chapter 3.
no one wants to hear our cry;
summary:
we are the darkness in their light. there is no one without the other. no smile without a tear. no joy without fear.
they think they are different from us, that they are better, and we are worse. they think of right and wrong, and good and evil, and black and white. we are all the heroes of our own story.
except when we are villains. and we are, villains.
First Age 60
warnings: none.
see notes at end for terminology
Mark the forehead thrice, vertically, with a blade;
draw the blade across the neck with a single stroke,
cutting only vein and artery.
Collect the offering in a bowl; drench the altar;
and light the incense.
Put the body upon the pyre, and speak the words:
Lord, Melkor, Maker and Saviour.
We give to you the blood of the Follower,
and we give Their flesh to the Flames,
for They are unworthy of us.
May we remain thus unsoiled,
until Two becomes One
and One becomes None.
We await your Glory.
Rituals of the Mehradin, 14.6-8, on sacrifices
The celebration lasts almost a week.
In truth, the city will be in high spirits for the entirety of the month, but the festivities hosted officially by the temple comes to an end after 7 days.
Every morning, Mairon attends the early dawn prayers as High Priest. He speaks to a few who seek his aid and guidance, prioritizing those who require a.. special sort of intervention. Something more than mere words.
To them he hums whispers. To them he recites a chant, and murmurs a lilting string of words. To them, he sings. The earth is not the only thing he can influence.
In the afternoon, he goes into town to partake in celebrations and lead the sacrifices, along with several other rituals.
While it is well-known (or used to be, at least) that he cannot be consulted outside the temple, there are still those who try their luck even then.
There are those who even attempt to provoke him. Those who doubt his powers and abilities, who question their faith for what reason they have. There is no shortage of them in the days he is gone from Mordor.
Mairon does not respond to the provocation, though the head priest, Taghai, fears that avoiding them will sow dissension and disbelief. He fears that it will cause people to distance themselves from the temple. Even when Alkhâr seethes at those who dare call his master a liar and a fraud, Mairon makes no effort to prove otherwise.
The Arts, as they call it, are not a show to put on display.
In the evenings, Mairon returns to the temple and receives visitors again, the faithful who come to pay their respects. He gives guidance to the needy and blessings to the desperate. He listens.
He listens, and sings, and partakes, each day, for 7 days.
And on the last night of festivities, Mairon convenes in the temple bowels with the priests and members of the city council.
“I see there are some new faces at the table,” he says. “But I recognize only few of you.”
“I am Taghai, merhadi,” says the man at Mairon’s left. “Head Priest of the Temple of Mordor. We met briefly a few times.”
“So we did.”
Taghai goes through introductions for the rest of the attendees as well before any of them can begin to speak for themselves.
“These are my colleagues, Senior Priest Channai and Etegen. From the council, we are joined by Yesugei, Overseer of the Land; Janggi, Overseer of Public Security and..”
“Erkhe Toloi,” Mairon finishes for him with a slow smile. He extends a hand to the Overseer of Finances, with whom he has had several dealings recently.
Erkhe’s eyes dart about, and he nervously returns the gesture. Their fingers touch, briefly, before withdrawing. A formal greeting. He has only had his post for several years, which only makes it easier for Mairon to make his influence known.
As for the others, their reactions are minute. It is apparent that they do not appreciate Taghai taking the initiative in this meeting.
Yesugei takes advantage of the awkward silence to say his piece. “When we first heard you would be coming to Mordor, my Lord… It was almost unbelievable.”
“So it is. And yet, here I am.”
“I never thought I would see the day when I could behold the High Priest with my own two eyes,” Yesugei says, attempting a smile.
Mairon’s smile widens. Yesugei’s falters.
“I congratulate all those who are meeting with me for the first time,” Mairon continues, “and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Unfortunately, this may be the last meeting I am able to physically attend for some time.”
“We’ve heard that you intend to confront the Westman King, my Lord,” says Janggi.
What she does not say, and what he knows she means, is Surely you intend to succeed.
“I do,” he says, “and I will. By any means necessary. If that means I must chase them to the coast myself and assail their shores until there is nothing left of them to beleaguer us with, then I will do so. Personally I would rather have them join us in our endeavors. They are, after all, a mighty force.”
