Land of Darkness RPG

[CaptainofDespair]

The Elf watched from his secluded segment within the ragtag company, as Grash had pointed to the pillars which stood as a last testament to the Dark Lord’s Will. They were ancient, former guardians of Minas Ithil, and now they had become twisted by the arcane forces that Sauron commanded. They were monuments now, to his power over the orcs, who were but poorly crafted mimics of the Elves of Eldar Days. They had weak minds, the orcs, and were easily driven to the master’s orders, and whether or not their tortured husks craved to wage war under the command of the Eye or not, they were forced on, by the beating drums and driving whips of the Uruks. And now, the Elf himself had come before these columns of dread and despair, and he gazed into their surface, feeling the warning they once held, and the dire power they now contained. The darkness, and cruelty, of the Eye emanated from within them now, and the Elf readied his mind for a war of willpower, one that might prove fatal, in both physical realm, and the plane of thought in which his own grand schemes resided.

Watching the man Grash begin to move towards them, he could already sense the deepening reverberations from the tremors that stormed forth from the pillars, as a new, seemingly fresh soul made its way within their grasp. They began to hum steadily, but the tortuous noise was inaudible to all but the most acute of ears. Knowing the power of Sauron of old, the Immortal knew this would be a trial like any other he had faced. Even the stinging fangs and sharpened claws of Shelob would pale in comparison with the Dark Lord’s Will, for he was the ultimate power within this blackened, scorched land. Without hesitation, Morgoroth strode silently towards the ominous pillars, calm and relaxed, and ready for the onslaught he was to face, alone, within the deepest, most hidden recesses of his dark, calculating mind.

His light foot steps kicked up little of the ashen dust as he moved towards the pillars, and he breathed little, so as to delay the shock that would course through the very veins of his body, in that instant he would cross into the Dark Lord’s astral realm, where he would tempt those not under his control, and imprint his will on those he commanded. Time itself seemed to halt when he made his way into the fold, where the pillars stood, as mechanisms of maintaining the will over the subjects in Mordor. The very crags of the Elf’s mind, where the carefully prepared thoughts that would assail Sauron’s will, went silent. Not a single grain of thought spoke to the Elf, and he was truly alone for the first time. And then, a great echoing voice spoke into his mind. The Will of Sauron now spoke to him, tempting him. “You dare to flee the realm of your Lord and Master, child? It is futile, for none can,” came a hissing, wrath-filled voice. “Ah, you come at last Sauron. I had feared you would disappoint me,” replied the haughty, streamlined inner voice of the Elf. His mind went quiet, and for a moment it seemed as if the trial was over. But soon, a hideous cackling began to build up, one filled with an anger and hatred, that had collected over many an age. And the voice spoke again. “You have no power here paltry Elf. Your immortality and heritage cannot save you, and nor can those you might consider allies. There are none who can contest with the Will of Sauron,” boomed the mighty, and ageless voice. “Ha! I may not have power here, there you are right. But you are wrong in the assumption that your power will go uncontested. I seem to recall the Last Alliance, for it was they who overthrew you, even with the power of your Ring,” sneered the Immortal. No reply verbal reply came from the void that had now filled ever crag of the Elf’s tortured and dark mind. Instead, a great wrath could be felt, building up, for it sent tremors of immeasurable power and distress through the Elf. And now, the voice returned, but this time, the image of the Great Eye came as well, not the mere void of dark emptiness. Pain and despair prevailed now, the Elf felt his will diminish before the onslaught that came. And within the well of the Eye, came an image, a scene from the Last Alliance. Morgoroth peered into this, wondering what new devilry Sauron was concocting. As he examined closer, he spied the face of his own father, who was slain in that final battle with Sauron. “So, you must resort to the persistence of memory to destroy me eh? You are weaker than I thought Sauron,” the Elf bluntly stated. Now Sauron was filled with spite and anger, for he tolerated not the use of his name. “You miss my point Elf, as all your kind have. You see, your kind gave their lives to destroy me, but yet, here I am. I have survived, where many have not. There are none who can defeat me, for my power is inconquerable!” The voice of the Dark Lord cackled in a most menacing way. The Elf began to feel weaker than before, even more so than he had physically felt when imprisoned in Cirith Ungol and Cirith Gorgor. But he retreated not, for his doom would be sealed should he perform that final act. “You may smite my heart with the lost emotion I once felt, but you will not break my mind!” the Elf retaliated. On those words, the Dark Lord’s voice grew, invading not only the mind of the Elf, but his very soul, seeking to break his will, and corrupt his heart. But Morgoroth resisted, and he summoned forth all the remnants of his shattered mind, and he came in a great wave, crashing down upon Sauron’s manifested void. “You Sauron, are weak! From what I have seen of your so called glory, you wield terror and fear alone, and those are easily overcome. You may have power within Mordor, but I am the lord of my own heart and mind, and you no longer hold sway here. Begone, or suffer my divine retribution! From these hallowed, and wrath filled statements, the Dark Lord reeled back in great pain, as is he had been struck physically. In great haste, the void Sauron had woven around him, collapsed into a frail, delicate facade, and he fled from the Elf’s mind, defeated.

With his mind clear of the Dark Lord, the Elf returned to the realm of the physical. His mind now saw clearly, without the fog that had once clouded his perception. He finally left the limits of the stones, refreshed, with the Fire of Life now burning hot within him. He pivoted on his right heel, and spun round, to glance at his comrades, who were just preparing to enter the tortuous realm which he had now passed. “Good luck, my comrades in arms, for you will need it,” he murmured to himself. “Your trial will soon begin...” his voiced trailed off, into the bleak heavens of Mordor.

[Himaran]

As the somber party neared the looming forms of Sauron's stones, Dwali felt little change in the state of his mental being. Unlike the elf next to him, no voice forced its deceitful words upon him. The Dark Lord was far more cunning than that, and he had chosen a far more effective manner with which to turn him astray. The dwarf looked over at Morgoroth, who was sweating and struggling. [I]What's his problem? Scared? He continued staring for several moments, eventually reaching the conclusion that his previous guess was acurate.

The dwarf's thoughts, however, soon turned from interest to scorn. [i]Elves -- they are rather stern and commanding around those less esteemed than they, but seem to have trouble when it comes to walking by to old stones.[i] Then he caught himself, momentarily realizing his follow. Morgoroth had fought bravely in the tunnels, and had saved Bror's life. Then the darkness returned. [i]Bror! That turncoat, questioning Grash and forming pacts with the elves. The dwarves have to hang together... but he wants friendship with those that would care little if we toppled over and died in this forsaken land. Curse him![i]

"Curse them all!"

The words exploded from his parched mouth, ringing through the silent landscape. But the entire company seemed to be struggling with their own inner demons, and none seemed to even notice the outburst. Then Dwali moved away from the stones, and the spell was lifted; leaving behind a mark that would not easily disappear.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

The stones of the Dark Lord loomed ahead. Their gaze was like that of a serpents, cold as ice and as piercing as a dagger. It hit the heart fast and left a cold numb feeling in the soul. The hair on the back of Zuromor's neck stood on end and he felt as though he was being watched, by something.....odd. Zuromor stopped and looked at these large works of stone. Something stirred in him, and he felt his head grow light and his mind fogged over. He felt as though lost and could not feel anything around him.

In his haze he heard a dark, hissing voice speak to him. Do you know me? I know you. I know everything you hold in your mind. Tell me, where are you going? You can not escape. He will bring you to me. Can't you see? He hates you. He cannot be trusted. Didn't he call you a barbarian? Yes, he did. You must kill him and insure your safety. No you're lying.....Sauron. I know that evil lurks in these parts, and it shall not sway me. The dwarf may not like his present company but he likes you even less. He would never take us back to you. You would lock him away just as you would us. Stay out of my mind, foul beast.

Oh, come now. You are more intelligent than most, aren't you. But I did not lie entirely. I assure you, one of these....creatures will return you. Do you know who? Why not kill them all? Except of course the one you love. Surely the two of you could have a happy life....if only the elf-man would not stand in your way. He does not and none shall betray us. Leave Sauron. Go back to your keep and stay there. Or take shape once more a fight me. You're not a coward are you?

Fool! Feel what resistance brings upon you! Zuromor head felt as if it would burst, and he fell to his knees holding his head. My minions will destroy you and capture the rest. They will have pleasure in making your friends suffer! Perhaps they will torture her before your very eyes before they slay you! Zuromor's head was forced to face Raeis. His eyes were forced open, and he saw her in all her beauty. He would not let them hurt her. He would find this betrayer, if there was one. And he would slay him. He would save her. The pain went away and his head righted itself, but the sudden change was overwhelming to the man's simple mind and he fainted at her feet.

[Novnarwen]

"Rhând . ." A whispering sound made him wake up. He looked around. Ever since the dream of his, when the company had rested, he couldn't stop thinking about it. It had been like a vision, a vision showing the true path of the future. Nevertheless, he could not make himself believe that it was a vision at all. Now, hearing a voice speaking his real name, he shuddered. Looking around once more, he saw the others being completely in their own thoughts. Had it been one of them? How could they know that he wasn’t named Aldor? Had he talked in his sleep, just earlier? Surprised, and scared, he tried to hide the sudden fear that arose inside of him.

"Are you surprised I know your name; your true name?" Suddenly, the Haradrim realised that it was probably no one from the company. It was the gentlest voice he had ever heard, and it was coming from an unknown source. Standing quietly for a moment, listening attentively, he realised that it probably wasn't him only, who heard voices. The others, too, seemed to be in some kind of a trance, fighting an inner force, as they all looked rather pale and an uncertainty seemed to be bothering them.

"I know you. I know who you are, where you come from, what you have done, what you have been through and now what goal you struggle to achieve." Rhând could do nothing but walk quietly along the path, pretending that nothing was happening. What was this? Was it Him, communicating with him? Shaking his head, trying to gather his thoughts, thinking about his dream, he heard the gentle voice again: "I know what you dreamt. Give them to me, all of them, and you will be amongst the faithfuls . . ."

And you will be amongst the faithfuls . . Rhând thought to himself, still not realising what this meant.

"Faithful . . ." he repeated silently. A sudden feeling of bewilderment made him shake with joy!

This approval was a victory to him. It was clear now; he could return to Him, and he would again be His servant. It was the most facinating feeling that he had ever felt. It was like a mild summer breeze, touching his face, filling him with excitement. It was like the sun, shining only upon him. It was the feeling of being approved, the feeling of being accepted and the feeling of being Rhând and not Aldor; all at the same time. He breathed heavily, taking in the air of the Dark Land. It hit him that he was so close to achieving his goal now. It was only a matter of time, before he was free and back to Him again. Yes, tonight, when everyone is asleep . . he thought, walking slowly after one of the dwarves. He thought of the suverah, knowing that if he were to succeed, he would have to have some kind of a plan. First, he thought, smiling, I will have to ask Grash about the exact route, which he is planning to take. He swallowed as he reproached himself for falling asleep, when they had discussed this matter. Then, tonight, I will use the suverah. I will have to make sure no one is able to wake up before dawn. Yes, I think I can make it, run from this scum, find one who serves Him, tell him about the prisoners and run back.

