Before you read:

Dear reader, I apologize, but I decided to remove the 14th chapter. I'm dreadfully sorry for the inconvenience, but I had thought it best to do so.

The chapter dealt with some dark subject material, but I felt the material in question was not properly handled. Long and short of it wrote a near-rape scene. Nothing came of it, but the build-up for such a thing was there. And upon later reflection I decided to remove it. I have no qualms with dark subject and themes, and I believe some good can come of exploring them, but in this particular case I do not believe the material was handed as well as it could or should have been.

But in the absence of a fourteenth chapter I wish to provide a summary of what transpired so that you are not utterly lost, as you continue embarking on this journey.

Summary:

Bren, comes to an intersection near the library, and there is a statue in the middle of it. This statue is one of the silent watchers, and it had not been notified that Brenine was a guest. Or rather it had been, only to be later commanded by an unknown party of mysterious origin to ignore the memo, so when she seeks entry into the library it scares her and she flees.

In her panic she gets lost, and winds up below the eighth floor, where she found by orcs. Those orcs mistake her for another escaped slave, and unable to convince them that she's lost and isn't trying to run away (something that's hard to do when red faced and breathless) they take her away to bring her to the Breeding Pits.

The truth of her words are discovered, she's saved in the nick of time, and brought before a new Nazgul: Minas Morgul's Lieutenant Gothmog. He toys wither her a bit, and after extracting all the pleasure he can from her discomfort takes her back to the King, who is upset that his command was disobeyed.

It is at this point where the tale continues.

Again I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I do hope you continue on, as there are some interesting things ahead. And if you're curious, there is a revamped version of this fic the first chapter of which has been posted. I loved this version too much to take it down, and I in all honesty I still do. I never wrote a fic I loved more, nor am I likely to. So it's my hope you'll continue exploring the remains of my first draft, if only to compare and contrast the two.

Best regards,

-Squirrel

Author's Notes: The last chapter has left me in a bit of a fix, so to make myself feel…better? So here's chapter fifteen. The farthest I've gotten in a fic before losing the desire to continue.

These next chapters will get lighter, but it's going to be gradual. There won't be any butterflies and daisies in this one.

Disclaimer: I don't want to own any nazgul. I'm pretty turned off of nazgul at the moment.

The Verdict of a King

Brenine bit her lip hard enough to taste copper. She didn't miss the sudden jerk of the black robed figure a few feet away, and she stifled a sob, taking his movement for impatience.

Go back to the pits, or face the king… she didn't know which was worse. The thought of an orc laying his filthy hands on her, of doing things to her that she didn't even want human men doing to her, made her stomach twist in sickening knots.

Then there was the king. The endless void in the Houses. Her chest tightened, and it seemed like there suddenly wasn't enough. It was growing warm, and her head was growing fuzzy, and the pounding form earlier was growing worse than before. She didn't want to go back to the Houses. What if the king sent her there, what if the king decided to send her to the pits, what if he…. Her head was thick, and legs leaden, and- she was going to pass out.

She panicked. She couldn't faint! She couldn't!

OH NO! Oh No, no, no, no,no-

"Sit down little lamb, sit down." Gothmog's fell voice cut through the haze and fear.

Brenine collapsed a shaking mess in to the chair, dangerously close to toppling to the floor. There was enough strength left in her to bow forward rather than to the sides, and hold her head while she waited for it to pass.

She wanted to crawl out of her skin, she felt so hot- feverishly hot. Her thoughts turned toward her breathing. She just needed to focus on her breathing.

Inhale, exhale, inhale….

"Is-is-" her voice was a weak breathless moan. "Is there a third… choice?"

"Why of course there is!" Gothmog pushed off his desk, with something between a smile and a smirk on his face as he felt hope flicker within the turbulence of the girl's panic. That little spark was enough to keep her from passing out. If she fainted, he'd have difficulty explain her stupor to the king, and Gothmog had never possessed much patience for the dramatics of mortals.

"The third option is me."

Immediately she stiffened, suspicion twisting through her dread and hopefulness. But it couldn't undermine her optimism completely. Lamb indeed.

