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In a garden, with slender capable hands tucked behind him, strolled an exquisitely beautiful man. This was no gushing exaggeration, rather the entire truth at an initial glance. His hair gleamed as if burnished gold. His skin was smooth and unblemished. His face was perfectly, unsettlingly symmetrical. His clothes—silk and fine and surprisingly simple—draped over his form teasingly. He was undoubtedly the fairest appearing man Míriel had ever seen.
He was no man, though, Míriel knew, and nor was he of fair quality. Sauron, or as he had titled himself these days Tar-Mairon, followed behind Ar-Pharazôn, with careful lilting steps, his voice low and discrete as he seduced her cousin to his own doom.
Míriel eyed the pair, pretending from a distance, as was her habit during these outings of theirs, to examine the fragile blossoms that filled the courtyard. She kneeled beside one and pressed her nose to the bloom. It was a treacherous, bloody shade of crimson and smelled of nothing. Her eyes remained latched to the creature that her cousin had welcomed into their own household, fitting him a bedchamber worthy of some high-ranked member of their own family. He was blind to his ways, distracted by gold and promises of power and secret knowledge. She cupped the petals, stroked the delicate softness, and remained. Her cousin laughed at something Sauron said; the sound was an unpleasant thing—hearty and amused and filled with warmth.
The sun glared down upon her. The back of her dress felt sticky and damp in the summer heat. It was sickening that Sauron, who had been dragged to this place in chains, now held the ear of her cousin with such skillful mastery. It could not be allowed to continue.
Míriel plucked the flower and stood to leave. She would leave it in a vase to rot; it was an adequate excuse for her being here.
Sauron’s eyes flicked to her swiftly with her movement. He bowed with every mockery of curtesy and politeness as she passed the pair of them. His hair elegantly slid over his shoulder with the movement.
Her cousins’ own dark eyes brushed over with a perversion of lust and loathing. Had Sauron not stood there with every false pretense of civility painted on his face, Míriel knew her cousin would seize her with all his fury; she unsettled him. He wanted compliant, complete adoration, yet he had taken her own scepter by force. She did not love him as he wished her to nor could she any longer in the familial sense of years past. He had stripped all notions of family away from her when he had thrown her into his bed and stole her maidenhood and her throne through the consummation of their unlawful marriage.
“Ar-Zimraphel,” Sauron said, “what a pleasure to see you. How exquisite you are in your new gown.”
Had Míriel less control of herself, she might have laughed at the ridiculousness of him flattering her. He’d garner nothing from that; she had nothing. The idea that she shared power with Pharazôn was insulting, was ludicrous, was somehow still not enough to dissuade his attempts of flattery.
“Thank you. I was looking at the flowers,” she returned, her voice delicate and forcedly placid. “They are all so lovely at the moment.”
“Nearly as fair as you yourself, jewel that you are.”
She was decided. Her cousin simply could not be allowed this foolhardy decline; if she had to seize Sauron’s attentions to ensure Númenor’s survival, she would.
She smiled warmly at Sauron, lowered her eyes as though embarrassed by his words. “You are too kind,” she breathed as though secretly delighted. She was, of course, not.
…
Ar- Pharazôn had appeared the perfect candidate for his plans at first. He was arrogant, condescending, and filled with an ambitious lust for power and control. Mairon understood him well, for they were much the same in some regards; however, Pharazôn was proving more irritating the longer this façade went on. His pride and his experience in combination made for an especially vexing man to temper; he was overly argumentative and thought too highly of himself as all mortals were in the foolish habit of doing; time would strip their strength, tarnish their wisdom, ruin any beauty they might have possessed.
It was not that he required Pharazôn; he did not; the strength of Númenor could be destroyed from the bottom up if he so desired to make the effort—he did not, however, have the inclination to suffer through such banal things as uprisings.
Besides him, Pharazôn was recounting some unworthy battle of his. Mairon complimented his wit in his military force with careful, agonized smoothness.
A bit of grey stood up from behind the fire lilies. Tar-Míriel.
