𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 • 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐑

01. to those who wait

——[～Æ～]——

——[～Æ～]——

the tower of barad-dur, mordor | 3018th year of the third age

     Mordor was wretched, shadowed, lifeless. The sky blotted out by smoke both day and night, ash clinging to the air. Jagged, black rocks under every step. A place of nightmares and untainted evil, spoken of in tales to frighten insolent children. Only the most twisted and terrible creatures lived there, exiled from light by gods who'd long since forgotten them.

     It was precisely where she belonged.

     Crimson lightning flashed across the ever-dark sky with a scream, followed soon after by the roar of thunder which made clouds churn and collide with one another. Reclined with her booted feet propped on the table atop the many papers covering it, the woman watched the violent welkins with a chalice dangling from her listless hand. Tumultuous clouds like waves crashing and melting together, lightning like boats which dared cross the dangerous expanse. Heaving a sigh through her nostrils, she leaned forward to refill her cup.

     Every kingdom needed a shadow for their king to rally his people against, every bedtime story a villain who could be defeated. A hundred lifetimes ago, that title had belonged to her master; in the aftermath of his defeat, it was her inherited duty. But now reunited, they would not be so easily ground into the earth and trampled by the pride of elves and mortal men. The Dark Lord and his right hand would once more be the shadow which covered Middle-Earth and conquered it, creating a world of perfection by domination. A world razed and rebuilt. The last dregs of wine lingered acidic on her lips. All good things came to those who waited.

     "Mistress?"

      The door scraped open across the uneven floor. She didn't grace the beasts with her attention.

     "Come in," she ordered the orc, dropping her cup on the table. "And close the door for once."

     An irritated sigh left her lips as she stood. Her chair scraped back on the black stone with a discordant screech. It was almost the same sound as the pained screaming drifting in from the balcony overlooking the inner most chamber of Barad-Dur. Nonchalant, she wandered past the trio of orcs and stepped out onto the balcony. Jaw stiff, she placed both hands on the black railing and leaned her weight on it. Her crow-black hair hung over the drop as her grip tightened. The dense haze of smoke far below hid a sea of orcs and metal; every so often a gaunt hand or foot would jut out of the fog. The creature's agonized screams were lifted by a sickening wave of heat wafting up from the floor and echoed to the lofty heights she stood at.

     "How much longer is this going to take, Ghazga?" she asked with a sharp edge to her unwavering voice. "Not even the most loyal soldier of man has held out for more than a few days, yet this... Gollum has resisted for weeks."