Dwimmerlaik

Author’s Notes: Argh! Back to school madness…Thus the reason this chapter is posted a tad later in the afternoon than I’d like. I hate keeping readers waiting.

And yet I’ll make you wait for a couple of warnings first. This is where things are going to start getting really gritty. There will be torture later on. A Nazgûl doesn’t skimp. So, those tender-hearted among you might wish to use caution in proceeding. It will still, however, retain a PG-13 rating.

If you notice inconsistencies in regards to earlier chapters, I’ve altered a few things here and there—small things that don’t directly affect the storyline but just in case you notice.

Dedication: This chapter is humbly attributed to Noelnoel who, despite her reservations, is an enthralling conversationalist and bestower of excellent ideas. The first half of this chapter was altered for the better because of her brilliance.

Part Nine

When the Black Breath Blows

Parents’ greatest heartache is the loss of their children, Lord Elrond reflected with attempted detachment as he stared out at the dripping eaves. The same storm that moved over the Weather Hills smothered Imladris in roiling cloud though the night was far more advanced. Lightning crackled over the pinewoods, bathing the valley in garish brilliance and the rain echoed through cavernous, empty rooms.

However, the foul weather suited the valley’s master perfectly. He did not often give himself over to anxiety and the ache of worry knowing that such feelings would grow the more you fed them and eventually paralyze you with a terrible indifference to everything else. As keeper of a vast number of lives, he couldn’t afford that. Until rain stopped the valley’s inner workings of course and the house was too quiet to be busy.

With a swift, almost desperate motion, the elf-lord flung open the long windows that faced across the courtyard. A light spray on his brow, he stared towards the mist-shrouded gates as though expecting to see an array of horsemen cantering through it, droplets scattering over their leather pauldrons. But the road was deserted and tranquil save for the puddles rippling constantly on the walkways. An uneven dip in the courtyard had become a miniature reflection of the Bruinen as it snaked down towards the gardens.

Anyone with any sense would be well under cover tonight. Except for one person who hurried past his window wrapped in a voluminous cloak and leaning on a very familiar-looking pace stick. Distracted from his brooding, Elrond curiously edged the window wider.

“Sadron, what on earth are you doing out there?”

The figure swiveled on his heel, water streaming off his back and shoulders in tiny waterfalls. He shrugged the cloak rather uselessly up around his neck. “Do you mind if I get inside first, my lord? It’s a little damp out here.”

“Of course, of course.”

“We were out of comfrey and willow bark,” Sadron explained when Elrond met him at the kitchens’ back entrance stripping off his sopping garment and trailing loose grass blades and rivulets from his boots. “I had to nip out to the garden.”

“At this time of night? Surely that could wait until morning,” Elrond said, bemused. “Or at least until the rain ceased.”

“No, it very well could not, my lord,” Sadron snapped, shaking his saturated hair out of his eyes. He limped heavily over to the table and upended a small leather pouch wound about his waist. Wisps and shavings of the aforementioned plants tumbled out.

Elrond stood back and watched him in curious silence as he mashed the ingredients together, pulverizing them into a fine powder until the kettle placed on the fire whistled loudly. He knew better than to interrupt. Sadron when it was raining was even more formidable than usual since the intensified pain in his leg made him far less patient.

So he meekly sipped the tea thrust into his hands and let it warm him all the way through. He hadn’t realized how tense he was until the soothing liquid released his taut muscles. For the first time since Estel had left, he felt sweet calm seeping into his heart.

Sadron tossed a dishcloth over the puddle in the doorway, his expression much more amicable as his lord sighed and sat down at the long table. He tossed his stick on the table, took a seat opposite and stretched his leg out with a soft groan.

“I have never been very adept at waiting.”

The servant smiled patiently. “You worry for them—all of them—but this is bordering on unhealthy if you’ll excuse the observation, my lord.”

