Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

---

Plans and Conspiracies

---

Ûriphel held her breath as she went down on the bathtub, more out of instinct than because she was truly repelled by the warm, red liquid that engulfed her legs. The nausea and horror she had experienced the first times had largely faded by now, and their place had been taken, first by fascination and then, as everything which had once appeared impossible suddenly began to appear possible, by a mounting giddiness which made her feel as if she was floating. She heard the chanting as if coming from a great distance, the mysterious words slowly penetrating her mind and filling it with a pleasurable haze. As they did, she began to fall in a trance, where she was no longer aware of the movements of her own body. At some point, she must have dived underneath the surface, because she felt a little breathless and her nostrils filled with the powerful scent of blood. But then, she was standing before the Fire again, her arms wide open, and her skin looked radiant and clean under her gaze. Like a goddess.

“You are a goddess now. My goddess”, he said, and her toes curled at the way his eyes darkened when he set them on her naked body.

“May I have a mirror?” she asked in a sudden, childish impulse. This time, the eyes showed disapproval.

“Goddesses do not need mirrors. Mirrors are nothing but the product of mortal foolishness. Back when I met you, you were a pathetic little girl who stood before them all day, seeking in vain what they would never be able to give you. I can make your wishes come true, but you will never succeed as long as the pathetic little girl still lives inside you.”

“I- am sorry. You are right, Your Holiness”, she replied, blushing in shame. He shook his head.

“You must try harder. There is too much at stake. Pity for the girl who gazed at mirrors in a vain attempt to please him did not earn you access to his heart before, and it will not do so now.” He advanced towards her, and his long, thin hand cupped her breast firmly, then gradually trailed down her flawless belly. She shivered, her soul bursting with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. “But he will not be able to refuse a goddess.”

Her body held out well to his scrutiny, and as he knelt to inspect her toes, she caught the glimpse of a pleased smile which made her heart soar. Ûriphel had lost count of how many times she had undergone this ritual, of how many victims had laid down their lives for their blood to wash away the pathetic little girl’s most recalcitrant imperfections. Before she had become his goddess, she had been his work of art for a long time, difficult and energy-consuming, but rewarding.

“Turn around” he ordered. She did so, braiding her long hair over her shoulder so it would not hide anything. By now, she had almost succeeded in smothering down her unseemly craving for a mirror, and as she stood proudly there, it even began to dawn upon her that she might no longer have anything to feel ashamed about. “Excellent. Almost done.”

Ûriphel froze, forcefully jolted away from her pleasant thread of thought.

“A- almost?” she asked. The accursed word became stuck in her throat, and she had visible difficulty getting it out. “But I thought…”

She could not see his face, as she was giving him her back. After a brief pause, however, she could hear his footsteps, and he stopped before her line of sight. He shook his head, and she knew she had disappointed him again with her ill-advised reaction.

“Your body is perfect, but your mind is not. Alas, there are no rituals which can wash away the mortal ugliness from there.”

“I am sorry”, she said, trying to swallow away the knot from her throat. She hated falling short of his expectations, and to have him call her ugly brought frantic tears to her eyes. Quickly, she lowered her gaze, though she was aware that such foolish tricks would not prevent him from knowing exactly how she felt.

He let go of a soft breath.

“I could train you.” Hopefully, she looked up, but he greeted her enthusiasm with a severe expression. “But you must sear this in fire in your mind, Ûriphel: the greatest power I have bestowed upon you will not avail you unless you learn how to use it. If you fail to do that, all this will have been for nothing. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Holiness”, she nodded fervently. “I will do anything you require of me. Anything, I swear.”

“Good.” He retreated a couple of steps, his forehead curving in a thoughtful frown. “Then we will start right away.”

“Should I… get dressed?”

To her surprise, Lord Zigûr shook his head.

“No.” At a brisk pace, he headed towards the door of his chambers, unlocked it, and spoke some words that she could not make out. Then, she heard a scuffle, accompanied by groans and hard voices, and the door was opened wide. Any fears that the Princess of the West could have experienced at the thought that outsiders could see her naked in the High Priest’s rooms, however, proved weaker than her shock at what she saw.

