Reflections by AdmirableMonster

Reflections

Sakalkhôr is a creation of kimikocha's, used with permission.  Many thanks to them also for cheerleading and for creation of a great number of Adunaic names, from which I also got Belzâgar.  Many thanks also to my long-suffering husband, for kindly helping me out with plotting and finishing this dratted thing up.

Read Reflections

Golden afternoon sunlight, thick and heavy as honey, falls across Nimruzimir’s stack of papers.  In Armenelos, the humidity is so thick that the edges of the papers are curling, and Nimruzimir spends a moment to miss the cool sea breezes of his home in Andúnië.

“How goes the grading?” asks a cheerful voice, and his friend Sakalkhôr sits himself down on the bench beside him and slides a drink sideways to him.  

“You are t-too close,” Nimruzimir says sharply and shoves him away.  

“Sorry,” Sakalkhôr apologizes with a grin. Nothing ever seems to dampen his spirits, and the back of Nimruzimir’s neck burns a little at his own rudeness.

“It’s very hot,” he explains, by way of apology.

“Ugh, I know.”  Sakalhôr flops dramatically onto the table, sending some papers fluttering, which Nimruzimir slams his hand down to catch.  “I’m melting.  Drink your beer.”

The beer, thankfully, is cold to the touch, moisture beading on the outside.  “I d-did not realize that you had time off,” Nimruzimir says, pushing his glasses up his nose as he pulls out the next essay.  They are uniformly terrible, but he expects this.  Few students work hard enough to attain the level that he did during his own studies.

“He’s not the only one,” says an easy voice, and Belzâgar throws a leg over the bench on the other side of the table and seats himself with a smile.  The table is a little too close to the back fence, and a great orange-red flower sways gently with his passage, spattering him with drops of moisture.  Belzâgar is less surprising to see than Sakalkhôr, on balance, but, in fairness, Nimruzimir points out to himself, that is largely because he has more information about Sakalkhôr’s profession and, thus, there is a greater body of available information from which incongruities may arise.

“They changed the shifts around so that I’d be available as a recorder on the next festival day,” Sakalkhôr says, and Nimruzimir suddenly finds himself very interested in this poorly-written essay on the history and extraction of saltpeter.  Sakalkhôr has always been matter-of-fact about his duties, but Nimruzimir has no desire to begin talking about the recent festivals, which have taken on a pall of faint anxiety as their direction is more and more taken over by the High Priest.

Belzâgar apparently has no such compunction, for he leans forward with a grin and flicks Sakalkhôr’s forehead.  “You’re an extremely talented historian—it’s good you’re being recognized.”

For an instant, Nimruzimir thinks he feels Sakalkhôr move sharply at his side.  “The work needs doing,” Sakalkhôr says.  Then he transitions easily away from the subject to peer over Nimruzimir’s shoulder and ask searching questions about how saltpeter is processed to become gunpowder.

Sakalkhôr is a far more apt pupil than any of the philosophers whose essays Nimruzimir’s duty is to correct, and the subject is a far more palatable one.  Nimruzimir hastily begins to lecture, with some relief.

* * *

A month later. A sudden hush falls across the classroom as Nimruzimir attempts to wipe the sweat inconspicuously from his forehead.  The Royal Physician’s voice snaps off like a recording with the lightning-line pulled, and Nimruzimir looks up sharply.  There is very little that will cause the Royal Physician to shut up, even when he is wrong (which he often is, according to Nimruzimir).

When Nimruzimir turns, what he sees first is the High Priest himself, resplendent and terrifying in his white robes, casting light about himself like a candle, and his red-gold eyes as bright as flame.  The second thing he sees is Belzâgar.

* * *

The beer is half drunk, the essays mostly graded, and Sakalkhôr is stretched across the other bench with his head in Belzâgar’s lap.  

“How can you not like the most recent installation of Menel Mentie?” Sakalkhôr demands, raising his hand to gesticulate wildly.

“Easily,” snaps Nimruzimir.  “The author who took over has no knowledge of the chemical arts!  Quicksilver is a poison, and if Corda d-drank it, he would die in spasms.”