"See," Gothmog whispered, with a smile, that didn't reach his eyes. He loomed over her, a shadow of doubt and horror offering a terrified little girl reason to hope. The irony wasn't lost on him. He tenderly cupped her chin, relishing the warm trickle of blood from her lip on his fingers. The heat of life, of mortality, was in his grasp, and she was full of it.

"I will choose for thee, if thou are incapable of making a decision." He tightened his grip.

Brenine hissed recoiling from the nazgul, as terror replaced the foolish little hope she'd allowed herself to kindle. The moment he'd gotten close she'd stared to have a bad feeling, and then he'd touched her. She should have jumped up, and risked passing out with the sudden movement.

She reached for his wrist trying to shove his hand away, but his hand tightened in warning, and she lowered her hand. Just on the verge of fainting, naked and weak, fighting him would be suicidal.

Her head was tilted to the side and he leaned toward her. She shuddered involuntarily as the air around her grew icy.

"Hast thou made a decision?"

The nazgul's voice had turned into a deadly whisper. She closed her eyes unsure if she was trying to hide from him, hide the stinging in her eyes, or ignore the feeling of freezing leather brushing the gashes on her cheek.

She attempted a tiny nod. Pits or king; which was worse- no- which would keep her away from this guy? The orcs answered to him, so they wouldn't keep her safe if he decided to do something, but the king…. The king wouldn't let him do anything, without giving permission, which was a distinct possibility once he heard about her travels. Still….

"And thy decision?"

Brenine swallowed as her whole body shuddered as ice seeped into her skin. She wished for the fire from before. The darkness was still there, but when it might have been blissful before, despite its inconvenience, was now frightening, perilous, and she was sure that was where the nazgul's lethally cold voice was coming from.

Another faint nod, was about all she could muster the strength for. She didn't want to be here, she didn't want to be in this office, with this fiend.

"The…king…."

Brenine stifled a sob. All of it, the pits, this man, and seeing the king whom she'd angered a few days before, and disobeyed today, was more than she could deal with. She was doomed.

"So be it."

The girl broke into hysterical tears the moment Gothmog released her. He didn't mind her crying. It wasn't as good as screaming, but it was several steps up from fainting.

He returned to his desk to skim over whatever it was he'd been reading before, while he waited for the captain to return. There was one quick thing he needed to take care of, before he dragged the lost lamb to her shepherd.

The girl's sobs had quieted, considerably, when Captain Ashkhak returned with three orcs in toe.

The Lamb immediately stiffened, and curled to hide herself as they entered the room. Her fear was nearly palpable, and filled the room with its delicious scent. Gothmog smiled.

And the four orcs before him were quite unnerved themselves, the Captain less than the other three. Fear was a beautiful thing.

"I asked you to bring one, and thou hast brought three Captain. Why is that?"

The captain went rigid. "These louts were the ones I saw tearing her clothes off-" Gothmog didn't miss the way she flinched, and curled in on herself a bit a tighter. "-and when I questioned them, they all blamed each other, so I thought… it would be best to bring them before you, as you would be able to discover the truth."

Yes… the problem was that the Captain had bothered to think at all, still each had to make use of what information they had, and the captain had done that with good intention so there had been no harm. Besides, after sitting around reading, he could use some entertainment….

"Yes," Gothmog said good-naturedly. He was laughing on the inside as the Captain visibly relaxed. It was incredible how easily he inspired dread in others. After six thousand years the novelty still hadn't worn off.

"I shall indeed, discover the truth."

Brenine shuddered as the wraith hissed the word 'truth.' She hated the orcs, but she didn't want to know what this nazgul was going to do to 'discover the truth.'

Her fear became for her own safety when he stopped directly in front of her. Heart thumping loud in her chest, she stiffened as he pressed an icy finger to her cheek, and idly traced the claw marks.

"As no shepherd would wish to see his prized lamb returned to him after being ravaged by wolves, no king would want his… guest abused by his servants. On the contrary I deem the latter to be worse."

While the shepherd would not want his lamb abused by wolves, it was more of a question of the wolves themselves. Some wolves could bite, without leaving so much as a scratch.

"I suppose since none of you could tell the captain which it was that dared to mar such a delicate creature's face, I shall hold the three of you culpable."

Brenine warily watched as the nazgul pulled his hand away and turned toward the terrified orcs. The very room seemed to darken about him as he took a few leisurely steps toward their quaking forms.

