Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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After Effects

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“Ar Pharazôn, Face of Melkor, Protector of Númenor and the colonies, Victor of Mordor, Harad and Rhûn and King of the World!”

The King advanced, his glance trailing across the sea of bowed heads in search of a sign of the missing dark hair. The wretch was not inside the Council room either, which was the last straw he had been clutching at. The honour and responsibility of being an appointed councilman of the realm seemed to have gone over his head without penetrating his thick skull, just as so many other things before it.

Ar Pharazôn sat, nodding absently while the men in the room made their obeisance to him, headed back to their seats –where the single empty spot appeared even more glaring after all the others had been filled-, and began exposing the issues they had come to discuss. His mind, however, was working so restlessly that he was unable to focus on their inane droning. When Iqbal of Hyarnustar finished stammering through a petition, and he realized that he had not taken in a single word of it, he gave up and stood back on his feet. The young Southwestern lord’s face became pale, and he flinched instinctively.

Pharazôn gazed at him in vague disgust. Once upon a time, this man had been braver, even brave enough to oppose Pharazôn’s claim to the Sceptre. In times of civil strife, one could not afford to destroy all his enemies, so he had needed to make sure that Iqbal would never think of defying him again. Still, perhaps somewhat irrationally, he could not help blaming the man for being so easy to break.

Ignoring him, he beckoned towards the High Priest of Melkor - who, as always, seemed to know what he would say even before he opened his mouth.

“Zigûr, take my place for this session.”

As the blue-eyed creature stood on his feet and walked towards the centre of the semicircle, there was a small stir, but no one raised his voice to object. Since Zigûr had been appointed to fill Amandil’s place in the Council, the level of contentiousness he could expect from its members had dwindled drastically, both because his former friend had been the most contrary voice, and because his remaining colleagues were too scared of Zigûr’s ability to see through their intentions and scrutinize their thoughts. Ar Pharazôn had the feeling that many of them would withdraw their petitions for this session, only so they would not have to voice them before the former Lord of Mordor.

After he had left the Council room, the King did not waste more time. As fast as if he was on his way to put on his armour after the sentinels had alerted him of a surprise attack, he walked past galleries, courtyards and corridors, until he found himself before the gates of the West wing of the Palace. The guards instantly moved aside to let him in, though as soon as he set foot on the threshold a bunch of women came in to take their place, headed by that old hag Zimraphel had chosen to head the Prince’s household when he was a child.

“Is the Prince inside?” he demanded. She looked troubled, but stood her ground.

“Yes, my lord King.”

“And what is he doing there, instead of in the Council room, where he was being expected? Perhaps he has some urgent business to take care of, so he cannot be bothered with idle pastimes such as listening to the highest dignitaries of the realm?”

“He is…” Her gaze was lost in the patterns of the tiles on the floor, and suddenly he realized that her distracted mood did not have his presence as the only cause. “He is not feeling well, my lord King.”

Pharazôn frowned, unable to understand this at first. Not feeling well. Those were words he had grown familiar with in the past, a recent past maybe, but made distant in his mind by the security that it would never return.

“What do you mean, ‘not feeling well’?” he asked, clinging to the hope that it might still be some sort of misunderstanding. But the Royal Nurse shook her head in silence, and as he walked past her, she made no move to follow or even call after him.

When he entered the room, the first thing that struck him was the insidious smell that he had come to identify with debilitating illness, with weakness and endless worry – the smell that had followed his child everywhere when he was younger, which Pharazôn had tried to escape by climbing the highest mountains and seeking the farthest edges of the world.

Gimilzagar was lying on his bed. He did not look as terrible as those other times, but his pale forehead glistened with sweat, and his cheeks were unnaturally flushed by the effects of a fever. Zimraphel was sitting by his bedside, gazing ahead with an absent look that was not even animated by a spark of recognition as Pharazôn came in. Though he was the sick one, it was their son who first noticed his presence, and greeted him warily.

“What happened? What is the meaning of this?” He was not speaking in a voice louder than the one he had used outside, but in this place it sounded thunderous. “You are not supposed to be sick!”

An ignorant observer might think him unfair for delivering those words with an accusatory edge to his tone. But in this room, they all knew very well what Pharazôn meant. Once a year, people were sacrificed to the Deliverer so Gimilzagar’s forces would be renewed, and though he had never become nearly as strong as his father would have wanted, at least he had been of good health. Now, it was barely half as long since those Baalim-worshipping conspirers had been burned in the altar of the temple of Sor, and Gimilzagar was prostrated in his bed.

