When All Other Lights Have Gone Out

Disclaimer: All the characters and locations contained herein belong to JRR Tolkien.

A/N: It took me a year of most of this chapter sitting on my desktop but I finally reached a point where I could say there was enough that it could stand alone. I know its an embarrassingly short amount of text but I had to get SOMETHING published. As I plan more of the story I realize how big its really going to be. I love this story but its SO hard to write, the whole thing calls for my best prose and I’m not really satisfied with what’s here but it will have to do.

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They musty smell of decay filled Frodo’s nostrils so that he almost choked with every breath. Bile rose in the back of his throat and in his weakened state it was all he could do to keep from vomiting. He was being carried underneath the arm of one of the Nazgûl, its spiked gauntlets digging hard into his stomach. The clank of their iron boots jarred his senses with every step, until his senses were so overwhelmed he was almost delirious. The stump of his wrist pounded with pain, filling his head with its endless reverberation as the blood within sought to push its way out. Out of the ruined flesh, cauterized by the unholy fire of the Nazgûl’s blade, into the empty space where his hand had once been, staining the already blood splattered floor of Barad-Dur with a fresh sacrifice. He clenched his eyes, seeking some solace in the darkness behind his eyes. But there was none to be had and there never would be again. The knowledge of his failure was inescapable, it was in every tortured breath, every rattle of the Nazgûl’s boots on the unforgiving stone, and when he opened his eyes it was in the pale, limp body of Sam, corpselike against the black robes of the Ringwraith holding him. All was lost: the Ring, the Shire, the Fellowship… a solitary tear rolled down his cheek. He tasted salt on his lips and tentatively stuck his tongue out to catch the droplet. Salt water… the sea. Another tear followed the formers path. Only the Elves would escape, across the wide Sea. Gone, all gone across the Sea, Galadriel, Elrond, Arwen…if they lived. He wept quietly until a dark presence, darker even then the aura of terror that surrounded the Nazgûl, made itself known before him.

Sauron! His mind shrieked in horror, darting around every which way until he was almost gibbering with witless terror. The Nazgûl pushed open the massive doors, nearly fifty feet tall covered with carvings of the blackest obsidian. At first glance it seemed as if there were Elves, almost lifelike in their poses, covering the door until you looked closer. The pictures would begin to mute and morph, the Elves’ mouths would open in silent screams of terror. Limbs were cut from their bodies by invisible blades, blood spurted impossible in the stone setting. A dark cloud engulfed them and the silent scream grew louder. Then, the mist would clear and orcs…thousands of orcs would be lined up regiment after regiment, each with traces of perverted elvish beauty twisting their features. Then, if one were to lean closer you would see inside each orc the face of a screaming elf. It was all Frodo could do to keep from adding his own tortured voice to the silent chorus hidden behind the hideous masks. The doors slammed open and before he could even scream he found himself face-to-face with the Dark Lord.

With sickening clarity watched as the lead Nazgal’s gauntlet unfolded to reveal the Ring. Though there was no light to be seen, the Ring glimmered and its call filled the room. Lust filled Frodo’s body where fear had once been. Thieves! They stole his ring! He would kill them, kill them all, yes precious, and then he would be the lord of the ring and all would bow before him…

Lost in its call, Frodo did not see the semblance of a hand detached itself from the bottomless darkness that hovered over the iron throne. Had it been human it would be quivering with its own desire. The hand engulfed the Ring and silence like a bell filled the room, drawing all attention to the rejoining of ring and master.

Metal like quicksilver began creeping up the shadows, forming fingers, then a hand, a wrist, an arm. As it went it hardened into a gauntlet, spiked and cruel that could as easily grip a weapon as bash a man’s head in. but behind the armor the first rosy touches of flesh began to crawl after. Shadow, iron, flesh running up…up…up….reaching the center then spreading like a ghastly parody of roots, the other arm. Flesh detached itself and formed robes, first white then silver. The silver tarnished and grew black as the sky on a stormy night. bone and tendons flickered uncertainly around the face, as if trying to decide between demon or angel, eyes popped from inside the skull, changing color from starlit elven eyes, to proud Edain, then burst into flame and there was the Eye, but split in two, each glaring balefully down at the small hobbit too frozen to move.

Sauron had returned.

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I feel affronted by people who read my work and don't even bother to drop a nice note saying how they felt as much as the next author. You know who you are. So please help a poor, striving authoress and tell her what you think! :)

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