Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Reunion

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Fíriel stood before the cliff, her eyes watching mesmerized as the waves broke under her feet. Behind their dull roar, she sometimes thought she could hear a voice, though whenever she tried to look, she was completely alone. If this had been one of Grandmother’s tales of seafaring adventures, it would have been the voice of the Lady of the Seas, trying to communicate with her. But this was a much darker story, and she knew that the Queen was inside her head even now.

“There is no need to torture me further”, she spoke defiantly to the empty air. “You shall have all that you want from me! I am going to Armenelos to save your precious son. Is that not enough for you?”

The voice did not reply to her words. Instead, Fíriel’s mind suddenly erupted with the images which crowded her dreams since the fateful night she was taken before Ar Zimraphel in Sor. She saw a small bed in the middle of a dark, tiny room, and the glow of a lamp fell upon the figure that lay upon it, curled in a fetal position and completely motionless. The first times, he had been violently tossing and turning under a mess of sheets. In an occasion or two, he even had to be held down between several men while he screamed, and she awoke covered in sweat, her heart wrenched and her throat hoarse from screaming with him. But then, he had stopped fighting, and that was a thousand times worse, because there was no longer the faintest spark of recognition, of life, in those dark eyes which had glowed in shy happiness after she kissed him, and brimmed with unshed tears when he said goodbye. It was as if he had retreated forever from her world, and left for a place where she could not follow.

But if that was so, she forced herself to think for the umpteenth time, releasing the anxiety in long, shuddering breaths, then the Queen would not have come for her. There had to be something she could do. There simply had to be.

Her departure had been set for the next day, after a busy week of legal manoeuvres to establish her provisional status as a full-fledged member of the House of Andúnië –a procedure where the Governor of Sor had only been able to act as a witness, since, as Lord Amandil had explained to her, the Sceptre still needed to confirm it-, preparations –she needed suitable clothes, shoes, jewellery, even a suitable perfume according to Lady Lalwendë’s Court expertise, if she did not want to be identified as a fisherwoman and treated accordingly-, and farewells that turned out to be more complicated than she had expected. Eldest Uncle and his family, who should have been glad that they would not be tracked and harassed anymore because of her, had seemed genuinely upset at her decision. They had tried to make her change her mind, even offering to leave the Island with her, which moved Fíriel to tears. But instead of treasuring those last moments in the village where she had grown, with the people she loved and loved her in return, she had spent each and every one of them in anguish, her soul rent by those visions used as a sting to spur her on. They had made her so desperate to leave, that some nights she had to repress the urge to steal away and take the road for Armenelos alone, even though her rational side knew that there was nothing she could do while Gimilzagar was still lost at sea.

As for the other side of her family, everything was more complicated still. Fíriel was aware that her mother was angry with her, since the day she refused to listen to her advice and called her out before her kinsmen for her hypocrisy. Ilmarë had barely spoken to her after this, leaving Lalwendë to fill her days with advice, gossip and chatter about anything and anyone Fíriel might meet at the Court. Even the other women had proved more talkative, though they were not her kin by marriage yet. The Lady Irimë had informed her of many ways in which she could subtly influence the Court to further the cause of the Faithful, which had got her into quite a few arguments with other members of Fíriel’s family. As for the Lady Irissë, she had tearfully declared her admiration for her because she followed her own heart like Lúthien, and was ready to sacrifice everything for the sake of true love. Fíriel was not sure if this was supposed to be as good as Isildur’s betrothed made it to be, but just like mortals when faced with the immortality of the Elves, it seemed that everybody always envied what they could not have. To say the truth, at this point of her life, Fíriel would have given anything in the world not to have met that annoying boy on the rocks of the beach South of Rómenna. Why couldn’t she have let someone else help him, or push him and laugh unkindly when he fell? That would have taught him not to disturb a world that was not his, and hardworking people who only strove to go on with their lives without Princes, Queens, Kings, Royal Nurses or Palace Guards striding all over the place and using them like pawns in their games. But no - she just had to be good-natured enough to lend him a hand, and this had sealed her fate.

How well you lie to yourself, Fíriel. Your fate was sealed much longer ago, before you were even born. Your attempts, and those of your mother, to subtract yourself from it only helped to bring it about.