Had it been a mistake, an error of calculation to pretend that those souls, so wilfully and unrepentantly bent in revenge against the Prince, could ever augment his forces? Back then, he had voiced his doubts to Zigûr, who had reassured him, claiming that souls were souls and their former owners had no say in what was done with them once they forfeited them. Had the High Priest been proved wrong for the first time since he set foot on Númenor?

A man who chooses to believe in the devil receives no sympathy when he is deceived, the annoying voice of Amandil whispered in his mind. You may be King of the World, and yet you can be brought to your knees so easily that the fiend who fed this garbled knowledge to you could boast of being its true ruler.

“This is not Zigûr’s fault”, Zimraphel spoke, interrupting his thoughts.

“Then whose fault is it? Mine?” He began pacing around, and Gimilzagar looked away, as if his brusque movements made him upset or dizzy. “Am I not doing enough?  Tell me what else do I have to do? Does Gimilzagar need a hundred souls? A thousand? A million?”

This got his son’s attention at once. In shock, he turned towards him again, and began shaking his head.

“No!” he shrieked. Struggling to an upwards position, he sought his glance with what he seemed to believe was a firm look, which was sadly belied by his trembling voice. “I will get better on my own. I will get better, just you see, but please, Father, don’t!”

Gimilzagar had always been too sensitive, partly due to those abilities he had inherited from his mother. But it was not as if Pharazôn forced him to participate in the sacrifices, or even watch them. Since he had to be led away from the Temple when he was ten, the first ceremony he had attended had been last summer, in the temple of Sor. That time, it had been simply unavoidable, as everybody had to see with their own eyes that he was alive and well, and that he stood triumphantly before the altar while his enemies perished one after another. Still, with the exception of the would-be murderer himself, none of the others had belonged to the family of that girl he had taken a fancy to. Pharazôn had let them go for his sake alone, even at the risk of making Amandil think that he had got one over him. Gimilzagar should have been grateful for that and bear the rest with good grace, and perhaps learn his lesson not to lower his guard so foolishly ever again. Whenever Pharazôn thought that a wretched fishmonger from the Andustar could have killed his only son as easily as a drunkard was stabbed by a robber on his way home from the tavern, he was so angry that he could not even bear to look at him, much less listen to his whining.

“You cannot get better on your own”, he said, forcing his voice to remain calm. “This is something that your mother and I have known since you were a young child.”

But this time, Gimilzagar would not be so easily deterred.

“Is that something that you truly know? Or is it merely that you have… trusted Lord Zigûr’s word on it?” Pharazôn’s eyes widened at this unexpected show of nerve, and for a moment he was too surprised to say anything. “What if he wants you to think I will die so you will have to keep sacrificing people? What if I do not die at all?”

Behind him, Zimraphel’s eyes gleamed with an unreadable emotion.

“There it is, Pharazôn. You will find no fault in the process, or in he who counselled it to you. Those souls had no choice, but he who is meant to receive them always does. And the poor child’s heart is struggling right now.”

Gimilzagar looked down, his hands twitching in trepidation. Pharazôn wanted to shake him, but Zimraphel would never have allowed it. As a matter of fact, he thought, he would have wanted to shake her, too. She had promised that she would protect him, but all she had done was coddle him, spoil him, and put him in danger. And then, instead of feeling ashamed for her mistakes, she sat upon the throne of her superior insight, telling him what he should or should not do. If he was such a terrible father, and she such an excellent mother, how come that he was the one doing everything to keep Gimilzagar alive? Where would the boy be without him now?

I will destroy anyone who refers to the Prince as an abomination, or wishes him any harm, which includes opposing the ceremonies which ensure his continued existence, his own words in Rómenna came back to haunt his mind. Perhaps there should have been an added provision to this law, he thought ironically, in the case that the Prince himself opposed the ceremonies which ensured his own existence. But what punishment could there be for this, what actions could be taken without paradoxically incurring in the same crime?

“Fine”, he hissed. “I see that you wish to make an experiment. Well, why not? You want to settle this business once and for all, so be it! I will let you recover your health on your own. I will not move a single finger to help you, until you are well and truly certain that you have discovered the ultimate truth of this matter. Do not fear, for you are my only heir, and I will never let you die. But if you choose to do this, know that I will not intervene a week from now, when you are writhing in pain and crying for help. I will not intervene a month from now, when you are unable to move, staring at the ceiling and blubbering deliriously. Only when you do not have a voice anymore, in about two months’ time, and you can no longer do anything but struggle to force a tiny portion of breath inside your choked lungs, I will intervene and save you. Is that what you want? Go ahead, tell me now while you still can!”

