The Power of an Oath

Semirhage stood, head bowed. "He is a traitor," she said quietly.

The dark form before her seemed to brighten, and out of it, a man stepped. Or something that looked like a man, if a man could stand as tall as an Ogier. On the right hand were four fingers- and she knew. Knew that even Sauron could be defeated. But not yet, not yet.

The voice that rumbled from that form was amused. "So I suspected, when one like you came and did not report to me."

"Neither does he serve the Light. He wishes to be independent, I think. What he has promised and what he has done I still do not know." And it frustrated her she did not know. Demandred was crafty, a true master at deception. She merely dealt in pain.

"The world is moving on. The time of the immortals is ending. The time of men is coming, and men…men seek power." The amusement deepened, a sound like needles. "I was called the Cruel, but my greatest victory was in giving men what they most wanted."

Semirhage had read the history and had no reason to disbelieve it. A whole Empire, fallen to the death. A whole nation serving the Dark. And this man…no, this spirit, had been the hand behind it all. She shivered in the presence of such power.

"But I serve you," she protested. "Even if Demandred is the best for this world, I still serve you. He serves only himself."

"It is true," Sauron said. "And what have you seen in your service, my Hand? The hand that serves the Dark?"

"Your armies are ready, and they will sweep over the West. If men will rule, it will be men who serve you, Lord Sauron."

"It will be so, but there is still one thing I need. One thing only, and then my victory will be complete."

"The Ring," she said. How stupid could a spirit be? To pour all his power into a piece of jewelry. She had the Power...while he had lost much of his. "The Nazgul have not found it yet? They call me the Lady of Pain. Give me even one victim, and I will learn the truth. I will not need another."

There was a pause, and Semirhage wondered if she had gone too far. She was merely a mortal woman, for all her power. Sauron was far above her.

"I hear rumors of the Khuzdul marching out of their caves at last," Sauron said. "I believe someone in Minas Tirith now has what I most desire, and is drawing all to himself in an attempt to unseat me." The mockery in his voice was not now knives, but swords.

Semirhage was sharp in return. "Then let me go to the City of Kings. The old man who sits in his tower will soon give up all he knows. Even if he comes from a noble line, none can resist torture for long."

"Very well. But should you fail, I will make your own pain look like a caress."

Semirhage bent her head, and when she lifted her eyes again, the darkness was gone. The room at the top of Barad-Dur was empty, and she knew where Sauron must be- looking out from the roof just above her, straining to see the Ring with his far-seeing Eye.

Down the long stairs she went, in a temper at the changing circumstances. Once, she had ruled the world with twelve others. Once, she had put a Band on the Dragon himself. Now she was reduced to begging.

Orcs passed her, and she seized the Power without thought. It was a simple matter to place Compulsion on their minds, increasing the lust for blood that was in all their kind. In truth, she wanted them all gone-pitiful wretches with hardly an intelligent thought. Men would rule, not the rabble of goblins, and she would be the greatest of them all.

181818

Eowyn walked slowly down the hall. She was reluctant to walk down that hall into the throne room. She felt eyes on the back of her neck and turned with a shudder. He was there again- the snake! For too long he had followed her, and she was minded to give a piece of her mind. She could fight, and he could not.

She shook her head against it. What was the use? Her father was dying, and her brother was dead. Theodred…he was not really her brother, of course. But she had lived in the Meduseld for so long that she felt that bond. He had taught her swordplay, made her into a shieldmaiden, and made her strong. Now he was dead, struck down by the orcs of the White Hand.

Her gaze strayed to the West. Saruman! The wizard should know better! She hurried, a little faster. She would rather see her foster father in dotage than feel Wormtongue's eyes on her.

Hurrying into the throne room, she was surprised to see Eomer there. Glad, but surprised. Wasn't he supposed to be out hunting orcs? Maybe he had news. He hugged her tightly when he saw her, and for a moment, she took comfort in his strength.

"I heard," he whispered. "I chased a band to Fangorn, but missed the real battle."

