chapter 2
the ground is sand between your toes;
summary:
it crumbles like water, it does not resist. it is stone and bedrock. it is no more than gravel. your steps are heavy and burdened with the weight of our fates, the fate of this world. the future of this world.
you are the destroyer. you are the end, and all things must turn to dust.
First Age 511
warnings: warnings
see notes at end for terminology
Lord, Melkor, Maker and Saviour,
we thank you for the Paths we walk.
Now do we descend into the Dark;
we do not fear, but ask your Guidance
and Companionship, so that we might see
the Day again.
May Night follow Day, and Day follow Night,
until Two becomes One and One becomes None.
We await your Glory.
Rituals of the Mehradin 4.4-5, prayer for dusk
The land of Mordor has no official capital city.
It has a landmark. The volcano, known by some as the Hill of Fire, though it is far more than a hill. Others call it Dustfire Mountain, for the ashes that oft fall like rain from the sky.
It has a stronghold. The Dark Tower, the Black Spire. His Lordship’s dwelling, home to the Prophet himself, and his descendants. Few would dare to live where he lived.
Instead they gather throughout the plains and fields in small settlements where the land is most fertile, growing robust crops and raising hardy creatures for food. They move when the feeding grounds are barren and return later to forage and harvest.
Along the mountain ridges there dwell still those who lived there before, safe from the summer heats, insulating the caves with the spoils of their hunts. They are few, now, and even fewer as years go by. Instead, they come down to the plains and the sea when autumn ends, and leave again when spring begins. Sooner, if their hunting grounds have become particularly plentiful.
Here, in the city of Mordor along the shores of the Sea of Nurn, they wait for the turn of seasons.
Gerzhenn is looking forward to it. If only because there is always a massive feast to celebrate the season before they leave. She’d missed last year’s, for a number of reasons.
This year, the city is even more bustling than usual. The turning of the season was still weeks away, so it was unusual to see everyone so busy.
“What’s going on?” she asks out loud, more to herself than to the ones around her. “Is it time for the season’s end feast already?”
“Wouldn’t know,” says her friend, Oruna. “I just got here, same as you.”
“Then I wasn’t asking you.”
“You posed an open question. Am I to read your mind to know who you meant it for?”
“You could start with that.” Oruna lets out a snort of laughter. Erzehnn calls out to one of the stall owners as they pass by. “Hail, ajitan! Do you happen to know what all the fuss is about?”
“Fuss?” The stallmaster is one of the less busy ones on the market street, though he is still hauling around baskets of produce. She’s never seen them receiving goods so late in the day. “We’re getting all bought is what the fuss is!”
“Is it the season’s end feast already?”
“No, no, it’s— erzhad! Pardon me, zamih.” He stops mid-sentence to wave vigorously at a passing acolyte to beckon them over. “Erzhad, I’ve that delivery of greens, right around the back. Boy called Khuzun just pulled in with it. Might ask for coin to take it to the temple.”
“We will pay it.” The acolyte makes a note on a pad of paper with a piece of charcoal. “Thank you, ajitan. May you be looked upon with favour on this day.”
“That’s fancy,” Oruna remarks. They had both stopped to watch what was going on. Several of her clansmen have done the same. “What’s the occasion?”
“Ask one of the erzhad.” The stallmaster gestures again towards the various acolytes walking with purpose through the street. “All I know is they’re gathering up food and people for some melkhan’aadam. Quite suddenly, too. Oh, did you bring anything back from the hunt?”
“Some,” Gerzhenn says cautiously. It is not good to brag too much when among other hunters.
“The erzhad will pay good coin for meat, if you can spare it.”
“..I will let our ergardikh know.”
“Safe travels, then, hunters. And good karma to you, if you attend!”
She has heard of people who are so extravagant with feasts that they will buy up everything they see, and leave nothing for the small people. Coin will do them no good if there is no food left to buy to feed their own bellies, and if there is, what if it costs twice more than the usual? Better to keep their kill, feed themselves first.
But a melkhan’aadam is a different story. Even the season’s end feast for the entire city is not quite so lavish as this.
