He knew.
He was under no illusion. He knew how his people felt about him. Although he was frequently taken ill with high fevers, he was a stern ruler. He enforced the law at all costs with no exception. No one was above the law- and no one would escape the consequences of disregarding them. His reputation was infamous, and he knew he was anything but popular. But they were organized and strong in their own right, thanks to him and his brother.
But as he lay on the ground, watching the carrion chase one another across the grey cold, he knew no one would look for him. There would be no search party for him. His servants knew he was due in- where was he going? He could not remember. Well, he was due at his destination days before, but they would be silently delighted. Thinking perhaps maybe he was dead, and revel in their forbidden treachery.
But he was nearly dead, so he figured it was not treason if they were right. He groaned and pulled himself into a sitting position the best he could, and looked at his leg. It was swollen and an angry crimson. He'd hit his calf on a rock when his horse reared, and was unable to calm it before it ran off without him. Now he was left with a debilitating wound that just wouldn't stop bleeding, and no food or water.
He'd gotten one of his headaches an hour before the beast had damned him, and he could feel a fever coming. This one was creeping up on him slowly, calmly. Taking its time before it rendered him weak beyond independence and half mad with feverish hallucinations. He poked around the angry wound, and blood oozed from it with white pus. He groaned. He would be wolves' play in a few hours. There was no possible way he could haul himself into a tree like the previous night. He would have to sleep on the ground.
He shivered. The only warm part of him was flesh surrounding his infected gash. His cloak was torn, and he was still wet from wading through the river that morning. He was partially surprised his guards did not come looking for him when he did not return. He'd gone to look ahead, anxious to be gone from the forest. But now it would be his death. Ironic.
He dragged himself to his feet, and searing pain tore through his calf and thigh, pulsing and stinging with agony. He gasped quietly, and quickly lifted his leg. He had to get off the ground. There were too many predators in these woods. He picked up a large stick with shaking hands, and leaned on it as he limped through the forest. Somewhere, anywhere he could even slightly stand a chance of defending himself. That was what he wanted- and his hoped waned with the setting sun.
As he swayed and fell, he thought of his kingdom. He'd never thought of never seeing it again. He never thought of dying in a strange land, alone.
He heard footsteps, and leapt to his feet, only to fall to the earth again. What if it was an elf? He hated the elves of his own land, why should they be any more agreeable in this land? A white horse rode toward him, and a tall figure with linen over his face stopped before him. He had long hair of a near white color, and wore a long cloak and hood of black velvet. He got off of his horse and knelt before him.
"Who are you, Easterling? And why are you so far from Rhun?"
"I am Khamul, a great King and Lord in my land and you shall respect me as such. Who are you? Hooded rider?"
The man pulled the cloth from his face and laughed, his light eyes full of dark laughter. "You are rude, for a man in grave need of assistance. I am Ungossë, a King and Lord in my land, and you also shall respect me as such."
Thanks for reading! Please review. I'm trying to be as canon as possible, but Sauron's process of collecting the Nazgul is very vague so bare with me. But if you do pick up inaccuracies feel free to tell me. This won't be as long as my other stories. I'll update as soon as I can, but I am in college so I'll do my best.