In An Hour Unlooked For by Kaylee Arafinwiel

Chapter 1

I disclaim any text you recognise as written by Tolkien.

It was market-day in Armenelos. Míriel stood on the balcony, looking West over the city, toward faraway Andúnië and the Sea, but she could not miss the people bustling about below in the square in the shadow of Meneltarma, and was seized with a sudden urge.

“Izrê,” she called. Her old nursemaid and boon companion came hurrying in, face drawn with worry.

“Milady Queen, has…has the King…”

“I see no sails, Izrê. But I will let you know. I think mayhap this balcony is not high enough. I would climb the Meneltarma, as my father before me. It is, after all, my right.”

Izrê frowned, but nodded. “Now, Zimraphel…” She caught the look the Queen gave her, and sighed. “Míriel,” she corrected herself. “Please, be careful, my child. What if you see the King’s sails not?”

“Then perchance I shall see the Sea I have ever loved. I will be careful, Izrê,” she promised. The Queen waited just long enough for Izrê to pack the necessities – particularly the offering to burn at the Hallow of Eru – and giving the older woman a kiss on the cheek, departed.

“Be well, izrê,” Izrê murmured.

*

Míriel was standing at the foot of the Meneltarma when she first felt the shaking. What could that be? she asked herself, but her feet found the path, and she began to climb. The stone pillar shook and trembled under her feet, but it wasn’t until the halfway point that she faltered – for the top of Meneltarma exploded with fire. A column of fire, shooting straight up in the air. Debris rained down around her; ash and stone and the Avaloi only knew what else. She cried. She prayed. But she was determined if naught else. She could not go back.

She climbed on.

*

Below, the Númenóreans cowered. They screamed. They ran. Some knew they ought to stand and fight, but the question was…fight what?

So they fled. But they had forgotten a terrible truth, for there was nowhere to flee that Eru Ilúvatar could not find His errant children…and the chasm had already opened, sweeping in the ocean.

Unknowing, Míriel climbed on, not daring to breathe, and wept in the ash-thick darkness that nevertheless seemed very bright as sparks rained from overhead...

*

The Sea was singing. The Waters sang with the echo of the Themes of Ilúvatar, and now they sang in grief, lamenting the Fall, of the Breaking of the World that had come. The Starwards, Elenna, the Land of Gift, Andor, it took to its eternal loving embrace, with all her people, embracing them as a lover, drowning their terrified cries in sweeping tidal waves. But the tallest wave, overreaching all, came last of all.

And last of all the mounting wave, green and cold and plumed with foam, climbing over the land, took to its bosom Tar-Míriel the Queen, fairer than silver or ivory or pearls. Too late she strove to ascend the steep ways of the Meneltarma to the holy place, for the waters overtook her, and her cry was lost in the roaring of the wind.

The Sea folded its arms about Míriel, plunging her into the depths, and drew her down to lie for ever on the silver sands amidst a bed of coral, the brilliant hues – reds, oranges, pinks and blues amongst the waving green weeds – creating the finest resting place the Sea could devise.

The earth had claimed Pharazon – and now the Sea’s beloved had come home.