Into This Wild Abyss by pandemonium_213

Chapter 1: The Measure of Dreams

Mairon paces across a high plateau in a stark land, knowing that all great structures begin with a dream and precise measurements. (Rated: General)

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One...two…three…

Pumice crunched beneath his boots when he stepped on the leavings of ancient eruptions.

Four…five…six…

He knew the precise length of his stride. From heel strike to heel strike, it did not vary, at least not when he paced a measurement as he did now.

Seven…eight…nine…

The sun beat down on his shoulders. He paused, raised his head and squinted against the glare toward the fire-mountain in the distance. Behind rippling heat waves, it lay dormant with only a whisper of vapor trailing from its summit, but he knew from the subtle shifts of the earth beneath his feet when he had first entered this empty land that some day, it would rise with might, and he along with it. He resumed his count.

Ten…eleven…twelve…

It occurred to him that he ought to create a name for the measurement of his stride. He grinned with amusement at the thought of a new word in his invented language that served as a diverting game, a way to exercise his mind when he had traveled alone across the vast expanses of the East.

Thirteen…fourteen…fifteen…

The pocked rocks scattered in the dust caused him to consider the rich sources of stone nearby: granite and basalt, and further away, limestone, all perfect building materials. But who would build his dream? Orcs and trolls? He resisted the urge to spit with contempt and concentrated on his paces.

Sixteen…seventeen…eighteen…

He knew he must make use of orcs and trolls for brute labor when the night fell. Melkor’s consuming rage against all light, save for the savage brilliance of the three stolen jewels that shone from his crown, had led to the breeding of creatures with a strong aversion to the sun. Useless then for work in the day and also for more exacting tasks, the tasks that required keen intelligence.

Nineteen…twenty…twenty-one…

He swatted at a fly that had the effrontery to try to bite his neck, but he missed, and the insect darted away.  He continued the count.

Twenty-two…twenty-three…twenty-four…

He stopped, placed his hands on his hips and looked straight up into the crystal blue sky, soaking in the heat of the sun on his face. He imagined that he peered up at the ramparts and battlements of the tallest tower of a fortified city, a tower that would rise from the plateau high above the plain. While he gazed upward, his thoughts delved deep into the calculations for the design of the subterranean pylons that would be needed to support the structure. Yes, it could be done. Then he lowered his eyes, casting his sight at the panorama around him.

It was a strange, forbidding landscape, but possessed of a stark beauty with the jagged mountain ranges marching across the northern and western boundaries of his realm and to the south, the inland sea with its rich soil, made fertile from the ash of the fire-mountain. Here in this land of his stronghold he would gather those who gave their allegiance to him: Men, Dwarves and also, he dared to hope, Elves: all those who shared his vision of a new order for the marred world. But his vision would not be realized without hard labor, including his own.

He resumed his count. Yes, it was time to call in those debts, the oaths of fealty sworn in return for the knowledge he had shared, the skills he had taught, the power he had given.

Men, he thought. Men shall build this for me.

He slapped his neck. Without a pause in his purpose or stumble in his count, he examined the crushed insect. It was a black fly with a crimson mark on its abdomen. He wiped his palm against his robes that billowed in the wind, leaving a red stain of his own blood on the white fabric, and continued to pace the measure of his dream.

Chapter 2: The Talisman

A tribe in the southlands suffers during a long drought, but after the patriarch of the tribe makes a sacrifice to the sky-father, a stranger comes from the desert and offers the gifts of his knowledge and skills. A young boy discovers such gifts come with a price. (Rated: Adult)

Please find a brief glossary in End Notes.

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Iron hands locked on his thin wrists, yanking his own small hands away from his eyes. His uncle’s hot breath, stinking of hunger, burned his cheek.

“You must watch this, Shual! You must know what it means to be a leader of our people.”

The boy whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut but his uncle cuffed his head with the flat of his rough hand. “Open your eyes and look, little fool!” So he did, staring at his grandfather who loomed above the flat stone where his son — Shual’s father — lay, the man’s chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, waiting to be joined with the sky-father who had turned away from them.

The spring rains no longer came. Crops withered in the fields, the flock of sheep had thinned to a few pathetic animals, the chickens were ragged and only two goats were left. Mothers’ milk dried up in their breasts, and babies starved. Little children were listless, some near death. Shual’s little brother, Yaniv, no longer rose from his pallet; Shual’s belly had stopped growling, and he often felt too tired to move.

The desperate villagers cursed the sea-kings who had landed upon these shores, bearing hope and promise, but who, in the end, had driven the ancestors of the villagers from their homes along the fertile coastal lands and into the harsh desert. They cursed those who lived in the great city by the sea, those who extracted taxes from the peoples of the land, but gave little in return. The villagers decided they must do something to appease the sky-father. So they sacrificed chickens and doves. Then a ewe. But the sky-father did not heed their pleas. The sun beat down on them, burning the land. A greater sacrifice was needed.

Grandfather chanted prayers of supplication to the cruel blue sky, beseeching the sky-father. Then he raised the knife, and swift as an adder, he plunged it into his son’s heart. Shual watched his father’s body jerk, and he died before his eyes, the stone darkening with blood. He wanted to run away, but Uncle’s hands held him fast.

The women keened, but his mother was not among them. Somewhere out in the desert, jackals and vultures tore at her battered body, stoned to death for her transgression of lying with another man whose corpse also fed scavengers. “She is a whore!” the villagers had cried. They had stoned her and the man who had lain with her.

Now his father also lay dead, sacrificed to appease the sky-father, but also to rid Grandfather of the shame his own son had brought upon the family, found out when he had confessed the thing he had done that had turned his wife from him. Shual did not know what his father's crime was, but he knew it was terrible. Two young men of the village and his mother and father were now dead because of it.

Another woman’s voice rose above the others, but she did not wail. She cursed. The old priestess of the earth-mother, clad in robes the color of clay, shuffled forward.

“You have murdered your own son, you jackal! You will pay for this!” she croaked at Grandfather. She raked her dark eyes over the crowd gathered around the stone of sacrifice and pointed her bony finger in accusation at them. “You will all pay for this!”

“Be gone, hag!” Grandfather cried, his grizzled beard jutting. He swept his arm toward her, the sleeve of his robe stained with his son’s blood. “Stone her!”

Some grabbed stones, but none threw them at the old priestess. They mocked her, they kicked dust at her, but none dared harm her, for she belonged to the earth-mother, and they feared to anger that goddess. Bad enough that the sky-father had deserted them, denying them rain. To anger the goddess would only hasten their deaths.

The old priestess spat on the seared soil, gathered her robes, and walked into the desert. No one saw her again.

For six days after the sacrifice, they scanned the horizon, looking for a dark line of clouds that might bring rain, but still the sky-father ignored them. On the seventh day, they saw a small black speck emerging from the false lake that rippled across the parched land. The villagers gathered, watching the black speck approach. It became a man swaying upon a brown camel, an unremarkable beast except for its strange dead eyes. The beast eased itself to its knees, allowing its rider to slide off with a panther’s grace. The tall man was robed in black against the hot sun, but when he drew the protecting veil away from his face, the crowd gathered in the heart of the village gasped for the man’s pale grey eyes burned with the stabbing light of stars.

Grandfather bent to the ground in supplication.

“You are one of the nephilim. Please, I beg of you! Do not harm us!”

“Get up, old man,” replied the tall one, who had unwound the cloth that bound his head to reveal dark hair that reflected the sunlight like steel. He tucked a long-fingered hand under Grandfather’s arm and helped him to his feet. “I will not harm you or your people.”

Grandfather kept his eyes lowered against the stars in the man’s piercing eyes, beautiful stars that fascinated Shual. “We sacrificed to the sky-father seven days ago,” said Grandfather. “Are you a servant of the sky-father?”

“No. I am the servant of another god, a more powerful god than he. If you allow me to help you, I will teach you about him.”

“Who are you?” asked Grandfather.

“I have many names, but you may call me Shai.”

The first thing Shai did was to pace through village, past the dry well, and to a rise of land just outside the withered olive grove. He halted and pointed at the stone and dust beneath his booted feet.

“We shall dig a new well here,” he declared.

The villagers were skeptical, but Shai asked for a pick axe and a shovel and stripped off his robes until he was clad only in cloth wrapped around his hips and between his legs. He swung the axe, his muscles bunching beneath sun-browned skin, and struck the hard soil with such force that sparks flew from the metal of the axe. Grandfather, Uncle and the other men gathered their tools and joined him.

When Shai finished his first day of work digging the well, he then blessed what little stores of food the village had left. Overnight, the grain was richer, the chickens began laying eggs again, and the sheep became fatter. He laid his hands upon two dead trees: a fig and an olive, and the next day, they spouted new leaves and fruits. With the grain, the women made thick flat bread; they picked figs and olives; the children gathered eggs. The men ate these and swiftly gained strength to dig the new well. Babies no longer cried piteously, and Shual and Yaniv now had food in their bowls.

After six days, Shai and the other men could no longer be seen for they now dug deep in the earth, descending on a ladder to the bottom of the shaft at dawn and only coming back up at dusk. The other men pulled up heavy baskets of dirt and stone, which were dumped on an ever-increasing pile nearby. Just as the sun dipped to the horizon on the sixth day, water shot out of the new well. Shai climbed up the ladder and emerged from the deep well, his face and body caked with mud but his smile radiant. Shual, Yaniv and the other children danced about in the fountain of water, and women brought their urns, singing songs of thanks to the sky-father and the earth-mother. Shai frowned at that and said:

“You must learn new songs, for it was the Giver of Freedom who brought the water to you, not the sky-father or earth-mother.”

