When the Phoenix Cries by kimikocha

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Chapter Three: Homecoming

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Mairon has never been so glad to have his fána dressed. Subtly embroidered in bittersweet nightshade and globe amaranth, the deep blue robe he’s wearing is one he’s seen on Tyelpë many times; it’s a bit large in the shoulders, but never mind that. Tyelpë holds onto him like an anchor as they climb skyward, Gothmog’s enormous wings catching the wind Mairon shapes in their favor; and though the tethers Mairon has conjured will certainly do a better job of securing them than Tyelpë’s arm ever could, Mairon says nothing about it, curling tightly into the embrace.

‘Sauron’s husband’. Little as he cares for his enemies’ epithet, hearing that from Tyelpë had… startled him. It hadn’t… registered, somehow, that Tyelpë would know.

Well, Tyelpë says dryly, responding to his bafflement, It wasn’t that hard to figure out. Even before your best friend turned up and introduced himself.

Mairon curls in harder, utterly confused. Why didn’t you say anything?!

It didn’t seem necessary? Eregion’s gates are open to those who come in friendship. It’s a place where you can leave your past behind you. I doubt you’re the first of Morgoth’s former servants to turn up with a false story about your past, considering how little welcome those who fled him were able to find in the old days.

This… is something Mairon remembers, in fact. Vividly. Utumno and Angband were always easier to escape than might be thought, not least for the fact that there were always those who took pity. Thralls would flee and later return, either slipping back to their details or even knocking at the gates of the only home that would have them. Even when returning there meant punishment for leaving… it was always, always true that Melkor would take you back.

“My lord, I beg your forgiveness.” He recalls the time Lungorthin tried to leave, back in the early days of Utumno, and returned downcast when he found no welcome elsewhere. As Mairon and Gothmog and all else in the hall looked on, Melkor had risen from his throne and descended the dais. He’d gone to the cowering Úmaia and knelt down, taking both the supplicant’s hands in his own.

“You left my service and found sorrow. Now you return. And I say to you, rise up.” Melkor had risen, pulling Lungorthin to his feet. “For your failure you will suffer punishment that is just, as do all those who fail in my service. When it is done you will be stronger, and will be esteemed and glorified as all who serve me well. As for your return — for that, you have my welcome. I am pleased to see you again.”

The punishment was… brutal, he remembers that much. Or more accurately, he knows it was, because he recalls feeling deep unease in its wake. Mairon recalls few or no details of most punishments, including the ones he’d been through; he recalls more of his efforts to encode the whole system in writing, so that all could reference it and keep themselves in the clear.

This, though… this was early, before there were any codes, and Lungorthin was a good friend. Was, because something had happened later. Or — had it? He’d been fine. He’d thanked their lord for his discipline, as all were expected to do, and he’d taken up his place again — he was fine. Melkor was — reasonable, in those days. He wouldn’t have hurt anyone too much, not more than they could handle. The unreasonable part came later, after the Silmarils. Mairon is fairly sure of that.

Melkor. An uneasy frisson of guilt runs through Mairon — it’s been so long since he truly thought of his master. Or he has, but it’s been… different. He hasn’t…

“Please,” he’d whispered once, unreasoning horror squeezing words from his throat. His lord’s hand in his hair forcing him to bend, upon the dais with all eyes on them, this punishment was more than he could bear. “Master, please, don’t — don’t do this.”

“Wouldst thou defy me, lieutenant?”

“No,” he’d sobbed, “No,” and been torn apart.

A true worthy heir of Melkor, indeed. You raped me, Mairon thinks at the memory with no small hint of daring. That was rape. It ought to feel like triumph, but he feels strangely cold. It was the Silmarils, wasn’t it? He remembers how much things changed when they came. How could he not? All the same, somehow…

Let me swear myself to you, Lord of Eregion, he says suddenly, with an odd air of desperation behind it that he’s not keen to examine.

Startled, Tyelpë looks him in the eye, clearly scrutinizing him for… something. Why?

Because I want to. Please. Let me do it now.

Something about this evidently worries Tyelpë, though he’s not immediately sharing what. Mairon glowers across the marriage bond at his husband’s fretting, putting on his very best evil eye. Whatever thrice-cursed bit of absurdity is giving Tyelpë pause, Mairon will get this done or so help him—

You’re thinking very loudly, says Tyelpë, rather flustered. I just, I’m worried that you’re doing this because you think you have to, or something — and we’re wed, I don’t know what that — I don’t want you to ever think you have to—

What? Bed you? Mairon knows he’s starting to sound waspish. He can feel panic rising. We’ve already had that conversation. More than once. I trust we will have it again. You have never compelled me, you — all thou needst do if thou wouldst not compel me is simply that! Thinkest thou I believe every word from my lord’s tongue must be my lord’s command?

