Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Facing the Inevitable

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The sea breeze was growing steadily colder as the afternoon progressed. Fíriel shivered, gazing at the dwindling sunlight reflected on the gravestone’s white surface. She should have been back home already, for her aunt and uncle didn’t approve of her wandering off alone after sunset, and her mother would not even have wanted her to come at all. Beyond the vague, shapeless fears which were now an everyday companion for the Faithful wherever they went, the Lady Ilmarë was having dreams lately, of Fíriel falling down the cliff that stood before the Andúnië mansion, and of her hand slipping away from her grasp no matter how hard she tried to hold to it. Though ignorant of the workings of this prophetic gift which she appeared to have missed, Fíriel usually listened to her, as deep inside she, too, was aware that the world was growing increasingly dangerous around them.

Today, however, on the first month anniversary of Grandmother’s death, she had felt an overpowering need to be alone.  And then, after she found herself standing before the grave, so many things had come crashing into her mind that she had found herself rooted to the spot, unable to keep track of the time. Pain, for a wound still as fresh as the first day, longing, for a loving smile which she would never see again, and the inescapable guilt, which neither Lady Ilmarë nor Lord Amandil, Lady Lalwendë or any other relative from either side of her family had been able to make disappear, made her weep until she felt dried of tears.

She is happy now, in the company of her beloved husband, Eldest Uncle had said that morning, as Fíriel sat huddled on a small chair next to the deathbed, listlessly staring ahead. She was weary of this life, and had earned her rest, his wife added, nodding sententiously. In her life, she had already withstood much pain and hardship before you came along. If all, you were a great comfort to her, Lord Amandil had contributed, once he heard the news and rushed towards their house. All of them were right, in their own way, and yet none of those truths was the whole truth. Since Fíriel was a little child, her memories of the woman had not tallied at all with her recent behaviour. Something had happened, which had changed her at such a fundamental level that, when one day she refused to rise from her bed, no one had been shocked, as if it had been but an inevitable conclusion. The grandmother Fíriel had known, and still remembered, would never, ever have refused to rise from her bed, and sometimes it shocked her how the people around her acted as if they could not remember, as if that woman had never existed. As if she had always been a diminished, frightened thing without the will to fight, even before Fíriel disregarded her warnings because she knew so much better, and caused her to be threatened, interrogated and hurt by the King’s people.

Give her some credit, Fíriel. Would a woman of her mettle have been undone by something like that? Lord Elendil, too, had joined in the chorus of people trying to make her feel better with herself. She always had this inside her. The only reason why you did not see it was that she would never have allowed herself to appear like that before you. But after you stood bravely before the King and saved your family, she knew that you were strong, and that she no longer had to protect you.

Fíriel had been too ashamed to say the words that came to her mind then: that she had not been strong or brave, that she had not saved her family –if Lord Amandil had not been there, they would all be dead-, that she had not, in fact, even stood, and that she had caused the whole situation in the first place, as her aunt had not hesitated to tell her before she took ship for Pelargir with her husband and her surviving child. Even her grandmother’s uncomprehending looks as Fíriel poured her heart out on her deathbed did not distract her from the sad truth: by then, the old woman had been too far gone to understand what Fíriel was trying to tell her. All she had been able to perceive was that her granddaughter was sad, and she caressed her hand in a clumsy attempt to comfort her. Sometimes, when Fíriel closed her eyes, she could still feel the soft touch of ghost fingers there.

Stop speaking nonsense, Fíriel. Ilmarë had been the bluntest of them all. Your cousin was at fault for everything, not you. That he died a tragic death does not mean you are obligated to shoulder his blame, no matter what your relatives say.

Fíriel had not wanted to start an argument in a funeral, but the ease with which her mother felt entitled to assign blame had got under her skin. She was old enough not to be patronized, and she knew perfectly well that if she had not fooled around with Gimilzagar, Zebedin would never have tried to kill him. That she had been deluded enough to think that she had everything under her control amazed her even now. What control could she possibly have had over forces compared to which she was nothing but an ant, scurrying away in an attempt not to be crushed? Not even Gimilzagar, heir to the Sceptre of Númenor, was powerful enough to face them. After thinking long and hard about it, Fíriel had realized that this was the reason why, to this day, she remained unable to hate him. If she had not seen the King throw him out, forcing him to stand behind a closed door while she was interrogated, if she had not perceived his relief once that she came out alive, and how his hands trembled even as he held her against his chest, she was certain that she would have been able to take the higher road, despite the kiss, and despite everything else that joined them since they were children. And if she ever thought of him while she stood before her grandmother’s grave, it would be as their enemy.

