Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

---

The More Things Change

---

“There, this is the throne. This is where the people in attendance will be, and she will be at the other side.” Zakarbal of Sorontil´s head turned right and left, barely able to keep up with the King´s swift directions across the painted hall in the West Wing women´s quarters. Finally, Ar-Inziladûn´s hand motioned at the twin ivory chairs near the balcony, where the Queen was nodding with a little too much cheer, and the Princess ignored them all.

“She will walk past them, all of them, and kneel before the throne. She will bow thrice. Everyone will fall silent to hear the words in the ancient tongue: This is the sword of Doriath, the sword of Númenor, the sword of Elros.”

“What is Do -forgive me, my lord, go on.” Seeing the all-too-familiar look of impatience in the King´s eyes, Zakarbal surrendered to the pull of his enthusiasm. “The sword of Elros, you said.”

“This is the sword of Kings, the sword of Men, the sword of my line.” Ar-Inziladûn continued, without paying heed to the interruption. “You will wield it as my heir and protect Númenor and its colonies, until the time comes for you to sit on this throne and wield the Sceptre in your... Did I say something funny, Lord Zakarbal?”

“Excuse me.” The Northern lord tried, once again, to school his look into one of rapt attention, but it would not work. Feigning was for courtiers, after all. So he gave up his attempt and shook his head, a tiny gesture of incredulity which made him feel more like himself. “But...wield it? Protect Númenor?”

“This ceremony is over two thousand years old. Are you implying that you disapprove of it?” The King´s frown became as stormy as that of his wife, who was glaring at them from the other side of the room. Zakarbal felt as if he was being assailed by a vastly superior force.

“I do not disapprove. She is my niece, and I wish to see her sit on the throne as much as you do.”

“Maybe you do not disapprove of it.” Inziladûn stared long and hard at him, but there was not much of a need for his fabled perception powers to come upon his next conclusion. “However, you do not believe in it.”

“I am merely trying to see this from the viewpoint of those who will be in attendance!” the Northern lord claimed, defensively. “There have been Ruling Queens in the past, I know. There have been sword-bequeathing ceremonies in the past, I know that, too. But who remembers them now? All which people are going to see is the Princess receiving a sword and being told to protect Númenor with it! A Princess who has not been seen more than once in public because she is too frail, and who might be anxious, unable to learn the words, even collapse...”

“That is enough, brother!” Zarhil´s glare had turned to righteous fury, and she laid a protective arm upon her daughter´s shoulder. “Míriel is of the blood of Elros and the rightful heir to the Sceptre. She will do this and everything else that is required of her!”

She does not even believe it herself. Zakarbal knew his sister well enough to tell.

“It is not that I do not understand your concerns,” the King sighed. “But nobody ever said that our path would be easy, either before the late King´s passing or afterwards. In order to restore the ancient ways and change Númenor, we must have the wisdom to know when to compromise with the enemy, and when to forge ahead and expose ourselves to censure and opposition. This, I know it in my heart, is something in which we must persevere, in spite of all the difficulties we may encounter. The ruling line must be secured beyond all possibility of a doubt, and it has to happen soon.”

“Then, why not marry her first? You spoke of a long-lost heir of the Western line who would be a good choice for a King -I mean, Regent Consort.” The title sounded alien in his mouth.

Inziladûn shook his head.

“If Míriel was married, my brother and the Merchant Princes would have a much harder time accepting her appointment as heir. One of the Exiles chosen to rule over them -that would be tantamount to an act of war. It must be done gradually, as with all delicate things. Besides...” He looked regretful. “It turns out that Amandil of Andúnië is already married.”

“Really? Is she of noble birth?”

“She has a son.”

“Oh.” Zakarbal´s eyes widened, then he looked down, trying to hide his disappointment. “So- that is that.”

“Not so fast. There are other ways still open to us. For example, that son.” For the first time since his indulgences in old lore had been interrupted, the King´s lips curved into a smile. “He was a child of his youth, so he is barely twenty years younger than Amandil himself, I believe. And he is unmarried.”

The lord of Sorontil pondered this.

“Then that would make him some twenty years younger than the Princess of the West herself, as well. The age difference between you and the Queen is greater than that, my lord King. And you are of course an exemplary pair.”

Zarhil stared at them, very displeased at this turn of the conversation.

