Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate;
And though I oft have passed them by,
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.
— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Grey Havens, The Return of the King
Chapter Nine
3309, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor
"My King, I beseech you! Do not do this!" Míriel yanked hard on his arm, but merely received a blow across her face which felled her to the floor of Ar-Pharazôn's bedchamber.
"I will do what I will," the King said, his voice high. "My cause is just. Long have I felt that I was rudely, and without cause, kept from that which is mine by rights. I should be the Lord of Aman. My ancestors might have been willing to settle for this small isle, but I know that my future lies in the Undying Lands. There I shall be immortal!"
There was madness in his eyes, but the Queen was not about to give up without at least trying for reason. "If you do this, Ar-Pharazôn, you condemn us all. The one ban that the Valar put forth is that no mortal man may dare to sail West and set foot on those sacred shores. Our fathers agreed; this was their vow!"
"Great Kings do not brook denials," Ar-Pharazôn said. "They take what is their due."
"Is this you who speaks, or Sauron the Deceiver?"
The King grabbed her by the front of her dress, yanking her to her feet and backhanding her again. "You speak like a rebel and a traitor, wife."
"No, please," Míriel begged turning her face away. "I am your loyal subject and Queen. No more. I worry for you. You will bring the wrath of the Valar down upon us all."
Ar-Pharazôn laughed cruelly. "My loyal Queen indeed, who failed in all her duties. Barren as the top of the Meneltarma. Worry not for me, Zimraphel. When I return from making war upon Aman, I shall be immortal. You should set yourself in the meantime to pleasing me."
Once he released her, Míriel rushed from his chambers and ran immediately back to her own. As she hadn't since her youth, she dressed once more in male clothing, covering her hair with a cloak, disappearing into the dark corridors.
It took her ten hours to reach Rómenna on horseback, galloping as often as she could. Dawn was just peaking over the horizon when she came to the hill above the haven, looking down into the mouth of the bay. Though it had been many years since she had been there, she knew her way well to the King's House, and from there the home she was seeking was only a little further.
She tossed her reigns to the boy at the gate, giving orders that the horse be watered and cooled down, and then ascended up the front steps into the house.
Míriel was met at the door by the housekeeper, who seemed to take great offense at a visitor coming so early.
"I need to see the master of the house," Míriel said, dropping the pitch of her voice. "And his son Elendil, as well."
"Neither one would be receiving visitors at this hour, boy," the housekeeper sniffed, her face disdainful.
"I have just come from Armenelos," Míriel said, "on the matter of greatest urgency. My message is from the Queen. Summon your masters at once."
The housekeeper sniffed again, but finally acquiesced, leading the Queen into a front parlor with an admonishment not to touch anything. There she waited, until at length, she heard footsteps in the corridor. When the men came into the room, she noted with dismay that Isildur and Anárion had also been roused. There was simply nothing for it; she would speak her message, even with them there.
"My servant said you had a message for me from the Queen," Amandil spoke first. Míriel noted that the care of time had settled on his face, and he looked as if he was soon approaching his twilight years. "I bid you, discharge your office at once and let us know her mind."
Reaching up, Míriel pulled back her hood, causing all four men to gasp. "Some messages, kinsman, are to grave to be trusted to even the most loyal of couriers."
"Míriel," Amandil said, coming forward. "Ai! Your face! What has happened?"
The Queen imagined that her skin had become blackened by now from her husband's wrath, but she could not let that matter. Turning that cheek away, she said, "It matters not. I must speak with you urgently."
She allowed her eyes then to fall to Elendil, and saw that he was pale as he looked at her. His face was as handsome as it had always been, but now he had stateliness to him that came with time. His temples were threaded with grey, but it lent wisdom to his looks, instead of age. And the lines, which gathered at the corners of his eyes and the sides of his mouth, spoke of a life well lived. She was glad for it.
