Calling Out (In Vain)
Míriel assumes a responsibility of the House of Elros. She knows she is being watched, but whether she is being listened to is less clear.
Written for the April 27th 2016 general prompt, ‘The Numinous.’ Yay for Amnesty Week!
[Also on AO3]
[CN/TW: Blood, mentions of slavery. And, once again, Míriel’s views are not necessarily the views of the author.]
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Míriel was no stranger to the degeneracy of her people. She had grown to womanhood during the reign of her grandfather, and could only watch in silence as all the members of the court either openly blasphemed against the Valar, stood in silent approval, or stood in silence the way she did, too cowed to say anything in mixed company. She had been Zimraphel to them, no matter the name felt like an ill-fitting gown—too small, too limited for her, unequal to the task of encompassing all that she was. She had felt like she was being suffocated when she wore that name. Sometimes, Míriel wondered if any of them had felt the same, but honestly, she doubted it. Númenor gave no sense to her of having felt limited by being called Anadûnê, nor of even knowing well enough to know that being defined by the base tongue should be something that limited it.
By and large, Númenor had behaved as though there was nothing wrong with being cut off from so much. Ar-Gimilzôr had eagerly played the tyrant until his health finally failed him and he clung shamelessly to life, utterly without dignity, as joyless and pathetic as Tar-Atanamir must have been when he, first of the kings of Númenor, had defied the will of the Valar and refused to lay down his life when old age crept up upon him.
Calion was often away, making a name for himself as a conqueror on the mainland. He would come back to great fanfare, greeted lovingly by a king who held him dearer than his own heir, lauded by the court, and all too willing to sing his own praises to anyone who would listen. He came to Armenelos with gold and silver and precious stones, with texts he had plundered from Haradrim libraries, with dull-eyed slaves gray-faced with despair. He was often away. For that, Míriel was glad. Every time he returned, he behaved more and more as though he was lord here, or at least lord-in-waiting.
(He was often away, and Míriel was glad of it. Every time he returned, the face he turned upon her was more and more covetous. She did not care to be looked at as though she was a thing to be possessed, especially not by him.)
The rest of the court was what it was. The King’s Men were gleefully blasphemous, entirely too sure of themselves, and carried always the copper scent of poorly concealed bloodlust. They were… They weren’t even hunters, not truly. They were forever longing for their prey, though, and even if most of them lacked the cunning required to enact a scheme that could eradicate the Faithful as they wished to, it was a fool who was incautious around them.
On account of these people, Míriel had drowned a part of herself for decades, had been forced to watch in silence as her father and their allies did the same, for fear of what could come of expressing their reverence for the Valar. Númendil had been set upon in the streets of Armenelos when Míriel was a child—he’d not been seriously hurt, but graven upon her mind was the image of him coming to her father with his nose broken and blood all down his front, splattering his shirt crimson. Others had disappeared. Míriel’s mother had died when she was young—a young, strong woman who had taken ill suddenly, and slipped quickly into death. Perhaps it was just illness. Her father had always insisted it was just illness. Míriel wondered, sometimes.
She’d drowned herself on their account, and in the process had gotten their measure, in a way Míriel didn’t think her father ever had. When Ar-Gimilzôr finally died and Tar-Palantir took the throne, there had been no sweeping change in the hearts of the Númenóreans. Those who had hardened their hearts against the Valar did not one day look to the west in the morning, spy Tol Eressëa with their keen eyes and finally feel the reverence they ought to have felt all along. They clung to life and the vain idea that Men were not meant to quit the world, the even vainer idea that Men were not meant to be barred from that holiest of holy lands.
Three years ago, in the spring, Tar-Palantir had announced that the Three Prayers of Númenórë would once again be upheld. For the first time in generations, the King of Númenor would show the One the reverence he was due. As was formerly the case, only the king would be permitted to speak on the summit of the Meneltarma, but anyone who wished to join him there was welcome to do so.
