Hi, everyone, this is my first public story. I hope you all enjoy. It's set in the Second Age, sometime after the forging of the Ring and before the downfall of Numenor. I'm very familiar with the material in Tolkien's (more) finished works and this draws very heavily on material from the Silamrillion. However, I know pretty much nil about material in the Lost Tales so, if this contradicts something there, please be understanding. A quick note on pronouns: A number of characters in the story believe Sauron to be a God and, therefore, capitalized pronouns are used to refer to him when the story is told from the point of view of these characters. But, when it is told from the point of view of those, like himself or the Lord of the Nazul, who don't hold this view, at least not in the same way, capitals are not used. Sorry if this is confusing. I just didn't want anyone to think I was sloppy with my pronouns. Chapter one is mostly just introducing the characters and setting the scene so try to be patient if it seems a little slow out of the gate-I've been called a long winded writer by some...

Chapter One

"I'm so sorry children," Roanhild whispered sadly. "We have nothing but dried fish and cram for dinner." The youngest two girls made weak cries of protest, laying their hands on their empty bellies. The rest were too weary or too polite to say anything. Only Morwena, the eldest, looked at her mother with sad sympathy.

"Don't complain," she scolded gently, ruffling the hair of her little sisters. "It will only make your mother feel bad and she's tried her hardest. There's simply not much money to be made as a laundress." The children murmured their apologies with bowed heads, then bent to gnawing hungrily at their food. Even with the bowls of hot water to soak it in, the food was so tough they could hardly bite into it.

The family lived in a hovel of mud and straw several days journey north of the port of Umbar. Like all others in the region, they worshiped Lord Sauron of Mordor, entreating Him to bring rain for their crops and grass for their herds, to make their lives slightly less miserable. To this end, every year, they made a blood sacrifice on an altar of packed mud in the center of the village. It was not a death sacrifice for they were too poor to spare a pair of hands to work or a beast whose carcass could be eaten. Instead, one of the villagers, usually a virgin girl, would have the palm of her hand cut open and mark the altar with her blood while singing a hymn of praise to the High God. Morwena had once done this duty and treasured the scars she carried from it as a mark of high honor.

All the people in the lands about worshiped Lord Sauron as well but, far away, at the ends of the earth, it was said, were people who defied His rightful sovereignty, terribly tall elves with shining eyes and the mortals who had been deluded into serving them. The Lord made war against them to force them to see the error of their ways and to this war had gone Morwena's father, proud to do his duty just as his daughter had been at her blood sacrifice, and, in the end, he had not returned, giving his life for his Lord and His cause. Though, in the meantime, he had brought back many stories of the strange and wonderful places he had seen, as well as trinkets as gifts for his eldest and favorite daughter. Morwena treasured them all, but what fascinated her the most were his descriptions of Mordor itself, seat of the Lord Sauron. Not that her father had ever seen Him but he had seen His tower, shining black, like glass covered with hooks and barbs and she felt a fierce longing to see if for herself.

But there was no chance of that for, after her father's death, things became even more difficult for the family. Long after the children had gone to bed, Morwena and Roanhild sat staring morosely into the fire as they twisted wool into coarse yarn. "This cannot go on," said Morwena at last, breaking the silence reluctantly.

"I know, I know," her mother replied bitterly. "But how can I support six children just by doing laundry?" There was an uncomfortable pause. "Did you do as I advised?"

"Oh, aye. I've lain with the head of our poverty stricken village and lain with him again. I doubt he will show us more favor than the half dead sheep he let us take from his field in the spring."

Roanhild rung her hands. "What shall we do?" she cried.

"It is simple, Mother. I must go to work. I've been thinking about this for a long time."

"But there is no work in this village."

"There is work elsewhere in Middle Earth. If I leave, you will have one less mouth to feed, even if I can't send any money back to you."

"But…"

"I shall go to Mordor, there is always work there."

"I hate to think of you toiling under the brutal conditions in the fields or in the mines."

"I must do what I must. Perhaps I shall not work in the fields or the mines. My father was killed in our Lord Sauron's wars. Perhaps, He will give us compensation."

"He will not. We are far too lowly to be worthy of the Great Lord Sauron's pity."

"Nevertheless, I will do what I may," said Morwena stoutly. Even as she spoke of practical matters, she felt a great desire to go and see the land from which all the known world was ruled, to behold the Dark Tower, and, if it might be, to look upon the face of the One who, since birth, she had been taught to worship like a God.

"But the journey alone is so dangerous, even if there were hope it would work."

"But I must try…"

"At least wait until next spring. Maybe something will have happened by then."

"As you wish," replied Morwena with averted eyes.

