Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Double Wedding

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The wedding was set to take place in the gardens of their house in Rómenna, under the cloudless sky of a spring day. Given their status as exiles, it had to be a private ceremony, which meant no nobles or magistrates in attendance, and no official representation from the Sceptre of Númenor. According to the Governor of Sor, who had been in Armenelos for a Council session recently, and whose comfortable relationship with Amandil sometimes allowed for the exchange of gossip, it was rumoured that the King had toyed with the idea of sending Fíriel, who was the Prince’s mistress now. But –as it was also rumoured- the Prince himself had opposed the idea quite strenuously, and in the end, Ar Pharazôn’s wish to humiliate his former friend had come to nothing. A part of Amandil would have wanted to see her again despite all the unpleasantness, to make sure that she was well, or at least strong enough to cope with her surroundings. Above all, he felt for Ilmarë, who could have had a chance to see her daughter again. But he could not ignore that such a trip would have been excruciatingly painful for Fíriel herself, as she would find herself paraded before those who had once been her own people in the gaudy robes of the abomination’s whore. Though he had only seen them together for a brief instant, Amandil believed he had the measure not only of Fíriel’s love for Gimilzagar, but also of Gimilzagar’s love for Fíriel, and he was sure that whatever had transpired between him and his father, he had been following her wishes. This thought brought him some comfort, though it proved brief as it hurtled fast towards its inexorable conclusion: that, even more than to be seen by the peasants who had already hated her before she left, Fíriel must have been ashamed to meet them, her own family.

He had not said any of this to Ilmarë, though of course she had found out anyway. She had not seemed too affected by the news, in the middle of the frenzy of wedding preparations, but as it had once been the case with his aunt, there was no true way to tell unless they were given leave to access her innermost feelings. Once, his father had told him that the Lady Artanis used to keep them under lock and key, until one day she lost the key herself and could no longer retrieve them. Ilmarë was not behaving much like the Artanis Amandil had known, unpleasant and bitter: instead, she was overflowing with energy, pouring her heart and soul into helping her mother organize a beautiful wedding for her future sisters-in-law, and looking as if she had no other care in the world. But he knew how many ways there were to lose oneself, so this brought him little relief.

Aside from the Governor’s gossip, Amandil had not received notice of anyone else from the Court of Armenelos, or even from the unofficial court of Sor. Nobody had sent any congratulations, preferring to behave as if they did not know that such a ceremony was taking place. Even those who sympathised with the House of Andúnië would be too afraid of the Sceptre’s displeasure to risk attending the wedding. And if they had been shunned and isolated, the brides were even more so: their mother had died on the previous year – a sad circumstance which had triggered the umpteenth delay in the ceremony-, all her former acquaintances had declined their invitations, and even their married sister had put forward some pretext about her daughter’s pregnancy that would not allow her to travel from Armenelos.

Lady Irimë had still been holding that letter in her hand, when she accosted Amandil to announce pompously that she had an idea of how to subvert the situation and turn a symbol of defeat into a symbol of victory. At first, he had listened out of pity for her plight, but he had to admit grudgingly that the ideas she put forward were worth considering. She said that theirs were the only two noble houses in the Island who had remained Faithful, and this had turned them into a shining beacon for all the persecuted and dispossessed. The fact that no courtiers, magistrates, or officials sent by the Sceptre were going to participate meant that they could finally discard all those shameful artifices through which they had been forced to comply with the standards of official weddings in the recent past. There would be no ghastly red veils, no heathen rituals or sacrifices, no ambiguously worded invocations. Theirs would be a purely Faithful wedding, like those celebrated by their ancestors before the Shadow fell upon them. And if none of the high and mighty would witness this, they would invite the Faithful of Rómenna, who would be able to see with their own eyes that their former lords remained loyal to the Valar and willing to defy the Sceptre by making a public display of their beliefs. This would create bonds of trust that would be more valuable on the long run than all their futile attempts to hold on to their former alliance with the Sceptre. Not to mention timely, considering that certain recent happenings might have caused some to believe they had strayed from the proper path and were no longer worthy to lead others in this, she added with a meaningful frown. Amandil, who knew that she was referring to the Fíriel affair, hated her more than ever for being right.

In the end, she had been allowed to have her way, and everybody else had submitted to her lead. The first thing she did was send invitations to all the most respected members of the exiled community to attend the ceremony. Then, she put Númendil to use, researching ancient ceremonies as they had been before Gimilzôr had lifted Ar Adunakhôr’s ban and allowed their family to return West. As it turned out, their ancestors had been wed using the traditions of the Eldar, which had an exchange of golden rings as the central element of the ceremony. During this exchange, they would pronounce invocations to Manwë, Varda, and even Eru Himself, calling for them to be witnesses to the union. That would give a strikingly solemn ring to the whole thing, especially since what the Faithful referred to as the sacred tongue would be required for all the proceedings.

