With the encroaching of each new hour, his Master grows stronger. He knows that the One Ring must be drawing closer to the fires of Orodruin and the towering spire of Barad-dûr, clutched in the paws of snivelling half-man vermin. The Halflings are so near now that they must lurk beneath the very eaves of Mordor. Such an unfathomable insult that they should slip under the noses of wing-mounted Nazgûl, yet Morgomir may have already allowed this impudence.
There is something in the Dead Marshes. The lesser Nazgûl thought he smelled some malodorous presence above the fetid smell of the corpse-ridden bog, but failed to investigate it thoroughly. Foolish Morgomir serves his own fears above all else; the memory of She-Elf magic and thundering river water still cows him and tempers his wrath.
Not so is the case for the Witch-king of Angmar. He has dealt with magic far deeper and more terrible than anything that could be contained within the shallow, cobbled bed of the River Bruinen or charmed by the dying race of Elves. He had immersed himself in black magic of blood and bones and bathed in the burning fire of the Lidless Eye. He hated water, as all Nazgûl do, but he would endure it and emerge enraged rather than riddled with maggot-holes of fear. The Witch-king did not persist in Middle-Earth to serve his own weaknesses; he served the one and only Master he had ever deemed fit to lead him. He devoted himself completely to the greatest power he had ever known, his Dark Lord, and he would risk no harm to Sauron come no high river nor deep marsh. His Master's Ring was near, and if the treacherous 'Baggins' lurked in the vast tracts of the Dead Marshes, the Witch-king would leave no withered shrub or weed-choked reedbed untouched by his search for the bearer of the One Ring and the shard-filled wound of his Morgul blade.
He wheeled his winged steed around for another high, slow pass above the marshes, the armoured fell-beast containing its guttural sounds and holding its patience. It knew better than to reveal their presence from the cover of the misty clouds. The Witch-king peered down from the saddle, raking his unblinking eyes across the sparse and open terrain below, his vision assisted by magic and hawkishly sharp. There was nowhere to hide and nowhere to run; if something had truly stumbled into this wasting mire, it was only a matter of time before he found it. The Nazgûl's wraithen body knew noting of the fleeting impatience of life anymore; his mortal existence had long since faded into obscurity, giving him a snake's patience and the endurance of stone.
After hours of uneventful gliding amongst the damp, cold clouds laced with frustrating hints of a scent on the air and passing, fleeting whispers of some hidden magic, he caught sight of his quarry. A pale and twisted form crawled through the reeds below and he recognised the perverse creature instantly. Gollum, the hideous wretch who'd taken his Master's Ring and violated its power and purity in dank caves for hunting slimy fish and goblins. Considering him a worm-eating-worm and feeling no pity, the Witch-king detested Gollum greatly on all levels. With his eyes trained on the skulking toad he saw two other shapes moving through the weeds, their bodies obscured by some charm that caused his sight to slide away so that he couldn't look upon them directly.
He drew his ragged-tipped Morgul blade and spurred the fell-beast into a deep stoop, intending to carve the missing shards of his sword from the carcasses of the runts below. His mount saw their targets and bellowed in anticipation of food, the Witch-king joining the chorus with his own blood-curdling shriek.
The pathetic creatures panicked, bolting blindly with no cover to run to. The meatiest one squirmed under the densely knotted thorns of a scrub patch and the fell-beast needed little encouragement to descend on those briars with talons outstretched. The Gollum-worm fled across the reed tussocks, leaving a familiarly dark-haired half-man stumbling in the mud. Blue eyes wrought with terror, the same the Witch-king remembered from Weathertop, and he knew with a chilling rise of corrupted joy in his empty chest that this was his unfinished victim. Vaulting from the saddle and cleaving a path through the undergrowth, he struck a path straight for the 'Baggins', intending to deliver the death-blow he'd been denied that night in the ruins.
The dark-haired vermin was scrabbling backwards through the rank moss, transfixed by the Witch-king's dreadful aura, when a glint of gold shone from the sag of its collar. The One Ring hung heavily on a chain about the runt's neck.
