Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.

Thanks for the great reviews, guys!  :)

A/N:  EdnaTod brought to my attention that a frown was something you do with your forehead and not your lips.  I had never heard of this before, and looked it up myself.  According to the 2001 Fourth Edition of Webster's New World College Dictionary, a frown is "A contraction of brows in sternness, thought."   I was completely blown away (one of those childhood-ideals-shattered moments).  If this is true, why then, does the human mouth use over two hundred and some odd facial muscles when pulling the face into a frown?  What about the rhyme telling us to "turn our frowns upside down?"  (Lies!  All lies!) 

I was decidedly overwhelmed and spent the better part of twenty minutes staring at my reflection in the mirror while trying to pull my forehead into a frown (at which point I realized it was 1:30 in the morning and I probably needed sleep).  I'm still not sure what to make of the whole matter, but I do know I frown with my mouth…

CHARACTER LIST:

Mortsdil-  leader of the Corsairs of Umbar

Nagihcim-  A lower sailor, has superiority issues

Jesseral-  Mortsdil's first mate

Tegiron-  drunken fisherman and husband to Bitaliel the madwoman

Imrahil- the Prince of Dol Amroth (and greater Belfalas area)

Thranduil, Legolas, Aragorn, and Arwen

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~ Chapter 8: The Pain of Duty ~

Blinding light from a shaft of morning sunlight fell across Mortsdil's face, warming him uncomfortably.  The brawny corsair groaned and placed a calloused hand over his eyes while attempting to kick the smothering bed sheets from his body.  His head pounded mercilessly.  He gritted his teeth in agony and felt trickles of wetness crawling through his inner ears.  He did not have to look to know it was blood.  Headaches were one of the more unpleasant side effects from his association with Morgoth; they served to remind him of his duties. 

The tanned man kept his eyes shut while he rubbed his throbbing temples and wiped away the small stream of blood running from his ears.  He took several deep breaths to calm his churning stomach.  He had not made contact with Morgoth in months and doubted not the Vala was more than a little displeased.  The headaches had increased in severity the past few days and were now impossible to ignore.  "Cursed eel," swore the pirate as he fumbled for the strips of willow bark* resting in a tin on the nightstand.  He grabbed three pieces and shoved them into his mouth, chewing furiously.

He needed to think.  It would be extremely difficult to procure a body when Lord Imrahil had Mortsdil firmly placed within his sights.  However, Morgoth would soon lose his patience and had the ability to end Mortsdil's life whenever he wished.  "Your life is in my hands, Mortsdil," the exiled god had stated.  "I may take it away as easily as I gave it back to you.  You would be wise to remember this."

Mortsdil sat up as the pain abated slightly and reached for his shirt.  'Nagihcim would make a fine sacrifice,' he thought darkly.

A muffled, hung-over groan caught his attention and he turned his head to the slumbering figure next to him.  He had forgotten about her.  A streak of repulsion and loathing flashed through him and the pirate's foul mood suddenly found a target.  "Get up," he snarled, grabbing a mass of tangled auburn hair and sharply twisting his wrist.  "Get up, you wench."

The woman emitted a cry and yelped in protest as she was rudely shoved to the floor, taking the majority of blankets with her.  Her crudely painted face had long since run and smeared; the morning light did nothing to improve her looks.  The cheap scent she had worn the night before, mixed with that of stale liquor, lingered on the sheets and only added to Mortsdil's nausea.  He curled his lip in disgust.  "Get out."

The curvy woman gathered the covers about her and scowled, disheveled hair falling over her shoulders.  As most women in her profession, she was more than a little used to being handled roughly.  "I don't care what sort of captain you are," she snapped in a hoarse and smoky voice, making Mortsdil immediately regret his previous night's boasting. "You still owe the same as the rest."

