Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Epilogue: New Beginnings

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The public gathered in the ornate women’s banqueting hall was clearly enjoying the feast. All the Arnian ladies had let go of their veils and their dignity for a while, to drink their fill of colourful concoctions where the sweet and refreshing taste of fruit juices masked the presence of alcohol. From the oldest grandmother to the youngest maiden, everyone was laughing at the spectacle of the Númenórean-style comical dancer who had been hired to entertain them that evening, and exchanging barrages of words in rapid Arnian. When the lady of the house excused herself for a moment, they nodded politely, and waved at her departing form with a chorus of wishes for her prompt return.

“Not long ago, those cows would have killed themselves before admitting that they knew me”, the Lady Zama whispered to Fíriel, her painted lips curving in a crooked smile. “Now, my husband is head of the Council, and my cousin and foster sister is descended from the Queen in a straight female line of descent, the way old-school Arnians like it. And, look! all of a sudden, they are all lining at my doorstep to ask favours from me. Did you see the old lady in the corner, the one who got drunk after her first glass? Yesterday morning, she came to my house and refused to budge until I had secured the honour of standing on the front row of the coronation for her son!”

“Did you tell her that this had nothing whatsoever to do with you?” Fíriel asked. Just as she had imagined, Zama shook her head, scandalized.

“Of course not! Do you want them to think I am not worth knowing again? Now, the front row was out of the question, but I managed to convince her that, among the Arnians, none but the council members would stand before him. Once she cooled off, she had to admit it was a good deal. If she asks, please tell her that all the Númenóreans who are given precedence are related to you, too.”

Fíriel raised an eyebrow. The new order had been established fast, perhaps a little too fast, according to some in her own family. The influential members of the nobility who had conspired with Anárion had rushed to act as soon as the ships of the Faithful emerged from the wreckage of the Island. Once they realized that their pay was not guaranteed anymore, the mercenaries hired by the Governor had sided with those who could produce money on the spot, and murdered their former employer. Elendil still smelled of salt when the newly-formed Council of Arne had come to lay the dusty crown of their former kings at his feet. According to them, a stash of ancient documents had been found, proving irrefutably that the famous prince of Númenor who slept with an Arnian princess to give birth to their royal line had, in fact, belonged to the house of Andúnië. Fíriel’s grandfather had thanked them, reverently picked up that strange barbarian contraption that looked like some sort of helmet with wings, and promised that he would accept it in due time and with the proper ceremony. Tomorrow, he would be finally fulfilling this promise, and yet the more Fíriel learned about Arnian society through Zama, the more she felt that this union of peoples was built on a large share of misunderstandings –some accidental, but others purposeful.

The foremost of those misunderstandings, Fíriel thought, was the idea that Elendil wanted to be the successor of Xaris the Fourth as king of Arne. He accepted the responsibility those people had thrust upon him –without losing sight of the fact that, as Irimë had been heard saying, to receive a title of kingship, even bestowed by barbarians, would not hurt his legitimacy among the Númenóreans-, but it was far from the only responsibility weighing upon his mind. The Faithful of Númenor, his people, were scattered across the continent from the Middle Havens to the Poros. The Elves would not help him hold the North forever, and even much closer to their current location, things had already grown uglier than he would have desired. When the astonishing news of the sinking of the Island had reached Pelargir, it had done so with a bloody trail of civil strife following in its wake. Shaking themselves free from the fear that Númenor had enforced upon them for decades, even believing the end of the world to be at hand, the downtrodden majority of Faithful had braved the swords of the mercenaries and broken into the rich villas of the Merchant Princes, looting and killing as they went. Isildur had been sent to re-establish some semblance of order to this chaos, which had mostly been achieved by giving the surviving non-Faithful the opportunity to take ship for Umbar, confiscating their riches, and promising the Faithful that they would be used to take care of their needs. He had been provisionally invested with the title of Magistrate, with Elendil as his colleague, but deep inside they all knew that this office no longer held any meaning after the Sceptre every magistrate in Númenor derived his authority from had sunk under the waves. All the tribes who had individually sworn allegiance to the Sceptre had now been freed from their oath as well, and if Elendil did not move decisively and fast, if he grew too comfortable within the confines of his new Arnian kingdom, soon they would have enemies crawling out of every hole. And –this had been pointed out by Irimë, too- the Númenóreans were no longer so numerous, their fortresses no longer so unassailable, that they could afford to remain scattered and disunited in a hostile world.