“I am sorry, Grandmother.” According to Ilmarë and Lalwendë’s teachings, souls that travelled beyond the Circles of the World did no longer remain where the bodies had been buried, and could not receive offerings or communicate with the living, as superstition had made many Númenóreans believe. This idea, however, was of such an unbearable cruelty that a part of Fíriel, just like those superstitious people, refused to harken to it. No matter how far she was forced to go, Grandmother would never leave Fíriel completely. “I - cannot stop loving him. But do not worry: he is very, very far away now, and I do not think our paths will ever cross again. Your family will be safe, away from the evil clutches of the Sceptre.” She tried to feel comforted at the thought, but anguish closed her throat. “He is in the mainland now, and the King will p-probably find him some exotic princess or another and m-make him forget about me.” It was two years now since she had last seen him. “You should see h-how quiet Rómenna h-has become s-since he stopped c-coming….”

Furiously, she wiped her tears with the back of her hand. This should not be happening. She might be unable to hate him, but she was supposed to have left this behind, as well. She could not spend her whole life like this, and she already had enough on her plate as it was.

“I will be back”, she promised, once that her voice had been coaxed back to normal. It was almost dark now, and the sun should already be plunging in the mysterious seas which had bathed the shores of her childhood home. In her current, melancholy mood, it suddenly struck her that this was the first thing she remembered having lost, though it had not been the last. Perhaps she would be like Grandmother one day, a woman who hid all her wounds behind a smile, until one day it finally became too much to bear.

Nipping this maudlin thought in the bud, Fíriel gathered her bearings and began walking back towards the village. The more she advanced through the deserted path, the more her eyes and ears grew alert for signs of movement or sound, while her musings receded to the back of her mind. She was late, even later than she had thought, and the earful she was going to receive when she returned home was nothing compared with other terrors that haunted her imagination as she saw the light of dusk fade before her eyes. Any girl who walked alone had much to fear at this hour, and the abomination’s whore most of all. Though she was under the protection of Lord Amandil, she remembered only too well how little it had availed Gimilzagar to be the heir to the Sceptre of the World when the knife swung in his direction.

Still, despite her fears, she did not meet a soul until she came to the outskirts of the village, and its first lights shone in her path. There were no people on the street, and most doors were already bolted shut. Being usually behind one of those bolted doors, Fíriel had not realized how eerie it was to be at the opposite side, alone, watching as every sign of life retreated from the public space and withdrew into the illusion of safety offered by four walls. But she was beginning to understand just how necessary those illusions were to those who invoked them, whether it was the illusion that a wooden enclosure rendered you invulnerable to the perils outside, or the illusion that as long as you stayed out of trouble and did not voice any treasonous thoughts, nobody would come after you. All of it had been proved false more times than they cared to remember, and yet the beliefs survived.

Until the truth barged into your life, in the shape of soldiers bringing your flimsy doors down, and dragging you and your family away for what you had believed to be your best kept secrets, she thought, her stomach doing somersaults as she took the long footpath that led towards her family’s house, and began hearing the sound of voices that she could not immediately recognize. Trying to prevent her instinctive panic from gaining the upper hand, she sought for an explanation: perhaps they were Lord Amandil’s guards, who were there because the Lady Ilmarë had told them to escort her to visit Fíriel in the afternoon, and she was about to run into her now, furious because her daughter was back so late. But as she approached the noise, the bad feeling kept growing stronger and stronger. The door was open, which was never the case at that time of the day, and there was light on the porch, where several men were sitting as indolently as if they had been on a tavern, laughing their heads off at some joke. For a moment, the thought of escape crossed her mind, and she wondered if she would be able to make it up the cliff to the lord of Andúnië’s house at this hour, without either tripping and falling or being caught by those who looked for her. But then she thought of her family, who were meant to be inside waiting for her and had found those soldiers at their doorstep instead. Fíriel had already harmed them enough; if anything happened to them, she would never be able to live with herself. So, despite all her instincts screaming at her to run, she forced herself to walk, one shaking feet before another, until the men saw her.

The laughter died, as abruptly as if it had never been there. One of the men –the leader, wearing the armour of the Palace Guard, Fíriel realized, her blood running cold- barked orders to the others, who stood up to attention. They were six in total, armed with swords that lay propped on the wall. Lord Amandil’s guards might have been able to take them, if only they had been here.

