The Last Dance by SonOfMandos

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The Last Dance

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Harad
Year 2899 of the Second Age

Tar-Ardamin wiped the sweat from his forehead and wrapped his wet shawl around him. How Haradrims could endure the humid summer heat was foreign to him. Haradrims said it was a question of habit. Coastal temperatures couldn’t compare to the scorching heat of the savannah, they said. His father had mocked the Haradrims for wearing long, wet shawls. It didn’t take him long to understand why and to adopt this custom.

It didn’t take him long to realise Harad was too vast to be conquered. Centuries ago, Tar-Calmacil had seized major ports. It was Tar-Ardamin’s duty to expand Númenórean settlements. A duty he had not fulfilled, preferring to fortify what Númenor had already besieged.

Tar-Ardamin shifted on his cushion and stared at the scrolls and clay tablets displayed in front of him on the low table. He sighed. He despised accountability. He promised himself to delegate the work to one of his scribes on the morrow.

A door was opened and then was closed. The sound of footsteps approached him. The pace was slow and deliberate. Tar-Ardamin raised his head.

“Tararion,” he smiled. “You’ve returned, at last.”

The Haradrim who stood in front of him wore baggy white pants with hand-painted patterns. He was bare-chested. The man had braided his dark chestnut hair into one thin plait that reached his middle back. His arms were adorned with heavy golden bands, and a heavy collar circled his neck. The Haradrims’ love for gold clashed with the adoration Númenóreans had for silver.

Namtar’s yellow eyes flashed with displeasure. ‘Tararion’ was not his real name, yet Tar-Ardamin loved to baptise his subjects in his foul tongue.

“Master,” he replied.

Tar-Ardamin eyed him from head to toe. “Look at you: your skin was wheatish when you left, and now, it has the pale brown shade of an eggshell.”

“It’s called ‘spending time outdoors’,” Namtar scoffed.

Tar-Ardamin’s smile did not fade. “Travelling so you can teach inland people how to dance? I don’t know why I let you leave for that.” He tapped his chin. “I reckon it’d be a waste if you never pass on what your mother taught you. What a dancer, she was!”

Disgusted, Namtar took a deep breath and clenched his fists. Dancers and musicians were the keepers of the tongue of the Gods. Their presence in temples during religious ceremonies was vital to preserve the spiritual health of the people. They were in charge of the communion with Spirits. This changed when Tar-Ardamin banned most ceremonies and decreed dance and music were to be consumed for one’s entertainment.

Namtar’s position as a dancer of the royal family was decided when he was in his mother’s womb, herself the favourite of Tar-Ardamin. She had passed away shortly after Namtar celebrated his twenty-fifth birthday. Devastated, Namtar had begged Tar-Ardamin for his freedom. The Númenórean had refused. Namtar was his second favourite; he would not let go of him. However, he had ordered Namtar to find someone to succeed him—Namtar was childless, and the king knew he would outlive his dancer. He allowed the Haradrim to travel the country each summer. These months were the closest to liberty Namtar had.

Tar-Ardamin motioned the young man to sit in front of him. The Haradrim complied.

A servant entered the room to light candles. Sunset was near.

“What’s this?” asked Namtar.

“Financial reports,” Tar-Ardamin groaned.

“No, not this,” said Namtar. He pointed toward an object near Tar-Ardamin.

“Ah, this,” said the ruler as he took it. “It’s a ring. One of those nomadic merchants sold it to me last week.” He grinned. “You should have seen the merchant! The finest man in the world. He was fair like Lord Eönwë himself. However… There’s this strange carving. I can’t decipher it.”

He handed the ring to the dancer. This last one frowned. “It’s Valarin.”

“Do you know what it means?”

Namtar clicked his tongue. “It’s the symbol used for ‘tower’, I believe… Unfortunately, I’m not as fluent in the language as my ancestors used to be.”

“Interesting.”

“Hm. Indeed.”

Namtar played with the jewel. Warm invisible hands slid on his shoulders and a deep, almost silent, phantom voice serenaded him.

The ring would be his.
 

***

Namtar kneeled next to Tar-Ardamin’s bed. Blood flowed on the mattress, the floor and his clothes. The Haradrim jabbed his dagger into the corpse’s shoulder and removed the ring from the Númenórean’s finger.

“I swore on my mother’s grave I shall die a free man,” Namtar said with a dark voice. “And that the invaders would pay the price of their coming.”

The carcass looked at him with frightened, lifeless eyes.

Namtar turned around. The fair figure behind him leaned against the wall.

“Take this,” the Haradrim said. “As much as I want it, the ring was yours before you sold it.”

“Oh, no,” Sauron smirked. “The ring is my gift to you. Use it wisely.”

Namtar smiled back.