We stand in the abandoned village of Tirharad. In the distance, torches start approaching, coming down the hill. Flames held aloft by faltering souls. They've gotten the message. 

I look around the ransacked townlet. Doors torn off their hinges, furniture and farming equipment broken and burning, fields trampled and flowers withering. What must have been a quaint and merry village is nothing but a tomb for the oncoming terror that will be unleashed.  

 I should feel remorse, but I feel pride looking at the warlord standing beside me instead. Flames flicker in his eyes as he stares at the cowered crowd nearing the edge of town. 

Adar's right; someone will always come groveling when they think hope is lost. When fighting against a mighty force is nothing but folly, you seek mercy at the feet of the one who might spare your life. 

Such weakness can be profitable, Adar said when we made our way here. When the sun said farewell and hid, casting the land in shadow, a foreboding of what's to come. 

I've seen and studied the dread in their faces for many miles, the fear in their eyes growing with every step towards us. They've made their choice, and it scares them to their bones. Faith has left their spirits, they live in a nightmare, and its master is my heart's chosen one. 

The villagers walk up to us, trepidation coating the air. The Uruks snarl, making them recoil even more. But they're here, I give them that. Women, men, and younger children. Much like the prisoners that were captured and commanded to dig the tunnel. Though these folk have made the wiser choice to come freely. My task is to look for that one unruly soul that might start a riot, and snuff it out before it can even begin. 

We do have a revolt on our hands with the remaining people in the watch tower. Adar's choice might have divided them, making the resistance lesser, but it's still there. They choose to stand their meager ground. A ground that will shake and shatter beneath their feet. A ground that soon will be covered in dust, joined by the bones and ash of the fallen.    

 --- 

The inferior herd studies me, much like I've studied them. What they think of me does not matter. What they see is what counts. An elf standing with the dark force of their doom. I'm armed to the teeth; daggers strapped, and hidden, my bow and arrows, and my new sword - forged to look like Adar's mate, bloodred stones fastened in the filigree pattern of the hilt.  

I wear armor; dark grey steel fitted to my body, chain mail gleaming underneath. Black blood and dirt are my war paint, my choice to wear. Others get covered by it in battle, I walk into the fight already defiled, and I revel in it. 

Adar cut his hand to mark me before we left camp, his blood on my neck, running down my chest. He put a symbol on me, but did not tell me what it's for. Judging by his smile, it could be either protective, possessive, or passionate, or all of them.   

I took his hand and licked his cut clean, drinking his blood. It's intoxicating, and I feel powerful with the taste of his black soul on my tongue. Knowing why it's black in the first place, how his nature changed when he drank the wine Sauron offered on that nameless peak. It wasn't wine, it was twisted evil in a goblet filled with promises of power, and children. 

Drinking his blood makes me feel like I'm sharing his curse, and his own promise, to find a home for his Uruk and let them finally find peace.  

He gave me a crushing kiss, my lips covered in his blood, growling promises in Black Speech to me, almost tearing my shirt asunder in a moment of madness. 

We've been trying to keep our cool, to keep our insane lust in check, immersing ourselves in maps and tactics, but it's hard to focus when he leans close, his breath on my neck, his raspy voice laying out strategies to be carried out. His hand on my lower back when I lean over a map of a land that will soon be changed by fire. When that hand tugs at my hair and circles my neck. When the air gets permeated with our want, sending every Uruk close by scattering, knowing their Lord-Father and Ammë will soon be doing things they need not see, but surely will hear. When he bent me over said table with maps and tore off my pants and fucked me like a beast, crumpling age-old knowledge. Oh, how I scream for my savage Uruk. Screaming my song of sin, his favorite melody. 

--- 

He looks at Malwen, tracing her beautiful features covered in dirt and blood. His blood, his scent. His. 

