When the Phoenix Cries by kimikocha

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Chapter Two: Rescue

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One thought in my mind went over and over

While the darkness shook and the leaves were thinned—

I thought it was you who had come to find me,

You were the wind. 

—Sara Teasdale, “The Storm.”

 

 

On the third day following the return of Ar-Pharazôn and his armies from Mordor, in the early morning, a little girl wanders across the great courtyard of the palace, barefoot. Clad in a rough homespun tunic, she sticks out like a beggar among princes — but none of the guards on duty seem to notice her. Only Zadnazîr, the servant tasked with sweeping up the fallen leaves this morning before dawn, looks up — and stops sweeping.

The child turns and looks straight at him, and a strange shiver runs down his spine. Those rings upon her staff, chiming softly as she makes her way over… he’s seen nothing like that in years. Not since the ships brought him here in his youth, but he remembers the stories, the faded paintings in the temple. There are those who have learned the ways of the world, and in so doing have learned how not to be subject to it. The staff carried by the ones who walk in darkness to force open the gates of every hell…

“Hello,” says the little girl, looking up at him curiously. “Do you remember me?”

“Perhaps…?” A whisper of a memory, or a dream — broken bodies at his feet, and blood on his hands. A trick of the mind, or one of his fancies, for that has never happened in his lifetime — though all the same, unease curls around his heart.

Zadnazîr glances at the guards. None of them seem to react.

“Don’t worry.” The child reaches up and, very gently, pats one of his hands gripping the broom. Her fingers are tiny and cool to the touch. “They won’t notice. I didn’t know you could see me, but you’ve always been good at seeing things. I thought you might remember, but it’s okay if you don’t! I’m not mad. It’s hard to remember. Most people don’t.”

Who are you? The question crosses Zadnazîr’s mind, but with a strange stroke of fear he realizes he’s not sure he wants to know the answer. “Why are you here?”

“For someone I love,” the little girl says, sunny and cheerful — though something in her eyes stops him short. A shadow of sadness glimpsed for but a moment, terrible and far older than her seeming years.

“Is there anyone you don’t love?” Zadnazîr finds himself asking.

“No.” Whatever he’d glimpsed is gone in an instant, the child grinning and sticking her tongue out at him. “That’s a silly question. I’m sorry I scared you — I didn’t mean to. I love you very much, you know. No matter what.”

He’s not sure what to say to that, or if indeed it requires a response.

“You can have this if you want it.” She holds out her hand, and Zadnazîr accepts the offering without stopping to look. A tiny carved figurine of a fox lies in his palm, its eyes closed and mouth curved up in a smile. Almost as if…

“You can give it to someone else if you don't like it. I won’t be mad,” the little girl tells him. Zadnazîr shakes his head, almost frantic, and closes his fingers with the tiny fox cradled inside.

“Or not,” says the child, her eyes crinkling up as if she’s smiling. The rings on her staff chime softly as she steps back. “He’s no more magic than any friend is, but you can tell him anything you can’t say out loud. No matter what it is, he’ll never think you’re not worthy of love — and neither will I. I don’t think you’ll see me like this again for a very long time, but I’m good at hearing things if there’s ever anything you want to tell me.”

“Thank you,” he chokes out. The little girl inclines her head, smiling truly now.

A moment later he blinks, and she is gone. The great palace doors won’t be open for at least an hour yet, but somewhere up ahead he hears a telltale creak.

Another one of his fancies, perhaps. For when Zadnazîr looks, the doors seem to be as closed and locked as they’ve always been.

*

A few hours later, all hell breaks loose.

It looks like a flaming meteor, streaking down from the sky toward the courtyard — but what lands is a creature, wreathed in shadow and flame, with great dark limbs and enormous skeletal wings. It dwarfs the Elf that clings to its back by a height or more, kneeling for a moment to permit its passenger to slide off before standing.

The Elf… there’s something strange about him. The air around him almost seems to shimmer, distorting, as if in proximity of intense heat. Clad not in armor but in robes of deep blue, he carries a long-bladed glaive which he draws from its sheath across his back and holds out before him as he strides across the courtyard toward the great iron doors. The creature wreathed in shadow follows at his back, drawing from itself a gout of blazing flame that it grips in its claws like a great sword.

It is intense heat radiating from them. An alarm goes up as the palace guards fall back, unable to close the distance. Bolts fired from distant archers burst into flame before reaching their target, falling in ashes to the ground. At their approach, the iron of the doors grows hot to the touch, then begins to glow — even the most dedicated of the guards recoils, falling back — then begins to buckle, bending inward as the Elf strikes them open with the butt of his glaive.

“I am Tyelperinquar, called Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion,” he announces, his voice ringing coldly as he gains the entrance hall, “And I am here for my husband.”

“Your husband?” There is no sign of the king, but among the petitioners and nobles gathered against the walls of the chamber, a woman stands forth. Diminutive in stature, with dark skin and piercing grey eyes showing beneath the drape of her veils, her low voice issues forth calm and authoritative. “Who is he, and why do you seek him here?”

“He is Annatar, also called Mairon, a Maia.” The air at the base of the dais where the woman stands grows uncomfortably warm, but neither she nor the two ladies at her side fall back. “He was taken prisoner during Ar-Pharazôn’s last conquest of Arda.”

