Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Flipped

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“You wished to see me, my daughter?”

The secluded courtyard, a sanctuary of silence and quiet hostility since so long that she could not even recall it being otherwise, was brimming with music and laughter. Young people sat in chairs on the veranda, disposed in a semicircle around the two flute-players, who joined their instruments in a last arpeggio before gracefully bowing to her.

“Yes, Mother.” The heir to the throne smiled, a truly beautiful sight, and not only for a mother´s starved eyes. Zarhil noticed that, while everyone bowed to her, it was Míriel who mesmerized those who surrounded her, and that they unconsciously copied her movements and mannerisms. “You may leave for now.”

Both flute players stood up in unison, lifting their silk dresses above their ankles to negotiate passage across the flower garden. Slowly, among a rustle of fabrics, the others resumed their former positions, and Zarhil could take note of them in an individual way. Right beside her daughter was Elendil of Andúnië, her soon-to-be betrothed, and, as far as she was concerned, the miracle-worker who had achieved the impossible feat of extricating the Princess from her former life of gloom and loneliness. Next to him, the plump-cheeked lady in gaudily coloured robes who smiled in an ingratiating way was Kadrani, daughter of the old Palace Priest, the late Hannon, who had been her husband´s childhood tutor. She already favoured her father in her looks, Zarhil thought, perhaps a little unkindly, but, be as it may, one of Tar-Palantir’s political intrigues of the past had paved the way for her marriage to Hiram, Zarhil´s adopted nephew and heir to her brother Zakarbal, who was sitting at Míriel’s other side. Next to him was his brother by birth, Kamal, who remained the heir of Shemer of Hyarnustar, and who had edged just a little closer to the last woman in the party, the Lady Eluzîni. She was considered quite a colourful woman, first, because she was the natural daughter of Shemer’s infamous younger brother with a dancer, and second, because she seemed to attract gossip like a magnet attracted metals. If her love life was half as interesting as the courtiers seemed to think, listening to music while sitting in a garden with her cousins should be accounted as a waste of a morning, in Zarhil’s opinion. Unless she was having an affair with one of them.

In any case, the Queen could not care less about who her daughter’s friends were, as long as she had them. Her childhood and youth had been long, trying, and full of horrors that she didn´t even wish to remember.

“My father, the King, is in Andúnië now, and he plans to stay there until Erulaitalë”, Míriel said. “I wish to ask a favour from you, Mother.”

“Speak, my dear.” Zarhil was curious in spite of herself. A small thrill crossed her spine when she noticed that Elendil and Míriel had briefly held hands.

“Let me shoulder the responsibility of organizing the Erulaitalë feast, and the King´s return.”

“Organizing…the feast?”

Of all the things she had been expecting, this had not even crossed his mind for an instant.

Míriel’s eyes showed a passing shadow of her old impatience.

“Yes, organizing the feast, Mother. I am perfectly capable of it. In fact…” She shared a strangely accomplice look with Hiram, Kamal and Eluzîni, who were gazing at them from the other side. “I am the heir to the Sceptre, and I believe I should begin acting as such before the Island starts to believe I am not up to the task.”

“Oh, Míriel.” Zarhil shook her head. So this was what worried her! “You are the heir to the Sceptre, and you don´t have to ask the people of the Island if they agree or not. That is not how it works.”

“If I may be as bold as to interrupt.” Elendil bowed briefly, and sought her eyes with an earnest gaze which seemed to belong to a man fifty years his senior. Zarhil was tempted to smile, but she did not want him to mistake her sympathy for condescendence. “Queen Eärnissë, the Princess is her father’s heir in name, because she was so designated. However, since the ceremony she had barely appeared in public, and taken no part in governance. I, and both our friends here, are all heirs to landholders and councilmen, some already designated, some waiting for it, and our fathers have been anxious for us to have experience so we will be ready when the time comes. Shouldn´t the throne of Númenor be a task of greater import and scope than our own meagre domains?” Hiram’s wife nodded at every word, so intently that Zarhil was tempted to smile again. She sobered a little when she thought of the implications.

Her daughter had awoken. She had stopped thinking only of her sinister visions, locked in her self-absorbed bubble of pain, and she was beginning to realize the daunting task that her elders had seen fit to shoulder her with. For the sake of Númenor, and all of us, her husband had said, and yet Zarhil had never been entirely convinced of his wisdom in this matter.

