Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Two-way Destiny

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Fíriel was tired. Her feet hurt, and there was a stitch on her side whenever she breathed in. Uncle had said that this hill was the last before they would see the coast, but he had been wrong before, so she was not ready to trust him so easily again. If it was not, they would have to find room for her on the cart, even if Zama whined and claimed that she could not walk. She had been sitting there for ages, which was not fair, and she was only a year younger than Fíriel, so she was not a baby anymore and should not be entitled to act as one.

As if she had somehow read her thoughts, her cousin’s piteous voice rose at that moment, claiming that the cart had to stop because she needed to pee. Aunt told her to shut up and stop complaining, and Zebedin teased her in a nasty manner until Aunt told him to shut up, too. Then, she flew into a rant about insufferable brats who had vowed to make her life impossible, reminded them that this was not a pleasure trip –Fíriel had never been on one of those, but she wholeheartedly agreed-, and threatened to leave them by the wayside, to be captured and sold to wrinkled and mean old people who had no children of their own.

“If they are rich, why not?” Zebedin whispered next to Fíriel, though in an undertone that his mother could not hear. “If we were rich, we would not have to be crossing the Island with nothing but an old cart, looking for food and a place to stay.”

Fíriel did not understand everything that the adults spoke around her, but this did not make sense. Their family had always had food and a place to stay, back home, and if it was not for the evil priests of the Cave, they would still have them. What would have been the use of riches in their situation? The priests would have just taken them away as they took their food and burned their fields. Though perhaps if they had managed to hide a little of it, they could have taken another cart, and then she would not have to be walking on foot.

Thinking of her current situation, however, only made the ache on her feet worse. She felt as if her toes were about to explode from the pressure exerted by the points of her shoes. For a moment, she felt like bursting into tears, not because it would solve anything, but because she needed an outlet for the emotions that threatened to choke her. But after her aunt’s outburst, she knew that it was not a good time for this. She would do better to save it for the moment they reached the top of the hill, and Aunt’s frustration was redirected against Uncle for being wrong again. Then, she could cry and remind them that it was past her turn to be in the cart. Perhaps Grandmother would take her side: after all, she had always been her favourite.

But Uncle had not been wrong. When they reached the top of the hill, Zama let go of a great cry, jumping to her feet so fast that Grandmother almost did not catch her in time. Her scolding, however, became lost among all their raised voices, as they pointed excitedly at the great blue expanse of the Sea, and the huge city stretching side by side with it.

“Look! It’s the Arms of the Giant!” Zebedin cried. Fíriel followed his glance, and saw a large structure that looked like the harbour of Andúnië but much, much larger, and filled with ten times as many ships. To her shock, at each of its sides stood the figure of a man, the two hugest men Fíriel had ever seen, who seemed to be standing on the water itself. If any of those men was to start walking, they would trample at least five buildings with each step, and grab the largest galleys with their hands as if they were nothing but toys. The giants, she thought, certain that she had discovered the origin of that mysterious name.

Zama started crying softly, frightened by the sight. Grandmother stopped scolding then, and told her that they were only statues made of stone, that they were not alive and could not move. This was the great city and harbour of Sor, gateway of the Island, where soldiers and merchants boarded ships bound to the faraway colonies beyond the Great Sea, to return loaded with riches and bearing victorious arms. Grandfather had been born in that distant land, and he had first arrived to Númenor in one of the ships that set anchor between the legs of those giants, a long time ago. He had been a boy back then, but he had not been afraid of them, just relieved because he would not have to feel water under his feet anymore. He had hated water, like all the Haradrim, which was a trait Zama claimed to have inherited despite the fact that she had only heard of Harad in her stories. Though Fíriel suspected that she merely found it cold and uncomfortable, and used her ancestry as an excuse not to be forced to go all the way in, Grandmother was always ready to believe this sort of stuff.

“Well.” Aunt already seemed in a better mood than she had been for the rest of the day. “Perhaps we could spend the night here, and set for Rómenna tomorrow. The sun will set soon.”

“No”, Fíriel found herself answering before she could check her impulse. Her forehead curved into a frown, as she scrutinized the horizon to investigate her aunt’s surprising pronouncement. “The sun is not setting yet. It’s not even there.”

