Lord of the Rings 1. Brenine the Ring Bearer

**Author's Note: A random dribble of drabble not meant to be taken seriously.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the nazgul, and I think- I'm not ever sure I own Brenine. The nazgul seem to have a pretty tight hold on her ;)**

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The scenario that follows is based upon the question: what would have happened if Brenine found the ring? The following interactions between the characters are based in part upon my fic Rolling in the Deep, and some Tolkien's notes which have been provide at the bottom of the page.

**Brenine the Ring Bearer **

The ring was heavy as dangled from Brenine's hand by a swaying necklace of rawhide and twine. It was speaking, if that was the right way to describe it. Even as she stood contemplating the fate of the world, and her fate within it the ring was compelling her to go back, to return to nine, rather than cast it into the river, and letting the nazgul dive for it- or maybe the ocean. The Witch King might have been the only nazgul that didn't fear rivers, but even he probably feared the ocean. At least she hoped he did.

Maybe she could trick them into travelling south, sneak onto a boat and- the urge to turn around was suddenly too powerful to overcome.

Brenine's head whipped around to look at the top of the slope, just before a creeping chill made her hackles rise. Her hand fisted over the ring as she waited for blackness darker than the surrounding night to appear. It didn't take very long.

"That's strange. That's creepy-strange."

She could faintly hear the rushes and reeds swaying as he approached. Undoubtedly he wanted her to hear him approach, so as to either terrify her or scare her less. She wasn't sure which it was, because she was scared regardless.

Barely visible as more than a dark outline with a slight gleam above his head, the king himself paused a few feet away.

"I knew you were coming, before you actually-"

"It calls…"

Well, that made sense. For a little piece of metal it sure seemed rather vocal. "And you call to it." She frowned.

"Yes."

The ring was a constant voice in his head. It was so close and so far, and the long she had it, the longer she kept it away from him, the more likely it was to do something to her. He still need of her alive. The ring wouldn't care, but she'd already refused to give it up willingly out of some misplaces loyalty to her doomed country and family.

He couldn't just take it from her either. She wasn't some clueless Halfling. The girl was most certainly clueless, but she had done a fair bit of reading, and she some idea of what she was up to in a very vague half-brained manner.

If he attempted to force it from her she'd claim it, and he'd be subservient to her. She wouldn't become his new master entirely, but a master none the less, and he'd have to do what she wanted him to do as long as it did not impede on his true Master's wishes or until such time as he found a way to deprive her of it. At that point his master would most certainly want her dead.

Or she really might try to cast it in the river, and the river they stood by was big. The elvish voices singing among the ripples of the dark rushing current might be enough to confuse even his senses, and he was not looking forward to a swim. Especially in that torrent….

The girl shifted, crying out as her foot slipped. She caught herself as he started toward her.

"I'm alright. I'm alright." She regained her footing on the rock she was standing on. She was most certainly not alright; the ring was thrumming with anxiety, need, and wrath. He needed to return it to his master, where it could rest on the only hand that could safely wield it. He needed to get it away from her.

"Please come down from there."He held out his hand, beckoning her forward, knowing that even if he'd been standing much closer, she would not have accepted.

Caught off guard, by his tone, and the word 'please,' Brenine did step down from the rock and away from the edge of the water's rushing torrent.

His behaviour had been so different, the last few days. His demeanor toward her and around her was off…. He seemed to defer to her, when she had commanded nothing from him, while trying to act as if he had not deferred to her, and now he was saying 'please,' of all things. Where were threats?

She knew the nazgul had always acted servile toward the ring, and that was part of it, and he was still caught off guard, as the ring had sort of landed in her lap, after all this time he'd seeking it and serving its will.

She likened the nazgul to a religious cult, and here she was, an unwashed heathen holding their most sacred item hostage. Of course he was walking on eggshells around her. The last thing he wanted was for her to cast it in a river, or claim dominion over it and by extension him and the others. The former was tempting, but the latter was less so. She couldn't imagine what their master would do them for failing to wrest it from some girl and provide another the opportunity to claim it. She really did not want to be the reason they suffered that….