In the small hours of the night, the politically-minded of the family stayed awake, searching their minds for all the things that could keep the Númenóreans united and their allies firmly on their side after the disaster that wiped their capital, their Sceptre and their kingdom off the face of Earth. One of those things was the bloodline of Elros, of which Elendil was an illustrious scion, though the last King among his forebears –prophetically enough named Tar Elendil- had lived thousands of years ago. Another was their faith, which would require the house of Andúnië to relinquish their dynastical claims to the Númenórean settlements and possessions in the South. But that was almost a foregone conclusion: even though its garrison had been diminished by Ar Pharazôn’s mobilisation, they would never be powerful enough to take the Second Wall.

A third element they were rather hesitant to discuss in her presence, but which was closely related to the second, was hatred. Every Faithful Númenórean in the mainland had suffered persecution at some point of their lives. Most refugees had lost everything they possessed, and many had also lost loved ones. In this, they could also relate to the barbarians, who had been oppressed, enslaved, if not downright hunted in their own lands. The names of Ar Pharazôn and Ar Zimraphel were curses in all their tongues, and everyone had rejoiced at their deaths as if the Dark Enemy of the World had been vanquished, to the point of weaving terrible stories around their mysterious end to make it an even more satisfying memory. Now that Heaven had thrown its wrath at the impious tyrants, punishing them for their sins, only a pale reminder of their power remained in the South, unable to threaten their lives any longer- at least for the time being.

“You look very pensive”, Zama interrupted her musings. Fíriel almost gave a jump. “Could it be that you are having second thoughts? To be honest, I would welcome such news.”

“Your husband is head of the Council of Arne”, Fíriel said, bemused. “Your status will remain high regardless of my presence here.”

Zama looked offended.

“It is you I am worried about! Middle-Earth is very large, and very dangerous. Here, you could have safety, and a high position with everything that comes with it: nice dresses, servants, and as much food and drink as you want!” she argued. Her cousin had to try hard not to smile at this: despite spending many years as a high lady of Arne, underneath the thin veneer of glamour Zama would always remain a peasant girl at heart.

“I know. But to be frank, I have had my fill of all those things. I spent years eating and drinking fine food and wearing fine dresses while the Palace servants addressed me as lady and bowed to me, and well protected by the four walls of the same room I saw every day of my life. Now that those four walls no longer exist, the last thing I want is to exchange them for others. I want to breathe in the open air, even if it kills me.”

“Bullshit.” And all the fancy language she had learned had been in the Arnian tongue, it seemed. “You just don’t want him to go alone.”

“Well, that too”, Fíriel admitted. Zama sighed.

“I will never understand how you could fall in love with him. But given that you did, your family could find a way to keep him here. After all, your grandfather will be the King tomorrow.”

“It’s more complicated than it looks.” Which was quite an understatement, she thought in some bitterness. Her grandfather had sworn to protect Gimilzagar, but that oath was not likely to do him any favours on the long run. The Prince of the West possessed the rare ability of being a hindrance to every single plan to bring the Númenóreans and their allies together. While he lived, Elendil would be hard pressed to justify any kingship over the survivors of the Island based on a blood claim, a matter which could grow very serious the moment the Southern Númenóreans heard of the legitimate King’s survival. His role as Gimilzagar’s protector, on the other hand, threw a shadow over his status as leader of the Faithful, who still saw Ar Pharazôn’s son as an abomination and the spawn of those who had defied the Valar. And of course, neither the Númenóreans nor the barbarians would be able to rally around a common enemy as long as he was standing in their midst, let alone bedding their King’s granddaughter. For now, he had remained hidden from view -and away from her bed-, but that situation could not last long, and once his identity became common knowledge, strife would inevitably break anew. There could be attempts on his life, even wars waged for his sake. And no matter what the outcome was, in the end, Fíriel would lose him.

Elendil knew all this, of course. Still, he was too noble to go back on his word to a dead woman, which was why Gimilzagar had been forced to make the decision for him. This had proved a frightening experience, for he had never made a decision about his own life before, and, as he confessed to Fíriel, this freedom was not as rosy as it had once appeared in his imagination. Wherever they went, there would always be multiple dangers waiting to assail them. Still, the more they planned their ‘escape’, which would take place while everyone was busy with the coronation ceremony, the more engrossed he grew in the tales and descriptions of the lands they would cross. As he spoke about them, she had caught a gleam in his eye, that bore witness to a deep, hidden yearning to break the shackles that still kept him chained to the cruel joke his previous existence had been.

