Goldwyn leaned back against the divan with a groan, her eyes burning and her head aching. Books were haphazardly spread out across the low table before her, a cool autumn breeze from the window flipping through their colorfully illuminated pages like an invisible hand. She stared blankly at the sight, as though the wind which so carelessly perused the books had also driven all the thoughts from her head. She had spent most of the afternoon feverishly pouring over maps of Mordor and committing to memory the various ways one could escape the country, and now her brain felt like a piece of charcoal, burnt to a crisp. She pressed her fingers into her eye sockets and tried to rub away the strain caused by hours of relentless study. To see the Dark Lord's vast domain depicted upon a map was a sobering sight to behold, and she felt her spirit recoil with dread. Here was a prison forged from the very earth itself, protected by walls made of stone and terror. How could one who was brought as a captive to this evil place ever find freedom?

Even though these maps of Mordor – found in a geographical survey she had borrowed from Esarhaddon's library – made her heart sink with despair, they also allowed her to plan. She supposed it was a bit like receiving the bad tidings before the good; it allowed one to prepare for the worst and not entertain false hopes. While the journey to freedom would be fraught with peril, at least she had a clear understanding of the distances involved and the obstacles which she would face.

The Land of Shadow was surrounded on three sides by rugged mountains known for their steep faces, razor-sharp ridges, and deep ravines, but there were three major passes through which armies and caravans could travel: the Black Gate in the north, the Morgul Pass in the west, and the Harnen Pass in the south. There were other passes as well, but these were narrow and often treacherous, and few and far between. All of these routes were heavily guarded, and it would be extremely difficult for an unauthorized traveler to attempt the journey. Although there were no natural barriers to form a wall around Mordor's eastern side, the border was marked by a series of guard towers which were positioned a day's journey from each other. While not a wall in the true sense, the towers acted as one, with regular patrols ensuring that few slaves were able to escape the bounds of Mordor. Two major roads led to Mordor from the east: a northern route, used by the various peoples of Rhûn, and a southern route, used by the kingdom of Khand.

When Goldwyn had taken the geographical survey to her quarters, she claimed that she had an interest in learning more about the land which she now called home. She had also selected a book about the Kin-strife in Gondor, not because she had any interest in the subject, but because the volume featured detailed maps of the kingdom's various fiefdoms. If she attempted to return to Rohan by crossing over the western Mountains of Shadow, she would need to familiarize herself with Ithilien, as well as the eastern part of Anórien. Concerned that her choice of reading material would raise eyebrows, Goldwyn had chosen three more books at random: a two-volume bestiary of birds and animals from Near and Far Harad, and an anthology of epic poetry from the kingdom of Harûnak. Because her reading skills were still quite undeveloped, she claimed that the beautiful illustrations had caught her eye, and that was why she had chosen the books she had.

Goldwyn knew that she played a dangerous game, but fortunately for her, no one at the villa realized she was playing it. Suppressing her hatred, rage, and disdain for Mordor, its allies, and the villain who claimed her as his concubine, she pretended that she had achieved a reluctant sort of contentment in her new home. So far, it seemed to be working, and no one suspected that she still schemed ways to escape like a general planning out a campaign. Sometimes she would be seized by random bouts of terror and briefly become convinced that Esarhaddon and the various members of his household could somehow divine her thoughts and intentions. An ambiguous statement, eyes which narrowed upon seeing her, footsteps which followed a little too close — small gestures such as these filled her with dread, and her overwrought mind assigned sinister meaning to even the most nonsensical of things. Whenever the paranoia struck, she tried to remind herself that her thoughts were her own, and that she had done nothing which would cause anyone to suspect her of being anything other than the somewhat ambivalent concubine of a wealthy merchant.

The maps.

She had to concentrate upon the maps, to make up for the time she had lost when she had been… unwell.

