Through the Darkness Unescapable by Valiniel

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Part Two: The Growing Darkness - Chapter 7: The Scepter

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The Scepter

Armenelos

3255, Second Age

She sat on the throne beside him, looking out into a sea of disdainful faces. Pharazôn sat on the royal throne, robed in gold and holding the scepter of Númenor. An arrogant smile on his face, he continued to address his people on the new economic policies. Míriel had long ceased to listen. She felt ill sitting here, as all she had done was undone before her very eyes.

Many of the people in the audience were staring at her as well, hatred in their eyes. Pharazôn had not lied when he said she was kidnapped by men who did not want her to be queen. In the days after the announcement of her marriage to her cousin, there had been widespread uproar. The King's Men had hoped that she would be killed, that the problem would be eliminated. She wondered how foolish they had to be to accept the story that Pharazôn fed them.

He had explained to his people that he was marrying her to secure his right to the throne. A foolish excuse indeed! If she were dead, then the scepter would fall to him. It was not as if her marriage to him gave him any of the Faithful's support. In truth, it had the opposite effect. Most of her people were either enraged or terrified. Countless people had already fled the island to escape the coming persecution, and more left from Rómenna every day. Guilt welled within her. It had been her responsibility, her duty to make this land safe for its people, and she had failed.

Her entire life seemed to be a failure. What she had endured the past three months had shaken her to the core. Before her father's death, she thought she knew what suffering was. Now she knew the true meaning of the word. She looked down at her wrists, so sore and bruised from fighting with her husband. The heavy beading around the hem of the sleeves weighed her arms down, it seemed. Or perhaps it was only the lack of conviction and the feeling of utter helplessness that held her here.

Every day, she awoke without hope. She let the servants dress her in garments of silver and gold, let them arrange her hair into elegant coifs and braids, let them place the star of Erendis on her brow. She sat there like a doll, still and silent. Under Pharazôn's watchful eyes, she walked and ate and sat here in this accursed court. Inside, she felt as if she were dying, slowly and painfully. Míriel was drowning in her own mind, with no one to save her.

She had nearly drowned as a child, swimming in Andunië. The tug of the undercurrent had pulled her down beneath the water, and she had panicked. Her father had told her to be careful, but she had refused to let Elendil swim farther out than her. She was no coward, after all. A foolish mistake… Surrounded by water, her lungs had burned for air. For a few moments, she had despaired, almost ready to take a breath in, even if it were water and not air. Then she felt her cousin pulling her up to the surface.

"You cannot save me this time, Elendil. No one can," she thought to herself. Pharazôn was far too powerful. No help could come to her. She would not put anyone she loved in danger again. They would not die for her. This was her own battle; a battle she was losing. The fighting was pointless, but it was all she had left to cling to. Her husband grew weary of their constant struggle, but in the end, both of them knew the result. He would win, and have what he wanted from her, but she would deny him anything beyond what he could physically take from her. He would never have anything but hatred and bitterness from his queen, and she took some small comfort in reminding him of that fact every night.

Perhaps he provoked her rage, for it was the only time she showed any emotion towards him. At all other times she treated him with bitter indifference. During the night, when they were alone in the grand chamber than looked west, they would rage and storm, no longer the lofty, cold monarchs they were in the throne room. It was a never ending struggle to see who would dominate, to see who held the power, and it was always Pharazôn who won out in the end.

Futility: another word that had taken on its true meaning since this mockery of a marriage began. Míriel could hate her husband and resist him all she wanted, but she could not break free. She did not even have hope to cling to anymore. If only…

Her attention was forced back to the throne room when she heard one of Pharazôn's counselors speak. "Many of them have fled, my lord Pharazôn. The Lord himself left last week, and most of his house left during the days that followed." She turned her gaze to the reporting counselor, taking in the news that she had been waiting to hear. She gripped the arms of her chair tighter, waiting for the King's reaction to the news.

