Rivers Cannot Quench
By Talullah Red

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Contact Email: talullahred@gmail.com

Beta: Many thanks to Dragonfly!

Rating: NC17

Main Characters: Míriel/Gildor 

Written For: Malinornë

Request: Míriel (of Númenor)/canon elf. I'd like to read about an erotic meeting between Míriel and her lover. He can be any canon elf who would plausibly be alive at this time, and be given a reason to appear in Númenor. Míriel is already married to (bad, not elf-loving) King Al-Pharazon, but it's up to you if that just happened, or if this is later on. I'd like the story to be more than 'just' sex... I would like to read about Númenor, and about this woman who was supposed to become queen in her own right , about the conflict between those wanting to keep contact with the elves and those opposing it. I would also like to request the author of this story to read 'Akallabeth' for inspiration. You should NOT include violence; non-con; excessive angst; BDSM; Legolas, Haldir or other Third Age elves who have no business in Númenor :P

Genre: Romance, Drama

Word Count: 4500

Summary: Gildor visits the new king and queen of Númenor in a diplomatic visit.

Note: Title from “To my dear and loving husband” by Anne Bradstreet

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Rómenna, 3255 Second Age

The king's envoy climbed up to the deck when the captain sent word. A harsh wind blew, raising high waves even inside the heart of the bay. Docking would be dangerous, but they knew they needed to move fast. Their welcoming was probably worn even before they set foot on land.

“Do you think the weather will hold?” he asked, not bothering to hide the concern in his voice.

The captain glanced at the grey mantle above. “The heavens will pour tonight. Maybe tomorrow the winds will be gentler, though I doubt it. Eldalondë always has gentler weather and we still can count some friends there but I understand the need for speed in this case.”

The envoy nodded solemnly. “Pray for me, my friend.”

