Duplicity by Prackspoor  

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Cataclysm (II) - The Sundering

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VIII. The Sundering

 You lead the hobbits through Ithilien, orienting yourself by your own tenuous memories of the place and Sméagol's more recent ones. Sméagol’s memories, however, are just about as useful as they are distracting, because they keep resurfacing at random, often inopportune moments; and when you come back to yourself you find you are mumbling about incoherent things and talking to someone who is not there. At times it gets so bad that you run off into the underbrush in order to hide away from the hobbits, clutching your head in your hands and rocking back and forth on your heels until the memories go away.

It gets worse when you fall asleep. You dream fitfully, restlessly – sometimes of fire, sometimes of darkness. They are not your friends – wherever you try to turn, you are consumed, and there is no middle-ground between those walls of void and flame. And always, always, there is someone following you, some shadow you can only ever see out of the corner of your eye, someone, something that wants to take something from you.

You awake screaming.

“They took it from us! Kill them, kill them both!” You twist around and whip all fours under you like a cat, breathing heavily and then your brain catches up with you, and you hastily look around to see whether you've woken up the hobbits.

They are huddled amidst scrubby bushes near a stagnant pool, and neither of them has moved. “Stupid! Idiot! Be quiet!” you hiss and slink away. “We must not wake them now, we must not ruin it.”

“They suspect us,” you throw in, sidling towards the edge of a little pool.

“What, getting cold feet now? Are you losing your nerves?” you sneer, and throw your own reflection a deprecating look.

You calm down again, regain your sleep-harried nerves. You regret your outburst, and you feel – not shame, but anger. Sleep isn't good for you. The Dreaming is haunted, and all its ghosts are sicced on you – small wonder you feel ever more deranged every time you awake. Recently, you seem to drag dregs of the Dreaming with you into the waking world, because strange things keep happening and you have trouble understanding why.

Like now.

You look at your reflection, which is at the same time yours and not yours. It does not show you your miserable, wrinkled, dried-up face – it shows you yourself .

An eldritch face gazes up at you out of the water, with burning eyes and a fiery stone upon its brow. That's not you now, you think. That's you ages ago—

You almost shrink back from yourself before you notice how ridiculous that would be. Your reflection seems to have noticed, because there is still that snide quirk around its mouth and its—your face transforms and assumes a vaguely human shape. Still regal, still cruel, but less hot. Colder, but not yet diminished.

“Are you losing your nerves?” your reflection says.

“No!” you snarl.

“Do not tell me you are having second thoughts regarding the hobbits.”

“Of course not. That was Sméagol, not me.” You grimace; the name alone tastes like carrion on your tongue. Thank fate – no, thank yourself that this miserable maggot is gone. “I hate them. I want to see them – dead.”

“Good.” The expression of your reflection darkens. “Letting your feelings get in the way would be beyond ridiculous. It happened once. It will not happen another time. As it was, we also were able to get rid of bothersome things once, and we can do it again.”

– you bring down the hammer on the hand and the bones shatter to splinters in Celebrimbor's maimed fingers.

The elf screams. He is still fighting, after all that you have done to him. He still refuses to give in. He is still fighting you, despite the countless times you've explained yourself, with honeyed words and, when that did not work, with whetted knives. Despite the fact that he has no right – no right – at all – he's still defying – you –

Why – won't – he – stop – defying – you?

“Give them to me!” you roar, all pretence of composure forgotten.

There is a dull sound when your hammer hits bruised and purpled flesh, and then - not silence - but - a horrible wheezing sound.  Celebrimbor is fighing for each breath like a drowning man and then - unbelievable, how dare he? - he is laughing. His voice sounds like a grater dragged over metal, all screeching and splintered and broken.

You let your hammer sink and look at him with your head cocked to one side. Maybe you've done it at last. Maybe you have broken him.

You think at the same time -

Finally.

and

This is wrong.

Celebrimbor's next words, however, are annoyingly—fortunately—clear and calm.“Oh Annatar.” He sighs and pauses, his open chest heaving, his heart beating a sickly drumbeat against the bone-cage of his exposed ribs. He looks at you, and there is something in his gaze: something strange, something bewildered, as if he is not quite sure how both of you got here - him battered and broken on his own former worktable, you standing before him with his blood-spattered tools, which you have alienated from their original purpose and put to new, gruelling use in a way they were never meant to be used.

"The Three, Annatar," he almost whispers.

You drop your hammer and lean forward, taking his face in both of your hands. "Yes, Tyelpe - yes?" Your voice is urgent, your thoughts are boiling over - finally you can end this, finally this ghastly ordeal is over and you will be able to put this regrettable episode behind you, finally you will be able to fix - this - mess -

Celebrimbor breathes in, breathes out. Shuddering. Weak. "I made them with our knowledge. With what we found together."

"I know you did." You unstick a blood-clotted, stiff strand of dark hair from his forehead and push it behind his ear - behind where his ear will be once more, once you've put him back together.

"But," he opens his bloody mouth again and says, “The Three ... I made them with my heart, my hands, my soul - ”  His voice breaks on the last word. Something wet is glittering in the corners of his eyes and he is not looking at you, but at the skylight above both of your heads, which has somehow remained intact throughout the siege, the catapults, and the fights.

