Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Black Clouds

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(Year 3315)

 

Years ago, he had lost the ability to remember his dreams after he woke up. Whenever the lights of dawn began filtering through the window and he lay on his bed, his eyes still closed, he could feel his mind crawling with half-finished, nightmarish visions, whose meaning he could no longer put together. He would try to recall them, to carefully untangle a single thread from this dark jumble, but in the end, he was always forced to admit his defeat. And then he would push his aching body away from the covers, wipe the beads of sweat from his throbbing forehead, and do everything he could to turn the shaking old man who stared back at him from the mirror into the wise and steadfast lord of Andúnië, whose ancestors had never looked like this a year shy from their two-hundredth birthday.

That morning, Elendil and Irimë were already waiting for him outside when he came out. They looked haggard, and their eyes had bags under them, as if they had not slept in all night. As it turned out, they had spent most of it communicating with Anárion through the Seeing Stone. Elendil’s younger son had avoided the vigilance of the Merchant Princes with the aid of their allies in Pelargir, and just two days ago he had managed to sail up the Anduin unnoticed. Now, he was hiding somewhere in Arnian territory, sounding Elendil’s old allies under the Governor’s nose. It had been Anárion’s own idea to go there instead of Elendil, as he looked remarkably like his father, had inherited his diplomatic skills, and his life was much less valuable. Amandil had always felt uncomfortable about his second grandson’s warped sense of duty, but this time he had been unable to voice any serious objections. At the end of the day, Anárion was right: they could no longer expect everybody to remain safe in this world, and the choices they made had to be very careful.

Still, to add to his unease, Irimë had supported her husband’s decision wholeheartedly –or so they said, for Amandil wondered if she hadn’t come up with the idea herself. Everybody in the house of Andúnië seemed to agree that they were a loving, perfect couple, unlike their brother and sister, and yet Amandil did not like her cold-bloodedness in the face of his danger. Women who loved their husbands did not want them to volunteer for extremely dangerous missions only so they could prove themselves to their families.

“He is safe”, she announced. A flicker of relief softened the steely spark of her eyes, and suddenly Amandil felt sorry for thinking badly of her. As Lalwendë herself had put it once, while discussing a different issue, it was just too tempting to think badly of Irimë: she was harsh, loud, overbearing, and easy to blame for everything that was wrong with the world. “And he is also making progress.”

“Abanazer’s clients were not mistaken. We left deeper roots in Arne that are no less strong for being invisible”, Elendil nodded.

“That is an understatement. According to Anárion, Lord Elendil is almost a god to the Arnians! He could not believe it when they told him they would rather die than allow a hair of Elendil’s son’s head to be harmed.” Irimë seemed impressed, but Elendil shook his head at her words. Amandil detected a vague discomfort in his manner.

“Arnians are quick with words, but they do not always follow through with everything they say”, he retorted. “I am not that sure that they are ready to defy the Sceptre openly.”

“Even considering the barbarian penchant for loud declarations, no one can deny that this sentiment exists. And we can use it to our advantage!”, Irimë argued. “Especially now that the Sceptre’s hold on the mainland is not as absolute as it used to be in the past. The Easterlings are a good example of the power of popular imagination in the fight against oppression.”

Lately, they had been hearing many rumours about the so-called Divine Emperor of Rhûn. According to some of them, he was the long-lost descendant of the last Emperor before the Conquest, whose father had escaped the Palace after a loyal nurse exchanged the babies. For most, however, he was a mere mountain barbarian who had somehow managed to unify the tribes by making them believe in his ridiculous claims. Whoever he was, he seemed hell-bent in causing Ar Pharazôn one headache after another. He had been crushed in battle several times, but always managed to emerge again, boasting of new followers. Certain rumours claimed that he had been victorious more often than the Island was allowed to know, that most cities in the area no longer sent tribute to Númenor, and that he had had a large temple built where every captured Númenórean was thrown into the flames. Amandil imagined that wishful thinking had coloured some of those accounts, as they were mostly whispered among the secret Faithful who were eager to see any sign of Heaven’s punishment of the Sceptre, but since Ar Pharazôn had pulled out so many of his troops from the mainland in the last years, it was quite possible that this had caused backlash in the farthest lands of the Númenórean empire.

“Well, we still do not know how that will end. But even if he is successful, we cannot compare a distant land whose administration was never under our King’s direct control with Arne. The Arnians have lived under a military governor since the days of Tar Palantir, and half of their nobility keeps commercial ties with the Merchant Princes of Pelargir”, Elendil replied. “And I also made some powerful enemies while I was there.”