“I see.” The woman gives a sharp nod, and is silent for a moment before she speaks. “I will lead you to where he is kept, upon the following assurances sworn unto the names of your fathers. You will take only your husband, not your vengeance. Should your husband desire revenge upon Númenor for his captivity, you will restrain him. We shall hold this matter settled and our accounts balanced upon your husband’s return to you, and there will be no retribution sought for any act done before this very moment. You will swear this, or I will be silent, and you may tear all Armenelos to its foundations and never find him.”

A spark ignites near the dais. One corner of the long rug ending at its foot bursts into flame. Tightly, the Lord of Eregion nods.

“You have your assurances.”

“That will do. Come with me.” Smothering the flame with the sole of her shoe, the woman casts a cool eye over the rest of the hall. “The rest of you will keep your peace, if you value it. I will not wager the lives of all in this court, of all of you, in war with an enemy that may land on our doorstep, over one prisoner — no matter how prestigious he may be. If the king should feel otherwise, I bend my will to his guidance — but as he is elsewhere at present, it is my duty to act as best I may in his stead.”

*

As the woman leads them away from the hall — not through the main corridors, but through a strange narrow passageway which opens up from an alcove — the creature with Celebrimbor speaks for the first time. His voice is a low rumble which vibrates in the bones, deeper than the foundations of the earth. “Who’re you?”

“Forgive my lack of courtesy.” The woman, still veiled and with her ladies at her side, navigates these passages as if she were born to them. “I am Tar-Míriel, daughter of Tar-Palantir, King of Númenor, and his sole progeny. Of late I am called Ar-Zimraphel, by command of my husband.”

“Pharazôn.” Celebrimbor utters the word low in his throat.

“By his will, yes.” Briefly, Tar-Míriel glances back. The unspoken words seem to hang in the air: his will. Not mine. “Ever the Eldar have been friends to our people,” she says, looking straight ahead and seeming to choose her words with care, “Though I fear of late we have not been friends to you. I asked your assurance that you will not take vengeance because I… believe you may find reason for it.”

Open flames ignite on bare stone, licking up the wall only a few hands-breadths away. The lady closer to the queen bites out a foreign word which sounds like a curse, pushing her charge back.

“Forgive me,” says Celebrimbor, his voice frighteningly even. “My anger is not with you.”

“I have heard of the marriage bonds of the Eldar.” Tar-Míriel gives him a long, piercing look. “Then you know of what I speak.”

White-hot fire flashes across the ceiling — or is it fire? The air itself seems to burst for the briefest moment in its wake, a frighteningly loud crack echoing down the corridor, and a strange scent like a rainstorm lingers behind.

It’s answer enough, whatever it is. The queen looks away for a moment, fiddling with something beneath her long robes and draped veils — removing a thin silk glove from her hand and holding it out. Rotating it, palm-up, palm-down. Displaying the unmistakable darkening of bruises about the wrist.

“I know what Pharazôn is like,” Tar-Míriel says simply, without emotion. Her hands do not shake as she withdraws her hand and begins to replace the glove. “It might be said that your husband’s capture was a mercy for myself. Not so for him, I fear, for what restraint a prudent king might show in the treatment of his queen would have little reason to show itself in the treatment of a captured foe whose name is feared by many. I release you from your assurance not to seek vengeance for your husband’s unkind treatment, insofar as it pertains to those who were unkind.”

At her left side, one of her ladies — taller than her by far, with dark eyes near-crossed by strange entwining scars — makes a noise and stares hard at Celebrimbor. Flames flicker in the air around him, distinct from those wreathing the shadowed creature at his heels.

“Peace, Lôminzil.” Tar-Míriel casts a significant glance over the flames before meeting Celebrimbor’s eyes once again. “Forgive my frankness. I thought it prudent to advise you thus before you see your husband’s condition, for though your anger is an understandable thing, I would much prefer not to be incinerated by it should his state come as a shock. Come.”

*

Outside, the city of Armenelos is in… not quite chaos, but something approaching it. Disguised, several court historians slip out amongst the crowds, writing some words in shorthand and committing others to memory. Some say the palace is under attack; others murmur of divine vengeance, and pray to the Lady of the Still Waters for her blessing. Only minutes have passed, but many saw the meteor; those in the immediate area now see the guardsmen assembling along the walls.

Inside the palace, senior historiographer Sakalkhôr strides along near the king as Ar-Pharazôn diverts their course toward the inner chambers. The king’s guard would have had him well on his way to safety by now, but the king has gotten word of what transpired in the audience hall and wishes to countermand it.

Whether it is good or ill, wisdom or foolishness to do so is not for Sakalkhôr to consider. It is only for him to record, which he has done for some years now. Unassuming, with an air that few notice and fewer remember, he is a strong choice for the position he holds — one which subjects every word, act, and deed to scrutiny and records them, whether flattering or not, in full.

None are permitted to read the histories in full, for the information they contain could lead to death, not least for those who write them. Already Sakalkhôr and his fellows have recorded the manner of Pharazôn’s rise to power, and many deeds following it. They know what he has done. Even unto the Lord of Mordor himself — word travels fast, and suspicions prevail that Sauron would seduce the king. Yet Sakalkhôr himself, secreted away in a hidden place, heard the words that were said.

“I desire this not.”

It bodes ill, though the historians would not opine as such within their annals. Preparations were already underway to preserve the histories should Pharazôn choose to open them, as he has indicated he may do. Draft copies have been made in triplicate and hidden in secret; now, provisions are being made to remove copies from the island of Númenor. For the historians suspect what they will not write: that in doing this deed Pharazôn has sown the seeds of his downfall, and perhaps his kingdom with it.

