Plague Comes to Dol Guldur by Uvatha the Horseman

Day 0 – Waiting

Dol Guldur, TA 1637 - Summer

Kip stopped brushing Kestrel and leaned against the horse’s flanks for a moment. I just do not feel good today, he thought. He was grateful to have a place in the stables at Dol Guldur, the fortress above his village. The wages were good. He didn’t want to be dismissed for slacking.

“Kip, don’t just stand around, get a move on!” Old Tom cuffed him on the side of the head, then, more gently, touched his face.

“You’re burning up, lad. Go lie down while I get the midwife.”

The midwife didn’t just deliver babies, she also sewed up wounds and mixed draughts for fevers. But when Old Tom came back a few minutes later, instead of the midwife, he was brought one of the black cloaked creatures that ran this place. There were two or three of them at least, servants of the Necromancer, but Kip had never seen one up close before.

The creature filled the doorway, blocking the light. It entered the room, and the muggy air in the stables suddenly felt cold.

The creature knelt beside him. He closed his eyes and turned away. Icy hands touched his face, then probed under his jaw, his armpits, and low on his belly. The creature’s touch was expert, and surprisingly gentle. He felt the fasteners of his shirt being undone and the fabric lifted aside.

“Do you see that rash? Each spot is surrounded by a rosy ring.”

“What does it mean?” asked Tom.

Please no please no please no …

It’s Plague.” said the creature.

“I want to go home! I want my mum and dad!”

“We can’t risk of infecting them, too.” said the creature.

“I’m sorry, lad, I know. It’s hard.” said Tom.

ooooo

Even since the Plague claimed its first victim a week ago, the leadership of Dol Guldur met every day, to plan how they would fight it.

Akhorahil, the fifth Nazgûl and an able physician, slipped into the room and took his place at the table. The plague ward had become so busy, he was almost always late to these meetings.

Akhorahil saw his Master at the head of the table, his face invisible under a hood. For as long as they’d been in Dol Guldur, his Master kept his identity hidden. He concealed his face, spoke in a whisper, and forbade any of them to speak aloud any name he’d ever used. He was the Necromancer, a masked figure with no other name, and no past.

His gloved hands were steepled as he listened to a speaker giving a report. Akhorahil turned his attention to the speaker.

“We finally figured out how the plague got into Dol Guldur. The first victim was a boy who worked in the stables, whose duties included buying grain and produce from local farmers. The next two victims were also people who went outside the fortress walls. One hunted deer in the forest, and the other was courting a girl in the village.”

The man finished his report and got up to go. After the door was latched behind him, his Master pushed back his hood and took off his mask. The only people in the room were Nazgûl. Sauron didn’t need to conceal his face from those who already knew him.

Akhorahil spoke next.

“Now that it’s arrived, it’s possible the plague will infect everyone within these walls. How should we defend ourselves? I suggest we do what we do best, run a military operation against it.

“As you know, I’ve set up the plague ward in the Great Hall, the largest room in the fortress. I want to run it with the order and efficiency of our armies in the Second Age.

“We’re setting up stations throughout the ward for preparing medicines, the infusions, elixirs, tinctures, salves, and ointments we’ll need to fight the plague. Each station will be stocked with medicinal plants, a charcoal hearth for boiling and distilling, and all the tools an herbalist could desire.

“We’re also creating central locations for storing linens, the sheets and nightshirts used by the patients. We’ll need a lot, because after they’re used, they’ll be burned.”

“Make them as cheaply as possible. I’m the one who’s paying for all this.” said Sauron. “And if you think I’m rich, think again.”

“But our best efficiency of all” Akhorahil was particularly proud of this idea, “is to write down everything about a patient: fever, symptoms, fluids taken, medicines given, and a general impression of how they’re doing.”

“That sounds like more work, not less.” said Sauron.

“It’s more work up front, but it saves work in the end. Every shift change, it takes a while for the medics to figure out how each patient is doing. But with a written record, within five minutes, they know everything there is to know.” said Akhorahil.

“Couldn’t you just cluster all the patients with the same symptoms together? Then you’d know how they were doing based on their location in the ward.” said Sauron.

There was a knock on the door, and the Chief of the Nazgûl entered the Council Chamber.

He was tall, and the heavy wools and furs he wore made him look even bigger. He’d just come from Carn Dûm, his fortress in Angmar. In the far north, especially at high altitude, bare rock and ice persisted even in summertime.

A steel crown sat upon his brow. This was the first time most of them had seen him wear it.

Most of the Nazgûl were kings in life, but their Chief, the younger brother of a king, became one himself only three hundred years ago, when Sauron sent him into the far north to establish the Witch Realm of Angmar.

Sauron crossed the room and embraced him warmly.

“Er-Mûrazor! How long has it been, fifty years?”

“Closer to a hundred.”

“You’re earlier than expected. You must have left the moment my summons reached you.”

“Things were quiet in the north, so I was able to get away promptly.”

Sauron sat down at the foot of the table, and invited the Witch King to sit at his right hand. He pushed the hood back from his face.

“Tell me everything. How is your mission going?”

Khamûl, a gifted military tactician, moved to the foot of the table and took a seat at Sauron’s left hand. This just turned into a military strategy session, thought Akhorahil. I wonder if I can slip out unnoticed.

“Carn Dûm dominates the North. The three splinter realms of Arnor have fallen, vanquished by the Witch Realm of Angmar.” the Witch King said. “Gondor no longer has a northern ally.”

“I did well when I make you Witch King of Angmar.” said Sauron.

“Then may I ask a small favor from you, as a reward? I’d like to be known by my title from now on.”

“You mean, I should call you The Witch King of Angmar? That takes a long time to say.”

“Angmar, then.”

“Done. Now tell me about your second mission. The one that’s more secret, and more important.” asked Sauron.

“I regret to report that I’ve learned nothing. Isildur and his sons left Gondor carrying a great heirloom, but as far as I can tell, they never reached Arnor. There’s no local story that says what happened to them.” said Angmar. “They vanished somewhere along the way. There’s no reason to think the heirloom ever made it to Arnor.” said Angmar. [1]

“Sometime soon, I may have another mission for you.” said Sauron. “The Great Plague devastated Osgiliath last year. The King of Gondor and both his sons died from it, along with half the city. Osgiliath was so weakened; their watch on Mordor was relaxed, and then abandoned.

“When I judge the time is right, I want you to capture Minas Ithil and occupy it. It’s not part of Mordor, but it controls the road to Barad-dûr. Once we control both entry points, Minas Ithil and the Morannon, we have Mordor.

“You’re in hiding. Won’t that draw attention to you?”

“By then, I’ll be ready.”

Chapter End Notes

[1] At that moment, the Ring was in the Gladden Fields, quite close to Dol Guldur. It wouldn't be found for another 825 years.

Day 1 – Denial

Dol Guldur, TA 1637 - Summer

Akhorahil was trying to talk to Sauron about fighting the plague. Akhorahil needed people, but he also needed cots, linens, food, medicine, and basins. Sauron was more irritable than usual. He was focused on his own thoughts and didn’t take kindly to being interrupted. Finally he threw up his hands and said,

“Fine! Do whatever you want, just don’t bother me. I don’t care.”

“But I need for you to decide … “

“Don’t know, don’t care. Surprise me.”

Sauron turned on his heel and stomped out of the Council Chamber.

You didn’t have to yell at me, Akhorahil thought.

ooooo

An hour later, Akhorahil met with his Master in his study. It was a hot day, and Sauron had undone the top two or three fasteners of his shirt, exposing his throat. He normally wore his collar closed at the neck, unless the weather was hot and muggy like it was today. Akhorahil thought he saw something, and did a double take.

“What’s that?” he asked Sauron.

“What’s what?”

“Your neck. It looks like you have a rash.” said Akhorahil.

“No, I’m fine. You’ve done nothing but deal with the plague since it arrived, and you’re seeing plague symptoms everywhere. I don’t think I could get it anyway.”

“Humor me. Let’s go to your room, and we’ll have a look.

Sauron sighed.

“When you’re acting as my personal physician, the only way to get rid of you is to do what you want. All right then, make it quick.”

Akhorahil followed Sauron through the side door that led to his bedroom and shut the door. Sauron took off his shirt and stood by the window where the light was better.

Akhorahil wasn’t sure what he was looking at. There was a faint flush on his Master’s neck and upper chest. It might have the earliest stage of a plague rash. But the spots were absent and so were the tell-tale rings around them. Furthermore, he didn’t have a fever, and he said he felt fine. However, the early stages before the symptoms appeared were the most contagious.

Akhorahil considered what to do. “Look, I want you to stay in your room for a couple of hours. You might be contagious, so I don’t want you to have contact with other people until we know if you’re getting sick.

ooooo

A few hours later, Sauron was sitting on his bed, arguing with Akhorahil. Before he entered the room, Akhorahil had a kerchief tied over his face which covered his nose and mouth. Only his eyes showed above the fabric.

