Warning: I…hi guys?
Disclaimer: I own nothing but myself, and the fear I feel in not updating for so long. I don't own LoTR.
Chapter 27 was posted in January. It's now September. I do apologise, my dears. I was having holiday, and then I was getting settled in university. Oh, right, you wouldn't know that, since I haven't been updating.
Yes, I've started university. We're just about to have our sem break. I'm taking dentistry – which is more difficult than you'd think. We're busier than the medical students, though I wouldn't want to be studying medicine.
Still, I do hope you haven't given up on this story – I haven't. I just…got distracted. Forgive me?
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So then she said to me, she said, "Beethoven? Is he like, a new artist, or something?" to which I replied, "You utterly idiotic b–"
Hey, wait. They're back.
They're back? Who're they?
The readers, you idiot.
What, seriously? Oh gods, you're right. It's just, it's been so long, I didn't think that this day would come.
You can say that again.
I didn't think that this day would come.
Asshole.
You asked for it. Anyway, shoo. I have to start the story.
Don't forget to blow the dust off it. It's been several months.
Uh-huh.
And don't forget to bring them up to speed.
Yeah, yeah. Nag.
I heard that.
You were supposed to.
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Now that we've gotten that out of the way, perhaps we can continue with the story.
If you recall, it has not been very long since the defeat of Ravara – I mean, She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-Else-Risk-Unspeakable-Torture. It has been still less time still since the appointment of the Royal Nanny (whose mysterious identity shall no longer be a mystery by the end of this chapter). And it was only the last chapter in which I revealed that Evilman 47 had deposed Lord Sauron, taken over Minas Tirith and converted Koss.
And before you ask, that last chapter was not a joke chapter, or a prank.
It really did happen.
So, since I've rid this place of its truly copious amounts of dust, let's take a look.
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Dark Lord Sauron, greatest servant of the Dark Ainur Morgoth (formerly Melkor), 'The Abhorred', King of Men, Lord Of The Rings, Gorthaur, the Deceiver, the Necromancer, the Nameless Enemy, Ruler over all of Middle Earth, Wielder of the One Ring, Bigshot I-Told-You-So Boss of Arda, owner of all things EVIL, Father of Neena Sueling, Yanker of Little Girls' Ponytails and Elves' Braids, Wedgie Scourge, The Great Lidless Eye Wreathed in Flame, All Time EVIL, Puppy-Kicker, The Smite-r of All Who Oppose Him, Maker of the Twenty Rings of Power, Hater of the Númenóreans, Master of Melvins, The Re-re-re-incarnated, Wielder of the Wet Willy, Two-millennia Winner of Dark Lord Weekly's All-Time Hated EVIL Megalomaniac, etcetera, etcetera, was not happy.
Well, that's rather stating the obvious. He'd just lost his throne, after all, and to a poncy git at that – his helmet was bloody ugly, and he wore fur. Fur! Worse than that, there hadn't even been a proper battle – if there had been, then He would have won (and if He hadn't – which was a laughable concept by the by, how dare you entertain it –, then at least He would have gotten to kill things). But worst of all, worst was the fact that He was stuck, in His own prison.
With the heroes.
Still, he wasn't a Dark Lord for nothing.
"What is your name, young one?"
He seethed inwardly. How insulting. He had walked upon this Middle Earth for far longer than this, this, short arse so-and-so. But. He could not reveal that fact – it would be quite dangerous. He did know how to utilise tactics, after all.
"Sértan," He said softly. "My name is, is Sértan."
Peace maker. Honestly. He would have rather gone with Muinasicil or Eldamando (1) – but He'd been advised against it; apparently it would've been too suspicious, especially with the form He had chosen. Although He – for some reason – could not use His powers to break out and restore order, He was able to, at least, take on this curly-haired form.
And it seemed to be working.
"Why are you here?" asked the Sod.
Oh, Melkor's teeth but He wanted to squeeze the life out of the stupid Man single-handedly. And although His hands were smaller than they usually were in His normal form, He would still be able to do so. He reined in the impulse, though, because there was a more pressing matters to attend to.
Why was He here? Well, not him Him, obviously – that was due to the GaryStu (who would pay once He got out). But Sértan Him needed a reason.
And then it hit Him. Oh. That was genius, even if He did say so Himself. Which He was. Saying so Himself, I mean. Yeah. Mmhmm. How long are you going to keep reading this almost never-endingly digressive paragraph? You're still here? Good gosh. I love you. Thanks. Seriously. Thanks for sticking with me.