“There is no need to discuss such hypothetical matters in front of the Princess!”, she barked. She held her arm towards her daughter again, searching for her shoulder as if for protection, but it fell back in place as the Princess stood up from her chair. At once, the Queen was upon her daughter, but Míriel walked past her as if she was but an obstacle in her path. She looked so adamant, so regal as she made her way towards the two men, that Zakarbal stared as if it was the first time he saw her.

And then, she knelt.

“This is the sword of Doriath, the sword of Númenor, the sword of Elros” she recited, flawlessly, in the ancient tongue. A tongue she had never spoken before, not even once, her uncle realized. “This is the sword of Kings, the sword of Men, the sword of our line. I will wield it as your heir and protect Númenor and its colonies, until the time comes for me to sit on this throne and wield the Sceptre in my hand.”

Her hand moved forwards, and her fingers clenched boldly into thin air, as if grabbing an invisible blade.

“Míriel...” the King mumbled, too shocked to find his voice. Her eyes were hard, a pair of black diamonds atop a frozen mountain peak. As he gazed into them, suddenly Zakarbal, fifteenth lord of Sorontil and the Forrostar, felt as insignificant as a worm.

“It is an easy task to be a puppet. Even the simplest, most wretched person can repeat words. And I am not simple. “The black diamonds narrowed. “Never forget that.”

Before any of them could attempt a reply, the Princess turned away, and abandoned the room.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“I will never be able to learn it.”

Amandil stopped dead in his tracks. A book was lying at his feet, its venerable pages stained with the dust of the courtyard. In a corner of his mind, an angry Yehimelkor was pointing at it and shouting about blasphemy and defilement.

Slowly, he knelt and picked it up, cleaning the dust with as much thoroughness as he managed while he processed the situation.

“Halideyid”, he said. “What...?”

His son shook his head in pure, unadulterated despair. The irony of the situation was so great that, at any other time, Amandil would have been tempted to laugh.

Halideyid, the boy who never complained. Who made a living for himself without his father. Who walked away from the Guards and turned them into his enemies without a second thought. Who withstood a dozen subtle insults a day ever since he arrived to the household of the Lords of Andúnië, never giving as much as a clue that he had either heard or understood them. That Halideyid -defeated by a book.

“I am sure you will be able to do it. You only need time”, he began, but Halideyid shook his head again.

“No! I cannot do it. I am sorry, Father. I cannot.” All platitudes, all petty temptations to be flippant, deserted Amandil´s thoughts in unison, like a flock of seagulls taking flight after a thunderbolt. Halideyid seemed at the verge of crying.

“I have tried very hard. I have put all my efforts into it. “True, Amandil´s mind supplied. He had lost count of the nights he had seen candlelight filtering from his son´s rooms, even after everyone had gone to bed. “It still eludes me as much as the first day, Father. I am not slow of mind, and I have always been able to learn things if I put my mind to them, but this is different!”

“Of course you are not slow of mind. But each of us has strengths and weaknesses, and perhaps you are simply not good at languages. On the other hand, you are a better swordsman than I am, and you understand the hearts of people better than I do”, he supplied, encouragingly. “Those are very important traits for a good ruler.”

“Not here, Father.”

Again, true, Amandil thought with a chill.

To be honest, things had become a little easier for both of them since Lord Valandil was finally persuaded by the King to retire. Back then, during those months in the previous summer, Andúnië had been filled with more strife and bitterness than the hall of the Forest People´s leader in the Middle Havens, Amandil recalled. And not even Ar-Inziladûn himself -or Tar-Palantir, as he wished to be called in the Ancient Tongue- had felt strong enough to stir the hornet nest of Amandil´s accession. Instead of that, the King had summoned some ancient example about a king named Vardamir Nólimon, who was the heir of Elros and was forced to take the Sceptre, even though he had not wanted to rule. Succession was an important matter and no steps should be skipped, even if it seemed like a good idea at the time. Of course, the unvoiced part of the history lesson was that Vardamir had only held the Sceptre for a year before passing it to his son. Amandil had been giving a lot of attention to ruling matters since then.