"The Fords are still held by our men," she said. "The battle is not done yet." It was for his hope, not hers. She knew better. She made a promise to herself- should orcs come to Edoras, she would take some with her.

Wormtongue followed, taking his place by the king. "Eomer," he said. "What a surprise!"

Eomer threw a helmet down on the ground. Pressed with the White Hand, it rolled to his feet. "This is the threat we face!" he said, looking around at the assembled nobles. "Saruman is no longer our friend, if ever he was."

"Saruman is ever our friend and ally-" Wormtongue began, but Eomer was having none of it. He stalked toward the King's advisor until he loomed over the shorter man. Eowyn watched as he hauled Wormtongue to his feet to look at him eye to eye.

"How long has it been since Saruman bought you?" her brother hissed. "What was the promised price?"

Wormtongue looked over at her. It was as though he had touched her, but she stood her ground. Here and now, she would not be afraid. Eomer saw the look and his grip tightened.

"I could kill you now," he said. "What would the king do, the king that you have sent into dotage? The one you swore to serve!"

"You see much, Eomer, son of Eomund, too much." Men, hard of face, came up behind her brother and pried him away. Wormtongue smirked. "Throw him in prison until he sees sense."

Eowyn looked at the nobles, and they looked back, but did nothing. What could they do, after all? They were sworn to obey. She sighed and hurried away, shutting the door to her own chambers. She had to think.

Making her decision, she began to plan her move. She would remove the cancer from Edoras, but she would have to do it right. A knife in the dark should do the job nicely…if she could reach her target.

181818

Faile struck, hard, and sent Sam to his knees. The stout hobbit was light on his feet, though, and stood again, bringing his own blow. Though he was not very tall, he was strong, and she stumbled backward. Frodo sat on a rock, waiting his turn, while Smeagol was curled up, resting.

It was hard to breathe in the dry air as they approached the Black Gate, and Faile knew they could not practice long, but she was determined that the hobbits would be able to fight if they had to. To her mind, though the elven cloaks were a marvel, she knew they were entering the heart of evil, where all other powers would be dim.

The long slog through the swamp was almost more than they could endure. She had seen swamps and mires, of course, but this was worse in a way, eating on her mind. She had not been encouraged by Smeagol telling their history. She was walking over the grave of the Last Alliance, and she could well believe the dead haunted the place. She could almost feel their whispers- the bold songs of the elves, the shouts of men and the hiss and grumbles of the orcs.

But they made it through. Now she wondered if the swamps were not preferable. In the swamps, they were safe. No one, not even the Nazgul, could see them. Now they were in a pitiless wasteland, without even a sign of growing things.

"Good, good," she said to Sam. "You are quick on your feet, and will make a fine warrior someday." She meant it, too. Many of the great men of Saldaea would have already succumbed to the dangers and temptations of the road.

Sam wiped his forehead. "Begging your pardon, Miss Faile, but what's that noise?"

Suddenly Faile heard it. "Down!" she said. Immediately Sam dropped, pulling Frodo down with him. She motioned them to stay put, and ran to the top of the hollow in which they sheltered. In her travels, she had seen many soldiers, and had studied the nations of many more, but she had never seen soldiers like these. Dressed in red and gold, they wore gold earrings and wore strange overlapping plates of armor. Their faces were dark, even darker than the Sea Folk, and they carried their weapons proudly.

Smeagol had woken up and peered over the hollow with her. He shivered. "Men from the South," he said, but it was enough. Faile had read about the fierce Haradrim, the implacable enemies of Gondor, and her heart sank. They were not coming to challenge Sauron, but to join him. If such armies were coming to join him, how would they ever enter Mordor?

"I made a promise," she whispered. "I made a promise, and I will keep it." She turned to Smeagol. "Continue to lead us."

"Smeagol made a promise," he said, although there was doubt in his voice. Faile, for the first time, did not hold it against him. He said nothing more, but led them down behind the enemy lines, moving them toward the Black Gate. How they were to pass the walls of steel, though, Faile did not know.

