Shadow of the West

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamûl was weeping.

He sat in the dark of his apartments and wept for the poetry that would no longer come. He had been trying all this day to recall but one of the poems or songs that he had written in the long years of his solitude, but all were absent from his heart. The words were still there, written on his mind, but they were empty now – empty and meaningless, bled dry of their passion and feeling. For his cares were many and growing daily. He knew of the treachery that surrounded him, and of the evil that stalked his streets. Rarely now did he remove the Ring; only when the demands of kingship were such that he had to be seen by his people. For the rest of the time he wrapped himself in the comforting shadows of the Lord Annatar’s power where he took counsel with his distant brother monarch. He hard learned much from Annatar, about the Ring. He was able now to see goings and comings of his subjects, but what he saw only increased his woe for everywhere the people who had formerly loved him now plotted against him. At this very moment, he could feel his son and the demoness priestess herself meeting in secret to discuss how best to remove him from his throne. Such madness! Who would they put there in his place? Siamak no doubt sought the role for himself, and formerly the King would have given it to his son gladly, but now that he had fallen under the spell of Morgôs… Kamûl would rather his kingdom burn than fall into the hands of that mad Elf. The violence of the General was well known to the King, and he had been careful to remove the Elf from the centre of power.

And if not Siamak, Gjeelea and her husband Korak? Worse and worse choices for the realm. A vain girl who craved power for its own sake, little understanding the rigours of responsible rule, and a stupid man who had come to within a single step of the throne through the luck of fate which had put the secret of Khamûl’s birth into his hands.

Neither of his children would ever rule Pashtia – nor need they. For among the other gifts of the Ring was that of long life. Ashnaz had revealed already his own great age. To look at the fair visage of the Man of the West, one would think him no more than two score years of age, and yet he was almost two centuries old! And such longevity would belong to Khamûl for as long as he possessed the Ring. Already the King felt himself expanding, growing larger like the shadow cast upon the wall by a man who walked toward the flame. For he knew now that the One Lord Morgoth was the true source of light in the world, and to him was he dedicated, heart and soul.

But to whom could he turn? He had no allies, save one, and the time had come to bind himself to her more firmly. Already, he could feel her wavering in her pledge to him; already, he knew, she was faltering in her own loyalties. He did not condemn her for this, for he knew how subtle his enemies were, and how fair they could appear to those they would delude. He cast his mind toward the house of Korak and felt Gjeelea seeking to ensnare the Lady Arhsalous in her vain webs. His daughter, he knew, sought an ally of her own to help her to the throne. Through his tears, the King managed a wry smile at the thought of her disappointment – for when she was old and wrinkled and ugly, and all hope of power and memory of beauty was gone from her, he would be very much as he was this day. If anything, he would be more powerful even – filled as he would be with the grace and love of Morgoth.

Confident as he was, however, there was still the need for action. He could not sit idly by by his own family plotted his overthrow. He strode from his chambers, hidden from all eyes by the power of the Ring, and his passing was as the wind of winter. Little heeding those who fell away in nameless dread of his unknown and unseen presence, he left the Palace and walked the streets of Kanak. A patrol rounded a corner and fell back immediately in terror of him. He barely noticed them as he passed, so used had he become to the presence of the orcs. It irked him that they were required now, but he knew that he could not trust the army, riddled as it was by traitorous allies of the General. The time would soon come, however, when the army would be purged, and then he could dispense with the vile orcs and see them destroyed like the vermin that they were.

He soon arrived at the house of Lord Korak. Removing the Ring he passed through the door and came face to face with a startled, and terrified, servant who fell to her knees before him, trembling. “Majesty!” she stammered at him from between whitened lips. “You are here!”