…They had not anticipated that Sauron would turn out to be wed — to the Lord of Eregion no less, and Sakalkhôr privately suspects that tongues will wag about that for centuries. Nor did they expect that his heretofore unknown husband would come storming the palace to demand his return. Such are the reasons the historians write what they see, and not what they think of it — for what wisdom could they have that would have foreseen this?

Time will be the judge of Ar-Pharazôn’s wisdom, but Sakalkhôr, for his part, takes care to remain at some distance. His notes are written on paper. If his body burns, they’ll burn with it.

As the king — who does not know the palace’s secret ways nearly so well as his queen — leads them round a corner near his chambers, the air grows suddenly hot. Discreetly, Sakalkhôr turns a fresh sheet of paper and tucks the last one through a slit in his robes into the packet strapped to his waist, the top portion of the linen envelope sewn into the cloth which binds his breasts. Tightly enough to still their motion, not tightly enough to hinder his breath. His notes will be safe there if he needs to run.

“Sauron, his husband,” Ar-Pharazôn sneers to the captain of the guard, drawing his sword. “Will the might of Eregion rival that of Númenor? I will lay waste to him. Let the catamite join his master in his sorrows, and rue the day he ever thought to challenge us.”

Unwise, Sakalkhôr thinks, though he does not write that down.

*

Mairon is still in Pharazôn’s chambers. Clad in nothing but his flesh, for he would sooner rend himself to pieces than let the king array him, he has arranged himself cat-like on a couch within the distance his chains will permit him and made sport of terrorizing Pharazôn’s servants.

…A little. Only a little. They are as enchanted by his fána as any who look upon it, and a great deal more wary of the ëala it clothes than their king. That is wise of them, Mairon thinks with a hint of magnanimity. No more than a hint, because they continue stealing glances. They’re unnerved when they find him looking back, more so when he refuses to look away. A little pull of his magic lets him hold concurrent stare-downs with everyone in the room, and if they compare notes later they’ll find a contradiction of him seemingly looking in multiple places at once.

Droll. Truly droll. Mairon prefers feeling vague dark amusement to feeling… anything else he could be feeling. But the servants are gone now, and he’s alone with his thoughts.

The breeze which blows through the open window carries the scent of the ocean, so strong he can almost taste the salt water. Spices, herbs, a strong hint of cypress.

He despises the perfumed oils the servants used in the bath. If Mairon cared to stink of mold-infested eaglewood, he’d turn into a rotting tree. The whole exercise was infuriating, in fact, and he bitterly resents the painful gratitude he’d had to feel for… whatever his name was. The lead one. Abrazîr, or something like that. The one who looked him in the eye and nowhere else save when necessary. The one who’d motioned his fellows away with a tilt of his head when under their hands Mairon first began to shake, and then began to cry. The one who’d stroked his hair and held him, who always asked before touching him and used words like may I.

As if it was a question.

A farce, all of it — for what would have happened had Mairon said no? He’ll tear them apart, rip them all to bloody shreds. They have to die, for doing this to him.

There’s not even a guard on him, is there? No, wait, there is one — two, in fact, standing at the doors. He can hear them breathing, see them if he uses his magic to slip an eye over the back of the couch. They’re good at their job, good at blending into the furniture. Were the same ones in the room when—?

Mairon shudders, drawing his knees up toward his chest and hugging himself tightly. The clink of the chain sounds deafeningly loud in the stillness as he lays his head down. If he cries, he’ll have to do it silently.

There is such rage in him, he notices, even in his despair. Good. It thrums with a bright silver melody, singing I will kill him. Rip his guts out through his mouth. Slit him open from neck to navel and rip his heart out with my bare hands. Burn away his vile flesh and let his bones crumble into ashes.

That sounds about right, Mairon thinks, oddly cheered. Even in the empty space where his ëala had cradled his dear friend Gothmog’s depleted flame till recently, he feels an echo of the low-rumbling protectiveness he used to feel. As if this were not all his own fault to begin with; as if it were not his own failures that saw him unwilling to Pharazôn’s bed, or his own weakness that saw him unable to effect his own willingness.

(I see thy fear, Lieutenant.)

This would be so much easier if he were willing. It seems Mairon has forgotten the trick to making himself… unwillingly willing, and that desolate thought forces a choked sob through his clenched teeth. For he knows why he’s forgotten, and it matters not except for how very much it does because he cannot lose sight of the fact that Tyelpë is not here. He’s in Eregion where he belongs, and Gothmog has left him too — he’s alone in this place and no one is coming and why would they try, he is nothing and has nothing and there is nothing left for him save vengeance.

I am coming for you, Annatar. I’m here.

The words come as though wreathed in silver, ringing true and shining-bright. Startled, Mairon goes very still.

…Tyelpë?

*

The heat wave strikes as the king’s party rounds the corner at the final corridor, and Ar-Pharazôn bites out a vicious oath. Sakalkhôr is too busy making his notes in swift shorthand to react, but it feels almost physical, like walking through a wall of flame.

The captain of the guard doesn’t like this. He speaks up. Ar-Pharazôn pauses and looks back over their group, orders one of the guards to return with reinforcements from the nearest tower — the soldier splits off, but they will be moving forward. Again the captain speaks, his voice low and urgent: their foe is no warrior but a spirit of flame, a sorcerer, who has much reason to hate them and may have capacities they do not know. They should wait for reinforcements.

