Chapter Thirty-Three

Warning: This is intense- nothing like chapter twenty-three, but more intense. This is the beginning of the events that lead up to the Lord of the Rings, and the Hobbit as well as Akallabêth and the Shadow of Mordor, although nothing will be destroyed just yet.

Annatar smiled.

If anyone, anyone had seen that smile, it would have frozen them to the core. Right to their very fëa. Not even the strongest could have withstood that.

For not even Morgoth, who had seen the smile a number of times, when presented with his greatest schemes, could have looked upon that smile without feeling cold, even frightened.

But ultimately, reminding himself it was for their triumph.

For this was no mere earthly being. This was no Maia sent by the Valar. This was an Umaia- one of Morgoth's servants. One of five.

The Old Woman, sent by the Valar, had been right.

Annatar had many names. He had been called Mairon, first of all, with the epithet 'the Admirable'. He had been called Gorthaur, by the Sindar meaning 'Terrible Dread'. He had many names, but although they heard of him, few were had ever been so unfortunate, as to glimpse his face.

It was he who orchestrated the terrible, abominable plan on the children of Húrin Thalion, and forced their unfortunate father to watch. It was he who hid in secret when the Valar came to chain Morgoth once more, with the promise that never again would they allow him to be set free. And it was he who was the Lieutenant of Angband, and captured the father of the same queen who now carried Gil-Galad's child

And now Annatar- another name- was planning his most poisonous plan- a plan to destroy all hope within their one greatest resistance and fighters, as well as to conquer all of Middle-Earth.

A plan to set himself above even Morgoth.

He held up a finger and pricked it with a needle of iron.

Black blood, dark as the void, bloomed up on the cut, like a mockery of life. It spilled down on his finger until he turned it over and dripped it into the waiting container made of glass. It flooded the container, almost as fast as water, but nowhere as pure, and filled the bottle, swirling darker than ink with the promises of forbidden darkness and power.

He smiled.

Someone, hidden beneath a hood watched and waited.

"Whoever consumes this will be greater in power and might than the strongest of kings," he whispered as he beheld the black-coloured blood in the bottle. Mightier and more powerful than the Umaia four who served the Dark Lord. Stronger than the Maiar of the Seas. Train him, and there will be nothing he could not do, nowhere he cannot conquer, nothing he cannot destroy." He breathed, and his eyes were bright with the promise to come. "But it will burn out his elvenhood, as poison drains life from a person."

He gazed at the bottle for a long while then passed it to the hooded figure.

"You know what to do." He said. "And soon, with the rise of the Kingdom of Mordor, this will create the strongest lieutenant, the most powerful one I have.

"And soon the Dark Lord Morgoth would be merely an honoured memory."

The figure took the bottle in his gloved hands and bowed. "Yes, my Lord of Arda," he whispered.

It was a human voice.

Ereinion insisted on Estela sleeping early that night, and on having food delivered to her on a tray.

She rolled her eyes as she ate supper on a lap-tray in bed.

"You're treating me like an invalid," she reproached. She took a bite out of the roasted capon. The rich lamb stew in the bowl was warm, and there was poached egg, custard tart and tea.

Ereinion smiled. He sat down on the bed beside her. "I love you," he whispered. "And I fear that nothing lasts forever. Only my love for you. I only hope you will." His eyes were filled with worry.

Their hands touched. "I love you." She said. "There is nothing I wouldn't do for you," he whispered. "Nor for our child."

Estela smiled.

"It will be several months to go." She smiled. "Don't fear, my love. You know I will never leave you, not willingly. And our child will thrive and grow with you as a father."

His hand lingered over hers, and all was warm and silent between them. But always there was an undercurrent of dread. The feeling that there may not be that much time.

He kissed her and held onto her, until she laughed and playfully swatted him away. "I thought you wanted me to eat."

He laughed as well, but the door to their chambers knocked.

Ereinion's sharp eyes straightened. "Come in."

The attendant bowed. "My lord, my lady. There is a messenger with news from Lord Círdan- about Númenor."

Estela froze, and Ereinion turned back to her and frowned. "I will see them in the private audience chamber."

The attendant bowed his head and swiftly left the room.

Estela set down her spoon and frowned meaningfully at him.

Ereinion smiled. "It's bound to be nothing-"

"It never is."

"Just enjoy your meal, Estela and rest. I know you're not fragile like a human woman would be in her pregnancy, but if there is something I can tell you, I will tell it later."

