#across time

Abruptly, the memory shattered like glass. Harsh torchlight and the stench of sulfur replaced the clean scent of the sea. Althaen—no, she was no longer called by that name. She was Umbreth here. She sat bolt upright, lungs straining in the stagnant air of Morgoth’s domain. A cringing servant stood at the entrance to her chamber, head bowed to avoid meeting her eyes.

“My lady,” he muttered, anxiousness creeping into his voice. “Lord Morgoth summons you.”

She rose in silence, the edges of her faded memory still cutting deep. Once, she had carried only warmth in her heart, her steps as light as her spirit. Now, every breath tasted of dust and ash, and her eyes shone not with wonder but with the threat of chaos. It struck her how far she had fallen—how easily she had cast aside the name Althaen for Umbreth, and with it, all that was pure and whole.

Yet she did not linger on regret. Not anymore. Without a word, she followed the servant, each footstep echoing a truth she could never erase: she was forever changed—and it was far too late to turn back.

*****

Umbreth entered Morgoth’s hall with measured steps, the air so thick with dread it nearly weighed down her lungs. Torches lined the walls, flames guttering with each tremor of the mountain beneath Angband. Their light never reached the throne’s dais, leaving the figure perched there in an unsettling half-glow. Even from a distance, Umbreth felt Morgoth’s presence like a tidal surge threatening to pull her under.

His form was impossibly beautiful, every line a tribute to the power he commanded. The perfect curve of cheekbones, hair darker than the Void, and skin that appeared as though it might refract the faint light in crystalline brilliance. It was a loveliness that repulsed her now. He had once whispered promises of a sanctuary from the suffocating light of the Valar, a place to live without restraint. But this hall stank of decay and despair—no haven, only a twisted echo of what he had dangled before her.

She bowed low, gaze dropping to the black stone beneath her feet. A single breath was all she managed before Morgoth’s voice rang out—a deceptively gentle sound, high and lilting, sweet as venom.

“Umbreth,” he said, elongating the syllables like a lullaby. “I have been waiting.”

She sank to one knee, careful to keep her posture humble. “My lord, I—”

He cut her off, letting out a light laugh that was far too musical. “You have been idle. Surely you found some diversion in the shadows to occupy your time?”

Umbreth did not risk meeting his eyes. “I was—”

Another interruption, a sharp twist to his otherwise soothing tone. “You were doing as I bid. Yes, of course.” He seemed amused by her attempts at explanation. “And now you will do more.”

A wave of his hand summoned a servant from the darkness, carrying a twisted bit of metal that resembled a scroll holder. Umbreth raised her gaze just enough to watch the object pass from hand to hand, eventually offered up toward her. She waited, unmoving, until Morgoth himself grew impatient.

“Well?” he prompted, his voice cool. “Come, child. Take it.”

She rose and stepped forward, palms outstretched to accept the strange holder. Its surface felt frigid, as though carved from the heart of a glacier. She curled her fingers around it, bracing for more of his clipped orders.

“There are elves encamped two days’ ride south of here,” Morgoth said, this time in that almost-kind tone that froze her spine. “They have been foolish enough to correspond with others of their kind—exchanging plans, no doubt, to challenge my designs.”

He reclined in his throne, long, graceful fingers tapping the armrest. “You will retrieve those scrolls. No one must see you. Make no sound. Bring them to me unopened.”

She swallowed. “Yes, my lor—”

“Yes,” he repeated breezily, cutting her off again. “Yes, you will.”

Then came a subtle, dangerous edge to his words: “Fail me, and we will have to see if Umbreth can be replaced.”

That cool, mocking statement coiled around her heart. Umbreth bowed her head once more, recognizing the threat. In a motion of forced calm, she slipped the metal holder beneath her cloak. She felt eyes on her—Morgoth’s gaze, amused and expectant.

And so, with a final murmured obedience, Umbreth left the throne room, her thoughts heavy with the knowledge that once again she would walk among her former kin, though she no longer belonged to them.

Umbreth moved through the cavern storehouse with brisk efficiency. Stacks of crude crates and barrels lined the walls, containing all manner of weaponry, rations, and foul-smelling tinctures. Uruks milled about, barking at one another or loitering in tight clusters. They paid her little heed; most had learned it was unwise to cross Morgoth’s top spy, despite her slight elven frame.

Torchlight flickered across the cavern walls, casting jagged shadows that danced like specters. The guttural chanting of nearby Uruks echoed through the corridors—raw, rhythmic calls rising and falling in ominous unison. Umbreth paused by a crate, testing its heft. Her arms still ached from prior abuses, but she forced herself to appear calm. Morgoth had granted her another mission, and she refused to depart unprepared.

She was no stranger to this harsh domain, this reek of sulfur and sweat. The thought pricked an old wound, reminding her of how different she once had been: Althaen, the swift elven scout. A lifetime ago. That name and its glow belonged to a world she could barely recall. Morgoth had broken her, piece by piece, forging her into something unrecognizable. The madness might have been there from the start, or perhaps it was merely a seed he’d planted. She no longer cared which was true.

“Still watching from the shadows, I see.”

The low, cutting voice startled her. It was rare anyone crept up on her unannounced—rarer still to provoke that flutter in her chest. Umbreth turned sharply, her gaze catching the figure stepping from the entrance of the storehouse. An elf, tall and lean, with dark hair that fell neatly around patrician features. His skin was free of the deep scars she bore; in him, Morgoth’s cruelty had not manifested as rending flesh but as a different kind of corruption.

Sauron.

She had sensed the swirl of dark power around him from the moment he arrived in Morgoth’s domain, still wearing an almost deceptively fair form. He might have claimed to be an ally, but Umbreth recognized him for what he was: a power-hungry spirit bound to Morgoth, far more cunning than any Uruk could hope to be.

