Kings. Warriors. Sorcerers.
He had already forgotten his birth-name, and he no longer thought about his former life. The man creature darted from shadow to shadow, out of sight. Often nowadays he walked unseen, utilizing his growing powers. The ring burned his hand at times, but he was loathe to take it off. The last person who tried to take it from him suffered much torment before their cruel death, and he was saddened and amused at the same time at it.
She was a creature after his own blackening heart, and she was jealous and curious about the ring of Power given to him by his lord Annatar. Ah well, there will be others, he thought. And there is so much work to do! He reverted back to his human form, immensely tall, lean, with dark hair and hollow eyes. His thick black hair fell past his shoulders, framing an angular but attractive face which was beginning to appear gaunt.
He had been searching for more knowledge, more secrets, using his ring. He had become a sorcerer premier, skilled in arcane magics long forgotten, spying on others and learning many things. It was times like these he missed Gilnatha, child of the East, where magic ruled supreme. She overstepped her boundries and he had to kill her, taking her powers. A smile, and straight, sharp teeth flashed in the half-light of predawn. He idly wondered where his ring-brethren where, and what they were doing. Probably indulging in pleasures of food or the flesh, or simple riches and jewels, or some such. He also wondered when the Lord Annatar would be returning, and what would be the price exacted for the gifts granted to them. Especially me, he thought, the King and leader of them all.
The fair seeming, the auburn-haired, the smooth-skinned, the tongue dripping with honey. Strong hand outstretched with a beautiful ring, offering it to him. He picked one, he the First, the greatest one. "NOOOOOOOO," he screamed at the memory, his hand smoking with the fire, searing pain.
A laugh, in his head, then, "You are mine, Sorcerer Supreme. Prepare the way for me, Witch-king."
The once-Man hung his head, tears stinging his eyes, and nodded assent.
Annatar came to him today, appeared in his bedchamber in a swirl of mist. He smiled at him, pleased at his lieutenant's work. "I have spent long years gathering my strength," he spoke in his deep, fair voice. The sorcerer stood before him, withstanding the penetrating gaze. "There are some things I must attend to, business with the Numenoreans. Your kin, I believe. While I deal with them, gather the other ring-holders and await my instructions. Also, the orc-hunters, the woodspeople who thwart my policies: hunt them and kill them. All of them."
The dread lord's will was exerted all around the Witch-king, pressing in upon him like a constraining blanket. He sank to his knees, the burden nearly too great to bear. His head bowed, he said "I can't do this. You can't ask this of me. They are innocents, I can't slaughter them in cold blood!"
"Hah," exclaimed Annatar, his handsome face a sneer. He appeared almost as one of the Elder Race of Eru's children, but solid and powerful, his auburn hair falling in waves to his shoulders. "Cold blood, say you. What of your rival to this country's throne? He died in his sleep I believe, but not of natural causes. And those Easterners you collaberated with-they all died horrible deaths as well. And that sweet Haradrim damosel-what was her name, Gilnatha," the keeper of the first ring of the Nine winced at the words as the dread lord talked, circling him as he knelt on his chamber floor. "I felt her sweet agony in the Dark where I rested, and it was good."
"No," sobbed the once-man, aware of the horrible deeds he had committed, and would again. His conscience had surfaced and caused him to fear for his immortal soul. The dread lord halted.
"You desired power and knowledge, and I have granted it," Annatar smoothly told him. "My friend," he said softly, and knelt facing the sorcerer. "You have been so for a long while. You're not going to desert me now, are you? It is too late to turn back now, we are together, bound by our oath and the Ring." At the Witch-king's gasp, he smiled again, his eyes almost affectionate. "Verily, it is here. It is always with me. Just as you will be when I return. Prepare Middle-earth for my ascension." He bent and kissed his First's cheek, stood, and was sudenly gone. The Witch-king's cheek remained hot for some time after, and his mind was unhinged for good.
