Chapter 1544 - hh

G Remove this ad spaceIf you are interested in interactive stories, check out our Quests section! With Quests, readers get to vote on what happens next after every chapter.We've got some updates about the official SpaceBattles Discord server!The thread list user interface for Creative Writing and Quests has been updated. Here's what's new!Creative Works Creative Writing In Servitio Mali [LOTR Sauron SI] Thread starterCommissar Cletus Start dateMonday at 12:48 AM Tags lord of the rings (middle-earth) empire building isekai self insert sauron canon divergence (alternate universe) canon-typical violence industrial warfare magic and technology orcs author has no idea how any of this works canon is a guideline discussion makes the author happy geneva checklist industrialization uplift war crimes the third ageCreatedMonday at 12:48 AMStatusOngoingWatchers633Recent readers1,892Threadmarks3"What would happen if your average Paradox map painter player got put in Sauron's boots and decided to introduce the rest of Middle-earth to the horrors of true industrialized warfare?"ThreadmarksStatistics (3 threadmarks, 14k words)ThreadmarksHide awards Reader mode RSS Chapter 1Words 2.4kMonday at 12:48 AMChapter 2Words 5.9kMonday at 12:49 AMChapter 3Words 5.9kMonday at 12:54 AMJump to newIgnoreWatchThread toolsThreadmarksView content Remove this ad spaceThreadmarks Chapter 1 View contentCommissar CletusThat one commie with the autismo supremoHe/HimMonday at 12:48 AMAdd bookmark#1The Nazgûl stood at the ridge overlooking the mountains, ancient memories stirring in what remained of its soul. Three thousand years had passed since the Ring was cut from its master's hand. Three thousand years of searching, of whispers and rumors, of false trails and empty victories. Now, after all those ages of the world, the Ring's song pulled at the tattered edges of its being. It was here, among these peaks where the Misty Mountains pierced the clouds.

Through the bond of sorcery that bound all the Nine to their master, the Nazgûl remembered its command: "Find what was lost. Let none who see it live." The Dark Lord spoke differently now—gone were the days of grand speeches about dominion and power. Now he gave only the command that mattered.

The wraith's thoughts crossed the leagues to Barad-dûr: "The western peaks are empty. We move to search the central caves." The Dark Lord's will pressed back: "Take what time you need. Let nothing escape your search." After three millennia, a few more days meant nothing.

Below, an orc camp sprawled across the mountainside. The Nazgûl descended, its presence sending ripples of terror through the tribe. These mountain orcs would serve—they knew these caves, and their hunger never ceased. The tribe's leader approached, groveling, pressing its forehead to the frozen ground.

"Search every cave," the Nazgûl said. "Kill all you find. Bring me what they carried. Hide nothing, or your death will be slow." Such simple orders had been repeated countless times over the centuries, in every dark corner of Middle-earth where the Ring's presence was suspected.

The orc chief nodded frantically. Fear needed no explanation.

The Nazgûl found a flat rock overlooking the valley. From here, it could watch the search parties spread through the mountains like insects swarming over a carcass. The Ring was here—its pull was stronger than it had been since that distant day on the slopes of Orodruin when all was lost. It would be found.

The first search party returned by midday. They dropped their findings before the Nazgûl: broken arrows, rusty knives, and torn clothing. Worthless trinkets, like thousands before them. The second group brought similar refuse. The third had found only bones. Each item was examined with the same eternal patience that had sustained the search through ages of the world.

As darkness fell, the Nazgûl sent word: "The central caves hold nothing of worth." The Dark Lord's thoughts came swift and clear: "Then search until they do." The certainty in that command echoed with power. This was not like the countless false leads of centuries past. The Ring was here.

Through the night the orcs returned, and the Nazgûl examined their findings. Somewhere in these caves, a creature named Gollum still breathed. When the orcs found him, their nature would take its course. And among his possessions, what was lost would be found.

Deep beneath the roots of the mountain, where even goblin-kind rarely ventured, one of the many orc search parties followed the narrow tunnel downward. The air grew thick with the smell of stagnant water, and their torches cast wild shadows on the slick stone walls.

Grishtag led the group, his nose twitching at an unfamiliar scent. Not goblin, not man, but something else. Something that had lived down here a very long time. The tunnel opened into a vast cavern, and in its center lay a black pool, still as glass.

A splash. Then another. Something moving in the darkness beyond their torchlight.

"Spread out, maggots!" Grishtag growled. "Whatever it is, we'll-"

A rock whistled through the darkness, striking Durgash in the head. As he stumbled, something pale and thin as a spider launched itself from behind a boulder, shrieking words that made no sense.

"Thieves! Thieves! False ones! They comes to steal from us!"

The creature moved like nothing they'd ever hunted. It leaped between rocks, swift as a fish through water, its huge eyes reflecting their torchlight like a cat's. When Narblak grabbed for it, needle-sharp teeth sank into his arm.

"Mine! Mine! My precious, my precious!"

Three orcs cornered it against the pool's edge. The thing was small, emaciated, but it fought with the desperate strength of a trapped animal. It clawed and bit, bones cracking under its grip as it fought to break free.

"Bad orcses! Nasty orcses! We kills them all!"

Grishtag caught a glimpse of something golden clutched in its fishing-hand as the creature spun away from their blades. Then Durgash's sword caught it in the leg, and the thing stumbled. That was all the opening they needed.

"No, no! Not the precious! Mustn't take the precious! Nooo!"

The creature's wail of anguish echoed off the cavern walls as the orcs fell upon it with blade and fang. Even as they tore into its flesh, it kept screaming, kept clutching at something in its hand.

Its last scream broke off in a gurgle. When the feeding frenzy ended, Grishtag searched through what remained. Among the scraps of cloth and bone, something round and golden gleamed in the torchlight.

"The black rider will want to see this," he grunted, picking up the ring. They gathered the few other trinkets scattered around the cave—some dirty rags, a few fish bones, and that mysterious golden ring that the creature had fought so hard to keep.

The feast had been good, if a bit lean. By the time they climbed back to the surface, all that remained of the cave-thing was a handful of items wrapped in a bloodied cloth.

Hours passed as search parties emerged from different cave mouths, each reporting their findings—or lack thereof. Then one group was late returning. The Nazgûl felt the Ring's pull grow stronger as it waited, knowing they had gone deep into the mountain's roots.

When they finally emerged, they carried something wrapped in their ragged cloaks.

"Found this one in the deep caves, beneath the goblin tunnels," the lead orc said, dropping a bloody bundle at the Nazgûl's feet. "Hiding in the dark near an underground pool. Fought like a hungry warg, but there were more of us."

The Nazgûl reached down and undid the bundle. Only bits of bone and flesh remained— orcs were thorough in their feeding. But among the scraps and tatters, something caught the pale light. Something that had not been seen by any servant of the Dark Lord since the days when Gil-galad was High King and the armies of the Last Alliance marched across Middle-earth.

The Ring lay in the Nazgûl's palm, perfect and untouched by the ages that had passed. No scratch marked its surface, no tarnish dulled its gleam. The same Ring that had been cut from Sauron's hand by Isildur's broken blade. The same Ring that had betrayed Isildur to his death, that had lain in the river-mud for two millennia, that had twisted the creature Gollum through five hundred years of darkness. The One Ring, forged in the fires of Mount Doom, found at last by a simple search of hungry orcs.

Through the bond of shadow and sorcery, it sent its thoughts to Barad-dûr: "The Ring is found."

The Dark Lord's will responded with cold satisfaction: "Return it to me."

The Nazgûl tucked the Ring away and turned toward Mordor, leaving the orcs to their mountain caves. They had served their purpose—just another tribe that had raided, killed, and brought trinkets to a dark master. Nothing out of the ordinary for their kind. None of them could comprehend that they had just changed the fate of Middle-earth with a simple cave raid.

The task was done. The Third Age's greatest hunt was over, ended not with epic battles or mighty sorcery, but with a routine search by hungry orcs. The Ring was found. Nothing else mattered.

The autumn sun hung low over Rivendell, its golden light catching in the spray of countless waterfalls and casting rainbow shadows through the carved pillars of the Last Homely House. In the library, the day's warmth lingered in ancient stones that had witnessed three Ages of the world. The chamber stood quiet save for the rustle of pages and the distant music of elvish harps.

Elrond Half-elven stood before a great lectern where a massive tome lay open, its gilded pages illuminated by the fading light. His ageless face bore the slight smile of one engaged in pleasant work as he carefully transferred fading Quenya text to fresh parchment. Beside him, Gandalf the Grey examined a collection of maps that needed restoration, his practiced eye seeking the places where time had begun to blur the careful work of elvish cartographers.

They had been at this task since midday, preserving the knowledge of ages past—the sort of patient work that filled the long days of autumn, when the valley grew quiet and thoughts turned to the gathering of wisdom rather than its use. The preservation of lore had occupied them thus for centuries, keeping alive the memory of years beyond counting.