“Still, popular sentiment is more important than many give it credit for! Even the powerful must manage it, or risk losing the support of their clients and subjects.”

Amandil listened to them in silence. As it happened increasingly often to him, his mind felt sluggish, and he could not think of anything significant to contribute to the discussion. Looking at Irimë’s intent expression, he wondered if he had ever been like this, young enough to have clear thoughts about everything, and certain of the steps he had to take to achieve victory or deliverance. He was slightly worried that he could not remember.

“Are there any news about Isildur?” he asked after a while of standing there, absorbed by his musings. His son and granddaughter-in-law fell silent, and their attention shifted back to him.

“Not yet”, Elendil answered. This was nothing unusual by itself; in Amandil’s experience, Isildur preferred to hide behind clumsy excuses about the Seeing Stone being too draining and time-consuming just so he could escape the unwelcome meddling of his elders. Back when Anárion went North with him, his younger brother had been the one to report back to them most of the time, but now that Isildur was on his own, the best they could hope for was that he would inform them if something truly serious happened. All the arguments Amandil had started in order to make his grandson change his behaviour had proved ultimately sterile: Isildur would nod to everything, and then continue to do as he wished. He was just as stubborn as his grandfather, but much younger and stronger and with greater freedom of movement. He also commanded the blind loyalty of his improvised army, which he had led many times into victory, and the more Amandil thought about this, the harder it was to banish Elendil’s comparison with Ar Pharazôn from his mind. And yet, as Amandil himself had claimed back then, he was still their best hope to settle their people in the mainland safely, and any promise of security, distant and dearly bought as it might be, was growing harder and harder to dismiss.

“If something bad happens in the North, we will hear about it”, he shrugged. Irimë’s lips curved briefly in an unmistakeable gesture of disapproval.

“Well, I will be leaving now”, he announced. The words left his mouth with great difficulty, almost as if he had to force them to pass through his throat. When he uttered them, it was as if a gust of cold wind had suddenly blown inside the room, and both his interlocutors’ features grew grim.

“I will accompany you, Father”, Elendil said. Amandil shook his head, conveying true authority for the first time since he had awoken from that nightmare he had forgotten.

“No, you will not. Only my presence is required, as head of the house of Andúnië.” Before Elendil could open his mouth, he spoke again. “Elendil, if you could only protect me by doing this, perhaps we might be having a different conversation. But you cannot, and all your sufferings would be futile, as they would merely be added to my own.” And there was too much suffering in the world already to add even more to it.

Elendil did not look quite convinced, but he must have perceived that Amandil would never be swayed on this point. As their gazes met, his son’s grey eyes were clouded by concern.

Amandil smiled, an empty smile that would fail to reach much warmer souls than his.

“Expect me for dinner”, he said, before he turned away from them and left the room.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The new Governor of Sor was a much younger and far less amiable man than his predecessor. Whenever he set eyes on Amandil, his usually harsh demeanour grew colder than ice, and the lord of Andúnië knew that every one of his underlings had strict orders to keep him under surveillance at all times, even after he had been searched for weapons and his bodyguards stopped at the threshold of the palace. He would never admit to such petty thoughts while so many around him risked and lost their lives on a daily basis, but Amandil missed the man who, for all his calculating merchant ways, had always made him feel in some level as if he was still worthy of respect.

“I thought your son was also coming”, his successor remarked, as soon as Amandil bowed curtly before him. His gaze was narrowed in an accusing frown, which the lord of Andúnië withstood without blinking.

“My son is a very busy man.”

“Busy plotting against the Sceptre, no doubt”, the Governor replied with a shrug. A younger Amandil would have wanted to punch that smug expression away from his face, but the old Amandil just smiled tersely and said nothing. “Come. You will stand next to me.”

As they climbed the stairs which would take them to the arched gallery right above the altar, the heat started creeping insidiously underneath his skin, and he felt transported back to his sombre childhood of daily rituals and prayers, of pretending to be one more of them in order to stay alive. Elendil, Isildur and Anárion had experienced their share of hardships and perils, but they had never known this. That was why it had to be him, and he would not have it any other way. Deep inside, his heart told him that every one of them had a destiny, a bright, glorious and free destiny, so different from Amandil’s as the birds that soared the skies were different from the mice crawling in holes under the ground. And in order to fulfil it, they should never become entangled in this. Their souls had to remain pure, untarnished by the strain of bowing before those more powerful and sharing in their evil to avoid death. Unbroken.

