XXXVII
Morrick
They left the trolls' cave quickly. Sheglock seemed to be overcome by grief, and said nothing as he mounted Merân. Morrick was concerned about his brother, but unwilling to delay. Already he could see a great black mist hovering above them, blowing in from Gorgoroth. Was it a sign that the war had begun?
Worried that they may be too late, he spurred them on, though his brother seemed physically unable to ride any faster than a canter. Over the course of an hour, Morrick frequently found that Sheglock had fallen behind, and consequently had to stop suddenly and wait for him. Finally, Firri pulled him over.
"He can't do this," she hissed in a whisper, gesturing toward Sheglock.
"I know," Morrick replied, who was well aware of the problem. "He's distraught."
"Over those trolls," Firri added, sighing. "We both know he loved them, even if we felt the opposite. Maybe I speak for myself only, but I am personally glad they are gone."
Morrick hurriedly shushed her, as he heard Sheglock approaching.
"Hey, bro!" he called as his brother sullenly walked toward them, eyes downcast.
"I heard that," Sheglock muttered. "And I don't care. I know you hate art. I don't care." His voice was not angry, but it lacked emotion altogether, and was extremely unsettling.
Firri started, seemingly surprised more by his tone and reaction than by being overheard. Morrick, however, understood, and knew that his brother was furious, sick of the whole ordeal. "I didn't mean—" Firri began, before she was abruptly cut off.
"You asked Mark to shut up every time he began one of his poems. You tried to hurry us out of their house months ago, when we were travelling to Dorezátz. You insult Mark's poetry at every opportunity. Don't lie to me!"
This time, Morrick was taken aback (and so, apparently, was Firri). Sheglock had always been quick to anger. But, while Morrick had become accustomed to Sheglock's moping, he had never seen his brother this upset. Normally, when provoked past his breaking point, he went from moping to yelling, but now he seemed to have reached a third stage altogether, one of deep depression, apathy, languor, and ennui. He was too distraught, it seemed, to even care about the world anymore.
"I'm leaving," Sheglock said evenly, almost detachedly, as though he had already left. "I'm going to see Ulûrk. I'll travel to Garkhôn, and maybe on to Barad-dûr, if I have the whim."
"What – why?" Morrick cried, more in distress than in surprise.
"Because you don't care," Sheglock said softly. "Because you think that Sauron is more important than love, or friendship. Because you are wrong!"
With that last assertion, Sheglock let out a yell, to Morrick or to Merân, the former could not tell, and bolted off down the path toward his town.
No one spoke several minutes after Sheglock's sudden departure. Morrick dispiritedly resumed the journey west, following a ways behind his brother, who he could see down the road, already far ahead of them, as a small speck. Firri rode beside him, but Morrick ignored her, lost in his own thoughts; stunned by his brother's blatant disloyalty, yet wondering whether there might yet be any truth to his words.
Eventually Firri spoke. "I'm sorry…"
"It's not your fault," Morrick replied. "I think your comment just tipped him over the edge. He's been getting more and more frustrated with me lately."
Firri sighed, but didn't respond. They rode the rest of the day without mentioning the matter further.
At sundown they came to the tops of the cliffs, and saw that the entire province of Gorgoroth was covered in a thick black smoke. "Now we can hurry!"
Morrick yelled, and sped up. For several hours after sunset they rode on, coming, by the day's end, within several leagues of the great capital.
They rested that night, and waited until dawn of the next day to begin again. That morning Firri was acting odd. She seemed to have something she wanted to say to Morrick, but was unable, for whatever reason, to vocalise it. He presumed that it was related to Sheglock's riding off the other day.
"What?" Morrick asked her, but Firri shrugged it off.
They began riding again, but in minutes they were stopped by the arrival of a news-orc. Since they had heard no news for over a month, they hailed him eagerly – too aware that they had been isolated in Dorezátz.
"Good day," he said, checking his horse, and turning to face them. "I presume you would like to hear my tale."
"Yes," Morrick and Firri said in unison.
"We've had no news of our King," Morrick added. "How does Sauron fare? Has He yet reclaimed the Ring?"
"The Nazgûl saw a hobbit in Saruman's Palantír," he began. "They assumed, of course, that Saruman had captured Baggins. So they flew to Isengard, crossing the Anduin the first time since they travelled to the Shire long ago."
"And did Saruman give It over?"
"Well, when the Nazgûl arrived, just yesterday, they found a surprise. Isengard was destroyed."
Morrick was shocked by this, and deeply unsettled. He had always expected Sauron to destroy Isengard, when the time came. Who else had the strength to destroy Saruman's fortress?
"How?" cried Firri, evidently just as surprised.
"He, Saruman that is, invoked the wrath of the Ents." the news-orc explained. When this drew blank looks from his two listeners, he went on. "The very trees themselves rose up against him. The uruks were destroyed, and Isengard torn down."
"Well, they were unnatural, weren't they?" Firri asked, seeming to make sense of the bizarre turn of events, though Morrick could not. "The uruks, I mean. Weren't they half-breeds of orcs and Men?"
"They were," the news orc replied.
Firri made a face. "What orc would— er, breed, with a Man!"
Morrick laughed at her naïveté. "I've heard of far worse than that."
The news-orc was looking even more uncomfortable than Firri. "Uh, do you want to hear about Isengard?" he asked to change the subject.
"Yes," Firri answered. "What happened?"
