Chapter Text
Prelude
Third Age 1944
A creak disturbed the silent dungeon cell as a flaming torch revealed a guardsman. The occupant of the cell appeared asleep, his worn head resting on a long graying beard. His wrists were bound by thick steel rings chained to a cold wall. But the shackles did not constrict movement to the cell's pit latrine, a new addition to prevent future plagues.
The guardsman did not hesitate, their swift feet lightly echoing, placing brown bread on a wooden plate alongside a water cup in front of the prisoner. Then they quickly walked back towards the entrance.
But before the cell door could be closed, the occupant stirred and spoke.
"Wait," The Prisoner whispered.
"What?" snapped the guardsman, waving the flame quickly until it reflected the prisoner's eyes, his head no longer resting on his beard.
A few seconds passed until The Prisoner spoke.
"My... condolences," he muttered.
The guardsman narrowed their eyes, turned their head, and spat. The noise sharply echoed in the cell.
"Condolences, you say? To the king you slew? To the princes you massacred?" The guardsman scathingly replied with inflection. "You mock Gondor, Wainriding Easterling scum! Would that you were all burned alive in your tents or drowned in the marshes and rid us of your nomadic existence!"
No response.
With a huff, the guardsman pointedly turned their back on the prisoner. Quickly the flame departed, and the cell door slammed shut. Darkness once again became The Prisoner's guest.
A few seconds passed, and The Prisoner's shoulders shook as he placed both palms on his face. But no wailing issued forth. Instead, soft chuckles broke the silence of the room as he grinned. A slow sigh passed through his mouth after that, and he pierced his sight downwards where the bread was supposed to be. Brow furrowed in concentration, he seemed to closely inspect the food.
If one looked into his eyes, however, one would not see a reflection of brown bread or the nearby water cup. Instead, one would see a field of grass atop layers of soil on a downcast day, as rain drizzled atop two figures with wooden staves battling each other 21 years before the deaths of Gondorian royalty.
But this tale began not in Gondor, nor Eriador, nor on any common Middle-Earth map. For miles beyond the Inland Sea of Rhûn, there stood the Red Mountains, and beyond that, the Eastern Empire. Unknown to these two combatants, their duel would determine the fate of all Middle-earth.
And all of this shall be told, starting in the next chapter.