chapter 6.

we learn from our masters

summary:

my master was you. you who did not teach, who could not teach. you who did more than others ever did, ever could. you, who they banished, scorned, spurned, for things beyond your control. for the purpose laid within you.

i do not wonder for the past if your purpose were different. if you were not so much yourself as someone else. would our fates align still? would our paths converge if one swayed ever so slightly more?

would you be the traitor, and i the darkness deceiving?

have i always been destined for this path? for there is such a purpose laid within me as well. or was it you who put me there?

would i want it any other way?

Second Age 385

warnings: none

When the sacrificed is slain, consume not the flesh,
for it the embodiment of they who believe in Others, 
who believe that Death is a Gift.
 
Death will not be a Gift. It is a Curse. 
Accept the end if you must, but do not accept it as Fate; 
accept it as a Fate stolen, forced upon us by those 
who would name themselves our Rulers, our Minders. 
Those who would see us lower than what we were, what we Are.

Do not consume the flesh of the Sacrifice. 
It is the flesh of those who believe we were never meant 
to be more than what we are, and to consume it 
is to make us one of them.
 
It is to throw away the chance of regaining 
what is rightfully ours when our Maker returns. 
Because he will return.

 And we embrace the Freedom he has given us.

 Serain, Teachings of Mehrad 12
  

“Why is Shêmut at the Black Gate?” Mairon frowns. “I do not recall sending him there. Nor Khamûl.”

“Perhaps they are eager to please,” Alkhâr says idly. His voice is muffled just slightly against his shawl, and the back of Mairon’s shoulder. “The matter is urgent enough. I would have done the same.”

“You are less affected by daylight.”

Alkhâr lets out a grunt. “Shêmut knows how to Shroud them. That’s probably why he went with Khamûl.”

A hum, curiously. “He is unusually responsible today.”

“You removed the Ring. They worry.”

Mairon turns his head just so. Just enough to see Alkhâr out of the corner of his eye. “Is that why you are holding me?”

Alkhâr’s arm tightens around his waist. It could be simply a precaution against the swaying of the horse, but Mairon takes it as as answer.

From the Ring he feels a twinge and the sensation of his power fluctuating, dipping just slightly. The stress from the two wraiths at the Black Gate lessens, telling him that Shêmut has sung the Song of Shrouding to lower the effect of the sun on them. It is morning still, and the glare is weak enough, but the Shroud will have to be enhanced if they intend to stay out there longer.

A turn of his fingers, and he permits the ring to reserve that sliver of his power needed for it, for later. It is bothersome to feel his energy slipping, even if by a fraction. A fraction of a fraction.

Alkhâr is the only one for whom the sun has little to no effect on. Admittedly, Mairon is not exactly sure of the reason for that… He suspects it’s the Song in him, and Alkhâr’s ability to wield it. The Shroud is less a shroud, and more a Shield.

To this day, Mairon has not seen any other Mannish folk with a greater gift than this one, not even Firiya. The fact that he is Númenórean might have something to do with it.

“Are you sure you are not Half-Elven?” Mairon asks.

“I do not know,” Alkhâr says, less hostile than most Númenóreans are on the topic of Elves these days. He’s had time to mellow. “If my family ever kept record of our ancestry, I do not recall seeing it. By the time it mattered, they were unwilling to speak of it, at least to me.”

“By the time it mattered?”

“When you first asked it of me.”

How long ago that was, now. Mairon remembers it like it was yesterday, currying the favour of the Lord of Faras-azarûn in something like an odd courtship. All he wanted at first was to win over the cousin, the Seer. Amâtthi, she was called then. Khadîn, now.

He hadn’t expected the Lord to be a sorcerer himself, or to become on. A budding witch amidst the still-Faithful.

“I thought it strange to see such talent for the Arts in a Man. A Man without Elven blood, and untaken by the Darkness no less.”

“You would call it Darkness?”

Mairon looks over his shoulder again, at the face hidden beneath the black iron visor. “I would call it what it is.”