“It’s a novel, it doesn’t have to be realistic,” Belzâgar objects.

“Yes, it d-d-does.”

“Oh, does it?”  Sakalkhôr grins and sits up.  “I seem to remember that your favorite novel is the one where we find out some very interesting things about half-Elf breeding habits, and I have spoken to many biologists who agree that no such thing would be possible or reasonable, no matter what sort of absurd biology the true Elves had.”

“There is hardly enough information to be had on the Elves to know,” sniffs Nimruzimir, a soft warm feeling blossoming in his chest.  It is rare these days to be able to simply have nonsensical debates with his friends, but it is as pleasurable as it was when he first discovered it was a possibility, soon after he regretfully left his father’s house.

* * *

A month later.  Nimruzimir takes half a step back.  The High Priest sweeps through the crowd, and the students part for him, like the waves of the sea parting for a battleship.  Behind him is not only Belzâgar, but others of the King’s Men—which perhaps explains why Belzâgar has never spoken of his position to his friends except to tell them when he received it.  Of course, Nimruzimir thinks, it is not as if he is not one of the king’s natural philosophers.  It is not as if—

His thoughts stutter to a halt as the High Priest strides directly to him.  In his hand, he holds a familiar turquoise-colored vial.  Nimruzimir’s breath freezes in his lungs.  

“You are the prophet?” the High Priest says, with a voice as sweet as a choir.

Flame crackles across Nimruzimir’s vision.

He cannot answer, and the High Priest looks back at Belzâgar, who nods.  The High Priest nods and makes a hand gesture.  Nimruzimir finds he cannot even shake his head as they take him.

* * *

“Are you sleeping all right?” Sakalkhôr asks.  He’s too solicitous sometimes, Nimruzimir thinks—he isn’t used to a friend inquiring after his habits.  He isn’t used to friends.  He was acquainted with some young ladies growing up, well-bred ones from the families of his father’s Faithful companions, but they never became close in the way that, for example, the crew of the Verië did.  They rarely conversed about anything that Nimruzimir cared about, and he, in his part, did not add much to their conversations at all.

“I am sleeping well enough,” he says thinly.  The evening has spun onward into night, and some intrepid musicians are setting up camp in the rest of the park.  Belzâgar is on his second beer; Sakalkhôr his first.  Nimruzimir is still nursing the bottom third of his, though he thinks it unlikely he will finish it: it has become unpleasantly warm.  Sakalkhôr, very flushed—he does not hold his liquor well—has draped himself over Nimruzimir in close quarters.  The heat of the day is dying down, so Nimruzimir has less cause to shove him away, and he tolerates the proximity.  People don’t touch him very often; he can enjoy the novelty, if nothing else.

“No more nightmares?”

“Few,” Nimruzimir says softly.  

Belzâgar leans forward.  “I’ll give you my grandmother’s recipe for herbal tea,” he promises.  “She swore it keeps the nightmares off.”

“Thank you.”  Nimruzimir ducks his head, takes a deep breath, and then looks up and smiles at Belzâgar, because he is fairly sure that is the appropriate response.

* * *

A month later.  Belzâgar’s hand is heavy on Nimruzimir’s shoulder, directing him after the High Priest.  Nimruzimir wants to ask where he’s being taken, but he knows.  Knows, and doesn’t want it said aloud. For the first time in his life, he wishes for a fit—anything to take him away from the heavy fall of one foot in front of the other, the relentless movement forward behind the slim and graceful figure of the High Priest towards the terror that awaits him.

They are halfway down the corridor when they come to a side passage, and Sakalkhôr barrels out of it, in full historian regalia—dark grey robes, dark grey cap, with no adornment.  His black hair is tucked away under the round cap, and his cheeks are red with exertion.  “Excuse me,” he says, stepping around the nearest one of the King’s Men, and then begins walking alongside them.  Nimruzimir wants to ask him for help, but what can Sakalkhôr do?  His voice sticks in his throat, in any case.

“And you are?” the High Priest asks.  The procession keeps moving, sweeping Sakalkhôr along with it.