Gimilzagar was pale-skinned, but now his face looked as white as if all the blood had entirely left his body. Zimraphel grabbed his hand for comfort, though, to Pharazôn’s mystified surprise, she did not say anything at all. That is it, he thought in dawning realization, stay silent so you do not have to admit that I am right. Pretend that I am the monster.

“No”, Gimilzagar whispered, in such a pitifully low voice that Pharazôn was hard pressed to hear it. He looked more ill than mere moments before, as if the shame of his surrender had seeped his remaining forces away. “Th-that is not wh-what I want.”

“Will you let me help you, then?” Pharazôn insisted, though a part of him was beginning to hate himself for it. “Will you admit that the actions taken by Lord Zigûr and myself are necessary to keep you alive, and resist them and question them no longer?”

This ‘Yes’ was not even voiced; it was merely insinuated by Gimilzagar’s parched lips, without any sound coming from them. He seemed about to burst into tears, and Pharazôn swallowed, his anger mysteriously spent.

“I much prefer it that way”, he nodded, doing his best to convey in his voice and in his countenance how far watching his son suffer was from his idea of a pleasurable pursuit. He did not know if he had succeeded, for the young man’s gaze did not meet his again. Instead, he turned towards Zimraphel, who took the hand she was holding, kissing it several times.

Before he turned away to start organizing the ceremony, she looked up towards him, and for a brief instant he surprised an apologetic look in her dark eyes.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Who is there?”

Fíriel stopped washing the dishes and gazed in the direction of the door, making an effort to listen to any sounds coming from that direction. She could hear nothing, but she was too familiar with Grandmother’s instincts as to dismiss them outright, so she wiped the soap away from her hands and walked towards the old woman’s chair.

“Probably just the Lady Ilmarë, Grandmother. She said she would visit today.”

“Are you sure?” she insisted, looking at the door in apprehension. Fíriel took the wrinkled hand in hers, and caressed it.

“Yes, Grandmother, I am.”

It should be either that, or the local kids sneaking in to smear mud on the laundry hanging outside, leave shit in the porch or throw dead animals into their well. The day that the Númenórean Sceptre decided to come looking for them, she doubted that they would have to strain their ears to hear the soldiers coming. But those rational arguments were no longer enough to keep the woman sitting next to her from flying into a panic.

Once upon a time, Fíriel had looked up to her grandmother as a model of unshakeable strength and kindness. Though she had been alone since long before the girl was born, living off the charity of her descendants and their families, she had always borne her situation with good grace, never regretting her choices. For Fíriel, she always had a smile, a tale, an encouraging word, an admonishment not to let the world get the better of her or her childish fears cloud her mind. That was why it was so hard to see her like this now, jumping at the slightest noise and waking her up with her nightmares. Eldest Uncle was not sure of what had broken her, for she had not been physically harmed nearly as much as them, but Fíriel had her suspicions, which increased every time that she heard her speak the name of Father in her dreams. Her grandson’s death had been harrowing enough, but to suddenly have it dawn in her mind that this was how her dearest son had died, instead of just killed while fighting the Guards as she had been told for all those years, would have been mind-numbingly devastating.

Almost as much as it was to know that all her other sons, daughters, grandsons and granddaughters could suffer the same fate just as easily, Fíriel thought with a shiver. According to the new laws, anyone who opposed the sacrifices was a traitor, and though this did not criminalize the beliefs of the Faithful directly, it made it very hard for them to discuss anything connected to their faith without entering a slippery territory. Since the events surrounding the death of Zebedin, moreover, they had become a watched family for both sides of the conflict. Lord Amandil had informed them that the Governor of Sor had been ordered to keep an eye on their movements, but Fíriel would not put past some of her own neighbours to make up something against them. They saw her family as little better than traitors, only behaving politely to them because of Lord Amandil’s authority –or at least the parents, for the children drove them crazy with their malicious pranks. And though most would be genuinely ashamed to even consider betraying one of their own to their common enemy, some were twisted enough to convince themselves that they deserved it, Faithful or not. The King had made sure that neither of Zebedin’s companions had any family left, but they still had friends, for whom Fíriel was the abomination’s whore.

In the end, all this hostility, and the risks it entailed, had been enough to convince Aunt and Uncle to board Lord Amandil’s first ship stopping at Pelargir, taking a kicking and struggling Zama with them. Most of her kinsmen and kinswomen had gone with them, leaving only Grandmother –who was not in a proper state to start a new life in the mainland- and Eldest Uncle with his family, for he considered himself responsible for her. Fíriel had moved in with them as soon as she got wind of her state, though her goal was to convince the old woman to follow her to the house up the cliff one day.

