Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings.

The Dark Tree

Chapter: 02

"We are the spirit that never surrenders. We grow where the shadow cannot touch and where the eye never sees. We are the thorns that grow where nothing else can. We are indomitable and we swear to the light to always stand against the shadow."

Niol, sighing with relief that his watch was finally over, passed by the initiation room on his way to his barracks, wherein the latest batch of Morêg – Black Thorn – recruits as they took their oaths. Glancing into the assembly room briefly, he saw the multitude of dark cloaks that bore the sigil of Calebar, a twisted, gnarled bramble of grey thorns. Once, during the days of Mordor's dominance over the world and the power of the Dark Lord Sauron reigned supreme, this plant had been one of the few to live in that blasted landscape of fire and ash. Foot long were their thorns, and as sharp as any knife, some of which were barbed. The brambles were tough, being quite resilient to punishment out of necessity, given the land that they lived in. Anything that lived in the blasted land of the north needed to be hardy in addition to dangerous if they were to survive, and as such, many of these thorns were harvested by the Morêg, preferring them for arrow points, where they served just as well.

Niol noted the irony in the use of Mordor's twisted abominations against its own creatures, as did many amongst the Morêg. Though the enslavement of their people were long ago, the wounds of those bitter whips ran as fresh now as they did then, only this time the Nurn had the means and desire to bite back.

What would these youths see during their time here? he wondered, almost pitying the new recruits. Service in the towers of Minas Amath changed people. Ephel Dúath had been cleansed centuries ago of orcs and other such filth during the reign of King Elessar, but the mountains remained cursed and dangerous to travel through. It was said that a shadow went between its peeks, spinning and weaving webs as it went to trap the unwary, such as had been said long ago in the Red Book of Westmarch, and there were other terrors as well. The Dínauth that came down from beyond Mordor's mountains and from the stinking marshes for one, though Calebar was spared such horrors during the winter.

And there were, of course, still others. The world was full of them, light and dark. Niol had seen such fell creatures during his years of service in Amath; seen what they did to men when cornered, and even when they were not. Such sights had an effect on a man. On anyone truth be told, but more so for the inexperienced. Some of them, before this year was over, would be broken and hating the Morêg even though they were responsible for the protection of their families.

Far better that they stayed in their homes, dry-farming the land. Let other people die or break in their place.

"Ho! Niol! Back from the frigid ice already?"

Turning, Niol found a stout, heavily bearded dwarf approaching him with a heavy gait, his bald head gleaming in the lantern light as his eyes shone like silver coins. Glyn, son of Glon, was an Erebor dwarf, though one or two generations down the trodden path since his people were forced to give up the lonely mountain, being no longer able to defend it against the encroachments of Luel, that eastern kingdom that rose within five hundred years after the collapse of Sauron's empire. He knew little of the mansions of his fathers, save for the mountains that surrounded Calebar; the 'sick stone', as he called it, having become far more intimate than he or any dwarf cared to be. Niol often wondered how that effected the 'Dark Dwarves' to live in such places. Nonetheless, in spite of the diaspora of his people, many of whom fled into the mansions of Khazad-Dûm before they closed their doors to the world, did not appear to dim or twist his spirit, nor any of the dwarves who came to live within the lands of Calebar.

"Spring is on its way fortunately," Niol replied with a heart-felt laugh, clasping the dwarf on the shoulder. "So tell me, did you get a good look at the force of Wing-helms that rode in? There were quite a fair number of them, eh?"

"Ay," Glyn nodded. "I and many of the other lads have been trying to pump them for information, but they're all being tight lipped. Can't imagine what they came all the way out here for. The Rohirrim are in the opposite direction. Their spears are needed there more than here."

"Perhaps they're looking to strike from an unexpected direction?" Niol suggested, though he didn't quite believe it himself, nor did his voice give that impression. Strike from Mordor? Might as well strike from Far Harad for all the good it would do, and it still wouldn't make a difference. The horse lords of Rohan saw all that went on within their lands. It was said that one couldn't step foot on a blade of grass within their borders without them knowing.

Glyn waved dismissively at his suggestion. "Whatever the case may be, they're on the march. It can't be any special maneuver either. There's too few of them to do much more than be a small garrison. The most that I can figure is that they must have displeased the king in some manner and he decided to send them to the worst place he could think of; the armpit of Gondor."

