Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Point of No Return

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He was standing on a deserted plain, whose end his eyes could not see. Anxious, he turned left and right, searching for a sign of company, a shadow, a voice, perhaps a movement, but no matter how hard he looked there was none for him to find. His feet trudged on a meandering path past the heaps of dead fish, all of which wore a strangely familiar expression, with mouths agape and small, glazed eyes.

Above his head, the sky had turned pitch black, hidden by a mass of impenetrable stormclouds. A thunderclap shook it, then a second, and a third. As the flashes of lightning reverberated off the eyes of the fish strewn at his feet, he had the mad impression that they were alive, looking at him. He tried to cover his face with shaking hands.

“Eru Almighty, who art in Heaven, deliver us from evil”, he prayed. Another thunderclap, however, longer and mightier than the others, drowned the sound of his words. In its wake, he could hear an unmistakeable roaring noise growing behind his back. He did not need to turn and look at it, for he already knew what it was.

Suddenly, a soft hand grabbed his. It was cold, like the hand of a corpse, bringing him memories of the woman who lay on a bed with a broken spirit, the day a young Inziladûn had returned from his trip to Andúnië. But the eyes which became fixed on his were black, not grey, and they were alive.

“Look” she said. When he did, the sight filled him with horror. The White Tree was lying at their feet, its graceful branches hewn away from its trunk, its silver leaves dead and as faded as the dead fish’s eyes.

“What have you done?” he tried to ask, fighting the horror which paralyzed his throat. The roar was drawing closer and closer; they did not have much time until they were swept away.

She smiled, but it was not a triumphant smile. For a moment, she even seemed sad, and he realized that she had never truly looked like the Princess Inzilbêth until now.

“I had to do it, Father”, she said, in answer to his unvoiced question. “I had to.”

The waters fell.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Tar Palantir left the stone path of the courtyard and walked a few steps across the garden, indifferent to the dirt gathering in the soles of his shoes. As he stopped before it, he stretched his right hand almost gingerly, as if the ancient wood could burn his fingers, or perhaps dissolve under his touch. But the white bark was as cool as ever, and the feel of its familiar roughness brought a tenuous comfort to his tortured thoughts.

When he turned back, they were all waiting for him respectfully, in almost religious silence. Their eyes, however, told a different story. The courtiers were wondering if he had finally succumbed to the madness of his grandfather, the late Ar Sakalthôr, or if this was merely one step further in his usual eccentricities, now aggravated by old age. Eärnissë had heard the gossip about his violent nightmare the previous night, and she knew him well enough as to guess much of the nature of its relationship with the political situation at hand. Though it had been long since she had last wasted a tender word on him, she was unable to hide a grudging concern. Lord Iqbal, the late Prince Vorondil’s second cousin, was, on his part, anxiously wondering if the matter of his succession to the lordship of the Hyarnustar would ever be solved, if the King persisted in his erratic behaviour. In silence, he had just muttered a prayer to the Valar that he would not die on them before the appointment was achieved. The judgement of Eshmounazer, Pharazôn’s envoy, was the harshest of all: it was the first time that he saw the King of Númenor in the flesh, and he was not impressed by what he was seeing. The Prince of the South would make a much better King, he thought, with a raw sincerity that chilled Palantir to the marrow.

But, of all this people, it was Lord Amandil’s thoughts what intrigued him the most. Palantir knew that he must have seen the same things that had tormented him last night, also triggered by the Prince of the South’s triumphal arrival to the Island. As King, he was aware that he could not afford to turn his back on this crisis, and though the futility of it had all but destroyed his determination, he still needed to find a way to fan the last embers of his pride. And yet, all he really, truly yearned to do now was to dismiss everyone, and have a private conversation with the Lord of Andúnië.

Whom did he see, standing by his side when the world ended? Was it just her, in everyone’s dreams? Was she the true harbinger of death, and not the priests of Melkor, the Merchant Princes, Gimilkhâd or Pharazôn? Did she hate him so much that she would destroy all that he had loved to have her revenge, including the Island where they lived, and even herself?