Fíriel shivered, remembering the day Gimilzagar had invited her to go to Armenelos with him. How her terror at the prospect had turned into amazement and tearful relief when, against all her expectations, the spoiled heir to the throne of Númenor had understood her feelings and gave up on his wish, even though this would mean his own unhappiness.

I will always be your friend, Gimilzagar.

It had been that day, she realized. That day, as they held each other close and wept, she had started loving him, though she would not grow aware of it herself until much later. Ar Zimraphel had been right all along: it had been her attempts to subtract herself from her fate what had brought it to happen. She had been like a stupid fish thrashing against the net, only to become further entangled in it. And this had worked for her mother, too. Not very bright, the Queen had said of both of them.

“So. Your departure is scheduled for tomorrow morning, is it not?”

Startled out of her musings, and unable at first to tell apart the turmoil in her mind from the happenings of the real world, it took Fíriel some time until she realized that the Lady Ilmarë was standing behind her. She had spoken coldly, as she always did whenever they exchanged words these days. And yet, it was the first time that she had gone out of her way to look for Fíriel.

“Yes, Mother”, the girl answered carefully.

“I assume you were planning to say your farewells to me later in the evening.”

Fíriel blushed.

“O- of course, Mother.”

It could seem futile at this point, to try to mend something which would be taken away from her so soon, perhaps for ever. And yet, deep inside herself she was aware that, if they parted on bad terms, it would never stop haunting her. Perhaps Ilmarë had thought the same.

“Good. But just in case, I decided to look for you myself. In case you had –miscalculated the extent of the last preparations for your journey, I mean. I do not think we ever managed to impress upon you exactly how complicated the life of a highborn lady is, when she is required to act as such. But then again, we never thought you would be required to fulfil that role so soon. Or at such short notice.”

She was rambling, Fíriel realized. Or the closest to rambling that a lady from the house of Andúnië could ever be accused of.

“I am sorry, Mother” she cut her before the older woman could go on. “I am sorry for everything.”

This only silenced Ilmarë for a brief moment.

“I am worried about you. What am I saying? I have always been worried about you, ever since you were only a small seed inside my womb. But now, I am more worried than ever.”

Fíriel looked down, suddenly too shaken to meet her mother’s glance.

“I –I am sorry, Mother”, she repeated, unable to find any better words. She heard a soft snort.

“Do not be. You were quite right the other day.”

The girl looked up again, confused. Whatever she had expected to find in Ilmarë’s glance, it had not been the fierce light that shone in her eyes now.

“For all those years, I have never allowed my thoughts to go that far, because I knew that I would not like what I found in the darkest recesses of my mind. But you forced me to, and now I am aware of the truth”, Ilmarë went on. “You asked what would I have done if I had the chance to save Malik. And the answer is, anything. I would not merely have sacrificed my reputation or my wellbeing, but also that of others. If the choice had been mine, Isildur would have been the one to die for him, instead of the other way around. In fact, if I could go back now, and this decision was in my hands, I would make it, and I would not shed a single tear. Not much better than the Queen, am I?”

If she expected Fíriel to answer that question, the girl did not know how she could have managed such a thing. She was completely speechless.

“Many Númenóreans wish they could live longer lives. I want the opposite. Happiness is a fleeting feeling, gone in the blink of an eye, and what is the use of extending one’s life after that is gone?” She shrugged bitterly. “If you would sacrifice so much for the Prince of the West, he must make you happy. So go, tear him back from the shadows which have stolen him, hold him to your chest and love him while you can. And do not waste a single thought on me, on your family, on the Faithful, or on the barbarians who die upon altars of fire. Think only of yourself, and be happy. The rest is meaningless.”

As she spoke, Fíriel noticed that Ilmarë’s breath grew more laboured, and her voice deeper, as if she was at the brink of surrendering to a powerful emotion. But somehow, she managed to keep her composure, and only the unnatural brightness of her eyes betrayed her.

“Mother….” the young woman started, but the knot in her own throat proved too hard to swallow. She could not make sense of her own feelings at the moment: pity, fear, even a powerfully guilty relief were battling each other at such close quarters that it was impossible to know where one ended and the other began. “M-mother…” she tried again, but her voice dissolved, and her chest was racked by sobs, and a pair of arms was encircling her, as if she was the one in most need of comfort, a scathing voice whispered in the back of her mind.

