Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Lady Ûriphel

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The next morning, Fíriel woke up with a fever. Her day passed by in a blur, between sleep and brief spells of awakening where she thought she could see shapes hovering over her. One was lighter skinned, the other darker, Isnayet and Khelened, she deduced, shivering against her bedcovers. Nobody else was there, neither Gimilzagar nor Ar Zimraphel, who should have been able to perceive her discomfort in the distance.

She was alone.

By the evening, she was feeling as if somebody had beaten her up and bashed her head against the hard floor. Still, she no longer had the ability to fall asleep so easily, so she just lay there, staring at the flickering flame of the candle in her nightstand until her eyes hurt. Her thoughts felt sluggish, and whenever she tried to focus on one, it disintegrated into a hundred, meaningless pieces. With great effort, she extracted Lord Amandil’s letter from under her pillow, but the lines were too blurry and she could not make sense of them. In the end, she fell asleep again, this time with the letter lying on her lap.

That night, she had a terrifying dream. She was running across the streets of Rómenna, chased by the roaring waters of the Sea. There was no time to turn back, so she could not look at them directly, but she knew they were there, pressing against her heels. The noise they made was like thunder, growing closer and more deafening at every passing instant, but not enough to obscure the screams of the people she left behind as, one by one, they were swallowed and buried beneath the waves.

The Fíriel of the dream, however, was not merely trying to escape her merciless pursuer. She was also looking for Gimilzagar, as there was no point in fleeing this horror if he was not by her side. But all the faces she saw, pale and disfigured by fear, were faces of strangers, and he was nowhere to be found.

Suddenly, she came to the end of the road. It was the small city harbour, where the Sea chasing her would meet the Sea before her, and the Island would be no more. There, her eyes were able to distinguish a ship, with a man standing by the helm, extending a hand towards her. He was tall and grey-eyed, and she recognized Lord Amandil, though when he spoke, his voice was that of Lord Elendil.

“Come, Fíriel. Come with us and live.”

She shook her head.

“I cannot leave without Gimilzagar.”

The grey eyes were clouded by a great sorrow, and she could no longer hear the noises behind her. Next to him, she could see her mother’s face, frowning angrily.

“When I told you to love him and be happy, I did not mean this. You disappoint me, Fíriel. I thought you would triumph where I failed, but instead you have lost yourself to the darkness.”

“You owe him nothing. He was cursed since the moment he was conceived, and he will die with his cursed Island” Amandil-Elendil chimed in. “Come with us.”

“No!” she cried. The noise erupted again, and the water under the ship began growing taller and taller. The ship towered over her, and she knew she had only one last chance to grab it before it was out of her reach. And suddenly Fíriel wanted to grab it, wanted it more than anything in the world, but her arm was paralyzed, and she could not move.

“Then be cursed with him” were the last words she heard. “You are no longer one of us.”

She woke up screaming, in such a state of agitation that it took her a long time to realize that it was not the Sea what weighted on her limbs and crushed them against the mattress. They were arms, restraining her, and the voice she heard over her head was deep and laconic. It did not belong to anyone in the house of Andúnië, but to the Khandian woman.

“She is awake”, the voice said, relaxing her grip a little. Fíriel was still shivering, but the slow torpor that had taken hold of her when she fell sick had dissipated, chased away by her dream. Her brain felt clear and sharp now –even painfully so.

“Let go of me” she ordered. Khelened obeyed in silence and retreated, back to the impassiveness she had exhibited since Fíriel took her in so she would not be sold to the highest bidder among the dirty old men who wanted to sleep with a woman who had belonged to the Prince.

“She was trying to prevent you from hurting yourself. Even wild beasts are capable of gratitude towards the hand that feeds them” a sharp voice emerged from the shadows of dawn. Fíriel took a deep breath.

“My Queen”, she saluted her. Ar Zimraphel advanced until she came in her full view, and proceeded to sit upon a chair that had been left vacant by the bedside.

“I see you are much better now, my child. I am glad for it”, she smiled, playing the role of the loving mother that she so liked to affect around Fíriel. Gimilzagar had been right about her all along. “But you should have told me what was ailing you. If you try to suffer things in silence, they will turn inwards and harm your health.”

“And fail your test?” The younger woman grinned bitterly. “If I had gone to you with my doubts, you would have got rid of me like you got rid of all the other women.”