Sheepishly, the women nodded. “Will you teach us these songs, Shai?” the women asked. And he smiled while he laved his body with clear water, telling them he would do so.

Shai and the village smith set to work on a strange contraption that looked like a large wheel. The village potter was also busy at his kiln, making pipes of clay. Shual heard Uncle and Grandfather talking about these things: Shai, the smith, the potter and their helpers were making something that would bring water from the deep well to the fields so crops could be watered.

After the potter had completed crafting clay pipes, now stacked high near the dry fields, Shai told the villagers that they must remain inside their homes from sunset to sunrise for seven nights. Should any of them venture outside, he said, the consequences would be dire. He did not say what these consequences were, but because he was of the nephilim, they obeyed him.

On each of those nights, Shual heard shuffling, clanking and the sounds of earth moving. Harsh voices called out in the night...human sounds it seemed, but not quite. The voices made Shual and his little brother afraid. Shual wrapped his arms around Yaniv when he cried, and they both buried their heads beneath the stifling blankets. Every morning, the stacks of pipes were smaller and fresh earth lay upturned in the fields where the pipes had been buried. Many footprints pocked the soil. A strong odor hung in the air on these mornings, like the scent of men’s sweat, but wilder. After seven nights, the clay pipes had disappeared, all buried beneath the soil. The strange voices and odors were gone, too. Shai told the villagers they could venture outside at night again. Shual was glad because he could now sleep in the cool night air on the rooftop of Grandfather’s home.

Shual and the other children played in the dust, now that their energy returned. Once, when Shual was jumping up and down with outstretched fingers trying to reach the ripe grapes of the arbor that hung above his head, strong hands circled his small waist and lifted him. He twisted his head around to see Shai smiling at him.

“So the little fox wants some grapes?”

Shual nodded, a little frightened, but the stars in Shai’s eyes were kindly and softened by a deep sadness. Shai lifted him so he could pluck the ripe fruit from the vine and pop the grapes into his greedy mouth.

Often, Shual sneaked into the smithy to watch Shai, entranced by the nephil's beautiful voice that sang in a strange language and by his swift clever hands. One day, Shai looked up from his work and noticed him.

“Ah! Here is my little fox!” Shai smiled, his teeth even and white. Shual was frightened, but his feet moved as if they had their own minds. Shai squatted back on his heels, pinning Shual with the sharp stars in those grey eyes. Shai rose and said, “Come with me.”  Shual followed the nephil to a bench where they sat side-by-side.

Out of a wide-mouthed jar by the bench, Shai scooped a handful of wet red clay and began to fashion something out of it. While Shual watched, a small desert fox, curled around itself with its big ears pressed against its head, formed in Shai’s hands. Then the nephil wrapped both hands around the clay fox, and closed his glittering eyes, furrowing his dark brows in concentration. When he opened his eyes and his hands, the little fox lay there dark red and shining, as if it had been glazed and placed in the kiln. Shai rose from the bench, extracted a thong of leather from a basket sitting near the door of the smithy, and threaded it through a small hole near the fox’s curved back. Shai knelt before Shual who still sat on the bench.

“Shual, I believe you will become a strong leader of your people, but you will need to be as clever as the desert fox to do so. This talisman is my gift to you. I want you to have this because I may desire something from you in return some day. Will you remember that?”

Shual nodded enthusiastically, fingering the little fox that now hung around his neck. Although he was elated that Shai had favored him, he shivered when he touched the fox. Something was not right about it. Shai saw Shual’s fear, and wrapped his large hand around the back of the boy’s head in a gesture of comfort, but when the nephil touched Shual, something stirred deep in the little boy’s mind, something dark that scuttled into shadows when the boy tried to look at it and see what it was.

The sky-father remained aloof, but the villagers now had hope, brought to them by Shai, the emissary of the god who dwelt beneath the shadows of high mountains and in the darkness behind the stars. While he worked on the well, Shai taught them about this god, the Giver of Freedom, in the candlelight of their homes at night and under the shade of the fig tree in the daytime.

One morning, two white oxen with large brown eyes were found tied to a stake by the well. Later on the same day, the oxen were hitched to the long shaft that connected to gears and other devices that formed the pump of the well. When the beasts turned, so did the gears. Water was brought to the surface, pumped to a pool where a wheel turned, dipping up the water and sending it to a channel that led to the buried pipes. The villagers ran out to the fields to watch the soil darken with water between the rows of seeds they had planted. Within a few days, the seeds sprouted.

The villagers slaughtered a lamb and roasted it for the feast in Shai’s honor. They even had wine to drink. That had appeared in two large clay urns by the well one morning at dawn. Footprints surrounded the urns, and the feral smell lingered in the air.

On the night of the feast, long after most had gone to sleep, their bellies full of food and wine, Shai and Grandfather remained awake and spoke long into the night on the rooftop under the heavens filled with thousands of stars. Shual opened his eyes to slits to watch them, their faces lit by a single lantern, and listened to their low voices.

“I will leave tomorrow at dawn,” said Shai. “But I will tell you this now. You must make offerings to the Giver of Freedom if you wish the well to flow and for your crops to flourish.”

“The white doves are plentiful and the ewes now birth many lambs. We shall offer the best of these to the Giver of Freedom,” Grandfather said, his gravelly voice confident.

“That is good, but doves and lambs are not enough, my friend,” said Shai. “The Giver of Freedom demands the greatest sacrifice.”

Grandfather did not answer quickly. After a long silence, he answered, his voice hoarse, “I cannot do this…”

Shai’s calm tone changed abruptly to that of anger. “Old fool! Do you think I do not know that you have wetted your blade on a man before? Your own son? The Giver of Freedom desires the blood of men!”

Grandfather pulled at his sparse hair. “I cannot offer another of my own family!”

Shai’s voice became measured and reasonable again. “That is not required. You already wasted your son’s life. You killed a man with strong arms and a strong back because he wished to lie with a man instead of his wife, a man who could still plow or wield a sword. Your son’s wife could still have given birth to children by her lover and claimed your son as her sons’ father, and you would have had yet more grandchildren to become warriors and farmers. But had they spoken against the Giver of Freedom, your knife should meet their hearts, even if they are your own family. The Giver of Freedom does not brook rebellion and thirsts for the blood of traitors. Therefore, you will sacrifice those who speak against the Giver of Freedom and thus betray your people. You must be wary for betrayal is all around you. But know this: fail in your sacrifice and your village will fail.”

Then Shai turned and looked right at Shual lying still in the dark, and Shual had a brief vision of two fiery eyes like that of a cat staring at him. The secret thing in the boy’s mind clicked and twitched, like a scorpion caught in the light, before it scuttled back into hiding.

They rode out of the desert: three figures wrapped in black robes, their faces covered against the drifting sand. The chieftain fingered the hilt of his knife while he watched them approach his village.

Two of the men kicked their mounts inexpertly, so that the camels groaned, recalcitrant to bend to their knees. But the man in the middle — the tallest man — neither kicked nor whipped his beast. He merely spoke a string of jagged words that made the camel’s eyes glaze over and sent a cold spear of fright down the chieftain’s spine. Once the camel knelt, the tall man slid off the beast. His boots ground against rock and sand as he walked toward the chieftain and his men. He halted before the chieftain.

The man pulled the veil away from his face, which had not aged from their last meeting even though the chieftain now had many silver threads in his hair and beard and deep lines etching his face. Shai’s grey eyes were locked upon him, but a consuming fire had replaced their stars. The chieftain’s guts twisted with the nausea of fear.

Shai’s two companions hung back. In spite of the heat, a chill lingered in the air near them. When a youth came forward with a jug of water, Shai took it, two gold rings on either forefinger gleaming in the sunlight, and drank long. One of the men in black robes reached out toward the jug with a thin white hand, translucent like alabaster. Shai slapped his man’s hand away; the man hissed like a snake but retreated.

Shai returned the jar to the youth and said, “They do not require water.” He moved closer to the chieftain.

Shai reached forward and caught the leather thong around the chieftain’s neck between his middle finger and forefinger. He drew out the talisman from beneath the chieftain’s robes. He cupped the little fox in his hand, and his eyes drew the chieftain’s into their fiery depths.

“You disappoint me, Shual,” lamented Shai. “I gave you so much: your well, the pump, and the irrigation channels. I made your parched land bloom. Now you ask me for yet more — for more weapons so that you may take back the lands that the sea-kings and the usurpers from Umbar stole from your people. Yet you have not sacrificed to the Giver of Freedom.” Shai enclosed the talisman completely in his fist, pulling against the leather thong so that it dug into the skin on the back of Shual’s neck.

“But no one speaks against the Giver of Freedom, Lord Shai.”

The nephil’s eyes bored into him. “No one?” Shai whispered, still grasping the little fox.

Before he could stop them, Shual’s eyes darted toward Yaniv. Just as quickly, they returned to Shai’s face, so close to his own. Yaniv had protested the sacrifices to the Giver of Freedom, proclaiming them to be a vile punishment even against enemies. Shual, who had plunged the knife into his traitorous uncle’s heart after Grandfather had died, at last had listened to Yaniv, his beloved brother and comrade-in-arms. There had been no sacrifice for two years. Now Shai knew. The nephil smiled, but cruelty marred the expression on his otherwise handsome face.

“You know what you must do as the leader of your people,” Shai said. “Do this and I will supply you with weapons to fight against the sea-kings and the thieves of Umbar. I will make you into one of my great warlords. But remember what I demand in return.”

