Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The End of the Summer

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Gimilzagar had never imagined, not even in his wildest dreams, that having his way would be so easy. For all his life, he had been using his various illnesses to excite pity and wheedle concessions from those who were tasked to look after him, but he had never stood up to them. The Royal Nurse’s displeasure had scared him above all; she had a very stern frown, and she used it to size him up in a way that made him feel as if he was very small, whenever he fell short of her expectations for his behaviour. Her worst threat, which she reserved for his most rebellious moments, was that she would tell Mother everything, and then she would be very displeased with him.

As it turned out, however, the threat he had always feared and the frown he had cowered from were as empty as Fíriel’s bucket when, grudgingly, Abdazer sent one of his men to retrieve her things. Mother was not only not displeased with him, she was most displeased with the Royal Nurse and all the others. With a sort of trepidation which was not entirely unpleasant, Gimilzagar watched as her eyes narrowed in anger and she blamed both Lady Milkhaset and Lord Abdazer for misreading the situation and not obeying his orders at once. However they may feel about it, she informed them, Gimilzagar had chosen this girl as his friend, which meant that she could accompany him anywhere he wished, and they would have to go and present their heartfelt apologies to her for their appalling behaviour. Abdazer remained silent through all this, but the woman tried to protest, reminding the Queen that this girl’s family were settlers from the Andustar, of those who felt little love for the Sceptre and even less for the Prince of the West, whom they believed should have died long ago. Gimilzagar felt troubled at this, remembering Fíriel’s words about gods who did not require people to be burned in their honour. And still, he told himself, she had not wanted him dead, even after she knew his true identity. She came back for him, and she did not let him go.

Ar Zimraphel’s gaze focused on him, as if she was reading his thoughts. Her eyes were grave, full of an emotion which Gimilzagar could not identify, though he was certain that she was not angry at him.

“I trust my son’s judgement above yours”, she said, turning towards the Royal Nurse again. “Someone who is destined to rule over people should not be ruled by the whims of a foolish old woman.”

Lady Milkhaset flinched a little at this, but she did a good job of hiding her discontent behind a dutiful expression that seemed to have been set in stone, like the statues of Sor. Gimilzagar swallowed deeply, the bad kind of trepidation getting hold of him once more. She was angry, very angry, and he could feel it with an intensity that almost tore him apart. What would she do once he was alone with her again?

Have you learned nothing? She is the one who should be afraid of you, my son.

Gimilzagar swallowed. He had just learned that he did not need to be afraid of her, but it was such a novel concept that it would take time to sink in. The idea that the world was upside down and that he was the one who inspired fear on others was still too unthinkable, too remote. He tried to imagine himself frowning at the Royal Nurse and sizing her up as if she was small, but it was a ludicrous, embarrassing scene, like something out of a child’s fantasy. Mother was different: she was the Queen of Númenor, wise and powerful, and everyone cowered before her. Even Father, who had conquered the whole world and was the scariest person that Gimilzagar could picture, conceded to her when they did not agree on something. He felt safe if she stood by his side, supporting him, but he was not brave enough to stand on his own.

But you were brave enough, my son. I was not down by the beach while Fíriel was being held by the Guards.

“That… that was an impulse, Mother. I could not even think”, he argued. As always, the others could not hide their awe when they heard him answer to words which had not been spoken aloud. Ar Zimraphel smiled.

“And now? Can you think?” she asked. “And if so, do you want to see her again?”

Gimilzagar’s cheeks grew a little red.

“Yes”, he replied quickly, then frowned as he came upon a thought which had not occurred to him before either. “B-but I do not want them to be there. I do not want them to apologize to her. If she sees them, she will never, ever want to come near me again. If my security is so important, could they remain hidden? I will try to explain everything!”

“A wise course of action.” Did Mother truly think that everything he said was praiseworthy? Or was she just trying to boost his spirits to make him brave? “You will find your friend again, and you will explain to her that these people are your entourage and must follow you everywhere, but that you have ordered them to remain at a distance and they will never move a finger without your permission. That what happened today was an unfortunate mistake, which will not be repeated.” She spoke to him, but her eyes were fixed on the Nurse and the Guard, who bowed even lower if such a thing was possible. “Because if it is, the consequences will be very dire.”

Gimilzagar could clearly perceive that she was very serious about this, and so did they, even without his special abilities. Confident that they would never dare break the rules, he asked Mother for permission to go to the beach again. She smiled vaguely.

“You will find nothing there now, my dear. But trust me, and you will see her.”

He nodded. Since he was little, he was aware that everything his mother saw with the eyes of her mind was true, and that it was no use to surrender to frustration or impatience over it. Besides, even without her foresight, perhaps he should have figured out by himself that Fíriel would be too scared to set foot on the beach for a while. If he ever was to become the wise ruler Mother wanted him to be, he had to learn to pay attention to such things.

Later in the aftenoon, however, as the sun was already starting to sink behind the hills, Ar Zimraphel paused the book she was reading to him to nod in silence, and he understood.

She had to go back for her things. Though she did not even know if they were still there, she had to try, for she had no others. Back when she was released and struggled to her feet, she had been torn between the urge to run to safety and the need to retrieve the knife, the net and the rest. Now, she had to be aware that the tide would turn soon, and the water would swallow everything which had been left on those rocks and in the surf. It was probably already dangerous to step on those treacherous surfaces, but Fíriel did not fear the Sea, for it was like an old friend to her. She would choose to brave its might a hundred times before she risked being caught by the Guards again.

