The Ashes of Barad Dur
I don't remember a lot about our life in Umbar before the war. Just a few little things. Playing by the docks, the smell of exotic goods from distant lands passing through our markets, and the sharp briney scent of the ocean underneath it all.
My father once told me there was an old saying among our people: The Sea is Always Right. I never really understood what it meant, what the sea was supposed to be right about, but if that was true why did we move so far away from the ocean?
It took a long time for me to really understand why we moved to Mordor. The Gondorians attacked us when my father had been a child, burning our ships in the harbor and laying waste to the city. I might have had fond memories of my life in Umbar, but it had been a simple child's life. My parents believed they could give me something better in Sauron's service.
I suppose in a way they were right. I might've missed Umbar's salty smell and gentle ocean breezes, but in Mordor we had a bigger house, nicer food, better clothing, better ... everything. I never really knew what my parents did for a living back in Umbar, but I doubt it was anything as prestigious as my father's position as a cavalry commander in the Morgul Host, or my mother serving as one of the lieutenants of the Morannon. It was a good life, better than what we had in Umbar.
For as long as it lasted.
It's a struggle for me to remember most of the events after Barad Dur's collapse. A lot of it's just flashes and fragments. I remember being hot in the day and cold at night. I remember searching to find just a bit more fresh water to wash the volcanic ash out of my mouth. I remember one of the other kids coughing and coughing for days on end. I remember hiding from everyone, my mother always told me that an orc was only loyal when their belly was full, and after Barad Dur fell no more food arrived from Nurn. The collapse and the volcano ruined a lot of the food, and deserters stole most of what was left.
Most of all, I remember being afraid. I'd always believed that no matter how bad things got, my mother and father would be there to protect me if I really needed them. Except ... now I knew they wouldn't be. Nobody was coming for me.
I was all alone.
I can't say for sure when things changed. I just remember I was in the middle of digging through a pile of volcanic ash that had fallen into one of the storehouses, hoping I could dig out something edible. Even a lump of maggoty bread I had to scrape the ash off of would at least keep the hunger gnawing at my belly at bay for a few moments.
I was almost ready to give up on my search when I heard a man's voice behind me. "Goodness me, what do we have here?"
I whirled around and pulled out the dagger my mother gave me. I might not have found any food yet, but if someone thought they could take away even the slightest chance I might...
The man standing in the storehouse doorway wasn't like anyone else I'd seen before. The good news was that he was a man, not an orc or uruk. He wasn't wearing the armor of a Haradrim or Easterling, or the livery of another Numenorean. He was too old to be a soldier anyway, with long white hair and a white beard. His robes looked like they had once been pure white, but all the volcanic ash floating in the air had turned them half grey.
However, it was the staff in his hands and sword at his belt that told me who he really was. My parents had warned me about him. "Incánus." I glanced down at the knife trembling in my hands. I knew it wouldn't be enough to stop one of Lord Sauron's greatest enemies. He could strike me down with a lightning bolt, burn me to a crisp with a single wave of his staff, or—
"Incánus?" The wizard repeated, sounding mildly bemused. "Now that's a name I haven't heard in quite some time. I've never really understood why the people of Umbar and Harad called me that. 'Spy of the North.' I imagine they meant it as some kind of insult, but considering I'm ultimately from more of a Westerly direction it usually left me more confused than insulted. I've also heard it could be translated as 'Cruel Ruler' but considering I never ruled anything and I should like to think I have never been cruel, I find it equally strange."
I hadn't known what to expect from him, but it certainly wasn't
that. "I ... uh ... what?"
"Though really, even some of the attempts at insulting me in Westron have been terribly lacking," he continued on as if he'd completely forgotten I was there. "For instance, Stormcrow. Yes, I suppose it carries a certain connotation of being the bearer of bad news, but you must admit it has a kind of power to it as well. Or when the Mouth called me 'Old Greybeard.' As if being old is something to be ashamed of. Or the color of my beard, for that matter. Though on the topic of age, depending on how one reckons it I'm not even
that old. Galadriel and Celeborn arrived in the early days of the First Age, but nobody insults the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien for how many years they've seen."
