Záhovar walked over the courtyard towards the gate where the cloaked Nazgûl-
Lord stood before. He was gone now. She couldn't help but slowing her walk
in the doorway, taking a quick glance around before entering into the
darkness of the Tower.
Inside the Tower all she could see was complete darkness. It was nothingness. This black mist was of the same kind that covered Barad-Dûr and engulfed those who dared set foot inside the caves beneath Cirith Ungol, laid out to avoid spies coming into the Black Land. Torches and such were of no use here.
Suddenly, as she strode past a hidden doorway, the voice reached her ears.
"Zzzzáhovaar..." The icy cold hiss threatened to freeze her entire body as well as the darkness where she could see nothing. Nothing except the red glowing eyes of the tall menacing wraith standing just in front of her. Záhovar coughed a few times, trying to thaw her tongue so that she could speak.
"Follow," the wraith-lord said, before she had time to answer. He turned and began to walk down the hallway with great speed, forcing Záhovar to almost run to keep up with him. This was not easy because of the heavy black knight-armour, which slowed her movements.
At last, after rushing through several gates and halls and stumbling up what seemed like countless stairs, they came into a huge room with windows facing eastward and westward. Now everything was dark outside, but the walls of the Cursed City themselves was glowing with an eerie light, so no torches was needed, except for in the dungeons below the city. The sight out the window indicated that they had reached the topmost chamber of the Tower.
Záhovar stopped at the end of the stairs while the Nazgûl strode over to the west window. There he stopped.
"What have brought thee here, Záhovar?"
"A message from the Dark Lord."
"From His own mouth?"
"Yes my Lord."
"I will call for the others, so that they also can hear what the Dark Lord commands." With that he swiftly turned to the window, and Záhovar was pressed against the wall by a piercing scream.
Erishnak was terrified. He didn't really know what had happened, only that it was bad. His father seemed angry, and Erishnak knew it was because of him. He didn't dare to move, barely to breathe, and he kept his eyes on the floor beneath his feet.
When they had entered the tavern some of the other Orcs had looked, some had sneered, but when Gothmog had called them on it they had calmed down quickly. Then he had helped him up on the bench at a table that had seemed somewhat whole at first sight. But when Gothmog had leant his heavy elbows on it the legs of the table had snapped, and they had both ended on the floor in a heap. Erishnak had felt extremely embarrassed and had been on the verge of running away if Gothmog hadn't laughed, lifted him to his feet and ordered a new table. Such things happen all the time, Gothmog had said. Uruks are an aggressive kind, and when they get drunk, they get even more aggressive. So they fight, and break tables and chairs. The tables were repaired, and then broken again, over and over until they couldn't be repaired anymore. So most of the tables in the tavern looked like strange animals, crooked and bent in different angles. Some looked like they were about to creep out of the tavern on their own.
Gothmog took a sip of the ale and eyed the small one he had called his son. Ten cold seasons since he had touched him. Ten cold seasons. He had watched him from afar, eyeing every step he took. And he'd been proud. Every small succession Erishnak had made, every small move added to his skills with the sword, and the bow, and Gothmog had boasted about it, telling his companions and fellow warlords what a skilful son he had. And sometimes, when Erishnak had failed a task, he had wanted to take over the training himself, showing Erishnak exactly how to do.
But the haglings had said no. 'You can't do it', they had said. 'What do you mean can't do it? Of course I can do it, he's my son!' But now, as he thought of it, maybe the haglings were right. He couldn't even start a conversation. 'This won't do', he thought.
"Whazza matter little one? Are you afraid of me?" he asked trying to soften his voice, an attempt which failed. Erishnak nodded. Gothmog nodded too, and went quiet. Then he tried again to get his attention.
"Are ya thirsty?" Erishnak shook his head.
"Hungry?" The little one shook his head again. Gothmog sighed and leaned his elbow on the table and his head into his hand. Then they sat quiet for a long moment.