He stopped before them, and turned his head to regard each in turn. The orcs, if they were terrified before, they most certainly were now. And Brenine almost pitied them. She hated them, and what they'd done to her, but this nazgul could and probably would do far worse to them.

There was barely a warning. No interrogation, no commentary, no threats, just the ring of steel as it was whipped from a sheath. A spray of flood followed, punctuated by the thud of a falling body.

Brenine stood, before she'd even realized she'd consciously decided to move. Just as suddenly the fuzz and dizziness from before swept over her with a vengeance. The darkness appeared in the edges of her vision, engulfing everything in blackness as it reached for her.

No!Nononono! Not Here…!

A second thud followed the first.

Gothmog uttered a faint 'tsk.' As he watched another orc hit the floor. He closed his eyes inhaling. How sweet the end of life smelt, perhaps death was delightful as the bouquet. The girl had fainted, he'd seen it. The king wouldn't like that.

He stopped before the shortest and fistiest of three orcs.

"You look like a screamer."

The orc went rigid in horror and fear. Gothmog smiled as the orc's own words to the lamb earlier, suddenly smacked him in the face. He almost laughed. He brought his hand to the orc's face.

"Captain help the former private remove his armour. He will have little need of it. In fact…" the nazgul inclined his head toward Brenine.

"Strip him entirely."

Gothmog eased back, giving the fretting captain room to manoeuvre.

"Life is such a mockingly crude and frivolous thing. Yet it is a gift, afforded to some and denied to others. I have wearied of yours." He approached the terrified orc once the captain finished. Softly, gently, he trailed a finger along his jugular. Always the throat was loud with the warmth of life. How it mocked him, and beckoned, and taunted him; so close and yet so far. He'd steal heat from this one before he was done.

"There were four gashes that I counted, and yet I have but three orcs. I think thee shall serve for two."

Immediately the orc tugged away, and even quicker a heavy hand met his temple. The orc crumpled to the floor in a heap.

His attention returned to the girl sprawled on the floor.

"Help her dress Captain. There is a shepherd out there missing a lamb."

Brenine's head ached. Everything ached, and her stomach seemed to drop with every sway of her body. Her guts flipped, and she was on the ground, on her knees, wiping sour spit from chin unaware of when or how she'd gotten there.

A rough hand gripped her shoulder and puller her to her feet. She didn't fight it.

"How was thy beauty sleep?" A soft voice slithered into her ear.

"Have someone clean this up."

Brenine was immediately released, and she sank back to the floor, hands covering her swimming head. She was going to be sick again. At least she thought she was going to be sick again.

"Can you stand?"

She shivered at the encroaching cold. The nazgul had dropped the old words or she'd misheard him. Either way she didn't trust herself to answer, unsure if words or vomit were going to leave her mouth. She hung a limp arm in the air, as the other clutched her stomach.

Something cool, round, and solid found its way into her hand. The rod.

Carefully, unsteadily, and dangerously wobbly, Brenine forced herself to rise. A gloved hand gripped her arm to steady her at some point. Sour acid burned her throat. She clenched her eyes shut willing it pass, willing her turbulent innards to lie still.

She'd been terrified of throwing up on an orc, she couldn't imagine how a nazgul would react, and she really didn't want to find out.

Gothmog carefully guided the girl along the halls. She couldn't go particularly fast, which he was both irritated and happy about. He needed to take her to the king, and there was limited tie to do so, but on the other hand he knew the king would have a few things say to him when he saw the state his prisoner was being brought to him in.

It was lucky for him though that she'd woken when she had. The king wouldn't see her unconscious, and they had made it to the appropriate floor; all the stairs were behind them. She would never have climbed them, and he would never have carried her.

"Consider thyself lucky for thou are about to see a room few from your heathen country can boast of having seen."

Brenine froze, swaying and trembling before one of those walls. One of those horrible cold unyielding walls of malice and her stomach churned with sickening anticipation and genuine nausea. In her trembling, she was more aware of her surroundings, the slight eerie green shimmer in the walls, the horrible cold of her companion, the sickening flicker of nearly dead torches mimicking the churning of her roiling stomach.

The nazgul grabbed abruptly grabbed her and hauled her through it.

