Despite being an undead king on his way back to his Lord after finally finding the long-lost Master-ring, the Witch-king of Angmar felt anything but but triumphant. In fact, even in his hazy, simple, and Ring-dominated mind he was beginning to feel sorry for himself.

He had been searching for the Ring for so many years that he had never much thought past the point when they would finally find it and take it back to its master. Now, though, it seemed as though the task after the task would be even more difficult and unpleasant than everything that had come before.

The hobbit-woman was worse than any foe the Witch-king had ever met on the battlefield, mainly because contrary to his usual way of dealing with nuisances he was not allowed to strike her dead, but had instead been ordered to bring the Ring-bearer back before his master, so the Dark Lord could kill her himself.

The Witch-king was no stranger to intimidation, but although the hobbit-woman had seemed sufficiently cowed when he had packed her onto his horse, the blessed silence did not last long. Quite the contrary, soon the hobbit-woman – who had introduced herself as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, not that he had asked – started to complain. And good gracious, how much there was to complain about.

Initially she screeched and cried about wanting to go home and about how she had to prepare breakfast for her husband and son, but when the Witch-king had made it clear to her that there would be no going home, at least for now, she dropped her panic as quickly as a dog would drop an unsavoury bone, and went on to complain about other things instead.

She complained about the uncomfortable seat in his saddle, and she complained about nearly falling off sitting behind him. When they switched places, she complained about how cold his arm was when he held her to keep her from falling off like a sack of potatoes and that this was no way for a gentle-hobbit-or-ghost-or-thing to touch a respectable hobbit-woman.

She complained about the sun stinging her eyes during the day and about the cold winds during the night. She complained when they galloped, because she was thrown around in the saddle, and she complained when the Witch-king slowed his horse to a trot, because she was a busy woman and didn't have all time in the world, and they weren't getting anywhere going this slow.

If it had been the Witch-king's issue to decide, he would have cut her head off first thing after he laid eyes on her, but unfortunately he was unable to do this for various reasons. No Nazgûl could carry the Master-ring, for one, and the Dark Lord had reserved the murder of the Ring-bearer for himself – not to mention that it would probably have produced another fit of temper from Lobelia, about how a respectable gentle-hobbit or gentle-wraith did not simply lop off the head of a poor, old hobbit-woman.

Had it been possible, the Witch-king would have ridden hard for Mordor without a single break, just to get rid off her a few days earlier, but unfortunately neither his horse nor Lobelia were capable of traversing hundreds of miles without breaks for food or rest.

He had, of course, used his authority as the Witch-king to temporarily foist the hobbit-woman off onto the other Ringwraiths, and used the blessedly quiet hours of her absence to regain his patience and his nerves, but those intervals of peace always seemed too short. He suspected the other Nazgûl were not holding up their end of the bargain to keep her for half a day each, either. She always came back way too quickly, jabbing at his knee with her horrible pink umbrella, which she had insisted on bringing, and demand that they "ride on, wherever you're taking me, so we can put this all behind us and I can go back to being a respectable hobbit again!"

Naturally, she was not happy when they arrived in Mordor, either.

She watched with an aghast expression when the doors to the Dark Land slowly opened before them, and the Witch-king began to hope that the sheer size of the gates might have struck her into silence, but he soon realized that he had no such luck.

As soon as they were on the great east road over the plains of Gorgoroth, Lobelia recovered quickly. "What a dreadful land!" she cried. "Do you have no gardeners here? Even the talentless Gamgees have a greener front yard than you do! Do you not care at all what your neighbours will say when they come looking and see that you don't even have a few turnip and pumpkin patches? And I can see no pastures and fences, either! Where are your hobbit-holes? Where do you live?"

The Witch-king counted down from ten in his head, then lifted his left arm and pointed at the great tower of Barad-Dûr looming like a dark, warning finger on the northeastern horizon.

"Thisss isss where the Dark Lord residesssss."

Lobelia followed his gesture and frowned. "That? What is that? A tower? How come your Lord needs a tower?" she asked. "Even the mayor of Michel-Delving contents himself with a hobbit-hole, lavish and pretentious though it may be. Whoever needs or wants a tower? Now that is just atrociously bad taste! – And what about all the stairs? How do you even clean such a tower?"