The only significant obstacle to their plans was posed by the identity of the main participants. Aside from the married parties, this ceremony gave an important role to the groom’s father and the bride’s mother. Irimë and Irissë no longer had a mother, so an adequate replacement had to be found without marring the significance of the tradition. Númendil came to the rescue: according to him, after the Eldar came to Middle-Earth, death and loss had become a fundamental part of their lives, and this problem had grown common among them too. He had witnessed some of those weddings himself, where, under the influence of the Sindar, the Noldorin betrothed parties had merely chosen the person who would stand next to them in the ceremony among those they most loved and trusted. That choice would not be difficult, since there was little to choose from in the House of Andúnië. After a short deliberation, it was decided that Irimë would have Lalwendë, and Irissë would have Ilmarë. This arrangement would have the advantage of conveying that the brides already regarded their future husbands’ family as their own, and that they shunned the degraded remains of the house of Sorontil that still lived on in Armenelos. Irimë had nodded her approval, perhaps with a slightly too fierce gleam in her eyes. The replacements had both agreed, too, though Amandil could not imagine the thoughts that might cross his granddaughter’s mind as she stood there pretending to be mother to a stranger, knowing that she would never be able to do the same for her own daughter.

He had been roped into participating in the ceremony himself, for the lord of Andúnië, in exile or not, had to figure visibly in the proceedings. Since the bridegrooms were two as well, he would be accompanying Isildur, while Anárion would be left to Elendil. None of them had voiced any objections, either: Anárion, as always, was too much in awe of Irimë’s wonderful ideas to disagree with them, and Isildur had decided to act disinterested whenever he was confronted with anything related to the wedding, as if it had nothing to do with him. When he heard that Amandil would be the one to put his hand in Irissë’s, he merely remarked that this was fitting, since the wedding had been Amandil’s idea, and he had worked hard to secure this alliance. You will put it there, because I would never have done it of my own free will was something that remained unsaid, but Amandil could still hear it behind his words.

This attitude did not change even on the appointed day, as the afternoon sun began its slow decline and Irissë advanced towards them, her round face radiant and her cheeks flushed, while the audience fell as silent as Tar Palantir’s Court upon the summit of the Meneltarma. She had chosen silk robes in a delicate hue of blue, which complimented the colour of her eyes, though Amandil could not help but notice that her choice of hairstyle had not been as fortunate. Her golden curls had been straightened and braided in complicated Elven patterns, but her beauty was so thoroughly human, her forms so full and voluptuous, that it looked almost like a disguise. Lalwendë should have noticed that and said something, he thought briefly, before turning his attention towards Isildur.

His grandson had not moved, but not because he was overwhelmed by the moment, as others might –hopefully- think. From his close vantage point, Amandil could perceive his brooding mood, and he knew that his elder grandson’s stubborn pride would not allow him to budge from his position until he was forced to.

Amandil had no time for childishness. Compared with the sacrifices of others in those times, to wed and have heirs was not such a cruel fate. If only Isildur had loved someone else, he could have understood his reluctance, but as far as any of them knew, he was merely unwilling to limit his freedom by tying himself to anyone.

“Follow me”, he hissed. Isildur seemed to be pondering the convenience of pretending he had not heard, which would have forced him to repeat it in a louder voice and risk being overheard. But something in Amandil’s glance appeared to convince him that it was not worth it. Reluctantly, he walked towards his bride, and when Amandil laid his hand on hers, he held it. The lord of Andúnië’s glance turned towards Ilmarë then, who was invoking Varda with a firm voice, her hand encircling Irissë’s shoulders in a protective gesture. Though she had largely chosen the path that led to her own suffering –something in which her daughter had taken after her, he realized belatedly-, Amandil still felt more inclined to pity her.

Once she had finished, there came his turn to recite the invocation of Manwë, which his father had taught to him. As he learned it, he remembered asking Númendil about the survival of this custom, after the Eldar abandoned Valinor and the Valar themselves had cursed and shunned them. Why on Earth would they believe they were still being heard? But that, of course, only led to the awareness that it was the same with Men, who had never betrayed the Powers, and still were condemned by their own nature never to see the Blessed Realm and those who dwelt there, and live forever with the uncertainty that their prayers were being heard. To be able to give Men the illusion that someone was listening to them and making their wishes come true had been the sole reason for Sauron’s success in the Island, and the more he thought about it, the clearer he saw it.

