A most grateful thanks to Pandemonium for her support and for beta reading this story. Thank you, Pandemonium! I will forever be grateful for your help with this story! Also many thanks to SurgicalSteel for advising me in regards to the medical accuracy on the diseases and poisons used in this stiory.

The lyrical melody of flutes and viols, driven by rhythmic beat of drums and tambourines, filled the great hall of the King. The throng that ringed the hall was transfixed on a group of five dancers who glided across the floor with athletic but fluid grace. A swirl of brightly colored skirts caught the eyes of the crowd just before they gasped in unison when the outer edge of the metal fans held by one of the dancers became engulfed in flame after brushing past a torch held by another.

The court dance master had promised the King a good show. Gimilzôr--the King’s heir--nodded his head in approval as he watched the woman weave in and out of the arcs created by her fiery props, the light reflecting off of the gilded mask that hid the dancer’s identity. At least the performance kept his attention for the time being. However, his eyes soon drifted back to the faces in the crowd that encircled the floor where the performers held their attention. The King’s heir became far more absorbed in scanning the faces in the crowd that encircled the floor.

Gimilzôr recognized a few of the nobles, but others appeared new to court. His gaze fell upon an unknown maiden upon whose brow rested a wreath of lavender flowers with a great pearl set in the center. Her chestnut hair flowed unbound past her shoulders, unlike the elaborately plaited styles most often favored by the women of the court. The maiden’s eyes turned towards Gimilzôr, as if she sensed his stare. Her cold expression deepened before she turned her back on the King’s heir and disappeared into the crowd.

“Are you familiar with that maiden, the one with the flowers?” Gimilzôr murmured to his father, Ar-Sakalthôr, seated at his side.

The King craned his neck and nodded. “She is a daughter of the household of Andúnië, Inzilbêth I believe is what her grandfather calls her.”

“Strange that we have never seen her presence at court,” Gimilzôr murmured before turning his head back to face the dancers.

The King could not help but feel a sense of relief when he had seen the longing in his son’s eyes. At last a maiden--at least one who promised to become a pious and noble queen--had caught Gimlizôr’s eye. The King already had to play his pieces right to cover the damage inflicted by his heir through his son’s game of beating the nobles to their chaste brides-to-be. Hopefully, Ar-Sakalthôr hoped, this Inzilbêth would prove every bit as clever as she was beautiful. If she served to distract Gimilzôr from his predilections, then the match would be more than worth the trouble of convincing her guardians to relinquish her. With a bit of luck the girl would breed quickly.

“I shall have her sent an official summons so you may get to know her better.” Ar-Sakalthôr’s could not deny the sense of triumph once he saw the smile of approval on his heir’s face.

“I don’t think it is wise for you to go see him.”

Inzilbêth could not contain the urge to roll her eyes at her older brother’s statement. “And what do you expect me to do? I don’t wish to go any more than you wish me to.”

Nimruzîr scowled, his arms allowed to thud heavily upon the table. “Don’t think I haven’t seen the way he looks at you. You should have never gone to court in the first place!”

“I went for us.” Inzilbêth’s voice remained calm, yet stern. She reached out to gently grasp her brother’s forearms, offering him a half-smile. “You know how suspicious the King is, especially of our household. If I had not gone to court, and especially if I do not abide by the King’s summons, then there would be no telling what Gimilzôr, or his father, would do. We can’t risk his wrath, not now.”

Further argument from her brother would have been more bearable than the tense silence that ensued. Inzilbêth turned to her mother for some sort of reassurance, but instead her heart tore in two to see a single tear slide down the side of her mother’s face. For so many years Lindórië had served as her daughter’s strength, as steady as a rock never yielded to Ossë’s waves, a beacon of strength no matter what kind of difficulties were presented to her or her children.

“Oh Naneth,” Inzilbêth murmured as she stepped forward to wrap her arms around her mother’s shoulders in support. “Please, don’t cry, Naneth.”

Lindórië dabbed at the corner of her eyes with a finger and shook her head. “You are brave and I know you shall be all right. But something tells me I cannot trust this man, or his motives, especially towards you. I always wanted to keep you and your brother safe. Except now, you must go into a place where I cannot protect you.”

Inzilbêth swallowed back the lump in her throat and took a deep breath. Never before had she seen her mother in such a fragile state. Although it pained her to see tears in Lindórië’s eyes, it only served to strengthen Inzilbêth’s determination.

“I do not know what this man shall try to do, or his real motives towards me. But I shall always remember what you have taught me, and nothing, not even a monster of a King’s heir, can remove those things from my mind, and heart.”

A second tear rolled from Lindórië’s eye, followed by a third and fourth. Without hesitation, Inzilbêth reached up to her mother’s face to brush them away with the side of her hand before allowing the palm to rest upon her mother’s cheek. So many times Lindórië had done the same for her daughter when she had shed tears from everything to a skinned knee to the greater growing pains such as the first time when a lad had broken Inzilbêth’s heart, and she had learned the cruel life lesson that not everyone could return her love in the way she hoped or deserved. Surely Inzilbêth would have wept in the past if she had known this day would come. But today she began to understand why love had enabled her mother to wipe away so many of her daughter’s tears. Now it was Inzilbêth’s chance to return the pieces of Lindórië’s heart that she used to help make Inzilbêth’s whole again.

“It’s all right to be afraid, Naneth. But let this be my chance to be brave for you, for all of us.”

The beauty of the citadel’s architecture could not diminish her shock when she first caught sight of the withering Nimloth. A second glance at the fabled tree proved to be as potent as her first. That night--when she had attended court for the first time--the spectre of the dying tree had been almost too heartbreaking to witness, but now her attention focused upon it as a distraction, however depressing it was, from Gimilzôr’s rambling.