Sauron undid his shirt to the waist. The barely noticeable rash Akhorahil thought he saw earlier had become darker, and covered a larger area of his chest. The spots and red rings characteristic of plague had also begun to appear. Before, Akhorahil suspected it might be a plague rash. Now, there was no way to convince himself it wasn’t.

Akhorahil chose his words carefully.

“I’d like to move you to the plague ward. We’re better able to take care of you down there.”

Akhorahil simply wasn’t able to be the chief physician in the plague ward and his Master’s personal physician at the same time.

“I’d be more comfortable in my own room. I’d rather to stay here.” Sauron said. “Anyway, there’s no reason to think I’ll get sick with it. I don’t have a fever, and I feel fine.”

“The Plague is a fast moving illness. You can get very sick very quickly. I’d rather you went downstairs while you can still walk. You’re heavy, and carrying you on a stretcher would be difficult. The long hallways aren’t a problem, but I’m concerned about the spiral staircase in the tower.

Sauron was silent. Akhorahil pressed his advantage.

“Look, let me have a bed prepared for you in the ward. I’ll see that you have something in a private corner, behind a screen. When it’s ready, we’ll walk down together. Like I said, this is a fast moving illness. If you haven’t fallen ill by nightfall, you can go back upstairs and sleep in your own bed tonight. What do you say?”

Sauron said, “All right, set it up. I’ll come down and have a look, and then I’ll decide whether to stay or come back up here.”

Akhorahil bowed slightly and turned to go.

ooooo

There was a raised dais or stage at one end of the Great Hall where they set up the High Table during feasts and the celebrations at Yule. Wooden screens at the back of the stage concealed the servants’ doors used by those who waited on the High Table.

Akhorahil chose the area behind one of the screens to create a small private space for his Master. He tried to make it as comfortable as possible by bringing in a real bed and placing a chair next to it for visitors. The servants’ door behind the screen led to the main corridor, so visitors could enter and leave without having to walk through the ward.

Akhorahil stood on the stage and looked out over the ward. The Great Hall had been transformed. The ward was set up in the Great Hall. Everything in it had been removed, replaced by rows and rows of cots that filled the length and breadth of the Hall. It looked like Mordor’s armies in the Second Age. Battalions of cots were arranged in squares, repeated row after row, and column after column. Walls of sheets separated the different sections, and separated men and women within a section.

ooooo

When Akhorahil return to his Master’s room, he found him wrapped in a cloak and shivering, on one of the hottest days of the year. They both knew Akhorahil would insist he go down to the ward right then. Sauron didn’t feel well enough to argue.

Sauron got to his feet. Before they went out in the corridor, Akhorahil tied a kerchief around his face to cover his nose and mouth. The early phase of the malady was the most contagious, and it was dangerous and irresponsible to let an infected person pass a healthy person in the corridor.

Akhorahil noticed his Master was unsteady on his feet. He abandoned his plan to take a discrete route where they wouldn’t be seen. Instead, he took him by the shortest, most direct route. Even so, his Master had to stop and rest several times. It was a slow, difficult trip.

Akhorahil walked beside his Master, holding his arm to keep him from stumbling. He opened the servants’ door and led him to the bed behind the screen. Akhorahil was grateful for this private entrance which let them avoid walking through the ward. He knew Sauron didn’t want to be seen.

Also, the smells of the ward were pretty bad, even with every window and door open to catch as much cross ventilation as possible.

Sauron sat down on the bed. It was made up with two pillows and a grey wool blanket. The bedclothes crackled as if there were an oilcloth or tarpaulin under the sheet. He turned back a corner of the blanket to see what was making the sound.

“Am I mistaken, or is there something stiff under the sheets?” he asked.

“There is. It’s there because it’s waterproof. Otherwise we’d have to burn the mattress afterwards.” Akhorahil explained.

“And there appear to be three or four bottom sheets on the bed.”

“There are. The medics change the sheets multiple times per day, and it’s easier if they can just strip one off and have a clean one underneath. The patient doesn’t even have to get up, which is a mercy for those who are too ill to stand.”

Akhorahil went to the foot of the bed and picked up a board with sheets of paper attached it. He wrote the date and time at the top of the page, then wrote down the information they took for every new patient, and made the first entry in the medical record.

Race: Man / Half-Elven

Age: in prime

Height: 7’

Weight: 17 stone

Symptoms: First appearance of plague rash midmorning, significantly more developed by early afternoon. Headache.

Fever: Low to moderate, shivering.

Observations: Bad tempered. Unsteady on feet.

Akhorahil didn’t actually know his Master’s race. He believed he was partly Elvish, even though he looked like a man. He was more muscular than most Elves, and he had to shave, which Elves usually don’t. But while Elves don’t age and they sometimes come back from the dead, they don’t shape-shift. Something else was going on here.

Akhorahil sent the medic out of earshot on an errand. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, pen poised over the board on his knee.

“This is medically important, so please answer as accurately as you can. What race do you belong to?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m guessing you’re half-Elven, is that right?

Silence.

“We both know you’re not normal. You’re a shape-shifter. Your body doesn’t age, and you’ve come back from the dead at least twice.”

Sauron looked away. He seemed uncomfortable having this conversation.

In Mordor, in the Second Age, Sauron had called himself Zigur. Wizard. Maybe Wizard was a race. If Sauron belonged to a race of Wizards, it could explain the shape shifting and his return from the dead.

“I’m trying to understand you so I’ll know how to treat you. What you tell me will affect the drugs I give you and their dosage, and what treatments I administer or steer clear of.”

“I’m a spirit clothed in a physical body, just as you are. Almost everything that’s true for men is true for me.”

“Tell me about the differences.”

“I can go longer without food and sleep.”

“And water?”

“No, that’s the same. I’m resistant to disease, but not immune. I heal faster, and I can endure more pain.”

“Anything else?”

“My body temperature is higher than normal.” Akhorahil hadn’t noticed. To him, all the living felt fever-hot.

“Is that all? If you think of anything else, let me know.”

“There is one other thing, but I don’t think it’s important.”

Akhorahil waited.

“I can’t have children.”

“Have you tried?”

“No. I have little interest in the matter.”

“How do you know you can’t, if you haven’t tried?”

He waited, but his Master would say no more.

“I’m going to step outside for a few minutes to let you get undressed.” Akhorahil said.

He put a plain white shirt on the bed beside his Master.

“Please remove every stitch, and put this on.”

“Why?”

“We found it’s easier for us to take care of you that way. We run this place like a well-oiled machine, and it’s just one of our efficiencies.”

Sauron picked up the shirt and studied it.

“I admire good craftsmanship, and this is not it. I know I said to make these as economically as possible, but this shirt has no fasteners, and the edges haven’t been hemmed.”

“They have to be cheap. They’re worn once and then burned.” said Akhorahil.

Sauron made a face at the offending garment and tossed it aside.

Akhorahil had a bigger concern, He knew how quickly the illness could progress, and that people with high fevers were not mentally competent. He also knew there was a possibility his Master could die. They needed to name a Regent to take over while Sauron was incapacitated.

“Why don’t you summon Angmar? If there’s anything you need to discuss about the Regency or the Succession, now is the time to do it.” Akhorahil urged.

“Don’t be silly. I just have a headache and a little bit of fever. I don’t even feel all that bad.”

Akhorahil went and found Angmar himself. He was amused to note that Angmar had abandoned the furs he’d arrived in for the lightweight summer clothes they all wore in this heat.

He told Angmar the situation was serious and urged him to come right away. In the corridor outside the servants’ door, Akhorahil cautioned Angmar about contagion.

“Don’t get within three feet of him, don’t touch him or anything he’s touched, and keep your mouth and nose covered at all times.”

He gave Angmar a kerchief and showed him how to fold it diagonally and tie the corners in the back. Then he gave him a container of aromatic salve and had him rub it on his upper lip. That way, he would breathe the medicinal fumes while he was in the ward and be protected against contagion. All the medical staff in the ward kept their faces covered by a kerchief at all times, with only their eyes showing.

When he showed Angmar in by the servants’ door, they found Sauron sitting cross-legged on the bed. He was still wearing his ordinary clothes, and he looked cheerful. The kerchief was on the bed beside him. When he saw them, he picked it up and tied it over his face without being reminded.

“I’ve started to feel better already. The fever’s gone, and the headache too.” Angmar looked relieved. Akhorahil did not. He knew this malady ebbed and flowed. What looked like a retreat was more like the windup to deliver a devastating blow.

A medic knocked and came around the end of the screen. “I’ve come to trim your nails.” He explained that the first thing they did when a patient was admitted to the ward was trim their nails to the quick. The rash could itch so badly that patients scratched themselves raw. They might also scratch the medics by accident and infect them.

Sauron said, “Give me the penknife, I’ll do it myself.” He sat on the bed trimming his nails while he talked to Angmar.

