Maiestas had found herself here, in the safety of the Golden Wood, far beyond where darkness could touch her, yet it still lingered. Never would she now be far from the touch of it all. She rests now in the talan she had been staying at, resting on the softness of her bed. Time had been decent to her since she'd left Mordor, yet only because she had done that which she had been bidden to complete. It was a bond that held her, an oath made under extreme duress. She was not always the monster she would appear to be now to those who would look upon her. Her fair visage was not looked at with scorn and derision at one time in her life. Now, such was not the case and, due to her actions that had endangered the life of the Elf Lord's son, she wasdestined to always be untrusted here. She reallyhad no home, no place to call her own. She was what she was made into, not what she chose to be. Some may call her 'weak', or label her as 'traitor', yet she feels that she has not failed her heart, not insuchamanner as they believe. It is a far differentmatter that she has failed that particular aspect of her life.
Her eyes star across the room into nothingness, her minds eye taking her to another time, eighteen hundred years before...
For many years she had wandered, traveling far in all directions, East, West, North, South, and even beyond. The years had been decent to her, taking none of the beauty from her, only enhancing it if such a thing were possible. Her booted feet had crossed many paths, walked many miles, and were weary. She had stopped here, at the Haven of the Elves, Edhellond, several months before. Time measured in months for such as she was but a wink in the span of her time's life. She found a soothing peace here in the pounding of the angry waves upon the shores, the steady flow of the Morthond (Blackroot) River as it sped by into the Bay of Belfalas. Never had the setting sun held such radiance as it did when casting its golden glow to the reflections of the water. From high in the tower she would watch, day after day, as the sun would dim, and shadow would arrive.
It was here that she had been working so diligently at that which she had finally felt she was capable to attempt. For over 2 millennia she had studied, pouring over books, writings of ancient texts, of wizards or those considered dark. The libraries of forgotten corners, such as that in Minas Tirith, and the Chamber of Mazarbul deep within the Misty Mountains and the Mines of Moria, had been her refuge of choice. Notes had been written and recorded, placed aside in a satchel she had never been without. The staff, given to her by one she had followed and learned from for over three centuries, was even now leaning against the desk. It had been the one constancy in her life, the one thing that had never changed. No. That was a lie, there was one other thing, yet such could not be touched, held, or caressed. Not by her hands, anyway.
High in the tower on this night the candles illuminate the room, only two. That is what was called for, so what was given. The red colored fabric that rested motionless on the bed was silk, soft and cool to a touch of fingertips. All was nearing readiness. She would begin the chanting soon, but just now she was busy rereading over the words of the chant, for she refuses to falter in her quest.
Several moments later it happened. Through the air that was constantly touched with the loud sounds of the bashing of waves against rocks, a noise long unheard in these parts rents the never-ending symphony. The papers she'd been reading fall from her hand to flutter to the floor of the room as her eyes, wide with fear lift to the window, the cries of those on the parapets of the towers already coming through it. Moving quickly, she bends to scoop up the fallen papers, shoving them into the satchel with shaking hands. She cares not if they wrinkle, for she need only to leave this place. On the way out, the strap of the bag over her shoulder and head, she grabs the staff, even leaving the candles to burn in her haste.
Into the night she steps through the only entrance to her room, as she had requested there be only one point of entry. Perhaps she would have done better to stay within the safety of the walls, yet they would come. She had seen them in her dreams, plaguing her night upon night, the same dream over and over again. She would only be able to hide from their hunt for a time, as she had thus far. Never, however, had one gotten close enough to hear their screams. Always she had remained a step ahead of their pursuit.
Swiftly her feet carry her to the stairs that wind down, curling closely around the stone that make up the towers construction. She flees as though the very minions of Melkor were upon her heels, for it may as well be so. Her hair, long and streaming down her back to flow freely behind her, seem to be a beacon for those who are on the hunt, the fell beasts on which they ride easily controlled by unseen hands.
Another ear piercing screech nearly shatters her ability to hear as she cringes, turning to look into the night's sky with eyes that hold much fear and terror. The stone against her back is painful, yet if she were to know what to come it would hold a likeness to a mother's soft caress. A shadow comes from below, rising to hover before her. The long neck of the beast it sits on stretches towards her, snapping its massive jaws. A scream is torn from her throat as she snaps her staff down, beating it against the large head that pulls back, the creature seeking to move from the pain. It is stilled by the heavy hand of the one who holds its reigns, the billowing blackness of his robes blowing with an ethereal quality, as if untouched by the harsh winds that batter the coast, instead moving as though only kissed lightly by a gentle springtime breeze.
His voice, such as it is, causes her to lose her ability to stand and she crumbles right there on the steps, her staff clutched like an anchor to hold him at bay. Her mind fails her, leaving her blank with how to respond to the summons he issues. She knows the Black Speech that he uses and shakes her head at it.
"NO! Leave me alone!" Her words are common speak, yelled to the flying beast and its master. It is with the words that she seems to regain the strength to work her legs, which she rises to. Turning, her hair whipping about her face and body wildly, she flies on light feet down the stairs, unable to help that she comes around to the side of the tower he is on again, though it is much lower.
The Witch King of Angmar will not be ignored. His comrades, the others of the Nine, engage in a fierce attack those who seek to protect Edhellond, the beasts the only ones who are truly injured by the arrows that fly their way. Maiestas glances back only to see he jerks the beast to the side as he guides him lower towards the ground level, where earth meets stone.
Her breath does not fail her; she does not tire as she runs, her staff and satchel held closely to her sides. A glance over her shoulder, through the curtain of her pewter colored hair, shows that he is coming in now for her. She has no knowledge of what he wants, what he is after. She is only able to surmise that they have been sent to either destroy her or, worse, take her Mordor. Turning to look before her again, she continues on, unwilling to be captured by the Ulairi.
She has little choice in the matter when it comes right down to it, for as the flying monster goes overhead, his large foot smashes into her back, casting her down to the ground. Her temple strikes against a rock that juts from the soft grass, stealing from her all sense and ability to rise and make a stand. She moans in pain as blackness threatens to take her, coming to the edges of her sight.
She will know pain in the days to come, but just now, the long talons of the animal that is guided by the Cursed Rider surround her, digging into her flesh through the soft robes she had dressed in earlier that morning. She blinks slowly, unmoving, not struggling as she is carried over a vast distance.
It was done. The Dark Lord had claimed Maistas. The Nazgul had her.