Ever since her first audience with the King’s heir, he had made love to himself with his words and molested her with his gaze. The way his eyes drifted down her body and back up again made Inzilbêth’s skin crawl, yet she hid her revulsion behind a carefully guarded façade. Her exterior remained like the large statues that lined the courtyard; regal and unyielding to the elements. But on the inside, she felt more like the fading Nimloth.

“No King before me shall have had such a lavish wedding ceremony. But then again, no King before had a fairer bride to display to his people.”

The man could not even offer a simple compliment without praise being directed back at him in some way. From what Inzilbêth could discern, his only virtues were his handsome features, his wealth, and--if the rumors of women’s moan and cries of pleasure that came from the heir’s personal chambers were true, his skills of another sort. Hopefully Gimilzôr would be so absorbed in his paranoia along with his verbal and mental masturbations that, as his wife, Inzilbêth would have a measure of peace and quiet.

“That is very kind of you, your Majesty,” Inzilbêth cooed, taking care to flash her betrothed a winning smile. “But I am far more interested in the chambers you have promised me. I expect there shall be rooms for my mother to help me with the care of your heir.”

Gimilzôr’s boots squeaked upon the marble underneath them, bringing their easy jaunt to a sudden halt. “I’m afraid, my dear, that I have already made provisions for her in Rómenna. It is tradition for the royal children to be cared for by trained nurses. It is for their safety--and yours.”

“But my mother,” Inzilbêth stammered. “I already made plans for her to assist me.”

“Rest assured, my bride, your mother shall be permitted to visit from time to time.” Gimilzôr raised the righteous ire deep in Inzilbêth’s core. She watched as two gentlemen came forward to speak with the King’s heir. A mere nod of Gimilzôr’s head in Inzilbêth’s direction served as his curt farewell. The servants in her father’s home had more respect when dismissed than what he had just given to her. Once the men were out of sight Inzilbêth’s knees grew weak, sending her to the ground. Her hands clamped to her face in order to muffle her scream.

Lindórië allowed herself a small smile while she watched her daughter dance with her new husband. Queen Inzilbêth. No, she had never dreamed of such a thing. It was true: Inzilbêth had been born for great things. Both she and Lindórië were descendants of Tar-Calmacil, eighteenth ruler of Númenor, a great sea captain of old. Yes, Inzilbêth was a natural in her future position, yet Lindórië could only wish it had come about with happier circumstances.

Her daughter looked so beautiful and noble in her regal wedding garb, a true Queen that would have made even Tar-Ancalimë fume with envy to see. The only thing that was missing was a smile upon the bride’s face. Not even the trace of one found its way to the corners of Inzilbêth’s mouth. Lindórië could not help but be proud of the woman her Inzilbêth had become, yet she had hoped for so much more for her beloved child. Above all, Lindórië desired joy for her daughter, yet the royal wedding felt a step away from a funeral with its solemn air. Not even the sight of one of the most handsome newlyweds in all of Númenor breached the somber atmosphere.

Lindórië’s eyes flicked towards some of the courtiers standing across from her. Jealousy clearly painted the features of a few of the young women; they averted their eyes once they realized the mother of the bride looked their way. Lindórië hoped that Inzilbêth had the gift of womanly wiles to keep her future King’s attention fixed upon her and that dalliances with these women of the court would be curtailed. She had no doubt that her daughter had her work cut out for her. Nearly a half an hour had passed when Lindórië felt a tap upon her shoulder. One of the King’s servants stood mere inches away from her ear.

“The King wishes to have a word with you, my lady.”

Lindórië offered no more than a curt nod before taking one carefully measured step after another towards the place where Ar-Sakalthôr sat. The king put a warm smile on his face once he noticed Lindórië approaching his seat. Even so, she knew better than to hope for good news, especially with the predatory gleam that flashed briefly in his eyes.

“I trust you approve of my preparations for the wedding feast,” he said. Lindórië should have expected a greeting to be absent from the first sentence with which Ar-Sakalthôr chose to address her. Regardless, his lack of courtesy caught her off-guard.

“Approve of them I do, but it would have brought peace to my heart to see my daughter happy upon her wedding day.”

If the King felt offense upon hearing Lindórië’s words he hid such a fact from his face. The same rapacious look remained in his dark eyes while he spoke in a cold, even, tone.

“My son has asked that you leave and that you not return to court or step foot upon the royal grounds again. Are we understood, Lady Lindórië?”

The words sliced Lindórië’s heart in half, yet somehow she resisted the pain, forcing it back until she felt certain that only pride shone forth on her features. She straightened her posture before offering a formal bow to Ar-Sakalthôr.

“Aye, we are understood, your Majesty. I bid you good evening.”

Lindórië pivoted on her heel with a flourish of her skirt before taking one purposed step after another. There were others who were said to have left the King’s halls in shame, but she would not be one of them. A loud cry brought all activity within the room to a sudden halt.

“Naneth!”

Lindórië could hear a few individuals gasp audibly when Inzilbêth’s mournful voice called out the word in the forbidden tongue again. She could barely maintain her pride when she heard such sorrow in her daughter’s tone even from across the hall. The frantic look on Inzilbêth’s face pierced Lindórië’s heart further. Inzilbeth embraced her with a fierce grip before Lindórië could stop her. Tears burned the inside of Lindórië’s eyelids when she felt the trembling of Inzilbêth’s limbs., The unshed droplets of grief threatened to engulf her already broken and bleeding heart. Lindórië pulled her daughter close and nestled her face against her hair, breathing in its scent for the last time, and prayed the memory would keep her strong for the remainder of her days. Only now did the full bitterness of her father’s words take hold. Love had helped Lindórië to raise her daughter to be the woman that now stood in front of her, and it would be love that would help Lindórië to let her go so that Inzilbêth could be the Queen they needed.

