Eat, Drink, and Be Merry by AdmirableMonster  

The Mouth of Sauron surveys the bleak countryside.  A few flakes of snow float halfheartedly downwards from the blanket of grey clouds.

“I imagine the harpers are playing in Elven lands afar,” says the Witch King, joining him.

“Sarcasm,” the Mouth opines.

“Bitterness,” she corrects.  “The taste is different.”

He makes a mental note.  “As you know, my aptitude for the emotions of others is less than keen.”

She responds with an affirmative noise.  “The first midwinter in Mordor,” she comments.  “Do you miss—” She halts.  “I miss my father.”

“Wistfulness?” he guesses.

“That and grief.”

“My father—” Oh, but that is a complicated set of emotions.  He wishes for none, and he may be feeling them all.  “He used to make a recipe called ‘fatherless pie,’ for midwinter.  Irony, as I understand it.  Sarcasm is a form of irony, but irony is not precisely an emotion.”

“My wife,” she says, and swallows the rest of her statement.  “Yes.  Such things are complicated.  The bards debate them often.”

“Midwinter is a time for quiet reflection,” he says.  “So say my people.  Perhaps it is also a time for grief.”

“Grief is better shared,” she says, and stands with him quietly.

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Eshara squishes their toes in the mud, shivering, then laughs and shifts from foot to foot.  The slushy water is still icy, but already the tiny, hardy winter flowers are beginning to grow and bloom.

“Surely it is too early for a spring welcoming ritual,” objects the Mouth of Sauron.  Despite the disfiguring scars that mark his face, including the mark of the unlidded eye that apparently had to be branded twice into his forehead, divested of armor he is not a particularly intimidating sight.  “Most of the ponds are still f-frozen.”

“You haven’t lived here,” Eshara tells him.  “Look—” They indicate a little grey head popping up somewhat further along the bank.  “The toads are waking up.  That’s a sure sign of spring.”

The Mouth of Sauron shivers and blows on his hands.  “It is a strange l—and,” he says with a frown.  “But beautiful.  What is the name b-by which y-you call it?”

“In the language of my folk, it is Omin Haishû.”  Eshara flashes their pointed teeth at him.  Always comforting to meet a Man who doesn’t flinch at an Orc’s smile.

“O-min-hai-shu,” the Mouth of Sauron repeats, a passable attempt.  “W-Well, let’s welcome the spring.”

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The white moonbeams make white bars across the floor of the old, high-vaulted bed-chamber.  Tar-Mairon’s hair mantles like liquid flame across his Mouth’s shoulder, while his own mouth presses against his servant’s throat, begging for entry, face hidden.

“My l-l-lord, please,” whispers Nimruzimir, begging in a quavering voice.  A body must have sustenance, even one almost entirely maintained by magic.  

“With—your—permission.”  Mairon’s voice is shaking as well.  One hand is splayed between Nimruzimir’s legs, close but not quite touching.  Nimruzimir’s cunt throbs.

“You have it.”

The sharp teeth, invisible from the merciless moonlight, bite down.  Blood flows.  Nimruzimir cries out, liquid warmth blossoming between his legs, pain and pleasure mixing.  His hips arch; his master’s hand slides along his mound.

(They say the Fates of Men are dictated by the Lady in White; he wonders if she watches her prophet now.  If she pleasures herself to the watching.)

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The shy silver Moon had appeared from behind the clouds, adding a ghostly white light to the cozy, firelit kitchen.  Nimruzimir sat awkwardly on a high stool, watching Sakalkhôr work.  His round, cheerful face was not so different from the Moon itself, though no one would ever call Mordor’s first historian shy.

Sakalkhôr took a quick sip of the beer Eshara’s people had perfected and rubbed his nose, leaving a smear of flour across the bridge.  Then he pulled out a generous heaping of chilled bean paste, rolled it into a ball, and surrounded it with the pastry he’d prepared.  Finally, he inserted it into the mold and pressed down, then pulled it out and inspected it.

“Is the m-mold all right?” Nimruzimir asked.  The question felt entirely too momentous, as if they were in one of those cheap, tawdry dramas in Armenelos, the ones that cost only a coin or two, and the fiddles would start shrieking a tense tuneless noise any moment.

“You’ve done a great job,” Sakalkhôr said, turning that sweet grin on him.  “Come help me put the mooncakes together.”

Armenelos might be dozing beneath the waves now, but Sakalkhôr’s smile was still strong and precious.

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In Omin Haishû, they do not bake lembas, but there are several different waybread recipes, made from the ingredients available, which are many and varied.  There is one they call Míriel’s Coins; among the Haish, it’s said it descends from the days before the soul of the land was lost. The sharp bite of the spices makes this waybread a chancy feast, but one that is not to be missed.  The discerning traveler will find themself returning again and again—perhaps even using a hat as a makeshift bag when encountering a particularly delectable-smelling set from an unexpected traveling merchant. 

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The rain was torrential, with not even a suggestion of relief, and the mud grew worse with each step the three terrified Orc cubs took.  “We’re never going to make it!” Sasha exclaimed shrilly.  Rehalzh put their hand under her elbow, trying to help her along.  

“It’s okay,” they said.  “We’re going to be okay, really.”

“We never should have come,” Sasha sobbed.  “We knew we were losing—and we did, and we didn’t even manage to find anything useful to take from the corpses.”

Arash folded her arms and snarled, “We had to try, didn’t we?  Dad needs the help.”

“And now we’re going to drown and he won’t even know what happened to us,” sobbed Sasha.

The sloshing noise of rain-on-mud was cut through suddenly by a the heavier sloshing noise of something heavy moving through the muck behind them.  Sasha shrieked and jumped; Rehalzh and Arash linked arms to stand in front of their sister.

Out of the grey, reeking mist forged a hooded figure on the back of one of the strong, stitched creatures.  Unlike the dead thing they were riding, the figure was alive, or some semblance of it: their breath puffed heavily in the air. Rather than riding on, they came to a clumsy halt beside the three children.

“A b-battlefield is no place for young ones,” said the figure, throwing back his hood to reveal a scarred and branded face, marked with the Lidless Eye.  “Get on.  She can t-take the weight if I walk beside her.”

Sasha moved immediately, but Arash grabbed her arm.  “You can’t,” she said, horrified.  “That’s the Mouth.”

The Mouth of Tar-Mairon winced as he let himself down from the side of his mount.  There was something wrong with his arm, which hung limp at his side.  “Never turn down an offer of h—elp,” he said.  “Regardless of who it is from.”

“But—” squeaked Arash.

“Shut up, you idiot,” hissed Rehalzh.  “Just get on the horse.  Do you want to drown?”

Sasha ducked round her sister and gratefully and clumsily began to clamber on.  After a frozen moment, Arash followed her, Rehalzh pacing her.

The Mouth helped the three of them up onto the creature, then sagged against the side.  “I’m s-sorry, my lord,” he murmured.  “But I must see to the living first.”

The stitched creature with its heavy burden moved off, swimming steadily in the watery murk, leaving no trace behind for the Elves or Men of the Last Alliance, even if they had the desire to pursue.

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