Had he been in any other mood, the pirate might have found the woman's sullen manner quite amusing.  As it was, he felt anything but amused, and his black temper was quick to lash out.  Mortsdil vaulted over the bed, headache and all, and dragged the woman to her feet by her fiery hair.  A resounding slap echoed through the room and she whimpered as he snapped her neck back and held it fast.  He brought his lips to her ear and spoke, his words deathly soft and malicious.  "When I tell you to leave, you will leave."  He relished the feel of her trembling body.  It would be so easy to kill her.  The power he felt was exhilarating.  "You will get your pathetic fee.  You need not remind me."  An angry red welt was beginning to form on her cheek and crimson drops dribbled from the corner of her smeared mouth.

Mortsdil pulled her neck back further.  Tears swam in her eyes and she began to choke, unable to draw a full breath from such an angle.  The pirate's face contorted into a smirk.  "Now be a good girl and don't make me angry.  Do you understand?"  She again whimpered pathetically.

Mortsdil began walking towards the door, still holding her by the hair.  She stumbled and gagged as she tried to keep up with him, while at the same time holding the sheets around her body.  Mortsdil unlocked the door and threw her into the hallway.  Before turning to leave, he fished a few golden coins from his pocket and threw them at her.  "You overestimate your worth," he sneered as she scrambled to gather them.  Turning, he swiftly shut the door behind him.

After a scanty breakfast, for he felt unable to stomach much, Mortsdil walked to the village port in the hopes of summoning his First Mate, Jesseral.  Salt and fish hung heavily in the air, and white gulls wheeled and cried overhead.  The surf hissed and crashed against the sand as the tides changed; the sun beat down from a cloudless sky as it simmered and baked the surrounding land.  

'The ships are coming along nicely,' he noted.  Two had already been completed and sat still and foreboding upon the sand like the stranded shells of gigantic black water bugs.  Their many oars stuck out haphazardly from all angles, as though the boats had thrashed wildly in the sand before simply giving up mid-throe.  Three other ships were under construction; one almost completed while the other two were but wooden frames, more closely resembling charred whalebones than sea-worthy vessels.

Several massive black canvases were stretched across the sand as they were sewn and mended by the rugged hands of Umbar's finest.  Mortsdil sighed and rubbed his temples.  He shaded his eyes from the bright sun and scoured the beach.  Where the devil was Jesseral?  He cursed quietly as he noticed Imrahil's small company of soldiers watching from the shade of the blacksmith's stable.  "They are as leeches," he muttered.  "I cannot seem to rid myself of them."  When they took note of his presence, he plastered a sarcastic smile upon his face and waved, as he always did.  They ignored the gesture, as they always did.

He had just made up his mind to stroll over to the soldiers and strike up a conversation—knowing nothing would make them more uncomfortable—when he caught sight of the portly Jesseral panting up the beach.

"Captain!  Captain."  Jesseral pulled off the red bandana he had tied around his balding head and wiped away the sweat beading on his glistening brow.  His gold earrings glinted in the sunlight.  "We've just finished winding the last rope.  Blacksmith," he jerked his thumb in the direction of Imrahil's soldiers, "says he'll have the chains for the first two ships done by tomorrow.  Already has one anchor finished."  Displeasure glinted in the short man's brown eyes.  "It be not quite what we're used to, but the man says he's used to making 'em for smaller boats."

Mortsdil nodded.  "Good, good," he murmured.  Great Seas, his head hurt. 

Jesseral paused and squinted up at the tall pirate.  "Captain, sir?  You be having a pale look about you."  His brow furrowed.  "And your ear's bleeding."

Mortsdil hastily wiped away blood for the second time that day.  "I'm fine," he growled.  Jesseral knew better than to argue.  "Where's Nagihcim?"

The First Mate thought for a few moments.  "Ah, methinks I saw him go round there—" he pointed down the beach to a rocky outcrop, which protruded into the sea, "—with his usual lackeys and that drunken fellow.  Tegger or Tegrion… whatever he be called."