Of course she couldn't just hand it over, though there still be time to do so, and be the cause of the world's destruction, but maybe she'd get to live- in whatever Hell of darkness and ash Sauron turned the world into.

So she stood on the precipice of the inevitable conclusion that at some point, somehow the king would take the ring from her. And there he stood watching as her fear of death, and fear of witnessing the world turn black tugged her back and forth, while she clenched the ultimate power of destruction in her hand.

It was only a matter of time before his waiting paid off.

The need to approach the nazgul was incredible. The urge was stemming from hand, but it was swiftly travelling throughout her entire body. She bit her lip, struggling against it, and hating that it was happening in the first place. Life had been so easy prior the ring.

The girl's countenance changed, as did the air around her. For a moment he was unsure if the ring had momentarily won her over or if her thoughts had gone somewhere else.

"What would happen if I put it on?"

The king stiffened. That was just the thing he needed. He could seize it from her, he could punish her for denying it to him, and he could touch her in his world. All he had to do was goad her toward that end.

"Thou wouldst be made invisible to mortal eyes, and know firsthand, power grea enough to dominate the world." The nazgul's tone suggested she ought to know that.

Brenine bit her lip, feeling suddenly self conscious. The question she really wanted to ask of him made her feel awkward and wrong, like she was going to pry in affairs that she was not meant to be privy to.

"And I- would I, um- would I be able to see you?" Her face burned with shame. The last thing he could possibly want was to be ogled by a potential threat to his master, but she was curious. All the months she'd been trapped in Minas Morgul, with him stealing heat from her and nearly kissing her, and now she had an opportunity to see the face of the man that had tormented her.

The king was silent, but she could just make out the movement his head bowing.

"Yes."

"Am I allowed to do that?"

The king's head shot up. "The ring is thy hand is it not?"

Brenine shook her head, biting her lip, as her face burned. "That's-that's not what I meant. I meant, um-would you-would that bother you?"

She wanted to slap herself. How lame and pathetic did that sound? The ring was in her hand. She could put it on and look at his face regardless, but she felt that this was awkward for him too.

Did she want to see the man under the black mantel? Did he want to see her as anything other than a silhouette? And then what?

She'd be on his side of the world. If he wanted to take the ring he wouldn't get a better opportunity.

"It matters not to me." He had always wondered at her shadowy form, trying to make out her facial expressions, unable to do so, and he had the opportunity. "But thee shan't forget what thy eyes will see."

Brenine bit her lip. That was a valid point. It was a point of no return. She'd see the face of a nazgul. She'd see something few other mortals would ever see, and he could be hideous, ugly, and horrible, and maybe it was best that he remained mysterious and faceless.

Their relationship would be irrevocably altered, and there would be no going back. She wouldn't forget, and neither would he.

"What of you?" Did he want to see her? She couldn't imagine why he wanted to. He'd seen countless women, and undoubtedly hundreds of them had been far prettier than she was.

He shifted toward her. "For centuries I have had naught to look up but the ugly faces of eight ugly old men."

Brenine laughed, despite her anxiety. Of all the things she'd expected him to say, she hadn't expect him to crack a joke.

Her breath hitched as he made toward her, boots crunching and grinding on the stones. Frozen she watched his approach with the wide eyes of a bird watching the nearing of a serpent.

Still unable to breath she watched in muted terror, as his hands cupped hers: the one holding the ring. Reflexively her fingers clenched around it tighter.

Gently, too gently, the nazgul lord took her hand, the ring dangling between them. She wanted to scream, but she couldn't. He plucked the ring from her palm and held it aloft. It remained suspended between them a tense moment, and then with the necklace still attached he slipped it upon her finger.