"Well, these Ents, they got mad, you see. Maybe because of the uruks. But anyway, they attacked the city, and tore it down! Apparently, when the Ringwraiths all rushed out there, hoping that Saruman had captured the Ring, they discovered a ruin. The Ents had flooded the entire thing, and ruined all Saruman's machinery."
"What of the Ring?" Morrick asked.
"Well, Saruman claims he never had it. He told the Ringwraiths that his Palantír had been stolen. But he won't let anyone up into Orthanc, so he can't prove this. Still, it matters not, 'cause if Saruman has It, we'll get It eventually. But for our safety we must assume, for the time, that It has gone on to Minas Tirith."
Morrick, upon hearing this, was spurred into greater haste. "That means the war may begin tomorrow!" he cried, suddenly realising that he had no time to chat or listen to the news. "Thanks for the news, but we need to get to Barad-dûr, now!"
They waved to the news-orc, who rode off in the opposite direction. Morrick hurried, with renewed purpose and vigour, onward toward the tower. Firri still seemed to be struggling to say something.
"Out with it!" Morrick cried. "Bad news?"
"I hope not," Firri whispered, or at least that was what Morrick heard, but she spoke so quietly that Morrick could barely hear her over the sound of the wind. He wondered briefly whether she was still feeling guilty because of Sheglock.
Morrick shrugged, but dropped it, for they had reached the city's gates. The guard stopped him.
"What's yer business here?"
"I've been summoned," Morrick replied.
"And your wife?" the guard asked. Firri turned very red and hid her face. Morrick smiled, amused at the embarrassed overreaction.
"She's not my wife," Morrick explained. "We were simply on a mission together, with three others, who are not present."
"Very well. Go on."
Morrick thanked him, and they passed through.
A second guard stopped them outside the tower. "Name and business?"
"Morrick, here to aid Sauron in fulfilment of my debt to Him."
"Firri, the same," she replied slowly, almost as though she was about to cry. Morrick wondered – was it still Sheglock, or something worse? Had she received news of a loved one's death? But he was too busy with his own concerns to make room for hers, so he let it drop.
The guard appraised them, muttering "Then go, though I daresay He's too busy to scan you."
"We have nothing to hide," Morrick replied, but they crossed the bridge without incident, and Morrick did not feel the sensation that his brother had described.
Inside, Morrick, still in the mood of urgency and haste, immediately quickly found a captain, and asked him where to go.
"A smith, eh? You'll be working on Grond. We've got plenty o' swordsmiths and armourers, but the ram's understaffed. Almost all the extra smiths're helping."
"I'm a tracker," Firri told him.
He laughed gruffly and unsympathetically. "Get a new job. No enemies make it into here."
Morrick travelled down to the forge, preoccupied, instinctively asking for directions on the way. Firri uncertainly followed. "What should I do?" she asked him at length.
"Be a supervisor," he suggested, somewhat annoyed, as she seemed to disbelieve him every time he insisted she was a good leader. "Something that takes leadership."
Firri groaned. "I swore I'd never lead again."
"Break the vow," Morrick suggested. "It's disloyal to refuse your service to Sauron, and if you were born to lead, lead."
"Where could I ever get a job like that?" Firri wondered. Morrick shrugged.
"Ask around. It's not so hard rise up the ladder, if you're competent."
"Thanks," she muttered.
Morrick turned toward the door to the forge. "See you around."
"Wait!" Firri cried.
"What is it?"
"Will you m—" She froze, looking horrified.
"Yes?"
Firri blushed. "Will you meet me at the main gate, er, when you're done, and, er, we can talk about the day?"
"Sure," Morrick responded, wondering how on Middle Earth that could be so embarrassing. Firri marched off angrily, though Morrick had no clue what there was to be angry about.
He pushed open the forge door, and descended into a warm dungeon. In the centre was a large battering ram, and twenty or so smiths were working around it. Morrick was nervous – it was his first real time in the trade, the first time he would be working without Ulûrk's supervision. And, to make it worse, he was assigned to work on one of Sauron's great tools. He hoped the long abstinence from work, and his illness, had not reduced his adroitness.
"Where can I help?" he called out, and was promptly given instructions. Quickly he set to work, glad at last to be aiding Sauron, and his country. The ram was mostly complete, but they were just adding the finishing touches.
Several other orcs entered the forge, bearing metal sculptures, which the smiths welded to the structure. One of the sculptors hung around, and on a break Morrick went over to him, intrigued to speak to another artist, and reminded of his brother.
"Good day."
"I'd say The same to you, if it were true. But it is only night now, so one ought to say 'good night.' Or does this cloud not settle on your heart?"
"I haven't been under it long," Morrick replied, assuming he was referring to the black smoke above Gorgoroth.
"It quells the inspiration," the other replied. Morrick laughed.
"You sound like my brother! He's really into art…" Morrick trailed off, remembering Sheglock's last words to him.
"I haven't introduced myself. I'm Iarék, and I'm an artist."
"I'm Morrick, a smith," Morrick replied, offering his hand. "Good to meet you."
"I was very glad to come here and find a use for my talents," Iarék said. "I can make art for Sauron Himself, and, even if He doesn't appreciate it for its sake, He tolerates it…"
Just then, before Morrick could reply, the foreman called them back to work. Morrick felt jolted, oddly, as though suddenly waking from a dream. He had fallen into almost a contemplative mood during the brief conversation, and had begun to wonder about art, and its utter impracticality. Was it okay, he was wondering, to do something, for a job, that had no practical value? Should artists be paid the same as smiths, or awarded the same favour? He shrugged, and, with effort, pulled himself out of his funny mood, and returned to his work.