After this, too, was over, the newlyweds exchanged their golden rings under the eyes of the multitude. Ilmarë offered Isildur a gift, some precious stone engraved in a mithril chain, while he gave Irissë a gold chain with a large sapphire, which she was about to drop because of the trembling in her hands. All of a sudden, Amandil realized that she, too, had to be pitied. If Isildur did not love her, at least he vowed to make sure that this was the only wrong she suffered.

Then, the time came for them to retreat to the background and leave their place to the second couple, who could not be any more different from the first. Irimë was tall and slender, which made the Elven braiding of her dark hair a better fit if one gazed at her from a distance, but she was very far from possessing the famed beauty of the Eldar. During the first months she spent at his home, Amandil had been unable to let go of the unease evoked by her uncanny resemblance to her father, Lord Hiram of Sorontil, whom he had last seen refusing his terms for an honourable surrender and calling him traitor for supporting Ar Pharazôn’s claim to the throne. Later that day, he had seen his face again, but he was no longer behind it, for he had been shot by the King’s troops while holding the beheaded corpse of his son, whose death he had caused with his pointless uprising. The man had been harsh, unyielding and stubborn, all traits which had led to the ruin of his family. Irimë shared much of those characteristics, and even though he had to admit that most of her insights were penetrating and clever, he had never managed to be rid of this residual hostility. He knew that other members of his family already resented her for her meddlesome and overbearing personality, and that they imagined him to be led by similar considerations, so he had never found it necessary to tell them the truth about his feelings. Now, it dawned upon him that this had been unfair to her too: once she was his granddaughter, he would make an effort to address this problem.

Lalwendë and Elendil led their son and their new daughter through the ceremony, with the expertise of those who had long grown accustomed to live under the public eye, and the calm security brought by their knowledge of Anárion and Irimë’s strong bond with each other. Amandil could not help but contrast their solemn but eager participation in the exchanging of the rings, and the quiet joy that possessed all the participants, with Isildur’s resentful reluctance. Perhaps his elder grandson had been right, after all: Amandil had been given the part in the ceremony that he deserved. But as it often tended to be the case, things were too complex to be judged in haste, and it could not be forgotten that without the first wedding, there would never have been a second. As Sauron taught the worshippers of his Temple, the happiness of an individual tended to rest on the sacrifice of others.

After both ceremonies were over, Amandil advanced one last time to beg Eru to be witness, and the feast started. Dusk was already falling by then, but the gardens had been decorated by what looked like a thousand hanging lamps, their light falling over large tables filled with delicacies. Wine flowed freely, and an orchestra of musicians played songs for the young and merry to dance to. From the corner of his eye, Amandil saw Irissë’s attempts to get Isildur to cooperate, and how everyone around them –including Ilmarë, who seemed to have taken her role as Irissë’s surrogate mother seriously- raised their voices in support of her, until he was finally forced to comply. Irimë, on the other hand, was not the dancing sort, but she and Anárion performed one flawless dance for the benefit of the guests before they sat to eat and talk quietly to each other.

Amandil did not approach any of them. For a while, he was too busy talking to the guests, and doing his best to make them feel comfortable. This was a harder task than it seemed, for most of them could never have expected to be invited to a feast such as this, and except for a few bold ones, most remained in the fringes of the party, talking amongst themselves and trying to remain inconspicuous. Fortunately, Elendil and Lalwendë proved quite helpful in his endeavours to create a familiar mood –perhaps a little too helpful, in her case. Still, when Amandil saw her engage in an improvised theatre play where she was supposed to be a dragon of some First Age story, and heard the children laugh and the adults stare at her in amazement, he turned away, judging his own presence to be unnecessary for the time being.

The wine had been mixed stronger than usual today, and it made him grimace as he took a sip from his cup, his glance trailing across the throng of guests in search of his father’s familiar face. Eventually he found him and started walking in his direction, a long and laborious road peppered with courtesy exchanges.

“He did not want to come, did he?” he asked, once that they finally stood within hearing distance of each other. Númendil did not need to ask who he was referring to.

“Of course not. This is not a proper wedding, only a dangerous travesty where evil spirits are invoked in vain to bear witness to sin” he replied, without batting an eye. Then, however, he sighed. “Also, he is not really in a shape to attend anything.”

“Is it that bad?” Amandil felt slightly ashamed under his father’s gaze. He knew that he should visit Yehimelkor more often, but since the wedding preparations had started, he had not only been too busy to do so, but also strangely reluctant to bear the old man’s thunderous displeasure. Perhaps he was just too tired of enduring the whole world’s censure to have to endure it in his own house as well. And yet, as Númendil would no doubt tell him, he had been the one who brought the old man here in the first place, so it remained his responsibility to see to his wellbeing.

