A Storm Above the Sea by SonOfMandos

Chapter I

This chapter was written for Matryoshka: Meet & Greet challenge.

Read Chapter I

It was not the sea nor his father that humbled Isildur, but the lingering sickness in his stomach. Crouched down on the deck, he held the rope tightly. The ship was rocked by the waves. Isildur could not walk straight. His stomach jolted now and then. Isildur was jealous of his father: emboldened by the adventure, Elendil was a new man.

His throat was tight; Isildur swallowed with difficulty. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing. This travel was a mistake. He felt punished. Had he been made aware of the reality of seafaring, he would have stayed in Númenor. Had he been forced to sail but given the choice whom to travel with, he would have traded places with his brother and travel with his mother.

At the tender age of twenty-one, Isildur held the firm conviction he knew better than everybody else what was right, and most importantly, what was right for him. None of his aspirations, his struggles, his strengths and weaknesses were unknown to him, the same way he questioned society, governance, bad and evil, and the notion of truth.

He challenged the authority of his father whom he believed could not choose his battles. He resented his seeming passivity under Ar-Pharazôn’s regime. Isildur wished for nothing more than to dismantle the system from within. Escaping was not an acceptable solution in his eyes. He held the opinion that Sauron was a piece of propaganda crafted by Pharazôn to submit Númenóreans to fear. Isildur and his family lived far from the royal city. The young man reasoned that if Sauron’s presence were real, he would make appearances on the entirety of the island. Yet he had never met the Maia. Sauron was to him a distant worry built by the power of imagination.

To Isildur, the departure from Númenor was cowardice. He had been heard they travelled to the Falas to meet Círdan, Gil-galad and Elrond. Lies! Isildur had been fed with nought but a bare-faced lie.

As nausea took over him, the young man sat down and pressed his back against the wooden fence. His grip tightened around the rope.

He felt the pressure of a wet cloth on his head.

“If I were you, I’d face the water,” said Elendil. “Better to vomit in the sea than on the deck.”

Isildur grimaced. “I can’t stand up. If I move, I will…” The words died in his mouth. He winced as his stomach turned.

Two strong hands took him by the armpits and lifted him. Quickly, Isildur spun around and bent over the fence. He emptied what was left of his stomach. Elendil handed him an old piece of cloth.

“Blow your nose, wipe your mouth and throw it away when you’re done,” he said.

“I need to wash my mouth first,” Isildur mumbled.

He begrudgingly accepted the leather water bottle Elendil gave him. He spat the moment a salty liquid touched his tongue.

“Saltwater?!” he bellowed.

“Rations. The amount of potable water we drink is monitored. It’s not ideal to use saltwater as mouthwash, but it’s what we have.”

“Bloody Void,” Isildur swore behind his teeth.

Elendil ignored the cussing. “I brought ginger root, peppermint and the bitter root you hate with me. Chewing on those helps.”

Frustration was replaced by a wave of helplessness. Isildur fought the urge to cry.

“Why did you bring me with you? I never wanted to leave,” he croaked.

“I know,” Elendil said simply.

He knew Isildur wanted to be with his mother. Elendil and Nindiel chose not to travel together after a fight broke out between Isildur and Anárion. Nindiel judged it wise that Elendil took Isildur under his wing, for Isildur needed the guidance of his father who was less permissive than his mother (often a subject of disagreement between Elendil and Nindiel). Anárion travelled with his mother on one of the three ships that followed them.

“We will be back,” Elendil reassured his son.

From the scowl Isildur gave him, it was evident he did not believe him.

“If the departure were definitive,” said Elendil, “we would not be two hundred leaving, but thousands. This is a visit to the Falas. We are following the traditional trading route.”

“Will my hair grow back when we return home?” The tremor in Isildur’s voice had the ring of a supplication.

Elendil smiled softly. “Once in Númenor, yes, you will grow it back.”

Shaving his head was mandatory before sailing. Hairlessness was mandatory, with the exception of eyelashes that were not to be removed. To Isildur, his naked skin reflected his prepubescent self. It filled him with shame to have given up the symbol of his manhood. From the bottom of his heart, he knew that the threat of lice was greater than the pride he took in his appearance.