Though this time he was leaving the villa with permission, Gimilzagar could not help feeling nervous as he was escorted down the lane that led to the vicinity of the beach. He did his best to be fast, even though his legs were not used to those exertions and complained bitterly. Still, by the time they arrived, it was almost night, and a faint, rosy light diffused across the horizon was the sole guide to his footsteps.

“Stay here”, he said, trying to imitate Mother’s tone to make it sound more like an order. Perhaps it worked, or perhaps they were too busy thinking of Gimilzagar’s real mother and what she had said back then to gainsay him, but the fact was that they remained behind. Alone, he felt less nervous, though his heart still gave a leap when he saw a shadow moving across the half-engulfed path of the rocks.

“Fíriel!” he called at the top of his voice, running towards the surf. The shadow did not stop.

“Fíriel!” he repeated, and he waved at her with the bucket in his hand. “I came to return your things!”

Gimilzagar reached the edge of the waters. There, he realized that the girl was standing on top of an isolated rock by the end of the reef, which had been surrounded by the strong current of the growing tide. He had seen her carry herself with such skill that he had not thought that anything could happen to her, but now he was suddenly afraid. If she was in trouble, there was nothing he could do about it. And then, the thought dawned in his mind, would he have to call Abdazer to rescue her? Perhaps she would rather drown, but how was he expected to accept such a thing?

“Who is with you?” she shouted from her precarious position, and his train of thought died abruptly as he realized that the reason why she was there was that she was fleeing from their presence.

“No one!” he shouted back. “There is no one, I promise!”

But Fíriel still did not move. It was obvious that she did not believe him.

“Fíriel, please!” Another wave broke against the rock, and the salt water sprayed her clothes. “If you stay there you will drown!”

At last, this seemed to wring an emotion from the girl. Her body was suddenly racked by laughter, and she pulled her dress off through the hole in the head. Gimilzagar’s eyes widened, wondering if she was naked or had something else underneath, for the light was not bright enough to tell. With amazing dexterity, she tied the cloth over her forehead, like some kind of turban, and leaped into the Sea. A few strokes later, she had already set foot on the surf, but did not advance towards him until she had scrutinized the space around him and felt satisfied that he was telling the truth. Then, and only then, she pulled her clothes away from her head, and put them on again as she followed the direction of the waves that died at his feet. Her movements were so fast that he could not tell even now whether she had been naked or not.

“You could have left them here instead of taking them with you!” she spat angrily. He extended the hand that held her instruments towards her as a peace offering, but she grabbed them and jumped backwards as if his very touch could burn her.

Gimilzagar scowled.

“Are you one of those Baalim-worshippers who hate me, then?”

Fíriel’s eyes widened. For a moment, he thought he saw fear staring back at him from those orbs, only that it was not fear, but anger, and finally it became something less fiery – could it be sadness?

“I do not hate you”, she said, and it seemed as if she was talking to a child much younger than herself. “But I cannot be your friend. The people around you will not like it, and I will be in danger, and my family too. Why don’t you… find a friend in the Palace? Or at least in Sor!”

The strange pride, which he had felt coursing through his veins when he stood up to the Royal Nurse, was back at those words. And then he knew it: it was not his own daring or even his mother’s support, but Fíriel herself, who had made him feel like this. No one, either in Sor or in the Palace of Armenelos, had had this effect on him before.

“The people around me will like it, if they know what is good for them. They made a mistake before, but they will not repeat it. Mother was furious: she wanted them to apologize to you, but I told her that you would not appreciate them getting near you again.”

Her mouth fell open at those words, as if her jaw had somehow given way. It looked so comical that Gimilzagar was about to laugh, but luckily he prevented himself in time.

“The… the Queen of Númenor, you mean? She knows?”

“She knows and she does not mind. I swear it to you by… well, by whatever you swear things by,” he insisted, desperate for her to believe him. “My escort will remain around because they are needed for my security, but they will not come close and they will obey all my orders, all the time, so you have nothing to fear.” He had a sudden idea. “You could even come home with me, if you want, and meet Mother, so she can confirm it.”

Big mistake, he thought ruefully, when he saw her features become veiled again, and she retreated several steps into the darkness.

“It’s getting late. Grandmother must be worried.”

“Fine! You do not have to come with me. But we can still meet here. We can do things together”, he pleaded. She shook his head.

“I have things to do.”

“Catch stupid crabs?” he snorted, exasperated. “We can buy them at the market! Ten times as many, if you want!”

“Why don’t you just buy me, then, like the merchants of Sor buy their slaves off the harbour?” she shrugged, her voice strangely expressionless. “Though on second thought, I don’t think queens and princes have to pay for anything. Everything is already yours, isn’t it?”

Her pace was so fast that Gimilzagar could not follow her, and it was not long since he lost her in the darkness. For a small fraction of a second of unbelievable frustration, he was about to call Abdazer and tell him to bring her back, but his voice died in his throat under a renewed onslaught of burning shame.

Everything is already yours, isn’t it?