If this is what it takes to reassure her, she thought. But, what would happen if she failed? Would her newly- regained balance be shattered, and -she shuddered- would she go back once more to her previous state? And, though Zarhil could not care less about them, would outsiders, especially the unkind, scheming kind of outsiders who fought her husband at every step of his way, use this failure as a weapon?

Elendil seemed to guess what she was thinking. He touched Míriel’s hand again.

“She is a beautiful and intelligent woman, and we support her. We are certain that she will surprise the Court.”

Míriel smiled her beautiful smile again, and this sealed the deal.

“Very well.” Zarhil took a deep breath. “You will be in charge of everything. But please, my daughter, remember that there will always be people who are ready to help you if you need it. I will be here, and so will the friends that you trust.”

“I know, Mother.” Míriel said, happily. “Do not worry.”

As she took her leave from the West Wing, her escort falling in place behind her in the gallery, Zarhil wished that she could have visions only this once, so she would be able to be sure that everything was going to turn out well.

 

*    *     *     *     *     *

 

“Are they still out there?”

Amalket did not look too pleased. She made no effort to hide the bleariness of her eyes, the ache in her legs and the shivers that shook her limbs as gusts of humid wind blew at them from the Sea. One would think that, as a former commoner, she would be more receptive to the honour of hosting a King’s visit, but so far, Tar-Palantir seemed to have thoroughly failed to impress her. He does not even look like a proper King, she had remarked once, with a shrug that reminded Amandil of old popular grievances against Gimilzôr’s heir.

“They have much to discuss”, Amandil answered prudently. He squinted in the direction of the small mallorn forest, trying to catch a glimpse of the small clearing where the King and his father sat, perhaps reminiscing about old times, perhaps discussing the future. They had been doing this for days; from dawn to dusk, Tar-Palantir would act as an official guest, partaking in banquets, trips, ceremonies and receptions, but after the sun had sunk in the bay of Andúnië, he and Lord Númendil would flee the company of people and walk together the paths of the golden trees. There they would remain for hours, left to themselves, unapproached and undisturbed, never mentioning later what had been discussed. They were probably quite content with being ignored as well, except that the King’s status made it necessary for his hosts to be awaiting his return at all times. Since Amandil was present, and his aunt Artanis had done what she was always criticising in others, keep to herself and flee her responsibilities, this ungrateful task had fallen to them.

Amalket let go of a deep, frustrated sigh.

“I am sure they do.”

“Look, the stars are very beautiful tonight, aren´t they?”

Silence greeted Amandil’s remark, and he felt a brief pang of longing. To remember what they used to do in nights like this, the reasons they would remain awake for, used to be agony; now, it was merely sad.

“I can wait alone, if you wish. Go and have a rest, you look tired.”

“Doesn´t he have to rule Númenor, or something?” she asked, ignoring him again. Still, she had spoken, though in a tone heavily laced with disapproval, so Amandil did as he had done for all those years: he ate the scraps without turning his nose at them.

“And the Colonies, yes. In fact, I think he is planning something in the Bay of Gadir right now.” Something worrying, he was about to add, but he did not wish to turn this into a conversation about his nightmares.

It was already bad enough as it was.

“With Lord Númendil? He has never been near the Bay of Gadir. He should ask you instead, you know everything there is to know about the mainland.” The old reproachful tone, again. “Maybe he could send you there, and you could take care of whatever it is. I am sure that you would not mind.”

“Of course I would not mind. Nobody minds when the King wishes to send you somewhere.” His tone, too, was beginning to show some of the old strain. “You bow and you go, and that is that.”

If they had been sparring, this would have been the moment where she parried his blow with the supreme disdainfulness of her look.

“You bow, you go, you fight a few wars, burn some villages, and come back after twenty years.”

“Funny that you should mention war. “Amandil retorted. "Because when the King rebuilds his precious colony city in the Anduin, there may be another, this time between Númenóreans, and perhaps I will be sent to intervene once that happens.”

There, he had said it.

“Really?” She did not sound flippant this time. “Do you think it will come to that?”

“The Merchant Princes will not take this blow to their trade investments lying down. Whether they can pay enough tribesmen to defeat the Sceptre is debatable, but Mordor is too close for comfort. If the lord of Mordor can find an excuse to intervene in the conflict, we may lose the entire Bay.”

