The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

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A shadow o'er the face aghast

The Council of Cardolan prepares for the expedition into Rhudaur to take back Castle Amrodan and destroy the Blood-Wights.  Blogath feels her saviors approaching.  A new power dynamic rocks the north.

This chapter is a juxtaposition between two women, one kind and innocent, one perverse and powerful.  How do they each deal with power?  Warning for some adult themes.  I'm also introducing a horror element for Halloween.

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44) The Bar Aran - Cerveth (July) 23^rd, 1410

Nirnadel

It had been a good Cerveth.  So much had been accomplished since the curse was contained and eliminated.  Minister Eärdil completed the treaty with the Beffraen and passed the law that eliminated the nobles as a law unto themselves.  Every person in the realm, high and low, would now be held to the same standard.  The Princess was ever so proud of the people and the kingdom.  She felt that a new era was upon them.  Even Hir Girithlin and his political allies were surprisingly quiet about this, and the Hir appeared to be true to his word.

Gathered around the grant table of the Council Chambers, Mercatur reported the training of the mercenaries had progressed well and that the five cohorts would be ready to march shortly. Waning sunlight blazed through the windows of the Bar Aran, lighting up the room with golden hues.  Mercatur wanted to get underway before the end of the month, just slightly behind schedule.  Nirnadel, the mercenary, his friend and Nimhir frequently met with Dagar, Alquanessë, Oswy and Éanfled as well as the elves to plan the campaign.  They laid out the safest roads and pathways, helping to create detailed maps of the land.  Lady Amrodan knew the location of a secret entrance to her ancestral castle, a waterway under the walls and into the keep.  Haedorial’s quill scrolled over the pages of his book, keeping track of the important events of the kingdom.  They estimated that about three hundred Dunnish warriors manned the castle as a fief of Cameth Brin.

On this day’s session of planning, Mercatur outlined the approach of his mercenary army on the map of the area around Castle Amrodan.  “We can’t say for sure if they know of the secret entrance, so I propose that the bulk of the force approach from the front on the western side to draw their attention away from the waterway.  Me and Jaabran have seven catapults and five ballistae ready for transport and assembly on site.  I’m also happy to report that Cagh of the Siol Nûnaw Tribe will join us though we’ve heard nothing from Hirgrim.  Cagh can put a hundred warriors on the field.  But what’s the status of the wagons?”

Nimhir gestured to the map.  “Lamril can provide twenty wagons and drivers and we have enough stores for you to last three months in the field.  Beyond that, we’ll need to caravan new supplies.”

“We can give the caravans some protection,” Oswy offered.  “My cavalry knows the routes well.  And we are well stocked at Thuin Boid.”

Mercatur nodded.  “Good, I was hoping for that.  Rhudaur is a land rich in game and water and poor in crops.  We can always hunt for more as well.  We have to credit Jaabran here on whipping those sheep into a fighting force.”

The Haradan chuckled.  “I just had to threaten to stick a Juthjuth on their…” he started and then looked at Nirnadel, his eyes opening wide.  “Their noses, yes, and they shaped right up.”

Nirnadel raised an eyebrow in amusement. “My good Jaabran, it was reported to me that your direct quote was to stick a scorpion on their dicks,” she said in her most prim Royal Accent.  “At least, so I have heard.”  She smiled as he squirmed.

“Ummm, Your Highness…I have to admit that your report was correct,” he said with embarrassment, bowing low, an awkward smile beaming through his slick black beard that ended in a point.  “I did not wish to offend your royal presence,” he added eloquently.  Like Mercatur, the Princess surmised that he was more than a mere mercenary.  He was well-spoken and highly educated.  She always wanted to learn more about the world beyond Cardolan. Harad sounded exciting and a little dangerous.

“No offense at all, my dear Jaabran. I have to admit that would have been amusing to see.”  She couldn’t quite believe that she had that exchange and she blushed a little, knowing that Anariel glowered behind her.  She extended her hand back towards the map.  “I praythee, please continue.”

The Haradan cleared his throat and snickered.  “Thank you, Your Highness.”  He then covered his mouth.  “Juthjuth on their dicks…I crack myself up sometimes,” he said softly.  Then he looked back up with confidence.  “You know, Your Highness, I was once in training to be a priest of Tayee, Master of Sands and you would never have heard an unkind word from these lips.  But anyhow, the cohorts are ready to march.  We are armed and armored, and they now fight with energy.  We have been training to scale walls and to use the siege weapons.  We cannot underestimate the Dunnish tribe in the castle, but I say that we now at least match their fighting skill.”