The Queen’s eyes narrowed briefly.

“Nonsense. You are still delirious. If I had wished to make you suffer so you could prove yourself to me, I would not be here now. I would not waste my precious time talking to you, or offering you valuable advice.”

“Offering me… advice?” For a moment, it was as if the torpor had come back again to get a hold of her. Then, she gazed at the forbidding depths of Ar Zimraphel’s eyes, just as she had gazed at the flame until her eyes seemed about to burn. What she saw there shocked her so much that she was momentarily speechless.

Uncertainty. Up until today, Fíriel had not believed it was possible for Ar Zimraphel to feel this emotion. As her own mother had said once, only people who did not know what would happen were subject to it. But now, the young woman realized that there were limitations, even for what a powerful seer who held the Sceptre of Númenor was capable of.

“Yes, Fíriel. What you saw in your dream was no mere nightmare, brought about by your fever and anxiety. It is a vision of the future.”

Years ago, Fíriel would have been shocked at the Queen telling her that she knew about her dreams. Now, a much different kind of anxiety filled her mind at this revelation.

“But we all die. In my dream. A-and I died, too, because I chose to stay. I drowned, because I chose to stay. Tell me, my Queen, is this the choice that you wish me to make? To stay here and die with you?”

“Oh, I did not mean to say that the dream was an accurate vision of the future.” Ar Zimraphel seemed to have recovered her aplomb after the moment of weakness. “See, that is what you regular mortals cannot understand about foresight. The future does not exist as you imagine it, because it depends on the actions and the whims of too many people.”

“So it can be averted?” Fíriel asked, grabbing at what appeared to be essential element in the Queen’s explanation. Ar Zimraphel sighed.

“Certain things may be averted, while others may not.”

The young woman was filled with an unbearably deep frustration at this calculated evasive. She bristled.

“May I ask a more specific question, then?” When Ar Zimraphel did not reply, she pressed on. “Is Gimilzagar in danger if I leave, and will this danger be averted if I stay?”

“It may be averted if you stay”, the Queen answered. “My dear, I understand your impatience, but I cannot say more than this. All I can tell you is that, if you leave the Palace now, Gimilzagar is doomed.”

“Then why don’t you prevent me from leaving? You could put Guards at the gates of my living quarters, even imprison me. You hold all the power here!”, Fíriel retorted. “Instead of that, you send me a letter from the lord of Andúnië, offering to take me back to Rómenna with my kin, and according to you it was not even a ruse designed to entrap me!”

The Queen’s look was full of a familiar disdain now; the one she always exhibited when the people around her refused to understand what, to her, was a very simple fact.

“I need you to stay because you love him, not because I forced you. Otherwise, everything would be meaningless.” He was cursed since the moment he was conceived, and he will die with his cursed Island. The voice she had heard in her dream sounded suddenly ominous in her mind. You owe him nothing. Come with us.

“Very well. I will be wholly sincere with you, Fíriel, as you want me to. You were right, I was testing you. And if you had boarded that ship, I would not be here now. I would have sent you back with your kin in Rómenna.” Ar Zimraphel’s eyes darkened, and for a moment she was back to the self who had terrified Fíriel since she first met with her in the palace of the Governor of Sor. “And then, I would have destroyed you all. Or let Zigûr destroy you, which would amount to the same thing.” She smiled again. “But I knew that you would never do that. I know your heart, and, even now, you love him too much.”

Feeling a shiver travel down her spine, Fíriel tried not to think of how, a moment before the Sea took her, she had wanted to reach for the ship and save herself. Zimraphel shook her head.

“And yet you could not. This means that, even if your conscious mind knew what you had to do, your instincts would reject it.” She almost looked like a proud mother now. “For all these years, I have watched you grow, and you have fulfilled all the hopes I laid on you.”

Fíriel was growing more and more uneasy at this talk. She flinched, staring at her lap as if she needed to memorize the patterns of her bedcovers.

“That time I met Sa- Lord Zigûr in the gardens, he said… he told me that you had raised me for sacrifice. Like a lamb is fattened to be led to the slaughter.” Her voice was down to a whisper, and it became almost impossible to hear as she grew conscious of how well both the events and the woman’s words seemed to align with this pattern. Was this the choice everything hinged upon, the one her dream had echoed?

