Author's Note: Hey, everybody, name's IAmSecretlyNotRonnie300Fan91 (SPOILER: I actually am). I've been working on refining this story for a while, but never had the guts to publish it here. I finally built up the courage to publish it here, and, well, here it is. This is my first story, so constructive criticism that will allow me to strengthen my writing is welcome and appreciated, but flames and pure hate reviews will not be tolerated. This story begins during Shepard's first visit to the Citadel in Mass Effect 1, and directly before the Ringwraiths depart from Minas Morgul. I plan on writing another fic that will serve as a backstory for Dâgalûr, our protagonist/anti-hero, but that won't be released until I reach the end of the events of Mass Effect 2 in this fic, as to avoid massive spoilers (even the first chapter of my planned origin story would completely spoil this fic). Also, this fic is rated M for a reason. Expect copious amounts of blood/gore and a good amount of cursing, ranging from mild to severe (f-bombs will be dropped casually at times). I am not responsible for anybody's reaction to the cruelty and indecency shown in this story. There will be romantic encounters, but most of the smut will be included only in special edited versions of chapters that will not be posted here because Fiction-MA isn't permitted on this site. You've been warned. You didn't come to read my ramblings, so let us begin this journey.
NOTES: Some elements from various video game adaptations of The Lord of the Rings (Namely Middle Earth: Shadow of Mordor, Middle Earth: Shadow of War (for which there will be MAJOR spoilers), War In The North, The Third Age, and The Battle For Middle Earth II) are going to be taken as canonical, along with various references to other universes/IPs and various things I made up to fill in the blanks left behind by Tolkien. This fic will primarily use the Peter Jackson film trilogy's depiction of the physical appearance of characters and what not, but the event dates given in the Appendices of The Return of the King will be the dates of the events that occur in Middle-Earth in this fic, and things from the book that weren't included in the films (such as Tom Bombadil and Dol Amroth) will also be referenced or used. I attempted to make this story as canonically faithful to both The Lord of the Rings and the Mass Effect trilogy, but it is not canon for obvious reasons. Dâgalûr and all other OCs that will appear in this story belong to me unless stated otherwise, Middle-Earth and LOTR belong to J.R.R Tolkien and his estate, The LOTR video game license belongs to WB Games, and Mass Effect belongs to Bioware.
Also, I know that Black Uruks weren't around in 1451 TA, but for the purposes of this chapter, they appear sooner but aren't actually used by Sauron until 2475 TA.
All dialogue, unless the person speaking is equipped with a translator, is automatically spoken in the mother tongue of the speaker unless stated otherwise (I.E Orcs speak Black Speech (For higher-ups and servants of the Eye, represented as normal English)/Westron (for most soldiers, represented as broken, Cockney English (THAT WAS A FAILED EXPERIMENT AND WON'T BE SEEN OUTSIDE THIS CHAPTER), Men of the West speak Westron (with various dialects), Elves speak Sindarin, Quarians speak Khelish, etc.) and is simply translated into English for readers. For the purpose of first contact, English will be a rare offshoot of Westron that exists in Middle-Earth.
"The world is changed… I feel it in the water… I feel it in the Earth… I smell it in the air… Much that once was is lost. For none now live who remember it." -Galadriel
The Demon Of The Galactic World
"It began with the forging of the great rings. Three were given to the Elves, immortal, wisest and fairest of all beings, seven to the Dwarf lords, great miners and craftsmen of the mountain halls, and nine, nine rings were gifted to the race of Men — who above all else, desire power. For within these rings was bound the strength and will to govern each race. But they were all of them deceived; for another ring was made. In the land of Mordor, in the fires of Mount Doom, the Dark Lord Sauron forged in secret a master ring, to control all others, and into this Ring, he poured his cruelty, his malice, and his will to dominate all life. One Ring to rule them all." -Galadriel
In the beginning, there was nothing. But the Ainur sang the Ainulindalë to create the world. Their beautiful music created Eä, the universe. The song was only intended to create one single universe, but it rippled out into the nothingness. The music traveled beyond the edges of the Void, and its harmony brought life to millions of other universes, each unique in one way or another. The Father took pity upon these universes, blessing each one of them with life, but the Ainur had no knowledge of these universes, only knowing of Eä. The Father made every attempt possible to conceal the existence of these worlds, for fear of the spread of Morgoth's corruption and malevolence, but when sorcerers and apprentices dabble in the arcane arts, the will of The Father, and the workings of the universe- and the many others surrounding it- mean nothing. Dâgalûr, the left hand of the Dark Lord himself, was one such unfortunate soul caught in the crossfire.