Despite this adventurous mood which had seized him, however, the map they had used to discuss their route was no less full of dark spots for it. Khelened, who had declared herself too old to travel anymore, had warned them against going to Khand –according to her, they would never survive it-, and both Harad and the Northern coasts were teeming with Númenóreans. The territories that lay farther inland to the North and East looked more promising, Gimilzagar claimed, even those inhabited by other races who had stayed out of Men’s way for centuries, and whom Elendil was planning to entice into future alliances. They would also have some help in their journey: two Arnian guides recommended by Zama, and an unemployed mercenary they had hired as a bodyguard through her husband’s contacts. In their company, they would pretend to be a merchant couple on their way to sell their merchandise, which would provide Gimilzagar with the chance to finally become Abdazer, son of Eshmounazer, the wishful alter ego he had made for himself in his childhood.

“Tell my mother that I am sorry. That I had no choice but to do this. Will you?”

“I will do nothing of the sort!” Zama shook her head, horrified. “If she learns that I was involved in this, she will blame me. I am an Arnian noblewoman now, and my duty is to advance my house, not to become a personal enemy of the Princess Ilmarë!”

Fíriel’s eyes widened.

“I… see why you might think that”, she began, cautiously. “But she will understand. I know her well enough by now as to be certain that she will.”

“That does not mean she will not take her frustration out on the messenger. I do not know her as well as you do, but highborn people do this all the time, both in Númenor and in Arne”, Zama retorted. Fíriel opened her mouth to reply hotly, then closed it as her cousin’s point sunk in. Perhaps she should not be so fast to blame her for just being cautious.

“Fine. I will give you some advice before I go. If you wish to advance your house, it is the Princess Irimë you should approach”, she said, finally breaking her pensive silence. “Do not ask me why, how, or in what capacity, but she will be the one running things here for the foreseeable future. And if your role in this should ever be discovered, she will protect you, because she knows better than anyone that we cannot stay here for a day longer. In fact, she was the one who arranged all our meetings so we could make our plans, and she will also be the one helping us to get away from the Palace tomorrow without being seen.”

“Oh.” Zama looked relieved at this. “Then she will be blamed, not me.”

“Exactly.” Fíriel smiled. “Well, it is getting late now, and tomorrow will be an eventful day. I think I will call it a night, and set you free so you can return to your feast, and have fun with your adoring clique of petitioners.” The smile grew warmer, and she began to feel a knot forming in her throat at the dawning awareness of the fact that they might never see each other again. “I… am so glad to have been given the opportunity to meet you once more, little sister.”

Zama’s eyes grew a little misty at this. She looked away to hide it; an affectation she had picked up from the Arnians.

“I am glad to have met you, too. And not only because you brought the clique of petitioners to my house.” Her embrace was warm and smelled of expensive perfume, but underneath it, Fíriel fancied she could still catch a hint of the fresh grass of Rómenna. Their home, now buried for ever under the waves. “Have a good journey, and please be very careful.”

Fíriel disentangled herself from her, swallowing a sob.

“Do not worry, I will be.”

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

The moment he saw the citadel of Arne disappear behind the horizon, Gimilzagar had experienced a bout of fear, mixed with a tentative exhilaration. He felt just like when he was a child in the beaches of Rómenna, and he bypassed the vigilance of his strict nurse and bodyguards to run ahead without looking back, drunk with the intoxicating taste of freedom. But that freedom had been an illusion, the dream of a boy unable to break the invisible chains that tied him to the altar, to the monster who appraised his every move with calculating eyes, or even to his father’s misguided expectations. Now, it was real, which made it infinitely sweeter- and infinitely more dangerous.

“Arnian barges are not the fastest transport in the world, are they?” Fíriel was squirming a little too much, her eyes fixed on the Anduin with impatience. Gimilzagar pulled her close.

“Do not worry. From what I have been able to gather, an Arnian coronation is quite the thing. By the time the new royal family manage to break free from the protocols, we could be in Rhûn already.” He sobered abruptly. “Though perhaps you should be hoping we get caught. You had a bright future and a loving family in Arne, and instead you are on the road with me, disguised as a common merchant’s wife.”