"Let them flee," Pharazôn laughed. "Faithful fools, all of them. I have long yearned to be rid of them, and it appears that I now have my wish. Eldalondë will have a new master now, one that will serve Númenor and its King with loyalty and respect." It was hard to keep herself from breathing a sigh of relief. They were safe then, bound for a land that had some hope to offer them.

She loved Galisil. Every fiber of her being yearned for his safety, yearned for him to be beyond the malice of Pharazôn. She had taken the chance and sent word to him to flee, not only for his own sake. It was selfish, really, but she would never sleep until she knew that they were safe. Her eyes fluttered shut briefly, and she could see the boat sailing away from Rómenna, carrying her hope and love into the east. For so many, hope lay in the west, but it would never be so for Míriel. All her hope went east, to the free shores of Middle Earth. No hope dwelt in her own heart anymore. The only thing she could do now was place all her hope in others.

She had sent Galisil to Middle Earth herself, begged him to go, but hearing the words changed her in a way she had not foreseen. Míriel felt drained of emotion, empty. What was it like, to be a body without a spirit? A shell. That was all she was; an empty shell lying on the beach, in danger of being swallowed by the high tide.

Pharazôn looked over at her, observing her strange mood. Then he waved away his counselors, signaling that he was done with them. "Shall we retire for the evening, my lady?" the King asked, his tone carefully formal. She nodded absently, and they both rose from their seats in the grand hall. As he took her hand and led her along the carpet that led towards the door, her mind was hundreds of miles away.

It was dinner that they headed to next. Míriel picked at her food. She pushed it around her plate idly but she had no appetite. In her mind, she was wondering how she could bear her husband's company tonight. Perhaps she could busy herself with her own work long enough to avoid him. Excusing herself from the table, she left for her study, two of Pharazôn's guards trailing behind her. They had not trusted her after her last disappearance.

She had tried to escape before, but all attempts so far had been unsuccessful. Pharazôn had too many spies, too many allies that would spot her. Once, she had even secured a place on a ship bound for the free shores of Middle Earth. While the crew was preparing to depart, Pharazôn himself had come, escorted by countless guards and soldiers. They had found her and taken her back to Armenelos. That was when she realized the truth: he would never let her go. If she managed to escape aboard a ship, he would follow her to Middle Earth. No matter where she went, he would follow her.

Now she was wiser. She no longer tried to escape from Pharazôn, just tried to steal time from him. Every opportunity she could find to work or travel, she took it. To her surprise, she had even convinced him to allow her to go to the peak of Meneltarma on the three holy days. There were few Faithful now that would dare to go to the summit, for doing so would reveal their beliefs and expose them to persecution. She went, and said her prayers to Illúvatar. Sometimes she wondered, as she watched the eagles circle overhead, if he was still listening. There were times when she almost doubted it, but then she heard her father's voice in her head. "Everything is by His will, even that which seems dark and terrible. Good will always emerge from darkness; that is His doing."

It was so easy to lose hope. At times, she wondered how many of the people still held their convictions. How many Faithful remained on the isle? Although she did not want to admit it, Míriel knew the answer to her question. Not enough. There were not enough of them left to hold any hope of rebellion.

Before setting to work in her own quarters, she went to her wardrobe to shed the royal regalia. She despised feeling like a doll, always looking the way her husband wanted her to. She hated being a display of his wealth and power. Her ladies in waiting tried to "bring out her beauty," as they called it. Míriel no longer cared for beauty. She just wanted something comfortable and familiar.

It was not long before she managed to shoo away the attendants that rushed in to help her. Putting on a more comfortable and simple blue gown, she savored the silence. On her husband's orders, she was never alone. She craved this tranquility, desired nothing more than to sit and work without the back of her neck prickling because she knew she was being watched. They did not trust her anymore. That was her own fault as well. She certainly had given them good cause to distrust her. The thought was not entirely distasteful. She had come so close, so many times…

As she moved into her study and looked down at the letters scattered across her deck, her lips curled in a bitter semblance of a smile. No letter openers any more… Pharazôn had nearly met his doom on the point of a letter opener several months before, during the first of her attempts to gain her freedom. Since then, her guards had been meticulous about keeping her from any sort of blade. All her correspondence came opened, thoroughly read and copied, most likely.