As it happened, the Númenóreans felt no more welcoming than they did welcome. When Míriel, her father, and the pitiably small party that accompanied them returned to Armenelos, they found all the windows in the palace smashed to shards, and the guards all claiming ignorance as to just who was responsible. Her father was grieved, even bewildered. Míriel was not. She was merely disappointed. The investigations she and Elendil conducted of the guards present at that time only deepened her disappointment.
Regardless of the displeasure of people who couldn’t be bothered to express their displeasure openly, the rite of the Prayers was upheld. At spring, at midsummer, at autumn, the king, the heir, and those among their people who would join them, ascended the Meneltarma and did reverence to the One. Had not the Edain of old kept faith, even in the face of bondage and slow death? The Núnatani, the true Núnatani, could do no less.
It was a strange feeling, being on top of the Meneltarma. When Míriel stood there, she could see nearly the whole of the land, the twinkling of the western Sea a dazzling band of blue on the horizon. It was difficult not to imagine all the past kings and queens who had led the procession, all the way back to Tar-Amandil, who had instituted the custom thousands of years ago. What the likes of Tar-Elendil or Tar-Meneldur would think to see what would have become of Númenor’s piety made Míriel want to clench her fists in shame. What Tar-Minyatur would have thought of the kings who clung to life beyond all joy and dignity made her stomach churn. She had every right to walk where they walked. She herself had done no wrong. But the idea of grappling with their shades, let alone answering to them, still filled her with a crawling dread.
Dread had no hold on the living on the summit of the Meneltarma, however, no hold any stronger than the tie of rope made from a single stalk of grass. It was a holy place. Míriel had not understood the power of holy places when she was a child; she had not known them then, you see. Ar-Gimilzôr, her fearful, small-minded grandfather, would not suffer any member of the royal family to ascend the mountain and be close to the One. Míriel had only her grandmother Inzilbêth’s stories of a time before the Andustari were driven from their homes and they were still free to make pilgrimages to the holy mountain. There was a veil between secondhand accounts and firsthand experiences that must inevitably rob the latter of some of its power.
The summit of the Meneltarma was a holy place. It was not difficult to keep the vow of silence when you were there, for the whole place was drenched in silence. The Sea was muted. Nearby Armenelos was muted. The only thing to be heard was the wind, and its howling voice made clear that it was the only thing beside the king that was permitted to speak. Míriel felt the eyes of the One watching her, always. It was wondrous. It was terrifying. It was as it should be.
Every time she made the ascent with her father and their people, there was something Míriel watched for. She never saw it.
Three years it had been, and in the summer of this year, there came a new challenge. It wasn’t a power play by some King’s Men lord. It wasn’t Calion, home again and insistent on buzzing around the royal court like a fruit fly after a corpse, finally proving just how much his ambition outstripped his station. It wasn’t even a flood, as sometimes afflicted Númenor this time of year. Her father was ill.
It was such a simple thing, wasn’t it? It was a lingering illness, but it wasn’t as though he wasn’t morbidly ill; his physician, Vorindo, didn’t believe him to be in any risk of death. Míriel doubted it was poisoning; the royal physician was a competent one, and would likely be able to tell the difference between normal illness and poisoning.
Her father would recover in time, but not soon enough for the Erulaitalë. The rite demanded that everyone in the procession, even the king, make the journey to the summit of the Meneltarma, make the journey on foot. Tar-Palantir was, quite frankly, not in any fit state to walk to the Tarmasundar, let alone to the summit of the mountain. He was at the moment weak and waxen-faced, growing tired if he rose from his chair for more than half an hour. Physician Vorindo feared such a walk would only worsen his condition, and looking at him, Míriel was inclined to agree.
Tar-Palantir was too weak to make the journey to the Meneltarma this summer. That much was plain. But the rite must still be carried out, and there must be one on the top of the mountain to make the offering and say the prayer. There was, to Míriel’s mind, only one alternative.
