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Summary: Erestor and Glorfindel have gone to Phellanthir in response to Legolas' insistence that Rhawion is trapped there. (see More Dangerous, Less Wise). They have entered the Tower and found one of the Nazgûl who had captured Rhawion's fea and devoured it. The impact of an elven soul being lost had repercussions in Lothlorien and Rivendell. As a result, Gandalf left Rivendell and Elrohir and Elladan have already arrived in Phellanthir. They have killed one of the Nazgûls' steeds and then entered the Tower to find Erestor and Glorfindel have found an artifact from the time of Celebrimbor, a mirror such as Galadriel has. However this is much more powerful and it does not only peer into Time, but is a door into the Dark. Angmar and Khamûl have been sent by Sauron to guard tis from Rivendell and during a fight, Khamûl at Erestor throws a Morgul bale but Elladan gets between them and is wounded. Glorfindel's presence summons the sprit of a Balrog, the one he slew and which slew him in turn. It struggles to free itself from the Mirror and to enter Middle Earth but another spirit is also summoned, that of Maedhros and he defeats the demon but is destroyed as well. Meanwhile Elrohir has taken Elladan from Phellanthir and hopes to return to Imladris in time for Elrond to heal his brother but the Nazgûl who have been waiting for them intercepts them.
Chapter 11: The hunger
'
Those who used the Nine Rings became mighty in their day, kings, sorcerers, and warriors of old. They obtained glory and great wealth, yet it turned to their undoing. They had, as it seemed, unending life, yet life became unendurable to them. They could walk, if they would, unseen by all eyes in this world beneath the sun, and they could see things in worlds invisible to mortal men; but too often they beheld only the phantoms and delusions of Sauron. And one by one, sooner or later, according to their native strength and to the good or evil of their wills in the beginning, they fell under the thralldom of the ring that they bore and of the domination of the One, which was Sauron's. And they became forever invisible save to him that wore the Ruling Ring, and they entered into the realm of shadows. The Nazgûl were they, the Ring wraiths, the Úlairi, the Enemy's most terrible servants; darkness went with them, and they cried with the voices of death.'
(The Silmarillion, "Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age")
Rain suddenly poured, pattering on the leaves, drenching Elrohir's upturned face,drumming on the hard ground and soaking the earth. But it did not touch the thin black shrouds of the Nazgûl; it almost seemed that the rain could not bear to touch them, or perhaps it simply passed through the wraiths as they emerged slowly, like shadows had merely coalesced into their cold, thin presence. The Witch King of Angmar stood, taller than any Man, utterly still, his iron crown spiked the grey dusk. Behind him from the darkness, emerged another but Elrohir knew it was Khamûl for ever was he at Angmar's hand.
Around him the birds had fallen silent and not a creature stirred. In the hushed twilight there was only the sound of rain pattering on the leaves, it pebbled the flat silver water of the margins.
Aícanaro…It was Khamûl who hissed the taunt. Powerless at last.
Elrohir had not drawn Aícanaro and he felt the sword's restlessness, his rage at being left sheathed in spite of this danger. The winged reptile slain before they had entered the Tower had done nothing to dull Aícanaro's hunger. But Elrohir did not draw the sword for he offered himself as a sacrifice for Elladan.
'I am not without price!' Elrohir said in a low voice.
You will have your price. Your brother can leave.
'No! Not enough.' He kept his voice steady and gripped the hilt of Aícanaro to stop his hands from shaking. 'You will make him whole him, save him, for if I give you myself he cannot return to Imladris alone.'
The Witch King glided towards him over the wet and muddy ground and left no mark. Briefly his empty hood turned towards Elladan as if contemplatively, and then turned back to Elrohir.
Do not think to bargain with us. We could have you both, now if it profited my lord.
'You flatter yourself!' Elrohir slowly walked towards the Nazgûl, the hairs on his neck and back and arms were stiff with fear, like frozen spikes. He felt his heart beat; this was the Nazgûl. They would devour him, devour his brother. The bright souls of the Sons of Thunder were light, energy, power that could feed these wraiths and he saw their hunger, feel the cold raw edge of it, like a howling emptiness in their bellies. How they starved.
Angmar was suddenly close; the air was ice-cold and thin shadows crowded about Elrohir, reached for him and something in him was utterly repulsed. But behind him, he heard Elladan's breath heave and gasp so he gripped his heart and stopped himself from stepping back, turning and running for his life. He glanced briefly over his shoulder to where Elladan leaned against a tree. Shadows crowded closely and reached for Elladan, grasped at the blue sparks of his fëa seeping from that tiny wound. Elrohir spun back towards Elladan with a cry, sweeping Aícanaro before him and the shadows scurried back to cringe at the feet of the Witch King. Elrohir took his stand before Elladan, Aícanaro still drawn now and the dark blade almost hummed in anticipation. He felt its pressure upon him, its lust, the magic that wrought Aícanaro, brought it into being.
