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The howling of the icy wind, and the screeching of the fleeing birds above her, are the only sounds that can be heard over her pants and footsteps. The air is heavy with humidity and charged with static, the impending tempest approaching swiftly. Tar-Míriel has been chased by the storm for a couple of miles now. As fast as she is trying to move forward, she knows she will not reach her destination on time—for all she has walked, the Meneltarma still lies so far ahead of her. And yet her steps don’t stop, and neither do her prayers. She keeps imploring the Valar forgiveness for her nation, for her people; she begs for the safety of the Faithful, for him to survive this tempest. The memory of Elendil brings a sharp pain to her chest, for she is well aware that he will not forgive her for staying; not at first anyway, but in time he will understand that this was the most painful decision she had ever taken, that this was her fate, and she had no option but to remain here. But she had gladly accepted the task if it meant giving him and the Númenórians who were still alive a chance to survive.
Despite her blindness, she feels her surroundings as vividly as if she was seeing it all, for she’s lived this moment so many times in her visions that the images are burned to her mind. And guided by those memories, she continues her way.
Suddenly, the ground trembles with a fateful rumble, and she loses her balance, falling on her knees. The tremor continues, fueling the fire and stones blowing now from the insides of the Meneltarma, but Míriel is not close enough to feel its heat yet. She can’t help but ponder how the first time she witnessed such devastation, she lost her sight, and the trust of her people, but now she is about to lose everything, the fire of the mountain a sign that she will not succeed in her task. And yet she keeps praying with all her might, her knees firm on the ground.
In the planes around the path to the Meneltarma, the beasts, horses, foxes and smaller creatures, run wild, in an attempt to flee the lands they had inhabited for so long. But there is no escape from this doomed island now, for the rage and judgement of Ilúvatar doesn’t know innocent from guilty, faithful from pagan anymore. And yet she keeps praying, holding onto the last threads of her faith, even at the end of the world.
There’s no higher price than she’s already paid: losing her home, her people; losing him… and her own life soon. And yet she doesn’t stop praying.
When the ground stops trembling, she resumes her steps. The wind blows now stronger, and the distinctive smell of the sea starts surrounding her; how could the scent in which she used to find such comfort have turned into this fateful portent?
Míriel touches her cheeks as suddenly drops fall against her skin. They carry a salty taste, and for a moment she doesn’t know if it is the first drizzle of the ocean approaching or her own tears pouring silently.
The ground trembles again, the raging waves unstoppable now. There is no time left. She turns to face the waters, head held proud, like the Faithful Queen she had been all along, even at this moment. And she prays one last time, screaming desperately for the benevolence of Ilúvatar, if not for her, at least for him whom she loved most to travel safely, so that he can keep Númenor alive in distant shores.
She couldn’t see it, but knew exactly what was coming, she had already watched it happen—the ground breaking, the hills sliding down, the carved stones of her people crushed into sand, the waves rushing in, engulfing everything in its way. But this time there would be no waking up from the darkness of the ocean washing over her.