It had come as a surprise to her how much control Pharazôn offered her over the government. She was entrusted with much of the day to day affairs, with most domestic policy, and with anything that her husband found too difficult to handle himself. It kept her busy enough. At least she was allowed to put a lifetime of training to use. Although her name would never be recorded in the book of Kings, although she would never hold the scepter, she was still Númenor's queen.

Most of the letters were reports or accounts for her day to day work. She read through each one completely, writing responses where necessary. At the bottom of the pile lay a letter bearing the insignia of the noble house of Andunië. Instantly, she knew the author by their handwriting. "Elendil…"

Quickly, she opened the letter and began to read. It was the first correspondence she had from him since she had left Andunië after her father's death. The familiarity was comforting although the letter itself held very little information that could bring her any happiness. Elendil carefully inquired after her health and happiness, but Míriel knew him well enough to discern the emotion behind the words. He was worried for her, terrified that great harm had befallen her. He was angry, not just at Pharazôn, but at himself for not doing anything to protect her.

So little was said. It was too dangerous to reveal his bias. At the moment, it was crucial that the Lord of Andunië maintain a credible position in the King's court. Elendil wrote that Amandil was coming to Armenelos after Midsummer, and Míriel was grateful. An ally in the court would be a gift, but it would be even better to have someone she could confide in. These past few months had been so lonely. This was the first time her cousin had dared to contact her. They had to be careful.

Doubtless Celaurien had schooled him in the art of concealment. Míriel thought she recognized the lady's phrasing at times. Her cousin's wife was an expert at saying one thing but meaning another. From the tone of the letter, Elendil did not want to conceal his feelings. That was her cousin, indeed, she thought to herself.

Elendil was a noble man. If he thought someone was in danger, he would try to save them. He seemed to believe that it was his duty to save the world. "You cannot save everyone," she muttered quietly. "Least of all me." It was too heavy a burden for one man to carry, she thought to herself. Elendil carried too many burdens these days, and she found herself worrying for him. He would have to accept what he could not change, or he would not be able to face Númenor's future. She would not let him face her father's fate, to be weighed down by grief. She could not lose him, too.

Miriel knew that the days would only grow darker. The worst was yet to come. She could feel it in her bones, down to her core. Pharazôn's new regime was terrible, the old fear returning to the isle. Once he gained complete power, he would begin to enforce some of his more radical plans. Did she have the strength to temper his power? She did not know. If she didn't then she would be forced to watch as her home fell further into the grip of that blasphemous man.

She tried to turn her thoughts to the letter, and her family in Andunië. Her love had fled, but her family remained. Tracing the lines of ink, she felt eternally grateful to her cousin. He had always been there for her. They had been best of friends as children, slowly walked the path to adulthood together, had watched each other grow and become great and powerful people. He had been forced to watch her fall. That hurt her more than anything. What must he have thought when he heard the news? Did he suspect that she might have consented? Did he fear that she had been harmed?

At least her father was not alive to see this, to see how low his beloved daughter had fallen. All his life, he had endeavored to build a nation that he could leave to her safely. His only desire was to see his line continue, to see the tree grow again and the eagles return to nest in the King's tower. So few of his prayers had been granted. Perhaps Pharazôn was right, and the Valar had abandoned them. Even if that were so, Míriel reminded herself, Illúvatar remained.

Somewhat comforted, the queen returned to her business. Hours passed, but she did not notice. She was so intent on her work that she did not hear the door to her study open, nor did she hear the soft footsteps that approached her chair. Suddenly, a warm hand rested itself on her shoulder. "You have done enough work for tonight, dearest. Leave the rest of it for the steward."

"I'll just finish this stack of papers," Míriel evaded. "I would finish faster if you would leave me be. Can I not have a moment's peace from you?" Her husband did not seem to take her meaning, and hovered behind her still.