Turning back to his father, she said, "The time the Great Deceiver has been preparing for has come. Ar-Pharazôn has completely descended into madness. He is beginning production of an armada after the new year, one so great that he intends to use it to march on the Valar, themselves."
"This cannot be," Anárion gasped out. "The ban!"
"Well I know," the Queen said. "But there is little reason left in Ar-Pharazôn's mind. He sees no friends, only enemies; no councilors, only spies. The Dark One has twisted his mind until there is nothing left but insanity."
"This is heavy news, indeed," Isildur said, looking contemplative. "The Valar will not stand for this, neither will the One, I think. This will bring about all our dooms."
"Yes," the Queen said. "I fear though, that the burnings and the sacrifices will only increase in these years to come. Amandil, you must rouse all your people, all remnants of the Faithful need to be prepared to flee."
"This task I will appoint to my son," Amandil said. "The days are dark, and there is little hope for men. Yet still, I must try. I intend, by the grace of the Valar, to sail West and plead with Manwë as once our forbearer Eärendil did of old."
"Would you then commit treason?" Elendil said softly, speaking for the first time. "For though we have been accused of it often enough, all we have done until now has been in rebellion against the Dark Lord, and in service of our true Queen. By sailing West, you break the ban, father, and that is treason."
"No, I ask for mercy for men, that is all. And in any offense I commit by breaking the ban," Amandil said, "let it be on my head alone."
"Grandfather, those of your house that you leave behind will surely encounter the King's wrath because of your actions," Isildur said.
"What Amandil does must not become known," Míriel said firmly. To the elder man, she said, "You must go in secret, Atarinya."
"And Elendil," she turned to the man she still considered her true husband. "You must prepare other ships, here in Rómenna, and take the remaining Faithful with you and leave from these shores when the time comes. Ar-Pharazôn will be happy to see the backs of you that I think he will not hinder your departure."
"She is right, my son," Amandil said, clasping his son's arm. "Take all the things you treasure and cannot part with and hide them aboard the ships, for I think that soon we shall farewell these lands forever."
Elendil nodded.
"And here," Amandil said, removing a jewel from the finger of his left hand. "I thought to give this to you upon my death, but perhaps it is better that you have it now. My way is uncertain, and an heirloom such as this should not be lost."
Elendil held out his hand, and his father placed the ring in it. Míriel smiled when she saw what it was. For many years had the ring of Barahir graced Elendil's father's hand, and it almost seemed wrong for it to pass from him. And yet, Elendil looked ready for it. Amandil's son slid the ring on his left forefinger, and took a deep breath.
He then turned to Míriel. Heedless of the others in the room, he walked forward and gathered her into his arms. "Are you all right?" he whispered into her hair.
"I shall be well," she murmured in reply.
"But your face—"
"Shall heal," Míriel said, striving for a carefree tone. "As it has before."
Elendil's face grew thunderous. "He has hit you before?"
The Queen looked away, and pulled from his arms. "Do not concern yourself. I have grown used to it."
"Glorfinriel, you should not have to grow used to it!" Elendil said with exasperation.
"Don't you see?" she asked, turning to him and meeting his eyes. "This is my penance for what I did. Little could I have known then the true cost for my weakness, but many innocents have died because of my decisions. If I bear a bruise upon my face every now and then…well, it is no more than I deserve."
"No, do not say that," Elendil said, pulling her into his arms once more. "You had little choice, as I know I would have done the same for you." Easing back, he cupped her face and smiled. "Neither of us has ever been very good at sacrifice, have we?"
She laughed.
"It does my heart good to hear that sound," Elendil said.
She smiled at him sadly. "Does this mean you have forgiven me?"
"Of course, I longed to call you back that day in Andúnië, but my own pride prevented it," he said. "After that, I made it my business to aide you in whatever way I could."
"Aide me?" Míriel asked in some confusion.
"Atto has been keeping the Dark One busy," Isildur said, drawing Míriel's attention.