The brief, emotion-laden silence he gets from Tyelpë suggests his fear was exactly that. Mairon feels himself starting to relax. It’s — it’s an absurd fear, truly, because Tyelpë would never do such a thing, not even as punishment.

…The matter of punishment for every single thing Mairon ever did in Melkor’s service during the War of the Jewels might be heartbreaking, but Mairon is not going to think about that. Tyelpë will notice if he starts feeling frightened, and then he might not accept Mairon’s oath, and come hell or high water, Mairon will be swearing himself to the Lord of Eregion this day.

Very well, Tyelpë says after a moment, with a… somewhat worrying air of determination behind it, Then if I’m to be your lord, I swear to you that you are under my protection from this moment henceforth. No harm shall be permitted to come to you, by my hand or any other, unto the ending of the world. That is my oath to you.

That’s… What?! Mairon splutters, staunchly ignoring the large part of him that suddenly wants to either kiss Tyelpë senseless or fall weeping into his arms in this moment. No! Are you mad? You can’t swear that!

But I just did, says Tyelpë, who sounds almost… infuriatingly pleased with himself. Clearly, Mairon has wedded a lunatic.

You — forswear it, then! What if I betray you?! That particular gem comes spilling from his tongue out of sheer outrage, though Mairon can’t quite bring himself to care. Tyelpë, you can’t just — Melkor was — he—

He hurt you, Tyelpë says, low and quiet, and the fire in him burns so bright it could consume the world entire. I won’t let you be hurt again.

…You can’t possibly prevent all harm from coming to me, Mairon points out, though his protests are growing feebler. What if — what if someone wishes vengeance upon me? Upon Sauron? Punishment from Tyelpë is… probably not in the cards, it seems. Were this Mairon’s oath he’d extract his pound of flesh by standing the unfortunate under a freezing waterfall or some such — no hands necessary! — but Tyelpë is not that sort of cunning. Or cruel. A faint twinge of guilt flickers past.

Then we’ll work something out. You will come to no harm. Tyelpë reaches up, hesitating long enough for assent before stroking Mairon’s windswept hair away from his face. I am Eregion’s lord, and as I said, I doubt you are the first to enter her borders with a false tale of your past. The same assurance is there for all those who come in friendship.

You offer sanctuary to those who do not deserve it, Mairon murmurs, a little faint.

This was never about deserving.

Tyelpë’s strength… it is beyond anything Mairon has ever known. Eregion could not stand against even a shadow of Utumno or Angband, Mairon knows that for all but certainty, yet the strength of that bright flame feels as though it could save the world entire.

It’s certainly enough for a wayward flame to shelter in. Mairon ducks his head long enough to hide the indignity of his tears in Tyelpë’s shoulder before answering. “Then,” he says, as much out loud as through their bond, with his friend and the winds as witness, “With all other oaths of service being now broken and forsworn, I pledge myself to you: Tyelperinquar, called Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion. You alone are my lord, and none other.”

He gets a remarkably tight hug for that. Tight enough that it hurts a bit, pressing on his bruises, but never mind that. He’s needed a hug for… some time now. Some part of him says that this should feel like failure; it does feel like treason, because it is.

A bit of unease twists through his spine — now you’ve done it, it says. You’ve thrown away the love of the only one who would always have you, the only person you could ever truly count on. But Mairon wants this, and that matters more than fear. Overcome, he clings tight and buries his face in Tyelpë’s neck to hide.

“I’ve had my fill of promising to serve anyone,” Gothmog rumbles after a bit, voice slurring with his weariness. He’s going to be out of commission for a while after they get back, Mairon can tell, and his heart truly breaks with guilt at that. “Broke my oaths ages ago. Don’ need a new lord to replace the old one. But I’ll not let either of you be hurt — an’ you can stop being stupid now, Mai, you’d do the same for me. Jus’… need sleep. Don’ do anything stupid while I’m sleeping.”

“I never do anything stupid!” Mairon retorts loudly, then coughs. His throat is still sore.

“Uh huh. Does stewing in Mordor for years, ignoring your husband and convincing yourself he hated you ring a bell? Jus’ wake me up before you do anything stupid. Promise.”

That was not stewing, that — fine. Fine! All right, Mairon grumbles, delicately swallowing down the painful-itchy lump in his throat. I promise.

