Arda, The Borders of Harad, The Grand Númenórean city of Umbar: F.O 08
In a middle of a city that had once housed a mighty kingdom of men, there lies a room, and in the middle of this room there sits a table. The table is round. There are of course many instances in both man and hobbit legends of round tables*, but many, perhaps even the reader included, will assume that such a table can only belong to a heroic king, or lord. And if that be so than we would encourage you to think again to those tales of your childhood. Would Arthur have seemed so heroic to the Saxons? Or the Thirteen Gardener Kings such pillars of virtue to the human Warlocks clustered on their land? Aye, no – for heroics are only seen so in the eyes of our friends, perhaps through the eyes of our enemy the world would tell a different story.
For instance, many accounts has this tale told of the Blue Army, those strange followers of Fëanor who had conquered much of the South and almost all of the East. None particularly flattering, but then we are their enemies; perhaps they would see themselves differently. For it is a strange man indeed who is so comfortable with the title of villain.
Perhaps the men sitting round the table would think of themselves as heroes, as noble adventurers and saviours of their lesser kin. It does not make them good, from either of our people's modern perspectives, but it certainly makes them mortal. And mortals cannot so easily be classed one way or the other.
The old bent figure sitting in the highest, and most elaborate chair, around this circular table is certainly not what one would call an evil man. A sad man perhaps, a defeated man, a hungry man. He had once been a noble warrior of Rohan, but Rohan is dead now and there are no more noble warriors of that land. Least none that the king will admit to.
This man was once named Hereblod, and perhaps back then he had been a bad man when that name had held relevance – but now he is just a sad man. A sad man pretending to be a wizard, he's good at pretending to be a wizard; he's done it so well and for such a long time that the only people who can even recall he was not always a wizard are the two men sitting to the right of him.
General Böri, the man sitting the farthest away from the fake wizard, is perhaps not what anyone would consider a bad man. He cares about his men, the people he rules – much as anyone can care about the folk that hate them – and he cares very much about the Blue Army's cause. Or at the very least their original cause, which was less conquer and rule everyone we see and more, let's find that divine jewel so we can make the world a better place. Or at least that was how the General had interpreted it.
And then there was Malbeth, who is a creature of his own. Good, Evil, it makes little difference to him how others see his actions – so long as the power, the power of the blue Army, the true power of the blue Wizard's name remains with him. In his hands. No one is entirely sure where he came from anymore – some say he was once a man of Gondor (perhaps a bastard of a prominent house) while others may claim that he was a stray Ranger of the Dúnedain, both equally difficult to prove. Once many years ago to this meeting, Hereblod had casual theorised that clearly Malbeth was not any kind of man at all, but rather a beast from the darkness that had once birthed all other monsters. It is not clear how he came to this conclusion, and although rational thought would lean to General Malbeth being mortal in origin, sometimes the world is never so rational as we prefer it.
But whatever the case, the men – or whatever they really were – that sat round that circular table oh so many ages ago, where not brought here because of their pasts or their cultures. They were not brought here by their own will at all, but rather by the fear, the terror of one. I mean that one was clearly Malbeth, as at this point in the Blue Army's History, he held the only real power anymore – but even that doesn't matter. Or at least doesn't matter as much as what will come of that fear.
'My brothers, my fellow generals' said the man in question. 'In these past years we have done what even the armies of the Western God** could not. We have conquered this land. We have defeated the dwarves of the red mountains, we have destroyed any man, or creature foolish enough to stand against us. Khand, the Easterlings, Umbar – all have fallen to our blade, all have fallen to our might. And so, I raise my cup to you, my friends, for it is only with your guidance, and your devotion to our cause that I have been able to lead us this far.'
He raises his goblet in some performance of gratitude; of course, this does nothing but make the other generals and captains somewhat nervous. Malbeth does not give out compliments, in fact Malbeth does not as a rule even smile at other people – and certainly never says thank you. So, this was definitely a trick – the only question lay in how deadly its outcome would be.
When finally, he realises that no one seems to be playing along with his little show of comradery – Malbeth's smile abruptly drops, and he slams his goblet hard on the table; making a terrible clinking sound, and causing more than a few of the younger captains to flinch.
'Alright then, you don't want to play this game anymore? Fine, I can get to the point just as quickly as anyone. Someone has been leaking information to our enemies. They're far too prepared for our ambushes. We have a mole among us gentlemen – I think it's one of you and no one is leaving this room until I discover which one of you it is. And I don't care how many of you I have to slay here today, I'm going to find that mole.'