Shai opened his fist that held the little fox, which now glowed like a coal, and with a snake’s strike, he grabbed the side of Shual’s head with his free hand and with the other pressed the fox against Shual’s cheek. Shual choked back a scream when the searing hot talisman scorched his flesh. Tears rolled down his face. Then Shai released him. The thing in Shual’s mind reared back, arching its black curved tail and clicking its pincers.

Shual’s eyes swiveled to where Yaniv stood speaking in hushed tones to a cluster of men near the well, its once abundant water low. Shual stroked the hilt of his knife as tenderly as he would a child’s face.

Yes, thought Shual. I know what I must do.

---

Chapter End Notes

End Notes:

Taking a cue from Tolkien who substituted names from known languages of our primary world for the Shire (Sûza) and its inhabitants, e.g. Samwise Gamgee (Banazir Galbasi) and Frodo Baggins (Maura Labingi), I have used Hebrew names for the characters in “The Talisman” as a translation of what might be a Haradric dialect. I have not used any familiar name for the canon character of this piece, but I hope it is obvious, i.e., “Shai” as related to “Annatar,” without my having to spell out S-a-u-r-o-n.

Giver of Freedom is a canonical title for Melkor (see “Akallbêth,” The Silmarillion).

Shual (Heb.) = fox

Yaniv (Heb.) = “he will bear fruit”

Shai (Heb.) = present, gift, offering.

Nephilim (Heb.); singular speculated to be nephil = a race of "human but more so" beings, fallen angels, etc. referred in the books of Genesis and Numbers as the sons of God who mated with mortal women. I have used this as an approximation of what Shai's form (still the same as he was in the Eregion of the Pandë!verse where literal shape-shifting is not so facile although the illusion of it is) appears to be: Firstborn, that is, human but Other.

Chapter 3: This Mortal Coil

Ar-Pharazôn and his chief counselor cast their lines into the surf off a beach in the Land of the Gift where Mairon finds that the bluefish of Númenor require a different kind of lure than the trout of Eregion. (Rated: Teens)

Adûnaic glossary in End Notes.

Read Chapter 3: This Mortal Coil

Had it been any other two men who walked along the surf’s edge where the waves caressed their sandaled feet and where the sea-spray soaked the edges of their chitons, each carrying a long fishing pole and wicker basket slung over his shoulder, no one would have looked twice. For what nobleman of the Adûnâim, as these men surely must be, did not enjoy fishing from the surf’s edge? But the guards hanging back among the dunes and rocks along the beach belied the informality of the scene.

The shorter of the two men glanced out of the corners of his eyes at his tall companion who whistled a playful tune that rose and fell with the swell of the waves. Pharazôn never failed to be surprised by these glimpses of the Zigûr’s humanity yet it was the same that had solidified their unlikely alliance and even friendship.

Some hours earlier, Pharazôn had been immersed in deciphering the onerous minutiae of a fiendishly complex trade agreement with Umbar, questioning one of the dock captains about a suspicious fire in the shipyards of Rómenna, and reaching a decision in the disposition of the the captured leaders who had led an insurrection in Hyarnustar. The latter was the easiest decision although it weighed on him heaviest of all: “Send them to the priests,” he had ordered the temple acolyte before he moved on to wrestle with the trade agreement and ferreting out information from the shipyard captain.

The destruction of six ships in the fire was a grievous one. That would significantly set back his campaign against the rogue king of the coastal realm of Bellakar. The impending trade agreement with Umbar, no doubt concocted by one of the pair of witches who ruled the city-state, was even worse. While the Chancellor of the Exchequer droned on and on, the dull throb behind his eyes became stabbing pain, and his lower back ached.

It was then that his chief counselor had entered Pharazôn’s chambers of state. As silent as one of the palace mousers, the Zigûr had stepped through the door and approached him. Before he bowed with the deference accorded to the King of Yôzâyan, he caught Pharazôn with the nets of silver-flecked eyes, silently asking permission. Pleased with the Zigûr's unfailing courtesy, Pharazôn waved him forward. The Zigûr leaned over and murmured:

“The bluefish are running, my lord.”

That was all it took for Pharazôn the Golden, the mightiest king in the history of Yôzâyan, to dismiss the rest of his advisors and council.

“I will meet you in the smithy,” he had told the Zigûr.

Pharazôn had swept into his private chambers, tearing off his robes of state and flinging them to the tiled floor for the trailing servants to retrieve. His obsequious chief valet trotted alongside him.

“Your magnificence, might I suggest the indigo...”

Pharazôn rounded on the man before he reached the royal dressing room. “Blast it, Îbal! I will dress myself! Back off, the lot of you!” he thundered. The rest of the servants scattered although Îbal, accustomed to his outbursts, hovered nearby.

Grumbling under his breath, Pharazôn yanked a folded linen chiton from a cedar shelf. Not as simple as he would have liked with the gold, scarlet and black symbols of his office embroidered about the neck, hem and armholes, but it would do. At least it would be comfortable in the unseasonable heat. It occurred to him that the evening would be cool along the shore so he pulled out his favorite wool cloak, faded from many years at sea, and stuffed it into a pack. After strapping on ancient leather sandals, worn smooth from use, he was ready to go to the palace smithy and inspect his fishing tackle and see to the preparations for this trip. But before that, there was another he must visit.

He knocked on the door to the queen’s chambers and opened it when he heard the cherished voice call, “Come.” One of her ladies greeted him, but before she could tell him where his queen was, he saw his beloved reclined on a settee out on the balcony of her apartments. He made straight for her before she could rise and sat down beside her. One look from him was enough to make her attendants withdraw out of sight and hearing.

Zimraphel's smile made his heart leap just as it had all those years ago when they had fallen in love and defied convention. He drank in the sight of her cool beauty.

“The bluefish are running, I take it?” she said, laying aside the book she had been reading.

“How did you know?”

She raised her hand to his cheek. “My dear, you have gone fishing for the blues since you were a boy. The Zigûr will go with you?”

“Of course.”

“And there will be guards?”

“As always, my love.” He knew she worried for his safety with the increased unrest in the land. He turned her hand and kissed the palm and then searched her dark grey eyes, “Do you mind if I go? I will stay here if you wish...”

“Do not be silly, my lord! Go. It would do me good to know that you are enjoying yourself. In any case, I must bathe in the waters of purification tomorrow so I will be absent.”

The reminder of why she would bathe in the consecrated waters made his heart sink. “Zimraphel, I am so sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry for, Pharazôn. I may be too old to...”

“Hush!” He cut her off. “You are not too old. We will just try again. If you are willing, that is.”

“If I am willing?” She smiled wickedly and leaned toward him, kissing him with such passion that he felt himself stir behind his loincloth. She released his lips reluctantly. “Now go. You well know that I must take the baths before we can be together. But I promise you that we will try again — and again — when you return.”

“I will hold you to that promise,” he whispered to her, running his fingers through her silky hair, its deep gold color enchanting him almost as much as the keen mind that lay beneath it. He placed a final lingering kiss on her lips and rose from the settee. He raised his brows when she glanced down at him, her smile triumphant when she saw what she had started. He moved his pack in front of his lower body.

“Wouldn’t do for your ladies to see the kingly sword,” he said, chuckling.

“No, it would not,” she replied regally but dissolved into a girlish giggle. She recovered her dignity. “Now go, my king! Go before I do something untoward.” She blew him a kiss, and he left her.

He had found the Zigûr, who had also opted for a simple chiton and sandals, their straps criss-crossed over his calves, engrossed in his tackle: inspecting the lures and then checking the heavy reels of both fishing poles, made of a light but strong and flexible Eastern wood called bambû. Pharazôn had joined him, and soon they, along with the royal guards and servants piled into wagons and carriages or on horseback, were off to the coast.

They had reached the shore around mid-afternoon. The king ordered the guards and servants to give them privacy, and so they complied, setting up the campsites and securing the area so that their regent and his chief advisor could fish and converse in peace. Then Pharazôn and the Zigûr had made their way through the dunes and sea-grasses to the shoreline.

Pharazôn glanced again at his whistling companion. Who would have thought that Sauron the Terrible liked to fish? Or that he had a ridiculous soft spot for cats? Certainly, there were always reminders that the man who walked beside him harbored something powerful and frightening within his human form which was that of a nimir. That in itself set him apart in this land where the Nimîr no longer visited, at least not openly, yet the Zigûr's black hair and grey eyes also allowed him to move easily among them because he resembled so many nobles of Pharazôn’s court. However, the Zigûr’s appearance was also a sharp reminder of what had been denied Pharazôn and others who carried the high-blood of the line of Elros: immortality. Who knew how old the Zigûr was? For all appearances, he was a robust man in the prime of his life, but the signs of the Fays in his countenance spoke of ancient memory beyond mortal comprehension.

Pharazôn recalled when he had first laid eyes on the Zigûr, how he had sued for parley after Pharazôn had landed in the Haven of Umbar and had marched toward Mordor, surprised to find no resistance. The Zigûr had mistaken Aphanuzîr for the king, making the assumption that the taller man was the regent. Pharazôn had set him straight, bringing the Deceiver to his knees, and as many kings will do to a captured ruler, had chained him and paraded him through the streets of Arminalêth when Pharazôn had returned in triumph.