Trusting the reports of the very few Faithful who still visited the High King's court, not only would he be unwelcome, there was even a chance that he might not leave Elenna unscathed. Still, he would not have refused this mission for the world.

~~~~~~

Armenelos, The Following Day

Gildor Inglorion stood straight and proud before the closed doors to the audience room. The journey from Rómenna to Armenelos had been longer than he had anticipated because of the foul weather, but he had kept his personal belongings safe and dry, preserving them for the audience with Ar-Pharazôn. He wore a midnight blue tunic with mithril embroidery at the cuffs and neckline and matching trousers. For this occasion he had made a point of taming his hair: upon his neatly braided tresses rested a thin mithril circle, a reminder to himself and others of his stature and heritage.

For long Gildor had served Gil-galad under the guise of a wanderer, a gypsy lord, and that arrangement had suited them both – he kept his freedom, Gil-galad had a spy and occasionally an informal representative when Elrond was occupied with matters of greater importance. When it came to Númenor, though, he was often called to act as the official representative of Lindon. Elrond was quite reluctant of visiting the island for understandable reasons, and he or Glorfindel were high ranking members of the king's court and of noble birth, which made them acceptable alternatives in the diplomatic dallying. However, Glorfindel preferred to stay in Lindon, close to the armoury where he thought he was of best service, and thus, for many generations Gildor had found himself periodically trusted to visit Armenelos and establish contact with the ruling monarch, and with the Elven community at Eldalondë. In the later years the frequency of those missions had declined until Tar-Palantir had risen to the throne.

Tar-Palantir had opened his heart and his house to the elves again, and had fought to close the growing breach between the two peoples, and inside his own people. Tar-Palantir was a mild-mannered, well-read man, a wise soul, and Gildor had gladly accepted all invitations and official missions to Númenor then. What he saw disgruntled him, to the point of fearing that Númenor would never be whole again, but he admired and supported the king's efforts to reverse the tide. When Amandil had sent word of Tar-Palantir's sudden death and the swift change in the power balance, Gil-galad had finally succumbed to a long lasting weariness.

“Let them be to their own folly and pride,” he had said.

But Gildor felt that he had lost a friend with Tar-Palantir's death, and he owed more than a vague sentiment to honour the remarkable man his friend had been. He had pushed, and pressed and argued, until he had worn out Gil-galad by reason and logic.

Now he was kept waiting before the doors to Númenor's throne room as if he was a mere lackey waiting to empty a pot. Ar-Pharazôn, the Usurper, in addition to being a thieve, was an ill-mannered rogue. Gildor was too experienced, however, to easily fall prey to a crude manoeuvre such as that. When the herald finally announced him and the doors opened, he knew he walked into that room looking as regal as Gil-galad himself, and far more composed than Pharazôn.

Brazenly, he walked to the throne, his keen eyes absorbing the present faces and cataloguing them for posterity, but barely acknowledging them. He stopped six feet away from the throne and bowed as court manner declared, feeling every muscle in his back protesting against the undue gesture.

“I present greetings from Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor and of the land of Eregion, and his congratulations to you on this fortunate occasion.”

Ar-Pharazôn chuckled, issuing a cold, mirthless sound of contempt.

“Forgive me if I do not bid you welcome and accept and thank your well-wishes, but they seem to lack in sincerity and manner.”

Gildor ignored the affront and moved on. “Eregion offers her arm to Númenor on this occasion as we have before.”

Ar-Pharazôn drummed his fingers on the arm of the throne. “And why should we need the arm of a weak nation that barely holds its tiny patch of land?”

Deep silence blanketed the room, but Gildor had clear instructions and a part to play. With perfect control of himself, he ignored the crude, deliberate insult and simply replied, “Feeble or no, we have had peace for nigh five hundred sun years. Your enemy is our enemy and if we offer our alliance it is not only to honour an old friendship, but also because we have all interest in keeping Sauron tame.”

Ar-Pharazôn rose from the throne and held his sceptre forward. “And Gil-galad, high and mighty king of the Noldor sent the Lord of the Gypsies to offer me this treaty instead of his herald?” he bellowed. “Worry not; we are strong enough to take care of our enemies alone. Begone from my sight, and return not, for I am a king and not in the habit of receiving vagabonds in my halls.”

A slow smirk surfaced Gildor's lips. “In my veins runs blood far more royal than yours, o Pharazôn. If my lordship does not impress you, at least it is my own, rightfully inherited from my illustrious ancestors and I keep it by merit. And if Lord Elrond did not wish to visit you himself, perhaps that is because he is shamed by what has become of the line of his brother.”

The noblemen and women gasped and cursed, threatening to take Gildor's life there and then. He stood unabashed facing Ar-Pharazôn, chin held up high.

Silence slowly set in as Pharazôn held his hand up in the air.

“You insult me in my house, elf.” He looked around to the angry faces, drinking their support. “Do we need friends such as these, o my noble people?”

A clamouring 'no!' resounded in the room. “Behead him!” a nobleman shouted, to be quickly supported by his peers.

“But I say 'no',” Pharazôn replied. “Let us show this insolent race of what Númenor is made. I grant thee, Gildor of the Gypsies, hospitality under my roof for this night, but tomorrow you are to leave with the first light – take a few Faithful with you, if you are so keen in helping Númenor. And do take a message to your king. Tell him that his next envoy might not return all on the same ship.”

A simple nod conjured two guards to Gildor's side. The elf stood so proud and dignified that they merely looked at him, as if asking his permission to touch him.

Gildor took the few seconds the confused guards granted him to deeply bow to the veiled figure who had sat quietly by Pharazôn's side the whole time.

“Long live Tar-Míriel, Ruling Queen of Númenor!” he said in clear, calm voice. Then he turned on his heel and left the throne room followed by the guards, ignoring the rain of insults and threats that fell upon him.

~~~~~~

Gildor had been conducted to a room on the second floor, quite far from the quarters reserved for ambassadors he had occupied on his former visits. His room was rather plain but not devoid of comforts. Soon after he was escorted in, he heard a servant talking to the guards at the door. The woman came in with a simple tray of bread, meat and wine, which she placed on his dresser before she lit him a small fire. She left the room without looking at him.

Gildor sat by the fire for a while, listening to the fierce drumming of the rain on the windowpanes. He was not cold, hungry, or sleepy. His body required nothing, but his mind curled restlessly with possibilities. He feared for his life, of course. Pharazôn the Usurper might have shown mercy in the throne room because he could not afford declaring open war on the Elves and civil war with the Faithful so soon in his reign, but this was far from meaning that he would be safely escorted to his ship the next morning. Accidents could always happen along the way, and grave personal insults had been exchanged. Of Pharazôn he knew little, but enough to know he was ruthless and had a long memory.

The shocked faces of Amandil and his son crossed his mind. Yes, his little display of temper had fooled everyone, but he still had one part of his mission to accomplish, the vital part in his mind, although it required that he leave the room. Now and then he could hear the guards shifting their feet outside – the door was obviously not a choice to consider, and nor was the window – Gildor knew there were limits to his agility. He knew very well that the Royal Palace in Armenelos was full of hidden chambers and secret passages but after carefully studying the room did not find anything conspicuous. This was not, after all, the room of a leader or a dignitary, but of a simple court magistrate.

