Chapter 61
The skies of Númenor, once crystal clear, were now shrouded in an ominous, leaden haze. Beneath the towering city of Armenelos, Meereen stood in the dim cellars where the Faithful met in secret. The air was thick with oppressive despair and the salty smell of the sea air. He looked upon the pale-faced, determined men before him—survivors of Ar-Pharazon's tyranny, secret resistance fighters.
"Friends," Meereen's voice was low and clear, rising above the whimpering of the waves crashing against the rocks. "Ar-Pharazon's arrogance has touched the depths of forbidden waters. He has not only openly desecrated the halls of the Valar, but has also deified Morgoth, the lord of untold suffering and destruction. The Valar's patience is not limitless, and this betrayal and arrogance will ultimately bring ruin upon all of Númenor."
He looked around at everyone, his eyes burning. "Disaster is approaching, like the receding tide before a tsunami. You must act immediately and prepare to evacuate. Gather food, clean water, warm clothing, reinforce secret shelters, and prepare boats. Time is our most precious ally, but also our most ruthless enemy."
The core members of the Loyalists nodded solemnly. A gray-haired old man, a former court scholar, said gravely, "We will immediately convey your warning through the most secret channels to Lord Elendil and his family, who remain in Andúníi. May the Valar protect them."
Like a stone dropped into stagnant waters, the news stirred a ripple through the secret networks of the Faithful of Númenor. Yet, in the heart of the royal city of Armenelos, young Isildur, Elendil's second son, was seized by a sense of almost desperate purpose. He had learned that King Ar-Pharazon, under the spell of Sauron, intended to destroy the White Tree, the symbol of Númenor's destiny and the Valar's grace. This last sacred symbol was about to be destroyed.
A crazy idea started to grow in his mind.
The night was as dark as ink, and the palace was heavily guarded. With his familiarity with the palace grounds and agility and courage far beyond his years, Isildur, like a gust of wind, melted into the shadows. He dodged patrolling guards, scaled the towering palace walls, and slipped through the gaps between the night patrols. Thorns scratched his arms, and the cold stone walls scraped his cheeks, but his mind was focused only on the Nimloth tree deep in the courtyard, swaying in the night breeze, its light dimmed like a candle in the wind.
Guarding Nimloth were Ar-Pharazon's most elite personal guards. Isildur held his breath, using the statues and shrubs for cover. The moment the guards turned, he dashed towards the sacred tree like an arrow from a bow. His movement was not silent, and it immediately alerted the guards.
The cold gleam of his unsheathed sword gleamed in the moonlight. Desperate, Isildur lunged for the sacred tree. His fingertips touched a fruit, nearly withered but still radiating a faint silver glow. He tugged, clutching the fruit tightly in his palm. The cold blade slashed his back, sending a sharp pain through him. With a muffled grunt, he used his brute strength to push past the guards who blocked his path. Heedless of the shouts and cries of the pursuing troops behind him, he vanished once more into the palace's shadows, wounded and clutching the precious fruit.
When Isildur stumbled back home, nearly dead and covered in blood, Amandil suppressed his grief and anger and carefully took the fruit his son had exchanged his life for. The light of the fruit was so dim that it was almost extinguished, as if it carried the dying fate of the entire kingdom.
Amendil, once Ar-Pharazon's beloved friend, now faced shun and suspicion due to their differing beliefs. He gazed upon the nearly lifeless fruit, a final glimmer of hope in his eyes. Witnessed by Elendil and several elders, Amendil journeyed to a forgotten, hidden corner of the garden. Kneeling reverently, he scooped up the earth stained with Isildur's blood and carefully placed the fruit of Nimloth within. Closing his eyes, he whispered an ancient prayer to Yavanna, pleading for life and hope. He poured his deep love for Númenor and his undying faith in the Valar into the cold earth, transforming it into a pure blessing.
The moment Amendil's palm left the soil, a tiny, yet incredibly determined, emerald green sprout broke through the dark red soil and stubbornly poked its head out. In the moonlight, the sprout shone with an indescribable brilliance of life, like the first star born in the darkness.