"This account of the founding of Gondolin," Elrond said, his quill moving with practiced grace across new parchment, "contains details I've not seen in other sources. Pengolodh must have revised his histories after reaching Tol Eressëa." He paused to compare a line of script. "Though I confess some of these archaic forms trouble me."

"Hmm?" Gandalf looked up from a delicate map of ancient Beleriand. "Ah, yes. The High Elven tongue changed substantially during the Years of the Trees. Even Círdan occasionally struggles with the eldest texts." He set aside his work and moved to examine the passage in question. The smoke from his pipe rose in contemplative rings that caught the evening light, forming patterns that seemed almost meaningful before fading away.

Around them, the daily life of Imladris continued its eternal rhythm. In the gardens below, elvish voices lifted in the evening hymn to Elbereth. The song drifted up through the windows, mingling with the ever-present music of falling water. A thrush landed on the windowsill, adding its evening song to the symphony of approaching dusk.

Gandalf watched as Elrond moved to a side table where a carafe of deep red wine had been set out earlier. The Elf-lord's movements were deliberate and graceful—the same careful grace that had served him as a healer through three Ages of the world. He poured two goblets, offering one to the wizard with a slight smile.

"We have spent more afternoons thus than I can count," he said, gesturing to the spread of books and scrolls around them. "Ever preserving the past while the present slips by like these autumn leaves." There was no sadness in his voice—only the quiet contemplation of one who had seen centuries pass like seasons.

"The quiet work endures," Gandalf replied, accepting the wine. "When all the great deeds and battles are done, it is these letters and lines that remain to tell the tale. Though I sometimes wonder—"

As if struck by an unseen blade, Gandalf staggered suddenly, one hand clutching at his chest. The goblet tumbled from nerveless fingers, wine spilling across the ancient stones like blood.

The crash of crystal on stone echoed through suddenly deadened air. Even that sharp sound seemed muffled, as if the very fabric of the world had grown thick and heavy. The thrush's song cut off mid-note, the bird itself frozen on the windowsill like a creature carved from stone. In the gardens below, the evening hymn faltered and died, elvish voices falling silent one by one as the singers felt the change ripple through Imladris like a wave of shadow.

Elrond gripped the edge of the ancient lectern, his knuckles white against the carved wood. The color had drained from his face, leaving him pale as winter moonlight. Vilya, the Ring of Air, seemed to pulse against his flesh with a cold that burned like frost. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, as if the very air had grown too heavy to draw into his lungs.

"Mithrandir," he whispered, the word barely carrying across the suddenly vast space between them. "This feeling... not since the shadow of Mordor stretched across Eriador have I felt such..."

But Gandalf did not, could not respond. The wizard had sunk to one knee, his staff clattering against the stone floor. His lined face was drawn in pain, one hand still pressed against his chest where Narya, the Ring of Fire, lay hidden. The ring's warmth, which had burned steady as a hearth-flame for centuries, now guttered like a candle in a mighty wind.

A/N:

Yeah, uhh, howdy? For those who are reading this for the first time, welcome. This originally started off as a snippet in my plot bunny thread, but given that I've now already written three chapters for it, I decided that it deserved its own thread.

The whole thing just kinda started off with me having another one of my random insert ideas, and since I'd already one bodysnatching story for Sonic, I figured I'd take that idea and apply it to the setting of Tolkien's legendarium. Of course the main difference here is that in this one the world is essentially against the protagonist from the start and things like absolute good and evil, fate and destiny... all of them are very real tangible things written into the fabric of the setting's reality.

But then we come to the question of what happens when someone who is dropped in out-of-context is force to inhabit the role of someone who is a servant of evil. If you're a bad guy like Sauron, you're always destined to be an evil dude who will eventually be defeated because that's just how the world works. But what if you were to struggle against that fate regardless? This story is my attempt to answer that question.

I make no promises about how often I'll update this story, but the fact that it was my most popular snippet in terms of likes received is certainly encouraging.

Anyway, your feedback, as always, is very much appreciated. Peace.​Like Award Reply213Commissar CletusMonday at 12:48 AMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 2 View contentCommissar CletusThat one commie with the autismo supremoHe/HimMonday at 12:49 AMAdd bookmark#2The chamber at the summit of Barad-dûr was silent as the Black Captain placed the golden band upon the obsidian table. The Ring caught what little light filtered through the high windows, reflecting it with unnatural brilliance against the dark stone walls.

"As you commanded, my lord," the Witch-King said, his voice a dry whisper beneath the iron crown. "None witnessed its recovery and none but orc live who might speak of it."

I nodded, dismissing the wraith with a slight gesture. As the armored figure receded into shadow, I realized my hands were trembling. Years of careful planning, meticulous calculations, and patient manipulation had led to this moment—the moment original Sauron never achieved.

The Ring waited, perfectly still on the black surface before me.

I reached for it, then hesitated. The surge of memories that weren't my own crashed against my consciousness. The forging at Mount Doom. The wars. The centuries of patient waiting. The defeat and separation from its master. The Ring carried all these memories, all the essence of what Sauron had been. And now it would become part of me.

Or would I become part of it?

"Three thousand years," I whispered, examining the simple band of gold. "And now it's mine."

But is it truly mine? I thought. Or am I merely returning it to its original owner?

This had been the question that haunted me since my arrival in this body—this form that had once been the Dark Lord of Mordor. How much of me was still the person I had been before? How much was now the Lieutenant of Morgoth, corrupted Maia, enemy of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth?

I picked up the Ring, feeling its surprising weight. It was heavier than it should be, as if the gold contained some dense element unknown to periodic tables. Warmer, too—not from the Witch-King's journey, but from some internal heat that seemed to pulse against my skin.

"I am not him," I said aloud, my voice echoing in the empty chamber. "I know his memories, I inhabit his form, but I am not Sauron."

The Ring seemed to grow warmer, pulsing slightly against my palm. Almost as if it was congratulating me on succeeding where Sauron had failed.

The efficiency of how quickly it was retrieved, how well executed the recovery operation was, should have pleased me.

Yet as I stood in the highest chamber of Barad-dûr, the Ring heavy in my hand, I felt neither triumph nor satisfaction. Only a cold, creeping dread.

What happens when I put it on? Will it complete the transformation? Will I disappear, leaving only Sauron?

The cosmic mechanics of my arrival in Middle-earth remained mysterious. One moment I'd been falling asleep after watching Return of the King for the dozenth time. The next, I was... this. Inhabiting a form both ancient and powerful, with memories stretching back to the Music of the Ainur.

I'd used that knowledge, along with my modern understanding of logistics, industrial development, and military strategy, to create my efficient plan. Find the Ring quickly. Modernize Mordor. Establish hegemony through industrial capacity and only then wage war on Sauron's mortal enemies.

It was working perfectly. Yet now, with the Ring before me, I remembered something else from those memories that weren't mine: the nature of evil in Arda was not ambiguous. The corrupted couldn't choose to be good—only to cease being corrupt, which meant ceasing to be at all.

"Is that the fate you have planned for me?" I asked the Ring, speaking to it as if it could answer. In a way, perhaps it could. "Am I just a vessel for your return? A convenient mind with otherworldly knowledge to help you achieve what Sauron couldn't?"

The Ring remained silent, just as heat against my palm remained a constant.

I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of choice pressing upon me. The creature Gollum had possessed the Ring for five hundred years. Bilbo for decades. Neither had become Sauron, though both had been corrupted by its influence to varying degrees.

But neither had been inhabiting Sauron's form. Neither had contained the fragmented essence of a Maia, however diminished.

"What if I just don't put it on?" I said to the empty room. "What if I just lock it away? Use conventional means to build Mordor into a modern power?"

The answer came not from the Ring but from my own strategic mind. Without the Ring's power, I would remain vulnerable. The Wise of Middle-earth—Gandalf, Elrond, Galadriel—would eventually sense my growing power. They would move against me, perhaps decades later than in the original timeline, but move they would.

And there was another problem, one that sent a chill through me despite the Ring's warmth against my palm. If I didn't take the Ring for myself, someone else would eventually seek it. Saruman, perhaps. Or worse—someone I hadn't accounted for, some variable outside my careful calculations.

The thought of Saruman with both the Ring and a wizard's power to use it effectively was enough to make my decision. Better the devil I knew—myself—than one I couldn't control.

"I am not him," I said again, more firmly this time. "I will use the Ring, but I will not become him."

I slipped the Ring onto my finger.

The world changed.

The stone walls of Barad-dûr fell away like mist. The material realm receded, revealing the unseen world that existed alongside it. Here, in this half-realm of shadow and light, I could see the great webs of power that stretched across Middle-earth—the song of the Ainur made visible.

And I could feel the Ring merging with me, reconnecting with the power I had invested in it millennia ago.

No, not me. Sauron. The power Sauron had invested.

