Nine Ships, Seven Stones, and One White Tree (Shiva x Darkest Nightmare)

[Shiva the Cat]

“Sweetheart, are you ready yet?” Lady Adûninzil called as she stepped into her daughter's lavish chambers. The various handmaid surrounding the young lady immediately parted at the elder one's entrance, revealing the tall, red-haired form of Lachiel standing before a mirror, dressed in a silvery-gray formal gown with the slightly flared skirt and unfashionably long bell sleeves.

Lachiel knew her mother disproved of it as soon as her eyes fell on the richly embroidered silks, but the maiden held her head high anyway. “I'm nearly ready, Emel. Aglaril's just gone to fetch my slippers,” she replied, knowing the elvish term of endearment would earn a flash from Adûninzil's hazel eyes.

“That frock...it's rather old-fashioned, isn't it?” the brunette replied, stepping up beside her daughter until both of their reflections were in the mirror. Her own bronze-colored gown was sleeveless and much more close-fitting to her stately frame, as was the current style in Armenelos. She'd also adorned herself with just enough jewelry to be tasteful, while also showing off the considerable wealth and regard her family had amassed over the years. Lachiel's father excluded, of course.

“You mean it's rather elvish?” the redhead whispered in mock horror, bursting into giggles at the scowl that twisted Adûninzil's otherwise lovely face.

One of her mother's white hands gripped her shoulders with surprising strength, forcing Lachiel's piercing green eyes to stare directly into hers. “This is no joke, ÛrÎzil,” the dark-haired woman hissed, using the name that still felt foreign to both of them even after three years of use. “You are not in Andúnië anymore. For your family's sake, if not your own, please hold your tongue tonight. You know what happens to those who displease the King.”

Lachiel's expression immediately sobered, and she took a step back from her mother. “I could always stay home,” she offered hopefully. The social gatherings of Armenelos held little interest for her these days, and she would have much preferred a quiet evening at home in the garden, working on a bit of needlework or reading, possibly even singing quietly to herself if she was sure no one would be around to hear.

Adûninzil seemed to seriously consider this idea for a moment, then shook her head. “No, the entire family needs to go. As a show of support for your grandfather, and for the King and his great undertaking. You and I least of all can afford to be missed; it would raise far too many questions. I know you understand that, dearest one,” she murmured, giving her daughter a gentle kiss on the forehead. “Now have you any other gown?”

As it turned out, Lachiel did not, at least none that could be ready before the party needed to depart for the great palace on the highest hill of the city. “No one will pay much attention to my gown anyway,” the redhead assured as the family gathered in front of the house. She looked over at the gaggle of her female cousins, each dressed more garishly--and scandalously--than the last, and with a raised eyebrow gave a sideways glance towards Adûninzil. “I think if the King even looks our way, his attention will surely be drawn elsewhere.”

Mother and daughter had both laughed at that, and arm-in-arm walked up the long paved road that lead to the King's House. On the great mountain behind it, the ruined golden temple looked something like a broken crown on top of the palace, but it wouldn't remain that way for long. Lachiel's grandfather, walking at the head of the column of his children and grandchildren, had been chosen to lead the repairs that would restore the great dome to its original splendor, although some whispered the task was more of a punishment than an honor. And it was certainly a risk to even go near the place, not just because of what went on inside, but out of fear for those cursed clouds that had come smiting down on the roof last winter, sent by the wicked beings across the sea no doubt.

The sun was just beginning to set as the family entered the elegant courtyard of the palace, which was already well-populated with some of the oldest and most respected clans in the city. The young people were quick to scatter among their friends to secure dancing partners for later, while the older ones found their friends and joined them in light gossip, sipping from golden cups of new wine and nibbling at the efforts of this year's harvest off golden platters.

It would be some time before the King made his appearance yet, and Lachiel saw no harm in slipping off to some quiet spot, away from the noise and the chatter that sounded so ugly to one who'd been brought up speaking the now-forbidden elvish tongue. The gardens seemed a likely enough escape, although when the young woman reached them she found most of the flowers dead and the trees sadly barren. She could hear the sound of a far-off fountain though, and thought perhaps that might prove a prettier sight than death or decadence.

So it was with the sound of harps and flutes growing ever fainter behind her, the redhead slipped into the King's Court, barren and desolate now with the King ready to make his war in the west. The only sound was that of the fountain, still bubbling away merrily as it had in happier times before things had started to go so wrong. Sighing softly, Lachiel spread her skirts on the stone edge of the great pool in the center of the court, trailing her fingers through the cool water and wishing for the thousandth time that things had gone differently.

Just beyond the fountain, she noticed a strange bare patch of earth in the center of all the smooth black paving stones. At first she wondered if perhaps some of them had broken, but a passing leaf caught on the autumn wind, dancing before her eyes, suddenly made her smile.

That's where the tree was she realized, recalling the story that had turned Andúnië on its head when she was no more than a child. Before Nimloth had been burned (At that wicked Zigûr's behest, she thought bitterly) the brave and noble Isildur had gallantly stolen into this very court under the dead of night to take a fruit from the White Tree, carrying it all the way back to his father's stronghold as a symbol of the Faithful's resistance. Lachiel's father had made a song of it that very day, much to the amusement of the Lord and his family, and her older brother Brenion had pledged his life's service to the man who'd been dubbed a thief by their corrupt and arrogant king.

Lachiel's smile faded, and she let out a sigh. Three years since she'd seen Brenion, longer since she'd seen Isildur. And her father...she would never see him again, she knew that. When he boarded the ship with Lord Amandil, he as much as told her so, and she had cried like a baby in his arms. She'd cried again when her mother said she was returning to her father's house in Armenelos, and when Brenion called her a traitor for doing so. Both had begged Lachiel to remain with them, and while she longed to continue the happy life she'd known in the city by the sea she had always loved, she remembered the promise she had made to her father before he left.

I will not let anything happen to Emel.

So she turned her back on Andúnië and came to the capital, where the rich pretended not to know about the horrible things that happened in the golden temple, and where everyone cheered the King's idiotic plans to make a war on the gods. Brenion probably hated her now, all the Faithful probably did. Lachiel did suspect there might be a few of their number still in Armenelos, but if they voiced their sympathies openly there was no question that they would be going up the mountain, and never coming back. In her heart, she even believed Adûninzil still revered the elves and the Valar, although she was still angry at both for taking the love of her life from her side. After all, Adûninzil had originally been called Tiriel, before things got bad.

Lost in these thoughts, Lachiel continued to sit by the fountain, staring up at the sky as the stars began to peek through a thin layer of clouds. Without realizing it, she began to hum softly under her breath, the very song her father had written about Isildur and the theft of Nimloth's fruit. Although she didn't sing the words, even just the melody in a place like this would have been enough to send her to the temple if she'd been caught.

Luckily, her years in Armenelos had sharpened her reflexes enough that she immediately fell silent when she heard footsteps on the cobbled path leading from the gardens. Rising to her feet, she stepped into the shadow of one of the pillars surrounding the court, praying whoever was approaching hadn't seen her and cursing the pale color of her dress that would do almost nothing to hide her body, let alone the flaming waves of her hair in the evening breeze.

 

[Darkest Nightmare]

“Thavron,” Himel’s voice spat his name out, but her annoyance wasn’t at his stubborn insistence on using his Elvish name, at least tonight, but rather at his apolitical tardiness. “Everyone is waiting!”

“Yes, I’m coming, my meleth.”

He heard her snort from the other room, but whether at his Elvish term of endearment, or at the platitude she’d heard a thousand times by now, this time Thavron Tarîkmagân couldn’t tell.

