Chapter 1
The Restless Spirits
Thelegend of the Witch- King of Angmar may be written upon these pages of lore, but it is a forgotten treasure. A myth even among today's society of men. It was even a forgotten tale among the dragons and wizards of past time. It was most importantly forgotten, in his case, the Witch- King himself. For he was a shadow in the legends himself, a veil filled with evil nature. The hero's of the time even considered that the nine were just a mist within the rain. But among these pages, a love story, between a beautiful maiden and a man; no not a man but a tortured spirit. Once leader of many, now a dark cowl that could never die.
It was dark as Arshorina flew about the sticky brush, her long white hair getting caught, and entangling deep into the thorny brush. Soon, her whole body was caught, trapped like a fly in a web. The painful twigs wrapped around her, trapping her from any movement. Yelling out for help, a hand covered her delicate mouth.
Looking up, she could see many people, and many races. People she had even known that had protested against a certain race, all combined, to stop her screams. Men, Hobbits, Elves, Wizards, and many other faces of good that had argued for many years of who was superior, all combining to stop the scrams that issued from her mouth. But they were not helping her! Instead, they pushed her deeper into the thorns, smiling while she suffered.
Biting the hand that was covering her mouth, she continued to cry out for help, but they dint blink or move to save her. Looking frantically over to her left, up at the Rocky Mountains that had always faced the Elvin woods, she looked upon it wondering if it were to be her last sight. Over to be the sky was black, all of where the evil in the world lurked, her favorite spot to glance at when she was alone. But from the black clouds, came a horse carrying a rider dressed in black. Robes of death it seemed as the thing and its horse began to gallop down the rocky edge at a blistering speed, matched by the elves running upon the open grassy plains.
Soon the hooded rider was upon the large crowd of races, the horse dropping beads of precious sweat upon the green land. The crowd pulled out knifes, swords and arrows, attempting to stop the rider. Some coward before him, screaming in agony as the rider pushed his way through the masses being stabbed and shot, but he still came, not even a cry issuing from his dark hood.
As he approached her, his hood stared at her face for a wild moment, while she looked within it. Only to see nothing but inky blackness. Yet the faceless rider seemed to see and hear her cries and he was here to save her. Staring in confusion, he finally reached her, and drew out his sword to chop at the branches that held her, offering his gloved hand to assist her.
Grabbing it, the hooded rider suddenly let out a scream and grabbed its empty face. Looking up, Arshorina could see a woman jabbing her savior into the helm. It was a scream of pain and death, making her cry out in horror watching her hero fall to the grassy ground.
Taking a deep breath, nearly gagging from her tears as she tried to grab hold of something near her, she opened her eyes, and turned to hear a voice stating worriedly, "Your dreams are getting worse, Arshorina. You need council. Leave the forest. Go to Elrond."
"I need no counsel mother." She replied with anger hinting her voice, turning over upon the silky bench.
Sitting upon his dark throne, the Witch-King was still as if he had fallen asleep or staring into the dark oblivion as was in his hood. It was as if his posture said that he was suffering from something within his past. The only noise that could be heard was the tapping of his iron clawed gloves that slightly hit his armrest, in an impatient fashion.
The hooded king stood suddenly and began to pace about. His dress like robes slipped about him with ease as if an able and strong body had accompanied it for many years. Holes and rips covered the black rags that had covered the king for what seemed like centuries. The hood that should have held a face, held nothing but a fowl stench, worse than a dead festering carcass, faintly extruded the thing.
A high piercing moan came forth from the empty blackness of his hood. A moan as if he was restless and sad. He paced about more madly, and then strode over to a thin slit in his vast throne like room. Looking upon the fiery doom that he had created, all of the little bodies of his slaves finally shouted down to the many evil creatures with a booming voice that held much command.
"Prepare my steed!" The Witch-King hissed with a voice that chilled the spines of every living or dead thing upon Middle Earth.
Green grotesque heads with mouths a gaped looked up at the King as if they were afraid of his commanding gaze, there shivers matching that of the tremors witching the earths core as the distant Mount Doom erupted into a blistering haze. When he left the slit in his castle wall, the goblins, orcs and trolls began to mill about again, mocking the few humans that crowded about upon the tiny trails. Only a few scuttled away to prepare their lordships horse.
As the King of the Nazguls descended down the stone steps to his awaiting horse, he had the air to himself of needing to know. He had too many visions and dreams concerning an Elvin woman who seemed to be trapped within her, within a family that wanted her to do well. Hiding from the world in fear that they would kill her if they found out her evil nature. But he had the feeling that there was something evil in her beautiful smile, and that she needed his help. And with all the evil that he had within his soul, he could not block her screaming voice out any longer.
Approaching his magnificent horse, three orcs handed the straps with shaking hands to his armored flesh and fled to open the gates. Saddling himself upon the black horse, he kicked the sides of the well muscular ribs and galloped into the night heading toward Druadan Forest, the forest of the Elves.