Yet now that power flowed through me, a torrent of energy and awareness that threatened to sweep away my identity. Memories flooded my consciousness—not the fragmented recollections I'd had before, but complete, visceral experiences from a life span stretching back to the dawn of creation.

I saw Aulë's forges, felt the joy of creation. Witnessed Melkor's rebellion, felt the seduction of his promises. Experienced the War of Wrath, the forming of the rings, the Last Alliance's desperate victory. All through Sauron's eyes, with Sauron's emotions, Sauron's convictions.

I fought against the tide, struggling to maintain my sense of self. Modern knowledge clashed with ancient wisdom. Steel and glass skyscrapers dissolved into the towers of Númenor. Strategic theories from business school tangled with battle plans from the First Age.

I am not him, I repeated, the phrase becoming a mantra. I have his memories, but I am not Sauron.

Slowly, painfully, I reasserted control. The memories remained, more complete than before, but I was not consumed by them. The Ring's power flowed through me, but it was mine to direct.

The chamber looked different to my enhanced perception. I could see the subtle flows of power in the very stones of Barad-dûr, could sense the Nazgûl far below, could feel the distant presence of the other Rings of Power scattered across Middle-earth.

I walked to the balcony that overlooked Mordor, surveying the realm that was now truly mine. With the Ring's power, I could accelerate my plans for modernization tenfold. Steam power, railroads, standardized production—all could be implemented with unprecedented speed.

But there was another possibility now, one that hadn't existed before. With the Ring, I could reach out to the Free Peoples not as a conqueror but as... what? A reformer? A benevolent guide bringing Middle-earth into a new age of progress?

I laughed bitterly at the thought. No matter my intentions, no matter how I tried to frame my actions, the leaders of the Free Peoples would see only Sauron, the Dark Lord and servant of Morgoth, returned to once again conquer Middle-Earth. They wouldn't wait to observe my intentions. They would move against me the moment they knew I was back.

Elrond and Gandalf would already know something had changed—they would have felt the Ring's power reconnecting with its master. Even now, they would be calling the white council together, gathering forces, preparing for the war they believed inevitable.

"Perhaps it is inevitable," I said, gazing out at the ashen plains. "Perhaps in this world, I cannot escape the role I've been given."

The thought should have filled me with despair, but instead, I felt a strange calm. If I was doomed to be the villain of this tale, I would be a different kind of villain than Sauron had been. One who understood that true power came not from fear and domination, but from creating systems that worked, that stood the test of time.

I would build my railroads. I would establish my industries. I would create a Mordor that functioned as more than just a war machine. And when the inevitable conflict came, I would be prepared in ways the Free Peoples couldn't imagine.

The question remained though, if I was not Sauron, who was I?

Did it even matter?

"The work is proceeding as planned, My Lord." One of my many servants tells me in a groveling voice as the stack of written documents in his hands is placed onto my desk. "Here are the reports that you requested."

I nod, dismissing the messenger with a wave of my gauntleted hand. Many of the Dark Lord's servants would've done more to intimidate the messenger, but I've found that a simple dismissal works just as well. Fear is efficient, but only to a point.

Once alone, I spread the reports across the obsidian desk, examining the diagrams and production figures. The artillery corps is progressing faster than even I had anticipated. The rifling technique had been particularly troublesome at first—convincing orcs to value precision over brute force was like teaching cats to swim—but the execution rate had dropped significantly over the past month as they adapted.

I trace my finger over a technical drawing of what will become Mordor's first field cannon battalion. The design is elegant in its simplicity: bronze-steel alloy barrels, standardized ammunition, wheeled carriages with primitive recoil systems. Nothing that a more modern army would field mind you, but when your opponents fight mostly with medieval gear—steel swords and wooden shields, bow and arrow—even Napoleonic-era artillery will feel like bringing a six shooter to a knife fight.

I had to admit, there was something almost intoxicating about wielding this kind of technological advantage. In my old life, I'd been nobody special—just another cog in the machinery of capitalism with an addiction to isekai stories and too many hours logged in strategy games. Now I was literally rewriting the history of Middle-earth, introducing methods of production and logistics to a world that did not know the horrors of industrialized warfare.

And starting with artillery was no accident. Guns might be more immediately useful, but mass-producing reliable rapid-firing firearms required precision manufacturing capabilities I couldn't yet create. Artillery, though—that was different. Larger tolerances, simpler mechanisms, and devastatingly effective against massed formations and stone fortifications. The armies of the West wouldn't know what hit them.

I shuffled through another report—this one detailing the refinements done to our black powder mixture based on the knowledge that I imparted to the few alchemists that I had managed to secure. The mixture was still crude by modern standards, but it was consistent and stable enough for field use. I'd had to balance the amount of sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter carefully to achieve reliable ignition without risking premature detonation. It would work well for now until I could set up facilities for a proper chemical industry and train a workforce for it.

As I looked through it, I felt the ring in on my finger whisper to me, encouraging my ambitions to ever greater heights, encouraging me to make use of my developing arsenal to wage war on the Free Peoples, to burn their cities to the ground and slaughter the inhabitants, to make them bow before me in fear. But I knew better than to listen to it. The ring wanted bloodshed and destruction. It wanted to subjugate.

I closed my eyes, pushing back against its influence. I'd come to understand that the ring itself was partially sentient—an extension of the original Sauron's will and malice. It didn't understand what I was trying to accomplish. The old Sauron had been obsessed with domination for its own sake. I had different plans. And ultimately, while the Ring had a will, I was still its master and not the other way around.

When I opened my eyes again, I studied the map of Middle-earth spread across another section of my desk. Gondor, Rohan, the Elvish realms—all marked with detailed notes on fortifications, troop strengths, and potential vulnerabilities. But I wasn't planning the kind of conquest these lands feared. At least, not yet.

"No," I said to nobody in particular. "I shall build tall, and on a strong material foundation."

The war that is waiting ahead of me will no doubt be cataclysmic, but it won't be one where the outcome will be decided by individual skill or bravery nor with swords and armor.

I'll make sure of that.

Edrion stood guard on the walls of Minas Tirith as usual, doing his regular patrols just the same as the other soldiers that protected one of the last great bastions of Gondor's strength. Like all who served, he could recite the watchtower protocols in his sleep—the proper signaling for riders approaching, the correct trumpet calls to sound for various threats, the exact procedure for rotating the watch.

But today, something was different. The air felt charged, as if a storm approached, though the sky remained clear. Edrion shifted uncomfortably, his chainmail suddenly feeling too tight across his shoulders.

"See anything?" asked Thalion, his brother-in-arms, as he came to stand beside him on the battlement.

"Nothing," Edrion replied, squinting at the distant plains of Pelennor. "Though I've had this strange feeling since dawn. Like something's watching us."

Thalion laughed, though the sound held little humor. "That's just Mordor. Always watching, always waiting. But they haven't moved in force for a long time now." He gestured toward the distant mountains, perpetually shrouded in shadow and smoke. "Something's changed over there. The rangers say the orcs are building rather than raiding."

Edrion nodded absently, still scanning the horizon. The reports had grown stranger over the past months. Travelers spoke of rumors of new constructions in the vicinity of the Black Gate, strange iron roads cutting through the wastelands of Mordor. The Dark Lord's servants had been curiously absent from the border regions, even as Gondor's patrols had grown complacent with the long peace.

No raids took place on merchant caravans, no orcs seemed to be even venturing out. If anything, their scouts told stories about how the servants of shadow seemed to be digging in deeper and preparing more permanent defenses in places like the old capital of Osgiliath. It was as if Mordor had suddenly become focused on some internal purpose rather than outward conquest.

Just what were the orcs and their dark master planning?

Greznok's arms burned as he hefted another length of iron into place. The metal was still warm from the forge, fresh-cast in shapes no orc had seen before—long, straight bars with strange ridges along one side. The bar's weight bit into his calloused palms as he aligned it with the wooden sleepers already hammered into the ashen ground.

"Hold it steady," growled Muzgash from the other end. Together they lowered the iron bar, careful to keep it true against the wooden guides carved with unfamiliar runes.

Nearby, the forge-master watched with hollow eyes. Once he had crafted swords and spearheads; now he cast only these peculiar bars, day and night without cease, according to patterns that had come directly from Barad-dûr.

The Dark Lord's command had been absolute: build the path exactly as shown in the drawings. None understood what they were creating, only that failure meant death.

"I don't see the purpose," muttered Ungdung, driving iron spikes to secure the bar. "A road of iron? What walks on iron?"

Greznok kept his head down, hammering his own spikes with practiced rhythm. Two moons had passed since the labor began, enough time to know better than to question. Five overseers had already been flayed for asking why. Twenty workers had been fed to the wargs for deviating from the plans.

The ways of Mordor had changed. No longer were they simply preparing for war, forging weapons and breeding war-beasts. Now they built... other things. Strange things. Things with no clear purpose in battle or conquest, yet which consumed ever more of Mordor's resources and labor.