“Sakalkhôr, my lord, a historian.”  He removes a pencil and notebook from an interior pocket and places the point of one to the surface of the other.  He doesn’t look at Nimruzimir.

“The historians do not interfere, they are only scribes, my lord,” Belzâgar says quickly.

“I have heard of them,” the High Priest says.  He shrugs.  “It is the first time any of them have been interested in anything beyond the festivals, however.  I suppose I must take it as a compliment, to be written more directly into Númenorean history.”

They move onwards.  In his mind, Nimruzimir begins to catalogue the injuries he has observed on the cadavers retrieved from the Black Temple.

* * *

“Come on, you two.” Belzâgar swings an arm around each of them.  The beers are empty on the table behind them.  “Let’s go watch the fireworks.”

“We can s-s-see them from here,” Nimruzimir objects.

“We can see them better from where I’m taking you,” Belzâgar says grandly.  “I always know the best places.”

“What about the best people?” Sakalkhôr asks, with a giggle.

“Clearly,” Belzagâr agrees.  “Here I am, a lowly city guard, making friends with great philosophers and great historians.”

“Don’t b-be stupid,” Nimruzimir mutters sharply, but Belzâgar just laughs and pulls him closer and ruffles his hair.

“Together,” he says, in a light and laughing voice, “the three of us can change history.”

* * *

Five months later.  It is rare for the queen in exile to send for Nimruzimir during her afternoon reception of petitioners, but he is called for in all haste, right out of a meeting with Lilóteo, the Royal Physician, and several of Elendil’s soldiers.  Nimruzimir is almost grateful, for he is uneasy with the making of incendiary devices and even with Lilóteo to back him, he is uncertain that the others will listen to his recommendations.  He occupies a strange place in Míriel’s shaky court, and he sometimes wonders how long the current situation can hold against the might of Pharazôn and his men.  The marks of his torture have healed, leaving only a lingering stiffness in the bones that were broken and a slight shortness in the fingernails that were torn off.

It cannot last, Nimruzimir often thinks, gloomily, this sense of safety, and his dreams often echo his fears.  Lilóteo has experimented with the dosage and composition of his tonic, but thus far, though the fits are as rare as they ever have been, they still come.

His sense of gratitude at being rescued from the awkward meeting vanishes as soon as he walks into the petitioners’ court.  Queen-in-Exile Míriel is seated upon her makeshift throne, a slim, tall figure garbed in black and red, her face painted according to the traditions of her forefathers as a reigning monarch, lips black and eyes outlined in an exaggerated style.  Even if Nimruzimir were better at reading faces than he is, he would not be able to read hers beneath the make-up that is close to a mask, which is one reason for the tradition, he remembers Sakalkhôr telling him at some point.

In front of the throne, head bowed, is Belzâgar.  Still clad in the golden tunic of a King’s Man, but with one leg of the trousers beneath turned a streaky brown-red—which Nimruzimir realized after a moment had to be blood—he holds in his arms a figure in white with red accents.  Míriel’s gaze is blank, but her eyes move from Belzâgar to Nimruzimir as he enters, and Belzâgar tracks the movement of her head, blanching very slightly when he sees Nimruzimir.

“Thank you for attending us,” Míriel says, in her most queenly way.  “This King’s Man claims that you will vouch for him, Nimruzimir.”

Nimruzimir’s mouth opens at this blatant effrontery, ready to say—well, he is not even sure what he can say, not sure what words he can possibly put together that would do justice to the bolt of fizzing nervous anger that shoots down from his throat to lodge in the center of his chest.

“Not for me,” Belzâgar cuts him off quickly, before he can speak.  “I will take whatever penalty you and your court deem fit, Lady—Majesty.  Including death.  For Sakalkhôr.”

Nimruzimir’s voice dies, but he feels his lips forming the word, Sakalkhôr, half a question.  (He is not a stupid man.  The white bundle in Belzâgar’s arms has obviously been removed from the Black Temple.  If Belzâgar is pleading for him, he cannot be dead, or not yet, at least.)