“At least you don’t mind when I work,” he murmured as he reached down to rub the neck of Huan, the graying wolfhound that was sprawled in its usual spot, the thick rug under his drafting table. Huan was the most recent of five dogs he'd owned with the same name, spread over the last one hundred years, but unfortunately he knew that, sooner than he preferred to acknowledge, he'd have to get another puppy given the difficulty Huan’s hips were giving him. At least old Huan would have the gift of death, but a replacement, well, he wondered if it was even moral to raise another puppy in these troubled times.

Himel was worried about being late to the King’s party, but Thavron was more worried about being late in rebuilding the King’s damned temple, or more accurately, Zigûr's damned temple. The complex plans were on his table, marked and remarked into a cryptic explosion of glyphs, while he struggled to solve yet another engineering issue that the grander dome Zigûr demanded seemed to pose. Of course, Thavron knew he was the only builder still alive in Númenor suitable to tackle the project, but the irony of him being tasked to rebuild a temple to Melkor that had been smote down by the Valar themselves was certainly not lost on him.

Of all the wonderful and grand palaces, towers, and monuments he had built, was Thavron’s legacy to be the infamous Faithful builder of Melkor’s greatest Temple in all of Arda?

Eru Ilúvatar forgive me for this evil I give life to.

As a builder, of course, the technical challenge of the construction was tempting, but while he publicly had accepted the honor with grace and enthusiasm, the reality was that only fear for his family had forced his hand. For himself, he would gladly take death rather than glorify Melkor, but as a Grandfather, and likely soon Great Grandfather, he had others to think of, many of whom waited downstairs for him right now. While he was of the Faithful still, one of few openly so that lived in Armenelos, not all of his descendants shared his beliefs, and even those that were supporters of Ar-Pharazôn, or even Zigûr, would not be safe from retribution if he turned down the King’s commission.

And these days, retribution might even mean being sacrificed, like a savage might an animal, on the very altar of the temple Thavron was rebuilding.

And so, like his tardiness to attend this grand party tonight for Ar-Pharazôn's folly of picking a war with the gods, all Thavron could do to protest his duties was to take his time, be thoughtful, and for lack of a better world, stall. With any luck, Ar-Pharazôn could be dead and Zigûr ousted before the final sheet of gold was hammered onto the new dome, and Thavron could gleefully oversee the demolition of his finest work.

“Thavron!”

“I’m coming,” came his tired reply. He patted Huan again, and murmured. “I envy you, old hound, for your suffering in this world will soon be over.”

The weight of the burden he felt was even heavier as he led the column of his family down the lit up streets of Armenelos to the Palace, with a beaming Himel at his side while getting him up to date on the latest Court gossip. So many of the people he worried about were now behind him, his children, their spouses, their children, more spouses, nephews, nieces, and now even grown grandchildren. Add to that all the relations through marriage that had decided tonight to follow the famous Builder Tarîkmagân, one known to be personal friends with the Queen, now that his ignoble duty repairing the temple made him no longer a pariah. Meanwhile, his stomach roiled and he had to force a smile upon his bearded face.

All of them depend upon me.

Himel was in her element once inside the courtyard, and Thavron let her lead him from table to table while reciting tired greetings and giving practiced replies to all the usual questions on his work. He’d married well, as her King’s Men family had both high rank as well as numerous connections that had helped his career blossom almost two hundred years ago. Without her, he’d likely be building simple houses in Andúnië, not summer palaces for Queen Miriel herself, and he wondered again if that would not have been a better life. Despite his fame, the last twenty years had seen the harshest persecution of the Faithful in his lifetime, and he knew his distinctive soaring style was suddenly derided as being too Elvish in its classical beauty, while the new trend was towards ugly, heavy and overbearing architecture that supposedly showed the power of Men.

At some point, Himel had been captured by some of her Ladies and led aside, and Thavron gleefully took the opportunity to find some quiet solace. He had little time, as Himel would find him to ensure that he'd greet Queen Miriel and likely the King as well. With any luck, Zigûr would have more important people to talk with so feigning civility to that abomination could be avoided. His feet led him by memory to the King’s Court, that one spot of comfort he had always enjoyed on the palace grounds, but too late he remembered that Nimloth was gone, another tragedy of Zigûr’s desire to sunder all symbols that linked Númenor to the Valar and the Elves. He almost turned back, as the sight of that burnt stump, if even that still remained, was too painful to bear, but the soft sound of singing, of all things, made him pause.

In the starlight, a woman sat alone on the ground by the fountain. Thavron hesitated, worried about intruding upon her privacy while also still seeking to find his own, but as she lifted her arm he saw the great bell sleeves of her dress, an unmistakably Elvish style, and curiosity led him closer. When he saw her face, his tensed body relaxed and he gave her a relieved smile.

“Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn, Sell Neth”

It felt good to speak Elvish again and bid his granddaughter a greetings under starlight in what was otherwise such a dark place.

“Do not rise, Lachiel,” Thavron said, reaching down to touch her shoulder. He settled down next to her himself, crosslegged, and glanced at the black patch of earth nearby. “Even now, while I miss Nimloth dearly, I also find comfort in its memory.” He paused and looked at her, before adding quietly, “And the hope that it grows again.”

Despite the fact that Tiriel and Lachiel had been living in his household, Thavron’s duties at the Temple had consumed him, and he realized with some chagrin that he had barely talked with his granddaughter, who must be feeling very alone in Armenelos if that was the gown she chose to wear tonight. He heart twinged as he thought of what she must have endured, both moving here with his daughter, but also the loss of her father who had not been heard from since volunteering to go with Amandil to give warning to the Valar of Ar-Pharazôn's hubris.

“Tell me, my neth. How are you faring in this cruel city?” Thavron’s hazel eyes caught some starlight and seemed to sparkle again after being dark and brooding at the main party. He reached out and took her hand, giving it a strong squeeze. “Even in a desert, one can find a spring, and I hope you have found beauty somehow in what has become a city of stone and steel.”

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Lachiel immediately let out a sigh of relief as she recognized the warm voice of her grandfather. Bowing her head respectfully, she turned her gaze back towards the bare patch of earth and laid her head on Thavron's broad shoulder. When she'd first come to the city she never would have dared such an intimate gesture towards her tall, rather grim-faced grandfather, but over the past three years she'd realized his were the friendliest eyes and the kindest heart she could rely on in Armenelos, even moreso than her mother at times. As far as Lachiel had seen, Thavron had much more courage than his dark-haired daughter, or if not courage he at least masked his fears much better than Adûninzil did. He could probably afford to, given his reputation as a Builder and his close relationship with Tar-Míriel (as she would always be known in Lachiel's mind at least) that had protected his extended family from going up the mountain so far. But Thavron was still only one man in this strange city.

"I saw the urn where they planted it. The fruit Isildur took," the redhead whispered, feeling as though the words themselves were hanging like an axe over their heads. "In Elendil's house in Andúnië. Adar always believed it would sprout when the Faithful were on the throne again, but..." It seemed impossible such a thing would ever happen again. The official gossip among the citizens of the capital was that Míriel was barren, although the more daring voices said it was because she'd married her cousin that there was no current heir to the throne. Before she'd come to the city, the general consensus among the Faithful was that it was Ar-Pharazôn himself who was sterile, another warning from the Valar that that he was overstepping in his ambitions.

Thavron hardly seemed concerned with the legacy of his King, however, and seemed much more worried about his granddaughter's happiness. What little happiness there was, at least. The kindness in his eyes was enough to make the redhead's mouth quirk in a small smile, and she returned the squeeze of his hand. "Well enough, Iarwain. Emel seems happier though, and that's what matters most. She's reconnected with some of her friends from her youth, and I think that keeps her mind off things. I..." Lachiel had tasted a lie on the tip of her tongue, but decided to swallow rather than speak it. She had no friends left in this city, at least none that she knew of. The sons and daughters of the Faithful she had played with as a child had had all fled to either Rómenna or Andúnië (or gone to the temple), and her cousins all preferred gossip and gowns to songs and poetry, which were Lachiel's primary interests these days.

