Chapter 363: In the Void
As tens of thousands of Men were slaughtered on the altar, the black mist and roaring flames above it boiled higher, fusing into a raging tide of darkness that seemed bent on devouring the world.
The Orcs who had driven the captives there shrank back in terror, none daring to come within arm's reach of the stone.
They did not need to. Before the surviving Men could flee or be forced forward, countless tendrils of force lashed out from the boiling cloud, seizing them one by one. Their screams and pleas were cut short as they were dragged into the fire and fog and swallowed, leaving not a scrap behind.
The lives and souls of more than a hundred thousand became fuel. The power of that sacrifice thrust itself through the walls of time and space and fell into the infinite dark beyond the world.
It was a place of chaos and silence, a Void without up or down, without light or shadow, where even time held no meaning.
There, drifting alone, was a shape vast as a mountain, bound hand and foot in chains it could not break.
This was Morgoth, the Dark Enemy of the World, who had once been Melkor, mightiest of the Valar.
After the War of Wrath, at the end of the First Age, he had been overthrown by the Powers, shackled in Angainor—the iron chain forged by Aulë—and cast out of Arda into the Void.
Even so, he had never ceased to strain against his bonds, seeking some path back into the world he had tried to seize.
Old prophecy had spoken of such a return: of the day when Morgoth would break loose and re‑enter Arda, bringing ruin; of the Last Battle when he and the Valar would clash one final time.
In that doom, it was said he would shatter the Sun and Moon, leading legions of monsters and demons against an army of Ainur, Elves, Men, and Dwarves.
He would, at last, be utterly slain, and Arda itself broken beyond repair.
Then Ilúvatar would lead the Ainur and the Children in a Second Music, and a new world would be made.
Since his banishment, Morgoth had drifted in the Void for two full Ages.
His body had been destroyed in his defeat; only his spirit endured, weakened and starved.
Now the invisible torrent of sacrifice tore through the world's skin and fell upon him.
Life and soul poured into his being. A low, wordless sigh escaped him, the sound of something long parched tasting rain again.
His presence swelled. Dark power billowed from him, pressing against the nothingness, and the dead stillness of the Void twisted into a vast, soundless storm.
His form grew, swelling until he loomed higher than mountains. With every breath, he strained against the chains that bound him, trying to tear them apart.
But Angainor held.
The links shone with a buried radiance, heavy with hidden law and strength, bearing the combined might of the Valar. They tightened as he fought, biting into him as if they meant to cut him in two.
At last, like a bladder losing air, Morgoth's massive shape shrank. The tides of force that had battered the emptiness withdrew and coiled close around him again.
"Do not hurry," he murmured. "I have time enough. I can wait."
Back in Mordor, the sacrifices had done more than feed a prisoner.
On the altar, the spent lives and torn‑free souls had opened a wound in the air, a black hole that led out into the unknown dark.
Its pull was terrible. It seemed ready to swallow anything that drew near. One glimpse was enough to make a soul quail, as if the next breath would be dragged from its body and lost.
Light that touched it vanished. Living flesh that came close would find no purchase, only a fall with no return, body and spirit together unmade.
Only Sauron's disembodied spirit could stand upon the altar and face it.
He waited.
In time, the darkness stirred.
A flood of pure, undiluted shadow burst from the hole and struck him full on.
Black essence poured through him like fire. His once‑thin spirit thickened and grew dense, and waves of power rolled from him.
The great Eye atop Barad dûr flared. Its dark flame burned higher and hotter, its gaze reaching farther than ever before, its sight sharpened.
Orodruin, bound to Sauron's will, answered too. The Mountain of Fire roared like a waking beast, vomiting out gouts of smoke that shot into the sky and spread into a single, vast black canopy above Mordor, then crept outward.
Lava surged from its throat in rivers, spilling down the slopes in blazing curtains and pouring across the plain.
Even in Minas Tirith, far away, Men could see the red glare and the new darkness boiling up over the land of Shadow.
The Steward of Gondor, shaken by the sight, turned to the Seeing‑stone and tried to look east.
He never saw the heart of Mordor.
The Eye saw him first.
Fire filled the Palantír. A will of iron and malice crashed into his mind along the line of sight.
His thoughts spun. For a moment he teetered on the edge of surrender.
With a desperate effort he tore his gaze away, dragged a cloth over the stone and broke the contact.
He sagged back, gasping. His face had gone chalk‑white. Sweat ran down his temples.
He did not dare uncover the Palantír again.
In Lothlórien, Galadriel paused and looked east, her expression grave.
In Rivendell, Elrond did the same.
At Hogwarts, Gandalf lifted his head from his work, his eyes already turned towards Mordor's distant smoke.
Time moved on.
It was the twenty‑second of September, in the year 3001 of the Third Age.
The Shire, Hobbiton.
Bilbo Baggins had refused Kael's offer to hold his eleventy‑first birthday feast at Hogwarts. He had chosen instead to celebrate in his own home, in the Party Field at Hobbiton, and had invited all his neighbours to come.
Every Hobbit in Hobbiton, and many in the wider Shire, knew that Mr Baggins of Bag End was a gentlehobbit of means.
No one meant to miss such a party.
Bilbo was a legend in the Shire: a hobbit with mysterious wealth and a face that stubbornly refused to age.
Some whispered that he had received a gift from the wizard‑lord of Hogwarts, some magic of long life that kept the years from touching him.
Bilbo never answered such talk. He spent his days tucked away in Bag End, working on his book of adventures.
Curiosity burned in many, but few dared to pry.
Everyone knew that Bilbo and Kael of Hogwarts were close friends, and that the lord of wizards had often invited him to the castle as a guest.
Even the most stay‑at‑home Hobbits had heard of Hogwarts.
Much of the Shire's trade—pipe‑weed, mushrooms, beer, wine, and more—now found its way east to Kael's lands: to Bree, to Hogsmeade, and to places beyond.
Over the decades, Hogwarts' realm had spread westward until it touched the Shire's border. The Brandywine Bridge and the Old Forest now marked the line between them.
Sometimes Shire‑folk even saw wizards passing through on holiday.
Wizards, then, were no longer strangers.
As the Shire's most famous son, Bilbo's party drew more than just local Hobbits. The Mayor came, and the councillors, and the Shirriffs.
Kin arrived as well: Tooks out of the Green Hills, Brandybucks from Buckland, and a crowd of more distant Bagginses, all eager to see what marvels Bilbo would conjure for his eleventy‑first.