It was a man, if such a name could be bestowed upon the pitiful criminals who sat in chains in the bowels of the Temple, awaiting their turn to feed the fires of the Great Deliverer. This one did not seem to have been there for as long as others, and he was also a Númenórean, so he still retained the tiniest part of the strength and dignity he had once possessed as a free man. But this only served to make the contrast with his dishevelled appearance, the tearing of his eyes as they were blinded by the light, and his badly repressed terror all the more striking. When they threw him against the floor and left him twitching and groaning there, his beady, blinking eyes fell upon Lord Zigûr first. The sight immediately made him flinch.

“What do you want from me?” he asked, in a croaking voice that grew louder and shriller by the moment. “What do you want from me?”

Ûriphel retreated instinctively, wishing to be as far away as possible from this unpleasant spectacle. She knew that Zigûr had the power to make those struggles abate, and that he could make the victims abandon their terror and hostility and surrender meekly to their fate. She had seen them offer themselves to the knife hundreds of times, once they understood the role they had been chosen to play and accepted it. But this time, he was not using his power, and the result was ugly and disturbing. Once the man had managed to work himself into a frenzy with his unanswered questions, he even tried to stand on his shaky legs and attempt a desperate flight.

It was then that he saw her. His eyes grew wide, and he froze in his tracks, shaking. Suddenly, Ûriphel wished to cover herself, to hide from this harrowing gaze that surveyed her with a fear that turned into wonder, then into a hatred dissolving in sheer awe.

“What… what devilry is this?” he whispered. “I will not… I cannot…never…” His voice dissolved into a jumble of disconnected utterings, and she shook her head, crossing her arms in an attempt to hide her nakedness from his eyes. She sought Zigûr in the shadows behind him, to beg him to make all of it go away. Why was he putting her through this? Had she displeased him that much that he wanted to make her feel miserable and uncomfortable, to show her how much of a pitiful mortal she was?

“This is your training”, Zigûr replied to her unvoiced thoughts. “If you wish to be a goddess, you need to make Men worship you. This is a frightened, weak specimen which should not be difficult to sway. See how he gazes at you: even though he fears for his life, he cannot prevent his body from responding to your presence.” His lips curved in a disdainful smile. “Persuade him that death is a small price to pay for the privilege of laying eyes upon your beauty.”

“I… I cannot…” she began, but her voice died in her lips when she remembered her promise. Nervously, he gazed in the man’s direction again, and saw him look down abruptly as soon as he felt her eyes on him. Taken by a sudden feeling of recklessness, she smiled at him. And then, she saw it – the unmistakeable shadow of a bulge under the man’s rags.

Zigûr was right. He desired her, needed her, and this need was stronger even than his hatred and his fear. A heady feeling took hold of her mind at the thought, and her limbs began tingling with an unknown emotion as the full implications of the power she now possessed grew apparent to her.

“Come here”, she ordered, her hand beckoning in his direction. He obeyed so fast that she almost retreated from the shock of having him at such close proximity. The powerful smell of sweat and urine assaulted her nostrils, dampening her exultation. She did not want him to touch her. He was dirty, wicked and disgusting, the lowest of the low. When he extended a reverent hand in her direction, she grew afraid again.

“Go away!” she shouted. The man’s hand fell, and he blinked, as if he was striving to wake from a strange dream. Lord Zigûr did not look happy at all.

“Let go of your mortal weakness! Shame, disgust, indecision, self-loathing… they are but as many chains keeping you tied to the contemptible being you were once.” His voice was reduced to a hiss, a rare expression of anger that shook her to the core. “And that contemptible being will never rule the Prince, the Island, this man, or even her own weakness! She will never understand the true meaning of power.”

