Disclaimer: This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes. All recognized characters and places are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.
Because everybody deserves some recognition:
Fire Pendant, Furius, Irena, LOTR lover, and Tamsin FlameArrow thank you for the reviews! I hope you continue to read and enjoy the fic.
And of course, I cannot thank you enough for your continued support, Ithilien.
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~ Chapter 4: Ancient Memories ~
Deep within the musty confines of the Mordor prison, a shackled young sailor lay trembling in a heap on the dungeon floor. Lash marks crisscrossed his back, some old, some new; all bleeding. The flaking iron cuffs bit into his broken wrists and ankles, and he could barely open his swollen eyelids.
They were coming for him. Again.
Rusty hinges grated roughly as the cell door was flung open. Torchlight illuminated the dank room and a large dark shadow loomed in the doorway. The terror-stricken sailor scrambled to the far corner and frantically began clawing at the stone wall. "Please, no, don't!" he moaned as the hulking orc captain grinned maliciously and slowly stalked towards him.
"What's the matter, boy?" sneered the dark figure. "Still trying to run away? Too bad I'm no wraith." The orc yanked the sandy-haired youth to his feet, laughing uproariously as the sailor's broken ankles refused to support his weight. The young man began sobbing and writhed in agony on the floor. "Please," he begged, knowing his pleas fell upon deaf ears. "Please, no more."
"You know the punishment for mutiny," growled the orc. "Now let's go. We've a date with the Master." Snickering, the orc threw the sailor over his shoulder and began walking jauntily down the long corridor.
The young man went limp in defeat, knowing any attempt to stall the inevitable would only lead to more pain.
He arched his spine and screamed as the whip tore deeper into what was once his back. "Shut up!" commanded a voice, and the sailor vaguely felt something hard slam into his jaw. A sickening crunch reverberated around the stony cavern.
'My jaw is broken,' he detachedly thought. 'Strange, I can't feel it that much.' A great weight was slowly pressing down on his chest, and his throat was oddly constricted. It required concentration to breathe. Though the chamber was well lit by countless torches, it appeared to be growing dimmer and dimmer.
'Am I dying?' he wondered. The rain of blows had not stopped, yet he could no longer feel them. Nor could he feel the slick rivers of blood coursing from his back, or the hot tears streaming down his cheeks.
The air was suddenly filled with cries of warning: "Gondor attacks! Isildur's heir has returned! To the battlements!" Mass chaos broke out as soldiers poured out of every nook and cranny, desperately trying to locate their weapons and fighting units.
His tormentors immediately turned their attention from him. The young sailor unexpectedly found himself forgotten and alone. 'Are we under attack?' His muddled brain could not comprehend what was taking place.
'I can escape!' The man dragged himself across the floor, choking and gasping as he pulled himself forward with his chained and broken wrists. It was almost impossible to slither in any direction because the floor was so wet. No, not wet. Bloody. His blood.
After much work, he somehow managed to reach an indiscreet stairwell at the far side of the room. 'How far down does it go?' his foggy mind wondered. With only a moment's hesitation, he began to push himself over the first step.
Though his lunge did not contain much strength, the momentum of it nonetheless caused him to go tumbling downward. Barely conscious, the young sailor found himself in a dusky and neglected chamber. He feebly reached forward and his groping hands came to rest on a strange pillar. 'No,' his hazy mind corrected, 'it is some sort of altar.' His swollen palms ran over the many undistinguishable runes carved deep into the smooth stone. Perhaps the altar's dish still contained some drinkable water.
The young man gripped the outer rim of the dish and strove to lift himself. Unable to withstand his weight, the altar unexpectedly gave away. The sailor pitched forward and collapsed as the altar dish toppled, drenching him in stagnant water. A choking cough escaped his lips and then only the steady drip! drip! drip! of water could be heard as it slowly leaked to even lower depths of the earth.
