chapter 5.

to harabin, with love.

summary:

give me your sins. tell me your wrongs and i will make them right. see that yours is not the only way.

let me show you how to see the world without eyes; hear it without ears; feel it without skin, or bones, or flesh. move a stone without hands, walk without feet, fly without wings. be without being. think without thinking.

live without living.

Second Age 636

warnings: implied animal sacrifice

Life is life's true gift. To live it is a joy,
but one must not condemn others to a life without life. 

 A creature who roams is sacred, and the one who stays has given their life.
 Hunting of the wild is not to be done;
to take the life of one who lives free, one must give life in return.
 Give of one who stays, and ask the Maker for His blessing.
Give the vitals of the hunted, and ask the Maker for His forgiveness.
 
 The Free remain Free, lest they choose to Obey.
 Let that choice be their own undoing.
 Let it be their Death.
 
 Serain, Teachings of Mehrad 14 

“Send your thoughts into the Fire, and let it see unto you.”

The woman kneels before the wraith, head bowed over her clasped hands. She murmurs a litany of prayers, courtesy, before going silent.

A shallow copper dish sits between them, as wide as one’s arm span and filled with illuminating oil. Rags submerged within kept the whole thing ablaze, filling the temple with its odor and fumes.

The odor is not entirely pleasant, but getting rid of it is something that Mairon is still working on. Was working on. Shêmut and Attâlu have taken over the project and made some improvements, but nothing to match the perfection of olive oil.

Unfortunately Mordor is too far inland to grow any, and the coastal Far-Southrons are less than cooperative for the time being.

But it is not, to him, a hindrance; and to them it is harmless, if proper ventilation is practiced.

He closes his eyes and breathes in the fumes, lets it tickle the edges of his mind. The runes carved into the outside of the bowl light up, glowing red and gold. Designed by Mairon himself, they would take any word spoken before it and transmit it to the bowl in the Black Spire, and allow anyone there to send word out to any Fire they wished.

To seek contact, to initiate an exchange. To tell him they are open, and that he may see them as they are. Whispers of a flame. The Ring was always meant to be a trial and error sort of thing, and it is clear that despite all its successes, it is, in the end, an error.

He cannot teach Alkhâr how to write these runes, unfortunately; an Elf might be able to, but Mairon is done working with Elves now. It is a simple enough matter to reconfigure the runes, though, and the torch is passed thusly from him to Alkhâr. To allow the wraith, a Man dead and undying, to see into the mind as an Ainu would, so long as this fire is lit and the proper steps taken.

Mairon circles around them, like a vulture.

“The one who wronged you has been put to trial, and will be punished,” the wraith says, hollow. His love for the Mordorans is little. “Now is the time to heal yourself. Find aid where you seek it least. Help others like you, who have suffered as such. Vengeance comes best to those who wait and recover.”

Mairon’s eyebrow rises, as vengeance was not something he considered suggesting. But Alkhâr will be his messenger for the foreseeable future, so he does not refute this advice. He knows enough of how Mairon does it to learn quickly.

“.. And,” Alkhâr adds, slowly, pulling long-lost knowledge from his master’s mind, “in time, you will find that vengeance may not be the answer you are seeking. Satisfaction is a fleeting thing.”

The woman raises her head, contention in her heart. She looks between the two of them, servant and master. “..Merhadi, I–“

“I hear your desires and your hurts.” Alkhâr takes her attention, commands it with his presence and his stature. “I see the pain that was wrought in you, but her death will not heal it. Ointment prevents infection; only your body can recover itself.”

Her eyes flicker again; even from behind her, Mairon can tell. His wraith has eyes, and all eyes of the Ringbearers are his own.

“Mehrad can bring you back from the brink of death, that is true. He has done so for many of us.” Alkhâr comes around the fire and leans down towards the supplicant, despite the heat burning what part of him it reaches. “But the Maker cannot save your soul if it festers.”