Sauron let his eyes wander over the scattered supplies. “Preparing for a journey?” His voice rang clear, near-musical in the cavern’s gloom.

Umbreth shrugged, returning her attention to the crate in front of her. “Orders,” she said curtly.

His lips curved in a smile that never reached his eyes. “I admire your efficiency, if nothing else. Our master does value competence—especially from those with… unique methods.”

She said nothing to that. Instead, she hefted another bundle of rations onto the crate, ignoring the flare of pain in her arm. The Uruks’ chanting thundered anew in a nearby corridor, and she felt Sauron’s gaze sweep over them with a detached interest.

“Morgoth’s twisted creations,” she muttered, watching a few lumbering forms pass in the distance. “They serve their purpose, but little else. I can’t say I have any affection for them.”

The edges of Sauron’s smile tightened. “Nor do I. Yet they are tools in our master’s arsenal—necessary ones. As are we.”

Umbreth huffed, her tone turning bitter. “We? Speak for yourself. I bring chaos. Morgoth values chaos. That is what I am.”

He stepped closer, and she fought the urge to recoil. Sauron’s presence was insidious: part graceful elf, part roiling darkness. “Chaos,” he said softly, “is only power unbound. But power demands structure, control. Morgoth sees that—eventually, so should you.”

She felt the faint tremor of rage stirring inside her, the same madness stoked by centuries of torment. “Control,” she repeated with a humorless laugh. “Spoken like a strategist. That’s your talent, isn’t it? Shaping all that raw potential into something you can wield.”

Sauron inclined his head, conceding the point without argument. “It’s done me well enough. And I suspect your… unpredictability has served our master too.” His gaze settled on her with unsettling intensity. “Though I wonder, does it serve you?”

Umbreth straightened, jaw clenching. “I do what I must. Morgoth is all that remains for me.”

He made a thoughtful sound but said nothing to dispute it. A ripple of dark hair shifted over his shoulder as he cast a final glance at the Uruks trudging by. Then, with a mild shrug, he turned to leave.

“Enjoy the shadows, Umbreth,” he said, voice echoing through the cavern. “Try not to get lost in them on your little errand.”

She watched him disappear into the half-light, tension clawing at her insides. Behind her, the chant of Uruks rose again, thundering in her ears like a promise of violence to come.

Retrieving the last of her supplies, Umbreth resumed her preparations in silence, entirely aware that Sauron’s parting words carried more than a hint of challenge. Yet she had no love for him, or for any of them, not anymore.

Umbreth set down the crate she had been rummaging through and turned to a stocky Uruk standing guard. He jolted at her sudden attention, fists clenching at his sides as if anticipating a blow. Despite his bulk, he looked wary, almost nervous in her presence.

“I need a spare elven guard uniform,” Umbreth said crisply, wasting no time. “One of the nicer ones, if you can manage it.”

The Uruk blinked, confusion clouding his brutish features. “Elven… uniform?” he repeated, as though the concept itself were foreign. Then, with a short bow of his head, he rasped, “I’ll find it, Umbreth.” He loped off into the dim corridors, leaving her alone in the storeroom once again.

While she waited, Umbreth tapped her foot impatiently, eyes flitting over the jumbled supply shelves. Subterfuge missions like this demanded stealth, and the garment was key—no doubt a shred of irony that she would be impersonating one of her former kin. Through the heavy walls, she could hear the continuous, deep chanting of Uruks engaged in drills, pounding a steady rhythm that reverberated underfoot.

Before long, the Uruk returned, clutching a folded bundle of forest-green cloth adorned with faint, swirling embroidery. The quality was moderate—far from the finery of Valinor but passable enough to fool a casual observer. He held it out in both hands, an unusual show of reverence.

“For your… change,” he said, reluctance tainting his voice. “I—” He glanced away, hesitating. Then, in a rush, he added, “I have heard tales of your shifting. The others say you can become something else entirely. I’ve… never seen it up close. I’d be honored, Umbreth.”

She snatched the uniform from his hands and scowled. “You think I’m some petty mortal magician? A conjurer of parlor tricks?” The weight of her glare made the Uruk flinch. “I don’t perform for onlookers.”

He nodded, stepping back. “Of course. F-forgive me. I meant no disrespect.”

His deference only grated on her further. She swept around him without another word, leaving the storeroom in a swirl of dark cloth and wounded pride. She didn’t stop until she reached the corridor that led to one of the fortress’s many entrances—an opening carved into the rugged mountainside, wide enough for scores of Uruks to march abreast. Faint lines of daylight slanted through from beyond, and for a moment she was struck by how long it had been since she’d stepped outside for any reason other than orders.

Lost in her thoughts, Umbreth did not at first notice the tall figure approaching from the opposite end of the corridor. He moved with a focused grace, the faint lamplight catching the severity of his features. As they drew near, recognition flared like a hot spark in her mind. Eruviel. She had once known him well—long before Morgoth’s cruelty had dragged them both into these choking depths.

As they crossed paths, Eruviel’s gaze met hers. In that split second, a memory slammed into her:

They stood together, newly enlisted under Morgoth’s distant banner. The fortress had not yet reeked of death the way it did now; the corridors had seemed merely dank, not oppressive. She recalled a moment of uneasy camaraderie. He had confided that perhaps their new master’s designs might bring them the liberty they both desired. She had believed it, too, once—believed that Morgoth’s path offered freedom from the constraints of the Valar’s light.

The memory dissolved, cast away by the stark reality. Eruviel’s eyes held no warmth now, only the rough edge of a soldier accustomed to brutality. He offered her a curt nod, then passed by in silence. No words. No acknowledgment of all they had once shared, all they had lost.