Black smoke spiraled upwards from the mountain of fire, hanging dark over the plains of Gorgorth. Far up the side of Barad Dur, huge and heavy iron spikes thrust upwards like wicked claws. The Lord of the Nazgul leaned against the shinny curved surface of one, gazing pensively across to Ororduine with his unseen eyes. Beside him crouched a small, pathetic looking creature, half bat, half lizard, scrabbling with its claws against the smooth metal. It let out a frightened croaking cry and huddled against his leg, its wings making a dry rasping sound as it shivered in the cold wind of the upper reaches.

"Patience my pet," the lord of the Nazgul reached down to caress the mottled leathery skin of its head. "My Lord Sauron promises that, if you stay strong and healthy, some day you will ride this wind and be the greatest thing ever to fly the high airs. Yea, greater even than the cruel eagles who slew your kin." Comforted, the beast nestled against his leg and made a hoarse chirping noise. The Lord of the Nazgul reached into his belt pouch and pulled some fresh slabs of Uruk flesh, which he pressed into the creature's toothed beak. "And, my pet," he leaned closer to whisper conspiratorially. "when you grow large enough, you can eat any woman who dares to strike you."

Morwena stirred restlessly in bed and pulled herself to wakefulness. Very carefully, to ensure that she did not wake the two of her sisters who shared her bed, she eased out from under the blanket and dropped her feet to the frozen floor. Cold shot through her like the stab of a blade, but she dared not flinch. The fire was sunk to glowing red embers and, in the dim light, she put on warm clothes and packed enough cram and dried fish to last a week.

She dared not take more from her family and of money she could bring herself to take none at all. She did take a small bag of her personal possessions, small medallions, little animals, and other odd items of wood and metal that her father had either carved for her himself or brought back from his travels with the army. They were of little use to anyone beyond the sentimental value they held for her, so she need not feel bad about taking them. She also took her father's dagger, the only piece of his war gear that had been returned to the family.

Opening the door a crack, she saw that the sky was graying but dawn was still a couple of hours off. Good, it would give her time to get some distance away before the search began. It broke her heart to trick her mother like this but Roanhild had already held her back for a year and half and, during that time, both the family's situation and Morwena's personal restlessness had only grown worse and worse. She secretly suspected that her mother would never allow her to leave voluntarily. After all, she had ever resorted to having Morwena pawn her virginity in an attempt to keep her daughter with her.

All that day, Morwena trekked over the barren ground, with clumps of stiff, saw-edged grass the only growing things to be seen. She ate as she walked, nibbling gingerly at the hard cram, and sipping from her skin of brackish water that she had filled at the muddy stream by the village. The sun beat down, turning her hair into a hot and sticky net and the heavy cloak she had brought against the night chill seemed almost to burn in its roll on her shoulders. But the sun was also a gift because she could use it to take direction from in the featureless land and she headed steadily northeast the entire day.

When the sun set and she could no longer see her way, she cast herself down on the ground, a sharp, rough tumble of stones and dirt clods, and, pausing only long enough to wrap her cloak around herself, immediately sank into a exhausted sleep. She woke the next morning, stiff and sore from sleeping on the hard ground in the chill. But, after a brief prayer, forced her wooden limbs to move once more and soon the motion and the heat of the sun loosened them again, as she continued her journey.

In the weeks and months that followed, she made her way northwards any way she could, sometimes at no more than a crawl. At first she made good time for, though the endless trek was wearying, Morwena had worked hard all her life and knew how to draw strength from a deep well within her, a thing much easier to do now that the purpose of the journey drove her then it had been back home when all she had to inspire her was laundry, wood cutting, and preparing the few bland and watery morsels her family could afford. But, by the end of the seven days, her food was gone. Even stretching it painfully thin, there was no way she could make it last longer. And so she must find others to journey with, for they were the only source of food in these wilds. She should be far enough from her home village by now that it was safe for her to go back to the road. So, she turned her steps more sharply to the east, making towards the worn path like a pale scar that wound across the broken earth. She had always kept her self aware of where it lay, in preparation for this eventual need though, until now, she had carefully skirted it.

Fortunately, despite its primitive appearance, the road was a major highway between Mordor and Umbar and so did not lack for traffic. Any group of travelers journeying towards the river Anduine, she would beg to be allowed to join. She paid for her passage, and her food, with whatever they would take. She sold her labor for any task that was needed. She sold her body, if any would desire it. She sold the memorials in her pouch. One by one, the trinkets she had from her father went to purchase food and a place by the fire. The one thing she would not sell was her dagger that she kept hidden, wearing it beneath her skirt.

The only trouble was that, traveling in in the large caravan she eventually joined meant that she had to move at their speed and the long file of ox drawn wanes could move at only the most plodding of paces, to say nothing of the hordes of people, like herself, on foot who crowded round the wagons, making them slower still. There were times Morwena wanted to scream with frustration at the slowness of their progress, but forced herself to wait patiently and with, at least an exterior of, calm. After all, she had been waiting her whole life for this journey, a few more moons would hardly do her harm.