Still, Isildur grieved the loss of his hair. He had kept his mane long to his upper back for years. He had inherited the loose tresses of his mother; his brother had the straight mane of their father.

‘The Veiled Ones’—such was the name the Falathrim designed Númenóreans with. Númenórean sailors were famous among the Sea-Elves for their bald heads they covered with embroidered veils and colourful scarves, fashion they had borrowed from Haradrim mariners centuries ago.

Isildur did not understand why Nindiel insisted on bringing multiple scarves with her. He now knew why.

He did not understand either why his brother suddenly had no hair left, and why he had shoved a razor in his hands. To hear Anárion’s amused giggles persuaded Isildur that he was pranked. The goak went further when Elendil appeared behind his youngest son, as smooth as marble.

The point of no return was reached when Isildur realised it was not trickery and he took the razor.

The oscillation of the ship brought the young man back to the present. The wind, slightly stronger, brushed his sweaty temples.

“Chew this,” Elendil intimated him. “It helps to combat seasickness. You may feel a bit tired in an hour or so. Don’t be taken by surprise; it’s your least favourite root.”

Isildur obeyed.

As predicted, the root Elendil had given him was infect. Unbearably so. He winced. Between a bitter root and seasickness, he had no choice. The foul taste already distracted him from his lingering nausea. He was too focused on eating his medicine to notice his father had gone stiff.

“It’s never done that before,” mumbled Elendil to himself.

“Never done what?”

Elendil jerked his head toward the horizon. Faraway but black and menacing clouds formed a thin line in the sky.

“I’ve never seen clouds this dark,” he explained. He added, muttering to himself: “I offered her my ring.”

Isildur narrowed his eyes. “To whom?”

Elendil blinked. “Ah. An offering to Uinen.” He shook his head. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. The ship crew knows what to do in case of a storm.”

Isildur glanced around him and saw that many people had gathered on the deck to observe the curious amalgamation of clouds. He hoped the sky would not send him to his doom.

***

Silence fell on the city. Dim clouds covered the sky. An opaque veil masked all sources of light. The air was heavy. Birds and insects had flown away to hide. In the distance, a dog barked.

Tar-Míriel and her friends gathered their things from her balcony. Her maids rushed to help.

“Don’t forget to close the shutters,” Tar-Míriel said to no one in particular.

“I don’t like that,” said Gaeriel, Tar-Míriel’s confidante.

“Me neither,” agreed Faelben, another woman. She wiped the sweat above her upper lip with her knuckles. “It has gotten humid all of a sudden.”

“We still have some time before the wind rises,” added Gaeriel.

“But not too much. Hurry up inside,” ordered Tar-Míriel. “The shutters! Don’t forget the shutters!”

She ran to every window. Gaeriel and Faelben trotted behind.

“Storms are exciting, don’t you think?” asked Faelben.

“Not this one,” replied Tar-Míriel dryly.

Gaeriel contented herself with a shrug.

“I have to find my husband. You,” Tar-Míriel pointed a finger at her friends, “make sure the floor is secure.”

The queen pushed her silver wristbands higher on her forearms, tightened the tie of her burgundy scarf around her shoulders, and exited the room.

She found Ar-Pharazôn in his library. He was partially hidden behind a pile of books, old scrolls, candles and incense smoke. He wore a large tunic with geometrical patterns and warm colours. His sandals were simple and tied around his ankles. A simple circlet with sapphire stones orned his head.

Ar-Pharazôn was not alone.

Sauron was above acknowledging the queen as custom dictated. He greeted her with nothing but a curt nod. Tar-Míriel did not return it. The Maia sneered and walked to the nearest window. The queen followed him.

“It is no normal storm,” declared Tar-Míriel.

The voice had not the lightness of a question; it bore the weight of one who knew. Sauron considered her.

Ar-Pharazôn, oblivious to the gravity of the situation, scribbled in a bound book. Earlier, he had only commented it was dark all of a sudden. He failed to see the threat of such gloomy weather.

Tar-Míriel stepped forward. “It is not your doing.”

Sauron crossed his arms. “Indeed, it is not.”

“Then, whose is it?”

The Maia scowled. He apprehended the worst. “I don’t know,” he confessed.