A siege has never been to his taste, though. It is a waste of supplies, especially when Númenor is already quite capable of sustaining its inhabitants. Occupying a foreign land for so long would play only to their disadvantage. He would have to raze their farms and plague their livestock first, poison the lands so nothing could grow again.
A waste. It would become a pile of dirt fit only to be sunk into the ocean, and even then it would poison the waters. Then what would there be left to rule?
Better to just destroy them entirely. Drown them in blood and iron. Take the island by force.
But if it came down to it.. he is patient enough, to let fire do its work.
“They are not weak, by any means. I do not expect an easy victory, nor do I wish for one. For the effort they have taken to knock upon our doors, for the king himself to come here.. we cannot afford to underestimate them. We cannot afford to let them remain. If they have tried to conquer us once, nothing will stop them from wanting to do it again. Not if we leave them be.”
“What exactly do you intend to do, my Lord?” Yesugei asks cautiously. He has had little enough dealings with Mairon to be wary of him, despite all his accomplishments.
“We’ve heard only rumors,” Janggi adds. “Do you truly intend to destroy the Westlands? Will you face the invaders and cut off their heads?”
Yesugei’s nose wrinkles. “You hear those rumors, I’ve heard nothing of the sort.”
“You would if you bothered listening.”
“Is there anything you need of us, my Lord?” Taghai asks while the other two bicker. “Anything you wish to procure to take with you to meet the Westman King?”
“Not presently,” Mairon says. He has grown accustomed to Janggi and Yesugei, from Alkhâr’s reports. They do their jobs well enough, and that is what matters. “Are there any tasks left to be done before I go? I’ve spoken to the worshipers, we have finished the festivities… I regret I cannot be here for the next pilgrimage.”
“We need only to visit the Black Spire, Lord. The faithful have already heard your words here, if you but leave some sign or item at the shrine… it will be enough for them.”
“We have come while you were away before,” says Etegen, one of the priests. “It has never been a problem. We are merhadin, after all.”
“I know. But I hate to miss any gathering of the people.”
“We have you in our hearts, merhadi.” Taghai dips his head. Then he looks at Janggi and Yesugei. “Are you two done yet?”
They weren’t. But they finish up rather quickly once they notice Mairon watching them.
“My apologies, Lord Mairon,” Janggi says, clearing her throat. “We’ll keep Mordor running while you’re away, as always.”
“If you have the time, Lord, the mines could do with your blessings,” Yesugei says. He ignores the sharp look that his childhood friend gives him. “We’ve located several locations that seem promising for new veins. Normally we would conduct a few more tests before we start digging, but… if it is possible, could you look in on those as well?”
“I would love to,” Mairon says, cattish. “Would tomorrow be too soon?”
He returns to the temple dusty, covered in soot and smudged with dirt. The mines are no place for the immaculate, and it is far from the first time he has come back from an excursion less than spotless. Not to mention this trip had him going down quite deep to inspect the veins and tunnel structure.
He’s never felt quite so at home in a long, long time.
“Come in,” he says when a knock comes at the door. It opens. Mairon doesn’t look up from his clay carving.
“Merhadi,” the aide greets, bowing. “Welcome back to the temple. Do you wish for any refreshments? Food, water? Or perhaps— a bath to clean before your leave?”
“I will visit the washroom myself, later. Do not send an aide, I can handle that much by myself.”
The temple aide hesitates. “..But, my Lord—”
“And the largest clothes we have here. If there was time I would have liked to visit the tailor personally…”
“We.. we can summon one. I do not think leaving the temple right now would be the best of ideas. The faithful continue to gather, Shaa’Taghai fears an incident may occur if they see you in the town.”
“It would be just as difficult for the tailors to come here, would it not?” Mairon waves his hand dismissively. “Do not concern yourself with it. A set of loose cloth robes will do for the ride back.”
“But.. That is– we cannot let you leave dressed so lightly, merhadi.”
“The manner of my dressing will be the least shocking thing when I depart, erzhad.”
The aide goes quiet. Mairon does not press him, too absorbed in his figurine.
“…I will inform shaa’Taghai.”
