because you knew he was in danger.”

“I felt his danger and acted, yes”, Númendil replied simply. Some part of Amandil knew that he should not consider this a satisfactory answer, that he should keep probing until he had the whole truth. But he was unable to do this now.

The fruit of Nimloth, the object which had triggered those events, lay before them in a crystal vase. It had been cleaned of the blood covering it when they tore it from Isildur’s clothes, revealing a whitish, rugged skin underneath. Perhaps it was nothing but Amandil’s imagination, but he could have sworn that it was turning grey, and acquiring new wrinkles every time that he gazed upon it.

“Will a… new White Tree grow from this?” he asked, trying to convey by his voice how unlikely he found that possibility. Númendil lowered his glance.

“I cannot see that. This is Isildur’s dream; only he could make it come true.”

“If he lives”, Amandil spoke in a low tone, as if he did not want to hear himself. The heat in Isildur’s skin had been rising; which meant that infection was setting in, and there was no telling how his body would react to it after he had lost that much blood.

Suddenly, he felt a new wave of feverish activity take hold of him, and he stood up. “Elendil must know about this.”

“I will tell him.” Anárion nodded swiftly, robbing him of his opportunity of doing something useful. Perhaps it was better this way, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. Though his grandson had acted on his own, he would still have yielded to the temptation of feeling responsible for what had happened.

Amalket would certainly have known who to blame, the thought came to him, his stomach sinking as he imagined her worry and her fury. You promised that they would be safe. You promised, and yet you lied to me again.

“Malik”. Isildur grew agitated, probably at the sound of footsteps in his vicinity. Ilmarë tensed, and leaned forwards as if she wanted to make sure she would not miss a single word of his ramblings. “Malik, no!”

“What happened?” she asked, as if her brother could hear and respond normally to her query. When she did not get an answer, she grabbed his head with her hands, and forced it to face her. “Isildur, what happened to Malik? Where is he?”

“Ilmarë, stop!” Amandil was shocked at this behaviour; her voice was as sharp and shrill as that of an interrogator, and she was hurting him. But she did not even seem to register his words.

“You… have…. to tell me”, she droned on, the middle part of the sentence almost descending into a hiss. “Now.”

He stood up, ready to remove the injured man from her clutches before his state could worsen. As he walked towards the bedside, however, he froze in his tracks when he heard Isildur answer. His voice was weak, almost impossible to hear from his location, and yet, for the first time, it did not sound delirious.

“H-he was… taken.”

After that, his eyes were closed, and his head drooped to the side. Ilmarë quickly let him lie back on the pillow, as if his skin burned her. Then, she turned back, and for the first time in those terrible hours, she sought his glance.

“He is alive.”

“We do not know…” he began, almost mechanically, but she shook her head before he could even finish his sentence.

“He is alive. I know it.” The pronouncement was so shocking that at any other time he would have challenged it. In this new reality, however, there was no longer a place for such unnecessary conversations. “You have to save him. He protected Isildur, and now you have to save him!”

Years ago, as they were relocating the refugees in Arne, Amandil remembered experiencing a moment of doubt when he saw Ilmarë and the son of Ashad together. Later happenings had banished this concern from his mind, and he had not acted upon it, a great mistake whose extent he was just beginning to fathom. Even in normal circumstances, he would never have wanted her to spend half of her life in mourning, as so many others in their family had.

Now, however, he was faced with the truth that Ilmarë had not merely walked to meet this doom, but ran towards it, with the rash intensity that only the young could feel burning inside them. The trap had closed its jaws around her, and her whole life hung on the balance.

All because of a cruel dream. Of a Providence unable to care for its discarded tools. Of the foolishness of three mindless youngsters, and the infinitely guiltier foolishness of one who was not young anymore, and should have listened to Amandil’s warnings. And, above all, because of that accursed demon, the enemy of Númenor whom he had helped to bring here.

