Miriel is watching the boats. The armada has left, and now the menacing presence of the grim ships is gone, the brightly coloured fishing boats flock around the harbour. The ground shimmers in the heat, and although it is cooler inside the palace, that is where Sauron is. She refuses to call him Tar-Mairon or Zigur or any other name he wishes to be called by because though her husband may not see it, Sauron he is; abhorred and putrid and rotten all the way through and Miriel hates him for what he has done to Númenor. So she sits on a marble bench and vacantly watches the ships bob on the horizon and the tide go out.
And out.
And out.
The water does not stop receding, and Miriel watches fascinated as it exposes the sea bed, covered in twitching fish. The boats that were not tied up have been dragged by the water away, far away from harbour, those that were tied up lie with crooked sails among rocks. Miriel is still watching the boats.
And then she remembers. This has happened before, in a half-remembered history book she read as a child, and she remembers how for days afterwards she was plagued with dreams. Dreams of drowning. Dreams of the island being battered with waves higher than buildings, and then sinking, sinking, sinking. And it always started with the sea going out and leaving fish stranded on the sand.
There is not enough time; she knows, in the back of her mind she knows it will not be enough, she will never make it. Elendil left just after the armada, she is glad he is gone, that he will survive. (She will not survive and she is scared.)
She knows the horse she rides is fast, but it is not fast enough, there is just not enough time. She has reached Meneltarma now, she has abandoned her horse, silently she climbs but still she is not fast enough and her harsh breathing and the erratic beating of her heart seem deafening.
For a moment she turns her head, and then she turns fully to the west because a great wave is towering above the now limp fish and the city and the palace- which seem miniscule in comparison. The wave is murky grey and shimmering in the dying light and patches glimmer jade and teal and deep, deep blue and then it is crashing down upon the city and Miriel watches detached, as if she is in a dream (because she is in a dream its just a dream she's had this dream so many times before she'll wake up and it will be fine its just a dream) but she knows that this time its not a dream and-
Tiny, colourful fishing boats smash together and their sails rip and they are pulled down beneath the wave that even still tears across the land and it is getting closer and Miriel is scared, but she is more than scared because she knows that she is going to die-
And then the wave is crashing on Meneltarma and the spray is in her eyes and still water rushes up and she is clinging to the rocks and she is screaming and screaming and screaming and the wave closes over her head and still she screams; bubbles drifting towards towards turbulent surface of the seething ocean, her screams echo muted and distorted throughout the sea that is slamming against rocks, she is screaming although her mouth is filled with salty water and she wants to gag, though the pressure is pushing down on her, though her vision is going dark and sheer panic races through her veins and she feels light headed from lack of oxygen; she is screaming and nobody can hear her.
For a second she glimpses the sails of fishing vessels that once flocked around the harbour, again Miriel is watching the boats. And here, dim, under the unlit ocean, Miriel finally closes her eyes, and as the ocean rages above her, she drifts away.