Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Struggle

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When Isildur walked into the Sea, he was not merely trying to get rid of the physical evidence of what had taken place on the beach. He was also hoping that its cold embrace would cleanse his soul, and that he would emerge from the waves as the man he had been before this, ready to take the path up the rocky cliff and walk into his wife’s bedroom. But all the water in the world would not have been enough to wipe that stain, and Isildur had always been terrible at outrunning his ghosts. Even as he lay on the surf, panting from the effort of swimming, the haunting images filled his mind, and the knowledge that they were not in his imagination anymore, that he had crossed the line into touching what he should never have touched, feeling what he should never have felt, and tasting what he should never have tasted, brought a dull yet growing panic which he knew would erupt in his consciousness at one moment or another.

Isildur, for all his unnatural urges, had never had the faintest idea of how they were meant to be assuaged. Tal Elmar was the one responsible for turning a vague desire into something quite definite and specific. In the land of Agar, men went about this sort of thing openly, whether by the fireside while on patrol or after getting drunk on a feast, an attitude which contrasted sharply with the thick veil of shame and secrecy they drew over their marital relations. This paradoxical behaviour –Isildur could not help but remember the stories told in Umbar about Middle-Earth Men learning everything backwards- had resulted in a young man like Tal Elmar teaching him how to go about everything, while he probably did not even know what a woman looked like. And if his… if his moans were any indication, he did not seem particularly interested in knowing just yet.

Isildur shuddered, setting to the task of putting his clothes on. Even this simple task unnerved him, as it forced him to remember why his pants had been so carelessly thrown aside, away from the rest of the pile, or what had come afterwards. He wondered if he would ever be able to set this aside, if he could still act as Isildur, son of Elendil from the house of Andúnië, and be the leader of the Faithful one day. If he could be the father of a lineage to inherit his noble blood and carry his name. All of a sudden, he saw his entire family standing before him, their faces livid and their accusing glances set on his. You are accursed, they said. The shadow is upon you, and because of you the blood of Andúnië is spent, and its lineage broken. The Faithful will be leaderless, and all that will remain of the men of Númenor is the seed of evil.

Feeling the long-delayed terror shake his limbs, Isildur stood up on the surf. In his state, he could not see anything around him, and he walked on his way home as a blind man, stumbling through the darkness. He could easily have taken a wrong turn of the dangerous path up the cliff and fallen to his death, but somehow, a providential instinct was able to carry him to the doorstep of the Lord of Andúnië’s house. There, this same instinct carried him past the guards and across endless corridors and stairs, until he opened the door of Irissë’s chambers and found her lying on her bed, alone.

He took a sharp breath, letting his gaze trail over her prone form. Her curls had been thoroughly combed, and set to flow down her left shoulder in a charming cascade. Her clothing, scant but chosen with great care, favoured her eyes, and her face was no less oiled and powdered than it had been for the official reception. She must have looked quite striking an hour ago, he thought, before she started nodding off and part of her hair was flattened against the pillow and the makeup formed a dark stain under her left eye. He stopped in his tracks, wondering how could everything and everyone he had met on his way be nothing but an undefined blur, while her defects stood like huge flaming signals before his sight.

“I am late”, he heard his mouth say. “I lost track of time.”

Out of an unfortunate instinct, Irissë rubbed her eyes, causing the makeup stain to spread even more.

“It is funny how this only happens when you are not with me”, she remarked, in a querulous voice. “I… I was about to put the lights off.”

“I am sorry”, he apologized, so soulfully that it amazed even himself. “That was very thoughtless of me.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment she looked too stunned to say anything. Before she could regain her power of speech, and perhaps annoy him enough to compromise the determination which had brought him all the way here, Isildur bridged the distance between them to claim her lips in a kiss. Once the first shock was over, he could feel her responding to it, and then her arms closing around his back, like a trap, a fell voice whispered in his ear, but he could not afford to pay heed to it anymore. Instead, he allowed himself to be pulled down, until both were lying on the mattress, and she was caressing his face with a happy smile.

“I will forgive you everything” she panted, “as long as you kiss me like that.”

There was too much to forgive, Isildur thought, trying to erase from his mind that other face with sharper features, those other eyes, widening in pain and then in pleasure, the much harder body and the rougher, darker skin he had touched just an hour ago, in the darkness of the beach. Those would have to stay forever in the shadows, he realized, banished from the world of light, of righteous duty, and marriage. And if he could not feel anything while this woman writhed and panted under him, he would have to pretend that he did until the Doom took him.