She frowned but he kissed her and left.

Once he arrived he asked the messenger. "What is it?"

"Númenor!" The messenger gasped.

Ereinion kept his patience. "I am aware the news has something to do with Númenor."

"The King Tar-Palantir, is dead."

Shock resounded all throughout Ereinion.

"That cannot be," he hissed. He grabbed the elf by the shoulders. "Tell me this is a lie."

"This is true, my King!" The messenger cried. "Tar-Palantir has died in his sleep. His physicians say it was a painless end. He was weakening, my King, from his illness."

Ereinion released the messenger's shoulders in a shock. Shock hit him like a wave of icy water.

Tar-Palantir, their hope for a peaceful future, and reunion of alliances with Númenor, was dead.

"His daughter?" Ereinion found himself saying.

"Tar-Míriel is now Ruling Queen of Númenor."

Tar-Míriel. The maiden bore the name of Estela's foremother. He only hoped she would have the strength, courage and efficiency to not only face, but withstand and resist what would come next from the King's Men, unlike her namesake.

He realised the implications. If Númenor had not been a threat to Middle-Earth before, it surely was now.

Queen Inzilbêth and her mother Lindórië were long dead. As was her uncle Eärendur fifteenth Lord of the Andúnië, who died not long before the attack on the dwarvish settlement.

Tar-Palantir was apparently, next to go.

One by one, their list of allies and hopes for a peaceful friendship with Númenor once more, grew thin.

What now?

He made his way back to Estela's and his chambers.

Estela had by then finished eating, and smiled when he arrived. She was working on a small loom which she set aside.

"Love?" She asked. Her smile disappeared. "What is it?"

How could he tell her? How could he erase the pain, which she would sure have? She had suffered so much! And yet, if he didn't tell her himself…

Ereinion took a deep breath. "Tar-Palantir is dead."

Shock showed upon Estela's face as well as immediate denial, afterwards. "No," she whispered.

He winced. Taking her into his arms, she felt almost lifeless and numb as he gathered her into his embrace.

"He was ill, my love." He whispered, trying to soothe her sorrows. "He died in his sleep. We should be thankful. It was a painless end, according to all the physicians."

"Inziladûn," she whispered, calling him by his Adûnaic name. "Númellótë," she whispered the transliteration of the name.

Tar-Palantir.

He was gone, like all the others, the friends she held close to her heart. And her family. Only a few remained- the followers of hers who were elves, her cousin and his family, her husband and her unborn child.

The baby kicked. It was the first time her baby kicked. And she wondered what this meant, for it to signal its coming and its life at such a moment.

She wondered what his future would be.

She could sense he was a boy.

She did not tell anyone, wanting it to be a surprise.

She wept silently, but only for a while. Estela learnt long ago to crush her sorrow deep within the confines of her own heart.

But if she thought sorrows buried there could be reduced, if not forgotten, and eliminated, she was wrong. Of course she knew, after centuries of agony and grief that they would not disappear.

But she tried to supress them. It worked. For a time.

But she fell asleep.

Ereinion had given her a sleeping draft after she wept, and insisted she take it to sleep. He held her tight and she thought if it were not for him and his love…

But she swallowed the potion.

And she went to sleep.

And as she drifted off, she saw herself standing somewhere she had never been.

Somewhere where she was lucky never to go to.

It was dark, deep underground. It was deeper than any tunnel or mine the dwarves could construct.

It was so deep, and so hot, she felt lava, like the ones that consumed her father in his final moments, and she saw it.

A sight like she had never seen before or imagined.

The fire burning, the smoke, everything… those were just two of the things, she did not want to see anything else. She closed her eyes.

But soon she was forced to open them.

And instead of a chamber that held the hot blood of the earth, the molten fire, she saw something worse.

In a hall, filled with the light of hell, she saw elves fighting worthlessly against orcs, who were somehow stronger than they, forcing and strapping them to tables and using instruments of torture to put them to torment.

She heard their screams as the orcs held them down and tortured them. Screams of terror, of agony. Of panic and of despair and an overwhelming horror as they were changed. As their skin was burnt with torches, as their bones and joints were twisted and broken, as their fair forms were malformed, and their spirits changed if they hadn't already fled.

Of elves turning to orcs.

They were in Utumno, the Underworld. The hell of Melkor.

