The desperate summons came shortly after dawn.

Tushratta had just arrived at the hospital in Turkûrzgoi when a servant ushered a messenger into his private chambers. The young man's brow was damp with sweat, and his breathing was heavy from exertion.

"You must come quickly to Shakh Esarhaddon's villa!" The messenger's words were rushed, his voice filled with urgency. "The master is grievously ill, and needs your help!"

"There are some matters to which I must attend ere I can leave the hospital, but I will ride to the villa posthaste," Tushratta assured the messenger, who bowed and departed from the room.

The physician wondered what sort of affliction troubled Esarhaddon, whether it was injury or illness. During the journey to Nurn, the merchant had been a frequent patient, having been wounded many times in defense of the caravan. The worst of these hurts had come about when a group of irate uruks, seeking revenge for their fallen comrades, attacked the camp and attempted to murder Esarhaddon. If it were not for the fact that the uruks decided to torture him first instead of killing him swiftly, Esarhaddon would not be alive to tell the tale. Tushratta wondered what calamity could have befallen the merchant at his own villa.

"Perhaps I was premature in summoning you." Esarhaddon looked surprisingly sheepish for a man of his immense pride and arrogance as he gazed across the room at the physician. The two men were seated in the Room of the Willows, Esarhaddon on the divan on one side of the chamber, Tushratta on the other. Between them was a low table upon which rested an ornately decorated porcelain teapot and two cups, a courtesy meant to make the merchant's guest feel at home. The light of late morning came through the windows, casting a soft glow upon the seasonal frescoes which had been painted upon the walls.

"It is never wise for one to take risks with one's health," Tushratta stated grimly, concerned about his patient. "What malady afflicts you? The messenger was quite alarmed when he arrived at the hospital."

"My woes began two weeks ago, when I attended the wine harvest festival at Shakh Sandana's villa," Esarhaddon began. "It was late when I left the festivities, and I decided to leave the main road and take the shortcut through the Thraqum Wood in the hopes of returning home sooner. My bodyguard and I had not been traveling long through the forest when we heard a woman screaming out for help. Knowing the evil reputation of that place, I feared that a group of cultists had gathered in the wood to sacrifice a victim. Though it was really none of my affair, I felt that I should try to rescue the poor woman, and so my bodyguard and I began searching for her."

"That was very brave and valiant on your part," Tushratta remarked, remembering all the many times that Esarhaddon had fought in defense of the caravan and all of the slaves who were in his charge. "Were you able to rescue the woman from the cultists?"

Esarhaddon laughed bitterly. "The woman was one of the cultists. It was all a trap to lure would-be heroes into the wood. When at last I found her, she lunged for me and wrestled me to the ground. I believe that she had consumed an elixir of kapurdri, for no ordinary woman possesses such dreadful might! I do not like to think what would have happened had my bodyguard and the shaman of the forest not intervened."

"Heightened strength and uncontrollable rage are associated with consumption of the kapurdri mushroom; hence its popularity among warriors." Tushratta thoughtfully stroked his chin as he considered his knowledge of the mushroom. "Some religious orders use kapurdri in their rituals as well. It would seem that the cultists who frequent the Thraqum Wood also use this potent mushroom in their practices."

Esarhaddon rolled up his sleeves, revealing the faded bruises and nearly healed scratches upon his forearms. "I suspect that the woman's fingernails may have been coated with some sort of poison, for these wounds have been taking much longer to heal than they should."

Moving over to Esarhaddon's side of the room, Tushratta carefully examined his patient's injuries. Although the wounds showed no signs of infection, there was still something about them which troubled the physician… a shadow beneath the surface which could be felt rather than seen. He wondered about this woman who had attacked Esarhaddon. While the merchant was not a battle-hardened warrior, he could hold his own in a fight; a mere woman should have posed little challenge for him. Perhaps she was a cult priestess who wielded terrible powers of sorcery – or perhaps something far darker.

"You should have called me sooner." Tushratta looked Esarhaddon in the eyes, his expression grave. "What other symptoms have you been experiencing?"

