The Witch-King of Angmar.
Watching him sit upon one of the black horses bred in the service of Mordor made Aragorn feel a hatred he did not feel for even an orc. The sorcerer king had brought low his ancestors and the lost realm of Arnor a little more than a thousand years past. And now he stood here, in front of him, his hands clutched on the hilt of his dark sword.
Elladan and Elrohir approached him and stood at his side, both of them clutching at their silver blades, ready to fight the Nine if necessary.
"I'd say you hold back, little Estel," Elladan whispered into his ears.
"Aye!" his twin agreed. "This foe is beyond any of us actually, but we can hold them off. You should get back to Caras Galadhon."
Aragorn turned to them in scorn. "If you brothers think I'm going to run away just because The Nine have come into play, you're both mistaken, my brothers, my friends. I'm not running like a coward."
"It's not cowardice but for self-preservation, little Estel, that we tell you to leave," Elladan spoke. "If something happens to you, doom will fall upon the world of men whether the Enemy is defeated or not."
"If I run at every scent of danger, Elladan," he countered, "how could I ever set an example to my people? And, besides, danger is at every step I take. There was danger when I went into the dark of Moria. There was danger when I journeyed north into the ancient evil of Carn Dum. There was danger when I helped Rohan. There was danger when I lived my life as a captain of Gondor. There was danger when I led its ships to Umbar and drowned its fleet. There was danger when I set fire to the Morgul Vale. There was danger when I fought orcs as close as the Golden Wood. Where has there ever been no danger where my life is concerned? The Enemy has always hunted us Dunedain. So, no, Elladan, I'll not leave you both to fight the Nine alone."
The brothers sighed in unison. "Well, if fight then you must, then fight with another sword," Elrohir said. "The Enemy might have doubts on whether the line of kings have survived or no; it'd be folly if we confirm it to him."
He nodded with a frown and took a sword that Elrohir kept as spare. It was as good as an elven blade as one could get. Its steel glinted with the light of the moon and the stars.
"Go back to the Shadow!" he shouted at the Nine. "You've no place here or anywhere else in Middle Earth."
The Nine screeched where they stood.
The Witch-King raised his sword high into the air. Red flames burned around the steel, and yet there was no heat. The air around had become cold.
Despite the rising shivers, Aragorn stood tall and erect, unbothered with the sword spelled by Morgul magic.
"You dare light the Morgul Vale on fire!" the Witch-King hissed. "For that, I've declared you shall be bound and taken to the houses of lamentation. I've prepared punishments for you that would break the spirit of many. And a puny mortal such as you will not be able to stand as you do so foolishly now."
Aragorn did not speak for a long time, staring the sorcerer king right into his eyes, at least where his eyes were supposed to be. Under those black hoods, he hardly thought there was any flesh underneath.
The rings of power each gave its users power according to their capabilities. But, be you sure, that these rings were made for elves alone. On dwarves they had little effect. But the rings acted quickly on men, corrupting their souls, enhancing their greed. And, as years passed, their bodies withered, and the Nine, Nazgul as they are called, now live in two worlds. The world of the living and the Unseen World, which we call the Wraith World. I know. I've seen them there.
A conversation he had had with Elrond regarding the rings of power played in his mind. He pitied the Nine at the moment–to be ensnared by the power of the rings in their greed only to live some kind of a half-life. All of this just to remain immortal. Fools they were, and yet great kings and leaders of men in their time!
"I'd accept your declaration, foul dwimmerlaik, if I was going to come with you willingly," he said, "but if words be your only weapon, minion of the ever abhorred, then I think your words have lost their sheen of late." Crying out loud, he attacked the sorcerer-king with his sword.
His enemy blocked his attack and aggressively moved forward with a sequence of moves on his own.
Aragorn went on the defensive all of a sudden, reeling from the hatred the sorcerer king bore for the men of his kind. The latter seemed to sense that he was of the Numenorean kindred. After all, which man would have elves for allies and gain entry into the Golden Wood when the two kindreds were estranged due to the arts of the Enemy himself?