Even as he was brought to climax inside her, however, Isildur could still feel the other eyes fixed on him, and it was Tal Elmar’s face that he saw in his dreams.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Irissë looked happy this morning. She was nice to everyone, even to her sister, and there was a new spring to her step, which was a rather puzzling contrast with her attitude from yesterday. Whatever had transpired after the feast was over, it did not appear to have turned to her disadvantage, though Ilmarë would need to see Isildur before she was ready to make conjectures.

Her wish was fulfilled soon afterwards, as her brother himself came looking for her in her chambers. The moment she saw the look in his eyes, she was aware that it would not be a courtesy visit, so she set her book aside and silently gathered her wits to face whatever it was that awaited.

Isildur did not waste his time on roundabout pleasantries.

“You know.” It was not even a question. “Tal Elmar told me that you had helped him search the laws and customs of the Eldar, looking for information on how they felt about… on how they saw…”

Though he had started strong, his determination soon floundered at the unsurmountable obstacle of having to speak the words aloud. Ilmarë took advantage of this, and seized the initiative before he could recover.

“Yes”, she replied. “They were remarkably unhelpful on the matter, or so he seemed to believe.”

“Are you going to tell anyone?”

Ilmarë frowned.

“Tell what? That a barbarian who is used to men being… affectionate with one another in his tribe has developed feelings for you? That should be nobody’s business, unless…” Her gaze was fixed on Isildur’s, who promptly looked away, and the truth erupted in all its glory. “Unless you have acted upon it. You have, haven’t you? Last night, you...” She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “You did it.”

Isildur had not looked so vulnerable in her presence since the death of Malik, and even then he had done his best to hide his feelings from her, for he considered himself responsible for her suffering.

“I also did my duty to Irissë. I will not stop until she bears my heir, and then I will cherish her as the mother of my child. She will never have any reason to complain about me, I swear it on my honour.”

“Because that is a woman’s dearest wish, to bear the children of a man who refers to marital relations as ‘duty’”, Ilmarë snorted, but she regretted her impulse as soon as she saw him wince as if he had been struck.

“So”, he said, after a while. “Are you going to tell anyone now?”

The daughter of Elendil shook her head.

“No. You did not tell anyone about Malik and me, and I have not forgotten. You protected us, even convinced him to return to me after he panicked about our lifespans. Even though… even though…” Realization dawned upon her in a strange, dull manner, as if a part of her had known all along. “Even though you loved him.”

He looked down, too ashamed to meet her eyes, and for the first time in so many years, she was truly sorry for him.

“I was not aware of it at the time, I swear.”

“But it hurt you to see us together.” She would not phrase it as a question, either.

“It… bothered me”, he admitted, in a low voice. “Greatly. But I thought it was for other reasons. To be honest, anyone else in my place would hardly have needed an excuse to be upset at his sister giving herself to his peasant friend in secret while stubbornly refusing to consider all the dangers involved.”

“And yet you had a chance to end it, and you pushed him back into my arms instead.” It was almost eerie, how they could discuss Malik as calmly as if he was sitting in the next room, waiting for them to join him. The thought gave her a sudden knot in her throat.

Isildur still refused to look at her.

“He loved you. He could not live without you, that much was clear. And when I saw his unhappiness, I could not… I did not… I needed him to be happy.” He took a long, tortuous intake of breath. “Until I killed him.”

“Something for which I was never able to forgive you until now.” Her voice was even smaller than his; ashamed, she did a conscious effort to gather back her composure. “But he always made his own choices, both when he chose to love me and when he chose to die for you. If only there could have been more of him!” She tried to smile, but the smile came across rather like a grimace. “One Malik was not enough for the both of us.”

Isildur opened his mouth as if to comment on this, then seemed to grow conscious of the strange turn their conversation had taken. Ilmarë could see the shifting emotions in his glance as he traced back his way to the present, and to the rampaging mûmak in the room.

“I cannot believe you. Here you are, talking to me as if we were two… women in love with the same man! “This wording seemed quite effective in bringing back all the shame and disgust he was feeling at himself. “How can you be so calm about this?”

A fair point, Ilmarë had to admit.

“I do not know. Maybe….” Her brow furrowed in thought. “Maybe I always knew, at some level. Do you know those puzzles, where you do not see the whole pattern until you set the last tile? That would be Tal Elmar”, she explained, needlessly. He stood up, and resumed his annoying pacing around the room, looking as if he was being pursued by an invisible demon.

“And what about our family? Won’t they be able to see the pattern as well?” He stopped in his tracks with a curse. “Oh, by all the Valar, Anárion! He has been fighting me about Tal Elmar since we first captured him in Agar. He suspects, I am certain of it. He has never accused me openly only because he has no evidence.”