Fíriel raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, but I am quite common. I only disguised myself as a lady for your sake. Now, I would have needed to do it for their sake.”

Gimilzagar was not distracted by this.

“I am being serious.”

“And I am being serious, too!”, she retorted. “Listen to me: I never, in my wildest dreams, expected you to live. In spite of that, I would have given anything, anything at all! to be able to hold you in my arms for another year, even for another day beyond our allotted time. When the world was sinking around us, all I could think about was the Deceiver’s words to me, when he cornered me in that fountain of the Palace and claimed I was being kept to sacrifice myself for you. I would have done it, Gimilzagar.” His eyes widened. “But it would have been an act of sheer selfishness, for I counted the one who departed this world first as the more fortunate of the two.”

“Do not say that. Do not even think that”, he pleaded, shaking his head. “The Deceiver is gone, and all his lies and manipulations lie with him in the bottom of the Sea. All he ever wanted was to scare you away from me, so I would no longer have the strength to resist his attempts to turn me into a puppet ruler to replace my father.” And she had never even been the intended sacrifice, though the truth of how he had broken free of Zigûr’s snare was a secret that she ignored to this day. Ar Zimraphel had never told her because she knew that both Zigûr and Gimilzagar himself could read her mind –and once his mother was dead, Gimilzagar had still not found it in his heart to reveal the truth to anybody.

“All I want is for you to understand that you could be headed to wrestle lions in the desert of Harad, and I still would have chosen to go with you.” Her hand caressed the side of his face softly, and he could feel her gaze on him, examining every detail and line, every imperfection in a way which had become familiar to him since they sailed away from the Island. The grey eyes brimmed with wonder, as if she was a pilgrim of the Cave witnessing a miracle.

“Lions are not the worst thing out there.”

“I can’t believe you. Are you chickening out now that the plan is already in motion?” She frowned in reproach, though soon her brow cleared. “Middle-Earth cannot be as savage as they make it to be. A lot of merchants travel for business: if they all died on the way, they would have felt the urge to rethink their livelihood at some point.”

“Those merchants are neither legitimate Kings nor abominations in disguise. I…” Gimilzagar’s voice trailed away as she kissed him again, and again, and then again. An effective way to silence me, he continued in her mind, before her hands went downwards and this, too, dissolved into incomprehensibility.

A moment later, she pulled away, leaving him cold and bereft. He whimpered, but she merely laughed, taking his hand in hers and guiding him through the narrow stairs that gave access to the privacy of the small cargo hold.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

That night, as he lay under a blanket beneath the stars, she came to him again. He had not told anyone this either, but after his soul had been freed from the darkness, Gimilzagar had felt more than the warmth of life creeping back into his limbs. A torrent of visions had cascaded into his mind as well, and they had made him feel as lost and disoriented as a blind man suddenly able to see the world around him. Because that is what you were, my child, she had whispered, a blind man, scrambling to catch some tatters of the visions which should have been his heritage, but were stolen from him on the day of his birth.

His first impulse had been to say that he did not want such a heritage; that he could not take it. But she had been with him, and little by little, like a patient mother teaching her child to say his first words, she had shown him how to find the important threads, and form patterns with them. When he lay overwhelmed by the weight of his impending choice to stop clinging to the illusion of material safety, and plunge into the abyss of the unknown, she had returned to help him, over and over again. And, though her guiding hand had not dissipated his fears, she had gradually put faces on them, and he had discovered that this made them less haunting and a little more manageable.

The first decision you need to make, she had told him, the most important of them all, is whether you wish to enter history, or disappear from it. The Southern Númenóreans had already been informed by their spies about his existence, and soon, they would also know of his departure, and the new royal family’s attempts to find him. Mercenaries, spies, tribesmen and bounty hunters of all kinds would search for him in every road, hoping to receive the generous reward promised by the Merchant Princes of Umbar for his safe delivery. Once he was taken to their city, he would hold the newly-minted Sceptre as Ar Gimilzagar the Exile, King of the Middle-Earth Númenóreans, and they would use him as a weapon to destroy the usurpers from Andúnië. But if Elendil’s men found him first, and he was brought back to Arne, their heralds would cross the Poros with pressing demands for the return of the King, and once they were denied, the result would still be the same. The flames of war would flare high at the most critical time for their survival, and the seedlings of Númenor would perish before they grew strong roots on the soil of this new land.

