Elegy for Númenor - Volume 1: Journey to Umbar by elfscribe

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Chapter 4 - The Mysterious Prisoner

Chapter summary: In which we meet various players in Ar-Pharazon’s court, including Amandil and Elendil.

Note: Aphanuzîr and Nimruzîr are Adûnaic for Amandil and Elendil respectively.

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“My Lords Amandil and Elendil, wake up!  The King calls for you!”

Hearing Tigôn’s insistent voice, Amandil rose on one elbow from the warm furs.  The remnants of an unsettling dream faded into the bleakness of reality.  The tent was freezing and his bones hurt.  What could the King want at this hour? By Ossë, he was getting too old for this shite!  Groaning, he drew himself free of his bedding and swung his feet off the cot.

The King’s page, the son of one of Elendil’s friends Lord Eärdur of Eldalondë, stuck his curly blond head into the tent, letting in a puff of even colder air. “His Majesty wants you as soon as possible,” he said, breathlessly.

“He’ll have to grant us enough time to become fit for his august presence,” Amandil growled. “Bring some water. The basin is on the stand there. And shut the sodding door-flap!”

“Yes, híren,” Tigôn replied.  He entered the tent, picked up the basin, and departed in haste.

“Elendil,” Amandil nudged his son. “His Majesty calls.”

Elendil’s face emerged from the furs, eyes still shut.  He yawned.  “Forgive me, Ada, if I’m not overjoyed at the prospect of whatever it is.”

“You’re forgiven,” Amandil grunted.  He pulled on his breeches and his undertunic, then stuck his stocking feet in his boots.  Cod’s fins, it was cold! He wasn’t used to it; none of them were. Númenor was much more temperate in clime.  He had advised against starting this expedition in winter but the King thought otherwise. Ar-Pharazôn had said, ‘The ships are ready ahead of schedule, so we should go at once—we’ll catch the Dark Lord off-guard.’  Amandil snorted. This whole expedition was a waste of resources and a potential waste of lives—for what?  To satisfy his Majesty’s increasing hubris? What danger did Sauron represent to Númenor?  The King could have sent an army to guard the mines and the coastal cities whose trade they needed and that would have scotched the threat. He certainly didn’t think Sauron could be enticed from his vast fortress simply by camping their army on a hill and calling him out.  Well, no matter, they were here. Now Amandil reckoned his task was to steer his increasingly stubborn king in the direction least harmful to Númenor, even if that meant sticking his neck out.
 
He pulled his jerkin over his head, slung a woolen cape about his shoulders, then went to the tent door and peered out.  His breath fanned like smoke in the faint morning light. Anor was just stretching her fingers over the horizon, illuminating a raft of low, mackerel clouds dressed in pale, yellow hues. Mist floated wraithlike along the ground, slowly vanishing in the broadening light.  From their perch near the top of the hill, he could see the vast array of tents, including the ones belonging to his own host from Andúnië. Well, no need to wake his men for the King’s private audience. Apparently only he and Elendil had been called. The tents appeared to flow down the sides of the hill into the valley below, the dim light painting them in a watercolor of mounded shapes: blue, white, yellow.  Beyond them, the forest, made skeletal by winter, filled the valley out to the horizon, which was broken by the nasty, jagged silhouette of the Ephel Dúath. Amandil shivered at the sight.

Attuned to the weather by years at sea, Amandil sensed a change.  He sucked briefly on a finger and then held it up.  During the night, the breeze had swung around and was coming from the west.  It brought the sea air with it; he could smell the moisture.  Snow was coming.  He sighed. More joy to add to this expedition.

There seemed an unusual amount of activity for this hour.  Small groups of armored soldiers marched in formation up the hill. Several pages were running in the muddy trails between tents.  In the next moment, Tigôn nearly collided with him, carrying the basin of water, which now slopped up over the rim.  Amandil steadied him with a hand on each arm. “Set it there,” he commanded, retreating into the tent and indicating their wash stand. The boy did so and turned to go, but Amandil laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Halt a moment, Tigôn. Tell me the tidings.”

“They’ve captured someone, híren. One of the enemy.  Someone high up by the sound of it.  His Majesty wants his councilors to help decide what to do with him.  That’s all I know. Excuse me, please, I must summon others.”  With another blast of cold air and a soft squelch of feet, he was gone.

Amandil bent over and sluiced two handfuls of freezing water onto his face.  Uh!  Now that was a right rude awakening. He ran fingers through his short hair.

By now, Elendil had caterpillared his long body out of his sleep sack and was rapidly dressing in the semi-dark.  “Captured someone?” he mused.  “Now, that’s a new development.  Why do I get a feeling of foreboding?”

“Because this whole expedition bodes ill!”

“No, it’s more than that.  I had an unsettling dream,” Elendil said.

