"On a boat," Tar-Míriel chimes as Mírëala walks in the room. "It is only the third time this month. Maybe we should consider ourselves lucky."

Regent, royal, she turns to her, dressed in blue but missing her sun shaped crown. It is not out of the ordinary for her to greet her Seer this way, and Mírëala found it almost comforting now. One less thing to predict, for it would never change.

She winces, then sighs. "I am sorry," she promises. "I did not realise I was on that boat until we had sailed and were in the middle of the ocean."

Her queen holds up her hand. "No need to apologise about such matters with me," she reminds her, for it has been the subject of many disputes between them. "Though, your hair is still wet."

Mírëala blinks at Tar-Míriel. "Well, I have just gotten here."

She seems amused, used to it. Many other queens would have berated Mírëala for not attending Tar-Míriel's court in three days, but Míriel has developed some sisterly feelings for her Seer. Perhaps it is because she is the only one who truly listens to her when she speaks, that makes it easier to see the woman behind the prophecies.

"It is not like I am to show in your court today," she says, before looking out the window, and sighing, ignoring her queen's knowing look. She just had to see herself walk beside her in all white, did she not? "I am, aren't I? You want me to walk out with you."

"Is it prophecy or dejection I hear in your tone?"

"Sometimes, it can be both."

Very rarely does Míriel let her walk at her side in the great hall of the palace. Mainly because she knows what others will say about her if she does; and Tar-Míriel would like to protect her Seer as best as she can. Showing her off to the public always has an impact on how people will treat her. Either they'll be scared of retaliations, or they'll lament the fact that truly anyone can make it in life.

Mírëala smiles, for many of them will not make it very far.

"We can fix this yet," Tar-Míriel goes on, and her lady's maids flock to her like bees to a flower. "Braiding your hair up should do the trick."

The Seer lets them tug at her hair and sits down, obliged. She watches as Míriel puts on her crown, reminiscent of the sun that shines outside these halls, down on the white leaves of Nimloth, the White Tree. Down, down, down they go...

"Here." Tar-Míriel's voice snaps the vision and thoughts out of Mírëala's mind, and she forgets the future as soon as the present imposes itself on her. She's handing her a piece of bread. "You look a little pale."

Mírëala takes it gracefully, mouth watering. Halbrand's half eaten soup did not fill her nearly enough. "The Captain has rescued an Elf," she tells her, munching on her bread.

Míriel blinks once, twice, and Mírëala knows all too well the treacherous fear that seizes her. Down, down, down... Tar-Míriel fumbles with the information for a handful of seconds, before squaring her shoulders, and looking straight ahead.

"I will dress you in white," she decides, already walking over to her wardrobe with one of her lady's maids. "You did not sound like a Prophet," she goes on. "Am I to suppose you were on the very boat that rescued them?"

"Yes. Her name is Galadriel, and she is not a threat." It's a simple white lie. Galadriel knows to be a threat if need be. But Mírëala does not think – no, she knows – that she would not do anything to endanger Númenor. Trust has little to do with that fact.

Míriel sends her lady's maid away with a flick of her wrist, and goes to sit down next to Mírëala, grabbing her hands. Mírëala does not mind. She recoils, though; she is much more used with people's contempt than their affection.

"Have you seen anything like the Palantír showed me?"

Míriel is not a superstitious queen. Not when one of her court members is a Seer, not when her father left behind a Palantír showing her the downfall of her beloved island. She is simply prepared, and that is something Mírëala can admire in her.

Mírëala has never touched the Palantír that she guards. The fact that she is the only other soul alive to know about it is enough. And the fact of the matter is; they do not know what Palantíri would do to her, and there are less valuable things to risk.

But she knows the vision. By heart, from her queen's description. The day starts as any; blessing the new-born babies who do not have a past and a too wide future for Mírëala to see. Then, their tree loses its leaves, and a wave takes the island with it.

"No," she whispers in answer. "But I have told you this before; a Palantír shows you a precise future. One amongst many. I can only be tossed around by it, spewing nonsense and contradictions as thousands of possibilities attack me." She looks above her shoulder, at something she is not quite sure to discern. "For now, know this: no bad will come to you or this island as long as Galadriel is treated right. But that... will be a challenge in itself."

