Ok, this is my first story so please be kind.
Just a few explanatory notes: I once read that Tolkien considered writing another book after "Lord of the Rings" called "The Return of the Shadow", which would be set some time after the events of LOTR, and would be about the humans returning to the worship of darkness. He never wrote it, however, because he felt it wasn't important enough: it wasn't about good and evil, just humans being foolish. Well, I think that given the dangerous force that human stupidity can be (excuse me for being political…), that's as good a topic as any to write about. So this is me attempting, in a form and quality much less than what the master himself would have produced, to tell that story.
This is set around 4000 years after the events in LOTR, so Middle Earth has advanced somewhat. Gondor, as well as ruling the Reunited Kingdom also has control over much of the South East, and parts of Rohan as well – in effect, it has become an empire. At the time in which this story is set, the empire is ruled by a descendant of Aragorn, called Mellonel Telcontar. However, Mellonel isn't much like his ancestor. He is power-hungry and corrupt. He is also terrified of his own mortality, and thus has made it is goal to bring the Gondorian empire the glory of Númenor of old. Through dubious means, he has come to the throne under the name Ar-Pharazôn. And, like the ancient king of Númenor from who he takes his name, he has introduced the brutal Morgothian religion to Gondor – a belief that immortality can be gained for the humans…in exchange for blood sacrifices to the Dark Lord Melkor. Non-humans (especially Elves) are persecuted, and many are sacrificed in the temples.
And it is amidst this bleak series of events that our story begins…
(PS. Most of these characters and ideas belong to Tolkien, I make no money out of them.)
Chapter One – The Voice of God
There was incense swirling in a great miasma above the heads of the heaving crowd. Ar-Inzilaphel breathed it in deeply. She smiled, her pupils visibly dilating as the heady smoke took its effect. Tonight she would speak. Tonight she would speak with the voice of God.
She was standing on the high altar, above the crowds, and the space where the Fire would be. Behind her was the towering, empty throne; the seat of the God banished from earth. It was from this vantage that she saw the temple guards bring in the sacrifice; an Elf - he looked around 20, although that meant nothing. He might be millennia old. Bastard. The guards chained him to the stake at the lower altar, over the grate, where the fire would rise up. Foreigners often balked at the ritual that they would perform that tonight. But not the Gondorians. They were insulated from the deed they were about to commit by the cleansing balm of the incense, and the righteous knowledge that they were benefiting the whole of humanity. What was the death of one Elf, blessed beyond what he deserved with a life free from disease and death, when the whole of humanity might be so saved? Melkor was generous in his gifts if his servants were generous with theirs.
The chains of the pulleys could now be heard creaking. The Elf was sweating, panicking. He would be the first to see the flames rising up towards the grate over which he was chained. But soon the flames would rise higher.
He was whimpering, then screaming, as the flames rose up fast about his legs, and carried up through his ragged clothes, like a glowing swarm of insects travelling up his body, creeping across his limbs. He was engulfed; a black silhouette against the flames that swirled around him. All through the temple, the chanting and shouting grew louder, drowning out his screams, the incense covering the reek of burning flesh and hair. Inzilaphel closed her eyes, reaching out with her senses. She could feel the last of the Elf's life about to slide away, fading. Then it was gone. She raised her arms, and the chanting swelled in celebration. Another soul to feed their banished God. Another step to bring him closer. Another day on the road towards his return.
Amcazôr, the High Priest, stepped forward, and began to intone a prayer, the harsh syllables of the ancient Adunaîc tongue resonating off the domed roof, disappearing up through the louver and the tarnished silver dome: Mûlker, âru n'agannâlo, nimir nênud êphalako kitabda nênud katha…
He turned to her, indicating that it was time. There was an awed silence in the temple as she turned and walked over to the empty throne. Beside it, on an intricately carved plinth, rested the palantir; the last of the ancient seeing stones. Its surface swirled murkily, like rain clouds being blown across a dark sky. She stood by it, and looked out at the crowd, and then at her father, Ar-Pharazôn, who was standing by Amcazôr. His expression was tense. Only one person had ever survived channelling the Dark Lord's spirit, and that had been an Elf. As for all the rest, their souls had been destroyed by the sheer burning force of His power, their bodies left as empty husks. But who was to say that she might not succeed? She tossed her long black hair, revealing for a second the delicate pointed ears that she usually took care to hide. She was Peredhil, one of the few of her kind tolerated in Gondor. With the blood of both Valinor and Númenor, how could she fail? At least, that was what she had repeated to herself. Please, Mûlker she thought, grant me this strength. She looked out determinedly at the crowd.