“I thought that you belonged to those who did the fighting, not the thinking.” In spite of her dry words, Amalket was serious. “But what on Earth is Lord Númendil’s role in all this supposed to be?”

Amandil had been wondering the same thing for months.

“I do not know.”

This time, the silence that ensued was not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. It lasted for a long stretch of minutes, perhaps hours, until they heard the sound of feet grinding the white pebbles of the garden paths, and both stood to attention.

“Welcome back, my lord King, Lord Númendil”, Amalket recited in flawless Quenya. In front of him, she never hid her irritation, but when faced with them, she managed courtly manners like a professional. Maybe he should feel honoured that he was allowed to see her feelings, at least, and conveniently ignore how negative those feelings were.

Tar-Palantir smiled at her. With his penetrating eyes, he could probably see the hostility right underneath, but he did not seem to mind.

“We apologize for keeping you away from your warm bed for so long, Lady Moriwendë.” he said. The smile was not only in his mouth, Amandil realized, it was also dancing in his eyes, and his father was sharing in it. He felt relieved. If he was sure about something, it was that whatever had made his father so happy could not be war. “I promise that your sacrifice will not be in vain. We have an announcement to make tomorrow, and it concerns both of you.”

“Us, my lord King?” To her credit, Amalket barely blinked, but behind her placid expression, she was thinking hard. Amandil did not need to be a Tar-Palantir to know that. “Oh, I am looking forward to it. I will prepare a feast in the large hall.”

Númendil grinned, with the contagious glee of a child who was enjoying a secret.

“We will be there, my dear.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“I do not know… It has always been done like this, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, but she has a point! If we opened the Fountain Gardens for chosen guests, it would be very convenient. We could avoid plenty of scandals.”

“You wish to avoid scandal? Then wait until we need to make a list and decide who is a chosen guest and who is not!”

“What if we change that to the Flower Gallery, then? There is more room for…”

“This is absurd!” Hiram threw his hands in the air, in a gesture of exasperation. “We will stick to tradition and there will not be any problems, because that is what tradition is for!”

“That is a remarkably short-sighted opinion, cousin.” Eluzîni’s eye had a spark, betraying her malicious amusement at the proceedings. “What the Princess of the West needs is to be in charge of something new and bold.”

“And I suppose you will say that you have already planned for new and bold things to take place in the Fountain Gardens.” Hiram’s plump wife rolled her eyes. The other woman laughed.

Elendil ignored their bickering. Turning his back to them, he approached the dark, strangely small figure who stood under the sacred tree. Silver leaves lay at her feet, scattered by the wind.

“Princess.”

Were her shoulders trembling?

“Míriel”, he insisted. “Do you wish us to go inside? We have racked our brains enough for one afternoon.”

“No.” Her voice sounded brittle, like glass. “I am fine. Stop treating me like an invalid.” Elendil opened his mouth, but he could not even manage to utter the first word this time before she cut him again. “And do not patronize me.”

“Well, there is no point in remaining here, anyway. This is the only place where we know for sure that there will be a feast.” Kamal interjected helpfully. “We should go inside.”

“Oh, let us go to the Fountain Gardens! We can take a measure of the place.” Eluzîni proposed. Slowly, with much gathering of silks and rustling of robes, the party marched towards the inner gate.

Míriel fell behind.

“Go ahead”, she commanded, when they stopped in their tracks to wait for her. Elendil was the only one who did not heed her word, slowing his large strides until he fell at her side. A long acquaintance with her moods, however, had taught him that it was pointless to speak. She already knew everything he could possibly say.

“Thank you”, she smiled briefly, grabbing his arm.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Oh, this is so beautiful!” Hiram’s wife simpered, a sea of distance away. Other voices joined hers, loud and grating, but at the same time distant, so distant that soon she would not be able to hear them with her real ears, or see them with her real eyes. Their silhouettes, ahead of her in the corridor, were blurred by darkness, and the roar was becoming deafening.

She needed to make it stop.

Now.

Holding to Elendil’s arm for dear life saved her from drowning momentarily, but the danger was not over. He was not the anchor, she reminded herself. He could not save her.

He was not there.

The roaring of the waves increased.

“Isn’t it delightful, the music of the fountains? I would simply love to have a feast here!”

“Míriel.”

I love you.

You are out of your mind.

I love you.