“Then he will never have it from me!” Ilmarë cried passionately. “I am on your side, Isildur, I swear. As far as everyone else is concerned, nothing happened last night. Your wife was very satisfied with you, and this morning she let all the household know.”

“I will never stray again”, Isildur promised. He was sincere, Ilmarë supposed, but it was obvious that such a promise would be impossible to keep on the long term. Whatever the object of one’s deepest desire was, at the end of the day it made little difference: one’s very soul would crawl over the thorns of danger and the cinders of humiliation only to find a path towards happiness. So it had been with her, with Malik, and now with her beloved daughter, who knelt in the temple of Morgoth and braved the wrath of both the Sceptre and the Valar as the abomination’s whore. Still, Ilmarë was aware that Isildur would not bear to hear this from her lips now, so she kept her thoughts to herself.

“Do you know what?” she ventured much later, once Isildur had spent his pacing urges and was gazing listlessly at a window that gave to the garden below. “Tal Elmar was amazed at the notion that we followed the customs of a different race of beings instead of our own. I tried to explain that we had their blood in our veins, but we do have plenty of human blood as well. And what Elven blood we do have does not make us holier than anyone else. Just look at the King and the Queen.”

“I am second in line to the lordship of Andúnië, Ilmarë.” Isildur did not even turn back to look at her. “And Irissë is my lawfully wedded wife. If we do not even try to behave as if we were holier than the savages, then what is left?”

“Trying to sound like Anárion does not suit you at all”, she spat, suddenly angry. “And for your information, your wife is well aware that you do not love her and that you never wished to marry her, because she heard it from your lips on her wedding night. From your own lips, Isildur. All she ever wanted from you was kindness and respect, and you never gave her this, until the sheer force of your guilt compelled you. Perhaps you should take a moment to reflect upon that.”

Not even turning to look at her, Isildur left the room; a few moments later, she could hear a door being forcefully shut in the distance. Ilmarë sighed, trying to calm her own raging emotions. In the end, despite her better resolutions, she had gone too far with her advice, and gotten involved with things that were none of her business. All that her brother had needed to know when he came here was that she had no intention of betraying him, and that she would not bring up the subject again in his presence. So that was what she would do: from now on, she would say nothing, think, breathe nothing, and just allow the events to unfold.

But one day, she knew, sooner or later, he would be back.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

In all those years, he had not looked at her in the eye even once. This would never have bothered her beyond the Great Sea, where it was the proper way of things –after all, he did not belong to the warrior caste, and she was the daughter of a war chief and the wife of his spear-bearer-, but in the Island, everything was different. Here, the man she would not have thought of addressing before had turned into one of the few links that still connected her to her home, and, though she had never admitted as much in words, the one she cherished the most. Nerdak, who was her kin by marriage, remained haunted by the great shame of his capture and enslavement, and, though he had tried to erase it by swearing terrible oaths not to let the enemy harm a hair of her head, he was aware that she was humouring him when she pretended to believe him. This made him bitter, and not very good company. Kilakhini, meanwhile, exhibited the opposite behaviour: she felt no shame at all, no grief, and no resentment. This had already been her life since long before the Sea People came, and whether she had to nurse a chief’s beloved daughter, cook extravagant meals for a general, or even be given away as a wedding present to a demon, it made little difference to her as long as she was allowed to live. She had been helpful to Rini with her matter-of-fact acceptance of everything that fate had disposed for them, teaching her how to think like a slave, and anchoring her to a previously unknown world that would not sink or end for any reason, whether a mere humiliation or her father and mother being cut open before her eyes.

Still, Rini did not think she could be entirely part of this world, either. She loved her wetnurse, but she had been born a proud, fiery woman of warrior blood, and she was not so old that it had ceased burning inside her. The old woman could not understand this, the sole concern in her mind being how to keep her charge away from the knives and the fire. Though she would never dare say this aloud, she saw herself as Rini’s mother, but the woman who gave Rini life had not begged even when she was dragged before the altar of the Sea People’s god.

