Hai: I hope my review reply helped answer your question.

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything relating to the Lord of the Rings in this story.  About what I said in my last disclaimer. I have just come to realize that I will NOT be writing everything based on the chapter: the Black Gate Opens.  It will encompass the information found in several other chapters.  But that still doesn’t change the fact that it all really belongs to the brilliant Tolkien.

*********************************

“Of what [mithril from Moria] they brought to light the Orcs have gathered nearly all, and given it in tribute to Sauron, who covets it.”

              - Fellowship of the Ring, A Journey in the Dark

Chapter Two: the Mouth of Sauron

Setting: Mordor, Barad-dur, March 16, 1419, Shire-reckoning

            Barad-dur, the tallest structure in Middle-earth, erected thousands of years ago (and only recently rebuilt after ancient destruction), was a symbol of terror and torture to the Free Peoples of Middle-earth.  But to him, Sauron’s Mouth -the voice of His thoughts - it was the finest palace ever built, and the top of the Tower, where Sauron’s Eye was transfixed between the upper-most pinnacles, was more majestic than any glittering throne of Men.  What place could be more proper, than one that allowed the Lord of the Rings to keep a constant-watch over his domain?

            But on days such as this, he wished that perhaps Sauron’s throne were slightly closer to the ground.  He had been ascending the guarded staircase that circled around the structure for hours, and his feet had begun to ache once more.  Not that he would say anything of it – it was a matter of small consequence when one had such great news to give to his Lord.  It was certainly not the best news – for the One Ring had not yet been recovered, but that momentous event was not far off.

            He remembered with perfect clarity how that wretched creature Gollum had been tortured in the very rooms  he had just left.  The Hobbit-like being had showed extraordinary resilience to their most excruciating torture methods, but they had finally broken him. He remembered the creatures pitiful cries for mercy as he admitted at last the name of Shire and Baggins.  How he had recited the whole tale of finding the One along the Banks of the Great River several hundred years ago, and how the thief: Baggins, had stolen it from him by cheating in a game of Riddles!  Riddles!  The thought of his Lord’s prized creation being sold and traded as a piece of junk made him fume with fury so that he almost felt as though pure anger raged in his heart like a uncontrollable flame.  How dare they!? 

           He had managed to cool down upon realizing that Hobbits were small, retarded creatures who knew nothing of value. He had wanted to keep the pathetic thing to torture for his folly and disloyalty to Sauron, but his Lord, in his mercy had released the disgusting thing – and even allowed the creature Gollum to believe that the escape had been accomplished through his own intelligence.  Folly idea, that!  He had no intelligence.  He had referred to the Ring as his own Precious – never mind to whom it truly belonged! – and had gone to do the Lord’s bidding: to lead it to Mordor, and thus back to Sauron’s finger where it truly belonged. This of course had not been the creature's intent.  He had merely wanted to see Baggins (who had stolen his "Precious") tortured as he had been.  The fact that such a capture would ultimatly lead the Lord to His Precious, apparently had not occured to the disgusting piece of filth at the time, and so much the better, for otherwise he would not have agreed to such an arrangement, not in this Age at any rate.

            The Mouth had harboured serious doubt in the matter of the creature's return, whether it would even happen at all.  But he appeared to have underestimated his Lord's intelligence (very dangerous thing to do, that) for it had been no more than one year in the calandars of Men and had now become apparent that his Lord’s mercy had not gone un-rewarded.  Earlier that day they had found him, not the Gollum creature, but another creature.  He had at first appeared to be Elvish, his fair complexion and bright blue eyes that shone with an innocence that had been forgotten in Mordor, if indeed it had ever been known at all.  It had been not himself, but one of the Orc captains, Shagrat, had pointed out otherwise.  It was far too small to be an Elf, besides that it had large, furry feet.  No, he had said, it must be a Hobbit.   A Hobbit!  his hopes had swelled at that time: that was the name that the Gollum-creature had given to the one called Baggins – who had taken possession of the Ring!  Could it be that after all these years his master would regain what had been forcibly taken from him by Narsil, the sword of King Elendil?  Upon checking the unconscious victim, he had been disappointed to find nothing of value.  His Elvish cloak was hideous, and oh yes - there had also been that Dwarf-coat: the mithril one.  Shagrat had tried to hide it from him, upon exiting the Tower, be he had seen and seized it.  Who did he think he was to go taking the treasure which rightfully belonged to their mutual Lord. Everyone knew that to Sauron only the One Ring was worth more than mithril. And as for Shagrat, he had no business claiming that fabulous coat - he was nothing more than slave, the captain of an army bound to die in the service of Mordor, while the Mouth himself would be spared from such a painful ending.  He shuddered as he climbed the last steps up to the Eye.