“No more tears, sell vuin,” Lindórië soothed as she gently pulled herself out of her daughter’s grasp.

“The Valar have placed you here because you are stronger than any of us. Give your King an heir; change the course of history. Only you can do that,” Lindórië whispered in her daughter’s ear before pressing a final kiss to Inzilbêth’s brow. Somehow she found the strength to step away.

“Annon gur nîn achen bereth vuin.”

Lindórië said the words loud enough for them to reach Gimilzôr’s ears in the hush that feel over the room. Surely if it had been any other day than the wedding of the future King and Queen, Lindórië would have been arrested faster than she had a chance to provide a translation for those who did obey the King’s laws in regards to the Elvish tongues. Instead on this day Lindórië found her way to her carriage unhindered. She waited until the clop of horse hooves were loud enough to drown out the sound of her sobs before letting her tears fall unhindered.

The years were not wholly unkind to Inzilbêth as they passed one by one. Not long after she married Gimilzôr, she bore him a sturdy son, Inziladûn. Indeed Inzilbêth hoped her little boy would live up to his name and become a flower to grow from the wasteland that had replaced their once-rich heritage. From a young age, Inziladûn favored his mother’s company, something she would not deny him no matter how Gimilzôr tried to scorn them. There would be little he could do, especially because his future Queen secured his line.

Even though Inzilbêth was eager to teach her son in the manner she had been taught, she knew it was wise--and safer--to wait. Gimilkhâd arrived some arrived some years after his elder brother, further securing Inzilbêth’s favor in the royal house. Unfortunately, a fierce rivalry grew between the two boys. Inzilbêth knew she would have to wait until her sons grew into men rather than take the risk of childhood tattling that might reveal what she wished to teach Inziladûn. Gimilkhâd was a willful and impetuous boy from the start, which pleased his father greatly, yet the boy never ceased to find ways to terrorize his brother. Thankfully, one sharp glance or swat of the hands from Inzilbêth was all it took to rein in her youngest. Gimilzôr wasn’t the only one from whom Gimilkhâd inherited his intransigence: Inzilbêth had him outnumbered in years and quick thinking.

The day came when Ar-Sakalthôr’s life left him, and the sceptre passed to Gimilzôr. A great crowd gathered to witness the coronation of their new King and Queen. Inzilbêth’s eyes scanned the crowd for some sign of her family. Her uncle stood among the other councilors as the Lord of Andúnië. Eärendur flashed an encouraging smile when Inzilbêth looked his way. The moment felt surreal as her uncle placed the crown upon her head. The pride in his eyes reminded Inzilbêth of the last glance she had shared with Lindórië and her thoughts turned to her mother once more. She had not heard a word from her, not since the day of her wedding. If only Lindórië had been here to see her hope fulfilled, to see her grandsons.

Fortunately Inziladûn’s cheer helped to distract his mother during the coronation feast. His presence always had a way of keeping her from going mad in her fine prison; at least they were there together. During a moment of high revelry, Inzilbêth turned to see Eärendur sit beside her. She did not have a chance to ask him what he was doing before her uncle shoved an envelope onto her lap.

“It is from your mother, your Highness. No one must know,” Eärendur whispered in her ear. “Why have you never answered any of her letters?”

Inzilbeth felt the blood drain from her facial features. “I never knew she wrote to me.”

Eärendur opened his mouth to speak but Ar-Gimilzôr moved back towards the table where Inzilbêth sat and she quickly tucked the envelope into the bodice of her gown. The King offered her another one of his usual cool smiles before he took his place at her side. Eärendur had gone before Inzilbêth had a chance to thank him for the news he bore to her.

The room fell silent once the King lifted his hand to speak. The tall winged crown looked fierce upon his head while the sceptre seemed almost more like a sword than a token of his station.

“My good people,” Ar-Gimilzôr boomed forth. “Before this day is spent, it will be my duty to quell the questions that have risen since my father’s demise. While he stood as a great leader to us all, I am here to inform you all that I will make it my priority to see to it our land is secure.”

Inzilbêth’s heart sank while she listened to her husband speak. “No more will the spies of the Elves and Valar--these Faithful--be allowed to roam without being carefully watched. Our people must be kept safe from whatever sorcery our enemies try to bring to our villages and homes. I have no doubts that once we rid Númenor of this treachery that peace shall be restored. No longer shall we fight their wars and invite evil to our doorsteps. Let us work together to fortify this land with pride in our own heritage. Has it not brought us greatness? I tell you, my good people, these Valar are merely fictitious tales that our enemy has told us to render us into cowering children lost in the night, to enslave us to their wars. But it is not the Elves that the men of Middle-earth revere. No! It is the might of Númenor! From this day forward we shall stand unified, and become an even greater force to be reckoned with!”

The room erupted into cheers and applause while Inzilbêth’s worst fears became manifest. She met her uncle’s eyes and saw the stern look upon his face. His words from a moment earlier returned and Inzilbêth’s eyes flicked towards her husband. Suddenly the pieces began to fall into place in regards to the fate of her mother’s letters. Gimlizôr had taken them. Betrayal tainted the small sentiments of acceptance--and even love--for her husband that had grown in Inzilbêth’s heart over the years. Now she began to understand how deep his vanity went. If there was one thing Inzilbêth learned from her husband it was how to hate as well as deceive, and while she watched Ar-Gimilzôr revel in the praise of his people, the seeds of his tutelage began to take root within his Queen.

