Chapter 1: Youngblood
A mysterious accident leads Melkor, Thuringwethil and Gothmog to a series of clues.
I swear this is the last rewrite! No really, I swear.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Melkor opened the door to his apartment and stopped. Blood and glass were everywhere and Mairon was nowhere. Which was not a good sign, because Mairon had stayed home sick (not that he would admit it) with the flu.
Also, Mairon’s phone was lying unbroken on the ground. He picked it up and saw that it was open, a video queued to play. He pressed the play button, frowning.
Mairon had filmed himself and was talking in the video. Melkor turned the volume up and continued watching.
“This will be the last time any of you ever see me as I am now. They are coming. Look in the museum for the painting People of Middle-earth. If you find any blood on the ground, yes, it’s probably mine. Also their’s. Goodbye.” It ended and Melkor dropped Mairon’s phone. Before it even hit the ground Melkor was his own to call Thuringwethil.
“This is Thuringwethil.” Her clipped voice snapped from the phone into his ears and he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thil, Mairon’s dead.”
“I came home and found blood all over the floor. There was video he left confirming it. I guess they dragged the body away. I could check the cameras.”
“I’m coming over. I’ll bring Gothmog with me.”
“See you then.”
Fifteen or so minutes later, the three of them were hunched over a computer. Thuringwethil was reading an article on the painting and where it was located. “So we have to go to the Gallery of Artistic History to find a specific painting because Mairon is trying to tell us why and how he died?” Thuringwethil huffed.
“I guess,” Melkor said, scanning over the article for the umpteenth time.
A voice so old it might have been mistaken for God had it not been so purely evil reverberated silently throughout the museum. It was a quiet humming, so low in noise and pitch that you had to walk in complete silence to hear it, and since the trio walking through the museum looking for a very specific painting was speaking, not one of them heard it.
“I found--no, wait, that was the People of Sparta ,” Gothmog said, frowning. Thuringwethil and Melkor had similar experiences.
“Were you looking for this?” They turned almost simultaneously, only to see a tall woman with short dark hair and blue eyes looking at them in a condescending manner.
“Who are you?” Thuringwethil asked suspiciously.
“I’m Koss. Koss Lanaki. Were you looking, by any chance, the People of Middle-earth?” she said, grinning. Thuringwethil nodded, then glared.
“How did you know that?”
“This place has precisely two People of paintings. Since you weren’t looking for People of Sparta, I assumed that was what you were looking for,” Koss said simply. She pointed at a painting behind her.
“Here it is.” They moved towards it, transfixed. The painting was incredibly detailed down to the fingernails of each person. In it, an armoured figure knelt beside a fallen demon, helmet on the ground. Nearby, a king stared down a flaming eye and an obviously inhuman man stood beside a red-headed woman, who was holding a baby and smiling.
A piece of paper was sticking up out of the frame, and Melkor grabbed it.
So you found it already. That’s good, I guess. Well, if you think this will be that easy, you’re wrong. In the statue garden outside, there should be two statues, one marble, one obsidian. Say hello to the black one: the person it depicts owes me a favour. He will know the next clue.
That was all there was. “Well,” Melkor said, “We need to visit a certain obsidian statue.”
The garden was gorgeous. The statues were most likely exaggerated, as both had wings and horns. Feeling a little silly, Melkor stepped closer to the obsidian staatue and said nervously, “Um…hello? A friend of mine said you owed him a favour.” The statue did nothing, but a flash of brilliant darkness did. Standing directly in front of them was a tall, snowy-skinned man with long hair that was black and red. His eyes were blue and he had silver horns.
“ Yes?” he asked.
“Hi,” Thuringwethil said, her face arranged in an expression that told everyone else to back off. “We have a friend by the name of Mairon who says you owe him a favour.”
“ Mairon, you say? I knew an Uruk who went by that name as well as his birth one. Describe him to me.”
“Short, red-headed, amber eyes,” Thuringwethil supplied.
“ Hmm. I remember him as tall and dark-haired, although the eyes…well. Perhaps. As far as I know, this Uruk I called Mairon is the only person I have ever owed a favour to. Which of you shares my name?” he asked.
