Author: Sythe
Rating: NC17
Feedback: [email protected]
Disclaimer: Don't own them; just borrow em for the fics. All LOTR
characters belong to their owner(s), all other characters…belong to my pure and
very vivid imagination.
*Author’s note: all I had for reference was the LOTR trilogy in novel
form and the recent movies themselves. If there is any mistake in the
information given, please forgive the error. The Third Earth history is vast,
incomplete and extremely complex…*
Epilogue
It is birth of the Fourth Age
of Middle Earth. The Time of Men has begun.
Aragorn, son of Arathorn and
sole heir of Isildur, is crowned King of Gondor. The graceful and immortal
Elves have taken to the sea for the Undying Lands…their time ended. Only a
handful remains. Sauron, the Lord of the Dark Lands, is defeated and his Black
Tower lies obliterated. The servants of Darkness have lost and the Light has
won, vanquishing the Dark Lord's armies with the destruction of the One Ring.
Mordor is nothing but a wasteland, overtaken by the volcanoes that reside
there. Nothing dares live there now or ever.
Peace has been restored.
All return to their lives,
though for many it will never be quite the same. Countless lay dead or dying,
maimed or wounded; their sacrifice and courage was not in vain. And when those
who have survived turn a weary eye toward the blackened, craggy walls of
Mordor, they see not the ominous ebon clouds of darkness lingering ever closer
with each passing day, nor the fiery tempest glow of the Great Eye. With a sigh
of relief and disbelief, all that is seen is the smoke and ash wafting up into
the heavens from the molten mouth of the living volcano that dwarfed the Dark
Tower in size – nothing of what had been there only a short time before is
left. There is no more danger. Certainly evil can never be truly and completely
vanquished, but the greatest of threats no longer exists.
There is great celebration and
rejoicing – freedom has finally come! The King has returned and claimed his
birthright, bringing all under his banner in common cause – Human, Elf, Dwarf,
Wizard…and Hobbit. Third Earth releases her long held breath, bringing new life
and new hope to all living – be it animal or plant, for all things are bonded
together in nature. From the ashes of death and destruction comes the beginning
of a new world.
Cities and fortifications are
repaired and rebuilt; families are reunited and homes are returned to. The dead
are honored and buried while the injured and wounded are treated and cared for.
Armies return to their kingdoms…and kingdoms receive new rulers after their
loss during the last Great Battle.
Human and Elf-kind are brought
together in union in the Marriage between Elessar, King of Gondor and Arwen,
only daughter of the Elf-Lord Elrond. And in the presence of all those dear to
them, they wed, forever binding the two peoples together.
Time passes…
There is a scream in the
darkness of night; it is terrifying and blood chilling to those whose ears hear
it. Its shrieking echoes along the mountains, through the forests, breathing
new life back into forgotten fears that had existed for so long and only a
short time ago. Then soon came the whisperings of a dark rider dressed in
hooded black robes, on a black horse seen moving among the thick early morning
fog…but only for a heartbeat. At first many believed the black warrior to be
one of the few servants of Sauron who had survived the last battle, but as more
sightings are heard, as more begin to declare in hearing the deamonbeast-like
cry in the woods along the western borders of Rohan, the word Nazgûl begins to
spread.
It does not take long before
the possible sightings of a Ringwraith reaches Gondor and the ears of those who
believed all of the Dark Lord's minions were destroyed. And a short time after,
the black rider is seen again, but this time traveling between the Kingdoms of
Rohan and Gondor, moving south-east…as if he were headed in a particular
direction – to Mordor. Yet this observation is different, for what the observer
saw as the Wraith led his black stallion along the wooded path…was a woman
dressed in white, sitting before him on the horse’s back, she leaning back
against him. But this woman was no ordinary female – she was elven!
Could this black rider be one
of Sauron’s Ringwraiths? If so, why does he still exist and to where is he
traveling? Why would he have a woman – a she-elf no less, with him? Is she his
captive?
These questions and more are
whispered amongst those who have been called into meeting in the Hall of the
Kings. The existence of a single Nazgûl would bring terror and panic, as well
as fears of something else… Sauron is dead, his armies destroyed and those who
survived, are scattered – including the Wraiths. Aowen had destroyed the
Witch-king, the Black Captain, and the rest were brought down from the sky by
the flying fiery debris shot forth from the mouth of the violently errupting
volcano, Mount Doom. Fears are said – possible return of Sauron in another
form, Sauron was not destroyed, the lone Nazgûl is a harbinger for the coming
of another dark danger… There are many arguments, many suggestions, but the
last words are spoken by the wisest of the gathering: Aragorn and Gandalf the
White – search out the Wraith, learn all that can be learned, and then a
greater decision will be made. If the supposed Wraith means harm, then he will
be dealt with accordingly, but otherwise, he will be left alone. As for the
elven woman, it must be discovered as to the reason why she travels with him –
be it forcefully or no. If she had been captured and meant for ill causes, she
will be recaptured and returned to her own kind.
And immediately thus after,
spies were sent out in search of the alleged Ringwraith and his elven
companion, along the borders between Rohan and Gondor. What those spies see –
those who had survived their mission for the Black Rider killed all who drew
too close, is confusing…yet disturbing…
Chapter I
The beginning…
The corridor is deepest of
shadow, as dark as night; nothing lurks here except those who dare or do so as
their duties dictate. There is no sound – an eternal and deafening silence that
would drive the sanest of beings mad from the sound of his own beating heart.
Not even the winds blowing against the black walls without, can be heard.
Suddenly there is a sound –
soft yet it echoes through the darkness and against the stone walls, seeming as
if to have no end as it bounces from one end to the other…until finally, it
fades. It is quickly replaced by the padding of two feet, the dragging of
fabric over stone, metal scrapping against metal. There is nothing except
black.