Mercatur nodded with satisfaction. “Every cohort now has a sergeant to lead them and five corporals to assist.  How soon until Lamril arrives with the wagons?”

Nimhir held up two fingers.  “He said, two days.  And I once again cannot believe that I have agreed to this, Your Highness, but Baranor will protect you throughout the campaign and you now have sixteen personal guards.  Remember, we cannot lose you.  I had to think back on Crown Prince Thôrdaer’s raids into Angmar and Rhudaur and Prince Braegil’s expeditions to dangerous and unknown lands and I could not hold you back, but I wish to temper you.”

She always felt a little guilty putting him in this position and she very well knew the stakes.  But the draw of excitement and the desire to lead her people from the front was greater.  “I do so appreciate your trust in me and Captain Baranor.  I swear that I shall not recklessly abuse that trust.”

Mercatur spoke up unexpectedly. “And I would give my life to protect the Princess, Your Excellency.  You have my word.”

Nirnadel put her hand on his shoulder, and he gave her a look that she couldn’t quite interpret.  “I am deeply touched, good Mercatur.  But let it not come to such a thing, I beg you.”

Nimhir nodded and smiled solemnly. “I agree.  Now, we have the first part of the campaign outlined.  Once Castle Amrodan is taken, what happens next?”

Jaabran put his finger on the map where the castle was.  “We clear the grounds of any traps and accept any prisoners.  The castle is also on the western edge of the Pinnath Tereg…the Trollshaws, but most of the trolls were wiped out by Rivendell, so they should not be a problem, but never discount them,” he said, gesturing to Gildor. “Many thanks.  Then, we have three cohorts remain as a garrison and transfer leadership to Sir Oswy and Lady Éanfled.  These men have agreed to remain there and will bring their families. They will become Amrodan soldiers and allies of Cardolan and stand as a bulwark against Cameth Brin and Carn Dûm.”

Lady Éanfled put her hands over her heart and sniffled.  “It has been a dream of mine to return the castle to House Amrodan.  It was lost under my grandparents, and it was my parents’ dying wish to see our family in our ancestral home.  It was originally built as an outpost of Isildur’s in Arnor and given to my family, who followed him from Númenor.  I…I cannot thank you enough for fulfilling King Ostoher’s promise.”

Nirnadel grasped her hands.  “It is my honor to deliver this to you.  And I will not see men die for me and my promises while I sit back in Tharbad.  I will share their trials and hardships.”

Nimhir shook his head with a grin. “I both hate that and love that about you, Your Highness.  You will be the Queen that this land deserves.”  There were nods and murmurs through the room.

Dagar bowed deeply.  “I do so agree, my lord.  And the castle is within three days ride of Rhudainor mansion and Thuin Boid and we can begin to supply them and the army.  Our harvest is looking to be the best in half a decade so it will be no problem.  And I have offered to release Sir Oswy from his obligation to House Rhudainor so that he may become Lord Amrodan and lead his own house.”

Mercatur stood and traced his finger from Castle Amrodan.  “Once the castle is secure, we proceed to the Yfelwood,” he said and a shudder washed over him.  We will have two cohorts remaining.  There, we will join with the elves,” he said, looking at Gildor, who nodded.

“Elladan, Elrohir and I will lead a force of rangers to help scout the Yfelwood and we will fight as needed. The world must be rid of this evil,” he said and then looked at Alquanessë.  “I did not mean you, good lady…or your brother, Finculion.”

She gave him a smile that Nirnadel saw something in.  “I know, Gildor,” the elven princess said.  Alquanessë then looked around the room.  “Make no mistake, my friends, this will be the most dangerous part of the campaign, perhaps the most dangerous thing some of you will ever face.  You know what I am.  Alone, I have no chance against my sister.  I was barely more than a girl for an elf when I was turned, a singer, a dancer, a poet.  I am no fighter.  Even with Finculion, she would crush us.  Blogath…or Sercë, using her original name, was a hardened warrior in the time of Beleriand, a rider of High King Fingon’s in the Telepta Company.  She is an exceptional archer with proven leadership abilities.”

Nimhir took on a grave look.  “I am liking my allowing Her Highness to go, less and less.”

Elanoriel clapped her hands, drawing attention to herself.  “My daughter and I will accompany the force as healers as will some of the nurses. We will keep Her Highness safe.”

Nirnadel gave her a warm smile. She idolized the elves.

