Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Hour Unlooked For

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The world had gone mad. As they left the house, gathered their supporters and marched on Rómenna, Isildur could not help but remember old sailor stories about ships suddenly falling off the edges of the earth and reaching a place ruled by the opposite laws, where fish flew and birds swam, and the Sun rose from the West to set on the East. Nobody pursued them, despite the fact that they had just overthrown the vigilance of the Governor’s men; nobody stood on their way, and when they entered the town, they were greeted by the sight of empty streets and closed windows. The hall of the Town Council was barely defended; once they took it, they only found a few minor councilmen inside. Ashen-faced, one of the captives explained that their more powerful colleagues had departed for Sor to seek an urgent audience with the Governor about the precarious state of their population’s security, leaving them in charge of the town. The Guards and soldiers who used to protect them from the dangerous traitors in their vicinity had been withdrawn the day before, rumour had it that to deal with terrible scenes of chaos in the road West, after an earthquake sent by the Baalim had destroyed Armenelos. Isildur immediately understood that those who had left their hapless colleagues behind were not likely to return: once they were in Sor, the slippery merchants would take ship for Umbar or Pelargir until things quietened down. The Governor, however, would be forced to remain in his post and try to do his duty until the end –unless he truly realized there was no hope for the King’s expedition.

Isildur’s first action was to dispatch men to the shipbuilders, and to the harbour itself. Then, he ordered a search for every hidden Faithful who could not bear arms and had therefore not participated in the action. While he waited for those dispositions to bear fruit, he gathered his family on the main hall. Slowly, one by one, they took seat on the carved wooden chairs left vacant by the magistrates. Anárion sat to his right with his wife Irimë, both their expressions brimming with a grim kind of determination. Elendur drew his chair as close as he could, shaking in barely repressed excitement, while Ilmarë and Irissë preferred to flank Eluzîni on the other side of the table. Of the three women, Isildur could not help but notice that Irissë was the only one whose emotions could be read easily upon her features.

Anárion’s elder children had come to join them too. Faniel was unusually quiet, leaning on Lindissë, whose arm was around her sister’s shoulders and who seemed quite distraught. Next to them, Findis’ gaze darted back and forth, her eternal curiosity unfazed by the circumstances. Lastly, Tal Elmar did not take a seat, but he stood by Isildur’s side, arms crossed and without budging an inch. Some looks rested briefly on him, but nobody challenged his presence.

“You all know, as well as I do, that the end of Númenor is near”, the son of Elendil spoke, refusing to waste his time on unnecessary preambles. “We only felt the earth shake under our feet, but, in the West, many accounts speak of death and devastation, and this is merely the beginning. Even the merchants who do not believe in prophecies were aware that they had to flee the Island, and so should we. Father was having ships built that could cross the Great Sea before they came for him: I am trying to ascertain how many can already sail, and also how many seaworthy vessels are there in the harbour of Rómenna at this time. The more ships we find, the more people we can save.”

“I will not leave.” Her voice was firm and clear, with none of the expected signs of sorrow or irrationality, and for a moment Isildur could not tell if this was better or worse. “Not until your father returns.”

He took a deep breath.

“Mother, I understand your grief. But Father was taken before the King in Armenelos, the same King who declared war on the Valar and whose mind lay under the sway of the Deceiver. Even if by some strange miracle he managed to survive their wrath, and he escaped the ruin of Armenelos, an army lies between him and us now.”

“Isildur is right”, Anárion came to his aid. “Father is beyond our reach. We do not know if he is dead or alive, and even if we knew, we would not be able to rescue him or wait for his return, without his doom being visited upon us all.”

“I have been having a dream. Every single night, for the last three days”, Eluzîni continued, unfazed by their arguments. “In it, your father tells me that he fulfilled his promise to stay alive, and that now I have to fulfil mine and wait for him. None of you should risk your lives for my choice, but I will stay in Rómenna until he comes.”

“And so will I.” The voice, unexpectedly raised in the shocked gathering, belonged to Ilmarë. “I have the same dream, too.”

Her eyes fixed Isildur with a defiant glance, which he found himself unable to withstand as he began to realize the true import behind it. After waiting in vain for him to speak, Anárion decided to do it in his stead.

