Shadow of the West

[alaklondewen]

A bright flash illuminated the sitting room where Arlomë paced across the luxurious rug that ran its length. Rolling thunder followed and the elf rubbed the chill from her arms. “I tell you, Evrathol, something is not right.” Arlomë paused momentarily to look over her son who was nestled in the pillows of the long sofa that faced the fire. Evrathol said nothing, and she continued her course. This had been a strange day indeed. First, her confrontation with Morgôs had led to her first glances of the images that haunted her husband’s mind, but she had not had the time to truly consider the implications of these sketches, however, due to the unexpected visit from the Emissary. That man was dark…and cold. He was a brilliant performer…she could not deny that, but underneath, in the recesses that lay behind his bright eyes, a power the likes of which the elf had not seen for many lifetimes of men rolled and intensely filled him like smoke fills a bottle. The elf ran the meeting through her mind and wondered at the keen interest and knowledge the Emissary had dealing with the properties of the flora that were contained within her garden. More specifically, he asked her about several interactions the plants might have when heated or their extracts combined. Arlomë stopped again, this time in front of the large picture window that overlooked the courtyard. Spinning on her heel, she said, “I do not believe, for a moment, that man had a healthy interest in how our plants might lead to new medicines in his country. He is hiding something. The truth was not what he presented, but something dark.”

“I do not disagree with you, mother.” Evrathol sat forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “There is something else, I believe, that is going on. Do you feel it?”

“I do,” she said softly. Her eyes drifted down to her slender hands as she nervously ran her thumbs across the tops of her fingernails. After only half of an hour had passed in the gardens, the Emissary had suddenly behaved very strangely. The sky was darkening and it seemed rain was imminent, when he sharply turned his head toward the darkest clouds and narrowed his eyes as though he was reading or making out words from far away. Almost immediately afterward he jolted from the bench, thanking Arlomë quickly, and rather ungraciously, and then bolted from the estate, saying he had a meeting with the King. As though the whole affair did not make her uneasy enough, shortly after his departure, a feeling of dread had fallen on the Avari estate. At first, Arlomë had shaken it off as resulting from the terrible storm that began to rage outside, and she wondered at how Rae repaid the people of Kanak for building a temple to him. At this moment, however, she felt as though some evil was at work, although she knew not how or what actions had fallen upon the city.

“I can go out and seek word if anything has happened this day.” Evrathol offered.

“No, no, son. I would not wish you to brave this storm.” Arlomë turned toward the window again and watched the water beat her beautiful plants and fill the puddles of her pathways.

“I am not afraid of the storm, mother, and I might be able to discover what is causing this alarm that fills us both.” Arlomë turned from the window and searched Evrathol’s face. He was so handsome and brave as he sat before her. She could see the passion in his eyes.

The elf began to walk slowly toward Evrathol as she spoke. “My son, I know you are brave and are able to handle yourself, but I would hope for you to stay with me here.” Her voice was calm, but showed a small amount of vulnerability. “Your presence is calming to me…please stay.” Arlomë knelt and took her son’s hand, gently squeezing it. “I need you here, Evrathol.” She patted his hand and her eyes wondered to the window as she spoke almost under her breath. “If only Elrigon would return to the safety of his home.”

As the name of her husband fell from her lips, Arlomë’s eyes widened and a look of horror passed over her face. Mist covered her eyes and she collapsed at her son’s feet. “Elrigon!” She cried as she fell. Evrathol’s voice calling her name sounded as though it came from a far distance, but she could not respond to him. The veil that lay before her eyes rose momentarily, and she saw that it was not a mist, but dust that was settling. At her feet, Morgôs’ limp body was sprawled out. Tears ran down Arlomë’s cheeks as she fell to her knees and touch his face. Her eyes ran over him and she saw the blood that covered his arm. “Elrigon, this is not your time.” Her voice was firm through her tears. “You are not leaving me, my love.”

“Mother! Wake up! Mother!”

