Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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A Crumbling World

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“Fíriel! Fíriel, how are you feeling?” a well-known voice, full of concern, brought her back to the waking world a million years later. She struggled to open her eyes, but the sun was high in the sky, blinding her with its rays. When she tried to move, the pain in her arm brought a rush of associated memories to her mind, and she gritted her teeth to struggle into a sitting position.

“Gimilzagar?” Her voice was hoarse, and her lips parched. Someone had bandaged her upper arm and the lower half of her hand with tatters of clothes, so stiffly that the pressure hurt almost as much as the wound.

“Do not move that arm”, he told her. He was there. He was alive.

Around her, she counted two pairs of legs moving in different directions… no, she corrected, three, as another pair of legs stopped and knelt beside Gimilzagar. It was Lord Abdazer, gazing at her with a sombre frown that made the blood chill in her veins. The rest of her memories came back at this, and she remembered the ugly look in Zebedin’s eyes as he led his friends towards the cliff, his threats, her struggles against him until she bit his hand and he let her go. He was nowhere to be seen now, an absence that did not bring her any relief, but instead threatened to send her into a panic. Only the barest instinct of self-preservation prevented her from asking the question that burned in her lips.

“Ah. So she has come to at last. If you do not mind, my lord prince, I would like to interrogate her.”

Gimilzagar did seem to mind.

“I believe you can ensure my safety without bringing any further distress to my friend”, he said. Usually, Abdazer nodded in silence and did as the Prince told him, but this time he was not so accommodating.

“She is one of them. She knew them, and they knew where you were going, my lord prince”, he argued. “Unfortunately, this means we cannot rule out that she was part of the conspiracy.”

“She saved me. Without her, I would be dead, for you would never have come in time.”

“With all my respects, my lord prince, without her, you would never have been in this position, and I would not have been forced to remain at such distance that I could not immediately assist you.”

“That is not for you to judge.” Gimilzagar’s voice had never been so cold, but it became instantly warm when he turned towards her again. “Fíriel, can you stand?”

“As you wish, my lord prince.” Abdazer had not shed his contentious look. “But I must insist that she comes with us. If you do not need protection from her, she might need protection from others. And if she was so eager to receive wounds for your sake, she should be no less eager to volunteer information that may help us deal with this threat to your life.”

“Help me, Gimilzagar”, she pleaded, still in that hoarse voice. She did not know if she could struggle to her feet on her own, and she did not want that man to come anywhere near her. Beyond the narrow confines of her current predicament, however, it struck her as she said those words that she needed help, as she had never needed it before.

The Prince of the West took her good arm and slung it around his shoulder, doing his best to support her in her endeavours. As she was brought to stand with his help, Lord Abdazer, returning to his usual impassiveness, made a sign for his men to escort them down the cliff.

Soon enough, Fíriel realized that she did not need Gimilzagar to walk, as there was nothing wrong with her except the arm. But he was holding her as tight as if she could fall apart at any moment, and after thinking quickly, she decided to act as if she was weak and needed to lean on him. That might keep the man off her for a while, perhaps give her time to gauge the situation and come up with some plan.

If only his gaze was not fixed on her like a falcon on his prey!

“What happened to… them?” she whispered, needing but dreading the confirmation.

“They were taken to the royal villa while you were unconscious”, Abdazer replied before Gimilzagar could even open his mouth. “The Governor of Sor is being notified as we speak, and he will send word to the Palace. But if we want to get to the bottom of this, we must act quickly.”

Get to the bottom of this. Those words struck her as rather ominous, but there was nothing she could do. If she did as much as attempt to tell Gimilzagar that Zebedin was her cousin, that she had been raised by his parents but that they had nothing to do with all this, even that Eldest Uncle and Grandmother had always been angry at anyone who criticised the Prince of the West, the Guard would hear her, and accuse her of being “in the conspiracy” again.

Zebedin, you stupid, stupid idiot, she thought, her eyes glazed over with tears. Didn’t Grandmother warn you that we would all be in deep trouble if they suspected us of trying anything against the Prince of the West? It had been those fools he hung around with, she realized. Before them, he would never have thought of trying anything like this. Before them, he had cared for his family, and would not dream of dismissing all concerns for their safety with the flippant claim that the Sceptre would suffer worse if he had his way. In the last years, they had often been angry with her for putting them in a risky situation, but she had not forgotten for a moment that there were lives depending on her being careful. Even her lapse that morning, which now seemed to have happened ages ago, was something that she would have regretted as soon as she had gathered her wits and seen reason. She would never, ever, have done something so selfish, so callous, so dangerous…

“Why are you crying?” Gimilzagar asked. She shook her head.