Goldwyn straightened her spine, her attention returning to the books scattered upon the table. This was not the first time that she had looked at the geographical study or viewed a map of Mordor, but it had been a while since she had pondered the topography in earnest. The same dark shadow which hung over the villa in the wake of Esarhaddon's illness had settled over her heart, and long had she wandered in the inky gloom without realizing that she was lost. The melancholia had come on gradually, like the slow, silent creep of withering disease, sapping her will and draining her of all ambition. Before she knew it, she was spending hours sitting upon the divan in her chambers, as though some evil magic had transformed her into a lichen growing on the side of a tree. Some days she did not even go to the bathhouse, and if it were not for Raen tending to her toilet, she probably would not have even bothered to brush her hair or change out of the previous day's clothing. She kept postponing her daily lessons with Shireen, and it had been several weeks since she had practiced sword fighting with Zora. Her horse Hopa remained in the villa stables, patiently waiting for her to ride him once again. She idled her days away by gazing out the window, feeling nothing except for the crushing weight of time as the sun slowly made her journey from one side of the heavens to the other.

The hîlnlîmp tea which Tushratta had prescribed her had helped somewhat, but it was so difficult to keep from sinking into the mire of despondency. Trapped in a situation beyond her control, held prisoner by a man whom she despised, she had little say in what fate befell her. How then could she control her own emotions? She was utterly helpless; there would be no one who could save her from the misery of her wretched existence. As she saw it, there were two ways out of her predicament: she could claw her way out tooth and nail, or she could end it all. She frequently vacillated between the two possibilities: plotting her cleverly planned escape, or fantasizing about rushing into Death's waiting arms. While the first choice might end in failure and the second in grim finality, at least she would be taking an active role in attempting to change her circumstances. Anything would be better than passively fading into nothingness, like a fallen tree slowly rotting upon the forest floor.

Like iron drawn to a lodestone, her gaze went to the eating knife which lay discarded upon a crumb-covered plate at the far end of the table. The thoughts came unbidden, as they often did these days. Pale as a ghost in her diaphanous white shift, she stood before Esarhaddon in the intimate, shadowy gloom of his bedchamber, one hand behind her back, the other lightly caressing her breast. Candles flickered around them, the dancing flames reflected in the mirrored panel upon the ceiling above them like stars in the heavens. Her smoldering gaze never leaving his eyes, she slowly glided towards him, her hips swaying seductively from side to side. And then in one swift, terrible motion, she drew the dagger which she held concealed behind her back and plunged it deep into her middle, aiming upward towards her heart. Esarhaddon's expression of lustful anticipation turned to one of slack-jawed horror, and she smiled in triumph as the world turned to black.

Goldwyn reached over and picked up the eating knife, holding it lightly in her hand. She studied the blade for a moment and then pressed it against the underside of her wrist, feeling the coolness of the metal against her skin. How would it feel to let the blade cut deeply into her flesh? Sometimes she fantasized about standing before Esarhaddon and slitting her wrists in a final display of vengeful defiance; his frantic apologies would be a melody to her dying ears. Other times, she threw herself from the top of the manor house whilst he watched in dismay, utterly helpless to stop her from falling to her demise. When she was feeling especially spiteful, she imagined herself raising a goblet of poison during one of his grand feasts and toasting his eternal happiness. How the guests would scream in horror as she began convulsing upon the floor, bloody froth foaming from her gaping mouth.

Perhaps it would make more sense to fantasize about murdering Esarhaddon, but Goldwyn knew that he would overpower her with his superior strength and swiftly disarm her. No, hurting herself would bring him far more pain, and she desired to see him suffer.

The maps.

Concentrate on the maps.

Forcing herself to redirect the course of her thoughts, Goldwyn rose to her feet and began pacing the room. She was annoyed with herself for succumbing to dark fantasies when there was work to be done. For far too long the shadow had held her in its thrall, weighing down her spirit with the heavy shackles of despair. It seemed that she was at last making progress in breaking free, although the journey was long and filled with toil, and nowhere close to its end. Her desire to plan and scheme had at last returned, however, and she refused to allow the lingering clutch of melancholia to drag her back into the lightless place she had known before.

Her gaze returned to the open geographical survey.

If one simply wished to flee Mordor and did not care about their destination, then the eastern border seemed the most promising route for escape. True, there were guard towers and cavalry patrols, but it would be possible to sneak through if one were careful enough. Goldwyn knew very little about the people who dwelt to the east of Mordor, though, other than the fact that many of them were allied with the Dark Lord. There was also a very good possibility that few of them understood Westron. Besides that, the eastern border was far from the Western Province, and it would be a journey of roughly three hundred miles to get there.

