Work Text:
The Queen Is Sad
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There is a rumor in the heart of Númenor.
It is as insidious a thing as they all prove themselves to be, carried from lips to lips, slithering its way through the levels of a city built on the sea.
The Queen is sad.
It elicits laughs, disbelief. How can she be, when the Powers themselves had given her the world? The Queen is sad. How can she be, when she wants for nothing – no fear for her next meal, no concerns in the world ? Gold clouds her as a shadow, ever in her steps. She blinks and all is given to her, she speaks, and everything is promised. She snaps her fingers and the mightiest float of all Arda is at her command, bowing deep before her.
The Queen is sad, what a joke !
But it grows. It grows, and it does not elicit laughs anymore. The Queen is sad. It is fear now, that lingers within the rumor. What troubles her so that she would lose her will for life? What ills her so, for mirth never to grace her gaze?
It reaches the highest spheres. Courtesans from the four corners of the island coming to please her, to achieve the impossible: to draw a smile from her crimson lips. Gifts upon gifts, all more marvelous than the previous one: streams of diamonds, fabrics softer than silk itself, stones glittering with a thousand lights. It comes before her; and she smiles upon seeing it, but is one of politeness and gratefulness, not pleasure.
The Queen is sad. It becomes a challenge for all Númenóreans. It is no longer a question of parading one's victory, but of overcoming an eternal defeat - and what can they say to their enemies, to their allies, if their Queen herself is not satisfied?
The rumor grows so deep that it reaches the highest ears of all : those of the King. Ar-Pharazôn knows of the Queen’s dissatisfaction- perhaps more than all. She is her cousin forcefully married; throne stolen from between her fingers – and in all their years of marriage, never had he succeeded in seeing her happy. Ar-Pharazôn knows of the Queen’s sadness, and it infuriates him. He has given her everything that could be given, but she is not satisfied, and still does he continue to give – desperate for the mirage to hold, for the nation to believe them as close to the gods as a human could ever pretend to be.
Gods are not sad alas, and the Queen painfully reminds them of the truth.
Ar-Pharazôn gifts. Ar-Pharazôn commands. Ar-Pharazôn croons. Ar-Pharazôn threatens.
But the Queen is sad.
She is a picture of grace, of course. Clad in blue spider silk and gold, bracelets tingling at her tanned wrists, at her ankles. Golden belts descending low on her clothing, and crowns made of the purest gems, of the brightest gold. Black hair worn in crown braids, golden trinkets braided within them. She is a wonder; one that blinds when the sun shines just so on her, and her features are made of the fairest kind there could ever be. She is said to rival the elven’s grace, and the crudest rumors say of King Tar-Palanthir to have fucked and impregnated one of their race; the truth behind his admiration for the Elves.
The Queen is beautiful, and the Queen is offered the world; and nonetheless, nonetheless, nothing brightens her days.
Years come and go; and the rumor settles into an adage. The Queen is sad, it is said, and it reaches beyond its inner meaning : coming to express an assertion of the truth. If one asks of another to be certain on a subject, Númenóreans smile and say for the Queen to be sad.
Years come and go; and war follows it. The Queen’s dissatisfaction reaches the King; and in his misery, does he wish for a cure the awe of all people. He battles then; ever expanding his realm, and desire for his renown to be known by all; and ever searches to expand his greed.
There are others rumors growing. One of a King, said to be King of All Kings; and if Ar-Pharazôn laughs before his court, he rages in the vicinity of his chambers. Such King, he cries, can not exist without forfeiting his title to him !
The Queen is sad, Ar-Pharazôn says when the court begs him to reconsider sailing to Middle-Earth. Should he not search peace in hope of appeasing her? Should he not bring the culture of Númenor to the oppressed people of the East?
Ar-Pharazôn sails East.
The Queen is alone on the throne. She does not smile; but hope begins to flourish in hearts. She does not smile, but there is a smoothness to her melancholy; a quietness to her ever-constant mourning.
And then, the war is won. The war is won; and Ar-Pharazôn is said to bring with him the mightiest of captives – the one having proclaimed himself the King of All Kings, Þauron.
The Queen is sad.
But this time perhaps not for much longer.
Against all odds, it is her who seeks him out. She is curious at first; and those are the words she speaks to the King (her husband.) It is easy to know of which words to say, when the King’s motives are so plainly written; and she says a tale of awe and curiosity, a tale of might and foes defeated; and Ar-Pharazôn is all too eager to have her gaze at Þauron.
He is nothing like she had expected it.
She does not know what precisely she had expected (or perhaps she had: another Ar-Pharazôn, wide in girth and stature, loud laughs and louder desires, towering over her, clad in gold and jewellery) but meets someone entirely different.
He is a svelte thing; to begin. Tall as all elvish kind is, taller even than Ar-Pharazôn despite the King’s infamous height; but without the massive bulk favored by mannish nobility. There must be strength, but it is a feline one, camouflaged under a slender frame. It is all the more noticeable in the cloth they have given him, much too loose at the waist and shoulders.
And his hair- it has been harshly cut to reach the chin, most evidently the work of a sword- and Tar-Míriel would not be surprised to find the rest of it in Ar-Pharazôn’s chambers, framed as a token trophy. It is the most vivid red she has ever seen, the very color of blood. It frames a bloodied face, and leads the eye to a throat covered in scars. She widens her eyes at the sight- as if deep claws had torn through it, a wonder that he still lives to tell the tale.
He has his gaze riveted on the door; as if he had not heard nor seen her enter the cell. Tar-Míriel knows better, and she takes another step forward.
“Þauron,” she greets, her voice a quiet yet firm thing.