“It’s the pain”, she hissed.

“I can carry her, my lord prince”, Lord Abdazer offered, as if she was nothing but a sack of barley. She did not answer, and neither did Gimilzagar, but the Palace Guard did not stop giving her sideway glances, as if he had just come to some sort of realization. She swallowed, trying to regain her composure.

When they reached the villa, Gimilzagar was immediately surrounded by fawning women who fussed over him, thanking their gods for his miraculous delivery and cursing the Faithful. He told them that he was unharmed, that they should thank her for it and that they would do better to tend to her wounds, which they did with much less enthusiasm and a lot more reluctance, as if they believed her body to have absorbed the impact of their curses. While she pretended to close her eyes and surrender to their ministrations, she gathered from the talk around her that the Governor of Sor was expected to arrest everyone who had connections with the would-be assassins and could have had “knowledge of their plans”, and that this would probably happen before the day was over. Frantically, she racked her brains for something she could do, but even if she was able to escape now, it was doubtful that she could find her whole family, and impossible that she could get them in time to a place outside the Governor’s reach.

Her only hope, she realized, lay in the lord of Andúnië. Fíriel still remembered that fateful day when Lord Isildur told her that Lord Amandil would not stand between the Sceptre and anyone, but in the intervening years she had been gathering other evidence that allowed her to make up her own mind. She had discovered that he was largely powerless, for he had been dispossessed of his lands and his seat in the Council and the Governor of Sor had been placed above him. But she had also seen him go out of his way to help her people when they had needed it. And he had won quite a few battles, too, such as when he brought down the edict that would have forbidden them from praying to the Baalim in the East, or when he secured permission for them to sell in the marketplace of Sor despite the city council’s ban. He had defended them in the courts when some of them dared request compensation for the Easterners’ aggressions, and recently, he and his son and grandson had been pushing to be allowed to build ships and do long distance journeys, which would be a way to employ many young men without the means to get a livelihood. Even that idiot Zebedin, if he had waited a little longer, the thought came to her mind, bringing the foul taste of bile to her throat.

“Raise your arm like this”, the healer ordered. Fíriel obeyed, clenching her teeth a little, but remained absorbed by her own thoughts. The old priest! He was the biggest living proof that Lord Isildur’s assertion had not been true. For, if Lord Númendil was to be believed, the former High Priest of Melkor who lived in their house had once angered the King, to the point of committing treason of some sort. And Lord Amandil had stood between the Sceptre and him, which is why he was alive at all. There was still hope.

“Right. Now keep it like that, and do not move it”, the man went on, surveying her with the critical eye of someone who knew that their wisdom would inevitably fall on deaf ears. “It may look like a trifle to you, but there are people who have bled to death from wounds like this. And I would not recommend dispensing with the bandages for the next three days, unless you wish to put an end to your own life.”

“Do not give her any ideas”, the Royal Nurse said, rather unkindly. “She still needs to be questioned.”

“The Prince of the West has forbidden it”, Fíriel replied, her fighting spirit rekindled by this blatant hostility. You evil witch.

Lady Milkhaset did not look impressed.

“Luckily, those who might know better are already on their way.”

Fíriel did not have the patience to endure more.

“Tell me again, where were you when the Prince was attacked? I was risking my life to save him, what about you?”

“That is a good question.” Gimilzagar said, coming in. The healer sank to his knees as he passed by. “Lady Milkhaset, would you please leave? I wish to speak to Fíriel alone.”

Considering her expression, the Royal Nurse disagreed with this as vehemently as with the theory of Fíriel’s innocence, but she could not oppose a direct order. With a curt nod, she gathered her impressive robes and abandoned the room, followed by the healer and her attendants.

For the first time since the attack, Fíriel now had the chance to truly look at Gimilzagar. He had not found the time to change, so his clothes were dirty and slightly torn, and there was dust in his tangled black hair. Though he was not hurt, he looked paler than usual, and as shaken as when she came to her senses by the cliffside. Back then, she had been too absorbed by her own troubles to pay attention to his state, beyond relief that he was alive and well, though now that she thought about it, even surviving a murder attempt must be a haunting experience of its own. He probably had no interest whatsoever in discussing Zebedin, and if she had not been forced by the circumstances, she would not have mentioned him.

“Lord Abdazer wanted to interrogate me, but there is no need. I will tell you everything”, she began, before he could speak. “Zebedin is my cousin. The – one who knew where to find you. I had told Grandmother this morning at home before I left, and he heard me. As you know, I have no parents, so I have always lived with my aunt and uncle. He is their son.”

