Brother mine

This is truly a wicked joke, my brother. The only thing you’re guilty of is that you have brown eyes. You’re so much like your father’s face, not a trace of your mother — northern bitch. But the eyes… Don’t look at me with those warm, bitter walnut eyes, you’re signing your own death warrant! I’d stand under these walls forever, I’d kill anyone who came between us-just to close your eyes with my hand.       

* * *

The army of Castamir—King Castamir—stood beneath the walls of Osgiliath for the fifth winter. In the capital, the crowned but unloved sovereign, Eldacar, son of Valacar and a vain woman, held the defences. The spark had flickered many years ago when the Crown Prince returned from the north with a wife of foreign blood and a child who did not even bear the name of Gondor. He was given a new name here, but it did not diminish the anger of the people. Valacar ruled mercifully and wisely, and the mistake was forgiven, especially since Vidumavi was a beauty. The king would have been forgiven bastards from her womb if his legitimate son had been of pure Dúnedain blood. But then no one would remember that Castamir had royal blood in his veins, too.       The son paid his parents' bills. Eldacar sat on the throne, but he did not rule. The southern provinces all the way to Ithilien rose up against him, and the sea and the ports in Umbar and on the Anduin were agitated. Castamir was well known and loved there, and he returned the favour, exemplifying the splendour of Númenor. His blood was pure, his spirit was strong, he took a wife from the noble family of the sea lords of Gondor, and the young princes, white-skinned, dark-haired, with eyes clear and cold, promised a great future for Gondor.       Eldacar and Castamir grew up together. The prince left his father’s house as a boy and was brought up far from the capital. He was a weak child, but he loved to learn, and he favoured adults with his generosity and unchildlike wisdom. Castamir, though four years younger, quickly overtook his cousin in height and strength. He was not fond of books, but of swords and sails. Eldacar followed him around, getting into pranks and adventures, often unwillingly, but taking the punishment equally. And then, lying on the hot planks of the decks of the boats bobbing on the waves, he recounted to his cousin the thousand books he had read.       The kin were remarkably dissimilar, but anyone who saw them together noticed a blood similarity: they quarrelled to the point of bloody fights and were friends against the world.       On one of those summer evenings, when the lowering peace of night penetrated the most heated hearts and cooled them from the heat, Eldacar was once again reciting something from the old books, dull but melodious as a song. Castamir lay beside him with his hands behind his head, looking up into the darkening sky with its scattering of the first stars. Life seemed simple and clear to the young man.       ‘When I become king, I’ll put you in charge of the entire repository of knowledge of Gondor,’ Castamir said, glancing at his cousin. ‘You’ll be able to read books as much as you want.’       ‘You will never be king,’ Eldacar said softly. ‘I will make you commander-in-chief of the armies of Gondor, and you’ll be able to swing your sword as much as you want.’       Castamir sat up and looked at Eldacar, scrutinizing his brown eyes. There was no hint of humour in his cousin’s face; he remained serious, and there was a slight reproach in his gaze. Castamir jumped up and shoved his brother, who groaned and fell back, dropping the book, which slipped over the edge of the pier and fell into the water with a quiet splash. Castamir put his foot on his chest before his brother could even protest.       ‘You’ll never be a king,’ he hissed, towering over the prince, watching him inhale with an effort to overcome the weight of his boot. ‘Stand up and kiss my knee and my hand, and I’ll forgive you for your insolent words.’       ‘What price shall I put on my forgiveness? ’ Eldacar asked, making no attempt to break free. ‘Your words are a treason.’       ‘Your birth is a treason! ’ Castamir shouted and kicked his cousin in the face. The sole of his boot left a bloody abrasion on his cheekbone.       