Disappearing from history, however, could mean nothing but a cruel death in the shadows, unknown and unmourned. Bandits awaited to slit their throats, and roaming packs of Orcs who had forgotten their master, but not his evil. Others, the enemies of his father, would choose to follow the lead of the Merchant Princes, and set a price – this time on his head. And if they fell into the hands of one of the many peoples with grievances against the Sceptre of Númenor, they could not hope to find mercy.

It is impossible, Mother, he spat, in a moment of desperation. We will never make it.

Ssssh, she crooned, her lips curving in the enigmatic smile he had used to find so infuriating. There is a way. You opened it yourself, though you may not remember it. But if you seek your past, you will find it.

This riddle had been in his mind for many days, taunting him with its deceptive difficulty. As much as he thought about it, he did not remember opening anything in his past. All he had done while he lay in Ar Pharazôn and Zigûr’s shadow had been closing doors, severing ties, and burning bridges. Tonight, however, as he lay with the memories of Fíriel’s hands roaming through his body still fresh on his mind, he suddenly stumbled upon something – and, as he did, his mind was flooded by visions of the new future, frightening yet hopeful, that could lay in waiting for them.

“They swear this is the abomination, but he does not look like much.” The man delivered a sharp kick to his side, and Gimilzagar groaned. A few paces away, from the place where she had been tied up, Fíriel was screaming abuse at them. “He looks like a common Númenórean weasel to me. I hope his memory is good enough to solve the problem for us.”

The words were spoken in a barbarian language, but by now he had had ample chance to hone the subtle skill of guessing at the meaning of every word by finding it in their minds. They were waiting for a man; someone they respected and who, they believed, knew him well enough to tell him apart from other Númenóreans. Gimilzagar wondered who it could be.

“Oh, there he is” the first man said. Immediately, Gimilzagar struggled to raise his head and look at him, but he received a second kick, more painful than the first. “You stay down, dog.”

He did not dare lift an inch of his body again, but from the corner of his eye, he managed to catch a glimpse of the kneeling man. The shock of the unexpected sight left him paralyzed.

Akahathzin’s burned face was staring back at him. As he gazed at him, and extended a hand to grab his chin, ostensibly to have a closer look at his features, he looked as shaken as he was.

Please, he spoke in the barbarian’s mind. The former interpreter flinched, and belatedly Gimilzagar remembered how much he had feared that particular trick of his. I saved your life.

Akahatzin was unnerved. Pretending to need an even closer look, he knelt by his side, and whispered in his ear.

“What do you want me to tell them? These are my people, my kin and my family, and we have close alliances with many tribes in this region.  I know who you are, and I know that you need to kill others to stay alive.”

“Not any longer”, he whispered back. “You must believe me. Please. I can prove it to you. If I was ever good to you, let me prove it.”

Akahatzin frowned, thinking hard. Then, he looked up, and addressed the men who awaited his judgement expectantly.

“I am not sure. He looks somewhat like him, but many years have gone by since I was a slave in the Island.”

“Well, if you are not sure, then we should kill him just in case.”

“No! He might be an innocent merchant!”, he objected. Given the respectful silence that ensued, Gimilzagar guessed that this man’s objections carried a lot of weight in his community. “The Abomination could not survive unless the souls of men and women were sacrificed for his sake. Let us keep him imprisoned for a year, away from his source of nourishment, and see if he lives. If he does, we will set him free with our apologies. If he does not, we will have our revenge, because his agony will be long and terrible.” You still have the chance to plead guilty and settle for a less painful death, was his unspoken challenge, but Gimilzagar nodded.

“Y-yes, please. I will do it. I will submit to anything you want.”

Akahathzin shrugged. Aside from his burns, he was a very different man from the one who had sailed from Númenor all those years ago. Age was beginning to show upon his features, but in spite of that, he looked stronger and more confident than Gimilzagar would have believed possible for a cowering slave who never met his eye. A leader of people.

“We will provide for your wife in the meantime. She will live in my own home, and my wife will take care of her.” As if in a dream, he saw Rini, also older yet still retaining vestiges of the once otherworldly looks that turned her into a Númenórean prince’s concubine, advancing towards Fíriel. The men who were on her way stood aside as if for a queen, and one offered her a knife with which she cut the other woman’s ropes.

