"You fool. No man can kill me."
Angmar felt quite pleased with this line. Suitably portentous. Doom laden throaty whisper. The youth looked frankly terrified. As he should.
Some days he fucking loved his job.
"Die now..." he whispered, almost lovingly.
Fuck. That was fucking agony. He'd been stabbed. Some fucker had just stabbed him behind the knee.
He dropped the youth and sank to his knees.
The youth struggled to his feet. Then pulled off his helm. To reveal long hair. Out-of-touch as Angmar was with current manly barbering styles, this one was pretty effeminate. As was the whole face, now he came to look more closely. Glorfindel's prophecy, from a long-ago, almost forgotten battlefield, came back to haunt him. Oh shit.
"I am no man." She raised her sword. Then paused.
"Hang on a mo… You and that flail. I mean, the head. It's just ridiculously huge. And the chain – crazily long..."
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You're not compensating for something are you?"
Angmar, on his knees, a hot burning in his ligaments, managed to gasp, "Compensating? I don't know what you mean..."
"Yeah you do." She looked around at the wrack and ruin around her, and pursed her lips, assessing the situation. "That new model racy little fell beast, red go-faster trim on the saddle."
She laughed. The skinny bitch actually laughed. At him, Angmar.
"You're having a mid-life crisis, aren't you?"
"No, no, not a bit of it..." he hissed.
"Problems getting it up? I bet you do. I mean, happens to most men as they get older, and as an undead king,a you're what, how many millennia older now? Bet you're dependent on those little blue parcels of herbs these days."
"I have no difficulty satisfying Mrs Angmar, I'll have you know."
"Yeah, yeah, sure. That's why she's been going for those torchlit dinners with Khamûl..."
"WHAT?"
"Oh come on, you must know. Everyone knows. Even we've heard about it, scores of leagues from Mordor. Your 2IC is boffing your wife." This last line was delivered in an almost sing-song voice.
Angmar let out an unholy shriek of rage. And pain. Insofar as he was capable of loving anyone, he did love Mrs Angmar. Oh, and the poor fell beast whose body now lay crumpled beside him. Not that his pain lasted long.
Éowyn slammed her sword into his face.
Spent, she crumpled to the ground.
In a distant tower in Minas Morgul, Mrs Angmar reached out and switched off the Palantir on which she'd been watching the action. She wandered out onto the battlements, whistling jauntily. Sisters are doing it for themselves…