“The most important thing you need to do while I’m out of commission is defend Dol Guldur against attack. There are those who wish us ill, and if they get word that the Plague has come here, they may strike. I’d prefer to stand and fight, but if we have to come out of hiding and fall back to Mordor, we will.

“The next thing you need to do is manage everything having to do with fighting the Plague. I’m guessing the undead won’t fall ill, but it’s possible everyone else in Dol Guldur will. Of those, a significant number will die. You have to think about burial and about running this place with a skeleton crew who already have their hands full taking care of plague victims. Mass burials must be done in secret because we need to conceal from our enemies how much the Plague is devastating us.

“I’m planning to be out of here by nightfall, so hopefully you’ll only have to run things for half a day, but it’s possible I’ll be out for four or five days. We’ll just play it by ear. Either way, you can always come in here and consult with me.”

Akhorahil rolled his eyes. His Master had no idea how sick people with plague could get.

Akhorahil asked, “Just for the sake of argument, what would happen if you succumbed to the malady? How long would it be before you took form again?”

“It could be over a thousand years.” said Sauron. “Possibly more. It’s not easy to take form. When I had the Ring, I could do it quickly, but I can’t now.”

“Would you be able to communicate with us in the meantime?” asked Angmar. “Could you appear to us in dreams or visions? Could you possess someone and use their body?”

“I can’t interact with the physical world unless I’m in physical form myself. I can see and hear, but I can’t cause anything to happen and I can’t communicate with anybody.” said Sauron.

“At any rate, we don’t want anything to happen to you. Promise me you’ll cooperate with the healers here, and let us help you get well as soon as possible.” said Akhorahil.

ooooo

Akhorahil meant to check on his Master sooner, but more than an hour had passed before he mounted the steps to the stage and looked behind the wooden screen. The bed was empty.

He blinked in surprise. His Master had promised to cooperate. Akhorahil couldn’t believe he’d run off already. Agitated, he stepped into the corridor and looked around. Where would he have gone? He started off toward the Council Chamber at a brisk clip. Almost right away, he ran into his Master.

“Where were you?” Akhorahil was furious. “I found your bed empty.”

“I just went for a walk.” said Sauron.

“Well, next time, tell someone first. Or better yet, let me find someone to go with you. You shouldn’t go off by yourself until we’re sure you’re not getting sick.”

As if I have the power to make him do anything. I’m a Nazgûl, his slave. Even Angmar, who has almost complete free will and more independence of action than any of us, is a slave. Our Master can read our thoughts and overpower our wills whenever he wants. But I can’t have him leaving the ward. What if he collapses and we didn’t find him right away? I’ll have to ask him to promise to stay put.

He picked up the board and added a note, “Patient felt well enough to get out of bed, went for a walk up and down the corridor.”

ooooo

They gathered in the Council Chamber that afternoon. Angmar ran the meeting from Sauron’s place at the head of the table.

“Will our Master get worse, or is he already as sick as he’s going to be?” asked Khamûl.

“I don’t know. It could go either way.” said Akhorahil.

“He’s only recently taken form again and his strength hasn’t fully returned.” said Angmar.

“But he’s not in danger, is he?” asked Khamûl.

“Let’s speak frankly. The loss of the Ring crippled him. His strength is a fraction of what is was.” said Angmar.

“Do you think he could he die?” asked Khamûl.

“If he doesn’t have any resistance to plague, it will take the same course it does with everyone else.” said Akhorahil.

“I was thinking. He’s lived more years than any of us, and he came back from the dead.” said Khamûl.

“Meaning?”

“Is our Master Elvish? Elves don’t age, they come back from the dead, and they don’t get sick. If he’s Elvish, then he’s immune from the Plague.”

“He could be part Elvish. If he’s descended from Fëanor, it would explain his skill with metal-smithing.” said Angmar.

“I don’t think he is.” said Uvatha. “He extended our lives through sorcery. I expect he extended his own as well.”

“But sorcerers can’t bring themselves back from the dead.” Angmar frowned. “Wait! You don’t suppose … ”

“What?” Akhorahil asked.

“You don’t suppose he’s one of the Holy Ones, do you?” said Angmar.

Akhorahil snorted. “I’ve examined him and I am completely sure there’s nothing supernatural about him. He’s not an Ainur.”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s easy to recognize those not of women born. They don’t have a navel.” [1]

“But he talks as if he’s seen the Void.” said Angmar.

“Perhaps he has, but I think that’s just very powerful sorcery. From a medical point of view, he’s human. He eats and drinks like everyone else, with the same natural consequences. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but physically, he’s normal.”

Except for the pupils of his eyes, Akhorahil didn’t add. But that could be a birth defect. [2]

ooooo

It was late in the afternoon. Sauron lay on top of the scratchy blanket thinking about how much he didn’t want to sit in the plague ward from now until bedtime, doing nothing. He hated being idle. He didn’t even like the idea of staying in his own room for the rest of the day, not when he had more important things to do.

On the other hand, most of what he did involved talking to other people. Akhorahil was worried about contagion, so Sauron was probably going to be confined to quarters until the rash cleared up, anyway.  He didn’t like his options, but he didn’t think Akhorahil was wrong, either.

He listened to the fragments of stories and gossip he could hear from his comfortable perch behind the screen. In spite of being in a large public room, he really did have a lot of privacy, and he was reasonably far away from the hubbub of activity in the open spaces of the main ward.

He got up and walked around the end of the wooden screen to look into the ward. He could see over the walls of sheets into Sections Two and Three because the stage was several feet above the main floor, and because he was tall.

He was surprised by how many cots were occupied today. The ward was close to full. Two days ago, over half of the cots were empty. He’d planned the ward and helped set it up, and he looked in from time to time, although most of his information came from the status reports Akhorahil made during their daily meetings in the Council Chamber. But he hadn’t appreciated how aggressively the malady was claiming his people.

The ward was reasonably quiet, given how many people were there. He could hear the murmur of conversation as patients talked among themselves. The least sick were in the section closest to the stage. They still felt well enough to sit on their cots playing cards or dice to pass the time. The illness made people irritable so occasionally, fights broke out, particularly among the orcs.

He returned to his bed and lay down on top of the blanket. He closed his eyes for a few minutes and listened to the sounds of the ward coming from the other side of the screen. He heard the sounds of footsteps and soft voices, and the clink of metal against metal. The clatter of something heavy being dropped, followed by a soft curse and someone laughing.

Without intending to, he fell asleep. He slept all afternoon and well into the evening. When he woke up, it was dark and he didn’t know where he was. He did know he had a really, really high fever. And when Akhorahil came in to check on him, he said,

“I am in serious trouble.”

Akhorahil stepped into the main ward and came back with a medic. Without asking his Master’s permission, the two of them undressed him and put him to bed. He was too sick to protest.

Chapter End Notes

[1] A commonly held belief about the Firstborn, but wrong.

[2] A racial trait common to the Ainur, or Holy Ones.

Day 2 – Fever

Dol Guldur, TA 1637 - Summer

Sauron lay in bed in the middle of the night, listening with all his senses. He was too anxious to sleep. In his heightened state of alertness, he saw potential threats in every person he didn’t know, every sound he couldn’t identify.

He knew he was a tyrant. He ruled by fear. Although he didn’t normally think about it, he could be surrounded by people who wished him ill, and not even know it. This one might have been punished harshly in the past. That one might have a brother who’d been put to death.

He was too ill to stand without help. He was helpless, so he was forced to trust strangers to take care of him. It meant giving up control, and he hated that.

In his weakened state, he wouldn’t able to defend himself against a pillow over the face. Too large a dose of poppy syrup could make him sleep forever. And when being bled for a fever, it’s normal to pass out. You have to trust the surgeon to loosen the tourniquet and apply pressure to the wound, but if he let you bleed until your heart stopped, you’d never know.

Sauron knew what it was like to bleed to death. It’s pleasant, in a way. You feel sleepy, and your whole body feels warm. Pretty soon you’re not conscious anymore. You don’t even know it when death comes, or when someone hacks off your finger.

Anyone with a grudge could do him in. They wouldn’t even get caught. They’d just say he died of the plague.

Most of the medical staff were people he didn’t know, and unlike the Nazgûl, he couldn’t read their minds. He had no way of knowing how they felt about him.

He summoned Akhorahil, who practically ran into the room, a cloak wrapped around his nightclothes.

“I have new instructions. I won’t allow myself to be bled, and I won’t take medicine while I’m here.”

Akhorahil listened politely. His face was neutral.

Sauron focused his will upon the Nazgûl, and with effort, was able to read his thoughts.

“ … obey you because I have to, but ... still think ... being a moron.”

“I don’t like being so helpless that I ‘m not in control anymore. I’m concerned about my safety.” said Sauron.

“I’ve imposed restrictions on who can get close to you, based on their personal loyalty to the Necromancer. Furthermore, I identified one or two among the medical staff who were not your friends, and I assigned them to work in the village. They’re not even sleeping in the fortress anymore.