It was not, he thought, sitting on the humid sand and shaking as the night breeze blew over his face. It was really not.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

As chance would have it, however, the choice he had made that evening on the beach proved the correct one. For the next day, Fíriel was back, and the day after that, and the cautious politeness with which they tried to act as if nothing had happened soon evolved into a comfortable closeness, as she decided that he had no intention of taking her anywhere, or of preventing her from leaving when she wanted to. Still, he could not help but notice that there was something, a sense of freedom and infinite possibility which he had felt by her side on the very first day they met, that seemed irrevocably gone from their exchanges. He felt bad for missing it, for, after all, it had been part of a lie he had crafted. She did not hate him, despite being an Elf-friend and a Baalim-worshipper, but she would not drop her guard entirely around him ever again.

“What do you think?” she snorted, once he tried to press her about this. “Are you aware of those soldiers watching us?”

“Forget about them! They do not matter”, he shrugged, but she did not share his nonchalance.

“You can forget about them. All I can think about is that if I hit you now for being a clueless idiot, they will kill me.”

He stared at her, hurt.

“And why would you want to do that? I’m- I’m not a clueless idiot, I just wanted you to know that…”

She rolled her eyes.

“I do not want to hit you! The point is, how can I forget about them if I can’t hit you? Even if I don’t want to!”

Gimilzagar pondered this. He could not quite make sense of it, but he did not say as much. He was determined to be conciliating.

“Anyway, I will not be coming tomorrow.”

“Why?” he asked, alarmed. He must have upset her in spite of all.

“Grandmother is taking me to the lord of Andúnië’s house on a visit” she explained with a smile, ignoring his turmoil. Underneath it, for a moment, Gimilzagar saw pride. “As you can see, you are not my only powerful friend.”

The lord of Andúnië. Exiled from the Andustar when Gimilzagar had been too young to remember, the information came to him as he racked his brains to locate the name. Leader of the Elf-friends, who were Fíriel’s people. Still, he could not help but feel a little surprised: from how she spoke of them, and of her life with them, her family had not struck him as the sort to be personally acquainted with a lord, exiled or not. Perhaps their ways were not the same as those of normal people, he thought. He had heard that Elves had very strange customs, and that their followers in the Island copied them in everything, trying to imitate them though they were as mortal as the rest of the Númenóreans.

“My family has had powerful ties with the house of Andúnië ever since Lord Amandil brought my grandfather to Númenor as a boy”, she explained, as if guessing his thoughts. “And my father fought alongside his grandson in many battles.”

“I see”, Gimilzagar nodded, though he was not certain that he did. To be brought to Númenor from the mainland meant almost certain death as far as he knew, whether on behalf of the King or on behalf of whatever wealthy noble or merchant decided to spend his coin in buying lives to sacrifice. From what he had heard, he was aware that some of them survived and were sold as slaves, but most of those were in the colonies, where free peasants were scarce. The only one he knew to have won his freedom was Lord Zigûr, but that was a different story.

Then again, the Elf-friends could be a different story as well. And in any case, if Fíriel’s grandfather had perished upon the Great Deliverer’s altar, she would not be there now, guiding his hand until he was able to catch the crab with the net. Just as Gimilzagar himself would not be learning from her, if his people had not died there.

The devastating realization of what truly set them apart fell on him like a powerful bolt of lightning. He had to pretend to be busy for a long while, unwilling to look at her just in case she could read his thoughts.

“They have always watched over us, and they like to invite me at least once a week to their house up the cliff”, she continued, apparently unable to perceive what was wrong with him. He nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.

“What is it? You are surprised?” she asked, a hint of defiance in her voice now. Gimilzagar should be thankful that she was too busy with her own assumptions to dig any deeper, but instead he felt as if he had successfully managed to hide a painful scrape from the eyes of the adults: he had not been scolded for it, but it still hurt.

“Have fun, then” he said, swallowing hard. “I will catch all your crabs for you.”

Her gaze narrowed, and she studied him for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, she shrugged and looked away.

“If you have them brought from the market and claim that you caught them, I will know.”

Gimilzagar forced himself to smile.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

She had managed to impress him with her mention to the lord of Andúnië, at least to an extent. This was reassuring news, for it proved her theory that the name still carried some weight in Armenelos. Though he did not brag of it, and even claimed that it would not make things any better, Fíriel had heard the other day that the King had summoned the High Priest of the Forbidden Bay to the Palace because of his petition. She trusted Gimilzagar: he was sweet and did not mean her any harm, but he was a little too sure that the adults around him would not dare move a finger against his wishes. As spoiled as he might be, Fíriel was not willing to bet her life and that of her family on this conviction, especially knowing that the Queen was also there, looking over her precious son’s shoulder. But if they knew that she was under the protection of someone important, they would no longer see her as a mere Faithful peasant. And perhaps, that would make them think twice before taking action.

Only as she was crossing the gates of the Lord’s house, holding Grandmother’s hand, it struck her that perhaps she should have asked his permission before putting him in that position. They never said those things to her, but she still managed to hear many snippets of adult conversations which they thought she was too young to understand. From them, she had gathered that he was often angry at the Faithful who got themselves in trouble and expected him to rescue them. Fíriel had not got herself in trouble: trouble had found her in the shape of a very persistent spoiled brat, whom she could not bring herself to hate no matter how hard she tried, but she wondered if that distinction would matter much. Trouble was trouble, after all, wherever it came from.

“Grandmother”, she asked, before they were ushered in to Lady Lalwendë’s quarters. “Do you think that Lord Amandil would… let bad things happen to us?”

The woman frowned.