Ar-Pharazôn shakes his head, declines to wait. He will not be the king who permits this outrage upon his inner sanctum. Nor will he be the coward who falls back at the final moment. To Sakalkhôr’s eye, he seems agitated.

“Your majesty—”

The king cuts the captain off with a gesture.

Wary for his own survival, Sakalkhôr falls to the back of the group, then farther. He’s sweating like a swamp under his robes, but perhaps that will keep his notes damp enough to survive if things go south — he can only hope.

As they draw nearer the king’s chambers, the heat grows more intense — like passing before the open doors of the great clay ovens the kitchens keep burning night and day to bake bread. Even in his light summer robes, Sakalkhôr won’t be able to bear this for long — he can scarcely imagine what the guards ahead of him are feeling in full armor. He’s sweating under his robes, but the exposed skin of his face and hands feels bone-dry, almost taut enough to crack.

Along the walls, square glazed ceramic tiles painted in shades of blue stretch up to the ceiling, their designs aligned to create interlocking patterns mimicking stars and flora. None of the alcoves common in the rest of the palace are to be found in this corridor — too easy for assassins to hide in them, Sakalkhôr recalls. The great doors to the royal chambers are easy to spot, situated at precisely the midpoint of the hall and ornamented with carnelian and gold leaf—

Ah. That’s different. The doors are standing open.

Tar-Míriel, it seems, made it here first.

“With me!” Ar-Pharazôn snarls to his guards, and charges forward.

*

Mairon is not in tears when the alarm goes up. None of those feelings are gone, but for a moment he basks in the sheer fury coursing through his veins — wreathed in bright silver, white-hot and murderous. Intoxicating and resplendent, it makes him feel like himself again — like Annatar, like Mairon, like a Maia whose hands have wrought the hearts of mountains and called the lightning to strike down his foes at his feet. He feels glorious.

Tyelpë? He would adorn that name in gold, write it in blazing, burning flame; he would hold it in his being, cradled close as his dearest friend. No insult could there be in that, for Gothmog — or Kosomot, son of Melkor, to those whom he holds dearest — has been Mairon’s beloved since long before the Firstborn woke, and has been more loved than many a lover.

Tyelpë, Tyelpë, Tyelpë. Mairon rolls that name around on his tongue, listening to the guards behind him shift to attention at the sound of the alarm. If Tyelpë is here—

I am here.

With those words come a mass of images, sensory data — iron doors aglow, metal buckling in the heat. A nearby banner catching flame, the Númenórean crest disappearing into smoke. Shadow and flame, a brand of fire — skies above and oceans below, skeletal wings and distant land.

…Have they come without notice? Seemingly hostile, and alone? That is nothing short of madness. Not even Gothmog at the height of his power could make war on the legions of Númenor alone. And Tyelpë — his grandfather’s blood runs in his veins, that is clear, and a fierce burning ache bursts through Mairon’s chest at the thought that the power of Tyelpë’s lineage might come forth for him, but — Tyelpë is not a warrior by trade, he is strong, but—

I’m almost there, murmurs a voice, and they are in a stone passageway and the queen is a prisoner is leading them upward and almost there…

Well then, Mairon thinks with a vague sort of hysterical clarity, he’d best not try to destroy the palace. There is rage and there is hatred and there is the ferocity of love burning bright: the love that knows that Tyelpë has done something that could be his end and if Ar-Pharazôn dares to lay one finger on him Mairon will — rip his head from his shoulders burn him let his brains boil in his skull let his eyes burst and melt in bloody sockets and — Ar-Pharazôn will not hurt Tyelpë.

Magic comes with him scarcely knowing it. Flames rise from the couch’s brocade upholstery as the metal band at his throat goes red-hot, then molten — “You there, stand up,” the guards are saying, and Mairon is rising with a vicious laugh on his tongue, twisting the collar off like so much clay.

“Don’t worry,” he tells them coldly, with his voice low and smooth and a mad grin on his face. “You won’t bleed.”

Screams die in their throats as the blood in their veins comes to boiling, searing them from the inside out. The sound of armor hitting tile rings through the room as their bodies collapse to the floor without spilling a drop of blood.

Satisfaction.

…It occurs to Mairon as he stands there that this may have been unwise. There were reasons he hadn’t done this earlier. He’d fought until he fell when they took his city, exhausted and overwhelmed; he knows that even he cannot fight forever. All Mordor will fall, his mighty people brought to ruin, and Tyelpë — could Eregion stand against the might of Númenor? If she couldn’t, would Tyelpë—

No. He cannot. Mairon won’t let him. Panic sears through his chest as he calls on his eyes that see everything, frantically calculating the distance from Armenelos — Gothmog, you traitor, you have to take him somewhere safe, why did you bring him here!

Mn, says his friend’s voice, so low Mairon can scarcely hear it. ‘s persuasive.

I’m not leaving you with him, snarls a much louder silver-bright voice, a moment before the door slides open.

*

Of all the assignments Ar-Pharazôn could have given his Royal Physician, this one… isn’t the worst, but Lilóteo can still think of a lot of things he’d rather do. This was the command given him: “One of his kind ought to heal faster. Have a look at him, see if anything’s wrong.” A quick word with Abrazîr told him the rest.