He raised the mace again, blood and tissue dripping from it's jagged, stone-hard head, and another satisfying thwack as the peasant warrior's head was squashed. The cottager had called him Beirum, Servant of Evil, and the Witch-king had heard it before. Beirum it is, then, he thought. The man's arms twitched and then he lay still, and the Sorceror's eyes searched for another opponent. His troops were cutting through the woodfolk somewhat easily, and he let the coldness and sense of duty envelope him, burying the voice that cried to him No!
He was dressed in black and blue, swathed in expensive Eastern cloth. His sable embroidered tunic buttoned on the side and was trimmed in bright blue. A sleeveless black vest fell to his knees and was slit up the sides to the waist for ease of movement. His trousers were loose like the Haradrim wear but his head was bare, proclaiming him to be a Lord from the West. A terrible blending of two worlds. His long wavy dark hair whipped in the breeze as his lean silhoette fell across a woman grasping a quarterstaff, fear etched on her face. She was one of the woodfolk, long brown hair, sun bronzed face, but when the Witch-king's gaze fell on her he saw golden hair, fair skin and ruddy cheeks. A force of will great as his own and bright mail. A glow dazzled him for a moment, and he was bewildered. He shook his head and it was gone.
The quarterstaff connected with his side, a grunt issuing from his lips while his vision returned. The female came in for another strike, but he lifted his mace and struck her upper right arm; it snapped. With her left hand she cracked his thigh with the stick, crying with pain. Her homespun robe swirled and she skibbled backwards. An ache throbbed in his leg and his face drew back with fury, eyes blazing. With his weapon he tore the staff out of the woman's single-handed grasp, the momentum twirling her around and tipping her over. The mace fell on her slim back, crushing the spinal cord as she sprawled on the ground. She lay still.
Beirum's Black Numenoreans torched the houses and dispatched the owners; men, women and children. He had done what his master wished, but he was troubled. What was that foreboding, that strange sight he had in the battle? What did it mean? No matter. "I have done your bidding, Lord," he spoke aloud in his cold chambers. An answering voice in his head acknowledged him, promising that when it was over, Middle-earth would be at peace, there would be no more chaos, and he would be one of the overlords ordering things for the good of all. He desperately hung on to that hope, that some benefit would come from this blackness.
He looked at his withering hand. What was happening to him?
They knew who each other were; they recognized with a swift glance each other's identity, though they no longer knew one another's names. The First had asked them to report; bound to him as they all were to the Dark Lord they came. From the far corners of Middle-earth came the remaining eight, to tell of their exploits and adherance to Annatar's will. They too had the same haunted appearance, and the Sorceror learned that the Ring grew ever clearer and more powerful in their minds.
The Second suggested revolt, that they remove the rings given to them and cast them into the sea. Then they should treat no more with slippery beings from heaven knows where, neither Elves, nor Maiar, nor anything else they didn't understand. Beirum also had thought long on such a course of action, but he felt it useless. He was too dependent on his ring, and the others were already practically slaves to theirs. They had sworn fealty, and had been given many gifts.
Then the sorceror was hit by a new idea...what if the One Ring or Annatar was destroyed? Then the Nine would be free, even though their own rings would be useless. They would be bound no longer. After he spoke he glanced at the other eight, and saw the flaw in his suggestion. Who would, or could, do this? Certainly none of them, and the idea of being forsworn was the least of the worries.
All of a sudden, their ring-hands seared them, their rings growing white-hot. Gorthaur in his might and anger was upon them, accompanied by a great wind. Immense of stature he appeared, his black armor shiny and eyes glowing red. "Base treachery! Infidels! Swine," he snarled, and the majority of the ring-holders cowered. "How dare you plot against me, your Lord and Master," his voice boomed. Beirum took a reflexive step back, but refused to bow. "Simpletons! If I bend my mind hither, I know your every move, your very THOUGHTS. You are mine." Annatar glared at the Witch-king.
