Shagrat's Bundle

Barad-dûr

March 13th, TA 3019

As soon as Shagrat arrived at Barad-dûr, The Mouth of Sauron led him to the Audience Hall that housed the Dark Throne. He has a small table brought in and placed before the dais. Shagrat set his bundle on it and stood back, waiting.

The Nazgûl joined them. The Ring had a powerful presence, the same as their Master's. They could feel it easily. Even before the bundle was opened, they were almost certain it contained the Ring, and were beside themselves with excitement. Leaving it under guard by the other Nazgûl, The Witch King left to find his Master.

Usually at this time of day, Sauron would be teaching the apprentices, the young people sent here by their families to study sorcery under a master. The best of them were offered positions of responsibility in theDarkTowerafter they completed their studies. Angmar had been one of them himself. The classes were resumed when Sauron returned to Mordor and declared himself openly. But recently, when Mordor went to war, the classes were cancelled and the students were sent home.

So instead, Angmar looked in the War Room, where his Master was spending most of his time these last few weeks. He entered the room, and found most of the High Command of Mordor seated around the long table. His Master's tall chair at the head of the table was empty. The Witch King looked questioningly at the ranking General, who shrugged and said, "Things were getting tense. He stepped outside for a breath of air."

"What kind of mood is he in?" asked the Witch King.

"He's on the rag." said the General.

Angmar noticed his Master's chair had been pushed back roughly and stood far back far back from the table. Papers had been swept off the table, as if by an arm, and lay scattered in the floor. There was a dent in the plaster of the wall, surrounded by a starburst of black. Long drips ran to the floor. An inkwell? But no matter. However this day had started, it was going to end well.

The Witch King told the people in the War Room that a major new development was about to happen, and if they wanted to witness it, they should come to the Audience Chamber. Then he excused himself and continued looking for his Master.

He wasn't worried about or upset by his Master's temper. It was showy, but not dangerous. His Master was a very angry person, but he never did anything to them when he lost his temper. His servants had little to fear from their Master, even when he was in a bad mood.

Angmar knew that "a breath of air" meant that Sauron had gone down to work in the forge. The Witch King was the son of the twelfth king of Númenor, and his idea of relaxation was music, poetry, and literature, not hard physical labor. But he knew his Master had a need to work with his hands, especially when he was stressed. He enjoyed it. It calmed him down and gave him peace.

Angmar approached the forge. He felt the heat of the furnaces even before he got there. He heard the music of the hammer striking metal, harder than necessary, he guessed. Once inside, he found his Master in his workshop, grubby, sweaty, and smelling of smoke. He wore work clothes stained with oil and covered by a leather apron, and his hair was tied back with a leather thong. Strands of hair were plastered to his face with sweat. He bent over the anvil, swinging a hammer, totally absorbed in the task.

"You have to see something. Come quickly!" Angmar urged.

Sauron ignored him and continued working. When he was finished, he lifted the glowing metal with tongs and dunked it in a bucket of water. A cloud of steam rose with a hiss. Then he straightened up and looked at the Witch King, annoyed.

"Angmar. I'm not in the mood. We're at war. I panicked and struck before we were ready. Now I'm paying the price. I just need a few minutes to myself to collect my thoughts and I don't want to be disturbed."

He turned his back, and prepared to begin the next task.

"Mairon please! [1] This is important."

Sauron sighed. He put his tools away in exactly the right place, lined up perfectly. He wiped an arm across his face to mop sweat out of his eyes, and hung the leather apron on a hook.

x-x-x-x-x-x

Sauron grudgingly followed his second-in-command to the small robing room behind the Dark Throne. A servant handed him a ceremonial robe of cashmere wool. He wrapped himself in it, completely covering his soot-stained blacksmith's clothes. Once he was robed from head to foot, he pulled on the black leather gloves which covered his hands and wrists. He bowed his head to let a servant drape a veil over his head and shoulders, arranging it so his face was hidden but he could still see. Kind of.