She heard screams of terror and agony and suddenly, without knowing, found herself pushed by some strange unseen force onto a table. The rocs crowded around her, their arms encircling like snares their eyes full of hate. They snarled, bearing bloodstained teeth as their malice-filled eyes looked determined and triumphant to do this one, awful task.

She fell onto the table, and held down by the same force that rooted her the day Finwë died, She saw the orcs around and above, her snarling, jeering, hissing, before they parted.

Someone was coming. Someone encased in black iron. With a helm covering his head. Someone holding something that looked like a cross between a torch and a knife. Someone coming towards her.

Before she could do anything such as bolt, the orcs leapt forwards and pulled her arms and legs down, forcing her to remain on the table. She watched with a growing horror and panic, a fear like nothing she had felt, mount up so high it was unbearable. Her eyes widened. She tried to scream, but she couldn't.

The figure approached with mounting footsteps that sounded like the Grond of Morgoth. She could not move. She could not speak. She couldn't even scream.

The figure raised his weapon or instrument, and the orcs parted to give a clear view of her belly. He raised his weapon.

Somewhere, she heard a baby scream, its echoes bouncing in her mind.

Her baby.

Estela woke with a gasp.

She was cold and shaking all over.

"Are you alright?" Ereinion had bolted from his sleep.

She could not speak. She could not answer.

What manner of dream was this?

Ignoring her husband and running… where? She went to the bathroom, although elves were not ill, the way other races were when bearing their children.

She clutched on the edges of the basin and sagged, gasping for breath, trying to inhale cold, clean air. She looked up and saw herself in the mirror.

She could not retch and heave, but there was no doubt she felt sick- she was ill everywhere in her body, shaking and pale.

What manner of torment was this? Her baby? And Morgoth?

But Morgoth was gone. He would never be released now.

But the dream?

Elven mothers could sense the sex of their child before birth, and the development. She pressed her hand to her belly. He was developing normally. More than normally actually, healthily. But even more than that they could sense the future- not see it, or understand it in great detail, but they could sense what the child's fate would be.

Such fate was reflected in the Amilessë, or mother-name. Her own mother had named her Estela- 'Hope' in the Telerin dialect. But her grandmother Nerdanel had given one of her twins the name Umbarto, meaning 'the Fated'. Her grandfather had disliked this ominous-sounding name, and tried to change it to Ambarto, but Nerdanel had prophetically announced that one of them would indeed be fated, but only time would tell which one. And the very twin she had named Umbarto at first, proved to be the one who remained in the swan-ships in Losgar- the first Fëanáro had ordered to be set aflame. He was the first of her grandfather's sons to perish.

Such dreams could not be dismissed or taken lightly, not in such moments in time.

She shivered. But did she actually see the baby being cut out and taken out of her belly? She heard his cries. She did not know whether he cried from agony, loss or merely fear. She woke before anything could happen. She did not see her child being snatched by evil, she woke up before anything could happen.

Perhaps this would mean her child would escape the very worst of evil. She shivered. He might face it, but at least he would escape.

But it still made no sense- Morgoth was gone.

Five slaves, the old lady said.

The words of the mysterious woman appeared again in her mind.

"Trust not the one who brings gifts," she seemed to hear her whisper at this very moment.

But the mystery of the Darkness was never solved. Nor the fire at Greenwood. Nor the attacks.

In reality, nothing had been solved at all.

Ereinion demanded to know what happened, but Estela felt that she could not tell him- how could she tell him?

In the morning she shook with ice-cold fear and dread. Ereinion made her drink a tonic. He believed it was the shock of the news of the previous night, combined with the fragility (for an elf) of her condition.

The tonic was delivered by a servant. She frowned. This was a human.

Estela's eyebrows rose as she beheld the young man with the tonic on a silver tray. It was in a dark blue glass bottle with a rectangular belly and a long, wide cylindrical neck, closed by a large cork. She looked at it suspiciously.

"The High King requests that you drink this tonic," the young man said.

She sighed. "Tell me, are you one of the Faithful forced to flee from Numenor, or among the ones who chose to leave?"

"Yes my lady." The man bowed his head. "The last king, Ar-Gimilzôr forced my family to leave, or be punished for treason. We arrived in Middle-Earth with the Lord Eärendur." He smiled. "And you rescued us."

"Huh," was all Estela said. "And what do you think of the events that transpired in Númenor?"

The youth was silent.

"I believe," he said quietly. "That this has only just begun."