"What?" Míriel gasped, turning back to Elendil with horror on her face.
"The Dark Lord hates me," Elendil said. "He will look for any opportunity to strike against me." Elendil's smile took on a tender turn. "I have not spent the last forty-five years since we removed to Rómenna simply pining for you, my love."
"You could have been killed," she burst out. "Or the children!"
"I have been careful," Elendil said softly.
"He has, yelya," Amandil said, nodding. "The Deceiver suspects and hates Elendil because of this, but he cannot link my son to any of the rescues of the Faithful or their escapes from the Dark Lord's grasp."
"In any case," Isildur said, "the armament you spoke of shall keep him occupied for the present. We must use this opportunity to rouse all the remaining Faithful who have not already removed to Rómenna, like you said."
"I think you should not go back to Armenelos," Elendil said. "We have a ship here now, the Númerrámar, anchored off of Tol Uinen. We can leave now; take the children and their families and go. Set sail, and not return. We can be together again, finally."
Míriel's heart leapt at those words, but she had to be reasonable. "No," she said firmly. "It is like Isildur said. You need time to gather all the Faithful, not just the ones here in Rómenna. If we leave now, people will die, for Ar-Pharazôn's wrath will be great." She looked at him with great sorrow in her eyes. "I have learned at last, you see, not to be selfish."
"Then we must part again for now."
"This was always the way with us," Míriel said. "Our years together were but a stolen moments in the web of time. But you will have my heart, always."
"As you have mine," Elendil said. He then kissed her fiercely, ignoring the shocked look of his younger son. "When the time comes to depart, I will send for you, my love."
"We must go now," Amandil said, his voice pulling the lovers apart. "There is little time. My Queen, you must return to the palace. Isildur, you take her. Elendil, you begin preparations. Anárion, you help your father. We must all move quickly if we are to avoid certain doom."
After hurried goodbyes, all five confederates departed, going their separate ways to prepare for the dark days that were to come.
Isildur took the Queen back to Armenelos, while Elendil and Anárion departed for the far corners of the island to seek those of the Faithful that were in hiding. Of their success, little was had, but it was enough to make their quests worth the endeavor.
And as for Amandil, who left for sea immediately, the last Lord of Andúnië sailed west and was never seen or heard from again.
3319, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor
The fleet had sailed. Ar-Pharazôn had left for Aman enthroned on his flagship Alcarondas, accompanied by one thousand ships, all set to make war on the Valar. They sailed away from Númenor like a tide of doom. And the moment he had gone, Míriel had grabbed her cloak and slowly crept from the palace.
She wasn't going to be here to face whatever wrath the King incurred. For the past ten years, Elendil and his sons had slowly roused the last of the Faithful, finding them in hiding on all five corners of Númenor. And in the harbor of Rómenna, he had constructed nine ships to carry them all away from this forsaken place.
They had only been able to see each other once in the intervening years, and it had been nothing more than a stolen moment. Messages had been sent between them, though, and she knew that they were waiting in the harbor for her to arrive. All she had to do now was get to the ship.
Slipping out the same garden she had once taken Isildur through, she opened the door on the back fence, but instead of an empty path which she would have followed to freedom, she was confronted with five of the King's Men, a remnant of whom had stayed behind to guard the palace and keep the peace.
"Ar-Zimraphel, you have been charged with high treason, by Mairon, the Greatest of all Maia, Servant of Morgoth, and regent of Númenor. You are hereby under arrest."
She never would make it to Rómenna.
3319, the Second Age, Meneltarma, Númenor
The wind whipped across her face as her feet stumbled on the muddy path. The Meneltarma, Pillar of the Heavens, had ever stood in the middle of Númenor. Her entire life it had been like a silent protector which she ascended three times a year to observe the holy days.
But no more.
Smoke and fire issued from its summit, and mud and sludge were rolling and sliding down its steep hills, hindering her path to the top.
Thirty-nine days ago, Míriel had been confined in a cell.
