Duplicity by Prackspoor  

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Cataclysm (I) - Path Into Darkness

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Cataclysm

(Downfall)

 

 

VII. Path Into Darkness

The men come back a little later, and you are dragged into a side cavern furnished with wooden chairs and a table. Hewn into the stone wall is a window facing west. The hobbits are there, and another man, tall of stature and fair of face. The hobbits avoid looking at you, but your eyes and those of the chief ranger meet, and there is you feel something like brief, bizarre recognition – like remembering someone from a dream, long ago, as seen through the distortion of a glass sphere – and then it is gone and you have no idea why you thought you knew him in the first place. His features are regal and proud, his stature and poise ooze virtue and nobility as disgustingly as a snail oozes slime.

You wonder how long it would take his rangers to react if you chose to attack him, and whether they'd drag you off him before or after you'd manage to rip his throat out.

“Look at me,” the ranger says. You stare aside stubbornly .

Next to you, Frodo Baggins shifts his weight uneasily. “Come now, Sméagol. He will not harm you, trust me. But you must do as he says and answer his questions truthfully!”

You glare at the hobbit. The nerve! To speak of trust after what he has done! But no, you must not forget your own counsel: the hobbits' time will come, and not too far in the future at that. When the moment has arrived, when you finally have them right where you want them, with the tables turned and the imbalance of power at last in your favour, then you will be able to delight in the sweet, sweet satisfaction of your revenge. You will reunite with your Precious, and justice will finally be restored to the world that has wronged you so grievously. It will not be brief, it will not be merciful, you intend to drag it out as long as you can –

—but that has to wait. Meanwhile, you should probably follow through with your act. It would not do to arouse suspicion prematurely. So you grind your teeth and then turn your head to look at the ranger.

“Do you know the name of this place? Have you been here before?” the ranger asks.

“No. We doesn't know and we doesn't want to know. Never came here; never come again.”

Of course, this is not enough. Frodo Baggins and the ranger do not stop before they have wheedled another promise out of you never to return to the damned lake. You play your part: you whimper and crouch and grovel at their feet, and you perform your melodramatic act so convincingly that you think you might just be sick in a corner if you have to say “Master” one more time.

And yet, it gets you what you wanted. Frodo Baggins vouches for you and takes you under his protection, granting you safe conduct through Ithilien and Gondor.

The ranger's brow creases at this and he gives you a hard look. “Frodo says you were his guide. Where were you leading him?”

“The Black Gate,” Frodo answers. “But it was closed.”

“There is no open gate into the Nameless Land,” the ranger says.

“Which is why we turned aside,” Frodo continued. “Sméagol said there is, or there may be, another path further south, across a high pass.”

“What is this pass he is speaking of?” the ranger asks, turning to you.

For a moment, you are silent. You have a fairly good idea where Sméagol wanted to lead the hobbits – digging through his decaying memories allows you to see him fleeing out of Mordor through tunnels, over mountain ridges, and down treacherous, steep stone stairs, bleeding, mangled, and terrified out of his mind. You recognise the pass. It is one of the few ways to pass out of and into Mordor unseen. You also know Sméagol would never have taken it, had he had any other choice. You are also fairly certain that it would be supremely unwise to share its name with the ranger. But just then —

“It is near Minas Ithil, a path that climbs the northern side of the vale where the old city stands,” Frodo adds suddenly.

You have sworn to restrain yourself from killing the hobbits until the time is right, but in the aftermath of Frodo's sentence you are sorely tempted to rip his head off then and there. (You don't think you have ever encountered a folk as meddlesome as hobbits – and you've known the Noldor as well as the descendants of the Men of Númenor. Apparently, the sole purpose of existence of halflings is to throw a wrench in your works.)

The ranger must have deduced the name of the path only an instant later, because his grey eyes darken like storm clouds. “Cirith Ungol,” he says. “Is that not its name?” He takes a threatening step towards you and you slink backwards.

