Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Surrender

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He was so cold. His body was shaking uncontrollably under the bedcovers, though he could feel his forehead smouldering from the heat, and hear the crackling of the sacred flames nearby. The faces hovering above him were flushed, too, and large beads of sweat trickled across them, but to him all this meant nothing. The fire had not warmed him in years.

“I am here, Father.” Yehimelkor’s weak heart fluttered, until he realized that Hannimelkor was talking to Lord Númendil, who was sitting closest to him. “I came as soon as I received your message.” Then, the sea-grey eyes turned towards him, and they looked strangely sheepish, as if he did not know how to address him, or even whether to do so. The High Priest wanted to snort at him, but only a gurgling sound came out. This prompted Hasdrumelkor to hover over him in concern.

“Do you want something, Your Holiness? There is no need for you to talk, I will enumerate so you only have to nod. Water? Another blanket? Medicine? Rest?”

Yehimelkor shook his head, irritated. What he wanted was to stop being coddled by those who tried to lose themselves in the small things because they could not bear to face what was important. He was dying; no amount of water, medicine or blankets would change that fact. And, in the larger scheme of things, even his death was nothing but an anecdote, not worth anyone’s grief or despair. He was an old, defeated man, whose time was long past. They should be worrying about the fate of Númenor and their own, for without the protection of the King of Armenelos, there was no future for the Island.

He breathed deeply, or as deeply as he could before the needling pain erupted in his lungs. In other times, he would have said those words aloud, but now, even this had been taken from him. Instead, he focused his gaze on the newcomer, trying to gather enough strength to utter one single word without his voice betraying him.

“Hannimelkor.”

“The High Priest does not need anything. He only wishes us to bear witness to his passing, and to the fact that he carried himself with dignity until the very end.”

Númendil, as always, was behaving most intrusively. Since the day the priest was brought to Andúnië to escape the King’s wrath, Hannimelkor’s father had proved very insistent in his attempts to befriend him. Yehimelkor had immediately rejected his pity, but this had not been of much use, as the wretched man had many other things to throw at him. There was gratefulness, curiosity, admiration, even the determination to discover a kindred spirit underneath a surface of irreconcilable differences. Yehimelkor had weathered all this grudgingly, hoping that he would give up once he discovered there was no purpose to his efforts. But if there was someone in this Island who had managed to surpass the High Priest of Melkor in stubbornness, it was not the King or the Former King; it was Lord Númendil. Now, he had brought this as far as to turn into a permanent fixture of Yehimelkor’s sickbed – deathbed-, not to give him water or wipe his forehead, but to act as an intermediary of sorts between him and others. A hale Yehimelkor would have scorned his presumption, but the dying Yehimelkor could not help feeling thankful. Even when the man had grown aware, without the need for words, of his yearning for Hannimelkor to be present.

The boy shook, his eyes gazing in terror at the flames that seemed to rise to embrace him. It took him a long time to gather enough determination to follow the priest to the highest rung of the altar, where his shaking knees gave way instead of kneeling. Superstitious images of horrible demons who bred Orcs, full of black malice towards the race of Men, agitated his mind, but the priest had promised that his life would be saved, and there was nothing else left for him to hold on to except this.

“Stop shaking, or you will get cut”, he was rebuked, after he instinctively flinched away from the knife. When he saw his hair disappear in the flames, the boy looked at the verge of crying, but he did not. He had to be brave, even if there was no one but this Morgoth-worshipper to see his weakness. Watching this, the priest’s heart went out to him, and he no longer saw the enemy’s son, whose right to live rested on his ability to join the fold. And then he knew that, from that day onwards, he would protect this child who had been entrusted to him, and care for him regardless of who he was, or who he chose to be.

“By the mercy of the Great God, you have been reborn. From now on, your name will be Hannimelkor, the Mercy of Melkor.”

“He wants you to sit closer to him. Here, take my seat”, Númendil spoke, his voice heavy with a deep emotion. “Let him look at your face.”