Alquanessë gestured to the Princess. “We will all do our utmost to protect Nirnadel, I can assure you.  Now, as you have experienced with me, she will be able to glean your thoughts and feelings, but she will turn them against you.  You will see illusions, you will have dreams, both seductive and horrifying.  But I will train you to resist and to conceal your mind.  For me, it will be disconcerting,” she said, looking at Nimhir, “for it is as natural as breathing now.  I often feel the jealousy of women and the lust of men.  It will become like a blank void in my world.  Perhaps a quiet mind is what I need though.”  She gestured to the Yfelwood on the map, her face serious.  “I will also do my best to see through her deceptions and warn you.  Trust me…she will tempt you, she will threaten you in your sleep, she will show you yourself being dragged into the abyss, screaming. No one faces Blogath and comes out the same.”

Dagar nodded.  “I can attest to that.  I still have chills thinking about the vale.”  His face darkened and he looked down.

Mercatur gave him a reassuring grip on his shoulder.  Neither of them looked like they were relishing the thought of confronting Blogath again. The two had survived certain death at the hands of the Blood-Wight.  With the help of the elves, though, it would be possible to end her for good.  “The temple will be too small to fit the cohorts so they will remain outside to guard.  The elves and I will lead a small group inside and finish it.”

“My Lord Elrond believes that he has the means of destroying them permanently,” Gildor offered.

“Then, we have a plan,” said Nimhir, stroking his goatee.  “I thank you all for coming.  I suggest that we continue to prepare for the march, four days hence.  You went and returned from Rivendell quickly, but this will be an army on the move, much slower.  Do not get caught in the snow like King Calimendil.  It nearly ruined the army and the kingdom.  I bid you all a good evening.”

The words of the Blood-Wight put a sense of dread in the Princess’ heart.  In her experience, Alquanessë was an intelligent woman with a wicked sense of humor.  She had difficulty picturing her sister, a horrific and evil demon.  If so many were afraid of Blogath, she should be too.  But still, they would have the backing of the elves, no small thing.  And just how powerful could Blogath be?

The Princess stood from her council chair and Galadel placed the royal cloak on her shoulders, securing the mithril pin.  As they walked out of the chambers, Alquanessë caught them.  “Nirnadel, if you have a moment, I will show you and your ladies the mind shrouding techniques.”

The Princess gestured to the royal suite. She had only moved in recently, having left it empty since her father’s death out of both fear and respect.  She had this irrational belief that, if the suite remained empty, it meant that he was not truly dead.  Nimhir finally convinced her to occupy it as the future sovereign.  “I would love that,” she said, wanting to spend as much time as possible with the elves.

They walked into an elegant and luxurious chamber that was still decorated with the belongings of her parents. She refused to change anything just yet…maybe never.  Plush and finely crafted seats and coffee tables filled the lounge while thick green drapes flanked the open windows to let a warm breeze flow through.  Tapestries of Cardolan’s history adorned the walls along with paintings of the Royal Family as it existed two years ago.  Nirnadel looked at the paintings of a world and a family that no longer existed: Merry King Ostoher, a happy, jolly monarch in his robes of state with his crown; Queen Lossien, elegant, refined with a smile that was almost cold in robes of ocean blue; Crown Prince Thôrdaer, proud, brave and strong, his chin tilted upwards, wearing his plate armor with a crimson sash; Prince Braegil the Scholar in his rich green and red robes, a wise and serene expression on his face, holding an ancient tome; and then 15 year old Nirnadel, a precocious princess with a mischievous upward tilt of her lips, holding a cat.

Nirnadel and her ladies sat on an emerald green sofa while Alquanessë took a chaise lounge, reclining back with her lap harp.  The elf look at each of the ladies.  “We elves value music.  It is often a manifestation of our power and magic.”  She raised her hand and then swept it above her head.  “In the Ainulindalë, Ilúvatar and the Ainur create the world with song.  Music raised the mountains and let flow the seas,” she said as her audience sat, enraptured.  “This was the music of the Ainur.  Eons afterwards, our great King Finrod dueled Sauron with songs of power.  The spoken and sung word is dear to the hearts of elves. What I am about to teach you are songs of power to conceal your minds and hearts from the likes of my sister and I. Now, I need you to clear yourselves of any thoughts or feelings.  Focus on your inner light.”  She began to pluck the strings of the harp, rising in three chord progressions. “Close your eyes.  Breathe deeply.  Let no darkness cloud you.”