"They say in the southern pits," Muzgash whispered, barely audible above the ringing of hammers, "they're building great wheels of iron. Bigger than siege engines. Rimmed with teeth like a circular saw."

Greznok said nothing, but his yellow eyes flickered briefly toward the forge-master, watching for any sign the conversation had been overheard. The Mouth of Sauron had spies everywhere now, creatures who reported all whispers and rumors directly to the Tower.

A shadow passed overhead, and instinctively, every orc hunched lower over their work. One of the Nazgûl circled above on its fell beast, inspecting their progress from the air. The winged creature's shriek cut through the sulfurous haze, sending a chill through the labor crew despite the heat of the forge.

"The path must reach the mining camp by the first frost," the forge-master said when the Nazgûl had passed. "The Dark Lord has decreed it."

"What for?" The question came from a younger orc, one too new from the breeding pits to know better. "What travels on iron?"

The forge-master turned slowly, his scarred face betraying nothing. "Iron will travel on iron," he said finally. "Power will travel on iron. The Dark Lord's will shall travel on iron, faster than beasts can run, heavier than armies can march."

The younger orc frowned, confusion plain on his brutish features. "But how—"

"It is not for us to know how," the forge-master cut him off. "Only to build. The Dark Lord has seen beyond the mountains. Beyond the ways of old. There are new ways coming to Mordor."

Greznok kept his head down, focusing on the iron bar before him, but his mind stirred with uncomfortable thoughts. New ways. The forge-master spoke as if Mordor itself was changing, becoming something other than what it had always been—a realm of war and conquest, of simple brutality.

By midday, they had laid twenty lengths of the iron path, stretching like a blackened scar across the plain. Other crews worked ahead and behind them, preparing the ground or securing the wooden sleepers. In the distance, at the foot of the ashen hills, new tunnels were being dug—not the haphazard burrows orcs typically created, but precise, reinforced passages that delved deep into the mountain's heart.

When the horns sounded for the day's final labor shift, Greznok's crew trudged toward the watering station. There they found a messenger from Barad-dûr, one of the Tower's dark-robed servants, consulting with the pit-master.

"Double the pace," the pit-master announced after the messenger departed. "The foundries will work through the night. New forges are being built at the northern quarry. The iron path must be completed before they are finished."

A murmur passed through the assembled crews. Double the pace meant double the deaths from exhaustion and accidents. It meant no rest between shifts, no reprieve from the endless labor.

"Why the hurry?" Ungdung whispered as they collected their water rations. "What enemy marches that we must build so quickly?"

"No enemy," said a voice behind them. The crews turned to find one of the Tower's overseers, a tall, pale figure with eyes like burning coals. "The enemy sleeps still, thinking Mordor dormant. By the time they wake, it will be too late."

The overseer surveyed the iron path stretching back toward Barad-dûr. "Soon the ground will tremble with the coming of the great engines. Iron beasts that need no rest, that hunger only for fire and water, that can pull the weight of a thousand orcs without tiring."

Greznok exchanged glances with Muzgash. Iron beasts? It sounded like madness, yet the overseer spoke with cold certainty.

"Three moons," the overseer continued. "Three moons until the first test. Those who build well will see it. Those who fail will feed the foundations."

That night, as they huddled in the crude barracks carved into the mountain's edge, Greznok found himself unable to sleep. Outside, the iron path gleamed faintly under the waning moon, running straight as a spear-throw toward the horizon. Tomorrow they would add more lengths, and the next day more still, until it reached whatever destination the Dark Lord had decreed.

"I had a buddy in the deep forges," Muzgash said quietly from the darkness. "He said they're building something there. Something that will change everything. A great beast of metal with a belly of fire, with smoke for breath and thunder for its voice."

"Superstitious dung," Ungdung grunted. "Metal doesn't live."

"Not live," Muzgash insisted. "But move. Like the great siege towers, but without any beasts to pull them. Moving by some craft of the Dark Lord."

Greznok rolled onto his side, staring through the crude window at the iron path outside. "If such a thing could be built," he said slowly, "it would carry more than any wagon. More than any team of beasts could pull."

"Armies," Ungdung suggested. "It's for moving armies."

But Greznok wasn't so sure. The Dark Lord had no shortage of armies. Orcs bred quickly, and the pits were always full. No, this felt like something else. Something beyond the old ways of Mordor, beyond simple conquest and destruction.

"The forge-master said the Dark Lord has seen beyond the mountains," he said quietly. "Perhaps he has seen things we cannot imagine."

"Since when do you imagine anything?" Ungdung snorted. "We serve. We fight. We die. That's all we're made for and all you need to worry about."

Greznok didn't respond. The iron path outside seemed to mock him with its strange purpose, its mysterious destination. For the first time in his brutal existence, he felt a nagging sense that Mordor was becoming something he no longer recognized—something with designs more complex than mere domination.

As he finally drifted toward sleep, Greznok wondered if he would live long enough to see the purpose of their labor revealed. To see what manner of power would travel on these iron roads, stretching like black veins across the body of Mordor.

Whatever it was, he sensed it would change everything. Not just for the lands beyond Mordor's borders, but for those who had always dwelled within its shadow, serving its dark purpose without question.

The old Mordor was dying. Something new was being forged in its place, hammered into shape like the iron bars they laid each day. Whether this new Mordor would be better or worse for his kind, Greznok couldn't begin to guess.

But change was coming. He could feel it in the earth beneath the iron path, trembling with anticipation of what was to come.

Vrasku had survived seventeen winters in the service of Mordor. He had mined through cave-ins, fought in three border skirmishes, and once escaped a cave troll gone mad in the breeding pits. But nothing had prepared him for the new forges.

Heat was no stranger to orcs. They worked forge fires and dwelt in volcanic shadows. But the great furnaces that now burned day and night in the shadow of Orodruin generated a heat that seemed drawn from the Mountain's fiery heart itself—constant, relentless, hungrier than any flame Vrasku had known before.

The ore glowed orange-white in the great crucible as Vrasku and his crew approached with their long-handled tools. Their task was simple yet deadly: draw the impurities from the molten metal, then guide its flow into the waiting molds. Seven orcs had been claimed by fire during the last waxing of the moon alone.

"Ready," called the forge-master, his scarred face gleaming with sweat behind a mask of treated hide. "Steady."

Vrasku gripped his iron rake. The coverings on his hands—stiff hide reinforced with crude metal plates—had already begun to smoke from the crucible's heat. These coverings were new, provided after too many skilled workers had been lost to burns and could no longer serve the Dark Lord's purpose.

"Now."

As one, the crew thrust their tools into the molten metal, drawing the dark slag from the surface. The impurities glowed with malevolent light as they dragged them toward the edge. Even through his mask, Vrasku could feel his skin tightening from the heat, the moisture in his eyes evaporating like morning dew in Gorgoroth.

A younger orc—Razhluk, newly assigned from the mines—stumbled on the uneven stones. His rake dipped too deeply into the molten metal, sending a splash arcing through the air. The droplets struck another worker across his unprotected neck. The screams that followed were mercifully brief as the injured orc stumbled backward, falling from the platform into the darkness below.

No one moved to help. There was no stopping once the pour had begun.

"Continue," the forge-master ordered, his voice flat.

Vrasku and the others worked methodically, ignoring the acrid smell of burned flesh that joined the sulfurous reek of the forge. Accidents were common. Survival required focus.

Later, as they directed the flow of molten metal into the waiting troughs—long channels that would form the strange bars for the new paths being laid across Mordor—Vrasku noticed something unusual. The patterns carved into the stone were different, more exact than anything he'd seen before. Every channel and groove seemed identical to the last, as if shaped by some unseen power rather than mortal hands.

"Step away," ordered a voice from behind.

One of the pale men from the far south approached, his eyes hidden behind dark circles of glass bound in leather. These men appeared wherever the new works were being built, examining the metals with strange rituals. They answered directly to the Tower, and even the Nazgûl gave them passage.

The man examined the cooling metal, touching it with a slender rod that seemed to change color with the heat. He made marks on a sheet of skin with a charcoal stick, muttering words in a tongue Vrasku didn't recognize.

"It will serve," he said finally. "Continue."

As the man departed, Razhluk sidled closer to Vrasku. "What is he looking for in the metal? Metal is metal."

Vrasku shook his head. "Not anymore. There are different kinds now. Different... strengths."

The concept felt strange to contemplate. Orcs had worked iron since the Elder Days, but the idea that metal itself could be changed, made stronger or weaker through some dark craft, was unsettling. Yet that was the way of the new Mordor. Everything had purpose. Everything served some greater design that few could comprehend.

"Back to your places," the forge-master called. "The second crucible awaits."

The grueling rhythm continued through the day. Pour, cool, break free, repeat. Each cycle produced more of the strange components that were carried away to be assembled into machines Vrasku had only glimpsed being tested on the plains beyond the slag heaps.

