Anger would be the best word to describe Jyras’ feelings after his discution with Hashar.
During the next days, he didn’t talk at all, and stayed away from everybody, for he was afraid of what one could do to him.
Did anyone think like him?
Even as he was beginning to doubt it, he saw some who seemed to be as recluse as he did.
Some didn’t talk, nor listened.
They just walked, dark thought in their troubled mind.
Not everybody was happy to serve the will of the Dark Lord, it seemed.
And that was for the good.
But Jyras couldn’t make himself talk to them, even if he was almost certain they were fair.
The risks were too great.
At noon, they turned east and came in front of a great plain.
On their left, there was a great stinky swamp, that was going on for miles and miles.
Even in the Haradwaith, they had heard of those.
The Dead Marches they were called.
Once, at least three thousands years ago, a great battle had been fought there.
Their master Sauron had been defeated, but many men had died.
Men, elves, orcs…
Now, they all haunted those marches, and it was said nobody could stay in there and stay alive.
But he didn’t thought much about it.
In front of him stood a massive construction, whose size matched with the mountains closest to it.
It was hard, massive, ugly, but it wore a certain sort of mightiness and, yes, beauty.
After all, it was probably one of the finest work ever made for a military purpose.
A one purpose.
To guard Mordor. At first to be sure none got out. Now to be certain none got in.
At last, they stood at the bottom of the Black Gate.
Suddenly, the sun faded, and an horrible cry echoed in the surrounding lands.
The air became chilly, and as Jyras looked up into the sky, he saw it.
A monstrous beast, greatest than the greatest eagle of the Mountains.
And this shape wore a cloth of Shadows.
Jyras looked, and even from there he thought he could see clearly the beast… and its rider.
A tall man, with the nobelty of the kings of old, full of the blood of the ancient lords.
A bowl of dignity, wisdom and strenght.
But all of those qualities were left behind the will of the Dark Lord.
Its mind was all full of the quotes of Sauron, and he was bound to his Power, and to the Power of the One Ring.
Jyras didn’t know about all those things, but as he looked, he knew.
He was seeking it, They were seeking it, with all the swiftness they could master.
Quick, deadly, terrifiant, noble and dangerous.
So was the Lord of the Nazguls.
And as the Ringwraith passed over their head, the beast cried again, and the Black Gate opened.
The column walked, and Jyras followed.
He was as in a dream, a dreadful dream he didn’t know how to awake from.
He tried not to follow, but he couldn’t force himself out of the movment of his companions.
In the crowd, he saw Hashar, who looked disdainfully at him and continued his way.
He also saw the Captain, who led them all toward the Gates.
He followed, he walked, he almost ran, even as he was shoutings silently to his lambs not to move.
But he couldn’t force himself.
He passed the Gates, and there he awoke.
There he was.
Their camp laid on the Plain of Gorgoroth, on the very slopes of Mount Doom.
But wat for an horrible place it was!
First, they were surrounded by orcs. There were full villages of filthy orcs, everywhere.
Then there was the land itself.
Dark. Dead. Covered by dust, filth and dried blood.
Nothing could grow here but tiny tormented plants, that cried their pain, their unlasting suffering.
It was no place to live in.
And there was Him.
The Great Eye. Now he could see it. Now he could feel it, more than ever.
Seeking, planning, looking in their hearth, looking for traitors, looking for men whose soul wasn’t bound to him.
Jyras closed his eyes, but the feeling was still there.
Every minut, it grew stronger and stronger, as if the Eye was looking for HIM.
The thought of hiding occured to him, but where could he hide in this land so full of nothing?
Then the Eye was on him.
He didn’t knew how he knew, but he was certain of it.
The Dark Lord Sauron has his Eye fixed on him, and anger filled his mind.
He could almost hear his voice in his head, cursing, threatening, full of pain, full of plans of horror and war.
An ugly voice, as would be the voice of a child distorded by some unknown plague, made him open his eyes.
”You follow me, Soldier Jyras. The Eye wants to talk to you.”
Jyras screamed, and the orc laughed in a high cackling voice.
It was more than he could afford.
Jyras unsheated his sword, and cut off the orc’s head, cutting off the laugh as well as the voice.
Then he looked around him, and saw the silent men that were once his friends and neighboors, watching him with open mouth.
He saw Hashar, and Hashar looked away.
And he heard the Voice of the Eye.
”Jyras… Jyras… Jyras… Not in vain does men kill my servants… MAY YOU FEEL THE TASTE OF PAIN!”
Jyras fell on his knees, not able to move, not able to speak, just trying not to hear the terrible voice and the terrible things it said.
He was crying, and praying, and swearing his fealty for the Dark Lord Sauron, and he didn’t even feel the hands of Orcs taking him, taking him to Sauron.
When he opened his eyes, he was in a dark room full of tools made for pain.
And in front of him stood a tall guy, who smiled at him when he saw he had awakened.
”Hello, young Haradrim. I am the Mouth of Sauron.”