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The lords of the west are angered.
Míriel glanced around the austere black-and-gold pillared room, and her hand trembled as she touched the leather-bound tome, written in an ancient script, yellowed by age. Few of her people, now or for many lives of men before, could read it; but she, with her fascination for tongues and lore, was the exception.
She pored over the tiny lettering. The first line of the book read: Herein lies the tale of Míriel Therindë, lady of the Noldor. It was what lured her to it at first, before she found the compelling tale within it. She found where she had left off the night before. Another Míriel, in another time.
Tar-Míriel had studied history, and she knew well the tale of the Noldor and their greatest craftsman, who wrought such change in the world. The flowing, graceful script the book was written in – and which now was banned in Númenor, though none dared to say aught to her – was made by Míriel's child. And he, or so she had come to understand, fell under the wrath of the Powers, dying still-defiant under their curse. The parallel struck her, and she almost laughed.
Another Míriel, in another time. Yes, and she bore the greatest of the Avalloi who lived, though his name is cursed by that people. And what of myself? Do I not mother a people? What shall be said of us, the folk who wrought ships to fly on air, and built towers taller than mountains? Will the west-folk curse us also when we fall, and name fair Anadunë Atalantë in their tongue?
She threw open the curtains, letting the dim light shine on her face and hands. Of late the west had been enshrouded in gloom. She knew that Pharazôn would not return from where he went. She did not know whether she would grieve for it. He had wed her all but by force, and wrested the scepter from her, but he had never been cruel. He had been proud, suffering none to cross him; but that had been their common trait. She opposed him, defied him, denied him; together, they ruled the kingdom.
The smoke from the silver-domed temple rose dark and thick, and Míriel grimaced. She had been in favour of ceasing the worship upon Meneltarma. It had been such a waste of time, to bow and pray and adjust their lives to suit the imagined whim of a being who might or might not exist. Each, she had declared, is the keeper of his or her own conscience. But she had been violently opposed to this new worship. What was the point of rejecting one deity only to usher in another?
She sighed, and turned away. It was the thirteenth day since the fleet had sailed.
There was a rap on her door, and she started, closing her book. The dark priest of the dark god haunted her steps of late, and she little fancied his company. Surely, she thought, he would not be so bold as to come knocking on the door of her private chambers.
"Who is without?" she asked.
"Lord Amandil, my queen, to see you," came the distant voice of the woman who waited upon her. She was one of Pharazôn's spies on Míriel, but Míriel kept her nonetheless. She was good at the tasks she did, and Míriel never let her discover her secrets.
"Admit him," she called, wondering when she had learned to use the voice of a queen.
Amandil entered, bowing. He always bowed to her ever since she was queen and wed to Pharazôn, though they had been dear friends in her youth. He was, she reflected, as her father had been: decorous and pious to a fault, and among the most upright men she knew. "Sit," she urged him.
"My lady," he said urgently, softly, "There is no time. The ships are ready. Come with me, to Romenna."
"We spoke of this," she told him. "I will stay with Anadunë."
He stared at her, and for a moment she felt a twinge of regret. "Then I too will stay," he said.
"No," she told him, almost gently. "You shall go. In this at least I may still command you. If you do not, all of our folk shall die here. I know this." She did indeed know, from guesses and the fragmented history that she pored over daily. And dreams. For the past two nights she had dreamed of darkness rising to drown her, and the red wrath of the Powers. "And if I go with you," she continued relentlessly, "every one of you will die."
For she knew – Pharazôn might have sailed to claim the land of the Valar, but only because he believed that there was a virtue about it. He believed, and so he would be chastened, punished, but not annihilated. It was at her, she who did not believe in their right to rule the minds of men at all, that their wrath would be directed.
"Go," she urged Amandil again. "Remember Anadunë, and the lavaralda on the slopes of the Nisimaldar where we grew. It shall be enough."
He rose, hesitated, took her hand in his. "I will go west, and plead with the Powers for you."
She smiled this time. "You must do as you see fit."
It was the twentieth day since the fleet had sailed.
She had known since dawn that this day was different. For the past thirty-eight days the air had been dark and gloomy, almost oppressive. Today, the sky was blue and so was the sea. She knew that the time had come.
She slipped on her cloak and went out. There were some people in the courtyard of the palace, but they made way before her and fell silent. She walked as one in a dream, the visions rising before her eyes, seeing only the dark wave and the red fire. And indeed the sky darkened as she walked through the silent streets, and out the gates of Armenelos.
She came to the foot of the Meneltarma, and made her way up the grass-grown steps. Below her the dark sea roared beneath a darkened sky. She turned and saw her vision made true, the dark wave flowing over her beloved land, wondering what the other Míriel might have felt when her child and her child's children died.
My people will yet live. At the edge of her vision, like leaves on a stream, nine ships sailed towards the east. Amandil must be the captain of that fleet, she thought. My people live, and they will do great deeds and make more marvels. And, possessed by a strange fey recklessness, she laughed. O vengeful divinities, all that is in your power to take now is my life; and in doing so, you shall have brought death to the one place where you once decreed no death might come. Shall I say that I have prevailed?
The wind howled in answer. The wave rose, and Míriel stretched out her arms to meet it.