“Do you know these people?” the Governor of Sor asked, with a sneering voice. Amandil ignored him, but he leaned forwards slightly, curious in spite of his better instincts. Sometimes, he did know those people, and only the last time he had recognized at least two faces. Years ago, during those hellish first months, it had been more, as they had rounded up all the Faithful who had been unwilling or unable to leave the Island, and too many of them had refused to prove their loyalty to the Sceptre by praying in the altars of Melkor. After a while, however, the waters grew stiller, for most of those who chose to remain decided to bow to necessity, and those who didn’t had taken ship for Middle-Earth. Now, it was mostly people who were caught in the act of praying to the King’s enemies or speaking treasonous words, or had simply run afoul of the authorities or their neighbours, whether they were true Faithful or not.

This time, Heaven chose to be merciful, at least to Amandil, because he saw no one he could recognize. Still, the unknown people who were doomed to die today struggled, cried and screamed just as much, and when the knives sunk on their flesh, their blood was the same shade of red. Amandil recalled the bulls and cows that had been sacrificed in the Old Temple of Armenelos, how even they had struggled and bellowed in a vain attempt to escape their fate. He remembered the priests who had slept, eaten and studied their lessons together with him, standing by the altar during those sacrifices, and looking as impassive as the priests who stood before them now. All it took was to see men as animals, he realized, and all of a sudden it struck him how monstrously easy it was. It had been easier with the barbarians, of course, whose cries were uttered in a strange language, and whose features and bodies looked so different from theirs. With fellow Númenóreans, it was a little harder, because people could see their own fellow citizens, their kin, themselves staring back at them. But even then, a declaration of guilt could destroy those instinctive bonds of sympathy, as their treason turned them into the worst animals of all: poisonous vermin which infected the Island and threatened its inhabitants. In the end, their deaths had become as cathartic for the multitude who stood in this temple as trampling a bug underneath one’s heel. And those who did not feel like this would be very careful not to show their fear or disgust openly, as a man who saw himself reflected in the gazes of traitors was no better than a traitor himself.

That was why Amandil now gazed at the carnage without blinking, flinching or otherwise showing any signs of disloyalty to the piercing glance of the Governor. When everybody chanted the name of the Deliverer, his voice joined the chant, loud and clear. He had grown too old and useless to participate in his family’s mainland ventures, even to give advice to men who had grown into leaders too far away from his reach, but at least he could still contribute to their cause by doing what he knew.

“Your piety is as remarkable as always, Lord Amandil”, the Governor spoke, as the last of the corpses went up in flames, and the heavy smell of charred meat filled their nostrils. “It is a pity that a man as pious as you are would have a son who demonstrates so little interest in holy matters.”

“He is not uninterested, my lord governor. As I said, he unfortunately happens to be very busy”, Amandil replied, still in the same calm tone as before, though the man’s unusual insistence struck him as a bad omen. “As the head of the house of Andúnië, only my presence is required to represent my house in this ceremony.”

His interlocutor’s savage grin confirmed his vague fears.

“Not any more. Listen to me very carefully, Lord Amandil, because I will only say this once. Your son’s absence is giving me serious reason to doubt the loyalty of your family. And, if there is any doubt about the loyalty of a family, you know very well what must happen. I will extend them all an invitation to the King’s Festival in Spring, and they will have the honour of standing next to me, in the Main Gallery. Perhaps they will be acquainted with more of our… guests than you are.”

Amandil’s hand held the railing so tight that his knuckles grew white, and yet he did not betray his weakness to the enemy. Just as when he had chanted the name of Melkor, his voice remained firm.

“Very well. I will pass your message to him, lord governor.”

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

He did not have dinner with his family, in spite of his earlier promise. Instead, the moment he was back home, he exchanged his audience clothes –still impregnated in the horrible smell of human flesh- for more comfortable ones, put on his boots, and took the familiar path down the cliffs. He was not thinking of a route, or truly registering the sight of the clouded skies, the thundering noise of the waves breaking on the rocks below, or even where he put his feet. Still, just as it happened whenever he came this way, eventually his steps brought him to the place where Lord Númendil had watched the sun rise for the last time.