There she had sat, with little food and water, until today, when the quakes that were rocking the land had caused the guards to abandon their posts and seek shelter. She had been convinced she would never escape that cell, that hole, and if she did it would only be to die on the pyres in the temple of Morgoth. But today, when the earth shook for an hour complete, the far wall of her cell had crumbled, revealing a sewer beyond, which she had followed until it provided a way out of the city.
Míriel had run. She had started running and she hadn't looked back.
She had no horse, no way to get to Rómenna, which was over fifty miles away, and she was certain, by then, that it wasn't an option anyway.
The sky was dark with rain and hail, which burst from the heavens intermittently. Lightening rained down from the sky, and the land shook constantly, breaking apart buildings and roads too. The hills were rolling, and the ground beneath her feet was as well, as if Númenor was a ship being tossed about the sea during a storm.
When she had reached the bottom of the Meneltarma, the work of seven hours, with bloodied feet and scrapped legs, she had begun to climb, knowing her progress would render little. The wind was too strong and the movements of the earth became ever more turbulent, and she had little strength left. It was pure fear that led her on, forcing her towards feats she could never have accomplished had it not been for the certainty of death that chased at her back.
Her labor was in vain, though she did ascend half way up the mountain.
Suddenly, all was quiet. The wind stopped blowing and the rain ceased too. The trembling ground ceased, and Míriel turned to see one of the eagles of Manwë crowning across the sky in the west. The sky was purple and pink, with orange clouds as bright as flames lighting up the sky. The sun was descending, and it was the most beautiful sunset that Míriel had ever seen.
Then, feeling as though she was being called, she turned and looked out to the East.
Though they should have been too far to see, Míriel spied nine ships, fleeing Númenor, and she knew with perfect certainty that Elendil was at one of the prows.
He would live then.
A feeling of great peace suddenly came over her, and she knew then that all would be well.
Oh, not for her.
Elendil, Isildur, Anárion, and Mírwen—they were the future. Eventually, their ships would land somewhere, and they would begin again. The best of Númenor, and the future of its people.
It was as it should be.
She was a relic of the elder days.
Tar-Míriel, Ar-Zimraphel, the Golden Lady of Armenelos. She had many names, and they all belonged to the past.
It was time.
Then, from the corner of her eye, Míriel turned towards the West and saw a great wave, larger than Meneltarma itself, coming forward and covering the land.
The reckoning had come.
One final prayer escaped her lips, "Uinen, Lady of the Seas, guide their ships to safety. Think not upon the crimes of Númenor, and for their sakes, and by my death, let me atone."
Tar-Míriel, the true Queen of Númenor, saw her death coming for her. It was in this moment, that all the evil that had been done with her actions and inactions, she might have been forgiven for, had she behaved like a Queen of old. But her eyes once more found the departing nine ships, and suddenly all of the peace she had found deserted her. Fear ruled her heart. A scream of denial tore from her lips and was swallowed by the wind.
Her soul and body were then lost beneath the waves as Númenor sank down into the deepest depths of the sea.
When the memories ended, Buffy was cast adrift in her own mind. The pain which the memories had been holding off until then, suddenly consumed her. Losing Dawn, strengthened by the awoken memories of losing Elendil and Númenor, multiplied her guilt and her sorrow until there was little left.
Death was her gift. It was clear now. Her existence, her very being caused the death and the pain of all the people that she loved and cared for. She was guilty for so much destruction, so much chaos. It would be better for her, and the world, if Buffy Summers wasn't in it.
She could just stop fighting, stop trying. Let the voices she heard trying to get through to her just wash over her, become part of the background. If she listened and floated long enough, buffeted in a sea of nothingness, eventually…she would just fade away.
So Buffy Summers slept.
And the Slayer, which wanted to fight and be free, settled back into the depths of Buffy's mind, waiting for her mistress to wake and rouse herself once more, and answer the call of battle.