Through the Darkness Unescapable by Valiniel

Chapter 8: The Summit

The Summit

Meneltarma

3255, Second Age

Míriel stood atop the Meneltarma, staring over at the Witnesses of Manwë. The great eagles were perched on the western edge of the mountain, always watching… There was nowhere she could go to escape the feeling of being watched. At least here, no human eyes stared at her. Her guards would not ascend the holy mountain. They waited at the foot of the path for her. They did not need to follow her. Her bargain with Pharazôn was a better guard than any man he sent to look after her. If she betrayed his trust, then she would never be allowed to go again to the mountain.

The summer sun beat down upon the mountain peak. Midsummer was only a few days past, and the mountain was quiet. She was alone, save the eagles. They stared at her, as if they knew why she was here. Their eyes seemed to pierce right through her, as if they could see every secret she kept hidden. Quickly, she prayed for forgiveness.

Even prayer could not make her feel clean. Nor could any amount of water or scrubbing make her clean, even if she scrubbed her skin red and raw. She could not scrub away months of shame. There was nothing she could do. Míriel felt so helpless, desperate to find something she could control.

The petty day to day business she was allowed to deal with was a farce. It gave her no power. Her duties were less important than that of a steward's. Pharazôn was trying to appease her, trying to blind her to the truth. She looked up at the great birds that stared at her and envied them their ability to fly. If only she could be like Elwing and throw herself into the arms of the Valar, to be a bird and fly away from this nightmare. It was not so. She was a bird with clipped wings, which was even more painful than being kept in a cage.

An end… That was all she wanted now. She wanted this pain to end. Every day, she found herself wondering how much longer she could endure the life she was forced to live. Now she was grateful that she was no elf, for she knew that she could not endure an eternity of this life. Not even half a year had passed since her father's death, and knowing that she faced another century of such pain brought her no comfort. She was not strong enough to endure a hundred years of this, when she was already weary after a mere six months.

She drew her secret out of the folds of her gown: her savior, her triumph. The rays of the summer sun danced on the brilliant steel. Her guards had been careless today, one of them leaving a dagger lying on a table. It was an opportunity she would not have again. As carefully as she could, Míriel snatched it from the table and concealed it, then left the room quickly. The guards followed, mumbling about the odd habits of the queen. They did not think to pick up the dagger that had been left.

It had been lying on the table like a sign, making plain the course of action that would set her free. How many times had she baited her husband, how many times had she dared him to kill her? Wasn't death better than this life? She thought of her father again. His life had been so dark, towards the end. Then he had died, and his face was so peaceful. She envied that peace, craved it with all her heart. She would take that peace for herself since her husband would not grant it to her.

How many nights had she willed her life to end? With each kiss of her husband, she had wished to simply die, to do anything to escape the world she lived in. Yet her will was not strong enough to send its spirit to Illúvatar without the deterioration of its house. Her death would require a different act of will.

Death. The word was so liberating. When she was dead, she would not have to watch as her island's decline. She would never have to look upon Pharazôn again. That made her smile. Never, ever again would her husband touch her, look at her, or speak to her. What would he say when he knew that she was beyond his reach forever? His emotions would be mixed, she decided. First, he would be angry with her, with her guards, and most likely with himself for ever making the deal with her. He would regret her loss; maybe he would even feel some sort of grief. This would show him what pain was and repay him for all the pain he had caused her.

What would her family say, though? Amandil was coming to the city, hoping to offer her comfort. Yet how could she tell him that nothing he could say or do would bring her any comfort? There was no other choice for her. Miriel realized as she stared down at the dagger that her death would hurt more than her husband. Elendil would not understand; he would probably feel responsible for not doing something to prevent her death. She didn't want to hurt him; she only wished that he could understand that this was the only way she could escape. Perhaps Celaurien would know: wise Celaurien who always could reveal what had been concealed. Her family would be live through this. She was sure of it.

Besides her few kinsmen in Andunië, what did she have left to live for? Everyone who mattered to her was safe, and yet they were also lost to her. Her father was dead. All her power had collapsed. The people she should have ruled had fallen under the shadow of fear once more. Even the white tree did not have the same light it once had. Everything she had held dear was lost to her. Surely it would be easy to let it all go. There was something so much greater waiting for her.

Her father had always taught her that death was nothing to fear. He had given up his own life, hadn't he? He had left a world of pain for one of light and hope. No more fear. She had promised him that before he passed away. Now it was time to fulfill that oath. Soon she would be with him. It would be wonderful to see his face and hear his voice again. Her mother, too. She could hardly remember more than Rilwen's face and smile anymore. Over a hundred years she had missed her mother, and now she had the chance to be with her once more.

"I am one of the Faithful, a daughter of Elros, and I am not afraid." She spoke aloud, as if to reassure herself. Then she raised the dagger and wondered how she would do it. Should she drive it into her heart? That would be dramatic, although she doubted her strength. As she held out her hand, she could almost hear the blood pulsing through her veins. Her skin was pale and the veins of her wrist stared up at her, a faint blue beneath their sheath of ivory. She poised the dagger above her wrist. Yes… This would be effective.

The eagles cried, and flapped their wings as she moved her weapon. They did not move, only stared at her with a piercing glare. No one brought weapon or tool to the peak of the Meneltarma. No blood had ever been shed here. It was a blasphemy to do so, but she had no other choice. It was the only way. She stared back into their intense yellow eyes. "Forgive me," Míriel tried. "You have left me with no other choice. I have prayed to the Valar and Eru unceasingly for months. Is this not their gift? This chance…"

They gave her no answer. All they did was stare at her. They were only witnesses, not Manwë himself. They could neither forgive nor condemn her. Even so, she could almost feel the disapproval they exuded. "Do not dare to shed blood in this holy place," they seemed to say. "Do not seek to end your life until you can give it up by the force of your will alone." Míriel turned away from their gaze. This was her life to spend as she so chose. She was no elf to be bound to the circles of the world. She was free to leave it, and like a true daughter of Elros, she would choose her time.