“I can confirm he doesn’t,” commented Ar-Pharazôn. “He’s been staring at the sky since the moment clouds showed up.”

Tar-Míriel put her hands on her hips. “Whose doing is it, then? The sea? It cannot be. The sea is our friend.”

Sauron’s mouth twitched with irritation. He doubted Ulmo conjured this shadow. He suspected it was Ossë’s desire to taunt him.

The heaviness of the air and the absence of wind concerned him.

“I can see you are not to blame,” said Tar-Míriel. Her arms fell on her sides. “I will make sure that all windows are secure,” she repeated for the umpteenth time.

On her way back to her quarters, she was intercepted by one of her maids. According to her domestic, a strange lady was left unattended in the garden.

Tar-Míriel found a young woman picking flowers. Gaeriel and Faelben stood in the doorway, watching her.

“It’s dangerous,” Tar-Míriel addressed the stranger. “Come inside! The rain will pour at any moment.”

The woman jerked her head up and grinned. She wore a long linen dress; she kept her curly hair loose around her waist; foreign hieroglyphs were tattooed on her arms; she had at least two golden rings per finger. She tiptoed her way inside with grace. Her hair was auburn with a red undertone, her eyes shone like ambers, and her skin had the colour of pale copper. Her appearance contrasted with Númenorean dark hair and olive skin. Her nose was straight and lacked the aquiline character of Númenóreans. She was of Haradrim ancestry, Tar-Míriel thought.

Curiously, the woman’s naked feet left faint prints on the flagstones. The queen noticed a palm tree leaf was tucked under the stranger’s belt.

“What is your name, and what were you doing in my yard?” inquired Tar-Míriel.

“I’m Uzilāwiya. I was summoned here,” smiled the young lady. She pointed at Faelben, “She wanted me here.”

“Me? No!” protested the suspected one. “I don’t know you!”

Uzilāwiya tilted her head. “Oh no? I heard you say you wished to consult a fortune teller.”

“I may have done that, yes,” mumbled Faelben. She blushed under Tar-Míriel’s and Gaeriel’s scrutinising gaze.

“One coin and I will predict one thing about the weather.” Uzilāwiya tapped the pouch that hung on her hip with a hand and pointed at the sky with the other.

Gaeriel frowned, “You are very sure of yourself.”

“Yes. I talk to the rain,” Uzilāwiya’s grin widened.

Gaeriel rolled her eyes, yet she slid a hand under a dress to retrieve a small case.

“Genius,” Faelben breathed out. “I, too, should keep my pouch under my boobs.”

Gaeriel glared. “It’s held by a cloth, not by my breasts.”

Tar-Míriel shook her head.

Uzilāwiya held an expectant hand.

“Tell us,” said Gaeriel after she tossed a coin to the Haradrim, “when will the storm start?”

“When would you like me to?”

“Pardon me?”

“I said,” repeated Uzilāwiya, “when would you like me to awaken the storm?”

Gaeriel blinked. “Later. Tonight? I don’t know. Rain would be nice. I don’t know. It’s humid, and I have enough of these dim clouds,” she stammered. “Wait—people can’t control the weather. What am I talking about?”

Uzilāwiya bowed her head. “Understood. I’ll see what I can do.”

***

Rain poured but the storm never came. Winds howled. In her bedroom, from under her sheets, Tar-Míriel listened to the clatter of the tempest.

Ar-Pharazôn stormed in her room. Annoyed, Tar-Míriel closed her eyes. They had agreed to sleep separately. She did not want him near at nighttime nor see him.

“A lone girl is roaming in the corridors,” he exclaimed. “A girl with a palm tree leaf. She said you left her in. I don’t remember agreeing to take stray people in.”

Tar-Míriel rolled to her side. Her back faced her husband. “She’s a fortune teller. I sheltered her. She’s harmless.”

Ar-Pharazôn grunted but said no more.

***

Humming, Uzilāwiya explored the palace. She went from room to room she found the bathing room. The bath, a large rectangle dug into the stone floor, was empty. She wiggled her fingers, and the bath was filled with steamy water. The woman undressed, tied her hair on the top of her head, wrapped it in a scarf, and entered the water.

Rain poured harder and crashed against the small bathroom windows. It was a delight to her ears.