To her puzzlement, and no little annoyance, the adults started laughing.

“What?” she said defensively. “It’s not!”

“The sun does not set on the Sea in the East”, Uncle explained. “It rises from it.”

“Ha! Only an idiot doesn’t know that!” Zebedin snorted, and Fíriel bristled in anger.

“Well, you didn’t know either before they said it just now!”

“Of course I knew. I am not an idiot!”

“Peace, both of you!” Uncle shouted. “We will set camp here for the night.”

As Grandmother began building a fire, and Aunt rummaged through their rapidly dwindling set of provisions, Uncle opened the box where the statues were kept. Just like every other night since the start of their journey, he took them out with utmost care, and reverently set them on a makeshift altar made of piled white stones. The King and Queen of Heavens were both there, as well as the Queen of Earth, who brought food and crops, and the Hunter, who protected wanderers. To share their dinner with all of them was proving harder and harder as there was a smaller amount of it on their plate every day, and sometimes Fíriel could not help but wonder resentfully what use could such high beings have for a food that would end up buried under the earth anyway. But of course she knew much better than to say those things aloud. As her aunt said crossly whenever anyone said or did something disrespectful, they really were not in a position to put the goodwill of the Baalim to the test. And if the King was in our place he might not be feeling so brave either, Uncle had retorted once, earning one of her most frightening glares. That day, even Grandmother had looked uneasy, and Fíriel remembered wondering if the King was like the Baalim, able to listen to anything they said though he was not there.

The strange, invisible sunset must have happened already, for the light of day was beginning to dwindle, and stars appeared timidly on the sky above their heads. To Fíriel’s surprise, they were fewer than they used to be before they reached this shore of the Sea. Unable to keep her curiosity in check, she swallowed the last of her oatmeal and asked Grandmother if the East was a land of darkness, as she remembered hearing in a tale.

“That is in Middle-Earth, not here”, the woman replied, with a smile. She never mocked her, not even when she asked stupid questions. “There are less stars because the lights of Sor blind us and we cannot see them.”

“So, is Sor brighter than the stars?” Fíriel asked, confused. Gently, her grandmother disengaged the empty bowl from her hands and laid it down on the dry earth, laying an arm over her shoulder to pull her close.

“No, my dear. It looks brighter, only because it lies closer to us. In this world, we can be blinded by many things that seem dazzling and powerful, but that is merely because we stand too close to them. If you stand too close to this fire, it will seem brighter to you than the Sun, even though it’s not.”

“Well, the Sun will just keep to its path through the sky, and leave you be. The fire won’t. And if you stand too close to it, it will burn you.”

Fíriel had been starting to fall asleep from the sound of the older woman’s voice, saying words that were too complicated and grown up for her to understand. But her aunt’s bitter tone jolted her back into awareness, and for a moment she felt her grandmother’s grip tighten around her and her body tense, as if she was upset.

“We are all tired and in a bad mood now, my love” Uncle intervened, in a conciliatory manner. “Tomorrow, I am sure that everything will start looking better, when we reach Rómenna and meet your brothers. We can have a good life there, away from the fire.”

Aunt did not speak again, and gradually Grandmother’s grip loosened as well. Fíriel closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep so she would not be forced to get up and lie next to Zama and Zebedin. He always kicked her when he was dreaming.

The last thing she remembered hearing that night was a soft voice against her ear, humming a song in Grandfather’s mysterious barbarian language.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The next day, Fíriel discovered that their destination was not as close as she had assumed it to be. Sor was huge, and they had to circumvent it before they could find the seaside road that would take them to Rómenna. They met a lot of people on the way: vendors who took their merchandise to the city markets (she had to be scolded twice for staring in wide-eyed longing at the fresh food they carried), rich merchants with large escorts, who had slept in their country villas and now headed to the harbour to conduct their business, and, to their great unease, many soldiers from the neighbouring army quarters. There was an especially large group of them who were singing some marching song to the top of their lungs. Fíriel did not understand the words well, but she was so scared at the sound that she ran towards her uncle and grabbed his hand. He did not laugh at her, and she noticed that he was walking faster too.

