Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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Rumours and Suspicions

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Fíriel stretched her legs before her, careful not to drop the tray they had brought with her dinner, and examined the food in vague disgust. She was not feeling sick, though she had come up with this excuse to stay in her own room for an entire day. But she was not hungry, and she did not want to see anyone, not even Gimilzagar, who was probably mad with worry by this point. She felt sorry for him, and a part of herself loved him more than ever for not forcing his presence here despite her wishes. But she did not want him to read her mind. Unless she managed to find a way to bury her thoughts so deep that he would be unable to find them, she could not face him.

“You must eat something”, Isnayet crooned, taking her hand in hers as if she was a small child. “The Prince of the West wants you to get well. Do you see this? It is the soup he used to eat whenever he was suffering through one of his spells of sickness. The Lady Milkhaset’s cook made it for you.”

Gimilzagar’s spells of sickness. Those that would not be healed by eating soup, drinking medicine or lying in bed, because they were nothing else than the abyss of death opening again beneath his feet. An abyss that would not be closed unless it was fed the souls of other people. She had known that, or at least thought that she did, until now. Was she such a terrible hypocrite, that she could make peace with an atrocity as long as it involved others?

With great effort, Fíriel took a spoonful of the soup and put it in her mouth. It tasted of fish, though the taste was soft and seasoned by spices that she could not recognize. It was wonderful, and yet she needed a great deal of determination not to choke on it.

She was no hypocrite. And she was not afraid of being dragged against her will to an altar of fire together with all those unfortunate people, because that was not where her true value lay. As Zigûr –Sauron- had said, anyone could be sacrificed, but the only real, long-lasting sacrifice was the one that was done willingly. That was why Ar Zimraphel had gone through so much trouble to find her and get her, and also why, though she was the Queen of Númenor, she had suffered herself to be thwarted for so long by mere peasants and exiles. Fíriel needed to love Gimilzagar, to come to Armenelos willingly, and to be ready to sacrifice everything she had for his sake. Only then, she would truly be prepared for the role devised for her.

Fíriel could only imagine Gimilzagar’s reaction when he heard about this. Of course, he would never comply with his mother’s schemes willingly. Back when he lay in his sickbed, he had promised Fíriel that he would die for her if necessary, and she was certain that he would never agree to let her life force flow through his veins. But, did any of them have the right to refuse? If there was a way to end this curse, to prevent people from dying every year for his failing health, wouldn’t they deserve to be thrown into the deepest and darkest hell for turning their backs on it? That was the real question, the one that gnawed at Fíriel’s mind ever since that fateful encounter with the monster who called himself High Priest. Perhaps that was what she had been born for –to die so others would be saved, to be sacrificed in an altar so the heir to the Sceptre of Númenor could finally have his life back in his own hands. And if this was so, could she simply turn her back to the truth?

Truth? What truth? her inner Lord Amandil interrupted her thoughts. All that you have is the testimony of a spirit whose heart is blacker than Eternal Darkness, and whose capacity for deceit is unparalleled. You should know better than to listen to him.

If only there could be a way to check on this information without inviting suspicion, she thought feverishly, almost choking with her second mouthful of soup. Sauron had mentioned Lord Isildur and her father, and though she had always known that the latter had saved the former’s life, she had never been made aware of the details. Now, Isildur was in Rómenna and could not set foot in Armenelos, while Fíriel was in Armenelos and could not set foot in Rómenna. She could not even send him a letter that would not be intercepted and opened, as there was no one she could trust in this entire Palace, except for the very person that she least wanted to learn about this.

“That is why I told you that trust was important. That we needed to be a team.” Horrified, she raised her glance from the dish before her, to see the Queen standing at the threshold of the room. She must have forced her entry to her quarters while Fíriel was too absorbed by her own musings to even notice. “Lord Zigûr is cunning enough to take advantage of the smallest fissure to create a wedge for his own purposes –and as you are the most naïve link of the chain, he has started with you. Fortunately, his manoeuvres do not escape me.”

“M-my Queen.” Out of immediate instinct, Fíriel rose from the bed, and rushed to kneel on the cold floor. Ar Zimraphel did not stop her -probably because she knew that she was not truly sick-, but when the young woman rose, she motioned her to sit by her side. Everybody else had left, leaving the two of them alone in the chamber. Though the rational side of Fíriel knew that none of the women in the Palace were her friends, and that, even if they were, they would never stand between her and the Queen, she still felt a little more helpless without company.