And why, oh, why was this strange sadness in her eyes?

“The holy tree is in excellent health, my lord King. I see to it often in person, and I can safely claim that there is nothing to worry about”, the Overseer of the Palace Gardens intervened, in a voice which was a little too reassuring to his taste. When had his own Court started treating him as if he was an old man in his dotage?

Suddenly, Palantir felt the stirrings of anger in his chest.

“Every day and every night you should be watching over it, and hold it dearer than the lives of your kin, your wife, or your children. For the fate of this Island, its royal line, and all the people who live here is bound to it, and if it ever perishes, not even He who sits in the High Heaven will save us.”

The courtier paled, and did not answer, studiously fixing his glance on the floor at his feet. Small comfort as it was to him now, Palantir noticed that his reputation as a seer still had some hold over superstitious souls, who believed his visions to be some kind of divine inspiration. For a moment, even Eshmounazer, the battle-hardened soldier, seemed to accord him the respect given to worthy foes.

If he could still have mustered the energy for it, he would have seized the opportunity, in a last-ditch attempt to turn the whole situation to his advantage.

“My answer is yes.”

There was some confusion among the present, until it became clear that his gaze was fixed on the soldier, who hurried to lower his head in a bow. It was an awkward move, so different from the graceful courtesy of the men and women who had been raised in the Palace that some of them could not suppress a titter.

Eshmounazer did not even seem to notice.

“Yes… to what, my lord King?”

“To everything.” Palantir stretched his arms open, as if to embrace the invisible shape of a large pile of outrages. “The Saviour of Númenor, Victor of Mordor and Avenger of Prince Vorondil can enter Armenelos in triumph, with the soldiers, the prisoners, the preserved corpses of his dead enemies, and all the other things that he brought here without our knowledge and against our will. He will be received in the Palace and accorded the honour that he deserves for his great exploits.” Even without being able to see his face, he knew that the soldier was amazed at this open acknowledgement of his weakness. Not even the courtiers, with all their years of practice, were able to hide their displeasure at his words.

He did not care.

“Now, you are dismissed. All of you”, he specified. From the corner of his eye, he could see Eärnissë’s eyebrow rise. “Except for Amandil.”

In the wake of the long, multicoloured serpent of long-robed courtiers that slowly filed out of the First Courtyard through the stone archway, the lord of Andúnië’s presence seemed almost too subdued. He stood alone in the middle of the pathway, but not in the attitude of a courtier waiting to be addressed, but rather as a man too lost in his own musings to pay attention to what happened around him. This, more than everything, told Palantir that his suppositions had been correct.

“What did I do wrong?” he asked.

Such a blunt question effectively brought Amandil back from his own turmoil.

“Nothing, my lord King. The Prince of the South may have achieved a great victory, but he overstepped his boundaries when he made decisions that were not within his power to make.”

Including the appointment of Amandil’s own son as governor of Arne, Palantir thought. His nephew’s insolent letter had claimed that Elendil showed so much promise both in combat and diplomacy that he could not think of a better man for this delicate role, but the King could not help but wonder what his real motives for that particular decision had been. Was Elendil an obstacle for his plans, did he honestly wish to keep him away from some danger? Was he his ally in Middle-Earth, or his enemy? Palantir had always been fond of Elendil, even if he had failed to win Míriel’s affections, but he could not forget that Amandil’s son had gone to Middle-Earth with Pharazôn willingly - or that, deep inside his heart, he had always been his own man.

All he could be sure of in this whole affair, in fact, was that Amandil himself was as unhappy with the decision as he was.

“And yet, there are things I could have done differently in the past. Even now, I remain the King of Númenor, and many believe that I should send him back to the mainland, with all his soldiers and his ships.”