An accident in some far-off cult of magic in the East had caused tears in the fabric between universes to open, and one such portal had brought him to a strange new galaxy of different alien races, each with its own culture, achievements, and goals, all pettily squabbling with each other while an ancient evil reared its head. Ripped from his homeland, and with no other options (save jail), He joined the crew of The Normandy SR-1, under Commander Jane Shepard, and embarked on a quest to save this new, strange world from extermination, and hopefully watch his old one burn in the process.
Prologue: From The Domain Of Shadow
The ash from Mount Doom polluted the air of the tainted landscape, seeping into the plateau's soil and forming thick, dark clouds of smog which blotted the sun's rays. The ever-watching Eye of Sauron looked down upon the barren landscape, its piercing gaze ensuring that nobody entered or escaped from Mordor. The only sounds to be heard were worn bits of metal clanking against metal and inhuman yelps and growls from the pits in the far off distance.
Dâgalûr rode atop Bolgdyr, the once-feared Pack-Leader of Nurnen. He lead a small battalion of the usual lot; sniveling, shrieking orcs from the tribes, men that were either greedy enough or unfortunate enough to come under Sauron's grasp, a feral, frothing warg on a leash here and there, and what not. It was all Dâgalûr had been doing for the last few years. Escort troops at point A to point B, Watch over this, monitor that. It was mind-numbingly boring. It wasn't as if there was an ever-present threat of Mordor being sacked by the Westerners, and he needed to minimize casualties from skirmishes with plunderers. Since the Shadow Wars ended and the tribes united, the only violence to be had was when disputes over plunder occurred.
Dâgalûr yearned for the times he could spread mayhem to the Free Peoples of these lands, but those were few and far apart, much to his dismay. and he was seriously out of shape now; his once strong-as-stone muscle had turned to flab and fat now that he was rarely engaging in physical activity, and stuffing his face with the best food Mordor could offer. Eating had become a pastime more than a necessary part of survival as of late for Dâgalûr, and he occasionally turned to more extreme levels of consumption to attempt to remedy his boredom. Years of training didn't just fly out the window, however, and he was still a force to be feared and reckoned with in combat, even if he got exhausted more often in the heat of battle. The War of Reclamation was still several years away, so he still had time to get back in shape before his body would be fighting and marching day and night. Dâgalûr couldn't wait for Gondor to pay him back for the lives of those he once cared for with the blood of its sons and daughters.
He focused his attention to the task at hand again. "Pick up your feet, you worthless gits! Crack the whips harder before I hang ya from racks 'nd take yer hides as trophies!"
The taskmasters cracked their whips on the backs of the troops much harder, to the point where Dâgalûr could've sworn he heard the snapping and cracking of bones. Blood was dripping down the backs of those unfortunate enough to not have adequate back-plates, indicating the taskmasters were doing their jobs a little too well. Nevertheless, the pace of the troops accelerated to a fast walk as they attempted to evade and escape the lashes. The camp wasn't too far away, but it seemed like it would take an eternity for those being flogged to near-death.
Some of the more rebellious among the rabble began to instinctively speak out against Dâgalûr, despite knowing their punishment would increase tenfold.
"Woi's it dat we's gotta suffa woile yer fat arse gets ter push us 'round? You's ain't even a real orc!" cried a sniveling, pus-yellow runt.
"Yeah, right, 'e's right! Roight! I'm bloody well not takin' dis shite from yer!" yelled an unsightly brown Uruk.
One of his own taskmasters was the next to attack him verbally. "They's got a point! Oi! You's so chummy wiv Sauron, right, but you's nuffink more than a 'og in armor. If we kill yer, we're bound ter 'ave yer place by 'is side!"
That little outburst was nothing short of mutiny. Dâgalûr swiftly dismounted Bolgdyr, his boots crunching the pebbles underneath. He shoved his way past many a man and orc before he reached the orcs who foolishly opened their gobs. He may have been heavy, but he was no pushover.
