Through the Darkness Unescapable by Valiniel

Chapter 9: The Confession

The Confession

Armenelos

3257, Second Age

Even the night could not bring peace to the royal chamber in Armenelos. Míriel struggled against her nightmares, mumbling something into her pillow. She did not hear the quiet voice that spoke to her and did not notice when two arms reached out to still her tossing and turning. In time, the dream faded, and all was quiet. Pharazôn let go of her and listened to the rhythmic pattern of his wife's breath.

Sometimes he wondered if she was aware that he knew how frequently her dark dreams came upon her. She would never talk about them, but he could see the dread in her eyes when she woke in the morning. As always, she did not need to tell him anything. He saw it and knew. It woke him at night, her tossing and turning, even the occasional cries. He heard her startle and bolt upright in bed, heard her weep into her pillow as she cried herself to sleep again when she thought he could not hear her. Then she would lay still and he would listen for the silence that meant she was asleep once more. As soon as he was certain, he would close the distance between them and wrap her in his arms, whispering softly that no danger outside her dreams would ever trouble her while he lived. She would never know what he did in the darkest hours of the night. She would not understand.

The moonlight streamed in, casting the shadow of the window frame across the room. He noticed that the moonlight was illuminating the face of his queen. In her fitful slumber, his lovely Zimraphel had shifted from her usual place. Every night, she put as much distance between them as soon as she could, curling on her side on the very edge of the bed with her back to him. Now she was lying on her back, her face turned towards him. She was so beautiful, the image of Lúthien. Most importantly, she was his.

A deep feeling of satisfaction ran through him. To have her made him the most fortunate man in the world. He took in the sight of her pale face and the dark hair that lay like a shadow behind her. She looked as if she had been sculpted by an artist, perfect in every way. When she was awake, her eyes would sparkle like stars. Even after two years of marriage, she still took his breath away. He never let anyone know how dearly he held her in his heart. To be the king of Númenor was a victory, of course, but it was nothing compared with the victory of having Númenor's jewel as his bride.

Yet that victory came not to him without a price, a price so terrible that Pharazôn still regretted it. He could see the bruises that darkened her ivory skin, remnants of yet another struggle they'd had last night. She knew he was stronger. Why did she always fight him? She was no danger: her wrists were tiny and he could wrap his hands firmly around them and prevent her from pushing him away or slapping him across the face. It was then that she hurt herself. He never wanted to hurt her. In ways, he admired her spirit and determination. Yet sometimes he was driven to do things he never wanted to do.

How could he ever forget the one time he lost control? It still haunted him. They had been married barely more than a year, and he had brought up the prospect of a child. She had snapped at him and told him she would bear no child for him to poison with his lies. The argument grew more and more heated, turning into a raging storm of accusations and angry words. He had tried to end it and lead her off to bed. That only made things worse. When he reached out for her, she had slapped him across the face with all her strength. In blind anger, he acted before he could think. He hit her. He hit the woman he had loved for nearly eighty years.

She would never know how horrified he had been at that moment. He had abruptly turned and left their chamber, fleeing to the solitude of his private study. Pharazôn remembered locking the door behind him and sinking onto the ground. So many emotions troubled him that night. Guilt- he had hit her and hurt her in his fury. Justification- she had struck him first and started the argument; she always fought him when he tried to show her how much he loved her. Pain- he did love her and wanted to keep her safe, yet he himself had harmed her. The horror of what he had done plagued him for days. Since that evening, he had never struck her again.

She still fought him, but he never again let his anger rule his actions. As each day passed, the bitterness between them only grew. He began to dream of respite, yearning for the day when they no longer fought every time they were close to each other. "What would I give," he whispered softly into the silence, "for you not to flinch when I touch you? I wish with all my heart that you might willingly give me a son, so that I might see our line continued. What I want most, though, my dearest wife, is to hold you and hear you whisper "I love you" in my ear. Aye, that is all I could ever desire. But that will never come to pass, will it Zimraphel? You are made of adamant, and will never relent."

