II
Tormented by temptation and that towering rage
which drove desire to dominate
all Men and Elves and even immortal Valar,
the king kept not his own counsel,
as one more prudent may perhaps have done.
Few the Men who full with drink can fetter tongues,
and Pharazôn was wont to wine and boasting
‘fore his own, so fierce the force of his desire
for admiration and acclaim. So Amandil,
lord of Andúnië, long loyal and beloved
(could Pharazôn yet find that feeling in his breast)
heard rumor of approaching ruin, and was wroth.
For seasons long ere Sauron sat behind the throne
the king had kept Amandil’s words as close as any other’s,
and all the long years of their lives this lord had
urged Ar-Pharazôn upon another path.
Elf-Friends were the Andúnië, that ever-dwindling
folk. The Faithful, who fought to
yet uphold the vows for which the Valar had
bestowed so great a gift. Andor—how glad
had been the hearts of Men to hear that name
in times before the blessing became bane to those
who refused to receive, but would only rule.
Striving always, soft in word and subtle hint,
Amandil pursued a path of patient stealth,
hoping that his king in time would hear
and understand—until Sauron undertook the counsel
of the king. So quickly Pharazôn came under thrall,
Amandil now saw his nuanced tones availed him naught.
Should he have spoken in a stronger voice,
or debated directly ‘gainst the dozens who
supported Pharazôn with sword and shield and
held but little love for Elvenkind and Valar strong?
Perhaps. He asked himself and heard no
sound reply. But small now seemed the purpose of such
query, with word of Nimloth’s danger in the wind.
Foretelling time was short before the tree’s demise,
Amandil opened up his mind to Elendil, his son.