Across the valley, he hears the messenger from Ar-Pharazôn through the ears of his wraiths, demanding surrender. Demanding servitude, obeisance, tribute. Demanding reparations. More urgent now than the messages before. It doesn’t seem like they had planned for a long stay, and are eager to leave, one way or another.

Unfortunate, for them.

“…And Darkness cannot exist without a Light to shine upon, besides.”

His life has been a dichotomy of Light and Dark. His hand in Melkor’s. Telperinquar’s in his.

He wonders which hand Ar-Pharazôn will end up being.

“West-Men are so very long-winded, eh?” Shêmut says with a dying chortle. Below them, outside the Gates, is a tiny speck of a Man astride a horse, reading from a roll of paper that must be a mile long. His guard escorts are yawning. “Think they are going to make us read it too?”

Khamûl grunts. He isn’t very talkative outside of Tûlgith and their Master.

In the Dark Lands, as they called it here, literacy was uncommon. Highly respected, but not well-structured enough to teach easily. Shêmut himself is not very fond of reading the script of the Dark Lands. He has always been a warrior, and later, a healer, if one could call it healing that he did.

These days he misses the smell of the black soil after the water recedes, and his vials and herbs are labeled in a mix of Dark Land script, Mordoran Tengwar, and something that the master calls Taliska. Attâlu says ‘It’s basically Adûnaic, I don’t know why he calls it that.’

It was not ‘basically Adûnaic’ and Shêmut did not know why Attâlu kept insisting that it was.

“You’re not even listening,” Khamûl remarks. He’s also not listening.

“I lost interest after they threatened to burn our fields,” Shêmut says. “They cannot do that. The Master specifically had us bread grains that would not burn. Oh– that reminds me…”

The messenger is still talking, droning on in the background while Shêmut makes a few notes in a worn notebook. He goes through them quickly, when he actually uses them. Most of the time he relies on the Master’s memory.

But with the West-Men at their doorstep right now, who knows how much longer their Master will be around. Not that he thinks the Lord of Mordor could ever lose.

Plus, Mairon seems preoccupied with something else.

“..Did they just threaten to destroy the gates?” Khamûl taps his fingers along the railing. It’s hard to hear from this high up. A messenger will probably relay it to them soon. “We should respond.”

“I did not come here to speak with West-Men,” Shêmut supplies helpfully. “You respond.”

Then he realizes that’s a bad idea, but Khamûl is already descending the tower under the nervous eyes of the guards on duty.

“–Wait! Khamûl!” Shêmut shoves the notebook into his satchel and follows the Easterling. “If you start a war, the Master will be very unhappy with you!”

“Good!”

Pharazôn squints.

“Was that a laugh? I thought I heard someone laughing.”

“I believe it was a dying rooster, sire,” Anakhôr says, fanning himself to no avail. “Perhaps plump and fat, being cooked over a fire.”

“How dare you, Lord Anakhôr,” Nalarik says listlessly. His stomach growls despite having just eaten. “How dare you.”

“Oh, but I dare, Lord Nalarik. And I hunger so.”

“That’s not going to get you bigger rations, Lord Anakhôr,” Pharazôn says. He wishes he could commandeer the rations for himself, as King, but that would be unwise.

The messenger they sent looks to have finished reading. The echoes have petered out, he read it so loud. Normally they would wait for a response, but seeing as the Gates are likely nowhere near where Sauron must be, a response could take hours or more.

It’s surprising, then, when Pharazôn spots movement in one of the guard towers through the scope. It doesn’t look like an archer, at least not one aiming to kill their herald, but it isn’t one of the normal guards either. Whatever it is, his herald has noticed the movement as well and is staying put. Perhaps someone is descending to relay a pre-planned message.

Then Pharazôn takes in a sharp breath, and his jaw tightens.

“What is it?” Amandil asks quietly.

“Shades,” Pharazôn says, equally quiet. He rubs his eye, hoping he’s just seeing things, and looks through the scope again. “Wraiths just came out of the towers.”