Agreeing with himself, that this would have to be the plan, he grinned with satisfaction.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Stones did not scare Jeren. Or, they had never scared him before. Rocks never brought forth fear or terror. Inanimate objects, no matter how tall or looming, did not harbor horror or doubt. What could be so different about the two columns rising before him? Did they see things from invisible eyes? Perhaps they heard things through ears that no one else could fathom. Maybe the rock and stone could feel in a way no human could imagine. It did not frighten Jeren. Only the past haunted the aimless Southron. But then, he had not yet passed through the entryway the pillars created. Jeren’s steps were not taken tentatively, his eyes did not falter and hesitate downward to his own feet as he saw others do.

At least, not until he had taken that one step through the gateway.

Suddenly Jeren’s head ached, dull and distant, but present all the same. The ache did not feel painful, more of a gentle reminder of where he stood and where his feet had begun to tread. Jeren ran his calloused, deeply tanned hands through his tousled brown curls. He let short and dirt-caked nails dig into his scalp, longing to be rid of the thumping within his mind. The Southron hoped that the feeling would soon pass, but he found that the roaming ache was only a small matter before what was to come.

I can see what is in your heart. I can see what no one else can see.

Jeren whipped his head around, and he heard a crack as he turned his neck one degree too many. Wincing, the Southron let his feet fumble along the trail as he returned his focus on the way ahead. Jeren quickly gave up his search for the voice, consoling himself and thinking that it was only one of his reluctant companions.

No. You cannot see me. But if you wish, you can hear me. Hear my words…

The voice again! Jeren masked the look of sudden terror in his face, not wanting anyone to see the fear in his eyes.

You can hide those feelings from them, but not from me. I know what you want, I know what you fear, I know what your heart says and your mind rejects.

The voice sounded silky…smooth and oily. It felt like grease lying dormant, maliciously covering some desired drink of water. Jeren had heard and spoken with men whose voices held this spiteful cover-up. Somehow the depth of the words far surpassed any human’s tenor or bass vocals. The brevity and concise manner of the words struck deep within Jeren’s heart, though his mind indeed rejected every syllable. Jeren wondered if anyone else could hear…

Only you can hear my words, Jeren. These words were meant for you. I speak warning, against your leader and the others of your company. Turn back now! Leave them. They are not to be trusted. Not the Elves, nor the Dwarves…not even your fellow Humans. Leave them far behind. They don’t know you!

It was true and Jeren knew it. None of his companions knew Jeren. They did not know what he had done, the reason why he had been captive. They did not know…

They do not know about your past, Jeren. Those you supervised called you a deserter; those who were your supervisors called you a traitor. They do not know of your failure in battle, the loss of that battle, and the slaughter of those you led. If they did, what would they say? They would not understand. You are better off on your own, anyway. Stay with these fools, and one of them will betray you. One of your own will leave you to the minions of this land. Turn away, and perhaps you might make it out alive.

"I would rather perish at the sting of another Man's sword than at the bite of your heartless, mindless minions," Jeren murmured aloud, not quite caring if any could hear his words. At Jeren's mumbling, the dull ache in his head intensified for just a moment, bringing nearly unbearable pain to his forehead. When the sting left him, Jeren could hear a distant cackle.

You will perish, one way or another.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordim's post

As he moved between the stones, Grash was plunged into a howling blindness that left him alone and staggering in the void of the Dark Lord’s malice. It came upon him like a cold wave from the East, rushing through him as though his flesh were but fragile cloth and the terror of Sauron coursed about his naked and shivering bones. He reeled and might have fallen, but his hand in reaching out in desperation came upon the warm flesh of Darash who strode beside him. What she was feeling or thinking he did not know, but unlike every other time that she had been touched, she did not flinch away. Her arm remained impassive and unresponsive in Grash’s trembling hand, but it did not shirk his touch.

He clung to that lone point of human contact like a drowning man, but though his feet moved it was a nightmare in which he made no forward progress. In the distance he heard a low keening wind and time froze. The darkness about him lessened and he felt a tearing force at his back. He did not want to turn. The very thought of coming about to face what he knew was there filled his very spirit with loathing, but he could not prevent his body from slowly turning about until he faced back the way they had come. Through the black shapes of the Morgul Vale he could see clearly outlined in the far distance, as though it had been drawn with diamonds’ points, a single fiery, lidless eye, its pupil a black slit into nothingness. The malice of the Eye assailed Grash like the whips of the orcs that had marshalled him into the world and forced him through its weary ways. It leered at him across the leagues, and even from this distance it felt as though it were peeling away his physical form leaving only his spirit – naked, cold and gibbering upon the harsh stone of the Dark Lord’s throne chamber.

Grash gazed at the Eye, and slowly began to feel himself being drawn forward. It seemed to grow in size and intensity, and slowly, it began to move toward the Vale, as though it were sensing Grash. In an instant he realised that the Eye was becoming aware of Grash’s presence. The stones his sentinels contained within them the memory of their torture by Sauron and they resonated still with his implacable will. Any that tried to pass that way in resistance to the will of their tormentor would cause them to call out to their master across the desert wastes of his realm.

The Eye flickered toward him, but Grash – who had lived his life beneath its gaze – could feel the distraction within it. Something had happened that had disturbed the counsels of the Dark Lord, and his attention was flitting about his land. For a moment in time that was less than a heartbeat, the Eye flashed across Grash and his companions, and in that moment the lifelong slave of the Dark Lord felt the command on his master. All of his servants were being summoned north, to the very mouths of this land, to the Morannon. He caught a fleeting, fragmentary glimpse of the Dark Lord’s own view, and saw vast armies in motion all over the dark land, all of them gathering toward the Gate where the ragtag remnants of the upstart Gondorian King were to be destroyed.

Upon the edge of the vision, Grash caught sight of a lone figure upon a horse. He rode beneath a banner that was black, with seven stars woven upon it circling a crown, and there was a light about him that called to the shattered spirit of the slave. He felt his heart swell at the sight of this unknown man, and for a second he felt almost as though he could hear the call of distant trumpets. But then the Eye was nearly upon him, and there was only a veil of thinnest gossamer between him and It. Grash felt an unwholesome longing come upon him to call out to the Eye, to run forward into its light and reveal himself. But the image of the distant Man came before his gaze once more, and holding onto that vision he was able to wrench his gaze from the East.

With a cry he fell to the ground at Darash’s feet. He was past the Stones.

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Bethberry's post

Something had deranged the various members of the group. Darash could feel muscles hardening in the air, tendons snapping into tightness, rates of breathing either slow or quicken. The odour of fear exuded from bodies as they moved towards these carvings which Grash had called the Dark Lord's Stones. But who was this Dark Lord? She looked over at Grash and would have asked, but she saw that he was in no mood to converse, wrapped up in some strange dream of his own, his hand reaching out and touching her arm. She could not understand what this power was, but she did not repulse the touch of the former slave. Instead, she watched all the others as they went into dream raptures as they confronted these pillars. She did not understand who or what this Dark Lord was, but she sensed abject fear and horror in those around her. Their bodies were almost becoming grass before the wind. She could feel herself melting into passivity.

Then she faced the Stones herself, hearing her called by the name of "Darash" in a sonorous voice, low and melodious but she caught a vague sense of sneering in its patronising plea. She shook from her head the sound and spoke to herself a name none had ever heard her mention, Kashtia Ma'at-Ka-Re, Kashia Ma'at-Ka-Re. Kashtia Ma'at-Ka-Re. Grash looked at her for a moment, but she did not think he heard. Especially did He who knew every way to appeal to those whose servitude he wanted not hear, but she did, savouring the click of the consonants. Then she raised her eyes against this man-god who called to her in the name of her pain, Kwenye darasha. She felt a soft cooing go through her, as if an arm were placed around her shoulders relieving her of her responsibility so she could rest.

Come to me and I will show you the way home, I will bring you back to your tribe, I will give them the strength to resist their enemies. In me you will find the weapon to fulfil yourself as warrior.

Kashtia remained silent, listening to his words.

Your silence already shows you have decided for me, the voice continued. Join me and I will raise your people high. I will call upon them to join me here in my victory.

Words teetored on the tip of her tongue, and her cracked lips she held still. He knew not the words of her people but spoke in this tongue that the slaves did here, not the foul speech of the orcs but that of the northern men. She fought against the dream he was placing in her head, for she realised he was trying to grab her story, to write her into his story and bend her to his way, to twist her into a mere handmaiden to power. Kashtia would not relinquish her voice; she refused to speak to this man-god who perverted people's stories to his own narrative. For the first time she began to understand the depravity of these northern men who were slaves even in the open air, and she began to feel compassion for them rather than hauteur or disgust. She understood as she had not previously what were the chains which held Grash even as he was free of the prison. They were not and had never been agents of their own lives.

Aloud she spoke one word, Kontu!, that is to say, "Story". "Herstory", with its warning not to speak to the Trickster man-god. Then, to herself, in her head so none could hear, particularly this Dark Lord, she repeated the old stories of courage and cooperation. Unaenda wapi, nyumbo yetu. Kurro. "Run," she translated, "Run," she said to all near her and began to move her springing feet forward, beyond the stones.

To her side, she suddenly heard Grash call out. He grasped her arm tighter and then rushed with her through the stones. He stumbled, almost falling at her feet, but she grabbed his arm this time and steadied him so he would not fall upon the black earth and bruise himself upon the cruel edges of its rocks. She saw in his eyes he had seen a dream of his own, a frightening dream, but a hope he had never known before in his life. Then she looked away at the road which lay before them.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

As Zuromor walked onward he noticed that he was not the only one to have had such a strange encounter at the stones. Grash had fallen due to what seemed to be nothing at all. But Zuromor knew what had happened. Sauron, the "Dark Lord" himself. Zuromor scoffed at the mere thought of anyone who might call him their Lord. He is a force of evil that would be destroyed.

It was soon after his encounter that Zuromor noticed Grash had finally arisen, he seemed to be the worst off, and began to walk on. As he did Zuromor couldn't help but think, Who is the traitor, if there even is one? He stopped and looked behind him, and he saw everyone trying to recover. Except one. Aldor.

He walked as if nothing had happened. He had a strange smile and he seemed to have a new "air" of confidence. Was it him? Why did he seem to have been revitalized when everyone else was drained and staggering?

[Himaran]

Not even the horde of orcs swarming around (and occasionally overtop) the young dwarf could outnumber the thoughts rushing through Dwali's brain. Just moments earlier, the company had been headed straight towards the mountain path. Now they were scattered, lost in a raging sea of enemy. Would their disguises hold? The orc armor might not conceal the elves or men, who had completely different builds. And of what of the passage that was rapidly passing out of sight? Perhaps this was how it would all end.

Such thoughts were becoming increasingly unimportant, however, as the fugitives were forced to join the orc army's steady march. Dwali found himself next to a captain, if that was the brute's actual title. "Keep it moving, you maggots," he roared. "We march for the gate." Snarling an unintelligible phrase in a crude orcish tongue, he savagely turned on a straggler with his whip. The violent display ultimately kept the dwarf's stout legs moving, but exhaustion was slowly setting in.

The chain of orcs kept moving, darkening the already blackened earth. Dwali had lost any sense of time or distance. Collapse was imminent, as was presumed death (in his mind, at least). And topple he did, right off the edge of the wide path and into a tiny crater; one that neatly hid his prostrate form from the millions of unfriendly eyes passing by above him. The dwarf had slowly moved towards the edge of the column and, when his last reserves of energy were gone, had fallen into a relatively concealed positon.

