A pair of booted feet crunched on corpses as they walked across the battlefield. Those bloodied boots kicked aside the fallen, stepped on cold hands and legs, on discarded shields and weapons. Those boots splashed in puddles of blood, where the ground had been unable to absorb so much liquid. Gallons upon gallons had been spilt. Thousands upon thousands had fallen. So many dead; orcs, elves, men, and women. The halls of Mandos were indeed crowded.

Alagosson traveled across the vast field of the dead, searching. He may have had respect for the dead once, long ago he might have carefully tread around the bodies, but those days were long past. He just didn't care anymore.

So many flies flew low above the field that it appeared as if a fast-shifting storm cloud was hovering above the decaying bodies. The elf had walked across many battlefields filled with decomposing bodies in the past, for that was unavoidable if you were a warrior. And if you were simply Alagosson. Although in the past he had grown accustomed to breathing through his mouth so as to decrease the scent of rotting flesh, he had to wear a perfumed strip of maroon cloth over his mouth and nose. The orcs scurrying a respectful distance behind him only held a wadded-up piece of cloth

Anytime Alagosson caught one of those orcs moving closer to him, he killed it. He didn't offer an explanation, but the orcs could sense his hatred towards them. More so now that Sauron was gone. He didn't have to worry about suspicion being placed upon him now, so he simply let his animosity be known. And yet at other times, he felt a deep pity for the orcs. He didn't know why, but he did.

Alagosson grimaced as he passed a particularly gruesome body. The elf's throat had been ripped out, a deep cut running across the face and eyes. The stomach had several weeping gashes, each one seeping ruined entrails.

He immediately recognized it as Duvaineth's work.

A beauty, she was. But as much as she was beautiful, she was mentally insane. She worshipped him almost as if he were a god, which—at times—he couldn't complain about, but mostly it just felt wrong. He was just a simple elf victim to...

Alagosson instead focused his attention on the rubble of bodies he passed. A large circle had been made bare by a great force, each pebble had been cleared, leaving only hard-packed dust. Tiny lines streaked away from the vacuous spot of land, evidence of a blast. And around that blast area were hundreds of dead orcs. An empty spot surrounded by the dead.

Many of the ones closer to the empty plot had lackluster metal armor embedded in their corpses. Yet, that hadn't been the cause of their deaths.

When the ring had been cast into Orodruin—or what most of Middle-Earth calls it, Mount Doom—the vast majority of Sauron's life force had been destroyed. Therefore, Sauron's corporeal body had imploded—died—sending out such a shock wave that it killed a couple hundred of the orcs around him. The ring's death had not only brought about Sauron's but a large group of his servant as well. Of course, a few hundred were nothing compared to the orcs total population.

The ring did hold most of Sauron's soul. Yet, when Sauron gathered enough strength, he had been able to cast a speck of what was left of him into the prophecy-written. The insignificant amount of his soul was just enough to weaken her abilities. Yet, her immortality fled her and instead she accidentally received the ability to control Sauron's most important weapon. In a way, if one thought about it, Lumornel had been a second 'ring.'

But Lumornel had died. And the amount of Sauron's soul had been so small, compared to the amount made into the ring, it was too insignificant to matter to Sauron. After all, what was left of him right now was simply floating about right now, destroyed beyond repair. That small part residing in Lumornel's dead body was barely enough for Sauron to do anything with.

That was Alagosson's theory, anyway.

He carefully avoided that death marker of the former dark lord, stepping on the fallen orcs to get further out on the battlefield.

It had been a full day since the day of the battle. A day since the armies of the west had quickly retreated into their safe havens. A day since Alagosson's world had changed for the hundredth time, changing according to the whims of...

He passed over the body of an uur rauko. There weren't many dead of those creatures. The ones who did survive, which was most of them, had run off into the surrounding lands, having no one to control them into coming back. And, if there were someone to do that, it'd be too late. Those animalistic servants were too far out of reach.

That didn't matter though, there were ten times as many back in Mordor. True, they weren't yet full grown, but in a decade or so, they would be. Then, in another decade, they could be fully trained. If all went according to plan.