Brenine jerked back, the black gloved hands were glowing white, wrinkled and lined with age, with long slender fingers, that held her wrist hard enough to keep her from escaping him. She looked away.

The world was dark, and everything flickered and wavered as if everything was a flame or being tattered by a constant wind. The very air was like ice, and seemed to steal the warm from her very core.

Above, the stars were dim and nearly lost in the darkness. One of those pale, haggard, ghostly hands entered his vision, and touched her cheek.

She trembled amid her shivering. His hands were cold as they always were, but his touch was unmistakably solid. He was real! In this world he was solid, and his touch was more than just cold tickle, it was a physical sensation, and it shocked her.

Brenine's breathing stopped as his fingers slid across her skin. They grazed the pink stain on her cheek, trailed down her lips, conjuring a spike of ticklishness and tingling, before cupping her chin.

Tenderly, her head was lifted.

He was clothed in grey robes of a kingly fashion, and he really was seven feet tall, the crown gleaming on his head added an additional foot to his monolithic height, but it was his eyes that held her spellbound.

The king's face was narrow, lined with age and care, but nowhere near to the extent of his hands. But it was his eyes. The horrific to behold; black, pitiless, and fell, they gazed at her with an intensity that left her unable to think, or breathe, or do anything but stare.

Those keen eyes, few mortals would ever see beyond a deadly glint within a shadowy hood, were fixed upon her now. After thousands of years of seeing mortals as nothing more than shadowy silhouettes, his eyes found the colours of the girl revealed before him fair.

Her eyes were grey like the seas surrounding the old kingdom of Numenor. They revealed that she was indeed Numenorean, but her hair which should have been black, was a rich auburn: a clear indication that her noble blood had been spoiled by lesser men.

"Ever hast thou been warm."

In the icy world he lived in, Brenine was a fire beneath his finger tips and the sudden flare of red blush on her cheeks, and the suddenly rapid palpitation of her artery so close to his hand made her that much more warmer.

Whether it was her will, the ring's, or his own that silently compelled her to step toward him neither could say.

Brenine's heart thumped, and every inch of her felt like it was thrumming with sudden heat. There was a pause. Something, was coming, and she should have cared a lot more than she did.

His other rose to cup the side of her face, while the fingers on his other invoked small shivers and shudders as they curled into her hair. Then he tugged her closer and his lips met hers.

Stunned she stared up at the dim stars, unaware that her lips were moving against his, because all she seemed to feel was boiling heat marred by ribbons of cold as his icy fingers moved.

They glided along her jaw, her neck, cheeks, shoulders, eliciting all sorts of embarrassing gasps and sighs.

She had just enough sense left to her to wrap her arms around his neck so she could tell if he made a move for the ring.

As if to punish her, for thinking such a thing his mouth abandoned hers long enough to trail kisses along her jaw, that tickled and tingled, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to attempt escaping from him because nothing other than pain had ever felt that intense and it was frightening. Then he kissed the hollow beneath her ear, and she whimpered. She received a mocking chuckle of amusement, before the nazgul did it again.

Eventually, his travelled down her sides, making her squirm as he unintentionally tickled her, but they never strayed farther, nor did his mouth go any lower than the base of her throat.

When they finished, after however long that had been- it couldn't have been more few minutes- she funder herself bowed backward, supported only by his arms unable to see straight. Her head was definitely buzzing, and she dizzily stared up at him, sucking in air and watching it escape as tiny ghosts.

Brenine couldn't remember much of what happened. It had been too much to take in at one time, and she wasn't sure if she'd liked it or not. The king pulled her into a standing position, and she pathetically and weakly slumped against him. How dizzy and tipsy she felt, she wasn't going to stand on her own, never mind pull away and try to walk.

Slowly she was becoming aware of her fingers aching, and she stared at the white knuckled grip she had on his shoulders. She hadn't moved them throughout that whole-whatever that was- too afraid to do so. She didn't even know how. Her face flushed as she tried to picture doing anything remotely close to the things she did remember him doing. Even running her fingers through his hair was frightening.

