Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Grey Skies

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The day was warm, perhaps a little warmer than what was usual in late Spring, and yet the sky was covered by an impenetrable mass of grey. Those leaden clouds, which seemed to be announcing rain but somehow never fulfilled their threat had grown increasingly frequent in the last years, so much that Ilmarë barely noticed them anymore. And as far as she knew, neither did the rest of Númenor, too busy with their own comings and goings to raise their gaze and see Death gathering over their heads.

Even here, in the lord of Andúnië’s house, people went on with their lives, their attention absorbed by their own small, daily dramas. This particular day had dawned with Irimë furious at her eldest daughter, a rather common happening which had come to substitute her rocky relationship with her own sister. From what Ilmarë had heard, the girl had visited the city in disguise, perhaps to have some innocent fun, perhaps just to incense her mother. Ilmarë believed her too immature to have a lover, or care about anyone other than herself, but Irimë had never been one to welcome other people’s insights on her daughter’s mind. She was probably shrewd enough to realize that Faniel might have inherited her intelligence, but that in character she was much more like the women on the other side of her family: rash, daring, and determined to enjoy life as much as she could. Still, she did not appreciate being reminded of it, and whenever her daughter was found guilty of some transgression, she glared at Ilmarë as if it was somehow her fault.

Meanwhile, as Faniel’s slightest move succeeded in attracting everybody’s attention, her sister Lindissë remained in obscurity. She was a good girl, of those who believed they would come first in people’s estimation if they only worked hard and did all that was required of them. Which was probably the only trait that any of the three had inherited from Anárion, Ilmarë thought, a little too unkindly. But unlike her father, she was not very clever: the feared inheritance of Irimë’s own mother had emerged in her, and it took her hours to understand problems which Faniel would have solved in a moment. The day she realized that she would never be the child her parents took pride in would be especially cruel because it would come late, a delayed insight like the day her aunt Irissë realized that she would never know true love.

Ilmarë sighed. Even now, though she was twelve and twice her age, Anárion’s middle child was sacrificing her own leisure to keep little Findis entertained, so she would not bother their mother while she was upset. The arrangement seemed to work, as Findis loved inventing absurd and convoluted stories and making her sister draw them on paper. Ilmarë sat within earshot of the girls, listening to their conversation while she sipped on her tea.

At some point, however, the arrival of an unwelcome visitor put an end to this fragile bubble of peace. Elendur had no boys to play with, a circumstance which made him feel quite resentful. Whenever he saw the girls playing, he always took it upon himself to spoil their fun in one way or another. At first, Irissë had made some half-hearted attempt to get him to join them instead, and share in their activities, but when it became obvious that he was not interested, she did not insist. The Valar forbid that her precious son had to do anything he did not like, Ilmarë thought with a sigh, watching how her nephew asked Findis to play at being warriors with him and, faced with her predictable refusal, grabbed one of her drawings and tore it. The girl began to cry, and Lindissë’s gaze asked for help. Though she was the only adult present at this moment, Ilmarë should know better than to interfere in such a conflict, but she had never been good at listening to inner voices of prudence. If she was, her life would have been quite different.

“Elendur, stop!” she shouted, standing on her feet and walking towards the children’s table. The boy, who was in the middle of picking up a second drawing, stared at her defiantly, and began tearing it up just like the first. Such a direct challenge demanded swift response, so Ilmarë grabbed him by the arm, pried the drawing away and slapped him. It was not a hard slap, just enough to assert her authority, though she was aware that his mother might not share this opinion.

Elendur, however, did not want his mother. One look at Findis’ gloating expression was enough to dissuade him from crying, so instead, he glared daggers at Ilmarë and declared that he wanted Tal Elmar. The woman sighed, wondering if she would ever grow used to the convoluted goings-on in Isildur’s family.

“Very well, I will get him. Where is he?”

“Don’t know”, Elendur said, sullenly gazing at the floor. “And it didn’t hurt.”

“I restrained myself because you are still a little boy.” A part of her was ashamed for engaging a six-year old like this, but Elendur had the rare ability to annoy her just as much as his father ever had. “Come with me.”

“No! I hate you”, he declared. She shrugged ostentatiously.

“As you wish. I was going to find Tal Elmar for you, but if you prefer to sit here and watch very quietly while your cousins draw, I will go back to my tea.”

