Archive of Our Own ^beta

The others lay scattered around him, thrown backwards by the thunderous shockwave. It had only been by plunging the tip of his blade into the earth and clinging to it like an anchor that he had not also been cast down, though he has been driven to one knee and forced to bow his head to brace against the backlash. He cannot muster the strength to stand.

The tempest has eased now, and Angmar lifts his head slowly, squinting past the messy strands of his own hair. His hands still cling to the hilt of his sword, the tips of his fingers blanched white from the force of his grip. His arms are shaking slightly, but if he untangles his grip from his weapon he will probably collapse.

The Door of Night rises before him. Impossibly tall, with pillars of rich black stone. The ruby red eyes of basalt dragons stare down upon him with a weight he cannot truly describe. Smoke stills pours past their carved snarls, but it is beginning to run thin and die. The two great gates of the Door no longer bar the entrance to the void. They have been cast open by his Master, and Angmar is free to stare past them into the Void.

There is… nothing there.

It is blacker than the Door itself, darker than the darkest of nights. There are no stars, no light, but a strange, low humming noise seems to rumble forth from the darkness. Staring directly at it feels sickening. Forbidden. Forbidden in a way that is somehow worse than how it felt when he first stepped foot upon these lands. It makes his skin crawl like the swarming of thousands of spiders across his entire body, and he can feel his hair stand on end in response to the terrible, indescribable wrongness.

This Door should have been left closed.

Some dark fog spills out from the open Door, rolling across the ground on an invisible wind that sweeps his hair slightly. Where it passes the grass shrivels and begins to turn white as crystals of frost gather on the thin surface of their leaves. As it creeps over his legs Angmar cannot suppress the shiver that passes through his body. It is cold, impossibly cold, far colder than the North.

He bares his teeth against the frigid air and exhales sharply. His breath is visible like a white cloud that hangs in the air before him for an instant before vanishing. It is growing colder still, as if that thick, noxious fog is sapping the very warmth from the air. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The Void is dripping now, and something thick and viscous like tar seeps out from the base like a wound.

A hand suddenly springs forth from the Door, blackened and oozing and slams against the frame. Claws dig into the stone as a second hand erupts from the dark and braces itself against the other side of the Door.

A third-fourth-fifth-DOZENS of hands emerge, grasping at the sides and top of the Door and digging into the earth at its base. Each of them blackened as if burned and dripping with that eerie, disgusting tar. There is a pause, then each hand tenses and begins to pull, dragging something out of the void. Something with a turbulent, unnatural, liquid-like body, something piercing white-blue eyes that seem to glow against the black of its body, something with scales and horns and feathers and skin and too many eyes, too many teeth, too many-

“Oh,” Khamul whispers reverently from somewhere on the ground behind him. Angmar could not disagree more.

The thing hauls itself completely from the Void, spilling pieces of itself upon the ground. It is as tall as the Door itself, and something that could vaguely assumed to be a head tips up towards the sky like a lizard bathing in the sunlight. It pauses there for several long moments, basking in the light. When it sighs more of that thick, choking fog spills past its sharp teeth.

“My Lord,” a voice calls out softly, and Angmar’s gaze snaps down to where his master stands just before the creature, impossibly tiny next to its bulk. The creature’s head drops and two large, strange, white-blue eyes focus on the significantly smaller figure. Several of its smaller eyes slide across its body until they too reach its face and are also able to stare at his master. Its face splits in a cracked, cruel smile, and Angmar grimaces against the wave of possessiveness that rolls across his own skin in response.

“Lieutenant,” the thing rumbles, its voice deep and rumbling like thunder. Hands, smaller than the ones that pulled it from the Void’s grasp, emerge from its body and reach out, running over his master’s shoulders, parsing through his hair, touching his face.

This time, Angmar does not bother resisting the possessiveness that bubbles up within him and escapes from his throat in a low growls.

The thing freezes. Its ever-changing, turbulent body goes impossibly still. Eyes blossom over its blackened, wet body, and in the moment it takes for Angmar to realize each of them are locked upon him, the creature moves.

One moment he is upon one knee, the next his head cracks against the ground and all Angmar can see are stars. He snarls even before his vision recovers, and in that moment he can feel a heavy weight pressing down upon his chest, holding him against the dirt. The stars sharpen back into reality, and Angmar realizes they are not stars at all but hundreds of eyes staring at him.

“Oh,” the thing purrs, a large hand pinning Angmar to the floor. A second and third hand pin his hands to the ground on either side of him, and Angmar instinctively closes his fist around the ring on his right hand so it cannot easily be stolen from him. A fourth hand reaches out, grasping for his face, and Angmar snaps his teeth at it, though it artfully avoids his jaws. A thumb presses against one of his cheeks and a finger presses against his other. Fingers curl under his chin and force his head upwards and slightly to one side, and those disgusting eyes are staring at him from all sides as the thing hunches over him. “Fascinating. Your soul is positively frayed, little one.”