The dread lord stalked toward Beirum, becoming more and more the tyrant. His eyes bored into the Sorceror, but he stared back, jaws clenched. Annatar backhanded him, his head jerking back with the rock-solid blow. Blood trickled down his lip, but he didn't wipe it away, merely stood and insolently returned the Dark Lord's gaze. After a moment Gorthaur broke into laughter, confounding the Nine who watched silently. "I chose correctly, it seems. You have the strength and fortitude I had been searching for all these ages." Annatar looked at him with that near-loving expression again, still chuckling. "In time, you will be my Lieutenant, my Right Hand, second only to me. But make no mistake, I will kill any one slowly and painfully who defies me or plots against me. You know what I can do." He held up his hand, and on it was the One, the master ring, and the the Nine felt its magic. In each of their brains played a terrible scenario, of being ordered to drown themselves, cast themselves upon their own swords, of burning alive, or leaping off rocky cliffs-all these Annatar could command them to do, and they would do it. If he wore the ring and brought his focus to bear, they would do so.
Before he departed, he told them of his massing of a great army, one to contest the kingdom of Numenore, their ancestors' ancient home. When they were out of the way, Middle-earth would be theirs for the taking.
When he departed, the Nine fell to the floor of the Witch-king's recieving room, retching and gagging. A fear, and shackles, were put on them that they would never forget, or be able to break.
"What are we to do," cried the Third.
"We are cursed," answered the Witch-king. "And we brought it upon ourselves."
"What is it," asked the Seventh.
"It is the Men of the West, the Numenoreans," interjected the Third as they watched, hidden in the brush, the grand army filing by. Many thousands strong in bright mail, finely made weapons at the ready, tall and grey-eyed they marched-straight for Mordor. The eight Ulairi, confounded, slipped back to Beirum and brought this news to him. It was days later when they arrived, then he ordered his servants away and shut himself and the other ring-holders in his inner sanctum, and there using his magics he sent his mind hither to Mordor, to Annatar.
He sank into a deep trance, his eyes blank, his body unmoving, seeming hardly to breathe. "What is the purpose of this Numenorean army," queried the Second.
Several moments went by, then the Witch-king spoke softly, "They come for the Master, and to make Middle-earth their kingdom. There are at the Gates of Mordor, the heralds cry for Annatar to come forth. The general is at the front-wait, it is the King, Ar-Pharazon...he is mighty, this one. Mighty and terrible."
"The King of Westernesse, here," said the Seventh, amazed. "Do they desire to usurp our kingdoms and the kingdom of the Lord Annatar?" The Seventh was one of the early Numenoreans who settled in the east, such as the First had, and had many interests in Umbar, which had an ongoing rivalry with Numenore.
"Ar-Pharazon is demanding Annatar to make amends for his crimes against Middle-earth, and to swear fealty to Westernesse...," the Sorceror said, brow furrowing slightly. A pause, then "Here he comes, alone! He is approaching them, hands outstretched, declaring he wished no war with Westernesse!" As he spoke, so it was happening, the great tyrant Sauron emerged from his Dark Tower alone and weaponless, to appeal to the King. His dark red hair flowed in the breeze, he was dressed in black mail and plate, but his scabbard and hands were empty.
He was not wearing the Ring. His face was fair to behold, high forehead, no beard, smooth-skinned; high and lordly he seemed, almost more so than the strong-willed descendant of the Half-elven, Pharazon. But Annatar was not truly weaponless, he was a master of eloquence and deceit, having been taught by the Valar Melkor. He bowed before Ar-Pharazon, stating that he had no intention of resisting such well-armed and high-born men as the Numenoreans, praising their magnificent army and navy, and declaring that he had been mistaken in his schemes.
"The King is laughing at Annatar's well-spoken words," Beirum went on. "He requests that Annatar be taken to Numenore as a hostage and proof of his good will, wherefor he will be a vassal of the Isle of Elenna. He agrees. He is being put in chains!" The Ulairi looked at one another in increasing bafflement. The link broke; Beirum slumped over retching, he spat up some bile. The Ninth helped him up. "This is obviously part of the Master's plan," he said. "Don't think we are out of his mind; he can still watch us from the Western Isle. All we can do now is watch, and wait, and do his work."