Nirnadel closed her eyes and held the hands of her ladies.  She felt herself lighter, freer as the chords of the harp resonated.  “Like you knew when I was in your mind, you will feel Blogath forcing her way in like a tide,” the elf continued.  “You will think that she is ripping your whole being apart like wet paper or you will be so deceived that you will welcome it.  She will show you things that you deeply desire and promise to give it to you.  You may be drawn to beg her to sink her fangs into your neck.”

The Princess shuddered as a cold chill ran down her spine.  She began to envision these things, and she squeezed her eyelids tighter, focusing on her breathing and the harp.  Alquanessë began to vocalize, clear, melodious tones in her strong soprano. Another chill ran down Nirnadel’s body, but this was comforting, soothing, loving.  “Join me,” the elf said and the ladies let forth their voices. “Imagine the song of the Ainur, the voice of the Heavens, your voices.  You are now the Ainur, creating the world.”

Power coursed through the Princess’ being and she trembled as golden tendrils of magic flowed around them.  In her mind, she could see holy Varda, casting the stars into the dark sky, Yavanna walking over dry earth, plants and flowers springing to life in her path and Estë’s touch healing all pain and sorrow.  It was overwhelming as if she existed in all of time for all of eternity.  The song faded and she gasped, opening her eyes.  Galadel, Éanfled, Kaile and Anariel shook, their eyes and mouths open in wonder.  “Wha…what did we see?” Nirnadel asked.

“You saw the birth of the world, something so few of your kind will ever see,” Alquanessë told them in a warm, comforting voice.  “This vision was revealed to me by my mother, who lived in the light of the Two Trees and it was revealed to her by Vairë, the Weaver, the Valier who knows and records the stories of all of the Children of Ilúvatar in the Tapestry of Time.  My grandfather’s first wife, Míriel Sirendë, passed after the birth of her son, mighty Fëanor, but she now lives again with Vairë, weaving the story of my family.  I can only imagine the darkness of my part of the tapestry.”

Nirnadel felt a deep sense of honor at hearing this.  As Haedorial said, it was a window into a time long forgotten, a world long past.  Then, she focused back on the task.  “What do we do when we confront Blogath?”

The elf raised her hand, palm out and magic swirled at her fingertips.  “Recreate this song and vision in your heart and mind and no Blood-Wight can glean them.  This vision alone will recoil her.  This will frighten and enrage her, and her fury will come forth.  But in that, she may err and allow us an opportunity to exploit. I will be meeting with the others as well to share this.  You have been a good audience and good students, and I will bid you goodnight.” She stood and then knelt before the Princess and kissed her hand.  “From one princess to another,” she said with a twinkle in her silver eyes.  She smiled at the others and then left.

After a moment, Nirnadel rushed to the door, wanting to ask something else, but Alquanessë was at her own door where Gildor waited.  The elf took Gildor by the hand and entered her room, shutting the door.  The Princess ran back and sat with her ladies, her face beaming.  “I…I think that she’s with Gildor.  They seem so right for each other.  Alquanessë was always so sad that she could never find love, feeling that she was forever soiled.”

Anariel was already preparing her bed as Galadel and Kaile drew a bath.  She soaked for a time, seeing that she was more of a woman now.  How did this happen so quickly since she returned from Rhudaur?  Did the elf have something to do with it?  It had to just be her time, like Galadel told her.  “I’ll be fine,” she told her ladies.  “You may retire for the night.  I would just like to bathe on my own for a little, if you please.”

Kaile looked a little disappointed. The younger ladies had been staying up, chatting and gossiping about events.  This was a change, but they excused themselves.

With her heightened senses she could hear murmurs coming from Alquanessë’s room, quiet conversation and giggles.  She felt a little bad about listening in, but her curiosity was piqued.  The sound of conversation faded away, replaced by other sounds.  She gasped. They were…they were being intimate.

She could hear the elves breathing, rhythmically, soft moans from Alquanessë with occasional giggles.  She imagined them intertwined, legs and arms together as one.  She felt a tingling along her skin.  She imagined Araphor in the large tub with her, his eyes full of love and desire and her hands moved along her skin.  She had filled out since the ride for Rivendell and she explored her new curves. The sounds from the other room intensified, faster, more passionate.  She felt things that she had never felt before.  Was this wrong?  She wanted to stop but she couldn’t help herself.  The water splashed as she whispered Araphor’s name.  Alquanessë’s vocalizations were louder and faster, her voice rising.  Nirnadel followed the pace, biting her lower lip, her body quivering.  Was this what it would be like on their first night?  All went quiet for a moment before the elves moaned together in rhythm, breathing hard.  Nirnadel bit the back of her hand, not wanting to make any noise above the splashing of the water.  All she made were little squeaking sounds with her eyes shut tightly.  She trembled, her whole world coming to a stop, her breath in ragged gasps. 