The pressure in her hand tightened suddenly, jerking her away from her musings. This time, she could hear the sound of footsteps herself, stopping at their door, and then, with a few moments of delay, a knock on the door. Gently disentangling herself from the old woman’s grip, she went to open it.

“Good morning, my lady” she bowed, trying to scrutinize the landscape beyond in search of possible listeners. “Grandmother, the lady Ilmarë is here!”

“You have excrements all over your doorstep”, her mother remarked, with a look of disgust.

“Oh, dear, I am so sorry! I will make sure to clean it before your ladyship leaves” she apologized, as if she was the one who had smeared it. Carefully, Ilmarë raised her skirts and tiptoed over the mess to get inside.

“This should not be tolerated”, she declared with an angry frown. Fíriel shrugged, a little too despondently.

“They are just kids. Kids do not follow rules.”

“But they follow their parents”, Ilmarë retorted. “I will have Grandfather speak to them.” Then, before Fíriel could say anything else, she turned towards her grandmother. “Well met, Mistress Amal! I am glad to see you in good health. Mother apologizes for not being able to come, but she has been having her hands full with her guests. She gave me cakes for you.”

“That was very kind of her”, the old woman smiled, looking for a moment like her old self. “Fíriel, take them. I will not mind if you steal a few”, she added in a stage whisper.

Fíriel rolled her eyes as she took the package from her mother’s hands and put it away. Meanwhile, the other women made small conversation about the weather, the crops, the state of the Sea this winter, and Lady Lalwendë’s pains to accommodate the whims of two Armenelos ladies who had camped in her house with their servants while they waited for their fiancés to return from their overseas venture.

When Fíriel came back with refreshments, they were still talking about this, and she found herself listening in while they discussed the late Lord of Sorontil’s daughters. Not long ago, she had been there when Isildur and Anárion departed, taking most of her family with them, and even in the middle of her own grief, she remembered feeling a little flabbergasted at Lady Irissë’s loud sobbing. Perhaps she should have sympathized more, as remembering her own farewell to Gimilzagar never failed to bring tears to her eyes despite everything else which had happened. But Gimilzagar had been banned from ever returning to Rómenna, while Isildur would be back in a few months. And Gimilzagar had looked devastated, as if he would never be happy again and had nothing left to live for, while Isildur – well, he did not seem too upset, to be honest, except from sheer embarrassment.

The gossip of the women, however, proved that she was far from the only one to remark upon the lady’s behaviour. Fíriel’s mother claimed that she would never say anything of the sort in her family’s house, but that she would have been quite amused at her brother’s plight if not for the suspicion that Isildur would keep finding excuses to sail away and leave her to deal with his soon-to-be wife. Then again, she conceded, the woman was not really a bad sort, if one was in the mood not to pay heed to her endless chattering and her theatrics. Her sister, on the other hand, was a demon in the shape of a woman. Only Anárion liked her, which just proved how odd he had always been. Since she arrived, she had begun by registering her polite astonishment at how haphazardly their household was organized, and offering “suggestions” on how to improve it. When she was indulged enough to grow bolder, she started phrasing her suggestions like orders, and Lady Lalwendë had been forced to put her foot down. But she was not merely proficient in womanly matters, oh no. She had also expressed interest in “learning about their political struggles, as a future member of the family”, and on more than one occasion she even had the evil courage to tell Lord Amandil what he should do – and Anárion had supported her!

“Oh, my, how shocking!”, Grandmother exclaimed. Fíriel loved to see her like this, so entertained by the conversation that she did not even seem to remember her troubles anymore. She would gladly have remained there for the entire duration of the visit, listening to them talk animatedly about inconsequential things. At the same time, however, she had the definite suspicion that her mother had not come down the cliff alone merely to exchange gossip with Fíriel’s grandmother.

Just as she had feared, Ilmarë was waiting for an opportunity to talk to her in private. When Fíriel’s aunt returned from her shopping, she provided her with a good excuse. Leaving her to tend to her mother-in-law, Ilmarë motioned to Fíriel to follow her towards the tiny backyard, where their grain reserves were stored safely away from thieves and vandals.

“We received news from Armenelos yesterday”, she spoke, as soon as they had entered the cramped place and Fíriel had scared away the mouse who was trying to gnaw at one of the sacks. “It appears that the Prince of the West is ill.”

The girl froze.