But Dwali had little time to reflect on his good fortune, for after reviving from unconciousness several hours later, he was still hopelessly lost. And the orc army continued by, an endless yet unnatural cycle.

[Novnarwen]

He was thinking about his latest conversation with Grash, as it was quite obvious that Grash was suspicious towards Rhând and his behaviour, and he would be lying if he denied the fact that he had grown fairly annoyed about this. The more he thought about it, the more it bothered him. What if everything would be ruined because of some twit named Grash? It was if he had already failed. He had been overly convinced that he would manage to get out and away from these prisoners alive, and to thereafter return to his master, but if he was taken for a liar by the other prisoners, his plan would be ruined.

It was an odd feeling that made the him wake up from the troubled thoughts that lingered in the Haradrim's head. Being disturbed by a one of the prisoners nudging him, he looked up. Who dared disturb him, when he was thinking of serious matters? He wanted to yell it out. It was too much. All of this, it was too much. Why couldn't he just return to his Lord? Why was it so difficult? Not at all aware of the transition; first being a part of a small company of prisoners, and now being surrounded by Orcs, he nudged back.

"What do you think you're doing, you filthy little piece of dirt!"

Suddenly, just before his very eyes, the escaped prisoner had turned into an Orc, who had drawn his gigantic blade. Wondering about what sick little trick this was, he looked desperately into every direction; searching for a familiar face. "I'm talking to you!" This rough voice seemed to attract some of the other orcs too, who all looked at him as if hungry. Rhând, who realised that he would be dead within seconds if he didn't say something, opened his mouth to speak. "I thought I saw something," he said quietly, thinking as he went on. "Do you not smell it?" He used the common tongue, as he knew that Orcs spoke it well and usually used it when talking to each other, as they had different accents depending on where they had their origins.

"Smell what?"

Being very careful about his manner of speaking, he tried formulating his speech in his head. Orcs cannot be trusted with this. I will have to wait for another opportunity to get away. All I can do now, is save myself, he thought, standing completely still. Seeing that the Orcs surrounding him were getting inpatient, he got a grip of himself, hoping that orcs were as stupid as the dwarves.

"There are strangers here. There are Enemies of the One. There are three small ones, I think... Ahhh," he said and sighed: "Yes, three. The smell of poison in this very air… Do you wish to breathe in such air?" he asked. The orcs broke into a rough laughter, all of them being bewildered by what Rhând told them. He didn't quite understand, however, and looked questioningly at them under his helmet.

"Are you saying there will be fresh flesh tonight?" It came from one of the biggest orcs, who was standing beside the one Rhând had nudged.

"Not only fresh flesh. Would you like to taste the flesh of a firstborn, maybe?" Rhând asked, giggling. He knew that he had them, all of them. It was only a matter of time before he would suggest that they were to split up and go looking for these strangers. It would all be perfect; he would escape from the Orcs, and the dwarves and the elves would be in great danger. Perhaps he would finally get even on Morogoth.

"What?!" The leader of the little band of orcs jumped forwards. "Firstborn flesh?!"

"Or elves, if you prefer" Rhând hissed.

Again all of them broke into a hysteric laughter. "You have an odd way with words, little Miss!" one of the orcs said, and the laughter returned.

The Haradrim, who was anxious to get away before being caught, started to doubt whether this was possible after all. They were too many. In fact, as he looked around, there were Orcs everywhere. Not knowing what to do, but being absolutely certain that he would have to do something, he tried once more.

"Shut up! I want some meat, you want some meat; we all want some meat! Let split up and find them, take them, torture them and eat them before it's too late; before they are gone!" Growing red with anger and helplessness, Rhând glanced at them.

"Let's find them. None are to take the tiniest bit of ‘em before everyone is gathered. I think it would be fun to play a game first, before they die."

Rhând sighed with relief.

"You!" The orc, who seemed to have a higher rank than the others, turned his gaze to Rhând, as the others were about to run into different directions looking for the enemies of the One. "You! Never tell me to shut up again! If you have lied about this, I will kill you myself. Never promise a hungry Orc fresh meat. Now, go!!"

He ran as fast as he could, not knowing what to do next.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Grash was swept up in the sway and grunt of the dark army, caught by the stench and heat of orc bodies pressed beyond the endurance of mortals to fulfill their captains’ commands. The torchlight glared in his eyes and swirled oily smoke at him. Grash coughed and reeled in the press, clutching for some familiar hand or support, but he was alone in a sea of enemies. That was the most dangerous time for him, for he was surprised and unthinking, wavering with shock and terror. A sudden blow from behind sent him flailing to one side, and a rough voice roared at him in the Black Speech to be more careful. A hairy hand with ragged yellowing claws seized his shoulder and spun him about. Grash just had the presence of mind to duck his head and pull his hood over his eyes. He could not see the face of the orc but he could feel the creature’s foul breath upon his face. “Watch where you’re going, maggot, or I’ll lick your heels with a whip!”

Grash had spent his life taking such abuse from these creatures and knew well how to deal with it. He shuffled as though cowed, and casting his voice into the rough register of an orc replied, “We’ve been marching for days, and I’m tired. Still, what the Eye demands we must give it, mustn’t we? Always the poor orcs are the ones as must pad it all out, while the captains and the higher ups get to wing it to the Gate. I’ll make it there, and be in time to skin a few rebels before you ever arrive!” He followed this with an ugly laugh. The orc slapped him on the back hard, in approval, and moved off.

The movement of the army was carrying Grash in the wrong direction, so he began trying to work his way back toward the path. He could not head there directly, for that would have been to march in the wrong direction, but by slowing his pace and slipping between the hulking forms of the orcs, he was able to make slow progress. The sky was lightening more and more as he went, and soon the protective cloak of night would be gone. He could pass for an orc in the dark, but in the dawn – even such as only came here – he was sure he could be found out.

He was nearing the beginning of the path, when a feeling of chilling terror came over him. His heart seized and he felt his breath come up short as he stumbled against the wall of the ravine. There was a pounding in his head like the beating of vast wings, and there came through it a cry of such malice and horror that for a time his mind and eyes went blind. Grash felt the army about him shudder as the flesh will at the touch of something dark and unknown, and without looking up he knew that one of the Dark Lord’s screechers had come upon his winged mount. There was a blast of foul air as the great beast passed over head, and the ravine echoed with the croak of the monster. Grash cowered against the wall, waiting for the Nazgûl to leave, but the blast of the beast’s wings grew and there was a murmur of dismay from the army. Grash looked about and watched as the vast form of the beast settled onto the ground in the midst of the army, which parted like insects fleeing a predator to allow it passage. A towering, nightmare form detached itself from the beast and moved forward toward a small group of orcs who moved forward to speak with their captain.

Grash was turning to go, when he caught sight of a pale and terrified face upon the fringes of the crowd. It was the Man, Jordo. He was locked in position, unable to look away from the Nazgûl lord, and in his abject fascination, he had allowed his cloak to slip away from his face somewhat, thus revealing him for who and what he was.

For a moment that lasted less than a heartbeat, Grash stood torn between two competing desires. The path to freedom lay an easy dash behind him. The coming of the Nazgûl had drawn the army’s attention and he could easily make it to the path unobserved. But before him was Jordo; it was only by the slimmest of luck that Grash had seen him before the orcs, who were more concerned with avoiding their dread lord, but the terrified youth had only seconds before he would be revealed. When he did act, it was without thought, and had he been asked to explain his decision, Grash could not have been able to put it into words. Forsaking the path, he rushed toward Jordo. He reached the youth easily, and putting his arm upon his shoulder sought to turn him about and bring him away, but at his touch the Man cried out and spun as though struck. Grash hushed him quickly, but at the same moment he felt a cold wave come over him and without looking he knew that the Nazgûl had noticed them both, and pierced their disguises.

Grash seized Jordo’s arm and whispered to him desperately. “No speaking. Be quiet. I talk with Screecher. You must pretend to be slave. Do not look at it!” They felt the presence of the Nazgûl come upon them like a bad dream, and Grash turned to face it. The cloaked figure loomed over them, filling them with dread and loathing of their very lives, but steeling himself Grash advanced to meet it. When he got to within an arm’s length of the form he fell to the ground and prostrated himself before it, crying out in the Black Speech, “Forgive me, forgive me, my Master! We have been slow in coming, do not take us to the Tower! Please, please, let us go on and serve the Lord as we might!” He kept up in this manner, crying as though he were in agony, pleading with the dread captain of the army.

A thin voice that cut like a blade came from within the folds of the cloak. “What are you doing here?” it demanded. “You are not part of my army. Speak now.”

Grash forced himself to look up into the void of darkness where a face should be. He could feel the creature’s formless eyes upon him as he responded. “We were sent to serve the garrison upon the high path. We were sent by the guard at Cirith Ungol. The orcs, they are needed at the Gate, and we are being sent to watch the paths. We will watch them well. We are loyal slaves to the Lord, loyal and good. We will help the orcs. Bring water, cook food." He kept talking, using his words as a mask to shield him from the will of the Nazgul, which he could feel pressing into him like a spear, slowly but surely penetrating his flesh and twitching about in his innards, looknig for the truth. Grash knew better than to pretend to be someone he was not; he could not lie to the Dark Lord's most powerful servants. But he did not have to lie. He had spent his life as a slave of Mordor, and it was as a slave of Mordor that he now spoke. He buried deep within him the new ideas and dreams of freedom, and companionship. He kept away from thy prying, torturing will of the dark one the image he had glimpsed of the tall Man with the star at his brow. Grash kept talking as he had been taught to speak, as the orcs had forced him to speak. He knew the part he was expected to play, knew it so well that it had almost become not a part in the Dark Lord's malicious play, but his own identity. He slipped into the persona of the pathetic slave as though it were a second skin, and he wore it about him, proudly displaying his servility to the Wraith.

The pressure being exerted on his will grew as his listener felt the presence of the areas in Grash's mind that he sought to keep hidden. Rather than fight the Nazgul, Grash gave way even more, filling his mind with the empty babble that now fell from his mouth like vomit. He cringed and squirmed upon the ground, pretending to be the animal-thing that his slavery had almost made him. But through it all he held on to two ideas: two images, really, so carefully concealed in the core of his will that to reach them the Black One would have to break his spirit. This was in its power, easily, but Grash hoped that he could forestall his opponent's interest long enough to survive. The first image he clung to was of the brief glimpse he had received of that far green land, beyond the walls of this country. He held on to the picture of leaves and sun, and felt upon his withered cheeks the gentle caress of a distant wind. The other image surprised him in its clarity and power, but he did not have the time or energy to wonder at it. In his mind's eye he beheld the face and mein of Darash. Her stern eyes and slightly crooked mouth lent him the strength he lacked.

“Enough,” the voice cut through his thoughts like a razor, and Grash felt his innards shrink away. There was a silence as the Nazgûl regarded the slaves before him. They were insignificant worms like all his Lords slaves, and yet there was something about them that had sent a warning into him. But he was distracted by other matters. There were reports about of spies having breached the mountains and descended into Mordor. The garrison of Cirith Ungol had been destroyed. An army marched toward the Black Gate beneath the banner of the West. And, the unthinkable, his own King had fallen before the walls of the Gondorians, brought down by the insulting hand of a woman, and Halfling. The gibbering of the slave upon the ground had grown wearisome to him, and without a word he turned his back upon the sniveling form and moved back to his captains.