Her father had been resistant at first. They had both been raised on Inzilbêth's stories, after all, and had had little more than that to sustain them growing up. They had both grown up on something of a starvation diet, and that had left them ignorant of many things, with little time to rectify their ignorance even after it was no longer dangerous to make their faith an open matter. Absolutely not, he insisted; it must be the king, not his heir. His health would be enough improved by midsummer for him to make the journey, he insisted.
His health did not improve, and Míriel’s resolve did not waver. Elennúmen went digging through some of the old texts the Andustari had smuggled away from their great libraries before Míriel’s grandfather put them all to the torch. A few days later, she cheerfully reported her findings to the king. There was indeed precedent for the king’s heir taking his place in the procession if the king was himself unable to make the climb up the Meneltarma. As a young woman, Tar-Ancalimë did this many times, for her father was often away in Middle-Earth, and the rites must still be upheld, even if the king is absent.
At last, in the face of documented support for her position and his own unimproved health, Palantir relented. One of the royal family must make the offering and give the prayer on the day of the Erulaitalë. If it was acceptable for the heir to go, rather than the king, then so be it.
It was early in the morning, not yet dawn, and Míriel winced as another pin grazed her scalp. Gilwen, her handmaiden, was normally more careful than this about not sticking her with the pins when she dressed her hair. A rebuke kept shooting up to Míriel’s mouth like a barbed arrow, one that she kept swallowing down in turn. Gilwen worked by lamplight this day, the shadows mingling with Míriel’s black hair to make the task nigh-impossible to perform without mistakes. And it wasn’t every day that she wore a wreath in her hair.
Míriel bit back a sigh, eyeing the wreath in her mirror, pressing her hands on her lap to keep from disturbing Gilwen’s work. The slender, flexible branches that had been fashioned into the base were real enough; the kings of Númenor had long ago moved away from deforesting Númenor itself for their shipyards, preferring to despoil Middle-Earth’s forests instead, so there was no shortage of wood here. Some of the flowers woven into the wreath were real—the lavaralda blossoms, which would bruise if any hand was to grasp them too tightly, were already beginning to droop, and would likely be brown-edged and brittle by the time she reached the summit of the Meneltarma. But when she looked into the mirror, her eye was drawn by colors brighter than what was found naturally, and the light caught on silk threads.
Of all the things she worried about, this should not have been one of them. The summer had been uncommonly hot, and most of the flowers had wilted off the vine and the bush and the tree, scattered in dead, brown patches on the ground. Míriel raked her fingernail across a scentless silk petal and squeezed her eyes shut.
She found her father sitting up in bed when she entered his chambers, reading a book in the shallow pool of light cast by his lamp. His face had still the ghastly pallor of a corpse, but he rose swiftly to his feet when he saw her, more easily than he had in weeks. “Do you remember the words of the prayer?” he asked tautly, eyes lingering for a moment on the silk flowers in Míriel’s wreath before becoming fixed upon her face.
“Yes, Father,” Míriel assured him, lifting up a hand and smiling. “I’ve recited it to myself every day for the past month.” And to you and many others, she did not add. No need; she could sense it coming to his mind, even now. “I’m scarcely going to forget it now.”
Palantir pressed a hand to his forehead. “I know,” he said with a heavy sigh. “If this was another time, it would not trouble me so. But now…” He trailed off, licking his lips.
Now, they had centuries of neglect and blasphemy to atone for, and had to convince the Valar and the One that the Núnatani would cleave to them again, in time. Míriel knew. “I’ll make you proud.”
He cupped her cheeks with his hands, smiling gently. “I know you will. Now, be off. It’s a long walk to the summit, and you must be out the doors by dawn.”
Míriel’s heart was lighter as she left her father’s chambers, but she found her heart weighed down again as she began to make her way to the entry hall. None of those who would journey to the mountain with her were with her now; they waited in the entry hall, and Míriel hoped that their number would grow as they made their way out of the city, and especially once they were out in the countryside. That did not mean she was alone.