But Zimraphel shook her head in anger.

“Zigûr is a liar. Your own people call him the Deceiver. I, however, have not lied to you even about things I could easily have let you believe. I have also sworn to Gimilzagar that I will keep you safe from the Lady Ûriphel, her father, and the King. He has never trusted me since he was a young man, Fíriel, and yet he knew that he had no other choice but to trust me in this. That was why, when I told him not to interfere, even though every piece of his soul was aching to be with you, he kept away.”

Fíriel imagined Gimilzagar, mad with worry, trying to enter her chambers but prevented by his mother. Somehow, even though she did not know if the image was true, it gave her an irrational comfort, but it was short-lived.

“Keep me alive for what, my Queen? Why do you need to know if I am ready to die for him? Why is this so important, if Zigûr spoke false?”

The Queen sighed.

“Another rule of the future is that nobody may know it.”

“Except for you.” Fíriel was too tired to play more games. If she was a mouse, please let the cat swallow her already. She could take no more.

But Zimraphel did not gloat. When she spoke her voice, too, had become a whisper.

“I am a mistake. Someone who should never have existed, Fíriel. The true abomination of Númenor, it has always been me. My father understood it before his end.” She chuckled, a tiny sound that held an infinite amount of bitterness. “And yet I am telling you the truth. I want you to live, Fíriel, until you die of old age. And if you die before then, it will not be my doing, not even by omission. This I swear to you on the life of my son. You are free not to believe me, but if you do not, and you try to struggle against what you perceive to be my evil hand, every effort you make will drive you closer and closer to the brink. And if you fall, you will not only pull my son with you, but also the rest of your loved ones. Zigûr knows this, which is why he planted this seed of doubt in your mind. Will you listen to him, and be the cause of so much death and suffering?”

“No, but…” Fíriel protested. Ar Zimraphel silenced her with an imperious gesture of her hand, and stood up.

“Then you must trust me. And if you trust me, you may not ask more questions, but do as I say.” The uneasiness was definitely gone, leaving only the customary arrogance behind. “You will stay in the Palace, Fíriel, and you will bear your fate, just as Gimilzagar will bear his, and Ûriphel, and all of us. And one day, my impatient child, you will understand.”

As Fíriel let her head lay back on her pillow again, her mind still swimming with all the unspoken questions, she wondered, for the umpteenth time, if she would ever be strong enough to free herself from the hold that this woman had over her.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The Lady Ûriphel was good looking, if not a breath-taking beauty like the previous women who had been brought to the Court for his sake. Still, her hair was raven black and her eyes grey, the ancient marks of nobility in the Island, which in Númenor were far more important than beauty itself. She was of a shorter and rounder build than Fíriel, making the forms that could be guessed under the rich fabrics of her dress somewhat ampler. Her every movement, from the slight tilt of her head when she bowed to the way she held a cup between two fingers, was overflowing with elegance, and her voice was pleasant, though it came out with just a hint of a studied inflection. Back home, she had been strictly trained for this sole purpose: to enter the Palace of Armenelos and be Princess of the West to the greater glory of her house. For too long, others had hoarded the power and status that came from being associated to the royal line by marriage, but one by one, they had succumbed to unbridled ambition, until the honour had finally returned to them as a fitting reward for their humility and prudence.

Humility and prudence. Gimilzagar could perceive that those words had been drilled in the mind of their fair candidate, as the true key to every success. At first, when she was a younger girl, she had resisted it: she had a mind of her own, even mooned after a handsome distant cousin who had been promptly sent away from her presence. But a father, an uncle, a brother who spent their lives trying to navigate the dangerous currents of the Sceptre’s whims knew better than to send such a woman to Armenelos. They had persuaded her that pride had been the downfall of the ruling houses of Andúnië and Sorontil, and that the only path to glory was to look down and do the bidding of those more powerful than themselves.

“Those gardens are so delightful!” she sighed, putting the cup down exactly at the centre of the low table before her. “One could sit here for an entire day, listening to the birds singing.”

“You will be able to do it, if that is your wish”, Gimilzagar nodded pleasantly, even though he could perceive that she cared very little for the birds. “But you have yet to see the Fountain Gardens, and the Red Flower Gallery as it was rebuilt after the fire. When Ar Adunakhôr planned to build the West wing of the Palace, all he had in mind was the pleasure of its denizens. Together with the North wing, which he designed as well, they were meant to be a home for his family.”