Those different attitudes often made her feel like an animal hide, of those the slaves would pull in opposite directions to stretch them and turn them into clothes. If she was polite to the Sea People, if she smiled to the Lady Fíriel or showed the slightest sign of weakness in front of the Demon Prince, Nerdak grew angry at her perceived betrayal of her ancestors. If she was proud or insolent, Kilakhini would weep and tear her hair, and predict all sorts of dire misfortune. Only Akahathzin would never dream of telling her how she should behave, or what she should do. Since the beginning, he had merely been there, gazing at his feet and not speaking unless spoken to. He was always helpful, whether she needed him to translate a conversation, fetch her something so the Sea People would not have to enter her room, or teach her the Sea People’s words. At some point he had admitted, with great shame, that he had been charged by the Demon Prince with making sure she would not plot anything or hurt herself, but Rini could not find it in her heart to be angry at him for it. After all, he was no warrior. Nerdak, who treated him with contempt, was a warrior, and yet even he must have submitted to the Sea People if he had been allowed to remain alive and toil in their fields. If he had been as brave as he claimed, they would have pronounced him useless and sacrificed him to their god, as they had done to countless others. Of course, Rini knew better than to confront him with this, but deep in his heart he knew it, too.

In the end, Rini was aware that she could not count on Akahathzin to protect her. But this had stopped bothering her, from the moment it became apparent that nobody else could. She had little use here for hot-headed men who painted their faces, and challenged the enemy with a firm spear-throwing hand. Her husband had been good at that, and he had died; his little brother had been bad at it, and he had been enslaved, and none of them had ever done anything to help her. The interpreter, on the other hand, had given her a voice, shown her the secrets of the language of her captors, and precious insights on how they thought and spoke. He could also talk to her in her tongue and remind her of home, without feeling entitled to anything in exchange.

That was why Rini had acquired the habit of whiling away the long and unbearable evenings in his company, playing some board game with him. Sometimes, she paused to tell him things about herself, and he listened in silence, nodding as reverentially as if he was listening to the Tale of Origins. Then, she would force him to reciprocate and tell her about his life from Before, asking him questions about his humble kinsmen and kinswomen, of his work as a trapper, and even the shocking stories that he and his companions told each other in the wilderness, as they pressed around the fire on cold nights.

At a certain point, she knew that the trapper must have been trapped, for he had fallen in the Sea People’s hands. But somehow, he always shut himself like a clam whenever Rini tried to learn more about that part of his life. She could have insisted, even ordered him to answer, but somehow she found herself more and more reluctant to cause him any discomfort she could avoid. She could live without satisfying her curiosity, she had told herself many times, just as for years she had lived with his habit of lowering his eyes and not meeting her glance. It was nothing personal, nothing she should take offense from.

And still, it bothered her. All of it did.

“Akahathzin”, she finally spoke one day. On the previous night, she had spent hours tossing and turning in her bed, thinking of the best way to phrase this without causing him either fear or hurt. “I am no longer the daughter of a warrior, and you are no longer the son of a peasant. That part of our lives ended when our kinsmen and kinswomen perished, and we were taken in the Sea People’s ships across the Great Sea.” She paused, wondering if this could ever work as she had intended. “I would be… very glad if you met my eye with yours, as a man who is worthy of my familiarity and confidence after the many services he has rendered me.”

His body tensed at the words, and the previous ease they had enjoyed departed as fast as a deer hunted with arrows. Rini struggled with her quickly accumulating frustration.

“I… “he stuttered, looking nothing like the eloquent man he could be when he was transforming the words of others into her own form of speech. “I beg my lady to forgive me. But… I am not worthy of my lady’s familiarity or-or confidence. I am not worthy of gazing at her in the eye. I am sorry. If I had been born to the highest lineage, or she to the lowest, this would not change.”

Now, Rini was confused.

“Why?”

He appeared to be bracing himself.

“Because, even though my lady is worthy of all honour and respect, and I often wish I could be of more service and help to her…”

“You are of great service and help to me!” she interrupted him hotly. But he did not allow himself to be sidetracked.

“Even though my lady is worthy of all this, and more, I do not serve her. Even now, as I sit before her in this table, in her rooms, another owns me, and I do his bidding. That is why I cannot look at her, even if she asks me to do so herself.”

Rini’s shock turned to anger, as the meaning of his words sunk in her mind. Meanwhile, the interpreter’s expression had become hollow, as if he was trying to forbid himself from feeling anything at all.

“I am aware that you serve the Demon Prince”, she said, the very name a curse on her lips. “We all do. And yet, I do not see why that would prevent you from looking at me. Has he forbidden you to do so?” He always affected kindness when he visited her, just like everyone else here –after all, they thought her too beautiful and valuable to be mistreated- but at the end of the day, he was not only one of the Sea People, but a demon who fed off other people’s souls, and she believed him capable of anything. Still, she had to admit she was hard pressed to guess what purpose this would serve, even considering the crookedness of his designs. Wasn’t Akahathzin supposed to keep watch over her?