“Ill?” She remembered Gimilzagar telling her that he had been ill often, when he was younger. He was much better now, he claimed, though he had never wanted to talk about those horrible rumours concerning souls of people sacrificed for his health. Until the day she was brought before the King, she remembered, the hairs in the back of her neck rising in terror at the very remembrance.

Even then, however, after knowing the truth, she had remained unable to hate him. Perhaps she was biased because she had kissed him, but what she saw when she looked at him was a sad young man, trying in vain to escape the tyranny of his father. Just like the rest of the world.

“Will he be fine?” she asked, stupidly. To think that she had mocked Lady Irissë, she thought, mortified, as her mother raised an eyebrow at her.

“I am sure he will be.” More than the unfortunate men and women who will be slaughtered for his sake, her look seemed to imply, but she cared enough about Fíriel’s feelings as to forego putting it in words. “But that is not what concerns me. It might be that the Sceptre is successful at hiding things from its subjects, but as far as we are able to tell, it has been quite long since the Prince of the West last experienced an illness.”

“Then, how do you know that he will be fine?”

Ilmarë shook her head, and let go of an exasperated sigh.

“Fíriel, a narrow field of vision is a common symptom of lover’s disease, but when it comes to the Prince, I believe you would be better advised to pay attention to other things apart from his welfare.” Her eyes narrowed as she set them on her. “Such as, for instance, your own.”

Fíriel swallowed hard.

“What does that mean, my… Mother?”

“It means that we are worried that a connection might be drawn between you and his current state.”

“What? People will think that he is ill because of me?” She could not believe her ears. Though she had spent months trying hard to suppress all memories of her cousin, she could not prevent her mind from going back to that fateful day she had met Gimilzagar on the beach, and returned home at night to find Zebedin beaten up by the Palace Guards. He remembered him holding a wet cloth against his swollen face, and laughing bitterly. As if they needed a reason to blame us for everything!

Since that day, the world had been striving quite hard to prove him right in his affirmation. Sometimes, it made Fíriel wonder if perhaps she had been unfair when she thought him an idiot, even, in her darkest moments, whether he could have been wiser than the rest of them. For at least, he had tried to do something before he died, though he had struck at the wrong person.

“Your uncle thinks you should sail to Pelargir. Do not worry”, the lady hastened to interject when she saw the outrage in Fíriel’s countenance. “You will not. He means well, and he does genuinely care about you, in his own way. And Father insists that I cannot blame him for thinking of his own wife and children first, and hoping that they could live on peacefully if you were gone.” Still, there was a hard glint in her eye that told the girl that she had not quite succeeded in seeing things the way her father wanted her to. “But you would not be any safer in Pelargir. There was a time when the mainland was like another world, where Merchant Princes had their own dealings with the natives, of which the Sceptre knew and cared little as long as the wealth kept flowing. That is no longer the case. The tyranny of the Sceptre is little less felt in the colonies than it is in the Island, and though those who are of little interest to it may disappear through the cracks, this will never work for someone like you, just as it would not work for the Lord of Andúnië and his kin. And what is more important, I have finally understood what I did not understand back when I gave you away.”

It was not very common that they would speak of this event, at least since that terrible night when her world had changed for ever. Out of an instinct, Fíriel looked at the closed door behind them, as if suddenly afraid that someone would overhear. Ilmarë did not even seem to register this movement.

“There is no safety, no salvation to be found in fleeing and hiding. All a coward will receive for their troubles is a stab in the back.” There was pain in her glance now, and yet also a great fierceness. “We cannot escape the long arm of the Queen of Númenor, Fíriel. All we can do is wait for her, face her when she comes, and never let her destroy our spirits.”

Though just a moment ago she had been recoiling angrily from the very notion of taking ship for the mainland, Fíriel was unable to hide the anxiety awoken by those words. She looked at the finely-dressed woman who had turned out to be her mother, at her regal pose and the stateliness of her raised chin, and for a moment she could not believe it -any of it. She was not this lady’s daughter, she could not be. She was Fíriel the peasant from the Andustar, and they did not live in the same world, or speak the same language. She did not play private games with the Sceptre, except those which involved kneeling on the hard floor and trying to survive. She had understood that well enough last time.

“With all due respect, my lady” she said, suddenly formal, “she can destroy my body.”

Ilmarë stared at her, as if she had not been expecting such a ludicrous answer. Then, however, something in her look seemed to give her a little pause, and she relented a little.

“Child, the Queen does not want to destroy your body. If she had, she would have done so long ago.”

That was true enough, Fíriel thought, remembering all the times that Gimilzagar had blabbered information about her in front of his mother. But Gimilzagar’s mother had not been there last time, and Fíriel did not think there was much she could do against Gimilzagar’s father anyway.