“Fíriel, Fíriel”, Ar Zimraphel sighed, as if she was a fond mother scolding an errant child. “Like your mother, you are so determined to think the worst of me that Lord Zigûr immediately saw the advantages of attributing me the role of the villain.” She anticipated the girl’s protest, silencing her with a sharp gesture with her hand. “I will not disabuse you of this notion, as I believe it is a waste of time by this point. But there are other notions I want to clarify with you before my son gets wind of what happens to you, and he tries to kill himself for you in a grand gesture of love.”

Fíriel sat still, not knowing what to say, what to do, even what to think. Somewhere in the back of her mind, many questions were fighting desperately to emerge to the surface, but they would never make it past the knot in her throat.

“Yes, Fíriel” the Queen continued, as if they were holding a conversation between equals, instead of a monologue. “Zigûr was right about your father and his friend Isildur. He is also right about what you could do for Gimilzagar, if you died for him willingly. That is what he does –he speaks many truths, and just one lie among them.”

This time, Fíriel could not prevent herself from asking.

“And what is that lie?”

“The lie is that I brought you here for this purpose. Not because I would not wish you to die for my son if I believed this could work, but because I am not stupid enough to think it would. Long ago, I came to the conclusion that he would never accept your sacrifice, and might even feel inclined to forestall it by a sacrifice of his own.”

“What if he had no time to prevent it?” Little by little, Fíriel was growing bolder. “What if I was dead, and the only choice he had was between accepting the sacrifice and refusing it? Would he truly choose to let my death be in vain?”

“Oh, I see.” Ar Zimraphel sighed again. “You are thinking like a heroine now. Like the martyr that a part of you has wanted to be ever since it entered your mind that you were responsible for the death of others. Guilt is such a poisonous thing, is it not? Once it is inside you, you can never exorcise it completely, and it will drive you to attempt the greatest atrocities against yourself and others. That is why I have never allowed such a noxious emotion anywhere near me. My son deserves to be loved by someone who keeps a clear head and would never ruin his life in an attempt to help him.”

I did not ruin his life; it was ruined long before I met him, she wanted to say, but it did not matter that the words had not come through her mouth, for she knew that the Queen could hear them anyway. Not for the first time since the conversation with Zigûr, she wondered how Gimilzagar’s life could have been if it had belonged to him alone –if he did not depend on others to breathe and walk. Would he be strong enough one day to take the Island’s fate into his hands? To defy his father and the demon who dispensed him small morsels of borrowed life, and become a good King who would not tolerate sacrifices or persecutions in the lands that he ruled?

“That is the notion which I wished to correct, Fíriel”, Ar Zimraphel spoke, tearing her away from her thoughts. “Even if my son would let you die for his sake, even if he could be brought to accept your sacrifice by considerations of the greater good without this destroying him utterly, Gimilzagar will never be King of Númenor. He will never have the chance to change anything. Your death would not help the Faithful, or the people of Middle-Earth, or anyone. You are nothing but a small pebble trying to change the raging course of the river of Fate.”

Fíriel gaped. For a moment, she caught herself blinking, not sure if this was even real –if she was having this conversation, or it was just an overly vivid dream of those she often had of late, whenever she finally managed to close her eyes on her worries.

“What? Why?” It occurred to her that her mother would scold her for trusting the Queen’s words as much as she had trusted Zigûr’s –for being so naïve, time and again, before those who only wanted to use her for their own, dark purposes. But she could not help it. She did not control her own emotions, which even now were running wildly away from her grasp. “What do you see in his future?” In her agitation, she fell to her knees again, and sought the cold, black eyes with a beseeching look. “Please, my lady, my Queen, tell me!”

Perhaps the Queen’s tone was softer than it usually was when she addressed her, or perhaps it was simply her imagination playing tricks on her again.

“Gimilzagar’s future is not what is in question here, my child. He is merely a mortal, and like every other mortal, he will die one day. But his father has decided to wage war on the Baalim to acquire immortality. And whether he wins or loses, there will be no more kings in Númenor.” She sighed, and then, as if oblivious to Fíriel’s great shock, she extended a hand to caress a strand of her hair. “Gimilzagar has suspected this for a long time, and every night he dreams of it. No matter how the King tries to hide his secret counsels from him, his powers are too strong. If you truly want to help him, discard those vain thoughts of death and return to his side, because he will need you in the years to come.”

