Plague Comes to Dol Guldur by Uvatha the Horseman

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Day 1 – Denial

Sauron had early plague symptoms, but denies he will get sick.

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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.

 

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Chapter End Notes

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

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