“I see you are in a receptive mood to criticism today,” Númendil said, with an indefinable smile. “Is it because of guilt?”

“Guilt?” Amandil raised his eyebrow in surprise. His eyes followed the same direction as his father’s, and he saw that they had been looking at the place where Isildur sat drinking one cup of wine after another, after he had refused to dance any longer.

“I feel no guilt”, he declared, though he was aware that Númendil could read his innermost feelings. “Isildur is his father’s heir, and he needs to marry and continue our line. That woman was our best chance. Now, if he had chosen someone himself, at least…”

“You would not have wanted that.” Númendil sounded so certain that it even gave Amandil pause –almost as if his father knew something that he did not. “The choices of the young are often tumultuous and conflictive, and bring pain upon themselves and others. Look at Ilmarë, and her daughter.”

“It was not so with Elendil”, he argued. Númendil did not reply to this, but something in his glance made Amandil unpleasantly aware that he, too, had had a conflictive and tumultuous marriage. “And Amalket and I found a way to live together. It is not so difficult.”

“Oh, Amandil.” Númendil sighed, shaking his head. “When I told you of Artanis, and how she had grown unable to access her own feelings from hiding them so deep within herself, it was not Ilmarë I was thinking about.” The lord of Andúnië almost choked with the wine, and had to cough to dislodge it from his throat. “Ironically enough, she is not feigning her good mood. When she was told that the Prince had stood to his father to protect Fíriel, she saw in it a confirmation that she was loved, and that made her truly happy.” He sobered. “She is mostly living through her now.”

Long ago, Amandil had stopped wondering how could a man who seemed so distracted and isolated from his fellow humans know them better than he did. Still, as he involuntarily looked towards the place where Ilmarë was leading her sister-in-law through the steps of a new dance, he could not help but feel bothered by it.

“Thanks for the information”, he said, with sincerity and yet with an air of finality that conveyed that he did not want to continue discussing other people’s feelings, and even less his own. “By the way, I would appreciate it if you spoke to the guests and made them feel comfortable. Lalwendë is doing fine with the young folk, it seems, but there are others who might appreciate a subtler kind of encouragement.” As if to underline his words, a raucous fit of laughter greeted their ears from the place where he had seen her last, though the crowd was too thick around it to see anything. Irimë let down the cup she was holding with a sharp noise, and frowned in that direction. “Would you do that for me, Father?”

Númendil nodded with a pleasant smile.

“Of course.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Isildur had been wanting to retire since long before the sun had sunk behind the hills. He was not in the mood for merriment, nor did he wish to make small talk with others or dance, despite the wretched women’s insistence that he should do so. And still, he knew what would happen once he stood on his feet to leave, and this was something that he wanted even less. The thought alone had sufficed to nail him to his seat, where he set himself to the task of depleting the reserves of wine, until a servant came to regretfully inform him that Lord Amandil had forbidden them from pouring him any more. With many a curse, he tried to grab the wine himself, but froze in mid-attempt when he realized that, if they saw him stand, they would think he was going to dance - or worse, leave the feast with his new wife.

There is no way to win, is there? Malik chuckled. And yet you cannot stall forever. Sooner or later, you will have to fight this battle.

“Leave me alone”, Isildur mumbled, staring morosely into his empty cup. Malik arched an eyebrow at him.

Oh, so now you want me to leave. Do I make you nervous in your wedding night? Perhaps you should have thought of this before; for example, when I confronted you about it in the Grey Havens.

“I do not want you to leave. I only want you to shut up.” He had been very certain when he said it, and yet, when Malik spoke no longer, his unease did nothing but grow. But he was not going to admit to his weakness, so he remained stubbornly quiet.

Damn her. And damn the lord of Andúnië, his father and mother, Anárion, and Anárion’s radiant new wife too. Damn them all. The more he thought about it, the more he wished he had remained North of the Middle Havens, and given them and their schemes the middle finger. They might have the resources to build a settlement or two, but they did not have the resources to force him to return if he did not want to. He could see himself unifying the tribes and becoming a strong warrior leader, whose name would be a word of fear for any Númenóreans who dared trespass into his territory. He would have to live among the barbarians, yes, but at least no barbarian would make him marry against his will. This was something that only those who cared about their legacy and the survival of their ancient bloodlines more than they cared about their own happiness would do. If he needed to have an heir, he could train Tal Elmar to succeed him; after all, he already looked Númenórean.

You know, I am finding it increasingly difficult to remain silent.

“What is it?” he hissed, in a slightly louder voice than he had intended. There was a gaggle of women surrounding Irissë at a distance from them, and the one who sat closest to him turned around to give him a surprised look.