When the final horn marked the end of their labors, Vrasku and the surviving crew shuffled toward the water troughs—another change from the old ways. Water was precious in Mordor, but the new works demanded cleanliness of a sort. The dust of the forge in your lungs, they were told, meant fewer days of service. The Dark Lord required duration now, not just bodies.

In the crude barracks beyond the forge, Vrasku collapsed onto his pallet. His skin burned from the day's heat, his chest ached from the forge-smoke, and his muscles throbbed from the constant labor. Yet he had survived another day, which was more than could be said for all who had entered the great furnace hall that morning.

"They say we're making ten times the metal Mordor forged before," Razhluk said, settling onto a neighboring pallet. "Ten times."

Vrasku grunted. Such numbers meant little to him. All he knew was that the work never ceased, the demands only grew, and the designs became ever more strange.

"I heard in the northern forges, they're shaping hollow metal," Razhluk continued. "Long tubes of iron, with spirals carved inside, like the pattern water makes when it drains from a pool."

"What for?" asked Grulshak, an older orc whose face was a map of burn scars from years at the forge.

Razhluk lowered his voice. "They say it's a weapon. Something that speaks with thunder and kills at a distance greater than any bow. Something that can pierce armor as if it were parchment."

Vrasku had heard similar whispers. The new works included more than just the strange paths of iron and the great furnaces. Secret mixtures were being ground in guarded chambers. Metal pieces were being crafted with such exactness that one could not be told from another.

"They awakened something beyond the eastern ridge," he said. "Three nights past. The sound carried even here—like thunder, but sharper."

The barracks fell silent as each orc considered what this might mean. Mordor had always prepared for war, but this felt different. More purposeful. As if the Dark Lord had glimpsed some future that required not just conquest but transformation.

"Sleep," Vrasku finally said. "Those who falter tomorrow will feed the fires."

As the others settled into uneasy slumber, Vrasku stared into the darkness. His hands throbbed from the day's burns, his back ached from the endless lifting. Tomorrow would bring more of the same—heat, danger, exhaustion. Yet he would endure, as he always had.

But sometimes, in the space between waking and sleep, he wondered what manner of war they were preparing for. What enemy required such weapons. What purpose demanded such precision.

In all his years serving Mordor, Vrasku had never asked why. Orcs did not question; they obeyed. But as the strange furnaces roared and the new weapons took shape, a disquieting thought formed in his mind:

Mordor was changing. And if Mordor could change, what else might be possible?

The thought troubled him more than he cared to admit. He pushed it away, focusing instead on the immediate concerns of survival. Tomorrow's labors would begin before dawn. Another day of slag and metal, of fire and purpose.

Another day in the new Mordor, where even the nature of war itself was being reforged.

"Don't let me see any of you maggots slacking off! The eye has commanded that the boomtubes be ready by the time the next war begins!"

A whip cracked, and the foreman stepped into view. His breath steamed in the cold morning air, the chill a sharp contrast to the previous day's heat. He snapped the whip again, punctuating his commands.

Krakus rose from his pallet, wincing as his muscles protested. He grabbed a hunk of crusty bread before heading toward the workshop. Around him, the others did the same. They moved with faces set in grim determination—none wanted to be the first to falter.

The workshop wasn't like the great forge halls. Instead of open flames and rivers of molten metal, it housed rows of benches where precision was the master and patience its apprentice. Krakus took his position at the far end, where the strange tubes—"boomtubes," the foreman called them—waited for his skilled hands.

"These need rifling," the pale-skinned overseer said, pointing to a stack of hollow metal cylinders. His accent was strange, not from any land Krakus knew. "Seven grooves, left twist, one turn in thirty spans. Exactly like you lot were instructed."

Krakus grunted in acknowledgment like everyone else and took up his tools. The rifling process was exacting work—carving precise spiral grooves inside metal tubes using specialized cutting heads. When he'd first been assigned to this task, he'd thought it madness. Why weaken a tube with internal cuts? But after three workers had been executed for questioning, he'd learned to keep his confusion to himself.

"Steady hands now," muttered Durz beside him, an older orc with one milky eye. "Remember what happened to Grishnak."

Krakus remembered. Grishnak had asked too many questions about the meaning of their work and had paid for it with his life. Soon after, they'd learned to let their curiosity die faster than any orc who dared speak out.

Krakus guided the cutting tool down the iron length, watching fine spirals of metal peel away. The task required more than strength—it needed concentration and care, skills few expected of orcs. He felt Durz's gaze on him, that blind eye always seeming to judge what it could no longer see.

The overseer walked the aisles, his pale visage a mark of their master's reach beyond Mordor. Krakus could never read his expression; whether he was pleased or dissatisfied remained a mystery. He simply observed, occasionally making a note on the parchment he carried, leaving behind a chill that seemed to seep into Krakus's very bones.

Their days had become an endless march of these tasks, each more perplexing than the last. The boomtubes were different from traditional weapons of war—smaller in size, yes, but with longer range, more destructive power. But Krakus often wondered why they needed them at all when Mordor's hosts could already crush any enemy in their path. Like those in the fire halls, he felt that the answer lay deep beyond those eastern ridges, with whatever new power had been unleashed.

Though his instincts clamored against it, Krakus allowed himself the flicker of a thought—one shared in whispered moments with those he trusted enough to not snitch on him. Mordor was changing, and they were changing with it. Voicing your doubts about the change was dangerous, perhaps even treacherous to consider, yet impossible to ignore.

For all their rebellion against curiosity, more and more of them were beginning to think this way.

The overseer paused near Krakus again, his pale eyes narrowing as if aware of the crackle of dissension in the air. "Get it right," he said softly, a threat lurking beneath those words. "Or there's always metalworks that need more bodies for the furnace."

Krakus nodded and hunched over his task, the cutting tool an extension of his will. The overseer remained a moment longer before moving on, leaving behind a sense of impending judgment. Krakus worked faster, urgency driving his hands yet mindful not to sacrifice precision for speed.

"He's worse than the foreman," said Durz under his breath. "Like he knows what we're thinking."

"Doesn't matter," Krakus replied. "All that matters is getting through another shift."

The cyclopean orc grunted agreement, it was easier to focus on the work when both of them just stopped thinking too hard about it.Like Award Reply211Commissar CletusMonday at 12:49 AMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 3 View contentCommissar CletusThat one commie with the autismo supremoHe/HimMonday at 12:54 AMAdd bookmark#3"I believe we are all aware of the reasons for why we are gathered here today." Elrond began, his voice resonant with the weight of ages. The great hall of Rivendell, adorned with tapestries that spoke of ancient victories and sorrows long endured, fell silent as each of the council members considered the gravity of what lay before them.

Gandalf, his brows knit beneath the wide brim of his hat, was the first to respond.

"Yes," he murmured, a hint of weariness threading through his usual booming tones. "The Ring has returned to its master."

A tremor ran through those assembled—elves and wizards alike. Galadriel's serene visage remained untouched by fear, but her eyes—deep and knowing—betrayed a flicker of distress.

"A shadow spreads from Mordor," she intoned softly as she looked at the discarded ring in front of her, having already removed it long before arrival. "Already it reaches out for us, even here."

Elrond nodded somberly. "We must decide what paths lie open to us. The power of our rings must now be laid aside, for Sauron will use them as conduits to our very thoughts."

Círdan the Shipwright, ancient even among the Eldar, stroked his silver beard. "The harbors of the Grey Havens have remained open these many centuries. Perhaps the time has come for our people to depart these shores in greater numbers."

"To abandon Middle-earth to darkness?" Glorfindel's voice was sharp, his golden hair catching the fading light that streamed through the high windows. "I did not return from the Halls of Mandos to witness such a retreat."

Gandalf leaned heavily upon his staff. "It is not merely a question of retreat or resistance. The very nature of our enemy has changed." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I have heard troubling news from the East—of strange contraptions and methods unknown to us, even witnessed some of it myself. Sauron is not merely gathering orcs and trolls to his banner."

A murmur rippled through the council. Elrond's gaze sharpened.

"Speak plainly, Mithrandir," he said. "What have you seen?"

Gandalf gently puffed out smoke from his pipe-weed pipe before responding.

"Smoke rises from the plains of Gorgoroth, but not from the fires of Mount Doom alone. Great foundries have been erected where metal is shaped into forms that serve neither beauty nor war." The Grey Wizard spoke, tapping the end of his pipe at the map, his eyes darkened with memory. "I witnessed, from afar, what appeared to be machines that moved of their own accord, with neither horse nor other beast to pull them. The Dark Lord has found new ways to bend the very elements to his will—fire and metal shaped into forms that defy our understanding."

Radagast, who had been silent until now, leaned forward. His weathered face, usually alight with the simple joys of the natural world, was drawn with concern. "The forests whisper of disturbances. The beasts flee from something they cannot name. Even the very soil cries out against unnatural intrusions."