Amandil raised his head to look at his son. “So did I.  Perhaps it’s nothing more than the change in weather.”

“Perhaps.”  Elendil shouldered in next to him, bathed his face, and then brushed his shoulder-length hair into place. He secured it back with a leather tie. “I could use a cup of hot wine.”

“There should be some in Calion’s tent.” 

“Don’t let him hear you call him that,” Elendil warned.

“Why not?  I’ve known His Majesty . . .”

“I know, Ada, since before he could walk, since he and I played at knucklebones together.  Still, you ought to curb your tongue.  It seems he takes your counsel less well than he did in years past.”
                              
“What good is a King’s counselor who bites his tongue?”

Elendil paused in wiping his face with a cloth. “Do I have to remind you of what happened to Arubinzad?”

“No, you don’t,” Amandil said gruffly.   For a moment he was assaulted by the image of the former Councilor, hanging on a gibbet and covered in crows. He shrugged it off.  “Are you ready?”

“Tack into the wind, Captain,” Elendil returned, with a grim smile, as he tossed the towel onto their storage chest.

They made their way to the top of the hill where Ar-Pharazôn had erected his great golden-hued tent painted on the sides with the royal emblem of the wings of the sea gull. They could see his banner at the top snapping in the breeze: a black field with the silver tree emblazoned upon it, the symbol that dated back to Elros Tar-Minyatur. Seeing it made Amandil feel nostalgic and hope for a quick end to this expedition.  He longed to sail for the familiar waters of home.   

His face grew numb as the breeze eddied past his damp beard. Taking a piece of his cape, Amandil attempted to pat it dry. “Wet beard,” he grumbled when Elendil lifted an eyebrow.

His son laughed, which deepened the lines in his beardless cheeks.  “For once, affecting the court fashion stands me in good stead.  Though it’s been two days since I managed to shave and it feels prickly. If Lórellin were here, she’d have something to say about it.”  He rubbed his chin.

“Eh, well, your wife has more good sense than this whole lot. You all look like a bunch of women,” Amandil replied.

“Or elves,” Elendil said sensibly. “I rather like it for that reason, though I wouldn’t dare point that out to the King.  I expect he does it because it makes him look more youthful.”

“I wouldn’t attempt to speculate on reasons for the King’s behavior,” Amandil said.  “In any case, you won’t catch me scraping my face with a knife. And I don’t care what the rest of Calion’s sycophants do.”

“Hush, Ada, here come Lord Izindor and his sons.”

Amandil turned and saw the three of them—Izindor with his toothy smile and his two dour sons—striding up the path from the other direction. “Speaking of sycophants . . . ,” Amandil grumbled.
       
Elendil prodded him hard in the arm. Amandil opened his mouth and then shut it. Perhaps the boy was right.  He should be more circumspect.  These were uncertain times.  And most definitely Izindor, Lord of Arandor, was not to be trusted.  He could feel it in his bones.

“Good morn’, Lords of Andúnië,” Izindor said in a sweetened voice.  He gave his characteristic bow that seemed to involve his whole body in a kind of sideways wriggle.  It reminded Amandil of an eel writhing on a hook.  Izindor’s sons were following along behind.  The older one, Dulginzin, was heavy-set, wearing a wolf-fur cape over a bronze breast-plate.  He scowled at Amandil. The younger one, Mirandor, had a wall-eye, which was disconcerting because Amandil could never tell exactly where he was looking.  That one wasn’t right in the head, somehow.   
                              
“My Lords of Arandor,” Amandil said with a curt nod.

Elendil’s bow was more courteously graceful and Amandil looked at him appraisingly. Elendil, his only son, was tall, taller than himself, and almost a head taller than Izindor. His eyes were steady and a thoughtful grey-green in color. The lean, boyish face he remembered had hardened into the lines of manhood, made even more apparent by the shadow of a beard.  He was always fair-spoken and sensible, a good son, and perhaps Amandil ought to listen to him more.  It seemed a strange thing for the father to heed wisdom from his offspring, but then they were both getting older. Scattered amidst Elendil’s wavy, dark hair, Amandil noticed a few strands of silver glinting in the rising light. He had not seen them before and it caused him to think of his own grizzled locks and aching joints.  There was an old saying, ‘Time is a fire in which elves burn like stone and men like wax.’ For a moment, Amandil reflected on that truth.
 
Izindor had sidled close, interrupting Amandil’s philosophical thoughts. “It appears that we’ve all been called up early this morning,” he said.  The emphasis on the word ‘all’ suggested that he did not think Amandil normally would have been summoned. Amandil could feel his temper rising. Izindor lowered his voice, “What have you heard, Councilor?”

“Very little,” Amandil replied. “It seems they’ve captured someone.”