A pang of regret welled up in his heart as it always did when he thought of Aphanuzîr. He missed his friend from childhood, but there was nothing to be done about that. Aphanuzîr had tethered himself to the insidious Faithful. He had been vehemently opposed to Pharazôn and Zimraphel's marriage, citing that they were too close akin, when in fact, the Faithful were maneuvering to arrange the union between Aphanuzîr's brother — Elentir — and Zimraphel. That was the beginning of the a rift that widened long before Pharazôn had sailed to Middle-earth and brought back his hostage. Over the years, the Zigûr had pointed out the pattern of inconsistencies in Aphanuzîr’s policies that smacked of conspiracy. No, it would not do to reconcile with Aphanuzîr. Pharazôn knew he had made the right decision when he had dismissed him from his seat on the council, and exiled him to Rómenna. Likewise, the Zigûr’s network of informants who kept the Lord of Andunië and his family in their sights had proven their utility again and again.

The Zigûr ceased whistling, slowed his pace, and stopped. Pharazôn halted along with him.

“Look!” his counselor said, pointing his long forefinger, the simple gold ring on it shining in the late afternoon sun. “Out on the water, over there.”

Pharazôn followed the direction that the Zigûr indicated. Yes! There it was: the gilded sea boiled from the school of bluefish that fed at the surface.

“Well, then what are we waiting for?” Pharazôn pushed his heels into the sand and stepped briskly, striding along the strand, and ignoring the persistent aches in his knees and hips. They soon reached the part of the beach parallel to the churning sea where fry leapt like popping seeds in hot oil to escape the feeding bluefish.

“What do you think?” he said to the Zigûr, who was rummaging around in his tackle basket.

“Your choice, but I’m using a dragon-spoon. They are in a frenzy so they will take a lure from the surface.” The Zigûr fixed the silver lure to his line. Pharazôn likewise selected a shiny dragon-spoon from his tackle.

Each man set himself well apart from the other and with practiced motion, they swung their arms and bodies almost in unison, arcing the rods and launching the lures far out into the surf. The high thin whine of the silk line as it flew from the reel always sent a little thrill through Pharazôn. He squinted at the water, boiling with frantic baitfish trying to escape the predatory blues. He did not have to wait long before his line tightened: a grey-blue streak shot out of the water, taking the lure. Pharazôn pulled back sharply to set the hook. The fish jettisoned out of the sea again. Like all its kind, the strength of the bluefish was formidable, but Pharazôn patiently reeled it in, spinning the reel and then pulling back the rod with a measured, steady rhythm until the fish thrashed on the wet sand. He brought the line up and grasped the struggling fish with one hand. He backed away from the surf’s edge and gently laid down the pole. Then with pliers retrieved from his basket, Pharazôn yanked out the hooked lure lodged past the fish’s rows of razor-sharp teeth.

At once, the Zigûr was at Pharazôn’s side, his left hand extended, and his fishing knife unsheathed in his right.

“If you’ll allow me, my lord,” he said, his eyes darting from Pharazôn to the fish.

“By all means! I can’t say I am overly fond of gutting fish. Silly, really, given everything I have seen and done in my campaigns.”

“I know, my lord,” said the Zigûr, grasping the struggling fish through its gills. In one swift motion, the Zigûr sliced open the white belly of the fish with his ivory-handled knife. Pharazôn’s stomach lurched when the unbidden memories exploded between his temples – the image of the Zigûr’s hands wielding another larger knife upon those sacrificed to the Giver of Freedom in the temple, its sharp blade plunging into the flesh of men rather than fish. Reconciling the fact that his affable fishing companion was also the high priest of the Giver of Freedom made Pharazôn’s head spin.

“A fine fish, my lord,” said the Zigûr. “Not too big, not too small. It will make for good eating.” Pharazôn watched his companion trudge through the sugary sand to the campsite that had been set up, partially concealed behind the dunes, where the Zigûr opened a wooden chest filled with ice and tossed the fish into it. The white gulls wheeled and screeched around Pharazôn while they dove to the beach, snatching the fish entrails from the sand, the bloody guts trailing from their hooked beaks as they flew away with their prize.

Mairon had made sure that Pharazôn was watching when he laid his bare hand against the kindling. It never hurt to remind the king of the power that lay roiling beneath the surface of his human form. He concentrated, sending his will into the materials of the twigs and dry grass, until they began to smoke. He withdrew his hand quickly to avoid a painful burn and fed the small flame until the wood was alight.

Now the flames had settled; the embers glowed, soon to be ready for preparation of the day’s catch. While Pharazôn sliced a bulb of fennel on a thick wooden board he had set upon a flat rock, Mairon resisted the urge to tell him that the slices were too thick and uneven. He managed to suppress his annoyance at the king’s cutting technique by focusing on the cool blush wine he sipped from a earthenware cup, noting the refreshing simplicity of its fruity flavor.

At least he had the consolation of decent wine. Although Pharazôn insisted on “roughing it," as the king called it, during these fishing trips, the king’s servants had set up a campsite filled with luxuries like the steel and iron cooking implements, the wool rug and cushions that Mairon reclined upon, and the chests of precious ice, cut from the winter ponds in Forostar and stored in the king’s ice house.

Mairon supported himself with one elbow while he watched Pharazôn toss the sliced fennel and mashed cloves of garlic into an iron pan at the edge of the fire, the vegetables sizzling when they hit the hot olive oil. Mairon drained his cup, sat up and poured more wine for himself. He focused his gaze on the glowing coals but surreptitiously glanced now and then at the king’s hands, which, although deft while he stirred the frying vegetables, had a subtle tremor and were dotted with the first faint spots of age. Pharazôn also moved with a deliberate vigor, suggesting that arthritis had flared again in his knees and hips.

“How fares the queen?” Mairon asked idly. He had to admit that over the past few years, he had come to admire the king's wife more than he ought, and that of late, he had caught looks from her which suggested his admiration might be returned. Thus he considered what her role might be once he rid himself of her husband. His heart was still choked with widower’s weeds, but given that Zimraphel, if taken as his queen, would largely serve as a figurehead to secure his power, he believed he could set aside his private agony, at least for a time. After all, she was mortal and would not burden him for many more years.

The king took overlong to answer his polite inquiry, but at last Pharazôn flinched. Mairon knew he had hit a sore spot, and he was fairly certain what it was.

“She is well," sighed the king. "But...”

“She takes the bath of purification again," said Mairon, finishing the king's sentence. He was well aware that the king and queen were trying to produce an heir. "I am sorry, my lord. Perhaps the chemist has another formulation she might try.”

"I do not think it is her," the king said, scooping the softened vegetables from the pan and into a shallow bowl. "It is me." Pharazôn placed the pan on a stone to cool. He stood slowly, wincing for a brief moment before he set his jaw, picked up the steel grate, and set it over the coals. He straightened, rubbing his lower back while he looked toward the night-sea where the waves flickered with phosphorescence when they crashed upon the sand. "I can see the end of my days, Zigûr. I am too old to beget a child."

Mairon allowed himself to gloat for a moment, knowing that he had achieved what Pharazôn could not, but just as quickly he stifled his virile pride, for contemplation of such memories reminded him starkly of his failure to control what was his. Instead he mustered what seeds of empathy he could, and let them swell into something that might seem genuine.

"I do not believe you are too old, my lord." Mairon took a long drink of wine. "There is a way.”

Pharazôn fixed him with his steely eyes. "That way is madness, Zigûr." They stared at each other, the air almost crackling between them, but the king turned his attention back to the fish, which he stuffed with the fennel and garlic.

"Is it madness for the great to seek a path that does not lead to death?" Mairon asked.

"It is the land of the gods. It is death itself to seek it."

'Gods', he calls them, thought Mairon. Gods and monsters. But he answered. "The Avalôi are less than you think they are.” He sipped his wine again. “Tell me this, my king. How many insurrections have you quelled in the last month? Eight? Nine?"

"Five!" snapped Pharazôn who set each fish on the grate over the smoldering coals. The wet fish sizzled as soon as they hit the hot metal.

"Men vie over property and goods here in the Land of the Gift," Mairon replied, keeping his tone calm and collected. "There are reports of hunger and an outbreak of pox in Mittalmar. There are too many people on this island now."

"And even fewer of those who carry the high-blood," Pharazôn said, staring into the fire. "We have so few children. Yet Yôzâyan that once seemed so large is now narrow."

Mairon dearly wished he could remark aloud that with the inbred nobility of this island, it was a blessing that women's wombs were barren and men's seed weak. But he replied evenly, ever the voice of reason:

"Yet you require all these people of the lesser classes for your labors so that you may keep your hold on the outer lands. You must feed them and keep them healthy. You are failing in this, my king." Pharazôn's blue eyes shot fierce arrows at him at that, but it did not give Mairon pause. "So I ask you again, my lord: have you given thought to my proposal? Amatthâni is a rich land. Yours for the taking. With my assistance, of course." He eyed the fish, their oil dripping from cooking flesh to sputter and flare on the coals. He resisted his urge to snatch the tongs from Pharazôn's hand so he could flip the grilling fish and thus avoid Pharazôn's predilection for overcooking seafood.

After an agonizing stretch of time, Pharazôn flipped the fish over. Mairon was relieved to see they were seared but not blackened.

"So you say that you have the knowledge to build ships with metal hulls that do not need the wind or oarsmen to move them," said Pharazôn, poking at the fish to align them over the heat.

"I have that knowledge and more," replied Mairon. "I can give you darts that will thunder across the leagues unerring, and weapons that will set the very slopes of Tanquietil aflame."

"A rich land..." Pharazôn's voice trailed away.

The king removed the fish from the grate with a flat frying scoop and slid them onto the waiting platters. He plucked green and black olives out of an glazed clay jar and laid these around each fish and then placed a slice of lemon beside them. He stood and handed Mairon one of the platters. Mairon settled himself cross-legged on the rug, squeezed the lemon over all and tucked into the fish.

