Chapter 64
Despite Sauron's cunning schemes and the brutality of the King's loyalists, despite commanding from a throne adorned with gold and jewels, the signs of aging clung to the king's frame like vines. His once lionlike frame began to stoop, his sword grip trembled, and his sharp eyes became clouded. Every reflection in the mirror, every labored breath, served as a merciless reminder of his mortal fate.
Despair gnawed at Ar-Pharazon's heart like a venomous snake. He grew irritable and violent, and any slight setback could unleash a thunderous rage. Just as he felt the cold shadow of death approaching his crown, Sauron—the fallen Maia, revered as "Supreme Advisor" but now the kingdom's true ruler—whispered in his ear with a voice as sweet as honey and as deadly as venom:
"Sire, you have conquered Middle-earth, your fleets unrivaled. But all this is but fleeting in the face of eternity. True immortality lies not in the struggles of this world, but in the blessed wells of Valinor. That paradise, selfishly appropriated by the Valar, flows with the fountain of immortal life. There lies the answer to Meereen's eternal youth. Rather than wait for fading in this decaying husk, reclaim the power that is rightfully yours. Gather your invincible fleet and march westward against Valinor. Raze the abode of the false gods and seize the fountain of eternal life. Then you will be the true and immortal King of Men."
The extreme desire for eternal life completely burned away the last bit of Al-Pharazon's sanity, and Sauron's words ignited the most crazy and blasphemous ambition in his heart.
In the year 3310 of the Second Age, the construction of the largest and most terrifying armada in Númenor's history began. The kingdom's resources were exploited relentlessly, forests felled, mines emptied, and countless slaves and loyalist captives died screaming under the whip. The harbor of Armenelos was transformed into a vast shipyard, where massive ships, like sea fortresses, were pushed into the sea. Masts formed a forest, sails obscured the sun, and the iron rams and hideous statues exuded an aura of destruction.
As the fleet took shape and prepared to set sail, the Valar's warning arrived. It wasn't a thunderous retribution, but a silent, soul-shattering omen. The clear sky was suddenly covered by rolling, inky clouds, and the daylight turned into an eerie dusk. An unprecedented storm raged at the edge of the sea, and waves roared like mountains, crashing against the shore. From the depths of the earth came a dull, continuous roar, like the agony of an ancient beast. The stone pillars of the palace trembled, and the exquisite murals shed dust. This was not an attack, but the world itself, the lament and final warning.
Some of the loyalists who hadn't yet been completely consumed by the madness responded with fear, but Ar-Pharazon saw the warning as a provocation and a sign of weakness. Standing on the highest balcony of the palace, his graying hair ruffled by the wind, he roared to the gloomy sky: "Behold, they are afraid. The Valar are threatening us with storms and earthquakes. This is proof that they are guilty, that eternal life lies before them, and they fear we will take it from them."
After nine years of frantic preparation, in the year 3319 of the Second Age, Ar-Pharazon, the last king, consumed by dreams of power and immortality, personally boarded the fleet. He was clad in the finest armor, and though his body showed signs of age, his eyes burned with a fire that bordered on madness. The vast, invincible fleet, like a steel forest covering the sea, slowly sailed away from the harbor of Armenelos to the deep, frenzied blast of trumpets, heading towards the setting sun, towards the fabled blessed land of Valinor, launching a doomed, blasphemous westward march.
When the fleet finally disappeared over the western horizon, a strange, suffocating silence fell over Númenor. An invisible pressure seemed to ease for a moment as the fleet left, but it was soon replaced by a deeper sense of unease and a premonition of impending doom.
But it was a golden opportunity for Meereen. The surveillance of the loyalists, especially the Amendil family, within the kingdom suddenly loosened as the elite guards and countless spies accompanied the army on the westward expedition. Meereen, lurking in the shadow of Andúní, launched the final evacuation operation.
Under the cover of the loyalists, Meereen contacted and gathered the last group of members who were willing to leave. He even used his familiarity with the terrain of the palace and, with the help of a hidden old palace servant, ventured into the depths of the apparently empty palace.
In a quiet room facing the sea, adorned with exquisite shells, he met Queen Miriel. The princess, who should have inherited the throne, appeared remarkably calm, but deep within her beautiful eyes were a veil of unspeakable sorrow and profound weariness. She wore a simple, elegant long dress and quietly gazed out the window at the sea.
"Lord Meereen," she said softly, as if afraid to disturb anything, "I knew you would come. Are you here to persuade me to leave?"
Meereen knelt on one knee, his tone earnest and heavy: "Númenor's fate is irreversible. The tide of darkness is about to engulf everything. Please leave with us, you are the light of hope for our new home in Middle-earth."