Her speculation died in her mind when the interpreter spoke again.

“He has not. But…” His face was flushed scarlet, and all of a sudden, Rini understood everything. Her own cheeks blushed, as if they had turned into a mirror of his, which for once made her glad that he could not see her. “But my lady is his wife.”

“Oh.” She could think of nothing more articulate to say. “So you…oh.”

She could not even say it aloud. The angry ghosts of her ancestors, her parents, her husband filled her head, inextricably linked to visions of Nerdak’s rage and Kilakhini’s dismay. For some reason the demon’s inscrutable black eyes were not as vivid as any of those- he had never seemed remotely interested in claiming her as her husband-, though she was aware that they were first and foremost in Akahathzin’s own mind.

Damn them. All of them. He loved her. Yes, he loved her, and she had loved him for a while now, but she would never even get him to look at her. Taken by an irrational burst of anger at the unfairness of it all, she forgot herself and her better determinations for a moment to lash out at the only available target.

“Coward.” He did not contest the insult; just bowed and accepted it as if it was his due, which infuriated her all the more.

“Yes, my lady.”

“What did the Sea People do to you? Cut your manhood?”

The very instant the words left her mouth and she saw his wince, she wished she could take them back, not because of the offense itself, but because her question had touched the core of whatever terrible secret he did not want anyone to know. Unfortunately, it was already too late.

“No, my lady. They did not do any such thing.” He shivered, and Rini wanted nothing else than to pull him into her arms and hold him close until he cried his heart out.

“Forgive me”, she said instead, in a formal, remote voice that she had trouble to recognize at her own. “My heart was unjust, and my tongue too swift. It is not because of you that we find ourselves in this situation, and I do not blame you for it. I merely…” Here, despite her precautions, the remoteness wavered and died, betraying some of the feelings underneath. “I merely wish it did not have to be so.”

For the first time since the Demon Prince had appointed him to watch over her movements, Akahathzin made no attempt to follow her as she left the room.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

In her dream, Fíriel was standing at the foot of the altar of the New Temple of Armenelos. Around her, she could see priests carrying ropes, golden blood basins, knives, and for a moment of panic she thought they were there for her. But she whispered to herself that it was not possible, that Gimilzagar would not allow it, that Ar Zimraphel would protect her. After a while, those reassurances allowed her to breathe a little more easily, and she stood on the points of her feet to gaze ahead, where the crowd of praying faithful parted to reveal a throng of servants of Melkor and their struggling victim. Fíriel could not recognize her at first, for she was not dressed in silk and silver thread, but in a simple white robe, her long, glossy hair falling dishevelled over her shoulders and covering her face instead of artfully arranged around a crown of gems. But when she screamed, Fíriel’s innards clenched, and she had the sudden feeling that she had been here before, watching this same scene –that she already knew how it was going to end.

The intensity of the chants increased, until they covered the unfortunate woman’s curses. She was being dragged up the stairs now, with great difficulty, despite the number of her captors. Fíriel was told to step back while they tied her to the stone altar, to avoid being trampled or hit by mistake. Once they were done, however, a cold hand pressed her shoulder, pushing her forwards.

It was then that she realized that her hand was holding a sacrificial blade.

“I curse you, Fíriel” Valeria hissed, trying to raise her chin so she could look at her in the eye. “I curse you for eternity. As surely as mountains are rooted to this earth, you shall see, hear, taste, smell and touch nothing but darkness and ashes. Your beauty will wither, your love will die, everyone you ever loved will perish, and you will be the last of them.”

“Hurry!” one of the priests said. “Kill her before she can curse us all.” Because curses on Fíriel did not matter; after all, she was the abomination’s whore, and she was already cursed.

Slowly, Fíriel approached the raging woman, who writhed in panic when she saw the blade. At some point, she must have stopped in her tracks, and someone pushed her, just as an indolent tiger would be pushed towards its hapless victim in the ancient games of the Haradrim. Upon turning back, she realized it was the Queen. Her black eyes seemed to swallow every light in the place, reflecting nothing but darkness.

“Do it”, she said. “Do it, and live.”

Fíriel woke up in her chambers, her heart beating swiftly against her chest. Her forehead was wet, her eyes swollen, and the air smelled strongly of smoke. The dream had been real, the mad thought insinuated itself in her mind. She had killed Valeria, and then passed out.

Someone was shaking her awake, a set of hands that belonged to a woman. The Queen, she thought, but it was not her. It was Isnayet, and she looked as terrified as Fíriel herself felt.

“Hurry, my lady, hurry! There is not a moment to lose!”

