The War of Light and Shadow

By Freddie23

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Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.

A/N: Sorry it's a little shorter this time.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, it is greatly appreciated. Enjoy the chapter

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Chapter 50 – The Host

The screams were the worst. They cut through the mind and the soul, slowly and painfully slicing away at sanity until there was scarce little left, far more effective in its torment than any physical hurt that could be caused to the body. Not that this made the physical pain any easier to bear. Sometimes it was almost overwhelming. But wishing it to stop would do no good, that much was a given. No, the creatures corrupted by the Shadow would not cease for pleas, they would not stop for anything. Perhaps they too feared the fate that awaited them here and the penalties for even the notion of disobedience. It did not matter though. Nothing mattered anymore.

Some time ago, it had been crowded in the black pits of Mordor. Hundreds of creatures, races of all kinds, some that would have been unknowable even to the fallen Wise, packed tightly together in reeking, noisy cells. Now they were far fewer in number. Less than twenty remained, all of them of the Elven race. Others, mostly Dwarves and very few Men, had been disentangled from their chains and taken away and had never returned to the pits. What happened to them no one knew or would care to guess. Not the Elves though. The Elves were almost always returned – never in the condition they left in though. When they returned, they never seemed the same. Usually, they died within days of their return. No outwards wounds were visible when they were dragged back down beneath the earth where the Dark Lord stored his 'hosts' past and future, and yet the Elves were not whole. They returned less of people than they had once been. As if something inside of them had been irreparably broken.

For days, they sat, curled up; weeping, shattered wrecks on the floor. After a few days of no food or water, they seemed to simply give up on their miserable half-lives and left the living world. After all, who would want to live after that torture?

The threat that hung over the ones still waiting was ever palpable, as real as the thick air surrounding them or the constant pain and torment of their imprisonment. At any moment, the Orcs could come and carry one of the pitiful survivors away to the same fate. Perhaps it might be a release. Maybe anything, even being infected by the Shadow so potent that it stripped all else away and left nothing but an empty husk behind, would be better than a tortured life locked up in the rat-infested chambers deep below Barad-dur.

Hot, dark and claustrophobic, they were at times unendurable and their occupants could do nothing but pray for death to come swiftly to them. For the Elves, this was a hard concept to accept. Death was frightening to them given all the previous promises of everlasting joy when one grew tired of the world of Arda. Eternity in the dark emptiness terrified the prisoners. Yet it was still preferable to this. Mandos, they believed, would not be so cruel.

Hanging from chains attached by thick metal rings to the ceiling so that his body was stretched out almost to its limit with the only support preventing him from having his whole bodyweight held up only by his chaffed, bloody wrists being a small ledge just wide enough for him to balance on his toes. Agony in itself but better than the alternative. He knew not for how long he had been hanging there inert. Time had no meaning in the cells of Mordor. Days, minutes, hours, years…they all melded together, in effect becoming utterly meaningless. Pain dominated his senses. Relief came but rarely.

Yet he clung to the possibility of those blessed moments. A slight ease in the torment. Such a little thing counted as a great blessing in this place. Perhaps sleep might take him for a short length of time, or maybe the rats would stay away for a while having grown tired of trying to gnaw on Elven flesh or, a major victory would be that the prisoners were brought food.

When was the last time he ate? Frowning, he realised he couldn't remember. In the dark, he could not see his own body hanging naked against the cold damp stone wall, but he could picture it looking emaciated and grey, nothing like his former self if he remembered his previous image correctly. A fright he must have looked now, such a far cry from the fit, healthy, strong Elf he had once been. He would not be recognised by his own people, should any of them have escaped the brutality of the Dark Lord's regime.

What was the point of strength and courage when there was nowhere to go, no way to fight back?

Too long had he been confined. It had been so long since he had seen the sun, felt warmth or love or hope or gazed upon the stars. Sometimes he longed for it. His heart craved to be granted just a glimpse of the outside world, to see what he vaguely remembered in the back of his mind to have been the world he had grown up and lived in. Whether or not the sun still shone outside in the wake of Sauron's maiming of the lands mattered surprisingly little to him. A breath of fresh, uncontaminated air would suffice. The feel of the earth, untainted by filth, on under his feet.