"Tonight, we shall again hear the voice of our salvation!" she shouted. They were the words she had been told to say, and had repeated, over and over again to herself, trying to convey them with the grandeur that they seemed to merit. She placed her hands on the palantir. The surface was so cold it burned, but she could not pull her hands away. She felt as if she had touched a live wire; power was streaming through her body, but she could not move to take her hands away. Her head snapped back, her eyes wide. Her vision was darkening at the edges. Then it was black. But somehow the darkness was clearer than the light – so dark as to be luminous. It filled her, embraced her like a lover. Then, to those watching, her irises, normally an inky blue, became slowly tinged with red. Purposefully, she brought her head level. Her manner was deadly calm. But it was not really her manner; Inzilaphel was gone, submerged somewhere in the darkness. When she opened her mouth to speak, it was harsh and male.
"I am close to you; so very close. It will not be long now until I walk amongst you."
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"It's a miracle she survived, you know"
Galdor's head snapped up from the tabloid that he had been reading with a mixture of disbelief and disgust.
"I'm perfectly aware of that, Eruanna. Given the previous attempts they had made, it was surprising…I'm relieved-"
"It was her Elven blood, I think." said Eruwaedhiel quietly.
Galdor laughed harshly and threw the tabloid to the side.
"Yes, Elven blood! Ha! I find Pharazôn's priorities somewhat warped, don't you? He publicly detests Elves, burns them in his temples, yet has no qualms about fathering a child with one," he just about spat the word 'fathering', "and then there's the child herself! He's so afraid of what we 'terrorists' might do that he fears to let her outside the palace, and yet, when Morgoth's involved it's as if she can come to no harm!" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "The fact that Morgoth probably has more reason to kill her than I ever would…"
"Galdor…" Eruanna frowned and sat down across the table from him "do you have to start every morning with a rant? And besides, I thought Ar-Inzilaphel was one of the few people you don't want dead."
"That's the point!". Eruwaedhiel winced as Galdor raised his voice, and looked Eruanna, who responded:
"He doesn't know that. Especially considering that he is one of those people that you want dead".
Galdor grinned wolfishly, which only furthered the demonic air so familiar from the posters across the city. Galdor Seregon, leader of the Valacirca: wanted for terrorism, treason, sedition, and multiple counts of murder. He looked the part, with oily, shoulder-length hair framing his thin face and a long red scar running from his right temple to his chin. It pulled the corner of his mouth up into a permanent cruel smile. An identikit menace; the evil, heartless Elven terrorist, bent on destroying the Gondorian Empire. At least that was the official story. At the mention of Pharazôn, he had run his finger slowly along the scar.
"Yeah, I do. But, well, sixteen years trying and…"
"…And we haven't given up, and we never will!" Eruanna's eyes were bright.
Galdor smiled, genuinely this time. "Hey, I'm meant to be the ideologue! You're just the translator"
"Just the translator? You wouldn't last a minute without me."
"Well, someone needs to swear in Khuzdul." Eruwaedhiel looked embarrassed.
"Cut it out you two"
"Hmm." Eruanna shrugged, and picked up the newspaper that Galdor had tossed aside. She frowned down at the front page for a moment, then bit her lip.
"What is it?"
"Did you get far enough to read what she said before you started ranting?" Galdor's ears went faintly red.
"No, but isn't it just the usual: immortality, evil Elves, all the general hype of a has-been Dark Lord?"
"I wish. Apparently, he's much closer to the edge of the Void; so closer to us. It sounds like they might have a chance of bringing him back after all." Galdor raised his eyebrows.
"Or the state press agency thinks that it's good PR to say so."