181818

Perrin lay against a stone. He was tired, and blinked wearily against the night moon. For three days they had marched, and for much of that time, Perrin fought just to keep his feet moving. For the hobbits, it had been even worse. The orcs were tireless and unflagging, and Perrin could almost respect them for their stamina.

He nudged Merry, who lay beside him. Merry opened one eye. "The orcs are resting," Perrin whispered. "We need to get away."

Merry held up his hands, and Perrin's heart gave a leap. The bond were loose, tied in a loop he could easily slip out of. How he had been able to do that, Perrin did not know, but his estimation of the two hobbits went up.

"I've done the same for Pippin," Merry whispered, as he worked at Perrin's knots. The guard was on the other side of the camp, and Merry threw a stone off to the left. The guard turned his head, enabling Merry to finish his work. "There. Now we can all run, really run, whenever the chance is right."

Perrin looked at the forest they were under. "The chance may be now," he whispered. "If we can hide in the trees, we might lose them." He had heard stories of Fangorn from the elves, that some power dealt in the woods. He had seen the power of nature unleashed, the wolves and even the very trees fighting for the Light, and he was not afraid. "How fast can you move?"

"Fast enough, as soon as Pippin wakes," Merry whispered. "He was treated worse than me."

Perrin's blood boiled. "We will make them pay, but first we must get free." He looked around. All backs were turned. Pippin was rousing under Merry's hand. He pointed to the forest, and the younger hobbit nodded.

Perrin looked again. "Run!" he whispered harshly, and Pippin and Merry ran, right into an orc that had stepped out of the darkness. Perrin recognized him as the leader of the Mordor orcs, Grishnakh by name. He was not abusive, but whenever he spoke, Perrin felt a chill run down his spine. Here was one evil to the core, evil far beyond cruelty.

"Little hobbits are getting lost in the woods, are they?" the orc said. Though not as big as Ugluk, he was just as strong, strong enough to carry the hobbits each in his hands. He dropped them outside the circle of torches. "Better to let me protect you. Ugluk doesn't know everything!" He began to paw at them, and Perrin spoke slowly, stepping into it.

"You won't find it that way," he said. Grishnakh looked up at Perrin, who was a head above him, and a suspicious light came into his eyes. But at least he was focused on him, not the hobbits.

"What do you mean?" he said.

"Gollum, gollum." Perrin knew what the orc was after now, or thought he did, and was confirmed when Grishnakh started violently.

"Oho. Little man and halflings dealing with matters too big for them." Grishnakh's eyes were wide, wide with greed and hunger.

Merry had caught on. "Searching us will do no good. We don't have it!"

"Search! Search!" The smaller orc was flustered, and turned to them. "My dear hobbits, I'll search you to the bone! And we won't hurry the enquiry, oh no!" He seized them again, and Perrin sprung. The knife he had picked up flashed in the night, and Grishnakh's head rolled from his shoulders.

At that moment, there was a great cry. The Riders who had followed them for the last three days finally attacked. Perrin didn't want to be in the middle of the battle, and motioned to the hobbits. Flitting like shadows under the shadow of the elves, they escaped into the forest.

"Good work," Merry said to Perrin when they had finally reached the trees.

"The fool had dropped his knife in the effort to get at you," Perrin said. "Good work, yourselves, for the brooch and for the ropes."

Merry nodded, and Pippin just blushed, from fear or modesty Perrin didn't know. There was a nasty wound on his forehead, and Perrin picked him up. "Come on," he said. "Let's get a bit further, then I'll look at your wounds."

181818

"Fools indeed," Barid Bel said. He watched the battle and saw the Riders cut down the orcs like a scythe through wheat, then saw their leader dismount and fight the leader of the orcs sword to sword. He was no Trolloc, but still a massive brute, taller and stronger than the smaller horseman. But his strength did him no good.

"Burn the bodies," the leader said when all was done. "Let no shadow come back to the White Hand."

So it was done. Barid Bel watched as a tall figure and two smaller ones escaped to the woods. He felt the power there and was disinclined to follow. It was a good power, but he was not ready for the meeting. Not yet.