Fíriel could feel her pent up fear and anguish erupt in great, heaving breaths, and before she could prevent it, she was crying. Unexpectedly, the Queen stood from the bed, and knelt by her side to gather her in an embrace. At first she lay still, unwilling to give in to it and yet too afraid to pull away, but Ar Zimraphel persisted, until Fíriel felt herself surrendering to the warm comfort of the body wrapped around hers. It was surprisingly easy to do so, to dissociate comfort and warmth from the awareness of the twisted mind behind them. All of a sudden, she was not even sure that this twisted mind had not been just a figment of her frightened imagination. What if the Queen was just a woman like her, trapped between the love for her husband and child and the knowledge of the devastation they wrought? Perhaps, for all this time, both had merely been trying to survive.

Oh, you are hopeless, the Ilmarë in her mind sighed, as if she could not believe it. First, you trust the Deceiver, and now you fall in the arms of a manipulator. You might not be brought to die on an altar, but you will never be anything but a victim. And I am no longer there to save you from yourself.

“But I am”, Zimraphel whispered in her ear. “I will never let any harm come to you, Fíriel. One day, even your mother will have to thank me for looking after you where she could not. In the meantime, I will be satisfied if you listen to me. “She withdrew a little, and wiped her tears with her sleeve. “There, that is much better. Go now, Gimilzagar is waiting for you.”

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, the young woman began nervously arranging her hair.

“What if he… sees this? All of this?” She did not need to specify for the Queen to know what she meant. “Please, my lady, teach me how to hide it from him!”

The Queen smiled indulgently.

“As I already told him many times, that is something that cannot be taught. And even if it could, you would not be able to learn it. You are made of feelings, Fíriel. To teach you to hide them would be like teaching an Orc not to be evil.” She shook her head, and struggled to her feet, extending a hand to help Fíriel as well. “But do not fear. He has known his father’s plans for a long time, and they have been tormenting him day and night. When he sees your turmoil, he will even forget his own worries to try to comfort you. That may do him some good.”

But Fíriel still did not move.

“Is… Númenor in peril, then?” She remembered Gimilzagar’s dark thoughts the night after they returned from the King’s Festival, with the smell of burned flesh lingering on their hair, their skin and their clothes. His idea that Númenor would fall and nobody would listen to their pleas because they had not listened to those of others. Had it been more than mere morbidity, then – had it been part of his prophetic dreams? She shivered.

Ar Zimraphel, however, seemed to be no longer in the mood for sharing secrets. Regaining her full composure, she shook her head reproachfully.

“That is not how the dreams work. They show possibilities – sometimes only those that you fear the most, or even those that you secretly desire the most. Gimilzagar might learn to establish the difference someday.” She saw that Fíriel was going to open her mouth, and forestalled her objection. “He will know what he needs to know when he needs to know it, and so will you. Now, what you needed to know was that your death would accomplish nothing, so I told you. The rest is meaningless, and you should not inquire further.”

“But, my Queen…”

“I thought we were beginning to trust each other.”

Fíriel looked at her beseechingly again.

“Please, tell me only one thing. Will Gimilzagar live? Will he be safe? I swear I will not ask anything else if you tell me this. I swear I will not bother you again.”

Zimraphel sighed, and seemed to be struggling with her better judgement for a while. Ilmarë would have said she was pretending, that everything, even this hesitation, was a lie, and yet Fíriel had never seen anyone pretend so well.

“Fíriel, if I ever saw a future where my son suffered a terrible fate, I would change everything to save him, even if it meant the death of millions. “I would not merely have sacrificed my reputation or my wellbeing, but also that of others, Ilmarë had confessed, that evening by the seaside. “So rest assured, he will always be safe.”

Long after the Queen of Númenor had disappeared past the threshold, and Lady Isnayet had tiptoed inside the room again to pick up the cold food on the tray, Fíriel had not yet moved from her position, or emerged from the maze of her thoughts.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

The Wave rose above the horizon, a fast approaching menace that roared like thunder as it swallowed every light in the sky. He stood waiting for its impact without moving a muscle, paralyzed by an overpowering awareness of the futility of it all. He would not stop it; nobody could. And nobody could escape it, either.

“That is what those of your ilk tell yourselves, nothing more. Look at me, Amandil! I will not surrender. I am going to fight to the bitter end, and even if I fail, nobody will remember me as a coward like you.”

