Chapter 56

Beneath the golden glory of Númenor, cracks began to spread like spiderwebs. Tar-Cirjatan's rule was a sledgehammer, slamming the kingdom down a path that betrayed the glory of its ancestors. Rómenna remained bustling, its harbor brimming with masts, its marketplace bustling with activity, its magnificent buildings gleaming with wealth in the sunlight. But the air was no longer filled with pioneering spirit and reverence for the Valar, but instead with a repressed clamor, the burning anxiety of greed, and a morbid fear of death.

The old unity was gone. The Faithful, true to the legacy of Elros, maintained their worship of the Valar. Although the Elves were no longer officially welcome in Númenor, they maintained friendship with them. Most of them lived in the western and northern regions, away from the hustle and bustle of the royal capital, such as those around the port of Andúni. They acted discreetly, refusing to speak out against the king's tyranny and the depredations of Middle-earth. They could only pray in private and maintain silent piety before their small family shrines. Their eyes were filled with worry and heartache for the decline of their homeland.

In contrast, the Loyalists, centered around King Tar-Cirjatan, occupied the core of power. Numerous and powerful, they controlled the army, ports, and the vast majority of the wealth. They harbored a deep fear of death, viewing the Valar's decrees as unjust shackles and their unwavering desire for immortality. They openly questioned the Valar, mocked the Elves' weakness, and took the might of Númenor for granted, even implicitly supremacizing it. A haughty hedonism and a worship of power permeated the Loyalists, believing that only by mastering greater power, whether earthly or supernatural, could they break the shackles of death. Depravity prevailed at court and among the upper classes, with extravagance and lax morals. The oppression of the natives of Middle-earth was considered a matter of course, part of "civilizing and uplifting."

Meereen lurked in this increasingly decadent kingdom under an assumed name, skillfully leveraging his past near the Inner Sea of ​​Rhûn as a cover. He discreetly moved through the city of Rómenna, posing as a merchant from the far east, dealing in rare spices and herbs in Númenor. He rented a small street-side shop near the harbor, stocked with goods brought from Eriador and other parts of Middle-earth: exotically fragrant resins, dried herbs, and vibrant mineral dyes. This identity brought him into contact with a wide variety of people, from lowly dock workers and sailors to purchasing officials and nobles seeking novel luxuries.

Sauron's evil plans were not limited to Númenor. Across the vast lands of Middle-earth, his evil designs were quietly advancing. Nine rings, each holding a portion of his power and boundless allure, were delivered like a plague by carefully chosen messengers to nine powerful rulers of Men. These were kings, tribal chieftains, or powerful wizards, each possessed of ambition and a thirst for power.

The power brought by the ring is intoxicating. It grants the wearer a lifespan far exceeding that of ordinary people, a sharper mind, a stronger willpower, and even some wonderful abilities to control people's minds or natural elements. Their business seems to be flourishing, wealth is accumulated, territory is expanded, and enemies are surrendered.

Tales of these nine mighty human rulers spread throughout Middle-earth, even reaching Númenor across the seas. These tales piqued the sensitive nerves of the loyal nobles. They saw that humanity was not destined for decay, that strength could lead to greater deeds. This bolstered their resolve to seek their own path to immortality. Yet they failed to notice, or rather, deliberately ignored, the darker aspects of these tales: in the lands ruled by the Immortals, the sun seemed less warm, the shadows thicker. Their gazes, beneath the radiance of power, occasionally took on an inhuman coldness. Their decisions grew increasingly arbitrary and cruel, as if they had lost some measure of human warmth. Sauron's evil will, like a poison slowly seeping into their bones, silently corroded their souls, transforming their power into extensions of himself. They were still the fleshly "Lords of the Ringwraiths," but the path to invisible, shadowless servants was already paved.

The people of Numenor did not place their hopes entirely on vague legends or the distant ring. With the tacit approval and even covert support of Tar-Cirjatan, an unprecedented search for the art of immortality, led by princes and nobles, was secretly and feverishly carried out throughout the kingdom.

From beneath the majestic, ancient dome of the Royal Library, dusty scrolls and parchments were unloaded en masse. Scholars, alchemists, astrologers, and even sorcerers claiming to master arcane techniques were hired or invited in at substantial fees. The air was filled with the strange scent of worn paper, ink, and an almost frenzied thirst for knowledge.