*

Eregion by night is a hodgepodge of glowing lights and shadowy trees, streams and rivers and aqueducts. Odd as she is, with her patchy sprawl of habitation and absence of unity in her architecture, she is… beautiful, in her strange way. More than once Mairon has slipped into a flighted fána and brought Tyelpë up to see her from high above, and it’s hard not to catch a bit of that radiant, wondering joy singing through their bond into his heart.

Tyelpë still feels a bit of that wonder as Gothmog’s enormous fiery wings carry them toward the halls of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Only a bit, though. All three of them are exhausted beyond reason. The lights of the hall are warm and welcoming, safety, and the matter of landing is tricky enough that Mairon almost forgets to care how undignified it is.

Gothmog flies in this form infrequently, and much mislikes it. He’s not very good at it either, and while maintaining flight once airborne takes little from him, the takeoff is difficult and the landing is worse.

“When we get back — can we descend a bit slower this time?” Tyelpë hollers over the wind as they’re passing the Ered Nimrais, one arm wrapped protectively around Mairon as if he’s the one more at risk from a fall at this altitude.

It takes only a moment to realize what Tyelpë must be talking about, and Mairon winces in sympathy: Gothmog made this fána for battle, where he favored steep dives from great heights. It never worked especially well. Mairon seems to recall a lot of crash landings. He’s also not entirely sure Gothmog ever fully mastered how to land any other way — if his friend left Angband in flight, he’d usually return on foot.

Feeling rather self-indulgent and much enjoying this cuddly protectiveness, Mairon twines his fingers in the loose fabric of Tyelpë’s robe and pulls himself a little closer before breathing words into Gothmog’s heart. Can you glide?

A vague impression of skepticism. I am gliding, Gothmog would say, if he had the energy for it.

…Fair enough. Can you glide into the landing?

I guess. Muddy images of earth and rock, a long history of recollected attempts at landing turned into spectacular faceplants. Wobbling, unstable flight on the way down.

This close to the memory, Mairon can see what his friend is doing wrong. He’d had similar trouble himself once, but—

(White feathers float down softly on the breeze.)

—Mairon shoos the memory away. He’d had a good teacher, that’s all. Let me navigate?

Assent comes more in feeling than words, but after millennia of knowing Gothmog, it’s enough. Overlaying their minds enough to direct his flight while maintaining the awareness needed to continue shaping the winds in their favor is… challenging, and Mairon finds himself viscerally understanding Gothmog’s distaste for this fána the moment he finds himself partly clothed in it.

How does this thing even fly?! It looks airworthy enough from the outside, but from within, it’s so heavy and unresponsive that Mairon can scarcely believe it is flying.

From Gothmog, there’s a sense of satisfaction — I told you so — entwined with long-held frustration and discontent. He didn’t make this fána, Mairon realizes. Or he had, but — it wasn’t his, not really. His contribution was to stand very still as Melkor took up the great black knife and…

No, his friend says sharply, clamping down hard on whatever lurks in that part of his memory. We’re not going there right now. Still think you can navigate?

…Possibly? Mairon gives their wings an experimental beat. It works, kind of, but the sensation — or more accurately, the lack of it — is discomfiting in the extreme. He can’t tell how fast they’re flying, can barely tell what the winds feel like. Even the eyes don’t quite work right. Why didn’t you ever tell me you were flying all but blind?

That good, eh? His friend sounds a bit strained, though more alert than a few moments ago. I didn’t know. All of them felt like this.

It’s horrid. I cannot believe you spent millennia flying like this. Very cautiously, Mairon tries dipping a wing for a rightward bank. It… works, fundamentally, but it feels like trying to walk in a fána that has no sensation below the hips.

(That happened once, in Almaren. Not the first time he’d been injured by his own incompetence, but one of the few times he’d hid it so poorly that Aulë noticed. The memory used to be so humiliating that Mairon would flinch violently away from it. Now, it’s… honestly, almost… droll? But he doesn’t have time to think on it.)

White feathers and a mop of dark curly hair. He was a good teacher, and Mairon knows how to do this. All right, change of plans. We’re going to have to do this together. You know this form better than I do, and it’ll be easier for me to focus on the magic if I’m not fighting your fána at the same time. You fly, and I really will just guide you. Okay?

Mmhm.

They still land in a heap at the halls of the Mírdain, Gothmog falling forward onto his hands. Not much help for it, Mairon finds himself thinking as he withdraws from his friend’s fána. Not with how little that form wants to fly…

It’s still the softest landing Gothmog has ever managed, in a third or less of the time it should have taken with Mairon shaping the winds, and that feels like triumph enough.