Such longings both comforted and saddened him when he succumbed to them. For although dreaming of a world free from these horrors brought him some measure of peace, he was also resigned to the fact that thought may never be manifest again.

Waiting for his end to come, no matter how the final blow was delivered, was a torture in itself. Occasionally, he felt madness creeping up on him and he wondered whether when his time eventually came, when the Dark Lord finally decided that he needed a brand new host and his number was up, he might be rejected for his insanity. Surely some semblance of stability of the mind was needed to hold even the corrupt soul of the Lord of Shadow. And if he was indeed considered to be inappropriate for 'possession', what then? What would happen to him? Release seemed unlikely. Death was perhaps more realistic.

"Help! Help me!"

Screams were close now. New Elves were rare here. The Dark Lord's policy of rounding up the Firstborn and killing them systematically within the first few years of his dominion was now proving problematic for Sauron. Few survived for his purposes and there was no ready supply out there waiting for him.

This was not a new voice shouting now. It was old. Almost as old as he was. Maybe they had been acquaintances once, before all this had happened. He could not remember. Truth be told, he could not remember his own name half the time. Only vague, inexact images from his past surfaced every now and then to torment him. Details were scarce and he preferred it that way. Perhaps if he ever allowed himself to indulge, he really would be driven to madness.

Constant yells for help and salvation that would never come were often irritating but he could not begrudge any other the release. It happened to them all at times. A release of emotion, of pain, was needed and oftentimes a scream was the only way to vent. No one liked to hear it though for it brought everything into stark reality for others who shared in the torment of Sauron's incarceration.

"Please!" cried the voice in its native Elven tongue, although it sounded nothing like the ancient melodic language anymore. Already hoarse and rough, the cries were too desperate, too feral to be associated with the Fair Ones. "Please! Help! Help me, please!"

Tears flowed freely down his cheeks and splashed onto his bare chest as he listened to the shameless cries and begging of his kinsman. No one could see his grief here in the darkness so what did it matter if he crumbled along with him?

"Oh, Valar, please save me," screamed the voice, broken, the pleas echoing around the cells. "Help!"

There was no one who could do anything to hear the pleas, and even if there were, no one would care, no one would answer, not even the Blessed Ones from the Undying Lands, for they seemed to have forsaken their most beloved children and watched their ruin without mercy or pity or intervention. He hated them for that, he had realised some time ago. He never pleaded with the Valar. They were as dead to him now as his own family were.

"Shut up," he muttered to himself as the voice descended from cries for help into irritating, unintelligible wails.

The racket was disrupting his distracting train of thoughts. The pain in his shoulders flared to an almost unbearable level and he fought back the urge to shift his position against his chains. Such a move was always a risk. One slip and he would be jerked down by the weight of his own body and that would be agony on his back and shoulders. He'd long ago lost all feeling in his wrists and hands and the only way he knew they were even still attached to the ends of his arms was the fact that he remained chained up by them. But his arms ached constantly and his back hurt and his shoulders were worse by far than all the other pains. But then, everything, every part of his wasted body hurt fiercely almost past the point of even Elven endurance. And yet, he could do nothing but endure. There was no other choice.

Squeezing his eyes shut as tight as he could, he tried to mentally push aside the flare up of searing agony. But it could not be ignored, not when it blazed so horribly through him.

A cry escaped him, loud to his own ears because he had not heard it for so long. How peculiar his voice sounded. For however long he had been held captive he had uttered only cries, whimpers. Speaking was seldom required and he wondered whether he even still possessed the capacity to hold a conversation.

"Shut up!" that voice, which just moments ago had been pitiful and pleading, now yelled viciously through the darkness at him.

"You shut up!" joined in another voice, unfamiliar to him.

The crying started again then in response but it too died down after a while. Energy drained, the screamer would no doubt rest for a long while now, leaving the others in peace for a time. Until he woke again, realised the hopelessness of his situation and the cycle started all over again.