She clutched a blossom in her hand and moved to pass them. Her eyes lowered; her feet swift in her eagerness to avoid her cousin. He could understand the urge.
He forced himself to blink. It unsettled men when these habits of theirs were not mirrored. He did not require the motion. Something stirred within him: timid Tar-Míriel with her dark hair and her clever, melancholic eyes. She cringed in fear of her cousin, and yet did little to stop his continued mistreatment of her. Had another even attempted such a thing with him, Mairon would burn them to ash; she, fragile as she was in her mortality, was unable to manage even that simple thing. She was a rather pathetic creature.
He turned away from Pharazôn and blinked once more for good measure.
He was decided. Pharazôn’s usefulness to him, like frail iron gone to rust and crumbling into powder, could easily be replaced; Míriel would heed his advice with all her fallible humanity. Her love he would seize from her with meticulous care. Like melted silver, she would prove most malleable to his will.
…
When she has the displeasure of encountering Sauron again it occurs in the library, neglected and much diminished as it has become over the years, she is reading through one of the more questionable texts that remains; in it, the author recounts some tale of Melian and Thingol. It is brief and unhelpful for her purposes. Melian, after all, meant Thingol and his lands no real harm. Sauron likely hopes to raze all Númenor to the ground.
She flips the pages, the account brief and irritatingly undetailed. Sunlight scatters across the table through glossy windows. The author moves from the discussion of the affair into a long-winded summary of his own morning routine.
Sauron slides into the chair opposed to her with the barest rustle of his silk robes. He had not made a sound with his approach, somehow pacing over the cold marble floors with silence.
“Tar-Mairon,” she said, her voiced strained by the shock of his appearance. She lowered her eyes. The author detailed the method in which he cleaned his ears. She flipped the page—a detailed account of a drought.
Sauron was proving even more insufferable. How dare he seek her out in the one space that remained somewhat peaceful for her. If she did not require him, she would throw this bulky, useless book at his sanctimonious face.
“Good morning, Tar-Míriel,” he said.
She blinked. “That is not what the king wishes me to be called.”
“Yet, it is your name, is it not?” Sauron’s voice was honeyed and fair and seemingly kindly. This was a trap. He was attempting to ensnare her loyalty, or this was merely some complicated way to reveal her hatefulness of the king. She delicately maneuvered between the snapping iron jaws.
“Yes.” A perfect simple thing without too much expression. Nothing too incriminating, nothing that revealed the flare of her anger.
Sauron smiled warmly, radiantly. He reached across the table and settled his feverishly hot hand on top of her. “It is a terrible thing for our true names to be stolen from us. I could not do such a thing to you, fair Míriel.”
Yet he had, time after time after time. She had hardly forgotten how easily he had wielded her cousin’s words. He must think her patently stupid. He stroked the top of her hand and smoldered towards her with bright eyes; neither conveniently removed her memory.
She let her eyes linger on his hands for but a moment. They were as well formed as those on any statue. But unlike a statue’s, they provided no cool relief. His heat made her flush with discomfort. She pulled her hands away from him.
“The king has long stripped me of it. I did not dare hope to hear it from any.”
“He was wrong to do so.” His voice gentled, lowered. “It hurts me to see you treated thus, Tar-Míriel.”
Something warmed inside of her, some crumbling tender thing that still ached. She turned away from it, swallowed it down. Her lungs were tight like ribbons pulled taunt and twisted. He lies, she reminded herself. He cared little for her besides whatever it was he hoped to gain from this.
“You are always kind to me, Tar-Mairon. I do not deserve such a friend.” The words were like saltwater in her mouth.
…
The library was the least of his attempts to lay the foundation for her growing affection. The girl was frightened to approach him, petrified as she was by her loathsome cousin who he still spent too much of his time managing. Friendliness, she had already dared to shyly insinuate with words wrapped in her own human uncertainty. He would allow this and more.
Friendship, a useful, advantageous state: Tyelpë had proven such things. His lip curled.
The ringing bell of laughter. Wine poured without hesitation into his cup. The grip of a hand on his forearm and bright, eager eyes gazing up to him. Tedious emotional asides: “Annatar, no one has ever understood me or my work so well.”