Then he looks back at you, looks directly at you for the first time since - since that night on the tower and—

There is something in his eyes, something vicious, as if he is suddenly looking for a way to hurt you – he is gauging what to say, hacks up another clump of blood, and then—

"Cut me up, scream and shout, and stomp your foot all you want, but it won't change the one fact that the Three - they are mine."  A pause, another breath. "And so, by rights, should be the One.” And then he spits in your face.

And in this moment it is over.

You descend upon him in a storm of fury, fire, and iron. “It is mine! It is mine!”

“Quiet!” your reflection hisses.

Your chest is heaving with anger that was once yours, seconds ago – thousands of years ago? It doesn't matter.

“We must get it back,” you say.

Your reflection nods, a jerky, impatient movement. It is peculiar, watching yourself from a stranger's perspective: the haughty way how you once held your adorned head, the ambiguous twist around your mouth, which could be either the beginnings of a sardonic smile or a contemptuous frown, the air of self-assured superiority with which you carried yourself.

“Patience,” your reflection says. “Do you have a plan?”

“I'll lead them to her,” you reply. “Up the stairs, the windy stairs, up up up we go – ” You interrupt yourself when you notice you are blabbing like a dimwit. You press the heel of your bony hand to your forehead, breathe in, breathe out – there, that's better.

“Up the stairs,” you repeat, seriously this time. “Into the tunnel.”

Your reflection's eyes light up with realisation and grim glee. “Ah, the tunnel. Yes. When they go in, there will be no coming out. She is always hungry, poor kitten. She must have had nothing but orc meat for quite a while.” Again, the quirk around the mouth, again, the darkening of golden eyes to a dull, demonic orange-red. “And when she throws away the bones and empty clothes – ”

“– I will find it and take it for me!” you say gleefully and cackle, but fall silent when you notice your reflection is not laughing along.

There is an awkward pause.

“You mean 'us',” your reflection says.

You clear your throat. “Yes, I meant … us.” No need to tell yourself you're not honest about it. You are going to take the Ring. For yourself. Alone. You're not going to share it with yourself. (Something in this sentence does not quite add up, but you are too distracted to care.)

“It will be ours,” you continue, faux-affably, “once the hobbits are dead.”

And then Sam Gamgee smashes your skull with a piece of cutlery.

There is a gong –

– as the bells at the top of the bell-tower of the temple of the Valar start tolling.

“The temple has been standing here ever since the founding of Númenor,” Ar-Pharazôn says.

You lift your gaze from the reflection of Nimloth in the fountain, which paints a dancing and rippling mosaic of light and shadow in the evening light that stirs and distorts every time the breeze grazes over the surface of the water. You turn to look up at the proud building of marble, ivory and gold, announcing the Valar's presence even here, so far from the Blessed Lands.

“You would not have to tear it down,” you say, your tone conciliatory, soothing. “It could remain as it is, except for small adjustments. We would just have to change the colour scheme along with the dedication of the temple.”

“Colour scheme?” Ar-Pharazôn asks, giving you a side-glance.

“White, ivory, and blue. Those are Manwë's colours. Sapphires are the gemstones of the West, the evening, and the wind. It would be considered improper to retain them after changing the god your temple is dedicated to.”

“Do gods really care about something as material and banal as gemstones?” Pharazôn asks, frowning.

You give him a bright, radiant smile that makes Pharazôn squirm subconsciously, which is exactly the effect you wanted to achieve. “My king, you must be aware that divine wars have been led over a few petty trinkets. In the history of this world, continents have been sunk, towns pulverised, and entire peoples eradicated over a handful of glittering gems. The gods are petty and superficial, did you not know that?”

Pharazôn's face is unreadable as he turns his face to look back up the tower, where the silver bells are tolling in dizzying heights. Seagulls circle the spires, their mournful cries the ever-present sad symphony of Númenor. There is no escaping the damn birds, nowhere on this forsaken island is far enough from the sea.

“What – ” Pharazôn hesitates, then collects himself and asks again, “What are his colours and gems?”

“His is the inverse of the colourless light when all primary colours stand in perfect equilibrium and at a perfect focal point. The perfect cancellation of wavelengths, the flawless eradication of the spectrum – ” You interrupt yourself, when you notice Pharazôn's strange glance, and you have to remind yourself that you are not talking to Cele—that you are not talking to someone who knows even the first thing about colour theory and spectral physics. “The opposite of light. Perfect darkness.”

“So, black?”

“Black will do. It is as good an approximation as we are going to be able to achieve.”

“And his gems?” Pharazôn looks uncomfortable, as if he did not want to be asking the question at all. He has been looking uncomfortable ever since you came here to discuss the possibility of a temple of Melkor.

This time, your smile is sinister and you do not try to hide it. “Can you not guess the answer to your own question? There are only three that count.”

“I regret to inform you that I have no Silmarils here in my pockets nor anywhere else on this island,” Pharazôn replies.

“A pity. Well, excepting the Silmarils, he did never care much for gems anyway,” you say. “He was always more fond of iron and ore, because he regarded them as much more useful for a wider variety of purposes, and I am inclined to agree with him on that.”

“You cannot seriously intend to replace the sapphire mosaics with iron bands.”

You almost laugh at that. “No. Remember, this is about you and your subjects, and how they perceive you. We are doing this for the men, not for the gods. This is not about how divine laws dictate it should be, this is about how to evoke the desired awe and reverence … and fear.”

