Act V
After some time passes, guards issue forth from Denethor's hall. They accost the Black Númenóreans and speak to them, then begin to usher them along; Taurmarth and Anírorien do not notice this until a guard comes up to them and bids them follow him.
Anírorien pulls up her hood over her head and hides her face, turning her tears away from the Gondorian. Taurmarth looks at the guard, then looks straight at him, not bothering to dry his eyes. "Whither would you lead us?"
"There are many abandoned houses in Minas Tirith, my lord," said the guard. "The Lord Denethor has decided that he will continue to house you and your company in the White City until such time as he can test the veracity of what you have told him and determine the full extent of your trustworthiness. You and your people will be housed here, under guard, and in the morning you will be told of your privileges and restrictions."
Taurmarth nods and ushers Anírorien to follow him. She glides alongside him, silent as a shadow, yet with a subtle but commanding presence. "Assuming we do not starve to death ere then," said Taurmarth with a measure of impatience. "We have yet to eat a morsel since our flight from Mordor, and I was told my people would be fed."
"We are dividing up our stores to distribute to your folk," said the guard. "We apologize for the delay, but we have little to be frivolous with, and must be sparing even in our generosity. The Lord of the White City will never be said to live in fear, nor to be stingy with his bounty, but there is little to go around."
"Then see to it that the women are fed first," said Taurmarth. "They are unused to long bouts without food or drink, even those who travel abroad, whilst my warriors are accustomed to eating but little when necessary."
"I will see that it is done, lord," said the guard.
The guard leads them along silently from that moment on. Anírorien takes hold of Taurmarth's hand as they walk, careful to do so subtly, recalling his command to have the women fed first. The voice of her blood whispering ancient chivalry into her soul evidences the justice of Taurmarth's command, and the nobility of such a sacrifice, to go without so that the women may eat. She is certain that there will be enough to go around, and hasn't even thought of sustenance since they fled Mordor, being laden with other cares. But she can see that she and all the other Black Númenóreans are among the cares of the Wolfheart, and he truly intends to hold to his word and take responsibility for them. She squeezes his hand gently, trusting him now as leader and protector as well as warrior, and he responds in like manner as they reach one of the abandoned houses.
They are led inside after servants finish hastily clearing out the humble structure of debris. Little ceremony is given, as the Black Númenóreans are under intense scrutiny, and the will of the Lord Denethor is such that the refugees of Mordor will simply have to accept whatever is given them, because he knows as well as they that even an abandoned house in Minas Tirith is infinitely preferable to camping out in the Wild, waiting for death to find them ere they can try their hand at revenge. Permitting them to make camp on the Pelennor was not an option, since it was more dangerous to leave them in the open, where any hidden Orc may creep up or alert others to the presence of the Black Númenóreans, and bring swords upon them.
Food is brought to the Black Númenóreans; simple rations of bread, cheese, milk, and a portion of a store of apples from a large harvest; there will not be meat to spare for days. They complain not at what is offered them, and are grateful though utterly silent. A few hours later, Taurmarth sits alone by a window in the house which he was assigned, looking out onto the city. He has removed much of his armor; his dark hauberk lays spread out on a table, his dreadful helm sits beside it, its long black and red tassel spraying out over its blackened crown. His cloak and surcoat are also removed and lay on the table beneath the helm. Angimil lays on the table, dark and imposing, and Taurmarth's lone weapon of war after the breaking of his sword. He still wears his boots, and his black trousers and tunic, but all else he has done off, the Warlord finally able to unburden his shoulders of at least the physical weight they have carried daylong. He has undone the small braids in his hair and brushed it out, and has bathed for the first time in many days. His beard, which had grown long and hoary, he has trimmed close to his face. He now rests himself at the the cool white stone of the sill, struggling with new emotions, new feelings, and a newfound humanity, and imagines much is the same for the others as well.