Is it really so bad? She is a good-looking woman, though she is not my type. She seems to love you, and she is not a bad sort.  Would escaping her embraces be worth forsaking your family, your heritage and the land of your birth, or are you simply being melodramatic?

“I would have loved to see just how melodramatic you turned out to be if they had forced you to marry someone other than Ilmarë.”

But that is not the same, for I was already in love with her. Or is it?

Suddenly, it seemed to Isildur as if his friend’s eyes were trying to probe inside his soul. This made him feel terribly uneasy, and he squirmed under the scrutiny.

“I am in love with my freedom.”

… and with a dead ghost, Malik concluded. Isildur did not know whether he wanted to hide, or punch him. Even though he had already checked a dozen times that it was empty, he inspected the state of his cup yet again.

There has to be someone for you in this world, Isildur.

Still without looking up, the son of Elendil snorted.

“Did you ever, even for a moment, entertain the delusion that you were the difficult one?”

To this, Malik appeared not to know the answer.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Finally, Isildur decided to follow Anárion’s lead, so his own departure would draw less attention. He was reasonably confident that both his younger brother and his too serious wife would leave before long, and he was right. Once he saw them stand, he walked towards Irissë and offered her his hand. She took it, looking rather flustered under the complicit gaze of the other women.

Since the first time they had met, Isildur had realized that she was the kind of person who would talk and talk when she was nervous. Today, she was more nervous than she had ever been, so the speed and pitch of her voice increased accordingly. As an instinctive reaction, he began walking faster, though deep inside he knew that reaching their destination would not make things better. Not this time.

“… she did not think it was appropriate, but who cares? I am an adult, I have been so for years now, and I do not need her to be the judge of such things! It was bad enough when I was a child and she was always scolding me. I swear, sometimes I thought she would take issue with the way I breathed! But you thought I looked radiant today, didn’t you?”

“Yes”, he answered mechanically, increasing his pace even more. Behind him, he could hear her pant, struggling to keep up with his strides.

“And the hair? I had to rise from my bed when the stars were still in the sky to have it done like this, and do you think she was appreciative? Oh, no, she certainly was not! She claimed that it did not suit my features, and that I should have chosen a looser, simpler hairstyle. Be absolutely sincere, Isildur, what did you think of it?”

“Yes”, he repeated, seeing the corridor and the door at the end of it. When this was followed by silence, at first he believed that her need for constant reassurance had finally abated. But soon enough, his brain registered what had truly happened.

“I am sorry. I had lost the… thread for a moment. What were you saying?” The door was opened before them; as they entered, a couple of servants who were giving the alcove the finishing touches bowed and hurried to depart. One of them paused briefly on her tracks, as if doing a double take, and Isildur realized that she had been gazing at Irissë’s expression. He shut the door in their faces.

“What is it?” he asked, perhaps more brusquely than he had intended. But he did not want to deal with this. He did not even want to be here.

Irissë sat down on a low seat that stood opposite to the bed, in tremulous silence. All her buoyancy seemed to have suddenly deserted her, leaving only the naked nervousness in its wake. Isildur was not sure of what version of her he liked the least, but this one had the aggravating circumstance of making him feel guilty, instead of self-righteously angry.

“It is true, then? Do you… hate me?”

That was a rather preposterous conclusion to reach after he had just failed to listen to one of her silly questions, Isildur thought. And why now? He had been ignoring most of what she said for years. He had even left her to go to the mainland, and did whatever he could to delay his return. If his true feelings were so easy to detect, why would the stupid woman have waited until they were at this point?

“I do not hate you”, he replied, trying to be as honest as he could without hurting her too deeply. “But I am not particularly fond of the sound of your voice.”

“You think I am stupid, don’t you?” When she raised it, he liked it even less. “That I cannot see what you truly think!”

So she was keen on sincerity now, wasn’t she? Perhaps her overbearing sister had taught her that only married people could speak the truth to one another –even the truth that they should not have married in the first place.

He shook his head, biting back a curse. He would have kept this to himself, but she had forced it to come to the light, and now he would oblige.

“I mean no offense, my lady, but why speak of this now? I have always felt the same way, and my behaviour has not changed. I thought that you were happy with things as they were, and that you came into this marriage willingly.” Unlike me, the words remained unsaid.

Now, she sounded defensive.

“I did! I merely… I just…” Her voice trailed away, and for once in her life she seemed to have run out of words. “I was pretending. That –you know, that everything was fine. I thought that maybe, if I pretended strongly enough, it would become true… or at least, that it would seem so.” Now, her lips started twitching, and her chest shook with sobs. “But it didn’t. And I can no longer lie to myself. It is… it is too hard. I cannot do it anymore.”

