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Chapter Text

Andustar

Year 3229 of the Second Age

Anárion son of Elendil stood beside his brother, staring down at the ground so that no one would see the tears in his eyes. He had thought he’d wept all his tears away over the past two months, but now he was shedding more. He suppressed them as much as he could. Grandmother would be disappointed in him if he cried, and he had to be brave for Eärien.

The cave was full of a crowd of people, all in black, standing silently around the coffin in which the dead woman lay. A multitude of flickering torches lit the space, and in the flaring light, Anárion could see his family clearly. His grandparents stood arm in arm on the other side of the coffin; he could not see their faces. Adar looked straight ahead, his face stern, betraying no sorrow. Isildur’s shoulders were hunched and his countenance was sad, but Anárion could see no other tokens of grief. On his other side, his old nurse, Meleth, who had been with the family for twenty years, held Eärien in her arms. Meleth was weeping silently, and Eärien was quiet, at least for now.

Anárion was ten years old and had never been to a funeral before. He had always been curious about funerals, ever since he first talked to the family’s chief gardener, who used to be an embalmer. For some time, he had wondered what it would be like to attend a funeral. Why did his first one have to be for his own mother?

Naneth was wrapped in linen bandages. Nothing of her body showed, but Anárion had seen her face before the embalmers had taken her away, and it had been serene, the lines of pain and suffering smoothed away. He wondered why this was the case. Had a spirit come to ease her passage out of the world? Had Mandos himself come to guide her? And where had she gone? Where did Men go after they died?

The question—where has she gone?—opened his mind to possibilities he did not want to consider. He thought of the cave receiving his mother’s body, dark nothingness, rocks and earth sealing her in, and shuddered. Was that all there was for Men in the end? Just burial in a tomb and then nothing? But no: the dead had to come back to life. They had to. Why else would people bother to preserve their flesh? Why else would people bury the dead person’s belongings in their tomb?

It didn’t matter. Even if Naneth rose from the dead, Anárion would never see her again. She was gone from the world; no one knew where. A big tear dropped from his eye and fell on the floor. Embarrassed, he wiped his eye and tried to focus on the Speaker for the Dead, who was beginning to pronounce the words of the Burial Rite.

“Eru Ilúvatar hath taken our sister, the Lady Ancalë daughter of Voromir, from the world. But beyond the circles of the world, she liveth.”

“She liveth,” the mourners intoned.

“Beyond the circles of the world, she will rise again.”

“She will rise again,” repeated the mourners.

“Her soul is with Eru Ilúvatar, safe in his loving embrace. We therefore commit her body to the tomb, to her eternal rest. May it be so.”

“May it be so,” Anárion said, along with everyone else. And just like that, the Burial Rite was done. Anárion had heard that in Armenelos, funerals were much longer, as female mourners wailed and wept, friends and relatives shared stories of the deceased, and extra rituals were performed to ensure that the dead would rise again. He was glad that in Andúnië, the ceremony was short and simple; he was sure he wouldn’t be able to keep from crying if it were longer.

Slowly, Adar walked forward, moving with the stiffness of a much older man. He reached for the lid of the coffin and closed it. The lid thudded down with a loud echo. At that moment, six-year-old Eärien began to cry. “Nana!” she wailed.

“Hush!” Meleth said sternly, bouncing Anárion’s sister in her arms.

“It’s not fair!” the little girl cried. “Why? Why is Nana gone?”

“She’s in a better place,” Meleth said. “Now, be quiet; it is not proper—”

“I don’t care!” Eärien’s voice rose to a scream, and she began to pound on Meleth’s chest with her fists. “It’s not fair! I want Nana! I want Nana! It’s not fair!”

Eärien’s shrieks echoed and re-echoed off the walls of the cave. The mourners all stared at Anárion and the rest of the family; Anárion felt his cheeks heat up. Isildur shifted from one foot to the other, as he usually did when he was embarrassed. Only Adar stood as if nothing were happening, his face as quietly grave as ever.

Meleth sighed and carried Eärien out of the tomb. Slowly, Eärien’s screams grew fainter, until silence reigned again within the cave. But the solemnity of the occasion had been disturbed for good; people were whispering to each other now. The crowd hardly paid attention to the rest of the ceremony: the piling of funeral gifts around the coffin, the sealing of the tomb with rocks, and the scattering of flowers around the mountainside. While Adar and Isildur received condolences from their fellow mourners, Meleth stood a short distance away, with her head bowed, holding Eärien by the hand. Eärien was sobbing quietly now. She seemed to ignore her grandmother, who was scolding both her and the nurse. Anárion walked towards the group curiously.

“A disgraceful display,” Grandmother said. “You are six years old, quite old enough to conduct yourself properly at a solemn ceremony. I am disappointed in you, Eärien. And you,” she said, looking at Meleth. “I would have expected you to teach her how to behave.”

“I beg your pardon, milady,” said Meleth. “Lady Eärien has been weeping for weeks. I’ll try to do better by her next time.”

“See that you do,” Grandmother said. She turned to Anárion. “Ah, Anárion,” she said. “You behaved well today; we are all proud of you. You will be as brave a man as your brother.”

During the funeral, Anárion had been hoping to hear words like this, but now he wondered if being brave were really so important. Perhaps it was more honest to display grief openly as young children did. In any case, he was relieved the funeral was over.

Eärien burst out crying again at the mourning feast, and Meleth had to put her to bed early. Anárion wished he could go to bed early too. The feast was more depressing than the funeral itself had been, for it was like a party gone wrong. The table was laden with platters of delicacies, and the wine was flowing freely, but the guests wore black, frowned, and barely spoke above a whisper. He was relieved when the dreary affair ended and everyone retired for the night. As Anárion climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, candle in hand, he met Meleth trudging slowly down, looking exhausted.

“How is Eärien?” he asked the nurse.

“She’s finally quieted down, milord,” Meleth said, shaking her head. “I’ve never seen such rage in a child of this family before. You and Isildur were nothing to her.”

“Is she asleep?” asked Anárion.

“No, milord,” sighed Meleth. “I tried everything: telling stories, singing lullabies, giving her dolls—I’m at my wits’ end.”

“Let me go to her,” said Anárion. “You need the rest.”

“If you can get her to sleep, I’ll be forever grateful, milord,” said Meleth. “I haven’t slept a wink in two weeks.”

“Good night,” Anárion said. He watched Meleth go down the stairs, then continued up the stairs and down the long corridor to Eärien’s chamber. When he reached it, he found the door ajar and a lamp burning inside. He peeked around the door. Eärien sat up in bed, dressed in her night shift, surrounded by at least five dolls. There were streaks on her face from her tears, and she was sniffling. She looked straight at Anárion, and her eyes widened.

“Aryë? Are you alright?” he asked.

“Naryo?” The little girl wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“May I come in?” asked Anárion.

Eärien nodded and wiped her nose again. Anárion walked into the room and sat on her bed. He took her little hand in his, wondering how best to comfort her. Before he could think of anything to say, she spoke: “Naryo, why did Nana die?”

“Because she was ill,” said Anárion.

“Why couldn’t the doctor make her well again?”

“Because there’s no cure for peleth lhîw,” said Anárion.

“That’s what Meleth said.” In the flickering light of the lamp, Eärien’s lower lip trembled. “Why did she have to get peleth lhîw? Why did Eru let this happen?”

Because we turned away from the Eldar and the Valar, thought Anárion, remembering what his father had told him. But he could not explain it to a six-year-old. “I don’t know,” he said. He worried that Eärien was going to cry again, but she did not. They sat in silence for a while.

Eärien finally spoke. “The Speaker for the Dead said Nana would live again. Why can’t she live again now? Why couldn’t she live again and come back with us?”

“Because…” Anárion chewed his lip, considering. “Because she had to go somewhere else,” he finished lamely.

“Where?”

Anárion took Eärien’s other hand. “A very special place, where everyone who dies goes.”

“Like Valinor?” said Eärien.

Anárion shook his head, trying to smile. “More special than Valinor, and much farther away.”

“How far?”

“Past the sun and moon, beyond the stars, beyond the circles of the world. So far away you can’t sail there; Mandos has to show you the way.”

“Oh.” Eärien released one of her hands from Anárion’s grip and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “What’s it like?”

“Well, nobody knows,” Anárion said slowly. “No one who goes there ever comes back. But it must be a lot like Númenor, with the sea and mountains and woods and fields, only more beautiful. And everyone is happy there.”

“You mean nobody gets ill?”

“That’s right,” said Anárion, warming to his theme. “And there are no storms: the sun shines all the time, except when it rains a little to make the crops grow. And there are no cruel rulers there either; Tar-Minyatur is king there, just like he was three thousand years ago. And—”

“—there are toys! And sweets!” said Eärien excitedly. “And it’s Erulaitalë all the time! And there’s a Great Bear-dance every day!”

“Yes!” Anárion said, relieved she was distracted from her grief. “And best of all, our loved ones are all there.”

“Like Nana?”

“Like Nana.” Anárion helped Eärien lie down. “So, whenever you get sad, think of Nana in the special place, and remember: we’ll be going there someday too.”

“I want to go there now,” Eärien said dreamily. “I want to go see Nana now.”

“But if you did, Adar and Silyo and Meleth and I would be sad,” said Anárion. “We want you to stay with us.”

Eärien pursed her lips, apparently deep in thought. “Alright,” she finally said. “I’ll stay with you, and then we can all go see Nana together.”

“That sounds good,” said Anárion. He pulled the counterpane up under her chin. “Now, you must sleep.”

“Will you stay here until I sleep, Naryo?” she asked, yawning.

“Yes.”

She sighed and shut her eyes. Within minutes, her breathing became regular and steady. For a long time, Anárion sat looking at her but not seeing her. He wondered if he had just fed her a pack of lies; his old fears of the afternoon returned. Perhaps what came after death was all darkness and terror. Worst of all, perhaps there was nothing for Men after death. Perhaps Naneth and the other dead would never live again at all. Anárion laid his face down on the coverlet and wept the tears he had suppressed all afternoon.

Chapter Text

Andustar

Year 3248 of the Second Age

Isildur son of Elendil woke up on Tarwa-tasari, one of his grandfather’s estates, feeling half-smothered, even under the thin sheet; he felt like he could barely breathe in the sweltering air. It was the fifteenth day of Urimë, and the weather was unusually hot, so hot that during the day, all the animals hid in the shade of the many willows: the cattle and sheep, the dogs, even the birds and lizards. Isildur ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, looked down at his wet smallclothes in disgust, and called to his manservant for a cool bath.

The bath washed away the sweat of the night before, but otherwise did little to refresh him. Dressed in a tunic of light linen, he wandered downstairs towards the breakfast room. The rest of the family were already there; Eärien and Anárion looked as miserable as he felt, but his father and grandmother looked as cool and serene as ever. Isildur eyed the table in disgust; the pastries and fruit, light though they were, seemed nauseating to him this morning. Only the wine, chilled with snow from the mountains, looked appealing. He sat down and poured himself a cupful. It was then that he noticed several servants carrying Eärien’s trunks down the stairs into the foyer.

“Are you going to Armenelos again?” he asked her. “In this heat?”

“Yes,” she said. “I don’t mind the heat. I wish to see Grandfather.”

Their grandmother looked up from the tea she was making and frowned. “It seems that you go to Armenelos a great deal, Eärien.”

Eärien shrugged. “I get bored in the country. I must have change and excitement; it is one of my faults.”

“But why not go to Andúnië? Why travel a hundred Lár for mere change and excitement?” Grandmother asked.

Eärien frowned. “Because I wish to see Grandfather. Is anything wrong with that?”

“I do not like your tone, Eärien,” said Grandmother sternly. “Your coming of age gives you no excuse to answer me rudely.”

“That will do, Naneth,” said Adar, putting aside an untasted plum. “Eärien, you have been traveling to Armenelos too much.”

“Why, adar, I—” she began, but Adar held up his hand for silence and went on.

“Armenelos is dangerous these days. The riots have increased since Lord Calion's victories in Hyarmen. The Princess Regent has little control over the city. On the other hand, you’re of age now, and you will be avoiding the parts of the city where the rioting occurs. I will allow you to go, but only if one of your brothers goes with you.”

“Our servants are no longer enough to protect me, then?” said Eärien, raising her eyebrows.

Adar looked at her steadily. “I would feel better if one of your brothers went with you.”

Isildur saw Anárion’s face fall; clearly, Anárion didn’t want to go. Though the thought of traveling a hundred Lár over the next three days was not inviting, Isildur said, “I’ll go.” He was rewarded with a grateful look from Anárion.

“Thank you, Isildur,” his father said, accepting the cup of tea Grandmother handed to him. “We’ll have one of the carriages ready for you once Carandol has finished packing.”

Eärien looked at Isildur with an unreadable expression and did not speak. For a minute, Isildur wanted to chide her for her rudeness, but he thought better of it. Eärien hardly spoke or listened to him and Anárion these days; there was no point in remonstrating with her.

The first stage of the carriage ride to Armenelos was just as unpleasant as Isildur had foreseen. He and Eärien sweated in the close vehicle, roasting in their traveling cloaks. The dust kicked up by the horses and wheels blew thick and choking through the windows; they couldn’t keep from coughing. Through the carriage windows, they saw fields of parched wheat and barley; grass that looked as brown and dry as straw; and trees with leaves yellowing for lack of water. The morning sun blazed in the cloudless sky, hurting Isildur’s eyes. There were no farmers or animals to be seen. For Andustar, it was the worst drought in almost a thousand years, and Isildur had heard that the rest of the island was suffering from it too.

For almost an hour, Isildur and Eärien did not speak. They faced away from each other, each looking out the windows at the depressing landscape. The silence hung over them as oppressively as the heat.

“It is hot, isn’t it?” Isildur finally said to break the silence.

Eärien did not answer for a minute or two. Finally, she said, “This may be the hottest summer ever.” She was still staring out the window.

“It seems the weather has grown worse since the Kings turned away from the Valar and the Eldar,” Isildur continued. “Hotter summers, colder winters, more storms…”

Eärien turned her head to look at him. “Are we really talking about the weather?”

“What else is there to talk about?” Isildur said. “You tell Anárion and me nothing these days.”

“Because I have nothing to tell,” Eärien said shortly. She turned away from him to stare out the window some more. There was another awkward silence.

“Why are you really going to Armenelos?” Isildur asked.

Eärien sighed and turned around again. “To visit Grandfather,” she said impatiently. “I told you—”

“That’s not the only reason,” said Isildur, trying to keep impatience out of his voice. “You go practically every fortnight. Nobody visits far-off kin every fortnight.”

“What are you implying?” demanded Eärien, bristling. “You hint at something dishonorable? Or worse?”

“No, no.”

“Then why do you ask me these questions?” Eärien was glaring at him now. “Why do you pry into my personal affairs?”

“Because I worry about you!” Isildur said loudly. “You used not to be secretive, Eärien. What are you hiding? Why do you not speak to Anárion and me anymore? Are you in trouble? Hurt?”

“No, nothing like that,” Eärien said quickly, touching him on the arm. “I’m perfectly well.” Her anger seemed to be gone. “You are sweet to worry about me, Isildur, but truly, there is no need: I am well, and nothing is wrong.”

Isildur badly wanted to believe it. “You may give me your confidence,” he said, “if you feel the need. I know you were always closer to Anárion than to me, but—”

“I understand and am grateful.” Eärien smiled at him for the first time that day. “I’ve no secrets to share with you now, but I promise that when I have, I will let you know what they are.”

“That’s all I ask,” Isildur said, relieved. “Remember: I am here to listen to you and help you, as is Anárion.”

This discussion between them had broken the ice, for they talked together much more cordially for the rest of the journey. Any suspicions Isildur had about Eärien’s words and behavior were quieted by her cheerful looks and conversation.

On the third day, they saw Armenelos from Lár away, the tall, tapering white towers gleaming in the morning light, and the golden domes flashing the sun’s rays. The uphill road was now paved with white stone and was crowded with vehicles: wagons, carts, and carriages like their own. Crowds of people, dusty and tired-looking from their long journeys, trudged beside the horses.

Their carriage and their wealth ensured that they could pass straight through the great bronze gates with little trouble. The streets of the Lower City were so crowded with people that Tondir, the coachman, had to drive slowly, but Isildur was too busy marveling at the city to care. He had not been to Armenelos for two years; the city seemed even more splendid than when he’d left it. Even in the poor quarters, through which they were driving, the buildings stretched up four or five stories and were carved with designs of trees, fruits, and flowers. The streets were paved and clean except for the ever-present piles of horse dung, which sweepers were attacking with their brooms. Fountains stood at every corner, empty because of the drought, but with exquisite statues of Men, Elves, and animals standing in the center. And on the sides of the buildings, passionflower and honeysuckle and jasmine climbed, somewhat shriveled for lack of water, but still offering welcome shades of green and colors against the whiteness of the stone. The Princess Regent might not have been able to stop the riots, but she was obviously taking good care of the city.

The crowds seemed to increase as they traveled; it seemed all the buildings had emptied onto the streets. To Isildur, the crowd seemed to be heading down High Street towards Eärendil Square. He was right, for when they reached the square, the sea of people filled it completely. They were packed tightly together like oysters in a barrel. They surrounded the statues of Eärendil at either end of the square, and spilled into the surrounding streets. More people were arriving all the time.

“We’ll have to go another way, milord,” said Tondir, turning around to look at them. “These people are blocking the streets for a Lár or two around.”

“Very well, Tondir,” Isildur said.

