https://archiveofourown.org/works/63906250
Amarthiel can scarce believe what her eyes behold.
That pompous cur—the very one who unshackled her from her imprisonment in Delossad—is the Steward of Angmar?
Were she not surrounded by witless sycophants, she might have surrendered to peals of laughter.
The Witch-King’s throne, the seat upon which her master brooded for centuries, now sullied by the presence of a feeble, contemptible excuse for a man? Ironic beyond reckoning.
Her long years of unwavering fealty, of toil and bloodshed, have led her to naught but chains and silence. She was taken in battle, forsaken, left to rot in darkness with none to seek her, none to raise arms in her name. And now, this mongrel claims her place? Unthinkable. Is this the reward her master bestows upon his most faithful servant, after all she endured to bring him the power and dominion he so desired?
Who is this Mordirith wretch?
He parades in Angmar’s finest crimson robes, a mockery of regality, an Iron Crown resting upon his unworthy brow. But what tether does he bear to these forsaken lands? She watches as the courtiers grovel before him, craven and reverential, as though he were a conqueror of great renown.
This was meant to be hers. Hers. It was she who waged war in her master’s name, she who razed cities and trampled her enemies beneath iron-clad feet. She who spilled fire and blood, carving a path of ruin to secure Angmar’s dominion for the Witch-King. She who heard the wails of the vanquished and raised the banner of Angmar over the walls of Fornost, seizing it in his name. The soldiers roared for her; they trembled before her.
Amarthiel, daughter of doom.
Doom indeed she wrought upon the Free Peoples, for many long years. The Crimson Lady, Regent of Angmar, Dragon-Rider, Ring-Bearer.
She had it all—until that accursed elf filth tore it from her grasp.
And in her absence, a commoner, an usurper, is given dominion? A vile insult. A jest most profane. A great and seething fury takes root in her heart, curling its claws around her very soul.
In this chamber, filled with mindless thralls, she alone possesses clarity of thought.
She observes him keenly—the way he speaks, the arrogance in his posture, the utter indifference to the land and its people. He commands the weak, barks orders, and wields threats like dull blades, ineffective and hollow. Not upon her. Nay, she who has beheld true might with her own eyes, who has stood in the shadow of her master’s terrible power, knows a fraud when she sees one.
Would that she could lunge upon him now, tear the breath from his throat, and end this mummer’s farce. His conceit knows no bounds, yet his words are but air, empty of strength or merit. What would the Witch-King say, were he to bear witness to his steward’s folly? Would he see, at last, the grave mistake he made in granting such a wretch dominion over his realm? Has he truly abandoned the North, his once-great dominion, to the clutches of this serpent? How little regard he must hold for the land he once swore to raise to glory. Lies. All of it.
He lied when he set the Iron Crown upon her brow, proclaiming her Regent. He lied when he bade her rule, even as men whispered against her, doubting her place despite her unyielding devotion to Angmar and its people. He lied even as she cast all aside to lead them to triumph.
“A woman may never rule Angmar,” they said.
She will reclaim what is hers, even should it mean defying the will of the Witch-King himself. But patience is a blade best wielded with care. No need to rouse suspicion now, not when Mordirith yet holds faith in her loyalty.
Amarthiel is the devoted, the indomitable, the commander who serves the Witch-King without question. That is the guise she will wear, the mask she shall don.
Mordirith freed her for a purpose, did he not? Alas for him, it is not the purpose he envisions. She has plans for him indeed—plans to restore Angmar to its ancient glory. Unfortunate, then, that he is not part of that vision. But he need not know. Not yet.
For now, he must believe in her fealty. She will abide by his commands, play the loyal subject, lull him into complacency while fate weaves its web. And when the moment is ripe, he shall fall. Hard and fast, his blood spattering the cold stone of the throne room floor.
And she shall revel in it—every single moment of his ruin.
The traitor’s end draws near.
Hello there!
This is the first chapter of a new story I’m writing.
I’m deeply passionate about The Lord of the Rings Online, especially the character of Lady Amarthiel. I have my own headcanons and theories about her, which don’t always align with the official lore.
For instance, in my headcanon, Amarthiel was once a dragon rider. One major change I’ve made is that she and Narmeleth are two separate characters.
I hope you enjoy it!
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