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Other Eyes  by aiwendil

They came up the eastern road in a great parade, their standards flashing gold and red in the dying light of evening. Men all around me took up the call, “King Ar-Pharazon is returned, and behold! He has humbled Sauron, the pretender king. See, even now he walks like a dog that has been broken into service.”

I looked up, for my master was distracted by the spectacle, and would take no heed of my moment's inattention. The man who must be Sauron was manacled, and two guards walked on either side of him. He was fair to my eyes, fairer even than these men who were my masters, these Numenoreans, who said they were descended from the gods.

Sauron's face was proud and bright; the dusky light glinted off his hair. There was power in his easy strides and the great span of his shoulders. I knew him then, for I had walked this same road, though no trumpets had called out my coming. I had walked, chained in a long line of captives, but though my head was bowed, as befits one who will be slave, I was not bowed in spirit.

Nor was he.

I smiled, then, returning to my work. My master turned back and caught the expression. He smiled too, mistaking my joy for his own. “Is it not a good day?” my master said.

The Numenoreans had led the lion through their gate as if he were a lamb. Indeed, the day was good.





        

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