After they were gone, the barbarians led Gimilzagar to his prison. His background had led him to expect some dark dungeon, though this mountain village was nothing like the former city of Armenelos, and the houses were all made of wood and straw. Instead, he found himself inside something more similar to a hen coop. Taciturn guards who avoided his eye were set to keep watch over him, and slowly, as one day took the place of another, he grew resigned to his fate. Three times a day, a new guard came to relieve his comrade; three times a day, too, they brought him food and emptied his urinal. Fíriel was allowed to visit after Rini made clear that she was to have freedom of movement, and that she had her absolute trust. They pressed against the wooden bars to steal kisses, to touch each other, gradually losing whatever shreds of Númenórean modesty they might have kept from a time of grand palaces, sprawling gardens and private rooms. A few weeks in, half-moved and half-amused at their behaviour, his guardians even let her in so they could make love, and he did not remember having experienced stronger sensations in all his lifetime.

One day, four months after they were caught, she entwined her fingers with his, pressed her lips harder than ever against his mouth, and announced that she was pregnant with his child. Gimilzagar could not even make sense of the words at first. For all those years, he had thought himself unable to create life, unless by the same twisted methods through which he had come into the world. Now, though the intellectual part of his brain was aware that the curse was lifted, he did not dare believe in this luck.

As another month went by, however, the curve in Fíriel’s belly was undeniable. Rini certified it before the women of her people, and the decision was made to free Gimilzagar from his prison, for no abomination could ever bear child.

“How could this happen?” the former Pearl of the North inquired by way of her husband, as she laid a plate of food before him the evening of his release. Gimilzagar had never been so hungry, even though they could not be accused of starving him. “I thought you were cursed until the day you died.”

“The curse ended when Númenor sank” he volunteered, by way of an explanation. Her gaze grew hard as she pondered his reply.

“So it was with us.”

Gimilzagar drank a sip from his glass, carefully choosing his next words.

“There are still plenty of Númenóreans around. That is why I fled. Half of them want me dead, and the other half want to make me King.”

“So why don’t you go with the latter half?” she asked. “They might keep you safer.”

“I would rather die than let them lay hands on me again”, he said. She arched an eyebrow in disbelief.

“I do not think those big words can ever mean the same to you as they do to the rest of us.”

“And yet he is here, Rini”, Akahathzin intervened, conciliating. “And if not for our intervention, he would indeed have died.” All of a sudden, his eyes narrowed, and he sunk them on Gimilzagar, who had now had months to prepare himself for this eventuality. “Why don’t you say here with us? They will never seek you here, and you can live in peace.”

The sound of broken clay reached his ears; as he turned towards the door, he found himself face to face with Fíriel’s shocked expression. She had just returned from being sick outside, and came upon them right on cue to hear the proposal.

“I thank you for your kind offer” he replied. “But first, if you do not mind, I would like to discuss it with the mother of my child.” His heart brimmed at the meaning of the words sunk in, and slowly, as she recovered from the impression, he could see her reciprocate. She offered him a tremulous smile.

The next day, they announced to Akahathzin and Rini that they would accept their offer. Five months later, their child was born, a girl who, soon afterwards, was followed by a boy, and then by another girl. In time, they learned the language and customs of the mountain barbarians, who came to lay down their remaining aloofness and accepted them into their community. Still, their neighbours never forgot where those long-lived folk came from, and decades after they had stopped using Adûnaic to talk among themselves, they were still known as the Númenóreans, a name which would be inherited by their children and grandchildren.

One day, one of those grandchildren would return, his adventurous heart spurred on by tales of his illustrious descent and kinship with the royal line of Númenor, to stride boldly into the King’s court and claim his heritage with Fíriel’s old necklace in one hand and his sword on the other. But that was already a different story. That of Gimilzagar and Fíriel ended with their death from old age, after centuries of tending to the graves of their protectors in the deep forest where they had been reborn.

Very good, my child. Ar Zimraphel’s voice caressed his ear, as he turned around in his makeshift bed, trying to find a comfortable position in the hard wooden surface. Next to him, he heard a moan as Fíriel snuggled closer. You solved the riddle, and I am proud of you.

That night, as he finally managed to fall asleep, Gimilzagar’s dreams were dreams of happiness, and of hope.