A/N: This is how I deal with stress - by writing disturbing fanfiction. I don't remember how much Almighty Master Tolkien said about how the wraiths became wraiths, but I've always imagined it as a drawn out and painful process.
The first line belongs to Strider. Sexy, sexy Strider.
They were Men, once. Great kings of Men.
Now they are scarcely men at all. Gaunt, ragged, they wend their way through the shadows and their eyes gleam in the dark.
To say that they're travelling together is not quite accurate. During the night each makes his own meandering, unsteady course through the wilderness. Though they are all keenly, unnervingly aware of one another, each prefers to keep to himself.
But as the night fades out into dawn, all nine inevitably end up drawn to the same spot. And though each wants nothing more than solitude, instead they make camp together.
They're all going to the same place, after all.
No one attempts real conversation. Their only exchanges are short bursts of harsh words, strung together in barely-comprehensible order. They have a language all to themselves now, made of growls and hisses as much as real speech. Only good for expressing simple, bitter thoughts.
What few deeper thoughts they have now are not ones worth voicing.
They hate each other. Sometimes they fight – quick, vicious battles that blaze up and peter out in a matter of minutes.
They look at each other and see demons, creatures half-alive and rotting from within. And they hate each other, because in the others each sees the reflection of himself.
They hate each other. But they come crawling anyway to huddle around the same fire, because in the world that fades a little more every day, this is the only place left.
They hunt, and cook their catch over the fire because none of them want to admit that food has begun to feel like ash in their mouths.
Nine pairs of eyes continually stray east, then back to meet their companions' in perfect understanding. With harsh breaths and clenched hands they cry to each other for help, and though none of them know the cure they at least know that each has the same sickness burning through his veins.
Nine pairs of eyes meet in the firelight and each vows not to become like the others. And when the fire's warmth no longer reaches them, they only draw closer and closer until the flames leave burns on their skin.