“Do not look at them, Fíriel”, Aunt hissed at her. It was what she always said back home whenever the priests from the Cave came to visit, and also when they stopped at that inn to sell their old horse for meat and try to get a new one that would hopefully last the rest of the way. She still said it at every opportunity, even though to Fíriel it was already second nature to look down when there were unfriendly people about. Neither Zama nor Zebedin had ever been admonished like this, but then again, they did not have those grey eyes that made people stare.

The road to Rómenna seemed to have been recently repaired, as its pavement was shiny and smoothly even. Fíriel felt lucky that it was her turn to sit on the cart now, with Grandmother, rolling past busy fields and beaches that seemed much larger and flatter than those in the West, where they appeared to have been cleaved on the living rock.

The afternoon light was beginning to take on the colours of evening when they finally saw a secluded bay appear before their eyes, and inside it a city of white stone, with a much smaller harbour where fishermen’s boats stood in place of war galleys and merchant ships. Optimism turned into trepidation as they crossed the bustling countryside: Zama began to fuss, while the adults seemed tense again, as if they were afraid that they had made a mistake and ended up in the wrong place. But this was indeed Rómenna, and when Uncle asked for directions he was pointed towards a house that stood far away, perched atop a cliff. Fíriel heard some whispers behind her, and saw a group of people staring at them with a mean look in their eyes, though she had never seen any of them before. Before her aunt could scold her, she lowered her gaze.

The mean looks did not disappear as they walked on towards their destination. Wherever they went, there would be more of the townsfolk, and many also stared at them as if they were bad people coming to rob their houses or steal their children. A few others, however, were smiling at them, and to Fíriel’s surprise one walked towards her uncle and pulled him into a tight embrace, after which they began talking as if they knew each other well. In their conversation, she heard them mention Eldest Uncle –her aunt’s oldest brother-, who had been waiting for them and would be overjoyed by their arrival. The man said he would warn him so he could welcome them later, and Uncle thanked him. Before he left, he bowed very politely at Grandmother, who smiled back at him.

It was getting a little late when their party left the paved streets and tall houses behind, and the road became wide and comfortable again, without narrow passages where the cart had to be manoeuvred to fit or unfriendly people standing at every turn. Instead, the cottages that peppered the outskirts seemed to be all inhabited by nice folk, like the man who had embraced her uncle. As they passed by, many waved at them, and one or two greeted them by their names, though Fíriel did not recognize their faces. You were too small when they left the Andustar, Grandmother explained. That made sense, she thought; sometimes, it seemed to her that she had spent her life back home hearing the adults speak about people who were no longer there.

Then, the road turned narrower and steeper, as they began climbing the hill whose cliffs they had seen from the city. Zama promptly started whining, and Fíriel had to surrender her place in the cart to her. Her energies were intact from her long rest, though her feet and legs still hurt from the previous days, and she could not repress a wince when she tottered her first steps. But she was so determined to show that at least she was not a spoiled crybaby that she refused to complain.

Dusk was starting to fall when they reached the house on the top. It was a place such as Fíriel had never seen before, huge and beautiful like she imagined the palaces of the Elves in Grandmother’s stories. As she stood there, staring in amazement at the majestic gardens, Uncle helped Grandmother and Zama descend from the cart, while Aunt grabbed Zebedin’s hand quite forcefully, to prevent him from wandering. She seemed about to start scolding him, but right then a man approached through the footpath, and her expression changed immediately. She greeted him with great politeness, and bowed so low that Fíriel hurried to bow too, guessing that he had to be someone important. His dress was certainly nice, she thought, before she remembered that she should be looking down.

Soon, Uncle himself was hurrying to meet the man, and both engaged in a brief and frustratingly low conversation. Then, he signalled at them to follow, and when Uncle gave a significant look in the direction of their cart, he shook his head and smiled, assuring him that nothing would happen to their belongings while they were otherwise occupied. On their way to the palace, they were crossed by two other men, one of whom received instructions to take care of their horse. Fíriel wondered if someone would take care of her at some point, too.

