[littlemanpoet]

Tar Miriel stood before Mabalar in regal splendour; her face glowed eerily in the light of the candle she held before her.

"It has been long, Mabalar Melethroch," she said evenly, looking down at him with eyes that did not give away her thought.

He nodded and coughed to clear his throat of the lasting pain of Sauron's grip, in vain. "To ....what," he labored, "do I owe ... this honour?"

"Time grows short, Mabalar," she replied.

"Do I not ... know it?" he grated. "My life ... is forfeit."

She shook her head. "I spoke of Númenor."

"Aye," he nodded. "Ar Pharazôn is ... a fool-" he coughed. "Doubly, for his ... vain challenge .... of the gods as ..... well as pandering .... to Sauron." He succumbed to a fit of coughing.

"Târik! Bring him water."

The young guard who had unlocked the door came forward with a pitcher and poured a little into Mabalar's mouth. The guard stood, waiting for the Queen's next order.

"My thanks," Mabalar whispered after few cooling, soothing swallows. His throat still hurt in the two places where Sauron had invisibly pinned him, but he could swallow again, and his voice was less roughened.

"Mabalar," Tar Miriel said, "I think that of the two of us, you shall live the longer."

He frowned. "What mean you? You will not take your life!"

"Nay," she shook her head. "'Tis a foresight. I do not think you will succumb to the machinations of Sauron. Do you not have hidden friends in this city?"

"Maybe. What of it?"

"Ah, Mabalar, you trust me no longer." Her tone held amusement, but hurt lingered in it as well.

"You are the wife of Ar Pharazón."

"Not by choice, as you well know."

"Well I know it."

"Târik, unlock his chains and leave us."

"Milady, I-"

"Do as I say." Her tone was mild but held command that brooked no objection or disobedience; nor hesitation. Târik unlocked Mabalar's chains. "And leave the pitcher there." Târik left. Mabalar rubbed his wrists and ankles.

"'Tis dangerous to remove my chains, my Queen."

"Stand, Mabalar."

He looked up at her, measuringly. "You are my queen." He stood; he was no more than two inches taller than she.

"You have changed little, Mabalar." Her voice was soft; and carried upon it the hint of something wished for.

"Nor have you, except for the despair I see in your face ... Miriel."

"Would that you had challenged him, Mabalar!"

"You know that I would have died at the hands of that overwheening wretch."

She nodded. "I often dream of what might have been. You know that you would have been my consort, Mabalar!"

He sighed. Never so tragic a figure had he ever seen. Her life was ashes.

"You live in the past, Miriel, and little do I blame you, for it is not of your doing. I have a beloved wife and daughter now, and we shall flee this land if ever I get free."

She looked closely into his eyes, saying nothing for long moments. At length, she spoke; in a deadened tone.

"You must escape. There is something I must give you. I will give it to you when you assure me that you have the means."

"How can I assure you?"

"Make plans. If and when those plans are ready, send word through Târik, and I will come with my gift."

"Can he be trusted?"

"He chafes to leave this land, and would with you, if you would have him."

"If he proves true, and both of us come through alive, I will have him."

"Fare well then. Târik!"

She left him. Târik gave him another drink, then locked him in his chains, and closed him in his cell again. Mabalar thought long into the night before sleep took him.