Miriel shook her head slowly. "Hope? I no longer have any hope. I can't stop Pharazon from sliding into the abyss, nor can I save this kingdom that he has pushed to destruction. My responsibility is to stay here and sink with it. This is my last dignity." She refused to look at Meereen's pleading eyes. She turned around and spoke in an ethereal calm. "Go, Lord Meereen, take those who still have a future and leave this cursed land. Go to Middle-earth and ignite a new fire. And I will go to Mount Meneltarma and make my final prayers to Eru, asking for his mercy."
Milin knew that he could not change her mind. He bowed deeply, and with sorrow and respect, he quietly left the quiet room.
Under the meticulous planning of Meereen and the loyalists, the final evacuation began. Under cover of darkness, members of House Elendil and the last remaining core members of the loyalists painstakingly but swiftly boarded several sturdy ships anchored in a secret rocky cove in Andúnië. The waves lapped restlessly against the sides, as if urging them on.
An indescribable, terrifying force, beyond mortal comprehension, suddenly descended. The sky was no longer a cloud, but as if ripped apart by an invisible hand, revealing a seething chaos beyond, a vortex of molten lava and thunder. The sea no longer roared, but raged with fury, its mighty waves reaching the sky as if threatening to devour the very air. Beneath them, the land of Númenor erupted in an unprecedented, soul-rending wail. Mountains crumbled, the earth collapsed. The violent tremors instantly cracked the sturdy palace, and countless buildings collapsed like sandcastles.
Queen Miriel donned a pure white gown, braided her long black hair, and donned a wreath of the island's last blooming flowers. Like a saint approaching an altar, she walked resolutely and resolutely toward the sacred mountain of Meneltarma, ignoring the crumbling palace and desperate cries behind her on the violently shaking earth.
"Eru Ilúvatar..." Her prayers were drowned out by the roar of the earth and sky collapsing, but her eyes were extremely pious.
Just as she reached the mountain's midpoint, Meneltarma, the heart and sacred site of Númenor, erupted in a deafening roar. Its summit erupted, erupting not with lava but with a holy fire so consuming it would illuminate the entire Doomsday firmament. The flames, purifying and judging, instantly ignited the mountain. The earth seemed to split as though split by a mighty axe, and deep, bottomless chasms opened across the islands. The icy waters, like a destructive beast, roared with deafening fury, pouring in and devouring everything. A mighty flood surged from every direction, instantly submerging low-lying cities, plains, and hills.
Queen Miriel was swallowed by the monstrous torrent, her white skirt and the wreath on her head fleeting in the destructive torrent, a final sacrifice to the end of the world. This last queen, who witnessed the kingdom's decline but was powerless to save it, sank into the abyss along with the land she loved so deeply but ultimately destroyed.
On the violently pitched ship, threatened to be shattered by the waves at any moment, Elendil, Isildur, and all the survivors clung to the side, gazing back in horror at the sinking land. The once-glorious Armenelos crumbled and disintegrated like a mirage amidst the surging waves and erupting volcanoes. The sacred fire of Mount Meneltarma struggled and died in the floodwaters. Countless lives were swallowed by the sea amidst cries of despair. The great kingdom that once embodied humanity's highest dreams and glory crumbled and sank like a sandcastle under the judgment of heaven and earth.
Manwë made a profound appeal to Eru Ilúvatar, the Creator of Arda. He did not pray for power, but rather to claim the Valar's duty to protect Arda and to ask the Creator to intervene personally to reshape the laws of the world that had been violated by human arrogance.
As if answered. His will, silent and unnoticed, changes the world.
A power beyond the Valar, beyond the Maiar, beyond the comprehension of all living beings, suddenly enveloped all of Arda. The world was reshaped. No longer a flat disk surrounded by the Undying Land, it was stretched and bent into a vast sphere suspended in the void. Aman and Tor-Eressëa were completely removed from the world, and humans could no longer sail to the Blessed Land.
Al-Pharazon and his invincible fleet, along with their blasphemous ambitions, fell forever into the bottomless chasm that had opened between the undead realm and the mortal world when the world was reshaped, and were swallowed by eternal darkness.
Númenor, once the jewel of the Belegaer Sea, with all its splendor, ambition, corruption, and despair, sank into the abyss of destruction, in the mighty flood and the breaking of the earth, just as Meereen had seen in those ominous dreams—the sky fell apart, the earth tore apart, and the sea swallowed the earth.
Only those loyalists who, with the help of Meereen and Elrond, escaped Númenor early and established new homes in Middle-earth, along with a few survivors like the House of Elendil who miraculously escaped at the last moment, remained. With the continued help of the Elves, they painstakingly rebuilt their homes in this ancient and ravaged land, continuing the last bloodline of Númenor and ultimately developing it into new human kingdoms: Arnor in the north and Gondor in the south. And the sapling of the White Tree, a symbol of hope and the grace of the Valar, rose and fell on Elendil's ship, becoming the only living thing connecting the glory of the past with the hope of the future.
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