Chapter Thirty-Seven
Everything changed. She knew it, he knew it. If everything had yet to change- if they had yet to feel it, at least, they knew that something was coming.
Elves don't direct their fates- that's human. For the King's Men of Númenor and their pathetic leader, Ar-Pharazôn, they take the ability for granted. Furthermore, they rip it off others, and try to convince each other that they have higher callings- namely the ones given by the king.
Is it any surprise that Numenor was going to the rocks? They have the greatest gifts, gifts that no other human had, or had yet to obtain, yet they wanted more. They could get more. What would happen if they realised they could try?
Elves and immortality. Immortality and the binding of immortals to the fate written in the stars. Humans and the Gift of Men. Death and the ability of mortal humans to make a future of their own.
It was amazing how blessings and curses came hand in hand together, as someone very important to Estela would someday remark when thinking about all of this.
Something was wrong. She knew it, he knew it, they both sensed it, and felt it, even if Sauron wasn't treated with great ceremony and honouring by the Númenóreans and their king.
Of course not all Númenóreans, off and on the island kingdom liked this.
In Lindon, Imladris, the kingdoms of the Faithful, Lothlórien and even Greenwood, they heard whispers and rumours.
Soon over the next few months, more and more refugees and migrants streamed from Númenor.
They brought with them stories, and what everyone heard filled them with horror.
The Númenóreans had begun cutting down trees, and raising the taxes, especially to the Faithful and those they considered a burden upon society- such as the sickly, elderly, permanently injured, and those with too many children yet with little means to support them. Gardens were being dug up, statues, paintings and other works of art destroyed.
And so with that Estela met with her husband.
"It's time to call a great assembly of our people here, in Lindon."
Ereinion nodded, his eyes pained and his face strong, but grave.
"Numenor. The Valar…. Who knew that Elros' legacy would end like this," he muttered bitterly. Estela smiled with the same bitterness. "How his brother must feel," she wondered. "Knowing that the beginning of the end has come."
There was no denying it anymore. Nothing had happened yet. And the smallest shred of hope still clung to them. But there was no denying….
The world was about to change forever, Estela thought. Never again would Arda or the beings within, be the same.
She had no idea how right she was.
"The Accursed One is speaking against the Valar in Númenor."
Calassion looked around him with a gaze like iron.
"They are listening to him."
"Well that is to be expected," Ereinion sighed. "But tell us; what else is he doing?"
Calassion took a deep breath and he turned to Queen Estela.
Estela in a green velvet gown with an emerald and silver belt and her hair in copper curls bound with a gold and emerald crown, stepped forwards.
Now she was a queen. But a queen, she discovered, fought no less than a shieldmaiden.
"My spies in Númenor tell me that he is focusing his teachings upon the Darkness." Estela began. Her emerald eyes were even more piercing than usual as she addressed everyone.
"Sauron is not only speaking against the Valar, he says that the Darkness alone nourishes them. He said, 'Darkness alone is worshipful, and the Lord of thereof, may yet make other worlds to be gifts to those who serve him, so that the increase of their power shall find no end.'" She looked up at her own husband, meeting his own piercing, burning eyes.
"He is turning the people of Numenor, not just against the Valar, but against the All-Father, himself."
The gasp that resounded in the room was silenced by Ereinion holding up his hand.
"Let the Queen speak." He kept his eyes fixed upon his wife, even as his voice rang out.
"Ar-Pharazôn has heard these words. And so he called upon Sauron and the Abhorred One said that this lord, is indeed Morgoth, the Dark Lord of the First Age." Another gasp. "Sauron has lured and bewitched the mind of Ar-Pharazon and his followers. He calls Morgoth the 'Giver of Freedom' and speaks lies, saying that Eru Ilúvatar is nothing more than a lie devised by the Valar and their 'pawns' the elves, and by serving Morgoth, formerly Melkor, the king would be free from the yoke of the Valar and the elves and thus become even stronger than them. And so he has started to worship the Dark Enemy that haunted our forefathers."
Everyone gasped openly and started giving exclamations or horror, shock, and terror all at once.
Until, "Silence!" The High King called out.
"Ar-Pharazôn has disallowed the descent upon the Mountain of Meneltarma, the sacred mountain of Númenor upon which his forebears once made their yearly pilgrimage to give thanks to the All-Father." Estela paused for a while. "Instead any who attempt, are punished by death. Nimloth, the White Tree, has been cut down."
Everyone gasped again. But the shocks of this day had yet to be over.