Ilmarë did not remark upon this; instead, she held Fíriel until she cried herself out. Her own face remained dry throughout the process, and when she finally took out a handkerchief to wipe Fíriel’s cheeks, there was something in her gaze that did not let the girl forget that her advice, though not too different to that of Lalwendë, Amandil or Elendil, was coming from an infinitely darker place. And yet Fíriel understood it as she had never understood anything, at such a visceral level that she knew she had to be a horrible person too. This scared her, but at the same time it felt exhilarating.

“Be happy”, Ilmarë repeated, not as a fond wish of a mother, but as an injunction, like the kill your enemy or die by his hand that a barbarian from Harad would receive from his own kin before riding to the battlefield. And Fíriel nodded.

“I will” she said, as if she was sealing a promise, or an oath. “I will be happy, Mother.”

That night, for the first time in a week, she did not dream.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“My lord King.” The voice had risen just a little above the captain’s usual, reverentially quiet tone, and Ar Pharazôn knew that it was not the first time it had addressed him. Perhaps not even the second.

“What?” he barked, trying to hide the brief moment of disorientation until he regained his bearings. “Why are you bothering me?”

“Númenor, my lord King. We can see it in the horizon already. We will be docking at the harbour of Sor in about an hour.”

“And you need me to conduct the manoeuvre for you?” he asked. Aghast, the man shook his head, but Pharazôn did not even let him open his mouth. “Then, I will repeat my question, why are you bothering me, entering these quarters against my direct orders?”

“Please forgive me, my lord King.” The captain bowed so low that his forehead almost collided against the gently rocking floor under their feet. “I have made a grievous mistake. I did not intend…”

“And you are still here. Will you stop grovelling and go back to your duties, or do I have to silence you myself?”

The wretched man did not need to be told again: like a resort, he jumped to his feet and hurried through the door of the cabin, shutting it in his wake. Once he was gone, Pharazôn dropped the pretence, and his eyes reluctantly fell on the body lying on the bed at the other side of the room. Just as he had feared, he had not moved an inch from the position he had adopted long before Pharazôn fell asleep.

It had been bad enough when he kicked and screamed, and every soldier on his side of the encampment, every accursed merchant living near the Magistrate’s palace in Umbar and every sailor in the ship had been able to hear his cries. But once he had stopped moving, a cold dread had settled on Pharazôn’s stomach, making him long for Gimilzagar to move again, to cry out, to make noise –anything but this still apathy, which appeared to his eyes like an ominous prelude of death.

The King of Númenor smothered a groan, burying his face in the palm of his hands. Stupid child. Was it truly worth it to go this far, only to get back at his father? Had there been no other way to hurt him than this?

No, Pharazôn, there was no other way, the voice of Zimraphel hissed angrily in his mind. You made sure of that. He could choose between playing the role you devised for him or leaving the stage. You left him no escape. You forced him into this, and now he is lying there because of you.

But that was wrong. He had never wanted things to come to this. True, when he was dealing with Gimilzagar, Ar Pharazôn had often been thinking as a ruler, more than as a father. How could he have been expected to do otherwise? The boy was his only heir, he had to make sure that he followed in his footsteps for the good of Númenor. He had not been particularly happy with his son’s newfound rebellious streak, this he had to admit, but he was not unreasonable. If Gimilzagar had his own ideas on how to manage the Númenórean empire, he could propose them, and if he had different strengths and abilities, as he had proved in their visit to the kingdom of the Seres, he was welcome to use them, but he could not be weak. Weakness was not a matter of opinion: it was simply unacceptable, and had to be eradicated. What would become of Númenor under a King who grew sick at the sight of blood and felt sorry for his enemies? Gimilzagar might resent him, even hate him for not being like his ever-loving mother, or the women who fawned over him and took care not to cause him the slightest discomfort. If he could do the same as them, Pharazôn would have done so, as even for the most battle-hardened man there was something instinctively repulsive in the idea of kicking a wounded animal. He would have left Gimilzagar to his devices, to bed all the fisherwomen who caught his fancy, and while his days away in blissful unawareness of the things which had to be done so he could enjoy his quiet life. He would not have to know that the Faithful conspired, that barbarians revolted, that soldiers battled, and that their borders and colonized territories were constantly threatened by savage peoples who were only kept at bay by the tribute system and their belief in the godhood –or demonhood, Pharazôn no longer felt the need to split hairs over that- of the King of Númenor. And then, when Pharazôn’s life could no longer be extended by Zigûr’s sorcery, he would pass under the Meneltarma, and abdicate all responsibility for the hell that followed together with the Sceptre which would be torn from his dead hands. Loved in life and hated in death, would that not be so wonderfully convenient?