“You always speak freely with me, my friend. Whether I wish you to or not so I will not gainsay you,” Elrond rubbed his face and said into the soft silence of the kitchen, “All my sons are gone, Sadron.”

“Glorfindel will keep those twins of yours in line. They’ll bring Estel and that cabinet-breaker back safe and sound. You’ll see.”

“If I could ride out with them--”

“You would still not be able to keep them from harm and you are needed here,” his servant reminded him with his usual austerity. “And you won’t do anyone, especially your sons, any good if you fret and waste away before the windows. I made sure they had provisions enough to keep a regiment on their feet for a year and enough bandages and medicinal herbs for ten.”

“I pray they will not need them.”

They subsided into silence watching lightning flicker silver-hued over the copper pots. Sadron set his mug down with a gentle clink to recall his lord’s attention. “One grey wanderer at least would have your counsel at this appalling hour if you cannot find peace of mind enough to rest. Though if he insists upon smoking that foul self-poisoning instrument in this house I must insist we at least cover the furniture. Goodness knows ash has already burned a hole in—”

“Yes, yes, Sadron, all right. Mithrandir is a guest here and therefore allowed his little quirks,” Elrond smiled, patting his servant’s arm consolingly. He knew his old friend was trying to distract him and, fortunately, it was working. “I shall try not to worry. There is plenty to do here to take my attention. You are right. As usual.”

“One of my many talents, my lord.”

Elrond rose but before leaving cast a sideways, measuring glance at his companion. He knew well the relaxant qualities in the tea and his servant’s uncanny talent of guessing when they were needed most. “You went out into the middle of a raging thunderstorm for two plants though there are plenty of other tea stocks in this house?”

“I had a taste for comfrey.”

----------

Aragorn was a light sleeper. He woke suddenly with the oily, dry taste of sleep in his mouth and the echo of thunder in his ears. At first he couldn’t remember where he was; he had dreamt of home. Memory sharpened when he spotted the weapons resting against the walls and the motionless, lumpy forms of his men barely picked out by the fire’s dying embers.

His eyes fell on Halbarad first who lay near the wall, snoring loud enough to compliment any thunder-growl. Annoyed at being thus woken and unable to go back to sleep, Aragorn sat up and drew his dry cloak around himself. Tomorrow, he would have a long talk to Halbarad about sleeping outside the camp…far outside the camp.

But he was not the only one awake. Angrad lay huddled up in the corner, staring at the far wall.

“Can you not sleep?” Aragorn asked kindly. The man’s eyes jolted up at the sound of his soft voice. He shook his head.

“The f-fire went out.”

Aragorn wasn’t sure if it was the lack of warmth or the lack of light that bothered the younger ranger and thought it less upsetting to not ask so he settled for poking the last bits of dry wood into the embers which sizzled and popped.

When a flicker of flame reappeared, Angrad scooted closer and asked suddenly. “D-do you think the p-people buried here were noble, sir? Like the b-barrows of Amon Sûl?”

“Perhaps only among their own ranks. They betrayed their king, Angrad.”

“The king of Arthedain was not the k-king of Rhudaur. It was not b-betrayal—if one were t-to look at the situation through their eyes,” he explained when Aragorn raised his eyes sharply. “Halbarad always s-says ‘know your enemy—especially the p-parts of him you don’t s-see.’ Actually he has a lot of s-sayings like that.”

Aragorn smiled less sourly at his snoring adjutant. “Well, I’m glad he has his uses.”

“The p-people of Rhudaur must have fought for s-something they b-believed in? Some c-cause we d-didn’t understand. M-maybe it was just as n-noble as ours and we just c-couldn’t accept it b-because they were the en-enemy. They were slaughtered for no reason other than ignorance.” His eyes keened like razors in the dark, fastened on Aragorn almost hungrily. The chief’s seemingly endless knowledge of history and old legends had been a source of wonderment and increasing interest for the youngest ranger. Aragorn had found a good listener in him.