“But I… what she did…” Her shoulders are shaking. “How can I forgive..?”

“Do not forgive. You do not have that right to pardon her wrongdoings. Hold them against her for the rest of your life, and hers. Only our Maker may grant her forgiveness.” Alkhâr straightens up, and only Mairon sees his gaze rise to meet his own. “Only the Mehrad can forgive her.”

Mairon raises his hand to stop her from rising; he has seen her intent to implore him, to beg. To want retribution. He will not promise it to her.

“I will see what she has done, all that she has done. I will hear what she says. And I will see her intent, for she cannot hide it from me.” He speaks of a soft litany, phrases he has told many others before, so consumed by anger and vengeance; and they are right to feel this way. But anger and vengeance serves only temporarily. It consumes, also. “And if, one day, you fall into a desperation, I will know what you have done, what you have said, and whether you truly repent. The Maker will judge us thusly; fairly, and equally.”

It does not bring peace to her; it is not meant to. He cannot have the people of his lands trying to kill each other left and right. It’s a waste of an otherwise perfectly good workforce.

“..As you say, merhadi.” She sounds reluctant, a touch of frustration that accompanies the helpless. He cannot promise that it will abate with time. “I will hold to your counsel.”

But she is reverent, even as she leaves the pit with her head lowered and her shoulders drawn. He has lived too long, showed his face too many times, walked too many fires and torn up too many bodies for them not to believe he is more than Man, more than human. Elves were worshipped, once, and Mairon is far more than an Elf.

“I do not think that was what she wanted to hear,” Alkhâr murmurs to him. The pit holds only them, and above them are the others, knelt in prayer. The woman joins them shortly, next to her newly bereaved kin.

“It is never want they want to hear,” Mairon replies. “We are bathed in righteous glory, alkharîya, and none to wipe it off but our own hands. Remember that when they seek you.”

“Do not run your city into the ground, you mean.”

“You were a lord once. I trust you know how to be a lord again.”

This is not being a lord, master, the wraith says, silently, as Mairon steps into the burning oil with all the grace of an open-air bath. The congregation bows down even deeper, if that were possible. That is being a god.

Nonsense, Mairon replies. The oil warms his toes as fire dances around him, remnants of the secrets of all who have come before it. There is no such thing as a god. There is only us.

“This goes against the Valar’s teaching, Pharazôn. You know this, don’t you?”

“What of it, Amandil?” Pharazôn implores tiredly. It’s been a long day of doing nothing but watch over practice exercises, drills, and looking over the sparse accounts their scouts had given them several days ago. Mental legwork for someone who prefers actual legwork. “As far as I’m concerned, the Valar never taught us anything about the Arts.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Amandil sips at his watered wine, tapping the table with his other hand in a nervous tic. “It isn’t something we were taught to do, not something we were meant to do. There are no legends of Men using the Arts, no stories that it was ever wielded for good or evil. It is not something for our kind.”

“Yet we can use it. Can we not? You’ve seen the effects of the Song yourself during the march.” Pharazôn flips a page, comparing two separate days of notes on the gate’s guard rotations. “Don’t tell me you’re going to say it won’t work.”

“I don’t think it will do us any good, to be honest. Completely honest.”

“Yes, so you said when I met with the priests the other day. I respect your words of wisdom, but now is not the time for that. At least, not until you can think of another way around that gate.”

“The scouts are still scouring the mountains for a secret passage. With time–“

“We don’t have time, Amandil.” Pharazôn doesn’t know how he can stress this how little time they have, how little time he has. This is something he must do, to cement his title, his claim. To call the scepter his own. “I’ve lived half of my life now, I won’t waste the other half when an opportunity like this is in my grasp.”

“Pharazôn.. To see this as an opportunity…”

“It is more than that, old friend. Can you not understand? It is a matter of pride. Pride!” He shakes his head, as if he can’t even believe himself. Greater men than he have died for less. Greater beings than he have been faced grand losses and defeats for less. Wars were started, for less. “How can I be king if there’s someone else out there claiming to be King of Men? King of me? I won’t have it, and neither will Númenor stand to be insulted like this.”

