Chapter Text
“The armies are almost here, my liege!” cried the messenger, half-beaten, eyes wide like an owl’s, dripping with sweat and trembling from head to toe. He fell to the ground in front of Er-Mûrazôr’s feet. Raising a trembling hand, his lips parted, desperately trying to bring up a last word, but they failed. The deep, watery eyes went blank. Just like that, he was gone, a rag doll on the floor.
Mûrazôr frowned deeply, and with a flick of his hand gestured to the waiting servants. They dragged the corpse off somewhere, and the King followed their progress with his eyes. A grim smile stretched across his face.
Not a moment later a figure lumbered up to him, clad in heavy armor and furs, and bent reverently on one knee. He bowed his shaggy head. “Rise, Dakthun,” Mûrazôr ordered. The general slowly raised his eyes to focus on a spot somewhere at his chest.
The Witch-king continued, “As you know, the armies of the Dúnedain, Lindon, Rivendell and Gondor approach fast.”
Dakthun inclined his head downwards.
“My orders are this: as the day breaks on the morrow, bring ten thousand out to meet them, with about seven thousand Hill-men in the centre, and a thousand cavalry on either flank. Bring up the rear with heavy troops.”
Dakthun raised his eyes to some point near Mûrazôr’s neck. A frown creased his already-wrinkled forehead. He looked as if he wanted to say something; his face contorted for a few seconds, and he stared fixedly at the same spot.
Mûrazôr tilted his head to the side.
Dakthun’s lips trembled for a moment. “My-my liege. Don’t you think-”
“-A siege would be more appropriate?” the Witch-king finished.
Dakthun nodded, numb.
He stood from his throne, and stepped to the floor, pausing mere footsteps away from Dakthun. “A siege,” he drawled, pleasantly aware of the effect this was having on the general, “would be a stupendous waste of time, morale, and resources. Those accursed hosts do not deserve any more time, morale, or resources than is necessary to wipe them off the face of the earth.”
He tilted his head down towards Dakthun. Even through the layers of cloth, the general’s shoulders visibly shook, from a cold that was deeper than physical.
“Surely, you, of all men, should know that better than anyone.”
“-Ye-yes, my Lord,” he replied. His once deep growl was reduced to a frightened whisper. “It shall be done, my liege.” He put his hand to his heart, and rising, took his leave.
It did not escape the Witch King’s attention that the general was physically restraining himself from bolting out of the room.
As soon as he left, Mûrazôr chuckled sadly to himself. He began to pace the stone floor; small blooms of dust puffed up where he stepped.
“Soon I must confront the Elves, the most damned of all creatures on Middle-earth. Surely they fear the might of the Nazgûl? Surely they know they are walking to their deaths?”
He bit his nails in agitation. “Ah, why do I worry? We will stamp them out like cockroaches, make their horses keel in fright. Their powers are no use in these cursed lands. I have the Hill-men, their forces are loyal; the mercenaries, and the turned Dúnedain. We should have enough!”
He stopped his pacing momentarily to peer out a window. Faint towers of smoke made their way to the heavens in the distance.
“Camps. Past the Lune… they’ve just arrived… and are unprepared. If we meet them on Evendim Hills, we can stake the advantage. But no, surely no.”
He began biting his nails again. “It is yet too risky. The horses will fare better on the plains. But we musn’t let them get too close; we cannot let this become a siege. Between Fornost and… Fornost and…”
He drew nearer to a table, and consulted a large, deeply worn and yellowed map. “Fornost and Nenuial,” he concluded, tapping the spot. “There we shall see who proves victor.” He smiled bitterly.
A sudden knocking came from a side door. “Enter,” he called. He winced at how his hissing voice echoed through the tall hall.
The door creaked slightly, and a timid face peeped in. “My lord, Dakthun requests knowledge of the location at which the troops must be assembled.”
“Between Fornost and Nenuial,” he said, tonelessly.
The messenger bowed and withdrew.
For a few moments Mûrazôr remained where he was, staring down at the map. His finger rested upon the plains between Fornost and the lake, unmoving.
Then, very slowly, he smiled.
“Let them come.”
The hall was deserted now. The servants had gone; the generals were gone; the messenger was gone. Only the torches remained, sputtering in their iron brackets, their flames bending strangely whenever the wind found some crack in the ancient walls.
He hated the silence.
There had been a time, long ago, when he had loved silence. He could not remember when. Perhaps that was the cruellest thing of all.
Memory had become a strange country to him. He could still see things, sometimes. A river beneath a summer sun. A woman's hands. A white tower far away. A voice calling his name…
His name.
Mûrazôr's head jerked upwards.
No. That belonged to another age. Another man. He pressed his fingers against his temples. There was no man there now. There had not been one for centuries.
Only the King.
Only the Ring.
Only the will of the Dark Lord, moving through him like an iron chain drawn endlessly tighter.
