The Master of Puppets by Cirth

---

Chapter 1

---

Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's works.

Warning for violence and mature themes.

The Master of Puppets

One

"He sent you as a messenger?" There was a note of scepticism in Maglor's tone. He sat behind his oak-wood desk, Caranthir's rather short letter in his spidery hands. The mullioned window was left open, and a gust of wind blew in and stirred his loose, dark curls.

Uldor strove not to fidget. He was tired and hungry from the long ride to the Gap. His worn, leather boots were damp and cold, and he had mud spattered over his breeches courtesy the lashing rain, which had dissipated as soon as he entered the gates. He could practically hear the real question: 'Why not someone he trusts?'

"I think the Lord Caranthir wants to get rid of me for a couple of months," he said, without thinking. Caranthir had never liked him. Then again, he did not seem to like anyone.

Maglor cocked an eyebrow, expression severe, and Uldor swallowed. He is going to kill me. Why can't I keep my mouth shut?

But then Maglor laughed softly and glanced at the letter again. "There is little substance in his message, so I suspect you are right. What an ill-mannered lout he is, sending someone all this way for nothing." He got up, chair squeaking rudely over the slate floor. Uldor blinked; he was always surprised at how tall the other was. He did not know much about Maglor, but he remembered, from their first encounter at Amon Ereb, that he often made himself appear smaller, more unassuming than he really was. It was somewhat unsettling, and repelled Uldor.

Perhaps that was a good thing. It would make the eventual betrayal easier. Uldor pressed his lips together and swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. He did not want to think about the betrayal. Nonetheless his father's worn, thin face came to his mind, along with some of the last words he had spoken to him. You realise our people are starving? We need new lands. Do you want a toll of the children who have died? I can give you their names. Uldor shook his head. "Keep it together," he told himself silently. "This is of the utmost importance. The eldest son of a chief should be able to handle this."

"I will show you to the baths," said Maglor, making him start. He crossed Uldor and opened the door. "We will arrange a room for you, as well. I'm afraid it will not be very large."

"I will be happy with anything allotted to me." It was true; Uldor was used to living in small quarters. He shared a hut with his family while growing up, and his chamber at Amon Ereb could scarcely have been called a cabinet. Sometimes he even slept on the floor in the great hall, when the weather was warm. He would not have minded it much were it not for the mice that scuttled about, at times scrambling over him and waking him up.

Maglor led him downstairs to the baths in the east wing, looking stiff but making conversation that seemed impressively natural. "Your Sindarin is almost perfect," he said. "I can tell you have worked hard at it."

"Thank you."

"Can you understand Quenya?"

"Only a few words."

"I can be granted some privacy, in that case." Maglor did not sound peeved, but Uldor felt his face grow hot with embarrassment.

They came to a rectangular, outdoor pool, set in a courtyard and surrounded by stone pillars. No one was present; it was still early afternoon, though the sky was overcast. "There are set times for men and women, so you will want to remember that," said Maglor. "Women may bathe between the fourth and eighth hour in the morning, and men between the sixth and tenth hour at night. Keep in mind that there is a penalty for snooping," he added with a wry look. Uldor blushed; he had never seen a woman naked.

"I will leave you now," Maglor said, taking a towel from the racks near the arched door and giving it to Uldor. "A page will bring you a fresh set of clothes. There is a dish of soap near the pool. The evening meal will be served in the great hall at the sixth hour." He left, shutting the door behind him.

Uldor stood a while, taking the place in. A couple of magpies frolicked in a stone birdbath near a pillar, and a breeze blew by and ruffled the surface of the water. He stripped himself, throwing his clothes in a pile on the ground, and slipped into the pool. The warm water was a welcoming change to the winds he had endured on the ride here, and he grabbed a cake of soap and scrubbed himself till his skin grew pink.

The door opened and shut, and Uldor froze in the middle of cleaning his toes. He craned his neck to see if anyone had entered, but could not find anyone. Shivering, he put the soap back in the dish and clambered out, wrapping his towel around his waist.

Someone had left a wicker basket by the door. It contained clean, folded clothes: trousers, underpants, and a long-sleeved, grey-green tunic. There was a pair of leather sandals, as well. Uldor dried himself and slipped on the clothes, and was pleasantly surprised to find that they fit well. He always marvelled at elvish craft, at the way the clothes were always perfect for the weather and never itched. Nevertheless, he missed the tunics and the bright scarves his mother made for him, missed their musky smell and their smooth feel.

When he got out, he found a dark-haired Noldo standing by the entrance, arms crossed over his slender chest and a furrow in his brow. He had an air that made him appear important. Uldor guessed he was an advisor or a bookkeeper. When the elf saw him, he said in a curt tone, "I will take you to your room."

Uldor hesitated, taken aback at the other's abruptness, and then stretched out a hand. "I am – "

"I know who you are. Come with me."

"May I have your name?" Uldor said, clutching his grimed clothes to his chest. He did not want to aggravate the fellow, but it would be useful to know the more prominent denizens of the Gap.