His eyes jolt back to meet hers, and Tar-Míriel can not refrain her flinch of surprise- they are so golden- as if alive- a fire burning within them-
“Ar-Zimraphel,” Þauron says back, and once more his voice is nothing like she had expected it. At first she had thought of something thunderous, like Ar-Pharazôn’s tended to be; then the sweet carillon of the elves- but it is neither of those things. He speaks in a low, raspy voice- and she realizes that it must come from his scarred throat - coated by a faint sarcasm.
She grits her teeth at the title, most abhorred one; and takes another step forward.
“Leave me,” she says.
Behind her, the guards shuffle their feet. “We can not, my Queen,” one dares, hesitation reigning free in his voice. “It is a dangerous prisoner, and we can not let thee alone with him.”
Tar-Míriel arches an eyebrow.
“Will you kill me?” she asks Þauron, the hint of a bitter smile dancing on her lips. “If so, how will you do it, I wonder? Would you cut a clean line into my throat, or claw your way into my eyes? Would you stab me in the heart, or tear me to shreds?”
Þauron considers her for a second. “I am bound there,” he murmurs. “There is no army to wait for me outside. They have all fled before the might of Númenor. What of me I kill you, Ar-Zimraphel? In a second would guards be upon me, and even in the eventuality of an escape; the sea guards all passage to Middle-Earth. The Sea, and in it Powers that would not fancy any escape of mine.”
Tar-Míriel smiles. It is still not a thing of joy.
“He will not,” she tells the guards. “Leave me, I said.”
She can see them hesitate.
“The King, Ar-Pharazôn, is most aware of my presence here. Should I tell him of your disobedience?”
It does the trick and they are prompt to obey, bowing deep before disappearing from her sight. Tar-Míriel waits a few seconds to be sure of their departure, before turning back to face Þauron.
He does not say a word, seemingly waiting for her to announce her desire.
And she does.
“I do not believe you,” Tar-Míriel softly says.
Þauron smiles too; and it is more of a grimace. “Ah, but I hardly believe it myself, yet it seems I have been bested. Do you lay such little faith in the King’s prowess?”
Tar-Míriel hums. “I do not. Our fleet is mighty, and guided by one well versed in the arts of war. Middle-Earth had always been viewed as a quick victory, had we wished to conquer it. I do not doubt the strength of our armies, Þauron, I doubt the honesty of your defeat. I doubt this new-found humility of yours; and your pledge to Ar-Pharazôn.”
Something gleams in Þauron’s eyes.
“Ar-Pharazôn,” he quietly repeats, as if tasting the name on his tongue. “You do not call him husband.”
Tar-Míriel makes a soft sound in the back of her throat. “He is very easy to please,” she tells him instead of answering. “He does not enjoy empty flatteries. His insecurity is based on his aging, his comparison to the Powers of the West, and his mortality. He is deeply curious of this immortality of yours; and if it can be granted to men. It is what he desires more than anything else. He is curious about you. He is proud of having defeated you. He could parade you around; if he trusts you enough to get you out of this cell. He will ask of my opinion on the matter; having now met you.”
Surprise, quickly followed by confusion; and hesitation crosses Þauron’s gaze.
“Tis dangerous information to share,” Þauron cautiously says. “One could work easily with them.”
“One could,” Tar-Míriel agrees. “He is in need of a confident, I would say. Someone to stroke his ego just so perfectly, and to ensure him of his victories. Someone he would have subdued.”
Þauron looks at her more carefully now. As if assessing a foe, and perhaps it is exactly what he is doing. Tar-Míriel can not find in herself to care.
“You would deliver it so freely to an enemy,” Þauron tells her, brow furrowing, a hint of disapproval in his tone.
Ah, but perhaps loyalty is still of a sore subject for the King who has seen his armies fled. Tar-Míriel is deeply loyal to her core, devoted as none others had been; but it is a devotion to the people, to Númenor, and not for the King who has stolen her birthright. It is Númenor she loves, Númenor she still breathes for, and not for the ill power controlling it. The corruption it brings in its shadow: and Tar-Míriel nourishes the thought of a Númenor free.
Free of a King, free of the whispers of the courtesans, free of the power plays and the greed; free of what plagues her and brings her down.
Tar-Míriel does not want to rule. She wants for no one to rule Númenor.
“My first loyalty is to my people,” she tells him, smiling that bitter smile of hers. “It entails acting against what threatens it.”
“Many would believe me a worse fate,” Þauron murmurs; and she wonders why so many call him silver-tongued and a liar, for he seems to favor truth more than all the King’s advisers. “How can you be so certain it will rule in your favor?”
Tar-Míriel smiles. “The Queen is sad,” she simply says.
She can tell of his confusion when she leaves the cell. It does not matter. She goes to Ar-Pharazôn, and when he asks of Þauron, she speaks words of submission and hard-won victories; of utter domination and trust.
Ar-Pharazôn keeps silent, but a flame ignites in his eyes.
It is not long before Þauron walks freely.
She can not tell herself surprised. He is a curious being after all; the living tale of Ar-Pharazôn’s victory over the armies of the East; and with such fire in those irises of his that the King can not resist parading him around.
Whispers are coated in suspicion still. He wanders, but eyes never leave him, distrust deep within them. Ar-Pharazôn does not listen, shushes his words with the quiet contempt brought by an easy victory. She, who looks more closely than all, can see how Þauron’s features tighten under his smiles.
He has chosen the right path, she absently thinks one day – as she watches him consider the court, bent slightly to whisper words in Ar-Pharazôn’s ears. Þauron has not given Ar-Pharazôn a simpering loyalty; the worst kind there could be, but a reluctant one. He makes no affair of disguising the way his lips pinch upon seeing the might of Númenor, the way begrudging admiration cloud his gaze.
