User:Narfil Palùrfalas/Fanfictions/Shadow over Westernesse

Shadow over Westernesse

Prologue

A single flame glowed in the darkness, before gently touching the wick of a candle. The tiny gleam from that candle lit dimly the surroundings, a dusty old room with many shelves of books, scrolls, and parchments. It was a modest room, and on one end opposite the oaken door was a small table with a pen and ink. Several artifacts were here and there: a vase shaped like an eagle, a winged helmet, a jeweled goblet with the figure of a sea-dragon, a glinting green gem set in silver, and a little twig that seemed made of silver.

The old man, bowed by many years under the sun and moon, blew the dust off of the twig. He fingered it gently, as carefully as if it were made of fragile glass. Then, placing it before him on the desk, took a clean piece of parchment, and sat down. For a moment he paused, pen in hand, looking away into space. Then he sat up resolutely, and dipped the writing instrument in the ink. The pen touched the page, and letters in a hand that looked as old as their artist began appearing.

To Valandil, King of Arnor, in the fifty-first year of the Third Age,

Valandil, my beloved Nephew, I write to thee knowing that it shall not be much longer ere I leave this mortal world, and depart Endor forever. Thy father, Isildur, perished forty-nine years ago, at the Disaster of the Gladden Fields. Thy mother, who is my sister, died of grief soon after. But I need not tell thee this. As thou knowest I am the last of those living who remember Númenor in its glory, ever since the passing of my dear friend, Lindil. I therefore consider it my duty to write of Númenor, Westernesse, and how it fell into shadow.

Nothing has been written recording the shame and folly of the Númenóreans, and for a long time thou and thy kindred hath been kept utterly in the dark as to what happened there. But now it matters not, as by winter the last who was old enough to remember what went on there will leave the circles of the world, to which he is not forever bound.

It has been over a hundred and seventy years since the Downfall. I am old, Valandil, even for my kindred. Yet I have remained alive long enough to ensure the establishment of the Númenóreans in Endor, called by some Middle-earth. I have seen the White Sapling grow to maturity, and I am content that Eru shall watch over ye of the Faithful who dwell both in Arnor and in Gondor.

It is a long tale, that of the Fall, and I must write quickly, lest the tale die with me. For though those of Númenor may decide when they pass, there are other ways of dying besides of age. Yet I do not fear death itself…

Death. How much death and the fear of it has to do with this story. But I get ahead of myself. Following is the greatest and saddest tale ever to have happened before in the history of Man, and there may never be a greater and sadder one. Yet my heart tells me that it shall happen again, and again, even if on a lesser scale, for the magnitude of the pride of man.

The story opens one day in the chill fall of 3221 of the Second Age, when Isildur and I were but young boys of Andunië, merry and youthful, and completely unaware of the coming darkness…