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After the mountain of fire’s eruption, the surrounding earth was forever marred. So say the wise.
The tales of Mordor told of trees turned to ash or left barren, the memory of meadow and grass now buried beneath layers upon layers of decay; air grown heavy with poison, and smoke, and death. The clear and cool fresh-water which once filled little streams and small waterfalls had long since abandoned these lands, finding for itself new paths more safe and wholesome. No bird nor growing plant would be found for miles; to be in the land of Mordor was to abandon all life, they wrote, to enter into hell.
But it was not always this way. And in truth, not all tales of Mordor are recorded in Elven lore. And deep within its shadowed valleys, there remains one small patch of earth that tells another story.
There was a time when these lands were filled with ordinary hope and simple life, spring and summer and autumn and winter. Generation after generation had toiled and sown, sometimes for good and at others for evil, but at all times watching and waiting for the return of their Promised King.
Now these ordinary folk do not come into our tale, and they are not remembered in the great histories of the world.
But there are some loves so great that the very earth itself cherishes their memory. And before these lands were cursed, they had been hallowed.
Before the Dark Lord and his Dark Throne there was the Man, the Promised King, and with him rode the Lady of Light. In those days he called himself Halbrand. Brought together by fate or destiny or something that will never be named, they saw in one another their own reflection—as if in a mirror. Two beings grasping for light while shrouded in darkness, they found in each other something neither had known before.
Before the mountain of fire’s eruption, the Man and the Lady had ridden together into battle against a common enemy. The Battle for the Southlands would earn them a shared victory, liberating a small village in the woodlands overrun with orcs and taking captive their Uruk commander.
And on the woodland’s edge there was a clearing: a small stream wandered carelessly between tall trees, soft moss grew across smooth stones and tree stumps, birds flittered here and there and made their homes without worry. As their soldiers busied themselves elsewhere after the rush of the battle, the Man and the Lady sat beside one another on a fallen log: a moment of respite after a victory hard-won. And in these lingering moments of shared vulnerability, a confession was made between them.
“I felt it too.”
But one truth remained hidden, perhaps not the most important but certainly the most grave (he would often think so to himself).
In the weeks that followed, the Man’s deception was made plain and he was cast out, his plans were untangled. “In that time I have had many names,” he had taunted her; thus Halbrand became Annatar became Tar-Mairon, and was called Sauron.
After the forging of the Rings of Power and the destruction of Eregion, the Deceiver withdrew into the lands of Mordor. And the Lady of Light into Lothlórien. Ages past and war raged on.
—
Thousands of years would pass, until two tired hobbits would find themselves wandering through these cursed and desolate lands.
The hobbits knew this part of the tale, as much as had been discussed at the Great Council: of power that corrupts and an enemy who does not sleep. And they and learned more from their journey through Lothlórien: of minds and hearts and doors barred shut. But some things were not spoken aloud, truths doomed to be carried in silence—whether from fear or grief or shame, or longing, I do not know.
—
The surrounding landscape was forever marred but this clearing remained unchanged, as if frozen by some spell or magic that neither the Man nor the Lady themselves had cast.
And thus the hobbits found it, a little kingdom of its own inexplicably preserved from the wrack of Mordor. Here the tales of the Elves began to unravel, for this refuge appeared in none of their maps or stories.
At first the hobbits hesitated, lingering at the edges of the clearing, blinking at the sudden stream of sunlight through the trees. “This must be another trick of the enemy,” one hobbit said to the other. And yet the long miles of travel had left them weary, and the song of the young and carefree birds soothed their doubts. They took a tentative step, the earth soft beneath their aching feet, and another, and another. Though all the water within the borders of Mordor had run sour with poison, they found this stream as clear and as sweet as the waters of the Shire.
The hobbits were bewildered by the joy of this sudden reprieve, this unexpected life-raft in a sea of desolation. Soon after their bottles were filled and their hope rekindled, they rested their backs against a fallen log and drifted into an untroubled sleep.
—
For long years after the mountain’s eruption, the Man—no, the Maia—had returned to this spot. Here the stream bubbled and glistened in warm sunlight and spring flowers bloomed eternal: so pristine it felt as if an illusion, but this was not of his own doing. Indeed, he was confounded by it; it was as if Eru himself, or perhaps one of the Valar, had preserved it from stain. Was this his punishment, a living reminder of the beauty and life he had forsaken? An everlasting call to repentance? A cruel joke used to taunt him? For what reason he could not know or even guess. Yet still, he came.