“Wait!” said Eärien. “We’ll get out here. We can walk the rest of the way.” She opened the carriage door and climbed out.

“Walk?” Isildur could hardly believe his ears. “But the crowd—and the heat—and Grandfather’s house is Lár away.”

“Oh, the heat is nothing, and the crowd will probably thin out in a little while,” Eärien said, tossing her head carelessly. “Besides, I want the exercise.”

Isildur jumped down from the carriage and grabbed her arm. “Have you gone mad? There have been riots! What if we get caught in the midst of one?”

“If we walk quickly, we won’t get caught. Tondir, take the servants and our trunks to Grandfather’s house. Come along, Isildur.” Eärien began elbowing her way through the crowd. Isildur followed her, growling under his breath in a mixture of exasperation and anxiety. Luckily, the people, once they saw his and Eärien’s fine clothes, parted for them immediately. But Isildur could not avoid the smells: rotting fish and unwashed bodies. Most of the crowd was poorly clad, dressed in plain brown wool or linen, with some of the men wearing leather jerkins. There was a buzz of conversation around Isildur, but he paid no attention. He thought about Eärien’s secrecy, her mysterious behavior. Did she have a lover whom she was meeting? It seemed to be the case. He wondered who the mysterious man could be.

Suddenly, Eärien stopped beside a young peasant woman holding a baby in her arms. Isildur nearly bumped into her. At the same time, the crowd fell silent, and they all turned to face the statue of Eärendil. Isildur could see a figure standing on the pedestal, but he was too far away to see the person’s clothes or features.

“My friends!” cried a man’s voice. Isildur realized that it was coming from the man on the statue’s pedestal. “Citizens of Armenelos!” A cheer rose up from around him, including, to his surprise, from Eärien.

“We stand here today, united in one common purpose!” proclaimed the man on the pedestal. “To gain our freedom!” The crowd cheered again. “Freedom from tyranny! Freedom from death! Freedom from Elven oppression!”

Bile rose up into Isildur’s throat, and he laid his hand on his sword; he knew what kind of meeting this was. “Come along, Eärien,” he said, tugging her arm. But she would not move. Her eyes were fixed on the speaker.

“These Elven tyrants keep us from the Undying Lands.” The crowd groaned in response. “They keep us from sailing west.” Boos and hisses broke out. “They say that we have no right to sail to Valinor and taste the bliss of that land. But I say we have the right!” The crowd cheered. “We have the right to immortality! To freedom from the specter of death!” More cheers. “Have we not struggled? Have we not suffered? Did not our ancestors lose their lives in the long war against Morgoth? Do we not deserve a place of joy and blessedness to rest from our labors?” Cheers and shouting. “And yet the Elves would keep it from us! They would have us die! They would abandon us here while they sail to the Undying Lands!”

“That’s not true!” cried a clear, ringing voice from somewhere behind Isildur. He whirled around and saw a tall woman standing on the pedestal of the other Eärendil statue. The crowd had turned to look at her too.

“Don’t listen to him,” the woman continued. “The Eldar were always our friends. It was the Valar themselves who forbade us to sail into the West.”

“Then the Valar are our enemies too!” a man in the crowd yelled, and eager voices took it up: “The Valar are our enemies!”

“No!” the woman said. “The Valar warned us to stay away from the Undying Lands for our own good. We are mortal; it is natural for us to die. Death is a gift from Ilúvatar!”

“Death’s no gift!” someone in the crowd shouted, and the other people roared their approval.

“It is, for we are united with Ilúvatar himself when we die!” The woman’s voice was growing shrill. “It is our fate! I beg of you: don’t disobey Ilúvatar and the Valar! We will all be destroyed if we go against the Ban!”

“Wait!” The man on the opposite pedestal was speaking again. “I know you, woman. You are from the family of Númenion, the traitor. He was your grandfather, was he not? Was he not moved from Andustar to Armenelos for speaking treason against our king Ar-Gimilzôr?”

“Ar-Gimilzôr is dead,” said the woman. “We have a different king now, and soon we’ll have a new queen. My family and I are not traitors.”

“Yet you still speak lies!” The man’s rage seemed to be increasing. “You know well that death is not a gift but a curse! We have been cursed by the Valar and the Elves out of envy! Out of spite!” There was an ominous rumbling of voices from the crowd.

“That’s not—” the woman began, but she stopped, perhaps because no one was listening to her.

“Inziladûn and his daughter are Elven puppets. They would make us all slaves to the whims of the Valar and Elves. But we know better.” The crowd roared. “We know better than to listen to the lies of willing slaves. Númenion would have had us crawl on our bellies before the Elves, and his granddaughter would do the same. You heard the words she spoke a little while before. She is a liar!” Another roar from the crowd. “A traitor!” An angrier roar. “My friends, let us show her what happens to liars and traitors. Let us show her what we do to willing slaves!”

Isildur did not wait to hear more. He drew his sword; the crowd fell back from him, looking terrified. He stormed towards the nearer Eärendil statue, the crowd parting before his sword, until he reached the woman. Around him, the people were hurling insults at her.

“Liar!”

“Traitor!”

“Slave!”

“Puppet!”

Someone threw a stone, and it struck her on the forehead. She yelped, reeled, and almost fell off the pedestal. Rage seemed to boil within Isildur’s veins. “Get down!” he cried. “Get behind me!” For a moment, he was sure she hadn’t heard, but then she gathered her skirts, hopped down from the pedestal, and stepped behind him. The nearest people in the crowd, perhaps put off by his drawn sword, fell back. But one filthy-faced man stepped forward, his fist raised.

“Get back!” Isildur said, brandishing his sword. “I’ll cut you if you come nearer!” As soon as the man stepped back, Isildur quickly sheathed his sword and grabbed the woman’s arm. “Run!”

He and she raced down a street, shoving through a mass of people, just as the voice of the speaker rang out again and the crowd roared. Isildur and the woman fled, dodging wagons and carts and bumping into passersby, until they were sure no one was following them. They halted in front of a dry fountain on a street corner. Isildur sat down on the rim of the fountain’s basin, panting.

The woman sighed. “That was close! I thought we’d be torn to pieces!” Straightening up and smoothing down her skirt, she regained her composure. “Thank you for coming to my rescue, sir. I am in your debt.” Now that he was close to her, Isildur saw that she was young, blonde, and dressed in green. Her hair fell down below her shoulders in a tangle of golden curls. Her face was red from her recent exertion, and the skirt of her green gown was covered with dust. Blood was trickling down her face from the cut on her forehead.

“Let me tend to that,” Isildur said, taking his handkerchief out of his sleeve.

The woman pulled away. “It is nothing.”

“But you’re bleeding.”

“Only a scratch. My maid can see to it when I get home.” She touched the wound, looked at the blood on her finger, and frowned. “Perhaps we’d best get home quickly, though.”

“I will call for a carriage,” Isildur said. The thought of Eärien came to him, and he panicked. “Eärien! I have to go back. I have to—”

“I am here,” Eärien said, walking up to him. “I saw you run away, and I followed you.”

“Thank Eru you found me,” said Isildur, surveying his sister. Strangely, while he and the stranger were dusty and sweaty from their run, Eärien looked as calm and neat as she had when she stepped out of the carriage. He indicated the blonde woman next to him. “Eärien, this is…ah…”

“I am Silmariën daughter of Laurefindo,” said the woman, curtsying.

“Silmariën? As in the foremother of the Lords of Andúnië?” Isildur asked. Immediately, he felt stupid, as the answer was obvious.

But Silmariën only answered, “The same. And what are your names?”

Isildur bowed. “I am Isildur son of Elendil, and this is my sister, Eärien.”

Silmariën smiled. “I am truly honored to meet you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” said Eärien shortly. She turned to Isildur. “Shall we go to Grandfather’s now?”

“In a little while. We must escort the Lady Silmariën home first, unless you’d rather walk to Grandfather’s alone.”

“No, I’ll come with you," Eärien said. They waited until a hired carriage came down the street, and soon they were sitting in it, on their way to the Higher City up on the hill.

Isildur looked at Silmariën. “Why were you in Eärendil Square in the first place?”

“I was out for my daily walk, and I decided to go someplace different for a change. Perhaps it was unwise for me to walk alone in the Lower City,” Silmariën answered.

Isildur could not disagree with her. He did not comment on how foolish her actions were, but asked, “What made you speak out when that man was talking?”

“Oh, I always do so. I can’t bear to hear blatant lies, especially about the Eldar and the Ban of the Valar, so I always try to tell people the truth. My grandfather lost his estates in Andustar and was forced to move to Armenelos for speaking the truth. Ar-Gimilzôr and his lords called it high treason.”

“Was your grandfather really Númenion, as that man said?” Isildur asked. At a nod from Silmariën, he said, “My father and grandfather have spoken of Númenion. They called him a brave man and an honorable man. They said Ar-Gimilzôr and his lords called him a revolutionary.”

“Yes, they tried to shame and discredit him. But he never backed down.” Silmariën looked at Isildur proudly. “I always wished to be just like him, even as a child. My mother and father—”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Eärien, frowning, “but we don’t know where we are to stop. You haven’t told us, Lady Silmariën.”

Silmariën peered out the window. “Oh, I live only a block from here. We’re nearly there.” A minute or two later, she called to the carriage driver to stop. They halted outside a tall white house with a tower and a balcony. The house was surrounded by a courtyard with a parched-looking lawn, wilted flowers, and a nessamelda tree. The wall surrounding it was carved with human figures and scenes from legend, including one of Eönwë speaking to Tar-Minyatur. After Isildur, Silmariën, and Eärien had alighted from the carriage and paid the coachman, they went through the gate and up to the oak front door of the house. A manservant answered their knock, and they were ushered through a foyer and into a richly-furnished sitting room. There, a bald, gray-bearded man in a red tunic stood up. “There you are. I was expecting you an hour ago. Where have you been?”

Silmariën turned to Isildur and Eärien with a wry grimace. “This is my father, the Lord Laurefindo son of Númenion. Adar, these are Lord Isildur and Lady Eärien, children of Elendil.”

Lord Laurëfindo did not seem to hear her. “I said, where have you been? Did you get caught in the riot in Eärendil Square?”

Isildur was startled: Silmariën seemed to be his age, thirty-nine, but her father was talking to her as if she were younger than twenty-five. Silmariën seemed unfazed, however; she only said, “Yes.”

Her father shook his head, looking disgusted. “Silmariën, I have told you over and over not to get publicly involved in politics. You must stop speaking out against the King’s Men. If you wish to show your support for the Faithful, you must do it secretly.”

“But Grandfather—” Silmariën began.

“Grandfather was ruined for speaking out,” said Laurefindo sternly. “It does not matter that we have a Faithful king and princess regent: plenty of King’s Men are still in power, and over half the people of Númenor are on their side. And why were you walking alone in the Lower City anyway? What possessed you to do such a thing?”

“I know it was very foolish—” Silmariën began, but her father interrupted her.

“It was more than foolish. You could have been killed. Look at the blood on your forehead. Silmariën, you will never go to the Lower City alone again. And you will never get involved in these riots again. Do you hear me? I forbid it,” Laurefindo said.

“Yes, adar,” said Silmariën. Her cheeks were flushed, but whether with shame or anger, Isildur could not tell.

“I think the Lady Silmariën was very brave,” he said. “Not many would have dared speak up in such a situation.” Silmariën raised her head looked at him in surprise.

Laurefindo shrugged. “Well, well, she is courageous, I will admit that. Like her grandfather. But there’s a fine line between courage and foolishness.” His frown disappeared as he faced Isildur. “We are in your debt, Lord…Isildur, was it? To thank you, I would like to ask you and your sister both to a party here on Aldëa.”

Isildur bowed. “You are very kind, Lord Laurëfindo, but we must decline. We’re visiting our grandfather.”

“And who is your grandfather?”

“Lord Amandil son of Númendil, counselor to the King,” said Isildur.

Both Laurefindo and Silmariën looked impressed. Laurefindo bowed to Isildur and Eärien. “I know of your grandfather, and I greatly admire him. My invitation extends to him as well; all three of you must come.”

“Very well,” said Isildur. “We will come to your party.” Silmariën’s face lit up, and Eärien looked at him with narrowed eyes.

“Good,” said Laurefindo. “I will see you then.” He sat back in his chair and called to the manservant who had opened the door. “Damrod, show them out.” He turned back to Isildur. “Thank you again for bringing the Lady Silmariën home.”

Isildur made a polite acknowledgment and bowed to him. As he and Eärien left the house, he pondered over what had happened that day. He had not expected to get caught in a riot as soon as he and Eärien came to Armenelos. Tensions between the King’s Men and the Faithful in the capital were worse than he had thought. The thought of the lies spoken in the square made him queasy, so he thought of Silmariën instead. Despite her foolishness and impetuousness, he found that he admired her courage. He was looking forward to seeing her again.

Chapter Text

Armenelos

Year 3248 of the Second Age

Míriel sat upon her father’s throne, trying desperately to keep her mind on the present. Never had it been more difficult for her to focus on her duties. Her thoughts kept wandering to her cousin’s return from Hyarmen; he was supposed to arrive that day. Sooner or later, he would want to speak to her, and she was dreading the moment. Her ears were strained to listen for the crowds cheering outside. Any minute now, she would hear them. Any minute…

“Princess?” a worried voice said. Míriel started and looked up to see Lord Calmacil, First Lord of the Treasury, staring at her with concern. Every face in the throne room was turned towards her.

Her face heating up, Míriel turned back to the woman before her and said, “You may speak; we are listening.”

“My thanks, if it please your Highness.” The woman, resting on one knee, bowed her head. “It’s my husband, if it please your Highness. He was walking home from the butcher’s shop two days ago when he was set upon by a gang of King’s Men. They beat him so bad he couldn’t walk; two men had to carry him home. He still can’t walk or work, if it please your Highness.”

Míriel sighed: more violence on the part of the King’s Men. “What trade does your husband hold?”

“He’s a tanner, if it please your Highness.”

“Your needs shall be attended to.” Míriel turned to Lord Calmacil. “See that she is paid five hundred silver Mirian.” She looked at the tanner’s wife again. “That will be enough to tide you over until your husband can work again. We promise you that the men who did this to him will be caught and will pay for their crime.”

“My thanks, if it please your Highness.”

“You may rise,” Míriel said. As the woman stood up and backed away, a roar rose up outside. Míriel’s stomach roiled; Calion was returning at last. She listened hard and could hear the crowd cheering his name. Some people were even chanting his Adûnaic name: “Pharazôn! Pharazôn! Pharazôn!”

The tanner’s wife was the last petitioner of the morning. Míriel was relieved; Calion would not speak to her that day. She nodded to her chamberlain, who struck the gong near the entrance the throne room. It was a signal that the audience was over. Immediately afterwards, the courtiers began to disperse. As the Council of the Scepter left, Lord Amandil gave her a look of concern. He usually looked at her with sympathy or concern these days. Was it merely because of her father’s illness? Or did he think her ill-qualified for the role she held?

Míriel’s ladies remained behind, waiting for her to get up and leave. As she stood, a herald stepped into the throne room and announced, “Lord Calion, your Highness.” And Calion walked into the room.

He looked no different from when Míriel had last seen him, about fifty years ago. His face was still unlined and ruddy with health, and his shoulder-length hair and closely-cropped beard were still completely black. He towered over Míriel, who, at one and a half Rangar, was short for a Númenorean. His armor had been removed, and he wore a black tunic with the Tree and seven stars embroidered in gold. Míriel watched him warily, standing on the balls of her feet as if poised for flight.

“Ah, my dear cousin!” Calion said loudly, striding forward until he was directly in front of the throne. “What a pleasure it is to see you again. It has been too long!”

“It has been long,” Míriel agreed. And if I had had my way, it would have been longer, she thought. “I fear the audience is over.”

“So much the better; I wished to talk to you in private,” Calion said. He reached out as if to touch her, and she flinched. “What, do you fear me?”

“No,” Míriel said, but the rapid beating of her heart argued otherwise. Desperate to take control of the situation, she raised her voice and called one of her stewards. “Adanost, have wine ready in my private sitting room. Lord Calion and I wish to speak privately.”

At an acknowledgement and a bow from Adanost, Míriel waved her hand to dismiss her ladies, who filed out of the throne room. She and Calion went down the corridor to her sitting room. Míriel gave the room a cursory glance, briefly noting the gilded furniture, the carpets woven by the Men of Rómen, the tapestries on the walls depicting sailing ships, the tall windows with gold damask curtains. She walked over to a walnut table on which a carafe of red wine and two cups waited. Calion followed her, looking all around the room as if he had not seen it before.

“Dâirhin is still allowed to give speeches in the streets, I see,” he remarked. “I thought your father had him executed a long time ago. I thought you and your father would have called it treason to speak out against the Ban of the Valar, Míriel.”

“You will address me as ‘Your Highness’ or ‘Princess,’” Míriel said, a spark of defiance flaring in her.

Calion laughed. “Oh, come now, why such formality? We are cousins, are we not?”

Míriel did not dare protest. “Very well, Calion,” she said, swallowing hard.

“Call me ‘Pharazôn’ now,” Calion said. “It is the name by which my troops call me, and I confess I’ve grown partial to it.”

“Very well, Pharazôn. What did you wish to speak to me about?” Míriel said brusquely.

“Are you in a hurry?” Calion asked. “You have other plans this morning?”

Míriel wracked her brain for an excuse but could think of none. “No,” she finally said, resigned.

