VI.) The Hallow and the Throne
The peak of Meneltarma, highest mountain of the isle of Numenor, was unlike that of most mountains. Shaped like a great bowl, it held at its centre a vast field of grass, which rippled in the mountain winds like the waters of the Sea. By the edge of the field stretched a forest of tall, smooth-barked trees of the sort admired by the Elves. Rare flowers grew amidst the green grass in the shady spaces between the trees. Ages before, they had been brought to Numenor from Valinor by visiting High Elves, in the distant times when Elves were counted by the Kings as friends of Men.
This was the Hallow of Eru, the creator God. The Numenoreans did not have temples, for they believed that nature itself was a grand temple to Eru. Here, on the highest peak of their island, was the only place apart from Andunie where Men could hope to glimpse the Tower of Avallone a clear day. No matter what the time of year, the Hallow remained temperate and evergreen. In this place, the Men of Numenor believed they were closer to Eru than anywhere else they could voyage on Earth. Thus the Hallow was declared by the Kings to be sacred to Him. Only the Keepers of the Hallow, whom some Men likened to priests, were permitted to dwell within. They passed their days in tending to the Hallow and its trees and flowers, though it had been many years since pilgrims had regularly visited the Hallow, and since the Kings made their thrice-yearly procession there in offerance of the first fruits of the season, and observation of the rituals that marked the worship of Eru.
Queen Miriel – Ar-Zimraphel, in the common tongue of Numenor – stood amid the waving grasses, noting absently how her graying black hair was stirred by the breeze. She creased the fabric of her long black dress between her fingers, and sighed.
Miriel often came to this place, alone, to soothe her spirits when life in the Palace became unbearable. She was past a hundred and twenty now, but if she did not look half so old, she felt much older. More than ninety years before, when she was still young, and held to be the fairest maiden in all of Numenor, the death of her father King Ar-Inziladun had lead to her coronation as Queen. She was his only child, and so by the laws of Numenor only she could adopt the title of Monarch. Whatever man she chose to marry would have no claim to the throne, and could only bear the title of Prince Consort.
Yet it was not to be. Her first cousin Pharazon, son of her father's younger brother Gimilkhad, had not been content to bear the mere title of Prince, and many men loyal to him had been ill pleased to see a woman occupy the throne. They had grand designs for the power of Numenor, the scope of its dominion, and they did not believe a woman could carry out the task they envisioned for the new Monarch. Pharazon was their man, but he was not the heir to the throne, and by the ancient laws of marriage he was not even permitted to marry his first cousin and act as Prince Consort.
Pharazon, however, cared little for the law. This trait drew him to the attention of a particularly corrupt and venal faction that ancient party of nobles known as the King's Men, which ever since the distant days of King Tar-Atanamir had turned its back on the Elves and their ways, and sought wealth and power in place of knowledge and wisdom. With the support and encouragement of these patrons, Ar-Pharazon had forced the Queen to marry him against her will.
This satisfied Pharazon's sponsors, who would have been content for Pharazon to rule the land as Prince Consort, while the Queen reigned as a mere figurehead. Yet, Pharazon had barely finished repeating his nuptual vows before he proved himself to be a man with his own ambitions, and no mere instrument of a party of courtiers. Unwilling to accept that anyone should rank above him, he added insult to injury, and shocked even his own supporters, by seizing Miriel's crown, scepter and throne, and crowning himself Ar-Pharazon the Golden of Numenor. Thus, Miriel reflected bitterly, a man who held in contempt the laws that all Monarchs were sworn to uphold had stolen her birthright.
Miriel, shakened and angered by the insults and humiliations that had been heaped upon her, had expected the people of Numenor, both commoners and nobles, to rise to her defence. However, most of the commoners viewed Pharazon's palace coup as nothing more than the latest round of political intrigue, and they soon accepted Ar-Pharazon the Golden as their King. For their part, many of the nobles had sneered at Pharazon the Usurper, as they now called him, behind his back - even though they fawned over him in his presence.