There is the chance, of course, that he is acting on a baseless rumor. Well, maybe not baseless. Everyone knows Sauron has a basis for doing just about anything that he does and that basis is (in service of Morgoth the Terrible). But Pharazôn is aware that using an unsourced rumor that Sauron is claiming to be King of Men just to dethrone him could end in several ways.

It could be true, and he would be ridding the world of a dark and tyrannical creature.

It could be false, and he would still be ridding of a world of a dark and tyrannical creature.

Or it could true, or false, and he would be pegged as too ambitious. Oppressive and as far-reaching as Sauron himself, despite being nowhere near as terrible.

Whoever was the first to say that resorting to enemy’s tactics made you just as bad as they were had never fought a war before. Being the ‘bigger man’ was an ego stroking tactic.

No man is greater than another in war. Everyone died the same.

“Resorting to the Arts is not the way to go, old friend. That’s sorcerous work. It is the Gods’ Realm.”

“The Elves knew the Arts.”

“That’s not fair, Pharazôn, and you know it.”

“Why shouldn’t it be?” Pharazôn asks, without really expecting an answer. It’s a question the King’s Men philosophers have been asking for years now, ever since the King’s Men were founded. “Why shouldn’t it be fair? Why must we be banned from what they have, their youth and longevity? Why should they have access to the Valar while we sit here, watched over like a gaggle of children not allowed to enter the study room?”

“You weren’t allowed because you kept spilling the inkpot.”

“Sword-fighting on table is a staple of one’s boyhood adventures!”

“Not so much on important documents….”

Pharazôn concedes this with a grunt. Amandil is probably right.

It’s nearly dusk, and now that they’ve gotten through the worst of travelling at the edges of a desert, the daily schedule is more or less back to normal, for an army abroad. Pharazôn had done it enough in his years fighting Sauron’s forces before he became king.

It’s a little different, now that he’s King. A King who is also a Commander.

“…We can’t just back down now, Amandil,” Pharazôn confesses after a moment of silence. If Amandil is surprised, it doesn’t show. “I can’t back down, even if I wanted to– and I don’t, for the record, before you start trying to change my mind again.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Yes you would, and you have.”

“..Alright, fine.” Amandil reaches over to fish out a blank sheet of paper and something to write with. “Let’s play devil’s advocate and assume this works, then.”

“It will work.”

“Okay, it works. Or, as you said, it’s possible to pull off, and we manage it. What then? We’ve never used the Arts on a scale this large before. What’s going to happen to the army, or the priests?”

“That’s what the testing is going to find out.”

“Then how do we plan to get Sauron out? You’re hoping he’ll recognize our strength and just turn himself over?” Amandil starts jotting down notes, which Pharazôn thinks is an awful waste of paper, to be honest. “Are we going to march into Mordor to drag him out? Will we be able to. Never mind that we don’t know what the Arts will do to the forces, but the gate itself is enormous. The amount of rubble it creates once we destroy it will surely block the way in.”

“I’ll bring up whether we can aim the destruction inwards, leave a clear path for us to enter.” Pharazôn frowns. “..If not that, then destroy it so the rubble is as small as possible. Make it easier for us to move if out of the way if we have to.”

“We’ll have to find Barad-dûr after that. Well, I’m sure it’s in the general vicinity of the volcano, which poses another problem entirely– it’s active, and as far as our reports say, it’s also constantly releasing ashes and gas fumes. The air will be hard to breathe the closer we get.”

“We got through the desert with makeshift face covers. Test those out once we’re close enough.”

Amandil raises an eyebrow. Respectfully. “That’s a lot to put on chance, Pharazôn.”