"What manner of power is this?" asked Glorfindel. "Not sorcery as we know it?"

"Not sorcery," Gandalf confirmed, "but craft—terrible and efficient. A marriage of ancient malice with methods unknown to the free peoples. I fear we prepare for battles of old while Sauron forges weapons for wars yet unimagined."

Galadriel's gaze seemed to pierce the very walls of Rivendell, reaching beyond the mountains to her own realm of Lothlórien. "If what Mithrandir says is true, then we face not only the ancient evil we know, but one that grows and evolves even as we speak." Her tone was heavy with the weight of ages. "The question before us is whether our old ways can withstand the trials that await us."

"We must adapt," declared Elrond firmly. "As we have done in past struggles. Yet I fear that the luxury of time is not granted to us."

The elven lord seemed torn as he gazed longingly at his home, already the first signs of the inevitable decline of his realm were beginning to show. Ever since he had removed the ring of power from his finger, he could feel his strength waning. The trees seemed ever so less green and vibrant, the waters of the Bruinen less resplendent, the very air less invigorating than it had been not too long ago. The power that had preserved Imladris's splendor for so long was ebbing away like the tide.

"The rings must be secured," Gandalf said, his gaze falling upon the three discarded circles of gold before them. "All of them, save the One which is now beyond our reach. Narya, Nenya, Vilya—each must be hidden or rendered dormant."

Círdan nodded gravely. "The Three were made without Sauron's touch, yet they were made with methods he knew. They are not immune to his domination."

"And what of the Seven and the Nine?" Glorfindel asked.

"The Nine are long lost to the Nazgûl," Elrond replied grimly. "As for the Seven given to the Dwarven-lords... three were consumed by dragon fire, and the others Sauron has reclaimed over the centuries."

A heavy silence fell upon the council. The enormity of their situation settled like dust after a great collapse.

"There is another matter we must address," said Gandalf at length. "Word must be sent to the kingdoms of Men. Gondor stands as the foremost bulwark against Mordor, but they must be warned of the true scale of what is coming in the times ahead"

"I shall dispatch riders to Thranduil and to Celeborn," Elrond said.

"I shall journey to Gondor myself," Gandalf offered. "They shall need all the help given to them in the dark days ahead."

Galadriel's gaze grew distant. "The mirror shows many paths, but all are shrouded in mist. Yet there is one thing of which I am certain—this is not a conflict that will be won by strength of arms alone."

"If not by arms, then by what?" Glorfindel questioned, his warrior's spirit evident in the set of his shoulders.

"By wisdom," she replied simply. "By foresight and adaptation. Perhaps by methods as novel to us as Sauron's new crafts are to our ancient ways."

Radagast stirred, his eyes brightening with sudden inspiration. "The power of growth and change is not exclusive to the Shadow. The natural world has always adapted to threats—so too must we."

Elrond studied the faces around him, each bearing the weight of their long years differently. "We stand at a crossroads in the history of Middle-earth. Our decisions today will echo through generations yet unborn."

"Then let us make sure that the course we decide on today is the correct one." Círdan said with measured resolve. "We cannot simply abandon the lands we have loved and protected for thousands of years, yet neither can we stand unmoved as a stone before a rising tide."

The council continued deep into the night, mapping strategies, making contingencies, and writing letters of warning that would travel to the furthest corners of the free lands. As dawn approached, the immediate plans were set in motion.

While the council disbanded, Elrond remained in his chair, the weight of three ages pressing upon his shoulders. Gandalf lingered behind, watching his old friend seemingly in despair even if he did not show it.

"You are troubled," Gandalf observed quietly.

Elrond's gaze remained fixed upon the empty air before him, as though reading portents invisible to others. "I have lived through the fall of Beleriand, witnessed the breaking of Thangorodrim, and stood against the darkness in countless forms. However, I fear that for many of the Eldar this will be the moment they make the journey West, to the Undying Lands rather than stand fast against the darkness. The shadows lengthen, and the light of our people diminishes." He paused, his ancient eyes reflecting memories of both glory and sorrow. "Even if we prevail against this new threat, I sense that the age of Elves in Middle-Earth is finally at an end."

Gandalf leaned upon his staff, studying the Half-elven lord with compassion in his weathered face. "Perhaps. Yet end and beginning have ever been entwined in the great music of Ilúvatar. What falls must give way to what rises."

"True enough, old friend. True enough." Elrond conceded.

In the halls of Minas Tirith, the aging 24th steward of Gondor, Turgon, already 85 years of age, struggled to his feet at the approach of a messenger. His son Ecthelion, now in his fifties, stood vigilant at his father's side, ready to support the elderly steward if needed. The courier, dust-covered and weary from his journey, bowed deeply before delivering his tidings.

"My lords," he began, his voice hoarse from the road, "I bring news. Our watchers upon the borders of Mordor report increased activity around Osgiliath."

Both Turgon and his son were aware that Mordor had been consolidating its presence within the ancient capital of Gondor, but it was clear that this didn't have anything to do with that.

"Speak then, what do they build there?" Ecthelion asked, his voice firm though concern lined his features.

The messenger swallowed, gathering his composure. "My lords, it is not what they build, but what they gather. Our scouts report massive columns of people—Men from the lands of Rhûn and Harad—being herded into Osgiliath. Thousands upon thousands, many in chains, others seemingly following willingly under promises we cannot discern."

Turgon's weathered face darkened. "To what purpose?"

"The watchers believe they are being put to labor, my lord. But unlike the slaves of old, these are not merely hauling stone or tending fields. They are organized in strange formations, working in shifts that never cease, day or night. The forges burn continuously."

Ecthelion stepped forward, his hand resting instinctively on his sword hilt. "Have they observed any military movements? Preparations for assault?"

"Nay, my lord," the messenger replied. "Beyond bringing in more laborers and shoring up their defenses, we have seen little else."

"Well, is there any word from the South? Do the Haven ports still hold?" inquired Turgon, urgency sharpening his voice.

The messenger hesitated. "Reports from Pelargir are mixed. A new fleet of black sails takes to the waters, but so far no direct threat against our ships or harbors has been seen."

Ecthelion frowned, thoughts racing. "Mordor's silence is as troubling as action. They mean us to wonder, to fear."

"Balk at shadows," muttered Turgon. He collapsed back into his chair, the strength of youth eluding him. "We cannot afford to fight specters. Already our forces stretch thin across the length of the Anduin."

Ecthelion turned to the steward with resolve. "Then we must bolster our strength here in Minas Tirith and not chase after every phantom they conjure. I will send for more men from Lossarnach, and I will call upon Morthond and Lamedon to prepare their levies for deployment. We will concentrate our forces, guard Pelargir and the River, but bring our might here."

The steward nodded weakly, acquiescing to his son's counsel. "We must trust that the great horn still carries its warning to loyal ears."

Ecthelion placed a reassuring hand on his father's shoulder. "Gondor has faced worse odds before and come out the stronger. We will not fall while I draw breath, this I vow."

Turgon regarded Ecthelion with pride and sadness intermingling. His voice was soft, as if speaking more to himself than to his son. "I had hoped these old eyes would never see such shadows rise again. Yet Sauron's cunning is deep, and he works his wickedness with gossamer threads as well as iron chains."

Once the courier was dismissed, father and son turned to the task of readying Gondor for what lay ahead. Missives were sent out; captains gathered in hurried council; the city stirred with the fevered tension of preparation.

As word of the messenger's report spread, rumors took root like weeds—wild speculations as to what purpose Sauron held for such numbers of men, whether their own kin might turn against them, which corners of Gondor would hold fast and which would fall. Old feuds resurfaced, alliances were questioned in whispers that cut like daggers through the fabric of society.

Turgon watched it all with a weary heart, knowing that fear and despair could do more to weaken resolve than any foe at the gates.

To the north, on the plains of Rohan, a similar urgency to what was happening in Gondor, gripped Lord Fengel's halls. His son Thengel, already a man in his own right followed in his father's wake as the men of Rohan readied themselves. He watched his father speak to the gathered riders with a fierce determination that belied the uncertainty cast like a pall over their land.

"We must have strength in our borders before these new bands of Orcs encroach further," Fengel commanded. "I need twenty riders from Edoras, and we will double the number of éored stationed at the Entwade."

A rider with golden braids stepped forward, scratching his bearded chin. "Must we pull from Edoras itself? Wouldn't that leave the city's defenses too thin?"

"I do not command lightly," Fengel replied, his eyes flashing with irritation. "The scouts have reported movements along our eastern borders that we cannot ignore. These are not the usual raiding parties—they come with strange contraptions and move with purpose, not mere bloodlust."

Thengel stepped forward, his bearing noble despite the strained relationship with his father. There was a reason he had only now returned home after having spent so many years in Gondor in the service of its steward. "I have spoken with the riders who witnessed these new bands. They say the orcs carry weapons of new and unusual make—not the crude blades of old."