Gerzhenn is no temple-goer. She attends morning prayers with her clansmen to their native gods, and sometimes to the Maker that these people preach to. It has been years since they learned of Mordor’s beliefs, and they have managed to exist alongside one another quite peacefully thus far.
Still, a grand temple celebration is not something her people could ever manage so quickly. They would have to negotiate and arrange for several dozen clans to offer their own resources.
Her clan leader, Gelheer, calls the Mordorans a peace-loving folk. Peace-loving and two-faced. They spread word of their Maker while working people to the bone along the shores of the lake, and in the pits of their dark, musty mines.
If not for the easy trade, Gelheer would not be having them come down to Mordor every winter. She knows of many that have left these lands entirely, gone to join their Eastern brethren on the vast plains beyond these mountains.
They would have to leave behind the caves they’ve used for centuries if they left. Which is likely the only reason why her clan and several others still linger within the basin.
“Think we should trade?” Oruna asks once they’ve gone a ways from the stall. “Temple festivals are a pretty big deal.”
“So are the season’s end feasts, and those are just once a year.”
“Gerzhenn, this is chance to build karma and gain the temple’s favor! Unless….” She lets out a slow, exaggerated gasp. “…Unless you’re not a believer.”
“Neither are you!”
“Alright, true. But I think there are some things we’ll have to get before we leave in the spring, so we should trade to have coin for those, if not for the karma.”
“If we need it, then we need it.” She looks at the sack of game slung over Oruna’s shoulder. “…End of winter hare doesn’t have much meat, though. It might not sell for enough.”
“Well.. as you say. If we need it, then we need it. Not much we can do about that.”
“Ergardikh Gelheer can figure that out… Did he come into town, too?”
Oruna taps her chin. “I think he’s still at the camp. Taban and Kuzhikta had an argument when we arrived. He was mediating, last I saw.”
“..What could they be arguing about?”
“Whose arrow killed that pronghorn.”
“They’re 14…”
“They’re very competitive 14 year olds.”
Gerzhenn shakes her head with a laugh. “He’ll be there the rest of the day, then. Dealing with them always tires him out.”
“Kids are always more exhausting when they’re your own,” Oruna says in agreement. “So he says, anyway.”
Gerzhenn nods. She hoists her own sack more securely over her shoulder. No point trying to trade them now. “Well. We’d best go rescue him.”
Gelheer is absolutely done with his two daughters.
“Mind yourselves!” he says urgently. He had already reminded them at the city gates to behave, but they are unruly.
Or rather, very excited.
There were generally no restrictions regarding dress at a festivities like these, but they have decided to come in their best. After making sure the clan still had enough game the rest of winter, he decided to trade the small excess of their hunt with the temple. They coin he received was distributed among those who needed to have clothing and tools repaired beyond what they could manage on their own first. What was left was used to trade for new accessories and clothing for those who wanted to liven up for the festivities.
Of course, they enjoyed their own woven jewelry and bracelets, but when one wanted something glimmering and metal, Mordor was the place to buy them from. As much as Gelheer disliked buying such things, too many of his clan enjoyed Mordor’s goods for him to ban them from trading for it.
He could, at the very least, refuse to buy anything for himself. There was always stuff they could trade coin for from another tribe, later. And if he was counting the days right, it was nearly time for the trade caravans to come back up north. The South still had items that he preferred over those found in Mordor.
All the things in the city gave off some.. uncertain air about them. Something he couldn’t bear to have near him for very long. He’d always had the feeling that he’d get sick if he had to wear one of these necklaces or bracelets for more than a day or two.
There was a great deal of that air, that energy, gathering in Mordor right now. Moreso than usual. It made his stomach curl like badly soured milk.
“Are you alright, father?” Kuzhikta asks. Even as giddy and excitedly grinning as she is, she still has time to worry about him.
“I am well,” he says, just to ease her thoughts. “It seems something big is going to happen.”
“Yeah!” Her sister agrees, unable to stop from bouncing on her heels. It would be improper in a more formal setting.
However, several others are doing the same, restlessly shuffling around, some looking exhilarated and others looking much the way Gelheer feels. Very uncertain.
He looks one of them in the eye, and finds something like understanding and sympathy in the smile he receives. He gives the same in return.