A door opens.
Just beyond, there is a
flickering, burning light. As the pair of feet draw closer, the light grows in
intensity and the whispers of something…unnatural and unearthly can be heard.
It urges the being closer, beckoning him to enter…
…ash nazg durbatulûk, ash
nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul… Closer… Enter…
Come… One Ring to rule them all, One ring to find them, One Ring to bring them
all and in the Darkness bind them…
Long folds of tattered,
shredded black robes billow in the currents, the hood upon the creature’s head
is pulled low, leaving him in nothing but endless, complete shadow. A single
hand emerges for a moment, encased in plates of wicked, scaled armor that
flashes corroded gold in the light filling the massive circular room.
The head of the tall being
rises, peering up with unseen eyes to the ceiling…but there is no ceiling –
beyond the high walls is open sky. The only source of light filling the room
comes from the globe of ever-burning fire suspended as if by some sort of dark
magicks between two parallel black spires emerging from the top of the tower
like a razor-sharp double-headed spear rising up to pierce heaven itself.
“Nazgûl…Witch-king of
Angmar…of Minas Morgûl…” A dark voice speaks, coming as if from all direction.
Immediately the black robed figure takes several steps forward before falling
to his knee, bowing his head in respect as a beast-like slit appears in the
golden-white center of the fiery ball then lowers toward his servant.
“Lord Sauron…Master, you have
summoned me,” The Nazgûl says, his own voice dark but holds the ire of
superiority and control under the gaze of the Great Eye. His head rises and
looks up at the daemonic, supernatural thing hovering several hundred feet
above him. “What is thy will?”
“A mission… The offspring of
Nazgûl and Elf shall bare my heir – he who will general my armies and restore
the Ring to its rightful owner…”
“What is the mission, master?”
“The creation of a child
baring both Nazgûl and Eldar blood… The body of a virgin she-elf is powerful –
power that would be passed down to her daughter… Find this one woman and make
her yours… Bring her to us and the child you father shall be born and raised in
your care…”
“Nazgûl and Eldar…” The Wraith
King questions without making it such, not knowing why he must find an elf
instead of any other race – a woman is a woman no matter if she be elf, human,
dwarf, Orc-
“The child must be of powerful lineage… You
– Lord of the Nazgûl, are of the most powerful of my servants, as the she-elf
must be of her kind that can be found… The mother of my heir must be strong to
survive my touch, take my seed and carry my offspring until birth…”
“I understand, my master,”
Abruptly the Ringwraith rises to his feet, the sounds of his movements echoing
around him. “I shall find this woman and make her mine.”
“Go now… You will find your
prize in the southern forests of Rivendell…”
With a silent bow, the
Witch-king turns and exits the room, leaving the Great Eye looking after…a glint
of anticipation and dark pleasure in the black slit of his pupil.
With a loud and terrible
shriek, the black stallion rears on his hindquarters, and the moment the great
doors fly open, beast and rider burst forth from its mouth and out, racing along
the ancient and craggy pathway leading from Barad-dûr to the Black Gates of
Mordor.
The black rider and his mount tear through the countryside; the horse's
blood red eyes flashing in excitement as his long, powerful legs move beneath
him, taking pleasure in how his hooves cut deep into the skin of the earth like
a sword to living flesh. He can feel his master's body become one with his
fierce strides, leaning forward to give more speed; how the fabric of robing
flap behind him and against his rear, urging him on. He whinnies aloud to the
air whistling in his ears, the freedom he feels as his master allows him to
release the long gathering tension and anticipation of war and action. It has
been a long time…too long.
Almost 2000 years of waiting and soon the Great War will begin anew.
Sauron is slowly gathering his powers once more… But until that day comes, the
Dark Lord of Mordor has other plans: to create an heir. It will take two
generations, but what is time to those who cannot parish?
It has been far longer since the Wraith Lord
last felt the burning, silken warmth of a woman's delicate embrace, since he
last touched a woman…aside from having done so to kill. But it is different for
all the Wraith feels is dark emotion: hate instead of love, rage instead of
joy, pain instead of pleasure – except that in destruction of life. He obeys
his master's will, heeding every command to the fullest of his abilities –
which are far and great. If his master demanded death, then those marked would
be destroyed – he would kill without hesitation. When he takes this…she-elf, he
will no doubt bring great harm and injury for he would feel nothing in the way
of gentleness, passion or compassion. He will fill her body with his tainted
seed and black power and she will live to give birth to Sauron’s future
consort. There is a stirring deep inside his ancient body, a need, an ache…
Soon…very soon…
As if sensing his master's desire, the
stallion increases speed, racing over the rocky and wooded lands just south of
Isengard, the home of the great wizard known by the Eldar as Curunir, ‘The Man
of Skill’, but to the Men in the North, he is called Saruman the White. With
grace and deadly accuracy, he dodges limbs and weaves through the trees, the
hooves of his long legs never faltering.
In a matter of short time, they have
traveled many leagues. Darkness travels swiftly – even during daylight. Dark
horse and rider enter the Misty Mountains along southern-most boundaries of
Rivendell, following no path except that in memory. The forests are thick and
lush, but the Wraith cares nothing for the beauty of nature, for his senses are
alert for other things. He leads his steed at a walk, the presence of the
ancient and of the light all around him. Elves are alert at all times, scouting
the forests for any stranger or sign of danger. They are a hindrance to his
mission. If any should get in his way, there will be wails of despair and pain
echoing through the mountains before his mission is complete.
He brings his mount to an abrupt halt then
sniffs at the air – a strange, almost animal-like sound as he inhales through
his nose. There is a scent on the wind, soft, sweet and perfumed. It is that of
a female…an Elven woman! He takes another breath through his nostrils, straightening
his back and raising his head slightly as if doing so would intensify the smell
being carried to him by the gentle breeze coming from the North-East. She is
close – very close…no more than a mile or so away, hidden somewhere along his
path and out of his sight.