A wretched business, all of it. Lilóteo’s cared for Tar-Míriel for years, but he doesn’t know the first thing about how the physiology is supposed to work for… some sort of fire-spirit, Maia — whatever they’d called the captive. Mairon, that’s his name. Lilóteo’s read a very little about the Elves — the one essay he’s seen buried in an old moldering collection that escaped the purges of Ar-Gimilzôr claimed that they die when forced, which, well, doesn’t appear to be the case here (unless the death is lingering?). It also claimed that bread would not rise for elven men, which — the translator, evidently skeptical, had left a footnote indicating that they were translating from another translation and that the language used in the translation indicated a literal impossibility, not a matter of custom. Lilóteo thinks that will be of little use, and the slave, Mairon, is not an Elf anyway.

On the bright side — if there is one — Abrazîr had confirmed Mairon to speak Adûnaic, and described him as cooperative. ‘Only hurting’, he’d said in his mild coastal accent, with its slight softening of the t. Only hurthing. Which is… not great. Lilóteo doesn’t have the bedside manner for this, or he doesn’t want to have to, or — something.

What is he supposed to do? It’s not as if he’s going to be convincing Ar-Pharazôn to cease raping his captive — not when the king has already ignored all the natural philosophers’ warnings about the possibility of a devastating fire in the palace, or the real risk of this slave incinerating Ar-Pharazôn one day. If that happens, Lilóteo can’t say he doesn’t think the king will deserve it. In the meantime…

As he steps through the first set of doors in the hall leading to the king’s chambers, he hears the alarm go up — and ignores it. Intruders? Probably aggressive petitioners. It’s that time of day. A faint clattering sound from somewhere isn’t out of place in a palace bustling with life, particularly with how close things are in this area with all the furniture. Honestly, why Ar-Pharazôn insists on jamming all the fanciest bits of furniture he gets as tribute into his own personal chambers, Lilóteo has no idea.

In brisk steps, he crosses the sizable antechamber and pushes the door open to announce himself. “Lilóteo, R—”

He stops short, nearly swears.

Zcerneboth’s cunt.

“You look like shit,” Lilóteo informs the person standing naked in the middle of the room before his mind catches up with his mouth. Which is an accurate assessment. At a glance, it’s evident that Mairon has been beaten and strangled — along with everything else.

But he also appears to be unrestrained. The couch beside him is on fire. He’s looking right at Lilóteo with blazing golden eyes. Both of the guards are collapsed on the floor, and there’s a faint odor of burnt hair and flesh in the room. This is not good.

Low in his bruised throat, the fire-spirit laughs. He doesn’t sound amused.

Lilóteo tries for a step back, then goes perfectly still with a bitten-off curse as a white-gold flaming brand appears in midair, tapering to a point aimed directly at his throat.

“Do not move.” Unearthly beautiful even in his state, the creature stalks around the couch and closer, cat-like, his bare feet soundless on the floor. “How very observant are those who come to glory in their king’s triumph.”

“I’m — I’m not glorying!” Lilóteo voices his protest rather loudly, because that train of thought seems likely to get him killed as part of this creature’s vengeance. He might deserve it, but he’d rather not die. “Shit, man. You think I like this or something? Because I don’t.”

“No? You take no joy in your enemy’s humiliation, then?” Midway to the door, the spirit stops, beckoning. A great pressure falls upon him, and Lilóteo moves forward as if drawn on a puppeteer’s strings, the fiery blade held level to his throat. He winces as the doors swing shut behind him.

“No!” he retorts. The spirit, Mairon, studies him with a sort of abstract disinterest, one polished copper eyebrow faintly arched. It seems like a good idea to keep talking. “You’re not my enemy. I don’t even know you. Bojemoi, what the fuck could anyone possibly do to deserve that?”

Suddenly, the air around him grows thick and frighteningly sweltering. Flames leap up from Ar-Pharazôn’s bed, the chain looped round the bedpost glowing suddenly red-hot. The spirit’s eyes bear down on him, blazing like the sun. “Do not lie.”

“I’m not — fucking — lying!”

A moment passes. Two. Then abruptly it is over. The strange pressure vanishes from the air, the warmth dying down to something far less terrifying. At his throat, the fiery blade winks suddenly out of existence. Mairon looks at Lilóteo with something akin to disdain, head tilting microscopically to one side.

“I require a corridor of open space, preferably fifteen meters wide, preferably open to the sky,” he says shortly, a hoarse rasp now discernible in his otherwise-musical voice. “If no such space exists in this keep, I will create one in an exterior-facing wall or, if necessary, in the roof. You will lead me to the nearest such location which is adjacent to the fewest number of archers and no cannon turrets capable of firing inward. You will do this, because someone I care for has entered this place, and if anyone so much as lays a finger on him I will reduce this place and all inside it to ashes.”

“I—” The air in the room is growing unseasonably warm again. Lilóteo edges toward the open window, weighing his chances of survival if he jumps out. Probably not good. He’s seen a case of a drunk soldier fallen from the palace walls who survived, but this is higher than that. “I don’t know that much. I’m just a physician.” Was it a good idea to disclose that? Probably not. It’s getting hotter. “The, uh, the antechamber outside is pretty big, and I think that’s an exterior wall?”

“Not long enough,” Mairon mutters, seeming distracted. There’s a click-scrape sound from somewhere near the bed, and the flame-spirit’s gaze jerks up as a panel slides back and two tall creatures stride into the room.

