A/NA gap filler for the opening of Shadow of Mordor explaining how Talion ended up with a torn sleeve and a tattered cloak (the shortest explanation is to give him a wraith-like appearance, but then I started to think about one set in-universe and came up with this short story).

Many thanks to Perosha for beta. :)

Items of Value

"So? Is it done?" asked the Hammer impatiently. "Did it work?"

The Black Hand of Sauron still stood with his arms spread open, his glowing fiery eyes fixed on the dark, cloudy, rainy sky above.

"Come back to me, Elf Lord," he repeated. "Ghurarmu shirkush' agh azgushu. Zant ya apakurizak. Gûl-n' anakhizak." ("A sacrifice of blood and bone. A bridge for you to follow. You will emerge a shadow.")

But nothing had happened. Even though for a brief moment he'd felt a touch of powerful magic arising around him, it had slipped past, leaving only a fading echo. The spirit of the Elf Lord didn't come back to him, as if it refused to answer his call. He looked down at the Ranger he had just killed at the final stage of the preformed ritual, as if it were his fault it didn't work as planned. The Tower still held the Ranger's head pulled back, and it looked as if the man was gazing up at the sky as well. But his eyes were dull and empty, life sucked out of his body with the blood that was still flowing freely from his cut throat, forming a dark puddle on the ground.

"Ya sure he's dead?" stupidly asked one of the orcs accompanying the Black Captains. "Ya can never be sure with them damn rangers…"

"And does he look alive to you?" the Black Hand snapped back.

"Maybe the sacrifice was not good enough?" suggested the Hammer. He was still greatly disappointed that the Captain of the Black Gate hadn't put up too much of a fight. He'd dropped his sword immediately when his wife's life was threatened. Pathetic.

"Well, maybe that was not his true son…" added the Tower.

Some of the orcs chuckled, but it died down when the Black Hand shot the other Black Captain an angry, piercing look.

The Tower only shrugged and released his hold on the man. The Hammer followed his example and the Ranger slumped to the ground like a ragdoll. Even though all three people had been killed in the same manner, in some strange way he seemed to be separated in death from his wife and son, lying a few feet away from them.

There was a moment of silence, interrupted only by the rain pattering against the cold stones that slowly washed away the blood of the sacrificed. The Black Hand was apparently lost in his thoughts, trying to figure out what he'd missed while performing the ritual.

"May I?" asked the orc captain, Norûk, pointing at the Ranger. "You don't mind?"

He was looking greedily at the silver shield-shaped insignia on the man's right sleeve, a symbol of his rank as the Captain of the Watch at the Black Gate. The Black Hand didn't react, so the orc assumed he had his permission. He approached the body of the Ranger, knelt by his side, and ripped most of the sleeve off together with the insignia using a short curved blade.

"Such good silver," he muttered.

But even more importantly, it was a great trophy. It had an engraving of the White Tree of Gondor and seemed to shine a little even in the darkness of the night, catching the light cast by a torch held by one of his subordinates standing nearby. Other orc captains would be so jealous when they saw it, proof that he was a part of the elite squad who'd captured the Black Gate and put an end to the rangers stationed here. Maybe they would make him a warchief for that, or perhaps even an overlord? Someone had to station at the Black Gate now, after all, since it had been seized for Mordor...

Now other orcs approached the body more boldly. While most of them were experienced soldiers who had faced the rangers before (and lived to tell the tale), not many had seen their leader from that close. Sitting by the fire during the long nights, they'd exchanged stories about a monster, a man-beast, that appeared out of the shadows and claimed the heads of unsuspecting Uruks before they realized what had happened. But dead, he was no more scary than any other dead ranger. It was easy to guess from their hungry looks that they were after more than a trinket.

"Don't even think about it. It's a blood sacrifice," warned them the Black Hand sharply, perfectly aware of what they had on their minds.

The orcs looked disappointed. Their leader had already claimed the most valuable item. None of them showed interest in looking for the man's sword to keep it for himself. While it was undoubtedly of a fine quality, any Uruk who would try to use a Tark's weapon would be ridiculed by others. Shorter, usually curved blades, were also better for them in close range combat.

"Can't we cut out his heart at least?" asked one of smaller orcs hopefully. He had yellowish skin, dark hair and a scrawny look overall. As such he was a low-ranked one without any hope of becoming something other than a scout in any foreseeable future. "You know, that was quite a warrior, even one bite would give formidable strength."

One piercing look from the Black Hand was enough for an answer.

"Uh, perhaps some other time then." The orc quickly backed down.

"You could eat a drake's heart, scum, and it still wouldn't help you," the captain snapped at him. Why did this moron have to embarrass him like that in front of the Black Captains?

However, there were other valuable items to collect from the fallen enemy other than his flesh. Norûk was not quite done with the Ranger yet. He grabbed the side of his long black cloak and using his blade tore out a long strand of the material. Then he dipped it in the pool of the man's blood. Others quickly reached for their knives and followed his example. Every orc cut a piece from the end of the Ranger's cloak or from his tunic and repeated their captain's small ritual.

"Why do you even do that?" asked the Hammer.

"It's an ol' custom, boss," said Norûk, looking up at the Black Captain. He was from a Mystic tribe who was the most superstitious of all Mordor orcs and also fascinated with dark magic. Others turned to him when there was a need to interpret signs, omens and dreams, and it was also told that he could make predictions from a caragor's entrails. "A piece of clothing of the greatest enemy and his blood will protect us from other rangers. Everyone knows that."

"Well, it's not like this one is going to bother you anymore," said the Tower dismissively. "And you needn't worry. It will take months before Gondor will start to wonder why they receive no messages from this garrison. By the time they send reinforcements—if any—we will be all set up here."

"Uh, can we at least make use of the other Rangers we have killed?" asked the scrawny orc again.

"Feel free," said the Black Hand as he turned away to walk past them, his long black cape billowing behind him. His irritation was almost palpable. As the most loyal servant of Sauron, he was greatly disappointed that he was not able to fulfill a task his master entrusted him with.

The orcs, however, neither cared nor thought about that. The dark ritual they had witnessed bore little meaning to them. These were the big and important schemes of their bosses, and they knew they should not poke their noses into them if they wanted to live longer. It was the promise of a good meal after the short but fierce battle that currently mattered the most for them and made their faces beam with somewhat cruel smiles. Food was always scarce in Mordor, and Tarks' meat was a delicacy. They followed the Black Captains, leaving behind the fallen ranger captain and his family, their minds set on other goals already.

Invisible to them, a realm of shadows was taking hold of the seemingly dead Talion of Gondor.

His old life had ended. A new one, cast adrift between a world of light and dark, was about to begin.