I am leaving.

The void, the emptiness. The death.

Maybe I managed to escape.

A tear fell down her cheek, glistening in her ivory skin.

“Míriel, look at me.” The voice called her again, quietly, intently rising above the noise of the water. Little by little, she noticed that it was receding, and realized that he was pushing her away from the fountains. He knows what to do, the thought came to her, he knows how to survive, how to escape.

Except her. He did not know how to escape her.

I love you.

It took her all her strength, not physical, but of the other kind, to let go of him and retreat two shaking steps across the dark corridor. His concerned glance was prying now, but it could penetrate her no more than a fly could penetrate a nutshell.

Her lips curved in a tremulous smile.

“I am fine.” Someone was holding her shoulders from behind, and she allowed herself to lean against them. Kamal. His support was different: strong and unyielding, but asking no questions, like the old nurse of her childhood, and she welcomed that now. “I do not like the sound of fountains. Maybe it is better if we keep to the Inner and the Outer Courtyards.”

“That is a good idea”, the heir to the Hyarnustar nodded. “Hiram might even be happy, as is it more like tradition.”

Slowly, he let go of her, and both him and Elendil flanked her on both sides. Hiram and the women had also stopped to check on her, but they seemed satisfied with how she had changed back to normal. It was astonishing how they could school their expressions into pretending that nothing had happened, with as much ease as they could breathe or talk. Courtiers.

She had learned much from them.

“If Hiram is happy, then that is all I am hoping for”, she smiled. “And now, let us go to my quarters and have something to eat. We deserve it.”

“Hear, hear!”

As their party made their way back to the West Wing, chattering and laughing, Míriel could not help but notice that Elendil was the only one who remained worried.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“Now, if you please, I will make an announcement.”

Three sets of grey eyes, and one black, gazed at him from behind the cups of ruby-red wine from the Hyarnustar that Morwen had served them after dinner. Two were genuinely curious, one placid, and the last one he wouldn’t decipher, even if he could.

“They have been impatient to hear the news, my lord King.” Númendil smiled.

“Then I must apologize for keeping it to myself for so long. For there is no secret in what I am about to reveal - or, if there is, it was never meant to last”, he said. “My friends, I have asked a precious favour from Lord Númendil, and he has graciously accepted. Words cannot convey how grateful I am for his help. From the first time I set foot on the threshold of this house, back when I was a young fool who wasted his time chasing ghosts in the darkness, this family has always been my light and my anchor, and I owe everything to you. I would need three lifetimes to be able to repay you for all that you have done, and still do, and of course for what you have suffered in the process.” Artanis had even stopped the pretence of looking at him; her eyes were fixed in the swirling liquid of her cup. He took a long breath before continuing. “As you all know by now, I have a cherished project, and, in spite of the many daunting difficulties, I have the will to see it done during my lifetime. This project concerns the ancient colony city of Pelargir, the brightest jewel of Númenor in the Middle Earth shores of old. This city was dear to our ancestors, yours and mine, who used it as a window to conduct mutually productive exchanges with other peoples and kindreds. When this window was shut, we became prisoners of our ignorance and prejudice, and withdrew from the most sacred of alliances.”

Amandil’s look was guarded. He had perfected this disguise in the most demanding of situations, his life of exile among those who hated his family and would have seen him killed the very moment that a glimpse of his true nature was allowed to shine through. Still, Tar-Palantir’s eyes were sharper than theirs, and he could see the strong currents which flowed under this bland appearance. He saw the sarcasm, the jaded pessimism of the man who had lived more lives than those who surrounded him, and thought he knew more than they did. Who sincerely believed that there was no room for “mutually productive exchanges” with other peoples and kindreds, only domination, strife and death, and that colonies were mere pretexts to acquire wealth at the expense of others. To him, Pelargir would not be any different from the Gadir it was trying to replace.

This was exactly the kind of person that Tar-Palantir needed to convince.

“Amandil knows that I am already working on a project, but the task of rebuilding an entire city from scratch is no small thing. From my reading of the ancient scrolls, and the words of those I have contacted through the Seeing Stone, I know that, once upon a time, we had the help of others. Others who withdrew from us and ceased their dealings with Númenor when our gratefulness was changed into hostility.”

Númendil cleared his throat softly.

