Through the Darkness Unescapable by Valiniel

Chapter 15: The Temple

The Temple

Armenelos

3300, Second Age

With every breath, the stench of smoke filled his nostrils, and he wanted to throw his head back and laugh. The air was hot with the heat of the flames and the smoke that hung about before it slowly made its way out of the louver. The dark smoke contrasted sharply with the brilliant white of the new walls, but soon, those walls would be forever blackened. This fire was only the first…

The fire burned brightly, crackling and hissing as it consumed the white wood of Nimloth. Númenor's white tree was slowly being devoured by the flame, falling into ash and reeking smoke. Now, all the prophecies were dead. All old traditions and foolish hopes had been cut down, just as the tree had. A new age had come. Sauron surveyed all that he had wrought, and he smiled.

He had ordered this temple to be built as soon as he had heard the news of the attack on the white tree, for he had known then that the time for his plans had come. Long had he been making plans for this great temple, and the time had come for his secret designs drawn up in closed chambers to be made real. At his urging, the temple had been erected hurriedly, with little of the intricacies that these foolish Númenoreans normally adorned their buildings with. This place was a monument to strength and power, not beauty or majesty. It rose from the city's central hill five hundred feet into the air, and was as wide at the base as it was tall. The dome set upon the top was covered in silver, the sole adornment on this behemoth. None could look on it without being amazed at its sheer scale. It was a symbol of his power that towered over Armenelos for all to see.

He was now the high priest in this masquerade he had arranged. The people worshipped Melkor readily. They were fools searching for some ideology to cling to, the Valar long abandoned. First, the king had bowed his head to the Lord of Darkness. Then Sauron had spread the dark worship among the counselors and great lords. One by one, they all followed him. Soon, the lords were building temples to Melkor across the land, demanding that their people worship this new god. It had spread more quickly than Sauron had ever expected. The fools knew not what they did. They were blind to his true intentions and followed him without question.

They made everything so easy, he thought, looking out into the crowd that had gathered to see the first fire lit in the great temple. The people of Númenor were so close to falling from grace already. Their jealousy consumed them, the desire for immortality making them vulnerable to his counsel. They would do anything for power and ever-lasting life. Their greed for all things clouded their sense. They were puppets now, eager to follow his every word if it might benefit them.

Soon, he would turn the people of this island against themselves. Brother would slay brother for the sake of power, lords would become tyrants, and the people would overthrow the authority set over them. It would be chaos, beautiful chaos. He would rule over it all and be the one who brought order to the land. The order he brought would run red with the blood of these fools. He had his plans for Númenor…

Long ago, he had known that this island must be destroyed. Its people had grown too powerful and too perilous. He had underestimated them, admittedly. When he had sent out his host, he had expected to crush them with ease. The defeat of his troops had been disappointing, but he had learned many lessons over the years. Some of the greatest victories had been won by subtlety rather than force. With subtlety, he had conquered a proud and mighty people who still did not realize that they had been conquered.

He would shape them to his will and show the world the true nature of Men. They were selfish creatures, desperate to make their mark on the world before they passed beyond its confines. To do so, they would fight, lie, betray, plunder, murder, and whatever else they thought must be done. Ambition was such a wonderful desire to play with. Using men's ambition, he had accomplished much.

The greatest fool of all stood before him. Ar-Pharazôn, king of Númenor was staring at the flame. Although his face displayed confidence and resolve, Sauron could see the fear in his eyes. The King was a fool, but there was still some reserve in his actions. He had not wanted to burn the tree. Sauron remembered well the moment when the king had finally broken down and succumbed to his will. It had been one of his greatest victories.

The day after the attack on Nimloth, Sauron had come to the king, begging him to be done with the last symbol of their friendship with the Valar and their elven servants. Even then, the king had refused, although his counselor had noted the reluctance in his voice. Pharazôn was wavering, not sure of how the attack on the tree and the theft of its fruit would sway his mind. Sauron had left him, and later learned that he had gone to his wife for counsel afterwards.

His meddling queen had, of course, begged him not to harm the tree. If Pharazôn's pride made him weak, then his love made him even weaker. Sauron could not understand why the king would listen to his wife, knowing she despised him and only wanted to further her own Faithful agenda. Why such a mighty king who worshipped the dark god would not dare to disagree with a tiny woman who still clung to a forbidden faith, he did not know. Perhaps the man still believed that he might make her love him.