'Isildur son of Elendil has stolen a fruit, and taken it to Middle-Earth," Estela resumed. "But the tree itself was burned in a great temple, made for the worship of Morgoth." Everyone gasped louder than before. "Now hold yourselves steady and call upon all the strength of your souls, my dear friends for my next words will haunt you for the rest of your lives.
"Ar-Pharazôn and his followers have begun capturing members of the Faithful that still remains on Númenor. They have taken them to the temple, and in a bid to convince the spirit of Morgoth to strip them of their age and mortality, they slew the humans upon a great altar in a sacrifice to the Dark One."
If the reactions before were something. It was absolutely nothing now.
Estela waited, unseeing, unhearing. Elves had never before heard of such a thing- not merely blasphemy, but…. Indescribable. Abomination.
"And now," Estela's voice rang out. "I call upon the refugees of Númenor to speak on what has happened to their country."
Estela stepped aside, as several ragged-looking, exhausted, but strong and proud figures emerged.
Two women led the way. One was a woman in her thirties, judging by the standards of men. The other woman was in her mid-to-late forties. The first woman wore a bitter look upon her face. Her brown hair hung in cloudy strands around her face. She had tasted misery, pain, humiliation, suffering, loss and despair.
The other woman too, was bitter. Her eyes were dark and haunted, but they burned with a fire and a strength such as even the immortal elves found impressive.
"My king," the younger woman said. She swallowed. "What the queen says is true. I…we…." She swallowed again. Tears streamed down her pale face. "Monsters," she whispered. "They are monsters. Ha! Númenor is no longer the country we once knew! It is not home! It is not my home!" She wept bitterly.
"I cannot even speak it. Smoke rises from the island every day and night. The trees are being cut down. The things of beauty are being burned. Burned in the great furnaces of evil. The great temple in Armenelos! A cage of darkness! In the night they come, they drag us, screaming from our beds, and they burn us in the altar of Morgoth!" She cried, bitter tears still running down her face. "As if we have anything more to give!"
"Pharazôn!" The first woman cried out. "He's been sold a bill of goods, alright. And what do we get? More war! More taxes! Human sacrifices in the town square, you can hear the screams, all day and all night, and we're made to worship this… this hideous thing!" She brandished something made of stone in her hand. But it was covered mostly by her fingers and few could see what it actually was, except that it looked like a figure of some sort. "The great tree, kindling! The king's ears filled with rubbish from his… his advisor, the great chained wonder Sauron, now princely Sauron!" The woman spat the name out.
"Eilindel is right! Númenor is ruined. And the boats can't take us away from this charnel house fast enough!"
And with that, she threw the figure of stone where it landed on the tiled floor.
Murmurs, exclamations and whispers ran rampant as the last woman spoke her words. The young children in the group cried and would not calm down. Who knew what they had witnessed before they managed to get safely away?
"My king," Estela addressed her husband. "What say you to these people? Do you give them sanctuary beyond our shores? They have suffered more than enough, in the foul, vile evil that now brews and destroys their home."
Ereinion regarded the humans. Many of the children were sobbing and hiccupping. But one of them stared blankly into space, his mind apparently broken.
"I say, permit them entry. We may yet work together to rebuild a better life, for them and for this world."
Everyone else gave their assent. Estela nodded and turned towards the refugees. She summoned some servants and they were all taken away to be cleaned, fed, bathed and rested, their wounds tended to, but their spirits and hearts were still scarred.
Estela looked at her husband. An unspoken message ran between them. She looked to the floor.
There was the thing that the second woman had thrown. It was a figure of stone. With a great helm and a greater hammer by its immense size (for a statuette). It held a knife at its chest, and wore a crown with sharp points around its helm.
A black, black pit opened up in the depths of her stomach and something even colder than the Helcaraxë seemed to be imbedded within her heart.
It was a figure of Morgoth.
Estela sighed.
She would be close to breaking, if she were a weaker person.
Ereinion's councillors stood and argued with one another in the private council chamber.
Dressed in a blue velvet kirtle with a silver bracelet and chain around her neck, Estela watched as her husband demanded silence. His voice was the most impressive, strongest and magnificent she had ever heard in speaking- apart from her father and uncle- and Findekáno, she thought.
Now as a consort of the High King, Estela could not just take up arms- that would be an open declaration of war.
And that was what they were trying to avoid.
Frankly, she thought there was not much choice. It was inevitable. Ar-Pharazon wanted power, and apparently dominion over the earth.
Already he and his Númenóreans, loyal to the crown, were sailing to Middle-Earth, not near their borders, sure enough, but in human lands, settling and conquering them, asserting their authority there, first as friends, then subjugating, and even enslaving their fellow man, treating them as dirt, forcing them to worship Númenóreans in general, Ar-Pharazôn especially and Morgoth most of all.