Pharazôn does not even react to the lack of honorifics. He just stares at the temple as if, with enough willpower, he could just wish it to disappear entirely. For once, you have to agree with him: the world would be better off without gods. But since they were already here and, to your knowledge, not about to leave any time soon, you might as well utilise them for your own means and ends.

“So which gemstones should we use?” Pharazôn asks. His wavering voice and insecure and recurring use of 'we' is almost endearing. A little child caught off balance in the body of an ageing man.

You ponder it for a bit. You think of Utumno and Angband, those dreadful fortresses buried under leagues and leagues of snow and ice and stone, and wonder which gem could do the lair of your old master justice. You can think of none; none Melkor would appreciate, because all those lesser stones would fade and their light would go out in the darkness under his mountains. But the darkness of Angband had not been enough to dim the splendour of the Silmarils, no matter how deep Melkor carried them under the mountain.

You have always believed the reason for his obsession with the Silmarils was because they were the only stones able to fight and hurt him. Melkor did not like them, contrary to what many believed. He hated them with a passion that was fiercer than a lover and more devoted than a priest. He hated them as the incarnation of Varda; he hated them with the unique and intimate passion of how one hates his arch-enemy: the one being that is in every aspect your equal, and alongside which you could never hope to live, but without which you were always doomed to remain incomplete – because they were your other half, your nemesis, the light to your darkness, the antithesis by which your thesis was defined.

You notice you are turning the Ring on the finger of your right hand, and you immediately drop your hands back to your sides.

No, Melkor did not like any gems. In the end, he did not like anything at all. He only hated indiscriminately and craved possessions of others because he was loath to leave a treasure to someone else when he could have it instead. The Silmarils had been his one desire, but since they are long lost and since you frankly no longer care about your old master's hypothetical opinions –

“Rubies,” you say. “We shall cover the temple in velvet and rubies. Black and scarlet, now wouldn't that be a sight?”

It is in this moment that the doors of the temple swing open and Tar-Míriel, Queen of Númenor, daughter of kings and the rightful heir to the throne, steps out onto the stone steps leading up to the entrance. Shrouded in white and adorned with diamonds as she is, she seems like a sprig of Nimloth come to walk about in human form as she stops at the top of the stairs, tall and unyielding, and looks down upon them where you are both standing in the courtyard. Ladies and men clothed in white flank her, and she stands at their front like a commander in front of her army.

“Husband, beloved!” she says and she spreads her arms wide. “Long has it been indeed since we had the pleasure of welcoming you in the temple. What brings you here on this fine evening?”

“I am visiting the site where I will build my temple, dear Zimraphel,” Pharazôn retorts with acidic courtesy, and even gives her a mocking bow.

“Why, you are going to build a temple?” She laughs. “We shall make one of the Faithful of you yet! But where will you build it? The courtyard is quite occupied as it is.”

“You stand upon my temple's doorstep, beloved,” Pharazôn says and his false smile spreads into a genuine, disgusting grin when her face falls. Her arms fall to her sides.

“What do you mean by that?” she asks.

“I mean exactly what I said. You are standing on the steps of my new temple. You've had it for long enough; it is mine now, and I intend to change a few things about our faith.”

Míriel is not so badly bred that she loses her composure, but you can see the tightening around her mouth and the shadow shrouding her expression.

“Are you not tired of praying to the same silent gods and receiving no answer over and over again? Tar-Mairon here,” Pharazôn gestures towards you, “opened my eyes to the futility of praying to deities who will never answer. I shall have no more of this waste of time in my city, so I chose a new patron for my kingdom and my lineage, someone who is worth bending one's knee to.”

Míriel's eyes flit over to you, and then back to her husband. You know she understands, because suddenly there is a terrible wrath in her face, and then she is descending the steps with great urgency until she comes to stand before her husband. Her entourage watches her anxiously from the top of the steps. “My king,” she says, quietly, so that no one else might hear them, “I have not heard what you spoke of before, but I think I can guess it well enough. I can believe that this snake has ensnared you enough to keep him close to you at court and elsewhere, but I thought that not even you would be blind enough to see that you are paving the path to your own doom.” She pauses. “Calion, you are not going to build a temple dedicated to Morgoth, are you?”

Ar-Pharazôn's jaw is set. His anxiousness is gone, forgotten over the anger against his wife. He looks up at the stragglers in front of the temple. “What are you standing there and gaping like fish? Go home!”

When they have hurriedly gathered up their skirts and togas and left the courtyard, he turns back to his wife. “Every time you tell me what I cannot do, Zimraphel, I feel inclined to do it just to prove to you that I can indeed do as I wish in my kingdom, on my land, in my city.”

“I know you can do everything you want, or else I would not worry for the fate of our kingdom,” she says. “Calion – I acknowledge your power. Listen to me! I acknowledge you taking the crown and the sceptre from me, and taking me as your wife. I acknowledge all of this – however little I might like it, and thus I beg of you, my king,” she says, “I beg of you to think. You are about to pledge yourself to Morgoth! We share the same blood – think of what he has done to our ancestors! Has he ever spread anything but illness, plague, and death?”

“He has power,” Pharazôn says.