He came for many things: to think, to plan, to wrestle endlessly with his own thoughts and designs. But most often he came to seek out Her mind—His Lady of Light, His stubborn and unyielding Elf.
Sometimes he would knock gently at the door of her mind, other times he would thrash and wail against it. His eye would strain towards her, desperate and hungry and driven mad with jealousy towards any who might receive her love. But nevertheless, it remained shut.
(He never knew that it took every ounce of her strength to hold it against him, and how fiercely she fought against herself in doing so.)
As each day drew to a close the sun would fade behind the trees of this little kingdom, this realm within a realm. And though the smoke and ash of Mordor shrouded both moonlight and starlight everywhere else, one bright star could be seen from within this clearing. Sauron knew it well: Gil-Estel, the star of high hope, the light of Eärendil. It twinkled high above the earth, a permanent reminder of the light and high beauty beyond his grasp. Another taunt from the gods, another reminder of what he had lost. And though the elves had believed—and taught—that all love had now departed from the Maia, its light pierced the depths of heart.
—
Some thousands of years later this star still shone above this spot, rekindling the hope of our two weary hobbits as they awoke from sleep. They would leave this hidden refuge with a renewed vigor, following Sauron’s own road to bring about his uttermost downfall.
With the Ring’s destruction, little of his former strength remained. Unwilling to flee or relent, however, his spirit tarried in this hidden clearing. Shapeless, formless, nameless, without valor or might, he was alone. And yet, the birds continued to sing each morning, the moss continued to grow, the flowers continued to bloom.
Outside of the clearing, the earth slowly began to recover in stride. Grass sprouted from beneath the ash, small white flowers grew across the bodies of fallen soldiers. His weakened spirit still called to Hers—still without answer. The Maia knew that the age of the Elves was drawing to a close, that their rings would no longer preserve their realms to their liking.
They would leave these shores; and she would return to the Blessed Realm, for ever sundering her fate from his. And yet he waited, beyond all reason, for what exactly—I don’t think even he quite knew. I would not call it hope that bound him to this place, but it was akin to hope.
—
Across the many miles of Middle-earth, the same light of Eärendil shone in the Mirror of Galadriel. Her time in Middle-earth was ending, she knew this, and the ship prepared to depart. She would return to Valinor for a hero’s welcome, her greatest foe vanquished. And yet her heart was restless, unwilling to be parted from these lands quite yet.
The thought settled in her mind that she would return once more to the cursed region of Mordor, to ensure—for herself—of its destruction. Only then would she depart.
—
It was a cool grey morning when she rode out, alone. She needed no armor, for all of her enemies had been slain, and yet she wore it anyways. The road was long and lonely, but the quiet was welcomed after so many years of war and anxiety and battle against her own heart. All she felt now was emptiness—and a quiet peace, and loss.
Her plan had been to survey the ruins of the Dark Tower, a means of convincing herself of her enemy’s final destruction. Surely, that would calm the tempest within her heart. (Surely he is truly gone, she pleads with herself.)
In the months since the Ring’s destruction, His once loud and persistent calls to her mind had turned to whispers, or perhaps merely echoes. She doubted her own understanding of them, whether these thoughts were now her own or… only memories, maybe.
She passed through the borders of Mordor slowly but with ease, for all of its guards and enchantments had now ceased. The ground was broken and covered with layers of filth, but she smiled to see small patches of new grass beginning to sprout up among the ruins.
As if guided by an unseen force, she came at last to the clearing. She marveled to see it somehow untouched (as if by an Elven ring, she thought) and yet alive with more than her own memory. The scene was familiar, one she had returned to in her mind countless times since the Man’s—no, the Maia’s—betrayal. The sight of it stung her heart, and yet there was a softness to the ache she felt. It became clear to her now that this is why she came: to say goodbye.
She climbed down from her horse and stepped into the clearing. Almost immediately, she felt his presence around her. Already the chill air of Mordor’s wastelands had turned to a warmth like the first day of Spring. The sunlight softened, the birds stilled their songs. It was just as she remembered, if not more beautiful.
The Maia had long since lost the ability to take on a fair form, coming to her now as spirit unseen. Yet as she settled down upon the fallen log beside the stream, she could almost see him again: green eyes glistening with tears, auburn hair curling at the base of his neck. She thought she could hear the thrum of his heart beating beside hers.
A millennia of joy, sorrow, longing, and grief suddenly washed over her at once; she exhaled, “You’re here.”
His answer came out more sorrowful than he had intended, but he settled into the unfamiliar honesty.
“I never left.”