Khamûl did not acknowledge the idiocy of her claim. He merely sighed at her terror. Reaching down to her, he helped her to her feet and he spoke to her is fair and comforting tones. “Do not be afraid, lass. I know that there is much that has changed in our realm, and that the enemies of Pashtia come about us thick as flies. But I promise you, I will not allow them to destroy us and all that we have built. It will be difficult, but I will cleanse our land of their evil, and prepare us for the glorious destiny that is our birthright.” The girl merely curtsied before scrambling away to announce his presence. He seized her by the arm to stay her. “I have not come to speak with your lord or his wife,” he said. “I some seeking the Lady Arshalous. You may tell Korak that I am here, however; but I will speak with the Lady first.” The girl ran away with the messages.

Guided by the Ring, Khamûl found Arshalous in conversation with his daughter. As he approached he moved silently, and once more slipped on the Ring so that they were unaware of him. He thus overheard their conversation, and he smiled at it. Apparently, he had arrived only just in time to prevent his daughter from corrupting Arshalous completely. Removing the Ring and stepping into the hallway he greeted them both, curious as to how they would explain their presence here together.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

"Your highness," Arshalous greeted slowly. Where had the king come from? Gjeelea said nothing to her father, only followed his eyes defiantly. When Khamul nodded to Arshalous and stepped closer to the women, Gjeelea looked to his hand, where his clenched fist encased what she suspected was the ring he had been given many months before. The look in his eyes...the princess feared him fully for the first time. It was a strange sort of fear...a fear that Gjeelea could not explain in words but knew all to well in her heart. She feared not for herself anymore, and that in itself felt strange to the princess. When so many years of her life had been spent looking out for her own reputation against her brother, Gjeelea felt overwhelmed when face-to-face with her father now, the reason for her feelings of selflessness.

"I was just talking to Arshalous about her estate," Gjeelea explained to Khamul, trying to give - as she had done so many times before in her life - the appearance of undaunted strength. She had not quite lied completely, for she had originally been discussing recent life in Pashtia with Korak's cousin.

"Really?" Khamul sounded interested, but his face showed otherwise. "I was not aware that such a humble subject should be discussed in the back hallway of a kitchen."

Gjeelea tried to avoid giving a blank stare - the stare a child gives when she has been caught eating sweets before a healthy dinner. She hoped Arshalous would be able to supply a decent excuse, for Gjeelea had certainly given her father the wrong answer. It was almost as if he knew what the ladies had been talking about before he had arrived. As this thought crossed Gjeelea's mind, she gave a fleeting glance once more to Khamul's clenched fist.

"There is hardly anywhere private in this house to speak, my Lord," Arshalous explained after a quick moment of thoughtful consideration. "Surely it is not the business of Korak's servants how my estate has been fairing of late."

"Is there something we can do for you, father?" Gjeelea asked quickly, wondering what lie her father would give to the ladies.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamûl fought rage at his daughter’s impertinence in asking him for an explanation of his presence. Her rebelliousness grows the Voice said, and he had to check his own nod of agreement. It was becoming a problem, his ready acknowledgement of the Voice. Its counsel and advice was so consistent a part of his life now that at times he forgot that it was a gift given to him alone by the power of Annatar, and that all others were deaf to it. He frowned darkly upon the women, projecting his displeasure at them both.

The Lady Arshalous was wary of him, he could see, perhaps even fearful. He thought to himself that perhaps it was too late for her to be redeemed; perhaps her corruption had been too far advanced. But the Voice counselled otherwise. There is yet hope for her in your strength, it sang sweetly in his ears. She is swaying in her loyalties, for though she is true she is weak. Do not judge her! She suffers only from the weakness of her female flesh. Pity her instead, and raise her up by the power of your hand.

He did pity her. Of all those whom he had formerly accounted his allies she was the last one who had yet to plot against him – the last one to hold by her oaths. Khamûl looked at his daughter and knew that he had come not a moment too soon. “I have come to speak with the Lady Arshalous upon an important matter,” he said, “but you need not depart, my daughter, for it concerns you closely. I have need of a Queen.” It was a simple statement of fact, and as he said it, he directed his gaze upon Arshalous. “I do not flatter myself that you would wish to see yourself allied to me through any great love or affection, Lady. Nor shall I lie to you and say that such a union will bring you comfort and ease. It is a burden that I am asking you to bear for the good of our people. You have suffered reverses of late, but you are still rich and command many servants. You are respected by many in the City for your patronage of the new temple, and you bring the added benefit of having avoided all intrigues and factions within the nobility. Your very isolation, so long a trial for you, makes you an ideal choice for queen. But above all these concerns, potent as they might be, there is the fact that you are a sensible and intelligent woman whose counsel I would welcome.”