“Chance is what we have.” Pharazôn reaches for his mug of watered wine. “..And failing this, we have your mountain routes to try out. If the scouts find any.”

“We are so woefully underprepared for this,” Amandil laments.

“Stop saying that, we can’t let the army know.”

“I’m sure they already do.”

“Not in as many words, they don’t, and it’s going to stay that way.” Pharazôn gestures to him with the mug. “Keep going. I’m having fun listening to you tear my plans apart.”

“I wasn’t aware you had a plan, Pharazôn.”

“Maybe not. That’s what you’re here for, Amandil. I can’t be doing all the work, now, can I?”

“Must you leave so soon, merhadi?”

“I am late enough as it is,” Mairon sighs. The ceremony is over now, but the temple is full to the brim. Leaving is a tough matter at the moment. “There are more people still here than I anticipated.”

“If you visited more often, this wouldn’t have happened,” Alkhâr suggests dully.

“I do visit often.”

“Firiya visits, as your proxy. It is not the same.”

Mairon considers that. “..Is it like when I speak with you but have not physically seen you in some time?”

Alkhâr makes a sound and looks away. “That only happens to Dimna.”

“Of course.” Mairon hides a smile. To the senior priest, he says, “Clear a path to the gates and beyond as necessary. If need be we will have to push our way through, but I would prefer not to.”

Etegen bows and retreats to pass the word on to the captain of security at the temple.

“..I am surprised you would suggest visiting more, Alkhâr,” Mairon says, looking out the window and into the full courtyard. “After all, you seem to be displeased every time I visit Illahm, even though that is but 3 times a year.”

“You do realize they won’t leave because they can see you through the window?” Alkhâr mutters, taking Mairon’s arm at the elbow and gently tugging him away so he can shut the curtains. “And I’ve never been displeased about that.”

“I seem to recall you thought it was particularly frivolous, and time ill-spent.”

“I spoke specifically regarding your pleasure visits with the merah.”

Oh, but he has been lax with his wraiths of late. To hear the more loyal of them speak to him like this.

“Pleasure visits?” It comes out crisp and sharp; almost a hiss, if a hiss could sound throaty like a snarl as well. “Is that what you think of them as?”

Perhaps it is unfair, to dare his own servants to refute him when he can remove their self-will at the drop of a pin. It is the thought that matters.

“..I am not sure what else to call them,” Alkhâr says carefully. The ties of obedience are pulled taut in his voice, hoarse though it is. “They are allies, certainly, but it is not for the sake of an alliance that you see to the merah so frequently.”

“You would know this?”

“That is why you visited me, in Faras-azarûn, isn’t it?”

The wraith’s skin is not skin anymore, and feels nothing much like it. The soul is no more solid than gas, for all that it is only held together by spells and sorcery, and a thin band of metal on a finger. But for the Ainu it is as real as anything, and it is not his hand that touches Alkhâr’s face, but the soul contained within it.

It burns, perhaps. Or perhaps it is that they have not felt touch for so long that to feel it again is foreign to them. Like a pinprick, or the bite of a needle. To kiss a spirit is not unlike breathing in mist or stumbling through the morning fog, the clinging, cloying sensation of sandalwood smoke.

Empty things, but no less solid a gesture.

…And it is nice to do this without having Alkhâr bend over double to reach him in his shorter form.

“I visited your lands for the Seer in your cousin,” Mairon says against the ghost of his wraith’s lips. They are cold, like ice. Like stone. “And later, for you.”

(not like melkor’s, that burned like fire. cut like teeth and tasting like blood and desperation. like so much want that a bucket that the world could not contain it.)

“When she left, so did you,” Alkhâr says, a low husk of a sound. “…And later, so did I.”

“She needed guidance.” Mairon looks askance. Not apologetically. “..And I had time.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, I seem to forget that quite a bit. But you do now. Now you have all the time in the world. The merah of Illahm does not.”

