The Shadow of Doom: The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age
WARNING- This is where the story goes from very slightly AU to very very AU. In other terms, this is where the actual plot starts. It is recommended to re-read the prologue to make better sense of this one.
Chapter 6: THE TRUE LORD OF THE RINGS Part 2- The Shadow of Doom
The Battle of the Black Gate was in full flow.
Aragorn, son of Arathorn, was fighting his hardest, Andúril clashing against the vicious dark blades of the orcs. He fought not to gain victory, but to survive- to give time enough to Frodo for him to destroy the ring.
No shadows gathered. There was no silent watcher to see him.
Lord Mormanar Death-master stepped out from the rift in reality's firmament and had to immediately seek cover under the shadow of the Ered Lithui.
All the facts played out in his mind. He saw Aragorn kill six orcs in one swing, with the shout 'ELENDIL!'
He saw the Nazgûl wreaking havoc on the Army of the West with their fell beasts. He saw Legolas Thranduilion stringing his father's enchanted arrows to fell the beasts.
He saw Gimli, son of Glóin, unleash a wake of death on his foes so that his elven friend could successfully climb a tower and shoot.
He took care to blend in with the shadows. With his black cloak obscuring his armour, he walked silently across- one step at a time.
He knew Sauron's eye could catch him out in the open in an instant- the maia could not penetrate the Dark Lord's shadow that his cloak was made of, but the dark armour underneath it, if exposed, would immediately be caught out.
Mormanar's Iron Helm of those cruel, twisted spikes was also easily discernible, and he hence walked with his head bent.
He looked forward, and saw a small regiment of very tall, fearsome troops in Dark Armour- they were the guard of the Lord of Barad-dûr, he realised. They were all clad in black armour somewhat similar in appearance to his, and also wore iron helms on their heads. They carried dark maces which could slaughter foes in one hit.
As they walked, slowly, to join the fray, Mormanar felt that he would be better camouflaged among them.
He saw a passing orc running along- in the haste of its malice, paying no heed to the Dark figure before it. A fortuitous chance.
In one movement, Mormanar stepped out of the shadows, and with a clean swing, cut the orc's head straight off. Good. He needed to test whether he could kill quite as efficiently or not.
He saw Sauron's attention on the Istar in front of him. Gandalf was instrumental in rallying Aragorn's men, and giving them strength to fight. He saw the Black Guards walking forth, and on instinct chose to join them.
He thrust the entirety of his will onto his iron helm, bending the shadowy iron of the Dark Lord's creation to a crude, angular imitation of the Eye of Sauron, which decorated the banner of every orc he could see.
It would be seen as humiliating, since he was forced to change the testament to the Dark Lord's terrible might to this image used by Sauron to inspire fear, but Mormanar cared not- it was practical.
The Black Guards were almost at his side, and he stepped once again out of the shadows to fall into step beside them.
He could not kill them with the sword, or Sauron would see. He could, however, snuff out whatever of the flame imperishable they had within them.
They were grim-faced, wearing no mask on their faces, and said not a word to the Doom-bringer. Sauron would notice that there was another member to this group, and so Mormanar silently, surreptitiously raised his hand and closed his gauntleted fist.
The Black Guard immediately adjacent to him fell, Mormanar catching his mace before it fell with him. With unmatchable efficiency, he ignited his black blade under the shadow of the felled Guard's cloak and plunged the tip of the Ainunarcar- just the tip- into the side of his head.
The other guards immediately turned around. Mormanar could not speak to them, or else they would know his presence- but he had to.
"Eldarin Nardubawib." Said he, in the most thin, rasping voice he could. He could control how much air entered and exited his mask, and hence managed to hide the deep, metallic resonance.
The Black Guards seemed out understand. Mormanar made gestures to the southeast and the southwest- the 'arrow' could have come from any direction. Leaving no matter to chance, one of the Black Guards moved southeast, whereas Mormanar himself went southwest- in Mount Doom's direction. The rest walked as purposefully as they ever did- they had nothing on their mind but their foes' blood.
Mormanar glided forth, visibly lifted the dark mace and smashed… something… in the way. He disappeared behind a dark cavern, so that Sauron could not see him.
All had to be done with complete caution and precision from here. He threw away the mace and ignited Ainunarcar, keeping in the shadow of the mountains around him. Taking his chosen road would take him to Barad-dûr, and he did not wish to near the Dark Tower and put himself in front of Sauron's will.
He did not have the time necessary to flank around the dark tower. The shadows in this 'dimension' of potential were rather… illusive. They were less potent, since this was not the Arda that Morgoth had tainted, but a representation- however, he had to make what use of them he could.
His dark will cut into every shadow around him, and one by one, the dark spirits had fallen to his dominance.