Best to put his misgivings aside. A melkhan’aadam is meant to be a joyous occasion, not one full of suspicion. He’ll consider it later.
“There he is!” Taban calls out, pointing to a spot in the distance. “Father, I see him!”
“You’ve better eyes than I, zezigi.” Gelheer squints where his daughter is pointing to, but can only see a dark, hazy speck. He can certainly hear the noise of the crowd cheering as the procession continues down the path.
As one of the more prominent members of the Ulaghul tribe, he and his clan are standing near the end of the path, at the entrance to the temple’s amphitheatre where the main entertainment will be taking place. Looking around, he can also see the other clans and their ergardikh, donning Mordoran fineries or their own traditional ceremonial wear. The divide is quite clear. It’s been a source of tension between them in recent years.
It takes a good 20 minutes for the noise to escalate their way. The cheering rolls towards them like grass in the winds until he can finally see the barest shape of the one at the center of all this commotion.
“Have you ever seen him before, father?”
“I have not. Oguuma’s tribe is the representative of our council, so she deals with him the most. He has never come to see us personally.”
“First time for everything,” Taban says.
A great beast comes first, bearing a rider almost too large for it. Both are frighteningly armored and pitch black. At least, he supposes it must have been pitch black at the beginning of the procession.
After walking past all those people, it was now covered in strung garlands, flower crowns, and loops of colored strings. Someone has even delicately placed a crown of wintercress around the steed’s ear, complete with flowers and small fruits.
The rider is no less spared, having caught several circlets on the prongs of their helmet. As they are wearing the customary black robe and face-coverings of the Dark Spire’s residents, Gelheer cannot tell who it is, or if they are enjoying themselves or not.
Still, to bear all of those offerings so calmly must mean that they do not mind.
“Susuundag!” A child cries out. She is waving a bracelet of woven fibers, dyed a bright ochre.
The rider leans over and extends an arm, but she cannot get the bracelet over the expanse of the metal gauntlets. For a moment, she looks stricken.
Then the rider exchanges words with the girl’s parents. Her father hoists her up until she is high up enough to place the bracelet around the center-most prong of the susuundag‘s helm.
Gelheer remembers, then, the shape of that helm. A shape most unique, even among the Wraiths. It is the mark of the Lord of Mordor’s lieutenant. The Sea-Witch.
There is a flower tied to the base of his steed’s tail.
No musicians follow behind the lieutenant. Not even a flowerbearer or an announcer. Instead, an Easterling in Mordoran garb rides a horse, equally black and equally large, though this one’s rider seems almost too small for the steed. The horse is larger than the usual one he and his people would ride, but still smaller than the one leading the procession.
He wears no crown. The only items denoting his status are the high collar around his neck made of gold, bearing the Eye of Mordor, and the bright plate upon his brow, inscribed with the temple’s mark. He wears not the robes of an Easterling in celebration, or even a Mordoran elite.
He is a temple priest. The High Priest, if memory serves. Lord Mairon.
The High Priest and his escort approach rapidly, being on horseback. Gelheer imagines he can feel the ground rumbling from the mere ambling gait of these two horses alone.
The Lord of Mordor passes him by, bringing with him the weight of oppressive air and stifling silence. Gelheer suppresses a wince when his ears start ringing briefly.
He looks up briefly, and by some fluke of fate and it seemed, for a moment, that the other had looked back at him. He recalls a fleeting glitter of gold, far brighter than what someone would normally wear as body coloring, or even as adornment.
The silence is gone in the next moment, with a screeching squelch like something has been sucked back into place. He hears again the clamor of the crowd, the crowing horns and the beating drums.
Next to him, Taban and Kuzhikta also seem to be coming out of a daze. They look at each other, sheepish and shaken, but then notice that he must have been doing the same thing.
“…Father?”
He watches the back of the High Priest entering the amphitheatre, and behind him, the first of the crowd begins to file in.
With a hand on both of their shoulders, he draws his daughters to him.
“Stay close,” he says.
For once, they do not argue.
“The Westmen have arrived.”
Mairon faces the denizens of Mordor that have gathered in the amphitheatre, built after carefully watching their progress for a century.