He also thinks much on Mordor and how they might strike back. Indeed, the Ephel Dúath is nigh impenetrable, and the Morannon cannot be taken by force, even if engines were to be brought, for the sheer height of the Gates is beyond the reach of scaling ladders, and there are thousands now stationed there, ready to destroy any intruder. It would take weeks to travel round the Mountains, either north along the Ered Lithui or down along the southern curve of the Ephel Dúath and attack Mordor from the east, and there is nothing but wasteland between Mordor's easternmost borders and the first assailable fortresses that dot its parched landscape. They would be easily spotted, and through the many secret passes hewn into the mountains Orcs would pour and harry them till the death-for their small host of barely three hundred to even conceive of such is the uttermost folly. Furthermore, Taurmarth is certain that Denethor will never permit them to lead any host from Gondor on such a foolish quest, especially since they are spread so thin with the defense of the City and Osgiliath.
Perhaps they will find their purpose there, swelling the defenses of the ruined city, or abroad with the Rangers in Ithilien, though that is a good deal closer to Mordor than he himself prefers to be at this time, and the same he knows can be said for the others. Had he enough of his people with him, he thinks he could assail Umbar and reclaim it. He has visited the Corsairs on many an occasion, to enforce the will of Sauron on them, and to make certain obedience and subservience are the gifts the Corsairs will give to the Eye, and he knows how to make them yield.
He loses himself further in thought, dwelling on how he enforced that Will. He thinks of the executions carried out in public and of the burnings of hundreds of Corsairs in their beds. He and his warriors would ride throughout the streets in the days when Umbar was not wholly obedient to the Dark Tower, and would hew dissidents and rape their women and drag them off to slavery in Mordor. The slain would be impaled on spears and often the living would join them, trees in a forest of the dead. After a few such visits, the Corsairs were more cooperative, and after similar actions in Harad the Southrons became very agreeable, though neither nation needed much swaying, already having been enamored of the Darkness. He ceases his mental debate, knowing this cannot be the way of things anymore.
He looks at his hands, the hands that burned and hacked in the name of Sauron. He regards himself and the things he did in service to the Dark Tower. Never did he bring a life into the world, nor protect a life already in the world until now, but countless are the lives he took, with those hands holding the weapons of murder or signaling the start of executions, or taking the life from his next victim. As victims he begins to look upon them, the men and women and children of Umbar, or Harad, and even the Orcs of Mordor itself.
Taurmarth is suddenly broken from his self-counsel as Anírorien appears in the doorway. She has taken time to search out a bath as well, and wash both the dust of Mordor and the grim paint from her face. Gone also are the devices braided into her long hair, and it hangs loose about her shoulders to her waist, unbound and new-brushed. She has scrubbed the foul dye from her hair that colored it black as pitch, permitting its natural hue to be seen. She has beaten the dust from her garments, and has removed the evil talismans worn on them, with her cloak gathered about her salacious gown, and now appears as a dark but simple lady, unadorned and unassuming. She bows her head politely as she faces him, and he rises from his seat and returns the gesture. He wonders for a moment what prompted him to do this; they never stood on ceremony in Mordor, where the strong remained seated and the weak or the crafty fell to their knees. Perhaps another message from his blood, brought over the centuries from ancient Númenor in all its noble graciousness?
Anírorien goes to the window where he now leans, looking back out over the City. Taurmarth's eyes return to her for a moment, for this change still strikes him in a way. She is still of a darkly majestic bearing, though now but little remains of the evil that Mordor colored her with. Indeed, she seems more as a simple lady of Gondor than the Great Witch of Mordor. She abides not the slightest element of Sauron's realm to remain in her and blacken her soul any longer. In the faint light of the room his keen eyes can now perceive Anírorien's true, natural beauty, and he sees her as he has never seen her, unadorned with evil objects or unnatural paint and dye. Anírorien pleases him-indeed, beguiles him-far more than she did when wrapped in the foulness and phoniness of Mordor. She leans against the opposite sill and they are wordless for a long while, neither speaking nor setting eyes on one another. Anírorien then takes a breath. "So, my lord, what are we to do now?"
