Death Is A Lie

Lithariel

I wait, my breath caught in my throat as I look over the landscape. Far on the distance, I can see Fort Morn. If we make good time, we can make it there by tomorrow.

That caragor made the journey so much faster, but it was too loud. Secrecy was the secret to living a long life in Mordor. One cannot simply shout words or walk without caution. The trick is to stay forever vigilant. The uruks may not be bright, but they know how to fight, and because of this they were very dangerous. More, in fact, at points, than regular orkor, as they almost never ran in fear, and injury was never something they seemed to notice.

That, in my opinion, is what made Talion so frightening. His ability to make uruks flee as if their very doom was handed to them, startled me, although it might've been considering what he did to those who stayed. I could only make them retreat. It was frightening even to me, how he would leap out suddenly from a crevice or cliff and violently tear into the nearest Orc with his dagger, which I learned was his former son's broken sword.

I sigh and turn back to Talion, who stands, already having packed up the camp while I was sleeping. "Are you ready?"

"Yes." I say, realizing from another peek at the landscape that we will be there by late tonight, not tomorrow as I had speculated. "Prepare yourself. Tonight you will meet my mother, and have a Corsair greeting to Núrn."

"Consider my presence to be welcoming." He says, eyes uncertain. "I don't want any bad blood between us, seeing as Gondor and your people have feuded many times in the past."

"Now I see why you were put at the Black Gate, a true diplomat would never bring that up, and those in Mordor these days can not be negotiated with." His eyes darken, and I wonder if my attempt at humor had fallen flat.

"I was never like the other Gondorians. I'm from the Northern tribes. My ancestor from long ago was a handmaiden of the first foreign queen."

So that's what it is.

"Well, to be fair, then, despite all their attempts at liking high and mighty, Gondorians really need to access their political system. Just cause some came from a mystical island thousands of years ago means nothing to those living now. I wish they'd see that."

"Yes." His eyes light up with a fiery passion mixed with sadness. "My wife...she was a Númenorean. Her father refused to let me wed her, until she saved me from well, being charged with murder after someone attempted my life. She saved me by convincing her father to let me to take that post, and by then she was pregnant, so she had to come." He rambles almost brokenly.

"Ah." I murmur, and then we reach the start of the decent down the mountain and I sigh with relief as a scent I have known since birth makes its way to my nose. This is the familiar bitter scent of the sea of Núrn. My home. My mother awaits.