Two figures, black robed, smaller than he expected. One almost looks the size of an Easterling or Southron; the other is a tad taller, but he can’t tell for sure at this distance. They’re on horses, also. Even more difficult.

“What do you think?” he asks, handing the scope over to Amandil.

Amandil looks through it, frowning visibly around the eyepiece. He focuses it on a few other places as well, but eventually settles back on the main gate.

“The guards aren’t behaving strangely or differently than usual.. no sign of any messages or signals being sent up. Unless Sauron is at the gate already, they’ll have to communicate our message to him one way or another.” Amandil gives the scope back. “We haven’t been able to get much information on Mordor, except that we know the volcano is several hours ride from the gate. If Sauron is anywhere near there…”

“Well, he can’t expect us to wait any longer than we already have,” Pharazôn says. Discontent is not unknown to them with the situation as it is currently. “We’ve given them enough of a fair warning now. If Sauron doesn’t surrender himself, we’ll break down that gate and come get him ourselves.”

“I can’t imagine they won’t think you’re bluffing.”

“That’s fine with me. Then they’ll know we aren’t joking around when we tell Sauron we’re going to make him pay for everything he’s done.”

Amandil gave him an exasperated look, one of many in this trip alone. Luckily, no one else is watching them. “How, exactly?”

“…Killing him would be easiest.”

“That’s certainly the quickest way to start a war with Mordor. If it even works.”

“My, but you are a pessimist today, old friend.”

“I prefer the term overly cautious. Something you might want to get familiar with, Pharazôn.”

“I wouldn’t be enjoying the popularity and position I have now if I were overly cautious.”

“I wonder, sometimes,” Amandil says, “and this is speaking just candidly and hypothetically of course– I wonder sometimes how different it’d be if you hadn’t married Míriel.”

“Her name is Zimraphel, Amandil.”

Amandil’s face twitches. “.. If you hadn’t married her and become king. She’d be queen and we wouldn’t be sitting here burning up in the day and freezing our asses off at night.”

“I think about that sometimes.” Pharazôn collapses the scope and sets it back in his pocket. He’s lost it a few too many times from setting it down by now. “But I would’ve found some other way to become king. I’d still be out here, in Middle-Earth, on the seas, fighting Sauron’s forces. We’ve been fighting him for decades now, you know. Sooner or later I would stand up and tell everyone, it’s time to put an end to this warring, time to put an end to Sauron once and for all. Tar-Palantir is my uncle, I’m as much of the royal lineage as anyone. Seizing the scepter…”

Amandil doesn’t respond right away. Pharazôn has heard what he had to say on the matter before, heard his caution and warning when he found out Pharazôn was intending to wed the late Tar-Palantir’s only daughter. His own cousin. He heard what everyone had to say about it back then.

Nothing has changed much since, save for the increasingly wild rumors.

“..I’ll admit, you were main reason why our settlements had been safe for so long. I don’t doubt the people would have supported your claim to the throne even with just that, if the conflict had gone on any longer.”

“You’re just saying that to fluff up my ego.”

“I’m not, Pharazôn. I mean it. But–” Amandil gives pause, seeming to weigh his next words. Whether to be careful with them or for some other reason, Pharazôn can only guess. “..Tar-Miriel–“

“Ar-Zimraphel.”

“–Stop that.”

“Use her proper name, then.”

Amandil’s face does the twitching thing again before he smooths it out into something reluctant. “Fine. Ar-Zimraphel. She’s done a lot of work for the people on Númenor, almost as much as you have. Enough to erase the worries of another like Tar-Vanimeldë, may she rest the gods.” Pharazôn does not repeat the prayer, though he mirrors the gesture of respect. “And with her being Tar-Palantir’s direct descendant, next in line for the throne… it’s hard to say who would get it if the two of you went head-to-head.”

Pharazôn gives the table another tap, thoughtful. “It would’ve been messy, wouldn’t it.”

“Númenor doesn’t need another internal power-struggle,” Amandil agrees. “But I imagine that’s what would have happened.”