There are several ways to make a man immortal, Zigûr had whispered to another Pharazôn, long ago, in the darkness of an underground cell in Armenelos. Those words had been brought back to his mind recently, by Gimilzagar himself of all people, as they rode across the valleys of Northern Seria.

Why don’t you ask Lord Zigûr, Father? He said that he knew the secret of immortality.

Had this been a mere show of insolence, as he thought back then? Or a plea to be left alone? Whatever it had been, Pharazôn had refused to consider it seriously, just as he had always done in the past. It was bad enough to have Gimilzagar’s life hanging from the thread of Zigûr’s sacrifices, and no one resented this dangerous weakness more than the King of Númenor. To become subject to this uncertainty himself, to give Zigûr such a hold over him, the only man who could force the demon to work for the interests of the Sceptre, would skew the balance of power a little too much for his liking.

But then, he thought in renewed dismay, if Gimilzagar was unable to escape this vicious circle, would there be any difference? Even now, in the bitter watches of the night, as he tried to force cups of liquid through the young man’s cold lips, all he could think of was that they had to reach Zigûr in time. That he was the only one who could bring his son back to life and consciousness with his magic. And deep inside Pharazôn also knew, though this knowledge hurt as a sword through his stomach, that anything the fiend demanded from him, he would do. For in Seria he was a god, tall and frightening, but between the four walls of this cabin, he was a terrified father. And Zigûr, damn him, was aware of this, just like he had been aware of his fear for Zimraphel decades ago.

As if from a world away, the King of Númenor heard the cries of the sailors, alerting him that the docking manoeuvres were already underway. He should have been getting ready for his triumphal landing before the crowd of Sor, but neither the captain nor any of his own men had dared disturb him again. And to say the truth, Pharazôn had never felt less inclined to humour the crowd than he was feeling now. If they wanted to watch a spectacle, they could go to the theatre and pay for their seats. He was not there to serve as entertainment for dockhands, prostitutes, and servants of merchants, who, no matter how much pains he took to appear like the perfect image of the golden conqueror, would still be gazing behind him and wondering about the Prince of the West’s whereabouts. Whenever he thought of the ludicrous stories that would be circulating about Gimilzagar before the sun had set –even worse, of the reaction of the Faithful in nearby Rómenna once the news managed to spread there- he felt the unseemly urge to call on his troops from the hill of Sor and wipe them out like vermin, Amandil or no.

Suddenly, his angry thoughts were interrupted by a faint groan coming from the sickbed. He discarded them at once, and leaned closer to his son’s bedside. Gimilzagar had still not moved, so for a moment he thought that his imagination had played a trick on him. Just as he was going to look away, however, he heard it again.

“What is it?” he asked. He received no response. “What is it, Gimilzagar? Talk to me!”

But the Prince of the West did not answer to his query, no matter how many times he repeated it. After a while, the feeling of impotence grew so strong that he had to forcefully prevent himself from shaking his son until his bones rattled.

Had it been just an illusion, brought forth by a mind which was growing mad from day after day of silence and inaction? Or had Gimilzagar given the first sign of life in a long time? And if it was so, what could have coaxed this reaction out of him? Had he somehow felt the proximity of the Island, or was it his father’s thoughts what he had perceived? Pharazôn had been thinking of harming the people of Rómenna, where his girlfriend lived. However ludicrous it sounded, the King would not put it past his son to react to this, after every one of his own pleas had crashed as if against a wall of stone. He bristled in frustration. Was he supposed to threaten people until Gimilzagar deigned to acknowledge his words?