He didn't seem particularly upset with her timidity, nor did he complain now as her fingers refuse to slacken and she used him as leaning post. In fact he stooped to rest his chin on her head sniffing as nazgul sometimes did.

The Witch King let the barest trace of a smile curl his lips, as an idea occurred to him. Rather than taking the ring, he'd let her wear it- no, he'd insist that she wear it, because sometime two packages in one were much easier to carry. And in this case fun as well.


	2. If the Witch King got Horny

**Author's Note: If anyone was wondering this fic and this chapter especially is an excuse to avoid writing anything more for Rolling in the Deep. I am horrified by where this story is going. So here's another useless oddball nazgul moment.**

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_Once again under the pretence that Brenine is carrying the ring of power…. How she got the ring is a plot inconsequential and unexplainable plot device I am using for the sole purpose of writing fluff, to calm my pathetically meek heart. I need a hug and some tea._

**If the Witchking got Horny **

**(After six thousand years of **_**no**_** physical attraction to anyone.)**

**AKA: If the Witchking had an Ounce of Morality**

**(After six thousand years of being a total- himself)**

**Alternately Titled: Love is Evol**

As was becoming a common occurrence the Witchking was hovering over his bed, which had again been taken over by a young woman wearing his Master's ring. He no longer permitted her to leave his sight, nor did he allow her to go within ten feet the others for any reason, because he knew they were aware the sudden shift in his relationship with her, which up until the ring had inconveniently shown up- of all the times to find the thing. It could have waited to pop up at any other point in time, but a leisure ride through the southern land of Rohan with his favourite, and only prisoner in toe was not what he'd had in mind.

Still he couldn't leave out in wilderness for anyone to find, and because it had actually been Brenine who'd happened upon it first, along with his ingrained sense of servility toward it and by extension the one who held it, he couldn't just snatch it from her.

When an unwashed heathen held a god hostage, it wasn't a time for sword brandishing and threats; it was a time for haggling. And haggle he would have, if a little experimentation on the banks of the Entwash hadn't added an extra layer of complication to this already muddled affair.

After centuries, he'd laid eyes upon a woman he could see beyond the typical black silhouette that typically shrouded mortals, he found he wanted things. Things that were scandalous to even contemplate. As if a king openly kissing a prisoner wasn't in bad enough taste. His interest in the matter was not limited to the ring alone, but to the one wearing it as well.

Worse still was the knowledge that she was responsive to his advances, a little too shy at times, but on the whole was generally willing to let him get close. She didn't shy away when he ran his finger through her hair, or leant down to steal a kiss, or a bit of heat to warm him and carry him through the dark cold world he resided in, and he was shocked to find that he enjoyed the tender moments.

He wanted more of them, and for them to be drawn out longer as well, but could and probably would lead to places that Brenine was not ready to venture into.

But something had occurred to him. With the ring on she was physical for him in the same manner he was for her. He could- he lightly curled a lock of her auburn hand in his fingers, and grazed her temples with his knuckles, smirking at the soft noise she uttered in her sleep, as if aware of him.

A very uncomfortable feeling bloomed in his loins. He bowed his head.

It would be so easy to wake her, so easy to fall upon her and take her; to destroy her maidenhood and break her. He could do it. Under differing circumstances he might have. But she had his Master's ring, and to do something like that would risk her claiming it.

Besides, it had been hundreds- thousands of years since he'd been able to even contemplate indulging in physical pleasure, and with so few days to do so, he needed to savour every one. He needed to make this last as long as he could.

There was something else too.

It was a deep dark desire dredged up by a hope that had seemed foolish and unattainable since he'd become a wraith in the first place, but now it was possibility. Maybe….

