7. Kill Them All
"You haven't found my elf yet."
"Don't lie to me!" Melkor hissed. "You think the war with Gondor is more important, and I agree. But if you neglect the little details," He paused, digging claws into tender skin, "then the whole plan falls apart."
"Stop!" Morion gasped. It always ended like this. He'd bite his lip to keep from screaming, from pleading, but it would always end with a bloody, mangled lip and the awful words spilling out of his mouth.
Melkor removed his hands from Morion's body, licking the blood off his fingers. "Whatever is the matter? I thought you enjoyed this. Especially…"
Morion's face went deathly pale as the Dark Lord's head vanished from his vision. "NO! NO! AGHH!"
"Numenorean blood," Melkor whispered almost reverently, swallowing and licking his lips. His teeth were still stained red.
"Please…what do you want?"
"Must I want something? Perhaps I only want my slave's company."
"No, you always want something. What is it?"
"My apprentice is a fool if he thinks he can keep me completely out." Melkor leaned close to Morion's ear. The Witch-King could smell the blood on his breath. "I gave him the idea about sending your little slut to Moria."
Morion closed his eyes. Dammit. He should've known. The balrog…oh Valar, the balrog. It would tear Ringe to pieces. No. It would do far worse. And Morgoth would make him watch.
"It doesn't have to end like that," Melkor whispered. "Lungorthin listens to me. If I give him an order, he will obey. It can all be quite painless."
"And in exchange…?"
"The time is coming," Melkor said, lazily drawing circles on Morion's chest. "Soon I will be able to leave this land and inhabit your body. Won't that be pleasant? To be here all alone."
But Morgoth would be loose in the world. Morion shuddered.
"I am a Vala, fallen though I may be," Melkor said. "If you want me to spare your whore, then I require two things."
"What are they?" Morion asked.
"Kill all of Isildur's heirs. The line must go extinct."
"Khamul's working on that, but the Valar's blessing to Luthien –"
Melkor snarled. "There are other lines! The blessing does not matter!"
Morion nodded, trying to keep the fear out of his face. "And the other thing?"
"There is a tavern owner in the north, in a village of the Eotheod. His name is Leod. Kill him and his son. Soon."
Morion frowned. "A tavern owner?" he asked. "You want me to kill a tavern owner?"
"Yes," Melkor snarled. His glinted. "Do you question me?"
"It seems strange, that's…argh!"
"Do it," Melkor hissed. His white teeth elongated to black fangs. "Do it. And do it soon."
Morion nodded and stretched back his head, exposing his neck to the fangs.
The fangs savaged his neck, shredding flesh and tissue, scraping against his vertebrae.
Morion awoke with a start, sweaty and breathing hard. His body ached. It's all a dream, he thought, rubbing his head. It's a horrible dream with some bearing on reality, but it is still a dream.
He was grateful for once that Ringe was gone. He didn't feel like physical contact today.
As he stood up, Morion gasped in horror. His body was covered in bruises. They were healing before his eyes, but he saw traces of blood on his body that hinted there had once been cuts as well. The punishments in the dreams were becoming more and more real.
Shivering, Morion dressed quickly and called for Aica. The seventh ringbearer slunk into the room, glaring with the usual sneer on her lips.
"Have you found Khamul yet?" Morion asked.
"Where is she?"
"She's away in the north, looking for something," Aica said.
"What is she looking for?"
Aica shrugged. "Probably the Dunedain chief, as usual."
Morion rolled his eyes. He quickly scrawled a note and handed it to Aica. "Send someone to give this to her." And I'll know if she doesn't get it, he told her with a glare.
"Sure thing," Aica said. She didn't wait for him to dismiss her but walked out. A hunchback goblin limped in before the door closed.
"Ah, Grish," Morion said. "I wanted to see you."
"I thought you might, lord," the goblin said with a lopsided grin. "How may I be of service?" He executed an awkward bow.
"Take as many goblins as you can on wargs and kill two men. Leod and his son. They live in a village of the Eotheod. Actually, just burn the whole town."
"Yes, my lord," Grish said, smiling with ghastly teeth. "It will be easy going through Gondor what with the Balchoth causing the steward such a hard time."
"Ah yes," Morion muttered. "I'd forgotten them. Descendants of those Easterlings Khamul stirred up, I think."
"Shall we recruit them for our cause?"
Morion shook his head. "Gondor will take care of them. There isn't a point."
Grish nodded and left. He never argued with his lord, and so he didn't bother to point out that the Balchoth had effectively overrun Gondor's northern provinces. They also seemed poised to send the entire army of mighty Gondor running.
Something disturbed Grish. His master was usually so on top of things. So calm, cool, and concentrated. He always had a plan, always knew everything that was happening. Grish had a few ideas about what was different now. Firstly, he was relying too much on the seventh Shrieker. She was a nasty liar, and if even Grish knew it, he was surprised that Morion couldn't tell the same thing. The Dark Lord must be preying on his master's mind more heavily than usual.
"I want a thousand goblins on wargs," Grish snarled to a subordinate. "No, make that orcs. Yes, definitely orcs." Orcs had problems taking orders from goblins, but Grish was high up in the hierarchy. They'd better listen to him if they knew what was good for them.
"We don't have a thousand wargs," the subordinate hissed. He was a repulsive creature with scars criss-crossing his face. They were so heavy on one side that they completely buried his right eye.
Grish snarled. "Then how many do we have?" he growled.
The subordinate checked a ragged list. "Three hundred."
"Three hundred? That's pathetic!"
"What'd you need 'em for?"
"None of your damn business! Get me a thousand wargs!"
"Don't have them," the subordinate snapped. "You'll have to wait if you want 'em."
There had been something in Morion's tone that had told Grish that waiting was not an option. "I'll take the three hundred." He would make it work. Grish had not risen through the orc-dominated ranks because of his good looks.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.