Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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A Changing Landscape

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The Eastern sea had never exerted on him the same degree of fascination as the Western one, though the rational part of Isildur knew that both could be equally deadly for those imprudent enough to challenge their unfathomable might. But swimming in the waters of Rómenna, he often caught faraway glimpses of merchant ships and war galleys sailing for Middle-Earth, that vast land which the reign of Ar Pharazôn had turned into little more than a hunting ground for the Númenóreans. Gone was the emptiness, the terrible silence of the Western sea, where a swimmer’s clouded eyes could believe they had seen the shape of the Forbidden Mountain, rising above the horizon like a white ghost to spell doom upon trespassers.

If the hapless land East of Númenor had only been able to wield such defences against the men from the Island, he thought as he felt the yielding sand under his feet, it would have invoked this protection long ago, and left them to stand forever trapped between two forbidden worlds, hated and shunned by all. It seemed an eternity since the Númenóreans had been welcome among their fellow men, for bringing the benefits of civilization to the peoples of darkness who lived near the Western shores. This association had given rise to advanced societies like the kingdom of Arne, which despite its many failings had stood for hundreds of years as a beacon against the power of Mordor and the savagery of the mountain tribes. But now, Númenórean civilization had become one with this power and this savagery, and neither friend nor foe could expect anything better from them. And, not yet content with oppressing the lands which had traditionally been part of their area of influence, Ar Pharazôn had taken his troops far beyond any limit previously considered by their ancestors or even known by the Elves, as if looking for the dark chasm at the end of the world which kept eluding him in his campaigns. Sometimes, Malik teased Isildur about this, telling him that the King was animated by the same demons that had brought the son of Elendil to swim in search of the land of the Valar, courting death. But Isildur had never succumbed to the demon who made Men sacrifice other Men for the sake of their own greatness, and if he had been responsible for the death of a man, he had never forgiven himself for it.

How can you presume to know the innermost workings of his mind? Perhaps he is seeking death, too. Perhaps he is angry at the world because no one will give it to him.

Isildur laughed bitterly.

“All those souls spent with the sole purpose of extending life, and you say that perhaps he wants to die? I think death is the farthest thing from his mind. As far as he is concerned, he is a god, the Face of Melkor, if not Melkor himself. And the sycophantic minion that both had in common seems to agree.”

But trying to be a god must be immensely frustrating. Just take a moment to think about his plight, Isildur. All those people burned in fire altars to his greater glory, and not a single one of them climbed their steps willingly to die for him. He can have the domes of all Four Great Temples blackened with the smoke of the sacrifices, and still you remain a greater god than he.

“Do not say that,” Isildur hissed fiercely. “Do not ever say that.”

“Are you looking for this?”

It took him too long to realize that the voice which had spoken belonged to a solid presence, who stood looming over him on the surf. Their hand was extended before his face, holding the clothes he had discarded before he walked into the water, while the eyes surveyed him with an expression of quiet, but no less clamorous disapproval.

“Anárion” he whispered, in a voice made hoarse by the salt he had swallowed. “What do you want?”

His brother looked almost incongruous in this wild landscape, dressed as if he had prepared for an audience with the Governor of Sor, who was the highest authority who would see them these days. The only concession he had made to his surroundings had been to leave his shoes behind, to prevent the salt water from ruining them. Even this, however, was highly unusual as far as Isildur could tell.

“Are you going to put your clothes on?” Anárion asked, instead of replying to his question. He shrugged.

“I usually prefer to dry first. But you could have waited until I was dressed instead of ambushing me like this”, he continued before the younger man could open his mouth again. “Unless you are here to give me very urgent news.”

“They are not as much urgent as they are important”, Anárion insisted, going as far as to practically press his bundle into Isildur’s hands. “And I have ambushed you, as you say, only because it is harder than it seems to gain access to you, considering that we are brothers and live in the same house.”

“It is the first time I hear that you have tried.” Night had almost fallen upon the Eastern horizon, and the cold breeze became more noticeable as Isildur’s clothes grew wet from contact with his body.