“Father did not have dreams. His feet were always firmly planted on the earth, and if he was here now, he would not let a vision which could be a figment of his imagination, or even just wishful thinking, interfere with his duty. He…” His voice betrayed the tiniest flicker of emotion, and Irimë hurried to lay a steadying hand on his shoulder. “He would have led our people to safety, and only after his task was done, he would allow himself to grieve.”

Just then, there was a knock by the door, and Isildur was almost glad to be forced to interrupt the argument. The men he had sent had returned, bearing mixed tidings. Only two of the ships they had commissioned could possibly sail by this point; as for the harbour, men bearing the Governor’s arms had just arrived from Sor, and been posted on the entrance with strict orders to keep watch over the ships. Isildur wondered belatedly what must be crossing the Governor’s mind to decide that ships were more important than holding a city and protecting its inhabitants.

While the messengers were there, Isildur’s family remained largely quiet, some paying attention, some unable to keep their attention focused on what they were saying. Now and then, his own gaze met that of his sister, who made no effort whatsoever to flee it. The more he looked at her, the more his innards turned into lead, and the less inclined he was to speak. At some point, he realized it was Anárion who had taken the initiative, questioning his interlocutors methodically until he was certain of every small detail.

Once they were finished, and Anárion was silent, every eye fell on Isildur. It was then that he knew that he could delay his decision no longer – and that it had already been made for him.

“Anárion, you will fill those ships with people unable to bear arms until there is no room left for more. You will also take the Tree and the heirlooms of our house there, and sail to the mainland straight away”, he ordered. “I will stay with those who can fight, take the harbour, and wait for Father there.”

Anárion stared at him as if he had gone insane. Isildur ignored him.

“All of you who are in this room will be going with him. Mother, Ilmarë, I hope you understand that there is no reason to risk your lives in addition to mine. You have my oath that I will not leave these shores until the lord of Andúnië returns; that should be enough for you.” He barely had the time to acknowledge his sister’s haughty nod, or her grim satisfaction for having entrapped him. While he was still talking, Tal Elmar stepped forwards, his eyes shining with a wild glint.

“I will stay with you.” Isildur opened his mouth, then closed it, and repressed a sigh. Another entrapment.

“Certainly.”

“And I will stay with you too, Father!” Elendur cried, his voice full of an almost painful enthusiasm. Isildur was going to refuse this request when, all of a sudden, he grew aware of the futility of his denial. Elendur was old enough, man enough to fight, as his son had been endeavouring to prove for some time now, but he was far from ready to rule anyone. If Isildur should die, Anárion had to be in charge – and now, his brother even had his own son to succeed him. Perhaps he had always been meant to be in this position, to come not just before Elendur but also before Isildur, the man whose feet had never been firmly planted on the earth, and whose hands were tied even now by the weight of his past mistakes, the cruel thought mocked him.

“Your skill in a fight will be welcome among us, Elendur”, he nodded, trying not to look in Irissë’s direction, and feeling as if he was lowering his body into the black gulf of his greatest fears. “You can stay.”

In the ruckus that ensued, however, it was not the outraged mother, but Anárion, who rose from his seat and covered the distance that separated them with a look of grim purpose in his eyes. As soon as he was within his reach, he asked Isildur for a private word, and proceeded to walk him to the neighbouring antechamber, where the sound of the arguing men and women was slightly dulled by the distance.

“You cannot stay here on this suicide mission, Isildur” he said, as soon as he had shut the door behind his back. His face was pale, and he seemed to have been suddenly possessed by a manic energy. “Mother and Ilmarë have clearly lost their minds due to grief, but there is no reason why you should follow their lead, or doom others with you. I will not –I cannot let you do this.”

Isildur sat down by the window, and shrugged.

“As I see it, there are two possibilities right now. If Father is alive, then he is the rightful lord of Andúnië, and we cannot abandon him. If he is dead, then I am the rightful lord of Andúnië, and you cannot oppose my decisions.” He leaned closer to his brother to lower his voice, feeling his pretence of flippancy desert him. “But if we both should die, then you will be able to make your own decisions. And if I am to be honest, I do not think that is the worst tragedy which could befall the house of Andúnië.”