“I brought him,” Belzâgar says.  He doesn’t look at Nimruzimir.  “Pharazôn wanted to know what the Historians had written of him.  There have been rumors, since—since the philosophers departed.  Sakalkhôr would not tell him, and he—and he—”

“S-S-Sent him after m-me to the High P-P-Priest?” Nimruzimir supplies, his struggling voice no more than a rasp.

“Please, he is not dead yet,” Belzâgar says, his voice trembling.  “Please.  Tell her that he is no threat.  Tell her that he is thy friend.  Tell her—”

“My f-friend?” Nimruzimir blurts.  “He seems to be your friend, Belzâgar—” Using the informal, even out of scorn, might burn his throat, “—but I d-do not think y-you are mine.”

Míriel raises one thin, delicate eyebrow.  “So you will not vouch for either of them, Nimruzimir?”

For one mad blind instant, Nimruzimir thinks he will not.  They left him there, in the Black Temple—Belzâgar even led him to it.  A twinge runs through his right hand, and he clenches it.  Then he thinks of Sakalkhôr’s cheerful face, of Sakalkhôr draping himself across him, of the firm way that Sakalhôr followed the crowd taking Nimruzimir away—what else could he have done?

“N-No—I mean, y-yes, Your M-Majesty, I s-spoke thoughtlessly, I will vouch for S-Sakalkhôr.”

Belzâgar sags.  Relief, probably.  He is trembling.

“Very well,” says Míriel.  “We will send for the Royal Physician to tend him.”

There is tension trembling through every muscle of Nimruzimir’s body.

She speaks again.  “And the other?  What shall we do with him?”

From beside her, Lord Elendil bestirs himself.  “We might have him sent back,” he says gravely.  “He is a King’s Man.”

To send him back is to send him to the Black Temple.  To send him back is to send him straight to the torments from which he plucked Sakalkhôr.  To which he condemned Nimruzimir.  And would that not be the most fitting punishment of all?

* * *

The fireworks are quite breathtaking.  They sit on the grass, on a blanket that Sakalkhôr has thoughtfully procured from somewhere.  Sakalkhôr lies across both their laps, and Belzâgar puts a hand on Nimruzimir’s shoulder, for some reason.

“I think you don’t like the newest Menel Mentie novel because it’s not philosophically complicated enough for you,” Sakalkhôr proclaims in a slightly slurred voice, flinging out a hand to gesture dramatically.

“Th-That is absurd,” sniffs Nimruzimir, though he is rather afraid Sakalkhôr is right.

“I don’t think it’s the quicksilver,” Sakalkhôr continues.  “There’s no dilemmas about not interfering or systems that are broken but will cause harm to be mended or even the depth of Nimruzimir himself—apologies to present company—agonizing over being insufficiently Elvish.”

“It is always interesting, t-to s-see the ways in which h-he is not—not rational,” permits Nimruzimir.

“Well, what is your favorite?” Belzâgar asks with a yawn.

“Perfect Reflection, I s-suppose,” Nimruzimir answers, after a moment.

“Oh, the one with the terrible title,” Sakalkhôr says, referring to a debate the two of them had very soon after meeting one another.  It is probably intended to be a light remark, or possibly to reignite the meaningless argument, since they both tend to enjoy such verbal sparring.  But for some reason, something about it twists unpleasantly inside Nimruzimir.

“I b-believe I have ch-changed my viewpoint on the title,” he says stiffly.

“What was wrong with the title?” Belzâgar hisses to Sakalkhôr in a whisper far too loud for Nimruzimir not to hear it.  “Oh, is it because it’s clearly an imperfect reflection, since they end up on that other Vérië where everyone’s evil?  That’s the one, isn’t it?  I liked that one.”

“It is that one,” Nimruzimir agrees.  Absently, he scratches Sakalkhôr’s hair, and Sakalkhôr wriggles in what Nimruzimir understands to be a pleased way.  Pleased, presumably, because he is very strident about the things which displease him.  “I reread it recently, and I believe I am f-forced to concede to S-Sakalkhôr’s point—”

“Well, that’s unusual,” Sakalkhôr blurts.  

“B-Because you do not usually have a point,” snaps Nimruzimir.

“Oi!”  But other than the objection and making a pouting noise, Sakalkhôr says nothing else.