One of the guards assigned to watch the boys saw the fight brewing and called out to Castamir. Without turning around at the shout or the sound of hurried footsteps, he stepped to the edge of the wooden planking and jumped into the sea. The silent water embraced him, enveloped him in its coolness, and threw a book into his hands, which opened its pages like a bird’s wings. Castamir picked it up and surfaced, seeing the people huddled around the prince on the dock. The wet book hit Eldacar in the back of the head, and he turned around, gesturing to stop a soldier who was about to throw himself into the water after his insolent assailant. Castamir grinned evilly and swam to the other side of the bay.       He was a perfect swimmer, someone said that the young lord had sea salt in his veins instead of blood, that he was a brother to the sea and could not drown. But night was approaching and the opposite shore was lost in the haze, it seemed closer than it was, then distant and inaccessible. Castamir was completely exhausted. The sun had already set, and the shores were a thin strip of scattered lights on either side of the bay. Lying on the water, trying to straighten his cramped leg, Castamir realized he would never reach the eastern shore, and the western shore was already twice as far away. The waking night wind would soon raise a wave and carry him out to the open sea. He’d have enough strength to stay on the water for a couple more hours, but it wouldn’t be a quick death.       Scolding himself for his recklessness, Castamir did not immediately hear the shout. He woke up only when he saw the spot of light from the lantern on the long bow of the fishing boat above him. And in the boat sat Eldacar. He smiled happily and held out his hand to his cousin. Almost without thinking what he was doing, Castamir grasped his palm, pulled himself up, and sacked himself over the side. All his muscles, deprived of the water’s soft blanket, ached and cramped, and Castamir was almost crying. Eldacar embraced him and wrapped him in his cloak.       Slowly his consciousness calmed, his fear and weakness receded. Castamir looked at his brother with clear eyes and saw relief and joy in his face, but not anger. A bruise blossomed on the prince’s cheek around an abrasion that had already cured.       ‘I would swim to the other shore,’ Castamir said muffled, averting his gaze.       ‘Yes, of course,’ Eldacar said with a smile. ‘But I thought it would be safer this way.’       ‘How did you find me? ’       ‘I knew you would swim to the other shore, but at dusk you could have deviated from the shortest route. And so you did. I wish I’d let the guards catch you and flog you because at least you’d still be alive.’       ‘And you took the boat…’       ‘First, I stole the horse. Then I stole the boat,’ the prince grinned. ‘I’m turning into a bandit thanks to your.’       ‘And a murderer,’ Castamir grumbled, looking at the bottom of the boat. ‘There’s a leak! ’       ‘I didn’t have to choose,’ Eldacar shrugged.       Castamir looked up at him. Then he reached out and touched with the pads of his fingers the mark left by his own boot.       ‘What price will you put on your forgiveness? ’ he asked quietly.       ‘Get us ashore before this boat will sink,’ Eldacar smiled.       And the two boys plunged into the oars. Castamir’s strength quickly returned, and he took both oars for himself and told his brother to scoop water out of the boat. They reached the shore with their backs wet with sweat and ankle-deep water, but with dry heads. There the guards were waiting for them. Eldacar did not ask for his brother, and he was flogged at the tripod the next morning — Castamir suspected that he had been flogged not only for the abrasion on his heir’s pale face, but also because the prince had gone out to sea at night in a leaky boat.       ‘Are you in a lot of pain? ’ Eldacar asked, sitting down on the bench beside his cousin. He was lying belly down with his head hanging down, writhing in the searing pain in his shoulders and back, worsened by the sun’s heat and sweat.       ‘It doesn’t hurt any more than it hurts you,’ Castamir muttered. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Eldacar touching the bruise on his face again.       ‘Then you are in great pain,’ replied the prince. ‘Because I have suffered a terrible agony. My brother hit me.’       ‘Do you want to hear me apologize? ’ Castamir turned around and sat up after all, picked up his shirt and dressed, hiding the marks of the slashes.       ‘I want to hear that you’re sorry,’ Eldacar replied softly.       ‘I’m sorry,’ Castamir shrugged, as if he didn’t know what to be sorry about. ‘I’m sorry you’re my cousin. If we didn’t have the same great-grandfather, things would be easier.’       ‘You’re incorrigible,’ the prince shook his head. ‘But you’re right. This would have been a lot easier if our blood hadn’t brought us together.’       