When ruling Angmar there had been one thing he'd desired, one thing he couldn't do, even though he'd been married and had a Queen by his side, he had been able to touch her in the manner he could touch Brenine now, and therefore unable to produce a child. Now, maybe he could, and when his Master had his ring, and once again sent him north to gather armies to conquer the north in his name, there'd be someone to govern Angmar when the king could not.

As scandalous as the situation was already, sleeping with the woman so warm and so close with the ring on her finger calling him nearer was out of the question. By extension trying to procure an heir was also unthinkable. Nor could a bastard child become a prince. His Numenorean pride would never allow such a thing.

For a long while he stood, mulling over his conundrum, watching her breathe, and feeling her heart thumping with warmth and life, and listening to the ring as it begged to return home. The king was working on it. As long as the ring was on her finger it was near enough for him protect, and was all he could do for the time being.

Brenine's eyes roamed beneath her lids as she dreamt, and she shifted with a breathy sigh. He put his fingers to his lips and looked away. The fingers of his hand tapped against his thigh. He was in so much- the idea sprung up unbidden.

It was so simple. Lord Fuinur's prophetic words came back to him. He'd been furious with the other nazgul's insight, and now it gave him clarity. The answer to all his problems, well, most of them was so simple.

Immediately the Witchking crossed the room, grey robes swishing soundly. Pausing to adjust the black cloak draped on the back of the chair, he hastily settled. After pulling on his leather gloves he grabbed a few sheets of blank paper, ink, his stamp, and a quill.

Hastily he began writing, until his thin elegant script was arching, curving, and flowing over three sheets of paper. All the words were identical, except for the names the letters were addressing. And after reading over them, and deciding them satisfactory, he signed them: _Witch King of Angmar, Lord of Minas Morgul, _and stamped them with the image of a grinning skull upon a crescent moon.

Then he folded them the letters, and slid them into three separate envelopes which he quickly addressed and sealed. Rising he paused looked upon his sleeping prisoner relishing the warmth of pulsing blood and a beating heart from where he stood, before he forced himself to turn away.

Pausing at the door he uttered a quick incantation that would violently deter all uninvited persons from entering, which was quintessentially every person alive, and eight neither-living-nor dead-persons loitering in various rooms through the lofty, well to do inn he'd chosen as a resting place.

In truth the inn, as fine an establishment as it was, only had nine patrons at the moment. It seemed many of the patron had fled with tales of horrific ghost stories, and a few others had been promptly removed from their rooms, and since the nazgul's arrival the innkeeper had for some unfathomable reason been turning away would be costumers.

The hospitality the innkeeper displayed was unfounded but greatly welcomed. Of course one of the small sacks of gold coins the king travelled with had mysteriously gone missing. But he was fairly certain the innkeeper and missing money were completely unrelated. No, he positive the two had nothing to do with one another.

After all nazgul rich as they were, had hardly ever been depicted as ones to pay handsomely for nine rooms. Of course they did have a reputation to keep, and it would be horrid if word got out that apart from being terrifying to behold, they were otherwise decent guests.

With an unreadable expression, that was not blank, but too emotional to accurately figure out, the Witch King made to knock on Lord Fuinur's door.

The wooden barrier turned aside before he could.

"Good afternoon Sire. Would you like to come in?"

"I need these delivered to Minas Tirith. It is of the utmost importance that they arrive to their intended recipients as soon as possible. If thou can't enter the city, do not pass them to another party. Have them delivered by way of something…nice, like doves, or butterflies, ladybugs might work in a pinch."

"Yes… Sire…."

Fuinur quietly took the envelopes. None of the names were familiar to him, and the king;s request- doves, butterflies, and ladybugs….

The king had already turned to leave, and was returning to i room.

"Sire what are these?"

The king turned, face absolute stone, apart from the light in his eyes.

"Wedding invitations. Make sure they get to their intended guests tonight, or no later than tomorrow morning. I do not wish my bride alienated from her family on such an important day."


