Chapter 57
The capital of Númenor has now become a hotbed of fear and betrayal. The power of the loyalists is like greedy vines, completely entangled with the core of power, and squeezed the teachings of the Valar and the teachings of the ancestors into a dark corner.
Elves are nearly absent from the streets of Númenor. Even those who are compelled to visit, driven by trade or ancient friendships, tread with extreme caution. They must conceal their characteristic pointed ears behind wide hoods or elaborately braided hairdos, speak in hushed tones, and quickly depart the harbor after completing their business, never lingering. The friendly gazes that once welcomed the elves are now largely replaced by suspicion, indifference, and even subtle hostility. Harbor guards, controlled by the Loyalists, keep a close eye on elven ships, searching for any contraband or suspicious connections.
The Faithful have not vanished; like deep-seated roots, they still maintain their faith in the Valar and their ancient friendship with the Elves. But these ties have gone completely underground. Secret gatherings now take place in the basements of secluded manors near the port of Andúniel, or on deserted rocks by the sea late at night. Transmitting messages requires multiple codes and trustworthy intermediaries. An old Faithful noble once lamented to Meereen, "Meeting with a friend is like meeting with spies. How heartbroken would His Majesty Tar-Minyatur be if he were still alive!" Meereen quietly mixed precious calming incense and some anxiety-relieving herbs among ordinary goods and sent them to them through secret channels. This was the small comfort he could offer in the shadows.
The Loyalists' pursuit of immortality and their defiance of the Valar's decrees have evolved from private discussions into public outcry. In the council chamber, nobles can brazenly proclaim, "The Valar's decrees are a jealousy of Númenor's power!" At lavish banquets, toasts become "May we soon break free from the chains of death." Even street graffiti bears symbols blasphemous to the Valar's holy names. A twisted philosophy of power reigns: only the powerful Númenóreans are worthy of pursuing and ultimately achieving immortality, while the weak of other races, and even those of their own nation, are merely stepping stones on the road to eternity.
As their power consolidated, the King's persecution of the Faithful became increasingly open and brutal. Openly expressing faith in the Valar was considered treason, and private dealings with the Elves were considered treason. Informing became rampant, with anonymous reporting boxes appearing on the streets. Property was confiscated on trumped-up charges to finance the King and the Faithful nobles' insatiable greed and increasingly frenzied research on immortality. Even more terrifying was the physical persecution: public humiliation, imprisonment without trial, and even "disappearance." The estates of Faithful nobles near the port of Andunion were often stormed by the King's guards in the dead of night, carrying off their owners and leaving terrified women and children behind.
Under the guise of a business, the Meereen spice shop quietly became a key node in the Loyalists' escape network. Leveraging his merchant identity to gain access to ports, he relied on his familiarity with shipping routes and vessels, as well as some anti-tracking techniques Glorfindel had taught him in his early years, to carefully identify truly desperate Loyalist families.
Late one stormy night, there were rhythmic knocks on the shop's back door. Meereen opened it, revealing three drenched, terrified figures: a Loyalist noble couple and their young daughter. The husband's face was bruised, evidently from a rough search. "Sir... they... they're coming tomorrow to 'assist' our investigation'... please..." The wife clutched her trembling child, sobbing uncontrollably.
Without further questioning, Meereen quickly hid them in a secret compartment deep within the shop, stacked with spice barrels. He had already secretly contacted the captain of a small cargo ship about to sail to Lindon in Middle-earth, a captain himself a sympathizer of the Faithful. Meereen paid far more than the fare and provided forged identity documents. A few days later, the family boarded the cargo ship among the stevedores. When the ship left the harbor in the wind and rain and disappeared into the vast ocean, Meereen stood in the dim shop, gazing at the churning waves. His heart felt no relief, only heavy sorrow and worry for more people seeking help. He had carried out such actions more than once, and each success meant that Númenor had lost another soul that clung to the light.
The name "Meereen" was like the most alluring poison, fermenting within the Loyalists' frenzied pursuit of immortality. The fragmented record in the Royal Library, describing the First Age's voyage from Meereen to Valinor, was revered as the golden rule. Given this precedent, recreating or even surpassing it, and attaining the secret of immortality, became the unwavering goal of the Loyalists.
Yet, the forging of the Ring of Power was closely guarded, and the routes to Valinor were blocked by the power of the Valar. Driven by despair and madness, research became extreme and distorted. In secret laboratories controlled by the Loyalists, brutal experiments intensified. No longer content with studying aging, they sought to directly decipher the legendary immortality that Meereen might possess.
A large number of innocent civilians, especially those who have no one to rely on, those who have committed minor offenses against harsh laws, and even ordinary people who are targeted simply because of their special physical conditions, are secretly arrested and thrown into dungeon laboratories that never see the light of day. The experiments are horrifying and death is commonplace.