“Then, let us talk at our ease.” Calion sat down and poured himself a cup of wine. “May I?” he asked belatedly. At a nod from Míriel, he went on, “I came to give you counsel, cousin Míriel.”

“Counsel about what?” Míriel asked.

“Your Regency.” He eyed her over the rim of his wine cup. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“I prefer to stand.”

“Why, you do fear me; I can see it.” Calion stood up and stepped around the table toward her. He reached out to her, and she automatically stepped back. “Yes, you recoil from me. Why? What have I done?”

“Nothing,” Míriel said. “It is only that I’ve not seen you for nearly fifty years—”

“Then you should not fear me, as I’ve done nothing to you.” Calion looked skeptical. “You have grown skittish since I saw you last, cousin. Are you breaking under the strain of your duties?”

Gathering her courage, Míriel forced herself to look at him steadily. “You have done nothing to me since my father received the Scepter,” she said, “but I can’t forget how you used to make me weep when we were children.”

Calion barked a laugh. “Ha! Surely you don’t hold those childish games and pranks against me? In Eru’s name, that was over a century ago!”

“Yet I still remember,” Míriel said in a firmer voice, “and they are not happy memories.”

“And I was severely punished for my wrongdoing every time.” He shook his head ruefully. “Honestly, Míriel, were not you too hard on me? You told your father or your nurse every time I provoked you, and my whipping boy was thrashed because I ‘laid a hand on the Princess’. All for a bit of harmless fun, as children would say.” He went back to his chair and sat down. “I confess I’m hurt that you should think so little of me. Do you expect me to harm you now?”

“No,” Míriel said, breathing deeply. He had to be right. He could not harm her now, as they were both grown up, and she was his Princess.

“Well, then,” Calion said, looking unconvinced, “to show it, sit down and have some wine with me.”

Slowly, Míriel sat down and poured wine for herself with a trembling hand, hoping she wouldn’t spill any. If Calion noticed her shaking, he did not comment on it. He merely leaned back in his chair, sipped his own wine, and said, “I have been meaning to offer you counsel for quite some time. Perhaps you’ll be more amenable to it than your father was to your uncle’s advice.”

Míriel took a gulp of her wine; perhaps it would help make her bold. “I won’t be, if you offer the same kind of advice.”

“I say, wait and hear it before you decide, dear cousin Zimraphel. May I call you ‘Zimraphel’? It’s a whim of mine; I like the way your name sounds in the tongue of the people.”

“No. You will call me ‘Míriel’ or address me more formally. And ‘the people’? What do you know about the people, Calion?” Míriel said, feeling braver.

“Pharazôn, cousin, Pharazôn. And I know more about the people than you do, dear Zimraphel. Most of them are not happy with your father’s and your rule.”

“I know there are too many King’s Men. I know we have little control—” began Míriel.

“You have even less control than you think,” said Calion. He gestured to a window. “There are fifteen million people on this island, and perhaps a sixth of those are Faithful—”

“Not counting those who emigrated in the days of Ar-Gimilzôr.”

“They hardly make a difference. There are twelve-and-a-half million King’s Men in all, and not just nobles. The King’s Men are drawn from all classes: tradesmen, peasants, servants, fishermen…in short, twelve-and-a-half million people who would happily see you and your father dead. Your situation is precarious, Zimraphel. You could have a revolution on your hands as soon as your father dies.”

“I know my situation well,” Míriel said sharply, smarting at the truth in Calion’s words. “I don’t wish to hear more. You want me and my father dead as much as the rest of the King’s Men do; do not pretend you don’t.”

“I want Númenor to be strong and prosperous,” said Calion slowly and calmly, as if trying to soothe an unruly child. “I want this Empire to move forward and become more glorious. I do not want you and your father dead. Again, you think very little of me if you believe so.”

“Are you not a King’s Man?” Míriel said. “Do you not want the throne for yourself?”

“No; I only want what’s best for Númenor. Which is why I am giving you my advice.”

“I said I don’t wish to hear your advice, Calion!” Míriel stood up, ready to storm out of the room.

Calion’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. “Peace, Zimraphel. I hardly think my words merit this behavior. And it’s Pharazôn. Pharazôn. Do try to remember, will you?”

“I will call you Pharazôn if you call me Míriel,” Míriel said. Her fear was gone; she was ready to face Calion with all her strength.

It took what seemed like a long time, but Calion laughed. “Very well, Míriel. I suppose it’s only fair that we call each other by the names we wish. Now, will you sit down again and listen to me?”

Míriel sat down, taking deep breaths. She had gained a victory, if a small one. She could bear to listen to Calion’s—Pharazôn’s—unwanted counsel. “Very well; I am listening. Say on.”

“First of all, you must repeal your father’s law outlawing slavery.”

For a moment, Míriel was so shocked she could not speak. “You must be jesting,” she finally said, her throat dry.

“I assure you that I’m not.” Pharazôn poured himself another cup of wine. “The nobles were quite unhappy about losing their property. And you remember what happened when your father suddenly freed the slaves seventy years ago: a plague of ignorant, uneducated people unaccustomed to looking after themselves. Barbarians and wild Men from the East. He could have at least sent them back to Middle-earth—”

“It would have been cruel!”

“—but if you reinstate slavery and allow them to be recaptured, you’ll have all the nobles on your side in no time.” Pharazôn shifted in his chair and placed his fingertips together. “And there is no need to worry about cruelty; the Men of Middle-earth are barely human anyway.”

“I will not do it.”

“Secondly,” went on Pharazôn, as if he hadn’t heard her, “you must finish the job Ar-Gimilzôr started: confiscating the property of the Faithful in Andustar.”

“No!” Míriel pushed her wine cup away. “Do you think I would impoverish my own allies?”

“You would be a fool to keep them for your allies. Did I not tell you they were a small minority here on the island? You must concern yourself with the majority alone. I thought you would have known at least that much about ruling a kingdom.” Pharazôn sipped his wine. “Thirdly, you must ban Elven ships from reaching the island.”

“Why bother?” Míriel said with a bitter laugh. “Elven ships never come here anymore.”

“Yet they might come again, especially given your and your father’s course of action. And it is just what the people don’t want. You may as well face the facts, Míriel: nobody cares for the Elves anymore. Times have changed; we’re moved on. It is Men we need concern ourselves with: ourselves and the Men of Middle-earth, to conquer and to pay us tribute, and yes, to provide us with slaves. There is no point in clinging to the past; the future is much brighter. There are more lands to take in Middle-earth and around the world. With your help, the Empire will grow ever greater and more powerful. Only heed my counsel.” Pharazôn sat back in his chair, and there was silence for a while. Míriel tried to collect her scattered thoughts. Finally, Pharazôn said, “Well? What do you say?”

“I will not heed your counsel,” Míriel said firmly. “I will not do what you ask.”

“No? Not even if the people never support you?”

“No.”

“Not even if there is rebellion?”

“No. It would be both cruel and blasphemous. I will not rule this kingdom in a way so hateful to the Valar.”

Pharazôn shrugged and stood up. “As you wish. I have done my best with you, and I wash my hands of you and your Regency. But I warn you: you will rue it.”

“I will not.” Míriel stood up too and tried to stare Pharazôn in the eye; she wished she did not have to look up to do so. “Leave me now.”

Pharazôn shrugged again. “Very well, cousin.” He left the room. Míriel was alone at last, but she had never felt less at peace. She dropped into her chair again and covered her eyes. Pharazôn’s counsel was monstrous, as she had expected. She would never follow it, not if she was to be assassinated tomorrow. Yet there was no denying that she and her father had little control over the island and that the Faithful were a minority. The riots in the city were bad enough; if she continued to rule as her father had, there would be strife and rebellion; Pharazôn was right about that. She felt as if a heavy weight had settled upon her shoulders. She understood why her father’s heart had broken, why he had given up ruling and left most of his duties to her. Perhaps towards the end of her reign, she would be the same: a broken husk of a woman, always looking out towards the western sea, ever yearning for Elven ships which would not come.

Never mind. Once her father died and she received the Scepter, she would not let herself be broken. She would survive whatever came to pass, and she would regain control of Númenor. The riots would be crushed, and Dâirhin would be arrested and executed for treason. She was not sure what would happen to Pharazôn, but she would find a way to take some of his power from him. All she had to do was be strong and rule compassionately yet firmly, and she would be able to do what her father could not: return the island to the ways of the Valar.

Chapter Text

Armenelos

Year 3248 of the Second Age

On Aldëa, the night of Lord Laurefindo’s party, his house was brilliantly lit up: torches blazed in sconces on the courtyard wall and by the front door, and lamp and candlelight shone from all the windows. It was a beautiful night: balmy with a cool breeze now and then, and the fragrance of the nessamelda tree, which had plenty of blossoms on it despite the drought, was especially strong. Isildur, clad in his best red silk tunic, crimson boots, fine leather belt, and gold-and-ruby brooch, followed the line of well-dressed people through the courtyard. He breathed in the scent of the flowering tree, feeling eager to see Silmariën again.

“Why are we going to this party again?” Eärien grumbled from beside him. She was dressed as elegantly as Isildur was, wearing her pale blue silk gown and the set of sapphires which had belonged to Naneth, but her loose dark hair was untidy.

“Out of courtesy,” Isildur said. “Laurëfindo invited us, after all.”

“Yes, but why must we accept? He invited us in thanks for your saving his daughter; we owe them nothing else,” said Eärien.

Isildur looked at her with curiosity and some exasperation. “Why are you so unwilling to go to the party?”

“Because I don’t like meeting strangers,” said Eärien. “Especially not simpletons, like Sil-what’s her name.”

“Silmariën. And why didn’t you stay home with Grandfather, then?”

“Because I would have been bored.”

Isildur said nothing else, though he shook his head over Eärien’s inconsistency. He did not know why her behavior was so wayward, but he hoped it was only temporary.

He and Eärien followed the other guests into the foyer and then into a great hall, where Silmariën and Laurefindo were waiting to welcome them. Silmariën wore a silk gown of midnight blue with a silver girdle. Her necklace, bracelets, and earrings were also of silver. Her curly golden hair was gathered into a silver lace net with tiny sapphires. She smiled at Isildur, a smile which lit up her face and made her blue eyes sparkle. “Lord Isildur! How glad I am you’ve come! And Lady Eärien too.”

Laurefindo, who was dressed in gray silk, bowed to them. “We are honored to have you here.” Isildur saw Silmariën drop a quick little curtsy, looking abashed. “Let me introduce you to the rest of our family,” Laurëfindo went on, leading Isildur and Eärien to a group of people standing nearby. “My younger daughter, Mírelótë,” he said, indicating a young woman in pink. Mírelótë looked like Silmariën, except that she was shorter and more buxom, and her hair was straighter and paler. “My brother and sister-in-law, Aration and Fánalótë, and their son, Nórimo,” he said, pointing to a gray-haired couple and a lad in green. There were bows, curtsies, and polite murmurings on both sides. Then Isildur and Eärien moved past Laurëfindo’s family to let them greet other guests. Isildur looked back over his shoulder to see Silmariën, who was curtsying to a pair of old women.

“What are you staring at?” asked Eärien.

Isildur’s eyes snapped back to her. “Nothing,” he answered.

The hall was lit up with lamps and candles, which made the jewels of the guests sparkle. The tall windows were open, and cool breezes drifted in, the smell of nessamelda mingling with the scents of ornamental flowers and perfumes. The walls were bedecked with garlands of flowers: boughs of white lairelossë, fragrant vardarianna, sweet yavannamírë, and yellow laurinquë, as well as roses, honeysuckle, marigolds, and dahlias. On a dais at one end of the hall, musicians played a soft, soothing tune on harp and lute, flute and fiddle and drum. The two long tables on each side of the hall were loaded with food. One table held meat: haunches of mutton, sides of beef, pork and pigeon pies, ducks and geese and peacocks. The other table bore fish: tuna, swordfish, squid, octopus, shrimp, lobsters, clams, mussels, and lampreys. Fruit was arranged among the meat and fish on both tables: peaches and plums, cherries and pomegranates, melons and yavannamírë fruits. Smaller tables near the walls held carafes of wine and rows of cups.

Eärien wandered to the other end of the room and poured herself a cup of wine. Isildur’s stomach growled, and he immediately headed for the fish table. Once he reached it, he filled a plate with clams and watched the guests while he ate. He saw no one he recognized. He went from table to table, selecting and nibbling food, until his appetite was satisfied, and still, Silmariën and her family were greeting guests. He couldn’t see Eärien anywhere. Bored and slightly lonely, he walked over to a wine table and drank two cups of Hyarrostar red.

“There you are!” a familiar voice said. Whirling around, Isildur saw Silmariën coming toward him. “I could not come to you sooner,” she said. “You looked as if you needed company. Where is Eärien?”

“I don’t know,” said Isildur, setting his cup aside. “I am glad you came over to me; I know no one else here.”

“Yes, it must be awkward,” Silmariën agreed, “especially without Eärien. I thought she and Mírelótë would be company for each other; Mírelótë is looking for her now. Why did your grandfather not come?”

“He was busy,” Isildur said. “His council business takes up all his time, especially with the riots.”

“The poor Princess,” said Silmariën with a sigh. “She has such a hard life, with the strife and division…and that monster Dâirhin giving speeches…”

“Who is Dâirhin?”

“The man who was speaking in the square when you rescued me the other day.”

“Oh,” said Isildur. “He does that often?”

Silmariën nodded. “Practically every day.”

“Every day?” Isildur repeated in disbelief. “Why does the Princess not have him arrested?”

“Apparently, she doesn’t dare. The people love him too much, and they would pull her and her father down from the throne if she did.” Silmariën looked at him curiously. “I thought Lord Amandil would have told you of such things. Does he not speak to you of politics?”

“I am not interested in politics,” said Isildur, feeling slightly ashamed. “We live such a quiet life in Andustar that I pay little attention to what goes on here in Armenelos.” Silmariën said nothing in response, and they stood sipping their wine in silence, until the musicians began to play “The Journey of Haleth,” a popular dance tune, and people started to line up in the center of the hall.

Silmariën stepped back and held a hand out to Isildur. “Will you dance with me?”

“Yes,” he said, taking her hand. She gripped his hand strongly and led him to the dance floor, where they went through four dances in a row. Though the music was too loud for them to have a conversation, Isildur was enjoying himself.

After the fourth dance, the hall felt uncomfortably hot, so Isildur and Silmariën went out onto the balcony. Only three or four guests were there, talking in hushed tones; their voices were not loud enough to drown out the music emanating from the hall. Silmariën and Isildur walked over to the railing and leaned over it, looking alternately down at the courtyard and quiet street and up at the sky, where Varda’s stars were sparkling.

“I have been neglecting our other guests,” Silmariën remarked, pulling a sprig of laurinquë from the garland on the railing. She began to pluck at the petals absentmindedly. “I’ve been very rude; Mírelótë will never let me hear the end of it.”

“I thank you all the same,” said Isildur, folding his arms and resting them on the railing. “You stood by me so that I wouldn’t be alone, and I am grateful for it.”

“I don’t see how Eärien could abandon you,” Silmariën said. “Mírelótë would never leave me alone at a feast or party.”

“She did not abandon me,” Isildur said. “Eärien has always been so; she goes her own way. Perhaps it is because she’s the only girl in the family.”

“You have brothers, then?” Silmariën asked.

“One brother: Anárion,” Isildur answered.

“Isildur, Eärien, and Anárion: moon, sea, and sun,” remarked Silmariën.

“And stars. My father’s name is Elendil, though perhaps it means ‘Elf-friend’ rather than ‘star-friend’. Grandfather and Grandmother have never said,” said Isildur.

“It would have been brave of your grandparents to name your father ‘Elf-friend’ in times like these,” remarked Silmariën. “Not even my grandfather gave his children such a name.”

“My grandfather is brave, but he is very cautious,” Isildur said. “He has to be, as he’s on the Council of the Scepter.”

“I’m not cautious,” said Silmariën, tossing the remains of her flowers over the railing. “I never have been. I was always the despair of my parents; even as a little girl, I kept getting myself into dangerous situations. By the time I was fifteen years old, I had broken an arm, a leg, a finger, and a toe, to say nothing of all the bruises and bumps I collected.”

“You enjoy sport, then?”

“I used to ride and swim and climb trees back on Grandfather’s estate,” said Silmariën, “but when he lost his property and we had to move here, of course I stopped. When Tar-Palantir came to the throne, we got our gold and silver back, but not our land. I have not ridden a horse in nearly twenty years; I’m sure I would be thrown if I tried it now.”

Isildur shifted from one foot to the other, slightly embarrassed to hear Silmariën talk so frankly about her family’s financial troubles. He almost offered her the use of a horse on one of his grandfather’s estates, but he feared that would be too forward, so he said instead, “You would get along well with Anárion and Eärien; they both love hunting and hawking.”

“What about you?”

“I? I prefer to read,” Isildur said carelessly. “I always enjoyed studying Elven-tongues and lore; I still do. If I could, I would give my family’s estates to Anárion and spend all my time writing books.”

“You’re the eldest son, are you not?” asked Silmariën. “You will eventually inherit your family’s property?”

“Yes, and I almost wish that were not the case. Once I do inherit, I’ll not have as much time to devote to my books.”

“Strange to hear a lord’s heir say so,” observed Silmariën.