Those who sneered too loudly and openly had soon found their shoulders relived of their heads. Yet, Ar-Pharazon was as shrewd as he was ruthless, and he used the office of King to distribute many concessions and perquisites to those nobles willing to accept such gifts in exchange for their support for his claim to the throne. Ar-Pharazon proved so adept at this murky game that, within very little time, the vast majority of the nobles had decided that his rule was congenial to their interests. Accordingly, even those who secretly held the King in disdain made no efforts to oppose his rule.
The Lords of Andunie had stood virtually alone in refusing to accept Ar-Pharazon's gifts. It was rumoured, to the disbelief of many, that they had done so not in hope of extorting a higher price for their support, but because Amandil had disapproved in principle of Ar-Pharazon's actions. Whatever his motives, though, Amandil had not dared to set himself against the will of the majority of the nobles and commoners of Numenor. And so Miriel was left alone, and defeated.
Miriel had not borne the so-called King any heirs. That seemed not surprising, since Ar-Pharazon was far more enamored of his numerous courtesans than he was of his Queen. He paraded her for official functions of state, but apart from that rarely saw her or spoke to her. She whiled away most of her days in enforced idleness, sometimes in the Palace Garden, and sometimes in her chambers.
Miriel knew that if Ar-Pharazon were to die before her, which seemed likely given his age, the laws of Numenor would forbid her as a widow from remarrying. As one who still respected the old ways, she was not inclined to violate them. Therefore, if she did not bear an heir for Ar-Pharazon, the consequence would be the end of their line of succession. Miriel regretted not having any children to carry on her line, although another part of her was nevertheless relieved that her blood had not been mixed with that of her usurper.Still, she wondered, why would Ar-Pharazon not wish for his own heir to succeed him on the throne? He sometimes talked vaguely of producing an heir, yet his words never seemed to hold much conviction. It was almost, thought Miriel, as if the old fool believed that he would live forever! And he was not likely to change his mind with that honey-tongued flatterer, Sauron, was constantly at his side. Sauron had practically convinced Ar-Pharazon that he, the King, was in fact a living god.
Miriel's humor grew even worse when she thought of Sauron. How had the Dark Lord of Mordor, sworn enemy of the Men of the West, become the Steward of of Armenelos and practically the right hand of the King? Miriel seemed to be the only one in the Palace who was even half-capable of resisting his smooth charm. When in his presence, she always found his words to be fair and just. Yet, after his departure, when she reflected on those words, they would often strike her as mere flash and glitter, devoid of any substance.
She was well aware that the ladies of the court found Sauron to be more than merely charming, since they had long whispered amongst themselves about his ever-youthful, unearthly beauty. But although Sauron was a master of flirting and gallantry, he had, so far as Miriel knew, never shown any interest in romance. Rather, he spent as much of his time as possible in the company of the King, or the so-called King's Men. He seemed to exercise a mysterious hold over them, though Miriel could not discern its nature.
Miriel herself found Sauron's face to be attractive. Yet, she also found his presence to be disturbing. It was not just that he had long been the enemy of Numenor, before Ar-Pharazon's apparent taming of him. When Miriel stared into the black pupils of Sauron's clear blue eyes, they always struck her as utterly void, as windows into nothing. She could not stare into Sauron's eyes without feeling a cold chill run down her spine. Sauron even seemed to be aware of her fear, for at times, even as he spoke fair words to her, his features bore a smile that she could only describe as mocking. How was it possible that no one else at court, not even the women, shared her dark intuition about him?
"Your Royal Highness" said a gruff voice behind her.
She turned around with a start, forgetting for a moment how it usually grated on her nerves to be addressed as "Your Royal Highness", rather than as "Your Majesty" – as if she were Ar-Pharazon's consort! But she was too astonished to dwell on her grievances. Standing before her was a man clad in the silver armour, and black tunic bearing the design of the White Tree, that she recognized as that of the Royal Household Guard of Numenor.
