Author’s notes: This is a journey in darkness to explore the life and deeds of the man known as the Mouth of Sauron. Tolkien gives us little background information on him, apart from the fact that he was rumored to be a descendant of the Black Numenoreans.

This first chapter takes place mainly in Umbar between the years 1810 and 1856 of the third age, with references to Numenor during Ar-Pharazon’s reign.

Disclaimer: Not mine, obviously.

Chapter title from Tolkien by the words of Theoden in Helm’s Deep.

Behold the Man

Chapter 1: Fell deeds awake

The wind whispered in his ears secrets of lives long lost, as he stood between the Mountains of Ash and the Mountains of Shadow. In a heart hardened by ambition and thirst for the purity of torment, a part concealed under many dark layers of malice still longed for the open emptiness of his homeland.

At the havens where the Southern sands meet the WestSea and the fertile soil of the North, the natives once fled from the ships that came from the West. And although the world had long changed, the land still held the memory of the time when those who were greatest among Men walked upon its hills and shores.

The early years of his life were clouded by the low fog that fell over the Havens during the quiet spring mornings. Of family and home he had no memories. He could not recall any childhood games but this of his fingers undoing the cords of strangers’ pouches. Seeking shelter in the dark alleys where prying eyes and the wrath of the elements could not harm him, the years that should have been of innocence were overtaken by the relentless struggle for survival. When his skills earned him a coin he could spare, he would spend the night under the roof of the cheapest inns. Resting his head on the dirty covers, shutting out the stench of the unwashed bodies beside him and the growls of pain and lust, he would then clutch his knees close to his chest and drift away in a deep, dark slumber.

And he would dream.

In a city of old, aloft a hill in the midst of buildings shining gold under the merciless light, something sinister had rooted. Although its dome reflected the glory of the heavens, casting flames of silver and gold on the city around it, its core consisted of darkness. A great fire burned inside this temple’s walls and a thick smoke rose from its roof, spreading the stench of ancient death around it. This black temple reeked of torment and agony, of rituals in honor of One condemned to the Void.

But somewhere among the screams and the blood, the purity of pain could be found, when nothing else exists in a soul than the absolution from the boundaries of flesh, in the glorious moment that lingers on between living and dying.

He would always wake up drenched in sweat, while images of torture still passed behind his eyes. And although his heart was still young, his blood would run aflame by the coppery taste that the dreams left in his mouth.

The child grew up fast in the back streets of Umbar. First it was petty pick-pocketing for survival; then it was mugging careless strangers, taking by force all he could carry. Not long after, taking a life proved to be less disturbing than he had thought at first. The sparkling glow flashing in one’s eyes mirroring the blade’s steel. The twist of the mouth, lips curling in one perfect curve before all sound died. The heart’s frantic fluttering inside its cage, knowing that there was no way out but death. It all fuelled a hidden fire inside, a fire that dreams of a dark temple had started.

He no longer was a child, neither in body and nor in spirit. And still, in the taverns of Umbar where he sought refuge in cheap ale and shady company, leaning against the wall and melting in the shadows around him, he would indulge in hearing aged sailors recite tales from the fall of Numenor. With the spicy taste of the local brews in his mouth and his hands exploring lazily the hired curves of a nameless harlot, he would fantasize about the tall, proud men of the legends and their exploits. In these dreams he was one of them, a descendant of the Sea Kings of old and not a nameless thug in the dark streets of Umbar.

And the dreams were always there to remind him of times of glorious Pain and blissful Darkness.

Flesh; burned until nothing was left but ashes and scorched bones, pitiful reminders of what once dreamed and loved and hoped. Screams and pleas for mercy by those who failed to see the harmony of torment, to rejoice when the air came alive as a soul was freed from the chains of flesh. Beneath the dome that was no longer silver, the faithful disciples would follow the Holy One in worship wielding blade and iron, burning incense of blood, semen and tears.

And when the dream ended he was still caught in its web, still chanting in forbidden tongues, still carving with his blade strange patterns in the air. But the blood that soiled his hands was no dream and neither was the lifeless body of the woman who was sharing his bed. And although he was taken aback the first time this happened, he soon grew to accept it and savored the pleasure that accompanied the dreams of fire and the blood-red awakings.

Nameless corpses in nameless alleys were not uncommon and his deeds of darkness passed unnoticed, for the land was in turmoil. Few years had passed since the King of Gondor had reclaimed Umbar and its residents never accepted their new ruler. The Corsairs, driven out by king  Telumehtar Umbardacil, launched frequent attacks on the Gondorian ships and harbours, cutting out supply roots and causing havoc to everyday life. Raids from the Southern tribes kept the city guards busy and the local underworld took advantage of the chaos to continue their trades undisturbed.

Among the conflicts, word reached Umbar that a shadow had moved to the east from the forest of Mirkwood. In the land of Mordor the fiery pits of Barad-dϋr were no longer empty but the echoes of distant lightning thundered within the deepest dungeons. Creatures of death and darkness had crawled out of their holes and once more chanted the name of the Dark Lord, cursing the descendants of Ellendil. In Umbar they had never forgotten the words and deeds of Gorthaur the Cruel and men left the Havens of Umbar and travelled north, to offer their services to the Lord of Mordor.

No one missed him when he left the city walls behind him, heading north, another nameless man trading in death. Like many of those who had walked the same path before him, their bones left to bleach in the wastelands of the South, he could easily be lost in the perilous journey ahead, either at the hands of the Gondorians and their allies or as easily by the servants of the one he wished to serve.

But Fate had other plans for this man who dreamt of the Dark Temple.