It was hard to keep her eyes from tearing, but Ûriphel was determined not to fail again. For a second time, she stood tall and uncovered her body, trying to recapture the glorious feeling of being beautiful and powerful, and untouched by mortal flaws. As she did so, it dawned upon her that there was a delicate symmetry to the process: it was the emotions she saw reflected on his face what made her feel confident, but, at the same time, this confidence was what boosted her power to enslave his senses.

Still, it was when he was on his knees before her, kissing her feet, that the greatest revelation was granted to her. She did not have to let this pitiful creature do anything to her that she did not want. If she ordered him to stop, he would stop. If she ordered him to follow her like a dog, he would do so. He was fully hers, to command as she wanted, not the other way around.

“And that, Princess, is the true meaning of power”, Zigûr nodded warmly. Ûriphel had never felt so proud of herself in her life.

“Stop”, she ordered. The man immediately raised his head, with an inquiring look. Little by little an idea, previously unthinkable but now somehow as trivial as the decision to have an exotic flower planted in her garden or a new dress made, began to grow in her mind.

“Answer me this. “Her lips curved in the sweetest smile she could conjure. “Am I the most beautiful woman in the world?”

“Yes, my lady” he answered without hesitation. She nodded.

“Does my beauty bring you pleasure?”

He swallowed.

“More than anything in the world, my lady.”

“And would you die for it?”

Up until this moment, Zigûr had been listening to their exchange from a distance. When she asked this question, however, he started walking slowly in their direction.

The man looked baffled, and for a moment, she could almost see a gleam of his old self struggling to emerge.

“Why, my lady? Why would I have to… die?”

It did not take her long to regain her bearings.

“Because this beauty was a gift from the Great Deliverer to me. And all his gifts require payment – in blood. That is why you are here: to keep my beauty alive in this world. Would you do this for me?”

“I…” His agitation was mounting, together with the visible signs of his struggle. Zigûr stopped near him, the knife in his hand. “I do not believe….in the Great Deliverer. His gifts are evil. You should not… seek them. You should not… sacrifice…”

He was going back to himself. Ûriphel’s feeling of alarm rose, and she felt the urge to stand back, away from his reach in case he would try to attack her. Only Zigûr’s frown prevented her from surrendering to this panic. As she tried to recover control of the situation once more, it suddenly dawned on her what she had to do, which such specific level of detail that it did not leave room for hesitation. Cupping his face in her hands, she kissed him in the mouth; a gentle, probing kiss no one had ever taught her, but which seemed to come to her as naturally as if she did it every day.

Gradually, his struggles subsided. The next time she disengaged herself from him, very carefully, he no longer seemed confused. His eyes were set on her, with an adoration that would withstand any test, and his old self had retreated as deep as if it had never existed.

It was done. She had won.

“I will die for you, my lady. I will die for you a hundred, a thousand times if necessary. I- I love you more than my own life.”

The High Priest’s blade sunk on the back of his neck with such precision that he fell like a man struck by lightning, the last smile still etched upon his features. Ûriphel stood up, gazing at the rivulets of blood spreading across the white marble floor. Some of it had spattered her right leg, and Zigûr knelt before her to wipe it thoroughly.

“There”, he said, almost with tenderness, as he finished his work. “Now, you are perfect again.”

Ûriphel smiled.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

In the last years, it had grown increasingly rare for the house of Andúnië to catch a glimpse of light through the heavy mantle of black clouds hanging over their heads. Small victories snatched from the jaws of defeat were all they could aspire to, such as Isildur arriving home safely, or one of the wanted Faithful managing to evade the vigilance of the Governor’s men to escape the Island. But to have an actual motive of celebration, where they could drink wine and have it warm their hearts and not merely their chests, was a feeling they had almost forgotten.

