The sky was a bright, clear blue, despite the dark clouds that had hung over the sea that morning like brooding birds. The sight of them had filled Amandil with an irrational fear, even though they had prepared for this, and could move the entire party indoors at a moment's notice if the weather should turn foul. It had rained all through his own wedding day, and his grandmother had insisted it was a bad omen. He and Aranwen had smiled at each other, sharing secret amusement at the old woman's superstitions, far too happy to mind the rain. His grandmother had died less than a year after the wedding, and Aranwen had joined her a few years later, when their son was just a child. He couldn't help feeling profoundly relieved when Elendil's wedding had taken place in the full light of Anar.
The ceremony had been well-attended, the great hall of the Lord's House in Andúnië filled to the brim with local nobility and important people from all over the island. Then the party had moved to the extensive gardens, where it would no doubt continue for the rest of the day and into the evening, getting steadily rowdier as the night wore on. Amandil mingled with the older guests, leaving Elendil and Illisailë and their group of young friends to themselves.
Only one guest of Elendil's age stood apart from the others. At a gathering full of tall, dark, and proud people, he was the darkest and proudest (though not the tallest; he and Amandil were at eye-level, and Elendil stood several inches taller than them both). He observed the newlyweds and their friends with an indulgent sort of smile on his face, as though watching children at play. This surprised Amandil not at all.
Pharazôn turned and smiled when he saw his old friend and mentor approaching. Amandil had a commanding presence, and though he was not very old his long hair had all turned grey. He had a determined look on his face, the one that Pharazôn knew meant he intended to bestow some sage advice upon his unwary listener. He braced himself, determined to avoid an argument.
"You look well," the older man said. "I am surprised to see you here. I thought you would be in Rómenna, preparing to depart. I understand Tar-Palantir has offered you a command in the East."
Pharazôn did not miss the note of disapproval in Amandil's voice. He smiled warmly and said, "The fleet does not depart for another two weeks, and I could not bear the thought of missing my dear friend's wedding."
Amandil raised his eyebrows. "Really. Then you do intend to strike out for Ennor to earn glory in the wars?"
"I do." Pharazôn had intended to make this conversation easier by playing up his respect and affection for the man, but he had forgotten that Amandil was perhaps the only noble in Númenor who was not susceptible to flattery. Even Tar-Palantir responded well to his polite, charming nephew, despite the falling out between the king and his brother.
"And did you come all this way just to tell me your decision?" Amandil asked. "You and Elendil have not been close friends since you were boys."
"True," Pharazôn conceded, "but I am primarily here as my cousin's escort. Míriel is still good friends with the bride." Amandil continued to scrutinize him. At last, Pharazôn said, "I did want to see you before departing. It may be many years before I return to Númenor. I admit I had hoped that you would wish me luck."
Amandil sighed. He looked out over the gardens to where Elendil, Illisailë, and their friends had called for music and begun dancing in an open green lawn. They were enjoying themselves as young people should, while the young man in front of him knew only ambition and guile. He was determined and intelligent, but Amandil never felt quite sure of the boy's motives. He wished, as he occasionally caught himself wishing, that Pharazôn had been his son. In Armenelos he had done his best to temper Gimilkhâd's influence over him, but the intrigues and manipulations of that family had worked their way into Pharazôn's blood.
"I have only ever wished the best of luck for you," Amandil said, taking on a formal tone that Pharazôn knew meant he was trying to distance himself from his emotions.
"I am glad," he replied, "truly. I value your good opinion a great deal, believe it or not." He hoped the slight teasing in his remark would lighten the mood, but Amandil's face only grew more somber.
"If you would have me believe it, then listen to me. Do not cross the sea to lose your soul fighting the barbarians. This land is starting to fall apart at the seams. Númenor could use a man with your strength and sense of purpose in the years to come."
The sincerity in his voice caught Pharazôn off guard. He looked straight into Amandil's eyes, directly on a level with his own. What did he see there? Anger? A plea? Pity? He shook his head.
"No, my lord. There is nothing for me here. I must gain my uncle's respect before I can influence anything in Númenor, and going to war is the best way."
"I can speak for you to Palantir! There is no need for this farce to continue," Amandil protested.
"It is not a farce. I am serious. I wish to prove myself, not rely on the favor of others," Pharazôn snapped.
He stopped to compose himself, feeling real anger rise and take hold of him. His face flushed with embarrassment. He hadn't planned to let himself lose control at all. Amandil watched him thoughtfully, still concerned.
"Very well," he said at last. "What is left for me to say besides 'good luck?'"
Pharazôn found himself lost for words for the first time that day. It was not at all like Amandil to back down from an opinion with so little effort. The response had distracted him so fully that he didn't notice the quiet footsteps approaching, and the soft tap on his shoulder made him jump. He turned and glared when he saw the laughter in his cousin's face. The petite, dark-haired young woman was one of the few people who could still make him feel like a foolish child.
At the sight of the newcomer, a genuine smile returned to Amandil's face. "Míriel," he said, bowing respectfully. "Welcome to my city. How long has it been since you last visited Andúnië?"
"Far too long," Míriel replied, laughing. "It must have been Elendil's coming of age. This place is even more beautiful that I remember. I would visit more often, but you know that my father has been placing more responsibility on me in recent years. In fact, I am to lead the next meeting of the Council."
Amandil nodded approvingly. As Tar-Palantir's only child, Míriel would one day be Ruling Queen of Númenor, only the fourth in the country's history. She, like Pharazôn, had spent her childhood alongside Elendil and Illisailë and the children of the other Council members. Amandil had never watched over her as he had Pharazôn, mostly because there had been no need. Míriel had been a friendly, sensible child who had grown into a capable, sharp-minded adult under Tar-Palantir's kind, if somewhat distant tutelage. Her kind face and delicate build belied her determination. Amandil did not doubt that she would be a good ruler when her time came.
"I really came over here to coax Pharazôn into joining us," she said, gesturing at the dancers behind her. The slight smile on her face seemed to dare him to refuse. "Elendil would love to talk to you, but he's having a little trouble getting away." Pharazôn and Amandil both looked, and saw that Illisailë and Elendil had been separated and were being crowded by various guests and well-wishers. Both endeavored to look polite, but they were clearly losing patience.
"I will not hold it against you if you go," Amandil said, chuckling at his son's plight. "Please, rescue Elendil from his other guests."
Pharazôn allowed Míriel to take his arm and lead him away, keeping his face carefully blank. He did not want to continue his conversation with Amandil, but was not at all satisfied with how it had ended. He would just have to fix things when he returned. These wars would be the making of him, he was sure. As Míriel steered him towards the rest of the party, he forced himself not to look back.