“Cousin,” she stiffly greeted sleekly smiling Calion as he materialized out of the glom that was the royal palace before dawn.
“Princess,” he returned with a slight incline of the head. “Have you given any thought to what I proposed to you?”
A terse bark of a laugh escaped Míriel’s mouth. “No need. The kings and heirs have always walked to the Meneltarma, and I see no reason why I should travel by litter when all my predecessors walked.”
“And the guards?” His voice was light, but Míriel was no more fooled now than she had ever been. There was an edge in his voice sharp as any Elf-forged blade. How anyone could miss it, Míriel did not know. She never had—she had heard it even when they were children.
Míriel smiled thinly. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Calion. What have I to fear from my own people?”
It was as light as she could make herself sound when circumstance forced her to speak to her cousin, and today, she hoped it might be enough to deter him. Calion’s influence here was too great to simply banish him from Númenor or even Armenelos—if that did not foment trouble immediately, it would certainly foment trouble later—but he could be deterred. So long as he wished to uphold an image of being the king’s golden nephew, he would have to be deterred.
Quick as a snake striking at prey, Calion’s hand shot out and grabbed Míriel’s upper arm. “Don’t be so certain, Míriel.” His smile grew keen, eyes gleaming with reflected lamplight. Though his grip on her arm was not overly tight, his hand seemed to grow more leaden with every passing moment. Even through the fabric of her robe, his touch was like ice. “I have seen more of the world than you have. You could profit greatly from my counsel.”
Míriel did not respond in words. Instead, she stared at the hand on her upper arm with the sort of look in her eyes that signaled clearly to Calion that if she could order that his hand be separated from the rest of his body, she would. Calion was truly masterful when it came to ignoring such looks, but even he could not ignore them forever. Slowly, he took his hand away. “Forgive me, Míriel,” he murmured. “I did not mean to overstep my bounds; I was merely concerned for your well-being.”
Outside, the sky was starting to lighten. Looking out the nearest window, Míriel could see the first touches of sunlight painting the horizon a dark red. She fixed Calion in a hard stare. “Explain yourself, then.” She raised an eyebrow. “As you are no doubt aware, I am not possessed of a surplus of spare time this morning.”
“The Powers do not care for you,” he said bluntly, his smile fading, “no more than they care for any child of Men. Praying to them will not move their hearts, for nothing can move hearts of stone to bleed. The One you so revere is a fairytale told to children by their parents to ensure their obedience and lessen their fear of the dark that waits after death. When your gods are indifferent and your creator is a fairytale, you have much to fear.”
Oh, this again. “That is your opinion.” Míriel swept past him, continuing her progress down the corridor, and could not deny the spark of relief that ignited in her heart when he didn’t follow after. “However unlikely it may be, I hope that the day comes when you renounce it.”
“And I hope that one day you’ll finally look at the world and see it for what it is, Míriel,” Calion called after her. “When that day comes, come to me. I’ll be waiting.”
The high ceiling sent his words chasing after her long after the original voice fell silent. Míriel held her head high and willed herself to walk at the same pace she would have if she had never met him when she had.
Calion was, as he ever was, a storm cloud looming over an otherwise clear day. The cloud would threaten the storm, even deliver it, but even the storm could not last forever. Upon reaching the entry hall, Míriel shook the last of the shadows he had cast away.
The entry hall was not as it had originally been—though reports indicated that the entry hall had been large even in Tar-Minyatur’s time, Tar-Ancalimon had expanded the hall so that it was vaster than most of the largest structures in Armenelos, excepting the rest of the royal palace. The entry hall could potentially have held more than a thousand people, without any having to elbow or push past their neighbor to get around.
Today, the entry hall was not full. The small crowd gathered around the door did not represent even a quarter of what the entry hall could comfortably accommodate. But there had been a moment, a horrible moment, when Míriel woke some hours ago—an irrational half-dream thought that she might come here and find the hall empty, with even the Faithful among the court deserting her for fear of the people’s reaction. Even when she was able to think rationally, she’d not expected more than perhaps fifty people to be waiting for her here, even considering that the servants had been given permission to join her. This was more than she had hoped for.
