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Title: Darkness Remains (#2950)
Author: Khamul
Chapters: 8

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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Alternate Universe (AU)
Description: What if after Sauron's defeat, the Nazgûl remained? And what effect would that have on the Reunited Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor? Yes, another story of them. I can't help my obsession of the Nine. All I can do is nourish it, which works fine for me.
Published: 17 Sep 2006
Updated: 19 Sep 2006
Warnings: Angst; Mild Romance; Violence
Type: Drama
Characters: The Eight; Aragorn


Chapter 1 - Prologue

**It's an often used subject matter, but I think I'll continue. Also, as this is a WIP, it's prone to change at any given moment. Don't be suprised.**


Prologue:

Darkness.
Darkness that consumes.
Darkness that devours the mind, the will, the flesh.
How do you escape sorrow unending, undying?
It bleeds the heart, and sucks at your soul.

Emptiness.
Emptiness that tears at your sanity.
Emptiness that shrieks in your ears, screams ‘you are alone’.
You double over in defeat, in pain and agony.
There is no way out.


The shadow that once loomed over the world is now lost.
Nothing remains of that evil.
Hope has replaced it.
Hope for men.

Sauron has been defeated, and life begins anew. A king has been placed in Gondor.
A just king.
A righteous king.
And the Elves, fair and noble, have sailed to the West.
Peace restored, friendships forged, loves gained.
Weapons have been put away. Not yet old enough to gain rust or cobwebs, but unneeded.
Light reigns. Love rules. Hope remains.
The shadow has not been forgotten, however. It can never be.
But life continues; it must.
It will.


Chapter 2 - Thoughts of a King

Elessar, he is.
King of Gondor.
More then one night he has lain awake in bed, the sheets strewn about him. He has thought of many things; past present and future. Of friends and foes, battles won and lost. Of his Arwen Undomiel, who more then once has stayed awake for him, on these sleepless nights that plagued him so.
Of Mithrandir, and Saruman. White wizards both, alike yet different.
Pure, and corrupted.
Gandalf has stayed yet in these lands; but for how long? Aragorn has appreciated the Istari’s wisdom and grace, his council and company. But Gandalf hinted at returning to the land from whence he came, as was expected. There was naught that the king could do to stop him, nor did he wish to. The wizard’s time here was long, and weary he was of this land. Gandalf much desired, and perhaps even needed to return with the elves, on the last ship leaving Middle Earth indefinitely.
Legolas however would wait for the king’s death before he would depart his woodland realm. He swore upon it he would never leave his friend until the king's death. Gimli would go as well, accepting Legolas’s invite of joining him to the Undying Lands, both as a friend, and a brother.
The hobbits, such gentle folk, wished only to see their homeland. So Aragorn provided them with all they needed for their journey home. They would return as heroes, so triumphant on their fine dappled ponies.
Elessar thought of brave Boromir, who gave his life for Merry and Pippin. Never would he see what befell his homeland.
Would he be proud?
Would he be saddened by the loss of his father, who, in his mad grief took his own life in the midst of battle?
The Fellowship was scattered, and the brotherhood that once brought them together was broken.
Broken?
Not that, nay.
But certainly, not united. They were alone, in a sense. Torn from each other, and that gap would never be filled.
Yet, others came into their lives.
Sam always spoke of Rosie Cotton, who undoubtedly he must have wed, or will soon.
And his own Arwen.
But be as it may, his comrades were gone.