The door creaked and closed with a deep thud sound. A tall and slim figure entered the bathroom. Spheres of light emerged from his raised palm and floated in the room. Not noticing Uzilāwiya’s presence, the figure motioned to hang his towel on a hook but dropped it. He picked it up and frowned; some parts were strangely wet. He had made sure to take a clean towel. His eyes scanned the room. He froze when he realised someone was in the bathtub.

Uzilāwiya, unfazed, hold his gaze.

“You’re bathing,” Sauron stated the obvious.

The Haradrim remained still.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be here,” continued Sauron. “It’s indecent, or so they say.”

Uzilāwiya pursed her lips.

Sauron shook his head at the awkwardness of the situation. Without a word, he left the room.

Alone, Uzilāwiya observed the reflection of the floating lights he had conjured. To look at water was to look at the world through a mirror. With the tip of a finger, she troubled the still water of the bath. Darkness and light crashed together. The bulbs buzzed softly above her head.

The woman untied her scarf, let it float on the water, and immersed herself completely. She had been walking in the air for too long and missed being in her element.

The interaction with Sauron looped in her head.

“Ošošai wasn’t lying. He’s here.”

---

Chapter End Notes

1st prompt: 'It's never done that before'

2nd prompt (Zdenka's): 'Look into a mirror'

Chapter II

Read Chapter II

Sauron returned to the bathing room with a book. The room was still occupied by the girl. So Sauron sat in front of the door, pressed his back against the wall and read his book. A crown of light bulbs circled his head.

The palace was asleep, except for the few guards and servants that worked nightshifts. The rain had not stopped pouring. The faint splashes he heard from the room notified the Maia that the young woman had not fallen asleep or was dead.

Minutes later, the door made a creaky sound.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Uzilāwiya.

Sauron noted she addressed him in Haradric.

“I didn’t know you enjoyed being in the water,” she pursued.

“I beg your pardon? Do I know you?” Sauron raised an eyebrow as he closed his book and got up.

Uzilāwiya pointed at herself, then at Sauron, pointed back to herself, and made a curt gesture of the hand.

“How do you not recognise me?”

“I do not remember every Haradrim that I encountered. There are more than two people of your kin,” retorted Sauron, annoyed.

Uzilāwiya side-eyed him. “Odd.”

“I don’t care. Now, move,” spat Sauron.

He pushed her aside and went into the bathroom. The squishy sound of his footsteps irritated him further: the scatty girl had made a mess and the floor was wet. He put his book and nightrobe on a low table and hung his towel on a hook on the door. He made sure he dropped none of his belongings. The last thing he wanted was for them to be moist.

Had nobody instructed the stranger to wash herself at the back of the room before entering the bath? he wondered. The barrel was not there for mere decorative purposes. Sauron may be a Maia, but he sure knew how to follow the basics of bathing.

Once cleaned, Sauron slid into the hot water. Whilst he favoured fire and metals, he was not against the pleasure of dipping himself involved. He enjoyed the sensation that brought the caress of water on his skin. That girl’s question was insolent and uninformed. Of course, bathing was enjoyable.

He did not know her. He did not appreciate she had the pretension he did. He had walked on her earlier; nothing more.

There were two people she reminded him of. One was Namtar, his only Haradric Ringwraith.

The second was Nerdanel. Nerdanel and the stranger had dark red hair. That was their single shared feature.

At the thought of the daughter of Mahtan, thorns of regret pierced Sauron’s chest. He grieved the life he had left behind.

It was out of pity that he had refused to hang Maedhros at the top of Thangorodrim. The body left to rot was a doll with a wig and Maedhros’ hair. Sauron did not have the heart to inflict unnecessary pain on Nerdanel’s firstborn beyond cutting his mane so similar to that of his mother.

The Lieutenant had requested his spies to spread the rumour that it was Morgoth’s doing to instil fear among the Noldor. In the years that Maedhros stayed in Angband, not once did Melkor come. It was no secret the Vala favoured the faraway lands of Khand and Harad. He had permitted Sauron to use his name. He cared little for the Noldor who perceived him as the greatest of evil; he was rather amused by it.