“Someone,” Izindor smirked.  “Indeed. More than just someone.  I sent a boy down to the place where they’re holding him—in the Steward’s tent, no less. He reported twenty guards around the tent.  Twenty!”  He nodded sagely.  “And they all looked scared out of their teeth.  Who do you think it might be?  Some are saying it is one of the Zigûr’s inner circle.  One of the Nazgûl, perhaps?”  He tilted his head slyly.

Amandil shivered and suddenly remembered a fragment from his dream.  They were back in Armenelos under the lofty dome of the Council Chambers. He was seated at the table among the others when a large black raven flew in, perched on the King’s shoulder, and began pecking at him. Peck, peck, until rivulets of blood flowed down his chest and the bone was laid bare. Amandil stood up and shouted for someone to kill it, but no one, including the King, seemed to have noticed anything amiss, and they ignored Amandil as if he had become invisible.  Once again, the sense of desperation he had felt in the dream enveloped him.
 
“What is wrong, Lord Aphanuzîr?”  Izindor asked.  “I should think this would not be ill news.”

Elendil glanced keenly at his father. He said, “I expect it is no use speculating about what we do not know but shall find out soon enough.” He put a hand protectively on Amandil’s shoulder.  “Come, we are nearly there.”

They reached the King’s pavilion.  Izindor and his sons pushed on, seemingly eager to get ahead of them into the tent.

“Are you well, Ada?” Elendil asked quietly.

Amandil straightened his shoulders, shrugging off his son.  “Well enough, aye.  It’s nothing. Shall we go and dance to this tune?”

They presented themselves to the guards at the door of the tent. One of them whisked aside the flap and they passed through the outer foyer before entering the main tent held up with massive support poles.  Lit with lanterns and numerous braziers, it was pleasantly warm.  Looking around, Amandil was impressed at how well appointed it had become in a short space of time.  Banners hung from the ribs high overhead, the one in the center emblazoned with the heraldry of the King. Arrayed on either side were those of the lesser houses. Amandil recognized his own Andúnië banner: blue with the white ship following Eärendil’s blazing star. The floor was strewn with evergreen needles, creating the clean, spicy smell of pine. Wooden folding chairs were set up around the perimeter.
              
There were about twenty-five men in the tent, including ten lords from the various regions of Númenor, members of the King’s Advisory Council.  Most were standing in small clumps, quietly talking. He saw Ikar-lak, one of the Bawîba Manô, Eru’s high priest of the sect of Manwë, wearing his feathered cape and the helm shaped like an eagle’s open beak from which his face emerged as if he’d just been swallowed. He was speaking to Azgarad, the King’s Steward, the second most powerful man in Númenor.  

In the center space, surrounded by servants and members of his entourage, the King was seated in a large carven oak chair, his elbows on arm-rests and his legs akimbo, firmly planted on the ground. He was a big man with a well-muscled body, maintained through rigorous exercise. His curly, walnut-brown hair was cut just below the chin. On his head sat the golden diadem of kingship with its beautifully wrought wings of the seabird.  He wore dangling earrings in a style widely mimicked by his courtiers, and a wool tunic, full-sleeved, dyed a rich purple and embroidered with gold and silver thread in a floral pattern.  His legs were encased in tight fitting fawn-colored leather breeches and draped about his shoulders was a costly short cloak of spotted lion’s skin.

The King's new cupbearer from Umbar, Sûla, a comely young man with long black curls, was pouring a draught of wine, a picture of grace as he tilted up the jug. Ar-Pharazôn took the proffered cup and then fondled the young man’s cheek with a jewel-encrusted hand. They exchanged secret smiles and Amandil wondered if that one had warmed the King’s bed last night. Amandil scowled at them.  He took the offense to his Queen personally.

As he and Elendil entered, they passed a servant standing by a steaming kettle hanging from a tripod over a small brazier. Amandil inhaled deeply.  Ah, mulled wine.  He nudged Elendil, who smiled.  The servant dipped up a mugful and handed it to him; another gave him a thick crusty slice of bread.  “Blesséd be to Eru,” Amandil intoned. "And blesséd be the Valar." He pinched off a piece of the bread and dropped it in the cup as tribute. Elendil did likewise.  Amandil took a grateful gulp of the hot liquid, which tasted of the spices, somewhat bitter, but immediately served to warm his belly. Sopping a corner of the bread in the brew, he took a bite.  As he did so, he noticed a young soldier in full armor, standing off to the side.  There was something about the drawn expression on his face that caused Amandil to look at him again.  His glance was intercepted by the King's sharp look.

Speaking in his deeply resonant voice, Ar-Pharazôn said, “Come, Aphanuzîr, my friend, sit over here.” He pointed at a chair near him on the other side of Lord Azgarad’s seat.  Amandil felt a momentary pride in being favored. “And you also, Nimruzîr.” The King indicated Elendil. “Sit, all of you. It is time. We have grave matters at hand.”

