'...A hundred and three … and four … and five … and six …and – are we there at last?’

The junior servant set down his buckets with a clang and a gasp and straightened his tortured shoulders. Water slopped out of the buckets in quantities.

‘Be careful with that, or you’ll be going down for some more,’ growled the ancient servant, who was burdened only with a broom and a jangling set of keys.

Down for some more? Down the hundred and six steps that led to the turret, and the two hundred and five that led upward from the door into the tower, and the one hundred and fifty-eight that led from the ground floor to the door into the tower, and the twenty that came up from the courtyard well? And up again with more full buckets?

‘There’s enough here, surely,’ said the Junior.

The Ancient grunted and unlocked the turret door.  As he opened it a ghastly stench came out and set the junior gagging. The Ancient wrinkled his nose, but that was all; he was used to it.

They stepped inside, the Junior very reluctantly as his feet squelched. The floor was thickly covered in twigs, bones, layer upon layer of droppings. Amidst the horrid chaos the Junior spotted a little heap of feathers stretched over a tiny skeleton, with a beak protruding pathetically from one end.

‘Dead ’un,’ grunted the Ancient. ‘They’re like that -  lay two or three eggs, but the largest of the young always turns the other ones out – when it don’t eat them. Happens every year. No use snivelling about it. Start sweeping!’

Gloomily the Junior began clearing and scraping away the heaps of filth. It was clear that the water would not be enough to clean the floor properly, and the prospect of going down for more seemed suddenly quite attractive if it meant breathing some fresh air on the way, but the Ancient shook his head.

‘That’ll do,’ he said. ‘Just enough to keep the fleas down – her  Majesty don’t half carry on if they get into the palace.’

They finished their task as quickly and sketchily as the Ancient would permit, loaded the rubbish into sacks, shouldered them with a shudder, locked the door, and re-descended the five hundred and sixty-nine steps to the ground floor of the palace at Armenelos. The Junior added the extra twenty steps down to the well. He felt in urgent need of a wash.

Later that evening a huge winged shape sped across the sky of Númenor and alighted on the topmost turret where eagles had nested since time immemorial. The King of Númenor, his attention caught by the bird’s harsh cry, sighed with satisfaction.

‘Ah, most noble of birds, beloved of Manwë!’ he cried, spreading his arms theatrically. ‘It is indeed an honour to share my palace with thee, O mighty eagle.’

Kings, of course, do not have to muck out.

Note: for the eagles of Armenelos see ‘A Description of Númenor’ in ‘Unfinished Tales’ . I owe my knowledge of the more disagreeable habits of eagles to the excellent programmes produced by the BBC natural history unit.

I knew the terror of the Last Days. I saw my brother carried to the Temple, trussed for the sacrifice.  I heard his death-cry, and the laughter of Morgoth’s servant within.

Day by day I saw the great eagle-clouds massing, ready to peck Númenor into nothing.  

On the last day of all I saw the holy  Meneltarma burn with fire. I saw land flow like water, and water raised up into mountains. From the trembling refuge of our ship I heard the shrieks as my people died. I saw our Queen, bound to a wicked consort yet faithful at heart, tossed into death like a plucked feather. I saw the dark wave that climbed over the green lands and above the hills, darkness unescapable.

Did I see, or did I dream, the vast hand of Ossë that took our few frail ships and hurled them on to a desolate shore? If I saw it in truth, did that great servant of the One save us in mercy, or in mockery, seeing that Sauron our ruin was saved also?

Here in this new realm, in the hills we now call Emyn Arnen, my kindred may live in  peace for a while, until King Elendil, whom we serve, masses his forces to continue the endless struggle against the lord of darkness.

While daylight lasts I may know some sort of peace. But at night, I see over and over again the advancing wave, the darkness unescapable, and its terror never lessens.

Surely it is stronger than death, this vision of a world condemned by the wickedness and folly of its inhabitants. In my own death I may be free of it, but not in a thousand, not in thrice a thousand years will it cease to trouble those who come after me.

Their inheritance will be the pride of Númenor. Its pride, and its death.