"I have heard about you," a voice said, and Barid Bel spun, wondering at this new…no, not a threat, but powerful. He could feel the sense of threat showing that this new guest was strong, perhaps even as strong as him. But all he saw was an old man, wrapped in a gray cloak and leaning on a staff.

"Who are you?" Barid Bel said.

"I am called Gandalf," the man said, and Barid Bel's mouth nearly dropped open. "And you were once called Demandred. One of the Forsaken, I believe."

"No longer," Barid Bel said stiffly. "Now I am not sure what I am."

"That is true," Gandalf said with a smile, sitting on a rock. Barid Bel joined him. "I have seen many things about you. Those who sent you here are…curious to see which way you may go."

"It was suggested that I was sent so that I may be turned to the Light. But would the Light accept me? What did you see when you were dead, when the stars turned over you?" He did not know why he said that, except that Gandalf must have died. No one could survive such a fall, or such a fight. Not even him. His balefire had been a distraction, no more, and he knew it well.

"Many things. The fate of man hangs in the balance, for they are not controlled by the Song. Oh, I am sorry, the Pattern. Here, they are free, free to choose as they will. There are many turning points, and you may be one. Already you have changed things. I too am a turning point. I have been sent back…until my work is done."

Barid Bel nodded. "You come to fight Sauron."

"You could join me. My…the head of my council…you could be as he was meant to be. Your power is great, and your knowledge greater."

Barid Bel sighed. For the first time, he saw as those on the other side must have seen him, with pain and regret. "Saruman the traitor. Gandalf, I have made a vow….that I will not let any nation ever again fall to the Shadow. I…nudge things with that in mind."

"Two thousand dwarves is more than a nudge, my friend," Gandalf said with a smile. "Denethor is a proud man. How did you convince him to take an army into his kingdom?"

"I told him about the Lady of Pain." Barid Bel put some hate into his voice. He may have hated the Dragon, but he hated the other Forsaken just as much. "Semirhage and Sauron working together will bring darkness."

Gandalf paused, as though listening. "Perhaps you should return to Minas Tirith," he said. "I will watch over the hobbits and Perrin."

"As you will," Barid Bel said. "I see you care for them. But why? They bring nothing to this battle."

Gandalf's eyes fell. "You will see in time," he said. "Now go. You have given your word, and I am told that even when you served the Dark you did not break it." The urgency in his voice made Barid Bel open a gateway right there, and he stepped into a scene of horror.

181818

Beregond had been watching the skies, looking up at the stars. It was a quiet night, and the city that never slept was sleeping. He could see a light up in the Tower, which showed that Denethor was working, and could see the guards around the Tree.

Suddenly he started. There was a shimmer in the air, and then the air simply split. He seized a spear and threw it without thought toward the shimmer. He was on edge from the months of waiting for Boromir, and the city was wound up with him.

A woman stepped through, tall and dark, and her black eyes were pools into nothing. She looked around, as though she was orienting herself, and Beregond pressed the advantage, seizing another spear and throwing it.

But this lady was fast, faster even than he. The spear stopped an inch from her, and then fell to the ground. He had heard rumors of wizards beyond the seas of Rhun. Was this one?

"Guards-" he started to scream, but suddenly his mouth was full of air, a bond he could not see, and his hands were pinned to his sides. The woman walked toward him, leisurely.

"A surprise, to be sure," she said, tracing a hand along his jaw. "Were I Graendal, I would take you as a pet. You are pretty enough and strong enough." The touch was suddenly pain, arcing along every inch of his body. She breathed deep as though in ecstacy, then straightened. "But I am not her. I am called the Lady of Pain. Remember that!"

"You want my master?" Beregond said. "The blood of Numenor does not bend to tyrants. It did not bend to Sauron. It will not bend to you." He spoke past the pain that wanted to consume every inch of him.

The woman's face darkened. "You know your history well. But you do not know me. Not yet." She walked toward the Tower, and Beregond, still trapped in Air, could only watch. The pain ended, but there was a deeper pain. He was a member of the Tower Guard, the best of Gondor, and he was powerless, wrapped up like a package. He could breathe, but he could not move.