Which they were. Alagosson wasn't accustomed to failing.

Finally, Alagosson found what he was looking for.

Her corpse had gone cold by now, her bloodied white hair trying to shine in the light of the setting sun but ultimately failing. The luscious locks had turned gray, whether by dirt or by the absence of her power.

He grew tense as he became closer to Lumornel's body. He knew she was dead—Duvaineth and many other's accounts were proof of that, as was the paleness to her skin and the blood-splotches that only came about after death. If he were to take a closer look at her back and the underside of her legs and arms, he'd be able to see them. He knew that if he left her body for a week and came back, her skin would be so blistered that touching it would cause her flesh to fall off. Her body was not excluded by the mass of flies and insects that came to feast on the dead, already, several had attacked her eyes, some crawling out her mouth.

Even though her death was evident, he was hesitant. Hesitant because she could save him.

No. No I'm far from saving.

Alagosson was glad to hear a footstep sound behind him. He swiveled and threw one of the multitudes of knives on his body at the orc. It stopped, wide-eyed, clutching at the knife embedded in its throat for a moment before falling to the ground. The creature gurgled blood and jerked in its death-throes, but Alagosson turned back to the prophecy-written's dead body, ignoring the sounds of the dying behind him.

He pushed aside his hesitance and instead crouched beside the body.

Her white undershirt was mostly covered in red, a ripped hole in the fabric where Duvaineth had thrust her sword through Lumornel's chest. He couldn't see the wound, not through all the flies. It was the same for the knife cut over her brow and cheekbone and on her neck. Instead of being able to see the ripped, sagging flesh of her cut throat, the flies obscured his view by crawling in and out. Alagosson might've been revolted if he hadn't walked among the fallen a hundred and more times. He'd been forced to search dead bodies, take things from the fallen, lay among them pretending, investigate the changing of a corpse so he'd know how recently a battle had taken place. Just because he felt like he knew a dead body better than a live one didn't mean he was comfortable being among corpses.

She could've been beautiful. He'd only seen her when she'd been beaten and wounded and now dead with the paleness of stiffened limbs and a blanket of flies. It was little wonder why the orcs hated her. Not only could she wield the energy of light, she had beauty. Two things yrch despise with a fiery passion.

Hair of winter had now turned a dead-grey clumped with red. Eyes of green now hidden by black insects with wings.

A waste. Such light gone to waste. But now the only hope that could oppose what he was working on was gone. He was glad he wasn't the one to kill her. But then he was also angry. He should've been the one to end her, then he'd have no one else to blame but himself.

Better though, for her to be dead.

Without wasting any time, Alagosson placed his hand in Lumornel's stiff one. As he held her hand, he noted her skin was no longer warm, yet it wasn't cold. Her flesh had cooled to the temperature of the air around her. He didn't cringe as he forced her fingers to hold his hand more securely.

Sure, he thought this process—that he had to hold her dead hand—was strange, but he was all about efficiency. This was the most efficient way. For what he had come for had come forth from her hands. Which means the thing he needed most would have an easier time coming out of her palms.

And so, just as the sun set below the horizon, bathing the land in darkness, he said the words.

"Sauron's darkness come forth to a willing host. Come forth and claim me. Come forth to dine. Come forth so that I may wield and cause something malign."

Alagosson's words were swallowed by the buzzing of flies, yet they were heard by something without ears. As he watched, living shadows gathered on her skin like dew. Those wisps then began whispering along her skin, down to her hand, twirling and twisting.

Alagosson breathed deeply at the touch of the darkness on his flesh, yet he suppressed a cringe and allowed that evil to flow from her and into him. The shadows danced coolly from her dead hand to his, gliding with joy along his wrist and climbing his arm until eventually, they settled within his arm. He felt its presence within him, moving deep inside him to intertwine with his soul.

And finally, the shifting darkness stopped seeping from her decaying skin and settled fully into Alagosson.

He stood, Sauron's insignificant slice of soul stored within him for Alagosson to wield, and he made his way back to Mordor.

For dark plans had yet to play out.

*********

"How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened?"

—Samwise Gamgee