“Well, perhaps my opinion will change once the time comes,” said Isildur with a shrug. “And if Ilúvatar wills, it won’t come soon. My father and grandfather are both in perfect health.” For a while, he and Silmariën stood in silence. A nightingale sang in the branches of the nessamelda, its song mingling with the music drifting out through the open door. Finally, Isildur asked, “And you? As the eldest child of your family, will you inherit your father’s property?”

“Yes,” said Silmariën. “Though I’ll not get much: just five thousand gold Mirian and this house. But am I speaking too freely about money? If I offend you, I’ll stop. Mírelótë says I am too frank.”

Isildur thought for a moment. Though he was a little uncomfortable, he was enjoying the conversation too much to be offended. He said, “You don’t offend me.”

“I am glad of that. I don’t forget my manners as much as I did when I was a child, of course, but when I try to make friends with people, I am not as discreet as I should be. Mírelótë tells me I haven’t a discreet bone in my body; she always teases me about it.”

“You’ve mentioned Mírelótë a good deal,” Isildur noted. “Are you very attached to her?”

“Yes, we are close. Ever since our mother died of peleth lhîw, she’s looked up to me, and I try to stand in the place of a mother to her.”

“Interesting: our mother died of peleth lhîw as well,” said Isildur. “Is that not an odd coincidence?”

“Yes,” said Silmariën, “but then again, many people are getting peleth lhîw these days. It is one of Ilúvatar’s punishments for our transgressions. I’m sure of it.”

“Do you think things will return to the way they were two thousand years ago?” asked Isildur. “Now that we have a Faithful king and will probably have a Faithful queen soon?”

“I must think they will, or I will go mad,” Silmariën said emphatically. “And I don’t see why they won’t. The Valar and Ilúvatar are merciful, after all.”

“But there are so many King’s Men,” Isildur said. “It would take a miracle to turn them all back to the Valar and the Eldar.”

“I know, but I have to believe it will be done. I have to. Who knows what will happen if not?”

Isildur had no answer to this. The night no longer seemed so beautiful; the breeze seemed cold and the torches dimmer. He shivered. “Let us rejoin the party,” he said, holding out a hand to Silmariën. Perhaps being in a lively crowd again would banish his ominous thoughts.

The next day, Isildur was sitting in his chamber, writing a letter to Anárion. He had already written his account of the riot and the meeting with Silmariën and was just describing Laurefindo’s party when the nib of his quill pen broke. He fumbled around on the table and the floor for his penknife but couldn’t find it. He decided to borrow one of Eärien’s.

Eärien was out of the house at the time, so her chamber was deserted. No penknife was visible on her writing table. Isildur opened a drawer and found one. But also in the drawer was a book entitled The Age of Men. A cold sensation trickled down his spine. The Age of Men was an infamous anti-Valar tract.

Isildur took the book back to his chamber, holding it gingerly as if he feared it would contaminate him. He dropped it onto his writing table, his letter to Anárion forgotten. All afternoon, he read the newest translation of The Lay of Beren and Lúthien, trying not to think of what he had found. The implications were too horrible to contemplate. Yet he knew he had to confront Eärien about it.

As soon as Eärien came home and went up to her chamber, he gathered his courage and knocked on her closed door. He heard her call, “Who is it?”

“Isildur,” he said. “May I come in?” At her assent, he opened the door. Eärien was sitting on her bed. Isildur held up the book, tried to look stern, and said, “What’s this?”

“Give me that!” Eärien said, getting up and snatching the book from him. “Why were you rummaging through my things?” She shoved the book under her pillow.

“I was not rummaging; I came in to borrow a penknife,” Isildur said. “Anyway, that’s not the point. Why have you a copy of The Age of Men?”

“I bought it when I was in Armenelos three months ago,” Eärien said. “There have been at least a hundred copies made.”

“I asked why you have it, not how you have it,” Isildur said, irked by her evasion of the question. “Why did you buy such a thing? Do you know what it’s about?”

“Of course, I do; I’ve read it. Do you think me a fool?” Eärien said impatiently.

The chill ran down Isildur’s spine again. For a while, he could only shake his head in denial and say, “No…no…”

“No what?” Eärien said.

“You can’t be,” Isildur whispered, shivering. “You can’t be a King’s Man.”

“Well, I am.” Eärien stared at him half-guiltily and half-defiantly. “What of that? It is the only sensible course to take.”

“No, it’s not. The Elves…the Valar…”

“The Valar and the Elves never cared for us. They abandoned us long ago.” Eärien sat back down on her bed and began picking at the blankets. “Why should we listen to them?”

“How can you say that?” Isildur pleaded. “How can you be on their side? With Adar…and Grandfather…”

“Adar and Grandfather are wrong.” Eärien was glaring at him now. “If it were not for the Ban of the Valar, Naneth and Meleth would still be alive. Why should we care for the Valar when they killed our mother?”

“Peleth lhîw killed Naneth!” Isildur said, hardly believing what he was hearing.

“And if the Valar had let her sail to Valinor, she might have been healed!” There were tears in Eärien’s eyes. “Don’t you see? Why would the Valar keep us from sailing west if they didn’t want us dead? How can you and Adar and Grandfather still trust them?”

“How can you trust the King’s Men?” Isildur said, wringing his hands. “What they say—what that book says—is blasphemy! It flies in the face of Eru himself!”

“It does not! How do you know Eru doesn’t wish us to live forever? How do you know the Valar do his will?”

“Because death came from him in the first place! Death is called ‘the gift of Ilúvatar’!” Isildur was shouting now. He quickly lowered his voice. “Ilúvatar meant for Men to die. That is why the Valar made the Ban. And you know that we wouldn’t live forever if we sailed west; we would still die in Valinor.”

“How do you know that?” demanded Eärien. “How do you know that’s not a lie spread around by the Valar just to keep us away from Valinor?”

“Why would the Valar lie to us?”

“To keep Men from coming to power! To keep us from supplanting them!”

“Supplanting them?” Isildur said in disbelief. “Do you really think mere Men could fight against the Valar and win?”

“Why not?” Eärien said recklessly. “We are the greatest, highest race of Men. We’ve sailed everywhere, even to the islands of Ekkaia and to Hyarnelcë. We are mightier than even the greatest Elven kingdoms. Why shouldn’t we go to Valinor? Why can’t we live forever?”

“Because we are Men! We’re meant to die!” Isildur yelled. He stepped forward and gripped Eärien’s shoulders. “Listen to me. You must not read that book again. You must burn it.”

“Don’t give me orders. You aren’t Adar,” said Eärien, shaking him off.

“Adar would tell you the same thing,” Isildur said. “He would be horrified if he knew.”

“Don’t you dare tell Adar!” cried Eärien fiercely. “Don’t you do it!”

“No, I won’t tell Adar. But you will burn that book, or I’ll burn it myself.”

Eärien took the book from under her pillow and thrust it at him. “Take it,” she said in a voice choked with tears. “But you can’t stop me from buying a new copy.” As Isildur took the book, she put her hands over her face and began to sob. Isildur stood still for a moment, not knowing what to say. Finally, he backed slowly out of the room, shutting the door softly.

Once he was back in his room, Isildur kindled a fire on the hearth and laid The Age of Men down on it. As the flames consumed the book, he pondered everything Eärien had told him. Despite what he had said to her, he was planning to tell his father as soon as they went home. He dreaded the effect such a communication would have on Adar, but it was better for Eärien’s new interest to be nipped in the bud as soon as possible.

Chapter Text

Armenelos

Year 3248 of the Second Age

Isildur stood in the courtyard of Laurefindo’s and Silmariën’s house, saying goodbye to Silmariën. He had already made his farewells to Laurefindo and Mírelótë inside, and Silmariën had followed him outside. He and Eärien would leave Armenelos the next day, after a two-week stay.

“Will you write to me?” asked Silmariën.

“Of course,” said Isildur, “and I shall come to visit you when I’m next in Armenelos. And your father and sister, of course,” he added.

“I have had such pleasure in your company over the past fortnight,” Silmariën said. She took his hand and squeezed it. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

Isildur felt a thrill of pleasure at the touch of her hand, and he squeezed her hand back. “I will miss you.”

“And I you,” Silmariën said. “I am sorry Eärien is too ill to come and bid us farewell.”

“She should be well by tomorrow,” Isildur said, shifting uncomfortably. “She only has a headache.” There was silence for a little while, while he and Silmariën looked at each other. Isildur tried to fix her face in his mind: her pink cheeks, high cheekbones, and blue eyes, framed by her mane of yellow curls. His sensible side told him there was no need to memorize her face, as he would probably see her in a month or two, but he did anyway.

Silmariën dropped his hand. “I must go back in now; Father and Mírelótë will wonder what’s taking so long.” She started walking towards the front door but stopped and turned back around. “I look forward to receiving your letters and to seeing you again.”

“I do too,” said Isildur.

“Farewell,” she said.

“Farewell.” He reluctantly turned around and slowly walked away, but when he reached the gate, he turned back to look at her. She stood upon the doorstep, waving to him. He waved back, and they stood waving at each other until she finally went inside. For a time, Isildur stood looking at the house, as if waiting for her to appear again. Then he made his way from the courtyard to the street.

As soon as Isildur was home, he requested a private meeting with his father. He followed Adar into his study, which was, as usual, cluttered with books, parchments, and pens. Adar cleared some books and scrolls off his chair and sat down. Isildur took the other chair, twisting his hands nervously.

“Now, what did you wish to speak to me about?” Adar asked.

For a while, Isildur was silent, wondering where to begin. He looked down at his hands, then at the books lining the shelves on the walls.

“What is it?” urged Adar. “Did you have trouble in Armenelos? Perhaps with the riot you wrote to me about?”

“No,” Isildur answered, swallowing. “Not that sort of trouble. It’s only—” His voice trailed off. The silence began to seem oppressive. Finally, he cleared his throat and said lamely, “I found out why Eärien goes to Armenelos so often.”

“Indeed?” Adar said mildly. “Why?”

“To hear a well-known King’s Man speak,” said Isildur, and he told his father what he had discovered in Armenelos. During his recital, Adar’s face grew more and more somber, but he did not let out one exclamation of horror or disbelief. When Isildur got to Eärien’s arguing that the Númenoreans could defeat the Valar in a fight, Adar leaned both his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands.

“I burned the book, but I fear she will just buy another copy if she goes back to Armenelos,” Isildur finished. “I told her I wouldn’t tell you, but this was too grave a matter for me to hold my tongue.”

“Poison: the King’s Men spread poison wherever they go, whatever they do,” muttered Adar behind his hands. “I never dreamed Eärien would listen to it.”

“Nor did I,” Isildur said.

“Had I paid more mind to her, I could have prevented this,” Adar said, standing up. He began to pace back and forth.

“No, no,” protested Isildur, getting to his feet hurriedly and laying a hand on his father’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault. We all paid too little mind to what Eärien was doing. We should not have assumed she was Faithful.”

“I suppose not,” Adar sighed, “but it was only natural, considering that she spent most of her time with us.”

“What do you intend to do now?” Isildur asked.

“Do? Forbid her to go to Armenelos,” said Adar. “There is little else I can do.”

“She might not listen.”

“I know, but I must at least try. Who knows what may happen to her if she’s allowed to continue in this course?”

“Will you tell Grandmother about this?”

“Yes. The whole family should know. I shall write to your grandfather as well.”

Isildur was not sure he agreed with this decision, but he only said, “Very well. Eru knows what the consequences will be.”

“Indeed.” Adar sat down again. “You may go, Isildur: I must send a letter to your grandfather without delay. I shall speak to Eärien about this in a day or two.”

Adar brought up the subject to Eärien the next evening at supper. As usual, the family sat at the table in the small hall. As soon as the first course, octopus salad, was served, Adar said mildly, “Eärien, I understand you’ve been listening to…Dâirhin is the name, is it not? I understand you’ve picked up some new opinions in Armenelos.”

Eärien glared at Isildur. “You told Adar, did you not? I told you not to. You promised.”

“I didn’t promise,” Isildur said truthfully. “And I had to tell him.”

Eärien turned back to Adar. “What if I like listening to an inspiring speaker? There is no law against it, is there?”

“Mind your manners, Eärien,” said Grandmother severely. “Do not speak to your father that way.”

Eärien bit her lip as if trying to keep back angry words, but she only said, “I’m sorry, Adar.”

“Dâirhin is not inspiring; he is dangerous and blasphemous,” Adar said. “You are not to go to Armenelos anymore. I forbid it.”

“I shall go to Armenelos when I please,” Eärien retorted. “I am of age, after all; you can’t command me.”

“I can command you when you do things that will harm you,” said Adar.

“Harm me?” repeated Eärien.

“Yes, harm you. You think ideas are not dangerous? You think Ilúvatar and the Valar will not punish you for rebelling against them?”

“They’ve not punished the other King’s Men.”

“We are dying earlier than we used to: some of us only live two hundred years. Many of us die in madness or dotage. We suffer from droughts and floods and snowstorms, when we never used to thousands of years ago. What are all these misfortunes if not punishment?” said Adar.

“Mere coincidence and happenstance,” Eärien said with a snort. “Misfortunes prove nothing.”

“They prove everything. Doom will come to this island if the people continue with this madness, and you will be caught up in this doom if you follow the King’s Men.”

“I won’t.” Eärien crossed her arms and scowled at him. “Nothing will happen to us. The Valar will not dare lay a finger on us; they are too afraid of our power. We could—”

“Stop!” Grandmother commanded. Her eyes were blazing with anger. “I will not hear you speak such words. It is blasphemy: sheer blasphemy!”

“Blasphemy, blasphemy!” cried Eärien. “You people always cry ‘blasphemy’ when I air my opinions. If you’ve nothing else to say to me, then keep quiet!”

“Peace, Eärien,” Adar said calmly. “You speak hastily; you do not mean what you say.”

“I do; I mean every word. We owe nothing to the Valar, especially as they killed Naneth. We could conquer them if we tried. And I will go to Armenelos, and I will listen to Dâirhin, and I will read The Age of Men. Just try to stop me,” said Eärien, sitting up straight and tossing her head.

“Your mind has been poisoned,” Grandmother said, sitting up straight in turn and frowning majestically at Eärien. “There is no place in this family for such vile stuff. If you persist in this wild delusion of yours, you will pack up and leave this house.”

“Gladly,” Eärien said, standing up and flinging her napkin onto the table. “I shall go directly.”

Adar shook his head in warning. “Reconsider, Eärien. Your grandfather may not wish to take you in, and you cannot live alone.”

“I’d rather live alone than with you and Grandfather. I’d rather work for my bread than spend another minute in this house.” Eärien stormed out of the small hall. “Nimloth!” she cried from the corridor. “Pack my trunks!”

There was silence in the small hall. No one was eating; Isildur had completely lost his appetite. Anárion spoke first: “How could you, Grandmother?”

“How could I?” repeated Grandmother. “You ask me that, after hearing what she said?”

“And how could you let her, Adar?” Anárion went on. “Perhaps what Eärien said was wrong, but you didn’t have to turn her out of the house!”

“She will see sense in a little while and return.” Adar forked up a piece of octopus and put it in his mouth.

“But what if she doesn’t?” Anárion pleaded. “She will go to Armenelos, and she’ll be all alone there, and poor, and helpless…”

“I will send her money every month,” Adar said. “You may write to her if you wish, and I shall visit her every so often and try to persuade her to come home. This is only temporary, Anárion. I have faith that she’ll see the error of her ways, sooner or later.”

Anárion looked skeptical, but he merely nodded and looked down at his plate. He had always been less headstrong than Eärien.

Like Anárion, Isildur had his doubts that her enthusiasm for Dâirhin and King’s Men doctrine would cool as soon as his father said it would. He wondered how she would fare in Armenelos, alone and friendless. Feeling vaguely nauseated, he vowed to write to her as soon as he could.

A month later, Eärien was on her way to Andúnië Square to hear Dâirhin speak. The weather was cooler than it had been lately, so she had decided to walk. The square was only three blocks away from the inn where she was staying: the Mûmak, a dingy little hostel in the Street of Bakers, in the Lower City. At times, she thought she should have found living quarters in the Higher City, but it made her feel extra rebellious to stay in one of the poorer parts of Armenelos. Not that she couldn’t afford to stay in a more upscale neighborhood, thanks to the gold sent by her father. It made her burn with shame to have to take money from her family, but what other choice did she have? She had no private property, and she could not work at a trade.

She was late; when she reached Andúnië Square, Dâirhin was in the middle of a speech. The crowd around her was so thick that she couldn’t see him at all. But she could hear him: his voice carried over the hushed mass of people.

“Our triumphs will not be suppressed by these Elf-loving traitors!” Dâirhin proclaimed. “Our fathers and grandfathers built this great empire, and we will make it even greater! There are lands to conquer…riches to acquire…victories to win…not only in the east, but in the west!”

The crowd cheered; Eärien applauded with them.

“We have an illustrious future ahead of us,” Dâirhin went on, “a chance to become the most powerful empire in history. No one shall stand in our way: not the Elves, not the Valar, not the traitors who would have us cling to the past. I say, let the past die! Let us look to the future alone! Let us focus on the glory awaiting us in the lands of Middle-earth…and the Blessed Realm! What do you say?”

Cries of “Yes!” rose up from the multitude, mixed with “Glory to the empire!” and “Make Númenor great!” Eärien shouted yes along with the others. As always, she wondered deep in the back of her mind if she were going too far, if she were really blaspheming against Eru, as her father, grandmother, and brother said. But this faint voice was silenced by the memory of her mother’s and nurse’s deaths, as well as the conviction that the Valar cared nothing for Númenor. “If they cared for us, they would let us come to Valinor and live forever,” she reasoned. So, she shouted along with the crowd, her heart swelling with pride at the thought of Númenor’s future riches and glory.