The Queen was shocked that the Man had spoken to her, for it was forbidded for anyone save the Monarch to speak within the confines for the Hallow. Moreover, the Keepers of the Hallow rarely permitted soldiers on active duty within its sacred precincts. Strangest of all, the Man openly bore a spear in his right hand, while his sword was attached to his belt – Miriel knew that weapons of any kind were never permitted in the Hallow under any circumstances.
"My lady" continued the guardsman, seemingly oblivious to his obligation to remain silent within the Hallow, "you must leave this place now. By order of the King." He thrust a scroll towards her with his left hand. "The King requires your immediate presence at Armenelos. We have a cavalry escort waiting to take you there at once."
Miriel glowered at the guard, but took the scroll without comment. She followed him across the grassy field, and climbed the path up though the forest to the rim of the Hallow of Eru, which formed the summit of Meneltarma. When she reached the summit, she could see the whole isle of Numenor spread out before her like a great emerald jewel, although a mass of clouds and mist in the West prevented her from seeing the beacon from the Tower of Avallone. Outside the Hallow, there were more armed guards waiting for her, along with several horses.
As they helped her mount a horse, she wondered why she could not see any of the Keepers of the Hallow; there was always at least one who stood where the path met the brink, and whose task was to admit or deny those who sought pilgrimage within. Turning to the guardsman who had escorted her from the altar, she asked "Where is the Keeper who guards the entry to the Hallow? Nor can I see any of his kin, even though their white robes are usually visible from afar."
The guard stared at her with hard eyes and said nothing. Some of the other men had mounted their horses. "Ride on!" said the guard, turning to them. "Don't stop for anything until the Queen has reached the Palace!"
One of the guardsmen on horseback took the reins of her horse, and led her down the winding mountain path into the grassy Vale of Norinan, the Valley of the Tombs. As she rode, could see a pall of dust rising from the trail far below, and moving away from them; riders who were also journeying from the mountain towards the Palace. More guards, she wondered?
As she descended into the Vale, she could many doorways of pure white marble, fronted with pillars of black onyx, cut into the base of the Mountain. Behind these doors, she knew, were chambers wherein lay the tombs of the Kings and Queens before her, stretching back to the incredibly ancient days of Elros Half-Elven, known to Men as King Tar-Minyatur. Tar-Minyatur, and each succeeding ruler in his line, had his own lifelike statute mounted on his tomb.
Within each tomb lay the body of the Monarch. Many of the more recent bodies were perfectly preserved. The Numenoreans, in their quest for means to improve their medical knowledge and extend their lifespan, had as a byproduct of their researches become masters of the art of embalming. In this manner they sought to diminish the sting of death, for at least their bodies would not have to suffer the decay that was the lot of ordinary Men.
Only Monarchs who legally occupied the throne of Numenor had a right to burial within the Vale of Norinan. Miriel wondered idly whether she would someday rest wih her ancestors, or whether Ar-Pharazon the Golden would usurp even this privilege from her.
On the fiftieth anniversary of the Great Victory, and two years after Elendil's secret visit to Lindon, King Ar-Pharazon the Golden summoned representatives from all the noble houses of Numenor to his throne room in the Royal Palace at Armenelos. Even the Lords of Andunie were summoned, although the growing breach between them and the King since their internal exile was the source of much gossip amongst the hangers-on at court. Amandil had pleaded ill-health, and Elendil that he was needed on urgent local matters in Romenna. Elendil had instead sent his sons, Isildur and Anarion. Isildur was now twenty-three, Anarion eighteen. Both were considered highly eligible prospects for marriage by the ladies at court, notwithstanding their political differences with the King.
