Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Back to Life

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Gimilzagar shivered, struggling with his bonds in an attempt to escape the unbearable heat that burned his skin. As it happened whenever he tried this, however, he was unable to move an inch from his position, and his wrists and ankles were so raw from his previous attempts that he had to bite back a groan of pain. Behind the sweaty haze that veiled his eyes, he could see the shadows moving about in the darkness cast by the bright glow of the flames. They had not even noticed his struggles, too busy with the argument which had been absorbing their attention since so long ago he could no longer remember. At first, he had been listening breathlessly, because they were deciding his fate, but at some point he had understood the difficulty, perhaps the impossibility, of so many ever being of one mind.

At first, too, what terrified him most of all was the idea of them sinking the sacrificial blade on his exposed flesh, of his blood being carefully gathered in a cup as he writhed and spasmed, until there was no life left in him to feel the pain. Now, he was even more afraid to lie on this altar, feeling the bonds cut into his limbs, unable to move or to step away from the searing heat of the fire while they argued for eternity. At a certain point, something in him had snapped, and he had begged for death, but they threatened to cut his tongue if they heard him make another sound. Gimilzagar had believed he was ready to die, but somehow he was not ready for that. So he had not begged again, and even stopped making sounds, too frightened to attract their attention.

The main disagreement seemed to be about whether it was more advisable to kill him or to keep him alive. Sacrificing him on the spot and drinking his blood had been the preferred option of many, who had been loud enough about it as to make him think they would win the day. Zebedin had been among them; Gimilzagar had recognized him when he claimed that he should be the one to wield the blade, for he alone had tried to kill the abomination while it was still alive, and died a martyr. But then, her voice had risen above all the others, causing them to fall silent. She had been a princess in life, and even in death she still carried an invisible mantle of authority which made others listen to her. She had claimed that, as soon as they killed him, no matter how satisfying the act was, Gimilzagar would escape them. He would truly cease to exist, as they would have if they had not been prevented by the black magic that tied their souls to his. But then, perhaps, if he leaves this world, we will be able to follow him too, an old man had chimed in, in a hopeful tone. We will no longer be tied to this bleak existence. And when we stand before the judges of the dead, we will accuse him and justice will finally be done. We will be admitted in the garden of Haradu, while he will be tormented for eternity.

Many voices had been raised in agreement with this, but even more had chosen to back the Princess. The Haradrim, despite their barbaric customs, had been in contact with the Númenóreans for long, and many of them had notions of an afterlife where some kind of divine justice was dispensed. The people of Rhûn, however, did not believe in any such thing. For some of them, death was the annihilation of the soul, while others thought that they would be reborn into the world under a different identity, with no recollection of what had happened, or the evils they had suffered. None of those groups could conceive of justice after death, which was why they believed they had to take it with their own hands.

Think of his father, the son of the Princess argued, in his usual, forceful way. If this wretch dies, he will grieve, but after the burial, he will forget. But if we keep his spawn here, he cannot bury him. He will have to see his face every day, a pitiful being who is dead to the world, but still remains breathing, and suffers for every instant of it. And then he will know that we, too, are powerful.

Perhaps he will kill his son himself, someone suggested, with a vindictive glee in their voice. If we can drive him to do that, our revenge will be complete. And you would still be able to go to your precious garden in the end.

No! Gimilzagar knew this voice very well, though he had forgotten the young man’s name. He was Zebedin’s friend, the one who had advanced on him with the knife while Zebedin tried to hold Fíriel. You are making a terrible mistake. The King of Númenor keeps a demon in his palace, who wields magic as black as his heart. You have no idea of how cunning and mighty he is! If we do not kill him right now, they will reach the Island, and then we will be powerless against this creature. Unless we act quickly, he will snatch the Prince away from our grasp, and we will be back to our long and bitter servitude!

Gimilzagar was not allowed to make a sound, but even if he had been, he did not know what he could have said. For what seemed like an eternity, he had been watching the shadows around him, their faces, their expressions, their voices as they spoke of their experiences and argued with each other. He recognized some of them, but most he had never seen in his life. They were men and women from every age, walk in life, and corner of the world, united only by one common misfortune: they had all died because of him. If he tried to claim that he had not killed any of them, that he had not even wanted them to die, and that it had been Lord Zigûr and Father who had wronged them, they would not listen. If he begged for their forgiveness, or their mercy, they would laugh in his face. If you had any decency, you would have killed yourself long ago, a woman from Rhûn spat at him, one of the last times he had tried to struggle against his bonds. You had twenty-two years to prove that you had a human soul, and you blew your chance. Now, it is too late: the decision is no longer in your hands.

The decision is always in your hands, Gimilzagar. He froze, for it was his father who was speaking to him now, and he should not be dead. The deep horror and doubt he felt at this sight made him think that they had found a brand new way to torment him. You are not dead, either. You are here only because you want to be. Because you believe that you should be tied to this altar, meekly awaiting the verdict of a bunch of weak cowards who could not touch you in life. You are so gutless that you could not even put an end to your own existence, oh no; you had to call them in, have them put you in bonds and let them decide how they will deal with you. This is your own mind, Gimilzagar! At least you could imagine yourself spitting on their faces and telling them that they are pathetic beings who strike at you because they would never be able to do the same to me!