“Bad things? What bad things, my dear?” Fíriel knew that piercing glance, and she also knew that she had been acting very suspiciously for days. The night she arrived all wet and with an empty bucket, she had claimed that some stupid kids from the city had stolen her shellfish and pushed her into the water. Though she even had an ugly bruise to prove it, she was aware that Grandmother had realized the weak point of the story: those stupid kids would no doubt have taken her things with them, not merely the crabs. But the old woman had pretended to believe her, healed and fed her, and Fíriel had been left with the unpleasant sensation that she was waiting for her to tell the truth on her own initiative.

“I don’t know”, she mumbled, growing red to the root of her hair. “Just… bad things.”

“Fíriel, the lord of Andúnië would do anything to protect us if we were in any kind of serious trouble.”

Grandmother looked disappointed as she spoke those words, perhaps even worried. Fíriel looked down, suddenly too ashamed to face her. After all, she thought, she might be putting her in danger, too. She had never led Gimilzagar or his escort to their home –though the Prince had asked her, claiming that he wanted to see for himself where she lived- but it was not exactly difficult to find out where it was. If she simply did not show up, she knew that Gimilzagar would not stop until he found her again. And if she told her family about him, they would panic and want to leave that place never to return, but where could they go now? They had found a second home here, after much toil and hardship, it was unthinkable that they could lose everything again because of her.

Still, Grandmother’s words had given her an idea, if only she could find the courage to put it in practice. When tea was served, she was so nervous that she was not even hungry, though she always fell upon the platters of sweetmeats as if she had not eaten for days. This caused Lalwendë to fuss over her –sometimes, the lady acted more like a grandmother than her real grandmother-, but once that Fíriel managed to swallow a few cakes without getting nauseous, she seemed ready to take her behaviour for restlessness and informed her that she could go out and play. The girl did not need to be told twice.

As soon as she was out of their sight, she began searching the house. Usually, she tried to keep away from people who could scold her or send her back with Grandmother, and since she happened to meet that priest, she had added that to the list of reasons to remain inconspicuous. But today, running into people could not be avoided. When she heard the sound of a conversation, she rushed towards it and asked for directions with an unshaken voice, taking her cue from the way Gimilzagar had spoken to his servants. She could play the high lady just as well, she thought, paying no heed to their shocked looks.

Still, not even this would have been enough to gain access to him, if he had not been alerted by the sounds of argument on his doorstep and came in person to inquire about the cause. He was holding a sword in his hand, a real one, she realized, forcing herself not to show fear and stand her ground. But as soon as he saw her, his eyes widened and that made him look a little less alarming.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. Fíriel remembered herself enough to bow.

“I… was wondering if I could speak a word to you in private, my lord”, she said, swallowing only once. The servant who had wanted to stop her shook his head indulgently.

“I tried to tell her that you would see no one, but…”

“Come in”, Isildur said, his gaze showing sudden vestiges of a strong emotion that she could not read. With a last, triumphant look at the other man, she followed him inside.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“What…. how…?” He seemed strangely out of sorts, for a man who looked so frightening while holding his sword that Fíriel herself would have run away if her need had not been so great. “What do you want?” was what he settled for at last.

She had followed him until they reached what looked like a backyard, smaller than the one where she had seen the White Tree, but entirely devoid of vegetation. It was all a white-paved empty space, where her footsteps gave off an impressive echo.

“Your help”, she declared, determined not to beat around the bush. He stopped in his tracks, and turned to face her again. Now that she was staring at him from so up close, he seemed even taller and bigger than before; belatedly, she noticed that the hand that held the sword was crisscrossed by a whitish scar. He had not been afraid to fight Palace Guards in the past.

“And why would you come to me?” he asked, with a frown. Fíriel took a deep breath to gather her courage.

“Because you have a debt towards my father, my lord. Lord Númendil told me.”

His eyes widened again, not in anger, but rather in disbelief. For a moment, she thought that he was going to challenge her words, perhaps tell her that he did not recognize any such debt. In the end, he just nodded gravely.

“Tell me.”

Encouraged, Fíriel gave him a summary of what had happened to her in the last days: her encounter with Gimilzagar, how she had discovered his identity, her run-in with the Palace Guards of his escort and their later deal. She mentioned how her family had been attacked and Zebedin had got hurt, and how she feared for them even though the Prince claimed that his mother did not mind him befriending one of the Faithful. As her tale progressed, she noticed that his frown grew stormier and stormier.

“Would you be able to protect us? Just in case that… the Queen, or someone around her, suddenly decides that we are trying to harm her son, or that he would be better off if we were out of the way?”

He sheathed his sword in its scabbard, and put it aside in silence. Fíriel waited impatiently, until he came back to her.

“First, there is something that you must be aware of”, he spoke at last. “Nobody in this house, no matter how well-disposed they might feel towards your family and yourself, will agree to stand in the way of a Palace Guard sent by the Queen of Númenor. What you are asking is treason, and the Lord of Andúnië will not commit treason, no matter how many people suffer or die before his eyes.”

The girl’s spirit sank. Disappointed, she stared at her feet as the implications of his words became clear. No one would help her, because no one wanted to take that risk.