More to force his impatience into submission than out of hunger, he rose from the chair and walked the short distance to the dresser table. Absently, he lifted the napkin that covered the bread. A folded piece of paper fell to the tray. He picked it up, opened it, and read the message written in elegant tengwar.

 

Most esteemed Lord Gildor Inglorion,

Please meet your friend of old in these times of grief and danger. Inside the wardrobe a loose panel will reveal a small door on the wall behind. To open this door, simply press the two wood knots on the left frame. This leads to a very narrow passage inside the wall. The passage follows until the exterior wall where you will find a ladder. Descend through it and I will meet you at the bottom.

M

 

Gildor's heart raced. He had been a fool to ignore the food for so long. He should have recognized the woman who delivered it immediately as one of Míriel's house, but the effects of time on the faces of mortals always eluded him. He tiptoed to the wardrobe and followed Míriel's instructions, looking back once as he closed the secret doors behind him. He regretted not blocking the door to the room, but that would certainly not be missed; as it was, he was fairly certain he had not been heard by the guards.

Complete darkness surrounded him as he climbed down the stairs. He paused when by his calculations he should have reached the first floor, but only solid wall awaited him. He continued his descent. The equivalent of another floor and a half had passed when beneath him he saw the yellow glow of a candle. He hastened his descent and hopped out of the stair in the last few steps.

Before him stood Míriel, the veil now gone revealing her fair features. He bowed.

“I cannot tell you how glad I was to receive your message,” he whispered.

“You can speak normally here, dear Gildor. No one will hear us.” She stepped aside and led him to a small cave-like room. The only furniture was a small cot, a chair and a table cluttered with flasks, bandages and other medical supplies.

“This is a temporary refuge for those of the Faithful who may need shelter or care,” she informed him. “Please, sit.” She made an elegant gesture to the small cot and took the chair.

He obeyed, reaching for her hands as he sat. “My dear lady, I came as soon as possible once the news of your misfortune reached Lindon.”

“Dear Gildor...” she said, caressing his thumb with her own. “I should have expected no less from my father's dearest friend among the Eldar.”

Gildor held her hands tighter. “You have my deepest sympathy. He was a man of great vision, a kind heart and a dear friend.”

She sat back, slowly removing her hands from his. “It was his kindness of heart that killed him. He could no longer stand my uncle Gimilkhâd's treachery and constant demeaning and undermining of his dreams and hopes and projects for our people.”

“And now you have to endure a heavy burden...”

Míriel lowered her eyes. “Aye. I am sure that you have been told the details, so I will spare you the gruesomeness.”

Gildor inched to the edge of the cot, taking her hands in his again. “This marriage is not valid in any civilized nation. A non-consenting bride, the close blood relation... I wonder how your people stand for it, even those not of the Faithful.”

Míriel sighed. “There is nothing that can be done now. The people adore Pharazôn for all his conquests and triumphs abroad. Gold speaks louder than old customs or a silly woman's wishes.”

“No, no,” Gildor cut. “This is not as you say. My mission here was not to offer amity to Númenor or Pharazôn. My true mission is with you. As you know, we have had peace in Eregion for many years but it is not an easy peace. We cannot spare an army to fight in another country's political disputes, but we can offer some measure of aid, if you decide to claim your rights and annul this mockery of a wedding.”

“No, no!” Míriel stood up. “I cannot take that offer, as much as I desire it. Once, the Faithful were enough, as many as one in two of each Númenorean, but today... We are one in ten, if that many. Another civil war would mean the obliteration of anything and anyone that still represents goodness and righteousness in this land.”

“You should not refuse my proposal so quickly.” Gildor rose from the cot, following her gesture. “The Faithful should decide for themselves which course they wish to lead in life: to live in hiding and fear or die trying for freedom. Amandil would fight for you and many others...”

“I don't want their blood in my hands. Do not ask this of me, Gildor. To be a queen, even a despoiled one such as myself, means responsibility and duty above all.” Mírien faced the wall, turning her back to Gildor.

He stepped closer. “Then at least hear my other offer.”

She nodded without turning.

“A ship awaits me. If we leave now during the night, we'll be in high water before you are found to be missing. Pharazôn has the sceptre and the crown and all the power his greedy dark heart could ever want. Leave these shores with me. Gil-galad offers you the protection of his home despite the political risks that it might imply.”