Ereinion was tempted to go to war.
But the council debated and no agreement was made.
In the meantime, Estela felt ill. Alarming, almost, as elves don't feel sickness.
But maybe it was the stress and the pain of waiting on the edge of something.
As a wise Maia would later say, it was the deep breath before the plunge. Or the silent swing of the hammer-stroke.
What's worse than feeling the actual blow, is waiting for it to happen.
But even then, she wasn't certain it was that.
Maybe it was the fears and worries for her people, loved ones and son.
Even then she wasn't sure.
Estela opened her eyes.
No agreement. Again.
The second time they went through this, in three days.
Everyone picked up whatever they brought, whatever they must study and left, as Ereinion, imposing as he was, gave the order.
The maps were rolled up and Estela made her way towards her husband.
He instantly relaxed when she was by his side. She should have been closer to him during the meeting, she chided herself.
"Melmenya," She whispered. He was soothed. Instantly and completely.
He melted into her touch. "My love. My wife," he whispered.
She massaged his shoulders and kissed him.
"What will happen now?" She asked.
"Now?" His eyes were closed. "Now we cherish every moment we can," he whispered.
"Yes." She whispered, tears rising in her eyes. She kissed him, a well of tenderness opening from within. They had so little time.
"I love you," he whispered.
"And I love you." She responded.
Together they held each other close.
No matter what happens, Estela prayed to the All-Father. Do not let me outlive my loved ones anymore. Please. At least grant me this one wish.
I cannot stand it if I do.
A rider emerged in Lindon's royal palace outer courtyard.
He dropped down from his horse and bowed to the steward.
Estela, emerging from the palace, saw. She looked down.
Making her way to the steward, she enquired to him, and was handed a scroll.
She nodded, gave her thanks and made her way back to her husband.
Ereinion was in the council chamber once more, but this time, he was by himself. Estela came in and unfurled the scroll.
"What's this?" He asked his wife.
She read aloud.
"Ar-Pharazôn is building a great fleet. No trees remain in Númenor, save for the seeds and soil that the Faithful took with them when they fled. No flower blooms there. No goodness. All the Faithful have left. Save for Miriel, who is weak, and has no power. The marriage is childless save for a missing daughter, who fled with Isildur, son of Elendil, son of Amandil, and married him in secret." Ereinion raised his eyebrows at this. "The fires burn in Númenor, all day and all night. There have been great thunderstorms, and even clouds shaped like eagles. The Valar are sending warnings. But the hearts of the King's Númenóreans are further hardened, and their ambition and lust for power, strength and immortality is further fuelled. There is no end to this madness."
She rolled up the scroll.
"My spies have left Númenor," she confirmed. She sighed. "I told them to do it. They already risk their lives too much, without staying. But what can be confirmed is that Míriel, daughter of Tar-Palantir, is weak, not just in power, but in mind and soul." Just like my foremother, she thought bitterly. "She does not try to stop him."
Ereinion grunted. "So we are on our own." He looked to his wife.
"What do you suggest we do?"
"Build up our army. Make alliances for war." She responded.
"There's nothing that can stop Ar-Pharazôn and his men now. No negotiation. No peace. No elf has even set foot in Númenor since Ar-Gimilzôr, his grandfather."
Ereinion sighed and closed his eyes. "It indeed must be done." He opened them.
"Send out the messages. Call for a muster." He looked at an assistant.
The assistant bowed and left.
Estela winced, as she clutched at her midriff. No she did not feel well.
But nothing was well right now.
She wanted Fëanuldon right now. She wanted her husband. But she was no weakling, and she could not afford to be one right now.
She clutched the wall and pulled herself upright. She would keep going.
Child. My child.
The world is about to change. Remember. The end is never the end. After all has calmed and the world is changed, come to me. Come to me in the forest of Nan Elmoth, just as your kinsman Thingol once did for Melian.
When your home seems beyind your reach and your child seems lost, come to me.
Estela's eyes came into focus. That dream again.
But she forced her mind to reality and went to Fëanuldon.
Always in the morning she would go.
She was his loving mother. And she prepared his breakfast. Even though it turned her stomach now. Elves do not throw up, but, oh dear, the smells. It seemed particularly strong and disgusting than usual.
She placed it on a plate and went to wake Fëanuldon, cooing him and coaxing him awake. She lovingly smiled at him, hugged him and kissed him.
After spending time with her son, she went back to the palace.
"Ereinion, my love." She greeted him with a smile, which he responded brightly and a kiss which he returned eagerly.
