Chapter Six: Home

"More wine, Pharazôn, dear?"

"No thank you, mother."

Beneath the shade of a large mallorn tree, I sat with my parents enjoying the afternoon breeze. It had been a week since I had returned to the family estate. Our lands lay to the west of Armenelos, close to the foot of rugged Mount Meneltarma. I had always liked it here. It was far enough from the noise and stench of the city that one could find peace, yet it was not too far away should one have to make a journey to the capital. On a clear day, and this was one of those, one could see the royal palace from our upstairs windows.

"So Inziladûn is accusing me of treason," said my father, gritting his teeth. It was not a question.

"Well, someone has been spreading rumours about the Princess' birth," I said. "The King thinks that it is you."

"Why would he think that?"

Because, I thought, you are probably the one who has been doing it? Were Zimraphel disqualified from succession, Gimilkhâd would become the King's Heir, at least until the complication of the Queen's current pregnancy was added in.

"I would not worry too much, Gimilkhâd" said my mother, slicing some more cake. "Your brother was ever prone to fits of anger and the making of toothless threats. Lie low for a bit, and it will be forgotten. Go hunting in the Forostar with your friend Lord Zimilgâr. Take your mind off things in Armenelos for once." My mother was always the wiser of my parents.

"Bah," said my father. "Why should I, the son of a King, have to hide?"

"Because, my dear," said my mother, "you have a large mouth and a small brain, and a talent for making enemies. I love you, Gimilkhâd, but really, one would have thought that after all these years you would have learned."

It was very hard to repress a smile at that. My father blustered, and grumbled, but finally calmed down after another slice of cake. Not before he got crumbs in his beard, however. He was very proud of that beard, my father. In his eyes, only women, boys, and Elves went beardless, and he was profoundly disappointed that I did not emulate him. Of course, I took the view that it is better to go without infernal itchiness than to make some silly point about Elves, but then I had always been a pragmatic man.

"I will be damned though if I will be forced into making a gift to Inziladûn's new child," said my father after a while. "It is just his excuse to humiliate me yet again. As though I am not plagued with enough troubles as it is. I have a wife who lectures me in politics, a brother who wants me dead, and a son whose brain is in his breeches."

"Father!"

"Have you any idea how much time I used to spend apologising to various lords for what you had done to their daughters? I tell you, Pharazôn, it is about time you were married."

"I have just returned to Númenor after fifteen years, bringing riches beyond anyone's wildest imaginings," I said. "I have other things to think about." Such as forcing Inziladûn to accept that war with Mordor was inevitable.

"All the better," interjected my mother. "Your newfound wealth makes you a sound marriage prospect. Perhaps you might attempt to woo Princess Zimraphel?"

That was a surprise. "Mother, under the laws of Númenor, a man cannot marry his uncle's daughter," I said. It was frustrating that even my mother would countenance such a prospect. With sufficient discretion, I could have Zimraphel's bed, but never her hand. "Moreover, the Princess is already betrothed, and the King would never consent to such a marriage."

"The betrothal is a farce, and Ar-Inziladûn will not live forever," said my mother bluntly. I shivered. She had that same tone that Zimraphel had used that night in Rómenna. What was it with Númenórean women?

"But the laws…" I protested.

"My brother has shown what the laws of Númenor are worth," grumbled my father. "Besides, the tradition dates back to the time when we slavishly followed the Elves on all matters. It is time for Númenor to adopt new customs!"

"Let me put it this way," my mother said. "Zimraphel may be a member of the Faithful, but she cannot have any great love for her father, if indeed he plans on repealing the laws of Tar-Aldarion. Nor will she have any great love for a throne-stealing brother. Winning her over through marriage will strengthen you no end, and the King is now past his one hundred and eightieth year. He is old, so any new heir will be very young when he succeeds…"

Such talk would have us all executed if it came to the ears of my uncle. I remembered Amandil's warning about the King hearing all. Inziladûn had taken the name Tar-Palantír the Farsighted. Could he see and hear us now? I doubted it: we were not in Armenelos, but were instead safe on our own estates, behind strong walls, and our slaves were utterly loyal. Yet, I could not help but feel that caution might be the best policy.

"I shall think on what you have said," I said.

My mother brightened visibly. "Thank you, dear," she said. "Remember that we are just trying to do the best for you, even if your father gets a bit enthusiastic at times."

"Nonsense, woman," spat my father. "But yes, I think I will take your advice, and go hunting with Zimilgâr until matters cool down. Speaking of cooling down, that breeze is picking up. I am going inside." He brushed the crumbs from his beard, and left us. My mother and I watched him go. Even without needing a cane, Gimilkhâd walked with a gait similar to that of the brother he hated so much.

"Would you care for the last slice of cake, Pharazôn?" said my mother. "You look so thin these days."

I took the cake. It was very rich. "Years spent on rations will do that to a man," I said, with my mouth full. "Between you and Lord Raphizôn, I suspect I am well on the route back to health."

She beamed. "Your father means well, you do know that, don't you?" she said.

I nodded. "It is just that with a father like him, one hardly needs enemies."

"Yes, your father never was the brightest of men. But you have to understand, Pharazôn, that he has spent his entire life in another man's shadow. It would be hard enough had his elder brother been a normal man. But Ar-Inziladûn has spent his life tormenting your father, as though it will somehow avenge the slights committed against his precious Faithful. Gimilkhâd has been hurt so badly for so long that he has become consumed by bitterness."

I had rarely heard my mother speak like this. "I thought he was always my grandfather's favourite," I said, finishing off the cake.

My mother sighed. "Your father craved love as a child, as he indeed still does. He thought by embracing his own father's hatred of the Faithful, that it would gain him Ar-Gimilzôr's approval. It made your grandfather smile, yes, but a King has many other things to worry about, and as for your grandmother Queen Inzilabêth, well, she made your uncle the man he is today. Gimilkhâd never got the love he so desired."

"And now?"

"After Inziladûn ascended the throne, Gimilkhâd clung to his beliefs because he felt it was all he had. If truth be told, I do not even believe he is that hostile to the Elves at all. He simply hates whatever Inziladûn loves, and loves whatever Inziladûn hates, and will do so until the day he dies."

I was not quite sure what to say to that. For many years I had always seen my father as something of an embarrassment: a petulant, angry man who felt that he had been robbed of the throne by accident of birth. Now, after so long, I felt that I was seeing another side of him.

"Thank you, mother," I said.

She smiled. "Do not mention it, Pharazôn. I will say though that I have always been relieved that you have taken after my side of the family. A man should have brains, after all, and brains have been sorely lacking in the royal house for far too many centuries." Suddenly looking up at the sky, she added "we had best be going inside. It is clouding over, and it looks like rain is coming."

I turned my head. Sure enough, angry storm clouds were approaching from the east. Shouting some instructions to the slaves, we went indoors.