Dropping to the pavement, Neithan bent his knees to cushion the shock of his landing, but still when his feet hit the cobblestones, the jarring impact made him wince. He looked up at the window as a man stuck out his head and demanded, "Halt in the name of the Steward and the City!"

Turning, Neithan gave slightly to his right ankle as he hurried down the street, not stopping until he had reached his rented room. There, he found Ivarannon still awake, sitting up on his cot and reading a leather-bound book by the light of an oil lamp.

"You are up late tonight, Ivarannon," Neithan muttered between tight lips. He hurried about the room, gathering up his possessions and stuffing them into a sack.

"Aye, Neithan, I could not sleep. A most disconcerting premonition came upon me and ever since, I have been greatly worried about you."

"Nothing is amiss," Neithan replied as he buckled his sword belt around his middle.

Ivarannon lay the book down on the bed. "Nothing amiss?" He looked at Neithan worriedly. "Something terrible has happened!"

"What makes you think that?" Neithan snapped as he took a cloak off a hook by his bed and drew it about his shoulders.

"Something is wrong! Man, do you not know? I am your friend! Do not try to keep this thing from me!" Ivarannon cried out in alarm. He had never seen Neithan behave so strangely. "Your hand! Your right hand is stained with blood! Your face, too! Have you injured yourself?"

"Aye, Ivarannon, I did. I stumbled on the street and cut myself upon a jagged cobble." Neithan glanced down at his hand, stained red with Lhûnwen's blood. Somehow the dried blood still felt warm and sticky, imparting a soothing feeling to his skin. He looked back at Ivarannon. The man had always been far too curious, sometimes to the point of being a meddlesome nuisance. Perhaps this excuse would stave off his incessant questions.

"Here, let me look at that!" Pushing off the cover, the large man arose from the bed and shuffled barefoot across the cold floor to where Neithan stood.

"There is nothing to see, Ivarannon." He turned fierce eyes to glare at the man.

"I am your friend, Neithan, and I have been concerned about you for days. What is wrong?" Ivarannon gripped Neithan's arm.

"Damn it, there is nothing wrong! Now get away from me, you fool! I have to be going!" He jerked his arm from Ivarannon's grasp as the man gaped at him in surprise. With his soft, pudgy, round face and small eyes, he had always reminded Neithan of a pig. He wondered if he would squeal if he sliced open his fat stomach.

"Where are you going so late when you have scarcely been here ten minutes?" The portly man hesitated to press him, for Neithan's hostile behavior terrified him.

"Where, you ask?" Neithan laughed. "Do you not know? I am going to kill a man!"

With that, Neithan turned and fled from the room, laughing and raving incoherently like a madman. Ivarannon looked after him in shock, his mind unable to comprehend what had just happened.

"The poor soul!" he thought sadly. "Love has driven him mad!"

Avoiding the possibility of meeting any other boarders who might be about, Neithan took the servant's stairs at the rear of the building. Closing the back door quietly behind him, he entered the alleyway used by vendors when they made their deliveries. Wondering how far ahead he was of the city guard, he then turned down a side street which led to the main road.

Attempting to appear inconspicuous, he drew the hood of his cloak over his head when he reached the main thoroughfare. Walking rapidly, he came to the guard towers which looked over the archway leading to the first level of the city and passed through unchallenged by the guards on duty. "Still safe enough," he told himself. "No cry for my capture has yet been raised." Turning westward, he was soon upon the main street of the first level, heading towards the tavern that Hallas commonly frequented.

The tavern-keeper looked up from a journal on his desk, a quill pen poised in his fingers. "Greetings, Sergeant! Good to see you tonight. The dining room is closed at this late hour, but the public room is still open if you would care for a draught of ale. Should you be of a mind for something to eat, a pot of stew is kept simmering constantly on one of the two kitchen hearths, and there is bread and a bit of leftover pie in the pantry if you should have a liking for that." The man smiled amiably.

"It is neither draught nor food that I come here for, but rather I seek my good friend Hallas. Might I find him in the public room?" Neithan asked, his words a dull, heavy monotone.