That was why Elendil had not hesitated for once to spend their direly-needed money in food and drink, as the whole family gathered together to celebrate the birth of Anárion’s first son. Ilmarë had even seen her father smile, perhaps for the first time since Lord Amandil sailed away. Taking their cue from him, everybody else seemed to have forgotten their troubles for a day, in the loud, slightly reckless way in which soldiers lost in enemy land would feast on the eve of a decisive battle. Ilmarë’s mother gushed over her new grandson, while his three sisters bickered over whose turn it was to hold him and argued about which side of the family he favoured. Irissë was nice and helpful to her sister, Isildur proposed toast after toast and had his cup refilled after every one of them, and Anárion seemed to have foregone all his duties and concerns to exist in some kind of haze. To Ilmarë, he had the air of someone who was not quite sure of where he was standing. Now and then, he would gaze at the baby and appear to lose track of time and the conversations taking place around him, only to emerge from his trance a while later, like a man who had been sleepwalking.

Ilmarë, however, had been present for the split second of weakness that Irimë had been unable to hide as the child was taken from her bedside. That was why, the second he became restless again, she rushed to claim him in her arms, and firmly announced that she was taking him back to his mother.

When she was ushered into the darkness of the birthing room, a heavy smell of herbs, which barely managed to disguise the acrid scent of sweat and blood, assaulted her nostrils –and with it, an unexpected torrent of unwelcome memories. Before she noticed what she was doing, she was holding her bundle with a tighter grip than it was advisable. The child started crying harder, and Irimë stirred under the covers.

“Bring him”, she said, in a hoarse voice. The birth had been difficult, and the healer had advised her not to move so as to not disturb the stitches he had been forced to put on her. Still, despite the fact that she must have felt pain doing it, she did not even wince as she pulled herself to an erect position to allow Ilmarë to lay her son on her lap.

“Here you are”, Elendil’s daughter smiled, forcing away the memories of her own lost child. “Meneldil was… missing his mother.”

What was the matter with her? It was long since her thoughts had been this scattered, or her emotions this out of control. Fíriel had long ago ceased to be a child, let alone a newborn baby sent away from her side while she was still recovering from childbirth. Even when she featured in her confusing dreams, she was a woman, a fully-grown woman running from the towering waves.

Irimë snorted.

“He is missing his food. Call the nurse in.”

It might have been a side-effect of her current mood, but it seemed to Ilmarë that, once again, there was some feeling the woman before her was striving hard to hide. She swallowed, wondering if she should remark upon it and risk another quarrel with her sister-in-law.

The grey eyes narrowed as they looked up at her.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” She shrugged it away, and walked towards the door to usher the woman in. Still, she took good care to draw a chair for her as close to Irimë as possible, so the mother would be able to watch him feed. For a while, they fell silent, their attention absorbed by the child’s fussing and crying until he finally discovered the way to his source of nourishment. “I am very happy for you. I know for how long you have wanted this child.”

Irimë gave her a long, inscrutable glance. Then, once she decided that Ilmarë was simply trying to be friendly, she relaxed.

“It took him a long time to arrive. Who could have imagined that Mother’s heritage would live so strongly in me? It was Irissë who was supposed to be like her”, she said, shaking her head. “I must admit I was close to losing faith sometimes. I thought that perhaps I was not meant to… that we were not meant to…” At some point, she seemed to grow aware that she was going to betray some inconvenient thought, and felt silent. Her eyes, however, were still on the baby, and for a moment Ilmarë could see it clearly, and without a shadow of a doubt: a fierce, proprietary love which no nurses, husbands, or kin would ever be allowed to challenge. A love which would be the child’s greatest treasure- and his greatest burden at the same time.

“I…” The nurse changed Meneldil’s position with an ease born from years of experience. This time, it was less difficult for the baby to figure out what he had to do. Whenever he opened them, Ilmarë had to reluctantly agree with Findis’ assessment earlier: he had his mother’s clever eyes. And behind them, she could almost guess at the first stirrings of a subtle spirit Irimë would be able to mould in her own image; a man to rule over millions, and shoulder responsibilities she was not allowed to have.

She shivered at this sudden bout of foresight. He looked so small… so frail and defenceless.

“I… well, I am aware I am the last person who should give any advice about raising a child…”

Irimë’s eyes hardened.

“Then, please, do not. Life is difficult for us now, but our path will only grow steeper in the future, full of hard choices and sacrifices” she said, with such certainty in her voice that Ilmarë suspected she must also possess some form of foresight. “And Meneldil is the first in the house of Andúnië who will not have the time to be a child.”

