A Dancing Queen by feanorusrex

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Chapter 1

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“You are smarter than you seem, Vanimeldë,” says her tutor, peering over Vanimeldë’s shoulder at the mathematics problem that the young girl- the princess, the future third ruling queen of Numenor- has correctly solved on her slate. Vanimeldë twirls a lock of her long hair around her finger and says nothing. She is not sure if this is a compliment. The princess knows that she is smart but she thought that her intelligence was visible to everyone.

“What do you mean, than I seem ?” She wants to ask, but her question remains stillborn because she knows that the woman will either dismiss her in that infuriating way that adults have, of remember that she speaks to royalty and and fall over herself apologizing. Seem. Vanimelde runs her fingers over the seams of her dress- purple today. Seem, seam . The words sound alike but have different meanings. She smiles to herself but withholds this clever bit insight from her tutor.

Vanimeldë does not only learn mathematics; she is taught other subjects as well: about dead people and their deeds, and the poems and tales they have left behind, and the sciences where everything is hypothetical or never dies, only changes form.

“See how the apes fakes an injury and thus is left alone by the strongest in his tribe who do not believe him to be a threat?” Says her teacher in this subject. See he always says, although the page is mostly text with an illustration of an ape- this one static and not appearing to be faking any injury. “Even brute beasts can use their enemy’s underestimation to their advantage,” the man says.

“Hmmm,” says Vanimelde, thinking.

She is a princess, and she will be the queen some day. Tar -Vanimeldë. She is not the first woman to rule, which disappoints her a little- she wants to be first in everything- there have been two before. Some speak ill of them and their rulings. Vanimeldë wants to be loved.

She is good at singing, and plays multiple instruments- more than ladies need play to be considered accomplished. Her finger tips are calloused from hours of picking and holding down strings; the instruments’ taxes as she pulls notes from them.

Vanimeldë dances too- the court dances performed with a partner, meant chiefly for finding a husband, and solo dances, meant for performing in front of crowds, again mostly meant for ensnaring the eyes of a spouse. But most of all she loves to dance in private, to the music in her own head creating her own movements, and repeating them again and again, moving from difficult to easy, her body another one of her instruments. Like Lúthien, she thinks, as she twirls in one of her rooms. The elven princess is one of the dead people that Vanimeldë learns about, though privately she thinks that Lúthien was a fool to abandon eternal, life, power, and youth for love. If she had such she would not give them away for the best husband in the world. But other people do not think such cynical things, or they at least do not agree with them when she says such, so she learns to keep them to herself.

People do what she wants, but not only because she is a princess. Her father has difficulty wrangling dissenters in his court, her mother's handmaidens are sometimes lazy. Royalty does not get you everything. Gradually Vanimeldë realizes that she is skilled in manipulation, though she does not think of it as such. For her, it is only what she says, or does not say. She understands what people want, and what she wants and can tie these things together well, without seeming to, so her parents, or playmates, or tutors achieve their goal and her wants just seem to come along with theirs.

She grows older, and playing stupid is easy, precisely because she is not. Vanimeldë is beautiful, and so people do not need her to be anything else.

She marries. Her parents arrange the match. Vanimeldë knows what they are doing. Their daughter is loved, but she will be a bad ruler, with her head so given to frivolous things. But simple as she is, she will not give up her right to rule, and so she must be given to a husband who can guide her. She is given a choice in the matter- a limited choice, one from the group of young men that are prodded forwards by their parents- eager to increase their son’s and their own social standings- to dance with her at balls.

While part of her- the same bit of her spirit that flames up in burning irritation when anyone dismisses her as unfit for anything- is angry that she is commanded to bind herself to someone, Vanimeldë tries to think about her marriage logically.

There are those at court who would not see a women rule, and certainly not an unwed one. There are distant cousins and brothers in laws that lurk in branches of her family, ready to move in on her throne if her claim and hold on it should not seem solid enough. Ancalime- the first queen- had a husband. Vanimeldë can have one too.

Perhaps her parents regret giving Vanimeldë, for she picks Herucalmo a youth, younger than herself, and not very kingly figure either.

“There is more to think of in this match than yourself,” says Vanimeldë’s mother, hesitating, not wanting to give the impression that marriage of nobility is only for impersonal gain. “Dear, are your sure that Heru…”

“I love him!” Responds her daughter imperiously, looking as if she will cry. “And did you not force me to choose a husband before the end of the year? The least you could do is honor my choice!”

And the queen relents and says that she is sure that Vanimeldë will be very happy with Herucalmo, feeling slightly guilty, for her daughter is right; she was forced to choose.