“I do not know if she will be back for you. Perhaps you have already served her purposes in some way that we ignore. “The way Ilmarë spoke of the Queen, she might well have been the Dark Lord herself, which she found even more ominous than her previous thought. “But Great-grandfather was right about one thing: if she is back, you cannot remain this helpless. You have courage and determination, which is fine. But you are still tied by the limitations of a peasant. You are uneducated, naïve, and too impressed by the wrong things.”

Fíriel blushed.

“I am a peasant.”

“No, you are not. You are my daughter.”

The girl’s anger was growing, despite the fact that she knew that Ilmarë was speaking the truth. After all, whose fault was it that it was so? She was as innocent of the circumstances that brought her to be so helpless and inadequate as Gimilzagar was of the crimes committed in his name. Perhaps this was the link which had tied them both since the beginning, she mused, two children whose lives had been changed by the fateful decisions of others –and who had been short-changed for it.

Then, however, she remembered Grandmother, and she felt ashamed of her own thoughts.

“Again, with all due respect, I was raised by the woman who sits in the other room. If she is a peasant, then I am a peasant, because I will not leave her side again as long as she needs me.”

For all her grandness, this time Ilmarë could not prevent herself from flinching as if she had been struck. Fíriel had expected her to be angry, but instead she appeared sad and embarrassed and, for a moment, very much undignified. Not very unlike how Gimilzagar himself had looked sometimes, when she made him see something that he had not previously considered.

“I… did not mean to imply…” Ilmarë shook her head, looking out of words, or rather, at a loss to find the appropriate one among a vertiginous display of them. “You… do not have to go anywhere, Fíriel. At least not because I…” Her frown darkened, and she hurried to discard this sentence, as if there was something in its ending that she did not like. “Will you at least let us help you?”

Us. That she seemed too ashamed to even speak in the singular made Fíriel realize how deeply she had wounded her – and how unfairly. She had lashed out at her only because the world was crumbling around her, and she could do nothing about it, and she needed someone to blame. But as long as the Queen or the King remained aware of her existence, as much as it pained and frightened her to admit it, Ilmarë was right: she needed help. Any help.

“I- yes, of course” she said, wishing it could have come out more gracefully. Then, she grew aware of what had been missing. “Of course, Mother.”

The woman’s smile made her chest ache a little, but at least the situation at hand had been solved. Fíriel sighed – to live one situation at a time was a timeless article of peasant wisdom which she could less than ever allow herself to renounce. Perhaps one day, she thought, if the future remained so bleak and terrifying, the noble, foresighted lords would do well to follow their lead in this.

“I think they must be wondering what we are up to” she said, forcing herself to smile brightly in return. It felt a little false, as if she was trying too hard to forget what had just been said. “And I still have plenty of shit to wash.”

Ilmarë opened her mouth, perhaps to object to her daughter engaging in such degrading pursuits, but seemed to think better of it and closed it again. Fíriel appreciated the effort. Eldest Uncle and Aunt would never throw her out from their house, but it was understood that all this unpleasantness was her business to deal with, and no matter who her real mother was, it was too late for them to see themselves as her servants, to clean up after her. The day they did, she knew she would have no choice but to leave.

As if she had guessed at least part of her thoughts, Ilmarë let go of a strange, smothered chuckle while they walked back to the main room of the cottage. There, the other two women’s voices could be heard engaging in a lively argument about the proper way to cook mackerels.

“At least you will have no problem with the things that cannot be taught”, she said. “Such as pride.”

A quality which no doubt Kings and Queens appreciated very much on their subjects, Fíriel thought darkly, closing the sliding door behind her.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Gimilzagar was finding it increasingly difficult to fight the urge to yawn. He had lost the thread of a long debate about supply lines for the armies in the mainland somewhere after the first half-hour, and now he was trying to keep his head high and his expression alert while old General Eshmounazer thundered at the representatives of Umbar and Pelargir. As a child, he had not been a slow learner –though perhaps his tutors had merely been lying through their teeth-, but the facts and the figures involved in this argument swam in and out of his mind, and he felt almost physically unable to hold on to them, like a child who tried to keep the foam of the surf cupped in his hands.

Thoughts of the surf, however, inevitably led to thoughts of Rómenna, and of her, which was about the last thing he could afford right now. He no longer had the excuse of his illness to stay in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering morbidly about what she was doing at each moment of the day, whether she was thinking of him, and how much she must hate him by now. The King had made sure of that: in a grand ceremony with most of Armenelos in attendance, he had offered a magnificent tribute to the Great Deliverer in his name. Gimilzagar had to admit that, when the life and strength had crept back into his sinews, it had been a buoyant and wonderful feeling, but the aftertaste had been bitter. He could not help but think that she must despise him for his cowardice, for his pathetic show of defiance that vanished shamefully at the first threat. How different from all the heroes in the stories.