The quiet was blissful and he let his head bow, his chin coming to rest against his sweat-coated chest. In such a position, sleep proved impossible but the Elven race possessed the ability to relax in a kind of meditative, rejuvenating state called reverie and that had to prove sufficient in this place. He had grown used to resting in such a manner and it afforded him, for a time at least, some measure of peace.

Laughter woke him. Not the insane, hysterical laughter of his fellow captive Elves but the deep, mocking laughter he had come to associate with the Enemy. He raised his head and immediately snapped his eyes shut when faced with the hot, bright light from a flaming torch. After so long shrouded in near pitch darkness, the light was not entirely welcomed. It burned his eyes. What a wretched thing he had become. One of the Firstborn shying away from the light. No better than an Orc cowering from the sunlight.

"Your turn now, creature," said one of the Orcs in unpractised Westron.

Suddenly, his hands were being freed. Unprepared for the change, his precarious balance wavered and he fell hard to the ground, landing on his front with a thud. Immediately, he choked, for the air smelled thoroughly putrid near the ground. With the floor thick with filth and waste from the prisoners, he realised now that he had been lucky to be tied up against the wall and not left to languish in that muck. He fought to urge not to gag, knowing it would only increase the agony shooting through his body.

"Up," commanded an Orkish voice.

No time was to be wasted. He was dragged to his feet when he did not immediately comply with the growled order, even though given his condition standing would be impossible unsupported. After so many years bound, mistreated and starved, he felt like he did not have so much as an ounce of strength left in him. Supported by either side by Orcs, he was dragged from the cells, listening with some hint of sadness to the cries and pleas of those prisoners he was leaving behind. Although they were not crying for him, he felt sad that he would never listen to their rambling cries ever again. This was the end, he knew, and he was so grateful he could cry. Sauron's hosts never lasted long. Soon it would all be over and the peace he craved would be granted.

Unable to walk, he was hauled up a steeply sloping path, his bare toes scraping against damp, uneven stone. As they ascended, the air grew cleaner and he breathed as deeply as his tortured lungs could manage. Right there and then, being taken inexorably to his death, he could have bawled like a small Elfling, the sensation of being able to draw a deep breath without choking on foul-smelling, stale air was so utterly wondrous.

He was allowed very little time to dwell on this small pleasure, however, for they soon reached their destination.

With absolutely no care, he was dropped down to the floor. Heavy footsteps moved all around him but he simply laid there, unmoving, waiting. Whatever was going to happen could not be helped, so waiting was the only option.

Listening to a voice that made no sense to him, the Elf laid on his front, keeping his eyes firmly shut against the unpleasant, scorching orange light of torches that burned all around the room.

Suddenly, freezing cold water was dropped over him in one short rush and he gasped in shock. Struggling now for breath, he tried to sit up, to remove his naked body from the cold, but his arms were too weak, too wasted to support him. Another bucket of water was thrown over him then he was grabbed under the arms and hauled up onto his knees. His head was wrenched back and then his filthy, greasy hair was sliced off, cut miserably short, with a sharp knife that occasionally dug into his scalp and drew blood. At one time, he might have protested at his golden hair, a symbol of status amongst Elven warriors, being shorn off but that didn't matter to him anymore. In fact, it was somewhat of a relief to have the overly long, greasy, lice-infested tresses finally cut off. Had he had the opportunity, he would have done it himself. The Orcs worked until they had ensured that he was almost bald, only a few tufts of gold clinging to his head. He glanced down at the floor, squinting in the light, and saw the dirty blonde hair scattered all about him. No emotion swamped him. He felt…nothing.

The Orcs were not done in their cleansing yet. They scrubbed every inch of his body with a rough cloth that made his skin hurt and bleed in patches. Every part of him was thoroughly cleansed of dirt and grime. Pride had little place in this world of darkness but he flinched all the same as the Orcs none too gently scrubbed the filth from even his most private areas. At his feeble, wordless protests at the violation, which no doubt the Orcs had experienced from past potential hosts, the Orcs laughed, teasing and hurting him all the more.