“What is your name?”
“ Melkor, but I am most often called Morgoth, Bauglir, or the Moringotto, to name a few. I did once have a lieutenant who would always call me ‘the pain in the arse over there on the throne.”
“That would be him.” She jerked her thumb at Melkor, who started.
“ Yes. He lent me images of you in his mind--voluntarily, of course. He spoke of you as most Orcs speak of their shaûk --almost in reverence.”
“He talked about me like that?” Melkor’s eyes widened an almost comical amount. Even Gothmog looked shaken.
“Of course! Anyway, what exactly is it you want? I’ve been trying to get to Aman, but I can’t contact my brother. I may as well help you…mortals.”
“Well, as far as we know, Mairon is dead. He left us a series of clues and--”
“Ah. That was the message. I can tell it to you.”
“That would be great.”
“Here it is: So you have found him. The next clue is simple. Well, it really isn’t a clue at all. Look for the mighty and the last in Orcish. Then you will know.” The ethereal version of Melkor gave a small wave and vanished in a blast of acrid-smelling smoke.
“Well, that was weird,” Gothmog said, laughing nervously. They nodded, not noticing that just before they left, the marble statue shifted.
I know, I know. But my mind was like, Mick, you are rushing things. MOVE YOUR ARSE AND DO BETTER! So I tried. Let me know what you think?
shauk - companion. The Orcish term for a spouse. Gender-neutral.
Chapter 2: The Rocky Road
Two more clues are revealed, and Middle-earth steals Melkor, Gothmog, and Thuringwethil for its own.
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Thuringwethil wasn’t sure exactly what to term this strange series of events, but the words ‘scavenger hunt’ and ‘wild goose chase’ came to mind. She had looked up the words ‘mighty and last in Orcish’, which had brought up two statues that were in the museum. The statues were also ridiculously detailed. One was of an inhuman woman, and one of an inhuman man. They were labelled as follows:
They were names. Names of people. There was a painting, too: The woman smiling in a way that was so reminiscent of Mairon’s smile that they were obviously closely related. The man and woman were always together, but the paintings depicted them as comrades or (more likely) siblings.
There was a note taped to the leg of Durbûrz’s statue. She grabbed it and read, Well. This next clue will lead you to me…or will it? Look for the Hidden Eye.
“That wasn’t very helpful,” she groaned. Hidden Eye? Wait. That was the name of a park nearby, wasn’t it?
“ Yes. Yes, it is.” The three of them stared as once again, the ethereally beautiful figure of the other Melkor melted into being beside them, revealing sharp white fangs as he smiled.
“Any words of wisdom?” Gothmog asked, speaking after a long and uncharacteristic silence.
“ Go to the park. You’d be surprised.” With that, the strange being disappeared, this time in an explosion of ice that melted as he vanished.
The park was silent and empty. A small knife, covered in dried blood lay on the ground. Melkor picked it up, turned to the others, and nodded grimly before taking off at a sprint towards the forest that bordered the park. A bird shrieked in the distance, and time seemed to speed to an early night.
Gothmog and Thuringwethil reached the forest after Melkor and soon caught up with him. “Um,” Gothmog said, looking around, “Am I drunk or is there really gold mist everywhere?”
“It’s there,” Thuringwethil confirmed, then had to stifle a gasp. Her hands were disappearing into the mist. The other two looked down and all three began to panic.
“What the fuck is happening?” Melkor yelled.
“I have no idea!” Thuringwethil yelled back.
“Both of you stop yelling at each other! My entire left arm is gone!” Gothmog yelled at both of them. This only made them yell louder. A few minutes later, they still hadn't found a way out of the mist, and by then, their entire bodies were gone.
Melkor opened his eyes to gold light everywhere, flying and changing and changing again. It glimmered, all of it, but he found himself pulled by one part that seemed the most violent, the most changing. He fell unconscious again.
There were images all around him now, all of them showing the ethereal being they had met at the museum. He watched one, in particular, the one of a hideous being screaming at Morgoth, their twisted face snarling and spitting. Morgoth was screaming back, and then he backhanded the being across the face. It set his hair on fire, and they kept yelling. There was another one, one of a man almost like Manwe except that he had wings and brilliantly white horns.