The vast throne room of the Royal Palace at Armenelos could have encompassed a small army, and was more than spacious enough to accommodate representatives of all the noble Houses of Numenor, as well as the officials and minions of the court. It was circular in shape, and fashioned of white marble. The huge domed roof, painted dark blue, and cunningly set with gems that twinkled like stars when the sunlight shone through them, was supported by graceful pillars of marble inlaid with flowing patterns in silver and gold. Along the base of the dome, many arched windows allowed sunlight and the sea-breeze into the room. In the recesses behind the pillars were silver fountains, whose pleasant murmuring echoed quietly throughout the vast hall. At the eastern end of the throne room, a pair of bronze doors guarded the exit to the long, marble-pillared corridor beyond. At the western end of the throne room a series of steps led up to the golden throne itself, a massive object decorated on its armrests and its peak with carved golden eagles with precious gems for eyes. To the left of the throne, from the viewpoint point of one sitting in it, sat a small bench, carved of ivory. To the right of the throne sat a matching bench, carved of ebony. To each side of the throne, set in the wall behind it, were doors of dark-stained wood, inlaid with patterns in ebony and ivory. Members of the Royal Household Guard, magnificent in their armour of polished silver and jet black tunics, bearing the White Tree design of the royal family, stood at attention by these doors, and along the base of the steps leading up to the throne, their spears pointing proudly towards the dome above.
The assembled nobles stood in the hall facing the throne, the sounds of their gossiping echoing around the room. There had been no indication of why they had been summoned, for in previous anniversaries of the Great Victory the King been content for parades to be held in each major city. Speculation about his purposes therefore ran rampant. Anarion, dressed in robes of blue and white, strained to hear some of the conversations around him, while Isildur, wearing robes of blue and green, stifled a yawn. To think they had traveled halfway across Numenor to hear a group of elderly nobles and courtiers gossiping! He was just about to suggest to his brother that they find some way to make a surreptitious exit when he snapped to attention at the sound of blaring golden trumpets.
Looking up, he could see the doors had opened. Heralds, dressed in robes of black and white, walked though the doors, continuing to blow their golden trumpets. They marched down the stairs below the base of the throne, and blew their trumpets a third time. One of them – the very same herald who had pronounced sentence of exile on the Lords of Andunie, two years before - then pulled out a large scroll and said, in loud and very officious voice;
"Hear ye, Hear ye, nobles of Numenor! Ye have been summoned to an audience with your King. Now, stand ye at attention in the presence of these distinguished personages:"
"The Honourable Steward of Armenelos, Lord Sauron."
Though the door to the left of the throne, Sauron entered. He was dressed entirely in robes of black, under a black cape trimmed with cloth of gold. Around his neck shone the silver-medallioned chain of the office of Steward, and on his right hand, he bore the ever-present ring of gold with its curiously glowing letters. He strode past the throne to the black bench, and stood in front of it, the very image of poise and dignity. The assembled nobles bowed their heads briefly. Isildur and Anarion stared intently at the infamous Sauron, for this was the first time they had seen him. Anarion noted the slightest trace of a smile on Sauron's coolly perfect face. Isildur heard several ladies in the crowd giggling appreciatively.
"Her Royal Highness, Ar-Zimraphel."
The Queen entered from the same door as Sauron. She was dressed entirely in a gown of white, which offset her graying black hair and blue eyes. Her still attractive face bore an air of faded nobility. She stood in front of the ivory bench, to Isildur's right, and stared above the heads of the nobles beneath her. They bowed their heads again, for a bit longer this time. Isildur could detect the Queen's dour mood from two score feet away.
"His Majesty, Ar-Pharazon the Golden."
The King entered from the door to the right of the throne. He walked past Sauron, then turned and stared at the assembled nobles of Numenor. The lords snapped out a crisp salute, right hands drawn up into a fist clenched to their left breasts, while the ladies curtsied elegantly.
Those from the outer provinces who had not seen the King for some years were taken aback by his appearance. Prior to naming Sauron as his Steward, the King had looked like an ordinary Man of about sixty. Now, at over two-hundred years of age, he looked closer to an ordinary Man of eighty. Many fine lines creased his pale face, and his silver beard was growing wispy. His firey blue eyes stared feverishly at the crowd, a sly grin distorting his features. He bore the silver, bejewelled crown upon his head, and the golden sceptre in his right hand. His arm seemed a bit palsied under the weight of the scepter, which swayed gently back and forth. Anarion noted that the King was dressed in most un-regal fashion, wearing gaudy robes of scarlet and purple, and a cape of purple and gold silk.