"Tegiron," corrected Mortsdil, narrowing his eyes.  The fisherman had been drunk through the entire month.  It was rather impressive he was still breathing, or at least, had been the last time Mortsdil saw him.

Mortsdil turned his attention back to Jesseral and noticed the flask attached to the portly mate's side.  "Is that water?"

"Eh?"  Jesseral jumped.  He, too, had been looking down the beach.

"In you flask," snapped Mortsdil.  "Is that water in your flask?"

Jesseral nodded, puzzled, but did not voice his confusion.

"Give it to me."  Jesseral obliged.  Mortsdil snatched the flask and began walking purposely towards the rocky outcrop.  Jesseral grimaced, knowing he had most likely seen Nagihcim for the last time.  The old pirate had followed Mortsdil from the very beginning, and could predict his master's mood as he could the sea.  With an offhanded shrug, and wishing Nagihcim a fairly painless death, Jesseral turned and walked back down to the ships.  Mortsdil would probably want him and a few others to deal with the remaining members of Nagihcim's crew.

Mortsdil carefully climbed over the boulders.  Sharp laughter assailed his ears, causing him to wince as the noise assaulted his already pounding head.  He should have rid himself of Nagihcim months ago.  Why he hadn't, only the Valar knew. 

He came to the top of the rocks and looked down.  A deep growl rose to his throat as he viewed the scene below him.  Nagihcim and his small school of sharks had gagged Tegiron and then disemboweled and beheaded the drunk.  Nagihcim had shoved the dead man's head onto a cutlass and was proceeding to hold a very one-sided conversation with the fellow, much to the delight of his cronies.

Mortsdil was not bothered by the gruesome nature of the scene—he himself was known to do far worse.  What did infuriate him, however, was the fact that he had specifically ordered his men to leave the drunk alone.  There was no telling what else the fisherman might know about the wondrous jewel, and Mortsdil wanted to learn all he could.  It was impossible to learn secrets from the cold, stiff lips of a dead man.       

Wasting no time, Mortsdil quickly unsheathed the dagger hidden in his boot and threw it with all his might.  Life on the high seas required much in the arts of trickery, deception, and backstabbing; one must possess a keen eye, sharp tongue, quick reflexes, and a fast blade.  Mortsdil possessed all four.  Nagihcim was dead before he hit the sand, dagger protruding from his throat.  It was not the most "honorable" method to kill an opponent, but Mortsdil was cunning, not honorable.  Why waste breath and risk possible injury to oneself when the fight could be ended before it began? 

Nagihcim's comrades looked up in shock, and then took off running down the beach.  Mortsdil let them go.  Jesseral was a good man and had probably already gathered some of the crew to detain them.  The group would be dead within the hour.

He carefully picked his way down to the shoreline.  Nagihcim lie on his back in the sand, mouth contorted in shocked grimace and eyes bulging almost comically as they stared unblinking into the blinding sun.  The cutlass had fallen to his side.  Mortsdil glanced at Tegiron's head as he removed his dagger from Nagihcim's neck and wiped the blade on the dead man's tunic.  He gave the head an affectionate pat.  "Poor mate," he said nonchalantly.  "I hope you were too drunk to feel much."   

He looped his arms under Nagihcim and dragged the wiry body to the rocks.  A small trail of red followed him, turning a rusty brown as it mixed with the sand. 

There were many hollows within the rocks, providing the pirate with a wide variety of bowl-shaped impressions to choose from.  When one lacks an altar, he reasoned, one must improvise accordingly.  When he found one to his liking, he poured the water from Jesseral's flask into it.  He then draped Nagihcim's still-warm body over the makeshift altar and slashed the dead man's wrists, thighs, chest, and abdomen.  Directly over the heart, he carved the Tengwar* initials of Melkor.