After maybe a fortnight, though she had lost all track of time, she saw a dark mass come into view on the horizon: the mountains of Mordor, their sharp edges standing out against the gray sky like a row of jagged teeth. Every day, the mountains drew nearer, becoming darker and more defined. Dark clouds, which sometimes glowed red beneath in the glare from the mountain of fire, floated out from beyond them. Morwena's heart sang to be so near her Lord, her God. When she said her prayers now, she could feel the increased power surge through her. She could feel His closeness, almost like a touch.

She began to seek for ways to leave the caravan in which she was traveling, knowing they did not intend to enter Mordor itself. Many of the travelers were too frightened, or filled with awe, as they preferred to call it, to even contemplate such a course. Besides, even if they had wished it, they would most likely never have been allowed past the gates. Entry to the Lord Sauron's royal seat was not granted to just any one, or so her father had told her. Only those merchants bearing gear of war or the finest of luxuries were even considered for admittance. These travelers carried only simple trade goods and so Morwena knew she must think of a plan swiftly, before the caravan turned away from the mountains.

Questioning an old woman by the fire one night, she learned their next destination would be the fortress of the Nazgul Lord, Sauron's high lutenent and second in command. Morwena felt her heart leap with excitement. The way was clear for her now. She would seek work at the fortress. In such a large place, there must be some small task, be it ever so humble, for her to do. If she could enter the service of her Lord's right hand in this way, she would almost draw level with her father. It was a most wondrous possibility.

In the end, her plan went off without a flaw. When a division of soldiers came out of the fortress to inspect the goods the caravan was carrying, Morwena managed to catch the eye of their leader. He was hairy, scared, filthy, with rotten teeth. But, at least, he was human. She had been terribly afraid they would have sent deformed orcs, half dead things, rotting and chained to the world of the living only by sorcery, or were-creatures more animal than man. With a human, at least, there was some hope of sympathy, at least some thread of common interests, common longings, be it ever so thin. Based on his gear, mended and rusty, his rank was probably not particularly high but, considering that he had been sent outside the walls to collect goods, it was mostly likely high enough to to get her inside.

She approached him deferentially while his men were busy riffling the bundles of goods, including ones not technically for sale, and he was "overseeing" them, doing his best to make himself look important. From her experience dealing with the leader back in her old village, she knew exactly how to flatter this type of personality and, when the company packed up the supplies they were taking and marched back into the wraith Lord's stronghold, Morwena went with them. In the dark, echoing passage of the under gate, he let his men go on ahead and took her against one of the dark stone walls. Morwena had been expecting this and bore it well. He actually seemed rather disappointed by her lack of protest or, at least, lack of evident distress and muttered sourly to himself for the rest of the way.

But Morwena had no care for that. She had the work she had come for. It was not fine work, sweeping and scrubbing, brewing huge vats of putrid slop for the hoards of orc workers, and changing the bedding in the stables where the wolves and horses were kept. But it was noble work, something to be proud of. She was aiding the cause, just as her father had done. Her raw skin, cuts, and bruises from the heavy drudgery were like battle wounds to her and that thought made her want to sing. She had a fine voice and loved to sing but the frowning stone around her seemed to demand silence. Therefore, she kept her lips still out of respect while, even so, in her heart, she sang.

Clarice frowned at the mirror, pushing her deep scarlet lips into a pout. She thought she could see the faintest traces of a line beside her mouth. Hastily, she moved to cake more powder over it, then recoiled at the foul odor. No matter how many times she had washed and scoured her hands over the past days, the sickening smell still clung to them, a powerful odor of raw meat both fresh and rotten, like a horrible combination of butcher shop and charnel house. It had been a mistake. Even without the smell she knew it had been a mistake. The little beast had just been so utterly unbearable.

Squinting into the mirror, she used a stick of charcoal to outline her eyebrows. Squinting was bad. It made wrinkles around her eyes. But how else was she supposed to get the lines perfect? There was no winning. She had to keep up a flawless beauty regime but the strain of doing so was taking a toll on her beauty. Was it any wonder that she was constantly filled with anxiety? And that sometimes led her to do truly foolish things. But actually striking the Lord of the Nazgul's prized pet went beyond all bounds of madness. Yes, the thing had had the gall to nip her ankles but she should have kept herself under control. She ought to have stated her displeasure firmly but calmly. The Nazgul Lord was powerful and, though she might behave that way in public, she was not untouchable. She could only hope he would not repeat the incident to her Lord Sauron.

Ah, Sauron. Even after three years, the though of Him could still make her shiver. Her position as His official mistress was one she treasured not only because of the luxury it afforded her but also, and, perhaps, primarily, because of the delights of being His lover, which were too wonderful and terrible for words. She knew that other women below her would must be scheming to replace her and, if she started making enemies, so would they. That was why she had to remain looking perfect at every moment. She must give Him no reason to prefer another over her.