Endure by Anne Wolfe

Endure

The stench of fresh blood reached even to the queen’s chambers.

Through her small window she could see the newly finished temple glittering. The silver and obsidian that made up its bright sheath had been stained with the blood of Umbar when it was brought to harbor. It had been cleaned meticulously— nothing could be seen to mar the Zigûr’s shining offering to Melkor— but soon it would be stained from the roof to the foundation with the blood of Númenor, and this time there would be no hope of cleanliness. At least there would be no chance of denying its true nature.

The smoke rising from the central dome trembled in the angry wind.

Across the room, Míriel’s maid Zirān had spent the last hour stitching and unpicking the same seven stitches of the embroidery on her new dress. Her hands shook, and the weave of the cloth began to grow loose.

“Close the window, Zirān,” said Míriel. “The light begins to strain my eyes.”

Zirān leapt to close the window. To no longer see the temple was a relief; the little candle beside Míriel’s chair burned steadily now, no longer buffeted by the winds outside.

Míriel rose from her chair and took up her candle, lighting the old incense burners she kept in her room. They had been made for her father, in the shape of elven-ships. Soon, perhaps, she would be made to give them up, but for now the burning herbs and spices filled the room with their clean scent.

She sat in her chair, and folded her hands in her lap. Her wrists trembled too badly to paint or embroider. Across the room, Zirān had not bothered to pick up her own needlework, instead picking at her fingernails incessantly.

“Do not fear,” said Míriel quietly. “I think they will not dare to steal away anyone so closely connected to me.”

“It is not for myself that I fear,” murmured Zirān. “I fear for Númenor. There is a monument to the Zigûr in the palace square now, you know, and it is there because the people want it there.”

“That cannot truly be known,” said Míriel. “Few will say they disapprove when they know they may be burned for it on the morrow.”

Zirān shifted in her seat. “Still it is disheartening. Do you think there can ever again be a time without evil, and the sacrifices be ended?”

“I do not know,” said Míriel. “Certainly we may not end them by strength of arms. Perhaps we will outlive the chief evildoers, and in our old age bring about peace.”

Zirān picked up her embroidery again, and made eight stitches without unpicking any of them. “What I make now will endure even after we are gone,” she said, and smiled. “Perhaps goodness and nobility will be even more resilient.”

“Perhaps,” said Míriel. Her wrists trembled less, now.

Around the room, the incense burners still burned. For some time, now, Míriel and Zirān had smelt no blood.