Ilmarë swallowed as the shiver came back, this time with greater intensity. The disarray evoked by her sister-in-law’s words was so deep that she did not even find it in herself to utter any retort. Still, Irimë did not look at all triumphant. Instead, the gaze she set on her infant son was heavy, and for some reason that she could not even explain to herself, Ilmarë wanted to embrace her.

“But what are you doing? You should not turn your back on our first day of merriment in years to sit in the gloom of this chamber with me”, her sister-in-law spoke at last, with a tight smile. “Go back with the others, and tell them that Meneldil has been properly fed, and that we are both well. And then you could drink some wine for me.”

Though there was nothing Ilmarë was looking less forward to, she could not refuse such a direct invitation to leave. When she found herself back at the feast, however, her temples began throbbing with a growing headache, and it was not long since she excused herself and returned to her own rooms.

That night, as she fell asleep, she dreamed of Fíriel again. This time, her daughter was not trying to outrun the great wave: instead, she was in a temple, lying on a sacrificial altar. Her heart was being carved out of her chest, and yet she was smiling.

Irimë is right, Mother, she said. Our path is full of hard choices and sacrifices. And you cannot protect your children from them, for that power was never given to you.

Ilmarë woke up screaming.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Fíriel woke up with a start. Her forehead was covered in sweat, and her heartbeat was accelerated, as if she had had a nightmare, but she could not remember what it had been about. Still, while she let her gaze trail across her surroundings, faintly lit by moonlight, she could not get rid of the feeling that somewhere, somehow, a terrible thing had happened.

“Stupid girl”, she mumbled aloud, wondering why she needed to hear the sound of her own voice so badly. “Terrible things are always happening.” That she was hidden away from the world did not mean she did not know about the Númenóreans sacrificed upon altars of fire, Sauron’s growing ascendancy, the expedition against the Valar being set for this Spring, or the dangers her family was facing in Rómenna. Or the dangers she was always facing herself, she added mentally. At some point, the mind’s tolerance for dark thoughts would grow high enough that nothing but the sheer irrationality of dreams could achieve what all those impending threats and invisible ghosts were no longer able to do.

“My- my lady is asleep” Isnayet’s voice, low but clearly audible in the silence of the night, caught her ears. Still skittish from her dream, Fíriel tensed, and though the fear of an unwelcome guest was short-lived, her heartbeat would not be so easily stilled. He had not come to her in months- and even when he used to visit her more often, he rarely ever did so in the middle of the night.

The door opened, and suddenly, she found herself staring into a gaping abyss that threatened to swallow her. In shock, she retreated, forgetting that the bed was right behind her until she tripped and fell on it.

Gimilzagar did not even seem to notice this. As he walked towards her, he looked like a soulless, moving statue, like the first Dwarves in the old tale of their creation by Aulë.

“Gimilzagar…” She swallowed. “Gimilzagar, what happened to you?”

The Prince of the West’s looming figure gave no signs of recognition at the sound of his name. Instead, he stopped in his tracks, and looked past her, as if he could not even see she was there. As if he had gone blind.

“Come here.” Since they were children, Fíriel always had the tendency to act on impulse wherever Gimilzagar was concerned, and sometimes, those impulses had been the right ones. “Here. With me. Yes, like this. Very good.”

Slowly, her crooning voice and her hands, warm against the terrifying coldness of his, managed to manoeuvre him into a sitting position by her side. Once he was there, she engulfed him in an embrace, and felt his limbs shivering uncontrollably against hers. For a long while, which seemed to stretch towards eternity, neither spoke a word.

Later, as the shivers finally started to subside, Fíriel found herself unable to keep her burning curiosity and worry at bay.

“What happened?” she asked, leaving a light kiss on his pale cheek. “Who… who did this?”

She was not expecting him to burst into tears. In fact, she had not seen him cry since they were both children, in Rómenna long ago.