Gimilzagar’s mouth opened, then closed. For a moment, he looked like a gaping fish, and Fíriel would have laughed if the situation had been even remotely funny.

“You asked me why I look upset whenever you come to see me. The answer is that I am always afraid that something bad will happen. Today, it happened.”

“But why, Fíriel?” He sat on the couch where she was reclining; his hands were trembling. “Why did they want to kill me? I never did anything to them!”

“Because…” Her voice died in her lips, she did not want to talk about it. “There is no time to discuss this. I need to leave, now.”

“Do not listen to Abdazer and Milkhaset! You are safe. I was an eyewitness, and not even the Governor of Sor can doubt my word!”

“It’s not about me! It’s my family! They will arrest them, and they will accuse them of plotting with my cousin, and they will… they will…!” She could not even finish the sentence, for she was too upset. Suddenly, she stood on her feet, ignoring his alarm, and walked away until she could hide his tears from him. “I need to find the lord of Andúnië. He is the only one who can help them.”

“I…” Gimilzagar looked down, uncomfortably. “I do not know if that would be wise…”

“Do you think I am in the conspiracy, then?”

“No!” He seemed outraged at this assumption. “But Lord Abdazer was right, you could be in danger yourself. And you are hurt!”

Fíriel pondered this very briefly. If those three had had any accomplices, they might seek revenge for their failed attempt, but would they know where to waylay her? Could they know where she was heading? Not to mention that the most probable thing was that they had acted on their own, without seeking the counsel of anyone with more brains than a pea. And anyway, none of this mattered, because she simply did not care about any hypothetical danger to herself when weighed against the very real danger to her family.

She told him as much, but he only shook his head. It was as if he had fallen into a daze, and her words were not able to penetrate it.

“There is no reason to worry”, he insisted, stubbornly. “I will tell them that your family had nothing to do with this, either.”

This made her so angry that she would have shaken him until his head rung, if only her arm had not hurt so much.

“You ungrateful piece of shit!” she yelled, the ladylike act she had tried to keep since she was under the eye of his minions gone at last. “I saved your life, and not just at the risk of mine! I had to choose between you and someone who was raised as my brother since we were children, my own flesh and blood! And now, instead of doing everything in your hand to prove that I made the right choice, you want me to regret it! Is that what do you want? Do you want me to regret it for the rest of my life, Gimilzagar?”

First, he stared at her in disbelief; then, as the meaning of her words sunk in his mind, he seemed to curl over himself like a kicked puppy. She could as well have hit him, she thought, wondering furiously what on Earth made her so unable to hate him. For some reason, her mind chose this inconvenient moment to remind her of the taste of his kiss on her lips.

“No!”, he cried. “I-I do not want you to regret it, Fíriel. I will… I will take you to the gate. A-and I will prevent Abdazer from sending men after you. I will do whatever you want, say whatever you want, but please, do not regret it. For if you did, I…” He swallowed, as if he was at the verge of breaking down. “I will do whatever you want.”

“Thank you”. She let her good hand trail over his forehead and cheek, feeling her anger evaporate, though the fear and the worry remained. “I promise I will be careful.”

Gimilzagar only nodded quietly.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Their names were Irimë and Irissë. Both of them, together with their late brother Valacar, had been born to the house of Sorontil at the time when the lords of Forostar had sought to outdo the rest of the realm in their adherence for the ancient laws and familiarity with the Elven tongues, but for all the expensive lessons they had received in their youth, their own names were all the Quenya they could remember. Irimë was the older of the two, which was evident in both her appearance and her demeanour. She was tall and grey-eyed, and possessed the sharp features of the now extinct Northern line, with their telltale long nose and prominent brow. In fact, she would have reminded Isildur of the late lord Hiram, whom he had seen on a few occasions, except that her voice was much quieter, if not less commanding. Even though their meeting had been planned under the disguise of a festive charade, he did not think he had seen her smile once, not even when she was with Anárion.

Still, to his surprise, they did seem to have plenty to talk about. When his brother told him that they had been “in communication”, he had imagined them exchanging empty pleasantries, probably even copying by hand the beautiful phrases that someone else had coined for them. How could it be otherwise, after all, if they had not met face to face since they were children? Or rather, since Anárion was a child, for the age difference could be no less than twenty years. But they must have been discussing weightier things in those letters, since soon after they met Anárion dropped a reference to one of the points she had made and they headed for the back garden, lost in animated conversation. Isildur could still see them there, under the red light of dusk, talking.