They seem like him in aspect, of a kind or similar. One is… indistinct, like shadows in deep water. That one lingers behind the first, who seems lit from within by starlight, with dark hair and eyes not unlike Lilóteo’s people. The one Mairon cares about — is that one of them? It seems likely. But in that unguarded moment, something seems… odd. Joy or relief would not tighten the spirit’s shoulders so, nor keep him rooted to the spot instead of moving forward to greet the two as they enter.

“Annatar—!” The first one takes a jerky step forward, then stops, gentling his movements a little. His eyes are trained above the neck, on Mairon’s face.

“Tyelpë…?” It comes out in a sort of whisper, like a low-burning candle at the end of its wick. Mairon’s chin dips down slightly, throat working as he swallows. “Kosmoko? You came. I… I am sorry,” he says in an old form of Eldarin. Or at least, that’s what Lilóteo thinks he says — the form is close enough to be identifiable, but much too far for him to trust his translation.

The dark presence at the back seems to… coalesce a bit, giving a vague impression of glowing embers and a broad chest. Kosmoko, that’s its name? It sort of… rumbles. Mairon murmurs something in a voice too low to quite catch, chin dipping a little lower.

The first one, Tyelpë, starts speaking in the same archaic Eldarin almost too fast to follow: a strong declarative affirmation with the null modifier indicating positive knowledge of the absence of limits, something like ‘yes, with certainty, or in accordance with natural laws’, something something, something about — sin? Blasphemy? Negation. Strong negation. Negation that strong might be rude, but it’s a gentling tone of voice. Quiet. Almost entreating. Fumbling with the sash of his outer robes, Tyelpë takes a hesitating step forward and says something. May I?

There’s a pause. Mairon lifts his chin a little. His lips go thin and pale, the corners of his mouth pulling down. But he says yes, and please, and everything seems to crumble. Tyelpë goes to him, shrugging off the top layer of his robes, and drapes the blue silk around the other spirit’s shoulders. Mairon’s hands tremble as he pulls his hair out from under them, motions a bit jerky as he ties off the sash; the knot he makes is simple but very neat.

They look at one another. Tyelpë reaches out toward Mairon, not quite touching. His face is very still, shoulders very tight, and — Lilóteo decides to take his chances and run for the door. Because suddenly flames erupt from a huge section of the rugs and the whole couch is on fire and—

The architects who built this palace really should have included better means of egress from these things. If he lives, Lilóteo is going to have something to say about that. If he lives.

No one stops him as he twists the knob and jerks the doors open, bolting outside and making it partway across the antechamber before Ar-Pharazôn himself appears in the main doorway — shit. He has his sword drawn, as if that’s going to be useful against these creatures. In theory Lilóteo is supposed to prostrate himself, but instead he gasps “Your Majesty,” and gets out of the way, flattening himself against the cabinets nearest the door.

This is not going to go well. Not that Ar-Pharazôn doesn’t have it coming, but Lilóteo would like to not be collateral. Thankfully, the king ignores him, heading straight for the doors he’d just exited with a few of the royal guard in tow — and a historian, whom Lilóteo only barely avoids colliding with as he tries to slip out the doorway.

The historian jumps, then exhales sharply, shoulders slumping, and plunges a hand into his robes with his eyes on Lilóteo. “Thank the gods.” He’s certainly taking his time at the doorway, though Lilóteo steps back to let him pass — and he can’t get around, because there’s a huge, heavily ornamented stone table preventing him from opening the door all the way.

“We need to leave,” Lilóteo hisses at his colleague. Behind him — a great wave of searing heat washes over, and he coughs. There are raised voices.

“Just a moment,” mutters the historian, scowling, eyes transfixed on whatever is happening behind him. “Damn it—” Suddenly with a furious jerk and the sound of tearing fabric he’s withdrawing what looks like a wad of… old undergarments, with toggles still attached to eyelets dangling from loose threads. “Take that with you,” he says, shoving the whole bundle into Lilóteo’s hands.

“You need to leave, too!” Lilóteo snaps, just before the doors slam shut of their own accord. Fuck. He jerks his hand away before touching the knob — it’s burning hot. Maybe the wet cloth—

“Don’t burn my notes!” the historian hisses, taking cover beneath the massive stone table. He’s furiously scribbling in his little stack of paper, eyes fixed on the tableau in front of him. Something rumbles; there’s a clash of metal against metal.

Factually, Lilóteo was not using the thick envelope-like flap attached to the undergarments to grab at the doorknob, which is not working. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Putting his shoulder into it, he shoves, trying to force the door from the inside. It doesn’t budge, because of course it doesn’t — these doors are heavy. Probably designed against such efforts in case of an insurrection in the palace.

Shit. He coughs; his eyes are watering. Covering his nose and mouth with his loose sleeve, Lilóteo shoves himself in next to the historian under the table and surveys his options.

The far side of the antechamber is wreathed in flame and shadow. With startling clarity he sees the starlit spirit, Tyelpë, gracefully wielding his glaive against Ar-Pharazôn. His movements are fluid, showing no sign of weariness, and he has the superior reach, though he seems not to be pressing it. Shoulders slumped, breathing hard enough to be heard across the chamber, the king seems to be struggling. Mairon — is that him, standing close to the far wall? Yes, that’s him. He seems to be clasping something in his hands, though his head is up, watching the combatants. There’s no sign of the guards, unless — ah, yes, that shape on the floor is probably one of them. Lilóteo knows there are several doors on the wall opposite the bedchamber — it’s hard to make them all out, but surely there’s a servants’ stair here somewhere?