* * *

What was your problem with our kinship, cousin? Far enough, our grandfathers were brothers, but not us. And yet you did not lock me up, and you welcomed me into your home. I held your son in my arms, looking out at the world through the steel eyes of Númenor, and saw your hazel eyes glow with happiness. Did you lament that you had nothing to give me for my victories for the glory of Gondor on sea and land? I have won glory for my banners with my sword, but I have received but little of the sovereign’s affection, as a faithful dog guards his home. But this is my home. I came for what is rightfully mine.       

* * *

Valacar was dead. The fire broke out before the old king was laid to rest beneath the heavy slab, as Castamir entered the city as heir, wearing a cloak of white flowers. And the people welcomed him into the streets as a prince, even here in Osgiliath he had many supporters. The grieving Eldacar greeted his brother without saying a word about the spectacle, and the crowd in the square near the tombs watched the sea lord cover the dead king with his cloak as a sign of respect. As if Castamir were his son.       ‘The coronation is set for next week,’ Eldacar said the evening after the funeral when his cousin stopped by for news.       ‘Whose? ’ Castamir asked with a chuckle.       ‘Mine, brother,’ Eldacar answered gravely, without a smile. ‘Mine. You are a valiant warrior and a noble man, but you will never be a king.’       ‘That’s not for you to decide.’       ‘How do you get the right to decide? ’       ‘I’m born of the blood of Númenor.’       ‘Me, too.’       ‘Oh, no. You were born of the blood of a black-eyed whore.’       A wave of the hand and Castamir’s head jerked to the side. Eldacar struck him with the back of his hand, as if he meant only to stop him from hurting, but the heavy ring left a deep groove in his skin, and blood poured down his cheek. Castamir looked up at the prince, dumbfounded.       ‘It’s been many years,’ Eldacar said. ‘I’ve learned to fight back. You still haven’t learned to watch your mouth.’       ‘Fight back,’ laughed Castamir. ‘Fight back! I’ll show you what it means to fight back! ’       He turned and sprinted toward the exit of the throne room. A young guard, the same steely-eyed boy who would become Crown Prince in a few days, blocked his path. He glared angrily at his uncle and pulled his sword from its sheath, but Castamir pushed him out of the way and left the castle and the city unhindered.       At the ceremony, the young Prince Ornendil took his place of honour near the throne, so as not to embarrass the audience. There were already too many empty seats in the line of royals, courtiers, and military leaders. A messenger brought news that Palargir had also had a coronation — Castamir was now king there. And an armada is moving down the Anduin toward Osgiliath.       

* * *

You came to me under the flag of a parliamentarian. Alone, leaving your retinue and your son a hundred paces away. We stood against each other on the banks of the Anduin, seagulls crying over our heads. You wore a tall crown of mithril on your forehead and a wreath of White Tree flowers on mine. There was no trace of your youthful sickliness; your height, stature, and strength reminded everyone of your father. Only your eyes, still staring at me with the same frightening warmth I couldn’t fathom, betrayed the foul blood. I’d give a lot to have you stare at me forever. But I’d give a lot more for your eyes to fade forever.       

* * *

‘Withdraw your troops and I’ll spare you not only your life,’ Eldacar tried to exhort his cousin. ‘Your claim is criminal and will cost Gondor dearly. If you love this country and people, withdraw your troops.’       ‘If you love this country and people,’ Castamir echoed him, ‘listen to what they say. They want another king of pure blood, for your branch is defeated and will wither away.’       ‘We’re the same age,’ Eldacar said. ‘Do I look a day older than you? I lost fights when I was a boy, but now who can say for sure who would win if we met in a fight? ’       ‘I’ll kill you,’ Castamir said almost fondly, as if there was room for another word in that terrible promise. ‘You and all your pups. Like trimming a rotting tree.’       ‘You are not a gardener,’ Eldacar shook his head. ‘You are the hog that undermines the roots. Our strife will destroy us both.’       ‘Save us, good brother,’ Castamir smiled and held out his hand with an open palm. But not for a friendly shake, but for a crown.       Eldacar bowed his head in sorrow. Then he touched his brother’s hand with his own, warming his iron-cold fingers for a moment. He turned his back on him fearlessly and strode down the crumbling bank toward his retinue and the horses.       That night, Castamir’s ships blocked the river on both sides of the fortress. The heavy gates that lined the river prevented anyone from entering the city, but no one could slip out. A wide chain of soldiers and guns surrounded the city along the banks, and every night clouds of arrows and clods of burning straw rained down on the walls.       This went on for weeks and months. Encouraged to siege rather than storm, the defenders of the fortress quickly realized that this was no mercy — there was famine in the fortress. The usurper’s army was richly supplied by the south and Ithilien, who had taken his side.       For five long years this siege continued. The defenders' strength was dwindling. In the fall, Castamir built dams along the river and stretched nets, the Anduin became shallow and fishless, leaving Osgiliath with no supplies for the winter. And the frost that struck in January froze the river in solid ice. Castamir called it a good omen, the will of the earth itself forging bridges for him. He led infantry, battering rams and catapults onto the ice, to the river gates that were meant to hold back ships, but not men, coming to the gates as if they were dry land. In just a few days the city was taken.       

