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Lômibêth learned how to hide things very early on in her life; her mother made certain of it. ‘Where is the best place to hide books, daughter?’ she would quiz her, her gray eyes alight with something that was neither comforting nor comfortable. ‘Where is the best place to hide missives, and how the best way to hide their true meaning?’
This was not a game that they played. They did not do it with smiles on their faces. Lômibêth’s mother taught her how to hide words within her heart, and here in Ar-Minalêth, learning to hide one’s true self was not a game at all.
When there came visitors to their house who did not give the passwords, Lômibêth helped her mother hide the books, the letters, the icons, the Sindarin workbooks from which Lômibêth learned her letters. When she carried messages to her parents’ friends, she learned to hide scraps of paper within her many layers of skirts, how to speak in code. She learned to smile innocently at the city guards, as though they did not terrify her.
Funeral processions rode slowly down the clouded high streets, perfectly preserved corpses in chilled glass coffins riding towards the splendid houses that had been prepared for them. Temple acolytes went before them, chanting, telling the crowds of how Men were not meant to pass into death. Their bodies must be preserved, for there would come a day when the souls of the dead could be recalled, and their bodies must not be allowed to mortify in the meantime. Lômibêth, who wore the tale of the Gift of Men engraved upon her heart, hid the truth deep inside herself.
Smoke rose from the Temple, and she hid her tears of fear.
When she was still quite young, agents of the Temple came for Lômibêth’s parents. When questioned, she did what she had been instructed to do. She lied. She cried and begged, and when prompted, disavowed her parents utterly. It was fortunate, Lômibêth knew, that she had not been taken before Tar-Mairon. It was said that he could discern the truth of men’s hearts with a glance, force them to divulge their most deeply-buried secrets without lifting a finger. For the examiners called in to handle her. Lômibêth’s lies were enough to serve.
Her uncle was as gifted a liar as she. He was considered a safe choice for the guardian of this newly-orphaned child (And if she did not hide her tears as well as she ought, he excused the lapse). Under her uncle’s guidance, Lômibêth learned more of hiding, of lying, of making masks of skin and smiles. Of how to keep her eyes from stinging when smoke rose from the Temple. Of how to keep her gaze downcast when she walked by Temple priests.
She was also trained for palace service, to be a handmaiden, as her birth was high enough for that. And when the time came…
Ar-Zimraphêl was smaller than Lômibêth would have expected of the rightful ruler of Anadûnê. Tar-Minyatur’s blood was supposed to tower over other men, and yet Lômibêth stood a full head taller than the queen. But the queen had the smooth, ageless look Lômibêth would have expected, though her face was often pale and strained. And she was discerning, for she had soon caught on to Lômibêth’s talents.
“Lômibêth, child.” Ar-Zimraphêl’s dark eyes bore into Lômibêth’s face, her mouth tightening as she held a small slip of paper out to her handmaiden. “I need you to deliver this to the Lord of Andúnië’s wife. Can you do this quickly, without being noticed or intercepted?”
Lômibêth bowed deeply. “Yes, my Queen.”
It was all she had ever been taught to do, after all.