If only it was so easy for you to talk your way out of this. But when it comes to civilized conversation, even a barbarian from Harad who had learned Adûnaic from soldiers in a brothel would give you a run for your money.

“The view of the Eastern Sea from the balcony is truly impressive, is it not?” Eluzîni was saying, with a charming smile in the direction of their younger guest. Then, she gave him a look that confirmed him in his suspicions that she was done trying to coax him politely into collaborating with her schemes. “Show it to her, Isildur.”

Irissë happily offered him her arm, and allowed herself to be led away from the other women with not as much as a last glance in their direction. For all the time it took them to reach their destination, she did not stop chattering about this or that, even making Isildur wonder for a moment if it would be possible to let her talk his way out of this.

She was not at all like her sister, or her father, for the matter. The Lady Kadrani was very old now, too old to travel all the way from Armenelos and probably to stand up from her bed, but Isildur vaguely recalled seeing her long ago, and she could recognize her in her youngest daughter. Minus many pounds of fat and almost as many of makeup, he had to admit grudgingly, for the Lady Irissë was round-faced and large-breasted, and the flesh in her arm felt inordinately soft to his touch, but she was well-proportioned and would have been considered desirable in the eyes of many. Her hair was fair and only slightly curly, her eyes large and blue, and she smiled and giggled as if trying to compensate for her sister’s lacks in that department.

“… this is a wonderful house, and I really mean it. If you could see our mansion in Armenelos! No views anywhere, and nothing but a large wall towering over your head no matter where you go. And a good thing it is there too! For we are surrounded by neighbours, and they would be able to see us even when we are trying to relax in the garden! Do you know that sometimes we are roused from our sleep in the early hours of the morning by the voice of a seller peddling goods in the street? The nerve! Though I do not think he would do it unless there were people nearby who bought his wares. Can you imagine, living near people who buy wares right off the street? Oh, Armenelos is such a strange place nowadays! Rómenna is much pleasanter, I would simply love to stay here all year.”

“It is beautiful, yes”, he answered, not as eloquently as his mother might have wished. But he would have been at a loss as to how to do better, even if he had been in the mood. He remembered Anárion’s words at the beach about Irissë being “more suited” to him, wondering if it had been his brother’s –or his mother’s, or his father’s, or whoever had been the one to come up with it- idea of a twisted joke. Perhaps they had just decided that getting the young, good looking one would be enough to appease him, and simply did not think beyond that.

At least she might shut up when you bed her, Malik retorted crudely. He was going to scowl at him, when he became aware that she was gazing up at him, expectantly.

“I am sorry, my lady, but I did not hear your question”, he apologized, hoping it would be enough to cover his blunder. Irissë’s face fell a little, but soon enough she took heart to keep talking as if nothing had happened.

“I was just wondering if you would show me the beach. I have never been in Rómenna before. In fact, I have never been anywhere for a really long time, which is a pity, for the Island holds so many things worth seeing!”

“The beach is full of people these days. And if you do not like peddlers, you will not feel very comfortable there. If you want quiet, the only appropriate time for that is the night, after the sun has set.”

Her eyes shone, and only a moment later he realized his mistake. He bit his tongue before he could let go of a colourful Haradric curse.

“I would love that so much! Perhaps tonight?”

“I wonder, my lady, if that would be proper…”

Malik laughed out loud at this.

“The Lady Lalwendë did not look like someone who would mind.” Irissë smiled impishly. “She seems to like me. Did you notice how she came up with the excuse of the view only so we could be alone with each other? She is such a nice lady!”

‘Nice’ was not quite the word that Isildur would have used, but he still nodded along. The feeling of being a trapped animal, which he had first experienced that night as he sat on the sand, had done nothing but grow in intensity since then. Even Lord Amandil, he thought bitterly, had told him in no uncertain terms that the only valid reason not to wed that lady would be if one of them died before the ceremony.

“There is still Irimë, of course. She is much worse than my mother, always keeping an eye on me and ordering me around, even though I am as much of an adult as she is! But I used to pray to the Baalim that she would one day fall in love and leave me alone, and it appears that they might have heard my prayers at last.”

Love. He remembered Anárion’s description of the woman’s ‘qualities’, how cold and calculating it had sounded in his lips. He had to admit that their behaviour since her arrival had not quite tallied with this, for they seemed genuinely comfortable in each other’s presence. But was that love? Compared to Ilmarë and Malik’s inability to keep off each other despite the whole world being against them, he found Anárion’s newfound affinity to the lady he was forced to marry a little too convenient.