“Those who say such things are fools. They do not understand the extent of the people’s infatuation with him. As far as they are concerned, he is the saviour of Númenor, and he deserves to be honoured above all mortals. As humiliating as it may be, it is a wise choice to row in favour of the tide at this point, my lord King.” He chuckled, mirthlessly. “He might even claim that he is doing you a favour, forcing you to make the right decision in the eyes of the people of Númenor.”

Oh yes, Amandil of all people would be well acquainted with his ability to appear righteous in spite of everything.

“When was the last time I could have made a true choice, then? When could I have turned the tide, instead of merely struggling not to be swept away by it? Do you have an answer to that, Lord Amandil?”

The lord of Andúnië did not reply, choosing instead to look away, as if distracted by the sound of voices in the distance. Palantir, however, knew that he was fleeing his glance because he did not wish to answer his question. Taken by a sudden burst of energy, he walked towards Amandil and stood in front of him, forcing him to gaze back at his own countenance. The grey eyes before him were darkened by sadness, and there was also a flicker of something that he could not quite pinpoint, something close to the cautious look of a courtier who measured his words to avoid offence, minus the servility.

“My son wrote me a letter from Pelargir”, he spoke, after a while. “He was quite shaken by his experiences there, or so it seemed to me. He mentioned coming to a sort of… realization, that there could be no true return to the old ways as long as we held to our interests and possessions in the mainland. According to him, this obsession with obtaining the favour of the gods and offering them sacrifices did not merely come from the mainland, it grew necessary because of it. The soldiers and the colonists need to believe in something which can save them from immediate and ever-present danger. I have been thinking about this, and it reminded me of the warning dreams I used to have, back when…” His voice faltered, but Palantir could finish the sentence himself.

“Back when I rebuilt Pelargir”, he nodded. “And ignored your misgivings about that enterprise.”

“It is not your fault, my lord King.” Amandil seemed to perceive the weakness within him, and reacted strongly to it. “Gadir, Umbar, the Middle Havens, Arne, they all existed long before you were born, and not even the King could have ordered all the colonists to leave their homes and withdraw beyond the Sea without imperilling Númenor itself, and causing strife and suffering beyond our worst imaginings. All that you tried to accomplish by your own actions was to turn Middle-Earth into a more just and righteous place, where the Númenóreans could live in peace with other peoples without the need for violence.”

Palantir shook his head.

“And many people died for it.”

“Their deaths would not have been in vain if such a thing could have been achieved. Not even mine, had I perished in the ruins of Pelargir. What reason could there be to sacrifice oneself for, if not peace?”

“Do not speak to me of sacrifice!” Palantir hissed, his anger back in full force. This pity, as humiliating as it was undeserved, was exasperating him. “An enterprise which begins with the sacrifice of lives will call for more and more sacrifice, until it ends in sacrifice! Alas, for I was blind and did not see it. People call me far-sighted, but I am blind, and I always was!”

Amandil sighed.

“If blindness is refusing to see that Men cannot be saved, then it is the noblest of all flaws, my lord King.”

“You do not understand. I was not allowed to have flaws, noble or otherwise. I was not allowed to have good intentions. I was not allowed to try.” His hands were beginning to shake. “I could not fail, and yet I have failed Númenor.”

But Amandil did not back down even now, or fall silent. Instead, he stood before him, rising to his full height and looking more argumentative than ever.

“Even if that is so, would the failure of one man, as high and mighty as he may be, doom us all? Would Eru permit such a thing? Forgive me, my lord King, but I do not think so. If doomed we are, it is by the failure not of one but of many, across the greatest expanses of space and time. And, who knows? Perhaps the success of others could save us yet, as long as we are still alive and breathing.”

Despite having known him for so many years, Palantir had to admit he was impressed at his younger kinsman’s eloquence. He was even tempted to surrender to the comfort of his words, to give himself to the illusion of being one among many, no more or less responsible for the fate of Númenor than they were. But deep inside his heart, he knew that this was a fallacy, perhaps one that Amandil wished to believe as much as he did.