“You’re right, of course. We thought about that for a while. And we decided not to go head-to-head.”

When he sees the herald starting to turn around and ride back to them, shades in tow, Pharazôn stands up.

“Now, let’s go see what those wraiths have to say.”

Alkhâr’s unbreath leaves him in a disgruntled rush.

“..They have no idea how far away the Tower is from the Gates.”

“They are ill-prepared.” Mairon urges their horse to hurry, for they have a ways to go still. It’s a trip they should have started hours earlier, were it not for the ceremony and the crowd. “But they do not seem to be starving just yet. There is strength in them, and in their claims.”

“Drag you out of Mordor in chains,” Alkhâr recites a line from the herald’s message, Ar-Pharazôn’s declaration to the Lord of Mordor. “When will people realize that chains don’t work.”

“No need to tell them… Let them feel secure in their machinations, for once.” Mairon nearly rolls his eyes. In jest, of course. “After all, did you not feel satisfied having me in your little prison for a night?”

“Those were iron bars, not chains.”

“Iron is iron, all the same.”

“… I suppose.” The wraith pauses. “.. And it did. It was satisfying to know, or think we knew, that we had the terrible and mighty Sauron locked away.”

Another pause. Fingers drum over Mairon’s stomach, wrapped in iron black.

“Until you broke out of it, anyway.”

“They were very mortally built,” Mairon says, humming. Built of stone and lined with wood, barred with iron. Not a touch of Elven influence to be seen, except: “The Song of Holding was well-faded. Easily broken.”

“Relics of the past. We had not the skill to maintain it, then. Would it have worked?”

“Sung by the Mannish folk? Hardly.” Mairon laughs. It is not mocking. “But I might have been convinced to stay another night to appreciate it. Longer, if your cousin had not paid me a visit.”

Alkhâr rasps out a dissatisfied grumble. “I knew she had something to do with it.”

Mairon laughs again.

In the past this had been a contentious subject. When the two of them still lived, it had never been broached; not by Mairon because it was not his piece to say, and not by Khadîn, who did not think it important enough to be discussed. It was only Alkhâr who held it against them in his silence.

Not so much now, though. Some grudges do not last 1600 years.

“Can we actually be considered 1600 years old?” Alkhâr muses.

“Why not? Just because you no longer age physically does not mean you are not aging. Elsewise an Elf would never age, and my existence could never be explained.”

“You never have explained it.”

Mairon leans forward and twists around in his seat, letting Alkhâr pick up the slack in the reigns to keep their horse on track. The wraith alternates between looking ahead and looking at Mairon.

“You have never asked.” His head tips. He is aware that he has never offered to tell either, either, and his servants are nothing if not privy to his privacy. “..Do you want to know it?”

Though in most cases, it’s just that the tale is so lengthy and far-removed from the present that the thought of reflecting on it makes him… weary. At a loss to how to address it, how to explain the daily live of an Ainu. How drearily long wars were, how he spent most of this days ensconced with metal and stone, digging coal out of the ground for the furnaces.

So much coal. So much work.

“I know that you have met Melkor, Morgoth, Enemy of the Elves,” Alkhâr says. Reciting, perhaps. “I know that you have served him as I have served you. That he chose you as his speaker, his prophet. You call yourself Mannish, but no Sorcerer, Elf or Man, could hold a candle to the Arts you wield. None that still live.. or perhaps that ever lived. No Incarnate.”

Mairon has never spoken of himself at length, not in the way that Incarnates do. He speaks of family without naming any, of friends without faces, of loves without lives. He speaks of time as though it did not exist, as though ‘now’ and ‘then’ were separated by nothing more than a wall as thin as spider silk.

He speaks of his life as though he has simply walked through it, a bystander to his own machinations and schemes.

(to speak of it otherwise would be to live it again, to remember who he schemed for, worked for, loved for. the one who bade him to live, above all else. live so that they might see each other again before the ending of the world.)