This tilted the balance in favour of her proposal and, very reluctantly, the boy let her take his hand. As they walked through the corridors and galleries of the sprawling house, he treated her to the extended tale of how horrible she was, how she was his least favourite aunt, and how much she would regret her actions.

“I am trembling in fear” she grinned.

“One day, I will rule you, and you will have to do everything I say”, he retorted. Her eyes widened a little at this. What stupid stories had Irissë been feeding him?

“That will only happen if you are found worthy. And for that you have to be nice to your cousins and respect me.”

“You are lying.”

“No, I am not.”

“You are.” Still, there was somewhat less conviction in his voice now. When he fell silent, there was a frown upon his forehead, and Ilmarë knew that she had given him something to think about.

As it turned out, Tal Elmar had been away from the house. Back when he had arrived from the mainland years ago, the barbarian had often gone missing like this, and though he was never gone for long, he would not say where he had been. The lord of Andúnië had not found this to be a cause for concern: according to him, as long as Tal Elmar did not leave the territory of Rómenna he would be as safe as any of them could claim to be. Still, Ilmarë had been intrigued by this mystery, and she had not given up until she wheedled the secret out of the young man. He was happy here, he assured her many times, very happy, and he could not be more grateful at them for taking him in and showing him such kindness. But sometimes, he had a mad feeling, as if he was not supposed to be here – as if the people around him were all strangers, talking gibberish at him, and everything in his life was part of a strange dream. And then he had this urge to flee, to go somewhere where he could be alone. In time, this had happened less and less, until Ilmarë believed him to have mastered his wild demons. But in this as in everything else, it seemed that demons never truly left the people they tormented.

“Elendur was quite upset by your absence” she informed him when they found him, still windswept from what Ilmarë deduced to have been a long walk around the cliffs. “So much that he decided to go and bother his cousins, even though he knows that he shouldn’t.” Immediately, the boy opened his mouth to let go of an outraged protest, but she did not let him speak. “I will leave him in your care now.”

Tal Elmar bowed solemnly at her, before frowning at Elendur. “Is what your aunt says true? Have you been behaving badly?”

The boy looked down, all traces of the attitude he had shown towards her gone.

“I am sorry”, he said, and he meant it. Ilmarë did not know whether to be relieved at this or outraged. In any case, it suddenly dawned on her that those in her family who feared that being around a wild man would make Elendur wild might have a point - even if not exactly in the way that they intended.

“Please forgive me, my lady”, the barbarian apologized, as contrite as if everything had been his fault. “I have failed in my duties.”

“You did nothing of the sort. Believe it or not, Tal Elmar, in Númenor raising a child is the mother’s responsibility. Even if he is a boy” she added meaningfully. “But since he spends so much time with you, perhaps you should begin his instruction in the ways of Númenor.”

“I do not understand, my lady.” He was acting innocent, but Ilmarë could see behind the façade. Ever since the day when he had asked her to read the Laws and Customs of the Eldar for him, he had been unable to hide anything from her.

“Elendur is young, and hasn’t seen much of the world. All he knows of it is what he is being taught by those who surround him, and he seems to listen to you above others. So, teach him the customs of Númenor so he can be a proper leader of the Faithful in the future. The same customs that you learned so well yourself, though you were as ignorant as a six year-old when you first set foot in the Island.” Her lips curved in an encouraging smile. “I am sure that Isildur will appreciate that.”

Irissë was remarkably clueless when it came to her son - or at least pretended to be, like she also pretended not to see so many other things which she did not wish to face. It might take her too long to realize, if she ever realized it at all, that while she was spoiling her son rotten, somebody else was turning him into a warrior of Agar for whom the word ‘mother’ would not mean much in the future. Even though Tal Elmar meant no evil by it, even though Ilmarë herself did not have the duty to protect her sister-in-law from her own stupidity, something inside her was bent on reminding her that Irissë already had a meaningless marriage, and that a meaningless motherhood would be too great a punishment.

“You said you would teach me to make traps and catch animals”, Elendur spoke, growing restless again at the length of their conversation. “Can we do it now?”

Tal Elmar looked briefly at him, then back at Ilmarë, then at his own hands. He seemed to be mulling over something, his brow furrowed as if in deep thought. The daughter of Elendil gave him time.

“We will do it, Elendur. But first, you have to apologize to your aunt and to your cousins for having offended them.”

The boy’s eyes widened.

“But it was their fault! I only wanted to play, and they were being stupid and Aunt Ilmarë hit me! I will never apologize to her!”

