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SETTING: T.A. 1409; during the invasion and destruction of Amon Sûl. King Arveleg I is slain, but the Witch-king fails to retrieve the Palantír.
CHARACTERS: The Witch-king of Angmar, "Angaran"; Caragond, knight of Carn-Dûm; Urudzôr, soldier of Angmar and aspiring knight (Angmarrim); King Arveleg I of Arthedain (Arnorians).
It is easy to fight today. My blood burns beneath my skin and stains the fabric of my trousers, stinging and coagulating and drying in the few cuts I've sustained. I’ve slain thirty-five or so grown men— Grown, I think with derision as I clean the crimson off my sword, moreso old. Hardly of fighting age, so coddled by peace that they allow themselves to be slain so easily. I am not even twenty and I’ve got more victories than any of them combined, these bearded old men.
We enter the throne room in silence, following our King. The orcs stay back now that the battle is won, it’s only the footsteps of us men that reverberate through the great halls. How glorious he looks in his gleaming white armor, I think as I look upon him, tall and mighty as he strides calmly towards the Arnorian tyrant-Lords. I hate them. My kind had the Prince of Cardolan slain and I can’t say it’d be a pity if he kills this fool as well.
The Arnorian Lord scowls in what I think is fear, but he does not step back from my King, from Angaran. He has courage; I suppose he has one redeeming trait. Even the Arnorians wouldn’t follow a coward, at least I think so.
I stop when my King stops. To my surprise, he sheathes his sword and approaches the tyrant king calmly. I shift uneasily, wanting to step forward and protect my King should he be attacked. I glance around; the dismounted cavalry doesn’t step in to guard him.
I hear the flames outside roar, but my King’s sorcery keeps us safe inside.
If I were his knight I would protect him. It is all I’ve wanted to do since the day he took my mother and I in, gave us sanctuary when we fled from the north, and protected us within his walls. He says the Arnorians are a threat and I believe him. He has no reason to lie to us, not after so many victories.
My King speaks with the Arnorian Lord. I glance to Caragond, a knight of ten years with dark hair and a severe look. He is but thirty-something yet he’s already grey at the temples, battle-weary and serious in a manner I can’t imagine myself ever becoming.
“Arveleg,” he tells me the tyrant lord’s name quietly, knowing my question before I’ve even asked it. I nod in acknowledgement then redirect my eyes to the Arnorian who speaks calmly to my King. Caragond continues, sensing my nerves: “There is more fighting to be done later. Keep yourself calm now.”
I know what he thinks of me. He has a good heart, but Caragond is mislead despite his age and experience. He thinks me blinded by ambition, a young fool obsessed with proving himself to the King for some… privileges, I suppose. Favors. Special treatment for mother and for myself.
He’s wrong, though; the only privilege I would welcome is the privilege of serving my King and Lord.
I watch as my King speaks hushed words to the Arnorian. Something about a Palantír but I don’t know what that is. The Arnorian defiantly refuses him and I feel my blood boil. I want to kill him.
My King is quicker than me, though. As the fires burn this city to the ground outside the palace walls, the Arnorian tries to strike my King down with a dagger, but quicker than our knights or I can react, Angaran snatches the blade from the cowardly Arnorian and plunges it into his belly, and I can see his gleaming gauntlet twisting the knife. Good, I think, and I find myself hoping that he feels pain as he dies for daring to raise a hand against my King.
As Angaran turns to depart from the throne room and leaves the whining tyrant lord on the floor, writhing and gasping and bleeding like a stuck pig, I follow.
My King glances my way and, as if reading my thoughts; or perhaps the wishes in my heart for some praise or some form of acknowledgement for my fighting today… he stops for a moment, his great form towering over me. I am tall for my age, but even I must look up at him.
I suppose I might look like some wide-eyed little boy as I look up at him, met with the dark eyes of his iron mask. I hope that’s not how he sees me.
“You fought well today, young Urudzôr,” he tells me, his voice as noble as I’ve ever heard it, and I feel my heart swell. His gauntleted hand, underneath it the white glove stained red with the tyrant’s blood, rests on my shoulder for the briefest moment before he withdraws it and makes his leave, the others following behind him, and I know I must as well.
As I leave the empty halls, I feel myself smiling.
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But they were all of them deceived, for another ring was made. Deep in the land of Mordor, in the Fires of Mount Doom, the Dark Lord Sauron forged a master ring, and into this ring he poured his cruelty, his malice and his will to dominate all life. One ring to rule them all.
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‘What is a ghost? A tragedy condemned to repeat itself time and time again? An instant of pain perhaps. Something dead which still seems to be alive. An emotion suspended in time like a blurred photograph, like an insect trapped in amber.’
Guillermo Del Toro, The Devil’s Backbone (via swordofdemeter)
as frodo and sam stood and gazed, the rim of light spread all along the line of the ephel dúath, and then they saw a shape, moving at a great speed out of the west, at first only a black speck against the glimmering strip above the mountain-tops, but growing, until it plunged like a bolt into the dark canopy and passed high above them. as it went it sent out a long shrill cry, the voice of a nazgûl; but this cry no longer held any terror for them : it was a cry of woe and dismay, ill tidings for the dark tower. the lord of the ringwraiths had met his doom.
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