Fields of Pelennor
High in the air, he was scurrying over the battlefield. Currents of gale blew against him and he welcomed them. A hunter on his hunt. Down below men-ants - were squirming, immersed in fighting. In their futile attempt to withstand the irresistible might of Mordor. Long had he thirsted to disturb that white-walled anthill.
He detected his prey. A white steed and its undaunted rider. Steady hands pulled the bowstring back, cold calculating eyes locked on the target. He let the arrow fly. It hit the horse, cleaving into an artery on its neck. The steed fell, with it fell the king of Rohan, crushed beneath its weight. The Witch-king forced his beast to swoop.
If the king was still alive, he would be granted an exceptional honour. The honour of being dispatched by the hand of the Lord of the Nazgul. The mortals around their fallen leader paid due tribute to him with their chorus of terror. Their cries of fear and the reek of blood formed a symphony of battle and he relished in it, drowned in it - in his feast of gore. Blood was what he lusted for. And he smelt it.
He landed straight on the slaughtered horse. The impact was hard enough to crush bones of the mortal beneath. The thought of it delighted him.
A voice, thin and reckless, dared to confront him, drawing his attention. A warrior of the Rohirrim. The Witch-king cared not for the concerns of a mortal; one that would soon share the fate of his king. There would be no limits on the blood shed this day.
The warrior before him removed his helmet and revealed his face and long golden hair, his eyes wild.
The clang of arms, curses, cries of the wounded and other clamours of the battlefield dimmed. As if the whole world focalized on the two of them.
A woman.
She could not see it, but the Witch-king of Angmar curved his lips in contempt.
Pathetic creature.
He tightened his grip on the mace he was holding. Her fear mingled with rage was almost palpable, he could almost smell it. Petty emotions of a mere mortal. It excited him even more.
And then she uttered those words.
But no living man.. am I?
It stung his mind, stirring his memory.
Then he recollected the events long past.
Arnor. Outskirts of Fornost. The brazen elf and his nonsense.
For an instant doubt arose in the Witch-king. Yet, no words would impede the Lord of the Nazgul. Unrelenting as steel, bestowed with the blessings of his Lord, he drove any hesitation away.
Rip out her heart.
The beast heeded his thought. Shrieking, it assaulted Eowyn, Eomund's daughter, wings spread, beak and claw aimed at her breast.
And he was overthrown, in his armour, he hit the ground hard. His beast reduced to a useless heap of meat, decapitated by her sword. She was swift.
How dare you?
He was going to punish her for her insolence. Seething in cold rage, he arose. His eyes narrowed in anticipation, imagining how her silly skull would crack under his mace. Adorning her hair with blood, brain and shards of bone.
Learn your place.
Invoking all his hatred, he dealt a heavy blow that crushed her shield together with her arm. She stumbled to her knees. The next one would send her, where she belonged to.
Now it was time to end her miserable life.
...
The blade severed his mental leash - the connection to the will that had driven him was cut. As if he turned into a limb ripped from the body - rent skin, torn nerves, sliced muscles and shattered bone - ripped from his Master. In agony he screamed, the anguish of that forceful separation was unbearable. Pierced by both blades his wraithlike body faded. And then his disembodied spirit entered the Realm of Shadows, helpless and powerless, shaking like a dry leaf on the wind.
Still, the magic of the ring persisted, hindering his involuntary departure to the Halls of Mandos.
Master! I beseech thee! Do not forsake me, my Lord!
In despair he called over and over again into emptiness, trying to reach his Lord's mind in vain. The bond, that had lasted for over millennia, was no more.
Deaf silence was the only answer.
...
Barad-dur
From atop the spire the blazing Eye focused on the battlefield, bound by its Master's will. Sauron knew, that the magic was necessary. But it was demanding as well, probably too demanding in his current state. Maintaining it, made him exhausted both mentally and physically - it attached yet another connection to his mind and all of them were strained to their limits, causing pain like stretched nerves. But with it he could descry all events on the Pelennor fields. An indispensable tool during war.