"Terribly sorry, Sergeant," the tavern-keeper answered politely. "I believe the gentleman left just a few minutes ago."

"What?" came Neithan's sharp reply. "Has he been here all the night?"

"Why, no, sir, I do not believe so." Sensing impending trouble, the tavern-keeper chose his words carefully. "But then again, I cannot be certain. It has been a very busy night, and people come and go."

The tavern-keeper's attention was diverted when a tall man ambled into the foyer and headed for the desk. When he looked again, Neithan was gone, the sound of the slamming door reverberating behind him.

"What was that all about?" asked the tall, lean-faced, sharp-eyed man, who stared in puzzlement at the door.

"Captain Vorondil, I do not know, I simply do not know!" The tavern-keeper shook his head. "There is something quite odd about the Sergeant's behavior tonight. He seemed agitated and distracted, not himself at all. And his eyes! I do not know... there was something about them, something dark and fell!"

"I noticed that, too," Captain Vorondil confided. "I have been much concerned about the sergeant of late. Though he attends his duties faithfully, it is apparent that some matter has been constantly occupying his mind the last few days. Even though we have been friends since boyhood, he has revealed nothing to me of what might be troubling him." The captain kept his attention directed towards the door, as though he might be considering following Neithan. "Still, the sergeant has always been a man who keeps to himself and heeds his own counsel."

"Well, that is true enough, sir. I have always noticed that about the good sergeant. He is very polite and quiet... oh, yes, he can joke and all, but sometimes he seems moody, even sullen. Tonight..." he paused. "Maybe I should not say anything about it, Captain," the tavern-keeper lowered his voice, "but he came in here just now looking for Hallas, and he seemed most put out about it that the man was not here. And I noticed something..." the tavern-keeper looked around, his tone a conspiratorial one, "there was dried blood on his face, hands and under his fingernails. Perhaps he has injured himself some way. I do not like to talk about my customers - I have always made that a policy - but there was just something about him... his eyes all wild and bloodshot. Sir, maybe someone ought to see about him."

"Are you sure it was blood that you saw and not dirt?"

"Aye, it was blood all right. I have trained myself to notice things like this about my patrons. A man in my business can never be too careful."

"I had come in for a late tankard of ale before turning in for the night, but I think it might be best if I find Neithan," Vorondil quietly replied. "Perhaps he has gotten himself into some sort of trouble."

"Well, sir," the keeper sighed audibly as his face sagged in relief, "I do not like to meddle... but in this case, I thought perhaps I should."

"Hallas!" The cold sound of Neithan's voice rang out in the empty street like the voice of Death himself come to claim a victim.

Hallas would not answer the challenge that was implicit in the sound of his name. He considered the other man a coward, a drunken babbler who would soon lose his nerve and slink back into the shadows, never having the courage to follow through with his intent. There was really no reason to reply; ignoring a rogue like that was answer enough, and so he kept walking away.

"Hallas!" the name cut through the silence of the night. "Answer me!" The voice sounded familiar, but since the man would not identify himself, Hallas would continue to ignore him. "Hallas!" the man demanded again, and Hallas could hear hatred in the voice. He felt an icy shiver race down his spine.

"Who are you?" he demanded angrily.

"An old friend. You should know me quite well."

"What do you want?" Hallas kept his back straight, his voice calm and even. He would show this man no fear.

"Satisfaction!" The word was a hoarse, grating rasp of challenge. Hallas felt the man's eyes boring into his backbone, eyes of rage and malice.

"You talk in riddles... satisfaction for what?" Hallas stopped and turned to face the other man.

"Hallas! You know exactly what I am talking about!"

"You are a drunken braggart! Go to hell and take your bottle with you! I have no time for your nonsense!" Hallas turned his back on him and began to walk up the street in measured strides, ignoring the man behind him.

"Die!"

The word came to Hallas' ears at the same moment that he heard the swish of steel as a sword was drawn, the familiar metallic ring of the blade clearing the confines of its sheath. Hallas' fingers had just gripped the hilt of his sword when Neithan grabbed him by the shoulder and twisted him around to face him.