“But the Lord of Andúnië’s loyalty to the Sceptre is not the only loyalty that exists”, he continued after a while. His voice was lowered, and yet she could detect the emotion from before simmering underneath. “What you came to tell me, Fíriel, is the one thing I promised I would never allow to happen. Now, it is happening and you decided, of your own free will, to come to me, and not to my grandfather, my father or anyone else. I can recognize the signs.” She opened her mouth to ask a question, but he turned away from her and began pacing around the room, as if prey to a great excitement. “Rómenna is teeming with our people, who were forced to leave their homes through violence. And the Sceptre thinks so little of us that the Queen herself and her spawn have come to spend some time at the seaside near us, with only a few Guards for protection. If we stopped twiddling our thumbs and took action, we could bring Ar Pharazôn to his knees now. If the Prince of the West threatens you or your family…”

“He is not…” Fíriel began, but he didn’t even seem to be hearing her anymore.

“…it could be the start of a revolt. The Queen is not our friend, and she has long rejected the loyalty that we owed her from Tar Palantir’s succession decree. But she is still the rightful ruler of Númenor for many, and if we have her son, she would be forced to support us. Then, we could take ship for Arne, where most of the population remains loyal to us.”

Fíriel’s face had gone pale. Though she did not understand everything that he was saying, what she was able to gather gave her the shivers. All of a sudden, she wanted to be very, very far away from here. She should never have come.

“I… I did not mean…” she blabbered, but she did not know how to finish the sentence. She changed tack. “Gimilzagar is my friend. I did not mean for you to hurt him.”

Isildur looked at her in incredulity.

“It is because of him that you are in this situation!”

“But he didn’t mean it!” she replied, more passionately than she would have believed possible. “He is a bit spoiled but he is kind a- and sweet!”

“Kind?” He laughed, a hollow laughter with no trace of amusement in it. “Do you know why they call him an abomination? “She shook her head, both because she did not know and because she did not want to know, but he seemed to latch onto the first meaning alone. “He was born dead. Sauron keeps him alive by feeding Melkor’s foul altar fires with the blood of Men. Do you know how many people have died so he could live? And do you know what would happen to him if the sacrifices were to stop?”

Fíriel did not know where she found the energy to confront this man. Perhaps she had it from her memories of the boy who had caught crabs with her on the seaside, who was not an abomination and who had smiled, cried and bled like any other boy who just happened to be a prince. Or perhaps it came from her grandmother’s firm voice, when she scolded Zebedin for parroting those superstitions and putting their people in danger.

“That is not true!” she shouted. At long last, she seemed to have given him some pause, because he stopped pacing and she detected some surprise in his grey eyes. “I came to you for help, my lord, but that is not the kind of help I need. So I do not want it anymore. I will protect myself!”

The surprise turned into disbelief. He opened his mouth and closed it several times, and it took her all her bravery to stand firm and await the explosion.

“I cannot allow that”, he hissed. “I will not stand idle while you face him alone. Your father would never forgive me!”

“You did not even know this was happening before I came here.” She had not intended it to sound as an accusation, but after it left her mouth she realized that it could be understood as such. “Could we… just pretend that we never spoke? Please?”

He frowned.

“That is not how it works, Fíriel.”

Frustrated, she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. Why did everyone have to make things so difficult?  This man was much older, taller and stronger than Gimilzagar, but just as unwilling to listen to her and understand what she truly wanted to tell them.

“I do not want you to harm Gimilzagar. If you can protect my family without hurting him or kidnapping him or- or threatening him or anything like that, I will be very thankful, my lord. If not, I will have to protect him myself, and you will have to fight me, and my father won’t be happy at all, wherever he is. And he died to save your life”, she reminded him, just in case he had forgotten.

The silence after her outburst was positively deafening. Slowly, she sought Isildur’s glance with the corner of her eye, to get wind of his next reaction, but he was not looking at her. His gaze was fixed on some point behind her, and for a moment she was so sure that someone else was standing there that she instinctively turned back.

The courtyard was empty.

“Very well. I will - do as you ask, Fíriel, though I must warn you that it will not be easy”, he said in a weird voice, as hoarse as if he had a head cold. She practically sobbed in relief.

“Thank you very, very much, my lord” she rushed to say before he could change his mind. “I… understand, and I am sorry. I… did not mean to…”

“You did not mean to, but you did.” He shook his head several times, as if trying to dislodge a persistent headache of some sort. “You are so very much alike it is almost uncanny.”

“Am I?” In spite of the awkwardness of the situation, she felt an unexpected pride swell in her chest. “Am I like my father?”

His eyes were a little clouded as he nodded in pretended ease, and all of a sudden, without even knowing why, Fíriel was aware that he was lying. She reminded him of someone, but it was not her father.

Had he known her mother, too? Would he tell Fíriel about her?

Just when she had gathered enough courage to speak, however, he laid a hand on her shoulder and called for someone, and the moment was gone.

“Go back to your grandmother, and do not tell anyone about this, whether from this house or from yours” he instructed her, falling to his knees so they would see eye to eye. “And be prudent around the Prince of the West, for if I need to intervene, it will be very hard to do so without causing any ripples that you will not like. Do you understand, Fíriel daughter of Malik?”

“Yes, my lord”, she nodded firmly. “I understand.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

He had not been consciously trying to attract her attention, but she was so adept at perceiving his moods that staring for a little too long at an empty space, or needing an extra second to answer a query was more than enough for her to notice that something was amiss. Sometimes, Gimilzagar resented this a little, but usually he had to admit that he needed her help. And today, he needed it more than ever.