“I am very grateful for your words, Lord Amandil”, he spoke formally, his expression once again bolted shut. “We will meet at the victory celebrations tomorrow.”

Amandil bit his lip, and bowed.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The entrance of the Golden Prince in the city of Armenelos made all the triumphs of his youth, carefully staged by his grandfather Ar Gimilzôr, pale by comparison in the memories of those who had been present, like a flicker of candlelight eclipsed by a mighty blaze. People of all ages and stations filled the streets in the hopes of catching a glimpse of him and his soldiers, who could hardly walk through the large crowds. Though hardened by many battles, many of them had never set a foot in the city, and none had ever been part of a similar spectacle, so the stoicism of their composure gave way to many different emotions, which ranged between wide-eyed wonder and a touch of anxiety.

As for the prisoners, they, too, were a new spectacle for the younger generations, who had not been alive during the reign of Ar Gimilzôr. Even those who were old enough to remember did not recall seeing Orcs, for none of them had ever been taken beyond the Great Sea. Curiosity gave way to shock, shock to horror, and horror, in turn, became fascination as the men, women and children of Númenor saw the black, ugly creatures staring defiantly at them, their small, bloodshot eyes filled with malice and hatred. This evil race, the offspring of the dreaded Second Creation according to the scrolls of the Four Great Temples, had killed countless Númenóreans, and tortured Prince Vorondil until he died. Even the nobles and the courtiers who had been against the idea of this celebration shed their dignity to push each other in an attempt to have a better view from the high terrace, and a group of ladies in green and yellow robes leaned so much over the railing that one of them was about to fall.

Eärnissë snorted.

“Perhaps it would not be such a bad idea to feed one of them to the Orcs. This select audience might even appreciate it”, she said to Palantir, who was the only one who was close enough to hear her voice over this ruckus. Close to them, though at a distance, Míriel was standing perfectly still. Her features were covered by a thick, black veil, which also flowed down her shoulders and hid most of her body, from the silver crown on top of her head to the balls of her feet. All that could be seen of her was her hands, small and white, the back of one of them criss-crossed by the faint shape of a blue vein. This impressive look had awed the Court into silence when she appeared by his side, and the common people below had been bitterly reminded of what the cost of the war had been for Númenor. Palantir, however, had understood this attire as one more of her attempts to destabilize his power. Such a public display of widowhood and helplessness seemed designed to cast an even longer shadow upon his decree of succession.

“There he is.” Though he had been trained to keep an unshakeable composure in the most difficult and trying situations, he could not prevent his breath from catching in his throat as Pharazôn, wearing his purple cloak and golden armour, climbed the stairs towards them. As if caught in a bad dream, he remembered a similar scene, many years ago, when another old King proudly welcomed the victorious general under the adoring eyes of his Court and the people of Armenelos. Back then, he had stood at the side, and swore wordlessly to himself that he would put an end to those ghastly displays as soon as he held the Sceptre in his own hands. That he would change Númenor.

If blindness is refusing to see that Men cannot be saved, then it is the noblest of all flaws.

“My lord King.” Pharazôn bowed, and for a moment all the shouts, the conversations, and the songs dissolved into an unnatural silence. Feeling that the eyes of all were on him, Palantir stretched his hand towards him.

“Be welcome to Armenelos, my dear nephew”, he said, in a frozen voice. Pharazôn raised his eyes at this to give him his usual, insolent smile full of confidence, or so he thought at first. Something in it, however, gave him pause, though he could not lay his finger on the exact reason of his disquiet.

Then, the younger man’s gaze wandered from him towards Míriel, who had quietly covered the distance that separated her from them to stand side by side with him.

“My dear cousin, you have destroyed my enemies and avenged me.” Her voice seemed as strange and misplaced as his smile, and belatedly, Palantir realized that he could not remember a time when it had not been filled with hostility, either overt or hidden. “After the Prince died, I thought I would never feel safe again, but you proved me wrong with your strength and your bravery. From the depths of my heart, I am grateful to you.”