The Witch-king stared straight ahead. Not much longer, he told himself.

The other eight Nazgûl were hanging back suspiciously far, and only a fool would believe it had nothing to do with an attempt to get out of earshot of Lobelia's tirades.


Lobelia was fuming when the Black Riders finally came to a halt in front of the tower. They had ridden over a drawbridge and a moat of lava, and if that had not been enough to convince her that this tower must house a scoundrel of the worst kind, the gruesomely ugly guards and the spikes on the tower everywhere would have settled the matter.

She refused any and all help at dismounting, sliding carefully from the saddle of the huge horse, and then hobbled away, sore and stiff from the bumpy riding and leaning heavily onto her pink umbrella.

"Now," she ordered, turning around to face the nine riders, "Bring me to your Lord of the Tower or whatever he fancies calling himself! I have to give him a piece of my mind about abducting helpless old women away from their homes and their workplace without any reason whatsoever!"

None of the riders gave her an answer – which had been their default behaviour to every justified complaint she had brought to their attention. Instead, they swept around her and one of them gave the guards a horribly hissed order, and the gates of the tower opened to let them in.

One glance at the inside did nothing to assuage Lobelia's suspicion that she was dealing with the worst sort of people here. There were no decorations, no rugs, no umbrella stands, and not even some pegs where you could hang your coats. Nobody came and offered to take her umbrella for her, and no one offered her tea. It was just an empty, round hall of black iron with a winding, black staircase spiralling upward. The only light came from sooty torches. It was horrible.

Lobelia snorted and shook her head.

Welcoming even your worst enemy in a home like this would have been considered a disgrace in the Shire, but what could you say? Big Folk in general and these rascals especially seemed to possess no manners to speak of. Lobelia very much would have liked to talk to their mothers, wherever they were, and give them an earful about how to raise your children with a mind for proper manners and decorum.

"Is your Lord not going to welcome me?" she asked. "Or do I have to go to him myself?"

"He isss in the upper chamberssss," one of the riders hissed. "Come."

His voice still sent goosebumps down Lobelia's spine, but she knew a dog who was all bark and no bite when she saw one. So she raised her nose high and pointed at the stairs with her umbrella, guessing that this was where they would go. "Then bring me there," she ordered pompously.


The climb took the better part of the day and after Lobelia had counted three hundred steps, she sat down. "Incredible!" she screeched, when the riders wanted to shoo her on. "That a woman of my age would have to climb so far, after being abducted and manhandled onto a horse to go on an adventure I never asked for! An adventure ! Good gracious, what will my Otho say?" She went on like that for a while, but it did not make her feel better at all. Her feet still hurt and she was beginning to get cold from sitting on the iron floor for so long.

At last she clambered to her feet again and she climbed another three hundred steps, before it became too much for her and she explained to the riders in very clear terms that she would not climb another single step today, and if they wanted her to go on, they would have to carry her.

Thus, about an hour later, the nine riders reached the top of the tower and came to a halt in front of a double-winged door with ominous red and black markings. The rider who seemed to be the leader of the lot stepped forward, while the one who had been carrying Lobelia on his back plucked her off and set her down with a distinct air of embarrassment and hurt pride.

The knock reverberated through the very core of the tower itself, but this was nothing compared to the voice that answered the knock: it seemed to come from the deep bowels of the earth, it seemed to tear the air itself in half, and it was nearly enough to knock Lobelia over where she was standing, although it only said one word.

ENTER.

And without any discernible assistance, the double-doors swung open to reveal the room behind it.

It was not very big, given the circumference of the tower at this height, but the ceiling was very tall and its empty darkness served to give the room the strange air of a crypt elevated more than a thousand feet above ground level.

Lobelia crinkled her mouth in distaste as she let her gaze wander. In the middle of a room, there was some sort of table, upon which a strange stone was placed, as round and as dark as a marble, but much bigger and with odd bursts of light and fire blazing up in its depths. Behind that, at the far end of the room, was a dark throne, upon which a shadowy creature was sitting, and although Lobelia wasn't able to see its face, she could feel its eyes resting upon her.