Spurred on by those words, he tried to struggle again, only to realize that his bonds were as real as they had been moments before, and that their bite against his delicate skin remained just as painful. Momentarily forgetting his orders not to make a noise, he cried out, and soon enough several shadows stood before him. One of them had a twisted grin, and one of his hands travelled towards his face to grab his chin. His other hand held a knife, which gleamed with the reflection of the flames.

“Please, no”, Gimilzagar begged. You are wrong, Father. I do not want to be here. I do not want to be in pain. I do not want to die. Please, save me!

But Ar Pharazôn just shook his head in disgust.

I tried to make you strong. But I should have known that it would end like this. Farewell, Gimilzagar. You were my son once, and I do not wish to see how they tear you apart.

Mother! he cried, his fear finally erupting into a full-fledged panic. If he could see his father, then she should also be there, somewhere. She loved him, she would never leave him to die, would she? Why couldn’t she see her? Mother, please!

Yes, call her, the man who had approached him smiled. He was the son of the Princess of the Seres, Gimilzagar realized belatedly, the only one who had died by his own hand. The one who hated him the most. She can watch this, just as I was forced to watch while my mother’s throat was slit. Call her, abomination, and I will let you keep your tongue for a little longer.

“Stop it! Leave him alone!”

This new voice was so familiar that Gimilzagar wanted to cry when he heard it. Suddenly, there was a great stir around him, as the shadows were pushed away before the advance of the newcomer. Angry shouts rent the air at this audacity, but she did not let herself be moved by them. She only stopped when she reached the altar, and her eyes widened in pity and shock at Gimilzagar’s state. She kissed his forehead, caressed his face over and over in an attempt to comfort him, but she could not undo his bonds, and he could not embrace her, though he had never felt such a powerful longing to do anything in his life.

“Fíriel” he mumbled, his mind too numb, and his voice too broken to say anything else. “Fíriel.”

What are you doing here? the barbarian prince asked, incensed. He is ours now. You are not allowed to interfere.

“You cannot stop me. You are dead. All of you are dead.”

And yet we are still here, haunting his steps. Kept against our will, but waiting for an opportunity. Sooner or later, we knew this moment would arrive, and no one will deny us, not even you.

She is my cousin. It was Zebedin, and he could feel her tense when she heard him. When I tried to kill this abomination, she hindered me, and I failed in my attempt. She chose him over her own flesh and blood, and did not shed a tear when they executed me.

“That is not true!” She sounded upset now. “I tried to save you! I… I saved our family!”

And doomed our families into the bargain, one of his accomplices snorted. She shook her head.

And us, a barbarian woman followed suit. If you had not saved him, we would not be here now. But we will not let you save him a second time.

You are alive. You have no business in this place. Leave! the princess of the Seres ordered.

“But Gimilzagar is alive, too”, Fíriel replied. “It is you, who should not be here. I will not let you hurt him”, she added, defiantly.

Then you will die with him.

In renewed urgency, Fíriel returned to her attempts to undo the knots that kept Gimilzagar tied to the altar. She tried to cut them with her teeth, to pull them with her hands until they were bleeding like his, all to no avail. Meanwhile, the shadows were drawing closer to her, and she began to shiver, as if their presence was making her feel cold. At some point, he could feel the rhythm of her breathing grow laboured, and when a hand grabbed her shoulder, she let go of a scream.

This finally electrified Gimilzagar into action.

“Please, leave her alone. Please!”, he begged. “She did nothing wrong. I am the one you have grievances against, not her. Let her go, and you can do w-whatever you want to me. Is that not your dearest wish?”

“Shut up!” she scowled at him, pulling desperately at the rope on his wrist. “I will never leave you!”

I cannot understand you. Zebedin spoke again. Why do you keep doing this? Why are you on his side? Don’t you know who he is, and what he has done? He does not deserve your love, your loyalty, or your life. Even he knows it!

Gimilzagar tensed. The young peasant was right. Even before he killed that man in the capital of Seria, he remembered, Fíriel had often been in his dreams, and she definitely had not been on his side. She was angry, accusing, as she should be after finding out that she had risked her life and doomed her cousin to save a monster, who needed to feed on the souls of others to survive.

“I do not know if he deserves them, Zebedin” Fíriel spoke then. His breath caught in his throat. “All I know is that he has them.” Her efforts increased, and she groaned as the rugged surface of the rope slid again over her already wounded palm. But instead of dropping it, she wrapped it around her hands to heave even harder. All of a sudden, the rope broke, and she let go of a cry of triumph.

Not so fast. The shadows were so close now that even Gimilzagar, who had been feeling nothing but excruciating heat throughout his ordeal, could feel the cold. You still have to go through us.

“Grab my waist, Gimilzagar, and do not let go of me no matter what” she hissed in his ear, as she helped him up. “Do you understand? No matter what.”