She stood shivering and swaying on the other side, every inch of her skin crawling with ice, as an ugly wave of fear ate her chest. Her vision blurred momentarily, and shakily wiped the moister from her eyes. The wraith hadn't let go of her, and she was sure that was part of the problem. She needed a moment alone, she needed to get away. This was not a place she wanted to be.

Uvatha's hand dropped to his sword on instinct. He scowled at the door. The king's wall had been breached. While the wall didn't overly concern the nazgul, they were aware of it, could feel it, and out of courtesy and fear toward the king they tended to wait for the king to lower them before seeking an audience with him. Gothmog had never had such compunctions, and he'd dragged a mortal with him.

He could smell the blood, hear the fluttering heart, and feel the fear so solid he could almost hold it if he chose. The mortal's passage through the wall had sounded the warning in his head, not that it mattered; those walls were designed to render any threat to His Majesty impotent.

No sooner had his hand on the hilt slackened, when Gothmog flung open the throne room doors, dragging the king's prisoner behind him.

His scowled turned into a mix of fear and confusion. He couldn't begin to fathom how on earth Gothmog had come by the girl. She wasn't well either: amid her roiling terror of the king, and the residual effects of the wall, she brimmed with weakness. It was a small miracle, considering it was Gothmog with arm wrapped around her shoulders to keep her from falling or running as he lead her toward the king. Under other circumstances it might have been a comical sight, considering the girl was a couple inches taller than he was.

"What's the meaning of this?"

Uvatha turned to the king. For all the world he appeared unmoved by the site before him, almost as if he had expected this to happen, but there was no question the king was irate. His fingers were deceptively still, but it was in his eyes; a glint of ice.

Gothmog seemed perfectly at ease, as he stopped a few yards from the dais.

"I came across a lamb straying far from the boundaries of its pastures." A spark of fear flashed in the back of Uvatha's head. He was supposed to have been watching her. Next the king would be questioning him… he needed to quash the dread before it became apparent to the other two nazgul.

"Regrettably, she was in the company of wolves before I was able to get to her-"

"And how did you come by her?" Uvatha was curious despite his trepidation. He felt the king's gaze on him, and immediately wished he had kept his mouth shut. But whatever the king was thinking was hidden behind a perfectly constructed wall of stoicism.

Gothmog shrugged nonchalantly. "She travelled lower than the eighth floor. In fact she managed to wander outside the citadel all the way to the Breeding Pits."

Gothmog's exterior was cool and collected, apart from a slight tilt at the corner of his mouth, but inside he was reeling with smug excitement. Uvatha looked positively dumbfounded the stupid oaf. And the king- he wanted to break into a grin- was just as surprised if not more so than Uvatha. He looked as uncaring as a statue, but Gothmog knew better. The moment he'd said 'Breeding Pits' the king's eyes had flickered with something too fleeting to make out, but it meant the king did in fact care. The revelation was as delicious as the sickly shroud of warmth clinging to the prisoner next to him.

Finally the king's façade broke, and he frowned. His eyes still hadn't left the quaking, trembling, waste of life Gothmog was holding onto. As much as the Lieutenant hated life, he hated those too weak to deserve it more.

The only thing that could have possibly made the moment better was Herumor's presence. Ah. That would have been interesting. Always Herumor had cherished mortality, desiring to be mortal once more. He'd been the last to bow their master, the last to cease fearing and fighting to pay his due, for the all the wonderful gifts their Lord been bestowed upon him. Ever, he had been a thankless cur, seeking the warmth of life once more, and clinging to some hazy memory of a woman he'd professed to love, but couldn't remember the name of.

Oh he wished the king's bitch was present, just to hear the irritating yapping that surely would have ensued.

But Herumor was gone, dead or drifting away in the Anduin. It suited Gothmog just fine either way. Sooner or later they'd have a new brother- one more worthy of their Master's gifts. So, he settled to enjoy what he'd seen thus far.

"Is this true?" There was a silken edge to the king's monotone as he addressed the girl directly, cutting off Gothmog's musing.

Brenine's marrow froze as she felt that horrible penetrating gaze land on her. The air already heavy with malice and cold had grown even heavier and dangerous, when the nazgul next to her said she'd gone below the eighth floor. The one thing the king had told her not to do she'd done. What could she do, but bow her head in a terrified 'yes' when he'd asked? She'd always been a terrible liar.

