A Storm Above the Sea by SonOfMandos

---

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.