Esarhaddon drew in a deep inhalation of air and then released it slowly. "Ever since my encounter with the cult priestess in the Thraqum Wood, I have been beset by a terrible exhaustion. I am ashamed to admit that this debilitating weariness has affected my ability to tend to my own affairs. My chamberlain and Shumeeren have been overseeing the villa during my time of convalescence, but I fear that I have been remiss in my duties to Mordor."

"This is most concerning." Tushratta frowned. "One does not wish to incur the ire of the Tower, for whilst the Lord of Mordor is known for His gifts, He is not known for His mercy."

Esarhaddon's throat bobbed beneath his beard as he swallowed down his dread. "Lord Faikal paid me a visit yestereve," he stated quietly. "While my brother Erkannan has been tending to matters at the House of Huzziya, my illness caused me to miss a very important council with the Ministry of Trade. Faikal gave me a warning for failing to comply with the directives."

"These are grievous tidings!" Tushratta tried to keep the alarm from sounding in his voice, for he always wished to present himself in a calm, detached manner around his patients. "I pray that you are able to resolve this situation to Lord Faikal's satisfaction."

"Faikal is a bastard," Esarhaddon fumed. "I doubt that anything satisfies him, but he cannot justifiably condemn those who abide by the rules. But enough about that pompous scoundrel!" He waved his hand about in the air, as though trying to drive away an annoying fly. "I am planning to host a grand spectacle to celebrate the birth of my son, but this accursed exhaustion has made it difficult to concentrate!" He bent forward, despondently clutching his head in his hands. "Not only does my body betray me, but my sleep is plagued by horrific nightmares!"

Suspecting that he knew the cause of Esarhaddon's illness, Tushratta raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Tell me more about these nightmares. Oft knowledge of a malady can be divined from the nature of the dreams which it causes in the afflicted."

Esarhaddon straightened his posture and sighed heavily. A moment passed before he resumed speaking. "I am back in the forest again, searching for that accursed woman. When I finally find her, though, her face rots away, revealing a grotesque skull." His voice lowered, his words sounding pained. "If that were not horrible enough, sometimes the woman resembles Goldwyn."

"I can see why these nightmares are so disturbing to you," Tushratta remarked sympathetically. "It would be horrifying to see the one whom you love transformed into a monster."

It was bad enough to see her possessed, the physician thought to himself.

"What is wrong with me, Tushratta?" Esarhaddon demanded, his tone anguished.

His expression pensive, Tushratta leaned back slightly in his seat. He had to be careful how he replied, for the merchant could be… peculiar… about things of a mystical nature.

"Your malady is indictive of one who has been stricken by the Shadow," Tushratta stated gravely.

"You mean the sickness of the spirit that is said to come from the Nazgûl and their servants?" Esarhaddon raised a dubious pair of eyebrows. "While I believe that most of their so-called sorcery is actually illusion, stagecraft, and secret knowledge of the laws of nature, I have done nothing to offend the Nine Lords or their underlings." A troubled expression passed over his face. "Well, there was an incident with the Seneschal of Minas Morgul involving that ridiculous toll the Nazgûl force travelers to pay in order to pass through their valley. However, that was months ago! Surely the Seneschal would not harbor a grudge over such a trifling matter!"

"Not all ailments of this nature come from the Nazgûl." As he spoke, Tushratta made certain that his voice sounded calm and soothing – humoring Esarhaddon's rigid sense of logic without being condescending. "You say you contracted this illness shortly after journeying through the Thraqum Wood. According to the lore of this region, the forest and its inhabitants were cursed by the Lord of Mordor Himself. Even though you have done nothing to offend the Giver of Gifts, perhaps you still fell victim to the curse when you ventured too far into the forest."

An exaggeration at best and a falsehood at worst, but Tushratta dared not ask Esarhaddon what really happened in the Thraqum Wood. To his knowledge – which was sorely lacking when it came to matters of the unseen realm – there was only one way to fall prey to the Shadow: by running afoul of the undead. However, Esarhaddon's account contained no mention of the ghouls which lurked in the forest… unless the woman who attacked him was among their cursed number. That seemed a likely possibility to Tushratta, given his patient's lingering melancholia and the peculiar wounds upon his arms. Dark sorcery was afoot, and the physician struggled to explain it in terms which would pacify the merchant.