“Besides, no one in the ward knows who you are. Your name isn’t on your records. No one’s seen you before, except behind black robes which they assume covers something hideous.” said Akhorahil.

“I’m getting special treatment, better than anyone else in the ward. Won’t that attract attention?”

“It does, but I told one of the orderlies in strictest confidence that you were a relative, and that your father paid for my medical education. Now that’s what everyone in the ward believes.” said Akhorahil.

Sauron nodded with admiration. Even by Sauron’s standards, Akhorahil was good at palace intrigue.

“Except for one thing. If I’m a relative, shouldn’t you and I belong to the same race?” asked Sauron.

“Mixed blood is common enough. I don’t think it undermines the story. Isn’t Khamûl’s mother Elvish?”

“Stepmother. Yes, she is.”

ooooo

Sauron wondered when he’d stopped trusting people.

He trusted Akhorahil. He trusted all of the Nazgûl completely, although he’d enslaved them, and frequently read their thoughts, so perhaps they didn’t count.

He trusted Eönwë and Ilmarë, his closest friends when he was young. They’d never betrayed him.

He trusted both Aulë and Melkor enough to place himself under their protection, in return for loyalty and service. Neither one had ever hurt him, unless you counted the occasional belt or back of the hand, but that was expected, and he didn’t attach any importance to it.

It must have started with Celebrimbor.

They were close friends, but Sauron avoided telling him anything about his life before the Gwaith-i-Mirdain. He let Celebrimbor believe he was a Noldo Elf educated in Valinor, and was careful not to tell him who he really was.

Celebrimbor, for his part, ignored the letters from Lindon that warned him about the visitor whose story didn’t quite add up. He guessed there was something shady about Sauron’s past, bad enough to get him banned from Lindon.

However, he was eager to acquire the knowledge Sauron learned from Aulë. He probably assumed it was something like a father who’d disowned him, or a series of juvenile offenses, followed by repentance, a change of scenery, and a fresh start. At any rate, he politely looked the other way, for which Sauron was grateful.

But even so, he always had to watch what he said. He couldn’t talk about specific names or events or deeds, but he also had to be careful not to say anything that would reveal his age, or race, or the side on which he’d fought during the Rebellion. He could never let down his guard, completely. He could never really relax around other people.

The secrecy kept the friendship superficial, and he got tired of it. He wanted to be able to confide in him. He took the risk. He didn’t tell him everything, but it was enough that Celebrimbor could put the pieces together and guess his identity.

Sauron Gorthaur.

He wasn’t one of the Noldor Elves apprenticed to Aulë. He was a Maia, Melkor’s standard bearer.

Celebrimbor was silent for a long time, trying to process what he’d heard. Then he just said, “I don’t know you anymore. Get out.”

It was devastating. It began the feud that ended with Celebrimbor’s death.

After that disaster, Sauron hesitated to confide the details of his past to anyone. Even with the Nazgûl, he was deliberately vague about his background. He allowed them to believe whatever they liked about how he came by his Wizard’s powers and his long life. He rarely said anything personal about himself, so they had little to go on.

He did reveal a few things to them indirectly. The walls of Barad-dûr were decorated with a series of murals depicting the Forging of the Ring and the short lived Conquest of Arda by Sauron the Great. Those events occurred shortly before the Nazgûl were born. There was another series of murals with scenes from the life of Melkor, in which Melkor looked as beautiful as he had been in life.

The murals were gone, reduced to rubble when Barad-dûr was pulled down after he lost the Ring. But based on those portraits, the Nazgûl must know their Master was a follower of Melkor. However, he never told them he had known Melkor personally, that he was Melkor’s second-in-command and standard bearer.

He told his people in Dol Guldur even less. He was a wizard called The Necromancer. That was all.

ooooo

Now that Angmar was back, Sauron realized how much he’d missed him. Angmar was a close friend. He had few friends, in spite of how outgoing he was. He longed to confide in someone about Utumno, Valinor, and even the Timeless Halls, but knew he couldn’t. It wouldn’t be wise.

But it would be such a relief to stop guarding his words all the time, to stop concealing his past. He was beginning to think it was worth the risk.

ooooo

The next time he woke up, it was still dark in the ward, although there were pools of soft lamplight here and there. He remembered there was a chamber pot under the bed, as there was under every cot in the ward. He started to get up, but the room spun so violently he thought he would be sick. He clutched the sides of the bed and cried out in alarm. A medic appeared around the end of the screen.

“I need help.”

“What can I do for you?” asked the medic.

“I .. um .. I have to use the privy, but I can’t get up by myself.”

“If I helped you to get up, do you think you could sit on the edge of the bed?”

“No, the room is spinning. If I lift my head, I’ll be sick.”

The medic disappeared for a moment and came back with a glass jar. He lifted the sheet, saying, “I need you to put your knees apart.” He positioned the jar and said, “I’ll just step outside for a few minutes to give you some privacy. Call me when you’re done.”

The medic came back in a few minutes and took the jar. Sauron noticed how visible the contents were through the clear glass and wanted to die of embarrassment. Couldn’t it have been made from ceramic or metal or anything opaque, to leave me with one tiny shred of dignity? But the jars in the ward were clear for a reason.

On the other side of the screen, Sauron heard the medic say, “Somebody wake Akhorahil.” When Akhorahil arrived, he heard him say, “Yes, you’re right, this has blood in it. Quite a lot, actually. It’s a common plague symptom, I’m afraid. If he gets any sicker, he may start to bleed from the ears.”

ooooo

Akhorahil left the stage and descended the three or four stairs into the ward. He walked by Section One but didn’t stop. The patients here didn’t receive medical attention, as they were contagious but not yet sick. Akhorahil noticed there were more of them today than there were yesterday. Not good.

He walked into the ward and stopped at Section Two. These were the patients he was most able to help.  He looked around the Section with a practiced eye. There were many people here who were miserable, but one or two who were in grave danger.

He located the chief medic and went over to speak to him. The medic showed him a patient who was debilitated from vomiting. Akhorahil picked up a board from the end of the patient’s cot and read through the pages attached to it. Every cot in the ward had a similar board hung at its foot.

This was the third day of the patient’s illness, he hadn’t eaten since the fever began, and he had terrible pains in his arms and legs. Akhorahil thought the pain was caused by starvation.

“Can you check him for fever?” Akhorahil asked the medic. Akhorahil had trouble judging temperature. To him, all of the living felt fever-hot.

“Medium high. He’s shivering, so it’s on its way up.” said the medic.

Akhorahil rubbed his hands together to warm them before he examined the patient. His hands were ice-cold, and he didn’t like to startle people.

He closed his eyes while examining the patient. With his fingertips moving over the patient’s belly, he was able to see beneath the skin.

ooooo

Akhorahil became a physician because it was one of the few professions open to someone who was blind.

He was a young man still living with his parents when a fever robbed him of his sight. He’d expected to be a ship chandler or a money-lender, but he apprenticed himself to a physician instead.

His family was descended from minor nobility. They weren’t wealthy, but they had a few connections. A second cousin was able to secure him an appointment as a court physician in Annúminas.

Soon he was treating people so far above himself in rank, he never would have dared speak to them on the street.

It was the nature of his post that a noble who was hurting or sick would seek him out, and confide in him deeply personal things of a medical nature. Perhaps it was the trust people put in physicians, but they often confided other secrets in him as well. He learned of political schemes and maneuverings at court he never would have guessed at otherwise.

He discovered he had a talent for court intrigue. The loss of his sight made his hearing keener, and he heard nuances of emotion that others missed. That gave him the ability to tell truth and falsehood in a person’s voice, which the sighted normally missed.

Nothing he learned in his medical studies could restore his sight. Hoping to regain his vision, he began to study sorcery. He learned to see with his mind, which enabled him to see in the dark, and inside closed cabinets, and behind himself.

Being able to see with his mind didn’t restore his sight, but it made him a better physician. When he put his fingertips on a patient’s belly, he was able to see inside the patient’s body. Blockages, tumors, pregnancy, he was able to see and diagnose with ease.

He became a very powerful sorcerer. But when he was invited to wear one of the great rings, it wasn’t for that, it was for how well connected he was at court.

And something amazing happened. As soon as he put on the ring that made him a Nazgûl, his sight returned.

ooooo

Akhorahil picked up the board, added a few notes of his own, and hung it back on the end of the cot.

He went over to one of the large work tables where medicines were prepared and measured out an antidote for nausea, a vile-tasting potion. The medics joked that the smell alone was bad enough to make a patient vomit.

Akhorahil brought the potion back to the patient, and the medic helped him drink it. It came up again almost right away, with more violence than usual. While the medic cleaned up the patient, an orderly mopped off Akhorahil’s face and hair and helped him change his splattered smock for a clean one.

Vomiting and flux were symptoms of the plague, and they could dehydrate a patient severely enough to kill him.