“Are you Fíriel, the girl who lives in this house?” the man asked her, still in that barking voice. Fíriel forced herself to return his gaze.

“Where is my family?” As she spoke, two of the other guards broke the formation, and left the porch to approach her position. Though they did not lay hands on her, they stood behind her, cutting her escape route. She was trapped.

“They are in Sor”, the Guard replied. He was not Lord Abdazer, the head of the Prince’s escort, but he looked just as cold and merciless to her, as if both had been cut from the same cloth. “With the Queen. Ar Zimraphel the Silver-Crowned, Face of Ashtarte-Uinen, Protectress of Númenor and the colonies and Queen of the World wishes for you to be brought before her august presence. If you follow us quietly, she will have them released.”

Many feverish thought processes erupted in Fíriel’s mind at once, so for a while she could do nothing but stand there, trying to untangle them enough to recover some part of her composure. The most immediate and superficial was a feeling of disbelief at the idea of those six armed men telling her to ‘come quietly’ with them. What did they think she could do? Attack them, throw herself down the cliff and turn into a bird? Call the villagers for aid? The citizens of Rómenna? Even Lord Amandil was too far away to hear her now.

The second thought was that Ilmarë had been right, after all: the Queen of Númenor was not yet finished with her. Gimilzagar’s daunting mother had never forgotten that she existed, and now, she had finally decided to act on it. Had Ilmarë also been right when she claimed that Ar Zimraphel controlled Fate, and that she knew everything that was going to happen? But if so, what had she seen in Fíriel’s future that she would not leave her alone, even after her own husband and son had already forgotten about her?

But the strongest of all her thoughts, the one which eventually overshadowed all the others, was the bitter realization that her family was once again in danger because of her, and that it did not matter what the Queen wanted: she still needed to go and save them.

“I will go with you” she said, in a small voice. Immediately, the man nodded, and two hands grabbed each of her shoulders with an iron grip. “But please, do not hurt them.”

“I do not have your family here with me, nor am I responsible for their fate” he informed her, with perfect indifference. “Those were the Queen’s own words, which I was bid to repeat to you, and whoever else might have been with you.” They had expected her to be with her kin from the house in the cliff, she realized, in dawning comprehension. Not alone and unprotected and with no one to turn for aid. Of course, who would have thought she could be so stupid? “But doubting her word will not earn you her benevolence, and someone in your circumstances would be well advised to seek it.”

Someone in her circumstances. “What am I accused of? I have done nothing!” The man did not answer, but the grip on her shoulder grew even tighter, steering her inexorably towards the back of the house, where the horses were tethered. The lessons that Lady Lalwendë and Lady Ilmarë had imparted to her had not included riding, but it did not matter because it soon became apparent that they were not going to let her have a horse of her own. Instead, she was pulled up by one of the guards who had been leading her and slung unceremoniously over the front of the other’s mount. She cringed; the feeling of his armoured body against hers felt repulsive, and his breath down her neck made her shiver. Even up here, she was still held as tight if she was going to escape at any moment, though the only way to do that would be to jump from a galloping beast, and land on an uneven ground that she could not see in the dark.

Feeling the bile rise up her throat at the thought of what could be waiting for her on their unknown destination, the young woman closed her eyes, and mentally prayed to the Baalim to protect them all.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

In the last years, Sor had turned into a place of dread for the Faithful who lived in Rómenna. Ever since the attempt on the Prince of the West’s life had resulted in the new laws against them being promulgated, any trespassers on its territory could be arrested on the mere claim of being Faithful. It did not matter that they had not engaged in any act of forbidden worship while they were there: the burden of proof was always on them, and how could one prove they had not muttered a prayer, proffered an exclamation, exchanged an innocent word or two about the Baalim blessing the harvest or bringing good weather? Cautionary tales, passed by word of mouth, spoke of men who were lured across the invisible line by those who bore a grudge against them, of boys who had tried to go to the market and never returned, even of someone who had been robbed and pursued the thieves to a place where, instead of justice, he had found death. Fíriel had heard all those stories, and they made her feel irrationally helpless as they crossed the wide avenues, the throngs of nightly revellers who did not even look twice at them, the labyrinthic streets of the old city crowned by the dome of the great Temple of Sor where Zebedin had been sacrificed.