It is what please Ar-Pharazôn so deeply- to have such reluctance to admire his might; for it must surely mean that it is a genuine awe. Þauron says plainly so, and Tar-Míriel flinches when his words leave his mouth – harsh, cruel, yet so painfully true. He turns to Ar-Pharazôn, a day where the King’s curiosity turns into questions upon questions and says to refuse to grovel before an usurper. He wishes merely not to be returned to the Powers, and upon looking at the might of Númenor, had found his to be lacking.
Ar-Pharazôn chest heaves with such self-satisfaction this very day, that Tar-Míriel nearly fears he will rip his clothing. It is all that the King had ever wished to hear, that his might had overcome the one of a Power. He, a man, victorious over a Maia. Not only a Maia, but the mightiest of them.
Tar-Míriel crosses Þauron’s gaze. She searches for truth in those eyes; but finds merely blankness; and perhaps, perhaps, amusement.
She is not sure what to make of his truth. Perhaps he lies. Perhaps he does not. Perhaps he had ordered his armies to flee. Perhaps their loyalty had really been lacking.
Tar-Míriel is not certain to care. She had prayed, once. She had prayed long and long; words of plea falling from her lips, from Uinen to Ossë, from Ossë to Ulmo, from Ulmo to Manwë. She had prayed, knees growing bruised from her kneeling; and she had spent hours, days, weeks, in front of her altar – pleading. She had prayed until her voice had fallen her, until it had grown hoarse and she had coughed up blood. She had prayed until hunger and fatigue had worn her out.
Never had she received an answer.
“You intrigue me,” Þauron tells her, considering her sharply.
He had since long abandoned the rags that had first been given to him; adapting to Númenórean fashion with an unsettling ease. Golden bracelets jingle at his wrists and ankles; large sleeves of white silk. Even his shortened hair has begun to grow again in the months since his capture, now reaching the end of his shoulders. It is hard to say, usually, for more often than not does he wear them braided, or tied as not to fall in his eyes.
Tar-Míriel is sitting next to Uinen’s fountain when he finds her. It is one of the few places which allows her to enjoy the quietness of the world; a haven in the heart of Númenor. It is where she disappears from time to time; ever nurturing her new moniker: the Ghost Queen.
“Why is that?” Tar-Míriel asks him back, quietly contemplating the fountain.
“The more I enter the King’s good graces, the less he asks of your advice,” Þauron says, plainly. “It does not favor you.”
“Do I?” She had not noticed it. Perhaps indeed, it had been a long time since Ar-Pharazôn has asked council from her.
Þauron’s gaze turns surprised. “You truly do not care.”
“There is very little reason for me to care,” Tar-Míriel says, then pausing. “You must have noticed, how an advice is only welcomed when it goes in the direction of desires? Should it push in the opposite direction, how quickly it is disregarded. I wonder if it is a consequence of the holding of power itself, or merely how beings are made to be.”
Þauron pauses as well. A few seconds pass between them before he answers, voice tighter than usually. “I have noticed.”
“Then why should I care?” Tar-Míriel smiles her bitter smile. “Could it really qualify as advice if it is only reassurance? Would its lost hold so much value?”
“It is better to have one’s ear than his indifference, when he is the one to control your destiny, even if sweet words are all that he seeks.”
“Perhaps,” she tells him. Another few seconds pass. “Do you find yourself pleased to have his ear, then?”
Þauron smiles as well; that wry smirk of his. “Not as much as I would have thought. It is rather tedious, I suppose, to have one-way conversations.”
“I suppose. There is saying, for men : to recognize the worth of something only after having lost it.”
“There is the same saying in Valarin. Wenûz aÞa gwannûđẫn ẫthiša.”[1]
Tar-Míriel hums. “Do you now understand then how valuable truth is?”
“I do not lie,” he says, arching an eyebrow.
“I would not know,” Tar-Míriel tells him, her not-truly-a-smile still stretching her lips.
Þauron stays silent for a few seconds. “You are something entirely different,” he says; and it could be sweet lies as well as the truth- the two so closely intertwined that it is impossible to distinguish one from another. “Have you truly no desire to rule?”
“What appeals to you in ruling?” Tar-Míriel asks back. “There are many facets of it. It could be for the temptation of power itself, the sweet intoxication of being the one to give the commands. It could be born out of a true wish to see your people well; but then would you really need to be the one in charge for it? It could be for the awe, fear or respect you would induce. It could be for your personal satisfaction of having achieved the highest position there could be. Well, perhaps not for Powers. It could be to have a hand on all there is, or not to have to answer to another.”
“Many facets,” Þauron agrees. “-And yet you seem to forget the most important one.”
“Do I?”
“It could be for healing,” Þauron says. “There is a plague in Arda, one of corruption and greed; one of chaos. It is up for someone to address the matter – to bring it enough order to elicit peace.”
“War for peace?”
“Is it not the ultimate purpose of all wars?”
Tar-Míriel passes her fingers on the stony edge of the fountain. “War brings war in its stead, not peace. Or if it does, it is a mirage not made to last.”
A muscle twitch in Þauron’s jaw. “Not if all parties are made to recognize the value of peace.”
She stretches her lips in a semblance of a smile. “Subdued into it?”
“If needs be,” Þauron says.
“It is slavery then, not peace.”
Fury flashes in Þauron’s gaze. “It is not. You more than anyone understand the need for it. Men have rebellion in their heart; and wish more for the world to have nothing than accept for them to have less than what they think to be owed to them.”
He often does such a perfect task at appearing composed that Tar-Míriel almost flinches at his anger. She despises the anger of men, perhaps more than all there is- the fierce rage of their hearts, when their voice rise and their hands grow too loose.
But she is a Queen, albeit a Ghostly one; and she does not fear him.