Author’s Note: According to sources, Inziladûn (3035) and Gimilkhâd (3044) were both born before Ar-Gimilzôr became king after Ar-Sakalthôr’s death in 3201. This is why I have them married before Ar-Gimilzôr becomes King. Eärendur, Lindórië’s brother, was also the Lord of Andunie during Ar-Sakalthôr’s reign, so I would assume he might continue in that role for the very beginning of Ar-Gimilzôr’s.

Sindarin Translations

“Annon gur nîn achen bereth vuin.”--“I give you my heart, beloved queen.”

The words upon Lindórië’s letter blurred from the unshed tears in Inzilbêth’s eyes. The sentiments, fears, and hopes never seemed to settle any easier with the Queen, despite the fact she read the note many times. She thought hearing from Lindórië would help to erase the pain over their separation, yet somehow it only made things more complicated.

The crunch of leaves caused Inzilbêth to shift her gaze up towards the path. Usually no one came to find her when she hid herself in her personal gardens. Much to her relief, Inziladûn’s face peered past a large tree before he slowly walked to his mother’s side. He always approached her in such a manner, almost as if he silently asked permission with his slow steps to come near. It never seemed to be in his nature to intrude in many aspects, at least not until he had been invited to do so. He had grown to become an attractive young man, with his father’s features and his mother’s dark hair and gray eyes. His eyes reminded her of Lindórië’s: gentle and steadfast. Currently they settled upon the piece of parchment held in Inzilbêth’s hands.

“It is your mother’s letter again?”

Inzilbêth’s head bobbed up and down quickly while she folded the letter and put it inside the hidden pocket on her gown.

“What happened, mother? Why is it that I have never met her, and any mention of her name makes you so sad?”

Inzilbêth should have expected these questions to come her way. Somehow the answers poured forth without a great deal of thought. Never before had she felt the need to skirt around the subject when speaking with her eldest son. Why should she start now?

“Your grandmother was among the Elf-friends, and because of that alone your father saw her as a greater danger than even the most ruthless criminals who have murdered and destroyed without thought.”

“I don’t understand why my father finds Elves to be harmful to this land. The royal house of this land is descended from them.”

Inzilbêth offered her son a weak smile while turning to meet his eyes. “Aye, but I would not recommend saying such around your father.”

Inziladûn shook his head with mild disdain. She heard the irritation in his sigh. “He says that peace and prosperity can only be achieved by complete unity, like a well-oiled machine,“ she said. “It cannot perform its necessary tasks when even a single piece goes missing. But we are not machines. Humans were meant to think, thrive.”

Inzilbêth’s eyes followed Inziladûn’s motions as he began to pace in front of her. It was something he often did in order to formulate his thoughts into spoken words.

“If all humans were intended to think the same then wouldn’t we have been created as such?”

“One would think such to be true," the Queen murmured, her eyes shifting upwards to watch her son’s face in an attempt to gather some confirmation of the emotions he felt. “Your father believes peace will be achieved through unity. But how can the people become unified when they are made to fear? Fear destroys peace.”

A sense of understanding crossed Inziladûn’s face. “But why persecute those faithful to the One? Why does Father feel so threatened by them?”

“Because they do not have the same fear that your father carries deep within himself. They have learned to overcome man’s greatest dread, and he knows that he cannot use that fear against them. They have power over him, and it infuriates your father to no end because he is King and a King should have dominion over all things, should he not?”

The question furrowed Inziladûn’s brow and Inzilbêth watched as he inched closer to a conclusion, almost as if he tried to bring himself close to the answer hanging just off the edge of his consciousness--and then he articulated his response to her question: “But a King cannot control all things, like the thoughts and actions of all his subjects, or even death.”

Inzilbêth felt the corners of her lips raise in approval while she drew her son nearer to the answer he sought. “Aye, a King cannot hold dominion over these things, and because your father cannot accept such, he has already died.”

“No,” Inziladûn stammered. “He is not dead. I saw him this very morning!”

Inzilbêth shook head from side to side before laughing softly. “My son, there are more ways for a man to die than just in the physical sense. One can already be dead in his mortal shell if he allows fear to have authority over him. Did you know the Kings of old used to give their lives willingly?”

“What!” Inziladûn’s cry of surprise caught even Inzilbêth slightly off guard. How much had her husband censored their sons’ learning?

“Surely you are mistaken, Mother. That is madness! Who in their right mind would welcome death?”

“A man or woman who did not fear death, and understood that death was the natural passage into the next journey.” Inzilbêth reached out to take her son’s hands and guided him to sit beside her on the bench. Her body shifted so that she could look him in the eye while she elaborated on her initial revelation.

“We are the second-born children of the One. He gave us the gift of death so that we would be able to rejoin him past the circles of the world, to continue our lives as we see fit, life with no bounds or walls. Not even all the celebrated stories of the explorations of the greatest sea captains could compare to the wonders to be found in the voyage past all knowledge of even the wisest that dwell in this world.”

“If that is so, then why do so many fear death? Is there really anything out there at all?”

The confusion in Inziladûn’s eyes almost caused Inzilbêth to regret the seed she had just planted. But love would not permit her to hide it from him either. Regardless, Inzilbêth knew no matter how much truth she laid at her son’s feet, he had to accept it on his own terms. There were many things she could make him do, but relinquishing the fear that kept his eyes closed would not be one them. From the moment she had laid eyes upon him, Inzilbêth knew that flicker of light burned within him too. She heard it in his first cries as a newborn, and watched it in the eager way he sought to learn and question everything.

There had been times Inzilbêth had grown weary of her young son asking why to everything she said. But even as a man, Inziladûn still asked that same question, just in different ways. Gimilkhâd only ever asked how, when, and where, questions his father was good at answering. True, it pained Inzilbêth to know this, to know her youngest son would be enslaved, just like his father. But if she could save one of her sons, it would do more to ease her heart than saving neither one at all. At least now she could have hope that the future King would be able to turn the wheel forward once more, to help their people find their way to true freedom and the One before they went so far into the darkness that not a single one of them could find their way back.