Not a second longer, the Ringwraith moves
his black stallion forward, following his sense of smell and taste, his unseen
eyes scanning the thickly wooded forest surrounding him. The scent grows
steadily stronger and soon the sounds of running water can be heard.
The trees begin to break up a short distance
ahead, opening into a small clearing just beyond. And coming from that opening,
somewhere, he can hear a sweet, young voice singing a song in Elvish. The song
is ancient and known to the Wraith Lord, with words all but forgotten in the
Men’s tongue; the voice itself is gentle and delicate which is typical of an
elf – especially female.
Stopping a few meters short of the edge
between forest and the clearing, the Witch-king slides from the saddle, making
no sound as his armor-clad feet impacts the ground. With a silent command, the
horse remains where he stands and watches as his rider makes his way slowly,
silently toward the edge of the trees.
Remaining within the shadows created by the
forest, he peers from behind a large tree into the small circular clearing.
Soft, pale sunlight streams through gaps in the heavily leaved canopy, creating
brilliant shafts of light that fall upon the ground, lighting everything.
Within the circle lies a majestic creek emerging from the dark shadows at the
far end of the minute meadow, its surface rippling and reflecting the sunlight
like shards of shifting mirrors. To either side is lush green grass and
moss-covered rocks and boulders. Wild forest flowers of all color imaginable
dot the ground and grow around the boulders and ancient fallen trees. And, on
the right side of the creek, sitting upon the grass is a young woman, her long
legs curled beside her as she examines a pale blue flower in her hand. Dark
lashes flutter gently as her golden-brown eyes look while lips the shades of
passion move as she sings. Long flowing hair streaked with golds, reds and
browns drapes over her left shoulder, hiding her breast from view…but the right
is exposed, revealing skin pale and seeming to glow with some strange heavenly
light. The tip of a pointed ear peeks out from under a thick lock of hair. She
is most undoubtedly Eldar.
The Wraith forces himself to wait, to
silence the sound building in his chest, letting his anticipation and ache grow
– even more so as his dark gaze wanders over her fair and fine boned body, the
supple, youthful breast in plain view, the delicate tuft of dark hair just
showing between her thighs. She is beautiful – for an elf, and what is more…she
is as naked and oblivious as a newborne babe. Her scent is intense and very
clear to his senses, learning many things about her more than observation would
supply. He learns something very interesting and important: the she-elf is a
powerful one – more likely a close relative of Elf-Lord Elrond, and…she is
virgin…as well as one who is soon to enter the Time of Blood.
All that he is tells him
that this woman is the One. He must act quickly before he is seen – by she or
one of the many elves guarding the forest. There is no more a perfect time.
The Nazgûl moves quickly,
keeping to the shadows and just within the edge of the trees, eyes on his prey.
He finds a dark pleasure knowing that she has no foresight as to what is about
to take place. She will have no time to fight, no time to cry out; the moment
he has her…
Dark lashes fly open and wide
in terror when she feels a large hand cover her mouth, muffling her scream as a
arm wraps about her, pulling her back to the body behind her. Immediately she
attempts to escape by thrashing against her attacker, pulling at the hand over
her mouth as she kicks with her legs, trying to find leverage of any kind. The
arm only tightens, crushing her chest almost to the point where she cannot take
breath.
“It is useless, she-elf…” A
dark, low voice whispers into her ear with a hiss, enjoying her fighting, her
fear. “It will only make the Taking more pleasurable…”
Trembling, the young woman
obeys, unsure if by her own will or his. Her head lays motionless against the
Wraith’s shoulder, feeling the coarse fabric of his robes touching her skin…and
the sharp sting of cold metal on her side. She sobs softly, its sounds muffled
by his hand; tears of terror and despair trickle from her closed eyes, knowing
she has lost…and lost all hope.
“Resist and it shall bring
only pain. Scream and you will die…” In response she quickly nods her head; but
the moment she feels his arm slowly move down and a sharp-clawed hand glide
over her belly, she almost cries out. Hastily she holds it back, in fear of
what her captor may do. Her breaths quicken as does the beating of her pure
heart as the hand pauses for a moment on her lower belly, the place where her
womb lies, before slipping between her parted legs. Her body jolts at the
intimate touch, she never having been touched by a man – nor in such a manner.
Leather-clad fingers begin to press against her womanhood – softly at first,
then slowly push harder and move.
The elf arches against the
body behind her, not realizing her mouth is no longer covered, the hand now
squeezing her right breast, creating sensations both foreign, disturbing and
wonderful. Her hips move as if trying to pull herself away from the rubbing
fingers, but it only intensifies what she feels.
As the Witch-king plays her intimate places, he whispers words to
her in a language she knows but her mind is too overwhelmed to comprehend what
is being said. She feels a strange ache and need – a hunger for the dark thing
that holds her captive, making her body burn and want something…nameless… He
weaves a dark spell over the she-elf, using her own powers against her…turning
her into a willing concubine. It does not take much, for as he enters her mind;
he discovers that she already wields an attraction to things dark, craving
knowledge that is very dangerous and unwholesome for an elf to have.
Willing or no, her hand joins
his between her thighs, finding excitement as she feels the sting of metal
armor under her fingers. A soft moan escapes her mouth, a sound of arousal and
pleasure, and it hardens the long dormant part of his body. She is ready and
most willing. It is time.