"What manner of weapons?" asked an older rider, his scarred face etched with concern.

"Long lances of wood and steel that spit fire and can down a fully armored horseman from a hundred yards," Thengel explained, his voice grim. "And they move with discipline previously unknown to their kind. Their columns march in formation, not the chaotic rabble we've grown accustomed to scattering."

Fengel paced the length of the hall, his boots striking the stone floor with sharp reports. The golden tapestries depicting the deeds of the Éorlingas seemed to dim in the fading light, as if the glory of old retreated before this new threat.

"We are proud rohirrim," he declared at last. "Our strength lies in mobility, in striking where the enemy least expects. If these orcs have new weapons that threaten our riders at distance, then we must adapt our tactics."

An older marshal, Sparhafoc, whose beard had grown white in service to the Mark, stepped forward. "My lord, perhaps we should send word to Gondor. Their lore is deeper than ours, and they have faced Mordor's armies many times before."

Fengel's face darkened, his pride bristling at the suggestion. "Gondor has its own troubles. We shall not go begging for their counsel when we have faced darkness before and prevailed."

Thengel's jaw tightened, but he held his tongue. His years in Gondor had taught him the value of their knowledge, yet he knew his father's stubborn nature well enough to recognize when debate would prove fruitless.

"Then what shall we do?" asked a young rider, barely past his coming of age. "If we cannot charge them as we have always done?"

Fengel turned to Thengel, a grudging acknowledgment in his eyes. "My son has seen these new methods firsthand. He shall advise us on how we might counter them."

Thengel nodded, his mind already racing through strategies. "We must adapt as the orcs have adapted. Our strength remains in our horses and our courage in the face of danger, but we must employ them differently. The éored should be broken into smaller bands, striking from cover and retreating before these new weapons can be brought to bear."

He moved to the central table where maps of the Mark lay spread, and traced his finger along the eastern borders. "Here, and here—we establish watchers, not on the plains where they can be seen, but hidden in the folds of the land. They will give us warning of their movements."

"And then?" prompted Sparhafoc.

"Then we strike not at their front, where their new weapons are readied, but at their flanks and rear. We harry them, we deny them a direct confrontation, divide them, and finally exhaust them." Thengel's eyes gleamed with the tactical acumen he had honed during his time in Gondor's service. "Orcs tire the same as everyone else, they make mistakes, they grow frustrated and break ranks. We turn their discipline against them, using it to predict where they will be rather than where they might go."

Fengel studied the map, his initial resistance giving way to grudging appreciation for his son's insight. "It has merit," he admitted finally. "Though it goes against our traditions to fight from the shadows rather than meeting our foes head-on."

"These are not traditional times," Thengel replied quietly. "And there is no dishonor in preserving the lives of our people against a foe that has abandoned the ancient ways of battle."

The riders murmured among themselves, some nodding in agreement, others clearly uncomfortable with this departure from their time-honored tactics. Sparhafoc stroked his white beard thoughtfully.

"The boy speaks wisdom," he said at last. "I have fought orcs for sixty winters, and I have never known them to rely on much beyond brute strength and the size of their ranks. If they have changed, then so must we, or perish," he concluded with the blunt pragmatism of age.

Fengel nodded slowly, the weight of decision heavy upon his brow. "So be it. We shall adapt our ways." He turned to the gathered riders, raising his voice so that it carried to every corner of the hall. "Let it be known throughout the Mark: we fight as we must, not merely as we would wish. Rohan will endure, even if our methods must change."

As the council dispersed to implement their new strategies, Thengel lingered by the maps, his thoughts troubled. The threat from Mordor was more dire than his father perhaps realized, but he had seen enough to know that pride would not shield them from what was coming. He wondered silently if the changes they proposed would prove sufficient against an enemy that seemed to have mastered arts beyond their wildest imaginations.

In the forested realm of Mirkwood, Thranduil sat upon his throne of carven wood, his ageless face betraying nothing of the turmoil within. The messenger from Rivendell had departed hours ago, leaving behind tidings that had set the Elvenking's thoughts racing like autumn leaves caught in a gale. Before him stood his captains and counselors, their expressions grave in the amber light that filtered through the cavern's high windows.

"So the Dark Lord has recovered his Ring," Thranduil said at last, his voice deceptively calm. "And Elrond counsels that we prepare for war."

"My lord, some among us wonder if we should not consider retreating north, perhaps even beyond the Grey Mountains where Sauron's reach might not extend." His trusted steward suggested as he stepped forward.

"Retreat?" Thranduil's voice was soft but carried an edge sharper than any blade. "When have the Eldar ever retreated from shadow? We did not flee before Morgoth himself; I shall not abandon these woods to Sauron's corruption."

The steward bowed his head. "Forgive me, my lord. I merely voice concerns whispered among our people."

"Let them whisper," Thranduil rose from his throne, his silver robes catching the dim light. "But know this—Greenwood the Great may have fallen under shadow, but while I draw breath, a portion of it shall remain Greenwood still."

His son, Legolas, stepped forward from the shadows where he had been listening. "Father, the scouts report strange activities along our southern borders. The spiders grow more numerous, but they are not alone. There are men—Easterlings."

"Yes, and?"

"They come with implements of strange design," Legolas continued. "Not the curved blades and hide shields of their forebears, but tools of metal that seem to serve no purpose we can discern. They fell trees with unnatural speed, and they have established encampments that grow by the day."

Thranduil's eyes narrowed. "And the purpose of these encampments?"

"Unknown, my king," replied the captain of the guard, a stern-faced elleth who had served the realm since before the shadow fell. "But they build structures of stone and metal where once they used only wood and hide. Smoke rises day and night, and the very air around their settlements carries a taint that drives away bird and beast alike."

"They seek something," Thranduil mused, his gaze distant as he recalled ancient lore. "Or perhaps they prepare the way for something yet to come. Regardless of what it is, we will put a stop to it. We must increase our patrols," Thranduil declared, striding to a great map of Mirkwood etched into the living stone of his hall. "Legolas, take our swiftest scouts and observe these encampments from afar. I would know their purpose before deciding our course."

Legolas bowed his head in acknowledgment. "As you command, Father."

"But do not engage them," Thranduil cautioned, his eyes sharp as winter stars. "Something about this incursion feels... different. More purposeful than the blind malice we have grown accustomed to confronting."

"What of the dwarves?" asked an ancient counselor whose memories stretched back to the days before the shadow. "Should we send word to them as well?"

Thranduil's lip curled slightly at the mention of the dwarves. Thranduil harbored little love for the children of Aulë, and he wasn't about to change his tune now.

"The dwarves?" he said after a long and uncomfortable pause, "What the dwarves do is not our concern. Let them continue to live their short ignorant lives within the mountains."

The counselor bowed, though his eyes betrayed his disagreement. "As you wish, my lord."

The council continued deep into the night, with strategies debated and patrols reorganized. When at last his advisors departed, Thranduil remained alone in his throne room, a goblet of rich wine untouched in his hand. His thoughts turned to the long years of his reign—how he and his people had survived many a turbulent period before now.

But then, he thought back on the letters from Elrond describing the strange devices that Sauron's servants were using—devices of metal and fire, mechanisms that moved without the touch of living hands. Such things were beyond his experience, ancient though it was. The Elvenking closed his eyes, remembering the Last Alliance, remembering the fall of Gil-galad and the terrible might of Sauron. And now, the Dark Lord had recovered his greatest weapon.

"We survived the Long Defeat," he murmured to himself, "but at what cost? And how much more can we endure?"

The answer came not in words, but in the rustling of leaves as a night breeze stirred through his halls—a reminder that while darkness gathered, life persisted still in Mirkwood's boughs.

"Let Sauron come with his armies," he whispered to the empty hall. "The trees of Greenwood have deep roots, and so do we."

However, unbeknownst to him, there were those within his circle who were not willing to stand by and do nothing while the darkness spread its influence. Including his own son.

"They may not be our kin, but they too must be warned, if only to prevent them from unwittingly aiding the enemy through ignorance." Legolas said as he finished writing the letter that his father had refused to pen before handing it to one of his aides. "Give this to a messenger, tell them to get it to the Iron Hills."

"At once, my prince." The aide said and took off.

Like his father, Legolas may not like the dwarves, but he was not so blind as to ignore the truth that Sauron would not make a distinction between elf and dwarf.

The return from Rivendell to his home in Orthanc had been a quiet ordeal, and something that had given Saruman the White plenty of time to ponder the implications of what had been shared at the council. The journey north had been tiresome, and the journey back had been even more so. Though his body had remained unbent by the many years he had spent in Middle-earth, there were times when the weight of his mission pressed heavily upon his shoulders.