Almost simultaneously, within the chamber, Meereen poured the last of his pure healing power into Isildur's deep, bone-deep wound. As the tender sprout broke through the soil, the unconscious Isildur uttered a faint groan, his heavy eyelids fluttering a few times before slowly opening. Though his eyes were filled with exhaustion and pain, the fire of life remained unextinguished.
However, Isildur's adventures and the theft of the sacred fruit utterly enraged Ar-Pharazon. Sauron whispered in his ear, portraying the Faithful as traitors who stole the kingdom's good and blasphemed the true God. In a rage, Ar-Pharazon ordered Nimloth to be destroyed immediately. His cold gaze swept over Amendil, who tried to persuade him. His eyes were devoid of any trace of old friendship, only suspicion and disgust, tainted by power and Sauron's poison.
"Shut up, Amendil!" The king's voice was as cold as ice. "Your weakness and superstition are no different from those traitors. From now on, I no longer need any advice from you." Amendil was pushed away roughly. He looked at his former friend, the king who was now swallowed by the shadow, and his heart was filled with unspeakable grief and disillusionment.
Like a great stone plunging into the abyss, Númenor's fall accelerated. Under Sauron's command, public, bloody ceremonies of Melkor's worship were held in the royal square. Members of the Faithful were dragged to the altar and, amidst frenzied cheers and curses, sacrificed to the Dark Lord. Persecution of Middle-earth intensified. Númenor's fleets were no longer messengers of exploration and trade. Gone were the benevolent kings of old, now beasts of plunder and conquest. Coastal villages of Men were reduced to ash in iron and fire.
In a secluded bay on the west coast of Númenor, Meereen and Elrond commanded the final evacuation of the Faithful. Elrond looked at the receding ships and the islands swallowed by the shadows, and he was filled with sorrow:
"They once had it all, Elrond," Meereen's voice was low, with a deep sigh, "Wisdom, power, longevity, the favor of the Valar... They once stood at the pinnacle of Middle-earth, and should have been a beacon against the darkness."
Elrond closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the salty, despairing sea breeze. When he opened them again, only cold determination remained in his eyes. "Yes, they once had it. But they chose to betray me. It saddens me to see such a great civilization slide into the abyss of self-destruction." He looked at Meereen. "We saved the seed, Meereen, but the mighty tree of Númenor has fallen irrevocably."
In Flindon, the capital of Lindon, beneath the tranquility surged the undercurrent of war. Gil-galad stood on the palace terrace, his eyes fixed on Celebrimbor.
The fall of Eregion, the sacrifice of his beloved friend Navi, and the near-fatal wounds sustained by his father Curufin in that devastating battle, all weighed heavily on the talented Craftsman-Lord. He still participated in the defense, designing fortifications, but the spark of creativity in his eyes was now covered by a thick layer of ash, leaving only a heavy burden of self-blame and a lingering fear.
Gil-galad came down the terrace and approached Celebrimbor, who was lost in thought over a piece of raw mithril.
"Celebrimbor," Gil-galad said, his voice gentle but firm. "Are you thinking of Eregion again?"
Celebrimbor shuddered, without looking up, his voice hoarse: "Yes, those lost lives..." He closed his eyes in pain, "It was I who invited the wolf into the house and believed Sauron's lies, which brought this disaster upon me."
"How can this be entirely your fault?" Gil-galad interrupted, his tone undeniable. "Sauron's cunning is far beyond imagination. His transformation into 'Annartar' was a plot he had meticulously planned for centuries! Lord Curufin..." Gil-galad spoke respectfully of the surviving but gravely injured Prince Fëanorion. "It was his keen insight that enabled him to discern Annatar's true identity at the crucial moment and offer you the most stern warning! Had you not acted decisively to remove the Three Rings, and had Navi not risked his life to open the secret passage and help everyone escape, the consequences would have been disastrous. It was your and Navi's decisiveness that preserved the Free People's most important weapon against Sauron. Lord Curufin, though gravely wounded, escaped, proving your efforts were not in vain."