Hannimelkor did so, though his gaze was reluctant. He was feeling guilty, Yehimelkor realized, for not having visited him more, or spent time with him in all those years they had lived under the same roof. He had been busy with many things, but that was not the real reason why he had avoided his former Revered Father. Despite Yehimelkor’s taunts that he was unable to hold a firm belief, in the latter part of his life he had grown rather inflexible about a number of things, perhaps as much as the priest himself. Whenever they did meet, despite his best intentions, they had always ended up fighting, and the lord of Andúnië was so weakened by his self-appointed mission of struggling against Fate that he could no longer bear to be questioned. Often, Yehimelkor had wished he was the kind of person who could let those things go, but he had always proved remarkably unable to be anything else than what he was. Just like Hannimelkor himself, he realized. Númendil’s mysterious secret eluded both of them, and though they saw him every day, they could not imitate him.

“He understands. And he forgives you”, Númendil summed up his thoughts quite admirably. The shadow of an emotion veiled Hannimelkor’s eyes, and all of a sudden, as if on a blind impulse, he grabbed the old man’s bony hand in his.

“I wish to make a confession. If… if there is something I have always been ashamed of, all my life, it was betraying you”, he blurted, in a dull voice. “For years, I was unable to even think about you without feeling shame. I do not know if I should speak of such matters at a moment like this, but this is likely to be the last chance I will have, so let me ask for your forgiveness.”

That day, at the Temple, Yehimelkor had ordered Hannimelkor never to address a word to him again. But the deepest motive for this had not been his anger, great and sinful as it was, but a vision of the disaster which would befall his old pupil the day this happened. Still, Hannimelkor had not obeyed, or paid any heed to his warning, and here they were now, clasping each other’s hands as if he was hanging from a cliff, and a gaping abyss was opening under his feet.

“Yehimelkor thinks you are being foolish, my son”, Númendil smiled. “He forgave you long ago for following Heaven’s will.”

“You mean, the will of the King of Armenelos”, Hannimelkor corrected. He looked briefly full of joy, until another look at the priest sobered him up. “I… I know I will never get you to agree with me on what needs to be done. But I, and the house of Andúnië, owe our lives to you twice. If we are able to survive the coming storm, and start new lives on a faraway land, I swear I will make sure that my descendants never forget it.”

This time, Yehimelkor managed to smile wryly. Of course they would forget it. Anárion had sired two girls who ran around the house, playing and getting into various sorts of mischief; only the older of them had seen him. The younger might be told about him one day, and so would those to come, but once they grew to adulthood, they would find it abhorrent to think that they owed anything to a priest of Melkor. Even those who understood would realize very soon that others would not. The memory of him would die with the Island, with the Sacred Fire he had tended since he was a boy, and with the temple of a god who had abandoned the world because of the evil deeds of Men.

I will never forget you, my friend.

You will leave this world as soon as I am not here to witness your sin, he retorted at Númendil. The old man did not even have the grace to look abashed.

But I will still remember you wherever I go. And though I do not know what lies beyond the Circles of the World, if the wisdom of my ancestors can be believed, it is a much better place than this. Who knows? Perhaps we will meet again there, and I will need those memories to recognize you.

Yehimelkor did not need to answer this. Both knew well enough that this was not true: it was utterly impossible for someone like Númendil to share a space with him anywhere but in this marred world.

“Hasdrumelkor”, he whispered, and once again his body shook with the pain of the terrible effort. “Sacrifice… for me.”

The old priest nodded. He looked at the verge of crying, and Yehimelkor remembered that he had also been a boy when he first crossed the threshold of his quarters. Now, most of his life had trickled away from his grasp, dedicated to the faithful service of the Great God in appearance, but in truth dedicated to the service of Yehimelkor himself. Hasdrumelkor had never been a man of deep, spiritual beliefs, but he had stayed by his side after all the others had gone, determined to prove that at least one of his pupils would never abandon him. Yehimelkor had often been short with him, at first because he was still bitter from Hannimelkor’s betrayal, and in the final stretches of his life because he was in pain and had little patience left. In the end, Hasdrumelkor had been the most invisible of the three people who stood by him now, but of all of them, he was the one who had deserved more.

“I will”, he was saying now, his voice hoarse. “I will sacrifice for you, Your Holiness, on this same day for every month and every year of what remains of my life. And I will see to the fire until… until…” Until you are dead and there is no one else to tend it, Yehimelkor thought, just as a sharp burst of pain erupted in the left side of his body. It did not matter. None of it mattered anymore. Once the god was gone, the fire was only a fire, even if Hasdrumelkor had never possessed the subtlety to tell the difference. A true believer would fulfil his obligations no matter whether the Lord witnessed his efforts or not, and while this lasted, there would be a last link between the human and the divine remaining upon the surface of this earth. But once the last believer died, the link would suffer the same fate as all perishable things, and Hasdrumelkor should not spend a single instant blaming himself for things which had never been his fault.