His old friend was standing on the prow of a war galley, attired in his resplendent golden armour. The blue cloak that Númenórean admirals wore at sea flapped with the wind, and he was staring at him with challenge in his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Amandil asked, taken by a feeling of horror which he could not fully define. “What have you done?”

Pharazôn smiled.

“I am becoming immortal.”

The former lord of Andúnië gazed beyond him, and he saw more ships, countless ships covering the entire expanse of the Sea until his eyes could not go any further. They were sailing straight towards the Wave, thousands of prows pointing at it as if in an attack manoeuvre.

“No!” he shouted. “You cannot do this! You have to turn back!”

But Pharazôn merely shrugged. The smirk in his face reminded Amandil of their fearless youth, when they stood alone against a pack of Orcs in a cave in Harad. Back then, he had never been able to tell if his friend was truly fearless, exceptionally good at pretending, or just a fool. Now, he suddenly realized that it did not matter – that it never had.

“You turn back, Amandil. Turn back, and find a place to hide until this is over. I will not. I have never hidden from my destiny, which is why I have everything and you have nothing, for you chose to give it up without a fight.”

Amandil woke up with his brow covered in cold sweat, and his throat hoarse from screaming. As a resort, he rose from his bed, discarding the tangled covers with the urgency of a man freeing himself from bondage. Then, he abandoned the room, and rushed through the corridors until he reached a small terrace with a view of the Sea.

It was still night outside, a cloudy, moonless night that made it very difficult to see anything around him. And yet, he could hear the soothing sound of the rising tide breaking against the cliff under his feet. For a long time, he merely stood there, listening to the regular beat of the water as it moved back and forth, then back and forth again. In his dreams, this never happened –the water just left, and this was followed by a clamorous silence that lasted minutes, perhaps hours, until it came back to destroy everything and everyone in its path.

Once he finally came back to his senses, Amandil made an effort to remember what he had just seen. The Wave had been there, as always, but he had also seen Pharazôn, and ships –more ships than he had ever seen in his life, even back when they had sailed to the mainland to invade Mordor. This had an explanation: only the previous day, as he and Elendil had been visiting the Governor’s palace in Sor, they had heard rumours about the Sceptre building new shipyards in the North of the Island. Elendil had frowned and remarked how odd this was, since most of the Sceptre’s armies were already stationed in Middle-Earth and did not need any more ships to go where they were needed. Some merchant had joked that perhaps the King intended to go West, and conquer the Baalim themselves. These light-hearted words had given him a sudden bad feeling, like the cold grip of death closing around his heart. He had been out of sorts enough as to confess to Elendil his worry that the King’s unstoppable lust for glory and risk might lead him to conceive the delusion that, after his defeat of Sauron, he could take on his elder kindred. His son had endeavoured to convince him that it had been a poorly-thought joke and nothing more, and that not even Ar Pharazôn could be so foolish. But Amandil was not so easily humoured, and he had perceived the hidden concern in Elendil’s eyes.

As if in a dream from another life, Amandil remembered the time when he would barge into Pharazôn’s rooms, and confront him about rumours like this. It was almost impossible to believe that he had once been the King’s advisor, the man he trusted above all others. He wondered what would happen to him now if he took a horse, travelled to Armenelos and stood by the gates of the Palace demanding to see Ar Pharazôn. Probably that he would be arrested and thrown into a dark prison to rot until the King no longer remembered that he existed. He had never forgiven him for what he saw as Amandil’s betrayal of their friendship, and he remained too proud and stubborn to ever admit the truth: that of the two of them he, not Amandil, had been the one who had changed under Sauron’s influence.

Once again, the former lord of Andúnië felt tempted to lose himself in speculation, of how everything might have turned out if he had put a greater effort in holding on to his old friendship. If he had held his temper in check better, humoured Pharazôn more, and remained by his side, would his efforts have presented him with a chance to change things now? Almost immediately, however, he berated himself for falling into this trap. He should know well enough by now that such thoughts were useless. If he had done all that, right now he would be no different from the Governor of Sor and the other councilmen and courtiers who crowded the Palace of Armenelos. Pharazôn would not listen to him, just as he never listened to them, and not even Amandil could have come up with a reason why the King should pay heed to a sycophant who bit his tongue every day and lied between his teeth to keep his position. Their friendship would still have died, if a slower, more painful, and less honourable death.

I am becoming immortal, the Pharazôn in his dream had said. Immortality, the one thing that the King of the World still did not have. Amandil had heard abundant rumours of the strained relationship between him and the Prince of the West, and under this light, he could not help but find those words even more ominous.