But man’s greatest fear could not be conquered in a single day. Inzilbêth’s lessons would have to wait until her eldest son reached out to take them of his own will; only then would they take root deep enough within his soul to weather the storm that surely lay ahead of him.

Inzilbêth stretched her muscles, aiding her rise from her seat. She turned slowly so she faced Inziladûn once more.

“I cannot give you the answer to that, my son. But you must learn to quiet the doubts and simply believe what you know to be true in your heart. You must trust your instincts. Rarely will they lead you astray. It shall be one of your greatest assets as a monarch, and it is the foundation of what I am able to teach you. You must grasp it first before I can continue further.”

Her body bent until her lips brushed the skin of her son’s brow. Inzilbêth allowed the palm of her right hand to linger on the side of Inziladûn’s face before straightening her posture once more.

“Tell no one of what we have spoken of just now. What I have said is meant for you alone. We shall speak more when you are ready to do so.”

Inzilbêth sensed her steps being watched while she walked away from her garden. With each rise and fall of her feet she hoped a little more for the next time she spoke privately with her eldest son. By the time she reached the steps leading up into the King’s house, Inzilbêth began to wonder if the soles of her shoes made contact with the ground at all. If only her mother could have seen that conversation. Surely Lindórië would have beamed with pride to see her daughter begin to bring Inziladûn to their side. As difficult as the first years had been in the citadel, Inzilbêth began to understand how truly important it had been that the One had led her here.

No doubt the small measure of joy Inzilbêth had sacrificed would be returned to her tenfold as she watched Inziladûn become the true King that Númenor needed and deserved. Who knew, maybe together she and Inziladûn could save Gimilzôr. He would repent of his misdeeds and allow Lindórië back into court. Then Inzilbêth could allow herself to fall deeply in love with him the way she longed to; they would be happy. All of them would be able to be a family just as it was surely meant to be.

Unfortunately the Queen’s dreams did not begin their manifestation when she pushed open the door to the chamber that sat in between their private quarters. She had half-hoped that Gimilzôr would be just beyond the double doors, waiting for her with arms outstretched. Instead her self-induced illusion shattered when her eyes fell upon the reality that greeted her in its place.

Her husband stood at the left side of the large bed; his eyes met Inzilbêth’s with an almost animalistic glee while he pulled his breeches up over his hips and tied the front laces closed. His female guest did not quite exhibit the same brazen assurance. Inzilbêth saw her maid of honor’s limbs tremble when she leapt from the bed, clasping a rumpled gown against her nakedness. The young woman’s eyes grew wider with each step that Inzilbêth took towards her, but not even backing away stopped the Queen’s descent. Inzilbêth’s hands reached out with a strength that surprised her, pinning her maiden against the wall with a force that caused the girl’s head to bounce and the gown to fall into a limp pile upon the floor. She ignored the sharp cry of pain and surprise that resulted from her forcing her hand roughly between the young woman’s thighs. Inzilbêth removed it just as quickly and held her fingers near her maid’s terrified eyes to reveal the partially congealed, milky fluid that now coated the tips of her fingers. Her husband’s mistress didn’t have a chance to utter a single syllable in her defense by the time Inzilbêth curled her hand into a ball and sent it slamming into her maiden’s face.

The Queen felt cartilage and bone give way under the force of closed fist. The result of her fury flowed bright red down the other woman’s face in a rush. Inzilbêth’s arm reared back in preparation to deliver a second hateful blow. Instead her voice screamed forth in rage as a pain radiated from her wrist. Inzilbêth turned to see her husband’s teeth grit while he tried to stop the motion of her arm.

“Enough!”

Gimilzôr’s voice roared above Inzilbêth’s second enraged cry. His other hand sought her free wrist before it could do any more damage. Even so, Inzilbêth continued to fight back like a cornered beast. The trepidation in her husband’s expression served to only spur her on. Alas, his masculine strength took advantage of that small window of opportunity once Inzilbêth began to tire. He lifted her forcefully from her feet to carry her across the room. Inzilbêth’s fury replenished to a degree once she felt the soft mattress underneath her back, but Gimilzôr’s weight pinned her down in an attempt to limit her movement.

Hot tears burned the inner corners of Inzilbêth’s eyes, yet she refused to let them defeat her also and squeezed her eyes closed against the building moisture. No, he wouldn’t be allowed to see a single one if she had anything to do with it.

Not even all the venom Inzilbêth could muster forth from her vocal cords could hide the pain that gushed forth like the blood upon the face of Gimilzôr’s mistress when the words burst from her mouth:

“Blind fool! Could you not see how badly I wanted to love you?”

Inzilbêth felt her husband recoil and for a brief moment she truly feared he would strike her, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Instead she felt Gimilzôr slink away until his weight had fully removed its hold on her body. Once Inzilbêth dared to open her eyes she saw her husband seated on the edge of the bed, his back turned towards her. His hand reached up to wipe across his eyes as he spoke in a hushed tone:

“All I ever tried to do was earn your love.”

The words shot deep into the broken and bleeding core of Inzilbêth’s heart. For a split second she dared to hope but quickly snuffed the few sparks of longing that tried to ignite. Even if she stayed, held him in her arms, and reassured him, nothing would change. Gimilzôr had thoughtlessly brought women to his bed in the days before their betrothal, and what took place today would happen again.