Maedhros had stayed for three years before the coming of Fingon. The rumoured thirty years were a twist of history. This time, it was partially Sauron’s fault: he had advised Maedhros to embellish the truth with exaggeration and spectacle. Elves seldom wanted to be governed by banal characters: they revered heroes and martyrs. Maedhros’ acting was good enough he did not struggle to present himself as tortured and wounded.

Sauron had granted Maedhros a decent stay in Angband. He had the intention to keep the Fëanorian at arms’ length. The Maia did not wish to grow closer to the Noldo. One day, Sauron’s desperation to find Nerdanel in her son won over him. He swore to himself never to call Maedhros ‘a friend’—their relationship was cordial and built on the shadow of someone and a past that was no more.

The Noldo had embraced Sauron’s tales of Nerdanel and Mahtan. He lived vicariously through the stories of his mother and grandfather.

Maedhros, too, mourned a past of brighter days in Valinor. He did not share the ambitions of Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin who took opportunities as they came to Beleriand. Maedhros learnt from Sauron that most of Melkor’s wrongdoings were not the Valar. It was the product of a close partnership between Balrogs and Orcs. Melkor came as he pleased to stir trouble when he found it fit. Most of his time was otherwise spent in the company of Men.

Maedhros came to understand that the intrinsic nature of Secondborn was closer to that of Valar. Firstborns, for their part, were akin to Maiar. Fate, the end of all things, the Gift—such were the power of Valar and Men. Maiar and Elves were the pillars and preservers of the world. In times of discord, Maiar and Elves were each other’s worst enemies.

Sauron never told Maedhros about the love he bore for Nerdanel. It was his choice not to force himself into her intimacy despite the friendship they had built over the years. His decision was consolidated when he saw potential in claiming land and governing in Beleriand. He could not bring Nerdanel with him. Sauron was one of ambition, yet his vision of grandeur had never been sufficient to bury the resentment towards Fëanor for stealing Nerdanel from him.

There was a commotion among some of the Maiar when Melian was rumoured to be with child. She had done the impossible for the Maiar of the Undying Lands that mingled with Elves but never courted them. Melian had succeeded where Sauron had failed: she consumed her union with the Elda she loved.

Sauron sighed and rested the back of his head against the stone tiles. He hated himself for ruminating about his wrongdoings everynight.

He felt sorry for Celebrimbor. There was so much of Fëanor in the blacksmith that Sauron tormented him out of desperation. Fëanor had been long gone before he met Celebrimbor. It was not his fire that had put an end to Fëanor’s life, and that made all the difference.

Pettiness had avenged him.

The Maia played with his index finger. The Ring was secure, hidden in Mordor, in the safety of Khamûl, Namtar and the Witch-king. Having transfused his power into his ring, his physical form was weakened. Sauron experienced fatigue, thirst and hunger, albeit not daily, against his will. In the past, his forms had followed the rules of living bodies. He had the luxury to tune primal impulses down when they hindered him. Not anymore, not without the Ring.

He splashed water on his face and massaged his forehead. More than anything, he had wanted the three Elven rings. His false certainty had convinced him they were the remnants of the silmarils. What a fool he was!

Sauron barely rejoiced the rings he had gifted to Men and Dwarves. Those two groups were easy to trade with when they saw benefits. They were impatient and did not tolerate endless waiting before seeing promises come to fruition. They broke alliances when they were no longer satisfied.

For one, Tailarac was an emperor of the early Khand Empire Sauron sought to control. The protocol went fine from the beginning until Sauron misstepped and ignored gift-giving rituals. Renewing relationships and treaties was not a procedure to be executed only once. To the Khand Empire, treaties were living, and failing to honour them through giftgiving meant treaties were no longer.

There was everything of a Hadorian in Tailarac: the golden hue of his hair and his skin; the green of his eyes; the soul of a warrior; and the rapid expansion of his empire. The inhabitants of Khand were the descendants of Hadorian semi-nomadic steppe herders and horse masters who gave Sauron many grievances in the past. More grievances than Noldor ever did. It was naïve of Sauron to believe he could wrap Khand around his finger. The Maia bitterly remembered the day Tailarac sat next to Sauron like an old friend, his robe casually opened to his stomach, to tell him they were no longer equals. Sauron then declared their alliance forfeit.