“Thank you” he hissed, riding the wave of pain. “Thank… you.”

“Lord Yehimelkor is deeply grateful for all you have done for him” Númendil’s soft voice took over. “He is humbled by your unwavering loyalty, and sees it fitting that you should be the last to kneel before the sacred fire of the King of Armenelos. For everything in this world of Men must have an end, except for the Lord himself, who will still exist even if his fire is extinguished, his temple gone and the memories of his worship lost.” He paused briefly, as if wondering how to put this into words –perhaps even if he should, for what was a source of hope for Yehimelkor himself would look like a terrible curse for the Baalim-worshippers. Still, the lord of Andúnië’s father was too upright to distort or silence a dying man’s message. “And one day, if Men should be worthy of him again, he may return, and reveal himself to them.”

Now, Hasdrumelkor was sobbing openly, dabbing at his cheeks with his tunic to quench the flow of his tears.

“I-I will, Y-your Holiness. B-but p-please d-do not th-thank me. I only d-did my duty… though…. though I a-always d-did it willingly.”

Yehimelkor smiled, feeling himself relax. The moment was near, he realized, in a sudden burst of clarity. His foe, the debilitating illness that ravaged his body, had retreated only to gather forces for the final attack. He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, willing his body not to fight it when it came.

I could show you how to do it, if only you were willing to let me.

I will not cast a shadow upon a life of faith by ending it in sin. Númendil had been expecting this answer, though he still seemed sad. Do not feel sorry for me. I can take this, as I have withstood worse things for all these years.

“Farewell, Revered Father”, Hannimelkor blurted out, breaking the eerie silence. He, too, was at the verge of tears, and Yehimelkor swallowed. He had never expected to be called by this name again.

His hand squeezed the lord of Andúnië’s fingers briefly, to show him that he had heard. Then, he gazed beyond the pale shadows of the world of Men, towards the place where the Eternal Fire burned for ever, without the need for mortal hands, wood or flesh to keep it alive, to pray for one final time.

King of Armenelos, I have dedicated my whole life to your service, worshipping you with a righteous heart and in accordance with the laws of your Temple. Now, in my last hour, I call upon you, and I beg you to forgive my sins, cleanse me of all my impurities, and accept my sacrifice, a pale shadow of your own. Take me with you, so I may live for ever, and have mercy on those who are left behind.

The flames rose, and for a moment all he could feel was an unendurable pain. Voices, so close and at the same time so distant, floated around him, and he could hear someone crying. His body thrashed and writhed, held by ghost hands whose owners he could not see. And then the fire was inside him, filling, consuming him with its vivifying warmth, and the High Priest knew that he would never feel cold again.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

When their ship laid anchor in Rómenna, Isildur realized it had been the longest he and Anárion had been away since the start of their mission. An accumulation of delays, unforeseen circumstances and, above all, the campaign they had been forced to lead against the league of warrior bands that threatened their alliance with Agar, had elevated their absence from the Island to four years. Their journey, however, had been fruitful even for Lord Amandil’s demanding expectations, and he appeared very glad to hear that the construction of a second and a third settlement was already underway, under the supervision of the Master of Agar. The way things were going in the Island made him more eager than ever to proceed with their colonization plans, as it seemed that the direst hour was growing near. After the Sceptre had formally declared war on the Valar, and proceeded with the sacrilegious endeavour of building a fleet to attack the Blessed Realm, natural disasters had piled one upon another. A violent storm had destroyed the first ships built in the Northern shipyards; there had been quakes in the West of the Island, floods in the South, and a Middle Earth disease brought by some hapless slave in a ship had been passed to a Númenórean master, causing many deaths in the populous cities of Sor and Armenelos.