The older man shrugged. He hadn’t really thought about it. “It’s possible. But anyone who allies themselves with Angmar…”

”M-must have hated someone else m-more.”

“Hate is never a good motive. Those who treat with evil and with evil intent are often treated with evil in their turn.”

“How can you b-be sure of who is evil and who is n-not?” Angrad asked quietly after a moment. “The W-witch-king is a sorcerer, yes? He can c-con…damage the m-minds and s-souls of others to suit his purposes? We sh-should be wary of those we c-can’t trust.”

Aragorn’s skin crawled. He knew who Angrad thought they should be wary of. Veil’s bedroll was empty. And oddly so were their hosts’.

A blue light brighter than their meager fire shone on the wall from the doorway that led into the great hall. Leaving Angrad to his thoughts, he climbed to his feet and paused in the shadows of the threshold when he heard soft voices.

Rancir, Lalaithien and Ivriel stood near the expansive vault upon which a long piece of parchment lay. Veil was poking around the wide niches, peering beneath shrouds and sneaking interested sidelooks at the elves.

“You are sure of this?” Rancir questioned him with a raised brow.

“It’s how I got out.” He touched the hilt of a jeweled sword lying at a warrior’s feet. It was notched at the tip. “That little line leads right down into the lower halls. It’s risky but it’ll take you right under the battlements on the north side. I’m guessing it was made by the king’s guards as a last resort if the city was ever taken—lucky them, eh?—though they might have sealed it up by now.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Rancir traced a line on what must have been some kind of map thoughtfully.

“Ah, this is much better than a sickle shard,” Veil hefted the broken sword and swung it experimentally.

“The people interred here died of plague you know.”

Veil hastily replaced his pilfered weapon and wiped his hands nervously on his trousers.

Ivriel still had her eyes on him while she questioned the younger elf standing next to her. “You are certain you saw the Lothlórien captain, Lalaithien?”

Aragorn caught his breath and strained to hear.

The addressed chewed his lip then said, “Had to be didn’t it? All of ours were dark-haired and he was fair. Definitely an elf though. He did things with a javelin I’ve never seen. He certainly gave that orc patrol a run for their lives and he almost could have had them save that treacherous one grabbing the girl to hold him off. That’s bad though isn’t it—if he’s still alive?” He looked uncertainly at his commander.

Rancir’s thumb and smallest finger which had been absently drumming the parchment stopped. “Probably.”

“Why?” Veil wanted to know. “You know one of ‘em’s alive at least. That should be good.”

“Because once they find out he’s a high-ranking officer, they’ll sweat him. And hard too. He’ll know things very valuable to the enemy: number of defenders, hidden caches of weapons, last eventualities…All of which would be disastrous for the Enemy to learn.”

Aragorn went cold inside. Disastrous for the Enemy to learn. He hadn’t thought of that. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d seen him?” He spoke before he remembered the elves didn’t know he was there.

All four of them started at the sound of his voice and Aragorn allowed a brief surge of pride before he clamped down on it with a questioning frown.

Rancir recovered first. “For the same reason you did not tell us you had one who had been to Fornost among you.”

Aragorn stared at Veil. “I didn’t know.”

The attention clearly made the other man uncomfortable because he dropped his eyes to the skeleton in front of him.

“You might have told us you were familiar with orcs too.” Aragorn stepped into the chamber, his eyes hard and challenging.

“Familiar?” Veil’s eyes snapped up to the chieftain’s face, looking him straight in the eye. “They ripped my entire village apart when they came in, burning everything. Setting houses alight. Slew everyone we knew. Did worse to those they didn’t. Like my wife…” His voice broke. “Sure. I’m familiar with orcs.”

“How did you escape?” Aragorn asked, hushed, his eyes softening slightly seeing the horror in the man’s eyes.

