Dear Readers,

I present to you the story of the Heir of Mordor, an AU that takes place 16 years after the war of the Ring. It was designed to show the "true" story of Middle Earth, a story that somehow made it past the grasping hands of the Fellowship Censors. Therefore, for all of ye pure-hearted Tolkein fans out there, I must warn you that it does contain different descriptions of races, locations, people, and characters in general, as well as a few non-purposeful errors in canon that I'm sure you'll be happy to point out to me later on. Please be warned that I have changed canon liberally throughout the story. After all, Tolkein did use official sources and history is always written by the victors.

I do not presume to own Lord of the Rings or any of Tolkein's work, and this isn't for any sort of profit, so there's no excuse for anyone to sue me. As always, my greatest request (repeated throughout the story, but, then again, author's notes are practically designed to be annoying), is that, good or bad, you write reviews for my stories, this one included. Eventually, I'm trying to publish something, so it's both in my interest and yours (my writing improves... so does your enjoyment of the story...) for you to give me much needed advise.

And with that, happy reading!

- Neohtan the Wise.

Prologue:

It was a watchful night for the maid who swept the portico. Of course, she also answered the door, cleaned the master's laundry, and weeded the front garden, but there was no need to answer the door in these troubled times and the garden was groomed half to death already.

Yes, she thought, a very watchful night to say the least, for in North-East Mordor, there was no such thing as the law, and many a Master, far greater than hers, had been slaughtered on the roads by marauding bands of orcs or deserters, malcontents with the Great Eye's wars.

Andrei of Sarabad, she thought, you are an exceedingly stupid man. After all, what sort of idiot would attempt to maintain a country estate in these times? "Family tradition" he'd said, "anger the gods" he'd said. Well, stupidity couldn't be that much of a curse as the maid received good enough wages and good enough board. Still though, there was hardly reason to stay. It was only a matter of time before the Elven Conquerors descended, and those who associated themselves with the old order were not likely to survive.

Suddenly, there was a series of sharp thuds on the road outside, hoof beats, if the old maid wasn't mistaken, and urgent ones too. She hurried to the door, a cleaver from the kitchens gripped in her determined right hand.

Tenitively, she slid open the spy hole on the door, and gasped at her astonishment.

Outside was a black rider, the folds of his billowing cloak concealing his face and features, shrouding him in mystery. He rode a jet black stallion, and beneath that cloak of power could be glimpsed the polished sheen of interlocking steel scales. On his right hip, he wore a long sword, deathly sharp, and in his arms, there sat a package.

No matter how much the old maid prayed against it, the rider dismounted, his armor clinking with every step, his head bowed low.

She instantly threw open the door and prostrated herself on the ground, nearly kissing it from her desire to bow lower and bury herself under the cobbles.

Suddenly, the rider threw off his hood, and the maid gave a shudder of alarm.

"My Lord… I…"

"Madame, I am in a hurry, take this package and…" the rider seemed to search for words, "don't lose it."

The old maid suddenly hardened. She tore herself to her feet, gripping the cleaver in one hand, and the doorbell's pulley in the other.

"If you make one move to hurt me, I shall alert the household!"

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the rider said calmly, giving a strangely wiry half-smile, "You know who I am."

"Oh I know more than enough of who you are, sir, and what you have done. You have brought nothing but desolation and death to this land!" she spat, making the sign against evil engrained at birth in all fervent housewives.

The rider looked pained, his expression somewhere between gut-wrenching sorrow, and tearful regret, "I know I am not in a position to order you, and I know of the ills of our Empire. I also know that in a few days' time I will probably be dead and you will not have to put up with my presence save to spit at my disembodied head in Morgoth square. I know all these things, which is why I come to you." Gingerly, and with infinite care he reached out and placed the package at the Maid's feet.

Her jaw dropped. She nearly swooned from distress. She attempted to make a reply but nothing came out, all she could do was stare at the rider in black, so mysterious yet known so well.

He remounted his horse, adjusting his sword belt for the long rider ahead.

"Madame," he said one more time, "please."

And the maid could not but stare as the rider in black cantered away beneath the dim moonlight, before bundling up the package, and carrying it inside.

For it was not a package at all, but a baby in swaddling clothes.