There is no need for a theatre if there are no entertainers. And there are no entertainers to use a theatre or people to attend a performance if they are all too busy fighting one another over land, or scrounging for food.
Which was not to say he artificially advanced the people of Mordor to an outrageous extent. He had simply taken a look at their resources, their environment, and introduced more effective means of procuring food and using the land. Better methods of extracting stone and materials for building. Deeper, safer mining locations, for metals. Providing better quality pitch and caulking sap to waterproof their belongings and their boats.
When the people flourish, their numbers grow. And the excess, rather than remain unemployed or grow fat on their riches, he invites to join his armies. There is never a shortage of things to do, be it culling the more dangerous and unwanted wildlife, or keeping the area safe from bandits and raiders.
He has done hard work to keep these people out of the hands of the Númenóreans, touched as they are by Elves and Valar alike. Now it seems that his efforts may all be in vain.
“We have heard no word of their demands, or their reason for coming this far inland,” he says, allowing the structure of the amphitheatre to make his words loud enough to be heard by everyone here. “We have not provoked them. Mordor has remained far from the shores, and our Gulhasan allies maintain neutral relations with them. And yet the Westmen have advanced upon us. They have driven people from their towns, they are disturbing all those who live along the river Anduin without care for friend or foe.
“It has been said among some that they seek to expand their territory. That they tire of their island, their coastal conquests. That they want us, our lands, our wealth, and they will let nothing stand in their way.”
Alkhâr’s disagreement enters his mind in a susurrate whisper. Mairon shushes him.
“I have decided to meet with their king. I will drive him from our lands and out of our sight. I do not know how long it will take.. perhaps I will be gone days, or weeks. Perhaps even years. But I swear, however long it takes, I will make sure the Westmen never bother these lands again.
“Now, as many of you may know, today marks the 1500th anniversary of the founding of the Melkorist temple here in Mordor. Long has it stood and persisted, and long shall you, the people of Mordor, do the same. I have been told that the time of celebration here may well exceed the standard of 3 days.” A small titter of laughter ripples through the crowd. Mairon smiles, just briefly. “At the end of festivities, I will begin preparations to return to the Tower. Until then, I will reside within the temple itself, as always, to those to seek me.”
With a gesture, the temple acolytes and senior priests step up next to him. They lift their hands, fingers touching their brows. Above and around them, their audience does the same, save those who do not believe or are not quite as diligent.
The priests begin reciting the prayer words, lifted from a scripture that Mairon himself had spoken and penned, 1500 years ago. He knows them by heart, for those are his words that spill from their lips. Dredged from the depths of his belief. Salvaged from the frayed ends of his loyalty.
“..Maker guide us, and find us Glory in these days.”
Mairon lifts his head, arms swept out to the side. “May He look upon us all with favor.”
He leaves the stage and makes his way to the seats reserved for himself and Alkhâr at the front row, denoted by nothing more than another pair of vigilant acolytes. They are hesitant to leave when Mairon dismisses them, but a looming Nazgûl convinces them that there is nothing to worry for.
“If they could see us now,” Alkhâr hisses quietly, barely loud enough to be heard even by those closest to them. For musicians and dancers on stage have begun their performance. “One of their own people, serving their enemy…. Ar-Pharazôn might declare a war for that matter of pride alone.”
“They are not your people anymore,” Mairon replies sprightly. Where another ruler might take offense, Mairon finds the remark.. quaint. Eternal.
He still thinks of himself as Melkor’s, after all.
“…And he is not your king.”
“No, he is not.” Alkhâr makes a sound like forge bellows being pumped. A scoff, perhaps. “Ciryatan is the only King I’ll answer to.”
Mairon accedes to this.
“Well,” he says, with an incline of his head, “Ciryatan is dead, and I am no king… So where does that leave you, alkharîya?”
“…Immortal. Dead. And waiting for you to grow bored of this so we can head back.”
“Are you upset that I made you come here with me?”
“No.” Alkhâr is a poor liar. “There are simply more urgent things to be attended to in the tower.”
“Yes, I know. They can wait. You will have plenty time yet, once I am off to the West. But I will still find time to heckle you from across the land and seas.”