To others, it might look like she's already been to war, and he knows she has, a long time ago. When she hunted his children, spreading fear through his army, hearing the name "Shadow Assassin" mentioned repeatedly. A fearsome she-elf dimming his numbers. 

He needed to capture her, to find out who she was, and to stop her. He could not afford someone to challenge "the scourge of the orcs". No, he needed to put an end to her bloodshed and spill hers instead. 

Little did he know it was a warring soul he had strung up in the tunnel, so at war with the world, and with herself. He defeated her, corrupted her, craved her. And she let him. She let him have her, all of her. And he let her shadow consume him in return, his Mordo Nethar. He did not stand a chance.  

Little did he know that he set her free; by loving her, by forgiving her; he made her victorious. They forgave each other's deeds and darkness and gave into a spell so powerful, so frightening, he's known nothing like it in all his long life. He fears to lose her, but she is unrestrained to do as she desires. He's at her mercy. Having her by his side, to have her taking lives to ensure the victory of a race long plagued and enslaved; he owes her everything. 

--- 

The villagers of Tirharad kneel before us, lowering their heads. Adar looks at them for a brief moment before he turns around, walking away from them, but an older man rises and starts speaking.
"Long have I awaited this day," he says. "The day your kind would return at last, lift us up from the muck and the filth, to take our rightful place at your side. I pledge my undying service to you."
The crowd, now standing, stirs with unease. They did not expect the man to be so bold on their behalf. Neither did I, to be honest.
"I pledge my loyalty to Sauron," the man continues, kneeling again, on all fours this time. My gaze has been fully focused on the man till now, whether to consider him a threat or not, but now my eyes follow Adar as he turns slowly to face the man. I know the look on my husband's face is nothing but pure disdain. Nobody knows what Sauron looks like after all this time. He could be anybody. Of course, a mighty foe with an army of "orcs" could be no other than The Deceiver himself.
Adar strides over to him, his eyes black with fury, stopping to stand before the man who clearly doesn't know who he's addressing.
The man looks up at the one he thinks is the Dark Lord, stammering. "You are Sauron, are you not?"
Adar's next move is so sudden and forceful, grabbing the man by the neck, and hauls him through the air before slamming him hard onto the ground. The man groans, making choking sounds, the men and women exclaiming in terror. 

Adar lets go of his chokehold on the man, getting up, resolute written in his stance. They think him terrible? Fine, I know he will give them terrible. They might have come here thinking they will survive, if they follow the path their ancestors did, swearing fealty to the dark force plaguing their lands. Some might, if they submit to the terms. But some will die nonetheless. 

"Hey, hey... Wait," the man stutters.
Adar growls, circling around, his steps firm with fury.
"I'll serve you, then. Whoever you are," the man pleads.
Adar grabs a young man standing at the forefront of the crowd by his shoulder, spinning him around, so his back faces Adar's front. He forcefully handles the boy, bringing him to his knees while an Uruk tosses a dagger to the man on the ground.
Adar leans down closer to the boy's head, his voice void of emotion as he states; "Only blood can bind."
The older man looks at the dagger, while the women whimper.
The boy gasps. "Waldreg," he whispers.
Waldreg looks at the dagger again, first with horror, then there's a change in his features. I do not need to watch him closer, this man is evil, and he will serve.
"Waldreg," the boy pleads, trying to get up, but Adar holds him firm. "Waldreg, no," he begs.
"Nooo!"
Adar's eyes are so intense as he watches Waldreg.
The boy implores Waldreg, but to no avail.
The women scream as Waldreg plunges the dagger into the boy's heart, red blood running down his pelted vest. 

The boy collapses onto the ground while Waldreg stands there rather shocked at his own action, but he recovers quickly. Unease spreads through the crowd, the Uruks snarling and herding them closer. 