Anárion’s antagonism was abruptly quenched by these words, like a burning log thrown into the waters of the Sea. He stared at Isildur for a while, in silence, as if he was at a loss as to what to make of him. Then, he shook his head.

“I do not want to make my own decisions. Not at this price”, he declared. Even though his brother’s emotions had always been understated, the truthfulness of this one impacted Isildur. A knot gathered in his throat. “Please, come with me, and abandon this madness.”

He is right. For the first time since he had seen him reflected in Ilmarë’s eyes, Isildur could see the ghost of Malik, towering above both of them. You should abandon me. I died long ago, Isildur, and my barbarian bones were fed to the flames. Neither I nor my humble bloodline should have a claim to the great lord of Andúnië’s loyalty.

“No, Anárion.” He swallowed deeply. “Even if you were right, and this was nothing but the madness of two women, the fact remains that there is no room in two ships for everyone. We should fight for the chance to save more people, and for that, those who would get in the way the most need to leave. This is simple battle strategy”, he explained. “And I am staying because I am the strongest commander.”

“In that case, you should leave without looking back, as soon as you laid hands on the first ship. You should not waste a single instant waiting for anyone, no matter who it is”, Anárion argued. “Father would never, ever agree to that.”

Isildur shook his head again.

“Father knew that dreams were real, even if he did not have them.” he retorted. “And if these ones are, he will have to find it in himself to be grateful to me for saving his life.” His brother opened his mouth, unconvinced, but Isildur anticipated the move and reacted fast. “Go. I have an army to prepare, and you have refugees to herd into the ships. There is no time left for arguments.” He stood up and rushed towards the doorstep, effectively declaring their conversation finished. As he crossed the threshold, however, he found himself stopping in his tracks for one last time. “Good luck, Anárion.”

His brother did not reply.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Once they were gathered in the council hall, the refugees were efficiently sorted out by Irimë, who picked the women, the children, and the old and infirm. She and her daughters proceeded to take them to the ships next, escorted by some of the armed men. As he watched their departure, Isildur saw that the sky had turned blood red, despite the fact that it should already be close to noon.

“Isildur”, a voice spoke behind him. Surprised, as he had been expecting Ilmarë, he found himself face to face with his mother. Despite the great commotion unfolding around them, and the danger they were in, she still looked as serene as she had during the previous reunion.

“Mother”, he greeted her. “You… should have left already.” He wondered if she was going to refuse after all –and, more to the point, what could he do about it if she did. But she did not look confrontational, either, and when her lips curved into a smile, he felt briefly transported to an almost forgotten childhood; a time when seeing this smile would ease all his nightmares and make him feel safe.

“Thank you, Isildur”, she said. “Anárion will never understand. He thinks I am a terrible mother, and that you will die for my delusions.” A small frown appeared on her forehead. “But they are not delusions. I know, as well as I know that you are standing before me now. I have never been so certain of anything in my life! He is alive, and he will be back.”

And she will be with him, Isildur thought, wishing he could share this blind trust that his dreams would never betray him.

“Anárion should know better than to blame you. I am the one who made the choice to remain here, and I made it for more than one reason.”

“And now, in exchange, we have to leave before we turn into a liability and a hindrance to him and his men. It is a fair deal, Mother, and we must respect it.” Ilmarë had crept in unnoticed, and her hand rested upon Eluzîni’s shoulder. She, too, seemed quite calm, though Isildur did not know what could give her the idea that her stubborn daughter would ever leave her abomination behind. “Go with Irissë and Anárion. I will join you in a moment.”

Eluzîni embraced Isildur, whispering in his ear that they would see each other soon, and departed. As they watched her receding form, Isildur believed Ilmarë to be waiting for her to walk out of earshot so she could speak freely to him, so he was surprised when she did not utter a word.

“Why did you stay, then?” he finally asked. His voice came out more brusquely than he had intended, but she did not flinch.

“Mother is very sure that this will turn out well”, she said at last. “It is the first time she has a prophetic dream, and she thinks the powers who send them are good and true. But I have to confess I am not so certain, and that I wear this mask solely for her benefit. Like you, I have cause to fear my dreams as much as I have cause to lay my hopes on them.”

