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The Desert
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On a stretch of arid basin the lone traveler trudged wearily through the cold air of the desert at night. This body of his could indeed get weary, despite its true nature, but could endure such deprivations for a very long time; far longer than most of those against whom he had spent the last age engaged in nearly unceasing war, and certainly longer than his horse, which he had been obliged to abandon after passing by enough dust filled ponds and wells, each as dried out as the last. A drought plagued these parts, and had for some time, and few from the eastern reaches had come this far west in many years. But he could not turn back. The great powers of the West and their armies had torn apart the western lands, as well as the labyrinth of caves and tunnels and dungeons of his master's vast fortress, drowned and destroyed along with them. All he had left was to keep moving.
He pushed on, following the dry river beds and faded animal tracks as best he could, the view broken only by the burnt red cliffs hovering in the distance which disappeared into the dusty twilight each evening. Then the chill of the desert at night would settle in - a welcome relief after the punishing heat of day. He would keep going - indeed he could walk for many days before being bothered by any thoughts of rest. Eventually the edge of the eastern skies would lighten to pale greens and faint yellows, and finally a gleaming strip of new light would break over the flat horizon before him. As the twilight gave way to the cool gray of early morning he kept his cloak hood pulled over his head, for the cursed sun would soon be glowing hot above him.
His mind had plenty of space to wander the past as went on alone. He had spent many long years serving his master, he thought to himself, to great success and earned praise: managing his watchtower with ruthless vigilance, imagining new ways to inflict devastation on the lands and peoples of those favored Children of the One. The traveler had been among many of his kind stirred to wrath by his master against this world of light and air and stone and waters created by the labors of the other gods, in a forgotten time long ago. This Eru, his master had said, brooked none but his selected ruler the Lord of Winds to lead, and suffered none to follow even their own mind. The fear that the other Valar had for his master, the Lord of Darkness, came only of their own envy, he had told them. 'They seek to restrain us!'' he had cried, 'and keep us in lowly servitude to these Children of the Earth. Follow me, if you would not submit to such a fate!' And so the traveler had served this mighty outcast and his quest to tear it all down, all the carefully tended splendor of light and clear flowing water and greenery, and create a new world full of fire and darkness and choked water and lifeless dust, peopled with defiled and miserable servants molded to fit the new lands and obey his decrees.
He thought of the Great Battle. The Valar had vanquished and chased away all of his master's most formidable servants: the dragons and the Balrogs and all the dark and prideful spirits who had served their master well. But he himself had not been there, having fled in shame and fear after the loss of his watchtower to the cursed princess and her holy hound. He had hid for a long while in his old lands away in the east, south of his master's great barrier the Misty Mountains. But when rumor came to him of the great defeat to the vast host of the West he returned, fearing the Valar might choose to turn their wrath on him directly. Then he humbled himself to offer his service to the rulers of Valinor.
'I am heartened to hear you say so,' Eonwë the Herald had said to him, 'but no service of yours can I accept before you face the judgment of the Lords and Queens at the Ring of Doom.'
At that he calmed, no longer fearing a violent punishment at the hands of the gods. But greater now was his fear that he would be held captive in the Halls of Mandos for many untold numbers of years, ages and ages, before they would trust to let him walk free again. No, he decided for himself, he would serve a sentence of his own choosing in his own way. And such an exile as this, he thought, should well suffice.
He thought of a time in the world long before the precious Children awoke. He had helped to demolish the mighty pillars that kept the land bathed in the blinding light of the gods, and the shining blaze of silver and gold housed in the mighty lamps spilled out far over the lands in brilliant fire, razing down all the green things and leaving a deadened landscape of charred black waste. Then he had led many of his kindred spirits in a frenzy of even more destruction: rending great pits and ravines from the once bright rolling hills, piling up forbidding stone walls and mountain ranges from the rubble and refuse created in their wake. When this was done he made his great outpost realm as instructed with fences of steep jagged mountains and watched passes, and a high tower seat overlooking the broad plains. He also cut for himself a deep fissure right in the middle, summoning with his magical power the very flows of fiery liquid rock from the bowels of the earth to the surface, to serve him in making his tools and weapons and devices and materials strengthened by his enchantments. Perhaps one day he would go back there, the traveler thought to himself.
Even in the early morning the sun was punishing. He would have stopped for a reprieve at midday, but the few trees were small and most often there was no shade under which to rest, so he kept going. In the middle of one day he finally saw hope on the horizon, and he kept up his pace until he saw it was no mirage and he at last he reached relief: a small village where traders from all manner of places and directions stopped on their way to here and there and everywhere and nowhere around these vast and ignored eastern lands. There were several beasts of burden gathered around the shores of a small pond, and a central well next to it which he walked up to without trouble. He pulled himself a bucket-full, finding this water deliciously cold, then filled up his containers, which he promptly drained then filled again. Part of him cursed the delicate body in which he walked, but it was needed, if he was to remain in hiding.
The village had a small scattering of homes and businesses. The traveler had a good amount of coin with him at least, having stopped by one of the many hidden caves where his master's servants had stashed hoards of captured treasure from their exploits over the years. He walked up to an open air counter nearby where a small crowd was gathered, and in the business language of these central regions asked for a serving of whatever they offered. His stomach grumbled at the sight of the sad looking bowl of tepid stew . He realized how much he had missed the indulgence of food, cursing again such mortal burdens as hunger when they afflicted his sensations. He thought of why it was so easy to sway mortals into his service, always so vulnerable, with so many needs and uncertainties to tend to in their short time walking the world. He asked the proprietor about transportation out of the desert, and was shortly introduced to a few men out of the southeast that might be willing to let him join their caravan for work or money.
The salty trader to whom he was introduced muttered something without looking up. It was another language, not commonly spoken here and not at all back west, but the traveler understood it; indeed he understood all languages. But he feigned ignorance, looking at the server questioningly, so as not to raise suspicion or any excessive curiosity in strangers.
"He asked if you have a mind for things that need fixing," said the server.
The traveler perked up, and a little smirk emerged on his face. "What sort of things?"