“I know that you say you love him, as you have loved others. In the same way, the same manner.” Alkhâr flicks the reigns and they begin to pick up pace. “I know that you have sworn to serve him until your death, and that you are Undying.”

The prickle at the edge of his mind grows sharper. He has ever been perceptive of anger and resentment, for his is a fickle master; easy to please and easy to anger, and not usually willing to compromise. To settle for less.

“And,” Alkhâr continues, quiet, a ghost of a breath upon Mairon’s cheek; the metal visor pressing to him a mockery of a kiss, “I know that you lie.”

“Even so.” He does not turn away. “Here you are.”

“..Even so,” Alkhâr echoes, “here I am.”

With Elves it was never an issue of choice, for their choice was their own, always. They might be convinced to see another way, or swayed to conceded, but to take the mind and soul of an Elf, to enslave it, was no easy task if they were unwilling, strong as their spirits were. They would flee before they broke. Mairon knows this.

He knew Teleprinquar, ambitious and desperate, trying to right a wrong that was not his to right. He knew Maeglin, jealous and unloved, with a dead mother and a murderer of a father. Maedhros, to his credit, remained largely unbroken, though it wasn’t as if they tried particularly hard to break him.

(in the end it seems he broke himself. the scions of Fëanor seemed to have that habit in common.

oaths have never been kind to their keepers.)

Melkor was the only one for whom the strength of a mind made no difference. And though Mairon had his suspicions as to why, it was easier to let the world believe in the strength of his master.

Men, however, are a different matter. They always have been, since Melkor found them.

“Come with me,” Mairon says, his touch light upon the reigns in Alkhâr’s hands. “I would have you by my side when I treat with Ar-Pharazôn.”

“..As you wish.”

While he is content to hear it, the words also give rise to a sting in Mairon’s chest. He has felt this before, he thinks; and he has heard those words before, he knows.

The words are his own; he has said them to Melkor countless times. As you wish, my Lord. As you command, master. Good and loyal he thought it was, then. He still thinks it is now.. but for the sting in his chest. But for that, this would mean nothing more than what it is. A loyal servant. That is, after all, all that he needs.

(yet somewhere along the way, he began to want for more. or perhaps he had always wanted more? had he become his master in truth?)

Then Alkhâr leans forward, closer. A hum falls in the scant space between them like trickle of water. Perhaps the sting is his own imagination, a shadow of the past. The curl of darkness his master must have once felt.

“We should hurry,” Mairon says. He murmurs a string of notes, lending a measure of his power unto the beast they ride so that it might go faster. It will be needed, to bear two people so large, even if one them is mostly just hollow armor. “There is much to be done before the end.. and so little time to do it.”

He looks to the East where the sun is rising from, and in earlier days he would have been able to see the horizon. The edge of the world. The shadow upon the lands.

Then his head lilts to the side, seeing and hearing another sight, another sound. Sees the approach of what must be the King of the West-Men through the eyes of his wraiths. Hears their words through the rings.

“So demanding,” Alkhâr notes with little humor.

“Yes, they are.” Mairon hums. Turns his attentions to Shêmut, and Khamûl, leagues upon leagues away. “Well.. we have kept them waiting long enough. Tell him–“

“–We refuse your demands, King of Númenor.”

“Well,” Amandil mutters at his side, just loud enough for Pharazôn to hear, “at least they aren’t beating around the bush anymore.”

It’s not funny. Not that he wasn’t expecting an answer of that sort, given how long they’ve had to wait already, but it still isn’t funny. His men are tired and not in the best of shapes, the sun is hot, and it’s been looking like storm clouds on the horizon for some time now.

“You refuse them, wraith? I doubt your master has even caught wind of our most recent message.”

“He has,” the shade says, almost mirthful. “He refuses.”

Amandil gives him a sharp look. Surely it is impossible– Mordor is not small, and the tower cannot be so close to the gate that a message can be sent so quickly. Barely any time had passed at all. Moreover, the previous times they sent a hail, their heralds were notified that the message was being relayed to the Black Spire, where their Master dwells.

There is no such indication this time. They’re lying. They have to be.

