Beneath the Waves
Challenge: Water
"… all, again save the Witch-king, feared water, and were unwilling, except in dire need, to enter it …"
-The Hunt for the Ring, Unfinished Tales, p. 343
The Coast of Umbar, Mid-Third Age
A solitary figure walked along the sandy beach as velvety blue twilight lazily descended over land and sea. His black cloak fluttering forlornly in the balmy ocean breeze, the figure was a gloomy apparition against a sunset which was as colorful as an artist's palate. Where he stood, it seemed that the shadows of the night rushed in more quickly, as though his very form itself absorbed the last rays of the sun and transformed them into inky darkness.
He had come to Umbar upon official matters, but his visit to the seacoast was a personal one, a journey which held great sentimental value to him. The Belegaer called to him, and at times he felt like an Elf beset with the sea-longing, but he did not yearn for the golden sands of Valinor, but rather for places and lands of his half-remembered youth so long ago.
Pausing in his melancholy exploration of the beach, the lonely man cast his gaze towards the West, raising a gloved hand to shade his eyes from the light. The sun sank beneath the cobalt waters in a fiery blaze of glory, an aura of gold and amber surrounding her luminous form, sending out golden streamers which danced over the crests of the waves.
But yet the man was not admiring the beauty of the sunset. His eyes were fixed upon the horizon, that perfectly horizontal bar of dark water which seemed to sever the sky in twain as smoothly as the sharpest blade of mithril steel. In his mind's eye, he saw beyond the furthest distance seen by the eyes of Men, beyond the encroaching darkness that rapidly covered a sleepy Arda, beyond cloud and mist and distant storm, beyond the very barriers of Time itself.
He saw a fair land which once was, but was no more: Númenor the Great, Atalantë the Downfallen.
Thousands of years had passed since she had sunk beneath the waves, but he still longed to return to the land of his birth, the place where he had spent his youth… Hazy visions of rolling green hills and ivory cities upon the coast played at the edges of his memory, only to dance and flit away like mischievous elven maidens in an enchanted forest. An older man with piercing silver eyes and hair of raven black, a kindly woman who regarded him with a tender smile, a cheerful young girl in a gown of pale pink, her long tresses done up in ribbons and braids… Father, mother, sister…? Or perhaps other kinsfolk, or the family of a friend whom he had once known…? Their faces faded into the mist before he could recall who they had been.
So many memories had been lost, while others came and went like wandering shades in the night. Sometimes he did not know which parts of his past had really happened, and which parts were the lies and illusions of his Master. But despite the bouts of amnesia and confusion which plagued his mind, a dread and terrible knowledge always burned its way through the many layers of lies and truths that composed the detritus of his memories:
The land of Númenor had been rightfully his.
"Truly thou art meant to be a King," the Fair One had told him, His velvety voice thick like honey. "Were it not for the New Law, thou wouldst be sitting upon the throne in Armenelos today. My heart grieves for the injustices done against thy family, and I wish to right this horrible wrong that has been dealt to thy line."
"What price must I pay for Thy aid?" the Númenórean lord had asked. Though the Fair One's hypnotic voice swirled and eddied in his mind like plumes of intoxicating incense, the Númenórean possessed a strong will and retained enough wit to know that few boons of such magnitude came free.
"Give to Me thy loyalty, O Prince of Númenor, and I shall make thee a King." The Fair One extended His fist, slowly uncurling His long, ivory fingers to reveal a golden band crowned with a brilliant diamond. "This Ring shall grant thee power beyond thy wildest dreams and shall serve as a token of our alliance. Thou hast but to take it, and Númenor shall be thine."
And thus he had given his loyalty to this Fair One in exchange for the throne which was his by right of birth and inheritance.
Unfortunately, he never sat upon that vaunted seat. Sauron called him to Barad-dur, and there he had dwelt for many long years, studying under his Master's tutelage. Every time that he had asked his Master when he would return to Númenor and rule there as king, the Deceiver would tell him in that velvety voice of His, "Soon, soon, My servant. Thou art not yet powerful enough to take the throne. Thou must be patient and wait but a short while longer, but do not despair: I always keep My promises."