There was a shocked silence as Arshalous looked down, her breath now coming quickly. Gjeelea spoke out, and in her voice was none of her usual cunning and diplomacy. “My King! My mother’s ashes were spread to the winds but six months ago! It is not seemly for you to take a new wife so soon!”

“These are terrible times,” he snapped at his daughter, and as he did so, his eyes seemed to darken and it was as though a vast shadow slid out from him. “I cannot bear the weight of the crown alone, and unaided. My counsellors desert me. My General is mad, or worse. Even my children no longer heed only my voice! I am a king, my daughter, a king. Do you know yet what that means? I do not have the luxury that some do to waste my time in an empty show of courtship and affection so that I might catch the fickle eye of the mob!” He turned from his daughter, as though the very act wiped her from existence, and addressed the Lady Arshalous. “I apologise for my daughter’s outburst, Lady. She is yet young, and though she deems herself wise and capable of rule, she has much to learn of the ways of power.”

He paused for a response, prompting Arshalous to mutter formulaically, “I take no offence, Majesty.”

“Good! It does you credit. I know that ladies in your position do not dream of a proposal such as this. I should be clad in silver and mounted upon a fiery white steed, with a troupe of singers at my back. I should speak to you with honey on my tongue and poetry in my heart – but we both know how empty such foppery would be here. Instead I offer myself to you as I am: a plain man and a powerful king in need of a wife. What say you?”

[Imladris]

What say you? Indeed, did she have any choice in the matter? If he had wanted to avoid foppery all together he would have simply ordered her to become his bride...did he really think that she was so naieve that she did not know that she could do nothing but accept? She could almost see the iron cage enclose around her, feel the golden shackles snapping closed about her wrist binding her to a king she feared and loathed.

She glanced helplessly at the Princess, but she knew very well that Gjeelea could do nothing. What could any of them do against the King. It was as if he was everywhere, as if he knew all and heard all, no matter if it was proclaimed upon the streets, or whispered in a cloister at the darkest hour.

She wondered how she could help him -- did not this Emissary provide all the help that he needed? The thought that there was another reason, the true reason, gnawed at her like a rat. Like a blob of clay in a potter's hand, she knew that he was trying to form her into his tool, his pawn. But how could she prevent this if she didn't know how he was doing it? It was like knowing that there were traps on the ground, yet she was unable to avoid them because they were so cunningly hidden.

Taking a deep breath she faced the king, and said, "My lord, I will accept your offer."

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

She felt her blood rush to her temples in a cacophonous flood of sound. Gjeelea tried harder than she had ever tried to remain calm, even defiant, before her father. Now, though, how could she maintain her composure when everything had fallen apart within five minutes? Gjeelea had never found it so hard to conceal her emotions. Her heart fell to the pit of her stomach, and her hands went icy cold.

"You know not what you do," She whispered, to both her father and Arshalous. What had happened to Arshalous' strength? Did she not know that Khamul and the Emissary would pollute her mind with evil? Anger welled up within Gjeelea, yet she felt tears form behind her eyes. What could she do now?

Gjeelea shifted where she stood, and without another word, she fled the hallway. She stormed out through the kitchen and into the darkness of the night, leaving the home of her husband where all the evils of Pashtia seemed to have chosen for their gathering place that night. Gjeelea could not bear to see her plans fall to pieces - her fear of failure was a weakness of hers she had never bothered to overcome.

She followed her heart to the only place where she might find different help...the palace.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Khamul was pleased to see his daughter flee before Arshalous's righteousness, and her retreat confirmed his opinion of her: she was too far gone in treachery to be saved. His face fell into sadness and he passed a hand across his brow. He suddenly felt weak and his knees sagged, obliging him to catch himself against a wall. "Majesty?" Arshalous said, alarmed at the suddenness of his collapse, but though she was his affianced bride, she remained rigidly still, not moving to support him.

