End of a Reign Unrecorded by Himring

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End of a Reign Unrecorded

Breathe, again, the scent of the hawthorn, as the thrush sings—

Lominzil woke up with the song still running through her mind, and the memory of the leap, the memory of Zadnazir’s strong arms catching her, steadying her, and not seen, but strongly felt, Her presence, the Queen’s, to the right in the background.

She had danced other choreographies by Abrazan since then, danced them for longer, but this one stayed with her, came up in her dreams more than twenty years later. She knew well enough why that was.

She went through her morning routines—memories pushed to the side, but still palpably present—and took her usual route to the empty warehouse where they had set up for the time being. It crossed one of the busier parts of Romenna, with streets where there were market stalls on either side and much selling and gossip going on.  Noisy enough—but, suddenly, Lominzil became aware of an unusual commotion.

‘The King!’ went the cry, back and forth. ‘The King is dead; long live the King!’

Lominzil stopped where she stood, perfectly still for a moment among all that uproar. Then she shook herself out of her startled abstraction and went on.

‘Lominzil! Lominzil, have you heard?’ Abrazan called out to her as soon as she had reached the warehouse. He pulled her inside and shut the door. ‘Tar-Anducal is dead!’

‘Herucalmo died,’ Lominzil corrected him, almost automatically.

Abrazan was clearly taken aback a bit. They had punctiliously been calling him Tar-Anducal for years, of course, like everyone else.

‘I heard as I came through the market,’ Lominzil explained. ‘But there is no reason to call him Tar-Anducal, not anymore. It was not a title he had a right to, after all.’

Abrazan nodded, a bit uncertainly. His excitement was not lessened, though.

‘I suppose Alcarin will finally succeed now!’

‘Yes, he will,’ said Lominzil. ‘Surely, he must, as there is no other heir. I wonder…’

Abrazan looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to continue, but she shook her head and took her thoughts and worries with her to the tiny office and the desk piled with the company’s records and accounts.

Herucalmo, whose eye and attention their group of dancers had been studiously avoiding for so long, fearing retribution and punitive measures, was gone.  Surely that alone would mean more opportunities opening up, with at least a potential improvement of their circumstances and fortunes? More time for a more thorough training for the younger dancers! A less peripatetic life might even make it possible for Zadnazir to re-join them. 

But Alcarin? Would Herucalmo’s son, on succeeding twenty later than he ought to have, remember them as his mother’s allies who had attempted to support his rights and decide to take up her patronage of the arts again? Abrazan seemed to be so confident that he would. Lominzil had not forgotten Alcarin’s own decision to support his mother, once, in her presence. It had been sincere, doubtless, and a real political risk he was taking, but she thought he had been taken by surprise, that evening, and acted spontaneously. She had not seen him since, not even from a distance, since they left Armenelos.

Had he regretted his involvement, later? How might the years after Vanimelde’s death, surrounded by Herucalmo’s supporters on all sides, have changed his thinking? Might he consider that brief past association an embarrassment now?

She did not have long to wait for the answer. A letter from Armenelos arrived by special messenger two days later. She opened it and read hastily, skipping polite phrasing to find the meat of the message, then read the letter again more slowly to try to understand exactly what was being said and what might be only hinted at.

I have summoned the architect to discuss necessary renovations of the theatre…hope you will consent to return to Armenelos and take up the position…regret…handle with discretion…extended period of mourning…respect the feelings of my father’s friends…Tar-Alcarin, in the twentieth year of his reign.

She was suddenly sad for him, in spite of what his generous offer meant for her. The wording of the letter told its tale. Alcarin’s feelings had been so strained by his father’s manipulations that he would find grieving difficult and double-edged. Times had been hard sometimes for them, during the past years, while Alcarin ate off golden plates, but she did not envy him having to navigate the politics in that court.

‘Abrazan,’ said Lominzil, holding the letter out to her friend and colleague, ‘this is more than I dared to hope for, maybe even more than you expected! We can return to Armenelos without fear. We will have royal patronage again! I have been offered a leading position!’

‘But,’ she continued, ‘we will have to be careful not to rock the boat. Alcarin fears unrest and feels the need to pacify Herucalmo’s supporters to ensure a peaceful transition.’

Abrazan was trying to read the letter and listen to her simultaneously. Lominzil paused to let him read to the end.

‘It means we won’t be able to revive it, you know,’ she said soberly. ‘Dusk Gathers Her Skirt Hems, I mean. It would be too provocative.’

‘There are other choreographies,’ said Abrazan, trying to comfort her. ‘And so many of them we will be performing in Armenelos for the first time!’

The group’s younger members had never danced in Armenelos at all.

‘There are other choreographies,’ said Lominzil. ‘And besides that one wouldn’t be the same, of course—without her, without Vanimelde. But nevertheless…’

She walked to the centre of the warehouse floor. They were alone, the other dancers having left an hour or so earlier.

‘Sing it for me, just the song, and I will dance.  A small performance in her memory, just the two of us. This evening of all evenings…’

Breathe, again, the scent of the hawthorn, as the thrush sings…, sang Abrazan. He was a dancer and choreographer, not a singer, but he had a good strong baritone nevertheless.

Lominzil pirouetted slowly, mimed breathing in scent, listening. She was adapting the movements of what had been an ensemble piece on the fly.

…drink parting in Yozayan at nightfall, as Dusk gathers her skirt hems…

She drank to an invisible partner, emptied the invisible cup, gathered invisible skirt hems.

…up from the western edge of the fields and the whale-grey waves darken.

She came to a stop, her arms floating outward and embracing the width of the sea and sky.

Chapter End Notes

The title alludes to the canonical fact that Tar-Anducal was not recorded by the Numenoreans as king in their records, on the grounds that he had not held the title legitimately (and Tar-Alcarin is starting that here by back-dating the beginning of his reign to his mother's death.)

Spoilers for "Send in the Clowns":

Tar-Vanimelde's failed plot to secure the legitimate succession of her son Alcarin involved staging a dance piece entitled "Dusk Gathers Her Skirt Hems" in the theatre in Armenelos. Her husband Herucalmo got wind of her plans, which resulted in "Dusk Gathers Her Skirt Hems" being performed only a single time, with almost no audience. But Alcarin was there and this encounter is the one Lominzil remembers.

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