“Perhaps the Prince might wish to enlighten us with one of his insights. He seems to be pondering something very important,” Ar Pharazôn’s voice jerked him out of his dispirited musings. The whole room tensed together with him, and all eyes became fixed on his countenance. They recognized that tone very well, brimming with a pretence of light irony which would become anger the very moment that he gave the wrong answer.

But try as he might, Gimilzagar had no right answer to give.

“A- allow me to offer my heartfelt apologies, my lord King, my lord general.” He briefly considered the possibility of pretending that he was still feeling the aftereffects of his illness, but thought better about it. “I am- not familiar enough with the mainland, so my mind had wandered off for a minute.”

“Oh.” The King arched an eyebrow. “I am sorry, General Eshmounazer, perhaps you should have been speaking about fishing, so as to not bore the Prince. Or is it fisherwomen?” Gimilzagar looked down, his cheeks burning with shame. “Meanwhile, you could at least pretend to be interested in the kingdom you are set to inherit one day.”

The rest of the session passed by in a blur after this. Gimilzagar spent most of it trying to participate in an attempt to placate his father, but his attempts at asking questions or offering suggestions rather served to certify his ignorance. What was worse: as his embarrassment increased, his voice grew slightly frantic, and he knew that he was not only earning the King’s wrath, but also the –carefully disguised- contempt of the other councilmen.

“Well”, Ar Pharazôn said, sweeping on him as soon as the session drew to a close, and the councilmen began wandering off to pick up their things and speak to their aides. “I think I am going to have to confess defeat. The Golden King of Númenor has conquered the world and faced every obstacle in his way, but he is unable to make any headway with his own son. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“If I may intervene, my lord King, I can imagine why the poor boy would be at a loss.” As always, Lord Zigûr trailed the King’s footsteps as closely as if he was his shadow. “Every boy dreams of being like his father, even of surpassing him. But you- well, you might have made that goal a little too difficult for him. Is it a matter of wonder that he should be tempted to surrender, before such an impossible task?”

Ar Pharazôn snorted.

“Do you honestly think that is it, Lord Zigûr?” He grabbed Gimilzagar’s shoulder, pretending to be showing him around the bustling council room. “Then let me introduce these worthy people to you. They are not me, but they are perfectly adequate men who manage their affairs well, most of the time. I will be pleased enough if you pick any of them and try to be like him. Well, perhaps not him.” Lord Iqbal cringed, and though his cheeks were as flushed as Gimilzagar’s, he did not say a word, pretending that he had not heard. “But you can choose among the rest.”

“I am sorry, Father.”

The other men bowed as the three of them departed through the gates at the front of the room, the ones reserved to the King alone, and crossed the Painted Gallery in the direction of the private quarters of the Main Compound. The next time that Ar Pharazôn’s gaze met his, Gimilzagar could see that it had shed even the pretence of amusement.

“What am I going to do with you?”

The Prince looked down. Withstanding his father’s glance was already a daunting experience when he was younger, but now it had become almost unbearable. More often than not, when he could be bothered to remain alert to such things, he had observed how people’s moods grew altered by the presence of the King. There were many nuances, as many as there were people, but every reaction fluctuated at some point between the twin poles of hatred and fear. The greatest amount of hatred could be found among those who were exalted and powerful in the realm, like the Council lords, and paradoxically enough also among the lowest, like the barbarian captives or those unfortunate Baalim-worshippers back in Rómenna. A similar quantity of fear, on the other hand, served to balance this hatred and keep it in check. In most people that Gimilzagar knew, both things were so deeply entwined as to be practically undistinguishable, a sea of dark ripples that disturbed the very air that they breathed. When his father belittled him before the Council, those people tensed in perceived sympathy, thinking that he was like them. When his pleas were ignored in Rómenna, Lord Amandil had gazed at him with pity, too, but they were all mistaken.

They were mistaken, Gimilzagar thought, because they had no idea of what he saw whenever he looked at his father. There was anger, yes, and frustration, and a great disappointment at this boy who was nothing like what he had wanted him to be. But all this lived together with something else, which made it much, much worse. None of these people had the slightest notion of what it was to gaze into his father’s eyes as he wondered aloud how many souls would be needed to make Gimilzagar whole, and see that when he spoke of a million, he would truly find a million souls and sacrifice every one of them for Gimilzagar’s sake. They couldn’t.