“There are men on our side,” said Dâirhin, “men who will fight for us, despite all that the weak King and his treacherous daughter do to hinder them. And these men will lead us—"

Someone tapped Eärien on the shoulder. She whirled around and saw a young woman about her age, shorter than her, with flaming red hair and a freckled face. The woman was wearing a sage-green gown trimmed with gold, as well as a pair of gold earrings too large for her. Annoyed, Eärien was about to speak, but the stranger spoke first: “You must excuse me, but I believe I know you.”

“I don’t know you,” Eärien said shortly. “You must have me mistaken for someone else.” She turned away, but the stranger tapped her on the shoulder again. Throwing up her hands in exasperation, she turned back to the redheaded woman, intending to snap at her.

“I do know you!” the woman exclaimed, before Eärien could say a word. “I saw you over a month ago, when that foolish daughter of Númenion interrupted Dâirhin. You were wearing the same gray gown you wear now.”

“Was I?” Eärien said vaguely, looking down at her dress and spreading the skirt.

“Indeed, you were. I never forget a garment.” The crowd roared, and the stranger shouted above the din, “Let’s go somewhere quieter where we can talk!”

“No! I wish to listen to the rest of the speech, and I don’t know you!” Eärien yelled.

“It’s nearly over, anyway!” the woman shouted. “Besides, I wish to speak to you!” She held out her arm. Disgruntled, Eärien took it and let the stranger guide her through the mass of people, wondering at this woman’s tenacity. Her wonderment lasted a while, for the stranger did not speak until she and Eärien had turned a corner and walked halfway down the street.

“There; that’s better,” the woman said. “I am Zôrinzil daughter of Nîluthôr.” She curtsied.

“Eärien daughter of Elendil,” Eärien said warily, curtsying in her turn.

Zôrinzil made a face. "Quenya," she spat. "You still use that tongue? Are you a traitor?"

"No. My family are Faithful--I mean, traitors, and I'm used to that name. My Adûnaic name is Azrêth."

"That's better," said Zôrinzil again. She sighed. "I thought you were not a traitor, since you were in the crowd with me, but when you said your Quenya name, I wasn't sure."

“Never mind that. What did you want to talk to me about?” Eärien said impatiently.

“I wanted to meet you, out of curiosity,” Zôrinzil said. “I thought I knew every young King’s Man in Armenelos—we have a society that meets every Eärenya—but I have only seen you twice.”

“I am not from Armenelos; I’m from Andustar,” said Eärien.

“Indeed?” said Zôrinzil, looking intrigued. “There are not many western King’s Men; I always thought the west was traitor country. No offense.”

“I am not offended,” Eärien said. “And I came to live in Armenelos; I won’t be going back to Andustar.”

“Why?” asked Zôrinzil.

“My family disowned me.”

“Why, that’s cruel!” exclaimed Zôrinzil. “But perhaps it is all for the best. Now, you can find true friends who share your enthusiasm for our cause.”

“Cause?”

“Yes; our society fights back against the King and Princess and their Elf-loving laws. We support the men who conquer the lands of Middle-earth and work to get the King to allow slavery again. There are many of us, and the Men of Eärenya—that’s the name of our society—grows every day. Since you have come to Armenelos and are a King’s Man, would you like to join us?”

Eärien considered for a minute or two. Did she want to join a society of King’s Men? She was lonely, there was no denying that. And the idea of working to further the King’s Men’s cause sounded appealing. “Yes,” she said. “I would like that.”

“Splendid!” said Zôrinzil, clapping her hands. “We’ll be pleased to have you. This Eärenya, we will be meeting at the Golden Hart in Lindon Street. Do you know where it is?”

“No,” said Eärien. “Is it in the Higher City?”

“Yes. Where are you staying now?” asked Zôrinzil.

“At the Mûmak, in the Street of Bakers.”

“What! In the Lower City?”

“Yes.”

“You must be mad; I wonder how you can bear it.” Zôrinzil shook her head. “We’ll have to change that. Why don’t you come stay at my house?”

“Oh, no. I don’t want to be any trouble—” began Eärien, but Zôrinzil interrupted her.

“It is no trouble at all. My family is only my parents. And my brother, but he’s away fighting in the east now. And I bring home friends to stay with me all the time. What do you say?”

“I say you are too forward,” Eärien said, frowning. “After all, we’ve only just met.”

“We have, but I feel as if I know you well already,” said Zôrinzil. “Besides, we are all quite familiar in the Men of Eärenya.”

Eärien thought for a while. She was growing tired of the Mûmak, as well as her poor surroundings. “Yes, I will stay with you,” she finally said.

Zôrinzil smiled widely, displaying dazzling white teeth. “Excellent,” she said. “I know we’re going to become close friends, and I’m so glad you will be another member of our society. Welcome to the Men of Eärenya.”

Chapter Text

Andúnië

Year 3255 of the Second Age

Míriel sat at her father’s bedside, chafing one of his cold hands. He seemed to be asleep; his chest rose and fell, and his long white beard fluttered with his slow, steady breath. The skin on his face and hands was as thin and delicate-looking as old parchment, heavily wrinkled, and pale as the moon. Detachedly, Míriel wondered when his death would come. It could not be long now.

Over the past two years, Tar-Palantir’s health had steadily declined. Two years ago, he would always go to the tower of Tar-Minastir on the hill of Oromet. There, he would gaze west, hoping to see an Elven ship sailing to Númenor from Valinor; the fact that no ships had come from the Undying Lands for years did not deter him. Now, he was too weak to leave his bed. Míriel remembered when he had learned of his weakness; after trying and failing to get out of bed, he had broken down and wept like a child. After that, he no longer spoke of Valinor or Elven ships, but Míriel guessed that he was constantly thinking of them. He would lie on his back, staring at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused as if he were having visions. Much of the time, he seemed unaware that she was in the room with him. She always sat patiently at his bedside, hardly speaking, letting him dream. If his fancies offered him some relief from his mental torment, she would not begrudge them to him.

There was a hitch in Tar-Palantir’s breath. Míriel instantly came alert and looked at him. His bleary gray eyes had opened, and his gaze was fixed on the ceiling. She wondered what visions he was seeing. She saw his lips move and bent over him to listen. In a voice so faint and weak she could barely hear it, he whispered, “All is lost. All has come to ruin.”

“Hush,” Míriel said soothingly, patting his hand. “All is well. My councilors and I remain faithful to the Valar.”

“The Elven ships will come no more,” her father croaked.

“They will come,” Míriel said, stroking the wisps of white hair on his bald head. “Someday, they will come again.”

“You…” Her father’s voice trailed off, and his eyes shut. Míriel wondered if he had fallen asleep again, but he spoke. “You…will tend the White Tree?”

“Always,” Míriel said.

“And…Meneltarma…for Eru?”

“I will; I already do. I shall always observe the sacred holidays atop the Meneltarma.” Míriel smoothed the woolen blanket he was gripping. “You need not worry, Adar; I swear to you, I will turn Númenor back to the ways of Ilúvatar and the Valar.”

“There’s my brave girl.” Slowly, her father’s head turned toward her, and his chapped lips twitched; Míriel thought he was trying to smile. “So strong…like your grandmother…”

Míriel went cold; her palms grew sweaty. Her father was comparing her to Queen Inzilbêth. She was nowhere near as strong and brave as Inzilbêth; she was just an ordinary woman trying her best to rule an empire. But she did not contradict her father. She only said, “Yes, Adar. Now, you must rest.”

“No…if I rest...never wake up.” A wrinkled hand with no more strength than a child’s reached towards her, trembling. “Kiss me, Míriel.”

Míriel pressed her lips to his cold, sweaty forehead. He exhaled with a whistling sound.

“Let me look upon you,” he said in a voice even fainter and weaker than before.

She sat back in her chair, clasping his hand, her heart thumping, waiting for…what? She could not tell. She knew he must die soon, and yet she half-expected a miracle to occur, that he would sit up in his bed and demand to be taken to the tower of Tar-Minastir.

Nothing of the kind happened. He lay with his eyes fixed on her face, his breathing growing fainter and fainter, until she couldn’t hear it anymore. His hand grew limp in hers, and a foul odor suddenly filled the room. She felt for a pulse in his wrist, but there was nothing. He was dead.

Míriel sat silently, waiting for the tears to come, but they did not. Tar-Palantir had ruled for almost eighty years and had suffered deeply for most of that time. His spirit had been broken by the strife between the King’s Men and the Faithful and by the people’s lack of reverence for Eru and the Valar. His death was a release from his grief and pain; what was there to weep for in that?

“Farewell, Adar,” said Míriel softly. “May you find healing and peace wherever you go.” She leaned over and kissed his forehead again. She had not let go of his hand. She wanted to sit by his bed and think and remember, without regard for time or duties. But she only sat for about three minutes before ringing the bell on the little table next to the bed.

“Fetch Lady Nárrië,” she said to the old serving-woman who appeared at the door. “His Majesty has just died.”

“Oh!” cried the servant, clasping her hands under her chin. “May Eru welcome him beyond the circles of the world…your Majesty.” She knelt before Míriel, her head down.

“You may stand,” Míriel said. “Go and find Lady Nárrië and bring her here.” The woman assented and scurried out of the room. Some minutes passed before Lady Nárrië appeared in the doorway.

“He is dead?” Nárrië asked.

“He’s gone,” Míriel said. Her voice sounded weary to her own ears; she made an effort to speak more firmly. “We must have embalmers and coffin makers from the city; I will write the proper letters. I must send a letter to the Council of the Scepter and ask them to begin the mourning rites. We’ll need mourning coaches too, and a wagon, and the extra guards for our journey back to Armenelos. And seamstresses to make us mourning clothes. And—”

“Hush,” Nárrië said, walking over to Míriel and putting a hand on Míriel’s shoulder. “There will be time enough to think of all that tomorrow. It is alright to mourn and not think of duty for a while.”

“You’re right,” Míriel said, slumping over in her chair and putting an arm around Nárrië’s waist. “Tonight, I will sit and remember him.”

Two and a half months later, the heavy black mourning coach, drawn by four black horses, made its way slowly down the road towards Armenelos, followed by the other coaches and the wagon carrying Tar-Palantir’s coffin. The Royal Guard rode along with them. It was cold and rainy; heavy gray clouds hung low in the sky, and a slow, steady drizzle fell. The trees were leafless, for it was the end of Hísimë. A fitting time for a funeral, Míriel thought.

The road was deep mud: the horses strained to pull the carriage through it. The vehicle moved in jerks and starts, jostling Míriel and her ladies within. She barely felt it, though; her mind was completely taken up with the upcoming mourning rites and her own plans. Númenor would mourn for five months: the King’s House would be draped in black, and the courtiers would dress in black as well. Míriel herself would wear mourning for a year. She would not be formally crowned until the five months were over. Once she was, though, she would start stamping out anti-Vala sentiment all over the island. It would be none too soon, she guessed, as Dâirhin was probably giving speeches and inciting riots. It was strange that none of the letters she had received from Armenelos had mentioned what was going on in the city.

Suddenly, the carriage jerked to a halt. Míriel was about to ask the coachman what had happened, when she heard a familiar voice: “Forgive me for stopping you. We have come to escort her Majesty back to Armenelos.”

“Cousin Calion—I mean, Pharazôn?” Míriel said in amazement, putting her head out of the window. It was indeed Pharazôn, riding at the head of a column of mounted, armored men. He was dressed in his gilded armor under a red cloak and carried his helmet on the pommel of his saddle.

“Cousin Míriel!” he said, riding towards the carriage. “I am sorry to see you on such a tragic occasion. My condolences.”

“My thanks,” said Míriel, thoroughly puzzled. “What are you doing here?”

“Rather a rude question to ask, especially of a kinsman,” said Pharazôn. “I have come to escort you and your ladies back to Armenelos.”

Míriel was nonplussed. “You are very kind, but there was no need. My ladies and I have the Royal Guard with us; they would have served us well.”

Pharazôn shook his head. “It was necessary for my men and me to come and escort you.”

“Why?”

“To take you into custody, for your protection,” said Pharazôn.

“Take us into custody?” Míriel repeated, unsure whether she’d heard right. A chill trickled down her spine.

“Yes,” said Pharazôn. He dismounted and slogged through the mud over to the window. “Come out of the coach. I would speak to you away from your ladies.”

“I don’t wish to leave,” Míriel said, her stomach fluttering with fear. “You may come into the carriage if you have anything to say.”

Pharazôn shook his head again. “I must talk to you alone. Come out. Your Majesty,” he added as an afterthought.

She wanted to refuse him. She was almost Queen now; he had to obey her. Yet her curiosity and fear proved too strong for her to disobey. She gathered her fur-lined cloak around her and stepped out of the coach. The cold rain fell onto her head; she pulled her hood up. Her feet sank into the mud; luckily, she was wearing boots. Pharazôn took her arm and led her toward his men. Her mind protested; she wanted to call for a guard or two to follow her. He would not harm her, she told herself desperately. He could not.

“I shall be blunt with you,” Pharazôn said, letting go of her arm and folding his own arms. “We cannot allow you to ascend the throne.”

The idea of Pharazôn not allowing her something was so ludicrous that Míriel couldn’t believe she was hearing it. “Of course, I will ascend the throne. And you can’t allow me? Who are you to forbid me anything? Am I not my father’s heir?”

“You are no longer. The nobles and I feel that you must step aside. It would be wise, Míriel.”

“What?” was all that Míriel could say. She was frozen with disbelief and horror.

“You are in no fit state to rule. I don’t know whether it has always been so or if the misfortune has come about because of your Regency, but clearly your mind cannot stand the strain.”

Nothing was real; nothing made sense. This had to be a nightmare. “I am not fit to—”

“To rule, no,” Pharazôn said smoothly. “It is most unfortunate, but we must face the truth.”

“Are you saying I’m mad? Just because I don’t agree with you on how to rule this island?” she demanded.

“You are not mad yet, but you may become so if we allow you to take the throne. And you do more than disagree with me; you refuse to see sense. Your being on the throne would put Númenor in great danger.”

“I am not mad!” Míriel said. “How dare you call me so?”

“Peace, peace,” Pharazôn said, in a voice that might have been soothing had Míriel not known it to be false. “You are vexed, and no wonder: your father has just died. We shall hold the full mourning rites after we return to the city; rest assured I won’t take the Scepter until the mourning period is over.”

“You will not take the Scepter at all!” Míriel said. “I still have friends, and they will help me. Your plotting will come to nothing!”

“Who are these friends?” asked Pharazôn. “Lord Amandil? He is only one of sixty.”

“There must be more. There have to be more,” Míriel said desperately, more to herself than to Pharazôn.

“No more than twenty-two,” said Pharazôn. He took a long roll of parchment out from under his cloak. “You’ll find thirty-eight signatures on this Order of Abdication.”

“And how many nobles did you have to bribe and threaten before they would join your side?” Míriel cried.

“None,” Pharazôn said.

“You lie.”

“I do not. The nobles disliked your father’s bowing down to the Valar, and they won’t stand for the same conduct from you. It took little effort to persuade them to follow me.” He unrolled the parchment scroll. “You may see for yourself.”

Míriel scanned the parchment, her heart sinking lower and lower. It was true: thirty-eight names were written there, some of them of people she had thought were her friends. She swayed and felt as if she might faint.

“You see? It’s all for the best,” Pharazôn said. He rolled up the scroll and offered her his arm. “Come. Let us go back to Armenelos and prepare for your father’s funeral.” Míriel stood still. “Well?” Pharazôn said impatiently.

She took his arm numbly and followed him back to the carriage. She let him help her into it without a word, still tingling all over with shock.

“What was that about?” Nárrië asked, as soon as Pharazôn had left them and the coach started moving again.

Míriel squeezed Nárrië’s hand. She took a deep breath and said to her ladies, “I have dreadful news. My cousin Pharazôn has taken us all prisoner.”

Hardly any people were on the streets of Armenelos as the royal party traveled through the city. The Western Courtyard was nearly deserted when they finally halted outside the King’s House; except for the Council of the Scepter, the people present were strangers. Was it due to the weather or to her father’s death? Or had Pharazôn driven away her supporters? As Míriel stepped out of the carriage, five members of the Council of the Scepter came forward. She looked around the courtyard for Lord Amandil, but he was not present.

“Welcome back, your Highness,” said Lord Orontion, the noble from Forostar. “We are all very sad to hear of his Majesty’s loss.”

“Where is Lord Amandil?” Míriel demanded.

“Lord Amandil is in Andustar.”

“In Andustar?” Míriel repeated in disbelief. “Why?”

“It was Lord Pharazôn’s doing, your Highness. He dismissed him from the Council.”

“Pharazôn has not the authority!” Míriel said, fighting a rising feeling of desolation. I could have reached out to Amandil when I was in Andúnië. If only I had known. “On what grounds was Lord Amandil dismissed?”

Lord Orontion shrugged. “Lord Pharazôn said Lord Amandil was growing too old, said it was high time for him to retire. You’ll be happy to know Amandil’s discharge was honorable, for Pharazôn offered him fifty thousand gold Mirian and a new estate in the hills. For some reason, Amandil did not accept them.”

Míriel tried to stay calm, to speak steadily. “Is Lord Calmacil present?”

“Lord Calmacil is dead, your Highness.”

“Dead?” Míriel stared at Orontion in horror.