“You say men, and yet you do not speak of them,” Tar-Míriel says- and it is Þauron’s turn to flinch; surprise, anger, shock all quickly crossing his gaze. She tilts her head to the left, and give him her parody of a smile. “Deep wounds tend to fade through one’s words, and tone. Is it why you favor order so fiercely? If naught in the world resembles your memories then it is easier to forget about them?”
Þauron is livid.
“You speak of what you know not, Ar-Zimraphel,” he hisses. “Perhaps you would do better to gaze into your own heart and see what is lacking there rather than jumping to conclusions without giving it a second thought.”
Tar-Míriel hums. “It was not an insult; Þauron, forgive me if you took it as such.”
He grits his teeth at the name, as she does with hers; and she gives him a mirthless smile. “I can not believe that you have been called as such since the beginning.”
The tension in his jaw lessens a little.
“Indeed, I have not.”
“This was an invitation for you to share your preferred moniker,” Tar-Míriel says, arching an eyebrow.
Þauron considers her sharply. “And why would do as such? Þauron-” and his voice is strained when he says the name, all but spitting it. “-is the name they have given me, to never forget of their weakness.”
“Mmmh, yet you have no need to remind yourself of it. Do you?”
He is silent for a few seconds. “I am not certain. Perhaps I should. I am there after all; rather than in Mordor.”
“Mor-dor,” Tar-Míriel repeats, tasting the word on her tongue. What a strange one. “What is it like?”
She would choose Númenor over all the marvels of the world, but she is curious. Her heart is there, tied so deeply to the earth, to the people, to the empathy and love they hold, that she fears it would crumble and break should Númenor fall. It is why she seeks Ar-Pharazôn demise- for she had seen it, she knows that he could be their end, and she fears it more than anything.
She choose to believe in a Power instead, one who had renounced those of the West; seen for their attention to be lacking. Tar-Míriel is no imbecile. Better to live under a King settled far away, be one of his numerous regions, than to risk for their current King’s arrogance to be their downfall.
“Does it really matter?” Þauron asks. “You will never leave Númenor.”
“All the more reasons to speak of it to me. It is your land. You must have shaped it into how you see it fit. I would think that it would reveal a great many things about you.”
Þauron grins, his wolfish one. “It is a black land, of volcanoes and lava. The ground is broken under the humming of the forges, and dark clouds block the passage to the light. There is a clamor that never ends, coming from the entrails of the earth.”
She makes a soft noise in the back of her throat. “I much rather enjoy Númenor,” she says. “It seems difficult a place to live. Are you a being of fire?”
He gives her a startled look. Perhaps he would have hoped for her to be frightened. It is never easy to tell, with him.
“I am,” he tells her, golden eyes piercing.
Tar-Míriel nods. “It is a sensible thing to have it around, then. I would grow rather blue without the sea, I suppose.”
She can tell he does not enjoy her answer; more confused than he had been at the beginning. Tar-Míriel does not see fit to explain herself. He will, in time.
Ar-Pharazôn’s servants come to ask of Þauron, and she watches him leave. But not without him turning, reaching for her in a few steps. “You could call me Mairon, Tar-Míriel. It was what I was called.”
Ar-Pharazôn is most pleased with his newfound adviser. Distrust turns into appreciation as whispers of golden lives and victories over death begin to flow the streets. An immortal being, soon sharing such gift with all of Númenor.
Tar-Míriel is there when the King asks if Mairon will be able to give them what they so sought.
“Not I,” Mairon says, regret deep in his voice. “The highest Powers could. There is one, in fact… One who had been renounced for chasing change, for chasing freedom of will-”
“Morgoth?” Ar-Pharazôn spits; full of doubt and suspicion.
“Melkor,” Mairon sharply rectifies, before smoothening his features into a smile. “Do you know the full extent of the story, King of Númenor?”
Ar-Pharazôn hesitates-
Tar-Míriel finds herself curious – nay, desperate. One of the highest Power… A God, merciful, at last? One willing to hear when none had?
“Speak of it, please,” she murmurs.
Ar-Pharazôn blinks in surprise. He is not used to her speaking so freely in his throne room; forever the discrete ghost. Perhaps it is this surprise, or his own nagging curiosity, but Ar-Pharazôn makes a wide gesture, inciting Mairon to continue.
Mairon gives her a side glance, expression unreadable.
“The history is written by the winners, as you are aware,” Mairon eventually says. “It was far more convenient to paint a bloody figure – of rage, destruction and greed than speak of the truth.”
“Then what of the truth?”
“Melkor sought freedom, and was punished for it,” Mairon placidly murmurs. “It is as I said, your majesty, if you remember how we spoke of the Powers… Little is allowed to fray from the Plan they have elaborated, thinking it the will of Eru Ilúvatar himself, and so are they relentless in punishing whoever seeks the freedom of will. Melkor gazed at the world as saw if for what it was, an opportunity for change; for ambition.”
Ar-Pharazôn makes a grunting noise. “Sweet words,” he says. “-but it is said that Morgoth was an Enemy of Men, and sought their demise; jealous of their place in the world.”
“Not the men, your majesty, the elves,” Mairon says. “And not quite jealous either; but aware of their usurpation. They were not supposed to be the firstborns, but made so after the Valar chose them above men.”
Surprise- and offense – coats Ar-Pharazôn’s features. “Are you saying…?”
Mairon inclines his head. Tar-Míriel’s gaze is attracted by the gesture, how his golden earrings dingle as he moves, the sheer grace of it.
“Men were supposed to be firstborns,” Mairon says. “But the Valar looked at them, and saw for them to aspire for more, eternal seeker of creativity and change and thought of them to be too alike to Melkor for their own taste. They pleaded their case, thus; and Manwë, King of the West, chose the Eldar as the deserving race – offering them immortality.”
