-General-
The heat in the upper levels of Barad-dûr was not like that of a bonfire, but a burning, suffocating heat. Volcanic ash scattered like dark petals. In total darkness, only the sound of dripping tore through the silence, occasionally accompanied by the distant echo of Orcs grunting and fighting.
Gollum was huddled in a corner of his iron cell, trembling. He no longer remembered how long he had been there. The Orcs, with their rotting hands and cruel whips, tormented him often. They asked him questions he did not understand or did not want to answer. His scrawny body ached, covered in bruises and battered by torture; but physical pain was the least of his problems.
His mind, one of his great strengths granted by his Precious, was now succumbing to madness.
"My precious..." he hissed, rocking from side to side. "They stole it from us, yes... the filthy little thief. We wants it back..."
Suddenly, the air in the cell changed, silencing his babbling. The stench of Orc sweat and blood was replaced by something much worse: a palpable pressure. It was such that it made Gollum writhe, curling up into the corner until he could shrink no further. An unsettling silence made his very essence tremble.
And all of this was caused by what stood outside his cell. The meager candlelight seemed to hide like frightened children, while an all-devouring darkness rose over him.
Gollum did not dare to lift his head. He did not need to see to know who was there. The mere presence of that being stirred the curse within him, as if worms were writhing in his entrails.
"Rise."
That command did not arrive as a sound, but resonated directly within his skull. Thousands of needles pierced his mind, driving him to the brink of madness.
Whimpering, Gollum was forced to look up. His large pupils shrank, like life itself on the verge of death. There was no face at all: only a silhouette cloaked in darkness. In his mind, the image of a massive eye, wreathed in fire, sprang to life. He felt small, insignificant before that being.
And to Gollum's horror, the shadow extended toward him.
The darkness slithered over him like a serpent about to devour its prey. That dark being touched his essence.
"The Ring," said the voice in his mind, crushing his mental defenses as if they were paper. "Where is it? Who has it?"
Gollum fought. His stubbornness was admirable, though it could only be sustained thanks to the many years he had borne the One Ring. But that had also weakened him, making him susceptible to Sauron's dark magic.
As much as he tried to close his mind, hiding his "precious" in its deepest corner, that very act allowed the dark being to penetrate his thoughts and explore all those memories he so jealously guarded.
A sharp, visceral pain gnawed at him, forcing him to twist into impossible angles, while his joints cracked as if they were about to break.
"No! Gollum, gollum!" he shrieked, scratching at his metal prison. His nails and blood stained the cell; his eyes bulged, and tears streamed down his gaunt cheeks. "It's ours! Ours!"
The pressure in his skull increased. Sauron closed his hand, and Gollum's essence was squeezed. A pain impossible to describe coursed through his body and mind.
"Give me the name."
Gollum's mind broke. The torture, in both senses, broke him. His left arm bent unnaturally, blood bubbled from his nostrils, his eyes turned crimson, and the wound from his eyebrow to his chin burned.
An agonizing scream rang out; his sanity faltered.
"SHIRE!" he howled as he writhed. "BAGGINS!"
The echo of those words struck the iron walls. The pressure in his mind dissipated, and the sound of receding footsteps made him stop trembling.
Weakly, he dragged himself to the corner he had adopted as a refuge. Pressing his knees to his chest, Gollum sobbed; only his weeping accompanied him after such a terrible experience.
...
The aroma of freshly baked pastries spread throughout the mansion. The wood creaked under the weight of the little ones, and the silence was broken by several yawns. Both Aldril's children and Kíli and Fíli were drawn by that delicious scent. Drool dripped, ruining their elegant bearing.
"Careful with that!" squeaked the Hobbit, running toward the half-asleep Dwarves who had accidentally knocked over a jar. "That jar is full of marmalade; you wouldn't want to cover your heads in it, would you?"
The warning seemed to wake the Dwarves, who smiled and grabbed the container. Approaching the table, they took a roll and slathered it with abundant jam. Any trace of manners was forgotten.
Behaving just as they did the first time they arrived, Kíli and Fíli stuffed themselves with food, puffing out their cheeks like hungry squirrels. Of course, they were reprimanded with a rap on the head by Helga, who unceremoniously snatched their plate away.
"You are Lords of Moria!" she roared. "By Durin's beard, behave like it!"
From the other side of the table, Aldril watched in amusement. Unlike his friends, his children, guided by Tauriel, ate with their characteristic elegance. It was a sumptuous breakfast prepared by Helga and Tauriel, although the latter had only baked the pancakes.
Aldril's smile grew more prominent with each passing second, but an abrupt change in the atmosphere made him frown.
He and Tauriel turned their faces toward that direction hidden behind the mountains. A malice without equal rose like a colossus; the blessing of the Valar, dormant in their bodies, responded to that threat.
And it wasn't just the two of them.
From the lands of the Men of the East, Raizan, atop his castle, furrowed his brow. His eyes were fixed on where dark clouds gathered, hiding whatever lay within. The blessing in his chest throbbed, warning him of imminent danger.
In Rohan, Fredis, hiding her face beneath a hood, walked beside Éomer. Both had been exiled by the delusions of their King, Théoden, who, bewitched by Saruman, was dragging Rohan toward the abyss. If nothing was done, the lands of the Horse-lords would be taken by the darkness. She stopped dead in her tracks; unease flashed in her gaze as she looked up toward Mordor.
In contrast, Augura and Belegor, standing atop a freshly hunted Mûmak, smiled from ear to ear. Their blessings allowed them to sense a titanic darkness rising over Mordor, but, unlike the other blessed ones, they were happy.
Their bodies craved war and combat, and that darkness promised them exactly what they desired most. Of course, they would not be corrupted by Sauron's influence, but such was their nature: to pick a fight and prove they were the strongest among the blessed... even though there was already one who surpassed them both by a wide margin.
"War approaches," whispered Augura, spreading her muscular arms and causing a hypnotic movement in her chest.
But Belegor ignored her and laughed heartily.
"Let it come! My axe thirsts for the blood of those Orcs!"
**
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