A/N: With this chapter, my 8 year tale comes to its end.
Melimehtë opened his eyes, but a veil of shadow hung over them, blurring his vision. He lay on a cold, flat surface. The stars spun in dizzy circles through the ceiling above him. Collecting his bearings, he lifted his neck and saw a bandage shielding his abdomen. It was stained and smelled of blood. The Man figured he must have received a very serious injury, although the wound did not grieve him. He was in an open court on a raised platform surrounded by torches of black fire.
In the corner of the room, he just made out the fuzzy edges of a concealed entity.
"My lord, is that you?" he tried to utter.
Sauron answered him. "It is. What do you recall?"
"My memory is foggy. I remember my people betraying me, torching my fort, slaying my men, and running me through. And you told me I shall be a king, whereon you gave me something… a ring."
"You were slain, but you did not die, for I healed you with sorcery. Thus, you will be a king of dark magic, a witch-king."
The Witch-king found no pain on sitting up. He observed the gold ring on his finger, twisting his hand side to side to view it. The Maia came closer and took a seat on the platform.
"It was not any ring that I gave you, but a talisman that shall keep you from dying how you did before, at the hands of men," he explained.
The Man noticed Sauron staring behind him. He turned and beheld eight crown-wearing men standing horizontal at the shoulder in a line. They did not speak, watching the Dark Lord expectantly.
"Here are your fellow kings, but you are their chief, and my second-in-command."
At Sauron's words, the line of kings turned inwardly to create a half circle, leaving the space in the middle vacant. Melimehtë glanced at the Dark Lord and again to the men. He moved off the dais and joined them, taking his allotted place in the center.
The nine kings aged slowly for hundreds of years, deathless but fading, until their physical forms could only be discerned in the shadow realm. All that remained of them on earth was a set of empty robes held together by the power of the rings. They had become the Nazgûl, or ring wraiths in the language of Black Speech.
In due time Sauron's tower in Mordor, Barad-dûr, was finished. Owing to its use of the One ring, the headquarters stood not far from the forge in Orodruin.
He built it to be taller than any of his previous fortresses, hundreds of stories high and fortified by layers of iron and steel. The top of its uppermost tower peered over the heads of the mountain ranges. The Dark Lord might have made it higher still, if not for obvious structural limitations.
While Barad-dûr's construction was still in progress, the thought crossed his mind to give out the last seven of his rings to the third race of Middle earth. Aulë made the Dwarves resistant to corruption, but even craftsmen of their tier had to be impressed by the rings of power.
He called for his attendant and handed him the remaining rings in a sturdy casket, which he then tied up in a sack. "I have decided you will deliver these to the Dwarves in my stead, since you are not intelligent enough to be tempted by the rings."
The wraith acted flustered. "Thank you, my lord."
"It's not a compliment."
His attendant gave no heed. He stuffed the bundle of rings into his robe, said farewell to his master, and set out for the stables. After a long journey, the messenger arrived at Khazad-dûm in the Misty Mountains. He tied his horse to a tree in the neighboring valley, doubting if this was indeed the correct location. Why had the Dwarves built doors far too big for their makers?
"Hello? Dwarves of Khazad-dûm?" Only his echo answered from the deep caverns. "My lord Sauron, king of Middle earth, sent me here with gifts as proof of his good will towards you!" There was still no reply, although the messenger felt many invisible eyes bearing on him for the duration of his visit.
He tried returning to Mordor with the rings, but Sauron shoved him back out the door.
The dutiful servant retraced his steps to the hall of Dwarves and demanded a second audience. This time, he received an answer. "We won't be acceptin' any gifts from Mordor," a gruff voice said, seeming to come from the mountain itself.
"That's a real shame. My master desires only peaceful relations on our two sides, but if I tell him you rejected his gift, I can only imagine how he might respond…"
Silence descended. His legs quaked when he thought about facing Sauron again with his failure, so the wraith placed the bundle before the giant doors and hid in the bushes off to the side. After an uneventful hour passed, he knocked a third time.