This reminder that they belonged to the same kindred of Men as the short-lived barbarian folk they so freely abused, however, had not acted as a deterrent for this injustice, or even as an invitation to pause in their course towards greater evils. Instead, fear had engendered more pride and hatred for those who were perceived as being at fault for those ills. Many slaves had been sacrificed, and many others quarantined in inhuman conditions and left to die in camps built in the Southeastern region under the authority of the Governor of Sor. Then, when it became apparent that the Faithful were not affected, the brunt of people’s hostility had shifted to them. There they boldly stood, followers and spies of the enemy in Númenorean soil, while the King and the Queen did nothing to put a stop to their activities! The lord of Andúnië had some sort of mysterious ascendancy over them, perhaps achieved by nefarious means, so he was free to lord over the city his people had gradually invaded from his proud and mighty house over the cliff, and await his opportunity to strike at the Númenorean Sceptre. Most in the house of Andúnië believed Sauron to be behind those whispers, which had resulted in a number of spontaneous incursions on their territory, the harassment of their people, and even the murder of one of the most prominent members of the Faithful community. The Governor of Sor had his hands full with the epidemic and the maintenance of law and order in Sor itself, and though he always assured Amandil that he would take care of the problem, his promises had so far proved empty.

Isildur and Anárion had been made aware of this situation through letters and messages delivered through the Seeing Stones, so it was not that much of a shock when their ship was thoroughly inspected, their cargo seized, and their persons detained by the Rómenna authorities. Luckily, Lord Amandil was there to smooth things over, though the price of bribing officials was escalating as fast as the tension, as he admitted to them in a rueful tone. He was trying to save most of what remained of his money exclusively for the colonizing venture, for there was a growing list of people whose lives would be worth less than dirt unless they left the Island soon.

“There are many people in Pelargir waiting to be taken North, too”, Anárion answered gravely. “We cannot have them stay in the city for an indefinite amount of time, or increase the number of refugees waiting to travel without risking to upset the delicate balance that we keep there. Not to mention that the settlements which are being built now will take a long time to…”

“I hear your concerns”, the lord of Andúnië interrupted him, “but listening to them is a luxury I do not have. These people will depart at once, and by the summer of next year the two colonies will be built and manned. And then, we will begin the search for more locations.”

Anárion opened his mouth again, but this time Isildur was faster.

“I have been organizing our army up North. From a handful of mercenaries and settlers it has grown into a very reliable force, if I may say so myself. Months ago, they defeated an army of barbarians which boasted about twice its numbers, and since then the Forest People have been too wary to attack us. So far, we have stuck to our original mission, and merely defended ourselves and our allies, but the tribes we routed hold lands and resources that we can seize from them if that is what you want us to do.” Amandil looked impassive as he listened to this, but Isildur’s practiced eye could see him flinching inwardly. He held his gaze. “We will follow whatever orders we are given, of course.”

“It is good to know that we have options”, the lord of Andúnië replied vaguely, turning away from him to cut a path through the fishing market. He was still wearing mourning clothes, Isildur realized, even though the priest had died almost nine months ago. Perhaps he still felt that the old man was looking over his shoulder with a frown, ready to disapprove of his actions.

Some ghosts are more demanding than I am, Isildur. You are lucky to have me.

When he passed by his side, Anárion shook his head at him.

 

*      *     *     *     *     *

 

Anárion’s daughters were much changed since the last time Isildur had laid eyes on them. Faniel had grown in height, and even in gracefulness, though he could not fail to notice that the ladylike demeanour with which she welcomed them was still largely a game to her, and that she saw Anárion as a mysterious and extraordinarily exciting stranger. Lindissë, on the other hand, hid her pudgy face behind her mother’s skirts, and neither promises of toys and sweets nor the direst threats could extract her from there. Lady Lalwendë laughed, which made the others follow suit and dismiss this incident as a funny childish whim, but Lady Irimë’s lip thinned ominously.

Irissë was standing next to Ilmarë, dressed in her best finery and wearing more makeup than ever. When Isildur’s eyes fell on her, the first thing that struck him was that her appearance, from the golden curls on her head to the elongated points of her fashionable shoes, had not changed in the slightest from his last memories of her. But instead of rejoicing in it, as another husband would, he could not help but feel disappointed.

“Oh, Isildur, I am so glad you are here!” she cried, pulling him into an embrace. “When word came that you were battling those fierce savages, I was so afraid that something dreadful would happen to you!”

He had almost forgotten how annoying it was when she behaved so effusively in public.