“That was most well-thought” she smiled. “They must have been really happy here.”

She had not been taught history, then, Gimilzagar thought.

“More tea?” he asked, in a courteous tone. She did want it, but she could not afford to appear greedy, so she shook her head and thanked him.

“Let us take a walk, then” he proposed, and she received the idea with enthusiasm. When he offered her his arm, for a moment, she even seemed genuinely excited.

Gimilzagar stayed in silence for a while, dissecting this emotion. She was not in love with him, that much was certain –he was so different from her handsome cousin that his inadequacies were made all the more glaring through contrast. And yet, in some part of her mind, she thought that she was. For that part of her mind, he was the Prince of the West, which made him the most beautiful, radiant and powerful being in the whole world. And she wanted to be beautiful, radiant and powerful by his side.

Suddenly, it dawned upon him that, for the first time in his life, he was scrutinizing someone’s mind in search for weaknesses, of openings that he could exploit to achieve his own ends. As this realization hit him, he wondered how much more of an abomination he could still grow to be.

“What is the name of this bird?” she asked, pointing at a blue-winged warbler cocking its head at them from a low branch. He gave it to her, and told her the story of how the bird’s ancestors had been brought to the Palace, together with many other exotic species that Ar Zimrathôn found pleasing to the eye. Many had died, as the climate, or captivity itself, did not agree with them, but a few had adapted and thrived. While she nodded, forcing her brain to register every word of the long explanation, he wondered if her family had even allowed the disturbing rumours about dead barbarian women to reach her ears.

“Come”, he said, pulling her arm gently until they were back on the main path. “There are many things to see before evening falls.”

The young woman nodded, and followed him with a smile.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

As their meetings grew increasingly frequent, and became an almost daily habit, Gimilzagar was able to discover Fíriel’s name in his betrothed’s mind. At first, it had been buried deep, like a shameful secret she could not even bear to think about, but then it floated towards the surface, where it appeared so glaring, so conspicuous, that sometimes he had to remind himself that her lips had remained closed. He could see it turn into an obsession, as she pondered the stories she had been told, the rumours she had heard, and set them against what she had not been told, and the rumours she had not heard. The sympathetic ladies who surrounded her had been adamant: there was absolutely no question about who should rule the Prince’s heart. Fíriel was a bastard and the child of a peasant; there was nothing distinguished about her, her kin were traitors, and she would never be more than a common whore. She had been allowed to dispose of her barbarian rivals because she had made common cause with the Queen, who detested them, but Ar Zimraphel had been in favour of this marriage, and she and the King had acted on common accord when they decided to bestow the title of Princess of the West on their son’s new bride.

And yet, those reassurances had not been enough for the young woman. She had made inquiries, even contrived to catch a glimpse of her mysterious rival, who had relocated to the southern wing of the Palace. Fíriel had a small, private garden there, where she liked to spend her mornings, but Ûriphel had discovered that there was a window with a view of it, belonging to what used to be the former Prince of the South Gimilkhâd’s foster mother’s chambers. She had somehow managed to get in there –she was more resourceful than she appeared at first sight-, though the vision had left her in so much turmoil that she had regretted it ever since.

The women had been lying to her. Fíriel was noble-looking and beautiful, not like one would have expected the bastard daughter of a peasant to look. With this image haunting her, Ûriphel had looked into a mirror and suddenly found her own appearance lacking. She had pressured her parents to make new dresses for her, and spent her mornings having her hair done and her face painted until she was satisfied with the slightest detail. Every day, she made the women in her company tell her that she was the fairest lady in the Palace, but even as they complied, she could not believe in their words. Because if she was, that woman would not be there.

Gimilzagar had to confess he had been caught by surprise by the extent of her misery. To him, acquainted with the minds of so many who had been killed, tortured, enslaved, or lost their loved ones to violence, and who had felt them wallow in their grief, terror and hatred, it seemed unthinkable that a woman like Ûriphel could spend so much time agonizing over her looks. At some point, her feelings grew so distracting that he could no longer come up with words for their small talk, and instead stared at her in silence, wondering if she would ever bring up the subject. But no matter how long he waited, she never did.