"What happens today?" She smiled. Normally this would have been a bright question but now…
His face clouded with sorrow and he passed her a note.
"Ar-Pharazôn builds a great ship. Already the fleet is bigger than anything Númenor has made, even in its past." He paused. "He sets sail, but not for Middle-Earth."
She looked up, her face pale and her eyes wide.
"Then where? Where does he sail to?"
Ereinion turned back to the table. The maps lay there. "That I do not know."
A few days later, she received the news.
"Aman. He is conquering Aman."
Everyone went ghostly pale and bloodless, and gasped when Gil-Galad made the news.
"He is what?" Someone, a maiden gasped.
"He is conquering Aman- or at least that is what he intends to do."
Everyone looked to Estela.
She did not speak. Estela did not know what to say. She did not know how to move or see anymore, or to hear. But then a realisation dawned to her-
Something she should have realised already. She felt it was her stupidest moment.
"He cannot take Aman."
Everyone stared at her even more.
"Valinor is protected. Those who have never seen or witnessed the might of the Valar and the Maiar cannot even comprehend how they will defend their loved ones- or even the All-Father's might. No earthly being can comprehend it. No one can match it. Not even the Ainur."
And with that all went to silence.
A few weeks later...
"Yonya!" Estela called out. "Fëanuldon!" She hurried after him.
Fëanuldon grinned and scurried away behind the hedges. Estela sighed. This garden was his only playground. The only place where he can be free to be himself.
"Fëanuldon?" She called out. "Yonya?" Still no response.
The garden included a maze, a large labyrinth which only she and her son memorized and knew every turn and twist. Estela sighed again and made her way to the centre of the garden.
"Yonya," she called out.
There, in the very centre of the maze Fëanuldon sat cross-legged. He turned suddenly and grinned at his mother.
Estela tried to keep the smile from spreading across her face, and shook her head.
The power of Vilya, Narya and Nenya kept the darkness inside him at bay- for which she was grateful.
"Look what I can do!" The little boy exclaimed.
Estela frowned. "What can you do?"
In answer, the little boy turned back around and closed his eyes.
It hit her.
He was reaching out with his mind. But he was so young. How in Arda was he capable of doing that?
Most young elves of that age would have already been able to reach out at other people's minds at close range and communicate with them telepathically. It would take a while for them to learn how to send images and coherent words however, instead of mere emotions and signals of distress, hunger and so forth. Furthermore, they had to be standing at close range to whoever they wanted to communicate with. They also had to see and know who they wanted to communicate with. But Fëanuldon wasn't communicating with Estela.
A sense of dread crept up upon her, although something inside her screamed, Don't- don't open your mind, don't do it! And she didn't want to find out, but she knew she had to know.
She reached out with her mind.
She felt a presence alright. Something entirely foreign. Not elf. Not human- that felt different from an elf, but still recognizable.
Not dwarf.
Instead, something wild, barbarian and dark crept up upon them, something savage and wild, bestial and yet not, something that crept and lurked in shadows, both hunted and being hunted. Something filled with indescribable hunger- dark hunger and rage, and wildness, something cunning and beast-like, animalistic, and yet… not. Sentient.
Something dark, searching, hungry, craving for something, something desperate and hungry enough- evil.
And not just one.
Her eyes snapped open.
Gasping, she cried out, "Fëanuldon, no!" But it was too late.
Something burst out of the bushes.
Snarling and wild, teeth like jagged rocks, eyes like pits of dark evil flame, twisted and hulking like an animal-predator, lurking around its prey, were orcs.
Estela was the first to react. She screamed.
It was not the instinct of a shieldmaiden, or a queen, but a mother.
She leapt forwards and screamed, pulling her son out of harm's way.
The orcs snarled and struck with their crude weapons.
Estela was unarmed. She was never armed when she was with her son. And these were his private gardens- how in Arda did orcs come to be here?!
She had no time, a crude iron blade struck close to her. She held onto her son tightly and rolled over on the grass.
"Stay there!" She barked at him.
She jumped up and grabbed the sword hilt of one orc, and used it to swing herself around and behind him. She twisted his arm, and caused him to kill one of his three companions, before twisting the arm further and kicking him to the ground, disarming him and slicing his back.
She turned her attentions to the other orcs. They struck clumsily, but Estela proved herself a fearsome fighter. As undefeated as her father, who had died thus.
She spun, confusing and bewildering them, and giving herself enough leverage to strike and strike hard. She disarmed another which she killed and with two blades in hand (although of far less quality to those she was accustomed to), she made quick work of the intruders and finished off the remaining orcs.