“Perhaps you have been too busy to notice.” Anárion was fairly good at sarcasm; it would be impossible to detect it from his voice and his demeanour alone. “I will give you a brief update: Father and I have been working for quite some time now to get permission from the governor of Sor to be allowed to pursue commercial ventures in the mainland.”

“I knew that”, Isildur protested, irritated at the condescendence. It was not his fault that all those small-minded political manoeuvres were unable to hold his attention for long. He had not been born to play the scheming politician in a provincial court, and this was no mere snobbery of the great brought low, for he would gladly exchange his fate with that of the meanest of soldiers.

“Then you will be happy to know that permission has finally been granted.” The sarcasm seemed to remain implied in the words, though Anárion’s voice still remained even. Isildur was surprised at the level of his own annoyance.

“Should I be?”

“I thought you were unhappy because we were forced to remain here in idleness while our enemy gained strength.” At long last, he could see a tiny spark of fire in his younger brother’s eyes. “Now we can send ships to Middle-Earth like the merchants do, and under the excuse of seeking new markets, we can explore new lands to establish ourselves and our people if the worst should come to pass.”

Isildur sat on the surf, and he saw Anárion wince as his wet garments were further soiled by the sand that adhered itself to them. Though he feigned nonchalance, his mind was furiously pondering this new development. He remembered Lord Númendil’s prophecies, which had done nothing but grow more insistent with the passing of the years, claiming that a time would come when all the Faithful in the Island would need their help. The fact that his kinsmen’s answer to those dire warnings was to still seek a way to coexist with the Sceptre, in the naïve hope that they would be left in peace if only they found someplace to retreat farther away from its aggressions, angered him. Ar Pharazôn the Golden, the Face of Melkor, had staked a claim on all of Middle-Earth.

“If you think that the King will let you have a part of his world to live there as you please, then I must doubt that you understand the extent of the problem.”

“We will carry our operations in secret, not breaking any laws and far away from the lands he has conquered. The North coast above the Middle Havens has remained largely outside our trade routes ever since Ar Alissha lost the Sceptre. Too many different kindreds live there, especially the Elves, whose evil magic still carries weight in the superstitious minds of our contemporaries.”

“How long do you think it will take for them to realize that the Elves are few, and that their power is not so great as the old tales would have us believe?” Isildur snorted. “These people grew up thinking that the Lord of Mordor was an unassailable foe, and that the lands of Rhûn were only places of legend.”

“Long enough.” Now, it was Anárion who seemed to be growing irritated. “Long enough to hopefully buy us the time that we need. Ar Pharazôn may believe himself a god, but he is not eternal, and sooner or later things will come to a head, and the prophecies in our dreams will become true. You of all people should know that they always do.”

Isildur’s eyes widened at this. He had not expected such a direct attack, but on some deep level, he welcomed it. If everyone attacked their foes directly, instead of taking their cue from the Dark Lord, the world would be a much easier place to live in.

“I never expected a higher power from Heaven to do my work for me. Or to sweep in and save me at the last moment.”

“And yet someone did. And because of it you are alive now, doing nothing but wallow in self-pity and frustration since that day. Is that truly so much better than what we are doing?”

Who would have said it? Little Anárion has grown a spine, Malik laughed. He has come a long way from the child who resented me for usurping his rightful place, yet never said a word about it.

“I am not the one who refused every opening we were given to fight evil!” For the first time in the conversation, someone raised his voice, and it was Isildur; a minor defeat, and yet one he felt acutely. “I am not the one who chooses to retreat every single time that the enemy advances!”

“As the Lord of Andúnië once said, we are not traitors, Isildur. Therefore, we cannot consider the King of Númenor our enemy. Not to mention it would be most unwise to do so at the moment.”

“But I am a traitor. The High Priest, too. And you are all traitors for harbouring us. If you think that either Ar Pharazôn or Sauron have forgotten about this, you are mistaken. They will let you carry on with your little schemes as long as you are not a hindrance to them.”