This is as far as Mírëala can see. She can only focus on one event at a time and see the way it unfolds, but will always be met with the damning realisation that she made the wrong choice.

She chose to believe that her mother wouldn't die, for sometimes, she saw a future with her. Just one. It was the wrong choice. Even a Seer can blind herself to certainty.

This is entirely different; she can taste the salt in her mouth, or something more coppery, see the white leaves go down, down, down, and knows, deep down, that it'll be neither Tar-Míriel's fault or Galadriel's.

Míriel is a good Regent. She loves her island more than she fears the unknown. Not many can say the same.

So, she nods, once, and that's that. Míriel trusts that Mírëala knows better than she does, and Mírëala trusts that Tar-Míriel will make the right choice. It often worked like that, once all the lady's maids are gone and guards have their back turned.

Mírëala does not mind what comes next. A part of her is aware that she does not like it, nor its consequences, but there is little she can do about it. This is, too, a sacrifice she shares with a queen.

Walking side by side with her, into the throne room, Míriel risks her reputation. Mírëala risks being reminded of her own. And yet, they both walk with their chins raised.

Ar-Pharazôn is not fond of this combination. Why would he? The Chancellor who wanted to be king – who had a claim to the throne. And it fell to Míriel to take on that mantle after her father got sick.

And she, ever the smart woman, kept him close to her.

Mírëala knew that he was not a good man. But she always saw that Míriel's greatness imposed itself on his motivations. Both of them knew – she had warned Tar-Míriel – that his motivations were... questionable.

But by keeping him near her, she can watch over his doing, and can secure the support of men who agree with him, who will agree with him.

With Mírëala at her side, she also knows that Pharazôn won't try anything against her. How could he? She already knows his every move, every theory and hidden thought he harbors against Tar-Míriel, the desire for her crown. A stalemate, Míriel had called it.

The Seer simply did not like Tar-Míriel's Chancellor. With, or without trying to steal her throne. He'd always reminded her of a snake.

He nods at her. She does not nod back.

Pharazôn is one of the people who look at Mírëala with a sense of fear and distaste. Him and all his supporters, his friends, his son, who is a little younger than her, about her sister's age. He is, to put it simply, the most powerful of them.

And it makes her smile to herself, for he is also the only one who cannot do anything about it. Others can spew venom at her, threats, but he... has to nod congenially.

"Mírëala," he welcomes her after having greeted Tar-Míriel. "A pleasure to see you back from your new... expedition."

It is not as clever as the small laughs and huffings that come with it make it sound. It is not clever at all; merely speaking a fact does not make a jest. The fact that Mírëala is the subject, does.

"The pleasure is yours entirely, Ar-Pharazôn."

Her own wit is met with gasps and indignation. How could she, he was the Chancellor, she was Tar-Míriel's pet! What did it even mean? Simple-minded people could not recognise intelligence if they were hit in the face with it.

Thankfully, the doors open, sparing her from further embarrassment and sparing Pharazôn from breathing out smoke in frustration. She stares at him – and then, past him.

Númenor's Tree, and its white leaves. The snake that swirls itself around its bark and down, down, down the leaves go...

"You told me about the Elf," Tar-Míriel reminds her, speaking for the first time since they've walked into the room.

Mírëala's eyes are strained on the tree. "I did."

"You never told me about a man?"

She nearly breaks her neck looking back at Halbrand, next to Galadriel. Of course, all eyes are on her – beautiful, ethereal elven royalty. She was born to be worshipped. But Mírëala's eyes are on him.

And his, are on her.

He is not smiling, but the gleam in his eyes makes it seem like he is. She is more confused than anything; she knew that if he chose to accompany Galadriel, she would see him again. But she was so used to trusting her visions that she forgot this variable; he was not a part of them.

"Broken past," she quickly explains to Míriel. "I... didn't know."

"Didn't know?" she echoes. "Challenging indeed."

She does not play along with Tar-Míriel's soft jest at her, entirely too busy noticing that Halbrand's smile has spread to his mouth, now harbouring a half-smirk. She finds it interesting, how mutinous his eyes look first, the way his face follows, like his feelings are too fast and his body is trying to catch on.