“I didn’t. We were all chained together and taken back to Fornost. Even my little girl. She’s ten with the brightest hair. The first few days in the quarry were so bad I can’t remember them. Heatstroke got to me or something. I couldn’t remember my name afterwards. ‘Veil’ stuck. Seemed better to forget what had been because remembering the good in your life hurts worse when you have nothing to look forward to.”

“But you did escape,” Rancir said. Aragorn started. He’d almost forgotten the others were in the room.

“Death rates are high in the quarries. It wasn’t hard to find something to hide under for a few hours until it got dark. See these scars on my wrists? Rats found me but I never moved. Never screamed. I had to leave my Henna with Sayna, my wife’s sister—her little girl was too young to survive the march in chains. Do you know what it’s like to leave your sobbing child clinging to her aunt’s arm in that hellish place, knowing you might die trying to come back for her? Or even if you do somehow manage it, how long is a child supposed to survive in…?

“That’s why I was getting weapons from those elves. They didn’t need them, I did. I figured they wouldn’t begrudge me it. I’m not lying,” he’d been watching Aragorn’s face closely.

“I didn’t say you were.”

Veil sneered, contempt glittering bright in his eyes. “But you don’t trust me either. You’d rather listen to your men. Every one of them loyal to the core.” He stalked away, yanking his sleeve down over his scars as he thrust past.

Aragorn stared after him long after he disappeared into the dark.

----------

Sheets of rain lashed the tall windowpanes and threw a wavering, silvery light over the dusty, red-gold carpet. Something, indistinct to the naked eye, shifted before the window like a shadow or a heat wave. Black robes draped a moth-eaten chair beside a sword and belt. Only here, in the sanctity of what had been the King of Arnor’s chambers, did the Witch-king feel comfortable revealing himself in his entirety as he truly remained in this world.

One who had power against the Unseen would have discerned a ragged king strong but withered with age and evil, wrapped in grey shroud-like robes and resting wasted fingers on the windowledge. Two luminous and hypnotic eyes gazed into his from the reflection of the window.

The Lord of Angmar had been a cruel man in life and after more than twenty three centuries under the Dominion of the Shadow he had grown still greater and crueler. The ring on his right forefinger glinted with no visible lighting in the room. This precious gift from his master long ago had augmented his already-dangerous strength. As it was, his victory was sure to come easily. The kings who had opposed him of old in the days of Fornost’s glory were dead and broken and none of their ilk remained in this part of the world. The elf-lords were small and driven into hiding in their supposedly secure refuges. His lord would burn them out in due time. Once he declared himself openly, the lands would be swept away on a tide of war.

Visions of conquest and bloodshed, of the horrible vengeance he would wreak on the elves and men who still dared defy his master consumed his thoughtful mood. They believed themselves safe, the elf-lords holed up in their refuges west of the mountains. Long he and his fellow wraiths had been drawing more and more of the west under their control as far as Mirkwood’s great forest. If the Dark Lord could but stretch out his hand as far north as he once had, nothing—not even the remnants of the Dúnedain—could withstand him.

But the time to reveal such intentions had not yet arrived. That was why he had pursued a single elf, his horse and message halfway across the country, hoping to prevent any warning of his arrival back into the north. Now suspicious, the elves had sent more. Well, he would deal with them in good time and any others who dared oppose he and his Lord. Like the elf.

A lipless smile curved the invisible mouth. It had been a long, long time since he had had an elf within his power and an officer of the Sorceress in the Golden Wood no less. The Witch-king whose shapeless grasp had nearly gouged the stone in his agitation and verve relaxed with pleasure. Yes, it wouldn’t be long now. He would pull the elf under his sway whether he wished it or not.

Whirling suddenly from the window, the Witch-king, filled with new purpose, pulled the black robes over his powerful shoulders and retrieved a delicately shaped vial from a chest. As a mighty sorcerer he had great power and influence over lesser minds and weaker wills though Elves remained difficult to bend. The poison in the vial, one of his own making, laid the mind open to his influence, susceptible to suggestion. It was half-empty.