Well, as if that wasn't obvious enough, Estela thought. She uncorked the bottle and the smell of herbs, mixed with something else- something bitter, probably, but healthy, and drank the tonic.

She placed the bottle back on the tray.

"Thank you…" She trailed off.

"Belzagar, my lady," he responded. "Belzagar." She nodded. She inwardly frowned. Wasn't that a name of a king of Númenor? The one who first started to use the Adûnaic names?

The youth Belzagar bowed and left the room.

Perhaps they were forced to use a name that would please the King's Men.

Belzagar met with Annatar in a secret place.

"Did she drink it?" Annatar asked.

"Yes, my lord." Belzagar bowed. He frowned. "But my lord that will not change her."

"Fool," Annatar responded. "It will change her infant. And I'm sure the sleeping draft Gil-Galad unwittingly gave her did as well. She needs to continuously take it throughout her pregnancy. Not unusual, of course, for an elf to consume tonics and medicines during the period of carrying a child. And as your status as a servant in the court will allow, you have gained enough trust to be feeding the queen and unborn royal heir as you have left in the dark of the night with Eärendur and his sister. Soon, I must leave for Eregion. Gil-Galad suspects something. Estela too. Only Celebrimbor has his eyes closed and his ears open. And soon our agreement will be underway and I will deliver my gifts while Celebrimbor makes them, smoothing his way into my cobweb."

He left.

Celebrimbor met with Annatar in his home.

"What do you say?" Annatar asked. "Only you have the power to change things."

And with the news from Númenor, of course, the threat of danger loomed more ominously than ever.

Celebrimbor's eyes were so blue. They held the stars, Annatar saw. The eight-pointed stars seen in his grandfather's banner and eyes.

"I say, let it be done." And Annatar and Celebrimbor, son of Curufinwë, son of Fëanáro, clasped forearms and the agreement was made.

Estela woke up from another nightmare. She was suffering these dreams.

Shaking, she got out of bed. Ereinion insisted she rest.

She saw orcs, armies, and an ash-covered land of waste riddled with fumes.

She saw a mountain- a volcano, with lava jumping from the top.

She saw several rings with gems encircling her, before merging into one- a perfect single gold piece, with no gem, but with engravings in Tengwar red as flame in the gold, that rose and fell to darkness.

She saw armies laying waste to cities and the screams of women, the terrified howling of children, the snarls and growls of triumphant orcs and the death-cries of men. She saw a cloaked figure, raising his sword in the air in triumph, but she could not see his face- his back was turned.

She heard the cries and coos of her baby.

The heat of the liquid metal rose as Celebrimbor poured the molten metal onto the mould. Heat rose higher, but cooled quickly as the liquid ran through to the moulds before congealing, to be perfectly cast into shape. The gold gleamed still hot and wet and Annatar beheld this scene, and his eyes glowed orange-gold as lava.

Seven Rings.

Ereinion irritably listened to news in the court.

Estela was absent, everyone understood. But it did not soothe him, the lack of her presence. Neither did the news.

The self-styled Ar-Pharazôn, son of Gimilkhâd, son of Ar-Gimilzôr, was gathering a massive force. His cousin, the newly-crowned Queen Tar-Míriel was outnumbered. In fact the army refused to fight for a woman. She then had no choice but to plead with most of her followers to flee. They were marching onto Armenelos.

He had discussed this with Estela. "These prejudices will be their undoing as well as ours," he said.

His wife responded. "It is merely an excuse to seize power- the supposed weakness of women, is nothing compared to the fear of these men who wish to return to the old ways, and do not enjoy being told by a woman what to do."

She was right.

And by now it was too late to send aid, and they could not convince Tar-Míriel to flee.

He cursed this. Estela had advised to send aid, but later when the situation of Tar-Palantir's death spelt danger, but now it was too late. She noted earlier, after all, that it would not be appreciated. She was torn between both. Now they were truly in trouble.

Annatar arrived after visiting the dwarves just as the news arrived. Ar-Pharazôn, as he called himself, this self-styled king of Númenor, and his men had arrived in Armenelos, the Númenórean capital.

He was holding his cousin hostage in her own palace.

And Annatar, whose dark heart was secretly pleased, smiled beneath his hood.

Estela dreamt of fire and ash, of lava and barren rock and fumes. She dreamt of armies like the sea, sweeping downwards and torching entire cities aflame.