"OI! LEMME SHOW'S YA 'OW I CLIMBED ME WAY UP TER DA TOP!" He screamed, tackling the smallest among them.
A circle formed around the four orcs. The bystanders roared with glee as they watched the carnage unfold. The taskmaster jumped up on Dâgalûr's back, and tried to dig his claws into Dâgalûr's throat while he focused on the small one, but he responded to this by falling backwards, crushing the bones of the taskmaster with a sickening crunch. A 300-pound half-uruk in a 100-pound suit of armor was no match for the frail frame of the orc, and he choked and sputtered on his own blood, his windpipe damaged beyond repair. The crowd dragged his body into the fray, and tore into his flesh while he let out wheezy shrieks.
The Uruk took the opportunity to kick Dâgalûr while he was on the ground, causing him to vomit, but broke his toes by doing so. He yelped in pain, clenching his foot, and Dâgalûr rose, wiping the spittle from his mouth. He growled, drew a small dagger from his belt, and dashed towards the Uruk, who blocked the stab with his spear just in time. The small Orc ran up to Dâgalûr while he was distracted and slammed a mace into his leg, sending him to the ground once more.
"Not so 'igh and moighty now, are yer, git?" the orc said.
The orc was cut off by a sweeping kick by Dâgalûr. He fell to the ground and his head connected with a large rock, opening up an unsightly wound. The Uruk went in for vengeance while Dâgalûr dealt with the orc, but was swiftly taken down to the ground with a punch to the temple as Dâgalûr turned around. Black, viscous blood began to leak from his nose as he stumbled about in a haze. Dâgalûr took the opportunity to grab the orc's head and continuously slam it into the rock until nothing but a pulpy mixture of blood, brain matter, cartilage, and skull bits remained. The crowd quickly swarmed the carcass and began to dig in, just as they had with the taskmaster's remains.
"Two down, one more ter go."
The Uruk was unable to recover fast enough before he felt Dâgalûr's clawed gauntlets digging into his stomach. His vision was blurred, but he could feel an excruciating pain coming from his midsection as something wet and slippery gripped around his neck. Soon enough he realized he was being strangled with his own intestines. The light began to drain out of his eyes as the Uruk drew his last breaths, his remains left by the crowd for the Morgul Bats and crows to pick apart.
"Oi!," Dâgalûr began to huff and puff from exhaustion. "get a move on, ladz! One rabble ain't gon ter meen you's all gets a break!"
He remounted Bolgdyr and began to catch his breath, taking a flask from another Uruk as he reached for the reins. He opened it up and inspected its contents. The putred smell could only be one thing: grog. Dâgalûr took a few swigs from the flask before tossing it back to the Uruk. He felt somewhat rejuvenated from the drink, but it would not heal his leg injury, the claw marks on his throat, and the many bruises from his falls.
The battalion continued their march as the taskmasters became increasingly unforgiving with their duty. By the time the unit reached the camp, a trail of tar-like blood had been left behind, and it stretched several yards back. Those unlucky enough to be struck multiple times had lost so much blood that they could barely stand, most collapsing from exhaustion. It seeped through their armor and stained their crude cloth shirts with a deep black hue. A few casualties was nothing to Dâgalûr. Death and injury were simply as much a part of life in Mordor as sharp, pointy objects and freezing cold ash-winds were. The job was done, and that's what mattered. Orcs were being produced in the vats by the hundreds every day, a few dead ones wouldn't cripple their numbers.
Dâgalûr no longer had remorse or compassion for most who dwelled in Middle-Earth. Everything and everyone he'd ever loved had been taken from him long ago, and his behavior since then had teetered on sociopathy. His shattered conscience took a back seat to the only thing he cared about now, and that was vengeance. He would do anything or kill anyone to get it, even those he considered to be the few true friends he had. He was the son of slain parents, the husband to a murdered wife, a father to three butchered children, and the master of a slaughtered apprentice. Not one of them had done anything to deserve such a fate their entire lives, so there was no reason whatsoever that they were either left lying in pools of their own blood or hung from gibbets. Dâgalûr had done some fairly despicable things up to that point himself, but that didn't justify their deaths. Gondor had just waltzed in, called for a crusade to take back what they claimed to be their lands, razed the quaint little village Dâgalûr and his wife had settled down in, and raped and massacred everyone who resisted them even slightly.