My mate faces the villagers. "You are to call me Adar," he says, his voice solemn. "Or Lord-Father. Follow my commands, and your life will be spared. And this..." he gestures with his hand in my direction, and I take it as a cue to step up to him. "... Is my wife, Malwen."
I take his hand and he pulls me towards him, putting me in front of him, my back flush against his front. His gloved arm comes possessively about my neck, his other arm slithering around my waist. I relish his hold, the spikes on his gauntlet gently scraping against my skin.
"You will show her respect, and obey her orders. Make no mistake, she is as lethal as she is fair." Adar presses his forehead against my hair, breathing me in. Even in front of the surrendering mass of slaves he cannot help claiming me. It's intoxicating.
"Have I made myself clear?" Adar asks.
"Y-y-yes, Lord-Father," the man named Waldreg stutters while the rest of the crowd nods. 

"Bury this boy as you see fit, grieve, and rest. Tomorrow has no mercy for tears and weary souls," Adar says. "And do not fear my children, they will only attack if provoked. The night is still long and we must prepare." 

--- 

Some of the Uruks are chanting Nampat and Udun, while others arm the sworn women and men. 

"What are they saying?" I catch a woman asking as I pass by the armoury.
"Death and doom," I reply, startling her.
"And you stand with them?" she asks me.
"And now so do you," I counter.
"I had no choice," she whispers.
"We all have a choice," I state.
"And you chose this?" she pries.
"With all my heart," I answer and look at Adar, who's talking to Grugzûk and a female Uruk named Bragna.
The woman follows my gaze. "He is formidable," she acknowledges.
"Hey, you! Your turn!" an Uruk called Rotholm shouts at the woman. She jolts to attention, walking over to him to get outfitted for battle.
She returns with an ill-fitting assortment of armor, a helmet, and a sword.
"He must have gotten you under a dark spell," the woman goes on, not willing to drop the matter. She's got gumption, I give her that.
"Rest assured," a husky voice sounds behind us. "It was Malwen doing the bewitchment." Adar's voice sends pleasant chills down my spine, but the woman startles once again, perplexed at finding him beside us, having spotted him further away just moments ago.
"Unnatural," the woman mutters.
"Less than you might think," Adar says, tilting his head slightly to the right. I follow his gaze, and have to stifle a chuckle. A slender woman with long, blond, braided hair looks like she's taken a shine to Sorogrim.
The woman looks utterly appalled, and Adar growls.
She swallows hard, averting her eyes. "L-l-l-ord-Father," she curtsies and scurries away. 

I keep watching Sorogrim and the blond woman. She must have stood at the back of the crowd when they first arrived, because this is the first time I'm noticing her. There's no false pretence in her manner, I know the signs when someone is infatuated. Sorogrim is a tall, lean Uruk, with long dark hair and sea-green eyes rimmed with crimson. His teeth are that of a large wolf, and his armor is well-kept and fearsome.  

The woman tosses her braid behind her shoulder, her eyes heavy with seduction. I titter. "Looks like someone's gonna get lucky tonight."
The woman takes Sorogrim's hand, leading him around the corner of a tumbledown cottage. He catches me staring, giving me a wink. 

I know half-orcs are a thing, created by interbreeding of orcs and the race of Men. They're able to go in sunlight, but only a few remain in Adar's army. Most of them were born of raped and abused mothers, mainly under Morgoth's rule. Adar discourages such behavior in his army, but he cannot control them all.
"We sure could use more half-breeds, able to move in, and enjoy the sun, but soon that will not matter," Adar says. He's gazing at the watchtower in the distance, his eyes misty. He's so close now, reaching his goal. 

I take his hand, leading him towards the house Adar deemed ours for the night at the outer edge of the townlet. 

On our way there we pass a small gathering of mourners, the boy being lowered into a shallow hole in the ground. His pelt vest is soaked in blood, but his face has been washed clean.   