Zcernoboth’s cunt, he really might die here. He jabs the historian with his elbow. “How do we get out of here?” Historiographers have a knack for showing up where they’re not wanted. Maybe they also have a talent for getting out.

The historian jabs him back, a lot harder. His eyes remain fixed ahead. “Servants’ stair is through the farthest door, on the left. Or—” Finally, he glances briefly at Lilóteo. “Try the concealed passage in the social room. Just move the desk out of the way.”

“Move the desk out of the way, and—” Lilóteo coughs. “Ach, do what?”

“Just move the desk out of the way. That’s all.” Without looking back at him, the historian unties the calabash from his sash and holds it out to Lilóteo, then fishes a rumpled wrapping cloth out from one of his sleeves and drops it unceremoniously in the physician’s lap. Fumbling the stopper out from the gourd’s neck, Lilóteo wets the cloth and covers his mouth and nose.

Across the room, Ar-Pharazôn takes a bloody wound to the thigh and bites out a curse. Disengaging, he falls into a wide stance in front of the bedchamber door — close enough that he could conceivably retreat inside and lock himself in, though Lilóteo has no idea how bad the fire might be at this point. The whole antechamber is brighter now; the guards’ forms are clearly visible on the floor, and Lilóteo can make out the tall form of the indistinct shadow-spirit close to Mairon.

He can also see pale-bright flames flickering through the air like lightning flashes. Fuck — if that actually is lightning of some sort... perhaps staying put is his best option for now.

“So this is how the Lord of Eregion thanks me for ridding Middle Earth of its greatest threat.” Ar-Pharazôn makes a noise like a laugh, dark and ugly, breathing hard. “He is Sauron, Lieutenant of Morgoth, Lord of Mordor. And you would come to his defense, calling him your husband.”

“He is, and I would,” Tyelpë says curtly, advancing a step. Dancing lights glint off his bloodstained glaive. “What did you think would happen when Sauron’s husband got here? Or d’you go around thinking that all husbands are like you?”

Snarling, Ar-Pharazôn retreats with his guard up. “I would—”

He never gets to finish that sentence. A ghostly form appears in the doorway behind him, far smaller than he but beyond his vision, and silent. Not a ghost but a woman, and Lilóteo nearly cracks his head on the table jerking up in shock — that is Tar-Míriel, unveiled, clad in sheer layers of rippling silk. Metal flashes in the light — she snatches hold of her husband’s vest and buries her dagger under his arm.

Lilóteo sees the arterial spurt as the king’s blade clatters to the floor. But he knows that even a dead man walking can kill another before he dies, and without thought of what he’s doing he’s scrambling up, the world seeming to move in slow motion. Ar-Pharazôn is whirling toward the queen, even as Tyelpë’s glaive lays open the flesh at the back of his thigh, just above the knee — his hands are flying toward his head, which jerks suddenly to the side with a sickening crack — Lôminzil, the queen’s bodyguard, has her by the shoulders and is spinning her away from Ar-Pharazôn as his body over-balances and crumples backward in a heap.

His body jerks once with a truly horrendous sound that Lilóteo recognizes as bones grinding and flesh and connective tissues tearing, then lies still. Mairon steps forward, casting a disdainful eye over the corpse. The bruises still visible at his face and throat stand out in stark relief.

“He will not be moving again.”

“Thank you, Lôminzil. You need not protect me from a corpse.” Tar-Míriel steps out of her guard’s hold, prodding the inert body of her husband with a silken shoe before leveling a rather cool stare at Tyelpë, whose face is white. “Perhaps I led you to believe that I would not interfere. But this kingdom is mine to rule, not yours.”

“He could have killed you.”

“So he could have. I suppose you may take that up with Lôminzil, if you like. The choice of whether or not to risk it did not belong to you.” With an air of finality, the queen turns to Mairon — Sauron, Lilóteo supposes. A relic of the First Age, a creature more of legend than life. “I hope you will hold that to be sufficient vengeance.”

He tilts his head, uncannily catlike and graceful. “You did not choose to do that before.”

“Nor did you.”

Mairon — Sauron — whatever his name is supposed to be, inclines his head briefly, then glances over the rest of the room before looking back at the queen. “Perhaps you lack the political power to retain your throne after such a coup,” he says, as though it is an abstract observation.

“Perhaps I do.” Tar-Míriel stares back at Mairon, unflinching. “Perhaps that rapist’s supporters will have me killed. Perhaps my kingdom will fall into civil war. But I advised that rapist against heeding your counsel, and I would not fall into the same trap.”

“You presume much if you think I offer anything of the sort.”

“Ahem,” says Tyelpë, who had been cleaning and sheathing his blade, at the same time as the shadowy indistinct spirit at Mairon’s side lets out a sort of… rumble. The starlit spirit goes to Mairon, hovering briefly as if hesitant to touch, until Mairon himself gives a little nod and leans into Tyelpë’s shoulder.

The overall effect is something like a cat winding itself around a person’s legs. It would be… peculiarly heartwarming, were it not for the fact that Lilóteo can both see and smell the tendrils of smoke trailing from the doorway of the bedchamber.