The worst thing about it was that he was not even close to being the only victim; that had happened repeatedly in villages and towns that bordered Gondorian territory at various intervals over the last few hundred years or so. He had found his apprentice as an infant in the aftermath of one such raid while scouring the rubble for supplies. Crusade after crusade had been called upon by the corrupt and rotten Stewards throughout the years, though a large chunk of the Gondorian Armed Forces opposed the raiding and sacking (Unless it was Orc settlements in question, then there was no hesitation from any of them, down to the last imp). Dâgalûr didn't care, however; they were still to be held accountable for their peers committing such atrocities regardless of whether they wanted to commit them or not.
Dâgalûr's blood boiled at the thought that the Kingdom of Gondor were commonly held up as altruistic by the other cultures of Middle-Earth, when in reality they were nothing more than a band of bloodthirsty tyrants posing as paragons. "History is written by the victors, and the victors will write the truth about Gondor." was a thought that he commonly recited in his head, often several times a week. Once Gondor was absolutely annihilated, its cities razed to smoldering heaps of ashes, its people slaughtered in droves, its women violated to the fullest extent of indecency and perversion, its children worked to death and devoured by wargs, and its legacy purged from history and memory, he would finally be at peace.
Mordor wasn't much better, but it was still better. At least they had shown him some grudging respect once he had climbed to the top. Dâgalûr was the "left hand" of Mordor, and he greatly enjoyed some of the perks that came with that position, namely all the food he could eat, some of the finest weapons and armor available in all of Middle-Earth (especially when compared to that crudely sewn leather and cast iron garbage that the footsloggers wore), and a ticket to be spared from the coming darkness that would blanket all of Middle-Earth, but he didn't truly care about Mordor, or Sauron's plight.
The only civilization that he truly admired in this world were the legendary hobbits, known to most orcs only in tales coming from the Goblins of the north. Though such Goblin stories made them out to be either easy meals or ferocious, orc-hating monsters, he knew the truth. Before arriving in Mordor, he often spent whatever free time he had at Haradric libraries, and such unbiased accounts told of small, hairy footed folk that lived in a rolling green country. They were said to be fond of food, drink, pipe weed, and comfort. Despite such a lifestyle (as with any other that didn't involve excessive bloodshed) being considered vile and cowardly in orcish society, Dâgalûr was only half-orc, and his mannish blood and way of thinking, although mostly absent from him now, found contentment with such a lifestyle.
Before his thirst for Gondorian blood poisoned his mind, he always rambled to his wife about taking her and the children to such a place. No violence, or war, or fear of annihilation or persecution were to be found, just a peaceful, honest life. Dâgalûr often pondered about what would have happened if he had the chance to leave before their deaths. He would trade his sword in for a trowel and plow, his strength of arm would be used to till the soil instead of cleave through armor and flesh, and he would earn his coin by selling his harvest at the market instead of offering his service as a sell-sword. He would dwell in no fortress, city, or tower, but in a cottage in the green hills, and he would spend his earnings on delicacies not to be found in Mordor, such as mouth watering pies, fine breads, and farm-fresh eggs, and the finest Westman's Weed. He was fond of such weed, often finding and claiming it from subordinates after caravan raids, and he one day hoped to get his hands on the finest varieties, like Longbottom Leaf or Old Toby. Such plans were cancelled after Dâgalûr lost his family, and the idea of leading a farmer's life became laughable to him. He transformed into a miserable wretch, drowning out his sorrow at pubs, selling himself out as a mercenary or pirate and waiting for the day he would set Minas Tirith ablaze.
He had devised two different plans for what he'd do when he'd gotten what he'd worked for: The first was to step down from his position and most likely end his suffering, and the second was to gather the support and loyalty of as many orcish swords as he could along the way and stage a coup against Sauron, marching on Barad-Dûr as soon as Minas Tirith was set ablaze. It had been done once by the Bright Lord, and it could be done again.
