I own nothing.
She reaches the summit, the cold foamy green waters lapping at her heels, nipping at her skin. It seems amazing to her that she was able to surmount the Meneltarma before being drowned, but Tar-Míriel the Queen has no time to ponder on that. On the summit of the mountain, the roaring of the waves all around her, Míriel falls to her knees, clutching the grass in her fingers and praying desperately, to Eru, to Varda, to anyone who will listen, prays for deliverance.
For Númenor, deliverance does not come.
Míriel stands, and from the summit of the Meneltarma, she watches. She watches as the fair towers of Armenelos crumble and crash into the green waters. She watches as the people, Faithful and Unfaithful alike, scream and drown in the chaos of the waves. She watches as the foul Temple of Morgoth is washed away by Ulmo's cleansing waters. Personally, Míriel hopes that Sauron will drown in these waters, and never find the power with which to form another body.
The green wave devours Númenor, swallows it whole all around her, but after the water laps at her heels on the way up the winding path, it never touches her again. Míriel watches, and does not sink, does not drown. The summit of the Meneltarma is left untouched by the destruction, and Míriel stands and listens to her people scream, and thinks that had fate been different, had she worn the crown and held the sceptre, it would not be so.
The Queen has been spared, but her kingdom now lies under the water, its beauty and people drowned, and while she will always remember it as Númenor, her gilt cage, her home, the world will remember it as Akallabêth Atalantë, the Downfallen, and not what it once was before the fall.
What once was a mighty mountain is now nothing more than a small island in the midst of a once-more placid blue sea, and there is naught but a woman, the Queen of a drowned land, standing upon the island, marooned, trapped there, it seems, for all time. Míriel draws the hood of her black cloak over her head and crumples to the ground, her chest heaving with barely-restrained sobs, the sun beating down on her back.
She could not tell you why she still struggles to hide signs of weeping, even now. Long years as a prisoner-wife to her cousin taught her to hide anything Calion could use to hurt her, and tears were first and foremost on the list of things he could twist to his own will and turn back upon her. Long years as a Queen in a gilt cage taught her to hide anything and everything, present a blank face, and turn her ears deaf to everyone around her. Deaf to Calion's burning anger, blind to Sauron's smirks. Deaf to pity and blind to scorn. Míriel has no audience now but the waves and the sea birds overhead, but still she struggles to hide the gasping sounds of her sobs, bearing her cloak hood over her head as she had done a veil in the past, to hide the sight of her tears.
And Míriel weeps for the very reason that she still seeks to hide her weeping: she is alone.
Tar-Míriel the Queen has been spared the cold embrace of the green waves. Someone, Eru, Varda, or whomever it was Míriel was praying to at the last, heard her prayers, and spared her the destruction. But her kingdom has vanished beneath the waves, all her people drowned and lost, and she is stranded upon a small island, the only life the soft grass beneath her feet.
I have been saved from drowning, only to face starvation and death of thirst.
The sun beats down on her back. Her small body heaves with the force of her sobs. Eventually, Míriel, already exhausted from her desperate flight up the paths of the Meneltarma, loses sight of the sky about her, and drifts into a sleep troubled by the roaring of the waves about her.
-0-0-0-
Míriel sleeps, and sleeps. She dreams of the waves, the green waves as they devoured Armenelos, the havens, the rich and fertile pastures, the woodlands. She dreams of Calion, trapped in the Caves of the Forgotten in Aman, trapped for all time, unable to come back and torment her any longer, and a ghost of a smile passes over her face in her sleep. She dreams of her father, and of Nimloth the White Tree, both long gone. She dreams of great ships being buffeted by waves as they flee into the East.
She awakens to a clear, fair morning. All the foul weather of the last weeks of Númenor, thunder and lightning and blackened skies, all of that has been blown away with a gentle wind. The surface of the water is placid and clear; the sky is as blue as turquoise. The weather is mild, a gentle breeze blowing through the grass. White clouds gilt with gold pass overhead.