He waited and watched, and soon enough, too soon, the woman reemerged, with Denethor in her hands. She had some wounds, but not many, not as many as might be expected. Had she done to the other guards what she had done to him?

"You have fought Mordor. Now you will see its splendor," she said to the helpless Steward. "You and I have a visit to the Dark Tower. It is said you are strong. We will see how strong you are."

"I have fought with the Dark Lord, woman," Denethor spat. "I wrestle with him in thought, and I refuse to follow him still."

Semirhage purred. "You say so now-"

Beregond watched as another door opened in the air, and a man stepped out. He was tall, and his face was hard.

"Never again will a nation fall to the Shadow," the man said, and raised his hands. The woman ducked backwards as a beam of white light, brighter than the sun, arced past her head into the sky.

"Balefire! You dare to use it?" In the woman's voice was a trace of fear. Beregond felt the same, knew somehow it was a weapon more powerful than any other.

"Is this how you died?" the man said. "I would guess so. If you can die once, you can again."

Again his hands raised, and Semirhage dropped the Steward. "Get back!" the man commanded, and the Steward wasted no time in retreating. A beam of light shot again from the man's hands. "Balefire was my weapon, Semirhage. A man can recover form pain, but what I have is the final death. Pure and clean, as you never were." His voice was a taunt, and the woman's voice darkened with fury.

"You dare!" she said. "We were once allies, Demandred. Once, we worked together."

"My name is Barid Bel," the man said, and once again, light shot from his fingers. "And I name you my enemy."

The woman stumbled back as though shocked. "So be it," she said. A hole opened in air, and she stepped through quickly. Beregond was still frozen, and now the pain was a shock, a thunder that made him want to faint.

The man moved quickly to him and did something, he could not see what. The bonds and the pain disappeared, and he fell to his knees, gasping with relief. "She wished to kill you slowly," the man said softly. "Yet you surprised her with your courage." The man held out his hand and helped Beregond stand. It was calloused, with the marks of one who knew the blade. No soft lord, then.

"It seems I am in your debt," the Steward said slowly, rubbing his hands. "I might make you a captain in my army."

The man stood frozen, as though undecided, then finally nodded. "As you wish," he said. "I will stay here, for I believe that here the stroke will fall the hardest. And you now have the hate of someone who can do you real harm."

The steward smiled. "Beregond," he said, and he came to stand at his master's side. The pain had faded, and he could move again. "You took on an enemy far beyond you, and with courage and skill."

Beregond dipped his head. "It was not enough."

"No, but now we have a man who might help us be enough. You will be his tutor in our ways, our oaths, and his duties as one of the Tower Guard. I will have my armorers make armor for him, and when he is ready, he will take that armor and his duties. I hope he will help us in return."

Beregond walked over to the man. He still held an air of power tightly controlled, much like the Steward, and he could see they were almost of one mind. "You are Barid Bel? Perhaps I should know your history and your strengths so that you can best serve us."

The man shook his head. "You have seen what I have done and what I said." He seemed amazed, as though he did not expect those words to come from his mouth. "The Steward knows me, for I have been here before, once."

Beregond let it lie, though he was curious. The dark woman seemed to know him, and now they seemed to be enemies. Perhaps over time, he could build trust with this strange, powerful man who spoke little and did much.

A/N: There is a reason I chose Demandred to come to Middle Earth. Of course, as a Forsaken, he did many evil deeds, and his reasons for turning to the Dark were petty and selfish, but I always felt he maintained a strand of honor, even at his blackest, something none of the other Forsaken ever seemed to care about. That, to me, makes him an interesting character, and one worth exploring more.

I hope you agree!

Semirhage, on the other hand…would find serving Sauron a great pleasure. He was, after all, called the Cruel, and she is the Lady of Pain. It is a match made in hell, although I think she might overestimate her own importance…as most of the Forsaken have in the past.

(If you wanted to know my reasoning, there it is)