An expression of utter horror had come over Esarhaddon's face, and he looked as though he might violently expel the contents of his stomach at any moment. "Then is there no cure for my ailment?"

"The wounds on your arms are healing well – even if they are slow to mend – so you should take heart." Tushratta gave him a smile of encouragement. "However, there is still the matter of the lingering exhaustion, as well as the nightmares which torment your sleep."

"How do you propose treating this affliction?" There was a slight note of hope in the merchant's voice.

"The healers at the Hospital of Turkûrzgoi are quite skilled at treating illnesses of the Shadow, and I have learned much during my time working with them," Tushratta replied. "They use a flowering plant which grows along the shores of the Sea of Nurnen to ease the melancholy brought on by such ailments. It is a variety of sea lavender, which, unlike most of its relatives, has a pleasant fragrance reminiscent of honey, as well as a wholesome taste when brewed as a tisane. Perhaps you have heard of hîlnlîmp, or Purple Tears as it is called in the common tongue?"

"I have been told that the plant is beneficial for those suffering from sorrow and grief, but I fear I am not familiar with all of its properties." Esarhaddon stroked his beard thoughtfully. "To be honest, I had dismissed most of the claims about hîlnlîmp to be mere superstition."

"While it is wise to be suspicious of any claim that seems too good to be true, I assure you that hîlnlîmp's reputation as a powerful healing herb is well deserved. There is quite an interesting legend about the plant known as Purple Tears," Tushratta continued, warming up to his subject. "In ancient days before the Sun and Moon first arose, great numbers of elves traversed the wild reaches of Middle-earth in their journey to the West. Some of these elves traveled southward along the Anduin before resuming a westward course; others split off from this group and settled along the Mouths of the Anduin. Curious about the mountainous region to the east, a small faction passed through what is known today as the Morgul Vale. Known as the Falassalpi, these elves explored the interior of Mordor and sojourned for a time along the shores of the Sea of Nurnen.

"The Falassalpi were not the first to call Nurn their home, however. A water spirit dwelt within the sea, a beautiful maiden with golden skin and juniper hued hair which flowed around her lissome body like seaweed. Gaerweneth she was called by the Falassalpi, a title meaning Lady of the Sea; the men who later settled in Nurn called her Ninkara, Lady of Sorrow; her name in the tongue of Mordor is Kârshnîthi, the Sea's Lament.

"One day a fisherman of the Falassalpi was strolling along the shore when he came across the Lady of Nurnen sunning herself upon a rock. The moment their eyes met, they fell instantly in love, becoming utterly smitten with each other. Alas, this romance was ill-fated, for the Falassalpi, fearing the trembling of the earth beneath their feet and the eruptions of the Mountain of Fire, had decided to depart from the shores of Nurnen and rejoin their kin in the west. The Lady of the Sea begged the fisherman to stay, but he did not wish to be parted from his people, and she could not leave the waters she called home.

"It is said that Lady Ninkara still wanders the shores of the Sea of Nurnen, ever weeping for her lost love. Wherever her tears splash upon the ground, the purple blossoms of hîlnlîmp spring from the earth."

"A charming tale, Tushratta, but do you have any of this supposedly extraordinary plant upon you?" Esarhaddon crossed his arms over his chest and gave the physician a look of annoyance.

Always so impatient, Tushratta thought to himself, resisting the urge to shake his head with longsuffering amusement. "I always carry a sachet of hîlnlîmp in my medical bag."

"So do I drink this stuff, smoke it, or rub it all over my body?"