Still too perturbed by her dream to react to the dangers of the waking world, she let herself be pulled out of bed, out of the room, and then through the corridors. As they walked, she became aware that the smoke was real, and that at some areas it grew thick enough as to veil her sight. Darkness and ashes, the morbid thought gathered in her mind, nothing but darkness and ashes.

Suddenly there was loud bang, as if the walls themselves were falling, and panicked screams that seemed to come from a distance.

“What is happening?” she wanted to ask, but as soon as she opened her mouth, the smoke got in and she started coughing. Isnayet held her tight, and though her pulse did not falter, her eyes were red and swollen, and her face flushed. As they stumbled into one of the main galleries, they came upon a group of women, who practically bumped into them in their hurry. They were also in their nightclothes, and it was an eerie sight for Fíriel to see so many denizens of the Western Wing of the Palace of Armenelos in plain white, instead of wearing the multi-coloured dresses she was used to. They looked like ghosts, she thought.

Following them, Isnayet and Fíriel finally found their way into the open air of the large Flower Gardens. There, many others were already gathered; some invoking the Great Deliverer and the Queen of the Seas in prayer, others taking care of people who had passed out or -here, Fíriel did a horrified double take- were badly burned, and others merely staring wide-eyed at the fire which was engulfing a large part of the wing. She could hear men’s shouts coming from that place, not with the scattered, purposeless pattern of panicked stragglers, but forceful, and she deduced that the Guards must be fighting to contain its spread.

“Fíriel, you are safe!” It was Gimilzagar, rushing to embrace her as if he did not care anything about propriety. But what did propriety matter, in a place where nobody was even dressed? “Thank you, Isnayet. Thank you so much!”

The young woman blushed.

“I only did my duty, my lord prince.”

“Wh –what happened?” Fíriel asked, as soon as she trusted her voice to come out even enough. His features darkened.

“The fire spread from the Lady Valeria’s rooms.” Fíriel’s heart plummeted. “The rumour is that… she might have started it herself.”

I curse you, Fíriel. I curse you for eternity. The face of the Arnian lady, livid with fear and rage as she had been in her dream, floated hauntingly over Fíriel’s thoughts. The chilly night air, however, and the sight of Gimilzagar had awoken her enough to look behind those ghosts woven by her feverish imagination. She remembered the Lady Valeria as she had seen her, truly seen her last, her look haggard, and her beauty wasting away as her carefully arranged poise grew frayed around the edges. She had never recovered from that fateful night in Forostar, when her terror at the elements caused her composure to slip, and the Queen had seized the chance to tear her down as ruthlessly as a predator would tear down a deer that had stumbled in its mad run. Once, she had held sway over her own court of fashionable ladies, presiding over feasts and poetry recitals to which Fíriel was never invited. Fíriel had disliked her then, but once the ladies left her one by one, making excuses to avoid being dragged into her disgrace, she could not help feeling sorry. She had even gone as far as to intercede on her behalf before the Queen herself, but Ar Zimraphel had refused to listen.

In this Court, as in the world, people are what you allow them to become, she had explained to Fíriel. If we allowed her to have power and influence, one day she would feel entitled to dispose of you. I am protecting you, Fíriel, as I once promised you that I would.

Fíriel shuddered. She had felt dirty then, as if she had been the one being cruel to this woman, but now she felt even dirtier. If she knew anything about Ar Zimraphel, she must have foreseen this self-destructive madness, probably even pushed the unfortunate Arnian into it, regardless of the consequences. All to protect her. Slowly but surely, she was countering her husband’s manoeuvres against Fíriel with her own, which nobody could trace back to her, and those poor women were caught in the middle.

This thought brought a new, sudden terror to her mind.

“Gimilzagar, where is Khelened? And Rini?”

Khelened, as it turned out, had been one of the first to reach safety. Now, she was gazing in some interest as the wounded were taken care of, though she did not offer to help. Rini, on the other hand, was not there yet, though her chambers were being evacuated since before Fíriel arrived. From her long familiarity with his moods, the young woman could perceive that Gimilzagar was beginning to worry.

“There they are!” he said at last. Fíriel looked up, and saw a throng of coughing people stepping out into the air, driven by the Guards. Among them, she quickly distinguished Hazin, and the young barbarian who had been kin to Rini’s former husband. The head Guard bowed before Gimilzagar, and informed him that they had not been able to access the whole area because the fire was getting worse.