"I keep busy in your library," the redhead finished, thinking fondly of her grandfather's extensive collection of books and scrolls, many of which had been spared the great burnings of the the past but had to be enjoyed in utmost secret. An idea occurred to her then, and a hopeful light filled her bright green eyes. "Perhaps tomorrow if you're not too busy, you could read to me a bit, the way you used to when Brenion and I were little? Or if you like, I could read to you, although I always remembered you did such wonderful voices when you read the story of Tuor Eladar. I think even Adar was jealous of you when you read that one," she laughed mischievously as she clasped his hand tightly between both of hers. "Oh please, Iarwain, it would be so lovely. Unless...are you needed on the mountain?"

Her face fell a little at the sheer mention of it, and Lachiel was glad that in the darkness she couldn't see the looming spire that always seemed so dreadful to her now, although she could remember in her earliest years when it hadn't been so terrible, when a kinder king was on the throne and everyone expected the fair princess Tar-Míriel to take his place after him.

As the queen's name crossed her mind, as if by magic a servant dressed in the soft purple livery of Ar-Zimraphel's household appeared, curtsying deeply to Thavron. "My apologies for interrupting, Builder Tarîkmagân," the maiden apologized in the tongue of men (albeit just accented enough to make it clear that wasn't her preferred language). "But the Queen is requesting your presence. She says she has some questions for you, regarding her balcony." There was a strange emphasis on this last word that made Lachiel raise a confused brow, but her grandfather seemed utterly unfazed by it and rose to accept the summons.

To her own surprise, Lachiel too got to her feet, gripping his arm gently. "May I come with you, grandfather?" she asked, switching to the proper language now that they were no longer alone. "I'd like to pay the Queen my own respects, if it's all right." If not, she could at least return to the main hall with him. Without Thavron sitting beside her, the King's Court suddenly seemed much colder and emptier, and she had no desire to stay.

*****
​

Some time before the festivities had begun, one person was trying very hard to solve the problem of Ar-Pharazôn's lack of heir. It wasn't his wife, the quiet and gentle Ar-Zimraphel that had once been called Tar-Míriel; that good lady was busy sewing clothes for the poor with her ladies at the far end of the palace. No, the brave and determined young woman who was determined to save her kingdom from losing its king was the Lady Abrazâphêl, and she was doing her part by being bent over a desk with her skirts flipped over her head, and Ar-Pharazôn himself thrusting balls-deep into her tight young pussy.

"Oh yes, My King! More, more please!" the blonde gasped, her long, sharp nails digging into the wood at the edge of the desk as the Lord of the West's hips smacked loudly against her generous behind. There was a bit more emphasis in her voice than was probably necessary; truth be told the King was far from an excellent lover, but he was the King, and Abrazâphêl had no doubt that whoever might be able to give him a son--or even a daughter, if it came to that--would rise to a position that could never be taken away in these uncertain times. Other women had tried similar tactics of course, but none were as beautiful as the tall woman with the long blonde hair and eyes blue as the sea, and they certainly didn't have the extensive relations or a father as rich as hers. Ar-Pharazôn already relied on Abrazâphêl's family to oversee the building of his ships, the growing of his food, and the spinning of cloth for his rich garments, and sooner or later his other trysts would always find themselves replaced yet again by the Pharazanî, as the King's mistress liked to style herself.

But the Golden Lady was practically indistinguishable from the common whore on the street (her rich blue gown aside, of course) after less than a minute had passed and she felt her King's seed spurting deep into her womb. Well, at least there was that she consoled herself, hoping that this time, finally, he might have gotten her pregnant. These final days were her last chance at securing her position, after all. Ar-Pharazôn would be sailing for Aman in less than a week, and while Abrazâphêl outwardly expressed confidence he would return the valiant conqueror, inside she had her doubts. If it should happen that the King never returned to Númenor, who then would sit upon the throne? Ar-Zimraphel, that empty-headed bitch with the vacant smile and eyes like a cow? That sneaking Zigûr, with his simpering voice and scheming mind? No, the Pharazanî would never allow such a thing from either of them. She would get Ar-Pharazôn's heir if she had to follow him around naked for the next three days. Then after he sailed away she could announce her pregnancy with the heir to the throne, and be queen in all but name. Once the child was born though? Well, "Queen Dowager" did have a certain elegance to it...

These thoughts were immediately interrupted by the feeling of the King's cock pulling out of her with a grunt, and while Abrazâphêl took her time in sitting up she did smooth her skirts back down and roll onto her side so she could face him. The low-cut gown still revealed a fair amount of her creamy white breasts, and she'd assumed a position that was intended to be seductive enough to coax him into another round, but alas, Ar-Pharazon was already pulling up his trousers.

"You aren't going already, My King?" Abrazâphêl whimpered, her painted lips coming together in an overpronounced pout. "Have I not pleased you?"

Ar-Pharazon grunted, but did lean over to kiss his mistress on her forehead. In truth he would have liked to spend the rest of his afternoon fucking the slut in every manner he could think of, but even this short tryst had made his heart race at an alarming rate and made the breath fight in his chest. Abrazâphêl was beautiful, there was no denying that, and he couldn't think of a single woman on the island more clever (although at times that seemed like more of a hazard than an advantage). But Abrazâphêl made him feel old, and the King hated her for it, even as he desired her for her youth. Whatever his mistress' personal ambitions might have been though, they wouldn't matter after he returned from conquering Aman, and forced the gods to give him the same eternal life as the cursed elves. Then he'd spend a whole week fucking the shit out of Abrazâphêl's smug little face, and toss her out on her perfect ass and replace her with an even younger woman.

Of course, Ar-Pharazon didn't say any of this to her now. He was still planning on fucking her ass after the party, and he wanted to make sure she stayed in a good mood. "I have matters to discuss with Zigûr. I'll come to you again tonight." Giving her another firm slap on the rump, the King departed without another word, leaving his concubine feeling both disappointed and annoyed.

"Fucking bastard," Abrazâphêl grunted as she rang for a servant, and immediately cursed the poor girl out in demand for a hot bath and someone to help her dress for the banquet. Her mood did not improve even as she changed into a fresh gown (her favorite, a flowing golden silk with a sheerer panel in the bodice that revealed her flat belly and the undersides of her full breasts) and had a terrified valet arrange her hair (wound artfully around a headdress dripping with rubies), and by the time she descended into the heart of the party the Pharazanî looked more like a soldier storming a battlefield than a noblewoman entering a ballroom.

With a rich goblet of wine in one hand, Abrazâphêl's cold eyes scanned the room, looking for anyone to give her an excuse to show her claws. She finally found not one, but two victims in the corner, chatting quietly amongst themselves under the guard of some watchful footmen in pale purple. But these quickly parted way at the approach of the Pharazanî, and the blonde woman noticed that a third member of the party, a garish-looking redhead, was quick to slip away unexcused.

"My Lady," the king's mistress sneered towards Ar-Zimraphel, offering her the shallowest curtsy that public company would allow. Abrazâphêl's eyes slowly shifted from the queen to the Master Builder, although she didn't bother to acknowledge him beyond a stare for the moment. Turning back to the dark-haired woman in the soft purple gown, she offered Ar-Zimraphel a smile as sweet as poison. "It would appear Builder Tarîkmagân can amuse you to the point that you smile on the eve of Our King's departure. It is almost enough to make one doubt the sentiments of Our Queen's heart."