Tal Elmar’s frown was fixed on him now.

“Yes, you will. And you will promise that, from now on, if she tells you to do something, you will obey her without question.”

The boy looked downright livid at this.

“She cannot tell me what to do! She is a woman!”

Ilmarë raised an eyebrow, and Tal Elmar had the decency to look ashamed.

“She is your elder, and therefore she knows better than you do. And if you do not do as I say, you will be playing with your cousins until you do. And if they do not want you to join them, you will play alone.”

In the end, Elendur did apologize to Ilmarë, and did it so well that Tal Elmar decided that the second part of the apology could wait until he met his cousins for dinner. Then, he sent him off to the kitchens to gather small of pieces of meat and grain they could use at bait. As soon as the boy scampered away, he turned towards her.

“My lady… I did not intend…”

“Never mind”, she cut him, magnanimously. “Do not misunderstand me, I am glad that you are here, and that you are taking your role so seriously, even though the Númenóreans do not understand why you do this. I do not want to speak ill of his mother, but I must admit she is… not acquitting herself of her own duties half as well.”

“Back in Agar, women do not understand about raising a boy. A man does, because he was a boy once” Tal Elmar explained. Ilmarë sighed.

“I know. But Númenórean women are proud. They do not share their husbands and they do not share their children, and if Irissë ever decides to stop turning a blind eye at you, you will lose. Isildur loves you, but it is Grandfather who rules our destinies, and he will always take her side and defend her rights. Do you understand?” He nodded, just as reluctantly as Elendur moments ago. For a split second, Ilmarë had the mad thought that there was a similarity between them, one that mysteriously transcended the Númenórean rules of blood heritage. “Take my advice, Tal Elmar, for I mean you and Isildur well. Just as you have prevailed upon Elendur to present his excuses to me, prevail upon him to do the things that will please his mother most. Have him seek her constantly, follow her wishes, shower her with gifts and loving words. And above all, have him go to her whenever he is upset or in tears. Mothers… love it when their children do that.” For some reason, her own voice broke a little as she said this, and when she tried to cover her moment of weakness with a chuckle, it came out rather tremulous. “Though if he does that now, I will be having a row with my sister-in-law, so perhaps it is a good idea if it starts tomorrow.”

Tal Elmar had flinched while she spoke, as if physically struck by her emotion. He was aware of her sad story, and of Fíriel, but an entire lifetime away from women and their incomprehensible moods had left a much deeper imprint in him than in a six-year-old like Elendur. Ilmarë could have him trust her when she was being friendly, she could command his obedience when she was being stern, but only as long as tears and broken voices were left out of the bargain. Not for the first time, she wondered what became of those barbarians when they were forced to take a woman into their house and have children by her. She had a sudden picture of them dancing around their wives like an outlaw thrown to the wild beasts would dance around a man-eating tiger.

“I will follow your advice, my lady” he replied, as fast as if his words were a piece of meat he had thrown to appease the beast. “Thank you.”

Was he still planning to break the warrior bond one day, the way his people did, and find a wife? Somehow, Ilmarë could not even imagine such a scenario. But perhaps she was simply too much of a Númenórean, and had too little imagination. All she could be sure of was that Isildur, who was also a Númenórean and had already lost his first love, would do everything in his hand to prevent it. Years ago, he had destroyed Agar itself and routed its survivors; to sully their ancestral customs would mean nothing to him by comparison.

“Good”, she nodded, pressing her hand against his shoulder briefly before she stood up to take her leave.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

The skies were still grey as she set foot again on the terrace outside, but now there was a new radiance emanating from them, which made the people it fell upon look like ghosts. After Ilmarë had left with Elendur in tow, Lindissë and Findis had gone back to their drawings. Their heads were bent over the table, and they were much quieter than before, their voices transformed into whispers. Close to them, sitting on the chair she had vacated and gazing inside the teacup she had discarded, was Lord Amandil himself.

Ilmarë froze.

“Grandfather” she greeted him. He put the cup aside.

“I was looking for you. Lindissë told me that you would be back soon, so I decided to wait here until you came.” In the last years, no one would have described the lord of Andúnië as a talkative man, and all those superfluous words alarmed Ilmarë just as much as the fact that he had been seeking her specifically. She swallowed.

“Yes?”

“You should sit down first.” He pointed at the empty chair before him with his chin. Ilmarë obeyed out of a mechanical impulse, though her mind was far away, seized by painfully detailed scenarios of terrible things happening to Fíriel.