Blood from the cooling body spilled down in watery rivulets and flowed into the altar.  Mortsdil closed his eyes and began chanting, a strange and foreign tongue comprised of cracked, guttural chips and whining pitches.  Blood began to pound in his ears in time with the surf; the earth began to spin.  He dipped his hands underneath the body and into the altar, scooping up a handful of its contents.  Still chanting, he raised it to his lips and drank, throwing his hands to his face when he had finished and trailing them down to his neck.  The bright sunlight of the day flickered and dimmed.  Raising his dagger to his palm, he again carved Morgoth's symbol and then collapsed into darkness as the convulsions took control.

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"Where have you been, Secondborn?"  Shadows within the blackness swirled angrily about him, clawing and snapping at him.  Mortsdil shuddered and his spirit bowed before the thundering voice.  "I should end this now!"

"No!  Wait!" Mortsdil cried out, terrified, almost pleading.  "Wait…  Much has happened, and I have news that would greatly interest you."  The dark shadows backed off slightly, but continued to sting and torment him.  "Something—a stone—from the sea…  There was a great storm…  A stone from the sea has been found!"

The pain suddenly came to a halt, and Mortsdil was left suspended in Nothingness for several heartbeats.  "A stone?"  Morgoth's question hissed around him like a foul wind and chilled him to the core. 

"Yes.  It came from the sea and is said to glow with an inner light like no other.  It has been taken to Gondor."  Mortsdil was painfully aware he had obtained the description from a drunken fisherman, and found himself praying to the other Valar, of all beings, that Tegiron's tale had even the slightest bit of truth to it.

The atmosphere of the Void suddenly grew tense and excited.  Mortsdil cringed, feeling his soul shrivel and grow cold.  Then Morgoth began to laugh—a frigid, shattering sound.  "Can it be?" the Vala exclaimed.  "One of those which is the cause of my exile?"

Mortsdil felt Morgoth smile, a cruel and oily thing.  "The light of Valinor would chase away the shadows of this black void…  And even if we do not succeed," he mused, "I would still have my revenge."  Silence reigned for several moments while the exiled one pondered his course of action. 

"You have done well, Mortsdil.  This pleases me greatly.  Follow my instructions, Secondborn, and you shall be rewarded for your loyalty."

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"No," Legolas stated with an emphatic shake of his head.  "I cannot do that.  Arwen, you cannot ask it of me!"

Hues of dusk blushed across the sky as the sun quietly slipped onto the west.  Arwen looked up and spied Eärendil preparing to embark upon his nightly navigation through the inky tides of cloud and star.  "And yet," her voice mingled softly with the growing harmonies of evening, "we have little choice."  Her grey eyes shone in the deepening shadows as she turned them upon the male Elf.  "I wish to do this no more than you, Little Brother.  But you yourself have witnessed Aragorn's refusal.  He will not be persuaded."

Legolas looked moodily about the queen's private garden.  Thick, glossy hedges, their leaves appearing almost black in the fading light, formed a secure wall around the small Elvish recluse.  Ivy vines and morning glory crawled up delicately carved wooden trellises, and a small pond dressed in lily pads rippled gently under the caress of a warm breeze.  The spot seemed to have somehow evaded the thick, humid air that permeated the rest of the land.  Legolas sat on the stone border of the pond and trailed his fingertips across the top of the water, watching as tiny waves disrupted the pond's rhythmic undulating.  "Perhaps if we waited a while longer, he will begin to see—"

Arwen gracefully sat down next to him and placed a hand upon the archer's shoulder.  She cupped his chin in the palm of her slender hand and turned his face to hers.  "You were so troubled by your feelings that you rode here immediately," she gently chided.  "Unrest grows with each passing day—I feel it as you do, though I fear these city walls and my own mortality hinder much."  Legolas caught a flash of sadness in her grey eyes, though it was fleeting and held no regret.  "With all my heart I wish not to ask such a dangerous thing of you, but you are among my most trusted friends and Fate, it seems, has sent you here."  She dropped her hand and turned to stare at the water.  "I would carry out the task myself, Legolas."  Her voice dropped to a soft whisper.  "But I must remain within these walls.  I am needed here and I do not think he would be able to forgive me.  Nay, I would not be able to forgive myself."