Even the most despicable of his followers shrank back at his passing.

----------

Haldir’s head slumped forward. His drenched hair, long tangled from its braids, swept his cheeks like a wet net and clung to the wounds inflicted on his bare chest. His shoulders were wrenched up at an uncomfortable angle as his keepers dragged him roughly down the stairs he had no strength to attempt.

Despite the Witch-king’s “mercy” the elf had not been easily forgiven his little escape attempt. With their master’s express orders to inflict no permanent damage, the orcs punished him soundly. They performed admirably and did everything within their power to stay just shy of the permanent-damage line.

Time had ceased to mean anything to him. Hours…days…when his current guards grew tired of subjecting him to new and inventive ways to cause him discomfort, others took their place. Haldir prided himself that he had not yet given them the satisfaction of hearing him cry out though—except perhaps where he had no control, in the fleeting moments when he slept.

His chin bumped against his collarbone as they halted before a rough-hewn door and one of his guards released him, leaving red crescent marks imprinted on the scored shoulders. Haldir didn’t look up; he knew well enough where he was. He heard the keys jangle in the lock and then the other pair of hands returned.

They dumped his body on the cold, flagstone floor of his cell and left him there. They knew he was too weak to need chaining. Though his draggled hair itched along his neck, Haldir didn’t move until the iron-shod feet slouched well away down the corridor, echoing and reverberating inside his pounding skull. Beads of sweat and water mingled with something reddish and rolled down his back as he dragged himself slowly, painfully into the corner farthest from the door.

He had explored the small cubby-hole that comprised his cell top to bottom in the early days of isolation. Barely the size of a broom cupboard it contained nothing but smooth, impenetrable walls and a waste bucket. The darkness overlapped like a second skin on his damp one, hot and stifling. He could feel it seeping in, gaining a grip that was harder and harder to shake off every day.

His extensive training had prepared him for torture, for possible methods his captors might inflict on him. He had held up fairly well, he thought. But he had been completely unprepared for the times he was left alone which had become oddly frequent of late: silence was his enemy as surely as pain was.

Detaching himself from the latter had worked for awhile, however, the lingering, narcotic effect of looking through the eyes of someone else was dangerous in that it made him ignore the danger signals. Three of his ribs had already been broken by the orcs’ rough treatment. He’d only just reset them with his fingertips and they’d felt stiff and clicked awkwardly back into place as if they’d been broken some time ago without his knowledge.

The silence pressed harder.

In the beginning when he still had the strength to be defiant and foolish, he tried singing or humming though he had never had much of a voice: too rough from millennia of shouting commands (one of his lieutenants had once remarked his singing had a certain quality to it—like the boughs of an oak creaking, discordant but comforting). It infuriated Critz and his men. After the punishment that evoked, he never did it again. Guards paced the corridors outside his door but they were infrequent and odd-houred. Other than their heavy tread, he heard nothing and saw no one until those off-duty decided they had need of entertaining.

He leaned his back against the coarse stones of his cell, the only place that was mildly safe in so far that the orcs had to take nearly two steps more to get to him than if he stayed by the door. His side ached dully; one of his ribs might have unset itself while he had been dragged down the stairs. His mouth tasted like steel and the filthy rag they’d shoved in it.

He wanted to curl up and not think, he wanted to sleep and never wake. But worst of all, he wanted to escape. That thought he firmly quashed, grinding that tiny blossom of hope ruthlessly into the dust of his cell. He couldn’t start that: if he started hoping it would drive him mad when he was disappointed. Ever since he’d seen the rayed star in the Witch-king’s hand, heard the name “Dúnedain” treacherous hope had blossomed in his mind.

But Estel couldn’t—mustn’t—come. Not for him. Not for any reason. He had to stay safe; he had to stay where the shadow couldn’t reach him. Estel must not come.