As the crowd became aware of her presence, they bowed in choppy waves, a sea of wreathed heads greeting Míriel’s eyes. She scanned the crowd for familiar faces, frowning lightly. Amandil could not be here today; he oversaw reconstruction in the Andustar, and could not regret that duty, even for something so important as the Erulaitalë. But there should have been others…
She saw them, and the crowd parted like the receding waters of the Great Sea to let her reach them.
“Are you ready?” Elendil asked quietly, while behind him Elennúmen and Vanyamírë wore encouraging smiles. Their wreaths were adorned entirely with lavaralda blossoms. Where they’d found so many, Míriel had no idea (it occurred to her that the lavaralda blossoms being mostly out of flower could be construed as a bad omen, but she forcefully relegated that thought to the recesses of her mind), but judging from the scent and the way they were already beginning to droop, Míriel suspected they were real.
One of the silk flowers in Míriel’s wreath brushed against her forehead as she nodded to him. “Almost,” Míriel muttered. “Where is Gilwen?” She searched the crowd for the face of her handmaiden. “Gilwen?”
Gilwen, short as she was, had to push her way through the crowd to reach her mistress. “I’m here, milady,” she managed, huffing a little and glaring at the last man she’d had to push past to get to Míriel. She held up a large wicker basket. “I brought this from the kitchens, just like you asked me to.”
Míriel opened the basket to inspect the contents; immediately, a fresh, sweet scent greeted her. Nestled in the rich blue satin lining of the basket, there was a cantaloupe, several peaches and apricots, and at the top, many of the globed, scarlet fruit of the yavannamírë tree and the darker, more elongated fruit of the nessamelda tree. At the sight of it all, Míriel smiled. Though the heat might have sapped the life from the flowers, they had not had the same effect on the fruit trees and vines of the land.
“There was a good crop of nessamelda this year,” Gilwen told her, her dark eyes shining. “The head chef says they’re better than he’s tasted in years; not even a trace of bitterness.”
Her smile widening slightly, Míriel nodded. The best fruit was required for the rite; nothing less would do. “Don’t lose this basket, Gilwen. I will need it later.”
“Of course I won’t, milady.”
Míriel turned her attention to Elendil, to Vanyamírë and Elennúmen. Her friends, she thought with affection, and true friends, for they had always made the ascent up the slopes of the Meneltarma with her, regardless of the opprobrium that might come down on their heads, courtesy of the King’s Men. “Now I am ready. Let us begin.”
They stepped out into a quiet early morning choked with a blanket of mist. The eastern sky was cast a brilliant shade of pink, across which Gil-Estel was making its descent, to give way to the sun. Some said Eärendil steered the star across the sky even now. Míriel wondered if he had any knowledge of what went on in the world far below his domain. Wondered if he too wished her well, or if it mattered to him at all. Even if he cared nothing for the struggles of his descendants, it was still something that Míriel had seen the star at all.
Banks upon banks of silver mist shrouded the high streets of Armenelos, where the street lamps had all been extinguished, plunging the streets into a deeper gloom. At the head of the procession, Míriel, far-sighted as she was, could see no more than thirty feet ahead of her. People watched her from inside their homes, staring out of windows and doorways with watchful eyes and watchful faces—some displeased, some unreadable, and precious few happy.
Head erect, face arranged into a serene smile, Míriel met the gaze of every last one of them. If the skin on her arms was rising in gooseflesh, that was the work of the mist.
By the time they reached the limits of Armenelos, the sun hung low over the eastern horizon, and the mist had burned away. Míriel’s group was met by a group of maybe two hundred of the people of Armenelos outside the bounds of the city who filed in behind the procession. The countryside was growing warmer by the minute and with no breeze to break it, the air was already becoming stifling. Míriel’s hair clung to the back of her neck in clumps and the sun beat down on the top of her head, but her heart was light. The crowd kept up a steady stream of light, cheerful chatter, and their numbers kept swelling the more villages they passed through. It was heartening to see that outside of Armenelos there were people less afraid to make clear where their loyalties lied.