Keep doing the same thing that brought you to this situation in the first place, Pharazôn. Very good, Zimraphel’s sarcastic voice complimented him. The boy is drowning, and all you can think of is adding more water to the well. What happened to you? You have always lacked the foresight of our line, but at least you were not such a fool before.

Pharazôn massaged his temples, trying to keep the dull pain of a growing headache away. Then, he opened his eyes and gazed back at Gimilzagar, but the boy had neither stirred, nor spoken. Taken by a sudden burst of activity, he stood up, walked towards the wall of the cabin and pressed his forehead against it. Wood, however, was not as cool as stone, and the feverish heat would not stop throbbing against his skin.

He was not a fool. It was worse than that, he realized: he was desperate. In his life, he had always been able to solve unsolvable problems, achieve his objectives and strategize his way to victory, no matter how difficult it had looked. This sheer impossibility to bend the world to his will was something he had never felt until Zimraphel grew pregnant with Gimilzagar, but from then on it had hounded his footsteps like a curse. For years at a time, it would hide, pretend that it had disappeared forever, that he was back in control, only to spring upon him when he least expected it.

“I should have followed my instincts, Zimraphel. We should never have had him.”

That has an easy solution, doesn’t it? Just let Nature follow its course. This was not her voice, but a strange voice that resembled that of Lord Zigûr, yet lacked its courteous subservience. But you would never do that, do you? In spite of all, you still love him. And that makes you just as weak as he is.

When the ship entered the Arms of the Giant and docked in the harbour of Sor, Ar Pharazôn had still not come out of Gimilzagar’s cabin.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Despite his most destructive thoughts, Ar Pharazôn still found it in himself to perform his various duties. He met with the Governor of Sor and his Council, discharged his veterans, and even rode through the city of Sor and into the Armenelos road without letting his inner turmoil betray him before the million eyes that followed his every movement. Still, he did not tarry in any of those places, and conducted his business in a brisk and impatient manner that allowed those who dealt closely with him to perceive his urgency, brimming close to the surface. No one said anything about it; most out of fear, others –very few- out of sympathy. All they had been allowed to know was that Gimilzagar was ill, but not the extent or the gravity of his ailment. The Prince’s palanquin was kept tightly covered by day, and his rooms locked at night to prevent the worst of the rumours, and no one was allowed access to him except for the King himself and his two most trusted aides. Gimilzagar had not emitted any further sounds, articulate or not, since they had taken him out from the ship, something which, while worrying in itself, had one positive consequence: no one could hear him screaming.

By the time their party reached the capital, however, Pharazôn’s impatience had grown so much that he found it harder and harder to resign himself to the slow pace of proper ceremony. Gimilzagar had not ingested any solid or liquid nourishment for more than seven days now, and his weak constitution had no strength left to combat the havoc wrought by his mind. When the King saw the gleaming tiles of the Palace rise atop the hill, the knowledge that Zigûr was there at that very moment spurred him on, and it became difficult to suppress morbid thoughts of Gimilzagar dying right before the threshold of salvation. He rode fast, did not send heralds to announce his presence before he crossed the walls of Armenelos, as it was customary whenever he returned from the mainland, or appeared before the gathered Council. He even ordered both the sacrifices and the victory ceremony in the Great God’s temple to be postponed until the next day, under the pretext that the omens had not been favourable.

When they finally crossed the gates of the Palace, Ar Zimraphel was there to receive him at the head of her assembled Court, a crown of white gems sitting in her brow, and the Sceptre of Númenor in her hand. Pharazôn dismounted before her, half-prepared to be met by hostility, but she had not been lying when she assured him that she was in control of all her demons. Her welcome was grand and regal, and her only acknowledgement of Gimilzagar’s condition came with orders to take him to the West wing at once, to be looked after by the Palace healers and his devoted ladies until her duties allowed her to tend to him personally. The Court seemed fooled by this, for they proceeded towards the Fountain Garden to partake in the welcoming celebration with the same frivolous eagerness they customarily displayed.

Pharazôn, however, had no eyes for anything or anyone, save for the purple-clad figure who stood at Zimraphel’s right. As soon as he could, he made a beeline for him, and motioned at him to follow his footsteps towards an empty gallery. When their entourage tried to follow, he barked at them to stay back, which earned him a reproachful glance from the Queen.