“There is no other way,” you hiss. “Master says he must get in, so some way we must try. It is the only way. There is no other.”

“No other way?” the chief ranger asked. “How do you know that? Have you explored that dark realm so thoroughly?” His eyes are full of mistrust, his voice is ice. You want to strangle him. You glare at each other, but then he signals to another ranger who has been guarding the doorway. “Take him out, I want to have word with Master Baggins and Master Gamgee – alone.”

You are grabbed by your upper arm and another man roughly marches you out of the room and back into the part of the cave where you killed Sméagol. They chain you to an iron ring driven deep into the stone wall, but you do not try to escape. Instead, you sit down and stare at your guards until they uneasily avert their eyes and pretend to look at the walls, the floor, the ceiling, as if you weren't there.

Good. You can't stand being watched.

Time passes slowly. The guards change shifts, but they hardly pay you any attention. You likewise ignore them and wait in silence. You have a fairly good idea what the chief ranger is going to tell the hobbits: he will warn them of you, he will advise them not to take the pass, he will urge them to turn back and seek support in Gondor.

You know that they will do none of these things.

All the fools you have ever known had a way of running headlong to their own doom. And who were you to stop them?

 

“You are my advisor. You are forgetting your place.” Ar-Pharazôn's face is in the shadows. The curtains have been pulled against the setting sun, filtering its light through the fabric and plunging the throne room into blood-red dusk.

You turn around, hands steepled, the fingertips of each hand pressing against each other. “You asked me for my opinion, my king. My task is first and foremost to advise you sensibly, with only secondary regard for how pleasing you might find my counsel.”

The king waves you off. “Sensible advice – yes. But lately you have been doing nothing but criticise me at every turn. 'Don't do this, don't do that' – there are times when I believe you are turning into that nagging wife of mine.”

You arch an eyebrow.

Míriel does indeed prefer to be served truth over pleasantries, which is one of many reasons why she is twice the sovereign you will ever be.

You think it, and you almost say it, but in the end you bite your tongue and bow deeply.

“Correct me if I am wrong, my king, but I believe you once said you valued my honesty, especially when compared to the countless – what was the word you used? 'Lickspittles'? – that gathered around your throne.”

Ar-Pharazôn scoffs. “Lickspittles indeed. They grovel and compliment me to my face, and yet they are already plotting treachery behind my back.” He passes a hand over his face. It is still broad and strong, but on its back the veins are slightly more noticeable, the bones more pronounced, and here and there pale mottling has begun to appear on his skin.

You take note of all those little changes just like you acknowledge the slight stiffness with which the king moves in the early mornings, or the cautious glances he throws over his shoulder every time he turns a corner or encounters one of the Faithful. Careful looks, nightmares, food tasters being disposed of in weekly intervals – these are all keys on the disappointingly simple claviature that is Ar-Pharazôn, King of Númenor, which you can play blindfolded and with one hand tied behind your back by now. Paranoia is like a snake that you have planted in Pharazôn's heart. It is always hungry, wakes at the slightest prod, and needs nothing more than a few quiet words to feed it for weeks on end. And so—

“You are not as well-liked as you used to be,” you say carefully, feigning hesitation to entrust your king with your observation.

Pharazôn barks out a laugh. “I was never well-liked. The people of Númenor have hated me ever since the day I ripped the sceptre out of Míriel's hands. But what do I care for love? They hate me today, and they will still hate me tomorrow and for all other days to come – so why should I waste my time catering to their whims and begging for their favour? I don't need people to love me, I only need them to obey.” He slumps deeper into his throne, and drums his fingers on its armrests, looking for all the world like a petulant, spoiled child not getting his way. It reminds you so much of Melkor in his final, insane days that you have to quash the impulse to grab Pharazôn by his hair, drag him from the throne, out onto the gallery, and hurl him over the banister to shatter on the city streets three hundred feet below. You are fed up with having to deal with infantile imbeciles throughout the entirety of your existence.