If Malik had been caught alive, it was unlikely that he would survive for long in those circumstances. Unless he was kept alive for information, the cold thought insinuated itself into his mind. If his family was successfully implicated in this treasonous act, there was no way of knowing what might happen.

Then again, Ar Pharazôn had seen Malik before. They were already implicated.

“Malik…” Isildur groaned in his sleep again, as if echoing his thoughts. “Malik, no, no…”

There is nothing you can do, the evil voice whispered mockingly. You can change nothing, and save no one.

“I will try”, he said, trying to affect an air of reassurance which he was very far from feeling. How did his father manage to do it? “I will try to save him.”

Ilmarë’s eyes were glazed with tears, and her hands began to shake. Out of a sudden instinct, he pulled her into an embrace, and as she surrendered to it, he could feel her body trembling against his.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“I said I would not meet with him. Why are you asking me again?”

The Chamberlain lowered his head apologetically.

“Because he asked again, my lord King. My duty is to bring to your attention all the messages that…”

“Your duty, as of now, is to tell the lord of Andúnië that I will summon him when I have need of him, and that he should stop pestering me in the meantime.”

“I understand, my lord King.” The man nodded, but he did not retreat from his presence. Wondering if everyone around him could be conspiring to provoke him as much as possible, Ar Pharazôn frowned.

“What is it now?”

“He…” The man swallowed when their eyes met briefly. “He left a letter this time.”

A letter. It figured.

“Give it to me, then. And leave.”

He gave it a cursory glance, enough to distinguish the quirks of Amandil’s handwriting, but he was in no mood to read it. Leaving it on top of a lacquered table, he stormed out of the room.

How dare he? Pharazôn did not need audiences or letters to know what the lord of Andúnië wanted from him. Of course, he wanted his grandson’s precious friend back. The Palace grounds had been violated, at least two Guards killed, the White Tree desecrated, and this Malik had let himself be caught to prevent his accomplice from being discovered. Even more, for a whole day and night he had held out stubbornly and refused to yield any information about said accomplice, its identity, whereabouts, or implication in this crime. He may have been born in Númenor, but he was every inch as insane as the maddest of his barbarian ancestors. Not that Pharazôn himself needed to hear him talk to know who was behind this, and of course Amandil knew it as much as he did.

That was why he should have been lying low with his family. That was why he should not be saying, writing, breathing a single word. That was why he should remain silent for once in his wretched life.

Zimraphel’s doors were shut, and one of her ladies came forth to tell him that she was not feeling well. It was the second time that she had proved inaccessible to him since this affair started, and considering how problematic her pregnancy had become, he supposed that it was for the best, though he felt her absence quite acutely. He could not be sure that her brand of insight would avail him much in this situation, but at least she was the only far-sighted person that he could trust.

Unlike him.

“There you are, my lord King.” The demon smiled, as if he had been paying him a social call. “I see I was right. The lord of Andúnië was not going to surrender so easily.”

On the day they had debated -fought might be a more appropriate term- the fate of the White Tree in the Council, the Northwestern lord had been more insolent than ever. He had thrown all politeness, all caution to the winds, even standing at the brink of openly accusing Pharazôn of listening to the Dark Lord’s counsel. Before he made that fatal slip, however, it was Pharazôn himself who had ended the session, and adjourned the debate for a much later date where the Tree would no longer exist. Sauron had claimed that he should have let Amandil incriminate himself; that being silenced would merely force the lord of Andúnië to change his plans and find a subtler way to thwart him. But in spite of what Amandil himself thought, Sauron was not his political advisor. Pharazôn had reluctantly agreed to listen to his counsel in this one thing because he would leave nothing untried to make sure that Zimraphel and their child did not come to harm, and he had never shared the late King’s reverential attachment for a piece of wood. But this did not mean that he would heed him in everything else.

Even if it turned out that he had the infuriating ability of being right.

“There is no proof that the lord of Andúnië was directly involved in this.”

“His grandson is dying as we speak.”