Yes, most pliable were friends, most eager to confide and share and give were friends.
Still, such progression of affections had to appear natural from her perspective, better it would be if she came to him, but to push such an event to occur…
…
The encounters she had with Sauron were suspiciously increasing. He spoke to her now, in hallways and corridors when before he might have brushed by her with that unfeeling, inconsiderate, inhumanity. He cared little for those who seemingly could not bring him closer to his foul aims. Some plot of his she was foolishly embroiled in, yet she could hardly avoid him now. She could use him against her cousin. She had little doubt that he would oppose ridding Númenor of Pharazôn’s presence, and then, after, she could rid Númenor of him, too, somehow—the specifics for that bit still alluded her, unfortunately.
The brunt of his attention worried her.
…
In the market she encounters him next for another too long meeting. She wanted silk greedily. Pale and lovely as dew on grass. Sheen like pearl luster. She could insist the merchants attend her needs in the palace, but sometimes she enjoyed removing herself from her loathsome company despite the risks. That she was recently forbidden the act, also has encouraged her even further in her defiance.
Her hair, she has covered. Her clothing is unremarkable, and her face is smudged with a bit of dirt from a garden. Such task could easily be managed. She had brought only enough to buy enough material for a few new gowns, and it would not be so strange that she sent a ‘servant’ to collect such things.
The market is loud and alive and brilliant. Voices bustle around her without respectful, murmuring silence.
She had planned this outing for weeks. Collected robes and other trappings, hid them beneath her bed, spoke of weariness to excuse her short absence. Locked her door and swore her chamber maid to secrecy with the gift of a fine broach studded with bright diamonds.
It should have been enough.
Sauron, sneaking and malicious has discovered her meagerest rebellion. His slender fingers latch onto her forearm as she examines a fold of thick, glossy satin. It ripples green and free and cool as a snake beneath her palms.
“Tar-Míriel,” he says lowly. The market pools with life. Conversation melds into a loud roar, like the crashing of sea waves. Her heart seizes.
She tugs her arm away before she realizes who speaks. Her eyes lash over him. He is terrible and not discrete in any such way. Already there are whispers now. The markets eyes latch on him, for he is tall and inhuman.
“I am here to collect you, lest you fall into unfriendly hands.”
“Did he send you?” She spits it before she can control herself. It is easier to lie when one is prepared. She thought herself safe from his presence, today.
For a moment he almost appeared amused. Lips twitched upwards, something flared in his eyes.
“No, but you are less discrete than you might hope.”
She allowed herself to imagine pushing him into bulky row of spun fabric and coarsely causing a scene so memorable, the commoners would gossip of it for weeks. A tempting prospect. To start, she would let herself detail Sauron’s lesser qualities in a roaring, projected sort of tempest. None of it would prove helpful for her plans, but the sheer satisfaction would be spectacular.
Delicately, she forced herself to touch his sleeve, let desperation and fear color her tongue. “Then, please,” she started, “I will return with you, but do not speak of this to him.”
He nodded almost pleasantly, spoke with the merchant for but a moment—sickeningly, she realized he was purchasing the silks she had spent far too much time appreciating, and giving the man directions to have them delivered to the palace.
“Come along then,” he said as though she was a dog to follow at his heels.
She seethes.
…
The sneaking bird absconded from her cage. A trifle to retrieve. He guided her back to the palace and led her rather neatly to his own meager, but to a mortal, impressive chambers—a generous gift from his king, Pharazôn had told him.
Obscene, gratuitous grandeur. Gilded incessantly were the trappings of the place: molding was painted painstakingly with the stuff, frescoes on the wall glimmered suspiciously in places, the embroidery on the bed canopy was certainly woven with gilded threads. He had developed a sense for all the finer metals—silver, gold, mithril—their songs hummed at some quiet level that mortals could not detect with their inferior senses. Beyond that, white gleaming marble soaking the floor, a balcony that displayed the might of Númenor’s greatest city. An inspired gesture meant to keep him firmly under Pharazôn’s thumb, not that he had ever intended to stay there, but certainly, it had encouraged the façade of awed, malleable reluctance he had been working into his dealings with the man.
