And nine, nine rings were gifted to the race of men, whom above all else, desire power...
The Witch-King waited. Time held no meaning for him any longer, he waited endlessly for his Master's call. He sat at the front of a line of other wraiths, sitting on his black horse still as stone, an illusion of breath rattling through his form, mocking that of a human's. His comrades sat beside him, breathing just the same as he.
Breathing their Master's breath.
Near the end of the line, another wraith sat, his soul the same empty shell. But something was itching at the back of his mind; it felt very strange to him. It was, indeed, his own thought, and not a thought planted by his great Master. This was an experience he had not had in a time longer than he could measure- for time had no true meaning for him any longer. Still, something kept edging toward his thoughts, and finally, he allowed himself to think it. To his mild surprise, it was a memory, a flashback, to a fairer time...
"You wished to see me, Lord?"
"I did indeed. Be seated, for my tale, I fear, must be of great length."
"Then you have ensnared me at a good time, Lord, for I have just freed myself from duty for a while." A deep laugh rang through the air, and the tall man with a silvery beard sat down on a small chair beside the dark-reddish throne. He swallowed visibly- the throne was the color of his own blood. The man in the throne moved slightly, to face his bearded guest.
"Relax, Firithdolion. My actual purpose of bringing you here is to present you with a gift. Indeed, but first, my lengthy tale. It began long ago, before you were born, dear king. I spoke to my mentor, whom I doubt you have heard of, of future times. When it came to be my time to succeed him, as ruler of all the Earth. He was a harsher leader than I- I, benevolent beyond my own sights." He paused to give another deep laugh. There was something about his laugh, so deep and pleasent, that filled Firithdolion with distrust. Though this great man, Maia, not mere man, was his people's truest friend, some instinct told him to be careful around the ruler. The Maia began again,
"Unfortunately, my mentor was removed from his position before his proper time," his brow furrowed for a minute, in an emotion looking a bit like anger, "but I was ready to follow in his footsteps." His gaze pierced a fearful Firithdolion. "He told me, before he died, to give a gift to the most worthy men I might find." He reached into his robe and removed a large black box. He lifted the lid carefully, fingering the gold hinge. The king gasped- 9 beautiful rings lay in place, crushing the velvet lightly. He reached his hand into the box, running his finger over the rings, overcome with an incredible desire to take one, be its owner. He felt an electricity between him and the rings, a sense of desperate pleasure whenever he caressed one. He wanted a ring, almost snatched one right from the box. The Maia, to his surprise, encouraged him to take one and slip it on his finger. He raised his layered, snowy silver eyebrows as he moved his hand unsteadily around the rings, mouthing silent words, his beard wagging slightly. He finally lay his fingers gently over one of them, lifting it in ecstasy. Not only was it beautiful, but there was some way in which it connected to him, gave him a sense of exhiliration, strength, and power. The Maia smiled as the king slipped it onto his finger, murmuring his delight.
"Now put it back." whispered the Maia, leaning forward almost eagerly, like a child waiting to see whether his experiment has worked. Firithdolion opened his mouth to object, and he smiled. "Take them to the other eight. You will recieve it. It will come to you." The king did not have to ask who the other eight were- he found it curious later that he had been able to comprehend his Lord's exact thought. He slipped his ring off reluctantly, and stared at it hungrily as the other closed the black box and handed it to him. The old king bowed and clattered out of the hall, leaving a still black form on the blood red throne, laughing quietly to himself.
The wraith snapped out of his thoughts quickly. Another was being fed into his mind--Shire, Baggins, NOW!-- he shot forward instantly with the others, felt his ring sting his finger, a shock of pleasurable electricity running through his hollow soul. He screamed, howling for pain and desire, emptying the powerful shock from his ring into the still night air with shrill wails. The air tore at his robe, he saw only blue, stinging shadows before him. He howled again, could barely feel the pounding of horsebeats over the throbbing pain and pleasure of his ring. He desired to kill- quickly spliting off from the band of riders, he took a side path the edge of Minas Tirith, where guards were least vigilant. He noticed a tired guard, about to be relieved nearby, and rode to him silently. He drew a Morgul knife and slashed at the man's mark from behind. He was dead before hitting the ground. The knife plunged into his corpse eight more times, nine blows for nine riders. Warm blood seeped out of the body, wetting the rider's gauntlets. He sheathed his knife, looking at the blood which appeared black in his shadowy world. The corpse was a sickly grey, fading fast, becoming black as night, save a glint of his knife he'd impaled inside the man's heart. He shrieked like a banshee, loving the smell of death in the air. Immediately, his ring began to throb. Back to business, to business. He whipped himself onto his horse and galloped to catch up with his comerades. The ring pushed him further... SHIRE, SHIRE, BAGGINS...