“My lord King, you seem to be driven by a great urgency”, the High Priest remarked. Pharazôn’s chest was brimming with rage; it was very long since he remembered being this angry at his main advisor.

“I have no wish to play your games today” he cut him before he could keep talking. “Save my son, or I will drag you to the altar of your own god, and find out how many times your body can regenerate after its guts have been taken out and thrown into the fire.”

There was no way to know if Zigûr was truly frightened by this threat or just pretending to be, but at that point, Ar Pharazôn found that he did not even care.

“The Prince of the West is not dying of external causes, my lord King. He is… killing himself.”

Pharazôn threw him against the tiled wall of the gallery. Without the accompanying groan of pain that a human would have known how to make, however, the feeling was only half-satisfying.

“You told me to take him to Middle Earth. I followed your advice, and that is why he is in this situation now. People have been executed for treason for much less.”

“I can understand your anger, my lord King. And yet, a newly-minted blade has to be tested, to see if it can withstand the pressure of battle without shattering. If you had not taken him to Middle Earth, you would never have known of this terrible flaw until it was too late to act. And then, not only the Prince, but also Númenor would have paid the price.”

Even in the middle of the rage-induced haze, Pharazôn noticed something in Zigûr’s wording, and found himself sticking avidly to it.

“Too late to act?” he repeated. “To act how? What can you do to solve the problem? I swear, if you tell me to just let him die…”

“No, my lord King.” Zigûr’s tone was placating. “Please, let me finish. I can help the Prince to overcome this. Now that the weak points of his soul have been revealed, now that we know where and what they are, I can heal them, just like a physician needs to poke and prod until he can know what is broken.”

“So, are you claiming that you are trying to heal his… soul? He almost died out there!”

“He almost died because of flaws he has been carrying within him, ever since he was born. Flaws which have made him, and you, unhappy in the past, which have posed a risk to him even, though their true magnitude had never been revealed until now. Let me intervene in his soul, extract the poison that festers in his mind, and he will never be weak again.”

“And why should I trust you? You kept him alive in the past, but at what price? He has been living a half-life, continuously needing to rely on others to survive. And now you offer to interfere with his soul to save him from something you could have prevented from happening!”

“You needed an heir for Númenor!” Zigûr claimed. “I can give you one!”

Pharazôn was tired of so many secrets and manipulations, but he was also painfully aware that Gimilzagar was dying. If Zigûr could save him, whatever his methods were, this meant that Zigûr had the upper hand, again. No matter what excuses, what convoluted explanations he gave, Pharazôn would have to accept them, and pretend to be merciful in a pathetic attempt to save face.

Still, he also had to admit that this conversation was not exactly going the way he had intended. Zigûr had saved the boy’s life before, but it had always been a matter of knowing what rites to perform to make his body whole again. That the High Priest of Melkor would need to act on Gimilzagar’s soul too was - unprecedented. And, despite the fact that, outwardly, this seemed to answer every yearning that Pharazôn had ever had, of his son turning into a strong and proper heir, there was something in the idea that he found disquieting.

“If that is true”, he asked, “why is it that you have never spoken of it until now?”

“Because you would have refused to acknowledge how deeply the problem ran, my lord King.” Zigûr replied, without skipping a beat. “You would have thought that you could simply teach him better and he would learn eventually, as any father would.”

“What do you know about fatherhood, you miserable vermin!” Pharazôn hissed, incensed by his presumption.

“I do know that the Prince is too weak to withstand the demands of his station, that he has inherited the curse of Ar Sakalthôr, whose son had to rule in his stead, and that he is not strong enough to master it as his mother did. His mind, his whole soul is in rebellion against his body, and this is slowly but inexorably pushing him to his death. Unless those weaknesses are made to disappear, making his body strong will not avail him anything, for sooner or later he will still die. And I know enough of fatherhood and motherhood from observing you and the Queen, my lord King. Gimilzagar is so precious to you that the mere thought of his death is unbearable to either of you. For you made him, just as Fëanor made the Silmarils for which he was willing to defy all the powers of Arda.”