Fuck propriety. “We need to evacuate,” he wheezes through the historian’s rumpled wrapping cloth, trying to get his lungs to cooperate. “Get a fire brigade up here.”

Mairon glances toward him, arching one eyebrow slightly as if vexed by some minor nuisance. “I suppose you must.” Behind Lilóteo there’s a faint metallic rattle, followed by the sound of wood creaking and splintering. Through watery eyes he looks back to see the main doors burst from their hinges, the historian ducking his head as he scrambles out from under the table.

“One might consider not permitting furnishings to be placed in such a manner as to hinder routes of egress,” says Mairon, with a sort of pleasant collegiality that frankly makes Lilóteo want to throttle him. Even though he fully agrees, and will have a great deal to say about it if he makes it out of here without succumbing to smoke inhalation.

Which he might. He can’t breathe. His chest feels tight.

“…lungs are weak. You will get him out of here, now,” Tar-Míriel is ordering, and the historian is slinging one of Lilóteo’s arms around his shoulders, wrapping an arm around his torso, and hauling him toward the door with a grip on his sash. “We will address the council in the Spider Room, if Nilûphêr hasn’t told one of your colleagues as much already. If you see anyone, sound the alarm to clear the area and send a fire brigade. You three, it seems ungracious not to offer you hospitality, but I believe I recall hearing that you intended a prompt departure?”

“We were,” Tyelpë is saying, and that is the last thing Lilóteo catches as he’s stumbling out the door.

*

Far, far away, beyond the circles of the world, a little girl uses a staff ornamented with softly chiming rings to nudge open the gates of night and steps through them into the void.

It is never quite the same place when she comes. This time it is rather dusty, a great stone hall cluttered with bits and bobs of half-worked metal and glass and parchments covered in smudged scribbling. A cluster of enormous mushrooms erupts from the earth at the front of the hall, and she stops to stare up at their gills in open-mouthed fascination before the hall’s other occupant startles her out of her reverie.

“You again.”

“Oh!” The little girl blinks, looks up, and gives the nearest mushroom a pat on the stem before running across the hall and throwing her arms around the indistinct, shadowy creature who sits in a tall chair at a stone table. “I’m sorry. Your mushrooms are beautiful. I didn’t mean to ignore you. How are you feeling?”

The creature’s form seems to shiver violently for a moment, rippling like waters in a pond and resolving into something a bit clearer. Tall and broad, largely masculine, with an impression of sharp carnassials glimpsed through torn cheek muscles. Ice blue eyes regard the little girl for a moment, expressionless, before looking away.

“You have maggots in your arm,” she informs him, standing on tiptoe to peer curiously at the creatures in question.

Answer comes this time, a low growl. “I rot.”

“Well, part of you does,” says the child, matter-of-fact. She leans her staff against the edge of the table and holds out her arms. “Pick me up?”

A grumbling sound. “Why?”

“‘Cause I’m short. And you seem like you might want a hug. And I wanna see what you’re working on. Can I sit in your lap?”

Further grumbling as the creature hoists the child up. Before them on the table cluttered with dust-rags and scrap paper and odds and ends sits a large reflective metal hemisphere, its rounded end resting in a cradle. A hollow depression at the center of the hemisphere’s flat top cradles another metal sphere in turn, this one dark grey. More metal spheres and hemispheres lie amid the table’s clutter; the largest of these, with an opening drilled through the center of the rounded end, lies flat side down a few inches from a sizable half-filled wine glass.

The little girl regards it all curiously, leaning forward to peek through the opening of the extra hemisphere. There’s nothing inside — just the table.

“Your circles are pretty,” she informs the creature holding her. “What is it?”

“A weapon.”

Her brow furrows. “Like cannonballs?”

“Sort of.”

“…Can I touch it?”

“No. It’s dangerous.”

“But it’s pretty. And it won’t hurt me!” she complains, pouting. Then, swinging her legs a little, “What are you going to do with it?”

An impression of a vicious half-smile, bare tendons and muscle stretching over bloodied teeth. “I’d like to wipe the entire isle of Númenor from the face of existence.”

“Oh.” She twists around, peers at him curiously. “Are you gonna do it?”

Ice-blue eyes seem to stare right through her, now cold and impenetrable. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Mairon doesn’t deserve my interference.” The creature isn’t looking at her, though he is. He’s staring… elsewhere, somehow. “I have done him injury enough without casting shadows on him now. If he would destroy Númenor as vengeance, I have no doubt that he could do it.”

A small hand reaches up, patting the creature’s cheek. “You miss him, don’t you?”

Those teeth are snarling, chipped but sharp all the same. Maggots crawl half-visible through gaps in reddened flesh. “I tortured him. I raped him. I made him scream and left him weeping, and taught him that to ask for mercy was tantamount to treason. I taught him to view suffering at my hands as a gift, and when that proved insufficient, I sought to inflict on him his deepest fears and made him thank me for that, too.”

“I think you brought him joy sometimes, too,” the child says softly. “But you did hurt him. You hurt him terribly, for a very long time. And still, you miss him. What will you do now?”

“Rot,” the creature growls, staring somewhere off in the distance.

---

Chapter End Notes

The historians and historiographers of Númenor were inspired by the Veritable Records of the Joseon Dynasty.

The mysterious little girl is an OC from a previous fic. In that story, the name she uses for herself is the Adûnaic word for 'death', though it is explicitly noted not to be her full name.