The truth, of course, was that it did not matter where they were: if the Queen wanted her dead, she would be dead, here or in Rómenna. But somehow, the act of luring her to this very place, with the threat to her family dangling over her head, made her think of the entrapped people in the stories. She felt like a fly, dangling from a spider’s web while its weaver waited calmly for her struggles to subside so she could swallow her whole. Restlessly, she wondered what could the Queen want from her that she would have needed to build this whole scenario to annihilate her will and work her into a panic. Perhaps she had even waited until Grandmother died, knowing that her death would push Fíriel closer to the edge, the crazy thought insinuated itself into her mind, but she refused to let it develop. Her mother’s obsession with the Queen had made too deep an impression in her mind, but she could not let it go too far, or it would make things even worse.

They took her directly to the Governor’s palace, through a back door that gave to a beautiful stone archway, and then past an inner garden that lay hidden in darkness, though Fíriel could hear the rumour of a fountain in passing. Before her mind could register her new surroundings, however, she was steered through a long and hollow gallery, where every one of their footsteps reverberated in an intimidating way.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, more because she was too nervous to remain quiet than because she thought they would answer her question. As she had expected, no one spoke a word.

At long last, they reached a richly decorated antechamber, similar to the one before Lady Lalwendë’s rooms, but even more profusely decorated. There were several women in there, and as she saw them head towards the door at the end of the long room, painted in colourful bird motifs, Fíriel knew that she was finally going to see the Queen. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, doing her best to gather her composure before they ushered her in.

We cannot escape the long arm of the Queen of Númenor, Fíriel, her mother’s voice returned to her mind from a day long past, in the storage room of Eldest Uncle’s house in Rómenna. All we can do is wait for her, face her when she comes, and never let her destroy our spirits.

“I am so glad to see you, Fíriel” a woman’s voice, clear and beautiful like the Sea on a summer morning, reached her ears from the other side of the chamber. Upon realizing who its owner was, Fíriel did not even look: she immediately fell on her knees to the floor, and bowed low.

“My… my Queen” she stammered, furious at herself for her trembling.

“What are you doing, girl? Stand up and approach me. I have important business to discuss with you, and you will not flee my gaze so easily. You, go.”

Fíriel heard people shift around her, the clang of armour and then, as she pushed herself up with the palm of her hands, the sound of retreating steps. The guards had left. The women had stayed behind, at the other side of the threshold, so she was alone with the Queen now. Slowly, and though she still did not dare to look directly at her, she raised her gaze to take in what she could of her dreaded interlocutor. She seemed a beautiful woman, very beautiful, she corrected her own impression after a moment, with ivory-white skin, delicately sculpted features and magnificent dark hair, adorned with silver stars. Her dress was a deep shade of blue with silver embroideries, and she looked resplendent in it, like a goddess on her throne. To Fíriel, she appeared incongruously young, except for the eyes, which struck her as ancient as they fixed her with an enigmatic glance. If she had been a little girl, and this woman had suddenly appeared before her claiming that she was Lúthien of Doriath come again to the world of the living, Fíriel would have believed her.

“Melian”, the clear voice spoke again. “It is Melian, whose likeness I have inherited. But you are beautiful too, even more than your mother, back when she used to be the fairest maiden in my court. It is no wonder that my son lost his heart to you.”

Fíriel’s bedazzlement at the woman’s looks, which for a moment had managed to cloud her perception of the dangers surrounding her, evaporated at this. Crashing back into the here and now, she struggled furiously to keep her wits.

“I never knew my mother, my Queen, so I cannot say.”

The perfect forehead curved into a small but ominous frown.

“Fíriel, I want us to be friends. To trust each other. And yet here you are, lying and trying to make a fool out of me. I will tolerate this once, because it is the first time that we meet, but you must strive to avoid this unpleasantness in the future.” Her severity was gone as soon as it had appeared, leaving no traces of its existence. “Sit down. Tea?”

Fíriel nodded in silence, letting herself fall on the cushioned chair at the opposite side of the Queen’s low table. For a while she did not know what to do, or what to say.

“You could start by the reason why you are here”, Ar Zimraphel suggested, helpfully. Fíriel nodded again, trying to find her voice back.

“Yes, my Queen. Why… er… why am I here?”

“Not my reason, girl, yours!” The Queen shook her head, as if she was being unbelievably dense. “Why are you here?”

The girl’s eyes widened. Surely she did not mean for her to say…

“I… er… I am here because the… Guards you sent told me that my family was here… and that you would release them if I … came quietly.” She almost expected Ar Zimraphel to fly into a rage again, but she just nodded in approval.