“Annatar?” Tyelpë is pulling him up, supporting his weight — actually, no, he’s carrying him, and while Mairon’s admittedly tempted to let himself go limp and be coddled like a house-cat, on principle that feels like a bridge too far for his dignity.

“Mrph,” says Mairon, which was meant to be a moment. Wriggling, he gets his fána’s legs under him and promptly starts to faceplant — pain that he’s been doing a spectacular job of ignoring spikes through his pelvis and sparks rising panic.

“Carry me,” he orders Tyelpë, managing to sound imperious instead of shaken. Tyelpë can tell he’s lying, but Mairon doesn’t care about that. He’ll not be seen doing that limp up the stairs to their rooms. Everyone knows what that looks like — everyone will know what that means.

“I’ve got you,” Tyelpë murmurs, hoisting him up. There’s a faint note of years-old amusement behind the words at Mairon’s swift turnaround, but that’s acceptable from him. It’s mostly tenderness. Tyelpë wants to be holding him right now; wants to hold him close and keep him safe and maybe possibly never let him out of his sight. Ever.

Silently appreciative, Mairon slings an arm around Tyelpë’s shoulders and, after a millisecond’s indecision, decides to lay his head down. Whatever. He can look pathetic and bedraggled, this once. His fána is bruised about the face and throat anyway, and he’s not got the wherewithal to try and hide that. If anyone gives him trouble for it, he can terrorize them later — once he feels less like a vaguely dizzy bundle of raw nerves and violated flesh. Right now, he feels like engaging with precisely no one other than his husband and dearest friend, and to drill that point home, he closes his eyes.

…And promptly conjures an eye to hover nonchalantly over Tyelpë’s head, because a lack of engagement doesn’t have to mean a lack of observation.

Having changed into one of his usual flightless fánar posthaste — this one being on the small side — Gothmog starts heading off in the direction of the forges. “Gonna sleep,” he says without further ado.

Mairon has to say something snide. On principle. Don’t wake all Ost-in-Edhil with your snoring.

Shut up. Glad you’re safe, Mai.

A surge of warmth goes through him. Thank you, my friend.

Stepping out from one of the halls are a couple of the apprentices — working late, it seems. An Elf and a Dwarf. They lower their voices as they approach, and Mairon decides that he is not in fact sufficiently interested to keep bothering with his sight-magic. Some of the Mírdain are gossips, but these two sound more concerned than anything — he doesn’t recognize them, but they seem not at all phased by the eye floating above Tyelpë’s head, so they might be accustomed to him. His husband briefly exchanges a few less-than-interesting words with them before heading inside.

D’you want anything before bed? Tyelpë’s exhaustion is palpable, though he’s trying not to show it.

Small wonder. Mairon nestles into him, affectionate. After all, Tyelpë is now only the second Fëanorian confirmed to have set things on fire with his fury — oh, that does send a frisson through Mairon, even as he is — as well as the first known to have survived the occasion. Of course he’s tired.

Bed first, says Mairon. Bath after. Immediately after. In truth he’d like to scrub his skin off now, but he really is a bit lightheaded — probably overextended himself in Gothmog’s flight. Oops. Nor does he have any desire whatsoever to see to this by himself — he’ll collapse in a weeping mess at some point if history is any indication, and if he does that by himself he’ll probably do something… ‘stupid’, as Gothmog puts it.

Where d’you want to sleep?

That requires no thought whatsoever. With you.

All right. I’d — I’d like that. Feeling a great deal of painful relief at having him back, Tyelpë holds onto him tightly and — his tears are rising now. Fuck. All Mairon can do is hug him hard, as hard as he can at this angle, and whisper words into his heart. Some of them echo what he’d already said, standing there in Pharazôn’s — that rapist’s chambers; some of them are new.

Ai, love. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave you, I… I was foolish.

A wet laugh. Gothmog did say you were being stupid. Tyelpë is trying not to cry on him right now, given… everything. But it’s all right, Mairon thinks. It’s all right for him to cry. He has a right to, given everything before that.

He’s very wise. And a dear friend. A little push of magic to nudge open the door to Tyelpë’s chambers. They look nearly the same as Mairon remembers — there’s a bit more clutter than before, more books and odds and ends. The furniture is the same, mostly wooden.

Narvi’s little divan is a new addition, crammed up against one wall. The same old sorrow twists his heart.

