His blade he lifted high in hand,
and challenging alone did stand
before the threat of Morgoth's power;
and dauntless cursed him, hall and tower,
o'ershadowing hand and grinding foot,
beginning, end, and crown and root;
then turned to stride forth down the slope
abandoning fear, forsaking hope.
— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lays of Beleriand, The Lay of Leithian
Chapter Six
There were dead bodies everywhere.
All over the ground were the remnants of Glory's actions, dead knights and clerics dotting the landscape.
And Dawn was gone.
Taken, by the Beast.
Staring at the carnage before her, Buffy's mind broke and she surrendered fully to the visions which had been teasing at the back of her head, until now only coming forth in dreams.
A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she felt herself dropping to the ground.
And then she knew no more.
3250, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor
"It is time for you to marry."
Míriel dropped her spoon in surprise, looking up at her father from where she sat. They were in one of the morning chambers of the palace, eating breakfast together as was their custom. Míriel would have preferred to break her fast in her room, and eat all her subsequent meals there as well, but her father had started laying down orders as to her behavior and her daily schedule. This was one of the requirements.
With some derision in her voice, she answered, "Then you had best send out your fastest riders and summon Elendil back from Andúnië."
Tar-Palantir slammed his hand down on the table. "Over thirty years it has been, and still you bend your mind towards him." He began to cough then, suddenly looking very old, leaning back heavily in his chair. In the older days, Míriel would have rushed to his side, but she felt little more than indifference when she looked at her father now. Even the deepest of loves could be lost if it was not cherished.
"Why do you do this, daughter?" he asked, looking at her as if he expected an answer. "Ever do you gaze out to sea, waiting for him to return to you, when you should be thinking of your future. My brother Gimilkhâd is dead, with him gone there is a hole in the King's Men, and they are bereft of leadership. Now is the time to strike," Tar-Palantir said. "Marry, produce an heir. By doing this you will solidify the rightness of your ascension to the throne. The people loved you once. They will welcome your coronation if you secure our line, rather than display indifference to your ascension, as they do now."
"If the people do not want me for their Queen," Míriel asked, "whose fault is that? My misery is ever consuming, and of your infliction. You want me to be glad that soon I shall be Queen, yet I can augur nothing but despair for myself, as always, in the days to come." She then turned her head, her grey eyes flashing as she met her father's gaze. "And, know this, my King. No child shall ever take root in my body that is not Elendil's get."
"And yet, he does not feel the same way," the King replied.
"What are you talking about?" his daughter asked.
"Elendil has married and begotten three children." Pity came over the King's face in that moment, for however he hated her disobedience, he was loathe to cause her pain. "Did you not know, my daughter? Amandil has spoken to me of them. He is a proud grandfather."
"And what," the King's daughter asked softly, turning her face from her father and towards the sea, "did Amandil have to say of them?"
"The eldest is the heir, Isildur. He is followed by a sister, whose name I do not know, and then a brother Anárion. One can only presume that Elendil met some woman on his travels, and his offspring are the result of that. Míriel," he said, "can you not see that this is proof that he is undeserving of you? Such great promises he made to you, and yet he has married again and had sons. He only ever wanted your throne."
Míriel shoved back her chair with a bang. "You know nothing!"
"I know that, as your King and father, I am well within my rights to force you to marry," Tar-Palantir replied.
"An oxen may be led to water, Atarinya, but even the Wisest would not be able to force him to drink."
The King sighed. "Will you be ever obstinate? He waits for you not!"
"Is he still married?"
"Amandil did say that the mother died birthing the last child," Tar-Palantir allowed.
"Then my answer remains unchanged," she replied.
"…Buffy, you have to get up! Buffy, please! Buffy!"
3255, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor
It had come to this, open rebellion in the streets.
War, which had been threatening for decades, had come to Númenor at last.
Her father's death had been the spark that set the kindling alight, and now Armenelos, the City of Kings, was dripping in blood. The threat that had been hanging over the Island of Gift since her father had taken up the Sceptre was now a chilling reality. Gimilkhâd, her uncle, had been a danger to her father, that was certain, but he had lacked the ability to inspire men's hearts.