"This is your final chance!" the messenger warned. "If you reject my master's offering, he will see that you have chosen to be enemies."
He turned away and took a long walk in the nearby hills, close yet far enough away not to be seen. Several times he became entangled in webs or lost his footing on the precarious terrain, until he was very disgruntled and fatigued. When he finally circled back to Durin's Halls, the bundle of rings was missing. At first the wraith feared a curious beast might have pilfered them, but in the end decided the Dwarves' love of gold was too great to resist, and he hurried to tell the good news to Sauron.
The messenger was begrudgingly allowed in once his master saw he did not carry the gifts on his person.
Sauron frowned. "I do not sense anything – no one has put on the rings."
"Maybe, being Dwarves and therefore strange, they are doing other things with the rings," the wraith suggested.
"Perhaps," the Dark Lord admitted.
Having distributed his rings, the king of Middle earth, who ruled all the way from Harad in the south to the borders of Ered Luin in the north, focused on eliminating every remaining threat to his power. He sent forces against Lindon and closed in on the Númenórean outposts to make it clear their presence was unwelcome.
As the Númenórean kings became more daring, they fought battles with Sauron on the coast, both sides struggling for dominion over the peoples living there. And with the twenty-fifth king lay Mordor's greatest threat, for he was war minded and thought only ever of conquest. So Sauron was much less surprised by the events following his rise to the throne.
Leagues from Barad-dûr he spotted the ships off the shore, hundreds of them, sails crimson as if dyed with blood. He knew the Men of the west had come to challenge him.
They marched in units of gold, silver, and bronze. Ar-Pharazôn rode in front, and behind him a throng of servants carried his throne on a dais. The king did not order his Men to stop until they arrived in the lands just beyond the mountains of Mordor. There the servants laid down the dais and Pharazôn took his seat, as well as a horn that he then blew. At the sound of it the Orcs trembled and threw down their weapons in fright, as if Oromë himself had come on his white horse to spear them down. Even his best captains backed away rather than contend with such a massive force.
Perhaps the plan to spread hubris on Númenor had been in err.
"Sauron of Mordor, high up in your black tower of steel! Come face the forces of Númenor in surrender, or else meet us in battle, that we may prove the stronger!"
His armies would not fight, and the odds did not look good regardless. The only option left was to act as Melkor and feign to be a weak, humble captive. Fortunately, acting was Sauron's strong suit. He took the crown off his head and set it on a table next to the window.
The brave king paled once the gates of the fortress creaked open. His soldiers gripped the hilts of their swords with white knuckles. The lord of Mordor strode towards them with no less grace in defeat than in victory, his long cape grazing the dust a good length behind him.
He reached the king, where he sought to kneel. His legs felt weighted with lead, resisting his command. Drawing on great stores of willpower he brought low his head before the army of Númenóreans.
"I am he that you summoned," he told the king, and his eyes held no fear, but certainly spread it among the Men. "Yet that is a name given me by the Elves, not my true name."
Ar-Pharazôn squinted. "Then what is your real name?"
"Lord Mairon."
"And do you surrender, Tar-Mairon, to the supremacy of Númenor?"
He clenched his teeth so hard the words barely came. "I must, for you have bested me."
The king commanded his men to chain Sauron's hands, and the latter could not help but imagine himself in Melkor's place ages prior, bound in the chain Angainor and dragged off to the West. But he would not be caught groveling… no, he had not fallen that low.
He was brought to the ships with whatever wealth and slaves the Númenóreans managed to sack from distant cities, but he did not cower on the deck, choosing to stand straight and tall at the prow as the craft skimmed the waters on to the port of Númenor.
The people gathered at the docks of Armenelos to witness their king's return. Noticing Sauron among the prisoners, they fell at Pharazôn's feet as if he were god. The Maia rolled his eyes in disdain. What's worse, Númenor had only increased in wealth and splendor since Sauron had last seen it. Everything was encased in gold and built to last many centuries, as though the Men made their cities live forever, even if they would not.