Humility and prudence. That was how her house had survived for so long in turbulent times, and that was why her parents and every single one of her ancestors would never forgive her if she risked the reward of all they had endured for her own selfish motives. Soon, they would be wed, and she would be the Princess of the West, and then he would have to love her. And once that he did and she was certain of it, then, and only then, she would confront him.

Gimilzagar sighed. His father accused him of being too sensitive, and his mother had warned him against the temptation of letting oneself be carried away by the thoughts and feelings of other people. They are not you, she had told him, fixing her dark glance on his. You do not bleed when they are cut, so why should you weep when they are sad? For years now, he had resigned himself to being a disappointment for them, but this time, this one, single time, he had easily found the determination to act as he was meant to. He did not love this woman: she had been imposed upon him. She had not been dragged there by violence or against her will, so he did not even have a reason to pity her. Of all the people involved in this sad affair, the only one deserving of pity was Fíriel. She had understood that he had no choice, forgiven him, even decided to stay at the Palace despite Gimilzagar’s better advice, though her family would have welcomed her back with open arms. He had seen what was in Ûriphel’s mind, studied her vulnerabilities to know how better to circumvent the obstacle that she posed, but he would never let them sidetrack him.

“It has come to my attention that you are preoccupied of late” he finally said one day, during one of their walks. “That you are asking many questions about the lady in the South wing.”

He was holding her arm, so he could feel her body tense against his. Deeper under her skin, her mind was a blurred jumble of alarm, trepidation, and fear. Who had given her away? Did he have spies watching her?

“I know many things”, he said, simply. “But it is better if we are open with one another. If you have questions, I will be glad to answer them, so you do not have to trust rumours.”

She stopped in her tracks, and he stopped with her. Letting go of him, she gazed studiously at the tiled path under her feet.

“I did not mean to hide anything from you.” He could hear her swallow. “I was merely… embarrassed.”

“I see”, Gimilzagar nodded. “Well, as I see it, there is no reason for you to be. I am the one who has a lover, not you. If any of us should be embarrassed, it is me, and I am not.”

Now, the trepidation was swallowed by an overpowering sense of hurt, which almost jeopardized his resolution. They are not you, he repeated to himself.

“You love her”, she said. It was not a question, but her voice was so small that he almost could not hear it.

“Since I was a child, Ûriphel.” It came out as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “And she is the only woman I will ever love.”

For the first time in the young woman’s sheltered life, the humility and patience she had always been taught were no longer there to check her impulses. That is good, a voice, which sounded very much like Ar Zimraphel, whispered inside his mind. Let them betray themselves: that gives you power over them.

“But she cannot be your wife, because she is just a peasant’s bastard” she spat. Then, she immediately became aware of what she had said, and her eyes widened in alarm. Her cheeks flushed crimson. “I… I mean…”

“I know very well what you mean. And you are right, she cannot be my wife. All she was allowed to be was my whore, and she still chose that path.” Her eyes widened, scandalized at such crude language coming from his lips. “If you had been given that alternative, would you have made the same choice? Would you be here if it brought dishonour upon you and your kin, instead of honour?”

Ûriphel remained silent. The impulse to speak, to say something even if she would regret it later, seemed to have deserted her as fast as it had come. For the second time, the impulse to feel pity for her was about to gain the upper hand. He did not give in to it, but his voice softened, and he held her limp, unresponsive hand in his.

“Do not worry, Ûriphel. You and your family shall have the honour that you seek. You will be Princess of the West, and all the people of Númenor will bow before you.”

“Not all the people of Númenor.” It had left her lips, inadvertently, almost like a thought being spoken aloud. He shook his head.

“None of us can have all that we want, my lady. Not even the King. Such is the curse of mortals, which he is trying to escape by building thousands of ships to wage war on the gods. It may be that he will be victorious and escape his fate, but even then, we will remain tied to ours.” For a moment, Gimilzagar had to make a strong effort not to think of the malice in Ar Pharazôn’s voice the night he asked him what he would do if the weight of the moral choice his life rested upon was laid on his shoulders alone. If this woman had an inkling of the horrors that lurked beneath the dazzling trappings of power, she should run for the hills.