Tar-Míriel eyes are piercing on Mairon’s face. She looks for every parcel of truth and lies; staring at the soft skin as if there lay the secrets of the universe. She is not certain if he lies or says the truth; but it matters very little, for Ar-Pharazôn is enthralled all the same.
“Valar granted them immortality? I thought it was the gift of Eru Ilúvatar.”
“It is not,” Mairon says. “It is the lie they told the firstborns, and men. The lie they used to hide the truth, that they had been the ones to rob you of your gift. And so they did, for Melkor only sought to have the control of his own destiny; and men sought such as well. There is a reason, your majesty, for only Eldar to be allowed in Valinor – it is that they are so complacent, and devoted to the Valar that never will they seek their own freedom. They are very little different from thralls; or slaves, for the sole distinction that they are not aware of it.”
Ar-Pharazôn gazes at him with both wonder and greed. Tar-Míriel recognizes easily the later; haunting everyone holding power. It is an ugly gleam; widening his irises and distorting his features, an hunger that can never be satiated.
“Why are you saying this?” Ar-Pharazôn asks; suspicious nonetheless. “It is not in your favor to enhance our might.”
Mairon tilts his head to the side. “Why would it not? It was already proven that your might surpassed mine, your majesty. It shall do me no good than to deny it. I might have been foolish when evaluating the strength of both the will and manpower of my armies; but I am not blind enough to not understand that you are mightier. I recognize strength in all forms, Ar-Pharazôn of Númenor, and respect it. I hold very little love for the Powers; for their hypocrisy and blindness, and Númenor’s interests align with mine much more than theirs ever did.”
“How so?”
Ar-Pharazôn’s gaze and Mairon’s dart to her.
Tar-Míriel merely curls her fingers around the arms of her throne. “How so?” she softly repeats.
“I wish for the beauty of Arda, ah- Middle-Earth,” Mairon replies, unfazed. He grins; and she notices how Ar-Pharazôn’s eyes flicker to him, already disinterested in her. There is a different kind of greed in Ar-Pharazôn’s gaze when he looks upon Mairon; one that speaks of the low hungers of men; and a burning pit in their stomach. “There is no beauty to be found in stagnation; not in subduing it all under a precise model. Valar are disinterested in Middle-Earth, your majesty, but yet refuse to let it grow. They would rather have it as Aman is; a land peopled by thralls and with no perspective for change.”
“And your- Melkor,” Ar-Pharazôn cuts them, disliking the way Mairon’s attention had been diverted by Tar-Míriel. “How is he so different? What tells me that he will accept our prayers? That he will not destroy us as well?”
“Melkor never sought destruction. It was the Valar and the Eldar who forced him to do so; for they refused each of his changes. Flaws can be found in every of us, your majesty; but hypocrisy never was one of his. He is merciful, and he is curious, and he is devoted to Arda, enough to have poured of himself in its earth, to have given his power to it. I have seen his mercy, and his gratefulness for those who share his views on how the world should be; and he will reward those sharing them with the highest gifts.” Mairon marks a pause then; and when he smiles again, it is soft enough that Ar-Pharazôn reaches for a strand of hair, letting it slide between his fingers. “He was once known as the Giver of Freedom, and freedom he shall give.”
“But it is not freedom I seek. It is the life promised to us, stolen by the elves.”
Immortality. Tar-Miriel wonders what to make of it. Is it truly living if there is no end to it? Would the beauty of things be not hindered, now that they no longer would be temporary? It is this shortness of time that makes things all the more wonderful, and how not to grow insensible to it if there was no end to find?
“Immortality,” Mairon says, echoing her thoughts. “The Lord of Darkness can grant it as well; in exchange for devotion.”
Ar-Pharazôn lets go of Mairon’s hair, leaning back in his throne. “I will never bow before another. I am King, and the King of Kings in your stead now that you have forfeited this title.”
“It is not bowing before another, your majesty,” Mairon rectifies, still smiling. “Melkor is no man, nor elf, nor one of the beings bound by flesh as we are. You would not bow to someone, you would bow to the very concept of freedom. It is as bowing to the basic needs of feelings, the three-dimensions of this world, sleep, desires, my lord. Praying to Melkor shall take naught of your power, on the contrary, it shall enhance it.”
A concept. It is a strange notion, one that Tar-Míriel can not truly wrap her thoughts around. Or is it, really? She hums, a soft noise that breaks the silence without attracting their gazes, and thinks more deeply of it. Does she not, already, bow to a concept? She seeks the freedom of Númenor, and in Mairon does she find it. It is not the Maia she bows to; not for him that she had told him of Ar-Pharazôn’s heart, it is for what he represents.
“How so?” Ar-Pharazôn breathes.
“Veneration,” Mairon says. “Through veneration shall he give you a fraction of his power; and through it, will you rise above all that had ever been. Time shall have no power upon you; and you shall find in yourself a strength that you had not recognized to exist.”
“How can I be sure of your words? You could be lying.”
“I could,” Mairon agrees. His amber eyes shine when he hums, and then does he kneel- one knee on the ground, eyes riveted on Ar-Pharazôn. “Yet you had seen the truth for yourself. Long had the Eldar shivered before me, and yet I hold only a fraction of Melkor’s power. So long that the Valar themselves closed their eyes on my actions. If I can force them to stay in those shores of them, what of you, your majesty, who triumphed over me?”
Ar-Pharazôn lets out an exhale; hunger bright in his eyes. “And what of Melkor himself? What of I? What pushes you to help me in such a way? Would you not rather seek the freedom of your master, rather than mine?”
“My master…” Mairon’s words are trailing in the wind. “I already told you, your majesty, I bow to the highest power. When Melkor will grant you his powers…” and it is a when, not an if, Ar-Pharazôn’s evident greed assuring them all of the truth of the statement. “-well, your majesty, if the Valar themselves bow before you, why would Melkor be so different?”
