Without Farewell by Zdenka  

Without Farewell

Mirallë came back to the house at evening and was told that her lord’s son wished to speak with her immediately. It was seldom good news these days. With foreboding, she went to Amandil’s study.

“My lord?”

“Mirallë,” he said heavily. “Inzilbêth has been taken to the palace. The King’s soldiers came for her this afternoon.”

Mirallë turned toward the door at once. Amandil’s voice stopped her. “Mirallë. Where are you going?”

“I will move the heavens and earth to get her back. I will go before the King—”

“It would be useless,” he said sharply. At that, she turned around. Amandil continued, “You would endanger both her and yourself. And her life is not in danger, or not yet. The King intends to wed her.”

Mirallë went still. “And she went? She allowed it?”

“She did not go willingly, Mirallë. When it seemed she would refuse, the King’s guards—I thought there might be a massacre within these walls. We would have fought for her, but Inzilbêth feared the outcome and forbade it. She went with them for the sake of her family.”

“But—to wed him—” Mirallë faltered. “She is—we are— ”

“I know,” Amandil said gently. “My father has gone to speak with other leaders of the Faithful, to take counsel together. My cousin Inzilbêth is dear to all of us.”

Mirallë wished fervently that she were a mighty Elvenlord from the old stories, that she could lead an army to the King’s palace and set Inzilbêth free. But there was nowhere to go, no place of refuge. Númenor was bounded by the sea, and within that realm, there was nowhere the King’s soldiers could not find them. Even if they could flee by ship, they would leave the House of Andúnië and all the Faithful to face the King’s wrath.

Seeing she had no more words, Amandil took a small packet from his desk. “Inzilbêth left this for you.”

Mirallë took it, averting her eyes from the pity in his gaze. Her fingers traced the lumpy shape through the paper, and suddenly she knew what must be inside. “By your leave, my lord,” she choked out, and fled. Clutching the package to her chest, she blindly made her way to her room.

Once she was alone, she untied the package. An amber necklace slid into her hand. Mirallë clutched it tightly. The paper it was wrapped in bore a few lines: poetry, scribbled in haste, most unlike the usual flowing elegance of Inzilbêth’s hand. Three stanzas, and the fourth incomplete.

The amber was cool against her skin; no trace of warmth lingered from Inzilbêth’s body. Yet Mirallë remembered the golden beads circling Inzilbêth’s neck, rising and falling with her quick breathing; her robes half-undone, her shoulders and breasts bared to Mirallë’s loving hands; her dark hair loose and tumbling down her back, her normally solemn face alight with happiness. Inzilbêth murmuring soft words of love as she ran her fingers through Mirallë’s hair.

Inzilbêth had been absorbed in a book when Mirallë left that morning, so Mirallë had only kissed her quickly and departed. If she had known—

Mirallë gave a sob and sank to her knees, holding the necklace close to her with both hands. She did not know how long she stayed there; when she raised her head, the room was fully dark and the amber had grown warm once more in her grasp. But Inzilbêth, Inzilbêth would not return.