Time passed. Sauron spoke to the First in his dreams, having dedicated himself to destroying Numenore from the inside out. His poisoned tongue had enchanted Ar-Pharazon, hardening his heart against the Elves and the Valar. The people of Westernesse feared death and were envious of the Firstborn. They wished to have the unending life of the Elves and be lords and masters over all Middle-earth. This he told his First at night. The Numenoreans built many fortresses and towns there, and the Ulairi laid low. In there own realms they were masters, and had none to tell them what they should do. The Numenoreans grew more restless, arrogant, and greedy. They made many their subjects but could not grasp the nine nameless fears that were always out of reach, secure in the strength of their rings.
More time passed, and Annatar spoke with Beirum less and less, until the Sorceror wondered if the Lord of Gifts had made his permanent abode in Numenore. The Second, Fifth and Sixth were sating their bloodlust in the North, the Third and Ninth made life difficult for travelers wishing to reach the newly founded Elf haven of Imladris, and the Fourth and Seventh were not far from him, living out their wildest dreams and fantasies. The Sorceror had pitted his skill against another Eastern mage, and won. He was still revelling in the conquest, a smile playing at his thin lips.
It seemed to him that he was the most powerful being in Middle-earth. And he recalled that Annatar had been taken from here to Numenore without weapon or ring. The One! Where had he hidden it? A thought manifested itself in his formidable mind. In wraith form he departed his palace, unseen by most, and wound his way to Mordor. He loped from shadow to shadow, untiring, but the longer he walked unseen the greater the pain in his hand became. He slipped past the Gates and took the road leading to Barad-dur.
He stood before the Dark Tower as a man, and looked around him. It was desolate land, stripped of nearly all life, but it was heavily fortified. The Tower leaped up for what seemed like miles, a black spire reaching to the heavens. The inhabitants Sauron left behind had spotted Beirum, but did nothing; he bore one of the Nine Rings of their master, and they let him pass. He threw back his auburn head and laughed, his features flush and alive; he resembled the young man he had been before he met Annatar. He was Lord here now; the Dark Lord had forsaken his lands and designs on Middle-earth. And he was sure the Ring was here, somewhere. He entered Barad-dur, and the servants, orcs, men, and trolls, bowed to him and allowed him entry.
His long legs carried him up many steps and through many rooms, many of them richly appointed. Beirum finally found Sauron's throne room, where the fallen Maiar would hold court and devise new strategies. He felt drawn, and realized the Ring must be near, he was aware of its energies. He approached the throne, well-formed body moving slowly, taking deep breaths. Something rustled behind the gilded chair, a white figure stepped out holding a jewelled blade.
It was a woman. She had rich black hair cropped at the shoulders and glinting green eyes. Her porcelain skin was almost as white as the garments draped on her tall sturdy frame. "Halt," she said in a stern, low-pitched voice. He did so. When she moved he saw that her robes were tattered, resembling burial sheets, and were darkly stained in some places. "Who art thou to come to the Dark Tower unbidden?"
"I have no name, having given it up to the builder of this tower. But as he comes not back, I being his Chosen, his First, have come to claim this tower, and all treasure within it. Call me the Servant of Sorcery, Beirum, if it be thy will."
With lightning speed the woman darted forward, her sword point over his heart before he could react. "I know what thou seeketh, Witch-king. What thou hast come to claim is not for thee. I am the Lieutenant of the Tower, appointed by Lord Annatar himself. I have sworn to keep it safe, even from thee, handsome one."
Their eyes locked, Beirum's greed and anger growing. He grabbed for her sword-wrist, but her arm swung out of the way. Quick as a snake she leaped back, attempting to get some distance so she could strike. The First drove forward, his fist connecting with her abdomen. The air went out of the woman in a whoosh, but she slashed wildly with her wicked blade and caught his forearm in a messy but not too serious gash. He reached for her again, and she toppled over with him on top of her. The sword clattered to the floor and she gulped for air, the sorceror's head on her ribcage. He raised up and peered down at her with dark eyes. Her own emerald ones looked back up at him.