It was a relief there was little of Hadorian ways in Númenor. Ar-Pharazôn and the island were his.

Sauron pulled himself out of the bath. He wrapped his towel around his waist and listened to the wind howl.

 

***

 

Uzilāwiya was a strange woman. Her curly hair was wet. She clapped her hands excitedly when the downpour crashed against the palace. She always carried her palm tree. When the weather showed clemency by being sunny again, Uzilāwiya appeared saddened. She was often found in one of the royal garden’s ponds or the royal fountain. She never wore sandals. The woman ate once a day. It was rumoured she never slept. She talked to frogs and birds and sang to flowers.

Tar-Míriel ignored her. As long as the Haradrim did not bother her, the queen tolerated her presence. The newcomer slept in a hostel, attached to the royal castle, that was for the guests of the palace staff. Gaeriel remarked that the population of aphids and invasive weeds had decreased. It coincided with the arrival of the Haradrim. When inquired about it, Uzilāwiya rocked herself from side to side on her feet like a child and replied she had her secrets.

Uzilāwiya was not protected from the vile desires of men who nourished fantasies of exotic women from faraway lands. Once ambushed, she had slapped the lustful Númenórean so hard his jaw was broken. Uzilāwiya did not know he was a councillor and a noble from Ar-Pharazôn’s court. She was sentenced to three years of prison. After three days, the woman lulled the guards to sleep and escaped. The iron door was found damaged and its lock was twisted.

Rumours spread that the fugitive was a brute of an incredible force. There was no doubt to the guards involved that Uzilāwiya was an Orc. It was a known fact that Haradrim were Men mixed with Orcs. Such a mix enhanced their night vision and their strength. The guards had hoped the word would reach Sauron. Unfortunately for them, Sauron had no care about someone who bent a door lock. Being stung by a bee was a bigger concern for him. And Sauron had nothing to fear of bees.

Uzilāwiya sat on the top of a column in front of the entry gate of the palace to observe the city in the fading light of dusk. She watched the people who revered Ošošai as a Vala.

Númenóreans were tall of stature, pale of skin and dark of hair. Most had black eyes and black or brown hair; some had pale eyes; blondes were not an unknown sight, albeit rare. Men like women wore long skirts, tunics or dresses that covered the entirety of their legs. Númenóreans kept their arms bare. Women loved to wrap their shoulders with a thin but colourful shawl which they often wore as a veil.

Produce grew in abundance on the island. Númenórean dishes were characterised by their frequent use of rose water, olive oil, turmeric, saffron, cardamom, citrus and pomegranate. The wine was drunk daily. Small game was for everyday consumption whereas big game was reserved for feasts and holidays.

The people lived in the clemency of a warm and temperate climate, but not all lived well. Númenor was wealthy and technologically advanced yet most of the citizens farmed or laboured. The citizens were not capable of sustaining themselves with magic. They were at the mercy of Ar-Pharazôn and his court.

Uzilāwiya noticed that a group of people, masked and clad in sober colours, opened a door on the ground behind bushes, and entered in what appeared to be a secret passage underground. A second group followed. Then, a third. Uzilāwiya waited. Nothing happened. Crickets chanted in the distance.

Intrigued, the woman descended from her station. She lifted the heavy door and entered the secret passage. She heard clamour. She took a step further but she was stopped by a hand that gripped her arm.

“Stop,” the voice commanded. “You are late. You cannot go there until the ceremony is over. You will appoint with the priests after.”

A man emerged from the dark. He held a torch with his other hand and moved it above Uzilāwiya’s head. He frowned. He was not young, observed Uzilāwiya. The man considered the Haradrim from head to toe.

“You’re one of them,” he said disdainfully.

“Them?”

“Don’t take me for a fool. You’re a descendant of the then-slaves from Harad.” The man let go of Uzilāwiya’s arm. He did not care to hide his disdain. “You’re not wearing a veil or make-up. You must be new here.”

Uzilāwiya offered a guilty smile. The man rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “You see the first door on your right? There’s make-up ready and spare veils for the uninitiated like you. Go! I don’t have forever.”