He sighed and rose from their bed. Taking one last look at her, he wondered what a child of theirs would be like. He pictured the boy in his mind, his heir and son. The child would be tall and strong, like his father. His hair would be dark as night, and his eyes would sparkle like his mother's. He would have the pride and dignity of his line, and his mother's wisdom and love of learning. He would be a boy that would make his father proud, a true prince of the line of Eärendil. Until a son was born, Pharazôn lived in fear. What would happen if the line should die?

There had been few children in the family of kings. His grandfather and great grandfather were both the only children in their families. The closest family he had now, save Zimraphel, was the Lord of Andunië. He had learned many lessons from the man. When Pharazôn served under him in the navy, he had come to respect Lord Amandil as a wise and insightful commander. Under him, he had learned what true leadership and loyalty was. He had learned about battle and war, but he also learned about generosity and how to win the hearts of men.

Lord Amandil had been as good a councilor as he had been a captain and teacher. The king was glad he had come. His queen was glad also, and Pharazôn knew she took comfort in her kinsman's presence. His only regret was that Lord Amandil seemed to question his marriage. The Lord of Andunië was not the only one to do so.

No one understood why he had taken Zimraphel as his wife instead of killing her and insuring that she was no longer an obstacle. Many of his advisors had expressed their concerns over his choice. They did not trust her motives and proclaimed her a Faithful witch, saying that she would stop at nothing to sabotage his rule. They most certainly did not agree with his decision to let her preside over many domestic affairs. His men were blinded by their prejudice and did not see how beneficial it truly was to make the crown princess a queen.

She was raised to be queen, trained to govern the island since she was young. For years, she had served as the acting ruler when her father's health failed. There was none other in Númenor so fit to rule, save Pharazôn himself. Gimilkhâd had never given up hope that his father might name him successor. Therefore, he had been certain that his son received the proper training as well. Pharazôn was thankful his father had the foresight to order such training, for he used it every day.

The governing of a nation as great as Númenor was no easy task. Tar-Palantir had tried to replace many advisors and ministers with Faithful fools, creating a difficult task for Pharazôn. He had to rebuild the court and restore the glory of Númenor after seventy eight years of decline. If he had been forced to concentrate on minor details, it never would have been possible. Zimraphel's work had allowed him to cleanse the island of the Faithful influence. His advisors refused to understand this point, claiming that the queen would never do anything to reverse her father's work.

They were all wrong, and no one understood. Eventually, Pharazôn had decided that most of his advisors were fools. What he needed were loyal ministers to carry out his will and oversee what he could not do himself. He had the wisdom and power to rule this land. No one would tell him how to conduct Númenor's affairs.

Pharazôn congratulated himself for being so successful thus far. He had taken a nation deprived of power for years and turned it around. The taxes he had instituted in Númenor's colonies were contributing once more to the island's great wealth. The standing army that Palantir nearly demolished was being rebuilt. Now, the King of Númenor was preparing his island for another golden age.

He had great plans for the future. The people of Númenor would spread across Middle Earth, creating a vast empire of might and glory. Pharazôn had heard his wife's concerns for the growing population. She had wanted to divide up several estates to make room for the populace, but he had devised a better plan. There was room enough for the people of this island on the eastern shores. It was their nation's right to spread their culture across the world. The colonization was a natural progression.

The elves were accounted great, and had they not done the same? As the king looked out the window towards the west, he knew that he was right in this. The elves had sailed from Valinor, the pinnacle of their power and might, and made colonies in Middle Earth that flourished and succeeded. Most of his men would be disgusted at the idea of emulating the elves, but Pharazôn was wiser than his men. The wise used history to their advantage, using it to be sure that they did not make the same mistakes that had doomed others and following in the footsteps of the mighty.

His wife knew the history as well as he did, and yet she still disagreed with him whenever the subject of Numenorean colonies came up. Perhaps she was only eager to preserve the area around Pelargir, he mused. Many of the Faithful had fled there, and he had heard that they had united under the tentative leadership of the former Lord of Eldalondë. It was nothing to worry about. From reports, their main concern seemed to be surviving and building settlements in their new home. They were separated from Númenor forever, never to return. Besides, they had no military strength. It would be easy to ignore them.