Isildur had entered that room absolutely convinced that he was the wronged party and that she was at least partly responsible for his plight. Now, in a matter of minutes, she had somehow managed to turn the tables on him. She was crying, and he was the monster. Instinctively, his mind began calculating an escape route past her, through the door and then through a back door towards the cliff.

Stay where you are, you damn coward, Malik spat. If Isildur had been less distraught, he would have reminded him of the time he left Ilmarë in tears and sat on the beach of Andúnië for hours, refusing to return. But he did not even have the wits for that.

“Then stop pretending. We can both do it. Sincerity is… good”, he counselled, lamely. “I do not love you, and you do not love me. As long as we both know it, it should be fine.”

Irissë’s anger returned anew.

“It is n-not fine! Not fine at all!” She wiped her tearful face with a silk handkerchief, but no matter how many times she dabbed at it, it remained wet.

Do you think she picked you among many potential husbands who were lining up to marry her? Are you naïve enough to believe that she was given the choice that you did not have?

“Then what do you want me to do?” he asked, Malik as much as Irissë. Finally, the woman stopped crying, though she did not look any less miserable.

“Let m-me tell you something. I k-know you hate my voice, and that you think I ramble too much, so I will try to use as few words as possible.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she ignored him. “My father and my mother were betrothed as a way to repay her father, Palace Priest Hannon, for an important service he performed for the then Prince Inziladûn. They were not suited for each other. They could have tried to make it work, but, instead of that, they… they resented each other.”

“And yet they had four children”, he intervened. She shook her head furiously.

“That is because he needed an heir, and he did not get one until the fourth attempt! I was the third, so he was very angry when I was born. He thought that she had done it to spite him, I – I overheard them saying it in one of their fights. She, on the other hand, always claimed that it was his fault, because the Northern line had problems with male heirs. Irimë told her this was absurd, since he had been adopted, but as far as Mother was concerned, that only proved her point. She was not very clever, according to Irimë. When I did not do well in my studies, she always said I had inherited her brains…oh, but here I am, rambling again!”

Isildur had not said anything. He had not even thought anything that he was aware of, but perhaps something in his demeanour had betrayed his unease –an unease which had nothing to do with her rambling, and yet it might be simpler for her to think that it did.

“Go on”, he mumbled. But instead of resuming her story, she shook her head, and her large blue eyes grew fixed on his.

“Was it so wrong of me, to want something different? Whenever Irimë told me I was like Mother, I cried. I did not want to be like her. I wanted to be like the maidens in the tales, who followed their hearts and married for love. Back then, it was even within my grasp!” For a moment, she seemed at the verge of crying again. “Father had his heir. I had, not one, but two older sisters. Who was going to care about whom I married? They said I was pretty, so I dressed up, sought the attention of young men, thinking that, among them, I would be able to choose one who was not at all like my father. Irimë, of course, said that my behaviour was disgraceful…”

“And then, your father rose against the Sceptre”, Isildur finished, before she could lose her thread again complaining about her sister. And all the young men stopped noticing her, Malik added in a whisper.

“My mother did not shed a tear for him. All that she cried, she cried for my brother. I cried for him, too, but mostly, I cried for myself, because now I would never have the life I had dreamed.”

She is as selfish as you, Isildur. Malik snorted. Maybe that could be the common ground from which you can build a relationship.

“We seldom have the life that we dream when we are young.” Isildur meant those words as some kind of vague comfort, but they came out bitter. Irissë blew her nose on her handkerchief.

“When my mother began conversations with your family, I knew I would have to marry someone I didn’t know”, she continued. “But I still hoped we would grow to love each other. You could be the man of my dreams. And you would have to love me, because I would try so hard. We would be happy to live our lives together. Tell me, Isildur, where did I go wrong? I tried so hard! Am I so horrible? Do you love another woman? But then, why would you have agreed to marry me?”

Honesty, Isildur thought, was the only possible way out of this death trap.

“You are not horrible, and I do not love another woman, Irissë. But I never agreed to marry you.”

Her flabbergasted expression made the extent of the misunderstanding begin to dawn on him.

“But I thought…” Her eyes widened so much that they looked like they would leave their sockets at any moment. “So you were not…?” A pallor drained her rosy cheeks of colour. “Then, is this just like…them?”

Isildur reflected on this. From the looks of it, it seemed that she had the gist of the situation now. Her parents had never had a choice, they had not been well suited to each other, and they had blamed each other for it. All that remained was for her to bear one girl after another, and for him to think that she was doing it on purpose so he would have to come back.

There is one difference, you idiot. She had that experience and she shared it with you. Now, you both know what went wrong, and you can choose to act differently.