Abruptly the Wraith grasps
hold of the young woman’s shoulders and in one swift move, he turns her about
and forces the woman down on her back upon the ground. She does not fight when
he takes hold of her wrists and holds them behind her head; she does not fight
as he kneels between her parted legs. And when she opens her eyes, he sees the
dark shadow that has fallen over them, sees the desire, the longing…and no fear
or hatred. It is as if she wants him with all that she is – she herself…no, it
is the spell forcing it in her. She peers up into the blackness within the hood
hovering above her, seeing nothing but the darkest and vilest of black.
Then, with a feral sound from
deep in his chest, in a single, harsh thrust of his hips, he severs the
maiden’s head and enters her body. He does not pause to adjust to the
sensations he too feels – there is little time, and begins to move within her
delicate and burning insides. She lets a cry of discomfort and pain but turns
her head and muffles the sound against her arm, riding the wave as best she is
able until it fades…and in its place is the feeling of something hard, thick
and long pushing against the entrance of her womb with each inward movement he
makes.
His hips move faster, and in
doing so, he is forced to release her wrists to support his body over hers,
enabling him to add more speed to his already pounding thrusts. She cries
softly now, feeling her body tighten, grow tense, quiver…and mounting as if she
were the sun itself rising to reach its apex then fall quickly to earth…or
death as it seems. She feels as if she were dying, but a death that does not
lead to the next life; no, a dying – or better, her mind and soul passing
beyond the barriers of flesh and bone into a realm were few know, except those
who travel this path.
The metal claws of his hands
dig into the grass, arching his back suddenly as he screams out loud, sounding
like some terrible beast in great pain as he showers her insides with his seed.
But he does not stop, not until the woman beneath him too lets out a cry, her
body rising up from the ground as her womanhood squeezes him deep inside in
rhythmic muscle contractions.
The Wraith remains within,
using his dark power to insure the conception of a daughter – the future
consort to the Dark Lord of Mordor. As he does so, he can feel the woman's own
power combine with his before it merges with the sphere of dividing cells
nestling against the walls of her womb.
Their dark union is abruptly
broken.
A horse's winnie is heard
close by, hidden amongst the thickly grown trees – his stallion sends the
warning of danger: elves are approaching, having heard his master's scream in
their forest… An arrow shoots out from within the edge of the wood, but before
it can hit its mark, the Ringwraith leaps out of its path and it sinks deep
into the side of a fallen, rotting tree. It had been meant for his back.
Shrieking in rage, he is upon
his feet, searching beyond the boundary of trees for those who mean him harm,
take his mate away from him. He sees them – six in all, glowing white in the
darkness of his vision.
“Let her alone foul creature!”
One yells in Elvish, and immediately six male elves brandishing bows with
arrows aimed at his heart, emerge from shadow and step into the light of the
clearing. “Return from whence you came!”
They believe he had just begun
his attack upon their kinswoman…but they are mistaken – she is taken and purity
claimed. She now carries his unborn child!
Once more he lets a shriek,
sword in hand as he stands over the elven woman almost as if to protect her
while she lies motionless, fallen under the spell of the Wraith. “I claim your
kinswoman as mine!” He hisses, stepping to her side, his free hand moving to
take hold of her.
“Never!” The elves charge
forward, forcing the Witch-king back and away from his woman for six against
one would be difficult to fight against – more could be on their way to see
what is the matter! His master did not give him leave to dispatch any foe – Elf
or otherwise. As Sauron will grow in power, as will the Nine, but until then,
he is little match.
With no other alternative, the
Wraith turns and races into the forest, shrieking in black rage that he must
leave her. Then there is the sound of pounding hooves but quickly fading.
Before they had vanished from all hearing, a word is heard echoing off the
walls of the surrounding mountains.
“Burdûl!” Awaken!
Gasping as if for breath, the
young woman awakens from her trance-like enchantment, finding two male elves
kneeling either side her, looks of concern on their faces, then five more
standing turned away with raised bows aimed toward the forest surrounding them.
It is all as if a dream as one
of the two elves wraps his cloak about her naked body before the other slips
his arms under and lifts her from the ground as he stands. She is confused and
sore, unable to answer the questions they ask of her. Carried back to
Rivendell, she is taken to Lord Elrond to be examined, questioned and healed.
There, it is learned that they had arrived too late and she now carried a
child. But the child was no normal hybrid - mixed with blood of the Eldar is that
of something ancient and evil. Her attacker and father of the child was
powerful and surrounded in Darkness.
No one suspected the child’s
father to be one of the Nine – the Wraith-king himself! Not even when his
offspring was born many months after, under the care of Lord Elrond and his
servants, for he was curious and concerned. If they had, there is no telling
what could have befallen the newborne – possible death, exile of both mother
and child (the elves were not a cruel people and knew that any child must have
its parent in order to survive beyond the boundaries of Rivendell.)
Born to Lorielun Daughter of
Rorbellien cousin of Elrond, is Galandriel, Daughter and first child.
News of the child’s birth
reached the ears of Sauron and immediately he summoned the Nazgûl Wraith-lord
before him.
The last time he knelt in
Sauron’s presence, he received great suffering for the failure in his mission.
Though he did create a child, he was forced to leave his mate behind and to the
fate that the Elf-lord might bestow upon her and their offspring. Once more he
kneels before his master, his head held lower in subservience as he awaits the
Dark Lord's order.
“My consort is born… Go now to
Rivendell… She is called Galandriel and lives in the House of Elrond… Use
whatever means to reclaim her… Do not fail me…”
“As you will, master.”
Again, the Wraith Lord
journeys to the Misty Mountains, into the forests south of the Bruinen,
following the way he had come not long ago on the mission for Sauron. Quickly,
but silently, he leads his mount to the same place where he had paused before,
and again he sniffs the air. Immediately he lets a faint shrill of pleasure –
he can sense the she-elf’s scent once more, though a little different from last
he smelled her.
Could she be there again in the
clearing, the woman he took and made his? If so…would she have their child with
her?