“And yet you would sacrifice anything for the chance to save her. You would sacrifice yourself, and you would also sacrifice me”, Isildur concluded. She opened her mouth, but he did not let her talk. “I do not mind. For all these years, I have had a very heavy debt to pay, and its weight lies on me even now.”

At this, to his great shock, Ilmarë’s eyes were glazed with tears.

“If… if you bring her to me alive, Isildur, I will be the one in debt with you. Forever. A-and there will n-no longer be any ghosts between us, f-for as long as I live”, she sobbed. Not knowing very well what to do, how to respond to this, he nodded.

“Go with them”, he said, after she had calmed down. “And try to convince Irissë that I am sorry.” She had been acting quite clingy and weepy, trying to get Isildur and Elendur to change their minds, until Isildur had to claim he was needed in the armoury to get rid of her. He did not delude himself into believing that her tears were for him: they were for her son, and for her chances to bear another. Still, the fact that he had allowed Elendur to put himself in peril against her wishes gave him a sense of guilt that could not help but override his annoyance. After thinking long and hard about the situation, he had repented of involving his son in his earlier, self-destructive impulses, and sought for a compromise solution. This involved leaving Elendur in charge of the defence of the building instead of taking him on the assault to the harbour, and also getting him into the first ship they could dispatch to the mainland.

The afternoon went by between preparations, weapon distribution, training, and explorers being sent to check the enemy positions and the possibility of reinforcements coming through the road to Sor. Elendur did not want to stay behind, and the knowledge that Isildur could no longer send him with Anárion and the women made him bold and quite persistent in his complaints. In the end, it was Tal Elmar who dragged him away to talk to him; after that, he became more subdued and spoke little, though there was still a scowl upon his forehead.

As the hours went by, there were no more soldiers coming from Sor. Isildur had heard that the King had taken most men of arms with him on his expedition, leaving little for the Governor to work with, so perhaps it should not be surprising that, despite his notorious enmity towards the Faithful, the wretched man had been forced to send them to other places where they were needed more desperately. He wondered how would the rest of the Island look now: if the proudest and most powerful civilization in the world could truly have descended into chaos and disorder as easily as this. When thinking of the word ‘civilization’, what came to one’s mind was sculpture, painting, architecture, poetry or music. It was never armed men, and yet, ironically, it was the absence of the latter what was causing Númenor to spiral out of control.

In Rómenna, the remaining townspeople had been too scared at first to oppose the Faithful who took over their council. They had not emerged when Isildur captured their representatives, or when he set men on the road leading into the city. As the hours went by, however, and it started dawning in their minds that the Governor was not coming to their rescue, and that his men did not move from the gates of the harbour and remained deaf to their requests, they started growing restless, and it did not take long for the first riot to erupt. Isildur realized that, unless they launched their attack now, the opposition would only grow stronger and stronger. He dispatched several emissaries to the soldiers in the harbour, offering them to negotiate a surrender, but no reply was sent.

“We should not be wasting our time with words. The best we can do now is to strike hard and fast”, Tal Elmar argued. Some of the men loyal to the house of Andúnië were starting to look askance at this barbarian who raised his voice in their councils, despite the fact that he had been the only one brave enough to organize the rescue party when most were too paralyzed to act. But Tal Elmar’s gaze was fiery, and he did not even appear to notice the hostility.

“They are better armed than we are, and have more combat experience than most of us. The result of that strike would be uncertain, and if we fail, we will not be able to hold Rómenna for long”, one of those men spoke up now. “Perhaps we should be bargaining with what remains of the town council, who lie in our power as we speak. Some of them used to be sympathetic to our cause, though they were too cowardly to oppose their more powerful colleagues.”

“We have no time for that”, Tal Elmar said with a frown. The man stood up, incensed.

“Of course. What would a wild barbarian know about bargaining?”

“Perhaps I should have bargained with the Governor for the release of your lords”, Isildur’s lover replied, without skipping a beat. “As I suppose you were doing while I rescued them.”

“How dare you…!”

“Easy, now”, Isildur interrupted the argument before it could grow uglier. “You have all made fine points, but I think Tal Elmar is right in this. We cannot hold our position for long, and we need to strike fast.”