“The Elves of Lindon are still ready to extend the hand of friendship, if we wish to go back to the terms of the old alliance”, he intervened. “However, the Shadow has been upon us for too long, and the Men of Númenor have forgotten the old ways. At the present time, most would simply not accept the presence of the Elder Kindred in the Island or the colonies, and the Elves are wary of us as well. A middleman is needed, someone who can breach this gap between our two races.” His eyes sought those of his son. “I have volunteered for this task. I will leave Andúnië by ship and travel to Lindon, where I will be received as an emissary of the King of Númenor and an honoured guest.”

Amandil looked shocked. He opened his mouth, as if to protest.

“But…”

Númendil pretended that he had not been able to hear the interruption.

“It seems to me that this task is something I am uniquely suited for, something I may have been born for, even, unlike all the other tasks that life has thrust upon me. And still, it is such a task as demands my extended leave from the Island and the lands of the Andústar, making it impossible for me to hold my office any longer.” His smile widened. “This is why the King has allowed me to pass the ring of Barahir to you, my son. Before I depart, we will hold a succession ceremony, and you will be the new lord of Andúnië.”

Now, Amandil was positively thunderstruck. He had been considering this eventuality for some time, Palantir knew, at least since Lord Valandil resigned, but it was not the same as hearing it spoken aloud in the King’s presence.

For an instant of vivid, uncommonly visible turmoil, he seemed to be struggling with words, trying to find the way to make his father understand that this was a mistake, that Númendil couldn’t just resign, sail away with the Elves and leave him alone with an office that many believed he was not suited for, that the vipers in Armenelos would never tolerate him sitting in the Council and being Lord of Andúnië, that the King had underestimated…

In the end, he said nothing, as Palantir knew he would.

“As the King wishes.”

“Y-y-yes.” Lady Moriwendë’s eyes were wide as twin moons, and she also seemed dismayed, though Palantir could not see why. Pressure, possibly. She was a woman of low birth, it was not unconceivable that she had never imagined she would find herself in that situation, and that she might even panic about it. She reminded him of his own wife in that respect; though highborn, she had never wished to be Princess of the West, much less Queen of Númenor, and had not borne it well for quite a while.

Only one person in the room remained without emotion.

“This was a lovely banquet, and a delicious wine. Thanks for your hospitality, Lady Moriwendë. I will remember it with fondness and longing when I am back in the Palace.” he complimented the lady with a bow. Then, draining the last of the liquid from his crystal cup, he rose from his chair, and strode towards the door.

In the corridor, he almost bumped into a servant, who was not expecting his irruption and dropped the plates she was carrying. As if from a great distance, he heard the rest of the people in the table rise after him, exchanging frantic whispers that soon turned into louder words.

Another thing done.

Only one left to do, he thought, morosely, and then he could return to Armenelos.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

He found her on a marble bench down in the back gardens, those that had a view of the Sea. Palantir remembered how she used to love sitting in the glade between the mallorn trees, but ever since he had started frequenting the place with Númendil, she had been markedly avoiding it. Here, the breeze was stronger, dishevelling her long mane of hair in a way that reminded him of that other night, so many years ago, under the same stars.

I do not blame you, Inziladûn.

“Artanis”, he said, doubting his voice for the first time since he was a young man. It came forth so thin, that for a moment he thought that she had not heard him above the distant roar of the waves and the rustle of leaves on the treetops. Then, he noticed the tension in her shoulders.

“May I sit?” he asked, approaching her. She did not answer, but he forced himself to take her silence as an encouraging sign. He had not come so far to surrender this easily.

As he took a seat next to her, she moved away, almost imperceptibly, which could be understood as either a polite way to accommodate him or as flinching away from the mere possibility of his touch. Still, she would not look at him.

“Artanis”, he repeated, this time in a different tone of voice, the voice he used now, as a King. He was reassured at how firmly the well-practiced tone came from his lips. “I have done my best to reward your family for what you have suffered in exile. Your father, Lord Valandil, could become Lord of Andúnië before he died. Your brother, Númendil, is going to fulfil his heart’s desire of living among the Elves. Amandil is now Lord of this land, and his son Elendil will soon marry my daughter. Now, only you remain.”

Her voice also had a strange quality at first, as if she had a head cold.

“I did not suffer exile and imprisonment because of you. You owe me nothing.”

He accepted the rebuke, but was not deterred.