He looked again toward the window. Beyond the black walls of Fornost, the first stars were beginning to appear. Tomorrow, the armies would come. And he would be there to meet them.
Dawn came red.
The armies of Angmar marched out beneath a sky the colour of old blood.
From the walls of Fornost the host seemed endless. Hill-men in rough mail and leather, Orcs bearing crooked spears, Dúnedain who had bent their knees before Angmar and now fought beneath its banners. The standards of the Witch-king fluttered above them like bat wings in the night.
Mûrazôr watched from horseback. He wore no crown, no ancient dragonhelm. There was little need for one.
The horse beneath him shifted uneasily. He laid one gloved hand upon its neck.
“Easy.” The beast trembled.
Mûrazôr frowned. Already?
He looked toward the southern horizon. Nothing save the rising sun.
Then came a sound. Echoing, far away, a titan cry that pressed upon his ears like thunder. The ground shook with the weight of ten thousand feet. The army of Gondor was approaching.
For a long moment Mûrazôr simply watched. Then a spark of anxiety flared within his breast. It was small. No more than a pinprick. But there nonetheless. He hated it. He hated himself for feeling it. And so he laughed.
The sound was high and terrible, and those nearest him recoiled.
“Forward.”
The horns sounded.
And the host of Angmar began to march.
No lay or written legend could properly convey the depth of the horror that took place on the battlefield. It lasted only the space of the sun's single rise and fall in the sky, but the damage had been done.
At first, all went according to Mûrazôr's design. The Hill-men broke upon the Gondorian centre and were thrown back. The cavalry on either flank swept down upon the enemy horsemen. Arrows darkened the sky. The cries of men and beasts mingled until there seemed to be no distinction between them.
For a time, the Witch-king believed himself victorious.
Then the horns sounded from the hills.
He turned.
Horsemen. Thousands of them.
They came pouring down from the northern road, having passed around the hills and fallen upon the rear of Angmar's army.
Mûrazôr stared, aghast.
“No.”
The word escaped him. The army broke. He saw it happen almost instantly.
The Hill-men fled first. Then the Orcs. Then the Dúnedain.
The carefully ordered host dissolved into a frightened rout of men, all running in different directions.
Mûrazôr sat motionless as his horse pawed nervously at the broken ground. Around him, other steeds screamed and whinnied as they were pierced by spears.
A Gondorian soldier rode past him without seeing his face. Not a moment later, a stray enemy arrow found its way into his heart. Time seemed to stop as he fell only a couple of metres away from the Witch-king’s horse, kneeling. The Witch-king watched the man grasp the arrow, stare at it in deep confusion. He collapsed into the mud, writhing for a while, before going still. In that moment, as it happened every time he watched someone slip through the delicate confines of the earth, Mûrazôr’s heart ached with unsurpassable envy.
He unconsciously held a hand to his face, feeling the full skin, then the bone, as if through a gossamer sheen. Luckily for his enemies, it was invisible to most.
Another soldier followed. Then another. The Witch-king raised his sword.
“Rally!”
His voice cracked across the field. A few looked toward him, terrified. None obeyed. He understood then. It was over. Fornost was lost.
His kingdom.
For the first time in centuries, he was possessed by something nearly akin to grief. Not wanting to explore that emotion further, he turned his horse north. Behind him, the host of Gondor advanced. He rode on.
Night had fallen by the time he reached the northern road.
He did not know how many had gone in pursuit of him. It scarcely mattered - he could hear them.
Hooves. Many hooves. Thudding ever nearer.
Mûrazôr urged his horse onward. The mountains were not far now. Carn Dûm.
If he could reach Carn Dûm — he looked back and another surge of wild terror jolted through him like a lightning bolt.
Torches.
Scores of them.
His hand tightened around the reins. Then a single, arching horn bellowed through the crowd. It was too melodious, too gentle to be Gondorian.
Elven.
His horse stopped dead. Mûrazôr looked ahead at the flickering dirt road.
A white horse stood in the midst of a copse of dark poplars.
Upon it sat a figure in glimmering mail. The light from the torches approaching behind him cast amber jewels on his pauldrons.
Radiant gold flowed beneath his helm.
Mûrazôr knew him. He had known him for a very long time. Glorfindel. The name brought poison to his lips. A slim form emerged from behind him. Even worse. Eärnur. The Witch-king felt something within him recoil. Not fear. Not quite. Something older. Something deeper.
The Elves looked at him closely. They, being of higher stature than most, could certainly perceive the look on his face. Glorfindel reciprocated, nodding infinitesimally.
For one earth-shattering moment, none moved.
Then Mûrazôr slowly reached for his sword. The metal screamed softly as he drew the fell blade out of its sheath. Glorfindel and Eärnur remained motionless, statues of gods.