“There have been news from Armenelos”, he said, confirming her suspicions. “On Midsummer of this year, three months from now, the Prince of the West is going to marry the Lady Ûriphel of Orrostar, who will receive the title of Princess of the West.”

For a long while, Ilmarë was simply speechless. Then, her eyes met Amandil’s grave glance, and suddenly the words were coming out.

“But I thought he was married to all those barbarian women! What happened? And Fíriel! What will happen to Fíriel, what are they going to do about her? Are they… are they….?”

“Calm down, Ilmarë.” Her voice died on her throat, but not her worry. “We… are not certain yet”, he admitted. “But I do not believe that any harm will come to her. So far, all the women married to the Prince have been an imposition by Ar Pharazôn, and there is no reason why this one should be different. All of them have come and gone now, dead by their own hand or that of others, or escaped, if they were lucky, while Fíriel alone remained.”

“They were just barbarian slaves, and their so-called marriage a mockery. How can you claim this is no different? A woman of Númenor, daughter of a Council member, of the line of Elros and holding the title of Princess will never tolerate Fíriel’s presence!” Her mind was darkening as fast as the summer skies before a storm. “That is why they are doing it. They are doing it to get rid of her.”

“The Lady Ûriphel was not the one who brought the Prince back to life when he had almost passed over into the realm of the dead”, Amandil retorted. “Ar Pharazôn might be blinded enough by hatred as to forget this, but the Queen will not. And the Númenor of our days no longer respects the blood of Elros, or the traditions of old. That woman’s father is a lord and a Council member only because his father never objected to anything the King did, and betrayed all those who laid their trust on him. If Ar Pharazôn had wanted either of them to kiss his feet before the assembled Island, they would have done so. They have no honour, and therefore no worth, aside from their usefulness.”

Ilmarë was only barely aware that the lord of Andúnië was talking, too absorbed by her own turmoil.

“I have to go to Armenelos, Grandfather. I have to save Fíriel.”

“You will do nothing of the sort. All you would achieve with this foolish impulse is to put yourself, our family, and Fíriel at risk.”

“I do not care.”

“Your daughter is no longer a child. She has survived more than you can imagine.”

“If you think I am going to stay here and do nothing…!”

“Yes, you will!” Amandil’s voice was raised now, and as if from a great distance, Ilmarë saw Lindissë ushering a reluctant Findis through the doorstep. The younger girl was watching them with huge eyes brimming with curiosity, until her sister tugged at her hand and she was gone. “Listen, Ilmarë, you have an obligation to the house of Andúnië. You cannot let your passions rule you!”

“Like Isildur does all the time?” She had not meant to say this, but it was as if all the ingrained mechanisms telling her what to say and what to keep to herself no longer worked. “Oh, but I forget, it is all fine for him because he is a warrior, and warriors are made great by their impulses, while I am just a foolish mother.”

Amandil began opening his mouth, but soon closed it and sighed in irritation, as if he could not even think of an adequate response for her outrageous irrationality. Then, however, his gaze softened a little, and he sought her eyes again.

“Listen to me, Ilmarë. If you promise not to do anything rash, I will find a way to communicate with her. And if she fears for her life and wishes to leave Armenelos, I will help her.”

Those words did not bring Ilmarë the comfort she might have expected. Shrugging despondently, she let herself fall back on her seat.

“You amaze me. What else do you think any of us could do for her?”

“She… she will not want to leave.” It was surprisingly painful to admit it, and speak those words aloud. “I know her. She is just as foolish as I am, and has always been. Pe-perhaps even more so.”

Ilmarë had been a young girl the last time she could remember the lord of Andúnië being free with his affections, so it felt unreal when he walked towards her, and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder as she sobbed quietly.

“Do not cry, Ilmarë” he said. “Something tells me that Fíriel still has a role to play, and that the future belongs to her more than it does to you or me.”

The woman nodded, wiping her eyes with her fingers. Above their heads, the faint glow which had filtered through the clouds was gone, and the shadows obscured everything again.

“Thank you, Grandfather” she said, in a hoarse whisper that barely managed to cross her lips. “I will - accept your help.”

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Just as he had expected, she was in the Queen’s inner chambers, sitting by her side. When he entered the room, she had the good sense to look uneasy, and tried to cover her pallor with the book she was holding. Zimraphel laid a steady hand over her shoulder, and with the other she pried the book away so the girl could see her reassuring smile.

