A queen she would be by ohboromir

A queen she would be

“And Father says I may wed him, but Mother says he is too young, and – “

“I do not see what your desire is to wed, Inzilkali.”

Ar-Zimraphel’s chambers were often full of this kind of talk; it was the hazard of surrounding herself with young attendants, always eager to discuss matters of love. The queen thought she had heard the tale of Inzilkali and her lover no less then fourteen times in the past few months. Azrabanâth, who had finally worked up the courage to interrupt, sat behind the queen, combing her dark hair into braids.

“What joy is there in marriage? I would rather not wed a man, and if I had no choice, it would not be one so boyish.”

“Have you never been in love, Azrabanâth?” Inzilkali sighed, deep and wistful, and reclined back on the couch, the tight curls of her hair spilling over the arm. Azrabanâth would change her tune if it were a maiden she could wed, Ar-Zimraphel thought, amused by their bickering.

“Not with a boy. You and he are still too young to wed.”

“You sound like my mother.”

Ar-Zimraphel herself had no desire for love; no charming suitors had never moved her heart, though men had called her fair and graceful, had brought her gifts and wrote her songs. Women had fawned over her beauty, praised her grace and wisdom, compared her to the golden sun for the warmth of her skin and the dusk for the rich black of her hair. But none of them had moved her heart (nor any other part of her, except perhaps to draw a smile when they amused her). She envied Azrabanâth’s bold stance: she was the third daughter of a lord, and she could afford to spurn marriage if she wished. Ar-Zimraphel was not so fortunate.

Her gaze drifted down to her hand, adorned with a glittering blue jewel; Ar-Pharazôn’s wedding gift. She was fortunate in one regard. Her husband had no more desire for her than she for him. Or rather, his desire was her claim to the throne, and not herself: there was neither love nor lust in their marriage.

The arrangement had been her idea, though she liked to let Ar-Pharazôn think she had been charmed by him. On her father’s death, there had been few supporters of his daughter. Outspoken and brave they had been, but not enough to withstand her cousin’s claim. Ar-Zimraphel had made a choice then, before any offer had been made to her. She would not give up the royal sceptre so easily. She could not have it by her own right, as was her due, but she would be a queen nonetheless. Ar-Pharazôn had proposed to wed her, to make her his queen, if she would support his claim.

Perhaps this was why she had been born the way she was; perhaps it was best her heart was given to none, so none may break it. She loved only Númenor, her people, and the sea.

“Forgive the interruption, my ladies, but Lady Azrabanâth speaks truly.” The voice came from by the door, where a young guardswoman stood her watch. She wore the dark gold and black of Zigûr’s followers – she suspected the wizard to be planting spies among her. “I am no noble lady, but if I were, I should think I have as much right as any common girl to refuse a husband, if she did not love him.”

“Aglaril,” Inzilkali rolled her eyes as she turned to look at her, “You do eavesdrop terribly. Even common girls know love.”

“Not I.”

“I do not see why,” Azrabanâth chimed in, “A lady may not wed another lady.”

“And she desires not to wed a lady, either?”

“You are being – “

“Ladies.” She raised her hand, and silence fell as the three of the them focused their rapt attention on her. “There is no need to bicker; might it be that thou art all correct?”

The women waited for her to continue – ah, she did not blame them for their confusion. By the years of their people, they were all young and hot-blooded. Wisdom the people of Númenor had been blessed with, but wisdom still had to be learned, and she would share it, if they would listen. Not least because she hoped to put them all at ease.

As a girl she had wondered if she were made wrong, when she had not giggled over training soldiers in the courtyard, or flushed when they took her hand at dances. If she could spare these youth the same confusion, she would. Was it not the role of a queen to care for her people, to guide them, to comfort them?

“In matters of marriage, there is no one answer.” She could not say she did not love Ar-Pharazon in front of one of the wizard’s servants. “A woman may love a man, or a woman, or none at all – these things may be of concern when she decides if she is to wed, but they are not the only factor. To be wed is to be partnered, and respect must be the foundation, not only love, whether one is a farmer’s daughter or a princess.”

Inzilkali sat up.

“You are wise as ever, your grace.” Ar-Zimraphel noted how her eyes darted to Azrabanâth behind her, and how the gleamed with victory. “If only my parents had such sage advice.”

Ah, she thought she had won.

Wisdom was not taught in a day, after all.

Chapter End Notes

I made up some Adunaic names for this, so hopefully they aren't terrible.