The vision was gone, and Arlomë opened her eyes and gazed into her son’s anxious face. “Evrathol, your father!” Her words were fragmented between labored breaths. “He is in danger…”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

His son was the first to arrive and Faroz had to admit to himself his disappointment in this. At this moment, it was the strength and resolute determination of his daughter that he needed, even though it came now at the price of Korak’s loathsome presence. Siamak presented himself to the King with proper decorum, making sure to do his obeisance at the foot of the dais, but then for a moment it appeared as though he was about to come up to his father for some further gesture. The moment, Faroz knew, was filled with emotion for the boy but at no time could he allow one, even his son, to transgress the proper forms and rites of the court. To forestall the action of his child, Faroz came down the few steps and took his son by the shoulders. He spoke quietly, but clear enough that the others who remained about him could hear. “Your mother is murdered, my son, and Pashtia has been attacked by the Alanzians. I will need you to be strong in the days ahead…you and your sister both.” And as he spoke of Gjeelea he shot the Chamberlain Jarult a guarded look that told the aged man of the King’s displeasure that his daughter had not come yet. The old servitor bowed slightly and hurried off once more to fetch her to the Court directly.

Siamak was speaking once more, and though he tried to command his voice it was clear that he was trembling with some terrible anxiety. He was worried, and a bit frightened. “Khamul,” he began, “there is yet more for you to know. The General Morgôs has been attacked and even now lies gravely wounded in the Temple of Rhais.”

A gasp of horror ran through the court, and the senseless panic, which had only just now begun to subside, once again began to threaten to break loose. To quell it, Faroz spoke quickly, demanding to hear the full tale. Siamak told what he had seen and of his actions. Faroz was pleased with his son’s bravery in confronting such an unknown circumstance, and the good sense he had shown in dealing with the aftermath. These feelings were apparent when he spoke next. “You have done well, my son, and done credit to me and…” he faltered in the formulaic phrase, which should have continued with and to your mother. In the silence that followed he said simply, “Your mother always told me that there was a strength in you, as yet untested and thus unseen. It gladdens me to see that she was right in this, as in so many other things.”

Something in the King’s tone made Siamak realise for the first time that his mother was truly gone, and bowing his head he sought to hide his tears. Faroz bade him to hold his head up high, “for such a cause of weeping has not been known in my court for many a year, and I would not have you be ashamed of a grief that is manly. But let us not allow our own feelings to distract us from our duty either. You have done much for the General already, but there is more to do.” Faroz turned to a nearby soldier, one whom he recognised as a chief lieutenant to Morgôs. “Go to the Temple of Rhais and have the General brought here to the Palace. Let him be borne into the Royal House of Healing and tended there. Send also for his wife and son, and let them know what has happened. The Lady Arlomë will no doubt wish to see her husband, but you must remind her that her first duty this night is to her Queen, for my wife must be prepared for her funeral tomorrow morning.” The lieutenant bowed and then rushed from the hall to do his King’s bidding. “In the meantime,” Faroz continued, “in the absence of my daughter my son and I must now take counsel to the matter of the Lord Annatar's offer of allegiance. The Emissary has spoken to me often of a race of beings in his land who are the enemy of Men. He has called these creatures orcs and his descriptions of them well match what we have seen and heard here this day.” And at this, all eyes fell upon the hideous head where it lay upon the dais, once again wrapped in its dirty canvas bundle. “The Emissary and his fellows have great experience of these beings and I believe would be of great use to us if we are to fight them, but to ask their aid in this is impossible unless there is a formal alliance between our realms. My son, the time has come for you and your sister to make a decision in this matter, for it was to you both that I laid the charge of deciding whether or not to accept this alliance. What say you?”

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Over the pounding of the rain and occassional boom of thunder Gjeelea thought to clear the awkward silence. Before she could open her mouth, the servant of the house, Morashk, entered the room with a rain-soaked young man. Korak stood swiftly, seeming almost relieved at the interruption. Lady Hababa turned to see who had entered, and when she saw the stranger next to the servant her eyes widened.