Now, you have made him angry. Even as Malik was saying those words, Anárion did something that Isildur would have never expected: he sat on the surf facing him, ruining his spotless attire with a single move.

“What shall it be, then? Will you help us with our little schemes, or sit on the beach until Sauron comes for you? Though I doubt he will, as he has you exactly where he wanted you: alone, isolated, and doing nothing. I am aware that we have never been close”, he went on when Isildur did not respond, as if encouraged by his silence to voice what had never been voiced before. “I understand. I was never old enough, or loud enough to attract your attention. We were always very different: while you were away fighting in the mainland, I was here learning how to scheme in the Court and the Council. But that is fine, as long as we can join forces and work together when it is needed, for the sake of our house and the Faithful as a whole.”

Isildur frowned. Blunt speech, he thought, was something he could respect. Even if it came from an even more unlikely source than the day a young girl barged into his rooms, demanding something quite similar to what his brother wanted now. His help.

They never ask properly, do they? Malik whispered. They do not have your deep understanding of the situation, of which efforts are worth it and when the time is right. That is why you mock them and refuse them, not because you do not want to admit that you are afraid.

“Shut your mouth, you”, he spat. For a moment, he could finally detect a trace of unease in Anárion’s gaze as he stared towards the spot where the son of Ashad was standing. “So, what do you need me for? Are you intending to explore the savage-infested coasts of the North, searching for a place to establish a secret kingdom? Perhaps you would do better to wait until the Lord of the Waters deigned to appear and showed you the way to a hidden valley.”

“Well, barring divine intervention, that is more or less what we would be doing.” His brother flinched as the rising tide brought a wave too close to wetting his feet, and suddenly Isildur wanted to laugh at the ridiculous idea of this man leading a dangerous expedition. “If you feel ready for such a venture, of course.”

I was fighting Orcs and barbarians while you were taking notes of Grandfather’s speeches, you insolent, pedantic little shit, the thought came to his mind, but he did not say it. The truth was that Isildur had not spoken to many people in the last years, with the sole exception of he who was always with him. But Malik was a ghost, and in tales, the fate of people who spoke only to ghosts was not an enviable one.

“Who put you up to this?” he asked instead. “Was it Mother or Father?”

Anárion stared at him at length, then shook his head as if he could not believe him.

“Neither. Speaking of Mother and Father, however, there are other news which concern you.” The tide was rising inexorably, and this time he stood up and retreated a few steps. Isildur did not move. “Do you remember Lady Kadrani of Sorontil?”

“The one whose husband and son were killed by the King with our grandfather’s help?”

“The lord of Andúnië played no role in those events, except to try to convince Lord Hiram to lay down his arms peacefully.”

Isildur shrugged.

“That sounds more like him.”

Anárion ignored this quip.

“I have been in communication with one of her daughters for the last year. She is older than me, but the difference is not unsurmountable, and she is still of an age to be married. Her father used to be of the Faithful, and her family still honours his beliefs. Plus, she belongs to the line of Elros, though disgraced enough that she would be willing to marry into our family.”

Isildur blinked.

“Congratulations. You sound really enthusiastic”, he ironized.

Why are you surprised? He was never the type to marry for love, Malik remarked. Or to have passionate affairs with half-barbarian traitors who get themselves killed young. And I’ll say, good for him.

“My enthusiasm or lack of it is irrelevant”, Anárion predictably replied. “But there is something else. She has a sister, and both her family and ours agree that you should marry her.”

“What?” At first, Isildur had such trouble taking those words in, that he thought he was lost in one of those convoluted, purposeless dreams that he often had since the visions of the White Tree had disappeared for ever. “You must be joking. I have no intention of marrying.”

“I know.” Not so predictably, Anárion’s gaze showed understanding. “And yet now, more than ever, the line of Andúnië must carry on.”

So that was what the house of Andúnië, in their infinite wisdom, wanted to make of him, he thought in bitterness. They would use him to find new places to hide and to breed heirs to fill them.