It's always fascinating, seeing him walk in the room, unsure of what event he'll cause, what words he'll speak. When he'll stop looking at her with that look in his eyes. He looks at her the way others look at Galadriel – the way Mírëala did, when she first saw her.

Disdain unnerves her less. It is easier to swallow than whatever he chokes on.

She tries to veer her mind towards more useful things; how this will go, a more precise look now that they were on the cusp of it. Her mind is not her own, and she finds herself looking down at her dress.

Chosen by Tar-Míriel, yes – but modest nonetheless. She does not mind and perfectly understands that Míriel is also here to be admired, and not overshadowed by her Seer. Besides, her beauty is different from Mírëala's: seashells drying in the sun, rays passing through the waves and a reverence that comes with her title.

Mírëala was once told; 'Pity. You are not pretty enough to be saved from being burned at the stake.' She did not mind much, in the heat of the moment. She would rather be saved for her usefulness than her looks.

Yet, every night since then, she wondered if she was pretty like a necessary sacrifice. Big brown eyes like the lamb to the slaughter. Long brown hair damp with the sweat of fear from a fire. A face harmonious, but entirely not pretty enough to be spared.

So what did Halbrand see? Her white dress looked like a decorated sail, falling around her body but not quite hugging it, making her seem like she was drowning in the fabric. Her hair still wet, much to Tar-Míriel's dismay, braided expertly atop her head in a way that lightly tugs at her scalp. A simple crown of silver – at least it looked like silver, but she knew it to be iron – lacing her forehead and a pearl dangling just above her brows.

It did not come from a place of envy – or at least, she told herself it didn't. But Galadriel wore nothing but a white chemise, dirty, eaten by salt, cheek and nose reddened by the sun, and she lit up the room. Perhaps even more than Míriel.

It all fell into the exact reason she had been unnerved since the second he walked in; Mírëala did not know why he looked at her, could not see what he would do in consequence, and the sheer unpreparedness that hit her made her sick to her stomach.

Because everytime she tries to see the future, not far, just shy out of her grasp, it evades her. As if his presence, this single variable jeopardised everything. The only thing she could do was hope, and let the event be stirred in the right direction. She did not like to leave things up to fate, despite her condition.

This is all interior turmoil. The pair are still making their way forward. The court is still focused on Galadriel. Halbrand is still focused on her. She could scream.

He finally looks away to whisper something to the Elf, before both start to bow – Halbrand, low. Galadriel flexes her knee slightly.

"No one kneels in Númenor," Tar-Míriel tells them, as Mírëala slowly disappears to her right side, opposite Pharazôn. "Speak, Elf. Name thyself."

Galadriel declines her titles, with a knowing smile that tells the crowd that yes, it is her, Lady Galadriel, Scourge of the Orcs. And Mírëala sees her, bright as the sun and twice as blinding, everything she could be but had yet to earn, not truly. Lady of Light.

Halbrand frowns at his companion, and the clear boasting she just did. "Halbrand. Of the Southlands."

Well, there you go, is on the tip of her tongue, but it's no premonition, simply recollection of her past. Yet, she bites down on it and holds back an ironic laugh. So succinct, compared to Galadriel's monologue.

He shares an amused glance with her, like he knew what she was thinking and the thought had crossed his mind too.

Mírëala does not think about all the future she does not know will unfold in that moment. It is gone quickly.

"A man and an Elf... together?" Ar-Pharazôn questions, stepping forward.

"Circumstances arose that–"

Mírëala takes a deep breath. Even blind, she feels it in her bones. This is the crossroads. This is where it all goes one way, or another. Or another. And yet another. The idea of a crossroads is vivid enough, all things considered.

"We are companions by chance. Met on the open sea. Your captain, here, delivered us from certain death." She crosses her father's gaze. He seems... tired of this. She thinks she has seen that look, when Isildur and her get in a mood. "All we ask is that Númenor continue his mercy, and grant us ship's passage to Middle-Earth."

The crowd chatters. Halbrand's head whips back to Galadriel, and Mírëala won't spare her breath telling where he was looking prior to this. An Elf, in Númenor's royal court, demanding more than asking things of the Men before her.