As if answering the question,
he hears a soft wail of excitement coming from the direction of the clearing…a
sound only a young child would make. Luck be it that both mother and daughter
are together, and in the place where the Rightwraith found and created. But
suddenly there is another sound – a voice deep, gentle…male… They are not
alone.
He is instantly filled with
rage and hatred – what is his is not alone. But whoever it is, he will die a
painful death for daring touch what belongs to the Nazgûl!
As silent as death, darker
than deepest shadow, he creeps amongst the shade, remaining out of sight until
the very last moment. Coming to a halt, he watches the scene before him, his
metal-clawed hand tightening around the grip of his sword. There, sitting
almost the exact place where he had seen her previous, is the she-elf. But she
is different; her long hair is pulled into a soft gather, a streak of brilliant
white flowing down its full length. Her skin is paler, almost clammy in
appearance, and her eyes…they are several shades darker than he last saw them.
Yes, she has changed, but not naturally – it was caused from his taking of her,
infusing part of his dark soul into hers, and it is a symbol to all that she
has been claimed by something dark, though she acts as much an elf as any other
of her kind.
The Wraith-king’s shadowed
eyes wanders down until it falls upon the object held in one of the she-elf’s
arms and across her lap. A bundle of soft white wriggles softly as a tiny hand
of pale white lies against the skin of a bared breast. Galandriel…his daughter.
His grip on the hilt loosens only a fraction as he watches the small, delicate
Elven-Nazgûl newborne while her mother allows her to suckle at her full breast.
One day, that child will stand before Sauron himself when she has come of adult
age, and on that day, she will be taken…
His reverie is abruptly
interrupted as the sight of an Elven male emerges from the forest opposite him
and comes to stand near the young mother, bow in hand and at the ready as if he
were her guardian. The elf is alert, his light eyes scanning the forests
surrounding them; he can sense the darkness of the Nazgûl…
He can wait no longer – he
must act now!
Charging forward, sword in
hand, the Ringwraith goes after the male first. To the elf’s despair, he is too
slow and before he can evade, he feels the point of the dark sword pierce
through his heart. With a pathetic sound, he collapses to the ground as the
blade is jerked from its victim.
The guardian slain, he turns
to the she-elf.
“Give me the child,” He
orders, hissing dangerously as he holds out his armored hand to receive. She does
not react to him but lets the faintest of a dark smile pull at the corner of
her mouth, her eyes once more looking deep into the hood, into the blackest of
shadow where a face should be. They show no fear – certainly not of the black
figure standing over her, bloodied sword in hand. “Obey or die!”
She does not answer but
instead rises to her feet, holding the white bundle to her chest in defiance.
“Take me with you! I belong here no longer!”
She is strong and courageous
to stand up against one of the Nine, but foolish for doing so would bring her
death. Yet the child should not do without her mother – there would be no
milknurse to feed her in Mordor and neither he nor Sauron would have a filthy
and unclean Orc female suckle her. Sauron may have a use yet for the she-elf…
He lets out a faint hiss and
turns away, headed in the direction where his horse waits hidden. “Follow,” Is
his only command and without a second thought the young mother, with newborn
cradled against her chest, keeps close behind the black robed being…the father
of the baby in her arms. No more than three meters from the clearing, she finds
a large black horse standing alone amongst the trees, and the moment the animal
sees her, he lets a fierce sound, his eyes flashing a glowing red as his master
climbs onto the saddle upon his back.
“Come here,” The Wraith
motions, urging her closer that he may pull her up, but she hesitates, a sense
of fear growing within her at the sight of his dark mount. “Lorielun, obey me!”
The sound of her name spoken
in his strange, dark voice sends a shiver down her spine, surprising her that
he knows it. But she heeds his order, keeping a weary eye on the stallion and
placing her hand in his, he easily pulls her up with him in the saddle, placing
her and their child before him that he may protect them – especially
Galandriel, Sauron’s consort to be. And in short time, horse and riders are
moving quickly through the forest, headed southeast over the Misty Mountains.
Their journey is slower than he
had intended, having expected to carry only the newborne instead of mother and
child both. But this Morgûl stallion is strong and fast and can handle the
extra weight and quick speed. It does not take long to enter the Dimrill Dale.
A handful of days have passed
but the Nazgûl does not sleep nor does his dismount, but the elf – especially
the newborne, must for the constant riding tires and sends an unaccustomed
aching pain through the mother’s body. As they ride he holds to both as his
elven consort lies back against his chest, the edges of his robes pulled close
to shield the infant from the air as she lies sleeping and bundled up safely
and secured by a large swath of fabric tied about her mother’s chest and neck.
Food is spars but the she-elf welcomes everything her…mate, now as she thinks
of it, gives her.
They cross the Anduin, north
of Lorien where an elven Witch Queen is said to control. There is too much
danger to pass through those woods; no doubting Lord Elrond had sent messengers
for all to keep lookout for a Black Rider holding captive an Eldar woman and
child. Elves are swift and light afoot; Elrond's messengers would have reached
their intended destinations days before.
After crossing The Great
River, the Anduin, the Wraith Lord leads them into Mirkwood, and soon they pass
Dol Guldûr, the Northern stronghold of Sauron before he was forced out from the
wood and into Mordor. Once the great Wizard Gandalf the Grey himself had been
imprisoned in that place, but escaped, to Sauron’s rage. From there, they rode
east, entering the unknown regions where very few have wandered, but is known
well by the Nine and their Dark Master. Their journey is long – longer than
desired, but it was necessary for there where several times when Galandriel would
begin to cry from fear, hunger and changing. But in short time, they will
bypass the Dead Marshes and near the Black Gates of Mordor.
