"My Lord. It is an honor to be in your presence."

Severus was riding.

Wizards were hardy creatures; they could withstand and recover from harsh injuries, both mental and physical, much more easily than the average Muggle. This had stood Severus in good stead in the past; he did not know if it would be enough now.

"Honored?" The loathsome Eye was mockingly amused. Half dangling off the back of a mad-eyed horse, his fingers encased in a Dementor's screaming face and his hair caught again in the grip of a Dementor's enraged hand, Severus felt terribly, horribly vulnerable. "A fine way you have of showing it thus far."

Flattery. Fear. Cunning. Ambition. The traits of a perfect servant. A servant too valuable to waste on torture and experimentation. He could not pretend loyalty; not to the Dark Lord of his old world, nor this one in the new. But he could convince both of his deference, of the benefits of leaving him alive and free. He could make them believe that his presence in their enemies' camp would benefit them, regardless of his personal agenda.

Severus knew well how to tempt a Dark Lord. He had honed this persona for over the past few decades, after all.

It was a skill which he'd not thought he'd have to use again.

"Attacking my servants, little Crow-Man? Such impudence begs for punishment."

Chittering laughter from the monsters around him. They pressed closer to the horse, eyes flickering ominously in the dark.

The Crebain fluttered around him, preening his hair, cooing into his ears, trying all they could to distract him from his thoughts. He stroked one gently, rubbing his long fingers against its silky warm feathers, feeling the softly vibrating thrum of its heart under his hand. Precious little creatures. He remembered how, after particularly torturous sessions with the Dark Lord, he would indulge himself in more time spent with Albus. The warmth of Albus' rooms, the fragrance of the hot tea that they would share between them, the gentleness in Albus' eyes and voice and smile would do much to calm him down.

Albus wasn't here. But the crows were. And their eyes were just as comforting, just as loving, as that of his old friend.

It was a decent substitute.

"My apologies, my Lord; I'd reacted thoughtlessly to their attacks. Their presence threatened my plans."

"Petty little plans of a petty little man," The monstrous Eye was smug, dismissive. It gave no hint as to its own desires, no leverage for Severus to use. But then the voice changed, and turned speculative. "Or would it be wrong to call one such as you a 'man'? Little...sorcerer."

The warriors' eyes were worried and wary. He did not care. They were nothing to him, strange men who'd for some unknown reason had decided to bring him along on their travels. He had not cared much about gaining their friendship even before the Dementor's attack; he cared even less now. Let them make of him what they would; he'd been foolish to have thought that they could pose a true threat or aid to him.

"You have guarded yourself most assiduously over the past few years. Such intrigue you hold, such mystery you bring." The sense of menace from the Eye intensified, battering against Severus' fear-weakened mind. "And I. Loathe. Mysteries."

Severus smiled, a private, bitter smile, and rode on.

"What mystery I have, what skill I possess, I gladly lay bare before you now. It will be my privilege to serve you, and only you." A pause, as Severus swallowed, then forced out the word from between gritted teeth.

"Master."

Finally.

Finally.

Finally, they were home. Though it had been a mere few months since they had seen the towering walls of Minas Tirith, the experiences they'd undergone in those months, some tragic, many dangerous, but all so incredibly unbelievable, made the familiar sights of his city all the more precious. Rercyn suppressed the wholly ridiculous urge to fall to his knees and kiss the earth, and instead waited impatiently for Eorel to finish speaking with the patrol guard. What could possibly be taking him so long? He frowned grumpily at the young guard who was throwing suspicious glares at him and Raza, silently willing for him to back down and let their group past. So close to home, so close to safety; just a few minutes more and we can let go of the fear...

"Rercyn," Eorel said brusquely, cantering his horse back to his partner's side. "I've asked for some guards to keep an eye on both of you. I'm going in to seek an audience with the Steward."

Rercyn reared back as if physically struck. Staring at Eorel's stubborn, unforgiving face, his mouth opened in a hiss of protest; he watched as Eorel tensed up, readying himself for the arguments that Rercyn wanted to throw at him. Eorel was being unreasonably mistrustful again, they couldn't bar Raza from entering his own city, they couldn't treat Raza like a common criminal, he'd thought that Eorel was softening, he thought that Eorel was starting to believe in Raza, he'd thought that Eorel understood...