No one but Mírëala has seen it before; and only in dreams, or faraway illusions, like a half-drawn portrait. Yet they all stand, outraged. Is contempt reason enough not to help? She supposes she is about to find out if it will unfold that way; in spite of knowing that it does, most often than not.

Tar-Míriel looks to her Seer, whose eyes are full of warning. Tread lightly. This sea is raging, and the sky is dark.

"It's been generations since a ship of Númenor was permitted to make such a journey on an Elf's behalf," Pharazôn tells her.

"It is because of the Elves that you were given this island." The crowd erupts in chatters, some more vile than others. "Surely you can spare a few planks and a rudder."

Míriel's face is a mask of congeniality, sparing her Seer one last look that tells her all she needs to know. If she has to be fair, she will not let Galadriel question her island's valour.

"Our ancestors were not given anything. They paid for this isle with the blood of their kin."

"What the Elf means–"

"Then if blood be the price of passage, I will pay it," Galadriel barrels on, completely ignoring Halbrand's attempt at affability. "But one way or another, I will depart."

The Queen's smile is still on. "I welcome you to try."

Something lands on Mírëala's dress, the same colour as the ivory fabric. A leaf. She picks it up, and looks back outside, past Pharazôn. The tree is losing its gifts, floating, carried by the wind and whispers.

"I have no need of your welcome."

The petal turns to blood in her hand, drips down her clothes, stains it irredeemably. They're all dying. All dead, dead, dead, and she is at the center of it and oh she is stained with blood–

"And you are quickly wearing yours out. Guards!"

She should not have tried to focus on the immediate future, not when the looming catastrophe, the Palantír's vision seems to impose itself on her, she was a fool, she chose wrong again.

"My fr–"

"Tar-Míriel," Mírëala calls out, trying to hide the slight shake of her voice, the distress seeping behind it. "Your Highness." Her voice is barely a squeak. She is not used to speaking up – moreso letting herself be carried through her visions. But she cannot bear this one. "Lady Galadriel's words are but a mirror of her own greatness, to dare to speak to a Queen like this."

Her father catches her gaze, and seems about as confused and shocked as she is, but still; he nods, encouraging. He should not be. There are still many ways Mírëala can ruin this.

She clears her throat. "Perhaps... well perhaps we would do well to let us resolve this subject another time. Before..." She strains. Not to use her power no – to reign it in. To not let it burn what's left of her credibility in the eyes of the court. "Before the leaves... and... oh but the blood..."

Mírëala looks down at her hands. They are not stained anymore, but everytime her fingers brush against each other, she can still feel the sticky composition of blood. If she squints just right...

The laughing in the audience feel like cries, and here she is – grieving, always grieving for a people that has not yet died, and that will never accept her.

Her father steps forward, momentarily forgetting the many rules that should prevent him from intervening but his daughter had already done so moments prior. Míriel herself is already reconsidering her ire, and Galadriel looks, if Mírëala is correct, confused if not curious.

It's Halbrand who speaks. "It seems to me that our leaving presents some complications," he states the obvious, and effectively turns the attention to him, the low man speaking to the Queen. "Mírëala is right. Perhaps it'd be better if we stayed..."

"Stayed?" Galadriel echoes.

"She is right?" the whole crowd murmurs. Even Mírëala herself looks surprised.

"...long enough, good Queen," is spoken through gritted teeth, "to give you, your advisors and your Seer adequate time to weigh our request. A few days, perhaps?"

Tar-Míriel is no fool and sees through his flattery like rays go through the water. She looks at Mírëala. Her Seer has not yet recovered from being publicly supported – or mentioned as useful to the Queen. She stares at Halbrand, the same way she did on the boat. Two, round eyes, like an owl. He nods at her. She barely realises that she is expected to nod back.

She meets Míriel's gaze, and nods at her. The proposition raises no visions of Númenor falling, no petals turning to blood. Even if she strains herself as far as she can publicly, there is still nothing alarming, not with this idea. And so, the Queen relays the message to her Chancellor, who sighs, and steps forward.

"Three days. And the Elf is to be restricted to palace ground."

Galadriel's nose scrunches up in fury. "I will not be made a prisoner."