“Little one?” Angmar snarls, cursing, trying to get his feet free enough to kick at the thing. His left foot connects with and then sinks into something wet and foul that must be the creature’s body. Incensed, Angmar lashes out with his other foot, and manages to get his leg up and around the arm pinning him down. It sinks into the tar-like substance slightly as well, but gives Angmar enough leverage to yank his other leg free. He aims his now freed leg higher, towards where the thing’s chin seems to be, but a fifth hand reaches out from the mass and catches his foot by the ankle before it can make contact.

“Hush, be still,” the thing coos at him, which only serves to make Angmar angrier, and he strains against the hand holding his face to try to bite it. It is not as if he wants any of that disgusting blackened tar in his mouth, but he is willing to suffer some if he can also inflict some pain in return. Were he not already so drained of might, perhaps Angmar could actually land a strike.

“Release him.”

Angmar watches those eyes slide sideways and glances to the side as well. Khamul has managed to find his feet, and stands a short distance away, legs shaking slightly from the effort. His sword is drawn once more, and he holds it at his side with one hand while the other wipes dirt and blood away from his cheek. “Please,” Khamul adds belatedly, a moment too late compared to his usual politeness.

He looks terrible. Like at any moment he might collapse again. No doubt the weariness Angmar feels Khamul too must be feeling. Possibly even more so.

“Another one?” the thing murmurs thoughtfully. There is a shuffling from around him, and Angmar strains against the hand holding his face to try to see the source. Whatever it is has the thing’s eyes sprawling all over its body to apparently see everywhere all at once. “Ah, and more still? What are you?”

“Those are mine, my lord,” Angmar hears his master murmur from somewhere he cannot see. “I believe you are scaring them.”

“Yours?” the thing asks softly, body rolling as it seems to physically digest this information. One of the larger eyes focuses back on Angmar, and he snarls furiously at it.

“My Nazgul, yes.”

“Ringwraiths?” the thing hums. Its eyes turn back on Angmar and scour over his body for a moment before settling on his closed, right fist. The hand pinning his wrist adjusts slightly so that the finger can reach up and scrape over the part of the band still exposed to the air, and Angmar shivers in response. “Ah, I see. How clever, lieutenant.”

“Thank you, my lord. Will you release him now? As I said, you are scaring them.”

“…Of course,” the thing reluctantly relents, and the hands grasping Angmar’s body recede. Its body rolls for an instant, collapsing in on itself before a man emerges from the dark. Thick, flowing tar makes way for pale skin, except on the man’s hands which remained stained black like they have been burned. There is a surprisingly normal amount of eyes and arms and teeth.

Annoyingly, when Angmar slowly struggles to his own feet, he realizes the man is taller than he.

“They are just so adorable, lieutenant,” the man says, and Angmar is not the only one of the Nine that bristles. He can feel a prodding, wordless question through his ring from both Khamul and Indur of worryconcerndistress, but he ignores them both in favor of glaring up at the man. The remainder of the Nine slowly regroup behind him, huddling together in a familiar formation with Angmar at the point. One of them-Ren?-presses a sword back into Angmar’s hand, and his fingers curl around the blade as best he can. Angmar himself adjusts his stance to be slightly wider, providing more cover to them in his shadow, but any other movements seem beyond him at the moment. He still feels slightly pinned and breathless beneath the man’s sharp gaze. “May I have one? You have… nine, surely you do not need them all.”

“You may not,” his master responds, and there is a slight snap to his voice that Angmar is used to being on the receiving end. Apparently this man is not, because he finally drags his eyes away to turn around, and Angmar feels like he can breathe again without that gaze upon him.

“No?” The man is frowning slightly when he turns back towards Angmar. The other Nine take a reluctant step backwards when the man steps towards them, but Angmar only bares his teeth in a grimace in response. “Look, this one is not even frightened of me. You should let me keep it. I promise I will not even break it.”

“I only serve my master,” Angmar barks back before his master can respond. “Not you.”

“Angmar,” his master calls, and there is a warning in his voice that Angmar immediately ignores.

“I am your master’s master,” the man responds, head tilted to one side. One of his hands reaches out towards Angmar’s face again, but it pauses when Angmar raises his sword in warning. “If he obeys me, surely you must as well.”

“Never,” Angmar responds immediately, and gives him a rude gesture as well.

The man blinks down at him before his frown splits into an eerie, disgusting grin that makes the others take yet another step back and Angmar snarl.

“There are not many Men that would deny me,” the man purrs. He’s stepping closer, and blackened nails pinch Angmar’s sword, keeping him from swinging it. He leans forward slightly, thrusting his face directly into Angmar’s, those eerie, blue eyes staring deep into his. Angmar thinks he can see the Void in those eyes. Certainly something dangerous, not deep within them but rather close to the surface. Danger that drives the others back, but only makes Angmar steel himself. “I rather like you, I think. Are you certain you would not like to serve me instead?”

Angmar glances past him, and makes eye contact with his master for just a moment. A moment where his master immediately reads his expression and must see something telling, because he quickly opens his mouth to call out a warning.

“Angmar-“

Angmar bites the man on the nose.