“Across the seas?” The wraith’s head turns. To the untrained eye, he looks merely like he is surveying the surroundings, keeping an eye out for trouble. “…You intend to enter Númenor itself?”
“Why do you ask?” Mairon spares him a glance and a small, cursory smile. “Do you miss it?”
Alkhâr looks at him out of the corner of his eyes for a while, quiet. Then he turns to face the stage again.
There is a somberness that clings to a spirit, the longer it remains one.
Some like Dimna are cheerful, and less dour. Some become more violent and frustrated, like Khamûl.
Mairon has 9 of them, and they are all different. All very much like how they were when they had been alive, but much.. less, now. Less, but also more.
They are not quite dead, though. Not entirely alive either.
Their spirits linger. Because he made them linger. Because they wanted to linger, to remain here and alive and experience more of life than they had when they still lived. It is different from immortality, but it is what he can manage to grant them with this meagre bit of power.
Some might say that he forces it upon them. Some might be right to think so.
Maybe one day, Númenor will fall, as most civilizations do. Maybe they will abandon their island for sweeter lands. Greater lands. Maybe he can move in after.
It’s a bit much for them, though. And too little for Melkor.
“I visited the island, once,” Alkhâr says, a whisper in their minds. “When I was made lord of Faras-azarûn. Where I was made lord, actually. There were quite a few others there as well. We had a small tour around it when the ceremony was done.. they invited us to see the rest of the island if we wanted to stay longer. Out of courtesy, I suppose. But I… left. Rather quickly.”
Mairon mulls over those thoughts, a mix of distant images and recalled sounds, scents, and colors. They are distinct, but not very clear. Like they were painted on with water and oil.
“It is very far away,” the Wraith concludes in a tone that is ostensibly neutral. “Andûnye. The West-most.”
“There is one more West than they,” Mairon adds. They are all in the west.
“Is that why we push to the east?” Were they alone, Alkhâr might have come right up to him to speak, rather than keeping this respectable distance. A habit from their past, when they were both flesh and bone. “You seek to distance us from they who abandoned this world?”
“I suppose.” It is surprising that it has taken this long for them to speak of such things. Due to the rings, their minds are all but shared, bared to one another, save for when Mairon shields his against theirs. Yet not once have they come to this topic, this question. “..But it is not quite for that reason.”
He has never mentioned it before, to these chosen Men. It has always been a distant goal, a theory, a plan he intended to carry out only once the new forces were well on their way to developing on their own. Only once he knew they would stand if he left them alone, for a time.
It was a wish. A desire to bring about a future wrought with his own hands.
It was a hope.
“..I am looking for a door.”
“A door?” He can feel Alkhâr trying to enter his mind, to seek out answers after finding that he is not forbidden access to the thoughts of his master. “To where?”
“To nothing.”
What he allows his wraith to find is an endless breadth of darkness, nigh incomprehensible to the small minds of the Creator’s children.
Emptiness has always been a strange thing. What might once have been peace and quiet to them is now a bottomless fear, something to abhor. Something daunting.
In a world where there is something, they have all become attached to it. Something that was once home now feels like a dream. Something alien. Something.. other.
“…Do not worry yourself overmuch.” He stops himself from physically reaching out. It was never a motion he would have made often, before. Before Melkor found him. Before he found these Men, these people. “It is only a passing thought.”
“For you, master,” Alkhâr murmurs. “You who claims he will end only when the world does. For you, every thought is a passing one.”
Mairon smiles, pityingly, because it is true.
notes
all terms listed are mordoran, technically a nurnen dialect of easterling, similar but not mutually intelligible. depending on exact location, it’s also a creole of various other languages.
as usual, terms are subject to change.
- ajitan: title, used to address a clerk or owner of a stall or store.
- erzhad: emissary, acolyte
- melkhan’aadam: a very large religious festival. the word bears roots from the name ‘melkor’ itself. common practice is to contribute to the festivities as a way to generate karma and prove one’s faith.
- zamih: respectful address, like ma’am or sir. genderless.
- ergardikh: clan leader. more commonly used as a title
- ulaghul: mountain caves
- zezigi: blossom
- susuundag: ghost rider (ring wraiths)