Alone, Míriel feels as though she is the last person living upon the face of the earth. And yet, she no longer possesses the desire to weep; her eyes are dry and her tears spent. She weeps no longer. She instead casts her cloak from her shoulders, and stands to stare upon the water. Míriel is slight and small-statured for one of the Line of Elros, but otherwise the traits run true in her—black hair, long and loosed, never again to be bound by a wife's modest veil, clear, far-seeing gray eyes, fair skin, sharp nose. She stands in her gray dress, staring out on the seas, and she could easily be taken for an Elf-maiden, standing out on the shore, waiting for her love to appear in a white ship to take her into the West.
But Míriel is no Elf, and she has no love. It is true that she has aged as one of the Kings of old might, staying youthful in appearance even when Calion's hair had gone completely white, but Míriel knows the truth. She is only human, and she is alone.
However, alone she does not stay for much longer. A dark shape appears on the horizon, coming fast out of the West. Míriel stares at it, and realizes that it is an Eagle. For a moment, as it nears the Meneltarma, she thinks that it has come to bear her away, but the Eagle has not come for that purpose. It circles about over the Meneltarma three times, and then flies back away into the West.
On its last circling, it drops something to the ground.
Brow furrowed, Míriel goes to see what it is the Eagle left. What she finds startles her.
Enough food for one day—bread and cheese and fruit, wrapped in white cloth—and a goatskin full of water.
Míriel settles down on the grass, staring hard at the food and drink left for her. For one moment, fear takes root in her heart, wondering if the food is enchanted, or perhaps poisoned. But after that moment has passed, Míriel shakes her fear away. She is hungry, and besides, if hidden somewhere in her food there is a potion that will let her lie down to sleep and never awaken again, she will at least consider that a mercy on the part of the Valar. Míriel eats, and her hunger leaves her. It is plain fare, but at the same time, nothing has ever tasted so sweet. She feels braver, and does not die.
So this goes on for twelve days. For twelve days, an Eagle comes in the morning, bearing enough food and water to last Míriel for one day; whenever she lays down to sleep, she wakes the following morning to find that the cloth the food was wrapped in and the spent goatskin has vanished.
In those twelve days, Míriel feels her old grief slowly wash away from her. Here, there is no court, no warden-husband to trap her in a gilt cage. There is silence, and the cries of the sea birds, and Míriel is grateful for silence and solitude. She traces the shapes of the constellations at night, recounting their stories in her head, and watches the passage of Gil-Estel through the deep indigo sky. At one point, she even sheds her gray dress and swims in the waters in her shift, as she had done as a young girl in Andúnië.
On the thirteenth day, no Eagle comes.
Míriel stands on the summit of the Meneltarma, staring out upon the West. It is a golden dawn she stands in, and in the fair light the gray hue of her dress seems more akin to lavender than such a drab shade. Her long, loose hair blows about in the wind.
A white shape appears on the horizon.
At first, Míriel is not sure that she knows that it is, and can only stand, and watch it draw ever closer.
But then, she realizes. It's a ship. A gleaming white ship, pearl-white, drawing towards the island.
The Meneltarma has been reduced to a small island, but the summit is still high above where the waters lap the new shores. There is no place for the ship to dock, so it draws to a halt a ways away from the island so it won't be beached on unseen rocks or other hazards, and a single man breaks away from the ship in a rowboat.
He comes ashore, beginning to walk up the paths towards the summit of the Meneltarma, and for one moment Míriel feels as though all the air has been knocked out of her chest. She nearly cries out the name of Elentir, second son of Númendil, whom she had loved and been loved by as a young woman, but who had vanished at sea as a young man. She had laid him to rest in her heart and mind long ago, but for a moment, the grief and the pain resurfaces in her.
It is not Elentir, but one like in form to him, and hardly any less dear—his brother, Amandil.
Amandil, close in age to Míriel and Calion, and yet dark-haired and unbent, reaches the summit. He smiles at her and bows, taking her hand to his lips. "My Queen."
Míriel smiles upon him with a joy she has not felt since before her father died and the walls closed in around her. She is fair and radiant in the light of the sun and the light of her joy. "Cousin."
Without another word, Míriel takes Amandil's hand, and, the dawn light gleaming down upon them both, they return to his ship.