He leaves as quietly and obsequiously as he arrived, and for a moment Mairon cannot but stare at the place where the aide had been standing. For it seemed that it was only yesterday that he had been in that same position, reporting to his master. To Melkor.
It seemed it was only yesterday that he must heed Melkor’s orders, despite how illogical they may have seemed at the time.
(Or how illogical they had been, in fact. Melkor had never been quite right of mind in the later years. How tasking it had been then, maintaining order within the fortress in spite of it all.)
(Yet order was what he loved best. In retrospect, it had been no task at all, to do what he was dutied to do.)
Now, he is the master. He is to these people what Melkor was to him.
It is a strange thing to think about. Even after all these years.
Surely it has not been that long since he was last here, to ruminate on such banal thoughts.
“It was only months,” Alkhâr says, entering the room after the aide has gone. He shuts the door behind him. “…Perhaps nearly a year. Perhaps more.”
It was not a very helpful estimation of time.
“You’ve kept us around near twelve-hundred years, master. At what point are we allowed to stop keeping track of the time, as you do?”
“I do keep track,” Mairon says, affronted. “But in larger increments.”
“Nobody counts in twelves anymore.”
“Elves do.”
The air of Alkhâr’s mind grows stone-cold. Mairon smiles without looking at him.
“..I didn’t know that you knew claywork,” Alkhâr says instead of continuing the topic. He sounds as mild as a fish in water too warm.
“I am a creature of many talents.” He holds the incomplete figurine up to the light. It is a… well. Not a typical Númenórean, exactly. Mairon hasn’t met enough from the island itself. “How would you describe your average Númenórean?”
“Hairy.”
He thinks on it a moment. Then carves out a thick head of hair and shows it to his lieutenant. “Like so?”
“…Not quite.”
Mairon does not argue the fact that Alkhâr is not even close enough to see it.
“You prefer hair on the chest? Arms and legs, like yours?”
“I do not know if that sort of appearance would go well with the face that you are fond of.”
“I could change it.” Mairon is in the middle of replicating his own face when Alkhâr says this, so he starts making little modifications.
An aquiline nose, a narrow chin. Longer eyes. A fuller mouth. The body he carves out tall, but not too tall. Strong, but not too strong. Not plump, but not waspish.
He considers what it means to be ‘average’. And decides it really isn’t for him.
“…That would depend. Do you intend to resemble them, or seduce them?”
“Can I not do both?”
He receives a grunt in lieu of a reply.
Mairon sets aside the carving wire and starts smoothing out the angles, humming to himself as he does so. It will not be an exact likeness of what he is to become when he meets with the Númenórean king, but it is a starting point. And it is better than changing his form over and over until he finds one that is most effective.
The heavy touch at his hair gives him a moment’s pause.
“You intend to wash, do you not?” Alkhâr asks in a low rasp. He is unraveling the braids and extracting the beads and rings woven into them. He has metal for hands, after all. “There is dust in your hair as well. It will need to be cleaned.”
“Are you volunteering, Alkhâr?”
The wraith lets out a breath that sounds like hot irons in a cooling vat. It has the same chilling effect.
“I can hardly do this without tangling it in my hands, master. Washing will be an impossible task.”
“Maybe I should have given you gloves,” Mairon muses, and not for the first time. “I considered it, in the beginning… But then you would have to keep the gauntlets with you at hand.”
“If you had made gloves, it might have been possible.”
Mairon holds out a hand for Alkhâr to pass him the trinkets. He imagines that metal gauntlet to be a glove instead, silk or leather. Or woven steel fibre, pulled thin and fine.
Perhaps, the hide of a Man.
Alkhâr makes a hiss to show his distaste and refusal. If Mairon wanted, he could make them all wear the hide of Men, regardless of their willingness.
But that is a lot of skin to harvest, so he will have to think of something else instead.
“Elf-hair makes for a strong, fine thread,” he says musingly. Alkhâr’s hands still again. “..And Elf-skin is quite resilient.”
“If you make me wear Elf-hide gloves, I will walk into the Hill of Fire myself.”
Mairon holds back a laugh, and hums instead. “Then my own hair? My own skin? It is not as though I cannot grow it back.”