The Faithful had been his bane since he ascended the throne. All they did was cause trouble. He was fortunate that they were such a minute part of the population. It was easy to turn the majority against them and keep them in hand. Still, they had posed many problems for his new government. When many fled the island, their jobs were left empty. It did provide work and homes to reduce the crowding, but then there was the problem of training people to do a new job. The economy was strained in some places as city dwellers learned to be farmers and country laborers learned to be craftsmen. The King trusted his wife to handle such crises. Whenever he reviewed her decisions on the matter, he deemed them wise and well fitted to the situations at hand.

His Zimraphel was truly a great queen, he thought to himself. Did the people of his party think he married her for her beauty alone? He had to admit that her beauty was what first drew him to her, but it was her intelligence and majesty he fell in love with. The King began to pace the room, old memories bringing a smile to his face. It had been eighty years since he had lost his heart to her, but the memory was undimmed by the years.

When his grandfather died, the funeral had been magnificent. All his family was summoned to Armenelos for feasting, ceremonies, and an elaborate parade to the tomb in Noirinan. The day before King Gimilzôr was to be set in his tomb, Pharazôn had been walking in the gardens of his grandfather's palace. He had been thinking dark thoughts, worrying about the succession.

The king looked over at his sleeping wife. She had changed little since he first saw her. The sun had been bright that day, shining down through the leaves of the trees. She had been standing beneath one of the trees, her dark hair spilling over her white gown. There was a faraway look in her grey eyes, as if she were remembering something. He, one of the bravest captains ever to command a ship, had not found the courage to approach her and kept his distance.

Another woman had joined her before long, and then he had heard her voice for the first time. She had spoken of Andustar, of passing seasons and trees and the waves crashing against the shores. She had quoted poetry and history in her descriptions of her home, and he had not missed the longing in her voice. In that moment, he had fallen in love with her. She had been like a shining jewel, a vision of perfection. He had wondered who she was, or if she was even real at all.

It was that evening that she was formally introduced to him. She begrudgingly called him cousin, and he called her by the same title. Yet in his mind, she became his Zimraphel, the only woman he would ever love. After their introduction, he had always hoped that he might change her judgment of his character. She based her opinion on hearsay, after all. He had been certain that once she truly knew him, she would love him as he loved her. His naïve hopes now made him wince. He had read too many legends as a child, to think that such a dream would ever be real.

When he was young, he had striven to be worthy of her regard, had done all he could to please her and turn her attentions toward him. All of it had been in vain. At last, he had realized that it would take more than brave deeds to win the love of the princess. He would have to show her how he loved her and hope that she might someday return it.

Now Pharazôn looked over at her and wondered if he had been right in taking her as his wife. She was so miserable and disagreeable now, always spouting angry insults or words of doom and despair. He wished that he could see her smile again. Yet he could not just let her leave him now. If she left him now, he could not imagine how he could go on living. It was enough, just to know that he had her in some small way.

There were many years yet to come for them, Pharazôn thought to himself. In time, she would come to her senses. Zimraphel was a wise woman who adapted herself to her situation and all the changes that came with it. It was only a matter of time before their fights would become rare. It was only a matter of time before she would tire of being so sullen and bleak. Perhaps one day, they would be able to live with each other in peace.

Peace. It was such an alluring concept. Pharazôn was so weary of quarreling with his wife and advisors. He wished that he had some escape, some comfort in his life. Someday he would have it, he promised himself. Until then, he had much work to do. Tomorrow, he had to visit a new training camp in Hyarrostar. Before peace could be achieved, there were many battles to be fought, and battles required a mighty army.

Looking over at the door that led to his study, he considered going in and deciding on an effective strategy for the royal navy along Middle Earth's coast. He was already headed for the door when he heard a mumbling from behind him. Turning, he looked back at Zimraphel. Another dream had come upon her now, and she turned onto her side, her beautiful features disappearing into the darkness. The king sighed. There were more important things than brooding over the movement of ships, he supposed. Besides, it would be best to review the matter in the morning when he was fully rested.

As soon as he returned to bed, he knew he had made the correct decision. His wife's dream soon passed, and she lay quiet again. Pharazôn moved closer to his wife, feeling the warmth she radiated. She was a cold wife when she was awake, and yet she always made him feel as if his heart were afire. "My dearest Zimraphel," he murmured, before settling down to sleep, "I think, perhaps, I love you too much."