As soon as Vanimeldë is out of the room, she blinks away the film of tears, straightens her gown and departs to find Herucalmo and suggest they wed.

He is will not be a bad husband. If forced, she could think of no one else she would rather be with. Since childhood they have been friends. He plays the flute, so they have music in common. And last summer she pulled him away from the midsummer’s celebration and kissed him, because her nobility shielded her from the unsanctioned advances of youths and she was dying of curiosity wondering what affections that her peers fell to with such abandon felt like. He had been surprised, but the experience and those following had not been terrible.

Besides her own feelings, or at least lack of feelings for any of her other choices, Herucalmo is the youngest in a noble family, and used to being ordered around for the benefit of others. But he does not like the life of royalty. He wants to be a poet, so he has told Vanimeldë, not even a court poet, a secure paid post, but an ordinary one, selling his works to people, and starving if he could not profit from them.

Which is ridiculous, obviously, she thinks dismissively, but he will be a good ally, neither power hungry nor determined to oppose her rule.

“But Vanimeldë, why?” he asks her, on their wedding night, after the princess tells him that she wishes him to stand at the front of the government, to announce her decisions, to be the one to meet with counselors, and such. “Do you not wish to rule?”

“Because,” she answers, ignoring the second question, “I want to be loved.”

She knows that when those throughout the kingdom speak against their government, they will mention mayors and governors, even their king, but not her. Never her. They will never curse her. She will not the one to affix the royal seal to edicts that some call unfairly harsh. The queen has no power, poor thing, her husband is going over her head in this, and all she cares about is dancing. Vanimeldë will be the lovely, the smiling, the one who sings for the court before retiring and letting her husband speak with them.

In time her father dies, the crown passes to her, and she sees that her guesses have been right.

She is quite proud of her arrangement: to possess the power of ruling, without it appearing so, and the love of the people. Herucalmo loves her, or so he says, and she tries to believe him, remembering others are usually sincere when they say such to their spouses. He is a good man, and she says she loves him too, while wondering what she would do to him if he opposed her. His love alone is not enough. The admiration, respect, and even adulation that she sees when she appears before her people is what she needs. The hearts of so many keep her own beating.

She has a child- a boy, and is not sure whether to be disappointed that she has not given the kingdom another ruling queen, or happy that she has produced the required heir and will never have to endure the pain of childbirth again. Looking as her child she feels overwhelming, unrestrained love and this feeling frightens her and she tries to push them away, terrified that she can care so much for someone.

Unsure how to bring him up, she leaves most of his raising to governesses, and her husband. Her style of ruling would not be advantageous for men. Weak, stupid women in court are ignored, but weak stupid men in government are killed off. She has killed several. At least Vanimeldë can teach him to play the violin, or she tries to. He is not a very good pupil.

Only on some nights does a slice of cold pierce her soul, and Vanimelde wonders: would the people would still love her if they saw her pretty exterior stripped away to expose the ruthless ruling woman that lies beneath? If those that fling flowers though the window of her carriage would shrink to know that she threatens, and bribes, and causes people to disappear to get what she wants.

Then she is not sure which Vanimeldë she is, for the women bled together. Sometimes she is the stupid women who is not listening to the foreign official making a desperate attempt to convince her that tariffs should be lowered in his region because she is distracted by the court dancers; and sometimes she is a smart women listening to the trade representative; and sometimes she is ignoring the trade representative and watching the dance, but only because the man is wrong anyway, she knows that he will soon fall ill and pass away after a mysterious sickness and be replaced with someone else who understands the value of higher tariffs.

All of her is a lie, so much so that she is not sure what she would be if there was no need for acting or pretense. Who is she but a shrewd girl, eternally wearing a mask? These thoughts chill her, and she crys savagely- although silently so as not to wake her husband who could never understand- without knowing entirely why. After nights such as these, the next morning she rises and continues her play, all who see her remarking on how beautiful the queen looks today.

Vanimeldë does not think of death. She will surrender her life when it is advantageous to do so. This moment has not yet presented itself yet, and she has not taken. Her funeral will be spectacular, and she it planned although. It will be her last act as queen, and she does not care what happens to the kingdom after her death, if her son is a good ruler or nay, for she will be gone and she puts it from her mind.

No one knows the real Vanimeldë. Her true self is a secret, one at times frightening, but hers and hers wholly. She is unshared. She is a queen with a kingdom and the love of her people- no small feat.

Alone on her balcony, while her people sleep, Vanimeldë dances alone, silently. She dances for herself. She would have it no other way.