"You have been working here for some time now, and the hour grows late. Come to bed, Zimraphel." She shook his hand off her shoulder and ignored him, continuing to write a recommendation to her staff about meeting the shepherd's demands in Emerië. However, Pharazôn seemed to have other intentions. He knelt behind her chair and swept the hair away from her shoulders so he could plant a soft kiss at the base of her neck.

As swiftly as she could, she pushed the chair back, knocking the king to the ground. He cried out in anger, but she ignored that, too. "Is it not enough," she began, in the cold, indifferent voice she used to address him at such times, "that you force me to sit by your side during the day, unable to speak my mind. Is it not enough that you force me into your bedchamber each night? Is there no time when I might have some peace?" With a grimace, Pharazôn pushed himself up off the floor.

"Forgive me for being worried about you," he spat. At that, she only laughed.

"Worried about me?" She turned on him, a look of cool hatred in her eyes. "Are you worried about me, or only worried that you might not have my company tonight?"

"My concern is not so selfish." He walked over at her and took her by the shoulders lightly. "There is something wrong with you, my love." Míriel only broke away from his flimsy grasp.

"Do you dare to call me "my love"? If you truly loved me, you would leave me alone."

"What?" "His voice raised, although not quite to the point of yelling. Her words made him angry. Anger was safe. Míriel could understand his anger, could deal with it. Love… That she could not come to terms with. Pharazôn was angry now, long suppressed words spilling from him. "If I love you, should I leave you to waste away in self-pity? You can not live on malice and spite alone, Zimraphel." He quickly maneuvered around her so he stood before her again. When she searched his eyes, she found true concern behind the anger. Her husband was far too complicated for her to understand.

"Why do you worry about me, husband? Am I not a satisfactory wife? Am I not what you expected?"

"You are not eating," he told her bluntly. "I watch you. You think I won't notice, but I do. You are getting too thin, and…"

"Oh my. I wouldn't want to ruin my perfect figure," she snapped. "I wouldn't want to be anything less than perfect for my lord and master."

"It is not that I am concerned for. You will fall ill, Zimraphel, if you do not start eating. And you must rest at night. You toss and turn in your sleep, and the guards tell me that you have taken to wandering the halls in the hours before sunrise."

"If I have nightmares, dearest husband, they are your doing." He frowned at her, turning towards the window.

"What else must I do?" he pleaded, not looking at her. "Have I not treated you with respect, made you a great and powerful queen? I could have locked you away in a bower. I could have had you killed. Yet I made you my queen, I gave you power over the island's internal affairs, and I have loved you. What more do you demand from me?"

"Kill me, then. Lock me away. It does not matter." Her words were bleak and quiet. She would not look at him any longer. His words confused her still, and at the same time, infuriated her. "I have given you my kingdom, surrendered to you all my freedom and hope. Do not demand love from me. Do not demand that I be happy in this life of misery you have created for me. You have me. That must be enough for you."

"It is not enough," he answered her. "I have from you only what I can take. Is there nothing you would give to me, my dearest wife? Nothing you would give to me of your own free will?"

"Only my hatred." With that, she left the room, shutting the door behind her. She would not argue with him any longer. Hatred… That she felt in abundance. Yet deep within the reaches of her heart, she wondered if she did not halfway pity Pharazôn. He cared for her in his own twisted way. Still, her remote pity was not enough to give in to him. Nothing could overcome her bitterness now.

Walking aimlessly, she thought over the words that had been said in the study. Love. He knew nothing of love. Sometimes, it seemed to her that love was only pain. That was all that love had ever caused her. Perhaps it did not matter if she lived or died. What did she have left to live for? A life filled with these little spats, a life filled with pain and emptiness. There was nothing left for her anymore. Perhaps she should just give in…

Míriel found herself at the door to the royal bedchamber. In one thing, Pharazôn was right. She was tired to the bone, weary of her life in this new world. He would return to this room before long, she knew. Suddenly, she did not care. Let him come. Let him take her in his arms as he always did. Did it even matter anymore? There was no more pain he could cause her that she had not already endured. Nothing mattered anymore. She had no tears left to cry, and no hope left to cling to. Elendil's letter was forgotten, and all Míriel could remember were her husband's pleading words.