“I cannot let you die for my sake!” he protested. She turned back, and slapped him across the face. Belatedly, he remembered how much it had hurt when they were children and she had first done this; now, he had grown so used to pain that only the shock registered.

“Then don’t be an idiot! This is all happening because you wanted to die! So stop wanting to die and I will not die with you!”

Too confused to answer, Gimilzagar let her grab his hands and arrange them into the position she wanted. When he felt her shaking body against his, however, and perceived the terror hidden behind her resolute demeanour, he could not help but tighten his grip on her.

Was he the one doing all this with his mind, as his father had claimed? But then, how was it that he could not save himself? Why couldn’t he save her? How could the one person he would not bear to see hurt be in danger, not from his enemies, but from him?

Because you have the rare gift of destroying everything you touch. Murderer.

Oh, let him go, the Princess smiled. Let him go, and he can wake on his bed to see her dead by his side. I would never have thought of this idea myself.

“No!” he cried, horrified, holding to Fíriel for dear life. As if from a great distance, he heard her screaming, and felt her beginning to slip away from his arms, but he still held on, with a strength that he did not even know he possessed. Suddenly, amid the turmoil, he thought he saw an opening, an unguarded space where the crowd of shadows grew thin. Fíriel had not seen it, for she was too busy struggling with the souls of the dead who wanted to drag her away. He tried to draw her attention towards it, but she would not respond.

There was nothing for it. Gathering all his remaining forces, Gimilzagar took both her hands, and pulled her away from her attackers. Then, still shaking, his heart beating, he led her out of the fray, towards the distant promise of freedom.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Fíriel jumped on her seat, startled away from her slumber by a sound coming from the nearby bed. As always, her first reaction after the brief spell of disorientation was one of anxiety, and she immediately leaned forwards to check on Gimilzagar. He was stirring under the covers, as if he was having a restless dream, but his breath was regular, and his temperature had not risen. Relieved, she leaned back again, studying his features in the half-light.

He was here. Alive. After being so close to losing him for ever, Fíriel could not have her fill of looking at him, and if she lost sight of him for just one hour, she would fly into a panic. Though she had seen the look in the eyes of the women who frequented the Court of Armenelos, and knew perfectly well what they were thinking, not to mention what they would gossip about whenever they were not feigning a politeness that was too exquisite to be true, she had insisted on staying by his bedside night and day, even when everybody else was gone. She still remembered that first night, when the Queen left, and that horrible hag from Rómenna had insisted that Fíriel’s presence was not proper, striking an alliance with the chief healer to send her away. Shortly afterwards, the Prince woke up shaking and screaming, and none of their remedies would calm him until she was reluctantly led back to his bedside. She had held his hand then, smiling tremulously as he called her name. Since then, no one had had the audacity to question her presence again, and when the Queen started meeting with her every day, she had even become a respected figure, to be served food and drink with lowered eyes and exaggerated bows. Some part of Fíriel, the part that was still a peasant, was scared by this: she felt like an impostor, whose brief instant of elevation would be followed by an inevitable downfall. The day the Queen no longer came to ask her strange questions about her dreams, or decided that her son was well enough to survive without her company, they would have her scrubbing floors, or worse, she thought, remembering how the King had looked at her as if she was a fly to be crushed between his fingers.

So far, Gimilzagar’s state had remained stable, but he had never been conscious for long enough to be able to communicate with those around him. Sometimes, his sleep was as peaceful as that of a child; sometimes, he was agitated by violent nightmares, which only Fíriel’s touch and voice seemed able to calm. Now and then, he would blurt incoherent words, which the healers carefully listened to and noted down, in a vain attempt to string an articulate message together. They were trying to connect it to the account of the experiences Gimilzagar had undergone in the mainland just before he collapsed, as revealed to them by the Queen. Since she mostly stayed silent, and they were used to talk among themselves as if she was not there, Fíriel had heard them say that the Prince had been helping his father in a ceremony, involving the sacrifice of a number of highborn conspirers from some kingdom of Rhûn. Perhaps he has been struck with a curse, the youngest among them proposed, or could not harness the power of the sacrifice and was attacked by one of the mysterious forces at play. Lord Zigûr should be here, he should be sharing his expertise with us. An older colleague told him that this was nonsense, that medicine and superstition should not mix, and that the Queen must have had her reasons not to admit Lord Zigûr into her son’s rooms. The Prince merely had a very excitable disposition, which is why he had been tormented by fits when he was a child. The sight of all that blood and carnage must have undone him.

Fíriel was not as wise and learned as they were, and she knew that they would have laughed at her presumption if she had tried to participate in the conversation. But if she had, if they had interrogated her like the Queen did every morning, she could have given them very valuable information. As Ar Zimraphel had explained to her, Gimilzagar’s ability to read her moods, which had surprised her since they were children, had been the shy beginnings of a great power that allowed him to penetrate the minds of others and even see the future. Most of this power lay suppressed, partly because of a –perhaps- fortunate side effect of the magic which kept him alive, partly because Gimilzagar himself had not been much inclined to use it. But when his father took him to Middle-Earth, certain forces there had elicited a reaction which brought the forceful emergence of much of what had remained hidden until then.