Míriel, having become used to Abrazâphêl's taunts over the years, was unfazed. "My husband has always known the sentiment of my heart, mistress. And if it his wish that we should send off the fleet with joy and hope in our hearts, than joy and hope I shall have." Although whether that joy and hope was for Ar-Pharazôn's departure or return was up for debate.

Abrazâphêl's smile had instantly melted at the use of the term Mistress. Technically the Queen was within her rights to use it, considering she outranked the blonde both by birth and marriage, but that didn't mean the concubine had to like it. "And you, Builder Tarîkmagân? You must be quite devoted to Our King to abandon your post on Meneltarma to enjoy the revels of the nobility. But were you not instructed to have the repairs on the temple completed before His Majesty made his departure?" An impossible task of course, considering the damage that had been done to the structure months earlier, but the Pharazanî herself had imposed the deadline (albeit at Zigûr's request).

Raising her glass slightly, the King's mistress gave it a thoughtful swirl. "Are you quite sure you ought to be seen here, Builder Tarîkmagân? I'd hate for His Majesty's celebration to be ruined because he learned you've let the progress on the temple fall so far behind. If you wish to leave, I'm sure I can forget I ever saw you. You're quite forgettable, you know," Abrazâphêl added with a laugh as she took a long sip of the wine.

 

[Darkest Nightmare]

Thavron studied Lachiel as she spoke. A pleasant smile wrinkled his bearded face, but his blue eyes were thoughtful. His granddaughter resembled her mother so much at the same age, at least outwardly, but he wondered now of her soul. Tiriel, as he would always call her no matter that she preferred Adûninzil these days, had always been conflicted growing up in Armenelos, surrounded by King’s Men families and with his wife’s own beliefs as an alternative to Thavron’s religion. She’d never really embraced being a Faithful despite all of his efforts. He’d sent her to Andúnië during summers, and even for entire years, but it was only her husband, Maethon, handsome, wealthy, and very much noble despite being a Faithful, that had caused her to embrace Thavron’s beliefs. But that faith, it appeared, had only been an act, as since Maethon’s departure she’d done a complete reversal and now, over a year later, Thavron feared this new image of being Lady Adûninzil was a permanent change.

But Lachiel, on the other hand, seemed true to her beliefs, at least for now. She’d been raised in Andúnië and Rómenna, surrounded by the Faithful, and Armenelos would likely seem alien and strange, with the guttural Andunaic tongue being the norm and Elvish only spoken in private. How would her faith fare in this cruel city without friends and only a busy grandfather to worship with?

“Careful,” Thavron answered when Lachiel mentioned the sapling of Nimroth. The hand on her arm gave a gentle squeeze as he glanced around the vacant courtyard. To speak openly of such things in this palace, of all places, was foolish. Of course, Thavron had already heard what had happened to the sapling and of Isildur’s bravery in stealing a cutting, but it was good that word had spread to others as well. The Faithful needed hope more than ever in this time of persecution, and Isildur’s act had steeled the resolve of many of them. “You have been blessed to see such things, but do not talk of such matters in public, especially in this city.”

Thavron could read between Lachiel’s words, and he knew his granddaughter was lonely, and bored. A woman her age shouldn’t be in his musty library, she should be out with friends and enjoying her youth. She should be happy, carefree, and searching for a husband, or at least a lover. All things that seemed impossible for Thavron to imagine for a woman of her beliefs in the current political environment of Armenelos.

Was it a mistake for her to have come here with Tiriel?

“I will gladly read to you,” replied Thavron, a smile reappearing on his bearded face. “I’ve been forced to work hard on this damned Temple, but perhaps after supper tomorrow.” He looked at her clothing and smiled. “While I love your taste in dresses, may I give some advice? It is a dangerous time in our country and especially in Armenelos for the Faithful. It may pain you, but I urge you to try to fit in and not stand out. What matters is what is inside, not the clothes you wear or the name you use. People talk, and while you are my granddaughter, I may not offer much protection in future days.”

Sooner rather than later, he feared all Faithful would have to hide and feign conversion to Zigûr’s corrupt worship of Melkor. He hesitated as he considered his next question. Was it too much to ask of her, too risky for a girl to be involved? He would never put her in a position of danger, but there were rumors swirling about Elendil’s plans with Ar-Pharazon’s fleet sailing. The King’s Men feared a Faithful rebellion with the army gone, the Faithful whispered about a secret fleet being readied by Elendil, and then there were widespread rumors that the Valar would attack Númenor itself and lay waste to Armenelos with more than lightning and Eagle shaped clouds.

“If you please, I would ask you to keep me informed of what you hear of Elendil’s plans, and perhaps take messages from me at times to certain friends I have. I am watched, I know that now, so many of the Faithful dare not approach me directly with news. Hide yourself in dress and name to not arouse suspicion, but keep faith in Eru Ilúvatar. Be my eyes and ears, my neth.”

The interruption by the messenger was unwelcome and Thavron did not relish the idea of greeting the Queen, or any of her entourage, without Himel at his side to expertly guide the conversation and prevent any miscues. He also could sense Lachiel was genuinely excited at the prospect of meeting Miriel, or Ar-Zimraphel as she was called now. Despite Ar-Pharazon’s heinous acts against the Faithful, including the families of some of the Lachiel’s friends, there was sympathy for Miriel as the Queen amongst the Faithful. Her hand had been forced by the King years ago when he seized the throne and it was a widely known secret that she bore little love for him. As reluctant as Thavron was to expose such an innocent child as Lachiel to the evils of court intrigue, he knew meeting Miriel would be a thrill for his granddaughter, and he reluctantly agreed to let her attend with him.

It had been a fine meeting, at first, worthy of Lachiel’s attendance. Ar-Pharazon was not with his Queen, and Miriel was as gracious and courteous as ever. She had been his patron, and he’d built many a stunning and fanciful palace for her across Númenor. They were all escapes, places of quiet respite from the brutal and savage man that had taken her as his wife against her will. Thavron had spent weeks, even months with her while building her flights of fancy, and jealous tongues whispered they were more than friends. After Miriel greeted Lachiel sweetly and praised her dress and appearance, Thavron found himself quickly discussing an addition Miriel desired for a seaside manor that faced the West, both a beautiful spot for watching sunsets and a politically advantageous location to wait piously for her husband’s return. With Zigûr's power in the city growing ever stronger, Miriel disliked Armenelos and he doubted she’d spend much time in the capital while Ar-Pharazon was gone.

Who then would hold Zigûr in check?

Lady Abrazâphêl's arrival ruined the mood and turned the conversation sour immediately. Thavron was fortunate to see her coming, over Miriel’s shoulder, and warned the Queen so she could be prepared. With a subtle nod, he motioned for Lachiel to leave, which the clever girl did without protest.

The sparring between Miriel and Ar-Pharazon’s Mistress was as nasty as Thavron had expected, but Abrazâphêl seemed to be in a particularly foul mood tonight. Perhaps the imminent departure of the King, without a baby in Abrazâphêl's womb, was bothering her? This was her last chance as Thavron doubted she was truly pious enough to believe Ar-Pharazon would succeed in his war against the gods. Thavron had decided years ago that Abrazâphêl cared about power and power alone, and she likely viewed Ar-Pharazon’s foolish invasion as now a hindrance to her own plans, for if he died before she had an heir, all her years of fucking the graying King would be for naught.