He cleared his throat and stood up a bit straighter. "Of course, I've made something of a habit of collecting names over the years. Olorin was the first one I received, so it will always have a certain nostalgic appeal. The Dwarves called me Tharkun, 'Staff Man.' Blunt and straight to the point, as dwarves are known to be. I was always quite fond of the name they gave me. Very industrious and hard-working people, Dwarves, and often not nearly so hard to get along with as some people believe.
"Then there's Mithrandir, 'The Grey Pilgrim.' It always sounds mysterious and noble. Though I suppose if I must choose a single name to be known by, it would be the one given to me in Arnor and still used in my favorite places in all of Middle Earth: Gandalf. Once Gandalf the Grey, and now Gandalf the White."
His eyes flicked down to the trembling knife in my hands. "I wonder what would happen if you killed me now. Tempting as it is to say everything's settled, I really should tie up a few loose ends. Perhaps I would simply have to come back once more in yet another color? Gandalf the Green would be nicely alliterative, and I think I could look quite fine as Gandalf the Red. I've always been quite fond of blue as well, but it's already confusing without adding a third blue wizard. After what happened Saruman, the last thing I want is to start going about as Gandalf of Many Colors."
I heard a dull metallic thud, and a second later I realized the dagger had slipped out of my hands. Incánus—Mithrandir—Gandalf—ugh, whatever name I wanted to call him, bent down to pick up the weapon, briefly looking it over. "This is no orc weapon. And your clothing, while it's clearly seen better days, are not the rags of a slave. I presume your parents were in Sauron's service, then?"
"I—yes!" It felt good to finally have a simple question to answer after he'd spent so long trying to confuse me. Or perhaps I should say he successfully confused me, considering he'd tricked me into dropping my knife.
"Well then!" He smiled down at me. "I should like to offer a proposal to you, young lady. While I've settled all the more important of my affairs here in Barad Dur already, I find myself in need of a guide to reach Nurn. If I don't wrap up my business there and return to Minas Tirith in time for Aragorn's coronation, I fear he would be most cross with me. To that end, I would like to enlist your service as..."
He trailed off uncertainly, then shook his head. "No, I don't suppose you wouldn't be interested in that, would you? Numenorean pride is not so easily broken. Very well then, noble soldier or Mordor. I shall offer you my surrender. I'm given to understand that the nearest forces still loyal to the Dark Lord are in Nurn, so I would advise you to escort me there. I would suggest you accept my parole, so you won't be too terribly burdened by carrying my sword and staff. Of course, as my captor you would be entitled to the contents of my pack."
He set down his pack, and one of the straps opened to reveal a dried sausage, some cheese, and a loaf of bread. I barely managed to resist the urge to rush for the food right away. I accepted my knife back from him and set it back in its sheathe, still glowering at him suspiciously. "How do I know the food isn't poisoned?"
"Why would I be traveling with poisoned food?" The wizard stared at me for a second, then shrugged. "Though I suppose if it would help set your mind at ease, I could always prepare a meal for the both of us. I'm afraid that in addition to enjoying pipeweed, one of the habits I've picked up from Hobbits is occasionally feeling the urge to indulge in second breakfast. Obviously if I'm eating the same food, it can't be poisoned."
Some part of me wondered if he had a wizard's trick to make poison safe for him, but I couldn't ignore the way my stomach clenched at the thought of real food. "Well ... I suppose that would be okay, but remember you're my prisoner now." I pulled the knife out again, just to emphasize my point.
"Yes, yes, of course." He smiled and took a seat on the ground as he lit a fire with a snap of his fingers. "Now then, since I've done you the courtesy of sharing several of my names with you, I don't suppose you could give me one of yours? Any of them will do, presuming you've collected more than one already."
What is our Protagonist's Name?
[ ] Write-in
What Does She Do With Gandalf?
[ ] Take him to Nurn.
He says there are still loyal forces in Nurn, and if I can bring him there as a prisoner it would impress whoever's in charge. Assuming this isn't some kind of trick...
[ ] Try to Sneak Away
There's no way Gandalf is really letting me take him prisoner. He's just being nice about the fact that I'm his prisoner. I need to try and find a way to get away from him before he pulls off whatever wizard's trick he has planned.
[ ] Try to kill him.
I have a knife, and he has to sleep or drop his guard at some point. Trying to kill him is a great plan that will definitely go off flawlessly and not lead to any complications.