With time, such will be the case all throughout Númenor. With time, if we are fortunate, our numbers will swell.
Truth be told, Míriel wasn’t entirely certain how to make the King’s Men see the errors of their way. She knew that some were not as utterly blasphemous as Calion. There were some who, though they cared not at all for the Valar, were content to let the Faithful worship as they would, and didn’t scorn the use of Sindarin or Quenya. There were some who, though they were skeptical, were also open to debate, and when approached politely responded in kind. But still more were insistent upon clinging to their beliefs.
How Míriel could convince them of the truth, she wasn’t certain. How she could convince them to quit being a menace to the rest, she wasn’t certain. But she had the long life of a Númenórean, even a Númenórean whose lifespan was unequal to the generations that had come before them. She would have enough time to find the answers. She must find the answers, if all was to be truly well with Númenor and they were to again enjoy the full measure of the Valar’s favor.
This was the burden of the House of Elros. She would not shirk it.
By the time they reached the southernmost Tarmasundar, the sun was halfway up the eastern sky and the cicadas shrilled deafeningly, as if in defiance of the heat. The cheerful chatter of the crowd began to fell away, especially as they passed by the Noirinan and the shadow of the tall tombs temporarily blocked out the light of the sun. Soon, the loudest voice by far was the wellspring of the Siril, and Míriel’s mind was full of stories she had been told as a little girl living in her grandfather’s shadow. She watched the doors of the tombs, and held her head high. Those stories were ridiculous, and even if they were not, she had nothing to fear here. They danced through her mind, regardless.
On the summit of the Meneltarma was silence. The cicadas would not venture to the summit, any more than any of the other local fauna—Míriel had never even seen butterflies visit the flowers that grew on the summit. No one in the procession spoke; even without the prohibition of silence, the terrible holiness of this place would not allow for impertinent speech. The wind was absent this day—even it held its breath, waiting to see if the princess of the present day could hope to equal her forebears.
Míriel wasn’t certain when the rest of the procession had pulled away from her. Even when alone on the summit, she still felt a presence standing alongside her, as if something vast and invisible had followed her up the winding road. But when she turned, she found the first line of the crowd standing some ten feet back from her, watching her expectantly.
It was time.
Míriel motioned for Gilwen to step forward. This Gilwen did, surrendering the basket to her mistress before scurrying back to the crowd. Míriel drew a deep breath (though quiet; even breathing too loudly felt as though it disrespected the sanctity of this place) and began to make her way towards the center of the summit, while the crunching of the grass behind her told her that the rest followed behind her.
Míriel waded through a sea of grass and white flowers that grew taller and taller the further she walked, until the moment came when it was past her waist, and a bizarre thought crossed her mind. Was it possible that if she lied down here, in the sea of grass and seafoam-like flowers, that she could drown? Would she stand back up to find herself transported, her surroundings strange and depopulated? The very idea of it should have been ridiculous, but standing here was like standing at the heart of creation. There was a primordial pulse to the earth that only grew stronger the closer Míriel came to the center. The standard of what was ridiculous and what wasn’t was just a little altered.
There was no altar here, as adherents of other, lesser faiths might keep. Míriel laid the fruit from her basket down on the grassy earth. They would decay and feed the soil, though no trees would sprout up, though Míriel little understood why that was. Perhaps it was simply that the holiness of this place kept it from ever changing. Perhaps the nature of holiness was to be as an insect suspended in amber, as the world of the mundane was forever changing, dying, decaying, and being born again. To still be the same, come the breaking of the world.
The prayer she spoke was an old one; no one was certain of its exact origin. Tar-Amandil had spoken it first upon this summit, but its origins were believed to go back further. Some said the Bëorians of old had first conceived of it. Some said the Ñoldor carried it from the Uttermost West into Middle-Earth.