Palantir could hear murmurations around them. From his side, Eärnissë was staring at her daughter as if she could not believe what she was seeing.

Pharazôn’s smile widened, and he knelt before her. His glance trailed over her veil, in a way that suddenly made it clear that he was so well acquainted with the features that lay under it that he did not even need to lift it to measure the exact curve of her lips as she smiled back at him, or the level of intensity with which her eyes met his.

“For the Princess of the West, I would not hesitate to risk my life as many times as it was necessary.”

As if from a very great distance, Palantir could hear the murmurations rise in intensity, then turn into a scattered round of clapping, which finally grew into a thrilled round of applause. Far below them, the people of Armenelos could not hear what was being said, but they cheered too at the scene that was being played before their eyes.

“Rise, Pharazôn”, Palantir hissed. The Prince of the South obeyed, but the smile did not leave his lips, and suddenly the King was tempted to surrender to the beastly impulse of punching it away from him. “The Court will not attend these ghastly displays of blood and violence which you seem so determined to bring to Armenelos. Let us go inside, and thank Eru for your success in war.”

“As you wish, my lord King”, Pharazôn nodded cheerfully, falling back after them after a last, warm glance at Míriel.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

That night, nobody slept in Armenelos. Out in the square before the gates of the Palace, bloody executions were sinisterly mingled with joyful celebrations, with wine, love and death competing to bring the deepest thrills to the agitated souls of the mindless rabble. Inside the walls of the royal residence, meanwhile, the Court also ate and drank immoderately, and laughed and danced with an exuberance that Palantir suspected was nothing but an attempt to compensate for the cruel pleasures that ceremony and good taste had denied them. Once upon a time, he would have worried at this, despaired perhaps at the degeneration of Númenor society, raged at himself for allowing Pharazôn to impose his will in something as important as this, but not today.

Today, he had finally understood the meaning of blindness.

“Follow me” he told Pharazôn, after the charade of partaking in an amiable banquet had lasted long enough. As they stood from their seats, everyone stopped what they were doing to rise and bow. Again, all eyes were set on them, but he could not detect any hints of scandal brewing in any of their countenances, so he assumed that they believed the King and the general to be off to hold some private discussion about the campaign. Only Eärnissë glared daggers at him. Since a while ago, she had been barely keeping herself from leaving her seat and heading for her daughter’s chambers, but now she had to stay in charge of the feast, and she would miss everything that happened between them. Palantir wondered if he would be able to rein his temper enough as to pay heed to what she would have wanted him to do.

Then, Pharazôn smiled again, and all those musings ground to an abrupt halt.

“You”, he hissed. “What did you do to my daughter?”

“I love her.” The younger man seemed to have dispensed with all the trappings of Court artifice. “And she loves me.”

Not even the evidence he had seen had prepared him for the shock of hearing it spoken plainly. He felt blood thrumming in his ears, and tried to suppress the haunting memories of the woman who grabbed his hand in his vision.

I had to do it, Father.

“Since when?”

“Since we were old enough to know the meaning of love” he replied, once again using the same bluntness. Palantir could try to gaze into his eyes all he wanted: he could see that he was speaking the truth, a truth almost too horrible, too sinister to accept. For the implications of it were like the tiny ivory pieces in that board game for children, which brought down other, nearby pieces in their fall until the tallest towers were toppled.

Míriel loved his cousin, against the Laws and Customs of the Valar. Since this love was a sin, they had kept it hidden from everyone, including Palantir and his famed keen eyes, which had been nothing but a joke to them. She had never loved Elendil, and neither had she loved Vorondil, whom she had married merely to keep the true object of her affections free from suspicion. Until the day she had goaded the unfortunate fool into leading the expedition to Middle-Earth, and he had conveniently died there, something which perhaps she had been able to foresee. Then, she had been free at last, and their façade had finally slipped after so many years of secrecy, because….

Because they think I will die soon, he realized. And then, they plan to marry, and he will be King, and all I had been fighting for will be obliterated in one sweep.

