Foundations by AdmirableMonster  

Foundations

The buildings in Angmar were familiar, ugly and functional, blocks carved directly into the mountainside.  The windows were impressive, though, particularly from the inside: a whole wall of the throne room looked out on the slope below.  The Mouth of Sauron removed his glove and pressed his palm against the inside of the glass, which was cool to the touch but not cold.  “Impressive,” he remarked.  “The construction of the windows must have taken a great deal of effort.”

“Oh, it did.” The Witch-king of Angmar joined him, the dark eyes that were all that were visible behind the veiled and shrouded form watching him closely, as they always did, which he found disconcerting.  He did not meet her eyes, but studied her reflection in the glass.  “From the outside, it’s almost impossible to see, and from in here, we can control the amount of light that enters.”

“The amount of radiation that enters or leaves, I should think,” corrected the Mouth of Sauron frostily.  “Glass would ordinarily be much colder.”

“I’d forgotten what you’re like,” the Witch-king said, with a soft chuckle.  “Yes.  That’s what my wise ones say, but you’ll have to talk to them for the details.”

He wondered if he could spare the time.  Probably not on this journey, sadly.  It was only architecture, he told himself, not at all the same as his own true passion.  This was, quite clearly, a lie, but it was a lie that would serve to take him back where he had come from with a minimum of delay.

“So the construction is complete,” he said, instead of following the line of questioning he would prefer to.  “And your people?”

“Only a few have finished the journey.  Many have scattered, in the time since I was sleeping, but I will manage.”

The Mouth of Sauron thought enviously of being able to sleep—even restlessly—through all the years he had spent walking and plotting and watching and waiting.  He shook it off.  It was irrelevant.  What was relevant was that he had to report to the fragments of Tar-Mairon that had gathered themselves in Dol Guldur was that the Witch-king had, indeed, risen at his call, and was building herself a stronghold.  A cleverly-concealed one, made from materials that he certainly did not want to spend hours studying.  “I will want a c-c-census,” he said, in lieu of anything else.  The old stammer reasserted itself for a moment, a tick he had thought long-erased.  But then he could not remember the last time he had addressed an animate being through mouth and throat.  His lord did not bother, any longer, with speech, and little need had he had indeed of a mouth through a succession of long and very lonely years.

“You shall have it,” the Witch-king told him.  He nodded and bowed stiffly.  “Wait,” she said, and took his wrist.  He nearly jerked away at the simple touch, but schooled himself.  “Rest, my friend,” the Witch-king said.  “It has been long since we had hope, and I do not know that hope is what we have now, but you have always driven yourself too hard, and our lord will have need of you before the end.”

“Is this not after the end?” asked the Mouth of Sauron, but it was true that he was very weary.

“You forget that I have lived beyond the end of kings and kingdoms before,” said the Witch-king.  “And you are weary, I think, and you have forgotten what it means to be touched by anyone who was ever human.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed.

“Stay.  Sup with me.  See where the evening takes us.  Remember what it means to be a person.”

“That is not a subject on which I h-have ever been an expert.”  But he did not try to pull away from her again.  “I will stay.”

“Good.  And we will see where the evening takes us.”

Her cold wraith’s hand should have been cool, like the glass, but instead the prints of her fingers burned.