But then she heard something. A growling in the bushes and she froze.
The little boy's eyes were alight and wide.
Two eyes, red jewels from the pits of Angband emerged from the dark. Followed by a snout with a snarling mouth filled with teeth like razors. The hackles of the warg rose and it hunched its back, growling and snarling as it prepared to pounce on the queen.
Estela stood still.
The warg growled again, then pounced.
Estela let herself fall backwards, as far as possible, as she stuck the orc weapon up and into the heart of the warg.
Its eyes widened and the mouth grew slack, as the corpse fell off the queen's acquired blade, as she rose, a trail of black blood staining the grass and the iron.
Black as Sauron's blood- like the void.
She turned her wide, frightened eyes towards her son, and although her first instinct told her to rush forwards and examine him for any injury- which she would have- her pale face and wide, terrified eyes meant that her mind registered and remembered the fact that this little boy- her precious, beloved, priceless son- summoned the creatures formed from the depths of Utumno.
This was Sauron's master-plan- not merely a Ring, but the complete and utter annihilation of the elves from within. And from there, Middle-Earth.
Her son. Avanwion, Son of the Forbidden.
What happened next was a blur. She summoned the trusted guards and nursemaids and confined her own son to the boundaries of his nursery- and in fact, even had fed a spoonful of medicine to lure him into a deep, dreamless sleep, so he would be put out of harm's way- for himself, and for the others of Lindon.
Ereinion came as soon as he had heard. His face was white as he beheld his wife and son and heard the tale.
He groaned and sank onto the chair in the nursery.
This was his son. His precious only child.
It would kill him and torture him to do it, and every instinct inside him screamed not to do it- to keep him- his son, safe- safe with him and his wife. But even his beloved wife could not deny.
He should have never confirmed it- and named him Avanwion, Son of the Forbidden.
It would torture and wound the depths of his soul. Yet how did this little boy manage to overcome the barriers of Vilya and Narya's powers and cause four orcs and a warg to come into Lindon? And what next, as his powers get stronger and he grows? Will the power of the Three Rings protect him- and everyone else- from the darkness within?
There was no denying. There was no protection.
For himself, and for everyone else, his son had to leave Lindon. Even he and his wife cannot deny it any more.
This was more than a mere child.
The hammer clanged onto the red-hot blade on the anvil, as the Númenórean smiths worked away. Storm clouds gathered and brewed overhead, thunder crackled and lightning flashed.
The hills of Númenor were brown and black with dug-up soil, once rich and teeming with life, now only fires burned in the furnaces and braziers as the men pounded their hammers onto weapons and the torn trees dug up from the soil, were sawed and shaped, moulded into gigantic, monstrous ships.
The ghostly-faces of the priests had their eyes rolled inwards so only the whites could be seen. Their faces were smeared with blood and black paint- sap of the trees, mixed with ash.
They chanted inhuman words in the Black Speech of Sauron, as above, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled.
The screams of the slaves as the whips herded them into a great, monstrous temple with profane things smeared onto the walls, images of darkness, of orcs forming and human sacrifice appeasing the Dark Enemy of the World.
They were the only ordinary humans and Faithful left in Númenor by now.
Smoke poured from the summit of the Sacred Mountain- the Meneltarma.
And the screams could be heard as their throats were slit, or they were burned in the monstrous furnace, with the flames rising up like from the pits of Utumno and Angband- and soon Mordor.
The thunder boomed and lightning flashed once more, as darkness of more than just night, reigned on Númenor.
The king made his way into the square.
"Now is the time!" He shouted. "Brothers of mine- hear me! Now is the time we take back what is rightfully ours from the lies of the elves and the tyranny of the Valar!"
They roared and cheered, raising their swords or hammering them against their shields.
"And now!" Ar-Pharazôn called out. "We shall triumph over death and the immortals who rule us- we will take and rule over the lands of the Undying- forever!"
They started to chant, to bang their shields upon the ground, to stomp their feet and chant Ar-Pharazôn to lead them- a prayer for the destruction of the Valar and the elves.
Smoke poured from the holy mountain.
And the world would soon be theirs- Ar-Pharazôn believed. The new immortals, free from the clutches of the Valar, Maiar and elves. They chanted for death and destruction. They chanted for immortal blood. And they chanted for the world to be theirs- and Ar-Pharazôn and his advisor, smiled beholding the sight- the king swelling with pride, and Sauron with sly, evil glee that his plan was working- as the lightning flashed, the thunder boomed and rain started to fall, like the tears of the Ainur and the All-Father at what was to come.