Erishnak got very nervous when the silence tensed. He slowly began to finger the edge of his tunic, twisting it in his fists. He jumped when Gothmog began to chuckle. Then he sat as still as before. Gothmog laughed again and Erishnak lifted his gaze just enough to see his face. Gothmog smiled and lifted his right good hand and waved his thumb in Erishnak's direction. Erishnak's eyes went huge, then he quickly lowered his gaze again. Gothmog took a swig of the ale, glad that he finally got some kind of response.
"Heh. I remember you as an Orcling," Gothmog said. Erishnak slowly looked up.
"You... saw me then?"
"Aye... You was so small then, ye almost fit into my hands." He chuckled again. "And when I first held ye..." He held his hand up. "Ye bit my thumb! That's why I waved it at ye before. I thought that... perhaps ye remembered."
"I was... so small then, I don't remember anything of that time..."
"Aye, I know... I was hoping... Heh. Just a fool's hope, eh?" He waved his thumb again and laughed. Erishnak began to giggle as well, and soon they both roared with laughter for no reasons at all.
When they had regained themselves they realised it was quiet in the tavern. Completely quiet. Gothmog looked around and noticed that everyone was looking at them. Then he looked at Erishnak, who was pale as a ghost and had pressed himself against the wall. Now Gothmog noticed the menacing shadow looming over him from the far side of the table. He slowly turned towards it, as the word 'Nazgûl' shot through his head. No, wait. This was no Nazgûl. It had blue eyes.
"Err... Lad- I mean, lord Záhovar?" he asked. A soft distant laughter was heard, and then the darkness seemed to shrink back into the body, revealing Záhovar's slender form.
"Greetings, warlord. Will you offer me a place at your table?"
"Oh, sure. Erishnak, come 'ere." Erishnak crept down beneath the table and appeared on the bench between Gothmog and the wall. Záhovar sat down at Erishnak's former place, after ordering some brandy and arguing with the barkeep about the price she sat quiet, looking into the wall.
Erishnak eyed the stranger. That dark mist had veiled the face earlier when the stranger had picked him up at the bridge. Now he looked all different from the other Top Ones he had seen. All of them were either wraiths or Men with grim faces from the East or the South. Not this one, however. The skin on his face was smooth and pale, almost white. His long hair that hung down his back, almost to the ground, was black as the night sky, the flickering torchlight making it look like dark fire. His eyes were different as well, glowing blue with small streaks of black in them. But what were most different were his ears.
"Why does he have square ears?" Erishnak whispered to Gothmog. Gothmog, who had taken another swig of the ale, spat it out on the ground, began to cough and gave Záhovar an apologising look. The ghost of a smile passed over Záhovar's face.
"That is a long and painful story," she answered softly. "They were cut."
"Oh."
Gothmog let out an audible sigh of relief as Záhovar answered his son's question instead of punishing him. He knew Záhovar, she could do such things, especially when she was in a temper, which she seemed to be now. To turn Erishnak into other, less dangerous thoughts, he began to ask him about his training.
Záhovar slowly turned her gaze to the wall again. The meeting had been... somewhat disturbing to her mind. She hadn't been allowed to leave after giving the message to the Nazgûl, instead she was forced to listen to their debate. She hated, and (although she would never admit it) feared the Nazgûl, and most of the debate was held in their own tongue, which for living ears mostly consisted of ghostly hisses and squeals.
She lifted a hand to one of her ears. She didn't remember anything of her past before she came to Mordor, since the Dark Lord, Zigûr*, had used an efficient, and rather painful, way to erase her mind. She still remembered what occurred when she first came here, however. That, He didn't allow her to forget. If she did, He only used his power over her mind to remind her of it. Her ears were the first things He had cut. She knew they had been pointy at first, for the Dark Lord had showed the tips to her before burning them. Then He had branded the Sign of the Eye into her chest, to prevent her escape, since if she would ever meet any of her former kind again they would know to whom she belonged and that she could never be turned back again. After these first memories everything floated together in a whirlwind of pain. First she had refused. Refused to call Him Master. Refused to give in. Then He had inflicted more pain, in her body, mind and soul. She did not know how long it went on until she finally gave in. But she had. She had thought she would die, that she would fade, she had wished to, but somehow He kept her alive. After the torment her strength had returned.