Orcs and other low-ranking servants were not permitted to see Sauron's face or speak his name. The practice began when he was hiding at Dol Guldur, but he still practiced it with the lower ranks. He ruled by fear, and exaggerating his supernatural aspect was useful because it generated fear.

He pulled up the hood of his robe and stepped into the audience chamber to meet whoever was waiting for him in front of the Dark Throne. He still smelled like he'd been working in the forge.

Shagrat stood by the table, waiting patiently. The Nazgûl stood around him. A crowd began to gather. When Sauron entered the room, and the Nazgûl felt his presence. They perceived that the presence inside the bundle wasn't just similar to his, it was identical. The Ring had been found.

Mounting the dais, Sauron noticed their agitation and glee, but didn't understand it. Unlike them, Sauron couldn't sense the Ring. It was part of him, and its presence was masked by his own.

He saw Dwar, the third Nazgûl, grinning.

"Your presence here today is depriving a village of its idiot."

Hoarmurath, the sixth Nazgûl, was also grinning.

"Correction. Two villages."

He took his place on the Dark Throne, a huge block of black marble. He didn't actually like to sit on it. It drained all the heat from his body, and it would be hours before he felt warm again. He hoped this audience would be completed quickly.

At a nod from the Witch King, Shagrat unwrapped the small bundle and displayed its contents. There was a grey cloak with an Elven broach, a dagger made by the Men of the West, a mail coat of Mithril, representing the Dwarves' best work. Clothes, gear, and some other odds and ends.

A phial of light. It looked like Celebrimbor work. Sauron picked it up. It bore Celebrimbor's hallmark.

He didn't own anything of Celebrimbor's. He had once, but they'd parted on bad terms and he'd destroyed them. Now he was sorry, because he would have liked something to remember him by.

The phial was precious to him. Unlooked for, a great treasure had fallen into his hands. This must be what Angmar had wanted to show him.

Holding the phial, he said, "Thank you, Angmar. This is a great treasure and dear to my heart. You were right to come and find me in the forge, and show me this."

"Uhh .. Actually, that's not what I wanted to show you."

The Witch King directed his attention back to the contents of the bundle spread out on the table. Clothes, bits of jewelry, odds and ends, whatever the spy had with him when he was captured. Sauron was looking right at it, but didn't understand what he was looking at. A plain gold ring on a chain.

Then he said stupidly, "That looks just like my Ring."

And even though he couldn't sense the presence of the Ring, he could hear it calling to him, calling for him to put it on. Scarcely able to believe that the Ring had been found, he reached out and put his hand on it, touching it through the leather of his glove.

Then he drew back quickly, suddenly suspicious. The items in the bundle represented the nations of all the Free Peoples, Elves, Dwarves, Men of the West. The Mithril coat, Celebrimbor's Phial, and the Ring, each were items of incalculable value. Why would a small, ragged intruder be carrying such great treasures into Mordor?

It suggested a conspiracy by the Free Peoples, carefully plotted and enormously well funded. He couldn't begin to guess its purpose. All he knew was, the Ring had fallen into his hands too easily. Why would the conspirators want him to have it back?

He guessed that the Ring was cursed. Powerful magical objects sometimes had curses placed on them so they couldn't be used. The Silmarils had been cursed by Elbereth so no unclean hands could touch them.

He didn't know how to test for a curse. He considered what his next move should be. Whatever it was, it wasn't going to be putting on the Ring.

Yet even he couldn't use the Ring, just having it in his possession was a huge relief. It meant no one else could use it against him. If someone else found it and claimed it, they could take the Nazgûl away from him. They could read his thoughts and he wouldn't know. Worst of all, if they were strong enough they could make him a Nazgûl himself. He was terrified of being enslaved by his own Ring. His shoulders sagged in relief.

"Halt the advance of the armies." said Sauron.

"But they're already crossing the Anduin. You're one day away from Minas Tirith." said the Witch King.

"Everything's changed. We can afford to take our time now."

Notes:

[1] Mairon ('Admirable') is Sauron's Quenya name. Sauron ('abhorred' or 'filth') is his Sindarin name. He likes his Quenya name better.