Quickly, she told herself. She must do it quickly. It was so simple. Draw the blade through the soft flesh of her arm, wait as the blood spilled upon the mountain top, wait for her spirit to abandon its miserable life here and travel beyond to where it would dwell in eternal peace. It was so easy.

And yet it was so difficult. What if she did not do it properly? What if she survived her attempt? Then Pharazôn would know her intentions, and what little freedom she had now would be wrested from her. She could not afford to fail, yet she could not be sure that she would not fail. The queen tried to reassure herself. The Valar had given her a chance; surely they would not let her fail now. Besides, if she did not completely succeed, it would surely be easier for her to will her spirit out of a body that was nearly drained of all its lifeblood.

She had to do it now, before any other distractions stayed her hand. She did not have time for distractions. If she waited, then she would lose her will. A tiny nagging voice interrupted her. If she was having any doubts, then should she go through with this? Once she acted, she could not take it back. She would have to accept whatever came of it, failure or success. Was she ready to take that risk?

"It is the only choice. There is no other way," she muttered. The doubt did not fade; it only strengthened. Was it the only way? She could try to kill her husband instead. When he slept he was vulnerable. She could end his life just as easily. Then she could take control again, couldn't she? If there was some other option, then she could not take her own life.

This wasn't as honorable as she had thought it would be. It was a coward's death. She only wanted to die because she was not strong enough to endure her fate. She was running away from her life. Her own weakness should have warned her away from this fate. If she could not give up her life of her own will, then she had no right to take it through violence. This was wrong.

It was an affront to Illúvatar, to bring a blade to this holy mountain. This was the Meneltarma, where life was praised. It was no place for death. Her blood would stain the mountain and make it as foul and unclean as she was. Would the eagles let her carry through with her plan, or would they protect the domain of their lord from being marred by a mere mortal? A more disturbing thought entered her mind. If she committed a crime against the Valar, against Illúvatar himself, would she be allowed the peaceful afterlife that her father had spoken of? Would she be denied all happiness, cast into a void as the Enemy had been?

She lifted the knife away from her wrist, caught by her indecision. Her mind was tearing her apart, and she could not bring herself to do it. Until now, she had such conviction and confidence? Where had it gone? Hadn't she decided that this was the only way? Hadn't she known that this was her destiny?

This was meant to be, she tried to reassure herself. Besides, her will was strong. She would do this, and nothing would stop her. It was her life to do with as she chose. This was the only way. It was her only choice. She had to do it. With a sudden rush of conviction, she set the knife point to her wrist The sudden sting when it bit through the skin startled her. Míriel quickly pulled the blade away, an automatic reaction. The knife had barely cut her, but the blood was already welling up from the cut.

For what seemed an eternity, she just stood there and watched as a crimson rivulet rolled down her arm. She watched it fall to the ground, dripping onto the summit of the holy mountain. Míriel stared, her mind wrapped up in the sight of the blood. The eagles were silent. They only stared at the dark haired woman who stood immobilized.

"No." A whisper broke the silence after a long while. "No." The dagger clattered to the ground. The look on Míriel's face was one of complete despair, and there was fear in her eyes. She had realized the truth that lay behind all her doubt, and it had shaken her to her core.

"I am no better than them," she murmured. "I am afraid. I cannot do it. I am too afraid…" For all her father's words, for all her pain, she could not bring herself to end her own life. She clung to life with an unexpected force. Seeing her own blood had made her realize it. She could not do it because she was afraid.

How many times had she told herself that she did not fear death? So many times she had wondered if death was a better option than living this miserable life. Yet now that she tried, she felt a foolish desperation grow within her. It screamed at her not to hurt herself, to spare herself from death. Death was such a great unknown. At least she knew what to expect from life.

No exertion of will could bring her to do it. She had not been able to will her spirit out of her body because she still loved life too much. There was still so much in this world that she loved: people, places, and things. Each one was like a chain, binding her to this life. Clinging to life was an emotional need, and yet it was also an instinct. It was said that all Men were imbued with a sense of self preservation; if given the choice, they would try to save their own lives. Those who overcame it and died for the greater good were heroes.

Míriel was no hero. She was a coward. What hurt most was the realization that she was no different than the King's Men, those that she hated most. Her fear of death was no less than theirs. She was a disgrace to her father and her forefathers. Shame burned through her. Her father had such faith in her, had called her strong, said she would endure.

She would only endure out of cowardice. Her weakness had been revealed. Looking down at the dagger, she was only reminded of her shame. Irrationally, she let out a cry of pain. Grabbing the blade, she hurled it off the mountain as hard as she could. The eagles began to screech, and spread their wings. They rose into the air and flew away, abandoning her to her own dark thoughts.

After a while, she heard footsteps on the path that ascended the mountain. Her guards looked frustrated, as if climbing the Meneltarma was blasphemous. When they saw her, their eyes widened and they rushed over to her. "My lady! You are bleeding!" one exclaimed nervously. They felt no compassion for her. Their only concern was for the anger their master would direct at them if he knew they had allowed harm to come to her.

Their queen stared at them for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was cold and harsh. "Yes, take me back down to him. Let him laugh at my shame. I deserve the scorn. I am no better than you. We are all doomed, doomed to lose the lives we so desperately cling to. The harder we cling to them, the more bitter it will be to lose them. We are doomed."