'Elrohir,' Elladan gasped, pushing himself upright. 'Please…leave me.'
'Never!' Elrohir threw over his shoulder. 'Never.'
Angmar raised his mailed fist and opened it up, palm outwards towards Elrohir, inviting him to approach. The empty hood beneath the iron crown tilted slightly to one side in a gesture that Elrohir found unbearable but he could not say why. There was dread in the pit of his belly, his blood slowed and grew cold. He gritted his teeth and found his knuckles clenched.
'You WILL heal him first,' he cried defiantly. He let his own crimson energy surge around himself and his brother, let it flare and ignite.
You acquiesce.
Elrohir ignored Elladan's cry. 'Heal him and then you can have me.'
When you are ours, you will have the power to heal him yourself.
Elrohir stared. 'No. I do not trust you. Heal him first.'
There was complete stillness but for the patter of rain on the leaves, the iron-hard ground. A flutter of black shroud in the bitter cold wind.
It has to be you who heals him. His fëa will fly from us.
His thoughts flew. Could he believe that Angmar was telling the truth? Surely the servants of Sauron the Deceiver would have no compunction to lie if it meant they achieved their ends? But he could well believe that any spirit would fly from the Ringwraiths.
A wretched gasp from Elladan forced him then; what choice did he have in all truth? If he did not acquiesce, Elladan was doomed to become a wraith for Elrohir could never defeat the Nazgûl and return to Imladris in time. And if he did acquiesce, at least Elrohir would suffer the same fate as his beloved twin and they would still be one…At least if he gave in to Angmar there was a chance, perhaps the slightest hope that Angmar would keep his word. What choice did he have?
Slowly he lowered Aícanaro, felt the sword's hiss of displeasure as the tip touched the ground and Aícanaro's bright fury intensified. He felt the hilt burn along the palm of his hand. It did not matter, for only Elladan mattered now and he sheathed the dark blade.
Angmar stretched out his hand in avarice and greed.
Kneel then and I will touch your soul, your fierce bright soul.
'Elrohir! Do not! I beg you, leave me and fly!'
Elrohir closed his eyes briefly and ignored Elladan's pleading. He shoved away the horror, the dread that he was choosing to become a wraith, to join with the army of spectres that cringed in the Nazgûl's shadow. A sudden wind swirled Elrohir's long black hair about him. The Witch King approached, his thin black shroud shivered and the ragged edges twisted and squirmed like serpents; the long black tendrils writhed towards Elrohir and he felt his gorge rise, they touched him lightly at first, brushed cold smooth skin against his and he shuddered convulsively and thought he would retch. He could not help but think they would wrap their thin smooth coldness about him and envelop him, suffocate him and already he found it hard to breathe.
Upon the wind there was a sigh that came from the empty hood beneath the iron crown.
Ah, the brightness of your soul, the delicious unbearable fire of you…so different from your brother.
At the mention of his brother, Elrohir felt all his love and fear for Elladan surge through him and he was no longer afraid for himself; he would sacrifice everything if it meant that Elladan would live, or even have a chance at life. Whatever the cost. One handed he pulled open his tunic above his heart, bared his chest and the mist beaded on his skin.
'Come then!' he cried. 'Take me and spare my brother.'
The air chilled suddenly and the cold lifted the fine hairs on his neck. Angmar was right before him, the empty hood leaning in. A cold hand rested upon the banging pulse in Elrohir's veins, slid over his skin to cup his throat. Elrohir squeezed his eyes closed, horror shuddered along his nerves and his skin was cold, so cold like all the warmth was leeched from him.
I might ravish you now and take your fire, Angmar whispered and Elrohir felt the skeletal fingers press against his flesh. So warm…I had forgotten the heat of desire…Your lust, your forbidden, violent lust…
Angmar's touch was a cobweb of darkness that skittered over Elrohir's thoughts and dreams and memories, rifled through the darkness.
Why do you think you are so different from your sweet brother?
With probing, sharp fingers, the Witch King opened memory and violated it, plunging into the secret thoughts and desires, pulling out shameful secrets and guilty pleasures and holding each one up to the darkness, deepening the shame, casting shadows where there should be none.
You are one of us. You have always been one of us. We merely waited for you…And now…
Then Angmar found the deepest secret, the guilt.