There was the northern route, of course, back the way she and the other Rohirric captives had been taken to Nurn. That route was even longer than the eastern one, and passed through the rocky wastes of Lithlad and the desolate plain of Gorgoroth. There were two ways out of northern Mordor: the valley of Udûn, which required a traveler to pass through both the Isenmouthe and the Black Gate and the innumerable orcs stationed there, and the Morgul Vale, which was the domain of the Nazgûl and a place of terrifying illusions and evil sorcery. Goldwyn remembered the horrors of the Morgul Vale when the slave caravan passed through that dread place, and had no desire to return.

The Harnen Pass lay approximately seventy miles from the villa, and was the major point of entry for caravans from the south. Goldwyn considered the possibility of crossing over the Mountains of Shadow near the pass and seeking freedom in Northern Harad. The southern route posed many of the same difficulties as the eastern route: she would be in a land filled with enemies, many of whom knew little Westron. However, she did possess more knowledge of Northern Harad than she did of the distant lands to the East. Esarhaddon's tribe controlled the region along the Harnen River; Kaskal, their chief city, was located on the other side of the Mountains of Shadow, near the river's source. Because Kaskal was a major trade city, knowledge of Westron was not uncommon in this region. Over the course of her captivity, Goldwyn had learned a few Haradric words and phrases, and perhaps they would be enough to get by.

A sudden thought came to her, and she remembered Aeffe and Inbir, who escaped from the caravan and ran away together. Their plan had been to flee through the desert of Lithlad and cross over the Mountains of Shadow, eventually making their way to Harad. She had no way of knowing if their quest for freedom had ended in success or dismal failure, but the fact that they had even tried meant that there were ways to cross over the mountains which were omitted from the official maps. While she felt it would be foolish to return to Lithlad and try to find some elusive pass through the hills, perhaps there were secret routes closer to her. She looked to the western regions of the Western Province, and the foothills which lay approximately one hundred and fifty miles to the west. Could her path to freedom lie there?

Goldwyn's restless pacing was a journey with no purpose and no end, and at last her feet became too weary to continue. She returned to the divan and sat down heavily, a sigh of frustration rushing past her lips. She was an outsider in this land and had no knowledge of the secret routes one might use to escape it, nor how to outwit the watchers that guarded its borders. When it came to such delicate and dangerous matters, she could use the aid of one who was familiar with the gears and cogs of Mordor.

She instantly thought of Tushratta. Could he help her? During the long journey to Nurn, he had protected her from Esarhaddon's unwanted advances by exaggerating the severity of her illness. He had even intimated that he would continue to do so, should she request his aid. "A good healer does all in his power to ensure the health and wellbeing of his patient," he had told her that morning when he had sought her out in the garden back in early September. She considered telling Tushratta about her desire to escape, but she was afraid that his strict code of honor would prevent him from betraying Esarhaddon or breaking the laws of Mordor. Even if he did help her, he would be putting his life at risk, and she did not want any harm to befall the good healer.

Who then could help her in her plight?

Goldwyn's mind went back to a conversation she had with Raen a few weeks prior. The handmaiden had insinuated that one of the kitchen maids might have ties to those who operated outside the laws of the land. Perhaps this woman – Zereshka was her name, Goldwyn recalled – could tell her how to find a guide willing to help her flee the country. Goldwyn was hesitant to approach a stranger about something so perilous, however. How did she know if she could trust Zereshka? She barely trusted Raen as it was.

While Goldwyn had always been somewhat reserved, trusting others was especially difficult for her these days. Her first escape attempt – which had been for the benefit of all of the Rohirric captives, not just her and her sons – had been betrayed by a woman whom she had known for years. While she considered Leofgifu more of an acquaintance than a friend, still she had been shaken by such treachery. If she could not even trust the women from her own village, how could she trust a stranger from the heart of Sauron's dark realm?

A wave of exhaustion passed over Goldwyn, and all she desired at that moment was to sleep. Her thoughts, which had previously been galloping like a racehorse, had now slowed to a lumbering halt. She needed to rest, to seek the sanctuary of her couch and forget for a while the many woes which burdened her heart. She lay down upon the divan and closed her eyes, her troubled mind searching for respite in the oblivion of slumber.