She felt shaken and afraid, but she knew that she couldn't show any fear – after all, she had done nothing wrong, it was them who had dragged here to this abysmal place against her will. She had no reason to be afraid and every right to be angry. Therefore, Lobelia squared her shoulders, gripped her umbrella a bit tighter, and before the leader of the riders could step forward, she cut him off by striding into the room, feigning a confidence she did not quite have.

Lobelia had always been good at letting righteous anger propel her through unpleasant situations, so although she was afraid and tired, there was almost no tremor in her voice when she said, "Good day – although I cannot say I honestly wish a good day to someone who ordered my abduction from Hobbiton! My name is Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and I want to know what on earth is going on here!" She stopped a few paces in front of the shadowy creature on the throne. "And you are?" she demanded.

The shadow on the throne shifted, and when it spoke next, its voice was not quite as loud as it had been before.

"This is the Ringbearer?"

Lobelia looked behind herself with a frown. The nine riders did not shuffle their feet, but they felt distinctly uneasy, that much was clear.

"We followed the directionsss we had been given, my lord," one of them said. "Sssshe had the Ring."

The shadow on the throne and the nine riders shared a glance over her head. Lobelia felt left out of the joke, and – what was even worse – she felt ignored and made fun of. Once again it seemed it fell to her to intervene in order to bring the conversation back to important matters.

"Excuse me !" she cried. "But I think I asked you a question!" And to give her demand some emphasis, she took two steps forward and jabbed the shadow in the knee with the tip of her umbrella.

This was not as effective as she had hoped it would be, because the umbrella just went right through its leg with little resistance. Nonetheless, the shadow looked down, first at her umbrella, then at the hand holding it; and at last Lobelia felt its gaze settle on her with the heat of a forest fire and the weight of a millstone. Lobelia took a step back, but she kept her back straight and her mouth pressed into a firm line.

"My name?" the shadow asked and then she saw the two burning dots of fire where its eyes had to be. "My name is too great that vermin like you should ever be able to speak it. Seeing me here is more than a puny mortal like you deserves, and you should fall to your knees in front of me and tremble in fear and admiration, for this one last and most magnificent thing that you will ever see in your life."

"If anything, I'll fall to my knees because I had to climb your horrible stairs all day," Lobelia deflected. "Has nobody thought of installing a pulley system? We have them everywhere in the Shire! And what is with all these threats? Have you no manners at all?"

The shadow was very still, and it began to dawn on Lobelia that maybe waltzing in and reprimanding the master of this horrible tower had not been a good idea to begin with. As a hobbit, she was about as familiar with evil lords and death threats as a dairy farmer with warfare, but right then she realised that she might be in real danger, because whoever these strangers were, they were not hobbits, and heaven knows what they might have in mind to do to her.

"I reserve manners for those who come here and have not stolen something belonging to me," the shadow said.

"I never stole anything!" Lobelia cried, all her resolutions to be prudent going right out of the window. Caution was fair, but being accused of thievery was not something she'd let go lightly (even if it was technically correct).

"You have my Ring," the shadow said.

Lobelia narrowed her eyes. "Which ring?"

"Oh, shall we make a game of riddles of it? It appears to be a tradition with this specific artifact," the shadow said with false, dangerous amusement. "How about the one you carry in your pocket?"

Lobelia involuntarily reached inside the pocket of her apron and closed her fist around the ring.

"Give it to me."

"It is mine." Lobelia closed her fist tighter. She felt the ring press into the inside of her hands. "I inherited it."

"Interesting. But that still does not make it yours." The shadow extended a hand. "I will not ask again."

Lobelia turned away. "No, no, no! I am not giving it to you, you hear! You cannot just drag me here and rob me of something I rightfully inherited – by Shire Law! The ring is mine and I won't give it to a shadow scoundrel in a horrible tower just because he tells me so!"

It was the wrong thing to say. The shadow suddenly stood – or rose, or grew, she could not quite tell – and she saw that it was not two, not three, but four times her height, and suddenly she felt like a little ant that was about to be squashed by the heels of Odo Proudfoot.

GIVE ME THE RING.