The doors click shut and the broken man in the wizard hat knew that his day was only going to get worse from here.
Deep within the nearly empty Plains of Rhûn, The Village Farm of the Xiang Family; F.O.08
Xiang Bingwen was not a patient boy, nor one with a particularly strong sense of self-restraint – so it was a pity then that Bingwen's family were farmers. A profession that not only required the patience to wait until your crops actually started to grow; but the self-restraint not to just start pulling them out of the ground if they didn't.
His family grew a crop called Copper***, a tall, thin gangly plant that grew higher than even the tallest hobbit's head. Or at least it should have by now, it should be tall and golden and waving in the short gusts of wind that came up from the colder lands to their back. But it was still just at his kneecap, and nothing he or even his father did would make it grow. Some of the stalks were even starting to turn all brown and black. It hadn't been this way last year, or even the year before that. So why was it wrong this year? What had they done wrong this time, they'd done the same things they did the other harvest seasons?
How could they hide in this?
Bingwen hated those stupid brown snubs of Copper Stalks, he hated them so much that he didn't even think of what he was really doing when he pulled the first one out of the ground. He felt its brittle stalk, as thin as straw, snap within the hold of his tiny fingers. It felt good, as much as anger could, so he did it again and again, and again, until…until he had pulled out half the black stalks, a third of the brown ones, and absolutely all of the tiny greens. It made no difference to him; they'd never grow anyway.
'Bingwen! What are you doing?!'
Not even his father's voice would stop him this time, he wouldn't stop, not until every last one of those stupid mother…. bad word…were out of the ground and away from his family at long last.
Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder, its fingers curled tight around the cloth of his hemp hood and then he was being dragged, dragged away from the stalks and their mud base. Dragged away from his purpose, and then his father flung him back, stood over him, a look of rage across his weather scarred face.
'Are you mad, or just a vile child?' Said the hobbit farmer, who had given his life, and the blood of his own family to live on this tiny scrap of land, that the Blue Wizard's Army let him call his own. Or so said his son, anyway.
'Neither,' hissed the boy. 'But they were dead already Buba, what harm could throwing their bodies away bring to us, that their deaths haven't already brought?'
And at this the father laughed, a hard thing, not warm or comforting at all – it was a mad laugh, the kind of laugh you only really heard from the soon to be dead.
'More harm than you could ever know, now get up, take your sister's hand and find somewhere else to hide.'
Bingwen looked past his father's rounded shoulder, and into the scared face of his little sister Ai. She was holding a bag, filled with as much supplies as they would need, or as they could hold, to get them as far away from this farm as they could run.
And suddenly the boy knew without either father or sister having to say a word, what was happening.
The Tax men had come.
The children were gone. Gone from the farm, gone from the village and perhaps, hopefully gone entirely from this kind of life, the life of the servant, the life of the serf, the life of the slave. For they were slaves, in a way, their whole lives now dedicated to the upkeep of their master's lands. Once many years ago, this land had belonged to the wandering warrior tribes of Rhûn – and while that had been little better, they at least had understood the unforgiving nature of this land. Which meant that come tax season, you were less likely to see…well, what the Farmer saw now.
The Villagers did not gather into crowds anymore, life was much too dangerous for that – too easy to be spotted in a crowd. Instead, they lingered suspiciously in the doors of their small mud huts, and watched as the boy, the son of the next farm over, was tied to a post and whipped by the Tax man.
The Blue Army, the blue wizard of the west, had laws - and if you didn't obey those laws you were punished. Most laws – stay here, go there at this time – were fine, or at least they didn't affect them that much, but it was the tax laws that always caught someone out.
You had to pay.
No matter what had happened to you that year, or how well your Copper had grown, you had to pay. And what you had to pay never went down, the blue army never needed less of your money, they always needed more – and lately they had been needing more and more and more of it.
It was to the point that even if you had the best harvest of your life – you could not pay the Blue Army what they wanted, because it was never enough. And if you could not pay then you were breaking a law, and if you broke a law then you got punished. Or your children did, or your wife did, or your parents did, or your cattle, or your house – and then when there was nothing else to take or strip from you, and still you could not pay the tole, the tax, the money, then you were killed.
Because the blue army, the blue wizard, had no use for the useless living.
Only their bodies.
