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Nights of Mordor. Chapter 1

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He couldn't believe it was really happening to him. He stood in the dim corridor lit by torches, barefoot on the stone floor slabs, his hands tied behind him. The coldness coming from the soles of his feet was now spreading through his entire body, chilling him to his very bones. The ceiling seemed to weigh on his shoulders. He almost physically felt the thickness of the stone above him that forever separated him from the daylight. He was in the dungeons of Mordor.

It would be better to perish in battle than to be captured alive. But he was so engaged in pursuing retreating orcs, that found himself alone when they suddenly turned around and attacked him. Other Eldar of Mirkwood were too far behind to come to his aid. That's as may be, his sacrifice wasn't completely useless. At least he was able to distract the enemies, killed as many of them as he could, which will save many lives of the creatures of Eru Iluvatar in the future. Now he must face his doom and the impenetrable darkness of the mines of Mordor where he would be sent for sure.

A man dressed in black appeared in the corridor. The elf, who lowered his gaze before, not willing to look upon the ugly orc mugs and artless stone arches and columns, saw only his feet in knee-high boots that stopped in front of him.

He raised his head to face the enemy and was utterly surprised to find said enemy to be very tall, almost a head taller than himself. And he was never considered a shortie among the elves. Among the Mirkwood Sindar, anyway.

The man was not only tall, but also broad-shouldered. His appearance spoke of a great physical strength. There was malice burning in his green eyes on the pale face. His hair was long and raven-dark, falling down on his shoulders. He seemed... dangerous.

A black-gloved hand took the elf by the chin and raised his head. Meeting his glaring eyes made the elf shudder. There was something predatory in them. Something bloodthirsty.

"What's your name, pretty elf?" the man asked.

The elf stepped back, jerking his head like some restive mare, flaring his nostrils in anger. No one ever talked to him this way, never addressed him so rudely. No stranger ever laid a finger on him. The elf curled his lips disdainfully and straightened, looking not on the man in front of him but through him.

"So you have a spirit, I see," the man drawled. "I like them spirited. So much fun to break them."

After saying that the man hit the elf in the face so suddenly, with such brutal force that his teeth clanked and his ears ringed. The blow threw the elf back to the wall. Unable to keep his balance, he collapsed to his knees.

"Put him in a cell," the man ordered. He turned around and left.

North Moradan (sketch) by Ozarielle 

North Moradan (sketch) by Ozarielle 

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