He ducked under another strike while he struck at his enemy's legs from below. But the sorcerer-king jumped and brought his evil blade close to his head.
It was a close shave as Aragorn leaped to his right and rolled on the ground towards a stony outcrop. His breathing came in heavy gasps.
He stood up, feeling weary already.
The white fog rolled around him, keeping the green smoke at bay. He wondered what the green smoke was. He did not like its putrid smell, fortunately overwhelmed somewhat by the fresh burst of scent in the fog that came out of the Golden Wood.
A few ways away, Elladan and Elrohir battled the rest of the Nine, holding their own against them, but he knew this could not go on for long.
The Nine, though immortal, can be hurt–either with spells or nature's elements. They fear the use of fire and are afraid to tread water unless in urgent need.
Elrond's tutoring of the Nine Riders flashed in his mind.
"Drive them to the River!" he called out. "Drive them to the River!"
The twins nodded at him and pushed against the Nine, embarking on a plethora of sword forms that marveled him. He wished he could do that, but he was not as nimble as the elves.
He focused his attention on the sorcerer-king who had removed his blade from the stone in which it was stuck. The enemy shrieked and screeched loudly, making his heart tremble inside.
Holding himself straight, he clutched his sword tight in his hands.
The enemy came at him swiftly, and along with it the green smoke. The Morgul Breath, the people of Gondor called it. He had first experienced a little of it in the Morgul Vale. The very fumes of it were poisonous.
He blocked the attacks as fast as he could, but the leader of the Nazgul was in a furious state of mind. He was a great swordsman, and the power of his ring imbued him with an aura of fear.
Aragorn shook even as he fought, which made him falter against his enemy.
Block. Parry. Block. Parry. It was all he could do.
He, too, wanted to lead the sorcerer-king towards the River, but Anduin was too far away beyond the rocky hills that grew tall upon the woodland borders. Besides, he was on the defensive after the sorcerer-king had decided to go berserk upon him.
The River was no solution.
And a firebrand was not close by.
He cursed at the lack of two weapons he could drive away the Nazgul with.
Some distance away, he could see through the corner of his eyes the twin brothers still holding their own against the Nazgul, but nothing they did seem to achieve their goal.
They could run away, leading the others to the River, but he didn't think they would. There was no surety that they would all follow, and they wouldn't want to leave him to fight the Nine alone.
He blocked and defended himself against the sorcerer-king's incessant attacks. He felt himself struggling to keep hold, all of his focus now bent on keeping himself out of the way of the fiery blade that his enemy carried. One nick of the Morgul Blade, he had heard, would taint the blood of men with some evil sorcery conjured in the Tower of Dread and make them live their lives as a wraith, the same as them.
A dreadful half-life enslaved to the Nine.
He ducked under the strike of the blade and whirled his sword to strike at the Witch-King's legs. The enemy screeched as it retreated, perhaps feeling the sting of the elf blade.
Even as his enemy took a few steps back, he felt a burning sensation in his palms.
He looked at his sword.
The blade was there no longer. It had shattered into pieces, each piece evaporating into the air as it dropped to the ground. The hilt burned with a red fire, making him immediately let go. The hilt fell to the ground with a loud clang.
Shocked, he found himself without a weapon now, vulnerable, except for his own sword. His hands moved towards it even though the twins had warned him not to. The Nine would definitely remember the Sword that was Broken.
"Fool... no man can kill me!" the Witch-King hissed. "Now... prepare to be taken to the Tower of Dread."
Before the Witch-King could advance, a female elf jumped in front of him, a sword in one hand and a firebrand in another.
His eyes bulged wide open and sighed. "No!" he cried. "Arwen, no!"
Arwen paid him no heed, her eyes focused on the sorcerer king.
"A man may not be able to kill you, foul servant of the Shadow," she challenged, "but I'm no man!"
The fire on his enemy's sword only grew hotter in response.