            Unfortunately he noted that he had not all good news to give.  Shagrat had reported evidence of another prowler, an Elf no doubt, who had left the Hobbit for dead after Shelob’s attack.  It was undoubtedly the Elf who carried the One Ring, and he shuddered to think of the poor Orcs who had to fight one of the ‘Fair Folk’ as they were so often called.  Though why they were called that he could not guess.  There was nothing fair about them, really, except perhaps their physical appearance.  But what spoiled their beauty was the Light that shone from them.  Such Light only served to blind the servants of the Lord of the Rings.  It was a destructive light and one that none of Mordor wished to face.  Oh well, such was the fate designed for the Orc-slaves. He of course would never be doomed to such a fate.  After all, without him, who would there be to relay the Lord’s messages and commands.  And surely after Lord Sauron regained physical form he would not forget the servant who had aided in his Lord’s noble cause – to force all lower life-forms than himself into submission – more than anyone else.  No, he would probably be honored, given lordship over that wicked Saruman who was so bend on capturing the Ring for his own personal gain.  So he was sure it would happen that he would live a life of privilege while the rotting Orcs went out to the battle field to fight for their Lord.  Their fate could not be altered, and even if it could, he would never do it.  Better that they be slaughtered than himself.  But besides the news of the wretched Elf penetrating the Lair of Shelob, was the matter of the Hobbit.

            It was not hard to guess what had brought the little thing so far from home: he obviously knew about the Ring and wanted to ruin his master’s chance of dominion by destroying it on his own accord.  The Mouth felt an uncharacteristic urge to laugh at such folly.  He guessed well enough who’s idea it had been.  It had been Mithrandir’s obviously.  All knew that he wasted his time with the Little Folk away in the North, and for that reason among others he had been dubbed ‘the Grey Fool’.  Well he had certainly proved himself worthy of such a title! Unfortunately, the Hobbit was not a Baggins: not the one that was so sought after that the Nine themselves had been sent to dispose of him.  He smiled to himself at the memory of the Witch King’s humiliation at having to admit failure – how the miserable wretch had somehow fought off the Morgul poison.  He hated to admit it – and he never would admit it to any other than himself – but that fact alone made him feel some respect for the pitiful excuse of a Ring-bearer.  He could use every ounce of his strength to fight Lord Sauron’s will, and he might succeed (which he had) but not for much longer.  No one could stand against the might of Sauron forever.  But all of that put aside did not change the present fact that this Hobbit, however was not him.  Mithrandir had apparently been enough of a fool to drag more than one of the miserable things into his laughably-ridiculous plans.  No this one was not a – the – Baggins, that they had sought after for many months, but a Brandybuck: Frodo Brandybuck, he had admitted after a series of whip-lashes had torn apart his small back.  Ah well, such was the way things were in the world.  So there had been an Elf and two Hobbits: this Brandybuck and the much-desired Baggins. 

            Contemplating these things as he ascended the last steps up to the pinnacle of the Tower, the Mouth of Sauron took a deep breath as he prepared to relay this news (both good and bad) to his master: the Lord of the Rings.  

~To Be Continued~

A/N: Oh come on, people!  Do you really need to be told that?  What author would be cruel enough to stop the story entirely right now?  No, “Arwen Baggins” is not the answer!  I just stopped this chapter... not the story as a whole.

You all know that I love reviews, so please make my day and press that lonely button at the bottom.  Please!  Yes, that’s it, good job!