It was a nasty thought, and one the farmer did not often let himself think on. Bad things happened to those who spoke like that, and yet they could not read his mind – at least, surely even the wizard couldn't from this far away. And his children, his lazy son and baby daughter were gone – and with hope he would never see them again, with hope they would run far away from this place and find some kind of life for themselves. Perhaps even, a small silly part of himself whispered, they would find the gold city of the Turtle Fish. It was where his brother, his niece, and nephews had been heading when they had left. Perhaps they had found it, or perhaps they had died in the cold deserts of Rhûn.
Either way, it was better than being here.
They had dragged the boy, even the soles of his furry feet beaten and bruised now, away from the post – perhaps they'd leave him somewhere to die. Perhaps they'd give him back to his family, to his mother. Perhaps he'd live, and perhaps in time he'd wish he hadn't.
It had been that way for him, after all.
Suddenly the sound of screams broke the deadly silence of the village – this was not the sound of a hobbit youth in pain, these were raged filled noises. These were not the sound of beaten down farmers, or their desperate wives, these were the sounds you heard in war – or the farmer amended privately, the sounds he assumed you heard in war.
Suddenly the area round the post, the area in which all village life seemed to be circulated round now that the Blue Wizard ruled all, was no longer empty. Now it was filled with men, with hobbits and what was probably dwarves since men were never usually so short, and hobbits were never usually so hairy. Whatever the case, all those that stood on the square now wore the hooded masks of bandits, save of course for the farmer himself. Who, probably should have run the second the masked bandits showed up, but had been so paralyzed before when there had been only the taxman's whip to fear, that he couldn't even bring himself to move now. And speaking of the taxman, he stood now on the slow rising hump that the whipping post had been jammed into when the Blue Wizard had first conquered them.
He stood with his whip held high in the air, he stood with his mouth open and such a sound did this man, in the blue armour make it was almost too much for the Farmer to hear. But then again perhaps he had been witnessed to just a few too many of these whippings over time – because to him, the sound of that man's scream of terror was something, something, something truly beautiful.
Or perhaps he had just gone mad from it all.
And then an arrow struck the taxman between the eyes and he fell, dead on the spot.
So it was true, thought the farmer, alone in the now cheering crowd – the Rebellion was real.
They had many names did these bandits you have seen through the eyes of a farmer – some called them robbers, and bandits, thieves and liars. mostly those who were robbed by them; while others called them heroes.
And indeed, both names seemed to fit with our current tale of moral ambiguity. Some of these men had once been of Khand, some had once been of Umbar. Some hobbits had lived their whole lives in the warrior caravans of those people that the men of the West called Easterlings; while others were from small villages much like the one we have just seen. There were even some hobbits from the glistening crystal cities of the south – though not many, if we are to be truthful. For the blue army had yet to reach the majority of those strange fortresses the more warlike of the southern hobbits called home.
And then of course there were the dwarves, the red dwarves of the red mountain – mostly the young and angry. Those whose spirits had not had enough time to be broken as thoroughly as their elders had.
But whatever people these strange bandits, robbers, heroes had come from they all marched and robbed and fought under the same banner now – the same red stitched banner, with a crude drawing of an oliphant emblazoned in black thread upon it. No doubt due to the prevalence of Haradrim men and women amongst their ranks.
If the Blue Army were the ruling power, the imperial force that kept the east and even some of the south oppressed and downtrodden – then we shall call these fellows, who opposed them in all their works and forms, the Red Rebellion.
Watch them, as with every blue lord's treasure they plunder a little more of that ever-needed fear is stripped away from the servants of the blue wizard. Most of these rebels; are barely more than children, to their own people at least – so what kind of tyrannical government can't stop children from stealing from them? Can't stop children from breaking their hold on old temples of the Khand people, can't stop children from doing anything it would appear?
What kind of Wizard would stand for that kind of disrespect from his subjects? No Wizard, no wizard would. So, what was this wizard thinking? Some had even begun to suspect, though only in the shadows of bars where they could not be overhead – that perhaps there was no wizard at all. Perhaps the blue men were only men, and honestly men did not truly scare the people of Rhûn, or Khand or any of the other minor lands and kingdoms of the East – for they had seen the West God's wrath, and they knew no mortal man could match that.
So, what was the point in living in fear of a mortal army?
None, I'll tell you now, none at all.