"Sergeant!" Hallas gasped in the brief moment left to him, the stark realization that this was not a bluff flooding his mind. "What are you doing?"

"Killing a bastard," Neithan replied as he drew back his arm and plunged his sword through his rival's throat, the blade angling upward and ripping out through the back of his neck. Still holding him by the shoulder, Neithan stared into Hallas' eyes as the life ebbed from his body. Hallas tried to speak, but the only sound that escaped his blood filled mouth was a croaking gurgle. Incredulously, he gaped at his murderer, feebly clutching his throat as the blood spewed from his neck and mouth. Neithan pulled back his sword and the dead man slumped to the ground.

"Farewell, Hallas," Neithan whispered triumphantly. He had little time to gloat over the body of his fallen enemy before he heard the sharp voice of his commander.

"Sergeant! What have you done?"

Neithan spun around to see Vorondil, who stared at him in disbelief.

"I have killed him," Neithan laughed madly, "and if you do not let me pass, I will kill you, too!"

"Sergeant, in the name of the Steward and the City, I hereby place you under arrest!" Neithan saw the sudden movement of Vorondil's hand as it slid to the pommel of his sword. Lunging forward, Neithan drove his still thirsty blade into Vorondil's stomach before the captain's weapon could clear the scabbard. Vorondil's eyes bulged and he shuddered in agony as he felt the sword sink deep into his bowels. His body caught on the deadly blade, Vorondil staggered forward and gripped his old friend's shoulders for support in his dying moments.

"My comrade, I am sorry; I truly am, but you never should have interfered," Neithan whispered gently as he shoved Vorondil back, drawing his sword out of the wound as the captain collapsed onto the pavement. "I never planned for this to happen. Perhaps we will meet again someday... perhaps sooner than later."

With that, Neithan turned and fled into the shadowy darkness.

In the mists of autumn, Lhûnwen came to him as he was watching the fallen leaves borne along on the rushing waters of a stream. At the time, he had thought that it seemed strange that she should come to him on the date of what would have been their wedding. There was no accusation in her silvery voice as she spoke his name and laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder. He remembered that she had smiled as he turned around to gaze at her. He reached out to embrace her, but she slipped from his grasp like dandelion silk flutters away in a breeze.

"Come back!" he cried desperately.

"Oh, I will, I always will, my love," she murmured sweetly. "I will always be here with you!" She came closer to him, and joyously he rushed forward to meet her, eager to touch her once again. Looking up to him, she slid her arms around his neck and gently brushed her lips over his.

"Oh, my heart, you should not worry! The poison did not hurt... at least not for very long. The poppies made my death from hemlock a peaceful one. I was sad, though, my darling, that the shock and grief of my going proved too much for my father's heart, and he soon followed me in death. But he is not with me, and I do not quite understand why. I think perhaps he has answered the call of Mandos, but I simply could not. There is far too much to hold me here. You will be happy, my dearest one, to learn that when life fled me, Hallas bid me welcome, and Captain Vorondil was with him. We will never leave you! Never! We love you far too much for that."

Since that day by the stream so many years ago, Lhûnwen had often returned to him. They would walk quietly together, sometimes reminiscing about better days. He was never alone... not really, anyway... for when Lhûnwen did not appear, sometimes there would be others... others besides Hallas and Vorondil whom he had killed over the years. He had never wanted to kill any of them, but circumstances had forced him to do the foul deed.

There had been those two men whom he killed after he had fled Minas Tirith. They had been on his trail for days. He would gladly have allowed them to go unscathed, but they were tireless. When they had finally gotten too close to him, he laid wait in ambush and shot them both through the guts with well placed arrows. He had wept when they fell, but what other choice did he have?

The sun had shone down benevolently through the branches when he buried them in honor in the forest. He had turned his head reverently towards the Lost Island, the haven of the West, as he delivered a long and moving eulogy for the two whom he had just slain. The men had liked that, and since then they had often shared his journeys, walking with him when the evenings were still and the sun was on the sea.

