Third Age
On the narrow path, stones rattled beneath his boots. Shards of obsidian crunched and rolled down, rambling, shattered again by the steps of his follower. The trail lay untended and untrodden since they lost the siege. The horses could not ascend the difficult stony path so both Nazgul had to leave their steeds below. Up the volcano they went, step after step, undeterred by the magmatic remnants .
"What if we send scouts to check the western way, my Lord? If it's free we can avoid that long detour." Khamul's voice clattered over the stones.
"They would never leave it unguarded." The Witch-king's boot kicked a massive shard, it rolled down the slope. "Do you need explanations why we cannot risk it now?"
"I only wanted to spare our Lord the long way back." Khamul retorted.
Do you need explanations why? He thought, so as not to sound too defiant.
"I cannot help how long it will take to reach Angmar anyways."
"Angmar?!" Khamul snarled and halted. So did the Witch-king, turning around to meet him face to face.
"Angmar?! I thought we're riding to Dol-Guldur," Khamul fumed, refusing to hide his exasperation.
The first of the Nazgul towered over him, his height magnified by the slope.
"I will take the Master to Angmar," the Witch-king stated too calmly, deadly. He imagined pushing the annoying Easterling to see him roll all the way down like those damn stones. It would kill him, were he not undead already. But either way, it would be a pleasing sight to behold.
"Do you truly think I would leave the Master alone with you?" he mocked the second Nazgul instead, not bothering to conceal a streak of jealousy. The shield of his rank was always apparent around him.
But Khamul did not fret and did not surrender.
"So do you deem your fortress in Angmar more appropriate place? Don't you wage war, my lord? Aren't you constantly on the march? Do you trust your people to take care of him?" The Easterling attacked in response, glaring at his captain.
"Your arrogance dimmed your reasoning, didn't it?" He bit his lip as soon as the last word was said, that was obviously too much. The line was crossed. The flush of anger in his captain's eyes was undeniable. His heart skipped a beat.
The Witch-king almost pushed the obnoxious Easterling but controlled his impulse at the last moment. He seethed in hate to admit it but the Easterling was right. He waged war. He did not linger in Carn Dum for long. To allow Angmarian scum to take care of his Master? Never. Taking his Lord with him on the march was not an option either. The only reasonable choice left was Dol Guldur and Khamul with his lieutenants. Furthermore, it was closer and warmer than the snowfields of Angmar. But it meant leaving the Maia with Khamul for years, maybe centuries. He hated the choice.
"Enough standing," he snapped, then turned away, continuing their ascent. The crunch of steps renewed behind his back, to his relief not followed by any retort. The sky darkened in the meanwhile to declare the approaching night.
Not far from their destination, the Witch-king ordered Khamul to stand and wait while proceeding farther alone. That was a moment he had waited for centuries and he would not let the Easterling share it. He entered the volcano cavern, halting on a ledge. His eyes adjusted to the reddish light of magma. There. He saw what he had sought. His eyes locked on the Maia.
The newly formed body of his Master lay curled on the ashen floor. This incarnation of him looked more delicate and frail than ever, almost his eyes, it looked so painfully vulnerable in his nakedness, covered only by his long hair. Magma lights flickered on his skin. The Witch-king approached him and took off his cloak. He knelt, his fingers brushed the other's hair and the hot skin of the shoulder beneath it. The body was motionless, still, and the touch made his heart beat faster. The thought of the upcoming parting after so many years of loneliness was unbearable. But the damn Khamul was waiting outside. He covered his Master with his cloak and lifted the body, holding it in his arms carefully. It was time to deliver him to the safe place.
They repeated their way down, this time in silence, trodding more carefully. Neither of them desired to start a verbal fight in the presence of their Master, no matter how unconscious and unaware he was.
"How long will he stay like this, my lord?", asked Khamul when they straddled their horses at last. It had already been a dark moonless night. Thick clouds over Mordor concealed any source of celestial light. Yet they did not intend to linger at the volcano any longer.
Heading East, they rode to the secret passage that had led them in.
"Senseless? Weeks, months, years. I don't know. It takes longer every time," The Witch-king deigned to answer eventually.
Khamul fell silent, gathering his resolve to ask the next question. At last, he mumbled, "So, what road do we take, my lord?"
"Mirkwood." He heard the short answer. Khamul glanced at his captain, yet the Witch-king pretended not to notice it. They had a long way to ride. When they crossed Rhun, Khamul offered to carry their Master in return, but his offer was rejected with contempt. That turned him sullen and he refused to utter a word until they reached the south of Mirkwood. Only the sight of his fortress lifted his spirits.
Dol Guldur
It was a ride without stop, tiresome for mortals. But they did not need rest, driven by their goal to reach Mirkwood as fast as possible. The Maia still did not show any sign of consciousness, lying comatose in the Witch-king's hold.
Khamul's lieutenants greeted them, as they arrived. Khamul had conceded his chambers, moving to simpler ones before their journey. The Easterling's subordinates prepared them for their Master's disposal.
At last, the Witch-king laid him on the bed in Khamul's room to recover. His state made it apparent to them, that his stay in Dol Guldur would be long.
"Leave us," the Witch-king ordered after they were done. Khamul cast an unreadable look at him. He bowed as if reluctantly and closed the door behind himself.
It was dark and quiet in the chambers, where his Master was lying. He knelt, leaning his elbows on his Master's bed. Between his hands, he held his Master's lifeless one. Visions haunted his mind.
Khamul near his Master. Khamul combing his Master's bright locks. Khamul undressing his Master. Khamul bathing his Master.
He gritted his teeth, it stung his heart like a burning prod. Yet his orders lay heavy on him. He imagined how displeased his Master would be if he had forsaken his duty.
Eyelids half closed, gaze averted from him in disappointment. Voice unnaturally calm and unbearably cool. Formalities creating impenetrable bars between them. His position of the First and above all - weakening. Khamul rising in favour. Khamul, the first-in-command. Khamul the First of the Nazgul.
The price for his disobedience. He could not allow this to happen. Never.
I must wait. What is waiting to an immortal? Nothing.