“I would be at my new post at the Temple, if not for the need to wish Ar-Pharazon well in his grand endeavor,” replied Thavron cooly. Mentioning Meneltarma was a stinging blow, as Ar-Pharazon had made it illegal under pain of death to visit that sacred mountain, a core pilgrimage act for the Faithful. “I’m sure you are just as sad as all of us to see him go, with how much time you’ve been fortunate to spend with him. All unforgettable memories, I’m sure.” Thavron took a gulp of his own goblet of wine. Treating with this snake never sat well and the bold red vintage soothed his tongue from saying something more vulgar. “The construction, as you must know, is only slow due to Zigûr's never-ending desire to expand the dome to greater size and scope. The technical complexity is formidable, and the sacrifice to the timeline to achieve his grandeur was one that had to be made.” For now, at least, Zigûr and by extension Abrazâphêl needed him, as no one else could oversee this complex of a build, but he felt like the clock was ticking on his usefulness in Armenolos. And with Miriel likely leaving the capital, and Ar-Pharazon sailing to his demise, he doubted there would be anyone to save his neck once the Temple was complete. “Rest assured, we make as fast progress on it as possible. A sapling does not sprout from one watering, nor a child be made from desiring it to be done, wouldn’t you agree, Lady Abrazâphêl?”

He gave the woman a thin smile at his allusion. Gods he despised her and her barely concealed hatred of Miriel, who handled this ambitious woman’s pettiness with enviable grace and regal disdain.

“And I apologize, as I forget, what will you be doing now that Ar-Pharazon is leaving? Or who will you be… working… with to help the Kingdom function? I’m sure there must be one or two members of the council you think will be most active?” asked Thavron. Ar-Pharazon had announced a council to govern in his absence, Miriel was the figurehead for it, but a handful of his most loyal nobles, and Zigûr of course, were to rule in his absence. While outwardly, everyone acted as if they truly believed that Ar-Pharazon would prevail and return victorious, most people viewed the new council as the likely crop of contenders for the throne. Behind it all, Thavron assumed Zigûr was pulling many strings, as although he couldn’t be King, he’d likely become the top advisor to the next one again. Abrazâphêl must undoubtably have her own opinion by now, although he doubted she would tell him. “How are duties delegated? Who will supervise my work on the Temple, for instance?”

A shiver of dread ran through him at the idea that Zigûr himself might become more involved. That evil snake had, of course, been vocal in his demands, but had thankfully been too busy in recent months to do more than stop by the Temple grounds and make veiled threats at Thavron to voice his displeasure.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Lachiel felt something sinking in her heart when her grandfather mentioned Elendil. Her mother had made it clear that she was never, never to speak the names of their friends in Andúnië. The city was still strong and so far the King that hadn't dared to make a move against it or the people there, but when the King was gone...the woman shuddered. It would be made official tonight, but everyone fully expected Ar-Pharazôn would leave that cursed Zigûr to rule the island in his place, possibly with some oversight from the lesser lords and ladies who were no less bloodthirsty than the King's Advisor. Some of the Faithful had wisely removed to Rómenna, and Lachiel believed her brother among them. But she'd heard so little from any of them in the past three years; how could Thavron possibly expect her to be of any use?

"I can try, Iarwain...I mean, Tarîkmagân," she added with a slightly mischievous gleam in her eye. Her grandfather was quite aware of what she thought of the language in the capital, and his harsh mouthful of a name in it. "I suppose I'll need to see about having some new gowns made though, most of mine were all made in Andúnië. I suppose that'll keep Emel occupied for a while at least. I know she's been anxious for me to make more acquaintances in the city as well." For a moment, Lachiel wondered if Thavron's 'friends' might overlap with the circles where her mother was trying to get her established, but with a shake of the head she realized it was impossible. Andûninzil never spoke Sindarin if she could help it, and her daughter couldn't remember the last time she'd seen her pray. On the surface, she was every bit as loyal to the King as Ar-Pharazôn could hope, but beyond the sad shadows in her mother's eyes it was hard to read her thoughts.

Regardless, it seemed safest of all not to mention this particular conversation with Thavron to Andûninzil, and by the time he had led her back into the main hall, she felt a new flutter of fear rising in her chest. She had seen Tar-Míriel from a distance in the past, but since her arrival in Armenelos Lachiel had never been formally introduced. After only a few moments of conversation though, the younger woman visibly relaxed. The Queen was much kinder than she had expected, and reminded her a great deal of Arodis, albeit if she was being honest Míriel seemed to lack some of the proud confidence of Elendil's wife. Still, she seemed pleased at Lachiel's dress and spoke to Thavron like an old friend, and the redhead was just about to accept an offered glass of wine from one of Míriel's ladies when she saw a brief, but pointed look from her grandfather. Her brows knit together in confusion, and a moment later she paled as she saw what was coming.

One could not spend even the shortest amount of time in Armenelos without knowing about Lady Abrazâphêl, and while Lachiel had never been formally introduced to the woman she still knew enough to wish to avoid her and her legendary temper. Slinking away around the corner, she was still within earshot, and could hear the Pharazanî's sharp voice immediately cutting both into the Queen and Thavron. Lachiel scowled in the corner, and for a moment was tempted to step forward and snap back with a jibe of her own. Then it occurred to her that she couldn't think of one, and deciding it would be better to remain out of sight for the moment, she continued to listen in.

For her part, Abrazâphêl had not appreciated Tarîkmagân's attempt to shift the blame onto Zigûr. He wasn't wrong, technically, and she had her own frustrations at the advisor constantly demanding new wings and statuary and holding cells for the sacrifices. But even the Pharazanî didn't speak against the King's favored advisor, so she was quick to turn the Builder's complaints back on himself. "Perhaps Our Queen was mistaken when she recommended you for this undertaking, Builder Tarîkmagân. The way Ar-Zimraphel spoke of your skill led me to believe there was nothing you could not accomplish if you wished. But then again, you always did have such simple tastes, My Lady," Abrazâphêl said sweetly, althought her eyes had a predatory light in them as she shifted her gaze back to Thavron. "Or perhaps...the Builder does not wish to rebuild our beautiful Temple?"

But the Builder seemed utterly unfazed by her veiled threat. “Rest assured, we make as fast progress on it as possible. A sapling does not sprout from one watering, nor a child be made from desiring it to be done, wouldn’t you agree, Lady Abrazâphêl?”

The Pharazanî's pale cheeks flushed crimson at the remark, not only at Thavron's words but at Ar-Zimraphel's placid smile and the wicked giggle that came from...well, it was one of the ladies in the vicinity, she was sure, but she could pick out which one. All of them will be remanded to the Temple she cursed in her mind as her plus lips twisted into a sneer. That traitorous bastard too, when the work is done.

"There is a matter of time to be considered, surely," Abrazâphêl eventually managed to sputter out as she tried to regain her composure. "It would be unacceptable for our glorious King to return from his battle in the west to find the Temple still unfinished. Knowing what a mighty warrior Ar-Pharazôn is, I have little doubt he will return to us in no time. Then again, I don't think my loyalty to the King has ever been questioned." She paused a moment, then pretended to think. "Is it not true, Builder Tarîkmagân, that one of your daughters recently returned from Andúnië? I hear she was quite the favorite of Arodis, and her husband had ties to that traitor Amandil." A wicked smile crossed the tall woman's face. "How...forgiving of you to take such a troublesome child back into your home. It certainly says something about your character."

She tossed her head proudly as Tarîkmagân continued to press her about her plans. "I shall still be overseeing the progress at the Temple, you needn't worry," Abrazâphél replied. "And until you get matters in hand on that particular project, I see no need to burden you with the additional goings-on of the island. Though if you want a bit of advice, and I think you do, I can give you this: have more faith in Ar-Pharazôn. He will choose the very best people to protect the island in his stead and manage its affairs while he is fighting for our rights in the West. And if you believe otherwise, well...that wouldn't be very faithful of you, would it?"