Meanwhile, in Númenor, the succession of false kings and queens had continued until Ar-Pharazôn forced his cousin Míriel to be his wife so that he could take the throne. A man of great might and power, Ar-Pharazôn took an enormous host of men to Middle-earth and declared war upon Mordor. Before surrendering to His enemies, Sauron assured the Lord of the Nazgûl that this was all part of His brilliant scheme to rule Arda, and that His servant's patience would soon be rewarded. Sauron would go to Númenor as a prisoner, but He would use His insidious powers of persuasion to seduce His enemies and turn them into His adoring followers. Once Sauron had His revenge and Ar-Pharazôn and all his cronies had been disposed of properly, Sauron would return to Middle-earth, and the Lord of the Nazgûl could finally take his rightful place as King of Númenor.
Unfortunately, Sauron's plan did not work out as He had intended.
His hands clenching into fists, the Lord of the Nazgûl threw back his head and shrieked into the Umbarian night.
Oh, Númenor, Númenor, the Jewel of the Sea… All that was left of the land of his birth was a tiny island, the tallest peak of the Meneltarma, the sacred mountain which had risen from the center of Númenor. Of course, there were those who said that the Isle of Meneltarma did not exist, that it was only a myth invented by Dúnedain sailors who hoped that some small piece of their ancestral home still existed. Legend had it that if one could find the mythical island, he could climb its summit and peer into the West and perhaps catch a glimpse of the Blessed Land in the distance. But there had been no accounts of anyone who had reached the Isle of Meneltarma, only rumors and the outrageous tales told by drunken sailors in taverns by the docks.
Once, many long years ago, the Lord of the Nazgûl had tried to find the Isle of Meneltarma. Though the Nazgûl did not favor water, he was still a man of Númenor, one of the ancient Sea Kings, and the salt of the ocean ran in his veins. He had journeyed to Umbar, where he had contracted the captain of a pirate ship to take him on a voyage into the great unknown. The man had been hesitant at first, but his apprehension had quickly vanished when he learned of the great sum the Nazgûl Lord would pay him and his crew for their services. And thus, having both a boat and a crew at his disposal, the Morgul Lord made ready to set sail for the distant West.
His kinsmen Rutfîmûrz and Udukhatûrz, the Sixth and Seventh Nazgûl, had longed to accompany him on the voyage, but their fear of water had been too great. Though they had also been of Númenor, their wills were weaker, and their courage failed at the prospect of venturing into the realm of Ulmo. Their hearts breaking, they had stood despondently on the shore, watching with misty eyes as the ship sailed out of sight.
The voyage had been long and arduous, fraught with many dangers: fierce storms which turned the sea into a roiling cauldron of fury, the very distance of the ultimate destination, and perhaps the displeasure of the Powers themselves. The Belegaer was oft treacherous, and many were the tales sailors told of the perils that awaited in Ulmo's watery domain: the Oarni, beautiful nymphs who bewitched sailors with their dulcet voices only to lead them to their dooms; great serpents called Lingwilóki and other terrifying sea monsters that snapped ships in twain and gobbled up their crews; and immense whirlpools that opened up like great mouths in the water and devoured entire fleets.
But for the Nazgûl, the waters held an especial peril which was far more threatening than the host of monsters which dwelt within the fantastic tales of sailors. All around him, the Lord of the Nine could feel the power of Ulmo pressing upon his being with such incredible intensity that he feared he might drown upon the boat itself. The waves which lapped against the side of the ship pounded against his mind and spirit, filling him with dread and confusion and smothering his powers like a sodden blanket thrown upon a fire. Though he could control the moisture within the air, turning rain into snow and sending the bitter winds of winter upon his enemies, the sea was not his domain, and the Nazgûl was but a guest of the Lord of Water.
"Ah, such irony," the Nazgûl mused as he looked out over the prow. "Is not the mastery of the Belegaer my birthright, for am I not of the men of Númenor, the Lords of the Sea? But yet now I am as weak and vulnerable upon the waters as a fish upon land." He chuckled mirthlessly, a dry, humorless sound which was reminiscent of brittle old bones rattling against each other.
The crew shivered and looked around apprehensively. Though they had been paid a goodly sum in advance and promised an even more handsome reward at the termination of their contract, the pirates were still frightened by the Morgul Lord. The sea seemed to disturb the wraith, and he often fell into fey moods. When this melancholia had darkened his mind, he seemed even more terrifying and dangerous than he usually did. At those times, the perils of the sea had an attractive lure to the pirates … to have one's spine snapped in twain by the tentacles of a sea monster might be a more preferable fate than being the victim of one of the Nazgûl's spells of never-ending death. It was not as though they could just toss him overboard and sail back to Umbar. How could a man kill one who could not die? The wraith would simply crawl back onto the ship and slay them all by raising his hand and uttering a word of dark sorcery. He would not even have to use a sword to end their wretched lives!