Where the prayer came from, Míriel did not know. It was passed to her orally; the documents had gone “missing” during Ar-Gimilzôr’s reign and they must needs rely on Tar-Palantir’s memory. As Míriel recited the prayer, she wondered what might come of it. As she addressed the One, would she feel a shard of the One come to her?
This was a holy place and its holiness was palpable. Míriel felt close to… something. She felt no different than she ever did when she ascended the Meneltarma.
If the crowd felt as she did, they gave no sign; when Míriel turned back to them, there was no shadow of trouble to cast a pall over their faces. A brown, withered lavaralda blossom fell from Míriel’s wreath. The ground was littered with them, she realized dully. But where it left the others’ wreaths bare branches with a few pitiable petals clinging to them still, the silk flowers woven into hers were, even out of the corner of Míriel’s eye, garishly bright.
They could not tarry all day on the summit; there were festivities among the royal court that demanded participants and Míriel’s father would want a report of the offering and the prayer. I wonder if he would object to my bathing before I presented myself to him, Míriel thought to herself, as twin rivulets of sweat slowly dribbled down her face. The odor alone might be enough to bring his recovery to a standstill—and I would certainly welcome a bath.
As they descended the Meneltarma, Míriel turned her eyes to the sky, watching for what she had watched for every time she came here for the past three years. This day the sky was cloudless, the sky was clear. It was utterly without blot or blemish. Nothing but blue as far as the eye could see, mingling so completely with the sea that even Míriel could not discern where sky ended and sea began.
Her face slipped for a moment, but Míriel found it again soon enough, and led the procession downwards with a smooth and even countenance.
There was the same easy chatter on the way back to Armenelos as there had been on the way from, though the noise of the chatter dwindled the closer they came to the capital and the more people broke off from the procession to return to their homes in the countryside. Míriel was separate from it—it was something taking place behind her, rather than something taking place with her. She had the distant, disconnected feeling of a spectator. But it would not remain for long, either her feeling like a spectator, nor the still, hot air being filled with cheerful voices.
They were only a few hundred yards from Armenelos now, and an ugly noise was buzzing on the air like a hive full of angry bees, set to spill out and fall upon the unlucky. Míriel paused to hear it, frowning, and she was not the only who had noticed, nor guessed at what it meant.
“Míriel, we may wish to find another route to enter from,” Elendil muttered to her, leaning down close to her ear. “The high streets are unlikely to be friendly to us.”
She was the king’s only child. If she was to die before her time, that would leave the succession—the future of this land—in dire straits. She was the heir to the throne of Númenor, destined to wield the scepter and power alike. If she showed herself willing to be intimidated, willing to bow to the will of the unfaithful and the blasphemous, then she was no true heir of Tar-Minyatur. She was just some weak thing born in dark times, and twisted by the pollution of the land rather than something made to endure past it.
“The other streets are unlikely to be any friendlier,” she replied, “and I will not be cowed by my own people. Let us move on.” Míriel turned her gaze to Elendil, and could not find it in her to smile in the face of his wariness. “Stay close behind me, regardless.”
In the early morning, the people of Armenelos had not been happy, but they had been silent, and had done nothing to hinder to progress of the procession. Come early afternoon, and perhaps they were merely properly awake now, for there was more energy to them than there had been to the wan, disapproving apparitions who had stared upon Míriel in silence amidst the silver mist. Upon returning to Armenelos, Míriel found herself and the rest of the procession having to push through throngs of people as one might try to walk through the rough tides of the sea—every fiber of it actively resisting you, trying to push you back in rejection. Their eyes were knives seeking any chink in armor through which they could strike. The things they said, some muttered, some spoken, some shouted, Míriel shut her ears to it. She had to.
Armenelos was a large city, but it was not infinite in size. She would reach the palace soon. She must simply keep walking. Keep her head erect, her face smooth as glass, and walk.