Gil-galad stepped closer, his gaze sharp. "When Lord Curufin came to warn you, he mentioned something. Back in the Greenwood Kingdom, Meereen had told King Oropher that the Greenwood Elves' weapons were too old and no match for the growing forces of darkness. King Oropher didn't immediately adopt his advice, but Prince Thranduil took it to heart." He shifted the subject, focusing on the present. "Look at us now, Celebrimbor. Sauron's forces are gathering, and the shadow of Mordor is drawing near. Our allies, the Sindar of the Woodland Kingdom, are brave and fearless, but their weapons... indeed, as Meereen said, are mostly old blades left by their ancestors, no match for the steel tempered by the Orcs and the dark magics of Sauron."
Celebrimbor finally raised his head, a complicated light flashing in his eyes.
"The compassion and remorse in your heart, Celebrimbor, are real. But transform it into strength, not a cage." Gil-galad's voice was persuasive. "Why not channel it into teaching? Lindon has the finest young craftsmen in the making, and the Woodland Kingdoms desperately need sophisticated weapons to equip their warriors. Pass on your knowledge and skills to them. Teach them how to forge blades that pierce the darkness and forge shields resistant to evil fire. This will not only strengthen our strength against Sauron, but also mend the rift between the Noldor and the Sindar, scarred by historical scars. When the Elves of the Woodland Kingdom wield weapons forged with your skills and fight alongside the Noldor on the battlefield, what better proof could there be of our shared bond of light? This will be the best comfort to the dead and the most sincere tribute to the living."
Gil-galad's words struck Celebrimbor's heart like a hammer. He gazed at his own deft hands. The embers in his eyes seemed to have been blown a crack, revealing a still-burning spark beneath, one that had been recognized by his father. After a long pause, he took a deep breath and nodded slowly. His voice, though soft, carried a long-lost resolve. "You are right. My skills must not perish with me. I will teach them. To fight Sauron, and to live up to their expectations."
The news reached the Greenwood Kingdom. King Oropher sat on his throne, listening to his son Thranduil relay Lindon's proposal.
"Celebrimbor? The Noldor of Eregion?" Oropher frowned, his tone filled with the pride of the Sindar and complex emotions towards the Noldor, "His father Curufin, and those Fëanorians, but back then..."
Thranduil stood tall and straight, having experienced years of fighting against darkness. His expression was the calm and sharpness of a king. He understood his father's heartache and was even more aware of the plight of the outlaws.
"Father," Thranduil said in a calm and powerful voice, "Lord Curufin survived, but he fought bloody battles in Eregion to protect his son and the Three Rings of the Elves, suffering grave wounds. This was sufficient proof of his resolve to fight the darkness and partially washed away the shadow of Fëanorion's past. Celebrimbor himself was a direct victim of Sauron's conspiracy. He bore immense self-blame, yet he still possessed the will to fight Sauron and unparalleled skills."
He stepped forward, his gaze fixed on his father. "King Gil-galad offers this as a sincere olive branch. He sees our plight—our warriors are brave enough, but our weapons, as the Lords of Meereen pointed out, are no match for Sauron's increasingly sophisticated minions. Do you intend for the people of the Green Forest to continue to fight with outdated weapons against the poisoned steel of the Orcs and the mighty hammers of the Trolls? Will you use the blood of your own people to fill the gap in your equipment?"
Thranduil's words hit home, and Oropher fell silent. Seeing the hesitation in his father's eyes, Thranduil softened his tone, but remained firm. "Accepting the aid of the Noldor's craftsmanship is not about forgetting the past, but about safeguarding the future. Allowing our artisans to learn so that the Greenwood warriors have better weapons, reducing sacrifices and more effectively defending our homeland. This is also an opportunity to heal the rift. Father, when our warriors, armed with weapons forged by the Noldor, fight alongside the Noldor Elves of Lindon and together slay Sauron's minions, the wounds of the past will truly begin to heal."
Oropher looked deeply at his son, who already possessed the demeanor of a king. After a long moment, he let out a heavy sigh and finally made a decision:
"Very well, Thranduil. We shall do as you say. Send our most astute and studious young craftsmen to Lindon to learn from Celebrimbor. Tell them to put aside their unnecessary prejudices for the survival of the Green Forest and to fight against the common enemy."
Thranduil's taut lips revealed a hint of relief, and he bowed deeply: "As you command, father. The Greenwood Kingdom will become even stronger."
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