“What?” Instinctively, Pharazôn drew closer to the bars of his cell. “Isildur, you mean?”

Sauron nodded, the barest trace of smug satisfaction in his lips.

“He was grievously wounded fighting your Guards. It is unlikely that he will live much longer. If you send your men to the Andúnië mansion, they will see it for themselves.”

Pharazôn reflected briefly upon this new, troubling information. If he was to be completely honest, he had never wished any harm upon his childhood friend’s family. But whether Amandil had chosen to risk his grandson’s life for his cause, or his grandson had decided to risk it himself, together with his foolish friend, the consequences for their actions could not be laid at his doorstep. In fact, perhaps it was better if it happened like this. He would not have to investigate the issue further, and yet Amandil would be too broken by the loss of his grandson to defy him again.

“You are merciful indeed, my lord.”

He did not know if it was because of the strain of the last days, or because he had felt attacked in what he knew, deep inside, to be his weaker spot, but he saw red at those words.

“How dare you mock me, you vermin!”

“I have offended you, my apologies”, Sauron spoke as if he had broken a rule of protocol or got one of his titles wrong, not as if he had just called him weak to his face. Or had it been his own conscience, what had come up with that word? “Actually, I was thinking that this situation may be a blessing in disguise. For if you wish, my lord King, I can finally prove to you here and now that everything I have told you until this day is nothing but the truth.”

Pharazôn stared, unsure of what he was talking about.

“Do you remember my words about sacrifice?” As if he could ever forget. Sauron smiled at his reluctant nod. “Well, here it is, my lord King, performed for your illustration. Do you not see? The half-breed whom your men caught last night, the one Lord Amandil wants back, sacrificed himself to save his friend.”

He frowned, still not sure that he had understood.

“What kind of proof is this? In order to be proof, shouldn’t it have worked?”

“There is no stronger sacrifice than giving away one’s body and soul. This is how it has always been, since the beginning of Time, and now you, too, can be witness to its power.” Sauron continued, as if he had not even heard him. His clear eyes were darkened, as those of a mortal might when experiencing pangs of agony or the throes of desire. “Prepare the Palace Chapel, let me leave this prison only for a moment, and I will show you.”

Ar Pharazôn shivered.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

He sent the Chamberlain himself with a brief message, one that he had scribbled without even reading what Amandil had sent. As he was a fellow councilman, the lord of Andúnië would have no excuse to deny him entrance. And since he was carrying a message sent by the King, the entire family would have to be present.

Malik was in quite a pitiful state by the time they came for him. The Palace Guards blamed him for the death of their comrades, which meant that they had gone out of their way to have their revenge. They had to drag him because he could barely move anymore, and his face was almost unrecognizable, swollen and beaten to a bloody pulp. Still, he had enough Haradric madness left in him to remain defiant, even though he had to be aware that this was the end.

“For the last time, will you say who was with you that night?” Pharazôn asked, more because he was intent on following every procedure than because he thought it could work. “If you tell me, I will let you go.”

The wretched man laughed; an unpleasant, gurgling sound that grated on the nerves.

“Are y-you t-the K-king of Númenor?” he articulated, with great effort. “M-my g-randfather was k-killed by your p-people. I w-was trying t-to avenge h-him.”

Pharazôn shook his head. Of all things to come up with…

“We both know that you are lying. Tell me the truth.”

The prisoner spat at his feet. He raised an eyebrow.

“As you wish.”

They dragged him to the Palace Chapel, which had been vacated even by its very reluctant priests, in accordance with his orders. The sacred fire was burning in the altar, and Sauron was already there, standing behind it. It was the first time in three years that he had been let out of his confinement, and a powerful energy seemed to be crackling just beneath the surface of his mortal appearance, animating each and every one of his movements with a sense of triumphal purpose. It might have been the effect of the heat on his skin, but his features even looked flushed, Pharazôn realized as he approached him. Not for the first moment, he experienced a sinking feeling, wondering if he was doing the right thing.