"The application of hîlnlîmp depends upon the nature of the ailment," Tushratta explained. "The flowers and leaves can be brewed in a tisane to bring strength and fortitude back to those stricken by the Shadow. If a patient is too weak to drink, the plant can be heated in water – preferably from the Sea of Nurnen – and placed around the sickbed so that the surrounding air might be filled with its salubrious fragrance. Hîlnlîmp can also be used in compresses and poultices, as well as mixed with various unguents and made into salves for wounds." The physician paused for a moment, reflecting upon his thoughts. "While a skilled healer can use this extraordinary plant to heal the body, only a shaman can command hîlnlîmp to bring peace to the spirit. I will do what I can, but I would strongly recommend that you seek out a shaman. The Shadow is an ailment not only of the body, but of the spirit, and the best way to treat it is to address the woes of both."

"I would have as few dealings with shamans as possible," Esarhaddon muttered. "I prefer my healers to be grounded in the world that can be witnessed through the senses, and not wandering off into realms unseen and unknown."

Tushratta nodded. "Very well. I will teach both you and your manservant Yar the proper methods of brewing soothing hîlnlîmp tisanes and simmering the leaves and flowers of the plant to release its beneficial aroma."

"I will be exceedingly glad to rid myself of this withering exhaustion," Esarhaddon remarked, scowling. "How I long to dream of more pleasant things: to live like a king in a palace filled with riches beyond imagination, surrounded by hundreds of voluptuous women." He chuckled for a moment at his own fantasies, and then his mood turned somber. "There is another matter which I wish to address: that of the Lady Goldwyn. She has been troubled of late, sleeping past noon and refusing to leave her chambers. I suspect that concern for my welfare has brought on a relapse of the illness which plagued her during the journey."

Alarm and dread struck Tushratta like twin bolts of lightning. He could not bear the thought of Goldwyn ailing, and he would do anything in his power to help alleviate her suffering. He wondered what had brought on these latest woes. He doubted that her malaise was caused by any concern for Esarhaddon's sake, for she despised the man. Had the evil spirit returned to torment her? No, no, he had banished the demon when he had called upon Lady Estë for aid.

"Do you wish for me to examine the lady and determine what ails her?" He tried not to seem too interested in her plight – only show the usual concern that a healer had for a patient, what was expected, what was respectable. Under no circumstances could Esarhaddon know his true feelings for Goldwyn.

"Yes, if you would," Esarhaddon replied, nodding in approval. "The lady has suffered so much."

And she continues to suffer, with you as her jailor.

Tushratta felt a pang of guilt as the words came unbidden to his mind.

"I understand that you have been faring poorly, my lady." Tushratta's voice was gentle, compassionate. "Can you tell me more about what troubles you?"

Goldwyn felt her body tense as though preparing for a fight, but she forced herself not to move from the cornflower blue divan. She resented the healer's presence in her salon, for her chambers were the only sanctuary she had in this accursed place. He was standing in front of one of the windows which overlooked the garden, blocking her view of the outdoors with his tall, annoyingly handsome form.

She did not want to talk about her troubles, for rumination only made them worse. It had been thirteen days since she had angrily confided to Esarhaddon what had really happened to her in the crypt in Osgiliath… At least she thought it had been thirteen days. Keeping track of the time was a challenge she did not care to confront, for a withering sense of apathy had settled over her, and she felt as though she were watching the sands in the hourglass of her life slowly trickle by. She had the vague understanding that when the final grain of sand fell that it would all be over, and that thought gave her a sliver of hope. All she had to do was wait until that long-anticipated moment, although the notion did occur to her that she could take matters into her own hands by shattering the hourglass.

"I am doing as well as can be expected given the circumstances," she replied enigmatically.

"Esarhaddon tells me that you have been refusing to leave your quarters," Tushratta persisted.

Goldwyn uttered a bitter snort. "It is the only way I can get any peace and quiet."

"So then is your condition not as serious as you have been implying to your husband and the other members of the household?"

She froze. The physician knew that she was prone to malingering when she wanted to be left alone; in fact, he had exaggerated the severity of her illness during the journey to protect her from unwanted attention. However, the melancholy which had embraced her in its soft, shadowy arms was not an affection upon her part, but rather the consequences of being trapped with no reprieve and forcibly reminded of all that she had lost.