He had known. Of course, his foresighted father had been aware of what was coming for all of them; men, women and children alike. And he had done the only sensible thing he could think of, which was to abandon the struggle while he was still ahead of the shadows pursuing him. Amandil, on the other hand, had preferred to cling to the illusion that he could still be a hero, even in the most twisted and unthinkable of ways -that his presence could still make some sort of difference. But the truth was that his son and grandsons, and even a woman who had joined the family through marriage, were all better equipped than he was to deal with their mainland ventures. He had been a warrior, a man of action once, but at every day that passed he felt more out of touch with the comings and goings beyond the Great Sea, as if Middle-Earth was a living body whose pulse he could no longer feel beneath his hands. Even his prophetic dreams were gone, or at least his ability to remember them. Pharazôn, his childhood friend, the man he would have given his life for when he was younger, gazed at him with eyes where there was no longer any trace of recognition, after the demon’s lies had finally succeeded in erasing their shared past from his mind. And now, his last line of defence, the idea that by going back to his former life and tapping it for the grisly skills it had taught him he would protect his family from the most insidious kind of harm, was also collapsing under his feet. For nearly seven years, he had acted as a shield, absorbing the impact of a thousand cruel blows. Now, the shield was half-shattered and useless, and the enemy was moving for the kill.

Oh, you wish to die because you think that you are useless? Yehimelkor had not been the laughing sort, but he was laughing now in Amandil’s head. Is this the result of the pernicious teachings of your people, that each and every one of you feels entitled to determine why your god keeps you here, and to correct him if he is wrong?

Amandil shook his head, bitterly. The former High Priest had always been too stubborn to admit any wisdom other than his own, but there was no such thing as being kept alive by a god. The more he thought about it, the more he realized it was nothing but the name Men had given to their own wish to cling to life at all costs. Amandil no longer felt this wish, and if he ever had, the hundredth cry for help he could not answer had taken that away from him.

If I felt it was my time to die, I do not think I would choose to sit and watch the sun rise, he had said not too long ago, seized by an impulse which he now recognized as the bravado of a much younger man, in spirit if not in years. I would do something that only a dying man who no longer cares for his own life could do. Since then, he had admonished the Faithful many times to forsake pointless heroism, to bow and chant the name of Melkor and do whatever was required to preserve their lives and those of their families, until they could all be ferried away to a better world. But there was no better world for Amandil to escape to, no reason to preserve his life beyond sparing those who loved him. It was not fear of death or an attachment to his bleak existence what kept him here; rather a paralyzing feeling of impotence, because the greatest of sacrifices could no longer stop the world from sinking around him. Swaying the tyrant was impossible; murdering him even more so, as he was surrounded day and night by those who could pry inside minds and guess at other people’s intentions, and even a failed attempt would mean death for both them and their aspirations. And the other side was even worse.

Amandil shuddered, though the feeling that filled him at the thought was not fear, neither religious nor profane, but anger. Every day, as head of the house of Andúnië, he invoked the names of the Valar, asking them to protect and guide his people. But for Amandil’s entire lifetime, he had never seen the Lords of the West protect or guide anyone. They had stayed silent while their faithful were exiled, persecuted and massacred, never moving a finger to save any of those who were dragged to the altars calling their name. At least the Deliverer fulfilled his promise and delivered those who prayed to him, if only from the wrath of their fellow Númenóreans.

Back when he was still among them, Númendil used to explain this by claiming that, though the Valar were the guardians of the world, they could not interfere in the affairs of Men. But there was simply no world without Men, no land, no kindred untouched by the long shadow of their actions. How could they be treated as a mere accident, as an unpleasant business which should be put aside and left to fester? As much as he hated Ar Pharazôn for the evil he had wrought, at some level Amandil understood the yearning to bring the fight to the very doorstep of those negligent guardians, just as a child would cry and break things until he had his parents’ attention. Men did not suffer being ignored, and that was why, for every Númenórean who remembered the Valar in his prayers, there was a hundred who had long ceased doing so. And yet, to ignore back was not enough, and the forsaken child did not simply grow self-sufficient. In the depths of his heart, the hurt would always remain, until one day it would turn into resentment and hatred. Sauron had seen this situation and exploited it – but he had not created it.

Amandil stood up, his eyes wide as he came upon this fundamental realization. He, too, hated the Valar. He had never admitted it to himself in as many words, for it would compromise his efforts to conform to his role, to the position he had been assigned in this war. Now that he felt free to imagine an egregious end for himself, however, it was not Armenelos where he wanted to go, but Valinor. And it was not Ar Pharazôn’s wrath that he wanted to defy – he had already done so, many times, and though he could imagine it rising to greater heights of intensity, even destroying him, there were no new insights to be gained there. But if he took up ship, steered it in the forbidden direction and braved the perils of the Western Sea, he might be allowed to do what even Pharazôn himself could not achieve with all his ships and his soldiers: to ask why. And, if the Valar did not suffer him to pass, if the mortality which clung to his very bones proved too much of a stain for their holy land, there was nothing to fear there either. Mortals were fated to die, but never more than once.