“And then what? Will we outnumber the King’s supporters if we have enough children?” Malik laughed, as if amused by Isildur’s plight, but he did not find it funny. “You can marry and carry on the line of Andúnië. I am not needed for that.”

“And yet you are Father’s heir, not me.” By some unpleasant joke that Fate decided to play on us, his voice seemed to be implying. “It would not be proper if I married and had issue while you remained alone and childless.”

“Do you want to be Father’s heir?” Anárion looked at him, visibly searching for signs of hostility in his gaze, and seemed taken even more aback when he found none. “I can relinquish my birthright. Do you know what?” A sudden idea occurred to him. “If you like appeasing the King so much, how about this to curry his favour? I committed open treason in my lawless youth, so to prove our loyalty, I should not be allowed to have a claim to the succession of this family. I have no doubt that he will be very moved when he hears about it.”

“Is there anything of your pride left?”

“It is not there that my pride lies.” As the embers of his temper awoke at last, Isildur stood on his feet as well, and began pacing around the surf. “I will not marry a woman against my will and hers, and I will not bring any more children into this world unasked.”

That was a low blow, Malik complained, looking askance at him, but this time he completely ignored the ghost.

“It is not against her will.”

“What?”

“You have heard me quite well”, Anárion frowned. “She is very much in favour of the idea.”

“She does not even know me. If she has said this, it is because she wants to marry someone, anyone, and I am her only chance.” And he had not heard anything about her, or about this issue, because they knew what his reaction would be, and so had chosen to lay the consummated deal before him like a trap to hunt a wild deer with.

“Do not underestimate her. She has heard everything about you”, his brother went on to confirm his thoughts. “She is younger than her sister, which means that she is around your age, but it was thought that she could be more suited to you than to me. Perhaps you should give her a chance when they visit us next week.”

“Next week?” Isildur glared. “Are you about to tell me that I am already married and they did not tell me?”

“That cannot be done.”

“Because if it could, they would have done it!” He was so furious that the gentle breaking of the waves had turned into a deafening roar in his ears. “Perhaps I should have been paying attention to your petty scheming, after all.”

“I swear I had nothing to do with this!” Anárion replied, sounding genuinely hurt. “Maybe you are right, maybe she just wants to marry, but would that be so terrible? She will still be happy to have you, and do her best to make you happy in turn.” And perhaps you could use some of that, Malik added wisely. “And if that is not enough, you will have an excuse to sail away and not see her too often.”

“Were those the exact terms discussed?” he asked, in a scathing voice. His younger brother seemed torn between several strong emotions; for someone who was usually so composed, the effect was strange even in the half-darkness.

“You would never have taken this step on your own and you know it! And yet, marrying is as much of an obligation in these times as it is to go to war and risk your life. And refusing your responsibilities is no different from being a coward!”

Isildur had not been so angry in years. He turned back to confront his brother, but there was nothing but a dark emptiness behind him. Wrong-footed, he looked ahead, and saw the tall silhouette walking swiftly across the sand in the direction of the cliff. He wanted to yell something after him, but in his state of agitation the right words would not come.

Or maybe there are no right words because he is right, Malik contributed, rather unhelpfully.

That night, Isildur sat on the beach wide awake, his gaze fixed on the shifting waves until long after the sun had emerged from the horizon.

 

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Rómenna was in an uproar, even more than the previous summer. To Fíriel, who was used to harvest seafood along the coastline undisturbed, it was a novel experience to be forced to take one detour after another to avoid packs of silly noblewomen and daughters of merchants giving annoying little cries as they wet their feet in the cold seawater, while their attendants held the heavy folds of their robes. Even worse were their male counterparts, who catcalled after her and made all kinds of propositions, even if she did not look at them and minded her own business. Going to the market was an odyssey, with so many of their servants crowding every space, and behaving haughtily to the residents while they fought one another for every quality catch that made it to the stalls. The citizens of Rómenna had been divided in two camps: those who benefitted directly from this strange invasion of holiday revellers, either because they could ask thrice as much for their merchandise and receive it without as much as a blink, or because they had been employed to increase the staff of some exalted personage who did not want to take his or her entire retinue with them from Armenelos, and those who complained bitterly about the prices and the impossibility of having a moment of peace.