“Tell me what worries you, my son”, she said, letting her book fall over her lap. The waves broke against the rocks at regular intervals, so far below their feet that only the faintest rumble reached his ears, a peaceful sound which had rocked him to sleep many nights since they arrived from Armenelos. Gimilzagar longed to close his eyes against it, and forget about everything else.

“Mother”, he spoke, then for a while said nothing, too busy struggling with the best choice of words. But with some things, there was simply no right way to say them; one either said them, or remained silent for ever. “Is there a way for me to live without killing other people?”

Zimraphel was not angry. Instead, she leaned towards him, and caressed his hair with the tip of her fingers.

“I understand. You are upset because your new friend does not agree with the practice, and you are afraid that she might hate you.”

“Her grandfather was a barbarian, Mother”, he explained, seizing the chance to be forthcoming about the thoughts which had haunted him for the last days. “He was taken to the Island but he was not sacrificed; instead, he married a Númenórean woman. If he had died, she would never have been born!”

“You are not looking at things the right way”, she scolded him gently. “Rather, if she did not have to be born, her grandfather would not have lived. Some people have a special fate, and they will fulfil it despite all the odds. Your friend Fíriel is an Elf-friend, is she not? Ask her about Beren and Luthien! They were a man and an Elf who, according to the legends, went as far as to die and be brought back from the threshold of Eternal Darkness merely because it was their fate to marry and bring a half-Elven race into the world.”

Gimilzagar stared at her, trying to assimilate her words.

“Is… Fíriel someone special, then?”

“If she was not, would she have brought such a great change to your life merely because of her presence?” she chuckled. “Since you met her, you have braved the might of the Lady of the Seas and that of your nurse, and now you are even pondering letting yourself die to win her approval!” She sobered a little. “As you may have imagined, your father and I will not let you do such a thing.”

“It is not fair!” he cried bitterly. “Why was I not given a life that was just mine, like everyone else? Why must I depend on others? Is this why they call me an abomination? Yes, I have seen the word in Lady Milkhaset’s mind, when she told me about the Baalim-worshippers who resented me, but I did not know what it meant, and it felt so ugly that for a long time I was even afraid to ask!”

Zimraphel shook her head, unperturbed by this information as much as by his outburst.

“These people are wrong, my son. They are wrong about many things, but above all, they are wrong when they signal you. For in this world, many die so others might live every single day. Look at Nature herself: animals hunt and kill other animals to feed their flesh to their young so they will not starve. Beyond the Sea, tribes and kingdoms go to war and destroy the population of other tribes and kingdoms so they can settle in their lands and thrive on their grain, and border armies fight and give their lives to defend their people from the attacks of their enemies. Many of those who grumble at Lord Zigûr’s sacrifices were happy enough to slaughter those same barbarians in the mainland when they revolted against Númenor. It is the law of the world that the conquered give their lives on behalf of the conquerors, and the lesser on behalf of the greater, and it is nothing but hypocrisy to lay the weight of all those lives on your shoulders.” Now, her tone was growing more passionate, as if she was angry, though not at Gimilzagar. “You are a convenient target because you are young and frail. They would never dare defy your father openly, for he is the mightiest warrior alive, so they are laying the groundwork for what they believe will be your future succession of him.”

This was all a little too much for the boy to assimilate. Confusion and alarm waged a war inside him, as his mind worked furiously to make sense of his mother’s words. She believed that he had the right to live at the expense of other people’s deaths because he was great, but at the same time, to his enemies, he was a childish weakling whose authority they would defy if his father was not there. The terrible thought dawned upon him that perhaps he was expected to grow worthy of all those lives only by becoming a strong warrior and ruler like Father was. But instead of fulfilling those expectations, he was scared by the sight of blood, and whining because his friend would not like him if she knew about the sacrifices. No wonder Father was always so short with him, he thought.

“You cannot blame him, no”, she said, but in a way that did not sound like a reproach. As if to reinforce this impression, she caressed him again. “But he does not know you as well as I do. You are strong, my son. And one day, your life will be yours and no other’s.”

“Really?” He looked up, hopefully. “When?”

But her smile became enigmatic, and the hopes he had harboured fell a little. He knew his mother well enough to be aware that she was never wrong, but the future that she was able to see with her powers was too remote for his impatience.

“There is one sacrifice which can end all sacrifices. One day, you will understand this. In the meantime,” the ethereal, mysterious look vanished, “would you want your little friend Fíriel to come to Armenelos with us?”

Gimilzagar’s spirits were lifted at this, though the effect, once more, proved short lived.

“I… do not know if she would want that”, he ventured, all too painfully aware now that he was sounding like the opposite of a strong ruler. He could imagine his father frowning at him, and asking why would that matter.

Thankfully, Father was not here.

“She has her family”, he continued. “And she worries about them all the time.”

“I thought you said that she was an orphan.”

“Her mother and father died, yes.” And his father had died an outlaw of some sort, he recalled, desperately wishing that he could hide those thoughts from her. “But she has a grandmother. And aunts and uncles, and cousins, too.” Suddenly, he remembered something. “And they are also friends with the Lord of Andúnië.”

“I see.” She smiled, this time in sheer amusement. “She thought that this would impress us, didn’t she?”

“I do not know…” he began, then fell silent, mortified. Realizing that he was upset, however, she changed her expression to a serious one.

“I can see why she would be anxious. She comes from a rather disreputable background, and her lords are exiles. That we are aware of her existence must terrify her to no end. But she has nothing to fear. In the Palace, she would live like a lady, and her family would be better off for having one less mouth to feed.”