“Are you still thinking of what that merchant said?” a familiar voice interrupted his turbulent thoughts. Amandil did not turn back; he was not sure that he wanted anyone to see his face right now.

“I have dreamed of it”, he admitted, in a low voice. Elendil leaned on the railing beside him and remained silent for a while, probably mulling this over.

“Even if he were to invade Valinor, do you think that this has a connection to the Wave in your dreams, the one that sinks Númenor?” he finally spoke. “Perhaps it is just him and his mighty army, the ones who are destined to sink. And perhaps this might bring hope to the rest of us.”

“Hope?” Amandil laughed. “If Pharazôn dies and his army is gone, Sauron will make a bid for the Sceptre. And he will probably be successful, I daresay.”

“Without the King and his army, I would fight Sauron for the Sceptre myself”, Elendil retorted. Surprised, Amandil realized that his son’s eyes had a gleam of determination that he had not seen in a long time. “I did not swear fealty to any servant of Morgoth, and I am not scared by his priests, his spies or his sycophants. If it should come to that, I would not let him have this Island.”

In normal circumstances, Amandil would have been impressed by his son’s resolve. But this time he had the dreams clouding his mind, whispering in his ear that everything was in vain –that the Wave meant the doom of all, the end of Númenor, and there was no way out of it. Perhaps it was those dreams, what had made him into a coward. Perhaps they needed a leader like Elendil, who would not be weighed down by them.

Then again, considering Pharazôn’s trajectory, perhaps a cowardly leader was just what they needed right now.

“We must increase the speed of our colonization endeavours up North. Pelargir is no longer a safe haven: if too many Faithful sail from the Island at once, the city council will grow suspicious. Anárion said that the colony he and Isildur built in the land of the Forest People would soon be able to take regular settlers. I think it is time to send him back with a ship full of them.”

“About that.” Elendil gazed down, almost as if he could see the invisible dance of the waters below. “The reason why I am awake is that Eluzîni was summoned to Irimë’s rooms about an hour ago. She has been sick, and – they think she is pregnant.”

“What?” Amandil’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he forgot about his dreams and his worries. “That is wonderful news! You should have told me earlier!”

“I am sorry, Father. As I said, they are not sure yet. But if it turns out to be true, perhaps Anárion should stay here. Isildur could go instead.”

“Isildur still has a child to make, and he will hardly accomplish that task if he is in the mainland all the time”, Amandil retorted. Then, he sighed. “It is too soon to say yet; we will make the provisions once we are certain of Irimë’s news. But keep this in mind, Elendil. If my dreams, and Father’s, come true, it might come to a choice between leaving their families now and dooming them later.”

Elendil did not protest this assessment. With his usual, quick judgement, he seemed to have decided that Amandil’s dreams were a just a higher form of wisdom than his own logic. Unlike Pharazôn, his son had never felt tempted to underestimate what he could not understand.

“I see.” He shook a little, as if suddenly realizing how chilly the air was. “Well, perhaps we should go back inside now, and try to sleep a little before dawn. Eluzîni will be very excited tomorrow, and I will need strength to keep up with her. Also,” He gave Amandil a meaningful glance, “I heard Anárion claim once that the dreams never strike twice on the same night.”

“Do not worry about me,” Amandil’s tone sounded a little cutting, and he endeavoured to soften it with a smile, which still came up tense. No, there would be no more sleep for him tonight. “Old people do not need as many hours of sleep as you young people do.”

“Oh, yes. Twenty years really make a difference when you are a hundred and seventy” Elendil snorted. He probably did not even find it funny, but understood the dismissal of his concern and accepted it. “Good night, Father.”

“Good night, son”, Amandil replied mechanically, his mind once again wandering towards the ship-infested sea, the Wave, and Pharazôn’s arrogant smile.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

“I say it is a boy”, Ilmarë claimed, taking her seat next to the bed where Irimë had been propped over a mountain of silk cushions. “The sickness has started too early for a girl.”

“And I say it is a girl”, Irissë retorted. As she said so, she gave her sister a look of defiance, as if challenging her to object. “Mother always said that she spent all the time vomiting while I was in her womb.”

Irimë looked pale, and her lips were dry, but a woman like her was never too sick to argue.

“There is no way to know that yet. Your arguments are flimsy, based on superstitions and parallels with other women whose constitution had nothing to do with mine.”