He had covered many miles and seen many things since he had been a young swain paying court on the fair Lhûnwen. He had journeyed to the fabled lands of the East, where he had seen palaces of gold and ivory and riches beyond belief. He fought as a mercenary for sultans and khans, selling his sword to the highest bidder. Then when great wealth, power and influence were in his hands, the sickness had returned and he had wandered away, forgetting the places he had been and the things that he had seen. But always, through all his many wanderings, Lhûnwen and the others had been with him. No matter where he journeyed, his thirsty sword had continued adding to the number of his unseen companions until sometimes he felt that he led a great army of the dead. Guilt and loneliness were two emotions that Neithan never felt.

After long years in the East, Neithan finally returned to Gondor, a grizzled, scarred veteran of many battles. He avoided civilization as much as he could, venturing there only when he needed supplies which he could not obtain in the wilderness - arrowheads, salt and tea. Many times he hunted in Ithilien, for the land was grown up and wild, and the game was plentiful. The Rangers paid little heed to him because they took pity on the mad wanderer. They also appreciated his skills with a bow, often finding the carcasses of orcs which he had mercilessly slaughtered.

In time, the orcs grew to fear him, and called him the Mad Berseker of Ithilien. Only a few of them had ever seen him, and then they had to exercise all of their skills at evasion to avoid the arrows which seemed to fly out of nowhere and come from everywhere at once. The braver ones - those who lived to tell the tale - reported that they had seen the madman as he carried on long conversations with people who were not there, or recited strange, disjointed poetry which made no sense.

When Neithan first came to Ithilien, the orcs had found his erratic behavior a laughingstock. "The mad fool," they sneered and laughed. "He talks to people who are not there! Why should we waste our time hunting him down?" Their low opinion of Neithan changed, though, after they observed his uncanny ability to track them down and slaughter them in great numbers. Perhaps the "spirits" were indeed guiding him, and he was to be greatly feared.

Things finally reached such a turn that the orcs concentrated a great effort to capture Neithan, dedicating many of their number to that end. At last, after great losses, they managed to capture him and bound him in chains. Proud of their feat, they brought him to the Throne Room of the Nazgûl, which was occupied that day by only the Morgul Lord and Lord Skri the Eighth. Begging the indulgence of their lords, the orcs requested as their only reward the opportunity to torture the Mad Berserker of Ithilien for long days before finally impaling him.

"Unchain him," the Witch-king commanded. "He poses no threat to me."

The orcs had looked at their master in disbelief. Quavering and trembling, they had cautiously unchained the tall Gondorian, careful to keep out of the reach of his powerful arms.

"So you are the one they call the Morgul Lord?" Neithan asked as the chains fell to his feet. His delusional mind was not overly impressed by the hooded figure who sat upon the great ebony throne. The orcs slunk away to the dark recesses of the vast chamber, hoping to see their old tormentor reduced to a smoking pile of ash upon the floor.

"That is one of my many titles," the Witch-king agreed amiably. "Although my rightful title is King of Númenor, and consequentially the rightful King of Gondor."

"And they say that I am the mad one," Neithan cackled, amused when he heard the orcs murmur in disbelief.

"Let us kill him, Majesty, for his insufferable impertinence!" they shouted for his blood. "Kill him! Kill him!"

"Silence!" the wraith lord growled. "When I want your opinion, I will ask for it." His words fell like a heavy hammer, sending the orcs slinking like cringing dogs back into the shadows. "I would question this man and probe his mind."

"My lord," the Eighth Nazgûl spoke up in thought, "this man is no more mad than any other, for all men are mad. This one, however, shows promise of amusing us in idle hours. When the bards have told all their tales and the singers have sung all their songs, he shall be our jester. Who knows?" The Rhûnian lord's pale lips curled up in a wry smile. "Perhaps he will prove of some value. We might find in time that he is worthy to become one of our kind so that he can entertain us forever."

The Morgul Lord slowly turned his head towards the Eighth, his cold eyes withering in their intensity. "Lord Skri, I see nothing in this man worthy of such honors."

"But, my lord," Skri dared to say, "I can never have a son of the blood, for I remain faithful to my beloved who slipped away to the Houses of the Dead so many years ago. But a servant... a companion... a son of the blade... someone like us... whom I could teach and mentor..."