It was quite ironic that he would be reminded of Amandil now, of all people. And even more so that the thread of this remembrance would bring him back to the Mordor campaign, to the encampment that Pharazôn had erected to lay siege on this very creature’s daunting fortress. He recalled the darkness of that land, the anguish of breathing its charged air, and the fell wind that blew the ashes on their faces and made them cough. Above all, he recalled his old friend’s obsession with the nightmares that tortured him at night, his fears that Pharazôn would be held in a trance as soon as he committed the imprudence of gazing into his enemy’s eyes, and become a kind of puppet with no willpower of his own. Pharazôn had not lost his willpower, but now Zigûr –Sauron, as he had been called back then- was asking for permission to do something to his son that might alter his for ever. Even knowing that Gimilzagar could otherwise be lost to him, he hesitated. What if under the noble pretext of saving the Prince and turning him into a proper ruler of Númenor lay something as sinister as Amandil had predicted? What if he only wanted to control the heir to the Sceptre, like a puppet with which to gain a foothold on the throne? What if he had not bewitched Pharazôn only because he was biding his time until he could control his heir?

Zimraphel. He had been trying to avoid having to do this, but it was inevitable. No matter how angry she was at him, he had to seek her. She was the only one left in the whole Island whose advice could possibly avail him now.

“I will speak to the Queen first”, he said, with as much dignity he could muster. Even as he did so, he felt the anguish of turning his back on his source of help –a delay, he knew, which would torture him for as long as it lasted, with pangs of excruciating uncertainty and doubt expertly designed to renew themselves at every passing minute that Gimilzagar remained in danger. “She is - more knowledgeable about those things than I am, and might be able to come up with something.”

“As you wish, my lord King.” And Zigûr, of course, knew it too. “But please, do not take long. The Prince is in a rather precarious state. His consciousness is gone, and the connection between his body and his soul is almost lost.” He looked almost sincerely regretful. “He might not last the night.”

“If he does not, neither will you”, Pharazôn growled, barely managing to cover his turmoil for as long as it took him to force himself to depart.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

By the time he reached Zimraphel, and asked in a curt voice to speak to her in private, Ar Pharazôn’s patience was almost definitely gone. She, on the other hand, seemed quite calm, and for a moment the long overdue feeling of unreality got hold of him. Could she have lost her abilities? Was she as ignorant of what was taking place in the West wing of the Palace as those chattering courtiers who drank and celebrated around them, or was it him, the one who had imagined everything? Had all those sleepless nights, on his tent and on the ship, been nothing but one long, mad nightmare?

“Come” she said, motioning for him to follow across the courtyard and through the galleries and corridors leading to Gimilzagar’s rooms. As she did not dismiss her ladies, however, he was not free to ask her for what she knew. To compound his feelings of impotence, her pace was so slow that the Palace suddenly appeared larger to him than the immense plains of Middle Earth.

At last, she told the women to stay behind, and entered the dark antechamber with him.

“Zimraphel…” he began, wondering if she would make him say it. Her footsteps paused, and she fixed a stormy gaze on him.

“I entrusted you with my son, Pharazôn. I gave him to you, because you said that you would keep him safe.” Her voice was as cold as the islands of the legendary Ice Bay. “Because I assumed that you knew that his abilities should not be taken lightly, and that you understood how different Gimilzagar and I are from other people. But as it turns out, you hold them in such contempt that you thought you could simply beat them out of him if you punished him enough. Or worse, use them to awe a bunch of barbarians, as if he was a trained beast on display in the marketplace of Sor!”

She was right, in every word that she said, and yet Pharazôn did not like to be attacked.

“And what about you? Where has your fabled foresight gone? Shouldn’t you have known what would happen before we left? And yet you did not raise any objections when I took him. Could it be that you wanted this to happen?”

She snorted in contempt.

“Do you even have the slightest understanding of our powers? Or you are just interested in them when it is convenient to you, because you need them to play your tricks or to lay the blame on others? Do not make mistakes; I am not one of your generals, whom you can attribute the responsibility for your defeats so you can remain invincible. This is your fault, Pharazôn, and no one else’s. And if the person lying in the other room was not my own son, I would invite you to watch him die, so you could feel the same pain that you put him through.”