Taurmarth sighs tersely. "The heralds of the Lord Denethor have spoken to me. Those of us with skill to match them shall be sent out with the Rangers to waylay the forces Sauron moves in secret and keep watch on his movements. Others shall go to Osgiliath to aid in the defense of that city, and to advise the captains there of the manner in which Orcs make war, to better prepare them for when Mordor comes again. The rest, lord and lady alike, shall remain here, in the temporary service of the White Tower, and shall be given livery of the Tower to wear each day. You and your sisters shall provide the Lord Denethor and the nobles of Gondor with advice regarding Mordor, and shall serve the Houses of Healing, and learn the arts of 'gentler women' and forget the black arts of Mordor."
He chuckles grimly to himself. "Skill to match them; a single warrior of mine could best five of Gondor's, and but one draugheleth embracing the spirit of his wolf can even force a mountain troll to yield, especially if your Ladies should sing magic in support. There have come with us several battalions of each, and few of my wolf-coats did not heed my summons out of Mordor. The blood of Númenór runs thick and hot in their veins. Gondor underestimates us through spite, it would seem. I suppose I cannot blame them, yet I would stake my life on the fact that the finest warriors standing on Gondorian soil are those who are newly arrived to these crumbling houses."
Anírorien digests his words. She sighs, accepting her fate, though begrudging it not, for it surely is a worthy penance to perform for her heinous crimes, even though the Lord of the City knows them not. At least she does not begrudge it entirely. "And when are we to be given our chance to strike back at Mordor? Without vengeance, what shall we live for?"
"The service of Gondor," said Taurmarth. "That is the answer I was given when I posed the same question to Denethor's herald. Our lives shall be lived now in noble service, and that shall be revenge enough, unless and until other opportunities present themselves. But such opportunities shall likely only come at the front lines of an invasion."
"What chance is there of that?" asked Anírorien. "You are the Warlord of the Great Towers and under your hand the Orcs learned war. Surely you must know when the Eye plans to invade."
Taurmarth purses his lips, considering his response. "I do not know when Sauron shall unleash the Hordes. Of course we... they... are massing for invasion, and the feeble sorties that issue from Morgul against Osgiliath are only to wear down Gondor's defense, to soften it up for the great stroke of the hammer upon the anvil. But that time is a guarded secret, and even the Nine know it not."
He turns his attention to the table which bears his gear. Lifting Angimil, he examines it, turning it over and over in his hands, pondering the course he has set his people on. After the tradition of the Black Númenórean since their earliest days in Mordor, the chieftain of their folk bears a mace in addition to his sword and dagger. This mace borne by the Warlord is able to be used with a single hand, but is more suitable for two, and is nearly a maul in size, with stout flanges encircling its strong head. It is graven with runes, spells wrought in the Black Speech of Mordor designed to bless its wielder with strength and curse its victim with death. After being forged wholly of iron, haft and head alike, it was graven and enchanted, then finished black as night, black as the Master its bearer served. Angil is its name in the tongue of the Sindar, and from that point on, Taurmarth forgets the name it bore in the tongue of Westernesse, a tongue soiled and stained with their use of it in Mordor.
Anírorien regards him for a moment as he loses himself in his thoughts, letting her gaze and focus trail off. She sighs lightly and turns her eyes to the outside. Taurmarth follows suit and for a brief while they stand there, staring in silence. "Where shall you sleep, lady?"
Anírorien looks at him. She swallows, weighing her responses against her better judgment and her inmost desires. For long years, both in the service of Barad-dûr and Minas Morgul, she and he have shared duties and served their Master together. Long toil it was, and oft joyless, and any pleasure to be found in Mordor was quickly taken, and she and he often found pleasure together. They sought pleasure with others, and in carnal union sought to forget for a time their wearisome labors within the Black Lands. Yet, as has been said, their efforts came to naught, and though for a time they were able to ignore the servitude of their lives in each other's arms, and the arms of others, they could never find the peace they sought most for.
Yet Anírorien knew that if peace was to be found, it was to be found in this dread Captain of Mordor. He knew the same, yet neither of them dared voice it to each other or even admit it to themselves. But that was long ago, in a harsh land of survival and death and evil, a land where the sun shone not and mercy and compassion would have been stumbling blocks. Anírorien slowly stands upright and walks over to him, her bright eyes focused on him, no longer in any attempt to subtly press her will upon him, but merely to open the windows into her soul. She now musters the strength to admit to him things she would not dare utter even to the shadows were she all alone.