It was late one afternoon when the captives had camped on the west side of the Anduin. Esarhaddon insisted that Goldwyn and her sons walk with him through the ruins of Osgiliath, while he pointed out the destroyed glories of Gondor, gloating in the defeat of the West. He had taken far too many liberties, but she, fearing for the safety of her sons, had allowed him. Then, that night, she and the boys had been his unwilling companions for supper. He had appeared kind to her sons, giving them the finest dainties of his table, and when at last he allowed them to leave, he had offered them more of the confections to take with them.

Was Esarhaddon kind? No! Of course not! He merely attempted to buy off her children's favor with sugared fruits and cakes! He probably considered them as little more than beggars, for was that not what they were – impoverished wards of a conquering empire? The man could not be kind for the sake of kindness or compassion. No, there must always be something to be gained for him!

Then there was the failed escape later that night. She had believed, hoped beyond all possibility of hope, that she and her sons could elude their pursuers and somehow manage to flee back to the West. For a while, it had seemed that all four of them might be successful in their plan to escape, but... the orcs and men pressed in too closely upon them. She, imitating the female pheasant luring away an enemy from her chicks, had led the hunters away, and her boys were able to evade capture. She had planned to go back for them, but the guards were hot on her trail, and she was forced to keep running further and further away from her sons.

Her sons. She would never see them again! She thought of Fritha, so young, so little, trusting, looking to his eldest brother for the comfort that they would no longer receive from their father. Then there was Frumgár, the middle son, who had chafed under the rule of his big brother, but, in the end, had always accepted it. In his hands always fell the care of the little one, and he had accepted it patiently. She smiled as she thought of Fródwine, the brave, the leader, the impulsive, the impetuous, so like his father in many ways!

Goldwyn sighed. Fródwine would lead them to safety and freedom! They were still alive somewhere! They must be! ...But if they were not... what was left? She could sit no longer and stare at the moon as it rose high into the heavens! ...But yet... She traced the latticework of the window with her fingertips... the same moon shone upon them... if they still lived! But if the orcs had found them? Would they have hideously tortured them and then feasted upon their tender flesh? She had heard stories of these evil creatures since her captivity, tales that spoke of cruelties too horrible to risk thinking upon without going mad.

"The orcs like their meat still-living, until the blood rises to the skin, and that is the way they like to eat them!" Who had said that? Who had told her these things? Was it one of the uruks who guarded the slave caravan? She could not remember! She did not want to remember!

Goldwyn shivered as though a cold darkness had entered the room, and she rubbed her arms, warding away the chill. She rose from the divan and began pacing. That would calm her. "Walk slowly, steadily, one foot before the other, yes... stop now, stand... do not weep! Take a deep breath," she told herself. That was what Fasthelm had always told her when she was becoming alarmed. "Just take a deep breath. You can think better that way."

Oh, if he were only here!

"But then," she reasoned, "if he were here, why would I be here, in the house of my enemy? Does that make sense? I do not know anymore." She was confused. She must measure her breaths... slowly, in and out, do not be rushed, yes, yes.

Fródwine had been very large at birth, and she was young and apprehensive. The midwife who had been hired to aid her had fallen ill with a fever, and had sent her assistant in her stead. The young girl, frightened and uneasy at having to deliver a child without the guidance of the midwife, had fallen to weeping sobs when the babe was late in coming. Fasthelm had silenced her, forbidding her to speak, and put her to work at keeping the fire alive in the brazier. He had finally instructed her to heat water, knit, whittle – anything to keep her occupied and to stop her wails, which had reached the stage of near hysteria.

Fasthelm had been the elder son, and often assisted his father when mares had difficulty in foaling. Though that had been somewhat reassuring to Goldwyn, he had never delivered a baby. The young of animals were one thing with which to deal, but the children of men were another altogether. Now he was called upon to play the midwife for his own wife and child.

The birthing had been difficult, but at last the boy had been delivered. After Fasthelm had tied and cut the umbilical cord, he turned over the child to the midwife's assistant to bathe. He had been so pleased with Goldwyn, with their son, and with himself. As Goldwyn nursed the child, Fasthelm had bent down and kissed her cheek, looking at her reassuringly. She knew that everything was at peace with her world... even if she sometimes neglected her husband's admonitions to breathe deeply.