It was not as overcooked as he expected, and the fennel and garlic cut through the strong taste of the bluefish's flesh. He was hungrier than he realized; he devoured the grilled fish down to its skeleton and skin. Setting the plate aside, he reached for the flask of brandy that, along with two crystal glasses, had been placed on a silver tray on a small table that a servant had balanced on the sand. He poured the amber liquid into each glass and handed one to Pharazôn who took it, sipping the smooth liquor. The king smacked his lips in appreciation.

“What guarantee is there that if I set foot on the shores of the Far West, even make my abode there, that I shall have life everlasting? Can the Giver of Freedom assure this?"

"There are no guarantees in any life, my lord, whether that of Men or immortals. Doubtless, the gift of life unending is not for all, but only for such as are worthy, being men of might and pride and great lineage...like you." Mairon saw fire spring to life in Pharazôn's eyes. His prey had seen the lure.

"There is more, my king. Even if Amatthâni extends your life but does not make it unending, you might reclaim your vigor so that you might yet father an heir. For is not a man’s true immortality in his children?" Mairon let that sink in before he added: "There are also rare herbs in Amatthâni: potent herbs that may aid the begetting of a child.” The lie slipped through Mairon's teeth as easily as breath, but he knew what Pharazôn wanted to hear. He added the veneer of truth: “You must remember that the begetting of children is not so easy for many of the Firstborn and that Amatthâni is not entirely the paradise the Nîmir would have mortals believe it is."

"You say there are potent herbs there? Medicines that might let my seed take root in my wife?"

"Yes. The Nimîr withheld these from the high-born of Yôzâyan. They do not wish to see your numbers multiply. Nor do the Avalôi."

Pharazôn gazed out toward the sea again, and when the king turned back to Mairon, the fire in his eyes had dimmed. Frustration surged through Mairon, vexed that he had not yet convinced the king of this strategy, but he knew that the his quarry still chased the lure. Pharazôn yawned and stretched, wrapping the old cloak around himself, and took another swig of brandy before he lay back on a cushion.

"I believe I will sleep on this thought out here under the stars tonight."

"As you wish, my lord."

Mairon rose and took the platters and glasses to a flat stone beyond the rim of firelight, placing them where a servant, camped beyond the rise of the dunes, would come to fetch them.

He was so close to setting the hook. So close. He thought of the little man who stretched out on the beach beneath the stars, and hate choked him. He remembered the chains on his wrists, the humiliation of being dragged through Armenelos like a captured beast. He could not bear the thought of Pharazôn's living on this earth, but more than anything else, Mairon desired rule of Númenor, for he who ruled here ruled the world. He must dispose of those who stood in his way: Pharazôn and his mighty fleet. He counted on the Valar turning their horrific weapons upon the king and his men when they set foot on the forbidden Undying Lands. Ironically, by obliterating Ar-Pharazôn and his legions, the Valar might inadvertantly aid him in accomplishing his goal.

Mairon did not return to the camp immediately, but walked toward the shore where the waves crashed, shimmering with cold light in the darkness. He contrasted the Númenóreans to the people of Eregion. Playing Tyelperinquar and the wily Noldor had been like fishing for trout – requiring flexibility and great cunning. Here, Men of Westernesse were like bluefish, voracious and ready to snap at anything dangled before them, and yet they required a different kind of skill.

Pharazôn was half-awake when he returned. Mairon lay down opposite on the rug and arranged a cushion beneath his head. He pulled a woolen blanket around his body, and stared at the stars, willing his racing thoughts to rest. Then Pharazôn spoke, his deep voice soft, almost a whisper, but rich and melodious with rolling articulation:

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time...

Pharazôn’s words, which drifted like a song into the night, sent ice down Mairon's spine. They were uncanny, like the strange dreams that came to him from beyond the River of Time, inspiring new words and inventions like his rod and reel or the engines that rumbled beneath Lugbúrz. He heard Pharazôn yawn again, but before the king sought sleep he said:

"We will invade Amatthâni."

The hook was set.

---

Chapter End Notes

Adunaic (among others) words and translations follow. Please see History of Middle-earth, vol IX, Sauron Defeated, part 3, "The Drowning of Anadûnê" but for a handy on-line reference, here is the Ardalambion site's Adûnaic corpus.

Adûnâim – Númenóreans

Arminalêth -- Armenelos

Bellakar: a non-canonical region in Far Harad lifted from MERP. I don't participate in any RPs. I just like the talented Sampsa Rydman's maps which may be found on his site: Lindefirion

Zigûr -- wizard

Yôzâyan –- Land of Gift

Aphanuzîr –- Amandil's Adûnaic name (HoMe vol IX).

Nimir (s); Nimîr (p) -- Elf, Elves.

Amatthâni –- Land of Aman

Avalôi –- the Powers, the Valar.

Lugbûrz –- the Dark Tower

References are made herein to Surgical Steel's Hostage as well as her other stories on the SWG. Her vision of Umbar with its rule by a duumvirate and oligarchs (recalling ancient Carthage) is one that I embrace. In this and in other areas, our respective 'verses overlap. Among these common elements is the casting of the magnificent Ian McShane as well as the elegant Susanna Thompson, who both starred in the short-lived television series "Kings," as Pharazôn and Zimraphel in "Akallabêth: The Movie!"

The loving relationship between Pharazôn and Miriel/Zimraphel derives from Tolkien's earlier version of these two in The History of Middle-earth, vol. XII, The Peoples of Middle-earth. Please see Surgical Steel's Alliance which serves as a backdrop for "This Mortal Coil."

I have quoted directly from "The Akallabêth" in The Silmarillion, "The Lost Road" from History of Middle-earth v. V, The Lost Road and Other Writings, and from a well-known English playwright of our primary world.

Although all my fan fiction is written consistent with fundamental humanistic concepts of the Pandë!verse in mind, this one, by virtue of a couple of ruminations on the part of one of the protagonists, is obviously set in this alternate history. Those familiar with my 'verse in which these concepts have been alluded to, although not yet elaborated upon, will likely not be surprised; I will just say that I will eventually get to that part of the history.

Chapter 4: A Tempest's Name (illustrated by Lady Elleth)

With the onslaught of increasingly powerful and terrifying storms as well as the afflictions of pestilence, the people of Númenor question Ar-Pharazôn's preparations to invade the Blessed Lands and doubt the Zigûr's ability to withstand the wrath of the gods. Through a combination of his arts and the power of a tempest, Mairon puts these doubts to rest. (Rated: Teens)

Illustration by Lady Elleth within the text of the story; please click on the image to expand. Many thanks to the talented Lady Elleth for this darkly atmospheric and dramatic illustration that fits the story so well. Special thanks to Darth Fingon for pummeling me.

Read Chapter 4: A Tempest's Name (illustrated by Lady Elleth)

And what at first was call'd a gust, the same
Hath now a storm's, anon a tempest's name.

from John Donne's The Storm

Mairon scraped a crushed squid from his sandal and kicked a jellyfish off the step. A few fish still flopped helplessly on the paving stones of the temple's court, but hundreds more lay dead. He took care to avoid treading on the slimy animals that lay on the marble stairs, lest he slip and fall.

Shoving hakes and eels aside with his feet, he made his way to the wide court that encircled the temple. The heat of the sun beat down on his brow, raising beads of sweat. Already steam rose from the wet creatures. In no time, the court would be reeking. With the back of his sleeve, he rubbed the sweat from eyes and cast his gaze at the dark clouds that rumbled in the northeast, the storm venting its fury upon Orrostar.

The force of the retreating storm surprised him. Ever since Ar-Pharazôn had ordered the building of the armament, the storms inflicting Númenor had become increasingly violent, and this latest had been worse than others, so powerful that it generated a cyclone like those he had seen roar across the steppes of Palisor many years ago.

The cyclone must have sucked up fish from the sea and then rained them down upon the city. Without a doubt the citizens of Armenelos would consider this rare event to be a dire portent: yet another sign that the Powers of the West now turned their wrathful attention to the Land of the Gift.

Mairon lowered his eyes back toward the steps of the temple's side entrance where several of his priests clustered, looking out at the mess in the court with disgust and trepidation. He lifted his robes to avoid dragging the hem on dead fish, stepped over a small shark with its gaping jaw lined with razor sharp teeth, and made his way back toward the temple.

The cause of the unusual weather eluded him, and he thoroughly disliked such uncertainty. He recalled when several years ago mariners had returned to Númenor from a far-flung expedition with reports of a large swath of the sea where the waters had become markedly warmer. No one knew what to make of it for nothing of the like had been recorded in the annals of Númenórean sea faring.

The captain of the expedition had been sent to the temple to relay his observations to Mairon who, it was assumed, would be able to explain the phenomenon. Captain Azrakhâd, known for his bravado and spirit of adventure, showed far less confidence when he entered Mairon's private study. The renowned mariner's eyes darted around the room, expecting, Mairon thought, to see the devices of sorcery but finding nothing more nor less than a scholar's chambers lined with shelves filled with books and scrolls, a few comfortable chairs, low tables and the high priest's wide desk graced by a vase of red roses.

Mairon had risen, put on his most winning smile, and invited the nervous captain to sit in one of the chairs.

"Will you take a drink?" Mairon stepped to the sideboard where bottles of liquor were neatly arranged along with several crystal glasses.

"I would, Your Eminence," Azrakhâd said, twisting the edge of his uniform's cloak.

"Cane liquor?"

"That would be welcome."