Inzilbêth rose from the mattress with a calm that seemed to come from somewhere else outside her being. As much as he wanted to love her, Inzilbêth knew Gimilzôr could not, at least not in the way she needed of him. True, he had shown her just about every pleasure the flesh could know and then some. But her heart needed more than the satisfaction her loins craved to be able to place itself permanently within Gimilzôr’s grasp. It could never be, at least not in the way either of them hoped for. Inzilbêth would learn to accept it now.

A sigh of relief left Inzilbêth’s body after the door leading to her side of the vast royal apartment clicked shut. Not even the crash of shattering porcelain stopped her from turning the lock before she withdrew into the darkness of her rooms.

The small flame within the lamp popped and sputtered as the fuel within neared the place where it would soon be entirely spent. Regardless, Inzilbêth remained fixed in the center of her bed. A dim glow managed to slip through the tiny open space between the heavy curtains over the window. Whether it was dusk or dawn, Inzilbêth did not know, nor did she care. It didn’t matter if only a couple days went by, or an entire week elapsed. She knew she would be safe within her bedchambers. The solitude quickly became a welcome change; so did the silence that enabled her to sort her thoughts a bit easier.

The servants left food and water outside the door, but Inzilbêth found little interest in it and only sought it out once total quiet resumed on the other side. She did not want any of them to see the puffy red circles underneath her eyes or the wild tangles in her hair. Even Gimilzôr tried to coax his wife from her safe, little sanctuary. Twice she felt tempted, but her pride quickly took over and rendered Inzilbêth as silent as the dead.

Even now Inzilbêth heard the faint scuffling on the other side of the door. Gimilzôr would eventually understand her message loud and clear if she remained still. He might bang on the door again if he liked, but she would not move. A soft hiss pulled Inzilbêth’s eyes from the ceiling and towards the crack underneath the door. Something white sat just past the entry of the room, perking the Queen’s interest even further. Her feet swung over the side of the bed and touched the ground gingerly before tip-toeing across the room to fetch the object. She carefully unfolded the paper and placed it near the lamp after returning to her bedside.

Inziladûn’s familiar script scrawled across the torn page, the dark ink hardly stood out in contrast to the golden hue of the paper in the light of the weak flame. The simple words caused Inzilbêth to suck in a sharp breath.

“I am ready to believe.”

This time her steps covered the distance between the bed and the entry to the room with eagerness. She opened the door a crack to see a pair of familiar gray eyes peering back at her, full of concern and hope. It was all Inzilbêth could do to swallow the sudden lump in her throat as she allowed Inziladûn to push the door open wide enough to reach his arms out to her and pull into a tight embrace.

Inziladûn’s hand guided the quill across the page, stopping momentarily before continuing to form the Elvish script. Inzilbêth studied each letter to ensure they were formed exactly like the ones she had written a week before. The corners of her lips raised in a smile of approval.

“Very good, now try to see if you can remember the second page.” The Queen reached out to take the page from the table and tossed it into the flames burning within the hearth. Each day Inziladûn committed more of the book to memory. Not a single page could be spared once the words were written upon it. If anyone besides Inzilbêth and Inziladûn happened to see them, all would be lost.

The Queen looked up to see her son put his quill back onto the tray that held the inkwell and other supplies. Concern made her edge closer to his side when his hands went to his brow.

“We can stop for the day if you wish.”

Inziladûn shook his head before pulling his hands back to reveal a tired expression. “I want to keep going. There is simply so much that must be done; especially now that Father has fallen ill.”

Inzilbêth turned her eyes down towards the page her son wrote upon. She did not wish for him to see the conflicting emotions upon her face regarding her husband’s health. Ar-Gimilzôr’s misdeeds had caught up to him in the past months. He no longer left his private chambers without gloves covering his hands, lest anyone catch sight of the rash covering the back of his palms. The King’s physician whispered his suspicions to Inzilbêth in private, but she had suspected the diagnosis long ago. It was every bit as blatant as the hooded or masked women that came and went from Ar-Gimilzôr’s private quarters. Already five of these women who had lain in the King’s bed had gone to early graves, struck down by the same silent killer. Despite the murmured voices, the questions, Ar-Gimilzôr had been unable to bring an end to his philandering ways, and Inzilbêth no longer cared. There might have a time long ago when the sound of a new mistress’s laughter brought tears to her eyes, but now she simply kept her distance and shielded her heart and body behind protective walls.

“You have done a fine job serving in your father’s place,” Inzilbêth spoke as she stood from her seat to retrieve the sheet of parchment from the writing tablet. “I’m certain he is proud of you even if he finds difficulty in saying so. You shall be a great King, Inziladûn.”

A warm smile upturned the corners of Inziladûn’s lips, but it dropped a moment later. “That depends if I am to be King in the first place.”

The parchment slipped from Inzilbêth’s fingers and she did not make any motion to retrieve it. “What do you mean? The law of succession deems the firstborn to be the rightful heir.”

“That is true,” Inziladûn spoke grimly. “At least it is true for now. Father wishes to change the law so that he may choose his heir.”

“He cannot do that!” Inzilbêth clapped a hand over her mouth a split second after the words left her mouth, realizing the volume of her voice had come out louder than she had meant it to. She kept her outrage in check and strived to maintain control of her voice. “That is preposterous,” she said to her elder son. “Especially after all you have done for Númenor and for him.” Inziladûn shook his head wordlessly, yet Inzilbêth saw the pain written all over his face. For years her eldest son had tried to earn the favor of both of his parents, but Ar-Gimilzôr never seemed to forgive the natural bond Inziladûn shared with his mother. Inzilbêth opened her mouth to speak some sort of comfort to her eldest son, but snapped it shut when the door opened, revealing Gimilkhâd’s form standing on the other side. At the sight of her younger son, her hands hastily reached for the sheet of parchment resting near her feet and tossed it into the flames.

“What are you doing?”