Perhaps if he had merely been some mortal prisoner, it would suffice, but he had seen Valinor; Númenor was palest of all imitations.
Míriel blinked. The finery of the chambers seemingly detected. Yes, it would be shocking, for to find that her husband tended to a prisoner more charitably than his wife.
He smiled benignly. The poor thing had been neglected so; he suspected she would loathe her cousin even more after this parading of his gifts, and he would soothe her ache like balm. He moved meticulously towards the table stocked with fine wine at the king’s command. He poured a glass then sat gracefully in the chair besides it. He sipped, watched her eyes narrow at the movement.
“You must be terribly lonely to flee the company of your friends to risk the dangers of the city.”
She stood rather still; her delicate hands bundled into the folds of her stolen skirt. Coarse linen—a scullery maid had complained of its absence for days.
“There are few I could call friend here.”
“True enough, but still, it would burden me to hear news of some harm befalling you.”
She rather pinked at that. A pleasant sight to see the results of all his workings. Her eyes fluttered shut.
“I—I did not know you felt so. I had not dared to hope that one such as you could care for those mortals so below your splendor.”
And she was one of the faithful, he recalled, those silly, subservient ones who bowed and scraped for gods who did not even shelter them. A delicate operation to keep that servility while still drawing her closer.
“Not so splendorous as thou.”
Her eyes widened, then fell rather piteously to her feet. Her entire face had flushed brilliantly red. He reigned the urge to laugh into the merest tilt of his chin. So weak mortals are. Could a hollow compliment truly fall Númenor? Pharazôn had made his work rather simpler than expected.
Her hands balled into fists at her sides. “Would you—would you walk with me in the gardens?”
…
The wretched fiend. The abhorrent creature posing so crudely at kindness. He earned his many titles several times over, Míriel determined.
Terribly unfair it was, too that she was left to deal with this creature after centuries of his malicious undertakings. A horrid insurmountable burden—could not the elves have made the effort to depose of him, must all things fall to the hands of man to repair?
And now the gardens, like she was some lovestruck princess in a song. Gardens ruined forever now for her. The sheer idea of romance spoiled like fruit gone to rot. She would be forced to act at acquiescing attraction to the one she despised perhaps almost as much as her cousin. She, at least, was not bespelled by Sauron’s cloying attempts at connection. Worse, she had brought it on herself.
She slunk rather unwilling to the place he had described—a trap by all accounts—but one she would twist and set for him.
Fountains sprayed mist into the air. Waxy green leaves swayed pleasantly in breeze. A place of affairs, for so cloistered from passages and windows she doubted any might hear or see them. Had he the desire to kill her such place would also suffice. Her stomach roiled like she had swallowed a stone.
“Tar-Mairon,” she said as she came across the baneful thing.
He was a sight in pale, nearly sheer silk. The shadowing hint of his form, barely detectable beneath the folded layers. A purposeful choice, she was certain—or perhaps not. Perhaps his very nature pushed him towards temptation. Perhaps, like the cooing doves which soared outside of her window with magnificent, freeing flight, seduction was grafted into his being without conscious thought. He turned to face her, and the silk rippled.
She swallowed.
Her meandering, hopefulness was too foolish. Sauron’s face was pleasantly, insidiously gentle. His words fluid and drowning as honey might be to a fly: “lovely Míriel.”
O, loathsome Sauron, she might have retorted had she lost all her senses. (She had greeted him already; there was no need for a second greeting composed of naked and dangerous sincerity.) Still, the words rang in her mind with tempting honesty. She had long lost the rights to the easy taste of truth, now her lips only mouthed lies—polite horrid trivialities, agonized obsequiousness, terrible, close-mouthed smiles that burned and blistered and seemed to take more from her every time she forced them onto her face.
Instead, she nodded and took up a place besides him.
