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"My lord king," the boy sinks to his knees, "there are horsemen approaching from the east."
"From Mordor?" Pharazôn asks, though he knows that they can come from no other place. He's been waiting for days, sitting in this strange land somewhere between the fertile west and the wasteland beyond the mountains. They had marched for twenty-one days from where they'd landed the ships at a makeshift harbor unused to seeing such an armada and gradually moved into the interior of the country. Some of the Men living there had approached them, offering food, drink, women and goods. Most had hidden away. Fourteen days ago, after they'd made camp in this peculiar place, Ar-Pharazôn had sent an emissary to the being styling himself Mairon, King of Men. Until now, he'd had no answer.
He sees his messenger approach, galloping as fast as he is able to press his horse. He is followed by a small company of riders. All are tall and clad in black. All are hooded and cloaked. Masked, in spite of the heat.
When they are within hailing distance, Ar-Pharazôn calls forth. "Does the King of Men seek a parley? Would Mairon speak?"
The black company halts. The riders, once they have stopped, do not move, and their horses are as still and silent. They do not nicker or whinny or toss their heads or stamp their feet as horses often do.
The rider at their head speaks, his voice cool and calm, though a little lighter than Pharazôn had expected, "Mairon the Great has heard your request for parley, and he accepts. My master believes that a long war between such great powers as we would result in one becoming the victor but at too high a cost. He believes we might find a more peaceful but still satisfactory solution."
"Do you speak for Sauron, Rider?" Pharazôn has heard that the Fay has no love for that name, and he wonders if his men will respond to the insult.
The black-clad figure shifts but speaks in a clear voice that betrays no emotion. "I speak for Mairon. And do you speak for yourself, Ar-Pharazôn of Númenor?"
"I do. I prefer not to waste time with intermediaries, even if your lord finds them preferable."
"I would not presume to know the preferences of Mairon the Great, your majesty. I speak as I am told."
"Do you?"
"I do."
"I prefer not to speak to a man who hides his countenance, Rider. I would know with whom I speak."
"Would you?"
"I would. It is my first condition."
"As you wish, your majesty." The rider removes his hood, revealing hair black as night and eyes unlike any Pharazôn has seen before. "Yellow as a cat's," he finds himself thinking. "Cat eyes." The rider then removes the mask which had obscured the lower half of his face and reveals, much to the shock of the men surrounding Pharazôn, that he is not a man at all but rather a tall, thin commanding woman.
"Who are you?" he asks, cannot help himself. "His doxy?"
The woman smiles, baring sharp teeth. "Not exactly."