That was why Fíriel knew exactly what was passing through Gimilzagar’s mind, and the faces of all the twisted ghosts holding him in their merciless claws. Even as she sat by his bedside, awake or dozing off with his hand between hers, his dreams would invade her mind, and then she would see everything that he saw, and hear everything that he heard. Her first reaction to this had been one of terror: she remembered letting go of him, and running away from the room as if the ghosts that he saw were chasing her. But soon enough she regained her bearings and became angry at herself. Had she left her family and travelled all the way here, sacrificing so much on the way, to be daunted by mere figments of Gimilzagar’s imagination? And then, as she forced herself to stay and look at the source of her fear with her own eyes, a great feeling of pity had superseded it. Gimilzagar was desperately crying for help, in the only way that he could, and that was the reason why the visions were so vivid to her. So she opened her own mind to him, wanting to know more, begging for a clue of how to save him.

And it had happened. Perceiving her presence at last, he grabbed at this lifeline, at this only person who did not want to make him suffer for his crimes, and the darkness had eased a little. But even like this, it was unbelievably hard to pry him away from it. Thwarted by her appearance, the ghosts had grown more vicious, and with them her own nightmares. One day, she was the one who awoke screaming, about an hour before dawn, and she the one that the healer on duty in the neighbouring room tested for high temperature while he forced foul concoctions down her throat. That day, she huddled under a heap of blankets, shuddering uncontrollably, but her misery was eased when Gimilzagar opened his eyes in a brief instant of lucidity, saw her, and smiled. Once she told the Queen what had happened, Ar Zimraphel let go of her usual aloof demeanour, and pulled Fíriel into an embrace that smelled strongly of incense. Even the King had been there to check on his son, though he had not looked at Fíriel, choosing to behave as if she did not exist.

Any day now, he will wake, she had heard the Queen say to her husband that morning. Fíriel was both wishing and dreading this moment, for she wanted to see Gimilzagar heal, and yet she was aware that this would be the time when her usefulness was bound to be re-evaluated. The Lady Lalwendë and her daughters-in-law had spoken of her future as some kind of royal mistress as if it had been a given, but as Lord Amandil had cautioned, this Court was no longer the Court they had known, and it was not so easy to predict what could happen. Fíriel had been too beset by her own concerns to pay much attention to what everybody was saying back then, but the longer she stayed here, the better she understood the point that her adoptive father had been trying to make. She was allowed to remain beside Gimilzagar because he needed her, but even as she sat in the innermost sanctum of the Western wing of the Palace, she was seen as an outsider: an upstart for the ladies, an ignorant peasant for the healers, a walking miracle remedy for the Queen, and an eyesore who had to be temporarily tolerated for the King. And that was the case of those who had access to her; those who didn’t probably thought her just a common whore. The full extent of the Prince’s illness had not been disclosed to the public, and she could imagine the winks and nudges with which people would speak of her ‘healing touch’. After all, she had grown in places where such comments were everyday fare, and though the nobles were more discreet in their wording, they would probably have their own, highborn equivalents for this.

And then, of course, she was one of the Faithful. The traitors to the Sceptre who called the Prince an abomination and wanted him dead because they wanted the line of the Kings to fail, and the Island to return to the evil influence of the Baalim and their servants the Elves. If no one among her people would be foolish enough those days as to lay foot on Sor, knowing that they could fall victim to a false accusation, the idea of travelling to Armenelos did not even enter their wildest imaginations. Daughter of a highborn noble or not, it had never been so easy to dispose of Fíriel. One witness, claiming that they had seen her pray to her gods, or curse the Prince in the foul tongue of the Elves while she was in the room with him, and she would be lying on Sauron’s altar before the sun had set. She only needed to have one enemy for this, and she probably had many.

“Fíriel”, Gimilzagar mumbled. Lost in her own musings, she instinctively tightened her grip on his hand, for this was what she did whenever he grew upset, to remind him that she was still there. This time, however, it did not work.

“Fíriel”, he insisted. “Fíriel.”

“I am here, Gimil…” Suddenly, her voice died in her lips, as she grew aware of his eyes, set on her countenance like black pools filled with an unfathomable emotion. Conscious.

“You are here”, he spoke, in a very weak voice.

For a while, Fíriel could not even answer. She nodded in silence, beaming at him, wiping away inconvenient tears from her eyes.

“Of course I’m here”, she finally managed to reply, her voice so hoarse that she did not sound like herself. “What do you want? Whom should I call? How- how are you feeling?”

Gimilzagar did not reply to any of those questions. He must be dazed, she thought, disoriented, he probably doesn’t even know where he is right now.

“I have to call the healers. If you – let me go, I promise that I will be back right now.”

Those words were met by panic. Instead of slackening, his grip on her grew tighter.

“No!” he cried. “Do not leave me, please!”

“Very well”, she answered in a conciliating tone, before he grew too excited. He is too weak now to have a fit, was something the senior healer had said which had stuck in her mind. “What do you… want me to do, then? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“Stay”, was all he said, and soon afterwards, his eyelids dropped again.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Later in the morning, Fíriel was subjected to a sound scolding for not calling the healers in immediately. Not even the argument that she had been following higher orders managed to make much of a dent in their displeasure.