How Goldwyn missed Fasthelm's strong hand in hers! Afterwards, when Fródwine had fallen asleep, Fasthelm had teased her, saying that he would always be the midwife... or at least he was available, should the midwife falter. The assistant had looked at him with embarrassment and could not meet his eyes.

"He is gone now, gone forever," Goldwyn thought to herself. "There is nothing left of him but... I cannot fathom the thoughts of... Pelennor."

Breathe deeply, walk slowly... how many times had she paced about the room now? "I do not know. I only know that my heart is heavy. My body is heavy, and I am weary... so very weary... and it is so cold in here!"

She must put something on to ward against the chill. Going to a chest, she pulled open the heavy lid and took out a thick woolen robe of purest white. Though the garment was well suited for a chilly autumn night, she could not suppress the prickles of ice which raced up and down her spine, or make the chill bumps flee away. Picking up a fox fur which rested upon the foot of her couch, she walked to the divan by the window and sat down, covering her lap with the pelt. The candles burnt low.

How she longed for the warmth of Fasthelm's embrace, to be cradled in the protection of his arms! The children would be sleeping nearby, their faces serene, lost in the idylls of dream. The hounds would lie snoring, twitching in their sleep by the low fire. Peaceful would be every night, with the distant stars twinkling brightly in the velvety sky. The window was left open to welcome the balmy breezes of summer, and she would stand beside her husband at the windowsill, nestling into the comfort of his body as he held her close.

But what was left of her husband, save for bones upon a field, the meat picked off the stark whiteness by the ravenous beaks of carrion-birds? Once again she saw before her the dreadful fields of Pelennor littered by the skeletal remains of man and beast. No words could describe the horrors of that sight, and the magnitude of the tragedy was too grievous for the mind even to comprehend fully.

Fasthelm's bones now lay in one of the great mounds of charnel, or were strewn upon the field to be crushed under the malicious feet of orcs. The three sons of their union were now either dead or wandering, lost somewhere with no hope of ever seeing their father again. She was separated from all her kindred and all that she had ever known. Long separated from her kinsfolk and friends, she would never know of their fates, whether their lot was better or worse than hers, or if they had died or had been killed. What was left to her?

Goldwyn could bear no more and collapsed in a weeping heap upon the divan. Her sorrows seemed to multiply themselves with each sob which wrenched itself from her throat. She cried herself into a fitful dozing dream, a vision of men charging across a bloodstained field... of Fasthelm falling with a spear through his heart, and then an arrow, and then another. Then, when he had tumbled to the ground, a uruk with horrible yellow eyes hacked at his form with an axe. Over and over the blows had fallen, splintering Fasthelm's skull, the brains and blood spilling off the sharp blade, his dear face and body rendered into gore. A thick, bloody rain heavy with a pulp of flesh and tendons was hurled into the air with every fall of the axe, a never-ending rhythm of hatred and rage.

Sobbing and trembling, Goldwyn awoke, choked upon her own tears. Her limbs shaking, she drew her legs up to her chest and lay there until her great gasps of weeping subsided. Her mind saw the ghastly visions over and over again, her eyes seeing the field of bones and endless scenes of ruthless slaughter and bloody carnage, her ears hearing the screams of the dying and the keening women and children as they gave voice to their eternal sorrow.

Goldwyn felt a ripple of cold air at her back, and her already trembling form shivered violently as though she was freezing. Was this it, then? Was she going mad at last? Was she losing control of her mind, her body? No, she had not closed the window screen, and that was why she was cold. A simple reason, of course. How foolish she had been not to think of that. Turning, she bent her head to catch one last unhindered glimpse of the moon before she closed the screen.

Something moved close to the ground, keeping low like a dog or a fox. Esarhaddon's hounds were kenneled behind the stables and never allowed in either the house or the garden. Perhaps it was one of the villa's cats; they often patrolled the manor's many halls searching for rats and mice. Goldwyn felt somewhat relieved by that thought, but she still kept looking out upon the garden. Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. How silly she was, being frightened of a cat!

Compelled by an overwhelming sense of curiosity, she looked back out the window. The place where the shadow had been was now occupied by something else, something much larger, something not upon four legs, but upon two!