“Of stomach fever. Probably from something he ate.” Orontion looked at her with concern; she couldn’t tell whether it was feigned. “Are you well, your Highness?”

“Lord Ornendil? Lady Wilwarien? Lord Voronóro? Are any of them here?” Míriel asked desperately.

“Lord Ornendil is in prison for treason. Lady Wilwarien was dismissed from court. Lord Voronóro died in a fall from his horse.”

I’m trapped, Míriel thought bleakly. My friends are gone. How had Pharazôn managed to strip her of her allies in just two months? What sort of power did he have over the nobles?

“I don’t think you’re well, your Highness,” said Orontion.

“And no wonder,” said Pharazôn from behind her. “The King is dead, after all.” He grasped her arm; Míriel tried to pull it free, to no avail. “Come along, dear Zimraphel. A rest and a hot meal after our journey will be the best thing for you. You will dine with me, of course.”

She wanted to say: I will not dine with you. My name is Míriel. Don’t speak for me. But she kept silent, writhing inside with outrage and fear, as well as determination. Her mind was busy with new plans. First, she would try and contact any nobles who might still be on her side. Then, she would plan an escape from Armenelos. She would take refuge in Andustar, among the Faithful who were still there. Once they heard a usurper had seized the Scepter, they would flock to her banners, and if there had to be a civil war, there would be. Cost what it might, she would take back her rightful throne.

All Míriel’s efforts to succeed in her plans were in vain. Pharazôn had indeed isolated her: all her former allies who were not on Pharazôn’s side were dead, in prison, or in exile. Many of these allies were the relatives of her ladies; she did her best to comfort her friends, desperately hoping they would not be taken away from her as well.

She and her ladies were never left alone. Guards whom she had never seen before accompanied her wherever she went. She was confined to her personal quarters: her sitting room, bedchamber, private dining room, and garden. She could not go to the throne room, for guards at the doors kept her out; she assumed Pharazôn was holding audiences now. Most of the time, she paced her rooms, wondering what to do and whom to contact.

“This will not last forever,” Míriel said to Nárrië one day, as they sat at their embroidery in her sitting room. “We shall go back to Andustar soon.”

“I don’t see how,” said Nárrië, wiping her eyes. “We are watched all the time; Pharazôn will never let us leave.”

“We shall be able to leave with the aid of our allies in the west,” Míriel said bravely, hoping she was right. “I just have to write them letters—” She stopped abruptly. Who knew who might be listening? Who knew what spies of Pharazôn’s could hear her?

As if her thoughts had summoned him, Pharazôn stepped into the room. He never bothered knocking; the guards at her door always let him in. Míriel flinched at the sight of him.

“I thought I’d find you here, Zimraphel,” he said, striding over to the fireplace and taking a seat in front of it. “Will you dismiss your ladies? I wish to speak to you in private.”

Yet another private conversation. “You may leave me,” Míriel said wretchedly to her ladies, who began to stand and exit the room. Pharazôn might as well have been her master now.

“Why are you here, Pharazôn?” Míriel asked. “You’ve taken my throne; is that not enough? What more do you want?”

“Your agreement,” Pharazôn said, placing his fingertips together. “You see, I have another plan, a rather unusual one, but I think you’ll agree that it would be sensible, considering our positions and the recent riots.”

“Another plan? What—” her voice trailed off. Somehow, she knew what this plan was, she knew, and horror and disgust twisted her stomach and stiffened her limbs. Her heart beat faster, a rushing sound seemed to fill her ears, and she could only whisper, “No…no…”

Pharazôn pronounced the dreaded words: “We must marry. We must have a union between Faithful and King’s Men.”

“You’re mad,” Míriel rasped. She was still too shocked to show her anger.

Pharazôn went on as if he had not heard her. “A civil war would be disastrous: it would plunge Númenor into ruin. The riots in Armenelos are bad enough. We have an opportunity to end the strife, to bring peace to the island again. Surely you see the sense in this.”

“I will never marry you,” said Míriel, trying to make her voice firm.

“You must and will, or there will be severe consequences.”

“I tell you, I won’t! You can’t force me to!”

“Eru forbid I should have to force you,” said Pharazôn, “but you are too reasonable for me to have to do so, I’m sure.”

“But we’re cousins!” cried Míriel. “We’re kin! It would be incest!”

“Nonsense,” said Pharazôn dismissively. “First cousins are not close enough kin for marriage to be a problem.”

“But the law—”

“We are royalty, are we not? We can change the law.”

Míriel took a deep breath. His suggestion was so monstrous that her anger was giving her strength. “I will not marry you,” she said again. “I will not engage in incest to satisfy some perverted whim of yours.”

“Perverted?” repeated Pharazôn, sounding amused.

“Yes. I know you well: you care nothing for strife or the people of Númenor. You only want to marry me to keep me powerless.”

Pharazôn shook his head, a grave expression on his face. “This is exactly why we cannot let you rule, Zimraphel. You are delusional: you fear me for no reason. You think I wish to harm you when I only wish to take care of you.”

“I’m not mad! I’m not!” Míriel cried, losing control.

“Did I say you were? But you are in danger of becoming so.” Pharazôn stepped up to her and took her arm, but she shook his hand off, glaring at him, breathing hard.

He sighed. “I feared it would come to this.” He waved his hand at the open doorway. Two guards stepped into the room. “The Princess is tired; the death of her father has been too much for her. Take her to the South Tower and lock her in the top bedchamber.”

“Lock me in?” Míriel repeated in disbelief.

“Yes.” Pharazôn stepped backwards as the guards advanced towards her. “You need rest and time alone to think. So, you will stay in the South Tower until you begin to see reason at last.”

Míriel tried to run, but the guards were too fast for her. They seized her arms; she struggled to break free, but their grip was too strong. “Unhand me!” she shouted. “I command you!” They paid no attention. Pharazôn turned on his heel and left the room. The guards dragged Míriel out after him, with her struggling all the way. She screamed for help as they went down the corridor, but no one came to her aid. There are no servants or courtiers left who are loyal to me, she realized. Yet she never ceased fighting and screaming until the guards bore her to the South Tower and into the top bedchamber. Once she was there, they left her, shutting and locking the door behind them.

Chapter Text

Armenelos

Year 3255 of the Second Age

Míriel looked around the round bedchamber. It was luxurious, though gloomy. A bed with midnight-blue hangings; two oak tables with two chairs, carved and gilded; and a larger chair upholstered in velvet made up the furniture. The Rómen carpet and the window curtains were dark blue as well. Books lined the shelves on the wall. A fire and several lamps were lit; Pharazôn had prepared the room ahead of time for her arrival.

She sank into the velvet chair in front of the fireplace, thinking hard. Obviously, the first thing to do was to send a message to one of her allies in the west, trusting that they were still there and that they had not turned against her. She would bribe a servant to carry the letter to one of her ladies, who would send it to Andustar.

She stood and went over to one of the tables, but there were no materials for writing available. There were none on the other table either. There had to be guards outside her door. She rapped on it, and, sure enough, a guard answered. “You’re not to leave,” he said brusquely.

“I don’t wish to leave,” said Míriel. “I only want to write something. Bring me pen and ink and parchment.”

The guard shook his head and slammed the door. For a while, Míriel stood still, but then she moved back towards the chair before the fire, wondering how to win the guards over.

After about a half hour, the door opened. Míriel looked up with a start of fear, but it was only a young maid carrying a tray with a covered dish, some bread and cheese, and a cup on it. Míriel smelled lobster soup, and her stomach growled; she had not eaten since breakfast. The maid set the tray down on a table, curtsied, and turned to go.

“Wait,” said Míriel. “I must have parchment and a pen and ink. Please fetch them for me.”

“I’m sorry, your Highness,” said the maid, with another curtsy. “You’re not to have pen and ink; Lord Pharazôn’s orders.”

It was as Míriel had expected. “What is your name?”

“Balakêth, your Highness.”

“Well, Balakêth,” said Míriel, “if you bring me writing materials, I will reward you handsomely. I will pay you a hundred gold Mirian.”

Balakêth shook her head and curtsied. “I’m sorry, your Highness,” she said again. “I can’t disobey Lord Pharazôn; he’d have my head.”

“Lord Pharazôn need not know,” Míriel said.

“I’m sorry, your Highness,” Balakêth said for the third time, shaking her head. She left the room. Crestfallen, Míriel walked over to the table and sat down to eat. The lobster soup was delicious, and the wine was a fine Hyarrostar red. It didn’t take her long to finish the meal. Clearly, her prison would be a soft one. She wondered if Pharazôn would move her to poorer and rougher quarters if she kept refusing to obey him. Never mind; she would endure it. She would rather starve and freeze in a dungeon than marry him.

Míriel sat back in her chair and leaned her chin on her hand. Obtaining help was going to be much harder than she’d thought. She would have to ingratiate herself with Balakêth. Perhaps she could enlist her sympathy. She would try it as soon as Balakêth came back to fetch the tray and dishes.

But the woman who came for the dishes was not Balakêth.

“Who are you?” Míriel asked sharply. “Where is Balakêth?”

“Balakêth’s not here, your Highness,” said the maid, an old woman with a sour face.

“I can see that,” snapped Míriel. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

Míriel bit back angry words. This woman is not evil, she reminded herself. She’s only following orders. “What is your name?”

“Inzilin, your Highness.”

“Please bring me pen and ink and parchment, Inzilin.”

“No,” said Inzilin.

“I will pay—”

“No.”

“I should not be—”

“No.” Inzilin carried the dishes out of the room; the door slammed shut behind her. Míriel’s heart sank. She should have known that Pharazôn was too clever to let her get close to the servants. Most likely, the next maid to come to her prison would be neither Balakêth nor Inzilin.

She was right: the next servant, who came to help her undress for bed, was a complete stranger. And so was the one who brought her breakfast the next morning, and the one who came to help her dress, and the one who came to clean her lavatory. This went on for several days. Each time, she tried asking the maids for writing materials, and each time, they refused to bring them. Otherwise, they treated her as her former servants had when she was free. They bathed her, helped her dress and undress, and did her hair. They brought her meals consisting of simple food: soup and bread and cheese, or fish, or a roast chicken, or a game pie. They lit her fire and lamps, dusted her furniture, and made her bed. None of them responded to Míriel’s overtures of friendship or her attempts to bribe them. Pharazôn had obviously given them clear instructions.

After about five or six days, Míriel began thinking of other ways to send a message to someone who could rescue her. She tore a page from one of the books and wrote HELP on it in ashes with her finger. None of the servants would carry the parchment. She tried again, this time dropping the parchment out of the window. Nobody came to her or sent her a return message; either no one had picked it up, or Pharazôn had intercepted it, or—the worst possibility of all—people had seen it and not cared. Desperately, she slipped a third parchment under the door, hoping that the guards would respond. They did not.

She began waving a white handkerchief from the window when she saw people walking far below, but no one looked up. She tried the same thing with a red scarf, to no avail. Her heart sank at this failure. Even if Pharazôn had taken her allies away from her, surely not all the nobles left were her enemies. Surely some of them had protested against Pharazôn’s treatment of her.

One day, she said to her servant, “I am lonesome here by myself. Tell Lord Pharazôn I would have one or two of my ladies to keep me company.”

To the maid’s credit, she did run off to give Pharazôn Míriel’s request, before returning and saying, “Sorry, your Highness, but you’re not to see anyone. Lord Pharazôn’s orders.”

“At least tell me where my ladies are,” Míriel begged. “What has happened to them?”

“I don’t know,” said the servant.

“Ask Lord Pharazôn, please,” said Míriel. The servant left and never came back. Míriel was left alone to worry about her ladies. Surely Pharazôn had not had them killed or imprisoned. He had probably sent them to their estates outside Armenelos. But they must be wondering where she was, unless Pharazôn had told them. But if he had, why had they not convinced their male relatives to free her, or tried to free her themselves?

One morning, a maid—was her name Izrê?—came into the room with Míriel’s breakfast and found Míriel lying, apparently unconscious, on the floor. Immediately, Izrê ran off to report it, while Míriel lay there triumphantly. Now, the royal doctors would come to her chamber, and she could escape in the confusion.

Only one doctor arrived, an old man named Narakan, whom she had never seen before. He helped her into bed, checked her pulse, felt her forehead, and examined her eyes, ears, and throat. “Nothing amiss that I can see,” he said, “but I would still recommend you to stay in bed for a week or so.”

“No!” Míriel broke out in a cold sweat. Bad enough that Pharazôn was confining her to one chamber; she would go mad if he confined her to a bed. “I’m feeling better now; I’m sure I’ll be well in a day or two.”

Narakan shrugged. “As you wish, your Highness.” He left the room, and Míriel remained in bed, crushed by the failure of another plan.

The days crawled by. As Míriel ran out of plans to get help or free herself, she could not help focusing on the room in which she was kept. It was always the same: the only changes were the lighting of her fire and lamps, the servants who entered and left, and the meals brought to her. The sameness seemed threatening; she dreaded seeing it every time she woke up.

For a while, the books were a relief, as they helped keep her mind off her imprisonment. There were treatises on law and government, essays on moral philosophy, collections of Elvish legends, and even a book of songs: a surprising variety. She sat in the velvet chair reading, hour after hour after hour. I will have a vast store of knowledge by the end of my life, she thought ruefully. For she was sure Pharazôn meant to keep her here until the end of her life if she didn’t agree to marry him. She wondered what it would be like to stay in her chamber for seventy or eighty more years, never talking to anyone, never receiving fresh air and sunlight except through the window.

Míriel began to put her head and shoulders out of the window more often, despite the cold. She watched the people walking in the courtyard below, envying them their freedom. She tried to start conversations with the servants, to no avail. She began pacing from one side of her chamber to the other; counting her steps over and over again. When reading began to pall upon her, the sameness of the room started to loom large in her mind again. Seventy or eighty more years in this chamber, she thought. Seventy or eighty more years. And the thought made her shiver.

The room seemed to be shrinking. In the night, she had dreams that the walls were closing in on her and always woke up gasping and sweating. She could not see in the dark, and it was easy to imagine her nightmares coming true. She began asking her servants to light one of her lamps at night.

There was no knowing how many days had passed. Nothing changed. Sometimes she had trouble breathing and had to practically thrust herself through the window for fresh air. Seventy or eighty more years. She broke down into tears one day, wailing like a little child; after that, she wept nearly every day. Seventy or eighty more years. She pounded on the door until her knuckles were sore and red, screaming. Seventy or eighty more years. When her servants came in, she threw herself on her knees before them, begging them to let her out, pleading with them not to torture her longer.

But she knew it was not the servants with whom she should be pleading. There was only one person who could help her, only one way she could be free once and for all. That night, she sat up in her bed, weeping and thinking, praying that daylight would never come.

When the maid brought her breakfast that morning, Míriel spoke to her calmly for the first time in a long time. Her throat was sore from screaming, and her voice was hoarse. “Tell Lord Pharazôn I would speak with him.”

“Of course, your Highness.” The servant left. Míriel got out of bed and slowly put on her dressing gown. Her skin crawled at the thought of Pharazôn’s upcoming triumph. For a while, she stood, clenching her fists and teeth, staring down at the floor. I must not weep. Pharazôn will not see me weep. He will not win that from me.

She heard Pharazôn’s voice. “Ah, cousin Zimraphel. It’s been too long since we’ve seen each other: nearly a month.” He had stepped into the room. “What did you wish to speak to me about?”

“I have decided,” she said, looking at the floor. She could not bear to see his eyes.

“Look at me,” he ordered. She raised her eyes to his face and saw that his brow was creased in a frown. He had not trimmed his beard; it was looking rather scraggly. There were crows’ feet around his eyes. “Well? What have you decided?”

“I will marry you,” Míriel whispered.

“What was that?”

“I will marry you!” she said more loudly, her voice cracking. Her throat hurt, but she felt a small sense of satisfaction when he stepped back, startled.

“No need to shout,” he said. “But I’m glad that was your decision. I thought you would see reason at last.” He turned away from her. “I will call for maids to dress you and bring you breakfast. Meet me in my study in twenty minutes; there’s much to do.” He left the chamber. Míriel sank back onto the bed; even just standing seemed to have exhausted her. She remained with her hands folded in her lap, staring at the floor, until two maids arrived. She looked up and saw Balakêth and Izrê.

“Lord Pharazôn said you were leaving the tower, your Highness,” Balakêth said.

“I am,” said Míriel.

“That’s well, your Highness,” Balakêth said cheerfully. “It will do you good to get out of this room. Must have been very dull to be cooped up here. What do you wish to wear, your Highness?”

“I don’t care.” Míriel did not bother to reprove Balakêth for her familiarity. She allowed the maid to dress her, then sat down to eat her breakfast. But the pastry was dry and choked her, the apples and raisins were insipid, and the tea tasted like mop water. She finally pushed her tray away; she could not eat. Her thoughts wandered. For the hundredth time, she wondered how many nobles at court were still loyal to her, as well as what had happened to her ladies.

Within fifteen minutes, the two guards stepped into the room. “Come, your Highness,” said one. Míriel allowed them to escort her downstairs and through the palace. After what seemed like ages in the tower bedchamber—had Pharazôn said a month?—everything around her seemed fresh and new: the carpets on the floors, the tall windows, the tapestries on the walls. She was unused to looking at colors besides midnight blue, and the courtiers and servants passing in the corridors seemed like strange creatures. No one appeared to notice her; nobody reacted to seeing her outside the tower at last. She walked slowly, gazing at the walls and floor, until she and the guards arrived in Pharazôn’s study. Pharazôn was there alone, sitting at his writing table with a book open before him. He stood up to greet her.