On these words, he shoved her forward. To his surprise, the woman barely moved. Confused, the sentinel pulled a face. How come such a slim-looking girl was so heavy? Why were her tunic and hair so wet? He hoped it was not sweat.

Uzilāwiya pushed the door and walked into the tiny room. It was dimly lit. Against the wall was a wooden table with big bowls. Scarves were messily spread on the floor. Uzilāwiya dipped her hand in one of the bowls. She touched a viscous liquid. Befuddled, she stared at the guard.

The man got angry: “You put that on your face, you dimwitted applesauce!”

The paint on Uzilāwiya’s skin inevitably mixed with water and dripped on her chest. She crouched down to choose a scarf. A frightened centipede ran away from her. A piece of parchment fell from the headscarf the Haradrim picked up. She caught it and hurried outside as the guard was stomping with impatience.

“You stay with me,” the sentinel ordered her. “Don’t you dare complain it’s long before you can access the ceremonial room; the sacrifices have not started yet.”

Uzilāwiya’s eyes widened, but she piped no word.

“You are new to all of this,” the guard stated. “I suppose that can’t be helped.”

The man’s irritable tone did not soften. From his station, he made sure to instruct Uzilāwiya on the Temple of Melkor. He could not allow himself to let an ignorant penetrate the temple. A part of him regretted he let her stay. It was too late to escort her back to the surface.

The Temple of Melkor was led by Sauron. The philosophy of the sect was that the world of spirits was evil. Physical bodies existed to purge this evil through suffering and redemption. Eru was corrupted, and Melkor had been punished from the beginning for daring to undo Eru’s evil. Greed, jealousy, dishonesty and lust erupted from Eru’s mind. The mission of the Temple of Melkor was to salvage Númenóreans from their main sin: monotheism that followed the Creator. The ultimate rite of purification was to be a sacrifice, either voluntarily or imposed.

Anonymity reigned: no one was to reveal their identity nor the secrets of the Temple, save for Sauron (who, Uzilāwiya learnt, was called ‘Tar-Mairon’).

After delivering his crash course, the sentinel stared at Uzilāwiya, expecting a reaction.

“Ah,” the woman said. “I see that he’s busy.”

“He?” repeated the man.

“Yes. Tar-Mairon.”

The guard stared at her like she was empty-headed. He could not fathom how lightly she treated Tar-Mairon and his role in the Temple.

“Very well,” he muttered. “Now, let’s wait until the ceremonial room empties. Then, you will go.”

Uzilāwiya pressed her back against the cold stone. Droplets of paint fell from her face to her bare feet.

After an eternity in silence, two dozens of Númenóreans passed in front of Uzilāwiya. They made a curt gesture of the hand. The guard let them pass.

“Follow me,” he ordered Uzilāwiya.

She walked after him in the sinuous corridor, leaving behind her trail of wet footstamps on the floor. They walked up to a wooden door with strange red markings that glowed. The guard had to push it with his whole body.

“There’s a password,” he groaned while pressing his bodyweight against the door. “I forgot it.”

Aided by his strenuous grunts, the man succeeded in opening the door. He and Uzilāwiya entered a dimly lit amphitheatre. The sentinel took Uzilāwiya’s wrist and led her to the centre.

The underground amphitheatre was cold. There was a strange smell of dragon blood resin and blood. A fresh breeze brushed Uzilāwiya’s skin as if the room was outside. Orange lightbulbs floated here and there. A few people, clad in black, were sitting in the higher rows of the amphitheatre. One or two Númenóreans were lying down, visibly asleep.

On the stage stood Sauron. His hair was tied up in a bun—a few strands hung loosely around his face—and his white tunic was covered with blood. He was wiping a heavy golden dagger with a dirty cloth. Behind him sat four men dressed in gold and red. One of them, seeing that Uzilāwiya and the guard were approaching, left his colleagues to meet the visitors.

“Outsiders are not allowed,” the man barked.

“She wants to convert,” the guard justified.

“Is that so? Well, the ceremony is over. Leave,” the ceremony officer dismissed him.

“But—”

“I said, leave,” the officer stressed his last word.

The guard mumbled a few curses under his grey stubble and intimated Uzilāwiya to obey the officer.

Before exiting the room, Uzilāwiya glanced back at the stage. Sauron had completely ignored her.