“Please, Irissë”, he said in a low voice, extricating himself from her as gently as he could without appearing brusque. “This is not the most appropriate place for such a display.”

“It is the only place” she retorted, and her joy vanished. “I see you are no different from the man who sailed away four years ago.”

The exact same bastard she married, Malik snorted. But forty years would not be enough to change that, would it?

Isildur was as used by now to her mood swings as he was to Malik’s censure, so he merely took her by the arm and turned his attention to Ilmarë. He was expecting to see a glare of disapproval in her face to match that of her dead lover, but the look she gave him turned out to be much harder to decipher.

“Welcome home, Isildur”, she said. “You might want to know that we are not the only ones who have missed you.”

The daughter of Elendil motioned to someone who had been standing behind her, and as he approached at her signal, Isildur’s stomach plummeted.

It was Tal Elmar. But if neither Irissë nor Isildur had changed in four years, the three years that the Forest barbarian had spent in Númenor had altered him in such a way that even Isildur needed a second take to recognize him. His wild demeanour and appearance were a thing of the past; now, he was scrupulously clean, trimmed and dressed in fine Númenórean clothes. When he bowed at Isildur at Ilmarë’s prompting, and formally welcomed him in perfect, accent-less Adûnaic, the older man could not help the unkind thought that he looked like a tame dog.

“I see your… language has improved”, he remarked, just because he did not know what else to say. His voice came out rather cold.

“He has been working very hard to please you”, Ilmarë replied, before Tal Elmar could open his mouth. “Though I did warn him that you are not always very appreciative of efforts done for your sake.” Irissë gave him a smouldering glance, as if encouraged by Ilmarë’s support for her cause, while Tal Elmar merely frowned. “But let us go inside. We have not been able to organize an official feast because of the mourning, though I can promise you will encounter a larger amount of wine on the dining table than usual.”

Great. Go ahead and get drunk; I am sure that you will not think of doing or saying anything stupid.

“Thanks for the advance warning”, he said to both Ilmarë and Malik, walking across the porch as fast as the woman clinging to him allowed him to.

Tal Elmar did not follow them.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Isildur was not in the mood to make much small talk. During the meal, he did little but sit beside his chattering wife and allow his cup to be refilled so many times that he lost count, despite Malik’s dire predictions. Perhaps he was just too tired of being sober, he thought, of having to measure his words and his actions for the benefit of others.

“Where did Tal Elmar go?” he asked Ilmarë at some point. She shrugged, with what seemed to Isildur like studied indifference.

“I have no idea. He is not a slave; he is free to come and go wherever he pleases.”

At the other side of the large table, Faniel had started whining because she did not want to go to bed yet; she wanted to stay and listen to her father’s stories. Anárion promised solemnly that he would go with her and answer all her questions, and Elendil laughed, claiming that he had no idea of what he had just signed for. Anárion, however, looked like someone who was quite sure of what he was doing. Isildur had never considered him a sentimental man, but now it seemed that he could not get enough of his elder daughter’s attention. Perhaps he would feel torn the next time he had to leave her- but, knowing him, probably not.

“Back when you said that he had been working hard to please me…” he spoke after a while, for some reason unable to drop the subject of Tal Elmar. Suddenly, he realized that he was not sure of how to end the question, and his hazy mind did not supply any ready-made suggestions. Ilmarë took a long sip of her watered wine.

“Yes, Isildur? Is there something that you wish to ask?”

There was a frightening suspicion, which he was hard-pressed to banish from his mind, that she knew more than she was letting on. It was all the wine’s fault, he told himself, it had to be. Why did he have to drink so much?

“I am sorry. I have been… overindulging this evening”, he said, standing on his feet as decisively as he could manage with the world turning in circles around him. “I need to go outside and clear my head.” He turned towards Irissë, who appeared at the verge of voicing an objection. “Expect me later.”

“Of course I will”, she sighed, relieved, even as he turned his back on them and left the room.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Despite the ominous descriptions of terrible storms and savage weather which had afflicted the Island in his absence, Isildur found the beach at night as peaceful as he remembered it. Or more peaceful than his thoughts, at any rate, he rectified, watching how the waves came to break upon the shore with a perfect regularity which he found as irritating as Irissë’s smile.