* * *

And you fled, my brother! The few remaining loyalists broke through the walls as I scrambled across the ice. How I wish I could see your eyes and the fear in them. Or the calm acceptance of the inevitable? You knew this would happen. You reproached me with impudent speech and idle vanity; I will prove that I can keep my promise.       

* * *

‘We got him! ’ shouted one of Castamir’s commanders. His men dragged a man in bloody clothes into the throne room and threw him on the steps beneath the throne.       ‘This is not Eldacar,’ Castamir shook his head. ‘I want my brother, alive! ’       ‘He’ll be back for boy,’ the prisoner was kicked onto his back. Castamir recognized his nephew from the bloodstained face.       ‘Ornendil, my prince,’ he said mockingly. And rising from his throne, he came down to the prisoner and sat down beside him. ‘How cruelly you’ve been treated. All that blood. It’s my fault.’       ‘It’s your fault,’ replied Ornendil. ‘But the blood isn’t mine, but that of the traitors who call you sovereign.’       ‘Join me,’ replied Castamir. ‘And I’ll keep you alive. Your father won’t come back for you, we both know that. You’re a victim of his pride.’       ‘I’m Prince of Gondor and High Warden of the White Tower,’ Ornendil hissed, looking at Castamir with hatred. ‘You are the only victim of pride here.’       He sat up and spat in his uncle’s face. His mouth was full of blood, bright red drops drenched Castamir’s face. He recoiled slightly, smiled grimly and licked his lower lip, feeling a salty metallic taste. Then, without saying a word, he got up, forcibly turned the prince lying on his stomach and put his foot between his shoulder blades, pressed him against the steps.       Everyone froze, waiting or dreading what was to follow. Castamir drew his sword and touched the blade to the exposed neck, giving the condemned man one last chance to beg for mercy. Ornendil gritted his teeth and rested his forehead against the cold marble. Castamir decapitated the prince with one mighty blow of his sword.       Still pressing the cramped body against the stone with his boot, Castamir bent down and grabbed the severed head by the hair and lifted it in front of him. Turning it around to face him, he looked into the gray eyes, from which the last spark of hatred was fading.       ‘That is not the way to kiss a king, my boy,’ said Castamir, remembering the taste of blood and anger on his lips. He brought Ornendil’s head closer and kissed the dead man’s still warm lips. The prince’s blood flooded his armour and the silver tree on his breastplate became scarlet.       ‘All your pups,’ the new king repeated his old oath.       Osgiliath was drenched in blood. Castamir had avenged this city for every day and hour of waiting. Promising the defenders their lives if they laid down their arms, he ordered them all to be executed as soon as they laid down their arms. The dead were not allowed to be buried, and the bodies were to be thrown into the river so that Anduin himself could bring the news of victory southward. The starving people of the city were denied bread — they did not deserve it if they chose Eldacar and his pride. The soldiers of the usurper’s army were allowed to seek any reward they wanted, as if it were someone else’s house, horse, or wife. Castamir called the brutal massacre of the defeated an edifying example.       Soon enough, the rare speeches of joy in the capital fell silent. The throne of a pure-blooded Dúnedain had come at a monstrous price, a price that shocked even the usurper’s loyal supporters.       