	3. Lightning Strike

**Author's Note: Thought I'd put up a random drabble since the next chapter of RITD is taking forever. Here's what the wiles of the plot-bunnies have conjured…. This proved to be a giant heap of crack, and did not go in the direction I expected. **

**Often I've wondered what the nazgul talk about/do in their free time. I wish I had not asked. Enjoy?**

**Disclaimer: I wonder if the nazgul would find it insulting if someone else wanted to own them…of course the WK didn't seem too put out when Sarumon mentioned it. I don't own them, but I can't speak for wayward Istari, which also are not mine.**

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**Lightning Strike**

It was the scent of rain that lured Gothmog from his lair. His chambers were more like a giant paper model of the Misty Mountains; that after several hours of laborious climbing, he slowly managed to extricate himself from. When he wasn't being harassed by nitwit orc captains, pathetically inferior human captains, irritable kings, and irritably annoying fellow nazgul, he was swamped in papers. Too. Many. Papers.

He was exaggerating, of course. Gothmog preferred his rooms orderly, and for that reason he'd never let paperwork pile up. Bloodstains on the floor were perfectly acceptable, as there were a few too many complacent captains about that needed relieving of their swollen heads, but papers on the floor, turning into monuments of Middle Earth's chief landmarks were not.

Long ago he, Herumor, Uvatha, the king, and several of the other think tanks in Minas Morgul had gathered to discuss possibilities for stimulating the economy, and turning the so-called Dead City -because no Gondorian had ever bothered to visit and see that the city was quite alive- into a hub of commerce as it had once been.

One of the proposed ideas, brought up by Uvatha, was to remove Gothmog's paper rendition of the Misty Mountains from his unfortunate office and have it put on display to encourage tourism. Lord Hermor had immediately backed the ludicrous notion with a fair bit of cackling. The king had been less amused and countered Uvatha's proposal by suggesting instead that Uvatha could take his infernal lute and spend the next several hundred years of his life playing for coppers from the Rohirrim peasants if he felt so passionately for the city's economy and Herumor could join him with a triangle. While Herumor had no musical abilities to speak of it would be hard to go wrong with a bent piece of metal and a stick.

Both nazgul had immediately gone silent, and it was Gothmog's moment to smirk.

Herumor was not easily silenced, and after a few awkward moments of the king gathering his thoughts and the mortals at the end of the table hollding their breaths fearing a fight between their ghastly lords, he said Utvatha was on to something.

This had gotten him a stony expression from the king, and a scowl from Gothmog, but he foolishly or wisely ignored both.

_"The joke about Gothmog's endless tide of work was in bad taste and I apologize on behalf of both of us, but it has given me an idea, if I may be permitted to share." He paused long enough to receive a bank expression from the king. "As our armies push westward it is likely we may come across a few peasant villages. We could refurbish any of these villages. We could send some of our men on construction projects. They could build a Big Thing, and that would attract tourism, then our builders could build a Big Thing Market, and a Big Thing Bar-"_

_ The king raised a finger, "Yes, I think I see the flaw in this plan-" _

"_It wouldn't matter what the thing is, so long as it's big and it's a thing." Herumor insisted, cutting the king off._

"_Then on the side we could also clear the lands around these villages, and stimulate agricultural output. Instead of relying on imports from Rhun and Harad we could support ourselves with local farming and maybe sometime in the future we could export to them."_

_There was silence at the end of Herumor's spiel as they all sat digesting his words, while Herumor sat reflecting on his plan, trying to see if there was anything to add. _

"_So, you advise me to send my surveyors, stone masons, carpenters, and artisans into a recently take hostile village and build a big thing?" The king was frowning_

"_Yes-"_

"_And a bar, don't forget the bar. No respectable big thing should stand without a bar next to it," Uvatha grinned. "And it would be a wonderful place for Lord Herumor and myself to carry out our sentence playing music for the peasantry."_