Ar-Pharazôn lets out a surprised laugh. Tar-Míriel fidgets in her throne. Perhaps Ar-Pharazôn can not hear it, lost in his ambition, but she does; and there is such a deep intensity in Mairon’s throne that it unsettles her. He speaks of Melkor as one speaks of his own heart; and each enunciation of the name of the Lord of Darkness is made with devotion.
Mairon never shall bow before Ar-Pharazôn; and neither shall Melkor, the Eldar King. It is not merely a matter of might; but because the tone of Mairon is not of one speaking of a despotic Master. It is the tone of one who would follow him to the darkest path there was, to the ends of earth and beyond.
(it is, almost, one of love)
Tar-Míriel recognizes it easily. It is the same tone she uses when saying Númenor.
“What of I?” Ar-Pharazôn repeats, quietly.
“Because I saw something in your eyes, your majesty,” Mairon murmurs. “I saw it that day; when I fell to my knees and you stood before me, all golden and mighty. I saw something that I had not dared to hope for; and in it, the will and possibility for something greater.”
Tar-Míriel is quiet when she rises from her throne; making her way out of the room. There is a heaviness in her chest; one that deeply unsettles her. It is born out of the indulgence in Ar-Pharazôn’s gaze, the cold hunger in it, as if Mairon is a coveted prize that he has to conquer. Concepts, Tar-Míriel thinks, can not be conquered; and are not prizes to be claimed.
Doing so was sullying them.
The first temple finishes its construction five months later. It is a ridiculous amount of time; but Ar-Pharazôn had brought men from all Arda to build it, and once the whispers of immortality had begun to reach the people; they had been working on it day and night.
Tar-Míriel finds Mairon standing before it.
Númenor is calling him the Zigûr, the King’s Wizard. It is a title both feared and awed upon; and before long no one ever says Þauron to speak of him. Forgotten title, abandoned in the dirt; and should one enunciate it- only vacant gaze would meet him back, uncomprehensive.
Mairon is dressed the part for the inauguration, Tar-Míriel supposes. Marking of ink and blood sprawled over his face, white cloth adorned with gold embroidery, jewellery on every inch of flesh. Gold, gold, gold- so much of it that it dizzies her.
Mairon speaks of Melkor in front of an ever-growing crowd, and the people cheer him for it. He speaks of freedom and gifts; and the crowd screams praise and devotion. Behind him has Nimloth already fallen, the sacred tree slayed at the root. A proof, Mairon’s low voice had said, of their rebellion against the Valar’s oppression; the elves’ most hideous theft. People had cheered, and many had stepped forward to light up a branch, taking part in the burning of the great tree.
Now, Mairon rises the first knife, for an orc brought to their prisons months ago; and the crowd chants and applause as blood sinks into the temple’s floor.
Their eyes meet; Mairon covered in dark blood, Tar-Míriel immaculate in her dark robes.
Naught is said.
They do not need to.
He never thanks her for her support. They are both deeply aware that should have Tar-Míriel said anything, Þauron never would have left the prisons. Instead she had come with secrets and a proposition; and now the streets endlessly pray for Melkor’s favour.
Morgoth, Tar-Míriel says in the vicinity of her mind. Not particularly to ostracize the thought of this Lord of Darkness, but because she does not want to lose sight of herself. She is doing this for Númenor, and this is to Númenor that she prays at night; for Ar-Pharazôn to drown himself in his greed and her city to outlive him.
“It is a pretense,” Mairon tells her one day, both kneeling in front of Melkor’s altar. It is a dark thing, darkened by dry blood from its most recent sacrifice. (Tar-Miriel does not want to know about it, she had protested- and she had pleaded- but sacrifices were necessary had Mairon quietly said, to prune Númenor of its rotten branches. Think of them as traitors, he had murmured.) “There shall be no freeing of Melkor, no immortality given by the Lord of Darkness.”
Tar-Míriel smiles, a faint, sad, thing. “I am aware. I do not seek immortality.”
“And why is that?”
“I am not certain it would please me. The beauty of life is in its ephemeral aspect.”
Mairon has his eyes riveted on the altar, not once diverting them to her. “Beauty of life is not all there is to it, Tar-Míriel. Purpose, I would think, exceeds the short life of men. Purpose, and certainly, devotion.”
“My devotion will not end with my death,” Tar-Míriel says. “It is as much a part of me as my own flesh, and it will survive me.”
“Perhaps. But to act on such purpose requires to be living. Your own is Númenor; I would be the last of fools to be blind to it. You wish for its might, no- ah- not necessarily. You wish for it to survive, and for it to be at peace, and free. There is no other than you wishing it more fervently. Having more time at your disposition would allow your wish to come true.”
“It will come true nonetheless,” Tar-Míriel tells him. “I have given you insights on Ar-Pharazôn for I know that naught can be a more dangerous threat that one’s own ambition. His greed will be his downfall; but I refuse for it to be Númenor’s. He will fall; and fall alone. I do not care If I am there to see it or not.”
Mairon finishes his silent prayer before turning to her. “I do, I suppose.”
Tar-Míriel laughs. It surprises him as much as her; a free laugh escaped from her lips – and she do not remember for how long had she not laughed.
“I respect such devotion,” Mairon admits, at last. “It is not a common feature, most especially in those so close to power. If harnessed-”
She gives him an apologetic smile. “There is place only for Númenor in my heart. As there is only place for your Lord in yours.”
Mairon is startled- a quick series of emotions flashing on his face.
“I am not blind either,” Tar-Míriel continues before the grimace on his features morphs into spitting words. “Worship is never short of awe nor fear; but for love to be within it, then it suggests further closeness than usual servitude.”
Mairon considers her for a second; calmer than her previous words had caused him to be.