* * *

Did you howl in pain, brother, when you learned that I had executed your beloved firstborn? I did. I look into those eyes a thousand times in my dreams, staring at me with dead coldness — but they’re gray. Not yours. I kiss a dead man and he poisons me — not you. Die, my brother, die! And take me to my grave with you.       

* * *

The combined armies of the North, Anorien and Ithilien were moving south. Old allies betrayed Castamir one by one, and the hard news was that Osgiliath had fallen to Eldacar’s hand almost without a fight. Palargir, the usurper king’s favourite fiefdom, hastily gathered troops and raised ships along the Anduin, but it was not enough.       His advisors urged Castamir to fortify himself in the river fortress, as Eldokar had once done in Osgiliath — the Northmen could not take Palargir without ships in a hundred years. But Castamir did not like to sit in a stone sack, waiting endlessly for the enemy to tire. He advanced with his army to meet his cousin at the fords of the Erui.       Castamir waited for Eldacar to propose negotiations. He would try again to bargain for a peaceful solution, to offer at least his life in exchange for surrender. The offer, of course, would have been rejected — but it never came. For two days the troops camped on different sides of the river without exchanging a line of letters. On the third night, just before dawn, the Northmen crossed the ford and engaged in battle.       The uncouth peasants and horse breeders, who were treated with contempt in Gondor, proved to be a fearless and warlike people. Their weapons and armour were inferior to Gondor’s, but not their skill in battle. And now they vastly outnumbered Castamir’s army. Ithilien’s archers and swordsmen became a terrible threat, recalling the usurper’s massacre of Osgiliath.       Castamir was no longer looking for triumph on the battlefield. He was looking for his brother in the thick of the bloody battle. Eldacar was not hiding in the painted tents, his banner flashed here and there. Avoiding combat with the king’s soldiers, Castamir drew closer and closer to Eldacar. He heard him tell his men to find and bring the usurper alive. As the servants left the shore, Castamir came out from behind the trees.       ‘I’m here, brother,’ he said, spreading his hands. In his right was a sword, sharpened and bloody, in his left a dagger. ‘Why do you want me alive? To make me dead? I knew you’d want it one day.’       Eldacar noted with silence. His eyes were empty and cold, darker than Castamir remembered. I wanted to dive into their dark depths like the sea, and swim, swim in the coming night to a shore that did not exist.       ‘Where is your second son? ’ Castamir asked with a chuckle. ‘I came for him, too, as I promised.’       ‘Aldamir is fighting on the flank,’ Eldacar replied. ‘He also wishes to meet you, but I will go first.’       ‘You’re always second,’ Castamir laughed.       He swung his sword and lunged to attack. Eldacar deflected the blow and picked up his shield from the ground, shielding himself from the dagger. The brothers knew each other well, even after all these years — ten had passed since the fall of Osgiliath, twenty since they had last competed almost as a joke. Now it was death that brought them together.       Castamir looked into his brother’s eyes, not at his sword. He looked and savoured the coldness he’d been waiting for. It was honesty at last — not fake kindness dictated by blood alone. He wanted Eldacar to grin and curse, to spit blood in his face, to beg for mercy. But he was calm and collected, parrying his blows with honed movements and returning them in a hail of blows, pushing the enemy back to the water.       Only once did the ice in his gaze crack, and once again Castamir saw not black water but sun-warmed earth. He was so close, so insanely close, you could see every speck in his iris. Eldacar’s lips twitched as if he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Castamir felt a terrible pain in his chest and lowered his gaze. His brother’s sword had entered between his ribs to the hilt.       Suddenly the ground was out from under his feet. Eldacar picked up his fallen foe and gently set him on the ground, allowing him to lean on his knee. He put the sword that had fallen from his hand back into Castamir’s hand and wiped away the sweat on his forehead. He did not let him speak, covered his mouth with the palm of his hand, then covered his eyes, which were watery from the bright sun. Darkness fell over Castamir like water over his head. And a moment before he fell into silence, he heard it:       ‘That’s how you should kiss a king.’ And he felt the touch of hot lips.