Bright light flashed and he felt as though he were being sucked forward. Then he suddenly came to an abrupt halt. He was surrounded by darkness, and would have described himself as "floating" except he did not seem to be going anywhere. The sailor vainly attempted to reach solid ground, but discovered no such thing existed.
"Who are you?" commanded a threatening voice.
"No one important," stammered the terrified young man. "Where am I?"
The voice laughed mirthlessly. "Nowhere and everywhere. We are in Nothingness."
The sailor felt his stomach begin to twist itself into knots. The darkness was suffocating. "How did I get here?" he asked timidly.
"That," boomed the voice, "is precisely what I would like to know. Long have I been exiled to this Void, chained here like a dog for eons. I have not had any contact with the outside for centuries." The voice grew in bitterness as it continued. "I cannot escape, and cannot be forgiven."
"Wh-who are you?"
The voice laughed again, it's anger slicing through the silence of the Void like shards of broken glass. "Surely you must know by now? Or has my name been forever lost to the Mortal races? I do not think the Eldar have forgotten me. Nor have the Valar." The voice paused. "I am called Morgoth by some and Melkor by even fewer."
The young sailor gasped.
"Now tell me, Secondborn," ordered Morgoth, "what exactly was the last thing you remember before landing in my 'fair' realm?"
The trembling sailor thought for a few moments. "I fell into a dark room," he slowly replied. "I tried to pull myself up using an altar of sorts. It fell over on me. Then I felt myself being pulled."
Morgoth laughed. "Then you are quite the accidental sacrifice," he rumbled. "Though I suppose you will do."
"Sacrifice?"
"Yes. The only way I may contact those outside this cursed realm is through the spilled blood of one of the race of Middle Earth. Even then, my followers are required to come to me—as you have done. I cannot enter or look upon the land."
Morgoth appeared to lose himself in thought before finally returning his attention to the sailor.
"Tell me," Morgoth said sharply, "do you wish to return to Middle-earth? I can grant you this, but only under one condition."
The sailor nodded respectfully. "Yes, My Lord. I do wish to return."
"Very well," stated Morgoth. "You shall be spared and your body healed. However, I demand you forfeit your free will to a life of servitude. You will do as I bid and serve me."
"I understand. Thank you, My Lord."
"Make haste, young Mortsdil. There is much I would have you do before your time on Middle-earth expires."
He had been found by a small force of Gondorian soldiers and was mistaken for a slave. The great Elf lords Elrohir and Elladan had taken pity upon him and personally treated his injuries. Though the scars on his back would never fade, the Elvish medicine did wonders for his many broken bones. Only a month after his "rescue," Mortsdil was back to his old form. While the land of Gondor celebrated the coronation of King Elessar, Mortsdil quietly returned to Umbar. Through the council of Morgoth, the pirate grew in stature and strength. The leaders of Harad learned to fear and respect the Corsair who conversed with Morgoth himself and who was rumored to have many strange and terrible powers. Those once aligned with Sauron now offered their services to Mortsdil.
All the while, Gondor basked in the glow of its beloved King and Queen, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in the southeast.
* * *
Under a brilliant white sun, Minas Tirith shimmered and blazed in the noontide heat. Insects buzzed lazily from the delightfully colored flowers growing on every corner. The plants' intoxicating fragrances mingled with fresh straw, warming stone and other scents of the marketplace. Sweet birdsong hung over the castle ramparts, while below, the city's bustling inhabitants merrily chattered or shouted amongst each other as they went about their daily business. It was a wonderful day to be alive, and an even better one to live in Gondor.
Aragorn stifled a yawn and allowed his gaze to slide past the droning townswoman standing before he and Arwen. Dusty travelers packed the throne room, patiently awaiting their turn to speak to King and Queen. From his position on the throne, which sat atop a gentle platform, the line appeared endless.
The throne room of Minas Tirith was more akin to a cathedral hall, with its high-arching ceilings and many windows. Aragorn was immensely grateful for this feature: it was a dreadfully hot day and he did not think he would be able to cope with being shut in a stuffy chamber. The room's many windows had been flung open, and a breeze flowed pleasantly through the hall, causing hanging tapestries and banners to ripple and flap as it passed by.
