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.