“It is a pity,” he murmurs. “-that your throne would have been stolen so easily because of your condition of a woman. It amazes me, I suppose; for such small differences to have so greater consequences. It amazes me; and I believe that it warrants itself a consolation prize.”
“A consolation prize?”
Mairon hums. “I had wanted to offer it to Ar-Pharazôn,” he says. “Long before I set foot in Númenor. I had made it to his taste and to Númenor’s fashion. Everything had been carefully planned.”
Tar-Míriel laughs, again. It seems that doing so once would smoothen the following others; and she is not as surprised when the sound escapes her.
“How a wonder it would be if plans always were followed,” she tells him. “Their strength resides in their flexibility; or nothing would be ever done at all.”
“And this is precisely why such a precious gift should be given to you in his stead.”
“To me? What is it?”
Mairon contemplates her for a second. Then, in a movement so quick she had almost not been able to see it, he picks a ring from one of his fingers and seizes her wrist.
“Take it,” he says.
In his spread palm, the ring lays. It is inoffensive a thing, Tar-Míriel thinks, but must be the most deceptive of all. More often than not what is inconspicuous holds dangerous edges; and a gift is never just a gift.
It is golden. Of course. How could it be anything but? Golden – and in its center, a blue stone, the color of Númenor’s sea. Of Ar-Pharazôn’s and Tar-Míriel’s robes.
She takes it, but does not put it on. Not yet. It buzzes warmly between her fingers; as if- as if there is a song humming within it, a song of power and promises.
“I always will be devoted to Númenor first,” Tar-Míriel says.
“I am aware,” Mairon tells her back.
She slips it on her index, and it hums against her skin – a warmth that she had not entirely expected. It is full of life – and something else entirely that she can not quite express. As if- a tug at her very core, at her soul; and she feels herself drawn by it in a way she can not comprehend… It is as if there is a part of this feeling she has when looking upon Mairon of greaterconceptdevotionfreedompromises, forever intertwined with her.
“A gift,” Mairon whispers, Þauron, never more Zigûr than in this moment. “Of greater value than anything you have ever possessed.”
Tar-Míriel breathes and the ring breathes in concert.
She feels, perhaps for the first time, content.
Tar-Míriel hears the echoes of the drums. Faint sound passing through her windows, keeping her awake at night. She presses pillows against her ears to stop herself from hearing them, but it does very little – and she hears the thu-dûm thu-dûm thu-dûm of the drums like a symphony she can not escape from.
The ring is buzzing against her skin. She dares not to take it off; and the one time she caressed the thought of it, there had been such a deep anger and reluctance in her chest that it had left breathless.
Ar-Pharazôn is asleep next to her. He fears not the drums, even smiles upon going to bed, lulled to sleep by their litany.
Slowly, she dresses. A robe thrown upon her night gown and she does not need servants for this; and it is barefoot that she escapes the room.
Outside of it, the drums are even louder.
She knows what they say, each thu-dûm scanding war. It is not their sound that she hears now, but what they mean: war, war, war, war, war.
Tar-Míriel can not stand it.
She follows her steps without having a destination in mind. She lets herself be guided by them, by the soft hum of the ring on her finger. It is no surprise then, when she finds herself standing in front of one of Morgoth’s temples, the moon still high in the sky above her.
Even less of a surprise when once more does she find Mairon waiting there; kneeling before a statue of gold and onyx. He has his forehead pressed to the floor, white robes falling freely on him, and his hair has finally reached past the center of his back, let loose for once.
Tar-Míriel does not speak. She takes careful steps until she reaches the altar, and if Mairon does not move, she knows for him to be aware of her presence. She kneels then, slowly, pulling her robe up as to press her bare knees to the ground; and lowers herself until her forehead touches the ground as well.
She prays then; not to Morgoth despite his statue, nor to any of the Valar. She prays to herself – to keep strength in trying times; and to not lose sight of her purpose, and she prays to the heart of Númenor itself. She prays to the city; and the life within it; and when her prayers are done- Tar-Míriel prays one more time.
She prays to the one kneeling next to her. She prays to Þauron, Mairon, Zigûr. She prays to him; and she prays for the one who has wormed his way to Ar-Pharazôn’s heart – and never before had freedom seemed so close to taste.
Mairon rises to his full height before she does.
“You would pray for me,” he says. “When there is one far more deserving before you?”
Tar-Míriel takes her time before answering. She pulls down her robe, and slowly, rises to her feet.
“Pray for your Lord of Darkness,” she tells him. “I shall pray for the one who has made me silent promises and acted on them.”
“Not yet,” Mairon sharply rectifies. “Not yet.”
She makes a soft noise. “I never thought Power did not corrupt.”
“And yet you still pray to me?”
“It is a different kind of corruption for you,” she admits, unashamed. “You seek a greater purpose than the satisfaction of your own greed. You wish for Arda to be shaped differently- devoid of men’s greed and hunger for scraps of power. You are corrupted in a way that you do not trust another hand to act upon your design; you are corrupted in a way that you forget how justifying the means to an end eats you away. You will lose parts of yourself if continuing in such a way. You are corrupted in a way that you no longer trust the hands that have made you, grown disappointed in them.”
“And yet,” Mairon repeats, voice as cutting as a knife. “You still pray to me.”
His anger is sharp; and the humming of her ring sharper even. It reminds herself to her; growing displeased with its maker’s dissatisfaction. A work of art, she muses; to feel so deeply while being inanimate.
“I meant no disrespect,” she says. “I have learned that it takes much deeper affronts to outrage you.”
Mairon looks at her with sharp eyes. “Words of disrespect usually cause it to follow.”