“We do not lie, King of West-Men,” the other wraith says, Easterling-accented. It must’ve shown on his face. He doesn’t like the idea that they can read minds, too. “The Master sees through our eyes, and hears of our minds.”

It raises a hand. In the gap between the pieces of the gauntly, Pharazôn espies a glint of gold and some sort of gemwork. A Ring of Power, then.

So the rumors were true.

Pharazôn frowns, tries not to let his anger show. “This is what he kept us waiting an entire week for?”

The wraith tips its head. “Most people would have gotten the message by now and stopped waiting.”

“Is that his final answer, then?” Pharazôn demands one last time. This time loud enough to be heard by his council members nearby, and the guards on duty as well, so that none could say they did not give their enemy time to consider actions. “Sauron will not surrender to us to pay for the crimes he committed against the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth?”

“You,” says the wraith, “have no such right.”

If he could see a face he imagines there would be a sneer, mocking and haughty. What would an Easterling know, after all– they were the ones on Sauron’s side when he razed Eregion. These people had likely been swayed by Morgoth himself in the bygone days, and now by his servant, Sauron.

There was no point arguing with these sorts of people.

“Then we will be true to our end of it!” Pharazôn announces, stepping forward. “Let none be mistaken that you were not forewarned. We have stated it clearly; Sauron will surrender himself before us. If he will not leave his tower, we will enter Mordor and drag him out ourselves. Only death awaits those who oppose us!”

“I am the Undying,” one wraith says with a dry, crackling laugh. “I was Undying before I became the Undeath. I have escaped worse things than you, West-Man King. Death does not frighten me.”

The shade turns and heads back to the gate, its cloak whipped up in the sudden wind. The other one, the Easterling, steps up to face Pharazôn directly.

“Your threats fall upon deaf ears,” it says, hissing and hoarse. “I am a khamûl. I am the Khamûl, I am the Tyrant of the East. My lands stretched farther and more freely than your pitiful island ever has, King Pharazôn. The fields I roamed would make your kingdom seem a pittance. I fear no West-Man, not even if he is the Emissary of the Gods.”

“Be those words of a servant, wraith? Or words of their master?” The creature does not reply. Pharazôn sneers. “No matter. Gods did not send me here; I came here myself, by my own right. I bring not the judgment of a higher being, but the wrath of those living here on this very earth! Though I do not expect barbaric folk like you to understand.”

“Barbaric?” the wraith spits out, threatening enough for its small stature. The darkness it exudes is chilling Pharazôn to the bone, but he stands firm against it. “Strange words, from a conquerer himself! You think yourself better because you use ships to raid and pillage instead of horses and camels? Because your war and bloodshed is bathes iron and steel, not fur and leathers? Death tracks into your homes as much as it does ours. You are no less barbaric than I, Ar-Pharazôn.”

The creature’s head dips and it makes a spitting sound. Pharazôn half expects some ghastly phlegm to come from its unseen mouth, but all he feels is a sharp drop in temperature and the overwhelming urge to flee.

Not overwhelming enough.

“I do not like my master,” the wraith says in a growl. It palms the scabbard at its waist– and Pharazôn makes an aborted reach for his own sword –with the closest hand, half-hidden by the long, tattered robes it wears. Trinkets litter its clothing; the color is long-since faded faded but they are assuredly Easterling in design and make. “But I despise the West even more. We do not surrender! Not I, and certainly not the Lord of Mordor. Go back to your island, King of Men. No Man in these lands will answer to you.”

It whirls around, and were it anything else, Pharazôn would have admired the form of its horse as it pranced away.

“You’re a thing of the past, khamûl!” Pharazôn shouts to the wraith’s retreating form. “And your master as well! We have cages enough for you and your ilk, when this is over.”

“If I might, sire,” Nalarik says cautiously, “I don’t think that was a very good idea. Provoking them so.”

“Maybe not,” Pharazôn admits. The wraiths are gone, but he still feels cold. “Tell the priests to get ready, Lord Halazar. We will strike at noon as planned.”