All because of him. Fíriel halted her steps, and tilted her head to gaze in silence at the boy who sat by the edge of the cliff, closing his eyes to listen attentively to the cry of the seagulls. When he was younger, the Prince Gimilzagar had been taken to spend his summer here –which was how he and Fíriel had met-, and, from then on, he had always insisted on returning to the same place every year. Word of this had slowly spread across the realm, stirring ripples and provoking both expected and unexpected reactions. Those with power and means in Armenelos and Sor had sought to imitate him, pretending to have discovered the benefits which its charming seaside and mild climate had on their health, but in truth just wishing to make his acquaintance and curry his favour. This had caused no small degree of alarm among the Western exiles, who lived in fear of being torn from their new homes just as they had been torn from the old. The doomsayers claimed that to have the previously forgotten and decaying Bay of Rómenna become a prized destination for so many nobles and merchants was the first step towards a second exile, as it would not take long for their presence to come under scrutiny just as it had in Sor. Fíriel thought this terribly unfair, for even though they were seen as newcomers by the stuffy city people, they had still arrived before all those nobles. And they had to stay for the whole year, not only on summer, which should give them some right to call the place home. But if the world worked like that, as her aunt would always say, they would not have needed to relocate here in the first place.

Anyway, the irony was that they were all deluding themselves, because Gimilzagar did not want to meet any of them. When her friend realized that those people were there to bother him, he had quietly withdrawn from every public space where he could be spotted and recognized. In the last few years, she had often visited him in the large grounds of the villa where he stayed, and their escapades had always been to barely frequented spots which the horde of invaders had not yet heard about. Even so, for extra precaution, he was always in disguise. His first, childish attempts at deception when he met Fíriel had given him an idea, and he had rescued the persona of the only son of Eshmounazer, merchant of Sor, who journeyed to the seaside for his health. She had thought it a good option, because even though by now he could catch seafood and fish like a native, his looks, and especially his skin, would always give him away as an outsider.

The annoying nobles, however, were very unlikely to hurt him if they found him, something that Fíriel, if she was honest, was not sure she could say about all the other people they might come across. Sometimes, she had tried to tell Gimilzagar that he should be paying less attention to avoiding social obligations, and more to other things. But there, her weak spot would always come to the fore, and when he asked her what were the “things” that she meant, she found herself unable to explain. How could she tell him that many of the people she knew referred to him regularly as an abomination, openly wished him dead, and blamed him of things that were not his fault? Years ago, she had tried to ask him about the horrible rumours which claimed that he was alive because of the people who were sacrificed in the altar of Melkor; he had burst into tears and refused to reappear for days. Back then, he had still been considered young enough for his mother to accompany him in all his journeys, and Fíriel had spent every hour of that time in terror that she would hear of this. To speak of things that would hurt him so much, and implicate her own family and their friends in the process was just unthinkable.

“You should push him off the cliff”, Zebedin had said in a nasty voice that very morning, as she knelt on the porch looking for her shoes. “You would be doing many people a great favour.”

Fíriel was already used to this sort of talk, so she did not allow herself to be provoked. Instead, she merely arched an eyebrow.

“Like you, for instance? Like our family, for instance? If I did any such thing, they would come for you first.”

“That is how they control us, huh? By making us believe that we have more to lose than they do.” He snorted, and there was an ugly spark in his eyes that she liked less than ever. “Well, think about it! By the time they ‘came for us’, as you say, their precious only heir to the Kingdom on the World would be dead and his body lost in the sea. Not even a thousand sacrifices would be able to bring him back, and what then?”

“If you chattered less with your stupid friends and did more honest work, you would not have to blame others for your problems!” she hissed furiously, walking away before he could react and entangle her in one of those long, tiring and absurd fights that always ended with Grandmother getting upset.