Then you should learn from him. He might not have been tested on the battlefield, but he has still shown remarkable bravery. Staying as a hostage in the Island while his parents, his brother and sister were half a world away, taking care of your grandmother when she was fading before his eyes, swallowing his pride to bow and grovel before the governor of Sor… and now, by the looks of it, marrying a sour-faced domestic tyrant with enough years on her as to be his mother. And he can even find the strength to pretend that it was his choice all along!

“Very well”, he said, unable to put even a tenth of this strength in his own voice. Maybe Malik was right; maybe he had always been the weak one. “We will go to the beach tonight.”

“How exciting!” Her voice was a little too shrill when she was happy, he realized, adding this to the growing list of reasons why he did not want to spend the rest of his life in her company. “I suppose I should wear something plainer, just in case the sea water stains it and spoils the… oh my, who is that?”

Isildur had been about to miss another one of her questions, for her inane babble had the ability to make his mind wander. But this time, she had been pointing towards a particular spot underneath both of them, somewhere by the wide stone path excavated in the side of the cliff by his exiled ancestors. As he followed her glance, his eyes fell on a strange silhouette running upwards. The strangeness, he realized after a moment, came from the way it leaned to one side, reminding him of a warrior who fled the battlefield nursing an injury. Such a happening, however, was as unlikely here as it would be welcome by his restless disposition. He looked again, prepared to see some messenger from the Governor trying to catch his breath, or why not? one of Lady Irissë’s hated breed of peddlers doubling from the weight of his merchandise.

He froze. It was not a messenger, or a peddler, or a man of any sort. It was a young woman who was very well known to Isildur, and the reason why she was not walking straight was no different from a warrior’s reason to protect his damaged side in a hostile land. She was injured – bandaged, by the looks of it, but the haunted look in her eyes told him, even from the distance, that she did not believe herself to have outrun the danger that haunted her steps.

Whatever it is, I hope you think of something better to do than offering to solve her troubles by threatening her friend and implicating her in high treason. For if you don’t, I will not forgive you a second time.

“Dear me, it is a girl! And she looks hurt! Do you know her?”

Mumbling some excuse, Isildur ran away from the balcony, and back through the gallery until he found himself back at the feast. Ilmarë was the first to see him; as he signalled to her, she immediately ceased her small talk with one of the visiting ladies and walked towards the Lord of Andúnië, who was speaking with their father. Both tensed visibly at her sight.

At the other side of the room, the music stopped.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“You have to help us, my lord. Please.” She had kept her composure quite successfully while she was walking to and from Gimilzagar’s villa, and even while she had been inside, under the suspicious watch of those who believed her a traitor and a would-be murderer. But for some reason, the moment she had been required to relive every detail of the story before those imposing people, who looked like statues of carved stone as they silently listened to her words, her courage had foundered. She swallowed hard, invoking the last of her resolve to prevent herself from bursting into tears right in front of them.

To her everlasting gratitude, the lord of Andúnië did not ask her any questions, interrupted her, or made her repeat any part of the tale. All that he did was nod along, and once that she was finished, he stood up from his chair and began giving orders in what she recognised as the sacred tongue. At some point, Lord Isildur opened his mouth to argue some point, but Lord Elendil said certain words that seemed to shut him up. Then, the tall man turned his gaze towards her.

“The Lord of Andúnië will go and see the Governor of Sor right now. Meanwhile, I will go to your family home, and Isildur and Anárion will search for the other families involved. I must tell you that it is very unlikely that we will find anyone there, as they have surely been taken by now. But whether they are home or not, they will be alive, and we will do our best to ensure that they remain that way.” His eyes were grave but kind, and though her concerns did not abate, he did assuage them a little, at least to the point that she was able to swallow the knot from her throat. “You did a very brave thing coming here, Fíriel. Stay with Ilmarë, and try to have some measure of rest while we strive to be worthy of your courage.”

Fíriel opened her mouth, but before she found her voice to answer he had already walked away, followed by his sons. The only person who remained in the room was the Lady Ilmarë, whose aloof coldness was the last thing the girl felt like facing right now. If only the Lady Lalwendë was here! But they had mentioned something about her playing the hostess to some important guests from the capital, and needing to keep them entertained before they thought to ask too many questions.

And anyway, she realized, even if the nice lady had been there, she had no time to be comforted, or “have some measure of rest”. She had to go back. Lord Amandil had heard her story, and he would strive to convince the Governor of Sor of her family’s innocence. But that would not include Zebedin, for he had tried to murder the Prince of the West. Only an eyewitness could disprove this, and considering that Lord Abdazer and his men had arrived late to the scene, it followed that only she and Gimilzagar had been there for the entirety of the event. They were the only ones who could claim that her cousin had not participated in the treasonous attempt, that he had merely rushed there after them to try to ensure her safety. Gimilzagar had promised her that he would say anything she wanted. After all, she had saved his life, and he was too decent to have her good deed repaid with something as horrible as her cousin’s death. But for him to know which words he had to support with his own testimony, she needed to be there.