Anger and jealousy welled in his chest as the soldiers led him past the gaping crowds to the palace. He wanted to tear the stones from the lofty buildings and stomp on the royal burial mounds, but instead the Maia lowered his head and put on a humble front.
Ar-Pharazôn was already seated on his throne by the time his regiment brought in the prisoner. Sauron hadn't paid much attention before, but up close he observed the king to be an intimidating character. He had sharp, piercing eyes and imposing features. He wore only the richest fabrics and the brightest armor. The same crown his ancestors had worn adorned his brown locks, but it did not sit well, as if it had been forced there. A row of advisors sat on either side of the throne. They were engaged in discussion over what to do with the Dark Lord when he entered the hall.
"Send him to the prisons, my lord," a councilor bid. "The longer he stays in your presence, the more he will seek to deceive you with honeyed words."
Sauron held up his chained hands. "I've lived for thousands of years and am a vast source of knowledge, far wiser than any in your court, and now I am your suppliant, forced to do as you command. But if you send me to the prisons, I will duly go, my king."
Ar-Pharazôn studied the prisoner under heavy brows. He was careful not to let Sauron know his plans. "Yes, he shall go to the prisons, for now. His fate shall be decided later."
The Maia was escorted not by any guards or attending servants, but an entire troop of the king's soldiers led him to his room. Sauron laughed when he saw how much they must fear him. They did not lay a hand on their charge, but opened the door of the prison cell and ushered him in. The Maia obeyed.
He was given soap and new clothes and allowed to bathe. Once all this was done he lay on the cot in the bare chamber and clasped his hands to his chest while he waited, for his release was inevitable.
Sauron took a short nap, and a few hours later awoke to the soldiers inserting a key ring into the prison door. He sat up quickly and looked surprised. "What's all this, then?"
The soldiers drew open the door and took several steps back to make room for the Maia. "Ar-Pharazôn the king has summoned you to his court," they answered plainly, refusing eye contact.
He was led again to the assembly hall and knelt at Ar-Pharazôn's feet. A stoic court resided left and right of the hostage. Queen Míriel glowered down at him with a vehemence she made no attempt to conceal.
The king began his sentencing. "Tar-Mairon, for your impudence in challenging the might of Númenor, I condemn you to be a servant in the royal house. You shall do as anyone in my court commands, and no sort of freedom will be given you without my approval."
Across the floor, Sauron caught a glimpse of the councilor who spoke against him shaking his head in disapproval.
The Maia received the sentence with false reluctance. He spent the next months fetching tablets, waiting on councilors, and flattering every official he served. Few could say anything bad about the Dark Lord back then, had they wanted to.
In the meantime, he contrived how he might kill Ar-Pharazôn and destroy the race of Númenor for subjugating him before Mordor. In this one arrogant man lay the culmination of the seeds Sauron had previously sown, which after hundreds of long years gradually bore fruit. Now Sauron had only to drive him over the edge.
Indeed, the king already inquired after his past, and the Maia wove a sad tale of being expelled from Valinor for his loyalty to Melkor.
"Who is Melkor?" Pharazôn interrupted. "I have never heard of this god."
"The Eldar and Valar would not want you to. Melkor is the greatest of the Ainur, being the wiser and more powerful brother of Manwë. He has always fought against his brethren because he disagrees with their rule, and in their folly, they heed him little. If Melkor had his way, Men would not be banned from the West, but even on the same level as the gods."
He knew he had captured Pharazôn's attention. "You say you served this Melkor?"
"I was at the top, second only to Melkor himself."
"Where is he at present? Certainly not dwelling among the Valar?"
"No, the rest of the Ainur waged war upon him out of jealousy, and Manwë shut him in a prison in the sky. Despite his position, Melkor does not forget his followers and helps them whenever he can. If we do enough works in his name, we may yet succeed in freeing him."
Pharazôn stroked his beard in thoughtful habit. "What kind of works?"