"Now is the time," the king determined.
The ships were docked and ready to set sail. But this time, there were no Oiolairë branches, cut and hung onto the prows of the Númenórean ships to signify the friendship with Ossë and Uinen and to ensure a safe return, as was in the old days.
And though thunder rumbled and the clouds loomed ominously upon the edge of the sky, the Númenóreans took no notice as the king, Ar-Pharazôn watched, and they pushed the ship- his great ship the Alcarondas- out to the sea.
Now was the time. Now they took the Undying Lands- and become immortal, as is their right.
Now they will reign as kings over the earth.
And Ar-Pharazôn smiled as he beheld the sight.
Soon, the world will be theirs, he vowed. His. And immortality will be taken and the elves dare not challenge them or think themselves higher than them anymore.
And on board, he gave the order to sail.
The fleet, was over ten-thousand ships- as wood was plentiful in Númenor, prior to this. They had even torn apart people's homes for this purpose. Some were forced out and killed- others gave their homes willingly, as they believed they would soon have a new home in the Undying Lands.
And the ships, all such a great fleet of which the world has never seen, so much they dotted the sea it seemed, from one edge onto the other, all sailed westward, violating the Ban of the Valar and challenging the very might of Eru Ilúvatar.
"Now what do we do?" Estela looked up, her face numb, every part of her numb. Tears had long since fallen and streaked her cheeks. Her hair, like after the birth of her son, was unkempt and cloudy, hanging in strands around her face.
"What can we do?" Ereinion's back was turned and he faced the window.
They were both numb and silent. Ereinion then sank onto a chair, his face in shadow.
"He cannot stay here can he?" She asked numbly. "We have to let him go."
"Yes."
Estela swallowed, and saw that her husband's eyes were filled with agony and a grief-stricken anguish- like that of loss.
It was pain. Much too much pain to speak about and comprehend.
"Where will he go?"
Ereinion swallowed and struggled to keep his tears in check. "I spoke to Galadriel." He squeezed his eyes shut and his face twisted with indescribable agony. He forced them open again. "She speaks of the coming of five Maiar, sent from Valinor by the Valar." Estela's eyes widened. "It will be some time now, but perhaps they can help him, and succeed where we have failed."
She turned back to the front, not seeing anything.
"When will they come?"
"Not for a while. Not until this conflict is resolved."
She stood and faced the window, looking outside. Storm clouds brewed over the horizon. But there was light, seeping from underneath the dark clouds.
"But there is hope," Estela whispered. But the truth was, it wasn't much- just the hope of a hope.
"There is always hope," Ereinion said, coming to stand behind her, holding her form close as they stared out into the horizon in the Grey Havens.
Círdan had sensed something was coming and sent for them.
Estela walked through the hallways of Círdan's home, and thought to herself.
What will happen now- to her son- to all of them?
Her midriff gave a sudden lurch. She didn't like that. She wasn't feeling all that well.
But then it soon started.
It started as a light tremor.
On the western sea, Ar-Pharazôn felt a tremor, a shockwave, light as it was, rush through the waters. He frowned, but it soon turned into a scowl.
The Valar were trying to scare them off, he knew it.
The Great Armament kept sailing.
In the Grey Havens, Estela felt it. In Númenor, the Queen Míriel, stopped and looked up from her chair. The clouds were gathering. Darkening the sky, coming thick and fast towards Númenor, as if they were racing.
Somehow, she knew. Now was the time.
Only then did she remember what her father had said; if Númenor kept going the way it was going, then surely, this was the doom that approached.
Míriel rushed out of her quarters.
In the Grey Havens, the chairs started to rattle, the ornaments too, and the furniture started to shake.
A gold cup fell to the floor with a clatter, and the map- a tapestry that hung on the wall and showed the image of Arda, was torn in two. The split in the fabric happened to be on Númenor. It rent it from the face of the tapestry.
Very soon everything started to shake, and flip- literally.
Even the very floor was turned upside down, rolling and even the air it seemed was flipped.
There was a great groaning noise, as the earth moved and re-shaped itself, if everything was shaking, now it was spun and banged violently.
In Numenor, people screamed as they beheld the waves.
Giant waves, as high as the Pelóri rose and blocked out the light.
Ar-Pharazôn was the first to turn in Valinor when they landed, when one of his men yelled out, and beheld in terror, the might of the Ilúvatar, whom he doubted.
Now he knew.
And now he knew as the world shook, the horror of what he had done, and as the stones crumbled and the boulders and large rocks started to fall, only then did he feel fear of something other than death.
No one could tell which was up or down.