“Where do you think you are going?” Lady Ilmarë asked. Fíriel noticed belatedly that she had stood up and gotten almost as far as the doorstep. Freezing in her tracks, she stared back at her, wondering what to say.

“I… I was going to…”

“To what? To sweep in at the last moment and save everybody?”

The lady’s wording was like a slap to her face, and Fíriel winced. Still, outright confrontation had the virtue to bring out some fiery side of her that the Royal Nurse had already awakened, not too many hours ago. Before she even noticed what she was doing, or wondered if this was a sound strategy, she was already blurting out her entire plan to Lady Ilmarë, trying to impress upon her the absolute necessity of her presence in the trial. As she rambled on, she saw the grey eyes widen in shock, then in incredulity.

“That – that is the most stupid, dangerous plan I have ever heard, and I have heard my share of them!”, she hissed, shaking her head as if she could physically dislodge this madness from her mind. “If you go back to that villa and lie to the Governor’s face, you will imperil the Lord’s efforts, not to mention bring grave suspicion upon yourself. And if you think that the Prince of the West is going to bear false witness before all those people only for your sake…”

Fíriel bristled at her arrogant condescension. What did she know?

“That is my risk to take, my lady”, she said, hard pressed to keep the politeness in her tone.

Lady Ilmarë’s eyes narrowed.

“No, it is not. You will stay here, and the gate guards will ensure that you do.”

“But then Zebedin will die!” And everybody would blame her for it, for choosing the abomination above her own people, her flesh and blood.

“That is none of my concern, nor should it be yours. He made his choice, and brought great harm upon those you love in the process. And upon you, girl. How can you possibly fail to see that they can still implicate you in the murder?”

“No, they won’t!” she argued hotly. “Gimilzagar would never allow it!”

It seemed to her, even in the middle of her turmoil, that the Lady Ilmarë was staring at her with something akin to shock.

“What is he to you, exactly?” she whispered at last. Fíriel gaped; it was the last thing she had expected to be asked. And it was none of her business, too. But she was a lady, and Fíriel was in her house, and pretty much at her mercy, for Lady Lalwendë remained sequestered by her guests from the capital and everybody else was gone.

For the second time, her mind chose the worst possible moment to remind her of the kiss by the cliff. Though she looked aside in an attempt to hide her blush away, it was almost impossible that Lady Ilmarë had not seen it.

“If I - asked him to say that he started the fight, and that the others were only trying to defend themselves, he would do so.” She willed herself to answer her gaze without flinching, and her voice to remain even. To her surprise, she did not only succeed: it even came out more ardent than she had expected, as if Gimilzagar was some kind of shining hero instead of a spoiled prince who curled into a ball when a peasant approached them carrying a fishmonger’s knife. “I trust him absolutely, my lady.”

“Are you, by chance, aware of what they say about him?”

That, again. She shifted on her feet, uncomfortably. What was it with that woman? The whole conversation was a waste of time, did she think she could distract Fíriel from her purpose with this interrogation?

“I am not interested in rumours, my lady. Now, if you will give me leave…”

“I will not!” Lady Ilmarë hissed. “You will stay where you are, or I swear I shall have you bound.”

Suddenly, Fíriel had a desperate idea. Long ago, when she was a little girl, she had used it with the lady’s brother, Isildur, and it had worked. Perhaps it might work again.

“Once, Lord Númendil told me how my father had died. The house of Andúnië has a great debt towards him for his sacrifice. And now, his family is in danger!” Even as she spoke, she remained aware of the changes in the older woman’s countenance, which is how she realized that she had made a huge mistake. Instead of recognition or assent, Lady Ilmarë’s features creased first in disbelief, then in anger.

“Do not speak to me of your father! I do not owe him any debts, rather the opposite!” Her eyes burned like coals, so much that Fíriel was seized by an instinctive need to retreat. “I recognize your attitude. You might have been raised among peasants, but you still think that you can have your way in everything, that the world will have to bend to the intolerable pressure of your passions and your needs. This attitude has served you well with other people in the past, even, it seems, with one who could have the world bend to his needs if he so wished. But it will not work with me, Fíriel. “Her anger departed just as it had come, leaving nothing but a subdued yet deep emotion in their wake. “I am the one you inherited it from.”