_Herumor's grin turned into affronted horror. "I beg your pardon-"_

"_Several thousand years of incorporeality... this conversation is highly unprofessional and shocking." Scowling, the king turned to Gothmog who had wisely kept his mouth shut. "Lieutenant what are your thoughts on Herumor's plan?"_

_Gothmog shrugged. "Lord Herumor's plan was sound until Uvatha saw fit to debase it." _

"_So you are in agreement with these two?" _

"_Yes Sire, for the most part. I think a better way of serving their sentence if that still holds, would be to send them out delivering pamphlets advertising Herumor's big thing."_

Gothmog laughed as he walked, even as he recalled the faint downward curling of the king's lip, the sound of faint finger tapping, Uvatha choking, and Herumor's mixed expression of amusement and revulsion.

_"I see…" _

Gothmog wondered then just he did now about how close he'd come to sailing in the punishment boat with the other two. It had been a pity the others had been away at the time of that meeting, though it was probably for the better. Who knows how out of hand that conversation would have gotten?

_The king stared down at his papers, fingers hastily ticking against the table. In truth he'd been considering…a similar idea. He would have proposed farming in Imlad Morgul, but turning the forests of Ithilien into farmland had its appeal, not the least of which was sparing him the loss of his flowers. But still, Gondor's rangers couldn't do a good job of ambushing his soldiers if they had nothing to hide behind save Herumor's…he chanced a momentary glance at the youngest of the nine…construction project._

_ "Lord Herumor…" The youngest nazgul looked up at him. "Do you have any idea as to what this big thing will look like?"_

_ "Uh," Herumor scratched his head, looking completely embarrassed, and incredibly adorable. The hesitancy in his voice mixed with his Numenorean accent was very pleasing to hear. "I was thinking it'd be tall and covered in shapes. I don't know," he uttered an uncertain laugh. " It just needs to be seen over the tree line and weird enough to spark interest. It would be something warped and covered in orbs and rectangles, and serve no purpose other than to make people ask 'what is that' when they see it."_

_"Right." The king had assumed he'd have no particular idea in mind. "I you sketch this big thing. I want several designs and a list of materials on my desk in the next week. Oh you better think of giving it a name. I may be a patron of the arts, but I will not endorse a monument entitled Herumor's Big Thing." He began straightening his already straight papers. _

_ "The three of you are dismissed-I recant my statement. I do not approve of such blatant displays of impropriety in my councils. There is not to be a repeat of this. That is understood I trust. What I find most intolerable was the attempted sewing of the seeds of discord at the beginning of our meeting. What the three of you say and do to each other outside of council is up to you, but within this chamber thou shall respect each other. For that and the immaturity displayed earlier I have a task I wish to appoint the three of you."_

_ He looked at each of them, feeling very much like a father scolding wayward children, except these were grown men he was dealing with…._

_ "My garden needs tending. Lord Gothmog, Lord Uvatha; there are weeds to be pulled. Lord_

_Herumor the flowers could use a bit of water. Now you are dismissed._

At long last Gothmog pushed through the doors of the citadel. He was greeted by a blast of rain tinted air and the site of an expansive stone courtyard. The storm was close.

He hastened his step, ignoring the soldiers that stood to attention and the servants that bowed. He wanted to get to the city's outermost wall before the storm broke.

_The king's words were law, but toiling on his hands and knees pulling up weeds was the most demeaning and embarrassing thing he could remember himself doing. And the awkward silence hanging over them was equally uncomfortable._

_Uvatha wasn't fairing much better, but Herumor weirdly enough didn't seem to mind. The man may have been born one of those stuck-up-better-than-everyone-else Numinoreans, but he was anything but. On the contrary he seemed to possess no sense of pride at all, which wasn't really true, but he must certainly wasn't ruled by it. Or he was so disgustingly loyal to the king that he thought pulling weeds was a privilege._

"_Normally the king does this," Herumor piped up._

_Uvatha shushed him, and Gothmog scowled at his dirt covered gloves. They all knew this. "It's rather cathartic." Herumor grinned like he knew a secret._