But you already know that this is not the right thing, a voice whose owner he was no longer able to identify whispered in the back of his mind. The only question left is whether you can still remain in control of it. Can you do that, Ar Pharazôn King of Men?

“Hurry”, he said. Sauron nodded, going through the steps of preparation for the ritual just like the Númenórean priests did. The only difference was that, instead of the prayers that they used to chant, he began muttering words in a language that Pharazôn could not understand. Even the Guards who were holding Malik were staring at him in deep unease now.

“I am not cursing you, my lord King”, the demon said, as if he had guessed their collective thoughts. “I will pray in your own tongue, so your suspicions are eased.”

His words, after that, became very similar to the litanies of the Armenelos temple, though they were not quite the same as any of them, just like the prayers of any of the Four Great Temples would diverge from one another. At some point, Melkor was addressed as “Great Deliverer” which was something that Pharazôn had never heard anywhere in a Númenórean ceremony, though it was a popular epithet among certain tribes of the mainland. The tribes with a worst reputation for ferocity, he belatedly realized, those who sacrificed their enemies to the god.

Meanwhile, Malik leaned against his captors as if in a daze. When he was taken to the altar and Sauron approached him, however, his eyes flew wide open. His expression was a mixture of loathing and fear, and yet, somehow, there was also the tiniest sliver of fascination in his gaze.

“So you are Sauron”, he said, his voice slurring but somehow able to articulate better than before. He tried to look past him, until his swollen eyes found Pharazôn. “He rules Númenor now?”

The King swallowed, until he regained his full composure.

“I am the ruler of Númenor. You have committed treason against the Sceptre, killed two men, and wilfully refused to surrender valuable information about your accomplices. And the penalty for that is death.”

The younger man nodded with difficulty, apparently decided to keep his defiant façade to the very end. Pharazôn remembered the late General of Umbar, Barekbal, complaining about him and Isildur, their insolence and their foolhardy stunts. One day they will go too far, he had grumbled sententiously.

Well, they had. And now, this one would die for it. The manner of his death was irrelevant, it might as well serve to prove a theory. It was not like he could use any innocent man for that purpose. And if Sauron was right, the wretched man’s death would even achieve what he had been trying to do since the beginning, to save the other fool’s life.

“Human sacrifice”, Malik spat, letting go of that gurgling laughter again. “Did you conquer my father’s people, or did they conquer you?”

“That is enough. You,” he hissed at Sauron, who looked on with a perfect mask of indifference. “Do it now, and be quick about it.”

“As you wish, my lord King.”

With his keen immortal senses, he might have realized that Pharazôn was at the verge of calling the whole thing off, because he obeyed immediately. With precise, yet inhumanly strong movements, he prepared the knife, manoeuvred the man until he was lying against the altar, his neck bare and exposed, and sunk the blade into his throat. Malik’s body tensed, then went gradually limp as the jet of blood flowed into the sacrificial basin.

“And now?” His voice was perfectly casual, but at the same time, it did not feel like his own. “What happens now?”

While he was still talking, Sauron tipped the basin, letting the blood trickle into the fire. Wisps of a pungent-smelling dark smoke rose from it, and the prayers started again, this time with greater intensity and speed. Suddenly, before he could open his mouth again to ask about this rite, the corpse was pushed from the altar, and it fell into the sacred fire with a dull thud, as if it had been a bull carcass in one of the temple ceremonies. Gasps of shock reached his ears, from where the Guards had been staring at the proceedings in horrified fascination.

Pharazôn did not say a word. For a while, he merely stood there, watching as the body was engulfed by the roaring flames, releasing an ugly black smoke that first shot upwards, until it reached the painted ceiling, and then began filling the entire chapel. The Guards retreated, gasping and coughing, and even he had to walk a few steps backwards, covering his mouth with his palm and blinking tears away from his eyes. The stench was disgusting; similar to the smell released by the burning of sacrificial animals, and yet there was something else in it, something -fouler.