Isildur balked at this. He did not want to make an effort to solve a problem that was not of his making. He did not love that woman and he had been saddled with her; now, let Lord Amandil keep her happy or apologize to her if he could not. His feelings were in disarray: though his logical mind was aware that none of this was her fault, he did not resent her any less for it. And if she started crying again, he thought, he would turn away and leave her alone in that room until morning, rumours be damned.

But she did not cry. Instead, she looked up, and set her shaking gaze on his.

“Then, you do not need to worry, Isildur. I swore I would never be like my mother, remember?” Her painted lips curved in an eerie smile. “So I will never resent you, or blame you for this. I will behave like a proper wife, and one day you will have to see that it is not my fault, either.”

Or perhaps she is not as selfish as you.

For the umpteenth time that day, the son of Elendil bit back a curse. It is not my fault that she wants to delude herself, he thought, but could not say it. It did not sound right, and all his resentment was no longer enough to hide the guilt. No, it was not his fault that they were here now, but he would not be wholly innocent of what happened from then on. Especially if she refused to present a target for his frustration.

Slowly, he walked towards her and took in her entire appearance, as if he was looking at her for the first time. Her face was still red, especially her nose after blowing it with the handkerchief, and her eyes puffy from crying. This did not flatter her looks, but other men would have been looking further down, at her ample breasts, which heaved with every breath she took, and her curves, highlighted by the shape of her dress. They might also have extended a hand and loosened her beautiful golden hair from those ridiculous restraints, so they could admire the way it shone against the lamplight.

Why did he feel nothing? What was wrong with him? Would Anárion have managed better if faced with this situation, even though his love seemed to be for tall and slender women with dark hair and solemn faces?

You should have listened to the Elf, Isildur. I hate Elves but damn, that one was right.

Isildur took a sharp, deep intake of breath.

“If you want to be a proper wife, then perhaps we would be more comfortable in the bed”, he suggested. The hope that shone in her eyes at his words was almost physically hurtful, but he ignored the pain.

“Do you mind if I wash my face and paint it again? It would only take a few…”

“No” he interrupted her. If she started stalling now that he had made his mind, his resolve could be weakened, and then both would lose that battle. “You look wonderful as you are”, he tried, in a kinder voice.

“Liar”, she said, but there was no edge in her tone. Instead, she smiled, like one might smile to a young child who had tried their best writing down their name for the first time. “But thanks for the attempt to spare my feelings. You may even learn yet.”

Isildur did not know what to answer to this, but that was the moment that she tiptoed to kiss him, so he did not need to. Her lips had a strong aromatic taste, probably from the paint she had used to colour them. It was unpleasant, but if he kissed her enough at some point it would wear off, and then he might even learn to enjoy this.

Nice metaphor, Malik nodded.

That night, as he lay entwined with his wife in their marriage bed, Isildur dreamed of high mountains, of large forests and plains, and of dark eyes that bore into his with the silent promise of freedom.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Fíriel sat on the edge of the fountain, closing her eyes to listen to the gurgling trickle of the water. Once, she had been feeling homesick, and Gimilzagar had picked up on it, as he always did. He brought her here, dismissed everyone, and told her that as a child he used to sit in this very place, close his eyes, and pretend that he was sitting on the beach in Rómenna. Fíriel had not been convinced at first: the sound of a fountain was not even remotely similar to the deep and regular rumble of the waves, but she had not wanted to disappoint him. Soon, she had discovered that a fountain was alive too, in its own way, and that its movements and cycles also had a soothing regularity to them. Plus, it gave her a chance to be alone with her own thoughts for a while, something that seemed an impossible feat in this meddling, gossiping Court full of sycophants and spies.

She sighed. Today was the day. About a hundred miles away from this quiet courtyard in the middle of the capital of Númenor, Isildur and Anárion were marrying Irissë and Irimë under the gaze of their assembled family and guests. It was just a private wedding, apparently not different from that of any merchant’s son with the daughter of an associate, but it had turned into the main source of Palace gossip for the last month. The ladies spoke in scandalized tones of the outlandish rites of the Faithful, the priests debated if it should be considered a legal wedding at all, and, in much lower voices, everybody exchanged rumours about Fíriel herself, of whether she should have been there and the reason why she wasn’t. After gaining a reputation as a shameless whore, she appeared to be gaining another as a wily female who was driving a wedge between the King and his son. Which was rather ludicrous, as, in her opinion, Ar Pharazôn had only suggested sending her in order to upset Gimilzagar. If there was someone who wanted a wedge there, it was him, and she had nothing to do with it. And in any case, the only wedge that mattered to her right now was the deep, invisible one that tore her away from her family.