Alkhâr doesn’t push him away; but then again he never really does. Mairon fingers through the wispy mist-hair of his beard before backing off.

He has never been one to press a matter, when it did not matter.

“Why don’t you just make another ring, then?” The clank of a single step makes Mairon stop in his own. “You can do that, can’t you? Or do you not want to?”

He looks behind him. At the gauntlet that covers the wraith’s hand, at the ring hidden beneath it. It is there, he knows it is there, though he cannot sense it for himself. It is not possible to perceive the part of yourself in something else.

But he does sense the something else.

“The Rings are not meant to be made alone,” Mairon says, and if there is a touch of mourning, Alkhâr does not bring attention to it. “Just as children cannot be made alone.”

“He made them alone, didn’t he?” Alkhâr brings his hand up, clenched, to his chest. Whether to protect the ring it wears or to better feel its powers, Mairon does not know. “You made one alone as well.”

“..He did.” Mairon cants his head. “And so did I.”

And what remained of them both, now, but scraps and rags? A candle, nipped at the wick. What left is there to burn?

“But we are not really ever alone. And Elves especially are never really alone. I am sure he knew that, before he made the Three. Or he found out as he was making them. I have never thought to ask.”

“You did not want to know?”

“Why should I?”

Ambition is so prevalent in the Incarnate. To be so bound to the world and to life, to be so free of fate that one must fine purpose to keep living. That one must have purpose, a purpose not pre-given, and to feel so squandered by time that they dive headlong into their passions even if it led them to their doom.

Mairon has ambition. Dimna might think he does not, but it is only because his ambition is of a different sort. more long-lasting, far-reaching. Less rushed. Ainur are eternal creatures, and patient ones. What can be done today can also be done tomorrow, or in 10 years, or 100 years. Or 1000 years.

(and then there was his master, who flew towards his doom with the speed and force of a falling star, crushing everything in his way and taking them with him, for he, too, hated to be alone.)

“..So you can’t make any by yourself.”

“It is highly inadvisable,” Mairon says bluntly, going back to the window. He leaves the curtains in place, nudging only a small part open to peak through. “Besides which, where is no reason to give the merah a Ring of Power. I do not need him to be powerful.”

“Perhaps if he had been, he would not have been defeated so soundly.”

“Or perhaps he would still lose, and the Númenóreans would have the ring in their possession. And then they would try to use it to bargain with me, as though it held any significance. Lord knows one of them will be tempted to wear it, for all the strength it gave their enemy, and they would try to hatch some conniving plot to find a way to wear it without becoming a wraith. Ply it from my lips by honey or by harm.”

Alkhâr gives a jolt; a clear sign of interest. But he has learned to show restraint. “Is that.. is that possible?”

“Of course not,” Mairon hisses. For all that he gives them away as gifts and lures, to think on the rings more deeply is like getting caught in a snag. The effect it had on Men was not what they intended, but what else did he expect from giving rings to Men that were made for Elves? “They were never meant for your hands, for the hands of Dwarves. Mortals were never to wear them… too fragile and weak, to easily swayed and completely taken by them. They are incomplete, in that sense, and I see no reason to make more of them.”

Alkhâr hums, though it sounds more like the rumbling purr of a cat instead. A particularly displeased cat.

“Yet still we wear them.”

“Do you dislike it?” His words sound pleasantly snappish, even to Mairon’s own ears. It’s not a topic that comes up often, or never at all. Not a pleasant one. “Khamûl seems to. I think he would return his if it did not mean a slow return to death.”

“You should have thought of that before giving him one.”

Mairon considers that for a moment, and laughs, because it is true. It is an abrupt change from the somber and serious. Yes, he is a patient creature.

But a creature, nonetheless.

“Well,” he says, light and nostalgic, “I have never claimed to be a good judge of character.”

If he were, he would pick servants of those more easily swayed, more obedient. More loyal and gratifying. If he were he would have more need of such servants who would not question his orders and rebuke his commands.

