"When Thou Joinest With the Nine" by Silver Bolt

Rating: PG for themes- this isn't happy Disney, folks.

Genre: Lord of the Rings; Drama/Mystery

Disclaimer: I don't own this world, the Nazgul, or Sauron. Nor do I own the rights to that Keats' poem, but last I checked a writer's stuff becomes public domain 50 years after death. Keats is pretty dead. But I don't intend to infringe on the masters Tolkien or Keats, I am just a humble student... don't hurt me!

Summary: The Nine Rings of Power corrupt and destroy a powerful royal family. Based on a stanza from John Keats' "Ode to Apollo."

But when thou joinest with the Nine,

And all the powers of song combine,

We listen here on earth:

The dying tones that fill the air,

And charm the ear of evening fair,

From the Great God of Bards, receive their heavenly birth.

- - -

Galdred was aware of warmth and contentment. His young wife Minla slept soundly in the darkness. Something had awoken him, but whatever it was, it was silent now. He felt like getting up, like exercising somehow in the cool night, but he didn't know why.

Nine for mortal men, doomed to die.

The whisper echoed through his chamber and seemed to fade off down the valley, away into the night. His belly was tight and he was drenched with cold sweat. What was it? Why was he so afraid? It was nonsense, he told himself. An odd nightmare, he'd only imagined it. What could those words mean? He tried to relax his body, but his mind replayed the awful whisper- Nine for mortal men, doomed to die. Die. Die.

He'd been thinking about death a lot lately, ever since his eldest brother Goturin had vanished almost a year ago. Goturin was their father's heir, the future King of Minas Nevir, but now that would fall on his second brother Maropin. Galdred was the youngest of eight, hardly a likely heir, but power was his ultimate dream. The night of Goturin's disappearance, Galdred had awoken in much the same way. In fact, thinking of it, tonight was the anniversary of that night. Galdred had always coveted the power that Goturin was to have and had seemingly, suddenly, given up. In a few short hours it would seem that Marodin had followed his elder brother's footsteps.

Galdred was a good man, despite his longing for power. He was faithful to his wife and a patient father to their two daughters. He had little opportunity within the Nevir, being youngest of so many, but had joined the guard and risen in the ranks. He commanded respect but no men, for he was still too young to lead by city laws. He grimaced at the thought of having to wait another five years before he could lead even a small division. He was a born leader, he knew. He had fought in the Numenorean wars at the age of fifteen, serving as a squire to the aged Captain of the Guard. When the Captain fell to an enemy arrow, Galdred had carried his body ten leagues to their camp, and then returned to lead the few remaining soldiers of their company on to kill more than three times their number in those foul savages. And to think, they called themselves Numenoreans, when Nevir and its followers obviously controlled the island. They'd driven those tall barbarians from Numenor
altogether. But Galdred had been undecorated after the war... the last of his men were killed on their return, an ambush of course, and too weary to fight they'd been massacred. He was lucky to have escaped with his life, of course, but no one had heard of his feats. He'd been taught that boasting was a sin, and anyway, he could not have been honored without witnesses, and all of those were dead.

Minla murmured something in her sleep and shifted position. He stared at her, so faintly illuminated in the soft moonlight, but he knew every crease and curve without needing light. She was his consolation in everything. No matter what happened to him, she would love him, and that made everything bearable. He smoothed the rich black hair that fell across the pillow and wrapped his arm around her. His eyes closed against the darkness and he fell back to sleep.

As Galdred faded into the dream world, he saw himself moving to the window and watched a rider cloaked in blackness ride from the tower to the rhythm of ominous hoof beats. The scene played in his mind over and over again, with that whisper seeming to fall into time with the horse's hooves. Canter and chant blended into one solid line of dread.

Nine for Mortal Men, doomed to die.