“The Former King knew about it. He was going to marry us before he died”, Pharazôn continued - and he realized that this, too, was true.

Father, oh, Father, how far were you willing to go in order to defeat me?

“What you have done is a great sin”, he hissed, slowly recovering his composure as he grew aware of the great danger he was facing. Compared to this, even his bitter realizations of that morning, when he spoke to Amandil in the First Courtyard, had left room for hope. “A great sin in the eyes of the one true god, and all your false ones as well. And it is also high treason.”

“I know.” Pharazôn was no longer smiling, but he did not look afraid. “That is why I refused to give in to my feelings for a long time, my lord King. But in the end, I had to capitulate and see the hand of fate in all this. It was the gods themselves who were guiding me on my path, and I am but their humble instrument.”

“You stand before me, and yet I hear the words of your mother.” The blood rushing to his ears had grown so loud that he was not even able to hear himself anymore. “Perhaps it is fitting, is it not? It is not only the late King who strikes at me from beyond his grave, but also Magon and the Merchant Princes of Gadir. Through you, their venomous sting has endured, well-hidden until you believed me foolish enough to drop my guard.”

Pharazôn shook his head.

“I do not believe you a fool, my lord King.”

“Then how could you think, even for a moment, that I would tolerate this?” he exploded at last. “How could you think that I would let you live?”

Anyone else would have been cowering by this point. The Prince of the South, however, seemed determined to prove that his outrageous confidence was not just a pose that he adopted for the benefit of others. His eyes were alert with a familiar expression that Palantir had seen there before, one which told him that he was thinking furiously, measuring dangers and calculating odds.

“Do you remember the ring you once gave my father, my lord King? It was a very long time ago, before I was even born, but I have heard that your memory is quite impressive. My father told me that it came with an oath, and he made me learn it by heart. If you should come one day and give this back to me, anything you may ask from me shall be yours. So I swear by all gods, Númenorean or foreign, evil or good, true or false.”

The ring of Andúnië. Shocked, Palantir sought his memories for the feel of the sea breeze on his face, that starry night in the house of Andúnië, when, still giddy with the feeling of power for having mastered the Seeing Stone, he had found himself confronted by his brother. Gimilkhâd had uncovered evidence of their host -and his- treason against the Sceptre, but instead of going directly to their father, he had chosen to extort him.

For years, he remembered wondering why Gimilkhâd had never thought of using this advantage, not even back when he was suspected of treason for his association with his brother-in-law. He had concluded that the ring had probably been lost, or that his brother had been air-headed enough to forget about it after a while. Maybe he could even feel embarrassed for having betrayed their father, and haunted by the guilty thought that things may have unfolded in a different way if he had not given in to persuasion at that key moment.

Until now, he had never imagined that the reason why Gimilkhâd had not used the ring was because it had not been his to use anymore.

“Even if you have the ring” he said, forcing himself to recover some semblance of composure”, all you can do with it now is bargain for your life.”

“No.” Pharazôn shook his head. “I do not have the ring, my lord King.”

“What?” Wrongfooted again, Palantir stated at his nephew in disbelief. Was he even now, an inch away from death, playing games with him? Had he travelled so far down the path of bloodlust and ambition that he had gone mad? “What do you mean, you do not have it?”

“I have it.” Míriel had not only left her veil in her quarters: the real veil, the one she had always worn in front of him, had been discarded as well, and for a moment he could glimpse the face he had seen in his visions. “He gave it to me as a pledge of his love.”

“What have you done?” he asked, involuntarily echoing his words in the dream. When before the outrage, the horror, had overwhelmed him, now it was a feeling of deep, ominous unreality what shook him to the core. For a moment, he was so certain that the prophecy was unravelling before his eyes that he almost expected the Wave to rise above their heads and precipitate them into a watery grave. “What have you done, Míriel? You inherited the gift of prophecy which is in our blood. Don’t you know that you are destroying yourself, as well as the rest of our people?”