Why was he feeling so upset? It was not as if he had been faced with anything unexpected. For all those years he had spent away from home, he had known that his wife would be awaiting his return, and that he would have to bed her. He had also known that Tal Elmar would be there too, no longer the savage who had taken ship from Pelargir, but a proper Númenórean in body and soul. In fact, that was the very reason why he had acted the way he did, and chosen to send the boy away back then. Time would cool off Isildur’s unseemly infatuation and allow rationality to regain the upper hand, and even in the event that it did not, Tal Elmar himself would have learned how wrong his people’s customs were.

If only you had thought this through, Isildur. Now, your irrationality remains as strong as ever, but if you act upon it he will reject you. For all this time, you believed this was what you wanted, until it turned out it was not. And though you know that none of it is his fault, you still blame him for it, because it is just too tempting.

“Am I so horrible, Malik? And, if I am, why in the name of all the Valar were you willing to die for me?” Isildur spat, taking his shoes and clothes off and leaving them discarded upon the sand. “I would never have died for someone like me.”

Oh, I suppose I had a weakness for irrational, hot-tempered and pig-headed people who never tried to pretend they were Elves. Of all the house of Andúnië, you and Ilmarë were the only ones in whose company I was never ashamed of myself. Especially you. You made me feel like an equal, instead of a lowly half-barbarian in the presence of his betters.

“So you befriended me because I was not good enough for my house”, Isildur summed up, wincing as he grew accustomed to the chilly water and attempted his first strokes. “That is fitting, I suppose.”

Perhaps you are too ready to dismiss the advantages of your barbaric brand of humanity, Isildur, Malik suggested, in a reproachful tone. I am of the opinion that you should at least ask him what he thinks. After all, there has to be a reason why he followed you all the way here.

Isildur’s heart jumped, and he stopped swimming for a moment to gaze back towards the surf. There, just as his friend had said, stood a lone silhouette, its features veiled by the darkness and distance. For a moment, Isildur just floated in silence, wondering if he should return or not. Of all the reasons Tal Elmar could have to seek him here, he did not think he was ready for a single one of them. Not with so much wine on his body.

One day you will have to return, unless you intend to swim all the way to the mainland. Malik had a malicious grin on his face. So you should better do it before the cold water makes it shrink.

Wonderful. He would not only be alone with Tal Elmar on a deserted beach, but alone with Tal Elmar on a deserted beach and naked.

When he set foot on the surf and walked towards the shore, however, Tal Elmar did not seem either shocked or surprised at the sight. It was as if all the Númenórean demureness he had exhibited earlier, in Irissë and Ilmarë’s presence, had been a mere figment of Isildur’s tortured imagination. This was so disconcerting –not to mention embarrassing- that, for a moment, he did not know how to react.

“A proper Númenórean would avert his eyes rather than look at me in this state”, he blurted out in the end. Oddly enough, those words brought the reaction that his nakedness had failed to produce: the young barbarian’s eyes widened, his cheeks reddened, and he looked away. Without being asked, he went to pick Isildur’s clothes, then threw them at his feet none too gently.

What on Earth are you doing? Malik sighed, disappointed.

“You do not seem glad to see me. Perhaps you were planning to send me to the altar of the Temple of Sor, and someone mistook your orders?” It was so strange to hear him speak Adûnaic like an islander that the meaning of his words took a little longer to register.

“That was unwarranted”, he replied, jumping around until he managed to put on his pants. Even with their scant protection, he could already feel a small part of his aplomb returning. “I saved your life, against my brother’s better advice, and it is thanks to me that you have been safe, clothed and fed for all these years. If I had wanted to get rid of you, I would merely have let your brothers have their way with you.”

“You were not the only option I had left.” Now, Tal Elmar was looking at him again, and his eyes gleamed with the fierce spark that Isildur remembered from the mainland. Everything seemed to shift before his eyes, and suddenly he saw the young warrior of Agar that his men had found in the forest, the one he could not tear his glance from, wearing Númenórean clothes and hairstyle as some sort of outlandish disguise. “If you had refused me, I would have gone South to join a brotherhood. I would have spent the rest of my life raiding Númenórean caravans and slitting your people’s throats.”

Isildur swallowed. At the moment, he was feeling the same sensations of three years ago, as if nothing he had done in between had mattered, or made the slightest difference.

