[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Faroz felt no joy in the decision of his children, but only grim satisfaction. For, indeed, what other choice was there? Still, he commended them both for the wisdom that they had shown. “Send to the Emissary,” he ordered. “Tell him that the offer of the Lord Annatar has been accepted and that we will meet with him in the morning to discuss the formal rites of alliance. If the General is able to speak this night, let the Emissary be sent for so that he and General Morgôs can plan how best we can use the fifty men that the Emissary has with him.” A messenger bowed deeply and left the court.

The King sat back upon his divan and his exhaustion was apparent to all. He lowered his head into his hand and sat like that for a time before speaking once more. “See to it, my children, that all preparations are made for your mother’s journey.” Again he paused. “I will retire to my chambers until tomorrow so that I may take counsel with my heart about this day. Let it be known that any who disturb me shall receive the direst punishment.” A slight ripple in the room confirmed that all present understood what he meant. Rising once more the King descended and left the court, and as he passed he looked neither left nor right as his people did him obeisance.

He passed quickly through the darkened corridors of the Palace. In the panic, the routine of the household had been neglected and servants had failed in their duty to light the lamps. At any other time, Faroz would immediately have sent for the housekeeper and reprimanded him, but this night his eyes were glad for the dark. He achieved his apartments and passed within like a shadow melting into night. The rain was finally beginning to abate, but the clouds were still thick and the sun was setting behind them, casting the late afternoon into an unnaturally early night. The air was thick and chill with water and he shivered. Searching out a heavy cloak he cast it about his shoulders and fell to the cushions by the balcony. Faroz watched the storm churn through the sky below the city, now heading downriver to spend its fury upon the sea. The streets of Kanak were beginning to drain, and there were signs below of his people emerging from their shelter. They came forth once more like small animals, casting nervous glances about before scurrying for the comfort of home. He knew how they felt.

His mind was blank, for the horrors of the day had left him spent. He knew that the King’s place at this moment was in his council chamber, discussing matters of war and alliance, but he felt unequal to the task. There was time to wait until morning. Let his nobles speak amongst themselves this night, and let his children prepare their mother for her final journey. Was it not the tradition in Pashtia that a widower pass his first night without his wife, alone, in prayer? Though he had not sought his chambers for such a purpose, his actions this night were in keeping with the demands of custom and tradition, and none would dare condemn him. Let him remain here, then, alone…

His isolation came over him like a thick choking blanket. How many times had he sat upon this balcony and felt his separation from those about him? He had never known, until this very moment, that his only connection to the human life of his people had been made through his wife. Through all the years and trials, she had always and ever been the one to speak to him of his children or the nobility as individuals. She had taken the time to forge bonds, even friendships, allowing him to think only in terms of power and political groupings. She had been, he realised with a sobbing gasp, his only friend – and he had never told her as much in life.

A panic came over him, like a hunted deer suddenly bereft of the pack. The dangers of the world flew toward him like wolves, ravening and red-tongued. Unaware of his own act, Faroz’s hand moved toward the Ring, but something stayed him. There was, at first, a slight glimmer, barely seen from the corner of his eye, more like a lightening in the darkness than a light itself. He turned to look at it, but is slipped and turned to the other side of his face. He turned once more, but still it eluded him, the lightness, appearing only in the very corner of his vision. He fixed his stare on the blank darkness of the night, but kept his attention upon the glimmer. He felt a cool touch upon his cheek, like a gentle wind, and the wind became as a voice, whispering his name to him. He sucked in his breath with shock, for he recognised the voice as that of his wife. “Bekah?” he said aloud.

My husband.

“Where are you?”

Where you are not, and where you cannot be.

“What do you mean?”

What I have ever meant, my husband. Always you have looked and looked but never have you seen. Ever have you gazed ahead, while truth, so clear, but glimmered in the corner of your eye, seen but not regarded.

“You are right. You had much to offer me that I did not take. Many things to say that I did not hear. I was not a good husband.”

You were a good King.

“I feel your reproach. I can sense your despair. Why have you not found peace? You were a noble woman in life: honourable and wise. I shall miss you.”

Too late. Too late.

“Yes. But at least now, at last, I have realised your worth.”

Too late. Too late.

Faroz made to speak again but he felt her slipping away, like a mist before a great wind that blew upon the balcony from the West. His hand slipped to his chest and the Ring was on his finger before he knew what had happened, and before him appeared a figure clothed in light. Tall he was, and beautiful, and in his face and bearing was a nobility that made Faroz feel as he had felt before his father when he had been but the smallest lad. There was love and benevolence in the gaze of the one before him, and pity of a great lord for a man in need of strength. “My Lord Annatar!” Faroz whispered.

“Khamûl. You are grieved. Let me comfort you.”

Faroz felt a despair well up from his heart where his hand lay with the Ring upon it. It burned like hardest ice through his blood and seized his brain. His eyes became stone, and he felt his mouth open wide to release the depth of his suffering. A shriek, terrible and high, like the cry of some lonely thing upon the edge of the world shattered the quiet of the night, stabbing into it like a dagger into cloth. Faroz felt himself diminish and the shriek of his agony became his all. On and on it went, taking with it his despair, his agony and his sadness, as though it were purging these weaknesses from his body. It ended and he lurched to his feet, gasping for air. Annatar was there, his arms out, and he caught up in them the staggering form of the King. Faroz felt himself enfolded in light and he closed his eyes, but within he could still see the beautiful face of the one who held him like a lover. A voice, the Voice, whispered in his mind. “Let me comfort you, Khamûl. Let me relieve you of your agony.”

“How?” Faroz asked. “How can I be so relieved?”

“I shall tell you, Khamûl. I shall tell you. Listen…”