Beside him, Raza shifted uncomfortably on his horse. His eyes were dead, his shoulders slumped; he had not shown a smidgen of spirit since his capture. Rercyn would fain have welcomed the old, cantankerous, miserable stranger back; this one showed less emotion, less personality than his little crow pets.

Two weeks ago, he would have fought for Raza. Two weeks ago, he would have argued against Eorel's high-handedness. Two weeks ago, he would have pointed to the heroism of the man, the goodness of the crows, as clear signs of Raza being the prophesied king, battling against the forces of evil to wield his power for the good. Eorel saw only the bad in Raza, saw it and fought against the idea of Raza being the king, because a king was expected to be kind and just and charismatic and perfect, and Raza showed none of that. But Rercyn knew that dreams rarely matched up to reality, that demanding too much led to disillusionment, that unconditional acceptance was required to support a king who was merely a man, a great man but a flawed man, and that Raza, though imperfect, was already kingly in all the ways that counted.

Two weeks ago, he knew all this. He still knew all this. Raza was a great man, a great hero, and his escape from Mordor only made him all the more great.

Slowly, Rercyn closed his mouth, biting down on his tongue so hard he drew blood. Silently, he turned his head away to examine Raza's stiff profile, listening to the clip-clop of Eorel's horse as his partner rode through the gates of Minas Tirith.

"Your eagerness to pledge yourself to me is all too pleasing. How upsetting to think that I have never seen you before your little attempt for power."

Sweat trickled down Severus' stiff face. His head was aching, his hand slowly blackening. But he nearly had the Eye convinced. Nearly. Nearly. He could not stop now. "I...I had not wished to approach you...before I could secure proof of my usefulness. Master," he rasped out.

The laughter which greets his excuse was obscenely evil, yet oddly satisfied. The monster's final judgment upon him felt, paradoxically, like the worst condemnation and the highest praise.

"Liar. Such a little liar."

Eorel's fondest desire right now was to head to the nearest tavern and order a drink. No, two drinks. Or make that three. Or make that a drink for every time he and Rercyn had come close to death over the past few weeks. Fighting with Orcs, fleeing from Nazgul, heading straight towards Mordor, of all places...Eorel deserved to get drunk. But of course, he couldn't, because now he had to explain precisely why he and Rercyn had seen fit to disobey orders for the sake of a scruffy stranger. Eorel didn't think he'd ever been as stunned in his life to find Raza unconscious in the forest a bare few miles away from Mordor's doors. But of course Rercyn hadn't stopped to question that at all, and insisted instead that it was more sign of his greatness.

Sometimes Eorel wondered if his partner had been dropped on his head when he was born.

Thankfully, however, Rercyn wasn't wholly without caution, and had agreed to keeping Raza outside the city walls until the Steward could be fully apprised of all the happenings. Eorel, on the other hand, somewhat regretted his impulsive urge to take charge. He could just imagine the incredulous looks he would be greeted with once he finished his story.

"...and after the thin dirty stranger brought me back to life using herbs and powers only a king could wield, we decided to bring him and his evil-looking but actually very adorable crows to you, but midway through the journey he was kidnapped by Nazgul and brought nearly all the way to Mordor, only he somehow escaped or was set free, even though no man has ever came back from Mordor alive, but please understand that we aren't trying to bring enemies into the most important city of Gondor, my partner believes that he's the prophesied king, just very disagreeable and suspicious-looking, so he absolutely refuses to kill or bind the man, and really, it's better that we bring him here rather than let an unknown powerful candidate for the throne roam our lands..."

Eorel really hoped that the Steward would allow him one last pint of beer before declaring him insane and throwing him into the dungeons.

"I would never dare to lie to one as great as you, Master. My only wish to obey your commands."

"Perhaps. However." A cruel pause, held like a taut thread through the air. "A stay within my lands would be a better insurance of your loyalty."

"Steward Denethor is very busy. You will have to wait like everyone else."

"But...no, this is urgent news. The Steward needs to be notified of this immediately."

"Many urgent issues take the Steward's attention daily. Unless you can provide details as to how your news, in particular, takes precedence, you'll have to come back later."

"It's confidential! I need to make the report directly to the Steward, and the sooner the better..."

"How many times must you be told? The Steward is a busy man, and people can't just barge in to talk to him whenever they want. Now leave, or..."