“No, Father. I do not have the gift of prophecy, as you call it, and I never have.” He opened his mouth, but she was faster. “I have something else.”

“You have…?” Once more, his composure was hanging from the tiniest thread, and it snapped. “Insanity, that is what you have! Insanity, sinful lust, and mindless evil! You are as much of a traitor as he is, but your treason is worse, for you are not only betraying me, but yourself! Your own kingdom, your life, your soul, all of this you would surrender and destroy with one sweep of your hand! And now you bring this ring here and you expect… you expect me to…”

“To listen to me”, she retorted. Gone was her petulance, her antagonism, her raging fits, all the traits of her character that had successfully kept him at bay for years. And still in spite of this, she disgusted him more than ever.

“I will not listen to anything that you have to say!”

Suddenly, Míriel turned from him, and headed towards a window that stood above one of the fountains of the Second Courtyard. At first, Palantir thought that she would once again resort to her childish sulks, but then she took the ring and threw it into the water. The ruby gleamed for an instant under the light of the lamps, before sinking below the black surface forever.

“You will listen to me for once in your life, Father. And then, you may do whatever you wish, but before you do, I will be heard!”

It was a shout, and still, it wasn’t. Before this day, a shouting Míriel had meant an angry Míriel throwing a tantrum, or, even before that, a frightened Míriel screaming at the top of her lungs at a ghost that only she could see. This Míriel, however, was different, and when she raised her voice, for the first time in her life, she sounded like a queen, which gave him pause in spite of himself.

“Very well. I will… listen to what you have to say”, he grudgingly conceded. She gave a curt nod, and then smiled at Pharazôn, who nodded back at her. This further display of intimacy, which seemed to imply that they were able to communicate without the need for words, angered him further, but he could not go back on his word.

Silently, he forced himself to look away from his nephew, and followed his daughter towards the privacy of his own study.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Pharazôn gazed through the window. Down in the courtyard, a courtier and a lady had found a secluded spot by the edge of the fountain, and they were deep in conversation, their faces leaning so close that it did not seem as if it would be long until they did away with words. Further away, he could hear the distant sounds of merrymaking, coming from the corridors near the banqueting hall where the reception was still being held. A lady-in-waiting crossed the open space from one side to the other, following a zigzagging yet methodical path across the fountains, her hands holding what seemed like a coffer made of black wood.

His hands clenched over the latticework, and for the brief span of a moment he finally allowed his anxiety to show. At some point in his life, it had become harder to show his weaknesses than to hide them; even now, though he knew that there was no one watching, it did not come naturally to him. He felt as if something terrible would happen if he betrayed their existence, which was quite ironic, considering that what he had always believed to be the most terrible thing that could happen to him had happened just moments before. No, even worse: he had played a part in allowing it to happen, only because Zimraphel had decided that the time had come.

It was not that he had ever wanted to lie. No matter what the King thought of him, he had not enjoyed hiding, employing subterfuges, or acting traitorously. When -if, a voice corrected from the back of his head- he and Zimraphel were married and the Sceptre was in their power, he would never have to lie again. He would feel clean, righteous and noble, as he used to feel so long ago that by any rights he should have forgotten.

Still, he had to admit that taking his yearning for righteousness to the point of confessing to her father had not entered his mind for one moment. It had been she who had insisted, she who had overruled all his objections and assured him that her way was better. But, if it was Tar Palantir’s fate to die now anyway, as she claimed it was, what need was there to risk their lives unnecessarily, not to mention making the wretched man’s life even more wretched when he was already at the end of it? Did she resent her father so much that she needed to hurt him one more time before he passed away? For the life of him, he would never have believed he would feel sorry for Tar Palantir, especially when the old man was an enemy who threatened his own existence, but this was both cruel and dangerous.