Chapter 3 - Cries of Anguish

We all rise in a cry, united in our grief.
It is haunting in its beauty, even as it leaks out our pain and despair.
What are we?
Who are we?
How can we remain, when all else is lost? Here we stand, weak and demoralized on the very doorstep of Mordor, if it can even be called such. The towers have fallen, the gatehouse crushed, buried in a pile of rubble, soot, and a mass of bodies. A great chasm now blocks the entrance of that dark land, and the sun, the accursed orb of light which troubles us still, glares down from bright, clear skies.
We are eight in number. The hole within our hearts throbs painfully. We have lost our King! Greatest of the Nine, he has fallen.
We let loose another cry, an ear-piercing shriek filled with sorrow.
We are doomed.
The Void will claim us soon, and we shall spend an eternity in that wasteland.
There is no word strong enough that describes the empty hell to where our fates are bound.
Our ties to Sauron have been cut off. Our chains have been broken. We are free from him, at least. Free from the slaver who enthralled us, tamed us, destroyed us.
It is because of him we have become who-- what we are now.
Aye, none of us wishes to see Námo. But we get a fate far worse then that. And we well know what it is.
The irony of it hounds us.
We are dancing upon the blade tip, with a yawning nothingness beneath us. One slip, and we perish.
We have no purpose. None of us yet remembers our lives as mortal men. It is taken from us still. Perhaps it will always be. Maybe for better, maybe for worse.
But we walk this land yet. It is not in our nature to give up when we still have chance for life.
Or the un-life that Sauron has…gifted us.
We will find a purpose...we must. Our existence depends on it.
We are united.
Nine we once were.
We are the Nazgûl.


Chapter 4 - Hope for Survival

So it was that on March 16th, year 3020 of the Third Age, but a day and a year after the death of the Witch King, that the Lieutenant of the Nine, now Lord of the Eight, brought his mourning fellows together, under the shadow of the crumbled towers marking the land of Mordor.
They stood in silence, content and reassured with the familiar presence of one another.
There they were; eight lost and forgotten kings, gathered amid the ruin of the Black Gate.
“So it is, my lords, we have awoken from slumber to find Sauron defeated, and our King, Angmar, destroyed.” ventured Khamûl, willing the uneasy quiet to be broken.
“What happens now?” asked a solemn voice.
“That is yet to be decided, Gothûrz.” replied the First.
“Decided?” laughed another bitterly, “What have we to decide? Other then that fateful day when we visit Melkor in the Void!” he exclaimed, his eyes glowing a faint red, like a dim ember.
Khamûl hissed softly, his ire rising. They would not do well to start arguing.
“Mokûrz, control thy whining. We are in no better position then thee, and you would do well to remember thy place, Seventh!”
To his surprise, Mokûrz fell silent, and although still fuming, seemed more then willing to cooperate.
Khamûl glanced at each hooded face in turn.
“Against all odds, we still survive. We should not give in, and cast ourselves into oblivion! We cannot despair, my lords, not while we still have strength to keep ourselves intact. We may start anew! Let us flee to the East as we have always done. When the shadow is forgotten, we may even start rule as kings again. I would not let myself perish a coward.” He said, pride creeping into his somber voice. Pride at his survival, and pride that the play King of Gondor does not yet know he exists. Assured with this fact, he held his head high, and stood tall.
The light would not dampen the shadow this day.
The Fifth spoke forward, “Khamûl, how do we know our essence will not unwind eventually? Mayhaps we are mortal, and even if we are not, we still are as weak and subdued as children!”
“Skrithûrz,” replied Hurûrz scornfully, “do not be so frightened as to wet thyself! It is as Khamûl said; our existence should not go to waste, hiding in a corner. We are kings, -by Melkor- kings! And ‘twould be fitting we acted as such.” He exclaimed, his self-assurance like a beacon with which to guide the others.
The rest then murmured their agreements.
Khamûl looked to Hurûrz with approval, and smirks passed between the two.
“So, what say ye? Shall we let ourselves fade away a little more with each passing breath of the wind?” asked their King.
Gothmog, once Third, now Second, stepped forward boldly.
“Nay! We will conquer!”
Had they their swords, they would have drawn those black blades and raised them high in approval.
However, even with their lack of weapons, the Eight had growing confidence. They would not be fazed. Not yet, not with their hope so high, and so desperate.
They were trapped, Eight immortal lords clinging to life, when with the destruction of the One, they shouldn’t exist.
Ulkum, most subdued of the Eight, usually kept to himself, and disliked voicing opinions.
But this was more then worthy enough to add his thoughts.
“Aye, indeed, we shall grasp life. But what then? We go to the East, certainly. But will we still be welcomed? No doubt they would be rid of us, with much of the armies, if not all, dissipated. We would be a blight to them. And what then, when we are turned away?” he murmured, anxiety clutching his heart in a cruel grip.
Burzum, crude and instinctual, answered, “Have you forgotten what we are?” he chuckled, a deep rumbling sound.
“They would grovel at our feet, as always!” he assured.
Mokûrz spat at the ground.
“They would not! Not with the misfortune we brought upon them. And do you recall where we last placed our steeds?” he asked sarcastically, “We do not even know what the date is!”
Even with renewed hope, anxiety and anger still remained.
Burzum turned to the Seventh angrily.
“Do ye take me for a fool? I know that!”
Gothmog cackled, always one to interfere.
“Nay, he might not take you for a dotard, but I do!”
“Silence! Cease thy bickering, Second, Eighth and Seventh!” Khamûl roared.
They did, but not without muted glares, and only after a string of curses.
“We cannot have dissent amongst ourselves! Would you deign to weaken us even further? I will teach thee respect when there is none!”
They bowed their heads in reluctant submission.
Khamûl sneered at them distastefully.
“Our tempers are running high; and with no lack of reason. But we must be united, my brothers!”
He gave each of them a long, meaningful glare, his eyes glowing faintly.
But silence once again returned, and they all took the time to simmer down. The only noise was the wind whistling through the desolate, arid landscape.
But once again, the uneasy quiet was broken.
“Khamûl, we have not yet come to any reason or conclusion. Where are we to go?”
Gothûrz opened his palms out, relying on Khamûl for an answer.
He looked at the Third then, supplying him only with a stare.
It seemed that the earth itself held its breath.
“I do not know.”



