[Kransha]

A dark figure pranced about, its silhouette against a dark horizon, careless of those who saw or did not see it.

He was there again; in a place he had been but once before, and prayed he would never be again. He felt, with remembered disgust, the blood-caked plains of sandy earth beneath his bare feet, the scorching sun shining onto him from above, a golden ember whose fire filled him with a dark foreboding as its glimmer dwindled with each passing moment and the grave warmth of it became dank cold. The clouds grew great and took upon them many shapes, but all ill shapes. Horned beasts moved across the sky with tainted grace, their glowing shards of eyes gleaming like frozen blood, redder than rubies in the desert or the rays of the sun. Those eyes peered down as the azure sky turned black as death and burned.

Elrigon wanted to flee, but he could not again. He was not reliving the nightmare; he was witnessing it, and could do naught to change it. He wanted to shut his eyes, but he could not. Just as he remembered, his eyes remained stuck open as the clouds focused themselves into a whirlpool of wind, which all centered around a spot on the ground in the distance, overshadowing the horizon. Doom and its sound boomed in the heavens and the shadow beyond moved with the speed of the wind itself towards him, turning the blazing sands to fire that could only be likened to some hellish inferno in another plane of existence. The open desert became a hall of flame and death, from which sprouted tendrils of shadow, great tentacles of sable mist that shot high up and obscured even the darkened sky from view.

The Rider bore down upon him, engulfing the world in his blackness. The Rider’s terrible visage filled Elrigon with dread just as it had the first time he saw it. All life died in an instant, all beauty decayed. The nightmare was relived in an instant – every bit of it. The Shadow, the Rider, the deaths and cries and wailing of his comrades, his kinsmen; stolen from him by this creature from the twisting nether. And, in that same instant, the web of lies and of deceit strung about him became clear and was torn asunder, for now he knew the truth as he saw the Rider of Shadow filling his mind and his heart with agony. He knew the truth! In the form of the Rider, bleak and barren of compassion, he saw many names take shape. Names that fell from the tongue like blood and could not be spoken without a lance of horror following. One name he recognized and one alone.

The horror of the event rang in him, a colossal bell whose toll struck a chord, singing a song of darkness, one unrivaled in heaven and earth in its terrifying beauty, tempting and yet revolting. Elrigon, watching himself and the Rider, knew in that moment all that had transpired, fueled by a greater force that had imbued him with this revelation. As he looked deep into those terrible crimson eyes, he saw a face he knew...two faces he knew.

His eyes opened and he sat bolt upright, gasping for air and covered with icy sweat. He looked around quickly with intent to deduce where he was. He instantly recognized a medical chamber of wing of the palace. The lights of torches and lamps around were dim, barely illuminating the height of the room or its narrow inlets. The marble chamber was empty but for him, the bed he lay upon, and one figure nearby, at the bedside. His head snapped sideways to look upon the figure. Beside his bed stood a very young handmaiden, looking at him in a state of mild shock. Morgôs did not hesitate to shift upon his bed towards her and speak with great urgency, crying out swiftly, “Where is the King?!” He ignored the remnants of pain in his arm, encased in a bandage which stood as the only garment on his upper body. He had to divulge his new epiphany before it escaped him, for he now knew a terrible secret that weighed upon his mind, but was lightening up fast as it decayed. The memory would not last long in him.

Flustered, the handmaiden spoke, “He has retired to his chambers, Gener-” He cut her off without delay. “Fetch the king, now!” He cried, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, kicking some thin sheets off of his sweat-soaked form. The girl looked at him with concern, but a hint of fear induced by his manic behavior. She shook her head apologetically. “It cannot be done, General, not this moment.”

Morgôs was not appeased and continued to cry out, trying to rise from his bed. “You must bring him to me! You must tell him!” His eyes, bloodshot and weary, were also wide and dilating rapidly. The girl took a fearful step back as he tried to rise at first, but then hesitantly moved and began to help him stand. “Tell him what?” She asked, helping him to his feet. Suddenly, his weak arms became strong, and grasped her own arms tightly as he hauled himself bodily upward, his wide eyes shrinking into deep slits. “You must tell him that I know who the Emissary is!” he demanded harshly, “I know what Annatar is!”