Thuringwethil was having a similar experience, only she was watching a vampire-bat-woman-thing. The thing was very strange.
Gothmog was being tortured with image after image of people dying in flames.
And then they were lying on a grassy plain, staring up at a cloudy blue sky. “Well,” Gothmog said in an optimistic fashion, “At least we aren’t dead. I think.” Hooves sounded on the ground then, and Thuringwethil groaned, grabbing her head.
“Why is this so loud ?” Melkor groaned, also clutching his head. The other two just grunted in pain.
“What brings you here, good people?” An unfamiliar voice rang out over the plains. The hooves got closer. Thuringwethil sat up.
The person who had called out was a man with sandy hair and strange clothing. “Um,” Thuringwethil said, not exactly feeling comfortable at that moment.
“My lady, are you all right?”
“I guess.” The man looked at her in disbelief.
“My lady, you and your companions fell from the sky. There is almost no chance of you being perfectly fine.”
“Well, we all have massive headaches,” she grumbled. The man nodded, then dismounted from his horse and walked over to them, checking Thuringwethil’s head first, then Gothmog’s, and finally Melkor’s. As he tipped Melkor’s head back, his hair fell back to reveal pointed ears. Not just slightly pointed, as a human’s would be, but pointed like an elf’s.
“An elf! And a male one at that! They are hard to find in this fell age,” the man said, his eyes widening.
“Why are they hard to find?” Thuringwethil asked suspiciously.
“The Far-Ling capture them and enslave them. They use them as objects of attraction. That he has escaped detection astounds me.” Melkor looked even sicker at the strange man’s words. “Forgive me, good people, I have been rude. I am Boromir of Gondor, and somewhere around here is my husband, Lurtz the Firstborn of Isengard.” As if on cue, another horse trotted up. Boromir stood up. “Lurtz! Finally! This elf has been gashed several times in the head; would you be so kind as to give me your salve?”
“Yeah, I can do that,” Lurtz said. He began to dig around in his saddlebags, presumably for the ‘salve’.
“‘Ere it is . ” Lurtz tossed the pouch to Boromir, who opened it and sat down next to Melkor and began to rub it into the gashes. As he did this, Gothmog noticed something off about Thuringwethil.
“Thil, you’re wearing very weird clothes.” She looked down and stared. A long, renaissance style dress. Great. Just great.
Then, in retaliation, she turned to Gothmog and snapped, “So are you.” They both turned back to Boromir, only now realising that Melkor was wearing even weirder clothes than they were, and also that his hair was perfectly clean and straight. Thuringwethil smiled. Oh, she would never let him live that one down. He looked like he had just walked out of a full-service spa.
Boromir finished his treatment and lifted Melkor up onto his horse. Again as if on cue, two men rode up to him. When Thuringwethil saw that one had long red hair, her heart skipped a beat, but then he spoke, crushing all hope that he was Mairon.
“We would have gotten here sooner, but Uvatha here decided that it was of the utmost importance that he stopped to give his fecking horse a bit of water!” the redhead spat, his voiced laced with either a Scottish or Irish accent.
I don’t like having a dehydrated horse because they go faster, you idiot!”
“Oh, shut it!” They kept bickering until Lurtz, who had remained quiet, yelled at them to shut the htol up and get the two who were still conscious onto their horses. Gothmog wound up behind Ren (the redhead) and Thuringwethil wound up behind Uvatha (the blonde).
“Why are you sitting that way?” Uvatha asked suddenly. She startled.
“Like this? Should I be sitting some other way?”
“Sidesaddle. You’re wearing a dress.”
“You’re wearing a cloak.”
“I’m wearing pants,” he snapped. “Now sit so that Ren isn’t staring up your dress.” Ren snickered.
The Uruk had been sent to do one thing: Find a male golug . Bring him to the Far-Ling. Long ago, it wouldn’t have been that hard. But the golug-hai were becoming scarce, and so he had to be sneaky. Fauthagon hadn’t been named that for no reason, after all.