The she-elf, Lorielun, remains
silent except to calm the baby girl cradled against her body; remains
motionless except to adjust a little on the saddle, rest against her mate’s
body or to offer her breast to be suckled. Lorielun fears greatly what will
happen to them both…but she fears far more what will happen when they reach
their destination…to the South…in the Dark Lands.
The Black Rider does not speak
to her, except makes strange soft sounds like hisses or shrieks…much like that
of an animal. But he is no animal – she herself has felt so! But he is
different from other men…dark, emotionless except those of the Darkness such as
rage and hatred, and all around him, an aura of black power emanates…like thick
acrid smoke from a smoldering fire. She has never seen his face, nor any part
of his body – not even his skin. Yet his scent is clean though old…very old and
of smoke and leather. He has become a part of her – the day he entered her body
he gave her something dark…something part of himself, of his soul; she can feel
him under her skin, in her heart and in her mind as well as senses. She had
felt his presence in the clearing long before he emerged from the trees and
killed her protector, but she said nothing to the elf that had been chosen by
Elrond to remain her constant guardian. Her guardian has fell into the long
Night.
Not far ahead, like a line of
jagged, grey mountains seeming like ghosts along the horizon, gradually begin
to grow larger the closer they draw south. This range is known by most as the
Ashen Mountains, and it is the barrier between light and dark, beauty and
desolation. Beyond them lies the last place any being would ever wish to see
let alone enter: Mordor. The skies over those lands is black, forbidding; vast
layers of cloud smothers any sunlight, lightning flashing throughout its mass
as great claps of thunder boom with such intensity that it is easily heard from
such a distance. No light shows except that of a fierce and fiery red-gold
light that covers black clouds in a swath of blood. It is the fires and acrid
black smoke and fumes spewing forth into the air from the Cracks of Doom, from the
ancient volcano called Fire Mountain.
Fear as sharp and deadly as a fine-honed
blade courses through her body as Lorielun sees for the first time those of
Ancient Days had seen as they battled against Sauron before defeating him. She
was not born in those times, but she knows of the fear and bloodshed that ran
through every elf’s heart and covered the soil dark in blood for her own father
had survived the Great Battle and had told her many tales of those times. But
now she is beginning to understand the sheer terror her kinsman felt at the
sight of the Dark Lands rising up before them. And finally, she realizes where
her mate is destined for…and what he is… He is one of the Nine – Once one of
the great kings of old given one of the nineteen Rings of Power, but grew
corrupt and fell into Sauron’s control, becoming shadows of what they once were
and forever under the mastership of the Dark Lord.
Words of ancient enter her thoughts…
Three rings for the Elven-kings under the
sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls
of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie,
One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to
find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the
darkness bind them
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
A powerful shiver races
through her body, and in response, little Galandriel gives a soft cry, startled
from her peaceful rest, but she falls silent once again, having returned to sleep.
Lorielun lets a sigh, growing increasingly anxious and fearful as to the reason
why the slumbering half Elf, half…Nazgûl newborne was created; why she is being
taken to the Dark Lands…and what will happen once they are within the Black
Gates of Mordor…
The Black Gates. Few have seen
them and fewer still who have survived to tell about it. They stand high into
the air, thicker and stronger than any castle or fortification’s main gate. If
any attempted to destroy them they would woefully fail. At the top lies a walk
of sort where sentries pace back and forth, keeping an unending watch, bows in
hand to lay waste any who dare scale it's outer face. The moment they see a
black horse baring a two riders their bows are pulled taut, arrows aimed toward
the newcomers.
The Witch-king brings his
mount to a halt just beyond, facing toward the pair of massive stone and metal
slabs baring entrance into the Lands of Shadow, and raising his hooded head he
lets a cry that brings instant pain to Lorelei’s sensitive ears and a wail from
their daughter. The sound echoes against the face of the Gates and off the
craggy, sharp dark mountains to either side. It is terrible, sounding like a
creature beyond description and far more dangerous than anything that has existed
since before time. It makes the she-elf tremble.
Slowly the echo fades and all
that remains is the sounds from the Fire Mountain and the booming claps of
thunder in the skies above.
As if in response, the blowing
of a horn is heard, then another and a third, and suddenly there is a vibration
in the ground and a deep rumble… The Gates of Mordor open, allowing them
entrance. The moment horse and riders are passed and hurrying toward the tower
of Barad-dûr, the horns trumpet once more and the Black Gates close behind them
with a loud throom.
The doors of Barad-dûr lie
open in wait for the Witch-king’s return, and entering, reins his mount to
stop. Immediately the Wraith dismounts, bringing Lorielun and Galandriel down
with him utilizing strength his elven mate had not felt before. It startles her
yet fills her with a disturbing sense of awe and wonder.
“Bring her,” He orders with a
hiss then turns and heads toward a wide, arched doorway. Without any choice and
too afraid to remain and learn what lurks within the darkness around her, she
follows close behind, keeping as near to him as she can and dare as they pass
blackened passages breaking away from the corridor they travel. It is long,
twisting and shadowy with burning torches ensconced upon the walls to give any
sort of light. There is a thick sense of evil and foreboding, and it grows in
intensity as he leads his mate and daughter up through the numerous levels
within the Dark Tower.
An eternity seems to pass by
before they come to a long dark corridor, a shaft of fiery light shinning
through a doorway or opening ahead the only thing to be seen. The Wraith-lord
hesitates, turning to his elven mate, his hooded head lowering as if he were
looking down at the small, fragile thing held protectively to her mother’s
chest. Abruptly he steps forward, hands taloned and scaled in armor like
dragon’s hide emerge from within the folds of his black robes and are held out
as if beckoning.
“Galandriel,” The Witch-king
demands, his deadly looking hands prepared to receive. Lorielun looks at the
Wraith’s fingers, then down at the child sleeping soundly against her. She
fears what is to come if she complies…and what could happen if she does not.