There’s… a lot of clutter, the longer he looks. Tyelpë’s little round lamps, glowing warm with yellow light, have been rearranged a bit to accommodate it. As usual, his bed is unmade, piled high with pillows and blankets — and that blanket, the rather hideous knit one, is Mairon’s. Gothmog made it back in the Utumno days, when their friendship was new and Mairon loathed the cold. Ugly as it is, it’s soft and warm and so ensorcelled by now it’ll probably outlast Arda. Tyelpë must have purloined it from Mairon’s room after he left — and now his tears are rising.

I’m so sorry, Tyelpë.

Spatial clearance is a little tight in the bedchamber, and Mairon’s not over-worried about doing that limp in front of his husband. Gingerly, he hobbles the last few feet to the bed and sits down on the edge, wincing and shifting his weight a bit — he might steel himself to fix this fána tomorrow, now that he doesn’t expect it to be injured again. He’d made Annatar’s form to be beautiful, not durable. Or it’s just that he’s not used to this anymore. But the bed is as comfortable as he remembers, and as inviting.

I forgive you. Scrubbing away stray tears with the back of his hand, Tyelpë pulls two sets of sleeping clothes out of the large wooden cabinet and turns around to face him, unconsciously biting his bottom lip. Just… don’t do that again?

I won’t, Mairon tells him readily. I swore myself to you, my lord. Remember?

Tyelpë looks distressed, holding the clothes to his chest like a shield. That’s not— I don’t want you to—

“Don’t be asinine,” says Mairon — and coughs, which hurts. He’s going to have to at least fix that in the morning. Now you’re being stupid, he goes on tartly, even as tenderness swells in his heart and belies his sharp tongue. It hurts, this affection; it used to frighten him. It still does, a little, but. I love you. I want to stay with you always, you fool. There is no compulsion in taking that which is freely given.

Oh, he has truly missed that sweet, crooked smile; the way Tyelpë’s entire face crumples up when his smile gets even a little wider. I love you, too.

His husband is so happy to have him home — Mairon could bask in his joy forever. Tilting his chin up a little and peering up through his lashes, he reaches out. Come to bed? I need thee.

I— thou— A little flustered, still joyful but unsure, Tyelpë sort of helplessly waves the bundle of nightclothes at him. But. Dressed?

Thou canst be as dressed as thou carest to be, melince. Or as undressed. Though Mairon’s trying for a smirk, it softens into a smile. I would prefer to be clothed, but thou needst not be. I find thee rather pleasing to look upon. And I…

Mairon trails off. There is a yearning in him, some tender thing that aches in his chest. He knows not how to put it into words, but he does not hide it; almost without thought he reaches out across the bond with it, and Tyelpë understands.

He is warm, full of life; brown skin and lean muscle laid over a fiercely beating heart. Safely bundled in a loose undyed cotton shirt and trousers, Mairon nestles close to Tyelpë, tucking his head under his chin and splaying his palm over his chest. After a few moments he crosses their ankles too, though he knows from experience that’s not comfortable for long.

Thank you, he murmurs sleepily, kissing Tyelpë’s shoulder.

Mmm. Tyelpë is more than half asleep already. For what?

For everything…? For coming for me.

A moment’s hesitation, and Tyelpë buries his face against the crown of Mairon’s head. The arm around Mairon tightens. Strong and warm and loved, it will hold him through the night.

Any time, Annamírë.

*

Leagues distant, across mountains and rivers and open ocean, the streets of Armenelos are livelier than is usual at nighttime. Glowing lamps flicker across the city; the sounds of its many languages, of leather sandals on pavement and light cotton robes rustling in the wind, are slow to fade. The tea and coffee-houses stay open hours past closing, and the drinking and smoking establishments do better business than usual, hosting crowds of Númenóreans mourning their fallen king. Across those crowds, spies and historiographers make brief eye contact and look away, not wishing to burn their covers.

“It was a damned Elf. I saw it,” one off-duty soldier growls to a mesmerized audience between sips of fermented rice wine. “Landed right in the courtyard, like it was launched from a ballista.”

“One guess who launched it,” says one of the onlookers.

His meaning is so obvious that the historian a few tables away takes the liberty of scribbling ‘the Faithful’ in parenthesis in his notes. As the conversation turns darker and words like treason and drive them out are used, the establishment’s owner tugs at the collar of his robes and offers the group a free round before sending them off into the night. The liquor is strong; the crowd disperses, stumbling away.

At other teahouses, the mood is more somber. There is fear, and the desire for vengeance. There are those who see the king’s assassination as a political act of a rival nation, and some who call for it to be repaid in blood. Others remember the falling star in daytime, and whisper of retribution from the gods: the Valar have seen their defiance, and the time has come to repent.