Sauron leant on the table, covered with the maps of the battle. His finger rubbed against the suture on the left socket to relieve the pulsating ache inside. The socket was empty, the lid sewn up – such was the price for the all-seeing Eye atop his tower. The other eye, yellow and unwinking contemplated the charts. That ache distracted him, briefly he glanced at the mirror at the other side of the room. The sight did not appeal to him in any manner.
Pitiful.
The only thing that remained unmarred was his hair, still long and wavy, its colour unbleached. He ran his fingers through it, in an attempt to get some comfort and recollect the better times. Instead, his vexed mind solicitously reminded him, that his hand lacked a finger. Distressed, he clenched his palm around the strand of hair as if in attempt to tear it out.
The rest of him was just
Pitiful.
He turned away from the looking glass, his attention concentrated on the maps again. The hand languidly began to move the tiny figures, that represented the warring sides, orcs, men, mumaks, the army of Gondor. His Nazgul. They were bound to him with thousands of invisible cords. On creatures like orcs, beasts or his ringwraiths - he could directly enforce his will.
The reinforcements from Rohan did not take him by surprise. An old Gondorian ally, they did not dally to answer the call.
For an instant, he considered switching the magical Eye for his servant's s eyesight to observe the battle from the Nazgul's perspective. His flying beast would provide a different angle on the scene. But he decided against it, it would make his captain aware and Sauron did not want to confound him.
Let him play his fill.
Still, it went well, the fortress of Minas Tirith would not withstand too long, the first level had been already breached. His most powerful lieutenant was in the lead of the armies, the one who was granted an unlimited extent of trust. The best of the best - and Sauron was holding the leash. Even though his own hands might be weakened, the ones of his servant imposed his will in a way most implacable and unyielding. Everything went according to plan.
The Eye showed him how the king of Rohan perished. His death made the corner of his mouth twitch.
Pathetic death for a pathetic creature.
And then... His fingers pried, releasing a tiny catapult. It tumbled, knocking down an orcish troop.
One of the connections burst, causing an excruciating surge of pain in his chest. As if the small organ, that served as his heart, was being torn apart by some malicious claws. It made him bite his lip, bend double, and sink to his knees, crouching in silent agony. Apparently, his sole remaining eye was crying blood, the vision reddened. Blood flooded his mouth as well, he spat it out on the floor, on his hands. It probably smeared his clothes, he did not care. That bond. He could not discern the bond, that had been torn. It was unbelievable, impossible. It just could not happen. That particular one was to preserve for eternity, the strongest one of them all. Overwhelmed his mind resigned, leaving him half-conscious, aware only of his own pain, while the surroundings around him faded.
...
"Master, what happened?"
He heard how Khamul, his second-in-command rushed to him. Apparently, the remaining Nazgul had already returned from the battle. So, It had been hours since he fainted. The wraith dared to enter his chambers unbidden, but he refused to ponder upon that at the moment. His consciousness was utterly numb. His servant helped him to lie down on the couch.
Unable to utter a word, Sauron ordered him to leave with a brief glance. Wearily he reclined on the pillows, his eye stared blindly into nowhere, transfixed.
...
Days passed. He remained half-lying, unmoved, stricken by languor and the dull hollow ache inside his chest. The colours before him melt into undistinguishable bleak mass as if some veil obstructed his vision. This war had only been bringing loss, no gain.
Yet again his thought turned to Melian. The Maia who accepted the rules of the Children and played those senseless games of affection, empathy, emotion. All that they called feelings. What did she find in it? He had no answer. If only he could talk to her.
Sauron had always been above those petty aspects. He used them, twisted them to his advantage, but never meddled with them himself. Yet he did not know either, why now he was unable to simply cast away all worries and advance. The only one, who had answers to his questions, was inaccessible beyond all hope. Melian the Maia. Dark haired, grey-eyed, beautiful. He was her descendant, after all, enhanced by her precious blood in his veins, exceptional among mortals.
...
