“Come, Nareloth. Be not afraid. Thousands would kill to prove themselves worthy of such honour. Serve me, Nareloth, and of all troubles shall I free you.”
When Garethred woke up he could still see the dark faceless pointed helmet in front of his eyes. When the image faded away he let out a quiet chuckle which slowly turned into a vengeful laughter.
“Pathetic villain!” Garethred jumped up and looked around. He stood at the entrance to the Morgul Vale – a rocky path led in between two monstrous cliffs, but the road widened the closer to the city it was until it reached the bridge. Malheru was already awake, the horrifying darkness of the place not letting him sleep peacefully. His eyes looked tired and dirt covered parts of his body. Garethred therefore left him here to rest and entered the vale alone. Malheru watched him as he disappeared into the dark mist between the cliffs.
The Witch-King knew Garethred would be after him, and everything went according to his plan so far. He stood in the middle of his chamber and patiently awaited his arrival.
“One day, one fool less. At this speed it will take only weeks to reclaim Arda. Prepare the beast!”
The two orc servants who guarded his chamber went downstairs to do as their master commanded.
Garethred reached the bridge and looked up at the fearsome statues that stood high above him, behind and next to the main gate. He looked at the walls, then at the gate itself. The longer he looked at the foul green light, the more weakened he felt; courage was slowly failing him, but he never had to be the one to retreat. Especially not now when he came voluntarily and valued his goal over his life. Gil-el-Elbereth shone with a light blue light in his pocket and the necklace from Muiliel shone brightly on his neck; the combined power of these two trinkets keeping him conscious. He was still able to remain in a powerful stance, motivation evident and his voice more outstanding than ever before. He drew his spear, Anthel, and Ithilmagol, “Sword of the Moon”, then shouted with all the power he gathered overnight.
“You who disturb the living yet resemble behind these walls free of all danger! You who hold an iron fist over a city you have not even built yourself! You who have not the guts to face the heroes of Arda yet you terrorize them with lies and nightmares! Show yourself, coward! I came to free the one I love, and your walls shall not stop me!”
“There is no need to scratch my walls, Nareloth.” The Witch-King landed his felbeast on the top of the main gate, then flew it above Garethred’s head. He circled around him for a while before finally landing on the opposite side of the bridge and jumping off, his steel boots echoing through the dark valley. He wore the robe of a Nazgúl and emitted an aura of absolute blackness and oblivion. He made a few steps towards him and stopped. He looked unarmed.
Garethred focused his gaze on the sorcerer as he steadily walked towards him, his heavy footsteps echoing through the mountains with a slightly lighter pitch.
“Leave her be, for she has nothing to do with the issues of Arda!”
“I am afraid so far I like it, Nareloth. Her absence of psychical existence makes my plans easier than they already were. She sends her regards!” The Witch-King taunted him and burst into the darkest laughter – one that seemed to lack voice, yet hearing it was no less painful than having a blade strike your heart.
Garethred charged him with a furious shout, but the sorcerer remained calm. A number of spear stabs, sword strikes and the classic spectacular whirlwinds followed, but he didn’t seem to be able to hit his bodiless opponent. He fell down on his knees and saw how the sorcerer’s feet slowly approached him. He groaned of exhaustion and leapt up to try and strike him with all the remaining power he had; but all in vain. He stumbled back and looked up at his foe, who kept walking towards him. He was further than thirty feet away.
“How is this possible? What treachery is this?” Garethred wondered despite he knew the answer already. He saw his opponent from a closer distance than he in fact was, so he kept striking thin air until he got himself completely exhausted. Now he seemed to regain full consciousness, but it was of no use when his physical energy was depleted.
“I have failed you again, Morhíril,” he whispered as he turned around and stumbled back through the valley with loud gasps. He felt ashamed but powerless at the same time. The Witch-King watched him for a while, then mounted his felbeast and disappeared in the green light of Minas Morgul.
“I shall head back west, for the keeper of Minas Morgul was, is and will always be beyond my potential; and I should have seen it before, yet I did not because of my bloodlust and hunger for vengeance. There are still other ways to cure my beloved.”