Convinced she had won the argument, the Pharazanî offered the shallowest of curtsies to her Queen, then with a whirl of skirts turned her back on the party. Damn it, where was that foolish old bastard when you needed him? Although Abrazâphêl's face had regained its cool composure, inside her emotions were roaring like an inferno, and she knew from experience the only way to quiet them would be to drown them in wine or find someone to fuck. Ar-Pharazôn would have been preferable of course, but the woman doubted he would have been able to keep up with the temper inside her at the moment. As she ascended the stairs to the shadowy galleries overlooking the main hall, her cold blue eyes washed over the faces, landing momentarily here and there on the visage of a likely-looking courtier who might be able to keep their mouth shut.

Then she stopped as she saw someone she hadn't expected to see. A slow smile crossed her lips as the Pharazanî locked eyes with the handsome young man, and with an ever-so-subtle curl of her finger, she gestured for him to join her in the darkness of the second floor. There was more he could offer her than a few minutes of pleasure, she knew, and he was hardly in a position to refuse her.

 

[Darkest Nightmare]

Abrazâphêl was relentless, an attack dog dressed in a lap dog’s body.

Perhaps it hadn’t been a good idea to tilt at her so directly, but Thavron was beginning to lose his patience on this project. While he courted wealth and power easily as those kinds of people were his clients, he never truly respected them. For all their affectations, and drivel about what they’d like built, ultimately, he came up with the designs and they always listened to him, for a building at least. So, even though the stake’s were high with this Temple and Zigûr was ordering ideas personally, Thavron had maintained a reckless disdain towards any criticism of the project’s timeline. Those were complaints he’d heard for a hundred years that were always silenced by the beauty of his completed project.

This was, however, a little different of a scenario. He swallowed as Abra made her not so veiled threat about Tiriel, while he kept a casual grin on his face. A normal client couldn’t potentially kill him, or his family, if he was building too slowly, or not to their satisfaction. Perhaps his typical arrogance might be better tempered, at least until he was more certain of the risk to those he loved. Most of his relatives in Armenelos were actually King’s Men, thanks to Himel’s influence. While it pained him, the pragmatic part of his brain had always realized that trying to convert people this close to Ar-Pharazôn’s center of power would be both difficult, and politically harmful.

He was tolerated, somewhat, as an artistic type whose love of Elves had befuddled his brain, but also given him great gifts as an architect through his obsessive study of their craft and the resultant ability to manifest their elegant beauty. If he were to go around actively recruiting people to the King’s Men, that tolerance might quickly turn to suspicion, and he’d studiously avoided causing political controversy while remaining otherwise unfashionably pious in his dress and manners. It was a delicate balance that had allowed him to pursue his passion as a builder, while at least keeping his own faith and beliefs that inspired the vision in his work.

Of course he’d tried with Himel, for she was his wife, but she’d been equally pragmatic in her response, which was simply that she wasn’t a religious person at all. Therefore, her converting would be a dangerous risk for them as a couple, one that would destroy his career and deny him access to all the contacts her very noble parents had bestowed upon him when he’d started as a builder two hundred years ago. Secretly, he liked to think she had faith, after all she’d spent many years with him in Andúnië and amongst his Faithful friends and family. Those had been the times he’d tried hardest to convince her, begging her to at least to worship in secret with him if she wanted to outwardly follow her family and fit into the political landscape.

“You have my heart hervenn. It does not belong to any other god. Isn’t that enough?” had been Himel’s response which had ended his more overt attempts at conversion. Her heart was enough, at least then, but times had darkened since. She knew, and talked to him, of all the horrible thing’s done in Ar-Pharazôn’s name and at the bequest of Zigûr, but it was always couched as a political issue that would improve when Ar-Pharazôn died, which was hopefully soon. The evil of Zigûr’s heretical worship of Melkor and the darkness of Ar-Pharazôn’s persecution Himel refused to admit was a lingering taint on Númenorean society that was leading them to an evil place, one from which there might be no recovery.

What if Ar-Pharazôn’s successor was worse than the King? What if persecution became genocide?

Himel was safe, at least, as her extended family ran deep within Ar-Pharazôn’s trusted circle, many of them warriors and captains on the ships that had been sailing every day for the last week. Their children, however, were definitely another matter as the Faithful and those not zealously part of the King's Men had been targeted and executed for treason in the last several years. Would even Himel have enough sway through her contacts to save Tiriel, or their other children who were away from the capitol, but never really safe anywhere on Númenor these days?

“Rest assured, the Temple will be finished before Ar-Pharazôn’s glorious return,” said Thavron, giving Abra a reassuring nod and hoping his carefully chosen words did not reveal his desire that Ar-Pharazôn’s death would make the whole thing moot. Time to do a little acting as well, so he gave Abra a pained expression of a heart broken father. “Yes, Lady Adûninzil, as she goes by now, has returned. Unfortunately, she appears to have become her mother’s daughter again.” He knew that Abra would notice his implication that Himel’s extended family had welcomed her back and therefore given her some protection. Hurting him, if unreasonably, might also damage some of the political clout she sought to curry in whatever power play she planned. “While I’m disappointed, she’s unfortunately recanted her beliefs and is quite sincere in returning to her former allegiances, it seems, and has abandoned her marriage with Maethon.” He didn’t point out that as the reigning Lord of Andúnië, Amandil wasn’t technically a traitor as it had never been confirmed that he’d gone to warn the Valar. Abra was one of the primary agitators of that rumor designed to frame Elendil and the rest of their House as traitors as well.

All things considered, Thavron was relieved when Abra left, even if she preened during her departure like she'd won some cockfight. He couldn’t control his tongue in her presence, and he knew waving a red flag at her would only bring him trouble. Even Miriel, always polite and kind, offered limited protection in these dark days, and perhaps, for the first time ever, Himel’s own family wasn’t enough either. No, it would be best to learn some new tactics for dealing with people like Abra, before a too glib quip caused real pain amongst his loved ones.

--

Zâinabên Abattârik took a sip from the goblet of red wine he nursed while walking around the outskirts of Ar-Pharazôn’s celebration party.

This was the most important feast to which he’d been personally invited, an invitation that had taken much wrangling to receive, and he’d dressed in his finest court clothes to celebrate. A rich, dark blue, silk tunic, with embroidered silver hems, was paired with matching trousers that tucked loosely into calf high, immaculately polished black boots, the combination carefully chosen to highlight his dark hair and blue eyes. The outfit had also been newly tailored to emphasize his broad shoulders and lean body. While he wasn’t a warrior, and had never held a sword except for the mandatory training all youths partook in, Zâin had a rangy build that didn’t look like it belonged to a bookworm who’d spent the better part of the last eight years studying at the College to be a builder.

The problem Zâin faced was that none of his regular group of friends, recent graduates at the College, had been invited, nor any of his immediate family, so he was facing the growing realization that he knew no one at the party. It was an important event, and he’d hoped it would be a excellent chance to meet well connected nobles and tradesmen, the cream of Ar-Pharazôn’s inner circle, but instead of hobnobbing with the influential, he found himself circling the party, drinking far too much wine, and trying to find a friendly, or even just slightly familiar face, with whom to talk.

Not that wandering was such a bad thing, as it gave him plenty of time to admire all the beautiful ladies in their finest gowns. In fact, there were more ladies than men in attendance as so many of the men had already set sail in Ar-Pharazôn’s Armament. The opportunity was not lost on Zâin, both for romantic reasons, but also for personal gain. With so many competitors for hearts and political favors away, this was a great opportunity for Zâin to finally make a name for himself and his family.

It wasn’t that his family had no name, they were solidly low noble and dutifully King’s Men, except for his mother of course, but he didn’t talk about that and she outwardly appeared normal, the problem was that they had been in the “working class” of the nobility for generations. House Abattârik was unambitious, dependable, and good for producing lots of soldiers, merchants, and occasional artists, but as a family, they’d done nothing noteworthy in the three hundred years since his deceased great grandfather was raised to Lordship, and frankly there wasn’t much likelihood that they would ever move up in Armenolos’ competitive social scene.