As terrified and horrible as she felt, the tears couldn't or wouldn't come. There was nothing but fear, pain, a horrible pounding in her skull, and a nauseating twisting in her stomach that kept her from speaking.

"Leave us."

From the corner of her eye she saw Uvatha pass by, silently wishing he'd stay. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what 'leave us' meant, and she did not want to know.

Gasping with dread and cold, her legs buckled, and she crumpled to the floor the moment she was released, but the nazgul who'd brought her here didn't leave right away. He bowed to the king and paused as he turned away.

Brenine's chin was suddenly grabbed, and she was forced to look straight into an empty abyssal hood. Cold gloved fingers brushed across the gashes on her cheek, down her throat- she hated herself for not pulling away, and him, because there was something truly vile and evil about him. She screwed her eyes shut. She wished she was back in the pits with the orcs.

Everything was so messed up and confusing, she wasn't sure what she wished for. And she felt too sick and weak to do anything about it.

"Goodbye, sweet little lamb."

She fell back numb with cold and fear, relieved and terrified to see him go.

Gothmog passed Uvatha, with a smirk across his face. His day, despite the boredom with which it had begun, was now soaring on a high note.

"That was rather strange of you," Uvatha said after he'd shut the doors, and they'd moved a short distance away.

"Hmm?" Gothmog looked up as Uvatha pulled him from his thoughts.

Uvatha tugged on a glove. "You don't usually bring the king's toys back to him in one piece, eapecailly the ones of…poorer quality."

A long suffering sigh escaped his lips. "Yes, it is my accursed lot in life to dispose of his useless or broken toys, and very rarely is my sacrifice rewarded, but such is the life of a peon. Many times I have ridded him of useless toys so that he could search for one more worthy of his time. He's never once thanked me. Though, playing nurse-maid sounds far worse. Khamul, at least, has always been a generous soul, when it comes to my work."

"Khamul?" Uvatha frowned. "Should the time ever come when he does become our new king, he won't care about you. Our current king isn't particularly caring-"

"No, the former Tark king of Angmar, doesn't care about many things…" He gazed at his taller companion a knowing smirk. "Though I wonder if he would have cared if I had told him it was your fault the little shit wandered off in the first place."

"Why didn't you tell him?"

Gothmog shrugged. "What? That you'd locked yourself away to play that blasted lute of yours? The answer is astonishingly simple really."

Uvatha didn't like where this was headed. "Some of us carry our heads higher off the ground and sometimes miss the small details, perhaps you would be so kind as to elucidate these obvious answers which would otherwise go unnoticed by those who do not walk with their nose to the ground."

Gothmog scowled, eyes glittering. If there was one thing he had little tolerance for, it was jabs at his lack of height, but he stifled his anger, and replaced it with a deceptively calm expression.

"That mutt Herumor might return someday. If or when he does, I'd like to knock him back into his place. Surely even you can agree he has… grown rather bold under the king's tutelage-"

"I have no interest in being a part of one of your schemes, Gothmog."

The Lieutenant froze. Uvatha had just said 'no' to a superior, and that was not a good move. "Oh, but you will. Like me you won't pass up an opportunity to enjoy quality entertainment."

Uvatha smiled. "That, my Lord you are right about."

Under his smile Uvatha scowled. The threat of being found out, was hanging over his head, assuming the king hadn't already guessed as much. Secretly he hoped Gothmog made good, or at least attempted to make good on it. He had no love for Herumor, but he had no love for being played either.

He'd let the Lieutenant get his way, for the time being. He'd get to watch Herumor be put back in his place, and then he'd see the Lieutenant's plans come crashing down. What a delightful show that would be: the dreams of the mongrel and the midget going up in flames.

That's how the world would end for them; in fire and ash, and there he'd be, playing his lute before their pyres.

The moment the door closed the dam broke. Brenine swiped at her cheek and neck trying to remove the residual chill of the nazgul's touch. She felt filthy, disgusting, violated. Hate welled up under her feebleness and shame, but she wasn't sure at whom it was directed; the short nazgul, herself, the king, the orcs. It just simmered below everything else she felt, adding to the quagmire of confusion and sickness.