In the caves again, the heat and darkness pressing close, beneath his skin. The stench. Orc. Dried blood and bones, putrefying meat. And excrement and urine. It was horrific. He eased himself through the darkness that seemed thicker than air, like viscous liquid, like thick water- oil perhaps… he pushed away the horror of it and instead focused on sounds … a muffled sob? Further down the tunnel, he could trace the sounds to where a glow of torchlight flickered… a muffled cry again and as he eased himself closer, heavy breaths…grunts. He stopped, listened, stretched out his senses… and realised what he heard, for he was no innocent himself. And then the red hot anger and fury blazed through his blood and he could not stop…Black blood spattered over the walls and Aícanaro plunged into ruined flesh…
The shadow of Angmar paused and unfolded the memory with depraved pleasure. Slowly he probed more deeply and Elrohir hung frozen in his grasp and the pulse in his neck was slowly squeezed, and slowed and slowed…
No. Angmar cast a shadow over the memory. That is not how it happened. You did not blaze like a fury and fling open the door. The night you crept into the Orc den, you were already aroused by battle, already felt that excitement akin to desire. Other warriors feel it too; Glorfindel has warned you of it, told you of the lust that swells you and sometimes leads Men to atrocities.
Angmar showed him erotic images, but they were of violence and rape. He let the images sink into Elrohir's memory, planted them there to grow stronger.
You understand well that lust.
Angmar leaned in close to Elrohir and whispered so his cold breath stroked Elrohir's cheek and he was frozen, cold seeped into his flesh, slowed his blood. …
You had felt it before Glorfindel ever spoke of it, already experienced it, fought its hold upon you. And you already knew the dark lust that raises its head like a predator when you crept silently down the tunnel and paused to listen.
Angmar slid a spell between the edges of Elrohir's guilt and shame and it was just enough to ripple across the memory and distort it. Elrohir cried out again the suffocating hold that had him swollen and desperate for air and then Angmar opened up the memory again and let the perversion slide in, coil about Elrohir's desperate guilt that he had not found his mother in time; Angmar made it something else, something in which Elrohir had found a shameful pleasure in another time in another place… So it became this:
A stifled scream tore through the dark as he eased open the heavy barred door. Inside the cell an Orc stood pushing up against a pile of rags and filthy matted hair, a shapeless huddle that whimpered and cried. The dark lust within him raised its head to listen. A pale breast showed through the torn fabric already filthy and stained, ripped into shreds, and he stared, though his sword glinted in the torchlight. The Orc was panting, thrusting itself into the shapeless form which moved and protesting hands clawed at the Orc. Elrohir held his sword before him and paused…
Yes. This was it. He had paused, watching the Orc thrusting, its mouth wide in lust and the whimpering form hanging loosely from its grip, pushed against the stone wall. Elrohir had felt a horrible kinship, the power of violence, he felt himself swell and the erotic charge. He had almost groaned when the Orc suddenly stiffened as it released and at that moment, Elrohir moved as if released from his own spell. The Orc turned suddenly and seeing the Elf standing there, roared with rage. It dropped the ragged form and turned, dragging its iron sword from the sheath as it turned to confront the intruder. Elrohir had simply, elatedly, lustfully slashed the Orc's throat so its blood burbled erotically from the gash and it fell to the ground. He wanted to sink his hands into its gorged flesh, to tear its heart from its chest and thrust into it himself. The stink of its release filled the cell, horrible and familiar.
The ragged shape that stank of blood and semen now crawled away from him, mumbling and weeping. Still sunk in the bloodlust and violence of killing, he had grasped its hair, thinking at first it was some female Orc or some creature corrupted by darkness and Shadow for it seemed shrivelled and wizened. His lust was hard and swollen, engorged and he threw the shape down and scrambled at the ties to his breeches. And then…a long pale hand had scrabbled towards the Orc's fallen sword, scrambling to hold it and the rough voice whispered brokenly.
Tangled filthy hair dropped around her face… and her eyes, unfocused and bright with defiance and tears had made him see her. His eyes widened in terror and he had shoved away from her when he realized the full horror of what he discovered.
…Mother...
He had been about to... No! No! He could not think on that. But still the memories flooded him, for when he had lifted her, she had torn at his face and screamed, struggling and saying vile things to him. She was out of her mind then but it did not matter, for it was true. All true. He was as bad as the Orc that had violated her. Worse! Worse than any Orc …
Air suddenly rushed into his lungs as Angmar released him and Elrohir fell back clutching his bruised throat. His guilt suffocated him more thoroughly than Angmar's strangling hold; in his depraved lust he had thought to rape his own mother.
Angmar pushed him down to his knees and he could not resist. He shook, trembled with horror at the recognition as he now believed, of that shocking crime that he had thought to commit against his own mother. Angmar was right; he was as bad as they, full of wickedness and shadow. He should be punished. Had he not secretly sought that for all these years? How much more deserving of life was Elladan who moaned and cried at him to leave. But Elrohir would never leave. He deserved this. Shadows clustered about him, their skull-like faces elongated and drawn, mouths agape and filled with sharp little teeth chittered and whispered around him. He fell back in horror, eyes wide.
