Alliance by SurgicalSteel

Chapter 1

References my story 'Far Side of the World,' found on this Archive.

Read Chapter 1

There will be civil war again, Míriel thought, toying with the high collar of her mourning garb.

Her father’s death had not been unexpected, and the political wheels had begun turning long before he’d finally laid down his life. Míriel wondered if they’d ever really stopped turning after the last civil war, the one her father had started by taking a name in the old form when he ascended to the throne, by showing overt favor to the Elf-friends. How much simpler things might have been if only…

Tar-Palantír still lay in state, was not even in his grave yet. Civil war had followed his ascension to the throne, and it seemed it would follow Míriel as well.

She was distracted from her thoughts by a familiar voice expressing condolences to her, and looked down slightly to meet her cousin Pharazôn’s eyes. “My sorrow for your loss,” he said.

She felt one corner of her mouth twitch upward. “Sorrow? You and Father never cared for one another,” Míriel replied.

“My sorrow is for your loss, old cousin, not for his now-permanent absence,” Pharazôn said with a grin.

The bluntness of his response made her laugh suddenly, which caused several nobles to turn their heads their direction – a state funeral was truly no place for laughter, but she couldn’t help herself. “I can always count on you to speak the truth as you see it, small cousin, and for that, I am grateful,” Míriel said with a somewhat quieter laugh. He was a year younger and a few inches shorter – and he and her father hadn’t liked one another at all, but Pharazôn had always treated Míriel kindly, and she was grateful for a friendly face.

“The vultures circle,” Pharazôn observed, inclining his head toward one group of nobles. “They want…” he began, and then visibly stopped himself from continuing at the approach of Lord Amandil of Andúnin5;. “Find me later, old cousin, we have much to discuss, and little time.”

She knew that. There was only one way that she could see that might keep her head attached and avert the worst bloodshed, and it would doubtless anger Lord Amandil and his kin. His brother…

Her father had wanted her to marry Amandil’s younger brother, and Míriel had resisted. She’d suspected that was less a matter of Tar-Palantír wanting what was best for his only child and more a desire to cement his alliance with the Elf-friends, and she’d managed to argue for delaying any sort of formal announcements for long enough that her father had died with no betrothal in place. Amandil, though, he would doubtless expect…

He expects me to look to them for protection, and he expects to be able to rule Númenor through me, she thought, desperately wishing for Pharazôn’s company.

The other lords – they’d made no overt moves yet, but Míriel understood them all too well. Three other Queens had ruled Númenor in its long history, and the most successful of them was a woman who’d been more interested in nursing old grievances and stirring up discontent than in actually governing. The more ambitious of them wanted her married to one of them or to one of their sons, and disposed of once she produced an heir. The less ambitious simply wanted her dead.

She was trapped between those who wanted her dead and those who wanted her made into a puppet, and she found herself hoping rather desperately that Pharazôn would see the same way out of the dilemma that she did.

More condolences, more carefully polite poisoned words from the nobles, and finally the day was over. Protocol dictated that she should retire to her quarters for the evening, and yet…

I may not have been crowned, and I may not remain so for long – but for now? I rule Númenor, and protocol be damned.

She fled from the stifling hall where her father’s body still lay in state, out into the gardens, out to where Nimloth bloomed, and there she found him.

“Small cousin,” she greeted him, and Pharazôn patted the ground next to where he sat, and she gratefully seated herself next to him.

“Old cousin,” he replied, slipping an arm around her shoulders and allowing her to rest her head on his shoulder. “Grass stains,” he added.

“Won’t show up on black,” she replied, and both laughed. It was so good to have someone who understood without the need for explanation!

“Black doesn’t suit you,” he said. “You’re far lovelier in other colors – dark blue brings out your eyes, and reds bring a blush to your cheeks…”

She knew that there was more he wanted to say, but he’d clearly stopped himself from continuing. “I know you didn’t like him,” Míriel said.

“I know you miss him,” Pharazôn replied. “Much as I miss my father.”

“Amandil and his brother would make me a puppet,” she said. “And the other nobles…”

“The other nobles would force themselves or their sons on you – or they’d see you dead…”

“And you on the throne,” Míriel said, and she felt Pharazôn nod. “And if they succeeded in that, Andúnië would resist.”

“And if you married Elentir as your father wanted, the rest of Númenor would resist,” Pharazôn added, his voice vibrating through his chest and against her cheek. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then added, “Whereas if you and I…”

“The law…” Míriel began, but then stopped as she felt him shrug. “Our law, I suppose, is not followed in the colonies in Middle Earth.”

“Umbar allows the marriage of first cousins,” Pharazôn agreed. “As I see it, we can make the choice of Quildelotë and flee…”

“Which would plunge Númenor into civil war,” Míriel said.

He nodded again. “Or you can marry Elentir,” he said.

“Which would also cause civil war.”

“Or we can ignore the law – Andúnië will be angry, doubtless so will some of the other lords.”

“But if we reign together,” Míriel said. “If we…”

“Amandil may not believe you do this willingly,” Pharazôn said quietly.

“Let him believe what he wishes to believe,” Míriel said. “And let us announce our intent to wed and to rule jointly…”

“We shall have you crowned Ar-Zimraphel,” he whispered, his breath warm against her hair.

“And you shall keep Amandil as part of your Council, so that he has no cause to complain,” she murmured back, her hand stroking his thigh.

“Old cousin, fair cousin,” he said, shifting slightly, and she sensed that he was about to kiss her cheek, and turned so that their lips met.

“Small cousin, strong cousin,” she answered, feeling the curve of his lips against hers. “Shall we protect each other, then?”

His hands burying themselves in her hair and their mouths tasting each other were all the answer she needed.

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Chapter End Notes

 

Inspired in part by a passage in HOME XII: The Peoples of Middle Earth, Part V: The History of the Akallabêth:

Elentir the brother of Amandil loved her, but when first she saw Pharazôn her eyes and her heart were turned to him, for his beauty, and for his wealth also.

But he went away and she remained unwed. And now it came to pass that her father Tar-Palantír grew weary of grief and died, and as he had no son the sceptre came to her, in the name of Tar-Míriel, by right and the laws of the Númenóreans. But Pharazôn [?arose] and came to her, and she was glad, and forsook the allegiance of her father for the time, being enamoured of Pharazôn. And in this they broke the laws of Númenor that forbade marriage even in the royal house between those more nearly akin than cousins in the second degree. But they were too powerful for any to gainsay them. And when they were wedded she yielded the sceptre to Pharazôn, and he sat upon the throne of Elros in the name of Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, but she retained also her title as hers by right, and was called Ar-Zimrahil.

Ar-Pharazôn as a bit on the short side was inspired by a discussion on Pandemonium's LiveJournal in which Ian McShane was suggested as a fantastic candidate to play Ar-Pharazôn. Thanks to her for encouragement, as always.