The danger was, when a patient couldn’t keep fluids in, he couldn’t absorb medicine in time for it to work. The irony was, the dehydration itself could cause vomiting, and start a vicious cycle they couldn’t break. Akhorahil tried to give doses of the bitter potion early and often, but the malady moved so fast, it was hard to stay ahead of it.

“Who else needs my attention?” asked Akhorahil.

“We have someone who has the flux so badly he’s drying up before our eyes. His mouth is as dry as cotton, and he can’t spit.” said the medic.

Akhorahil examined the patient and immediately saw how much danger he was in. He decided to move him to Section Three, which was better equipped to care for him.

Section Three was for patients who could no longer stand. For patients suffering from the flux, that was a problem. As fast as the orderlies could wash them off and change their sheets, it had to be done again. They simply didn’t have the manpower to keep up. Finally, someone thought to cut a hole in the canvas of their cot and put a bucket under them. That was the only way they knew to keep them comfortable.

Akhorahil washed his hands and changed his soiled smock for yet another clean one before going on to Section Three.

ooooo

The medics there looked up when he approached.

Section Three had the most skilled medics, and the greatest number.

Akhorahil heard an anguished wail from the middle of the section.

“What was that?” he asked.

“He’s out of his head with a high fever. He thinks spiders are crawling on him.”

They led him to the bedside of a patient raving with delirium, screaming and clawing at his own face and eyes. 

“He’ll hurt himself.” said Akhorahil. “Bind his hands to the side of the cot. But bandage his wrists first, so they won’t chafe against the restraints.”

Another medic approached them, looking anxious.

“We have someone here who really needs your help.”

They led him to the bedside of a young woman they hadn’t been able to wake. Akhorahil pulled back her eyelids and used a mirror to steer sunlight into her eyes. Her pupils didn’t react. He looked up at the medics and shook his head.

“There’s nothing you can do? She was brave and cheerful, and we all liked her. We hoped she would make it.” He blinked hard.

“I’m sorry. She’s beyond our help now.” Akhorahil said.

He knew what would happen next. Orderlies would carry her cot to Section Four, at the very back end of the ward. Patients in Section Four didn’t receive medical attention, other than having the dead removed once a day and brought to the mass graves just outside the fortress.

The truth was, they really couldn’t do much for their patients. They could give them food and water, wrap them in blankets, keep them clean, and administer medicines for nausea and fever.

But they had no medicine against the plague itself. It had to run its course in each patient. All the medical staff could do was to make them comfortable while they waited to find out whether the malady would kill or spare them.

ooooo

When Sauron woke, it was light again. He was drenched in sweat. Strands of hair were plastered to his face, and his shirt stuck to his chest and back. He peeled off his shirt and tossed it on the floor. It landed near the wool blanket, crumpled on the floor where he’d flung it off during the night. He kicked off the sheet too, but even naked and spread-eagled, he was still too hot.

Akhorahil came around from the other side of the screen.

“There’s someone here to see you, but I doubt he wants to see that much of you.” he said, and pulled the sheet up to Sauron’s middle. Now he was unbearably hot.

Akhorahil called, “You can come in now.” to someone in the corridor. Sauron twisted around to see who it was. The waterproof cloth under the sheet made a rustling noise when he moved.

The door opened, and Angmar came in.

When Angmar saw him, he put his hand over his eyes and turned away. Sauron was aware the sheet had slipped when he moved, but he felt too ill to care. So now he knows I have pubic hair, big whoop.

A medic discretely twitched the sheet an inch higher. Angmar kept looking at the wall, apparently finding the woodwork interesting. Finally he looked back, keeping his eyes fixed on his Master’s face and nowhere else. But almost right away, he forgot his embarrassment.

“He’s bleeding!” Angmar cried in alarm. “There’s blood on the pillow, and. in his hair.”

Akhorahil hurried over to look. He put a hand on Sauron’s cheek, pushed his head to one side, and lifted his hair. He did the same thing on the other side.

“He’s bleeding from both ears. I didn’t notice earlier, because the blood was covered by his hair. It’s one of the symptoms of the Plague. I’m afraid the severity of the disease has been exactly the same for him as it is for everyone else.”

ooooo

Angmar came back a few hours later to check on his Master. Akhorahil spoke to him in the corridor before he went in.

“He may not recognize you, but he’ll know whether you’re a friend, enemy, or stranger.”

They went in. Sauron stirred, and opened his eyes. He was shaking with fever.

Akhorahil asked very gently, “Do you know who I am?”

“Someone who takes care of me.” Sauron answered.

“Do you know who this is?” Akhorahil indicated Angmar.

“Someone good. A friend.” he answered.

Angmar maintained his composure until they left the room, but outside in the corridor, he leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, and whispered a prayer.

Day 3 – Thirst (slash)

Dol Guldur, TA 1637 - Summer

Sauron woke up knowing he was about to be sick. There was a bucket beside his bed, but he was too weak to lean over the edge of the bed. All he could do was turn his head to the side. The warm liquid soaked into his pillow and hair, but he didn’t care. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

Someone held a handkerchief to his mouth. “Spit.” He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t sweating anymore, either, no matter how high the fever climbed.

ooooo

He dreamed he was confined in an iron cage in front of the ornamental fountain in the marketplace in the center of Valmar. Unrepentant, he leaned against the bars, an arm draped casually over his knee, sneering at the people who had gathered to stare at him and reproach him for his crimes.

But by the second day, he was less cocky. A headache made him slow-witted, and his mouth was as dry as cotton. He lay on the floor of the cage, preoccupied with thoughts of water.  He listened to the music from the fountain and felt its spray whenever the wind blew from its direction. A kind-hearted person smuggled him a sip of water. He fell on it, his self-restraint gone.

Later in the day, when the hot afternoon sun beat down on him, he searched the faces in the crowd for a kind face, his eyes pleading. People stared at him, but did nothing. He reached his fingers through the bars and begged them.

“Please, please, …” he said to no one in particular, “I’m so thirsty.”

Someone put an arm under his neck and lifted his head. A cup touched his lips and he tasted water. Where was the cage? He clutched at the man’s wrist and pulled the glass closer, spilling it all over himself. He drank deeply.

“More.” His voice was a croak.

The man refilled the glass and he drank it all. Then it all came back up again. He wanted to weep with frustration, but no tears came.

“Do you want me to leave the glass on the chair, right here where you can reach it easily?” the medic asked.

“No, take it away. I don’t want it there, mocking me.” He turned toward the wall. After the medic left, he gave himself over to silent hiccoughing sobs.

ooooo

Akhorahil spoke with Angmar in the corridor outside Sauron’s room.

“He’s not doing well. He’s dehydrated, but he can’t drink anything because he can’t keep anything down. The trouble is, dehydration itself causes nausea. It can be hard to break the cycle.”

Akhorahil hesitated before continuing.

“I’d like to try something. He’s a fighter, and I think he can survive this, with a little help. He isn’t well enough to give consent, so I need you to give consent for him.”

“What do you want to do?” asked Angmar.

“I’ve tried and tried, but I can’t get anything into him by mouth. So I want to try from the other side.” Akhorahil said. “I want to use a tube to get fluids into the lower gut. As far as the body is concerned, it doesn’t matter how fluids get in, just as long as they do.

“I’d like to do it right away. He’s suffering. But as soon as we do this, he’ll start to feel better.”

Angmar shook his head. “I don’t think he would agree to that. I formed the impression that he’s modest about his body, and he wouldn’t want to be touched there. Based on my understanding of his wishes, I can’t give my consent.”

Akhorahil snapped. “Don’t you get it? He’s drifting in and out of consciousness, and he’s about twelve hours away from coma and death. That’s the course of this illness. I’m trying to prevent him from slipping into a coma, because if he does, it’s unlikely he’ll come out again. And nobody likes having this procedure done, but so what? It doesn’t hurt, and its lifesaving.”

Angmar was silent.

Akhorahil made a decision. “Look, this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to overrule you and do the procedure without medical consent. If I don’t, there’s a good chance he’ll die.”

Angmar warned him, “I strongly advise you to obtain his consent first. Tell him what you told me about coma and death. Because if you try to do this and he fights you, it’s possible that while he’s delirious, he might use his power but not his good judgment. He might, I don’t know, he might strike someone dead, or collapse the roof of the building. Treat him as though he’s extremely dangerous, and don’t do anything to provoke him.”

ooooo

Sauron stirred when he heard the door open. Two people entered, their faces obscured by kerchiefs. They seemed familiar, even if he couldn’t remember their names. The tall, black-haired one knelt beside his bed. Only his eyes showed above the fabric. He spoke slowly and deliberately.

“We’re trying to get you through the next twelve hours. You’re one step away from coma and death, but we think we can pull you back.”

Sauron didn’t understand what was being said to him, and he didn’t care. He just wanted to be left alone. He could no longer speak, and it hurt to breath. He closed his eyes and turned away.

“Mairon. Look at me.”

In a moment of clarity, Sauron recognized him. Angmar.

“You need to do this.” Angmar pleaded.