Moving on, though;
"I…I tried to stop him, in his original world. But he was too powerful for me."
"You mean…" There was an exchange of glances that He noticed but pretended not to. He concentrated instead on not grinning. "You're a hero?"
And although it pained Him to do so, Sértan, also known as Sauron the Deceiver, said, "Yes."
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They were strategising.
Sauron found this difficult, because He was used to there being a table (as mentioned in a previous chapter), where His generals and advisors would debate and strategise and He would make the final decisions. Those final decisions were followed to the letter. To do otherwise was unthinkable, and even if the thought crossed any of His underlings' minds, they were obviously clever or cunning enough not to voice it aloud or even follow it through – seeing as they had survived under His reign long enough to make it to where they were.
Anyway, the point of that was to draw attention to the fact that Sauron had no real idea how to participate, and no real idea how to deal with the fact that the heroes were presenting their ideas not to him, but to Olórin (Gandalf, he was called in this Age?) and the Sod.
He tried, though. But it was difficult for Him not to slam his fist on the ground (because they were seated on the floor, there being a distinct lack of tables in the dungeons) and demand that they address their comments to Him and Him alone. It was difficult for Him to not call them all idiots and morons and stupidly concerned about the lives of 'innocent bystanders'. It was difficult for Him to suggest and to simper instead of ordering and expecting results.
Unfortunately, this difficulty was noticed.
"What's wrong, Sértan?"
He looked down, so that no anger could flash in His eyes. "I am just not used to…" Being vague had its pluses, but He desired that He could be direct as He used to be. ("I AM SAURON AND THE ONLY THING WRONG IS THAT YOU ARE YET TO BEG ME FOR MERCY!" That was direct, wasn't it? Perhaps less so than "DIE, YOU STUPID MORTALS, DIE!", but still quite direct.)
"Ah." The Man nodded sagely. "You have not been to many councils of war. Although you may not be able to contribute, you should still pay attention."
He bowed His head even further, already planning the torture He would put this Eomer of Rohan through. That thing in the Torture Chambers Koss called a 'cheese grater' would do nicely. You have not been to many councils of war. Hah! He was Sauron! He had been in more councils of war than this pathetic Man and his entire lineage. Not that He could say so out loud, but oh they would pay.
However, as He ignored the heroes, His thoughts turned. To Koss. Where had His Sanity Keeper gone? Defected to the enemy? Possible, as what had happened with…She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Dead? Possible, though it would mean that He would have to find someone to replace her. (Or, get someone to find someone to replace her. He didn't deal with such menial tasks.) Deserted the SoS? Unlikely, especially considering her past and why she had come to Him in the first place.
And what of His Nazgûl? It would be very troublesome to have to replace them should they be killed – which was an unknown, with this Evilman. In fact, it was probably wiser to just assume that the entirety of the SoS were out of commission. And that fact would have scared or at least worried a lesser Dark Lord – and even if it did Sauron, He would not have admitted it. However, the predominant – and more importantly, the acknowledged – sentiment garnered was one of anticipation. He found that He was somewhat looking forward to proving that He did not need His servants to get Him out of trouble. Even if it meant getting the help of heroes.
No. He was not garnering their help. He was deceiving them. Big difference.
"We cannot afford to wait! We tried it the last time, and all we gained – if you can call it that – from it was being used by a – a –" The Sod's limited vocabulary seemed to fail him here, and he lamely continued, "a witch, and then we ended up helping the side of Evil!"
Sauron snickered. Sértan did not.
"We don't know this enemy yet. I cannot in good conscience let any of you –"
His Soddingness sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Gandalf, you are my friend and wise counsel, but in this matter I cannot take your advice. I cannot sit idly by. This Evilman is less of a threat than Sauron."
At least he had enough brain cells to acknowledge that.
The one Sauron knew as Olórin interjected. "And yet he defeated Sauron where none of us could."
Sauron seethed. Sértan did not.
"But he's exactly like – like the Witch! He can't be that formidable."
"He may not be intelligent but that does not mean we should underestimate him. You yourself know firsthand the damage 'the Witch' wrought."
Ouch. Low blow. Or it would have been, had it been true. The Sod had not known She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named firsthand. Sauron had. Even that Elf had – Legless, or something his name was, which Sauron had always thought odd seeing as he'd not been missing either of his lower limbs. But He digressed.
Sértan, however, had not known Chloe at all. So he asked, "Who is this Witch?"
As one the heroes – excluding Gimli and Gandalf – shuddered. The two Hobbits shifted almost imperceptibly away from each other. Eomer started rocking slightly forward and backward beside him, and Faramir was studiously not meeting anyone's gaze.