Alkhâr does not speak for a moment. His mind churns, but remains silent also. Mairon does not try to decipher his thoughts, and instead finishes smoothing down the contours of his figurine.
“…I forget, at times.” His words are quiet. Whispery, as though breathless and lacking strength. “That you are not a Man, as we are.”
“You wear the skin of beasts,” Mairon says, holding up the figurine once more. “You eat of their flesh, pillage their homes. You hunt them with stone and spear in numbers greater than they can avoid. You chase them with a bow and arrow they cannot escape from. You trap them with lures and nooses, you put them in cages.”
He stops, for a moment. And adds a small jagged scar across the clay throat with the nail of his thumb.
“You keep them as pets. Train them to obey. Take them with you into battle. Teach them to hunt with you, for you.” Alkhâr has stopped by now, hands stilled in Mairon’s hair. Mairon does not look back at him. “Shall I go on?”
“..Is that how you see us?”
“Alkharîya… did you ever doubt it?”
For a moment, he thinks Alkhâr might try to leave. It is not as though Mairon needs his help with this task, nor has he been ordered to remain here. It matters not that they are master and servant, lord and lieutenant— he has never needed a servant to do such things for him.
Mairon still has his own hands, after all.
But Alkhâr does not leave, and Mairon is tactful enough not to drive him away.
“And this? This thing you are making.” The wraith steps back, having divested Mairon’s hair of all its adornments. “What is this, then?”
“I am going hunting,” Mairon says. The sculpture is set on the dresser. “A good hunter knows to conceal his presence.”
The aide returns with another knock on the door. A line of attendants come in with a tub of hot water, a tray of washcloths. A stack of folded garments is placed nearby upon a stool.
“You can go,” he says to dismiss the aide before the other can speak. “I will wash myself.”
“I’m not washing you this time,” Alkhâr says when they are alone again. He does, however, reach out to slide off the rest of Mairon’s bracelets and bangles.
“I would not ask you to.”
Mairon puts the jewelry into a small pot on the dresser. He removes his robes, his small clothes, taking stock of his reflection in the polished mirror. Making note of what needs changes where.
“..Are staying to watch?”
“What is there to watch?” Alkhâr lets out a sound almost like a sigh. “Your washing, or your changing your form?”
“Either.” Mairon tips his head to the side. “Or both.”
“No.” His lieutenant sets the clothes aside to be collected later. “I will be outside the door.”
The door shuts. Mairon hums, almost in disappointment, for the lack of company.
And in the silence, his bones twist and shatter.
Miles away from the capitol of Mordor, the Númenórean make camp.
The mountain range surrounding Mordor are greater than they had expected. Scout reports simply did not convey the sheerness of them, how far they stretched, how high they rose. The tallest summit might have reached the clouds if the weather was right, but they weren’t capped with white. Even so, the sides seemed sheer for from where Pharazôn stands, in the middle of camp.
A gust of wind blows ash and dust into his face. Pharazôn rubs his eyes and spits the taste from his mouth, trying not to breathe it in. He wonders how far the volcano is from here and how anyone could survive near it.
“Sire!”
The hail draws him away from the scene, eerily beautiful as it might have been. He dusts himself off and ducks back into the tent. The murmuring of the other gathered lords of Anadûnê stops quite suddenly the moment he enters, and by the time he takes his seat at the other end of the space, it is silent.
“No sign of a herald,” Pharazôn grunts, settling himself. “No messengers, no eagles, not even a single bloody vulture. Surely it doesn’t take him a week to make up his mind.”
“Might be they’re trying to starve us into leaving,” Athazûl remarks.
“If they are, they’re doing a damned good job of it,” Nalarik says gruffly. “Sire, if we wait any longer, starving will be the least of our problems. Supplies can stretch another week but it’ll be a rough journey home. Assuming the men stay with us that long.”
Pharazôn sighs and rubs a hand over his face. With some luck, they’ve camped out somewhere hospitable enough outside the gates of Mordor. But even hunting and foraging is barely enough to supplement the rations for the amount of soldiers they brought with them.
They’re geared for an invasion, not a siege. Never mind the equipment, the men hadn’t come here thinking it would be more than just breaking in and dragging Sauron out. Shouldn’t have taken more than a few weeks, if they managed to scare him with numbers.