"Do you mind if I make some additions?" Fear skittered across the captain's rugged face. Evidently the rumors of those from the resistance who had died from mysterious and sometimes abrupt illnesses had reached the captain's ears. That delighted Mairon: Good. These fools should fear me. However, gathering information from men required many tactics, and he wanted this man to be at ease. So he chuckled and reassured Azrakhâd: "No need to worry. I will merely add juices. Perfectly innocent. And by the look of your gums, you could use some lime juice."

Azrakhâd self-consciously covered his mouth, where his swollen gums revealed a mark of the disease that sometimes afflicted mariners on long voyages. Mairon plucked chunks of ice from a small wooden chest, dropping them into two glasses. He poured the dark brown liquor over the ice, followed by a splash of ruby pomegranate juice. He squeezed lime juice into each glass, and then handed one to the captain.

The man tilted the glass back, gulping it all down, which disgusted Mairon. He had meant the drink to be savored. But when Azrakhâd lowered the glass, his eyes had lost their anxiety.

"Tell me what you saw," Mairon said, now sitting in the chair next to the captain. So Azrakhâd proceeded to describe the proliferation of seaweed and tropical fishes that had colonized the once cold waters. He said his sailors had dived into the water, declaring it warm and comfortable, when once its chill would have sucked the life out a man.

"But most unusual, Your Eminence," Azrakhâd said, his brows furrowed, "was the great upwelling of warm – almost hot – water in the center of this sea, as if it were churning up from the deeps."

Mairon had prepared another drink for the captain, asked him a few more questions, and had then dismissed him, telling him that the newly warmed sea was indeed a mystery but that he would have to consider this strange occurrence with care.

Mairon thought back to a distant time in his life, long before he had come to Arda with the Guardians. He recalled the fascinating teachings of Ulmo and Aulë: Ulmo told them how warming of a large part of an ocean could affect the weather of a world, and Aulë spoke of the fires under the earth that erupted from fissures in the sea floor. Such eruptions, Aulë said, had little effect on an entire sea, but they could be augmented with the arts of the Guardians when they wished to change the climate.

He considered these things while he walked slowly back to the temple. It was not long after Azrakhâd had told him of the warm sea that the weather had changed dramatically, almost as much as when the Valar had destroyed Beleriand. What once were ordinary thunderstorms became monsters filled with lightning, blasting the land with high winds, destroying homes and killing men on the hills.  Even more frightening were the huge wind storms that the Númenóreans called "Ossë's Wrath." These previously bypassed the island, but one had roared across Hyarrostar, its ferocious winds flattening entire groves of trees. In all these tempests, greater or lesser, ships were lost along with their crews and their goods.

Azrakhâd was not the only one who came to Mairon for his consultation. The Minister of Fisheries sought his advice when wide streaks of red water – "Uinen's blood" the sailors had named it -- formed and lingered off the coasts of Númenor. Soon after that, people succumbed to a strange illness that began with tingling in the legs, arms and face. Then the afflicted swooned and vomited, and the worst cases – and there were many of these – became paralyzed, dying when they could no longer breathe.

As if that were not enough, a scourge hitherto unknown to Númenor had now taken root in the southlands of Hyarnustar: the shivering disease that came in waves upon those afflicted with it, a disease said to be borne on bad airs. Where once Men had turned to the West to try to catch the scent of undying meads, now they made warding signs toward the sunset and pressed feathery grey leaves of wormwood to their mouths and noses in hopes of fending off pestilence.

All of these could be explained by natural causes. Mairon tried to convince himself this was the case, but his methodical reasoning did not allay his doubts. He had been so sure that the Valar had turned away from Men, and that Eru had deserted His Children and the Ainur alike, only observing His Mote of Fire unfold into the vastness of Eä with its implacable laws, but who otherwise remained detached from the minutiae of of His creation. But Mairon remembered too well the devastation the Valar had inflicted on Beleriand. He shuddered when he recalled the sky turning into flame and the ground shaking when Varda's weapon hit the earth. Ulmo and Aulë's teachings rang in his ears. Were the Valar again trying to manipulate the weather of the world?

Men, however, even in the face of evidence to the contrary, invariably looked for someone to blame. The Númenóreans, once so rational, had become reactive. The King's Men first cursed the Powers of the West, and next pointed their fingers at the Faithful, accusing them of praying to the Valar to visit them with these illnesses. In retaliation, the Faithful accused the King's Men of deliberately poisoning the oyster and scallop beds and casting spells of ill omen over the southlands. These recriminations lit yet another fire in the tinderbox of rebellion which Ar-Pharazôn had to suppress. As a result, many prisoners now languished in the dungeons, waiting to meet the holy knife on the altar in the temple. The priests could barely keep up with the sacrifices to the Giver of Freedom. And all this added to the rumblings of the earth and the fumes that now came from the peak of Meneltarma where no one dared to tread.

With the storms, disease, and the tremors from the mountain came doubt among the people of Númenor who had hitherto been so convinced of the rightness of Pharazôn's cause. They questioned the King's policies -- not openly -- but Mairon's informants reported that more and more men throughout the land murmured that the King must repent. For surely, the people said, these storms and pestilence were signs that the gods had reawakened, and that the Zigûr had not the strength to face the Powers of the West.

He must put a stop to Men's doubts once and for all. Again he looked at the clouds receding into the distance. The storms themselves would provide him with the power he needed to convince the doubters, but he must complete his project first.

Turning his back on the steaming court, Mairon approached the arched doors that opened into the cool corridor that ran through the thick walls of the temple. The gaggle of crimson-robed priests followed him, wringing their hands and murmuring with worry over the bizarre fish-rain.

What hopeless louts, he thought, annoyed by their passive fretting.

He paused in the main chamber, staring toward the Altar of Fire where a wisp of smoke floated up to the louver that gaped open at the apex of the dome and then up at the Altar of Everlasting Life looming above it, all quiet now as if hushed with anxious anticipation.

"Your Eminence?" The familiar voice of his senior acolyte, although subdued, nonetheless echoed throughout the large chamber.

"Yes, Lômir?"

"The fish. What are we to do about the fish?"

Mairon reined in his impatience at such a ludicrous question and replied evenly: "Clean them up, I suppose. Have one of the altar boys sent to the street-sweepers guild with a message that we will make it worth their while to clean the temple court promptly."

"Very well, Your Eminence. What are your directions for today's vespers?"

Mairon ran through his mental list of the incarcerated. He knew each man's name and connections. One was a cousin of Amandil's wife. "Clean and anoint three prisoners from Rómenna for the sacrifices. Be sure that Hrívelo Tundamarion is among them. Your knife is sufficiently sharpened, I presume?"

Lômir's face lost all color. "Yes, Your Eminence."

"Good." Mairon smiled at his senior priest's obvious discomfort. "It would not do at all to have a repetition of the time when it was not."

That had been a ghastly business. Mairon performed the sacrifices by his own hand only four times a year on the high holy days, but he had painstakingly trained the senior priests to slice precisely across the sacrifice's neck, driving the knife fast and deep to completely sever the arteries in the neck so that the blood drained away from the sacrifice's brain, causing the offering to lose consciousness rapidly. It took a strong arm and a keen blade to accomplish this. However, Lômir had neglected his holy blade and let its edge grow dull.

It had been an ugly sight when the sacrifice gurgled and arched his body from the altar while Lômir sawed at the man's throat. The congregation had been terribly disturbed. Mairon's wrath at this violation of efficiency was towering; he had been ready to behead Lômir on the spot, but waited until Lômir was in his private audience chamber to reach into the priest's mind, grasp the pathways of pain, and twist them slowly, making him writhe in agony on the floor. Judging by Lômir's expression, he had not forgotten this experience.

"I understand, Your Eminence."

"Very well. I will be in the smithies for the remainder of the day and likely into the evening, so I trust you will lead the vespers with your usual grace."

"I will not disappoint you, Your Eminence. May the Giver of Freedom be praised."

"Yes, yes, may the Giver of Freedom be praised," Mairon answered reflexively, spinning around and checking the impulse to stalk away from this absurd man who was so painfully obsequious toward him, but who lorded it over the other priests, the novitiates and the altar boys. Lômir reminded Mairon of one of Melkor's lesser valaraucar, a smoky sycophant who had simpered before the Dark Lord, but who terrorized all others. He had despised the creature.

Keeping his steps measured and stately as befitting his position, he reached the stone stairs that wound up to his quarters. Once out of sight of the priests, he lifted his robes and bounded up the steps two at a time.

He entered the quarters where he now made his residence, easing off his vestments, which he carefully hung or folded, ensuring that all the garments were in their proper place. He pulled on his favorite pair of work trousers, pocked with scorch marks and oil stains and then thrust his feet into his heavy smith's boots. Last he slid a loose soft shirt over his head and slipped out the door.

He sang under his breath while he hurried toward the smithies, his casual song disguising the swift calculations that snapped and sparked within his mind. He entered the large building where the din of hammers and the screech of metal made it nearly impossible to hear the greetings of his job captains. Once his captains assured him that today's schedule for the construction of a major section of a hull was proceeding in an orderly fashion, he left the main chamber through a side door that opened to a long corridor where his footsteps echoed off the stone walls.

Only a few more refinements were needed for the device that he had crafted, its design and theory based on Aulë's lessons, which Mairon remembered as clearly as when these had been taught to him. Yes, he could complete it today and then assemble it on the pinnacle near the temple in the depths of the night. At the rate the storms were coming from the West and judging by the swell of rumors of those who doubted his power, this work's conclusion could come none too soon. He unlocked the door of his private workshop where the device sat, its outline indistinct but shimmering in the dim light, and he set to work on the finishing touches.