Aragorn turned his attention back to the troubled woman. "…I specifically told him not to eat the pie while it was still hot, but the fool ignored me and burnt his tongue. It is not my fault he hasn't been able to eat—the glutton!" To his right, Arwen made pretense of clearing her throat as a bout of helpless laughter rose to her lips.
Aragorn nodded and laced his fingers thoughtfully. "Hmmm… If those are the events as you tell them," he stated imperiously, "then I shall pass judgment. I beseech you, woman of Gondor, to give the man a cold drink. Though you are not at fault for his pain, there is always room for compassion."
The woman nodded vigorously and beamed. "Truly, you are the wisest of Men, King Elessar!"
Aragorn dipped his head to the woman and waved her off in royal dismissal. Turning to Arwen, he spoke quietly so as to not be overheard. "I stand corrected. There are worse things than stolen cows."
"The people merely wish to stand before their king and queen," scolded Arwen, though her tone held no malice. "Let us entertain their fancies."
Just as Aragorn motioned for the next man to come forth, a ragged and unkempt woman pushed her way through the line and staggered towards the front of the room. Her tattered and mud-splattered clothes hung limply from her malnourished form. Dried blood caked her hands and feet—her shoes having worn away long ago.
"A gift, a gift, a gift," she raved in a singsong and wheezing voice, "We must see the King! Reaching into a worn leather pouch strapped to her waist, the crazed woman pulled out a dirty rag doll and began addressing the toy. "Yes, Éowyn Doll, we must see the king. We are close. We are almost there. A gift, a gift, a gift."
Shocked by her initial appearance, the palace guards recovered themselves quickly. As the woman made for the king and queen, they roughly grabbed her from behind. The disheveled woman twisted and screamed as the rag doll was wretched from her hands.
"No! Muriel! Come back! I'm sorry! Your mother's sorry! Forgive me!" Her screams grew more and more frantic as she called to the doll resting on the smooth floor.
Arwen's face grew pinched and white as she watched the struggling woman. Finally the queen could take no more. "Stop!" she cried, and rushed down to the detained woman.
"Your highness, she's mad," warned the captain of the guards.
The woman had collapsed and lay sobbing on the floor. "Muriel, oh Muriel," she moaned, reaching with futile desperation in the direction of the doll.
"Captain Haier, that is enough." Aragorn rose from his chair and slowly approached the prisoner. The guards relinquished their hold, albeit reluctantly.
Gently scooping up the fallen doll, Arwen offered the toy back to the woman. She snatched the doll and held it protectively against her breast. "There, my dove," she crooned. "I promise I shall never let you go again. They cannot take you away from me, not this time." Tears spilled down her cheeks, leaving wet trails on her filthy face. She began to rock the doll back and forth.
Aragorn crouched before the woman. She continued rocking the doll in her arms, crying and singing in misery. "What is your name?" he asked gently. Startled, the woman lifted her head and regarded him with wild, haunting eyes.
"Deep in the waves we keep our dead," she resumed singing in a childish voice, "Save me a tomb in the seaweed bed. And when I come to join you soon, we'll dance in the surf 'neath the pale full moon…"
Despite the warmth of the summer day, Aragorn shivered.
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How Mortsdil managed to contact Morgoth posed an interesting dilemma. I originally had him stumbling across a palantír, but realized that was a bit too far-fetched. How would Morgoth manage to gain control of a palantír, anyways—especially considering he's exiled in a void? And then we have to face the fact that he absolutely cannot escape or touch Middle Earth in any way. A sacrificial altar seemed like the best bet. Picture it as a large stone birdbath. Um, minus the birds, of course.
Liked it? Hated it? Want to throw me on the sacrificial altar? (waste of time, let me tell you. I'm a slow bleeder. Just ask the poor Red Cross people I donate to.) Please review!!!
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