“Indeed. A very good reason. To save the lives of your loved ones is a noble objective, and it says much about you. As a matter of fact, it is the same reason why I am here, too.”

“To… save my family?” Fíriel asked stupidly. But that made no sense, it was she who…

Oh.

“Who…?” Her voice died in her lips as an alarming possibility intruded in her mind, making her even forget momentarily about her own plight and that of her kin. “Is it Gimil… the Prince of the West, my Queen?”

“Very good”, Ar Zimraphel confirmed, handing her the cup of tea. “You remain deeply attuned to him even now.”

“What has happened to him?” For the first time, Fíriel did not have the leisure to be afraid before she spoke; a new, overwhelming concern had taken hold of her. “Is he sick?”

“Very good. Very good!” the Queen smiled, as if she was putting Fíriel through an exam like the ladies Lalwendë and Irimë used to do when they were trying to educate her. “My son is more than sick, Fíriel. He is dying.”

The cup fell from Fíriel’s limp hand, crashing against the table. This careless move was enough to break its exquisitely thin frame and spill the tea across the table, almost spattering the hot beverage over the Queen’s royal lap. At any other moment, Fíriel would have fallen to her knees begging forgiveness for this intolerable faux pas, but now she did not even move.

Ar Zimraphel did not seem to notice the mess. Her eyes were locked on Fíriel, like the arrow of a hunter on its prey.

“Yes, Fíriel. My son was born dead, and only Zigûr’s knowledge was able to revive him. Every single year, his forces start to wane, and they have to be replenished through barbaric means, which have earned him the name of abomination among your own people. You have always known this, though you pretended not to believe those who told you. For you love him too much, don’t you? Even though you know that people have to die for his sake, you desperately and selfishly want him to live on. That is the tie that binds us, Fíriel daughter of Ilmarë. For you as well as for me, Gimilzagar’s life is more precious than any other. And if he is in danger, neither of us would hesitate to risk anything or anyone to save him.”

Fíriel paled first and then, as Ar Zimraphel spoke, she blushed to the roots of her hair. She shook her head trying to deny it, to deny everything, but once again the words did not come to her. When drops of hot tea fell from the table on her lap, she did not even flinch.

“But it is not that kind of sacrifice which is in question here now. Rest assured, I am speaking of other services you can render the Sceptre.”

“Other…. services?” Fíriel tried to dab at the liquid with the tablecloth, but it would not be absorbed. “What is wrong with Gimilzagar?”

“He has lost his will to live. Right now, his father is taking him across the mainland as fast as it is humanly possible, trying to get him to Umbar and into a ship bound for Númenor before it is too late. He does not respond to anything, whether it is medicine, prayer, sacrifice, or even the King’s pleas. Once they set foot in Sor, the King will try to have Lord Zigûr heal him. But if that monster manages to open Gimilzagar’s eyes, it will not be him behind them anymore.”

“Why?” What had they done to him, was what she truly wanted to ask, but she did not dare. In any case, it did not matter, because the Queen was able to read her like an open book.

“What was done to him does not matter now. The only thing that matters is that he is in need of healing, and that we need you. You will go back to Andúnië and tell Lord Amandil and the rest of your kin that you have decided, of your own free will, to part ways with them and enter the Palace of Armenelos, to live there henceforth.”

“What?” Fíriel cried, aghast. She still remembered that long day of terror, back when she was a child and Gimilzagar had extended this same proposal to her. Her fears that the King, or Sauron, would discover her and sacrifice her for being the daughter of the barbarian who committed treason against the Sceptre. The unbearable thought of not seeing her family again, even if back then she still had not known everything about her parentage. And then, other thoughts came crashing into her mind, too, thoughts she would never have been able to entertain at that age, but which could not be kept away from her mind anymore: her reputation, of very little worth back when she was a peasant, but implicating those who had revealed themselves to be her kin in the last years. The bastard of Andúnië, and the abomination’s whore. They had called her this in Rómenna, would the whole world follow suit?

And why would you trust her so easily? an inner voice that sounded like her mother’s scolded, scandalized. I have been teaching you, training you for years so you would not be the same gullible little girl you once were. She already lured you here by dangling the wellbeing of your family under your nose, and now she wants to lure you to Armenelos under a similar pretext, knowing that this is your greatest weakness. But she has weaknesses too, Fíriel. She would destroy others without a blink, but you can be sure that she would never allow any harm to come to her precious son. No – all that she wants is to entrap you, so she can drag the reputation of the leaders of the Faithful through the mud with your help.