Scattered brawls break out where those suddenly motivated to find faith intersect with those who blame the Faithful. None are killed. The city guard is on high alert. The messages coming from the palace are unified for the moment, and strong: Tar-Míriel, resuming the name her father gave her, is Queen. She rules over the Faithful and King’s Men alike, and gives no preference to one or the other. Her subjects are all Númenóreans, and in this moment should see one another as brothers and sisters. She will not see them fighting each other in the streets.

Her will is carried out. The king is dead; long live the Queen.

At the highest point of the city, upon the gentle slopes of the Tarmasundar, the smoke from the palace fire has yet to fully dissipate. Cordoned off in the fire’s aftermath, the eastern side of the central citadel is silent, occupied only by the guards assigned to keep interlopers out. The natural philosophers have issued a strong warning as to the structure’s safety, their point underscored by the difficulty of extinguishing the fire. Tar-Míriel has ordered her court removed to the western wing of the palace, and occupies the chambers she has been using within the stout northwest tower.

Within that tower, the Queen — or here, just Míriel — discreetly stifles a yawn as her lady Nilûphêr slips the rings from her fingers, then moves behind her and begins to draw the pins from her hair. Míriel had anticipated no sleep this night when she’d been widowed this morning, and it troubled her only insofar as sleeplessness clouds the mind; now, exhaustion is a leaden weight on her limbs.

Still, she glances toward the door at her back, visible in the looking glass. It remains closed, barred, and guarded. The occupants of this room remain the same as they were mere moments ago: the same contingent of guards, ladies-in-waiting, and other servants.

There are more of them than would normally attend her at this hour, and the one now hastily putting her jewelry away is a man — but Abrazîr has been her spy for years. The intricacies of how the manner of her marriage was carried out have taught Míriel the folly of trusting members of her sex not to cooperate in her rape, and the ladies who tended her bath this morning were hired by her rapist. Even if they weren’t his spies, Míriel will not permit them here. Soft-spoken Abrazîr is… knowledgeable, in handling this; she feels safe in his company, and has need of reasons to feel safe in her chambers.

Ah. Míriel is weary. There is… precedent for it now, loathsome as it is, to gain the throne by raping its unwed occupant under the auspices of seduction. The trust she once unthinkingly gave the men of rank around her lies in pieces, shattered by the fact that her cousin’s plot had worked.

Perhaps she herself had put up little resistance, but for that she will forgive herself. What he’d done was unimaginable — of course she knew not how to counter it. Little surprise, too, that in her horror and shock she’d not had the words to gainsay the claim he’d put forth with aid of the so-called ‘priest’ he’d brought along to witness what he did.

‘What he did’. No, Míriel thinks to herself with cool detachment, she will not be so circumspect.

Her cousin raped her.

She will not dignify what he’d done with discretion. When she is finished with him, his name will forever be synonymous with what he was: a rapist.

“Your Majesty?” Nilûphêr murmurs, a hand hovering at her shoulder. Startled, Míriel blinks at herself in the mirror, then nods.

“Just Míriel,” she remembers to add softly as she stands, and is rewarded with a hint of a quiet smile. She looks over the rest of the room — over Aglarôth and her folk, fearsome warriors all, loyal throughout all these years and newly returned to her side. They had not, as Míriel recalls quite well, been given the chance to protect her the first time; now, they are ready.

“You know that you have my gratitude; know also that you have my confidence,” she informs them, permitting herself a true smile. “I shall rest easy this night, knowing you keep watch.”

Privately her anxiety remains, but that’s no fault of theirs — Míriel cannot imagine any circumstances in which she would not spend this night in fear of ambitious, unwelcome intruders. It would be unjust to trouble the Queen’s Guard thus, or insult them with her fears.

All of them bow, though Aglarôth does so with an odd slowness before clasping her hand to her chest. “Your Majesty.”

There’s a brief, awkward half-moment where it seems as if someone ought to be saying something, before Míriel inclines her head a bare fraction and heads over to the bed. Things used to be easier between them, but — it has been several years. They simply need to get used to each other again, that’s all. It’s possible the Queen’s Guard will betray her, but anyone could. Even Nilûphêr, whose hazel eyes track the queen’s footsteps.

Lifting the edge of the bed-covers, Míriel glances back. Nilûphêr is seemingly dressed for work, though her stance is loose, her shoulders relaxed. She catches Míriel’s gaze and tilts her head questioningly.

Míriel slides under the covers and moves herself to the center of the mattress, leaving an extra pillow at her side. “Will you stay?”

It is a question. It always has been.