Sauron, although a truly gifted and blessed craftsman and smith, was a deceitful, manipulative trickster, and his soldiers and minions were nothing more than puppets to him, but Dâgalûr was able to see through such disregard for others because Mordor sought to eradicate Gondor, and Dâgalûr was a firm believer in the saying 'The enemy of my enemy is my ally'. He didn't care if he was serving under a liar. He saw through the lies, and had worked, fought, and killed his way to the top, and had slowly gained Lord Sauron's favor along the way, even if he was only viewed as a simple instrument to be used against his enemies.
Many orc leaders detested him, the reason varying from captain to captain, from warchief to warchief, and so on. One reason was that he had chosen the promise of power over his own race. Instead of focusing on the history, rituals, and art of his people (however crude and simplistic), Dâgalûr had cast aside the ways of old and become caught up in pushing the war machine and reducing orcs into cannon fodder and pawns, abandoning the traditions and culture of the tribes. He was the most powerful orc in Mordor, yet had forgotten what had made him an orc.
Others fueled their hatred with racism towards the race of men, pointing out his white, blotched skin. His only directly visible distinctions from the average human were the upward slants his alae took in an attempt to resemble a more Orcish, piglike snout, and the small, outlying blotches of dark, leathery skin that painted his body, the most distinct of which being one that covered the left part of his face and forehead, and the yellowed discoloration of the sclera of that eye. 'Halftark-filth' and 'Pinkskin' they would call him.
His mannish appearance was a curse bestowed upon him by his father's lineage. His father's father was a Gondorian, and Dâgalûr was not pleased about it. That same lineage which cursed both him and his father was ultimately his father's downfall, as well. Dâgalûr could still remember the harsh words of his grandfather, a monstrous, hateful man who detested Dâgalûr with all his being. The curses and insults he spewed out about Dâgalûr often haunted him as he thought of the hatred he held for Gondor. The noises of his mother's shrieks and wails as she watched her only child escape from a fate she would soon meet drove a knife through Dâgalûr's now twisted, blackened heart.
The year was 1451 of the Third Age. Gondor was still ashamed of what had become of the sons and supporters of Castamir the Usurper and the Gondorian fleet three years prior. Castamir's grisly and cruel rulership had been ended by the true king, Eldacar. His cold, iron grip on the hearts of the Gondorian military and navy had not subsided, and his fleet had taken him southwards to the coastlines of Umbar, which the secessionists took with relative ease.
Most of the sons of Gondor had finally relinquished their foul ways, but a good chunk of the people, be they common folk, noblemen, or soldiers, still held on to the values of Castamir, but mostly kept to themselves. One such "nobleman", if he could be called such, was Hirgon the Wise, but contrary to his title, he was not wise whatsoever; in fact, he was a cruel, heartless bastard in they eyes of most. He absolutely detested the other races of Middle-Earth, especially orcs, and showed no signs of willing co-operation with other kingdoms of men, not even Rohan, Gondor's long-standing ally.
The people would call him tyrannical, but they knew nothing of the true hatred he expressed beyond the public eye. His son, Sufyan, was the product of a night of drunken love with a Haradrim concubine in the empire's capital of Korondaj, and he was the hidden shame of Hirgon. As soon as he found out about the whore's pregnancy, he fled the city as soon as he could, fearing the wrath of the Sultan, and not wanting the "sand-eater", as he called it, as a son. His "parting gift" to the boy was his white skin, and that would cripple the child's efforts later in life when it came to finding a place in the society of dark skinned southrons. Hirgon kept the existence of his son a secret to all he encountered, and believed he could bring no further shame to Hirgon's name.
That all changed when he discovered Haradric legal documents concerning the foul union between a man of Sufyan's description and a Black Uruk hailing from Mordor. Although at first expressing apathy with hints of disgust, he thought nothing of it, having disowned his son long ago. The life of a Southron mattered not to Hirgon.
Upon further investigation, Hirgon had found that his boy had tainted his manhood by making love with such a beast. He didn't know how the Black Uruk had reached Korondaj, or what she was doing there, but he cared not. A marriage was one thing, but intercourse between man and orc was sinful and worthy of capital punishment to Hirgon. His son had allowed that filth into his life, and, to add salt to the gaping wound, had been raising a half-blood abomination with her for over seven years in secret. Hirgon was not pleased, to say the least.