She was eerie and beautiful, if that could be all in the same person. Her face had high cheekbones, small upturned nose, wide mouth, and perfect almost translucent skin. "Perhaps," said Beirum, getting his breath, "there is a treasure in Barad-dur that I can claim. What is your name, lady?"
"I am Nemiell," she answered. "You came for the Ring, and that I cannot let you have. Would you," she said huskily, "take his other prize?"
Beiurm clutched the neck of her ragged robe and yanked it down over one smooth shoulder.
The next morning the First awoke, feeling drained yet contented. The pale naked form dozing beside him attested to the reason. His eyes searched the room, a lady's apartments it seemed, and settled on his bedmate. Nemiell was resting on her side, ebony hair in disarray, wide-set eyes closed. She was better and more attractive than Gilnatha had ever been, he thought to himself. He bent and whispered a staying spell to keep her asleep, unsure if it would really work, then he pulled the silken sheets over her. They were worn but of fine quality, he noted. Beirum eased out of bed and padded to one of the two exits of the chamber.
Carefully he opened the door and beheld Annatar's own chambers, he was sure. It was vast, with wrought-iron furnishings and metal bed-posts. He stepped inside, and the Dark Lord's presence seemed to linger there, oppressing him and making him uncomfortable. He turned and left, heading out the other exit of Nemiell's room and down the hall. The Ring was close, he knew it. The throne room, that's it! He retraced his way back there, exploring every nook and cranny.
Emerald eyes flew open.
She came on him like a rushing storm, her fury blazed on her face. Beirum fell back, astonished. "It is not for you," she declared in her low-pitched speech. "I deny you nothing, not even myself, but That is not for me to give, or you to take!" She struck him, his face branded with her slim fingers. "Misbegotten varlet! Is none as thick-headed as those who come from Numenore!"
The First stood agape, truly frightened and in awe. Who, or what, was she? At first he suspected she was human, as he himself was. Now he wasn't so sure. What powers had she gained from Sauron himself? He turned his head aside, unwilling to look at her terrible, beautiful face. "My lady," he spoke. "Our Master chose his Lieutenant very well. I will search no further for the Ring, if you would consent to be by my side."
It was the next day.
Nemiell approached the Sorceror from behind, dressed in buckskin and boots. "I see you're still here," she said pointedly. She also knew he hadn't made a move to search for the Ring; she had many loyal spies and servants.
"The Ring isn't the only thing that holds me here," Beirum replied softly. He turned to her, his eyes for the first time in many a year appeared like a regular man's. They were filled with anguish, and affection, and desire. "What are you, my lady?"
She jumped at his query but never took her eyes off him. "I have Maiar blood in me. When the world was young, one of the lesser Maia came to Middle-earth and became enamoured of a Daughter of Men. He married her despite of her fear of his powers and destiny. They begat a daughter, one who belonged neither in Valinor nor Middle-earth." The Witch-king closed his eyes at what he knew was coming. "That poor mismatched wretch was me. The Forgotten One, the Outsider. But I have made a place for myself here, by the grace of Lord Annatar and my own hard work."
The man laughed, a rasping, dry sound. "And I thought that I was the highest born, worthiest of the command of the Tower." He reached and took her hand.
She was jolted with images flashing in her brain, a pale, proud warrior maiden slashing with her broad sword. "Beware, my lord," she spoke in prophesy. "Fear the woman-that will be your only weakness," then her eyes cleared and she focused on him again. His face was troubled, and he wondered at her words.
However, love was sweet that night, and the Lady Nemiell reigned with the Witch-king at her side. They consolidated the humans of Harad and many other tribes under the banner of Mordor. Orcs multiplied and were trained, and orders were sent to the other Ulairi to gather their own troops and strength. Beirum meant to slowly take over the lands of Middle-earth, and make it his and his Lady's.
The Lieutenant grew to love the First in her own way, even knowing that the Ring would always be between them. She had moved it to a place the Sorceror and most of her servants knew nothing about, but yet its power and aura beat upon them, oppressing them at times.
Numenore fell, swallowed up by the sea in a great tumult. News filtered broken and incomplete to the shores of Middle-earth. The foes of the Numenoreans and their allies rejoiced at this, but it appeared Sauron went down with the doomed island.