In spite of his best intentions, a selfish voice deep in the part of his mind that still felt pain reared up: why couldn’t he? Had he not proven his friendship to the young human more than once in their journeys together? Did he really think Estel wouldn’t come for him as soon as the ranger discovered him missing? The answer was no. Estel would come in an instant if he knew. And part of the marchwarden hated himself for hoping Estel would at least try. He shouldn’t. He can’t.

Torn in mind, exhausted by the suffocating darkness and the lead weight of despair crushing his heart, Haldir lay flat, his cheek against the filthy stone floor.

Estel must not come.

But even those words eventually petered into empty meaning; and the walls ground close about him suffocating him just as surely as his jailers had done with the saturated cloth poured over nose and mouth; he buried his face deeper into the cradle of his arms so he wouldn’t have to see the walls even though the very action enclosed him in a nearly-as-impassable cage. He couldn’t break free of his own flesh. Not yet.

He rolled over again, unable to keep still but having little enough strength to move. It wasn’t only his ribs that made his side burn. The old wound Aragorn had tended so diligently in Rivendell what seemed like a lifetime ago had been viciously reopened, the stitches plucked mercilessly and methodically out. A black substance clung to the exposed skin.

A shadow deeper than the current blackness crept over him as time passed and engulfed more than just his sight; it stripped away bits and layers of his life. He found himself struggling to remember people’s faces and places he’d traveled which had served well as a distraction when the orcs played with him.

His head jerked up when hard nails dug into his shoulder. He hadn’t even heard the door open. His guards were back and they leered at him in the light of a tallow candle.

“Shrieker wants you, snaga.”

They man-handled him down a dim-lit corridor until they reached a door flanked by torches. Just glimpsed through the doorway, a rough-hewn wooden table dominated a small room.

Haldir knew that table too well and, despite the weakness threatening to overtake him, he dug in his heels and resisted the orcs’ grasp until Critz, coming up behind, struck his knees out from under him. They wrestled him through the doorway and with difficulty strapped him down: wrists, ankles and a smooth, metal bar across his chest to stop him torquing so hard, he’d break his wrists. The table was even bolted to the floor to keep him from overturning it.

It was impossible for the windowless cell to be any darker but the wraith made it so as he glided through the doorway. “Well, Captain, we begin again.”

His side throbbed in response to the chilling coldness, worse because of his damp skin but Haldir made no reply and continued to stare at the dark ceiling. He knew it was fairly useless to struggle. He could sense the Witch-king’s presence even if he couldn’t see him. The wraith hovered close to his head.

“It will be much easier for you if you simply say it. I can always give you back to my servants if you feel you would rather not. I will ask you again,” this had been a repeated ritual over the last few weeks. “Who do you serve?”

“The lord and lady of Lothlórien.” The reply was prompt though hoarse.

The wraith hissed angrily. He was not pleased. By rights the elf should have broken days ago. Furious, he groped towards his prisoner. The sharpened, iron glove brushed over bruises and broken ribs and halted above the open, filth-crusted wound.

Haldir braced. He knew what was coming by now. His body had been the first to give up when the Witch-king began his ‘treatment’ in an effort to break him. He couldn’t stop himself from vomiting, screaming, finally passing out…

The worst of it though was he couldn’t prevent himself from sinking. The longer he stayed here, the more ground he lost: pieces of himself broke away every time the wraith touched him. The sorcerer uncorked the vial filled with a viscous black substance, like a moonless night made liquid. Laving the tip of his spiked glove with it, he inserted the deadly tip into the open wound, widening and deepening it even as he thrust his substantial will against the barricade of the elf’s mind. Thick, ugly and shockingly crimson blood pooled over the wooden grain and dripped onto the floor.