It was all the fault of those idiots. When they started coming to their house, Fíriel had been too distracted by the obvious –that they had befriended Zebedin so they could get closer to Zama and her- to notice how they spent most of their day filling his impressionable head with stupid ideas. Aunt, Uncle and the rest of their kin did not seem too worried about it, or rather did not find enough time to worry between their daily toils and the overpowering concern for Fíriel’s own associations. The day she was forced to come clean about her friendship with Gimilzagar, they had not taken ship for Middle-Earth, but that had been the only good thing to be said about their reaction. They had done everything in their hand to end it, even going to the lord of Andúnië himself, who had seemed concerned and given them advice and asked Fíriel plenty of questions, but nothing more definite than that. When all their attempts to get her out of the way without risking to offend the Sceptre had failed, they still gave her dire warnings night and day, reminding her of what could happen if she should make the slightest false move. Every summer, there were so many things she needed to put out of her mind before she was able to relax next to Gimilzagar that she needed days before she felt remotely comfortable. And even then, to stop closing her eyes and seeing Zebedin’s rage, Eldest Uncle’s worry and Grandmother’s tears was no mean feat.

You should let me speak to them so I could tell them that my intentions are honourable, Gimilzagar had said more than once, as serious as if he was a character from a tale. In this, as in so many other things, he was so deluded that it would have evoked a feeling of tenderness in her if she hadn’t been so directly involved.

It’s not just you, Gimilzagar, she wanted to say. It’s everything around you, your family, your Guards, the stupid nobles and merchants who crowd Rómenna. And it’s everything around me, too.

“Are you trying to surprise me? Because I grow tired of keeping my eyes shut and pretending that I have not noticed your presence.”

Fíriel let go of a long breath, and sat next to the Prince of the West. Seen from this height, the Sea was a splendid tone of turquoise today, an almost gaudy scenery for her sombre thoughts.

“If I was trying to surprise you, you would not have noticed a thing”, she replied, though her voice came out flat and humourless. She looked down, feeling slightly dizzy at the sight of the tiny fishing boats cutting a white path under their feet. If she pushed him, he might pass out from the impact even before he drowned. Or he would perish instantly, if his head was crushed against one of the rocks standing below the waves like an invisible, deadly trap. A great horror filled her at the very thought.

“You are upset.” It was not a question. Long ago, she had realized that Gimilzagar had a strange ability to read her moods that went beyond mere observation skills. “You are always upset when I arrive, then it gets better. It is as if you were expecting… something different every year.”

“Nonsense” she shrugged, irritated at his attempts to figure her out.

“Yes, it is. Because I am always the same. You, on the other hand…” He swallowed, as if he did not know how to say his next words. Suddenly, she realized that he was blushing as he looked at her. “You are different.”

Great. That was just the very thing that she had been needing right now.

“If you came in winter, you could pretend to be fishing and stare at my backside when I crouch near the pools like the local boys do. But in summer the whole area is too crowded with giggling ladies. Now I think about it, I believe they would be happy to crouch for you if you asked”, she said acidly.

He flinched, as if he had been struck. All those years in the Court and he had not even noticed how obvious he had been. If Fíriel did not know him so well, she would have believed his cluelessness to be some kind of ploy to seduce her. Nowadays, the simplest of peasants seemed to have enough brain to spare to make up a ploy to seduce her, even if it was just pretending to look for something in the kitchen so he could bump against her for a second. Not even Zama got that much attention, even though her breasts were quite more prominent than Fíriel’s by now and she was a flirt.

“I am sorry.” He looked down, mortified. “I did not mean… I did not intend…”

His dark eyes had a forlorn look that reminded her of that day, on the first summer, when he asked her to go to Armenelos with him. Suddenly, the crazy thought came to her mind that perhaps the feeling had been there since then. But if it had, she continued this thread of reasoning, then the shape of her backside or the size of her breasts would have little to do with it. This idea was more disquieting than it was flattering, not to mention highly dangerous… and yet….

“I am sorry”, he repeated, perhaps realizing how close she was to leaving.