“He’ll have taken precautions now that we’ve announced it,” Amandil reminds them. “Even if it takes hours to get to where Sauron is, you heard them– Once they hear it, he has, too.”

“If it takes hours to get to where he is, then it’ll take him hours to get to where we are,” Pharazôn says. “And that’s if he rides alone. How long did it take us to get an army together to march to Mordor? Weeks, Amandil. Maybe they’ve got something setup for emergency marching, but supplies? Provisions?”

“They could have a standing army, Pharazôn,” Amandil says in a low murmur. “We know Sauron is a conquerer. What conquerer isn’t ready for war at the drop of a hat?”

It feels as much a jab at Numenor as it is at Mordor. But they are only defending themselves against the threat that is Sauron; and they are not conquering, but liberating people from the Darkness that clouds them. Sauron is the greatest cloud above Mordor, above all of Arda, save for Morgoth himself.

Morgoth, however, is in the Void, which isn’t really anything the Númenóreans specialize in. Sauron is here, and that is something they can handle. And they will. Handle this.

“Have the men standing by for cover.” He gives it another moment of thought. “..And tell the archers they’re free to take a shot if Sauron shows his face.”

Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t make Amandil any less concerned.

Khamûl returns to the guard towers beside the gate, only to find it cleared out and silent. He feels a sense of restlessness– an odd thing, considering it’s been a while since he felt restless in a way that wasn’t aimed at the wide open fields.

He doesn’t like it.

Shêmut is at the battlements at the top, pacing. Shêmut paces often though, especially outside his and Attâlu’s lab. Or inside it. They’ll pace anywhere.

“He sent them away?” Khamûl asks.

“Have caution,” Shêmut says in a voice not quite his own. The gait, Khamûl notices now, is also not his own. “I heard here whispers of a song not ours.“

“I saw priests,” Khamûl says before their master asks. Because he knows Mairon will ask, verbally or otherwise. “Perhaps they pray.”

“Perhaps.“

Shêmut goes still, murmuring under his breath. It doesn’t sound like the Black Tongue. Then, his head snaps up and he looks around.

“He sent them away?” Shêmut scratches his head, or what he can of it. Must be a habit from his living days. When he still had a head. “Why?”

“Song,” Khamûl replies. He doesn’t bother to elaborate. “We should probably leave, too.”

No, says the master, in a whisper from the shadows. It makes Khamûl pause mid-step on his way towards the stairs. You will stay. Remind them that they are being watched.

Khamûl snarls. He does not like his leash.

But their master is too distracted to placate him like he usually does, so Khamûl simmers in silence with only a medicine man for company.

“Hey!” Shêmut retorts. Their master hasn’t silenced them entirely. “I am good company.”

“You are company,” Khamûl admits. “Which is more than can be said for the others. Especially Dimna.”

I resent that! Dimna kicks up a fuss from wherever he is. Khamûl wonders if his leash is being pulled as well.

You’re supposed to, he says blithely.

Ai, Khamûl. A thousand years and you are still so unfriendly. So surly.

I don’t know why you expected me to change, Dimna.

A change of pace is exciting, my Easterling friend. Being the same is boring. Let us have a spar when you are returned!

Fine. Khamûl pauses. …I am not your friend.

You are my friend.

Shêmut cackles next to him. Khamûl sends him a look of long-suffering and doesn’t reply to Dimna, which only makes him more insistent and boisterous.

It’s going to be a long few hours.

The hymn begins with a hum.

The acolyte, Cuiliel, sets the beginning tune, the beat, the rhythm. It’s not song in the sense of being pleasant to hear. It’s not a song one would listen to at a festival, played by musicians or sung by performers. Not a song one enjoys hearing at leisure.

But it is powerful. It’s strong and heavy, forces Pharazôn’s heart to beat in an unusual pattern, thrums through him like a strong and well-aged wine. Gives him a rush that feels the same.