The King sat down slowly in his throne, and without so much as a glace at Miriel looked at Sauron. "Ye may stand at ease" said Sauron to the assembled nobles. He and Miriel then took their places on their respective benches.
There was silence for a moment, while the King's eyes roamed back and forth over the assembly before him. His eyes lingered on Isildur and Anarion, his smile contorting into a frown. Then, mustering an air of owlish gravity, he directed his gaze at the entire assembly, and spoke:
"Nobles of Numenor" said he, in a dry, harsh voice, "you have been summoned here to witness a most momentous occasion. The most momentous occasion in the history of our proud island."
He certainly had their attention now. He continued:
"Today is of course the fiftieth anniversary of our victory – your King's victory – over Sauron of Mordor. Then, he was our enemy. But he recognized that the power of Numenor is greater than that of any other power upon this Earth. Yea, he recognized the power of Numenor, and bowed before your King. He has since proved himself to be my most loyal, trusted servant, and I am grateful to him for his counsel."
"My leige" said Sauron, bowing his head briefly.
"As you know," continued the King, "our Royal Steward is very ancient – notwithstanding his youthful looks – and a loremaster of great renown. It is from his lore, and my own researches, that I have uncovered a great revelation." Ar-Pharazon's eyes gleamed, his face now bearing a look of keen anticipation. "Yes, a great revelation. The most important news that Man has ever received! And on this, I have based a decision that shall rebound across the World and back again, and shape the destiny of our proud island and our mighty empire for all time. Shall I now reveal this news to you?"
"Tell us, my liege!" cried a voice from the crowd. Anarion recognized it as coming from Nuphkor, the noble whom he and Isildur had confonted in the mountains above Andunie two years before. Thanks to Sauron's meddling, that confrontation had led to the internal exile of the Lords of Andunie to Romenna. Nuphkor caught Anarion's stare, and briefly glowered at him, before turning his gaze back to the King.
"I shall tell you" said the King. He turned to Miriel, acknowledging her existence for the first time that afternoon. "You were summoned here yesterday, were you not, my Queen?"
"Yes, my liege" she said, in a weary, toneless voice.
"And from where did I summon you?" asked the King softly.
"From the Hallow of Eru, my liege." Isildur noted that a frown crossed Sauron's face, though only for an instant.
"From the Hallow of Eru. Of course. And tell me, my love, did you see Eru there?"
Miriel looked shocked. The crowd was deathly silent.
"My liege?" she asked, uncertainly.
"I asked you a question, woman" said the King, his voice grown hard and cold, abandoning any pretence of civility. "Did you see Eru there, or not?"
Miriel could not believe her ears. What was this blasphemy? And in front of practically all the courtiers and nobles of Numenor! Had Ar-Pharazon finally gone completely mad? Was this some sort of jest? Yet looking into his fiery blue eyes, which bored fiercely into hers, she could see it was no jest. And that she had better answer, and quickly.
"Nnn..No, my liege" she said, in a soft, trembling voice.
"Louder, woman!" barked the King.
"No, my liege."
"No, you did not see Eru." The King turned back to the crowd, noting with pleasure that Isildur's jaw had dropped, while Anarion stared up at him grimly. "Did you hear that, my loyal subjects?" asked the King, who now adopted a shocked, scandalized air. "The Queen of Numenor went to the Hallow of Eru, and yet Eru was not there to greet her! How rude of Him. How insolent!"
The crowd remained silent, though Nuphkor's face was twisted with a mocking grin.
Ar-Pharazon turned his attention back to the Queen, whose body was trembling like a dry leaf in the autumn winds. "Now answer me this, woman. Why was He not there to greet you?"
"Whh..well...my liege...He is never there to greet His supplicants."
"He is never there?" asked the King, his face forming a mask of astonishment. "How can that be possible?" Then he smiled, slyly. "I have the answer to that question. It is the revelation of which I spoke earlier. Can you guess it?"