“And he does not share it,” Míriel says, and her voice is steel. “He takes, Calion. He does not give. He does not protect. He razes, maims, steals, and kills. Do you really choose such a deity as your patron? Have you come so far that you regard the Enemy as someone worthy of even one shred of your faith?”

Pharazôn is silent, and you feel the need to step in to salvage the situation from taking a turn for the undesirable.

“My king, I assure you, none of these allegations are true. If you wish we can discuss this la—”

“Silence, advisor,” Míriel interrupts. “Have you not been taught to hold your tongue in the presence of your king and your queen?” She turns away to face her husband once more, leaving you thoroughly reprimanded and immediately forgotten like an ill-behaved child.

“Do not do this, Calion,” she says. “Anything but that.”

“Why should I not?” Pharazôn says dismissively.

“Because this is obviously about power, and I can give you anything that you hope to achieve on this dark path right here and now, and more.”

Both Pharazôn and you stare at her incredulously.

“What?” Pharazôn asks. “What could you have to offer me?”

“My friendship,” Míriel says curtly. “You are no fool, Pharazôn. You and I both know that this kingdom is divided to its very core. You rule the people, but I rule their hearts. You are nothing without me. Were it not for me keeping the balance, you would have uprisings within the week, and the court members would slaughter you in your sleep or poison you at the banquet. And all that building that temple for Melkor would achieve would be a deeper divide, and it might be the last straw for some of your enemies to take matters into their own hands.”

“Are you threatening me?” Pharazôn growls.

“I am giving you a realistic perspective, and I am offering to help you,” Míriel says. “You had me as an opponent for years. I offer you now to have me as an ally and an advisor. I shall no longer oppose you, but help you in your rule – or stand aside silently, if you so wish. I will even publicly back up the claim of your line to the throne. If you have me, you'll truly have the crown. Your court will stand united, and your rule undisputed. And,” she takes a breath, as if she had been saving this for last, “you shall have the Faithful.”

You dare to take a look at Ar-Pharazôn's face, and what you see –

– is your work of years tumbling down, the delicate web of persuasion and lies that you have woven tear and break.

“After all these years, I will have you as my king,” Míriel says and when she takes Pharazôn's hands, he does not pull them away. “Will you have me as your ally?”

Ar-Pharazôn does not speak. You do not need to read his thoughts to know what is going through his head. Pharazôn, at his core, is a businessman. He will always take the way of lesser risk and greater yield, and it is obvious which one of your offers will cost him less and earn him more. What is accepting your estranged wife back into your service compared to pledging yourself to a dark god?

You watch Míriel with narrowed eyes, and you realise that she has been playing him the same way you have been playing him: appealing to his fears, catering to his desires, offering him seductive solutions – only that her solutions were easier, her offer for help earnest, and her salvation did quite ironically not involve any gods that Pharazôn loathed.

You realise that, like so often, two can play the same game – and you have to admit that this time, she has played it better than you.

You have been outmanoeuvred.

Manipulative, cunning, ruthless Míriel. There are times when you are torn between wanting to kiss or to kill her; your unwilling admiration for a formidable opponent waging war with your loathing of someone who has outdone you in a field of your expertise.

Míriel stands before her husband with one arm spread wide and another hand extended toward him, and after a long hesitation, Pharazôn steps forward. They embrace in the formal conciliatory way of two hostile generals after the end of the war, their right hands clasped, and their left arms laid about each other's shoulders.

You try your best to keep your face blank, even though you feel like tearing the city apart with your bare hands.

– for a brief moment, everything is stark black and white, then you feel yourself rolling over the rocky ground – and you find your feet again. Something is screeching horribly, and after another moment has passed you realise that the hobbit is yelling at you from the top of his lungs.

“You treacherous little toad!”

And suddenly Sam Gamgee is no longer hitting you with his frying pan, but throws himself at you with the entirety of his far greater weight and pins you to the ground. It takes you so utterly by surprise, you do not even defend yourself at first, which gives him ample opportunity to rain punches down on you and box your arm, your chest, your ears, all the while screaming at you.

And then someone else is screaming, and this time it is you – and you are crying for Frodo, of all people, because you are stuck in this horrible, weak, rotten sack of bones and meat, and you cannot even lift the fat hobbit off you without help and you might die here, on the stones next to a stinking pool of stagnant water, brained by the frying pan and little fists of an overweight peasant a third of your original height –

The look of betrayal that passes over Sam's face when Frodo pulls him off you almost makes it worth the humiliation. Almost.

“Sam! No! Leave him alone!”

Sam flails, and you scuttle away, putting Frodo between him and yourself. But Sam does not give up and tries to get past his master, to you.

“I heard it from his own mouth! He means to murder us!” Sam cries.

So he has overheard you talking to yourself.

You really should have known better than to speak loudly of your plans. You hesitate briefly and wonder why you didn't.

Your thoughts are interrupted by Sam making another lunge at you.

You realise that you have to act, or your part in this increasingly unamusing farce might be over before you can put your plan into action. But in order to do this, you first have to survive. You shrink back, crouching down and whining in a pitiful voice, “No, no, Sméagol wouldn't hurt a fly! Done no evil, said no evil! He's lying! He's a horrible, fat hobbit who hates Sméagol and tells nasty lies!”

