Author's Notes: Ever so sorry for the long wait. Up front, this chapter has a temporary R rating because, while I tried to err on the side of conservatism, I also had to be graphic enough to convey the unpleasantness of the event described. You've been warned. For those of you familiar with Mary Stewart's Merlin trilogy, this chapter largely follows the model of the night after the battle of Luguvallium in The Hollow Hills. Disclaimer as per previous chapters- Tolkien owns the world, the OCs are mine.
Review responses:
TreeHugger- Thank you. Being something of an American Civil War buff, battles are one of the few things I don't have trouble visualizing. As for Neblis, don't get too attached to any of the characters. I can't promise which ones will survive. Annatar probably has contingency plans for dealing with everybody. And yay for Yodaisms. Does anyone, including me, really know everything that's going on here?
Lady LeBeau- I wonder who Sirgo really is too. I don't plan on finding out. And a personal warning for this chapter: squickiness ahead. Proceed with caution.
Dragon-of-the-north- I'm hoping I can leave you in suspense regarding who will be the Nazgul for at least a bit longer. I hope to leave anyone trying to analyze that question with a conundrum similar to the 'did he poison the glass in front of me or in front of him' problem. To further the mystery, I left Annatar's statement about weakness vague deliberately; he's referring to the man he intends to be a ringwraith. I didn't intend this as a Mouth of Sauron story, but now that you mention it… And, as before, the question remains as to how many factors are influencing events and which events are attributable to which influence.
Greetings from Mordor- Thank you. I'm glad the battle lived up to your expectations and was worth the long wait.
Wings of the Storm, Chapter IX- Temptation's Hour
[The entire first part of this chapter was absent from this tale's original tellings, and for very good reason. It was easily replaced by a sentence or two, as it is not highly critical to the plot at large. Nevertheless, it provides a certain depth to a character who otherwise seems morally one-dimensional and it is, in many ways, the fulfillment of all the other material left out of the childhood retellings.]
The wind began to pick up as the clouds rolled in. The beautiful, sunny morning had deteriorated as the storm first formed in the east and then soared on the currents of the sky into the west. It would be upon them soon, and there was work still to be done before they could seek shelter in the former orc town. As far as Caldrion knew, no one had even entered the settlement yet, which seemed a bit strange but, in light of earlier events, made sense. Sirgo had been feeling sufficiently weak that he had decided to take a nap in the old camp rather than wait until the Army had occupied the town. Graldor had begun to order various small groups to see to the wounded, strip and pile the orc bodies, and other such tasks for cleaning up the battlefield, but the unexpected arrival of another small band of orcs interrupted most of those plans.
There could not have been more than two dozen of them, and by their demeanor they were merely late arrivals to the now eradicated orc conclave, but their presence quickly led to a running battle, during which the orcs inadvertently led their pursuers to the place where the survivors from the earlier battle had gathered. Consequently, much of the afternoon had been spent chasing around individual orcs. And now that everyone was back on the original battlefield, the imminent rain made clearing the field a higher priority than organizing things in the settlement.
Caldrion had hardly paid attention to any of it. As he had casually run down orcs all afternoon, his thoughts had been focused not on them but on what had happened that morning. Even though, at an intellectual level, he still did not really understand what he had done or how he had done it, it had not prevented him from spending that time fantasizing about the consequences of his promotion and new standing in the Army. He had all of their respect now, he was sure, and now that he had it there were things, or at least one thing, he could do. Needed to do.
Claiming on the battlefield the manhood long denied him by the nobles in Aratur had awakened something else in him, a dull ache that had gradually increased to an intense pain as the storm advanced. The field was now clear to Graldor's satisfaction, the sky was exceedingly dark and ominous, for the approaching night now added its own shadows to those of the storm, and as Caldrion dismounted within the walls, the sharp pain became even stronger. He had a different sort of mount in mind… Something he had never done but desperately wanted, no, needed to do.
And, as was the case for Graldor at Rivertown, the opportunity to do so was found without much difficulty. The rain had begun pouring with a vengeance, and Graldor had simply yelled for everybody to get under a roof and help any captives held within; he would try to organize things after the storm had passed. By a stroke of luck that he never thought to question, Caldrion found himself alone in a rectangular hut that, compared to the cramped and tiny shacks found in most orc settlements, was fairly sizeable; not even his squire, Dunev, had followed him. That is, he was not completely alone, but rather alone with the woman. Other than her sex, there was little he could tell about her in the unlighted room. She looked to be a bit younger than he was, with what was probably light brown hair and what looked to be a very comely face. Which was probably just as well, considering that, in his current state, he would have taken an orc if she had the requisite body parts.
Rational thought was, at this point, quite beyond him. There was no thundering rain outside, no army nearby, no walls imprisoning him, no floor beneath his feet, only himself, or rather one particularly insistent part of himself, and this woman. And the clothes between him and her, which were quickly and easily dealt with, as were the bonds around her hands and feet. She might have been speaking, but he didn't hear a single word. This was instinct, as instinctual as whatever he had done that morning, though it might have been an age ago considering how little he could remember. There was only her, and she was spectacular.
He pushed her to the ground and dropped on top of her, asserting his will with an animal lust. He swallowed her screams as his mouth moved rapidly over hers and he plunged into her, his body shaking uncontrollably as he satisfied his pleasure in her, exulting in its violent release.
The climax had come and gone and Caldrion remained, content in the denouement as he once again became aware that there was warm blood flowing in parts of his body besides the one that had benefited most from this path. One of those other parts was his brain though, disturbingly, his first thoughts were not of the lady at whose expense he had profited but rather wondering why he had not listened to Graldor and done this sooner.