It took a very long time for the meaning of those words to register in the girl’s mind. When it did, it took even longer until she decided it could not be a joke, or an elaborate ploy to keep her rooted to the spot instead of trying to find a way to escape. But even after she had discarded all those options, she still refused to believe in their fundamental truth.

“But my mother… my mother was…” she blabbered, thunderstruck at the realization that there were no arguments she could oppose, based on any certainties of her childhood. The most detailed information about her mother she had ever been given -that she had died after giving birth to her and was buried in Andúnië-, had come from this woman. Who, in one way or another, had been lying to her.

Slowly, her brain began uncovering associations, building connections from details, words, attitudes that until now she had never appreciated in their true context, or simply took for granted. All those afternoons of being chosen to accompany Grandmother to have tea in the mansion. Lady Lalwendë coming to visit her when she was a baby, fussing over her, like a grandmother, she remembered having thought naively. Lord Númendil, Lord Elendil, Lord Isildur’s attitude towards her. The grey eyes, those that Aunt had always wanted her to hide, though everyone had them up here.

“Why?” She was shaken to her innermost core of her being. She wanted to yell, to cry, but all she could do was whisper, as if she had a throat disease. Still, and though she had remained impassive through all of Fíriel’s previous attempts to upset her, Lady Ilmarë cringed at it. Her eyes were fixed upon the table, as if she had found a really fascinating pattern upon its surface.

“As you might have imagined, your father and I were not married”, she said at last, with studied calm. “Then, he went and got himself killed before he even knew I was pregnant. If he had known, perhaps he would have heeded my wishes and stayed with me, though this would have meant Isildur’s death, and perhaps the ruin of our family. But idle speculation is a dangerous pastime, not to mention the most useless.”

“So.” What was it with that voice, which did not even seem hers? “You sent me away in secret because nobody could know that you…”

“Not quite.” If the patterns on the wood had been lines of writing, the Lady Ilmarë would have had them all memorized by now. “That - played a part, but the true reason why I did it was because of something that the Queen said to me while I was pregnant. Did you know I used to be her lady-in-waiting? Well, one day, shortly after her husband had killed your father, she told me that she wanted my child. She would raise it herself as her son’s playmate. I was beside myself! I could see your terrible fate, imprisoned in the Palace, under the eye of your father’s enemies and the demon who serves them, a plaything for an abomination who had been born dead.” Suddenly, she broke into a fit of laughter, so strange that for a moment Fíriel thought she was crying. “And all for nothing! The Queen saw everything before it happened, and she tricked me. She wanted you away from me, defenceless, not to snatch you away by force, but to have a chance encounter by the seaside bloom into an inexorable thread of Fate. To think it was that idiot Anárion who was right all along! And all this time I could have… we could have…”

Now, she was crying, and it struck Fíriel that she could leave now and her jailor would have no time to react until she was well out of her reach. But she no longer remembered her purpose, her plans, even the pressing need to do something before it was too late. It was as if she was a puppet, and someone had cut all her strings but one, which barely held her as she hung from one side, revolving grotesquely around the same spot.

“I…” What could she say? What could anyone possibly say after finding out that their own mother gave them up to hide them from dangers which had found them in the end, if under a different guise than anyone could have expected? It seemed like something taken straight out of a convoluted tale, perhaps the tale of Túrin and Niénor, who had lived all their lives under a curse. Just like Túrin, she wanted to be angry, to do terrible things, but when she saw the woman breaking down before her, all she could do was to awkwardly strive to find something, anything to say. “My lady… I mean, M-mother.” Her voice almost failed at the word, which she had never uttered before. “It was- it was not for nothing, was it? If what you say is true, if you had kept me, the Queen would have claimed me. I would have grown away from you, and from Grandmother, and Aunt, and Uncle, and Zama, and…” Her cousin’s name choked her, and suddenly the misery of her current plight emerged again from the mists of the past which had obfuscated it. She had to escape this trap, before it was too late. She had to act. Now.

Meanwhile, Lady Ilmarë was recovering her composure surprisingly fast. She looked up, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. Upon meeting her glance, Fíriel grew aware of something that she could not have known before: that this woman would never allow her to cross the threshold of her house while she lived.

That was why they had left Fíriel in her company.

“Sit with me”, she ordered, her voice barely shaking anymore. “We have many things to talk about while… while they are out there. Hopefully, it will help keep our minds occupied.”

“But my family…” Fíriel protested. Lady Ilmarë’s look became grim, and her grey eyes heavy as lead.

