Fate & Faith by Grundy

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Chapter 1

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Silmariën waited anxiously in her father’s study. It was not easy to sit here with anything like patience while others debated and decided her fate.

Nor was it fair.

She was the first born of her parents, why should there be any debate at all? What’s more, if there had to be one, she should by rights be taking part in it, rather than sitting sedately here so as not to antagonize some of the old fossils on the Council!

When the door at long last opened to reveal her father, his face was set in lines of disappointment.

“They have decided against me, then,” she said, trying to keep the bitterness from her tone.

“They have,” Elendil told her heavily. “I am sorry, my dear one. The Council feel that as only the Haladin allowed women to rule, it would not be right to set a woman above men of the Bëorions and Hadorions. The Sceptre should go to a king’s son before a king’s daughter.”

“So they disinherit not only me, but Isilmë as well,” Silmariën snorted. “I grant that I was born too late to know him, but from all I have heard or read, I do not think your great-grandfather would have countenanced such a ruling.”

“Unfortunately, daughter, we will never know, for whether by fate or chance, Aunt Tindómiel was born after my grandfather,” Elendil sighed. “What’s more, the Council feel strongly that it is the male descent that should transmit the claim to the Sceptre, so Isilmë’s line is to be excluded from the kingship entirely.”

Silmariën frowned. Her younger sister would like that no better than she did, especially since there had been no hint at the time of Isilmë’s marriage that was the case. Not that it should make any difference, given that the pair had married for love, not politics, but still…

“Are my nieces to be accounted commoners, then?” she demanded.

“No, but lesser nobility,” her father sighed, dropping into his chair. “They will still be much sought after for marriages.”

She snorted. As granddaughters of the king, whether they could transmit a claim to the Sceptre or not, plenty of status-conscious men would be thrilled to have their sons gain such brides. Perhaps it was cynical of her to wonder if some of the Council hadn’t taken the position they had in the express hope that Vardilmë and Mairissë might thus be within their sons’ reach. (Nevermind that if those sons shared the loathsome attitudes of their fathers, neither girl would likely be interested. The women of the royal house had married for love, not politics, since the days of Tindómiel.)

Silmariën’s intended, as a descendant of both Tindómiel and Manwendil, could not be discounted as her law-brother Ailendil was. Elatan might not be reckoned more than a minor prince, but he was still unquestionably of the blood of Elros. Any son of theirs would still be considered of the blood. Her line could still claim – assuming her brother’s died out. It rankled, though, that hers would be considered the inferior claim.

“How went the split in the Council?” Silmariën asked shrewdly.

She had known it would be a close decision, but she had thought they had the votes in hand.

“Eight for you, eleven against, and one who would cast no vote, feeling it was rightly the King’s decision, not the Council’s,” Elendil said thoughtfully. “Though if you think this a decision that can be changed, daughter, I fear you miss your guess. I think only one of the eleven could be swayed, and that still leaves it at nine to ten. It is not the outcome either of us had hoped, but I fear there is little to do but accept it.”

Silmariën had no need to ask who the ten who would not be swayed were. She already knew their names, and knew which of them hoped to find her brother a more pliable or at least less attentive ruler than she would have been, as well as which of them owed too much to those setting their hopes on her brother to take a different position. She suspected she also knew which of them had lied to her face and to her father’s prior to today’s Council session.

“I will accept it,” she said, “there being little other choice. But those men are fools if they think I will ever forget it.”

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The wedding feast was a joyous affair.

Though a faction of the nobility hadn’t liked the idea of a Queen Silmariën, Princess Silmariën was still wildly popular with her people, and there was more than a touch of defiance in the celebrations on the streets of Armenelos as they prepared to bid their princess farewell. (The announcement that Prince Írimon would inherit the Sceptre had not been greeted with great favor.)

She knew perfectly well that there would be equally raucous celebration in Andunië, where the view was that Armenelos’ loss was their gain. Elatan had whispered to her that they could well expect a welcoming committee when they arrived, and perhaps even something special from their distant elven kin to mark the occasion.

What’s more, Silmariën had gotten her way with the guest list – those who had disinherited her had no place at her wedding. If they wished to make merry, they could do so at their own expense, not her father’s. And they would have to – for they would need to keep up appearances.  She had particularly enjoyed twisting the figurative knife on the greedier ones, who had been dismayed at the money they would have to spend so as not to look bad in the eyes of the people.

There were cheers and a good many glasses raised when Tar-Elendil rose at the end of the evening to speak the traditional blessing the bride’s father gave a newly-wed couple before they retired.

But they were all in for a surprise, for her father did not merely speak the usual words. He added something entirely unexpected.

“To my beloved eldest child, who should have been my heir, I give these gifts to mark her marriage,” Elendil announced. “A star to remind her that she is a descendant of Eärendil, and a ring to remind her that her line has always been faithful.”

The jewel set in the mithril fillet he placed on her head blazed like the Star of High Hope itself, but that was not what drew gasps from all close enough to see the high table.

The ring was none other than the Ring of Barahir.

Her brother looked stunned, for that had until now been considered an heirloom of the throne, handed on along with the Sceptre. But her father slipped it onto her finger before kissing her on either cheek.

“What is this, atto?” she whispered as he did.

“Yours will be the true line, little one,” he replied quietly, for her ears only.

She shivered, for she heard in his voice that he was speaking with the certainty of one who had seen.

“Do not worry yourselves, my dear ones,” Elendil said with a smile, speaking to both her and Elatan, who had caught the same note in his voice that she had.  

He raised his voice so that others would also hear the rest of his words.

“With the blessing of the Valar, your future will be a happy one. I look forward to more grandchildren!”

Elatan laughed, and the moment of foreboding passed as cheers and bawdy suggestions followed them from the hall.