She dreamt of hooded figures riding on giant winged beasts.

She dreamt of flame engulfing the screams and cries of burning innocents.

She saw armies of orcs and evil men commanded by a dark commander, cloaked- the same one she saw in previous dreams.

She saw the armies swallowing everything good and wonderful in their path.

She saw a sea of dead bodies.

All she saw was death.

The hammer gave a delicate clang, more like a ringing bell, as he hammered it down onto the awaiting ring.

Usually they required more delicacy these things, but the rings he was making was different.

Soon they were all finished. Seven for the dwarf-lords and nine.

Nine for mortals doomed to die, Celebrimbor said. Annatar smiled as he took one and beheld the quality of the gold, its shape and luster, as well as the rich brilliance of the gem.

His eyes glowed like volcanic lava.

"Only you can be accomplish such art, Celebrimbor."

"What does the son of Gimilkhâd, late prince of Númenor want?"

Ereinion sat on his throne in the public audience chamber.

Everyone looked uneasily at one another. Elrond looked grim. His wife tried not to fidget nervously.

"The throne obviously, but how does he mean to achieve this? By killing his own cousin?"

"No, my king." A councillor by the name of Cánon replied. "He holds her there and the army surrounds the palace. The navy's ships block all ports and surrounds the island, intercepting those who flee. No one is allowed out of Armenelos."

"But he keeps her alive?" Ereinion raised an eyebrow. "He cannot take the throne as she is on it. The only way to remove her is either to force her to abdicate, or kill her. But based on what you tell me, she has refused to do so. That means he must kill her."

Cánon shook his head. "He will not, my King." "Then how does he intend to take the throne? By forcing her to witness her people suffering?"

Cánon nodded. "Yes, my King. But not to abdicate."

"What will happen if he kills her?" Ereinion asked.

Elrond frowned. "The people, no matter how firm they are in his beliefs, will never accept him as a ruler-someone who murders his own cousin in cold blood- the throne will be denied to him forever. Lands can be won through conquest in the eyes of Men. But crowns? Never. All Kings and Queens of Númenor understand and agree on that. If he wants his grip on the throne to be legitimate, then he cannot kill her. "

"But no one has ever attempted an overthrow such as this, before." Ereinion scowled. Elrond grimaced.

"No, my King, they have not."

Estela dreamt of ash. Ash and smoke and fire rising from the depths, she dreamt of armies of orcs forming in hate, bursting out of the mud of the earth.

She saw those armies sweeping like a flood wreaking death and destruction, forcing fathers and husbands to watch their loved ones die, before the sword turned to them, held by a cloaked figure.

And she heard the words,

Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.

And the hooded, cloaked figure turned, but she only saw his eyes within the shadow of his hood. His eyes burned black at first, but then glowed like molten lava, fresh from the earth.

She saw the armies over his shoulder sweeping throughout the hills and valleys of Middle-Earth, like a dark flood, threatening all of Middle-Earth, if not Arda, as the flames rose higher and higher, and the glint of a gold ring was glimpsed amidst the orange-gold of his eyes and the pupils, black as the void.

Estela gave a scream and woke.

She was certain she felt the flood upon her. She had felt it- it turned to dark water and touched her.

It was a dream, but she felt wet…

She looked down. She was wet alright, water stained the sheets.

She saw it and her eyes widened.

Several attendants ran in when she screamed and saw her flip back the covers. They ran back out immediately.

Ereinion came in, fast as he could, still in formal wear. He grabbed Estela's arm, and placed his arm on her back, helping her up.

This was not supposed to be like this, no elven labour was. Not even Fëanáro, he grandfather, arrived into the world in such a moment.

But even though the pains were mild and bearable compared to the pains of labouring females of other races, Estela knew- she felt something was not right.

Ereinion helped her up, and whispered, "Calm down, it's going to be alright. The pain won't be so bad." He kissed her cheek.

But something was definitely not right.

She looked down and saw, staining the carpet, and the white nightgown, running down her legs, was blood, black as pitch.

She screamed.

Yes, I know, I took inspiration from a series (not naming it if you don't know!) which has angels and demons, as Tolkien was also a devout Catholic and did not deter from his belief that there was one God- and many angels or Ainur. He also took inspiration from Norse mythology as well, but there isn't much here. If you do sense what's going to happen, don't tell anybody! Celebrimbor has yet to discover Annatar's real motives and Estela has yet to understand what was going on.