“She works to feed herself, Mother!” he protested hotly. Why was it, that he would only feel brave when she needed defending? Could this be why Mother was so interested in her, because she was necessary to make Gimilzagar behave like a proper Prince of the West?

“Do you wish to know the reason why I am so interested in her? Because I do not want to see you hurt, my son”, she answered his unvoiced thought. “At the end of this month, we must return to Armenelos, and you will have to say goodbye. And then, even if we come back next year and you see her again, she will not be so innocent anymore. The Baalim-worshippers will have poisoned her against you, and when you feel her thoughts against yours, you will suffer. Bring her to the Palace, and she may be angry for a while, but eventually she will be free from their poison.”

Gimilzagar swallowed a very large lump which had grown in his throat at his mother’s words. As he did so, he fought hard to ignore the annoying prickling sensation in his eyes. At other times, he would have teared up in front of her, sought her comfort and her protection against the unfairness of the world. But he could no longer do that without feeling terribly self-conscious, so instead he stood up and left in an attempt to hide his turmoil from her.

Mother did not call him back.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The rest of the summer went by so fast that sometimes it seemed to him as if only a fortnight had passed. Almost every day, Gimilzagar and Fíriel would meet, and after a while she forgot her former apprehensions about him and his escort. She showed him all her favourite places, taught him to fish and, on a very memorable day, took him in disguise to the market of Rómenna so they could sail in the boat of a fisherman she knew. The only two things she would not do were taking him to her house or accepting an invitation to his, even when the Royal Nurse herself, looking like she had chewed on a lemon, came to apologize for her former behaviour and personally vouch for her safety. But Gimilzagar did not care: in fact, he preferred to follow her into places where no one knew who he was, and his escort looked on the verge of having a fit from the distance where they were forced to remain. She taught him to love the Sea and those who lived from it, until even his clumsy hands acquired the necessary skill to imitate them, and his feet stood firmly upon the rocky surfaces. She also taught him that the Sun would not burn him if he wore a hat, that people would smile and wave if he greeted them with the right words, that working for a living did not leave time for boredom and dark thoughts, and that food tasted better when you caught it yourself. She even taught him tales, stories from the old homeland that she had been forced to abandon, and of Elves who were not evil creatures who ensnared mortals with their magic, but wise and powerful beings of light. At first she had not wanted to do so, for she did not trust him to listen with equanimity, but once he asked her about Beren and Luthien her resistance crumbled.

“Do you think that Beren survived all these dangers because it was his fate to meet Luthien?” he asked. “That the gods just… protected him for that reason? Because it had to be him and they would not have had it otherwise?”

Fíriel looked askance at him, as if trying to determine whether he was mocking her story or not.

“He survived because he was the bravest man in the world”, she finally gave her own opinion. “And that is why Luthien fell in love with him. Like my mother fell in love with my father.”

Most of the time, Gimilzagar was feeling too exhilarated and excited at the new world he was discovering to agonize too much over the conversation with his mother. This, however, began to change the day he grew conscious that time was inexorably slipping away from his grasp, and that he would have to return to Armenelos in less than a week. All of a sudden, every good moment they spent together, every laugh they shared started turning sour in his mouth after a while, like spoiled milk. And then the issue he had resolved to keep away from his mind returned to torment him in all its horrible glory.

Would he lose her forever? Give up the only friend he ever had?

One afternoon, two days prior to his scheduled departure, he finally gathered his courage to ask her if she would follow him to the Palace. He was half-expecting her to laugh in his face, perhaps be angry, but her reaction took him by surprise. Her eyes widened, and her features were drained of most of their colour and, what was worse, of her spirit.

“No. Please, no. Do not do this to me, Gimilzagar.”

The sight of her looking like this was so upsetting that he could not help feeling hurt.

“I was just asking because you are my friend, and I want to spend more time with you!”

“If you were truly my friend you would never have asked it!”

Now, Gimilzagar was angry. It had taken him very long to find the guts to do this, and if she had said no, he would have been disappointed but ready to insist, with arguments he had been carefully crafting for an entire sleepless night. Her fear, however, touched a nerve which had lay dormant since that fateful conversation.

“Why are you afraid? Have you been listening to what they say about me? Do you think I want to eat your soul?”

She turned away and fled, so fast that he doubted that even his escort would have been able to catch her, but not fast enough that the turmoil of her thoughts did not spill out, with a burning intensity that shocked him. In his life, he had grown used to this accident happening all the time, sometimes welcomed it when it revealed things that he wanted to know. He even thought that he controlled it to a certain extent, but that was because nothing like this had ever happened to him.