Blinking in curiosity, Gandalf opened the door to the waiting room, only to see an angrily gesticulating Ranger standing before the disdainful valet and bored Tower Hall guards. Glancing from one to the other, he felt a corner of his mouth dip in instinctive disapproval. He knew that Denethor had less respect for his Rangers than the previous Steward, but surely he had no need to show his disregard so blatantly?

"Tomorrow afternoon. That is the absolute earliest you might have an audience with the Steward," said the valet, turning away from the red-faced Ranger in clear dismissal, only to bestow an unimpressed look upon Gandalf. "Lord wizard. I hope you rested well. The Steward missed your presence," and here a sneer was given, as if to emphasize precisely how insincere that claim was, "in the morning's meeting. Sadly, he is much occupied for the rest of today; perhaps you would care to seek an audience tomorrow?"

What the...? Gandalf was left open-mouthed at the young whippersnapper's audacity. To order about a wizard...to dismiss me... why, I ought to...but before he could marshal his thoughts, the valet had slipped back into the Tower Hall. Gandalf stared at the closed door, then at the stone-faced guards, and finally at the young Ranger, who, he was distantly amused to note, was literally frothing at the mouth in frustration. Gandalf felt strongly tempted to join him, or even better, slam open the door to the Tower Hall and demand respect...but no. He might be a powerful wizard in his own right, but that only meant he had to be all the more careful about undermining the authority of other rulers. He did not like Denethor, and loathed the thought of being so snubbed, but he still respected his talents as a leader and a principled fighter against the Dark. It would not do to create enemies due to little, petty acts.

Holding that thought tightly to himself, he turned around, only to have his eye catch again onto the dejected form of the Ranger. Feeling a surge of pity for the youth, Gandalf strode to his side to give him a friendly clap on the shoulder. "Cheer up; mayhap you'll receive your audience with him tomo..."

Gandalf froze as his hand touched the young man's tunic.

No, it couldn't be.

He clutched convulsively at the cloth.

He was mistaken.

It was there.

Sauron's power.

Sauron's stink.

Unheeding of the wary eyes of the Ranger, he seemed to grow larger, greater. His voice, powerful and terrible, whipped through the air like a weapon.

"How came you, Ranger of Ithilien, to be so touched by the Dark?"

"I-I would not be of much use to you, if I were to stay. Please," and the panic was feigned for the Eye's enjoyment and yet all too real, "Please, tell me what you desire, and I will show you how I may achieve it."

The Eye laughed again. "I desire chaos. I desire death. I desire victory, and now, I desire your loyalty. Can you bring me all that, and more? Or was that what you'd planned to take for yourself, when you become king of that wretchedly pathetic little kingdom?"

Out beyond the city walls, Severus sucked in a choked gasp as the magic swirled around him. Oh Merlin, he thought with grumpy despair, just before the wizard came striding out of the city gate with righteous fire burning in his eyes, not another one...

At least this one was a Light wizard; Severus could feel the sizzling bright power whip and snap against the Dark residue which had clung to him like a second skin ever since his talk with the Eye. Severus closed his eyes at the painful, purging sensation it created. He opened them in a hurry, however, when the wizard started booming at him in a commanding voice, looking fit to kill.

King? King? What on earth was it talking about? No matter; if this was what it was interested in, this was what Severus could use. "I will carve power from the fools who wield it, and demand their obedience and reverence as my due. I will lay its riches and its weapons at your feet, Master, should you deign to accept my small offerings."

The Steward Denethor was used to dealing with many kinds of problems in his reign. And yet nothing, nothing, was quite as irritating as dealing with the Mithrandir Migraine. He poked his overlong nose into business which was not his concern, he showed up where no one ever wanted him to be, and he created chaos which somehow always ended up as Denethor's responsibility to resolve. This occasion, however, was shaping up to be one of his worst visits thus far. His persistent demands that Denethor send out manpower to retrieve some ridiculous crow-traveler, his arrogant assumptions that Denethor would be some puppet at his beck and call, but worst of all, his refusal to help in curing Finduilas or even easing her pain...

Shaking his head, Denethor walked on at a quick, though firm pace, banishing his beloved wife from his mind for the time being. Though he would fain be at her side now, offering what comfort and care he could to her wellbeing, he would have to get rid of the Mithrandir Migraine first. The violent surge in power which had so disturbed his work was bad enough, but the reports implied that Mithrandir was actually manhandling one of his Rangers in his rage. And while some of the Rangers were uncouth and ruffian-like, they were still his Rangers, under his jurisdiction!