The stern tone in Gimilkhâd’s voice forced Inzilbêth to think quickly. She turned to face her youngest son with as much calm as she could muster.

“Your brother was simply enquiring about your father’s condition.”

Gimilkhâd’s head turned towards the hearth and swung back to face his mother while he took a few slow strides into the room. “You are burning documents?”

“It is common protocol to burn correspondence that is no longer needed.”

Gimilkhâd put one foot in front of the other at an agonizingly slow pace. Even though his face remained stoic, Inzilbêth saw the smoldering fury in his eyes. The sound of his feet moved in a half-circle around her. She could feel her son’s breath heat the side of her face while he whispered in a tone every bit as menacing as the look in his eyes.

“That will be one of the first things I shall change when I am king.”

Inzilbêth’s eyes remained fixed upon the wall across from her. She would not give her youngest son the benefit of intimidation. “You might do such a thing if you were meant to be king. But you are not the heir. Are you?”

“No,” Gimilkhâd murmured. “But I shall be, once the law is changed.”

“No!” she said under her breath, but Inzilbêth realized too late how little of her emotions her hushed whisper had concealed. She turned around to see a smug look cover Gimilkhâd’s features. “Why are you doing this to your brother? He needs your support.”

“Why am I doing this to him?” A low laugh escaped from Gimilkhâd’s throat. He shook his head and before Inzilbêth had a chance to move out of his reach he grasped her forearms, jerking her body closer. “Because you have done everything you can to tear this family apart, Mother, to make us appear weak. The only reason you favor Inziladûn is because his mind is weak, because he will accept whatever you tell him. Don’t think I don’t know why the two of you speak behind closed doors!”

Inzilbêth winced at the tone of her son’s voice. Her feet stumbled over one another after he pushed her away; his vice-like grip pulling away from her arms as if they had suddenly grown hot and burned his palms.

“You’ve pulled the blinders over my father’s eyes, but I have not remained idle. You cannot win, neither of you can.”

Inzilbêth watched her youngest son stalk towards the door, his footfalls heavy upon the stone floor. She was about to release a sigh of relief when Gimilkhâd’s hand grasped the door handle. Instead, he turned to face her one last time. The loathing in his eyes sent chills down her spine, but the words he spoke caused her stomach to lurch in shock and discomfort.

“It is treason to teach one to write the forbidden tongues, Mother. It would not bode well for you, or Inziladûn, to continue these lessons of yours.”

The rasp of shallow breathing was painful in Inzilbêth’s ears. With each moment that passed she hoped that it would be the last, ending the agony that tormented both her and her husband. A pair of lamps cast an eerie illumination within the room. Heavy curtains barred the midday sun from entering the King’s personal chambers. Despite the dim lighting, Inzilbêth could see the pain upon Ar-Gimilzôr’s pale face. The odor of perspiration and vomit permeated the air, repulsing the Queen even further.

Inzilbêth’s fingers brushed along the page sitting in her lap. Upon the table sat a stack of letters bearing the same fluid script. It had been so long since she saw Lindórië’s handwriting, too long. Even now anger still swelled and roiled within Inzilbêth’s gut despite the fact a few weeks had passed since she found the stack of letters inside one of her husband’s cabinets.

The dates went back as far as a month after Inzilbêth had married Ar-Gimilzôr. The tears could not be restrained while Inzilbêth read her mother’s words of love and pride, words Inzilbêth had longed for so many times. By now she had memorized the flow of emotions that painted themselves across the pages. At first Lindórië voiced her pride, her desire to see her grandsons, regret that she had not been by her daughter’s side when they entered the world. In time the tone of the letters shifted to fear, desperation, and even hopelessness, as Lindórië begged for some sign that Inzilbêth had not forsaken her. Even now Inzilbêth wiped away a stray tear to see the tormented words in her mother’s final letter.

A sputtered gasp pulled Inzilbêth’s attention away from the letter. Her husband looked at her with bloodshot eyes. A trail of saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. The once mighty King who ruled with a steel grip was now reduced to a pile of bloody vomit and stinking flesh. For a moment Inzilbêth thought she glimpsed a shadow of regret in his tormented gaze. However, pity for his current state became something she found hard to give to him. After all, she had found the wax seal broken upon every single one of her mother’s letters. For years she wondered if the man she married possessed a heart, but now she no longer wasted her time with such angst.

“Yes, I’m reading them again,” Inzilbêth cooed almost lovingly when she stood from her seat. She reached out to soak one of the folded towels in the shallow water that sat upon the bedside table. The gentle ring of droplets breaking the surface of the liquid harmonized with the timbre of Inzilbêth’s voice while she spoke.

“I know you have read them already. But would you like to read them again?” Inzilbêth gently dabbed at Ar-Gimilzôr’s face with the damp cloth she held. He turned his head to the side, shying away from his wife’s hands. Even so, Inzilbêth caught sight of the hurt in his eyes before he turned them away completely. Somehow the passive remark underscored with her bitterness did not seem to bring the satisfaction that Inzilbêth hoped it would.

Ar-Gimilzôr sputtered and his body shook with the effort to try and breathe. Reality slapped its icy palm across Inzilbêth’s face, forcing her to reel from the blow. Her husband clung to his pride even in the throes of a slow and agonizing death. There would be no tender words of adoration, or tearful apologies for all the wounds they had dealt one another over the years. He would die while she remained here to live in the shadow of what might have been.

Not even the heavy wooden desk offered Inzilbêth the support she needed once she had stumbled towards it. She felt her husband’s gaze bore into her back while she leaned against the desk. With each deep breath she took and released Inzilbêth willed that love she sought to be in his eyes when she found the strength to face him again. She was about to make her move when she noticed an official document sitting upon the polished surface of the desk.