One day the Witch-king dressed Nemiell in jewels that he'd found in Annatar's old coffers, placing rings and armbands on himself. He pretended to be her squire, brushing her hair and buckling her sword on her. They both chuckled at their play, but when she looked up at him, his eyes were hollow once more. "Nay," she whispered. Their time was up, he had come back. Beirum had known it couldn't last. The life with his beloved as he knew it had come to an end.
He was horrible. A drained, blackened thing in a twisted shape, coughing black smoke. Annatar hissed his overwhelming anger and rage at the pair and demanded his ring from Nemiell. Servants ran in terror, some nearly dying of fright.
Blood draining from her fair face, she nodded and went to fetch it, leaving the Sorceror to face his long-absent master. He trembled under the otherworldly demonic gaze of the Dark Lord, but said nothing. Nemiell soon returned with a tiny jeweled metal box. She opened it, revealing It. Sauron seemed pleased, and shambled toward her to receive it.
The Witch-king sprang forward in desperation, yelling "No! I can't let you!"
"You," bellowed the Dark Lord, turning his terrible eyes upon the Witch-king. The Ring fell clank to the floor, rolling a short distance then stopping as Annatar held Beirum with his gaze. The Sorceror struggled to move, and Nemiell simply watched, all color leached from her already-pale face. Master and servant never took their eyes from each other during the silent struggle. Suddenly Nemiell stooped for It, but when her fingers touched It she was thrown backwards violently, leaving her sprawling on the floor.
"I have left you to your own devices for too long," declared Annatar. With all his remaining might, he held both of the doomed pair back as he retrieved his prize. Placing it on his finger, he took a fair, princely semblance again, at least to Beirum and Nemiell's vision. "You all are mine. You, my lapsing Right Hand, you will fulfill your duties and obligations." Beirum glanced helplessly at his love still stuck to the floor.
Sauron chuckled vilely, reading his thought. "You think I'm angry about her? Simple pleasure doesn't drive me as it does you flesh-born. Nay, there are many other things that interest me, namely conquest, torture, and power."
"My lord," Nemiell began.
"Silence, Renegade! Yes, shed your tears, lady. You will be the Mourner, the Lady of the Shadows. You will be bound to this Numenorean you love so much, but you both shall take no more joy from your feelings for each other. You are Cursed! And you, my wayward Servant," he glared balefully at Beirum. "Always shall you do my will, forever and unto the end. You will never be free, O no, and Nemiell the Forgotten will always be there, right with you but untouchable. Let her weep for you and your love. You will have no tears to cry."
...No tears to cry.
Nemiell in her tattered uniform stood under the cold moon, the mist swirling about her opaque form. She watched the Rider approach, swathed in dark robes. His insubstantial hand reached for her, grasped nothing, same as she did. They both were hideous ghoul creatures, but what they saw when they looked at one another was what they remembered, how they appeared on the eve before their Fall. The Lady of the Wraiths wept spectral tears, for their bodies had fallen away and still they endured their punishment, slaves to Annatar's brutal will.
Beirum wielded great fear and power, but always was it for Him, and He wouldn't let him rest. He secretly began to pray for the Woman of prophecy to deliver him from his existance.
Nemiell wandered far and wide, yet always she found her way to her beloved. Each time was bittersweet, for she began to see the work that Annatar wrought, the wraith that Beirum became. Even when she walked in distant lands, Sauron's will compelled her, daunted her always. She wept many tears and sometimes could be found wailing, and some families when she wept suffered great loss. She was the bean-sidhe, the evil woman-fairy who portended bad luck.
Beirum's will was submerged in his Master; very little did his own personality assert itself. At times he devised little machinations of his own, but usually it was replicas of Annatar's own devices.
Until that day, that fateful day.
The last War of the Ring was at full swing, and Minas Tirith under dreadful attack. The Witch-king rode forth on his scaly winged steed, ready to claim victory for Sauron. He was met by a strange sight. A slender young man stood forth and challenged him, despite the prophecy of old read by more than one, that no living man may harm or hinder him in any way.
