Silmarillion Writers' Guild The Axes of a Soul by Eärillë

“’Tis so unfair!”

The angry sentence repeated in her mind like a mantra as she ran, slipping ever so often on the rocky, sloping terrain. The cold, hungry waves nipped at her bare ankles. The rainstorm shook her around and pommelled her like a new sapling. Her jeweled sandals had been forsaken when she had fled the palace, just like her outer robes and fineries. But it was not enough. She had almost reached the top of the mountain, yet the waves were ever right behind her, hungering for her body.

She had not condoned her husband’s infiltration to the Lands of the Powers. – She had no right to, given that her husband had stolen the throne from her all those years ago. – But why was she punished alongside all those men hungry for more and more and more power and wealth? Why could the Powers not have allowed the island to stand, and her to rule as its rightful queen?

She put the last burst of speed, and crested the mountaintop. And a finger of salty water buffeted her to the ground, face first.

“Enough!” she cried to the roaring wind and pelting rain, tears of humiliation and severe exhaustion stinging her flushing cheeks. “Enough!” she sobbed, begging. – But she would not go down like this. Standing up and forcing herself to face the raging sea around her, she cried, “Have pity on me, oh Lords of the West! Have pity!”

The waves were besieging her now, trapping her in an island the width of her body. She was a pathetic, frail thing on the jaws of the monster… but she refused to be eaten by it; not when there was another way… There must be another way.

The biggest wave so far approached the spot of land she stood on. She took a step back in reflex – and her feet met the waterline. Her alarm grew exponentially, as well as her desperation.

“Please!” She switched to the High Tongue of the Elves, banned and long forgotten by her people. “Please let me live!”

The wave came upon her, and in the foamy formation on its crest she spied the resemblance of a face – twisted by either rage or misery. – And a voice rumbled in her mind, “Proud daughter of the Island, you plead for mercy for yourself.”

“Aye, Lord, I do.” She quaked on her feet. The rolling wave was bearing down on her, raining her with debris and salty droplets of water. And the face neared, its eyes flashing. – She fell to her knees.

“Why only now, proud daughter of the Island. Have you ever put any consideration on those you have forsaken in your flight alone to safety? Have you ever pleaded mercy for them, and for the land itself? You, who calls yourself queen over them…”

“Have pity, Lord,” she whimpered, all shreds of dignity gone. She dared not reflect on what he said. Not now. Not now… “Have mercy on this last scion of Elros the First Father…” she whispered to the sodden soil beneath her, unable to look into those glowing orbs any longer and suffer the emotions pouring forth from them; the roiling rage born of anguish and disappointment… She was pleading mercy to the builder of the island, whom she had scoffed together with her husband and that slimy, treacherous Sauron. Ellenna was a gift – had been – and her inhabitants had forgon that knowledge, going prideful and arrogant. And now whom had built her for them was confronting her, and she found herself lacking.

She hated the feeling, and she hated her thanklessness. She had turned into what her husband had become; her husband whom she had been hating in secret.

“Have mercy, Lord.” It was no more than a breath.

The wave broke above her head, drenching her, drowning her, choking her—

It numbed her, gripped her, twisted her in its icy, merciless fingers. – She shrieked, but what she heard was the piping and whistling of a dolphin.

“You are not the last scion of your House, child.” The voice returned, gentler now. The waves pushed her slick body onwards, away from her drowned birthland, away from where she knew Aman lay – where her husband was now. “Seek for the ships of your brethren and guide them ashore – out of the storms.”

She swam and bounded towards the north of Middle-earth, following the guidance of the waves and currents. She would redeem herself; if this was the way, then she would do it. Míriel, the last queen of lost Ellenna, would not die in debt.

Author's Notes

My knowledge of the Second Age is chancy at best. (And I have never made any story with Númenor as its setting before this.) I am sorry if I did anything wrong in this, especially with the names and the recent history before the Downfall of Númenor. But still, I would love to dedicate this to the late Lady Roisin, who loved this age most of all.

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