The crowd rapidly sorted itself out into the light wooden camp chairs that were gathered in a large circle around the King.  The men leaned forward, faces intent.  It seemed all had heard rumors.

Ar-Pharazôn looked each of them in turn in the eye before he began. “My friends, when the Dark Lord, Enemy of All Free Peoples of Middle-earth once again began building his army, making false claims, and threatening our rightful dominion, I felt that something must be done to stop him. The same as did my fore-fathers in years gone. All too well we know the penalty paid in the past for standing idly by watching, as Sauron secured his hold on region after region, strangling the trade and increasing his power. My esteemed Councilors and Retainers, I too am a student of history and know of what deeds our foe is capable.  At my father’s knee, I heard the tale of the downfall of Ost-in-Edhil.  And so I deemed it wise to begin building our ships and recruiting an army large enough to outdo him before it was too late.”

Amandil shifted uncomfortably.  Why did the King feel a need to restate what they all knew?  He looked sidelong at Elendil who, engaged in biting his thumbnail, eyed him back.

“There were some who counseled against this action, saying it would be a waste of manpower, that likely many would die unnecessarily.”  Here he looked directly at Amandil, who felt his face grow hot. “There were others who claimed that marching towards Mordor and calling on the Zigûr to show himself would prove a waste of time, that we should destroy Pelargir to cut off his supply route. But that would have been a diversion from our goal and most certainly a waste of lives, not to mention angering our loyal subjects.”  Here he turned to look at Izindor, who smiled unctuously and wriggled in his seat.  “And even our most learnéd priest, with his ear to the lips of the Bârî an-Adûn,  predicted that the winds would not favor us.”  Amandil noticed the shifting of heads to look at the glowering Ikar-lak.  “And yet, after the initial calm, the winds did indeed come back and brought us swiftly to Middle-earth.”  At this, the King rose from his seat. “It seems the Bârîm an-Adûn have blessed this course of action. The dissenters have been proven wrong and my judgment has been correct. In future, I urge you all to remember this.”  He paused, surveying their bemused expressions with the delight of a magician about to pull a sleight-of-hand. 

“My Lord, we honor your wisdom and have followed you without complaint. If you please, what has happened?” asked Rothîbal, Lord of Ondosto, a great burly man, who, like Amandil, still wore a beard. Perhaps he had something to prove as he had an unusually high voice for a man of his size. Contrary to his contention, Amandil remembered that, in private conversations, Lord Rothîbal had, in fact, complained loudly about the expedition.

Ar-Pharazôn said, “My Lord Rothîbal, you are like the man who always wants to eat his sweet course before the meat.”   There was a general chorus of chuckles.  The King rose and strode into the circle, spreading his arms in a grand gesture. “Very well, then.  We have captured someone of great import.” He paused, relishing their polite impatience.  “I think the story should be told as it occurred,” he said and beckoned to the soldier who had remained standing on the side.  “Here is the one who had the honor of capturing our . . . prisoner.  Hazûn, tell us what happened.”  With a swirl of his spotted cloak, the King returned to his seat.

The soldier came forward, hesitantly.  He bowed deeply before the King, then stood at his side facing the intent audience.  To Amandil, the man looked pale as wheat porridge. 

The soldier cleared his throat.  “My Lords, this morning early, another member of my cohort and I . . . well, we were stationed on the path at the copse of wood two leagues east of here.  Nothing had happened all night and we were awaiting change of guard, when suddenly, without warning, and in truth, quiet as a cats’ paw, a phantom all in black appeared.”  He winced.  “Before we could draw swords, he done in Ferman, uh, that was my partner.  Took his head clean off with one swipe—most savage.  Then, he was on me like a fox on a coney and I thought sure it was my last hour.  But he stopped with the point of his sword at my throat and said he would grant my life if I did as he said.”

“What did he ask of you?” said Ikar-lak.

“Your worship,” Hazûn said, with another slight dip of the head as he acknowledged Manwë’s priest. “He said he was high up in the Lord Annatar’s service, that’s the name he used for the Zigûr, and that I should take him back to the camp, not disturbing anyone, and place him in a tent, then alert the King.  When I asked him who he was, he said he would reveal that in time, but it’d be worth my while to do as he said.  When I resisted, he . . . .”  He paused and swallowed.  “He hurt me.”

“How?” Amandil interjected and heads turned to look at him.

“My Lord, it’s hard to describe.  Nothing, I mean, he didn’t touch me, but he looked at me and I saw. . . the most terrible things.  I think if he’d wanted to kill me by magic, he could have. So, I said, ‘Aye, I’ll do what you want.’  Then, he submitted quietly enough, but did not allow restraints, and instead marched me in front of him.”

“By Manwë’s breath, who captured whom?” Ikar-lak said.

Hazûn lowered his gaze, fidgeting with the hem of his tunic.
 