"I would sooner knee-cap a stallion than seek to imprison the mighty commander of the Northern Armies."

The crowd laughs. Mírëala does not. "It is a far worse fate that awaits you, if you wish to continue disrespecting her."

Ar-Pharazôn, for all his quiet contempt of Mírëala, knows the timber of her voice in moments of prophecy. And he knows this too; she would go out of her way to make sure it happens.

He clears his throat. "You shall be Númenor's guest," he tells Galadriel, who has softened at Mírëala's comment.

This was not the worst outcome she had seen but it was far from being the best.

Once the whole ordeal was over, Mírëala sent her Queen a fleeting glance, to which she nodded – she could be excused, for the salary as a Seer was not enough to pay for her brother's and her sister's tuition, not with her father's own money going to their food.

She had found a way to earn money, even if it wasn't always so... easy.

But Mírëala does not leave just yet. Instead, she follows her father's receding figure, calls out for him, the way the voice does in her head. Dagger – Finrod's dagger! – she needs the dagger.

Stealing from him is easy. He asks if she is okay, because he had heard the obvious chatter from the crowd, seen their stares, and she smiles, tilts her head just so, and knows when to slip the dagger out of his belt, and right into her dress.

Tar-Míriel, because she won't know, will not reprimand her, and Elendil will forgive her with the right bat of her lashes.

Galadriel is already up the stairs when Mírëala reaches her. It seems she heard her coming, when she turns her head slightly towards her with anger that is barely true.

"'A mirror of my own greatness'?" she repeats. "You would sooner call me prideful."

"You are prideful. It does not hurt your character because you have reasons to be, but they do not know this."

Appreciation shines on her face for a moment that Mírëala cannot ignore. "Flattery will not make me forget that the Southlands are agonising as we speak."

Mírëala has a half-crooked smile, something catlike. "Should a portion of the world meet its end, I rather think I'd be the first to know. You would only be second."

The Southlands, as far as Mírëala can see right this second, are not in immediate danger. There is still time to be spent.

Galadriel stops, and smiles, too. Mírëala, despite what she thinks of herself and what others think of her, has a way to speak directly to your heart. "Silvertongued, you are," she says.

"And bearing gifts."

She grabs her hand and presses the cold metal of the dagger against her flesh, forcing her to take it, to hide it as she did. This time, Galadriel is surprised, but Mírëala feels that sense of familiarity that overwhelmed her on the boat, when she first saw her.

This was to be her friend. Great friends. Maybe this was where it began.

Her blue eyes meet her own brown, fondness brimming at the seams.

"Now," she starts. "I cannot say that this isle is welcoming, I would not lie to you so. But there are good people here. Do not antagonise them all. You might be surprised."

She sees it clear as day, hears it as she does the waves ashore. Her father and Galadriel, riding to the Hall of Lore, helping her save the people of the Southlands. Galadriel's weariness of Númenoreans is understandable, their welcome have been everything but, and Mírëala knows this better than most.

Her father would always be an exception, and that exception would always make her island redeemable in her eyes. Redeemable is the only thing she can muster towards the floating rock.

"Thank you," Galadriel tells her, and the Seer only smiles. Yes, this is the start.

Mírëala turns around, feeling someone looming over her shoulder. Strange, her father does not know about the dagger for another few hours– Halbrand is standing behind her, head slightly tilted towards her, green eyes fixated on her.

She barely has time to adjust to his height, blocking the sun from outside. "I'm curious."

She hums, turning and walking forward, somehow knowing he would follow. "We already have so much in common, Halbrand."

"I know, it is truly surprising." She merely huffs. "How was this supposed to go? Assuming you did not see me, what was the outcome should I have not been here?"

Mírëala watches him over her shoulder, amused. "Are you saying you saved the situation?"

He smirks back. "Was it not a team effort?"

She turns back. "Well, in any case, that is not how it works. You simply made it harder for me to see what would happen." She sends him a look, and finds him arching a brow. "There are many outcomes. Trust me, this one was not the worst."

A small laugh escapes him. "I dread to think what you consider the worst."

"Well, Galadriel was ready to pay with blood."

