The Western Sea (II) by Gadira

The Western Sea

Read The Western Sea

Days are longer in exile.

Maybe it is the weight of empty streets and walls of old stone, closing over him until even the most vivid images of his past begin to ebb away. Maybe it is the fascinating whispers that come from those trees that shadow his vision, luring him away from consciousness, and inviting him to surrender to an Elvish dream where time wriggles away from his grasp.

Maybe, it is just himself. All his life has been spent with fellow priests, fellow soldiers, fellow courtiers; there have been friends that he loved, allies that he needed to manage and enemies to be wary of. This new self-conciousness hurts: he has fallen to temptation, betrayed and sullied his name, and in his imposed isolation all this comes back to his mind with a vengeance.

It is horrible to live alone with one´s soul.

*     *     *     *     *

Long ago, when the order of leaving the capital reached him, a dark part of his mind had hoped he would wake up to find that this was one of those edifying stories, where an elf in the shape of a beautiful woman bespells a careless man and drags him to ruin. That everything would be so simple, so well-deserved.

The next morning, however, she had stabbed herself with that knife, and his illusions had crumbled down as he cradled her slight body in his arms.

Being a warrior, he had been taught to search for vital organs; a priest, he had stabbed his victims in the heart. Fortunately, she had been neither, and had missed her mark in her anxiety. Tell them it was you who killed me, she whispered, deliriously, for days. When they left for Andúnië, she was lying on a carriage, and even now the wound was not fully healed.

I hate my beauty, she wailed. My beauty lost you. The servants had been forbidden to leave sharp objects within reach of her hands, until she became pregnant and a subdued joy found its way back to her eyes.

Sometimes, he wonders who will be the first to surrender to despair. Sometimes, he fears it will be her, because in spite of everything, he still loves her more than his life.

*     *     *     *     *

Many times, he finds himself wondering what they are doing at each moment of the day. It is noon; soldiers are eating on their tents in the desert plains of Middle-Earth. The priests of the temple of Melkor are singing their midday prayers, the firelit hall closed to outsiders. In the Palace, the King is getting ready for his second meal.

He looks at the breaking waves, crashing over and over against the same cliff.

*     *     *     *     *

In his walk, he stumbles upon a tiny figure who sits in the middle of the clearing, hugging her knees with an absorbed glance. The unholy silver light falls over childish features, and under its glow they look pale and ghostly.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. A chubby finger points at the mallorn trees, and her lips curve in a rapturous smile.

"I like trees." she says. "Pretty trees."

She does not look like either of them, even though the servants swear that her delicate features are a gift from her grey-eyed mother. He knows better than them: when he was young he had discovered a small portrait in a dusty box of his home of Armenelos, of a woman with a high chin and sad eyes. Ar-Alissha, Queen of Númenor.

His grandmother had destroyed all the rest.

In an impulse, he walks towards her, and sweeps her in his arms to get her away from the light. A frown creases his forehead, and perceiving his mood she does not resist, except to turn back and dart a last, longing look at the trees of the Western lands.

He does not want his child to be doomed, like Alissha was –like he is. He does not want her to be lured into the world of otherwordly creatures, from which no mortal man can escape unscathed. Out of an instinct, he mutters a prayer to the King of Armenelos to protect her, but it dies in his lips as he remembers that the Great God does not hear him anymore.

Not here.

*     *     *     *     *

After a while, Melkorbazer stops. He has arrived to the marble balustrade where he usually leans to watch the waves. The girl´s body is limp against his, and for a moment he thinks that she has fallen asleep, until she raises her head to gaze at the water.

"There, across the sea," she whispers, gesturing towards the dark masses of clouds, "lives a lady who makes stars."

Melkorbazer´s grip tightens.

"There is no such thing."

She looks at him, with a kind of hurt, accusing shock that she has inherited from her mother. If only her innocent mind could know the horrors, he thought.

"A storm is coming." he says, putting her back on the ground. She shuffles her feet uneasily, then lays her hand in his. "Let us go back inside, Inzilbêth."