Darkness Remains

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.”



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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