“Leave us alone, my dear”, she told her. The wretched peasant bowed awkwardly, and abandoned the room as fast as if a herd of rampaging monsters was after her.

“For the last time, Pharazôn, she is not a peasant. The blood of Indilzar might not run as true in her as it does in our son, but it is certainly as pure as that of Ûriphel of Orrostar. And she is also the woman Gimilzagar chose.”

“Which is why you got rid of the others”, Pharazôn retorted. Ar Zimraphel did not have the decency to appear startled, much less apologetic. She must have known that he would reach this conclusion since long ago, as her hand, though hidden in the shadows, had been recognizable enough for someone used to her manipulations. The Princess of Rhûn had tried to poison the woman she saw as her main rival, but Amandil’s bastard was not the one who alerted those who found the evidence. The Arnian had set fire to her own quarters in a fit of insanity, and there was no sign that anyone had helped her with it, but many in the Palace whispered about the Queen humiliating her as thoroughly as she could since months before it happened. The barbarian from the North disappeared while Ar Zimraphel ruled Armenelos, and the Guards complained that they had not been allowed to take the road East, where all evidence pointed out that she was headed. And that young girl from Harad who came to fill her place had mysteriously been left unsupervised long enough to hang herself from the bars of her window.

“No, Pharazôn”, she said, her voice as hard as steel. “You are the one who killed them by bringing them here. And you are the one who should apologize to me for filling my Palace with barbarians.”

“I did not intend for any of them to die. I only intended our son to grow into a man and forget his ridiculous childhood infatuation.”

“Like our ridiculous childhood infatuation?” Her lips curved into a smile, and Pharazôn could bear it no longer.

“Precisely”, he spat. Zimraphel did not even flinch. “Anyway. In the end, ironically enough, we have once again worked as one. Our joint efforts have given fruit, and Gimilzagar has agreed to be properly wed, because he is too noble to have more women die for the sake of his obstinacy.”

“Ah, to have the sincere love of a man with a sword pointed at his throat”, Zimraphel chuckled. Pharazôn ignored her.

“You will not interfere with Gimilzagar’s marriage, or harm a single hair of the lady Ûriphel’s head. Because, if you do, there will be war between us, and all the foresight in the world will not be enough to make my troops loyal to your cause.”

As he looked into her eyes, for a moment, they looked a little less fathomless than they used to be –and at the bottom of the well, there was a shadow of uneasiness. He latched on to it, like a warrior pressing on an enemy’s exposed flank.

“Also, we will get rid of Amandil’s bastard. She is no longer needed in the Palace.”

At this, her features closed once again, and the weakness was gone.

“No.”

“Why, Zimraphel?” He began pacing across the room, stopping for a moment to gaze at the fountain behind the window lattice before he sought her again. “Why are you so bent on protecting her? You always saw your fellow mortals as inferior beings, to be used and discarded according to your foresighted whims. What makes her so important? If you told me once and for all, perhaps we might be able to put an end to this ridiculous situation.”

She shook her head.

“I can no longer speak freely to you. Whatever I say, I know that my words will be warped and used against me.”

He stopped before her.

“Are you accusing Zigûr again?”

“He hates me, and you know it! I feel he is afraid that I will see something he does not want me to see. Something he does not want you to know.” Her voice sounded unusually upset now, even vulnerable, and he had to make an effort to remind himself that it was like this that she played with people. It was like this that she had sent Vorondil to his death. She was as much of a Deceiver as Zigûr was in the legends of the Elves, and yet he did not love Zigûr, or had his thoughts thrown into confusion whenever he looked at him. That effectively turned the High Priest of Melkor into the least dangerous of the two.

“I am not here to discuss Zigûr with you, but the girl. What do you need her for?”

“I need her to make my son happy, Pharazôn. For him to have the heart to bear all the heavy impositions that the Sceptre has placed upon him without collapsing under their weight. He may have agreed to this marriage, but in the depths of his soul he is in greater disarray than ever, and I fear for him. I need her to make sure that he will live through this.”

“So you do not need her as a hostage to bargain with the Baalim-worshippers if I should lose the war?”

Ar Zimraphel gazed at him in pretended disbelief.

“What is this? Ar Pharazôn, the Golden General himself, thinking of defeat? The unbeatable warrior, anticipating that his glorious kingdom may fall in the hands of a ragtag band of cowardly exiles? If you are not confident enough about what you are doing, perhaps you should rethink it. Perhaps you should be content with your present empire and stop this war.”