In spite of this, however, and in spite of the fact that he was formally recognized as the heir now, Andúnië was still not a friendly place for either him or his son. The Retired Lord still held a great influence in the household, and Númendil strived to gain his approval in most matters. Even worse, the Lady Artanis had indeed become the Lady of Andúnië, and her displeasure at Amalket´s contempt for husband and family -for that was how she interpreted her continued absence- had kept growing at each passing day. As Amandil thought bitterly, the only reason which could make his aunt forsake her precious Quenya in favour of the filthy tongue of their subjects was the wish to make sure that Halideyid knew exactly what she thought of his mother.

Another beautiful soul lost to bitterness, Númendil used to say to Amandil, whenever she left the room. He never looked as sad as he did when he said this, and he always refused, in his own quiet way, to discuss her. One day, and one day only, he had gone as far as to reveal that imprisonment was not the only thing which had affected her, but he did not elaborate on it.

Amalket, meanwhile, had still not left Armenelos. Apparently, she did not have anything to say to him, though he was relieved to know that she wrote to Halideyid, at least. His son never spoke of it, but Amandil knew that, more than anything else in his life, he missed his mother´s presence. He knew because he had been in that situation, too, bereaved of parents and kin and surrounded by people who spoke strangely and bore him ill will. He felt guilty for being responsible, even a little, for Halideyid´s present plight.

All these obstacles, he thought, the irony of it back to the forefront of his mind. And still, in the end, it always comes back to the same thing.

Quenya was much more than a language, here in Andúnië. It was the ultimate symbol of everything these people lived by and believed in. Because he had mastered the language as a child, and was therefore able to remember it in a comparatively short span of time, Amandil had been legitimized in the eyes of many and forgiven, if only barely, for his turbulent past. Lord Valandil, though it was not quite his decision to make, had finally deigned to recognize him as the heir of his heir, and the King had extended him his trust and expressed his intention to recruit him for whatever political purposes he would be needed for in the future. Even his aunt was pleasant enough around him, whenever they were not talking about his wife, and instructed him about lore, scrolls, and the teachings of the Elves and the Valar.

Halideyid, however, was another matter. He was not merely the son of the wrong woman -who was not doing anything in her power to dispel that impression, though Amandil knew that he had no right to be bitter-, but he could not speak the ancient language at all. When he arrived to Andúnië, the only word he knew of it was his father´s name. Even if Amandil had not had the heart to tell him directly, it had not taken his son long to analyze the reactions to this, and he had begun studying as hard as he could. But whatever he did, it was not enough, and neither of them held any illusions about how this circumstance would be interpreted by the hard-line Faithful.

Spawn. No blood of ours.

You shall not speak this foul tongue in my house!

It was not fair, Amandil rebelled. Adûnaic was the language of Men, the language of their own subjects. They had not needed to know Quenya to bravely withstand centuries of persecution without straying from their convictions. And neither did Halideyid, to be a good man.

Halideyid. Even his name was a foul word.

“I do not know what to do. If it were possible for you to have another heir, Father, I would encourage you, but given the circumstances it would seem pointless and hypocritical. “Leave it to his son to be honest on all matters, he thought with a rueful chuckle. “And yet, there must be another solution.”

“Yes, there is.” Apart from telling them all to go to Mordor on a boat, he mumbled to himself. “We will go through everything again, together. You will address all your questions to me. You will repeat everything I say, and then you will repeat it again to me the next day as well. Every day, we will read aloud, and then we will converse.”

Halideyid´s eyes widened.

“But, Father... you are the heir of Andúnië, and a very busy man!”

“This is more important. You said it yourself, without knowing the language you cannot be my heir, much less rule.” And I have been too busy to pay attention to you for many years now. Finding a cause which allowed him to repay his son even a little for that was enough to give him a warm kind of determination, different from the grim determinations to survive and kill and lie that he had acquired in his life. “And leaning a language is always possible. Do you know I spent years trying and failing to understand the barbarians in Harad? Then - things happened, and I realized that, because I did not know the language, more people tended to end up dead. I grew so determined that I hired a barbarian to talk to me every day. I forbade him to address me in any other language. And I learned, eventually. And if you think this is difficult” he pointed at the book which now lay between them, after having been rescued and dusted , “you should try learning a language with no grammar books and no writing.”

Halideyid appeared to be considering this.

“Then -do I have to forbid you to address me in Adûnaic?” For the first time since the conversation began, there was a glint of humour in his eyes.

“Oh, and there is also another thing.” Amandil smiled briefly, then his expression sobered. “As soon as you have mastered the language, we will be changing your name.”

