The Tale of Luwén

Prologue

The year 3319 of the Second Age

The sacrifices were held in the afternoon, when the sun would reach its highest point and lighten the top of the five-hundred-foot-tall temple dedicated to Morgoth – the Dark One who once terrorized Middle-earth. Anqualiel knew she had to hurry if she were to save her beloved Hilyamo and dearest friend Varyo.

The three of them belonged to the few Faithful left in Númenor. Not only did this make targets of them, it made them highly sought after when it came down to the animalistic sacrifices performed for the representation of evil in the lands they lived in. Morgoth – before his fall from the Valar – was better known as Melkor. Once he was the most powerful of all Valar, only surpassed in his strength by the One God Eru Ilúvatar. Even now, so many years after his banishment of the world, he still held appeal to the ones who would have been oppressed had he remained. Anqualiel shook her head in disbelief, yet everything around her on the isle of Númenor was proof of their dangerous worshipping of the Darkness that once was.

She tucked her dark long red hair under her hood once more, her heart beating rapidly as she approached the sinful stronghold where she knew Hilyamo and Varyo to be. Her beloved and dear friend had little time left and she was more aware of this with every second that passed. The moment the drums would start, they would be lost to her. If only her daughter had not lost her necklace, they would not have been in this situation now.

Elendil and the other Faithful were awaiting her return with worry in their hearts, but Anqualiel knew it would be easier to manoeuvre through the city streets, covered in the ashes of the human sacrifices, by herself. A group would have drawn the attention of the worshippers of Morgoth, and with the overpowering forces of the guards the Wizard Zigûr had been granted by the king, no Faithful was safe. They were simply outnumbered.

The Temple of Morgoth, build by Zigûr and king Ar-Pharazôn, was a massive dome, it's walls thick and impenetrable. If Anqualiel squinted, her eyes could just make out the top, once silver, but blackened from the sacrifices that were mercilessly performed throughout the many years it stood. Guards stood on both sides of the dark wooden gates. Anqualiel felt how sweat formed in her palms. She glanced at the sky once more, the sun almost at its highest point. A slight tremble in her steps as she approached the gate, climbing the stone steps, was the only thing giving away her fear. However, no one would notice her ascend if the dark grey cloak did as she was told. It was too late to turn back now.

The shadow of the Temple loomed over her and swallowed her whole in its terrifying pitch-black darkness. Anqualiel felt her stomach twist in knots she had not deemed possible. A glance at the guards told her they had not yet noticed her, still, to be sure she halted a moment before continuing her steps more softly. Bronze masks covered the guards' faces completely. Sharp features shaped in the face that was to be Morgoth, the Dark One, although some of the Faithful were brave enough to say these masks had more in common with the likeness of the Wizard Zigûr, who was the High Priest of the cult of Morgoth. A crown of spikes decorated the top of the masks. Anqualiel shuddered at the sight as she realised this was the last thing her sacrificed kin had seen before being murdered in cold blood.

The guards still did not look her way and in silence she thanked the Valar for the cloak that had been bestowed upon the Edain long ago. Legend had it, the lady Lúthien had worn it once, although that could also be a made up story. Not much was known about the First Age anymore on the isle of Númenor, the influence of the Darkness that loomed over them had taken away much of their knowledge.

As well as our sanity, she thought although she had never spoken such a statement aloud.

Hilyamo believed it to bring bad fortune with Varyo frowning at her words and pacing nervously. Anqualiel believed it silly to argue over such matters, so she kept quiet about it. How she wished they would be in the port of Rómennna, scowling at each other lovingly over their silly arguments, their young daughter laughing at the faces they'd make whilst being held by an exasperated looking Varyo who had to deal with too many of their arguments already. They would be together and safe under the protection of Elendil.