Plague Comes to Dol Guldur by Uvatha the Horseman

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Day 5 – Crisis

Angmar visits the plague ward and finds his Master's bed empty and stripped.

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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.”

 

 

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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.