“It would be my pleasure.”

Nilûphêr lifts a hand; there’s a flash of silver as a hairpin disappears into her sleeve. Loose chestnut curls spill down over her shoulders, showing touches of gold where her unveiled hair has caught the sun this summer.

In Númenor, there is a folk belief that odd traits like pale eyes and curling hair mark the descendants of elven mariners who once walked their shores, particularly in the north and west. That belief is at least a century out of fashion among the upper classes, Míriel included, but she’s never needed such a story to find this scarred woman beautiful.

Undoing the ribbons of her jacket, Nilûphêr slips her fingers beneath the quilted hem and works at the ties which bind the waistband of her overskirt above her breasts. The skirt falls away, revealing the long cotton trousers she wears beneath it. She catches her skirt before it hits the ground, folding it neatly and putting it aside. Moments later, her jacket follows.

This is what she has usually done, as is decent — any lady of Armenelos might appear thus in the company of her own sex. In this state, the layers of her garments would leave her little less clad than she was before. Solitude is rare in this region; commoners may have an entire family share a bed, and highborn women oft sleep beside their favored ladies-in-waiting — so often, in fact, that the comic trope of the male lover who disguises himself as a handmaiden is an eternal staple of Númenórean theater.

This night Nilûphêr hesitates, her expression unreadable. Her gaze lingers with an almost deferential air on the wooden lamp which hangs between them on its mount, ornamented with carven vines and emitting a soft yellow light.

“How unseasonably warm it is.” Her fingers twine idly through the strings and ribbons of her undergarments. “I expect no interruptions before daybreak. Perhaps my queen will not begrudge me a more comfortable manner of resting this night.”

All the blood in Míriel’s body seems to rush straight to her cheeks in an instant. She swallows. “As you will.”

Nilûphêr smiles broadly and tugs hard at the ties. Her clothes fall to the ground in a heap at her feet, and she sinks down, nearly going to her knees in obeisance. “All Hail the Queen.”

(The Queen’s Guard, being possessed of tact and common sense, do not hail.)

Afterward they lie close together, the two of them, despite the summer’s warmth. Around them, the sheer bed-curtains give the illusion of solitude. Nilûphêr’s breath deepens, grows slow and even.

After a time, one of Míriel’s guards begins to sing very softly. It’s a language she recognizes, though not one she knows. This language unique to Aglarôth and her people, one full of consonants and the sorts of sounds one must make in the back of the throat.

A sort of pidgin, they’ve told her, but they don’t know its name, or the name of its originating language. Something spoken by their parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles — Aglarôth’s people like their families large and together — but when asked its name, the children would just be told “Never you mind.” Putting two and two together, Míriel suspects it was the Black Speech, and that the adults hid the name from the children to avoid censure from the neighbors.

That was wise of them, if Míriel’s guess is correct. Aglarôth looks like someone with Orcish blood as it is — if the rest of her family is likewise, they’re lucky they weren’t run out of town. Bad blood with the Orcs runs deep.

As far as Míriel is concerned…

What she has seen of Aglarôth and her folk is a culture which Míriel does not quite understand, but which has done her no harm. Her guards’ folk are breathtakingly loyal to those they call their own, including Míriel herself. They suffer greatly if separated from their families, but have a sort of quiet, patient pragmatism in their approach to grief and other suffering. Their comfort foods tend to be… acquired tastes, for Míriel, heavy in fermentation and salt, but their cuisine speaks to a people well-accustomed to adversity.

They have never harmed her. Or — no, that’s not strong enough. They’ve risked their lives for her all these years. Some of them have died. And for what? What has Míriel done to earn this loyalty, save treat them as she would any other in her service?

Perhaps that is enough, but it seems unjust.

…It would be unwise in the extreme to take her good regard for the folk she knows as reason to hope for peace with Mordor. Even if it were not a political impossibility, her own people are one matter; Sauron’s are quite another. Míriel is not that foolish. All the same…

Ai, ai — how could she forget? She’s inherited the occupation of Mordor’s capital, and she’s going to have to do something with it. The original plan was ultimately to conquer and colonize the entire country, killing or driving out all the Orcs and other creatures of the Enemy who inhabit it. With the great city taken, Tar-Míriel need do nothing for that plan to proceed apace.

Gloomily, Míriel considers the political outlook for doing otherwise. It would be an uphill battle, and a risky move, because the King’s Men and Faithful actually tend to agree on this. The Enemy is called such for a reason. But — and Valar preserve her for taking inspiration from that rapist — her cousin had managed to install Sauron in his bedchamber, despite numerous warnings and misgivings. The same parties who found that idea droll would not support Tar-Míriel in calling off the cleansing of Mordor, but — at least some of them will be losing their heads if she has her way.