Miriel was silent, tears running down her cheeks.
The King turned to the nobles beneath him. "Can any of you guess it?"
Silence.
"No? Then I shall tell you." The King's smile became triumphant. His eyes gleamed exultantly, his voice harsh and powerful. "He is never there to greet his supplicants, because he does not exist!"
Now many nobles were staring at the King, open mouthed. Isildur noted that Sauron was openly smiling, his fair face beaming with mirth.
"That is right, you fools!" cried the King. "There is no Eru! For more than three and a half thousand years, your ancestors have worshipped a false god, one who does not exist!"
"But note that I did not say that the Creator does not exist. Oh yes, He does. He certainly does. I have felt His power. My servant Sauron has felt His power. My loyal followers, those who are touchingly referred to as the King's Men, have felt His power. And soon, all of you will feel His power too! For it has been long since He walked this Earth, but His time is coming. Soon, very soon, He will return in justice and in vengeance, smiting the rebellious Valar, and their Elvish lackeys, and all those dogs of Men who worship the false oracle Eru!"
"But to his followers – his loyal followers – He will bring great rewards. For those Men who bind themselves to His service, those who make the necessary sacrifices when He demands them, He will grant their dearest wish – their heart's desire."
The King paused dramatically. "He will grant that which the Valar and the false oracle Eru have always denied us."
The King raised his voice triumphantly. "He will grant us eternal life!"
"Eternal life!" shouted the guards around the throne, without warning.
"Eternal life!" shouted the heralds.
"Eternal life!" shouted Nuphkor, and the King's Men in the crowd standing near to him.
Others in the crowd, who were noted for their venality or their cynicism, began to take up the cry. "Eternal life! Eternal life!" they shouted, and the whole room was filled with their shouts and cries. Isildur remained silent, astonished at what was going on around him. Anarion looked pale and frightened. The Queen was slumping on her bench, practically fainting with shock and terror. Sauron smiled even more broadly, the glowing letters of his golden ring suddenly as bright as fire.
After some minutes, Ar-Pharazon silenced the crowd with a gesture from his hand. Then Nuphkor, as if on cue, called out "What is the name of the true God, my liege?"
The King smiled. "Lord Sauron, will you not answer his question?"
"With pleasure, my liege" replied Sauron, in his high, clear voice. Rising from his bench, he turned to the assembled nobles, and said:
"The true God is the Lord of the Darkness, the Lord of the Great Void that existed before Creation. He has been called many names, but his true name is Melkor, He Who Arises in Might. And in Might he will punish those oppose Him, and reward those who serve Him – yes, even reward them with eternal life! Those who follow Melkor shall become as gods themselves!"
For a moment, the room was silent. Of course...that fair voice, so clear, so soothing, had always spoken the truth to them...yes, the creator was Melkor...the Lord of the Darkness...
"Liar!" shrieked the Queen, and in an instant the spell was broken. She was on her feet now, pointing her trembling arm accusingly at Sauron. "Fiend! You blaspheme the name of Eru while standing in the heart of Numenor! The very island He created for the dominion of the Men of the West! Vile serpent, get you gone to the Void, to the home of your black master Morgoth, and take this creature your King with you!"
Sauron's fair visage cracked, though only for a moment. His smile twisted into a terrible frown. His eyes glared murderously, matched in intensity by the fiery script of his golden ring.
Meanwhile, Ar-Pharazon had leapt to his feet. "You dare to challenge your King!" he cried, in a harsh, shrill voice. "You dare to blaspheme the sacred name of Melkor, and the word of his herald Sauron! Traitor!" Before she could say anything, he lifted up his golden scepter and smashed it against her chest! Instantly, she dropped to the ground, a broken, crumpled heap. Isildur rushed toward her, but the guards at the base of the throne pushed him back, spears at the ready. There was a murmuring amongst the crowd.
"Get the wench out of here!" Ar-Pharazon screamed, drool dribbling down his chin. Two guards picked her up and dragged her away, though the door to the left of the throne.