What had happened to her?  It was something that she didn’t understand and was a little afraid.  As her breathing slowed, she could hear quiet conversation.  Embarrassment took hold of her, and she scurried into bed, holding her pillow over her chest.  She wanted to ask Kaile, but what would her nurse think of her?  Was she now someone of low moral character?  No one had ever told her.  Still, the feeling, the sensation was incredible.  She wanted company again…someone to talk to…to get her mind off of this.

She shot out of bed and went into the next room where the younger ladies had gathered.  Anariel snored so she was in the room beyond.  Nirnadel stood there, water dripping down her bare body, eyeing them nervously.  The ladies leapt up in their night slips and ran over with a towel and robe and began drying her.  “Your Highness,” Galadel said, her eyes and voice filled with concern, “you’re all wet. Here, let us help you.”

Kaile looked her over.  “Are you hurt?  Are you alright?”  She was into nurse mode, checking for injuries.

Éanfled put a robe on her as Galadel finished drying.  “Please, come sit down, Your Highness.  We are worried.”

Nirnadel sat, still unable to speak coherently.  “I…I…just…I just wanted some company.”

The nurse put her hand on the Princess’ forehead.  “You’re flush…are you feeling sick?  Your cheeks are all red.”

She put her knuckle to her lip and bit it.  Then, she looked up.  “I…it was the hot water, dear Kaile, nothing more.  I am ever so sorry to have distressed you all,” she said, gathering her composure.  “Please, may I sleep here tonight?”

Galadel narrowed her eyes, a surprised look on her face.  “Your Highness, you are the Princess.  You may sleep wherever you please and we are more than delighted to have you.”  

Éanfled cleared a space on their large bed.  “Of course! Here is a spot between us so that you may feel safe.”

They went to the bed and lay down, chatting for a while before they drifted off to sleep.  Nirnadel’s mind still raced though.  She still had no understanding of what happened to her and she felt ashamed.  Why did she give in?  She tossed and turned to face Kaile and saw that the nurse was still awake.

Kaile reached out and touched Nirnadel’s face.  “My Princess, you are my idol.  You are good, kind and noble…everything a queen should be.  I can see it in your face and in your eyes that you feel ashamed. You have nothing to feel ashamed of. We are young women, and it is natural, something good and healthy.”

Nirnadel smiled awkwardly. “Really?  How…how did you know?”

Kaile winked.  “I know.  I’m a nurse and I do it too.  So does Galadel.  I know. She thinks I can’t hear her.”

“I…I don’t know what I felt.  I didn’t understand it and I was afraid.  Thank you…I was ashamed.  I thought I had become something debased, something horrid.”

Kaile rose up on her elbow and shook her head.  “Never, Nirnadel.  If I may be so bold, you are like a sister I never had.  I know that I am a lowly commoner, but you have filled my soul with your spirit.”

The Princess wiped her nose.  “I am so relieved, ever so relieved.  You have settled my raging mind.”  Then, a mischievous smile came over her.  “My dear Kaile, you are sounding more and more a noblewoman.  You really are ready to sit on the throne and give commands.”

The nurse looked horrified. “What?  No?  That’s ridiculous.  I’d pee my skirt.”

“Oi darlin’, iffn we’re gonna change places, we’re just gonna have to fix tha’ up right quick now, won’t we, you dodgy bugger, you,” Nirnadel said in a distinctly bad and exaggerated Common Quarter accent.  “I’ve go’ to get me fish to market, afore you nick me wallet, and then clean this…” she added before giggling uncontrollably, “this devastatingly…nasty room of peoples’ nasty bodily ejections,” she finished in her Royal Accent.

Kaile was in tears, trying to stifle her laughter.  “Oh, blessed Valar, that was bad.  Really bad. Oh, you are much better suited to the throne.”

“Eh wha’, love.  You mean I can’t use me mince pies, eh?

Kaile tweaked her nose.  “I shall endeavor to pie you, my dear Nirnadel. I praythee, have a pie on me, if you please.”

The two laughed so loud that Galadel poked her head up.  “Wha…what are you two on about?”