He was a frail, old man, and could not personally deal with Sufyan himself, but he was deceptive, and his word (and pockets) held some weight among the unofficially recognized militias that had sprung up after the civil war. That word, combined with a fair bit of gold and some forged wanted posters painting Sufyan as a war criminal, was enough to convince a small band of troops that were camped out by the border of Ithilien and Harad to do as he pleased. He ordered that they capture his despicable son and his lover, and to slaughter the monster that they had concocted on sight.
The journey to Korondaj was not an easy one, fraught with burning sands, the heat of the Sun, sandstorms, and all manner of dangerous creature, but most of the men found the strength to pull through. After twenty-four days of marching, and many considerations of abandoning their assignment, they finally reached their destination. As the troops reached the city, their eyes were assaulted by the dozens of palaces, their external walls forged from sandstone and mortar, towering over the city. Most bore large banners of crimson, each with Haradric lettering and a black, slithering serpent, or domed roofs of jade, gleaming in the desert sun.
At the gates, dozens of camel-pulled caravans entered and exited the city. Each wagon carried an assortment of luxurious goods, ranging from salt found in abundance in the deserts, to silk making its way from the Far East of Rhûn. Such commodities had only been heard of by Gondorians in legends told by travellers passing through, so naturally, the troops were dumbfounded at the very sight of the riches. They were ever so tempted to return to the city when they had finished to spend Hirgon's payment on such lavish gifts. With their newfound motivation, they marched up to the gates, only to be halted by guardsmen clad in wicker and lamellar armor.
Although reluctant, and after more than a fair bit of arguing about the ramifications of allowing foreign soldiers into the city to capture civilians (even if they were criminals), they opened the city to Gondorians. It was in their best interest to keep the peace, however wavering or uneasy. Harboring a fugitive would only be detrimental to their relations. However, the men would not manage to progress to the housing districts without a fight; they had to push back against the jeering crowd of citizens that had formed in the market district and refused to allow Gondorian pigs into their sacred capital. The sultans of past and present had instilled a bitter resentment of the Northmen in his people, telling them that they were an affront to Ru'Hal, and a menace to civilization.
Sufyan stood outside of his quaint little mud-brick residency, and peered out into the bustling, yelling crowd. He could see the flags of the White Tree whirling about, trying to stay afloat in a sea of men, and his eyes widened. He had been raised his entire life to both hate and fear Gondor, and knew that they weren't here on peaceful terms.
Word had quickly spread around the city that Hirgon, a tyrannical councilman from Minas Tirith, had sent a battalion of troops to collect a man who had been on the run from Gondor, and such word reached Sufyan's ears quickly. They described the man's relationship with an Orc, and Sufyan knew that he was the only one in Korondaj that fit that description, as his wife was the only Orc in the city. Although the accounts described a triple murder, and he knew he was no criminal, he knew how easy it was to fabricate a story, and how easily people will believe it. He knew he had to escort his beloved wife and his dearest son out of the city for their own safety, but he didn't know how he could get past the Gondorians unnoticed.
He had hatched a plan prior to this day in the event of a siege, in which he would escape using the ancient, crumbling pathway that hugged the eastern wall; it was virtually unused by guardsmen, contained plenty of hiding spaces and abandoned shacks, and led to a small hole in the wall that could be used as an escape route. After that, he planned on stealing a horse or a camel from the stables near the front gate, and using it to ride as far away from the city as possible. He hadn't planned what to do afterwards, but the safety of his family would have to come first.
Sufyan rushed back inside, trying not to draw attention to himself. He grabbed a large piece of tattered cloth, and placed upon it four loaves of bread, a large, clay flagon of water that was corked shut, a medium sized coin purse containing his family's savings, and a small, graven idol of Morgoth, which had become one of Dâgalûr's toys.
He swiftly tied the corners of the cloth together to form a makeshift knapsack, and tied it once more around his waist. He also reached for one of the steel scimitars mounted over their cooking pit, and sheathed it by placing it in the ring-like extension on the side of his belt, and tightening it. After he finished packing up, he hurried over to Tormatum, who had taken a nap on the small, woven mat on the floor, Dâgalûr nuzzling up to her, and quickly awoke her.
"Tormatum, quickly!" He whispered, hoping she would be quick to respond.