“The person in the sickbed cannot be allowed to make the decisions, no matter who he is”, the younger one told her, in a tone which made her feel as if she was three years old and a halfwit. “The next time this happens, be sure to alert one of us at once.”

“But… he seemed so upset, I thought he could have a fit if I did not do as he said!” she insisted, though she should know better than to be argumentative with these people. The man stared at her, as if her words were so out of place that they had not even registered in his brain.

“The next time, do not think”, he said at last, before turning away from her to start checking on the Prince. Now and then, she could hear him curse between his teeth, and mumble invectives directed at peasant girls who should be selling fish at the marketplace instead of tending a royal sickbed. But no matter what they did to reanimate him, the Prince did not give any further signs of consciousness until he was alone with Fíriel again.

This time, his attitude was different.

“Why are you here?” he asked, with a very puzzled expression. Fíriel swallowed deeply.

“I… why, taking care of you, of course!” she answered, forcing herself to smile. Gimilzagar did not seem to find this explanation satisfying enough.

“You… do not hate me?” he insisted, his forehead curved in a frown. “Did you mean what you said, then?”

Fíriel was about to ask what on Earth was he referring to, but she remembered in time. The dream. For him, it had been real.

“I can never hate you, Gimilzagar”, she replied warmly. “So stop saying stupid things.”

The frown did not go away.

“But you do not understand. They died because of me. A-and your cousin, too. And that man who hated me so much, I killed him with my own hands. And before that, I caused his death, the death of all his family. I am a monster… an abomination!”

Now, Fíriel was angry.

“First, if you say that word again, I will slap you. And second: if you are thinking of doing this again, I will leave you to the mercy of those ghosts, since you seem to enjoy their company so much. Just for your information, I gave up my family, my homeland, my safety because of you, and now I am here, in a place where everybody hates me! So do not tell me what I should or should not do, and if you cannot thank me on bended knee, at least shut up!” Belatedly, she realized that she was yelling at someone who had just regained consciousness, and her head hung down in shame. “I… I am sorry. I did not mean to lose my temper at you. I… I was just… forgive me, please.”

Gimilzagar did not say anything to this, just remained there, gazing at her in silence. At some point, he dozed off again, and she let go of a breath which she did not even know she was holding.

The third time he awoke, it was the middle of the night. He already felt able to let go of her so she could go fetch him some drink and medicine, but she still did not call the healers. They could go to the Houses of the Dead for all she cared.

“You almost… died”, he said, his features darkening.

That was just a dream, Fíriel wanted to say, but something prevented her from doing so. Instead, she shrugged.

“But I didn’t. You got me out.”

“I did.” His lips slowly curved into a smile, as if he was savouring this great revelation. “I did, did I not?”

In the hours she had spent awake in the interval, alone with her own thoughts, Fíriel had been planning ahead. She would wait until he was conscious enough, and then ask him to be allowed to return to Rómenna as soon as he was feeling well, as her life would only be more in jeopardy the longer she remained at Court. Perhaps she would be allowed to escape this dangerous adventure unscathed, if she could be sent away with his blessing and an emotional thank you for her services. No threat for any lady, for the Queen or for the King. But now, she found herself before a dilemma. If she told him this, it would be tantamount to telling him that she did not trust his ability to protect her, which would only spoil his revelation. A revelation which had happened in his own mind to start with, a no-nonsense voice that sounded like Grandmother’s tried to argue, but for Gimilzagar it had been just as real as anything else, and he had held on to it like a drowning man would grab a floating piece of debris from a shipwreck. She had to be very careful here.

“Fíriel, do not fear”, he said, still with that smile in his lips. “You are safe here, for I will not let anything happen to you. You can trust me, I promise.”

Her eyes widened.

“You are reading my mind”, she realized. A part of her felt scared, and angry, but she remembered the Queen’s words about how new this was to him, and she bit her lip.

“Your fear is… strong. It makes me sad”, he explained, slowly and carefully, as if trying to make sense of the very things he was describing. “But your love is there, too. That makes me happy.”

Fíriel did not know what to say to this.

“Trust me. Please. You have saved me twice, and I can do the same for you.” His smile, which had died briefly when he perceived her distress, came back into his features. “Because now, they know. They have seen that, no matter what they do to keep me alive, I can still die on them. And they cannot let me die, I am the Prince of the West! So, see? I have all the leverage.”

“Are you saying that you would let yourself... die for me?” At first, the idea sounded ridiculous, but the more she thought about it, the more his twisted logic seemed to apply. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the disturbing thought. “Don’t be stupid! You cannot do that.”

“You have done the same for me. If my life is not good enough to give in exchange for yours, then what good am I? Why was I born for, except to cause death and suffering to others?”

“What about being the King of Númenor and Middle Earth?”, Fíriel retorted. Gimilzagar snorted in bitterness.

“The King of Númenor and Middle Earth is the main cause of death and suffering in this world.”