Before the orcs could recover from their own terror, Grash sprang to his feet and taking Jordo by the arm, urgently pulled him toward the path. As they reached its beginning there was a clamor of horns and the army began to move onward once more. Grash pushed and pulled the youth up the first flights of the path, hoping that the others had made it through safely.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Raeis felt herself pulled down, a hand wrenching fiercely at her arm, and numbly she fell to her knees in the churned, dusty road of the path, her head bowed. But her eyes remained open, staring at the path, and as the dark prescence moved closer, she froze completely, fists clenched so that her ragged nails dug into her palms, the pain a distraction from the fear that she felt welling up.

Fear.

No.

It was not the voice that Raeis heard in her head: she had not heard it since they had come away from the stones, and she felt the space where it should be like a gaping hole, a space where as dear companion - no, more than that, where a part of herself - had fallen away. Fallen into the shadow of the stones... She jolted as she heard this new prescence. It was not herself, Raeis, who spoke, it was something more. Greater. Some half memory floated up from her past life, a mention of beings greater than any man, greater even than the first born themselves. Fourteen great spirits, powerful and wonderful, and more beautiful in the awe they inspired than Arda itself. The Lords of the West, the Valar, filled Raeis's mind, and they were so beautiful that the very world itself seemed to stop; it was they who had sustained her through the stones, and her eyes filled with tears in gratitude and wonder.

Until a dark shadow fell over her mind.

As the black, cloaked shape of the Nazgul passed in front of Raeis, casting a shadow on both her mind and her crouching body, fear struck the elf once more, and with it there came a powerful, gripping sensation, as if her mind was held in some ice-cold set of talons, dangled by the tail on the claw of a lazy, cruel cat. And the cat wanted to play. She closed her eyes tightly, willing it away. Despite her Haradrim disguise, Raeis felt suddenly naked in the harsh, sere prescence of the Nazgul. Blindly, beyond reason or logic, she flailed inwardly, struggling for an escape, random words and sequences throwing themselves through her mind as if to try to confuse the Nazgul...until it settled on one word.

"Yavanna." Her whisper was barely audible, little more than mouthing the word.

A sudden, terrible hiss emitted from the space above Raeis, like a sharp indraw of breath into long-dry lungs, and the dark shape stopped dead in front of her. Raeis stiffened but did not move. In her mind she held the image which had come with the word, a fair, tall woman, the sun seeming to shine from behind her body, making her glow radiantly and lighting her cascading blonde hair. She smiled gently at the elf in her mind's eye, and her hands spread wide, as if ready to pour forth all many of wonders...

"Nienna; Mandos..."

The vision faded as Raeis whispered the next two words, and two more impossible beings presented themselves: one a male, cloaked and wise, hard, but not unkind, lines set into his face. Around his waist was a thick rope, as on a scribe's habit, and from this hung a keychain, with one giant key. Shadows seemed to move around his body as if there were others near him, just on the edge of sight. Beside him stood a woman, also cloaked, but her hood pulled up over her head, stark against her pale face, wavy lengths of hair falling to her waist from under the hood on either side of her face. Her dark garb and drawn features spoke of a widow in deep mourning, but as Raeis saw her, her lips were lifted into a melancholy smile, as reassuring in it's soft gentleness as Yavanna's bright radiance.

The Nazgul turned from it's path and stalked slowly towards her, but this time Raeis didn't even flinch: the cloaked pair in her mind now moved aside to be replace with a smith, rustic and bearded, a hammer clasped in one giant hand and a metal chain in the other, and a man garbed in fine, rich clothing but whose stern eyes moved like the sea itself. Why it seemed there were even creatures moving in the grey depths... Raeis smiled to herself in a sort of childish simplicity, unaware of all that was around her as she recognised the pair, and named them in a whisper that was now growing in strength. "Aule, and Ulmo..."

From in the depths of his cloak the Nazgul's clawlike fist shot out with lightning quick speed, the great metal gauntlet seizing her throat in it's inescapable grip. Raeis went limp as it wrenched her from her kneeling position until she was a few inches above the ground, held in the asphixiatingly tight deathgrip, the cold void of nothingness staring down at her. Raeis's eyes didn't open, and she stayed completely still - save her lips. Once more they moved as she struggled to speak again, the words springing to her lips as if she was possessed.

"Varda...Elentari..." It was a dry croak but it was enough for the Nazgul to hear, and the image, along with the others, strong and clear enough in her mind to incriminate her. The creaking hiss of the Nazgul and the sliding, silver sound of it unsheathing it's sword was suddenly louder than anything around it: orcs froze, cowering away from it as the hiss rose in a wordless curse. Raeis's companions froze in their tracks. But Raeis did nothing, her rack thin body limp as she opened her one tawny eye to look straight into the soulless void of the creature's eyes as she struggled against the harsh grip to complete the list of the Aratar with the name it would hate the most in an almost silent whisper: the Lord of the Breath of Arda, Master of the Winds and fiercest enemy of Melkor...

"Manwë."

The Nazgul screamed, throwing back it's helmetted head to give a fierce, outraged screech as Raeis felt herself slipping away into unciousness - and felt a pair of hands gripping her ankles.

[Sarin Mithrilanger]

As the Nazgul shrieked so did Zuromor's hands grab the fair Elf's feet. Wgen she rested on the ground Zuromor sttos in front of her with his blade drawn, pointing at the Nazgul. He knew he could not speak Orc so he whispered as to only be heard by the dark creature.

"You will leave this one be, and go back to your path."

In a hissing voice it replied. "Only one do I listen to, only one do I obey. And it is not you! No one can stop my wrath, save for Him!" As he said "Him" Zuromor saw clearly in his mind a lidless eye.

"Maybe so, but this one won't be overcome by you."

"Fool! Move along Orcs....I will deal with this one!"

Zuromor held his blade in front of him and waited.

[Kransha]

Brór was walking unusually slowly. Even though the orcs around him moved in a maelstrom, at an unsteady and uneven pace, drifting back and forth, Brór was not carried by their movement or borne one the host, he simply drifted like a log in water, aimless and going nowhere. He only wished to join the throng, rabid and dark as it might be. He was a part of it, in his opinion, and deserved no more than the company of Mordor scum. As he waded into the orc host, he could not help but be severed from the rest of the escapee party, all separated on the plain and wide road. And, to Brór’s unwholesome dismay, the orcs were not leaderless, but commanded by a Ringwraith, one of the Nine, a seemingly immortal being of darkness and doom. Looking upon the black figure with shadows whirling as tornadoes about him, Bror’s heart fell to the earth and he wished to sink to his knees and tear his mind from his skull, though he did not. His pessimism was so overwhelming that the madness did not take him. He was just one, a brick in the walls of Mordor, not one to be trifled with by Nazgûl mighty. There was a very minor vein of light, a worm of golden sun in his shaded, frozen heart that yearned for freedom and release, but Bror had no reason to grant this wish. Turning his head from the Wraith as it swept over its armies and alighted on the earth, Bror continued on, trying to move through the host…but soon enough, shrill sounds and commotion were the Wraith had landed swayed Brór’s eyes and heart.

Something was happening. The Nazgûl’s cry and dark aura could be heard and seen through the horde of orcs. Many cowered and moved back, forcing Brór away from the happenstance. He cursed his shortness, cursed it with all his power, and eagerly leapt to see the commotion. Some orcs were hurriedly scattering, allowing some bare glances of what lay before the Nazgûl. With horror and pain in him, Bror realized what figure it was with his sword raised towards the Ringwraith. It was Zurumor! A million thoughts, rivers of jolting thunder rippling through him, coursed into his mind in a second and faster. The dwarf knew that this was his companion, his comrade, though he had condemned the man. Brór owed him something, if at all, and that was life. A fatherly instinct took hold when Bror saw Zurumor doing something so foolhardy, but how could he, a dwarf separated from the lad and his attacker, save anyone from anything? He could not charge the wraith. Zurumor would be dead before he came close and he himself would be cut down by orcs…

Then it hit him! It was the orcs who would be his salvation. A distraction! Separate Zurumor from the Nazgûl; cause commotion, distraction, diversion, and plant seeds of chaos in the host. If this did not serve to fully distract the Nazgûl, it would at least serve to inconvenience him for a long enough period. Not thinking, no thought in his emptied head, Brór’s leg unconsciously shot out, right in front of an orc beside him. The orc, walking overly fast through the crowd, tripped and fell face first into the mud below. Growling in anger and dark annoyance, he shot up, drawing some strange looks from his kindred, and spun on the short ‘orc’ who had sent him on his journey to the ground. Bror got a good look at the unnamed orc’s face, taking in the disheartening sight of his glistening, sharpened teeth.

“You! You bloody tripped me!” He said, not even trying to conceal a throaty grunt of hatred.

Brór called upon every ounce of extraneous knowledge crammed into his skull. He had spent nineteen long years in the damnable Tower of Cirith Ungol, a slave to the wretched spawn of orc-kind. He must’ve picked something up of their tongue, of their nature, of anything. Where was Grash? Why was that infernal man not where he was needed? It didn’t matter, though, where Grash and the others were. What mattered was now. Now words of kindness or gentility would simply allow Brór to slip away unnoticed now that he’d made his move. Sauron’s lack of command to him proved that he already had the seed of darkness in him, so could he not use it for a better purpose. Mustering a theatrical flourish, Brór screwed up his hidden face, clenched his fists so tightly that his iron-clad digits dug into the flesh of his palm and bled, and took on the vile persona of the creatures he’d learned to hate even more on each day of his life. In a cold, raspy, dank voice he said, “What’s it to you, pushdug?”

The orc’s yellow-tinged eyes seemed to undulate with rage suddenly, his two pointed ears quivering involuntarily, and he raised his one hand unclad in a gauntlet or metal armament, extending the forefinger and pressing it menacingly against Brór’s puffed out chest. “What’d you call me, runt?” He growled, a low and murderous snarl trying to escape his thin throat. Brór growled, delicately though, as he was not suited to orcish nature, but managed to continue his ill-tempered mood, fueled by anger and the lack of time, which abraded him even now as his left eye continually flitted to the unseen place where Zurumor and Raeis were. He had to hurry, or both their lives were forfeit, whether he cared or not about them.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He spat sarcastically, causing the orc to flinch, “I thought that was your name. It goes well with your face.”

That did it, just as Brór assumed it would. The orc’s eyes bulged from his misshapen skull, his nostrils flared furiously, and his curled fist shot out. Brór, expecting the rage-induced maneuver, nimbly ducked. He was short enough to simply squat down and waddle madly past the orc as his fist found the wrong target: another orc. As soon as the second beast had recovered from the blow, his syrupy black blood oozing from one corner of his mouth, he pounced on the offender and assailant, sending them both to the ground just behind Bror. Another orc was pulled into the accidentally and Bror barely managed to dodge his groping fingers as he fell. The dwarf scurried onward, pushing other orcs forcefully aside but moving quickly enough for them not to notice who was committing the act. Most of the enraged beasts turned, falling on each other with the current brawl as incentive enough to go mad. Soon, a small, central portion of the grand host had been enveloped in anarchic chaos. Brór dodged with all the agility he bore past the orcs and their primitive fisticuffs, working his way towards the Nazgul and his prey as the small commotion became a large and eye-drawing distraction.