If Sauron had been Sauron, He would have gotten to his feet and laughed and pointed mockingly at Aragorn, who had curled into foetal position. "YOU ARE NOT FIT TO BE KING OF MAN, SOD!" He would have shouted – or something equslly as witty. However, He was being Sértan now, and instead turned wide eyes on Gandalf.
"Suffice it to say, child, that the Witch is something like Evilman, only she ensnared minds and bent them to her will."
He let a shudder run up His spine. "I cannot imagine such devilry."
"Pray to the Valar that you do not."
Feh. The Valar – what could They do? Sauron wondered derisively (and somewhat rhetorically). Sértan kept quiet.
"Come, come. We cannot sit idly by, as you say, Aragorn." Gandalf folded his long fingers in his lap. "What, then, do you say we do?"
Seeing as the (pathetic) Man had not yet recovered, Gimli piped up. "I say we have Sértan decide."
This seemed to jolt the rest of the heroes into attentiveness. Even Thorongil. The Dwarf did not look repentant in the slightest for his suggestion, and he did not seem nervous at the attention focused on him due to it. Then again, that would have been against his character. Not that Sauron was interested in his character, though the same could not be said for Sértan.
"Me?" he asked.
"Aye. You're not as involved with all this as we have been. You aren't biased as to who's the greatest evil –"
Wrong there.
"– so your decision will also not be biased."
"That actually makes sense," said Eomer. ("Actually?" muttered Gimli, but this went ignored.) "What about the rest of you?"
When everyone in the room nodded or murmured their assent, Sauron straightened Sértan's spine. "I do not think it wise," he said softly, "to charge in with swords blazing. We need more information on this Evilman. But I think he has underestimated us; why else has he just left us here to rot?"
"What do you suggest, then?"
Instead of Sauron setting him on fire for daring to interrupt, He met the eyes of the Sodding Heir of Isildur squarely. "We should infiltrate their ranks. From what I've seen, they are not bright at all. Counting will be beyond them, and they will not notice that some of our number is missing."
There were more murmurs, and some nodding.
"Who do you propose undertake this spy business? You?"
Sauron sneered (He was undercover now, was He not?) and Sértan lowered his eyes demurely. "Nay. I am no ranger. I would think Captain Faramir more than suitable for the task."
He could feel the smile directed at Him, and it made His skin crawl. "Just Faramir, lad."
He bowed his head. "And perhaps one of the Hobbits."
"We could both do it, no problem," said the one called Meriadoc, and his probably-cousin (all Hobbits were more often than not related) nodded enthusiastically.
"I mean no offence, young sirs, but I do not think 47's henchmen so stupid as to not notice both of you missing."
"But they wouldn't notice that one of their number was now no bigger than a child?" Aragorn asked sarcastically.
Sértan's head shot up, eyes impossibly wide and earnest. "That was not my thought at all! I only meant that while Cap - I mean, Faramir..." Sauron was disgusted at how easy it was to make Sértan blush. "While Faramir poses as a henchman and worked from within, either Meriadoc or Peregrin could explore the city and assess the extent of 47's hold on the city."
He knew that Faramir was on His side, even if the Man wasn't nodding in agreement like some sort of overenthusiastic pet (oh, how He missed Shelob). The Dwarf was an unknown, and the Sod seemed not to trust Him - for once, he was right. But if Sauron could get Gandalf the White on Sértan's side, then He would be one step closer to regaining power. To regaining what was rightfully His.
Sértan shed his shyness as he turned his gaze to the Wizard and said, quietly, firmly, "What say you?"
Thorongil made an odd sound at this, an angry sort of interjection that seemed to die before it even left his throat. It went ignored, except by Sauron, who giggled.
Eyes that were doubtlessly termed 'impossibly old and wise' stared into his, as if the old fool could even possibly comprehend that this Elf was an impostor.
Sauron adjusted the set of Sértan's jaw, and waited.
He didn't have to wait long.
"You have a fine head on your shoulders, lad." Gandalf's face creased into wrinkles as he smiled at Sértan. "Your plan is a good one."
Sauron smiled. So did Sértan.
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This is short, and this is late. I do apologise, to the few readers I still have. So much time has passed since my starting to write this chapter that I am now in my second year at university, and fandoms like StarTrek and Top Gear have caught my attention rather more than LOTR.
But I am – for now, at least – back. And I hope you enjoy, and review.
Unbetaed.
Anila.