They did not afford quite as good concealment as they did on the real Arda, but it was adequate enough. He stopped walking, and glided with all haste, cutting apart all rock that would hinder him.
Nearing Barad-dûr, he took a sharp turn, making for Orodruin. He found every protruding rock and wall face that could conceal him on the road of the Gorgoroth.
This was no mere orc-road- it was Sauron's road. The main route of all traffic and transport in Mordor, linking Orodruin to the Dark Tower.
Orcs walked across it in haste- only the high-ranking ones were allowed to walk this road. Various nameless terrors like the Black Guards he had seen earlier made their way with all haste to the Dark Tower.
Mormanar silenced nearly all thoughts he had, summoning only the facts and figures to mind, making his darkness impossible to sense. He was partly lucky in the fact that he was not taken for an unusual character in Mordor, for the dim light and his general appearance gave him the air of one of the more fearsome servants of Sauron, and hence orcs dared not approach him whereas Sauron's other fearsome lieutenants did not bother to engage in interlocution with him- he must have 'had his orders'.
Finally, the Dark Mountain in sight, he abandoned the road and glided with haste over the shortest, straightest route possible towards its rivers of fire.
Many broad, arched gates formed of the igneous, magmatic rock of the mountain loomed before him, but he cared not and silently but hurriedly glided on.
He took the liberty of arraying his concealing shadows around himself, revealing his dread visage and ensuring that he was given an ever-wider berth. Sauron's notice was elsewhere.
Soon, the road in front of him was deserted. Mormanar took a calculated risk and abandoned all caution, dissolving his form into a shadow of darkness.
Immediately, Sauron's will was alerted to a change in the circumstances. There was something… different. A shadow different to all the other present shadows.
Mormanar kept his calm, deceiving Sauron into thinking him as static and unliving as possible, and by sheer strength of will forced the shadows of his being to gather again, this time on the very slope of Orodruin. He began the climb.
Ironclad feet made a great clatter against the volcanic rock, no matter how precise and calculated his steps, and had he not kept himself in a state of constant, forced calm (a nigh-emotionless nature greatly helped in this endeavour) and utter silence, he would have cursed harshly.
Mormanar found Mount Doom completely unguarded. He kept as close to the rock as possible, cutting a path through it with Ainunarcar when necessary.
He found the same emaciated, broken creature racing forth in furious haste towards the mouth of the opening into the volcano.
Mormanar had to be quick- and precise.
With a small burst of power had not initially wished to expend, he once again dissolved his form and with the might of his will, forced himself to re-form within reach of the creature.
The creature- Gollum- paused to pick up a large rock, and this gave the Death-master time.
"We will smash the fat hobbit on his headses, yesss, and then we will get you! We will take you from the hand of 'massster' who betrayed us. Gollum, Gollum! Now, we takes you forever, my precious!" Gollum rasped.
"I think not." said Mormanar, causing Gollum to turn around- tilting his head at just the correct angle for the Doombringer to ignite Ainunarcar with lightning speed and viciously hack it off with its scythe's edge.
"Preciouu-s-s…" the scream on his lips was halted and produced no sound, as Mormanar walked forth, leaving the wretched little corpse behind.
In front of him stood the two hobbits he recognised. Now, where exactly had Gollum hit the former…
"Master!" cried Sam.
Then Frodo in front of him stirred and spoke with a clear voice, indeed a voice clearer and more powerful than Sam had ever heard him use, and it rose above the throb and turmoil of Mount Doom, ringing in the roof and walls.
"I have come", he said, "But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The ring is mine- no! N-no! NO! Sam, please..."
Something very hard had struck Sam on the back of his head. The hobbit lay dazed on the ground, not quite aware of what had happened, that he didn't see Mormanar unleashing the full extent of his tyrannous might against his beloved Mr Frodo.
Frodo decided that his only chance was to put on the ring…
"There is no escape." A violent blast of some terrible, dark power, and Frodo was lifted, against his will, into his foe's iron grip. The Gauntleted hand wound around his neck, but Mormanar did not have time to choke- he lifted his mask, just an inch, and Frodo could see the terrible light of his doom and a thousand others in his baleful, green 'eyes'. The already-weakened resistance of the hobbit crumbled, and he fell unconscious to the ground.
Mormanar could see the ring beyond him- slipping slowly but surely off the rock of Sauron's forge.
He had no time to collect it in his hand- and therefore sent tendrils of shadow to collect the Dark Lord's prize… and the ring fell.
Of course! Of course it resisted the shadows… Down, Down, down it fell…
The Death-master struck with the most precise strike he would ever make.
There it was, the little golden ring, hanging precariously from the scythe-tip of his sword.