But she will not. She will stay, against her better judgement, and grow entangled in their doom, the thought emerged in his mind, fully formed. His eyes widened, and he shivered, as he grew aware that he had experienced a bout of foresight.

“Please, do not be upset”, he said, and this time, he pitied her truly, with a pity that he could no longer extricate from the veil of shadows that suddenly loomed over her. “I cannot love you, but I promise you shall have everything else you desire. I do not see you as an enemy, and neither does Fíriel, and now that there are no secrets between us, perhaps in time we can even be friends.”

Ûriphel opened her mouth, closed it, then swallowed again. In the end, her good breeding had been stronger than her turmoil, and the unthinkable words had remained unspoken. Still, he could see them still on the forefront of her mind, seared with a burning intensity made all the greater because she could not let them out.

I do not want to be your friend. I hate you.

“I am… cold”, she said at last, feigning a shiver. Her voice was dull, in sharp contrast with the intensity of her thoughts. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

“Of course, my lady”, he nodded courteously. This time, he did not offer her his arm, and none of them came up with any empty pleasantries as they retraced their steps to the stairs that gave to the veranda, and from there to the gallery where her women awaited.

While they walked in silence, Gimilzagar was lost in his own musings. Had he made a mistake, a terrible miscalculation which could have triggered this sinister warning about the future? But the more he examined everything he had said and done, the more he grew aware that there had been no other options. As it had happened so often in his life, he had been deprived of meaningful choices by the actions of others. And they, not him, would be at fault for everything that followed from that moment on.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

The day before the wedding, Isnayet came to tell Fíriel that Gimilzagar was there to see her. She did her best to muster her anger at his imprudence, but her heart was already fluttering in her chest before he came in, and she knew that she would lose this battle.

Even if your conscious mind knew what you had to do, your instincts would reject it, the Queen had said, back when she was telling Fíriel why she was valuable enough to be protected. Many would call it being a lovesick fool, and argue that Ar Zimraphel was using Fíriel’s feelings as a chain she could yank at any moment, but the younger woman was past caring about what other people thought. At this point of her life, she had burned all her bridges, and if she had made the wrong choices, it was too late for regrets. And perhaps it had always been. More and more often, she had the feeling that all those choices had been nothing but illusions, and terrible as this seemed, it was also strangely liberating.

“Fíriel” he muttered, burying his face against the back of her neck as he held her in a tight embrace. “Fíriel.”

All the reproaches that she had prepared died in her throat, as her body grew viscerally aware of his raw need. Barely gathering enough of her wits to check that they were alone, and that Isnayet had closed the door behind her, she held him fast, letting her lips part to welcome his kiss.

This, however, only served to ignite a much greater fire in her chest. Still gasping for air, she tiptoed backwards in erratic movements, like a drunkard, pulling him with her until she felt something hard bump against her knee, and fell atop the silk cushions of her couch. For a moment, his gaze trailed over her body, darkened by desire, until his hands took over and he began undressing her as if he held a personal grievance against her clothes. Fíriel moaned.

I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. I cannot live without you.

His thoughts were invading her mind like a cascade, thundering and impetuous. In them, he was a child, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the sun-tanned girl who stood before him, sure-footed and brave, and extended her palms to offer him shellfish. He was recoiling after she had slapped him, but then she gathered him in her arms and began sobbing against his shoulder. He was a young man, holding her in her arms while she bled, unconscious, after tearing the knife meant for him from the would-be murderer’s hand. He was lost in a dark dream, and she came to rescue him from the ghosts who were dragging him to his inexorable fate. He was shaking, the smell of sacrifice still in his skin, in his clothes, in his hair, and she threw him over her bed with a fierce spark in her eyes.

I want to have you. To feel your body against mine. To feel alive in this rotten world. And you will not deny me this, Gimilzagar!

“I will not”, he whispered. “I will not.”

After it was over, they remained lying on the couch for a very long time, revelling even in the uncomfortableness of the small, cramped space. He had needed to curl up into a ball, while her left leg and arm were dangling precariously from the edge. A fitting position for them, she could not help but think.

“What would your bride think if she saw us like this?” she asked at last. She did not raise her voice, but in this total silence, her words had the same effect as a hundred glasses breaking at the same time.

“She knows”, he replied. Fíriel blinked. “I told her the truth. That I would always love you, and no other.”