As he was still in the middle of his report, his grave voice was drowned by bloodcurdling screams. They came from Rini’s old wetnurse, whom a Guard was forcefully dragging across the veranda despite her furious struggles. In the years she had been acquainted with her, Fíriel had never seen this woman be anything but meek and pleasant.

“Poor woman. She wants to go back for…” The head guard’s voice faltered, and he looked down, suddenly refusing to meet Gimilzagar’s eye. “I… we tried… we did everything we could, my lord prince, but…”

The young barbarian, stronger and more agile than his fellow tribeswoman, had managed to evade his own Guards. He ran back towards the gate, but stopped in his tracks when he grew conscious of what lay beyond it. His face paled, and even from the distance that separated them, Fíriel could perceive his pain and hopelessness.

No. Not her, please, not her. At first, she did not know to which god she was praying, if to those of her forefathers, who had taken her offerings when she was a child, or the gods of Armenelos, whom everybody revered in the Palace. Then, she realized that it was Ar Zimraphel she was praying to. She did nothing to threaten me. She only wanted to be left alone.

All of a sudden, a commotion interrupted her strange prayer. Closer to her, someone else had rushed back towards the gate, but instead of stopping there he tied a piece of cloth over his nose and mouth and walked in.

It was Hazin. The short, stoutly-built and unwarriorlike interpreter, who cowered whenever someone raised their voice, had entered the furnace that had daunted both the Guards and the warrior without the slightest hesitation, as if he had been one of the heroes of old.

The young warrior seemed to be thinking along the same lines. First, he gazed at the retreating figure in sheer astonishment, then at the threshold itself, with an intensity where fear and shame seemed to be waging a fierce battle. Fíriel saw him tear his expensive clothes to cover his face, and let go of an ear-splitting warrior cry before he went in.

Unthinkingly, she sought for Gimilzagar and held to him, unable to care for anything except her immediate need for comfort and reassurance. He held her against his chest, where she could feel his heart beating as swiftly as hers. The head Guard looked down in embarrassment, she did not know if at the display, at the knowledge of his own incompetence, or both, and for an unending, unbearable eternity of time, no one spoke a word.

Finally, the wetnurse’s cries put an end to the long wait. Both Fíriel and Gimilzagar tensed, and like a resort, the Guard stood on his feet and began barking orders. Hazin was stumbling blindly like a man who had been stabbed, a heavy, unresponsive bundle propped against his back. He seemed to be badly hurt and barely conscious, but Fíriel was not allowed to approach, so she could not see the extent of the damage. The one who looked in better shape was the young barbarian, who had been pulling him by his clothes when both emerged from the threshold. As soon as his eyes fell upon the old woman, he summoned her in their language, and she immediately knelt over the bundle that was Rini, who did not move. Fíriel could hear her keening wails, halfway between weeping and song.

“Move”, Lady Khelened barked. She cut an impressive figure, her features shining in the half-light like those of the ebony statues of the Khandian gods. Everybody obeyed her, the guards, the young man, even the old woman, who had seemed beyond caring for anything that happened around her. Then, Fíriel saw her lean over Rini, but there were too many people in her line of vision and Gimilzagar was holding to her like a limpet. She was so mad with worry that when she heard people gasp, the first thing she thought was that the Pearl of the North was dead.

“She is alive”, Gimilzagar said, but he had to be lying to spare her the grief. How could he be so foolish to think that he could prevent her from finding out? After a moment of confusion, however, she could perceive the wonder, the marvel in his voice. “She… she is alive.”

“She deserved to live”, Khelened spat, turning her back to both of them and disappearing before anyone could thank her.

Lady Rini’s chest was shaking, and she was pale and unconscious. Her beautiful yellow hair was black with soot and cinders, her clothes consumed enough to reveal the burns in her legs. There was filth around her, as if she had just vomited, but no one seemed to even notice the mess, and Fíriel could not bring herself to care. Slowly, she knelt to caress her forehead, sobbing in relief.

Meanwhile, Gimilzagar had retreated from her vicinity. It took her a long time to realize that he was not there, but once she did, her gaze immediately sought for him. He was standing close by, leaning over Hazin’s body. Fíriel tiptoed over the people who had gathered around Rini, until she managed to join him.

She gasped. The interpreter was half-conscious, but his breathing came out in intermittent bursts, and she realized it was from the pain. The left side of his face had received terrible burns, and his eye was a small white mass fixed upon nowhere, surrounded by a crust of charred flesh. His arm, which they had crossed over his chest, was also burned, and at this moment the healers were spreading a yellowish paste upon it, as gently as they were able. Gimilzagar was staring fixedly at him, forcing his good eye to gaze into his. The Prince’s lips muttered voiceless words, and Fíriel could see the barbarian’s breathing relax with them. She guessed that Gimilzagar must have invaded his mind to put pleasant thoughts in it, powerful enough to distract him from his suffering.