Niol scowled slightly at that, but said nothing. Nurn was his home, and it did not sit well with him to hear anyone speak in such a manner concerning it. Still, he knew Glyn, and knew that it was a jest not made in malice, so he let it pass.

"Perhaps I can find out a little something," he said after a moment. "I still have some Old Toby left. Enough to warm the bones as well as the heart, and I am certain that someone in their ranks would be more than happy to cough up something with their smoke rings."

The dwarf's eyes perked up at this. "You still have some Old Toby?!" he sputtered through his beard. "I don't know whether to bless you or strangle you! I…" His eyes shone with even greater intensity and he took a closer step toward his companion. "I don't suppose that there's enough to share. I can help, you see, with loosening your mark's tongue."

Niol's eyes twinkled in response and a wide smile drew upon his face. "I'm sure I can manage to split it up a little, but you have to promise to ask questions before you indulge too much in the weed. We both want answers, not unasked questions burning on our minds after all."

"Don't worry about that score," Glyn laughed. "Now how's about we set things in motion?"

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Theor and Faranar secluded themselves in Theor's study, closing and locking the doors and windows behind them before settling themselves down. Theor watched the other man as he withdrew a bottle of wine from his personal cabinet and took out two mugs of battered metal for them to drink from. The Gondor captain appeared to be admiring the room, his brown eyes appreciating the rows of books that decorated the walls and shelves.

"Like what you see?" Theor asked, setting the mugs down in front of him as he uncorked the bottle. Faranar nodded.

"They are all quite beautifully bound. I don't recognize the language on some of those titles though."

"You won't," Theor conceded, pouring into the first mug. "It may very well be against the king's law to own some of those works, but I don't care. I can't read them worth a damn. Might as well hang my fool neck for getting old."

"How many of them are from the east?" Faranar asked as Theor passed him his drink. "That is, if you don't mind my asking. Consider it an informal question, having nothing to do with our duties."

"Lots of them," Theor admitted. "We have traders and such come through from the foreign lands. Many bring books to read and such. We have some who could read them if I gave them the opportunity, but I don't care to. I like the way they look, and it gives me an air of sophistication that makes a lasting impression on the kinds of people I sometimes have to deal with. People in the east appreciate the power of the written word it seems."

Pouring himself some wine into his own cup, he set the bottle down and lifted it, toasting the Gondor captain.

"To the king's health, may he long endure," he said before taking a deep drink. Faranar drummed his fingers on the mug thoughtfully for a moment before taking a tentative sip, and then, deciding that the drink wasn't half as bad as he thought it would be, took a deeper, more relaxed drink himself. Setting their mugs down, Faranar leaned forward.

"About why I am here…" he began, to which Theor choked and snorted.

"Was wondering when you were going to get around to that," he muttered. Faranar looked a bit irritated by this, but he continued on nonetheless.

"There is rumor of an ancient evil in these lands. An úan – monster – of some sort that you and yours have been ignoring."

Theor looked at Faranar, his expression dim and annoyed.

"You tramped all the way from the west for that," he stated simply, his tone indicating what he thought of that. "If the good king has spears to spare for that, why isn't he doing anything about that which comes down from the marshes? Or whatever is hanging out around Ephel Dúath? The war with Rohan going well?"

"That is king's business," Faranar replied. "But he has special interest in the úan. He wants it, and he wants it dead and buried."

Theor leaned back in his chair, his expression becoming grim. "He would at that, I suppose. He would at that."

"Can I count on your support?"

Theor's eyes met Faranar's levelly. "You have the spears and the king's command. We have enough on our hands without inviting his wrath on our heads and homes. I'll give you supplies and guides to travel by, if it pleases you."

Faranar smiled and nodded. "That it does. The king thanks you for your assistance."

"Your men likely won't," Theor replied. "It sleeps. I say let it, but if the king wills it, then Calebar will do what must be done, even if it hurts. We are the thorns of Mordor after all."

"A most hardy folk," Faranar replied, saluting the man with his drink before taking another sip.

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A/N: I made some edits to the previous chapter regarding the 'Black Swords' to as they are referred to now, the Morêg (Sindarin combination of the words 'black' with 'thorns' to represent one of the few bits of plant life that actually grew in Mordor) along with their sigil (from a yellow eye to a coil of thorns). Additionally, Luel is based on the words Luin (blue) and Menel (heaven). It is an Easterling kingdom whose central core lies a bit past the lands of Rhûn that will feature a bit in this story.

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