"My lady, my lord," Morashk began, looking to Lady Hababa and Korak. Turning to Gjeelea he bowed his head. "Princess, this messenger bids you go with him to the palace."

"Why do you interrupt my visit so?" Gjeelea commanded of the messenger, giving him a stone-cold glare that might have chilled him more than the rain that soaked him - or more than the news he carried.

"My Princess," the man bowed deep from the waist. "Several events have unfolded that require you to be present with the King and the Prince Siamak. I humbly request that you come with me at once; it is the King's orders."

"I see," Gjeelea stood and went to Lady Hababa. Moving to kiss the old woman's cheek, the princess whispered in her ear. "If dark things have unfolded this day, I will right them, lady." She then moved to go to Korak, but stopped herself and instead went to the waiting messenger. Gjeelea looked to Korak and gave a nod. "I shall see you soon."

"Wait!" Korak controlled his voice so that it did not come out as a shout. "As an upstanding member of the court, I will come with you."

Gjeelea's heart fell; she had gotten through enough time with him to make her sick to her stomach. The princess did not want to spend more time with Korak than was completely necessary. Sighing, the princess nodded again. "If it pleases you," she paused, searching for the right way to address Korak. His station was beneath her - there was no need to call him 'Lord Korak'. He was not her husband yet, and no justification to name him so. It made her heart hurt to call him her love, for he was most certainly not. "Yes, if it pleases you, Korak."

After preparing as best they could for the terrible rain, the trio left the home of Lady Hababa and Lord Korak, trying their best to keep as dry as possible in the pounding of the rain. Robes, coats, and all other attempts to keep comfortable and dry failed miserably, and Gjeelea was left with the deafening sound of rain and her own dark thoughts. What did it mean that Lady Hababa could feel the evil of the day? Gjeelea still did not know what had transpired that prompted her father to call a messenger out for her. Had the rain and thunder not impeded all communication between the three travelers, the princess might have asked the messenger.

After what felt like days out in the rain, the group finally reached the palace. Dismissing the messenger Gjeelea lead her betrothed through the halls. As they neared the hall of the King's dias, Gjeelea could hear whispers echoing against the walls and through the air. When the two entered the great room, they were greeted by the sight of court people gathered around Siamak and the King.

"What say you?" Gjeelea heard as she stepped further into the room. Nobles moved from her as she walked closer to her father and brother. Korak followed behind her. When they had approached the king both knelt low before him. After this, Gjeelea stood first and looked to where her brother stood, his eyes glistening in a way the princess had not seen since he had been a little boy crying for his mother.

"Father," she addressed the king directly, her eyes meeting his. His eyes held some emotion she had never seen before in her father. Her gaze left Faroz for a moment and she caught the faces of the nobles and others gathered in the room - their faces holding the same anxiety that welled up in her father's eyes. "What has happened this day that causes such panic and chaos?"

[Firefoot]

Siamak swallowed hard. Had the messenger sent to his sister been so inept as not to tell Gjeelea what was going on? Had not his sister asked? In his own grief he felt contemptuous (rightfully so or not) at Gjeelea for not being more knowledgeable of the situation. Something needed to be done; there was not time to be standing around explaining the situation. If he thought about it, though, Siamak would have known that this was not a fair outlook at all; however, his new thirst for action was an escape from thinking. Careful thinker as he was, thoughts of his mother would tear him apart. He had loved her, in his way; he had not spent much time with her in recent times but always she was there, the comforting presence that ran the palace while his father dealt with more important affairs. No, despite his earlier desire for time to think, no longer did he want such time. Nevertheless, he held himself together as his father explained to Gjeelea.

“Daughter, your mother was murdered earlier today in her apartments. We do not know by whom or how.” The king paused a moment for Gjeelea to digest this information. It stung worse every time Siamak heard it. Faroz continued, “Also, word has come that Pashtia is being attacked by Alanzians. They were aided by creatures as we have never seen before; however, they match the description provided by the Emissary of an enemy race from his lands called orcs. The aid of the Lord Annatar’s people would be of great aid to us in dealing with these creatures, but we can not ask for such help unless an alliance has been established between our nations. The time has come for you and Siamak to decide in this matter of alliance. What say you?” the king repeated.

