Caught Red-Handed

Under normal circumstances, Mornaquesse wouldn't dare. Her instructions, however, were millenia old, and the situation had changed.

He must guide now, she thought desperately, hopefully. The way is no longer clear.

Special ingredients were gathered by her agents in Arda. The deeds of her servants in taking them would surely incur the wrath of both Elves and Men if discovered. Such measures were required to delve into this particular prison.

Standing before her basin, she sprinkled ash from the ruins of Angband; dripped thick blood from babes stolen from their mothers' breasts, first Elves, then Orcs, then Men; trickled venom from the last living spawn of Ungoliant; poured blood from the heart of the only surviving son of Fëanor, taken unawares while still lamenting his long-forgotten deeds.

These liquids she mixed with water from the Isen, befouled with dead Uruk-hai in the wake of Isengard's destruction, stirred with a broken phalange plucked from a wing of the shattered carcass of Durin's Bane, eldest of servants and most mourned. All the while, the dark tunnels of Mornaquesse's refuge echoed with her chanting voice.

The fouled waters turned from murky to solid black, and seemed to writhe and pulsate as she felt her way carefully. He would not be pleased by her boldness, but she felt there was little choice now.

"Master," she whispered, slowly passing her hand over the surface, careful not to touch. "Master, hear me."

Mornaquesse, a voice sounded in her mind, faint at first, but growing in strength as the bond intensified. You risk much.

"Master," she breathed, overtaken with ecstasy at hearing his voice after so many thousands of years. "Dear Master."

What do you want? His voice was irritable, impatient.

Shaking herself, Mornaquesse swallowed hard and sought to quickly explain. "Forgive me, Master. I would not disturb you but for the urgency of the matter."

Were my orders unclear? he snapped. Would you undo all with your carelessness? Manwë will learn of this breach!

"It cannot be helped, Master," Mornaquesse insisted. "You bade me restore the Uruk-hai of Curunír once his hand was removed, but... there is a... problem."

What...'problem'? They are my children. No amount of meddling by idiot maiar may undo that.

Mornaquesse bristled at the veiled insult, but made no protest. "Many attempts have been made, Master, and all seem to be abysmal failures."

Show me.

Swallowing, the maia touched one finger to the surface of the pool, sending gentle ripples through the dark liquid. An image began to form.

Six Uruk-hai of varying sizes sitting about a campfire. Two human females resting intimately in the embrace of the largest ones. An atmosphere of calm.

Feeling a sense of startlement from her Master, Mornaquesse touched the surface once more.

A lone Uruk lying in a forest on the bank of a river, wrapped in the contented embrace of a blond woman, her naked pale flesh contrasting with his dark skin. He is watching the sunlight flash upon the leaves above him, and his arm is about her body, holding her close. Her hand rests upon his breast, and she wears a slight smile as she sleeps.

She could feel the anger building, and her finger shook as she changed the image.

A great hall in a fortress, pallets lined up in rows. Upon each pallet lies an Uruk, wounded and grievously despairing. Human females with yellow hair bustle about, seeing to their needs, feeding them, tending their hurts, whispering encouragements to them. More than a few of the females touch the faces of the Uruk-hai with tenderness beyond what is required for healing, and their patients press their cheeks into the gentle hands. Standing apart from the injured, a woman is held in the arms of a tall Uruk, who strokes her hair and murmurs comfort in her ear. Watching her charges cared for at last, she is weak with relief.

Again, she touched the pool, and another horrible vision appeared.

In a light-washed hall of Men, statuesque images of long-dead kings line the center walkway. Olórin strides forth, dressed all in white as befitting his new position in the Order. At his heels are a Hobbit with curling hair and a worried countenance, a dark-haired woman, and an Uruk in full armor. They approach a dais where a grieving Steward sits holding the splintered remains of a battle horn in his lap. While angry words are exchanged between istar and Man, the woman reaches out and clasps the Uruk's hand. They exchange an affectionate look, as though the ramblings of old men and wizards are of little consequence.

"That is what is transpiring at this general time, within a few months," she explained. "See how it will be in a year, two years, three, four..." Faltering, Mornaquesse touched the surface with two fingers this time.

On the left side of the pool, a woman sits in an ornate wooden chair, shifting occasionally as the bulk of her middle renders her uncomfortable. The door of the chamber opens, and an Uruk wearing a smith's apron enters. Weariness is upon his brow, yet he has enough left within him to kiss her lips tenderly and press a prideful hand to her swollen belly.

To the right, the unmistakable form of Celeborn walks beneath the fading mallorn trees of Lothlórien, conversing with a tall Uruk as though they are old friends. Riding upon the shoulders of the Uruk is a very young child that is clearly his by a human female. He holds the hands of the little girl and chuckles as her delight at such a high perch sends her feet kicking joyously against her da's chest.

"These are divergent time streams, it is true, Master," Mornaquesse explained. "Only two do not involve females fetched from a distant time or place, yet the outcomes all seem... disturbingly similar."

They mate and bear young. Explain to me what the problem is.

"The problem, Master, is that they are embraced by Men," she insisted. "Not just these... misguided, mad women. Most are drawing the Uruk-hai into the communities in which they live or have settled, negotiating peace between Men and Uruk-hai. These... ruined beasts of Curunír's have been too closely bred with Men, Master. They think as Men do; feel as Men do. Because of this... it is easy for them to... assimilate."

She swallowed hard. The rock walls of her scrying chamber seemed to be closing in.

What are you saying?

"I fear, Master," Mornaquesse whispered, too afraid to speak loudly, terrified to speak at all, "that, because of the wiles of these females, the Uruk-hai, at least, will be no ally in the Final Battle."

She closed her eyes, waiting for the explosion to come. But the voice was amused, and not her Master's.

"So this is what it was all about, was it?" Tulkas smirked. Detaching himself from where he leaned against the rocky entryway, he shook his head, a smile on his face. "I confess, I never imagined Vairë's paranoia would reveal such base treachery."


The 'visions' Mornaquesse sees are references to other fics of mine. Here's a 'cheat sheet' of which stories are mentioned:

"Six Uruk-hai of varying sizes" - Misfire of Global Proportions
"A lone Uruk lying in a forest" - Wild Child
"A great hall in a fortress" - A Little R and R
"In a light-washed hall of Men" - Dreaming of You
"A woman sits in an ornate wooden chair" - Cure for Boredom (post-story)
"The unmistakable form of Celeborn" - Post-War Blues (post-story)