This brief moment of self-pity was over as soon as they reached a large, stately porch, entirely covered in glazed tiles of many bright colours. Even Zebedin, who was usually so cheeky, seemed to have run out of words at the sight. The man told them to wait for a moment while he announced them to the people who were sitting there, but before Fíriel had the time to wonder who they could be, they had already risen from their seat and started walking towards them.

Fíriel’s entire family bowed, so she had no choice but to do the same.

“There is no need to do this! We are all fellow exiles here”, a woman said, in a melodious voice. Tentatively, she looked up, and lo! there stood the most beautiful lady she had ever seen, wearing the most beautiful clothes and with the most beautiful, silky mane of hair. Though she knew it was not polite, she could not help but stare at her in awe. The lady gave her a dazzling smile in return, and with a thrill, Fíriel noticed that her eyes were grey, just like hers.

“Do you remember the Lady Lalwendë, Fíriel?” her uncle asked. Alarmed, she racked her brains for a memory of the beautiful lady, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not remember her. Her cheeks grew red.

“N-no” she stammered. She expected the adults to be very displeased, but instead of that, Grandmother laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“She was too young to remember. As you see, my lady, my son-in-law remains woefully ignorant of the abilities of children, despite having two of his own and raising a third.”

Fíriel was that third one he had raised, but she was not one of his own, which was why they had always insisted on her calling him Uncle, and his wife Aunt, instead of Father and Mother like Zebedin and Zama. To do otherwise would be a terrible insult to the memory of her father, who had been Grandmother’s youngest son and Aunt’s brother, and a great hero for all the family. Of her mother they never spoke, but sometimes Fíriel liked to fantasize that she had been an exotic barbarian that her father had met in the mainland.

The beautiful lady had not stopped smiling, though somehow, Fíriel was able to notice a sadness in her gaze.

“That was indeed long ago, and much time has passed since then. I am glad to see that your granddaughter has grown into such a charming girl. And above all, I am glad that you decided to follow my advice and join us! We are exiles here, but we have made a life for ourselves, and our bonds of mutual help and trust remain intact even this far away from home. But enough talking! Come to the porch and sit with us, you must be exhausted and hungry from your long journey.”

“I am hungry”, Zama declared, throwing all rules of courtesy to the winds to seize her opportunity. The lady did not seem angry this time either.

“Excellent! I will have food and drink served to you, then. Come here and meet Lord Númendil, my husband’s grandfather. Both his son and his grandson are currently visiting the Governor of Sor, so he and I will have to do as hosts.”

Lord Númendil was also grey-eyed, and he did not look any older than Grandmother, though from Lady Lalwendë’s introduction she had expected a very old and decrepit man. He, too, smiled at her, and her heart constricted a little. These people seemed to be so rich and powerful, yet they were also very sad, and the more they looked at her, the sadder they were making her, too.

Why were they looking so much at her, anyway? She was not used to be the focus of attention, and she found it quite unsettling. Perhaps she should have followed her aunt’s advice, and kept her gaze fixed on the floor from the start. Except that this lady had already met her in the past, and they had all been aware of this except her, because she had been too young to remember.

When they sat down, all those thoughts dissipated before the ravenous hunger that awoke inside her at the sight and smell of food. For a while, she and her cousins did nothing but wolf down everything that was set before them, watched in indulgent amusement by the denizens of that lofty place. Only when she felt about to burst from so much delicious bread, and fish, and fruit of many kinds, she sighed contentedly and leaned back on her seat. Zama had already fallen asleep, her tiredness having the upper hand over her hunger, while, closer to her, Zebedin was still trying to fight it for a little longer.

Fíriel, however, could not sleep. Even as she sat there, listening to an adult conversation whose intricacies escaped her, about the High Priest of the Forbidden Bay, his “outrageous policies” in the lower Andustar, and something about the Lord of Andúnië’s petitions to the Sceptre, she could not help but feel that the beautiful lady’s attention was still focused on her. Sometimes, she fell silent for a long while, and then Lord Númendil would rise to pick up her slack and keep the conversation going. It was at those moments that Fíriel would cautiously gaze back into the eyes that sought hers, only to feel them brimming with that unsettling sadness again.

“Why was that lady so sad, Grandmother?” she whispered, once the stars had covered the night sky and they took their leave to be escorted to Eldest Uncle’s house.