Only they hadn’t quite expected Mordor to be so well-defended, or that they’d be so well-stocked to make it into a war of attrition, if that was indeed what they intended. It was going to be hard to siege Mordor if they couldn’t even get in to cut off escape routes.
“I saw we give them two, maybe three more days, sire,” Amandil says. Words of wisdom that Pharazôn would say if the didn’t care the risk of coming back to bite him. “A week, if we’re being lenient. Are we?”
Halazar scoffs, but doesn’t say anything.
“After that, we send another message. And if there’s no reply then, we’ll need the last of the rations to make it to a town for resupply. I don’t imagine we’ll have enough to last the way home otherwise.”
“Not without some heavy raiding we won’t,” Athazûl adds.
Amandil doesn’t look too happy about that idea.
If only those damned mountains weren’t in the way. If this were a normal fortress, with normal walls, it wouldn’t be a problem to storm in. And door can be knocked down.
But a gate that large? They’d need a dragon to break it down.
He wonders how they even made it.
“Agreed,” Pharazôn says after taking a look around the room. He waits for protest, but sees and hears none. Only a unanimous sound of agreement, which is something of a pleasant surprise.
Hunger and doing nothing but waiting day after day must wear on a man in more ways than one.
“If they do not surrender or reply this time, we’ll return with greater forces. And a battering ram.” Pharazôn gives that a brief thought, and nods to his own idea. “A big one. Where is that pageboy?”
“Went off to fetch our messenger, sire.”
He didn’t expect the reply to come from the scribe. Faran does have the decency to pause in his recording to look up, clearing his throat sheepishly.
“Should’ve sent for food, too,” Pharazôn mourns.
“Wouldn’t have done any good, sire,” Nalarik says humorously. “Rations won’t be sorted out for another hour.”
“Rarely does the belly listen to the head.” He runs a hand through his beard and doesn’t think about the roll of his stomach. It’s still as much as it was when the left the island, even with the marching and the rations. Fat doesn’t burn as quickly when there’s nothing to do. “Not much for it. We need a force this size if we want to end things quickly.”
“It is only unfortunate that Sauron’s allies did not fight at all. We couldn’t have expected to have arrived here without a single casualty at all.”
“I hope you’re not implying you wished some of the men died, Lord Anakhôr.”
“No indeed, Lord Nalarik,” Anakhôr says, returning the mild comment with a thinly veiled sneer. “I hope that was not that I had implied.”
“Perhaps that is part of their plan,” Athazûl adds. “Upon seeing our great numbers, rather than surrendering, they simply board up their walls and wait for us to starve out on the plains. They seem confident enough in that gate of theirs.”
“We should’ve brought more food,” Halazar says, more than discontent. “Less soldiers, better soldiers. We should be finding a way past that gate! Surely there are tunnels, guard entrances, something they use to get outside.”
“Better soldiers wouldn’t do any good with a mountain in the way,” Anakhôr says. “We’ve had scouts watching the gate and the mountain for secret passages for days. There’s been no movement, nothing to even suggest it. We don’t know if they even need to come out this way.”
“Only a fool puts his city up against a solid wall with no escape route.” Pharazôn stands up and circles around to the war table where a giant map is pinned down. “We haven’t started mapping the mountain range, have we? That’d be the best way to find any hidden tunnels or passages they might have.”
“I don’t think now is the best time to search for something like that, sire.”
“No, you’re right, Lord Anakhôr. Both sides are already too aware of each other. Even if we find a way through the mountain, they could just be waiting for us on the other side. Not to mention we just aren’t equipped for that sort of task.”
In hindsight, they were woefully unprepared for an invasion of Mordor. But Sauron had been so easily driven out of Eriador 1500 years ago… To be honest, they’d been expecting Mordor’s defense to be just as easily beaten. And it likely might have been.
If it weren’t for the bloody—
“We knew where Mordor was located,” Nalarik says, coming over as well. Likely to escape Halazar’s incessant muttering. “But none of us expected them to use the entire mountain range as their fortress walls. It isn’t exactly something anyone would be capable of doing. We underestimated how severely unreasonable the Lord of Mordor is.”