Sauron smiled.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Amandil walked on, his world shrunk to the size of the fraction of the floor he was treading. One step, then another, and then another. This litany filled his mind, and so far it had managed to prevent it from breaking in a hundred pieces.

The Palace courtier had finally departed, after sticking his nose everywhere and pretending to be so concerned for Isildur’s state that he would not rest until he was allowed into his room and saw the terrible fever with his own eyes. If Amandil had let him, he would have pulled the covers to see the bandages stained with blood, and run back to the King with accusations of treachery. But there were things that he would not allow even a royal envoy to do in his own house. If Ar Pharazôn wanted proof of Isildur’s agony, he would have to come and see it by himself.

But the King would not come. The times when such a thing could happen were now firmly behind either of them. That friendship had first turned into cold ceremony, and after Isildur foolishly broke the fragile peace he had tried to maintain with the Sceptre, chasing after his dream, they had finally become enemies.

Enemies. The very word he had been trying to avoid for all those years, the curse haunting the steps of every lord of Andúnië since generations before he was born. Though he was supposed to admire and revere them, some part of Amandil had always considered his ancestors to be fools who had picked the wrong side in a war, condemning their descendants to a bitter fate of exile and persecution. For the greatest part of his life, he had been trying not to be like them, only for his efforts to be proved vain in a single night. Now, he almost thought he could hear the laughter of the dead ringing in his ears.

You cannot be Faithful and compromise with evil, their voices spoke in his mind. The pride which led you to believe that you could stand with your feet planted in both worlds was nothing but foolishness, and you a coward at heart, barking like a tethered dog who tries to appear brave. You would even have tried to sit in the same table as Sauron, the Dark Enemy of the World, nodding politely while the King laughed at his jokes.

Ever rash, Isildur had been the one to strike the first blow in his war, and now he could well become its first casualty. Or rather the second, he thought, with a pang of grief and frustration growing in his chest. It was the sight of Ilmarë’s tears, and the realization of what they had been to each other, what had pushed him to forego the most basic caution and plead for Malik’s life, though his rational side was aware that it was the last thing that someone in his position should have done. Pharazôn’s reply had been short and to the point.

I know who else was there that night. If you value your life and that of your kin, do not meddle any further.

Now, Malik’s fate was sealed, and the King’s men were circling his house like vultures, perhaps wondering how long it would take for Isildur to die as well. His throat too dry to even swallow, Amandil stopped by his grandson’s sickbed. Númendil had left mere moments ago, and while he was there he had laid the vase carrying the fruit of Nimloth on a low table at the foot of the bed. Its white colour, and the greyish streaks crisscrossing it as it appeared to shrivel further and further with each passing hour mirrored the sickly look of Isildur’s face.

This is Isildur’s dream; only he could make it come true, his father had said. And Isildur’s dream was dying with him, leaving nothing in its wake but desolation and futility.

Suddenly feeling the familiar wish to yell and break things, Amandil sat by the side of the bed, and laid a hand on Isildur’s forehead. Though it seemed as if the young man’s skin had lost all colour, it still felt hot to the touch. The bandages were drenched in blood; perhaps Númendil had forgotten to have them changed, or perhaps changing them was no use because the wound would not close.

As he felt the weight of the hand on his face, Isildur stirred, and his mouth began forming words. Amandil leaned forward in an attempt to make sense of his ramblings, though, so far, this had proved even more futile than trying to stop the bleeding.

Just when he was about to give up, Isildur’s body suddenly tensed in a violent spasm. Amandil stood on his feet, his heart beating fast, wondering if those could be the throes of death. But then, the grey eyes flew open.

“Malik”, he said, and he could hear his voice clearly now. “Malik, no!”

Amandil leaned over him, his hands all over his face again, trying to quieten him down without disturbing his wounds. To his shock, Isildur’s skin had become cool to the touch, and his first thought was that he had died, and the body was going cold because the heart was not pumping blood anymore. But when he found the pulse, steady and even, he began to realize that something very different had just happened.