“You did very well under such duress, soldier,” the King interrupted. “Say on.”
          
“We arrived just before dawn when the watch had not yet called the change and were met by the guards below the hill.  They, it was, who put him in the guard tent.”

“Did he ever reveal who he was?” Lord Rothîbal asked.

“Nay.”  Hazûn looked uncomfortable.

“What did he say then?” broke in Dulginzin, Izindor’s oldest son. His father smiled ingratiatingly at the King and then glowered at his son.

“My Lords, I admit this is most curious, but I don’t exactly recall.  Merely to say that our walk back was not . . . unpleasant.”

There was a murmur of voices.                    

“Explain,” the King said.

“I mean that once I did as he asked, he become quite charming.  Asked about my family. I found myself . . .um, talking to him.”  Hazûn seemed almost embarrassed.  Amandil looked hard at him, feeling there was more that he wasn’t  owning.

“This doesn’t sound like one of Sauron’s minions,” Rothîbal interrupted. “Who is he, then?”

Ar-Pharazôn smiled like a cat lapping up a bowl of cream. “Lord Azgarad,” he said.  “Please tell us about your audience with our prisoner.  You are dismissed, soldier.  Get some sleep.”

“Your Majesty.” Hazûn bowed, and with a glance at all of them, left.
 
Lord Azgarad rose.  He was a man of forceful presence, with a distinctive, hawk-like nose, deep under-eye circles, and a prominent chin, which he covered with a goatee. Unlike the shorter tunics that were fashionable, he wore a full-length robe in deepest blue, embroidered with silver threads.  “As it pleases your Majesty,” he said.  “When our young hero,” he waved at Hazûn’s retreating form, “appeared with his report, I had the prisoner searched for weapons, and removed to one of my tents, where I went to interrogate him. When I entered the tent, I saw a tall figure dressed in black, wearing a mighty iron helm that nearly covered his face.  He greeted me and asked to see the King.  I told him that would depend on what he had to say to me.  After some unsatisfactory back and forth, he finally snarled in frustration and said, “Then, convey this to your King, that it is none other than the Lord Annatar, Master of Middle-earth, who wishes to speak to him.”

There were gasps from all sides. Amandil felt as if the air had been quite suddenly sucked from the room.  He looked about at the dismayed expressions. Lord Azgarad’s lips quirked and there was a grim satisfaction on his brooding face.  He continued.  “Sauron, or as he wishes it, the Lord Annatar, said his force and ours were on a par and that, as a result, a war would be a waste of life and resources. He felt some other agreement could be worked out between us.  He asked again for an audience with the King.”

Ar-Pharazôn’s chest puffed like a pheasant. “It appears that my tactics have been successful after all, and we have frightened our Enemy from his stronghold—with only one casualty. What say you all to that?”

“It is miraculous,” Izindor said, with a wriggle. “Your Majesty, we could not have hoped for better.”

Amandil found himself rising to his feet.  Just in time, he bethought himself and made a bow towards the King.  “Sire, I beg of you to consider our next steps carefully.  If this truly is Sauron, then the past has shown us that he is capable of great trickery and terrible deeds.  We must be cautious.  The first thing we must assess is how do we know his claim is valid?  He could be a spy, one of the Dark Lord’s servants, as has been suggested? Indeed, I would be amazed if the Dark Lord himself were foolhardy enough to walk right into our camp—alone.”

“Ever the skeptic, my dear Aphanuzîr,” the King said. “In truth, I counted on that. The answer is that I do not yet know if the claim is valid, nor do I know the best course of action.  That is why you,” he spread his arms wide to include them all, “are here.  We must consider what to do next.”

Satisfied that the King seemed to be acting prudently, Amandil sank back into his chair as a cacophony of voices erupted.  Men turned to each other and were arguing.  Ar-Pharazôn let it go on for a bit, then nodded to Azgarad, who grabbed his staff of office and thumped it on the ground.  “Silence! Speak one at a time,” he cried.

“I say we execute this prisoner and so be rid of the problem,” Lord Rothîbal shouted.

“Do you not know your history, Rothîbal?” Amandil retorted.  “If it is indeed Sauron, the Maia, his spirit cannot be killed.  If it is one of the Nazgûl, well, it’s said they are undead, which would also make them rather hard to kill.  I don’t know how to kill a wraith.  Do you?  And if it is a mortal, some lieutenant of the Dark Lord, executing him will only serve to make his master angry and possibly bring his whole force down on our heads, which he may be planning in any event.  Has anyone scouted for an invasion force in the vicinity?”

Azgarad nodded. “Our scouts should have notified us if there was a force massing. To be sure, I’ll send out a sortie now.” He motioned to one of the armed guards who went out in haste. 