The Altar of Everlasting Life had consumed blood for seven successive days when black clouds towered again in the western sky. Mairon came to the temple's wide entry and watched the sun sink behind them, the sky turning red and reflecting an eerie light that washed the city with blood. The clouds were so lofty that their heights were flattened in the winds of lower Ilmen, stretching across the heavens like the wings of eagles. As the massive storm approached, lightning flashed in its dark clouds and what had been distant thunder became the growl of an angry beast.

He heard the shouts and cries when fear swept through the city even before the first outriders of wind gusted through its streets and squares. Many flocked to the temple, seeking shelter and reassurance from the high priest of the Giver of Freedom. When the dark wings of the storm spread over Armenelos, those gathered outside in the court cried, "Behold the Eagles of the Lords of the West! The Eagles of Manwë are come upon Númenor!"

Mairon stood firm while he watched the storm rumble toward Armenelos. The clouds above him churned with rage, their color tinged a sickly green. The wind pummeled the city: it shredded leaves from trees, tore tiles from rooftops, and clawed at walls of stone. Then lightning smote Armenelos, not just a bolt here and there, but many jagged forks of fire streaked down from the sky, raking the towers and domes of the city with savage talons. This storm bore the whiff of the unnatural -- of the manipulative Valar -- and Mairon took it as a personal challenge.

People crowded around the temple gates: men shouted, women wept and children cried: all pressed to enter the safety of the temple. The priests ushered them inside, but Mairon made his way down the steps, the crowd parting around him, and strode out into the court. He kept his nerves in check, the wind flattening his priestly robes against his body, while he walked steadily away from the temple. Then the wind stilled, just for a moment, but Mairon's scalp tingled, and the hair on his head rose. He instinctively threw himself to the ground and flattened his body against the paving stones. At that precise moment, the air blazed white-hot, and a deafening clap of thunder reverberated through the core of his body.

He willed his heart to slow its frantic beat, thankful that the bolt of lightning had not scorched him. He rose to his feet and turned back to the temple, where he saw the rent in the dome, which was now ringed with a crown of blue fire.

He brushed off his robes and set his jaw. He alternated between cursing Manwë and repeating Superstitious nonsense! in an effort to calm himself. A small hailstone stung his cheek, then another and another until a barrage of icy pebbles bounced off stones while he walked toward the rocky pinnacle to the east of the temple. Many eyes were upon him, he knew, and that was just what he wanted.

Shrieking like a huge bird of prey, the wind tore at him; his robes tangled around his legs, and he stumbled once. Leaning into the wind to keep his balance, he trudged up the narrow path. He reached the height of the pinnacle where his device stood. Squinting, he searched for the subtle rippling of light that was the signature of the cage. He feared that he had veiled it too well, but the image of the bars flickered when he set his will to his sight and revealed its position. Still, he knew others, especially from a distance, could not see his craft for he had wreathed his arts around the copper bars so the surface of the metal bent light back to the eye, thus rendering the cage invisible. He opened the door, eased himself inside and waited.

The wings of the clouds descended upon him like a falcon upon a hare. The swirling murk wrapped itself around the pinnacle. Thunder became castigation, and the wind-driven hail stung of punishment.

"I am here, Mânawenûz," he whispered in his mother tongue. Then he lifted his voice, putting the power of the Ainur behind it so that he could be heard over the thunder and the howling wind, and he cried out in defiance: "Come! Come and take me, Eagles of Manwë!"

Mairon spread his arms, turning his palms up and tilted his head back, exposing his throat, just as men's throats invited the holy blade during the sacrifices. He invited the lightning, but still he waited.

Then it came. The first bolt struck the cage, wreathing it in white flame. The scent of ozone engulfed him. Mairon felt his heart skip a beat but watched entranced while the charge crackled around the copper bars, pleased and relieved that the device had worked according to theory. The lightning jabbed at him again and again, its claws trying to gain entry into the cage but finding none. Mairon smiled with triumph when the storm's talons were rendered impotent to harm him.

They had thought this storm –- this tempest they had named "the Eagles of Manwë" -- was the end of the world. Many had cowered within the temple and screamed when the lightning rent the dome high above. They had prayed on their knees before the Giver of Freedom, his graven image cool, calm and silent, and begged for his deliverance from the wrath of the false gods. But some, even while they chanted the litany of deliverance, prayed silently to another –- to Eru -- who had surely deserted them.

Others remained clustered at the entrance of the temple, frightened yet fascinated by the massive storm and the lightning. They had watched the Zigûr walk through the wind and hail to the pinnacle. They had watched him climb up the height and spread his arms wide, his robes and hair whipped wild by the wind. They had seen the spears of Manwë hurled at the Zigûr again and again. Yet the high priest remained unharmed.

After throwing a final spear, the thunder grumbled with frustration, and the storm rolled away toward the eastern seas. The Zigûr returned to the temple then. They beheld him with wonder and blanched before his grim countenance. The gathered crowd parted to let him pass into the sanctuary. First one murmured it, then another, then more, their voices swelling as they followed the high priest into the temple:

"He defied the lightning!"

"The Zigûr turned back the spears of Manwë!"

"He is a god. Yes, the Zigûr is a god!"

Mairon turned his smile of satisfaction inward while his congregation clamored around him, keeping his face solemn while he walked toward his seat before the statue of Melkor, but he was well pleased: Let there be no doubt now.

---

Chapter End Notes

"Ossë's Wrath" – borrowed from Surgical Steel (see The King's Surgeon): a hurricane.

Sauron's device that shields him from the lightning is a scientifictitious version of a Faraday cage described here.

Click to view the illustration at full size.

Chapter 5: On the Perilous Edge

Battered, burned and bruised, Mairon tosses stones into a river and contemplates the fate of Númenor while he awaits those he has summoned. (Rated: Teens)

Read Chapter 5: On the Perilous Edge

Mairon counted the ripples that spread across the calm backwater of the Anduin until the river's current swept them away. Then he picked up another stone from the neat pile by his side and tossed it in a high arc above the water. This time, just before the stone hit the surface, he sang. The stone sank, but the diamond-bright crown that marked its submergence froze, suspended in the sunlight. He sang another verse, and the crown crumpled while a small pillar of water slowly rose, forming a silver globe that hovered above the surface. He ceased his song; the droplet fell back into the small bowl from which it arose, and ripples ran out toward the river again.

He cleared this throat, painful from the brief song. That must have been what they had done: the Valar had sung open the Gates of Arda and dragged Aman from the Circles of the World to…where? Another plane? Into which one of the thousands -- the millions -- of currents that flowed through the River of Time did they set Aman?

He picked up another stone, this one flat. With a pained flick of his wrist he sent it skipping across the water. One…two...three...four...five...and then it sank. Not bad, he thought, pleased that he had regained some flexibility in his right arm.

He could scarcely believe the Valar had done it, but that had to be the answer. Opening the Gates of Arda so close to Imbar entailed tremendous risk: the whole of the world and every living thing on it could have been destroyed with just one dissonant chord. Yet the Guardians must have been so determined to turn back the Númenórean invasion and protect their cherished pleasance that they were willing to take such a risk.

Mairon wondered if the Valar had known what the consequence of their action would be -- that the proximity of the Gates would perturb the forces of the earth, triggering the cataclysmic explosion of Meneltarma that had destroyed the entire island. He had known that an eruption was imminent, and he had been prepared for that. What he had not expected was its magnitude.

~*~

He had been alone in the temple sanctuary, lounging on his high seat and daydreaming that he sat on the throne of Númenor when he heard the harmonies of the Guardians' voices, barely discernable at first but then swelling to a painful chorus between his ears. He felt the strange shifts in the earth's pull and the sense that Time itself had slowed. Then the shock waves of Meneltarma's eruption shook the entire structure. He sat paralyzed with fear while he watched the Altar of Everlasting Life crack and tumble down, and then the dome's metal panels screamed as the force of the collapsing walls tore them apart.

And what had he done? He had laughed. Actually laughed. He buried his face in scarred hands at the humiliating memory. He had witnessed Men and Elves do this in the face of terror: laughing madly at times that did not call for any sort of mirth. As the temple fell around him and all his carefully laid plans went awry, he had done this, too: he laughed three times at his reckless underestimation of the Valar. He snapped out of this madness when the black head of Melkor's statue crashed down beside his seat, barely missing him.

Mairon bolted from the temple, tearing off the layers of ceremonial robes that hindered his flight. He looked up at Meneltarma and saw the massive cloud that rose high into the sky, lightning streaking through it and huge stones hurtling from its roiling folds. The sides of the mountain were splitting to ooze molten rock. The lower part of cloud –- dark and dense -- slid down the slopes of the disintegrating mountain with frightening speed toward Armenelos.

He ran through the streets with the crowds of panicked Númenóreans fleeing the wrath of Meneltarma and the cloud that barreled toward the city. He held a piece of cloth torn from his thin shirt against his mouth to protect him from the hot ash that rained down on Armenelos. With the others, he fell to the ground when the earth lurched so violently that buildings were heaved off their foundations. He leapt to his feet, running again, but was brought up short, thrusting out his arms and rocking on the balls of his feet to catch his balance at the edge of a fissure that gaped open before him.

He watched with horror when a young woman who had been running ahead of him –- and who was carrying a wailing baby and pulling an elderly woman along by her hand -- dropped into the fissure, their screams swallowed by its fiery depths. He flung himself onto his belly, reaching down into the yawning crevasse in a vain effort to catch them. Hot vapors shot up, burning the skin of his hand and arm. He jerked his injured limb back.

