The inky night sky had lightened to a shade of soft cobalt by the time that the Nazgûl at last left the supine form of the sleeping woman. As he bent down to give her one last lingering kiss, he cast an enchantment of peaceful sleep upon her. He never enjoyed the anguished scene of a sobbing woman clinging to his cloak, begging him to stay with her for yet a while longer, or to abide with her until her dying days. Now she would sleep in serenity and awake with a cherished memory of concupiscent bliss.
He walked down the hallway from the woman's bedroom until he came to the back of the cottage. There, opening the door, he stepped out into a dreary, barren meadow and gave a cry too high-pitched for mortal ears to hear. He thought momentarily of his brethren, but he did not sense the presence of any of them. Knowing his keen appreciation for feminine beauty, it would be just like those rogues, Rut and Udu, to want to taste the wine which he had just sampled. They had been quick to do that in the past, following in his trail and then using one of his chosen after he had gone. As he watched the fell beast dropping down from the sky to alight nearby, Angmar had no doubt that the two Númenórean lords would be pleased with this latest selection.
As he mounted the creature, the wraith's body shuddered, a slight motion which would not have been perceived by a mortal. A slight tingling numbness touched the right side of his head, spreading and growing until the sensation had encompassed both hemispheres of his brain. As surely as if he were in the physical presence of Sauron, he could feel his Master's mighty power clenching his brain and boring into his skull like the clawed fingers of some monstrous hand. The wraith did not command the beast to mount to the skies, but sat quietly in the saddle and took in his breath slowly, laboriously, waiting for what he knew must come next.
"My little kinglet," the languorous, sardonic voice oozed into his mind like some viscous poison, "once again thou hast wielded the ever ready weapon which lies between thy legs, and of which thou art so inordinately proud. It is far beyond My comprehension as to why thou placeth so much importance upon such a... small matter as that." Sauron sniffed disdainfully, as though he were speaking of some mold which festered upon rotting meat. "The puny mannish weakness of carnality continues ever to reside with thee! Though thou wouldst rid thyself of this flaw, thou art helpless to forsake the earthly corporality which clings to thee like the moldering grave clothes of a corpse! Perhaps it would be far more merciful for Me to sever forever the instrument of thy temptation and leave thee as a eunuch! Thy brethren, too, would be far better off without their jaded pricks to distract them from doing My work!"
The Nazgûl could sense that his Master sighed heavily, a great heaving sigh like the tortured uplifting of earth and rocks before a cataclysmic eruption of Amon Amarth. He knew that the Dark Lord was tearing at His long, sable locks in an exaggerated show of disappointment and frustration. Groaning miserably, Sauron flung himself back onto His dark throne. Of course, the Dark Lord, ever the hypocrite, was hardly known as a paragon of virtue. The orgies of the Tower were infamous, where fang, fur and claw pressed against silken flesh, leathery scales, and slime-drenched tentacles in a tangle of writhing bodies which encompassed every imaginable race and kind from balrog to vampire.
"My foppish little king, thou tirest Me with these ceaseless displays of thy licentiousness! Thou wouldst have been far more impressive had thou shown some spine and raped her like the monster that thou art!" Sensing the Nazgûl's anger at the reminder of past and present misdeeds, Sauron regarded him incredulously. "Oh, do not act so offended, Witch-king, and attempt to play the part of the innocent who has been falsely accused! From thy simpering behavior of last night, it wouldst be supposed that thou wert naught but a foolish swain besotted by the village wench whom he had threaded in the barn of some turnip farmer! Yet thou carest no more for this strumpet than thou didst the first one, that peasant woman of old Númenor, the plain-faced shepherdess whose insignificant name escapes Me! Thou ravished her so cruelly and savagely, My guilty kinglet."
"Most merciful and omnipotent Master," the wraith's eyes glared dully as he gazed at the loathsome vision of Sauron before his eyes, "perhaps it is presumptuous of me, but I feel that I must remind Thee that I have regretted the deed for these many long years. I was angry at being forced into a marriage of political expediency and took my fury out on her."
"Faeleth!" Sauron snapped His black fingers, the noise sounding much like the popping of rocks when lava oozes over them. "Now I remember!"
"Aye, my Lord, Faeleth was her name," Angmar returned quietly. For a fleeting moment, he saw her face flash before his vision, just as beautiful and desirable as she was that day so many centuries ago. That image was quickly obliterated by her tear-streaked face and pleading voice.
"She was nothing, a wench who reeked of sheep dung and greasy wool, and what didst thou do, thou spineless bag of jelly?" Mocking laughter rang out in the Nazgûl's brain like the cackling of a demented jester. "Thou offered to pay her the same wage as a common whore! If thou hadst any manhood at all about thee, thou wouldst have raped the wench and thought nothing of it."
"Indeed, my Lord, my faults are many." The wraith bowed his head diffidently, waiting until he sensed that the Master's rage had diminished. Sauron seemed in no haste to resume His diatribe, and the Witch-king allowed himself to relax a little. Then the Dark Lord spoke once again, and His voice was like the blaring of many discordant trumpets in the Witch-king's mind. Angmar stifled the urge to squeeze his head between his hands, clutching it in agony as multitudes of showering sparks rained down upon his senses.
"I am slow to wrath, long-suffering, and compassionate, but thou, O foolish minion, test My patience to its very limit! While My armies are being beaten back towards Edoras, thou spendest thy nights trysting with the wives of other men! Thou base cockscomb! Thou hast forsaken the leadership of My forces to waste thy time in the lust-scented, rumpled beds of thy mistresses! Hast thou forgotten My purposes? All of Middle-earth yearns to feel the loving touch of My hand and the cleansing power of My rule! And what dost thou do?" Tipped with a perfectly manicured long and curving golden claw, a black finger shook accusingly at the Witch-king. "Thwart Me at every opportunity with thy bungling incompetence and thy froward ways! I could have sent to Far Harad for a jabbering baboon, and he would have made a better commander for My armies than thou ever couldst!"