“Zigûr says that he can save him”, he retorted, trying to sound surer about this than he felt. Zimraphel’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh, yes, Zigûr! I know what he has promised you: your son back, not just alive, but also strong, compliant to your will, and without any of those bothersome weaknesses that he inherited from me. A perfect heir for Ar Pharazôn the Golden of Númenor!” She laughed mirthlessly. “He would also not be our son any longer, but why should that matter to you?”

“It matters to me!” he yelled. The people at the inner chamber must have all heard his voice, but he did not care. His humiliation stung enough as it was. “That is why I am here. To –ask for your help.”

She raised an eyebrow now.

“By accusing me of wishing the death of my own son?”

“No one wishes his death!” he shouted, but even as the words left his mouth, he was aware that he would need more if he wanted to placate her. “Please, Zimraphel. I am sorry. You are right, it was my fault. I- I did this to him.”

“Yes. You did.”

His temples were starting to throb again.

“Do you want me to grovel?”

She seemed to be briefly pondering it.

“No. But from now on, you will let me decide what is best for Gimilzagar.”

Pharazôn’s capacity for argument had been exhausted in the last hours, to such a degree that he could not even muster the barest smatterings of it needed to argue this point. All that truly mattered to him was that, as he looked into her eyes, he saw pride, a perfect armour of self-righteousness, and confidence. Though he did not know how she might achieve such a feat, he knew that this meant that somewhere, somehow, their son would be safe, and the shameful relief he felt as he held on to this notion was so great that he would not only have agreed to anything she had asked, but also swallowed all the accusations his mind could come up with, just as he would have done with Zigûr before.

“Come in” she ordered. He followed her into their son’s inner chamber, wondering what he would see lying on the bed. Zimraphel had not been there before him; perhaps she was going to do something now to bring Gimilzagar back before Pharazôn’s own eyes. He braced himself for what he might see, hope battling with dread.

The only person who was already in the room when they entered was a woman, whose hunched form was huddling over the bedstead. Her hands were holding Gimilzagar’s, and she was muttering something, if a song or some kind of prayer, Pharazôn could not tell. As soon as she realized that they were there, she jumped in fright and tried to struggle to her feet, but Zimraphel prevented her with an authoritative voice.

He froze. That girl was…

“Zimraphel, what is she doing here?” he asked, unable to believe what his eyes were seeing. That wretch from Rómenna had some audacity showing her face in the Palace, he thought, before it dawned on him that the Queen must have summoned her.

“Look at your son” Zimraphel said, instead of answering his question. Pharazôn walked the steps that separated him from the bedside, and as he did so, he could feel Amandil’s bastard flinch instinctively. He ignored her, focusing on the Prince instead.

At first, the King of Númenor could notice no changes. Gimilzagar was lying as still as he had left him, and his eyes remained closed. But just as he was going to open his mouth to say so, the girl- Fíriel, he remembered belatedly- grew bold enough to hold the Prince’s hand again. Calling his name several times, in a voice so soft that he had difficulty hearing it, she leaned forwards and pressed her lips against the pale fingers. All of a sudden, Gimilzagar stirred.

“Fíriel” he mumbled in a cavernous voice, as if he was a spirit back from the threshold of death. “Fíriel.”

The girl’s breath caught in a sob, and Pharazôn realized that she was crying softly.

“Gimilzagar”, she called him. “I am here. Gimilzagar.”

“Witness a power greater than Zigûr’s sorcery, Pharazôn”, Zimraphel spoke, reaching his side. “A power you wouldn’t even have given a moment’s consideration. Or perhaps just enough to decide that she could not be allowed to interfere with your son’s growth into a strong and heroic ruler.”

“But she is…”

“She is under my protection”, Zimraphel interrupted him. “And as long as Gimilzagar needs her by his side, neither you, nor Zigûr, your Guards or your priests will lay a finger on her. Do you understand?”

Pharazôn breathed very deeply. He had been feeling wrongfooted since so long ago that he could no longer remember, but now, this sensation had given way to sheer defeat. Anything he could do, anything he could say at this point was meaningless. She had won, and both knew it. Whatever she had been seeking with her manoeuvres, she had got it now.

 “As long as she is able to keep him alive”, he mumbled, uselessly, as he turned away from them and stormed out of the room.