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6 Fourth Age: The Awakening [MP]; Closed -- One-Shot
Topic Started: 24 Aug 2008, 06:05 AM (565 Views)
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Slow, steady breathing sliced through the still air like a finely sharpened blade. This presence of life disturbed the desolation. It felt unnatural, and the figure clouded in shadow and darkness breathed in the discomfort and reveled in it.

The Hand of Sauron had returned to the place where it had all begun. Centuries the Hand had stood by the side of the Great Darkness and learned the craft of power and magic. To wield it now, without His Lordship, Sauron the Great, would be a difficult task. But the Hand was not afraid.

Perhaps the black magic would consume the Hand. The Hand of Sauron would then pass into the legends and epic tales of the Haradrim. That was no bad fate for a Lieutenant of Barad-dûr. Or perhaps the Hand would triumph over the black magic. And then the Hand would truly know the power within.

A voice, deep as the earth, rumbled through the cavernous pit of Mount Doom. Though devoid of wrathful lava and thunderous tremors, it was nonetheless the place Lord Sauron had poured his powerful magic into the earth. From this place, the Great Darkness filtered throughout Middle-earth.

The harsh tongue of Mordor, which some called the Black Speech, echoed off the black rock. The incantation filled the space from summit to root. The words twisted and writhed until they penetrated the very essence of Middle-earth.

“Awake,” the Hand of Sauron ordered.

The final command of the incantation completed the ritual. The black magic would work its way into the hearts of all beings now. The Uruk-hai, Orcs, Wargs, and other fell beasts would embrace the darkness stirring in their hearts first. They would flock to him, grateful for a new commander.

More slowly, but ever steady and sly, the magic would awake in the hearts of Men and Dwarves a darkness so inherent to their natures. Some would resist. Always, some would deny that their very souls led them to the dark and desolate place. But many would join the Hand of Sauron, whether they knew it or not. Their subtle actions and treasonous thoughts would aid the greater plan in the end.

The Hand held little hope of corrupting the hearts of Elves or Hobbits. Many a long age had passed since those races embraced their own darkness, much less the Great Darkness in Mordor. But perhaps the Hand would awaken a greater ally. Perhaps.

All there was to do now was have patience while the black magic worked its way through Middle-earth, and those enlightened few awoke to the Darkness and liked what they saw within themselves. For now, the Hand would set the board and wait for the pieces to begin moving.

As suddenly as the Hand of Sauron had felt the black magic move within him, he felt it dissipate. The power was sucked from him with a violence that shattered his very core. For one moment, the Hand felt weightless, as if he was nothing at all. And then the many long centuries Lord Sauron's power had added to his life came crashing down around him. The burden of his unnatural life piled onto him like an endless avalanche.

Driven to his knees, his chest straining under the immense and invisible load, the Hand of Sauron stared blankly at the empty pit of Mount Doom. The black magic that had kept him young and powerful, that magic of Lord Sauron the Great, was no more. Like the foundations of Barad-dur it had cracked when the One Ring was consumed.

The Hand of Sauron staggered to his feet and tripped towards the exit. He had heard stories and myths among many people across many centuries. There was other magic in Middle-earth. Though none was as great as Lord Sauron's, it was magic nonetheless, and the Hand knew how to control that element. There must be a way to preserve his vitality and grant him immortal life.

He was the Hand of Sauron, a Lieutenant of Barad-dur. He would not rest until he found the way.
 
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