“He will live”, one of the healers informed Fíriel. “The burns are less deep than they look. Barbarians have thicker hides than the Court ladies of Armenelos, it seems. But he will lose the eye”, he added, as if as an afterthought.

Fíriel nodded, swallowing deeply. She could not distract Gimilzagar now, and neither could she interfere with what those people were doing. Feeling like a hindrance, she stood up, and gazed at the poor man from afar.

It was so unfair. Had he not suffered enough in his life? Had he not lost enough? Now, because of the Queen’s designs and the final, mad act of a haunted woman, he was in pain once again. Nobody would have blamed him if he had just stayed put and refused to engage in heroics to save Rini, even though she would probably –no, surely- be dead if not for him. And still, he had braved the flames for her sake, of his own free will. Something in Fíriel’s chest constricted at the thought.

“My lady…” Hazin’s lips moved, and he took a shuddering gasp of breath. “No.”

“Do not worry”, Gimilzagar whispered, keeping the eye contact despite the man’s sudden move. “She is safe. She is well. Thanks to you, Hazin.”

The barbarian closed his eyes.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

When Lady Irimë had sent for her, Ilmarë was not yet sure of what the reason for the summons could be. Her sister-in-law had an unfortunate penchant for blaming her for anything her elder daughter did, even if Ilmarë herself had not been near the crime scene. Still, when she crossed other members of the house of Andúnië on her way to Irimë’s quarters, including her own mother and father and the Lord of Andúnië himself, her remaining doubts vanished.

Again. That woman was proving to be just as fruitful as the mother she had claimed not to resemble in the slightest. Perhaps the third time would be the charm, and she would bear Anárion the heir they so clearly desired, she thought.

Once they were all gathered in the antechamber, a servant came by to guide them to Lady Irimë’s own bedroom, with as much ceremony as if her sister-in-law had been the Queen of Númenor in the Palace of Armenelos. She was sitting on her bed, propped against silk pillows, her daughters standing on one side, and a proud Anárion with a strangely quiet Irissë on the other. Ilmarë could see Mother lean closer to Father and grab his arm with a warm smile. Lord Amandil, too, seemed in a rare good mood today, and Ilmarë felt almost guilty for her own indifference. Every new child born to the house of Andúnië was a cause for rejoicing, and if hers had not been so, it had not been the fault of any of the people who stood there with her.

“My dear husband and I have gathered you here to tell you that I am with child again”, the announcement eventually came. “If my calculations do not fail me, it will be due for early Spring.”

“That is excellent news, my dearest granddaughter”, Lord Amandil spoke. From the corner of her eye, Ilmarë could see Faniel shifting from one foot to the other, about to burst from excitement. “They must be celebrated, for any child born in these dark times is a sign of hope for…”

“Wait.” Surprised, Ilmarë looked at Irissë, who had just stepped forwards to interrupt the lord of Andúnië. She was a chatty woman, even annoyingly so in her loving husband’s opinion, but she had never gone as far as to commit such a glaring breach of etiquette. Irimë frowned in disapproval.

“Irissë…” she began, but her sister did not let her finish, either. She did not look sheepish at all, the daughter of Elendil realized in no little shock. Her eyes had a new spark to them, which made her whole expression glow, and as she let her gaze trail across them all, she seemed about to burst from excitement and pride.

“My husband and I have an announcement, too. Our child will also be born in early Spring.”

At first, the silence was absolute, until the first ripples of realization began spreading across the audience. The lord of Andúnië opened and closed his mouth several times, then stood up to engulf Isildur in an embrace. Mother gasped with joy, Lindissë asked if that meant they would be twins, Anárion stared at his brother in what looked like genuine surprise, and Isildur looked rather pleased with himself.

“Congratulations, Isildur”, Ilmarë told him. As she, too, pretended to pull him into an embrace, she tilted her head to the side and whispered in his ear. “You have won your first battle.”

He disengaged himself from her, so he could throw an arm over Irissë’s shoulders. They almost looked like the perfect couple, Ilmarë thought, so happy and excited about their first child. She looked around, wondering if Tal Elmar was there somewhere, but of course he was not a member of the family, so he had not been invited.

“We appreciate your good wishes, Ilmarë”, he bowed, graciously. “I am sure you will be there to help us with the challenges that lie ahead.”

Ilmarë’s smile was just as perfect as his.

“Of course I will.”