He was her. She came back home every day making up lies, praying that they would not see through them, learn the truth and drag her to a ship bound for Middle-Earth, where they would be faced with a new, scary beginning, away from everyone who had cared and looked after them. Sometimes, she feared even worse things: that one day they would no longer be there when she arrived, that the fields would be burning and the house destroyed, but the immediacy of this particular terror had mostly abated by now. Every morning, before she met him, she made sure that she had identified each and every member of his escort, counted them twice, thrice, until she was sure that none of them was outside her field of vision. She had troubled thoughts about a man who lingered in her mind, a powerful warrior whose help she had sought, but whom she was not sure she could trust. There was fear for Gimilzagar too, for she knew people who would like to hurt him, who hated him, but she would do anything to protect him. And then, just as she thought that things were getting better, that perhaps they could even be friends without anyone suffering for it, the spoiled brat suddenly came up with the idea of taking her away from everyone she loved, to the place of dread where her grandfather’s people were burned on altars and her own father had died. If she told the warrior about this, he would do anything to prevent it, to protect her, causing a chain of events that was too terrible for her to contemplate. But if she told no one, she would have to go, and as soon as the King or the demon who was his High Priest laid eyes on her, they would know who she was and where she came from, and what would Gimilzagar be able to do against them? There was a nightmarish vision, of her pinned against a stone altar while the blade drew inexorably closer to her throat, and the flames rose high, eager to receive her flesh.

Gimilzagar awoke in his own bed, yelling. He was given warm tea under the disapproving glare of the Royal Nurse, who would be scolding him for disregarding her warnings about that girl if Mother had not been there. Still, her thoughts must have been obvious enough for the Queen to frown at her.

“The girl did not do anything to Gimilzagar. Rather, it is thanks to her that he has begun to discover some of his abilities. Abilities which come at a painful price, as I myself learned to my regret when I was even younger than he.”

Her words seemed to come from a very great distance. He looked down, and saw his own body lying on the bed, but it was not his body and somewhere else he was still Fíriel, crying as the waves broke savagely against the jagged rocks behind her back.

Suddenly, he was able to pinpoint what was so wrong with this whole situation. Among all her thoughts, fears and calculations, there had been a very important thing missing. Gimilzagar was certain that he had asked her if she wanted to come with him to Armenelos, but this was nowhere to be found in her recollections. To Fíriel, he had told her that she would be going with him to Armenelos, and there had been no chance for her to say no. At first, the thought stung, and he longed to set it right, but then it dawned upon him. He had seen himself through her eyes, and the question he was asking had been so important to him, his eyes were shining with such hope as he spoke, that she knew her denial would hurt him and make him upset. And then Mother, the Royal Nurse and those who surrounded him would not care that she did not want to go, because all that mattered to them was his happiness. His, and not hers.

It is the law of the world that the conquered give their lives on behalf of the conquerors, and the lesser on behalf of the greater.

When he lashed out at her, he had spoken of eating her soul. He would never do something so horrible, but would it be so different to steal her? Like a slave in the harbour of Sor, she had said once in anger, except that queens and princes never pay for what they want. And yes, Gimilzagar was aware that he was not thinking or acting like a powerful ruler, but the truth was that he was very far from being a powerful ruler. For if he was, he would be able to ensure her safety and that of her family, and swear truthfully that no harm would ever come to her, in Rómenna or Armenelos. But he was just a pathetic child, who might scare a few Guards with his tantrum, yet remained unable to stand between her and the wrath of the King of Númenor. What right did he have to put her in so much danger?

Slowly, Gimilzagar came to a painful decision.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

She was there on the following morning, looking warily behind Gimilzagar, in what he now knew was her familiar ritual of locating and counting everyone in his escort. He also knew that he need not have worried that she would not come, for she would never leave them any openings to target her family.

He swallowed long and hard, walking away from the Royal Nurse and towards her. The woman’s expression of disapproval, which appeared to have been carved in her features perpetually in the last days, was even harsher now than it had ever been.

“Hello”, he greeted. Fíriel glared at him, but he resisted the urge to cringe. “I am sorry.”

The girl shrugged, and he realized that he had been right all along. She did not even think that his apologies meant anything, or that they could change her situation.

“Do you remember what you once said to me? That you would not be able to hit me if I was a clueless idiot?” A part of him cringed at this, but it was necessary. He had to.

She nodded, scrutinizing him with a rather puzzled gaze.

“I was a clueless idiot. Hit me.”

“What?” Now, he had surprised her, but not for long. She shook her head. “No.”

“No one will prevent it. I told them they could not. See? That is why Lady Milkhaset is looking so angry.”

This time, she seemed to ponder it briefly.

“No. Leave me alone.”

“You want to do it.”

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you do!”

Gimilzagar had never been hit in his life. He had not even known what to expect. Nobody had told him that not just his skin, but his whole head would ring from the impact, as if he had run into one of those marble columns of the Palace. He had not anticipated that he would not be able to stand proudly, but instead find himself instinctively cowering and hiding his face with his hands as he let go of a yelp of pain. It was all so undignified that he felt himself cringe.

Then again, he thought on the very next moment, slowly prying away his fingers from his features so he could gaze at her, he had not lost all his dignity. Fíriel was looking left and right in trepidation, which gradually faded into amazement when she realized that he had spoken true, and no one had moved behind them. He had been obeyed, and this felt so wonderful that it was almost enough to take the dreadful sting away.

“Are… you okay?” she asked. He was tempted to say no, but this new pride he felt emerged victorious against his self-pity.

“If I come back next year, will you still be my friend?”

Fíriel did not answer for a very, very long time. Just as he was wondering if he should ask again, she engulfed him in a tight hug, and began sobbing against the back of his head. Swept by the intensity of the whole situation, he broke into tears, too.

“I w-will always b-be your friend, Gimilzagar” she sniffled. “Always.”

That day, when Gimilzagar came back alone and unusually quiet, Mother did not ask any questions. Instead, she laid his head on her lap and stroked his hair until he fell asleep, crooning comforting words in his ear.