“At least provided they did not slit your throat first, for looking like the enemy” he retorted forcefully, in an attempt to counter the weakness that was invading every limb of his body. “For that was your problem in Agar too, wasn’t it? Your own kin saw you as one of us. At least here you have a chance to be judged by your own merits.”

“Really?” Tal Elmar spat, his voice trembling with fury. “Well, let me tell you what I have achieved in these three years, Isildur. I have learned to speak your language properly, and to write it in both of your people’s scripts. I know your sacred texts, your history, the names of your gods, and your family tree all the way back to your Elven forefathers. Your sister taught me your table manners, your courtesies, and your father trained me in the Númenórean style of combat. All those merits I have achieved, and yet you will not judge me by them. For you, I will always be a barbarian, unworthy of you.”

“What?” Isildur’s eyes widened, and for a moment he was too shocked to speak. “What makes you think… I do not …” He threw his hands in the air, shaking his head in disbelief. There he had been, thinking that Tal Elmar would no longer dream of seeing him in such a way after he had lived among the Númenóreans, and there the young fool was, proving that he had understood absolutely nothing. He would always be a barbarian indeed, no matter how many scrolls he memorized- and the worst was that, deep down, the vile part of Isildur was relieved at his failure. “We already discussed this in Pelargir! If you have truly learned everything about my people, you know that we find this custom abhorrent, and your worth or lack of it has nothing to do with the issue.”

“That is not true! I did not find anything in your sacred texts about it. And I wanted to be very sure, so I asked the Lady Ilmarë, and she said…”

“You did what?” Isildur’s mind reeled. Now, everything made sense – her attitude earlier in the day had not merely been Isildur’s imagination or the wine making him see things that were not there. He did not know whether to feel angry or terrified at this knowledge. How much did his sister know?

“She said that she had found nothing, either”, Tal Elmar continued, as if he was not even aware of the effect of his words on his interlocutor. “There is an account of the customs of the Elves of the Blessed Realm, which your family revers as if it was law, but we read it together, and it only lays the rules for marriage.”

“That is because marriage is all there is.”

“Is it? Is it all there is?” Suddenly, Tal Elmar’s eyes were on his body again, gazing directly at his arousal, pointing at it with a boldness that Isildur had never seen anywhere, much less in his marriage bed. His breath caught in his throat. “Then what is this?”

Something evil, Isildur wanted to say, but the words did not make it through his lips.

“A… barbarian custom”, he said instead, though even while he was speaking, he was fully aware that his own body was undermining his case. And of course, Tal Elmar had noticed.

“I have learned all your genealogies, Isildur. You are descended from the High Elves and the rulers of the Edain in an unbroken line, and there is not a drop of barbarian blood in you.” And like the disease which had killed thousands in Sor, this particular disease was pressing against his leg now, shattering the pride of the Númenóreans by proving that they were no better than the Peoples of Darkness; that their flesh and blood was no different from theirs. Their foolish attempt to imitate the immortal Elves had never looked as vain, as deluded and ridiculous as it did now.

“Tal Elmar, listen to me”, he tried for the last time, in a last, desperate attempt to find rationality where there was none. “If you are doing this because you think it is a necessary requirement to remain under my protection… if you are under the mistaken impression that I will turn you away if you do not submit to…”

“No!” The young man shook his head furiously, and before Isildur could gather his wits back, he began tearing his own clothes away. “As I said in Pelargir, I consider it a great honour.”

His naked limbs glistened under the moonlight, and his eyes were veiled by a cloud of desire which Isildur could no longer mistake for anything else. Surrendering to the irrationality at last, he took off the scarce clothing he had managed to put on in his previous transports of modesty and knelt on the sand, pulling Tal Elmar down with him. There, he began kissing him as he had kissed Irissë on their marriage bed, but the young man’s moans ignited a fire through his body of which she had seen nothing but the weakest embers. Strangely enough, at this highest juncture of his shame, he no longer felt guilty of anything he was doing. It was as if his body and soul were too full to take this emotion, and even the thought of his wife seemed oddly detached, as if she did not belong to the same world as Tal Elmar and him.

As they kissed under the starry firmament of Rómenna, a familiar shape hovered briefly over them, gazing at them in quiet satisfaction before it vanished into thin air.