If Sam's looks could kill, you would have dropped dead with your meat dripping in acidic puddles from your bones this very instant. “You miserable little maggot! I'll stove your head in!”

Frodo puts his shoulder against Sam, holding him back with his entire weight and shoves him back with surprising force.

“Sam! Stop!”

“He called me a liar, Mister Frodo! A liar! He's the liar!”

“Sam, if you scare him off, we're lost!” Frodo cries.

At those words, the fight suddenly goes out of Sam, and he stumbles back, breathing heavily. There are tears glistening in his eyes. “I don't care about that. I can't do this, Mister Frodo – waiting around for him to kill us, because that's what he wants to do!”

“I cannot send him away,” Frodo says. “I will not send him away.”

Sam stares at Frodo, lost and helpless and on the verge of crying. Disbelief and weakness are painted all over his round face, and you would laugh at him in contempt and disgust, if your act could afford such a break of character.

“Don't you see it?” Sam says. “Don't you see it? He is evil, he's a villain!”

“We cannot do this by ourselves, Sam,” Frodo says. “I cannot do this without both you of you. I need a guide, and I need you on my side.”

“I am on your side, Mister Frodo,” Sam replies quietly.

“I know that. Come now,” Frodo says and puts an arm around Sam's shoulder. Sam's face softens for a few moments, but it hardens immediately once Frodo turns and beckons you to follow as well. “Come, Sméagol. You too.”

You slink forward, leaning onto bruised knuckles and favouring your right side, because the ribs on your left side are hurting so badly, they'll probably be black and blue tomorrow from the beating you received.

You start walking side by side, and the look Sam gives you is full of anger and helpless hate.

You return the look, but the hate in your eyes is deathly instead.

 

Míriel gives you a cool glare over the shoulder of her husband, and you return it with a forced smile that holds neither warmth nor goodwill. It is a death threat wrapped in gift-cloth, like a dagger in a velvet sheath.

You and her both know that you are nearing your endgame. She is better than you ever gave her credit for, despite your cautiousness not to take her lightly. You have made the mistake of dismissing her as a cunning, but ultimately silent sufferer who would turn to the gods for help and pity, and not throw herself into the snake den of politics if it became necessary. But it seemed like the queen was willing to get her hands dirty if the stakes were high enough.

You have underestimated her, and it will not happen again.

Besides, you are tired of this game.

 

It is about time that you rid yourself of this nuisance.

 

***

You are no longer liked. You are no longer trusted.

Frodo knows that you want the Ring.

Pharazôn knows that you have been using him for your own ends.

Fortunately, you were always good at turning a loss into a victory. Your prey does not have to trust you, or even like you.

They just have to trust your enemies less.

 

You start by sowing seeds of distrust, by turning their paranoia of you against themselves.

The hobbits climb the stairs carved into the sheer cliff. They are exhausted and afraid, with Minas Morgul at their backs and Mordor ahead of them. When Frodo's foot slips and he threatens to fall, you are there and catch him by the wrist. You can see the flicker of fear in his eyes, and you see the moment when it is replaced by shame – shame because he thought you would push him off the ledge or let him fall. Good – good. Let them be ashamed of suspecting you at every turn. Make them doubt themselves instead of you, and with their gaze turned inward on themselves, they will never see you coming.

 

You are nothing but courteous in Míriel's presence. Her appointment as a council member has caused an outcry throughout Armenelos, but it is unclear whether the astonishment is born of joy or scandalisation. She is the first woman to ever hold a council seat, and Númenoreans are nothing if not obstinate about their patriarchal traditions. On the other hand, she is well-loved and trusted, contrary to every other council member, and for the first time in years, the people of Númenor have a representative in the immediate vicinity of the king who has the commoners' best interests in mind.

Ever since Pharazôn, who has turned unwittingly into a modern reformer in the eyes of his surprised subjects, instated her, she has become a permanent presence in the council. You can no longer twist the outcome of meetings in your favour like you used to, and you have been relegated from the seat to Pharazôn's right to the second one to his right, with Míriel placed in the seat you used to occupy. If she takes delight in your public demotion, she does not show it.

She is careful and does not try to discredit you openly, but you know she is warning the others of you. There is nothing you can do against that – you have opened yourself to points of attack in the past with your less popular proposals – but you do make an effort to be exceedingly friendly and whenever you speak in the council, you do not raise your voice, and you keep controversial opinions to yourself. You lie low, and your active scheming has ground to a halt for the time being. You mingle with the crowd, presenting yourself as a man of the people by visiting commoners in the lower district and attending public events. It is more tedious than ever, but it gives you ample opportunity to keep an eye on Míriel. She does the same, as you well know. You circle each other like cats with careful restraint, each looking for a point in the other where a lever might be inserted to topple the other off their pedestal.

You smile so much the corners of your mouth actually start to hurt, and so does she – but all you see are bared teeth, and you doubt it is any different for her.

 

You move in a tenuous equilibrium. You and Sam keep a close eye on each other, and you take care not to get too close to him. The bruises of the beating he gave you still hurt, and you are not keen on acquiring another black eye.

There is another time when Frodo clambers onto a ledge and the Ring – the Ring! – slips from the collar of his shirt and dangles in front of you, so close that you just have to close your fingers around it and take it.