Now you see as the world as it is beyond your narrow perception.
The fine rain misted on his skin, soaked his linen shirt and there was the wetness of mud on his knees through the leather of his breeches. He knelt in the rain, his heart pounding with fear and horror. The warm skin of his bared chest gleamed wetly and he let his head tip back so his long black hair streamed down his back and pooled like ink on the ground behind him.
Rávëyon…. It was a sigh, desire, yearning. How fierce your soul. How it consumes…
The cold armoured hand hovered again over his bruised throat and slid down his skin to press against his chest above his heart. A cold spike thrust into his flesh, not deeply but the pain…He writhed and heard his own voice pleading.
'It is too intense…Please let this end. I have pledged myself to you.'
Angmar rifled again, even more deeply, through the images and secrets of his heart …and stopped.
Not yet. We have work to do yet.
He did not know what Angmar meant but the Witch King stopped abruptly as if he had said too much, and then he pressed down hard and drove the cold spike into Elrohir's heart and he cried out. His own cry merged with a stifled scream that tore through the darkness of his dream and he was there, in the nightmare dream of his mother's torment again:
Ahead of him, suddenly, was a heavy barred door. Helplessly, knowing already what he would find but driven on by the pain and Angmar's insistence, he eased it open, stepping into the hot, stinking darkness, blood and shit and sweat. An Orc was thrusting itself against a pile of filthy rags that whimpered as the Orc pounded against it…He knew the blue eyes that stared wildly through the tangle of cornsilk hair.
'This moment, this memory defines you, pursues you down the long passage of years. But there is more.' Angmar's voice penetrated his dream now.
Elrohir felt the press of ice-cold upon his chest and thought it was a spear of ice for it sank into his skin, deeper and into his flesh so his skin purpled and bruised beneath the Nazgûl's fingers. Pain like a vice gripped him, wrenched him and he twisted in its clasp.
It was not a dream but a spell cast now by the Witch King of Angmar, unreal, dreamlike nevertheless. Angmar conjured it from Elrohir's memories, his guilt and secret desire. His dark lust raised its head to listen, fixed beady eyes into the darkness and hissed…
The fiery light of torches in sconces gleamed on the rocky wall. He found himself moving forwards, silently easing through the oily dark that clung to him, and the shadows with their horrid skulls and sharp little teeth slipped along in his wake. Ahead of him the torchlight lit up a body that hung, stretched to its limits, from shackles, from chains that disappeared into the dark. Long, pale gold hair streamed down around it…Ah! Eru…He almost cried out for the lust that flared and ignited in his loins and the shame that blazed in his heart…But this flat-bellied, lean hipped figure was absolutely male and around the pale skin that was already marked with blood, was a shape painted onto the skin, a wild whirl of colour and abstract… The sound of a lash against flesh cracked and a muffled cry made him jerk and pulse with desire.
'Your yôzaira.'
Angmar sounded utterly satisfied and pulled Elrohir's head back by his hair and he felt himself fill, swollen-hard and needy. Oh Eru, how he wanted that sleek, lean body. The image was branded into his core now, sent sparks of lust fizzing along his nerves. A hand cupped his throat, pressed against the pulse that banged in his veins.
I have forgotten the beat of blood in my veins
The thought grazed against his own pounding lust, matched it, mirrored his own desire.
My lord will give you all that you desire if you but bring him the One. You know where it is. We can see it in you. Tell us where and I will release you to the Shadow. You will have dominion. You will make your brother whole. When my lord has the One, you will have your yôzaira.'
Elrohir gasped and twisted in the spike of pleasure and pain and opened his mouth to shout his defiance, but his dark lust uncurled and hissed.
Angmar leaned in closer and closer, so the air was very cold and burned in his throat. What say you, Rávëyon?
'Yes. I say yes.'
He heard Elladan's weak voice cry out but the shadows suddenly swarmed over him, their little sharp teeth gnashing and snapping at him, his arms and feet and hands and face yet they did not bite though they were as hungry, starved as the Nazgûl and how they wanted his dense flesh and rich blood. He cried out and raised his hands to ward them off but Angmar held him fast and he despaired.
'Elladan,' he whispered because he wanted to keep his brother's brightness in his mind as he was sacrificed, and to force that other image from his mind of the lean, slim body that stretched beneath his hand, painted in ancient inks and blood. He forced that image away and wanted it at the same time. He could not bear to speak the name of the one he desired most. He thought he saw a silver-black sea and he stood thigh deep as it lapped about his thighs, and behind him on a washed flat beach where the light was silver, a strange elf in green and brown was running and calling him…
Too late, he thought and was overwhelmed with sadness. Too late for me.
I am dying, he told himself and then, No. I will become a wraith…Will that be forever?
0o0o
This is all I can save in ffnet documents so part 2 of this chapter is posted next.