Yet he is his master, to the end, and Melkor did choose him.

“Will that be all for your concerns, alkharîya?”

The crowd outside has yet to disperse, though with the curtains drawn their interest seems to be waning steadily. He could leave now if he wished.

Alkhâr takes his elbow again, but this time does not pull him away from the window.

Instead he is turned around, and there is a touch light upon the side of his face, or as light as metal can be, tipping his chin up, his head back. The gauntlet is cold and it sings of power, of magic and sorcery, to keep the spirit within it from dispersing.

It is much easier to do this when Alkhâr does not have to bend over.

“Shaa’merhadi, we—” The head priest stops in the doorway and immediately eases the door shut. “Oh! My– my apologies, I didn’t–“

“Come in, shaa’Taghai.” Like his servant, Mairon does not push Alkhâr away. In fact the wraith seems to tighten his hold on Mairon’s elbow, and the hand at his neck curls in slightly, almost gripping. “You are not interrupting anything.”

“So you say,” Alkhâr says, hushed.

“You can hold me on the trip back to the tower.”

“That’s.. not very comfortable for you.”

“I have had my throat torn open before,” Mairon muses, finally extricating himself from the wraith’s grasp. “Comfort is subjective.”

Huffing, Alkhâr returns to his post in the middle of the room, watching his master like a hawk.

“Shaa‘Taghai?”

“Ah.. merhadi.” The priest comes into the room, lowering his head in a bow. “I am told the horses are ready for travel. The road is clear as well, for a ways. They are clearing the rest of it.”

“Oh? That was rather quick. Perhaps we should have a head start on our journey.”

“That would be ideal, shaa’merhadi. The crowd thinned easily enough, but the sight of the path we cleared is causing them to gather again.”

“So long as it is clear, I do not mind. Alkharîya, see to the horses. I will join you in a little bit.”

It takes a bit of nudging in his mind to get the wraith to reluctantly leave the room. The head priest shuffles slightly, wondering if he is being dismissed or not until Mairon shuts the door after Alkhâr is gone.

“…You are the youngest Head Priest this Temple has ever had, shaa‘Taghai.” He looks over his shoulder just in time to see the man startle. “Is that correct?”

“I… yes, Lord Mairon,” Taghai says with a nod and another bow. “At least, by my knowledge.”

“And by mine as well.” Mairon folds his hands in front of him, regarding the priest with a fair assessment. He does not seem the frail type. “Was it you who poisoned the late shaa‘Karuluk?”

“His death was unfortunate.. but it was the will of the Sacred Fire, Lord Mairon. He had–” Taghai makes a gesture with his hand, not indicative of anything but the idea that the reason for it was already known by the both of them. “He had become greedy. The Great Void did not look kindly on his avarice.”

“So I heard.” His hands curl into claws. The lace-metal finger guards back at the tower are sized more for Easterlings than Númenóreans, so it will be chance to see if they still fit him now. “And the gold?”

“Shaa‘Karuluk had graciously arranged for it to be donated to the Temple upon event of his death, to be redistributed to the city. As proof of his faith and service.”

“And you decided that yourself, shaa‘Taghai?”

The priest inclines his head thoughtfully. “It is better for the Temple that he be a good man, in the end.”

“Perhaps.” The results are not unsatisfactory, and the problem was removed. Mairon is not one to criticize methods. “Remember, then, if this should happen again. So long as the Sacred Fire remain lit, so long as it burns and is attended to, I will know of all transgressions within the Temple. In this Temple, and all Temples. We are here for the people, shaa‘Taghai. We are here for the future.”

Taghai bows low. There is a slight tremble about him, either fear or anxiousness. Mairon will have to check back here frequently. Had he more time he could purge the ranks now and bring in new priests and officials, vetted personally.

Firiya will just have to handle that, if need be. It has always been better for Men to rule Men.