She muttered and growled, slowly rolling over to meet Sufyan's face. It took her a moment to open her amber eyes, but she was awake.
"Wha' is it? I'm tryin' to get the boy ta' sleep!"
"We need to get out of here."
"Wha's wrong?" Tormatum was getting concerned now. She had confided in Sufyan long ago. He knew how she felt about practical jokes, ESPECIALLY ones that woke her from her slumber.
"The Incárii are here!"
Tormatum had taken the time to undergo lessons in Haradric in order to better understand her beloved mate, but there were still some words that she did not know the meaning of.
"Th' what?"
"The Incárii! Come, look for yourself!"
She quickly pushed herself up, careful not to wake her offspring, and pulled back the decorative tarp draped over the doorway. Lo and behold, she spotted the banner of Gondor waving in the arid winds.
She had been taught from birth, back when the Black Uruks were nothing more than a tribe of savages and not the sprawling primitive empire that had swept across Gorgoroth, that the Tarks were vermin. Violent, weakling savages that would never be able to coexist with Orckind.
The disdain for the Southrons was what made Tormatum flee from her people's grasp once she had found the One, her mate for life. The tribe forbade union between an orc and a non-orc, but there was something about Sufyan that made it impossible for her to obey tribal law. Sufyan would've never anticipated falling for an orc, but to him, Tormatum was more beautiful than any of the women that passed by the forge. Her wide hips, slender face, and muscular build were unlike anything he'd ever seen on a woman, and he liked it.
She had come hailing from Mordor, and, being a great shield-maiden, was in search of exotic weaponry. Sufyan was only the apprentice to the smith at the time, but knew much about the killing power of weapons; his free time was often spent using his craft to hack into goat and pig carcasses he purchased from various butcher's stalls, as it helped him vent his frustration about being mocked for being of Gondorian blood.
After mustering his courage, he asked Tormatum to accompany him to one of his sessions, to which she reluctantly accepted. The sessions quickly became a regular occurrence, with Tormatum testing out her new purchases, being a regular customer. Sufyan, who was in the process of cracking away her gruff exterior to find a harsh yet caring personality underneath, often made jokes about the fact that she was twice as strong as him, often being able to cleave through the ribcage of a pig in one swing.
After a few months of Sufyan's sessions, he finally became the chief blacksmith, upon retirement of his master. Being one of many smiths in Korondaj, he knew he wouldn't be making as much coin as he'd like. However, he extended an offer to Tormatum to become his assistant, which she gladly accepted. The two had become outstanding friends, and within a month, the two had decided that they were interested in each other, quickly getting betrothed and conceiving their son, who put up quite a fight inside his mother's womb. Tormatum had taken what little possessions she owned with her, and, upon knowing she would never return to Mordor, moved in with Sufyan.
Regardless, that was not of any relevance to the issues currently at hand. Tormatum was a fighter, not a coward. If something threatened her child, she would destroy it, not run. In a bold move, she drew a massive axe, which bore the symbol of the Serpent, from her back, and pushed the crowd away.
The first row of soldiers drew their spears and raised their shields, but the axe of a furious, protective mother Uruk was upon them. The axe lodged itself in one of the soldier's arms, and the formation broke up. Tormatum unsheathed a broadsword from her hip, and began slashing and violently flailing at the now vulnerable soldiers. City guards saw this as a time to get even with the Gondorians for atrocities under past kings, and started stabbing and thrusting their weapons wildly at the men. Tormatum fought valiantly, but was felled when a spear entered her throat. Her last moments within the circles of the world were spent with tears running down her face from her belief that she had failed as a parent to defend her child before the Void claimed her.
Sufyan took this opportunity to run with Dâgalûr, sticking to his original plan. The two of them followed the eastern wall, passing through the housing and royal districts of the city. Thankfully, neither of them had spotted one of their captors, and eventually reached the hole in the back of the wall.
"Where is mama?" Dâgalûr said, worried.
His father knew that she had almost certainly sacrificed herself to allow for their escape. "Son, we have to keep moving. We have to leave."
"But we cannot go without mama!"
"She will met us there!" Sufyan said, lying through his teeth. He took no pride in doing so, but they had to get out quickly.