“… it is little wonder that he does not show much interest in the mainland, my lord King, when Rómenna has been the farthest from the Palace he has ever been.” Lord Zigûr seemed to have taken the mantle of his defender, though the Prince had no idea of what purpose he could be seeking with this. After all, he was not a man, and he would not be read by anyone.

“Well, perhaps you have a point. Perhaps some of the fault is ours, for how we have raised him. Because of his weakness, we have been too protective. We keep him here and treat him like a child, unseemly surrounded by old ladies who coddle him night and day. No wonder he found himself a girl as soon as our backs were turned!” Only his back had been turned, Gimilzagar thought, bristling at the crudity of the assessment, but he knew better than to interrupt the King now. “Oh, I know! Next year, I will be doing an inspection tour of our mainland dominions. Not a grand campaign, though I am sure that we will encounter resistance somewhere. Gimilzagar, you will be coming with me!”

“What?” Horrified, the young man stared at his father, who was suddenly looking very pleased with himself. “No, Father… I mean, I could not… I cannot… I…” I am not a warrior. I could not even face a peasant boy with a fisherman’s knife. “I do not know… anything of war”, he claimed, clutching at straws.

For a moment, it looked as if Ar Pharazôn would give up on him in disgust, yet again. But this time, he would not be so easily deterred. He looked as if he had found the solution to all his problems, the definitive formula that would turn his son into a man.

“I am glad to know of your enthusiasm. That is the spirit, indeed!” he mocked him, but good-naturedly. “Starting tomorrow, you will receive lessons in swordsmanship, horse riding and military strategy. And I will have armour made for you.”

Lord Zigûr smiled, and in his dismay, Gimilzagar concentrated in the shallow comfort of hating him with all his strength.

“That is a wonderful idea, my lord King.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Mother, please”, he begged. His voice came out hoarse, and he felt ashamed even as he spoke. We keep him here and treat him like a child, his father had said, and he could not help but be uncomfortably reminded that he was acting like one. But this was too important, more important than his dignity even, and she had never judged him as harshly as the others. “Do not let him take me. I- I do not want to go to the mainland.”

Ar Zimraphel smiled sadly. Her look of pity stung like the jagged edge of the rocks that he and Fíriel used to climb in Rómenna.

“I am sorry, my love. I have no valid reason to oppose your father’s will in this. He is quite right: you are as much the heir to the Sceptre of Middle-Earth as you are the Prince of the Númenóreans. You have much to learn about the world, and this could be a good opportunity for you to do so.”

He hated himself even more for what he said next, but it was his best shot at getting her to cooperate with him.

“But what if something were to… happen to me?” He tried not to think of Fíriel, of how she would scorn him for this. “What if I am killed?”

Ar Zimraphel caressed the dark strands of his hair away from his forehead, just as she had done in his childhood, he realized.

“I have absolute trust in your father’s ability to keep you safe” If not necessarily happy, she added ruefully in her mind, though soon her look grew serious. “You must allow yourself to grow into a man, Gimilzagar. Only then, you will stop hating yourself. There are enough people ready to hate you in this world, it is absolutely imperative that you do not join forces with them.”

I do not care about them, Mother, he thought, and he realized that it was true. There was only one set of eyes in his mind, always the same, haunting his dreams and his waking hours alike with their look of contempt.

“She did not hate you, my love, because you strove to be a man when you were with her. And that is the side of you that remains unsullied in her memory even now.”

“Really?” The longing he felt was suddenly so unbearable that he had to swallow hard. She nodded.

“When have I ever deceived you, my son?” she asked, though not in anger, but in sympathy for his turmoil, which she had always been able to read like an open book. “Do not despair. At the end of every dark path, there is always light. You will see this light one day, and you will walk towards it.”

Ar Zimraphel was his mother, but she was also a woman of great foresight, revered and feared by all. She seldom spoke lightly, and even as she tried to comfort him as every mother would her child, she never spoke false.

“Thank you, Mother”, he said, feeling slightly better for the first time in so many days that he could not even remember. “I will keep your words in mind.”

“Now, go to your father. And be a dutiful son to him, as hard a task as it might seem to you at times. I know that, deep inside, you are aware of all that he has done for you, though it is not an easy debt to acknowledge.” She looked a little wistful now. “Much older and stronger men would collapse under its weight.”

The following day, when his new instructors introduced themselves to him, put armour on his back and a sword in his hand, Gimilzagar could not stop wondering if he would ever grow strong enough not to collapse under the weight of a million souls.