“As I said at the convening, Firiya will be here within a fortnight as my Herald. As tradition dictates, he is to accompany your formal ascension as the new Head Priest. Have you met him before?”

“In passing, I think.” Taghai is barely 40 year this. Karuluk was, perhaps, in his early 70s before he died. An usually long life that likely led to his growing material desires. “We will prepare to receive him according to the scripture… Except for the food, yes? He is like yourself, is it not?”

“Make the food,” Mairon smiles, opening the door, “and let the faithful partake in it, after.”

Music… is a powerful thing.

All celebrations ride high on the shoulders of celebrated musicians, known by their names as well as the King is known by his. It is music that makes a festival; it is the beat that leads a song, it is the accompaniment that raises it, it is the voices that guide it.

The echoes of a dying chant leaves goosebumps on Pharazôn’s skin. He looks at the sizable dent made in the ground, blasted apart by the so-called Song of Destruction.

The only one singing was a single priest, accompanied by a half-dozen soldiers chosen for their relative lack of proficiency with the Arts. All things considered, the results are quite…. stunning.

Pharazôn waits until Elder Abîran gives him the go ahead to approach the crater and crouches down next to it, just to get a better look at the damage.

“Didn’t we excavate mines like this back in the day?” he asks. “I’ve seen these kinds of marks before.”

“North Andustar?” Amandil takes a look next to him, toeing a piece of rubble and watching it tumble into the crater.

“Aye, in the old copper mines.” Pharazôn traces the jagged edge of the hole, not quite uniform but still seeming like there’s a pattern to how the cracks formed. He almost wants to take the time to try and find out. “I always thought it sounded creepy in there. Now I think I know why… it sounds kind of like this.”

Like he could hear the stone mourning, crying, wasting away. The upheaved dirt and stone had been scattered around after the explosion, luckily to no one’s harm, and the sound of it still rang in his ears.

“..This is far enough away from the gate, isn’t it?” He lifted his head to look in the distance, where the mountains were. “Sauron won’t be able to see this?”

“We are.. a fair distance,” Elder Abîran confirms. “He is called the Great Eye among some of his allies, it seems. Perhaps for a good reason.”

“A spy has eyes,” Pharazôn mutters. “If it’s the Arts he hears, then he should be called the Ear instead.”

“Some say he is long-eared as well. And long-armed, reaching across Middle-Earth to claim things as his own.”

Pharazôn looks at Amandil, who only offers an aborted shrug. No help to be found there. It figured the Faithful wouldn’t have any more information on Sauron, despite decrying him for his terror and horror so much.

Granted, it likely doesn’t help that news of Sauron’s activity doesn’t exactly reach that far West. He just sounds like some otherworld creature right now.

“This will work on the Black Gate, Elder Abîran?”

“We dare not try it before the assault, lest it be tied to Sauron himself and alert him of our actions. But given this amount of destruction with this amount of people, we should be able to do inflict some damage to the gate if the entire army where to be an accompaniment. More, if we had the time to place the proficient ones accordingly.”

“We don’t have time.” Pharazôn rubs some of the dirt between his fingers. It’s a little dry here, but not so much along the river. Much more fertile. It might be prudent to put down settlements near the water in the future. “Place them and teach them through the night.”

Whether this plan goes well or not, and especially if it does not, they can’t overlook Sauron’s retaliation. Keeping a better watch on Mordor will be a great service to all of Middle-Earth. One that the Valar were refusing to do.

“We’ll strike tomorrow at noon, when the sun is highest. That ought to put a leash on those wraiths of his at least.” Pharazôn rubs his chin. “…They are weak in the sunlight, right?”

“All creatures of Darkness wilt in the Light, sire,” the Elder says, making the sign above his brow. “Sauron is no exception.”

notes: i think i’ve already covered the terms in prev chapters but honestly i can’t remember anymore…. anyway. reworking the whole celebrimbor incident. i plan to write the whole thing at some point. i plan to write a whole lot of things at some point.