****
NOTES:


Khamûl was the only Ringwraith named by Tolkien, and was indeed the Second of the Nine.
Gothmog was also mentioned, but it was unclear whether he was orc, human, or Nazgûl.
The following names are words from the Black Speech language.

-Gothûrz- Powerful
-Mokûrz- Hateful
-Skrithûrz- Cruel (or mean)
-Hurûrz- Brave
-Ulkum- Evil
-Burzum- Darkness


Chapter 5 - Plans for Survival

They had no purpose, these wraiths. They served no master, yet owned no slaves.
Nor were their hearts whole; they still had a gaping wound where the Lord of Morgul used to be.
They were lost.
Completely and utterly lost.
And it frightened them.
They cried out in unison, overwhelmed by loss, confusion, and fearful anger.
They were shattered, and the fragments with which they could rebuild themselves caught on the wind and scattered. The Eight were left empty.
They were alone.
Nay! Not alone, for they had each other, even as fragile as their bonds were at this moment, spurred by whims and impulses, they were together.
The Eight.
They had a brotherhood that mortals couldn’t possibly conceive. They were connected by something stronger than blood. They still had their Rings. And as each wore it upon his finger, they were connected.
They stood together once more under the broken shadow of Mordor, willing their fears to be put away.
“We go East?” asked one quietly.
“Aye, but what then?” said another.
“We shall fade, it is certain.” one replied morbidly.
“Have you no courage?” growled a husky voice.
“Burzum, faith! We have no purpose, no destiny! We must forge ourselves one, and ‘tis no easy task. Do not growl belligerently at one of our own, merely for fearing the future. Would you deign tear us apart, my brother?” Khamûl intervened, desperate to keep emotions under control. True, this has not been the first of many arguments, indeed, they oft had furious rages with one another, but now, even as they are united, any bickering could weaken them needlessly. The Eighth hung his head in guilty submission, as one accused.
The First sagged somewhat, weary and overcome by a compelling emotion to cast himself into the yawning chasm beneath the blade tip. He willed guidance come to him, but none was forthcoming.
“Ah,” he thought bitterly, “I am weak! Once, I was a king of the East, and needed no council but my own! The years of servitude and dependence of Sauron hath weakened me more then I know.”
Khamûl then turned his head to the sky. He saw nothing, save a blazing white that seared his eyes. He always was most sensitive to the merciless golden orb.
Why he looked up, he did not know. Perhaps it was in hope that the sky clouded over, and the foul sun covered. ‘Twould not happen anytime soon. He looked back to his brethren, close as kin.
“We go East, for we have no other option. If we stay here, in this graveyard, we will perish. The men of the West hold no love for us. And we hold none for them. But their memories of us shall fade, and we will survive, always as we have done before.” He smiled then, and let loose a roar of victory.
The light does not hold sway over the shadow yet.