“You know, I could have simply told you that, if you did not come to Armenelos, I would have your remaining family executed”, the Queen said, in a conversational tone. Fíriel’s blood froze. “That would be a good way to illustrate the absurdity of your thoughts. Why would I need to entrap you, if I already have this power over you? But I see you have been taught by your mother, and she never was very bright. She was so busy hating me that she could not stop digging her own grave and that of the people around her, and you have inherited this unfortunate trait.” She shook his head, with a huff of contempt. “Back when you were still in her womb, I offered her the chance to surrender you willingly. She refused. Ten years later, I offered you that chance through my son, and you refused it as well. What do you think that would have happened if any of you had trusted my superior knowledge? Just imagine that scenario, Fíriel! Your hot-headed cousin would never have tried to harm my son, and he would be alive now. His friends, too, would be alive, together with their families, who were innocent of any crime and yet were made to share in their fate. Your grandmother would be alive….”

Fíriel repressed a sob. It was a dull noise, covered by the pressure of the palms of her hands against her mouth, but of course Zimraphel was able to hear it. Instead of gloating, however, she looked sympathetic.

“Oh, do not cry. You were very young back then, Fíriel, a mere child. How were you supposed to know better? You did not understand about duty, or sacrifice, you only knew that you did not want to be taken away from those you loved, and you were afraid for your own life. But now, you are an adult, and you will choose well. I am so certain of this that I have already given the orders for your uncle, aunt and cousins to be released. It was never my intention to cause you unnecessary distress.”

No, she merely wanted to drive home to both you and your family that you cannot stay in Rómenna any longer. That the only solution is to do as she says. And she will pretend that she is helping you, when in fact all the hardships you have suffered were caused by her in the first place.

All except one, Fíriel thought. Whatever her plans towards her were, she would never let her son be hurt.

But she can still lie about it.

“Very clever. Yes, I can lie”, Ar Zimraphel drank the dregs of her tea, and grimaced slightly as the bitterness travelled across her mouth. “But what if I am not lying? What if Gimilzagar dies, and you could have prevented it? What if you have to live a long, miserable life tormented by that knowledge?”

Do not listen to her. For a moment, the voice was so clear in her mind that Fíriel almost felt as if she could see her mother’s physical glare before her.

“But… but the King does not want me there. Two years ago, he said that he did not want Gimilzagar to have anything to do with me. That if he saw me near his son again, I would suffer the same fate as my cousin.”

“The King will not raise a finger against you as long as you are under my protection.” In other words, her mother’s voice snorted scathingly, as soon as she has what she wants from you, you are as good as dead. All you will be able to look forward to is a brief and shameful existence, the source of every gossip in Númenor and a prisoner of the Sceptre, living a borrowed life until you are no longer useful. And by now, I think that you have learned that your beloved Prince of the West cannot save you.

“He cannot.” Ar Zimraphel’s eyes were like dark pools in which a girl like her could drown. “But you can save him. And that, Fíriel, effectively turns you into the most powerful of us three –or four, if you include the King. Will you use this power to save Gimilzagar, or to doom him?”

Her following words were low, almost a whisper.

“And what can I do, that others can’t? Why does it have to be me?”

The Queen leaned forwards, her lips curving into a warm smile.

“Because you are the only reason to remain alive that he has left.”

To this, Fíriel did not know what to answer.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Ar Zimraphel had been as good as her word concerning Fíriel’s relatives. When she left the Governor’s palace at dawn, they were waiting for her on a cart, where they were to be taken back to Rómenna together with her. They smiled and welcomed her warmly enough, but Fíriel, who knew them well, could perceive the haunted look in the depths of their eyes. For the unbearably long space of one night, since the guards had come for them and dragged them from their home, they had thought they were going to die. Fíriel could only imagine what it would be like to see the great dome of the Temple of Melkor looming over their heads, knowing what had happened to Zebedin there, after he was taken away by the same people who had come to get them now.

All of it to make a point. An unnecessary point, even, or ‘redundant’, as the ladies of the house of Andúnië would have pronounced it. The Queen knew of Fíriel’s love for Gimilzagar, there was no need to torture her further with practical examples of how her past choices affected those around her, or to push them to hate her. Such a heavy tipping of the scales could only mean two things, of which Fíriel’s mother would be fast to point out the first: that Ar Zimraphel did not care at all for other people, for their comfort, or even for their lives. The second, however, which disquieted Fíriel the more she thought about it, was that Gimilzagar’s danger must be real and dire enough, for even his far-seeing mother to pile up double and triple insurance upon the success of her schemes.  