Days passed and the servants of the Dark Lord awaited his orders, deeply concerned by their failed assault and the course of the war. But none of them was granted an audience. Not even Khamul, the second after the Witch-king. Restless and agitated he was pacing at the entrance to their Master's chambers. After the Witch-kings fall, the Easterling craved promotion so strong, that he declared himself as the captain of the Nazgul. The rest of them acknowledged his claim, murmuring, but not challenging him. Still, the papers were not signed and that fact gnawed on him. The second, everywhere he was only the second. His chance was so close, he needed only to extend his arm and take it.
He had never tried to rival the Witch-king before. Their captain's authority over them was unquestionable, he was free to discipline them as he deemed due. His mercilessness, his singular might was not something to be challenged recklessly. Applying to their Master would be of no avail, Sauron made it clear to the all of them, that he would tolerate no strife among them. The Witch-king's appointment was non-debatable. And Khamul obeyed.
But then their captain fell to his own arrogance and the Easterling believed, it was time to come forward.
Still, the doors to their Master's chambers remained shut, his mind deaf to any attempts of communication, Khamul's hands tied. All that the Nazgul could do, was to wait at the doors day and night. Among themselves, they whispered their premises and assumptions, passing the time.
...
Days passed and at last Khamul received the summons to deliver his reports. He entered Sauron's chambers, striving to conceal his incitement. None from them dared to stare directly at their Master's face. He bowed, gaze down, but he yearned to look at the Maia. He still had been reclining on the couch, since Khamul left him. What were his spirits, would he, Khamul, be promoted to the so long desired position? Was it eventually a good time to appeal?
He felt the familiar awe in his Lord's presence, beautiful even despite the missing eye. Khamul wished he was permitted to run his hand through his Master's hair, in its brightness so exotic for the eye of an Easterling. Maybe tug at it to straighten a curl. Instead, he only clenched his fist. The Master could read their mind at will. Khamul was terrified by the possible retribution that could follow those bold thoughts. Sauron had never been unjust to them, nor to any other of his minion, but when someone turned into the source of his displeasure - the retribution was swift and harsh. Clemency was not the notion one could apply to their Lord.
With a steady voice Khamul recounted the events of the battle. It was not his fault after all. The Witch-king was to blame, not himself.
Heeding to instructions and their further plan, he risked some swift glances at his Master's face. It was serene, without any semblance of emotion. Voice calm and tender. Khamul found himself coaxed and relaxed, his precaution left him.
...
"Yes, my lord, I obey", he said in the end. "May I ask thee something?"
Sauron nodded slightly.
"Wilt thou name me the First of the Nazgul?"
Before he could even blink, he was forced to raise his gaze to meet the glare of the yellow eye. To his dismay, it was glowing with ire, slit pupil was thin like a line. Through his own bound eyes, it scorched his mind along with his body. He started to shake with pain and fear. An eel on the slow fire. Yet before the heat became too insufferable and his mouth opened to scream in agony, the torment ceased as abruptly as it started. He dropped on his knees, trembling, not sure if out of pain or relief.
"No."
Short and rigid, this word branded his ravaged mind.
"Please, forgive the audacity of thy servant, my Lord", he wheezed, mouth dry, his tongue and lips barely serving him. He had made the mistake of trading grace for displeasure and he regretted it.
"Leave". The voice of his Master suddenly listless and weary. Khamul involuntary looked at him again. To his bewilderment, he could swear, that the face before him contorted as if on the verge of weeping.
Impossible.
It astounded him so, that he forgot about his own punishment.
"I…", he gathered himself. "My Lord, if there is anything I can do for thee. Anything. My greatest joy is to please thee. "
The Maia did not answer. Khamul felt his heart pound, deafening in poignant silence. Time seemed to stop. Desperate Khamul approached him and knelt. His hands took the one of his master and he placed a kiss on it.
"Master, am I not worthy of thy trust?"
You are indeed. The command is yours. But not the position, that is occupied by another.
The words permeated his mind. Khamul gritted his teeth.
He occupies your heart. Something, that is instead of your heart. He occupies something, where is no place for me. Even though you may not be aware of it. Dead, but still a rival.
These thoughts came unbidden, incoherent, a flood he could not stall.