You reach forward – and as predicted, Sam, who is already on the ledge, pulls his sword. “Mister Frodo!” He immediately turns on you. “Get back, you! Don't touch him!”

He wants to yank you back, but before he reaches you, you have grasped Frodo's arm and pulled him up onto the ledge. Frodo is gasping, his face grey with exhaustion. You pat him on the shoulder and then turn to look at Sam with half-lidded eyes. “Why does he hate us so, we wonder? What has Sméagol ever done to him or his master?”

Sam presses his lips into a thin line, but he does not come closer, not after Frodo has given him an exhausted, reprimanding look.

You smirk and turn back to Frodo. “Master carries a heavy burden,” you say sympathetically. “We know. We know. Very heavy. The fat one cannot understand it. Sméagol will look after Master.”

Frodo looks at you, and when he frowns, you lean in closer. “He wants it,” you whisper. “I saw him looking at it, yes, I saw. Very soon he will ask you for it. You will see. He will take it from you.”

Frodo's gaze darkens and his eyebrows knit together in angry disbelief, but you see his eyes darting quickly over to Sam and his hand closing around the Ring, and you know you have already won.

 

“She is spending a lot of time around Amandil and his Faithful,” you say, pulling the ball of wool up with a quick yank, and the black kitten's lunge goes wide, landing near the leg of the lounge chair you're sitting on.

“There is nothing new about that. Besides, I could not care less how Zimraphel is using her abundant free time,” Pharazôn says from his oaken desk, reading over a tax decree he had one of his secretaries draft for him. Half of the text is already crossed out.

You smirk when the kitten gives you a reproachful glare and you lower the ball of wool again. The cat does not move, but turns away and pretends to ignore you.

“Not even when said meetings take place at midnight in the temple?” you say.

Ar-Pharazôn looks up, his brow creased in annoyance. “What are you talking about?”

The kitten's ears are twitching. She is watching your every move out of the corners of her yellow eyes, and your smile grows wider. You nudge the ball of wool with your foot and make it roll right in front of her, then pull at the string in your hand, making it jiggle seductively. The kitten turns her head, her pupils blown wide, her eyes nearly completely black.

“I just thought it worth mentioning,” you say off-handedly. “She certainly feels very sure of herself after you two have reconciled. She has her temple back, and it is her safe harbour once more, now that you have promised not to do anything with it. I just hope she is not abusing your generosity and the goodwill you have shown her when you gave her back her sanctuary. Now there might indeed be midnight services to conduct in honour of Varda, but every single night…?”

Your voice trails off. You feel Pharazôn's gaze on you. You do not pay him any attention, but give the ball of wool another tug. A twitch runs through the muscles of the little cat, and she crouches low.

Another yank. Another little provocation.

“And is it not the strangest thing that she should suddenly give up all of her opposition, all her ambitions for power, in order to please a husband she loathes? Forgive me, my king. If I have spoken insolence, it was because I did not know any better. The nature of Men is very strange to my kind, but I thought I understood the nature of kings and queens, at least – akin to lions, as I believed they were.”

Pharazôn is a stiff shadow at the edge of your vision.

The cat is flat on her belly, her tail twitching.

“Is there not a proverb that says that a lion is most mellow the instant before he strikes?”

Another little pull, just a come-hither motion of your index finger.

The cat pounces.

 

***

 

It does not take much else after that.

You steal their elf-bread, and of course Sam loudly blames their loss on you. You bear his tirade in silence, pretending to take cover behind a boulder near the edge of the ledge, quivering fearfully and whining when he comes too close. Sam works himself up more and more, believing himself justified and on the winning side now that you do not even try to defend yourself.

Frodo does not come to your aid this time. He watches the scenario unfold in dull silence, but you can see his red-rimmed gaze dropping to Sam's shoulder, where the breadcrumbs you have strewn onto his cloak still cling to the grey fabric.

 

Ar-Pharazôn is growing wary, and you see to it that there are enough strange occurrences to feed his doubt. It begins innocently enough: missives to the king go missing, secret information makes it out of the council hall and no one knows who is to blame. Then one Pharazôn's men on the council falls ill, and the empty seat is filled with Elendil, a close associate of Míriel. He is an ambitious, ambivalent figure: young, charming and filled with a strong sense of justice, his election appeals to the lower classes, but the aristocrats dismiss him with careful strategical scorn. They know the dangers of associating themselves with him, for his status as Amandil's son and his unconcealed closeness to the Faithful leave him at ill standing with the king.

It is a close vote, and it would not have come to pass had not two of Pharazôn's men surprisingly cast their vote in favour of their declared political opponent.

Neither Míriel nor Pharazôn look like they can believe the outcome.

Mere moments pass, and the table erupts into bedlam: council members rise from their seats and try to shout over each other, voices are raised, and incredulous discussions commence as council members and rulers try to talk at once.

You smile to yourself, then lift your eyes to look across the table at the two deviant council members, who are the only ones besides you who have remained silently in their seats. Their faces are ashen and their eyes wide when they meet your gaze. Your smile grows a bit wider, and then one of them pulls his hands off the table to hide their trembling.

 

It is your second night on the ledges and the dim daylight under the clouds that always hover over Minas Morgul is fading when everything comes crashing down.