“I- I am sorry. I am s-sorry, Fíriel. Forgive me. P-please, f-forgive me.”

Her throat suddenly went dry.

“Why?”

It took him a very long time to calm down, and longer than that for his utterings to make sense. As he strove to put his thoughts in order and turn them into words, Fíriel even had the strange impression that he was trying to make sense of what had happened to him. On the previous evening, the Princess of the West had requested a private meeting, and though he did not want to see her, he had found no reason to refuse. She claimed she had something important to tell him, and he had vaguely sensed some sort of trap. But as long as Zigûr was not with her, he had felt safe enough.

When it came to explaining what had exactly taken place once they were face to face, however, his relatively straightforward account broke into a thousand shards. The only thing that seemed clear was that she had suddenly turned into the fairest woman in the world. With an obsessiveness which reminded Fíriel of the Temple priests repeating their litanies, he came back over and over to the exquisite curve of her lips, begging to be kissed, the softness of her skin, the artful arrangement of her raven black tresses over her shoulder, and above all her gaze, warm and ardent and impossible to resist.

The knot in Fíriel’s throat grew larger and larger as she listened to him. For a moment, she longed to let go of him and flee someplace far away, where she would not have to hear the sound of his voice any longer. But even as he spoke of the Elvish beauty of his wife, he was holding her so tight that she could not move.

“So”, she managed to interrupt him at last, once her need for him to stop grew stronger even than her choking sensation. “You bedded your wife, my lord prince. I am sure that the whole of Númenor will be astir at the news. After all, there has been nothing of similar import happening at least since the conquest of Rhûn.”

His grip on her grew even tighter. She opened her mouth to complain, then closed it when she saw the expression on his face. Suddenly, it was as if she had a vision of someone dangling from a precipice, holding to whatever he could to avoid the fall.

“I saw him, Fíriel! I saw him!” he almost shouted. “He was lurking, there in her mind. Gloating! He had struck at me through her, and stolen what he… what he wanted.” His voice was lowered to a whisper again. “And then I knew what I was doing- I remembered who I was, who she was. But I could not remember you.”

She needed to work very hard not to surrender at the panic in his voice, or to the half-hinted horror in his words.

“But you knew where to come” she said. “And now, you remember me.”

He blinked, and stared at her as if he was still not sure that she was real, and not another vision that the demon had put in his mind.

“It is me, Gimilzagar.” In another impulse, she leaned forwards and kissed him. Skittish as he was, he did not pull back. “I bet the Lady Ûriphel did not kiss like this. Better, maybe- but not like this.”

There was a new silence, even longer this time. Through the window, Fíriel could see the moon wane gradually, and the stars begin to fade.

“What… did they want?” she grew the courage to ask at last. Gimilzagar had started to relax, but now, she could feel his limbs tense again.

“A baby” he whispered, as if afraid that some invisible spy would hear him. “A heir to the Sceptre. The- moment he realized he could not win me over, he began seeking a replacement.”

“But that makes no sense”, she argued hotly. “You cannot sire children. You never could.”

As the light of dawn fell upon his features, Fíriel saw they were ashen. She wondered if he was going to be sick.

“He thinks he can make it happen. With his magic.” His lips curved into a bitter smile. “After all, I am not supposed to be alive either, am I?”

“That is a different issue”, she said, though she could not manage to inject too much conviction in her words. Bleakly, she imagined a Númenor under Sauron’s sway after Ar Pharazôn sailed away, probably never to return. Would Ar Zimraphel be strong enough to stop a demon by herself? Perhaps Fíriel’s dreams of violent catastrophes did not refer to the vengeance of the Valar, after all - perhaps the Powers would merely leave them to suffer and die under the thumb of the demon they had invited in.

“You should have left while you still could”, Gimilzagar mumbled. Fíriel shook her head, lying on the bed next to his curled form. Slowly, one of his hands began threading through her hair, caressing it in short, repetitive motions.

“And what would you do, then?” she asked, a while later.