“Shut up” she said, right before she grabbed his shoulders and kissed him. He stiffened, and for a moment he seemed about to disengage from her grip and run away. As she was wondering if she could have misread his intentions, however, his fears seemed to give way, and he surrendered to her clumsy attempts with even clumsier efforts of his own.

“I was not expecting…” he gasped, when they finally let go. “Well, I hoped… but I thought that you…”

“I thought I had told you to shut up”, she cut him, annoyed. How could they keep the illusion that everything was fine if he insisted on talking? Determined not to hear anything else, at least for a while, she nestled against him.

“There he is!” a familiar voice suddenly cut through the contented haze of her mind. Gimilzagar’s limbs tensed against hers, but before he could react, she had already jumped away from him, to stand between him and the newcomers. Just Zebedin and his stupid, good-for-nothing friends, she thought, trying to calm the beating of her heart.

“Are you sure? He does not look like much. I could take him singlehanded!”

“That is because he is an abomination.” Zebedin was at the head of the little group approaching them, and Fíriel remembered his words about pushing Gimilzagar off the cliff just that morning. He had known where they would be, she realized, her heart beating even faster than before. “That he can breathe at all is unnatural enough. And now, not satisfied with sucking the souls of barbarians he comes in here, where the Faithful live, to bring ruin upon us and steal our girls away!”

“Don’t be stupid, Zebedin!” Fíriel shouted, trying to pull Gimilzagar to his feet in vain, as he appeared too stunned to respond. By now, Zebedin and the others were so close that she and the Prince would never be able to leave the vicinity of the cliff without bumping into any of them.

And they had knives.

“Get out of the way, Fíriel”, her cousin ordered. His voice gave her chills, but she stood her ground.

“No! You will not hurt him!”

Finally emerging from his terrified daze, the Prince of the West started screaming for his escort. Since she had known him, Lord Abdazer and his men had always hounded his steps wherever he went, but Gimilzagar had been forcing them to keep farther and farther away from him every year, afraid that they would ruin his disguise. Fíriel prayed that they had not stayed at the foot of the cliff; if they had, they would never make it in time.

“Shut up, you monster! No one will hear you here!”

From that moment on, so many things happened at once that Fíriel had no time to make sense of her own actions until long after they were over. First, Zebedin grabbed her by the front of her dress, and tried to pull her away from Gimilzagar and the cliff. One of her knees sunk on the hard ground; repressing a groan, she fixed it there and struggled not to budge from her position. Meanwhile, the other two young men advanced towards the Prince, one of them brandishing his fisherman’s knife as if it was a blade; the other cutting Gimilzagar’s escape route on the other side.

Gimilzagar, however, did not look like someone who was searching for openings in his enemy’s strategy. Instead, he was retreating from the immediate threat of the knife, without even noticing that this brought him closer and closer to the edge of the cliff. Fíriel could not move to help him, as Zebedin was much stronger and he was pulling in the opposite direction. But she could not let him fall.

Suddenly, she did not know how or why, an idea came like a flash of insight to her mind, and she moved forwards to bite her cousin’s hand as hard as she could. Taking advantage of the momentary slackening of his grip, while he spat all the strongest curses he could think of, she threw herself on top of the man with the knife, trying to grab it before he could regain his bearings. She was only partially successful: she grabbed the hand that held the knife, but could not wrest it away from him. Enraged, he shook her away, and tried to lunge at her.

It was an instinct, not a conscious thought what made her try to stop the knife with her other arm. All that she knew was that there was an explosion of pain, and she saw drops of blood spattering the front of her dress right before strange sparks of light danced in the periphery of her vision. Gimilzagar was still screaming, and as if from a great distance, she could hear other voices yelling too. The clang of metal against metal grated her ears, making her dive frantically and cover her head with both arms before it could hit her. One of them felt as if it was on fire, and she knew that she was about to pass away, but she could not let that happen, not until she could make sure…

This was the last thought she remembered before everything went black around her, and the noises all faded out.