Hoarmurath could not move.

He knew he was thrashing. His arms flailed and his feet kicked out, but the water was unyielding. The Bruinen carried him where it would. He could not see through the waves. He could not hear through the roar. He did not know up from down, right from left. All was water. He was a speck on the plain of the river.

It ran through his ghostly body like needles. He was afraid they would stick. They would tear off bits of him and replace him. The needles would sting in his blood and his bones until he was nothing but water.

It terrified him.

He shifted bodies.

His robes dragged him down. Corporeal chains on a corporeal form. His legs tangled in the fabric as he struggled, which only made him struggle harder. Gone were the icy needles. They were replaced by fire in his lungs. It grew and grew into a conflagration that threatened to force its way out of his mouth and consume him. If he gave in the water would quench the flames and his life in an instant.

Outside the water tore at his skin. Silt and rocks, stirred on by the She-Elf's call, left his skin raw where they were merciful and bleeding where they were not.

Familiar panic gripped his chest. It echoed from the deep of a thousand years bringing memories from the north. From before his ring.

Hoarmurath had done this before. Held his breath and thrashed, sure that the water beating against him would be the last thing he felt. In another river, at another time, in another country, but it felt just the same.

He was fishing with his sister, Amurath, in the frozen River. There was only one in Urd, so everyone just called it River. The Bruinen and its brothers and sisters were still unknown to him. Amurath and he were young and stupid and the ice was thin. He fell through.

It felt like this. So cold it burned. Desperate to breath and fighting with everything in him not to. He knew which way was up, then. The current pushed and pulled him, but his hands or back pressing against the ceiling of ice assured him of where the air was and that he could not reach it.

He'd clawed then too. Beat and lashed at the ice with his fists. By some miracle he'd found a hole. Or broken through. Or somehow surfaced. AkhĂ´rahil said some things were just meant to be. When destiny wants something Destiny gets it and we shouldn't mess around or ask too many questions. Hoarmurath took the advice to heart. His life began when he took up his ring. For him, the time before did not exist. He never went fishing. He never fell in. And he never crawled out to see Amurath standing on the shore, motionless, waiting for him to die.

After the coup he dropped her body in the River. No trace left, no relics and no hero worship. Just ice.

There was a jerk on his hood. Stronger than the water and distinctly against the current. He did not remember if he kicked with it or if all strength had left his body.

He did remember the air. The blessed air. Cool on his skin and soothing in his lungs. Life-giving everywhere. He curled in on himself and sucked it in. Air.

His memory picked up again on the banks of the Bruinen, not far from where it joined the Mitheithel (he learned that on the long walk home). He clung to Dendra Dwar's robe, his fingers twined with the rough fabric. Dwar supported his head and neck in his arms, while Hoarmurath's body lay across his legs and the rough sand of the river bank. Hoarmurath blinked, his closed eyes and the black fabric of Dwar's robe blurring together. "The Dark Marshal" some humans had once named Dwar. It was so forboding, so not Dwar.

Hoarmurath was acutely aware of the air rushing through his lungs. It felt solid, like fibers running through his throat. He was convinced that the water was still there, still waiting to take him away. He tugged at Dwar's robes all the harder. He could not die. He could not face Amurath yet.

At the edges of his conscious Dwar crooned, "It's alright. You're here. It's alright."

This was his family. His ring caught on a thread. This was life.


Lord of the Rings and all related material belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.

Thank you so very much, Guest, for pointing out my typos. Yay, minor dyslexia! In all seriousness, I am sorry for not noticing the flaw in Hoarmurath's name earlier. I hope you enjoyed the story in spite of my mistakes.

Thank you all for reading. I invite you again to comment. All critiques, compliments, and queries are welcome.

Here's to the nazgul!

From,

Taattosbt