His sigh of languorous contentment was cut off as he suddenly became aware of someone standing behind him. He turned his head without getting off her. Sirgo. He might have known. He quickly disengaged and rolled away from her.
The prophet's expression was unreadable, but Caldrion did not need to look at the old man's face to know that he strongly disapproved. He was soaked to the skin, and his eyes had only the slightest hint of life, giving him a haunted, feral appearance. Caldrion's first reaction was frustration and anger at Sirgo for interrupting him before he was completely finished, but at the same time, the ecstasy was leaving him and he felt guilt surging through him.
Sirgo, though, was not looking at Caldrion, nor at the woman, but staring into one of the dark corners of the room. "Yours?" Caldrion followed his eyes and gasped. He had been so focused on the woman that he had not noticed the children until now. They were huddled in the corner looking frightened out of their wits: a girl of perhaps eight and a boy two or three years younger. He looked from the children to the woman and shuddered with horror and self-loathing. He was as bad as, if not worse than the evil men of the stories. They raped the (mostly) grown daughters in the eyes of their parents, but he had raped the mother in the eyes of her poor innocent children. If Caldrion's belt had still been around his waist, he might have pulled his knife and ended himself then and there, but it was out of reach where he had cast it in his haste.
The woman turned to Sirgo and shook her head. Though her face was as soaked in tears as Sirgo's was with rain and her lips were bloody where he had bitten them, her voice was fairly well composed. "My niece and nephew. I am…" She sobbed, making a sound that cut through Caldrion more painfully than any of the arrows from that morning. "I was a maid."
Caldrion rolled on his side and began howling uncontrollably. The manly confidence, the strength, the power that he had felt through his entire being less than an hour ago had evaporated into thin air. What had he done? Had he cast away the good man he once was to secure the victory this morning? What was happening? How had he become such an instrument of evil? And why, when he should be trying to somehow make amends, could he do nothing but cry?
In the absence of light, Caldrion had no idea how long he had lain there weeping, but when he looked up, the woman and children were gone and he was dimly aware of Sirgo standing over him. He leaned down and gave a grim smile. "I would offer you a cloth to wipe your face, but I doubt anything on my person is any drier."
Caldrion rubbed his eyes with his hands and looked into Sirgo's eyes. "My God, what have I done?"
Sirgo's expression looked surprisingly nonjudgmental. "You can't stand in the sun without casting a shadow into the night. This morning the power within you awoke, power that can be used for good but also led astray to commit ill."
"I was not led astray. I knew full well what I was doing, but I did not care."
"I think not. The power is too great and terrible to imagine, and, in my experience at least, it goes wither it will. This morning you brought it forth, and for a time bent it to your own will, but either the slaughter of orcs was unable to satisfy its lust for control or it was driven by other means to this."
"Are you trying to tell me that I am not at fault? Because if you are, then you are lying." Caldrion's voice rose as he came to his feet. The anger he had been directing toward himself was finding a new target. "It was not some abstract power that violated that poor woman, it was my member." Realizing that his aforementioned member was still in the open, he hurried to restore his attire, still angrily berating himself. "My lips defiled hers, whose beauty I should not even have aspired to touch. Damn it, what does that make me?" He reached for his belt. "I am nothing, not a captain of Aratur, not even worthy to be called a slave thereof. I can't stay here. I have cast a poor reflection on Graldor. I must leave. Have a nice life. I doubt I'll get to see you again before they cast me into the void." And he started toward the exit.
Sirgo blocked him. "And what was it you told me this morning? Something to the effect of 'You aren't going anywhere'? You cannot leave. You are here because the Valar appointed you to protect Graldor. If you leave, I cannot do that alone. Your purpose is here. And, when the horn blows to recall them, your descendants' purpose will likewise be here. Your purpose will be here fulfilled, and theirs likewise, but the interim will not be pleasant. The road north is fraught with sorrows. By the river they will join with the bears and the trees, become one with the exiles of the exiles. They will flee the decay of the green, overcoming the broken shadow of the black ghost, whose brother you know and whose master you have met. In the north they will grow, a chained wind waiting to fly across the meadow. There they will dwell, until chance comes, and time calls them elsewhere.
"Such is the nature of this night. That which is sown will not pass without remark. The Valar work in mysterious ways. You've cast your shadow; now bring it into the light."
Caldrion blinked. Sirgo blinked and shook his head. "Sorry. Did I just say anything important?"
Caldrion blinked again. At least Sirgo was also having a surreal day. "I do not know. I think the gist was that I should not leave Aratur, which at this point I think may be the best course of action."
Caldrion wasn't sure why he felt compelled to seek her out, knowing that no words could atone for what he had done, but he had to at least try to apologize, at least try to tell her that he was not the monster she thought he was. He and Sirgo had already spoken to Graldor, who accepted Caldrion's contrite confession without comment. Though on the previous campaign he had made an effort to prevent relations of a non-consensual nature between the soldiers and the newly freed captives, he had also turned a blind eye to the few who had committed such acts, perhaps because his own tendencies occasionally approached the same thing. So Graldor's forgiveness had not really surprised Caldrion, though it was not Graldor's forgiveness that Caldrion desperately needed.
He found her sitting with a mixed group of soldiers and former slaves around one of the fires. In its red glow, she somehow looked different. The comeliness of her face was even more obvious, and the blue of her eyes was readily apparent. She did not look as distraught as she had when Sirgo found her, but she also had not yet noticed the approach of her attacker. Nevertheless, there was more color to her face than he would have expected of someone whose maidenhood he had forcibly taken only a couple hours past.
And then she looked toward him and it hit him with a force equal to that of the orc blow that had broken his helm that morning. The red glow about her did not come exclusively from the fire. She was the red-haired woman from his dreams.