Mûrazôr felt something like bile rise in his throat as he remembered the latter; too proud for his own good. Eärnur, likely recalling the same, began taunting him. “Black worm of Melkor, art thou too afeared to approach us? Were you not the one whom the Black Lord granted the most power? Surely you can defeat us with a wave of your hand?”
Glorfindel shot him a sideways glare. Eärnur paid him no heed. “Thou foul slave of Sauron,” he said, lacing the words on his tongue with venom, “Vile corrupter of Middle Earth, do not delay! Fight, or get thee gone from here!”
Mûrazôr, his hot temper now irked as well, replied, “And who are you to believe that fighting is an option?” He urged his horse on to an elegant prance. The army took a step back in unison. He threaded his way around Eärnur, circling him and fixing his vicious gaze on him all the while. Eärnur remained still, passing his test. Mûrazôr made his way back to the centre, pausing for a moment. Eärnur shot him a fiercely crooked grin.
Insolent boy, the Witch-king thought, and charged.
And then—
A terrible cry, seemingly straight out of the pits of Angband, pierced the foggy night air.
Eärnur’s horse screamed. It whinnied and galloped with all its might as Mûrazôr pressed it head on, nearly throwing the Prince from his saddle. An unrestrained laugh flew from the Witch-king’s lips.
Glorfindel's sword flashed in warning.
Mûrazôr wheeled away.
The army beckoned Eärnur’s horse back, drawing him in with shouts and the pounding of spears, while he went down, head bowed - a look of utmost humiliation on his face.
Before departing, the Witch-king glanced once more at Glorfindel. The Elf shook his head. And those silver eyes told him that he could not win.
Not here. Not tonight.
He turned his horse toward the mountains.
Glorfindel watched him tear away. For a second, Eärnur made as if to follow suit, but the Elf-lord said, with eyes fixed upon the darkness: “Do not pursue him! He will not return to this land. Far off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall.”
Eärnur reined in his horse roughly, furious.
The Witch-king vanished into the night.
And behind him, Arthedain perished.
For three days Mûrazôr rode. He did not stop, for sleep or any form of repose. There was no need.
The Ring had long ago made such things meaningless.
Yet, his body remembered them. That was the strange torment of it. The body remembered what the man no longer possessed. Gnawing hunger without a stomach. Weariness without sleep. Pain without flesh.
He rode beneath the mountains, taking paths no living Man would willingly have followed.
Behind him lay Arnor. Ahead lay the East. And somewhere beyond the mountains, Mordor waited. He did not know how long he had been riding when the thought came to him:
I have lost.
A peal of laughter nearly escaped his lips.
The thought was absurd.
A king did not lose. A king was defeated. There was a difference.
He repeated it to himself, again, and again. And again. Until the meaning fell away from the words. A king was defeated. A man was defeated. A servant was defeated.
But what was a wraith? Could a wraith be defeated?
He looked down at the reins.
Black gloves covered nothing to Men; muscled, deft, long fingers to Elves.
An image of the messenger flitted into his mind. The way the man’s eyes had emptied. The way the body had fallen. The ease of it. The abruptness. The lack of waiting time, a grey area. One moment he was there, the next, he was free.
The thought struck him with such force that Mûrazôr almost pulled upon the reins.
Free.
The dead man had been free. He had no master. No Ring. No command. No kingdom to defend. No enemies. No memory. No future.
Mûrazôr envied him.
And that was when he understood something which frightened him more deeply than Glorfindel had.
Years passed. Or perhaps only days. Time was starting to blur, unfold in spirals and strange shapes with the passing of the sun and rising of the moon, over and over again.
Mûrazôr wandered eastward, using the stars of the Anarríma to guide him.
He did not return immediately to Mordor; Sauron had not summoned him.
That frightened him too.
The Dark Lord would know of his defeat. Of course he would. Sauron knew everything worth knowing. Yet, no messenger came. No command. No breeze of punishment reached his mind. Only chilling silence.
Mûrazôr began to wonder whether that silence was worse.
Perhaps Sauron is waiting. Perhaps he wishes me to understand what failure means? Perhaps—
He stopped. Ahead, beyond a ridge, smoke rose into the sky. Many pale pillars streaking heavenwards. Not the smoke of a camp, or the foul pollution of Orcs. A city.
Men.
He rode through the outskirts of the buildings, keeping to the shadows. His charms ensured that none caught sight of him. A group of Men stood in a circle around a fire, lounging, laughing, tossing jokes to and fro. A rack of ribs turned on a blazing spit. The smell made his belly pains worse. The Men chuckled as one of them nearly made the rack fall in an attempt to slice it up. They laughed heartily, completely unaware of the wraith’s presence.
Mûrazôr listened, with a strange yearning in his heart.
For a moment, the sound reminded him of someone. Someplace far away… he could not bring it to mind. He turned away.