The tilted loops of Ar-Gimilzôr’s familiar script grabbed Inzilbêth’s attention and held it fast. The large official seal of the King mocked her along with the decree written upon the document. So it would seem that there had been some truth to what Gimilkhâd said to her some weeks before. No one could deny the legal and bonding edict that would surely destroy this entire land. Inzilbêth could no longer hold the tears at bay. Not even the fact that her husband’s signature remained missing from the document brought Inzilbêth the relief she so desperately needed. Instead she turned with the parchment in her hands.

“So this is what you want? To destroy everything we have built together?” she said, her voice trembling.

Inzilbêth shook her head and swallowed down the lump that pushed its way into her throat. Her hands seemed to move of their own accord as they reached for the writing tablet and filled the split tip of the quill with ink. Each step seemed more purposed than the last while Inzilbêth made her way back to her husband’s bedside. The rustle of paper interrupted the silence within the room. Once the sheet rested upon the tablet Inzilbêth reached out for the King’s hand. Her fingers carefully manipulated his own until they held the quill with the proper grip.

“Come now, sign your proclamation.”

At last the familiar pride and satisfaction in conquering his adversary returned to Ar-Gimilzôr’s expression, completing Inzilbêth’s grief. All along this had been his only goal. Finally he had broken the one person who never yielded to his will.

“I am sorry, my husband, that I could not be more like you, like Gimilkhâd. Maybe that would have been enough for you to love me.”

Inzilbêth could hear the wavering in her voice. The tears rolled freely down her face, but she no longer cared. Ar-Gimilzôr would die soon and he might as well take the burden of some of her pain with him, at least lessen the load she would bear for the rest of her days.

“For years I wondered why you chose me, why you brought me here. But in time I accepted that it was not me you wanted after all. You wanted revenge, and I afforded you that. I tried so very hard not to hate you, because I foolishly hoped you would come to your senses and love me, not revenge, or your whores. I didn’t know how alike love and hate were until you came into my life. I hated you for many things, so many things.”

The skin underneath Inzilbêth’s palms felt cold and clammy. Her hands cupped the sides of her husband’s face, holding it fast while her own lingered a few inches away.

“In the end, I hate you most because you showed me mercy. So many times I laid my treason at your feet, and yet you never gave me the kind of death I yearned for. Instead you let me linger here, like a bird in a gilded cage, perishing from the inside out. Tell me, your Majesty, are you satisfied now to see you have won?”

She had expected her King to gloat, to revel in his long-awaited victory. But alas a single tear rolled down the face of the dying monarch. A single shred of hope broke forth, like the survivor buried underneath the rubble of a disaster trying to claw his way to freedom and life. At long last, Inzilbêth caught sight of the one thing she pleaded with the One through tearful prayers to place in her husband’s heart, and suddenly she realized she had seen it before in passing. Unfortunately both of them had been too proud and lost to see it.

“I couldn’t bring myself to do it,” Gimilzôr rasped before sucking in more needy breaths. Whether his body shook from physical pain or the weight of emotions Inzilbêth did not know. Her hands clasped his head tighter.

“Please tell me you love me,” Inzilbêth choked forth amidst her quiet sobbing. “I have to know. I need it.”

Gimilzôr’s chapped lips quivered in an attempt to form words. Blood pooled at the edges of his mouth, his eyes wide with fear. Desperation took over Inzilbêth’s being, her arms moved to cradle her husband’s head and shoulders.

“No, please don’t do this, not now. I didn’t know. Forgive me for what I have done!”

“Inzilbêth…” Gimilzôr murmured as emotion spilled from his eyes. Never before had he spoken her name with such tenderness. Everything she ever needed to know was conveyed in that single word and it broke Inzilbêth’s heart. She watched as her husband struggled one last time to say the words she had always longed for until he finally gave up and relinquished his hold on his final breath.

Inzilbêth’s body shook as she looked into the blank stare that clouded Gimilzôr’s eyes. Fate was far crueler than her husband ever could have been. Neither of them was free of guilt or bloodstains upon their hands. For years she had endured his constant unfaithfulness, his total disregard for her humanity. Each selfish act had spurned her to defy him to an even greater extent. It wasn’t until after Inzilbêth found her mother’s opened letters that she began to administer increasing amounts of the medicine the physician had provided to try and cure the King’s shameful disease, slowly poisoning the man that imprisoned her for so many years. In the end, it was Inzilbêth who had sealed her fate and threw away the keys to her freedom.

With a choked sob, Inzilbêth released Gimilzôr’s lifeless form, allowing it to drop into a limp heap upon the dirty sheets. The signed piece of parchment caught her eye from the place where it must have fallen. She required no thought when she snatched up the document from the floor and stalked over to hearth where a few coals still glowed red. They popped and sprung to life once the sheet of paper made contact. Flames leapt to consume it; their teeth gnawed at the page, blackening the edges before swallowing it whole. The embers crackled as they splintered off into small orange specks, fizzling out once they touched the blackened stone below.

Inzilbêth fixed her eyes upon the flames while she twisted the gold wedding band from her hand. She dared not watch to see if the fire was hot enough to liquefy the ring. Somehow it felt better not to know. Instead she walked towards the cask containing the winged crown. She opened the cask and ran her fingers over the great symbol of Númenor and then lifted it, cradling the crown in her hands. Inzilbêth did not even dare to look back as she bore the revered heirloom to its new rightful owner.

End Notes: Gimilzôr's death was caused by a mixture of advanced Syphillis and arsenic poisoning. Arsenic was a common drug used throughout history for the treatment of Syphillis. In this case, his death was expedited by regular overdoses of arsenic. I will allow the reader to do the math on how that occoured. :-)