The Temple of the Blue Wizard, somewhere deep in the region that was formerly Khand: F.O. 08
It would be a lie to say that things were going well for the men who followed the path of the blue wizard. Those red rebels, had become increasingly emboldened by the army's lack of a proper response, a response that was increasingly hard to give when said rebels were so hard to find. It was like they melted back into shadows once their mischief was done; and to top it off, they seemed to be growing in number as well. Either they were breeding like rats, or much more likely, spreading their infectious beliefs and attitude problem like that great sickness a few years back.
Whatever the case, without the blue wizard's strength and more importantly his unnatural powers it was getting and harder and harder to suppress the people they conquered. And an army, even as one as large and mighty as the Blue Wizard's legion, could only do so much when it was spread as thin as it was now.
They had tried forced recruitment, snatching young boys from their villages and training them in the ways of the blue legion – to be good soldiers, loyal followers, and believers in the might of the Silmaril. Though whether it was a lack of decent enforcers or a simple inbred apathy most men seemed to hold towards ancient, long lost elven jewels – the training had clearly not been sticking, otherwise they would have had a lot less desertions. Even men who had presumably come from communities that were friendly and supportive of the blue wizard's cause, were quick to paint their shields red****, the second they saw that Oliphant flag on the horizon.
Things had in fact gotten so bad, that it was even beginning to annoy the priests of the Silmaril. And one did not want annoy the priests of the Silmaril.
Priests of the Silmaril, I hear you say. Why, how can a Silmaril have priests they're not a god – but then again, we could say that many things have priests in this world that are not gods. Are the Valar gods – true they created the world but by all account, the majority of the Valar and their wives and kin do not consider themselves gods. Nor do they ask to be worshipped, that is the work of the more mortal races. The only one out of all of them that considered himself a god was Morgoth, and we all know what happened to him.
In short, priests don't have to worship a deity to be priests, they just have to worship something – and a giant shinning orb that, will in theory make everything better for their lives is less ridiculous than others that have existed over time and millennium.
But first let us take a step closer to the disaster that is soon to unfold, let's ignore the priests – with their blue robes and serious, no-nonsense expressions and look instead on the place that housed them – or at the very least housed the majority of their religion.
A tall structure stretching up as a high as a man's eyes could go – its highest point was shaped like a strange obelisk, with carvings etched into its side, the meaning of which has long since been lost to any man yet living. Down from this pointed obelisk, the base of the temple widened – similar in affect to what we today might see as a pyramid. Of course, no pyramid today would have such strange and glowing lights embedded deep within its walls. Able to light up the dark, windowless insides of the interior of the temple. Made of glass and some strange crystal substance that we no longer have a name for – how they glow is not important, we would use electricity but perhaps they would use something else. Perhaps mirrors, but regardless– the point here is that this strange glowing light, built by perhaps the first men ever to wake in this Middle-Earth of theirs, were always on.
They could in fact not be switched off, it was perhaps one of the only downsides of a being a priest of the blue wizard, or the Silmaril, or whatever you wished to call it. Right now, Margöz preferred to call it prison, or possibly torture. I mean what else were you supposed to call it when you weren't allowed to leave and forced to do the same thing over and over again. They'd told him to sit here, under the brightly glowing lamps – they'd told him to copy down the name of the great blue wizard, until it had finally stuck inside his stupid pointed ears. Sit under the lamp that never went off and do not move, or we will whip you again.
That last threat had probably just been a bluff – after all they wouldn't want to whip him so much that they died his blue robe red now. He wasn't that much of a rebel – he was just clumsy because his feet were bigger than they should be, that was why he had spilt the paint all over the blue banners of their Lord's sigil. And really it wasn't his fault his ears were pointed. It was whoever had dropped him off on the doorstep of the Blue Wizard's temple when he'd been a baby, probably. Babies of Human and Hobbit parents often got dropped off at the temple, when they weren't just left out in the night's sands to die. Although sitting here, having his eyes baked by the light of every blazing torch on the wall – he didn't think that was such a terrible thing anymore. Might even be a bit peaceful.
Regardless, he had to focus on his writing, if he got this wrong then…well best not think of that.
Now of course, the following passage is not in any language you are reading it in, it would be impossible for it to be so. The languages we speak had not as yet been formed even in their infancy. Aye yes, even English and the Western tongue have no relation to each other, though many a translator have mistakenly thought so. How could it be so? For they are two different beasts' bread from two different lands. Still for simplicity's sake let us say that there has been no mistake in the translation you are about to read, and that these are the words – or at least the meaning of them – that Margöz wrote on those thin scraps of ancient paper, so many ages ago now.
The name of the Blue Wizard is Great
It shall inspire nothing but Hate
In the hearts of those that are Weak
And too feeble to Seek him in his mighty Places.