He stumbled to his feet, now focused on his own survival rather than any misplaced compassion, but the fissure blocked his way. He ran along its edge until he found a narrower span. He backed away and then sprinted, launching himself across the abyss. Intense heat blasted from the depths, scorching his clothing and the skin beneath it. He cried out in pain, but he landed on his feet running.

A boulder hurled from the mountain crushed a cluster of women, old men and children to his left. He steeled his nerves and ran on, his lungs on fire from the ash in the air. Buildings and walls crumbled around him. Then the earth convulsed, and he was thrown into searing darkness.

~*~

That was all he remembered until dim awareness found him being lifted out of the sea into a rocking boat and then hauled onto the deck of a ship. He had slipped in and out of dreams: nightmares of fire, ash and blood interspersed with happier ones from his past. Those were the most painful.

Gentle but firm hands were on him then. He thought he had perished, and that she had returned to him. But she would never be able to heal him. He turned from blue eyes that looked upon him with compassion and accusation but worst of all, deep disappointment. He was ashamed and tried to push her away. She could not heal him. No one could. He was beyond all healing and redemption. Nonetheless, he called her name before he fell back into blackness.

Mairon had awakened to find the ship's surgeon tending him. The dark-haired man with the pointed chin -- the same man who had come to him to inquire about bodies to dissect -- rubbed something into his burns and gave him an elixir of poppy, sending him into blissfully dreamless sleep where he had floated, oblivious to everything.

He had no idea how he had wound up in the sea. All that he knew was that he was still alive, if barely. The surgeon and the ship's captain –- a woman named Zamîn –- had questioned him, and he gave them answers that he was sure did nothing to satisfy their curiosity about a severely burned Elf found clinging to wreckage in the sea. He had to escape the ship as soon as he was able.

Once again he congratulated himself on crafting such a resilient human form. With the aid of the Ring, he directed his will into tightening the hold on his body so that it did not die, although the effort it took to remain on this side of death had been tremendous. His broken bones knitted, and his skin healed, if imperfectly, enough that he had been able to steal a boat from the ship and row off into the night.

His healing was less than adequate. All his hair and eyebrows were burned off with no sign of re-growth. He had not yet summoned up the nerve to look at his face in a pool of still water, but he could tell by touch that the bones of his cheeks and nose were misshapen. His once fair skin that turned golden in the sunlight was now blue-grey, thanks to the silver ointment the surgeon had rubbed into his extensive burns to stave off infection.

He managed to row this far up the Anduin before beaching the boat on the eastern banks and setting up a makeshift camp. From there he had sent the summons and waited.

~*~

He threw another stone into the water. His entire body ached, still sore from the insults visited upon it and compounded by rowing the stolen boat against the river's current. The healing incisions the surgeon had sliced into the rigid scars on his chest -- incisions that allowed him to breathe -- itched abominably, but he resisted scratching them. He shivered in the warm sunlight, and he thought he might have a fever again. Whatever the cause, he felt truly wretched.

The sun set behind the mountains across the river in the West, lighting the sky with a spectacular array of red, orange, and violet. The brilliant colors reminded him of the sunsets after Beleriand fell. With those beautiful sunsets would come unending winter for a season, maybe two, and with that, famine. He coughed, hacking phlegm from his damaged lungs, and he spat, tears in his eyes. The image of the young woman with her baby and the old woman –- her mother perhaps –- plunging into the fire became fixed in the center of his vision. That was not what he had wanted.

Women, the young, the old of Númenor -– they were no threat to him; he had meant for them and the able-bodied men loyal to him to be his subjects. All had been destroyed, and he was responsible for that. But not entirely responsible. Others were culpable, too. It was one thing to destroy an army or a fleet of ships bristling with weaponry. That was a goal of war. But to obliterate an entire people? People who were productive citizens? Or at worst, well-fed slaves? At least most would have lived out their lives out under his rule.

He coughed and spat again. This time, the phlegm was bloody. The Sindar had named him Gorthaur the Cruel. True enough, he had committed more than his share of atrocities in his quest for empire. But were the Guardians any less cruel for destroying an entire nation –- a nation that included the innocent? If the Valar had decided to take such measures to protect their pet humans –- the Elves –- and wall off their precious enclave by removing it from the rest of the world, then why should he show any shred of mercy to others?

"My lord?"

The muscles of his back grumbled in pain, but his stiff skin screamed when he twisted around to look at the dark figure standing behind him. Two more shadows stepped to the tall one's side. Behind them, he saw horses and a litter with a half-dozen broad-shouldered orcs standing by it. He had been so lost in thought he had been unaware of them all, but he could not let them know that.

"What took you so bloody long?" he snapped, trying to rise.

The Lord of the Nazgûl was at his side; translucent hands helped him to his feet.

"We were delayed, my lord," his captain said. "The sunlight, you see, affects us."

Mairon sneered. "You are hopeless. All of you."

The other two Nazgûl flinched, but his dark captain ignored the insult. "We also were not sure that you actually were here, my lord. That is to say, physically present."

"Did you not receive my summons? I called to you again and again!"

"Yes, but..."

"But what?"

"We thought you had passed far to the East, my lord. You see, nearly a month ago, not long after the earth shook and the great waves lashed the shores, a black cloud streamed out of the West. Then the news came to Mordor that Númenor had been destroyed. We believed that your body had perished in the disaster and that the storm we saw was you. So we traveled to the East until we became aware that you called to us from the West. We are surprised –- and delighted, of course," the Ringwraith added quickly, "to discover that you are still alive and whole."

"Although none too pretty." Mairon held out his grey hands, gnarled from the healing burns, but both his gold rings glinted, burnished with beauty in the red light of sunset. "You believed the storm was me? Truly? What was it like?"

"Dark. Murky without rain but full of lightning and thunder, as if it were brimming with wrath." His dark captain's eyes shone in the failing light.

"Brimming with wrath? You don't say! I rather like that: returning as a wrathful storm. Let's encourage that tale. And if any of you say otherwise," and he eyed each Ringwraith and orc, "your lives shall be forfeit or if life is a moot point, then you shall answer to me."

"Yes, Tar-Mairon."

"Do not call me that!" he almost shrieked but he checked the anger that threatened to swallow him whole. "Do not call me that," he repeated in as smooth a voice as he could muster with his raw throat. He did not wish to be admired; he wanted to be feared.

He flung bolts of his will at them all, reaching into their minds to punish them for their incompetence, and to remind them that although he might appear weakened, he still possessed power. The effort cost him: his heartbeat fluttered for a moment and then resumed its steady cadence. However, the pained expressions on the wraiths' pale faces and the guttural moans from the orcs informed him that he had achieved the desired effect.

In spite of the punishment he had inflicted on them, the solicitous Nazgûl supported him as he hobbled to the litter. Like an old mortal, he groaned when he lowered himself onto the hard wooden seat and winced from the pain that shot through his body as the burly uruks lifted the litter to their shoulders.

The sun had set, and the first stars glittered high above the peaks in the East. The orcs took up a marching song, its rhythm calming him. He had gazed into the abyss and had survived. Now he returned to his domain. He was proud that he could not be so easily destroyed and in spite of all the pain that wracked his body, he felt invincible. He should take comfort in his strength, yet a profound weariness crept up on him, dragging him down into a strange ennui. From deep inside his mind, there came a counterpoint to his pride: I am tired, so tired. I wish I could end this. I wish I had never...

He crushed the thought, rubbed the Ring on his left forefinger, and stared at the Mountains of Shadow that loomed ahead, welcoming him back to his land.

---

Chapter End Notes

This story gives a vigorous nod to Surgical Steel's Survivors of the Downfall and Sacrifice. Many thanks to Steel for allowing me to borrow these concepts and for the synergistic support.

Although the "re-shaping of the world" is attributed to Eru Iluvátar (cf. "Akallabêth," The Silmarillion), earlier versions of the drowning of Númenor laid the responsibility in the hands of the Valar, i.e., "the Gods." From "The Fall of Númenor" (and subsequent essays) in the HoMe vol. V, The Lost Road and Other Writings, here are three excerpts:

1. The Gods therefore sundered Valinor from the earth, and an awful rift appeared down which the water poured and the armament of Atalante was drowned. They globed the whole earth so that however far a man sailed he could never again reach the West, but came back to his starting-point.

2. But the Gods were silent. Sorrow and dismay were in the heart of Manwe, and he spoke to Iluvatar, and took power and counsel from the Lord of All; and the fate and fashion of the world was changed. For the silence of the Gods was broken suddenly, and Valinor was sundered from the earth, and a rift appeared in the midst of Belegar east of Tol-eressea, and into this chasm the great seas plunged, and the noise of the falling waters filled all the earth and the smoke of the cataracts rose above the tops of the everlasting mountains.

3. But Iluvatar gave power to the Gods, and they bent back the edges of the Middle-earth, and they made it into a globe, so that however far a man should sail he could never again reach the true West, but came back weary at last to the place of his beginning.

My interpretation is derived from these parts of the mythic tale. Even if I am not a believer, I nonetheless retain the vestiges of my upbringing in a mainstream Protestant denomination. Thus I am far more comfortable with the idea of either a) Eru Iluvátar as more of a New Testament kind of deity, who, to paraphrase Lewis Black, is a pretty Nice Guy or (perhaps more accurately based on Tolkien's other writings), b) a hands-off deistic type of supernatural being (or Something) than I am with a vengeful Jehovah-Eru who slaughters the innocents along with the guilty of Númenor. So I'm blaming the Valar (whom Tolkien wrote as fallible beings) based on the above passages.