"Give me the Ring, wretch, and I may see to it that your death is mercifully swift." He hissed thickly, outstretching one ironclad claw.
The Ring's will was great, but the Halfling resisted. One grimy hand stifled the Ring while the other drew a short Elfish sword with an unsteady grip.
"Fool. No man can slay me."
"Good job we're Hobbits then!" The fat one had escaped the fell-beast's jaws and the harsh bite of a blade wielded not by the hand of man tore into the back of the Witch-king's knee.
He screamed in pain, the flickering candles of the dead which littered the pools nearby roared into towering pillars of fire tainted Morgul-green. Rounding on his surprise assailant as his knee buckled under him, he swung his flame-edged sword and rent the Halfling in two. As he did so, the other leapt upon his unguarded back to the cry of "Sam, no!" and sunk the Elf-blade deep into his shoulder.
The Witch-king hissed and swung wildly with claw and sword as he felt the Elfish magic seep and sear into his very core, desperate to kill or at least throw the Halfling off. He felt the weight fall from the blade, but it remained stuck fast in his back. Steadying himself in spite of the agony that threatened to undo his shadowy body, he faced what remained of his opponents.
The Halflings were both dead and bloody ruins, but Gollum the worm was crouched over the body of 'Baggins' with the Ring in-hand. The ignoble scavenger grinned knowingly and bound away at speed. With little option left, the Witch-king lifted his blade with his better arm and hurled it at the scrounging thief before he could slip out of reach. It flew true, cutting a singing path through the heavy air before thudding into the frail, bony body and felling Gollum with a splash.
The Witch-king watched and waited for a moment, alert for the actions of any other unseen enemies, but he heard only the rustling of his steed's wings and the deathly silence resettling on the bog. The fight was over, now he could claim his prize; if he could find it.
He steeled himself against the pain but the wound in his knee left him lame and the blade jutting from his left shoulder was beyond his reach to remove. It rendered his left arm all but useless. Wading through pools on his course to Gollum's corpse had the ghostly dead sensing the graveness of his wounds and they clawed at his robes to test what fight he had left. There was enough; he batted at their bony hands and shrieked at their insolence.
The Morgul blade was easily torn free of the twisted corpse and sheathed, but the dead, gnarled fingers did not hold his Master's Ring. He cast around for it, despairing that he should come so close only to fail yet again and cursing the very existence of the Halfling runt race, when it presented itself to him. The Ring had been flung free by the impact of his sword but of all the many secret, hidden places it could have fallen to and become lost in, it had chanced to catch itself on the needle-narrow spike of a reed stem. It seated itself on a makeshift pedestal of spear-leaves above the foul mud, wanting to be found.
The Witch-king sagged indelicately to his knees from a combination of reverence and agony, taking the Ring in his unsteady but gentle grip. He cradled it in his gauntleted palm and drew it close to him, staggered by the weight of its presence, like a mighty drake coiled within his hand. He had never before held his Master's Ring and although he had served no other purpose for the past three thousand years than to find this King of All Treasures, this moment seemed tinged with the surreal. It was dreamlike, or the Elf-blade in his back was fraying his grip on the physical world.
It was so small, having been fitted to the stubby paws of meek Halflings, but it soon swelled in his grip to a size that would accommodate his own finger in a clear and wanton invitation. He swept his thumb tenderly over its bright edges and listened to the shrill song of metal upon metal. He was tempted; it was such a perilously beautiful thing, smooth and sleek in unfettered and pure lustrous gold, but he remembered the way it looked on his Master's great claws. Yellow metal on black, emblazoned in red fire with a powerful script that only his Master's touch or a lick of flame could rouse. He curled his fist tightly around his Master's Ring and called for his steed to bear him into Mordor.
He was tempted by its raw influence, but the Witch-king of Angmar served his Master's pleasure, and nothing would please Sauron the Great more than to be reunited with his Ring of Power.