Zâin knew, however, that it took only one exceptional person to elevate an entire House’s fortunes. He’d seen it time and time again just amongst the many illustrious Houses present here tonight. House Arnuzîr, whose family had a premiere table by the musicians' stage that proudly displayed their coat of arms of a stag leaping under the stars, had been nobodies until the great grandfather had shown his worth as a general, ultimately commanding the grand army that had sailed to defeat the then called Sauron. Too old to sail to war against the Valar, Arnuzîr was now part of the Council that would govern in Ar-Pharazôn’s absence. Near Arnuzîr was House Sakalthôr, whose dolphin coat of arms hinted at the family’s shipping prowess. Again, their patriarch, who had recently passed away, had elevated a family that wasn’t even noble, just cunning merchants, into one of the wealthiest and most noble families in Númenor that had just led the construction of the Armament’s fleet. The patriarch’s son, also an old man, was another member of the Council and one of Ar-Pharazôn’s most trusted advisors.

The fantasy that he could be that exceptional person to take House Abattârik to the lofty heights that House Arnuzîr and Sakalthôr had reached wasn’t actually Zâin’s plan, he was far too pragmatic for that kind of nonsense, but he hoped to do something to break the cycle and at least make his House known, versus the blank stare he’d likely receive were he to introduce himself to anyone tonight. He had a just received a good start to his career, getting appointed to be an apprentice builder on the Temple project. It was a high profile job, and one that would give him credibility with clients, something to build on it least, but he was still a nobody. It was a start, but not enough. He didn’t want to be on the outskirts of a party, like he was tonight, but instead be mixing freely, knowing the right people, and all while being hailed for his famous constructions rather than just his good looks.

Not that good looks were a thing to be unhappy about having. Zâin had caught more than one young lady stealing glances at him, and he’d already decided that he was going to leverage at least that gift he was born with to have a conversation with someone. It might not be the politically savvy connection he hoped to score, but a pretty lady was never a waste of time, and who knew who’s daughter she might turn out to be.

Then, to Zâin’s surprise, he finally saw a familiar face. The blonde haired beauty was, in fact, a familiar face for everyone at the party, and was also arguably the most politically powerful woman at the event, and by extension all of Númenor. In fact, many would say she was even more powerful than the Queen herself. He’d only met her a couple times and he was acutely worried she wouldn’t remember him, but she was alone and, while the expression on her face was intimidating, it seemed like an opportunistic time to for him to try and reintroduce himself.

This is your big chance, don't let it go to waste.

“Lady Abrazâphêl',” Zâin greeted as the Pharazanî crested the top of the steps and entered the dark upper gallery in which he'd been surveying the party.

She had been talking with Thavron Tarîkmagân, he realized with a start, as he’d seen the man below with Ar-Zimraphel earlier and noticed a blonde joining them, but with her faced turned away from him. Thavron was effectively his new boss, although he hadn’t met the man yet as he was starting at the Temple tomorrow. A legend in the architecture community, Zâin was eager to learn under his tutelage, even if his apprenticeship was politically motivated. Someone had asked the College to provide an apprentice or two as Thavron had claimed the work was too overwhelming. It was odd that Thavron hadn’t interviewed the candidates himself, but as the top ranked graduating builder at the College, Zâin had campaigned and won the coveted honor. It was no surprise that someone of Thavron’s stature would know the Pharazani and Zâin filed that connection away to be used in conversation if needed.

“Zâinabên Abattârik, at your service,” Zâin pronounced, giving her a wry smile and a sweeping bow. To prevent any awkwardness as he guessed she likely didn't remember who he was, even if the name rang a bell, he added, “My Uncle, Lord Abrazimir, is your father’s Lord of the Horse. We’ve met, most recently when you went to see the new foals just this summer.”

There had been some other meetings as well as he’d begged uncle Abrazimir, arguably his family’s most ranking member, to drag him along to events that Abrazâphêl’s family had attended. Their stables were a complex operation, with thousands of animals that were exhaustively trained for battle, especially with the Armament happening, and an extensive trading operation that Abrazimir ran to ensure a hefty profit for Abrazâphêl’s father. One of Zâin’s summer jobs as a youth had been traveling around Númenor inspecting horses for stock acquisition, and with his mother’s relatives in Andúnië as frequent summer hosts, he’d been able to procure some prize stallions and mares from the Western shore to send back to Armenolos that had greatly improved the stable bloodlines. He’d once ridden a new stallion once for Abrazâphêl and her father, and still remembered feeling more nervous before her blue eyes than her father’s wrinkled and critical gaze.

“What a wonderful celebration for our glorious King,” Zâin continued, then flashed her a smile. “I’m not sailing with the fleet as I’m a builder, not a soldier, but hope to serve Ar-Pharazôn as best I can in Númenor while he is gone.”

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Although Abrazâphêl smiled as Zâinabên approached, there was little warmth in it. Rather, she looked more like a cat blessed with the fortune of having a mouse walking straight into her mouth; a very handsome mouse indeed. The Pharazanî was hardly alone in appreciating the young man's looks; most of the women in Armenelos (and even a few of the men) were quite infatuated with the young student, regardless of his familial origins, and if he was in want of a wife he could certainly have had his pick of all the beauties in the capital. But the Masters at the College had whispered about Zâinabên's ambitions more often than his pretty face, and looking into his dark eyes now Abrazâphêl could see they hadn't been wrong.

She recalled a particular meeting with one of the Masters a few weeks earlier, during which he had suggested that the heir of House Abbatârik be included among those scholars chosen to assist with the Temple repairs. Abrazâphêl had agreed, mostly out of the chance she might see the man's well-formed body hard at work during her occasional visits to monitor the construction process, but after that nasty conversation with Thavron new ideas were beginning to cycle in her mind. Smiling sweetly, the Pharazanî laid a hand lightly on Zâinabên's shoulder, leaning forward just enough to give him a generous view of her deep cleavage.

"One can hardly forget an individual as remarkable as yourself, Master Zâinabên," the Pharazanî purred, letting her fingers drift slowly down the scholar's arm until they just brushed the back of his hand. "I still recall the way you handled Agannâlu during that visit. I must confess, my heart was in my throat the entire time I watched you, I was so sure that wicked thing was going to throw you off then trample you to bits. But I've since heard you're quite good at riding dangerous things." A little flicker of lusty fire sparkled in her eyes as she spoke, and stepping away from him she settled onto a comfortable couch tucked into a secluded alcove.

Perhaps when the King is gone she mused, letting her eyes linger on the well-sculpted form beneath the rich clothes. Abrazâphêl knew better than to lay with another man in Armenelos, with Ar-Pharazôn right there and ready to send her to the Temple at the first sign of disloyalty. But on occasion, when she simply couldn't resist, she had engaged in the occasional tryst while visiting friends and family, swearing that if the man ever spoke of such a matter she would make it known he had taken her against her will and find himself in the fire before he could know what had happened. Those men had all been pretty courtiers or stupid laborers though, with none of the hunger she now saw in Zâinabên's dark eyes.

Abrazâphêl knew that hunger well; the unending desire to be something and win either the regard or fear (or both) of others. In her case she wanted to be the mother of the next King of Númenór, but that wasn't the question at hand. No, the question was, what did Zâinabên want? And even more importantly, what would he be willing to do to get it?