Something her cousin Calion had in abundance.
He had shocked them all when he returned from his voyages a year ago. Gone was the youth who had been so quick to laugh and smile, ever in close company with Amandil of Andúnië, and in his place was a handsome, yet cold and proud man. His journeys had hardened him, and his adventures and quests had merely whetted his appetite for power.
And the people loved him. He was free in sharing his spoils of war, and he was mighty and great to look upon. He had actively courted their love, so unlike the cold, yet beautiful, daughter of the King.
Calion had only been bidding his time.
And it had come the moment her father had died two weeks before. The King's Men, led by Calion, had immediately begun solidifying their power, and attacking members of the Faithful who had moved back into the capitol city during her father's reign.
Tar-Míriel, the fourth ruling Queen of Númenor, knew he would come for her next.
There was no one left to stand for her, no one left to come. His years of friendship with Amandil had prevented Calion from slaying the lords of Andúnië, but a legion of guards had been sent to the region to subdue all the populace, and it prevented her kinsmen from sending her any aide.
She was quite alone.
"Can you hear me? Buffy!"
"Buffy!"
"Buffy?"
3255, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor
Her overthrow, when it came, was swift.
"Well, it looks like that is it, cousin," Calion said, the smirk upon his face lending a cruel taint to his handsome features. "No guards, no help, no hope."
She sat upon her throne, and she knew, deep within her bones that it was the last time she would ever do so.
The rule of Tar-Míriel was ended.
None had come to defend her claim, but then she had expected none. Her cousin was too powerful, too strong. All that would have come for her and fought on her behalf were in his custody now, and even the palace guards no longer defended her.
And yet, for all that, Tar-Míriel wasn't going to surrender her rightful throne without a fight. He may be her cousin, with enormous armies at his disposal, but she was Queen by birth and by the will of Eru Ilúvatar. It was not something she would let pass away lightly.
"Tar-Míriel, deposed Queen, you have been brought here—"
"I haven't been brought anywhere," she snapped, interrupting her cousin. "This is my throne room, and my palace. You are the stranger here, not I."
Calion laughed. "You always did have spirit, fair one."
"Do not call me that," Míriel snapped.
"And why not?" her cousin asked. "Ever did I call you it. And when we were children together, you did hang upon my words and smiled when endearments did cross my lips."
Míriel looked from him to the men behind him, all rough looking with their hands upon their swords, looking ready for battle. "Time changes many things," she said sardonically.
Her cousin laughed again, and then stepped forward. "Now, cousin, I am here to take the sceptre and the throne, will you hand them over to me, or must I exercise all my powers of persuasion?"
Tar-Míriel's eyes narrowed. "I would not hand the sceptre over to any man, save my own son when it was his turn to claim it. You, son of Gimilkhâd, have no right to the throne."
Calion's good mood suddenly evaporated, and the Queen swore she could feel the chill in the air. "No right? NO RIGHT?" he screamed. "The throne is mine! Mine! It should have come to me by the rights of succession had our grandfather had his way. Oh, yes! Did you know, cousin? Ar-Gimilzôr wanted to leave his throne to my father, but the Council of the Sceptre forbade it! It is mine!"
"It is not yours," Tar-Míriel said. "You, like your father before, are nothing but a lesser son of greater sires. And know this, if you think to rule, you shall do naught but come to your own ruin, and Númenor with you."
"I grow tired of your obstinacy, cousin."
"My heart bleeds for you," Tar-Míriel said sarcastically. "I will never surrender the sceptre. You will not achieve it, except by my death. And then how will you lead my people with my blood on your hands? They will not follow a King who murdered his predecessor, the rightful Queen."
Calion stared at her. "So be it." Turning to one of his men, he said, "Bring him."
The guard departed, but quickly returned, dragging a man with him.
Míriel gasped. It was Elendil, and he was in chains and gagged.