"Worshiping him of course; punishing those who reject him, offering worthy sacrifices…"
The king scoffed at that and remained skeptical, refusing to admit that his curiosity was piqued, or that he gave ear to every piece of knowledge Sauron shared. Once the king learned of his knowledge in craftmanship, Sauron was entrusted all the more, helping to improve the fleets, the armory, and numerous other facets of the military.
For his efforts the king granted him a personal chamber not far from the councilors'. After retiring, he skimmed a book on Númenórean history by dim candlelight, flicking idly through the pages until sleep tempted. It had reached a late enough hour that Sauron deemed it safe to summon his chief servant of the Nazgûl. The Witch-king's ghostly presence filled the space of the room, empty just moments before.
Sauron observed his anger – although his grim, haggard face was invisible to everyone else, Sauron could view the shadow realm as easily as this one.
"Who is this insolent descendant of mine?! Let me go to him, my lord, and I shall throttle the wretch in his sleep!"
The master raised a hand to calm his servant. "There is no need, Melimehtë. Everything is going according to plan."
"How do you mean?"
"Would one as mighty as I allow myself to be captured, if there were not some benefit for me in doing so? Here I have a better chance of arranging the downfall of Númenor than I ever did back in Mordor."
"I hope for it," the wraith said. "I bear no love towards this land any longer, not since its people turned on me and killed my men."
"But your master was there for you then, just as he always will be. Now I need you to look after my affairs during my absence. Also begin preparing my fortress as if I were to return any day."
Melimehtë bowed his head, swearing his undying loyalty. The edges of his robes ebbed and the wraith blinked out of sight.
On his return from many an errand on behalf of the king, Pharazôn stopped the Maia to question him.
"How do you like dwelling here, Tar-Mairon? And how is it having me as your lord?"
"You have been kind and generous towards me, my king. Only one thing mars my comfort here – your councilor, Amandil. He sends me ill-bearing looks when he thinks no one is watching."
"Worry not. I will send him away so the man troubles you no more."
The king kept his word. Amandil ceased to occupy the room at the same time as Sauron, although he retained his influence, for he was well respected by the other councilors.
But Ar-Pharazôn listened eagerly to Sauron's storytelling, drawn in by the triumphs he told of Melkor in his full might. At last he put aside the old gods and began worshipping the Lord of Darkness, the one whom he believed would make him immortal.
The Maia obtained his consent to build a temple dedicated to Melkor on a hill overlooking Armenelos. Black as pitch were its high walls that curved into a domed ceiling plated with silver. A ventilation shaft at the top aired out the flames burning on the dark altar. Here the priests made offerings in the hope that Melkor might heed them and be free of imprisonment.
"My lord should fell the white tree, Nimloth, that stands in the palace yard. It would make a fine offering to Melkor," Sauron casually slipped into a conversation with the king.
"I would do so, but the faithful will never permit it to be felled," Pharazôn replied.
"Why does their opinion matter? You are the king. Besides, Melkor will punish them for refusing you when he returns."
Eventually the king gave in to Sauron's constant nagging and woodcutters felled the fair tree Nimloth. Sauron hurried to begin preparations to reside over the ceremony. He donned obsidian robes and put on a mask of an intimidating nature, being based off the face of Melkor himself. Then he passed through the vestibule towards the temple.
As he walked the length of the passageway, a splendid embroidery adorning the wall caught his intrigue. It was no work of Men, but Elven handicraft, specifically the house of Finwë judging by its flawless composition. The faithful of the palace refused to let artwork of the Eldar be taken down, and the king did not often bother.
Gold thread made the fire in the image gleam and glow, the details exceedingly lifelike. The viewer observed an early scene of the Noldor under the tutelage of the Vala Aulë. Their faces were young, bright and eager. Aulë offered both his hands, one holding a hammer and the other a cluster of gems, in every respect resembling an endearing father figure. Sauron looked to the right of the smith and his heart slowed. Among the assisting Maiar he recognized one, however unfamiliar and distant, that must have been himself. He traced his finger over the person's warm and patient features.
So engaged in the tapestry, he did not notice a councilor join him and stand at his elbow. "Who is that?"
