It was the first of April in the year TA 2951.

The volcano, sleeping now for over 3,000 years, shook the plain of Gorgoroth with tremors that lasted for days. Then a low rumble, almost below hearing, heralded a glow within the caldera. The roaring grew until it drowned out all speech, even at a distance away. Then the mountain exploded, sending fountains of lava high in the air.

The orange light revealed a previously unnoticed feature of the landscape, the beginnings of a structure rising from the spot where the old Barad-dur had stood.

Sauron was back, and had just announced his presence.

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Blue light flickered against the walls of the Nazgul break room. On the screen were images of a distant war, or possibly a natural disaster.

Khamul wasn't really watching. He slid over on the sofa until his knee touched Adunaphel's and then oh-so-casually rested a hand on her thigh. He would have done more, but her uncle Akhorahil was standing directly behind them. Curse the old man's bad back.

Outside, muffled sounds of construction made it through the walls, the click-click of a ratchet lifting stone and the shouts of workers. The new tower was going up with astonishing speed. It gained a new story every few days. They were currently on the tenth floor, which had only existed for a week. The twelfth floor was at this moment being assembled above their heads.

The Nazgul were enjoying a rare evening off. Normally Sauron had them overseeing the work teams, or hunting through the debris field for stone blocks not too badly damaged to be used in the new construction.

Ji Indur had obtained this space by altering a construction drawing and forging Sauron's signature. He then found some unguarded furniture and gave it a new home.

Click. Images of devastation gave way to a reality show about teams about Orcs raiding villages. "I could watch that," said Ren the Unclean, pulling up a chair.

"Ji, just pick a channel and stick to it. Or give the remote to someone else," said Ren.

Click. The program guide appeared, white text on a black background. The audio of Orcs raiding villages played behind it.

Ji looked at him sideways, his voice teasing. "On public television, there's a documentary on the early days of Valinor, from the Ainulindale to Melkor's rebellion. Filmed on location in Valinor. Subtitles."

"Boring," said Ren.

At Khamul's side, Adunaphel went rigid. "Filmed in Valinor? On location? When I was growing up in Númenor, I'd have given anything to see Valinor. We have to see it, we must!"

Dwar, the Dog Lord of Waw, looked up from his jigsaw puzzle. "No subtitles. I can't read subtitles and do my puzzle at the same time." The dog at his feet thumped its tail against the slates.

"My niece is right. We Númenorians longed to see Valinor, so tantalizingly close and just beyond reach. When I was young, I climbed to the peak of Mount Meneltarma, hoping to get a glimpse of those sacred lands, but I never did."

"Sorry, Númenorians. You've been out-voted." Ji clicked back to the reality show.

The Witch King's frame filled the doorway. He was extremely tall, even for a Númenorian. "Where's Uvatha? I need him to carry a message … Is that a program about Valinor? I used to sail as close to their shores as I dared, probably too close. When the ship lifted on the swell, I'd climb into the rigging and look west, but I never saw more than green reflected on the underside of clouds."

"So that's three votes for the documentary. But I still have the remote," said Ji.

"I'm bigger than you, and less patient," said the Witch King, exuding menace.

With a sign, Ji pointed the remote and clicked on the public television channel.