Isildur’s fever was gone. Slowly, colour trickled back into his face, and his tortured breath became as regular as his heartbeat, the sound that a normal man would make when fast asleep.

A sweet scent pervaded the room, covering the acrid smell of blood and medicine. Turning back, as if compelled by a strong invisible force, Amandil looked at the vase lying on Númendil’s table. There, the White Tree’s last fruit had cracked in two, and the most beautiful flower he had ever seen grew in the middle, hanging from a tender white stalk.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The following day, he finally judged himself ready to summon the lord of Andúnië to the Palace. The interview took place in Ar Gimilzôr’s audience room, though Pharazôn ordered everyone to leave it before it began. A part of him wondered why he was acting like this, foregoing a private meeting and yet sending all witnesses away, as if his soul was torn between the unspeakable fear of facing this man alone and the no less unspeakable fear of being heard and judged by others. Ar Pharazôn the Golden did not know fear: he had triumphed over each and every one of his enemies, taken risks that would have made others quake, and never hesitated before embarking on a new path, no matter how dark and winding, if he could see a chance for victory looming ahead. Now, he was standing there as the King of Númenor and the victor of Mordor, and Amandil as nothing but a traitor. If anyone should be afraid, it was him.

“How is Isildur?” he asked. He was aghast at the impatience, the trepidation betrayed by his own tone, but Amandil did not give any signs of having noticed. Slowly, he raised his glance.

“He is well. His sickness has passed, my lord King.”

Pharazôn swallowed with difficulty. So he had been right. Sauron had not lied to him about this. Though he tried to remain firmly attuned to the here and now, his mind escaped his grasp for an instant, running wild as the possibilities for his future, and that of Númenor, began coalescing into a myriad of shapes before his eyes. If anything was possible, if he could change the outcome of events at will, then death and defeat were no longer a possibility. And if they were not….

Is that not the greatest of all freedoms, to be always in control of one’s fate?

He shook his head, as if to dispel a cloud which had suddenly gathered before his sight. Amandil was there, his accursed grey eyes scrutinizing him as if looking for proof of his guilt. As if it was Pharazôn who had done something wrong.

“If I may inquire…”

He shook his head, his countenance growing harder.

“No. You may not.” He stood on his feet, but quenched his impulse to just walk towards him. “You do not seem to be aware of the gravity of the situation.”

“I am, my lord King.” Amandil still betrayed nothing. “The young man who was caught foolishly trespassing on the Palace is the youngest son of a boy I once raised myself. He is almost like another grandson to me. There is nothing I would leave untried…”

Was this his tactic? To pretend that Malik had acted on his own accord, and demand his release?

“Save your breath. He is dead.”

For the first time, he was graced by a small show of emotion, but just as fast as it had come it was gone again. Just like a courtier.

“May I… be allowed to have his remains then? His family would wish to bury them in his homeland.”

“There are no remains. They were burned.” He breathed deeply, not wanting to think of why he felt as if he was lying. “As it is the custom of his people.”

The furrow in Amandil’s brow was small but noticeable.

“Malik was a Númenórean.”

“That is not what he claimed, himself”, Pharazôn retorted. “He seemed very intent in misleading me about his background and purpose. As if he was trying to direct my suspicions away from his… other connections.”

Amandil’s brief foray into the demeanour and restraint of a courtier was over at this.

“If you wish to accuse me of being implicated in this sad business, there is no reason why you should hide it behind veiled insinuations, my lord King. But let me submit this for your consideration. If I was guilty of what you accuse me of, would I have pleaded for this man’s life? Would I be here now, exposing myself in this way?”

Pharazôn had to admit he was surprised at this show of nerve, though that did not exactly improve his mood.