Meanwhile, Sauron had regained his composure. The script on his ring had subsided to its usual curious glow. "Sit down, your Majesty" he said, "and calm yourself." Instantly, the King returned to the throne and sat down, his eyes oddly vacant. Sauron then turned to the crowd, and addressed them:
"It is now my duty to inform you of three commands of the King" said he. "They have been documented in writing and sealed, and will be placed in the Hall of Records for those who care to look upon them." Isildur noted that Sauron's voice was not quite as fair as it had first seemed; it had an edge to it that was hard and cold. Anarion, trembling with shock and fear, took Isildur's arm for support, and stared at the fiend above them.
Yet, Sauron's voice sounded as alluring as ever to those who had taken up the cry of "Eternal Life!" some minutes before. Isildur could see by their faces that the Dark One was swiftly regaining his hold over them.
"First" said Sauron, "the rituals of worship of the false oracle Eru, and the treacherous Valar, are banned forever in the Land of Numenor, and all the lands of Middle Earth under its sovereignty. Any Man who sets foot in the so-called Hallow of Eru shall be subject at once to penalty of death."
"Second, the True God Melkor, Giver of Freedom, requires a temple and priesthood to honour him with worship and sacrifice. I shall recruit the priesthood from the most deserving of the King's Men. The temple shall be constructed in the great public square that lies at the heart of Armenelos. I shall forthwith order the conscription of slaves from the lands of Middle Earth to build this temple, and the requisitioning of raw materials for it. By order of the King, I myself shall personally oversee this temple's construction. When it is completed, I shall be its High Priest, and officiate the worship of and sacrifices to Melkor conducted there."
"Third, as to sacrifice; Melkor's generosity to his followers does not come without a price. Melkor demands their absolute loyalty and obedience. These qualities are proven through the offering of sacrifices. It is in exchange for such sacrifices that Melkor confers Eternal Life, and worldy power and wealth, on his loyal worshippers. The King has ordered that as High Priest, the responsibility of determining who is to be sacrificed to Melkor, and when, shall be mine alone." He smiled, seeming amused at the thought. His eyes glittered keenly. "And my command is that the first sacrifice to Melkor in this land shall commence forthwith!"
Sauron signaled to the guards. At the far end of the hall, the great bronze doors that led into the corridor beyond opened with a groan. The crowd stepped back as a group of guardsmen pushed what seemed to be a giant brazier of bronze, mounted on bronze wheels, into the center of the throne room. Isildur noted that the brazier seemed rather crudely fitted together, and appeared to have been recently constructed – for this precise moment? Anarion, his whole body trembling now, face bathed in cold sweat, noted that a small flight of stairs ran up one side of the brazier from its base to its lip.
At a signal from Sauron, another guard ran from the corridor to the brazier, bearing a flaming torch. He raced up the steps, tossed in the torch, and jumped aside. Instantly, the brazier, which must have been fueled with pitch beforehand, roared with a huge fire. The intense heat pushed the crowd even further back, toward the walls of the throne room.
"Let the sacrifice commence! Bring forth the honoured victims, so our God may feast upon them!" cried Sauron, with a laugh that was clear and cold. Isildur watched the guards and the brazier warily. Anarion looked at the crowd, most of whom seemed enraptured, although a few were as horrorstruck as himself.
There was a commotion from the entrance to the throne room. Then, to their horror, Isildur and Anarion saw who the guards were dragging in, bound hand and foot. It was the seven white-robed Keepers of the Hallow of Eru! As they saw the fate Sauron had in store for them, some prayed aloud, and some wept, while others begged for mercy. "I am sure Melkor will consider your pleas for mercy, once your souls have been delivered up to Him" laughed Sauron. "Cast them in!"
Isildur felt his blood turn to ice-water as, one by one, the bound, struggling Keepers of Eru's Hallow were dragged up the steps of the brazier and cast alive into the pitiless fires of Morgoth! As their terrible screams began echoing though the chamber, Ar-Pharazon cackled manically on his throne, the gleam of madness in his eyes.