After several days of scanning the mountain peaks with an eyeglass, they’d finally made out several lookout towers, clearly visible at the highest vantage points. No doubt there were several hidden in the sparse foliage, maybe even built into the cliffsides.
If the Lord of Mordor really was the Sauron of the legends, he’d have had first-hand experience with mountain fortresses. There might even be a network of tunnels for people to live in.
“I’m well aware, Lord Nalarik,” Pharazôn says. “There’s no need to placate me for my own misjudgments.”
“Oh no, sire, I was just explaining to Lord Halazar why he should shut up.”
“Shut up?” Halazar spits out. He also rises from his seat. “How dare you—”
The rest of the meeting proves relatively unfruitful until they get Halazar to stop grumbling.
The pageboy returns with one of their heralds on rotation and Pharazôn has the scribe write up a missive to be delivered to the gate in three days time, demanding a reply on the threat of a full-blown invasion if there was none.
He dismisses the herald to be outfitted with an escort and enough supplies for them all for a week while they waited for a response. Surprisingly, there are volunteers.
“Bet they’re just glad to be rid of the rationing,” Amandil says. The rest of the council members have left the tent, except for Halazar. “Of course, they’ll have to ration themselves if they don’t want to run out of food early. If there’s anything worse than being given rations, it’s having to give yourself rations.”
“Truly a nightmare,” Pharazôn replies without humor. His friend and mentor chuckles. “Lord Halazar, you wanted to speak with me?”
“Yes, sire.” Halazar’s hands wring together tightly. “I would thank you for taking the time out of your undoubtedly busy schedule, but seeing as we’ve been doing nothing for the past week, I’ll have to put that aside.”
Normally he would be beside himself with apologies and a nauseating amount of pandering. It was one of the few things he was good at.
“Sire, I have… concerns.”
Pharazôn sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “If this is about our progress, or, as you put it, lack of—”
“No, no, it isn’t. At least, not entirely. My concern is with the men.”
“…The men.”
“Their morale, sire.”
“..Lord Anakhôr has reported no problem with the troops.”
“With all due respect, sire, Lord Anakhôr receives his reports from night guards who’ve had too much sleep. The men are restless. The progress isn’t the issue, although I don’t think it’s helping, but being forced to sit around and not.. do anything is wearing down on them rather quickly.”
“Well, unfortunately, Lord Halazar, there’s not much to be done about that. As we discussed earlier, there is currently no way past the gate.”
“What if—” Halazar stops mid-gesture and starts pacing again. “What if.. we use the priests?”
“The priests?” Pharazôn holds back a laugh. “What will they do, pray that Sauron comes out of his fortress? I suppose we can expect the Avalôim to lend us a hand out there.”
“I have spoken with them, and I— I did not mention this at the meeting because I was not entirely sure yet. I’m still not quite sure, but I believe that, together, they may be capable of— of the Arts. Sire… we may be able to open the Black Gate.”
“That is not what the Arts are to be used for, Lord Halazar,” Amandil says testily.
“Oh, of course,” Halazar snaps back. “They’re meant to bolster the crops and summon fair winds for the ships. Why shouldn’t it be used to strengthen our troops? Tear down the walls? Get us past the gates and into Mordor?”
“It is not for warfare! Sire, please. The Arts are too unpredictable for what he’s suggesting.”
“Are they?” Pharazôn looks between them. “Have either of you ever used the Arts before? Can you tell me with certainty whether it is or is not possible, or whether it should be done?”
Amandil stares at him. “…Pharazon, you can’t actually consider this as an option.”
“I’ll consider anything that gets Mordor to roll over and surrender.” Pharazôn gestures to Halazar. “Let’s meet with these priests and see what they have to offer.”
notes
- shaa’merhadi: sha + merhadi, venerable prophet.
nurnen-mordoran dialect. - merhadi: prophet (title). nurnen-mordoran dialect.
- merhadin: practitioners of the melkorist sect
more information as we go but the melkorist sect is an offshoot of the overall belief in the valar, eru, etc. a cult with a fancy name. obviously the worship melkor more than they do any other valar, or eru.