Fíriel’s grandmother seemed shocked by this question. Her forehead curved into a frown, and, for a moment, Fíriel thought that she had upset her too. But it did not last long, and her hand wandered towards the girl’s hair to caress it briefly.

“She lost someone. Losing loved ones is a very sad thing, Fíriel. I hope you never have to go through it.”

Well, I lost Father and Mother, she wanted to argue, but immediately thought better of it. Just like Lady Lalwendë’s visit, this had happened when she was too young to remember, so it did not count. She certainly did not feel as sad as that lady had looked, nor did her eyes brim with unshed tears like Grandmother’s when someone mentioned Fíriel’s father in her presence. Or Grandfather, she added mentally, intimidated by the realization of how many losses the woman before her had experienced. Out of a sudden impulse, she leaned forwards to hug her.

Meanwhile, back in the porch they had just vacated, the lone silhouette of a woman stood watching them under the dim light of an oil lamp.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“My lord prince. My lord prince, please.”

Gimilzagar uncurled slightly, just enough to take a peek over the embroidered rim of the sheet he had used to cover his head. The women were there still, and it began to dawn on him that perhaps they would not give up this time. Disappointed and frustrated, he tore it down and scowled at them.

“Oh, praised be the Deliverer!” the Royal Nurse exclaimed, gesturing at the others, who promptly advanced towards him. Their soft hands touched him, and manipulated his face in every direction to inspect it, making little winces and crooning sounds of sympathy that were supposed to make him feel better, but did not.

“Nothing that some well-applied powder cannot hide”, the older woman concluded encouragingly. The others nodded, and two of them proceeded to help him to his feet.

“I do not want to go. I am sick!”, he tried for the last time. But he was not used to have his illnesses ignored in such a callous way, so his voice came out wrong, too weak, as if he was already aware that it would not be heeded.

It was not fair. Last night, the knowledge of what he would have to do when morning came had made him so terribly nervous that he could not sleep. When they tried to calm him down, it grew worse: his hands began to shake, and he knew that he was having a fit a moment before his mind blanked. The times that he could remember this happening before, no one would have dreamed of pulling him out of bed the next day, much less of forcing him to do anything that he did not wish to do. Today, however, the heir to the Sceptre of Númenor had discovered that there were limits even to the pity that he inspired. He was so shocked at his last resort having failed, that he did not know how to react, or what to do next.

As if he was a doll, he was manoeuvred into several different sets of clothing, sometimes briefly adorned with a piece of jewellery or two before the Royal Nurse frowned and it was taken away again. Different opinions were exchanged, and the debate even grew a little heated at some point, with one of the women claiming that his mother’s colours were the only ones that fitted him, and that trying to make him look like his father in any way was just impossible. Another woman argued that he could wear gold just fine, there just needed to be some more colour in his face, but the powder could do that too. In the end, the Royal Nurse decided to have him wear silver, though she liked the suggestion of the extra colour, which she pronounced “appropriately subtle”, and she also came up with the idea of curling his hair. Gimilzagar sat still while they talked, but he grew agitated when they approached him with hot tongs. This time, the Royal Nurse did not ignore him, perhaps because she had realized how close to a second fit he was. Kneeling before him, she took his hands in hers, and promised him in a firm voice that it would not hurt, and that he would not even feel a thing.

“I want Mother”, he whined. She nodded, promising that he would see her as soon as he was dressed. The sooner you behave, the sooner you will see her, was the true deal implied by her words. Gimilzagar surrendered.

The curling was a long and boring process but it did not hurt, just as she had said. Still, as the Prince of the West gazed into the mirror laid in front of him, he could not help but feel that he looked a little ridiculous. His hair was so straight that it had been impossible for the curling to stick anywhere near the crown of his head, only from his ears down. The Royal Nurse surveyed him critically, and then ordered one of the women to produce a silver diadem that covered most of the upper part of his head.

Mother came to pick him up near midday, as radiant and beautiful as ever in her jewelled, sea-blue robes. She ignored all the women who knelt as she passed by them, and stopped only before Gimilzagar. Her eyes trailed over his countenance, his dress, his ridiculous curls, and suddenly he was not so ashamed of them anymore. For in her gaze alone there was no judgement, no standards he could fall short of. With or without curls, powder, or appropriate colours, she made him feel as if he was just right, exactly the way she had wanted him to look.