“I have not told you all this so you can go ahead with your harebrained scheme and die on me like your father did” she hissed. “Now, sit.”

With great reluctance, the girl obeyed.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Amandil sighed, schooling his features into the expression of cordial subservience he had been perfecting over more years than he cared to count. His exalted lordship, the Governor of Sor, had appeared quite belligerent back when they both sat on the Council of the realm, but the former lord of Andúnië had learned long ago that those appearances hid a rather reasonable man, if a little too perilously susceptible to the influence of the louder factions of his council. No matter how hard he tried to keep his merchants contented, however, he remained distinctly aware of Amandil’s status, and of the flimsy arbitrariness of the fate which had put him, born the son of a common rich man with commercial interests on the mainland, above a great lord from the line of Indilzar. To have Amandil and Elendil bow before him flattered his vanity, so he had done his best to appear as their benefactor by granting them certain small requests which he did not see as threatening enough to his standing with the Sceptre. At the same time, he had not disdained the money and the aid which they furnished “as a humble contribution to embellish the East of the Island where we now have our home”, and though Amandil was not deluded enough to believe that this business relationship of sorts would be enough to withstand a strong attack, the extent of his manoeuvring room depended on his ability to pick his battles.

Now, for the first time in all these years, it was the battle which had picked him. A trial involving a murder attempt against none other than the heir to the Sceptre, perhaps the highest treason that could be committed in the kingdom of Númenor, was not a situation where negotiations were likely to be conducted, or favours repaid. No Númenórean official who cared for his own life would want to appear partial towards the would-be assassins, or be accused of sympathizing with them in any way. Moreover, if the accused were of the Faithful, anything resembling personal motives was unlikely to fly, leaving a dangerous opening for mass blaming and persecution to start. This was something that Amandil had feared since long ago, especially as the mutterings against the Prince of the West grew louder and inextricably linked to the Elf-friends’ opposition to the horrible ceremony of sacrifice. But so had the Governor of Sor, who was in charge of keeping law and order in the large territory where the Faithful had tried to build a home for themselves among those who gazed at them in suspicion. Even now, as Amandil bowed and greeted him, he looked like a mess of frayed nerves, and the lord of Andúnië knew that the news had hit him hard. If he was lucky, the Governor might see this meeting as a chance to broker a peace alliance of sorts between two potentially riotous populations. If so, he might have some room to manoeuvre, after all.

Still, Amandil’s greatest hope did not come from the man who stammered back his greetings, but rather from the youngster sitting at his side. From what he had heard, Prince Gimilzagar had turned out to have a very different role in this sinister play than anyone could have previously anticipated. He had strongly denied the involvement of Fíriel and the rest of Zebedin’s family in the plot, and even tried to have them released at once. The lord of Andúnië could well imagine the Governor’s puzzlement at this unexpected attitude.

“This is terrible business, Lord Amandil. Terrible, terrible business.”

“Indeed, my lord governor. But the Prince is alive and well, which brings great relief to my heart and that of all Númenóreans.”

The Prince of the West did not move, or show any signs of recognition, not even when his name was mentioned and Amandil bowed in his direction.

“Well- that is precisely the matter, is it not? Not all Númenóreans.”

“No, not all” Amandil conceded. “But those who do not are very few, I am certain.”

“That is not for us to determine, however.” The Governor looked up, as if muttering a prayer. “Thanks to the Great Deliverer, we will be delivered of this responsibility.”

Amandil stared at him. From the corner of his eye, he could see Gimilzagar shift his position a little, too.

“What do you mean with that, my lord governor? This ghastly affair happened in your jurisdiction, did it not?”

“Even the most exalted among us needs to bow to a higher authority. Under the eye of the Lord, we are all but humble servants.”

The lord of Andúnië did not like this talk at all. He was beginning to feel that this conversation was not going in the direction that he had intended.

“But they are going to be tried here, are they not?” he asked. The Prince was now staring at the Governor too, with an anxious look that, curiously enough, seemed to mirror Amandil’s own.

The Governor let go of a long breath.

“Yes, they are.” He almost looked apologetic when he said this. “But not by me.”

Gimilzagar’s anxiety turned into downright terror. Worried, Amandil wondered what could have set the strange Prince in such a state, but his bewilderment did not last long. A familiar cadence of footsteps behind his back made him turn abruptly in the direction of the Prince’s look, just as the Governor of Sor knelt on the floor and bowed low.

His stomach plummeted.

“I see that you are already gathered on the same room. Good.” Ar Pharazôn barked, surveying all three of them with a piercing glance. “Now, you are going to explain to me what on Earth has happened here.”