His lord was exceedingly wrathful that morning, but that was hardly unexpected, not with the way the war had been going of late. After the great victory in the South, Gorthaur had believed that the whole world would soon be at His feet. However, His hopes had been shattered with the defeat at Helm's Deep only a week before. Now His armies were steadily being driven back, each mile costing copious amounts of blood, pain, and expense. Many of His troops had been routed, panicking and fleeing the field of battle.
In a few more days, Edoras would surely fall and be recaptured by the West. With the prospects of a victory by an alliance headed by Aragorn, Éomer and Glorfindel, it was only a matter of time until Sauron's enemies would be ridiculing Him, calling Him a puny weakling. Then would they swarm over the Black Land like a horde of devouring locusts? Not since the Battle of the Last Alliance had Sauron been faced with such a relentless foe intent upon His destruction! And it was all the Morgul Lord's fault! The Black Captain's plans for the campaign had been faulty from the very beginning! That pompous, egomaniacal little fool had not even been able to grasp the One Ring when it was right before him!
The Voice raved on monotonously, the sound of the bellowing trumpets this time reminding the wraith of the incessant drone of an irritating insect. "But dost thou carest, little kinglet? Dost thou carest at all? All thou carest about is thyself and thine own pleasure! I should crush thee like the insignificant, disgusting worm that thou art! Thou hast only the wit to copulate like some fat Eastern potentate, whose only aspiration in life is to enlarge his harem! Why, I should abolish the orc breeding programs and make thee the father of My armies! Thou couldst breed a multitude, but neither thee nor any of thy bastard spawn would be fit to lead the host!" As though an afterthought, Sauron hissed, "Speak now, thou fool, and defend thyself if thou canst!"
The wraith's senses had been battered by the constant barrage of invectives, and he struggled to think of an answer. When he finally spoke, he was trembling. "O Great Lord, I confess that I am a fool." An unbidden thought of the orc breeding pits came to him, and he wondered if even his insatiable manhood could survive the rigorous challenge of mating a constant procession of female orcs. The thought was too intimidating to consider, and he turned his attention back to his Lord. "The wisdom in Thy words is always unquestionable, Master. But please explain to the simpleton before Thee why Thou ever didst bestow upon me that Ring in the first place?" He steeled himself for the response to his challenge.
"How darest thou speak to Me in such a manner! I should destroy thee right now and send thy fëa shrieking to Eru, but not even He would take a wretch like thee! Then where would thou goest? Groveling back to Me, of course! Morgul Lord, thou wilt always come back to Me, crawling on thy belly like a cringing dog! And I will always take thee back, for I am, of all the divinities, the most loving and merciful!" The Dark Lord had grown so angry that He was virtually hysterical. His shrill voice ripped through the wraith's mind, and the unseen hand that clenched his skull threatened to close and crack it like an egg.
"Ever shall I remember Thy everlasting loving kindness and never cease to remind myself of it when Thou art flailing the skin from my back." Angmar smiled softly as he beheld the image of his Master's black face contorting in rage. Oh, he knew that he would pay for that insult, but sometimes the agony was worth it.
"Thou saucy strumpet!" Sauron railed, almost sputtering in His divine fury. "Thou ungrateful pawn who owes everything to Me! Thou wouldst be nothing! Nothing, I tell thee! My pretty dandy, if I had not given thee the Ring, thou wouldst be dead, dust, in a tomb somewhere! I have raised thee from the corruptible to incorruptibility! I have given thee life everlasting, and thou repayest Me with treachery, insolence and scorn! I have reached down from the seat of My holy godhead, My spotless sanctity, My immaculate holiness, and been as a father to thee and thy brethren! I have revealed Myself to thee, My Númenórean son, as I have done to no others of mortal kind! I have opened Mine heart unto thee and given unstintingly of My love, My pure, sacred and gracious love! My love, I tell thee, and thou hast repaid me with this!"
Angmar could hear Sauron sobbing, and he knew that the Dark Lord had fallen into one of His mad tantrums. Very likely at this time, one of His fawning courtiers was collecting His tears in crystal phials as the golden droplets spilled down His sable cheeks.
"Perfidious fool! Thou art a viper, a poisonous serpent, who deserves only eternal death! I trusted thee and now thou hast slapped Me in the face! How darest thou do this! Thou hast crushed Me and ripped My heart from My breast! I am disconsolate! Thou hast lost the war for Me and betrayed My trust! It is torture to speak to thee! My son, My son, the beloved one whom I trusted! I can bear it no longer!" A long, wailing moan punctuated the last lament.
Suddenly the Witch-king felt the Presence departing from his mind, and the intense pressure upon his skull dissipated. "He is gone," Angmar sighed ponderously, his soul trembling in relief. "Mad! He is even more mad than He was seventy-seven years ago when His insane anger drove Him to destroy everything I held dear!" Sauron would be back, though. He never really left. At times, the Witch-king thought that Gorthaur and he would be bound together for the rest of eternity, locked in the same yoke, and that nothing, short of Eru Himself, could ever break the unholy bond that lay between them.
The diamond on the golden band sparkled ominously, reminding the wraith - as though he could forget - that his master, the Dark Lord, would be thirsting for vengeance once again. Perhaps this time, the Mighty One would finally destroy him, but that was not such a dismal thought. He wanted to die, to escape the existence that was little more than a torment. Perhaps he would be free at last.