“You could… be a good King” she said, tentatively. As she spoke, she could not help but

remember Lalwendë and Irimë’s words about influencing the heir to the Sceptre. If it was just the both of them, alone, influencing him would be very easy, she thought. Since he learned to walk his first steps on the slippery surface of the rocks where she caught shellfish, he had been trying to impress her. But that is why they will know better than to let you anywhere near him, Lord Amandil would say. He would probably have also told Fíriel that what she had just said was very imprudent.

“It would make no difference” Gimilzagar shuddered, as if he was feeling cold. “Nothing will make a difference anymore.”

Fíriel did not argue, having found just enough good sense in her to pay heed to Lord Amandil’s warnings.

“You can say anything you want. As I told you, I would give anything, even my life, to keep you safe.” The more he repeated this, the more he seemed to believe it, and the livelier and more confident he became, so she did not even dare think of Ar Zimraphel and how she could pry those dangerous thoughts away from both their minds. “That is something I can do, at least.”

“Thank you, Gimilzagar” she bowed, gravely. “But I prefer you alive.”

At this point, their conversation was interrupted by the healers, who entered the room alerted by the sound of voices. When they saw them talking, they were angry with her again for disobeying their orders, and immediately surrounded the Prince to poke, prod, and interrogate him. He answered some of their questions, but soon enough he withdrew into himself, closing his eyes and refusing to speak further. Fíriel longed to imitate him, but then Ar Zimraphel arrived, and she was forced to face her and answer her questions. Just as the girl had feared, the Queen was already aware of all the details that she would have least wanted to share.

“So protecting you is his life’s mission now” she nodded, pushing away a strand of hair which had fallen on Fíriel’s face, in a way that reminded her poignantly of Grandmother. So right, and at the same time, so wrong. “Ah, to feel the thrill of a young and forbidden love! I still remember when I was his age, and I only had eyes for my handsome cousin. Back then, it was considered a sin, and since our fathers were enemies and mine did his best to hide me away, we could not even meet as family. But they underestimated our determination, of course. “She smiled brightly. “What would you say if we made it a little harder for him, as well?”

“What… I… I beg your pardon, my Queen?”

“It is no secret that the King disapproves of you. He believes you to be the daughter of a man who meant a very great deal to him before his betrayal, and you are indeed his descendant, though your barbarian traitor of a father will remain our little secret.” The smile did not falter in the slightest. “Since he was partly at fault for Gimilzagar’s plight, I made him tolerate your presence in our son’s sickbed. But now the Prince is awake, and the King will soon –deem that you are not needed there anymore. He will claim that people are talking, that this is not appropriate, and he will have a point. So what if we found a new place for you, say, in my own service? This will give Gimilzagar the incentive needed to recover and leave his sickbed, and after that he will have to plot and contrive to see you again behind his father’s back, which will keep him distracted and away from his demons” She laid a hand on Fíriel’s shoulder, which felt cold from the diamonds that covered it. “You could also try to feel a little miserable, at least enough for him to feel that he needs to fight for your sake. But that will not be too difficult, for I think you must be the most hated outsider in this Court for centuries. “She shook her head at the girl’s growing alarm. “Oh, do not look at me like that. There is no need for you to fear, my child: I will always be here, to shield you from harm. As long as we trust one another, everything will be well.”

Fíriel looked down, trying to avoid the Queen’s glance at all costs. Inside her, however, dismay was running rampant. Suddenly, it seemed all too clear what the Queen’s plans for her were: to turn her into bait, with which she would be able to manipulate her son at will. This crisis had been merely the beginning. From now on, if he needed comfort, she would bring Fíriel to his sickbed, if he needed a challenge, she would take her away or put her through the Valar knew what. And what if he grew too rebellious? a frightening voice whispered in the back of her mind. What would happen to her then?

“He has said that he would die to keep you safe, and I can assure you that he meant every word of it. If you cannot find it in yourself to trust me, at least you should trust him” the Queen scolded, an edge of steel emerging from underneath the false kindness. Fíriel swallowed.

“Yes, my Queen.”

“I trust you. How would I not? I can see every one of your thoughts. I know what you are going to think, even before you know it yourself –and in spite of your puerile attempts to avoid meeting my eyes” Ar Zimraphel explained. “But you have no use for those powers. My son loves you, and I love my son; that is all that you need to know. Is that not so?”

Fíriel took the cue, and raised her chin to look at her eyes. She had never noticed how similar those eyes were to those of her son, not just in shape or colour, but also in a certain, indefinable quality which Gimilzagar’s gaze seemed to have acquired in the last days –almost as if they were both looking at something beyond her.

And yet, Gimilzagar’s eyes were also full of love, while those were empty. Abandoned, like the house of her aunt and uncle after they sailed for Pelargir with Zama, never to return.

“Yes, my Queen.”

The eyes narrowed a little.

“Interesting” she remarked. And then, in a brisker tone, “Follow me.”