“You do not have to do it.” Eldest Uncle’s voice jolted her out of her musings. Surprised, she turned in his direction, and realized that he had been watching her frown, and guessing much of what lay underneath. Her head hung, for she was too ashamed to meet his gaze after what had happened. “The… lord of Andúnië will think of a solution, I’m sure.”

“No.” Fíriel replied. “I will not bring further danger to him, or to you. I will not bring further danger t-to anyone… ever.” To her horror, her voice broke, and her chest started shaking with sobs. Eldest Aunt embraced her quietly.

“Promise us that you will speak to him at least” her uncle insisted. “That you will carefully weigh all your options. You have powerful friends – powerful kin. You aren’t just a peasant who can be stolen away in the dead of the night.” Like the rest of us, he could have said, but it remained implied.

“Do not worry, Uncle. Of course I will speak with him. To – all of them”, she added, thinking in dismay of her mother’s reaction. The man nodded tersely.

“Good.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Up the cliff, the first reaction to Fíriel’s account was a thunderous silence, broken only by the muffled sound of footsteps over the marble floor as the lord of Andúnië stood from his seat and began pacing around the window. Fortunately, Isildur was not here, she had the wits to think a moment before Ilmarë also rose from her chair, and the storm was unleashed.

“You will go to Armenelos over my dead body”, she hissed. Fíriel’s eyes widened, as those words brought a sudden, terrible realization to her mind

“No, Mother. You cannot ask me to be responsible for your death.” For she would kill them too, any of them, if they interfered with her son’s survival. That must have been the true message behind the abduction of her other family: if she would go that far to be absolutely certain of the girl’s cooperation, what wouldn’t she do if she was thwarted? The King had respected the ancient nobility of the house of Andúnië, though they were exiles, but the King was not here, and the Queen had her own priorities. For someone who had lived in terror of Ar Pharazôn for the last years, it was the strangest feeling that she could wish he was back in the Island. “She only wants me.”

“Want you? Oh, yes, she wants you. She wants you to give her your honour, your freedom, your life, only so she can chew on them and spit them out when all the substance is spent. She has always wanted it, long before her precious son was ill. Now, she is agitating this as bait to lure you in, and threatening everyone around you to force you to comply. How can you fall for this? I thought we had taught you better!”

At least she had got her mother’s voice right, Fíriel thought, wryly.

“I couldn’t care less for why she is doing it, my lady. If there is a possibility that she would harm any of you…”

“She will not, because she is lying! She has pretended to be desperate around you, so you would believe her capable of anything. But let me tell you something, girl. Ar Zimraphel is never desperate. Only ordinary people who do not know what the future will bring can ever get to feel this emotion, and she is not among them!”

“But if she is not ordinary, how can you be so certain that you know what is inside her mind?” Fíriel knew she would be called naïve, but she did not care. She did not care at all. “What if she is afraid? What if she does need me?”

“Fíriel”. To her surprise, this time it was Lord Elendil who intervened. “You are not only worried about our danger, are you?”

His gaze was not accusing; when Fíriel met it, she could detect nothing but quiet understanding, and yet she could not help but grow red in the face. She tried to fumble with words, but she felt too distressed to speak.

Suddenly, she felt an arm on her shoulder, too unyielding to escape, and yet too gentle to reject. It was Lady Lalwendë, who had risen from her seat as soon as she perceived her distress.

“You should not be ashamed. We already know of your love for him, and we are aware of how difficult it is to control the impulses of our hearts, especially when we perceive the object of our affections to be in danger.”

Because, even though you know that people have to die for him to live, you desperately and selfishly want him to live, the Queen’s words reverberated in her mind, like a searing flash of lightning. Upset, she turned away from the comfort. She did not deserve it, she had never deserved it. She was an abomination, too.

“I love him” she said, in such a low voice that she even had difficulty hearing it. “But I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t think that his life is worth more than others.”

“And yet it is not worth less, either” Lord Amandil retorted. “True to his form, Sauron has created a diabolical dilemma here, one that cannot be easily solved. But the blame for this does not lie at Gimilzagar’s feet, nor does it lie at yours. And though I would by no means advocate thinking of those sacrificed people as mere collateral damage, neither would I want you to live with the idea that you brought them to the altar to die for saving the Prince, or that their lives should be on your conscience. Sauron brought them to the altar to die, brought them all in droves from the farthest corners of the world, for the Prince, for the King and Queen’s renewed youth, for the crops, for success in war or for the Island’s prosperity. If the Prince were to die, none of those prisoners would stop being driven across the world or shipped across the Sea. And if Sauron succeeds in turning him into an evil spirit in truth, as the Queen’s words implied, we might have an even greater problem in our hands than the one we have now.”

