1. Confessions of a Queen Downfallen
Here lie the last words of Tar-Míriel, by some called Ar-Zimraphel, last, and least, Queen of Númenor.
I am not so lost yet as to not be able to remember the better days, a childhood lived in joy and laughter. My father doted upon me, only beloved daughter, telling me that the whole world, the earth and stars, the sea and sun, would be mine one day.
I was foolish enough to believe him. That was long ago, before Ar-Pharazôn - no, I will give him no honour, let me name him only Pharazôn, that huion, that son of a cur. Long before his taint was upon me, when I yet looked to the West and believed, believed we were loved, and would be saved, I danced under the star-light, innocent and free, and loved and was loved.
And now? I will not put to paper the memories of my degradation, memories still sharp in my mind, memories that taste like blood and tears. Let it be enough of a record to say that I fell into temptation, lured by the pleasures of the flesh. I did not know then. but no, that is no excuse.
I should have killed him. I could have killed him, a thousand times over. I put my hand on my knife, that gleams with mithril stolen from the dwarves. The handle is studded with pearls, the gems most favoured by our people. Gifts of Ulmo, stolen from the very heart of the ocean. It would have been so easy. To watch him sleeping, sated with all that he had taken from me, and to slit his throat.
I should have killed him. Should have, would have let him bleed into the silk in which he clad our marriage bed; should have, would have smiled as he choked out his last breaths. Should have, would have, could have made it long, made it painful, could have twisted the knife in his flesh as he begged for death to claim him.
And instead of a King, Númenor would have had a Queen again. A Ruling Queen, great and powerful and beautiful. He offered it to me, more than once. That grinning deceiver with the stench of sacrifice upon him. The abhorred; so strange that one so dark of mind and purpose should have a voice like liquid gold, melting into me. Promising me earth, stars, sea, sun, all if I should do but this one simple thing.
He wanted me to kill my husband, and for that very reason I did not. It was not that I feared death, feared receiving it, feared to deal it out. I killed the babe, did I not? Ah, but you would not have known that, as by then I was kept away from the others, too dangerous to be Pharazôn's pet Queen any longer.
My dear son. So sweet, so innocent. I saw the look in the eyes of the Dark One, and the voices told me there was only one way to keep him so sweet, so innocent. Only one way to save him. He barely struggled. And afterwards - he looked so peaceful! Never had I seen a face so at rest. No darkness could touch him, no evil harm him - I saved my son, and I rocked him in my arms till the sun rose and the maids came and took him from me, whispering to each other that the Queen had gone mad, singing to her dead child.
Am I mad? I can hardly remember being any other way. Perhaps this was the way it was meant to be - could a sane woman have seen what I see, know what I know? The song. the Song is beautiful and terrible and it runs through everything and everyone and it tells me - it tells me that we will fall.
I could go. Nothing binds me now, not promises, not chains, no power on this earth, above it or below it. But no. This is my home. Here I was born and here will my grave lie. And perhaps, in the embrace of the waves, I will yet find peace.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.