Nobody dared question his judgement, though he could see that some feathers were still ruffled, and he mentally added the growing restlessness of those around him to the reasons why his decision was the only right one.

“Any word on the lord of Andúnië?” he asked, as he stood up at the end of the meeting. The answer, just like all the previous times he had ventured the same question, was negative. Perhaps the women had been delusional, after all.

After the orders had been given, he retreated to prepare himself for the battle. When he entered the rooms he had claimed as his own, Tal Elmar was already there, awaiting his arrival.

“We will win” he said. Isildur snorted.

“Are you a seer, too? I thought that those in my family were already enough to get me killed.”

“If your gods are powerful enough to make the earth tremble and the sky burn, they can also give you victory” Tal Elmar replied, advancing towards him with Narsil in his hands. Isildur had forgotten it was there; for some reason, he had assumed that Anárion had taken it with the rest of the heirlooms. His breath caught on his throat when he realized he would be expected to fight with it.

“It would not be the first time I lead my men into disaster” he admitted, laying hands on the sword. But Tal Elmar did not let go; instead, he held on to it and levelled Isildur with a hard look.

“And yet you have no choice. Let me tell you something, Isildur. You and your people cannot bear the idea of defeat, but I know everything about it. My father’s people had to live with it every day. That is why they learned long ago not to see it in terms of guilt, or bravery, or good or bad judgement. Instead, they spoke of bad luck. If your luck was bad, you were doomed, and there was nothing you could do about it, no matter how brave or mighty or clever you were, because the gods were against you.” Suddenly, his lips curved into a smile. “But your luck is good. In the mainland, when you were about to suffer defeat, you were saved. When you were captured by the Governor’s men, I made a plan to rescue you, and it worked. The Guards in the porch believed in your bluff, though they could have called you on it. Now, you would never have taken Rómenna if all those soldiers had not been deployed, or the Council had not fled. There was never a warrior of Agar whose luck was so bountiful, and that is why I know that we will win.”

Unable to care that anyone could burst in without knocking, Isildur covered the distance that separated him from Tal Elmar, and claimed his mouth in a rough kiss. As he retreated from him, gasping for breath, he could feel a welcome fire burning in his innards at last.

“To battle, then”, he said, grabbing the sword with a much firmer grip.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Nobody tried to stop them, or oppose their advance as their column progressed through the streets towards the harbour. Still, there were many faces gazing down from the windows, half-hidden behind lattices and curtains, spying upon their progress. Isildur refused to think of what might happen to Elendur, barricaded in the building of the town council with only a handful of men, if they should fail to return. Tal Elmar had said that he was a lucky man, and he would have to trust in the barbarian’s comfort.

While he was still at their base, Isildur had studied the harbour plan very carefully, and came up with a plan of sorts. Their main force would launch a frontal attack on the enemy, while a minor force composed of fishermen who could swim would get into the water and head straight for the ships. This manoeuvre would hopefully draw enough soldiers away as to increase their chances.

Those soldiers, however, were some of the most disciplined and skilled that remained on the Island, and it was evident that, like Isildur, many of them had fought beyond the Sea. They defended their position fiercely, did not leave any openings, and when they grew aware of the second force, they did not send any of their men after them, correctly assessing their level of threat. Isildur saw some of his best men fall around him, and barely avoided a strike to his arm and another to his face. Near him, as he had made a point of honour not to lose sight of him, Tal Elmar was also at difficulty. Behind the blur that covered his eyes, Isildur saw him on his fours in the ground, crawling with surprising agility in an attempt to retrieve his lost sword, and dodging one enemy after another.

Suddenly, just when he was beginning to think that their deaths could be at hand, the sound of galloping hooves reached Isildur’s ears. Wondering if he was going mad, he froze. Before him, his opponent froze as well, a split second before he was speared by a mounted man. All around him, Isildur saw more horses joining the fray, and pursuing his retreating enemies. Shaking his shock and confusion away, he shouted at his men to regroup and fight, until his voice died at the sight that offered itself to his eyes.

It was Elendil. His father, taller than ever on his horse, giving orders not to pursue those who fled, and instructing some of the men to take care of the wounded while others moved on to seize the ships. Soon, his eyes fell on his elder son’s dumbfounded expression.