Since she was in the Court, she had tried not to speculate too much about what they would think of her, or the way they would see her back in Rómenna. But now, the notion that they could be humiliated by her sole presence had acted like a rather painful wakeup call. Everything she had heard after that, about the way they intended to use the ceremony to strengthen their position as leaders of the Faithful and keepers of the true doctrine, had done nothing but reinforce this impression. She had barely been given the time to feel like one of them -and yet, now that those ties were cut, paradoxically enough, the pain of the severance was a hundred times stronger than the feeling of belonging had ever been.

“Your plight is a sorrowful one, indeed.”

The voice jerked the girl away from her musings, and her sadness swiftly turned into alarm. Her eyes opened wide, and her breath caught in her throat when she saw the figure who stood before her. In all the time since she entered the Court, he had never approached her before, and she had taken utmost care to stay out of his way. When she was young, she had heard horror stories about him that kept her awake at night; once she grew up, she had come to the terrible realization that every single one of those stories was real. It did not matter how fair he looked, how compassionate or understanding his gaze was. He was a monster, responsible for the death of millions, and an enemy to her and her people. Wildly, she looked around him, trying to find an escape route, but he was standing in the only path that would lead her back towards the portico, and all the other courtiers had left. Perhaps, if she cut across the garden…. or if she let herself fall in the fountain and swam away…

“There is no need to fear me, Fíriel” he said, shaking his head indulgently, as if he was talking to a child. “I am not the one who wishes you harm.”

She shook her head. He just wanted to play with her mind. According to Lord Amandil, this was what he did to everyone, and she should not pay heed to any of his words.

“Excuse me, Your Holiness” she said, standing up and bowing to him. “I have to go now.”

“Please, I only need a moment of your time”, he insisted, sliding to the side so her escape path was blocked further. “It is very difficult to talk to you in private, without –unfriendly eyes and ears following our movements or listening to our words.”

“I really am in a hurry.” Her desperate wish to escape brought her to bump against him. Feeling her heartbeat thumping against her chest, she had the sudden, overpowering urge to break into a run.

Just as she was about to surrender to her panicked impulse, however, he caught her hand in his. His grip was not strong, or painful, but she had the strangest feeling, as if the ground had swallowed her feet and she had turned into a statue, and all her efforts to break free would be in vain.

“You really should listen to me. You are afraid of the wrong people, Fíriel. It is those you care about the most, whom you should fear. And you are in danger right now.”

Do not listen to anything he says. Do not listen to anything he says, a voice, which sounded like that of Lord Amandil, hammered in her mind.

“Really, I thought you might have figured it out yourself by this point. But then again, human intelligence is not always everything it should be. You already know that the Queen has been trying to take you to the Palace since you were a child, and that she did not cease in her endeavours until she achieved her objective. She said that you were the only one who could save the Prince. And yes, you healed him of a rather unfortunate ailment, but you have not saved him yet.”

Not saved him yet. Against her own will, Fíriel’s mind began working feverishly, and she remembered bits and pieces of conversations that she and Gimilzagar had held in the past. Belatedly, she realized that she did not know what brought them there at that moment, or in that order; it felt as if someone was showing them to her.

They have seen that, no matter what they do to keep me alive, I can still die on them.

You cannot be asked to feel guilty for living.

Black eyes, sad and solemn as they became fixed on hers.

The gods gave me this half-life because they want Númenor to end.

“Yes, Fíriel. The Prince lives a half-life, and unless he finds a way to break free, he will never be in control of his own fate. Not to mention all the unfortunate souls who must be lost for his sake.”

Souls that you sacrificed, she thought defiantly, her own senses taking the upper hand for a moment.

“But there is another way. The Queen knows it, which is why she was so eager to bring you here. For she knows the truth about sacrifice: if forced upon others, its power will not endure for long. The only lasting sacrifice is a willing one, like that of your father when he died for his friend.”

At this point, Fíriel was so lost in her turmoil that the knowledge that Sauron knew the truth about her parentage did not even register. All she was able to feel now, from the deeper recesses of her soul, was the need for him to stop talking.

“Yes, Fíriel. She is fattening you like a sacrificial animal. She wants you to die for her son, and she wants you to do so willingly. As I said, I am sorry for your plight, so I wanted to warn you so you would not fall for her schemes. That is all.”

Suddenly, her inability to move was gone, and she was able to feel her limbs again, her fingers, her toes wiggling against the leather of the shoe. She could run now, turn away from this hateful demon and bury his lying words so deep that she would not be able to find him again.  She could hide, and pretend that this had never happened.

As Fíriel broke into a run towards the portico of the closest gallery, however, and the abhorred figure disappeared from her sight, she was aware that it would be much harder for her mind to escape than it had been for her body.