She could feel the king's gaze, like a weight, silently watching and analyzing her every move.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?"

At any other time screaming at a king would have seemed suicidal, but if escaping or surviving here meant to deal with that or short nazgul ever again, she admitted she was a coward. It wasn't worth it.

She'd come so close, so close to- she shook her head, trying to dispel the images to no avail.

The sound of shifting fabric sent those images out the window in a panic. Her teeth sank into her lip. The king... she'd done it. She'd successfully pissed him off, because he'd risen and she could see his boots descending the few steps of the dais.

Heart hammering her throat she watched the boots approach through stinging eyes. She wanted to flee, but there was nowhere to go, and nothing left to fight with.

"What do you want?"

She whispered her question, uncertain and uncaring if he heard or not.

"Conversation."

A sob broke free of her chest at the only answer that horribly cold monotone had ever given her cut through the ringing in her head.

"Did the orcs violate thee?"

Brenien shuddered, and covered her face. What sort of question was that? But no, no they hadn't.

"No."

They'd come close. A few more moments, and, and- her stomach clenched.

An iron grip on her arm hauled her to her feet. She stared wide eyed at the cold gauntleted hand wrapped around her arm. The world was turning to ice around her, so close to him, and her arm was burning.

A hand forced her chin up, and hardly able to breath, she looked up into a dark abyss marred only by a faint glimmer of eyes.

In muted terror Brenine wished, begged, and pleaded for him not to touch her face in the manner the other nazgul had. She could still feel it, and her back stiffened as the disgust and cold returned with the residual feeling of trailing fingers.

She suddenly wanted to fight, free her arm from the king's grip, and put a great space between them, but she didn't dare to. He'd probably rip her arm off, and fighting him might cause him to do something horrible.

"Disobedience, I find intolerable-"

Brenine's chest and mouth both opened up and her explanation suddenly burst forth. "It was an accident! It was an-"

"Silence."

Immediately Brenine went silent shivering as a faint hiss slid through the air between them. Her hand flew to his wrist, the one connected to the hand gripping her arm. The world was darkening, and the ringing in her head was worse than before.

"I gave to thee, a single command, and thou could not comply. I have no wish to listen to thy excuses."

She was going to die. She was going to die. Worse, her mind felt like it was racing through pitch trying to conjure up something to say to stay his hand; if only long enough for her to tell him what happened.

"I'm sorry."

She whimpered as her head was turned one way and then the other. Maybe he wanted a better view of her injuries, maybe he was going to have her beheaded, or maybe he was going to behead her himself, and was looking how best to make the cut.

Stomach flipped, and she tasted sour at the back of her throat. She swallowed it back, and coughed.

"It was an accident. I saw-I saw," she didn't know what she'd seen. Blackness swirled in her vision, creating absolute confusion as it mixed with the ringing, and she clung to his wrist like it could anchor her down.

She wanted to be far away from him, but she was losing her mind, losing everything, and the whole world was sinking into a sickening grey and black vortex. She had to be dying, must be dying.

He said something, but it was completely lost on her, and it seemed the room suddenly trembled.

The nazgul scowled down at his prisoner. He was displeased, and it was clear on his face. She wasn't well, that was obvious. She was breaking before the date he'd set. He'd made his plans, and now that he'd put them into motion the last thing he wanted was to make any drastic changes. Prisoners to play with were a rare treat he could not often indulge in, and this one had a very specific purpose.

She clung to him, terrified of him, terrified of her own weakness dragging her down.

"Uvatha." The nazgul, loitering outside came in as soon as called. "Take her to her room and-"

A faint rumble cut him off, and he whipped his head northward. Standing rigid he stared at the wall, as if he could see beyond it. It was time to leave. His Master would wait no longer for him to depart.

After a moment the king's stupor passed and he shrugged off every scrap of irritation he felt. Quietly he looked between Uvatha and the girl still clinging to his sleeve. Firmly he pried her fabric twisted fingers loose.

"I will be better able to judge this matter when not so pressed for time. Tend to her, whilst I'm away."

Mercifully the girl fell unconscious and sank into Uvatha's arms. He looked none too thrilled about the prospect of carrying her, but he would- that the king was sure of.