The Blue Wizard's name is Silmarillion
The Blue Wizard's name is He who has come from the West
The Blue Wizard's name is He who has come for the East
The Blue Wizard's name shall not be spoken.
Lest this Middle-Earth shall become Broken.
For all intents and purposes this is the poem that Margöz, acolyte of the priests of the blue wizard was transcribing, the day the light – that great shining orb that had glowed since the first day of man's waking – went out. And for the first time in his entire life, the boy was left in nothing but darkness.
Darkness perhaps, but not silence. For as soon as the light had failed, that was when the screaming began.
It would be a lie to say that the fake blue wizard of the blue army was having a good day, or week, or month, or even life. In all honesty most of what had once given his life drive – ambition, lust for power and a need to prove himself – had in a sense all been fulfilled the moment he set the old ragged blue hat atop his head. What need did he for ambition or more power, when he was already at the top of the pyramid; already on the throne as it were. What need did he, to prove himself when everyone around him were always falling to their knees in front of him, or kissing the hem of his mighty blue robe.
True they were not doing it for him, for the angry little boy from the village Éothéod – but rather for the mantle, and the name that he now carried on his shoulders; but still validation and praise, were validation and praise no matter what name he went under.
Everything he had ever wanted as a dirt covered child had been given to him with that blue hat, and yet now that he had it – what else was there in his life? Not a wife, not a lover, not even heirs or children – the blue wizard could never have that. For the blue wizard must be entirely devoted to the cause; his life was the cause, and the cause was a joke.
No one believed in the cause anymore – not really, well, maybe General Böri; but then general Böri had the luxury to also have a life outside of the cause and the sheer gaul to not appreciate it at all. He'd been allowed to have a wife – and promptly ignored her into running away, and then had just let her escape. And if the rumours were true, he also had a lover, though whoever had the stomach to put up with Böri's senseless prattling about a gem that he would never see, had the wizard's pity.
In fact, everyone had the wizard's pity right now, especially himself it would seem. Because it would be one thing if all this supposed power, he now held had meant anything. If he could have a say in how things were run, but lately it seemed like all he was now was a face, a figure head for all the real leaders to do their things, their real ruling in the cold shade of his hat. He didn't even get to decide where he sat upon his throne now.
He had wanted to stay back in his city fort, near the sea – where he could at least experience the minor pleasure of gazing out onto the water. Picture himself diving off the dock and down, down into the sea where no one – no matter how high their rank, or how technically in charge they were could get at him. But no, no that was just another thing that had been snatched from him by the might of the blue army. No, it was much more tactically secure to have his current ruling seat, here in the temple of the Blue Priests. Ugh, no one even liked the blue priests, they took the worship for the Silmaril far too literally. Obviously, it was just a very precious stone, and one that perhaps they didn't even need to find to reap the benefits from – if the Blue Army's current (be it shaky) power base was anything to judge by.
All he did, all day, was sit on his throne under this stupid…flickering…wait was that light supposed to be flickering?
Suddenly the doors to his haphazard throne room were thrown open, and two of the high Priests – bald men of Rhûn, in sapphire blue robes – stormed in, their eyes wide with alarm and their breaths coming out in short, deep pants.
'My. Lord. My lord, we must leave…' began the slightly older priest.
'He's breached the gates; he's breached the sacred gates.' Finished his slightly younger protégé.
And as the two men grabbed him and pulled him from the throne, all the fake wizard could think was: He? Who is he?
In the numbers of decades that are left in this unique time, many rumours will be spread about what caused the destruction of the Temple of the Blue Wizard; but none of them will be true. It was not, for instance, the work of the Red Rebels – most of whom, at this time were much more interested in toppling places of unique tactical advantage to the Blue Army. Which of course, the Temple – despite its importance to this new emerging culture – was not. It was why the Generals of the Blue Army had hidden their (false) wizard there to begin with.
It was also, despite many historians claiming otherwise, nothing to do with the machinations of the House of the Turtle Fish. The Turtle-Fish's agents were of course numerous, and held a wide variety of positions within the infrastructure of both their enemies and their allies. However, they also had no cause to destroy the Temple – many of the priests were descendants of the House of the Turtle-Fish's people; Hobbits. And while in later times, the fact that someone was a hobbit, or at the very least part hobbit would not have stopped any hobbit ruling class from targeting them for destruction – during this time, it was genuinely considered very bad luck within the golden city for a hobbit to harm another of their kind.