"As I said before, I am doing as well as can be expected."

Tushratta loosed a sigh of patient forbearance and then changed the subject. "After examining Esarhaddon, I have come to the conclusion that he is suffering from an illness of the Shadow."

"What is that?" Goldwyn asked, wondering if the malady was fatal. She certainly hoped so.

"It is an ailment of the spirit which afflicts those who have encountered the undead," Tushratta explained, his voice filled with hesitation, as though he were uncertain of how she would respond. "While the Thraqum Wood is said to be haunted by ghosts and ghouls, Esarhaddon did not mention seeing any in his account. A very perplexing situation, indeed."

"Esarhaddon was attacked by a wight." Goldwyn's lips twitched in amusement when she saw the thunderstruck expression upon Tushratta's face. "Of course, he would omit that part from his tale – his accursed pride prohibits him from admitting that his knowledge of the world is quite limited, and that there exist things beyond his comprehension."

"The priestess who attacked him in the forest." When Goldwyn nodded, Tushratta heaved a great sigh, all of the air leaving his lungs in a rush of defeat. "I should have known." He shook his head morosely, obviously hurt that his patient did not trust him enough to confide the truth. "I thought it quite strange that a woman – even one who was filled with the kapurdri bloodlust – would be strong enough to best Esarhaddon in a fight."

"The man is a fool," Goldwyn muttered with disgust. "Even after he told me of the wight's assault, he tried to go back on his own words and claim that she was some sort of mushroom-besotted cult priestess wearing a mask, as opposed to a skeletal creature formed of shadows and evil sorcery. He refuses to believe the truth, and demands that others go along with his delusions."

How many times had Esarhaddon, addled from sleep and wild with fear, invaded the sanctity of her bedchamber to complain about the nightmares which tormented him? With his mind now fully awake, he would begin desperately confessing the horrors that had befallen him in the Thraqum Wood, as though he were under some dreadful curse which forced him to repeat himself over and over again. Goldwyn could have tolerated the pathetic displays of an overwrought and despairing man who had narrowly escaped a terrible doom, had he not demanded that she also discuss what happened to her in the crypt in Osgiliath. Just because the two of them had been deceived by the treacheries of the dark undead did not mean that they had anything in common, especially since Esarhaddon refused to acknowledge the true horror of what had happened to them both.

Tushratta gave her a wry smile of shared frustration. "While it is always a challenge to deal with patients who are not completely forthcoming, fortunately the treatment that I prescribed for Esarhaddon is very effective against ailments of the Shadow."

Although Goldwyn tried to maintain her usual aloof attitude, she could not help but be curious about this remedy. Knowledge was power, after all, and she was greatly in need of that.

"How do you propose to treat this malady?"

"Through the healing powers of a plant called hîlnlîmp," he explained, sounding quite scholarly. "There is an interesting legend about it…"

As Goldwyn listened to Tushratta recount the tale of the Lady of Nurnen and her ill-fated romance with an elven fisherman, she found herself intrigued by the early history of Nurn. While Shireen, the tutor from the School of Industry, had taught her a little bit about the history of Mordor, this particular legend had not been discussed. Goldwyn had not known that elves had ever dwelt in Mordor; she thought they would have had more sense than that, given how highly esteemed they were by many Gondorians. At least they possessed the wisdom to leave while they still could.

Even more fascinating than the elves of the Falassalpi was Ninkara of the Nurnian Sea. Here was a power other than Sauron who dwelt in the land of Mordor, who had called that land home long before he did. Healers used the purple flowers that grew from her tears to treat illnesses associated with the undead. Perhaps this meant that the people of Nurn instinctively sought the light, even if they worshipped the darkness. Goldwyn felt a pang of guilt; perhaps she had judged the Nurniags too harshly in her belief that her own people were superior to those of other lands.

"My lady, perhaps you would benefit from hîlnlîmp yourself." Tushratta's gentle voice interrupted her thoughts. "It can help ease sorrow and bring comfort to the spirit. Perhaps it might bring cheer to your heart."

I do not need cheer; I need to escape from this wretched place.