“I am only trying to comprehend how your mind works” he replied, trying to hide how his innards trembled with rage. “Nothing more.”

“You will never be able to comprehend how my mind works. You will never even be able to touch its surface, just as you cannot touch the surface of Zigûr’s mind, or understand the will of the gods” she spat, as if suddenly animated by one of those dark humours that used to terrify people when she was much younger. “That is why you are so brave, because you do not understand anything.”

“Perhaps I understand better than you think.” His voice did not tremble, and he realized that those insinuations did not upset him half as much as the idea that he could be thinking of defeat. This, he was already used to. “Perhaps it is you who are lost in the labyrinth of your own mind, and cannot understand the workings of a simple world where strength is the only thing that truly matters.”

Zimraphel shrugged. The defiance was still there, but now it had retreated someplace beneath the surface – someplace where it would remain, and no god or demon would be able to dislodge it.

“Very well” she said, in a much lower voice. “We will do things your way, then. Reach an agreement, sign a treaty, like foes in a war of those you know so much about. The girl will stay in the Palace, and you will not harm a hair of her head if you do not want me to harm the woman that you have imposed upon my son. Let them both be the pledges of the truce between us.”

Pharazôn considered this briefly. It was a surprisingly matter-of-fact proposal for someone like Zimraphel, but such a circumstance was not unwelcome to him. At the end of the day, they could threaten each other as much as they wanted, but she was needed to rule the Island while he dedicated himself to his own projects, and he commanded the loyalty of the armies. Both knew it, and this knowledge would keep them together as effectively as any infatuation.

“The Lady Ûriphel will be the Princess of the West. If she is not comfortable with the situation, Amandil’s bastard will have to hide someplace where nobody can see her. And in any case, she and Gimilzagar will not make a public spectacle of their affections as they have done until now.” He wondered what would happen if Ûriphel turned out to be bloodthirsty enough to act on her own, though considering her breeding and the ignoble stock from whence she came, this seemed rather unlikely. “And if something happens to the Princess, even if there is no way to trace it back to you, the whore is dead.”

Zimraphel nodded.

“Agreed.”

He had not expected their dealings to be so straightforward, and that was already a triumph for him, as if he had succeeded in pulling his enemy into his own, chosen battleground. Still, when he took leave from her, walked past the women who patiently waited outside, and returned to his own quarters, Ar Pharazôn could not stop Zimraphel’s dark eyes from floating in and out of his consciousness, and he had the familiar feeling that something had escaped him again.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

“What is this?” Fíriel blinked, taken out of her umpteenth bleak reverie by an unexpected intrusion in her garden. The trespasser was no other than Isnayet, who bowed in apology while holding a roll of paper in her extended palms.

“I am sorry, my lady. But it was the Queen herself who sent me. She- she told me to deliver this letter to you.”

The young woman took the roll and began untying it. Her mind might be working slower than usual because she was so out of sorts, but she found herself at difficulty to pinpoint a reason why Ar Zimraphel would send a letter to her, when she could summon her to her presence whenever she wanted. Perhaps…

Only the previous day, the King had visited the Queen in her quarters. To Fíriel, Ar Zimraphel had always appeared like an unassailable bulwark, with powerful defences which nothing and no one would be able to breach. But -what if she was not so invulnerable, after all? Perhaps Ar Pharazôn, with the help of Sauron, had scared her into not wanting to be seen with Fíriel, just as Gimilzagar had also been avoiding her, according to him for her own good. This idea was frightening, even more than the option that she had simply never cared enough for Fíriel’s survival as to implicate herself in this affair. Whatever dark powers could have the better of Ar Zimraphel were powers that Fíriel could never hope to survive.

The handwriting on the letter, however, was nothing at all like the Queen’s spidery handwriting. For a while, Fíriel merely watched the words stare back at her from the paper, unable to make sense of them.

From Amandil of Andúnië to the Lady Fíriel, greetings.

There have been worrying rumours reaching Rómenna in the last months. I am concerned about you, and so are others in our family. If you wish to return home, we will do everything in our power to bring you back. Please send your answer through the same channels which brought this letter to you.

“Leave me”, she told Isnayet, in a very low voice. Once the woman was gone, Fíriel took a long, shuddering breath. Her eyesight was clouded, and belatedly, she realized that she was crying.