The King held himself against the wall, and said lowly, "I am all right. It is but a passing fatigue. The concerns of my rule are great, and sometimes they bear me over. I fear I have placed a terrible burden upon you."

"I am sure that I am not up to the task, Khamul."

"Nobody is. But we must all do what we are required."

He sought to right himself, forcing from his mind the memory of what had overcome him -- for as he had lamented the evil of his daughter, he had felt the presence of Bekah, as though she were standing at his back, and he had felt the force of her pity. He had almost thought, for a slice of time smaller than that which exists between heartbeats, that it was her gentle hand which had caught him as he fell, supporting him to the wall. But why she would come to him now, and why she would pity him, he could not imagine. . .

Straightening, he faced Arshalous, who said squared her shoulders with a new and grim resolution. "When are we to be wed, Khamul?"

"Soon. I see no need for a protracted engagement. And I have need of your counsel now, with little time to divert myself with other matters."

"It will be as you wish, Majesty."

"There is another matter we need to discuss, Arshalous. It concerns your dowry."

"My dowry?" she said, surprised, and a bit angered. Was not her wealth enough dowry?

"I do not refer to anything as crass as gold, Lady," Khamul replied, and she felt a chill upon her neck as it appeared once again as though he were reading her mind. "I am well provided in wealth already. Indeed, with the tribute now paid me by Alanzia I am the wealthiest King in the history of Pashtia." There was neither boasting nor pride in the statement. "I speak of something more valuable than all the goods of my treasury. We spoke once of the hold that the Lord Korak has over me, and of the letter that he would use to put himself upon the throne. I fear that with my remarriage he might fear I seek to produce a new heir that would supplant his hopes, and that this might drive him to an act of. . .desperation. I have tried to regain the letter but cannot. It occurs to me, however, that you might be more successful than I."

"Me, majesty? How am I to succeed where you have failed. I do not possess your royal power!"

"No, but you do have a power which I lack. You can come and go in this house without arousing suspicion and, most importantly, you can speak with the Lady Hababa more openly and clearly than I. Perhaps she knows something of the letter and could be. . .convinced to help us regain it. I know that Korak has no love for you, or you for him, but you are a family member and a companion of his childhood. I am sure that there are things about Korak and his family, and about this house, known only to yourself and a few others. All of which should make it easy for you to locate that letter and bring it to me, such is the dowry that I will demand of you." Arshalous merely bowed her head, her face insrcutable. "But tell me, Lady," Khamul continued in a lighter tone, "what wedding gift would you have of me? I am an old-fashioned man in many ways, and will follow our traditions scrupulously. I will grant you whatever gift you may ask of me, so long as it be both honourable and within my power to give it you."

[Nurumaiel]

Morashk stood a few moments longer in the shadows of the corridor, and then turned and hastened away before the Lady Arshalous made any reply to the King. Anger and resentment, nay, hatred, swelled up within him, but something was there that he did not expect, and did not welcome... a strange sorrow. Faint though it may be, 'twas there, and he hated himself for being so weak.

Lord Korak was pacing up and down in his room impatiently, muttering curses under his breath, and scowling heavily. When he saw Morashk enter the room he hardly noticed how pale and trembling his servant was, for wasn't Morashk always pale and trembling? He did not pause in his pacing, but neither did he hesitate a moment before snapping out: "Well, are they finished yet?" And he went on, muttering, before Morashk could reply. "Curse the Lady Arshalous for her impudence in my own household. What right has she to come about and order me about? And curse Gjeelea for seeming pleased at the idea." He fell silent then, for he would not yet curse his mother.

"My Lord Korak," said Morashk, straight and stiff yet sagging against the wall at the same time, "the King has just been speaking with Lady Arshalous."