Cirith Ungol is taking its toll on all of you, but it is Frodo who suffers most. The Witch-king's lair draws on him, and Mordor is very, very close now. Frodo almost does not make it onto the ledge where you want to rest for the night, and this time it is Sam who grabs him and saves him from plummeting hundreds of feet to the ground below.

The gardener pulls his master over the edge and into a desperate embrace, cradling the emaciated Frodo against his chest. “Oh, Mister Frodo, oh, Frodo,” he says. “This was too much, I should have known – we shouldn't have climbed so far. I should've thought to look out for you – oh, what would Gandalf say if he were still here and knew that I almost allowed you to fall?”

Frodo's extricates himself from the embrace and tries to sit up, only to slump against the stone wall at his back. “It's alright,” he says, but his face and lips are grey with exhaustion. “I'm alright.”

“No, no, you aren't,” Sam cries, upset. “You're exhausted. It is that Gollum, who's chased us up so many stairs today; it is this place – it is this thing around your neck,” he says disgustedly, and falls silent. He picks up a few pebbles, weighs them in his hand, regards them moodily, and flicks them over the ledge.

“I could you help you, you know,” he says at last, slowly, ponderously.

Frodo's head snaps up – and you do not miss the fraction of a second when his erratic, feverish gaze flits over to you – before he stares at Sam again. “What?”

“I could help you with it,” Sam says and nods towards Frodo. “I could carry it for a while. Share the load.”

The words sound dull in the dusty, muggy air. Everything seems to go slow and sluggish, even breathing is hard. All the greater is Sam's shock and surprise when Frodo is suddenly on his feet, every muscle in his haggard body tense, his teeth bared, and a terrible light in his otherwise empty eyes.

“You're not taking the Ring! You're not taking it!” he screams.

“I won't! I won't!” Sam cries and gets to his feet, extending his hands and taking a soothing step towards Frodo, who flattens himself against the stone wall of the cliff.

“Come no closer! Get away from me!” Frodo's right hand is clenched in a fist around his shirt, bunching the fabric between his fingers and beneath – the Ring.

“I don't want to keep it!” Sam says, horrified. “I just want to help!”

You are right next to Frodo, pulling yourself up onto two legs, so that you are of a height.

“I told you this would happen,” you whisper. “I told you he wanted it for himself.”

The desperation in Sam's eyes quickly turns to anger. “You – you! Quiet! It's always you, sneaking and whispering and spreading lies! Get away from him! Get away from us! Get out of here!”

He tries to grab you, but before his hands can reach you, Frodo's fingers have closed themselves around Sam's wrist. His grip is bony, but so tight it has to be bone-crushing. Frodo is at the end of his line, but in him you can see the beginnings of that own corrupted, sick, almost undead strength that has kept your current body alive for hundreds of years.

“No, Sam.” His voice is raspy, but clear and cuts like a knife. “It's you.”

Sam belatedly tears his gaze away from you and stares at Frodo. “How do you mean that?”

“It's you who does not understand. You cannot know it, and you will never know how it is to carry the Ring,” Frodo says. “I cannot give it up. I will not give it to you. You can not have it. I know you want it, but you will not steal it from me. You must go.”

Sam stares. Tears are welling up in his eyes. “You do not mean that. You cannot mean that.”

“I do.” Frodo looks back at him, unblinking.

“But – but,” he says, and almost chokes on the words, “it is Gollum! He's the one who wants the Ring! He's the liar, don't you remember?”

“I know he is dangerous, but now you want to take the Ring from me as well. I cannot deal with two people who want to rob it from me.”

“I don't want to take it!” Sam cries. “Ah – Frodo! You're breaking my arm!”

Frodo opens his death grip without an apology, and Sam quickly pulls his arm back to nurse it against his chest like a wounded animal. Already, there are bruises appearing on the skin of his wrist.

“I just want to help you,” Sam sobs quietly, his head hanging.

“You can't help me,” Frodo says and turns away. He stares at the stone wall, pondering, and after a few moments he adds, “If you really want to help me, then go.”

“What?”

“Leave.” Frodo's voice is eerily calm. Dead. “Go home, Sam. I don't need you anymore.”

 

“What is the meaning of this? What is the meaning of this, Zimraphel?"

Ar-Pharazôn’s voice is low and controlled. You know him well enough by now to know that this is when he is at his most dangerous.

The fruit sits on the table of Pharazôn’s writing room, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight from one side and by candlelight from the other. It is as big as a man’s fist, and it is of such a pure white colour it seems to give off a light of its own.

It is the spark to light the fuse of the powder keg that will bring Ar-Pharazôn’s empire down around him. You cannot believe how easy it was, in the end. You did not even have to do anything. In the end, Míriel herself played right into your hands.

“How many did you take?” Pharazôn asks.

Míriel stands in the middle of the room, like a defendant at court, a slender pillar of white, pale and trembling. You have never seen her look afraid, but you know that she fears her husband now. Not because of what he might do to her, no, but she fears for those in league with her, because – who would have thought – the noble queen had turned traitor to her king.

Pharazôn stands, takes the fruit and holds it in front of her face. “This is the fruit of the King’s Tree, the symbol of Númenor and the emblem of my crest. It is a royal insignia, and it is unique in this world. No one but the king may touch it, no one may sow its seed to grow another sapling as long as the original tree is alive. Taking the fruit is akin to making a claim to the throne, and it is high treason. There can only be one king. There can only be one tree.” He leans forward, closer to her.

