Little Comfort to be Found by Independence1776

Little Comfort to be Found

“Zimraphel, your bath is ready.”

Míriel turned away from the window in her dressing room and let the thick green curtain fall, covering the view of the blooming formal gardens and the red tile rooftops, the rise of the Meneltarma beyond them. She had ridden as close to the Meneltarma as one could this morning, but now court duties ensured she was once again trapped in the palace.

She stepped into the marble-covered bathroom, with a bathtub large enough for two sunk into the floor. Two of her handmaidens undressed her and one vanished through the doorway carrying the dirty garments. The other stayed, seating herself in a niche next to the door, ostensibly in case Míriel needed her assistance but in reality a guard. The niche was placed so that Míriel was given the illusion of privacy while in the tub, though that was from sight only; Míriel could hear her handmaiden rustling fabric as she began working on an embroidery project. Míriel stepped into the steaming water of the bath and sunk down until everything but her head was underwater.

She desperately missed Azruphel.

Azruphel was her only friend, the only person she could trust in the court now that Sauron had enmeshed himself so deep in Pharazôn's councils that there was no escaping him. Even many of those who had once been Faithful had turned, out of fear she suspected, but could not prove and would not ask. But Azruphel remained secretly Faithful, even as she openly agreed with her now-rebellious-against-the-Valar family. It was the only way she’d been able to remain Míriel's favored handmaiden and thus the woman who normally remained while Míriel bathed. It was the sole time they could privately and properly talk.

But Azruphel was in Rómenna, caring for her ailing mother. She’d promised she’d return as soon as possible. But that left Míriel alone in court, with no one to catch a few moment’s peace with. Sauron was ever watchful and she knew there were spies in her retinue. She could confide in no one else.

Míriel did not linger in the hot water; there was no comfort to be found there today. Her handmaidens dried her off, styled her hair, and helped her dress in one of the court dresses, covered in gold embroidery thread and jewels. Finally, a sheer veil of gold fabric was pinned to the underside of the elaborate braid that wrapped around the top of her head; the veil fell halfway down her back, for no purpose at all save decoration.

That was all she was, after all. Decoration, because she had never even been allowed to be a figurehead in what should have been her own court.

Her handmaidens escorted her to the formal hall, where she settled in her throne. The stone hall bore no decorations; the ancient tapestries that had hung there in her girlhood having been consigned to the flames shortly after the White Tree burned. The tile floors remained, but they were not historical mosaics as there had been in other areas of the palace. These were merely placed in colorful, flower-like patterns-- nothing offensive to the current reign. But they were currently mostly covered by groups of people chatting to each other, all of them half-looking at either Ar-Pharazôn sitting on his larger throne next to her or at Sauron leaning against one of the fluted pillars at the front of the room. Fools, all of them, for thinking the Deceiver could be anything but.

Sauron stepped forward when Ar-Pharazôn raised the scepter to call for quiet, his black hair pulled back into a thick braid hanging down his back and his dark eyes almost seeming to burn in his pale face. “Your Majesty, I report that the construction of your flagship had begun. Soon, you will be able to sail West and take your due.”

A sliver of foresight shivered down Míriel's spine, though she kept as still as a statute. Only after Pharazôn dismissed court a while later, leaving the hall with Sauron, did she allow herself to relax the smallest amount, hardly visible in her dress due to the boning required to keep it from sagging with the weight of the embroidery and gems. She then returned to her chambers and picked out a comfortable dress, suitable for a relaxing evening among her handmaidens and any who cared to visit her. None ever did, unless she was hosting entertainment.

Once changed and after a light supper of herb-baked fish and fresh greens from the kitchen garden, she settled herself at her writing desk, her handmaidens scattered around the sitting room behind her, talking amongst themselves, reading, or the other usual quiet pursuits. In the light of the window directly above her desk, not yet needing to light a lamp, Míriel took out her best pen and ink and second-best paper, suitable for a personal note. She swallowed and dipped the pen in the inkwell.

Azruphel,

I am sorry to learn that your mother continues to be unwell. In the light that she is not recovering, I think it best for you not to be torn between your duties here and your duty to your family. I cannot bear to separate you from them any longer. In these trying times, with the rebels and Ar-Pharazôn’s flagship now under construction, I am glad your family resides in the east of Númenor, though they are too near the rebels for some measure of peace of mind. I trust the guards in Rómenna are doing their duty to contain the threat. Care for your mother and remain safe.

Please, do not take this as a condemnation of your long service in my house. I know you have sacrificed much to remain here in Armenelos. Let this be a reward for your years spent with me. I am sending enough gold for you to settle you in your own household in the east of our land; I merely wish to see a true friend and companion treated as well as you can be.

With much love,
Zimraphel

Míriel folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope. She then wrote an authorization for a suitable sum of money to be withdrawn from the royal bank in Rómenna. She put that in the envelope as well and sealed the envelope with wax. She addressed it, and called for a handmaiden. “Please, send a long-distance messenger to Rómenna with this note for Azruphel.”

The young woman smiled genuinely. “Yes, we all look forward to her return here. I am sure she will appreciate your note, Zimraphel.”

Míriel smiled back. “I am sure she will.”

Not at first, no. But better that Azruphel try to survive by finding a place on the ships carrying the Faithful East rather than in the court where Sauron himself lived. No matter that it left Míriel utterly alone.

She cleaned her pen and put the pen and inkwell back where they belonged in the cubbies in her desk before standing to join her handmaidens on one of the couches. The light from the setting sun flashed across her face and she glanced out the window.

A plume of smoke rose from the peak of the Meneltarma.