Probably there are some in her court who would feel discomfit at the thought of intentionally exterminating an entire people, no? Sauron is the oldest enemy of her people in Middle-Earth that she knows of, and even he was still drawing a fair amount of sympathy from those who realized what that rapist would do. Tar-Míriel’s trust lies shattered in the aftermath of being raped and usurped by her cousin, but her court may not be as filled with indifferent monsters as her distrust thinks it is.

…It is unlikely that she will gain anything by intervention. She would be spending political capital she doesn’t have, for a task that no one would thank her for doing.

…She does wish to reign in her empire’s expansionism until its current territory is better administered. Calling off Mordor’s cleansing in that context would be a mere side effect of her overall policy. But if she calls the army home from Mordor, she might well be calling it home to overthrow her. That rapist had the army’s loyalty, after all.

“Aglarôth?” This is a foolish thing to do, but Míriel is too tired to think better of it.

The singing stops. “Your Majesty?”

“Forgive my indiscretion, but do you… have family in Mordor?”

Only a moment’s hesitation. “I don’t know, Your Majesty. Our elders told us that if anyone asked, we should say our family fled from Umbar.” Speaking on behalf of all of them, it seems.

“You don’t believe it’s true?”

From outside the curtains, the sound of someone shifting their feet. “Umbar is a haven of outlaws, outcasts, and traitors.”

“…I do not doubt your loyalty.”

“Evidently.” Aglarôth says this with curious strength. “We are very grateful to be given a renewed chance to prove ourselves, Your Majesty.”

“Prove… what?” Míriel frowns.

“Despite our failure, you have accepted us back into your service.” That is an impassioned tone. “Not only that, you have permitted us resume the posts we held before, though we have failed you and do not deserve your mercy.”

“You — what?” Utterly at a loss, Míriel pushes herself up on her elbow and addresses the shadow outside her bed-curtains directly. It’s not very queenly of her, but… “Each one of you has served me for years, faithfully and with a courage that is nothing short of admirable. Where could you get such an absurd idea? Has someone said something to you?”

Have you in fact betrayed me, and chosen thus to express your guilty conscience?, whispers her paranoia. That, she shoves aside. Her evidence is against it, and if it were true, to accuse in the face of all this would be both unjust and cruel. She won’t heed that impulse.

“We know it for ourselves, Your Majesty,” another voice pipes up. Zôrzimril, one of the younger ones. “We should have died before allowing a traitor to rape you and steal your throne.”

Refreshingly blunt, this group. If there’s one thing Míriel has noticed during years of speaking around her cousin’s actions, it’s that refusing to use the word only drives home the shame of being one who had that done to her.

“You ‘allowed’ nothing.” Sitting up, she pushes the curtain back. “As I recall, you were not present to allow or disallow.”

Aglarôth’s face is very serious. “Nevertheless, we failed you.”

“Poppycock. That is the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard.”

Míriel registers the surprise on their faces and realizes that perhaps she’s been a bit harsh. Striving to soften her words, she goes on carefully, “Aglarôth, you… you and your folk were the first I heard to name what he did for what it was. ‘Rape.’ Do you recall? Everyone else was calling it ‘seduction.’”

A derisive snort. “Sounds a whole lot more willing, doesn’t it?”

“Well, I didn’t fight.” She exhales through her nose. “He even brought a witness, who could confirm I didn’t fight.”

“Yes, and then a whole lot of people stood around hemming and hawing and not asking you if you’d wanted it.”

That makes a bitter laugh rise to Míriel’s lips. “I suppose they did. Forgive me, Aglarôth, I wish not to speak on this further.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive me.”

“There’s no need.” She looks down at the rise of her knees beneath the covers for a moment. “What you said, back then… I have always remembered it. That, and the confidence with which you said it. There have been moments in the intervening years where I have found myself in need of confidence, and have sought to borrow it from the memory of others, such as you. For that, you have my gratitude. Know at least that in my eyes, all of you have ever been a strength and stay. You have risked your lives, and shown extraordinary courage. You have never failed me.”

Aglarôth bows deeply. Her eyes reflect the light in the darkness. “Your Majesty.”

“…And with that said, I’d best sleep.” Drawing the curtain on her sudden discomfiture, Míriel flops back once more against her pillows. Nilûphêr, wakened at some point during the conversation, yawns and throws an arm over her. “There’s much to be done tomorrow.”