Of course you do nothing of the sort. You have trained yourself too well for that. Instead you draw yourself up a little bit straighter, and if your smile is strained, it does not show when you answer, “A most astute observation.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Pharazôn grumbles.

“As you said, there is no sense in asking for love when it is not given willingly to begin with. Instead, you should approach the issue from the angle of power.”

“That's what I've been doing for years, and it's exactly what you have been nagging me about, because it was turning my subjects against me!” Pharazôn rights himself up. “In fact, it was you who proposed to keep my wife and the Faithful on a shorter leash, dispose of dissidents, expand my network of spies, cleanse the ranks of the High Council and reward the loyal ones who remained! This is your fault to begin with! So why are you talking of power to me now? Speak some sense, man!”

You look down at your left hand clenching and unclenching, allow yourself to imagine what it would be like to squash Pharazôn's skull between your fingers, then look back up at him with a placid expression. “I will, if my king is willing to hear me out.”

Pharazôn stares at you darkly, then waves his hand dismissively at you. “Speak then.”

You bow once more, and you almost retch with the sickening hypocrisy of your servile masquerade. “You were wise, my king, when you said your enemies were numerous. They are, and their cheek has grown along with the high opinion they hold of themselves. They feel safe, for they believe themselves under the patronage of higher powers – to those they turn their faces and from those they draw the courage and the impudence to defy you, lie to your face, and betray you. They do no longer see you as their highest sovereign – they are bowing to a higher power than Man, and nothing you could do will terrify them enough to stop the treason they are working behind your back. Nothing, except...”

You trail off, leaving the end of the sentence hanging enticingly in mid-air between you.

Ar-Pharazôn's eyes are wide and dark. The fading light of Telperion's radiance that had waned in his ancestors' eyes has finally been completely extinguished in Pharazôn.

“Except what?”

You step up to him, slowly, languidly, like a big cat. “Show them that you do not fear the wrath of their masters, and they will fear you. Declare yourself the servant of a higher patron than theirs.”

Pharazôn's eyebrows rise. “Higher than their precious Valar?”

“The highest.” A breeze lifts the soft curtains between the pillars of the hall, and light and shadows come to play over your face. You do not blink as the light hits your eyes, but you can feel your pupils constricting to pinpricks.

Pharazôn rises from his throne. “What you propose is beyond blasphemy.”

“Of course. It is beyond blasphemy, beyond belief, beyond all that religious nonsense that your wife is so intent on dragging into your state affairs. I am talking about politics. I am talking about means of swaying the masses. I am talking about ruling. This is not blasphemy – this is strategy.”

“You propose that I proclaim myself an ally of the Foe of the World – calling this insanity a strategy is an insult! I should have expected no more from Morgoth's most faithful hound! If you have nothing else to offer, you can – ”

“ – if my king would just let me finish,” you say between gritted teeth. You are getting tired of this. You came to Númenor because you were bored and hoped for a challenge to allay the inevitable tedium of the undisputed rule of a god-king. Contrary to what most people believe of you, you have always liked to play – and over the years, boredom has become your greatest enemy.

But soon it became clear that there was no challenge to be had in Númenor (too easy, too easy, despite Míriel's valiant efforts), and tedium and annoyance are your steady companions at the back of your mind more often than not. But you have promised yourself to see this through properly. This promise and your pride are the only reasons why the mighty Ar-Pharazôn is not a smear of blood, entrails, and shit on his own marble floor.

“If you want to rule, you cannot afford inhibitions,” you say. “You must put your mind to it entirely, or not at all. You flinch away from my suggestion not because you have a reason to do so, but because it has become ingrained in all of your brains that this is the right thing to do. You still adhere to arbitrary rules ordained by distant gods and dare not question them. Do not to do this! It is the downfall of all reason and the death knell of free will! Don't let misplaced squeamishness jerk you away from sensible thought. Think, my king. Who told you that questioning the Powers was wrong?”