“Pharazôn, the Vain, would never allow for it. You said you could not afford war – I have no doubt in my heart that he would wage war at your doors.”

“We cannot afford an offensive to a foreign land on a internal matter, but we are more than capable of protecting our borders from an attack. Please come. We cannot bear the thought that a queen should be treated like an object of little consequence or that a woman should be forced into marriage.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder, squeezing softly. She lowered her head. “Dangerous times lie ahead. Your offer is kind, but I must decline. As I said, I will not have blood on my hands and good or bad these are my people and I will remain here for them. I fear that terrible things will befall un. I will not be sundered from my people. That would desecrate my father's memory.”

She covered his hand with hers.

“You let me do nothing for you, Míriel,” Gildor sighed. “I cannot leave here like this. Tar-Palantir would not have wanted you to be in this situation, robbed of what is yours, trapped, hopeless and powerless. You still have friends...”

“And I am glad I have them. I cannot begin to tell you how much your visit and your offers have meant to me,” she paused, turning to face Gildor. “My father loved me and wanted me to be happy, I am sure, but he also raised me to shoulder my duties.”

“Míriel, I know about duty and sacrifice but you are accepting much more than your reasonable share...” Gildor knew his plea sounded weak against her resolve. Míriel did not allow herself selfishness, only bravery.

“What is 'reasonable' these days?” she asked resignedly.

He nodded and stepped back, to sit on the bed. “How will you be able to stand it, all of it?” he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.

“I don't know,” she sighed, closing her eyes. “Life seems to have dimmed for me. But have faith, I know I can haul my burden.”

“I know you can.”

“Gildor,” she said, taking his hand onto her lap. “This will be the last time we will see each other for a long while, perhaps forever...”

He squeezed her fingers. “Aye.”

“Do you remember, not two years ago, when you visited my father for the last time?”

“Aye.”

“It was sunny and the apple trees were in bloom. I leaned against a trunk while you made me laugh with your impersonations of my uncle.” Gildor nodded. He remembered that day very well.

Míriel continued, “For a moment you stood so close to me, and we were not laughing anymore... You should have kissed me then.”

He extracted his hand from hers and placed his arm around her shoulders. “I am sorry that I did not. But at the time I thought it would be reckless. I have lived for too long to easily fall prey to temptation.”

“That makes me feel too small.”

“It shouldn't. It was hard for me. I could have fallen in love with you; I think I did, a little.”

Míriel emitted a short bitter sound that could almost be a snort.

“Do not feel sorry for what could not have been then or now or ever,” she calmly said, turning her face to his. “You had a friend to respect and I a king and a father. But now no one holds my respect or my loyalty, and my affections have remained the same.”

Gildor lifted her hands to his lips. “You honour me, but I wonder if it is wise...”

“Care not for wisdom,” Míriel pled, her lips drawing near Gildor’s.

“Won't you be missed?” he asked, their lips brushing.

Abruptly she turned her head. “No. Fortunately, he rarely visits my chambers. Apparently the whores in the lower city are more amenable company, not to mention the ladies of the court.”

“He has made a mockery of everything that is sacred in marriage,” Gildor replied hotly.

“He has,” Míriel agreed. “And that makes it easier for me to remember that Pharazôn does not own me. My violator does not own me anymore than a thief owns his loot.” Her knuckles turned white as she crumpled hard the fabric of her skirt.

Gildor inhaled deeply, letting his anger dissipate. Long before the words crossed his mind, he knew he would accept Míriel's invitation, but it should not be in anger or spite. He wanted to let bloom for one night what he had hopelessly desired for long and to show her what love could feel like.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

She obeyed. He leaned closer, holding her by the waist and whispered in her ear. “The air still keeps the chill of spring. We are alone in the orchard, and am I swollen with pride, because I am making you happy. You cannot see how beautiful you are with the sun bringing warmth to the black of your hair. You have the perfect smile as you lean into the apple tree, slightly short of breath from all the laughter. I come closer to you; sparks fly between us. Even then you are regal; you do not play coy maiden's games, but stare right at me, challenging me...” Gildor lets his face brush hers. Up to now he had just painted a scene from an irretrievable past. With his fingertips, he turned her face to his, letting their lips brush. “I accept your challenge.”

His hand ran from her face to her hair, settling on the base of her skull. Tenderly he deepened the kiss, letting their tongues search each other. Míriel gasped when they finally broke the kiss.