 “You came in good time,” he said, taking her hand. Míriel did not try to snatch it away. “You are more biddable than you were,” Pharazôn continued. “That is well: your solitude has done you good. You won’t be alone for much longer.”

“Will I see my ladies again? Where are they?” Míriel asked anxiously.

“I sent them home,” Pharazôn said.

It could have been worse. They could have been imprisoned or executed. “Why?” Míriel asked, though she knew the answer.

“They are traitors, or from traitors’ families. I have chosen new companions for you, all loyal to me.”

Míriel voiced a feeble protest, although she knew it was of no use. “You can’t do that. The queen always selects her own ladies.”

“These are unusual circumstances,” said Pharazôn. “All of our courtiers must be completely loyal to the crown. Your former companions turned against me when they learned of your stay in the South Tower. But perhaps we may bring some of them back to court, now that you’ve come around to my way of thinking, and once you explain the situation to them.”

“Explain the situation?” Míriel repeated.

“That is why I asked you to meet me here.” Pharazôn led her to the table. “You must write letters to your allies now, about the upcoming marriage. I have all the materials ready for you. You’ll write in Adûnaic, not Quenya or Sindarin.”

Míriel stood still and said nothing.

“Sit down, Zimraphel.” Pharazôn’s voice was stern. “Or must I lock you in the tower again?”

She dropped into the chair. Pharazôn set parchment, ink, a pen, and sealing wax in front of her. She picked up the wax and twisted it in her fingers, seething with shame, rage, and humiliation.

“Write down what I tell you, in Adûnaic. Begin with the usual opening compliments, of course.” Pharazôn clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace the length of the room. “’Having considered the volatile situation in Númenor, I have decided to marry my cousin, Lord Pharazôn.’”

Míriel sat rigidly, breathing hard, tears filling her eyes.

“Write it, Zimraphel,” Pharazôn said sharply.

She picked up the pen, dipped it in the ink, and wrote.

“’Lord Pharazôn and I agree that a union between King’s Men and Faithful is the most effective way of preserving peace on the island. Lord Pharazôn’s military experience combined with my training in politics will allow us to end the conflict between the two parties, as well as quell any sign of rebellion. I hope that this step I am about to take will encourage Faithful and King’s Men to lay aside their differences and extend to each other the hand of friendship. We desire peace and a united Númenor, and we know that you desire the same. Therefore, we ask you to look kindly upon our union and consider it blessed by Eru Ilúvatar and the Valar.’”

Míriel wrote “Ilúvatar and the Valar,” blotting the ink, wishing she could tear the parchment.

“Now, close the letter and sign it with all your titles—mind you call yourself ‘Princess,’ not ‘Queen,’ and ‘Zimraphel,’ not ‘Míriel.’”

“Please let me call myself by the name I choose,” Míriel pleaded, hating herself for it.

“No,” said Pharazôn. “You must get out of the habit of speaking Quenya, since you are to be the consort of a King’s Man.”

A tear dropped from Míriel’s eye onto the parchment, smudging the ink, but she wrote what Pharazôn told her. He looked over her shoulder, read the letter, and nodded in approval. “Very good. Now, you will write the same letter to the other traitors.”

“How many of them are still alive and free?” Míriel asked in a dull voice.

“Fourteen. Their names are here.” Pharazôn handed her a scrap of parchment. Míriel scanned it; the words were blurred due to the tears in her eyes, but she saw that Lord Amandil’s name was at the top of the list.

“Dry your eyes,” Pharazôn said curtly, “and compose yourself. You still have thirteen letters to write.”

Míriel took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Then she picked up the pen and began to write: Having considered the volatile situation in Númenor…

The days that passed seemed to blur together, as if Míriel were in a dream. Her father’s funeral was held, and it was a grand affair, with wailing mourners, many stories shared of the dead man, and much chanting and burning of incense and charms by the Speaker for the Dead. Pharazôn may have hated the previous king, but he was at least making a pretense of honoring him. Míriel had wanted to give him a simpler funeral in the style of the Faithful, but she did not voice her desire; she knew Pharazôn would overrule it.

The preparations for the wedding went on for one of the remaining months of mourning. Míriel was given new maids, all of whom were strangers. She met the ladies Pharazôn had chosen for her but did not befriend them. Why bother? They would report everything she said to Pharazôn anyway. She sleepwalked through the long days as thirty seamstresses measured her for her wedding clothes, as sixty cooks prepared the banquet, as invitations were sent out to all the nobles of the island. Whenever she was presented with wedding gifts, mainly jewelry, she thanked the givers politely and had her maids lock the presents away. She barely spoke to anyone and spent most of her time shut up in her private apartment, sometimes reading or embroidering, but mostly thinking, remembering happier times.

Pharazôn sent for her every evening. They sat together in his sitting room while he talked to her about his plans for Númenor, his expectations for her behavior once they were married and he was crowned, and his desire for an heir. Míriel listened with only half an ear and gave monosyllabic answers to all he said. She half-expected him to reprove her for this, but he did not. Apparently, now that she was wedding him and had sent messages to her allies about the marriage, he was satisfied.

On the morning of the wedding, Míriel’s maids showed up to dress her. As a concession to tradition, she was wearing black, since her year of dressing in mourning was not up yet, but her velvet gown was embroidered in silver and studded with pearls. She wore a girdle of silver flowers, as well as a pair of silver bracelets. The rest of her jewelry was set with pearls: earrings, necklace, and brooch. There were also pearls on the toes of her black slippers. The servants brushed out her long black hair and set a silver tiara, the crown of the royal consorts, on her head.

“You look beautiful, your Highness,” said the maid who had brushed her hair.

“My thanks,” Míriel said indifferently. She glanced briefly at her reflection in the long mirror. “You may leave me now. I wish to be alone to think.”

The maids filed out of the room. Míriel took a longer look at herself in the mirror. Her face seemed paler than usual; was it because of her black dress, or her fear and grief, or both?

Before she could stop it, a tear rolled down her cheek, followed by another and then another. As quickly as she wiped her tears away, more followed. At last, she sank into a chair and wept with her hands over her face. She could not bear what was about to happen. She would not bear it. She would throw herself from the window; there was no other way out.

She walked to her window and looked down at the courtyard far below. It was a long way down, perhaps a hundred Rangar; her palms tingled at the thought of falling such a distance. She breathed heavily; her corset, laced tightly for the occasion, seemed to be crushing her ribs. Better to fall to her death than to marry Pharazôn; better to die than to commit incest. She leaned farther out the window, watching the activity in the courtyard. Jump. She gripped the window frame tightly. Jump. Now.

She thought about what would happen after her death. Pharazôn would be the sole ruler of Númenor. There would be no one to stop him in his destructive courses, no one to mitigate the damage he would do. Númenor would be completely lost and all its people doomed, for the wrath of Eru and the Valar would surely fall on it. Someone had to be present to stop Pharazôn. Someone had to rein him in.

Míriel drew her head back in through the window. Now she knew she could never take her own life, not while Pharazôn lived. She was still the only one who could save Númenor. He was taking away what power she possessed, but she could work against him from the shadows. She would fight him in her own way until her last breath.

Pharazôn’s creatures came for her about five minutes later. Her stomach was still churning with fear and revulsion, but her arm was steady as one nobleman—she thought his name was Lord Karabruzîr, but she wasn’t sure—took it to guide her from the room. She held her head high and strode confidently through the corridors. She would not be afraid. She knew her duty.

The men led her to the small hall, where the wedding guests were waiting. Trumpeters played a fanfare as they walked through the door. She saw Pharazôn standing next to Lord Orontion under the long window at the other end of the room. She kept her eyes on her cousin as Lord Karabruzîr guided her down the length of the hall, under the eyes of the throng. Dimly, she could hear the traditional wedding processional music.

When she reached Pharazôn and he took her arm, the wedding began in earnest. She stood next to Pharazôn, listening to Orontion drone on about the sacredness of marriage, making the correct responses, staring at Pharazôn but not seeing him. Whenever she spoke, her voice betrayed none of her true feelings; it was as cool and calm as if she were pronouncing judgments from her throne. I will live through this, she thought. I will not be afraid.

At last, Orontion said, “I give you Ar-Pharazôn and Ar-Zimraphel, husband and wife.” It was time for the traditional kiss; Míriel was brought back to reality with a jolt. She shut her eyes and suppressed a shudder as she felt Pharazôn’s lips touch hers. If he had given her a passionate kiss and tried to stick his tongue in her mouth, she would have tried to bite it off, but he only gave her a quick peck. Even then, her lips felt filthy; she wanted to wipe them on her sleeve.

The cheers and applause made the small hall ring. If any of the assembled guests disapproved of this incestuous marriage, they were hiding their feelings well. Pharazôn smiled at the crowd, nodding here and there. Míriel stared straight ahead of her without looking at the cheering throng, her lips tightly shut together. I will live through this. I will not be afraid.

She repeated this to herself all through the long feast that followed, as the time for the bedding drew nearer. She and Pharazôn sat at the high table in the great hall, along with the Council of the Scepter and their families. Fifty musicians played courtly tunes and military music, and minstrels chanted epic tales of the First Age, though the music and stories were often drowned out by the noise from the guests. Dish after dish was set on the tables; there must have been at least five hundred dishes served altogether, including porpoises and oxen and swans. Míriel could eat none of the food. She took deep draughts of her wine; perhaps what was coming would be easier if she were drunk. She danced with Pharazôn at least ten times, with Orontion five times, and with other guests who asked her once or twice, though she did not bother to identify them all. Again and again, she responded politely to the guests’ congratulations and listened to the wedding toasts. Her head ached with the constant music and chatter, yet she dreaded the end of the feast. She wanted to shrink inside herself at the thought of Pharazôn—her cousin, Eru help her—touching her.

At last, a trumpet sounded, and the rest of the music and talk stopped. Pharazôn stood from his chair and announced to the guests, “It is time for the queen consort and me to retire.” A roar of approval went up from the nobles; goosebumps prickled Míriel’s arms. “Play the bedding music,” Pharazôn commanded the musicians. He offered her his hand as the musicians struck up the bedding processional; numbly, she took it and walked with him down the corridor, followed by a long train of guests. Despite the solemnity of the music, she heard whistles and lewd comments from the crowd of nobles, but she barely paid attention to them. She could no longer even pretend not to be afraid. Her hand shook, and her steps were unsteady; she thought she might faint. If she did, the guests would probably just bundle her into bed with Pharazôn without her knowing. Would he use her even if she were unconscious?

She and Pharazôn reached his apartments, and two chamberlains shut the door to the corridor. The noise of the crowd outside was muffled. When Pharazôn and Míriel got to his bedchamber, he finally let go of her hand. “Be quick and undress,” he said. “The night is short.” Three maids appeared and led her into a dressing room, where they slowly and carefully removed her gown, jewelry, and underclothes. She stood still, trembling all over, as the servants worked.

“Are you well, your Majesty?” asked one of the maids.

“I’m well,” she said faintly. She tried to remember what her mother had told her of bedding, but she could not. She must not have listened to it. But she had always thought she would never marry, like Tar-Telperiën. She had thought she would adopt an heir from one of the families who were loyal to her. She had sometimes imagined marriage, but not to a King’s Man. Not to her own cousin.

All too soon, the undressing was finished. Clad only in her shift, she walked into the bedchamber. Pharazôn stood waiting for her, dressed only in his smallclothes. His chest and legs were muscular and hairy. He looked her up and down approvingly; Míriel wanted to vomit.

“You are a beautiful creature,” he said. “But then, you were always beautiful, even as a child.”

“Please don’t tell me that,” Míriel whispered. “You’re still my cousin. This is still incest.”

Pharazôn laughed. “And modest too. Well, I will let you have your way, since this is our wedding night. But you are beautiful, and I will always call you so after this.” At once, his voice became brisk. “Come to bed. It’s time.”

Shaking more than ever, Míriel slowly walked over to the bed and climbed on top of the blankets, which were covered with rose and vardarianna petals. Fresh flower petals in winter: more signs of Pharazôn’s extravagance. She lay on her back, her head on the soft goose down pillows, wanting to curl up in a ball.

“Spread your legs.”

Míriel obeyed, shutting her eyes, trying to forget the look of lust in Pharazôn’s eyes. She felt the hem of her shift lifted, and then he climbed on top of her; she wondered if he would crush her beneath him. Her breathing accelerated. And then pain stabbed her between her legs; her eyes snapped open and she screamed. Pharazôn was pushing into her repeatedly, grunting. It felt as if someone had shoved a dagger into her. She heard whimpering and realized it was her own. Oh, Eru, it hurts so much; please make it stop, make it stop... ”Please,” she pleaded. “It hurts…oh, Eru…please, Pharazôn, please…”

Pharazôn ignored her. He used her for what seemed like hours, then stopped, convulsed, and sighed deeply. He rolled off her, and she was left with sweat soaking her shift and a throbbing pain between her legs, feeling dirty and sick. There was wetness on her face; she had not realized she was weeping.

“Did you like it?” Pharazôn asked. “Did you feel pleasure?”

“No,” Míriel choked out. “It hurt…it still hurts…”

“Ah, that’s only because you were a maid,” Pharazôn said with a yawn. He rolled out of bed, walked over to the table by the window, and poured himself a cup of wine. “You’ll get used to it in time.”

I’ll never get used to…that, Míriel thought. With a thrill of terror, she realized that he would use her again, perhaps every night. Or, even worse, perhaps multiple times in a night. Bile rose in her throat; she sat up and retched.

“Are you well?” asked Pharazôn, sounding concerned.

She gazed at him in disbelief. He couldn’t be foolish enough to think she had enjoyed the bedding; he must know how much she had hated it. He must be mocking her. “I’m well.”

“Good.” Pharazôn drained his cup of wine, walked back to the bed, and climbed into it. “Let us sleep now; I am weary, and I’m sure you are too.” He snuggled under the covers. “Good night, Zimraphel.”

“Good night,” Míriel whispered. Within minutes, she heard snoring from beside her. She lay stiffly on her back, fearful of disturbing him. She reached down between her legs and felt the blood there. It was only then that she began weeping in earnest, shaking with her sobs, trying to stifle them so as not to wake Pharazôn. Her cousin had raped her; he had committed incest with her; she was defiled forever. For the second time that day, she thought about killing herself. Let Ilúvatar’s wrath fall on Númenor, she thought. Let Pharazôn do what he pleases. I cannot go through that again. I can’t.

But she knew she could not leave Númenor to Pharazôn’s tender mercies. She had to somehow turn away the anger of Ilúvatar and the Valar. She had to protect the citizens of Númenor, not only the Faithful, but the poorer King’s Men who had been manipulated by Ar-Sakalthôr and Ar-Gimilzôr, as well as the former slaves who would be enslaved again. She had to show the people the compassion which Pharazôn lacked.

And she would do it. She would fight him with all her strength. She would be the queen she was meant to be, even from the shadows.

The pain between her legs seemed to be fading, and her eyelids were growing heavy. Before she dropped off to sleep, she repeated the words she had been saying to herself all throughout the wedding.

I will live through this.

I will live.

I will live.

Chapter Text

Andúnië

Year 3256 of the Second Age

The winter of 3255 and 3256 was by turns pleasant and ominous. Adar invited Silmariën’s family to spend Yule in Andúnië, and the deep snows that fell for a month afterwards prevented them from traveling back to Armenelos. This meant that for two months, the house in Andúnië was full of company, and Isildur spent most of his free time with Silmariën.

But Isildur’s grandfather was now back with his family permanently. He had been dismissed from court by Lord Calion, who now called himself Lord Pharazôn. Even Isildur, who was not interested in politics, realized that this development portended nothing good. He could see that his grandfather was troubled thanks to the frown Grandfather wore all the time. Grandmother, Adar, and Lord Laurefindo looked grave as well. They never spoke of the situation in the capital, for they knew nothing of what was happening. The impassible snows prevented news from traveling west to Andustar.

“This suspense is horrible,” Silmariën said one day in Nénimë, as she and Isildur sat together in the library. “At this rate, we’ll learn nothing until spring.”

Isildur looked up from his copy of Narn i Hîn Húrin. “Perhaps things are not as bad as we fear,” he said hopefully. “Perhaps the queen has only appointed Lord Calion to the Council of the Scepter. Perhaps he’s replaced my grandfather. Perhaps he and she have come to some agreement.”

Silmariën shook her head. “I cannot hope for such good fortune. It’s well known that the queen and her cousin are not friends. And she would never have sent your grandfather away, for she always relied on his counsel. I fear Lord Pharazôn has some kind of power over her.”

“Do you think he will usurp her throne?” Isildur asked. Fear stirred in his stomach at the implications.

“I don’t know.” Silmariën played absentmindedly with the feather of a pen. “If he does, it will mean war. The queen’s allies will not stand by and see her deprived of her rightful place.” She looked sharply at Isildur. “Will you fight for her? You and your father and brother?”

“We’ll have to,” said Isildur, “though we’ll make a sorry fighting force, for most of the Royal Army and Navy are made up of King’s Men. We have nothing to tempt such men over to our side.”

“Nothing but honor and the truth.” Silmariën stared at him intently. “That has to count for a great deal.”

Isildur didn’t think it would count for much if a real war broke out, but he only said, “To us and the other Faithful, it does.”