The princess rolled over and tweaked Galadel’s nose.  “Oi, love, I’m bein’ learned ‘ow to fit in amongst the Common Quar’ers now.  Wha’ do you think of me minced pie, eh?”

Kaile did a cutting motion across her throat and shook her head.  “Bad…really bad.  She sounds like a drunk washerwoman.”

Nirnadel looked shocked and smote Kaile with a whack of a pillow and got hit in return by Galadel.  “Oh, you fiends!  Ganging up on your Princess.  I see how this is.  I shall order a flanking maneuver!”  Éanfled was up now and the three ladies wailed on Nirnadel with pillows until she fell backwards, laughing.  “Oh, I yield, I yield!  Spare me!”

Anariel poked her head in and they all stopped, eyes wide, mouths open.  The old nurse looked positively displeased.  “What.  Is. Going on, young ladies?  This is not a dormitory for seamstresses, this is the quarters of the ladies of the Royal House!  Oh?  Your Highness.  I did not see you.  Hrmph,” she then scoffed.  “Still, it is time for bed.  You all have a long day tomorrow, so I advise closing your mouths and eyes…you too, Your Highness.  Do not make me come in and make all of you recite the ceremony of Eruhantalë, which you all should know, by the way.”

“Yes, Mistress Anariel,” they all said in unison and lay down.  The door closed again, and the ladies looked at each other, bigger and bigger smiles infiltrating their faces until they all covered their mouths and giggled uncontrollably, Nirnadel kicking her feet she was laughing so hard.  She settled into sleep, happy and content in the knowledge that she was not a freak and that she was deeply loved.  This was a time that she would always remember, moments of simple joy with her friends, unburdened by duty and responsibility.

 

The Yfelwood - Cerveth (July) 23^rd, 1410

Blogath

The waiting was agony for the Blood-Wights.  Slowly, day by day, Blogath healed her physical body, clearing small bits of rubble with her mind.  Still, she was shattered, broken bones and rotting flesh.  Balisimur was much worse off, having lesser magical powers.  At this rate it would take another century to reform completely and she wanted vengeance now.  Blogath could crawl, ever so slowly, inch by agonizing inch to grasp her brother’s blackened hand and he whimpered, so crippled was he with pain. She poured the small amount of energy that she had for the moment into him, the flesh of his fingers knitting back over setting bones.

Then, Blogath felt it more than heard it, picks and shovels digging at the entrance to the temple.  “They are coming for us, Balisimur,” she said, her voice still sounding more dead than alive.  “I can feel their power…servants of the Witch-King.  We will feed again and be whole.”  She began to crawl again, one arm whole, one arm smashed and decayed, bones protruding from her rotten, mummified legs.  It took an hour for her to reach the near skeletal remains of Ethacali, patches of leathery skin still stuck to his face and body, his kinky white hair and beard covered in dust.  She reached up with her good hand, grasped his skull and shattered it into pieces. “Rot in the void, little mage.” It was a useless gesture, but it made her feel better.

Exhausted, she rolled onto her back, gasping and panting.  How weak she was…pathetic.  She looked down to see bare ribs on her chest and raw muscle on her abdomen.  Every nerve on her corpse-like frame screamed in agony and she winced, tears flowing down her face.  She banged her head backwards on the ground, the impact dulling all other pain.  She focused on the picks and shovels, trying to force all other sensations from her mind. Louder and louder they grew, day by endless day until a pick struck through the rubble into the temple.

Blogath let out a gurgling laugh. She could see Balisimur more clearly now, his face blackened and mummified, nose and eyes rotted away, only a hand that was fully alive.  Her brother…what was his old name?  Yes, Tindómeno the Strong, a bear of a man, one of the great lancers of Prince Fingon. There was a moment of vision where she saw herself, an elven princess atop the Tower of Barad Eithel.  She was with her family…her mother, Irimë the Fair…Lalwen, the laughing maiden, a woman of great joy and a wonderful, devoted mother.

Along with Tindómeno, they walked to join her other siblings…who?  Yes, Finculion and Alquanessë.  Finculion was fast and deadly like a hawk and his wife was with child.  Alquanessë was graceful like swan, a singer, dancer and poet who was counting the stars.  She could picture Irimë’s ethereally beautiful form and face and she started rocking back and forth.  “No, no, you’re not my mother!  You’re not my mother!”  The image faded, replaced by the face of a monster, red eyes, fangs, a bat-like nose that morphed into one of dark beauty, black eyes over pale skin and shimmering ruby lips.  The snarl changed into a sinister grin.

