Chapter Text
Long had he coveted the elixir of immortality, plumbing the depths of ancient lore, myth, and legend alike in search of its elusive secret. He studied the annals of yore, amidst tales of spectral apparitions, dark arts, and enchanted springs, yet he uncovered nothing.
But then, came the sorcerer to Númenor, humbled and defeated, and carrying a wealth of wisdom to impart.
As time passed, a seed of doubt had taken root within his heart, overwhelming the once steadfast belief in the sorcerer's whispered promises of eternal life. Upon observing his wrinkled figure, he perceived himself to be more aged than his contemporaries. He contemplated the possibility that the witchcraft sweetly murmured to him had assisted in his premature aging.
Amidst his recollections, he pondered how his counselor, once but a captive in his realm, had ascended to such dizzying heights of power. At times, he entertained the notion that the sorcerer governed all from the shadows while he was a mere pawn.
And the name that once gave him immensurable pleasure in the twilight of his days, now, filled him with dread.
An ethereal voice resonated from beyond the walls of the royal chamber, stirring Ar-Pharazon's gut, as he discerned the familiar somber tone recounting a famous ballad.
The tragic ballad spoke of a sorcerer, who once upon a time fell deeply enamored with an Elven prince. The sorcerer entrusted him with all his knowledge and affection, captivated by his renowned talent and beauty. Nevertheless, this devotion was met with betrayal, driven by the prince's rebellious spirit ablaze by the stars' fire. Hence, the prince was laid to eternal rest by the sorcerer's own hands.
"From the sorcerer's profound longing, a potent spell arose," the voice intoned cutting through the stillness "but the Elven prince spurned the summons time and again, for he was ever untamed and thus ever precious."
"Reveal yourself, harbinger of darkness!" The king commanded; his feeble attempt to rise from the luxurious bed evident.
"Do you, my liege, recall this fable?" The voice persisted, its tone akin to a haunting melody. "Centuries passed, yet my sorrow remained fresh until the golden king breached my gates."
"Portentous crow! After all these years, why divulge such a mystery now?"
"To impress upon you, my king, that neither legend nor spell can grant your race immortality." replied the voice, its presence enfolding the king like a veil "You were deemed unworthy of the true gift and placed beneath the Eldar."
Finally, Mairon emerged from the shadows, revealing himself before the king, his wild curls cascading like molten strains of fire, his countenance kissed with freckles akin to sparks of flame, and his towering figure adorned in gold from head to toe. His immutable and ominous beauty was a constant reminder that time held no dominion over him.
For the king, it was a mockery of his mortality.
And now, it only deepened the envy and wrath that festered within his heart: though he ruled as the paramount of kings, joy would always elude him, for the chains of age shackled him. Moreover, unlike the ballads, he could never attain the timeless allure of an Elven prince who had captured the gaze of a sorcerer.
"You promised me eternal life!" the king implored.
"I made no such promise. I merely offered my guidance."
"Nay, it was not so!" Ar-Pharazon protested "You pledged to me that the Lord of Darkness would grant me immortality!"
"Melkor could have offered no such boon, my king, for he has long been imprisoned," Mairon's spectral laughter echoed, rendering the king insignificant. "Each time you torched your kin upon Meneltarma, you were, in essence, paying homage to me."
It was not until later that he realized Mairon was no sorcerer, but the incarnation of shadows, whom the proud king, in his youthful folly, once believed he could constrain. And he simmered with anger at his inclination to insistently crawl at the sorcerer's feet, despite enduring numerous humiliations.
"Perhaps I lack the guile of your beloved elven prince, who deceived you and safeguarded his kin. Yet, this deficiency serves me well, sparing me the indignity of being paraded as a warning flag. Furthermore, being no elf, I shall not carry such a memory everlastingly."
Ar-Pharazon relished this small act of retaliation, witnessing Mairon's typical unchangeable visage contort with fury at the mere mention of the elf, his terrifying eyes gleaming akin to gold.
As Mairon drew nearer, sitting beside him on the bed, the king recoiled in fear, however, the sorcerer leaned in and spoke gently into his ear:
"Your realm shall crumble into obscurity, leaving behind no enduring memory. And your only taste of immortality will lie in the sensation of my skin beneath your gross hands, yet even this shall fade unless you choose wisely. Your sole hope now lies across the sea, there, you may claim immortality."
Terrible, yet promising words.
For a decennary he had prepared his fleet to sail west, seeking for the chance of eternal life.
Despite Ar-Pharazon's dwindling trust in Mairon and the sorcerer's absent efforts to exhibit his former charm, the king still believed they shared a mutual objective: the destruction of the Lords of the West.
It had become too late to consider the consequences of this assault. He comprehended this endeavor would result in bloodshed with possibly no substantial gain. He understood that he was being manipulated, and regardless of the outcome, Mairon would reap benefits.
At times, he hesitated, yet given his advanced age, he perceived himself as having little to lose.
The commander of the fleets entered the chamber—addressing the sorcerer instead of the king:
"Alcarondas stands ready for the king, my lord. The fleet awaits the decree. "
Mairon grinned, satisfied. "What say you, my golden king?"
Arising from the bed, frail beneath his armor and with a wavering voice, the king decreed:
"The Lords of the West assail us, and our response shall be resolute. Send forth the fleet!"