The Prince of the West did not answer.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Ûriphel lay on the bed facing the ceiling, her legs carefully spread open. Her heart was beating very fast, and she was holding her breath as his hands hovered over her belly, then travelled lower in his inspection.

She had ruined everything. After her successes with the lesser men Zigûr had given her to practice, she had believed she could take on anyone, bend their wills and force them to do her bidding. She had felt all-powerful, just because she could get the better of a bunch of weak-minded criminals, and this had made her lower her guard and lose herself in her own enjoyment of the scene she had been dreaming for so long. But the Prince of the West was not weak-minded, despite the frailty of his body. His spirit was strong and piercing like that of his horrible mother, and he had managed to penetrate her thoughts and discover her intentions. Now, because of her stupid carelessness, their plans were jeopardized, perhaps stumped forever. Her husband would never fall into the same trap again, and Zigûr would not forgive her failure.

The hands stopped exploring, and the grave blue eyes sought hers. Instinctively, she flinched, and started shaking.

“It is done”, he said. She stared, suddenly unable to comprehend his words. “His seed is in you, and through prayer and sacrifice, it will give fruit. But he suspects us now, so we will lie low and hide this until the time is ripe.”

Ûriphel wanted to sob, so great was her relief at this outcome. He smiled indulgently.

“Yes, my dear. Your blunder has been repaired. You may not be a goddess, after all, but at least you will be the Queen of Númenor.” He covered her with a sheet, and laid a hand on her forehead. “Now, rest.”

“I am sorry” she said, forcing her tremulous voice to still. “I should have been more careful.”

He shrugged in an airy, dismissive gesture.

“That no longer matters, Princess of the West. What is done, is done, and no one will be able to change its outcome. This child will grow to be your greatest weapon against your enemies. It will allow you to avenge all the grievances they have inflicted upon you, increased by a tenfold.”

Ûriphel closed her eyes, letting this pleasant thought take root in her mind, and savouring the dawning realization that it was no longer a mere wish, but something that would become true in the near future. Once her child, her little prince was born.

“She will die first”, she established. The moment her husband had fled from her bed, he had immediately gone to the South Wing to hold her in his arms. Ûriphel could imagine him burying himself deep in that whore in a vain attempt to forget the haunting memory of her embraces.

“Of course”, Zigûr nodded. “After all, the Prince will need to sacrifice something truly valuable for this child to be born healthy. Though her overall worth is quite limited, fortunately what matters here is her worth to him.”

A sudden objection clouded her enjoyment of this scenario.

“But what if the Queen tries to resist us? She will be the rightful holder of the Sceptre, after all.”

“Do not worry about the Queen.” Zigûr’s eyes were cold and purposeful again, and the Princess felt a pleasurable shiver travel down her spine. “I can take her down.”

“She scares me sometimes”, she confessed. “I wish she would die, too.”

“She will”, he said. Her pleasurable shiver increased. “They all will. The day your son is old enough to take the Sceptre, they will have passed away from the Doom of Men and the curses of the Valar. And then, he will need to rebuild his kingdom and avenge them- with our help.”

Ûriphel smiled. Her mind was showing her grand images, of herself attired in a beautiful dress with a red and gold-embroidered mantle, and millions of people kneeling before her. Right by her side, a dashing young man who did not resemble his father at all, and whose nose and eyes reminded her of the cousin she had once admired, beamed while holding the Sceptre in his hand. And behind them, the High Priest of Melkor spread his protective aura over the new monarchs of Númenor.

“All that will happen”, he nodded. “But for now, we have to be very careful. The next months will be decisive for our plans, and we cannot afford a false step. You will keep to your rooms, unless I summon you to update the protective enchantments on the child in your womb. Is that clear?”

Ûriphel’s hands involuntarily trailed across her belly. She could not believe that this dashing young man was there now, waiting to be born. For a moment, she wondered if everything could be a dream, and she would wake up in her lonely bed, surrounded by idiotic, fawning women who did nothing but wring their hands aimlessly at her troubles.

“Yes, your Holiness”, she bowed. “It is clear.”