“She was our mother!” Irissë cried. “And she had a lot of girls, and only one boy.”

“That is a fallacy” Irimë replied calmly. “I could as well have taken after the house of Hyarnustar and have two boys and a girl, like the Lady Lalwendë here.”

“We were born to the house of Forostar.”

“If you are as stupid as Mother, who could not distinguish ties of blood from ties of adoption, I worry about your own children, the day you have them.”

It was at times like this when Ilmarë missed Fíriel the most, she thought. If she had been here now, she would have been rolling her eyes at her from a safe spot behind the two sisters. Perhaps she had managed to find some complicity even in the hostile wasteland of emotion that was the court of Armenelos, she mused hopefully. She was an honest, innocent, likeable girl: if there was someone who could convince the most warped minds that she did not pose a threat to them, it was her. Even if it was of no real help to Fíriel, Ilmarë had found that at least she could sleep better when she imagined her smiling than when her mind was overwhelmed by considerations of everything that could go wrong.

“I was glad to hear that Anárion would stay until his child is born”, Eluzîni chimed in at that moment, breaking the argument. Irimë’s expression sobered at this. Ilmarë knew it from long acquaintance and observation of her moods, because a stranger would not see the difference, but her eyes grew somewhat narrower and her lips thinner whenever she was really serious.

“He will not stay here. We spoke about it this morning.”

Eluzîni stared at her in dismay.

“What? Why?”

“Because his place is at the other side of the Great Sea.”

“Nonsense! His place is here, with you! Wait for me here, I will go and talk to him…”

“There is no need to do that”, Irimë cut Ilmarë’s mother before she could storm off. “It was my idea.”

“Your idea?” For a moment, it was as if Eluzîni’s brain was simply unable to absorb this statement. “You told him to go? But… why on Earth would you do that?”

Ilmarë saw Irissë shrug, and give her a look that might as well be stating out loud that it was useless to argue with her sister when she had made her mind about some crazy endeavour. Eluzîni, however, was not looking at her.

“He is needed there. Without him, there will be no colony.”

“Isildur will be there! He knows the land just as well, he can handle things by himself for a while!”

Irimë snorted, perhaps a little too unkindly for Ilmarë’s liking.

“Isildur does not even speak the native language. All he cares about is fighting. To organize a settlement and establish diplomatic relationships with allies are tasks that do not interest him, and he is the sort of person who treats what does not interest him as if it did not exist.” All of a sudden, it seemed as if she was looking straight at her sister, whose cheeks flushed in anger.

“That is not true! My husband is capable of fulfilling any task, whether he likes it o –or not.” The second of hesitation was sadly telling; Ilmarë was sure that her mother had noticed it as much as she had. Damn Isildur. “You… you are the one who does not want him to go on his own, because you want your husband to be in control of everything and besides, you are jealous because he is not the heir!”

And Irissë was remarkably quick to recover.

“That is enough, Irissë!” Eluzîni had finally decided to adopt her rare tone of authority. “I will tolerate no childish rivalries in this house. We are all adults and we are aware of our duties and our privileges.” Irissë looked down, ashamed, but not so Irimë, who merely laid her head back on the cushions as if she was a queen on her throne. Though her tone softened again before she addressed her, it was obvious that Eluzîni was feeling bothered by her above all. “Irimë, it is commendable that you show so much concern for the family’s enterprises. But there is no need for such a great sacrifice on your part. Not for this.”

The elder daughter of Lord Hiram shook her head.

“As you said, my lady, I am aware of my duties, and Anárion is aware of his. According to the lord of Andúnië, the colonization project may well be our only salvation in the near future, so nothing should be as important as this right now.”

“Your child is also important”, Eluzîni argued. “If there are no new generations, there will be nothing to save!”

“And yet I can bear it myself.” Her tone of determination was so good that it made Ilmarë feel, deep inside, that continuing to argue the point was useless, even preposterous. If Irimë had been a man she would have usurped the lordship already, she thought, not for the first time. “To be honest, Lady Lalwendë, I would trust you more with the wellbeing of my future child than I would trust any man, even my beloved husband.”

And that, of course, was the final master touch.

“Well, that much is probably true, but…”

The final objection trailed away into nothingness as Irimë’s face paled, and she demanded the basin to throw up again. But Ilmarë could see her mother still looking at her with a vague unease, even as she laid a comforting hand over her shoulder and patted her back.