With a last, longing look in the direction of Gimilzagar’s chamber, Fíriel obeyed.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Gimilzagar winced, trying to pull himself up to an erect position. His whole body ached, as if every joint in it had been dislocated, and he felt dizzy just from looking at the patterns of the sheet draped over his lap. He had drunk all the foul concoctions the healers had forced down his throat, but they seemed to have achieved nothing aside from leaving a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. Fíriel was no longer there: Mother had taken her under her protection so the King could not harm her, and though he understood the logic of this arrangement, he missed her very much. Not for the first time, he wished he was hale enough to leave his bed and go find her.

“You will”, Ar Zimraphel said, caressing his forehead with a fond smile. “You will, my dearest child, very soon.”

Gimilzagar had done his best to smile back, though he should have known by now that it was an impossible feat to hide his feelings from his mother.

“You do not trust me anymore” she stated, her expression darkening like a sky veiled by clouds. He tried to protest.

“Mother, that is not…”

“You think that I sent you to Middle Earth knowing what would happen to you there. That I did it on purpose. I told you that all would be well, and then it was not”, she continued, as if she had not even heard him. Gimilzagar’s cheeks reddened.

It was not true. He had not really been thinking this at any moment that he could remember. If words suddenly did not come with the same ease as before when he was in her presence, if he instinctively flinched from her caresses, it was just because he was still out of sorts, and had not recovered from his ordeal.

“I know everything. Even what you do not allow yourself to think, because it is too hard for you to admit”, she shrugged. Waves of sadness crashed against his mind, their pull so deep that he had to work hard not to be engulfed by the current. Speechless, breathless, he could do nothing but shake his head in denial. “I am your mother, Gimilzagar. Were I like the other women who walk this Earth, were I like your beloved Fíriel, I would embrace you and claim that I will never let any harm come to you, that I will always keep you safe- all those false platitudes that common people who live their lives in blindness might say with a vapid smile and a clean conscience.”

“But you are not” he said, his voice so devoid of inflection that he might as well be dead.

Did he resent her?

“I am not, and neither are you. I always told you this, but it is only now that you are beginning to see by yourself what I meant. One day, I promise, you will see the full extent of it, and then you will understand.”

“And why cannot you just tell me?” An unreasonable frustration was gathering up in his chest. “Why do you manipulate people instead of telling them the truth? Why do you not tell them why they need to suffer? I am your son!”

Her eyes blazed with a strange light, and for a moment Gimilzagar did not know whether she was angry or sad. Even with his new, heightened awareness of other people’s thoughts and feelings, she still remained the same enigma she had always been. The same infuriating, confusing enigma which would always flee his grasp, even as his arms were encircling her body and he pressed his forehead against her cool, ivory flesh.

Yes, he realized in horror. He did resent her. Perhaps that was why, in his dreams, she never came when he called her. Would she have gone as far as to let him die?

“Oh, you are like your father in this”, she sighed, shaking her head. “He does not trust me, either. But do you know what, Gimilzagar? He loves me, and that compensates for his lack of trust. “Suddenly, she leaned forwards, a grave look in her eyes. “That is all I will ask from you, Gimilzagar. That you love me. Give me this, only this, and it will be enough.”

Love without trust. Was this why his father kept all that anger inside? Had this been the reason why he had crossed those mountains, burning, enslaving and killing everyone in his path? And, was this why he resented Gimilzagar being so much like her?

“I thought you would understand by now that I did not ask for this.”

“I did not ask for it, either” he retorted, growing bolder at each word he spoke. “And yet, if I found I could help someone I loved with it...”

“Like you helped your father root out that conspiracy?” He paled at the reminder, but she gave no visible signs of triumph. “You are still very young, my son. Some people do not want to be helped. Others are not ready to face the truth. But the most important of all is this: whenever you help someone, you always doom others. That is why many cannot be helped, because if they are, you will bring harm upon those who matter the most to you.”

Gimilzagar pondered this briefly: the taste was as bitter as the medicine in his mouth.

“Like the barbarians driven to the Island like cattle cannot be helped. They serve a purpose, do they not?”

“We all serve a purpose.” She stood up, and though she was not tall, she towered over his hunched, sitting form. “But most do not know what this purpose is, and if they die, they do not even know why. That is why we rule the world, because we know.”

“Well, I do not know, Mother. I have no idea of what my purpose is!” Gimilzagar did not even notice that he had  raised his voice. “Why would I rule the world? I have been pulled back from death all those times, and I do not even know why!”

Ar Zimraphel did not take the bait. Instead, she gazed at him in silence for a while, and slowly, her lofty demeanour abandoned her, substituted by a tenderness which Gimilzagar was not ready to withstand. Though he had intended to press on this subject until some piece of the truth floated towards the surface, he suddenly did not know what to say.

“It is better this way”, she decided, and the window was shut. “Now, lay back and gather your strength, my son. Your father will be here this afternoon, and there is no need of foresight to anticipate that you are going to need it.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Ar Pharazôn’s visit had been far more dreaded than that of the Queen, and yet, once he was there, Gimilzagar did not find it as hard to deal with him as it had been to face his mother. The old, unspoken challenge, which had been present in his father’s eyes and permeated all his words and actions since Gimilzagar was old enough to remember, was temporarily gone. Its absence felt as strange as a temple without a fire, but just as relieving.