I stop, looking at them, and several turn to look at us.
"What was his name?" I ask.
"Rowan," a woman answers.
"He believed that one day our true king would return," a man says. "But I do not believe you are he, whoever you are," he adds, looking at Adar.
Adar's stoic, revealing nothing.
"He was ready to fight," a woman cries. "For you! But he never had the chance to prove himself."
"His death was not in vain," Adar says. "I might not be the king you want, but I am the king you need. War forges beasts from fragile souls. Innocence falls away when swords are drawn, so honor him and fight in his stead." 

The crowd bends their heads, and I walk over to the shallow grave. I look at Rowan's pale face, a vers in elvish slipping through my lips; 

"In twilight's glow, where starlight weeps, 
We lay you down where the silver leaf sleeps." 

A man grabs a shovel while I sing and starts covering the young man.

"With whispers soft as the evening breeze, 
Your spirit dances through ancient trees."

"Thank you," the woman who told me Rowan's name says. 

I nod, leaving them behind, Adar's trailing after me. I open the door to the house. It's in disarray, but there's a fire going, courtesy of Shaká I guess. She and Zunn have been fussing over me even more than usual these days. I brought them flowers when Adar and I returned from our outing that turned into a naughty nymph and master session, ending in Feiron finding us.  

I still had my flower crown, and made one each for Zunn and Shaká. Adar got a new flower behind his ear, and I put one behind Sorogrim's ear as well. A pink one. Sorogrim's frown made us all laugh, and seeing Adar laugh heartily made my own heart melt all over again. It melts for him all the time though; when he teaches impish younglings to swordfight, when he is called upon to welcome a new baby Uruk; when his voice is a quiet croon, uttering a blessing in black speech, caressing the baby's head. He's so careful, so loving, his name and title so true, I tear up every time. The world might think him a savage, but I know his soul. It wants life, and for life to prosper. And soon it will, under the cover of darkness.  

--- 

I disarm myself, laying my weapons on a large table. Adar's righting a few knocked-over candles, lighting them. I study the interior of the house. There's a hole in the floorboards, and I realize the reason for it is because of the tunnel. Uruks have been digging here, and whoever lived here, has been under attack. There are stains on the ground that can only be blood.
I look at the workbench below the windows placed to the left of the door, filled with jars, and a couple of sets of mortars and pestles. Some knives in odd shapes and sizes and strips of torn cloth lie around as well. From the roof hang several kinds of dried herbs and flowers. This must be the healer's house. This must be where Feiron was brought and mended back to life. 

"Feiron's been here," I mutter, mainly to myself, but Adar hears it. He walks over to me, placing a candle on the counter. He stands behind me, and in the flickering light, our reflection is shown in the window. I look like an untamed creature, mirroring how I feel inside; wholly wild. Once I was bound by graceful duties and by prestine promises, now I am bound by blood to a son of the dark, and as I look at myself, at Adar, how we look together, I'd bind myself to him all over again. My duties have become brutal, my promises fierce, and I'd have it no other way. This was, and is, my choice. And I forgive myself for what I must do moving forward. 

--- 

Adar kisses my neck, his hands undoing my armor. I keep watching him in the window, purring in his embrace. This is our last night before we march into battle, and I want him, I always want him, but I also just want to be with him.
Adar reads me, turning me around. "Let's walk together on strange paths, let us cherish the light as we weave our dreams..."
I kiss him softly, repeatedly, while he pulls me towards the bed in the corner.
"... Through silver skies and starlit streams. Hand in hand, where shadows play, we dance in the night, till break of day." 

We undress and get into bed, the sheets coarse against my skin. We lay face to face, legs tangled. I run my hand through his hair, bringing him closer for more kisses. "With you, every moment feels like a dream woven from starlight," I whisper. "I love you, Adar."
"You are my starlight, Malwen. I love you." 

Beneath the cloak of night, we fall asleep in a tight embrace, a hold that feels so solid and sound, worries and nightmares fading like shadows at dawn. Tomorrow the air will thrum with anticipation as long-made plans take flight, setting the stage for a war that will echo through the land.