Darkness Remains

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 Nazgűl.