Wonderful as this feeling was, however, he could not allow himself to surrender to it before he had made one final attempt.

“Mother, please, I do not want to go. I am sick, could I stay here?” he begged pitifully.

One of her soft hands cupped his face, while the other caressed his forehead in soft motions. Her dark eyes, so similar to Gimilzagar’s own, sought his, and his spirit sank.

“I am sorry, my love, but that is not possible today. You are the Prince of the West, and sometimes there are things that you will need to do because they are your duty.” When I was your age, I did not want to do my duty, either, and my father was only too content to let me do as I pleased. But that was not love: he was ashamed of me, so he did not wish the people to see me next to him, to know that I would be his successor one day. I will never be ashamed of you, my dear son. “I promise that I will be with you all the time.”

Gimilzagar looked down, taking her proffered hand with his. They were both the exact same shade of pale white, as the Royal Nurse had not thought of putting any powder there.

“How could anyone be ashamed of you, Mother?” he wondered aloud. The women stared at him, but he ignored them. “You are the most beautiful and powerful woman in the world!” He, on the other hand…

Mother caressed his hair again, her mouth curved into the sweetest smile.

“You are the greatest miracle to happen in Númenor, Gimilzagar. When you walk among them, the people see the Great God in you.”

Her gaze retreated, and she walked past the women again and towards the door, this time with Gimilzagar in tow. As he followed her across long Palace corridors and galleries filled with kneeling courtiers, his trepidation came back with a vengeance.

Did they see the Great God in him? How could that be possible? he wondered, feeling so inadequate while he forced his aching legs to walk side by side with her majestic steps. They could not even make him look like Father, no matter how hard they tried, and everybody knew that the Great God looked like him. All those huge, scary statues of the Deliverer had his face. For a moment, Gimilzagar tried to imagine his own features there, but this thought only made him feel worse.

You are too young now. One day, you will understand everything better, her soothing voice spread across his mind like a golden warmth, and for a while he thought no more.

 

*      *      *      *      *

 

The Temple was so full of people that it seemed about to burst. Gimilzagar hated people; they always gazed at him in an intrusive way that made him feel very uncomfortable. As they walked across a narrow path cleaved by the Palace Guards, past the priests, noblemen and courtiers who stood near the flaming altar, he tightened his grip on Mother’s hand.

The people who pressed around them were only a minor inconvenience, however, compared with the suffocating vicinity of the Sacred Fire. Closest to it, as if he could not even feel the heat of the flames that made large beads of sweat trickle down Gimilzagar’s face, ruining the work of the women who had powdered it, Lord Zigûr stood perfectly still. When they reached their appointed places, he turned towards them to bow at Mother and smile obsequiously at him. Gimilzagar acknowledged him with a solemn nod.

Long ago, when he was nothing but a war captive brought from the distant mainland, Lord Zigûr had wrought the miracle that saved Gimilzagar’s life as a newborn baby. As a reward for it, he had been freed, and elevated to the highest priesthood of the Great God. If, as Mother said, people saw Gimilzagar as the greatest miracle to happen in Númenor, he could not help but think that all the credit for it had gone to Lord Zigûr, rather than to him. Everybody was in great awe of the priest, believing him to have the power to save their children as well, or doom them if he refused his help. He was wise, fair and kind, though for some reason Gimilzagar felt a little repelled by his blue eyes. At some moments, he was almost certain that they had featured in one of his long and complicated nightmares, those that he never could remember after he awoke.

In any case, he never held his glance for too long, afraid that Lord Zigûr would see through him and guess his thoughts. Sometimes, in his darkest musings, he imagined that the man decided to take his life back, and he dropped dead to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Of course, he immediately told himself that this was impossible: the High Priest would never get away with harming him. But the morbid thought was too persistent, and it would always return.