They keep walking, nearing the gates to the city. Mírëala tries not to be unnerved at her cecity, and tries not to force visions to come. She cannot deal with a headache on top of this day.

She thinks back to the audience, to the people laughing at her, the sound drowned out and familiar. It used to make her cry at night, but tears were useless. Now, she simply recalls their faces, and conjures their future. Watching them die was revenge, in a way.

"Thank you," she says, voice barely over a whisper. "For helping me. I fear this won't make you many friends."

Halbrand stares at her – in that same way he did when he first walked through the doors, and she finds herself looking away. "Perhaps it will have made me one."

The calmness of it all is... when she walks with someone, Mírëala finds that she is amongst memories and testimonies of past and future. With Halbrand, there is only stone, and him.

The silence can be comforting, too.

"Mírëala, I have another question," he pipes up again.

She takes a deep breath. "But I am the one who asks too many?"

"What good is a Seer to the court if no one listens to her?"

Mírëala stops dead in her tracks, and turns to him, half accusatory, half taken aback. He is not... wrong. She is used to being the one saying the most outrageous of things, and even if he so callously put it, he is really not wrong. Is this how it feels, to talk to her?

But Mírëala knows that the Queen listens to her, and that there is not much more she can ask for. As long as Tar-Míriel heeds her warnings, and she does, all will be well. And down, down, down the leaves go...

She finds a question to rival his. "Three days," she says.

He blinks at her. "Excuse me?"

"You asked for three days of consideration," she says, walking again. "Are you not at all excited at the idea of going back to your homeland?"

She doesn't look back to gauge his reaction; she has already seen the way he closes up, back on the boat, and can picture it in her head. Eyes dark, jaw set. "Would you?"

Mírëala considers it. If she found some place where she was accepted, truly, and listened to, and away from here... She has dreamed of it, when she dreams for herself and not for the future of others. Well, she supposes she wouldn't go back, but doesn't see herself being given a choice, and especially not this one.

"What will you do, then, when Galadriel goes there? She will save many." She cannot picture it quite yet, but knows that Galadriel was a saviour. "Why would you not follow to aid?"

He stops walking. "I have been searching for my peace for longer than you know," he claims, voice rough with emotions. "For both our sakes, she has to let me keep it."

An insidious thought seizes Mírëala. Envy. Why should Númenor be anyone's peace, if it was to be her prison? This was not fair. Little things were, but this specifically brought acid to her mouth.

"Perhaps Númenor is not the place to begin anew," she claims, forcing her neck up to look at him, feeling as idiotic as a chicken. "Perhaps it will be your own cage."

He hums. "Perhaps some peace would do you good as well."

"Númenor will not bring me peace," she retorts hotly. "If I was given your chance, you would not see me again."

"Wouldn't that be a shame?"

She does not know if he means it, or if he is just joking, but she does not think to ask. Asking always leads to anger, she found out. And if it is not anger in his eyes as he leans even closer to her, it is something that resembles it to a fault. Red, and hot, and fiery.

She remembers she has not answered yet. "You would need to find someone else to pester. Galadriel might be less receptive."

He laughs, and the sound follows into the beginning of his sentence, any uneasiness gone. "Will you show me around this island that you detest so? I'm afraid I cannot loathe what I do not know."

Mírëala opens and closes her mouth. She thinks this is what she likes the least of all the things that comes with not being able to predict his future; not knowing what he'll say, and finding herself gaping like a fish.

She narrows her eyes at him. "I... cannot, right this moment." She starts walking again and this time, he does not follow. "I have matters to attend to."

He nods, a half-smile on his face. "Then I will find you later."

"Very well," she agrees, entirely too surprised by his request.

She does not make it very far before curiosity burns her to her bones.

"... When?" she asks, turning back.

His smile broadens. "I'm sure you would like to know. Do try not to make any new enemies while you're away."

She gives half a chuckle, something that sounds a little sad, all things considered. "There are no new enemies to be made."

"This does not reassure me." His tone is amused, still. She did not know he needed to be reassured. "Then, try not to get hurt because of it."

That is one of the many promises she cannot make.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have so many reasons for many things that happened here I'm like an overpacked bag about to burst like actually i fear foreshadowing is my favourite thing ever