The Lore-master worked night and day, opened every book he owned, spurned every visitor, let his body waste away as he poured his soul into uncovering the Queen's cipher. The obsession took its toll. He kept working though, frantically, as the years passed and his time ran out, until one night, something twinged in his head and he collapsed onto the desk, the quill dropping from his numb fingers.

He lay there with his head on a sheaf of parchments, the white scroll of Melian within eyesight but just out of reach of the one hand that still moved. The left side of his mouth twitched as a slurred prayer escaped his numb lips.

"O Melian, I would give my last breath to know your secrets."

The creaking of floorboards told the Lore-master that someone had entered the room. He followed with widening eyes as a figure clad in rich sable stepped out of the shadows cast by the candle on his desk.

The intruder in his study looked like an impossibly tall, powerfully built Noldorin Elf, mightier than even Gil-galad, with midnight black hair and a hard, merciless face. But, the Lore-master knew far too much concerning the fall of Eregion to be deceived by such appearances, and his palsied body shook uncontrollably as the intruder approached.

The heavy footfalls stopped on the other side of the desk. Out of a face half obscured by shadows, a piercing Eye with a thin, cat-like pupil held the Lore-master transfixed in its burning gaze.

"You know who I am." The words were deep and full of power, spoken in a dialect that only those few Elves that had seen the Undying Lands ever used.

The Lore-master nodded slowly, his palsied face oblivious to the scratching of the parchments under his cheek. "Are you here to kill me?" he lisped. "It seems the task is nearly done."

A sharp, cruel laugh echoed off the stone walls of the Lore-master's library. A black gloved hand extended, bearing in its palm a ring of silver inset with diamonds. The Lore-master looked on the glowing Elvish inscription with burning recognition.

"Nine for mortal Men…" The Lore-master forced the question past his rapidly numbing lips. "Why offer it to me?"

The gloved fingers held the ring up to the baleful Eye, then enclosed it in their iron grip. Heavy footfalls followed the shadowy figure over to a yellowed map of Eriador hanging on the wall.

"The Men of the West hunger for land. My lands. Your lands."

The Lore-master could still nod, and he did. There was much talk among the Free Houses of Eriador about the growing Numenorean settlements and the blind eye that Gil-Galad in Lindon turned toward them.

The black-gloved hand set the ring on the map so that it encircled Minas Eriol. From the edges of the ring, the parchment blackened in a wide circle, eclipsing Numenorean settlements and the holds of rival Houses until the darkness covered a great swath of land between the Baranduin and the Hoarwell that suddenly seemed to the Lore-master to be the rightful domain of his beloved city.

The Shadow fell once more over the desk, and the black-gloved hand set the ring down next to the Lore-master's fallen quill. Once out of the clutches of the black fingers, the glowing inscription on the ring began to fade.

"You hide in this tower and read books while the High King permits the banner of the White Tree to be raised over more and more of your lands. The Elves have betrayed the Men of Middle-Earth to Numenor."

The Lore-master grunted as the room began to fade. The end was near now. He forced his lips to work.

"Better Numenor than Mordor -"

The Eye burned in the shadowed face. The Hand stretched out, and the Lore-master steeled himself for the blow that would end his life. But, the grasping fingers closed instead over the white scroll and held it up. The Eye studied it for a moment, the scroll hovering dangerously close to the flickering candle. The Lore-master took a deep, ragged breath as the flame began to leave a black spot on the back of the immaculate parchment. Then, the black hand tossed the scroll back onto the desk.

"You have not yet seen two centuries, but you have become the greatest scholar that has ever arisen among mortal Men. Imagine what you could achieve over the course of an Age."

From where he lay, the Lore-master gazed on Melian's scroll, the enigmatic silver runes glistening in the candlelight. He cared naught for the politics of the Great Houses of Men, what banner flew over what crumbling pile of rock. But, to die without having learned her secret; it was unthinkable. He needed the one thing he had run out of – time.

The Lore-Master's quivering fingers stretched out past the quill and closed around the ring…

A low rumble rolled out of the clouds overhead, threatening another deluge, and the Nazgul shook off his ruminations. His mailed glove absently patted the folds of his cloak as he kicked Hazbok aside and looked out over the parapet of his old tower. Storm clouds still broiled in the north.

Then, far off across the blasted heath, in the shadows of the hill of Amon Sul, a light winked on. The Nazgul focused his spectral senses – strains of music and the smell of cooked meat. The sound of Men's voices. And something else. Something – familiar.

The Nazgul looked down. From here, the bodies of the Goblins of Minas Eriol made an interesting pattern, radiating out from Hazbok's body like spokes on a pinwheel, as if a great force had leveled the entire garrison all at once. The bodies were blackened and burned, and the ground scorched.

The Nazgul looked out again at the point of light. It winked out. But, the Nazgul had seen enough. He knew now where to find the destroyer of the garrison at Minas Eriol, and what awaited him out in the Lone Lands. The Elf Witch had come, just as his Master had foretold. The time had come to carry out his Master's command.

The hood bowed, and the mailed gauntlet retrieved a white scroll from within the folds of his midnight cloak. The empty hood stared hard and long at the glittering silver runes.

And also, perhaps, time for something else first.