The steady rocking of the carriage made her feel fatigued. She had been sitting in there, atop the monolithic Oliphant for what must have been hours. Though there would still be some more time yet, for it was a long journey from Carn Dûm in Angmar to Barad dûr in Mordor and already they had been travelling for days. They had taken the long route through Forodwaith and Rhûn to reach Mordor, for travelling too close to the realms of elves and freemen would be far too perilous.

The seemingly endless procession behind her stretched as far as the eye could see, disappearing into the distant horizon of the rugged plains they traversed. The earth trembled beneath the weight of over a thousand followers, filling the air with a thick cloud of dust. Peering cautiously from behind the veil, she caught sight of Mount Doom in the far distance, its ominous black smoke billowing into the sky. Middle Earth sprawled out before her, a vast expanse of land. Above, the shadow of colossal outstretched wings loomed, sweeping away the clouds in its wake. The screech of the fell beast pierced the air as her father guided it nearer to the carriage. His intense gaze bore into her, a constant reminder of her unwavering loyalty to him, her duty to the Dark Lord, who claimed her as his own. Yes, she was to become his bride, the queen of Mordor, promised to him since her birth. For she was the daughter of his most feared and devoted servant, his trusted second in command.

Her father, once a powerful king of men, now lingered under the complete control of the Dark Lord. He possessed one of the nine rings of power, bestowed upon mortal men doomed to die. The ring's corrupting influence transformed him into a being both feared and revered, existing in a realm between mortality and undeath.

As the product of his nefarious deeds, Aradheleth inherited a fraction of his sinister power. Her knowledge of her mother was scant, except that she was a Dúnedain slave. This lineage granted Aradheleth the ability to endure the lifespans of several ordinary men. However, she harbored no regard for any beings, be it immortals or the mortal free peoples of Middle Earth. Raised solely to serve her father and his malevolent master, love and kindness were alien concepts to her. Her existence revolved around one simple principle - unwavering obedience.

Letting the sheer curtains slip gently through her fingers, she gazed down at her hands. They had been meticulously adorned with intricate black kohl and maroon henna designs, resembling swirling vines that gracefully climbed up her arms. Her feet, too, were painted, and the scent of the fragrant henna lingered in her nostrils. Adorning her ankles and wrists were heavy golden bangles, their weight comforting against her skin. Veiled by a delicate silk veil woven in shades of black and gold, her face remained hidden from prying eyes. Perched high above, only her father could catch a glimpse of her visage.

The resounding blast of trumpets echoed through the air, piercing her ears, as the deafening screech of fell beasts above jolted her awake. Frantically scrambling to her knees, she crawled towards the curtain, her hands trembling with anticipation. Peering out once more, she was met with the sight of the black iron gates of Mordor creaking open, granting them passage into the desolate plains of death. The putrid stench of decay wafted in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of burning sulfur.

Her gaze fixated on the towering colossus of Barad dûr that loomed ahead, casting a sinister shadow over the land. A sudden surge of fear gripped her heart, its pounding rhythm reverberating painfully beneath her ribs. Until now, she had felt no apprehension, but the imminent encounter with the Dark Lord himself left her uncertain and on edge. She had only ever heard tales of him.

The Dark Lord possessed the ability to assume various forms; an amorphous shadow, as dark as the night itself, or a menacing wolf with fangs as sharp as Elven steel, or even a seemingly fair Maia, the bestower of gifts. Regardless of his chosen guise, he embodied all that was wicked and vile in the realm of evil and carrion. Born into this malevolence, a flicker of dread remained within her, gnawing at her core. Inhaling sharply, she regained her composure. It was an esteemed honor to be chosen, a privilege she vowed to fulfill, both for her own survival and for the preservation of her dignity. Yet, would the Dark Lord even acknowledge her existence, let alone her prestige? The admonitions her father had ingrained in her memory resurfaced and reminded her to remain an obedient servant and wife to the Dark Lord. She was never to never defy him, lest she be subjected to his wrath and annihilation.

Assisted by her servants, Aradheleth descended from the back of the Oliphant. Standing tall in her regal attire, the woven orange golds and dark silks shimmered in the gentle breeze. Suddenly, her father's fell beast screeched as it landed nearby, and he effortlessly dismounted, his ebony cloak trailing behind him. He commanded her to follow silently, with eyes lowered, and to speak only when spoken to directly.

Aradheleth obediently lowered her gaze and assured her father of her compliance. Towering over her, he nodded before leading her towards the tower. Slaves, captains, and lieutenants, all servants of the feared Witch King, followed closely behind. The inhabitants of Mordor surrounded them, their awe-filled expressions fixed on their dark master's soon-to-be bride. Nervously, Aradheleth felt a sting of apprehension as they approached the doors of Barad dûr.

Raising her hazel gaze, she discreetly glanced ahead through her long, thick lashes. The sight that awaited them sent chills down her spine. The mouth of Sauron, a ghastly figure clad in torn raven cloth and iron, stood there, ready to welcome their arrival.