“What point?” Belzâgar asks.  “I’m not really very philosophical, so those tend to go over my head.”

For some reason, the words are bitter on Nimruzimir’s tongue.  But then, he has been considering this particular philosophical knot a great deal recently.  “It is n-not an imperfect reflection,” he explains.  “The point is that the characters are the s-same, but the s-system they exist in is d-different.  Nimruzimir w-would be a t-tyrant if he served b-beneath a tyrannous king.”

“Everyone has the capacity for good and for evil,” Sakalkhôr chimes in.  “Circumstances can change people.”

“I suppose,” Belzâgar says.  Then, “Does it really matter why?  Nimruzimir’s reflection self still betrays Corda.”

“N-Not in the end,” Nimruzimir objects, defensive, as always, of his namesake. “Well, he feels bad about it, but is that really enough?”

“It’s enough for Corda,” points out Sakalkhôr.  “Come on, this got heavy, I’m too drunk, let’s just watch the fireworks.  And keep petting me, Nimruzimir, that feels nice.”

* * *

Five months later.

“G-Give him to Lilóteo,” Nimruzimir blurts.  He doesn’t even know where the words come from.  Everyone looks at him.  “The R-Royal Physician will be able to use him.”  His voice sounds harsh, jarring, and he winces at the considering looks sent his way.  Belzâgar blanches again—he may be not be entirely aware of how Lilóteo feels about Nimruzimir in specific, but he is surely aware of the Royal Physician’s evidently draconian attitude towards the protection of his philosophers, since Nimruzimir’s near-disappearance was the spark that lit the flame of the current rebellion, and he its perhaps unwitting first stick of fuel.

Míriel’s considering gaze seems to look through Nimruzimir, but she nods and waves a hand.  “Have them both taken to Lilóteo, then,” she says, disinterested, and Nimruzimir takes this as his cue to leave as well.

* * *

Several hours after five months later.

“Are you mad?” Lilóteo demands.  He has just finished with Sakalkhôr—who is still unconscious, kept there by a careful application of laudanum, lest he wake too early to Lilóteo’s unpleasant, albeit necessary, ministrations.  Lilóteo came out of the sickroom with a peculiar look on his face, told Nimruzimir that his friend would recover, though it would take time, and was then told about the second consideration.  At which point he questioned Nimruzimir’s sanity.

“I p-p-panicked,” Nimruzimir protests.  “Surely you can use him?”

“To do what, vivisect him?”  Lilóteo’s arms go up in a great, expansive gesture.  “I have a shortage of time and an abundance of cadavers, I have no need for test subjects, even if I did not have a moral compunction against experimenting on a living human!”

“N-N-N-No.  B-But he must have information, s-surely?  He is a K-King’s M-Man.”

A canny light dawns in Lilóteo’s eyes.  “I suppose you’ve a point, at that, and my reputation might be enough to get him to talk, at least a little.”

“Well, th-thank you for admitting that I have s-some idea what I’m talking about,” Nimruzimir says.  He knows he’s being snappish, but he can’t help it.  Lilóteo puffs up like a bantam and then looks a little more closely and puts his hand on Nimruzimir’s arm.

“Hey,” he says.  “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, I d-do not even know,” Nimruzimir says miserably.  “He was a f-friend, Lilóteo, and he is a King’s Man, and he g-gave me to the High Priest.”

“And you had him sent to me?” Lilóteo’s gaze hardened.  “What are you expecting, Nimruzimir?  Because—”

“I d-do not know, truly, I p-panicked.  I do not know.  But if he were sent back, it would be to the B-Black T-Temple.”  

“Where he sent you.”

“Where he s-sent me,” Nimruzimir breathes out miserably.

“And you don’t think that would be fair?”

Nimruzimir shrugs helplessly.  “I am n-not him.”

Lilóteo grunts.  “Guess I have to accept that,” he says, with a sigh.  “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” Nimruzimir murmurs, and as Lilóteo moves to leave, he catches sight of his reflection in the old, stained mirror behind him.

---

Chapter End Notes

"Menel Mentie" means "Star Journey" and is my own take on Star Trek as an in-universe series in Númenor.