The elf released a long-suffering sigh, as if he had been assigned someone else's latrine duty for the next fortnight. "Erestor."

He led Uldor up a flight of stairs in the north wing. They stopped at the last door at the end of a narrow, dim hallway. Erestor took a ring of keys from his belt and stuck one into the keyhole, and then threw open the door. "Have a good stay," he said, and began to walk away.

"What about the key?" asked Uldor.

"That will remain with me," Erestor said without looking at him. "You cannot lock the door from the inside."

"I, er...thank you?"

But Erestor was already halfway down the corridor, straight dark hair brushing his shoulders.

Uldor looked after him for a moment, and then entered his chamber. It seemed comfortable enough: there was a low bed, a stool, and a small chest for storing clothes. The place smelled old and stale, as if it had not been used in a long time. Sunlight filtered through a large, cracked window and painted the room in pale gold. He noticed that his luggage – a sack containing a skin of water and black bread – had been kept by the wall.

He expected exhaustion to overcome him, but found that he had an excess of energy, so he busied himself. The first thing he did was check under the bed and in the corners for pests, and was relieved to not find any. He hoped they would not come out at night; he'd had his share of warring with cockroaches with old slippers in his room at Amon Ereb. Eventually he had to throw the slippers away because they were caked with cockroach guts.

For the next hour or so he put away his things, re-made the bed, and paced about the cramped room. He was staring out the window at the shadow that lay near the horizon when a knock at the door made him jump.

It was Maglor; he had combed his hair and tied it with a strip of hide, but was wearing the same clothes as earlier. He said, "The evening meal will be served soon. I hope you are comfortable here."

"I am. Thank you."

Maglor smiled, and for some reason, Uldor wanted to turn away. "You are young, song of Ulfang," he said.

"Pushing five-and-twenty, actually," Uldor muttered, shuffling his feet. He had been considered a man at fourteen, and had been a disappointment to his family when he did not marry at all, let alone before eighteen.

"I try to be understanding of people as young as you. Your mind is as a blank sheet of paper; anyone can write over it, stain it whatever hue he pleases." He inclined his head, expression turning grim. "But I wish to make this clear: I do not trust you, and I doubt I ever will. So far you have done nothing to truly rouse suspicion. But you seem like you are nervous, and your hands are restless. That could be the way you usually are, but my fëa tells me something is amiss."

Uldor remained silent, striving to breathe steadily and maintain eye contact with Maglor. His heart was pounding against his ribcage, and he was half-scared the other could hear it.

Maglor continued, "I will not put any special restrictions on you, since I have no good reason to. But if I suspect something, you will be considered an enemy, and will be dealt with appropriately."

"Why are you telling me this?" asked Uldor.

"I wanted to be honest with you."

"If you suspected I was an enemy, would it not have been wiser to keep your inhibitions to yourself and to a trusted few?"

"It would, under normal circumstances. But you seem like a bad liar, and I can tell that you do not wish harm upon anyone."

Uldor was disturbed by the accuracy of Maglor's remarks, but kept a straight face and said, "You have much confidence in your instincts."

"It is rare that they fail me," Maglor said. He looked out the window, appearing lost in thought. The setting sun cast a soft glow on his face and neck.

Uldor wanted to leave. He wanted to get on his horse, ride back to Amon Ereb, to the more temperamental but less shrewd son of Fëanor. No, he wanted to go back to his family, sit with his brothers, embrace and kiss his mother. When he was a child, he hated hanging out the washing and walking five miles in the blistering heat to fetch water. He would trade much and more for that life now. Still, he had been fortunate. He had gone hungry in his village, but had never starved; he did not know that pain.

He drew a deep breath, disgusted at his own selfishness. "My people are dying," he reminded himself mentally. "I cannot turn back, and am damned either way." He looked at Maglor again, and felt oddly calm. "I appreciate your honesty," he said in a quiet voice. He was being truthful. Nevertheless, he wanted to avoid Maglor as much as possible for the next two months. He could not afford to let the elf know about his father's plans, or grow attached enough to make his task more difficult than it already was.

Maglor turned to him and gave a brief smile. "Rest for the next two days." Then he cocked his head to one side. "I trust you are experienced with the sword?"

Uldor blinked, wondering at the question. "Yes, but I am more skilled with the bow."

"Can you shoot from horseback?"

"I can."

"Very good." Maglor walked to the entrance. "I will test your skills in the field. If I find them satisfactory, you will hunt Orcs with us, helping to defend the Gap. I will lead the company."

"And if you are not pleased with my skills?" Perhaps if he deliberately failed the tests...

"Then I will train you, or find someone else to do it. Either way, you will help us," Maglor said, in a tone that left no room for argument.

Uldor nodded, unable to find words to speak. As soon as Maglor left, he swore under his breath and kicked a leg of the bed, which did nothing but hurt his toes. Sitting on the mattress, he put his head in his hands and chewed his lower chip. "What am I going to do?" he groaned. He buried his face in the flat, musty pillow and cursed Melkor's name.

***

TBC