“Ah, but it would do you a far greater one than to give you sweet lies.” Tar-Míriel passes a hand over her robes, then. “I have prayed to Valar before,” she admits. “It did not bring me the peace I sought. Perhaps it is time to pray for another kind of deity. One that does not say itself kind and right; while turning a blind eye to the suffering of Middle-Earth.”
Mairon inclines his head, curious. “I would not have thought you to believe the tales I fed Ar-Pharazôn.”
“All lies are based on the truth. I wonder if you did lie to me. Would you tell me if you did?”
“I thought you once said you would not know.”
Tar-Míriel sighs. “Ah, true. Forget my words. I could not know if it would be truth or not, once more; and I suppose I prefer my current incertitude.”
Once more Mairon’s eyes pierce through her; as stunningly enchanting as ever with their golden hue. Gold, she fears, might be the undoing of men- be it in harsh metal or flickering irises.
“It will not be much longer,” Mairon says.
“I shall wait eagerly then. How can you bear the sound of drums?”
Mairon grins; a sharp-edged, wolfish grin which he has given to none but her.
“When you have heard the trumpets of the West, no sound can ever be as terrible.”
She hears them, then. The Trumpets of the West. She is standing in the throne room when they begin – merely five days after Ar-Pharazôn has sailed West. She hears them- and her blood freezes in her flesh.
The world freezes.
Ar-Pharazôn has reached Valinor then. It is with trembling hands that Tar-Míriel dismisses the court. They are still shaking when she runs to the harbor; and when she stands at the very edge of it, gaze riveted on the horizon.
She looks at her hands. There is one finger that is not shaking- circled as it is by a band of gold.
She does not know where Mairon is- praying- or in the palace- fear curls in her chest; so deep, so raw that she can not breathe.
Tar-Míriel has her gaze riveted on the horizon.
She is the first one to see the Wave.
The first one to drown.
Tar-Míriel wakes up to water in her lungs. She breathes and she finds that she can not; spitting, vomiting dead water as she hunches forward. Her lungs are burning, burning, burning; and each breath is a wheeze-
Númenor has fallen. Númenor has fallen. Númenor has fallen.
NúmenorhasfallenNúmenorhasfallenhasfallenhasfallenhasfallenhasfallenhasfallenhasfallenhasfallen
Númenor, her bright Númenor, her purpose, her life; and she has no reason to breathe she should not be breathing she should not it had not been as she had envisioned it ar-pharazôn was supposed to fall not Númenor not bright not golden Númenor
Her finger is burning as well. A call that she is obliged to answer, and there she is, vomiting dead water, hunched forward as she wheezes and sobs-
Númenor has fallen.
She is without a purpose- without a life. She should not have survived. She remembers the wave; and the fear and those trumpets – she can still hear them. It is ingrained in her ears and she laughs, she laughs, finally understanding what Mairon had said that day-
Mairon, who she had trusted, who had brought Númenor to fall-
There is a hand on her wrist.
Tar- (nothing to rule upon, nothing to save, Númenor has fallen) Míriel rises her eyes.
There is someone kneeling in front of her. She does not recognize him at first. In fact she would not have, if her gaze had not been met with a fiery one – golden, amber eyes that she would recognize everywhere. Ashen skin, paper-thin, scars barring the face; black circles under his eyes and mouth twisted in a perpetual frown. White locks falling on his shoulders, bordering on grey, their texture akin to wool.
Even the voice that falls out of his lips is harsher, as nails scratching against a wall.
(and she does not notice he speaks another language, one she understands)
“Míriel. You once spoke to me about devotion. Númenor has fallen, because of the greed of men and the cowardice of the Powers of the West. There is naught left to you. Yet I have gifted you life; and saved you of Ar-Pharazôn’s downfall. What says you of devotion now?”
The Powers- it is them- them who have done this. They had feared- and they needed not to strike Númenor as well, Númenor who had nothing, nothing- but they had drowned it- and they had drowned her.
Her breath comes in raspy wheezes. She does not feel alive, not entirely. But she has a body; and she breathes, and speaks : does it not mean she is alive?
And Mairon (Þauron) has saved her. Her eyes fall to the ring, its never-ending hum around her finger.
“I will make you a kingdom,” He says. There had been such beauty on his features and it has all faded- and Míriel does not dare to think of herself. She was never vain, but her features, her beauty had been hers. “Another, brighter than Númenor. One that no one shall ever take from you. You have proved yourself devoted, Míriel. Will you not give me your devotion when I have given you life?”
Míriel thinks of Númenor. She does want another kingdom, hers had been brighter than all. But Númenor has fallen; and there is naught for her; and if she can not die, if she can not die-
“Yes,” she whispers.
Þauron grins. It is a terrible thing on what is left of his face, too many sharp teeth exposed; skin cracking around the edge of it.
Her finger burns.
“The Queen was sad,” Míriel says then.
Þauron looks at her with piercing eyes. “She was. What of it?”
“I do not want to anymore. I have been sad for far too long. The Queen was sad; and the King has caused Númenor to fall; and the Queen is dead.”
“A King then?” Þauron tells her. “A King made to rule Angmar on his own terms, and who shall never have his power stolen from him. A King of my Nazgul, and those who bow before them.”
“Angmar,” Míriel repeats, tasting the word. Her voice will never be soft anymore, half between a shriek and a threat. Then- “You will never bring Mo-” she fumbles on the name, finding that she can not speak it. She settles for the alternative. “-Melkor back.”
“You will never bring Númenor back. It has been engulfed by the Great Sea.”
“What now?” she whispers.
Þauron rises her to her feet. She wobbles still; drenched in dead water, but manages to stand on her own. Her ring burns deep on her finger. She does not even think of taking it out.
“Now,” he promises. “You rise.”
[1] Litterally : worth, after loss, recognized – I used Quenya, the alphabet of Valarin & globally my own desires for it.