In the three hundred and fortieth year of the Sun, long before kingdoms of Men rose and fell, the world was already steeped in shadows. Beleriand bled from a thousand wounds. Morgoth ruled in the north, and his lieutenant, Sauron, slithered in the dark like a cruel god. It was in that accursed age that a woman fled—barefoot, bloodied, and pregnant—through the withered remains of a once-green wood.
The trees here had long since died, poisoned by Morgoth's war. Their blackened husks stood like mourners in a graveyard. The wind carried no birdsong, only the thudding of boots and the barking laughter of Orcs closing in.
She ran, though each step drove fire into her belly.
Her name was lost to the world already—forgotten by the one who gave her child. All that remained now was the shape of her body, swollen with life, and the iron scent of blood from torn skin and broken roots. Her ragged breath tore from her throat as she stumbled, caught herself on a thorned bush, and staggered forward.
Behind her, the Orcs jeered.
"She can't run much longer," one croaked."Let 'er bleed, Sauron's done with her.""Waste o' meat anyway. He said we could gut her."Their crude blades glinted as they broke from the trees.
The woman fell to her knees. Her body betrayed her. Her hands cradled her belly. "Not yet," she whispered to the child inside. "You don't die here. Not like this."
The Orcs circled, wicked grins beneath broken helmets. One stepped forward and raised his sword.
And then—A sudden clang, then a scream.An Orc's head flew from his shoulders.
The woman barely turned her head in time to see the Dwarves—a patrol of six, clad in burnished mail, axes flashing with cruel precision. They tore into the Orcs with a fury that was nearly savage, their bearded faces grim and silent. The woods echoed with steel and death, and when it was over, the Orcs lay still, and the Dwarves stood breathing hard, blood splashed across their armor.
One of them, older, his beard braided with copper wire, approached the woman slowly.
"By Mahal... what in the nine fires is this?"
The woman looked up at him, face ashen. "Please... help me. He's coming."
They exchanged uncertain glances. Dwarves were not midwives. They were smiths, stone-workers, warriors. Life-bearing was a mystery they had only ever watched from the outside, reverent and awkward.
The younger dwarf—a brown-haired one named Orlin—stepped closer. "She's with child. What do we do?"
"She's human," said another. "We can't leave her here, but—Mahal's hammer, she's not going to make it."
A cry escaped the woman's lips. She fell back, legs trembling, hands clutching her womb. Her waters had broken. Her body convulsed, wracked by pain.
"He won't come out," she gasped, voice now a rasp. "Too early or... wrong. Please. Cut me open. Take him. Save him."
The Dwarves stared at her, horrified.
"You'll die," said the eldest, softly.
"I'm dying anyway," she whispered, blood staining her thighs. "Let him live. Please."
They hesitated.
She looked at them with wild eyes, half-crazed by agony and desperation. "I don't care what you think of me. I served a monster. But the child didn't ask for any of it. He is innocent. Let him live."
Finally, the eldest gave a slow nod. "Then it will be done. Orlin, the knife."
It was quick. It had to be. They laid her on the ground and opened her garments. She didn't scream. She bit her lip and stared at the sky, her breath slowing as the blade cut through her flesh. The child emerged slick with blood, silent at first, then let out a shriek that broke the heavy silence.
She smiled, lips trembling. "A boy…"
The old dwarf held the child in his arms, stunned by how small he was. The others tied off the umbilical cord with a strip of cloth.
"What's his name?" someone asked.
The woman's lips moved.
"Vlad," she breathed. "His name is... Vlad…"
Then her eyes closed. She exhaled once. Her chest fell still.
Silence.
The Dwarves stood over her body, not quite knowing what to say. Death was familiar to them. But birth—that was something sacred. Strange. Distant.
"Vlad," Orlin repeated. "That's no name I've heard before."
"Human," the elder muttered. "But not one of the Edain, not from the western houses."
"What now?"
The eldest dwarf looked down at the child, who stared up with bright, unblinking eyes. He did not cry again. He merely watched them.
"…We take him," the elder said finally. "We can't leave him. We'll bring him to Nogrod. The lords will decide."
And so the six dwarves, bloodied and weary, turned eastward and began the long march home, carrying a child born of shadow and flame.
None of them knew what he would become.