They made a break for the main gates, and successfully reached the stables. Sufyan quickly put Dâgalûr up on the nearest camel, and placed his makeshift knapsack on Dâgalûr's lap. As soon as Sufyan tried to mount the beast, he tackled to the ground by a straggler, who got a good hold around him.
Before he was dragged away from his now teary eyed son, he flailed, kicked, and screamed in a futile attempt to escape.
"My boy! Grab the reins! Get out of here before more come!"
Dâgalûr quickly heeded his father's words, and took off into the desert with haste. At this point, he was silently weeping, tears running down his chin. He looked back, and more and more of the men in shining armor came out of the city.
The city drifted farther and farther away, but the grief closed in. His father shouted from afar, "I LOVE YOU!", but was swiftly cut off by the cheers and appraisals from his captors.
Dâgalûr, now alone in the vast world ahead of him, was driven into hiding, as his grandfather had ordered for his capture. He saw his grandson as nothing more than a disease to be purged from the world; that very same blight that he hoped to cleanse would come back two years later and smother him while he slept in an inn in Edoras. No matter whether the denizens of the world respected him, feared him, or detested him, he hated most of them so goddamn much. He would gladly rip and tear through them all just to get one more chance to see his family.
Dâgalûr was too wrapped up in his thoughts to notice that someone was trying to gain his attention. It was one of his lieutenants, a bloated, fat orc with heavy facial scarring, leaving him with no visible nose. He held a long, metal staff, the end of which bore a vibrant red cast of the Great Eye. Laga was his name, and he was chiefest of the sorcerers and librarians that followed Dâgalûr.
"BOSS! Listen!"
Dâgalûr snapped out of it, giving Laga a dreadful scowl. "What in tha' hell do you want?"
"Ya need tuh see this." the lieutenant said, as he pointed something about a mile out in the distance.
The only visible feature on the object he was pointing to was a blinding white light radiating from it, as if Varda herself had called down a star from the heavens and it had crashed down into the earth. Smoke and dust clouded Dâgalûr's ability to get a good look at the rest of whatever it was.
"Look, master, over there. Wha' is that? Sum Elvish trickery been slippin' inta 'ere?"
"I dunno, lad, but I'm goin' in alone to check it out. If I'm not back before nightfall, consider me dead." Dâgalûr said.
He kicked Bolgdyr in the sides and tugged at the reins, and the great and terrible caragor set off for the object.
The ride was bumpy, as the ground was littered with stones and thorn bushes that Bolgdyr was forced to navigate around, but the two reached the source of the light fairly quickly. The object in question was a rift of some sorts, several feet tall. A gloriously bright light was shining from it. Dâgalûr had stopped a few feet away from it, and dismounted. He was absolutely dumbfounded and awestruck.
He'd never gazed upon anything even remotely close to it in all his years. He had seen Necromancy and the like before, but no such wizardry or Elven spell-craft had ever been seen within these mountainous borders. Perhaps it was the result of the experiments by some cult far beyond the Eastern Desolation, or even creatures from the stars. Bolgdyr quickly retreated as far away as his paws could carry him, but Dâgalûr didn't even notice the cowardice his steed had demonstrated, as he was too caught up in whatever phenomenon lay before him. He slowly approached it from the rear, only to find it identical to its front.
Dâgalûr contemplated what would happen if he touched it. "Will I die? Bah, I got nuffin' left to lose. But will I ever come back? Where would I go?" These thoughts ran through his head, and he concluded, "I dun' care about this place. Maybe, if I'm lucky, It'll kill me 'nd take tha world with it!" Not knowing what to expect at all, he put his open hand up to it, immediately being enveloped within the second he made contact.
Author's Note: For those of you reading from August 1, 2018 and onwards, this chapter has been significantly reworked and updated, but it still retains the events of the original Prologue, albeit with a flashback scene. It might conflict with what's happening in the first 9 chapters, but those are each being reworked in order to provide better dialogue, more realistic interactions between characters, and an overall better reading experience. It's not like I'm just going to continue and say "It's my story, if you don't like it, then don't read it." I actually WANT other people to enjoy my story. I want everyone to be able to read this and at least leave thinking "Hey, that wasn't half bad." Until the next update, everyone. Whenever it may be.