Lobelia cried out in surprise, when her hand moved on its own. It seemed like a greater will had encompassed her own and was smothering it, for suddenly she desired nothing more than to obey the voice, to give the ring back to its rightful master…

Her fist was drawn out of the pocket, and with a trembling hand, she extended her arm, fingers still clenched tight around the ring.

The shadow reached out for her hand, holding it under her shaking fist, and she felt it in her head, as if it was her own idea, to open her fist finger by finger, and the ring trembled and fell and it fell into the hand of the shadow –

– and went right through its hand to plonk on the floor.

Lobelia, the Black Riders, and the master of the tower all stared at the ring that lay bright and innocent on the dark stone floor.

"That – was not supposed to happen," the shadow said.

It bent down and tried to pick the ring up, but its misty fingers went right through it.

"I cannot pick it up," the shadow said, more baffled than anything.

"Well, that's what I thought," Lobelia said into the silence and crossed her arms. "I mean, what use would a ring be to a ghost, anyway? You cannot even put it on!"


Some time later, after Lobelia had been more or less forcibly removed from Sauron's rooms at the top of the tower, the Nazgûl and their Dark Lord stood around thepalantír in the middle of the room in varying states of cluelessness as to how to proceed from here.

The Ringwraiths shifted uneasily, whereas Sauron had been staring out of one of the narrow windows for nearly an hour. When he finally turned around, heat and darkness were rolling off him in waves. Considering how weakened his state currently was, one could only imagine how unpleasant it would be to be locked in the same room with him when he was at the height of his powers. Not that the Nazgûl wanted to imagine that. Besides, their thoughts were too closely tied to the Ring to allow for such flights of thought.

"Now these," Sauron gestured at the One Ring, which was still lying on the floor where Lobelia had dropped it, "are complications I have not foreseen."

The Nazgûl turned to stare at the Ring, as if its they could find the solution to their current problem engraved on its surface, if they only looked hard enough.

It was ridiculous, frankly, that they should be kept from their well-earned triumph even after having recovered the Ring. Still, they felt they should have at least considered that wearing a Ring would pose difficulties for someone who didn't have a body to begin with, and in all honesty they all felt kind of stupid for not having thought of this possibility in the first place. For some reason, they had just assumed that after they retrieved the Ring, the rest would just work itself out.

They should have known better. Anyone who had ever thought up a plan in his life must know that things never work out as planned – and even if they appear to, they will not sort themselves out without someone fighting tooth and nail to wrestle the plan in the right direction.

"So," said Sauron, and regarded each of the Nazgûl in turn. "I should probably know better than to ask, since you are merely extensions of my own will – but does anyone have an idea what to do about this?"

The Nazgûl pondered this. After so long of having no free will to speak of, being asked for your opinion all of a sudden became quite the hurdle to overcome.

"We could talk to the White Wizzzzzard," one suggested. "He issss wisssse."

Sauron visibly balked. The shadows coiled tighter around him in a very agitated manner. "No, we will not ask the wizard. He is one of the Istari, and he is not on our side yet," he snarled. After a pause, he added, "Besides, being called The Wise is not exactly a distinguishing title among a group in which it is considered an intellectual achievement to know which end of the stick shoots the fireballs."

The Nazgûl pondered some more.

"We could kill her," one said. "And ssssolve thissss issssue one problem at a time."

"We cannot kill her," another one hissed. "Sssshe isss the only one who can pick up the Ring."

Sauron perked up. "This is correct." His misty claw-like fingers opened and closed around empty air. He paced up and down the length of the room, then came to stand in front of his commanding wraiths again. "We can not kill her. We can not use the Ring as of now, either." Another hiss, like an angry breath. "So the only opinion left to us is..."

Shadows, per definition, could not grimace. So it must suffice if I tell you, dear reader, that if Sauron had had anything resembling a face, he would have pulled a grimace that is usually reserved for little children who have been told that they would have spinach pie for lunch.


Lobelia had been tapping her foot for so long that it had started to hurt when she was finally, finally allowed back into the room after the ghosts and the shadow without manners had finished whatever talk they'd had to conduct in utmost secrecy.