“Milord,” the maid gasped, “you are not yourself.”

“No, I am not.” He spat, “I know the truth now.” His fingers, icy cold, coiled like snakes around the maid’s arm and his voice rasped terribly as he cried out. “We must not join with Annatar!” he ordered, “We must not join with him!” The urgent volume in his voice grew out of control, and each syllable caused the handmaiden to wince and pull back, but the maddened Elf would not release her, and his grip became stronger still, his dark eyes staring blankly at her from beneath a shadowy veil. Finally, she answered. “General,” she said, and paused, “…We already have. The Prince and Princess have made their decision.”

Morgôs’ hands softened and released the girl. Quietly, his eyes suddenly returning to their normal size and his eyelids sagging miserably, he staggered back and fell into a sitting position on the bed. “No…” he murmured once, his voice a meager whisper as his head sank and his gaze turned to stare at nothing. Then, he repeated the words as if crushed by them, then again, and a fourth and fifth time, until they faded on his barely moving lips. The truth was within his grasp, but now, as he was refuted by this terrible knowledge, his own knowledge began to fade from him. He was forgetting it as fast as it had come to him. If the decision had been made, the truth was useless to him and to all else. His loyalty bound him to that decision, and his rejection of it was no more than a fool’s dissent. The handmaiden moved hesitantly towards him. “General, what has upset you so?” she asked, but Morgôs responded quickly, rising again. The handmaiden retreated instantly. “I cannot say.” Spoke Morgôs, advancing and issuing a stern order as if he was speaking to a soldier, “Call my lieutenants to me, and my wife, else we all fall into shadow.” He spoke the last words with grim anger, moving towards the maid expectantly, but she merely looked at him, wide-eyed. “You must rest first.” She said, with little hope in her meek voice, but Morgôs would have none of it.

“Rest?” he actually laughed, but not a merry laugh – a grave laugh such as a man might laugh after he has killed a man. “I will not rest. You think such a peck as this can harm me?” he gestured to his bandaged arm, flexing it deftly despite the pain, “Now, call them!” He kept moving forward, and she kept moving backward until she had neared the wall of the noiseless, empty chamber. She did not budge to heed Morgôs’ order and he moved on, angrily, until she was up against the wall of the room, obviously fearful for herself. “You are ill.” She said, trembling slightly where she stood.

“No,” he bellowed at her a moment later, moving drastically forward and grasping the arm of the handmaiden again, “I am cured of my illness, no thanks to you.” Enraged by her disobedience, he wrenched her arm painfully, pushing it upwards against its proper course so that the girl cried out in pain herself. She finally showed sign of resistance, but this merely angered him more. “Call them!” He was so caught up in the urgency of the matter and his rage at being disobeyed that he paid no heed to the girl’s protests. “General, please,” she gasped, “you are hurting me.” But still he did not release her and instead, with his other hand, took her by the throat, closing his fist about the young girl’s neck. “Have you not heard me?” He cried maliciously, “Call them now or I will slay you where you stand! Now!”

All of a sudden, he released her, and watched the girl fall to the ground, sobbing and rubbing her reddened throat, gasping for air and crying all at once. Morgôs’ arm stung again, and mild pain became throbbing and debilitating. With a sort of cough and gasp, the Elf turned and bolted at the door of the room. Without waiting to clothe himself or see to the girl’s injured arm, he rushed down the hall that stemmed from the chamber, into a long colonnade (one of many), running as fast as his graceful Elven legs could carry him. But, before he had gone halfway down the hallway, he stopped in his tracks and those Elven legs withered beneath him. Morgôs fell onto his weak knees, let his head fall into his waiting hands, and wept.

“Traitorous Rhais,” he moaned, “What have you done to me?”

As he spoke, the memory of his dream faded from him. Just so, his mind was wiped of its knowledge and slumbered for an instant. The knowledge of Annatar’s identity was whisked away from him in a flash of dark light, as was his immediate memory of what had occurred. His madness was shed from him like a second skin, and the recollection of it as well. He found himself teary-eyed, for no known reason, on the ice-cold marble, sitting, with very little garb to clothe his wounded form. Confused and dazed, he rose to his feet and began to make his way down the hall, hoping he could find someone who would explain to him what had happened.