His hand fell onto her arm and seemed to singe her with a foul, vaporous heat. She would scrub his touch from her this night with a cloth and cool, perfumed water.
The plants loomed dark around them. The foliage fluttered with malice and shadowed constricting potential. A breeze wafted the cloying scent of lilies up into the air.
She smiled faintly, let him lead her from the place. His polished nails slinking amongst the cooling linen of her sleep. His fingertips seemed to burn hot against her skin.
…
He might have been charming had she not recalled her mothers’ stories of him. Her childhood monster, Sauron. If she had not behaved, her mother warned, Sauron would come to Númenor and with terrible claws and horrid sharp white teeth and take and take and take everything that might be hers. All her pretty dresses, her clever toys, her lovely books, she’d give them all to him now might he leave with that alone.
His fingers slipping teasingly to the flesh hidden slightly up her sleeve. Her eyes flicked downwards to the sight of it. Mother had been wrong. He wanted more than her trinkets. Every man always wanted more, and he had taken the form of a man.
“I do not understand why you have remained here. Surely, you could escape if you wished.” Her voice felt foreign and unsteady in her mouth.
“Yet, I would stay. Would you have me leave?”
“No.” A lie. Every word somehow poisonous and growing and tangling. Would some part of her start to believe them? “I would lose a friend. Would I not?”
Smoldering flicker in his gaze. A terrible smile rolled up his polished teeth.
“Then I shall stay.”
…
It became a pattern of behavior that lasted months. A testing set of trials for her to undertake every day. Encounters in corridors, sneaking conversations in long forgotten alcoves. She had encouraged him as best she could though such matters drained her in every way that still mattered.
Still, despite the growing familiarity, his most recent invitation still unsettled her.
“Tomorrow. Sunrise. The tombs.” Then only the barest sound of his leather soles against marble floors.
The tombs of her ancestors were a sacred, private place, yes, but in no way were they particularly romantic. Still, this made the matter rather easy; it seemed Sauron was willing to do all the work provided she continued to play her assigned role in his crafty, meticulous melodrama.
Still, she had made her way their, somberly, like a prisoner marching to execution. The place was dim and barely lit. Flickering candlelight announced his presence before he had even stepped out of shadow and stole into her sight.
“Míriel,” he said, “there is something I must confess. I can bear it no longer. All this waiting tortures me. You have stirred love within me, the love which comes for one such as I only once. Like brightest star, you have seized my eyes. Like sweetest song, you have ruined all sounds forever. Like clearest water, the scent of you has pulled me under.”
Míriel blinked rather rapidly. Then had the disturbing image of Sauron practicing exactly how to say the wretched thing in front of a mirror. Had he written all that down? The urge to laugh soared inside of her.
“In truth, I am flattered and comforted by the thought of your affections.” She was not, but had the overwhelming suspicion, that he, also, was lying with equal fervor.
He seized her hands between his. She inhaled sharply and controlled the impulse to pry her hands away from this abhorrent creature and slap him—at least the air was cooler in these chambers. It was time to draw him closer to her objective; like a needle pulling together seams, she would achieve her greater aims. She continued, gripping him tighter and allowing him to draw her nearer. His breath smelled pleasantly of charred cloves rather than wickedly of blood and foul vapors as her mother had once promised her.
Her voice rose higher. “But, Tar-Mairon, my cousin—”
“He matters little if you speak truly now. You love me, Tar-Míriel, do you not?” His hand raised, stroked her jawline. She shuddered, closed her eyes.
For Númenor, she would do this deed. For Númenor alone, she would lie back if she must and allow her enemy to touch her so. She could lie for the sake of Númenor. It was her duty to do so.
A kiss grazed her cheek, sharper and more wicked than any blade crafted for his foul armies. Then he snared her own lips without hesitation. Breath shook unsteadily in her lungs when he pulled away.
Yes, she could lie. She opened her eyes and let herself trace the planes of his face. The bait now—there could be no turning back. “Yes, but my affections matter little while my husband still lives.”
His lips curled upwards, barest smile.
“Easily remedied.”
Smooth fingers brushed down her face.
She felt rather faint.