Volcano by SurgicalSteel

Volcano

Ground, she’s moving under me
Tidal wave out on the sea
Sulfur smoke up in the sky
Pretty soon, we learn to fly…

From Volcano, by Jimmy Buffett

I left too late, Zimraphel thinks, crouching down and leaning against one of the few white stone markers remaining on the old path to the summit of the Minul-Târik, trying desperately to stay upright as the ground shakes again.

She had awakened to yet another earthquake. While attempting to set a few potted plants on her balcony to rights, she’d happened to look up – and saw what appeared to be a thin plume of smoke arising from the mountain’s summit and knew in the pit of her stomach. As she’d feared since the fleet sailed, Pharazôn must have come close enough to succeeding to provoke the Avalôi.

Surely some of them must feel pity, she’d thought. Surely at least one of them?

The air has become hotter now, with a reek of sulfur, and she feels a thousand hot needles biting into her face and hands, but she has the Zigûr’s words in her mind. ‘In the islands of the Eastern Sea, they sacrifice their king or queen to stay the wrath of the gods,’ he’d said.

If Pharazôn provoked them, I must be the one to appease them.

The ground seems to have calmed itself for a moment, and she stands, intent on her goal. She has learned from visiting the Giver of Freedom’s Temple – he accepts recently slaughtered offerings given to the flame. How much more worthy, then, will be her gift of her royal and still living flesh meeting the living flame of the earth?

Her mind goes back for a moment to her parents: to the little rituals of candle-lighting and supplications to the Avalôi which her mother taught her, the prayers her father rejected as impious. She wishes for a moment that she’d brought a candle with her – and then notices that her shoes have begun to smoke.

I am becoming a living candle, she thinks, and draws in a breath to laugh, but ends by coughing violently as the very air seems to sear her lungs.

Spear-mistress, strengthen me.

The coughing spasm eases, and she takes a few more steps. She tries to wipe off what appears to be dirt clinging to her hands, and is almost driven to her knees by the pain, and realizes that she has just pulled off her own burned skin.

My hands are now as red as the Spear-mistress’ are said to be. Lady, I hope that means I have your blessing.

Her eyes sting – whether with unshed tears or by burns from the ash, she is not certain. She will not raise her hands to her eyes to wipe them, though, as she is afraid that her face may be like her hands, and she needs to see to complete her task.

She remembers Amandil and Pharazôn talking of the huge waves which Ossë often produces in anger over the earth’s shaking, and prays to the Sea-Lord to stay his servant’s wrath.

She stumbles as the ground shakes again, and instinctively reaches forward to protect herself from falling, and cries out as her raw hands hit the path. She struggles back up to standing, takes another few steps.

Forge-master, you once pled for the Noldor. Plead for us.

Larger stones are falling from the wrathful sky, and she raises her hands above her head to try and protect herself. She must reach the flame. She left too late.

Earth-lady, your kin are tearing you apart. Will you not protest this violence against you?

Another few steps, another near fall, and the ash against her skin no longer hurts. Another few steps. She left too late, too late, but she must reach the flame.

Weeper, judge me kindly when I reach your halls.

She blinks for a few moments, not quite believing her eyes – she knows she is not anywhere close to the summit, and yet from the infernal glow, she must be incredibly close to her goal.

Weeper, judge me kindly, she thinks again, preparing to struggle on.

In a horrified split-second, she sees the smoking stone, larger than a man is tall. Some part of her mind idly notes its direction - straight for her - and wonders if this means the answer to her prayers is a resounding ‘no.’

There is heat and crushing pressure and all thought flees.

Chapter End Notes

AUTHOR’S NOTES: The Minul-Târik is the Adûnaic name for the Meneltarma, and ‘Avalôi’ is the Adûnaic word for ‘Valar.’

Her conceptions of the Valar are drawn from The Book of Lost Tales. The ‘Spear-mistress’ refers to Measse, who along with her brother Makar was a ‘Vala of War’ who was dropped from later drafts. In those early drafts, it was Fui Nienna who judged the souls of deceased mortals.

My justification for the final king and queen of Númenor being co-rulers who loved one another may be found in ‘The History of the Akallabêth’ in Peoples of Middle-earth.