Now that the earth was being rattled violently and banged, and even the floor was rolling around, as was the very air, that they breathed and everything else, now Estela knew what was meant when the world was being changed.
Everything was turned, flipped, rattled and banged violently. Nothing was spared.
The world was re-shaped and moulded and hammered into a different shape rather violently, as was the air that they breathed. Everything and everyone banged as they turned as if they were hanging off a cliff and moved upside down, shaking, hammering, rattling and churning, like the waters of the world which rushed together, engulfing and turning the fleet, yet with not a drop spilt and wasted.
How everything rattled, shook and moved. How they turned. Now, truly now, was the world re-shaped.
How it was reformed
Estela could hear the screams of people and even the horses, terrified as they were turned and flipped upside down.
This was no mere earthquake.
By the end of that night, the world was changed.
You could hear the screams in Númenor, if you could hear it up close.
Men and women were screaming, running from place to place, trying to get where, they didn't know. Trying to grab something, but they fell, anyway.
In the midst of it all, a woman tore through the central place in Númenor, running in her torn silvery-grey gown, dark hair streaming behind her, a crown of golden blossoms in her hair.
Her grey eyes were wide as she discarded her shoes and started to climb.
People screamed. The ground shook and the houses broke. The temple of Morgoth had a great pillar crushing it from the roof, and turning it to rubble. Everyone screamed as they tore through the streets, their arms waving in the air. Searching for anyone, anything they could find familiar or to save them.
It was of no use.
And still the woman kept climbing.
She climbed the holy mountain, the Meneltarma, the daughter of Tar-Palantir, as the clouds darkened and then flew off as if in abandonment, and the world shook even further, and the waves rose high as the Pelóri of which her husband was trying to reach, and darkened the sky and people screamed when it left the island in shadow.
There they beheld their end.
And still Míriel, daughter of Tar-Palantir, climbed further, harder, higher, one last desperate step, one step more….
Until the shadow of a wave came, and swept her away…
And soon, the screams of men and women were swallowed, as the waters rushed through the streets and crushed everyone there was. And the waves as high as the Pelóri, rose higher and blocked the sky, and it's screaming people from the view of the world, as everyone and everything shook, and the waves took them all, taking them deep to the bottom of the newly-reformed world.
There the waves swallowed Númenor, and its people and its treasures, and its Great Armament, until all that was left were the ones who left, and the world was no longer flat, but rounded, globed. Forever, changed.
And there, in a single day and a single night the great island kingdom of Númenor was swept away from the world and became Atalantë- the Downfallen.
And the Lands of the Undying was swept away from the world for all time.
She doubled over, her grief wracked her body as it shook with her anguish and pain.
Her howls of pain and grief rent the sky, and threatened the very clouds which so mercilessly loomed over Númenor, into pity.
No one could console her- not even Maltariel. Or Fëapoldon. Or even Ereinion.
It was over. It really was over.
There really was no forgiveness. For despite the efforts of Tar-Palantir and Inzilbêth, to redeem their peoples and their sins, for despite her own attempts, she truly realised, there was no forgiveness. Not as a whole.
For if there was, would this have happened?
Or was Númenor meant to be doomed as a threat? Did it really end- with that?
She shook and sobbed, so much agony and anguish she had borne over the centuries, and now to find out this.
Elros was close to her as she helped raised him and his brother. And now, his legacy- his hopes for mankind- all were shattered and crushed, swallowed by the waves which engulfed Númenor. Their legacy.
Now they were truly lost to her.
And she hiccupped, sobbing on the shores of the Grey Havens, as she mourned the loss of everyone she loved before. And of the doom of her son, which now seemed imminent- there was no denying after all. He really was cursed.
And the home of her birth was swept away forever more, from the face of this world.
But then a dream-like state settled onto her as they watched, she paused in her keening. And Estela, Queen of the Noldor, formerly princess, shieldmaiden, wife, daughter, mother, cousin and foster sister, rose and remembered the words of the Maia in her dreams.
When all has calmed and the world is changed, come to me. Come to me in the forest of Nan Elmoth, just as your kinsman Thingol once did for Melian.
When your home seems beyind your reach and your child seems lost, come to me.
Estela rose.
"I must leave," she said as if in a dream.
They all looked to each other, puzzled.
"I have been called- summoned by the Ainur and the All-Father has willed it to happen. Now I must leave."
Estela rode throughout the night, despite the insistence of her husband, with only Fëapoldon and Maltariel and a few other guards.
As one could imagine, it took a while to reach the forest of Nan Elmoth- even with the elves' speed, a few days and a few nights.