"My lord Taurmarth, I dread the night. I close my eyes and I see no shadows or blackness, but death and torment. My mind is awash with the deeds I have done, and the blood in which I have bathed are the waves which carry such refuse to the shores of my heart. I was a monster, my lord, and my every breath is a disgrace to our ancestors, and to these noble and lofty people who have admitted us into their City and lay out the terms of our penance before us. Indeed, I feel as if such mercy is wasted on us, and on myself certainly, and ere I accept another gift from Gondor I would hurl myself from the great spur which points to the Black Lands."
Anírorien sighs and casts her eyes down. "I know I am not alone, and others feel this way, warriors and witches alike. I know I must not let the Darkness now consume me now that I will not let it buoy me up. Yet I cannot escape the sorrow which crushes me now, and I would sooner submit to it and let it press me into nothing than continue to struggle to hold it up."
Taurmarth sets Angil back on the table and places a hand on her shoulder, again urged by feelings that confuse him to his core. It is at times like these he feels as if possessed by some benevolent spirit and is only a spectator in his own body, watching himself perform deeds that are unlike him, and think thoughts and feel emotions that are equally alien to the Great Warlord of Mordor. Yet, he fights it not. "No, my lady, there is indeed hope, and escape. It is the thin faith I myself hold to now in these darkling times. I too am unworthy to draw even one more breath, and in oceans of blood and tears did I also bathe. I was deluded into believing I was setting the world to rights and bringing it to heel beneath the rod of its rightful Master. I believed salvation and strength came only from the Dark Tower, and I served Him tirelessly, all the while believing that I, too, was building a kingdom for myself here, as He told me. Indeed, we all thought that, and labored for long years to make ourselves Kings among Men, yet how little did we know we were only digging our own graves."
Taurmarth casts his eyes out the window again, looking off into the night. "I also do not look forward to sleep, though my body begs for it, and try to keep my eyes open, for all I see when I close them is my own life brought against me as testimony to all I have said, and to my own unworthiness. But, even if I should not sleep for days, I must press on, and hold to the faith that now, I do what is truly right. Now I truly labor to build a kingdom, this time not for myself, but for the folk of this City, the heirs of Númenor."
He gently touches Anírorien's chin, lifting her eyes to meet his. "That which the Steward said is true, my lady. Service to Gondor is revenge in and of itself. Every good deed we perform for the benefit of this country and her people is a blow that smites the Eye. And we have therefore landed many blows already, for now many of Sauron's secrets are laid bare before the feet of Denethor and his captains, and greater blows are still to come; we have but to ride forth and deliver them. Even if all you should learn are songs and herblore in these Houses of Healing, you defy the Dark Lord, who would have you return to him on your knees, to confess of all your doings against him ere he shall take you into the Tower and subject you to endless torment before his lidless wrath."
Anírorien regards him. "Your words do ring of truth, my lord. Indeed, I perceive it myself, and though we all despair we know this in our hearts, each one of us who escaped hither. Though perhaps I may never rid myself of the Darkness which plagues me, I am resolved to do what I may to spite Him and perhaps bring what feeble glory I can to this nation of our ancestors."
She sighs coldly and shivers. She reaches out as if to touch him, but withdraws her hand, uncertain of what to do, confused save for a few words upon her tongue. "I do not wish to be alone tonight. Indeed, I do not think I could bear it."
Taurmarth reaches out for her unsure hand and clasps it lightly, yet surely. "Nor I."
Taurmarth and Anírorien meet eyes and look into each other for a short while. No words are spoken; none can be formed. In the deepening shadows of the night, as the one lone candle in their room flickers in the breeze, they embrace and weep softly, and soon they indeed dare to lay themselves down to rest, each in the other's arms, to close their eyes and meet head on the evil things that shall assail them. Yet now they are a little more confident that they shall not drown in the black floods that rise to meet each of their souls, for, at least for one night, they have each other to cling to in the shadows.