Later He had told her that it was a kind of experiment. That He wanted to know, when He finally conquered Middle-Earth, if the Elves were possible to turn, and how much effort it would take. Obviously He had succeeded, for if not, she wouldn't have been here.
"Whaddya mean failure?? Ye'r not a failure!" Záhovar was dragged out of her thoughts by Gothmog's angry voice.
"But... he said, so many times-"
"What more did he say?"
"Th-that you thought I was a hopeless case and that you didn't want anything to do with such a failure. The last t-time he... he..."
Gothmog narrowed his eyes. "He what?"
"He... said that... you had o-ordered him to- to... k-ill me." Erishnak was clearly fighting the tears that threatened to spill down his face, not wanting to show his father what a weakling he had become. Gothmog's face was a study in shock and fury. He slowly lifted his gaze from Erishnak and turned to Záhovar who steadily met his gaze with cold eyes.
"I'm gonna kill him," he declared. Záhovar nodded approval. Erishnak let out a soft wail and buried his face into Gothmog's cloak, leaning onto his lap. Gothmog didn't really know what to do now, he had never comforted anything in his entire life (except himself, but that was different), so he looked to Záhovar for help.
"Tell him the truth," she simply said. Gothmog turned back to Erishnak, who had wrapped himself into the cloak, his small body shaking. Gothmog placed his good hand on Erishnak's back, stroking him gently.
"Now now, little one, everything will be alright." He took the cloak away from Erishnak's face and turned it so he could look him in his eyes.
"Erishnak, listen to me. Whatever that bastard has said - just forget it! He lied to ye, an' he'll pay for it. Ye'r no weakling, an' ye'r definitely not a failure. I'm damn proud of ye. An' remember; ye can't be a weakling, 'cause ye'r my son! Damn it, ye'r the strongest little lad I've ever seen in your age! Look at me, ye think I was this strong when I was in your age? Uh-uh," he said and shook his head.
"If it wasn't for her," he said, nodding towards Záhovar, "I wouldn't even be here. Here ye can talk about failure!" Erishnak sat up and rubbed his eyes with Gothmog's cloak. Then he remembered something. "Her? Female?"
"Yeah, that's a female," Gothmog nodded. Erishnak looked surprised.
"Have you ever heard of a male named Jewel?" Záhovar said and laughed coldly. Erishnak laughed a bit as well. Suddenly a sharp piercing shriek was heard from the Tower. Some of the orcs in the tavern threw themselves to the ground, covering their ears. Gothmog and Erishnak looked wildly towards the Tower. Záhovar however, did not stir. She only listened until the shriek ended, then she quickly arose from the bench, walking out of the tavern with great speed, knocking another Uruk over in the doorway as she went.
Erishnak was just about to ask Gothmog more about Záhovar when a bewildered Uruk entered the Tavern.
"G-Gothmog!!" When he saw Gothmog, he went up to their table. "Cap'n, You've gotta come! Ups, forgot, Warlord, sorry."
"What's happening?"
"They're fighting, ye gotta come, I can't stop it!"
They followed the Uruk down to the dungeons located in the mountain wall on the East Side of the City. Already at the surface the screams and clangs of weapons could be heard. As they reached the dungeon where the argument had begun Gothmog turned towards Erishnak.
"I don't want ye to see this, not yet at least. Go back to the cavern and get yer stuff. And if anyone asks, say ye got orders from me." Erishnak nodded and left. Gothmog turned towards the dungeon again when another yell came from inside. He sighed.
"Not again! These scum always starts to fight! Can they never agree about anything?" The Uruk looked nervous.
"Well... This time it began with-"
"Never mind. Go in there and get the responsible commanders. Tell them to stop this immediately, or I'll stop them." The Uruk began to enter, casting a nervous glance back towards the safety on the surface.
"NOW," Gothmog growled.