"Calion! Stop! What are you doing?"
Calion had his men drag Elendil forward, and then throw him to the ground at Calion's feet. Seizing him by his hair, Calion then pulled a dagger from his belt and held it against the neck of the son of Amandil.
"Stop it!" Míriel screamed out, standing from her throne and running down the steps of the dais, until she was standing in front of her cousin. His height dwarfed her up close, much like Elendil always had, but she did not allow herself to be possessed of fear.
It was her greatest dream, turned into her greatest nightmare. She was finally seeing Elendil again, only it was at the moment of his death. She could not imagine a fate worse.
Her eyes met the eyes of her love then, and she knew in that moment that she would willingly go to her death now, if it prevented him from also dying. She loved Elendil still, would love him always. Any price was worth paying, if it but meant that he would live.
"Amandil has ever been your friend," Míriel cried out desperately, trying in vain to think of something to say that would stay his hand. "Do you now mean to kill his only son?"
"That, Tarinya, depends on you," Calion said, smiling at her in that twisted way of his. "You are right in saying that Amandil is my friend, and yet I think even he will absolve me of blame when he learns that the choice of his son's death was removed from my hands."
"What do you mean? Speak plainly, cousin," the Queen demanded, trying to tamp down on her dread.
"Here he is, your beloved Elendil," Calion taunted. "The man you married without your father's consent."
At her widened eyes, Calion laughed. "Oh, I am well informed, cousin. My father was kept apprised of the news of the court through various spies, and even that which was kept the most secret was soon uncovered."
Tears filled Míriel's eyes, and they quickly began to spill over her cheeks, dripping down her face and staining her gown.
"I know well how you have pined for him over the long years," he taunted. "And yet, what's this?" Calion dug the dagger into Elendil's neck, causing ruby red drops to drip down the blade. "I think, cousin, that he has not been as faithful to you."
"Stop it!" she screamed.
Calion smirked. "Married another woman? Produced children by her?" He clucked his tongue at Elendil. "For shame, kinsman. Is that how you treat the Golden Lady of Armenelos? The King's daughter? The woman you professed to love?"
"Anything he did has caused no harm to you, Calion," Míriel pleaded. "He is innocent!"
"Innocent! He touched that which is mine, there is no innocence in him," Calion spat.
"I don't understand," Míriel said, looking at Calion with confusion.
"Don't you?" he asked, his voice softening. "You know, you must know, that it was always intended to be us. From the time we were children together, running in these very halls. I loved you then, as I love you know. We were designed for each other, Mírielinya. Your father had no living son, because it was always I who was meant to become his son. We were meant to be married, fair one."
Míriel's feet began to back away, almost against her will. She had no desire to offend Calion when he had a knife to her beloved's throat, but his words filled her with repulsion. "Cousin, you do not know what it is you are saying. Any such union would be accursed. Forbidden by all laws of Númenor, and of decency. It is illegal, wrong."
"What's wrong is that you ever allowed this filth to touch you!" Calion screamed out, digging the knife deeper.
"No, please!" She cried out.
He pulled back then, and looked at her once more. "So, my fair one, now we come down to it. What follows now is your choice, and in your hands."
His cold eyes turned on his cousin, and he looked at her as if he could see deeply into her. Míriel wondered if he could. Could he see down to the very deepest parts of her? The parts that were weak and fragile, and would let him have anything he wanted, if only Elendil might live.
"What would you do? For his life, my Queen? What are you willing to give me to prevent me from sending him to the halls of his father's?"
There was no question of her answer; she could only respond in one way.
"Anything."
"Your hand first, I think," Calion declared. "And the throne second."
Míriel felt ill. All of her dreams, all of her plans for a life with Elendil were gone in that moment. She had wanted to badly to be with him, to make her home with him once more. For him to be her consort in Armenelos, with Isildur and Anárion their most valued counselors. Or give up the throne and return with him to Andúnië, and there make their home with all the members of their house about them. Those dreams, which had once been like petals on the wind, now were ashes.