It was none of these people, because it was not a person at all, after all one can hardly call the dead, people anymore.
The boy was running, his heavy sandalled feet skidding across the sandstone floor of the deep Temple. There were no longer any lights to guide his way through the strange and often confusing tunnels that made up the temple. But running he was, and thus far he'd managed not to run into a wall, so that was a good thing.
Another scream from behind and the boy kicked his sandles off, desperate to get away from that terrible sound. This was how he would die. This is how they would all die, every single priest of the blue wizard, and every stupid boy who thought they could become one.
This was how he would die.
His legs were aching, his feet burned, he couldn't keep running, he'd fall soon and then the voice and feet, and screams behind him – well they would catch him and perhaps he would die. Or perhaps it was more than that, perhaps it was worse…perhaps…perhaps he had finally hit a door. Well, it was better than hitting a wall.
Suddenly the doors were opened and the boy was pulled in by the scruff of his neck and thrown to the floor. Or at least what felt like the floor, because everything was still in pitch blackness. Then the person slammed the door shut and said in a hoarse whisper of a breath.
'How many are left out there?'
The boy did not know who spoke, could not see his face anymore, if he ever really could have – but he didn't need to know the man's heart to answer his question. Or at least that was what his teachers had always told him.
'I do not know sir, they came on us in the dark and I couldn't see the others, I thought they must have died but here, now in this room, I do not know.'
'You do not know.' Said the heavy voice. 'Is that all you do not know? What are they boy, what have you led to my door?'
And that was the question that the boy, that the child in oversized blue robes could never have answered even if they had both sat there for a hundred, no a thousand years contemplating the question. For the world was dark now, and the young have no true concept of the horror that had befallen the temple. Which in a way was probably for the best, for they didn't even have the time for him to answer at a normal rate before there was a terrible sound. A screech, like that of some kind dying animal. And yet it was worse than that, that thing, outside the locked, the shut door. Something was scraping against the door's wood – running its nails, its teeth down the thing's side. Both man and boy could hear the crack, and the creak of the door as the thing, as the thing began to break through it.
The boy shuffled away, but in the end the room was too small even for that, and his back hit hard against the stone wall behind. There was nowhere to run anymore, and in this darkness, strangely nowhere to hide.
The boy could still not see, although he had been running in darkness, walking in darkness, hiding in darkness for hours if not days, his eyes had not adjusted. And now they never would, for a new sense hit him like the blade of an axe. A smell unlike anything he had ever encountered. Rotting flesh, was in there yes, but it was like it had become stronger – stronger than corpses ever could without rotting into nothing. Rotting flesh, faecal matter, and the insides of animals when they'd first been gutted. Fish, pigs, dogs, they smelled the same – and they were all preferable to this thing. He could still hear the scraping, until, there was a harsh crack and the door was gone – he didn't have to see that to know it.
And then the heavy voice, the voice of the man that pulled him in here cried out – with a horrible, squelch 'Ack!' And then the sound of a heavy thud, and nothing more.
For less than a second there was nothing but silence in the dark, and for one foolishly brief moment the boy almost thought that he was safe. That whatever that thing was he had escaped it. And then the smell grew somehow, as if whatever it was coming from was getting closer. And closer. And then suddenly the lights came back on, and the thing, well the boy saw it now in all its terrifying glory.
It looked at first like a man, a very, very old man - bent in the back, with a grey-white beard that stretched to his very toes. And yet there was something wrong about it – perhaps it was the eyes, as green as the jungles on the borders of Khand and twice as dangerous. Or perhaps it was the mouth, raised up in a sneer, brandishing pointed yellow teeth at the boy. Or perhaps it was the fact that those long, gnarled hands were covered in blood. In fact, the whole man, beard, face, back, was covered in blood – and clearly not his own blood. Or perhaps, just perhaps it was something else, something deeper, and more profound than just the physical reality of the situation.
For the boy saw that on his head, this old creature wore a hat – tall and as bent as he. It was a wizard's hat, no more than that it was a blue wizard's hat. In a haze of terror and revulsion, the boy's eyes flicked down to stare at the man, the dead man that had pulled him into this tiny room in the first place. It was the wizard, the blue wizard – that most immortal of sages. And yet clearly, that was a lie, because that man was dead and the one that stood over him – that with every second the boy sat there immobilized, moved ever closer to him – wore the hat of the Blue Wizard now. And there was power, and magic, and something else in the air. Perhaps it was only the smell, but then again, no mortal could smell like that.