“I know, but I would still see you happy. What could a lady such as you wish that would be in my power to give?”

This time, she did look at him. It was her way of saying, there, look, you can see through me, I am hiding nothing from you because there is nothing to hide anymore. The intensity of the despair made him flinch.

“There is nothing I wish that would be in your power to give.”

Pain, almost physical, coursed through his mind and soul, shaking him. Was it her pain or his own pain, awakened by hers? He could not tell anymore.

Curse it. Curse everything. He had been foolish enough to think that, as King of Númenor, he could have enough power now to lay this ghost to rest, but he was as helpless as he had been before, back when his father lived.

“The power of the Sceptre is but an illusion, then”, he retorted bitterly. She nodded.

In a sudden burst of awakening, he saw a vision of them as they should have been, joined as husband and wife under the stars of the chapel in Armenelos, and secretly whispering their vows to the Valar under the golden trees. He saw himself, ruling beside the woman he desired with all his heart, his beautiful Queen, Elven-fair. He saw their twin children, the lovely girl whose brow was never darkened by fear, and the young man who looked so much like Elendil, tall and wise beyond his years, his intended heir. Everything that would have been, everything that was meant to be- save for Gimilzôr, who, full of superstition and folly, had forced him to marry a woman he had never truly loved. Their union had borne a sad fruit, a dead baby, and a princess who would never be able to shoulder the weight that the world was determined to burden her with. All because of him, of his impious father.

He had changed everything, altered Eru’s will, and died unpunished. How was this possible?

Belatedly, Palantir realized that this vision did not belong to him. He was seeing all this through her, and as this notion struck him, he reeled back, frantically trying to disengage his thoughts from hers. But it was too difficult, as they were the thoughts of the woman he had loved, the woman who had been born to think with him in unison, and she was right, right to despair. He should be despairing, too. Nothing would happen as he expected it to, for it had gone wrong long ago, terribly, terribly wrong.

No!

With a gut-wrenching effort, he pulled away. Seen from the outside, her turmoil was so pitiful that he could not prevent a tear from rolling down his cheek.

Slowly, she rose to her feet.

“I said I did not blame you. “It should have required a great effort to speak so composedly, and still, she was not even trembling. “I blame he who thought he could thwart the Creator and turn us away from the path that was ours from the beginning.”

“But, Artanis…” He needed a much longer time to be able to utter anything coherent after the experience. “How could my father thwart the Creator? How could He let a mere mortal change fate? We do not even know what His true will is, surely we must believe that His wisdom and His true plan will shine in the end!”

“Love.” Artanis replied. So simple, so chilling. “You loved me. I loved you. You do not love your wife as you love me, and I will never love another soul. This is real, and we know it. How can it not be an expression of Eru’s will?”

Palantir had no good answer to this.

“We must not let ourselves fall into despair. Despair is the most powerful weapon of the Enemy.” She scoffed, so he tried to wrack his brain to find something that could at least convince himself of the rightfulness of his purpose. Finally, he saw a lifeline that he could grab. “The Wave. We were sent this dream, so we could know what was at stake and avert it. I have seen things which could avert it., measures which can still be taken. The Creator would never have let me see this if I was doomed to fail, would he?”

She laughed, a strangely shrill laugh that did not become her.

“In my dreams, the Wave already drowned me long ago. Since then, I have known no peace.”  And with a curt bow, she stood up and walked away, leaving Palantir alone with his thoughts.

Love.

Eru’s will.

The circumstances surrounding the boy´s birth are ... worthy of our attention, my King. Apparently it happened against rather remarkable odds, back when he was serving at the Temple of Armenelos. He saw it as a signal in that time of hopelessness.

He remembered Númendil’s words, back when he was introduced to his son, Amandil. How a young man’s infatuation with the daughter of a Palace Guard had been understood by the Faithful as a divine message. They, too, saw love as a sign of the Creator.

Tar-Palantir had let go of love, long ago. He was fond of his wife, he was concerned for his daughter, and he had reached a tenuous truce with his father’s embalmed corpse. He had friends, and he had allies, but he had no love. Somewhere along the way, he had lost it.

Was he already doomed?