Then Elendil stood and bowed towards the King. His voice was quiet, but commanding and all stopped their whispers to listen.  “My Lords, it would be an evil deed to kill a messenger.  We men of Anadûnê have never behaved in such a manner.  I have another proposition.”

“What is it?” Ar-Pharazôn asked.

“I think we should hear what he has to say.” 

“I agree.” The King nodded. “Have him brought in.”   He waved at Lord Azgarad, who bowed and left. A few men opened their mouths, seemingly to object, but the King frowned at them and they all grew silent.

Elendil sat down again. Amandil leaned over towards his son.  “Are you sure about this, ion nîn?”

“No, Ada,” Elendil replied. “Of course not.  But I imagine whatever this enemy has to say is better said in the open before us all than behind closed doors for any one of us.”  He raised an eyebrow. 

Amandil patted his son’s knee. “Smart lad. Keep your eyes open.”

Amandil noticed Sûla coming around with the wine jug.  “Care for more, Lord Aphanuzîr?” he said in his light voice and Amandil lifted his cup.  The boy stopped to fill it.  He was wearing a subtle perfume of musk and roses, which, when he leaned close, gave Amandil the sensation of something dark, illicit, and arousing. Annoyed, Amandil wrinkled his nose and started to pull away, but Sûla dropped his head and spoke into his ear.  “His Majesty bids me tell you to speak your mind to this creature.  Attempt to draw him out.  We are playing a game of cat and mouse here.” 

Amandil raised his eyes and saw the King looking back at him. His expression was that of the boy Amandil remembered from years past, looking up at him over a game of bones when there was a large wager on the table, somewhat unsure of himself and seeking a hint from his mentor.  He nodded at the King. Then he caught Ikar-lak’s glance and realized that the priest had noticed the exchange from his seat on the other side of the King.  Always there were eyes at court—watching.  Amandil didn’t remember that it used to be that way. The others all around him were busily engaged in discussions among themselves and calling for more wine. Amandil sighed.  Things were changing.  He could feel it in the air. Whatever the outcome of this morning’s work, he didn’t think it would be good.

Then the curtains parted and Lord Azgarad entered.  “He is here,” he said in a grim voice.

A sudden hush came over the group.  Amandil heard a faint clink of chains and then a tall black-cloaked figure flanked by two guards bent his head to enter the tent.  His wrists had been linked together by metal cuffs attached to a span of fine chain but the restraint did little to allay the sense of fear that purveyed the room.  This was clearly a person of power, whatever else he was.
       
The guards moved to the side, holding their swords at the ready, leaving the emissary, if that’s what he was, standing by himself in the midst of the circle.  His high helmet, black with iron spikes jutting from the top, gave the illusion of height, but Amandil didn’t think he was any taller than his son.  The helm had a nose-guard and flaps that covered his cheeks, but his mouth and chin were visible. Surprisingly, those features appeared to be the face of a young man: the chin was sharp and beardless, and lips, well, they were shapely and decidedly sensuous. 
 
The emissary bowed towards the king. The bow was extremely graceful and ended with a kind of quirky side-ways tilt of the head.  “Ar-Pharazôn of Númenor, I presume,” he said. “I am most pleased to make your acquaintance at long last.”

The voice, oh blessed Valar, the voice was darkly sweet and melodious, like honey dripping from the comb.  It sounded fair and reasonable, and raised Amandil’s hackles in the way of a dog scenting a fox at the gate. 

The king rested his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Who are you?”

“I would have thought your Steward relayed that information?” 

“He did.  I want to hear it from your lips.”

“Very well,” the dark figure said. “Over the years, I have acquired many names, some more pleasant to my ears than others.  In my early days in Aman, I was known as Mairon, the Admirable.  To the elves of Eregion, I was called Annatar, Lord of Gifts, because I brought them knowledge. As a devotee of Aulë, the Smith, they also called me Aulendil or Artano, meaning high smith. In your language, I am Zigûr, the sorcerer.”

The eyes gleamed from within the shadow of the helm as if assessing the King. It was quiet as all of them stared. Amandil thought, Could it be true?  Was this really Sauron, the Dark Lord? Was the famous Ring hidden under those black gloves?  He shivered.

Ar-Pharazôn said, “So you claim to be the Dark Lord, Morgoth’s Lieutenant, Bane of the Elves, Master of the One Ring?  I find myself . . .  honored by your trust in coming alone to my lodge as certainly your deeds merit swift retribution.  Tell me, what do you hope to accomplish by coming here?”

“Did you not send forth your heralds calling on me to surrender, O King of Númenor? And so, not wishing to make war unnecessarily, here I am.  I would say in defense of my deeds that right or wrong in these matters is always in the eye of the beholder.  What harm have I done you and your subjects?  I am not the one encamped on your doorstep with a great army, threatening death and enslavement.” His tone was sweet but held an underlying sting.