Sauron let his hand drop away, but his eyes remained raptly fastened on the matching pair in the threadwork. "No one. At least, no one who is longer with us."
"I thought immortals could not die?"
"No, they cannot. It is death in a different sense, a willing choice not to live. Men must die whether they desire it or no."
He went to move, but the eyes prevented him, and in distress the Maia staggered forward with all his strength. He cast a fearful glance back down the hall to check if he was being pursued.
The councilor watched with concern. "Are you all right, Tar-Mairon?"
"Yes, I…" He tore his gaze from that enchanted tapestry. "Never mind. Let us meet in the courtyard for the ritual."
The priests of the temple offered the white logs to Sauron in procession, who burned them upon the altar in the name of Melkor, Lord of Darkness. Pungent smoke hung heavy about the land for hours afterward.
By then the faithful had been expelled from Armenelos for rejecting Melkor, but Sauron convinced Pharazôn they were also ideal sacrifices. Those whom the Maia managed to hunt down he charged with opposing the will of the king and slayed them cruelly on the altar.
As his influence ever increased, he built Pharazôn's confidence, nudging him towards the idea of an attack on Valinor itself. It would be the most impudent and reckless action ever conceived by Men. And surely, the Valar would never allow such a haughty mortal to live. Once the king was dead, he might enslave the more useful Númenóreans, and destroy those who displeased him.
It was only a matter of time. As Pharazôn aged with every passing day, the more emboldened he became. To Sauron's disbelief and inner glee, the king built a massive fleet thousands of men and slaves strong to advance on the gods in the West.
Manwë must have observed the commotion from Taniquetil. Before the Men could depart, he sent clear warnings in the sky. Thunder and lightning raged upon the isle and the rain did not let up. Great clouds rolled in, resembling Thorondor and his giant eagles, and the people were afraid and doubted their strength.
Sauron too became fearful, lest his plan should fail when at the brink of fulfillment. The Númenóreans looked to the Maia for aid, so he scaled the top of Melkor's temple and defiantly raised his arms to the sky, laughing all the while. "See how these are but apparitions meant to dismay you? Take no heed, be firm and proud, let the gods tremble at your strength!"
Reassured by Sauron's daring display, the fleet put out from the harbor with Ar-Pharazôn in his golden armor at the fore. The Maia climbed down from the temple, his robes soaking wet, and hid within the building before he pushed his luck and a stray lightning bolt managed to hit him.
Once alone in the temple he ascended the steps and sat in his chair behind the altar. There he waited for the ships to be struck down enroute to Aman, never to return. He laughed every time the visual replayed in his mind.
The Maia removed his mask and held the face of Melkor before him. "I hope my lord sees this now, even from the impenetrable darkness of the Void. You would be proud at how cunning your old lieutenant has become."
His scheming thoughts had already turned to future endeavors when the ground suddenly shook all about him and the Maia felt his chair sinking. In seconds he flew out the door, turning this way and that, and beheld the island eclipsed by tremendous waves rising off the coasts. The screams and panic surrounded him in a bubble – some ran away, some fell on their faces and begged forgiveness, others made for the ships. But none reached the port, for the waters fell and crushed them, and still they moved on to destroy every square inch of that isle. Sauron stood in shock, lost for words. When the waves reached him, he barely had the chance to run before he too was submerged and swept into the sea.
The carnage of Númenor - its stone buildings, broken ships, and corpses - floated in the swirling ocean. Strong currents dashed the survivors under the surface again and again, and each time Sauron breached the water he heard the endless cacophony of chaos, a disorder he was helpless to fix. And then he met with the stifled silence of the underwater void, a complete contrast to the world above.
His physical form was destroyed. The immortal spirit broke free of its vessel and floated effortlessly to the surface. As he departed the cold grave, the Maia searched the dark sea below for his corpse.
Down, down, his body was drifting away. But one of the hands outstretched towards him, and there on the right pointer finger was his ring, like the last token of devotion from a servant to his master.
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