Then something happened. The young soldier laughed, and it reminded Beirum of Nemiell's laugh of old, feminine and unrestrained. The figure declared that it wasn't a man, but a woman. The Woman. She doffed her helm, and rich golden hair spilled down her shoulders and back, and her grey eyes glittered. The Witch-king looked down upon her, and was gladdened and enraged at once.
This? This slip of a girl, challenging the might of the Dark Lord, and his First? He attacked her, meaning to beat down the pleasant images in his head, the uncomfortable memories and warm feelings. His mount was beheaded, and himself cast to the ground. No matter. He came at her, and she dodged and parried expertly. Beirum found an opening, and let fall his wicked mace, breaking both shield and arm, the accursed woman staggering to her knees. With a cry of triumph, he raised his mace yet again.
And cried out in an otherworldly voice. Something struck him from behind, sharp pain at the back of his knee. He went down, shocked but content. It was Her. It was his time. He was wholly himself, and he was ready for his fate. She got to her feet, shield-arm hanging uselessly, and swiped the crown, the symbol of his power, sitting on where his head should be.
Glorious, glorious release. Relief, he felt. His link with his Master was severed. No more pain, no more oppression. Bless you, woman, he thought. Their eyes locked, hers beginning to go cloudy, his own perishing. It was more intimate than lovers, more so than his ties with Nemiell, she was his destroyer, his savior, the spear in the hand of his destruction. He was no more; she toppled forward onto his empty clothes.
Nemiell was walking forlornly along the plains of northern Rohan when a spasm racked her wraith body. She fell to her knees, gasping, suddenly aware that her beloved's spirit was leaving Middle-earth. "Beirum," she cried, utterly lost. His prescence touched her for a moment, then was gone from the world forever. "No," she cried. "You can't. You just can't," she shook bony fists at the West. She gnashed her teeth, tore her ethereal hair, wailed.
Then she was calm. Her lover was now at peace, her vision fulfilled at last, and the Witch-king had gone to his fate to the Otherworld. So be it, she said to herself. So mote it be. Nemiell picked herself up and trudged on, making her way steadily west, probably by some subconscious desire. Desolation and sadness dogged her trail; she brought knowledge and fear with her everywhere she went. Humans called her Lady of the Wraiths, the Wailing Faery. She inspired dreams of fancy and terror.
She knew not how long she roamed, lonely, when a light shone down on her all of a sudden, bathing her in a comforting light. A Being was there before her, clothed in light, beckoning with its hands. Nemiell hadn't seen him all her life yet she knew who it was.
"Father," she cried, too afraid to hope. She was an utterly wretched creature, unseen by most, haggard, a wraith. But a wayward, errant Maiar had come to claim his progeny, the seed of carelessness that he'd left behind when Called back. Part of the punishment was not being able to touch or be with his daughter and watching her misery. But he'd make things right, he thought. And here he was, calling to Nemiell.
She had fallen to her knees, too desolate and overwhelmed to stand. He dimmed his radiance and knelt beside her a kindly, princely man, and lifted up her chin. "My daughter, the One has decided that you have suffered enough, and that you are to come to the Shores of Valinor and stay with me. Your mother is there, too, waiting."
"Is this-is this real," she asked, lip quivering.
The Maiar smiled at her, one filled with affection and truth.
She threw her arms about him, laughing hysterically. "Oh, Father! How I hated you, how I tried to hate you. But I couldn't. You came for me!" She pulled away, then the smile began fading from her pinched face. "Do you-do you have tidings of my Lord Beirum? He who was the Witch-king?"
The man shook his head slowly from side to side. "It was not given to me to see. I'm sorry, Nemiell, he has gone to the Halls of Mandos, where humankind go. But there is still hope that the Valar may see fit to reunite you. But I can't promise that, my child," he added quickly, afraid to work her expectations up too high. "Please. Come home. Where you belong."
With gladness mixed with bitterness, she took her father's hand and they were transported away, away from Middle-earth. Home, she thought. Home.