Chapter 6 - To Ease a Headache

He walked almost as if in a dream. Forsooth, it seemed like such. Aragorn felt like he was wrapped in a warm cocoon of sleep. He wandered his bedroom like a blind man, bleary eyed and discombobulated. It was mid afternoon, but ah, how he wished for sleep. His short reign has been fair and peaceful, but, like any king, deprived of sleep.
It felt, to him, like something was out of place.
Forgotten, perhaps.
It was only a feeling, but one so strong it was tugging and gnawing at the corners of his mind. He meandered over to his bed aimlessly. Thoughtlessly.
He sat down on the edge, head in his hands. He ran a finger against the beard he had grown. Aragorn smiled wearily; he has not shaved it recently, and it started to lose shape.
A knock on the door, hesitant, worried.
“You may enter.” Aragorn said to the person beyond the heavy mahogany entryway.
The doors swung open, and Arwen entered, carrying a basin of water, and a towel.
“Ah, you have come to tame my reckless beard?” he smiled, the lines around his eyes crinkling upward. Arwen chuckled, sat down at his feet, and leaned against his strong legs.
“My Lord, why do you mock me so?” she asked, gazing at him with those large doe eyes, filled with mirth.
He stroked her ebony hair tenderly.
“Nay, meleth nin, I would never mock you.”
Arwen sighed pleasurably and shifted, dipping the end of the towel in the warm water
She straightened, turning to face him, and sat down next to the king.
“Here,” she said, “it shall ease your thoughts.” She dabbed the wet end of the towel upon his brow.
“My thoughts, or my headache?” he asked.
She laughed a clear, ethereal sound.
“Your headache, at the very least, my Lord.”
He smiled, laying his hand on her ivory shoulder.
And with his beloved wife, Aragorn forgot his unnamed troubles, if only for a moment.


Chapter 7 - Memories of Pain

Memories came flooding back with the force of a gale wind, like the currents rushing out to meet the sea.
Pain, they remembered.

Searing, agonizing pain, more violent then any of the tortures or punishments Sauron could devise. Their essence, their very souls felt as if Morgoth’s claws were ripping open a giant, gaping hole. They felt like a thousand fiery daggers had thrust themselves into their newly opened flesh.

The memory of it brought small shudders of pain to the Eight, even now. They cried out, still sore and weak, with the sun beating down on them, no less. But the memory did not stop.

Sauron’s roar rung, deafening and thunderous in it’s entirety, booming in the ears of the wraiths. He screamed at the ringbearer, who brought about his ruin. He raged at the Eight, his sons, his -creations- for failing him. But they were too blinded by pain, -his pain- and their own, to heed his dying words.
Then, he was gone.
Gorthaur was erased, forever.
Sentenced to the Void to dwell with Morgoth.
Doomed, punished, and bound forevermore.
Inescapably.
But it was not over for the Nazgûl, whose mortal steeds died amid the wrathful eruption of Mount Doom. And so, the shrieking riders waited for their fate, watching helplessly, terrified, as the ground grew perilously nearer and nearer. With a fatal impact, eight black riders plummeted and hit the ground in a might crash.
Thus the reign of Sauron and his nine fell knights-- was over. The Captains of the West cheered; victorious was this bloody day. No one, not even Olorin, wisest of the Istari, would have, nay, -could- have known that the Eight lords of Sauron still lived.
Unconscious and fatally wounded, -though not by flesh- they lay buried under the carcasses of their dead beasts. Their wounds, -which both Sauron and Angmar’s death has caused- would heal over time. And when the day of their return came to pass, the Eight would rise with a terrible fury in their long dead hearts.