*Zigûr = Orcish name for Sauron. In Adunaic Zigûr means Sorcerer.
Inside the Tower all she could see was complete darkness. It was nothingness. This black mist was of the same kind that covered Barad-Dûr and engulfed those who dared set foot inside the caves beneath Cirith Ungol, laid out to avoid spies coming into the Black Land. Torches and such were of no use here.
Suddenly, as she strode past a hidden doorway, the voice reached her ears.
"Zzzzáhovaar..." The icy cold hiss threatened to freeze her entire body as well as the darkness where she could see nothing. Nothing except the red glowing eyes of the tall menacing wraith standing just in front of her. Záhovar coughed a few times, trying to thaw her tongue so that she could speak.
"Follow," the wraith-lord said, before she had time to answer. He turned and began to walk down the hallway with great speed, forcing Záhovar to almost run to keep up with him. This was not easy because of the heavy black knight-armour, which slowed her movements.
At last, after rushing through several gates and halls and stumbling up what seemed like countless stairs, they came into a huge room with windows facing eastward and westward. Now everything was dark outside, but the walls of the Cursed City themselves was glowing with an eerie light, so no torches was needed, except for in the dungeons below the city. The sight out the window indicated that they had reached the topmost chamber of the Tower.
Záhovar stopped at the end of the stairs while the Nazgûl strode over to the west window. There he stopped.
"What have brought thee here, Záhovar?"
"A message from the Dark Lord."
"From His own mouth?"
"Yes my Lord."
"I will call for the others, so that they also can hear what the Dark Lord commands." With that he swiftly turned to the window, and Záhovar was pressed against the wall by a piercing scream.
Erishnak was terrified. He didn't really know what had happened, only that it was bad. His father seemed angry, and Erishnak knew it was because of him. He didn't dare to move, barely to breathe, and he kept his eyes on the floor beneath his feet.
When they had entered the tavern some of the other Orcs had looked, some had sneered, but when Gothmog had called them on it they had calmed down quickly. Then he had helped him up on the bench at a table that had seemed somewhat whole at first sight. But when Gothmog had leant his heavy elbows on it the legs of the table had snapped, and they had both ended on the floor in a heap. Erishnak had felt extremely embarrassed and had been on the verge of running away if Gothmog hadn't laughed, lifted him to his feet and ordered a new table. Such things happen all the time, Gothmog had said. Uruks are an aggressive kind, and when they get drunk, they get even more aggressive. So they fight, and break tables and chairs. The tables were repaired, and then broken again, over and over until they couldn't be repaired anymore. So most of the tables in the tavern looked like strange animals, crooked and bent in different angles. Some looked like they were about to creep out of the tavern on their own.
Gothmog took a sip of the ale and eyed the small one he had called his son. Ten cold seasons since he had touched him. Ten cold seasons. He had watched him from afar, eyeing every step he took. And he'd been proud. Every small succession Erishnak had made, every small move added to his skills with the sword, and the bow, and Gothmog had boasted about it, telling his companions and fellow warlords what a skilful son he had. And sometimes, when Erishnak had failed a task, he had wanted to take over the training himself, showing Erishnak exactly how to do.
But the haglings had said no. 'You can't do it', they had said. 'What do you mean can't do it? Of course I can do it, he's my son!' But now, as he thought of it, maybe the haglings were right. He couldn't even start a conversation. 'This won't do', he thought.
"Whazza matter little one? Are you afraid of me?" he asked trying to soften his voice, an attempt which failed. Erishnak nodded. Gothmog nodded too, and went quiet. Then he tried again to get his attention.
"Are ya thirsty?" Erishnak shook his head.
"Hungry?" The little one shook his head again. Gothmog sighed and leaned his elbow on the table and his head into his hand. Then they sat quiet for a long moment.