Siamak jumped in before Gjeelea had opportunity to respond. He had been sitting the fence before, but no longer in light of this new information. Forgotten was his uneasiness around the Emissary, forgotten were all doubts. He had finally heard some evidence that accepting or declining the offer would directly affect Pashtia. His choice now was clear. He addressed himself to Gjeelea, though he knew the whole court could hear. “Gjeelea, we have considered this offer long and hard. I think that Father is right; the Emissary’s aid in dealing with such a foe would be helpful indeed. As far as I can tell, there is only one decision we can make.” As he spoke, he slowly gathered his emotions in and his voice steadied. Thinking about the Alanzians and the Emissary was not so hard. “I think we should accept the Lord Annatar’s offer of alliance.”

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The princess cursed her brother for having a faster response than she for the first time in forever. She sent him a sharp glance, one that he most likely missed in the heat of his own 'moment'. For once, Siamak had spoken the right way at the right time. Would it make up for all the other times when the younger son had to have time to consider his answer thoroughly and patiently? Gjeelea knew that so many waited for her to slip up and her brother to finally earn the throne that might be his. It was most certainly not the time for Siamak to finally grow a backbone, though Gjeelea figured that some people might need a tragedy to pull them together.

A tragedy? The princess was almost shocked at her own thought. Her mother's death was certainly strange enough and horrid enough - yet somehow Gjeelea did not think it merited the name of tragedy. If any knew of Gjeelea's lack of emotion for her mother's murder, surely they would think her heartless and cruel. The princess had certainly liked her mother and enjoyed her company at the few times it was given, but there was little loss for someone who was rarely there in Gjeelea's life to begin with. Surely I will miss her once I notice the subtle ways in which things change.

"You think too much, brother," Gjeelea said, loudly for all the people of the court to hear. "We might have made this decision a long time ago if you had not wasted your time considering our only option. I know we must accept Lord Annatar's offer of alliance, as I have known since hearing of the Emissary's plight." Had she spoken too boldly? As it was no time for Siamak to learn strength, it was also not the time for the princess to doubt herself. Instead, Gjeelea turned to her father and met his gaze and nodded. "Siamak and I are in agreement to accept the offer of alliance, father."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Faroz felt no joy in the decision of his children, but only grim satisfaction. For, indeed, what other choice was there? Still, he commended them both for the wisdom that they had shown. “Send to the Emissary,” he ordered. “Tell him that the offer of the Lord Annatar has been accepted and that we will meet with him in the morning to discuss the formal rites of alliance. If the General is able to speak this night, let the Emissary be sent for so that he and General Morgôs can plan how best we can use the fifty men that the Emissary has with him.” A messenger bowed deeply and left the court.

The King sat back upon his divan and his exhaustion was apparent to all. He lowered his head into his hand and sat like that for a time before speaking once more. “See to it, my children, that all preparations are made for your mother’s journey.” Again he paused. “I will retire to my chambers until tomorrow so that I may take counsel with my heart about this day. Let it be known that any who disturb me shall receive the direst punishment.” A slight ripple in the room confirmed that all present understood what he meant. Rising once more the King descended and left the court, and as he passed he looked neither left nor right as his people did him obeisance.

He passed quickly through the darkened corridors of the Palace. In the panic, the routine of the household had been neglected and servants had failed in their duty to light the lamps. At any other time, Faroz would immediately have sent for the housekeeper and reprimanded him, but this night his eyes were glad for the dark. He achieved his apartments and passed within like a shadow melting into night. The rain was finally beginning to abate, but the clouds were still thick and the sun was setting behind them, casting the late afternoon into an unnaturally early night. The air was thick and chill with water and he shivered. Searching out a heavy cloak he cast it about his shoulders and fell to the cushions by the balcony. Faroz watched the storm churn through the sky below the city, now heading downriver to spend its fury upon the sea. The streets of Kanak were beginning to drain, and there were signs below of his people emerging from their shelter. They came forth once more like small animals, casting nervous glances about before scurrying for the comfort of home. He knew how they felt.