All thoughts of Estel, of escape, of life and duty wiped instantly away on a tide of flickering black. The dark rushed through his veins, drowning out his thoughts and even the reverberations of his own screams. Violent visions flashed across his mind’s eye with the vividness of reality: the broken bodies of elves on the threshold of the Last Homely House… the charred skeletons of mellyrn… a hanging man whose face had been half-ripped away and whose rayed star brooch clung to his cloak by all but a thread. There’s nothing left…the noxious, familiar voice hissed in his ear. All gone…all dead…

Sweat poured off the elf’s face even more freely than the water just moments ago. His chest heaved as he fought to deny the horrible thoughts twisting themselves into sense in his head. He had to keep fighting, keep fighting…keep fighting what? The stone wall of his will behind which he desperately crouched began to crumble as one greater than his thrust unbearable pressure against it. Poisonous, coercive words seeped through the cracks like a deadly gas. If it was all gone, why keep fighting?

The pain will stop if you stop fighting, coaxed the voice Haldir could no longer tell apart from his. Just stop. Stop. It will end.

The Witch-king could tell it was working. The elf’s eyes rolled back in their sockets and his limbs shook so hard one of the guards edged closer to make sure the cuffs still held. Even Critz had gone quiet to watch.

The blackness in the chamber spread as the wraith pressed ever harder, sensing victory. When his victim went silent and the muscles finally stopped spasming save for a slight reactive quiver, he withdrew. One of the guards stuck two fingers under the sweat-streaked jaw against the elf’s neck and nodded.

The lord of Angmar bent low over the deathly white form, close to the gently tipped ear, and whispered in an almost caressing voice. “Who do you serve?”

The elf’s eyes opened. The adamantine silver was cloudy as if cobwebs drew across them. He spoke without inflection as he answered,

“You, my lord.”

Satisfied at last, the Witch-king chuckled and with several, deft flicks, unfastened the restraints. “Rise.”

The elf did so, his face blank and utterly bloodless. He stood straight as though the pain of his many wounds no longer held any sway over him. The wraith liked what he saw. His new slave was powerful and strong but a test was needed…

“Slave.” Haldir’s head tilted upwards slightly. “Do you see that?”

The wraith indicated one of the guards standing near the doorway. The elf turned his eyes thither and nodded once.

“Kill it.”

The orc glanced at his master with something like surprise then it bared its fangs and drew a black-edged scimitar with easy confidence. Stalking forward another pace, it faced the unarmed elf who still stood calmly in the center of the room beside the table.

The Witch-king moved back to observe. He had grown acquainted with his captive these last couple of weeks—the elf would never have done anything the wraith requested, even kill one of his tormentors. But not now. Now, he could not refuse.

The orc lunged, swinging the blade like a cleaver; there was little space to maneuver and his blow would chop the elf in two. The sword thudded deep into the wood grain where his intended quarry had been a split second earlier. Before the orc had time to pull his weapon free, a sharp blow numbed him from shoulder to wrist and his hand slid off the hilt. Another close-fisted strike sent him staggering back. With a shriek of splintering wood, the sword wrenched free and swung just once. The orc’s body flopped backward over the table, its head thudding under it.

Task completed, the elf lowered the dripping blade and stood to attention, eyes staring straight ahead, focusing on nothing. The Witch-king laughed, coldly pleased. He turned to his lieutenant.

“Critz, my spies tell me the Dúnedain have crawled into a den not far from here. I want you to find them and kill them. All of them.” He stoppered the vial of black liquid and slipped it beneath his voluminous robes.

“The rains probably washed all signs away. How are we going to find them, sire?”

“You have one of the Eldar at your disposal. Improvise.” The wraith’s black robes slithered along the ground as he swept towards the doorway. He paused beside the unmoving figure. “Slave, your lord has work for you.”
Author’s Notes: I’ve been packing and heavy-lifting all day. A review would make me stretch the kinks out of my shoulders, neck, back, arms and legs, do a couple cartwheels of ecstatic joy and write the next scene.

Best,

The Lady of Light