At last he saw them. The Elf female, Raeis, lay sprawled on her chest in the dirt, half-pulled up (presumably by Zurumor, who stood before her with his sword extended. The Nazgûl was before them both, but Zurumor’s intervention had separated. All heads turned to see the wild fray of orcs, including the hooded blackness of the Ringwraith. That was all that was needed. The orcish hordes in combat soon began to fight back and forth across the plain, diving, lunging, and falling. Several tackled beast collapsed before Zurumor, cutting off the Nazgûl. Soon, more were in the way. Seeing his opportunity, Bror launched himself up and forward, wrapping his bulky arms around Zurumor. He made a feeble grab for Raeis on the ground, but could not latch on. Orc were in the way, everywhere around them, the masses pushing Brór and Zurumor away from Raeis. The dwarf, grasping the only alternative, tugged Zurumor in the opposite direction, away from Raeis and the confused Nazgûl. Soon, there was considerable distance between them, though they were still in the thick of the fray.

“C’mon.” he bellowed into the lads ear as he pulled him along, “We need to find a safer spot.”

Suddenly, Zurumor began to bat madly at his savior, yanking his arm from Brór’s fumbling grip, he stumbled back and spun on his heel. Brore had no idea what the mortal had in mind, but knew that it was an ill plan when Zurumor suddenly set off in a dead sprint towards in the direction of Raeis and the Nazgûl. Brore, not thinking but only resolving not to let the boy he’d extricated from the jaws of death dive back into them, leapt forward, into the fray of brawling orcs, and tackled Zurumor to the ground, holding him there with his weight (augmented by much armor). Zurumor twisted and turned to free himself beneath the dwarf, trying to free himself with all his might. “No! Get off.” He cried, anger and sadness in his voice.

“Do you have a death wish, lad?” Bror roared; his voice still almost overwhelmed by the shrieking, grunting madness of the raging Mordor uruks. Zurumor tore one arm free of Brór and thrust the elbow at the dwarf. It struck the nose of Brór’s helmet, causing the rusty contraption to reverberate like a bell. The man freed his second arm a moment later, his legs and balled fists flailing madly as he grasped his sword again, which lay unattended in the mud. Soon, he was on his knees, struggling to his feet, with Brór stumbling about behind.

“Raeis will die!” He cried, his eyes widened and wet with either rage or some dominion of misery, “We must help her!” An orc with a knife through his bloody throat fell in front of the man just then, separating him from Bror. Seconds later, two orcs, locked in a death-grip, staggered past them, their flying weapons and arms slashing the air close to Brór’s face. Doggedly, the dwarf snaked his way past them, his hand stretching to its utmost length and closing on Zurumor’s wrist. “She will die with or without your help.” He cried, pulling the man’s sweat-soaked face to his own. The man’s breath, usually heated, was as cold as ice, though the air around them both was as warm as Orodruin’s fires, if one were to play with metaphor on the matter. Brór’s other hand, now clutching the second ax in his belt, latched onto Zurumor’s other arm. “If the orcs do not trample her into the ground,” he said sternly, holding the man firmly, “the Nazgûl will slay her in his wroth. His breath has probably slain her already. Look to your legs now, boy, it is too late for her.”

“I can’t let her die!” He nearly shrieked at Bror, pushing him back again. Bror’s ax went to his throat, if only to draw him back, though the blade cut a very narrow gash in his cheek by accident. The man did not even notice the bead of blood drawn on his face. “Then you will die with her! The light you seek is nowhere to be found, use darkness as your cover and flee!” Brór roared, unconsciously shaking Zurumor, hoping to free the poor fool from his delusion, his stupor, and his hope. If he wanted to live, he had to lose hope, just as Brór had lost hope. He had to abandon light and love and goodly things if he wanted to survive the day, nay, the next moments. The orc army fell into further chaos around them, but Zurumor’s eyes, fierce and empowered, never moved from Brór’s. His arm, sword in hand, fell away from Brór’s and he threw himself backward, away from the hindering dwarf. Strangely stupefied, Brór did not try to stop again as he turned away.

“I don’t care.” He whispered, only loud enough for Brór to hear, “If I must die, it will be in the light…with her.” And he disappeared into the crowd.

That was it…He didn’t care…He didn’t care if he died for an Elf, an Elf who he couldn’t save and couldn’t save him…What was this then, righteousness? Honor? It was folly as Brór saw it, but not as the mortal man saw it. They looked through different eyes, but, for a moment in time the noise of battle and death was overruled the steady thump of Brór’s cold heart in his ears. Could he, a wretched dwarf and pawn of Sauron die for an Elf? Should he? Would he? Could he? What was he to do, here and now, in this time of pain, strife, and war? Challenge Sauron…or join him without question. He had been given the chance to save one of his companions, and that foolhardy youth had squandered his chance at life. But, perhaps this was not the end, for Zurumor, for Raeis, or for Brór. Raeis was doomed without help, and perhaps even with it…but there was always a chance…and Brór, the dwarf mastered by darkness, would not die in darkness. His feet moved, his ax flew up, and his eyes caught sight of Zurumor, hurrying onward.

“Wait up, lad.” He cried, alerting Zurumor to his presence. “You won’t far without the strength of a good Dwarf to aid you.”

Neither had time to do more than interchange looks, for Zurumor was occupied now by the visage of Raeis, crumpled on the ground, her limbs foully contorted. Her chest heaved up and down reassuringly, but her face was pale white, her eyes shut, and a horrible black mark on her throat that looked to be a handprint. Zurumor knelt in mid-stride, scooping her up, but the orcs had clumped together in this area, still battling each other, and crowded over Raeis. Many came near to stepping on the fragile, injured form. Brór, seeing naught else to do, swung his ax in mad arcs; cutting down an uruk that ventured to near Zurumor and his charge. In the chaos, no one noticed. Zurumor, once he had the limp Elf in his arms, struggled back again, thanking all that he held dear that the Nazgul was not near. The Wraith had gone from view…or so it seemed…

A horrendous screech alerted Brór and Zurumor to the true whereabouts of the Nazgûl. Brór’s eyes, overshadowed by a spiky orcish helm, looked up into the red-rimmed sky, ripe with lightning blades. Silhouetted, like Morgoth incarnate, against the heavens was the Nazgûl, again on his steed. The night-black wings of the murderous fellbeast were spread and the Ringwraith’s armored arm was extended, a sable sword in hand. The claws of the wraith’s mount grabbed at the air as its wings flapped, bearing it down. The nonexistent eyes of the Nazgûl must have been directed at the two primary offenders, the man and the dwarf, since Brór could feel the unadulterated pain of its look piercing his mind. The other orcs still fought around them, but silence seemed to be surrounding them as well, a terrible silence that chilled Brór to the bone.

The Nazgûl was descending…only the grace of the Valar could stand in its way.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Amanaduial's post

Raeis glanced up, slightly surprised by the question, but was not able to look far enough up to catch the man’s eyes, her neck bent as it was beneath Morgoroth’s weight. She shrugged without thinking.

“Where will I go…” she repeated the question, slowly, then trailed away. Where? She had always assumed that she would simply go home; indeed, she and Voice had discussed it often, the latter conjuring up from their mind images of a faraway land to keep the elf hopeful. Raeis remembered them, in part: slashes of light which ripped across the darkness of that cell ruthlessly, wielding weapons of peace, warmth…

...dappled sunlight across the forest floor through the canopy of leaves overhead; an elf, crouched in the trees, her golden blue and beautiful, unscarred, unburnt…unmarred face turned outwards across the boughs to the far-off lands to the South where she longed to roam…nearby another sat, leaning precariously across with the ease of one used to agility and balance through these heady perches….a flash of intense light grey eyes, golden hair… Smiling up at her, she turning to him… “Just think, Rae,” he whispered excitedly. “One day…one day we shall travel over those plains, we shall cross the great Anduin, see Ithilien, Gondor, Harad: and you and I shall dance beneath the golden, blessèd branches of Lorien…”

Raeis stumbled on a stone and her good eye flew open – and she was astonished to feel it moist despite the heat around them, a burning, dusty heat so different from the humid calm of that summer forest, conjured from her own memories… She had not revelled in them for a long time, so many timeless days in her cells having passed since she had long since given up hope and the Voice had ceased it’s comforting murmurs of hope and freedom. Jeren took the strain from her as she regained her balance dazedly, still awakening from the vivid dream, and she nodded to him gratefully as she resumed her position: without his help she would have fallen under Morgoroth’s weight.

A kind act…but he cannot keep us company as the Voice did…it could help, could keep us alive in the dark prison-hours… Raeis blinked sharply and looked away physically, as if she could look away from the thoughts. She had lost the voice, had found companions in return, but she worried about the strange truth about her friend and tormentor in the dark: she missed it.

Raeis spoke abruptly, wanting to hear another voice in place of the emptiness of her thoughts, unaware of how alike this reasoning was to Jeren’s. “I…I will return home, I suppose. Mirkwood was…”

Home? You ran from the place that you called home, remember? Ran from your parents, your life, your name… home was not a place to you in that blissful space before your imprisonment, after you left Mirkwood: it was a person. One person. Caromanieth. The one person you can never return to.

The Southrons killed him.

Raeis shot a fierce look across at Jeren and was surprised when he returned it calmly, his eyes utterly emotionless. From inside her mind, Aman saw and understood wordlessly more from that exchange of looks than she maybe could have seen in conversation with this man in his whole lifetime: underneath his cool dark exterior, some bad memory brewed fitfully – some anger to do with the elves, to do with her, as her anger was to do with him. Raeis held his gaze then looked away, at the same time that he did, but a second later couldn’t resist peeking back at him through her shattered eye. The hurt at loss of the Voice seemed to dull a little: it had been wrong about these Men, both Grash, the one who had let her free, Zurumor, who had saved her life…and Jeren, whose thoughts seemed to mirror hers. The tips of Raeis’s ears twitched slightly as she thought she heard something with her keen senses from the way they had come but, lost as she was in thought as she was, and because the others hadn’t shown any sign of hearing it, she ignored it. Shifting Morgoroth’s weight heavily across her shoulders and pulling them both into a more upright position, she plucked up her courage and glanced openly across at the brooding Southron to return his question. “Jeren, home was never exactly a place to me, not once I left: home was encompassed in…in one elf. I left Mirkwood with him, and when I did...I changed, my home changed, my world changed - and then it was brought crashing down around me.” She paused, not looking at Jeren, then continued. “What about you, Jeren: where will you go, now you are free?”

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Bethberry's post for Darash

Darash sat confused and frustrated. After the near-deadly encounter with the bestial orcs--no better than charging, stupid rinombos-rhinoceros--iit had been with a relief amounting to joy that she had first seen Lyshka safe and then spied Grash. The two women had sprung on rejuvenated feet towards him, eagerness lightening their tired faces, ready to tell what they had seen.

Now Darash sat trying to make sense of it. She had run to him and taken his arm, pulling it almost, pointing back to the melee. She had gesticulated wildly almost, running on in her native tongue, describing the struggle and their near-escape, only to be put back under greater assault by Aldor's treachery with the orcs.