Goldwyn did not give voice to her thoughts, but merely nodded her consent to try the mythical Purple Tears.

"He loves you, you know," Raen stated matter-of-factly after Tushratta had departed. The handmaiden squatted beside the brazier, brewing hîlnlîmp tea upon a small charcoal fire.

Quirking an eyebrow, Goldwyn crossed her arms over her chest as she gave Raen a dubious look. "Do you speak from the foreknowledge that is so famed of your people?"

"Nay, I merely observe." The old woman's gray eyes twinkled with mischief.

"I fear I do not share his sentiments," Goldwyn remarked, annoyed by how her throat suddenly tightened, causing her voice to catch. "And even if I did, it would be useless to entertain such notions, for Esarhaddon is determined that I should be his and his alone."

"Your tea, my lady." Raen rose slightly and presented Goldwyn with a ceramic cup adorned with a colorful floral design.

A dubious expression upon her face, Goldwyn stared down at the light golden-yellow liquid and cautiously bent her head to take a sniff. For a brief moment, she was walking through a small grove of linden trees back in the Mark, breathing in the sweet fragrance of their cream-colored blossoms as a soft summer breeze stirred the leaves of the trees and cast dancing shadows across the path beneath her feet. Marveling at the pleasant memories which came to her mind, she took a sip of the tea, delighting in its delicate, honeyed taste.

"I hope the tea helps lighten your spirits, my lady." Raen gave her a grandmotherly smile. "To be completely honest, I have been very worried about you these past few weeks. Seeing you languish like a plant without light has brought me great sorrow. Is there anything which would make you happy?"

"To escape from this place and return to my homeland," Goldwyn replied quietly as she set the cup down upon the nearby table. "To see my sons once again."

"May I?" Raen gestured towards the divan, and when Goldwyn nodded her head in assent, the handmaiden gracefully took a seat beside her mistress. Bracing her gnarled hands upon her knees, she leaned towards Goldwyn, her head turning this way and that, as though she feared that the very walls were eavesdropping upon their conversation. "Perhaps there is a way that you could return to Rohan."

Goldwyn barely dared to breathe. "How?"

"The Mountains of Shadow surround this land like formidable walls, but every wall has a crack." A mysterious smile flickered over the old woman's thin lips. "And sometimes mice tunnel through the walls and pass unnoticed by the cats who keep guard."

"How… how would I find these cracks?"

"You would need a guide, for the journey will be fraught with many dangers," Raen told her gravely. "I have little knowledge of the secret world which operates counter to the law, but I have heard tell that there are those who are willing to help others escape the nets of Mordor. Some do this for noble causes, while others are solely motivated by coin."

Tremors rocked Goldwyn's body from the intensity of her furiously pounding heart; her stomach quivered and contracted, and trembling pulses coursed through her limbs. "Where can I find someone who would be willing to guide me to safety?" She clutched her handmaiden's hands in a grip of iron, her eyes wide and desperate.

"I fear I can be of no more help; as I say, I have little knowledge of such matters. However, I may know someone who knows someone… who knows someone." A wry smile passed over her face, but then her expression became solemn once again. "I would dissuade you from choosing this perilous path, for you might find that death – not freedom – lies at the end of it."

"There is still freedom in death," Goldwyn stated grimly, her hands withdrawing to lay placidly upon her lap.

"Then, against my better judgment, I would advise you to seek out Zereshka, who serves as a kitchen maid. Since she often runs errands for the cook, she knows many people from the nearby villages, as well as the cities of Turkûrzgoi and Kuga Mos. I will warn you that she does not keep the best of company, however. Not everyone who opposes the Tower is good… and for that matter, not everyone who is loyal to the Tower is evil."

Goldwyn's thoughts were racing. Zereshka. Could she trust this woman? For that matter, could she trust Raen? What if her handmaiden was laying some sort of trap to ensnare her? How difficult would it be to find a guide who would be willing to help her flee over the mountains?

She had much to ponder.

She took another sip of hîlnlîmp tea, closing her eyes as her mind was flooded with memories of home.