“Fuck,” he growled. There was too many of them. He would have to act late at night. The golug would be asleep, and so would the others. For now, he would wait.
Boromir called the others to a halt. “We shall make camp here for the night,” he said. The others nodded. Boromir lifted Melkor off the horse and laid him gently on the ground. Melkor made a groaning sound and sat up. “Where are we?” he asked blearily.
“In the middle of the Riddermark,” Lurtz rumbled, loping over to sit next to him. Once seated he checked over Mekor’s head again.
Uvatha dismounted smoothly, and Thuringwethil followed less smoothly. The same held true for Ren and Gothmog. Once they were all seated on the ground, Uvatha, who seemed the most irritable of them, snapped, “What are your names?”
“Gothmog.” The other four stared.
“Nar, nar. They’re lyin’. Two o’ those been dead for years, one no one’s seen in just as long. And weren’t Thuringwethil married tuh ‘is Lordship up in Mordor?” Lurtz snorted. Ren nodded.
“She was married to Sauron. Then that thrice-cursed elf woman stole her skin to steal the jewel from Morgoth’s crown.”
“Morgoth had a crown?” Gothmog interjected.
“Yes. And you said you shared a name with a Balrog? The Lord of Balrogs?” Ren said, his eyes narrowing.
“Umm…I guess so?”
“That makes sense. A fanfiction, then. What was the name?” Ren said. Morgoth chose that moment to reappear.
“Follow You Down,” the ethereally annoying being supplied.
“The one with the Orc? The one the Far-Ling found?”
“The very same,” Morgoth said gravely.
“Wait, ‘o in bleedin’ ‘ell are yuh?” Lurtz growled, his yellow eyes suspicious.
“Morgoth. Just Morgoth.” He sat down and tilted his head, looking at Melkor. “I knew you shared my name and my spirit. But you will now need a new name, one that brings you into this new world. I think Maicortono suits you,” he stated.
“Sure. Sounds great. But why that name?” Melkor replied.
“Because I felt like it.”
“Okay, then.” The sky was growing dark, and Boromir stoked the fire he had built while the others were talking. He stood up and turned to them.
“Perhaps we should get some sleep,” he said. They nodded, and Lurtz, a smile on his face, went to pull Boromir off for something no one wanted to see them doing, even though both were attractive. Morgoth vanished yet again, while Ren and Uvatha dropped like flies as soon as sleep was suggested. Any form of guarding was forgotten in favour of sleeping as though dead.
The previous descriptions were what Fauthagon had been waiting for. He waited until the grunts and moans of the tark and Uruk’s fucking session had subsided to approach the sleeping camp. He didn’t wait or stop for anything or anyone, instead hurrying to gently lift his prey and leave. He would be long gone before morning. He had a Warg, after all.
The Elf shifted in his arms, murmured something, and fell back asleep. He grinned. That made things at least ten times easier. By the time the other six woke up, he was long gone.
tark(s) - human(s)
Lat ûs-ulu skât-ârûrz? - You think they come soon?
Akh. Nar gob zu mudhun, kranklûk-izub. - Yes. No reason to worry, my brother.
Krampâdûr-izg nar fuluk lat. - I will not hurt you. (Black Speech for 'thank you')
golug/golug-hai - Elf/Elves
(Maicorto (Sharp Mountain) + no (Man who does))
This link is for an image of Melkor as an elf: https://i.pinimg.com/236x/d5/3b/3c/d53b3c3f62cdd94c39a2e9e1a1f38b0d--elves-digital-art.jpg
I don't own the image. I just really like it. There's also this one, that I also don't own: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/1f/bf/ba/1fbfba60507dce77495b917f674b8bd3.jpg
All credits to the artists. I got these online; they were NOT meant for this fic. Although it would be nice for people to draw me things. I don't expect that to happen, considering this is a spinoff of another fic.
On the topic of Uvatha's comments to Thuringwethil:
I know it sounds sexist. But this is NOT the modern world. This is a medieval/Renaissance time period. Thus, women were expected to, among other things, ride sidesaddle.
On the topic of Fauthagon:
Fauthagon means hidden eye. He lives up to his name, what with being an excellent spy and all. He is a Very Important Character.