You can almost see the gears turning in Pharazôn's head and you smirk.

“Awfully convenient, isn't it, that the gods themselves dictated to you the rules of rightful dominion? Meanwhile, your people have been living under the yoke of gods they haven't seen in hundreds and thousands of years. They have been sacrificing to uncaring, cold powers who have long since turned their back on them. Is this the state of affairs you want to preserve? Did you not have great plans for yourself and for this world? But change can at times only be achieved by rebellion - rebellion against the status quo. The Valar have taught you to fear and condemn rebellious thoughts that might endanger their rule. By now these ways of life have become so ingrained in your brains that breaking out of them seems inconceivable – but it is not. Rebellion is not wrong if the cause is just – and have you not every reason to renounce those who left you here on these hither shores to fight and rot and die?”

Pharazôn opens his mouth, remains in this unflattering state for a few moments, and then closes it again.

“Do you know,” you say quietly, “who was the first to see the injustice in this system?” You wait, measuring the pace of your pauses, the rhythm of your reveals. Everything is music, every plan is a symphony, and you are not a bungling amateur to allow even a single dilettantish mistake to enter your composition. “Of course you do. We and I both know it. Have you ever considered that his initial cause might have been just, whatever became of him later?”

Pharazôn opens and closes his mouth again, and he looks like a stranded fish doing so. You don't think you have ever despised him more than in this moment of indecision, dithering, and stupidity.

“Take heart, my king,” you say and although it disgusts you beyond belief, you reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder. “I know there is enough courage and strength of will in you for this undertaking. Look beyond your teaching and grooming to see clearly for once; think about Melkor, and what his deeds really meant. He was the first one who dared to go against the great design and leave his own imprint on it. He was the first to turn away from the beaten path and challenge an authority that claimed absolute power for itself and demanded unquestioning obedience of everyone else, although it had never done anything to prove that it deserved either. Was that not a just cause? Must just authority not be strong enough to withstand a challenge – no, even invite it, for true power provides its own legitimisation without fear of failure? Is a power that suppresses and condemns such acts not a sign of injustice? And is rebellion not the duty of the unjustly oppressed?”

Pharazôn has been listening to you intently, and although you speak fairly quickly, you can see he is keeping up – and you can feel the darkening of his mind.

“You never cared much for the gods, did you?” you ask quietly.

“No,” Pharazôn says.

“Have you ever stopped to wonder why?”

Pharazôn does not answer. He does not need to. His eyes are glazed in introspection, and you know that he now has at last all the justification for his irrational hatred of the Valar that he has ever needed. Not an impressive feat, for you have practically had to spoon-feed it to him – but no matter. The seed has been planted, and spreading it among the people will be Pharazôn's task.

“Surely you do not fear them, my king?” you ask, your tone just in the middle between disbelief and mockery, just right to edge him on.

The beautiful thing about Ar-Pharazôn, you think, is that he always reacts exactly as predicted. Even now, he goes through all the motions you have foreseen: he is puffing up like an outraged bird, his shoulders stiffening, his hands clenched into fists, his brows creased into a frown.

“Of course not! Never!” he barks.

Your own face immediately turns serious again. “Then lay aside your prejudices and the things you think you know about the gods, and answer me this: is there any better patron for your own rebellion, your great change, than the one who rose against Eru Ilúvatar himself?” you ask – quiet, insistent.

Ar-Pharazôn's hands are opening and closing. “What would you have me do, Tar-Mairon?” His tone is thinly veneered with mocking, but there is an insecure undercurrent beneath. He has handed the reins over to you, he is relying on you to make this decision for him.

You bite back a feral smile and bow again.

“Make Melkor your patron. Show your colours, do it openly and proudly. Nothing deters men quicker than a leader who does not believe in what he is advertising to his people. Build him a temple to show your wife you are serious. And while you are at it, expose the Valar as the tin gods they are. Show the people that they have been putting their trust in ghosts. Show them that you do not desire the mockery of compassion and the travesty of vestiges of Aman the Valar have fobbed your people off with.” You nod in the direction of the circular terrace where Nimloth is standing in full bloom. “Burn that bridge. Burn the tree.”