For the sake of Númenor, he prayed fervently that Artanis was wrong.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The feast of Erulaitalë, the day after Tar-Palantir’s return to Armenelos, was the most magnificent celebration that many, courtiers and commoners alike, would remember for years. Midsummer was the time when the joy of life bubbled closer to the surface of all beings, when the appetite for merrymaking and lustful pursuits came closer to escape the narrow confines of the mortal body. Sun and heat paralyzed minds and limbs during daytime, especially in the windless low plains of the Mittalmar, but, when the sun left the sky, it was time to revel, and delight in the knowledge that, once again, they were truly alive.

This was why the return of this particular solemnity, discontinued for centuries under the rule of the later Kings, had been an enormous success, to the point that Tar-Palantir had decided to ride the wave and set aside a larger sum for its organization than he did for the other two combined. That true devotion was much less extended among the populace than love for expensive displays was a knowledge that his father’s policies had instilled in him long ago, and, after becoming the sole holder of the Sceptre, he had soon realized that he could not afford to reject all of Ar-Gimilzôr’s teachings. If the former King had been right about something, it was that high-minded purity was in no way different from isolationist folly. So Erulaitalë, both in the Palace courtyard and in the public squares of Armenelos, had soon become a lavish celebration full of roaring bonfires, jugglers, dancers, water games, and wine.

Back when his wife had sent him word that their daughter Míriel was in charge of this important event, Palantir had been extremely concerned. He did not trust the Princess of the West’s ability to organize something that would please everybody, much less to communicate her wishes to other people in a way that they could make sense of what was going on in her mind. The Queen had pointed out that this was hypocritical of him, given that he had appointed her the heir to the Sceptre, which meant that he expected her to be in charge of much more than a mere feast. Palantir was aware that she knew he was counting on his kinsmen of Andúnië to rule the realm in Míriel’s stead, but so far he had steadfastly eluded her attempts to have him say it aloud -or, indeed, put it into writing.

In any case, she had a point, for even a figurehead would be meant to lead a public life, rehearse her appearances, and be subject to the prying eyes of many. She had to become accustomed to people, and what better way for it than being in charge of a celebration? It had been her own choice to volunteer for it, surely there was hope still.

Still, he had to admit that, in the deepest recesses of his mind, he had been expecting her to fail, or, at best, to barely elude making a total mess of it thanks to the help of her soon-to-be-betrothed and, of course, her mother’s hidden hand. He had not expected her to come and receive him at the head of a column of courtiers, pour him wine in a cup of gold, or lead them into a lavish festive scenery, spanning several Palace courtyards, each of them showing a different set of decorations. As they walked the inner corridors of the Palace, others had done much of the talking, the Queen most of all, but she had spoken too, and all her words had been carefully measured and softly spoken.

The following day had been dedicated to the greatest ceremony of all, the ascent to the Meneltarma and the prayer to Eru Almighty. The sun of a hot summer day was already sinking in the horizon when their large company rode back through the cobbled streets of Armenelos, bringing a much-needed respite to its inhabitants, who emerged from the cool shades of their houses wearing their best finery and drinking cold wine.

The Palace was all alight with torches and silver lamps, both hanging above their heads and floating in the large pond of the Inner Courtyard, where the highest Court dignitaries were ushered one by one. The largest landholders of Númenor and their families were consorting with one another around trays of spiced bubble wine and iced fruit cream. Other high courtiers could be seen here and there, swimming in the periphery of his sight, and for a moment he could distinguish the priest who had come in the stead of the High Priest of the Cave, surrounded by a retinue of attendants. Even farther away, under a makeshift porch made of entwined red flower branches, the Merchant Princes huddled together with the Prince Gimilkhâd, his wife Melkyelid, and the Governor of Sor, as if openly defying the unspoken social rules of mingling. No priest of Melkor was in attendance.

The Princess of the West, meanwhile, had abandoned her mother’s side together with the son of Amandil, and she was edging towards the space at the other side of the pond, where the Court musicians performed and young people came together to dance. Palantir had never seen her so energetic before, clapping her hands when Zakarbal’s heir and his wife danced together, and laughing with Lord Kamal as Lady Eluzîni, the daughter of the Dissolute of Hyarnustar, snuck behind a priest and embraced him from behind, causing him to drop his cup of wine. At some point, she said something that he could not hear, and the musicians started playing a different song. Everybody began then pairing up for a fast dance, where partners were exchanged at an increasingly vivid pace.

“This is a little too daring, isn’t it?” he said, arching his eyebrows. Eärnissë shook her head.