“How many did you take?”

“Just this one,” she whispers.

Pharazôn stares at her and suddenly grabs her by the throat, lifting her up to the tips of her toes. Míriel gasps and her hands scrabble at his wrists, but she cannot break his grip.

“Do not lie to me, Zimraphel,” Pharazôn says, his voice still even, but deadly. “I warn you, it will be the last thing you will ever do. I know of your friends, of your maidens, your priests. I will have them all if you lie to me.”

Míriel gasps, her legs twitching with the cramps in her calves that comes from trying to hold her weight up by the mere tips of her toes. “Just the one!” she rasps, “Just the one!”

“And whom did you order to take it?”

“I did it myself,” she gasped. “Yesternight, after the service in honour of Ulmo!”

Pharazôn inclines his head and watches her struggle.

You take the brief silence as your cue to detach yourself from the shadows by the door and step forward.

“In this aspect, I am afraid the queen is lying, my king,” you say softly. “I consulted my informants and they told me that the queen was nowhere near the tree last night. They did, however, see a young boy climbing over the wall and up the tree to pluck the fruit from a branch.”

Míriel’s breath rattles in her throat, but no words come out of her mouth.

Pharazôn does not even turn to look at you. “I see. And I take you have a name?”

“I have. A third cousin of Elendil who goes by the name of Tigon. I took it upon myself to take him into custody for treason against the crown.”

“Very well.”

“No,” Míriel rasps. “Leave him be! It was my doing! The boy is innocent!”

“Innocent?” Pharazôn laughs, low and humourless. “He has taken the fruit of the holy tree – this equals high treason as well as sacrilege. I believed you of all people had more reverence for the sacrosanct.” He inclines his head to look at her. “Tell me, what did you want to do with it? Take it away from Armenelos, plant it, and declare someone of your choosing king? Or did you want to take that title for yourself?”

“No, no, I did – not – by the Valar, leave the boy! He did only as I ordered him to – the punishment is mine!”

“Oh, I am sure it is,” Pharazôn replies, letting her go. “You will be punished, and so will the boy as an accomplice in your treason. And there is still that unsavoury matter of the desecration of Nimloth to address. Fortunately, I know of a way to deal with all three of these issues to a satisfactory conclusion. You should thank me, Zimraphel; I will purge every last trace of your unfortunate misstep from the face of this world.”

 

It ends, both times, on the steps.

 

The sky over the city is red and black with smoke when the flames of the pyre devour the white wood of Nimloth against the backdrop of the temple, which is shrouded in tapestries of black velvet. The smell of charred meat is heavy and rank in the air, the spitting of burning fat long since turned to the dry cracking of twigs and bones. In the midst of the flames, the white tree of Númenor is burning, and its crown is a crown of fire and sparks rising skyward.

The crowd is gathered around the pyre, kept in line by a rank of priests in dark gowns and red cowls carrying batons and daggers at their hips.

There is Míriel, who is sitting on the steps of the temple, her eyes dull and empty, her face grey, her hands limp and chalk-white in her lap.

You come to stand before her, your new red-and-black high priest's robes trailing on the steps after you. You can feel the presence of your followers at your back, waiting, expectant, violent.

Ar-Pharazôn steps up next to you, and he regards the former queen with cool contempt. “Move out of the way, Zimraphel,” he says. He does not even bother to lower his voice to hide the insolence of his words. “This temple is mine. You are banned from entering it ever again.”

She crumbles at that, her head dipping forward, the veils, which she has chosen to cover her shorn head, obscuring her face. You watch her with a wry smile, and lean down until your mouth is almost next to her ear.

“Leave, Míriel,” you say softly, “you no longer have a place here.” And then you raise yourself up to your full height once more, stepping around her and setting yourself at the head of the procession into the newly consecrated temple of Melkor.

 

Frodo scales the steps, his fingernails digging into the cracked stone and holding on with a strength that is no longer supplied by his body. He drags himself forward and up, inch after inch, by sheer strength of will – his own, and, of course, the will of the Ring, that is ever pulling both of you towards Mordor, towards the Mountain, and the Tower of the Lidless Eye.

When you look down and into his eyes, you see a shadowy reflection of something else in there, something that is not him. Lightning erupts from the stormclouds hovering over Minas Morgul, and in this brief, crass illumination, Frodo’s eyes are yellow-amber, before the deeper darkness of the night returns and reduces him to a skeletal shadow once more.

And below him, there is another shadowy outline, the slumped, plumper form of Sam Gamgee, who sits on the ledge curled in on himself, crying.

You allow yourself a brief contemptuous smile, before you turn your face away and grab Frodo’s hand to pull him up another one of the stone steps.

“Come, Master,” you say, “not much further now, not much further. Up there is the tunnel, can you see?”

---

Chapter End Notes

In the light of an intrafandom-name doubling, I just wanted to state the obvious and clarify that the Tigon being mentioned in this story is not the Tigon featured in elfscribe's "Elegy for Númenor". "Elegy" and "Duplicity" stand unrelated, excepting the fact that they both deal with the whole Númenor issue and the protagonists surrounding it.
It can, however, certainly be read as an intra-fandom nod if a reader so wishes. In any case, elfscribe's story deserves every mention it gets.