"Ahdor. Ahdor. Machumba nuwalla, esumba relege isbatu. Ngeme ebulu," she had told him excitedly. "Dtcekma." It meant carrion bird of prey, vulture, feasting off the dead, without honour of the kill. But Grash had looked at her with strangely glowing eyes. She had taken his arm again, drawing him towards the small bend in the path, so he could look back and perhaps see the traitor in the orcs' midst.

Grash had smiled at her as if humouring her. It was maddening! Darash had never before experienced such failure to be taken seriously. She had turned to Lyshka, pleadingly, her frustration clearly visible in the tight knot of her muscles around her shoulders. Lyshka had nodded yes, but shrugged, as if to say she wasn't sure. Darash had turned back to Grash, the fire of being thwarted and misunderstood shining in her eyes. The man had almost chuckled. He had not looked at her eyes; his own gaze had not met hers and staid there, but wandered off elsewhere. With a snort at this hare who did not recognise the vulture, she had stormed off, exasperated with him who seemed not to listen.

And so she had sat in semi-isolation, her eyes wandering from time to time around the group of her companions who were licking their wounds like animals who had escaped the trap. Lyshka had come over to her, hunched over as if to say "Maybe. I don't know. I couldn't see for sure. It was a blur like the whipping rain." Then Raeis had mouthed the name. The elf understood! The women knew. Why were the men so obtuse? Darash sat there, trying to rest, her eyes closed in the soft afternoon light, aware that Grash was watching her from time to time, but utterly without comprehension.

[CaptainofDespair]

CaptainofDespair's post

The climb through the mountain pass had taken its toll on the Elf. His near execution at the pale blade of the Nazgul, had sapped him of most of the strength he needed. Yet, there was hope, and he clung to it as a child grasps for its mother. The freedom he craved, after seventeen years of desolate captivity, was drawing nigh. As his tense, ridged muscle were forced into near spasmodic contractions just to crawl and hobble their way over the rocks of the High Pass, he thought only one simple phrase, “Just beyond this mountain...” He had muttered this almost incessantly as he climbed. Being only able to use one arm, for the other was still paralyzed by the evil stroke the Nazgul had delivered, which now hindered his mobility, he struggled in his motions, often stumbling, or nearly falling from the Pass. Yet, he continued on...

The ever watchful eyes of the Elf could see more than any of the others around him, and he often gazed into the sky, looking for a sun that had long since been buried by the bleak darkness of the Mordorian sky above. But his wound still harried him, pursuing him as he climbed higher and higher, draining his will to trudge forward, beyond the craggy, jagged facade of the Ephel Duath. When he was not busying himself with keeping his legs on the path, he would drift into a near trance, thinking of the past. His mind was still uneasy from the wound he was suffering the burden of. He had been led out of that dreadful fray, helped along by the Southron, Jeren. He winced at this thought. He had shown weakness, though it was well earned, and it was his right to be weak, but it did not sit well with him. Yet, he hid these thoughts, burying them in the deep abyss of his mind. A new sensation had interrupted this reminiscing, a slight pain. But this was no ordinary pain, not like that of the wound he bore. It was new, and it echoed from within him. At first he tried to cast the thought aside, as a child does to an old and forgotten toy. But it kept returning, and it swarmed about in his veins, giving him a very sickly feeling. Ancient lore was his answer. He was poisoned, by the very foe that had nearly killed him. He had come so very far, hoping to find freedom. But now, he would die of a black poison. As his mind gurgled at this dread thought, he tripped upon a stone, and fell forward. Something deep within his mind stirred then, muttering to him, forcing its voice out from his lips. "The wound is too great. Death will come soon.” The Elf managed to catch himself before anyone heard his foreboding words. Sympathy was not something he desired, and he would not allow others to feel anything for his plight, for that would make him feel all the more weak.

Instead of dwelling upon his new, dreadful thoughts, he decided it best to occupy his time with more pleasant memories. Yet time was his enemy, and the cobwebs that held back many of his earliest, more playful memories, were not easily shaken loose. So, he turned his attention to his most recent, and began to twist the words that came to him to his own devices. Something that the man Jeren had said intrigued him, “Where will you go?”. He drifted, yet was able to maintain control over his body’s jerking motions, just enough to keep him on the path. He began to wonder what he might do, now that his freedom was drawing so close. "To Mirkwood perhaps, to see my mother. Or maybe I shall travel into the West, and explore the lands beyond the haven of Imladris.” He slowed his thought to a trickle, and allowed his inborn pessimism to set in. "The West...Yes, I shall go West, to the Halls of Mandos, for I will not survive this journey into Ithilien.”

The Sun had now risen to its unseen pinnacle, and the company had stumbled upon a clearing in the midst of the vacant, ghostly mountains. Here they would rest until the time was nigh to leave, and head out for the final leg of the journey. Many of the old habits were still alive within the motley group. Initially they settled into mingling amongst their own kind, resting, and chatting a bit, even sharing stories of their pasts, for those who had one to tell of. Even the Elf, who had inadvertently shattered the racial barriers between himself and the dwarves, was not eager to sit alongside his comrades. Instead, he sought out a more secluded region of the clearing, and there he laid down in the grass, to refresh his weary mind, and broken body as much as he could.

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Aylwen's Post

“What about you, Jeren: where will you go, now you are free?”

Jeren thought on this, and at first nothing came to him. It was a question that he did not know the answer to. How many times had this happened to him? Too many for his liking, especially since he had been made prisoner by the power that he had once served. Too many questions had been left unanswered.

Where will I go?

The Southron had never actually thought about where he would go, for he never knew any home other than the one as captain of an army. He was always the leader, and he never needed a home as long as there were loyal soldiers behind him… following and listening to him. He hardly recalled the land his family once roamed, or if family would be there and remember him at all. It had been far too long for him to return to that home. There was nowhere for him to go.

“It hardly matters if I am free, for I have no where to return to. There is no where for me to bask in new-earned freedom,” Jeren finally replied to the question posed by Raeis. His voice remained steady and level, as Jeren refused to show his uncertainty and sorrow at his own words. “The things I have done make me undeserving of such freedom. I have no place to return to and that is how it must be,” The Southron added as an afterthought, the volume of his voice lowered so it came out just above a whisper.

Surely that is how it will be in the end…

“Yes. We rest. But only for two, three hours.” Jeren looked up as Grash began to speak in his usual choppy manner. “Then we must go – the path goes down soon, down to green land. Green land with trees and cool breezes, and waters. Freedom. Freedom at the end of the path.”

Turning back to Raeis, Jeren sighed, letting out all his self-pity in the exhale. What about everyone else? Raeis had hardly answered his question in a manner that satisfied his curiosity. Something about the group, though, and the way they came together in a most unusual way made Jeren hopeful for all of them. “I have certainly learned the value of comfort, on this journey. Not just being comfortable, or not being comfortable…but being able to live and go on and appreciate it anyway. I do not know you very well at all, Raeis, but somehow I know that you will be able to make home encompass one more elf…you will learn to make home within your own heart and strength, and not let it depend on someone else…”

Jeren paused, looking around at the rest of the group for a moment.

“Hopefully we will all be able to do the same. Maybe we will all find home.”

[Himaran]

Dwali awoke like he would have on any other day. The dwarf rolled over on the hard ground, stretched, yawned and rubbed his eyes idly. Perhaps it was a burst from Mount Doom that brought him back to reality, or maybe rows of torches shining before him in the darkness. The army. The company! The mountain passage! Pulling himself out of the ditch, he scrambled on as best he could. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the dark, and Dwali realized that he must have slept for only a few hours. It was probably close to midnight, and the company might have already made off without him. But wait - they were all dead, so what did it matter? He could stay and rest... and then pangs of hunger pushed him forward, hoping dearly that a friendly face would be waiting at the passage.

The dwarf reckoned that he had travelled over a mile earlier in the day, which left about the same distance before him. He mentally beraided for being so slow to get off the path, but he knew it was foolishness. At least he was alive, more than could be said for some of the company. Memories of Dorim brought a wave of anger over him again. Why does everyone die? My family! My friends! Why not others...

Suddenly, a heavy boot landed on Dwali's back, slamming his face into the dusty ground. An orc had slipped off the edge. Trying to stay calm, the dwarf waiting, hoping that he would pull himself back up. Then deciding that in the darkness no one would notice, he heaved himself backwards. The orc toppled down on top of him. The dwarf's hand siezed his mouth, and the other dispatched the brute with a swift thrust of his dagger.

He waited a few moments, and left the body and crawled on. He knew that by dawn, the corpse would be discovered; but it would probably be attributed to an argument amongst the ranks of the enemy. Hoping that this would be the case, Dwali continued pulling himself along, heading for the mountain passage.

[Novnarwen]

The day grew old as they walked along an unknown path, which hopefully would lead them to the prisoners. When the company at last took a break, after hours with walking, Rhând feel exhausted to the ground. He breathed heavily, ignoring the orcs' wild laughter. He was hungry and thirsty, but did not dare ask for anything. Looking up at the sky, which had already been coloured black by the sun's lack of appearance. A dim moon could be spotted now, but only just, as grey-looking clouds covered it. Rhând wondered if one could ever see the sun in all its splendour in this land, or if it was always hidden behind the heavy grey clouds.

Two of the orcs were sent ahead to see if they were getting close, meanwhile the others rested. The Haradrim sat up, heaving after his breath. He was dead tired, but tried to push it aside, thinking of the reward awaiting him when he would return to his Master.

Rhând's gaze fell on Lurg. The orc looked at him with hungry eyes, and the Haradrim turned away in fear. He'd always heard that these orcs were simple-minded, and ate whatever they could get hold of. The Haradrim knew that his chances of escaping all of this alive were slim. Even though the orcs left him alone now, he had not the faintest idea what they would do after they had found the prisoners. The thought of being eaten by these monsters, made him shiver with fright. They were his allies now, but he doubted they would be in the end. Shrugging, the Haradrim rose slowly. He felt weak and petty where he stood, feeling the stiffness in his body growing.

Not long had passed before he two orcs came trudging towards the company, waving their hands. Grinning wildly, Rhând heard them say to Lurg:

"They are here . .

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Himaran's Post

When Dwali finally reached the mountain passage, words could not describe his attitude - it was less pessimistic than suicidal. The orc army was gone at last, but so were his companions. There was nothing for him now. It was over. The dwarf sat down on the dusty earth, trying to ponder how he had been the last to survive. He, who had seemed the weakest, the smallest, the lest likely to make it out of Mordor. It was that sense of accomplishment that pulled him to his feet and walked steadily up the path. I made it! And may yet escape from this land of darkness...

Upon cresting the hill, however, a different sight met his eyes. The company, sitting in a tight circle, resting and chatting. Not all of them, though, the dwarf was sure of it. Some must have died in the battle. And then, at the height of his addreniline, it all gave way to utter exhaustion. Dwali collapsed, his throat as parched as the rocky grouond beneath him. A cry so weak it was but a murmur barely left his flaking lips: "Help..."