The newborne is still so delicate and oblivious, seeming to not sense or have
no care as to the darkness and dread surrounding her. “Obey me!”
Jumping at the threat in his
tone, the she-elf carefully – but hastily – unwraps the swath of fabric from
around her middle and with terrible worry and fear, gingerly places the still
sleeping babe in his clawed grasp then watches warily as her dark mate lays his
daughter against his chest, his sharp fingers cradling her head as if it were
the most fragile and treasured thing in all of Third Earth. Galandriel murmurs
softly, her head shifting in her father's palm for a moment then falls
motionless once again as she returns to the realm of innocence, oblivity and
light.
“Follow close behind. Remain
silent unless spoken to,” He warns, his shadowed eyes looking at his mate, taking
note of the emotions in those of the she-elf but also the courage burning deep
within them. She is indeed the right One. Lorielun gives a nod in
acknowledgement, dropping her arms to her sides as she does her best to compose
and ready herself for what may take place next. And without another word said,
the Ringwraith turns and continues down the passage toward the burning light.
The golden light falls upon
them as the pass through the doorway, the elf instantly finding herself blinded
for a moment, but she remains close behind the Wraith-lord until he comes to a
stop. Peering warily about her when her sight has adjusted, Lorielun finds they
are standing near center of a large circular room of some kind, but there is no
sign of decoration or writings that can tell her what its use could be. The
great sense of danger and evil has not escaped her notice for it permeates
everything around her and she can feel it touching her and seeping slowly into
the pores of her skin and into her body with each breath she takes. This place
is evil…and there is something – a presence here that feels ancient and… Then
she hears the sounds of whispers, voices speaking in a tongue of long ago,
almost long forgotten and never spoken: the Elvish language of Mordor…the Black
Speech.
“Witch-king… Nazgûl…” A voice
loud, vile and terrifying speaks from everywhere…and nowhere. It fills the
she-elf’s heart with coldest dread and unbidden terror, for now, without the
shadow of doubt to blind her reasoning, she realizes what and why she feels as
she does. Immediately – either by her own will or someone else’s, she raises
her eyes up, half expecting to see ceiling…but instead her knees almost give
way from under her in mind numbing disbelief as she finds no ceiling except the
Great Eye of Sauron looming high above her in the sky. It takes all her
strength and mental will to remain conscious and upon her feet.
“Master, I have the child,”
The Witch-king announces, bowing his head before the ever-burning Eye.
“You have done well, my
servant… Show me Galandriel, my future consort…” Sauron’s voice is a deep echo,
shrouded in whispers; pleasure is heard in his tone and the slitted pupil
widens in expectation.
“Yes, my Lord,” The Nazgûl
says, leaning forward as if bowing, and straightening, his large hands are
under the newborne's neck and rear as he holds her out before him then raises
her up into the air. “For you, Lord Sauron: my daughter Galandriel, future
mother to the Heir of Mordor!”
The Eye seems to move closer
and its black pupil constricts, examining closer the wriggling baby held to him
in presentation. Galandriel lets a soft cooing sound and raises her tiny arms
toward the sphere of brilliant light and flame, the small half Nazgûl, half
Eldar babe seeming in awe and wonder of the sight above her. And as if
understanding her infant’s speech, Sauron begins to speak in whispers to her in
Elvish, he peering down in fascination of his own.
Then Eye returns to his
black-robed servant.
“You have done well indeed…
She is powerful…” There is a hint of pride and dark anticipation in the Eye
that sends an icy chill down Lorielun's spine. Now finally, she is
understanding for the first time all that has taken place – the Wraith-lord
taking and putting his dark seed within her womb; and he returning to take
their daughter away. She did not know, or she just did not listen to her mental
voice that he, her mate, was Nazgûl – a Ringwraith and servant of the Dark Lord
of Mordor. Sauron had sent him to create a child – a female, to be the mother
to an Heir when she had reached adult age. And in doing so – taking Lorielun,
the Wraith tainted both she and Galandriel, binding them inexorably to the
Enemy. “No longer will she be known by her Eldar name… She shall be called
Daramior Lunadain…”
“I also bring the mother, my
Lord,” The Nazgûl Lord informs as he brings his daughter back to rest against
his chest. “I thought it wise to allow her life that she may tend to the needs
of the child. I did not believe any other female suitable to nurse and care for
her as she grows. Certainly no Orc female is worthy or clean enough to even
touch nor even to look upon your consort, master.”
Sauron appears to consider his
servant’s words, the Eye fixing for several moments upon the resting newborne.
“Wise indeed, Nazgûl Lord!” Then suddenly the black slit of a pupil fixes on
the elven woman standing behind the Ringwraith. “She-elf… Come forward…”
Her eyes widen at the command,
the Dark Lord having recognized and bid her step forward before him. All that
she is screams to disobey and remain where she stands, to keep as far away from
the Dark Lord as best she is able. But she has little power against such a foe
as the Enemy and slowly she finds herself coming to stand beside the
Witch-king, her dark mate. In the presence of Sauron, Lorielun trembles and
feels sensations unlike she has ever felt before, sensing how the Great Eye
seems to look into her, through her as if she were the clearest of crystal in
his grasp. He sees all that she is, knows who and what she is and is capable
of. He knows her every thought, every memory, every dream and nightmare…all
laid open before him like an open book. There is no sound except the beating of
her own heart within her ears…and the whispers in her mind.
“She is strong and filled with
great courage and power… She will do well in caring for my future consort… And
she will serve you well, Wraith-lord…” The Eye remarks then turns back to the
Black Rider. “Go now… Take them to Minas Morgul… When the time nears, I will
summon thee…”
“As you desire, master,” The
Witch-king bows once more then turns from the fiery sphere in the sky then
escorts Lorielun from the room and into the dark corridor where he pauses. “You
will come with me now. In the Dark Lands you are under my protection. None will
bring you harm for all fear me and my wrath.”