"_Good, now please be quiet so that we can find inner peace for ourselves."_

"_I especially like the ending of this chore…."_

_Yes, the king's dogsbody was truly content with mongrel lifestyle, and saw no problem stooping in the mud to tend to the king's flowers. Still his words held a bit of mysteriousness to them as his eyes glinted with a mischievous knowing light. _

"_What's at the end?" Uvatha asked, voicing his and Gothmog's curiousity._

_Herumor's smile broadened, before he stood up and slipped away to pluck weeds elsewhere._

"_Damn mutt. What you think he's suggesting?"_

_Uvatha shrugged, uncaringly. "I'm just going to be happy this stupid task is over with._

Gothmog all but sprinted up the stairs of the gatehouse as he heard the first and incredibly rare crash of was missing his favourite part of the show.

_There weren't that many weeds. The king did an excellent job keeping his valley weed free. In fact it was more of a challenge finding weeds to pull than pulling the weeds themselves. Soon they'd made a game of it, each trying to tug up more weeds than the other two nazgul, until at last it seemed they'd found all the weeds, or enough, to merit the king's forgiveness if they missed one. _

_Uvatha and Gothmog met in the fields to concede defeat, only to realize Herumor had not returned to them. They easily spotted his glowing figure standing before the bridge. He was facing them, but he wasn't looking at them. He was looking up, and curious Gothmog and Uvatha looked up as well._

_At first they didn't see it, but they quickly felt it. And they most certainly heard it. Herumor's voice rose into a sharp cry as he called up a storm. A soft wind bent the flowers and whipped at their grey remnants. _

_With an eye on the roiling clouds above they joined Herumor at the bridge. Gothmog stood near a statue, while Uvatha leaned against the railing on the opposite side. Another gust of wind, stronger than before, carried the smell of rain, and Heromur's face lit up as lighting suddenly lanced across the boiling sky. _

_While Gothmog had on more than one occasion though Herumor handsome in a wayward sort fashion, he'd never been able to let go of his contempt for Herumor. He was the youngest of the nine, the least sensible, had won the king's favour and risen above the other eight, and he possessed an affinity for mortals that was utterly repulsive and disgusting, on top being somewhat powerless compared to the rest of them. _

_But there he was standing, radiant in the face of a storm he'd conjured, with his grey robes flapping, hair whipping, and eyes smouldering. The lord of Numinor was shining forth, noble, fair, and strong, and Gothmog wasn't jealous so much as captivated. The subtle elfin features, the lack of facial hair, and the power that he was quietly emanating without even trying, revealed what Gothmog had long overlooked. Now he couldn't look away._

The Lieutenant of Minas Morgul burst onto the ramparts above the city's mighty gate. He cracked a grin. Herumor had once again gotten himself in trouble, which merely confirmed what he already knew. He'd felt Hermor's presence wandering the valley for several hours, before growing more pronounced as he meandered back.

Glowing with ethereal light Herumor stood at the far end of the bridge, arms held aloft as he chanted whatever words of power the king had taught him.

Herumor's hair danced in time with the lighting ripping apart the sky. And the first heavy drops fell, hitting Gothmog's shoulder and arm with surprising force.

On the bridge Herumor lowered his arms and turned toward the city. Their gazes met just before Herumor passed through the gate and he shot him a smirk that clearly said 'I told you so,' and for once Gothmog conceded Herumor had indeed told him so, though not in the manner the younger nazgul assumed.

"_I didn't know…" Gothmog frowned unsure how to put his reaction into words, while still unwilling to forgive the young nazgul for being the dog he was. _

"_How long have you been hiding that from us?" Uvatha was mildly impressed, though he thought the king could do it better. _

_Herumor shrugged hiding the surprise of receiving praise from two of the nazgul that hated him most behind a smug grin. _

"_I learned two weeks ago."_

In both the past and present lighting flashed across the sky.


End file.
