The Lost Road and Other Writings. Christopher Tolkien
his work is perforce unfinished. Therefore the son of Eärendel, our king, should complete it. They wish to do what has been long left undone.’
‘What is that?’
‘Thou knowest: to set foot in the far West, and not withdraw it. To conquer new realms for our race, and ease the pressure of this peopled island, where every road is trodden hard, and every tree and grass-blade counted. To be free, and masters of the world. To escape the shadow of sameness, and of ending. We would make our king Lord of the West: Nuaran Númenóren.9 Death comes here slow and seldom; yet it cometh. The land is only a cage gilded to look like Paradise.’
‘Yea, so I have heard others say,’ said Elendil. ‘But what knowest thou of Paradise? Behold, our wandering words have come unguided to the point of my purpose. But I am grieved to find thy mood is of this sort, though I feared it might be so. Thou art my only son, and my dearest child, and I would have us at one in all our choices. But choose we must, thou as well as I – for at thy last birthday thou became subject to arms and the king’s service. We must choose between Sauron and the Lords (or One Higher). Thou knowest, I suppose, that all hearts in Númenor are not drawn to Sauron?’
‘Yes. There are fools even in Númenor,’ said Herendil, in a lowered voice. ‘But why speak of such things in this open place? Do you wish to bring evil on me?’
‘I bring no evil,’ said Elendil. ‘That is thrust upon us: the choice between evils: the first fruits of war. But look, Herendil! Our house is one of wisdom and guarded learning; and was long revered for it. I followed my father, as I was able. Dost thou follow me? What dost thou know of the history of the world or Númenor? Thou art but four twelves,10 and wert but a small child when Sauron came. Thou dost not understand what days were like before then. Thou canst not choose in ignorance.’
‘But others of greater age and knowledge than mine – or thine – have chosen,’ said Herendil. ‘And they say that history confirmeth them, and that Sauron hath thrown a new light on history. Sauron knoweth history, all history.’
‘Sauron knoweth, verily; but he twisteth knowledge. Sauron is a liar!’ Growing anger caused Elendil to raise his voice as he spoke. The words rang out as a challenge.
‘Thou art mad,’ said his son, turning at last upon his side and facing Elendil, with dread and fear in his eyes. ‘Do not say such things to me! They might, they might…’
‘Who are they, and what might they do?’ said Elendil, but a chill fear passed from his son’s eyes to his own heart.
‘Do not ask! And do not speak – so loud!’ Herendil turned away, and lay prone with his face buried in his hands. ‘Thou knowest it is dangerous – to us all. Whatever he be, Sauron is mighty, and hath ears. I fear the dungeons. And I love thee, I love thee. Atarinya tye-meláne.’
Atarinya tye-meláne, my father, I love thee: the words sounded strange, but sweet: they smote Elendil’s heart. ‘A yonya inye tye-méla: and I too, my son, I love thee,’ he said, feeling each syllable strange but vivid as he spoke it. ‘But let us go within! It is too late to bathe. The sun is all but gone. It is bright there westwards in the gardens of the Gods. But twilight and the dark are coming here, and the dark is no longer wholesome in this land. Let us go home. I must tell and ask thee much this evening – behind closed doors, where maybe thou wilt feel safer.’ He looked towards the sea, which he loved, longing to bathe his body in it, as though to wash away weariness and care. But night was coming.
The sun had dipped, and was fast sinking in the sea. There was fire upon far waves, but it faded almost as it was kindled. A chill wind came suddenly out of the West ruffling the yellow water off shore. Up over the fire-lit rim dark clouds reared; they stretched out great wings, south and north, and seemed to threaten the land.
Elendil shivered. ‘Behold, the eagles of the Lord of the West are coming with threat to Númenor,’ he murmured.
‘What dost thou say?’ said Herendil. ‘Is it not decreed that the king of Númenor shall be called Lord of the West?’
‘It is decreed by the king; but that does not make it so,’ answered Elendil. ‘But I meant not to speak aloud my heart’s foreboding. Let us go!’
The light was fading swiftly as they passed up the paths of the garden amid flowers pale and luminous in the twilight. The trees were shedding sweet night-scents. A lómelindë began its thrilling bird-song by a pool.
Above them rose the house. Its white walls gleamed as if moonlight was imprisoned in their substance; but there was no moon yet, only a cool light, diffused and shadowless. Through the clear sky like fragile glass small stars stabbed their white flames. A voice from a high window came falling down like silver into the pool of twilight where they walked. Elendil knew the voice: it was the voice of Fíriel, a maiden of his household, daughter of Orontor. His heart sank, for Fíriel was dwelling in his house because Orontor had departed. Men said he was on a long voyage. Others said that he had fled the displeasure of the king. Elendil knew that he was on a mission from which he might never return, or return too late.11 And he loved Orontor, and Fíriel was fair.
Now her voice sang an even-song in the Eressëan tongue, but made by men, long ago. The nightingale ceased. Elendil stood still to listen; and the words came to him, far off and strange, as some melody in archaic speech sung sadly in a forgotten twilight in the beginning of man’s journey in the world.
Ilu Ilúvatar en káre eldain a fírimoin
ar antaróta mannar Valion: númessier.....
The Father made the World for elves and mortals, and he gave it into the hands of the Lords, who are in the West.
So sang Fíriel on high, until her voice fell sadly to the question with which that song ends: man táre antáva nin Ilúvatar, Ilúvatar, enyáre tar i tyel íre Anarinya qeluva? What will Ilúvatar, O Ilúvatar, give me in that day beyond the end, when my Sun faileth?’12
‘E man antaváro? What will he give indeed?’ said Elendil; and stood in sombre thought.
‘She should not sing that song out of a window,’ said Herendil, breaking the silence. ‘They sing it otherwise now. Melko cometh back, they say, and the king shall give us the Sun forever.’
‘I know what they say,’ said Elendil. ‘Do not say it to thy father, nor in his house.’ He passed in at a dark door, and Herendil, shrugging his shoulders, followed him.
Chapter IV
Herendil lay on the floor, stretched at his father’s feet upon a carpet woven in a design of golden birds and twining plants with blue flowers. His head was propped upon his hands. His father sat upon his carved chair, his hands laid motionless upon either arm of it, his eyes looking into the fire that burned bright upon the hearth. It was not cold, but the fire that was named ‘the heart of the house’ (hon-maren)13 burned ever in that room. It was moreover a protection against the night, which already men had begun to fear.
But cool air came in through the window, sweet and flower-scented. Through it could be seen, beyond the dark spires of still trees, the western ocean, silver under the Moon, that was now swiftly following the Sun to the gardens of the Gods. In the night-silence Elendil’s words fell softly. As he spoke he listened, as if to another that told a tale long forgotten.14
‘There15 is Ilúvatar, the One; and there are the Powers, of whom the eldest in the thought of Ilúvatar was Alkar the Radiant;16 and there are the Firstborn of Earth, the Eldar, who perish not while the World lasts; and there are also the Afterborn, mortal Men, who are the children of Ilúvatar, and yet under the rule of the Lords. Ilúvatar designed the World, and revealed his design to the Powers; and of these some he set to be Valar, Lords of the World and governors of the things that are therein. But