Cuiliel is soon joined by the other acolytes; they’ve been split into two groups equally, one to work now and the other on stand-by, in case of accident or success. If something goes wrong, the second group can pick up the pieces. If it succeeds, they have a backup to cause more damage if they so wish.

Pharazôn does so wish.

The first wave of destruction hits the ground like the ocean tide against the side of a ship. It lurches, visibly, ill-aimed and no doubt a waste of energy– but it is working. Elder Abîran barks an order and does what Pharazôn can only term as directing the force. The words he says and the notes he sings must be a focal point, for he sees ripples distorting the air, rising, aimed now towards the Black Gate instead of at the ground.

Behind the priests stand a full quarter of the marching army, swords raised in their sheaths as a crude method to direct their energy. All those with Elven traces in their lineage had been conscripted and split, just as the priests and acolytes were. The rest are made up of those who show an aptitude for the Arts after thorough examination by the priests. This combination, Elder Abîran told him, would be most effective, and most efficient. They must still reserve some of their forces for storming the land, after all.

And the effects are indeed spectacular.

Clouds of dust rise with the trembling of the earth, alike to but greater than an earthquake. Some of the men not at the front are looking for ways to brace themselves, finding no other option but to kneel or crouch down.

Kings do not kneel, so Pharazôn uses a spear instead.

Before long he can see the tremors reach the base of the gate, shaking off layers of dust from its walls. The sound echoes across the plains, almost as though he were underwater. It rumbles, makes the metal groan, pulls at its seams. Like tearing a dress apart.

The chanting grows louder, stronger, and something on the Gate pops, releasing sharp line of dust as the plated pieces come apart.

Pharazôn feels a thrill in him to see something so grand be taken down by mere sound, mere Song.

“Imagine, Amandil,” he says, a low murmur compared to the rising crescendo. “Imagine if we could do the same to the Black Tower. To Sauron.”

“They call that overconfidence, Ar-Pharazôn,” Amandil replies, gravely. He and Lord Nalarik are not quite as excited as the rest of them. “It has been the doom of many Men.”

“Not us, friend.” Pharazôn steels himself as the first piece from the top of the gate towers begins to bend and sway. “Not I.”

It snaps off, comes down like lined up bone tiles. Crashes down, like water.

“You know, Khamûl,” Shêmut remarks, voice shaking with the ground beneath their feet. “For all that you claim to hate our master, you are very much like him.”

“Hate is a strong word,” Khamûl says, wiping the fey grin from his face. He’s not sure if it’s his own or their master’s. “I am merely holding him to his.”

“Did he make a promise with you, too?”

“He made promises with all of us. Did you think any of the us were here out of loyalty?”

“Firiya might be.” The Darklander laughs. Khamûl grunts in agreement. “The master promised me the chance to destroy disease and illness. Now I am on the cusp of life and death, no closer to a cure for the common cold than the next person.”

“There’s no such thing as a cure for the cold,” Khamûl snorts. “He lied to you.”

“Perhaps. But I have found remedies for many others, in the mean time.” The battlements sway, threatening to fall. Khamûl already sees the black iron plating peeling away, fastenings coming loose with sharp cracks and bangs. And still they are commanded to stay. “What did he promise you?”

Khamûl frowns. He remembers that day as if it were yesterday.

The day his men dragged their rival’s sorcerer into his tent and he demanded the man’s surrender, demanded he pay for the death of their own with his life. How the sorcerer brought them all to their knees with but a single Song, and then extended a hand in friendship instead of finishing them off.

He remembers being in awe, and being ashamed of his own lack. How his own shamans seemed paltry in comparison, just like Pharazôn’s priests did now.

But Khamûl is sure that the fate of Pharazôn will not be like his own fate.

“..He promised me the world.”

Mairon has no more rings, after all.

“Oh. Well. Let us hope we do not die before that happens, eh?”

Khamûl sends Shêmut a dirty look just as the ground beneath them gives way. They plummet to the ground in silence, accompanied by naught but the roar of shattering stone, and shrieking metal.

notes

khamul is really… [chef kiss fingers] like that. he just is.