"Will you sit with me a while?" the Pharazanî asked, patting the spot on the couch beside her as she brushed a loose lock of hair over her white shoulder. "It seems Our Glorious King is still busy with preparations, and may not the revels for some time yet. And I..." She forced a blush with all the practice of an accomplished actress. "I feel quite alone in crowds like the one down below. There are so many who doubt my love for Ar-Pharazôn, and see me as nothing more than an interloper between our King and his noble wife. I would even go so far as to suspect that many of them actually hate me, although I have done nothing wrong besides perhaps loving my King too much." Abrazâphel paused, glancing hesitantly in her companion's direction. "Indeed," she continued slowly. "I fear Ar-Zimraphel and her followers hate me more than anyone. I suppose she has a right, being the queen and all, but it doesn't seem fair, considering how little affection she shows to him. I've often wondered if she loves him at all, if I must speak the truth." The blond woman sighed. "But rather than trying to make Ar-Pharazôn happy, she'd rather spend her efforts making me miserable. Why, when the King departs on his righteous quest, I truly fear, I--but no. I should not speak of such things."

Abrazâphêl smiled again, but this time there was sadness in her eyes that she was obviously trying to hide (and failing quite miserably at it). "Let us speak of brighter matters, shall we? I understand you have been chosen to assist with the reconstruction of the Temple! Your family must be so proud of you," she beamed, patting his hand gently. "I fully expect this to be just the beginning of an illustrious career for you, Master Zâinabên. The project will give you the opportunity to work with some of the very best engineers in the empire. I understand Master Îrpân is overseeing the goldsmiths for the dome, and Azulzîr is painting the frescoes." She made a strategic pause, then dropped the final name, the most important one. "And of course, Builder Tarîkmagân is heading the project as a whole."

The woman shut her eyes a moment as a shudder ran through her body. When she opened them again, she looked up and down the gallery, making sure no one no one was within earshot. When she was convinced, she leaned closer to Zâinabên, almost brushing her lips against his ear as the heady scent of her perfume no doubt engulfed him. "I wonder if I may share a secret with you, Master Zâinabên," she breathed, taking his hand in both of hers and squeezing softly. "Tonight I know I am beloved by the King, but I dread his going. He has been the one to keep me safe all this time, but when he sails away, I fear he takes my only protection with me. I am sorely in need of friends, Zâinabên. You and I are not as well acquainted as I would wish, but our families have known one another for ages, and I would ask for your help out of respect for those ancient bonds, rather than any new ones we might form."

The pressure on his hand tightened. "And I do wish to forge new bonds with you, my friend. I must. My very life...my very life depends on it." Tears were filling her blue eyes now, and her lower lip began to tremble. "Here is my secret, Zâinabên; do with it as you will. I fear that when Ar-Pharazôn sails to the West, Ar-Zimraphel will seize power in his absence. She has many friends, among elves and men alike, and I do not think she will sit quietly by while her husband stakes his rightful claim against her gods. At the very least," Abrazâphêl took a shuddery breath. "At the very least she will want revenge on me. I truly think she will try to kill me, Zâinabên, and I have no way to stop her. Not unless you can help me."

A single tear slipped out of her eye, and the Pharazanî wiped it quickly away before looking back at him. "You will be working alongside Builder Tarîkmagân at the Temple. He is one of Ar-Zimraphel's closest confidantes. And he too has always been jealous of my family for their swift rise in power, compared to how long it took his own house to establish itself. I do not think he would be greatly troubled by my death either, which is why I am begging you to learn all you can of his plans with the queen, then tell me when he plans to make his move." Abrazâphêl took a shuddery breath, as if trying to still a heart that might have been pounding in her breast. "If I find out in time, I can escape to Pelargir if needed. But I would not leave Númenór at all in my King's absence if I could help it. Here is where I have loved him most, and here is where I wish to stay."

Rising to her feet, the Pharazanî began to pace slowly back and forth in front of the dark-haired man. "You are surely clever enough to win your way into his confidence," she murmured, looking hopefully down at Zâinabên's handsome face. "And I understand Tarîkmagân is fond of those students who wish to learn from him. It should not be difficult to win his trust, and then once you do, you and I shall meet occasionally to exchange information. That is all I would ask of you, my friend. It would be a very small thing, in exchange for endless gratitude and the life of a poor woman. And..."

She dropped to her knees in front of him, her face almost close enough to kiss. "If there were any way I could repay you, of course I would do it," Abrazâphêl whispered. "Gold...a position...a wife of your choice...or even just a woman in your bed. Save me, and I can give you all of them." Reaching up, she laid one soft hand aside his smooth cheek, her rounded thumb teasing across those sensual lips of his. "Only say you will help me, and all of it is yours..."

*****
​

Lachiel hadn't always hated parties, she really hadn't. She could remember festivals back in Andúnië where she'd spent half the night dancing on the sandy beach under the moon, or watching mummers performing heroic tales of old in the jasmine-scented courtyards of Amandil's great house. Tonight though, all she felt like doing was lurking in corners, trying hard not to be seen. At first she'd tried to stay close to her mother, but she hated the patronizing tones of the other city matrons who clearly disproved of her dress and the elvish tones in her voice. Then a few of her cousins had tried to foist her onto their cast-off beaus, creating discomfort for all parties involved while the girls giggled incessantly behind their fans. The redhead was almost ready to walk back to her grandfather's house entirely when her cousin Azruzil let out a squeal of delight.

"Oh look! Zâinabên is here!" she gasped, pointing her fan at a dark-haired figure retreating to the second floor gallery.

"Oooooh are you going to ask him to dance?" another one of the girls teased, making Azruzil blush.

"Of course not, it's not ladylike. But hopefully he'll ask me later."

"What do you suppose he's doing up there? Should we go after him?"

"No, didn't you see The Royal Rabê go up there?" someone teased, sending another burst of giggles through the crowd. "I hope he doesn't go getting involved with her. It'd be a shame for Ar-Pharazôn to put that handsome face of his on a pike."

Their cousin was only half listening to the gossip, but her gaze too had followed the stranger up the stairs. Lachiel hadn't caught sight of his face, but something about the darkness of his hair and the way he carried himself seemed strangely familiar. He reminds me of Telion she realized with a blush, thinking back to the dark-eyed boy who'd convinced her to sneak down to the seaside in the dead of night and swim naked together under the moon. She could still feel all of those stolen kisses in alleyways and corridors, the warmth of his embrace as they hid together from her scolding mother, the way he filled her entirely and moved inside her when she'd finally surrendered her maidenhead to him.

I miss him she thought, not for the first time since leaving Andúnië. When she'd first come to the capital Lachiel had asked her mother if any of Telion's family had remained in the city, but Andûninzil wasn't sure, and she wasn't inclined to ask after acquaintances she'd made in Amandil's house. So the redhead had given him up as lost to her forever, and yet...the way Zâinabên had moved on the stairs. Well, it couldn't hurt to at least speak to him, could it? Wasn't that the reason her family had insisted Lachiel come to this stupid party in the first place? Other than embarrassment, which she'd already grown immune to through the course of the evening, what else was there to risk?

The second floor gallery was accessible by a second staircase on the far side of the hall, sparsely populated except for a few servants making their ways to and from the kitchen. Lachiel had no trouble slipping past them unnoticed, and was pleased to see that the gallery was completely unoccupied as far as she could see. There was a hallway branching off the far side though, and she suspected the dark-haired man had probably slipped off that way. Not wanting to seem overeager or suspicious in her wanderings, the young woman slowly made her way around the gallery, ostensibly watching the party below her until she reached the head of the corridor. But before she could look down it, the music down below began to swell as the King's presence was announced.

"Shit," she whispered to herself, glad to be alone at the moment lest her rough language should ruin her reputation all the more, and as Ar-Pharazon swept into the crowd below, Lachiel pressed her back firmly against the wall, hoping to stay out of sight of everyone.