Could she do it? Could she marry Calion, and know then that she must lie in an incestuous bed? Could she spend her days with him, knowing that he would return Númenor to the way it had been when her grandfather ruled? Could she sit back and watch the Faithful persecuted once more? Could she watch as the hearts of her people turned away from the One, Eru Ilúvatar, and back to sin? Without her compliance, Calion could never hope to hold the Sceptre. Could she turn her back on all that she believed in, merely to save the life of one man?
Míriel looked then into Elendil's eyes, which were pinning her down with their intensity. Through the gag, she could hear the muffled sounds of him yelling, "Nay!"
In the end, there was never really any choice. Her course was decided long ago. She knew now, that she had always been headed towards this moment. Perhaps from the moment she met Elendil. Or perhaps the moment she had been born a girl, and not a boy. She was always coming here, to where death waited for her.
"I shall give up the sceptre," she said softly. "And I will go into exile, only spare his life."
Calion laughed. "This is not a negotiation, cousin. You will give up the throne, and you will marry me…or he dies. Now, do I have your agreement, or are the Halls of Tar-Minyatur to run red with the blood of the scion of Andúnië?"
"Yes, you have my agreement," she whispered, hanging her head.
Calion released the dagger then, throwing Elendil to the floor. With his hands in handcuffs, he fell on his shoulder with a grunt. "Take him," he directed his men, "and send him back to Andúnië, from whence he came."
"And no harm is to come to him, or any of his house," Tar-Miriel added.
Calion nodded to the guards to show his agreement at her words, and they then took Elendil and left.
Míriel tried to watch him leave, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face, one last time, but the guards were too quick. In a moment, he was gone…and she was left with her tormentor.
"Call forth the holy man," Calion said, his face live with excitement.
In a trice, it was done. They married in the Adûnaic fashion, exchanging not more than vows, and Míriel forcibly promising to obey him. No gifts were given, for that was an Elvish custom, and such things had no place in the new Númenor.
After the holy man had gone, Calion assembled the Court, summoning all the nobles and making a public declaration of their marriage.
Once the announcement was made, Calion turned to his new wife and said with a maniacal grin. "Well, little cousin and wife, I believe you have something for me."
Without a word, Míriel reached up and removed the diamond, bound in silver fillet, which she had worn upon her brow since taking the throne two weeks before.
"At last," Calion said softly, allowing her to place the fillet on his head, but he did not wait for her to give him the sceptre, taking it forcibly.
A terrible and frightening look came over his face as he held the sceptre reverently. He then turned and ascended up the steps, and settled on the carven throne, becoming the twenty-fourth King of Númenor, usurping Míriel's rule entirely.
Seeing Míriel just standing there, looking at him, his lip curled up. She needed to be humbled, and what better time to do it than when the whole Court was assembled. "Do you just stand there, wife," he asked loudly, "showing no respect before your King?"
Hate filled Míriel's mind, but she knew that Elendil's life depended on her obedience now. With heavy heart, she curtsied and bowed deeply to the usurper, the new King.
"Hail, Tar-Calion," she said loudly, rising from her obsequience as fast as she could.
"That name we like not," Calion declared, looking down at Míriel and all the Court. "From hence forth, let it here be declared, that we are to be called Ar-Pharazôn, and our fair Queen and wife to be called Ar-Zimraphel. Done are the elvish ways, the ways of the Spies of the Valar, and we would not suffer any remembrance of them to endure."
Míriel had no choice then but to ascend the dais and stand by his side, taking the spot she had once stood in when her father was King. She would have given anything to return to that time, and once again be safe in her father's keeping.
The crier of the Court came forward then, banging his staff on the ground three times. "May long life be granted to their most High and Excellent of sovereigns, Ar-Pharazôn the King, and Ar-Zimraphel, his Queen."
The entire court erupted in cheers, and it took all the strength that Míriel possessed to keep from crying.
The irony of the moment did not escape her. It had been her father's greatest fear that Elendil would usurp her rule.
He had feared the wrong kinsman.