Grash

When night was fully upon the company they roused themselves from their rest and made ready to go on. Morgoroth was still weak, but with the help of Raies and Jeren he was able to walk. The prisoners took a quick meal with what meagre provisions they had left. They ate the last scraps of the bread and dried meat that they had managed to bring with them through the horrors of Shelob’s Lair and the Morgul Vale. It was hideous orc food, but after the trials they had endured in the last five days it was welcome. More troubling was the lack of water, for only one skin had managed to come with them through their encounter with the orc army. They shared it around and if any there thought how strange it was that they were all drinking from the same vessel, none said it.

Grash sat upon the stones of the mountains and mulled over their position. They were still a long march from the green land, but if they pressed hard all night then by dawn their feet would be upon grass, and their tired limbs could take comfort in the cool shade of trees. After that… Grash’s imagination failed him. Where could he go and what could he do in the world outside the land of darkness that had been his home his whole life? He supposed that he could find a small piece of fertile land somewhere to call his own, where he could raise crops and perhaps a few animals and live free of the whip and the terror. But would not such an existence be lonely? Maybe there would be others who would be willing to come with him… His eyes drifted to where Darash sat, proud, noble and – for the first time he noticed it – beautiful. His hand wandered to the dagger that she had exchanged with him and he stroked it thoughtfully. Perhaps there would be some way for him to convince her to come with him.

A noise from the path behind them brought Grash to his feet, along with the rest of the company. They stood, not speaking, tense and nervous in the gathering night, as a form lurched along the path toward them. It was Brór who cried out, “Dwali!” and rushed forward to catch his kinsman as he fell. They all gathered around the exhausted Dwarf seeking to revive him. He was hungry and thirsty, so they gave him the last of their food and water and watched unstintingly as he swallowed it down. When he had finished he closed his eyes and fell back on the stone unconscious.

Grash’s face became a frown as he looked upon the Dwarf. He was, strangely, happy to see the fellow back with the group, but he was obviously in no condition to travel quite yet. Morgoroth, too, while standing, appeared too weak to go far without more rest. It was Darash who spoke what was in Grash’s mind. “No travel now. Must rest. Little man and spirit man hurt and tired.” Her tone was final and commanding, and if any there thought that she were wrong, none said so. Sighing at the inevitable, Grash settled upon the ground. As eager as he was to press ahead to freedom, he could not bring himself to leave his injured…comrades…the word was an odd one, but it was the only word that was right. “Yes. We rest. But only for two, three hours. Then we must go – the path goes down soon, down to green land. Green land with trees and cool breezes, and waters. Freedom,” his voice drifted into the night, as though it were speaking only to itself. “Freedom at the end of the path.”

Zuromor

Two hours later Zuromor awoke from a troubling dream and sat up. He managed to stifle the cry that sprang to his lips but he was shaken still. Pulling himself upright he walked about their makeshift camp, carefully moving amongst the sleeping forms of his companions. A slow movement in the dark stayed him in his wanderings and he melted into the shadows about the rocks. A stealthy form was working its way toward the prisoners, and in its hand there was a vessel of some kind with a burning smoke pouring from it. Zuruomor recognized that smell: suverah! The same substance that Darash had used to subdue the spider creatures.

The figure came close to the company and Zuromor saw Aldor’s features emerge from the night. The man gently stooped and placed the vessel on the ground near to the company and turned to go. With a cry that rang amongst the stones Zuromor sprang forward, drawing his blade. With one swift motion of his foot he sent the burning vessel skittering away amongst the stones, and he whirled upon Aldor.

Many things happened at once then. The prisoners sprang to their feet, drawing their weapons and fumbling about in the dark. Aldor cried out and there were answering screams from the path beyond him – screams that filled the night with bestial fury. Zuromor swung his blade at Aldor, but the man was quick to parry the blow. Zuromor prepared to strike again, but his hand faltered at the sight of the pathway filling with orcs, all of them ravening toward the prisoners with their eyes and tongues rolling viciously at the thought of some easy sport.

[Bêthberry]

"Whatimbo unsala. Kill the viper," spoke Darash in a voice firm with fury but calm with resolution. Zuromor was ahead of them all and swung his sword but the treacherous Aldor was as nimble in body as in morals. Yet her spirit sank as she saw what came up the path behind him. More of them! More, more, ever more. There was no end to evil in this northern land. And she was tired, tired beyond any knowing of this struggle. And this time there could be no resorting to disguise.

Quickly, Darash looked around at their weapons. She had given Lyshka the small knife the salivating orc had passed on to her as she feigned bloodlust during the last fight. Neither woman had a sword. Darash looked around for branch, sturdy bush or thorn with which to fashion some kind of defense. There were none. She shook her head in dismay, feeling discouragement rise in her throat like sour bile. At her side, she felt for her small dagger, the one Grash had exchanged when she had given him hers in ritual token of her allegiance. It gave her courage. If all else failed, it was sharp enough. She would use it upon herself and deny the orcs their filthy desire.

But Grash held back her hand, as if sensing her thoughts. He pointed around the narrow path, at the small stones and rocks and larger boulders they had kicked around to make a resting place. She understood at once. Calling to Lyshka, she ran with him to one of the larger boulders positioned to the side of the path. Pushing, shoving, grunting and rocking it, they succeeded in loosening it from its rooted spot in the earth. The path was narrow but well worn. The boulder, once pushed on its way, moved slowly at first but then tumbled with the speed of flooding water. Grash ran to another large boulder, Lyshka and Darash to two others. Three more followed the first to crash into the orc horde.

Yet her strength was limited; where her arms had been broken, she could feel the bones protest at being forced to push so hard against the rocks. She could not risk breaking them again. She moved back, signalling to her two comrades that she was moving to a second strategy. Let others with healthier arms keep at the boulders.

Instead, she sought out the smaller stones and rocks and quickly collected them into a pile, calling on the weaker ones to gather them, those still ill and wounded from the last assault. They could not fight but they could help gather their last, natural weapons. Then she moved off, filling her pouch, now emptied of food, with stones. She had a good eye and, calming herself, began to choose her targets. The orcs' skulls were thick, but the ground was covered with stones.

[Kransha]

Chaos filled the air around him. The Dwarf in the midst of it all was, as most others were, confused and half in a daze. From a mostly fitful sleep, the whole ‘camp’ had been forcefully aroused from slumber to see orcish faces and rusty blades bearing down on them. Zuromor, energetic and first awoken, alerted the company, and all sprang into action, to some degree. Some were grievously hurt, and required more defense when in combat, so the company was caught at a full disadvantage. And, to the chagrin of some, it became apparent that traitorous Aldor was somewhere within the clump of orcs that had spread and scattered over the rocky plane, assaulting the disillusioned troop of escaped prisoners. Brór, his head and wild beard twisting to and fro to look to every side, removed from each hip a looted weapon and brandished each at the shadows before him, looking for an opening to attack as battle sprung up all around. He looked to his companions, for steadying and reassurance. As he looked across the field at the bounding orcs, he saw Zuromor first.

As he looked at Zuromor, trying in vain to delve into orcish ranks, he was comforted by the fire in his eyes. The memory of the conversation he had had with him earlier filled his mind for but a moment, passing over his thoughts and focus just before he struck the unkempt uruk vanguard. It had been earlier, before all companions drifted off into their soon-to-be-interrupted sleep, when Brór had last spoken with the youthful man. The conversation, for one reason or another, sat upon a seeming podium inside Brór, flowing back to him in the form of a speechmaker's oratory recorded.

Everything felt cold…very cold.

Through the veins of Brór Stormhand ran icy fluid in place of warm blood. Despite the sweltering heat radiating in the air, chills reverberated up and down the dwarf’s spine. As his glassed-over eyes darted back and forth, circumspect, he noted that others seemed colder as well. Something about the whole experience had left an unsavory numbness in the company, like a dark cloud that had settled just overhead, focused on the escaped prisoners, which refused to budge from above their down turned heads. Thankfully, there seemed some consolation in that they had all survived a seemingly suicidal situation. Brór himself, though, had only managed to realize that Dwali was now lost, and his alertness and moderate charisma was further dimmed. Only when he looked up to the man beside him did he feel a sliver of light on his face.

At his right, standing and wringing his hands concernedly, was Zuromor. Although his anxious nature was for good cause, it diverted Brór’s mind from lingering on dark thoughts. The lad’s eyes were affixed, without movement, on Raeis as she spoke with Jeren, not far off. Brór, his mouth trying to manipulate itself into a smile, or at least a self-serving grin, lifted himself up from his melancholy seat and meandered towards Zuromor, drumming upon the youth’s lowered arm, the dwarf spoke coyly. Even if he could not escape his ever-present ill humor, he could still think on the diversions of others. As he had resolved after observing and speaking with Zuromor, his diversion was Raeis.

“How is she holding up, Elf-friend?” Brore murmured with wry smirk.

“She seems well. She’s still got fire in her, that’s certain.” He looked on smiling, and a narrow grin unmarred half of the miserable dwarf’s cold face. “What of the Nazgûl’s Black Breath?” He said then, an air of concern returned to him at a weak but moving pace, “Has the mark of the Wraith not affected her?” Zuromor turned back, seemingly snapped from a swaying trance, and looked to Bror, weighing the options of response. “It is hard to tell.” He said after some time, nodding to himself as he settled upon this reply, “Her countenance has lessened of late, but otherwise, she is no different. Now that we are on the road to greener lands, she will heal in time, as will Morgoroth. All of us will be healed when the scraggly mountains are behind us, as small as lumps of dirt and mounds of putrid earth. Think upon that, at least, and we’ll be healed in due time.

“The road to greener land, eh?” Brór queried, obvious, but politely reserved skepticism written all over his aged face, “What of the mountains, the orcs, and the Nazgûl? Are they going to spread apart like water and let us pass?”

“Why must we think of parting waters when we can pass over them? We may have suffered great losses, but we have come to the last stretch of night before the day!”

“Don’t you see, lad?” he said, his strong voice cracked miserably as he spoke with less than his usual bellicosity or irritation, “We’re more doomed now than ever we were before.” He looked down upon the blood-stained ax in his hand, blackish orc blood now dried onto the jagged fringe of its blade. Slowly, he slid a gloved finger along the flat of the ax, tracing the digit over crude orcish designs and pictographs etched into the rusted metal. “Dwali is lost to us,” he said then, “the fiend Aldor has betrayed us, Morgoroth has been gravely injured by the Wraith, many of us now bear injury and wound that will hinder us further, and the Nazgûl himself has seen us. One does not see a Nazgûl face to face and live to tell the tale. It shall send after us more armies, more orcs, and we have no might left to resist them.” He shook his head sadly and pushed the staff of his ax back through the leather belt drawn loosely around his waist. Quietly thinking, he laid his metal-plated elbows on his knees and clasped his hands in together. His eye looked to Zuromor, though, as the man beside him spoke.

“The Nazgûl does not know enough to seek us out before the sun has set.” He said, unsmiling, but apparently hopeful, “If our pace quickens, we can outrun those he sends after us.” Brór looked at him incredulously, an almost contemptuous look on his face, but that dank expression turned to a sudden gust of caustic laughter, which caused Zuromor to flinch, unsure of Bror’s motives for the sudden outburst. “Outrun them, you say?” cried Bror, through tearful guffaws, “Your optimism may be refreshing, Zuromor, but it is deluded. We cannot outrun orcs with the whip of the Nazgûl at their backs. They will not rest nor eat nor sleep until they have found us all and torn the flesh from our bones.” He said all of this with a smile on his face, a smile very disconcerting to those who looked upon it, because it was not a smile of happiness or of sadness. It was a ghastly false grin that only reflected the imminent doom and acceptance thereof. At last, the surfeit of laughter halted, and, shaking his head again as the grin withered and died on his face, Bror let his head fall again.