"Soon ye will stand upon yer old land once again, m'lord," the pirate captain remarked, licking his lips nervously. It was always best to remain in a Nazgûl's good graces.
"Perhaps," the King remarked, his voice raspy from the bone-crushing pressure he felt upon his chest. "Or perhaps Ulmo's mood shall become violent, and we will all meet our doom in the watery depths below." He tried to laugh grimly, but it turned into an unpleasant, hacking cough. Turning away from the pirate captain, he discreetly wiped a bit of blood from his lips. He felt the might of the Lord of Water all around him, squeezing at his heart and smothering his brain with mind-numbing delirium. It was all he could do to keep shrieking in agony and terror from the oppressive weight of Ulmo's power.
It was not long after that brief exchange that one of the men on lookout duty sighted the dark form of a distant landmass towards the west. The sight brought a surge of excitement to the crew, and the oarsmen took their positions and began to row furiously. Unfortunately, a sudden storm came up, and the skies grew black and foreboding. Torrents of rain pelted the ship, and the craft bobbed up and down upon the sea like a cork in a cauldron of boiling water. Fierce winds lashed the vessel, and the mast groaned against the raging gales. Men frantically worked to bail out the water which splashed over the sides, lest the ship sink beneath the angry waves.
It was the fury of the tempest that made the Lord of the Nazgûl realize that the island that they had seen in the distance was indeed the Isle of Meneltarma. No Eagles of Manwë appeared in the sky to warn him, but he knew instinctively that his presence was not welcome. The Valar did not want a servant of the Enemy polluting what remained of the sacred mountain of Númenor. It did not matter to them that he should have been the ruler of that land, and that if one wished to discuss technicalities, he was the King of Númenor, by rights of seniority. To them, he was nothing more than just another thrall of Sauron, and they could smite him as easily as one crushes a troublesome gnat.
With great reluctance, the Nazgûl Lord commanded the ship's captain to turn around and head back towards Umbar. Though as an immortal being, he would probably survive the destruction of the ship with only minimal damage to his physical form, he did not want to sacrifice the crew to the whims of the Valar. The pirates were more than glad to comply with the Nazgûl's wishes. Their fear lending them great strength, the oarsmen struggled to turn the ship away from its course towards the island. Once they had gotten the craft pointed towards the east, the men rowed frantically away from the dreadful storm and the accursed island, which was now enshrouded by mist. The Lord of the Water seemed pleased with the Nazgûl's capitulation, and the oppressive weight which held the wraith lord's body and mind in its invisible grasp was greatly lessened. For the first time in weeks, the Nazgûl could breathe easily, although there was still a shadow of dread in his mind. A strong wind from the west caught the large square sail and bore the pirate ship into safer waters, far away from the Isle of Meneltarma and the memory of ancient Númenor.
As the Morgul Lord walked along the coast of Umbar, he thought back to his days in Númenor and the futile voyage he had made in later years to see if anything remained of his ancient land. At least he had been able to see the hazy outline of the Isle of Meneltarma, and that sight would be a memory he would cherish forever… or at least until his Master deemed it fit to purge his mind of the recollection.
Though the sight of the island had brought delight to the Nazgûl's heart, it did nothing to appease the longing he felt, nor assuage the resentment which simmered deep within his being like a glowing ember which would never burn out.
Sauron had promised him a crown and a kingdom, but had delivered him nothing but sorrow. The Deceiver had destroyed his land, his home, his people, and no amount of simpering apologies and glistening golden tears would ever serve as compensation for that grievous loss. For this crime, there could be no forgiveness.
The Lord of the Nazgûl would never forget. No matter how many times Sauron raped his mind, subdued his will, and wove spells of enchantment around his tortured soul, he would never forget. Sometimes he wondered if it was his hatred for Sauron, and not the power of the Ring, which prolonged his life beyond its due course.
There was freedom in hatred - a tiny spark of freedom, but still a spark - and he clung to it as he clung to his memories of the past, of a land beneath the waves, of a kingdom which was never his.