Mormanar himself was hanging off the ledge of Sauron's black forge, keeping a hold on the rock with one gauntleted, iron hand. His shadows had slowed the ring for perhaps one second or two, allowing him to ignite his blade, change its shape slightly by correctly arranging its fluid blade, jump, thrust one iron hand out to stay his fall, and to utilise the most precise thrust he had ever made to insert the Ainunarcar's thin tip into the ring.
The Shadow had triumphed. The Dark Lord had triumphed. Sauron was aware that… something… had happened, and shot a tentative gaze at the mountain. A small part of his will was taken away from the battle and observed the happenings in Mount Doom…
Mormanar clawed and thrust his way up the ledge into Sauron's forge, using only one hand.
With an expert movement, he swung the Ainunarcar up, reversed grip midair with the ring still precariously hanging on its tip, and thrust it into the ground.
He pulled his way back up by virtue of the sunken tips of his fingers and Ainunarcar, until he finally beheld Sauron's forge.
Sauron's will, on the other hand, found a beguiling force to contend with. The shadows twisted around the mountain in such a way as to deceive him of what was occurring inside… something was happening… his ring!
Immediately, he thrust the entirety of his will to Mount Doom, and saw… nothing. A much greater will than his was barring his sight.
The Dark Lord himself was using all his power in that realm to block Sauron's sight at any cost.
Mormanar took one look at the ring, and he knew what he must do.
"Master, I need your strength!" he roared, for once and perhaps the only time in eternity, using very desperate tones.
"And you shall have it!" communicated the Dark Lord, using an impossible control over his own mind to somehow communicate into the past and not confuse it for the present.
The Doombringer felt a dark surge of terrible power into his being, and he balanced the ring on his iron palm. He focused the entirety of his will on one thing, and one thing alone.
The Fell Kingdom must Rise. Arda must be conquered to rise anew, stronger than before. In the Dark Lord's name I strike this blow- for his great cause I bring this doom.
A black flame, completely black and cold, burst from his right palm. This was impossible- his palm of metal held the black flame and was unscathed by it- unscathed by the every thing that could annihilate Ainur.
A surge of his and his master's wills combined, and the black flame shot forth in a jet of severing force at the ring balanced on his left palm.
Sauron felt pain like he had felt only twice before- during the Downfall of Núménor in the Second Age and his forging of the ring before it. His bond with his very fëa was being violently torn apart.
He had little time. The ring, which was once hot on his palm, now lay cold. The letters of fire had lost their hue but did not fade- remaining etched on the ring as a cruel testament to its former might.
At that moment, the entirety of the Dark Lord's tremendous will was forced on Sauron, intent on forcing his tower to collapse and his form to capitulate. Sauron did what he had always done… he fought… but this fight could not be won.
Mormanar saw the fell beasts of the Nazgûl and an eagle of Manwë flying with all speed to the mountain. Before him, he saw the same rift in Eä's firmament- the Dark Lord's summons.
His master would deal with the hobbits' memories. To make absolutely sure that no events would change for the worse, he put the tip of Ainunarcar to Frodo's ring-finger and cut the top of it off.
In Black Triumph, he took two steps and was gone.
Sauron's resistance crumbled against the will of the Dark Lord. Barad-dûr's foundations were deprived of the bonds of sorcery that held them together. Down, down fell the Dark Tower, and Orodruin erupted then, claiming the lives of the Nazgûl. The hobbits stirred, thinking all hope was lost, and found that the eagles of Manwë were coming. It was over.
"Victory! We have Victory!" came Aragorn's shout, and all was over.
It was night. The Gardens of Lórien were as pristine and beautiful as ever, with little glow-worms illuminating the beautiful little butterflies that flew around.
Two figures in long, sweeping robes were walking slowly through the gardens, enjoying each toher's company. One wore intricate robes of a silver and white, and the other had majestic robes which had the same silver, but were black.
The two brothers were setting out for Mandos- Námo had finally healed enough and thrown off this illness over ten years, and was judged well enough to return to his halls.
"Ah, Námo, it appears the day has finally come when you can return to your duties."
"And not too soon. You and your insistence for ensuring a 'complete, holistic recovery' were a blasted nuisance to deal with. The next time I fall ill, if there will indeed be such a time, I will be sure to choose rather less unnecessarily thick-headed healers so that I may return to my halls the sooner."
The Vala of Dreams gave a soft laugh, and patted his brother on the shoulder.
"Ah, Námo, Námo. How am I to blame? I like having you here. Am I not allowed some time to spend with my dear, baby brother…"
"That is the last time, you cantankerous Ainu. Once more and thou mayest find my most terrible, dark doom upon thy head before thou canst utter 'Sorry'."
"Well, in my defence for calling you a little brother, you most certainly act like one." said Irmo innocently, making his brother gnash his teeth.