“I am your true mother.  The one known as Sercë is gone, rotten, decayed. You are now Blogath, my eldest daughter. I grant you the greatest of my powers. You will be my salvation.” Another image flashed. Thuringwethil shrieking, pinned down by a massive hound, fangs ripping her throat out as she had done to countless others.  Then, the vision went black.

Blogath began to chant:

"Thuringwethil I am, who cast
a shadow o'er the face aghast
of the sallow moon in the doomed land
of shivering Beleriand."

She felt a spirit stir, drawn to her, as the debris blocking the entrance to the temple crashed down and men and orcs came through, clearly afraid.  A tall man followed, wearing black robes with stiffened leather plates flaring up at the shoulders.  An expressionless silver mask covered his face under a black hood.  He strode forward and knelt beside Blogath’s crippled form.

“Oh, my dear,” he croaked in a gravelly voice, ancient beyond measure.  “How weak you are.  I could merely step on you and crush your head like an egg.  How long would it take you to reform again, I wonder?”

For a moment, Blogath felt fear again. “Would you have dug all of this way just for that?  I think not,” she uttered, her voice wavering.

He ran his hand down her skeletal body, his fingers lingering.  “Hmmm, I like you like this.  Helpless, begging…afraid.  However,” he said, standing back up.  “The Lord of Angmar requires your service, and you will serve.  I am the Angûlion and you will answer to me.”  He turned to see the pulverized skull of Ethacali. “An impotent gesture, but so fitting,” he told her.

“I will serve you and the Witch-King,” she lied.  “Heal us with blood and we will carry out your desires.”  She reached up to him, beckoning.

He turned back and snapped his fingers. Orcs brought in another of their kind, bound and gagged.  They snarled as they saw the Blood-Wight and hurled the prisoner towards her.  With her good hand, she reached out and seized the creature by the face, claws replacing fingers and pulled him to her mouth, which now filled with razor teeth and tore his throat out.  Black blood poured onto her face and body as she drank the pulsing liquid.  Her eyes glowed red and skin began knitting over the rest of her face and torso, broken bones fusing back together.  “More…I need more,” she begged.  “And for my brother too.”

The Angûlion sighed.  “And what do we say when we want something?”

Blogath wiped blood from her face and gave a seductive smile.  “Please…”

He knelt back down again and caressed her cheek.  “Good girl. You will learn to say that often to me.”

“Whatever you want, my lord.  More please.”

More prisoners were brought in and the Blood-Wights were fed.  Sated, Blogath’s body quivered, skin forming over rotted flesh, her legs straightening, her womanly body whole.  She stood and licked her lips of black and red blood and then popped her hands outward from her bare body that was coated in the fluid.  The blood evaporated into fine droplets which she inhaled through her mouth.  “Ah, much better,” she cooed, sidling up to the Angûlion and wrapping her arm around his waist, her head in the crook of his shoulder.  She stroked his mask.  “Thank you, my lord.  You are most kind.”  She looked down at the drained husks on the ground, twisted, contorted corpses of men and orcs.  Balisimur stood and his muscles rippled, his body stretching unnaturally as an inhuman groan came from his lips.

“Now, you promised one more thing,” the Angûlion added.  “How will we bring your mother, Thuringwethil, back?  We will bind her as well in service to Angmar.”

She began rubbing her thigh on him. “Ah yes.  About that.  I will need a woman for you to sacrifice…preferably a young, healthy, good looking one.”

“I think that can be arranged.”  He looked back at a man, more of a dog than a human with a fierce snout, red hair and hazel eyes.  His hair was braided in copper beads in some barbarian style.  “Ulduin, you heard the lady.  Bring her some entertainment.”

Ulduin gurgled out a response and then left.  The Angûlion lowered his head to her neck, a sniffing sound coming from under his mask. His hand ran all the way down her back. “It will be a little before he returns with the right ingredients.  I think we should get comfortable, don’t you think?”

She knew what he was thinking.  She knew what he would say.  “You read my mind,” she said as she reclined on the ruined table of the Temple to Sauron, one leg draped over Ethacali’s skeleton.

Ulduin returned in a day, dragging a young Dúnadan woman, wrapped in chains, a hood over her face.  Blogath sprung up from a chair and skipped over, her body young and whole again.  She pulled the hood from the woman’s face and took the gag out.  Tears streamed down the woman’s face, and she turned her head, but Blogath grabbed her by the jaw and turned it back, examining her features, running her fingers through her dark brown hair.  She was a pretty thing.