“No, you have merely threatened all Free Peoples of Middle-earth with death and enslavement,” the King replied. “It was not I who began this war, which you have been waging for countless years.  However, I shall not bandy words with you, but merely remind you whose lodge you currently stand within.”

“I am well aware of the precariousness of my situation,” the emissary replied, with a curl of the lip. “Very well, shall we get to the heart of the matter? My spies have discovered the size of your great army, and my captains and I have determined that we are a near match.  So . . . we can choose to battle each other until we’ve ground both our forces into dust, or, for a change, we can try negotiations at the outset.  The latter option is so much more civilized, don’t you think?”

Amandil stirred. “How do we know you are who you claim to be?” 

The dark head swiveled around to look at him; Amandil shrank from the malice in the eyes peering from the slot in the helm.   Then the creature smiled charmingly.  “Who speaks?”
                           
“I am . . . Aphanuzîr, Lord of Andúnië.”

“Ah, Aphanuzîr, Amandil in the elven tongue,” said the creature. “I have heard of you. It’s said you are a great captain of the sea.  What proofs of my identity do you require?”

“Show us your Ring,” Amandil said.

The dark figure chuckled. “That trinket?  It no longer served its purpose; I have destroyed it.”

“What?”  There were surprised gasps all around.

The emissary pulled at the fingers of his black leather gloves, peeling them off.  Tucking the gloves into his belt, he showed them slender, long-fingered hands, devoid of ornament.

“Then how do we know you are indeed Sauron, the Fell?” Amandil demanded.

“My King, do you always allow your subjects to speak so freely?” the dark emissary asked.

“My Councilors are free to speak in my realm, and it is a fair question,” the King said. “Answer it.”
   
“Very well then.”  The emissary raised his hands dramatically and there was a movement of air, causing the lamps in the tent to flicker.  A whirlwind kicked up.  Amandil saw a vision of a huge fortress hewn from the living rock, vast and dark.  The image pulled back from the fortress to reveal three vast mountains that belched thick, black smoke.  Above them, dragons flew, tiny in the distance, like undulating worms with wings.  Firelight glinted off the scales of their bellies.

“Thangorodrim,” he intoned.

The image shifted into scenes of teaming battlefields.  Elves wailed, orcs screamed, balrogs cracked their whips. Fire and destruction. Amandil became aware that all around him were frozen in their seats, staring in horror.  The image faded. And before his eyes, the tall figure appeared to grow.  A dark cloud gathered about him, and immense wings unfurled from his body, spreading from one end of the tent to the other. Amandil suddenly had no doubt that he was looking at an incarnation of Sauron, the Abhorred.  He heard Elendil moan. All around, men covered their eyes. Amandil felt sick to his stomach.

“Enough!” Ar-Pharazôn cried.

The image withered away like a wisp of smoke, and the Dark Lord was left standing there quietly, shrunk down to size. His lips quirked in an amused expression.  “Was that sufficient proof?”

The King replied,“I know of none save a wizard who can project such images. We will take your word that you are Annatar.  Do you really expect us to believe that you offer peace and friendship after what you did to the elves? You must think us fools!”

“No doubt it is too soon for friendship,” Sauron said, unruffled. “I was thinking more of dividing Middle-earth between us, enabling peaceful co-existence between our nations.”   He reached for something hidden under his cloak.  Swiftly, both soldiers raised their swords.  “Be easy,” Sauron chuckled.  “It’s just a pouch.”  He brought out a thin leather satchel tied with ribbon and handed it to one of the guards.  “Here, King of Númenor, are some maps on which we could redraw the boundaries between our kingdoms. I’m sure we can work out an agreement that seems fair.” 

The guards handed the folder to Azgarad, who opened it up and pulled out some detailed maps.  Under them were some sketches.  “What are these?” the Steward asked.

Sauron tilted his head. “Oh, how did those get in there? Those are drawings for my latest war engine, an improvement on the catapult. You’ll notice the greater range and striking force. I have already built a prototype. You see, I have much to offer you.”

Ar-Pharazôn bent to look at the drawings along with Azgarad.  His eyebrows lifted. “Interesting,” he murmured.  
 
Then Ikar-lak, Manwë’s priest, said, “I find your eagerness to offer us designs for superior weapons of war very suspicious.”  He turned to the king.  “Indeed, how do we know his claims for the size of his military force are accurate?  The eagles told me it was a fraction the size of ours.”

“Can the eagles see under the ground?” Sauron asked, putting his hands on his hips.

Amandil frowned.  That hadn’t come up as a possibility in any of the discussions and it should have.

“What do you propose then?” Ar-Pharazôn said.

“May I approach?” Sauron asked.  His beautiful lips were curved upward in amusement.

There was a silence. The King was staring at him, seemingly mesmerized by his mouth.  “Remove your helm first,” the King said suddenly.

“I beg your pardon?” Sauron replied.