"The command is yours. Isn't this what you wanted?" the lifeless voice of his Master broke the silence at last, echoing the mental message, putting an end in to their conversation.
Joints awkwardly stiff, Khamul rose, bowed again and left.
...
Sauron did not feel guilt, he had never felt it. But giving way to the burst of temper with Khamul was not right. It was another evidence of his weakness, that the situation hit him deeper than he could foresee.
Am I turning man-like?
He drove this thought away with scorn. Nonetheless, the Easterling was right. It took him too long to realise, that the moment of idleness had lasted too long. It was time to ponder upon what had happened and what could be salvaged still. He had lost the battle, but the war was not yet lost. And the most important, he supposed, that His servant might not be lost entirely either. The surge of nausea at this thought made him recoil.
This body gets tiresome. I need my Ring.
And then quelling all sickness, he forced himself to rise at last. Unsteadily he approached the window, arms crossed, his gaze scrutinized the sight below.
Think now.
He had put so much of his power into the Witch-king, much more than into any other of the Nazgul. An investment for eternity, that ended so foolishly.
Now he knew, that its source was almost depleted with no way of replenishment.
I can barely sustain myself.
It would be absolutely impossible to restore his servant to his former might in his own wretched state. Still, the Witch-king's soul lingered where he had fallen, bound by his vows and the magic of his ring. And the ring was intact. Sauron had kept all nine of them under his control. That soul could be recovered and preserved, such magic seemed affordable enough.
He retrieved the box with the rings, opened it. Took the one with the red gem. Tentatively his fingers ran over its edges. Too large for his own hand.
Do you feel me?
The other eight responded to his thought with a light throbbing against his mind. But the ring with the red gem was silent. He constricted it in his fist, in a vain attempt trying to squeeze any semblance of response out of it. Then his grip weakened. And so he stood for some time, with the eye closed, holding it, reluctant to put it back. Then abruptly he returned the ring closing the box with a loud snap. The sound made him wince.
He looked around, searching for an appropriate object. Something that could enclose a soul within.
Perhaps another ring, a pendant, a gem? He supposed, that it could suffice, until better times, until he himself gained his own Ring.
Yet it was not the only obstacle.
Turning away from the window arch, he approached the table with the maps of the battlefield. With one frantic sweep of his fingers, he sent all the tiny troops to the floor. They had lost the battle and the control over the land. The forces of Men could easily interrupt the spell, rendering him utterly powerless. That was unacceptable. He needed his Ring back.
...
They lost precious time. He called for the Nazgul, but he knew they would arrive too late to interfere with those small creatures, who were carrying his Ring and his demise. Powerless he could only wait. He felt fear slowly creep into his mind and will. It was not the death he feared, but that, what would come next. Without the Ring his exhausted fea would not be strong enough to linger on Arda and the Valar might summon it. For trial. And if they found his guilt heavy enough, they would send him to the Void. This thought covered his skin with cold sweat.
Don't think of it.
And he could not help but think of it and only of it.
The Ring started to melt and with it - every cell of his body, and Sauron knew, that it was the end. The end for him. It was painful to die, was supposed to be, but stricken by fear he barely registered it. His blood froze, ceased to run sealing his veins, it paralyzed him. He was cold, alone and forsaken like never before.
… not the Void... Please no...
The tower trembled and so did he. He embraced himself with his arms, nails dug deep into the shoulders. His last thought was helpless, obsessed with the outcome.
What will happen to me? what will happen to me what will happen to...
...
The Ring started to melt and with it - his soul, and the Witch-king knew, that it was the end. The end for them both. His soul excoriated layer by layer, each one with its own mind and consciousness, its own suffering, its own convulsion.
Khamul and the rest of the Nazgul had failed to protect his Master. If he could, he would wrest their rotten hearts out of their chests and crush them one by one with his palm. Yet not to them his last thought aspired.
I only want to be with you.
The last agonising shards of his mind still envisioned, how he would embrace his Master, shielding him. Covering his fragile body with his own. Sheltering him from harm, from the world. Holding him tight. And finally whispering the words he had never spoken before.
Master, I lo…