Meereen learned of sporadic gruesome events in the laboratory through a low-ranking apothecary, forced to participate in the experiments out of a lack of conscience. Most horrifyingly, the only "result" of these mad experiments was a dramatic advancement in the art of corpse preservation. They seemed to have discovered methods that could preserve corpses for extended periods, even preserving their pre-mortem appearance. Loyalist scholars saw this as a milestone, a crucial step toward understanding the stasis of life, a mere step toward true immortality. This absurd equating of embalming with the key to eternal life chilled Meereen to the bone. This was no longer a pursuit of knowledge, but a desecration of life itself and utter madness. Each perfectly preserved corpse of an innocent stood as a chilling witness to the depths of Númenor's fall.
The tyranny of Tar-Cirjatan finally came to an end, but his successor, Tar-Palantir, failed to restore order. Like his mother, the young king was loyal at heart, with reverence for the Valar and loyalty to the teachings of Elros flowing in his blood.
At the beginning of his reign, the Palantir King did attempt to reverse the situation. He reduced some of the more blatant taxes, released some of the Loyalists imprisoned for "faith issues," and even attempted to restore some of the ancient public rites honoring the Valar. He met privately with Loyalist leaders to express sympathy and seek support, but to little avail.
The influence of the Loyalists had long been deeply entrenched, permeating every corner of the kingdom. In the Council Chamber, his moderate policies were met with veiled defiance or outright resistance. Inside and outside the palace, Loyalist nobles formed an alliance, forming an invisible encirclement around him. Even the most powerful generals in the army leaned towards the radical, power-oriented side. Throughout Númenorian society, the desire for immortality and the worship of power had become the dominant ideology among the upper echelons of society, and the "old morality" that the Palantir sought to restore was seen as weak and outdated.
His efforts were like a pebble dropped into a raging sea, instantly swallowed up, barely causing a ripple. Each attempt met with greater resistance, each setback deepening his sense of powerlessness. He watched helplessly as the Loyalists persecuted the Faithful under his very nose, watched those horrific experiments continue in secret, and watched the entire kingdom slide further and further down the path of depravity. The stark disparity between ideals and reality, coupled with the burdensome administrative burdens and pervasive constraints, completely crushed this king who had tried to uphold the light.
Tar-Palantyr's reign was short-lived. Daily sorrow, toil, and deep despair quickly wore him down, both physically and mentally. He grew silent and withered, finally dying quietly in the palace one cold winter night, overcome by exhaustion. His death stirred no sorrow among the Loyalists, who instead saw it as a stumbling block finally removed. The Faithful fell into deeper despair, their last hope of returning to the right path extinguished along with the Palantir.
The legitimate heir to the Palantir King is his only daughter, the beautiful and noble Princess Míriel. According to ancient laws and royal traditions, she should inherit the throne and become the ruling queen of Númenor.
Miriel's cousin, Pharazon, commanding a large army, ambitious, and deeply supported by the Loyalists, staged a palace coup while King Palantir's body was still warm. He forcibly married his cousin Miriel and subsequently seized all power for himself. Forced by the threat of power, Miriel accepted the marriage, becoming queen in name only, yet a prisoner stripped of all real power. Ar-Pharazon then sat squarely on the throne that did not belong to him, becoming the last true king of Númenor. The Loyalists' revelry began, and the final judgment for the Faithful seemed imminent.
Meereen's position in Númenor took a sharp turn for the worse. Ar-Pharazon's rise to power marked the peak of the Loyalists' power, and surveillance and persecution within the kingdom reached unprecedented levels of severity. His covert efforts to aid the Faithful's escape, while conducted with extreme secrecy, were not without flaws. His frequent interactions with suspicious individuals, coupled with his ability to provide a special spice that alleviated stress, attracted the attention of the guards. Under intense scrutiny, some Loyalist stewards who had conducted business with Meereen began to note the mysterious merchant's unusual interest in the name "Meereen."
Sensing deadly danger, Meereen made a decisive decision to evacuate immediately. He destroyed any sensitive items in the shop that could reveal his connection to the Loyalists or his own identity. Carrying only a small amount of gold and his most important notes, he used the cover of darkness to sneak to a remote fishing port he had long had his eye on. He persuaded a poor old fisherman, desperate for money to treat his family's illness, to buy his only shabby fishing boat.
In the pitch-black night, without a star to guide him, Meereen rowed his boat hard, and like an arrow shot from a bow, he rushed out to sea, hoping to escape Númenor under cover of darkness. But he underestimated the coastal defenses commanded by Ar-Pharazon. Shortly after he left shore, a patrol ship emerged from behind the reef like a ghost, its prow torches illuminating the sea.
"Stop and be inspected." A stern shout pierced through the waves.
Meereen knew that if he were caught, his identity would be exposed, with disastrous consequences. He paddled furiously, trying to exploit the boat's low draft and agility to escape pursuit. Seeing his warnings ineffective, the soldiers on the patrol boat brazenly ordered an arrow to be fired. Several rockets roared in. One pierced the side of Meereen's boat, instantly igniting the dry wood. Another pierced the fragile bottom of the boat, sending a torrent of icy water rushing in.