And that was the moment, as the creature grabbed a hold of the boy's robes and pulled him close to his face, that the child realised – that the man on the floor could never have been the wizard at all. So that could only mean…
'Where,' snarled the monstrous true-Blue Wizard. 'Is my Silmaril?'
The Temple of the Blue Wizard, The Chambers of General Böri: F.O.08, 15 minutes before the great lights go out
Everything lately was exhausting, thought Böri as he let himself fall back onto the bed the priests had given him for…well however long the leadership had to hide down here, while they recovered from Malbeth's little temple tantrum. Wasn't enough to kill most of their higher up generals, in the stupid belief that they had a mole amongst them. A mole, honestly, as if anyone would be as traitorous or as stupid to turn against the Great Wizard's guiding words. But no, Malbeth had to interrogate the guards, killing a good chunk of them as well – and then he tried to go after the family. Why couldn't he see that with every new demented action he was only driving people away from the cause of the Silmaril. Böri had tried to argue the worthiness of the Blue Army's cause to the small number of rebels they managed to capture on occasion, but he could hardly argue that their actions would not look demented to someone on the outside, when Malbeth so clearly was. Those rebels had escaped by the way, fuelling the fire of Malbeth's paranoia.
And yet Malbeth would not be talked out of it, and not even Böri would dare go against that…there were no kind words as yet in existence to describe what Malbeth was. Still at least the bed was, well, not comfy he would never use that word in this place, but it was not the boards the priests themselves slept on at least.
Suddenly there was a knock at his door and the great general Böri, groaned.
'Come in,' as he began to roll over that gloriously non uncomfortable surface. The door creaks, a remarkable accomplishment for a door in the temple of the blue wizard where everything is often so quiet.
The door open before he could fully get off the bed, and suddenly Böri found himself yank up and held in a grip that was strong and warm. In arms that were wonderfully familiar. The man was taller than Böri, a feat that was no small accomplishment, as General Böri towered over most men in his acquaintance. He smelled of smoke and the particular blend of spice that appeared in most, if not all of Rhûn cooking. If it had been anyone else that had smelled of such, sour and unpleasant spices – at least to the Easterling palate – than he would have pushed them away. Perhaps even struck him, for daring to lay hands on a high general of the Blue Army. Prestige and protocol mattered now, more than they ever had before – without them the blue army was nothing more than a collection of dreamers and their minders wandering the desert in search of a gem that most likely none of them would ever see in their lifetime.
Usually, Böri would have cut short any such talk, but lately it had begun to feel truer even to him. Their life was the pursuit of the Silmaril; but what if that was nothing more than a dream, a child's fantasy? What if, and this was a horrible thought for any man to have, but what if the Silmaril had in fact never existed at all?
It was best, he concluded, not to think so hard about it – especially in the arms of his lover.
The arms were suddenly gone from around him, and Böri started at the sound of the door thumping close, and for one small horrible moment Böri almost believed that those dark, hopeless thoughts had scared him away. As they had scared Böri's wife away before him. But no, he was only closing the door, his broad back turned to face him – and seeing the sight of it, hunched ever so slightly Böri could not help himself. He had to call out, even if it was to just hear the name of his lover in his own mouth one last time.
'Akunosh?'
Akunosh turned around, his thin face almost seeming gaunt and worried for a moment, before a smile as beautiful as the Silmaril itself burst across it.
This time they stepped into each other's arms, and kissed.
And Böri thought, how stupid he had been to worry about anything, anything at all – while Akunosh was still so close to him.
The two broke apart, only minutes after they had begun their embrace, and there was that look – that haunted, slightly deranged look that Böri had never before seen on Akunosh's face.
Suddenly the younger man, still smelling of the spices of his own cooking, pushed past the General and began to franticly grab clothes from around Böri's chambers. He shoved them into a saddle bag, that the general only realised now had been slung over the younger man's shoulder. Where had he got that from, no horses were allowed near the temple?
He tried to ask, but it seemed the soldier was in no mood to answer his lover's questions at all, no matter how justified.
'We have to go now, Böri.'
They didn't often refer to each other by their first names out loud, not even in the privacy of Böri's chambers or tents – not that it was likely many would care if they found them together at this point, what with the expertise of the rumour mill. Most people already thought they knew the two's secret anyway. And yet it was the principle of the thing – Generals weren't really supposed to sleep with their soldiers, so as much as they could Böri and Akunosh pretended that they did not. So, for the soldier to do so now, meant that either he was mad, or so worried it was at a point beyond madness.