He then turns about on heel
and travels down the corridor from whence they had first came, the tiny body of
his daughter in the protection of his taloned hands as she lies nestled within
the draping folds of his black hood, the Wraith not considering once to return
the babe to her mother’s arms.
Strange though, Lorielun
thinks as she silently follows her mate, their daughter remains content in his
presence and in his embrace. As an elf – even half elven in truth, she should
be wearily of the darkness coming from her Nazgûl sire as other elves are in
the vicinity of evil things. But it could be that since she is also half
Wraith, it allows her to find comfort in her father as well as her mother. And
why does he not return her to her mother’s arms? The child could be hungering
but is too exhausted from the long journey to voice her demands. Maybe he holds
her for some particular reason… As protector of Sauron’s future mate, keeping her
safe from those who would cause her great harm for they take pleasure in the
hurting of small, innocent children?
There is no real answer to any
of her doubts, her questions, thus she remains quiet as they return to the main
hall at ground level. The black Morgûl stallion is found waiting for them where
they had left him. With little effort, the Wraith-lord is mounted, and holding
Galandriel - Daramior Lunadain to him with one arm, he pulls his mate up behind
him with the other, wrapping her arm about his waist that she does not fall
off. And with his master’s shriek, the horse wheels about and charges out the
gates and down along an ancient road leading toward a great mountain surrounded
with skies of black, grey and fire: Mt. Doom. It is the only road that leads
west, and beyond the angry volcano is the Mountains of Shadow where Minas
Morgûl lies.
Lorielun closes her eyes and
lays her head against the Ringwraith's back, too overwhelmed and in shock from
all that has taken place. During the entire trek from Barad-dûr to the domain
of the Nazgûl she remains thus, not wanting to open them for she knows that
when she does she will see the nightmare that has become her reality. Her life
as a citizen of Rivendell and as an Eldar is over. Now she is tainted by
darkness, her purity taken and claimed by the Witch-king himself, and made
mother of a half-breed daughter created for one purpose: to one day conceive
Sauron an heir. And both she and her daughter are theirs to do with as they
please!
The Wraith shifts his body
against her, breaking the she-elf’s deep reverie. Quickly she realizes the
stallion has come to a halt. She can no longer keep her eyes shut, she must
open them, see where her mate has taken her and their child… At first all she
can see is green light the shade of new spring leaflings…but in this case, it
is an intense venomous green. It surrounds them and seems to come from
everywhere… Her eyes focus and immediately finds that they are now within a
large room made of carved stone, and the eerie green glows from places along
the walls, ceiling and floor, lighting the room sufficiently for her to see.
As her eyes take in and wander
over her new surroundings, the Witch-king dismounts then wraps an arm around
her waist and pulls her down from the back of the black horse. Lorielun cannot
help but cling to her dark mate’s robes like a fearful little girl while her
gaze follows the ancient carved walls up from the stone floors, slowly taking
in the intricate and ornate Númenorean architecture which spreads up and away
like arching veins or ribs toward the center of the room’s ceiling high above
where they come together and join to make a three speared stalactite of sorts.
It is beautiful…it is terrifying and the she-elf finds her breath captured. Her
attention caught by all that is around her, she does not notice her mate slip
from her hands and move away, disappearing into the dark shadows that too
linger in many places.
A loud, terrible cry sounds,
shaking Lorielun from her enchantment and just as she realizes her mate is
gone, she finds that she is not alone. Standing all around her, are eight
creatures dressed entirely in black robes, deep hoods shadowing their faces in
the deepest of darkness. They are dressed like her mate, the Witch-king, with
scaled armor upon their hands and upon their feet. Everything is alike about
them except they are of different heights, but are taller than normal Men.
Slowly, menacingly, they circle round the she-elf, their attention never
faltering… Then the circle begins to shrink, constricting slowly inward; and
when they are almost upon her, their hands rise out before them in terrible
metal claws, ready to tear her asunder. Tears fall from her wide-open eyes as
terrified gasps and cries escape from their captive, turning in place as she
scans wildly for any way or means of escape.
“No…please…” She mumbles in
utter fear of the eight Nazgûl, the shadow of doom having fallen over her.
Their shrill shrieks increase in anticipation and excitement, an elven woman in
their grasp. One takes hold of her shoulders from behind and another, her right
arm… As a third moves to rip the gown from her chest, there is an ear-piercing
scream that sends a numbing pain throughout Lorielun’s entire body. Instantly
the Wraiths pull back, returning to the places they had been before in the
circle around the trembling, sobbing she-elf standing in its center.
“The she-elf serves Sauron.
She is to remain unharmed or suffer your err for she is mine!” A ninth
Ringwraith emerges from within the nearby shadows and enters the wide circle of
Wraiths. He stands taller than the others and his very presence commands the
eight as if they were under him. Then she senses his presence more clearly: The
Witch-king – Lord of the Nazgûl. Her mate. He turns to Lorielun. “Come, I take
you now to the rooms prepared for your living. Be not afraid of the Nazgul,
they will bring no harm unto you or our child but protect you both for you
belong to the Dark Lord of Mordor.”
She hesitates at first, almost
unable to think, let alone move her frozen, numb legs. She is confused and
bewildered. But she feels a great urge to obey, and heeding it, her legs begin
to move her forward, to the man who no longer is man but shadow contained and
given form within black robes and armor.
Surrounded on all sides by
Nazgûl, the she-elf follows behind her mate in lead as they move in a dark
procession through the halls then out onto a high stone bridge-walkway leading
from the rear gates of Minas Morgûl to the main building that could only be
described as a palace of long ago.
It is their new home. Now and
forever.