The smacking noise when Pharazôn backhands you across the face resounds through the entire throne room, rebounding from the pillars and the arched ceiling.

“Your cheek is truly unbelievable,” Pharazôn snarls.

You drag the heel of your hand across your lower face, and it comes away bloody. This is for show, of course, for no one could hurt you unless you allowed it. But right now it is important for Pharazôn to believe that he has nothing to fear from you – fear hinders your plans, whereas anger propels them forward. He has to believe that he can still wound you and command you and yank you around like a dog on a chain, and that the only thing you can do about his temper is to powerlessly accept it.

You regard him calmly, and you see yourself succeeding. “I take that as a dismissal.”

“Damn right you'll take it as one,” Pharazôn growls. “I don't want to see your visage in this throne room ever again unless I call on you first. Get out.”

You bow again. “As you wish.” You turn around and walk out of the throne room.

Pharazôn remains behind, seething with fury and outrage over your proposal.

The corners of your mouth pull upward, despite the blood that is still running from your nose and your split lip. The seed of doubt has been planted; now all you have to do is wait for your king to cave.

 

“Lord Faramir was right, Mister Frodo,” Sam says, while he clambers through a thicket of thorns. “We should not take this path, especially not since it is one Gollum has used. Who knows what kind of paths this slinker prefers to a good, honest road!” He is speaking loudly, either believing you out of earshot or simply not caring whether you overhear their conversation or not.

“Would that we had a choice in the matter,” Frodo replies. “But there are no good, honest roads into Mordor, Sam. I do not like the sound of Cirith Ungol either, but you heard Sméagol: he said there was no other way.”

“And you believe that?” Sam muttered, but he did not say anything else and both hobbits fell silent.

Well, to be precise, not everything you have told them was a lie. Within reasonable distance, Cirith Ungol is the only way into Mordor where one could hope to avoid detection. What you have wisely withheld from them is that the path climbs the mountains, and then splits in two. One path leads over the mountain ridges, past the Orcish stronghold there, and then down into the valley beyond, meeting a path that runs between the Ephel Dúath and the Morgai. It is, you are quite sure, the way Sméagol intended to lead the hobbits into Mordor.

Then there's the second path: the one that goes below the mountains, and there branches out into a nightmarish maze of tunnels, nearly impossible to navigate, let alone escape from.

This is the path that you all will take.

You slink out from beneath the underbrush and onto the beaten path, about twenty feet ahead of the hobbits. Sam startles and glowers at you, but Frodo only gives you the rueful half-smile that seems to be the only expression he has had for you since his betrayal.

You grin at him and give him a cheery wave – forgiven and forgotten, my friend! (Hah, as if !) – and then you turn around, heading south, where Minas Morgul lurks in waiting between two spurs of the Ephel Dúath and where the long hidden stairway climbs up the cliff to the tunnels under the mountains, and you start to sing:

Oh kitty, oh puss

what's with all the fuss?

What have you there in your paws?

Oh, soft-paw, meow!

I do see it now!

It's a mouse struggling there in your claws!

 

It crawled unaware

from its hole just to stare

its own death right into her eyes!

And oh little mousey,

isn't it lousy,

that cats do so love to hunt mice!

 

Oh, look how it's quaking,

how it's squeaking, escaping!

Trying in vain to return to its hole!

But the kitty is faster,

light-pawed hunting master,

And she swallows the little mouse whole!

 

Oh mousey, oh mouse,

shouldn't have left your house,

Should have stayed in your mouse-hole instead!

For daring's a price

and for dumb little mice,

it is death in the claws of a cat!

 

“Has he gone mad?” Sam asks quietly.

“Let him sing,” Frodo says. “I think he is just happy.”