She was one more brought before the dark throne, and when she stopped she put her hands on her hips. "Well?" she barked and raised her eyebrows. "Have you come to a conclusion concerning whatever problem you have?"

"Yes," the shadow answered.

"Good, good," Lobelia said. "Because now that this is over and done with, I would like to have my Ring back and go home. I am tired and hungry and if memory serves me right, my poor Otho has gone without lunch for more than five days already. The man cannot cook a soup without burning it, he must be starving by now. Also, I would like to sleep in a proper bed again after all this adventuring, so – "

"You will not go home," the shadow said.

"What?" Lobelia snapped.

The shadow made a sound that might have been a growl or a sigh, and lifted a dark hand to rub its brow. "Believe me when I say that I am just as displeased about this as I am. I would not dream of keeping you around a moment longer than necessary."

"Oh, really? Why can't I go home then?" she demanded.

"Because, as you have seen, despite my tremendous strength and boundless might, I do – for reasons that have nothing to do with my strength and might – not yet possess the power to pick up my Ring again." The shadow raised a hand and pointed a claw-like finger at her. "And therefore you will remain the Ringbearer until such a time as I can wield it again, and I will exert my will through you and with you. You should consider yourself lucky. Not many mortals ever get the opportunity to become the direct instrument through which my will is imposed upon the world during their pithy lives."

"I do not agree with this," Lobelia said.

"Did I sound like I was asking permission?"

"No, but that is because obviously, your poor mother, wherever she was when you were young, missed out on the opportunity to be there with a firm hand or a rod to the bottom, whenever you –"

"Silence."

Lobelia opened her mouth to protest, but the shadow simply talked over her.

"Just in case you have not yet understood this, your opinion on the matter is neither desired nor will it be heeded in any way, though you will doubtlessly feel the need to express it."

"That is preposterous!" Lobelia screeched. "Not only are you stealing my heirloom, you are also you keeping me –" she shivered, never in her life would she have thought that this word would ever cross her lips, "hostage."

"Ah, but not to worry," the shadow said, and here its tone became almost sardonic. "This is merely a temporary arrangement. It will not be long before I will be able to pick it up and you will become expendable."

"Does that mean when you're strong enough to pick up a piece of stolen jewellery I will be able to go home?"

The shadow shifted, and although Lobelia knew better than to read a facial expression into the shifting mists of the shadow's visage, she could not help but feel that it was smiling.

"Oh yes. When all this is over, you can go … home."

Lobelia mulled it over. She crossed her arms and thought about throwing a temper tantrum. In the end, she discarded the idea. These people seemed vexingly immune to her rants and fits of rage, and opposing them would probably not get her very far. Besides, temper or no, she had to be careful, considering one of these rascals had already pointed a sword at her!

Lobelia frowned and drummed her fingers on her upper arms. She was absolutely unhappy with the situation, and saying any less would have been a lie. But in the end, she was still a hobbit, and that meant first and foremost that she would make the best out of any given situation.

So she turned back to the shadow with a long sigh. "Fine," she said. "But the points I made earlier still stand: I am tired and I am hungry. So if you want me to stay here I need a room and a bed, and first and second supper. It must be eleven o'clock at night already. I guess you have no decent hobbit cuisine here, but I think you'll manage to scrounge up a bit of bread and cheese, a few brown-capped mushrooms and a bit of wine, won't you?"

She looked up at the shadow expectantly.


The hobbit-woman had just left the room, when the anger that Sauron had been biting back behind his proverbial teeth ever since she had first opened her mouth at him broke forth.

"AAAARGH, I AM GOING TO KILL HER."

The Nazgûl shared a furtive glance and then slowly backed out of the room. They had served their lord long enough to know when it was better to duck out and leave him to cool off for a few hours. Or days.


An hour later, Lobelia had been brought to a room in the middle-levels of Barad-Dûr. Of course she immediately found fault with the cold, almost uninhabitable interior – and she was, for once, justified in her woes, for Barad-Dûr was in no way comparable to the comfort and coziness of a hobbit-hole.

Still, her need to be alone and sort herself out won out over her ever-present urge to complain, and she sent the goblin – or whatever the thing was that had brought her here – away with a shooing motion, but not before reminding him of the food and drink she had ordered.