“You mean that you cannot be guilty because you do not act guilty. But, what if you do not believe yourself to be guilty at all? What did you say in the last Council session, when we were debating about that wretched piece of wood? That, by burning the White Tree, I would be burning three thousand years of tradition, breaking ties with my hallowed ancestors and forfeiting Heaven’s protection of Númenor and its royal line.” His voice had been raised a little too much, and it reverberated on the mosaic-filled walls. “That very night, one of the men who live under your roof is caught stealing the fruit of the White Tree, kills two Guards, and refuses to name his accomplices. And now you would try to have me believe that you had nothing to do with it? How much of a fool do you think I am?”

Amandil’s cheeks flushed in anger.

“I swear I had nothing to do with it. I am a member of the Council and the lord of the Andustar, how much of a fool do you think I am?” He regained his composure. “Those who are close to me may have heard me complain about it, and a reckless man like Malik might have decided to act on his own. Had he come to me, as he should, I would never have condoned such a thing!”

“And of those close to you, only this Malik would be reckless enough to attempt such a deed! No one else was with him, and yet the stolen fruit was not found on him when he was captured. There was no sign of it anywhere. All we could find was this, lying on the Outer Courtyard next to a Guard whose throat had been slit.”

At these words, Pharazôn produced the ceremonial dagger which Isildur had been carrying the day he attended the Council session in the Palace. It had not been cleaned since it was found, and there were traces of caked blood both in the hilt and the surface of the blade.

Amandil sobered at the sight, but he still did not give signs of surrendering. Of course, he was too damn stubborn for that.

“Yes, that dagger belongs to my grandson Isildur. But he was too ill to have been anywhere near the Palace that night. Malik must have taken it. They shared everything, as they were brothers in everything but in blood.”

Pharazôn could not remember the last time he had felt such rage, thrumming on his ears, filtering through his bloodstream, coalescing like a red veil before his eyes.

“Be quiet! Do you wish me to enter your house, drag your grandson away from his sickbed and examine his body for the wounds that caused this ‘illness’ you speak about? Do you wish me to search until I find the stolen fruit of the White Tree, hidden away in some closed chamber? Do you truly think, Amandil, that you can prevail in this battle, alone and unarmed as you are against a host of arguments and evidence?”

“As you wish, my lord King. If you consider me a traitor, then I am a traitor.” Amandil did not lower his glance for a moment, and Pharazôn realized belatedly that, in spite of his words, he still did not see himself as guilty. “I am the son and grandson of traitors, the descendant of exiles and rebels. It appears that I cannot escape this fate.”

So he was blaming fate. Or rather, blaming him, the King realized with a jolt, for accusing and suspecting his family just like the other kings had done to his ancestors – and just as unfairly, his tone seemed to be implying. The nerve.

“The White Tree belongs to the King of Númenor. You had no right to question or oppose the decision to burn it, whether you agreed with it or not. Just as you have no right to judge every single decision, every choice I make, as if you were the appointed representative of your Baalim on Earth. I have indulged this for too long, for the sake of our ancient friendship, and your pride has grown overbearing enough to resort to something like this”, he said, his voice purposefully quiet and slow. “But no longer. You will have no leave to oppose me anymore. You will not speak against me in the Council, and you will not question a single one of my decisions. I will not hear another raised word, another insolence from your lips again. And you will do this because I have evidence that your grandson attacked the Palace Guards and committed treason, and this evidence can make you join the ranks of your dispossessed, persecuted and exiled ancestors before the sun has even set on the very day you broke this pact. Do you understand?”

Of all the reactions he was expecting from Amandil, chuckling bitterly had not been among the most evident.

“I see. You do not need to be able to trust someone anymore. Universal fear and obedience are so much more rewarding. Did the prisoner from Mordor advise you on that?” Before Pharazôn opened his mouth, all traces of humour disappeared from his countenance, and for once in his life, he gave him a long, purely beseeching look. “I know I have no right to expect you to listen to me, but please, do not listen to him. He only wants the ruin of Númenor! He will try to manipulate you to act against your own interests and hurt your people. Back when we were in Middle Earth you knew this, do not let him erase this knowledge from your mind!”