“Mother was right. You were alive”, was the only thing that occurred to Isildur at that moment. Elendil nodded matter-of-factly, as if escaping the clutches of Sauron and the destruction of a city was something he did every day.

“And if I had arrived later, you might not be” he said. Isildur wanted to argue, to tell him that they had to act fast, that they had no way of knowing that any reinforcements would arrive –that he would arrive. But the words did not come, and it was Elendil who broke the silence again. “Elendur told me everything. He is coming this way now, with what remains of the city council, the citizens of Rómenna, and everybody else who wants to take ship with us. Fíriel is there, too.” Isildur’s heart stilled, and somewhere beyond the haze of his mind, he could see Malik’s smile dissolve into the evening mist. “The Governor has fled the Island, so we should not expect any more trouble from Sor. And yet, the danger we are in is more pressing than ever, so we must hurry.”

“Yes, Father”, Isildur nodded. Belatedly, he grew aware of what he was holding, and tried frantically to wipe the blood away from the blade before he handed it to Elendil. “This… this is your sword.”

“Thank you, Isildur”, the lord of Andúnië replied, holding it by the hilt and giving him a long, grave nod before he rode away. Still unable to react properly, Isildur just watched him depart.

“I told you.” Tal Elmar struggled back to his feet, and Isildur realized that there was blood on the barbarian’s mouth. Instinctively, he raised his hand to wipe it. Had he bitten an enemy? “Your good luck is strong.”

Isildur sighed.

“Or my father’s good luck is strong, and my survival is but a part of it”, he corrected with a frown. Some of the soldiers who had ridden into battle with Elendil did not come from Sor, but from Armenelos; somehow, they had left their appointed posts there to follow a prisoner across the Island and fight under his orders. What on Earth had happened in the West? “Let us go.”

Tal Elmar shrugged, as if the point was irrelevant to him, and followed him in silence.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

The Council room was still empty when she entered it. Ivory chairs lay across the floor in pieces, and the painted ceiling had caved in on the left side, scattering its debris everywhere. Ar Zimraphel had to wade through all those obstacles to reach the throne, the only seat left standing in this place, and sit on it. While she waited, she grasped the armrests with both hands, and closed her eyes to watch the evolution of the multi-coloured fish, staring in gaping indifference at the splendour of a dead civilization whose intricacies and follies they were not equipped to understand. The more she gazed into their vitreous, opaque eyes, the more the air seemed to trickle out of her lungs, until she found herself gasping for it.

It will not be long now, sister, the black-haired child said, laying a comforting hand on hers. Soon, we will be reunited at last.

Finally, the gates flew open with a loud bang, and they began filing in, one after another. There was a couple of opportunistic courtiers, too cowardly to oppose him and too foolish to flee; high commanders of the Palace Guard, looking strong and grim; priests from the New Temple and, of course, the finest of the house of Orrostar flanking the Princess, whose swollen belly had turned into the miraculous vessel for the future King. At their head, he stood taller than he had ever wished to appear before Pharazôn while he was trying to convince the unfortunate King of his weakness – and yet, in the middle of his triumph, she knew him to be weaker than ever.

“We have come to relieve you of the Sceptre, my Queen”, he spoke, managing to sound both stern and regretful. “Your husband, the King, has brought great ruin upon Númenor with his foolish enterprise, and the fate of the Island now stands upon the brink.”

“It does”, Ar Zimraphel nodded, with an eerie calm. “Can you save it, Lord Zigûr?”

“I believe I can, but it will not be easy”, he replied, blind, blind, blind, her brother laughed in her ear with boyish mirth.

“Then by all means, save it. I will not stand in your way, or hinder you in your noble endeavours.”

“Truly? That is a remarkable disposition, my lady, but perhaps you should give us some solid proof of it. We have been trying to locate the Prince of the West, but he is nowhere to be found” the lord of Orrostar intervened, quickly losing his remaining compunctions at the sight of her helplessness, and her meek acceptance of their treason. “We need you to tell us where he is, so we can ensure his safety in the turmoils to come.”

“Out of your reach”, she replied, still in the same tone. Zigûr set his eye on her, and for a moment she could feel it burn her mind to the core, but she did not flinch. “I sent him to the mainland with Lord Elendil.”