Soon he was clean. Cold and aching but blissfully clean. Clothes were pulled onto him then, far too big but still fresh and relatively warm. A long robe was wrapped around him and soft shoes were thrust onto his cut and bruised feet. If this was how the end was going to be then perhaps it would not be so bad after all.

He was pulled up then; although this time he was forced to walk on his own two legs, such a strange sensation after so long in captivity. His legs trembled and faltered weakly with every staggering step he took. But he was given little time to adjust to this new feeling of being mobile. Pushed through a narrow doorway, he was forced onwards, down a long corridor. Steps proved a challenge that very nearly bested him and yet he was never allowed to pause. Whenever he faltered, Orcs hands would roughly drag him onwards.

"Speak only if spoken to," an Orc snapped at him as they approached a set of double doors guarded by four fierce-looking Uruk-hai.

"Wait," another Orc stopped them when they reached the doors. "Hands."

The Elf instinctively looked downwards, his eyes more focused now that they had adjusted somewhat to the light of the blazing torches, but he could see nothing especially wrong with his hands, red and bruised though they were through years of mistreatment.

"Ah!" exclaimed one of the Orcs and then proceeded to shove a pair of fine gloves onto the Elf's painful hands. "Well spotted."

"Inside," one of the Uruk guards commanded gruffly. "They are waiting."

Who was waiting was perhaps obvious. The Elf felt his heart pounding erratically in his chest; he was afraid. After all the waiting, anticipating the end, he now dragged his feet as he was led towards a throne of black stone, beside which stood a tall, old bearded man dressed in pristine white robes. The old man fairly oozed power but he was not the one the Elf feared. Rather it was the…being hunched over on the throne; a far less physically intimidating power but ultimately ten times more frightening to behold simply because of who he was.

"Welcome," the hunched figure wheezed chillingly in perfect, clipped Elvish.

Swallowing thickly to dislodge the lump in his tight throat, the Elf could think of nothing to say so he settled for just staring wide-eyed, uncaring that the brighter light of this room was making his eyes sting and water.

"On your knees," hissed one of the Orcs at his side, gripping his shoulder tight and shoving him down onto his knees before pushing his head forcefully down into a bow.

"Leave," Sauron, for it was unmistakably Sauron, commanded. He did not like witnesses. Holding up his hands towards the Elf, the Dark Lord said amiably, "I regret the treatment of my servants."

Daring to look up at the Lord of Shadow, the Elf openly flinched.

Unimpressed by the snivelling creature that had been dropped at his feet, the old man dressed in white turned to Sauron and said, "Enough of this. Let's get on."

The Dark Lord bowed his head in acquiescence. "Get up," he commanded to the Elf.

He did not want to. Before, he had always imagined that even being taken body and soul by the Oppressor would prove a better fate than an eternity in the pits of Mordor but now that he was here, quailing and trembling at the feet of the Dark Lord himself, he would readily admit to any who asked that he was terrified. The pits, it turned out, were better than this fate. The wailer he had left behind would not be pleased.

Resisting the will of the Dark Lord would be beyond even the most powerful and thus he found himself stumbling forwards obligingly.

It was the white robed man who approached him rather than Sauron himself. The tall, impatient man gripped his thin arm in a strong, bony hand and dragged him up to the throne where Sauron sat in an awkward manner. He was again pushed down onto his knees. Trembling, he looked up just as Sauron lifted gloved hands to pull back the hood obscuring his face.

At the sight, the Elf's blood ran cold and a scream clogged in his throat. It had obviously been an Elf at some point but now the creature sat before him was barely recognisable as anything. A bald head, much like his own now was, was marred with scars and fresh, oozing wounds, as if something too big was contained inside and was trying to escape by slowly splitting the skin and burrowing its way out. Eyes that once would have glowed with a bright inner light were dark, black almost, and dead.

"I look a fright, I know. It is an unfortunate side-effect. Your bodies are simply too weak to sustain me."

"Can we get on with this," grumbled the man at their side.

"Yes. Time is precious indeed. I am ailing," he sighed wearily, his hand shakily sliding over the contours of his head, smearing blood as it did so. "Do it."

"Please," stuttered out the Elf in one final desperate plea as the old man laid one cold hand against his brow. "Don't do this."