The goblin didn't look like he had ever heard of barley bread and Old Wingert, uncivilised brute that he was, but nevertheless he scuttled off and out of the room. A moment later, she heard a key turn in the lock of the door, and Lobelia almost shouted after him to unlock again, but then thought better of it.

She had more important things to do. If she was to live here with any decent standard of living at all, she had to knock this horrible excuse for a bedroom into shape before doing anything else. Thus she busied herself pulling the sheets onto the bedding, putting up candles on what was probably supposed to be the bedside cabinet, but looked like it had served as a weapon stand of massive black iron until two hours ago, and using the spare bed sheets to create a makeshift curtain on both sides of the horrible narrow window.

Lobelia then realised that she did not even have brought a handkerchief, a towel, and a set of spare clothes. Still, she'd rather drop dead than to ask for a change of clothes from these people. Judging by her bedside table, she'd demand a night gown and get a set of black iron armour or somesuch. There was only so much insult to proper behaviour and hospitality she was able to take in the span of a day.

Lobelia lamented her life, but only as long as it took the goblin to return with a tray of food that was supposed to be dinner. She scrunched up her nose. "What is that?"

"No idea," the goblin said. "Bread?"

"This is not bread. This looks like something that hadn't been quite dead yet before being served, and put up a fight before being clubbed into submission. Is this even edible?" she asked, poking at the lumpy thing on the tray with a disgusted expression.

"It's edible," the goblin grunted. "I mean, I eat it all the time."

"Oh, and you are surely a judge for good taste," Lobelia snorted. "Pah, give it to me. And now get out of my sight, I want to eat in peace!"

The goblin gave her a hard look, then stuck a tongue out at her and scuffled out.

What a lout, she thought to herself, before she sat down on her sorry excuse for her bed. She looked down at her plate morosely.

She still wasn't convinced that whatever food they had brought her was actually supposed to be ingested, but at least the silver knife and fork that had come along with the plate were nice. Lobelia sighed, and started to eat.


Lobelia was woken early next morning by the same goblin who had brought her the food. He kept knocking at her door until she ripped it open and made him nearly topple forward with all the force he had put behind the last swing (to be fair, she had taken her sweet time before answering the door, but then again, being fair rarely won you anything if you asked Lobelia).

"What?" she snarled.

"You are to come up to the Dark Throne Room, boss's orders."

Lobelia's eyes narrowed. "What is he thinking? I'm not even presentable yet! I'll come to at my own convenience. Go and tell him that."

The goblin stared at her.

"What?" she repeated. She had a feeling that she would be using this word a lot.

"The Dark Lord said 'immediately'," the goblin said.

Lobelia put her hands on her hips. "Well, I am sure your lord says a good deal of fine stuff all day, but he'll just have to learn some patience instead of bossing his guests around."

"You have to come. It was 'n order." The goblin seemed to shrink. He appeared to be at a loss what to do with her and her staunch denial to obey.

"I don't have to do anything," Lobelia said, her tone hard. "Now why don't you just go and tell him what I told you?"

The goblin shrunk even further. He was suddenly shorter than Lobelia. "You must come," he all but squeaked.

"No. You can bring my breakfast first. I'll consider visiting him later. Good-bye." And with that, she shut the door in his face.

When there was another knock at her door ten minutes later, Lobelia opened it to one of the huge, sniffling wraiths who had brought her here.

"Ssssackville-Bagginssss," it hissed. "Come. Now."

Its tone brooked no argument.


"Now," the Dark Lord said, marching up and down in front of her, if what he did could be called "marching" at all, foggy and insubstantial as he was. "Why do you think I have brought you here?"

"Certainly not to enjoy the view," Lobelia grumbled.

This seemed to surprise the shadow. "Do you not find the view enjoyable?" The Dark Lord pointed out of the window and over the vast, horrible red plain stretching out in front of them.

Lobelia stepped up next to him. "What is there to find enjoyable? Where is the green? The flowers? Fields of pumpkins, acres of taters? Where are the hills and the hobbit-holes?"