The White Wizard dismounted from his horse at the base of Orthanc, gazing up at the obsidian tower that pierced the sky like a black needle. The structure, ancient beyond reckoning, had always seemed to Saruman a symbol of permanence in a world of constant change. Yet now, with news of Sauron's resurgence, even the indomitable tower appeared somehow vulnerable.

"Take him to the stables," Saruman instructed one of the servants who had hurried to meet him. The man, one of the few who attended to the wizard's needs in his isolation, bowed deeply and led the horse away.

Saruman ascended the steps to his chambers, his white robes billowing around him like morning mist. The interior of Orthanc was cool and silent, the polished black stone reflecting the light of braziers in ghostly patterns across the walls. As he climbed, his thoughts returned to Gandalf's warnings and the council's fears.

"Such concern over old trinkets," he muttered to himself as he reached his study. "As if rings alone could determine the fate of nations."

Yet even as he dismissed the fears of others, a nagging feeling remained deep in Saruman's mind—a curiosity that would not be silenced. What if there was truth to Gandalf's claims? What if Sauron had indeed found new methods, new crafts that even the wise had not foreseen?

The wizard moved to a large circular table at the center of his study, where numerous scrolls and ancient texts lay open. His slender fingers traced the lines of an old manuscript detailing the forging of the Rings of Power. He had read these accounts countless times, seeking to understand the methods Sauron had employed in their making.

"Knowledge," he whispered to himself. "Knowledge is the true power."

Saruman's gaze drifted to a cloth-covered object in the corner of his chamber. With deliberate steps, he approached it and pulled away the covering to reveal a smooth, dark orb—a palantír, one of the seven Seeing Stones brought to Middle-earth from Númenor in ages past.

He had not gazed into its depths for many years, wary of what other eyes might see through its connection to the other stones. But now, with doubt gnawing at his certainty, the temptation proved too great.

"I must know," he decided. "I must see for myself what transpires in Mordor, whether Gandalf's fears are founded or merely the anxieties of an overcautious mind."

Saruman placed his hands upon the cool surface of the palantír, feeling its latent power beneath his fingertips. With a word of command, he bent his will upon the stone, directing its gaze eastward, toward the dark lands beyond the Ephel Dúath. At first, there was only swirling mist within the orb, but gradually, images began to form.

What Saruman saw sent a chill through his ancient bones. The plains of Gorgoroth teemed with activity—not the chaotic scrambling of orcs, but ordered industry on a scale he had never witnessed. Great structures of metal rose from the blasted earth, belching smoke that blotted out the sky. Lines of laborers, both men and orcs, moved with mechanical precision, feeding raw materials into furnaces that burned with unnatural intensity.

And there were machines—contraptions of metal and wood that moved of their own accord, carrying loads that would require dozens of strong backs. Saruman leaned closer, his curiosity overwhelming his caution. How were such devices animated? What force drove them if not the muscles of slaves or beasts?

As he peered deeper, the vision shifted, revealing a vast workshop where smaller mechanisms were being assembled. Saruman's breath caught in his throat as he recognized components that resembled the designs in his own neglected sketches—ideas he had contemplated but never pursued, deeming them impractical or beyond the capability of current craftsmanship.

"He has done it," Saruman whispered, awe and envy mingling in his voice. "He has achieved what I have only theorized."

As if in response to his thoughts, the vision in the palantír darkened, then cleared to reveal a figure—tall and terrible, clad in armor that gleamed with an almost living quality. Though the figure's features remained obscured, Saruman knew with terrible certainty who stood before him across the vast distance.

"Curumo," came a voice that was not sound but thought, ancient and powerful, threading through Saruman's mind like poison through water. "Or do you prefer Saruman in these latter days?"

The White Wizard stiffened, his hands still upon the palantír. He had not expected direct contact—had not prepared his defenses against such an intrusion. Yet pride forbade him to relinquish his grip on the Seeing Stone.

"I am Saruman the White," he replied, infusing his voice with all the authority of his order. "Head of the White Council and guardian against the darkness. I do not fear you."

A sound like distant laughter rippled through the connection. "Guardian? Yet here you are, peering into my realm, seeking knowledge that your... guardianship... has not provided."

"I seek only to understand the nature of the threat," Saruman countered, his voice steady despite the growing discomfort of maintaining the connection. "It is the duty of the wise to observe and comprehend."

"Indeed." The dark presence seemed to draw closer within the palantír, as if leaning toward Saruman across the leagues that separated them. "Tell me, Saruman the Wise, do you still believe that the old ways are sufficient? That knowledge gleamed from ancient scrolls and spells alone can shape the future of Arda?"

Saruman's fingers tightened on the palantír's surface, his knuckles whitening. "The old ways have served us well enough. Magic and wisdom have maintained balance in this world since its creation."

"Yet you yourself have experimented with crafts beyond mere spellcraft," the voice observed, and Saruman felt a chill at the accuracy of the observation. "I have seen your workshops, your attempts to harness the powers of nature through mechanical means. Crude, perhaps, but born of the same insight that drives my own works."

"Our purposes differ greatly," Saruman replied, though a part of him thrilled at the acknowledgment of his experiments. Few among the Wise appreciated the mechanical arts he had been exploring in secret.

"Do they?" The presence seemed to withdraw slightly, contemplative. "We both seek order. We both understand that knowledge is power. And we both recognize that Middle-earth languishes under antiquated systems that prevent progress from truly happening."

Saruman found himself nodding before he caught himself. "Progress toward what end? Your dominion over all free peoples?"

"Freedom is a relative concept, Saruman. What freedom does a man truly possess when he dies from a simple infection that proper knowledge of the medical arts could cure? What freedom exists in societies where technological stagnation has persisted for thousands of years?" The dark presence paused, allowing him to mull on the arguments presented to him. "My purpose is advancement—the raising of all Middle-earth from its primitive state to one of order and knowledge."

Saruman's mind raced, torn between suspicion and fascination. The words echoed his own private thoughts, musings he had shared with none of his order. How often had he looked upon the scattered, feuding realms of Men and Elves and Dwarves and thought how much more they might achieve under proper guidance?

"And yet," he replied carefully, "this advancement comes at the cost of subjugation. The free peoples would not willingly accept your dominion, regardless of what benefits you might offer."

"They resist because they do not understand," came the response, smooth as silk yet hard as steel. "They cling to their primitive ways out of fear and ignorance. The Elves, in particular, have hoarded knowledge for millennia, refusing to share the fruits of their long lives with the shorter-lived races. Is artificial scarcity such as the one they propagate not a form of subjugation in itself?"

Saruman found no ready answer to this charge. Had he not harbored similar resentments toward the Eldar, with their arcane secrets and condescension toward younger races?

"Consider what we might achieve together, Saruman," the voice continued, softer now, almost enticing. "Your wisdom combined with my resources. The mechanical arts you have only begun to explore could be developed beyond your wildest imaginings. Order could be established throughout Middle-earth, replacing the chaos of warring kingdoms and tribal disputes. An end to hunger and disease, to pointless conflict. What wonders could yet be built were all of Middle-Earth's riches in knowledge and material not constrained by the individual interests and petty squabbles that divide it?"

Saruman's mind swam with visions of the possibilities. Sleek cities of glass and steel rising from verdant plains. Devices that could heal the sick and feed the hungry. Roads and bridges spanning the wild places, bringing order to chaos. A unified Middle-earth, advancing under the guidance of those who understood the true nature of the material world.

"You offer much," Saruman said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "But at what price?"

"Only your willing cooperation." the presence replied, and Saruman could almost feel the smile behind the words.

Saruman's fingers trembled against the cool surface of the palantír. A part of him—the part that had stood against darkness for millennia—screamed in warning. Yet another part, the part that had always chafed at the limitations imposed by his order, the slow pace of change, the stubborn adherence to tradition, whispered that perhaps this was the path to true wisdom.

"I... must consider this proposition," he said finally, neither accepting nor rejecting the offer outright. "Such decisions cannot be made hastily."

"Of course," the presence agreed, seeming to recede slightly. "Wisdom requires reflection. But do not dawdle for long. Progress waits for none, least of all the indecisive."

And as quickly as it had arrived, the presence was gone and with it the image in the palantír faded, leaving Saruman staring at his own reflection in the dark surface of the stone.

He stepped back, his mind reeling with the implications of what had just transpired. The White Wizard moved to a nearby chair and sank into it, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he contemplated the exchange. The vision of what he had witnessed in Mordor remained burned into his thoughts—those great machines, the ordered industry, the harnessing of powers that the White Council had barely begun to comprehend.

"They know nothing," he murmured to himself. "None of them truly understand what is coming."Like Award Reply287Commissar CletusMonday at 12:54 AMAdd bookmarkView discussionJump to newThreadmarksView contentBoldItalicMore options…Insert linkInsert imageEmojiInsertAdvanced bb-codesUndoMore options…PreviewUnderlineStrike-throughText colorFont sizeFont familyParagraph format

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