His pleas were ignored though. Why would Sauron pay a mere Elf any heed? The old man with them seemed even more ambivalent towards him than the Dark Lord himself. There was no release from this horror. Nothing to save him.

Brilliant white light engulfed all present and it seemed to sear in the depths of the Elf's soul, flooding his mind and being. Accompanied as it was by such intense pain, the likes of which he imagined no other than a host of Sauron had ever felt, the Elf screamed. And screamed and screamed. It was the only thing he could do. The only action he could take. The agony swamped him and he writhed on the spot, not trying to escape the pain, because he knew that to be impossible, but simply for some action.

The process was far from pleasant for Sauron either. The transferring of one's soul was painful, exhausting and fraught with danger.

When it was at last over, Saruman released his grip and immediately the spell was broken. The empty vessel collapsed back limply onto the throne, alive but utterly drained of all energy, whilst the Elf, whose body was now host to that dark and twisted soul, fell forwards, bracing himself with his hands as he took a moment to adjust to the new sensations engulfing him.

"So strong," murmured Sauron, flexing wasted muscles, powerful in comparison to his previous host despite their lack of strength.

"The spell is strengthened. It should last longer than the others," Saruman explained, looking down distastefully at the vacated Elven body sat wide-eyed and breathing heavily on Sauron's throne of black. How his master could tolerate inhabiting such creatures was beyond the Wizard. Personally, he hated being confined within a physical body; although he thought he would rather live in the visage of an old man than a scrawny, powerless Elf. He supposed there was some poetry in Sauron's choice. Yes, Elves were naturally stronger than just about any other creature on Arda, but there was another draw for Sauron, he suspected. How ironic it was that the Dark Lord, a creature himself long fallen from grace, should inhabit the very beings he despised the most, twisting them to his own dark purposes and stripping them of their life's force and vigour. It was, after all, how the Lord of Shadow had first created his Orcs. Taking what was good and pure and warping it beyond all recognition to fulfil his own purposes.

"Yes," hissed Sauron, carefully gaining his feet and stretching out his muscles experimentally. "It will do." Taking a shaky step up to his throne, he called out, "Get rid of this mess," kicking at the leg of the prone Elf sprawled inelegantly on the ground.

Immediately, the two Orcs that had brought him his latest host came quietly in and carried away the now useless carcass – for essentially that was what he had been reduced to in wake of the possession – dragging it from the room where it would be returned to the dungeons beneath Barad-dur. To Sauron now it was useless. A host could seldom be successfully reused, inconvenient though it was. Once his throne had been freed, Sauron lowered himself down.

"If you have finished with my services, my Lord, I should wish to return to Isengard," prompted Saruman, leaning heavily on his staff, flaunting his impatience as no other in the presence of the Dark Lord would ever dare to.

"Yes. Isengard. Tell me, Curunir, what of that which was entrusted to you?"

Now shifting anxiously in his fine robes and leather boots, Saruman answered, "It is being dealt with, my Lord."

"Dealt with? You have not found my Palantir yet?"

"As we speak, my spies are returning it into my keeping."

Clear blue eyes, not yet clouded with evil, and still looking very much like an Elf still, locked Saruman in a deep, expressionless stare. "They had better be. The enemy must not be allowed to possess such a powerful object as the Stone of Seeing. I trust that you will not disappoint me. Again. You know the price of failure."

Staring boldly into eyes that were already beginning to shine with malice, Saruman nodded. "Your servants have already adequately reminded me of my duties."

"Then no further encouragement should be required. Go now. Return to Isengard. But I will summon you again sometime soon," Sauron told him darkly, too busy testing out the perks of his new body to pay much attention to the disgraced Wizard. He knew that his words would resonate well enough in spite of their softness.

"Thank you, my Lord." Calmly, Saruman walked from the room, eschewing the usual bow a sycophantic servant might have performed. He was angry now. Would he ever be treated as an equal or would he be forever destined to live as little more than a glorified slave, no better in reality than the mindless Orcs?

No, that would not do. That would not do at all.

To Be Continued…