Legolas sighed miserably.  "Already the storm threatens to snap our friendship.  I risk much."

"And you risked much when you joined the Fellowship; knowing our kindred would suffer loss whatever the outcome was to be."   Arwen leaned forward and gave her friend a kiss on the forehead before rising.  "Even the strongest tree may be felled by the storm, Greenleaf.  But its roots will hold fast if they have been planted deep enough."

Legolas lifted his fair face to the sky and listened as the light steps of Arwen slowly retreated.  As his friend had done, he too sought out the comforting light of the Mariner.  The star twinkled reassuringly from the heavens, giving the Elf a much-needed sense of tranquility.  The words of his father suddenly came to him, and so clear they were that Legolas actually started and glanced to his side, half-expecting Thranduil's stern and wise face to be staring back at him.  "One of the most difficult duties of a leader, my son, is knowing whether to follow one's heart or one's head."

Legolas closed his eyes.  He had been very young at the time—only twenty or so*.  Aurigal and Calenbeth were to go forest climbing, and he desperately wanted to go with them.  He had been most delighted to discover that as a prince of Mirkwood, albeit the youngest one, he could simply refuse to practice his archery, and instead skip off into the trees to play.  The resident bowmaster could do nothing—for Legolas was royalty and one cannot order about a prince.

Of course, Thranduil had been none-too-pleased by his son's manipulation of this rule, and promptly summoned the child to his throne for an official, royal consultation.  Legolas had been terrified, for it was Thranduil King of Mirkwood he faced, not Thranduil Ada of Legolas. 

Legolas almost smiled at the memory: he had approached his father, who sat imperiously upon his throne as he stared down at his son.  Legolas had never been so intimidated in his life, and came before the stately Elven king with visibly quaking knees.  Thranduil had taken out a slim paper scroll, and began to read from it.  Legolas was charged with "disregarding his royal duty to the House of Oropher, displaying improper and unmannerly conduct towards others," and several other terrible-sounding crimes he now knew Thranduil had pulled from thin air.  His father only managed to read halfway through the list before the young Elf's bottom lip began to quiver and tears welled up in his large bright eyes.

The sight of his smallest child attempting to choke back sobs, tiny body trembling with the effort, while at the same time managing to look Thranduil full in the face with his little chin held high, immediately broke any resolve for harsher punishment.  The King set down the scroll, stood up, and promptly gathered the youngster in an encompassing embrace.  Legolas had thrown his slender arms around his father's neck and outright sobbed until he could do no more than sniffle and hiccup. 

Thranduil sat down on his throne and gently rocked the child back and forth as he patted his son's tiny back.  "One of the most difficult duties of a leader, my son, is knowing whether to follow one's heart or one's head."

Legolas sniffled and tightly grasped one of Thranduil's golden braids in his small fist.  "But how, Ada?" he hiccupped.  "How will I know which one to follow?"

Thranduil smiled down at his son and gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind the child's delicate ear.  "Deciding which is right, Little One, is the most difficult duty of all.  It is not always the one that we desire most, or the one that will cause the least pain."

Legolas sighed and looked back up to Eärendil.  A low grumble of thunder rolled in the distance.  "Forgive me, Aragorn," he murmured quietly.  "Forgive me for what I must do." 

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* Willow bark-  I'm pretty sure most of you are familiar with its properties, but if you're not: it's commonly used for treating headaches.  Think aspirin.

*Regarding the Tengwar:  It's the most ancient form of writing I could find, and correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure some form of it was used on the One Ring.

*Legolas and Thranduil:  We'll say the Queen of Mirkwood died when Legolas was between the ages of 15 and 20.  Hence, Thranduil's very tender nature towards his son (aww, what a good father!).

Please review! :)

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