Sauron understood, and nodded. Angmar looked up at Akhorahil and told him, “He consents.”

Sauron kept his eyes closed, but the sounds of activities nearby still reached him.

“Angmar, would you leave the room please?” Akhorahil asked.

He heard the scrape of Angmar’s boots against the floorboards as he got to his feet and turned to go, the thump of the door as it closed behind him, the click of the bolt as the door was locked shut.

He heard Akhorahil’s voice. “Medic, can you make up a pitcher of warm water, and add some sugar and salt to it? But before you go, could you send in a couple of orderlies?”

He heard their footsteps as they approached his bed, the scrape of wood against the floor as they set a small table near him, and the rustle of fabric as they draped a sheet across the end of the small space, just beyond the foot of his bed.

They folded the bedclothes back, and he shivered when the cold air hit him. They spread towels under him, moving him as carefully as possible. The abrasive fabric felt prickly against his bare skin. They pulled the bedclothes up to his neck, and he started to feel warm again.

He watched Akhorahil lay a cloth over the table and arrange medical instruments on it. The medic came back with the pitcher. Akhorahil took it from him and set it down, then uncapped a small phial and tipped it into the pitcher. “For nausea.” he told the medic. He touched the surface of the water and let a few drops fall on the inside of his wrist. “It should be as close to body temperature as possible. You have to make sure it’s not too hot.”

Akhorahil reached for a small container and scooped some ointment from it, picked something up from the table, and approached the bed.

“All right, let’s get started.”

The medic helped him turn over. He closed his eyes tight shut. Akhorahil lifted the bedclothes, put his arms underneath, and began to work.

“You’ll feel a pinch.” said Akhorahil. “But tell me if it hurts any worse than that.”

The fever started to climb again. As it spiked, Sauron drifted in and out of consciousness. He dreamed Melkor grabbed him and shoved him facedown against a heavy table, twisting his arm behind his back. Melkor was bigger and stronger than he was, so even though he fought as hard as he could, and begged him not to do it,  ..  His eyes snapped open. “Okay, it’s in.” Akhorahil was saying to the medic. “Bring the pitcher. You can start now.”

Fully awake now, Sauron tried to focus on the wall in front of him and push away all other thoughts. He fought a rising panic, until a strong hand gripped his shoulder and held him down.

“Breath in, count to ten, breath out.” Akhorahil said.

Somehow, he got through the next few minutes without going to pieces. And getting fluids this way really was as good as being able to drink water and keep it down. He’d suffered from thirst so badly since he became ill, he wished they’d done this earlier.

ooooo

A little later, Akhorahil held a handkerchief under his mouth. “Spit.” he ordered, and this time, he could do it. Akhorahil looked pleased.

Sauron thought he was getting well. When the medic brought him water, he drank it and kept it down.

ooooo

Akhorahil stepped around the screen to check on his patient. Sauron was sleeping, curled up facing the wall. The sheet covered him to the waist, but above it, his back and shoulders were bare. The hospital shirt lay discarded on the sheet beside him.

The afternoon was warm and muggy. Even without a fever, it was enough to make sweat glisten on his skin. He’s able to sweat. Akhorahil watched his breathing. Slow and regular, good.

Then he frowned. What was that?

A thin white line, four or five inches long, ran diagonally across his Master’s shoulder blade. If the light hadn’t been just right, and if he didn’t have a trained eye, Akhorahil never would have noticed. Then he saw another one, lower down. He kept looking. A dozen or more criss-crossing lines covered his Master’s back. They were almost invisible, but they were definitely there. There’s only one way to get marks like that.

Akhorahil didn’t have a valid medical reason to ask him about it, so he filed it away in his mind and spoke of it to no one.

ooooo

Later that afternoon, Akhorahil arrived at the Council Chamber for the daily meeting. He was on time for once, and found himself alone with Angmar.

“Angmar, I was just thinking. When our Master was a prisoner on Númenor, do you think he was ever mistreated?”

“He was held hostage for almost four years. I don’t think he was ever locked in a cell, although he was confined to the palace and accompanied by guards at all times. In his own apartments, the wastebaskets were searched for any scrap of paper bearing his handwriting, and the walls had ears. And at night, the door was locked from the outside. That ended when he became the king’s chief advisor, of course.”

“Beyond the indignities of being a hostage, do you think he might have been abused in any way?”

“It’s hard to know. When he was taken prisoner at Umbar, right after they bound his hands, Ar-Pharazôn struck him across the face. He didn’t mention it later because he didn’t attach much importance to it. It’s possible he was abused on Númenor but didn’t think it was important enough to mention.

ooooo

Sauron felt better. The procedure saved him from coma and death, and the fever was in remission all day. He was sure he was getting better. But it came back roaring back during the night and gave him vivid, surrealistic dreams. The sounds of rain against the roof of the Great Hall reached him and entered his dreams.

He was walking up and down the corridors outside of the Great Hall, looking for the washroom near the main doors. He found the place where it should have been, but it had been replaced by a large ornamental fountain with a top tier overflowing into the tier below. In desperate need, he ran up the many flights of stairs to his own room, where at least he knew where the privy was.

He woke with a start when he realized the bedclothes were soaked, and so was the shirt he slept in. The hem was plastered to his legs. Even the blanket over him was damp.

“Melkor’s chains!” he swore loudly.

The medic stuck his head around the screen.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s just that, I .. um .. nothing.” Sauron fumbled for words.

“Would you like to have the sheets changed?” the medic asked.

“Yes, please.” he said meekly.

The medic returned a few minutes later with two orderlies who stripped and remade the bed with him still in it. When they tossed the old sheets on the floor, they made a sound like wet laundry that hasn’t been wrung out yet. The orderlies removed his wet shirt by tearing it down the back and pulling it from his arms. He was relieved they didn’t try to lift the sodden hem over his face.

The new sheets were more comfortable. The orderlies pulled the bedclothes over his bare shoulders. He closed his eyes and was asleep before they even left the room.

Day 4 – Delirium

Dol Guldur, TA 1637 - Summer

Sauron opened his eyes in the grey dawn and saw Akhorahil standing over him.

“The medics telfl me you wet the bed during the night.”

“Can you say that a little louder? I don’t think everybody heard.” Sauron said.

“For a while there, when you couldn’t keep anything down, you lost the ability to pee. That’s not good. It meant you were dying. But we managed to get fluids into you, and you started to feel better almost immediately. The medics were so pleased, they woke me during the night to tell me you’d wet the bed.”

“You mean, in addition to setting fires and torturing small animals?” he asked. [1]

“Anyway, you’re obviously getting better.” said Akhorahil.

ooooo

Sauron was still feeling well an hour later, when the clatter of metal trays let him know the orderlies were serving breakfast on the ward. An orderly set a tray down in front of him: tea and toast and a cup of clear broth. The portions were small, but he couldn’t finish them. Still, he convinced himself that because he could eat again, he was sure to be out of there soon.

He looked up when a medic entered the room.

“You’re new. Where is the medic who was taking care of me these last few days?

“He fell ill during the night. He’s a patient in Section Two today.”

“Oh.” Sauron fell silent, troubled by the news. “I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man.”

ooooo

Akhorahil called a meeting with Angmar and Khamûl.

“He isn’t doing well. He’s not lucid, he doesn’t recognize anyone, and he doesn’t know where he is. Other patients as sick as he is now have died. I’m just telling you, we need to be prepared for whatever happens next.”

“His fever isn’t any higher than it was late on the first day. Surely he isn’t any sicker now than he was then?” asked Khamûl.

“He’s been fighting this fever for four days. He’s getting tired.” said Akhorahil

“The fever has the same strength as before, but he doesn’t. Four days ago, he could still walk. Today, he can’t lift his head from the pillow or turn over in bed without help.

“He sleeps most of the time. He’ll be awake for a few minutes if somebody talks to him, but otherwise, he’s sleeping. He wasn’t like that yesterday.

“The thing is, I can’t fight it for him, he has to do it for himself. And if he decides he’s too tired to go on, then he’s in great danger.”

Akhorahil excused himself and left the Council Chamber. When he was gone, Khamûl said to Angmar, “You’re the one who knows him best, so you’re the one most likely to know his wishes. How would he want to be buried?”

Angmar said, “I don’t know what to do.”

“We need to talk about it.” Khamûl said.

“I can’t. I just can’t do it.”

“Why don’t you let me handle the details? Just give me a few ideas and I’ll take it from there.” Khamûl said.

Angmar nodded, grateful.

“What do you think he would want to wear while lying in state? Something formal, like ceremonial robes, jewelry, a crown? Or something simple?”

“Simple. Black robes in cashmere wool, finely made.”

“What would he want to be holding? A sword? A mace?”

“I don’t think so. Even though he’s a warlord, he sees himself as a blacksmith rather than a warrior.” said Angmar.

“And would he want to be buried or burned?”

“I don’t think he wants an elaborate tomb. I think he would prefer a funeral pyre.”