Erishnak got very nervous when the silence tensed. He slowly began to finger the edge of his tunic, twisting it in his fists. He jumped when Gothmog began to chuckle. Then he sat as still as before. Gothmog laughed again and Erishnak lifted his gaze just enough to see his face. Gothmog smiled and lifted his right good hand and waved his thumb in Erishnak's direction. Erishnak's eyes went huge, then he quickly lowered his gaze again. Gothmog took a swig of the ale, glad that he finally got some kind of response.
"Heh. I remember you as an Orcling," Gothmog said. Erishnak slowly looked up.
"You... saw me then?"
"Aye... You was so small then, ye almost fit into my hands." He chuckled again. "And when I first held ye..." He held his hand up. "Ye bit my thumb! That's why I waved it at ye before. I thought that... perhaps ye remembered."
"I was... so small then, I don't remember anything of that time..."
"Aye, I know... I was hoping... Heh. Just a fool's hope, eh?" He waved his thumb again and laughed. Erishnak began to giggle as well, and soon they both roared with laughter for no reasons at all.
When they had regained themselves they realised it was quiet in the tavern. Completely quiet. Gothmog looked around and noticed that everyone was looking at them. Then he looked at Erishnak, who was pale as a ghost and had pressed himself against the wall. Now Gothmog noticed the menacing shadow looming over him from the far side of the table. He slowly turned towards it, as the word 'Nazgûl' shot through his head. No, wait. This was no Nazgûl. It had blue eyes.
"Err... Lad- I mean, lord Záhovar?" he asked. A soft distant laughter was heard, and then the darkness seemed to shrink back into the body, revealing Záhovar's slender form.
"Greetings, warlord. Will you offer me a place at your table?"
"Oh, sure. Erishnak, come 'ere." Erishnak crept down beneath the table and appeared on the bench between Gothmog and the wall. Záhovar sat down at Erishnak's former place, after ordering some brandy and arguing with the barkeep about the price she sat quiet, looking into the wall.
Erishnak eyed the stranger. That dark mist had veiled the face earlier when the stranger had picked him up at the bridge. Now he looked all different from the other Top Ones he had seen. All of them were either wraiths or Men with grim faces from the East or the South. Not this one, however. The skin on his face was smooth and pale, almost white. His long hair that hung down his back, almost to the ground, was black as the night sky, the flickering torchlight making it look like dark fire. His eyes were different as well, glowing blue with small streaks of black in them. But what were most different were his ears.
"Why does he have square ears?" Erishnak whispered to Gothmog. Gothmog, who had taken another swig of the ale, spat it out on the ground, began to cough and gave Záhovar an apologising look. The ghost of a smile passed over Záhovar's face.
"That is a long and painful story," she answered softly. "They were cut."
"Oh."
Gothmog let out an audible sigh of relief as Záhovar answered his son's question instead of punishing him. He knew Záhovar, she could do such things, especially when she was in a temper, which she seemed to be now. To turn Erishnak into other, less dangerous thoughts, he began to ask him about his training.
Záhovar slowly turned her gaze to the wall again. The meeting had been... somewhat disturbing to her mind. She hadn't been allowed to leave after giving the message to the Nazgûl, instead she was forced to listen to their debate. She hated, and (although she would never admit it) feared the Nazgûl, and most of the debate was held in their own tongue, which for living ears mostly consisted of ghostly hisses and squeals.
She lifted a hand to one of her ears. She didn't remember anything of her past before she came to Mordor, since the Dark Lord, Zigûr*, had used an efficient, and rather painful, way to erase her mind. She still remembered what occurred when she first came here, however. That, He didn't allow her to forget. If she did, He only used his power over her mind to remind her of it. Her ears were the first things He had cut. She knew they had been pointy at first, for the Dark Lord had showed the tips to her before burning them. Then He had branded the Sign of the Eye into her chest, to prevent her escape, since if she would ever meet any of her former kind again they would know to whom she belonged and that she could never be turned back again. After these first memories everything floated together in a whirlwind of pain. First she had refused. Refused to call Him Master. Refused to give in. Then He had inflicted more pain, in her body, mind and soul. She did not know how long it went on until she finally gave in. But she had. She had thought she would die, that she would fade, she had wished to, but somehow He kept her alive. After the torment her strength had returned.