Time passed in agonizing slowness when one was standing still, unable to take action, to deal with danger in the way he was used to. The goings-on at the courtyard did not distract him for long, especially as it grew gradually emptier after the end of the celebration. At some point, unable to wait anymore, he turned to the corridor, intending to return to the South Wing. If the King decided to end his life, he would surely see to it that he was informed of the fact.

When he was already halfway through the corridor, he bumped into the Queen and four ladies who accompanied her.

“My Queen”, he bowed, trying to ignore her glare. She was too dignified to attack him in front of witnesses, but apparently this did not extend to angry words.

“How dare you address me, as if nothing was the matter! What are you doing here, and where is my daughter?”

He would be nothing but exquisitely polite tonight.

“The Princess of the West is in the King’s study. They are having a private conversation and do not wish to be disturbed.”

Queen Eärnissë seemed to need some time to process this information. As she did, however, the belligerency returned with the speed of lightning.

“Then cease disturbing us and begone!” she barked.

Not needing to be told twice, he bowed at her, and continued on his way. In the hall, he crossed the few, scattered remnants of the feast, tipsy women who tried to throw themselves at him, and obsequious men eager as ever to curry his favour. He wondered how many of those would still wish to be acquainted with him if he should be declared a traitor in the morning.

That night, his sleep was scarce, fitful, and full of nightmares.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

He was awoken at dawn by a distraught Zimraphel. To his shock, she entered his rooms alone, and her cheeks were streaked with tears. For a moment, he thought that she had failed in persuading his father, and that they were both doomed. But if that had been the case, she would probably not be allowed to roam free around the Palace, much less here.

His speculation was cut short as soon as she opened her mouth.

“He is dead. I left him tonight, after we talked, and called his secretary in. I r-returned to the West Wing, but soon after the secretary himself came looking for me, and told me that he had s-stopped breathing.”

“What?” At first, he could not make sense of all this gibberish. “The King is dead? But… how?” Something horrible occurred to him. “Did you…?”

He let his voice trail away at the sight of her eyes.

“He did not die by my hand. He was alive when I left him, and I have witnesses to prove it.” To his shock, more tears fell down her cheeks. “He l-let himself die.”

Let himself die. The freakish gift of the line of Andúnië, again. Pharazôn made the gesture of the Hand, to ward himself from evil.

“So, what is the situation now?” he said, trying to hide his uneasiness by taking the initiative at last. Zimraphel wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“The secretary is the only one who knows about it, and he will keep quiet if he knows what is good for him. We have told the people at Court that he is ill, and we will uphold this version until we are sure of our next move. I… I will tell Mother myself now. I will convince her that it is not a good idea to let the rumour that he willingly laid down his life spread across the Island.”

“I hope you can also convince her that you and I had nothing to do with this.”

“That does not matter.” She shook her head, as if discarding a ludicrous thought. “She never loved him, but she has always loved me. I will always win that battle.”

“Fine.” Standing up from the bed, he wrapped himself in a nightrobe and began searching for his clothes. He did not even know where those damn courtiers kept all the things, but she had probably thrown everyone out when she came in, as a precaution. “How long do we have until the Council learns about what happened tonight, then?”

Zimraphel sat down at the bed. Though her tears were no longer visible, she looked strangely pale, if no less determined.

“One day. Two, at the most.”

He gazed into her eyes, willing himself to recover his aplomb. Deep inside he had to admit, however, that in none of his battles or campaigns he had ever been in greater danger than he was now, here, at the very palace where he had been born.

Nor had the stakes ever been higher.

“Very well. That is more than enough time to get married, and for my soldiers to discard their hangover.”

After that, there would only be four great Council families with the ability to call their own troops, the Palace Guard, and the Armenelos Guard to convince of the legitimacy of their marriage -and of the succession.

She smiled, a tenuous smile that felt like the crack of dawn after a long and cold night.

“You trusted me. Now, I will trust you.”

 

---

Chapter End Notes

The conversation between Tar Palantir and Zimraphel is important, and the only reason why I omitted it here is that it will be dealt with later. If I get to that part...