“Father”. Dusk had fallen so fast while he was absorbed by his feverish thoughts, that Amandil was no longer able to distinguish Elendil’s features in the tall, blurred shape standing behind him. “It is almost night, and Eluzîni was worried that you might trip and fall in the dark.”

The lord of Andúnië nodded in silence, extending his hand so Elendil could help him back into the main path. As always, his son did not ask him any questions about Sor, and Amandil did not volunteer any information. Still, this time, he was so taken by his new insights that he was the first to break the silence.

“Elendil, did you ever hate me for abandoning your mother and you?”

The younger man’s face was too obscured by the shadows for his shock to be visible. Still, he paused slightly in his tracks, and Amandil knew that he was shaken.

“Please, be sincere with me. It is very important.”

This time, he could hear the unmistakeable sound of a soft sigh.

“As I believe I told you very long ago, I could not hate you for something you had done against your own will. And I had proof that it was so, so that made things easier. Mother, on the other hand…”

“… hated me because I did not tell her the truth.” For years, he remembered, he had beaten himself over this terrible miscalculation that cost him –them- so much. And yet now, he had no time for those regrets. “But, what if I had said nothing to you? To either of you? If I had merely disappeared and never came back, and many years later you heard I was the lord of Andúnië? If you saw me one day, around the Temple perhaps, and I still refused to acknowledge you? Would you hate me then?”

If Elendil had been hesitant before, now he was downright uncomfortable.

“What is the point in imagining things that never came true?” he asked, his voice a little tense. “Would the information that I may or may not have hated you if you were a different man be of any use to you?

“No, I…” Amandil’s voice trailed away, realizing that he did not know how to answer this query. Elendil was right, this line of questioning made no sense. If he had felt brave enough to imagine himself taking the forbidden direction, he should be brave enough to speak openly about what bothered him. “Do you think the Valar have forsaken us? That they have refused to acknowledge us, and their abandonment is what has led our people to this situation?”

To his surprise, Elendil did not seem nearly as bothered about this as he had been about their previous conversation.

“Yes, Father. I think so.”

Amandil stopped in his tracks. The roar of the receding tide was growing distant; he must have been wandering outside for nearly an hour.

“And this does not upset you?”

Elendil approached him until the outline of his features was visible – but, once he did, he looked down.

“I am not sure. Perhaps growing away from you acquainted me with the idea that sometimes we can be abandoned for a good reason. Or perhaps knowing of the horrors that unbridled resentment can lead to has prevented me from ever going down that path.” He shrugged in pretended ease, but his forehead was curved into a very serious frown. “All I know is that I do not have much time to think of the Valar while both my sons are in the mainland, risking their lives on a daily basis to do things I should be doing myself, or while I watch my own father wreck his soul to protect me.”

Amandil swallowed a very large knot from his throat.

“I… may not be able to do that for much longer, Elendil. The Governor of Sor is determined to have you attend the Spring festival, and he has threatened to invite us all if you do not ‘show piety’.” Suddenly unable to remain still, he climbed the next stretch of the path so fast that he was out of breath by the time he was in sight of the gate. “And unlike you, I have all the time in the world to think about it.”

Elendil followed shortly behind, his steps wider but more paused.

“I am thankful to the Governor of Sor, then. Because only when I am able to take this burden off your shoulders, the clouds that darken your mind will disperse, and you will be able to keep the bitterness at bay. I have been watching in impotence as it consumes you for too long now.”

Amandil felt suddenly angry. How could someone so perceptive be so wilfully blind to the truth?

You cannot save me, Elendil. You will stand beside the altar and you will suffer meaninglessly, as meaninglessly as the rest of us. And if you do not hate the Valar now, soon enough you will. The words were on his mind, ready to pass through his lips, and only a providential instinct stopped him in the last moment from uttering them.

“Let us go and have dinner. I am hungry”, he said instead, vowing to consign his dark thoughts to a corner of his mind for as long as Elendil was present. Soon, Lalwendë came forth to greet them, hiding her own worries behind her usual cheerful smile. Amandil returned the courtesy, complimenting the food and nodding along when she spoke of inconsequential matters like Irimë’s troubles with her daughter Faniel, or the uneven progress of Elendur’s education.

