The doors flung open in a wild display. Marching through the door, a small armored warrior strode in with regal confidence. These halls had no lowly orcs. They were filled with black uruk guards in dutiful watch, far more disciplined than the standard orc kind. The halls were fluttering with slaves, Stout-Axe, Nurnhoth, and others. Near the end of the throne room, under a massive stain glass window, was a flight of stairs guarded by Black Numenorean elites. Atop the stairs was a throne. On the throne sat an elderly Black Numenorean, hair graying in old age.
"Lord Imarkarbizir." She addressed him, kneeling before standing tall.
With only his eyes moving from his slouched position, Imarkarbizir looked down to her, "Aglarari."
A sword by her waist. She was dressed in Black Numenorean armor. Removing the cruel helmet, underneath was a girl who had not even made it through puberty. She was only sixteen years old. She looked up to him, anticipation in her eyes. It was if she was looking forward to this conversation - but there was a darkness there as well.
"Lord Imarkarbizir," She started, "You are aged and withered. For all your long years, you have failed to produce an heir worthy of Mordor."
The man stiffened, eyes widening. He knew what was coming.
"Your reign is over. Lord Sauron approved that any rivals can come in and claim all that is yours." She started to ascend the steps, "Lord Aglarzor wants it. I want it."
She drew her sword, swift and cold. The Black Numenorean guards glared at her, and she... smirked, "Lord Aglarzor rewards those who follow him well. Turn on your master now, and you will not only be spared, but promoted."
Instantly, three spears were garnished, in a swift movement, one of the four fell to the other three, who then stood in attention, stepping aside. She walked up the steps, sword in hand, "Imarkarbizir, you know what happens."
Imarkarbizir glared up with hatred and fear, but did not move. "There is no defying Lord Sauron." He croaked, "But Aglarzor is pitiful. Sending his half-blood rabe to do his-"
Aglarari instantly cut his head off, a snarl formed on her face. She seethed, refusing to be treated with such blatant disrespect. As the head slammed onto the steps, rolling down, chaos erupted. The Black Numenoreans she had recruited were fighting uruks, slaves were fighting each other and fleeing, and more troops from both sides swept in. Aglarari raised her sword, shouting.
"Anyone who joins Aglarzor's ranks will be spared. Slaughter the rest."
A black uruk came for her, she cut it down. A Black Numenorean, she killed her own blood. A confused stout axe slave swung at her with a sword he picked up, she removed his head. A Nurnhoth slave was running, she followed her own orders and did not spare him. The slaughter continued. Throughout the throne room, throughout the entire fortress, she killed so many. Easterling slave, Nurnhoth slave, Gondorian slave. Guard after guard, blood after blood. And she... enjoyed it. She knew it was sick, but she enjoyed it. She enjoyed this twisted, sweet feeling of power, of control, that she had never harnessed before. She was no longer the slave, but the master.
*Drip, drip, drip.*
Eventually, she found herself standing in the throne room, bloodied and sweaty. Blood dripped from her sword, and from her fists, to the floor. Blank and distant, she looked down at the piles of corpses, many slain by her own hand. The empty, dead eyes of a little Nurnhoth girl stared up at her, reminding her of the person she used to be.
As she looked down at the bodies of men and women, defensive warriors and innocent slaves, littering the floor, Sari Mosa the slave cried out in agony from within. But, this was Aglarzor's fate if Aglarari had not come. She knew this. This was the cruelty of Mordor. The cruelty Aglarari adopted long ago, leaving the Nurnhoth slave Sari Mosa behind.
Father, I am a monster for you. Mother, do you revile what I've become?
She resisted the urge to vomit. She dropped her sword as a figure walked up to her, "Mistress."
She looked up to Aglarzor's chief commander, blinking the guilt from her eyes. Cold and calculating, she cleared her throat, "Tell Aglarzor the fortress and surrounding property are all his. All remaining slaves can be rounded up. No prisoners are to be left aside those slave prizes. The ones who have come to our side, prepare them for Aglarzor's banquet table. We has much to discuss with them." She swept her arm out, acting as if this was nothing to her, "Go."
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She gasped, awakening from her sleep. In the chair, her body ached. Where was she? Who was she? Upon seeing blue roses on the fireplace mantel, she remembered. She was Eira, an innkeeper of the Huntsman and the Stag, in Eriador. Was. Last night, things had changed.
She blinked the dreams, and tears, from her eyes. She looked over to the sleeping man on the bed, Nimraph, a former servant of Angmar. Like she was a former servant of Mordor. They were both running from the Enemy now, due to flee underground as soon as sunlight peaked. As she looked at him, still sleeping, the question struck hopelessness in her heart.
Do monsters like us deserve a second chance?