"The King, here?" cried Lord Korak, and he ceased his walking and stared wide-eyed for a moment. Then the scowl returned to his face. "Curse my cousin and my wife! Did they not have the good sense to tell me? If the King comes to my home, what will he think if the master of the house does not greet him, but merely lets him be?"

"My Lord Korak!" Morashk gasped, and Korak noticed for the first time how distraught his servant was. Morashk had always been a nervous sort of man, but his actions now were not nervous. He seemed excited, in a very unpleasant way.

"What is it?" Korak demanded. "Speak up, man! Did they say anything... significant?"

"Yes, they did," said Morashk, and his trembling suddenly ceased, and his mouth set in a hard, bitter line. "The King and the Lady Arshalous are to be wed."

For a few moments, Korak was struck into amazed silence, and then he smiled easily. "Why do I care?" he said. He turned away from Morashk and strode to the other side of the room, looking out the window to survey what lands he could see, despite their dark and shriveled appearance. "I was afraid that he had said something about the Prince succeeding him. But... Morashk, do you think my cousin will influence the King against me?"

There was no answer. Korak turned, and saw that Morashk was no longer there.

Down the corridor Morashk staggered, putting his hands against the walls for support, and mumbling almost inaudibly to himself. "I do not care, I do not care, I do not care." He stopped, reflected upon what he had just heard the King and Arshalous say, and he cried: "I do not care!"

The little maid, who had been uncertainly scouring the house for wood for the fire, paused and gazed at him in surprise. Morashk was well-known as a very quiet man who saw much with his eyes, and this sudden outburst startled her. She hesitated for a moment, then went closer to him, and looked up at him with worry written on her brow.

"Is there anything wrong, sir?" she questioned. Though Morashk was a servant just as she, it had long been known that he held a higher position in the house as the others, as one favoured by the Lord Korak, and his fellow servants never failed to show proper respect towards him.

Morashk turned keen eyes to her. "Wrong?" he demanded. "For the King and the Lady Arshalous, perhaps nothing is wrong. The King is a sneaking, low-down worm who thinks nothing of power."

"Oh, hush!" the maid cried, her eyes growing wide with terror. "Don't say such things."

"It is true," said Morashk, "and my master is no better."

"Hush!" the maid cried again, seeming more violently disturbed at these words against Lord Korak than the words about the King.

"I hold to my master because I am his servant, and I am loyal to him," said Morashk, disregarding her pleas entirely. "He is harsh, and a brute, but he is good to those who are loyal to him."

"Yes, yes," said the maid hastily, "and I am certain the King is, too."

"I do not know of the King," said Morashk, "but I do know of Lady Arshalous!" At the name he spat on the ground, but at the same time he paled and dropped his head and began to violently tremble.

The maid hesitated uncertainly. Was Morashk's mind wandering, the way he spoke of the King, of the Lord Korak, of the King again, and now the Lord Korak's cousin? She had never seen Morashk act and speak in such a way before, and she wished she did not have to see it now. It stirred up fear in her.

"How can she wed him?" Morashk said, his head still bowed. "How can she wed him, being such a brute as my master, if not more so, when she would not... I - I... I was once a strong, noble, upright..." He trailed off and was silent for a few moment, and then his eyes flashed. "I have hated her ever since! I have hated her more than my Lord Korak hates her, and he hates her bitterly. I have helped my Lord Korak to catch her with words, delighting in the look of confusion and anger on her face. I have hated her as I could hate no one else!"

The maid drew back, and the rosy flush of health that had already paled in her cheeks during the troublesome months was gone completely now. Morashk turned his eyes to her, gazed at her for a few moments, and then, once again retaining his usual skulking posture, free of distress, he gestured her away. "Go to the Lady Hababa," he said. "It is possible she is need of company. The King made his proposal when the ladies were all gathered in the Lady Hababa's room, and there the Lady Arshalous made... her fiendish acceptance. Curse her!" And he continued on down the corridor, skulking for a little while, and then staggering again, alternating between self-control and an utter lack of it.

The maid stared after him for a moment, and then fled as swiftly as she could to the Lady Hababa's chamber.