He had expected more surprise than a mere raised eyebrow, and a nod.

“I see.”

“You are a leader of the Faithful now, whether you want it or not. Valandil, Númendil, Amandil... can you see the pattern?” In spite of the acceptance, Amandil still felt the need to let go of a small, nervous laugh to defuse the tension. Halideyid would have been good enough, for his mother, for him. “-Dil means friend, by the way.”

“So, what is Aman?”

Ah, well. It seemed that his son truly did not mind. Probably he had even been expecting it -he was quite perceptive.

“Aman is a name given to the land of the Valar.”

“Then you have a pious name, Father.” All of a sudden, Halideyid seemed to come up with an idea. “If I am able to master the vocabulary, may I choose my own name?”

He should have said no, but somehow the expected negative could not make it past his lips. Halideyid had been his son´s name for so long, and now he was being told to toss it aside like it was something unworthy. Besides, he was an adult, reasonable man, more than capable of considering all the intrincacies and unwritten rules of tradition, and of not stepping on toes.

“As long as there is a “-dil” in it, why not?” he shrugged.

Halideyid opened his mouth, probably to protest that he would take his task more seriously than that. Right then, however, the conversation was interrupted by a hoarse voice.

“Lord Amandil.”

As they turned towards its source, they saw the courier step in.

“Two letters for you, my lord, from Armenelos”, the man announced, presenting the sealed scrolls to Amandil. Just like every other time he heard those particular words, his heart started beating swiftly. It did not matter that it always turned out to be something else, the hopes were as strong as the first day.

He opened the top scroll, not even able to mumble a dismissal to the courier as he departed.

“Amalket in Armenelos greets the lord Amandil in Andúnië...” he read aloud, before the words died in his mouth with a gasp. It was her. It was her, and the letter was addressed to him. “I wish to inquire as to the availability of the escort which you promised to send to Armenelos, once that my obligations towards my family allowed me to leave the capital. She...she is coming, Halideyid! She is coming at last!”

“Father.”

“Do you wish to go with the escort? I told her that you probably would.” He could not contain his excitement. For a moment, he did not even care for the coldness of her formal language, for the problems that would arise with his family in the months to come. She was coming to him. They were going to live together, for the first time since that hurried wedding all these years ago. Elation filled his chest.

“Father.”

“What is it?” Why did Halideyid not sound pleased? Was this not what he had wished, too?

“The other letter. The seal...”

Amandil could not care less for the other letter at that moment, but he spared a brief look to see what was the matter. He froze.

His heart missed a beat.

“The King.” He bit back a curse, tearing the seal off in a way that did not become a royal missive. The message was even shorter than the one from his wife, but it had been written in the colourful ink of official letters, and every word rendered in both the alphabetic script used in Númenor and the elegant, spidery scrawl of the Elves.

“Tar-Palantir, Favourite of the Powers, Protector and guardian of Númenor and its colonies, in Armenelos, greets the lord Amandil in Andúnië.” The new royal address sounded more natural in Quenya, somehow. “You are required to travel to Armenelos at the shortest possible notice and present yourself at the Palace. The Andúnië mansion has been prepared to accommodate you at the expense of the Sceptre.”

For a very long time, Amandil could do nothing to stare, at the paper, at the signature, at Halideyid as he gently pried it away from his fingers. His son looked dismayed, taking all the implications, but determined at the same time.

“It will be only for a while. We will manage.”

A while. Amandil started laughing. Suddenly, it seemed very funny. A while, yes. Forty-two years, and then a while. Who cares? It is merely a while.

“Go and ready an escort for the trip. You can use it afterwards to take your mother back from Armenelos. It was so considerate of the King to take that into account!” This thought was also funny, and soon he was laughing so hard that his chest could have exploded from the strain. “Up the road, down the road. Do you think we will be able to have dinner together? How short do you think the shortest possible notice is?”

“Father, you should rest.” Halideyid sounded alarmed now. He laid a hand on his shoulder, obviously intending to manoeuvre him back to his quarters, where nobody else could see him act so disgracefully.

Amandil refused the help.

“I am fine. Do not worry, Halideyid. “He smiled brightly. “It will only be a while.”

The last thing he could see, as he left the courtyard among guffaws, was Halideyid staring at his retreating form in dismay.