The boat, ablaze and flooded, quickly capsized. Meereen struggled in the icy, salty water, choking on it several times. He looked back. In the firelight, the soldiers on the patrol boat watched him drift in the raging waves with indifference, offering no sign of rescue, clearly determined to kill him. The burning wreckage was quickly swallowed by the waves. Relying on his superhuman strength and willpower, Meereen clung to a large floating plank, bobbing against the turbulent waves. The outline of Númenor faded in the lightning of the thunderstorm, receding into the distance, like a reflection of the underworld.
Cold, exhaustion, and despair continued to erode Meereen's consciousness. Just when he felt his strength was about to run out and he was about to be swallowed by the endless sea, a loud eagle cry that pierced the storm exploded above his head like thunder.
A massive shadow swept across the waves. Gwaihir, the great eagle king who had once communicated with Meereen in the Misty Mountains, seemed to sense something. His sharp eagle eyes locked onto the tiny figure on the sea. His massive wings whipped up a gust of wind, lowering his altitude. His powerful talons carefully avoided Meereen's body and grasped the thick plank he held tightly.
"Hold on!" Gwaihir's voice rang directly in Mirlin's mind, carrying the power of wind and thunder.
Meereen used up his last bit of strength to hold on to the plank tightly. Gwaihir let out a long roar that pierced the clouds and split the rocks, and flapped his wings with all his might. He carried Meereen and the heavy plank, breaking through the violent wind and rain clouds like golden lightning, leaving the darkness of Númenor and the churning sea of death below far behind.
When Meereen regained consciousness, he found himself lying on familiar, solid ground. The crisp air smelled of pine needles and sea salt. Before him lay the iconic gray lighthouse and stone embankment of the Grey Havens, along with the worried faces of Glorfindel and Círdan, who had rushed to meet him at the news.
"By Manwe, you..." Glorfindel saw Meereen's pale and weak but still alive appearance, and his blue eyes were full of fear and relief.
Meereen struggled to sit up, ignoring his own embarrassment. He clutched Glorfindel's arm tightly, his voice hoarse but filled with utmost urgency, "Númenor is finished. Ar-Pharazon's seizure of power means the King's Factions have completely taken control of the kingdom. They are madly pursuing immortality, persecuting the Faithful, and conducting demonic experiments. The kingdom has become completely corrupt. Their greed and power far exceed your imagination. They have even begun to covet Valinor."
Gil-galad rushed over from Lindon after learning that Meereen was rescued by the giant eagle. The High King stood at the window of the lighthouse, looking at the western horizon. The afterglow of the setting sun dyed his white hair golden, but his eyes were extremely solemn.
"Your warning confirms our worst fears." Gil-galad's voice was low and serious. He turned and said, "We are not completely ignorant. Some of the Elves who ventured to trade in Númenor brought back sporadic but disturbing news. The hostility the Elves suffered, the open blasphemy, the increased plundering of Middle-earth. But we did not expect the situation to deteriorate to this point, even the Palantír..." He shook his head heavily.
After a few days of recuperation in the Grey Havens, Meereen's body quickly recovered under the powerful recovery power of his immortal body. However, Middle-earth is not a pure land, and a new shadow is quietly spreading.
Milin stopped at a tavern in the harbor to hear news from all over. A merchant who had fled from the southeastern Sea of Rhone told the people around him about his terrible experiences with a terrified expression:
"It was horrible. First, I started having a fever and vomiting for no apparent reason, and then my body was covered in horrible black spots. Within a few days, it was like a wildfire. So many people died, and there was no time to bury the bodies..."
Meereen's heart sank as he thought of the Nine Rings of Mankind, held by Sauron, and the human lords whose power had corrupted them and whose rule was becoming increasingly shadowy. Disease was often a byproduct of war and darkness, and it could also be a new poisonous scheme spread by Sauron.
He bid farewell to Gil-galad and Glorfindel and rode to Rivendell. He needed Elrond's wisdom and the ancient medical texts preserved there. When he met Elrond beneath the silver light of the White Tree, the young lord's face was filled with deep worry.
"You've arrived just in time." Elrond didn't exchange pleasantries, but led him directly into his study. Several ancient medical tomes and some soiled herbal specimens lay spread out on the table. "I've just received word of an outbreak of plague in the southeast, sent by raven. The symptoms are described as dire: high fever, black spots, and rapid death... This is no ordinary plague."
He picked up a withered blade of grass with strange purple veins along the edges. "This is a plant specimen that was fortunately brought from the edge of the epidemic zone, growing near a contaminated water source. Its appearance is extremely similar to the 'Black Rot Fever' recorded in the ancient scrolls, which was caused by dark magic in the early Second Age. However, it seems to be different. This time it is more severe." Elrond's brow was furrowed, his eyes filled with the concentration of a healer and the worry of the disaster. "This plague is spreading too fast. We must immediately understand its source, transmission method, and treatment. If it is truly the work of Sauron, this will be a war no less than a sword."
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