Ar-Pharazôn said, “As a courtesy to me. It is disconcerting to talk to a . . .mask.”  

“Very well.” Sauron reached up to unbuckle the chin strap, slowly lifted the heavy iron helm from his head, and handed it to one of the guards. His hair, released from the confines of the helm, cascaded down over his shoulders nearly to his waist, reflecting the light like a shield of dark, burnished copper.  There was a collective intake of breath in the room.

Sauron was painfully, exquisitely beautiful.

“Ada, he looks like an elf,” Elendil whispered.

Indeed he did, an elf with a sharp chin, high, molded cheekbones, a strong nose that flared slightly at the nostrils, and lips that elicited immoral thoughts. Strands of hair were pulled away from his temples, braided and twined with gold thread, revealing ears that tapered to slender points like willow leaves.  His large eyes were sensuously lined with kohl, which brought out their striking golden color. Disquietingly, the pupils were elongated, like a cats’.  Annatar indeed.  The tales were true, then. Had this been the guise that had lured Celebrimbor to his doom?  Amandil could well imagine it, even though he, himself, was not enticed by a male form.  But there were some who were.
 
“By the Valar,” murmured the King in open-mouthed astonishment. "How can this be?"

The King’s admiring gaze shifted into something else, something greedy. Sauron lowered his eyes, seemingly in deference, but not before Amandil caught the smirk: a brief, cruel bending of the lips. Sauron was playing with them just as if he were a great panther letting a mouse run between his claws. Amandil could not allow it. He lurched to his feet, knocking over his wine cup.

But just as he opened his mouth to speak, Sauron said in purring tones, "I gather my appearance surprises you?  I learned many things at Melkor’s knee, including how to regenerate my form.” He smiled with a pretty show of teeth. “So, your Majesty, do you wish to know the secret of eternal youth?”

-tbc-

---

Chapter End Notes

*Amandil - father of Elendil, lord of Andúnië, ship captain and counselor to Ar-Pharazôn. Amandil is Quenya meaning ‘lover or friend of Aman.’ His Adûnaic name is Aphanuzîr, also meaning 'friend of Aman.'  Amandil’s house banner is an elfscribe invention, blue with the white ship following Eärendil’s blazing star. Aphanuzîr and Nimruzîr are canon Adûnaic for Amandil and Elendil respectively.

*Anadûnê - (Adûnaic) another name for Númenor, meaning ‘Westernesse.’

*Ar-Pharazôn (Adûnaic) ‘King Golden.’  His Quenya name is Tar-Calion.

*Azgarad - (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name from Azgara, meaning ‘to wage war’) Ar-Pharazôn’s steward, the second most powerful man in Númenor.

*Arubinzad, Dulginzin, Mirandor, Ikar-lak, Rothîbal, Hazûn and Tigôn are all elfscribe-invented names with no grounding in canon Adûnaic.

*Bârî an-Adûn - Adûnaic for Valar, meaning Lords of the West.

*Bârîm an-Adûn - also means Valar, but is the subject of the sentence.  Thanks Mal!

*Bawîba Manô - the words are canon Adûnaic meaning “wind” and “spirit” however I put them together.

*Elendil (Quenya, meaning, ‘elf-lover’) son of Amandil and also a lord of Andúnië, and counselor to Ar-Pharazôn. His Adûnaic name is Nimruzîr which translates to the same thing. 

*híren (Sindarin) ‘my lord.’  Tigôn uses this term with Amandil because both of them are members of the Faithful and Sindarin is the first language for both of them.

*Izindor (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name, from izindi meaning ‘straight’) Lord of Arandor and father of Dulginzin and Mirandor.

*Lórellin (Quenya) Elendil’s wife, an elfscribe-invented character.  She is named after the lake in Valinor where Estë rests.

*Sûla (Adûnaic, meaning ‘trump’) Ar-Pharazôn’s cupbearer and zirâmîki.
                                       
Canon notes:  At this point, Amandil is about 233 years old and Elendil is 143.  But the Numenoreans were long-lived and Elendil died at age 322, and not of old age. Therefore, I'd say at this point in the story he's about the equivalent of  a man in his late 30s.

I had several conversations with my beta Malinornë about worship on Númenor.  Text in the Silm says that Númenóreans worshipped Eru Ilúvatar until Sauron arrived and introduced Melkor worship.  However, there are a number of indications that the Valar and some Maiar such as Ossë and his wife Uinen were also reverenced, for example fixing the oiolairë branch onto the prow of a boat for protection.  Because I am envisioning Númenor as like an ancient Mediterranean civilization, it works better for my story to suppose that although the main diety is Eru, there are sects who venerate members of the Valar and Ossë/Uinen—just as a Christian sect might focus on a particular saint, such as the Franciscans or a Greek sect might specifically worship Dionysis.