"And there we have an example. Throwing tantrums when the bitter truth is revealed…"
"That is it! The next time thou dost find the nerve to pronounce me 'baby brother', thy gardens will be infiltrated by the spirit of Curufinwë Fëanáro- in the form of a hot-headed child. Estë will be absent and thou wilt…"
"Stay thy tongue, my dear friend. As Elder King, I do not grant thee permission to pronounce such a terrible doom upon thy brother."
"Lord Manwë. What an…"
"How many times have I told you, my children, to not bow? What have you taken me for- some Iron Disciplinarian who exists only to mete out punishment should 'absolute discipline' not be maintained?" said Manwë, shaking his head and sighing.
The two younger Valar immediately snapped out of their bow.
"Sorry, my…"
"You were going to say both 'sorry', and 'my lord'! Now that- that is completely unforgivable! Do you never seem to leave behind such bad habits? I am not your lord- I am your brother- and I do not need or accept apologies." said the Elder King, looking exasperated.
"We will keep that in mind… your most feathery high-in-the-sky-ness." said Námo with his tongue firmly in his cheek, and Manwë sighed.
"Again, Námo? Again with the wings…" said he, seeming to finally take notice of his majestic white wings which had apparently become an object of ridicule among the two- but he started walking behind them and made them evaporate into thin air when he thought they weren't looking.
"I did not expect to see you here, my l… brother. Do no kingly duties beckon you upon your seat in Ilmarin?" said Irmo.
"Not quite. I always have some duty or another, but I am sure Eönwë can put everything in order. This takes precedence…"
"Walking with us takes precedence over the – ahem – 'kingly duties' Varda may or may not expect you to exact with her by your side? I must congratulate you, for her lips seem fuller- more, er- ripe- for yours to claim in a worthy…" said Námo.
"That is enough, the both of you!"
Both Valar fell silent. Manwë could be quite the 'iron disciplinarian' whenever he so wished.
"Perhaps you are in a mood of good humour today, Námo? A fine story it will make, of how the Doomsman of the Valar, with his majestic, unnerving, stoic aura annoys his King until he wished he was anywhere but in Valinor? For your information, Varda never expects me to exact such 'kingly duties'- she is stoic to the point of me wishing she asked for a little kiss more often. Perhaps the thought of granting the 'favour of a judge' to your dear Vairë's lips is turning your mood to such an unbecoming direction?"
"Come out with it, Námo. She must be all alone in that workshop of hers…" said Irmo, before he lost the battle and loosed a laugh in his most melodious voice.
Manwë released a chuckle or two- there were very few occasions when he actually laughed in earnest.
Námo's face turned from red to white and he stumbled down, coughing.
"Námo? NÁMO!"
Both Valar bent down to the Doomsman, who started gasping for breath as if starved of it.
He looked directly into Manwë's electric-blue eyes, and said silently: "A doom is there to p-pass- Grant m-me leave, my-my lord so… so that I may- cough- speak it."
"I grant you leave, but in haste! I sense your fëa in torment, Námo."
Trembling, he rose, an expression of placid calm coming to his face, before uttering:
"Darkness rises once again.
By the Lord of the Dark, in this age, Fourth and Last-
And by the hand of the Death-master, his servant, who struck Arda's past.
A great sorrow of old times returns- commanding the forces of swift death in the skies.
The Void returns to haunt us- a force that will lengthen the night-
A shadowed flame, a darkened heart, a risen demon of might…
A cold, silent land they take,
In unleashing darkness, their foes they break.
A challenge rises, from doom, not rage -
The Darkness of Arda's Fourth Age."
Having thus pronounced, the Doomsman staggered and took a few steps back, an expression of torment last seen ten years ago returning to his face.
"Irmo, what shadow ails him? I thought it had been ended!"
"I could see nothing within him, my lord. It is an affair of the mind, most likely- dark visions that torment him. Perhaps…"
"Nay, Irmo. There is some evil at work. 'Struck at Arda's past'- Vairë! Vairëwill know!"
"Can you take us to Námo's halls, my King?"
"In a single instant."
A/N: The title of this chapter is, indeed, the 'Shadow of Doom'. I could think of nothing more fitting.
I realize I have just wiped out almost the entire significance of the story of 'The Lord of the Rings' with regards to this little story. However, that tale did have a great many heroes to this, who will prove instrumental in stemming the onslaught of doom.
As for Námo seeming very much unlike the way I normally portray him- majestic and glorious to laughing behind Manwë's back- what can I say? I am fond of my Doomsman…
As for his illness- it comes back to haunt him. Next chapter is a patented 'Valarin Investigation' of Vairë's halls…
Unfortunately, this is the last time I will be able to update in quite some time- I do not foresee any updates within the next month. Please Review, for I will look forward to reading and replying to them when I get back.