"I don't know, Galdor. Perhaps they can."
"Which heralds the end of the world, no?" he added sarcastically.
"Yeah. And they believe they all go off an live in immortal paradise in the Void or something." interjected Eruwaedhiel.
"Great. I hope this is just PR. Otherwise- "
"-Otherwise we're screwed."
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At the other end of the spectrum, Mithmorn Aeluin was sitting and reading the same newspaper. Beside him sat Pharazôn, the emperor of Gondor; his best friend from boyhood, currently nursing a terrific hangover.
"You're turning the pages too loudly, Mith" moaned Pharazôn. The corners of Mith's mouth twitched, but his eyes remained focused on the paper. He didn't 'do' smiles.
"Well, as consolation, you may be interested to know that the intelligence services have discovered evidence that Seregon may be planning another attack"
"You didn't need a paper to tell me that, Mith"
Mithmorn Aeluin was the commander of the Red Eye Band, the elite 'secret police' of the Gondorian Empire – a man with an ear and eye in every corner of the land.
"True. But I needed something to distract you, did I not?"
"Regardless, it's just as well. We don't need another attack."
"What's this about another attack?" Inzilaphel had appeared at the door. She looked as if she had had as rough a night as her father: here were dark circles about her bloodshot eyes, and her skin was paler than usual. Peredhil or not, you did not commune with Melkor and come away unscathed. Mith looked up from the paper, secretly glad she was feeling well enough to eavesdrop on private conversations again.
"Nothing to worry about. I was just telling your father that we have intelligence suggesting that Seregon may be planning something in the second level. We've increased the threat alert – honestly, it's fine. Oh, and by the way, well done yesterday."
"Thanks" said Inzilaphel "But I still feel like the time I took a bad E." Mith looked disapproving, Pharazôn smiled nervously. Inzilaphel looked awkward.
"So it's all ok then, about the attack?" Her voice was strained; she sensed something coming. She looked at her father, who was looking at Mith.
"Mithmorn," he said, pensively "Even so, do you think we should be increasing the security detail around the residential area of the citadel?"
Inzilaphel rolled her eyes. Mith looked tired.
"I honestly don't think the threat level necessitates that, Pharazôn" Mith was used to this. So was Inzilaphel. Nearly 20 years of drug taking had taken their toll on Pharazôn. From time to time he suffered from bouts of paranoia, and occasionally terrifying flashbacks.
"I don't think you're having a good day, attû," muttered Inzilaphel. Pharazôn rounded on her.
"Don't try to distract me, Zil. This is for your own protection, and you know that."
"Own protection. Yeah, whatever. So I guess I wave any possibility of doing anything outside this summer."
Pharazôn sighed, and kneaded his temples.
"This really isn't the time for an argument, Zil. Please. We're so close; we don't want anything to happen before we can achieve our goal."
"Attû, I'm not asking to anything stupid-,"
Mith snorted quietly
"Perish the thought" Zil shot him a dirty look.
"I'm just wanting some kind of normality; to get out a bit."
Pharazôn looked at her thoughtfully. "We shall see how the threat level progresses. In the mean time, you will stay here, where you are safe. Now please, let me suffer in peace." Zil turned and walked off, muttering darkly under her breath. Mith frowned.
"I think extra security might be of better use to keep her in, not the terrorists out." Pharazôn smiled.
"Don't tempt me." Mith laughed, but he was still worried. He had trained Inzilaphel since she was a child, and he knew just how impetuous she could be. After all, the last thing he had heard her say as she left the room had sounded terribly like "I'll show you…"
Notes:
Adunaîc:
"Mûlker, âru n'agannâlo, nimir nênud êphalako kitabda nênud katha…" - Melkor, king of the death shadow, shine on us from afar, touch us…with your blessing…
"Mûlker" – Morgoth/Melkor (dark lord of the Silmarillion, Sauron's boss.)
"Attû" – father/dad
(my knowledge of Adunaîc is very limited – any advice/corrections would be very welcome)
Sindarin:
"Peredhil" – half Elven
Many thanks to The Evil Witch Queen – if I'm Morgoth, she's Manwë…