Later He had told her that it was a kind of experiment. That He wanted to know, when He finally conquered Middle-Earth, if the Elves were possible to turn, and how much effort it would take. Obviously He had succeeded, for if not, she wouldn't have been here.
"Whaddya mean failure?? Ye'r not a failure!" Záhovar was dragged out of her thoughts by Gothmog's angry voice.
"But... he said, so many times-"
"What more did he say?"
"Th-that you thought I was a hopeless case and that you didn't want anything to do with such a failure. The last t-time he... he..."
Gothmog narrowed his eyes. "He what?"
"He... said that... you had o-ordered him to- to... k-ill me." Erishnak was clearly fighting the tears that threatened to spill down his face, not wanting to show his father what a weakling he had become. Gothmog's face was a study in shock and fury. He slowly lifted his gaze from Erishnak and turned to Záhovar who steadily met his gaze with cold eyes.
"I'm gonna kill him," he declared. Záhovar nodded approval. Erishnak let out a soft wail and buried his face into Gothmog's cloak, leaning onto his lap. Gothmog didn't really know what to do now, he had never comforted anything in his entire life (except himself, but that was different), so he looked to Záhovar for help.
"Tell him the truth," she simply said. Gothmog turned back to Erishnak, who had wrapped himself into the cloak, his small body shaking. Gothmog placed his good hand on Erishnak's back, stroking him gently.
"Now now, little one, everything will be alright." He took the cloak away from Erishnak's face and turned it so he could look him in his eyes.
"Erishnak, listen to me. Whatever that bastard has said - just forget it! He lied to ye, an' he'll pay for it. Ye'r no weakling, an' ye'r definitely not a failure. I'm damn proud of ye. An' remember; ye can't be a weakling, 'cause ye'r my son! Damn it, ye'r the strongest little lad I've ever seen in your age! Look at me, ye think I was this strong when I was in your age? Uh-uh," he said and shook his head.
"If it wasn't for her," he said, nodding towards Záhovar, "I wouldn't even be here. Here ye can talk about failure!" Erishnak sat up and rubbed his eyes with Gothmog's cloak. Then he remembered something. "Her? Female?"
"Yeah, that's a female," Gothmog nodded. Erishnak looked surprised.
"Have you ever heard of a male named Jewel?" Záhovar said and laughed coldly. Erishnak laughed a bit as well. Suddenly a sharp piercing shriek was heard from the Tower. Some of the orcs in the tavern threw themselves to the ground, covering their ears. Gothmog and Erishnak looked wildly towards the Tower. Záhovar however, did not stir. She only listened until the shriek ended, then she quickly arose from the bench, walking out of the tavern with great speed, knocking another Uruk over in the doorway as she went.
Erishnak was just about to ask Gothmog more about Záhovar when a bewildered Uruk entered the Tavern.
"G-Gothmog!!" When he saw Gothmog, he went up to their table. "Cap'n, You've gotta come! Ups, forgot, Warlord, sorry."
"What's happening?"
"They're fighting, ye gotta come, I can't stop it!"
They followed the Uruk down to the dungeons located in the mountain wall on the East Side of the City. Already at the surface the screams and clangs of weapons could be heard. As they reached the dungeon where the argument had begun Gothmog turned towards Erishnak.
"I don't want ye to see this, not yet at least. Go back to the cavern and get yer stuff. And if anyone asks, say ye got orders from me." Erishnak nodded and left. Gothmog turned towards the dungeon again when another yell came from inside. He sighed.
"Not again! These scum always starts to fight! Can they never agree about anything?" The Uruk looked nervous.
"Well... This time it began with-"
"Never mind. Go in there and get the responsible commanders. Tell them to stop this immediately, or I'll stop them." The Uruk began to enter, casting a nervous glance back towards the safety on the surface.
"NOW," Gothmog growled.
*Zigûr = Orcish name for Sauron. In Adunaic Zigûr means Sorcerer.