"To Melkor! For life eternal!" shouted Nuphkor from the crowd.
"To Melkor! To Melkor! To Melkor!" the crowd shouted ecstatically, the roar of their voices drowning out all but the highest-pitched screams of their victims. Was it not as Sauron the Wise had told them? Did not the sacrifice of these lackeys of the Valar, who had promised Men nothing but the tomb, pave the road to eternal life for Melkor's followers?
Isildur could stomach no more. He turned to Anarion, who was leaning heavily on him. Anarion looked ready to be sick. "Quickly brother" whispered Isildur, "let us leave this accursed place, before the Dark One decides to make sacrifices of a few youthful nobles as well." Anarion nodded weakly, and Isildur led him out of the throne room. The baying horde of men and women, their faces twisted with bloodlust and greed, did not even notice the brothers' exit, and the stony faced guards did nothing to hinder them. Isildur noted that several other nobles, mostly those from outlying provinces who had little contact with the court at Armenelos, were also leaving the room, their faces stricken with anguish and disgust.
As Isildur walked through the great bronze doors that opened on the corridor leading to the exit from the Palace, he felt compelled against his better judgment to look back one last time at the scene of horror. All of the victims had now been cast into the fire, and their screams could no longer be heard over the roar of the mob. Isildur prayed their spirits had already been released up to Eru. The fire from the brazier gave off a black, oily smoke that twisted to the top of the domed roof and out of the windows like a great serpent. Before Isildur turned away, for the last time, he looked at Sauron, visible on the stairs beneath the King's throne. Sauron's seemingly fair visage was twisted with a mocking grin, and he stared triumphantly at Isildur. Even from this distance, Isildur's Elven-keen vision allowed him to discern every feature of the Dark Lord's face. Isildur noted how unpleasant were Sauron's eyes; amidst the blue irises, his pupils were darker than the blackest midnight, windows into the uttermost abyss.
Isildur twisted his glance away from Sauron. As took the stunned Anarion by the arm, and led him briskly down the corridor towards the Palace's exit, the group of noblemen and their wives who had left the throne room caught up with him.
"My lord Isildur! My lord Anarion!" said the eldest man amongst them.
Isildur recognized him. "My lord Earakhor" he replied. He recalled that Amandil had spoken of Earakhor of Eldalonde as one of the few nobles who displayed on occasion some wisdom.
"My lords" said Earakhor, his silver beard trembling, tears rimming his brown eyes, "we have seen here today a horror that has no name. Now we shall rue the day that Sauron the accursed and abhorred ever set foot on our once fair island. For I no longer deem this land or its people to be fair; we have been cursed with a foul blasphemy that shall rebound from one side of the World to the other. The Valar themselves will cry out with shock and horror, and yea with fearsome anger when they hear of this! To think we should live to see the day when the Keepers of Eru's Hallow should be bound hand and foot by the King of Numenor's bodyguards, and sacrificed by fire to Morgoth Bauglir in the King's throne room, with the King's approval! Verily, we have lived to see the last days of Numenor. For I deem that at the very pinnacle of our power and glory, the darkest night has fallen upon us."
Isildur stared at the man and nodded, but said nothing. Anarion seemed dazed, beyond comprehending any words. Earakhor looked at the ashen-faced nobles who had accompanied him, and their sobbing wives. These grave men nodded at Earakhor, and he turned back to Isildur and spoke:
"My lords" said he, "those few of us who did not join the baying mob in that charnel house" – he gestured at the throne room – "know there is only one beacon of light left amidst the darkness of thrice-accursed Numenor. That beacon is the House of Andunie; your noble grandfather Amandil, your worthy father Elendil, and you lads Isildur and Anarion, who are both wise beyond your years. May we accompany you on your journey back to Amandil's palace at Romenna? For we shall not linger here any longer, and there is much we would discuss with your grandfather and your father."
"A thousand blessings upon you, my lords and ladies" said Isildur, managing a wan smile. "Your presence at Romenna is most welcome!"