Silmariën sighed. “If only I were a man; I would gladly take up a sword to fight for the Faithful. I don’t know if my father will; he may be too afraid. I wish my grandfather were alive.”

At that moment, Adar came to the door of the library, looking shaken. “A letter has just come from court for your grandfather,” he said in a very low voice.

“Good or ill tidings?” Isildur asked, his heart beating fast.

“Ill. Very ill,” said Adar. “Your grandfather has already showed it to me and your grandmother.”

Isildur’s fear increased as he studied his father more closely. Adar was more than shaken; he had a look of horror in his eyes. Isildur and Silmariën clasped hands and looked at each other. Judging from Silmariën’s facial expression, she was as fearful as Isildur was.

“Come into my study,” Adar said. “We shall discuss the letter together, all of us.” He left the room. Isildur and Silmariën, still holding hands, followed him to his study. It was crowded: Grandfather, Grandmother, Laurefindo, Anárion, and Mírelótë were already waiting there. Most of them had expressions ranging from bewilderment to anxiety, but Grandfather looked grimmer than ever, and Grandmother’s normally serene exterior was disturbed. She was wide-eyed, and Isildur could see her clasped hands trembling. More than anything else, this told Isildur how evil the news must be.

“What has happened?” asked Anárion anxiously.

“You shall hear,” Grandfather said. He picked up the letter from the table he was sitting at, unfolded the parchment, and read, “’Having considered the volatile situation in Númenor, I have decided to marry my cousin, Lord Pharazôn.’”

There were gasps and exclamations of horror. Isildur realized that one of the gasps had come from him. Anárion swore under his breath, Mírelótë stared open-mouthed at Grandfather, and Silmariën cried, “Marry her cousin? She’s decided to commit incest? It can’t be!”

“It is what the letter says,” Grandfather said grimly. “I will read on.” He did, but Isildur barely heard any of it. His mind was in turmoil, and he felt goosebumps rising on his arms. Why would Queen Míriel marry her cousin? he thought. It is disgusting; it’s incest! Has she gone mad?

“’Therefore, we ask you to look kindly upon our union and consider it blessed by Eru Ilúvatar and the Valar.’” Grandfather finished reading and folded the letter. For a while, there was silence. Isildur saw Silmariën open her mouth, then close it.

Adar finally spoke: “These are not the queen’s words. It is Lord Calion who writes for her.”

“Such was my conclusion too.” Grandfather stroked his beard. “And I fear Pharazôn is forcing her to wed him. I could not have believed even he would do something so monstrous, but clearly, I underestimated him.”

“Then we must declare for the queen at once!” Silmariën said abruptly. “We must take up arms and fight for her!”

Grandfather shook his head. “Most of the nobles and the army and navy are King’s Men. We could never win.”

“But we could!” Silmariën said eagerly. “I know we could. If we let people know that Pharazôn forced the queen to marry—”

“This letter is nearly two months old,” said Grandfather. “If nobody has protested the marriage before now, they never will. Either that or Pharazôn has silenced all those who have spoken out against it.”

“If we united with the other Faithful—” began Silmariën.

“We would be wiped out,” Grandfather said. “Ar-Gimilzôr confiscated Faithful property and moved many of the Faithful to Armenelos and Orrostar. Pharazôn will do the same or worse if he thinks we’re plotting against him.” He sighed and shifted in his chair. “We can do nothing openly.”

“Then we must find an assassin and send him or her to Armenelos,” said Silmariën desperately. “Slip poison to Pharazôn or have him die in an accident…anything.”

“Now you speak treason, Silmariën!” said Mírelótë, sounding horrified. “Where would we find an assassin? And how could we stoop low enough to do such a thing? Murder the king from the shadows? What an idea!”

“But the queen…” Silmariën protested feebly.

“There are other ways to help her and the other Faithful,” her father said. He looked at Grandfather. “What do you plan to do?”

“I shall return to Armenelos as soon as possible,” Grandfather said. “The queen must have at least one ally at court.”

“How will you convince Lord Calion—Pharazôn—to allow you back?” Adar asked.

“I don’t know,” said Grandfather, spreading his hands helplessly, “but I’ll do whatever it takes. If I must grovel before Pharazôn, I will.”

Silmariën stood still, breathing hard. Then she turned and hurried out of the study. Isildur wanted to follow her, but he stood still on hearing Anárion’s next question: “Will Calion start campaigning in Middle-earth as Ar-Gimilzôr did? Will you and Isildur and I have to go into the army, Adar?”

“Very likely,” Adar said, his voice tight with displeasure. “I have not wielded a sword in battle for nearly eighty years—not since Tar-Palantir took the throne—but I had best begin training again. And so had you and Isildur, Anárion.”

Isildur had not considered such a development. His stomach felt sick with dread at the thought of fighting for Pharazôn. Pharazôn would probably order his army to sack and pillage the towns of Men in Middle-earth. He would order them to capture Men and make them slaves. Perhaps the King’s Men in the army would even torture and rape the people they attacked. At this, Isildur had to suppress a shudder. Yet to disobey Pharazôn and refuse to join the army would be out of the question. Grandfather was right: a rebellion against Pharazôn would never succeed.

Deep in thought, his head drooping, Isildur wandered out of the study. Adar was right: he would have to begin training himself in riding and swordplay, but he would not do it that day. Let it wait for a while. He hated himself for procrastinating, but he felt as if he couldn’t help it. He thought longingly of his books and writing. He would have been happy to lead a peaceful, scholarly life, but it looked like this would never happen.

As he trudged back into the library, he saw Silmariën sitting on the window seat, her head bowed. She raised her head and he saw tears streaming down her cheeks. For a moment, he stood still, surprised: he had never seen her weep before. “What is amiss?” he asked.

Silmariën turned to him, wiping her cheeks with a handkerchief. “None of you will take the queen’s part. None of you will declare for her. You’ve just decided to abandon her.”

“Not abandon her,” said Isildur, startled. “Grandfather is going back to court to help her. Did you hear what he said?”

“What can he alone do for her?” Silmariën sniffled. “He can’t end her marriage to Pharazôn. He can’t give her back her throne.”

“But he can give her comfort,” Isildur said. “He can offer her counsel. He can ask for mercy for her if Pharazôn mistreats her.”

“Eru forbid Pharazôn should mistreat her!” Silmariën stood up and faced him squarely, her eyes blazing. “I wish more than ever that I were a man, a soldier; I would gladly slay Pharazôn myself!”

“Don’t say that!” Isildur grabbed her shoulders. “Never say that. Pharazôn is king now, and we can’t rebel against him. We cannot commit treason.” He lowered his voice and said gently, “We must endure. I know it will be hard—”

“I can’t endure it; I won’t endure it! I’ll kill myself before I call Pharazôn king!”

“Do not say such things!” Isildur gripped her shoulders harder in his panic. “Tell me you don’t mean it!”

Silmariën’s head drooped; the anger seemed to have gone out of her. “I—I don’t—” Her voice trailed off and a sob forced its way out of her throat. Isildur put his arms around her and pressed her head against his shoulder. She wept freely then, sobbing into his tunic. His protective instincts surfacing, Isildur rubbed her back. He was not used to comforting girls and women, but he felt a surge of love for Silmariën, and he felt braver about the future now that there was someone who needed comforting.

“The queen will be well,” he said. “Grandfather will help her, and she will have other friends at court.”

“It’s not just that,” Silmariën said, her voice quavering. “Pharazôn will make life hard for women all over the island. Who knows what may happen? What if I am trapped by a King’s Man into marrying him?”

“That would never happen,” Isildur said. “Nobody would force you to wed a King’s Man.”

“Perhaps I know that in my heart, but I am still afraid.” Silmariën’s voice was muffled.

“There’s no need to be afraid,” said Isildur. He squeezed her gently. “You have protectors: your father, my father, my grandfather…”

“And you?”

“And me.” Slowly, half fearing he was being too bold, Isildur leaned down and kissed her. He meant it to be a short kiss, but she pressed her lips to his and held him tightly, so his lips lingered on hers. When at last they broke apart, she laid her head back down on his shoulder. She had stopped weeping. Isildur bowed his head over hers, and there was silence for a while.

“You know my father and brother and I may have to go to war in Middle-earth,” Isildur said at last, reluctantly.

“I know.” Silmariën’s head moved against his tunic as she nodded. “My father will have to go as well.”

Isildur let her out of his arms and held her shoulders. “If I truly must go, will you—will you wait for me?” he asked.

Silmariën looked at him anxiously. “You don’t want us to wed, do you? We’ve only known each other for eight years, and as bad as things will probably get—”

“No, we should not wed,” Isildur agreed, “but I want us to stay—as we are now. I want us to write each other letters and meet whenever I come home, and—”

“You wish to court me,” Silmariën interrupted.

“Yes.”

She looked in his eyes solemnly. “I wish that too,” she said softly. “I wish to marry you some day, in a happier time.”

“Yes,” Isildur said, his mood slowly brightening. “A great deal may happen in the future, and it may not all be bad. We must wait and hope.”

“We must wait and hope,” Silmariën repeated, a smile creeping onto her face.

Isildur pulled her close and kissed her again.

Armenelos

When Míriel trudged miserably into Pharazôn’s bedchamber, she was not expecting good news. She saw that he was already in bed, sitting propped up by pillows, and she prepared to join him, ready to endure his rutting.

“Lord Amandil is returning to Armenelos,” Pharazôn said bluntly.

It took a few seconds for the words to register. When they did, Míriel looked at Pharazôn, surprised. “Is he, indeed? I thought you had dismissed him.”

“I had,” said Pharazôn, “but he has written me a proper letter of apology. He wrote that he only wishes to serve me and Númenor, and he’s prepared to swear an oath of loyalty to me, even to put it in writing. He is a valuable counselor: it would be wise to have him back. What do you say?”

“I agree with you,” Míriel said. For once, she did agree with Pharazôn, though she had a few misgivings. It would be a relief to have an ally at court, but what if he was not her ally anymore? What if he was truly loyal to Pharazôn now? His apparent willingness to swear an oath of loyalty to Pharazôn was suspicious, unless he meant to swear it and then break it. The thought of breaking such an oath made her nervous. Yet have you not broken your oath to be a loyal wife to Pharazôn? Not with your body, but with your heart?

“I thought you would see it my way,” Pharazôn said. He yawned. “Amandil is a friend to both of us.”

“He is,” said Míriel. In spite of her misgivings, the future was looking brighter. She smiled weakly. “I am glad he’s coming back.”

Pharazôn smiled and beckoned to her. “Come to bed now.”

“Are you going to bed me?” Míriel asked suspiciously.

“Of course. Come here. Now.”

Míriel’s heart sank, and her skin crawled. “Must we do so tonight?” she asked plaintively. “I don’t feel well.”

Pharazôn frowned at her, his eyes glittering in the lamplight. “Yes, we must. Now, will you come to bed?”

Resigned, Míriel slowly walked over to the bed and lay down on it, waiting for Pharazôn to climb on top of her. She tried to focus on Amandil’s impending return. Something good was finally going to happen. For that, she could endure anything.

It was a mild day in Víressë when Míriel learned that Amandil had arrived. She and her ladies were walking around her garden, rejoicing at the sunshine and the warmth of the air. Winter had lasted a long time, but the snow had melted at last. The oaks, beeches, and chestnut trees were starting to grow new leaves. The leaves of the olive trees, cork oaks, myrtles, and fragrant trees had been withered by the frost and snow, but the trees themselves had not died. Although the blossoms of the cherry and apple trees were late this year, Míriel was sure they would appear soon. Daffodils, irises, lilies, and galenas had poked their leaves up through the soil, and the grapevines in the arbor had buds on them.

“It’s pretty out here, is it not?” said Lady Inzilbêth.

“Very pretty,” Míriel answered, with a faint smile. She had begun to make friends with the ladies Pharazôn had chosen for her. She had been so lonely that it no longer mattered whether they were spying on her. Inzilbêth was becoming her closest friend; she reminded Míriel of Lady Nárrië. The fact that she had the same name as Queen Inzilbêth helped too.

“It will not be long before we can go hawking,” said Lady Menelmîth.

“Unless it snows again,” Inzilbêth said. She had a faraway look in her eyes. “It used not to snow at all, or so my grandmother said. I wonder why the weather has changed so much.”

Míriel knew why, but she said nothing. She could not remember a time without snow, droughts, and floods. Nor had her father been able to, for that matter.

“Look: Tamar is coming,” Lady Gimilzinî said, pointing at a garden path winding through a clump of nessamelda trees. Míriel looked and saw the page hurrying along the path. She and her ladies stopped and waited for him. He reached them and dropped to one knee.

“Your Majesty, the king awaits you in the throne room,” he said. “Lord Aphanuzîr has come.”

Amandil had returned at last. Míriel’s heart fluttered, but she managed to say, “I will go at once.” She dismissed her ladies and followed Tamar through the garden, inside the palace, and along the corridors to the throne room. It was empty; Pharazôn evidently thought this meeting was not important enough for the rest of the court to attend. Pharazôn was sitting on the King’s Throne, and Amandil stood beside him. Feeling a mixture of joy and unease at seeing Amandil, she took her seat on the Consort’s Throne, which stood beside Pharazôn’s throne.

“Your Majesty,” said Amandil, bowing to her. As usual, he was dressed simply, all in black with no embroidery on his tunic. He still wore his black cloak, and his hair was windblown. He must have come immediately to the throne room without changing his clothes or combing his hair.

“Lord Amandil,” Míriel said, nodding at him. She saw Pharazôn frown and realized belatedly that she should have called Amandil by his Adûnaic name. She continued, “It is good to see you after so long. I hope your journey was a pleasant one.”

“It was, I thank you. And how are you, your Majesty?” Amandil asked.

Perhaps she was imagining it, but Míriel thought she saw sympathy and solicitude in his eyes. Did he know of her situation? “I am well,” she said automatically.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Amandil asked. “Do you have all you need?”

“I do,” Míriel answered, squaring her shoulders. “I thank you.”

“Are the doctors seeing you regularly? Is your health good? No hurts taken since you were married?”

Is he asking if Pharazôn beats me? “I have no hurts,” she said. “I am treated very well.” The nightly rapes which she was forced to undergo flashed across her mind, and her breath quickened. She hoped her agitation did not show on her face.

She saw Pharazôn frown at Amandil. “Why would Queen Zimraphel not be treated well?” he asked irritably. “Is she not my consort?”

“I only wish to be sure,” Amandil said smoothly. “One more thing: should we be expecting an heir soon?”

“No!” Míriel said in a louder voice than she’d intended. She felt her cheeks heat up at Amandil’s look of surprise and Pharazôn’s sharp glance at her. But she had not been able to help it. Every time she thought of bearing her cousin’s children, she wanted to scream, claw at herself, and tear her hair. The very idea made her feel unclean.

Pharazôn stared at her in exasperation before looking back at Amandil. “She is not pregnant yet,” he told Amandil, as if Míriel had not spoken. “But we are trying for a son. Or a daughter,” he added as an afterthought.

Amandil nodded. “That is good. Do you have any further use for me at this moment, your Majesty?”

“None, I thank you,” said Pharazôn, waving his hand. “You may go.” Amandil nodded again, bowed, and turned to leave.

“Wait!” Míriel said, standing up. She saw Amandil stop and turn around, she was dimly aware of Pharazôn’s annoyance, and she swallowed, her throat dry. “May I embrace you, Lord Amandil?” she asked, trembling at her own boldness.

Amandil looked surprised, but he held out his arms and answered in the affirmative. Míriel walked hesitantly over to him, and he folded his arms around her, while she put her own arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder. For a while, they stood hugging each other. It was as if Míriel were being held by her father again. She wished she and Amandil could stay this way for hours, but she heard Pharazôn’s voice: “That’s enough, Zimraphel. You have trespassed on Lord Aphanuzîr’s time long enough.”

“I must go,” said Amandil, stepping back from her. He whispered, “Take courage, your Majesty. I am here now, and I am your friend.”

Míriel’s eyes filled with tears, but she managed to whisper her thanks in a choking voice. She turned around and made her way back to the Consort’s Throne, stifling her tears as best she could. Pharazôn had a look of anger on his face, but once her eyes were dry, she faced him boldly as she walked toward him.

“A shameful display!” he said, once she had reached her throne and Amandil was gone. “What possessed you to do such a thing? It is fortunate that the rest of the court was not here to see it!”

“I wouldn’t have embraced him in front of the rest of the court,” Míriel said coolly.

“You should not have embraced him at all!” Pharazôn grabbed her wrist and held it; his grip was painful. “Shall I confine you to your quarters for the rest of the day?”

“Why not?” Míriel said, half shocked at herself. “It’s all you do with me, when you don’t bed me.”

“So be it.” Pharazôn let go of her and turned away in disgust. “Go to your chambers, and do not come out until tomorrow morning.”

Míriel rose and strode towards the doorway, trying to look as dignified as she could. Once she reached the threshold, she turned around and said, “Perhaps if you didn’t lock me up so often, I would not have felt lonesome enough to embrace Lord Amandil.” She waited for Pharazôn to berate her; her heart beat quickly, but she was not afraid.

“Did you not hear me? I told you to go!” Pharazôn thundered. He said nothing else. Míriel left the throne room. Her heart was swelling with relief and thankfulness; she walked with a spring in her step, in spite of everything. Despite swearing an oath of loyalty to Pharazôn, Lord Amandil knew of her situation and sympathized with her. He would not break his oath, but he would be her friend. That was the important thing. Míriel’s heart was lighter than it had been in months.