Khamûl nodded and went off to make preparations. He had to select the room in which his Master would lie in state. There wasn’t an audience chamber or a throne room in Dol Guldur, since Sauron was in hiding and didn’t receive visitors. There was a tiny sanctuary where they made sacrifices to Melkor, but it was too small to hold everyone at once.

Khamûl thought about how to make it work. If they put the bier in front of the altar, and marked a path for the line of viewers, then everyone could file past. Afterwards, there would have to be a memorial service, and speakers. He’d have to plan that next.

Khamûl was glad to have something to do, even though it was a sad task.  They were playing a waiting game now, and the waiting was hard.

Chapter End Notes

[1] A set of three traits, wetting the bed, setting fires, and cruelty to animals is associated with psychopathy.

Sauron is not a psychopath, he is a malignant narcissist.

Day 5 – Crisis

Dol Guldur, TA 1637 - Summer

Khamûl sat at the table in the Council Chamber with the rest of the leadership of Dol Guldur. Angmar, in the role of Regent, sat in Sauron’s chair at the head of the table, but for all practical purposes, Akhorahil was in charge. They met at least once a day to review the progress of the Plague, and to plan how they were going to fight it.

Khamûl wished Sauron was there. Before his Master fell ill, things got done quickly. Sauron was decisive, and as their unquestioned leader, his word was final. But when their Master was absent, the group had a harder time making decisions. There was more infighting, and often they got stalled.

Akhorahil rushed in, frazzled and out of breath.

Khamûl asked him, “How is our Master?”

“He’s in the third phase of the malady. He’s not lucid. We’re doing what we can to make him comfortable.”

“I’d like to see him” said Khamûl. To say goodbye, he didn’t add.

“That won’t be possible.” said Akhorahil. “I’m trying to limit the number of visitors he has. I’ve decided Angmar may see him, but no one else.”

Khamûl outranked Akhorahil as a Nazgûl, and shouldn’t have been taking orders from him. But Akhorahil the Physician outranked him on the plague ward, so Khamûl held his tongue. He fumed with frustration.

“I’m not doing it to be mean.” said Akhorahil.” He just isn’t well enough for visitors. I’m afraid it would tire him out to much. He needs all his strength to fight this illness. He can’t afford to spend it on anything else. He wouldn’t recognize you anyway. I’m sorry.”

ooooo

Later, Khamûl stood in front of the main doors leading into the Great Hall, looking in. The ward was divided into sections using sheets. He could tell which section was which just by looking. In the first section, the patients were sitting on their cots, talking. In the last section, they lay motionless under blankets, waiting for death. Almost all the medics were in the middle two sections, where the patients were seriously ill but could still benefit from their help.

Khamûl looked around for Akhorahil. He spotted him near the windows in Section Two with his back to the door, talking to a group of medics-in-training. He was showing them the bench where medicinal herbs used to fight the Plague were brewed into teas or poultices or salves. Khamûl thought it looked like they would be awhile. He took a deep breath and stepped into the ward.

Because his Master had entered the third phase of the malady, he knew to look for him in Section Three. He assumed he would be easy to spot on the ward. Medics would be standing over him, or his cot would be set apart from the others, or there would be something obvious that would make him easy to spot.

But the cots in Section Three were arranged in even rows just like they were everywhere else, and the medics were evenly distributed as well. If his Master was here, Khamûl couldn’t find him.

He couldn’t see past the sheet barrier that separated the men from the women, but didn’t think there was any point in looking further. He didn’t sense his Master’s presence nearby, in any case.

An orderly touched his arm.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to wear this.”

The orderly gave him a kerchief, and showed him how to fold it diagonally and tie it behind his head. He then produced a small jar and asked Khamûl to apply aromatic salve to his upper lip. Khamûl had a keen sense of smell, so the powerful fumes brought tears to his eyes.

“Is there anything in particular you were looking for?” asked the orderly.

“I’m looking for our Master.” said Khamûl.

“Let me show you where he is.” He pointed toward the stage. “On the stage, there are two wooden screens. Do you see the one on the same wall as the main corridor? His bed is behind it.” A patient cried out, and the orderly excused himself to go to him.

Khamûl walked along the wall in the direction of the stage, still keeping an eye out for Akhorahil. He saw him on the other side of the room, his back to the main door, choosing some supplies from a cabinet. Khamûl walked quickly in order to reach the stage before Akhorahil turned around and saw him.

Khamûl mounted the steps and approached the wooden screen. Right away, he sensed his Master’s presence. He tapped on the screen, stepped around it, and entered the small space behind.

His Master was sleeping, but restlessly. He looked like orc crap. He was unshaven, his hair was tangled and stiff with whatever had dried in it, and there were purple shadows under his eyes.

Khamûl pulled the chair over and sat down. A ranger and tracker, Khamûl was used to waiting silently for long periods of time, listening with all his senses.

Khamûl studied his Master. His arms and shoulders were bare. The scar across his throat was visible above the blanket. His breathing was shallow and irregular, and sometimes he moaned softly, or sighed.

After a while, he stirred. He saw Khamûl, but didn’t appear to recognize him. Khamûl pulled down the kerchief to let his Master see his face.

“I’ve seen you before.”

Khamûl nodded. Anyone else would have supplied their name, but Khamûl just waited and listened.

Sauron reached out his hand, and Khamûl took it. Sauron’s eyes closed and he appeared to sleep, but he kept holding Khamûl’s hand. Khamûl kept his thoughts still. An image began to form in his mind, very faint and far away.

Everything was white, and so bright he couldn’t make out either structures or people, although he could hear their voices. But soon, he could see a multitude of people. Most were teenagers, but a handful, including his Master, were kids.

One adult walked among them. He seemed to be responsible for all of the others. He spoke to the teenagers, either instructing them, or telling them to stop doing something. He didn’t seem to pay the same attention to the kids. They, in turn, regarded him with interest, but without a lot of understanding.

It was a surrealistic scene, yet it seemed to be a memory rather than a dream. Without speaking, Khamûl asked his Master,

What were you thinking of just now?

My home.

Are you going back there?

I expect so, sometime.

Khamûl guessed his Master believed he was going to die, and had already begun to plan the journey to the next world. Khamûl was deeply afraid of losing him, but if he’d already decided to go, then Khamûl had to let him. He ached with sadness.

Khamûl heard Akhorahil’s voice on the other side of the screen and froze. There wasn’t time to slip out without being seen. Then Akhorahil stepped into the small space behind it and saw Khamûl. He stopped in his tracks.

“Khamûl! What do you think you’re doing?”

I came to say goodbye.

“I told you not to visit, and you ignored me. I see you chose to ignore a number of basic rules, as well. Like keeping your face covered whenever you’re in the ward, staying at least three feet away from a patient, and never, ever touching a patient.”

Khamûl lost his temper. “You’re lecturing me about following the rules? You’re the one who married his own sister.”

Akhorahil was unmoved. “If you belonged to the Númenorian aristocracy instead of being a backwoods provincial, you’d understand the need to keep bloodlines pure.”

“But now, I’m going to ask you to leave. You need to wash your hands before you do anything else. There’s a washroom right beside the main doors. Use the strong soap and the nailbrush you’ll find there.

Reluctantly, Khamûl let go of Sauron’s hand.

Akhorahil ushered Khamûl out into the corridor and all but slammed the door behind him.

“And Khamûl? Don’t ever pull a stunt like this again.”

ooooo

Khamûl stood outside the door for a few minutes, feeling restless and agitated. He was normally more patient than most, but right now he felt the need to act.

Khamûl wanted to do something for his Master, but he didn’t know what. He decided to pick out the clothes his Master would wear to lie in state.

Khamûl went upstairs to his Master’s room. He lifted the lid of a wooden chest and felt through the neatly folded stacks of garments. His hands touched leather and silk and wool.

On top, his found his Master’s everyday clothes: shirts and tunics, leggings and mantles. They were clean, but plain and somewhat threadbare. Further down, he found more formal, seldom used garments. At the very bottom were the most formal ceremonial robes of all, sable black and made of cashmere. He pulled them out and laid them on the bed, hoping they wouldn’t be needed.

ooooo

After he laid out the funeral clothes, Khamûl wasn’t sure what to do next. He wandered aimlessly through the fortress, and found himself in the kitchens.

Officially, the nobility had no business being in the kitchens. But it was warm there, and there was food, and company if you wanted it.  The upper ranks found there way into the kitchens as often as the soldiers and stable hands did, so Khamûl’s presence attracted little more than a passing glance from the kitchen staff.

An enormous wolf slept on a blanket near the hearth. She lay on her side, nursing a row of puppies. Khamûl sat on the floor beside them. He reached over and touched one of the puppies. He put a finger in its mouth to unlatched it from the teat and gently picked it up. With his face buried in its fur, he tried to push away all the scary thoughts that tormented him. Khamûl was a Ranger, and his element was the forest. He’d made deep study of the animals that lived there.

A thought struck him. His Master liked dogs. He stood up, the wolf puppy still in his arms.