Experiments were conducted in secret locations. Some sought to decipher runes of eternal youth from elven tomes; others attempted to extract the fabled "essence of life" using complex alchemical processes. Some even embarked on forbidden research on living subjects—first with animals, then quickly with humans forcibly conscripted from prisons and Middle-earth colonies, deemed "useless" or "guilty." Occasionally, screams would emanate from within the palace walls, only to be drowned out by the clamor of the city. Failure was commonplace, accompanied by repeated horrific deaths and increasingly distorted experimental directions.

It was during this desperate and frantic search that a startling discovery, like a drop of cold water on boiling oil, sent shockwaves through the inner circles of the Loyalists. A scholar sorting through ancient war records from the First Age had discovered a name repeatedly mentioned within a badly damaged fragment: Meereen. The fragment's account was chaotic and vague, but the key description was breathtakingly clear: this Human, Meereen, had played a crucial role in the First Age wars between the Elves and Morgoth. He possessed remarkable healing powers and even survived the War of Wrath, which sank Beleriand, eventually sailing west to the Blessed Lands.

"A human! A living human, arrived in Valinor, and quite possibly gained immortality!" This conclusion spread like wildfire among the nobles and scholars involved in the immortality project. Although the fragments didn't explicitly state that he was "immortal," the mere fact of "reaching Valinor" was, in the eyes of the loyalists, the most conclusive evidence. Didn't the Valar forbid humans from sailing west? Didn't they claim that humans could only embrace the gift of Eru?

The books gifted to the Edain by Meereen were brought to Númenor by them, originally intended to help them find healing in the new land. But over the millennia, these books and their stories became, in the eyes of some, irrefutable proof that immortality was possible. The Valar's prohibition was a lie, a restriction, driven by selfish fear. The Númenóreans were stronger, wiser, and more deserving of eternity than the unknown "Meereen."

The frenzied pursuit of immortality instantly reached new heights. The vague name "Meereen" in the fragments was no longer a distant historical figure, but a symbol, a hope, and a "witness" sufficient to challenge the authority of the Valar. The loyalists cast their gaze even more fervently on the fog-shrouded western seas. At the same time, the plundering of domestic resources, especially materials for experiments, and the exploitation of Middle-earth became even more unscrupulous. Everything must make way for the ultimate goal of immortality.

Meereen sat in his small shop, suffused with the scent of exotic spices, his fingers unconsciously stroking a piece of fragrant resin from Fangorn Forest. Outside the window, the bustling port of Rómenna was visible, the masts of Númenorian galleys towering into the sky. He had just completed a deal, selling a shipment of precious "soothing incense" to a steward who was purchasing for the royal household. As the steward paid, he lowered his voice, with a tone of boasting and tentativeness, and said:

"Boss, your stuff is indeed good. My lady said she slept much better at night after using it. However, this 'soothing of the mind' is only a temporary solution. The important figures in the royal court are now pursuing true 'immortality'." The steward looked around, lowered his voice, and his eyes flashed with enthusiasm. "Have you heard? A treasure was unearthed in the Royal Library. In the First Age, a human named 'Meereen' successfully traveled to Valinor and gained immortality. This is a foregone conclusion. It proves that the Valar have been deceiving us all this time. His Majesty and the lords have issued a death order that this secret must be unearthed. Perhaps the Numenoreans will soon be able to break through that window paper and hold the power of eternal life in their own hands."

Meereen felt a chill run through his body, his fingers gripping the resin tightening sharply. He tried to maintain the appropriate surprise and a hint of fawning curiosity typical of a merchant hearing "palace secrets." "Oh? Such a marvel? That... Meereen? Is he truly immortal? This is truly unheard of." But a storm of fear surged within him. Not only had he discovered Meereen's existence, but he also took his journey west to Valinor as proof of human immortality and a trump card to challenge the Valar's ban.

"That's right!" The steward didn't notice Meereen's momentary stiffness, and was immersed in the excitement of sharing secrets. "Now the princes and nobles are very interested in this name, and they are particularly "paying attention" to all the ancient records, folk remedies and secret techniques, as well as merchants like you who come from afar and know some strange things. Boss, you have a lot of connections. If you can get something good related to "immortality" or hear any news about that "Meereen", I guarantee you will rise to the top and enjoy endless wealth and glory." He patted Meereen's money bag meaningfully, turned and left the shop.

The shop door closed, shutting out the outside noise. Milin slowly sank back into his chair. The sunlight streamed through the window, but he felt no warmth. The scent of spices was acrid. He opened his palm, leaving deep fingerprints on the hard resin.