“She was tribute from the lords of Cameth Brin,” the Angûlion stated.  “You know, many of the High Men still reside there, now vassals of Angmar.”

Blogath swished her hand dismissively. “High Men, Low Men, it makes no difference to a vampire who was once a Noldorin princess.  But she will do.”

The woman trembled.  “Please, please.  My name…my name is Faeleth, please don’t do this.  Let me go.  I’ll vanish. I won’t cause any trouble, please.” She struggled, her chains rattling.

The Angûlion, ran his finger down her cheek, along her body.  “This is a woman who knows how to say please.  Well, shall we begin?”

Blogath picked her up and carried her to the broken altar.  Shattering the chains, she forced Faeleth onto the flat, crumbling slab of black marble, retying her limbs onto the altar.  Then, with a claw, she tore the woman’s ragged dress off and began sniffing her body.  Faeleth shrieked.

“Bring me more prisoners,” Blogath demanded and then softened.  “Please.”

Ulduin forced more orcs and men into the temple.  There seemed to be a perverse smile running along his snout.  Blogath and Balisimur took them and dragged them before Faeleth’s squirming form.  The Blood-Wights then tore the captives, neck to groin, coating the woman in blood while she screamed, yanking against the leather straps.  “Join me!” the Blood-Wight called to the Angûlion and the three held hands, looking upwards and began chanting.    

"Thuringwethil I am, who cast
a shadow o'er the face aghast
of the sallow moon in the doomed land
of shivering Beleriand."

The temple grew cold and a dark, smoky form flitted about the room, hissing and snarling.  Blogath shrieked, “Come to me, mother!  Return to me!  Guide me! The night sky is yours to terrorize once more!”

There was an inhuman moan and the smoky form hovered over Faeleth, who went quiet, whimpering.  Blogath forced open the woman’s mouth and the darkness flowed into it.  Faeleth spasmed, her body arching back, limbs flailing against the straps.  She screamed again, but the voice was no longer human.  The woman’s eyes glowed red and fangs sprouted.  She bucked once more and then tore the restraints out of the altar. She sat up, now serene, and ran a finger along her bare chest, coating it with blood and then inserted it into her mouth.

“Mmmm, it’s been too long, my dear daughter, my strong son.”  The blood on her body was then instantly absorbed into her skin.  She looked around.  “Where are we?”

Blogath smiled.  Her plan was coming to fruition.  Just a little longer now.  “We are now in the Third Age of Middle Earth, an age of weaker men.  This is a temple to my lord, Sauron.”

“Sauron?” Thuringwethil asked.  “What of our lord, Morgoth?”

“Defeated by the Valar in the War of Wrath.  Cast into the void.  Beleriand is no more.”

“Ah, so my beloved reigns now?”

Blogath shook her head.  “He is…diminished.  Made formless by the men and elves.  We still carry out his will though.”

Thuringwethil’s face showed disappointment.  “I see. And what of my other children, Naranantur and Skrykalian?”

Blogath sneered.  “Traitors.  We will teach them the error of their ways.”

The mother pointed at the others in the temple.  “And who are they?”

The Angûlion stepped forward.  “I am he, whom you will serve.  And we will, in turn, serve the Lord of the Nazgûl,” he said slyly as he brought out the runes of binding that he had received.

Blogath grinned.  “Mother, they are tools for us.  It is we who will rule the north now.  Thank you, good Angûlion, you have been most helpful.”

Thuringwethil raised her finger and the parchment that held the runes burst into flames and ash.  With a wave of her hand, she flung the Angȗlion across the room, smashing him into a wall.  He rose, stunned and then raised his arm, summoning his power.  He glimmered with dark energy and a shroud of magic descended from the ruined ceiling to contain the vampires.  Ulduin snarled and drew a flail, a single spiked ball on a chain. He rushed at them, howling.

Blogath waved her hand and the dog-man’s arm snapped and he let out a shriek of pain, staggering back.  Thuringwethil held out her palm and the Angûlion’s power dissipated.  The Númenórean sorcerer paused and then he hurled panicked orcs at her as he and Ulduin fled for all they were worth.

When the slaughter was complete, Thuringwethil licked her lips.  “Let them flee.  Now, we will bind their lord to our will, and I will return to Sauron’s side with you, my children.  And I do not wish poor, poor Naranantur or Skrykalian harmed just yet.  They will grovel at my feet once more and beg us to be a family again.”