“Are you mad?” Her most girlish, foolish side was feeling flattered, but the rest of her was shocked enough to drown this emotion. “How could you say such a thing to her?”

“Fíriel, she would have known. She is young, but she is not stupid. She already knew who you were, and everybody was telling her stories about you!” As he spoke, he grew more and more excited, until he abandoned his prone position to struggle to his feet. “She could not understand why you were still here. And, though she did not ask me directly, I could see the question torturing her day and night. Do you think she would have simply forgotten about it in time?” Too much energy engaged in his refutation, she thought, her well-honed instinct kicking in. He was feeling guilty about something.

“I am not”, he retorted. “None of this is my fault, or yours. You know very well whose fault it is.”

“Hers?” Fíriel shook her head, a little petulantly. “Gimilzagar, you are the heir to the throne of Númenor. No Prince of the West has ever remained unmarried.”

“I am not the Prince of the West. I am a contingency solution until the King manages to secure his prized immortality, or until he loses his war at the expense of us all. And nobody knows better than you that I cannot have children, so however you look at it, I am a dead end. Fíriel, you know why I caved in and agreed to this, and responsibility towards our kingdom was not the reason.”

“And yet the matter remains that you agreed to it. And tomorrow, this woman will become the Princess of the West.”

“She will never be a threat to you. She is just a young girl, in love with the title and eager for her family’s approval, who will never do anything to jeopardize her position. And you do not need to feel sorry for her, either. She is not a barbarian brought here against her will. She is a noblewoman of the Island, and she will be held in much greater respect and reverence than any of those hapless women were.”

Fíriel considered those words with a silent frown. Then, she raised her glance until their eyes met again.

“But if that is so, then why are you feeling guilty?”

Gimilzagar blinked. He really thought, even now, that he could hide things from her or distract her from her purpose.

“I am sorry, Fíriel. It was not my intention to hide anything from you, or deceive you in any way. What I have said is the truth.”

“But not the whole truth”, she insisted. His eyes darkened, as if he was suddenly wrestling against an evil thought.

“You know that sometimes I… know things. Things that have not happened yet.”

Fíriel nodded with a shiver. Recently, she had acquired a small taste of what that was like, thanks to the Queen. Luckily for her, Gimilzagar was too absorbed by his own concerns to pay attention to that particular thought.

“Yes, I know about foresight. It ran in my own family, as well –the house of Andúnië, I mean”, she babbled. “My great-great grandfather…”

He did not even seem to have heard her.

“The day I confronted her, I wounded her. I was trying not to attach much importance to this, because I was certain that she was just young and foolish, and would recover from it. I had seen her mind, and knew very well that she did not love me.”

“Oh, you are so naïve”, she cut him, shaking her head. That love was not the driving force behind most people’s actions was something she had learned very early on, during her first months in Armenelos –which was why she had been unable to ignore Rini’s plight when she revealed herself as the kindred spirit Fíriel had always suspected she was. But for most denizens of the Palace, Rini was a monstrous oddity, a mindless barbarian, and so was she.

Gimilzagar ignored her this time, too.

“It was then that it suddenly came to me, like a… piece of knowledge materializing from nowhere. That, from that moment on, from that very moment on, she was doomed.”

Fíriel stared at him for a while, in silence.

“Doomed”, she repeated. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“But…” It made no sense, she was the Princess of the West. Not even the Queen would dare move against her. It made no sense, unless… “Do you think it has… anything to do with the King’s expedition? Perhaps we are all doomed, not just her.” And Fíriel was the only one who held the key to salvation.

“Perhaps.” Gimilzagar was still frowning, which told Fíriel that he was not convinced of that theory, but he forced his lips into a smile. “I wonder what does it say about us, that we find that option comforting.”

“I guess it feels familiar”, she replied in kind. “Not to mention it would absolve us of any personal responsibility. After all, we have already established that none of us has the power to stop the King.”

Gimilzagar said nothing to this, barely acknowledging her words with a nod. Soon, he changed the subject, and sat by her side to watch the sun sink behind the gleaming rooftops, until he had to kiss her goodbye to return to the onerous task of the last wedding preparations.

After he was gone, and she was left alone, Fíriel was struck by the awareness that, for the first time in her life, she was the one who was keeping the greater secret.