After an undetermined amount of time, which she was in no state to measure, Fíriel blinked the tears away, amazed at her own stupidity and imprudence. She had no real proof of who had written that letter, and at this point she knew there were powerful forces trying to get rid of her. They did not need subterfuges to do it, but letting her incriminate herself would always make things easier. Her life hung by a thread – which was what Gimilzagar had tried to tell her years ago, but she had dismissed his words, claiming that she did not care, that she would brave any peril just to be by his side. Only now that the visible proof of this love had been taken from her, like wine from a drunkard who defied gods and men in his inebriation, she was feeling alone and afraid.

“Gimilzagar loves you”, she told herself firmly. The sound of her own voice made her feel a little better. “Gimilzagar loves you.”

Like a distant nightmare, she remembered the dead, hollow look in his face the day that this poor girl, barely a child with stirring black eyes, had been found hanging lifeless over the Red Flower Gallery. It had been such a tragedy, not only because of the horror of the situation, but because of its very unexpected nature. The girl had been born in Harad, she was not a spoiled princess like the Lady Valeria. Unlike Rini, she had known the language and the customs of the Island. And above all, she was being watched day and night, so even if she was tempted to do something foolish, she would never have been able to follow through with it. They said it had been a terrible mistake; the guards outside had thought that there were women inside, but the women had gone on an errand, confident that the guards would be able to hear any sound alerting them that something was amiss. Behind those flimsy excuses, Fíriel had immediately perceived the looming shadow of Ar Zimraphel. And so would Gimilzagar, if he had not been shaking, in what turned out to be the prelude of one of the seizures he had not experienced since he was much younger.

Fíriel had been sitting by his sickbed the whole time it lasted. From this vantage position, she heard the words he whispered in his feverish transports, and though most of them were disjointed and seemed to make no sense, others were almost sane. Several times, he spoke of a woman from Harad, not this one, but an unknown woman who had died a long time ago in a faraway land. She had choked herself with her own chains, because her soul was the only thing she had left, and she wanted to deny it to the Númenóreans.

“Please, Father”, he whispered, as she wiped her forehead as well as she could. “Let the children go.”

The trance had lasted all night, and he spent the entire day sleeping fitfully. Fíriel had not moved from his side for any reason, but eventually she felt her own eyelids droop from exhaustion, and she fell asleep. When she woke up, he was gone. The moment she saw the empty bed, she had a strange premonition, which rooted her to the spot and brought chills down her spine.

Just a day later, the whole Palace was astir from the news that the Prince of the West would marry Lady Ûriphel of Orrostar. And Fíriel hid in her own chambers for days because, for the first time in her life, she did not feel strong enough to face people’s mockery.

Of course, Gimilzagar had come to explain. Not just that: he had begged for her forgiveness and understanding, which Fíriel had to grant to him because, at the end of the day, she also knew that he was right. He was killing those women with his stubbornness, and though saving so many others remained out of his reach, he could at least save them. Fíriel did not need to fear: he would always love her and no other, and he had seen to it that she would remain safe, even going to his own mother to swear before her that he would not live a minute longer than Fíriel. Still, if she wished to leave the Palace and go back to her family, he would make sure that she could reach them safely.

“You are my family”, Fíriel declared, too stubborn and prideful to accept the hand that was reaching for her in her fall. “So stop telling me to leave, for I will never do such a thing!”

Now, she was not feeling so stubborn anymore, and her treacherous pride had deserted her at some point of the endless nights that succeeded one another for the last months. Which meant that this letter could easily be her undoing. Images of Rómenna were already floating across her mind, of its beaches, its fish market and its cliffs, painted with the rosy brush of a keen nostalgia that would not even let her breathe. She remembered the humble home of her family, the rat-filled granary, the crabs she caught in her basket, but devoid of the shadow of fear which had always hovered over everything while she lived there.

Think only of yourself, and be happy. The rest is meaningless, her mother had said, as she stood near her by the cliffs on the day before she left. This was meant to convince her to stop listening to the voices of reason, or morals, or the attachments of duty, and go with the one she loved. But, was this happiness? Was the Baalim-worshipping whore who shared the Palace of Armenelos with a Princess of the West, a demon, and a King who hated the very name of her family thinking of herself at all? What was she doing to herself?

That night, as Fíriel went to bed with Lord Amandil’s letter carefully tucked under her pillow, she could not manage to fall asleep.