“Father makes an important point”, Elendil nodded. “You should never lose sight of where the blame truly belongs, for guilt, even righteous guilt, can be more easily manipulated than the clear awareness of the truth. If Ar Zimraphel wanted you to feel like a monster since the start of the conversation, you can be sure it was for a reason.”

“You are not a monster, Fíriel” Lady Lalwendë chimed in sympathetically. “You fell in love with a boy who was never given a choice of where he wanted to be born, or to whose parents. You showed him that a different world existed, and kept the spark of his goodness alive. If you keep it alive for longer, maybe, who knows? things may yet change for the Island in the future.”

Fíriel’s eyes prickled from unshed tears. It moved her that they would show her such kindness, and find it in themselves to care for her feelings despite their repugnance for the terrible practice of human sacrifice. That they would even go as far as to claim that her love for Gimilzagar was not evil, that it was not soiled by the blood of others but as pure and good as that of Lady Lalwendë for her husband, or as her late grandmother’s love for her grandfather.

But that is not true either, is it? an insidious voice whispered in her ear. In any of the senses of the word.

“I will not be allowed to… influence him” she objected. “I won’t be there as his betrothed, or his wife o-or in any position of honour. I will be... I will just be…”

“…the woman that he loves.” Lalwendë finished for her. “Do you remember when we learned the history of Ar Adunakhôr? Wife, concubine, lover… those are terms that depend only on the status with which you were born, not on the strength of your bond. No matter which one they apply to you, if the Prince loves you, they will know, and in time they will learn to see you as the true Princess of the West.”

“But…” Fíriel frowned. “But Ar Adunakhôr was the one who…”

“What Lalwendë means to say is that Ar Adunakhôr brought a great change to the Island, and that, in the Court, you could have a similar influence as his mother had, once upon a time. She was of humble origins, and so are you, though that didn’t matter much in the end” Amandil explained. “But she is not taking into account that in Ar Abattarîk’s time a demon did not yet live in the Palace, and those who opposed him did not meet their end slaughtered upon altars. If you wish to go, we will respect your decision, but you must understand that it won’t be easy. You will be a prisoner, you will be alone, and you will be in danger. You might not be able to see us, or your father’s family again. And none of us will expect you to throw your life away trying to bring change to Númenor in order to atone for your perceived sins.”

“Do not go, Fíriel. This is madness.” Ilmarë did not look belligerent anymore; instead, she had a beseeching look which Fíriel found much harder to withstand. “For all my life, I have been trying to protect you from this.”

“But you couldn’t.” Fíriel shook her head. “And now, I have to go.”

“You do not! You are here, under our protection, and if the Queen comes for you, it will raise a great scandal. We may be exiles, but we are still a noble family!”

Fíriel shook her head, frustrated. Of all the people gathered on this study, why was it her own mother, the one who seemed determined to ignore the truth? Was it because she could not bear to see herself reflected in her daughter?

“If you had been given a chance to save Father, would it have mattered to you whether there was danger, death or dishonour involved in it or not? Whether they were speaking the truth or not?” Ilmarë flinched, and she knew that the blow had hit home, though the satisfaction felt hollow. “If I have your leave, my lord, I would wish to go to Armenelos. Do not worry for the family’s honour, for I will deny all my ties with you. I will just be a peasant, the… same I have always been.”

“Just a peasant in the Court of Armenelos? I do not think so” Amandil shook his head, and for a moment Fíriel could not help but stare at him. “If you are going, you will be adopted into our family, and enter the Court as a lady from the house of Andúnië. That will not faze Sauron, or Ar Pharazôn, or the Queen. But at least it might count for something among the others.”

“But….” Fíriel did not even know what to say. “But then you…”

“I am an exile. I have no use for the respect of the Court, and it has been long since I had it anyway.” He turned away from the window through which he had been gazing, and his grey eyes looked past her, probably to meet those of his son. Then, however, they became fixed on hers, and Fíriel had to swallow a new, strong emotion, which she was not even able to tell apart from the many others she was feeling at the same time. “Consider it as my gift for the wedding that you will not have.”

Fíriel nodded, choking a sob.