4. Miriel's Fall
J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, "Akallabêth"
I stood below Meneltarma and watched as the fleet formed. Ship after ship, setting sail from Eldalondë and Andunië, and dropping anchor off the coast until I could see no sea. As each vessel joined the others, the banner of the King was raised, gold and sable. A banner that once I had loved, as the sign of Númenor's greatness. Now, it stands only for the hatred I bear my husband, my usurper.
He came to me, nigh on forty days ago, as the harbours emptied, and looked long on me. His eyes were filled with pride, and the knowledge of his power over me and over this land. "Ah, Zimraphel," he said, using the name I hate, "so cold and so fair. I will send for thee when I have conquered the Deathless, that you may see my victory. Until then, farewell." He bent, and kissed me, and went down to Alcarondas. A short while after I saw his standard raised high on the main mast, and I turned from the west.
In the morning, the fleet had gone, and the gold and black had vanished from the horizon. Those left whispered that other banners were still to be seen, laid off to the east - the banners of the lord Elendil and his sons, my kinsmen. I see them even now, even as I climb desperately upwards. Somehow, those banners, fluttering bravely in this sudden storm, give me hope.
The air is hot with fire and the stench of smoke. The temple to Sauron burns, but the tower built by Elros stands yet. That is my aim; I must reach that tower, I must reach it!
I glance east, and see Elendil's standard begin to move. The sea is foaming, the waves growing, sweeping from the west. The sky now is dark, and the earth seems to move beneath me. I am almost there, I can see the tower.
And as I climb tears are running down my cheeks unchecked. I am weeping for the fall of my land, for the fall of that mighty banner. The power and glory of Westernesse, Númenor the Golden, before it vanished into shadow and darkness.
In the west the sea is rising, a crest of foam. I call out into the tumult, a plea to whoever is listening, but my voice is lost. I am lost.
Númenor has fallen.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.