“This is life. She has never lived it until now, and I think she deserves it as much as anyone else.”

Deserve. For a moment, he had to do a conscious effort to avoid thinking of Artanis in her garden bench. She had loved to dance, but not in his wedding.

“There are few of us who get what we deserve”, he retorted. “She is the heir to the Sceptre of Númenor, and each and every one of her moves is being watched.”

“Then how can she grow up?” The Queen threw her arms up; one of her trademark unpredictable gestures that the Court so frowned upon. “I am so lucky I was able to spend my childhood and my youth away from here, otherwise I think I would have died a five-year old.”

But in the end you, too, became a pawn in the games of others, and your old life was taken from you. Darkly, Tar-Palantir thought that if all that had ever left unsaid in their conversations could somehow gain a material entity, it would form a bridge between Númenor and the mainland.

He had been unable to shake this morose mood since he left Andúnië.

Míriel had gone through five different men, and all of them seemed almost frightened to touch her. There was something disquieting about her beauty, even when she was trying to pass unnoticed among others by acting like them. Perhaps it was the dark pools of her eyes, those that he had never been able to penetrate and that, he had to admit it, disquieted him, too.

Or maybe, he thought, forcing himself to dismiss this train of thought, it was the fact that she was the Princess of the West and her parents were watching.

She was dancing with Lord Kamal now, the heir of the Hyarnustar. They had been holding each other for as long as the brisk pace of the song demanded, but when the time came for the next change, they made a mistake, and Lady Eluzîni and Elendil were left hanging. There was some confusion, while everybody struggled to go back to their previous partners in an attempt not to break the harmony of the circle.

Míriel and Kamal did not seem to have noticed. If all, it seemed to him from the distance that they had grown closer, and that he was encircling her waist with arms that did not seem remotely afraid of touching her. Shocked, Palantir looked at his wife, and saw that her eyes had widened.

“What…?” he began, pointlessly. In the dance floor, Míriel and Kamal were kissing fiercely, ignorant of the uproar that was being created around them. “By the love of the Valar!”

Eärnissë shook her head, her cup tightly held in her grasp. Finally disengaging from his embrace, Míriel held the young man’s hand, and approached the porch where they both stood with him in tow. The crowd parted before her, as if the courtiers were afraid of being somehow associated with them through contact.

“Father, Mother”, she spoke, and her voice rang loud and clear in the resounding silence. Even the musicians had stopped playing, and were staring at the scene, their mouth agape. “This is the man I have given my heart to. We have fallen in love, and spoken our promises to each other under the eyes of the Valar. Please, give me leave to marry him, and lead a blessed life as his ever loving and true wife.”

Kamal saw her fall to her knees, and clumsily imitated her. He was obviously scared out of his wits, and steeling himself for anything from exile to death, but his infatuation was also obvious.

For the first time since he was too young to remember Tar-Palantir, too, surrendered to fear in public. His face drained of all colour, and he had to step back to lean on his chair before he fell. Distantly, as if behind a roaring cascade of blood and water, he saw his daughter’s face become his own mother’s face, lying dead on her bedchamber, and then her eyes became grey and she was Artanis, raging that love was the only true signal from Eru.

Then, she became Míriel again, and the Wave took her, together with the Palace, Armenelos, the Island of Númenor, and all he had ever fought to preserve.

His wife’s reassuring grip in his arm brought him back from his reverie, and not a moment too soon. People were starting to whisper, and he could distinctly hear his brother’s voice.

“…always been frighteningly unbalanced, naming her Heir was a very poor decision, as I said back then….”

“I say, I knew nothing of this!” Shemer of Hyarnustar was protesting loudly to some whisper or unvoiced reproach. “Nothing whatsoever!”

Elendil, on his part, had said nothing. He stood still on the dance floor, holding Lady Eluzîni as if they were still dancing, as deathly pale as Tar-Palantir must look to others.

At least, he could allow himself that luxury.

“Eärnissë, take Míriel with you to the West Wing. Lord Shemer, you will take your son home with you. We will discuss this tomorrow in private, as befits a matter of such delicate import.”

As he made his way across the courtyard and past the gate leading to the Painted Gallery, and both the prying eyes and the malicious whispers were finally left behind, he could not repress the urge to lean against the cold wall, close his eyes, and let go of a long, shuddering breath.

What was going to happen now?