Shortly after they were all sorted in their respective positions, the main gates of the Temple opened with a booming noise. The loud murmurations of the crowd became a low hum, then died, as the first soldiers marched in with their long cloaks and wreaths upon their heads. The King of Númenor came behind them, wearing the royal purple, and his golden armour underneath. He climbed the marble stairs at a brisk pace, until he stood next to Lord Zigûr, who bowed with everyone else.

Gimilzagar took a sharp, conspicuous breath. It had been so long since he had last seen Father that he barely remembered him: whenever he tried to bring his features back to his mind, the statues of Melkor were almost all he could think of. Before his son’s first begetting day, the King had sailed off to Harad, and had not returned until the young Prince was about three, but when he was four he had left again, this time to fight the Easterlings. According to the adults who surrounded Gimilzagar, he had led three different campaigns against them, though in the boy’s mind they had blended into one, his brief visits too short to be truly memorable. Most of what he could recall from them was the crowded streets, which had made a strong impression on him when he had been younger, and as he grew a little older, the terrifying glimpses of fire and blood.

With a sinking feeling, Gimilzagar watched as the bulls were brought in, struggling and bellowing on their way to the altar. People said that animals were stupid, and did not know that death awaited them at the end of their journey, but this was a lie. They knew, and their fear was so intense that it reached Gimilzagar, like blood would splatter the robes of those who stood closest when the blade sunk into their flesh. He tried to press closer to Mother, away from their reach; guessing his feelings, she stepped backwards and pulled him with her.

Animals, however, were just simple creatures. Their fear was a feeling, for they did not have thoughts. Men had thoughts, even barbarians like those who were led in after the bulls. Usually, the only thoughts that Gimilzagar could hear were Mother’s, which were warm and comforting, but these were strong and so violent that sometimes they splattered him too, no matter how hard he tried to escape them. And when they did, he saw garbled, shifting fragments of nightmarish things, like the fleeting awareness of his dreams that he lost one second after he awoke in his bed.

One of them, the third to be dragged upstairs, was a man of striking appearance, taller than the others and with the darkest skin that Gimilzagar had ever seen. As he approached the altar, his eyes met those of the Prince for a moment, and they were like burning coals. Behind them, Gimilzagar saw a mountain made entirely of dead people, their expressions horribly vacant as flies worried on their eyes. He saw blood staining the white stone floors of something that looked like a temple, and a tall, roaring fire, much taller than the one on the altar, engulfing large houses and palaces while people screamed. Unable to help himself, he let go of a whimper and hid behind Mother, shaking with the first convulsions of what he recognized as a fit.

Two hands held him tight, keeping him anchored to consciousness while his father pressed his palm against the dark, pulsating forehead, and sunk the blade on the exposed neck so the blood could flow into the sacrificial basin. But that seemed very far away, devoid of the scary immediacy that the collision of his thoughts with that of the barbarian had created in his mind. Soon, he could feel other, gentler thoughts rushing in to take their place, and he heard a loving voice muttering comforting words in his ear. Slowly, the convulsions started to ease, until they died out and he was standing there, shivering and horribly self-conscious.

Ar Pharazôn the Golden paused the motions of the ceremony, and laid the blade upon the altar, next to the dead man. People around blinked and stared, as he walked away from the sacrifice to approach Gimilzagar and kneel next to him. A large hand, drenched in blood, was extended towards his cheek; instinctively, the boy flinched away from it. The sound of dull muttering spread across their vicinity, and among them, Gimilzagar could distinguish some surprised whispers. He could feel that all eyes were on him now, their weight oppressive and paralyzing.

Suddenly, the King laughed. He leaned forward to give Gimilzagar a kiss on the forehead, smelling of smoke and incense, and just a hint of burned flesh. As he did it, the boy could feel the pressure of those looks ease and relax into a general outburst of amusement.

“My son is still upset at the sight of blood. Perhaps he is too young to stand here for an entire ceremony. Why don’t you take him out, so he can play in the sunlight for a while?”

His voice was powerful, and reverberated loudly in the closed space. Gimilzagar cringed, wishing nothing more than to shrink and become invisible. A hot, bubbling shame filled his chest: he had made a scene, and though Mother had wanted to show everyone that she was proud of him, she had shamed her instead. And Father. Though he was trying to dismiss it as something unimportant before the people of Númenor, he was embarrassed for having such a weak son, a twitching, pale, whimpering brat who did not stand tall and proud in the grace of Melkor like his father.