Pharazôn looked down, a feeling of disorientation getting hold of him. As they both stood in that great hall, he with the dagger in his hands and Amandil standing before him, with no hint of a sound or movement in the long expanse of obsidian that surrounded them, he felt himself taken by a sort of feverish dream. The black floor’s solid weight was dissolving under their feet, turning into a chasm which yearned to engulf them, and his mind was assailed by an onslaught of memories, of the only vision he had ever seen. He had been standing in the middle of a raging battlefield, facing a black ghost whose faceless glare was fixed on him. As Pharazôn’s eyes met the red gleam, he had seen walls crumbling, cities foundering, a black cloud engulfing the Island, heavy with the lingering stench of countless sacrifices -and, last but not least, he had seen himself, falling down a precipice of unnamed dread.

You will lead mankind to its greatest defeat in thousands of years.

He breathed deeply, trying to struggle back to the present. The cold that ran through his veins belonged to the past, to those memories of struggling in the grip of the fell spirit who cloaked himself with fear to use it as a weapon against his enemies. But he had conquered it, and in victory, he had felt warm again.

He would feel warm again now, too. As soon as he freed his mind from the snares of that fell magic, he would feel solid ground beneath his feet. But for this, he realized in a burst of clarity, Amandil had to go, and this did not merely mean removing his physical presence from his vicinity at that moment. The Amandil in his mind, the Amandil who remained in his conscience, whose grey eyes scrutinized his countenance second-guessing, suspecting, raising questions, agitating fears and judging his actions had to leave as well. Of the two, he was the greater enemy.

“Go, now. And take this thing with you.” Amandil’s eyes widened when he saw Pharazôn offering the dagger to him. At first, he would not even extend his hand to receive it, as if afraid that it was some sort of trap, but Pharazôn himself pressed it against his grip.

“I do not understand.” The lord of Andúnië looked quite disconcerted now. “You said that you would hold to it as evidence.”

“Yes, I might have said that. But I was rambling”, Pharazôn shrugged. “In truth, there is no reason for me to keep it, as there is no reason for me to blackmail you. And do you know why? Because I am the King of Númenor. Did my grandfather need any proof when he sent your family into exile? Did he gather evidence before he had you taken away from them?” At long last, he could detect some evidence of dismay in Amandil’s features, and he went on, relentlessly. “As you put it yourself, if I say you are a traitor, then you are a traitor, and the whole Island will trust my word. No one will hear your defence, as clever as it may be, or demand proof, and not merely because they will be too afraid to challenge me and share in your disgrace. You are the leader of the Baalim-worshippers, Amandil, and everybody has distrusted your family for generations. No one will believe in your innocence, for, to them, you have been a traitor since the day you were born.”

The lord of Andúnië’s face looked like that of a soldier who had lost a lot of blood on the battlefield. Just like Isildur had looked the previous day, according to the Chamberlain, before Pharazôn ironically saved his life.

Would Amandil have been self-righteous enough to let him die, if he had known the price?

“I understand”, he said, his voice practically a whisper. “And I am grateful for your honesty, my lord King. It is good and helpful to know one’s standing.”

“You are dismissed, Lord Amandil.”

You are merciful indeed, my lord. The quiet mockery in Sauron’s face swam briefly in his mind’s eye as he watched his childhood friend walk away, making him flinch as if he had been slapped. Anger stirred in his chest again, this time focused at himself.

Was he too weak, after all? If Amandil had been anyone else, he would not have wasted his time with threats, for no one would have walked away unscathed from something like this. But Amandil was not merely an old friend: there had been many debts, powerful debts, binding them together for most of their lives. As far as Pharazôn was concerned, the last of them had been paid now.

And if Amandil threw away the last chance they had of coexisting peacefully, not even all the Baalim in the West would be able to protect him from his wrath.