Now that he knew his way around the ward, it was easier to get to his Master without attracting attention. He tapped on the servants door in the hallway and opened it just enough to slip through.

His Master was sleeping. He was so still, Khamûl wasn’t sure he was breathing. Khamûl touched his hand, but he didn’t respond. His fingers were cold.

His breathing was shallow and irregular, and at times the interval between breaths was so long, Khamûl wondered it there would be another one. But then he sighed, and began to draw breath again

Khamûl noticed a medic at the foot of his bed.

“He can’t be left alone. The fever’s dangerously high.”

Khamûl put the puppy down on the bed next to his Master. It squirmed against his Master and licked his hand. Khamûl watched as his Master’s fingers move slightly, then burrowed into its soft fur. Khamûl wondered if the motion might was just a fever spasm, but no, it was repeated, and the puppy pushed back against him. His Master was barely able to move, and he hadn’t opened his eyes since Khamûl arrived, but he was still petting the dog.

Khamûl saw his Master’s hand twitch. His hands and arms began to tremble, and a shiver traveled over his whole body.

The medic went rigid. He stepped into the ward and shouted, “Get Akhorahil. Now!”

He turned back to Khamûl. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Is it bad?” Khamûl asked.

“It’s not good.” said the medic.

ooooo

Sauron heard the sounds of two set of footsteps crossing the stage. They stopped beside his bed.

Sauron’s wrist was lifted, and he felt his own pulse against Akhorahil fingertips.

“His pulse is irregular. His breathing, too. These are the symptoms of a very high fever.” Sauron heard Akhorahil sa,

Sauron’s hand was placed back down on the blanket. His fingers plucked at the scratchy fabric.

“Here’s another symptom. Do you see it? His hands are twitching. His feet, too. That’s an early sign of convulsions. We’ll have to watch him carefully, because convulsions are dangerous.”

“Can you bring the fever down?” asked the other one.

“Yes, I can do several things to lower a fever. I can give him medicine, wrap him in a sheet soaked in cold water or alcohol, or have him bled.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ve decided to let the fever resolve itself by crisis. A high fever can drive out the plague. No other medicine or treatment to do that.” said Akhorahil.

“Is there any danger?”

“Some. If the fever spikes very high, he could go into convulsions and die. But usually, the fever breaks suddenly and the patient is fine.”

“What if he goes into convulsions?” asked the other one.

“Then we step in and drive the fever down as hard as we can. If there’s an emergency, don’t wait for me to be called, just act.

“The first thing to do is wrap him in a sheet soaked in ice water and alcohol.

“Under the table, do you see the bucket with the sheet in it, and the bottle beside it?  The bottle contains aquavit, almost pure alcohol. Empty the bottle of aquavit into the bucket. When the sheet is soaked, drape it over his bare skin. Most patients scream when it touches them, it’s that cold.

“The next thing to do is bleed him. I would take at least two pints, enough to make him faint.”

“The equipment’s already laid out on the table. In the basin there’s a tourniquet and that nasty looking device with all the blades.” said Akhorahil.

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

“It can’t be helped. I just try to make it quick.”

“Doing both those things at once should break the fever almost at once.”

Sauron understood what they were saying, but he wasn’t disturbed by it. They seemed very far away, and he didn’t think they were talking about him.

He heard Akhorahil and his apprentice leave, their voices getting softer as they got further away. Soon he couldn’t hear them at all.

ooooo

The next time he woke, he was burning up. His ears were ringing, his teeth ached, and the backs of his eyes felt way too hot. Things that were supposed to be straight and solid, like door frames, wavered like mirages in the heat. He thought he saw the columns that held up the ceiling squirming like snakes.

The fever climbed. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t recognize the people around him. He couldn’t catch his breath. He ached all over, and his hands twitched on top of the blanket.

“Aulë?” Sauron called.

A man leaned over his bed. “Can I get someone for you?”

“Yes, could you please get Aulë? I need to see him.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s my master.”

“He’s not here. Is there someone else you’d like to see?”

“He is here. If he’s not upstairs in his office, then he’s just outside in the Forge. Please, tell him I need him.”

ooooo

Sauron was never able to remember what happened during the next few hours, except that the fever climbed and climbed. He was ice cold and soaked in sweat, all at the same time. His limbs shook uncontrollably. He saw things that weren’t there: vines like tentacles, faces in the walls, people he’d wronged, who weren’t alive anymore.

Someone laid a cold cloth over his eyes. He sighed with pleasure.

He heard voices, but he didn’t know who they were, or understand what they were saying.

“He’s delirious. Are you going to tie his wrists to the headboard? That’s what we usually do for someone this far gone.” said the other.

“For most patients I’d say yes, but for him, it’s a bad idea.” said the one who was taking care of him. “We don’t want to do anything that would make him feel threatened. He’s dangerous. If I needed to restrain him, I’d use a sleeping draught.”

 “The fever is climbing. What should I do?”

“Watch closely, and see where it goes. Call me if there’s any change.”

The fever climbed higher than it had ever been. Then quite suddenly, it broke. Sauron sat up, naked under three layers of blankets. He put his feet on the floor, found his clothes under the bed, and got dressed.

An orderly stuck his head around the end of the screen, and left right away.

He opened the door and stepped into the corridor. He went down the hall to the washroom. While he was there, he filled a sink with water and dunked his head in it. His hair was stiff from several days of being sick and lying in it until someone noticed and cleaned him up.

He took off his shirt and washed under his arms. He’d been sweating profusely and hadn’t bathed since before he fell ill, so he smelled about as bad as expected. Once he was clean and felt presentable, he went down to the kitchens to look for something to eat.

ooooo

Angmar knocked on the servants’ door. Hearing no answer, he pushed the door open and stepped in. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a bare mattress, stripped of sheets and blankets. Sauron’s clothes and boots, which had been under the bed, were also gone.

Angmar blinked with surprise, trying to understand what it meant.

Oh no, Oh No, Oh No No NOOOOOOO!

His heart was hammering so loud he could hear it. He fought down panic. But if his Master had died, surely someone would have told him. Or he would just know because he was a Nazgûl, and Angmar didn’t sense that anything was different.

Akhorahil came into the room and did a double take as well. He went off to find the medic and brought him back. The medic told them,

“He left. I couldn’t stop him. He got dressed and said he was going to look for something to eat.”

Khamûl joined them. They found Sauron in the kitchens. He’d barely eaten in four or five days, and was apparently trying to make up for lost time. When they came in, a kitchen maid was setting yet another tray in front of him.

“There you go. Bread and butter, cheese, soup, cold meat, apples, and milk. And stop feeding the dog under the table.” she scolded.

He was about to deny it, but the dog in question had its head on his knee, so it was pointless to deny the charges.

The Nazgûl peppered him with questions, and when he answered, he put his hand over his face and talked with his mouth full. Angmar was surprised by how angry he felt.

“I found your bed empty. I thought you had died.”  Angmar snapped.

“Well, I haven’t.” said Sauron.

“Do you have any idea how sick you were? We spent yesterday planning your funeral.” said Angmar.

“That was foolish of you.” said Sauron.

Akhorahil was angry, too. “You should have told me before you got up. And if you were hungry, I could have had a servant bring you something.”

“Stop fussing. I’m fine.” Sauron refilled his plate and kept eating.

“You’re not fine.” Akhorahil was furious. “Two hours ago, you had a stratospheric fever. You were out of your head.”

“I was not.” said Sauron.

“You were calling for your Vala.”

“Which one?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Servant of Aulë.” said Akhorahil.

“But .. I thought you were a servant of Melkor.” said Angmar.

“I serve two Valar.” said Sauron.

“Wait a minute.” said Angmar. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “You’re not .. Are you Sauron Gorthaur, Melkor’s second-in-command in the First Age?”

Sauron’s head snapped up. He looked around the room to see if any of the kitchen staff had overheard.

“What are my rules in Dol Guldur?” he hissed. “I am in hiding. I am concealing my identity. No one must know who I am. You will not speak my name, or write it, or use it in any form. I am the Necromancer, and that is all you know about me.”

Sauron practically spat out the words, he was so angry.

“I’m sorry. I forgot myself.” said Angmar, chastised. He hung his head.

Several minutes of uncomfortable silence passed before some of the others picked up a different thread of conversation.

“Yes.” said Sauron.

“What?” Angmar looked up, not understanding.

“The answer to your question is Yes.”

Chapter End Notes

[1] Actually, this conversation should have happened earlier, perhaps soon after Sauron took form again and summoned the Nazgûl to him. Coming back from the dead is out of the ordinary, it would have aroused speculation about his true nature. (TA 1100)

In TA 1637, Sauron and the Nazgûl would have been together for over 2500 years (minus Sauron’s 1000 year absence). It would be reasonable to assume that, by this time, they knew everything there was to know about each other.

[2] The Aulëndil (‘followers of Aulë’) were Elves who studied under Aulë in Valinor.