Gimilzagar had never wanted to be here. Even before the incident with the dark barbarian, he had already driven himself into a fit just from the anticipation. Now, the Royal Nurse approached him discreetly, and he almost cried from the relief he felt at the idea of taking her hand and following her away from the looks, the fire, the sight of cut throats and the smell of burning corpses. But if he left, Father would hate him. Perhaps he would even wonder if it had been worth it, to have Lord Zigûr bring him back to life for this.

“This is too much blood for my taste as well.” Mother spoke. Her voice held a note of vehemence that made his eyes widen in shock. “I think I will leave the victor of Mordor, Harad and Rhûn to give the Great Deliverer his due, and wait for him in the Palace.” A graceful, white hand stretched before his face, and, unthinkingly, he grabbed it like a lifeline. “Come with me, Gimilzagar.”

As he followed her past a sea of bowed heads, with her retinue bringing the rear, he felt the heat of the fire recede, as well as the smoke, the stench, and the darkness of his own thoughts. When they finally emerged through a passage that led into a garden under the open skies, he experienced such relief that he struggled to repress a sob. Mother stopped in her tracks, and he flinched from her gaze, sure that she was going to scold him.

“I am sorry”, he whined, before she could speak. “You had to leave because of me. I made a scene, and Father was angry, and everybody was staring, and I did not mean it, but that man looked at me and... a-and I saw what he was thinking and it was so horrible I could not…”

But instead of scolding him, Mother embraced him. It was a long embrace, warm and comforting, and Gimilzagar could no longer keep his tears at bay.

“Listen to me, Gimilzagar”, she whispered in his ear. “The reason why that wretched man’s thoughts could touch yours is that you inherited abilities that most men cannot imagine, let alone possess. They can make you powerful, not with the kind of power that your father has, but powerful nonetheless. And you inherited them from me.”

He mulled over this, feeling the salty taste of tears on his lips.

“It did not make me feel powerful”, he argued. “I felt weak. And people laughed at me. And F-father said I was too young to be there.”

She smiled, an achingly beautiful smile as she planted kisses all over his face.

“And perhaps you are, my son. Too young, too sickly to control the power of your mind. But you will grow older, and stronger. Those sacrifices that upset you so much will ensure that you do.”

He tensed underneath her caresses, and noticing his reaction, she sobered.

“Yes, Gimilzagar. You doubt your father’s love for you, and yet he never climbs the steps of the Great God’s altar without having your name on his lips. You know that Lord Zigûr helped bring you to life, but you cannot imagine how small and terribly weak you were back then. It was widely believed that you would not last your first year, though nobody dared say it aloud. You were sick all the time!”

“I am still sick”, he tried to protest, but she shook her head.

“You are stronger now. You are growing. And you still have much more to grow, in body as well as in mind.”

Was this why that man had sought his eyes with such hateful intensity? Had he known that this small boy who fidgeted and whimpered was the reason why he had been brought across the Great Sea to have his throat slit and his corpse burned in the Deliverer’s altar?

“He would have died in any case. He was a great king of his people, and there are many ways in which he could have lost his life after he was defeated, many powers that could have been unleashed and wishes fulfilled by his death. Your father could have used his life force to extend his own, to add strength to his arms in battle, to bring bountiful crops to Umbar, or even to Númenor itself. But instead, he prayed for you. As I said to you before, my son, you are the greatest miracle in Númenor, and nothing else is as important as you are. Do you hear me? Nothing.” She stepped backwards, surveying her with a look that burned with fierce pride. “Never forget it.”

Pride was an alien emotion for Gimilzagar, but now he experienced something else: the pressing need to live up to her expectations. He wiped his face conscientiously, until there was no trace of his shameful outburst left, then gazed back at her, swallowing the last knot from his throat.

“I will not forget it, Mother”, he promised, and he was relieved to notice that his voice was steady. She laughed merrily.

“Excellent. Now, let us go to the Palace.”

As Gimilzagar followed her through the footpaths, for the first time in his life, he was not holding her hand.