Son of Gondor

Prologue - Desolation

  In the bleak midwinter, the rare-felt wind stirred. Rocks trembled. something was coming.
  A mountain loomed in the shadows. For twenty long years, its slopes had remained black, unlike in the past, when it had exhaled smoke and sorrow, and always glowed orange.
  This land was no more than a barren waste. Nothing ever moved, shunning the evil history of this place. A figure stepped out of the mountain. It had on black garments, and appeared to be the size of a man. He moved his hand, and out of the mountain came a flood of red, yellow, and orange. He stepped to the side, avoiding the deadly torrent. Far too long had the Dark Lord sat upon his throne of murder and hate. All lands had called him 'great', in fear. He had been weak. No land would call this figure great. They would be too fearful to even speak of him.
  The half-elf would soon be seduced by his power. With his right hand, he would rule Middle-earth. With his left, command the half-elf. This land would fall to ruin, as had his heart.