Fic about Tar-MĂriel and the fall of NĂșmenor. Cw:Major Character death (implied), ~1200 words. No beta we die like Tar-MĂriel. Inspired by my AkallabĂȘth thoughts.
It had been a wonderful month, with her husband gone she was free to explore her home like she once did. Before she was named âAr-Zimraphelâ, before her marriage. She watched the renditions of the âLay of Leithienâ and other such stories; talked with Elendil about the lands beyond, and walked as far to the coast as possible to breathe in the clean air of her youth. She even, in great secrecy, found a small shrine to Uinen that was not destroyed, and prayed.
For her safety, for NĂșmenorâs livelihood, for the hope that Eru could save them from this mess, and for the deaths of Sauron and PharazĂŽn.
It had been many days since they had last seen a sign of the armada, and not even the most far-sighted of them could see the ships. Hopefully, PharazĂŽn had died during the trip, maybe he had fallen into the sea and his golden armor kept him from swimming back up. It would have been a poetic end, killed by his own pride. Though the Deceiver still remained and still carried out its plans-they named it God now, higher than Eru-she had spent that time freer and happier than she had been since her fatherâs death.
She should have known. All the warning signs were there and out in the open. From the violent storms, which never happened in NĂșmenor before; from the lightening that smote under the wings of the eagle clouds, the beloved animals of ManwĂ«. She should have known from the moment that corpses charred on Sauronâs alter. From the moment that Nimloth was burned in the name of Morgoth the Enemy, and how it reeked for days. They were doomed.
The wind whipped her hair into her face as she ascended another step up the Meneltarma. Thousands of them had laid ahead of her in the beginning, now only hundreds were left. Though the path was worn with time and disuse, she could still find the route to the top of the pillar. It was carved by the movements of her ancestors before her, and made by her father and herself when she was younger. Hopefully the Hallow was still standing, and all she could do was pray that shelter remained.
Smoke filled the salty air, it brought with it the deafening sounds of screams and of the earth rumbling. It stung her scratches from tripping and made it harder to breathe in. She had fallen a million times on her way up, bashed her feet against the stones and ripped her arms open across the rocks.
MĂriel was not well dressed for this trek, but who is when they meet the apocalypse? It did not matter that her sandals were now wet with blood, nor that her dyed robes were now brown with dirt. Her jewelry laid abandoned in the steadily rising water, all the shining gold had simply dragged her down.
Pain appeared with every step, blisters had grown from the chaffing of wet sandals. But this did not matter to her, she was more concerned with reaching the temple in order to live. She did not want to die. She did not want to die.
The howling of a thousand beasts echoed throughout the land as her NĂșmenor was torn apart, and the laughter of the most vile monster to exist responded in terms.
Meneltarmaâs cliff sides felt slick with blood as she reached for the indentations of a railing, and the floor was drenched with rain. MĂriel fell down once again and the force of her collision with the solid stone rang throughout her body. She screamed out with agony as her kneecap broke, but the most frightening thing was that the cries of her people had now died out. It was replaced by the rumbling of stone, the crashing of waves, and sick laughter.
Though that is due to the distance between her and them, she lied.
NĂșmenor cannot be dead or dying, it had been here for thousands of years, and it was her home. If it was dead then where would she go to buy new rugs for the palace floors without the marketplace; where would the âLay of EĂ€rendilâ preform without the theater, where would Elendil return after a long trip if there wasnât a port, where would she overhear hushed debates on the classification of coral without the libraries, and where would the children throw their balls to play if there wasnât a plaza? Who would her people, the nĂșmenĂłreans, be without their lovely AnadĂ»nĂȘ? Their home?
âââââââââââââââââââââââââââ
Waves crashed, buildings crumbled, lightening struck, fires started, fires died, and MĂriel dragged herself back up again. Only a hundred steps laid ahead of her, only a hundred until she reached the top, only a hundred before she arrived in the holy place. Each movement of her left leg was another lance of hot pain throughout her body. But she kept going, because she did not want to die. Like everyone on the island, she wanted to live past this event. She wanted to see the entire world, and laugh with friends during the journey.
But Oâ EĂ€rendil her forefather, would being on the Pillar of Heaven be enough to save her? Would she be safe on top of it, within the alter to Eru. Would He even save her, knowing the crimes she turned a blind eye to? While it was tall and fearsome, the waves crashed higher and higher with each passing second. Where she once was, the waters covered entirely.
The realization dawned on her mind, though she ignored it. She was not going to survive even if she made it, and that was the most terrifying discovery. For the waves grew tall enough that even the pillar would be devoted. Was all of this for naught?
(No. Even if she shall die , at least MĂriel would be in the last untainted place of NĂșmenor. At least she would die within Eruâs reach, and maybe her death could be quick. And maybe what lies beyond the circles of the world will be kinder than she thought, perhaps she could meet her father again.)
Tar-MĂriel, the last ruler of NĂșmenor, climbed up further. The laughter of Sauron combined with the rush if the waves, the cries of OssĂ«âs gulls, and the thunder of the storm. But she ignored it.
Sixty steps, fifty, forty, thirty. Only twenty steps left that she needed to ascend before she reached the top of the Meneltarma. The waves followed her closer and closer, now coming up to her thighs and making it difficult to move. But she must and she did, higher and higher she climbed.
So near was dear MĂriel, fairer than silver and pearls, but then the world shifted. The land tilted backwards and the droning cry of the earth was all the she heard. All MĂriel could see before her as she clung on tight to the rock was the Wave, and she was lost.
âToo late she strive to ascend the steep ways of the Meneltarma to the holy place; for the waters overtook her, and her cry was lost in the roaring of the windâ (AkallabĂȘth, 279)
pixelskylines
prguitarman
baratheonpilled
discoholicmusic