It was the dead of night when they reached the dark, forbidding forest, where once the great city of Doriath once stood. The meeting place of Elu Thingol and Melian, the birthplace of Lúthien called Tinúviel, wife of the mortal man Beren and the half-Maia daughter of Thingol and Melian.
Estela dismounted. Everyone watched her warily, wondering if she had become unstable.
"Here I must go alone. Stay here," she said.
They looked alarmed. "My lady-" Maltariel began.
"Stay here. That's an order." She said sternly. That was the first time she had spoken like that.
But this time she had to go alone.
She unbuckled her sword belt and let it fall to the forest floor as she walked forwards and disappeared into the dark of the trees and the night.
Estela walked and kept on walking.
She walked without knowing where she was going or where she was in the forest, but she kept on going.
If she passed through the ruins of Doriath, she did not see it.
She walked until she found a source of light.
Is it the sun? She wondered, but dawn had not risen yet, and there was no way one could easily see it from down there on the forest floor with such high trees.
"Child. My child."
She heard the voice spoken in her dreams.
She stood still. "Where are you?" She gasped.
"Here."
She found herself in a clearing face to face with the fairest being she had ever seen, along with her mother.
"My child." The Maia was female with hair as black as midnight, gleaming so highly, dark as it was, even the mere colour was shiny. Her eyes burned like stars, and her skin glowed as silver as Varda's crown and Telperion.
Estela gasped and fell to her knees on the forest floor.
"My child," the Maia said. "You need not fear me. For we have all heard your grief in even in the lands of bliss, and the Father has spoken thus. For I am Ilmarë, handmaiden to Varda, and I have heard your call."
Estela gasped again and was unable to move, except for shaking.
"Ilmarë?" She whispered.
"Yes, child." The Maia stepped forwards and pulled her up.
This was the Maia of love, music and beauty as well as pure starlight.
"My child." Ilmarë said. "How we have all heard your sorrows. How we have all witnessed and felt your pain. How we have yearned to help you, to take you back, to embrace you. But your time in Middle-Earth is not yet at an end, my child, and your offspring shall play a powerful part in the making of this world, and the battle between good and evil."
"But how can he play a part for the greater good?" Estela cried. Everything came spilling over. How could she take it- all of it- it was too much.
How did she carry on, save for them and most of all, the All-Father?
"How can he, my beloved child, be free when he is enslaved by Sauron's evil?"
"My child," Ilmarë said. Her beautiful face, too radiant for words, clouded over with sorrow. "There is nothing I can do for your son. He will be free when the time is right, but it is not now. Now I can only do for your daughter."
Estela felt her breath caught in her throat. "My what?"
Ilmarë's eyes glowed. "My child. You are with child. You carry a daughter within you. She too will play a part, as important as could be, for the survival of Arda. I can protect her as best as I can, and help her survive, without which she will be vulnerable to Sauron's dark power as her brother is, but will you accept my help?"
Estela looked up into her eyes, tears shining in the light of the Maia.
"Yes," she said instantly. "Save her. Save my child. Do whatever it takes- no matter what the cost. Please."
The Maia nodded.
Ilmarë drew out her finger and a needle. She pierced the tip, holding a vial of crystal beneath.
Gold drops of blood, glittering and shimmering like light and gold fell onto the vial below. She kept doing it, with numerous vials and once she deemed it satisfactory, she passed them to Estela.
"Drink them." She said. "With every day and night when your child still grows inside you. Drink and she will be able to survive and triumph, even without you or your husband."
Estela's eyes burst with tears of gratitude, shining as she took the first vial and drank.
There was always hope.
Sauron did not know of her child- and he would not be able to have her, no matter how he tried.
And with that, destiny as the All-Father ordained, would take a turn.
That was the most epic chapter I've put up so far- I think.
Yes, she's pregnant, and that was the Akallabêth, the Sinking of Númenor and the changing of the world, which resulted in it also being called Atalantë- meaning the Downfallen- Atlantis. You can only imagine how painful this must be for her- her father and uncle raised Elrond and Elros, and to have that ripped away, despite Tar-Palantir's best efforts. And yes, that line was inspired by Plato's writings, about how the island vanished in a single day and a single night. The line that the woman speaks when she held and threw the figure of Morgoth in contempt, is taken from the Shadow of Mordor game. Not every Númenórean was pleased with the changes in their home country.
And yeah, her daughter and son are going to play a very important- major in fact- part in the sequel to this. I know you want an AU where Gil-Galad lives and I can't make any promises or give any spoilers, but remember- the end is never the end- it's only what people say when they don't want to write anymore!