Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all its characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.
"I am no man!"
He heard the words, felt the blade slide through the crevices of his helm and writhed in long forgotten agony as the unholy power chaining him to this foul existence drained from his wicked form.
It was bitterly amusing, he thought with spiteful malice, that his last image in the world of Men would be of her.
His accursed destroyer.
Had he been anything other than the undead servant of the Dark Lord, he would have found her beautiful.
Sunlight had broken through the veiled mist, shining on his conqueror at the moment of his demise, as if to still time for this last vision.
A mockery from the God's, he was sure.
It shone behind her, lighting the golden strands streaming from her fair head like a fiery halo, caressing the skin of her face as if to emphasize the feminine curve of her small, fragile neck.
He had grasped it with his armored hand not moments before; how could he have not seen her for what she was? She had wrapped her body in chain and mail, hiding her weakness from searching eyes, but her movements were all wrong; too smooth, too graceful, too soft.
Even the killing strike, though quick and lased with fury, a woman's fury he saw now, was nothing like a man's.
Perhaps it was that gentleness that pierced him, that purity that had reached his vile shriveled soul and tore it asunder.
Her eyes shone with their own light, victory and sorrowful tears welling in them. The blue mirrors were as sharp as the north wind, burning with hatred and wide with barely restrained fear.
He felt cruel satisfaction when he beheld the terror in his Death's gaze, pleased that his image would haunt her just as hers would haunt him, if only for a moment before he was pulled into the void.
Darkness tugged at him, dragging him away from his last sight and the pain he had endured for that fleeting instant. It consumed him, until at last, all was still and silent. Then bitterly, hatefully, the Witch-king of Angmar, Black Captain and Lord of the Nazgûl, let go.
His eyes opened to fire and smoke, a crazed man wreathed in flames calling out for his son. Their gazes met, horrified realization and relief coloring the elder's face before he reared back, screaming in agony as he ran from sight. A strange heaviness held him, weakness and confusion making the prone enemies' efforts to move useless.
A deep voice spoke; it's tired and old tones calling up familiar pangs of loathing and disdain.
"So passes Denethor, son of Ecthelion."
AN: *Smiles wickedly*
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~Delgodess