Quick as any arrow, a stone sailed through the air towards her.
Before Míriel could even think to jump aside, it connected, striking her forehead. Stars exploded in her eyes just as pain exploded in her skull and blood leaked from her broken skin. As she stumbled and fell, noxious smoke stung her eyes and filled her nostrils. She saw gouts of flame blacken the sky, saw the Eagles returned to Númenor at last but as spectral clouds rising up out of the West, blotting out the setting sun and plunging the land into utter darkness, saw a great green wave plumed with foam swallow the mountains, the hills, the vales, the cities, and every living thing contained therein. Her mouth was filled with seawater, her throat choked, her lungs saturated and overflowing.
“Míriel?! Míriel!” Míriel spat out phantom seawater as Elendil hooked one hand beneath her elbow and another round her waist to pull her to her feet. “Míriel, we must not stay here,” he hissed urgently. “We must return to the palace.”
She nodded choppily. The action made her wreath, the pins that held it in place loosened by her fall, topple from her head and hit the ground. The dead lavaralda blossoms scattered in the wind that was suddenly blowing, and the silk flowers quivered and drooped. “Yes,” she said, and hated more that she could not keep her voice from shaking than she did that her voice shook at all. “We must return to the palace.”
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Anadûnê—Númenor (Adûnaic) Andustar—The western promontory of Númenor. The north of this region was rocky, with forests of fir trees on the coast. Andustar contained three small bays which all faced west, the most northern of which was the Bay of Andúnië. The south of the Andustar was fertile, and there were forests of birch, beech, oak and elm trees. Timber was this region’s main source of wealth. Edain—Men of the three houses (the Houses of Bëor, Hador and Haleth) who were faithful to the Elves throughout the First Age; after the War of Wrath they were gifted with the land of Númenor and became known as the Dúnedain; after the Akallabêth they established Arnor and Gondor (singular: Adan) (Sindarin) Erulaitalë—‘Praise of Eru’ (Quenya); the second of the Three Prayers the people of Númenor make to Ilúvatar throughout the year. This one takes place in midsummer. A procession is made to the summit of the Meneltarma, led by the King; the attendants are dressed in white and silent. Only the King is allowed to speak at the summit of the Meneltarma, and he offered a bloodless sacrifice to Ilúvatar at this time. Gil-Estel—‘Star of Hope’ (Sindarin); the name given to the evening star, which in actuality was the light cast by the Silmaril that Eärendil wore on his brow as he steered his ship Vingilot across the sky Lavaralda—one of the trees in Númenor brought to them by the Elves of Tol Eressëa. The tree possessed long green leaves that were golden on their underside; its flowers were pale with a yellow tint, and hung thickly on the branches, possessing a faint but clear and pleasing scent. It was rare for the tree not to be in flower. Nessamelda—one of the fragrant, evergreen trees brought to Númenor by the Elves of Tol Eressëa. Noirinan—‘Valley of the Tombs’; a valley at the southern foot of the Meneltarma. There was located spring from which the river Siril flowed, and the tombs of the kings and queens of Númenor. Númenórë—a more conservative Quenya form of the name ‘Númenor’ Núnatani—‘Men of the West’ (Quenya) (singular: Núnatan); Quenya equivalent of the Sindarin ‘Dúnedain’, a term used to refer to the Númenóreans and their descendants. Siril—‘Rivulet’ (Quenya); the greater of the two rivers of Númenor. It rose from a spring in the Noirinan at the southern foot of the Meneltarma, and flowed south to reach the sea at the port of Nindamos. Tarmasundar—‘Roots of the Pillar’ (Quenya); the five ridges that consisted of the base of the Meneltarma. Each ridge stretched out in the direction of one of the promontories of Númenor. Yavannamírë—'Jewel of Yavanna' (Quenya); a fragrant evergreen tree with globed scarlet fruit, brought to Númenor by the Elves of Tol Eressëa.