“It is sweet,” she said.

“Tastes of love,” Gildor replied as again he closed the distance between their lips. He let the hand at her waist roam along her back in a slow circular motion. Her arms wrapped around his neck in response. They kissed for long, slowly exploring each other over the silks of their clothes, but both wanted more. Timidly, Míriel ventured a hand beneath his tunic. He drew back and unclasped it in a simple gesture. She pushed it back over his shoulders, then helped him pull his undershirt over his head.

She silently stared at his chest. He took her hand and placed it over his heart whispering, “Yours.”

She reached behind her back and pulled the laces that held her gown together. He helped her loosen them, letting her emerge from the silk layers as a butterfly from her cocoon until she stood before him naked, slightly trembling. He placed his hands on her waist and pulled her to him. “Beautiful.”

Gildor kicked off his shoes as he guided Míriel to sit astride his lap. He circled her waist with one hand and let the other cup her left breast. His mouth searched for her hard nipple and he played it with his tongue, feeling Míriel come alive under his touch, pressing closer to him, moving to better feel the joy of skin sliding on skin. Slowly they fell back to the bed, until they were side by side, caressing each other, kissing, tasting, exploring. Míriel moaned as Gildor's hand slid from the small of her back to her buttock, pulling her closer to his groin. For the first time, she reached down and let her fingers brush the bulge in Gildor's trousers. He held his breath as her caress became bolder and bolder, sending jolts of sensation through his body, until he let out a ragged sigh.

“Please remove them,” Míriel asked, her hand busy with Gildor's laces.

He obeyed unquestioningly. She touched his hot, rigid flesh, testing his reactions to her touch. He lay back, letting her explore, giving them time to adjust to each other. Before her body forgot his hands, he switched their positions in one swift move. He lay on top of her, and she opened up to him, in a natural movement. There was no fear or shame in her eyes and he loved her more for it. He kissed her lips, her neck, her breasts, in a sinuous line that led him to her navel, and then lower. He let his tongue run free on the inside of her thighs, until she moaned and arched wantonly. Kneeling between her legs, he watched her face, as his fingers quit their play and reached their mark. She yelped, then moaned, wrapping her legs around his waist but he soon replaced his fingers with his tongue. She writhed under him, vague adunaic words escaping her lips, encouraging him in his relentless pursuit of her pleasure. He felt his own hardness hot against his thigh, but he did not let it distract him. He moved his tongue faster and faster until she shook violently, guttural sounds leaving her unchecked.

She was still trembling when he slid inside her, sheathing himself completely. He began to move slowly, but her hands found their way to his buttocks, pulling him closer and faster at each rocking. He kissed her repeatedly, punctuating their rhythm, until the pacing was too fast for that and his release was upon him.

They lay in the dim light, the small room feeling too warm. Despite the rapidly cooling sweat on their skin, they kept touching each other in the nude.

“I dreamt that it could be like this between us, long before my life changed,” Míriel said at last. “Not quite like this,” she quickly amended. “I dreamt a much paler dream.”

Gildor kissed her hair. “Come with me,” he pleaded. “Your vows are worthless. You could be mine and I yours; as mine body pledged itself to you tonight, it could be so every night.”

“I will not burden our peoples with war... and I will not burden you with my mortality.”

Gildor sighed. “You are hard, but I admire you for that.”

As her sole response, she kissed his neck, right beneath his ear. A vague feeling of renewed desire spread from the point where her lips had touched his skin, lighting a fire that rivers cannot quench.

~~~~~~

He left for his room by dawn, barely in time to avoid being discovered. He would have preferred to gallop for Rómenna in the cover of the night and be sure that Pharazôn's hand would not reach him, but the sweetness of Míriel's arms had kept him. He did not regret his decision in any way, though, and he could not imagine himself regretting it even if the worst came to pass as the consequence.

The ride was swift, dangerous even, but in a few hours he was delivered to his ship. Pharazôn's men watched menacingly as the ship left the port still under the storm. Gildor stood on the deck by the captain's side, regarding Rómenna for the last time through the waves of rain.

Míriel's last words echoed in his head, bringing regret but also a strange comfort. Just as he left up the ladder the ladder she had pulled him back for one last kiss. Then she had whispered in his ear, “Ar-Zimraphel I shall be henceforth, but the memory of this night will keep Tar-Míriel alive in my heart to the day of my doom.”

Finis
November 2006