"One of you is quite enough," the Witch-king scoffed. Skri could be so damned mawkish when he groveled. He wondered if the Eighth were falling into one of his episodes of melancholia which could drag on for years. When he was in that condition, he could fall into a state of torpor, lying rigidly immobile upon a marble bier beside his beloved in the crypt.

"Your will, Majesty." The Eighth bowed his head, dejected by his master's rebuke.

"We will now get back to the matter at hand," the Witch-king replied in thought. The Eighth refused to look at him, and the Witch-king knew by his slouched shoulders that the Eighth was sulking. He must not show Skri the slightest indication that his bizarre sense of humor had nettled him once again, but he found no amusement in the idea of allowing a raving madman to join the illustrious order of the servants of the Nazgûl.

The Morgul Lord turned his attention back to the Gondorian, who still stood proudly, singing and babbling nonsensical verse. "Only four types of men fear not the Nazgûl," the wraith thought to himself. "The simpleminded, the mad, the suicidal, and those whose will is staunch. This man falls into the category of the insane. He is arrogant, though, as Gondorians are, but I shall teach him respect."

The gleaming silver orbs which peered out from the darkness of the Nazgûl's hood caught Neithan's eyes. Gently at first, the wraith lord began to probe the madman's thoughts, and when he had gained a foothold in Neithan's mind, he unleashed his power. Neithan's laughter gurgled in his throat as he felt the pressure steadily begin to build inside his skull. The pain was unbearable, and he screamed as the pressure intensified. He gripped his skull as he felt sliding tendrils of mental energy twisting through the convoluted chambers of his deranged mind. Clutching his head, he fell to his knees, shrieking as the pain exploded inside his skull. His brain was being pulled out through his nostrils, and he watched in tortured fascination as it floated before his eyes, a blood covered white mass which throbbed and pulsed, the ridges and valleys running with rivers of blood.

"Master, Master!" Neithan wailed, surprised that he could still articulate even a word. He felt the penetrating eyes of the Witch-king strip him of everything - dignity, honor, integrity - and he was left naked and exposed on the cold bare floor of the throne room. He screamed again as he felt his brain as it was sucked back through his nostrils to fill his empty skull. Then there was relief, blessed relief. Exhausted, covered with sweat, his bowels and bladder having betrayed him, he smelled the stench of his disgrace and felt a great desire to lap the soles of the Witch-king's boots in gratitude for his great mercy.

"Take this fool out!" Angmar remarked, a tinge of disappointment in his voice. "He broke far quicker than I ever thought he would. I know every vile thought that he has ever possessed, every crime that he has ever committed, every murder, every theft, every sordid little love affair in all its lurid detail. Now he offers no further interest to me."

"Master, Master!" the orcs howled, wanting their prey delivered into their hands. "Can we torture him now?

"Silence and listen to my judgment!" Angmar commanded, and the orcs threw themselves down before him. "I hereby banish this man and his rabble of motley spirits from Ithilien. Set a watch for him, and if he ever tries to cross the Anduin again, ferry him back across the river to Gondor. He will do the enemy far more harm than he could ever do to us."

Though the orcs muttered and grumbled amongst themselves, they never dared question their master's verdict, for they had seen so many times what he could do when he was truly angry.

As Neithan was dragged from the throne room, Angmar turned to Skri. "Now about an immortal servant for you... Perhaps someday, but only with my permission."

The Eighth bared his teeth happily, relieved that his master was not too displeased with him. "A servant," he thought wistfully. "He will be like my son. I will teach him the flute and the organ, and his company will ease the lonely passage of the years."

And so Neithan, the Accursed and Mad, had been set free once again with the Morgul Lord's blessings, and true to the Wraith's prediction, he was just as deadly to his own side as he ever was to the orcs.

Over the years, every man's hand was turned against him, though some took pity upon his affliction and even tried to help him. But it was the nature of Neithan's curse to wander and to kill. Even now, he was fleeing from the peace-loving Woses who had harbored him during his latest illness. But Lhûnwen would help him. She always did.