“You were wrong before, dwarf.” chided Zuromor, ever the optimist despite Brór’s adverse comments. The one thing he was not, though, was terse, as he continued preaching with some small scraping of zeal to the dwarf beside him, who could not help but revel in the ironic comedy of it all. “We have escaped Cirith Ungol,” said Zuromor next, waving a hand dramatically, “escaped the wrath of Shelob, escaped the armies of Gorgoroth, and even escaped the Dark Wraith himself. We can escape this accursed land, even with the beasts of Mordor and the Mountain of Fire’s flames at our backs. Have you given up even now, now that we are so close to freedom light? Are you so far gone?” Brór winced openly. He’d heard those same words a day ago when he passed the Dark Lord’s Stones and Sauron’s monstrous voice had overlooked him as a needless pawn. He had asked himself that question, heard it echoing in his mind over and over. Now, coming from young Zuromor, it sounded strange. The voice from the day prior had been his own, cold and subjugated to the glacial winter that Sauron’s breath had lulled him into. Today, the voice was young and warm, ablaze with a fire cool and refreshing, a much desired substitute for the dogged flames of Orodruin. At last, the youth concluded, leaving unhappy silence in the wake of verbosity.

Brór did not respond at first, stroking his grayed beard in deep thought and contemplation. Zuromor looked down warmly, but his glinting eyes dimmed as Brór spoke, melancholy and dank. “Both my kindred are lost now.” He said, sighing deeply, “I am the last of my kind in this terrible place. If my words hold true, I will never see another Dwarven face living. I…I am alone now.” Zuromor’s hand, hesitantly, went out to him, and was laid upon the spiked pauldron bound to his bruised shoulder.

“Not alone, Brór Stormhand, among friends.”

“No…alone. Even if I see my kin again in my life, I shall still be alone. Mordor leaves that mark upon you. For two decades, I was alone, and until the day I am dust in the earth…next to Dorim, and now Dwali, I shall. You, my friend, are not. You all are not doomed to my fate, so revel in your freedom. You have the light that I have lost in your heart, good Zuromor, and fire to. You are a brave and a fine fellow, and I hope to Aulë that you may leave this wretched place before your time…And your friend as well.” Zuromor shot him a curious, inquisitive glance. “You mean ‘friends,’ master dwarf, do you not?” he queried. Brór perked up ever so slightly, having expected the question from the inexperienced mouth of the lad. He shook his head again, but this time in a joking, admonishing fashion, which elicited another confused look from Zuromor.

“Nay…You know who I speak of…You’ve got that Elf on your mind, and she’s in your eyes as well. Lest you want the world to know you’d to best to purge her image now, or make your intentions known… “Zuromor, why, then, does the sight of yonder Elf gleam in your eyes? I have told you of the shadows that lay over me. It is only fair that you tell me of the light that has filled you…”

He never answered, as far as Brór remembered.

Now all had changed, though not in the mind of the dwarf. To Brór’s great relief and thankfulness, Dwali was found; or rather found the company, nearly in dire straits. Brór had rejoiced most, though he was still empty, his mind a weak void in the wake of the happenings. Even as his face brightened and smiled, he felt nothing. It did not matter whether or not his kinsman was alive, he would still perish before the light. Brór’s eyes could only flit to his companion in passing. Dwali lay, lurching about in unconsciousness. Thankfully, he had been laid in a safe crevice in the rocky outcroppings that dotted the areas as trees might (for want of real trees). The settling darkness that paled the fiery light of distant Amon Amarth was refreshing to Brór, who was accustomed to the dark, almost nocturnal from his years spent in it. Feeling secure in his own defense and eager to defend his fallen comrade and those who fought alongside him, Brór plowed into the anarchic ranks of Mordor beasts.

He tore forward, moving gracefully, uncharacteristic for any Dwarf. Something new fueled him, distinctly new. He realized, at this point, that even if he no longer believed he could escape Mordor, he was not fighting for himself. He was fighting for those, like Zuromor, who still saw the sunlight through the sky’s dark clouds. He was fighting so that they could survive this final skirmish and escape the icy grasp of this land and slip the bonds of Mordor, finding, at long last, some kind of freedom, however small.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Raeis was alert in a moment and simply rolled sidewards behind one of the large boulders nearby as the sounds of the orcs filled the air. She sword viciously as she squeezed her eyes tight shut and her fists clenched furiously. They were so close, so close! Feeling sadness well up, the elf opened her eyes and blinked furiously. They would have no satisfaction from her, none of the satisfaction they had taken from her in the long dark years... Raeis touched the handle of the long, jagged knife that hung at her side: her sword had been lost but the twin of this knife was with Zurumor. She twisted around to peek out from behind the rock, unseen from where the battle raged...and saw no sign of Zurumor. Something inside her heart seemed to pluck at one of the strings like a harp, and Raeis was surprised at it's unexpectedly strong resonations of anxiety for the Man.

But she knew what they meant. Her lithe fingers wound around the handle and she stood slowly, coming out from behind the rock as if in slow motion and drawing the knife from her ragged belt as if it was the finest of swords pulled from the sheath of a Noldorian warrior, raising it slowly straight up in front of her. The orcs nearby noticed, and some sneered at the elf, laughing their vile corruption at the silent elf; but others were not so cocky, for there was something about the elf's silent confidence that was terrifying, and that resonated deep within some ancestral memory: a memory of the screams of orcs and the bright light surrounding almost celestial hosts of bright elves....

In this dark place, there was no light surrounding Raeis.
But within, the Light of the Valar burned like wildfire.

Ignited, the elf swung suddenly into action, her knife coming around in a blur towards the first of the orcs nearby and slicing cleanly through his throat. Head hanging off from a string of gristle, the orc's eyes bulged in the sudden shock rather than pain, and died, the sneer still half affixed to his gaping lips. Raeis paused, as if confused at the swift, expert motion: but it was coming back to her now.

She had been an expert...

...the blades glittered dangerously in the afternoon sun as the two figures circled one another, utterly focused on the other, their hands held at 45 degree angles to their bodies and feet silent as they padded on the soft fallen leaves of the forest floor. With a sudden movement, one spun around, the blade flashing forward towards the other as her long hair spun behind her...

Like one in a trance, Raeis spun suddenly, the long knife slicing like a shadow through the air towards the orc who rushed towards her...

...and met her partner's blade with a metallic ring that resounded throughout the still of the forest. The latter laughed as he withdrew, winking at her cheekily. "You'll-

Her blade slashed at the orc's stomach and her bent double, falling to the dust in front of Raeis. There was no laughter, no winks, just the still calm of the elf as she thrust her blade downwards into her fallen victim's back.

"-have to do better than that for me, Raeis."

"Better? Against you?" The beautiful elf laughed, tossing her many shaded hair outwards as she repositioned once again, her eyes levelling with her oponents. "Don't make me laugh: I may love you, but to let you win? Well, my-"

Love. Zurumor. Where was he? Raeis looked around, unblinking, her eyes unheeding of the dust that filled them. There. There he was, falling, bloodstained. Nearby, another, Morgoroth, self sacrificing, finally self sacrificed, dust stained lamb broken on the floor of the path. Eyes jerking open, limbs jerking towards him, knife jerking lazily down from it's position...

Pain.
Pain in her side.

Who?

Raeis jerked awake from her reverie, and saw Zurumor fall, mirroring her own knees buckling as she clutched her side. The orc's blade had sliced through an old whip wound and the whole wound seemed alight now. Raeis gave a small cry and in the still of her mind, it was all she heard...almost. There was another noise now, like laughter, quiet and easy, a sound to make the rippling of the most refreshing and beautiful waterfall seem less than a single drop of water. Raeis smiled softly as she recognised the voice that laughed and murmured in her mind, her face almost childlike where she knelt on the floor, unaware of anything outside of her mind: the Gods had returned to her.

Strength surged back into Raeis's limbs and the her hands tightened on the knife. In a flash second, she whipped to the left onto one knee, sword scything around at thigh level - it was her blind side, but no accuracy was required for this vicious motion. The orc gave a hideous cry of agony as his legs were cut from beneath him and he fell beside her, only to be dispatched in a moment. The elf rose once more and spun around viciously, arcing around blindly to remove any limbs in the near vicinity. Her limbs were on fire with action as the old skills and motions returned to her, but her mind was aflame with thoughts of her companions. Aldor, Dorim, Morgoroth... her companions had fallen one by one, freed from their prisons but never to escape. Now they had gone, fallen to treachery or the dust of the plains, and how many remained?

Seven.

Raeis smiled absently despite herself, her lips forming the now almost familiar shape without her noticing.

Lyshka, Darash, Grash, Bror, Zurumor, Jeren, Dwali...
Yavanna, Nienna, Mandos, Aule, Ulmo, Manwe, Varda.

The mirror was perfect: a Lord or a Lady for each of her fine companions. But no...no, they were in danger. The perfection - it would be broken!

"No!" The elf's scream was the first sound she had made in several fierce minutes and it ripped from her throat like a jagged claw. Rolling underneath the attacking club of her nearest enemy, the bruised and battered elf came up agily in front of the orc who assaulted Grash, her blade crashing into his with power that belied her size. The orc stumbled back from his prey, and the fierce light of hate in the elf's eyes for a moment quelled him, before he came again forwards. Raeis gave a bellow of anger and the light burned bright in her eyes as she fought them off, standing over Grash's body.

"No! Seven of us there are, and seven of us there will be," she cried, every inch the Noldor of her ancestors, held strong and true by the Seven. "As long as I draw breath, not one of them shall fall, upon the Lords, I swear this!"

The elf was beset upon from all sides, but even as she fought hopelessly against all odds, the power of her vow and the faraway West all that were holding her up, a blade identical to hers joined her fight on the left hand side. Raeis did not need to turn her head to see who it was, but instead she felt a warmth of a different kind inside her. Bloodied and almost wounded beyond repair though he was, he had come once more to defend her blind side, as he had in the caves of the Spider: ever kind and understanding, thoughtful...and self sacrificing.

Raeis clashed her blade momentarily against his and raised her free hand to the handle of his blade as she flattened herself against Zurumor's warm back to fight the other side. Leaning her shorn head against his, she whispered softly, "If you go now, we go together."

When the rangers came, horns blowing fear into the twisted black souls deep in the bodies of the orcs, they found a strange sight when they saw the fair, scarred elf and green eyed Man, back to back over the body of another and fiercely defending this, all they had, with anything they had, and more. The elf would even have fought the men of Ithilien, the light in her eyes so fierce as if was, had Zurumor not stopped her, laying his hands against her and resting her head against his shoulder as she calmed down: lending her a gentle touch that would hold her to him forever until she fell in a bloodied heap onto her knees.

The broken of Mordor who have been betrayed by all who ever knew them know nothing of distinction. They care little, in the end, for the outside casings that make a being: elf, man, dwarf, scarred or beautiful, there is no definition between these things when the captured are cornered in battle. Their world is a mass of greys and blacks in this, this Land of Darkness.

So when true light shines, all see it's true beauty.