His mind was blank, for the horrors of the day had left him spent. He knew that the King’s place at this moment was in his council chamber, discussing matters of war and alliance, but he felt unequal to the task. There was time to wait until morning. Let his nobles speak amongst themselves this night, and let his children prepare their mother for her final journey. Was it not the tradition in Pashtia that a widower pass his first night without his wife, alone, in prayer? Though he had not sought his chambers for such a purpose, his actions this night were in keeping with the demands of custom and tradition, and none would dare condemn him. Let him remain here, then, alone…

His isolation came over him like a thick choking blanket. How many times had he sat upon this balcony and felt his separation from those about him? He had never known, until this very moment, that his only connection to the human life of his people had been made through his wife. Through all the years and trials, she had always and ever been the one to speak to him of his children or the nobility as individuals. She had taken the time to forge bonds, even friendships, allowing him to think only in terms of power and political groupings. She had been, he realised with a sobbing gasp, his only friend – and he had never told her as much in life.

A panic came over him, like a hunted deer suddenly bereft of the pack. The dangers of the world flew toward him like wolves, ravening and red-tongued. Unaware of his own act, Faroz’s hand moved toward the Ring, but something stayed him. There was, at first, a slight glimmer, barely seen from the corner of his eye, more like a lightening in the darkness than a light itself. He turned to look at it, but is slipped and turned to the other side of his face. He turned once more, but still it eluded him, the lightness, appearing only in the very corner of his vision. He fixed his stare on the blank darkness of the night, but kept his attention upon the glimmer. He felt a cool touch upon his cheek, like a gentle wind, and the wind became as a voice, whispering his name to him. He sucked in his breath with shock, for he recognised the voice as that of his wife. “Bekah?” he said aloud.

My husband.

“Where are you?”

Where you are not, and where you cannot be.

“What do you mean?”

What I have ever meant, my husband. Always you have looked and looked but never have you seen. Ever have you gazed ahead, while truth, so clear, but glimmered in the corner of your eye, seen but not regarded.

“You are right. You had much to offer me that I did not take. Many things to say that I did not hear. I was not a good husband.”

You were a good King.

“I feel your reproach. I can sense your despair. Why have you not found peace? You were a noble woman in life: honourable and wise. I shall miss you.”

Too late. Too late.

“Yes. But at least now, at last, I have realised your worth.”

Too late. Too late.

Faroz made to speak again but he felt her slipping away, like a mist before a great wind that blew upon the balcony from the West. His hand slipped to his chest and the Ring was on his finger before he knew what had happened, and before him appeared a figure clothed in light. Tall he was, and beautiful, and in his face and bearing was a nobility that made Faroz feel as he had felt before his father when he had been but the smallest lad. There was love and benevolence in the gaze of the one before him, and pity of a great lord for a man in need of strength. “My Lord Annatar!” Faroz whispered.

“Khamûl. You are grieved. Let me comfort you.”

Faroz felt a despair well up from his heart where his hand lay with the Ring upon it. It burned like hardest ice through his blood and seized his brain. His eyes became stone, and he felt his mouth open wide to release the depth of his suffering. A shriek, terrible and high, like the cry of some lonely thing upon the edge of the world shattered the quiet of the night, stabbing into it like a dagger into cloth. Faroz felt himself diminish and the shriek of his agony became his all. On and on it went, taking with it his despair, his agony and his sadness, as though it were purging these weaknesses from his body. It ended and he lurched to his feet, gasping for air. Annatar was there, his arms out, and he caught up in them the staggering form of the King. Faroz felt himself enfolded in light and he closed his eyes, but within he could still see the beautiful face of the one who held him like a lover. A voice, the Voice, whispered in his mind. “Let me comfort you, Khamûl. Let me relieve you of your agony.”

“How?” Faroz asked. “How can I be so relieved?”

“I shall tell you, Khamûl. I shall tell you. Listen…”

[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.