Or perhaps it was his own fear that stayed his hand. Sauron had heard of Tar-Palantir's prophecy, and knew how much the king still hoped that an heir might be born to continue his line. It was a foolish hope. His queen was barren and growing old. Perhaps if he took a new queen, his hopes might be realized, but he would never forsake his beloved Zimraphel. The king was unsure of what to do or think regarding the tree. He was vulnerable, and if Sauron could find a way around the prophecy, then surely the king would give in.

In the end, Sauron had devised the perfect lie to persuade the king. He had long brooded on how to twist Pharazôn's ambition and pride into something he could wield. In the dark of night, as he scowled and looked out his window that faced towards the west, the answer had come to him. The next morning, he had gone to the king. The king had listened to his words, and then sent him away. However, within the week, he was called back and the king agreed to cut down the tree.

His spies had told him of the tempestuous argument between Ar-Pharazôn and his wife that followed. They had heard him boast that he no longer had any need of heirs, for he would live forever. The tree would be the first sacrifice to ensure this great destiny. This the king proclaimed over the angry protests of his queen. Sauron had heard this and laughed, for he knew that his time had come at last. The time was right for him to set into motion all his dark designs.

All who opposed him would burn on the altars of Melkor. In their desire for life everlasting, those in power would sacrifice the lives of their enemies to prolong their own. Like the servants he had bent to his will with the rings, these Númenoreans would do whatever he commanded them to do in order to avoid death and gain power. Fear would spread throughout the land and make its people weak. None would dare disobey him, and the fools that did would be destroyed. There were none that would have the power to stop him now, not even the queen.

Sauron turned his piercing gaze towards Ar-Zimraphel. The queen knew as well as he did what the destruction of Nimloth meant. Most likely, she had seen visions of the destruction he would bring to Númenor. Long had he suspected that the daughter of Tar-Palantir caught brief glimpses of what was to be. She had no great power, and all that she saw brought her to despair. He could not have devised a better torture for her.

Yet even through her sorrow, she was perilous. The king's love for her was an unbreakable bond, one that prevented Sauron from ever ruling him completely. Zimraphel had no power keep him from achieving his ultimate end, but she had enough influence over Pharazôn to make it more difficult. She was his greatest enemy on Númenor, even over the fool Amandil who persisted in rallying the Faithful.

Now she stood silently by the king, her face a mask of pain. Her clothes were black, as black as the smoke that arose from her beloved tree. There were tears trailing down her cheeks, pouring from grey eyes that seemed to contain endless sorrow. She was mourning the passing of more than a tree; she was weeping for the fall of her people. The queen was not here of her own free will. After refusing to come and watch her husband desecrate the tree and the allegiance of their line, she was told that she would come and she would watch, even if she had to be carried to the temple. Always conscious of the fragile shreds of dignity remaining to her, her own feet had carried her here.

Sauron delighted in her misery. When he had first come, she had struck out at him like a serpent. Now the serpent had no poison, and she knew that her hold on Pharazôn was slipping. Still, she maintained her desperate power games and continued their war of words. Until her last breath, he knew that she would never cease to oppose him and fight for what she wanted. She was not so different from all the others of her foolish line.

There were some who compared her to her foremother, Lúthien. He could see in the willful queen of Númenor pieces of the witch who had thrown down his tower. To compare their beauty was foolish, for never again would Middle-earth see a lady more fair than Lúthien, daughter of Thingol and Melian. Yet the two had the same dark hair that fell like a shadow, the same proud bearing, and the same eyes that glittered like stars, although Zimraphel's eyes had become more like the gleam of cold steel... Both were proud and spoke in a way that made it clear that they were not to be denied. And both would die before their time.

Yes, the queen would die and curse all that had come to pass. He knew that it was she who planned the battle that had brought him to Númenor. Her pride, nearly the match of her husband's, had given him his this great victory. One day, he would thank her for that. Knowing the self-righteous woman, she must blame herself for all that he had wrought on Númenor. How perfect. Knowing what she had brought on her people would plague her until the end of her days. Let the weight of it darken her soul, he thought to himself. It was only fitting that the proud queen should fall to the consequences her own arrogance, that her own game of manipulation be turned against her. She had thought herself so far above the King's Men, so far above her husband. In the end, she was like all her kind: weak, foolish, and fearful.

It was a pity that she would never burn on the altar to Melkor. The king would never allow it. Perhaps, the councilor thought, as he watched the pain and grief tear the small queen apart, for her to go on living in such a hell was worse than death. "It will get worse, before the end," he promised her silently. "Before your time has come, you will pray for death and Eru will ignore your pleas. You will learn the true meaning of suffering, far beyond anything you can even imagine. Perhaps you see even now what is to come. Look upon the future, pitiful Child of Lúthien, and despair!"