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Old 11-18-2008, 12:40 PM   #271
Messenger of Hope
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Join Date: Jun 2005
Location: In a tiny, insignificant little town in one of the many States.
Posts: 5,228
Folwren is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.Folwren is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.
Uldor's decision

Ulfast was dead. His blood was still pooling beneath him. Uldor looked at Brodda, a question flickering in his dark eyes. Treachery! The word echoed in Uldor’s mind. But where was the treachery? Lying at his feet, perhaps, but not in Brodda.

Ulfast had actually tried to kill him. Why? Why had he tried? Why had he not had someone else do the job? Who had prompted him to raise his own hand and strike? He must have known that it was too dangerous.

Perhaps there was more of a web binding close around Uldor than he thought. Perhaps there was a greater power at work.

With a growl of anger stemmed from indefinable fear, Uldor shoved his way past Brodda and quickly hurried back towards his chambers.

A decision must be made soon! Tathren, now that Lachrandir was dead, would be leaving shortly, and an answer must be given for him to take to Caranthir.

But then there was lord Morgoth. His ambassador, Jord, seemed to appear with the thought. He saw her amidst the slanting shadows of the pillared hall through which he now walked.

He altered his course to draw near her. She faced him. He hardly noticed the darkening, purple bruises lining her pale throat. He looked her in the eye, a thing even he rarely dared to do.

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow you shall have my answer.”

Then without awaiting a response, he turned and walked away. He locked his chamber door and went to the window. There he sat a long vigil, watching the sky darken, the moon rise and pass over the field of stars, and even when the moon passed from his sight and sank towards the western sky, still he sat, wakeful and silent.
His thoughts took on the form of images. Picture after picture rose before his mind’s eye. War was waged. Elves, men, orcs, and creatures for which he had no name fought and died. Sometimes the elves won in the struggle, but only at bitter costs. More frequently, Morgoth, the mighty on, the dark, cruel master, won - and his vision ran with blood…blood but infinite power.

Then came the memory of Lachrandir’s body – torn and mangled. And then he saw Ulfast – gasping in shock and pain before crumpling to the ground at his feet. There was power. There was the ability to rule over life and death. The elves did not have it. Ulfast had not had it. Uldor had not died. He was vulnerable – aye, as long as she stood against the greater power, he would always be subject to execution.

Power. The word tempted him, just out of reach but so near! So easily achieved! He but had to speak to Jord and tell her that he had decided. Tathren would go home, bearing promises of aid. This way, Uldor and his people would profit Morgoth most, for in the heat of the battle, Uldor and his men could take the elves unaware and tip the scales to the Valar’s end.

The red rim of an angry sun rose above the eastern horizon.

Udlor’s mind was made up.
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