For the first time, the Princess of the West emerged from her self-satisfied daydream to look agitated at this information.

“You know, as well as I do, that your son cannot survive in the mainland, my Queen. He needs the protection of the Great Deliverer”, Zigûr said, his eye scrutinizing her again in search of one of the many pieces which had always escaped him. “Unstable as you are, you would never have sent your own child to his death.”

Ar Zimraphel shrugged. So he had been using the old rumours about the daughter of Tar Palantir being a madwoman, hadn’t he?

“He has always been dead, Zigûr. Any mother would prefer her son to breathe his last as a free man, rather than to face the fate that awaited him in your clutches.” His eyes widened, and she realized he had come upon something unexpected.

“You are lying.” You know something, his voice ran through her mind, like a snake crawling inside her skin. Tell me, or you will die in terrible pain.

Ar Zimraphel chuckled, knowing that this would only enrage him further.

“And how come I can lie to an all-powerful creature, great in wisdom, and older than the foundations of the earth? Perhaps I am not the only one who is lying here.”

This time, his grasp on her thoughts was so virulent that she would have fallen, if she had not been holding to her chair.

You were never a match for me, you deluded mortal. Like with the King, I merely let you believe that you were. Now, tell me what you have seen or your fate will be much worse than his.

But Zimraphel no longer remembered what it was to feel fear, or even uncertainty. The day she had realized that she could control the horrors creeping in the darkness around her, that she could face her destiny, learn to embrace it, and deal with it in her own terms, she had become a new brand of monster, less evident but more formidable than the mad girl who hid in the shadows. That monster had learned to stand on the peak of the Meneltarma and see the world and its people like a swarm of ants crawling under her feet, and yet she had never been allowed to forget the roaring waters that rose to take her in the end. She had died that death every single day, every single night; a goddess painfully sculpted by the chisel of her own mortality.

And he was the opposite of her, she realized. He, an immortal whose mind was once able to penetrate the greatest mysteries of Creation even as it unfolded, had been persuaded that he could use his power to change the world at will and carve himself a fate of his choice. This had made him blind to the truths he could not accept, to the developments he believed, in his heart of hearts, that he could avoid, or reshape at will. To the laws he considered himself no longer subject to.

This contradiction between immense power and infinite contemptibleness made her feel sorry for him. Detecting this pity, he retreated at once, fury battling with the first stirrings of an impossible fear.

“You are mad. You were always mad, and you would have been locked away in Alissha’s tower if not for your husband’s protection.” It was the voice of the Princess Ûriphel, almost incongruously out of place in the middle of this silent battle. “The Former King tried to do it, but you killed him first. Everybody knows it, but they were too afraid to speak the truth aloud until now.”

Ar Zimraphel did not have much time to waste on this sad girl, yet another soul twisted by the demon into a mockery of his own image.

“Ah, Ûriphel. If only you had revealed your pregnancy sooner and gone to him for help, you silly child! My foolish son would have insisted in taking you to the mainland with him, and you would have lived, as little as you deserved it. But you will die now, and your abomination with you”, she said, watching in satisfaction how the Princess flinched in sudden terror and sought for Zigûr’s eyes in vain. “Zigûr, you deceived my husband into believing your lies. By telling him that he could master his own fate, you succeeded in blinding him to the fate that truly awaited him. But the greatest irony is that he who taught this to you did it to you first, and he made you as blind as Ar Pharazôn the Golden ever was.”

The world exploded in a thousand shards of pain, and Ar Zimraphel fell, crushed against the armrest she had been holding to. Zigûr advanced a step in her direction, his fiery eye gleaming with the promise of death.

“Arrest her”, he ordered the Guards. At that precise moment, a deep rumble reached their ears, and the ground started shaking again. Suddenly, a crack was formed below the stairs, and the floor burst open, creating a widening chasm between her and the others. One of the guards who was advancing towards her fell backwards; the other was precipitated down the abyss with a scream of terror. The courtiers, nobles and priests stared at their surroundings, paralyzed, while the Princess shrieked, and Zigûr was forced to let go of his hold on the Queen’s mind.

Ar Zimraphel stood up laughing, and hurried across the King’s entrance a second before the ceiling collapsed on them.