"The Lord of Barad dûr, of a thousand faceless names, awaits you, great Witch-King of Angmar, the most revered." It hissed in Black Speech, a language that she was quite familiar with. "This way." It outstretched its sinewy arm towards the door which creaked open before them, revealing a dark and foreboding hall barely lit by the few lamps that lined it.
Turning his head slightly to look back at her, her father guided her through the imposing doors of jagged wrought iron. The heavy doors creaked ominously, their giant hinges protesting with each movement. Servants, their faces hidden beneath tattered cloaks, bowed deeply as they passed, their movements accompanied by the faint rustle of fabric.

Walking through a gaping arch, they entered the throne room, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the cold marble floors. Her father hissed at her, his voice a low, menacing whisper, commanding her to keep her eyes downcast and to remain silent. Orcs scurried about the room, their iron boots scratching against the polished surface, as they hurried out of the way of her imposing father. They avoided making eye contact, fearful of the consequences.

She followed her father's lead, her heart pounding in her chest as they approached the throne of the Dark Lord. Though she could not see him, an oppressive aura enveloped the room, suffocating her with its darkness and malice. It felt as if invisible tendrils were wrapping around her, tightening their grip. Unable to resist, she dared to look up through her lowered lashes. The sight that greeted her eyes filled her with disbelief, causing her head to rise in astonishment.

Her heart raced as she felt the piercing gaze of his molten amber eyes, their intensity seeming to penetrate her very soul. The crackling flames of the surrounding braziers cast an auburn glow, illuminating his captivating gaze. A crown adorned his head, crafted from black iron thorns, a stark contrast to his flowing silver white hair that cascaded down his back like a celestial river. The thorns, though sharp, did not break the smoothness of his pale, flawless skin. It was a captivating sight, his brilliant features accentuated by his delectable complexion. A slender black line extended from his lower lip, adding to his allure, while a row of delicate golden hoops adorned his pointed ear, reminiscent of an elf. The doubts crept in - could this truly be the Dark Lord, the embodiment of decay and despair? His beauty was too ethereal, too mesmerizing to fit such titles.

A sly smirk played upon his finely shaped lips, while his piercing gaze continued to assess her. Could he have delved into her thoughts as she remained transfixed by his presence? As his master's face displayed this expression, the Witch King retaliated with a malevolent glare towards his daughter, compelling her to swiftly avert her eyes once again. Then, the Dark Lord's voice resonated in her ears, akin to the celestial trumpets of the Valar. Their conversation, in an ancient language, mystified her.

She remembered what her father had told her; That one of the Dark Lord's many forms was of the Lord of Gifts - Annatar the Maia. And as she continued to gaze at the ground, the Dark Lord appeared to pay her no heed. Yet she could still feel his burning eyes on her from time to time. Then he stood from his throne, a towering figure that even dwarfed her own father. In his hand he held a sceptre of twisted and contorted iron, a blood red ruby clutched in the talons at its top. He passed her without a second glance or a word as she bowed herself deeply, and she did not stand again until he had exited the room and the wrought iron doors had closed behind him.

"Now," her father began coldly as he turned to face her. "You are to sacrifice to the darkness, for tomorrow will be your bonding to it."
"Yes, father." She obeyed and then followed him once more into the darkened halls.
He led her into a small room, where the air was heavy with the scent of ancient incense surrounding a small altar of obsidian. Candles had been placed in a crescent shape around it, and on either side were braziers of burning coals. Resting on the altar, a blade of pure silver caught her eye with its intricate carvings, reminiscent of an ancient Ainur design.
With her father's help, she gracefully knelt on the steps, ready to partake in the ritual that would unfold in darkness.

She spread out her arms and held her hands out to the altar, gazing up to the imposing statue of Melkor - the epitome of all that was hideous and cruel in the world.
"Hath me, o' twilight storm, and shield me from those that walk in the light." She prayed as she took the blade from the offering table. "Give me the power to smite my foes, and those that dare to defy my will. Aid me in obeying my master, my future consort, by fulfilling his every command."

Pulling back her veil, Aradheleth revealed a strand of her long, ashen hair. With the blade in hand, she carefully severed a lock of it.
"An offering of my body to seal my obedience." She tossed it onto one of the coal braziers. Turning to look back at her father, she flicked her hand at the nearby servants to bring in the next offering. She prayed as they lead in a young ram, its horns painted gold, bleating in fear, for it could sense its imminent demise. She stroked its fleece gently, and her gentle touch calmed the poor animal. Yet no sooner did it calm did she dive the blade deep into the back of its neck, thus giving it a quick and painless death. She ordered the servants to lift the beast onto the altar, whence she took the tip of the blade and made a large slit across its throat. Its curdling blood spilled across the marble, splashing onto her attire and milky brown skin. Tracing her hands through the warm liquid, she ran her fingers down her face, painting her skin with crimson.

"And a sacrifice for eternal darkness."

Names & Places:
Aradheleth = Royal Terror
Carn Dûm = A fortress in northern Angmar which The Witch King occupied before Minas Morgul.
Barad dûr = The dark tower of Sauron in Mordor