Striding up to the city gate, which was in a state of chaos after Gandalf had, typically, breezed right through without going through proper protocol, Denethor calmed down the guards and restored order with a few sharp words. Then, with an entourage around him, he waited for the gates to open, a sharp glare ready upon his craggy face.

"Indeed? And should you think of rebellion against the Dark, of strengthening the city defenses to their benefit?

Severus infused his voice with hatred. "I have no reason to help pathetic creatures such as them!"A pause, for his voice to change to reverent. It is odd, he thought distantly, of how much easier the words of his enslavement rolled off his tongue with practice.

"You are the Crow-Traveler, I presume," Gandalf said coldly. That this servant of Sauron would have the daring to come so close to the stronghold of Gondor...that he would flaunt his Master's power so openly...what was Lady Nienna thinking, to have Gandalf go on a quest to find a man like him! Dimly, he registered hearing horrified whispering from the two Rangers nearby, "You told him? Why him?" "I didn't, he just grabbed me and shook me and stomped out here! It was like watching a Valar-cursed bloodhound on a scent!" but he dismissed it as unimportant. All his focus had narrowed down to the tired man before him, whose darkness lit up the air around him like a beacon, and surely when Lady Nienna had commanded him to find the Crow-Man she'd meant for Gandalf to destroy him...except she hadn't said so. Find the crow-traveler could potentially mean Annihilate, Destroy, and Rid the World of Crow Evil, but Gandalf had lived too long, dealt with evil in too many forms, to make an important decision like ending a life just willy-nilly, no matter how much he desired it, no matter how much he hated it, for threatening his world, for killing his allies, for tempting Saruman...

No, he would talk to him. Find out his secrets, uncover his goals. And then, and then...he would decide.

"My only desire is to serve you, Master."

"Back away from the city walls, Crow-Traveler," the wizard's growl was impressively frightening, and so was the light and sparks which were appearing around him in a whirling spiral of wind. Raza yelped and tried to stay seated as his horse backed up, snorting in alarm. Unfortunately, his focus on the horse, which was, in Rercyn's opinion, a perfectly reasonable thing to focus on, only appeared to make the wizard even angrier.

"Why have you come here? Where are you from? What tie binds those crows to you?" And really, those are all questions which Rercyn wanted answered too, and any sane Ranger would have already taken the fury in the wizard's voice as their cue to back away very slowly by now, except sometime during the past few weeks Rercyn appeared to have discarded his common sense and opted to feel instead a protective surge of indignation on behalf of Raza, doubts and suspicions be damned.

"He does not speak our language, lord wizard," he called out, trying to alleviate the situation, but all that happened was that the wizard became even more wild-eyed, snarling wildly about the Black Speech and Mordor and Sauron and really, did the wizard plan to call the Enemy's attention down onto their head by blandishing his name about so loudly? Rercyn had already had too many close brushes with the Dark for him to need another and it was that knee-jerk fear at hearing the Dark Lord's name which caused him to lose control and snap out, "He is not of the Dark, he is an honored guest, and you have no right to attack him at all!" And the wizard was swelling up in enraged offence and Eorel was tugging frantically on to his arm and nearly wailing, "Oh oh oh shut up shutup shutupshutup" and Rercyn was seeing his life flash before his eyes and really, his Steward's voice was the most beautiful thing in the world because it called out at this very moment to demand,

"What in Valar's name is going on here?"

"Very well then. You will do this, and pray that it succeeds." The voice did not even need to threaten; the consequences of failure were all around him in that barren wasteland, pressing close by with death dripping from their claws and glee in their eyes.

There is little Eorel could say, except that this was a mess of epic proportions, and really, it was not his fault that everyone in the world had decided to go mad. But though he hadn't done anything to cause it, it was clearly up to him to end it, and so, falling onto one knee, he bent his head to his Steward and played the most powerful card he had, the card he'd thought of once he'd talked to Addroc and which he'd really planned to save for last, "Milord, I present to you Raza, a powerful healer who we hope may cure the Lady Finduilas' illness."

And really, Eorel thought resignedly, as he waited a beat, then two, before the excitement started all over again, it's hardly the most ideal way of declaring the arrival of a potential king. But that's all they're going to get if they insist on not doing things the way I planned them to be.

"However," and oh, how Severus loathed that word, "however, if your obedience cannot be secured through a stint in Mordor, another method is required."

And with that, the mark of Sauron began to sear in his mind.