Her heart pounding, she slammed the window screen closed and fastened the latch. Was the screen strong enough to keep out an intruder who was determined to enter? Now frantic with terror, she rushed over to the bell cord and rang for Raen. Several long, agonizing moments passed, but the handmaiden did not appear. Goldwyn pulled the cord again, jerking it harshly, until she thought that she would pull the rope from the hole in the ceiling.

"Where are you?" she shouted.

Beside you, a voice whispered.

Violent shudders gripped her body. No one was there!

"Where? Where?" she demanded.

Goldwyn felt the impressions of spectral hands upon her shoulders and she shivered. She screamed again and again, but she was not sure now whether her throat was answering her summons. All was quiet. She tugged the bell cord once more. Her arm stiffened, caught in a grip of ice.

As close as your heart...

"I cannot see you!"

I can see you...

The ghostly hand slipped from her shoulder to the hollow of her neck. Goldwyn felt her throat throbbing against something unseen. It was feeling her heart beat!

So beautiful... so alive...

"What are you?!"

You know who I am.

The fell spirit from the crypts of Osgiliath! This phantom was the same demon who had come to her in the guise of her husband's wraith, Goldwyn realized with horror. Filling her mind with illusions of home and hearth, he had attempted to seduce her and then wrest her body away from her control!

"What do you want from me?!"

The unseen hand skimmed down to her breasts, and she began to see the misty outline of fingers connecting to a hand.

I have been lonely without you. Why did you leave me?

The deep cold penetrated to the marrow of her bones, and she was sure that her blood must be congealing in the arteries. She felt her body going limp, as though the ice in her bones had suddenly melted. As she sagged into the cushions, she fought the overwhelming desire to sleep.

Warm... not like the darkness...

Cold lips brushed against her closed eyelashes and kissed the lids open. Horrified, Goldwyn screamed again. The spectre's lips went to her mouth, his hands pushing her back against the cushions.

"Go back! Go back!" Her hands lurched forward, attempting to push away her ghostly assailant, but the fiend would not move and held her all the tighter in clenched phantasmal fists.

No, no! I am hungry... and lonely!

"Go back to the dead!"

I want to be with the living! I want to be with you!

"No! You will never..."

I am far stronger than you, the voice whispered.

A shadowy face began to take form over her. Handsome beyond the rights of man... a broad-shouldered body, tall, so tall... beautiful in its phosphoric glow...

You desire me!

"No, you unholy apparition! I do not desire you! Go back, go back from whence you came! Begone and quit following me, dweller of the tombs!"

I cannot leave you, for I want to bond to you!

No man who ever walked upon the earth living could ever embody the essence of pure carnal evil that emanated from the beauteous figure before her. He lusted for her body, but not as mortals do, for he wished to do more than take his pleasure with her, but to dwell within her body in an abominable union.

"Creature of the sepulcher, spirit of the blighted tombs, cleave unto your dust, and leave forever the living!"

I will have you! Give me entry! Sleep... sleep... join me...

"Never!" she shrieked. With a violent summoning of her energy, she slid out of his grasp and found her hand clutching the eating knife on the table.

You grow weaker... Put the knife back...

Goldwyn tried to resist the seductive voice which threatened to subdue her into capitulating to his demands.

Passion forever... as though it were your husband who held you...

"You are not Fasthelm!" she cried as she plunged the knife into the fiend's back.

I cannot die! the spectre laughed.

"But I can!" she gasped as she slashed the blade across her left wrist.

No! You must be living! I crave warm flesh, not the cold flesh of the dead!

"You cannot prevent me!" she screamed as the blood burst forth in torrents from the cut which she had made. "I can die!"

No! No! Do not leave me! the voice wailed.

"Leave you I will, and I do!" Grasping the knife in her other hand, she gouged a furrow across her right wrist, severing her veins. The blood rushed out in pulsing showers, drenching her white robe with crimson.

Do not! Do not!

The voice trailed off.

Goldwyn slid to the floor as a vision of Fasthelm mounted on a prancing charger raced ahead of her on the plains of Rohan. The golden sun shone down upon silver helm and flowing hair.

"I must catch up with him," she smiled as she closed her eyes.