'Go? Go where? My soldier, what on middle-earth are you talking about?'
But Akunosh shook his head and refused to even meet Böri's eyes - all the while just repeating that they had to go. That they had to go now. It was maddening to be refused answers like this.
'What nonsense is this?'
No answer, it was sickening to be ignored like this, and in his own chambers no least. Perhaps a year ago, Böri would have borne it well, after all he loved Akunosh and sometimes everyone needed to be indulged the occasional odd behaviour but this…this was too much. His patience had already been worn to snapping point by Malbeth's madness, and now he had to stand here and listen to the same madness from his own lover. Perhaps it had been a slight miscalculation to voice these thoughts, word for word, to said agitated lover – but cut him some slack, he'd been under a lot of stress lately.
Akunosh had gone, disturbingly still – one of Böri's winter capes clutched in his lowered fist.
'Malbeth was searching for a traitor?'
His voice was low, almost deadpanned in its delivery.
'I know,' began Böri, relieved that they'd stopped – at least for a moment – all this packing nonsense. 'As if the Blue Army could ever have an infiltrator amongst its ranks.'
'Böri,' Akunosh interrupted this strangely smug speech. 'I'm the infiltrator.'
For a moment it was like the silence of the room was battering on Böri's ears – he couldn't hear, he couldn't feel, all he could do was stand there like a dunce and stare at the man that shared his bed for…it felt like years, decades even but right now he couldn't even tell if it was a week. He wouldn't doubt it though, because clearly, he had not known this man at all. He didn't know him well enough, even now to tell if he was lying or not – though the small rational part of his mind that was still in operation argued that really, there should be no reason to lie. Especially to Böri; especially about this.
And it was that small rational part of his mind that seized hold of his slack mouth then and demanded an explanation – or anything to fill the sickening void which Akunosh's revelation had left in Böri's heart. The soldier dropped the bag he'd been filling with Böri's capes and sighed, his shoulders slumped in defeat. But this time he didn't look anywhere but Böri's eyes as he opened his mouth and explained…everything.
Too much for Böri to comprehend.
Too much for Böri to understand.
Too much for Böri to hear at all.
Every mistake, every blunder the general thought was chance, or just bad luck – it was him; it was always him. And Böri had been blind to it, blind to the viper in his bed. Perhaps in the end Malbeth was the sanest among them.
He knew he'd fallen to floor, seemingly immobilised, as Akunosh had been talking. But he couldn't move, he couldn't even bring himself to try. Akunosh's voice had petered out in the middle of a sentence, clearly aware that he was not really being listened to anymore. He sighed again and turned his back on Böri once more – and as he did so, he tapped his knuckles against the sandstone bricks of Böri's chamber wall. And then the most amazing thing happened, the wall disappeared. Not in a puff of smoke, but rather a grinding noise engulfed them and the wall seemed to roll out of Akunosh's way, revealing the sun-soaked desert behind.
He turned then, back to Böri, still kneeling on the ground before him and held out his hand.
'We can fight about this later my General, but if we don't leave right now – before the lights go off, then we don't leave at all.'
For a moment Böri just looked at him, this god of a man standing emblazed by the sun, looking down at him with such fear in his eyes that it made something deep inside the general come alive again. Something enough at least, to move his hand outwards and reach for Akunosh's hand.
And that is the moment, Dear reader, when the lights went out.
*Think King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table' for an instance in human legend; or the mythic round table featured in the tale of The Thirteen Gardener Kings for an instance in hobbit legend.
** The Western God – a common colloquial name in both the Eastern and Southern Kingdoms of man, for the fallen Valar Morgoth and then later his student and former second in command, Sauron. Particularly common among those that either opposed him or just didn't follow him. For though, there might be no one dominant culture in either of those regions of middle earth anymore, a distrust for the West and their gods was something that, given their history, most people – whether they be man, hobbit or dwarf - shared.
*** Copper – an ancient Middle-Earth grain very closely related to modern Millet, but with a sweeter taste when cooked. The early hobbit tombs of great leaders, or noble families would often be filled with jars of the grain.
**** Painting their Shields Red – A common phrase of the time, for those who turned turncoat and traitor. We can only assume it arrives from the conflict between the Blue Army and the Red Rebels, since most records of times before then (particularly in Eastern and Southern Regions of the old world) have been destroyed.