She felt the shadow regarding her, then mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like "backwater philistine". There was an odd silence for a few moments, then the Dark Lord rounded on her once again. "Leaving your regrettable lack of appreciation for neat and ordered military terrain aside, that was indeed not why I brought you here."

Lobelia felt like another question was expected of her, but she did not feel particularly gracious toward the shadow right now. She looked up at the shadow and the shadow looked back. They started at each other like that for some time, the shadow's growing irritation radiating off him in waves.

"Put on the Ring," the Shadow ordered.


A platoon of orcs was just lazing about on the lower levels of the tower on Cirith Ungol, when suddenly a blaze of fire and fury went right through them that they had never felt before in their lives. Neither had their predecessors and those before them, and you'd have to go back in time very far indeed to find some orcs who'd remember being subjected to a will so pure and unrelenting, it was mind and force and focus distilled into one lava-hot blaze enough to fry their brain in their skulls.

The orcs jumped up and screamed, tearing at their ears, ripping at their sparse hair and screeching. It happened everywhere in the fortress, from the lowest to the highest level. It happened in Ûdun and in the trenches of Barad-Dûr, it happened on the slopes of the Morgai and on the plains of Gorgoroth.

The orcs screamed. But even their loudest screams could not drown out the voice that boomed inside their heads, made their eyes protrude from their sockets with the force of its pressure and set the blood to a near-boil in their veins.

The voice did not say much, only this:

MUSTER YOUR FORCES. ASSEMBLE YOUR ARMIES. PREPARE FOR WAR. I AM RETURNED.

A moment of glorious silence followed, offering momentary reprieve.

Then, another voice, much quieter this time, said:

Must you shout in my ear like that?

And the orcs looked at each other in great confusion.


What followed was, for the orcs, probably the most confusing time they had ever experienced. Naturally they felt Sauron's will at all times, however faintly, for they were his creatures. But what was new was that he suddenly seemed to be constantly arguing with himself even about the most trivial matters.

For example, when a platoon was told to move their camp to the south by the Great Voice, suddenly a second voice butted in, "But why would you do this? They were fine just where they were, and look at them now, trampling the only patch of good soil in this entire rotten land!"

Other days, they'd be ordered to start preparing weapons in the catacombs and subterranean foundries found everywhere throughout Mordor, only to be told in the afternoon to get out in the open air and start harking and ploughing a patch of desert sand. Despite being Sauron's creatures, the orcs could not help but question the strangeness of it, but in the end they were subject to the Ring's will, and they did as the one bearing the Ring told them.

– only to be subjected to a fit of rage the next day and a lot of WHAT DID YOU TELL THEM TO DO WHILE I WAS GONE? and HOW DARE YOU?, which was usually countered by some kind of hysterical Is that how you talk to a hobbit-woman?

And back and forth it went.

One day, they were grinding blades, and the next they were digging water trenches to bring the pitiful trickles that ran through Mordor to the surface and around to their ploughed patches of soil.

Another day, they'd be firing up the furnaces and oiling the war machinery that lay in tunnels and caves under Mordor, and then the next they'd be sitting in circles and weaving straw hats or fixing up farming tools.

The arguing continued, and it did not get any less strange with every day that passed, which led to many bemused orcs, muddled orders, and a lot of headaches.

But the oddness did not stop at the borders of Mordor, quite the contrary. The second voice became ever more meddlesome, and whenever Sauron himself was not speaking to his minions, the second voice picked up where he left off and ordered them to do the strangest things in the meantime.


Far away, a few Rohirric soldiers were leaning against the wall of the guard house in the small village of Aldburg when suddenly a warning gong sounded out over the settlement from on top of the guards tower.

"Orcs! Enemies! To the east, to the east! Look out, the enemy is coming!"

There was a great outcry of fear from the women and a shout of rage from the men and guards, and all those who could bear a weapon went to grab whatever was closest at hand to defend their settlement.

There is one thing you must know about Rohan: ever since Evil had started stirring in Mordor again, many villages and settlements in the Eastmarch had been plagued by frequent raids of the hordes of Mordor. For powerful and dreadful as the Dark Land had become, it was still barren and did not provide enough food for its terrible inhabitants; also the horses that the Nazgûl used as mounts were corrupted, yet mortal, and as such, the formidable black stallions from the stables of Rohan had ever been a target for raids by the Nazgûl's troops.