Later at night, however, as he retreated to his own chambers and managed to reach a state of fitful sleep, his mind was again overtaken by nightmares that trickled away inexorably the moment he opened his eyes.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Fíriel awoke as soon as she felt the body pressed against hers begin to stir. At first, she tried to remain still and cling to the pleasant haze clouding her mind, but when she realized that Gimilzagar was trying to disengage his limbs from hers in an attempt to depart unnoticed, her eyes flew wide open.

“Do not go”, she mumbled. Her voice came out more querulous than she had intended, and he froze.

“Fíriel, you know I cannot stay here.”

“You know that is not what I mean.”

In silence, Gimilzagar moved away from her. He was sitting on the bed now, his black eyes looming over her in the half-darkness.

“He would never allow it. He will not go anywhere without me.”

Of course not, she thought, a familiar resentment boiling in her mind. Heaven forbid that the all-powerful King of the World would step outside the Palace without his glorified bodyguard.

The Prince shook his head in irritation.

“Why do you always have to be so difficult about this?”

“Why shouldn’t I be? I am a whore, everybody in Númenor feels entitled to insult me, I must hide from your wife and I have not left my quarters in years. Perhaps I should be allowed to be difficult about something!”

A cheap shot, she thought, when she saw Gimilzagar wince. She was almost tempted to feel sorry, but it did not take him very long to recover.

“But that is why this is so important!” He struggled to his feet and sunk to his knees looking for his shoes, briefly disappearing from her line of sight. “By remaining in the King’s good graces, I can help others, and protect you.”

“Like you helped the Faithful in Rómenna?” she snorted. Another cheap shot, and yet she was in a mood where she could not stop herself from saying whatever came to her mind. To mince words and spare feelings was growing more and more difficult as the years went by in this ghastly palace. Back when she was younger, Fíriel used to believe that kindness and generosity of spirit were spontaneous traits, qualities people were born with, but the truth was that they were skills demanding plenty of hard work, and she was just too tired.

“Fíriel, the Faithful in Rómenna brought this upon themselves. They were protected, even allowed to worship the King’s enemies in the soil of the Island, and what did they do? They tried to assassinate him. And then they had the chance to leave for the mainland, and those who chose to stay were given a second chance to pray to the Deliverer, like you yourself did. What am I supposed to tell the King, that he should spare traitors who choose to remain traitors of their own free will?”

“Oh, I see. So, to follow the customs of one’s ancestors is an offence deserving of death. And to abandon them is a heroic deed deserving of immortality. Oh, yes, I can see why he is so proud of you now. He finally has a son who is his spitting image and his worthy successor!”

When Gimilzagar’s face emerged from his search, it was so deathly pale that Fíriel’s breath halted.

“You did not mean that.”

“I…” For a moment, the Prince lost the tight control he kept over his thoughts. Pain flared in Fíriel’s mind, as it bubbled with his shame and fear, and his desperate need to hold on to the lies he told himself every day since his cursed instinct had saved the King’s life.

“I will be busy with the preparations for the journey”, he announced, in a strange, matter-of-fact voice that stood in sharp contrast with his inner turmoil. “I will see you when we are back in the capital, though right now, I do not know when that will be.”

At first, Fíriel could do nothing but stare in silence, battling with her own emotions. As he moved towards the door, however, she reacted. Pulling herself up, she tried to keep the panic away from her voice.

“Wait, Gimilzagar!” He did not turn back. “Please!”

There goes the Baalim-worshipping whore again, trying to use her wiles to keep him tied to her, an insidious, mocking voice whispered in her mind. She immediately forced it away.

“He is your father”, she said. “You did not need any… any excuses to save his life. It does not mean that you condone everything he did in the past, or that you are responsible for whatever he does in the future. Are you listening to me, Gimilzagar?” He had stopped in his tracks but still refused to face her, which filled her with a renewed anger. “You have your own mind, which is yours and no one else’s. If you silence it, then what is left?”

Now, the Prince of the West did turn back to look at her. His lips curved into a smile, so painful and terrible that it left her speechless.

“Peace”, he said. “Peace, Fíriel. That is what is left.”

As the door closed behind his back, she lay back on her bed staring at the ceiling, and did not move from that position until Isnayet came to forcefully pull her out from her reverie about an hour later.

“He will find his way back, my lady”, she crooned, in a comforting voice. “He always does. He loves you too much.”

Fíriel was almost tempted to smile at the involuntary depths of the Court lady’s shallow statement. But the wound was still open, so it turned into a wince instead.

“I hope so.”