“I am glad to see you are doing so well” the King said, once he had meticulously inquired after his progress, and the different treatments he was being subjected to. So meticulously, in fact, that one might suspect he was trying to fill the void with inane conversation. “The healers are to be commended.”

If Ar Pharazôn had not been looking so oddly – assailable, Gimilzagar would never have gathered his courage to say the next words.

“Fíriel is to be commended. She brought me back.”

His father blinked, but the explosion did not come.

“And Fíriel too, of course.”

“She and I… have a strong connection, Father. Since I awoke, I feel all her thoughts swimming in my mind. If she is happy, I am happy.” He was aware that he was pushing his luck. “If she is –unhappy, I immediately feel unwell.”

“Oh.” The King arched an eyebrow, the first, fleeting sign of the old Pharazôn since the beginning of this unusual conversation. “I will be sure to keep that information in mind.”

He did not say anything else, and Gimilzagar could not think of a way to fill a silence which gradually grew more and more uncomfortable. He had never dared read his father’s mind, but now it was much easier than it had ever been, and he could not prevent himself from picking up certain things that swam close enough to the surface. There was a great deal of discomfort, an even greater amount of worry – and guilt. The one emotion Gimilzagar had been sure he would never find there.

“Well. Now we definitely know that Middle Earth disagrees with you. I feel better when I am there than I am in the Island, myself, but you seem to have taken after your mother. Your hair, your eyes, your skin and the shape of your features should have provided me with enough clues, but sometimes fathers can be that blind.”

It did not sound like an apology at all, and yet Gimilzagar would not have imagined his father saying those words in his wildest dreams. By now, he was starting to feel seriously bewildered by this development. Why was his father not angry? His collapse in Seria had showed his weakness to its fullest extent. He was the ultimate failure, the greatest disappointment.  In a life full of glorious victories and sweeping conquests, Ar Pharazôn had never been defeated so badly.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

“Keep working on your recovery, then”, he was saying at the moment, standing on his feet before Gimilzagar’s shocked gaze. The young man’s eyes narrowed, and before he was fully conscious of what he was doing, he was diving deeper underneath the Golden King’s surface.

And then, he saw it.

“No!” he cried. He fell flat on his back, his body shaking uncontrollably, as if he was again caught in the throes of one of his fits. From a great distance, he heard his father’s voice summoning the healers, and the touch of his hands on his face, just like that day he had lain in the royal tent before the gates of Mordor. Then, he heard other voices, and a flurry of footsteps, right before a liquid tasting like rotten fruit was forced down his throat.

Fools. Why were they doing this? Didn’t they see that he needed to talk, couldn’t they notice what was at stake?

“Father” he tried to mumble, even as they tried to make him swallow more of the medicine. “Father, listen.” He choked on it, and his body was racked by a cough.  He tried to spit it out, just in case it was something designed to make him sleep, but they just gave him more.

“Leave him alone!” his father shouted, noticing his struggles to break free from their grasp. “Look what you have done to him, you fools! Take your foul concoctions and go!”

They obeyed at once, and their departure gave Gimilzagar enough time to calm the spasms of his body. Calming the agitation of his mind was not so easy, but he still managed to look as if he had regained most of his composure when his father focused his attention back on him.

“What happened? Was I taxing you too much? They told me you were well enough to hold a conversation!”

Gimilzagar shook his head.

“It was… nothing. Do not worry about it, Father. I am strong enough.” He paused, trying to gather enough conviction to put in his next words. “It will never happen again. What –happened in the mainland, I mean. I have found my strength now. If you give me a second chance, I will not disappoint you.”

Pharazôn’s eyes widened in incredulity.

“A second chance? What are you talking about?” He laughed, and yet his laughter had a false ring to it, oddly reminiscent of a courtier’s pretence. “Do you think I am going to disinherit you for this? By the Lord of Battles, Gimilzagar, you are my only son!”

And that was the problem, the Prince realized in his new state of terrible lucidity. The unsurmountable problem.

“Gimilzagar, listen to me!” Pharazôn sounded dismayed. “I do not know what kind of monster you think I… oh, very well, perhaps I have acted like a monster in some of the circumstances you have seen me in, but it was merely a role I had to play for the benefit of others. It does not mean I would ever harm you. And as long as you are around, no one else may be heir to the Sceptre of Númenor. That I can promise you.”

Gimilzagar swallowed.

“Do not speak to Lord Zigûr. Please.”

A lesser man would have betrayed himself at this point, but his father was too old, and too good at this. He shook his head.

“I do not know what you are talking about. You are obviously still sick. I should not have come so soon.” And then, Gimilzagar could hear it, as clearly as if he had spoken the words with his voice. It is for your own good, you fool. “I will return when you are feeling better.”

Gimilzagar opened his mouth to call him again, but by the time he had managed to come up with something to say, Ar Pharazôn had already left the room. He leaned back on his pillows, feeling weaker than ever.

That night, he dreamed of a terrible storm, of drowned people screaming, and of a great wave that swallowed all the lights in the sky before falling upon the Island.