And so they have. When they first awoke, bewildered and confused, they sought out their Rings, which Sauron detained from them. Among the ashes and rubble of Barad-Dûr, they were found.
Now the Eight stand, not much more steady then when they rose from the graveyard which once housed the glory of Mordor.
But they were in agreement.
They would travel East, for better or worse.



****
NOTES:

My thanks to Aganuzir who pointed out that Sauron would most likely have kept the Nine Rings for himself.


Chapter 8 - What is this Sorrow?

Arwen did not stay long.
All too soon, she brushed her lips across the forehead of Aragorn, and bid him farewell, but first she squeezed his hand gently, the tender pressure comforting him.
Aragorn did not hold it against Arwen for leaving, as much as he’d like her to remain.
Her duties, as his queen, were numerous, and understandably so.
Arwen hovered at the doorway, not wishing to leave her king.
But he smiled, and waved her away.
“Feel better, meleth nin.” she mouthed, then closed the heavy doors behind her.
Aragorn stayed sitting upon the bed, deeply inhaling the scent of pine that always seemed to follow his beloved.
He sat on his bed, head in hands, for what seemed to him like hours on end.
Musing, thinking, dreaming.
He stayed that way for many a minute. But he shifted, his position finally becoming uncomfortable.
Yet once again he became as still and lifeless as a statue, and anyone who would have chanced upon him thought him dead, lying motionless on the bed. His breath was even, albeit barely noticeable, yet his chest rose up and fell down in even movements, calmly.
Peacefully. Yet he did not feel calm. He did not feel peaceful. The same gnawing feeling was at his mind again, and he felt like it continued to tug at his memories. Aragorn shifted again, returning to the position he first sat down in, and yet again, remained that way in a dreary haze.
Finally Elessar looked up, the light dimming.
He rose from bed groggily, imprints on his face where his hands put pressure for so long. He strode to the window, putting his hand on the cool glass.
The sun now bid the world goodnight, the last rays disappearing behind the horizon to the west.
“Maer dú ni beleth anor.” He whispered to himself. Aragorn’s eyes remained fixated on the last rays of light. The king stood at the window, a feeling of sorrow washing over him.
“What is this torment that haunts me so?” he breathed, anxiety clutching his heart. With the last light finally disappearing, Aragorn was bathed in darkness.
He reeled over suddenly, waves of agony freezing his insides, paralyzing him. He gasped for air, struggling to inhale the air. He was alone. Then blackness blurred his vision and he fell unconscious.
“My lord?” a muffled voice asked from the outside.
A pause.
“My king, you have been in your room the whole day. Are you alright?” it asked, concern in it’s voice.
“My king?”
The doors swung open on their hinges.
“Aragorn!”


He woke to find warmth encasing his body. He sat up quickly, breathless.
“Aragorn, are you alright?” asked the voice of Faramir, rushing to his king’s side urgently.
“I do not know, my friend. What has happened?” he asked, confused and disoriented.
He took in his surroundings and found he was covered in blankets, lying on his bed with many blurred faces at his side. Still in shock, but trying to assess what happened, Aragorn calmly assured himself that his vision would return soon.
“I knocked on the door at sunset, but there was no answer. When I came in, you were passed out on the floor, cold as ice. I feared for you life, and called for the guards. Can you not remember anything?”
Aragorn leaned back into the soft pillows propped up behind him, and passed a shaky hand over his face.
“Nay, my friend. Not yet.”
A white light appeared in his faltering vision.
“You had many of us worried, my king.”
“Gandalf,” replied Elessar, “where is Arwen?” he asked, searching vainly for his wife.
“Here I am, my love.” she replied tenderly, stroking his cheek. “You have warmed significantly.”
“She has not left your side since Faramir first called her in.” Gandalf said, leaning on his staff heavily.
“I must have lain here for hours.” Aragorn said bitterly, ashamed at his own weakness.
“Aye, but that matters not. We are glad you are safe.” Faramir replied.
Even as relief soothed him, Aragorn wasn’t sure how safe he was.



****
NOTES:

Sindarin: -Maer dú ni beleth anor-

Good night (Maer dú) to the (ni) waning sun (beleth anor)
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