Thus the guards cried, "The enemy has come to raid us again! To the gates, to the stables! Protect the horses, do not let them be taken!"

Once armed, all fit to wield weapons were sent hurrying to the settlement gates. When opened, the gates admitted farmers rushing in from the settlements outside of the walls, bringing provisions and children with them, while the guards and the armed men stormed out to bring in the horses from the pastures and bring them to safety within Aldburg's walls. Corn and vegetables they could stand to lose, for it was summer and the harvest promised to be plentiful. But they could not afford for their stables to be raided, for it took years of intensive care and training to rear a generation of yet unbroken colts into magnificent stallions.

Ever closer drew the raiding horde, while the pastures were swiftly cleared and the horses brought inside the walls, but to the surprise of the guardsmen the orcs did not stop to destroy their crops and raid their houses. Instead, the horde slowed down when they reached the outskirts of the first farms, and abandoned their marching order to come together in a huddle instead.

The chief of the guard, a brave spear-man named Éothan, raised an eyebrow. "Now what in the name of Eorl is that supposed to mean?"

"Are they afraid of us?" one man asked.

"No, I do not think so. Behold, they are approaching again! Archers at the ready, but do not loose your arrows until I tell you so!"

The men held their ground and their breath as the orcs approached, watching the strangely hesitant manner in which they did so. They did not torch the houses nor did they trample their crops. Instead, they drew closer until one orc raised one hand in the universal gesture for demanding to parley.

The guards shared a long look.

Éothan looked at his second-in-command, who slowly shook his head. He looked at the orcs again, waiting about three hundred feet downhill, just out of range of their archers.

"What do you seek here, plundering scum of Mordor?" Éothan shouted. "If you want horses you will have to look elsewhere –"

"We dun' want your dratted horses!" the orc captain shouted. "Jus' give us what we came here for, and we'll leave you in peace!"

"What do you want of us, then?" Éothan cried.

"Give us all your pumpkins! And cabbages! And ta...ters?"

"I beg your pardon?" Éothan asked, confused.

"In the name of the Great Eye I order you to give us your taters!"

"What are taters?" a man asked next to Éothan, and Éothan repeated the question to the orc captain.

"We haven't the foggiest!" the orc captain shouted back.

The men shared another look.

Éothan waved his fellow guardsmen forward. "Come with me. Keep your guard up, but do not attack. I have a suspicion that this particular raid might just be averted."

A very befuddling parley later, Éothan had learned that the orcs had been sent not to destroy but to gather crops and seeds, although what they were supposed to do with them remained a mystery, just as the nature of the 'taters' they had demanded.

The farmers finally cut a deal with the orcs that went as follows: in exchange for a chosen variety of crops and farming tools, the orcs would go away and not pester Aldburg ever again. The farmers weren't at all happy about it, but then it did seem preferable to having their sheds and granaries torched and their horses stolen out from under their legs when they weren't looking. The orc captain growled that he was in no position to give such promises, but that he'd pass it on to his superior.

"Also, we're taking some of your grass," the orc said while his subordinates were hefting the heavy sacks of grain and vegetables onto their shoulders.

"Our grass?" Éothan repeated.

"Yeah, you sure have more than enough o' it," the orc grunted.

Éothan opened his mouth to ask, then thought better of it and just shrugged. "Do whatever you want to, just stay away from our settlements."

"I told you we're gonna take your grass. And I'm not asking permission, just so we're clear."

"Perfectly clear," Éothan said.

Later, the guards were watching the group of orcs shovelling and hacking away at a small spot in the middle of the grassland of the Eastmarch, loading a bit of turf into their sacks, and finally making their way east toward Mordor.

"What in the name of Éorl was that about?" one guard asked.

"I don't know, and I am not sure I want to," another responded. "I just hope this isn't some new devilry of Sauron."

"A devilry that demands vegetables and turf?" Éothan asked, eyebrow raised. "Now that is something I'd be curious to see in the works."

"Don't jinx it," another guard said darkly.